V
A Mysterious Visit
By dining on the train, Collins had just time to do a Gilbert and Sullivan opera. He had a seat permanently booked, which was to be disposed of if he did not turn up in time.
After the excitement of his daily life, he found these plays, which he knew almost by heart, very refreshing. It was the dear old Yeoman of the Guard this night, and he lay back and listened with his eyes half shut, absorbing the delicious tunes like a rare old vintage.
“It is easier to die well than to live well, for in sooth I have tried both,” says Colonel Fairfax.
How many cases he had come across in his work where this was true. Some of the worst of men had earned the admiration of men by their brave end.
He made his way home in the purple night through back streets and half-lighted squares which he always preferred to the rush and dazzling brightness of West London, when he had thinking to do.
He arrived at his flat to find Sinclair waiting for him, as he had almost expected.
“You’re a nice fellow,” said the latter. “I’ve been waiting for you for over an hour. Your man did not know where you had gone.”
“Anything wrong,” said the other, carelessly.
“Wrong,” said Sinclair. “I should think there was. You can’t have a Home Secretary murdered for nothing. The Premier sent for Boyce this morning, and half the Cabinet have been round or calling up. They all have ‘theories’ which they want us to work out. … Luckily, Boyce is in his element, and professes great hopes of capture and all that sort of thing.”
Collins helped Sinclair to a generous whiskey and soda, took a more modest one for himself, and sat down.
“Now let’s hear all about it,” he said.
“Well,” said the other. “We have done a good deal of spade work, and the negative results are of use anyhow, though our many critics would not say so. First, as to the room. It has been so thoroughly examined that there is no possibility of the murderer having got out by any secret means.”
“I could have told you that,” said Collins almost contemptuously.
“How?” said the other.
“Well, nowadays, people in modern London houses do not have trap doors and secret panels, and all that sort of thing. That’s kept for detective stories.”
“Then how in the world did he come and go?”
“I can’t tell you. That’s what we’ve got to find out.”
“Perhaps Mrs. Simmons was an accomplice?”
“Not necessarily, but how did you get on with her?”
“She came, and you remember Boyce said he was going to examine her himself. The great man was engaged with higher game, and I did the examining. We got her whole statement down, and turned her inside out. I am sure she was telling the truth. She had nothing to add to what she said yesterday.”
Collins grunted.
Sinclair looked at him for a moment, then continued.
“We could get nothing further about the letter sent to the Central News. It was, as you said, posted at Bridge Street, but of course no one can say any more than that. I have sent it to an expert on typewriting to see whether we can ascertain what machine was used.”
“Good.”
“The telephone has given us nothing. They cannot say where the call came from, and it was probably a Public Telephone Office. What a nerve the man had.”
“Yes, but it was clever. Haven’t you noticed that where there is nothing but the bare deed, it is easier to concentrate on that, but all these extraneous matters lead one away from the essentials?
“Now I see you are dying to tell me. What about Lewis?”
Sinclair gave a start. This man’s instinct was uncanny.
“As I told you, Lewis has bolted. He did not turn up again yesterday, and I sent a man to see if he was ill. He had gone home, coolly packed his things and paid his bill, telling his landlady he would not be back, and gone.”
“And so you think he is the murderer?”
“It is suspicious, but you have not heard all. Of course, this, coupled with his curious manner the day before, caused me to make enquiries. Two important facts have come to light. On the afternoon of the murder he told his typist that he was going out. He was very restless, and said he could not work, and then he seemed to come to a decision, and said, ‘I must go and see Sir James Watson,’ and took his hat and stick.”
“When was this?” said Collins, leaning forward.
“About 2:30, and he did not return till just before I sent for him after the telephone message came.”
Collins laughed.
“Then, you suppose that, having planned the murder and written the letter saying that it had taken place, and posted it, he tells his typist he is going to do it and comes back in time to call you up, and me too, and then answers your bell.”
“I suppose nothing,” said Sinclair, nettled. “I am giving you facts, and I haven’t done.”
“Fire away, then.”
“When we searched his rooms after he had gone, his landlady said he always kept a revolver in the top drawer in his bedroom. The day before yesterday she saw him take it out, and put it in his pocket.”
“My dear fellow, this is too crude for words. Couldn’t he have shut his door, or taken some precaution?”
“Of course, I know that, but it is this sort of mistake which hangs men.”
“Well, go on.”
“That’s all, but it is enough to go on for me. Why has he fled, tell me that?”
“My dear fellow, let me demolish your house of cards. First, would a man who is so cool a hand that he can do what he has done, show nervousness and fright when asked to go to the house? Would
