The Secret of Chimneys E-Book

Agatha Christie

• Herausgeber: Phoemixx Classics Ebooks
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021

Seitenzahl: 375

Beschreibung

The Secret of Chimneys Agatha Christie - The Secret of Chimneys is a work of detective fiction by British writer Agatha Christie, first published in the UK by The Bodley Head in June 1925 and in the US by Dodd, Mead and Company later in the same year. It introduces the characters of Superintendent Battle and Lady Eileen "Bundle" Brent. Agatha Christies The Secret of Chimneys, starring her occasional sleuths Superintendent Battle and Lady Eileen Bundle Brent, is a murder mystery-treasure hunt crossover, considered to be one of her best early novels. The plot should be delightful to traditionalists: there are a bunch of people staying at a mansion when one of the guests is murdered! (Apparently, theres a chance it might also be a bit racist, so just a heads up on that front.) It also features the fun-sounding fake-country name Herzoslovakia, which I think is one of the better sounding fake country names in fiction.

Leseprobe

Agatha Christie

The Secret of Chimneys

PUBLISHER NOTES:

Quality of Life, Freedom, More time with the ones you Love.

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1 Anthony Cade Signs on

“Gentleman Joe!”

“Why, if it isn’t old Jimmy McGrath.”

Castle’s Select Tour, represented by seven depressed-looking females and three perspiring males, looked on with considerable interest. Evidently their Mr. Cade had met an old friend. They all admired Mr. Cade so much, his tall lean figure, his sun-tanned face, the light-hearted manner with which he settled disputes and cajoled them all into good temper. This friend of his now—surely rather a peculiar-looking man. About the same height as Mr. Cade, but thickset and not nearly so good-looking. The sort of man one read about in books, who probably kept a saloon. Interesting, though. After all, that was what one came abroad for—to see all these peculiar things one read about in books. Up to now, they had been rather bored with Bulawayo. The sun was unbearably hot, the hotel was uncomfortable, there seemed to be nowhere particular to go until the moment should arrive to motor to the Matoppos. Very fortunately, Mr. Cade had suggested picture postcards. There was an excellent supply of picture postcards.

Anthony Cade and his friend had stepped a little apart.

“What the hell are you doing with this pack of females?” demanded McGrath. “Starting a harem.”

“Not with this little lot,” grinned Anthony. “Have you taken a good look at them?”

“I have that. Thought maybe you were losing your eyesight.”

“My eyesight’s as good as ever it was. No, this is a Castle’s Select Tour. I’m Castle—the local Castle, I mean.”

“What the hell made you take on a job like that?”

“A regrettable necessity for cash. I can assure you it doesn’t suit my temperament.”

Jimmy grinned.

“Never a hog for regular work, were you?”

Anthony ignored this aspersion.

“However, something will turn up soon, I expect,” he remarked hopefully. “It usually does.”

Jimmy chuckled.

“If there’s any trouble brewing, Anthony Cade is sure to be in it sooner or later, I know that,” he said. “You’ve an absolute instinct for rows—and the nine lives of a cat. When can we have a yarn together?”

Anthony sighed.

“I’ve got to take these cackling hens to see Rhodes’s grave.”

“That’s the stuff,” said Jimmy approvingly. “They’ll come back bumped black and blue with the ruts in the road, and clamouring for bed to rest the bruises on. Then you and I will have a spot or two and exchange the news.”

“Right. So long, Jimmy.”

Anthony rejoined his flock of sheep. Miss Taylor, the youngest and most skittish of the party, instantly attacked him.

“Oh, Mr. Cade, was that an old friend of yours?”

“It was, Miss Taylor. One of the friends of my blameless youth.”

Miss Taylor giggled.

“I thought he was such an interesting-looking man.”

“I’ll tell him you said so.”

“Oh, Mr. Cade, how can you be so naughty! The very idea! What was that name he called you?”

“Gentleman Joe?”

“Yes. Is your name Joe?”

“I thought you knew it was Anthony, Miss Taylor.”

“Oh, go on with you!” cried Miss Taylor coquettishly.

Anthony had by now well mastered his duties. In addition to making the necessary arrangements of travel, they included soothing down irritable old gentlemen when their dignity was ruffled, seeing that elderly matrons had ample opportunities to buy picture postcards, and flirting with everything under a catholic forty years of age. The last task was rendered easier for him by the extreme readiness of the ladies in question to read a tender meaning into his most innocent remarks.

Miss Taylor returned to the attack.

“Why does he call you Joe, then?”

“Oh, just because it isn’t my name.”

“And why Gentleman Joe?”

“The same kind of reason.”

“Oh, Mr. Cade,” protested Miss Taylor, much distressed, “I’m sure you shouldn’t say that. Papa was only saying last night what gentlemanly manners you had.”

“Very kind of your father, I’m sure, Miss Taylor.”

“And we are all agreed that you are quite the gentleman.”

“I’m overwhelmed.”

“No, really, I mean it.”

“Kind hearts are more than coronets,” said Anthony vaguely, without a notion of what he meant by the remark, and wishing fervently it was lunch time.

