Tuesday Night at Chimneys

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

XXV. Tuesday Night at Chimneys

Lord Caterham, Virginia and Bundle were sitting in the library after dinner. It was Tuesday evening. Some thirty hours had elapsed since Anthony’s rather dramatic departure.

For at least the seventh time Bundle repeated Anthony’s parting words, as spoken at Hyde Park Corner.

“I’ll find my own way back,” repeated Virginia thoughtfully. “That doesn’t look as though he expected to be away as long as this. And he’s left all his things here.”

“He didn’t tell you where he was going?”

“No,” said Virginia, looking straight in front of her. “He told me nothing.”

After this, there was a silence for a minute or two. Lord Caterham was the first to break it.

“On the whole,” he said, “keeping an hotel has some advantages over keeping a country house.”

“Meaning——?”

“That little notice they always hang up in your room. Visitors intending departure must give notice before twelve o’clock.”

Virginia smiled.

“I dare say,” he continued, “that I am old-fashioned and unreasonable. It’s the fashion, I know, to pop in and out of a house. Same idea as an hotel—perfect freedom of action, and no bill at the end!”

“You are an old grouser,” said Bundle. “You’ve had Virginia and me. What more do you want?”

“Nothing more, nothing more,” Lord Caterham assured them hastily. “That’s not it at all. It’s the principle of the thing. It gives one such a restless feeling. I’m quite willing to admit that it’s been an almost ideal twenty-four hours. Peace—perfect peace. No burglaries or other crimes of violence, no detectives, no Americans. What I complain of is that I should have enjoyed it all so much more if I’d felt really secure. As it is, all the time I’ve been saying to myself ‘One or other of them is bound to turn up in a minute.’ And that spoilt the whole thing.”

“Well, nobody has turned up,” said Bundle. “We’ve been left severely alone—neglected, in fact. It’s odd the way Fish disappeared. Didn’t he say anything?”

“Not a word. Last time I saw him he was pacing up and down the Rose Garden yesterday afternoon, smoking one of those unpleasant cigars of his. After that he seems to have just melted into the landscape.”

“Somebody must have kidnapped him,” said Bundle hopefully.

“In another day or two, I expect we shall have Scotland Yard dragging the lake to find his dead body,” said her father gloomily. “It serves me right. At my time of life, I ought to have gone quietly abroad and taken care of my health, and not allowed myself to be drawn into George Lomax’s wild-cat schemes. I——”

He was interrupted by Tredwell.

“Well,” said Lord Caterham irritably, “what is it?”

“The French detective is here, my lord, and would be glad if you could spare him a few minutes.”

“What did I tell you?” said Lord Caterham. “I knew it was too good to last. Depend upon it, they’ve found Fish’s dead body doubled up in the goldfish pond.”

Tredwell, in a strictly respectful manner, steered him back to the point of issue.

“Am I to say that you will see him, my lord?”

“Yes, yes. Bring him in here.”

Tredwell departed. He returned a minute or two later announcing in a lugubrious voice:

“Monsieur Lemoine.”

The Frenchman came in with a quick, light step. His walk, more than his face, betrayed the fact that he was excited about something.

“Good evening, Lemoine,” said Lord Caterham. “Have a drink, won’t you?”

“I thank you, no.” He bowed punctiliously to the ladies. “At last I make progress. As things are, I felt that you should be acquainted with the discoveries—the very grave discoveries that I have made in the course of the last twenty-four hours.”

“I thought there must be something important going on somewhere,” said Lord Caterham.

“My lord, yesterday afternoon one of your guests left this house in a curious manner. From the beginning, I must tell you, I have had my suspicions. Here is a man who comes from the wilds. Two months ago he was in South Africa. Before that—where?”

