The Secret of Chimneys

  “You don’t want me any longer, do you, Lomax?” he inquired.

  “No, thank you, my dear fellow.”

  “Would it upset your plans if I returned to London, Superintendent Battle?”

  “I’m afraid so, sir,” said the superintendent civilly. “You see, if you go, there will be others who’ll want to go also. And that would never do.”

  “Quite so.”

  The great financier left the room, closing the door behind him.

  “Splendid fellow, Isaacstein,” murmured George Lomax perfunctorily.

  “Very powerful personality,” agreed Superintendent Battle.

  George began to pace up and down again.

  “What you say disturbs me greatly,” he began. “King Victor! I thought he was in prison?”

  “Came out a few months ago. French police meant to keep on his heels, but he managed to give them the slip straightaway. He would too. One of the coolest customers that ever lived. For some reason or other, they believe he’s in England, and have notified us to that effect.”

  “But what should he be doing in England?”

  “That’s for you to say, sir,” said Battle significantly.

  “You mean?—You think?—You know the story, of course—ah, yes, I can see you do. I was not in office, of course, at the time, but I heard the whole story from the late Lord Caterham. An unparalleled catastrophe.”

  “The Koh-i-noor,” said Battle reflectively.

  “Hush, Battle!” George glanced suspiciously round him. “I beg of you, mention no names. Much better not. If you must speak of it, call it the K.”

  The superintendent looked wooden again.

  “You don’t connect King Victor with this crime, do you, Battle?”

  “It’s just a possibility, that’s all. If you cast your mind back, sir, you’ll remember that there were four places where a—er—certain royal visitor might have concealed the jewel. Chimneys was one of them. King Victor was arrested in Paris three days after the—disappearance, if I may call it that, of the K. It was always hoped that he would some day lead us to the jewel.”

  “But Chimneys has been ransacked and overhauled a dozen times.”

  “Yes,” said Battle sapiently. “But it’s never much good looking when you don’t know where to look. Only suppose now, that this King Victor came here to look for the thing, was surprised by Prince Michael, and shot him.”

  “It’s possible,” said George. “A most likely solution of the crime.”

  “I wouldn’t go as far as that. It’s possible, but not much more.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because King Victor has never been known to take a life,” said Battle seriously.

  “Oh, but a man like that—a dangerous criminal—”

  But Battle shook his head in a dissatisfied manner.

  “Criminals always act true to type, Mr. Lomax. It’s surprising. All the same—”

  “Yes?”

  “I’d rather like to question the Prince’s servant. I’ve left him purposely to the last. We’ll have him in here, sir, if you don’t mind.”

  George signified his assent. The superintendent rang the bell. Tredwell answered it, and departed with his instructions.

  He returned shortly accompanied by a tall fair man with high cheekbones, and very deep-set blue eyes, and an impassivity of countenance, which almost rivalled Battle’s.

  “Boris Anchoukoff?”

  “Yes.”

  “You were valet to Prince Michael?”

  “I was His Highness’ valet, yes.”

  The man spoke good English, though with a markedly harsh foreign accent.

  “You know that your master was murdered last night?”

  A deep snarl, like the snarl of a wild beast, was the man’s only answer. It alarmed George, who withdrew prudently towards the window.

  “When did you see your master last?”

  “His Highness retired to bed at half past ten. I slept, as always, in the anteroom next to him. He must have gone down to the room downstairs by the other door, the door that gave on the corridor. I did not hear him go. It may be that I was drugged. I have been an unfaithful servant, I slept while my master woke. I am accursed.”

  George gazed at him, fascinated.

  “You loved your master, eh?” said Battle, watching the man closely.

  Boris’ features contracted painfully. He swallowed twice. Then his voice came, harsh with emotion.

