Part 8

He was aware, none better, of the peril in which he stood. In the short space of twenty-four hours, he had become embroiled in two separate crimes. His actions in connection with the first would not bear looking into for a second. After deliberately disposing of one body, and so defeating the aims of justice, he had arrived upon the scene of the second crime at the exact moment when it was being committed. For a young man looking for trouble, he could hardly have done better.

“South America,” thought Anthony to himself, “simply isn’t in it with this!”

He had already decided upon his course of action. He was going to tell the truth—with one trifling alteration, and one grave suppression.

“The story begins,” said Anthony, “about three weeks ago—in Bulawayo. Mr. Lomax, of course, knows where that is—outpost of the Empire—‘What do we know of England who only England know?’ all that sort of thing. I was conversing with a friend of mine, a Mr. James McGrath—”

He brought out the name slowly, with a thoughtful eye on George. George bounded in his seat and repressed an exclamation with difficulty.

“The upshot of our conversation was that I came to England to carry out a little commission for Mr. McGrath, who was unable to go himself. Since the passage was booked in his name, I travelled as James McGrath. I don’t know what particular kind of offence that was—the superintendent can tell me, I dare say, and run me in for so many months’ hard if necessary.”

“We’ll get on with the story, if you please, sir,” said Battle, but his eyes twinkled a little.

“On arrival in London I went to the Blitz Hotel, still as James McGrath. My business in London was to deliver a certain manuscript to a firm of publishers, but almost immediately I received deputations from the representatives of two political parties of a foreign kingdom. The methods of one were strictly constitutional, the methods of the other were not. I dealt with them both accordingly. But my troubles were not over. That night my room was broken into, and an attempt at burglary was made by one of the waiters at the hotel.”

“That was not reported to the police, I think?” said Superintendent Battle.

“You are right. It was not. Nothing was taken, you see. But I did report the occurrence to the manager of the hotel, and he will confirm my story, and tell you that the waiter in question decamped rather abruptly in the middle of the night. The next day, the publishers rang me up, and suggested that one of their representatives would call upon me and receive the manuscript. I agreed to this, and the arrangement was duly carried out on the following morning. Since I have heard nothing further, I presume the manuscript reached them safely. Yesterday, still as James McGrath, I received a letter from Mr. Lomax——”

Anthony paused. He was by now beginning to enjoy himself. George shifted uneasily.

“I remember,” he murmured. “Such a large correspondence. The name, of course, being different, I could not be expected to know. And I may say,” George’s voice rose a little, firm in the assurance of moral stability, “that I consider this—this—masquerading as another man in the highest degree improper. I have no doubt, no doubt whatever, that you have incurred a severe legal penalty.”

“In this letter,” continued Anthony, unmoved, “Mr. Lomax made various suggestions concerning the manuscript in my charge. He also extended an invitation to me from Lord Caterham to join the house party here.”

“Delighted to see you, my dear fellow,” said that nobleman. “Better late than never—eh?”

George frowned at him.

Superintendent Battle bent an unmoved eye upon Anthony.

“And is that your explanation of your presence here last night, sir?” he asked.

“Certainly not,” said Anthony warmly. “When I am asked to stay at a country-house, I don’t scale the wall late at night, tramp across the park, and try the downstairs windows. I drive up to the front door, ring the bell and wipe my feet on the mat. I will proceed. I replied to Mr. Lomax’s letter, explaining that the manuscript had passed out of my keeping, and therefore regretfully declining Lord Caterham’s kind invitation. But after I had done so, I remembered something which had up till then escaped my memory.” He paused. The moment had come for skating over thin ice. “I must tell you that in my struggle with the waiter Giuseppe, I had wrested from him a small bit of paper with some words scribbled on it. They had conveyed nothing to me at the time, but I still had them, and the mention of Chimneys recalled them to me. I got the torn scrap out and looked at it. It was as I had thought. Here is the piece of paper, gentlemen, you can see for yourselves. The words on it are ‘_Chimneys 11.45 Thursday._’”

Battle examined the paper attentively.

