“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 that 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 absentmindedly 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 matchbox 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 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 the people I was after on their guard. I can assure you that I have seen a good deal that is interesting on 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 someone 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 t
he 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.”