“That’s such a beautiful poem, I always think. Do you know much poetry, Mr. Cade?”

“I might recite ‘The boy stood on the burning deck’ at a pinch. ‘The boy stood on the burning deck, whence all but he had fled.’ That’s all I know, but I can do that bit with action if you like. ‘The boy stood on the burning deck’—whoosh—whoosh—whoosh—(the flames, you see) ‘Whence all but he had fled’—for that bit I run to and fro like a dog.”

Miss Taylor screamed with laughter.

“Oh, do look at Mr. Cade! Isn’t he funny?”

“Time for morning tea,” said Anthony briskly. “Come this way. There is an excellent café in the next street.”

“I presume,” said Mrs. Caldicott, in her deep voice, “that the expense is included in the Tour?”

“Morning tea, Mrs. Caldicott,” said Anthony, assuming his professional manner, “is an extra.”

“Disgraceful.”

“Life is full of trials, isn’t it?” said Anthony cheerfully. Mrs. Caldicott’s eyes gleamed, and she remarked with the air of one springing a mine:

“I suspected as much, and in anticipation I poured off some tea into a jug at breakfast this morning! I can heat that up on the spirit lamp. Come, father.”

Mr. and Mrs. Caldicott sailed off triumphantly to the hotel, the lady’s back complacent with successful forethought.

“Oh, Lord,” muttered Anthony, “what a lot of funny people it does take to make a world.”

He marshalled the rest of the party in the direction of the café. Miss Taylor kept by his side, and resumed her catechism.

“Is it a long time since you saw your friend?”

“Just over seven years.”

“Was it in Africa you knew him?”

“Yes, not this part though. The first time I ever saw Jimmy McGrath, he was all trussed up ready for the cooking pot. Some of the tribes in the interior are cannibals, you know. We got there just in time.”

“What happened?”

“Very nice little shindy. We potted some of the beggars, and the rest took to their heels.”

“Oh, Mr. Cade, what an adventurous life you must have led!”

“Very peaceful, I assure you.”

But it was clear that the lady did not believe him.

It was about ten o’clock that night when Anthony Cade walked into the small room where Jimmy McGrath was busy manipulating various bottles.

“Make it strong, James,” he implored. “I can tell you, I need it.”

“I should think you did, my boy. I wouldn’t take on that job of yours for anything.”

“Show me another, and I’ll jump out of it fast enough.”

McGrath poured out his own drink, tossed it off with a practised hand and mixed a second one. Then he said slowly:

“Are you in earnest about that, old son?”

“About what?”

“Chucking this job of yours if you could get another?”

“Why? You don’t mean to say that you’ve got a job going begging? Why don’t you grab it yourself?”

“I have grabbed it—but I don’t much fancy it, that’s why I’m trying to pass it on to you.”

Anthony became suspicious.

“What’s wrong with it? They haven’t engaged you to teach in a Sunday school, have they?”

“Do you think anyone would choose me to teach in a Sunday school?”

“Not if they knew you well, certainly.”

“It’s a perfectly good job—nothing wrong with it whatsoever.”

“Not in South America by any lucky chance? I’ve rather got my eye on South America. There’s a very tidy little revolution coming off in one of those little republics soon.”

McGrath grinned.

“You always were keen on revolutions—anything to be mixed up in a really good row.”

“I feel my talents might be appreciated out there. I tell you, Jimmy, I can be jolly useful in a revolution—to one side or the other. It’s better than making an honest living any day.”

“I think I’ve heard that sentiment from you before, my son. No, the job isn’t in South America—it’s in England.”

“England? Return of hero to his native land after many long years. They can’t dun you for bills after seven years, can they, Jimmy?”

“I don’t think so. Well, are you on for hearing more about it?”

“I’m on all right. The thing that worries me is why you’re not taking it on yourself.”

“I’ll tell you. I’m after gold, Anthony—far up in the interior.”

Anthony whistled and looked at him.

“You’ve always been after gold, Jimmy, ever since I knew you. It’s your weak spot—your own particular little hobby. You’ve followed up more wild-cat trails than anyone I know.”

“And in the end I’ll strike it. You’ll see.”

“Well, every one his own hobby. Mine’s rows, yours is gold.”

“I’ll tell you the whole story. I suppose you know all about Herzoslovakia?”

Anthony looked up sharply.

“Herzoslovakia?” he said, with a curious ring in his voice.

“Yes. Know anything about it?”

There was quite an appreciable pause before Anthony answered. Then he said slowly:

“Only what every one knows. It’s one of the Balkan States, isn’t it? Principal rivers, unknown. Principal mountains, also unknown, but fairly numerous. Capital, Ekarest. Population, chiefly brigands. Hobby, assassinating Kings and having Revolutions. Last King, Nicholas IV. Assassinated about seven years ago. Since then it’s been a Republic. Altogether a very likely spot. You might have mentioned before that Herzoslovakia came into it.”

“It doesn’t except indirectly.”

Anthony gazed at him more in sorrow than in anger.

“You ought to do something about this, James,” he said. “Take a correspondence course, or something. If you’d told a story like this in the good old Eastern days, you’d have been hung up by the heels and bastinadoed or something equally unpleasant.”