“Of course,” continued Anthony, “the word Chimneys might have nothing whatever to do with this house. On the other hand, it might. And undoubtedly this Giuseppe was a thieving rascal. I made up my mind to motor down here last night, satisfy myself that all was as it should be, put up at the inn, and call upon Lord Caterham in the morning and put him on his guard in case some mischief should be intended during the week-end.”

“Quite so,” said Lord Caterham encouragingly. “Quite so.”

“I was late in getting here—had not allowed enough time. Consequently I stopped the car, climbed over the wall and ran across the park. When I arrived on the terrace, the whole house was dark and silent. I was just turning away when I heard a shot. I fancied that it came from inside the house, and I ran back, crossed the terrace, and tried the windows. But they were fastened, and there was no sound of any kind from inside the house. I waited a while, but the whole place was still as the grave, so I made up my mind that I had made a mistake, and that what I had heard was a stray poacher—quite a natural conclusion to come to under the circumstances, I think.”

“Quite natural,” said Superintendent Battle expressionlessly.

“I went on to the inn, put up as I said—and heard the news this morning. I realized, of course, that I was a suspicious character—bound to be under the circumstances, and came up here to tell my story, hoping it wasn’t going to be handcuffs for one.”

There was a pause. Colonel Melrose looked sideways at Superintendent Battle.

“I think the story seems clear enough,” he remarked.

“Yes,” said Battle. “I don’t think we’ll be handing out any handcuffs this morning.”

“Any questions, Battle?”

“There’s one thing I’d like to know. What was this manuscript?”

He looked across at George, and the latter replied with a trace of unwillingness:

“The Memoirs of the late Count Stylptitch. You see——”

“You needn’t say anything more,” said Battle. “I see perfectly.”

He turned to Anthony.

“Do you know who it was that was shot, Mr. Cade?”

“At the _Jolly Dog_ it was understood to be a Count Stanislaus or some such name.”

“Tell him,” said Battle laconically to George Lomax.

George was clearly reluctant, but he was forced to speak:

“The gentleman who was staying here incognito as Count Stanislaus was His Highness Prince Michael of Herzoslovakia.”

Anthony whistled.

“That must be deuced awkward,” he remarked.

Superintendent Battle, who had been watching Anthony closely, gave a short grunt as though satisfied of something, and rose abruptly to his feet.

“There are one or two questions I’d like to ask Mr. Cade,” he announced. “I’ll take him into the Council Chamber with me if I may.”

“Certainly, certainly,” said Lord Caterham. “Take him anywhere you like.”

Anthony and the detective went out together.

The body had been removed from the scene of the tragedy. There was a dark stain on the floor where it had lain, but otherwise there was nothing to suggest that a tragedy had ever occurred. The sun poured in through the three windows, flooding the room with light, and bringing out the mellow tone of the old panelling. Anthony looked around him with approval.

“Very nice,” he commented. “Nothing much to beat old England, is there?”

“Did it seem to you at first it was in this room the shot was fired?” asked the superintendent, not replying to Anthony’s eulogium.

“Let me see.”

Anthony opened the window and went out on the terrace, looking up at the house.

“Yes, that’s the room all right,” he said. “It’s built out, and occupies all the corner. If the shot had been fired anywhere else, it would have sounded from the _left_, but this was from behind me or to the right if anything. That’s why I thought of poachers. It’s at the extremity of the wing, you see.”

He stepped back across the threshold, and asked suddenly, as though the idea had just struck him:

“But why do you ask? You know he was shot here, don’t you?”

“Ah!” said the superintendent. “We never know as much as we’d like to know. But, yes, he was shot here all right. Now you said something about trying the windows, didn’t you?”

“Yes. They were fastened from the inside.”

“How many of them did you try?”

“All three of them.”

“Sure of that, sir?”

“I’m in the habit of being sure. Why do you ask?”

“That’s a funny thing,” said the superintendent.

“What’s a funny thing?”

“When the crime was discovered this morning, the middle one was open—not latched, that is to say.”

“Whew!” said Anthony, sinking down on the window seat, and taking out his cigarette case. “That’s rather a blow. That opens up quite a different aspect of the case. It leaves us two alternatives. Either he was killed by some one in the house, and that some one unlatched the window after I had gone to make it look like an outside job—incidentally with me as Little Willie—or else, not to mince matters, I’m lying. I dare say you incline to the second possibility, but, upon my honour, you’re wrong.”

