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CHAPTER I “Hallo! Is that Hampstead Police Station?” “Yes. Who are you?” “Detective-Inspector Chippenfield of Scotland Yard. Tell Inspector Seldon I want him, and be quick about it.” “Yes, sir. Hang on, sir. I’ll put you through to him at once.” Detective-Inspector Chippenfield, of Scotland Yard, waited with the receiver held to his ear. While he waited he scrutinised keenly a sheet of paper which lay on the desk in front of him. It was a flimsy, faintly-ruled sheet from a cheap writing-pad, blotted and soiled, and covered with sprawling letters which had been roughly printed at irregular intervals as though to hide the identity of the writer. But the letters formed words, and the words read: SIR HORACE FEWBANKS WAS MURDERED LAST NIGHT WHO DID IT I DONT KNOW SO IT IS NO USE TRYING TO FIND OUT WHO I AM YOU WILL FIND HIS DEAD BODY IN THE LIBRARY AT RIVERSBROOK HE WAS SHOT THOUGH THE HEART “Hallo!” “Is that you, Inspector Chippenfield?” “Yes. That you, Seldon? Have you heard anything of a murder out your way?” “Can’t say that I have. Have you?” “Yes. We have information that Sir Horace Fewbanks has been murdered-shot.” “Mr. Justice Fewbanks shot-murdered!” Inspector Seldon gave expression to his surprise in a long low whistle which travelled through the telephone. Then he added, after a moment’s reflection, “There must be some mistake. He is away.” “Away where?” “In Scotland. He went there for the Twelfth-when the shooting season opened.” “Are you sure of that?” “Yes; he rang me up the day before he left to ask us to keep an eye on his house while he was away.” There was a pause at the Scotland Yard end of the telephone. Inspector Chippenfield was evidently thinking hard.
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