Chapter VI: Part 6

“Superintendent Battle has something up his sleeve,” said Anthony thoughtfully. “And it seems the essence of his plan that nobody should leave.”

“But, excuse me, Mr. Cade, you have been away.”

“With a string tied to my leg. I’ve no doubt that I was shadowed the whole time. I shouldn’t have been given a chance of disposing of the revolver or anything of that kind.”

“Ah, the revolver,” said Isaacstein thoughtfully. “That has not yet been found, I think?”

“Not yet.”

“Possibly thrown into the lake in passing.”

“Very possibly.”

“Where is Superintendent Battle? I have not seen him this afternoon.”

“He’s gone to London. I met him at the station.”

“Gone to London? Really? Did he say when he would be back?”

“Early to-morrow, so I understood.”

Virginia came in with Lord Caterham and Mr. Fish. She smiled a welcome at Anthony.

“So you’re back, Mr. Cade. Have you heard all about our adventures last night?”

“Why, trooly, Mr. Cade,” said Hiram Fish. “It was a night of strenuous excitement. Did you hear that I mistook Mrs. Revel for one of the thugs?”

“And in the meantime,” said Anthony, “the thug——?”

“Got clear away,” said Mr. Fish mournfully.

“Do pour out,” said Lord Caterham to Virginia. “I don’t know where Bundle is.”

Virginia officiated. Then she came and sat down near Anthony.

“Come to the boat-house after tea,” she said in a low voice. “Bill and I have got a lot to tell you.”

Then she joined lightly in the general conversation.

The meeting at the boat-house was duly held.

Virginia and Bill were bubbling over with their news. They agreed that a boat in the middle of the lake was the only safe place for confidential conversation. Having paddled out a sufficient distance, the full story of last night’s adventure was related to Anthony. Bill looked a little sulky. He wished Virginia would not insist on bringing this Colonial fellow into it.

“It’s very odd,” said Anthony, when the story was finished. “What do you make of it?” he asked Virginia.

“I think they were looking for something,” she returned promptly. “The burglar idea is absurd.”

“They thought the something, whatever it was, might be concealed in the suits of armour, that’s clear enough. But why tap the panelling? That looks more as though they were looking for a secret staircase, or something of that kind.”

“There’s a Priest’s Hole at Chimneys, I know,” said Virginia. “And I believe there’s a secret staircase as well. Lord Caterham would tell us all about it. What I want to know is, what can they have been looking for?”

“It can’t be the Memoirs,” said Anthony. “They’re a great bulky package. It must have been something small.”

“George knows, I expect,” said Virginia. “I wonder whether I could get it out of him. All along I’ve felt there was something behind all this.”

“You say there was only one man,” pursued Anthony, “but that there might possibly be another, as you thought you heard some one going towards the door as you sprang to the window.”

“The sound was very slight,” said Virginia. “It might have been just my imagination.”

“That’s quite possible, but in case it wasn’t your imagination the second person must have been an inmate of the house. I wonder now——”

“What are you wondering at?” asked Virginia.

“The thoroughness of Mr. Hiram Fish who dresses himself completely when he hears screams for help downstairs.”

“There’s something in that,” agreed Virginia. “And then there’s Isaacstein who sleeps through it all. That’s suspicious too. Surely he couldn’t?”

“There’s that fellow Boris,” suggested Bill. “He looks an unmitigated ruffian. Michael’s servant, I mean.”

“Chimneys is full of suspicious characters,” said Virginia. “I dare say the others are just as suspicious of us. I wish Superintendent Battle hadn’t gone to London. I think it’s rather stupid of him. By the way, Mr. Cade, I’ve seen that peculiar-looking Frenchman about once or twice, spying round the park.”

“It’s a mix up,” confessed Anthony. “I’ve been away on a wild-goose chase. Made a thorough ass of myself. Look here, to me the whole question seems to resolve itself into this: Did the men find what they were looking for last night?”

“Supposing they didn’t?” said Virginia. “I’m pretty sure they didn’t, as a matter of fact.”

“Just this, I believe they’ll come again. They know, or they soon will know, that Battle’s in London. They’ll take the risk and come again to-night.”

“Do you really think so?”

“It’s a chance. Now we three will form a little syndicate. Eversleigh and I will conceal ourselves with due precautions in the Council Chamber——”

“What about me?” interrupted Virginia. “Don’t think you’re going to leave me out of it.”

