The Secret of Chimneys, Agatha Christie [reading a book txt] 📗

“What Not being——?”

“The Comtesses de Breteuil, Chateau de Breteuil, Dinard.”

“You didn’t actually see the Comtesse yourself? It was all done by letter?”

“Exactly.”

“H’m!” said Anthony.

“You intrigue me,” said Bundle. “You intrigue me enormously. Is it love or crime?”

“Probably sheer idiocy on my part. Let’s forget it.”

“‘Let’s forget it,’ said he negligently, having extracted all the information he wants. Mr. Cade, who do you suspect? I rather suspect Virginia as being the most unlikely person. Or possibly Bill.”

“What about you?”

“Member of the aristocracy joins in secret the Comrades of the Red Hand. It would create a sensation all right.”

Anthony laughed. He liked Bundle, though he was a little afraid of the shrewd penetration of her sharp grey eyes.

“You must be proud of all this,” he said suddenly, waving his hand towards the great house in the distance.

Bundle screwed up her eyes and tilted her head on one side.

“Yes—it means something, I suppose. But one’s too used to it. Anyway, we’re not here very much—too deadly dull. We’ve been at Cowes and Deauville all the summer after town, and then up to Scotland. Chimneys has been swathed in dust sheets for about five months. Once a week they take the dust sheets off and chars-à-bancs full of tourists come and gape, and listen to Tredwell. ‘On your right is the portrait of the fourth Marchioness of Caterham, painted by Sir Joshua Reynolds,’ etc., and Ed or Bert, the humorist of the party, nudges his girl and says ‘Eh! Gladys, they’ve got two pennyworth of pictures here, right enough.’ And then they go and look at more pictures and yawn and shuffle their feet and wish it was time to go home.”

“Yet history has been made here once or twice, by all accounts.”

“You’ve been listening to George,” said Bundle sharply. “That’s the kind of thing he’s always saying.”

But Anthony had raised himself on his elbow, and was staring at the shore.

“Is that a third suspicious stranger I see standing disconsolately by the boat-house? Or is it one of the house party?”

Bundle lifted her head from the scarlet cushion.

“It’s Bill,” she said.

“He seems to be looking for something.”

“He’s probably looking for me,” said Bundle, without enthusiasm.

“Shall we row quickly in the opposite direction?”

“That’s quite the right answer, but it should be delivered with more enthusiasm.”

“I shall row with double vigour after that rebuke.”

“Not at all,” said Bundle. “I have my pride. Row me to where that young ass is waiting. Somebody’s got to look after him, I suppose. Virginia must have given him the slip. One of these days, inconceivable as it seems, I might want to marry George, so I might as well practise being ‘one of our well known political hostesses.’”

Anthony pulled obediently towards the shore.

“And what’s to become of me, I should like to know?” he complained. “I refuse to be the unwanted third. Is that the children I see in the distance?”

“Yes. Be careful, or they’ll rope you in.”

“I’m rather fond of children,” said Anthony. “I might teach them some nice quiet intellectual game.”

“Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Having relinquished Bundle to the care of her gallant captain, Anthony strolled off to where various shrill cries disturbed the peace of the afternoon. He was received with acclamation.

“Are you any good at playing Red Indians?” asked Guggle sternly.

“Rather,” said Anthony. “You should hear the noise I make when I’m being scalped. Like this.” He illustrated.

“Not so bad,” said Winkle grudgingly. “Now do the scalper’s yell.”

Anthony obliged with a blood-curdling noise. In another minute the game of Red Indians was in full swing.

About an hour later, Anthony wiped his forehead, and ventured to inquire after Mademoiselle’s migraine. He was pleased to hear that that lady had entirely recovered. So popular had he become that he was urgently invited to come and have tea in the schoolroom.

“And then you can tell us about the man you saw hung,” urged Guggle.

“Did you say you’d got a bit of the rope with you?” asked Winkle.

“It’s in my suit-case,” said Anthony solemnly. “You shall each have a piece of it.”

Winkle immediately let out a Wild Indian yell of satisfaction.

“We’ll have to go and get washed, I suppose,” said Guggle gloomily. “You will come to tea, won’t you? You won’t forget?”

Anthony swore solemnly that nothing should prevent his keeping the engagement. Satisfied, the youthful pair beat a retreat towards the house. Anthony stood for a minute looking after them, and, as he did so, he became aware of a man leaving the other side of a little copse of trees and hurrying away across the park. He felt almost sure that it was the same black-bearded stranger he had encountered that morning. Whilst he was hesitating whether to go after him or not the trees just ahead of him were parted and Mr. Hiram Fish stepped out into the open. He stared slightly when he saw Anthony.

“A peaceful afternoon, Mr. Fish?” inquired the latter.

“I thank you, yes.”

Mr. Fish did not look as peaceful as usual, however. His face was flushed, and he was breathing hard as though he had been running. He drew out his watch and consulted it.

“I guess,” he said softly, “it’s just about time for your British institution of afternoon tea.”

Closing his watch with a snap, Mr. Fish ambled gently away in the direction of the house.

Anthony stood in a brown study and awoke with a start to the fact that Superintendent Battle was standing beside him. Not the faintest sound had heralded his approach, and he seemed literally to have materialized from space.

“Where did you spring from?” asked Anthony irritably.

With a slight jerk of his head, Battle indicated the little copse of trees behind them.

“It seems a popular spot this afternoon,” remarked Anthony.

