The Secret of Chimneys, Agatha Christie [reading a book txt] 📗
- Author: Agatha Christie
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“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?”
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 his lordship if he’ll extend an informal invitation to his guests to stay on. You’ll accept it, sir, if you please, and Mrs. Revel also.”
“Have you ever found the revolver?” asked Anthony suddenly.
“You mean the one Prince Michael was shot with? No, I haven’t. Yet it must be in the house or grounds. I’ll take a hint from you, Mr. Cade, and send some boys up bird’s-nesting. If I could get hold of the revolver, we might get forward a bit. That, and the bundle of letters. You say that a letter with the heading, Chimneys, was amongst them? Depend upon it that was the last one written. The instructions for finding the diamond are written in code in that letter.”
“What’s your theory of the killing of Giuseppe?” asked Anthony.
“I should say he was a regular thief, and that he was got hold of, either by King Victor or by the Comrades of the Red Hand, and employed by them. I shouldn’t wonder at all if the Comrades and King Victor aren’t working together. The organization has plenty of money and power, but it isn’t very strong in brains. Giuseppe’s task was to steal the Memoirs—they couldn’t have known that you had the letters—it’s a very odd coincidence that you should have, by the way.”
“I know,” said Anthony. “It’s amazing when you come to think of it.”
“Giuseppe gets hold of the letters instead. Is at first vastly chagrined. Then sees the cutting from the paper and has the brilliant idea of turning them to account on his own by blackmailing the lady. He has, of course, no idea of their real significance. The Comrades find out what
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