“Listen to me, Virginia,” said Bill. “This is man’s work——”

“Don’t be an idiot, Bill. I’m in on this. Don’t you make any mistake about it. The syndicate will keep watch to-night.”

It was settled thus, and the details of the plan were laid. After the party had retired to bed, first one and then another of the syndicate crept down. They were all armed with powerful electric torches, and in the pocket of Anthony’s coat lay a revolver.

Anthony had said that he believed another attempt to resume the search would be made. Nevertheless, he did not expect that the attempt would be made from outside. He believed that Virginia had been correct in her guess that some one had passed her in the dark the night before, and as he stood in the shadow of an old oak dresser it was towards the door and not the window that his eyes were directed. Virginia was crouching behind a figure in armour on the opposite wall, and Bill was by the window.

The minutes passed, at interminable length. One o’clock chimed, then the half-hour, then two, then another half-hour. Anthony felt stiff and cramped. He was coming slowly to the conclusion that he had been wrong. No attempt would be made to-night.

And then he stiffened suddenly, all his senses on the alert. He had heard a footstep on the terrace outside. Silence again, then a low scratching noise at the window. Suddenly it ceased, and the window swung open. A man stepped across the sill into the room.

He stood quite still for a moment, peering round as though listening. After a minute or two, seemingly satisfied, he switched on a torch he carried, and turned it rapidly round the room. Apparently he saw nothing unusual. The three watchers held their breath.

He went over to the same bit of panelled wall he had been examining the night before.

And then a terrible knowledge smote Bill. He was going to sneeze! The wild race through the dew-laden park the night before had given him a chill. All day he had sneezed intermittently. A sneeze was due now, and nothing on earth would stop it.

He adopted all the remedies he could think of. He pressed his upper lip, swallowed hard, threw back his head and looked at the ceiling. As a last resort he held his nose, and pinched it violently. It was of no avail. He sneezed.

A stifled, checked, emasculated sneeze, but a startling sound in the deadly quiet of the room.

The stranger sprang round, and in the same minute Anthony acted. He flashed on his torch, and jumped full for the stranger. In another minute they were down on the floor together.

“Lights,” shouted Anthony.

Virginia was ready at the switch. The lights came on true and full to-night. Anthony was on top of his man, Bill leant down to give him a hand.

“And now,” said Anthony, “let’s see who you are, my fine fellow.”

He rolled his victim over. It was the neat, dark-bearded stranger from the _Cricketers_.

“Very nice indeed,” said an approving voice.

They all looked up startled. The bulky form of Superintendent Battle was standing in the open doorway.

“I thought you were in London, Superintendent Battle,” said Anthony.

Battle’s eyes twinkled.

“Did you, sir?” he said. “Well, I thought it would be a good thing if I was thought to be going.”

“And it has been,” agreed Anthony, looking down at his prostrate foe.

To his surprise there was a slight smile on the stranger’s face.

“May I get up, gentlemen?” he inquired. “You are three to one.”

Anthony kindly hauled him on to his legs. The stranger settled his coat, pulled up his collar, and directed a keen look at Battle.

“I demand pardon,” he said, “but do I understand that you are a representative from Scotland Yard?”

“That’s right,” said Battle.

“Then I will present to you my credentials.” He smiled rather ruefully. “I would have been wise to do so before.”

He took some papers from his pocket and handed them to the Scotland Yard detective. At the same time, he turned back the lapel of his coat and showed something pinned there.

Battle gave an exclamation of astonishment. He looked through the papers and handed them back with a little bow.

“I’m sorry you’ve been man-handled, monsieur,” he said, “but you brought it on yourself, you know.”

He smiled, noting the astonished expression on the faces of the other.

“This is a colleague we have been expecting for some time,” he said. “M. Lemoine, of the Sûreté in Paris.”

19

Secret History

They all stared at the French detective, who smiled back at them.

“But yes,” he said, “it is true.”

There was a pause for a general readjusting of ideas. Then Virginia turned to Battle.

“Do you know what I think, Superintendent Battle?”

“What do you think, Mrs. Revel?”

“I think the time has come to enlighten us a little.”

“To enlighten you? I don’t quite understand, Mrs. Revel.”

