The wrong letter E-Book

Walter S. Masterman

• Herausgeber: Librorium Editions
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

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.

Leseprobe

The Wrong Letter

by

Walter S. Masterman

with a preface by

G. K. Chesterton

© 2023 Librorium Editions

ISBN : 9782385741846

Contents

Preface

I

The Crime

II

Speculations

III

At the Vale

IV

The Missing Letter

V

A Mysterious Visit

VI

At Leveson Square

VII

Valuable Information

VIII

Enter Mr. Allery

IX

A Confession

X

The Portrait

XI

An Apparition

XII

What Happened in the Night

XIII

The Car in the Dark

XIV

Back in London

XV

The Crisis

XVI

The Criminal Found

XVII

The Wrong Letter

Preface

I can say with all sincerity, nay with all solemn responsibility, that this detective mystery deceived me. And as I have been looking out for a long time for a detective mystery that should be at least deceptive, whatever its other merits or demerits in being detective, I very willingly write a word to serve as a preface to it, though such books ought not to need such prefaces. The detective story is in this way a paradox (if I may use a word that has very painful memories for me) because the true reader and critic not only desires to be gulled, but even desires to be gullible. I wish when reading such a story to become as simple as Dr. Watson; to be in the happy, cheerful, childlike, radiant condition of Dr. Watson and not in the much more dark and disillusioned and satiated and sceptical condition of Sherlock Holmes. I generally am in that childlike condition. But in every case it is my ardent and aspiring ambition to be stupider than the man who wrote the story. And in the case of this story I actually succeeded.

This desire to be deceived is really peculiar to detective romance. It is in another sense that we say the same thing of other types of romance. It is sometimes said that when we go to the theatre we pay to be deceived. But we are not really deceived; we do not think that the dramatist intends something that he does not intend; we do not think the actor is doing something that he is not doing. We only forget, or half forget, for a moment, in the continuity and consistency of certain events, the fact that they come from a dramatist and an actor. But if we happen to remember it, we do not remember it with surprise. We are not astonished to discover that there is an actor on the stage, as we are (or ought to be) astonished to discover that there is a corpse in the summer-house. We do not feel a momentary incredulity when we are told that the play was written by a playwright, as we do feel (or ought to feel) when we are told that the crime was committed by a curate. We watch a great actor performing Hamlet so well that (if we have luck) we lose for an instant the sense that he is a great actor; we feel for the moment that he is young Hamlet trying to avenge the death of old Hamlet upon Claudius. But we do not, either in forgetting or remembering, feel any shock of fact or the change of fact. We do not feel as we should feel if the play took a new and sudden turn, and we found that Hamlet had killed his own father and that his uncle was a perfectly blameless character. That would be the Detective Drama of Hamlet, Prince of Denmark, and now that so many peculiar experiments are being tried with that tragedy, I respectfully suggest it to the managers of the London Theatres.

If it is the first rule of the writer of mystery stories to conceal the secret from the reader, it is the first duty of the critic to conceal it from the public. I will therefore put my hand upon my mouth; and tortures shall not reveal the precise point in this story at which a person whom I had really regarded as figuring in one legitimate capacity suddenly began to figure in another, which was far from legitimate. I must not breathe a word about what the writer of this dramatic mystery does. I will confine myself strictly to saying what he does not do. And merely out of the things which he does not do, I could construct an enthusiastic eulogy. On the firm foundation of the things he does not do, I could erect an eternal tower of brass. For the things he does not do are the things being done everywhere to-day, to the destruction of true detective fiction and the loss of this legitimate and delightful form of art. He does not introduce into the story a vast but invisible secret society with branches in every part of the world, with ruffians who can be brought in to do anything or underground cellars that can be used to hide anybody. He does not mar the pure and lovely outlines of a classical murder or burglary by wreathing it round and round with the dirty and dingy red tape of international diplomacy; he does not lower our lofty ideals of crime to the level of foreign politics. He does not introduce suddenly at the end somebody’s brother from New Zealand, who is exactly like him. He does not trace the crime hurriedly in the last page or two to some totally insignificant character, whom we never suspected because we never remembered. He does not get over the difficulty of choosing between the hero and the villain by falling back on the hero’s cabman or the villain’s valet. He does not introduce a professional criminal to take the blame of a private crime; a thoroughly unsportsmanlike course of action and another proof of how professionalism is ruining our national sense of sport. He does not introduce about six people in succession to do little bits of the same small murder; one man to bring the dagger and another to point it and another to stick it in properly. He does not say it was all a mistake, and that nobody ever meant to murder anybody at all, to the serious disappointment of all humane and sympathetic readers. He does not make the general mistake of thinking that the more complicated the story is the better. His story is complicated enough, and on many points open to criticism; but the secret of it is found in the centre; and that is the central matter in any work of art.