Jimmy pursued his course quite unmoved by these strictures.

“Ever heard of Count Stylptitch?”

“Now you’re talking,” said Anthony. “Many people who have never heard of Herzoslovakia would brighten at the mention of Count Stylptitch. The Grand Old Man of the Balkans. The Greatest Statesman of Modern Times. The biggest Villain unhung. The point of view all depends on which newspaper you take in. But be sure of this, Count Stylptitch will be remembered long after you and I are dust and ashes, James. Every move and counter move in the Near East for the last twenty years has had Count Stylptitch at the bottom of it. He’s been a dictator and a patriot and a statesman—and nobody knows exactly what he has been, except that he’s been a perfect King of intrigue. Well, what about him?”

“He was Prime Minister of Herzoslovakia—that’s why I mentioned it first.”

“You’ve no sense of proportion, Jimmy. Herzoslovakia is of no importance at all compared to Stylptitch. It just provided him with a birthplace and a post in public affairs. But I thought he was dead?”

“So he is. He died in Paris about two months ago. What I’m telling you about happened some years ago.”

“The question is,” said Anthony, “what are you telling me about?”

Jimmy accepted the rebuke and hastened on.

“It was like this. I was in Paris—just four years ago, to be exact. I was walking along one night in rather a lonely part, when I saw half a dozen French toughs beating up a respectable-looking old gentleman. I hate a one-sided show, so I promptly butted in and proceeded to beat up the toughs. I guess they’d never been hit really hard before. They melted like snow!”

“Good for you, James,” said Anthony softly. “I’d like to have seen that scrap.”

“Oh, it was nothing much,” said Jimmy modestly. “But the old boy was no end grateful. He’d had a couple, no doubt about that, but he was sober enough to get my name and address out of me, and he came along and thanked me next day. Did the thing in style too. It was then that I found out it was Count Stylptitch I’d rescued. He’d got a house up by the Bois.”

Anthony nodded.

“Yes, Stylptitch went to live in Paris after the assassination of King Nicholas. They wanted him to come back and be President later, but he wasn’t taking any. He remained sound to his Monarchical principals, though he was reported to have his finger in all the backstairs pies that went on in the Balkans. Very deep, the late Count Stylptitch.”

“Nicholas IV was the man who had a funny taste in wives, wasn’t he?” said Jimmy suddenly.

“Yes,” said Anthony. “And it did for him too, poor beggar. She was some little guttersnipe of a music hall artiste in Paris—not even suitable for a morganatic alliance. But Nicholas had a frightful crush on her, and she was all out for being a Queen. Sounds fantastic, but they managed it somehow. Called her the Countess Popoffsky, or something, and pretended she had Romanoff blood in her veins. Nicholas married her in the Cathedral at Ekarest with a couple of unwilling Arch-bishops to do the job, and she was crowned as Queen Varaga. Nicholas squared his Ministers, and I suppose he thought that was all that mattered—but he forgot to reckon with the populace. They’re very aristocratic and reactionary in Herzoslovakia. They like their Kings and Queens to be the genuine article. There were mutterings and discontent, and the usual ruthless suppressions, and the final uprising which stormed the Palace, murdered the King and Queen, and proclaimed a Republic. It’s been a Republic ever since—but things still manage to be pretty lively there, so I’ve heard. They’ve assassinated a President or two, just to keep their hand in. But revenons à nos moutons. You had got to where Count Stylptitch was hailing you as his preserver.”

“Yes. Well, that was the end of that business. I came back to Africa and never thought of it again until about two weeks ago I got a queer-looking parcel which had been following me all over the place for the Lord knows how long. I’d seen in a paper that Count Stylptitch had recently died in Paris. Well, this parcel contained his Memoirs—or Reminiscences, or whatever you call the things. There was a note enclosed to the effect that if I delivered the manuscript at a certain firm of publishers in London on or before October 13 they were instructed to hand me a thousand pounds.”

“A thousand pounds? Did you say a thousand pounds, Jimmy?”

“I did, my son. I hope to God it’s not a hoax. Put not your trust in Princes or Politicians, as the saying goes. Well, there it is. Owing to the way the manuscript had been following me around, I had no time to lose. It was a pity, all the same. I’d just fixed up this trip to the interior, and I’d set my heart on going. I shan’t get such a good chance again.”

“You’re incurable, Jimmy. A thousand pounds in the hand is worth a lot of mythical gold.”

“And supposing it’s all a hoax? Anyway, here I am, passage booked and everything, on the way to Cape Town—and then you blow along!”

Anthony got up and lit a cigarette.

“I begin to perceive your drift, James. You go gold hunting as planned, and I collect the thousand pounds for you. How much do I get out of it?”

“What do you say to a quarter?”

“Two hundred and fifty pounds free of income tax, as the saying goes?”

“That’s it.”

“Done, and just to make you gnash your teeth I’ll tell you that I would have gone for a hundred! Let me tell you, James McGrath, you won’t die in your bed counting up your bank balance.”

