The Secret of Chimneys

Agatha Christie
The Secret of Chimneys

Copyright

HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

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London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by The Bodley Head 1925

Copyright © 1925 Agatha Christie Ltd. All rights reserved.

Cover by www.juliejenkinsdesign.com © HarperCollins/Agatha Christie Ltd 2008

www.agathachristie.com

Agatha Christie asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

All rights reserved. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins ebooks

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Source ISBN: 9780007122585

Ebook Edition © OCTOBER 2010 ISBN: 9780007422784

Version: 2019-02-04

To my nephew

In memory of an inscription

at Compton Castle and a day

at the zoo

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter 1

Anthony Cade Signs On

Chapter 2

A Lady in Distress

Chapter 3

Anxiety in High Places

Chapter 4

Introducing a Very Charming Lady

Chapter 5

First Night in London

Chapter 6

The Gentle Art of Blackmail

Chapter 7

Mr McGrath Refuses an Invitation

Chapter 8

A Dead Man

Chapter 9

Anthony Disposes of a Body

Chapter 10

Chimneys

Chapter 11

Superintendent Battle Arrives

Chapter 12

Anthony Tells his Story

Chapter 13

The American Visitor

Chapter 14

Mainly Political and Financial

Chapter 15

The French Stranger

Chapter 16

Tea in the Schoolroom

Chapter 17

A Midnight Adventure

Chapter 18

Second Midnight Adventure

Chapter 19

Secret History

Chapter 20

Battle and Anthony Confer

Chapter 21

Mr Isaacstein’s Suitcase

Chapter 22

The Red Signal

Chapter 23

Encounter in the Rose Garden

Chapter 24

The House at Dover

Chapter 25

Tuesday Night at Chimneys

Chapter 26

The 13th of October

Chapter 27

The 13th of October (contd)

Chapter 28

King Victor

Chapter 29

Further Explanations

Chapter 30

Anthony Signs On for a New Job

Chapter 31

Sundry Details

Keep Reading

About the Author

Also by Agatha Christie

About the Publisher

Chapter 1
Anthony Cade Signs On

‘Gentleman Joe!’

‘Why, if it isn’t old Jimmy McGrath,’

Castle’s Select Tour, represented by seven depressed-looking females and three perspiring males, looked on with considerable interest. Evidently their Mr Cade had met an old friend. They all admired Mr Cade so much, his tall lean figure, his sun-tanned face, the light-hearted manner with which he settled disputes and cajoled them all into good temper. This friend of his now–surely rather a peculiar-looking man. About the same height as Mr Cade, but thickset and not nearly so good-looking. The sort of man one read about in books, who probably kept a saloon. Interesting though. After all, that was what one came abroad for–to see all these peculiar things one read about in books. Up to now they had been rather bored with Bulawayo. The sun was unbearably hot, the hotel was uncomfortable, there seemed to be nowhere particular to go until the moment should arrive to motor to the Matoppos. Very fortunately, Mr Cade had suggested picture postcards. There was an excellent supply of picture postcards.

Anthony Cade and his friend had stepped a little apart.

‘What the hell are you doing with this pack of females?’ demanded McGrath. ‘Starting a harem?’

‘Not with this little lot,’ grinned Anthony. ‘Have you taken a good look at them?’

‘I have that. Thought maybe you were losing your eyesight.’

‘My eyesight’s as good as ever it was. No, this is a Castle’s Select Tour. I’m Castle–the local Castle, I mean.’

‘What the hell made you take on a job like that?’

‘A regrettable necessity for cash. I can assure you it doesn’t suit my temperament.’

Jimmy grinned.

‘Never a hog for regular work, were you?’

Anthony ignored this aspersion.

‘However, something will turn up soon, I expect,’ he remarked hopefully. ‘It usually does.’

Jimmy chuckled.

