Part 13

Something in the emphasis of his tone made the detective look up sharply.

“Any ideas of your own, sir? Do you know who brought him there?”

“Yes,” said Anthony. “I did.”

He was a little annoyed at the absolutely unruffled calm preserved by the other.

“I must say you take these shocks very well, Battle,” he remarked.

“‘Never display emotion.’ That was a rule that was given to me once, and I’ve found it very useful.”

“You live up to it, certainly,” said Anthony. “I can’t say I’ve ever seen you ruffled. Well, do you want to hear the whole story?”

“If you please, Mr. Cade.”

Anthony pulled up two of the chairs, both men sat down, and Anthony recounted the events of the preceding Thursday night.

Battle listened immovably. There was a far-off twinkle in his eyes as Anthony finished.

“You know, sir,” he said, “You’ll get into trouble one of these days.”

“Then, for the second time, I’m not to be taken into custody?”

“We always like to give a man plenty of rope,” said Superintendent Battle.

“Very delicately put,” said Anthony. “Without unduly stressing the end of the proverb.”

“What I can’t quite make out, sir,” said Battle, “is why you decided to come across with this now?”

“It’s rather difficult to explain,” said Anthony. “You see, Battle, I’ve come to have really a very high opinion of your abilities. When the moment comes, you’re always there. Look at to-night. And it occurred to me that, in withholding this knowledge of mine, I was seriously cramping your style. You deserve to have access to all the facts. I’ve done what I could, and up to now I’ve made a mess of things. Until to-night, I couldn’t speak for Mrs. Revel’s sake. But now that those letters have been definitely proved to have nothing whatever to do with her, any idea of her complicity becomes absurd. Perhaps I advised her badly in the first place, but it struck me that her statement of having paid this man money to suppress the letters, simply as a whim, might take a bit of believing.”

“It might, by a jury,” agreed Battle. “Juries never have any imagination.”

“But you accept it quite easily?” said Anthony, looking curiously at him.

“Well, you see, Mr. Cade, most of my work has lain amongst these people. What they call the upper classes, I mean. You see, the majority of people are always wondering what the neighbours will think. But tramps and aristocrats don’t—they just do the first thing that comes into their heads, and they don’t bother to think what anyone thinks of them. I’m not meaning just the idle rich, the people who give big parties, and so on, I mean those that have had it born and bred in them for generations that nobody else’s opinion counts but their own. I’ve always found the upper classes the same—fearless, truthful and sometimes extraordinarily foolish.”

“This is a very interesting lecture, Battle. I suppose you’ll be writing your Reminiscences one of these days. They ought to be worth reading too.”

The detective acknowledged the suggestion with a smile, but said nothing.

“I’d rather like to ask you one question,” continued Anthony. “Did you connect me at all with the Staines affair? I fancied, from your manner, that you did.”

“Quite right. I had a hunch that way. But nothing definite to go upon. Your manner was very good, if I may say so, Mr. Cade. You never overdid the carelessness.”

“I’m glad of that,” said Anthony. “I’ve a feeling that ever since I met you you’ve been laying little traps for me. On the whole I’ve managed to avoid falling into them, but the strain has been acute.”

Battle smiled grimly.

“That’s how you get a crook in the end, sir. Keep him on the run, to and fro, turning and twisting. Sooner or later, his nerve goes, and you’ve got him.”

“You’re a cheerful fellow, Battle. When will you get me, I wonder?”

“Plenty of rope, sir,” quoted the superintendent, “plenty of rope.”

“In the meantime,” said Anthony, “I am still the amateur assistant?”

“That’s it, Mr. Cade.”

“Watson to your Sherlock, in fact?”

“Detective stories are mostly bunkum,” said Battle unemotionally. “But they amuse people,” he added, as an afterthought. “And they’re useful sometimes.”

“In what way?” asked Anthony curiously.

“They encourage the universal idea that the police are stupid. When we get an amateur crime, such as a murder, that’s very useful indeed.”

Anthony looked at him for some minutes in silence. Battle sat quite still, blinking now and then, with no expression whatsoever on his square placid face. Presently he rose.

“Not much good going to bed now,” he observed. “As soon as he’s up, I want to have a few words with his lordship. Anyone who wants to leave the house can do so now. At the same time I should be much obliged to his lordship if he’ll extend an informal invitation to his guests to stay on. You’ll accept it, sir, if you please, and Mrs. Revel also.”

“Have you ever found the revolver?” asked Anthony suddenly.

