The Secret of Chimneys
figure in the chair he grew grave again.
“He’s still warm,” he said sharply. “He was killed less than half an
hour ago.”
“Just before I came in?”
“Exactly.”
He stood upright, drawing his brows together in a frown. Then he asked
a question of which Virginia did not at once see the drift:
“Your maid’s not been in this room, of course?”
“No.”
“Does she know that you’ve been into it?”
“Why—yes. I came to the door to speak to her.”
“After you’d found the body.”
“Yes.”
“And you said nothing?”
“Would it have been better if I had? I thought she would go into
hysterics—she’s French, you know, and easily upset—I wanted to think
over the best thing to do.”
Anthony nodded, but did not speak.
“You think it a pity, I can see?”
“Well, it was rather unfortunate, Mrs. Revel. If you and the maid had
discovered the body together, immediately on your return, it would have
simplified matters very much. The man would then definitely have been
shot _before_ your return to the house.”
“Whilst now they might say he was shot _after_—I see—”
He watched her taking in the idea, and was confirmed in his first
impression of her formed when she had spoken to him on the steps
outside. Besides beauty, she possessed courage and brains.
Virginia was so engrossed in the puzzle presented to her that it did
not occur to her to wonder at this strange man’s ready use of her name.
“Why didn’t Élise hear the shot, I wonder?” she murmured.
Anthony pointed to the open window, as a loud backfire came from a
passing car.
“There you are. London’s not the place to notice a pistol shot.”
Virginia turned with a little shudder to the body in the chair.
“He looks like an Italian,” she remarked curiously.
“He is an Italian,” said Anthony. “I should say that his regular
profession was that of a waiter. He only did blackmailing in his spare
time. His name might very possibly be Giuseppe.”
“Good heavens!” cried Virginia. “Is this Sherlock Holmes?”
“No,” said Anthony regretfully. “I’m afraid it’s just plain or garden
cheating. I’ll tell you all about it presently. Now you say this man
showed you some letters and asked you for money. Did you give him any?”
“Yes, I did.”
“How much?”
“Forty pounds.”
“That’s bad,” said Anthony, but without manifesting any undue surprise.
“Now let’s have a look at the telegram.”
Virginia picked it up from the table and gave it to him. She saw his
face grow grave as he looked at it.
“What’s the matter?”
He held it out, pointing silently to the place of origin.
“Barnes,” he said. “And you were at Ranelagh this afternoon. What’s to
prevent you having sent it off yourself?”
Virginia felt fascinated by his words. It was as though a net was
closing tighter and tighter round her. He was forcing her to see all
the things which she had felt dimly at the back of her mind.
Anthony took out his handkerchief and wound it round his hand, then he
picked up the pistol.
“We criminals have to be so careful,” he said apologetically.
“Fingerprints, you know.”
Suddenly she saw his whole figure stiffen. His voice, when he spoke,
had altered. It was terse and curt.
“Mrs. Revel,” he said, “have you ever seen this pistol before?”
“No,” said Virginia wonderingly.
“Are you sure of that?”
“Quite sure.”
“Have you a pistol of your own?”
“No.”
“Have you ever had one?”
“No, never.”
“You are sure of that?”
“Quite sure.”
He stared at her steadily for a minute, and Virginia stared back in
complete surprise at his tone.
Then, with a sigh, he relaxed.
“That’s odd,” he said. “How do you account for this?”
He held out the pistol. It was a small, dainty article, almost a
toy—though capable of doing deadly work. Engraved on it was the name
Virginia.
“Oh, it’s impossible!” cried Virginia.
Her astonishment was so genuine that Anthony could but believe in it.
“Sit down,” he said quietly. “There’s more in this than there seemed
to be first go off. To begin with, what’s our hypothesis? There are
only two possible ones. There is, of course, the real Virginia of the
letters. She may have somehow or other tracked him down, shot him,
dropped the pistol, stolen the letters, and taken herself off. That’s
quite possible, isn’t it?”
“I suppose so,” said Virginia unwillingly.
“The other hypothesis is a good deal more interesting. Whoever wished
to kill Giuseppe, wished also to incriminate you—in fact that may have
been their main object. They could get _him_ easily enough anywhere,
but they took extraordinary pains and trouble to get him _here_, and
whoever they were they knew all about you, your cottage at Datchet,
your usual household arrangements, and the fact that you were at
Ranelagh this afternoon. It seems an absurd question, but have you any
enemies, Mrs. Revel?”
“Of course I haven’t—not that kind, anyway.”
“The question is,” said Anthony, “what are we going to do now? There
are two courses open to us. A: Ring up the police, tell the whole
story, and trust to your unassailable position in the world and
your hitherto blameless life. B: An attempt on my part to dispose
successfully of the body. Naturally my private inclinations urge me
to B. I’ve always wanted to see if I couldn’t conceal a crime with
the necessary cunning, but have had a squeamish objection to shedding
blood. On the whole, I expect A’s the soundest. Then there’s a sort of
bowdlerized A. Ring up the police, etc., but suppress the pistol and
the blackmailing letters—that is, if they are on him still.”
Anthony ran rapidly through the dead man’s pockets.
“He’s been stripped clean,” he announced. “There’s not a thing on him.
There’ll be dirty work at the crossroads over those letters yet. Hullo,
what’s this? Hole in the lining—something got caught there, torn
roughly out, and a scrap of paper left behind.”
