The Secret of Chimneys. Агата Кристи
Granarth Castle had docked at Southampton the preceding afternoon. At two o’clock that afternoon Anthony Cade, travelling under the name of Jimmy McGrath, stepped out of the boat train at Waterloo, hailed a taxi, and after a moment’s hesitation, ordered the driver to proceed to the Blitz Hotel.
‘One might as well be comfortable,’ said Anthony to himself as he looked with some interest out of the taxi windows.
It was exactly fourteen years since he had been in London.
He arrived at the hotel, booked a room, and then went for a short stroll along the Embankment. It was rather pleasant to be back in London again. Everything was changed of course. There had been a little restaurant there–just past Blackfriars Bridge–where he had dined fairly often, in company with other earnest lads. He had been a Socialist then, and worn a flowing red tie. Young–very young.
He retraced his steps back to the Blitz. Just as he was crossing the road, a man jostled against him, nearly making him lose his balance. They both recovered themselves, and the man muttered an apology, his eyes scanning Anthony’s face narrowly. He was a short, thick-set man of the working classes, with something foreign in his appearance.
Anthony went on into the hotel, wondering, as he did so, what had inspired that searching glance. Nothing in it probably. The deep tan of his face was somewhat unusual looking amongst these pallid Londoners and it had attracted the fellow’s attention. He went up to his room and, led by a sudden impulse, crossed to the looking-glass and stood studying his face in it. Of the few friends of the old days–just a chosen few–was it likely that any of them would recognize him now if they were to meet him face to face? He shook his head slowly.
When he had left London he had been just eighteen–a fair, slightly chubby boy, with a misleadingly seraphic expression. Small chance that that boy would be recognized in the lean, brown-faced man with the quizzical expression.
The telephone beside the bed rang, and Anthony crossed to the receiver.
‘Hullo!’
The voice of the desk clerk answered him.
‘Mr James McGrath?’
‘Speaking.’
‘A gentleman has called to see you.’
Anthony was rather astonished.
‘To see me?’
‘Yes, sir, a foreign gentleman.’
‘What’s his name?’
There was a slight pause, and then the clerk said:
‘I will send up a page-boy with his card.’
Anthony replaced the receiver and waited. In a few minutes there was a knock on the door and a small page appeared bearing a card upon a salver.
Anthony took it. The following was the name engraved upon it.
Baron Lolopretjzyl
He now fully appreciated the desk clerk’s pause.
For a moment or two he stood studying the card, and then made up his mind.
‘Show the gentleman up.’
‘Very good, sir.’
In a few minutes the Baron Lolopretjzyl was ushered into the room, a big man with an immense fan-like black beard and a high, bald forehead.
He brought his heels together with a click, and bowed.
‘Mr McGrath,’ he said.
Anthony imitated his movements as nearly as possible.
‘Baron,’ he said. Then, drawing forward a chair, ‘Pray sit down. I have not, I think had the pleasure of meeting you before?’
‘That is so,’ agreed the Baron, seating himself. ‘It is my misfortune,’ he added politely.
‘And mine also,’ responded Anthony, on the same note.
‘Let us now to business come,’ said the Baron. ‘I represent in London the Loyalist party of Herzoslovakia.’
‘And represent it admirably, I am sure,’ murmured Anthony.
The Baron bowed in acknowledgement of the compliment.
‘You are too kind,’ he said stiffly. ‘Mr McGrath, I will not from you conceal anything. The moment has come for the restoration of the monarchy, in abeyance since the martyrdom of His Most Gracious Majesty King Nicholas IV of blessed memory.’
‘Amen,’ murmured Anthony. ‘I mean hear, hear.’
‘On the throne will be placed His Highness Prince Michael, who the support of the British Government has.’
‘Splendid,’ said Anthony. ‘It’s very kind of you to tell me all this.’
‘Everything arranged is–when you come here to trouble make.’
The Baron fixed him with a stern eye.
‘My dear Baron,’ protested Anthony.
‘Yes, yes, I know what I am talking about. You have with you the memoirs of the late Count Stylptitch.’
He fixed Anthony with an accusing eye.
‘And if I have? What have the memoirs of Count Stylptitch to do with Prince Michael?’
‘They will cause scandals.’
‘Most memoirs do that,’ said Anthony soothingly.
‘Of many secrets he the knowledge had. Should he reveal but the quarter of them, Europe into war plunged may be.’
‘Come, come,’ said Anthony. ‘It can’t be as bad as all that.’
‘An unfavourable opinion of the Obolovitch will abroad be spread. So democratic is the English spirit.’
‘I can quite believe,’ said Anthony, ‘that the Obolovitch may have been a trifle high-handed now and again. It runs in the blood. But people in England expect that sort of thing from the Balkans. I don’t know why they should, but they do.’
‘You do not understand,’ said the Baron. ‘You do not understand at all. And my lips sealed are.’ He sighed.
‘What exactly are you afraid of?’ asked Anthony.
‘Until I have read the memoirs I do not know,’ explained the Baron simply. ‘But there is sure to be something. These great diplomats are always indiscreet. The apple-cart upset will be, as the saying goes.’
‘Look here,’ said Anthony kindly. ‘I’m sure you’re taking altogether too pessimistic a view of the thing. I know all about publishers–they sit on manuscripts and hatch ’em like eggs. It will be at least a year before the thing is published.’
‘Either a very deceitful or a very simple young man you are. All is arranged for the memoirs in a Sunday newspaper to come out immediately.
‘Oh!’ Anthony was somewhat taken aback. ‘But you can always deny everything,’ he said hopefully.
The Baron shook his head sadly.
‘No, no, through the hat you talk. Let us to business come. One thousand pounds you are to have, is it not so? You see, I have the good information got.’
‘I certainly congratulate the Intelligence Department of the Loyalists.’
‘Then I to you offer fifteen hundred.’
‘Anthony stared at him in amazement, then shook his head ruefully.
‘I’m afraid it can’t be done,’ he said, with regret.
‘Good. I to you offer two thousand.’
‘You tempt me, Baron, you tempt me. But I still say it can’t be done.’
‘Your own price name, then.’