The Secret of Chimneys

  “Come on,” said Virginia to Bill. “We’re going to see something interesting. That suitcase was thrown out.”

  “Nobody’s noticed it,” said Bill.

  They ran down the drive towards the fallen piece of luggage. Just as they reached it, Lemoine came round the corner of the bend on foot. He was hot from walking fast.

  “I was obliged to descend,” he said pleasantly. “I found that I had left something behind.”

  “This?” said Bill, indicating the suitcase.

  It was a handsome case of heavy pigskin, with the initials H. I. on it.

  “What a pity!” said Lemoine gently. “It must have fallen out. Shall we lift it from the road?”

  Without waiting for a reply, he picked up the suitcase, and carried it over to the belt of trees. He stooped over it, something flashed in his hand, and the lock slipped back.

  He spoke, and his voice was totally different, quick and commanding.

  “The car will be here in a minute,” he said. “Is it in sight?”

  Virginia looked back towards the house.

  “No.”

  “Good.”

  With deft fingers he tossed the things out of the suitcase. Gold-topped bottle, silk pyjamas, a variety of socks. Suddenly his whole figure stiffened. He caught up what appeared to be a bundle of silk underwear, and unrolled it rapidly.

  A slight exclamation broke from Bill. In the centre of the bundle was a heavy revolver.

  “I hear the horn,” said Virginia.

  Like lightning, Lemoine repacked the suitcase. The revolver he wrapped in a silk handkerchief of his own, and slipped into his pocket. He snapped the locks of the suitcase, and turned quickly to Bill.

  “Take it. Madame will be with you. Stop the car, and explain that it fell off the luggage cart. Do not mention me.”

  Bill stepped quickly down to the drive just as the big Lanchester limousine with Isaacstein inside it came round the corner. The chauffeur slowed down, and Bill swung the suitcase up to him.

  “Fell off the luggage cart,” he explained. “We happened to see it.”

  He caught a momentary glimpse of a startled yellow face as the financier stared at him, and then the car swept on again.

  They went back to Lemoine. He was standing with the revolver in his hand, and a look of gloating satisfaction in his face.

  “A long shot,” he said. “A very long shot. But it came off.”

  Twenty-two

  THE RED SIGNAL

  Superintendent Battle was standing in the library at Wyvern Abbey.

  George Lomax, seated before a desk overflowing with papers, was frowning portentously.

  Superintendent Battle had opened proceedings by making a brief and businesslike report. Since then, the conversation had lain almost entirely with George, and Battle had contented himself with making brief and usually monosyllabic replies to the other’s questions.

  On the desk, in front of George, was the packet of letters Anthony had found on his dressing table.

  “I can’t understand it at all,” said George irritably, as he picked up the packet. “They’re in code, you say?”

  “Just so, Mr. Lomax.”

  “And where does he say he found them—on his dressing table?”

  Battle repeated, word for word, Anthony Cade’s account of how he had come to regain possession of the letters.

  “And he brought them at once to you? That was quite proper—quite proper. But who could have placed them in his room?”

  Battle shook his head.

  “That’s the sort of thing you ought to know,” complained George. “It sounds to me very fishy—very fishy indeed. What do we know about this man Cade, anyway? He appears in a most mysterious manner—under highly suspicious circumstances—and we know nothing whatever about him. I may say that I, personally, don’t care for his manner at all. You’ve made inquiries about him, I suppose?”

  Superintendent Battle permitted himself a patient smile.

  “We wired at once to South Africa, and his story has been confirmed on all points. He was in Bulawayo with Mr. McGrath at the time he stated. Previous to their meeting, he was employed by Messrs. Castle, the tourist agents.”

  “Just what I should have expected,” said George. “He has the kind of cheap assurance that succeeds in a certain type of employment. But about these letters—steps must be taken at once—at once—”

  The great man puffed himself out and swelled importantly.

  Superintendent Battle opened his mouth, but George forestalled him.

