Secret of Chimneys - Agatha Christie [25]
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.’
Chapter 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 weekend. 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 weekend, 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 latch-key, 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, Elise.
‘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.’
Elise retired, pouncing 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 weekend 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