The Wrong Letter

Preface

I can say with all sincerity, nay with all solemn responsibility, that this detective mystery deceived me. And as I have been looking out for a long time for a detective mystery that should be at least deceptive, whatever its other merits or demerits in being detective, I very willingly write a word to serve as a preface to it, though such books ought not to need such prefaces. The detective story is in this way a paradox (if I may use a word that has very painful memories for me) because the true reader and critic not only desires to be gulled, but even desires to be gullible. I wish when reading such a story to become as simple as Dr. Watson; to be in the happy, cheerful, childlike, radiant condition of Dr. Watson and not in the much more dark and disillusioned and satiated and sceptical condition of Sherlock Holmes. I generally am in that childlike condition. But in every case it is my ardent and aspiring ambition to be stupider than the man who wrote the story. And in the case of this story I actually succeeded.

This desire to be deceived is really peculiar to detective romance. It is in another sense that we say the same thing of other types of romance. It is sometimes said that when we go to the theatre we pay to be deceived. But we are not really deceived; we do not think that the dramatist intends something that he does not intend; we do not think the actor is doing something that he is not doing. We only forget, or half forget, for a moment, in the continuity and consistency of certain events, the fact that they come from a dramatist and an actor. But if we happen to remember it, we do not remember it with surprise. We are not astonished to discover that there is an actor on the stage, as we are (or ought to be) astonished to discover that there is a corpse in the summerhouse. We do not feel a momentary incredulity when we are told that the play was written by a playwright, as we do feel (or ought to feel) when we are told that the crime was committed by a curate. We watch a great actor performing Hamlet so well that (if we have luck) we lose for an instant the sense that he is a great actor; we feel for the moment that he is young Hamlet trying to avenge the death of old Hamlet upon Claudius. But we do not, either in forgetting or remembering, feel any shock of fact or the change of fact. We do not feel as we should feel if the play took a new and sudden turn, and we found that Hamlet had killed his own father and that his uncle was a perfectly blameless character. That would be the Detective Drama of Hamlet, Prince of Denmark, and now that so many peculiar experiments are being tried with that tragedy, I respectfully suggest it to the managers of the London Theatres.

If it is the first rule of the writer of mystery stories to conceal the secret from the reader, it is the first duty of the critic to conceal it from the public. I will therefore put my hand upon my mouth; and tortures shall not reveal the precise point in this story at which a person whom I had really regarded as figuring in one legitimate capacity suddenly began to figure in another, which was far from legitimate. I must not breathe a word about what the writer of this dramatic mystery does. I will confine myself strictly to saying what he does not do. And merely out of the things which he does not do, I could construct an enthusiastic eulogy. On the firm foundation of the things he does not do, I could erect an eternal tower of brass. For the things he does not do are the things being done everywhere today, to the destruction of true detective fiction and the loss of this legitimate and delightful form of art. He does not introduce into the story a vast but invisible secret society with branches in every part of the world, with ruffians who can be brought in to do anything or underground cellars that can be used to hide anybody. He does not mar the pure and lovely outlines of a classical murder or burglary by wreathing it round and round with the dirty and dingy red tape of international diplomacy; he does not lower our lofty ideals of crime to the level of foreign politics. He does not introduce suddenly at the end somebody’s brother from New Zealand, who is exactly like him. He does not trace the crime hurriedly in the last page or two to some totally insignificant character, whom we never suspected because we never remembered. He does not get over the difficulty of choosing between the hero and the villain by falling back on the hero’s cabman or the villain’s valet. He does not introduce a professional criminal to take the blame of a private crime; a thoroughly unsportsmanlike course of action and another proof of how professionalism is ruining our national sense of sport. He does not introduce about six people in succession to do little bits of the same small murder; one man to bring the dagger and another to point it and another to stick it in properly. He does not say it was all a mistake, and that nobody ever meant to murder anybody at all, to the serious disappointment of all humane and sympathetic readers. He does not make the general mistake of thinking that the more complicated the story is the better. His story is complicated enough, and on many points open to criticism; but the secret of it is found in the centre; and that is the central matter in any work of art.

I

The Crime

The telephone bell rang on the table of Superintendent Sinclair at Scotland Yard. He was a busy man, and had given orders that he was not to be disturbed except on matters important.

Putting down a paper he had been reading, he picked up the receiver. A woman’s voice spoke.

