The Secret of Chimneys
He was staring intently at the Frenchman, and absent-mindedly his
fingers played with a box of matches.
“To America. To the United States.”
“What?”
There was sheer amazement in Anthony’s tone.
“Yes, and what do you think he called himself? What part do you think
he played over there? The part of Prince Nicholas of Herzoslovakia.”
The match-box fell from Anthony’s hand, but his amazement was fully
equalled by that of Battle.
“Impossible.”
“Not so, my friend. You, too, will get the news in the morning. It
has been the most colossal bluff. As you know, Prince Nicholas was
rumoured to have died in the Congo years ago. Our friend, King Victor,
seizes on that—difficult to prove a death of that kind. He resurrects
Prince Nicholas, and plays him to such purpose that he gets away with a
tremendous haul of American dollars—all on account of the supposed oil
concessions. But by a mere accident, he was unmasked, and had to leave
the country hurriedly. This time he did come to England. And that is
why I am here. Sooner or later he will come to Chimneys. That is, if he
is not already here!”
“You think—that?”
“I think he was here the night Prince Michael died, and again last
night.”
“It was another attempt, eh?” said Battle.
“It was another attempt.”
“What has bothered me,” continued Battle, “was wondering what had
become of M. Lemoine here. I’d had word from Paris that he was on his
way over to work with me, and I couldn’t make out why he hadn’t turned
up.”
“I must indeed apologize,” said Lemoine. “You see, I arrived on the
morning after the murder. It occurred to me at once that it would
be as well for me to study things from an unofficial standpoint
without appearing officially as your colleague. I thought that great
possibilities lay that way. I was, of course, aware that I was bound to
be an object of suspicion, but that in a way furthered my plan since it
would not put people I was after on their guard. I can assure you that
I have seen a good deal that is interesting in the last two days.”
“But look here,” said Bill, “what really did happen last night?”
“I am afraid,” said M. Lemoine, “that I gave you rather violent
exercise.”
“It was you I chased then?”
“Yes. I will recount things to you. I came up here to watch, convinced
that the secret had to do with this room since the Prince had been
killed here. I stood outside on the terrace. Presently I became aware
that some one was moving about in this room. I could see the flash of a
torch now and again. I tried the middle window and found it unlatched.
Whether the man had entered that way earlier, or whether he had left
it so as a blind in case he was disturbed, I do not know. Very gently,
I pushed it back and slipped inside the room. Step by step I felt
my way until I was in a spot where I could watch operations without
likelihood of being discovered myself. The man himself I could not see
clearly. His back was to me, of course, and he was silhouetted against
the light of the torch so that his outline only could be seen. But his
actions filled me with surprise. He took to pieces first one and then
the other of those two suits of armour, examining each one piece by
piece. When he had convinced himself that what he sought was not there,
he began tapping the panelling of the wall under that picture. What he
would have done next, I do not know. The interruption came. _You_ burst
in——” He looked at Bill.
“Our well-meant interference was really rather a pity,” said Virginia
thoughtfully.
“In a sense, madame, it was. The man switched out his torch, and I, who
had no wish as yet to be forced to reveal my identity, sprang for the
window. I collided with the other two in the dark, and fell headlong. I
sprang up and out through the window. Mr. Eversleigh, taking me for his
assailant, followed.”
“I followed you first,” said Virginia. “Bill was only second in the
race.”
“And the other fellow had the sense to stay still and sneak out through
the door. I wonder he didn’t meet the rescuing crowd.”
“That would present no difficulties,” said Lemoine. “He would be a
rescuer in advance of the rest, that was all.”
“Do you really think this Arsène Lupin fellow is actually among the
household now?” asked Bill, his eyes sparkling.
“Why not?” said Lemoine. “He could pass perfectly as a servant. For all
we may know, he may be Boris Anchoukoff, the trusted servant of the
late Prince Michael.”
“He is an odd-looking bloke,” agreed Bill.
But Anthony was smiling.
“That’s hardly worthy of you, M. Lemoine,” he said gently.
The Frenchman smiled too.
“You’ve taken him on as your valet now, haven’t you, Mr. Cade?” asked
Superintendent Battle.
“Battle, I take off my hat to you. You know everything. But just as a
matter of detail, he’s taken me on, not I him.”
“Why was that, I wonder, Mr. Cade?”
“I don’t know,” said Anthony lightly. “It’s a curious taste, but
perhaps he may have liked my face. Or he may think I murdered his
master and wish to establish himself in a handy position for executing
revenge upon me.”
He rose and went over to the windows, pulling the curtains.
“Daylight,” he said, with a slight yawn. “There won’t be any more
excitements now.”
Lemoine rose also.
“I will leave you,” he said. “We shall perhaps meet again later in the
day.”
With a graceful bow to Virginia, he stepped out of the window.
“Bed,” said Virginia, yawning. “It’s all been very exciting. Come on,
Bill, go to bed like a good little boy. The breakfast table will see us
not, I fear.”
Anthony stayed at the window looking after the retreating form of M.
Lemoine.
“You wouldn’t think it,” said Battle behind him, “but that’s supposed
to be the cleverest detective in France.”
“I don’t know that I wouldn’t,” said Anthony thoughtfully. “I rather
think I would.”
“Well,” said Battle, “he was right about the excitements of this night
being over. By the way, do you remember my telling you about that man
they’d found shot near Staines?”
