At Leveson Square
The blinds were drawn at the house in Leveson Square, and a crowd was
still gazing up at the blank windows. There is always something
gruesome in drawn blinds, and the policeman standing at the door added
to the air of mystery and dark deeds.
Collins and Sinclair, refreshed by an excellent breakfast, arrived in
Collins’ car. They had been to the Yard first.
Within, the appearance of the house was as though a bomb had been
dropped. All the oak panelling from the library was piled in the hall,
with furniture and books. The library door was open, and the floor was
covered with plaster. The men had made small holes in the ceiling at
various places, as well as having examined the floor above. The search
had been very thorough.
In a room upstairs lay the silent figure of the dead statesman.
It had been decided that the body should remain in the house and the
doctor’s examination had taken place at the house.
A Home Office expert had conducted this, and the fussy little doctor,
who had been summoned at the first, had wormed his way in to assist.
He was full of importance.
They met the doctors in the dining-room.
“Well?” said Sinclair. “Have you found anything?”
“We have extracted the bullet,” said Broughton, the Home Office
doctor. “As might have been expected, it fits the empty cartridge, and
is exactly similar to the other five.”
“What a pity,” said Collins.
The doctor looked at him in surprise.
Sinclair gave a laugh.
“Nothing straightforward satisfies Collins,” he said. “He loves
mystery. He would have liked you to have found a rifle bullet, or no
bullet at all.”
“There’s no accounting for tastes,” said the other. “For my part I am
glad enough when I find things fitting in.”
“And that’s all?” said Collins.
“There’s one thing I can’t make out, it’s probably nothing, but it’s
queer. I have had a very extensive experience with this sort of thing,
as you know. The bullet had only just penetrated the brain. Now, a
revolver bullet of that calibre, fired at the distance it was, should
have smashed the back of the skull, and made a dreadful wound. It is
the heavy Army type. I sent a policeman for a sheep’s head, which is
harder than the human skull, and fired at it in the back garden. Look
at the mess it has made,” and he showed them the gruesome sight.
“Have you any suggestion to make?” said Sinclair.
“The only thing I can think of is that a half charge was used to
deaden the noise. But then, why put a half charge in one cartridge
only?”
“I give it up,” said Sinclair.
Collins was taking little notice. He was in a furious mood. The
morning papers had come out with full details, not only of the crime,
but of the telephone messages and the letter to the Central News,
which made excellent copy, but was in the highest degree indiscreet.
“Who the devil has done this?” he had said in the car.
Sinclair had hastily disclaimed all knowledge of it.
“Then it must be Boyce,” said Collins. “He is the only other that
knows about it. The fool!”
Presently the man himself came in, puffing and blowing, for he had
walked.
Collins tackled him at once.
“I say, Boyce, did you tell the Press all those details which have
come out to-day?”
Boyce looked uncomfortable.
“No,” he said. “I have told the Press nothing. I only told the facts
to one or two of the Cabinet who were asking me about things
yesterday.”
“Then you’ve put your foot into it properly,” said Collins, bluntly.
Boyce began to bluster after the manner of a man who knows he is in
the wrong.
“I don’t see that any harm is done, and anyway it is a matter for my
Department to decide. I really don’t see what it has to do with you,
Collins.”
“You’ll see,” said the other, shortly.
Boyce was offended, and, like men of his kind, began to sulk. He
ignored Collins, and turned to Sinclair.
“Any news of the missing man? I see you have a full description of
him, but no photo. That’s a pity.”
“We could not find one, sir,” said Sinclair. “He seems to have been
one of those men who do not care to have their photo taken.”
“Suspicious, very, that,” said Boyce.
Collins laughed contemptuously.
Boyce shot him an angry look.
“We must lay him by the heels soon—he won’t be able to get out of the
country,” he said in a challenging way.
“I don’t think we can do any more here,” said Collins.
“You’ve searched all these books and the furniture for any documents?”
said Sinclair.
“What do you expect to find?” said Boyce.
“One never knows,” said Sinclair hastily.
The man addressed said, “Yes, sir, and we have been through all his
papers as you told us; there appears to be nothing of importance. He
was very methodical, and did not appear to keep any private documents
here. Perhaps they are in Devonshire.”
“We are trying to find the whereabouts of the new Baronet, who was
last heard of in Monte Video,” said Sinclair.
“I see you are,” said Boyce; “but I should have thought that would
have been for the relatives to do. It does not seem a Home Office
matter.”
“Perhaps not,” said Sinclair; “but as he was Home Secretary?”
“Exactly, as an act of courtesy, perhaps,” and Boyce assumed a manner
of importance. He had become a prominent man in the last few days.
Sinclair breathed a sigh of relief. He was thinking of the letter
which he had no intention of showing to anyone else.
There was a ring at the door, and the policeman on duty brought in a
telegram.
“For you, sir,” he said, handing it to Collins.
He read it while the others watched. Not a muscle moved.
“No answer, thanks,” he said to the policeman, and put it in his
pocket.
“Anything important?” said Boyce, officiously.
“Oh, no,” said the other.
He turned into the library, and looked round.
“What the devil is he doing with telegrams sent to this house?” said
Boyce, irritably.
The remark called for no answer.
The telegram was from Miss Watson to say she was coming to Town that
afternoon, and would he meet her.
It did not ask for an answer, which pleased him somehow. He strolled
out of the room, and said:
“What a pity some of our spook merchants cannot come and make an
incantation or beat tom-toms or something, and conjure up the scene
for us. It would be most interesting.”
“What is more important than mere interest,” said Boyce, “is to bring
the criminal to justice.”
“Oh, I suppose so, but it’s so dull when the problem is solved,
especially if it turns out banal. It’s like a game of cricket, when
you expect an exciting ending, and the other side all get out for
about 20.”
“I am afraid I do not play cricket,” said Boyce, curtly.
Collins eyed him, “No, you wouldn’t,” he said, and made an enemy of
him forthwith.