They all stared at the French detective, who smiled back at them.
“But yes,” he said, “it is true.”
There was a pause for a general readjusting of ideas. Then Virginia
turned to Battle.
“Do you know what I think, Superintendent Battle?”
“What do you think, Mrs. Revel?”
“I think the time has come to enlighten us a little.”
“To enlighten you? I don’t quite understand, Mrs. Revel.”
“Superintendent Battle, you understand perfectly. I dare say Mr. Lomax
has hedged you about with recommendations of secrecy—George would,
but surely it’s better to tell us than have us stumbling on the secret
all by ourselves, and perhaps doing untold harm. M. Lemoine, don’t you
agree with me?”
“Madame, I agree with you entirely.”
“You can’t go on keeping things dark for ever,” said Battle. “I’ve
told Mr. Lomax so. Mr. Eversleigh is Mr. Lomax’s secretary, there’s no
objection to his knowing what there is to know. As for Mr. Cade, he’s
been brought into the thing willy-nilly, and I consider he’s a right to
know where he stands. But——”
Battle paused.
“I know,” said Virginia. “Women are so indiscreet! I’ve often heard
George say so.”
Lemoine had been studying Virginia attentively. Now he turned to the
Scotland Yard man.
“Did I hear you just now address Madame by the name of Revel?”
“That is my name,” said Virginia.
“Your husband was in the Diplomatic Service, was he not? And you were
with him in Herzoslovakia just before the assassination of the late
King and Queen.”
“Yes.”
Lemoine turned again.
“I think Madame has a right to hear the story. She is indirectly
concerned. Moreover”—his eyes twinkled a little—“Madame’s reputation
for discretion stands very high in Diplomatic circles.”
“I’m glad they give me a good character,” said Virginia, laughing. “And
I’m glad I’m not going to be left out of it.”
“What about refreshments?” said Anthony. “Where does the conference
take place? Here?”
“If you please, sir,” said Battle, “I’ve a fancy for not leaving this
room until morning. You’ll see why when you’ve heard the story.”
“Then I’ll go and forage,” said Anthony.
Bill went with him and they returned with a tray of glasses, siphons
and other necessaries of life.
The augmented syndicate established itself comfortably in the corner by
the window, being grouped round a long oak table.
“It’s understood, of course,” said Battle, “that anything that’s said
here is said in strict confidence. There must be no leakage. I’ve
always felt it would come out one of these days. Gentlemen like Mr.
Lomax who want everything hushed up take bigger risks than they think.
The start of this business was just over seven years ago. There was a
lot of what they call Reconstruction going on—especially in the Near
East. There was a good deal going on in England, strictly on the Q.T.
with that old gentleman, Count Stylptitch, pulling the strings. All
the Balkan States were interested parties, and there were a lot of
Royal Personages in England just then. I’m not going into details,
but Something disappeared—disappeared in a way that seemed incredible
unless you admitted two things—that the thief was a Royal Personage
and that at the same time it was the work of a high-class professional.
M. Lemoine here will tell you how that well might be.”
The Frenchman bowed courteously and took up the tale.
“It is possible that you in England may not even have heard of our
famous and fantastic King Victor. What his real name is, no one knows,
but he is a man of singular courage and daring, one who speaks five
languages and is unequalled in the art of disguise. Though his father
is known to have been either English or Irish, he himself has worked
chiefly in Paris. It was there, nearly eight years ago, that he was
carrying out a daring series of robberies and living under the name of
Captain O’Neill.”
A faint exclamation escaped Virginia. M. Lemoine darted a keen glance
at her.
“I think I understand what agitates Madame. You will see in a minute.
Now we of the Sûreté had our suspicions that this Captain O’Neill was
none other than ‘King Victor,’ but we could not obtain the necessary
proof. There was also in Paris at the time a clever young actress,
Angèle Mory, of the Folies Bergères. For some time we had suspected
that she was associated with the operations of King Victor. But again
no proof was forthcoming.
“About that time, Paris was preparing for the visit of the young King
Nicholas IV of Herzoslovakia. At the Sûreté we were given special
instructions as to the course to be adopted to ensure the safety of His
Majesty. In particular we were warned to superintend the activities of
a certain Revolutionary organization which called itself the Comrades
of the Red Hand. It is fairly certain now that the Comrades approached
Angèle Mory and offered her a huge sum if she would aid them in their
plans. Her part was to infatuate the young King, and decoy him to
some spot agreed upon with them. Angèle Mory accepted the bribe and
promised to perform her part.