‘If there’s any trouble brewing, Anthony Cade is sure to be in it sooner or later, I know that,’ he said. ‘You’ve an absolute instinct for rows–and the nine lives of a cat. When can we have a yarn together?’

Anthony sighed.

‘I’ve got to take these cackling hens to see Rhodes’ grave.’

‘That’s the stuff,’ said Jimmy approvingly. ‘They’ll come back bumped black and blue with the ruts in the road, and clamouring for bed to rest the bruises on. Then you and I will have a spot or two and exchange the news.’

‘Right. So long, Jimmy.’

Anthony rejoined his flock of sheep. Miss Taylor, the youngest and most skittish of the party, instantly attacked him.

‘Oh, Mr Cade, was that an old friend of yours?’

‘It was, Miss Taylor. One of the friends of my blameless youth.’

Miss Taylor giggled.

‘I thought he was such an interesting-looking man.’

‘I’ll tell him you said so.’

‘Oh, Mr Cade, how can you be so naughty! The very idea! What was that name he called you?’

‘Gentleman Joe?’

‘Yes. Is your name Joe?’

‘I thought you knew it was Anthony, Miss Taylor.’

‘Oh, go on with you!’ cried Miss Taylor coquettishly.

Anthony had by now well mastered his duties. In addition to making the necessary arrangements of travel, they included soothing down irritable old gentlemen when their dignity was ruffled, seeing that elderly matrons had ample opportunities to buy picture postcards, and flirting with everything under a catholic forty years of age. The last task was rendered easier for him by the extreme readiness of the ladies in question to read a tender meaning into his most innocent remarks.

Miss Taylor returned to the attack.

‘Why does he call you Joe, then?’

‘Oh, just because it isn’t my name.’

‘And why Gentleman Joe?’

‘The same kind of reason.’

‘Oh, Mr Cade,’ protested Miss Taylor, much distressed, ‘I’m sure you shouldn’t say that. Papa was only saying last night what gentlemanly manners you had.’

‘Very kind of your father, I’m sure, Miss Taylor.’

‘And we are all agreed that you are quite the gentleman.’

‘I’m overwhelmed.’

‘No, really, I mean it.’

‘Kind hearts are more than coronets,’ said Anthony vaguely, without a notion of what he meant by the remark, and wishing fervently it was lunchtime.

‘That’s such a beautiful poem, I always think. Do you know much poetry, Mr Cade?’

‘I might recite “The boy stood on the burning deck” at a pinch. “The boy stood on the burning deck, whence all but he had fled.” That’s all I know, but I can do that bit with action if you like. “The boy stood on the burning deck”–whoosh–whoosh–whoosh–(the flames, you see) “Whence all but he had fled”–for that bit I run to and fro like a dog.’

Miss Taylor screamed with laughter.

‘Oh, do look at Mr Cade! Isn’t he funny?’

‘Time for morning tea,’ said Anthony briskly. ‘Come this way. There is an excellent café in the next street.’

‘I presume,’ said Mrs Caldicott in her deep voice, ‘that the expense is included in the Tour?’

‘Morning tea, Mrs Caldicott,’ said Anthony, assuming his professional manner, ‘is an extra.’

‘Disgraceful.’

‘Life is full of trials, isn’t it?’ said Anthony cheerfully.

Mrs Caldicott’s eyes gleamed, and she remarked with the air of one springing a mine:

‘I suspected as much, and in anticipation I poured off some tea into a jug at breakfast this morning! I can heat that up on the spirit-lamp. Come, Father.’

Mr and Mrs Caldicott sailed off triumphantly to the hotel, the lady’s back complacent with successful forethought.

‘Oh, Lord,’ muttered Anthony, ‘what a lot of funny people it does take to make a world.’

He marshalled the rest of the party in the direction of the café. Miss Taylor kept by his side, and resumed her catechism.

‘Is it a long time since you saw your friend?’

‘Just over seven years.’

‘Was it in Africa you knew him?’