“Nobody’s going to leave this house until I’m through with them, I can tell you that,” said Superintendent Battle grimly.

Anthony looked at him keenly.

“How long have you had the idea that it might be an inside job?” he asked.

Battle smiled.

“I’ve had a notion that way all along. Your trail was a bit too—flaring, if I may put it that way. As soon as your boots fitted the footmarks, I began to have my doubts.”

“I congratulate Scotland Yard,” said Anthony lightly.

But at that moment, the moment when Battle apparently admitted Anthony’s complete absence of complicity in the crime, Anthony felt more than ever the need of being upon his guard. Superintendent Battle was a very astute officer. It would not do to make any slip with Superintendent Battle about.

“That’s where it happened, I suppose?” said Anthony, nodding towards the dark patch upon the floor.

“Yes.”

“What was he shot with—a revolver?”

“Yes, but we shan’t know what make until they get the bullet out at the autopsy.”

“It wasn’t found, then?”

“No, it wasn’t found.”

“No clues of any kind?”

“Well, we’ve got this.”

Rather after the manner of a conjurer, Superintendent Battle produced a half-sheet of notepaper. And, as he did so, he again watched Anthony closely without seeming to do so.

But Anthony recognized the design upon it without any sign of consternation.

“Aha! Comrades of the Red Hand again. If they’re going to scatter this sort of thing about, they ought to have it lithographed. It must be a frightful nuisance doing every one separately. Where was this found?”

“Underneath the body. You’ve seen it before, sir?”

Anthony recounted to him in detail his short encounter with that public-spirited association.

“The idea is, I suppose, that the Comrades did him in.”

“Do you think it likely, sir?”

“Well, it would be in keeping with their propaganda. But I’ve always found that those who talk most about blood have never actually seen it run. I shouldn’t have said the Comrades had the guts myself. And they’re such picturesque people too. I don’t see one of them disguising himself as a suitable guest for a country house. Still, one never knows.”

“Quite right, Mr. Cade. One never knows.”

Anthony looked suddenly amused.

“I see the big idea now. Open window, trail of footprints, suspicious stranger at village inn. But I can assure you, my dear superintendent, that, whatever I am, I am not the local agent of the Red Hand.”

Superintendent Battle smiled a little. Then he played his last card.

“Would you have any objection to seeing the body?” he shot out suddenly.

“None whatever,” rejoined Anthony.

Battle took a key from his pocket, and preceding Anthony down the corridor, paused at a door and unlocked it. It was one of the smaller drawing-rooms. The body lay on a table covered with a sheet.

Superintendent Battle waited until Anthony was beside him, and then whisked away the sheet suddenly.

An eager light sprang into his eyes at the half-uttered exclamation and the start of surprise which the other gave.

“So you _do_ recognize him, Mr. Cade,” he said, in a voice that he strove to render devoid of triumph.

“I’ve seen him before, yes,” said Anthony, recovering himself. “But not as Prince Michael Obolovitch. He purported to come from Messrs. Balderson and Hodgkins, and he called himself Mr. Holmes.”

13

The American Visitor

Superintendent Battle replaced the sheet with the slightly crest-fallen air of a man whose best point has fallen flat. Anthony stood with his hands in his pockets lost in thought.

“So that’s what old Lollipop meant when he talked about ‘other means,’” he murmured at last.

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Cade?”

“Nothing, superintendent. Forgive my abstraction. You see, I—or rather my friend, Jimmy McGrath, has been very neatly done out of a thousand pounds.”

“A thousand pounds is a nice sum of money,” said Battle.

“It isn’t the thousand pounds so much,” said Anthony, “though I agree with you that it’s a nice sum of money. It’s being done that maddens me. I handed over that manuscript like a little woolly lamb. It hurts, superintendent, indeed it hurts.”

The detective said nothing.

“Well, well,” said Anthony. “Regrets are vain, and all may not yet be lost. I’ve only got to get hold of dear old Stylptitch’s Reminiscences between now and next Wednesday and all will be gas and gaiters.”