“Is that Scotland Yard?”

“Yes, yes,” he said impatiently, “Superintendent Sinclair speaking, what is it?”

“Listen carefully,” said the voice. “The Home Secretary has been murdered at his own house, it would be as well if you would come at once. Have you got that? Just repeat.”

Even Sinclair, the coolest head in the service, was staggered for a moment. There was not a trace of hurry or emotion in the voice. It might have been inviting him to tea. Before he could collect himself, the voice began again.

“I will repeat,” and the same impassive message came through with the concluding words, “Have you got that?”

Sinclair pulled himself together.

“Who is speaking?” he said. He heard a laugh and then the voice—

“Oh, no one in particular, just the murderer,” and then silence.

He rang his bell, and his assistant, or “familiar” as he was termed, Lewis, entered.

“Someone is playing a joke of sorts on us. Just find out who called up,” he said abruptly, and went on reading. The thing was so absurd, but something was wrong, and someone would have to answer for this. In a minute Lewis returned.

“They don’t seem to know downstairs, sir, there is a new operator at the exchange, and it seems that someone said she was a personal friend of yours, and must speak at once to you.”

“Oh, of course, the same old game. I suppose they think it’s funny,” and he turned savagely to his work.

“By the way, Lewis, just find out where the Home Secretary is,” he added.

About ten minutes had passed, when a knock came at the door, and a clerk ushered in Mr. Collins.

Sylvester Collins was not a Sherlock Holmes or anything like it, but after a successful career at the Bar, at a time when all his many friends had expected him to “take silk,” he had suddenly thrown up his whole career, and started as an Inquiry Agent and Amateur Detective, though he hated the expression, and always claimed that he was merely trying to use his experience at the Bar in a practical way.

However, he had been phenomenally successful, perhaps through luck, perhaps through a keen, trained brain and good common sense.

If his friends wanted to upset him, they would call him Sherlock Holmes, which was like a red rag to a bull to him.

He worked excellently with the official force, and had been “briefed” by them on many occasions, with the happiest results to all except the criminals who had been run to earth.

A clean-cut face with a large nose, and a firm mouth, were his chief characteristics. Soft brown eyes, and curly hair almost black, gave his face a curiously paradoxical expression.

When not engaged professionally, he was a keen sportsman, and enjoyed life to the full.

He was entirely devoid of “side” or “swank.”

Sinclair was a very different type. He was more like the Scotland Yard officer of real life than of fiction. After successful work in India, he had applied for and obtained his post. He had just a detective’s training and education. He made no pretensions to be other than a trained official with no particular brilliance, and he was glad to have the help of his friend, who had brains and not his experience.

Collins always came to Sinclair without ceremony.

He entered smoking a cigarette, and placed his hat and stick on the table.

“Well,” he said. “What’s the trouble now?”

Sinclair looked up in some surprise.

“What do you mean?”

“You sent for me?”

“I’m sure I didn’t,” said the other.

“But someone from here called me up on the phone about—” he looked at his watch—“about ten minutes ago, and said you wanted to speak to me.”

“Someone from here. Who was it?”

“I am sure I don’t know. It sounded like a woman.”

“What did she say?” said the Superintendent turning in his chair.

“Nothing more than that. Simply asked if I were speaking, and said ‘Superintendent Sinclair wants to speak to you at once if you can come,’ and rang off.”

“Well, I’m damned,” said Sinclair.

“You may be for all I know, but I was just off to tennis,” and he glanced at his flannels. “I suppose someone has been playing the fool. I’ll get off.”

“Stop. If they have, they have been trying to fool me, too,” and he told of the message he had received.

Collins listened with interest.

“What have you done?” he said.

“I asked Lewis to find out where the Home Secretary was. I expect he has found him now. The thing is absurd.”

Lewis came in.

“Well?” said Sinclair.

“The Home Secretary is not in the House or at the Home Office. They do not know where he is.”

“Call up his house,” said Sinclair, irritated.

“Better not,” said Collins. “If there’s nothing in it we don’t want to look fools, and if there has really been murder done the less known the better. I’ll tell you what—I have my car outside. Let’s run up to his house in Leveson Square. You can make some excuse. You often want to see him.”

The Superintendent made a face. “I’m not big enough to go calling on the Home Secretary.”

“Never mind, fake up something. I’ll come with you.”

