The Secret of Chimneys by Agatha Christie (good beach reads txt) đ
- Author: Agatha Christie
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âQuite ingenious,â admitted George condescendingly. âBut it remains to be seenâââ
Anthony laughed.
âThe proof of the puddingâs in the eatingâeh? Well, Iâll soon settle that for you.â He sprang to his feet. âIâll go to the libraryâââ
He got no further. M. Lemoine moved forward from the window.
âJust one moment, Mr. Cade. You permit, Lord Caterham?â
He went to the writing-table and hurriedly scribbled a few lines. He sealed them up in an envelope, and then rang the bell. Tredwell appeared in answer to it. Lemoine handed him the note.
âSee that that is delivered at once, if you please.â
âVery good, sir,â said Tredwell.
With his usual dignified tread he withdrew.
Anthony, who had been standing, irresolute, sat down again.
âWhatâs the big idea, Lemoine?â he asked gently.
There was a sudden sense of strain in the atmosphere.
âIf the jewel is where you say it isâwell, it has been there for over seven yearsâa quarter of an hour more does not matter.â
âGo on,â said Anthony. âThat wasnât all you wanted to say?â
âNo, it was not. At this juncture, it isâunwise to permit any one person to leave the room. Especially if that person has rather questionable antecedents.â
Anthony raised his eyebrows, and lighted a cigarette.
âI suppose a vagabond life is not very respectable,â he mused.
âTwo months ago, Mr. Cade, you were in South Africa. That is admitted. Where were you before that?â
Anthony leaned back in his chair, idly blowing smoke rings.
âCanada. Wild North West.â
âAre you sure you were not in prison? A French prison?â
Automatically, Superintendent Battle moved a step nearer the door, as if to cut off a retreat that way, but Anthony showed no signs of doing anything dramatic.
Instead, he stared at the French detective, and then burst out laughing.
âMy poor Lemoine. It is a monomania with you! You do indeed see King Victor everywhere. So you fancy that I am that interesting gentleman?â
âDo you deny it?â
Anthony brushed a fleck of ash from his coat sleeve.
âI never deny anything that amuses me,â he said lightly. âBut the accusation is really too ridiculous.â
âAh! you think so?â The Frenchman leant forward. His face was twitching painfully, and yet he seemed perplexed and baffledâas though something in Anthonyâs manner puzzled him. âWhat if I tell you, Monsieur, that this timeâthis timeâI am out to get King Victor, and nothing shall stop me!â
âVery laudable,â was Anthonyâs comment. âYouâve been out to get him before, though, havenât you, Lemoine? And heâs got the better of you. Arenât you afraid that that may happen again? Heâs a slippery fellow, by all accounts.â
The conversation had developed into a duel between the detective and Anthony. Every one else in the room was conscious of the tension. It was a fight to a finish between the Frenchman, painfully in earnest, and the man who smoked so calmly and whose words seemed to show that he had not a care in the world.
âIf I were you, Lemoine,â continued Anthony, âI should be very, very careful. Watch your step, and all that sort of thing.â
âThis time,â said Lemoine grimly, âthere will be no mistake.â
âYou seem very sure about it all,â said Anthony. âBut thereâs such a thing as evidence, you know.â
Lemoine smiled, and something in his smile seemed to attract Anthonyâs attention. He sat up and stubbed out his cigarette.
âYou saw that note I wrote just now?â said the French detective. âIt was to my people at the inn. Yesterday I received from France the finger-prints and the Bertillon measurements of King Victorâthe so-called Captain OâNeill. I have asked for them to be sent up to me here. In a few minutes we shall know whether you are the man!â
Anthony stared steadily at him. Then a little smile crept over his face.
âYouâre really rather clever, Lemoine. I never thought of that. The documents will arrive, you will induce me to dip my fingers in the ink, or something equally unpleasant, you will measure my ears and look for my distinguishing marks. And if they agreeâââ
âWell,â said Lemoine, âif they agreeâeh?â
Anthony leaned forward in his chair.
âWell, if they do agree,â he said very gently, âwhat then?â
âWhat then?â The detective seemed taken aback. âButâI shall have proved then that you are King Victor!â
But for the first time, a shade of uncertainty crept into his manner.
âThat will doubtless be a great satisfaction to you,â said Anthony. âBut I donât quite see where itâs going to hurt me. Iâm not admitting anything, but supposing, just for the sake of argument, that I was King VictorâI might be trying to repent, you know.â
âRepent?â
âThatâs the idea. Put yourself in King Victorâs place, Lemoine. Use your imagination. Youâve just come out of prison. Youâre getting on in life. Youâve lost the first fine rapture of the adventurous life. Say, even, that you meet a beautiful girl. You think of marrying and settling down somewhere in the country where you can grow vegetable marrows. You decide from henceforth to lead a blameless life. Put yourself in King Victorâs place. Canât you imagine feeling like that?â
âI do not think that I should feel like that,â said Lemoine with a sardonic smile.
âPerhaps you wouldnât,â admitted Anthony. âBut then youâre not King Victor, are you? You canât possibly know what he feels like.â
âBut it is nonsense, what you are saying there,â spluttered the Frenchman.