‘Yes, not this part, though. The first time I ever saw Jimmy McGrath he was all trussed up ready for the cooking pot. Some of the tribes in the interior are cannibals, you know. We got there just in time.’

‘What happened?’

‘Very nice little shindy. We potted some of the beggars, and the rest took to their heels.’

‘Oh, Mr Cade, what an adventurous life you must have led.’

‘Very peaceful, I assure you.’

But it was clear that the lady did not believe him.

It was about ten o’clock that night when Anthony Cade walked into the small room where Jimmy McGrath was busy manipulating various bottles.

‘Make it strong, James,’ he implored. ‘I can tell you, I need it.’

‘I should think you did, my boy. I wouldn’t take on that job of yours for anything.’

‘Show me another, and I’ll jump out of it fast enough.’

McGrath poured out his own drink, tossed it off with a practised hand and mixed a second one. Then he said slowly:

‘Are you in earnest about that, old son?’

‘About what?’

‘Chucking this job of yours if you could get another?’

‘Why? You don’t mean to say that you’ve got a job going begging? Why don’t you grab it yourself?’

‘I have grabbed it–but I don’t much fancy it, that’s why I’m trying to pass it on to you.’

Anthony became suspicious.

‘What’s wrong with it? They haven’t engaged you to teach in a Sunday school, have they?’

‘Do you think anyone would choose me to teach in a Sunday school?’

‘Not if they knew you well, certainly.’

‘It’s a perfectly good job–nothing wrong with it whatsoever.’

‘Not in South America by any lucky chance? I’ve rather got my eye on South America. There’s a very tidy little revolution coming off in one of those little republics soon.

McGrath grinned.

‘You always were keen on revolutions–anything to be mixed up in a really good row.’

‘I feel my talents might be appreciated out there. I tell you, Jimmy, I can be jolly useful in a revolution –to one side or the other. It’s better than making an honest living any day.’

‘I think I’ve heard that sentiment from you before, my son. No, the job isn’t in South America–it’s in England.’

‘England? Return of hero to his native land after many long years. They can’t dun you for bills after seven years, can they, Jimmy?’

‘I don’t think so. Well, are you on for hearing more about it?’

‘I’m on all right. The thing that worries me is why you’re not taking it on yourself.’

‘I’ll tell you. I’m after gold, Anthony–far up in the interior.’

Anthony whistled and looked at him.

‘You’ve always been after gold, Jimmy, ever since I knew you. It’s your weak spot–your own particular little hobby. You’ve followed up more wild-cat trails than anyone I know.’

‘And in the end I’ll strike it. You’ll see.’

‘Well, every one his own hobby. Mine’s rows, yours is gold.’

‘I’ll tell you the whole story. I suppose you know all about Herzoslovakia?’

Anthony looked up sharply.

‘Herzoslovakia?’ he said, with a curious ring in his voice.

‘Yes. Know anything about it?’

There was quite an appreciable pause before Anthony answered. Then he said slowly:

‘Only what everyone knows. It’s one of the Balkan States, isn’t it? Principal rivers, unknown. Principal mountains, also unknown, but fairly numerous. Capital, Ekarest. Population, chiefly brigands. Hobby, assassinating kings and having revolutions. Last king, Nicholas IV, assassinated about seven years ago. Since then it’s been a republic. Altogether a very likely spot. You might have mentioned before that Herzoslovakia came into it.’

‘It doesn’t except indirectly.’

Anthony gazed at him more in sorrow than in anger.

‘You ought to do something about this, James,’ he said. ‘Take a correspondence course, or something. If you’d told a story like this in the good old Eastern days, you’d have been hung up by the heels and bastinadoed or something equally unpleasant.’

Jimmy pursued this course quite unmoved by these strictures.

‘Ever heard of Count Stylptitch?’