“All right, I’ll bring two plain clothes officers in case there is anything in it. We often have to keep a special watch there, so that’ll be quite in order.”

Collins laughed. “Thank goodness I am not official. What a lot of red tape you people have.”

“Why, what would you have done, then?”

“Charged up and asked him if he were dead by any chance.”

“Come along.”

Lewis had been listening to them.

“Come along, Lewis, and bring Smith,” said Sinclair.

To his surprise Lewis was as white as chalk, and his hand trembled.

“If you don’t mind, sir,” he said, “I would much rather not come. I don’t feel very well.” Collins gazed keenly at him for a moment.

“How long have you felt ill?” he said.

“Only just a few minutes ago, sir, I think it’s the heat.”

“Let’s get someone else, then, only hurry along, I want to get to my tennis,” said Collins impatiently.

Sinclair was about to grumble, but a look from Collins made him silent. “Go and get two men then at once. Tell them to meet us at the door.”

“What the devil was the matter with Lewis?” said Sinclair in the car. “He is my right-hand man.”

“Dunno,” said Collins who was driving, “wait till we know what has happened.”

Every incident that transpired from that moment was so stamped on the memory of the two men that there was no mistake about the facts.

On arriving at the door of the Home Secretary’s house, Sinclair stationed Smith at the front entrance, with orders not to show himself, but to watch.

The second man was disposed at the back, where was a high wall, but no actual entrance. The basement opened into an area in front.

The two men ascended the front steps and Sinclair rang the bell. An aged housekeeper, Mrs. Simmons, opened the door.

“Is the Home Secretary in?” said Sinclair.

“Yes, sir, he’s in his study,” she looked at the men doubtfully, “he did not wish to be disturbed.”

“When did you see him last?” said Collins, looking at her keenly.

“Why, about half an hour back, sir,” said she in surprise.

“What fools we have been,” said Sinclair, “we’d better go.”

“Not at all. Now we are here we will see him. We can ask him about Blake who is to be hanged next Thursday. There’s a big petition you know for a reprieve.”

“Very good, but it’s a fool’s errand.” He turned to the housekeeper.

“Would you kindly take my card to Sir James, and ask him if he could spare me a minute?”

When the woman had gone, Sinclair said, “I shall get hell for this. He will ask me what it has got to do with me, and why I did not use the ordinary channels.”

“Leave it to me,” said the other with his easy confidence. He generally got his own way in most things.

After a brief interval Mrs. Simmons returned.

“I have knocked twice,” she said, “but there is no answer. I expect he is asleep. I hardly like to disturb him unless it is a very important matter.”

The two men exchanged glances.

“I am afraid it is,” said Collins. “We had better see. This is Superintendent Sinclair from Scotland Yard.”

At the name the old woman turned pale.

“Scotland Yard?” she stammered. “I hope nothing is wrong?”

“Why should anything be wrong,” said Collins. “The Home Secretary often sees officials from the Yard, doesn’t he?”

“Yes,” said she; “but there have been some queer things today here.”

“What things?” said Collins.

“Oh, come along, don’t start asking questions now,” said Sinclair. The two men entered the hall.

The housekeeper disappeared down the stairs, but the others did not notice her departure at the moment.

They made for the library door where the housekeeper had knocked. Sinclair tried the handle. The door was locked. He knocked loudly, but there was no response.

“We shall have to break the door down,” said he.

“Oh, that’s very clumsy,” said Collins, “and makes such a noise.” Stooping down he examined the lock.

“That’s an easy matter, the key is in the lock.”

He produced a fine pair of pliers, and deftly gripping the end of the key, turned it without difficulty.

“You would make a good burglar,” laughed the superintendent. Collins opened the door and glanced round.

The room was in semidarkness, and after the glare outside it was hard to see anything for a moment. By the empty grate was a large armchair, and seated in this was the familiar figure of the Home Secretary, Sir James Watson. He was huddled up in his chair, and his head was at a curious angle to his body.

Sinclair was about to advance into the room.

“Stop,” said the other. “For Heaven’s sake don’t go inside and leave footmarks. Whatever is the matter, this requires a doctor. I will wait here, you telephone for a doctor.”

He glanced round the room.

“There doesn’t appear to be one here. Ask the housekeeper.”

Sinclair went to the head of the stairs and called.

There was some delay, and he called again angrily.

