The Secret of Chimneys Chapter 12: Part 12

threw open the door. On the steps was the unemployed young man. Virginia plunged headlong with a relief born of overstrung nerves. “Come in,” she said. “I think that perhaps I’ve got a job for you.” She took him into the dining-room, pulled toward a chair for him, sat down herself facing him, and stared at him very attentively. “Excuse me,” she said, “but are you—I mean——” “Eton and Oxford,” said the young man. “That’s what you wanted to ask me, wasn’t it?” “Something of the kind,” admitted Virginia. “Come down in the world entirely through my own incapacity to stick to regular work. This isn’t regular work you’re offering me, I hope?” A smile hovered for a moment on her lips. “It’s very irregular.” “Good,” said the young man in a tone of satisfaction. Virginia noted his bronzed face and long lean body with approval. “You see,” she explained, “I’m in rather a hole, and most of my friends are—well, rather high up. They’ve all got something to lose.” “I’ve nothing whatever to lose. So go ahead. What’s the trouble?” “There’s a dead man in the next room,” said Virginia. “He’s been murdered, and I don’t know what to do about it.” She blurted out the words as simply as a child might have done. The young man went up enormously in her estimation by the way he accepted her statement. He might have been used to hearing a similar announcement made every day of his life. “Excellent,” he said, with a trace of enthusiasm. “I’ve always wanted to do a bit of amateur detective work. Shall we go and view the body, or will you give me the facts first?” “I think I’d better give you the facts.” She paused for a moment to consider how best to condense her story, and then began, speaking quietly and concisely. “This man came to the house for the first time yesterday and asked to see me. He had certain letters with him—love letters, signed with my name——” “But which weren’t written by you,” put in the young man quietly. Virginia looked at him in some astonishment “How did you know that?” “Oh, I deduced it. But go on.” “He wanted to blackmail me—and I—well, I don’t know if you’ll understand, but I—let him.” She looked at him appealingly, and he nodded his head reassuringly. “Of course I understand. You wanted to see what it felt like.” “How frightfully clever of you! That’s just what I did feel.” “I _am_ clever,” said the young man modestly. “But, mind you, very few people would understand that point of view. Most people, you see, haven’t got any imagination.” “I suppose that’s so. I told this man to come back to-day—at six o’clock. I arrived home from Ranelagh to find that a bogus telegram had got all the servants except my maid out of the house. Then I walked into the study and found the man shot.” “Who let him in?” “I don’t know. I think if my maid had done so she would have told me.” “Does she know what has happened?” “I have told her nothing.” The young man nodded, and rose to his feet. “And now to view the body,” he said briskly. “But I’ll tell you this—on the whole it’s always best to tell the truth. One lie involves you in such a lot of lies—and continuous lying is so monotonous.” “Then you advise me to ring up the police?” “Probably. But we’ll just have a look at the fellow first.” Virginia led the way out the room. On the threshold she paused, looking back at him. “By the way,” she said, “you haven’t told me your name yet?” “My name? My name’s Anthony Cade.” 9 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