The Wrong Letter

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.”

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.”

“It’s a dark business altogether, and the worst is that we shall have no peace till it is solved. I have had our staff working all day tracing the movements of well-known criminals who are at large, and any who may have had a grievance against the Home Secretary. Also of any lunatics who are at large, and, as you know, there are many of them.”

They smoked in silence for a while.

“Have you any clue at all? Don’t tell me if you would rather not, but I fancied you were holding something back?” said Sinclair.

“You have asked me, and I will tell you. I have. The only reason I have not confided in you is, not from lack of confidence, but because I was afraid of just such action as you have taken in the case of Lewis. You see, you are bound to do certain things by your position. If this develops I will tell you.”

“Thanks,” said the other, his face clearing.

“Did you notice anything curious in Mrs. Simmons’ statement?” said Collins, after a few minutes’ silence.

“In what particular?”

“I commend it to your notice. She said that when the unknown visitor had been with Sir James for some time, she heard a ring from the library. When she went upstairs, Sir James was showing the visitor out. If so, who rang, and why?”

“I think it⁠—Hush, what was that?”

“What?” said the other.

“I could have sworn I heard someone moving.”

“Your man, probably. I heard nothing.”

“My man does not live in. Don’t move.”

He got to his feet without noise, and went to his desk. Opening a drawer he took out an automatic pistol, and went to the door. With a swift movement he flung it open. Outside was darkness. Collins turned on the light and looked around.

“Nothing,” he said. “Must have been my imagination. Hullo, what’s this?”

He stooped down and picked up a piece of paper from the floor.

It was a sheet torn from a pocket book, and he brought it into the room, closing the door carefully.

“Read that,” he said, and for all his coolness there was a tremble in his voice. “You are both on the wrong track. Poor fools,” and that was all.

“Come,” said Collins, incisively. “We must search the flat.”

“It won’t do, Mrs. Simmons. You were asked whether anyone else had come to see Sir James after that, and you said ‘No.’ That was a lie.”

If one has seen a child’s balloon touched with a lighted cigarette, the collapse of this woman was not more complete.

She seemed to shrivel up. She tried to speak, but all she could do was to lick her lips and open her mouth.

Collins waited.

“You had better tell me,” he said. “If I had wanted to have this known publicly, couldn’t I have had this out in court? Shall I tell you who called?”

“Oh, no, no, sir,” she moaned, raising her hand as though she were threatened with a blow.

“You know perfectly well that Mr. Eric Sanders came, and you let him in?”

“Oh, sir, how do you know?” she said, with a look of blank astonishment.

“The best thing for you is to tell me exactly what did happen. Perhaps I know more than you think.”

She looked at him in a frightened way.

“Oh, sir, he had nothing to do with the murder, sir, I am sure he didn’t.”

“Tell me exactly what did occur, or must I call the police?” he said.

At that moment a last ray, almost bloodred, came from the dying sun through the window, and shone full on the portrait over the fireplace. Collins was idly looking at it, when his face suddenly became rigid and fixed. An intent look came into his eyes, and he stared hard at the portrait. Then the brilliant light came on. At that moment he felt rather than saw that Mabel was watching him. He turned to her and she looked down in confusion, and a red pervaded her face. They both recovered and their eyes met. He read in them a certain uneasiness or dread.

Instantly he composed his features and said, “That’s better, but the sunset was very beautiful.”