A muffled voice answered him.

“Where’s the telephone, quick?” he shouted.

A sound was heard on the stairs, and Mrs. Simmons came up. She was crying.

“Stop that,” said Sinclair roughly. “Where is the telephone?”

“There isn’t one in the house, sir,” she said. “Sir James had it taken away. He was always being rung up.”

Collins was getting impatient. “Send one of your men for a doctor, then, the old woman is no good. There are plenty of them round here. Hurry, man, it may be life or death.”

Sinclair dashed down the steps, and called the man on duty. He returned breathless.

Collins had dragged two large mats to the door of the library, and was carefully spreading one on the floor. The two men entered, and placed the second mat beyond the first.

“On your knees,” he said in a whisper.

They approached the figure in the chair.

One glance was sufficient. Even in the semidarkness they could see an ugly mark on the side of the head from which a very thin trickle of blood was coming.

“A bullet hole,” said Sinclair, who was versed in these matters. “He’s been shot.”

“Hum,” said Collins, “wait for the doctor. Meanwhile I will have some light.” With the utmost precautions he moved his rugs to the window, and pulled up the blinds.

The room was beautifully furnished, for Sir James was a man of taste and had the means to gratify it.

The walls were covered with books to a height of seven feet.

Above that one or two choice pictures were hung.

The fireplace was a fine piece of carved oak.

As far as they could see, the room was empty.

The windows were hasped, and there was no other entrance.

The library had originally been two rooms, and ran the full depth of the house. It had been adapted by Sir James, and was his favourite room.

A fussy little doctor arrived, and was brought into the room with the same precautions.

Sinclair introduced himself and his companion.

The doctor made a very careful examination, while the others waited.

“Dead,” he said. “I should think about half an hour, possibly more. It is difficult to tell exactly.” He looked up.

“Is it a case of murder or suicide?”

“At present we know no more than you do,” said Sinclair. “We had only just come, and sent for you at once.”

“Quite right, quite right,” said the little doctor pompously.

“Meanwhile you will, of course, keep this entirely to yourself,” said Collins.

“But isn’t this?” he glanced at the stricken man. “Surely this is the Home Secretary.”

“Exactly,” said Collins dryly. “That is why it is necessary for you to remain silent until you are asked to speak. Superintendent Sinclair represents Scotland Yard. You understand?”

The doctor bowed. He saw himself playing a prominent part in a great drama, which would bring him notoriety and clients.

“The body had better be moved for me to make a more exhaustive examination,” said he.

“Would you please wait outside till we have made our observations if you don’t mind, as the fewer in here the better, but I think you had better remain in the house, if you can manage it.”

“Certainly,” said the doctor, “I am at your service.”

“Then perhaps you would tell the housekeeper to stay where she is,” said Sinclair.

“Now for your men,” said Collins, when the doctor had gone out.

“We must tell them to see that no one leaves the house.” They went first to the front door and called Smith.

Collins was careful to keep the open library door in sight all the time.

After giving him his orders, they had to get in touch with the man at the back. There was a small garden, bounded by a high wall, and beyond that a lane. Seated on the wall was the figure of the other man, keeping a good lookout. Collins went to a back window and called him softly.

“Seen anything?” he asked.

“No, sir, nothing doing here,” said the man cheerfully.

It was refreshing in the midst of what looked like a grim tragedy to find a cheery soul who seemed to be enjoying himself.

He returned to Sinclair.

“Now for the room.”

The two had been used to work together, and Sinclair knew exactly when to leave matters to Collins and when to take charge himself.

As was usual in these cases, Collins thought aloud, and the other checked his statements.

He approached the dead man, moving still on the rugs.

“Clean bullet wound—no burning—fired from a distance—probably while he slept—entered right temple—bullet lodged in the brain—all straight forward—both hands limp, and peaceful expression—ergo unexpected attack and no resistance—now, let’s see—eyes shut—confirms first impression. Anything else about the body?”

Sinclair looked at it critically.

“No;” he said, “but from the way he lies the shot must have come from the doorway, or somewhere near that.”

“We are coming to that in a minute,” said the other.

“Now let’s have a look round. Observation only, no speculation. Table, with two glasses.” He took one up and then the other.

“Just whisky and soda. There’s the decanter and there’s the syphon.”