‘Now you’re talking,’ said Anthony. ‘Many people who have never heard of Herzoslovakia would brighten at the mention of Count Stylptitch. The Grand Old Man of the Balkans. The Greatest Statesman of Modern Times. The biggest villain unhung. The point of view all depends on which newspaper you take in. But be sure of this, Count Stylptitch will be remembered long after you and I are dust and ashes, James. Every move and counter-move in the Near East for the last twenty years has had Count Stylptitch at the bottom of it. He’s been a dictator and a patriot and a statesman–and nobody knows exactly what he has been, except that he’s been a perfect king of intrigue. Well, what about him?’

‘He was Prime Minister of Herzoslovakia–that’s why I mentioned it first.’

‘You’ve no sense of proportion, Jimmy. Herzoslovakia is of no importance at all compared to Stylptitch. It just provided him with a birthplace and a post in public affairs. But I thought he was dead?’

‘So he is. He died in Paris about two months ago. What I’m telling you about happened some years ago.’

‘The question is,’ said Anthony, ‘what are you telling me about?’

Jimmy accepted the rebuke and hastened on.

‘It was like this. I was in Paris–just four years ago, to be exact. I was walking along one night in rather a lonely part, when I saw half a dozen French toughs beating up a respectable-looking old gentleman. I hate a one-sided show, so I promptly butted in and proceeded to beat up the toughs. I guess they’d never been hit really hard before. They melted like snow!’

‘Good for you, James,’ said Anthony softly. ‘I’d like to have seen that scrap.’

‘Oh, it was nothing much,’ said Jimmy modestly. ‘But the old boy was no end grateful. He’d had a couple, no doubt about that, but he was sober enough to get my name and address out of me, and he came along and thanked me next day. Did the thing in style, too. It was then that I found out it was Count Stylptitch I’d rescued. He’d got a house up by the Bois.’

Anthony nodded.

‘Yes, Stylptitch went to live in Paris after the assassination of King Nicholas. They wanted him to come back and be president later, but he wasn’t taking any. He remained sound to his monarchical principles, though he was reported to have his finger in all the backstairs pies that went on in the Balkans. Very deep, the late Count Stylptitch.’

‘Nicholas IV was the man who had a funny taste in wives, wasn’t he?’ said Jimmy suddenly.

‘Yes,’ said Anthony. ‘And it did for him, too, poor beggar. She was some little guttersnipe of a music-hall artiste in Paris–not even suitable for a morganatic alliance. But Nicholas had a frightful crush on her, and she was all out for being a queen. Sounds fantastic, but they managed it somehow. Called her the Countess Popoffsky, or something, and pretended she had Romanoff blood in her veins. Nicholas married her in the cathedral at Ekarest with a couple of unwilling archbishops to do the job, and she was crowned as Queen Varaga. Nicholas squared his ministers, and I suppose he thought that was all that mattered–but he forgot to reckon with the populace. They’re very aristocratic and reactionary in Herzoslovakia. They like their kings and queens to be the genuine article. There were mutterings and discontent, and the usual ruthless suppressions, and the final uprising which stormed the palace, murdered the King and Queen, and proclaimed a republic. It’s been a republic ever since–but things still manage to be pretty lively there, so I’ve heard. They’ve assassinated a president or two, just to keep their hand in. But revenons à nos moutons. You had got to where Count Stylptitch was hailing you as his preserver.’

‘Yes. Well, that was the end of that business. I came back to Africa and never thought of it again until about two weeks ago I got a queer-looking parcel which had been following me all over the place for the Lord knows how long. I’d seen in a paper that Count Stylptitch had recently died in Paris. Well, this parcel contained his memoirs–or reminiscences, or whatever you call the things. There was a note enclosed to the effect that if I delivered the manuscript at a certain firm of publishers in London on or before October 13th, they were instructed to hand me a thousand pounds.’

‘A thousand pounds? Did you say a thousand pounds, Jimmy?’

