The Red Signal

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

XXII. The Red Signal

Superintendent Battle was standing in the library at Wyvvern Abbey.

George Lomax, seated before a desk overflowing with papers, was frowning portentously.

Superintendent Battle had opened proceedings by making a brief and business-like report. Since then, the conversation had lain almost entirely with George, and Battle had contented himself with making brief and usually monosyllabic replies to the other’s questions.

On the desk, in front of George, was the packet of letters Anthony had found on his dressing-table.

“I can’t understand it at all,” said George irritably, as he picked up the packet. “They’re in code, you say?”

“Just so, Mr. Lomax.”

“And where does he say he found them—on his dressing-table?”

Battle repeated, word for word, Anthony Cade’s account of how he had come to regain possession of the letters.

“And he brought them at once to you? That was quite proper—quite proper. But who could have placed them in his room?”

Battle shook his head.

“That’s the sort of thing you ought to know,” complained George. “It sounds to me very fishy—very fishy indeed. What do we know about this man Cade anyway? He appears in a most mysterious manner—under highly suspicious circumstances—and we know nothing whatever about him. I may say that I, personally, don’t care for his manner at all. You’ve made inquiries about him, I suppose?”

Superintendent Battle permitted himself a patient smile.

“We wired at once to South Africa, and his story has been confirmed on all points. He was in Bulawayo with Mr. McGrath at the time he stated. Previous to their meeting, he was employed by Messrs. Castle, the Tourist Agents.”

“Just what I should have expected,” said George. “He has the kind of cheap assurance that succeeds in a certain type of employment. But about these letters—steps must be taken at once—at once——”

The great man puffed himself out and swelled importantly.

Superintendent Battle opened his mouth, but George forestalled him.

“There must be no delay. These letters must be decoded without any loss of time. Let me see, who is the man? There is a man—connected with the British Museum. Knows all there is to know about ciphers. Ran the department for us during the War. Where is Miss Oscar? She will know. Name something like Win—Win——”

“Professor Wynward,” said Battle.

“Exactly. I remember perfectly now. He must be wired to, immediately.”

“I have done so, Mr. Lomax, an hour ago. He will arrive by the 12.10.”

“Oh, very good, very good. Thank Heaven, something is off my mind. I shall have to be in town to-day. You can get along without me, I suppose?”

“I think so, sir.”

“Well, do your best, Battle, do your best. I am terribly rushed just at present.”

“Just so, sir.”

“By the way, why did not Mr. Eversleigh come over with you?”

“He was still asleep, sir. We’ve been up all night, as I told you.”

“Oh, quite so. I am frequently up nearly the whole night myself. To do the work of thirty-six hours in twenty-four, that is my constant task! Send Mr. Eversleigh over at once when you get back, will you, Battle?”

“I will give him your message, sir.”

“Thank you, Battle. I realize perfectly that you had to repose a certain amount of confidence in him. But do you think it was strictly necessary to take my cousin, Mrs. Revel, into your confidence also?”

“In view of the name signed to those letters, I do, Mr. Lomax.”

“An amazing piece of effrontery,” murmured George, his brow darkened as he looked at the bundle of letters. “I remember the late King of Herzoslovakia. A charming fellow, but weak—deplorably weak. A tool in the hands of an unscrupulous woman. Have you any theory as to how these letters came to be restored to Mr. Cade?”

“It’s my opinion,” said Battle, “that if people can’t get a thing one way—they try another.”

“I don’t quite follow you,” said George.

“This crook, this King Victor, he’s well aware by now that the Council Chamber is watched. So he’ll let us have the letters, and let us do the decoding, and let us find the hiding-place. And then—trouble! But Lemoine and I between us will attend to that.”

“You’ve got a plan, eh?”

“I wouldn’t go so far as to say I’ve got a plan. But I’ve got an idea. It’s a very useful thing sometimes, an idea.”

Thereupon Superintendent Battle took his departure.

He had no intention of taking George any further into his confidence.

On the way back, he passed Anthony on the road and stopped.

“Going to give me a lift back to the house?” asked Anthony. “That’s good.”

“Where have you been, Mr. Cade?”

“Down to the station to inquire about trains.”

Battle raised his eyebrows.

“Thinking of leaving us again?” he inquired.

“Not just at present,” laughed Anthony. “By the way what’s upset Isaacstein? He arrived in the car just as I left, and he looked as though something had given him a nasty jolt.”

“Mr. Isaacstein?”

“Yes.”

“I can’t say, I’m sure. I fancy it would take a good deal to jolt him.”

“So do I,” agreed Anthony. “He’s quite one of the strong silent yellow men of finance.”

Suddenly Battle leant forward and touched the chauffeur on the shoulder.

