The Secret of Chimneys - Agatha Christie (best pdf ebook reader TXT) 📗
- Author: Agatha Christie
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“Good Lord,” said Anthony, “you have got it badly.”
“What do I care for the diamond? For the discovery of the murderer of Prince Michael? I leave those affairs to my colleague of Scotland Yard whose business it is. Me, I am in England for one purpose, and one purpose only, to capture King Victor and to capture him red-handed. Nothing else matters.”
“Think you’ll do it?” asked Anthony, lighting a cigarette.
“How should I know?” said Lemoine, with sudden despondency.
“H’m!” said Anthony.
They had regained the terrace. Superintendent Battle was standing near the French window in a wooden attitude.
“Look at poor old Battle,” said Anthony. “Let’s go and cheer him up.” He paused a minute, and said, “You know, you’re an odd fish in some ways, M. Lemoine.”
“In what ways, M. Cade?”
“Well,” said Anthony, “in your place, I should have been inclined to note down that address that I showed you. It may be of no importance—quite conceivably. On the other hand, it might be very important indeed.”
Lemoine looked at him for a minute or two steadily. Then, with a slight smile, he drew back the cuff of his left coat sleeve. Pencilled on the white shirt-cuff beneath were the words “Hurstmere, Langly Road, Dover.”
“I apologize,” said Anthony. “And I retire worsted.”
He joined Superintendent Battle.
“You look very pensive, Battle,” he remarked.
“I’ve got a lot to think about, Mr. Cade.”
“Yes, I expect you have.”
“Things aren’t dovetailing. They’re not dovetailing at all.”
“Very trying,” sympathized Anthony. “Never mind, Battle, if the worst comes to the worst, you can always arrest me. You’ve got my guilty footprints to fall back upon, remember.”
But the superintendent did not smile.
“Got any enemies here that you know of, Mr. Cade?” he asked.
“I’ve an idea that the third footman doesn’t like me,” replied Anthony lightly. “He does his best to forget to hand me the choicest vegetables. Why?”
“I’ve been getting anonymous letters,” said Superintendent Battle. “Or rather an anonymous letter, I should say.”
“About me?”
Without answering Battle took a folded sheet of cheap notepaper from his pocket, and handed it to Anthony. Scrawled on it in an illiterate handwriting were the words:
“Look out for Mr. Cade. He isn’t wot he seems.”
Anthony handed it back with a light laugh.
“That’s all? Cheer up, Battle. I’m really a King in disguise, you know.”
He went into the house, whistling lightly as he walked along. But as he entered his bedroom and shut the door behind him, his face changed. It grew set and stern. He sat down on the edge of the bed and stared moodily at the floor.
“Things are getting serious,” said Anthony to himself. “Something must be done about it. It’s all damned awkward....”
He sat there for a minute or two, then strolled to the window. For a moment or two he stood looking out aimlessly, and then his eyes became suddenly focused on a certain spot, and his face lightened.
“Of course,” he said. “The Rose Garden! That’s it! The Rose Garden.”
He hurried downstairs again and out into the garden by a side door. He approached the Rose Garden by a circuitous route. It had a little gate at either end. He entered by the far one, and walked up to the sundial which was on a raised hillock in the exact centre of the garden.
Just as Anthony reached it, he stopped dead and stared at another occupant of the Rose Garden who seemed equally surprised to see him.
“I didn’t know that you were interested in roses, Mr. Fish,” said Anthony gently.
“Sir,” said Mr. Fish, “I am considerably interested in roses.”
They looked at each other warily, as antagonists seek to measure their opponents’ strength.
“So am I,” said Anthony.
“Is that so?”
“In fact, I dote upon roses,” said Anthony airily.
A very slight smile hovered upon Mr. Fish’s lips and at the same time Anthony also smiled. The tension seemed to relax.
“Look at this beauty now,” said Mr. Fish, stooping to point out a particularly fine bloom. “Madame Abel Chatenay, I pressoom it to be. Yes, I am right. This white rose, before the war, was known as Frau Carl Drusky. They have, I believe, renamed it. Over sensitive, perhaps but truly patriotic. The La France is always popular. Do you care for red roses at all, Mr. Cade? A bright scarlet rose now——”
Mr. Fish’s slow, drawling voice was interrupted. Bundle was leaning out of a first-floor window.
“Care for a spin to town, Mr. Fish? I’m just off.”
“Thank you, Lady Eileen, but I am vurry happy here.”
“Sure you won’t change your mind, Mr. Cade?”
Anthony laughed and shook his head. Bundle disappeared.
“Sleep is more in my line,” said Anthony, with a wide yawn. “A good after luncheon nap!” He took out a cigarette. “You haven’t got a match, have you?”
Mr. Fish handed him a match-box. Anthony helped himself, and handed back the box with a word of thanks.
“Roses,” said Anthony, “are all very well. But I don’t feel particularly horticultural this afternoon.”
With a disarming smile, he nodded cheerfully.
A thundering noise sounded from just outside the house.
“Pretty powerful engine she’s got in that car of hers,” remarked Anthony. “There, off she goes.”
They had a view of the car speeding down the long drive.
Anthony yawned again, and strolled towards the house.
He passed in through the door. Once inside, he seemed as though changed to quicksilver. He raced across the hall, out through one of the windows on the farther side, and across the park. Bundle, he knew, had to make a big détour by the lodge gates, and through the village.
He ran desperately. It was a race against time. He reached the park wall just as he heard the car outside. He swung himself up and dropped into the road.
“Hi!” cried Anthony.
In her astonishment, Bundle swerved half across the road. She managed to pull up without accident. Anthony ran after the car, opened the door, and jumped in beside Bundle.