“You mean the one Prince Michael was shot with? No, I haven’t. Yet it must be in the house or grounds. I’ll take a hint from you, Mr. Cade, and send some boys up bird’s-nesting. If I could get hold of the revolver, we might get forward a bit. That, and the bundle of letters. You say that a letter with the heading, Chimneys, was amongst them? Depend upon it that was the last one written. The instructions for finding the diamond are written in code in that letter.”

“What’s your theory of the killing of Giuseppe?” asked Anthony.

“I should say he was a regular thief, and that he was got hold of, either by King Victor or by the Comrades of the Red Hand, and employed by them. I shouldn’t wonder at all if the Comrades and King Victor aren’t working together. The organization has plenty of money and power, but it isn’t very strong in brains. Giuseppe’s task was to steal the Memoirs—they couldn’t have known that you had the letters—it’s a very odd coincidence that you should have, by the way.”

“I know,” said Anthony. “It’s amazing when you come to think of it.”

“Giuseppe gets hold of the letters instead. Is at first vastly chagrined. Then sees the cutting from the paper and has the brilliant idea of turning them to account on his own by blackmailing the lady. He has, of course, no idea of their real significance. The Comrades find out what he is doing, believe that he is deliberately double crossing them, and decree his death. They’re very fond of executing traitors. It has a picturesque element which seems to appeal to them. What I can’t quite make out is the revolver with ‘Virginia’ engraved upon it. There’s too much finesse about that for the Comrades. As a rule, they enjoy plastering their Red Hand sign about—in order to strike terror into other would-be traitors. No, it looks to me as though King Victor had stepped in there. But what his motive was, I don’t know. It looks like a very deliberate attempt to saddle Mrs. Revel with the murder, and, on the surface, there doesn’t seem any particular point in that.”

“I had a theory,” said Anthony. “But it didn’t work out according to plan.”

He told Battle of Virginia’s recognition of Michael. Battle nodded his head.

“Oh, yes, no doubt as to his identity. By the way, that old Baron has a very high opinion of you. He speaks of you in most enthusiastic terms.”

“That’s very kind of him,” said Anthony. “Especially as I’ve given him full warning that I mean to do my utmost to get hold of the missing Memoirs before Wednesday next.”

“You’ll have a job to do that,” said Battle.

“Y—es. You think so? I suppose King Victor and Co. have got the letters.”

Battle nodded.

“Pinched them off Giuseppe that day in Pont Street. Prettily planned piece of work, that. Yes, they’ve got ’em all right, and they’ve decoded them, and they know where to look.”

Both men were on the point of passing out of the room.

“In here?” said Anthony, jerking his head back.

“Exactly, in here. But they haven’t found the prize yet, and they’re going to run a pretty risk trying to get it.”

“I suppose,” said Anthony, “that you’ve got a plan in that subtle head of yours?”

Battle returned no answer. He looked particularly stolid and unintelligent. Then, very slowly, he winked.

“Want my help?” asked Anthony.

“I do. And I shall want some one else’s.”

“Who is that?”

“Mrs. Revel’s. You may not have noticed it, Mr. Cade, but she’s a lady who has a particularly beguiling way with her.”

“I’ve noticed it all right,” said Anthony.

He glanced at his watch.

“I’m inclined to agree with you about bed, Battle. A dip in the lake and a hearty breakfast will be far more to the point.”

He ran lightly upstairs to his bedroom. Whistling to himself, he discarded his evening clothes, and picked up a dressing-gown and a bath towel.

Then suddenly he stopped dead in front of the dressing-table, staring at the object that reposed demurely in front of the looking-glass.

For a moment he could not believe his eyes. He took it up, examined it closely. Yes, there was no mistake.

It was the bundle of letters signed Virginia Revel. They were intact. Not one was missing.

Anthony dropped into a chair, the letters in his hand.

“My brain must be cracking,” he murmured. “I can’t understand a quarter of what is going on in this house. Why should the letters reappear like a damned conjuring trick? Who put them on my dressing-table? Why?”

And to all these very pertinent questions he could find no satisfactory reply.

21

Mr. Isaacstein’s Suit-case

At ten o’clock that morning, Lord Caterham and his daughter were breakfasting. Bundle was looking very thoughtful.

“Father,” she said at last.

Lord Caterham, absorbed in _The Times_, did not reply.

“Father,” said Bundle again, more sharply.

