Supposing I
went out now and called in the police, or went to bed and let
Paddock find the body and call them in the morning. What kind of
a story was I to tell about Scudder? I had lied to Paddock about
him, and the whole thing looked desperately fishy. If I made a clean
breast of it and told the police everything he had told me, they
would simply laugh at me. The odds were a thousand to one that I
would be charged with the murder, and the circumstantial evidence
was strong enough to hang me. Few people knew me in England; I
had no real pal who could come forward and swear to my character.
Perhaps that was what those secret enemies were playing for. They
were clever enough for anything, and an English prison was as
good a way of getting rid of me till after June 15th as a knife in
my chest.
Besides, if I told the whole story, and by any miracle was believed,
I would be playing their game. Karolides would stay at home,
which was what they wanted. Somehow or other the sight of
Scudder's dead face had made me a passionate believer in his
scheme. He was gone, but he had taken me into his confidence, and
I was pretty well bound to carry on his work.
You may think this ridiculous for a man in danger of his life, but
that was the way I looked at it. I am an ordinary sort of fellow, not
braver than other people, but I hate to see a good man downed,
and that long knife would not be the end of Scudder if I could play
the game in his place.
Pages:
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39