“But the young lady was cleverer and more ambitious than her employers
suspected. She succeeded in captivating the King who fell desperately
in love with her and loaded her with jewels. It was then that she
conceived the idea of being—not a King’s mistress, but a Queen! As
every one knows, she realized her ambition. She was introduced into
Herzoslovakia as the Countess Varaga Popoleffsky, an offshoot of the
Romanoffs, and became eventually Queen Varaga of Herzoslovakia. Not
bad for a little Parisian actress! I have always heard that she played
the part extremely well. But her triumph was not to be long lived. The
Comrades of the Red Hand, furious at her betrayal, twice attempted
her life. Finally they worked up the country to such a pitch that a
Revolution broke out in which both the King and Queen perished. Their
bodies, horribly mutilated and hardly recognizable, were recovered,
attesting to the fury of the populace against the low-born foreign
Queen.
“Now, in all this, it seems certain that Queen Varaga still kept in
with her confederate, King Victor. It is possible that the bold plan
was his all along. What is known is that she continued to correspond
with him, in a secret code, from the Court of Herzoslovakia. For safety
the letters were written in English, and signed with the name of an
English lady then at the Embassy. If any inquiry had been made, and
the lady in question had denied her signature, it is possible that she
would not have been believed, for the letters were those of a guilty
woman to her lover. It was your name she used, Mrs. Revel.”
“I know,” said Virginia. Her colour was coming and going unevenly. “So
that is the truth of the letters! I have wondered and wondered.”
“What a blackguardly trick,” cried Bill indignantly.
“The letters were addressed to Captain O’Neill at his rooms in Paris,
and their principal purpose may have light shed upon it by a curious
fact which came to light later. After the assassination of the King
and Queen, many of the Crown Jewels which had fallen, of course, into
the hands of the mob, found their way to Paris, and it was discovered
that in nine cases out of ten the principal stones had been replaced
by paste—and mind you, there were some very famous stones among the
jewels of Herzoslovakia. So as a Queen, Angèle Mory still practised her
former activities.
“You see now where we have arrived. Nicholas IV and Queen Varaga came
to England and were the guests of the late Marquis of Caterham, then
Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs. Herzoslovakia is a small
country, but it could not be left out. Queen Varaga was necessarily
received. And there we have a Royal Personage and at the same time an
expert thief. There is also no doubt that the—er—substitute which was
so wonderful as to deceive anyone but an expert could only have been
fashioned by King Victor, and indeed the whole plan, in its daring and
audacity, pointed to him as the author.”
“What happened?” asked Virginia.
“Hushed up,” said Superintendent Battle laconically. “Not a mention of
it’s ever been made public to this day. We did all that could be done
on the quiet—and that was a good deal more than you’d ever imagine, by
the way. We’ve got methods of our own that would surprise. That jewel
didn’t leave England with the Queen of Herzoslovakia—I can tell you
that much. No, Her Majesty hid it somewhere—but where we’ve never been
able to discover. But I shouldn’t wonder”—Superintendent Battle let
his eyes wander gently round—“if it wasn’t somewhere in this room.”
Anthony leapt to his feet.
“What? After all these years?” he cried incredulously. “Impossible.”
“You do not know the peculiar circumstances, monsieur,” said the
Frenchman quickly. “Only a fortnight later, the Revolution in
Herzoslovakia broke out, and the King and Queen were murdered. Also,
Captain O’Neill was arrested in Paris and sentenced on a minor charge.
We hoped to find the packet of code letters in his house, but it
appears that this had been stolen by some Herzoslovakian go-between.
The man turned up in Herzoslovakia just before the Revolution, and then
disappeared completely.”
“He probably went abroad,” said Anthony thoughtfully. “To Africa as
likely as not. And you bet he hung on to that packet. It was as good
as a gold mine to him. It’s odd how things come about. They probably
called him Dutch Pedro or something like that out there.”
He caught Superintendent Battle’s expressionless glance bent upon him,
and smiled.
“It’s not really clairvoyance, Battle,” he said, “though it sounds like
it. I’ll tell you presently.”
“There is one thing you have not explained,” said Virginia. “Where does
this link up with the Memoirs? There must be a link, surely?”
