The Secret of Chimneys
swung it noiselessly open, and sprang through the opening, alighting in
the Council Chamber with a resounding thud.
“Damn!” said Lord Caterham, springing up from an arm-chair in which he
appeared to have been taking forty winks.
“Poor old father,” said Bundle. “Did I startle you?”
“I can’t think,” said Lord Caterham, “why nobody nowadays ever sits
still after a meal. It’s a lost art. God knows Chimneys is big enough,
but even here there doesn’t seem to be a single room where I can be
sure of a little peace. Good Lord, how many of you are there? Reminds
me of the Pantomimes I used to go to as a boy when hordes of demons
used to pop up out of trapdoors.”
“Demon No. 7,” said Virginia, approaching him, and patting him on the
head. “Don’t be cross. We’re just exploring secret passages, that’s
all.”
“There seems to be a positive boom in secret passages to-day,” grumbled
Lord Caterham, not yet completely mollified. “I’ve had to show that
fellow Fish round them all this morning.”
“When was that?” asked Battle quickly.
“Just before lunch. It seems he’d heard of the one in here. I showed
him that, and then took him up to the White Gallery, and we finished
up with the Priest’s Hole. But his enthusiasm was waning by that time.
He looked bored to death. But I made him go through with it.” Lord
Caterham chuckled at the remembrance.
Anthony put a hand on Lemoine’s arm.
“Come outside,” he said softly. “I want to speak to you.”
The two men went out together through the window. When they had gone a
sufficient distance from the house, Anthony drew from his pocket the
scrap of paper that Boris had given him that morning.
“Look here,” he said. “Did you drop this?”
Lemoine took it and examined it with some interest.
“No,” he said. “I have never seen it before. Why?”
“Quite sure?”
“Absolutely sure, Monsieur.”
“That’s very odd.”
He repeated to Lemoine what Boris had said. The other listened with
close attention.
“No, I did not drop it. You say he found it in that clump of trees?”
“Well, I assumed so, but he did not actually say so.”
“It is just possible that it might have fluttered out of M.
Isaacstein’s suit-case. Question Boris again.” He handed the paper back
to Anthony. After a minute or two he said: “What exactly do you know of
this man Boris?”
Anthony shrugged his shoulders.
“I understood he was the late Prince Michael’s trusted servant.”
“It may be so, but make it your business to find out. Ask some one who
knows, such as the Baron Lolopretjzyl. Perhaps this man was engaged but
a few weeks ago. For myself, I have believed him honest. But who knows?
King Victor is quite capable of making himself into a trusted servant
at a moment’s notice.”
“Do you really think——”
Lemoine interrupted him.
“I will be quite frank. With me, King Victor is an obsession. I see him
everywhere. At this moment even I ask myself—this man who is talking
to me, this M. Cade, is he, perhaps, King Victor?”
“Good Lord,” said Anthony, “you have got it badly.”
“What do I care for the diamond? For the discovery of the murderer of
Prince Michael? I leave those affairs to my colleague of Scotland Yard
whose business it is. Me, I am in England for one purpose, and one
purpose only, to capture King Victor and to capture him red-handed.
Nothing else matters.”
“Think you’ll do it?” asked Anthony, lighting a cigarette.
“How should I know?” said Lemoine, with sudden despondency.
“H’m!” said Anthony.
They had regained the terrace. Superintendent Battle was standing near
the French window in a wooden attitude.
“Look at poor old Battle,” said Anthony. “Let’s go and cheer him up.”
He paused a minute, and said, “You know, you’re an odd fish in some
ways, M. Lemoine.”
“In what ways, M. Cade?”
“Well,” said Anthony, “in your place, I should have been inclined
to note down that address that I showed you. It may be of no
importance—quite conceivably. On the other hand, it might be very
important indeed.”
Lemoine looked at him for a minute or two steadily. Then, with a slight
smile, he drew back the cuff of his left coat sleeve. Pencilled on the
white shirt-cuff beneath were the words “Hurstmere, Langly Road, Dover.”
“I apologize,” said Anthony. “And I retire worsted.”
He joined Superintendent Battle.
“You look very pensive, Battle,” he remarked.
“I’ve got a lot to think about, Mr. Cade.”
“Yes, I expect you have.”
“Things aren’t dovetailing. They’re not dovetailing at all.”
“Very trying,” sympathized Anthony. “Never mind, Battle, if the worst
comes to the worst, you can always arrest me. You’ve got my guilty
footprints to fall back upon, remember.”
But the superintendent did not smile.
“Got any enemies here that you know of, Mr. Cade?” he asked.
“I’ve an idea that the third footman doesn’t like me,” replied
Anthony lightly. “He does his best to forget to hand me the choicest
vegetables. Why?”
“I’ve been getting anonymous letters,” said Superintendent Battle. “Or
rather an anonymous letter, I should say.”
“About me?”
Without answering Battle took a folded sheet of cheap notepaper from
his pocket, and handed it to Anthony. Scrawled on it in an illiterate
handwriting were the words:
“Look out for Mr. Cade. He isn’t wot he seems.”
Anthony handed it back with a light laugh.
“That’s all? Cheer up, Battle. I’m really a King in disguise, you know.”
He went into the house, whistling lightly as he walked along. But as
he entered his bedroom and shut the door behind him, his face changed.
It grew set and stern. He sat down on the edge of the bed and stared
moodily at the floor.
“Things are getting serious,” said Anthony to himself. “Something must
be done about it. It’s all damned awkward....”
He sat there for a minute or two, then strolled to the window. For a
moment or two he stood looking out aimlessly, and then his eyes became
suddenly focused on a certain spot, and his face lightened.