Lord Caterham, torn from his interested perusal of forthcoming sales of rare books, looked up absent-mindedly.

“Eh?” he said. “Did you speak?”

“Yes. Who is it who’s had breakfast?”

She nodded towards a place that had evidently been occupied. The rest were all expectant.

“Oh, what’s-his-name.”

“Fat Iky?”

Bundle and her father had enough sympathy between them to comprehend each other’s somewhat misleading observations.

“That’s it.”

“Did I see you talking to the detective this morning before breakfast?”

Lord Caterham sighed.

“Yes, he buttonholed me in the hall. I do think the hours before breakfast should be sacred. I shall have to go abroad. The strain on my nerves——”

Bundle interrupted unceremoniously.

“What did he say?”

“Said every one who wanted to could clear out.”

“Well,” said Bundle, “that’s all right. That’s what you’ve been wanting.”

“I know. But he didn’t leave it at that. He went on to say that nevertheless he wanted me to ask every one to stay on.”

“I don’t understand,” said Bundle, wrinkling her nose.

“So confusing and contradictory,” complained Lord Caterham. “And before breakfast too.”

“What did you say?”

“Oh, I agreed, of course. It’s never any good arguing with these people. Especially before breakfast,” continued Lord Caterham, reverting to his principal grievance.

“Who have you asked so far?”

“Cade. He was up very early this morning. He’s going to stop on. I don’t mind that. I can’t quite make the fellow out; but I like him—I like him very much.”

“So does Virginia,” said Bundle, drawing a pattern on the table with her fork.

“Eh?”

“And so do I. But that doesn’t seem to matter.”

“And I asked Isaacstein,” continued Lord Caterham.

“Well?”

“But fortunately he’s got to go back to town. Don’t forget to order the car for the 10.40, by the way.”

“All right.”

“Now if I can only get rid of Fish too,” continued Lord Caterham, his spirits rising.

“I thought you liked talking to him about your mouldy old books.”

“So I do, so I do. So I did, rather. But it gets monotonous when one finds that one is always doing all the talking. Fish is very interested, but he never volunteers any statements of his own.”

“It’s better than doing all the listening,” said Bundle. “Like one does with George Lomax.”

Lord Caterham shuddered at the remembrance.

“George is all very well on platforms,” said Bundle. “I’ve clapped him myself, though of course I know all the time that he’s talking balderdash. And anyway I’m a Socialist——”

“I know, my dear, I know,” said Lord Caterham hastily.

“It’s all right,” said Bundle. “I’m not going to bring politics into the house. That’s what George does—public speaking in private life. It ought to be abolished by Act of Parliament.”

“Quite so,” said Lord Caterham.

“What about Virginia?” asked Bundle. “Is she to be asked to stop on?”

“Battle said everybody.”

“Says he firmly! Have you asked her to be my stepma yet?”

“I don’t think it would be any good,” said Lord Caterham mournfully. “Although she did call me a darling last night. But that’s the worst of these attractive young women with affectionate dispositions. They’ll say anything, and they mean absolutely nothing by it.”

“No,” agreed Bundle. “It would have been much more hopeful if she’d thrown a boot at you or tried to bite you.”

“You modern young people seem to have such unpleasant ideas about love-making,” said Lord Caterham plaintively.

“It comes from reading _The Sheik_,” said Bundle. “Desert love. Throw her about, etc.”

“What is _The Sheik_?” asked Lord Caterham simply. “Is it a poem?”

Bundle looked at him with commiserating pity. Then she rose and kissed the top of his head.

“Dear old Daddy,” she remarked, and sprang lightly out of the window.

Lord Caterham went back to the Sale Rooms.

He jumped when addressed suddenly by Mr. Hiram Fish, who had made his usual noiseless entry.

“Good morning, Lord Caterham.”

“Oh, good morning,” said Lord Caterham. “Good morning. Nice day.”

“The weather is delightful,” said Mr. Fish.

He helped himself to coffee. By way of food, he took a piece of dry toast.

“Do I hear correctly that the embargo is removed?” he asked after a minute or two. “That we are all free to depart?”

“Yes—er—yes,” said Lord Caterham. “As a matter of fact, I hoped, I mean that I shall be delighted”—his conscience drove him on—“only too delighted if you will stay on for a little.”

“Why, Lord Caterham——”

“It’s been a beastly visit, I know,” Lord Caterham hurried on. “Too bad. Shan’t blame you for wanting to run away.”

