Part 8

The body had been removed from the scene of the tragedy. There was a dark stain on the floor where it had lain, but otherwise there was nothing to suggest that a tragedy had ever occurred. The sun poured in through the three windows, flooding the room with light, and bringing out the mellow tone of the old panelling. Anthony looked around him with approval.

“Very nice,” he commented. “Nothing much to beat old England, is there?”

“Did it seem to you at first it was in this room the shot was fired?” asked the superintendent, not replying to Anthony’s eulogium.

“Let me see.”

Anthony opened the window and went out on the terrace, looking up at the house.

“Yes, that’s the room all right,” he said. “It’s built out, and occupies all the corner. If the shot had been fired anywhere else, it would have sounded from the _left_, but this was from behind me or to the right if anything. That’s why I thought of poachers. It’s at the extremity of the wing, you see.”

He stepped back across the threshold, and asked suddenly, as though the idea had just struck him:

“But why do you ask? You know he was shot here, don’t you?”

“Ah!” said the superintendent. “We never know as much as we’d like to know. But, yes, he was shot here all right. Now you said something about trying the windows, didn’t you?”

“Yes. They were fastened from the inside.”

“How many of them did you try?”

“All three of them.”

“Sure of that, sir?”

“I’m in the habit of being sure. Why do you ask?”

“That’s a funny thing,” said the superintendent.

“What’s a funny thing?”

“When the crime was discovered this morning, the middle one was open—not latched, that is to say.”

“Whew!” said Anthony, sinking down on the window seat, and taking out his cigarette case. “That’s rather a blow. That opens up quite a different aspect of the case. It leaves us two alternatives. Either he was killed by some one in the house, and that some one unlatched the window after I had gone to make it look like an outside job—incidentally with me as Little Willie—or else, not to mince matters, I’m lying. I dare say you incline to the second possibility, but, upon my honour, you’re wrong.”

“Nobody’s going to leave this house until I’m through with them, I can tell you that,” said Superintendent Battle grimly.

Anthony looked at him keenly.

“How long have you had the idea that it might be an inside job?” he asked.

Battle smiled.

“I’ve had a notion that way all along. Your trail was a bit too—flaring, if I may put it that way. As soon as your boots fitted the footmarks, I began to have my doubts.”

“I congratulate Scotland Yard,” said Anthony lightly.

But at that moment, the moment when Battle apparently admitted Anthony’s complete absence of complicity in the crime, Anthony felt more than ever the need of being upon his guard. Superintendent Battle was a very astute officer. It would not do to make any slip with Superintendent Battle about.

“That’s where it happened, I suppose?” said Anthony, nodding towards the dark patch upon the floor.

“Yes.”

“What was he shot with—a revolver?”

“Yes, but we shan’t know what make until they get the bullet out at the autopsy.”

“It wasn’t found, then?”

“No, it wasn’t found.”

“No clues of any kind?”

“Well, we’ve got this.”

Rather after the manner of a conjurer, Superintendent Battle produced a half-sheet of notepaper. And, as he did so, he again watched Anthony closely without seeming to do so.

But Anthony recognized the design upon it without any sign of consternation.

“Aha! Comrades of the Red Hand again. If they’re going to scatter this sort of thing about, they ought to have it lithographed. It must be a frightful nuisance doing every one separately. Where was this found?”

“Underneath the body. You’ve seen it before, sir?”

Anthony recounted to him in detail his short encounter with that public-spirited association.

“The idea is, I suppose, that the Comrades did him in.”

“Do you think it likely, sir?”

“Well, it would be in keeping with their propaganda. But I’ve always found that those who talk most about blood have never actually seen it run. I shouldn’t have said the Comrades had the guts myself. And they’re such picturesque people too. I don’t see one of them disguising himself as a suitable guest for a country house. Still, one never knows.”

“Quite right, Mr. Cade. One never knows.”

Anthony looked suddenly amused.

“I see the big idea now. Open window, trail of footprints, suspicious stranger at village inn. But I can assure you, my dear superintendent, that, whatever I am, I am not the local agent of the Red Hand.”

Superintendent Battle smiled a little. Then he played his last card.

“Would you have any objection to seeing the body?” he shot out suddenly.

“None whatever,” rejoined Anthony.

Battle took a key from his pocket, and preceding Anthony down the corridor, paused at a door and unlocked it. It was one of the smaller drawing-rooms. The body lay on a table covered with a sheet.

