The other smiled grimly at him. “The same way I did for you in the haunted house—and your friend. Look here.” He drew attention to his right arm, which nobody had noticed before, so interested were they in what he had to say.
The stump of his wrist was covered by a cap of metal, a heavy, bulky iron cap that must have weighed eight or nine pounds, fitting closely on his wrist. Such a weapon, swung by the arm of a strong man, was enough to kill an opponent with one blow easily—enough to smash in his head. Val drew it off, and found that there was a spring arrangement that clamped the wrist tightly, holding it firm on the stump.
“You see, I kept it in my right hand trouser pocket, always,” explained Teck. “All I had to do was to push my wrist into it—it was fixed so that it seized my wrist firmly and stayed on. It was my own idea,” he said, with a trace of modest pride.
“Nobody ever expected anything of the sort from me—and all I needed was the chance for one blow. I usually got that, because they weren’t looking for it. Anyway,” he went on, a little wearied, “I killed Masterson—nobody else had anything to do with it. I’m sorry for it, but it couldn’t be helped. I was getting desperate in my haste; back in his asylum Pomeroy was recovering his memory and his voice, and I knew it would not be long before he was back here—they would not have been able to keep him, even had they been willing to take the chance, which I doubt. I may as well say that they acted in good faith there—they believed my story.”
Pomeroy nodded. “That’s true,” he supplemented. “They released me as soon as I was able to explain the circumstances.”