“You misjudge me, Lord Caterham. The associations have been painful, no one could deny that point. But the English country life, as lived in the mansions of the great, has a powerful attraction for me. I am interested in the study of those conditions. It is a thing we lack completely in America. I shall be only too delighted to accept your vurry kind invitation and stay on.”

“Oh, well,” said Lord Caterham, “that’s that. Absolutely delighted, my dear fellow, absolutely delighted.”

Spurring himself on to a false geniality of manner, Lord Caterham murmured something about having to see his bailiff and escaped from the room.

In the hall, he saw Virginia just descending the staircase.

“Shall I take you into breakfast?” asked Lord Caterham tenderly.

“I’ve had it in bed, thank you. I was frightfully sleepy this morning.”

She yawned.

“Had a bad night, perhaps?”

“Not exactly a bad night. From one point of view decidedly a good night. Oh, Lord Caterham”—she slipped her hand inside his arm and gave it a squeeze—“I _am_ enjoying myself. You were a darling to ask me down.”

“You’ll stop on for a bit, then, won’t you? Battle is lifting the—the embargo, but I want you to stay particularly. So does Bundle.”

“Of course I’ll stay. It’s sweet of you to ask me.”

“Ah!” said Lord Caterham.

He sighed.

“What is your secret sorrow?” asked Virginia. “Has anyone bitten you?”

“That’s just it,” said Lord Caterham mournfully.

Virginia looked puzzled.

“You don’t feel, by any chance, that you want to throw a boot at me? No, I can see you don’t. Oh, well, it’s of no consequence.”

Lord Caterham drifted sadly away, and Virginia passed out through a side door into the garden.

She stood there for a moment, breathing in the crisp October air which was infinitely refreshing to one in her slightly jaded state.

She started a little to find Superintendent Battle at her elbow. The man seemed to have an extraordinary knack of appearing out of space without the least warning.

“Good morning, Mrs. Revel. Not too tired, I hope?”

Virginia shook her head.

“It was a most exciting night,” she said. “Well worth the loss of a little sleep. The only thing is, to-day seems a little dull after it.”

“There’s a nice shady place down under that cedar tree,” remarked the superintendent. “Shall I take a chair down to it for you?”

“If you think it’s the best thing for me to do,” said Virginia solemnly.

“You’re very quick, Mrs. Revel. Yes, it’s quite true, I do want a word with you.”

He picked up a long wicker chair and carried it down the lawn. Virginia followed him with a cushion under her arm.

“Very dangerous place, that terrace,” remarked the detective. “That is, if you want to have a private conversation.”

“I’m getting excited again, Superintendent Battle.”

“Oh, it’s nothing important.” He took out a big watch and glanced at it. “Half-past ten. I’m starting for Wyvvern Abbey in ten minutes to report to Mr. Lomax. Plenty of time. I only wanted to know if you could tell me a little more about Mr. Cade.”

“About Mr. Cade?”

Virginia was startled.

“Yes, where you first met him, and how long you’ve known him and so forth.”

Battle’s manner was easy and pleasant enough. He even refrained from looking at her, and the fact that he did so made her vaguely uneasy.

“It’s more difficult than you think,” she said at last. “He did me a great service once——”

Battle interrupted her.

“Before you go any further, Mrs. Revel, I’d just like to say something. Last night, after you and Mr. Eversleigh had gone to bed, Mr. Cade told me all about the letters and the man who was killed in your house.”

“He did?” gasped Virginia.

“Yes, and very wisely too. It clears up a lot of misunderstanding. There’s only one thing he didn’t tell me—how long he had known you. Now I’ve a little idea of my own about that. You shall tell me if I’m right or wrong. I think that the day he came to your house in Pont Street was the first time you had ever seen him. Ah! I see I’m right. It was so.”

Virginia said nothing. For the first time she felt afraid of this stolid man with the expressionless face. She understood what Anthony had meant when he said there were no flies on Superintendent Battle.

“Has he ever told you anything about his life?” the detective continued. “Before he was in South Africa, I mean. Canada? Or before that, the Sudan? Or about his boyhood?”

Virginia merely shook her head.

“And yet I’d bet he’s got something worth telling. You can’t mistake the face of a man who’s led a life of daring and adventure. He could tell you some interesting tales if he cared to.”

“If you want to know about his past life, why don’t you cable to that friend of his, Mr. McGrath?” Virginia asked.

