The Secret of Chimneys
the world where I come from, people are used to doing things for
themselves. What I require from you therefore is the fullest possible
information you can give me about this waiter, Giuseppe.”
“I see no objection to that,” said the manager after a moment or two’s
pause. “I cannot give you the information offhand, of course, but if
you will return in half an hour’s time I will have everything ready to
lay before you.”
“Thank you very much. That will suit me admirably.”
In half an hour’s time, Anthony returned to the office again to find
that the manager had been as good as his word. Jotted down upon a piece
of paper were all the relevant facts known about Giuseppe Manelli.
“He came to us, you see, about three months ago. A skilled and
experienced waiter. Has given complete satisfaction. He has been in
England about five years.”
Together the two men ran over a list of the hotels and restaurants
where the Italian had worked. One fact struck Anthony as being possibly
of significance. At two of the hotels in question there had been
serious robberies during the time that Giuseppe was employed there,
though no suspicion of any kind had attached to him in either case.
Still, the fact was significant.
Was Giuseppe merely a clever hotel thief? Had his search of Anthony’s
suit-case been merely part of his habitual professional tactics? He
might just possibly have had the packet of letters in his hand at the
moment when Anthony switched on the light, and have shoved it into his
pocket mechanically so as to have his hands free. In that case, the
thing was mere plain or garden robbery.
Against that, there was to be put the man’s excitement of the evening
before when he had caught sight of the papers lying on the table. There
had been no money or object of value there such as would excite the
cupidity of an ordinary thief.
No, Anthony felt convinced that Giuseppe had been acting as a tool
for some outside agency. With the information supplied to him by the
manager, it might be possible to learn something about Giuseppe’s
private life, and so finally track him down. He gathered up the sheet
of paper and rose.
“Thank you very much indeed. It’s quite unnecessary to ask, I suppose,
whether Giuseppe is still in the hotel?”
The manager smiled.
“His bed was not slept in, and all his things have been left behind. He
must have rushed straight out after his attack upon you. I don’t think
there is much chance of our seeing him again.”
“I imagine not. Well, thank you very much indeed. I shall be staying on
here for the present.”
“I hope you will be successful in your task, but I confess that I am
rather doubtful.”
“I always hope for the best.”
One of Anthony’s first proceedings was to question some of the other
waiters who had been friendly with Giuseppe, but he obtained very
little to go upon. He wrote out an advertisement on the lines he had
planned, and had it sent to five of the most widely read newspapers. He
was just about to go out and visit the restaurant at which Giuseppe had
been previously employed when the telephone rang. Anthony took up the
receiver.
“Hullo, what is it?”
A toneless voice replied.
“Am I speaking to Mr. McGrath?”
“You are. Who are you?”
“This is Messrs. Balderson and Hodgkins. Just a minute, please. I will
put you through to Mr. Balderson.”
“Our worthy publishers,” thought Anthony. “So they are getting worried
too, are they? They needn’t. There’s a week to run still.”
A hearty voice struck suddenly upon his ear.
“Hullo! That Mr. McGrath?”
“Speaking.”
“I’m Mr. Balderson of Balderson and Hodgkins. What about that
manuscript, Mr. McGrath?”
“Well,” said Anthony, “what about it?”
“Everything about it. I understand, Mr. McGrath, that you have just
arrived in this country from South Africa. That being so, you can’t
possibly understand the position. There’s going to be trouble about
that manuscript, Mr. McGrath, big trouble. Sometimes I wish we’d never
said we’d handle it.”
“Indeed?”
“I assure you it’s so. At present I’m anxious to get it into my
possession as quickly as possible, so as to have a couple of copies
made. Then, if the original is destroyed—well, no harm will be done.”
“Dear me,” said Anthony.
“Yes, I expect it sounds absurd to you, Mr. McGrath. But, I assure
you, you don’t appreciate the situation. There’s a determined effort
being made to prevent its ever reaching this office. I say to you quite
frankly and without humbug that if you attempt to bring it yourself
it’s ten to one that you’ll never get here.”
“I doubt that,” said Anthony. “When I want to get anywhere, I usually
do.”
“You’re up against a very dangerous lot of people. I wouldn’t have
believed it myself a month ago. I tell you, Mr. McGrath, we’ve been
bribed and threatened and cajoled by one lot and another until we don’t
know whether we’re on our heads or our heels. My suggestion is that you
do not attempt to bring the manuscript here. One of our people will
call upon you at the hotel and take possession of it.”
“And supposing the gang does him in?” asked Anthony.
“The responsibility would then be ours—not yours. You would have
delivered it to our representative and obtained a written discharge.
The cheque for—er—a thousand pounds which we are instructed to hand
to you will not be available until Wednesday next by the terms of our
agreement with the executors of the late—er—author—you know whom I
mean, but if you insist I will send my own cheque for that amount by
the messenger.”
Anthony reflected for a minute or two. He had intended to keep the
Memoirs until the last day of grace, because he was anxious to see for
himself what all the fuss was about. Nevertheless, he realized the
force of the publisher’s arguments.
“All right,” he said, with a little sigh. “Have it your own way. Send
your man along. And if you don’t mind sending that cheque as well
I’d rather have it now, as I may be going out of England before next
Wednesday.”
