The Secret of Chimneys 29 – Christie · Verses Across
Literature · Crime, Thrillers & Mystery
The Secret of Chimneys 29Further Explanations
18
Literature · Crime, Thrillers & Mystery
The Secret of Chimneys 29
Further Explanations
ChristieEnglish
“You owe us an explanation, I think, Mr. Cade,” said Herman Isaacstein, somewhat later in the evening.
“There’s nothing much to explain,” said Anthony modestly. “I went to Dover and Fish followed me under the impression that I was King Victor. We found a mysterious stranger imprisoned there, and as soon as we heard his story we knew where we were. The same idea again, you see. The real man kidnapped, and the false one—in this case King Victor himself—takes his place. But it seems that Battle here always thought there was something fishy about his French colleague, and wired to Paris for his fingerprints and other means of identification.”
“Ah!” cried the Baron. “The fingerprints. The Bertillon measurements that that scoundrel talked about?”
“It was a clever idea,” said Anthony. “I admired it so much that I felt forced to play up. Besides, my doing so puzzled the false Lemoine enormously. You see, as soon as I had given the tip about the ‘rows’ and where the jewel really was, he was keen to pass on the news to his accomplice, and at the same time to keep us all in that room. The note was really to Mademoiselle Brun. He told Tredwell to deliver it at once, and Tredwell did so by taking it upstairs to the schoolroom. Lemoine accused me of being King Victor, by that means creating a diversion and preventing anyone from leaving the room. By the time all that had been cleared up and we adjourned to the library to look for the stone, he flattered himself that the stone would be no longer there to find!”
George cleared his throat.
“I must say, Mr. Cade,” he said pompously, “that I consider your action in that matter highly reprehensible. If the slightest hitch had occurred in your plans, one of our national possessions might have disappeared beyond the hope of recovery. It was foolhardy, Mr. Cade, reprehensibly foolhardy.”
“I guess you haven’t tumbled to the little idea, Mr. Lomax,” said the drawling voice of Mr. Fish. “That historic diamond was never behind the books in the library.”
“Never?”
“Not on your life.”
“You see,” explained Anthony, “that little device of Count Stylptitch’s stood for what it had originally stood for—a Rose. When that dawned upon me on Monday afternoon, I went straight to the Rose Garden. Mr. Fish had already tumbled to the same idea. If, standing with your back to the sundial, you take seven paces straight forward, then eight to the left and three to the right, you come to some bushes of a bright red rose called Richmond. The house has been ransacked to find the hiding-place, but nobody has thought of digging in the garden. I suggest a little digging party to-morrow morning.”
“Then the story about the books in the library—”
“An invention of mine to trap the lady. Mr. Fish kept watch on the terrace, and whistled when the psychological moment had arrived. I may say that Mr. Fish and I established martial law at the Dover house, and prevented the Comrades from communicating with the false Lemoine. He sent them an order to clear out, and word was conveyed to him that this had been done. So he went happily ahead with his plans for denouncing me.”
“Well, well,” said Lord Caterham cheerfully, “everything seems to have been cleared up most satisfactorily.”
“Everything but one thing,” said Mr. Isaacstein.
“What is that?”
The great financier looked steadily at Anthony.
“What did you get me down here for? Just to assist at a dramatic scene as an interested onlooker.”
Anthony shook his head.
“No, Mr. Isaacstein. You are a busy man whose time is money. Why did you come down here originally?”
“To negotiate a loan.”
“With whom?”
“Prince Michael of Herzoslovakia.”
“Exactly. Prince Michael is dead. Are you prepared to offer the same loan on the same terms to his cousin Nicholas?”
“Can you produce him? I thought he was killed in the Congo?”
“He was killed all right. I killed him. Oh, no, I’m not a murderer. When I say I killed him, I mean that I spread the report of his death. I promised you a Prince, Mr. Isaacstein. Will I do?”
“You?”
“Yes, I’m the man. Nicholas Sergius Alexander Ferdinand Obolovitch. Rather long for the kind of life I proposed to live, so I emerged from the Congo as plain Anthony Cade.”
Little Captain Andrassy sprang up.
“But this is incredible—incredible,” he spluttered. “Have a care, sir, what you say.”
“I can give you plenty of proofs,” said Anthony quietly. “I think I shall be able to convince the Baron here.”
The Baron lifted his hand.
“Your proofs I will examine, yes. But of them for me there is no need. Your word alone sufficient for me is. Besides, your English mother you much resemble. All along have I said: ‘This young man on one side or the other most highly born is’.”
“You have always trusted my word, Baron,” said Anthony. “I can assure you that in the days to come I shall not forget.”
Then he looked over at Superintendent Battle whose face had remained perfectly expressionless.
“You can understand,” said Anthony with a smile, “that my position has been extremely precarious. Of all those in the house I might be supposed to have the best reason for wishing Michael Obolovitch out of the way, since I was the next heir to the Throne. I’ve been extraordinarily afraid of Battle all along. I always felt that he suspected me, but that he was held up by lack of motive.”
“I never believed for a minute that you’d shot him, sir,” said Superintendent Battle. “We’ve got a feeling in such matters. But I knew that you were afraid of something, and you puzzled me. If I’d known sooner who you really were, I dare say I’d have yielded to the evidence, and arrested you.”
“I’m glad I managed to keep one guilty secret from you. You wormed everything else out of me all right. You’re a damned good man at your job, Battle. I shall always think of Scotland Yard with respect.”
“Most amazing,” muttered George. “Most amazing story I ever heard. I—I can really hardly believe it. You are quite sure, Baron, that——”
“My dear Mr. Lomax,” said Anthony, with a slight hardness in his tone, “I have no intention of asking the British Foreign Office to support my claim without bringing forward the most convincing documentary evidence. I suggest that we adjourn now, and that you, the Baron, Mr. Isaacstein and myself discuss the terms of the proposed loan.”
The Baron rose to his feet, and clicked his heels together.
“It will be the proudest moment of my life, sir,” he said solemnly, “when I see you King of Herzoslovakia.”
“Oh, by the way, Baron,” said Anthony carelessly, slipping his hand through the other’s arm, “I forgot to tell you. There’s a string tied to this. I’m married, you know.”
The Baron retreated a step or two. Dismay overspread his countenance.
“Something wrong I knew there would be,” he boomed. “Merciful God in Heaven! He has married a black woman in Africa!”
“Come, come, it’s not so bad as all that,” said Anthony, laughing. “She’s white enough—white all through, bless her.”
“Good. A respectable morganatic affair it can be, then.”
“Not a bit of it. She’s to play Queen to my King. It’s no use shaking your head. She’s fully qualified for the post. She’s the daughter of an English peer who dates back to the time of the Conqueror. It’s very fashionable just now for Royalties to marry into the aristocracy—and she knows something of Herzoslovakia.”
“My God!” cried George Lomax, startled out of his usual careful speech. “Not—not—Virginia Revel?”
“Yes,” said Anthony. “Virginia Revel.”
“My dear fellow,” cried Lord Caterham, “I mean—sir, I congratulate you, I do indeed. A delightful creature.”
“Thank you, Lord Caterham,” said Anthony. “She’s all you say and more.”
But Mr. Isaacstein was regarding him curiously.
“You’ll excuse my asking your Highness, but when did this marriage take place?”
Anthony smiled back at him.
“As a matter of fact,” he said, “I married her this morning.”