“Anyway, it’s a deal?”

“It’s a deal all right. I’m on. And confusion to Castle’s Select Tours.”

They drank the toast solemnly.

2 A Lady in Distress

“So that’s that,” said Anthony, finishing off his glass and replacing it on the table. “What boat were you going on?”

“Granarth Castle.”

“Passage booked in your name, I suppose, so I’d better travel as James McGrath. We’ve outgrown the passport business, haven’t we?”

“No odds either way. You and I are totally unlike, but we’d probably have the same description on one of those blinking things. Height 6 feet, hair brown, eyes blue, nose, ordinary, chin ordinary——”

“Not so much of this ‘ordinary’ stunt. Let me tell you that Castle’s selected me out of several applicants solely on account of my pleasing appearance and nice manners.”

Jimmy grinned.

“I noticed your manners this morning.”

“The devil you did.”

Anthony rose and paced up and down the room. His brow was slightly wrinkled, and it was some minutes before he spoke.

“Jimmy,” he said at last. “Stylptitch died in Paris. What’s the point of sending a manuscript from Paris to London via Africa?”

Jimmy shook his head helplessly.

“I don’t know.”

“Why not do it up in a nice little parcel and send it by post?”

“Sounds a damn sight more sensible, I agree.”

“Of course,” continued Anthony, “I know that Kings and Queens and Government officials are prevented by etiquette from doing anything in a simple, straightforward fashion. Hence King’s Messengers and all that. In medieval days you gave a fellow a signet ring as a sort of Open Sesame. ‘The King’s Ring! Pass, my Lord!’ And usually it was the other fellow who had stolen it. I always wonder why some bright lad never hit on the expedient of copying the ring—making a dozen or so, and selling them at a hundred ducats apiece. They seem to have had no initiative in the Middle Ages.”

Jimmy yawned.

“My remarks on the Middle Ages don’t seem to amuse you. Let us get back to Count Stylptitch. From France to England via Africa seems a bit thick even for a diplomatic personage. If he merely wanted to ensure that you should get a thousand pounds he could have left it you in his will. Thank God neither you nor I are too proud to accept a legacy! Stylptitch must have been balmy.”

“You’d think so, wouldn’t you?”

Anthony frowned and continued his pacing.

“Have you read the thing at all?” he asked suddenly.

“Read what?”

“The manuscript.”

“Good Lord, no. What do you think I want to read a thing of that kind for?”

Anthony smiled.

“I just wondered, that’s all. You know a lot of trouble has been caused by Memoirs. Indiscreet revelations, that sort of thing. People who have been closed as an oyster all their lives seem positively to relish causing trouble when they themselves shall be comfortably dead. It gives them a kind of malicious glee. Jimmy, what sort of a man was Count Stylptitch? You met him and talked to him, and you’re a pretty good judge of raw human nature. Could you imagine him being a vindictive old devil?”

Jimmy shook his head.

“It’s difficult to tell. You see, that first night he was distinctly canned, and the next day he was just a high-toned old boy with the most beautiful manners overwhelming me with compliments till I didn’t know where to look.”

“And he didn’t say anything interesting when he was drunk?”

Jimmy cast his mind back, wrinkling his brows as he did so.

“He said he knew where the Koh-i-noor was,” he volunteered doubtfully.

“Oh, well,” said Anthony, “we all know that. They keep it in the Tower, don’t they? Behind thick plate glass and iron bars, with a lot of gentlemen in fancy dress standing round to see you don’t pinch anything.”

“That’s right,” agreed Jimmy.

“Did Stylptitch say anything else of the same kind? That he knew which city the Wallace Collection was in, for instance?”

Jimmy shook his head.

“H’m!” said Anthony.

He lit another cigarette, and once more began pacing up and down the room.

“You never read the papers, I suppose, you heathen?” he threw out presently.

“Not very often,” said McGrath simply. “They’re not about anything that interests me as a rule.”

“Thank Heaven I’m more civilized. There have been several mentions of Herzoslovakia lately. Hints at a Royalist restoration.”

“Nicholas IV didn’t leave a son,” said Jimmy. “But I don’t suppose for a minute that the Obolovitch dynasty is extinct. There are probably shoals of young ’uns knocking about, cousins and second cousins and third cousins once removed.”

“So that there wouldn’t be any difficulty in finding a King?”

“Not in the least, I should say,” replied Jimmy. “You know, I don’t wonder at their getting tired of Republican institutions. A full-blooded, virile people like that must find it awfully tame to pot at Presidents after being used to Kings. And talking of Kings, that reminds me of something else old Stylptitch let out that night. He said he knew the gang that was after him. They were King Victor’s people, he said.”

“What?” Anthony wheeled round suddenly.

A slow grin widened on McGrath’s face.

“Just a mite excited, aren’t you, Gentleman Joe?” he drawled.

“Don’t be an ass, Jimmy. You’ve just said something rather important.”

He went over to the window and stood there looking out.

“Who is this King Victor, anyway?” demanded Jimmy. “Another Balkan Monarch?”

“No,” said Anthony slowly. “He isn’t that kind of a King.”