  “I say this to you, English policeman, I would have died for him! And since he is dead, and I still live, my eyes shall not know sleep, or my heart rest, until I have avenged him. Like a dog will I nose out his murderer and when I have discovered him—Ah!” His eyes lit up. Suddenly he drew an immense knife from beneath his coat and brandished it aloft. “Not all at once will I kill him—oh no!—first I will slit his nose, and cut off his ears and put out his eyes, and then—then, into his black heart, I will thrust this knife.”

  Swiftly he replaced the knife, and turning, left the room. George Lomax, his eyes always protuberant, but now goggling almost out of his head, stared at the closed door.

  “Purebred Herzoslovakian, of course,” he muttered. “Most uncivilized people. A race of brigands.”

  Superindentent Battle rose alertly to his feet.

  “Either that man’s sincere,” he remarked, “or he’s the best bluffer I’ve ever seen. And if it’s the former, God help Prince Michael’s murderer when that human bloodhound gets hold of him.”

  Fifteen

  THE FRENCH STRANGER

  Virginia and Anthony walked side by side down the path which led to the lake. For some minutes after leaving the house they were silent. It was Virginia who broke the silence at last with a little laugh.

  “Oh, dear,” she said, “isn’t it dreadful? Here I am so bursting with the things I want to tell you, and the things I want to know, that I simply don’t know where to begin. First of all”—she lowered her voice—“What have you done with the body? How awful it sounds, doesn’t it! I never dreamt that I should be so steeped in crime.”

  “I suppose it’s quite a novel sensation for you,” agreed Anthony.

  “But not for you?”

  “Well, I’ve never disposed of a corpse before, certainly.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  Briefly and succinctly, Anthony ran over the steps he had taken on the previous night. Virginia listened attentively.

  “I think you were very clever,” she said approvingly when he had finished. “I can pick up the trunk again when I go back to Paddington. The only difficulty that might arise is if you had to give an account of where you were yesterday evening.”

  “I can’t see that can arise. The body can’t have been found until late last night—or possibly this morning. Otherwise there would have been something about it in this morning’s papers. And whatever you may imagine from reading detective stories, doctors aren’t such magicians that they can tell you exactly how many hours a man has been dead. The exact time of his death will be pretty vague. An alibi for last night would be far more to the point.”

  “I know. Lord Caterham was telling me all about it. But the Scotland Yard man is quite convinced of your innocence now, isn’t he?”

  Anthony did not reply at once.

  “He doesn’t look particularly astute,” continued Virginia.

  “I don’t know about that,” said Anthony slowly. “I’ve an impression that there are no flies on Superintendent Battle. He appears to be convinced of my innocence—but I’m not sure. He’s stumped at present by my apparent lack of motive.”

  “Apparent?” cried Virginia. “But what possible reason could you have for murdering an unknown foreign count?”

  Anthony darted a sharp glance at her.

  “You were at one time or other in Herzoslovakia, weren’t you?” he asked.

  “Yes. I was there with my husband, for two years, at the Embassy.”

  “That was just before the assassinat
ion of the King and Queen. Did you ever run across Prince Michael Obolovitch?”

  “Michael? Of course I did. Horrid little wretch! He suggested, I remember, that I should marry him morganatically.”

  “Did he really? And what did he suggest you should do about your existing husband?”

  “Oh, he had a sort of David and Uriah scheme all made out.”

  “And how did you respond to this amiable offer?”

  “Well,” said Virginia, “unfortunately one had to be diplomatic. So poor little Michael didn’t get it as straight from the shoulder as he might have done. But he retired hurt all the same. Why all this interest about Michael?”

  “Something I’m getting at in my own blundering fashion. I take it that you didn’t meet the murdered man?”

  “No. To put it like a book he ‘retired to his own apartments immediately on arrival.’ ”

  “And of course you haven’t seen the body?”

  Virginia, eyeing him with a good deal of interest, shook her head.

  “Could you get to see it, do you think?”

  “By means of influence in high places—meaning Lord Caterham—I daresay I could. Why? Is it an order?”

  “Good Lord, no,” said Anthony, horrified. “Have I been as dictatorial as all that? No, it’s simply this. Count Stanislaus was the incognito of Prince Michael of Herzoslovakia.”

