The Secret of Chimneys
had Count Stylptitch at the bottom of it. He’s been a dictator and a
patriot and a statesman—and nobody knows exactly what he has been,
except that he’s been a perfect King of intrigue. Well, what about him?”
“He was Prime Minister of Herzoslovakia—that’s why I mentioned it
first.”
“You’ve no sense of proportion, Jimmy. Herzoslovakia is of no
importance at all compared to Stylptitch. It just provided him with a
birthplace and a post in public affairs. But I thought he was dead?”
“So he is. He died in Paris about two months ago. What I’m telling you
about happened some years ago.”
“The question is,” said Anthony, “what _are_ you telling me about?”
Jimmy accepted the rebuke and hastened on.
“It was like this. I was in Paris—just four years ago, to be exact. I
was walking along one night in rather a lonely part, when I saw half a
dozen French toughs beating up a respectable-looking old gentleman. I
hate a one-sided show, so I promptly butted in and proceeded to beat
up the toughs. I guess they’d never been hit really hard before. They
melted like snow!”
“Good for you, James,” said Anthony softly. “I’d like to have seen that
scrap.”
“Oh, it was nothing much,” said Jimmy modestly. “But the old boy was
no end grateful. He’d had a couple, no doubt about that, but he was
sober enough to get my name and address out of me, and he came along
and thanked me next day. Did the thing in style too. It was then that I
found out it was Count Stylptitch I’d rescued. He’d got a house up by
the Bois.”
Anthony nodded.
“Yes, Stylptitch went to live in Paris after the assassination of King
Nicholas. They wanted him to come back and be President later, but he
wasn’t taking any. He remained sound to his Monarchical principals,
though he was reported to have his finger in all the backstairs pies
that went on in the Balkans. Very deep, the late Count Stylptitch.”
“Nicholas IV was the man who had a funny taste in wives, wasn’t he?”
said Jimmy suddenly.
“Yes,” said Anthony. “And it did for him too, poor beggar. She was some
little guttersnipe of a music hall artiste in Paris—not even suitable
for a morganatic alliance. But Nicholas had a frightful crush on her,
and she was all out for being a Queen. Sounds fantastic, but they
managed it somehow. Called her the Countess Popoffsky, or something,
and pretended she had Romanoff blood in her veins. Nicholas married her
in the Cathedral at Ekarest with a couple of unwilling Arch-bishops to
do the job, and she was crowned as Queen Varaga. Nicholas squared his
Ministers, and I suppose he thought that was all that mattered—but
he forgot to reckon with the populace. They’re very aristocratic and
reactionary in Herzoslovakia. They like their Kings and Queens to be
the genuine article. There were mutterings and discontent, and the
usual ruthless suppressions, and the final uprising which stormed the
Palace, murdered the King and Queen, and proclaimed a Republic. It’s
been a Republic ever since—but things still manage to be pretty lively
there, so I’ve heard. They’ve assassinated a President or two, just to
keep their hand in. But _revenons à nos moutons_. You had got to where
Count Stylptitch was hailing you as his preserver.”
“Yes. Well, that was the end of that business. I came back to
Africa and never thought of it again until about two weeks ago I
got a queer-looking parcel which had been following me all over the
place for the Lord knows how long. I’d seen in a paper that Count
Stylptitch had recently died in Paris. Well, this parcel contained his
Memoirs—or Reminiscences, or whatever you call the things. There was
a note enclosed to the effect that if I delivered the manuscript at a
certain firm of publishers in London on or before October 13 they were
instructed to hand me a thousand pounds.”
“A thousand pounds? Did you say a thousand pounds, Jimmy?”
“I did, my son. I hope to God it’s not a hoax. Put not your trust in
Princes or Politicians, as the saying goes. Well, there it is. Owing
to the way the manuscript had been following me around, I had no time
to lose. It was a pity, all the same. I’d just fixed up this trip to
the interior, and I’d set my heart on going. I shan’t get such a good
chance again.”
“You’re incurable, Jimmy. A thousand pounds in the hand is worth a lot
of mythical gold.”
“And supposing it’s all a hoax? Anyway, here I am, passage booked and
everything, on the way to Cape Town—and then you blow along!”
Anthony got up and lit a cigarette.
“I begin to perceive your drift, James. You go gold hunting as planned,
and I collect the thousand pounds for you. How much do I get out of it?”
“What do you say to a quarter?”
“Two hundred and fifty pounds free of income tax, as the saying goes?”
“That’s it.”
“Done, and just to make you gnash your teeth I’ll tell you that I would
have gone for a hundred! Let me tell you, James McGrath, _you_ won’t
die in your bed counting up your bank balance.”
“Anyway, it’s a deal?”
“It’s a deal all right. I’m on. And confusion to Castle’s Select Tours.”
They drank the toast solemnly.
2
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 6
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 balmy.”
“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 closed 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.
“H’m!” 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 slow 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?”
“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?”