‘I did, my son. I hope to God it’s not a hoax. Put not your trust in princes or politicians, as the saying goes. Well, there it is. Owing to the way the manuscript had been following me around, I had no time to lose. It was a pity, all the same. I’d just fixed up this trip to the interior, and I’d set my heart on going. I shan’t get such a good chance again.’

‘You’re incurable, Jimmy. A thousand pounds in the hand is worth a lot of mythical gold.’

‘And supposing it’s all a hoax? Anyway, here I am, passage booked and everything, on the way to Cape Town–and then you blow along!’

Anthony got up and lit a cigarette.

‘I begin to perceive your drift, James. You go gold-hunting as planned, and I collect the thousand pounds for you. How much do I get out of it?’

‘What do you say to a quarter?’

‘Two hundred and fifty pounds free of income tax, as the saying goes?’

‘That’s it.’

‘Done, and just to make you gnash your teeth I’ll tell you that I would have gone for a hundred! Let me tell you, James McGrath, you won’t die in your bed counting up your bank balance.’

‘Anyway, it’s a deal?’

‘It’s a deal all right. I’m on. And confusion to Castle’s Select Tours.’

They drank the toast solemnly.

Chapter 2
A Lady in Distress

‘So that’s that,’ said Anthony, finishing off his glass and replacing it on the table. ‘What boat were you going on?’

‘Granarth Castle.’

‘Passage booked in your name, I suppose, so I’d better travel as James McGrath. We’ve outgrown the passport business, haven’t we.

‘No odds either way. You and I are totally unlike, but we’d probably have the same description on one of those blinking things. Height six feet, hair brown, eyes blue, nose ordinary, chin ordinary–’

‘Not so much of this “ordinary” stunt. Let me tell you that Castle’s selected me out of several applicants solely on account of my pleasing appearance and nice manners.’

Jimmy grinned.

‘I noticed your manners this morning.’

‘The devil you did.’

Anthony rose and paced up and down the room. His brow was slightly wrinkled, and it was some minutes before he spoke.

‘Jimmy,’ he said at last. ‘Stylptitch died in Paris. What’s the point of sending a manuscript from Paris to London via Africa?’

Jimmy shook his head helplessly.

‘I don’t know.’

‘Why not do it up in a nice little parcel and send it by post?’

‘Sounds a damn sight more sensible, I agree.’

‘Of course,’ continued Anthony, ‘I know that kings and queens and government officials are prevented by etiquette from doing anything in a simple, straightforward fashion. Hence King’s Messengers and all that. In medieval days you gave a fellow a signet ring as a sort of open sesame. “The King’s Ring! Pass, my lord!” And usually it was the other fellow who had stolen it. I always wonder why some bright lad never hit on the expedient of copying the ring–making a dozen or so, and selling them at a hundred ducats apiece. They seem to have had no initiative in the Middle Ages.’

Jimmy yawned.

‘My remarks on the Middle Ages don’t seem to amuse you. Let us get back to Count Stylptitch. From France to England via Africa seems a bit thick even for a diplomatic personage. If he merely wanted to ensure that you should get a thousand pounds he could have left it you in his will. Thank God neither you nor I are too proud to accept a legacy! Stylptitch must have been barmy.’

‘You’d think so, wouldn’t you?’

Anthony frowned and continued his pacing.

‘Have you read the thing at all?’ he asked suddenly.

‘Read what?’

‘The manuscript.’

‘Good Lord, no. What do you think I want to read a thing of that kind for?’

Anthony smiled.

‘I just wondered, that’s all. You know a lot of trouble has been caused by memoirs. Indiscreet revelations, that sort of thing. People who have been close as an oyster all their lives seem positively to relish causing trouble when they themselves shall be comfortably dead. It gives them a kind of malicious glee. Jimmy, what sort of a man was Count Stylptitch? You met him and talked to him, and you’re a pretty good judge of raw human nature. Could you imagine him being a vindictive old devil?’