Virginia drew a sharp breath. For a moment the Frenchman’s eyes rested on her doubtfully. Then he went on:

“Before that—where? None can say. And he is just such a one as the man I am looking for—gay, audacious, reckless, one who would dare anything. I send cable after cable, but I can get no word as to his past life. Ten years ago he was in Canada, yes, but since then—silence. My suspicions grow stronger. Then I picked up one day a scrap of paper where he has lately passed along. It bears an address—the address of a house in Dover. Later, as though by chance, I drop that same piece of paper. Out of the tail of my eye, I see this Boris, this Herzoslovakian, pick it up and take it to his master. All along I have been sure that this Boris is an emissary of the Comrades of the Red Hand. We know that the Comrades are working in with King Victor over this affair. If Boris recognized his Chief in Mr. Anthony Cade, would he not do just what he has done—transferred his allegiance? Why should he attach himself otherwise to an insignificant stranger? It was suspicious, I tell you, very suspicious.

“But almost I am disarmed, for Anthony Cade brings this same paper to me at once and asks me if I have dropped it. As I say, almost I am disarmed—but not quite! For it may mean that he is innocent, or it may mean that he is very, very clever. I deny, of course, that it is mine or that I dropped it. But in the meantime I have set inquiries on foot. Only to-day I have news. The house at Dover has been precipitately abandoned, but up till yesterday afternoon it was occupied by a body of foreigners. Not a doubt but that it was King Victor’s headquarters. Now see the significance of these points. Yesterday afternoon, Mr. Cade clears out from here precipitately. Ever since he dropped that paper, he must know that the game is up. He reaches Dover and immediately the gang is disbanded. What the next move will be, I do not know. What is quite certain is that Mr. Anthony Cade will not return here. But knowing King Victor, as I do, I am certain that he will not abandon the game without having one more try for the jewel. And that is when I shall get him!”

Virginia stood up suddenly. She walked across to the mantelpiece and spoke in a voice that rang cold like steel.

“You are leaving one thing out of account, I think, M. Lemoine,” she said. “Mr. Cade is not the only guest who disappeared yesterday in a suspicious manner.”

“You mean, Madame——?”

“That all you have said applies equally well to another person. What about Mr. Hiram Fish?”

“Oh, Mr. Fish!”

“Yes, Mr. Fish. Did you not tell us that first night that King Victor had lately come to England from America? So has Mr. Fish come to England from America. It is true that he brought a letter of introduction from a very well-known man, but surely that would be a simple thing for a man like King Victor to manage. He is certainly not what he pretends to be. Lord Caterham has commented on the fact that when it is a question of the first editions he is supposed to have come here to see he is always the listener, never the talker. And there are several suspicious facts against him. There was a light in his window the night of the murder. Then take that evening in the Council Chamber. When I met him on the terrace he was fully dressed. He could have dropped the paper. You didn’t actually see Mr. Cade do so. Mr. Cade may have gone to Dover. If he did it was simply to investigate. He may have been kidnapped there. I say that there is far more suspicion attaching to Mr. Fish’s actions than to Mr. Cade’s.”

The Frenchman’s voice rang out sharply:

“From your point of view, that well may be, Madame. I do not dispute it. And I agree that Mr. Fish is not what he seems.”

“Well, then?”

“But that makes no difference. You see, Madame, Mr. Fish is a Pinkerton’s man.”

“What?” cried Lord Caterham.

“Yes, Lord Caterham. He came over here to trail King Victor. Superintendent Battle and I have known this for some time.”

Virginia said nothing. Very slowly she sat down again. With those few words the structure that she had built up so carefully was scattered in ruins about her feet.

“You see,” Lemoine was continuing, “we have all known that eventually King Victor would come to Chimneys. It was the one place we were sure of catching him.”

Virginia looked up with an odd light in her eyes, and suddenly she laughed.

“You’ve not caught him yet,” she said.

Lemoine looked at her curiously.

“No, Madame. But I shall.”

“He’s supposed to be rather famous for outwitting people, isn’t he?”

The Frenchman’s face darkened with anger.

“This time, it will be different,” he said between his teeth.

“He’s a very attractive fellow,” said Lord Caterham. “Very attractive. But surely—why, you said he was an old friend of yours, Virginia?”

“That is why,” said Virginia composedly, “I think M. Lemoine must be making a mistake.”

And her eyes met the detective’s steadily, but he appeared in no wise discomfited.

