The Missing Letter
Sinclair was sitting at his desk, and his brows were knitted. Before
him was a letter.
He read it over again for the third time, and then told the clock that
he was damned. Then he picked up the envelope, and examined it
closely.
It was the morning after the murder.
This was what he read.
89, Leveson Square,
London, W.
“Dear Mr. Sinclair,
I am writing to you, but I have grave doubts whether this letter
will ever reach you, and therefore, I am not telling you more than
necessary. I am in the hands of one of the cleverest ruffians that
this generation has produced. My life is in imminent danger if it is
not already forfeited. There is not time for explanations.
Follow these instructions carefully.
Find my son who has disappeared for some years, but was last heard
of in Monte Video. Tell him to look in the place where I hid my will
in his presence, and he will find all the necessary documents to
bring a great criminal to justice. I cannot be more specific. I am
writing to you because I know you have done good service and are
painstaking. Boyce is a fool. Sylvester Collins is a theorist who
will be no help to you in this matter. Do not consult him. If I am
dead when this reaches you, act as I have said. If nothing has
happened, I rely on your honour to destroy this letter and I will
send for you. I am very tired.
Yours faithfully,
James Watson.”
Sinclair sat long over this letter. What a vista of happenings did it
conjure up. He was a plain man. Why did not Sir James write plainly,
give the name of the criminal straight out and save further bother?
Why all this mystery? What had happened in that grim library in the
afternoon? Oh, bother it all, what a maze of evidence. If only it had
been a straightforward murder, with plenty of blood and clues as in a
detective story.
No; he would not tell Collins. He had something up his sleeve—well,
let them both follow their own line.
He took a pen and paper, and put down his facts. Here was one thing
cleared up. This was the letter which Sir James had posted himself,
after his interview with the unknown man.
That, at any rate, corroborated the housekeeper’s evidence. Then the
visitor had threatened his life; if not, why was the danger hanging
over him so greatly that he dare not venture further than the post?
A message was brought in. It was a wire from Collins to say he was on
the way to London. “Do nothing till I come,” it ended.
“That’s like his cheek,” said Sinclair to himself.
He put the letter carefully away in his pocket book, and took his hat
and stick. “I am going to Leveson Square,” said he to the messenger.
“There is no answer.”
Once inside the house, through the usual, morbid crowd who gathered
outside, he met the plain-clothes officer on duty.
“Anything to report?” he said, in answer to the other’s salute.
“No, sir,” said he. “They are still at work on the floor and ceiling
and the walls.”
A gang of expert men had been engaged to search for a means of exit
from the room by which the murderer had escaped. There had been found
no trace of a secret door, or so much as a crevice through which a
mouse could get. They had even ripped up all the boards, and taken off
the oak panelling from the walls. The ceiling had been examined all
over and the chimney sounded. There was nothing.
“Have you found anything in the nature of a letter or anything,
anywhere?” he asked of the man in charge.
“Nothing, sir, but we can search all the furniture and books.”
“Please do so. It is of great importance, and say nothing about it to
anyone.”
“Very good, sir,” said the man who was keen on this job, and wanted to
stand well with the superintendent.
Sinclair addressed the plain-clothes officer.
“Has the body been searched?”
“Yes, sir. All that was found on him has been put on the dining-room
table.”
“Good,” he said, and went into the room.
Here were all the little things a man carries about with him, which
look so pitiable when he is dead. A fountain pen, pocket book, cigar
case, and a leather case containing a miniature of his dead wife and
his daughter.