“Nothing very mysterious about that. But who was the visitor? … Cigar ash, I cannot tell five hundred kinds of ash,” said he with a smile, “still, they both smoked.”

“Now for the floor—help me with the rugs. Right—hullo.”

As they moved the second rug they disclosed a revolver lying on the floor. Collins picked it up.

“Service revolver—Webley—now obsolete—” He broke the revolver carefully.

“Five full and one empty—seems obvious—too obvious.” He was always disappointed if a problem proved quite easy of solution.

“Well, we must wait for the bullet—I hope it doesn’t fit—”

Sinclair laughed. “I don’t believe you care in the least whether the murderer is punished or not, as long as you have something interesting to solve.”

“Oh, I must say I like something abstruse; but never mind.

“Now for footprints. On this soft pile carpet they ought to show, thanks to our precautions.”

He went down on his knees, and examined the carpet carefully.

The other took a chair and watched.

After a long and keen search all over the room, he rose to his feet.

“There are three sets of marks,” he said.

“Here are one lot walking up and down and crossing frequently. Number two was sitting down here, it is quite a different type of boot, or rather shoe, I think, and here are the marks which I rather fancy are my own when I stepped to lay the rug.”

He removed his shoe and placed it on the mark.

“That’s right,” he said. “It shows how careful one has to be. If you and I and the doctor had all walked over the carpet we should have obliterated the others. …

“Now which of these is the dead man’s?”

Sinclair was hardened in criminal matters, and without compunction removed one of the dead man’s boots.

“Exactly,” said Collins, fitting it to a mark on the floor. “That’s that. He was the one who walked about the room. How does that fit in with the idea of him being shot when asleep?”

“No theories yet,” said Sinclair.

“Right you are. That’s the floor. Now the windows. Firmly fastened. Anything curious there?”

“Nothing that I see except we have to find how the murderer escaped.”

“A hot day in summer, and all the windows close fastened. Well, perhaps he did not want the shot to be heard.”

“Are you suggesting suicide?”

“Why not? Oh, I see, you are thinking of the telephone message. Still, we must not eliminate the possibility at present.”

“Door locked on the inside, and no trace of the second person.”

“Of course, the walls and floor will have to be examined,” said Sinclair.

“Of course, and the ceiling and chimney. Well, that’s all here, and we had better get the doctor and remove the body.”

“Wrap those glasses and decanter and syphon carefully up for finger prints,” said Collins.

Sinclair turned scarlet.

“I am most awfully sorry. I ought to have known better, but this thing upset me rather. While you were grovelling on the floor I helped myself to a little whisky—it was really unpardonable.”

“I saw you,” said Collins coolly. “It would cost you your place if it were known, but I shan’t tell any tales.”

“Thanks,” said Sinclair simply. It was a little weakness he had.

They took the body carefully into the dining-room, and left it with the doctor.

“Now for the housekeeper,” said Sinclair.

“Mrs. Simmons, will you come here, please?”

The woman came in very distressed, and seated herself, at a word from Collins.

“Now, Mrs. Simmons,” he said in kind tones, “Can you throw any light on this affair? Please calm yourself and tell us all you know.”

After a prolonged examination, the following facts were elicited, which are better put together.

The Home Secretary was a widower. He had one daughter, Mabel, who lived with him. She had gone down to their country place in Devonshire, from which he had come the day before, and he intended to return the next day. The servants had gone, leaving Mrs. Simmons to look after Sir James.

He had been at his Office all the morning, returning for lunch. He was a solitary man and shunned company.

At about three o’clock a ring had come at the door, and she had gone up to answer it. When she got to the top of the stairs, she saw that Sir James had already opened the door. A man came in and went straight to the library. She could not see anything of him, as Sir James was between them. She thought nothing of it, as it was probably an official from the Home Office. Sir James locked the door, and the two were together for about half an hour. She heard nothing, as the kitchen was not under the library.

Then there was a ring from the library. She was quite certain of that. She went up after a moment, as she had been writing a letter. When she got to the hall, Sir James was showing the visitor out, and she did not see him. Sir James stood on the steps and watched him go. As she was not wanted she went down again.

A little later Sir James came out from the library, and went across the road with a letter, which he put into the pillar-box. She waited for him, as she wished to ask about arrangements for the evening.

When he came back he told her he should be out to dinner, and that he was on no account to be disturbed.

