“Who is the murderer?” he repeated, as though unable to believe his ears. “Why, you, Raymond Clark! You are the murderer,” he added, almost in a whisper, in a voice of genuine conviction.
Raymond leapt from the sofa, stood up for a few seconds and sat down again without uttering a word. His face twitched convulsively.
“Your lip is twitching just as it did before,” the police official observed almost sympathetically. “You’ve been misunderstanding me, I think, Raymond Clark,” he added after a brief pause, “that’s why you are so surprised. I came on purpose to tell you everything and deal openly with you.”
“It was not I murdered her,” Raymond whispered like a frightened child caught in the act.
“No, it was you, you Raymond Clark, and no one else,” the police official whispered sternly, with conviction.
Dostoyevski doesn’t work for the Post, I don’t think.