Superintendent Battle waited until Anthony was beside him, and then whisked away the sheet suddenly.

An eager light sprang into his eyes at the half-uttered exclamation and the start of surprise which the other gave.

“So you _do_ recognize him, Mr. Cade,” he said, in a voice that he strove to render devoid of triumph.

“I’ve seen him before, yes,” said Anthony, recovering himself. “But not as Prince Michael Obolovitch. He purported to come from Messrs. Balderson and Hodgkins, and he called himself Mr. Holmes.”

13

The American Visitor

Superintendent Battle replaced the sheet with the slightly crest-fallen air of a man whose best point has fallen flat. Anthony stood with his hands in his pockets lost in thought.

“So that’s what old Lollipop meant when he talked about ‘other means,’” he murmured at last.

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Cade?”

“Nothing, superintendent. Forgive my abstraction. You see, I—or rather my friend, Jimmy McGrath, has been very neatly done out of a thousand pounds.”

“A thousand pounds is a nice sum of money,” said Battle.

“It isn’t the thousand pounds so much,” said Anthony, “though I agree with you that it’s a nice sum of money. It’s being done that maddens me. I handed over that manuscript like a little woolly lamb. It hurts, superintendent, indeed it hurts.”

The detective said nothing.

“Well, well,” said Anthony. “Regrets are vain, and all may not yet be lost. I’ve only got to get hold of dear old Stylptitch’s Reminiscences between now and next Wednesday and all will be gas and gaiters.”

“Would you mind coming back to the Council Chamber, Mr. Cade? There’s one little thing I want to point out to you.”

Back in the Council Chamber, the detective strode over at once to the middle window.

“I’ve been thinking, Mr. Cade. This particular window is very stiff, very stiff indeed. You might have been mistaken in thinking that it was fastened. It might just have stuck. I’m sure—yes, I’m almost sure, that you _were_ mistaken.”

Anthony eyed him keenly.

“And supposing I say that I’m quite sure I was not?”

“Don’t you think you could have been?” said Battle, looking at him very steadily.

“Well, to oblige you, superintendent, yes.”

Battle smiled in a satisfied fashion.

“You’re quick in the uptake, sir. And you’ll have no objection to saying so, careless like, at a suitable moment?”

“None whatever. I——”

He paused, as Battle gripped his arm. The superintendent was bent forward, listening.

Enjoining silence on Anthony with a gesture, he tiptoed noiselessly to the door, and flung it suddenly open.

On the threshold stood a tall man with black hair neatly parted in the middle, china blue eyes with a particularly innocent expression, and a large placid face.

“Your pardon, gentlemen,” he said in a slow drawling voice with a pronounced transatlantic accent. “But is it permitted to inspect the scene of the crime? I take it that you are both gentlemen from Scotland Yard?”

“I have not that honour,” said Anthony. “But this gentleman is Superintendent Battle of Scotland Yard.”

“Is that so?” said the American gentleman, with a great appearance of interest. “Pleased to meet you, sir. My name is Hiram P. Fish, of New York City.”

“What was it you wanted to see, Mr. Fish?” asked the detective.

The American walked gently into the room, and looked with much interest at the dark patch on the floor.

“I am interested in crime, Mr. Battle. It is one of my hobbies. I have contributed a monograph to one of our weekly periodicals on the subject ‘Degeneracy and the Criminal.’”

As he spoke, his eyes went gently round the room, seeming to note everything in it. They rested just a shade longer on the window.

“The body,” said Superintendent Battle, stating a self-evident fact, “has been removed.”

“Surely,” said Mr. Fish. His eyes went on to the panelled walls. “Some remarkable pictures in this room, gentlemen. A Holbein, two Van Dycks, and, if I am not mistaken, a Velasquez. I am interested in pictures—and likewise in first editions. It was to see his first editions that Lord Caterham was so kind as to invite me down here.”

He sighed gently.

“I guess that’s all off now. It would show a proper feeling I suppose, for the guests to return to town immediately?”

“I’m afraid that can’t be done, sir,” said Superintendent Battle. “Nobody must leave the house until after the inquest.”

“Is that so? And when is the inquest?”

“May be to-morrow, may not be until Monday. We’ve got to arrange for the autopsy and see the Coroner.”

“I get you,” said Mr. Fish. “Under the circumstances, though, it will be a melancholy party.”

