The Rest of the Story
“I’d like to make a confession,” the old man said. “Not because I’m religious, but because in everyone there is something that wants unburdening. There are things I have kept to myself which I would like you to know. As you are one of the youngest men Scotland Yard has promoted to Inspector, I think you might benefit from my experience. And I would ask you not to reveal what I say to anyone else.”
“Of course,” said his companion. “You can trust me.”
“Thank you,” he said, and began his tale. “When I was a young man, I went into the priesthood, not because I wanted to give my life to God. In fact, I was quite certain that God did not exist. For me, however, there seemed to be no place in life— no calling which let me exercise my deductive talents. From a man’s fingers and boots and the knees of his trousers I could tell his profession and see how life had disappointed him. From a woman’s shoes and shirtsleeves and jewellery I could tell what she did to earn money and whether or not she loved someone. If anyone had asked me how I knew this, I could have explained the observations that led me there. Most people, however, regarded my deductions as impertinent and a bit mad. So I became a priest and looked into men’s souls, uncertain whether I had a soul or not.
“One night a man came to me for confession, and his voice told me that he was a murderer. It had been a long time since he had killed, but now he was dying and wished to confess what he had done.
“He had committed the perfect murder, he said, and knew it was perfect because he’d never been caught. His cancer was a slow form that would give him another few years. He did not reveal any details of his crime, but said that no one had even realised that the death was a murder. He chose a person he had never met, and had no reason for killing them other than to see if anyone would notice. The victim was too young to have died of natural causes. Nevertheless, a natural cause was assumed. The family accepted this unsatisfactory reasoning and let it go.
“That is what the dying man confessed to me. He gave me no name, no date, no explanation of his method. Though I had many questions, I mumbled the words of absolution, and he left.
“This event changed my life. I began to look at unsolved murders, mysterious deaths of past years. I devoted my life to solving as many as I could, and was remarkably successful— so successful that I left the priesthood and became a detective. At first I worked with Scotland Yard, solving cold cases. Eventually, word of my successes spread, and I took on clients as a private detective. Solving crimes, finding murderers, restoring justice for victims— to these I have devoted my life.”
“It has been a remarkable life,” said his companion. “You truly found your calling, I believe. Did you ever solve the case that started you off, the perfect murder, as you called it?”
“I don’t know,” he replied. “I solved many murders in my career, unlocked many mysteries that no one else noticed. Perhaps I did solve it. There really is no way to know, is there?
“But here is what I wish to confess to you, my boy. I became obsessed, wondering whether there truly could be an unsolvable crime. It must obviously be a murder, but without any suspects, no weapon, and no opportunity for it to have happened. For many years I planned it, and at last I believed I’d invented the perfect crime. And so it was.”
“You— murdered a man? Just to see if you would be caught?”
