Part 9

“We can speak more freely now,” said Lomax. “Before Lord Caterham and Colonel Melrose, I was anxious not to say too much. You understand, Battle? These things mustn’t get about.”

“Ah!” said Battle. “But they always do, more’s the pity.”

Just for a second he saw a trace of a smile on the fat yellow face. It disappeared as suddenly as it had come.

“Now what do you really think of this young fellow—this Anthony Cade?” continued George. “Do you still assume him to be innocent?”

Battle shrugged his shoulders very slightly.

“He tells a straight story. Part of it we shall be able to verify. On the face of it, it accounts for his presence here last night. I shall cable to South Africa, of course, for information about his antecedents.”

“Then you regard him as cleared of all complicity?”

Battle raised a large square hand.

“Not so fast, sir. I never said that.”

“What is your own idea about the crime, Superintendent Battle?” asked Isaacstein, speaking for the first time.

His voice was deep and rich, and had a certain compelling quality about it. It had stood him in good stead at board meetings in his younger days.

“It’s rather too soon to have ideas, Mr. Isaacstein. I’ve not got beyond asking myself the first question.”

“What is that?”

“Oh, it’s always the same. Motive. Who benefits by the death of Prince Michael? We’ve got to answer that before we can get anywhere.”

“The Revolutionary party of Herzoslovakia——” began George.

Superintendent Battle waved him aside with something less than his usual respect.

“It wasn’t the Comrades of the Red Hand, sir, if you’re thinking of them.”

“But the paper—with the scarlet hand on it?”

“Put there to suggest the obvious solution.”

George’s dignity was a little ruffled.

“Really, Battle, I don’t see how you can be so sure of that.”

“Bless you, Mr. Lomax, we know all about the Comrades of the Red Hand. We’ve had our eye on them ever since Prince Michael landed in England. That sort of thing is the elementary work of the department. They’d never be allowed to get within a mile of him.”

“I agree with Superintendent Battle,” said Isaacstein. “We must look elsewhere.”

“You see, sir,” said Battle, encouraged by his support, “we do know a little about the case. If we don’t know who gains by his death, we do know who loses by it.”

“Meaning?” said Isaacstein.

His black eyes were bent upon the detective. More than ever, he reminded Battle of a hooded cobra.

“You and Mr. Lomax, not to mention the Loyalist party of Herzoslovakia. If you’ll pardon the expression, sir, you’re in the soup.”

“Really, Battle,” interposed George, shocked to the core.

“Go on, Battle,” said Isaacstein. “In the soup describes the situation very accurately. You’re an intelligent man.”

“You’ve got to have a King. You’ve lost your King—like that!” He snapped his large fingers. “You’ve got to find another in a hurry, and that’s not an easy job. No, I don’t want to know the details of your scheme, the bare outline is enough for me, but, I take it, it’s a big deal?”

Isaacstein bent his head slowly.

“It’s a very big deal.”

“That brings me to my second question. Who is the next heir to the throne of Herzoslovakia?”

Isaacstein looked across at Lomax. The latter answered the question, with a certain reluctance, and a good deal of hesitation:

“That would be—I should say—yes, in all probability Prince Nicholas would be the next heir.”

“Ah!” said Battle. “And who is Prince Nicholas?”

“A first cousin of Prince Michael’s.”

“Ah!” said Battle. “I should like to hear all about Prince Nicholas, especially where he is at present.”

“Nothing much is known of him,” said Lomax. “As a young man, he was most peculiar in his ideas, consorted with Socialists and Republicans, and acted in a way highly unbecoming to his position. He was sent down from Oxford, I believe, for some wild escapade. There was a rumour of his death two years later in the Congo, but it was only a rumour. He turned up a few months ago when news of the Royalist reaction got about.”

“Indeed?” said Battle. “Where did he turn up?”

“In America.”

“America!”

Battle turned to Isaacstein with one laconic word:

“Oil?”

The financier nodded.

“He represented that if the Herzoslovakians chose a King, they would prefer him to Prince Michael as being more in sympathy with modern enlightened ideas, and he drew attention to his early democratic views and his sympathy with Republican ideals. In return for financial support, he was prepared to grant concessions to a certain group of American financiers.”

Superintendent Battle so far forgot his habitual impassivity as to give vent to a prolonged whistle.

“So that is it,” he muttered. “In the meantime, the Loyalist party supported Prince Michael, and you felt sure you’d come out on top. And then this happens!”

“You surely don’t think——” began George.

“It was a big deal,” said Battle. “Mr. Isaacstein says so. And I should say that what he calls a big deal _is_ a big deal.”

