The Secret of Chimneys

“Gentleman Joe!”

“Why, if it isn’t old Jimmy McGrath.”

Castle’s Select Tour, represented by seven depressed-looking females and three perspiring males, looked on with considerable interest. Evidently their Mr. Cade had met an old friend. They all admired Mr. Cade so much, his tall lean figure, his suntanned face, the lighthearted manner with which he settled disputes and cajoled them all into good temper. This friend of his now⁠—surely rather a peculiar-looking man. About the same height as Mr. Cade, but thickset and not nearly so good-looking. The sort of man one read about in books, who probably kept a saloon. Interesting, though. After all, that was what one came abroad for⁠—to see all these peculiar things one read about in books. Up to now, they had been rather bored with Bulawayo. The sun was unbearably hot, the hotel was uncomfortable, there seemed to be nowhere particular to go until the moment should arrive to motor to the Matoppos. Very fortunately, Mr. Cade had suggested picture postcards. There was an excellent supply of picture postcards.

Anthony Cade and his friend had stepped a little apart.

“What the hell are you doing with this pack of females?” demanded McGrath. “Starting a harem.”

“Not with this little lot,” grinned Anthony. “Have you taken a good look at them?”

“I have that. Thought maybe you were losing your eyesight.”

“My eyesight’s as good as ever it was. No, this is a Castle’s Select Tour. I’m Castle⁠—the local Castle, I mean.”

“What the hell made you take on a job like that?”

“A regrettable necessity for cash. I can assure you it doesn’t suit my temperament.”

Jimmy grinned.

“Never a hog for regular work, were you?”

“Can you tell me what it is, madame?”

“It appears to be a letter,” replied Virginia, who was by now convinced that she had to do with a man who was mentally unhinged.

“And perhaps you note to whom it is addressed,” said the man significantly, holding it out to her.

“I can read,” Virginia informed him pleasantly. “It is addressed to a Captain O’Neill at Rue de Quenelles No. 15, Paris.”

The man seemed searching her face hungrily for something he did not find.

“Will you read it, please?”

Virginia took the envelope from him, drew out the enclosure and glanced at it; but almost immediately she stiffened and held it out to him again.

“This is a private letter⁠—certainly not meant for my eyes.”

The man laughed sardonically.

“I congratulate you, Mrs. Revel, on your admirable acting. You play your part to perfection. Nevertheless, I think that you will hardly be able to deny the signature!”

“The signature?”

Virginia turned the letter over⁠—and was struck dumb with astonishment. The signature, written in a delicate slanting hand, was Virginia Revel. Checking the exclamation of astonishment that rose to her lips, she turned again to the beginning of the letter and deliberately read the whole thing through. Then she stood a minute lost in thought. The nature of the letter made it clear enough what was in prospect.

“Well, madame?” said the man. “That is your name, is it not?”

“Oh, yes,” said Virginia. “It’s my name.” “But not my handwriting,” she might have added.

Instead she turned a dazzling smile upon her visitor.

“Supposing,” she said sweetly, “we sit down and talk it over?”

He was puzzled. Not so had he expected her to behave. His instinct told him that she was not afraid of him.

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.

“There were footsteps leading up to the window, and footsteps leading away from it. A car stopped outside the park at 11:40 last night. At twelve o’clock a young man arrived at the Jolly Cricketers in a car, and engaged a room. He put his boots outside to be cleaned⁠—they were very wet and muddy, as though he had been walking through the long grass in the park.”

George leant forward eagerly.

“Could not the boots be compared with the footprints?”

“They were.”

“Well?”

“They exactly correspond.”

“That settles it,” cried George. “We have the murderer. The young man⁠—what is his name, by the way?”

“At the inn he gave the name of Anthony Cade.”

“This Anthony Cade must be pursued at once, and arrested.”

“You won’t need to pursue him,” said Superintendent Battle.

“Why?”

“Because he’s still there.”

“What?”

“Curious, isn’t it?”

Colonel Melrose eyed him keenly.

“What’s in your mind, Battle? Out with it.”

“I just say it’s curious, that’s all. Here’s a young man who ought to cut and run, but he doesn’t cut and run. He stays here, and gives us every facility for comparing footmarks.”

“What do you think, then?”

“I don’t know what to think. And that’s a very disturbing state of mind.”

“Do you imagine⁠—” began Colonel Melrose, but broke off as a discreet knock came at the door.

George rose and went to it. Tredwell, inwardly suffering from having to knock at doors in this low fashion, stood dignified upon the threshold, and addressed his master.

He stopped in his pacing of the floor.

“What the devil⁠—” began Anthony.

The door was being softly opened. In another minute a man had slipped into the room, and stood deferentially by the door.

He was a big fair man, squarely built, with high Slavonic cheekbones, and dreamy fanatic eyes.

“Who the devil are you?” asked Anthony, staring at him.

The man replied in perfect English.

“I am Boris Anchoukoff.”

“Prince Michael’s servant, eh?”

“That is so. I served my master. He is dead. Now I serve you.”

“It’s very kind of you,” said Anthony. “But I don’t happen to want a valet.”

“You are my master now. I will serve you faithfully.”

“Yes⁠—but⁠—look here⁠—I don’t need a valet. I can’t afford one.”

Boris Anchoukoff looked at him with a touch of scorn.

“I do not ask for money. I served my master. So will I serve you⁠—to the death!”

Stepping quickly forward, he dropped on one knee, caught Anthony’s hand and placed it on his forehead. Then he rose swiftly and left the room as suddenly as he had come.