Jimmy shook his head.

‘It’s difficult to tell. You see, that first night he was distinctly canned, and the next day he was just a high-toned old boy with the most beautiful manners overwhelming me with compliments till I didn’t know where to look.’

‘And he didn’t say anything interesting when he was drunk?’

Jimmy cast his mind back, wrinkling his brows as he did so.

‘He said he knew where the Koh-i-noor was,’ he volunteered doubtfully.

‘Oh, well,’ said Anthony, ‘we all know that. They keep it in the Tower, don’t they? Behind thick plate-glass and iron bars, with a lot of gentlemen in fancy dress standing round to see you don’t pinch anything.’

‘That’s right,’ agreed Jimmy.

‘Did Stylptitch say anything else of the same kind? That he knew which city the Wallace Collection was in, for instance?’

Jimmy shook his head.

‘Hm!’ said Anthony.

He lit another cigarette, and once more began pacing up and down the room.

‘You never read the papers, I suppose, you heathen?’ he threw out presently.

‘Not very often,’ said McGrath simply. ‘They’re not about anything that interests me as a rule.’

‘Thank heaven I’m more civilized. There have been several mentions of Herzoslovakia lately. Hints at a royalist restoration.’

‘Nicholas IV didn’t leave a son,’ said Jimmy. ‘But I don’t suppose for a minute that the Obolovitch dynasty is extinct. There are probably shoals of young ’uns knocking about, cousins and second cousins and third cousins once removed.’

‘So that there wouldn’t be any difficulty in finding a king?’

‘Not in the least, I should say,’ replied Jimmy. ‘You know, I don’t wonder at their getting tired of republican institutions. A full-blooded, virile people like that must find it awfully tame to pot at presidents after being used to kings. And talking of kings, that reminds me of something else old Stylptitch let out that night. He said he knew the gang that was after him. They were King Victor’s people, he said.’

‘What?’ Anthony wheeled round suddenly.

A short grin widened on McGrath’s face.

‘Just a mite excited, aren’t you, Gentleman Joe?’ he drawled.

‘Don’t be an ass, Jimmy. You’ve just said something rather important.’

He went over to the window and stood there looking out.

‘Who is this King Victor, anyway?’ demanded Jimmy. ‘Another Balkan monarch?’

‘No,’ said Anthony slowly. ‘He isn’t that kind of a king.’

‘What is he, then?’

There was a pause, and then Anthony spoke.

‘He’s a crook, Jimmy. The most notorious jewel thief in the world. A fantastic, daring fellow, not to be daunted by anything. King Victor was the nickname he was known by in Paris. Paris was the headquarters of his gang. They caught him there and put him away for seven years on a minor charge. They couldn’t prove the more important things against him. He’ll be out soon–or he may be out already.’

‘Do you think Count Stylptitch had anything to do with putting him away? Was that why the gang went for him? Out of revenge?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Anthony. ‘It doesn’t seem likely on the face of it. King Victor never stole the crown jewels of Herzoslovakia as far as I’ve heard. But the whole thing seems rather suggestive, doesn’t it? The death of Stylptitch, the memoirs, and the rumours in the papers–all vague but interesting. And there’s a further rumour to the effect that they’ve found oil in Herzoslovakia. I’ve a feeling in my bones, James, that people are getting ready to be interested in that unimportant little country.’

‘What sort of people?’

‘Hebraic people. Yellow-faced financiers in city offices.’

‘What are you driving at with all this?’

‘Trying to make an easy job difficult, that’s all.’

‘You can’t pretend there’s going to be any difficulty in handing over a simple manuscript at a publisher’s office?’

‘No,’ said Anthony regretfully. ‘I don’t suppose there’ll be anything difficult about that. But shall I tell you, James, where I propose to go with my two hundred and fifty pounds?’

‘South America?’