“Stop, will you? And wait for me here.”

He jumped out of the car, much to Anthony’s surprise. But in a minute or two, the latter perceived M. Lemoine advancing to meet the English detective, and gathered that it was a signal from him which had attracted Battle’s attention.

There was a rapid colloquy between them, and then the superintendent returned to the car and jumped in again, biding the chauffeur drive on.

His expression had completely changed.

“They’ve found the revolver,” he said suddenly and curtly.

“What?”

Anthony gazed at him in great surprise.

“Where?”

“In Isaacstein’s suit-case.”

“Oh, impossible!”

“Nothing’s impossible,” said Battle. “I ought to have remembered that.”

He sat perfectly still, tapping his knee with his hand.

“Who found it?”

Battle jerked his head over his shoulder.

“Lemoine. Clever chap. They think no end of him at the Sûreté.”

“But doesn’t this upset all your ideas?”

“No,” said Superintendent Battle very slowly. “I can’t say it does. It was a bit of a surprise, I admit, at first. But it fits in very well with one idea of mine.”

“Which is?”

But the superintendent branched off on to a totally different subject.

“I wonder if you’d mind finding Mr. Eversleigh for me, sir? There’s a message for him from Mr. Lomax. He’s to go over to the Abbey at once.”

“All right,” said Anthony. The car had just drawn up at the great door. “He’s probably in bed still.”

“I think not,” said the detective. “If you’ll look, you’ll see him walking under the trees with Mrs. Revel.”

“Wonderful eyes you have, haven’t you, Battle?” said Anthony as he departed on his errand.

He delivered the message to Bill, who was duly disgusted.

“Damn it all,” grumbled Bill to himself, as he strode off to the house, “why can’t Codders sometimes leave me alone? And why can’t these blasted Colonials stay in their Colonies? What do they want to come over here for, and pick out all the best girls? I’m fed to the teeth with everything.”

“Have you heard about the revolver?” asked Virginia breathlessly, as Bill left them.

“Battle told me. Rather staggering, isn’t it? Isaacstein was in a frightful state yesterday to get away, but I thought it was just nerves. He’s about the one person I’d have pitched upon as being above suspicion. Can you see any motive for his wanting Prince Michael out of the way?”

“It certainly doesn’t fit in,” agreed Virginia thoughtfully.

“Nothing fits in anywhere,” said Anthony discontentedly. “I rather fancied myself as an amateur detective to begin with, and so far all I’ve done is to clear the character of the French governess at vast trouble and some little expense.”

“Is that what you went to France for?” inquired Virginia.

“Yes, I went to Dinard and had an interview with the Comtesse de Breteuil, awfully pleased with my own cleverness, and fully expecting to be told that no such person as Mademoiselle Brun had ever been heard of. Instead of which I was given to understand that the lady in question had been the mainstay of the household for the last seven years. So, unless the Comtesse is also a crook, that ingenious theory of mine falls to the ground.”

Virginia shook her head.

“Madame de Breteuil is quite above suspicion. I know her quite well, and I fancy I must have come across Mademoiselle at the chateau. I certainly know her face quite well—in that vague way one does know governesses and companions and people one sits opposite to in trains. It’s awful, but I never really look at them properly. Do you?”

“Only if they’re exceptionally beautiful,” admitted Anthony.

“Well, in this case——” she broke off. “What’s the matter?”

Anthony was staring at a figure which detached itself from the clump of trees and stood there rigidly at attention. It was the Herzoslovakian, Boris.

“Excuse me,” said Anthony to Virginia, “I must just speak to my dog a minute.”

He went across to where Boris was standing.

“What’s the matter? What do you want?”

“Master,” said Boris, bowing.

“Yes, that’s all very well, but you mustn’t keep following me about like this. It looks odd.”

Without a word, Boris produced a soiled scrap of paper, evidently torn from a letter, and handed it to Anthony.

“What’s this?” said Anthony.

There was an address scrawled on the paper, nothing else.

“He dropped it,” said Boris. “I bring it to the Master.”

“Who dropped it?”

“The foreign gentleman.”

“But why bring it to me?”

Boris looked at him reproachfully.

“Well, anyway, go away now,” said Anthony. “I’m busy.”

Boris saluted, turned sharply on his heel, and marched away. Anthony rejoined Virginia, thrusting the piece of paper into his pocket.

“What did he want?” she asked curiously. “And why do you call him your dog?”

“Because he acts like one,” said Anthony, answering the last question first. “He must have been a retriever in his last incarnation, I think. He’s just brought me a piece of a letter which he says the foreign gentleman dropped. I suppose he means Lemoine.”

“I suppose so,” acquiesced Virginia.

