The Secret of Chimneys

  A LADY IN DISTRESS

  “So that’s that,” said Anthony, finishing off his glass and replacing it on the table. “What boat were you going on?”

  “Granarth Castle.”

  “Passage booked in your name, I suppose, so I’d better travel as James McGrath. We’ve outgrown the passport business, haven’t we.

  “No odds either way. You and I are totally unlike, but we’d probably have the same description on one of those blinking things. Height six feet, hair brown, eyes blue, nose ordinary, chin ordinary—”

  “Not so much of this ‘ordinary’ stunt. Let me tell you that Castle’s selected me out of several applicants solely on account of my pleasing appearance and nice manners.”

  Jimmy grinned.

  “I noticed your manners this morning.”

  “The devil you did.”

  Anthony rose and paced up and down the room. His brow was slightly wrinkled, and it was some minutes before he spoke.

  “Jimmy,” he said at last. “Stylptitch died in Paris. What’s the point of sending a manuscript from Paris to London via Africa?”

  Jimmy shook his head helplessly.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Why not do it up in a nice little parcel and send it by post?”

  “Sounds a damn sight more sensible, I agree.”

  “Of course,” continued Anthony, “I know that kings and queens and government officials are prevented by etiquette from doing anything in a simple, straightforward fashion. Hence King’s Messengers and all that. In medieval days you gave a fellow a signet ring as a sort of open sesame. ‘The King’s Ring! Pass, my lord!’ And usually it was the other fellow who had stolen it. I always wonder why some bright lad never hit on the expedient of copying the ring—making a dozen or so, and selling them at a hundred ducats apiece. They seem to have had no initiative in the Middle Ages.”

  Jimmy yawned.

  “My remarks on the Middle Ages don’t seem to amuse you. Let us get back to Count Stylptitch. From France to England via Africa seems a bit thick even for a diplomatic personage. If he merely wanted to ensure that you should get a thousand pounds he could have left it you in his will. Thank God neither you nor I are too proud to accept a legacy! Stylptitch must have been barmy.”

  “You’d think so, wouldn’t you?”

  Anthony frowned and continued his pacing.

  “Have you read the thing at all?” he asked suddenly.

  “Read what?”

  “The manuscript.”

  “Good Lord, no. What do you think I want to read a thing of that kind for?”

  Anthony smiled.

  “I just wondered, that’s all. You know a lot of trouble has been caused by memoirs. Indiscreet revelations, that sort of thing. People who have been close as an oyster all their lives seem positively to relish causing trouble when they themselves shall be comfortably dead. It gives them a kind of malicious glee. Jimmy, what sort of a man was Count Stylptitch? You met him and talked to him, and you’re a pretty good judge of raw human nature. Could you imagine him being a vindictive old devil?”

  Jimmy shook his head.

  “It’s difficult to tell. You see, that first night he was distinctly canned, and the next day he was just a high-toned old boy with the most beautiful manners overwhelming me with compliments till I didn’t know where to look.”

  “And he didn’t say anything interesting when he was drunk?”

  Jimmy cast his mind back, wrinkling his brows as he did so.

  “He said he knew where the Koh-i-noor was,” he volunteered doubtfully.

  “Oh, well,” said Anthony, “we all know that. They keep it in the Tower, don’t they? Behind thick plate glass and iron bars, with a lot of gentlemen in fancy dress standing round to see you don’t pinch anything.”

  “That’s right,” agreed Jimmy.

  “Did Stylptitch say anything else of the same kind? That he knew which city the Wallace Collection was in, for instance?”

  Jimmy shook his head.

  “Hm!” said Anthony.

  He lit another cigarette, and once more began pacing up and down the room.

  “You never read the papers, I suppose, you heathen?” he threw out presently.

  “Not very often,” said McGrath simply. “They’re not about anything that interests me as a rule.”

  “Thank heaven I’m more civilized. There have been several mentions of Herzoslovakia lately. Hints at a royalist restoration.”