  Virginia’s eyes opened very wide.

  “I see.” Suddenly her face broke into its fascinating one-sided smile. “I hope you don’t suggest that Michael went to his rooms simply to avoid seeing me?”

  “Something of the kind,” admitted Anthony. “You see, if I’m right in my mind that someone wanted to prevent your coming to Chimneys, the reason seems to lie in your knowing Herzoslovakia. Do you realize that you’re the only person here who knew Prince Michael by sight?”

  “Do you mean that this man who was murdered was an imposter?” asked Virginia abruptly.

  “That is the possibility that crossed my mind. If you can get Lord Caterham to show you the body, we can clear up that point at once.”

  “He was shot at 11:45,” said Virginia thoughtfully. “The time mentioned on that scrap of paper. The whole thing’s horribly mysterious.”

  “That reminds me. Is that your window up there? The second from the end over the Council Chamber?”

  “No, my room is in the Elizabethan wing, the other side. Why?”

  “Simply because as I walked away last night, after thinking I heard a shot, the light went up in that room.”

  “How curious! I don’t know who has that room, but I can find out by asking Bundle. Perhaps they heard the shot?”

  “If so, they haven’t come forward to say so. I understood from Battle that nobody in the house heard the shot fired. It’s the only clue of any kind that I’ve got, and I daresay it’s a pretty rotten one, but I mean to follow it up for what it’s worth.”

  “It’s curious, certainly,” said Virginia thoughtfully.

  They had arrived at the boathouse by the lake, and had been leaning against it as they talked.

  “And now for the whole story,” said Anthony. “We’ll paddle gently about on the lake, secure from the prying ears of Scotland Yard, American visitors, and curious housemaids.”

  “I’ve heard something from Lord Caterham,” said Virginia. “But not nearly enough. To begin with, which are you really, Anthony Cade or Jimmy McGrath?”

  For the second time that morning, Anthony unfolded the history of the last six weeks of his life—with this difference that the account given to Virginia needed no editing. He finished up with his own astonished recognition of “Mr. Holmes.”

  “By the way, Mrs. Revel,” he ended, “I’ve never thanked you for imperilling your mortal soul by saying that I was an old friend of yours.”

  “Of course you’re an old friend,” cried Virginia. “You don’t suppose I’d lumber you with a corpse, and then pretend you were a mere acquaintance next time I met you? No, indeed!”

  She paused.

  “Do you know one thing that strikes me about all this?” she went on. “That there’s some extra mystery about those memoirs that we haven’t fathomed yet.”

  “I think you’re right,” agreed Anthony. “There’s one thing I’d like you to tell me,” he continued.

  “What’s that?”

  “Why did you seem so surprised when I mentioned the name of Jimmy McGrath to you yesterday at Pont Street? Had you heard it before?”

  “I had, Sherlock Holmes. George—my cousin, George Lomax, you know—came to see me the other day, and suggested a lot of frightfully silly things. His idea was that I should come down here and make myself agreeable to this man, McGrath, and Delilah the memoirs out of him somehow. He didn’t put it like that, of course. He talked a lot of nonsense about English gentlewomen, and things like that, but his real meaning was never obscure for a moment. It was just the sort of rotten thing poor old George would think of. And then I wanted to know too much, and he tried to put me off with lies that wouldn’t have deceived a child of two.”

  “Well, his plan seems to have succeeded, anyhow,” observed Anthony. “Here am I, the James McGrath he had in mind, and here are you being agreeable to me.”

  “But alas, for poor old George, no memoirs! Now I’ve got a question for you. When I said I hadn’t written those letters, you said you knew I hadn’t—you couldn’t know any such thing?”

  “Oh, yes, I could,” said Anthony, smiling. “I’ve got a good working knowledge of psychology.”

  “You mean your belief in the sterling worth of my moral character was such that—”

  But Anthony was shaking his head vigorously.

