The Secret of Chimneys (Superintendent Battle 1)

“I think I’d better give you the facts.” She paused for a moment to consider how best to condense her story, and then began speaking quietly and concisely:

“This man came to the house for the first time yesterday and asked to see me. He had certain letters with him—love letters, signed with my name—”

“But which weren’t written by you,” put in the young man quietly.

Virginia looked at him in some astonishment.

“How did you know that?”

“Oh, I deduced it. But go on.”

“He wanted to blackmail me—and I—well, I don’t know if you’ll understand, but I—let him.”

She looked at him appealingly, and he nodded his head reassuringly.

“Of course I understand. You wanted to see what it felt like.”

“How frightfully clever of you! That’s just what I did feel.”

“I am clever,” said the young man modestly. “But, mind you, very few people would understand that point of view. Most people, you see, haven’t got any imagination.”

“I suppose that’s so. I told this man to come back today—at six o’clock. I arrived home from Ranelagh to find that a bogus telegram had got all the servants except my maid out of the house. Then I walked into the study and found the man shot.”

“Who let him in?”

“I don’t know. I think if my maid had done so she would have told me.”

“Does she know what has happened?”

“I have told her nothing.”

The young man nodded, and rose to his feet.

“And now to view the body,” he said briskly. “But I’ll tell you this—on the whole it’s always best to tell the truth. One lie involves you in such a lot of lies—and continuous lying is so monotonous.”

“Then you advise me to ring up the police?”

“Probably. But we’ll just have a look at the fellow first.”

Virginia led the way out of the room. On the threshold she paused, looking back at him.

“By the way,” she said, “you haven’t told me your name yet?”

“My name? My name’s Anthony Cade.”

Nine

ANTHONY DISPOSES OF A BODY

Anthony followed Virginia out of the room, smiling a little to himself. Events had taken quite an unexpected turn. But as he bent over the figure in the chair he grew grave again.

“He’s still warm,” he said sharply. “He was killed less than half an hour ago.”

“Just before I came in?”

“Exactly.”

He stood upright, drawing his brows together in a frown. Then he asked a question of which Virginia did not at once see the drift:

“Your maid’s not been in this room, of course?”

“No.”

“Does she know that you’ve been into it?”

“Why—yes. I came to the door to speak to her.”

“After you’d found the body?”

“Yes.”

“And you said nothing?”

“Would it have been better if I had? I thought she would go into hysterics—she’s French, you know, and easily upset—I wanted to think over the best thing to do.”

Anthony nodded, but did not speak.

“You think it a pity, I can see?”

“Well, it was rather unfortunate, Mrs. Revel. If you and the maid had discovered the body together, immediately on your return, it would have simplified matters very much. The man would then definitely have been shot before your return to the house.”

“Whilst now they might say he was shot after—I see—”

He watched her taking in the idea, and was confirmed in his first impression of her, formed when she had spoken to him on the steps outside. Besides beauty, she possessed courage and brains.

Virginia was so engrossed in the puzzle presented to her that it did not occur to her to wonder at this strange man’s ready use of her name.

“Why didn’t Elise hear the shot, I wonder?” she murmured.

Anthony pointed to the open window, as a loud backfire came from a passing car.

“There you are. London’s not the place to notice a pistol shot.”

Virginia turned with a little shudder to the body in the chair.

“He looks like an Italian,” she remarked curiously.

“He is an Italian,” said Anthony. “I should say that his regular profession was that of a waiter. He only did blackmailing in his spare time. His name might very possibly be Giuseppe.”

“Good heavens!” cried Virginia. “Is this Sherlock Holmes?”

“No,” said Anthony regretfully. “I’m afraid it’s just plai

n or garden cheating. I’ll tell you all about it presently. Now you say this man showed you some letters and asked you for money. Did you give him any?”

“Yes, I did.”

“How much?”

“Forty pounds.”

“That’s bad,” said Anthony, but without manifesting any undue surprise. “Now let’s have a look at the telegram.”

Virginia picked it up from the table and gave it to him. She saw his face grow grave as he looked at it.

“What’s the matter?”

He held it out, pointing silently to the place of origin.

“Barnes,” he said. “And you were at Ranelagh this afternoon. What’s to prevent you having sent it off yourself?”

Virginia felt fascinated by his words. It was as though a net was closing tighter and tighter round her. He was forcing her to see all the things which she had felt dimly at the back of her mind.

Anthony took out his handkerchief and wound it round his hand, then he picked up the pistol.

“We criminals have to be so careful,” he said apologetically. “Fingerprints, you know.”

Suddenly she saw his whole figure stiffen. His voice, when he spoke, had altered. It was terse and curt.

“Mrs. Revel,” he said, “have you ever seen this pistol before?”

“No,” said Virginia wonderingly.

“Are you sure of that?”

“Quite sure.”

“Have you a pistol of your own?”

“No.”

“Have you ever had one?”

“No, never.”

“You are sure of that?”

“Quite sure.”

He stared at her steadily for a minute, and Virginia stared back in complete surprise at his tone.

Then, with a sigh, he relaxed.

“That’s odd,” he said. “How do you account for this?”

He held out the pistol. It was a small, dainty article, almost a toy—though capable of doing deadly work. Engraved on it was the name Virginia.

“Oh, it’s impossible!” cried Virginia.

Her astonishment was so genuine that Anthony could but believe in it.