The Secret of Chimneys by Agatha Christie (good beach reads txt) 📖
- Author: Agatha Christie
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“I don’t think men are really very brave,” said Bundle.
“That’s a nasty one,” said Anthony. “I retire, humiliated.” Bundle nodded and drove on. Anthony hailed a passing taxi. “Victoria Station,” he said to the driver as he got in.
When he got to Victoria he paid off the taxi and inquired for the next train to Dover. Unfortunately he had just missed one.
Resigning himself to a wait of something over an hour, Anthony paced up and down, his brows knit. Once or twice he shook his head impatiently.
The journey to Dover was uneventful. Arrived there, Anthony passed quickly out of the station, and then, as though suddenly remembering, he turned back again. There was a slight smile on his lips as he asked to be directed to Hurstmere, Langly Road.
The road in question was a long one, leading right out of the town. According to the porter’s instructions, Hurstmere was the last house. Anthony trudged along steadily. The little pucker had reappeared between his eyes. Nevertheless there was a new elation in his manner, as always when danger was near at hand.
Hurstmere was, as the porter had said, the last house in Langly Road. It stood well back, enclosed in its own grounds, which were ragged and overgrown. The place, Anthony judged, must have been empty for many years. A large iron gate swung rustily on its hinges, and the name on the gatepost was half obliterated.
“A lonely spot,” muttered Anthony to himself, “and a good one to choose.”
He hesitated a minute or two, glanced quickly up and down the road—which was quite deserted—and then slipped quietly past the creaking gate into the overgrown drive. He walked up it a little way, and then stood listening. He was still some distance from the house. Not a sound could be heard anywhere. Some fast yellowing leaves detached themselves from one of the trees overhead and fell with a soft rustling sound that was almost sinister in the stillness. Anthony started; then smiled.
“Nerves,” he murmured to himself. “Never knew I had such things before.”
He went on up the drive. Presently, as the drive curved, he slipped into the shrubbery and so continued his way unseen from the house. Suddenly he stood still, peering out through the leaves. Some distance away a dog was barking, but it was a sound nearer at hand that had attracted Anthony’s attention.
His keen hearing had not been mistaken. A man came rapidly round the corner of the house, a short square, thickset man, foreign in appearance. He did not pause but walked steadily on, circling the house and disappearing again.
Anthony nodded to himself.
“Sentry,” he murmured. “They do the thing quite well.”
As soon as he had passed, Anthony went on, diverging to the left, and so following in the footsteps of the sentry.
His own footsteps were quite noiseless.
The wall of the house was on his right, and presently he came to where a broad blur of light fell on the gravelled walk. The sound of several men talking together was clearly audible.
“My God! what double-dyed idiots,” murmured Anthony to himself. “It would serve them right to be given a fright.”
He stole up to the window, stooping a little so that he should not be seen. Presently he lifted his head very carefully to the level of the sill and looked in.
Half a dozen men were sprawling round a table. Four of them were big thickset men, with high cheek-bones, and eyes set in Magyar slanting fashion. The other two were rat-like little men with quick gestures. The language that was being spoken was French, but the four big men spoke it with uncertainty and a hoarse guttural intonation.
“The Boss?” growled one of these. “When will he be here?”
One of the smaller men shrugged his shoulders.
“Any time now.”
“About time, too,” growled the first man. “I have never seen him, this Boss of yours, but, oh, what great and glorious work might we not have accomplished in these days of idle waiting!”
“Fool,” said the other little man bitingly. “Getting nabbed by the police is all the great and glorious work you and your precious lot would have been likely to accomplish. A lot of blundering gorillas?”
“Aha!” roared another big thickset fellow. “You insult the Comrades? I will soon set the sign of the Red Hand round your throat.”
He half rose, glaring ferociously at the Frenchman, but one of his companions pulled him back again.
“No quarreling,” he grunted. “We’re to work together. From all I heard this King Victor doesn’t stand for being disobeyed.”
In the darkness, Anthony heard the footsteps of the sentry coming his round again, and he drew back behind a bush.
“Who’s that?” said one of the men inside.
“Carlo—going his rounds.”
“Oh! What about the prisoner?”
“He’s all right—coming round pretty fast now. He’s recovered well from the crack on the head we gave him.”
Anthony moved gently away.
“God! what a lot,” he muttered. “They discuss their affairs with an open window, and that fool Carlo goes his round with the tread of an elephant, and the eyes of a bat. And to crown all, the Herzoslovakians and the French are on the point of coming to blows. King Victor’s headquarters seem to be in a parlous condition. It would amuse me, it would amuse me very much, to teach them a lesson.”
He stood irresolute for a minute, smiling to himself.
From somewhere above his head came a stifled groan.
Anthony looked up. The groan came again.
Anthony glanced quickly from left to right. Carlo was not due round again just yet. He grasped the heavy Virginia creeper and climbed nimbly till he reached the sill of a window. The window was shut, but with a tool from his pocket he soon succeeded in forcing up the catch.
He paused a minute to listen, then sprang lightly inside the room. There was a bed in the far corner and on that bed a man was lying, his figure barely discernible in the gloom.