“There are always unscrupulous tools to be got hold of,” said Isaacstein quietly. “For the moment, Wall Street wins. But they’ve not done with me yet. Find out who killed Prince Michael, Superintendent Battle, if you want to do your country a service.”

“One thing strikes me as highly suspicious,” put in George. “Why did the equerry, Captain Andrassy, not come down with the Prince yesterday?”

“I’ve inquired into that,” said Battle. “It’s perfectly simple. He stayed in town to make arrangements with a certain lady, on behalf of Prince Michael, for next week-end. The Baron rather frowned on such things, thinking them injudicious at the present stage of affairs, so His Highness had to go about them in a hole and corner manner. He was, if I may say so, inclined to be a rather—er—dissipated young man.”

“I’m afraid so,” said George ponderously. “Yes, I’m afraid so.”

“There’s one other point we ought to take into account, I think,” said Battle, speaking with a certain amount of hesitation. “King Victor’s supposed to be in England.”

“King Victor?”

Lomax frowned in an effort at recollection.

“Notorious French crook, sir. We’ve had a warning from the Sûreté in Paris.”

“Of course,” said George. “I remember now. Jewel thief, isn’t he? Why, that’s the man——”

He broke off abruptly. Isaacstein, who had been frowning abstractedly at the fireplace, looked up just too late to catch the warning glance telegraphed from Superintendent Battle to the other. But being a man sensitive to vibrations in the atmosphere, he was conscious of a sense of strain.

“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 straight away. 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’ll 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 cheek-bones, 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’s 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 ante-room next to him. He must have gone down to the room downstairs by the other door, the door that gave on to 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’s 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.

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

Superintendent 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.”

15

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 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 so 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 assassination 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?”

“Something I’m getting at in my own blundering fashion. I take it that you didn’t meet the murdered man?”

“No. To put it like a book, he ‘retired to his own apartments immediately on arrival.’”

“And of course you haven’t seen the body?”

Virginia, eyeing him with a good deal of interest, shook her head.

“Could you get to see it, do you think?”

“By means of influence in high places—meaning Lord Caterham—I dare say I could. Why? Is it an order?”

“Good Lord, no,” said Anthony, horrified. “Have I been as dictatorial as all that? No, it’s simply this. Count Stanislaus was the incognito of Prince Michael of Herzoslovakia.”

Virginia’s eyes opened very wide.

“I see.” Suddenly her face broke into its fascinating one-sided smile. “I hope you don’t suggest that Michael went to his rooms simply to avoid seeing me?”

“Something of the kind,” admitted Anthony. “You see, if I’m right in my idea that some one wanted to prevent your coming to Chimneys, the reason seems to lie in your knowing Herzoslovakia. Do you realize that you’re the only person here who knew Prince Michael by sight?”

“Do you mean that this man who was murdered was an impostor?” asked Virginia abruptly.

“That is the possibility that crossed my mind. If you can get Lord Caterham to show you the body, we can clear up that point at once.”

“He was shot at 11.45,” said Virginia thoughtfully. “The time mentioned on that scrap of paper. The whole thing’s horribly mysterious.”

“That reminds me. Is that your window up there? The second from the end over the Council Chamber?”

“No, my room is in the Elizabethan wing, the other side. Why?”

“Simply because as I walked away last night, after thinking I heard a shot, the light went up in that room.”

“How curious! I don’t know who has that room, but I can find out by asking Bundle. Perhaps they heard the shot?”

“If so, they haven’t come forward to say so. I understood from Battle that nobody in the house heard the shot fired. It’s the only clue of any kind that I’ve got, and I dare say it’s a pretty rotten one, but I mean to follow it up for what it’s worth.”

“It’s curious, certainly,” said Virginia thoughtfully.

They had arrived at the boat-house by the lake, and had been leaning against it as they talked.

“And now for the whole story,” said Anthony. “We’ll paddle gently about on the lake, secure from the prying ears of Scotland Yard, American visitors, and curious house-maids.”

“I’ve heard something from Lord Caterham,” said Virginia. “But not nearly enough. To begin with, which are you really, Anthony Cade or Jimmy McGrath?”

For the second time that morning, Anthony unfolded the history of the last six weeks of his life—with this difference that the account given to Virginia needed no editing. He finished up with his own astonished recognition of “Mr. Holmes.”

“By the way, Mrs. Revel,” he ended, “I’ve never thanked you for imperilling your immortal soul by saying that I was an old friend of yours.”

“Of course you’re an old friend,” cried Virginia. “You don’t suppose I’d cumber you with a corpse, and then pretend you were a mere acquaintance next time I met you? No, indeed!”

She paused.

“Do you know one thing that strikes me about all this?” she went on. “That there’s some extra mystery about those Memoirs that we haven’t fathomed yet.”