“What is he, then?”

There was a pause, and then Anthony spoke.

“He’s a crook, Jimmy. The most notorious jewel thief in the world. A fantastic, daring fellow, not to be daunted by anything. King Victor was the nickname he was known by in Paris. Paris was the headquarters of his gang. They caught him there and put him away for seven years on a minor charge. They couldn’t prove the more important things against him. He’ll be out soon—or he may be out already.”

“Do you think Count Stylptitch had anything to do with putting him away? Was that why the gang went for him? Out of revenge?”

“I don’t know,” said Anthony. “It doesn’t seem likely on the face of it. King Victor never stole the Crown jewels of Herzoslovakia as far as I’ve heard. But the whole thing seems rather suggestive, doesn’t it? The death of Stylptitch, the Memoirs, and the rumours in the papers—all vague but interesting. And there’s a further rumour to the effect that they’ve found oil in Herzoslovakia. I’ve a feeling in my bones, James, that people are getting ready to be interested in that unimportant little country.”

“What sort of people?”

“Financiers in City offices.”

“What are you driving at with all this?”

“Trying to make an easy job difficult, that’s all.”

“You can’t pretend there’s going to be any difficulty in handing over a simple manuscript at a publisher’s office?”

“No,” said Anthony regretfully. “I don’t suppose there’ll be anything difficult about that. But shall I tell you, James, where I propose to go with my £250?”

“South America?”

“No, my lad, Herzoslovakia. I shall stand in with the Republic, I think. Very probably I shall end up as President.”

“Why not announce yourself as the principal Obolovitch and be a King whilst you’re about it?”

“No, Jimmy. Kings are for life. Presidents only take on the job for four years or so. It would quite amuse me to govern a kingdom like Herzoslovakia for four years.”

“The average for Kings is even less, I should say,” interpolated Jimmy.

“It will probably be a serious temptation to me to embezzle your share of the thousand pounds. You won’t want it, you know, when you get back weighed down with nuggets. I’ll invest it for you in Herzoslovakian oil shares. You know, James, the more I think of it, the more pleased I am with this idea of yours. I should never have thought of Herzoslovakia if you hadn’t mentioned it. I shall spend one day in London, collecting the booty, and then away by the Balkan express!”

“You won’t get off quite as fast as that. I didn’t mention it before, but I’ve got another little commission for you.”

Anthony sank into a chair and eyed him severely.

“I knew all along that you were keeping something dark. This is where the catch comes in.”

“Not a bit. It’s just something that’s got to be done to help a lady.”

“Once and for all, James, I refuse to be mixed up in your beastly love affairs.”

“It’s not a love affair. I’ve never seen the woman. I’ll tell you the whole story.”

“If I’ve got to listen to more of your long, rambling stories, I shall have to have another drink.”

His host complied hospitably with this demand, then began the tale.

“It was when I was up in Uganda. There was a Dago there whose life I had saved——”

“If I were you, Jimmy, I should write a short book entitled ‘Lives I have Saved.’ This is the second I’ve heard of this evening.”

“Oh, well, I didn’t really do anything this time. Just pulled the Dago out of the river. Like all Dagos, he couldn’t swim.”

“Wait a minute, has this story anything to do with the other business?”

“Nothing whatever, though, oddly enough, now I remember it, the man was a Herzoslovakian. We always called him Dutch Pedro though.”

Anthony nodded indifferently.

“Any name’s good enough for a Dago,” he remarked. “Get on with the good work, James.”

“Well, the fellow was sort of grateful about it. Hung around like a dog. About six months later he died of fever. I was with him. Last thing, just as he was pegging out, he beckoned me and whispered some excited jargon about a secret—a gold mine, I thought he said. Shoved an oilskin packet into my hand which he’d always worn next his skin. Well, I didn’t think much of it at the time. It wasn’t until a week afterwards that I opened the packet. Then I was curious, I must confess. I shouldn’t have thought that Dutch Pedro would have had the sense to know a gold mine when he saw it—but there’s no accounting for luck——”

“And at the mere thought of gold, your heart beat pitter-pat as always,” interrupted Anthony.

“I was never so disgusted in my life. Gold mine, indeed! I daresay it may have been a gold mine to him, the dirty dog. Do you know what it was? A woman’s letters—yes, a woman’s letters, and an Englishwoman at that. The skunk had been blackmailing her—and he had the impudence to pass on his dirty bag of tricks to me.”

“I like to see your righteous heat, James, but let me point out to you that Dagos will be Dagos. He meant well. You had saved his life, he bequeathed to you a profitable source of raising money—your high-minded British ideals did not enter his horizon.”

“Well, what the hell was I to do with the things? Burn ’em, that’s what I thought at first. And then it occurred to me that there would be that poor dame, not knowing they’d be destroyed, and always living in a quake and a dread lest that Dago should turn up again one day.”

“You’ve more imagination than I gave you credit for, Jimmy,” observed Anthony, lighting a cigarette. “I admit that the case presented more difficulties than were at first apparent. What about just sending them to her by post?”

“Like all women, she’d put no date and no address on most of the letters. There was a kind of address on one—just one word. Chimneys.”