  “Nicholas IV didn’t leave a son,” said Jimmy. “But I don’t suppose for a minute that the Obolovitch dynasty is extinct. There are probably shoals of young ’uns knocking about, cousins and second cousins and third cousins once removed.”

  “So that there wouldn’t be any difficulty in finding a king?”

  “Not in the least, I should say,” replied Jimmy. “You know, I don’t wonder at their getting tired of republican institutions. A full-blooded, virile people like that must find it awfully tame to pot at presidents after being used to kings. And talking of kings, that reminds me of something else old Stylptitch let out that night. He said he knew the gang that was after him. They were King Victor’s people, he said.”

  “What?” Anthony wheeled round suddenly.

  A short grin widened on McGrath’s face.

  “Just a mite excited, aren’t you, Gentleman Joe?” he drawled.

  “Don’t be an ass, Jimmy. You’ve just said something rather important.”

  He went over to the window and stood there looking out.

  “Who is this King Victor, anyway?” demanded Jimmy. “Another Balkan monarch?”

  “No,” said Anthony slowly. “He isn’t that kind of a king.”

  “What is he, then?”

  There was a pause, and then Anthony spoke.

  “He’s a crook, Jimmy. The most notorious jewel thief in the world. A fantastic, daring fellow, not to be daunted by anything. King Victor was the nickname he was known by in Paris. Paris was the headquarters of his gang. They caught him there and put him away for seven years on a minor charge. They couldn’t prove the more important things against him. He’ll be out soon—or he may be out already.”

  “Do you think Count Stylptitch had anything to do with putting him away? Was that why the gang went for him? Out of revenge?”

  “I don’t know,” said Anthony. “It doesn’t seem likely on the face of it. King Victor never stole the crown jewels of Herzoslovakia as far as I’ve heard. But the whole thing seems rather suggestive, doesn’t it? The death of Stylptitch, the memoirs, and the rumours in the papers—all vague but interesting. And there’s a further rumour to the effect that they’ve found oil in Herzoslovakia. I’ve a feeling in my bones, James, that people are getting ready to be interested in that unimportant little country.”

  “What sort of people?”

  “Hebraic people. Yellow-faced financiers in city offices.”

  “What are you driving at with all this?”

  “Trying to make an easy job difficult, that’s all.”

  “You can’t pretend there’s going to be any difficulty in handing over a simple manuscript at a publisher’s office?”

  “No,” said Anthony regretfully. “I don’t suppose there’ll be anything difficult about that. But shall I tell you, James, where I propose to go with my two hundred and fifty pounds?”

  “South America?”

  “No, my lad, Herzoslovakia. I shall stand in with the republic, I think. Very probably I shall end up as president.”

  “Why not announce yourself as the principal Obolovitch and be a king whilst you’re about it?”

  “No, Jimmy. Kings are for life. Presidents only take on the job for four years or so. It would quite amuse me to govern a kingdom like Herzoslovakia for four years.”

  “The average for kings is even less, I should say,” interpolated Jimmy.

  “It will probably be a serious temptation to me to embezzle your share of the thousand pounds. You won’t want it, you
know, when you get back weighed down with nuggets. I’ll invest it for you in Herzoslovakian oil shares. You know, James, the more I think of it, the more pleased I am with this idea of yours. I should never have thought of Herzoslovakia if you hadn’t mentioned it. I shall spend one day in London, collecting the booty, and then away by the Balkan Express!”

  “You won’t get off quite as fast as that. I didn’t mention it before, but I’ve got another little commission for you.”

  Anthony sank into a chair and eyed him severely.

  “I knew all along that you were keeping something dark. This is where the catch comes in.”

  “Not a bit. It’s just something that’s got to be done to help a lady.”

  “Once and for all, James, I refuse to be mixed up in your beastly love affairs.”

  “It’s not a love affair. I’ve never seen the woman. I’ll tell you the whole story.”

  “If I’ve got to listen to more of your long, rambling stories, I shall have to have another drink.”

  His host complied hospitably with this demand, then began the tale.

