The Secret of ChimneysPart 9
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Part 9
No, Anthony felt convinced that Giuseppe had been acting as a tool for some outside agency. With the information supplied to him by the manager, it might be possible to learn something about Giuseppe’s private life, and so finally track him down. He gathered up the sheet of paper and rose.
“Thank you very much indeed. It’s quite unnecessary to ask, I suppose, whether Giuseppe is still in the hotel?”
The manager smiled.
“His bed was not slept in, and all his things have been left behind. He must have rushed straight out after his attack upon you. I don’t think there is much chance of our seeing him again.”
“I imagine not. Well, thank you very much indeed. I shall be staying on here for the present.”
“I hope you will be successful in your task, but I confess that I am rather doubtful.”
“I always hope for the best.”
One of Anthony’s first proceedings was to question some of the other waiters who had been friendly with Giuseppe, but he obtained very little to go upon. He wrote out an advertisement on the lines he had planned, and had it sent to five of the most widely read newspapers. He was just about to go out and visit the restaurant at which Giuseppe had been previously employed when the telephone rang. Anthony took up the receiver.
“Hullo, what is it?”
A toneless voice replied.
“Am I speaking to Mr. McGrath?”
“You are. Who are you?”
“This is Messrs. Balderson and Hodgkins. Just a minute, please. I will put you through to Mr. Balderson.”
“Our worthy publishers,” thought Anthony. “So they are getting worried too, are they? They needn’t. There’s a week to run still.”
A hearty voice struck suddenly upon his ear.
“Hullo! That Mr. McGrath?”
“Speaking.”
“I’m Mr. Balderson of Balderson and Hodgkins. What about that manuscript, Mr. McGrath?”
“Well,” said Anthony, “what about it?”
“Everything about it. I understand, Mr. McGrath, that you have just arrived in this country from South Africa. That being so, you can’t possibly understand the position. There’s going to be trouble about that manuscript, Mr. McGrath, big trouble. Sometimes I wish we’d never said we’d handle it.”
“Indeed?”
“I assure you it’s so. At present I’m anxious to get it into my possession as quickly as possible, so as to have a couple of copies made. Then, if the original is destroyed—well, no harm will be done.”
“Dear me,” said Anthony.
“Yes, I expect it sounds absurd to you, Mr. McGrath. But, I assure you, you don’t appreciate the situation. There’s a determined effort being made to prevent its ever reaching this office. I say to you quite frankly and without humbug that if you attempt to bring it yourself it’s ten to one that you’ll never get here.”
“I doubt that,” said Anthony. “When I want to get anywhere, I usually do.”
“You’re up against a very dangerous lot of people. I wouldn’t have believed it myself a month ago. I tell you, Mr. McGrath, we’ve been bribed and threatened and cajoled by one lot and another until we don’t know whether we’re on our heads or our heels. My suggestion is that you do not attempt to bring the manuscript here. One of our people will call upon you at the hotel and take possession of it.”
“And supposing the gang does him in?” asked Anthony.
“The responsibility would then be ours—not yours. You would have delivered it to our representative and obtained a written discharge. The cheque for—er—a thousand pounds which we are instructed to hand to you will not be available until Wednesday next by the terms of our agreement with the executors of the late—er—author—you know whom I mean, but if you insist I will send my own cheque for that amount by the messenger.”
Anthony reflected for a minute or two. He had intended to keep the Memoirs until the last day of grace, because he was anxious to see for himself what all the fuss was about. Nevertheless, he realized the force of the publisher’s arguments.
“All right,” he said, with a little sigh. “Have it your own way. Send your man along. And if you don’t mind sending that cheque as well I’d rather have it now, as I may be going out of England before next Wednesday.”
“Certainly, Mr. McGrath. Our representative will call upon you first thing to-morrow morning. It will be wiser not to send anyone direct from the office. Our Mr. Holmes lives in South London. He will call in on his way to us, and will give you a receipt for the package. I suggest that to-night you should place a dummy packet in the manager’s safe. Your enemies will get to hear of this, and it will prevent any attack being made upon your apartments to-night.”
“Very well, I will do as you direct.”
Anthony hung up the receiver with a thoughtful face.
Then he went on with his interrupted plan of seeking news of the slippery Giuseppe. He drew a complete blank, however. Giuseppe had worked at the restaurant in question, but nobody seemed to know anything of his private life or associates.
“But I’ll get you, my lad,” murmured Anthony, between his teeth. “I’ll get you yet. It’s only a matter of time.”
His second night in London was entirely peaceful.
At nine o’clock the following morning, the card of Mr. Holmes from Messrs. Balderson and Hodgkins was sent up, and Mr. Holmes followed it. A small, fair man with a quiet manner. Anthony handed over the manuscript, and received in exchange a cheque for a thousand pounds. Mr. Holmes packed up the manuscript in the small brown bag he carried, wished Anthony good morning, and departed. The whole thing seemed very tame.
“But perhaps he’ll be murdered on the way there,” Anthony murmured aloud, as he stared idly out of the window. “I wonder now—I very much wonder.”
He put the cheque in an envelope, enclosed a few lines of writing with it, and sealed it up carefully. Jimmy, who had been more or less in funds at the time of his encounter with Anthony at Bulawayo, had advanced him a substantial sum of money which was, as yet, practically untouched.