“Superintendent Battle, you understand perfectly. I dare say Mr. Lomax has hedged you about with recommendations of secrecy—George would, but surely it’s better to tell us than have us stumbling on the secret all by ourselves, and perhaps doing untold harm. M. Lemoine, don’t you agree with me?”

“Madame, I agree with you entirely.”

“You can’t go on keeping things dark for ever,” said Battle. “I’ve told Mr. Lomax so. Mr. Eversleigh is Mr. Lomax’s secretary, there’s no objection to his knowing what there is to know. As for Mr. Cade, he’s been brought into the thing willy-nilly, and I consider he’s a right to know where he stands. But——”

Battle paused.

“I know,” said Virginia. “Women are so indiscreet! I’ve often heard George say so.”

Lemoine had been studying Virginia attentively. Now he turned to the Scotland Yard man.

“Did I hear you just now address Madame by the name of Revel?”

“That is my name,” said Virginia.

“Your husband was in the Diplomatic Service, was he not? And you were with him in Herzoslovakia just before the assassination of the late King and Queen.”

“Yes.”

Lemoine turned again.

“I think Madame has a right to hear the story. She is indirectly concerned. Moreover”—his eyes twinkled a little—“Madame’s reputation for discretion stands very high in Diplomatic circles.”

“I’m glad they give me a good character,” said Virginia, laughing. “And I’m glad I’m not going to be left out of it.”

“What about refreshments?” said Anthony. “Where does the conference take place? Here?”

“If you please, sir,” said Battle, “I’ve a fancy for not leaving this room until morning. You’ll see why when you’ve heard the story.”

“Then I’ll go and forage,” said Anthony.

Bill went with him and they returned with a tray of glasses, siphons and other necessaries of life.

The augmented syndicate established itself comfortably in the corner by the window, being grouped round a long oak table.

“It’s understood, of course,” said Battle, “that anything that’s said here is said in strict confidence. There must be no leakage. I’ve always felt it would come out one of these days. Gentlemen like Mr. Lomax who want everything hushed up take bigger risks than they think. The start of this business was just over seven years ago. There was a lot of what they call Reconstruction going on—especially in the Near East. There was a good deal going on in England, strictly on the Q.T. with that old gentleman, Count Stylptitch, pulling the strings. All the Balkan States were interested parties, and there were a lot of Royal Personages in England just then. I’m not going into details, but Something disappeared—disappeared in a way that seemed incredible unless you admitted two things—that the thief was a Royal Personage and that at the same time it was the work of a high-class professional. M. Lemoine here will tell you how that well might be.”

The Frenchman bowed courteously and took up the tale.

“It is possible that you in England may not even have heard of our famous and fantastic King Victor. What his real name is, no one knows, but he is a man of singular courage and daring, one who speaks five languages and is unequalled in the art of disguise. Though his father is known to have been either English or Irish, he himself has worked chiefly in Paris. It was there, nearly eight years ago, that he was carrying out a daring series of robberies and living under the name of Captain O’Neill.”

A faint exclamation escaped Virginia. M. Lemoine darted a keen glance at her.

“I think I understand what agitates Madame. You will see in a minute. Now we of the Sûreté had our suspicions that this Captain O’Neill was none other than ‘King Victor,’ but we could not obtain the necessary proof. There was also in Paris at the time a clever young actress, Angèle Mory, of the Folies Bergères. For some time we had suspected that she was associated with the operations of King Victor. But again no proof was forthcoming.

“About that time, Paris was preparing for the visit of the young King Nicholas IV of Herzoslovakia. At the Sûreté we were given special instructions as to the course to be adopted to ensure the safety of His Majesty. In particular we were warned to superintend the activities of a certain Revolutionary organization which called itself the Comrades of the Red Hand. It is fairly certain now that the Comrades approached Angèle Mory and offered her a huge sum if she would aid them in their plans. Her part was to infatuate the young King, and decoy him to some spot agreed upon with them. Angèle Mory accepted the bribe and promised to perform her part.

“But the young lady was cleverer and more ambitious than her employers suspected. She succeeded in captivating the King who fell desperately in love with her and loaded her with jewels. It was then that she conceived the idea of being—not a King’s mistress, but a Queen! As every one knows, she realized her ambition. She was introduced into Herzoslovakia as the Countess Varaga Popoleffsky, an offshoot of the Romanoffs, and became eventually Queen Varaga of Herzoslovakia. Not bad for a little Parisian actress! I have always heard that she played the part extremely well. But her triumph was not to be long lived. The Comrades of the Red Hand, furious at her betrayal, twice attempted her life. Finally they worked up the country to such a pitch that a Revolution broke out in which both the King and Queen perished. Their bodies, horribly mutilated and hardly recognizable, were recovered, attesting to the fury of the populace against the low-born foreign Queen.