“He’s always following me round,” continued Anthony. “Just like a dog. Says next to nothing. Just looks at me with his big round eyes. I can’t make him out.”

“Perhaps he meant Isaacstein,” suggested Virginia. “Isaacstein looks foreign enough, Heaven knows.”

“Isaacstein,” muttered Anthony impatiently. “Where the devil does he come in?”

“Are you ever sorry that you’ve mixed yourself up in all this?” asked Virginia suddenly.

“Sorry? Good Lord, no. I love it. I’ve spent most of my life looking for trouble, you know. Perhaps, this time, I’ve got a little more than I bargained for.”

“But you’re well out of the wood now,” said Virginia, a little surprised by the unusual gravity of his tone.

“Not quite.”

They strolled on for a minute or two in silence.

“There are some people,” said Anthony, breaking the silence, “who don’t conform to the signals. An ordinary well-regulated locomotive slows down or pulls up when it sees the red light hoisted against it. Perhaps I was born colour blind. When I see the red signal—I can’t help forging ahead. And in the end, you know, that spells disaster. Bound to. And quite right really. That sort of thing is bad for traffic generally.”

He still spoke very seriously.

“I suppose,” said Virginia, “that you have taken a good many risks in your life?”

“Pretty nearly every one there is—except marriage.”

“That’s rather cynical.”

“It wasn’t meant to be. Marriage, the kind of marriage I mean, would be the biggest adventure of the lot.”

“I like that,” said Virginia, flushing eagerly.

“There’s only one kind of woman I’d want to marry—the kind who is worlds removed from my type of life. What would we do about it? Is she to lead my life, or am I to lead hers?”

“If she loved you——”

“Sentimentality, Mrs. Revel. You know it is. Love isn’t a drug that you take to blind you to your surroundings—you can make it that, yes, but it’s a pity—love can be a lot more than that. What do you think the King and his beggar maid thought of married life after they’d been married a year or two? Didn’t she regret her rags and her bare feet and her care-free life? You bet she did. Would it have been any good renouncing his Crown for her sake? Not a bit of good, either. He’d have made a damned bad beggar, I’m sure. And no woman respects a man when he’s doing a thing thoroughly badly.”

“Have you fallen in love with a beggar maid, Mr. Cade?” inquired Virginia softly.

“It’s the other way about with me, but the principle’s the same.”

“And there’s no way out?” asked Virginia.

“There’s always a way out,” said Anthony gloomily. “I’ve a theory that one can always get anything one wants if one will pay the price. And do you know what the price is, nine times out of ten? Compromise. A beastly thing, compromise, but it steals upon you as you near middle age. It’s stealing upon me now. To get the woman I want I’d—I’d even take up regular work.”

Virginia laughed.

“I was brought up to a trade, you know,” continued Anthony.

“And you abandoned it?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“A matter of principle.”

“Oh!”

“You’re a very unusual woman,” said Anthony suddenly, turning and looking at her.

“Why?”

“You can refrain from asking questions.”

“You mean that I haven’t asked you what your trade was?”

“Just that.”

Again they walked on in silence. They were nearing the house now, passing close by the scented sweetness of the rose garden.

“You understand well enough, I dare say,” said Anthony, breaking the silence. “You know when a man’s in love with you. I don’t suppose you care a hang for me—or for anyone else—but, by God, I’d like to make you care.”

“Do you think you could?” asked Virginia, in a low voice.

“Probably not, but I’d have a damned good try.”

“Are you sorry you ever met me?” she said suddenly.

“Lord no. It’s the red signal again. When I first saw you—that day in Pont Street, I knew I was up against something that was going to hurt like fun. Your face did that to me—just your face. There’s magic in you from head to foot—some women are like that, but I’ve never known a woman who had so much of it as you have. You’ll marry some one respectable and prosperous, I suppose, and I shall return to my disreputable life, but I’ll kiss you once before I go—I swear I will.”

“You can’t do it now,” said Virginia softly. “Superintendent Battle is watching us out of the library window.”

Anthony looked at her.

“You’re rather a devil, Virginia,” he said dispassionately. “But rather a dear too.”

Then he waved his hand airily to Superintendent Battle.

“Caught any criminals this morning, Battle?”

“Not as yet, Mr. Cade.”

“That sounds hopeful.”

Battle, with an agility surprising in so stolid a man, vaulted out of the library window and joined them on the terrace.

“I’ve got Professor Wynward down here,” he announced in a whisper. “Just this minute arrived. He’s decoding the letters now. Would you like to see him at work?”

His tone suggested that of the showman speaking of some pet exhibit. Receiving a reply in the affirmative, he led them up to the window and invited them to peep inside.

