Secret of Chimneys - Agatha Christie [24]
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 tomorrow 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 tonight 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 tonight.’
‘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 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 today–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