“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 waste-paper 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.
II
Speculations
Collins, Sinclair and Boyce had just discussed an excellent glass of port after a frugal but well-cooked meal at Collins’ flat.
The room was tastefully but not luxuriously furnished, and was stamped with the individuality of the occupier.
Over the mantelpiece was an oar, a relic of the time when Collins had stroked his college boat to victory in the Mays.
Four selected pictures were on the walls, but the eye was caught by Napoleon, the Last Phase, which seemed to dominate the room, with its tortured sadness.
Collins rose, rang the bell for coffee, and handed round cigars.
During the meal all reference to the tragedy of the day had been dropped by tacit consent. Now each of the men drew up his chair to the fire, and prepared to discuss the affair—in spite of the heat of the day the nights were cold.
Collins suggested, with an irony which was lost on the others, that Boyce should give them the light of his wisdom on the problem.
This he hastily declined, and Sinclair asked Collins to open the ball. Here he was in his element.
“I will go through the facts, and Sinclair can check me.” The others nodded assent. The cigars were good and the chairs comfortable. They were in the right mood for listening.
“First then,” said Collins, “there are four possibilities. It may have been suicide, but the doctor does not think that is possible. There was no blackening round the wound, and it would not be likely that a man could shoot himself through the head and throw the revolver away from him.”
“But what about the telephone messages and the newspaper article?” said Boyce.
“We are coming to that, but they may have nothing to do with the crime.”
The other two exchanged glances.
“Then we come to accident. That is a possibility. A man may have tried blackmail or to extract some secret, and fired by accident. Here again the position of the body and the whole arrangement of the room are against such an idea.”
“Then there is only murder?” said Boyce.
“Not quite,” said the other. “There is first the work of a madman.”
“But that is nevertheless murder,” said Sinclair.
“Yes; but we then have to proceed on an entirely different basis. If this is the work of a lunatic, it explains the telephone messages and the newspaper article. It is just the sort of thing that a madman with an inordinate vanity would do. And we need not look for motive. If that is so, our task will be simplified.”
The others agreed.
“Now we come to the fourth. A cold-blooded and deliberate murder, of which each detail was planned beforehand so accurately that the criminal had the effrontery to inform the Press before it was done.”
“That is the most probable,” said Sinclair.
“I agree, but we must not lose sight of the others.”
“Now for our facts. At sometime before 2:30 when the box was cleared, a letter was posted at Westminster Bridge Post Office, the contents of which you know. At 3:00 o’clock a man calls on the Home Secretary who is either expected or well known to Sir James.”
“How do
