“He probably went abroad,” said Anthony thoughtfully. “To Africa as likely as not. And you bet he hung on to that packet. It was as good as a gold mine to him. It’s odd how things come about. They probably called him Dutch Pedro or something like that out there.”
He caught Superintendent Battle’s expressionless glance bent upon him, and smiled.
“It’s not really clairvoyance, Battle,” he said, “though it sounds like it. I’ll tell you presently.”
“There is one thing that you have not explained,” said Virginia. “Where does this link up with the memoirs?” There must be a link, surely?”
“Madame is very quick,” said Lemoine approvingly. “Yes, there is a link. Count Stylptitch was also staying at Chimneys at the time.”
“So that he might have known about it?”
“Parfaitement.”
“And, of course,” said Battle, “if he’s blurted it out in his precious memoirs, the fat will be in the fire. Especially after the way the whole thing was hushed up.”
Anthony lit a cigarette.
“There’s no possibility of there being a clue in the memoirs as to where the stone was hidden?” he asked.
“Very unlikely,” said Battle decisively. “He was never in with the Queen—opposed the marriage tooth and nail. She’s not likely to have taken him into her confidence.”
“I wasn’t suggesting such a thing for a minute,” said Anthony. “But by all accounts he was a cunning old boy. Unknown to her, he may have discovered where she hid the jewel. In that case, what would he have done, do you think?”
“Sat tight,” said Battle, after a moment’s reflection.
“I agree,” said the Frenchman. “It was a ticklish moment, you see. To return the stone anonymously would have presented great difficulties. Also, the knowledge of its whereabouts would give him great power—and he liked power, that strange old man. Not only did he hold the Queen in the hollow of his hand, but he had a powerful weapon to negotiate with at any time. It was not the only secret he possessed—oh, no!—he collected secrets like some men collect rare pieces of china. It is said that, once or twice before his death, he boasted to people of the things he could make public if the fancy took him. And once at least he declared that he intended to make some startling revelations in his memoirs. Hence”—the Frenchman smiled rather dryly—“the general anxiety to get hold of them. Our own secret police intended to seize them, but the Count took the precaution to have them conveyed away before his death.”
“Still, there’s no real reason to believe that he knew this particular secret,” said Battle.
“I beg your pardon,” said Anthony quietly. “There are his own words.”
“What?”
Both detectives stared at him as though unable to believe their ears.
“When Mr. McGrath gave me that manuscript to bring to England, he told me the circumstances of his one meeting with Count Stylptitch. It was in Paris. At some considerable risk to himself. Mr. McGrath rescued the Count from a band of Apaches. He was, I understand—shall we say a trifle—exhilarated? Being in that condition, he made two rather interesting remarks. One of them was to the effect that he knew where the Koh-i-noor was—a statement to which my friend paid very little attention. He also said that the gang in question were King Victor’s men. Taken together, those two remarks are very significant.”
“Good lord,” ejaculated Superintendent Battle. “I should say they were. Even the murder of Prince Michael wears a different aspect.”
“King Victor has never taken a life,” the Frenchman reminded him.
“Supposing he were surprised when he was searching for the jewel?”
“Is he in England, then?” asked Anthony sharply. “You say that he was released a few months ago. Didn’t you keep track of him?”
A rather rueful smile overspread the French detective’s face.
“We tried to, monsieur. But he is a devil, that man. He gave us the slip at once—at once. We thought, of course, that he would make straight for England. But no. He went—where do you think?”
“Where?” said Anthony.
He was staring intently at the Frenchman, and absentmindedly fingers played with a box of matches.
“To America. To the United States.”
“What?”
There was sheer amazement in Anthony’s tone.
“Yes, and what do you think he called himself? What part do you think he played over there? The part of Prince Nicholas of Herzoslovakia.”
The matchbox fell from Anthony’s hand, but his amazement was fully equalled by that of Battle.
“Impossible.”