Anthony went over to the bed, and flashed his pocket torch on the man’s face. It was a foreign face, pale and emaciated, and the head was swathed in heavy bandages.
The man was bound hand and foot. He stared up at Anthony like one dazed.
Anthony bent over him, and as he did so he heard a sound behind him and swung round, his hand travelling to his coat pocket.
But a sharp command arrested him.
“Hands up, sonny. You didn’t expect to see me here, but I happened to catch the same train as you at Victoria.”
It was Mr. Hiram Fish who was standing in the doorway. He was smiling and in his hand was a big blue automatic.
Tuesday Night at Chimneys
Lord Caterham, Virginia and Bundle were sitting in the library after dinner. It was Tuesday evening. Some thirty hours had elapsed since Anthony’s rather dramatic departure.
For at least the seventh time Bundle repeated Anthony’s parting words, as spoken at Hyde Park Corner.
“I’ll find my own way back,” repeated Virginia thoughtfully. “That doesn’t look as though he expected to be away as long as this. And he’s left all his things here.”
“He didn’t tell you where he was going?”
“No,” said Virginia, looking straight in front of her. “He told me nothing.”
After this, there was a silence for a minute or two. Lord Caterham was the first to break it.
“On the whole,” he said, “keeping an hotel has some advantages over keeping a country house.”
“Meaning——?”
“That little notice they always hang up in your room. Visitors intending departure must give notice before twelve o’clock.”
Virginia smiled.
“I dare say,” he continued, “that I am old-fashioned and unreasonable. It’s the fashion, I know, to pop in and out of a house. Same idea as an hotel—perfect freedom of action, and no bill at the end!”
“You are an old grouser,” said Bundle. “You’ve had Virginia and me. What more do you want?”
“Nothing more, nothing more,” Lord Caterham assured them hastily. “That’s not it at all. It’s the principle of the thing. It gives one such a restless feeling. I’m quite willing to admit that it’s been an almost ideal twenty-four hours. Peace—perfect peace. No burglaries or other crimes of violence, no detectives, no Americans. What I complain of is that I should have enjoyed it all so much more if I’d felt really secure. As it is, all the time I’ve been saying to myself ‘One or other of them is bound to turn up in a minute.’ And that spoilt the whole thing.”
“Well, nobody has turned up,” said Bundle. “We’ve been left severely alone—neglected, in fact. It’s odd the way Fish disappeared. Didn’t he say anything?”
“Not a word. Last time I saw him he was pacing up and down the Rose Garden yesterday afternoon, smoking one of those unpleasant cigars of his. After that he seems to have just melted into the landscape.”
“Somebody must have kidnapped him,” said Bundle hopefully.
“In another day or two, I expect we shall have Scotland Yard dragging the lake to find his dead body,” said her father gloomily. “It serves me right. At my time of life, I ought to have gone quietly abroad and taken care of my health, and not allowed myself to be drawn into George Lomax’s wild-cat schemes. I——”
He was interrupted by Tredwell.
“Well,” said Lord Caterham irritably, “what is it?”
“The French detective is here, my lord, and would be glad if you could spare him a few minutes.”
“What did I tell you?” said Lord Caterham. “I knew it was too good to last. Depend upon it, they’ve found Fish’s dead body doubled up in the goldfish pond.”
Tredwell, in a strictly respectful manner, steered him back to the point of issue.
“Am I to say that you will see him, my lord?”
“Yes, yes. Bring him in here.”
Tredwell departed. He returned a minute or two later announcing in a lugubrious voice:
“Monsieur Lemoine.”
The Frenchman came in with a quick, light step. His walk, more than his face, betrayed the fact that he was excited about something.
“Good evening, Lemoine,” said Lord Caterham. “Have a drink, won’t you?”
“I thank you, no.” He bowed punctiliously to the ladies. “At last I make progress. As things are, I felt that you should be acquainted with the discoveries—the very grave discoveries that I have made in the course of the last twenty-four hours.”
“I thought there must be something important going on somewhere,” said Lord Caterham.
“My lord, yesterday afternoon one of your guests left this house in a curious manner. From the beginning, I must tell you, I have had my suspicions. Here is a man who comes from the wilds. Two months ago he was in South Africa. Before that—where?”
Virginia drew a sharp breath. For a moment the Frenchman’s eyes rested on her doubtfully. Then he went on:
“Before that—where? None can say. And he is just such a one as the man I am looking for—gay, audacious, reckless, one who would dare anything. I send cable after cable, but I can get no word as to his past life. Ten years ago he was in Canada, yes, but since then—silence. My suspicions grow stronger. Then I picked up one day a scrap of paper where he has lately passed along. It bears an address—the address of a house in Dover. Later, as though by chance, I drop that same piece of paper. Out of the tail of my eye, I see this Boris, this Herzoslovakian, pick it up and take it to his master. All along I have been sure that this Boris is an emissary of the Comrades of the Red Hand. We know that the Comrades are working in with King Victor over this affair. If Boris recognized his Chief in Mr. Anthony Cade, would he not do just what he has done—transferred his allegiance? Why should he attach himself otherwise to an insignificant stranger? It was suspicious, I tell you, very suspicious.
“But
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