He had then gone in and locked the door. She was certain of that—she had heard the key turn. After that she had been busy in the dining-room, and was quite certain that no one else had called. She had heard nothing until the two men had come. She had heard no sound of a shot.

She would certainly have heard one from where she was.

“Why was she so agitated when the door was opened?”

She was given to presentiments, and was feeling afraid of something after the strange man had called.

At the conclusion Collins asked her about the household. Were there any relations who came?

“No, sir,” she said, “though Sir James used to have regular house-parties at his country place. He lived very quietly in London.”

“Has he ever shown any signs of being afraid of an attack, or anything of that sort?”

“Well, sir, there have been times when he seemed uneasy. He has asked whether there was anybody hanging round the house, and he always kept a loaded revolver in his room.”

“Oh, did he? And where is it now?”

The housekeeper led them into the library, now guarded by a plainclothes man. She opened a drawer in the writing table. Within lay a small silver-plated revolver, fully loaded.

“You say that Sir James had one child, a daughter?” said Collins.

Mrs. Simmons hesitated. “Well, sir, I have been with the family twenty years. There was another, a son, but he was a wrong ’un, and went abroad many years ago, and, as far as I know, the family have heard nothing since.”

“But hasn’t Sir James kept in touch with him?”

“Of course, I do not know all that has happened, but I do know that Sir James used to make an allowance to him; but the time came when the firm of lawyers said they had lost all trace of him, and the money was stopped.”

“Where was he at that time—I mean in what country?”

“I don’t properly know, but it was in one of those South American States.”

“And that is all you can tell us,” said Collins, fixing the housekeeper with a sharp look.

“Yes, sir, as far as I can remember, but of course I am all of a fluster. Something more may occur to me; but, oh, sir, what shall I do, I cannot stay in this dreadful house?”

“There is no need for you to do so, is there, Sinclair?” said Collins.

The other tugged at his moustache. “I don’t know. Where are you going?”

“I want to go to my sister’s house at Forest Gate, if I may, I am so upset with all this.”

Collins drew Sinclair aside.

“Let her go,” he said, “and have her watched. It may be useful.”

“Very good,” said he. To Mrs. Simmons, he said, “You can go, but you must give us your address, you will be wanted as a witness at the inquest. Don’t talk about the affair at all. Do you understand?”

“Thank you, sir, I will go and pack,” said she gratefully.

Collins watched her go.

“What do you make of her?” he said.

“She seemed quite straightforward; I think she’s told us the truth.”

Collins gave a laugh. “Yes,” he said. “The truth, but not the whole truth. She’s a clever old woman.”

“What do you mean?”

“When a simple soul tells the tale, and tries to conceal something, she gives herself away. She will not look straight at you. When you are dealing with the cunning type, she will look at you with a particularly open face and innocent look. All the time she was telling her narratives she was confused and upset, as was natural. But when I asked her if she had anything else to say her manner altered, and she became collected and looked me straight in the face.”

“Oh, you imagine these things. I didn’t see any difference.”

“Very good,” said Collins, “we shall see.”

“Now for the next move,” said Sinclair, who always got irritated when his colleague assumed this superior manner. “I must go to the Yard and make a full report. We cannot keep this thing secret. It will make a great stir. Will you come with me?”

“I will run you down in my car, and then must get off at once.”

“Where to?” said the other in surprise.

“Someone must break the news to the girl. It’s a rotten job, but it’s of the greatest importance. I am off to Devonshire, and hope I shall arrive in time.”

“In time?”

“Before the news reaches there.”

“You’ve got something at the back of your mind, I can see that. It’s not just to spare the girl’s feelings.”

Collins smiled. “I would like to make the acquaintance of the family,” he said.

“But there is only one in the family,” said Sinclair surprised.

“Perhaps,” said Collins.

They made their way into the Square, where dusk was falling.

Several persons were looking up at the house and pointing.

“What the devil is the meaning of that?” said Sinclair, as Collins was starting the car.

“Ask me another, jump in,” and they went off.

As they turned into Bond Street, where the lights were on, they saw a newspaper boy shouting, and running down the street. In front of him was a news-bill, on which was printed:

“Home Secretary Murdered at his House.
Full Details.”

“Well, I’m damned,” said the Superintendent.

Collins stopped the car, and bought a paper.

On the News page, across two columns, was a flaring account of the murder.