“Certainly, Mr. McGrath. Our representative will call upon you first
thing to-morrow morning. It will be wiser not to send anyone direct
from the office. Our Mr. Holmes lives in South London. He will call
in on his way to us, and will give you a receipt for the package. I
suggest that to-night you should place a dummy packet in the manager’s
safe. Your enemies will get to hear of this, and it will prevent any
attack being made upon your apartments to-night.”
“Very well, I will do as you direct.”
Anthony hung up the receiver with a thoughtful face.
Then he went on with his interrupted plan of seeking news of the
slippery Giuseppe. He drew a complete blank, however. Giuseppe had
worked at the restaurant in question, but nobody seemed to know
anything of his private life or associates.
“But I’ll get you, my lad,” murmured Anthony, between his teeth. “I’ll
get you yet. It’s only a matter of time.”
His second night in London was entirely peaceful.
At nine o’clock the following morning, the card of Mr. Holmes from
Messrs. Balderson and Hodgkins was sent up, and Mr. Holmes followed
it. A small, fair man with a quiet manner. Anthony handed over the
manuscript, and received in exchange a cheque for a thousand pounds.
Mr. Holmes packed up the manuscript in the small brown bag he carried,
wished Anthony good morning, and departed. The whole thing seemed very
tame.
“But perhaps he’ll be murdered on the way there,” Anthony murmured
aloud, as he stared idly out of the window. “I wonder now—I very much
wonder.”
He put the cheque in an envelope, enclosed a few lines of writing
with it, and sealed it up carefully. Jimmy, who had been more or less
in funds at the time of his encounter with Anthony at Bulawayo, had
advanced him a substantial sum of money which was, as yet, practically
untouched.
“If one’s job’s done with, the other isn’t,” said Anthony to himself.
“Up to now, I’ve bungled it. But never say die. I think that, suitably
disguised, I shall go and have a look at 487, Pont Street.”
He packed his belongings, went down and paid his bill, and ordered his
luggage to be put on a taxi. Suitably rewarding those who stood in his
path, most of whom had done nothing whatever materially to add to his
comfort, he was on the point of being driven off, when a small boy
rushed down the steps with a letter.
“Just come for you, this very minute, sir.”
With a sigh, Anthony produced yet another shilling. The taxi groaned
heavily and jumped forward with a hideous crashing of gears, and
Anthony opened the letter.
It was rather a curious document. He had to read it four times before
he could be sure of what it was all about. Put in plain English (the
letter was not in plain English, but in the peculiar involved style
common to missives issued by Government officials) it presumed that Mr.
McGrath was arriving in England from South Africa to-day—Thursday, it
referred obliquely to the Memoirs of Count Stylptitch, and begged Mr.
McGrath to do nothing in the matter until he had had a confidential
conversation with Mr. George Lomax, and certain other parties whose
magnificence was vaguely hinted at. It also contained a definite
invitation to go down to Chimneys as the guest of Lord Caterham, on the
following day, Friday.
A mysterious and thoroughly obscure communication. Anthony enjoyed it
very much.
“Dear old England,” he murmured affectionately. “Two days behind the
times, as usual. Rather a pity. Still, I can’t go down to Chimneys
under false pretences. I wonder, though, if there’s an inn handy? Mr.
Anthony Cade might stay at the inn without anyone being the wiser.”
He leaned out of the window, and gave new directions to the taxi
driver, who acknowledged them with a snort of contempt.
The taxi drew up before one of London’s more obscure hostelries. The
fare, however, was paid on a scale befitting its point of departure.
Having booked a room in the name of Anthony Cade, Anthony passed into
a dingy writing-room, took out a sheet of notepaper stamped with the
legend Hotel Blitz, and wrote rapidly.
He explained that he had arrived on the preceding Tuesday, that he
had handed over the manuscript in question to Messrs. Balderson and
Hodgkins, and he regretfully declined the kind invitation of Lord
Caterham as he was leaving England almost immediately. He signed the
letter “Yours faithfully, James McGrath.”
“And now,” said Anthony, as he affixed the stamp to the envelope. “To
business. Exit James McGrath, and Enter Anthony Cade.”
8
A Dead Man
On that same Thursday afternoon Virginia Revel had been playing tennis
at Ranelagh. All the way back to Pont Street, as she lay back in the
long, luxurious limousine, a little smile played upon her lips, as
she rehearsed her part in the forthcoming interview. Of course it
was within the bounds of possibility that the blackmailer might not
reappear, but she felt pretty certain that he would. She had shown
herself an easy prey. Well, perhaps this time there would be a little
surprise for him!
When the car drew up at the house, she turned to speak to the chauffeur
before going up the steps.
“How’s your wife, Walton? I forgot to ask.”
“Better I think, ma’am. The doctor said he’d look in and see her about
half-past six. Will you be wanting the car again?”
Virginia reflected for a minute.
“I shall be away for the week-end. I’m going by the 6.40 from
Paddington, but I shan’t need you again—a taxi will do for that. I’d
rather you saw the doctor. If he thinks it would do your wife good to
go away for the week-end, take her somewhere, Walton. I’ll stand the
expense.”
Cutting short the man’s thanks with an impatient nod of the head,
Virginia ran up the steps, delved into her bag in search of her