Anthony paused in the act of blowing out his match, and he dropped it with a quick jerk of the wrist as it burned his finger.

“Chimneys?” he said. “That’s rather extraordinary.”

“Why, do you know it?”

“It’s one of the stately homes of England, my dear James. A place where Kings and Queens go for weekends, and diplomatists forgather and diplome.”

“That’s one of the reasons why I’m so glad that you’re going to England instead of me. You know all these things,” said Jimmy simply. “A josser like myself from the backwoods of Canada would be making all sorts of bloomers. But some one like you who’s been to Eton and Harrow——”

“Only one of them,” said Anthony modestly.

“Will be able to carry it through. Why didn’t I send them to her, you say? Well, it seemed to me dangerous. From what I could make out, she seemed to have a jealous husband. Suppose he opened the letter by mistake. Where would the poor dame be then? Or she might be dead—the letters looked as though they’d been written some time. As I figured it out, the only thing was for some one to take them to England and put them into her own hands.”

Anthony threw away his cigarette, and coming across to his friend clapped him affectionately on the back.

“You’re a real knight-errant, Jimmy,” he said. “And the backwoods of Canada should be proud of you. I shan’t do the job half as prettily as you would.”

“You’ll take it on then?”

“Of course.”

McGrath rose, and going across to a drawer took out a bundle of letters and threw them on the table.

“Here you are. You’d better have a look at them.”

“Is it necessary? On the whole, I’d rather not.”

“Well, from what you say about this Chimneys place, she may have been staying there only. We’d better look through the letters and see if there’s any clue as to where she really hangs out.”

“I suppose you’re right.”

They went through the letters carefully, but without finding what they had hoped to find. Anthony gathered them up again thoughtfully.

“Poor little devil,” he remarked. “She was scared stiff.”

Jimmy nodded.

“Do you think you’ll be able to find her all right?” he asked anxiously.

“I won’t leave England till I have. You’re very concerned about this unknown lady, James?”

Jimmy ran his finger thoughtfully over the signature.

“It’s a pretty name,” he said apologetically. “Virginia Revel.”

3 Anxiety in High Places

“Quite so, my dear fellow, quite so,” said Lord Caterham.

He had used the same words three times already, each time in the hope that they would end the interview and permit him to escape. He disliked very much being forced to stand on the steps of the exclusive London club to which he belonged and listen to the interminable eloquence of the Hon. George Lomax.

Clement Edward Alistair Brent, ninth Marquis of Caterham, was a small gentleman, shabbily dressed, and entirely unlike the popular conception of a Marquis. He had faded blue eyes, a thin melancholy nose, and a vague but courteous manner.

The principal misfortune of Lord Caterham’s life was to have succeeded his brother, the eighth Marquis, four years ago. For the previous Lord Caterham had been a man of mark, a household word all over England. At one time Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs, he had always bulked largely in the counsels of the Empire, and his country seat, Chimneys, was famous for its hospitality. Ably seconded by his wife, a daughter of the Duke of Perth, history had been made and unmade at informal week-end parties at Chimneys, and there was hardly anyone of note in England—or indeed in Europe—who had not, at one time or another, stayed there.

That was all very well. The ninth Marquis of Caterham had the utmost respect and esteem for the memory of his brother. Henry had done that kind of thing magnificently. What Lord Caterham objected to was the assumption that he was bound to follow in his brother’s footsteps, and that Chimneys was a National possession rather than a private country house. There was nothing that bored Lord Caterham more than politics—unless it was politicians. Hence his impatience under the continued eloquence of George Lomax. A robust man, George Lomax, inclined to embonpoint, with a red face and protuberant eyes, and an immense sense of his own importance.

“You see the point, Caterham? We can’t—we simply can’t afford a scandal of any kind just now. The position is one of the utmost delicacy.”

“It always is,” said Lord Caterham, with a flavour of irony.

“My dear fellow, I’m in a position to know!”

“Oh, quite so, quite so,” said Lord Caterham, falling back upon his previous line of defence.

“One slip over this Herzoslovakian business and we’re done. It is most important that the Oil concessions should be granted to a British company. You must see that?”

“Of course, of course.”

“Prince Michael Obolovitch arrives the end of the week, and the whole thing can be carried through at Chimneys under the guise of a shooting party.”

“I was thinking of going abroad this week,” said Lord Caterham.

“Nonsense, my dear Caterham, no one goes abroad in early October.”

“My doctor seems to think I’m in rather a bad way,” said Lord Caterham, eyeing a taxi that was crawling past with longing eyes.

He was quite unable to make a dash for liberty, however, since Lomax had the unpleasant habit of retaining a hold upon a person with whom he was engaged in serious conversation—doubtless the result of long experience. In this case, he had a firm grip of the lapel of Lord Caterham’s coat.

“My dear man, I put it to you imperially. In a moment of national crisis, such as is fast approaching——”

Lord Caterham wriggled uneasily. He felt suddenly that he would rather give any number of house parties than listen to George Lomax quoting from one of his own speeches. He knew by experience that Lomax was quite capable of going on for twenty minutes without a stop.