  “It was when I was up in Uganda. There was a dago there whose life I had saved—”

  “If I were you, Jimmy, I should write a short book entitled ‘Lives I have Saved.’ This is the second I’ve heard of this evening.”

  “Oh, well, I didn’t really do anything this time. Just pulled the dago out of the river. Like all dagos, he couldn’t swim.”

  “Wait a minute, has this story anything to do with the other business?”

  “Nothing whatever, though, oddly enough, now I remember it, the man was a Herzoslovakian. We always called him Dutch Pedro, though.”

  Anthony nodded indifferently.

  “Any name’s good enough for a dago,” he remarked. “Get on with the good work, James.”

  “Well, the fellow was sort of grateful about it. Hung around like a dog. About six months later he died of fever. I was with him. Last thing, just as he was pegging out, he beckoned me and whispered some excited jargon about a secret—a gold mine, I thought he said. Shoved an oilskin packet into my hand which he’d always worn next his skin. Well, I didn’t think much of it at the time. It wasn’t until a week afterwards that I opened the packet. Then I was curious, I must confess. I shouldn’t have thought that Dutch Pedro would have had the sense to know a gold mine when he saw it—but there’s no accounting for luck—”

  “And at the mere thought of gold, your heart beat pitterpat as always,” interrupted Anthony.

  “I was never so disgusted in my life. Gold mine, indeed! I daresay it may have been a gold mine to him, the dirty dog. Do you know what it was? A woman’s letters—yes, a woman’s letters, and an Englishwoman at that. The skunk had been blackmailing her—and he had the impudence to pass on his dirty bag of tricks to me.”

  “I like to see your righteous heat, James, but let me point out to you that dagos will be dagos. He meant well. You had saved his life, he bequeathed to you a profitable source of raising money—your high-minded British ideals did not enter his horizon.”

  “Well, what the hell was I to do with the things? Burn ’em, that’s what I thought at first. And then it occurred to me that there would be that poor dame, not knowing they’d been destroyed, and always living in a quake and a dread lest that dago should turn up again one day.”

  “You’ve more imagination than I gave you credit for, Jimmy,” observed Anthony, lighting a cigarette. “I admit that the case presented more difficulties than were at first apparent. What about just sending them to her by post?”

  “Like all women, she’d put no date and no address on most of the letters. There was a kind of address on one—just one word. ‘Chimneys.’ ”

  Anthony paused in the act of blowing out his match, and he dropped it with a quick jerk of the wrist as it burned his finger.

  “Chimneys?” he said. “That’s rather extraordinary.”

  “Why, do you know it?”

  “It’s one of the stately homes of England, my dear James. A place where kings and queens go for weekends, and diplomatists forgather and diplome.”

  “That’s one of the reasons why I’m so glad that you’re going to England instead of me. You know all these things,” said Jimmy simply. “A josser like myself from the backwoods of Canada would be making all sorts of bloomers. But someone like you who’s been to Eton and Harrow—”

  “Only one of them,” said Anthony modestly.

  “Will be able to carry it through. Why didn’t I send them to her, you say? Well, it seemed to me dangerous. From what I could make out, she seemed to have a jealous husband. Suppose he opened the letter by mistake. Where would the poor dame be then? Or she might be dead—the letters looked as though they’d been written some time. As I figured it out, the only thing was for someone to take them to England and put them into her own hands.”

  Anthony threw away his cigarette, and coming across to his friend, clapped him affectionately on the back.

  “You’re a real knight-errant, Jimmy,” he said. “And the backwoods of Canada should be proud of you. I shan’t do the job half as prettily as you would.”

  “You’ll take it on, then?”

  “Of course.”

  McGrath rose, and going across to a drawer, took out a bundle of letters and threw them on the table.

  “Here you are. You’d better have a look at them.”

  “Is it necessary? On the whole, I’d rather not.”

  “Well, from what you say about this Chimneys place, she may have been staying there only. We’d better look through the letters and see if there’s any clue as to where she really hangs out.”