“What in Hell’s name is the meaning of this?” said Sinclair.

“Let’s go to the Yard,” said Collins, putting in the clutch.

Mr. Boyce was a flabby man of fifty. He had had an unsuccessful career at the Bar which would have ruined a man without means; but his father was a distinguished Judge of the High Court, and had considerable influence. After trying to get his son a job as Stipendiary and a County Court Judge, he at last jobbed him into the position of Commissioner in Scotland Yard, where he subsisted on the brains of his subordinates. He listened with an assumption of wisdom to the account of the affair given by Sinclair. Collins had come with him after the incident of the newspaper. He had a profound contempt for Boyce, which the other resented though he dared not show his resentment.

While Sinclair was reporting, Collins had got busy with a timetable, and then turned to the telephone.

The others waited while he called up.

After several conversations, he laid the receiver down, and turned to the other two.

“The Editor of the Evening Rag,” said he. “I asked him where he got the news of the murder from, and he says via the Central News. He says he was careful to ascertain whether it was authentic before he sent it to press. What do you think he says?”

“Can’t guess,” said Sinclair shortly.

“He says it came in in the form of a report from Scotland Yard, on official paper, signed by Superintendent Sinclair.”

Sinclair turned purple.

Boyce looked at him with large, fishy eyes.

“Really, really,” he said, “this is most unorthodox.”

“You don’t suppose I sent it in, do you, sir,” spluttered Sinclair.

Collins intervened.

“I can answer for that,” said he; “Sinclair has been with me the whole time. No; there is another explanation for this.”

“What is that?”

“Why the same person who called us on the phone, and probably the murderer. It is curious how vain these people are. He may have stepped too far. It’s just possible he’s given us a valuable clue. One cannot send letters with impunity. There’s the post mark, and the time.”

“The document must be obtained,” said Boyce.

“I have already asked the Central News to send it here for inspection. It is coming now by hand.”

While they waited, Collins turned to Sinclair.

“About that telephone call, you say it was a woman’s voice?”

“Well, of course, I thought so at the time; but it may have been a man’s disguised.”

“Or something else?” said Collins.

“What do you mean?” said Boyce, almost startled.

“Well, it might have been a boy’s voice.”

“Oh, surely not.”

“We cannot eliminate the possibility, and then again it might have been a man’s voice not disguised.”

“How could that be?”

“There are some men with treble voices who sing falsetto like a boy. We cannot take anything for granted.”

Boyce gave a sniff. He did not like this sort of speculation.

“I must get back and change, and then get some food, and catch the night train,” said Collins. “I have plenty of time, so we can go into the position if you care to. You had better have some grub with me, and if you care to join us,” he said to Boyce, “I shall be delighted.”

“Thank you very much, I will with pleasure,” said the other. It was just what he wanted. He could listen to the others and then retail the information as his own. It was the way in which he worked his department.

A messenger boy was ushered in by a clerk, and handed a document to Sinclair, who signed the receipt and the lad departed.

In haste he opened the envelope, and pulled out another which had been opened. It was addressed to the Central News Agency, and was a Government envelope. Inside was a sheet of paper with the official stamp of Scotland Yard.

The note was short and in type.

“Sir,” it said, “I am authorized to inform you that the Home Secretary, Sir James Watson, was murdered this afternoon at his house in Leveson Square between three and four o’clock, by an unknown assailant. He was shot through the head, and death was instantaneous.

“ ‘The cause of the crime is at present unknown, and no trace of the assailant can be found. Scotland Yard have the matter in hand, and a reward will shortly be offered for information leading to the apprehension of the murderer.’ ”

It was signed “Arthur Sinclair, Superintendent, C.I.D.” and had the official stamp on it.

Sinclair laid the paper down with a look of bewilderment.

“We must keep this carefully,” said Boyce sententiously. “It is a document of the utmost importance.”

“This is of greater importance,” said Collins quietly.

The other two looked at him in surprise. He was holding the envelope.

Slowly he laid it on the table and pointed.

“This has escaped the notice of the Central News people. Probably because they have an assistant to open envelopes who simply throws them into the wastepaper basket. I particularly asked them to get the envelope, which they have done.”

“But what is the point?”

Collins placed his finger on the postmark.

“Two forty-five,” said he. “This was sent off before the murder took place.”

The three men looked at each other in silence.