The Mammoth Book of Historical Crime Fiction

At the Postal Telegraph office Hicks located the night letter. It had been typed out and a flimsy sheet remained in the overnight file folder.

Winslow stared at it. The message was a lengthy one. “I’ll need to take this with me.”

Oswald Hicks assented.

By the time Winslow pulled his yellow Auburn into the garage at West Adams Place and entered the house, a police evidence team had removed the.22 calibre bullet from the front door. The ever-competent Reuter had filled the hole with quick-hardening putty. He was already at work staining the putty to match the surrounding wood.

Caligula Foxx, resplendent in his usual glaring aquamarine silk shirt, flannel trousers and foulard-pattern dressing gown, was seated behind his gigantic glass-covered desk, reading the Sunday funny pages. A bottle of Teplitz-Schonau ale stood at his elbow.

He lowered the colourful newsprint, tipped the bottle of ale into a tall glass and sipped judiciously. He wiped his lips with a bandanna and looked at Winslow.

“Tell me everything.”

Winslow repeated his story, reporting on the condition of Miss Mayhew.

Foxx nodded approvingly. “She is an innocent child, Andy. Whatever deviltry is afoot, she did not deserve to be attacked in this manner. It almost gives one to believe in divine intervention to learn that she could take a bullet through the skull and suffer nothing worse than a headache.”

“Almost,” Winslow said. “But, if God got into the act, he could have made the gun misfire and blow off the shooter’s hand, couldn’t he?”

Foxx grinned sardonically. “I should know better than to engage in theological speculation with you, my boy. And Lieutenant Burke’s man said that it was a steel-jacketed bullet, so it didn’t break apart in the victim’s brain. And it must have had an extra load of propellant to make it punch its way out and penetrate into our door.”

He leaned back in his oversized chair and drew a breath. “All right then; I detect from your manner that you are holding something back. Spill it, Andy, spill it.”

Winslow reached into his pocket and withdrew a large envelope. It bore the Postal Telegraph logotype — the company’s name set in large, jagged letters that suggested bolts of electricity — in the corner. “This is the message that Miss Mayhew was attempting to deliver when she was shot. I couldn’t find the original in her clothing. I even searched her messenger’s bicycle. I’ve asked Reuter to put it in the garage. They’ll have to come for it themselves if Lieutenant Burke doesn’t want it.”

Foxx nodded and made a humming sound.

Winslow said, “Oswald Hicks, the manager at Postal Telegraph, gave me this copy. I guess the shooter didn’t realize that Postal Telegraph keeps copies.”

Foxx nodded impatiently. “All right, Andy, all right. Read it to me.”

He took a sip of ale, lowered the glass to his desktop, leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes and laced his fingers behind his neck, his elbows extending like the antennae of a giant butterfly. To any casual observer, it would appear that Caligula Foxx was treating himself to a nap, but Andy Winslow knew that the rotund detective’s incisive brain was fully on the alert.

“‘Dear Cousin,’” Winslow read, starting on the night letter. “‘I apologize for my dilatory response to your previous communication, but I have been deeply immersed in sensitive work for the crown and for the government of this nation. A personage has asked me to convey his gratitude for the assistance you so brilliantly provided, even from the distance of three thousand miles. The crown and sceptre have been recovered and restored to their proper resting place, and the scoundrels involved in their temporary abduction are in custody.’”

A smile played around the lips of the detective.

Andy Winslow continued to read. “‘You are surely aware that the situation on the Continent continues to deteriorate, as madmen and villains vie for the title of Most Evil Man in Europe. You own country has, to date, escaped involvement but I assure you, cousin, that this will not be the case for very much longer.’”

Winslow paused for breath. Foxx unlaced his fingers and without opening his eyes gestured for Winslow to read further.

“‘You may not have heard of Heinrich Konrad, cousin. Or, come to think of it, I am certain that you do know of him, as he is a native of Maffersdorf bei Reichenberg in Bohemia. Not far, as I recall, from the seat of your own branch of our family, and the place of your birth. Konrad was the leader of the Sudetendeutsch Partei and a campaigner for the recent, vile treaty that led to the dismemberment of Czechoslovakia and the annexation of the Sudetenland by Germany. The Sudetendeutsch Partei no longer exists as a separate entity, and Konrad is now a fully fledged Nazi.