“Now, in all this, it seems certain that Queen Varaga still kept in with her confederate, King Victor. It is possible that the bold plan was his all along. What is known is that she continued to correspond with him, in a secret code, from the Court of Herzoslovakia. For safety the letters were written in English, and signed with the name of an English lady then at the Embassy. If any inquiry had been made, and the lady in question had denied her signature, it is possible that she would not have been believed, for the letters were those of a guilty woman to her lover. It was your name she used, Mrs. Revel.”

“I know,” said Virginia. Her colour was coming and going unevenly. “So that is the truth of the letters! I have wondered and wondered.”

“What a blackguardly trick,” cried Bill indignantly.

“The letters were addressed to Captain O’Neill at his rooms in Paris, and their principal purpose may have light shed upon it by a curious fact which came to light later. After the assassination of the King and Queen, many of the Crown Jewels which had fallen, of course, into the hands of the mob, found their way to Paris, and it was discovered that in nine cases out of ten the principal stones had been replaced by paste—and mind you, there were some very famous stones among the jewels of Herzoslovakia. So as a Queen, Angèle Mory still practised her former activities.

“You see now where we have arrived. Nicholas IV and Queen Varaga came to England and were the guests of the late Marquis of Caterham, then Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs. Herzoslovakia is a small country, but it could not be left out. Queen Varaga was necessarily received. And there we have a Royal Personage and at the same time an expert thief. There is also no doubt that the—er—substitute which was so wonderful as to deceive anyone but an expert could only have been fashioned by King Victor, and indeed the whole plan, in its daring and audacity, pointed to him as the author.”

“What happened?” asked Virginia.

“Hushed up,” said Superintendent Battle laconically. “Not a mention of it’s ever been made public to this day. We did all that could be done on the quiet—and that was a good deal more than you’d ever imagine, by the way. We’ve got methods of our own that would surprise. That jewel didn’t leave England with the Queen of Herzoslovakia—I can tell you that much. No, Her Majesty hid it somewhere—but where we’ve never been able to discover. But I shouldn’t wonder”—Superintendent Battle let his eyes wander gently round—“if it wasn’t somewhere in this room.”

Anthony leapt to his feet.

“What? After all these years?” he cried incredulously. “Impossible.”

“You do not know the peculiar circumstances, monsieur,” said the Frenchman quickly. “Only a fortnight later, the Revolution in Herzoslovakia broke out, and the King and Queen were murdered. Also, Captain O’Neill was arrested in Paris and sentenced on a minor charge. We hoped to find the packet of code letters in his house, but it appears that this had been stolen by some Herzoslovakian go-between. The man turned up in Herzoslovakia just before the Revolution, and then disappeared completely.”

“He probably went abroad,” said Anthony thoughtfully. “To Africa as likely as not. And you bet he hung on to that packet. It was as good as a gold mine to him. It’s odd how things come about. They probably called him Dutch Pedro or something like that out there.”

He caught Superintendent Battle’s expressionless glance bent upon him, and smiled.

“It’s not really clairvoyance, Battle,” he said, “though it sounds like it. I’ll tell you presently.”

“There is one thing you have not explained,” said Virginia. “Where does this link up with the Memoirs? There must be a link, surely?”

“Madame is very quick,” said Lemoine approvingly. “Yes, there is a link. Count Stylptitch was also staying at Chimneys at the time.”

“So that he might have known about it?”

“_Parfaitement._”

“And, of course,” said Battle, “if he’s blurted it out in his precious Memoirs, the fat will be in the fire. Especially after the way the whole thing was hushed up.”

Anthony lit a cigarette.

“There’s no possibility of there being a clue in the Memoirs as to where the stone was hidden?” he asked.

“Very unlikely,” said Battle decisively. “He was never in with the Queen—opposed the marriage tooth and nail. She’s not likely to have taken him into her confidence.”