  “I suppose you’re right.”

  They went through the letters carefully, but without finding what they had hoped to find. Anthony gathered them up again thoughtfully.

  “Poor little devil,” he remarked. “She was scared stiff.”

  Jimmy nodded.

  “Do you think you’ll be able to find her all right?” he asked anxiously.

  “I won’t leave England till I have. You’re very concerned about this unknown lady, James?”

  Jimmy ran his finger thoughtfully over the signature.

  “It’s a pretty name,” he said apologetically. “Virginia Revel.”

  Three

  ANXIETY IN HIGH PLACES

  “Quite so, my dear fellow, quite so,” said Lord Caterham.

  He had used the same words three times already, each time in the hope that they would end the interview and permit him to escape. He disliked very much being forced to stand on the steps of the exclusive London club to which he belonged and listen to the interminable eloquence of the Hon. George Lomax.

  Clement Edward Alistair Brent, ninth Marquis of Caterham, was a small gentleman, shabbily dressed, and entirely unlike the popular conception of a marquis. He had faded blue eyes, a thin melancholy nose,and a vague but courteous manner.

  The principal misfortune of Lord Caterham’s life was to have succeeded his brother, the eighth marquis, four years ago. For the previous Lord Caterham had been a man of mark, a household word all over England. At one time Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs, he had always bulked largely in the counsels of the Empire, and his country seat, Chimneys, was famous for its hospitality. Ably seconded by his wife, a daughter of the Duke of Perth, history had been made and unmade at informal weekend parties at Chimneys, and there was hardly anyone of note in England—or indeed in Europe—who had not, at one time or another, stayed there.

  That was all very well. The ninth Marquis of Caterham had the utmost respect and esteem for the memory of his brother. Henry had done that kind of thing magnificently. What Lord Caterham objected to was the assumption that Chimneys was a national possession rather than a private country house. There was nothing that bored Lord Caterham more than politics—unless it was politicians. Hence his impatience under the continued eloquence of George Lomax. A robust man, George Lomax, inclined to embonpoint, with a red fa
ce and protuberant eyes, and an immense sense of his own importance.

  “You see the point, Caterham? We can’t—we simply can’t afford a scandal of any kind just now. The position is one of the utmost delicacy.”

  “It always is,” said Lord Caterham, with a flavour of irony.

  “My dear fellow, I’m in a position to know!”

  “Oh, quite so, quite so,” said Lord Caterham, falling back upon his previous line of defence.

  “One slip over this Herzoslovakian business and we’re done. It is most important that the oil concessions should be granted to a British company. You must see that?”

  “Of course, of course.”

  “Prince Michael Obolovitch arrives the end of the week, and the whole thing can be carried through at Chimneys under the guise of a shooting party.”

  “I was thinking of going abroad this week,” said Lord Caterham.

  “Nonsense, my dear Caterham, no one goes abroad in early October.”

  “My doctor seems to think I’m in rather a bad way,” said Lord Caterham, longingly eyeing a taxi that was crawling past.

  He was quite unable to make a dash for liberty, however, since Lomax had the unpleasant habit of retaining a hold upon a person with whom he was engaged in serious conversation—doubtless the result of long experience. In this case, he had a firm grip of the lapel of Lord Caterham’s coat.

  “My dear man, I put it to you imperially. In a moment of national crisis, such as is fast approaching—”

  Lord Caterham wriggled uneasily. He felt suddenly that he would rather give any number of house parties than listen to George Lomax quoting from one of his own speeches. He knew by experience that Lomax was quite capable of going on for twenty minutes without a stop.

  “All right,” he said hastily, “I’ll do it. You’ll arrange the whole thing, I suppose.”

  “My dear fellow, there’s nothing to arrange. Chimneys, quite apart from its historic associations, is ideally situated. I shall be at the Abbey, less than seven miles away. It wouldn’t do, of course, for me to be actually a member of the house party.”

  “Of course not,” agreed Lord Caterham, who had no idea why it would not do, and was not interested to learn.