“Not so, my friend. You, too, will get the news in the morning. It has been the most colossal bluff. As you know, Prince Nicholas was rumoured to have died in the Congo years ago. Our friend, King Victor, seizes on that—difficult to prove a death of that kind. He resurrects Prince Nicholas, and plays him to such purpose that he gets away with a tremendous haul of American dollars—all on account of the supposed oil concessions. But by a mere accident, he was unmasked, and had to leave the country hurriedly. This time he did come to England. And that is why I am here. Sooner or later he will come to Chimneys. That is, if he is not already here!”
“You think—that?”
“I think he was here the night Prince Michael died, and again last night.”
“It was another attempt, eh?” said Battle.
“It was another attempt.”
“What has bothered me,” continued Battle, “was wondering what had become of M. Lemoine here. I’d had word from Paris that he was on his way over to work with me, and couldn’t make out why he hadn’t turned up.”
“I must indeed apologize,” said Lemoine. “You see, I arrived on the morning after the murder. It occurred to me at once that it would be as well for me to study things from an unofficial standpoint without appearing officially as your colleague. I thought that great possibilities lay that way. I was, of course, aware that I was bound to be an object of suspicion, but that in a way furthered my plan since it would not put the people I was after on their guard. I can assure you that I have seen a good deal that is interesting on the last two days.”
“But look here,” said Bill, “what really did happen last night?”
“I am afraid,” said M. Lemoine, “that I gave you rather violent exercise.”
“It was you I chased, then?”
“Yes. I will recount things to you. I came up here to watch, convinced that the secret had to do with this room since the Prince had been killed here. I stood outside on the terrace. Presently I became aware that someone was moving about in this room. I could see the flash of a torch now and again. I tried the middle window and found it unlatched. Whether the man had entered that way earlier, or whether he had left it so as a blind in case he was disturbed, I do not know. Very gently, I pushed it back and slipped inside the room. Step by step I felt my way until I was in a spot where I could watch operations without likelihood of being discovered myself. The man himself I could not see clearly. His back was to me, of course, and he was silhouetted against the light of the torch so that his outline only could be seen. But his actions filled me with surprise. He took to pieces first one and then the other of those two suits of armour, examining each one piece by piece. When he had convinced himself that what he sought was not there, he began tapping the panelling of the wall under that picture. What he would have done next, I do not know. The interruption came. You burst in—” He looked at Bill.
“Our well-meant interference was really rather a pity,” said Virginia thoughtfully.
“In a sense, madame, it was. The man switched out his torch, and I, who had no wish as yet to be forced to reveal my identity, sprang for the window. I collided with the other two in the dark, and fell headlong. I sprang up and out through the window. Mr. Eversleigh, taking me for his assailant, followed.”
“I followed you first,” said Virginia. “Bill was only second in t
he race.”
“And the other fellow had the sense to stay still and sneak out through the door. I wonder he didn’t meet the rescuing crowd.”
“That would present no difficulties,” said Lemoine. “He would be a rescuer in advance of the rest, that was all.”
“Do you really think this Arsène Lupin fellow is actually among the household now?” asked Bill, his eyes sparkling.
“Why not?” said Lemoine. “He could pass perfectly as a servant. For all we may know, he may be Boris Anchoukoff, the trusted servant of the late Prince Michael.”
“He is an odd-looking bloke,” agreed Bill.
But Anthony was smiling.
“That’s hardly worthy of you, M. Lemoine,” he said gently.
The Frenchman smiled too.
“You’ve taken him on as your valet now, haven’t you, Mr. Cade?” asked Superintendent Battle.
“Battle, I take off my hat to you. You know everything. But just as a matter of detail, he’s taken me on, not I him.”
“Why was that, I wonder, Mr. Cade?”
“I don’t know,” said Anthony lightly. “It’s a curious taste, but perhaps he may have liked my face. Or he may think I murdered his master and wish to establish himself in a handy position for executing revenge upon me.”
He rose and went over to the windows, pulling the curtains.
“Daylight,” he said, with a slight yawn. “There won’t be any more excitements now.”