“If one’s job’s done with, the other isn’t,” said Anthony to himself. “Up to now, I’ve bungled it. But never say die. I think that, suitably disguised, I shall go and have a look at 487, Pont Street.”
He packed his belongings, went down and paid his bill, and ordered his luggage to be put on a taxi. Suitably rewarding those who stood in his path, most of whom had done nothing whatever materially to add to his comfort, he was on the point of being driven off, when a small boy rushed down the steps with a letter.
“Just come for you, this very minute, sir.”
With a sigh, Anthony produced yet another shilling. The taxi groaned heavily and jumped forward with a hideous crashing of gears, and Anthony opened the letter.
It was rather a curious document. He had to read it four times before he could be sure of what it was all about. Put in plain English (the letter was not in plain English, but in the peculiar involved style common to missives issued by Government officials) it presumed that Mr. McGrath was arriving in England from South Africa to-day—Thursday, it referred obliquely to the Memoirs of Count Stylptitch, and begged Mr. McGrath to do nothing in the matter until he had had a confidential conversation with Mr. George Lomax, and certain other parties whose magnificence was vaguely hinted at. It also contained a definite invitation to go down to Chimneys as the guest of Lord Caterham, on the following day, Friday.
A mysterious and thoroughly obscure communication. Anthony enjoyed it very much.
“Dear old England,” he murmured affectionately. “Two days behind the times, as usual. Rather a pity. Still, I can’t go down to Chimneys under false pretences. I wonder, though, if there’s an inn handy? Mr. Anthony Cade might stay at the inn without anyone being the wiser.”
He leaned out of the window, and gave new directions to the taxi driver, who acknowledged them with a snort of contempt.
The taxi drew up before one of London’s more obscure hostelries. The fare, however, was paid on a scale befitting its point of departure.
Having booked a room in the name of Anthony Cade, Anthony passed into a dingy writing-room, took out a sheet of notepaper stamped with the legend Hotel Blitz, and wrote rapidly.
He explained that he had arrived on the preceding Tuesday, that he had handed over the manuscript in question to Messrs. Balderson and Hodgkins, and he regretfully declined the kind invitation of Lord Caterham as he was leaving England almost immediately. He signed the letter “Yours faithfully, James McGrath.”
“And now,” said Anthony, as he affixed the stamp to the envelope. “To business. Exit James McGrath, and Enter Anthony Cade.”
8
A Dead Man
On that same Thursday afternoon Virginia Revel had been playing tennis at Ranelagh. All the way back to Pont Street, as she lay back in the long, luxurious limousine, a little smile played upon her lips, as she rehearsed her part in the forthcoming interview. Of course it was within the bounds of possibility that the blackmailer might not reappear, but she felt pretty certain that he would. She had shown herself an easy prey. Well, perhaps this time there would be a little surprise for him!
When the car drew up at the house, she turned to speak to the chauffeur before going up the steps.
“How’s your wife, Walton? I forgot to ask.”
“Better I think, ma’am. The doctor said he’d look in and see her about half-past six. Will you be wanting the car again?”
Virginia reflected for a minute.
“I shall be away for the week-end. I’m going by the 6.40 from Paddington, but I shan’t need you again—a taxi will do for that. I’d rather you saw the doctor. If he thinks it would do your wife good to go away for the week-end, take her somewhere, Walton. I’ll stand the expense.”
Cutting short the man’s thanks with an impatient nod of the head, Virginia ran up the steps, delved into her bag in search of her latchkey, remembered she hadn’t got it with her, and hastily rang the bell.
It was not answered at once, but as she waited there a young man came up the steps. He was shabbily dressed, and carried in his hand a sheaf of leaflets. He held one out to Virginia with the legend on it plainly visible: “Why Did I Serve my Country?” In his left hand he held a collecting-box.
“I can’t buy two of those awful poems in one day,” said Virginia pleadingly. “I bought one this morning. I did, indeed, honour bright.”
The young man threw back his head and laughed. Virginia laughed with him. Running her eyes carelessly over him, she thought him a more pleasing specimen than usual of London’s unemployed. She liked his brown face, and the lean hardness of him. She went so far as to wish she had a job for him.
But at that moment the door opened, and immediately Virginia forgot all about the problem of the unemployed, for to her astonishment the door was opened by her own maid, Élise.
“Where’s Chilvers?” she demanded sharply, as she stepped into the hall.
“But he is gone, madame, with the others.”
“What others? Gone where?”
“But to Datchet, madame—to the cottage, as your telegram said.”
“My telegram?” said Virginia, utterly at sea.
“Did not madame send a telegram? Surely there can be no mistake. It came but an hour ago.”
“I never sent any telegram. What did it say?”
“I believe it is still on the table là-bas.”
Élise retired, pounced upon it, and brought it to her mistress in triumph.
“Voilà, madame!”
The telegram was addressed to Chilvers and ran as follows:
“Please take household down to cottage at once, and make preparations for week-end party there. Catch 5.49 train.”
There was nothing unusual about it, it was just the sort of message she herself had frequently sent before, when she had arranged a party at her riverside bungalow on the spur of the moment. She always took the whole household down, leaving an old woman as caretaker. Chilvers would not have seen anything wrong with the message, and like a good servant had carried out his orders faithfully enough.
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