“Would you mind coming back to the Council Chamber, Mr. Cade? There’s one little thing I want to point out to you.”

Back in the Council Chamber, the detective strode over at once to the middle window.

“I’ve been thinking, Mr. Cade. This particular window is very stiff, very stiff indeed. You might have been mistaken in thinking that it was fastened. It might just have stuck. I’m sure—yes, I’m almost sure, that you _were_ mistaken.”

Anthony eyed him keenly.

“And supposing I say that I’m quite sure I was not?”

“Don’t you think you could have been?” said Battle, looking at him very steadily.

“Well, to oblige you, superintendent, yes.”

Battle smiled in a satisfied fashion.

“You’re quick in the uptake, sir. And you’ll have no objection to saying so, careless like, at a suitable moment?”

“None whatever. I——”

He paused, as Battle gripped his arm. The superintendent was bent forward, listening.

Enjoining silence on Anthony with a gesture, he tiptoed noiselessly to the door, and flung it suddenly open.

On the threshold stood a tall man with black hair neatly parted in the middle, china blue eyes with a particularly innocent expression, and a large placid face.

“Your pardon, gentlemen,” he said in a slow drawling voice with a pronounced transatlantic accent. “But is it permitted to inspect the scene of the crime? I take it that you are both gentlemen from Scotland Yard?”

“I have not that honour,” said Anthony. “But this gentleman is Superintendent Battle of Scotland Yard.”

“Is that so?” said the American gentleman, with a great appearance of interest. “Pleased to meet you, sir. My name is Hiram P. Fish, of New York City.”

“What was it you wanted to see, Mr. Fish?” asked the detective.

The American walked gently into the room, and looked with much interest at the dark patch on the floor.

“I am interested in crime, Mr. Battle. It is one of my hobbies. I have contributed a monograph to one of our weekly periodicals on the subject ‘Degeneracy and the Criminal.’”

As he spoke, his eyes went gently round the room, seeming to note everything in it. They rested just a shade longer on the window.

“The body,” said Superintendent Battle, stating a self-evident fact, “has been removed.”

“Surely,” said Mr. Fish. His eyes went on to the panelled walls. “Some remarkable pictures in this room, gentlemen. A Holbein, two Van Dycks, and, if I am not mistaken, a Velasquez. I am interested in pictures—and likewise in first editions. It was to see his first editions that Lord Caterham was so kind as to invite me down here.”

He sighed gently.

“I guess that’s all off now. It would show a proper feeling I suppose, for the guests to return to town immediately?”

“I’m afraid that can’t be done, sir,” said Superintendent Battle. “Nobody must leave the house until after the inquest.”

“Is that so? And when is the inquest?”

“May be to-morrow, may not be until Monday. We’ve got to arrange for the autopsy and see the Coroner.”

“I get you,” said Mr. Fish. “Under the circumstances, though, it will be a melancholy party.”

Battle led the way to the door.

“We’d best get out of here,” he said. “We’re keeping it locked still.”

He waited for the other two to pass through, and then turned the key and removed it.

“I opine,” said Mr. Fish, “that you are seeking for fingerprints?”

“Maybe,” said the superintendent laconically.

“I should say to that, on a night such as last night, an intruder would have left footprints on the hardwood floor.”

“None inside, plenty outside.”

“Mine,” explained Anthony cheerfully.

The innocent eyes of Mr. Fish swept over him.

“Young man,” he said, “you surprise me.”

They turned a corner, and came out into the big wide hall, panelled like the Council Chamber in old oak, and with a wide gallery above it. Two other figures came into sight at the far end.

“Aha!” said Mr. Fish. “Our genial host.”

This was such a ludicrous description of Lord Caterham that Anthony had to turn his head away to conceal a smile.

“And with him,” continued the American, “is a lady whose name I did not catch last night. But she is bright—she is very bright.”

With Lord Caterham was Virginia Revel.

Anthony had been anticipating this meeting all along. He had no idea how to act. He must leave it to Virginia. Although he had full confidence in her presence of mind, he had not the slightest idea what line she would take. He was not long left in doubt.

