



Produced by David Widger





MY FRIEND THE MURDERER

By A. Conan Doyle


"Number 481 is no better, doctor," said the head-warder, in a slightly
reproachful accent, looking in round the corner of my door.

"Confound 481" I responded from behind the pages of the _Australian
Sketcher_.

"And 61 says his tubes are paining him. Couldn't you do anything for
him?"

"He is a walking drug-shop," said I. "He has the whole British
pharmacopaae inside him. I believe his tubes are as sound as yours are."

"Then there's 7 and 108, they are chronic," continued the warder,
glancing down a blue slip of paper. "And 28 knocked off work
yesterday--said lifting things gave him a stitch in the side. I want you
to have a look at him, if you don't mind, doctor. There's 81, too--him
that killed John Adamson in the Corinthian brig--he's been carrying on
awful in the night, shrieking and yelling, he has, and no stopping him
either."

"All right, I'll have a look at him afterward," I said, tossing my paper
carelessly aside, and pouring myself out a cup of coffee. "Nothing else
to report, I suppose, warder?"

The official protruded his head a little further into the room. "Beg
pardon, doctor," he said, in a confidential tone, "but I notice as 82
has a bit of a cold, and it would be a good excuse for you to visit him
and have a chat, maybe."

The cup of coffee was arrested half-way to my lips as I stared in
amazement at the man's serious face.

"An excuse?" I said. "An excuse? What the deuce are you talking about,
