Anthony said nothing. He continued to stare out of the window.
Superintendent Battle looked for some time at his motionless back.
“Well, good night, sir,” he said at last, and moved to the door.
Anthony stirred.
“Wait a minute, Battle.”
The superintendent halted obediently. Anthony left the window. He drew
out a cigarette from his case and lighted it. Then, between two puffs
of smoke, he said:
“You seem very interested in this business at Staines?”
“I wouldn’t go as far as that, sir. It’s unusual, that’s all.”
“Do you think the man was shot where he was found, or do you think
he was killed elsewhere and the body brought to that particular spot
afterwards?”
“I think he was shot somewhere else, and the body brought there in a
car.”
“I think so too,” said Anthony.
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.
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