‘No, my lad, Herzoslovakia. I shall stand in with the republic, I think. Very probably I shall end up as president.’

‘Why not announce yourself as the principal Obolovitch and be a king whilst you’re about it?’

‘No, Jimmy. Kings are for life. Presidents only take on the job for four years or so. It would quite amuse me to govern a kingdom like Herzoslovakia for four years.’

‘The average for kings is even less, I should say,’ interpolated Jimmy.

‘It will probably be a serious temptation to me to embezzle your share of the thousand pounds. You won’t want it, you know, when you get back weighed down with nuggets. I’ll invest it for you in Herzoslovakian oil shares. You know, James, the more I think of it, the more pleased I am with this idea of yours. I should never have thought of Herzoslovakia if you hadn’t mentioned it. I shall spend one day in London, collecting the booty, and then away by the Balkan Express!’

‘You won’t get off quite as fast as that. I didn’t mention it before, but I’ve got another little commission for you.’

Anthony sank into a chair and eyed him severely.

‘I knew all along that you were keeping something dark. This is where the catch comes in.’

‘Not a bit. It’s just something that’s got to be done to help a lady.’

‘Once and for all, James, I refuse to be mixed up in your beastly love affairs.’

‘It’s not a love affair. I’ve never seen the woman. I’ll tell you the whole story.’

‘If I’ve got to listen to more of your long, rambling stories, I shall have to have another drink.’

His host complied hospitably with this demand, then began the tale.

‘It was when I was up in Uganda. There was a dago there whose life I had saved–’

‘If I were you, Jimmy, I should write a short book entitled “Lives I have Saved”. This is the second I’ve heard of this evening.’

‘Oh, well, I didn’t really do anything this time. Just pulled the dago out of the river. Like all dagos, he couldn’t swim.’

‘Wait a minute, has this story anything to do with the other business?’

‘Nothing whatever, though, oddly enough, now I remember it, the man was a Herzoslovakian. We always called him Dutch Pedro, though.’

Anthony nodded indifferently.

‘Any name’s good enough for a dago,’ he remarked. ‘Get on with the good work, James.’

‘Well, the fellow was sort of grateful about it. Hung around like a dog. About six months later he died of fever. I was with him. Last thing, just as he was pegging out, he beckoned me and whispered some excited jargon about a secret–a gold mine, I thought he said. Shoved an oilskin packet into my hand which he’d always worn next his skin. Well, I didn’t think much of it at the time. It wasn’t until a week afterwards that I opened the packet. Then I was curious, I must confess. I shouldn’t have thought that Dutch Pedro would have had the sense to know a gold mine when he saw it–but there’s no accounting for luck–’

‘And at the mere thought of gold, your heart beat pitterpat as always,’ interrupted Anthony.

‘I was never so disgusted in my life. Gold mine, indeed! I dare say it may have been a gold mine to him, the dirty dog. Do you know what it was? A woman’s letters–yes, a woman’s letters, and an Englishwoman at that. The skunk had been blackmailing her–and he had the impudence to pass on his dirty bag of tricks to me.’

‘I like to see your righteous heat, James, but let me point out to you that dagos will be dagos. He meant well. You had saved his life, he bequeathed to you a profitable source of raising money–your high-minded British ideals did not enter his horizon.’

‘Well, what the hell was I to do with the things? Burn ’em, that’s what I thought at first. And then it occurred to me that there would be that poor dame, not knowing they’d been destroyed, and always living in a quake and a dread lest that dago should turn up again one day.’

‘You’ve more imagination than I gave you credit for, Jimmy,’ observed Anthony, lighting a cigarette. ‘I admit that the case presented more difficulties than were at first apparent. What about just sending them to her by post?’

‘Like all women, she’d put no date and no address on most of the letters. There was a kind of address on one–just one word. “Chimneys”.’

Anthony paused in the act of blowing out his match, and he dropped it with a quick jerk of the wrist as it burned his finger.