How was Marsh to be made to confess? Numerous plans were discussed and rejected. Finally Brixton made this suggestion: “Make Chesterfield understand that he is suspected of the murder and that you have the dots on him. You’ll have to sweat him and put him through the third degree. Don’t say a word about the counterfeiting. When he’s charged with the murder, and things begin to look black, he will squeal to save his neck. He’ll give his pals away dead sure and tell all he knows about the counterfeiting. I believe the scheme will work.”
Walton agreed with him and proceeded without delay in putting his prisoner through the sweating process. Early in the morning he had read the papers in his cell, and a detective who secretly watched him noticed that he devoured every line printed about the Marchburn murder. Later, the superintendent had him brought to his office and there subjected him to a rigorous cross-examination, and no man knew better than he how to worm the truth out of a criminal. But in Marsh he found more than a match. He either dodged every question or else declined to answer, and neither threats nor promises elicited anything of importance. For more than an hour the man submitted to being worried by his inquisitor, when at last he said:
“Chief, what are you trying to make against me?”
Walton had not taxed him with the murder, as he hoped his prisoner would make some incautious admission which would tell him what he wanted to find out. But Marsh’s question seemed to have made the time ripe for the great stroke. Looking him steadily in the eye, the chief said: “For the murder of Lawrence Marchburn.”
The prisoner gave a short, nervous laugh. “You’re clean off,” he said. “I didn’t murder him and I had nothing to do with it; but I know the man who did.”
Walton had counted upon his declaration producing a confession, or at least some signs of weakness, but this answer astounded him.
The man never flinched. “It’s God’s truth. I can tell you who committed the murder,” he repeated.
“Very well; who did it?”
But Marsh was too old a bird to be caught with chaff. “What do I get if I tell?” he asked.