“I wasn’t suggesting such a thing for a minute,” said Anthony. “But by all accounts he was a cunning old boy. Unknown to her, he may have discovered where she hid the jewel. In that case, what would he have done, do you think?”

“Sat tight,” said Battle, after a moment’s reflection.

“I agree,” said the Frenchman. “It was a ticklish moment, you see. To return the stone anonymously would have presented great difficulties. Also, the knowledge of its whereabouts would give him great power—and he liked power, that strange old man. Not only did he hold the Queen in the hollow of his hand, but he had a powerful weapon to negotiate with at any time. It was not the only secret he possessed—oh, no!—he collected secrets like some men collect rare pieces of china. It is said that, once or twice before his death, he boasted to people of the things he could make public if the fancy took him. And once at least he declared that he intended to make some startling revelations in his Memoirs. Hence”—the Frenchman smiled rather dryly—“the general anxiety to get hold of them. Our own secret police intended to seize them, but the Count took the precaution to have them conveyed away before his death.”

“Still, there’s no real reason to believe that he knew this particular secret,” said Battle.

“I beg your pardon,” said Anthony quietly. “There are his own words.”

“What?”

Both detectives stared at him as though unable to believe their ears.

“When Mr. McGrath gave me that manuscript to bring to England, he told me the circumstances of his one meeting with Count Stylptitch. It was in Paris. At some considerable risk to himself, Mr. McGrath rescued the Count from a band of Apaches. He was, I understand—shall we say a trifle—exhilarated? Being in that condition, he made two rather interesting remarks. One of them was to the effect that he knew where the Koh-i-noor was—a statement to which my friend paid very little attention. He also said that the gang in question were King Victor’s men. Taken together, those two remarks are very significant.”

“Good Lord,” ejaculated Superintendent Battle, “I should say they were. Even the murder of Prince Michael wears a different aspect.”

“King Victor has never taken a life,” the Frenchman reminded him.

“Supposing he were surprised when he was searching for the jewel?”

“Is he in England, then?” asked Anthony sharply. “You say that he was released a few months ago. Didn’t you keep track of him?”

A rather rueful smile overspread the French detective’s face.

“We tried to, monsieur. But he is a devil, that man. He gave us the slip at once—at once. We thought, of course, that he would make straight for England. But no. He went—where do you think?”

“Where?” said Anthony.

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 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 he is doing, believe that he is deliberately double crossing them, and decree his death. They’re very fond of executing traitors. It has a picturesque element which seems to appeal to them. What I can’t quite make out is the revolver with ‘Virginia’ engraved upon it. There’s too much finesse about that for the Comrades. As a rule, they enjoy plastering their Red Hand sign about—in order to strike terror into other would-be traitors. No, it looks to me as though King Victor had stepped in there. But what his motive was, I don’t know. It looks like a very deliberate attempt to saddle Mrs. Revel with the murder, and, on the surface, there doesn’t seem any particular point in that.”

“I had a theory,” said Anthony. “But it didn’t work out according to plan.”

He told Battle of Virginia’s recognition of Michael. Battle nodded his head.

“Oh, yes, no doubt as to his identity. By the way, that old Baron has a very high opinion of you. He speaks of you in most enthusiastic terms.”

“That’s very kind of him,” said Anthony. “Especially as I’ve given him full warning that I mean to do my utmost to get hold of the missing Memoirs before Wednesday next.”

“You’ll have a job to do that,” said Battle.

“Y—es. You think so? I suppose King Victor and Co. have got the letters.”

Battle nodded.

“Pinched them off Giuseppe that day in Pont Street. Prettily planned piece of work, that. Yes, they’ve got ’em all right, and they’ve decoded them, and they know where to look.”

Both men were on the point of passing out of the room.

“In here?” said Anthony, jerking his head back.

“Exactly, in here. But they haven’t found the prize yet, and they’re going to run a pretty risk trying to get it.”

“I suppose,” said Anthony, “that you’ve got a plan in that subtle head of yours?”

Battle returned no answer. He looked particularly stolid and unintelligent. Then, very slowly, he winked.

“Want my help?” asked Anthony.

“I do. And I shall want some one else’s.”

“Who is that?”

“Mrs. Revel’s. You may not have noticed it, Mr. Cade, but she’s a lady who has a particularly beguiling way with her.”

“I’ve noticed it all right,” said Anthony.

He glanced at his watch.