Battle led the way to the door.

“We’d best get out of here,” he said. “We’re keeping it locked still.”

He waited for the other two to pass through, and then turned the key and removed it.

“I opine,” said Mr. Fish, “that you are seeking for fingerprints?”

“Maybe,” said the superintendent laconically.

“I should say to that, on a night such as last night, an intruder would have left footprints on the hardwood floor.”

“None inside, plenty outside.”

“Mine,” explained Anthony cheerfully.

The innocent eyes of Mr. Fish swept over him.

“Young man,” he said, “you surprise me.”

They turned a corner, and came out into the big wide hall, panelled like the Council Chamber in old oak, and with a wide gallery above it. Two other figures came into sight at the far end.

“Aha!” said Mr. Fish. “Our genial host.”

This was such a ludicrous description of Lord Caterham that Anthony had to turn his head away to conceal a smile.

“And with him,” continued the American, “is a lady whose name I did not catch last night. But she is bright—she is very bright.”

With Lord Caterham was Virginia Revel.

Anthony had been anticipating this meeting all along. He had no idea how to act. He must leave it to Virginia. Although he had full confidence in her presence of mind, he had not the slightest idea what line she would take. He was not long left in doubt.

“Why, it’s Mr. Cade,” said Virginia. She held out both hands to him. “So you found you could come down after all?”

“My dear Mrs. Revel, I had no idea Mr. Cade was a friend of yours,” said Lord Caterham.

“He’s a very old friend,” said Virginia, smiling at Anthony with a mischievous glint in her eye. “I ran across him in London unexpectedly yesterday, and told him I was coming down here.”

Anthony was quick to give her her pointer.

“I explained to Mrs. Revel,” he said, “that I had been forced to refuse your kind invitation—since it had really been extended to quite a different man. And I couldn’t very well foist a perfect stranger on you under false pretences.”

“Well, well, my dear fellow,” said Lord Caterham, “that’s all over and done with now. I’ll send down to the _Cricketers_ for your bag.”

“It’s very kind of you, Lord Caterham, but——”

“Nonsense, of course you must come to Chimneys. Horrible place, the _Cricketers_—to stay in, I mean.”

“Of course you must come, Mr. Cade,” said Virginia softly.

Anthony realized the altered tone of his surroundings. Already Virginia had done much for him. He was no longer an ambiguous stranger. Her position was so assured and unassailable that anyone for whom she vouched was accepted as a matter of course. He thought of the pistol in the tree at Burnham Beeches, and smiled inwardly.

“I’ll send for your traps,” said Lord Caterham to Anthony. “I suppose, in the circumstances, we can’t have any shooting. A pity. But there it is. And I don’t know what the devil to do with Isaacstein. It’s all very unfortunate.”

The depressed peer sighed heavily.

“That’s settled, then,” said Virginia. “You can begin to be useful right away, Mr. Cade, and take me out on the lake. It’s very peaceful there and far from crime and all that sort of thing. Isn’t it awful for poor Lord Caterham having a murder done in his house? But it’s George’s fault really. This is George’s party, you know.”

“Ah!” said Lord Caterham. “But I should never have listened to him!”

He assumed the air of a strong man betrayed by a single weakness.

“One can’t help listening to George,” said Virginia. “He always holds you so that you can’t get away. I’m thinking of patenting a detachable lapel.”

“I wish you would,” chuckled her host. “I’m glad you’re coming to us, Cade. I need support.”

“I appreciate your kindness very much, Lord Caterham,” said Anthony. “Especially,” he added, “when I’m such a suspicious character. But my staying here makes it easier for Battle.”

“In what way, sir?” asked the superintendent.

“It won’t be so difficult to keep an eye on me,” explained Anthony gently.

And by the momentary flicker of the superintendent’s eyelids he knew that his shot had gone home.

14

Mainly Political and Financial

Except for that involuntary twitch of the eyelids, Superintendent Battle’s impassivity was unimpaired. If he had been surprised at Virginia’s recognition of Anthony, he did not show it. He and Lord Caterham stood together and watched those two go out through the garden door. Mr. Fish also watched them.

“Nice young fellow, that,” said Lord Caterham.

“Vurry nice for Mrs. Revel to meet an old friend,” murmured the American. “They have been acquainted some time, presoomably?”

“Seems so,” said Lord Caterham. “But I’ve never heard her mention him before. Oh, by the way, Battle, Mr. Lomax has been asking for you. He’s in the Blue morning-room.”