He drew out the scrap of paper as he spoke, and brought it over to the
light. Virginia joined him.
“Pity we haven’t got the rest of it,” he muttered. “_Chimneys 11.45
Thursday_—Sounds like an appointment.”
“Chimneys?” cried Virginia. “How extraordinary!”
“Why extraordinary? Rather high toned for such a low fellow?”
“I’m going to Chimneys this evening. At least I was.”
Anthony wheeled round on her.
“What’s that? Say that again.”
“I was going to Chimneys this evening,” repeated Virginia.
Anthony stared at her.
“I begin to see. At least, I may be wrong—but it’s an idea. Suppose
some one wanted badly to prevent your going to Chimneys?”
“My cousin George Lomax does,” said Virginia with a smile. “But I can’t
seriously suspect George of murder.”
Anthony did not smile. He was lost in thought.
“If you ring up the police, it’s good-bye to any idea of getting to
Chimneys to-day—or even to-morrow. And I should like you to go to
Chimneys. I fancy it will disconcert our unknown friends. Mrs. Revel,
will you put yourself in my hands?”
“It’s to be Plan B, then?”
“It’s to be Plan B. The first thing is to get that maid of yours out of
the house. Can you manage that?”
“Easily.”
Virginia went out in the hall and called up the stairs.
“Élise. Élise.”
“Madame?”
Anthony heard a rapid colloquy, and then the front door opened and
shut. Virginia came back into the room.
“She’s gone. I sent her for some special scent—told her the shop in
question was open until eight. It won’t be, of course. She’s to follow
after me by the next train without coming back here.”
“Good,” said Anthony approvingly. “We can now proceed to the disposal
of the body. It’s a time-worn method, but I’m afraid I shall have to
ask you if there’s such a thing in the house as a trunk?”
“Of course there is. Come down to the basement and take your choice.”
There was a variety of trunks in the basement. Anthony selected a solid
affair of suitable size.
“I’ll attend to this part of it,” he said tactfully. “You go upstairs
and get ready to start.”
Virginia obeyed. She slipped out of her tennis kit, put on a soft brown
travelling dress and a delightful little orange hat, and came down to
find Anthony waiting in the hall with a neatly strapped trunk beside
him.
“I should like to tell you the story of my life,” he remarked, “but
it’s going to be rather a busy evening. Now this is what you’ve got
to do. Call a taxi, have your luggage put on it, including the trunk.
Drive to Paddington. There have the trunk put in the Left Luggage
Office. I shall be on the platform. As you pass me, drop the Cloak
Room ticket. I will pick it up and pretend to return it to you, but in
reality I shall keep it. Go on to Chimneys, and leave the rest to me.”
“It’s awfully good of you,” said Virginia. “It’s really dreadful of me
saddling a perfect stranger with a dead body like this.”
“I like it,” returned Anthony nonchalantly. “If one of my friends,
Jimmy McGrath, were here, he’d tell you that anything of this kind
suits me down to the ground.”
Virginia was staring at him.
“What name did you say? Jimmy McGrath?”
Anthony returned her glance keenly.
“Yes. Why? Have you heard of him?”
“Yes—and quite lately.” She paused irresolutely, and then went on.
“Mr. Cade, I must talk to you. Can’t you come down to Chimneys?”
“You’ll see me before very long, Mrs. Revel—I’ll tell you that. Now,
exit Conspirator A by back door slinkingly. Exit Conspirator B in
blaze of glory by front door to taxi.”
The plan went through without a hitch. Anthony, having picked up a
second taxi, was on the platform and duly retrieved the fallen ticket.
He then departed in search of a somewhat battered second-hand Morris
Cowley which he had acquired earlier in the day in case it should be
necessary to his plans.
Returning to Paddington in this, he handed the ticket to the porter,
who got the trunk out of the cloak room and wedged it securely at the
back of the car. Anthony drove off.
His objective now was out of London. Through Notting Hill, Shepherd’s
Bush, down Goldhawk Road, through Brentford and Hounslow till he came
to the long stretch of road mid-way between Hounslow and Staines.
It was a well-frequented road, with motors passing continually. No
footmarks or tyre marks were likely to show. Anthony stopped the car at
a certain spot. Getting down, he first obscured the number-plate with
mud. Then, waiting until he heard no car coming in either direction,
he opened the trunk, heaved out Giuseppe’s body, and laid it neatly
down by the side of the road, on the inside of a curve, so that the
headlights of passing motors would not strike on it.
Then he entered the car again and drove away. The whole business had
occupied exactly one minute and a half. He made a détour to the right,
returning to London by way of Burnham Beeches. There again he halted
the car, and choosing a giant of the forest he deliberately climbed the
huge tree. It was something of a feat, even for Anthony. To one of the
topmost branches, he affixed a small brown-paper parcel, concealing it
in a little niche close to the bole.
“A very clever way of disposing of the pistol,” said Anthony to himself
with some approval. “Everybody hunts about on the ground, and drags
ponds. But there are very few people in England who could climb that
tree.”
Next, back to London and Paddington Station. Here he left the trunk—at
the other cloak room this time, the one on the Arrival side. He thought
longingly of such things as good rumpsteaks, juicy chops, and large
masses of fried potatoes. But he shook his head ruefully, glancing at
his wrist watch. He fed the Morris with a fresh supply of petrol, and
then took the road once more. North this time.
It was just after half-past eleven that he brought the car to rest in
the road adjoining the park of Chimneys. Jumping out he scaled the wall