“All right,” he said hastily, “I’ll do it. You’ll arrange the whole thing, I suppose.”

“My dear fellow, there’s nothing to arrange. Chimneys, quite apart from its historic associations, is ideally situated. I shall be at the Abbey, less than seven miles away. It wouldn’t do, of course, for me to be actually a member of the house party.”

“Of course not,” agreed Lord Caterham, who had no idea why it would not do, and was not interested to learn.

“Perhaps you wouldn’t mind having Bill Eversleigh, though. He’d be useful to run messages.”

“Delighted,” said Lord Caterham, with a shade more animation. “Bill’s quite a decent shot, and Bundle likes him.”

“The shooting, of course, is not really important. It’s only the pretext, as it were.”

Lord Caterham looked depressed again.

“That will be all, then. The Prince, his suite, Bill Eversleigh, Herman Isaacstein——”

“Who?”

“Herman Isaacstein. The representative of the syndicate I spoke to you about.”

“The all British syndicate?”

“Yes. Why?”

“Nothing—nothing—I only wondered, that’s all. Curious names these people have.”

“Then, of course, there ought to be one or two outsiders—just to give the thing a bona fide appearance. Lady Eileen could see to that—young people, uncritical, and with no idea of politics.”

“Bundle would attend to that all right, I’m sure.”

“I wonder now.” Lomax seemed struck by an idea.

“You remember the matter I was speaking about just now?”

“You’ve been speaking about so many things.”

“No, no, I mean this unfortunate contretemps”—— he lowered his voice to a mysterious whisper—“the memoirs—Count Stylptitch’s memoirs.”

“I think you’re wrong about that,” said Lord Caterham, suppressing a yawn. “People like scandal. Damn it all, I read Reminiscences myself—and enjoy ’em too.”

“The point is not whether people will read them or not—they’ll read them fast enough—but their publication at this juncture might ruin everything—everything. The people of Herzoslovakia wish to restore the Monarchy, and are prepared to offer the Crown to Prince Michael who has the support and encouragement of His Majesty’s Government——”

“And who is prepared to grant concessions to Mr. Ikey Hermanstein & Co. in return for the loan of a million or so to set him on the throne——”

“Caterham, Caterham,” implored Lomax in an agonized whisper. “Discretion, I beg of you. Above all things, discretion.”

“And the point is,” continued Lord Caterham, with some relish, though he lowered his voice in obedience to the other’s appeal, “that some of Stylptitch’s Reminiscences may upset the apple cart. Tyranny and misbehaviour of the Obolovitch family generally, eh? Questions asked in the House. Why replace the present broad-minded and democratic form of Government by an obsolete tyranny? Policy dictated by the blood-sucking Capitalists. Down with the Government. That kind of thing—eh?”

Lomax nodded.

“And there might be worse still,” he breathed. “Suppose—only suppose that some reference should be made to—to that unfortunate disappearance—you know what I mean.”

Lord Caterham stared at him.

“No, I don’t. What disappearance?”

“You must have heard of it? Why, it happened while they were at Chimneys. Henry was terribly upset about it. It almost ruined his career.”

“You interest me enormously,” said Lord Caterham. “Who or what disappeared?”

Lomax leant forward and put his mouth to Lord Caterham’s ear. The latter withdrew it hastily.

“For God’s sake, don’t hiss at me.”

“You heard what I said?”

“Yes, I did,” said Lord Caterham reluctantly. “I remember now hearing something about it at the time. Very curious affair. I wonder who did it. It was never recovered?”

“Never. Of course we had to go about the matter with the utmost discretion. No hint of the loss could be allowed to leak out. But Stylptitch was there at the time. He knew something. Not all, but something. We were at loggerheads with him once or twice over the Turkish question. Suppose that in sheer malice he has set the whole thing down for the world to read. Think of the scandal—of the far-reaching results. Every one would say—why was it hushed up?”

“Of course they would,” said Lord Caterham, with evident enjoyment.

Lomax, whose voice had risen to a high pitch, took a grip on himself.

“I must keep calm,” he murmured. “I must keep calm. But I ask you this, my dear fellow. If he didn’t mean mischief, why did he send the manuscript to London in this roundabout way?”

“It’s odd, certainly. You are sure of your facts?”

“Absolutely. We—er—had our agents in Paris. The Memoirs were conveyed away secretly some weeks before his death.”

“Yes, it looks as though there’s something in it,” said Lord Caterham, with the same relish he had displayed before.

“We have found out that they were sent to a man called Jimmy, or James, McGrath, a Canadian at present in Africa.”

“Quite an Imperial affair, isn’t it?” said Lord Caterham cheerily.

“James McGrath is due to arrive by the Granarth Castle to-morrow—Thursday.”

“What are you going to do about it?”

“We shall, of course, approach him at once, point out the possibly serious consequences, and beg him to defer publication of the Memoirs for at least a month, and in any case to permit them to be judiciously—er—edited.”

“Supposing that he says ‘No, sir,’ or ‘I’ll goddarned well see you in hell first,’ or something bright and breezy like that?” suggested Lord Caterham.