  “Not at all. I don’t know anything about your moral character. You might have a lover, and you might write to him. But you’d never lie down to be blackmailed. The Virginia Revel of those letters was scared stiff. You’d have fought.”

  “I wonder who the real Virginia Revel is—where she is, I mean. It makes me feel as though I had a double somewhere.”

  Anthony lit a cigarette.

  “You know that one of the letters was written from Chimneys?” he asked at last.

  “What?” Virginia was clearly startled. “When was it written?”

  “It wasn’t dated. But it’s odd, isn’t it?”

  “I’m perfectly certain no other Virginia Revel has ever stayed at Chimneys. Bundle or Lord Caterham would have said something about the coincidence of the name if she had.”

  “Yes. It’s rather queer. Do you know, Mrs. Revel, I am beginning to disbelieve profoundly in this other Virginia Revel.”

  “She’s very elusive,” agreed Virginia.

  “Extraordinarily elusive. I am beginning to think that the person who wrote those letters deliberately used your name.”

  “But why?” cried Virginia. “Why should they do such a thing?”

  “Ah, that’s just the question. There’s the devil of a lot to find out about everything.”

  “Who do you really think killed Michael?” asked Virginia suddenly. “The Comrades of the Red Hand?”

  “I suppose they might have done so,” said Anthony in a dissatisfied voice. “Pointless killing would be rather characteristic of them.”

  “Let’s get to work,” said Virginia. “I see Lord Caterham and Bundle strolling together. The first thing to do is to find out definitely whether the dead man is Michael or not.”

  Anthony paddled to shore and a few moments later they had joined Lord Caterham and his daughter.

  “Lunch is late,” said his lordship in a depressed voice.

  “Battle has insulted the cook, I expect.”

  “This is a friend of mine, Bundle,” said Virginia. “Be nice to him.”

  Bundle looked earnestly at Anthony for some minutes, and then addressed a remark to Virginia as though he had not been there.

  “Where do you pick up these nice-looking men, Virginia? ‘How do you do it?’ says she enviously.”

&
nbsp; “You can have him,” said Virginia generously. “I want Lord Caterham.”

  She smiled upon the flattered peer, slipped her hand through his arm and they moved off together.

  “Do you talk?” asked Bundle. “Or are you just strong and silent?”

  “Talk?” said Anthony. “I babble. I murmur. I burble—like the running brook, you know. Sometimes I even ask questions.”

  “As, for instance?”

  “Who occupies the second room on the left from the end?”

  He pointed to it as he spoke.

  “What an extraordinary question!” said Bundle. “You intrigue me greatly. Let me see—yes—that’s Mademoiselle Brun’s room. The French governess. She endeavours to keep my young sisters in order. Dulcie and Daisy—like the song, you know. I daresay they’d have called the next one Dorothy May. But mother got tired of having nothing but girls and died. Thought someone else could take on the job of providing an heir.”

  “Mademoiselle Brun,” said Anthony thoughtfully. “How long has she been with you?”

  “Two months. She came to us when we were in Scotland.”

  “Ha!” said Anthony. “I smell a rat.”

  “I wish I could smell some lunch,” said Bundle. “Do I ask the Scotland Yard man to have lunch with us, Mr. Cade? You’re a man of the world, you know about the etiquette of such things. We’ve never had a murder in the house before. Exciting, isn’t it. I’m sorry your character was so completely cleared this morning. I’ve always wanted to meet a murderer and see for myself if they’re as genial and charming as the Sunday papers always say they are. God! what’s that?”

  “That” seemed to be a taxi approaching the house. It’s two occupants were a tall man with a bald head and a black beard, and a smaller and younger man with a black moustache. Anthony recognized the former, and guessed that it was he—rather than the vehicle which contained him—that had rung the exclamation of astonishment from his companion’s lips.

  “Unless I much mistake,” he remarked, “that is my old friend, Baron Lollipop.”

  “Baron what?”

  “I call him Lollipop for convenience. The pronouncing of his own name tends to harden the arteries.”