“Very good, Lord Caterham. I’ll go there at once.”

Battle found his way to the Blue morning-room without difficulty. He was already familiar with the geography of the house.

“Ah, there you are, Battle,” said Lomax.

He was striding impatiently up and down the carpet. There was one other person in the room, a big man sitting in a chair by the fireplace. He was dressed in very correct English shooting clothes which nevertheless sat strangely upon him. He had a fat yellow face, and black eyes, as impenetrable as those of a cobra. There was a generous curve to the big nose and power in the square lines of the vast jaw.

“Come in, Battle,” said Lomax irritably. “And shut the door behind you. This is Mr. Herman Isaacstein.”

Battle inclined his head respectfully.

He knew all about Mr. Herman Isaacstein, and though the great financier sat there silent, whilst Lomax strode up and down and talked, he knew who was the real power in the room.

“We can speak more freely now,” said Lomax. “Before Lord Caterham and Colonel Melrose, I was anxious not to say too much. You understand, Battle? These things mustn’t get about.”

“Ah!” said Battle. “But they always do, more’s the pity.”

Just for a second he saw a trace of a smile on the fat yellow face. It disappeared as suddenly as it had come.

“Now what do you really think of this young fellow—this Anthony Cade?” continued George. “Do you still assume him to be innocent?”

Battle shrugged his shoulders very slightly.

“He tells a straight story. Part of it we shall be able to verify. On the face of it, it accounts for his presence here last night. I shall cable to South Africa, of course, for information about his antecedents.”

“Then you regard him as cleared of all complicity?”

Battle raised a large square hand.

“Not so fast, sir. I never said that.”

“What is your own idea about the crime, Superintendent Battle?” asked Isaacstein, speaking for the first time.

His voice was deep and rich, and had a certain compelling quality about it. It had stood him in good stead at board meetings in his younger days.

“It’s rather too soon to have ideas, Mr. Isaacstein. I’ve not got beyond asking myself the first question.”

“What is that?”

“Oh, it’s always the same. Motive. Who benefits by the death of Prince Michael? We’ve got to answer that before we can get anywhere.”

“The Revolutionary party of Herzoslovakia——” began George.

Superintendent Battle waved him aside with something less than his usual respect.

“It wasn’t the Comrades of the Red Hand, sir, if you’re thinking of them.”

“But the paper—with the scarlet hand on it?”

“Put there to suggest the obvious solution.”

George’s dignity was a little ruffled.

“Really, Battle, I don’t see how you can be so sure of that.”

“Bless you, Mr. Lomax, we know all about the Comrades of the Red Hand. We’ve had our eye on them ever since Prince Michael landed in England. That sort of thing is the elementary work of the department. They’d never be allowed to get within a mile of him.”

“I agree with Superintendent Battle,” said Isaacstein. “We must look elsewhere.”

“You see, sir,” said Battle, encouraged by his support, “we do know a little about the case. If we don’t know who gains by his death, we do know who loses by it.”

“Meaning?” said Isaacstein.

His black eyes were bent upon the detective. More than ever, he reminded Battle of a hooded cobra.

“You and Mr. Lomax, not to mention the Loyalist party of Herzoslovakia. If you’ll pardon the expression, sir, you’re in the soup.”

“Really, Battle,” interposed George, shocked to the core.

“Go on, Battle,” said Isaacstein. “In the soup describes the situation very accurately. You’re an intelligent man.”

“You’ve got to have a King. You’ve lost your King—like that!” He snapped his large fingers. “You’ve got to find another in a hurry, and that’s not an easy job. No, I don’t want to know the details of your scheme, the bare outline is enough for me, but, I take it, it’s a big deal?”

Isaacstein bent his head slowly.

“It’s a very big deal.”

“That brings me to my second question. Who is the next heir to the throne of Herzoslovakia?”

Isaacstein looked across at Lomax. The latter answered the question, with a certain reluctance, and a good deal of hesitation:

“That would be—I should say—yes, in all probability Prince Nicholas would be the next heir.”

“Ah!” said Battle. “And who is Prince Nicholas?”

“A first cousin of Prince Michael’s.”

“Ah!” said Battle. “I should like to hear all about Prince Nicholas, especially where he is at present.”

