Anthony Disposes of a Body

The Secret of Chimneys by Agatha Christie, is part of the HackerNoon Books Series. You can jump to any chapter in this book here. Anthony Disposes of a Body

IX. 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 Élise 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 plain 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.

“Sit down,” he said quietly. “There’s more in this than there seemed to be first go off. To begin with, what’s our hypothesis? There are only two possible ones. There is, of course, the real Virginia of the letters. She may have somehow or other tracked him down, shot him, dropped the pistol, stolen the letters, and taken herself off. That’s quite possible, isn’t it?”

“I suppose so,” said Virginia unwillingly.

“The other hypothesis is a good deal more interesting. Whoever wished to kill Giuseppe, wished also to incriminate you—in fact that may have been their main object. They could get him easily enough anywhere, but they took extraordinary pains and trouble to get him here, and whoever they were they knew all about you, your cottage at Datchet, your usual household arrangements, and the fact that you were at Ranelagh this afternoon. It seems an absurd question, but have you any enemies, Mrs. Revel?”

“Of course I haven’t—not that kind, anyway.”

“The question is,” said Anthony, “what are we going to do now? There are two courses open to us. A: Ring up the police, tell the whole story, and trust to your unassailable position in the world and your hitherto blameless life. B: An attempt on my part to dispose successfully of the body. Naturally my private inclinations urge me to B. I’ve always wanted to see if I couldn’t conceal a crime with the necessary cunning, but have had a squeamish objection to shedding blood. On the whole, I expect A’s the soundest. Then there’s a sort of bowdlerized A. Ring up the police, etc., but suppress the pistol and the blackmailing letters—that is, if they are on him still.”

Anthony ran rapidly through the dead man’s pockets.

“He’s been stripped clean,” he announced. “There’s not a thing on him. There’ll be dirty work at the crossroads over those letters yet. Hullo, what’s this? Hole in the lining—something got caught there, torn roughly out, and a scrap of paper left behind.”

He drew out the scrap of paper as he spoke, and brought it over to the light. Virginia joined him.

“Pity we haven’t got the rest of it,” he muttered. “Chimneys 11.45 Thursday—Sounds like an appointment.”

“Chimneys?” cried Virginia. “How extraordinary!”

“Why extraordinary? Rather high toned for such a low fellow?”

“I’m going to Chimneys this evening. At least I was.”

Anthony wheeled round on her.

“What’s that? Say that again.”

“I was going to Chimneys this evening,” repeated Virginia.

Anthony stared at her.

“I begin to see. At least, I may be wrong—but it’s an idea. Suppose some one wanted badly to prevent your going to Chimneys?”

“My cousin George Lomax does,” said Virginia with a smile. “But I can’t seriously suspect George of murder.”

Anthony did not smile. He was lost in thought.

“If you ring up the police, it’s good-bye to any idea of getting to Chimneys to-day—or even to-morrow. And I should like you to go to Chimneys. I fancy it will disconcert our unknown friends. Mrs. Revel, will you put yourself in my hands?”

“It’s to be Plan B, then?”

“It’s to be Plan B. The first thing is to get that maid of yours out of the house. Can you manage that?”

“Easily.”

Virginia went out in the hall and called up the stairs.

“Élise. Élise.”

“Madame?”

Anthony heard a rapid colloquy, and then the front door opened and shut. Virginia came back into the room.

“She’s gone. I sent her for some special scent—told her the shop in question was open until eight. It won’t be, of course. She’s to follow after me by the next train without coming back here.”

“Good,” said Anthony approvingly. “We can now proceed to the disposal of the body. It’s a time-worn method, but I’m afraid I shall have to ask you if there’s such a thing in the house as a trunk?”

“Of course there is. Come down to the basement and take your choice.”

There was a variety of trunks in the basement. Anthony selected a solid affair of suitable size.

“I’ll attend to this part of it,” he said tactfully. “You go upstairs and get ready to start.”

Virginia obeyed. She slipped out of her tennis kit, put on a soft brown travelling dress and a delightful little orange hat, and came down to find Anthony waiting in the hall with a neatly strapped trunk beside him.

