Scudder has been murdered

I returned home to my flat from a dinner with a mining engineer at half past ten, in time for our game of chess before turning in. I had a cigar in my mouth, I remember, as I pushed open the smoking-room door. The lights were not lit, which struck me as odd. I wondered if Scudder had already turned in.

I snapped the switch, but there was nobody there. Then I saw something in the far corner which made me drop my cigar and fall into a cold sweat.

My guest was lying sprawled on his back. There was a long knife through his heart which skewered him to the floor.

I sat down in an armchair and felt very sick.

I am in a dire pickle. It is now clear that the men who knew that he knew what he knew had found him, and had taken the best way to make certain of his silence. Now they will be after me. And what makes it worse is that the police will laugh at me if I try to explain Scudder's story.

What I must do is vanish somehow and keep vanished until the 2nd week of June when I must find a way of contacting the Government people to tell them what Scudder had told me. But where should I vanish? I have decided on Scotland and will catch the first train from St Pancras in the morning. It is now 2am and I must sleep.

~Franklin P. Scudder arrives~
~The body in number 15~
~The inquest and darker dealings~