“Yes. Why?”
“Nothing. They’ve identified him, that’s all. It seems he was called
Giuseppe Manelli. He was a waiter at the Blitz in London. Curious,
isn’t it?”
20
Battle and Anthony Confer
Anthony said nothing. He continued to stare out of the window.
Superintendent Battle looked for some time at his motionless back.
“Well, good night, sir,” he said at last, and moved to the door.
Anthony stirred.
“Wait a minute, Battle.”
The superintendent halted obediently. Anthony left the window. He drew
out a cigarette from his case and lighted it. Then, between two puffs
of smoke, he said:
“You seem very interested in this business at Staines?”
“I wouldn’t go as far as that, sir. It’s unusual, that’s all.”
“Do you think the man was shot where he was found, or do you think
he was killed elsewhere and the body brought to that particular spot
afterwards?”
“I think he was shot somewhere else, and the body brought there in a
car.”
“I think so too,” said Anthony.
Something in the emphasis of his tone made the detective look up
sharply.
“Any ideas of your own, sir? Do you know who brought him there?”
“Yes,” said Anthony. “I did.”
He was a little annoyed at the absolutely unruffled calm preserved by
the other.
“I must say you take these shocks very well, Battle,” he remarked.
“‘Never display emotion.’ That was a rule that was given to me once,
and I’ve found it very useful.”
“You live up to it, certainly,” said Anthony. “I can’t say I’ve ever
seen you ruffled. Well, do you want to hear the whole story?”
“If you please, Mr. Cade.”
Anthony pulled up two of the chairs, both men sat down, and Anthony
recounted the events of the preceding Thursday night.
Battle listened immovably. There was a far-off twinkle in his eyes as
Anthony finished.
“You know, sir,” he said, “You’ll get into trouble one of these days.”
“Then, for the second time, I’m not to be taken into custody?”
“We always like to give a man plenty of rope,” said Superintendent
Battle.
“Very delicately put,” said Anthony. “Without unduly stressing the end
of the proverb.”
“What I can’t quite make out, sir,” said Battle, “is why you decided to
come across with this now?”
“It’s rather difficult to explain,” said Anthony. “You see, Battle,
I’ve come to have really a very high opinion of your abilities. When
the moment comes, you’re always there. Look at to-night. And it
occurred to me that, in withholding this knowledge of mine, I was
seriously cramping your style. You deserve to have access to all the
facts. I’ve done what I could, and up to now I’ve made a mess of
things. Until to-night, I couldn’t speak for Mrs. Revel’s sake. But now
that those letters have been definitely proved to have nothing whatever
to do with her, any idea of her complicity becomes absurd. Perhaps
I advised her badly in the first place, but it struck me that her
statement of having paid this man money to suppress the letters, simply
as a whim, might take a bit of believing.”
“It might, by a jury,” agreed Battle. “Juries never have any
imagination.”
“But you accept it quite easily?” said Anthony, looking curiously at
him.
“Well, you see, Mr. Cade, most of my work has lain amongst these
people. What they call the upper classes, I mean. You see, the majority
of people are always wondering what the neighbours will think. But
tramps and aristocrats don’t—they just do the first thing that comes
into their heads, and they don’t bother to think what anyone thinks
of them. I’m not meaning just the idle rich, the people who give big
parties, and so on, I mean those that have had it born and bred in
them for generations that nobody else’s opinion counts but their own.
I’ve always found the upper classes the same—fearless, truthful and
sometimes extraordinarily foolish.”
“This is a very interesting lecture, Battle. I suppose you’ll be
writing your Reminiscences one of these days. They ought to be worth
reading too.”
The detective acknowledged the suggestion with a smile, but said
nothing.
“I’d rather like to ask you one question,” continued Anthony. “Did you
connect me at all with the Staines affair? I fancied, from your manner,
that you did.”
“Quite right. I had a hunch that way. But nothing definite to go upon.
Your manner was very good, if I may say so, Mr. Cade. You never overdid
the carelessness.”
“I’m glad of that,” said Anthony. “I’ve a feeling that ever since I met
you you’ve been laying little traps for me. On the whole I’ve managed
to avoid falling into them, but the strain has been acute.”
Battle smiled grimly.
“That’s how you get a crook in the end, sir. Keep him on the run, to
and fro, turning and twisting. Sooner or later, his nerve goes, and
you’ve got him.”
“You’re a cheerful fellow, Battle. When will you get me, I wonder?”
“Plenty of rope, sir,” quoted the superintendent, “plenty of rope.”
“In the meantime,” said Anthony, “I am still the amateur assistant?”
“That’s it, Mr. Cade.”
“Watson to your Sherlock, in fact?”
“Detective stories are mostly bunkum,” said Battle unemotionally. “But
they amuse people,” he added, as an afterthought. “And they’re useful
sometimes.”
“In what way?” asked Anthony curiously.
“They encourage the universal idea that the police are stupid. When we
get an amateur crime, such as a murder, that’s very useful indeed.”
Anthony looked at him for some minutes in silence. Battle sat quite
still, blinking now and then, with no expression whatsoever on his
square placid face. Presently he rose.
“Not much good going to bed now,” he observed. “As soon as he’s up, I
want to have a few words with his lordship. Anyone who wants to leave
the house can do so now. At the same time I should be much obliged to