“I should like to tell you the story of my life,” he remarked, “but it’s going to be rather a busy evening. Now this is what you’ve got to do. Call a taxi, have your luggage put on it, including the trunk. Drive to Paddington. There have the trunk put in the Left Luggage Office. I shall be on the platform. As you pass me, drop the Cloak Room ticket. I will pick it up and pretend to return it to you, but in reality I shall keep it. Go on to Chimneys, and leave the rest to me.”

“It’s awfully good of you,” said Virginia. “It’s really dreadful of me saddling a perfect stranger with a dead body like this.”

“I like it,” returned Anthony nonchalantly. “If one of my friends, Jimmy McGrath, were here, he’d tell you that anything of this kind suits me down to the ground.”

Virginia was staring at him.

“What name did you say? Jimmy McGrath?”

Anthony returned her glance keenly.

“Yes. Why? Have you heard of him?”

“Yes—and quite lately.” She paused irresolutely, and then went on. “Mr. Cade, I must talk to you. Can’t you come down to Chimneys?”

“You’ll see me before very long, Mrs. Revel—I’ll tell you that. Now, exit Conspirator A by back door slinkingly. Exit Conspirator B in blaze of glory by front door to taxi.”

The plan went through without a hitch. Anthony, having picked up a second taxi, was on the platform and duly retrieved the fallen ticket. He then departed in search of a somewhat battered second-hand Morris Cowley which he had acquired earlier in the day in case it should be necessary to his plans.

Returning to Paddington in this, he handed the ticket to the porter, who got the trunk out of the cloak room and wedged it securely at the back of the car. Anthony drove off.

His objective now was out of London. Through Notting Hill, Shepherd’s Bush, down Goldhawk Road, through Brentford and Hounslow till he came to the long stretch of road mid-way between Hounslow and Staines. It was a well-frequented road, with motors passing continually. No footmarks or tyre marks were likely to show. Anthony stopped the car at a certain spot. Getting down, he first obscured the number-plate with mud. Then, waiting until he heard no car coming in either direction, he opened the trunk, heaved out Giuseppe’s body, and laid it neatly down by the side of the road, on the inside of a curve, so that the headlights of passing motors would not strike on it.

Then he entered the car again and drove away. The whole business had occupied exactly one minute and a half. He made a détour to the right, returning to London by way of Burnham Beeches. There again he halted the car, and choosing a giant of the forest he deliberately climbed the huge tree. It was something of a feat, even for Anthony. To one of the topmost branches, he affixed a small brown-paper parcel, concealing it in a little niche close to the bole.

“A very clever way of disposing of the pistol,” said Anthony to himself with some approval. “Everybody hunts about on the ground, and drags ponds. But there are very few people in England who could climb that tree.”

Next, back to London and Paddington Station. Here he left the trunk—at the other cloak room this time, the one on the Arrival side. He thought longingly of such things as good rumpsteaks, juicy chops, and large masses of fried potatoes. But he shook his head ruefully, glancing at his wrist watch. He fed the Morris with a fresh supply of petrol, and then took the road once more. North this time.

It was just after half-past eleven that he brought the car to rest in the road adjoining the park of Chimneys. Jumping out he scaled the wall easily enough, and set out towards the house. It took him longer than he thought, and presently he broke into a run. A great grey mass loomed up out of the darkness—the venerable pile of Chimneys. In the distance a stable clock chimed the three quarters.

11.45—the time mentioned on the scrap of paper. Anthony was on the terrace now, looking up at the house. Everything seemed dark and quiet.

“They go to bed early, these politicians,” he murmured to himself.

And suddenly a sound smote upon his ears—the sound of a shot. Anthony spun round quickly. The sound had come from within the house—he was sure of that. He waited a minute, but everything was still as death. Finally he went up to one of the long French windows from where he judged the sound that had startled him had come. He tried the handle. It was locked. He tried some of the other windows, listening intently all the while. But the silence remained unbroken.

In the end he told himself that he must have imagined the sound, or perhaps mistaken a stray shot coming from a poacher in the woods. He turned and retraced his steps across the park, vaguely dissatisfied and uneasy.

He looked back at the house, and whilst he looked a light sprang up in one of the windows on the first floor. In another minute it went out again, and the whole place was in darkness once more.

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This book is part of the public domain. Agatha Christie (1998). The Secret of Chimneys. Urbana, Illinois: Project Gutenberg. Retrieved https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/65238/pg65238-images.html

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