A Chess Game For Murder

In my room while I'm sitting all alone
Here Watching from my window the beautiful sky till dawn

I lose my self in its darkness and beauty
Admiring its flawless creation, amazed by its purity

I feel like it has a mystery that needs to be solved
Or a secret story that has never been told!

I look at each glittering star
I've never felt they are too far

I whisper to them hoping they would give me a clue
But they just whisper back telling me "it's right there inside you"!

Could the answer of the mystery be inside of me?!
Trapped all this time waiting for me to see?!

I stop and listen to the whispering night
It says the same thing, but how could it be right?!

I search for the answer deep inside to find
That it hides itself, leaving me clueless and blind

Then the sun begins to rise and the stars disappear, and again so weird I feel
That it was a beautiful dream, that it wasn't at all real

Then the night finds its way back to me inside
Was it a dream or not? No it was murder!
The door of the third attic was locked, but by aid of the jemmy he still carried, he forced it open without difficulty. Within was nothing but a square packing-case, standing in the middle of the floor. Otherwise the light of the electric torch he flashed around showed only the bare boarding of the floor and the bare plastered walls.
Near the packing-case a hammer and some nails lay on the floor and the lid was in position but was not fastened, as though some interruption had occurred before the task of nailing it down could be completed.
Kindle noted that one nail had been driven home, and he was on the point of leaving the attic, for he knew he had not much time and hoped that downstairs he would be able to make some discoveries of importance, when it occurred to him that it might be wise to see what was in this case, the nailing down the lid of which had not been completed.
He crossed the room to it, and without drawing the one nail, pushed back the lid which pivoted on it quite easily.
Within appeared a covering of course sacking. He pulled this away with a careless hand, and beneath the beam of his electric torch showed the pale and dreadful features of a dead man -- of a man, the center of whose forehead showed the small round hole where a bullet had entered in; of a man whose still-recognizable features were those of the photograph on the mantel-piece of the room downstairs, the photograph that was signed:
"Devotedly yours,Bart Moore."
For a long time Jimmy Kindle stood, looking down in silence at that dead face which was hardly more still, more rigid than his own.