“I’m coming to London with you,” he said. “I meant to all along.”
“Extraordinary person,” said Bundle. “What’s that you’ve got in your hand?”
“Only a match,” said Anthony.
He regarded it thoughtfully. It was pink, with a yellow head. He threw away his unlighted cigarette, and put the match carefully into his pocket.
The House at Dover
“You don’t mind, I suppose,” said Bundle after a minute or two, “if I drive rather fast? I started later than I meant to do.”
It had seemed to Anthony that they were proceeding at a terrific speed already, but he soon saw that that was nothing compared to what Bundle could get out of the Panhard if she tried.
“Some people,” said Bundle, as she slowed down momentarily to pass through a village, “are terrified of my driving. Poor old father, for instance. Nothing would induce him to come up with me in this old bus.”
Privately, Anthony thought Lord Caterham was entirely justified. Driving with Bundle was not a sport to be indulged in by nervous, middle-aged gentlemen.
“But you don’t seem nervous a bit,” continued Bundle approvingly, as she swept round a corner on two wheels.
“I’m in pretty good training, you see,” explained Anthony gravely. “Also,” he added, as an afterthought, “I’m rather in a hurry myself.”
“Shall I speed her up a bit more?” asked Bundle kindly.
“Good Lord, no,” said Anthony hastily. “We’re averaging about fifty as it is.”
“I’m burning with curiosity to know the reason of this sudden departure,” said Bundle, after executing a fanfare upon the Klaxon which must temporarily have deafened the neighbourhood. “But I suppose I mustn’t ask? You’re not escaping from justice, are you?”
“I’m not quite sure,” said Anthony. “I shall know soon.”
“That Scotland Yard man isn’t as much of a rabbit as I thought,” said Bundle thoughtfully.
“Battle’s a good man,” agreed Anthony.
“You ought to have been in diplomacy,” remarked Bundle. “You don’t part with much information, do you?”
“I was under the impression that I babbled.”
“Oh! Boy! You’re not eloping with Mademoiselle Brun, by any chance?”
“Not guilty!” said Anthony with fervour.
There was a pause of some minutes during which Bundle caught up and passed three other cars. Then she asked suddenly:
“How long have you known Virginia?”
“That’s a difficult question to answer,” said Anthony, with perfect truth. “I haven’t actually met her very often, and yet I seem to have known her a long time.”
Bundle nodded.
“Virginia’s got brains,” she remarked abruptly. “She’s always talking nonsense, but she’s got brains all right. She was frightfully good out in Herzoslovakia, I believe. If Tim Revel had lived he’d have had a fine career—and mostly owing to Virginia. She worked for him tooth and nail. She did everything in the world she could for him—and I know why, too.”
“Because she cared for him?” Anthony sat looking very straight ahead of him.
“No, because she didn’t. Don’t you see? She didn’t love him—she never loved him, and so she did everything on earth she could to make up. That’s Virginia all over. But don’t you make any mistake about it. Virginia was never in love with Tim Revel.”
“You seem very positive,” said Anthony, turning to look at her.
Bundle’s little hands were clenched on the steering wheel, and her chin was stuck out in a determined manner.
“I know a thing or two. I was only a kid at the time of her marriage, but I heard one or two things, and knowing Virginia I can put them together easily enough. Tim Revel was bowled over by Virginia—he was Irish, you know, and most attractive, with a genius for expressing himself well. Virginia was quite young—eighteen. She couldn’t go anywhere without seeing Tim in a state of picturesque misery, vowing he’d shoot himself or take to drink if she didn’t marry him. Girls believe these things—or used to—we’ve advanced a lot in the last eight years. Virginia was carried away by the feeling she thought she’d inspired. She married him—and she was an angel to him always. She wouldn’t have been half as much of an angel if she’d loved him. There’s a lot of the devil in Virginia. But I can tell you one thing—she enjoys her freedom. And anyone will have a hard time persuading her to give it up.”
“I wonder why you tell me all this?” said Anthony slowly.
“It’s interesting to know about people, isn’t it? Some people, that is.”
“I’ve wanted to know,” he acknowledged.
“And you’d never have heard from Virginia. But you can trust me for an inside tip from the stables. Virginia’s a darling. Even women like her because she isn’t a bit of a cat. And anyway,” Bundle ended, somewhat obscurely, “one must be a sport, mustn’t one?”
“Oh, certainly,” Anthony agreed. But he was still puzzled. He had no idea what had prompted Bundle to give him so much information unasked. That he was glad of it, he did not deny.
“Here are the trams,” said Bundle, with a sigh. “Now, I suppose, I shall have to drive carefully.”
“It might be as well,” agreed Anthony.
His ideas and Bundle’s on the subject of careful driving hardly coincided. Leaving indignant suburbs behind them, they finally emerged into Oxford Street.
“Not bad going, eh?” said Bundle, glancing at her wrist watch.
Anthony assented fervently.
“Where do you want to be dropped?”
“Anywhere. Which way are you going?”
“Knightsbridge way.”
“All right, drop me at Hyde Park Corner.”
“Good-bye,” said Bundle, as she drew up at the place indicated. “What about the return journey?”
“I’ll find my own way back, thanks very much.”
“I have scared him,” remarked Bundle.
“I shouldn’t recommend driving with you as a tonic for nervous old ladies, but personally I’ve enjoyed it. The last time I was in equal danger was when I was charged by a herd of wild elephants.”
“I think you’re extremely rude,” remarked Bundle. “We’ve not even had one bump to-day.”
“I’m sorry if you’ve been holding yourself in on my account,” retorted
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