“Madame is very quick,” said Lemoine approvingly. “Yes, there is a
link. Count Stylptitch was also staying at Chimneys at the time.”
“So that he might have known about it?”
“_Parfaitement._”
“And, of course,” said Battle, “if he’s blurted it out in his precious
Memoirs, the fat will be in the fire. Especially after the way the
whole thing was hushed up.”
Anthony lit a cigarette.
“There’s no possibility of there being a clue in the Memoirs as to
where the stone was hidden?” he asked.
“Very unlikely,” said Battle decisively. “He was never in with the
Queen—opposed the marriage tooth and nail. She’s not likely to have
taken him into her confidence.”
“I wasn’t suggesting such a thing for a minute,” said Anthony. “But
by all accounts he was a cunning old boy. Unknown to her, he may have
discovered where she hid the jewel. In that case, what would he have
done, do you think?”
“Sat tight,” said Battle, after a moment’s reflection.
“I agree,” said the Frenchman. “It was a ticklish moment, you see. To
return the stone anonymously would have presented great difficulties.
Also, the knowledge of its whereabouts would give him great power—and
he liked power, that strange old man. Not only did he hold the Queen
in the hollow of his hand, but he had a powerful weapon to negotiate
with at any time. It was not the only secret he possessed—oh, no!—he
collected secrets like some men collect rare pieces of china. It is
said that, once or twice before his death, he boasted to people of the
things he could make public if the fancy took him. And once at least
he declared that he intended to make some startling revelations in
his Memoirs. Hence”—the Frenchman smiled rather dryly—“the general
anxiety to get hold of them. Our own secret police intended to seize
them, but the Count took the precaution to have them conveyed away
before his death.”
“Still, there’s no real reason to believe that he knew this particular
secret,” said Battle.
“I beg your pardon,” said Anthony quietly. “There are his own words.”
“What?”
Both detectives stared at him as though unable to believe their ears.
“When Mr. McGrath gave me that manuscript to bring to England, he
told me the circumstances of his one meeting with Count Stylptitch.
It was in Paris. At some considerable risk to himself, Mr. McGrath
rescued the Count from a band of Apaches. He was, I understand—shall
we say a trifle—exhilarated? Being in that condition, he made two
rather interesting remarks. One of them was to the effect that he knew
where the Koh-i-noor was—a statement to which my friend paid very
little attention. He also said that the gang in question were King
Victor’s men. Taken together, those two remarks are very significant.”
“Good Lord,” ejaculated Superintendent Battle, “I should say they were.
Even the murder of Prince Michael wears a different aspect.”
“King Victor has never taken a life,” the Frenchman reminded him.
“Supposing he were surprised when he was searching for the jewel?”
“Is he in England, then?” asked Anthony sharply. “You say that he was
released a few months ago. Didn’t you keep track of him?”
A rather rueful smile overspread the French detective’s face.
“We tried to, monsieur. But he is a devil, that man. He gave us the
slip at once—at once. We thought, of course, that he would make
straight for England. But no. He went—where do you think?”
“Where?” said Anthony.
He was staring intently at the Frenchman, and absent-mindedly his
fingers played with a box of matches.
“To America. To the United States.”
“What?”
There was sheer amazement in Anthony’s tone.
“Yes, and what do you think he called himself? What part do you think
he played over there? The part of Prince Nicholas of Herzoslovakia.”
The match-box fell from Anthony’s hand, but his amazement was fully
equalled by that of Battle.
“Impossible.”
“Not so, my friend. You, too, will get the news in the morning. It
has been the most colossal bluff. As you know, Prince Nicholas was
rumoured to have died in the Congo years ago. Our friend, King Victor,
seizes on that—difficult to prove a death of that kind. He resurrects
Prince Nicholas, and plays him to such purpose that he gets away with a
tremendous haul of American dollars—all on account of the supposed oil
concessions. But by a mere accident, he was unmasked, and had to leave
the country hurriedly. This time he did come to England. And that is
why I am here. Sooner or later he will come to Chimneys. That is, if he
is not already here!”
“You think—that?”
“I think he was here the night Prince Michael died, and again last
night.”
“It was another attempt, eh?” said Battle.
“It was another attempt.”