“Time will show, Madame,” he said.

“Do you pretend that it was he who shot Prince Michael?” she asked presently.

“Certainly.”

But Virginia shook her head.

“Oh, no!” she said. “Oh, no! That is one thing I am quite sure of. Anthony Cade never killed Prince Michael.”

Lemoine was watching her intently.

“There is a possibility that you are right, Madame,” he said slowly. “A possibility, that is all. It may have been the Herzoslovakian, Boris, who exceeded his orders and fired that shot. Who knows, Prince Michael may have done him some great wrong, and the man sought revenge.”

“He looks a murderous sort of fellow,” agreed Lord Caterham. “The house-maids, I believe, scream when he passes them in the passages.”

“Well,” said Lemoine. “I must be going now. I felt it was due to you, my lord, to know exactly how things stand.”

“Very kind of you, I’m sure,” said Lord Caterham. “Quite certain you won’t have a drink? All right then. Good night.”

“I hate that man with his prim little black beard and his eyeglasses,” said Bundle, as soon as the door had shut behind him. “I hope Anthony does snoo him. I’d love to see him dancing with rage. What do you think about it all, Virginia?”

“I don’t know,” said Virginia. “I’m tired. I shall go up to bed.”

“Not a bad idea,” said Lord Caterham. “It’s half-past eleven.”

As Virginia was crossing the wide hall, she caught sight of a broad back that seemed familiar to her discreetly vanishing through a side door.

“Superintendent Battle,” she called imperiously.

The superintendent, for it was indeed he, retraced his steps with a shade of unwillingness.

“Yes, Mrs. Revel?”

“M. Lemoine has been here. He says—— Tell me, is it true, really true, that Mr. Fish is an American detective?”

Superintendent Battle nodded.

“That’s right.”

“You have known it all along?”

Again Superintendent Battle nodded.

Virginia turned away towards the staircase.

“I see,” she said. “Thank you.”

Until that minute she had refused to believe.

And now——?

Sitting down before her dressing-table in her own room, she faced the question squarely. Every word that Anthony had said came back to her fraught with a new significance.

Was this the “trade” that he had spoken of?

The trade that he had given up. But then——

An unusual sound disturbed the even tenor of her meditations. She lifted her head with a start. Her little gold clock showed the hour to be after one. Nearly two hours she had sat here thinking.

Again the sound was repeated. A sharp tap on the window-pane. Virginia went to the window and opened it. Below on the pathway was a tall figure which even as she looked stooped for another handful of gravel.

For a moment Virginia’s heart beat faster—then she recognized the massive strength and square-cut outline of the Herzoslovakian, Boris.

“Yes,” she said in a low tone. “What is it?”

At the moment it did not strike her as strange that Boris should be throwing gravel at her window at this hour of the night.

“What is it?” she repeated impatiently.

“I come from the Master,” said Boris in a low tone which nevertheless carried perfectly. “He has sent for you.”

He made the statement in a perfectly matter-of-fact tone.

“Sent for me?”

“Yes, I am to bring you to him. There is a note. I will throw it up to you.”

Virginia stood back a little, and a slip of paper, weighted with a stone, fell accurately at her feet. She unfolded it and read:

“My dear (Anthony had written),—I’m in a tight place, but I mean to win through. Will you trust me and come to me?”

For quite two minutes Virginia stood there, immovable, reading those few words over again and again.

She raised her head, looking round the well-appointed luxury of the bedroom as though she saw it with new eyes.

Then she leaned out of the window again.

“What am I to do?” she asked.

“The detectives are the other side of the house, outside the Council Chamber. Come down and out through this side door. I will be there. I have a car waiting outside in the road.”

Virginia nodded. Quickly she changed her dress for one of fawn tricot, and pulled on a little fawn leather hat.

Then, smiling a little, she wrote a short note, addressed it to Bundle and pinned it to the pincushion.

She stole quietly downstairs and undid the bolts of the side door. Just a moment she paused, then, with a little gallant toss of the head, the same toss of the head which her ancestors had gone into action in the Crusades, she passed through.

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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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