âOh, no, it isnât. Come now, Lemoine, if Iâm King Victor, what have you against me after all? You could never get the necessary evidence in the old, old days, remember. Iâve served my sentence, and thatâs all there is to it. I suppose you could arrest me for the French equivalent of âLoitering with intent to commit a felony,â but that would be poor satisfaction, wouldnât it?â
âYou forget,â said Lemoine. âAmerica! How about this business of obtaining money under false pretences, and passing yourself off as Prince Nicholas Obolovitch?â
âNo good, Lemoine,â said Anthony, âI was nowhere near America at the time. And I can prove that easily enough. If King Victor impersonated Prince Nicholas in America, then Iâm not King Victor. Youâre sure he was impersonated? That it wasnât the man himself?â
Superintendent Battle suddenly interposed.
âThe man was an impostor all right, Mr. Cade.â
âI wouldnât contradict you, Battle,â said Anthony. âYou have such a habit of being always right. Are you equally sure that Prince Nicholas died in the Congo?â
Battle looked at him curiously.
âI wouldnât swear to that, sir. But itâs generally believed.â
âCareful man. Whatâs your motto? Plenty of rope, eh? Iâve taken a leaf out of your book. Iâve given M. Lemoine plenty of rope. Iâve not denied his accusations. But, all the same, Iâm afraid heâs going to be disappointed. You see I always believe in having something up oneâs sleeve. Anticipating that some little unpleasantness might arise here, I took the precaution to bring a trump card along with me. Itâor rather heâis upstairs.â
âUpstairs?â said Lord Caterham, very interested.
âYes, heâs been having rather a trying time of it lately, poor fellow. Got a nasty bump on the head from some one. Iâve been looking after him.â
Suddenly the deep voice of Mr. Isaacstein broke in:
âCan we guess who he is?â
âIf you like,â said Anthony, âbutâââ
Lemoine interrupted with sudden ferocity:
âAll this is foolery. You think to outwit me yet again. It may be true what you sayâthat you were not in America. You are too clever to say it if it were not true. But there is something else. Murder! Yes, murder. The murder of Prince Michael. He interfered with you that night as you were looking for the jewel.â
âLemoine, have you ever known King Victor to do murder?â Anthonyâs voice rang out sharply. âYou know as wellâbetter than I do, that he has never shed blood.â
âWho else but you could have murdered him?â cried Lemoine. âTell me that!â
The last word died on his lips, as a shrill whistle sounded from the terrace outside. Anthony sprang up, all his assumed nonchalance laid aside.
âYou ask me who murdered Prince Michael?â he cried. âI wonât tell youâIâll show you. That whistle was the signal Iâve been waiting for. The murderer of Prince Michael is in the library now.â
He sprang out through the window, and the others followed him as he led the way round the terrace, until they came to the library window. He pushed the window, and it yielded to his touch.
Very softly he held aside the thick velvet curtain, so that they could look into the room.
Standing by the bookcase was a dark figure, hurriedly pulling out and replacing volumes, so absorbed in the task that no outside sound was heeded.
And then, as they stood watching, trying to recognize the figure that was vaguely silhouetted against the light of the electric torch it carried, some one sprang past them with a sound like the roar of a wild beast.
The torch fell to the ground, was extinguished, and the sounds of a terrific struggle filled the room. Lord Caterham groped his way to the lights and switched them on.
Two figures were swaying together. And as they looked the end came. The short sharp crack of a pistol shot, and the smaller figure crumpled up and fell. The other figure turned and faced themâit was Boris, his eyes alight with rage.
âShe killed my Master,â he growled. âNow she tries to shoot me. I would have taken the pistol from her and shot her, but it went off in the struggle. St. Michael directed it. The evil woman is dead.â
âA woman?â cried George Lomax.
They drew nearer. On the floor, the pistol still clasped in her hand, and an expression of deadly malignity on her face, layâMademoiselle Brun.
King Victor
âI suspected her from the first,â explained Anthony. âThere was a light in her room on the night of the murder. Afterwards, I wavered. I made inquiries about her in Brittany, and came back satisfied that she was what she represented herself to be. I was a fool. Because the Comtesse de Breteuil had employed a Mademoiselle Brun and spoke highly of her, it never occurred to me that the real Mademoiselle Brun might have been kidnapped on her way to her new post, and that it might be a substitute taking her place. Instead I shifted my suspicions to Mr. Fish. It was not until he had followed me to Dover, and we had had a mutual explanation that I began to see clearly. Once I knew that he was a Pinkertonâs man, trailing King Victor, my suspicions swung back again to their original object.
âThe thing that worried me most was that Mrs. Revel had definitely recognized the woman. Then I remembered that it was only after I had mentioned her being Madame de Breteuilâs governess. And all she had said was that that accounted for the fact that the womanâs face was familiar to her. Superintendent Battle will tell you that a deliberate plot was formed to keep Mrs. Revel from coming to Chimneys. Nothing more nor less than a dead body, in fact. And though the murder was the work of the Comrades of the Red Hand, punishing supposed treachery on the part of the victim, the staging of it, and the absence of the Comradesâ sign manual, pointed to some abler intelligence directing operations. From the first, I suspected some connection with Herzoslovakia. Mrs. Revel was the only member of the house party who had been to the country. I suspected at first that some one was impersonating Prince Michael, but that proved to be a totally erroneous idea. When I realized the possibility of Mademoiselle Brunâs being an impostor, and added to that the fact that her face was familiar to Mrs. Revel, I began to see daylight. It was evidently very important that she should not be recognized, and Mrs. Revel was the only person likely to do so.â
âBut who was she?â said Lord Caterham. âSome one Mrs. Revel had known in Herzoslovakia?â
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