“I’m inclined to agree with you about bed, Battle. A dip in the lake and a hearty breakfast will be far more to the point.”

He ran lightly upstairs to his bedroom. Whistling to himself, he discarded his evening clothes, and picked up a dressing-gown and a bath towel.

Then suddenly he stopped dead in front of the dressing-table, staring at the object that reposed demurely in front of the looking-glass.

For a moment he could not believe his eyes. He took it up, examined it closely. Yes, there was no mistake.

It was the bundle of letters signed Virginia Revel. They were intact. Not one was missing.

Anthony dropped into a chair, the letters in his hand.

“My brain must be cracking,” he murmured. “I can’t understand a quarter of what is going on in this house. Why should the letters reappear like a damned conjuring trick? Who put them on my dressing-table? Why?”

And to all these very pertinent questions he could find no satisfactory reply.

21

Mr. Isaacstein’s Suit-case

At ten o’clock that morning, Lord Caterham and his daughter were breakfasting. Bundle was looking very thoughtful.

“Father,” she said at last.

Lord Caterham, absorbed in _The Times_, did not reply.

“Father,” said Bundle again, more sharply.

Lord Caterham, torn from his interested perusal of forthcoming sales of rare books, looked up absent-mindedly.

“Eh?” he said. “Did you speak?”

“Yes. Who is it who’s had breakfast?”

She nodded towards a place that had evidently been occupied. The rest were all expectant.

“Oh, what’s-his-name.”

“Fat Iky?”

Bundle and her father had enough sympathy between them to comprehend each other’s somewhat misleading observations.

“That’s it.”

“Did I see you talking to the detective this morning before breakfast?”

Lord Caterham sighed.

“Yes, he buttonholed me in the hall. I do think the hours before breakfast should be sacred. I shall have to go abroad. The strain on my nerves——”

Bundle interrupted unceremoniously.

“What did he say?”

“Said every one who wanted to could clear out.”

“Well,” said Bundle, “that’s all right. That’s what you’ve been wanting.”

“I know. But he didn’t leave it at that. He went on to say that nevertheless he wanted me to ask every one to stay on.”

“I don’t understand,” said Bundle, wrinkling her nose.

“So confusing and contradictory,” complained Lord Caterham. “And before breakfast too.”

“What did you say?”

“Oh, I agreed, of course. It’s never any good arguing with these people. Especially before breakfast,” continued Lord Caterham, reverting to his principal grievance.

“Who have you asked so far?”

“Cade. He was up very early this morning. He’s going to stop on. I don’t mind that. I can’t quite make the fellow out; but I like him—I like him very much.”

“So does Virginia,” said Bundle, drawing a pattern on the table with her fork.

“Eh?”

“And so do I. But that doesn’t seem to matter.”

“And I asked Isaacstein,” continued Lord Caterham.

“Well?”

“But fortunately he’s got to go back to town. Don’t forget to order the car for the 10.40, by the way.”

“All right.”

“Now if I can only get rid of Fish too,” continued Lord Caterham, his spirits rising.

“I thought you liked talking to him about your mouldy old books.”

“So I do, so I do. So I did, rather. But it gets monotonous when one finds that one is always doing all the talking. Fish is very interested, but he never volunteers any statements of his own.”

“It’s better than doing all the listening,” said Bundle. “Like one does with George Lomax.”

Lord Caterham shuddered at the remembrance.

“George is all very well on platforms,” said Bundle. “I’ve clapped him myself, though of course I know all the time that he’s talking balderdash. And anyway I’m a Socialist——”

“I know, my dear, I know,” said Lord Caterham hastily.

“It’s all right,” said Bundle. “I’m not going to bring politics into the house. That’s what George does—public speaking in private life. It ought to be abolished by Act of Parliament.”

“Quite so,” said Lord Caterham.

“What about Virginia?” asked Bundle. “Is she to be asked to stop on?”

“Battle said everybody.”

“Says he firmly! Have you asked her to be my stepma yet?”

“I don’t think it would be any good,” said Lord Caterham mournfully. “Although she did call me a darling last night. But that’s the worst of these attractive young women with affectionate dispositions. They’ll say anything, and they mean absolutely nothing by it.”

“No,” agreed Bundle. “It would have been much more hopeful if she’d thrown a boot at you or tried to bite you.”

“You modern young people seem to have such unpleasant ideas about love-making,” said Lord Caterham plaintively.