Seated at a table, the letters spread out in front of him and writing busily on a big sheet of paper was a small red-haired man of middle age. He grunted irritably to himself as he wrote, and every now and then rubbed his nose violently until its hue almost rivalled that of his hair.

Presently he looked up.

“That you, Battle? What you want me down here to unravel this tomfoolery for? A child in arms could do it. A baby of two could do it on its head. Call this thing a cipher? It leaps to the eye, man.”

“I’m glad of that, Professor,” said Battle mildly. “But we’re not all so clever as you are, you know.”

“It doesn’t need cleverness,” snapped the Professor. “It’s routine work. Do you want the whole bundle done? It’s a long business, you know—requires diligent application and close attention, and absolutely no intelligence. I’ve done the one dated ‘Chimneys’ which you said was important. I might as well take the rest back to London and hand ’em over to one of my assistants. I really can’t afford the time myself. I’ve come away now from a real teaser, and I want to get back to it.”

His eyes glistened a little.

“Very well, Professor,” assented Battle. “I’m sorry we’re such small fry. I’ll explain to Mr. Lomax. It’s just this one letter that all the hurry is about. Lord Caterham is expecting you to stay for lunch, I believe.”

“Never have lunch,” said the Professor. “Bad habit, lunch. A banana and a water biscuit is all any sane and healthy man should need in the middle of the day.”

He seized his overcoat, which lay across the back of a chair. Battle went round to the front of the house, and a few minutes later Anthony and Virginia heard the sound of a car driving away.

Battle rejoined them, carrying in his hand the half-sheet of paper which the Professor had given him.

“He’s always like that,” said Battle, referring to the departed Professor. “In the very deuce of a hurry. Clever man, though. Well, here’s the kernel of Her Majesty’s letter. Care to have a look at it?”

Virginia stretched out a hand, and Anthony read it over her shoulder. It had been, he remembered, a long epistle, breathing mingled passion and despair. The genius of Professor Wynward had transformed it into an essentially business-like communication.

Operations carried out successfully, but S. double crossed us. Has removed stone from hiding-place. Not in his room. I have searched. Found following memorandum which I think refers to it: “Richmond Seven Straight Eight Left Three Right.”

“S.?” said Anthony. “Stylptitch, of course. Cunning old dog. He changed the hiding-place.”

“Richmond,” said Virginia thoughtfully. “Is the diamond concealed somewhere at Richmond, I wonder?”

“It’s a favourite spot for Royalties,” agreed Anthony.

Battle shook his head.

“I still think it’s a reference to something in this house.”

“I know,” cried Virginia suddenly.

Both men turned to look at her.

“The Holbein portrait in the Council Chamber. They were tapping on the wall just below it. And it’s a portrait of the Earl of Richmond!”

“You’ve got it,” said Battle, and slapped his leg.

He spoke with an animation quite unwonted.

“That’s the starting-point, the picture, and the crooks know no more than we do what the figures refer to. Those two men in armour stand directly underneath the picture, and their first idea was that the diamond was hidden in one of them. The measurements might have been inches. That failed, and their next idea was a secret passage or stairway, or a sliding panel. Do you know of any such thing, Mrs. Revel?”

Virginia shook her head.

“There’s a Priest’s Hole, and at least one secret passage, I know,” she said. “I believe I’ve been shown them once, but I can’t remember much about them now. Here’s Bundle, she’ll know.”

Bundle was coming quickly along the terrace towards them.

“I’m taking the Panhard up to town after lunch,” she remarked. “Anyone want a lift? Wouldn’t you like to come, Mr. Cade? We’ll be back by dinner-time.”

“No, thanks,” said Anthony. “I’m quite happy and busy down here.”

“The man fears me,” said Bundle. “Either my driving or my fatal fascination! Which is it?”

“The latter,” said Anthony. “Every time.”

“Bundle, dear,” said Virginia, “is there any secret passage leading out of the Council Chamber?”

“Rather. But it’s only a mouldy one. Supposed to lead from Chimneys to Wyvvern Abbey. So it did in the old, old days, but it’s all blocked up now. You can only get along it for about a hundred yards from this end. The one upstairs in the White Gallery is ever so much more amusing, and the Priest’s Hole isn’t half bad.”

“We’re not regarding them from an artistic standpoint,” explained Virginia. “It’s business. How do you get into the Council Chamber one?”

“Hinged panel. I’ll show you after lunch if you like.”

“Thank you,” said Superintendent Battle. “Shall we say at 2.30?”

Bundle looked at him with lifted eyebrows.

“Crook stuff?” she inquired.

Tredwell appeared on the terrace.

“Luncheon is served, my lady,” he announced.

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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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