public doesn’t and the jury’s taken from the public, more’s the pity. They know nothing, and ten to one believe everything that’s said in the witness box, no matter who it is that says it. And of course Archer himself will swear till he’s black in the face that he didn’t do it.”
“Not so obliging as Mr. Redding,” I said with a smile.
“Not he,” said the inspector, making the remark as a plain statement of fact.
“It is natural, I suppose, to cling to life,” I mused.
“You’d be surprised if you knew the murderers that have got off through the softheartedness of the jury,” said the inspector gloomily.
“But do you really think that Archer did it?” I asked.
It has struck me as curious all along that Inspector Slack never seems to have any personal views of his own on the murder. The easiness or difficulty of getting a conviction are the only points that seem to appeal to him.
“I’d like to be a bit surer,” he admitted. “A fingerprint now, or a footprint, or seen in the vicinity about the time of the crime. Can’t risk arresting him without something of that kind. He’s been seen round Mr. Redding’s house once or twice, but he’d say that was to speak to his mother. A decent body, she is. No, on the whole, I’m for the lady. If I could only get definite proof of blackmail—but you can’t get definite proof of anything in this crime! It’s theory, theory, theory. It’s a sad pity that there’s not a single spinster lady living along your road, Mr. Clement. I bet she’d have seen something if there had been.”
His words reminded me of my calls, and I took leave of him. It was about the solitary instance when I had seen him in a genial mood.