The Wrong Letter
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
