The Secret of Chimneys
crashed into one of the figures in armour, for it fell to the ground
with a deafening noise. Virginia saw dimly a figure springing for the
window, and at the same time heard Bill cursing and disengaging himself
from fragments of armour.
For the first time, she left her post, and rushed wildly for the figure
at the window. But the window was already unlatched. The intruder had
no need to stop and fumble for it. He sprang out and raced away down
the terrace and round the corner of the house. Virginia raced after
him. She was young and athletic, and she turned the corner of the
terrace not many seconds after her quarry.
But there she ran headlong into the arms of a man who was emerging from
a small side door. It was Mr. Hiram P. Fish.
“Gee! It’s a lady,” he exclaimed. “Why, I beg your pardon, Mrs. Revel.
I took you for one of the thugs fleeing from justice.”
“He’s just passed this way,” cried Virginia breathlessly. “Can’t we
catch him?”
But, even as she spoke, she knew it was too late. The man must have
gained the park by now, and it was a dark night with no moon. She
retraced her steps to the Council Chamber, Mr. Fish by her side,
discoursing in a soothing monotone upon the habits of burglars in
general, of which he seemed to have a wide experience.
Lord Caterham, Bundle, and various frightened servants were standing in
the doorway of the Council Chamber.
“What the devil’s the matter?” asked Bundle. “Is it burglars? What are
you and Mr. Fish doing, Virginia? Taking a midnight stroll?”
Virginia explained the events of the evening.
“How frightfully exciting,” commented Bundle. “You don’t usually get
a murder and a burglary crowded into one week-end. What’s the matter
with the lights in here? They’re all right everywhere else.”
That mystery was soon explained. The bulbs had simply been removed
and laid in a row against the wall. Mounted on a pair of steps, the
dignified Tredwell, dignified even in undress, restored illumination to
the stricken apartment.
“If I am not mistaken,” said Lord Caterham in his sad voice as he
looked around him, “this room has recently been the centre of somewhat
violent activity.”
There was some justice in the remark. Everything that could have
been knocked over had been knocked over. The floor was littered with
splintered chairs, broken china, and fragments of armour.
“How many of them were there?” asked Bundle. “It seems to have been a
desperate fight.”
“Only one, I think,” said Virginia. But, even as she spoke, she
hesitated a little. Certainly only one person—a man—had passed out
through the window. But as she had rushed after him, she had had a
vague impression of a rustle somewhere close at hand. If so, the second
occupant of the room could have escaped through the door. Perhaps,
though, the rustle had been an effect of her own imagination.
Bill appeared suddenly at the window. He was out of breath and panting
hard.
“Damn the fellow!” he exclaimed wrathfully. “He’s escaped. I’ve been
hunting all over the place. Not a sign of him.”
“Cheer up, Bill,” said Virginia, “better luck next time.”
“Well,” said Lord Caterham, “what do you think we’d better do now? Go
back to bed? I can’t get hold of Badgworthy at this time of night.
Tredwell, you know the sort of thing that’s necessary. Just see to it,
will you?”
“Very good, my lord.”
With a sigh of relief, Lord Caterham prepared to retreat.
“That beggar, Isaacstein, sleeps soundly,” he remarked, with a touch of
envy. “You’d have thought all this row would have brought him down.” He
looked across at Mr. Fish. “You found time to dress, I see,” he added.
“I flung on a few articles of clothing, yes,” admitted the American.
“Very sensible of you,” said Lord Caterham. “Damned chilly things,
pyjamas.”
He yawned. In a rather depressed mood, the house party retired to bed.
18
Second Midnight Adventure
The first person that Anthony saw as he alighted from his train on the
following afternoon was Superintendent Battle. His face broke into a
smile.
“I’ve returned according to contract,” he remarked. “Did you come down
here to assure yourself of the fact?”
Battle shook his head.
“I wasn’t worrying about that, Mr. Cade. I happen to be going to
London, that’s all.”
“You have such a trustful nature, Battle.”
“Do you think so, sir?”
“No. I think you’re deep—very deep. Still waters, you know, and all
that sort of thing. So you’re going to London?”
“I am, Mr. Cade.”
“I wonder why.”
The detective did not reply.
“You’re so chatty,” remarked Anthony. “That’s what I like about you.”
A far-off twinkle showed in Battle’s eyes.
“What about your own little job, Mr. Cade?” he inquired. “How did that
go off?”
“I’ve drawn blank, Battle. For the second time I’ve been proved
hopelessly wrong. Galling, isn’t it?”
“What was the idea, sir, if I may ask?”
“I suspected the French governess, Battle. A: Upon the grounds of her
being the most unlikely person, according to the canons of the best
fiction. B: Because there was a light in her room on the night of the
tragedy.”
“That wasn’t much to go upon.”
“You are quite right. It was not. But I discovered that she had only
been here a short time, and I also found a suspicious Frenchman spying
round the place. You know all about him, I suppose?”
“You mean the man who calls himself M. Chelles? Staying at the
_Cricketers_? A traveller in silk.”
“That’s it, is it? What about him? What does Scotland Yard think?”
“His actions have been suspicious,” said Superintendent Battle
expressionlessly.
“Very suspicious, I should say. Well, I put two and two together.