Lemoine rose also.
“I will leave you,” he said. “We shall perhaps meet again later in the day.”
With a graceful bow to Virginia, he stepped out of the window.
“Bed,” said Virginia, yawning. “It’s all been very exciting. Come on, Bill, go to bed like a good little boy. The breakfast table will see us not, I fear.”
Anthony stayed at the window looking after the retreating form of M. Lemoine.
“You wouldn’t think it,” said Battle behind him, “but that’s supposed to be the cleverest detective in France.”
“I don’t know that I wouldn’t,” said Anthony thoughtfully. “I rather think I would.”
“Well,” said Battle, “he was right about the excitements of this night being over. By the way, do you remember my telling you about that man they’d found shot near Staines?”
“Yes. Why?”
“Nothing. They’ve identified him, that’s all. It seems he was called Giuseppe Manuelli. He was a waiter at the Blitz in London. Curious, isn’t it?”
Twenty
BATTLE AND ANTHONY CONFER
Anthony said nothing. He continued to stare out of the window. Superintendent Battle looked for some time at his motionless back.
“Well, goodnight, sir,” he said at last, and moved to the door.
Anthony stirred.
“Wait a minute, Battle.”
The superintendent halted obediently. Anthony left the window. He drew out a cigarette from his case and lighted it. Then, between two puffs of smoke, he said:
“You seem very interested in this business at Staines?”
“I wouldn’t go as far as that, sir. It’s unusual, that’s all.”
“Do you think the man was shot where he was found, or do you think he was killed elsewhere and the body brought to that particular spot afterwards?”
“I think he was shot somewhere else, and the body brought there in a car.”
“I think so too,” said Anthony.
Something in the emphasis of his tone made the dectective look up sharply.
“Any ideas of your own, sir? Do you know who brought him there?”
“Yes,” said Anthony. “I did.”
He was a little annoyed at the absolutely unruffled calm preserved by the other.
“I must say you take these shocks very well, Battle,” he remarked.
“ ‘Never display emotion.’ That was a rule that was given to me once, and I’ve found it very useful.”
“You live up to it, certainly,” said Anthony. “I can’t say I’ve ever seen you ruffled. Well, do you want to hear the whole story?”
“If you please, Mr. Cade.”
Anthony pulled up two of the chairs, both men sat down, and Anthony recounted the events of the preceding Thursday night.
Battle listened immovably. There was a far-off twinkle in his eyes as Anthony finished.
“You know, sir,” he said, “you’ll get into trouble one of these days.”
“Then, for the second time, I’m not to be taken into custody?”
“We always like to give a man plenty of rope,” said Superintendent Battle.
“Very delicately put,” said Anthony. “Without unduly stressing the end of the proverb.”
“What I can’t make out, sir,” said Battle, “is why you decided to come across with this now?”
“It’s rather difficult to explain,” said Anthony. “You see, Battle, I’ve come to have really a very high opinion of your abilities. When the moment comes, you’re always there. Look at tonight. And it occurred to me that, in withholding this knowledge of mine, I was seriously cramping your style. You deserve to have access to all the facts. I’ve done what I could, and up to now I’ve made a mess of things. Until tonight, I couldn’t speak for Mrs. Revel’s sake. But now that those letters have been definitely proved to have nothing whatever to do with her, any idea of her complicity becomes absurd. Perhaps I advised her badly in the first place, but it struck me that her statement of having paid this man money to suppress the letters, simply as a whim, might take a bit of believing.”
“It might, by a jury,” agreed Battle. “Juries never have any imagination.”
“But you accept it quite easily?” said Anthony, looking curiously at him.
“Well, you see, Mr. Cade, most of my work has lain amongst these people. What they call the upper classes, I mean. You see, the majority of people are always wondering what the neighbours will think. But tramps and aristocrats don’t—they just do the first thing that comes into their heads, and they don’t bother to think what anyone thinks of them. I’m not meaning just the idle rich, the people who give big parties, and so on. I mean those that have had it born and bred in them for generations that nobody else’s opinion counts but their own. I’ve always found the upper classes the same—fearless, truthful, and sometimes extraordinarily foolish.”