“Of course,” he said. “The Rose Garden! That’s it! The Rose Garden.”
He hurried downstairs again and out into the garden by a side door. He
approached the Rose Garden by a circuitous route. It had a little gate
at either end. He entered by the far one, and walked up to the sundial
which was on a raised hillock in the exact centre of the garden.
Just as Anthony reached it, he stopped dead and stared at another
occupant of the Rose Garden who seemed equally surprised to see him.
“I didn’t know that you were interested in roses, Mr. Fish,” said
Anthony gently.
“Sir,” said Mr. Fish, “I am considerably interested in roses.”
They looked at each other warily, as antagonists seek to measure their
opponents’ strength.
“So am I,” said Anthony.
“Is that so?”
“In fact, I dote upon roses,” said Anthony airily.
A very slight smile hovered upon Mr. Fish’s lips and at the same time
Anthony also smiled. The tension seemed to relax.
“Look at this beauty now,” said Mr. Fish, stooping to point out a
particularly fine bloom. “Madame Abel Chatenay, I pressoom it to be.
Yes, I am right. This white rose, before the war, was known as Frau
Carl Drusky. They have, I believe, renamed it. Over sensitive, perhaps
but truly patriotic. The La France is always popular. Do you care for
red roses at all, Mr. Cade? A bright scarlet rose now——”
Mr. Fish’s slow, drawling voice was interrupted. Bundle was leaning out
of a first-floor window.
“Care for a spin to town, Mr. Fish? I’m just off.”
“Thank you, Lady Eileen, but I am vurry happy here.”
“Sure you won’t change your mind, Mr. Cade?”
Anthony laughed and shook his head. Bundle disappeared.
“Sleep is more in my line,” said Anthony, with a wide yawn. “A good
after luncheon nap!” He took out a cigarette. “You haven’t got a match,
have you?”
Mr. Fish handed him a match-box. Anthony helped himself, and handed
back the box with a word of thanks.
“Roses,” said Anthony, “are all very well. But I don’t feel
particularly horticultural this afternoon.”
With a disarming smile, he nodded cheerfully.
A thundering noise sounded from just outside the house.
“Pretty powerful engine she’s got in that car of hers,” remarked
Anthony. “There, off she goes.”
They had a view of the car speeding down the long drive.
Anthony yawned again, and strolled towards the house.
He passed in through the door. Once inside, he seemed as though changed
to quicksilver. He raced across the hall, out through one of the
windows on the farther side, and across the park. Bundle, he knew, had
to make a big détour by the lodge gates, and through the village.
He ran desperately. It was a race against time. He reached the park
wall just as he heard the car outside. He swung himself up and dropped
into the road.
“Hi!” cried Anthony.
In her astonishment, Bundle swerved half across the road. She managed
to pull up without accident. Anthony ran after the car, opened the
door, and jumped in beside Bundle.
“I’m coming to London with you,” he said. “I meant to all along.”
“Extraordinary person,” said Bundle. “What’s that you’ve got in your
hand?”
“Only a match,” said Anthony.
He regarded it thoughtfully. It was pink, with a yellow head. He threw
away his unlighted cigarette, and put the match carefully into his
pocket.
24
The House at Dover
“You don’t mind, I suppose,” said Bundle after a minute or two, “if I
drive rather fast? I started later than I meant to do.”
It had seemed to Anthony that they were proceeding at a terrific speed
already, but he soon saw that that was nothing compared to what Bundle
could get out of the Panhard if she tried.
“Some people,” said Bundle, as she slowed down momentarily to pass
through a village, “are terrified of my driving. Poor old father, for
instance. Nothing would induce him to come up with me in this old bus.”
Privately, Anthony thought Lord Caterham was entirely justified.
Driving with Bundle was not a sport to be indulged in by nervous,
middle-aged gentlemen.
“But you don’t seem nervous a bit,” continued Bundle approvingly, as
she swept round a corner on two wheels.
“I’m in pretty good training, you see,” explained Anthony gravely.
“Also,” he added, as an afterthought, “I’m rather in a hurry myself.”
“Shall I speed her up a bit more?” asked Bundle kindly.
“Good Lord, no,” said Anthony hastily. “We’re averaging about fifty as
it is.”
“I’m burning with curiosity to know the reason of this sudden
departure,” said Bundle, after executing a fanfare upon the Klaxon
which must temporarily have deafened the neighbourhood. “But I suppose
I mustn’t ask? You’re not escaping from justice, are you?”
“I’m not quite sure,” said Anthony. “I shall know soon.”
“That Scotland Yard man isn’t as much of a rabbit as I thought,” said
Bundle thoughtfully.
“Battle’s a good man,” agreed Anthony.
“You ought to have been in diplomacy,” remarked Bundle. “You don’t part
with much information, do you?”
“I was under the impression that I babbled.”
“Oh! Boy! You’re not eloping with Mademoiselle Brun, by any chance?”
“Not guilty!” said Anthony with fervour.
There was a pause of some minutes during which Bundle caught up and
passed three other cars. Then she asked suddenly:
“How long have you known Virginia?”
“That’s a difficult question to answer,” said Anthony, with perfect
truth. “I haven’t actually met her very often, and yet I seem to have
known her a long time.”
Bundle nodded.
“Virginia’s got brains,” she remarked abruptly. “She’s always talking
nonsense, but she’s got brains all right. She was frightfully good out
in Herzoslovakia, I believe. If Tim Revel had lived he’d have had a
fine career—and mostly owing to Virginia. She worked for him tooth and
nail. She did everything in the world she could for him—and I know
why, too.”