  “There must be no delay. These letters must be decoded without any loss of time. Let me see, who is the man? There is a man—connected with the British Museum. Knows all there is to know about ciphers. Ran the department for us during the war. Where is Miss Oscar? She will know. Name something like Win—Win—”

  “Professor Wynwood,” said Battle.

  “Exactly. I remember perfectly now. He must be wired to immediately.”

  “I have done so, Mr. Lomax, an hour ago. He will arrive by the 12:10.”

  “Oh, very good, very good. Thank heaven, something is off my mind. I shall have to be in town today. You can get along without me, I suppose?”

  “I think so, sir.”

  “Well, do your best, Battle, do your best. I am terribly rushed just at present.”

  “Just so, sir.”

  “By the way, why did not Mr. Eversleigh come over with you?”

  “He was still asleep, sir. We’ve been up all night, as I told you.”

  “Oh, quite so. I am frequently up nearly the whole night myself. To do the work of thirty-six hours in twenty-four, that is my constant task! Send Mr. Eversleigh over at once when you get back, will you, Battle?”

  “I will give him your message, sir.”

  “Thank you, Battle. I realize perfectly that you had to repose a certain amount of confidence in him. But do you think it was strictly necessary to take my cousin, Mrs. Revel, into your confidence also?”

  “In view of the name signed to those letters, I do, Mr. Lomax.”

  “An amazing piece of effrontery,” murmured George, his brow darkened as he looked at the bundle of letters. “I remember the late King of Herzoslovakia. A charming fellow, but weak—deplorably weak. A tool in the hands of an unscrupulous woman. Have you any theory as to how these letters came to be restored to Mr. Cade?”

  “It’s my opinion,” said Battle, “that if people can’t get a thing one way—they try another.”

  “I don’t quite follow you,” said George.

  “This crook, this King Victor, he’s well aware by now that the Council Chamber is watched. So he’ll let us have the letters, and let us do the decoding, and let us find the hiding place. And then—trouble! But Lemoine and I between us will attend to that.”

  “You’ve got a plan, eh?”

  “I wouldn’t go so far as to say I’ve got a plan. But I’ve got an idea. It’s a very useful thing sometimes, an idea.”

  Thereupon Superintendent Battle took his departure.

  He had no intention of taking George any further into his confidence.

  On the way back, he passed Anthony on the road and stopped. “Going to give me a lift back to the house?” asked Anthony. “That’s good.”

  “Where have you been, Mr. Cade?”

  “Down to the station to inquire about trains.”

  Battle raised his eyebrows.

  “Thinking of leaving us again?” he inquired.

  “Not just at present,” laughed Anthony. “By the way, what’s upset Isaacstein? He arrived in the car just as I left, and he looked as though something had given him a nasty jolt.”

  “Mr. Isaacstein?”

  “Yes.”

  “I can’t say, I’m sure. I fancy it would take a good deal to jolt him.”

  “So do I,” agreed Anthony. “He’s quite one of the strong silent yellow men of finance.”

  Suddenly Battle leant forward and touched the chauffeur on
the shoulder.

  “Stop, will you? And wait for me here.”

  He jumped out of the car, much to Anthony’s surprise. But in a minute or two, the latter perceived M. Lemoine advancing to meet the English detective, and gathered that it was a signal from him which had attracted Battle’s attention.

  There was a rapid colloquy between them, and then the superintendent returned to the car and jumped in again, bidding the chauffeur drive on.

  His expression had completely changed.

  “They’ve found the revolver,” he said suddenly and curtly.

  “What?”

  Anthony gazed at him in great surprise.

  “Where?”

  “In Isaacstein’s suitcase.”

  “Oh, impossible!”

  “Nothing’s impossible,” said Battle. “I ought to have remembered that.”

  He sat perfectly still, tapping his knee with his hand.

  “Who found it?”

  Battle jerked his head over his shoulder.

  “Lemoine. Clever chap. They think no end of him at the Sûreté.”

  “But doesn’t this upset all your ideas?”

