The Secret of Chimneys (Superintendent Battle 1)

“You don’t want me any longer, do you, Lomax?” he inquired.

“No, thank you, my dear fellow.”

“Would it upset your plans if I returned to London, Superintendent Battle?”

“I’m afraid so, sir,” said the superintendent civilly. “You see, if you go, there will be others who’ll want to go also. And that would never do.”

“Quite so.”

The great financier left the room, closing the door behind him.

“Splendid fellow, Isaacstein,” murmured George Lomax perfunctorily.

“Very powerful personality,” agreed Superintendent Battle.

George began to pace up and down again.

“What you say disturbs me greatly,” he began. “King Victor! I thought he was in prison?”

“Came out a few months ago. French police meant to keep on his heels, but he managed to give them the slip straightaway. He would too. One of the coolest customers that ever lived. For some reason or other, they believe he’s in England, and have notified us to that effect.”

“But what should he be doing in England?”

“That’s for you to say, sir,” said Battle significantly.

“You mean?—You think?—You know the story, of course—ah, yes, I can see you do. I was not in office, of course, at the time, but I heard the whole story from the late Lord Caterham. An unparalleled catastrophe.”

“The Koh-i-noor,” said Battle reflectively.

“Hush, Battle!” George glanced suspiciously round him. “I beg of you, mention no names. Much better not. If you must speak of it, call it the K.”

The superintendent looked wooden again.

“You don’t connect King Victor with this crime, do you, Battle?”

“It’s just a possibility, that’s all. If you cast your mind back, sir, you’ll remember that there were four places where a—er—certain royal visitor might have concealed the jewel. Chimneys was one of them. King Victor was arrested in Paris three days after the—disappearance, if I may call it that, of the K. It was always hoped that he would some day lead us to the jewel.”

“But Chimneys has been ransacked and overhauled a dozen times.”

“Yes,” said Battle sapiently. “But it’s never much good looking when you don’t know where to look. Only suppose now, that this King Victor came here to look for the thing, was surprised by Prince Michael, and shot him.”

“It’s possible,” said George. “A most likely solution of the crime.”

“I wouldn’t go as far as that. It’s possible, but not much more.”

“Why is that?”

“Because King Victor has never been known to take a life,” said Battle seriously.

“Oh, but a man like that—a dangerous criminal—”

But Battle shook his head in a dissatisfied manner.

“Criminals always act true to type, Mr. Lomax. It’s surprising. All the same—”

“Yes?”

“I’d rather like to question the Prince’s servant. I’ve left him purposely to the last. We’ll have him in here, sir, if you don’t mind.”

George signified his assent. The superintendent rang the bell. Tredwell answered it, and departed with his instructions.

He returned shortly accompanied by a tall fair man with high cheekbones, and very deep-set blue eyes, and an impassivity of countenance, which almost rivalled Battle’s.

“Boris Anchoukoff?”

“Yes.”

“You were valet to Prince Michael?”

“I was His Highness’ valet, yes.”

The man spoke good English, though with a markedly harsh foreign accent.

“You know that your master was murdered last night?”

A deep snarl, like the snarl of a wild beast, was the man’s only answer. It alarmed George, who withdrew prudently towards the window.

“When did you see your master last?”

“His Highness retired to bed at half past ten. I slept, as always, in the anteroom next to him. He must have gone down to the room downstairs by the other door, the door that gave on the corridor. I did not hear him go. It may be that I was drugged. I have been an unfaithful servant, I slept while my master woke. I am accursed.”

George gazed at him, fascinated.

“You loved your master, eh?” said Battle, watching the man closely.

Boris’ features contracted painfully. He swallowed twice. Then his voice came, harsh with emotion.

“I say this to you, English policeman, I would have died for him! And since he is dead, and I still live, my eyes shall not know sleep, or my heart rest, until I have avenged him. Like a dog will I nose out his murderer and when I have discovered him—Ah!” His eyes lit up. Suddenly he drew an immense knife from beneath his coat and brandished it aloft. “Not all at once will I kill him—oh no!—first I will slit his nose, and cut off his ears and put out his eyes, and then—then, into his black heart, I will thrust this knife.”

Swiftly he replaced the knife, and turning, left the room. George Lomax, his eyes always protuberant, but now goggling almost out of his head, stared at the closed door.

“Purebred Herzoslovakian, of course,” he muttered. “Most uncivilized people. A race of brigands.”

Superindentent Battle rose alertly to his feet.

“Either that man’s sincere,” he remarked, “or he’s the best bluffer I’ve ever seen. And if it’s the former, God help Prince Michael’s murderer when that human bloodhound gets hold of him.”

Fifteen

THE FRENCH STRANGER

Virginia and Anthony walked side by side down the path which led to the lake. For some minutes after leaving the house they were silent. It was Virginia who broke the silence at last with a little laugh.

“Oh, dear,” she said, “isn’t it dreadful? Here I am so bursting with the things I want to tell you, and the things I want to know, that I simply don’t know where to begin. First of all”—she lowered her voice—“What have you done with the body? How awful it sounds, doesn’t it! I never dreamt that I should be so steeped in crime.”

“I suppose it’s quite a novel sensation for you,” agreed Anthony.

“But not for you?”

“Well, I’ve never disposed of a corpse before, certainly.”

“Tell me about it.”

Briefly and succinctly, Anthony ran over the steps he had taken on the previous night. Virginia listened attentively.

“I think you were very clever,” she said approvingly when he had finished. “I can pick up the trunk again when I go back to Paddington. The only difficulty that might arise is if you had to give an account of where you were yesterday evening.”

“I can’t see that can arise. The body can’t have been found until late last night—or possibly this morning. Otherwise there would have been something about it in this morning’s papers. And whatever you may imagine from reading detective stories, doctors aren’t such magicians that they can tell you exactly how many hours a man has been dead. The exact time of his death will be pretty vague. An alibi for last night would be far more to the point.”

“I know. Lord Caterham was telling me all about it. But the Scotland Yard man is quite convinced of your innocence now, isn’t he?”

Anthony did not reply at once.

“He doesn’t look particularly astute,” continued Virginia.

“I don’t know about that,” said Anthony slowly. “I’ve an impression that there are no flies on Superintendent Battle. He appears to be convinced of my innocence—but I’m not sure. He’s stumped at present by my apparent lack of motive.”

“Apparent?” cried Virginia. “But what possible reason could you have for murdering an unknown foreign count?”

Anthony darted a sharp glance at her.

“You were at one time or other in Herzoslovakia, weren’t you?” he asked.

“Yes. I was there with my husband, for two years, at the Embassy.”

“That was just before the assassinat

ion of the King and Queen. Did you ever run across Prince Michael Obolovitch?”

“Michael? Of course I did. Horrid little wretch! He suggested, I remember, that I should marry him morganatically.”

“Did he really? And what did he suggest you should do about your existing husband?”

“Oh, he had a sort of David and Uriah scheme all made out.”

“And how did you respond to this amiable offer?”

“Well,” said Virginia, “unfortunately one had to be diplomatic. So poor little Michael didn’t get it as straight from the shoulder as he might have done. But he retired hurt all the same. Why all this interest about Michael?”