“Oh, we have. But it seems he’s up country somewhere. Still, there’s no doubt Mr. Cade was in Bulawayo when he said he was. But I wondered what he’d been doing before he came to South Africa. He’d only had that job with Castle’s about a month.” He took out his watch again. “I must be off. The car will be waiting.”

Virginia watched him retreat to the house. But she did not move from her chair. She hoped that Anthony might appear and join her. Instead came Bill Eversleigh, with a prodigious yawn.

“Thank God, I’ve got a chance to speak to you at last, Virginia,” he complained.

“Well, speak to me very gently, Bill darling, or I shall burst into tears.”

“Has some one been bullying you?”

“Not exactly bullying me. Getting inside my mind and turning it inside out. I feel as though I’d been jumped on by an elephant.”

“Not Battle?”

“Yes, Battle. He’s a terrible man really.”

“Well, never mind Battle. I say, Virginia, I do love you so awfully——”

“Not this morning, Bill. I’m not strong enough. Anyway, I’ve always told you the best people don’t propose before lunch.”

“Good Lord,” said Bill. “I could propose to you before breakfast.”

Virginia shuddered.

“Bill, be sensible and intelligent for a minute. I want to ask your advice.”

“If you’d once make up your mind to it, and say you’d marry me, you’d feel miles better, I’m sure. Happier, you know, and more settled down.”

“Listen to me, Bill. Proposing to me is your _idée fixe_. All men propose when they’re bored and can’t think of anything to say. Remember my age and my widowed state, and go and make love to a pure young girl.”

“My darling Virginia—Oh, blast! here’s that French idiot bearing down on us.”

It was indeed M. Lemoine, black-bearded and correct of demeanour as ever.

“Good morning, madame. You are not fatigued, I trust?”

“Not in the least.”

“That is excellent. Good morning, Mr. Eversleigh.”

“How would it be if we promenaded ourselves a little, the three of us?” suggested the Frenchman.

“How about it, Bill?” said Virginia.

“Oh, all right,” said the unwilling young gentleman by her side.

He heaved himself up from the grass, and the three of them walked slowly along. Virginia between the two men. She was sensible at once of a strange undercurrent of excitement in the Frenchman, though she had no clue as to what caused it.

Soon, with her usual skill, she was putting him at his ease, asking him questions, listening to his answers, and gradually drawing him out. Presently he was telling them anecdotes of the famous King Victor. He talked well, albeit with a certain bitterness, as he described the various ways in which the detective bureau had been outwitted.

But all the time, despite the real absorption of Lemoine in his own narrative, Virginia had a feeling that he had some other object in view. Moreover, she judged that Lemoine, under cover of his story, was deliberately striking out his own course across the park. They were not just strolling idly. He was deliberately guiding them in a certain direction.

Suddenly, he broke off his story and looked round. They were standing just where the drive intersected the park before turning an abrupt corner by a clump of trees. Lemoine was staring at a vehicle approaching them from the direction of the house.

Virginia’s eyes followed his.

“It’s the luggage cart,” she said, “taking Isaacstein’s luggage and his valet to the station.”

“Is that so?” said Lemoine. He glanced down at his own watch and started. “A thousand pardons. I have been longer here than I meant—such charming company. Is it possible, do you think, that I might have a lift to the village?”

He stepped out on to the drive, and signalled with his arm. The luggage cart stopped, and after a word or two of explanation Lemoine climbed in behind. He raised his hat politely to Virginia, and drove off.

The other two stood and watched the cart disappearing with puzzled expressions. Just as the cart swung round the bend, a suit-case fell off into the drive. The cart went on.

“Come on,” said Virginia to Bill. “We’re going to see something interesting. That suit-case was thrown out.”

“Nobody’s noticed it,” said Bill.

They ran down the drive towards the fallen piece of luggage. Just as they reached it, Lemoine came round the corner of the bend on foot. He was hot from walking fast.

“I was obliged to descend,” he said pleasantly. “I found that I had left something behind.”

“This?” said Bill, indicating the suit-case.

It was a handsome case of heavy pigskin, with the initials H. I. on it.

“What a pity!” said Lemoine gently. “It must have fallen out. Shall we lift it from the road?”

Without waiting for a reply, he picked up the suit-case, and carried it over to the belt of trees. He stooped over it, something flashed in his hand, and the lock slipped back.

He spoke, and his voice was totally different, quick and commanding.

“The car will be here in a minute,” he said. “Is it in sight?”

Virginia looked back towards the house.

“No.”

“Good.”