French governess in the house, French stranger outside. I decided that
they were in league together, and I hurried off to interview the lady
with whom Mademoiselle Brun had lived for the last ten years. I was
fully prepared to find that she had never heard of any such person as
Mademoiselle Brun, but I was wrong, Battle. Mademoiselle is the genuine
article.”
Battle nodded.
“I must admit,” said Anthony, “that as soon as I spoke to her I had an
uneasy conviction that I was barking up the wrong tree. She seemed so
absolutely the governess.”
Again Battle nodded.
“All the same, Mr. Cade, you can’t always go by that. Women especially
can do a lot with make up. I’ve seen quite a pretty girl with the color
of her hair altered, a sallow complexion stain, slightly reddened
eyelids and, most efficacious of all, dowdy clothes, who would fail to
be identified by nine people out of ten who had seen her in her former
character. Men haven’t got quite the same pull. You can do something
with the eyebrows, and of course different sets of false teeth alter
the whole expression. But there are always the ears—there’s an
extraordinary lot of character in ears, Mr. Cade.”
“Don’t look so hard at mine, Battle,” complained Anthony. “You make me
quite nervous.”
“I’m not talking of false beard and grease paint,” continued the
superintendent. “That’s only for books. No, there are very few men
who can escape identification and put it over on you. In fact there’s
only one man I know who has a positive genius for impersonation. King
Victor. Ever heard of King Victor, Mr. Cade?”
There was something so sharp and sudden about the way the detective put
the question that Anthony half checked the words that were rising to
his lips.
“King Victor?” he said reflectively instead. “Somehow, I seem to have
heard the name.”
“One of the most celebrated jewel thieves in the world. Irish father,
French mother. Can speak five languages at least. He’s been serving a
sentence, but his time was up a few months ago.”
“Really? And where is he supposed to be now?”
“Well, Mr. Cade, that’s what we’d rather like to know.”
“The plot thickens,” said Anthony lightly. “No chance of his turning up
here, is there? But I suppose he wouldn’t be interested in political
Memoirs—only in jewels.”
“There’s no saying,” said Superintendent Battle. “For all we know, he
may be here already.”
“Disguised as the second footman? Splendid. You’ll recognize him by his
ears and cover yourself with glory.”
“Quite fond of your little joke, aren’t you, Mr. Cade? By the way, what
do you think of that curious business at Staines?”
“Staines?” said Anthony. “What’s been happening at Staines?”
“It was in Saturday’s papers. I thought you might have seen about it.
Man found by the roadside shot. A foreigner. It was in the papers again
to-day, of course.”
“I did see something about it,” said Anthony carelessly. “Not suicide,
apparently.”
“No. There was no weapon. As yet the man hasn’t been identified.”
“You seem very interested,” said Anthony, smiling. “No connection with
Prince Michael’s death, is there?”
His hand was quite steady. So were his eyes. Was it his fancy that
Superintendent Battle was looking at him with peculiar intentness?
“Seems to be quite an epidemic of that sort of thing,” said Battle.
“But, well, I dare say there’s nothing in it.”
He turned away, beckoning to a porter as the London train came
thundering in. Anthony drew a faint sigh of relief.
He strolled across the park in an unusually thoughtful mood. He
purposely chose to approach the house from the same direction as that
from which he had come on the fateful Thursday night, and as he drew
near to it he looked up at the windows cudgelling his brains to make
sure of the one where he had seen the light. Was he quite sure that it
was the second from the end?
And, doing so, he made a discovery. There was an angle at the corner of
the house in which was a window set farther back. Standing on one spot,
you counted this window as the first, and the first one built out over
the Council Chamber as the second, but move a few yards to the right
and the part built out over the Council Chamber appeared to be the end
of the house. The first window was invisible, and the two windows of
the rooms over the Council Chamber would have appeared the first and
second from the end. Where exactly had he been standing when he had
seen the light flash up?
Anthony found the question very hard to determine. A matter of a yard
or so made all the difference. But one point was made abundantly clear.
It was quite possible that he had been mistaken in describing the light
as occurring in the second room from the end. It might equally well
have been the _third_.
Now who occupied the third room? Anthony was determined to find that
out as soon as possible. Fortune favoured him. In the hall Tredwell had
just set the massive silver urn in its place on the tea tray. Nobody
else was there.
“Hullo, Tredwell,” said Anthony. “I wanted to ask you something. Who
has the third room from the end on the West side? Over the Council
Chamber, I mean.”
Tredwell reflected for a minute or two.
“That would be the American gentleman’s room, sir. Mr. Fish.”
“Oh, is it? Thank you.”
“Not at all, sir.”
Tredwell prepared to depart, then paused. The desire to be the first to
impart news makes even pontifical butlers human.
“Perhaps you have heard, sir, of what occurred last night?”
“Not a word,” said Anthony. “What did occur last night?”
“An attempt at robbery, sir!”
“Not really? Was anything taken?”
“No, sir. The thieves were dismantling the suits of armour in
the Council Chamber when they were surprised and forced to flee.
Unfortunately they got clear away.”
“That’s very extraordinary,” said Anthony. “The Council Chamber again.
Did they break in that way?”
“It is supposed, sir, that they forced the window.”
Satisfied with the interest his information had aroused Tredwell
resumed his retreat, but brought up short with a dignified apology.
“I beg your pardon, sir. I didn’t hear you come in, and I didn’t know