“It comes from reading _The Sheik_,” said Bundle. “Desert love. Throw her about, etc.”

“What is _The Sheik_?” asked Lord Caterham simply. “Is it a poem?”

Bundle looked at him with commiserating pity. Then she rose and kissed the top of his head.

“Dear old Daddy,” she remarked, and sprang lightly out of the window.

Lord Caterham went back to the Sale Rooms.

He jumped when addressed suddenly by Mr. Hiram Fish, who had made his usual noiseless entry.

“Good morning, Lord Caterham.”

“Oh, good morning,” said Lord Caterham. “Good morning. Nice day.”

“The weather is delightful,” said Mr. Fish.

He helped himself to coffee. By way of food, he took a piece of dry toast.

“Do I hear correctly that the embargo is removed?” he asked after a minute or two. “That we are all free to depart?”

“Yes—er—yes,” said Lord Caterham. “As a matter of fact, I hoped, I mean that I shall be delighted”—his conscience drove him on—“only too delighted if you will stay on for a little.”

“Why, Lord Caterham——”

“It’s been a beastly visit, I know,” Lord Caterham hurried on. “Too bad. Shan’t blame you for wanting to run away.”

“You misjudge me, Lord Caterham. The associations have been painful, no one could deny that point. But the English country life, as lived in the mansions of the great, has a powerful attraction for me. I am interested in the study of those conditions. It is a thing we lack completely in America. I shall be only too delighted to accept your vurry kind invitation and stay on.”

“Oh, well,” said Lord Caterham, “that’s that. Absolutely delighted, my dear fellow, absolutely delighted.”

Spurring himself on to a false geniality of manner, Lord Caterham murmured something about having to see his bailiff and escaped from the room.

In the hall, he saw Virginia just descending the staircase.

“Shall I take you into breakfast?” asked Lord Caterham tenderly.

“I’ve had it in bed, thank you. I was frightfully sleepy this morning.”

She yawned.

“Had a bad night, perhaps?”

“Not exactly a bad night. From one point of view decidedly a good night. Oh, Lord Caterham”—she slipped her hand inside his arm and gave it a squeeze—“I _am_ enjoying myself. You were a darling to ask me down.”

“You’ll stop on for a bit, then, won’t you? Battle is lifting the—the embargo, but I want you to stay particularly. So does Bundle.”

“Of course I’ll stay. It’s sweet of you to ask me.”

“Ah!” said Lord Caterham.

He sighed.

“What is your secret sorrow?” asked Virginia. “Has anyone bitten you?”

“That’s just it,” said Lord Caterham mournfully.

Virginia looked puzzled.

“You don’t feel, by any chance, that you want to throw a boot at me? No, I can see you don’t. Oh, well, it’s of no consequence.”

Lord Caterham drifted sadly away, and Virginia passed out through a side door into the garden.

She stood there for a moment, breathing in the crisp October air which was infinitely refreshing to one in her slightly jaded state.

She started a little to find Superintendent Battle at her elbow. The man seemed to have an extraordinary knack of appearing out of space without the least warning.

“Good morning, Mrs. Revel. Not too tired, I hope?”

Virginia shook her head.

“It was a most exciting night,” she said. “Well worth the loss of a little sleep. The only thing is, to-day seems a little dull after it.”

“There’s a nice shady place down under that cedar tree,” remarked the superintendent. “Shall I take a chair down to it for you?”

“If you think it’s the best thing for me to do,” said Virginia solemnly.

“You’re very quick, Mrs. Revel. Yes, it’s quite true, I do want a word with you.”

He picked up a long wicker chair and carried it down the lawn. Virginia followed him with a cushion under her arm.

“Very dangerous place, that terrace,” remarked the detective. “That is, if you want to have a private conversation.”

“I’m getting excited again, Superintendent Battle.”

“Oh, it’s nothing important.” He took out a big watch and glanced at it. “Half-past ten. I’m starting for Wyvvern Abbey in ten minutes to report to Mr. Lomax. Plenty of time. I only wanted to know if you could tell me a little more about Mr. Cade.”

“About Mr. Cade?”

Virginia was startled.

“Yes, where you first met him, and how long you’ve known him and so forth.”

Battle’s manner was easy and pleasant enough. He even refrained from looking at her, and the fact that he did so made her vaguely uneasy.