G. K. Chesterton.

March, 1926.

Chapter 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 she say?” said the Superintendent turning in his chair.

“Nothing more than that. Simply asked if I were speaking, and said ‘Superintendent Sinclair wants to speak to you at once if you can come,’ and rang off.”

“Well, I’m damned,” said Sinclair.

“You may be for all I know, but I was just off to tennis,” and he glanced at his flannels. “I suppose someone has been playing the fool. I'll get off.”

“Stop. If they have, they have been trying to fool me, too,” and he told of the message he had received.

Collins listened with interest.

“What have you done?” he said.

“I asked Lewis to find out where the Home Secretary was. I expect he has found him now. The thing is absurd.”

Lewis came in.

“Well?” said Sinclair.

“The Home Secretary is not in the House or at the Home Office. They do not know where he is.”

“Call up his house,” said Sinclair, irritated.

“Better not,” said Collins. “If there’s nothing in it we don’t want to look fools, and if there has really been murder done the less known the better. I'll tell you what—I have my car outside. Let’s run up to his house in Leveson Square. You can make some excuse. You often want to see him.”

The Superintendent made a face. “I’m not big enough to go calling on the Home Secretary.”

“Never mind, fake up something. I’ll come with you.”

“All right, I’ll bring two plain clothes officers in case there is anything in it. We often have to keep a special watch there, so that’ll be quite in order.”

Collins laughed. “Thank goodness I am not official. What a lot of red tape you people have.”

“Why, what would you have done, then?”

“Charged up and asked him if he were dead by any chance.”

“Come along.”

Lewis had been listening to them.

“Come along, Lewis, and bring Smith,” said Sinclair.

To his surprise Lewis was as white as chalk, and his hand trembled.

“If you don’t mind, sir,” he said, “I would much rather not come. I don’t feel very well.” Collins gazed keenly at him for a moment.

“How long have you felt ill?” he said.

“Only just a few minutes ago, sir, I think it’s the heat.”

“Let’s get someone else, then, only hurry along, I want to get to my tennis,” said Collins impatiently.

Sinclair was about to grumble, but a look from Collins made him silent. “Go and get two men then at once. Tell them to meet us at the door.”

“What the devil was the matter with Lewis?” said Sinclair in the car. “He is my right-hand man.”

“Dunno,” said Collins who was driving, “wait till we know what has happened.”

Every incident that transpired from that moment was so stamped on the memory of the two men that there was no mistake about the facts.

On arriving at the door of the Home Secretary’s house, Sinclair stationed Smith at the front entrance, with orders not to show himself, but to watch.

The second man was disposed at the back, where was a high wall, but no actual entrance. The basement opened into an area in front.

The two men ascended the front steps and Sinclair rang the bell. An aged housekeeper, Mrs. Simmons, opened the door.

“Is the Home Secretary in?” said Sinclair.

“Yes, sir, he’s in his study,” she looked at the men doubtfully, “he did not wish to be disturbed.”

“When did you see him last?” said Collins, looking at her keenly.

“Why, about half an hour back, sir,” said she in surprise.

“What fools we have been,” said Sinclair, “we'd better go.”

“Not at all. Now we are here we will see him. We can ask him about Blake who is to be hanged next Thursday. There’s a big petition you know for a reprieve.”

“Very good, but it’s a fool’s errand.” He turned to the housekeeper.

“Would you kindly take my card to Sir James, and ask him if he could spare me a minute?”