“I think you’re right,” agreed Anthony. “There’s one thing I’d like you to tell me,” he continued.

“What’s that?”

“Why did you seem so surprised when I mentioned the name of Jimmy McGrath to you yesterday at Pont Street? Had you heard it before?”

“I had, Sherlock Holmes. George—my cousin, George Lomax, you know—came to see me the other day, and suggested a lot of frightfully silly things. His idea was that I should come down here and make myself agreeable to this man McGrath and Delilah the Memoirs out of him somehow. He didn’t put it like that, of course. He talked a lot of nonsense about English gentlewomen, and things like that, but his real meaning was never obscure for a moment. It was just the sort of rotten thing poor old George would think of. And then I wanted to know too much, and he tried to put me off with lies that wouldn’t have deceived a child of two.”

“Well, his plan seems to have succeeded, anyhow,” observed Anthony. “Here am I, the James McGrath he had in mind, and here are you being agreeable to me.”

“But, alas, for poor old George, no Memoirs! Now I’ve got a question for you. When I said I hadn’t written those letters, you said you knew I hadn’t—you couldn’t know any such thing?”

“Oh, yes, I could,” said Anthony, smiling. “I’ve got a good working knowledge of psychology.”

“You mean your belief in the sterling worth of my moral character was such that——”

But Anthony was shaking his head vigorously.

“Not at all. I don’t know anything about your moral character. You might have a lover, and you might write to him. But you’d never lie down to be blackmailed. The Virginia Revel of those letters was scared stiff. You’d have fought.”

“I wonder who the real Virginia Revel is—where she is, I mean. It makes me feel as though I had a double somewhere.”

Anthony lit a cigarette.

“You know that one of the letters was written from Chimneys?” he asked at last.

“What?” Virginia was clearly startled. “When was it written?”

“It wasn’t dated. But it’s odd, isn’t it?”

“I’m perfectly certain no other Virginia Revel has ever stayed at Chimneys. Bundle or Lord Caterham would have said something about the coincidence of the name if she had.”

“Yes. It’s rather queer. Do you know, Mrs. Revel, I am beginning to disbelieve profoundly in this other Virginia Revel.”

“She’s very elusive,” agreed Virginia.

“Extraordinarily elusive. I am beginning to think that the person who wrote those letters deliberately used your name.”

“But why?” cried Virginia. “Why should they do such a thing?”

“Ah, that’s just the question. There’s the devil of a lot to find out about everything.”

“Who do you really think killed Michael?” asked Virginia suddenly. “The Comrades of the Red Hand?”

“I suppose they might have done so,” said Anthony in a dissatisfied voice. “Pointless killing would be rather characteristic of them.”

“Let’s get to work,” said Virginia. “I see Lord Caterham and Bundle strolling together. The first thing to do is to find out definitely whether the dead man is Michael or not.”

Anthony paddled to shore and a few moments later they had joined Lord Caterham and his daughter.

“Lunch is late,” said his lordship in a depressed voice. “Battle has insulted the cook, I expect.”

“This is a friend of mine, Bundle,” said Virginia. “Be nice to him.”

Bundle looked earnestly at Anthony for some minutes, and then addressed a remark to Virginia as though he had not been there.

“Where do you pick up these nice-looking men, Virginia? ‘How do you do it?’ says she enviously.”

“You can have him,” said Virginia generously. “I want Lord Caterham.”

She smiled upon the flattered peer, slipped her hand through his arm and they moved off together.

“Do you talk?” asked Bundle. “Or are you just strong and silent?”

“Talk?” said Anthony. “I babble. I murmur. I gurgle—like the running brook, you know. Sometimes I even ask questions.”

“As for instance?”

“Who occupies the second room on the left from the end?”

He pointed to it as he spoke.

“What an extraordinary question!” said Bundle. “You intrigue me greatly. Let me see—yes—that’s Mademoiselle Brun’s room. The French governess. She endeavours to keep my young sisters in order. Dulcie and Daisy—like the song, you know. I dare say they’d have called the next one, Dorothy May. But mother got tired of having nothing but girls and died. Thought some one else could take on the job of providing an heir.”

“Mademoiselle Brun,” said Anthony thoughtfully. “How long has she been with you?”

“Two months. She came to us when we were in Scotland.”

“Ha!” said Anthony. “I smell a rat.”

“I wish I could smell some lunch,” said Bundle. “Do I ask the Scotland Yard man to have lunch with us, Mr. Cade? You’re a man of the world, you know about the etiquette of such things. We’ve never had a murder in the house before. Exciting, isn’t it? I’m sorry your character was so completely cleared this morning. I’ve always wanted to meet a murderer and see for myself if they’re as genial and charming as the Sunday papers always say they are. God! what’s that?”