The Secret of Chimneys (Superintendent Battle 1)

Everyone waited in breathless expectancy.

Battle drew out his hand again.

He uttered an exclamation of surprise and anger.

The others crowded round and stared uncomprehendingly at the three articles he held. For a moment it seemed as though their eyes must have deceived them.

A card of small pearl buttons, a square of coarse knitting, and a piece of paper on which were inscribed a row of capital E’s!

“Well,” said Battle. “I’m—I’m danged. What’s the meaning of this?”

“Mon Dieu,” muttered the Frenchman. “Ça, c’est un peu trop fort!”

“But what does it mean?” cried Virginia, bewildered.

“Mean?” said Anthony. “There’s only one thing it can mean. The late Count Stylptitch must have had a sense of humour! This is an example of that humour. I may say that I don’t consider it particularly funny myself.”

“Do you mind explaining your meaning a little more clearly, sir?” said the Superintendent Battle.

“Certainly. This was the Count’s little joke. He must have suspected that his memorandum had been read. When the crooks came to recover the jewel, they were to find instead this extremely clever conundrum. It’s the sort of thing you pin on to yourself at Book Teas, when people have to guess what you are.”

“It has a meaning, then?”

“I should say, undoubtedly. If the Count had meant to be merely offensive, he would have put a placard with ‘Sold’ on it, or a picture of a donkey or something crude like that.”

“A bit of knitting, some capital E’s, and a lot of buttons,” muttered Battle discontendedly.

“C’est inouï,” said Lemoine angrily.

“Cipher No. 2,” said Anthony. “I wonder whether Professor Wynwood would be any good at this one?”

“When was this passage last used, milady?” asked the Frenchman of Bundle.

Bundle reflected.

“I don’t believe anyone’s been into it for over two years. The priest’s hole is the show exhibit for Americans and tourists generally.”

“Curious,” murmured the Frenchman.

“Why curious?”

Lemoine stooped and picked up a small object from the floor.

“Because of this,” he said. “This match has not lain here for two years—not even two days.”

“Any of you ladies or gentlemen drop this, by any chance?” he asked.

He received a negative all round.

“Well, then,” said Superintendent Battle, “we’ve seen all there is to see. We might as well get out of here.”

The proposal was assented to by all. The panel had swung to, but Bundle showed them how it was fastened from the inside. She unlatched it, swung it noiselessly open, and sprang through the opening, alighting in the Council Chamber with a resounding thud.

“Damn!” said Lord Caterham, springing up from an armchair in which he appeared to have been taking forty winks.

“Poor old Father,” said Bundle. “Did I startle you?”

“I can’t think,” said Lord Caterham, “why nobody nowadays ever sits still after a meal. It’s a lost art. God knows Chimneys is big enough but even here there doesn’t seem to be a single room where I can be sure of a little peace. Good Lord, how many of you are there? Reminds me of the pantomimes I used to go to as a boy when hordes of demons used to pop up out of trapdoors.”

“Demon No. 7,” said Virginia, approaching him, and patting him on the head. “Don’t be cross. We’re just exploring secret passages, that’s all.”

“There seems to be a positive boom in secret passages today,” grumbled Lord Caterham, not yet completely mollified. “I’ve had to show that fellow Fish round them all this morning.”

“When was that?” asked Battle quickly.

“Just before lunch. It seems he’d heard of the one in here. I showed him that, and then took him up to the White Gallery, and we finished up with the priest’s hole. But his enthusiasm was waning by that time. He looked bored to death. But I made him go through with it.” Lord Caterham chuckled at the remembrance.

Anthony put a hand on Lemoine’s arm.

“Come outside,” he said softly. “I want to speak to you.”

The two men went out together through the window. When they had gone a sufficient distance from the house, Anthony drew from his pocket the scrap of paper that Boris had given him that morning.

“Look here,” he said. “Did you drop this?”

Lemoine took it and examined it with some interest.

“No,” he said. “I have never seen it before. Why?”

“Quite sure?”

“Absolutely sure, monsieur.”

“That’s very odd.”

He repeated to Lemoine what Boris had said. The other listened with close attention.

“No, I did not drop it. You say he found it in that clump of trees?”

“Well, I assumed so, but he did not actually say so.”

“It is just possible that it might have fluttered out of M. Isaacstein’s suitcase. Question Boris again.” He handed the paper back to Anthony. After a minute or two he said: “What exactly do you know of this man Boris?”

Anthony shrugged his shoulders.

“I understood he was the late Prince Michael’s trusted servant.”

“It may be so, but make it your business to find out. Ask someone who knows, such as the Baron Lolopretjzyl. Perhaps this man was engaged but a few weeks ago. For myself, I have believed him honest. But who knows? King Victor is quite capable of making himself into a trusted servant at a moment’s notice.”

“Do you really think—”

Lemoine interrupted him.

“I will be quite frank. With me, King Victor is an obsession. I see him everywhere. At this moment even I ask myself—this man who is talking to me, this M. Cade, is he, perhaps, King Victor?”

“Good Lord,” said Anthony, “you have got it badly.”

“What do I care for the diamond? For the discovery of the murderer of Prince Michael? I leave those affairs to my colleague of Scotland Yard whose business it is. Me, I am in England for one purpose, and one purpose only, to capture King Victor and capture him red-handed. Nothing else matters.”

“Think you’ll do it

?” asked Anthony, lighting a cigarette.

“How should I know?” said Lemoine, with sudden despondency.

“Hm!” said Anthony.

They had regained the terrace. Superintendent Battle was standing near the French window in a wooden attitude.

“Look at poor old Battle,” said Anthony. “Let’s go and cheer him up.” He paused a minute, and said, “You know, you’re an odd fish in some ways, M. Lemoine.”

“In what ways, M. Cade?”

“Well,” said Anthony, “in your place, I should have been inclined to note down that address that I showed you. It may be of no importance—quite conceivably. On the other hand, it might be very important indeed.”

Lemoine looked at him for a minute or two steadily. Then, with a slight smile, he drew back the cuff of his left coat sleeve. Pencilled on the white shirt cuff beneath were the words “Hurstmere, Langly Road, Dover.”

“I apologize,” said Anthony. “And I retire worsted.”

He joined Superintendent Battle.

“You look very pensive, Battle,” he remarked.

“I’ve got a lot to think about, Mr. Cade.”

“Yes, I expect you have.”

“Things aren’t dovetailing. They’re not dovetailing at all.”

“Very trying,” sympathized Anthony. “Never mind, Battle, if the worst comes to the worst, you can always arrest me. You’ve got my guilty footprints to fall back upon, remember.”

But the superintendent did not smile.

“Got any enemies here that you know of, Mr. Cade?” he asked.

“I’ve an idea that the third footman doesn’t like me,” replied Anthony lightly. “He does his best to forget to hand me the choicest vegetables. Why?”

“I’ve been getting anonymous letters,” said Superintendent Battle. “Or rather an anonymous letter, I should say.”

“About me?”

Without answer Battle took a folded sheet of cheap notepaper from his pocket, and handed it to Anthony. Scrawled on it in an illiterate handwriting were the words:

Look out for Mr. Cade. He isn’t wot he seems.

Anthony handed it back with a light laugh.