“Nothing much is known of him,” said Lomax. “As a young man, he was most peculiar in his ideas, consorted with Socialists and Republicans, and acted in a way highly unbecoming to his position. He was sent down from Oxford, I believe, for some wild escapade. There was a rumour of his death two years later in the Congo, but it was only a rumour. He turned up a few months ago when news of the Royalist reaction got about.”

“Indeed?” said Battle. “Where did he turn up?”

“In America.”

“America!”

Battle turned to Isaacstein with one laconic word:

“Oil?”

The financier nodded.

“He represented that if the Herzoslovakians chose a King, they would prefer him to Prince Michael as being more in sympathy with modern enlightened ideas, and he drew attention to his early democratic views and his sympathy with Republican ideals. In return for financial support, he was prepared to grant concessions to a certain group of American financiers.”

Superintendent Battle so far forgot his habitual impassivity as to give vent to a prolonged whistle.

“So that is it,” he muttered. “In the meantime, the Loyalist party supported Prince Michael, and you felt sure you’d come out on top. And then this happens!”

“You surely don’t think——” began George.

“It was a big deal,” said Battle. “Mr. Isaacstein says so. And I should say that what he calls a big deal _is_ a big deal.”

“There are always unscrupulous tools to be got hold of,” said Isaacstein quietly. “For the moment, Wall Street wins. But they’ve not done with me yet. Find out who killed Prince Michael, Superintendent Battle, if you want to do your country a service.”

“One thing strikes me as highly suspicious,” put in George. “Why did the equerry, Captain Andrassy, not come down with the Prince yesterday?”

“I’ve inquired into that,” said Battle. “It’s perfectly simple. He stayed in town to make arrangements with a certain lady, on behalf of Prince Michael, for next week-end. The Baron rather frowned on such things, thinking them injudicious at the present stage of affairs, so His Highness had to go about them in a hole and corner manner. He was, if I may say so, inclined to be a rather—er—dissipated young man.”

“I’m afraid so,” said George ponderously. “Yes, I’m afraid so.”

“There’s one other point we ought to take into account, I think,” said Battle, speaking with a certain amount of hesitation. “King Victor’s supposed to be in England.”

“King Victor?”

Lomax frowned in an effort at recollection.

“Notorious French crook, sir. We’ve had a warning from the Sûreté in Paris.”

“Of course,” said George. “I remember now. Jewel thief, isn’t he? Why, that’s the man——”

He broke off abruptly. Isaacstein, who had been frowning abstractedly at the fireplace, looked up just too late to catch the warning glance telegraphed from Superintendent Battle to the other. But being a man sensitive to vibrations in the atmosphere, he was conscious of a sense of strain.

“You don’t want me any longer, do you, Lomax?” he inquired.

“No, thank you, my dear fellow.”

“Would it upset your plans if I returned to London, Superintendent Battle?”

“I’m afraid so, sir,” said the Superintendent civilly. “You see, if you go, there will be others who’ll want to go also. And that would never do.”

“Quite so.”

The great financier left the room, closing the door behind him.

“Splendid fellow, Isaacstein,” murmured George Lomax perfunctorily.

“Very powerful personality,” agreed Superintendent Battle.

George began to pace up and down again.

“What you say disturbs me greatly,” he began. “King Victor! I thought he was in prison?”

“Came out a few months ago. French police meant to keep on his heels, but he managed to give them the slip straight away. He would too. One of the coolest customers that ever lived. For some reason or other, they believe he’s in England, and have notified us to that effect.”

“But what should he be doing in England?”

“That’s for you to say, sir,” said Battle significantly.

“You mean——? You think——? You know the story, of course—ah, yes, I can see you do. I was not in office, of course, at the time, but I heard the whole story from the late Lord Caterham. An unparalleled catastrophe.”

“The Koh-i-noor,” said Battle reflectively.

“Hush, Battle!” George glanced suspiciously round him. “I beg of you, mention no names. Much better not. If you must speak of it, call it the K.”

The superintendent looked wooden again.

“You don’t connect King Victor with this crime, do you, Battle?”

“It’s just a possibility, that’s all. If you’ll cast your mind back, sir, you’ll remember that there were four places where a—er—certain Royal visitor might have concealed the jewel. Chimneys was one of them. King Victor was arrested in Paris three days after the—disappearance, if I may call it that, of the K. It was always hoped that he would some day lead us to the jewel.”

“But Chimneys has been ransacked and overhauled a dozen times.”