“Why, it’s Mr. Cade,” said Virginia. She held out both hands to him. “So you found you could come down after all?”

“My dear Mrs. Revel, I had no idea Mr. Cade was a friend of yours,” said Lord Caterham.

“He’s a very old friend,” said Virginia, smiling at Anthony with a mischievous glint in her eye. “I ran across him in London unexpectedly yesterday, and told him I was coming down here.”

Anthony was quick to give her her pointer.

“I explained to Mrs. Revel,” he said, “that I had been forced to refuse your kind invitation—since it had really been extended to quite a different man. And I couldn’t very well foist a perfect stranger on you under false pretences.”

“Well, well, my dear fellow,” said Lord Caterham, “that’s all over and done with now. I’ll send down to the _Cricketers_ for your bag.”

“It’s very kind of you, Lord Caterham, but——”

“Nonsense, of course you must come to Chimneys. Horrible place, the _Cricketers_—to stay in, I mean.”

“Of course you must come, Mr. Cade,” said Virginia softly.

Anthony realized the altered tone of his surroundings. Already Virginia had done much for him. He was no longer an ambiguous stranger. Her position was so assured and unassailable that anyone for whom she vouched was accepted as a matter of course. He thought of the pistol in the tree at Burnham Beeches, and smiled inwardly.

“I’ll send for your traps,” said Lord Caterham to Anthony. “I suppose, in the circumstances, we can’t have any shooting. A pity. But there it is. And I don’t know what the devil to do with Isaacstein. It’s all very unfortunate.”

The depressed peer sighed heavily.

“That’s settled, then,” said Virginia. “You can begin to be useful right away, Mr. Cade, and take me out on the lake. It’s very peaceful there and far from crime and all that sort of thing. Isn’t it awful for poor Lord Caterham having a murder done in his house? But it’s George’s fault really. This is George’s party, you know.”

“Ah!” said Lord Caterham. “But I should never have listened to him!”

He assumed the air of a strong man betrayed by a single weakness.

“One can’t help listening to George,” said Virginia. “He always holds you so that you can’t get away. I’m thinking of patenting a detachable lapel.”

“I wish you would,” chuckled her host. “I’m glad you’re coming to us, Cade. I need support.”

“I appreciate your kindness very much, Lord Caterham,” said Anthony. “Especially,” he added, “when I’m such a suspicious character. But my staying here makes it easier for Battle.”

“In what way, sir?” asked the superintendent.

“It won’t be so difficult to keep an eye on me,” explained Anthony gently.

And by the momentary flicker of the superintendent’s eyelids he knew that his shot had gone home.

14

Mainly Political and Financial

Except for that involuntary twitch of the eyelids, Superintendent Battle’s impassivity was unimpaired. If he had been surprised at Virginia’s recognition of Anthony, he did not show it. He and Lord Caterham stood together and watched those two go out through the garden door. Mr. Fish also watched them.

“Nice young fellow, that,” said Lord Caterham.

“Vurry nice for Mrs. Revel to meet an old friend,” murmured the American. “They have been acquainted some time, presoomably?”

“Seems so,” said Lord Caterham. “But I’ve never heard her mention him before. Oh, by the way, Battle, Mr. Lomax has been asking for you. He’s in the Blue morning-room.”

“Very good, Lord Caterham. I’ll go there at once.”

Battle found his way to the Blue morning-room without difficulty. He was already familiar with the geography of the house.

“Ah, there you are, Battle,” said Lomax.

He was striding impatiently up and down the carpet. There was one other person in the room, a big man sitting in a chair by the fireplace. He was dressed in very correct English shooting clothes which nevertheless sat strangely upon him. He had a fat yellow face, and black eyes, as impenetrable as those of a cobra. There was a generous curve to the big nose and power in the square lines of the vast jaw.

“Come in, Battle,” said Lomax irritably. “And shut the door behind you. This is Mr. Herman Isaacstein.”

Battle inclined his head respectfully.

He knew all about Mr. Herman Isaacstein, and though the great financier sat there silent, whilst Lomax strode up and down and talked, he knew who was the real power in the room.