“That’s just what I’m afraid of,” said Lomax simply. “That’s why it suddenly occurred to me that it might be a good thing to ask him down to Chimneys as well. He’d be flattered, naturally, at being asked to meet Prince Michael, and it might be easier to handle him.”

“I’m not going to do it,” said Lord Caterham hastily. “I don’t get on with Canadians, never did—especially those that have lived much in Africa!”

“You’d probably find him a splendid fellow—a rough diamond, you know.”

“No, Lomax. I put my foot down there absolutely. Somebody else has got to tackle him.”

“It has occurred to me,” said Lomax, “that a woman might be very useful here. Told enough and not too much, you understand. A woman could handle the whole thing delicately and with tact—put the position before him, as it were, without getting his back up. Not that I approve of women in politics—St. Stephen’s is ruined, absolutely ruined, nowadays. But woman in her own sphere can do wonders. Look at Henry’s wife and what she did for him. Marcia was magnificent, unique, a perfect political hostess.”

“You don’t want me to ask Marcia down for this party, do you?” asked Lord Caterham faintly, turning a little pale at the mention of his redoubtable sister-in-law.

“No, no, you misunderstand me. I was speaking of the influence of women in general. No, I suggest a young woman, a woman of charm, beauty, intelligence?”

“Not Bundle? Bundle would be no use at all. She’s a red-hot socialist if she’s anything at all, and she’d simply scream with laughter at the suggestion.”

“I was not thinking of Lady Eileen. Your daughter, Caterham, is charming, simply charming, but quite a child. We need some one with savoir faire, poise, knowledge of the world—— Ah, of course, the very person. My cousin Virginia.”

“Mrs. Revel?” Lord Caterham brightened up. He began to feel that he might possibly enjoy the party after all. “A very good suggestion of yours, Lomax. The most charming woman in London.”

“She is well up in Herzoslovakian affairs too. Her husband was at the Embassy there, you remember. And, as you say, a woman of great personal charm.”

“A delightful creature,” murmured Lord Caterham.

“That is settled, then.”

Mr. Lomax relaxed his hold on Lord Caterham’s lapel, and the latter was quick to avail himself of the chance.

“Bye-bye, Lomax, you’ll make all the arrangements, won’t you.”

He dived into a taxi. As far as it is possible for one upright Christian gentleman to dislike another upright Christian gentleman, Lord Caterham disliked the Hon. George Lomax. He disliked his puffy red face, his heavy breathing, and his prominent blue eyes. He thought of the coming week and sighed. A nuisance, an abominable nuisance. Then he thought of Virginia Revel and cheered up a little.

“A delightful creature,” he murmured to himself. “A most delightful creature.”

4 Introducing a Very Charming Lady

George Lomax returned straightway to Whitehall. As he entered the sumptuous apartment in which he transacted affairs of State, there was a scuffling sound.

Mr. Bill Eversleigh was assiduously filing letters, but a large arm-chair near the window was still warm from contact with a human form.

A very likeable young man, Bill Eversleigh. Age at a guess, twenty-five, big and rather ungainly in his movements, a pleasurably ugly face, a splendid set of white teeth and a pair of honest brown eyes.

“Richardson sent up that report yet?”

“No, sir. Shall I get on to him about it?”

“It doesn’t matter. Any telephone messages?”

“Miss Oscar is dealing with most of them. Mr. Isaacstein wants to know if you can dine with him at the Savoy to-morrow.”

“Tell Miss Oscar to look in my engagement-book. If I’m not engaged, she can ring up and accept.”

“Yes, sir.”

“By the way, Eversleigh, you might ring up a number for me now. Look it up in the book. Mrs. Revel, 487, Pont Street.”

“Yes, sir.”

Bill seized the telephone-book, ran an unseeing eye down a column of M’s, shut the book with a bang and moved to the instrument on the desk. With his hand upon it, he paused, as though in sudden recollection.

“Oh, I say, sir, I’ve just remembered. Her line’s out of order. Mrs. Revel’s, I mean. I was trying to ring her up just now.”

George Lomax frowned.

“Annoying,” he said, “distinctly annoying.” He tapped the table undecidedly.

“If it’s anything important, sir, perhaps I might go round there now in a taxi. She’s sure to be in at this time in the morning.”

George Lomax hesitated, pondering the matter. Bill waited expectantly, poised for instant flight, should the reply be favourable.

“Perhaps that would be the best plan,” said Lomax at last. “Very well, then, take a taxi there, and ask Mrs. Revel if she will be at home this afternoon at four o’clock as I am very anxious to see her about an important matter.”

“Right, sir.”

Bill seized his hat and departed.

Ten minutes later, a taxi deposited him at 487, Pont Street. He rang the bell and executed a loud rat-tat on the knocker. The door was opened by a grave functionary to whom Bill nodded with the ease of long acquaintance.

“Morning, Chilvers, Mrs. Revel in?”

“I believe, sir, that she is just going out.”

“Is that you, Bill?” called a voice over the banisters. “I thought I recognized that muscular knock. Come up and talk to me.”