“You were very lost in thought, Mr. Cade?”

“I was indeed. Do you know what I was doing, Battle? I was trying to put two and one and five and three together so as to make four. And it can’t be done, Battle, it simply can’t be done.”

“There’s difficulties that way,” agreed the detective.

“But you’re just the man I wanted to see. Battle, I want to go away. Can it be done?”

True to his creed, Superintendent Battle showed neither emotion nor surprise. His reply was easy and matter of fact.

“That depends, sir, as to where you want to go.”

“I’ll tell you exactly, Battle. I’ll lay my cards upon the table. I want to go to Dinard, to the Chateau of Madame la Comtesse de Breteuil. Can it be done?”

“When do you want to go, Mr. Cade?”

“Say to-morrow after the inquest. I could be back here by Sunday evening.”

“I see,” said the superintendent, with peculiar solidity.

“Well, what about it?”

“I’ve no objection, provided you go where you say you’re going, and come straight back here.”

“You’re a man in a thousand, Battle. Either you have taken an extraordinary fancy to me or else you’re extraordinarily deep. Which is it?”

Superintendent Battle smiled a little, but did not answer.

“Well, well,” said Anthony, “I expect you’ll take your precautions. Discreet minions of the law will follow my suspicious footsteps. So be it. But I do wish I knew what it was all about.”

“I don’t get you, Mr. Cade.”

“The Memoirs—what all the fuss is about. Were they only Memoirs? Or have you got something up your sleeve?”

Battle smiled again.

“Take it like this. I’m doing you a favour because you’ve made a favourable impression on me, Mr. Cade. I’d like you to work in with me over this case. The amateur and the professional, they go well together. The one has the intimacy, so to speak, and the other the experience.”

“Well,” said Anthony slowly, “I don’t mind admitting that I’ve always wanted to try my hand at unravelling a murder mystery.”

“Any ideas about the case at all, Mr. Cade?”

“Plenty of them,” said Anthony. “But they’re mostly questions.”

“As, for instance?”

“Who steps into the murdered Michael’s shoes? It seems to me that that is important?”

A rather wry smile came over Superintendent Battle’s face.

“I wondered if you’d think of that, sir. Prince Nicolas Obolovitch is the next heir—first cousin of this gentleman.”

“And where is he at the present moment?” asked Anthony, turning away to light a cigarette. “Don’t tell me you don’t know, Battle, because I shan’t believe you.”

“We’ve reason to believe that he’s in the United States. He was until quite lately, at all events. Raising money on his expectations.”

Anthony gave vent to a surprised whistle.

“I get you,” said Anthony. “Michael was backed by England, Nicholas by America. In both countries a group of financiers are anxious to obtain the oil concessions. The Loyalist party adopted Michael as their candidate—now they’ll have to look elsewhere. Gnashing of teeth on the part of Isaacstein and Co. and Mr. George Lomax. Rejoicings in Wall Street. Am I right?”

“You’re not far off,” said Superintendent Battle.

“H’m!” said Anthony. “I almost dare swear that I know what you were doing in that copse.”

The detective smiled, but made no reply.

“International politics are very fascinating,” said Anthony, “but I fear I must leave you. I have an appointment in the schoolroom.”

He strode briskly away towards the house. Inquiries of the dignified Tredwell showed him the way to the schoolroom. He tapped on the door and entered, to be greeted by squeals of joy.

Guggle and Winkle immediately rushed at him and bore him in triumph to be introduced to Mademoiselle.

For the first time, Anthony felt a qualm. Mademoiselle Brun was a small, middle-aged woman with a sallow face, pepper and salt hair, and a budding moustache!

As the notorious foreign adventuress she did not fit into the picture at all.

“I believe,” said Anthony to himself, “I’m making the most utter fool of myself. Never mind, I must go through with it now.”

He was extremely pleasant to Mademoiselle, and she, on her part, was evidently delighted to have a good-looking young man invade her schoolroom. The meal was a great success.

But that evening, alone in the charming bedchamber that had been allotted to him, Anthony shook his head several times.

“I’m wrong,” he said to himself. “For the second time, I’m wrong. Somehow or other, I can’t get the hang of this thing.”

He stopped in his pacing of the floor.

“What the devil——” began Anthony.

The door was being softly opened. In another minute a man had slipped into the room, and stood deferentially by the door.

He was a big fair man, squarely built, with high Slavonic cheek-bones, and dreamy fanatic eyes.

“Who the devil are you?” asked Anthony, staring at him.

The man replied in perfect English.

“I am Boris Anchoukoff.”

“Prince Michael’s servant, eh?”

“That is so. I served my master. He is dead. Now I serve you.”

“It’s very kind of you,” said Anthony. “But I don’t happen to want a valet.”

“You are my master now. I will serve you faithfully.”

“Yes—but—look here—I don’t need a valet. I can’t afford one.”

Boris Anchoukoff looked at him with a touch of scorn.

“I do not ask for money. I served my master. So will I serve you—to the death!”

Stepping quickly forward, he dropped on one knee, caught Anthony’s hand and placed it on his forehead. Then he rose swiftly and left the room as suddenly as he had come.

Anthony stared after him, his face a picture of astonishment.

“That’s damned odd,” he said to himself. “A faithful sort of dog. Curious the instincts these fellows have.”

He rose and paced up and down.

“All the same,” he muttered, “it’s awkward—damned awkward—just at present.”