  “No,” said Superintendent Battle very slowly. “I can’t say it does. It was a bit of a surprise, I admit, at first. But it fits in very well with one idea of mine.”

  “Which is?”

  But the superintendent branched off on to a totally different subject.

  “I wonder if you’d mind finding Mr. Eversleigh for me, sir? There’s a message for him from Mr. Lomax. He’s to go over to the Abbey at once.”

  “All right,” said Anthony. The car had just drawn up at the great door. “He’s probably in bed still.”

  “I think not,” said the detective. “If you’ll look, you’ll see him walking under the trees there with Mrs. Revel.”

  “Wonderful eyes you have, haven’t you, Battle?” said Anthony as he departed on his errand.

  He delivered the message to Bill, who was duly disgusted.

  “Damn it all,” grumbled Bill to himself, as he strode off to the house, “why can’t Codders sometimes leave me alone? And why can’t these blasted Colonials stay in their Colonies? What do they want to come over here for, and pick out all the best girls? I’m fed up to the teeth with everything.”

  “Have you heard about the revolver?” asked Virginia breathlessly, as Bill left them.

  “Battle told me. Rather staggering, isn’t it? Isaacstein was in a frightful state yesterday to get away, but I thought it was just nerves. He’s about the one person I’d have pitched upon as being above suspicion. Can you see any motive for his wanting Prince Michael out of the way?”

  “It certainly doesn’t fit in,” agreed Virginia thoughtfully.

  “Nothing fits in anywhere,” said Anthony discontentedly. “I rather fancied myself as an amateur detective to begin with, and so far all I’ve done is to clear the character of the French governess at vast trouble and some little expense.”

  “Is that what you went to France for?” inquired Virginia.

  “Yes, I went to Dinard and had an interview with the Comtesse de Breteuil, awfully pleased with my own cleverness, and fully expecting to be told that no such person as Mademoiselle Brun had ever been heard of.

  Instead of which I was given to understand that the lady in question had been the mainstay of the household for the past seven years. So, unless the Comtesse is also a crook, that ingenious theory of mine falls to the ground.”

  Virginia shook her head.

  “Madame de Breteuil is quite above suspicion. I know her quite well, and I fancy I must have come across Mademoiselle at the château. I certainly knew her face quite well—in that vague way one does know governesses and companions and people one sits opposite to in trains. It’s awful, but I never really look at them properly. Do you?”

  “Only if they’re exceptionally beautiful,” admitted Anthony.

  “Well, in this case—” she broke off. “What’s the matter?”

  Anthony was staring at a figure which detached itself from the clump of trees and stood there rigidly at attention. It was the Herzoslovakian, Boris.

  “Excuse me,” said Anthony to Virginia, “I must just speak to my dog a minute.”

  He went across to where Boris was standing.

  “What’s the matter? What do you want?”

  “Master,” said Boris, bowing.

  “Yes, that’s all very well, but you mustn’t keep following me about like this. It looks odd.”

  Without a word, Boris produced a soiled scrap of paper, evidently torn from a letter, and handed it to Anthony.

  “What’s this?” said Anthony.

  There was an address scrawled on the paper, nothing else.

  “He dropped it,” said Boris. “I bring it to the master.”

  “Who dropped it?”

  “The foreign gentleman.”

  “But why bring it to me?”

  Boris looked at him reproachfully.

  “Well, anyway, go away now,” said Anthony. “I’m busy.”

  Boris saluted, turning sharply on his heel, and marched away. Anthony rejoined Virginia, thrusting the piece of paper into his pocket.

  “What did he want?” she asked curiously. “And why do you call him your dog?”

  “Because he acts like one,” said Anthony, answering the last question first. “He must have been a retriever in his last incarnation, I think. He’s just brought me a piece of a letter which he says the foreign gentleman dropped. I suppose he means Lemoine.”

  “I suppose so,” acquiesced Virginia.

  “He’s always following me round,” continued Anthony. “Just like a dog. Says next to nothing. Just looks at me with his big round eyes. I can’t make him out.”