“This is a very interesting lecture, Battle. I suppose you’ll be writing your reminiscences one of these days. They ought to be worth reading too.”
The detective acknowledged the suggestion with a smile, but said nothing.
“I’d like rather to ask you one question,” continued Anthony. “Did you connect me at all with the Staines affair? I fancied, from your manner, that you did.”
“Quite right. I had a hunch that way. But nothing definite to go upon. Your manner was very good, if I may say so, Mr. Cade. You never overdid the carelessness.”
“I’m glad of that,” said Anthony. “I’ve a feeling that ever since I met you you’ve been laying little traps for me. On the whole I’ve managed to avoid falling into them, but the strain has been acute.”
Battle smiled grimly.
“That’s how you get a crook in the end, sir. Keep him on the run, to and fro, turning and twisting. Sooner or later, his nerve goes, and you’ve got him.”
“You’re a cheerful fellow, Battle. When will you get me, I wonder?”
“Plenty of rope, sir,” quoted the superintendent, “plenty of rope.”
“In the meantime,” said Anthony. “I am still the amateur assistant?”
“That’s it, Mr. Cade.”
“Watson to your Sherlock, in fact?”
“Detective stories are mostly bunkum,” said Battle unemotionally. “But they amuse people,” he added, as an afterthought. “And they’re useful sometimes.”
“In what way?” asked Anthony curiously.
“They encourage the universal idea that the police are stupid. When we get an amateur crime, s
uch as a murder, that’s very useful indeed.”
Anthony looked at him for some minutes in silence. Battle sat quite still, blinking now and then, with no expression whatsoever on his square placid face. Presently he rose.
“Not much good going to bed now,” he observed. “As soon as he’s up, I want to have a few words with his lordship. Anyone who wants to leave the house can do so now. At the same time I should be much obliged to his lordship if he’ll extend an informal invitation to his guests to stay on. You’ll accept it, sir, if you please, and Mrs. Revel also.”
“Have you ever found the revolver?” asked Anthony suddenly.
“You mean the one Prince Michael was shot with? No, I haven’t. Yet it must be in the house or grounds. I’ll take a hint from you, Mr. Cade, and send some boys up bird’s-nesting. If I could get hold of the revolver, we might get forward a bit. That, and the bundle of letters. You say that a letter with the heading ‘Chimneys’ was amongst them? Depend upon it that was the last one written. The instructions for finding the diamond are written in code in that letter.”
“What’s your theory of the killing of Giuseppe?” asked Anthony.
“I should say he was a regular thief, and that he was got hold of, either by King Victor or by the Comrades of the Red Hand, and employed by them. I shouldn’t wonder at all if the Comrades and King Victor aren’t working together. The organization has plenty of money and power, but it isn’t very strong in brain. Giuseppe’s task was to steal the memoirs—they couldn’t have known that you had the letters—it’s a very odd coincidence that you should have, by the way.”
“I know,” said Anthony. “It’s amazing when you come to think of it.”
“Giuseppe gets hold of the letters instead. Is at first vastly chagrined. Then sees the cutting from the paper and has the brilliant idea of turning them to account on his own by blackmailing the lady. He has, of course, no idea of their real significance. The Comrades find out what he is doing, believe that he is deliberately double-crossing them, and decree his death. They’re very fond of executing traitors. It has a picturesque element which seems to appeal to them. What I can’t quite make out is the revolver with ‘Virginia’ engraved upon it. There’s too much finesse about that for the Comrades. As a rule, they enjoy plastering their Red Hand sign about—in order to strike terror into other would-be traitors. No, it looks to me as though King Victor had stepped in there. But what his motive was, I don’t know. It looks like a very deliberate attempt to saddle Mrs. Revel with the murder, and, on the surface, there doesn’t seem any particular point in that.”