When the woman had gone, Sinclair said, “I shall get hell for this. He will ask me what it has got to do with me, and why I did not use the ordinary channels.”

“Leave it to me,” said the other with his easy confidence. He generally got his own way in most things.

After a brief interval Mrs. Simmons returned.

“I have knocked twice,” she said, “but there is no answer. I expect he is asleep. I hardly like to disturb him unless it is a very important matter.”

The two men exchanged glances.

“I am afraid it is,” said Collins. “We had better see. This is Superintendent Sinclair from Scotland Yard.”

At the name the old woman turned pale.

“Scotland Yard?” she stammered. “I hope nothing is wrong?”

“Why should anything be wrong,” said Collins. “The Home Secretary often sees officials from the Yard, doesn’t he?”

“Yes,” said she; “but there have been some queer things to-day here.”

“What things?” said Collins.

“Oh, come along, don’t start asking questions now,” said Sinclair. The two men entered the hall.

The housekeeper disappeared down the stairs, but the others did not notice her departure at the moment.

They made for the library door where the housekeeper had knocked. Sinclair tried the handle. The door was locked. He knocked loudly, but there was no response.

“We shall have to break the door down,” said he.

“Oh, that’s very clumsy,” said Collins, “and makes such a noise.” Stooping down he examined the lock.

“That’s an easy matter, the key is in the lock.”

He produced a fine pair of pliers, and deftly gripping the end of the key, turned it without difficulty.

“You would make a good burglar,” laughed the superintendent. Collins opened the door and glanced round.

The room was in semi-darkness, and after the glare outside it was hard to see anything for a moment. By the empty grate was a large arm-chair, and seated in this was the familiar figure of the Home Secretary, Sir James Watson. He was huddled up in his chair, and his head was at a curious angle to his body.

Sinclair was about to advance into the room.

“Stop,” said the other. “For Heaven’s sake don’t go inside and leave footmarks. Whatever is the matter, this requires a doctor. I will wait here, you telephone for a doctor.”

He glanced round the room.

“There doesn’t appear to be one here. Ask the housekeeper.”

Sinclair went to the head of the stairs and called.

There was some delay, and he called again angrily.

A muffled voice answered him.

“Where’s the telephone, quick?” he shouted.

A sound was heard on the stairs, and Mrs. Simmons came up. She was crying.

“Stop that,” said Sinclair roughly. “Where is the telephone?”

“There isn’t one in the house, sir,” she said. “Sir James had it taken away. He was always being rung up.”

Collins was getting impatient. “Send one of your men for a doctor, then, the old woman is no good. There are plenty of them round here. Hurry, man, it may be life or death.”

Sinclair dashed down the steps, and called the man on duty. He returned breathless.

Collins had dragged two large mats to the door of the library, and was carefully spreading one on the floor. The two men entered, and placed the second mat beyond the first.

“On your knees,” he said in a whisper.

They approached the figure in the chair.

One glance was sufficient. Even in the semi-darkness they could see an ugly mark on the side of the head from which a very thin trickle of blood was coming.

“A bullet hole,” said Sinclair, who was versed in these matters. “He’s been shot.”

“Hum,” said Collins, “wait for the doctor. Meanwhile I will have some light.” With the utmost precautions he moved his rugs to the window, and pulled up the blinds.

The room was beautifully furnished, for Sir James was a man of taste and had the means to gratify it.

The walls were covered with books to a height of seven feet.

Above that one or two choice pictures were hung.

The fireplace was a fine piece of carved oak.

As far as they could see, the room was empty.

The windows were hasped, and there was no other entrance.

The library had originally been two rooms, and ran the full depth of the house. It had been adapted by Sir James, and was his favourite room.

A fussy little doctor arrived, and was brought into the room with the same precautions.

Sinclair introduced himself and his companion.

The doctor made a very careful examination, while the others waited.

“Dead,” he said. “I should think about half an hour, possibly more. It is difficult to tell exactly.” He looked up.

“Is it a case of murder or suicide?”

“At present we know no more than you do,” said Sinclair. “We had only just come, and sent for you at once.”

“Quite right, quite right,” said the little doctor pompously.