  “Perhaps he meant Isaacstein,” suggested Virginia. “Isaacstein looks foreign enough, heaven knows.”

  “Isaacstein,” muttered Anthony impatiently. “Where the devil does he come in?”

  “Are you ever sorry that you’ve mixed yourself up in all this?” asked Virginia suddenly.

  “Sorry? Good Lord, no. I love it. I’ve spent most of my life looking for trouble, you know. Perhaps, this time, I’ve got a little more than I bargained for.”

  “But you’re well out of the wood now,” said Virginia, a little surprised by the unusual gravity of his tone.

  “Not quite.”

  They strolled on for a minute or two in silence.

  “There are some people,” said Anthony, breaking the silence, “who don’t conform to the signals. An ordinary well-regulated locomotive slows down or pulls up when it sees the red light hoisted against it. Perhaps I was born colour-blind. When I see the red signal—I can’t help forging ahead. And in the end, you know, that spells disaster. Bound to. And quite right really. That sort of thing is bad for traffic generally.”

  He still spoke very seriously.

  “I suppose,” said Virginia, “that you have taken a good many risks in your life?”

  “Pretty nearly everyone there is—except marriage.”

  “That’s rather cynical.”

  “It wasn’t meant to be. Marriage, the kind of marriage I mean, would be the biggest adventure of the lot.”

  “I like that,” said Virginia, flushing eagerly.

  “There’s only one kind of woman I’d want to marry—the kind who is worlds removed from my type of life. What would we do about it? Is she to lead my life, or am I to lead hers?”

  “If she loved you—”

  “Sentimentality, Mrs. Revel. You know it is. Love isn’t a drug that you take to blind you to your surroundings—you can make it that, yes, but it’s a pity—love can be a lot more than that. What do you think the King and his beggarmaid thought of married life after they’d been married a year or two? Didn’t she regret her rags and her bare feet and her carefree life? You bet she did. Would it have been any good his renouncing his crown for her sake? Not a bit of good, either. He’d have made a damned bad beggar, I’m s
ure. And no woman respects a man when he’s doing a thing thoroughly badly.”

  “Have you fallen in love with a beggarmaid, Mr. Cade?” inquired Virginia softly.

  “It’s the other way about with me, but the principle’s the same.”

  “And there’s no way out?” asked Virginia.

  “There’s always a way out,” said Anthony gloomily. “I’ve got a theory that one can always get anything one wants if one will pay the price. And do you know what the price is, nine times out of ten? Compromise. A beastly thing, compromise, but it steals upon you as you near middle age. It’s stealing upon me now. To get the woman I want I’d—I’d even take up regular work.”

  Virginia laughed.

  “I was brought up to a trade, you know,” continued Anthony.

  “And you abandoned it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “A matter of principle.”

  “Oh!”

  “You’re a very unusual woman,” said Anthony suddenly, turning and looking at her.

  “Why?”

  “You can refrain from asking questions.”

  “You mean that I haven’t asked you what your trade was?”

  “Just that.”

  Again they walked on in silence. They were nearing the house now, passing close by the scented sweetness of the rose garden.

  “You understand well enough, I daresay,” said Anthony, breaking the silence. “You know when a man’s in love with you. I don’t suppose you care a hang for me—or for anyone else—but, by God, I’d like to make you care.”

  “Do you think you could?” asked Virginia, in a low voice.

  “Probably not, but I’d have a damned good try.”

  “Are you sorry you ever met me?” she said suddenly.

  “Lord, no. It’s the red signal again. When I first saw you—that day in Pont Street, I knew I was up against something that was going to hurt like fun. Your face did that to me—just your face. There’s magic in you from head to foot—some women are like that, but I’ve never known a woman who had so much of it as you have. You’ll marry someone respectable and prosperous, I suppose, and I shall return to my disreputable life, but I’ll kiss you once before I go—I swear I will.”

  “You can’t do it now,” said Virginia softly. “Superintendent Battle is watching us out of the library window.”