“It’s more difficult than you think,” she said at last. “He did me a great service once——”

Battle interrupted her.

“Before you go any further, Mrs. Revel, I’d just like to say something. Last night, after you and Mr. Eversleigh had gone to bed, Mr. Cade told me all about the letters and the man who was killed in your house.”

“He did?” gasped Virginia.

“Yes, and very wisely too. It clears up a lot of misunderstanding. There’s only one thing he didn’t tell me—how long he had known you. Now I’ve a little idea of my own about that. You shall tell me if I’m right or wrong. I think that the day he came to your house in Pont Street was the first time you had ever seen him. Ah! I see I’m right. It was so.”

Virginia said nothing. For the first time she felt afraid of this stolid man with the expressionless face. She understood what Anthony had meant when he said there were no flies on Superintendent Battle.

“Has he ever told you anything about his life?” the detective continued. “Before he was in South Africa, I mean. Canada? Or before that, the Sudan? Or about his boyhood?”

Virginia merely shook her head.

“And yet I’d bet he’s got something worth telling. You can’t mistake the face of a man who’s led a life of daring and adventure. He could tell you some interesting tales if he cared to.”

“If you want to know about his past life, why don’t you cable to that friend of his, Mr. McGrath?” Virginia asked.

“Oh, we have. But it seems he’s up country somewhere. Still, there’s no doubt Mr. Cade was in Bulawayo when he said he was. But I wondered what he’d been doing before he came to South Africa. He’d only had that job with Castle’s about a month.” He took out his watch again. “I must be off. The car will be waiting.”

Virginia watched him retreat to the house. But she did not move from her chair. She hoped that Anthony might appear and join her. Instead came Bill Eversleigh, with a prodigious yawn.

“Thank God, I’ve got a chance to speak to you at last, Virginia,” he complained.

“Well, speak to me very gently, Bill darling, or I shall burst into tears.”

“Has some one been bullying you?”

“Not exactly bullying me. Getting inside my mind and turning it inside out. I feel as though I’d been jumped on by an elephant.”

“Not Battle?”

“Yes, Battle. He’s a terrible man really.”

“Well, never mind Battle. I say, Virginia, I do love you so awfully——”

“Not this morning, Bill. I’m not strong enough. Anyway, I’ve always told you the best people don’t propose before lunch.”

“Good Lord,” said Bill. “I could propose to you before breakfast.”

Virginia shuddered.

“Bill, be sensible and intelligent for a minute. I want to ask your advice.”

“If you’d once make up your mind to it, and say you’d marry me, you’d feel miles better, I’m sure. Happier, you know, and more settled down.”

“Listen to me, Bill. Proposing to me is your _idée fixe_. All men propose when they’re bored and can’t think of anything to say. Remember my age and my widowed state, and go and make love to a pure young girl.”

“My darling Virginia—Oh, blast! here’s that French idiot bearing down on us.”

It was indeed M. Lemoine, black-bearded and correct of demeanour as ever.

“Good morning, madame. You are not fatigued, I trust?”

“Not in the least.”

“That is excellent. Good morning, Mr. Eversleigh.”

“How would it be if we promenaded ourselves a little, the three of us?” suggested the Frenchman.

“How about it, Bill?” said Virginia.

“Oh, all right,” said the unwilling young gentleman by her side.

He heaved himself up from the grass, and the three of them walked slowly along. Virginia between the two men. She was sensible at once of a strange undercurrent of excitement in the Frenchman, though she had no clue as to what caused it.

Soon, with her usual skill, she was putting him at his ease, asking him questions, listening to his answers, and gradually drawing him out. Presently he was telling them anecdotes of the famous King Victor. He talked well, albeit with a certain bitterness, as he described the various ways in which the detective bureau had been outwitted.

But all the time, despite the real absorption of Lemoine in his own narrative, Virginia had a feeling that he had some other object in view. Moreover, she judged that Lemoine, under cover of his story, was deliberately striking out his own course across the park. They were not just strolling idly. He was deliberately guiding them in a certain direction.

Suddenly, he broke off his story and looked round. They were standing just where the drive intersected the park before turning an abrupt corner by a clump of trees. Lemoine was staring at a vehicle approaching them from the direction of the house.

Virginia’s eyes followed his.

“It’s the luggage cart,” she said, “taking Isaacstein’s luggage and his valet to the station.”