“What has bothered me,” continued Battle, “was wondering what had
become of M. Lemoine here. I’d had word from Paris that he was on his
way over to work with me, and I couldn’t make out why he hadn’t turned
up.”
“I must indeed apologize,” said Lemoine. “You see, I arrived on the
morning after the murder. It occurred to me at once that it would
be as well for me to study things from an unofficial standpoint
without appearing officially as your colleague. I thought that great
possibilities lay that way. I was, of course, aware that I was bound to
be an object of suspicion, but that in a way furthered my plan since it
would not put people I was after on their guard. I can assure you that
I have seen a good deal that is interesting in the last two days.”
“But look here,” said Bill, “what really did happen last night?”
“I am afraid,” said M. Lemoine, “that I gave you rather violent
exercise.”
“It was you I chased then?”
“Yes. I will recount things to you. I came up here to watch, convinced
that the secret had to do with this room since the Prince had been
killed here. I stood outside on the terrace. Presently I became aware
that some one was moving about in this room. I could see the flash of a
torch now and again. I tried the middle window and found it unlatched.
Whether the man had entered that way earlier, or whether he had left
it so as a blind in case he was disturbed, I do not know. Very gently,
I pushed it back and slipped inside the room. Step by step I felt
my way until I was in a spot where I could watch operations without
likelihood of being discovered myself. The man himself I could not see
clearly. His back was to me, of course, and he was silhouetted against
the light of the torch so that his outline only could be seen. But his
actions filled me with surprise. He took to pieces first one and then
the other of those two suits of armour, examining each one piece by
piece. When he had convinced himself that what he sought was not there,
he began tapping the panelling of the wall under that picture. What he
would have done next, I do not know. The interruption came. _You_ burst
in——” He looked at Bill.
“Our well-meant interference was really rather a pity,” said Virginia
thoughtfully.
“In a sense, madame, it was. The man switched out his torch, and I, who
had no wish as yet to be forced to reveal my identity, sprang for the
window. I collided with the other two in the dark, and fell headlong. I
sprang up and out through the window. Mr. Eversleigh, taking me for his
assailant, followed.”
“I followed you first,” said Virginia. “Bill was only second in the
race.”
“And the other fellow had the sense to stay still and sneak out through
the door. I wonder he didn’t meet the rescuing crowd.”
“That would present no difficulties,” said Lemoine. “He would be a
rescuer in advance of the rest, that was all.”
“Do you really think this Arsène Lupin fellow is actually among the
household now?” asked Bill, his eyes sparkling.
“Why not?” said Lemoine. “He could pass perfectly as a servant. For all
we may know, he may be Boris Anchoukoff, the trusted servant of the
late Prince Michael.”
“He is an odd-looking bloke,” agreed Bill.
But Anthony was smiling.
“That’s hardly worthy of you, M. Lemoine,” he said gently.
The Frenchman smiled too.
“You’ve taken him on as your valet now, haven’t you, Mr. Cade?” asked
Superintendent Battle.
“Battle, I take off my hat to you. You know everything. But just as a
matter of detail, he’s taken me on, not I him.”
“Why was that, I wonder, Mr. Cade?”
“I don’t know,” said Anthony lightly. “It’s a curious taste, but
perhaps he may have liked my face. Or he may think I murdered his
master and wish to establish himself in a handy position for executing
revenge upon me.”
He rose and went over to the windows, pulling the curtains.
“Daylight,” he said, with a slight yawn. “There won’t be any more
excitements now.”
Lemoine rose also.
“I will leave you,” he said. “We shall perhaps meet again later in the
day.”
With a graceful bow to Virginia, he stepped out of the window.
“Bed,” said Virginia, yawning. “It’s all been very exciting. Come on,
Bill, go to bed like a good little boy. The breakfast table will see us
not, I fear.”
Anthony stayed at the window looking after the retreating form of M.
Lemoine.
“You wouldn’t think it,” said Battle behind him, “but that’s supposed
to be the cleverest detective in France.”
“I don’t know that I wouldn’t,” said Anthony thoughtfully. “I rather
think I would.”
“Well,” said Battle, “he was right about the excitements of this night
being over. By the way, do you remember my telling you about that man
they’d found shot near Staines?”
“Yes. Why?”
“Nothing. They’ve identified him, that’s all. It seems he was called
Giuseppe Manelli. He was a waiter at the Blitz in London. Curious,
isn’t it?”
20