“Ask me another, jump in,” and they went off.
As they turned into Bond Street, where the lights were on, they saw a newspaper boy shouting, and running down the street. In front of him was a news-bill, on which was printed:
“Home Secretary Murdered at his House.
Full Details.”
“Well, I’m damned,” said the Superintendent.
Collins stopped the car, and bought a paper.
On the News page, across two columns, was a flaring account of the murder.
“What in Hell’s name is the meaning of this?” said Sinclair.
“Let’s go to the Yard,” said Collins, putting in the clutch.
Mr. Boyce was a flabby man of fifty. He had had an unsuccessful career at the Bar which would have ruined a man without means; but his father was a distinguished Judge of the High Court, and had considerable influence. After trying to get his son a job as Stipendiary and a County Court Judge, he at last jobbed him into the position of Commissioner in Scotland Yard, where he subsisted on the brains of his subordinates. He listened with an assumption of wisdom to the account of the affair given by Sinclair. Collins had come with him after the incident of the newspaper. He had a profound contempt for Boyce, which the other resented though he dared not show his resentment.
While Sinclair was reporting, Collins had got busy with a timetable, and then turned to the telephone.