Secret of Chimneys - Agatha Christie [56]
‘Well,’ said Anthony slowly, ‘I don’t mind admitting that I’ve always wanted to try my hand at unravelling a murder mystery.’
‘Any ideas about the case at all, Mr Cade?’
‘Plenty of them,’ said Anthony. ‘But they’re mostly questions.’
‘As, for instance?’
‘Who steps into the murdered Michael’s shoes? It seems to me that that is important?’
A rather wry smile came over Superintendent Battle’s face.
‘I wondered if you’d think of that, sir. Prince Nicholas Obolovitch is the next heir–first cousin of this gentleman.’
‘And where is he at the present moment?’ asked Anthony, turning away to light a cigarette. ‘Don’t tell me you don’t know, Battle, because I shan’t believe you.’
We’ve reason to believe that he’s in the United States. He was until quite lately, at all events. Raising money on his expectations.’
Anthony gave vent to a surprised whistle.
‘I get you,’ said Anthony. ‘Michael was backed by England, Nicholas by America. In both countries a group of financiers are anxious to obtain the oil concessions. The Loyalist party adopted Michael as their candidate–now they’ll have to look elsewhere. Gnashing of teeth on the part of Isaacstein and Co and Mr George Lomax. Rejoicings in Wall Street. Am I right?’
‘You’re not far off,’ said Superintendent Battle.
‘Hm!’ said Anthony. ‘I almost dare swear that I know what you were doing in that copse.’
The detective smiled, but made no reply.
‘International politics are very fascinating,’ said Anthony, ‘but I fear I must leave you. I have an appointment in the schoolroom.’
He strode briskly away towards the house. Inquiries of the dignified Tredwell showed him the way to the school-room. He tapped on the door and entered, to be greeted by squeals of joy.
Guggle and Winkle immediately rushed at him and bore him in triumph to be introduced to Mademoiselle.
For the first time, Anthony felt a qualm. Mademoiselle Brun was a small, middle-aged woman with a sallow face, pepper-and-salt hair, and a budding moustache!
As the notorious foreign adventuress she did not fit into the picture at all.
‘I believe,’ said Anthony to himself, ‘I’m making the most utter fool of myself. Never mind, I must go through with it now.’
He was extremely pleasant to Mademoiselle, and she, on her part, was evidently delighted to have a good-looking young man invade her schoolroom. The meal was a great success.
But that evening, alone in the charming bedchamber that had been allotted to him, Anthony shook his head several times.
‘I’m wrong,’ he said to himself. ‘For the second time, I’m wrong. Somehow or other, I can’t get the hang of this thing.’
He stopped in his pacing of the floor.
‘What the devil–’ began Anthony.
The door was being softly opened. In another minute a man had slipped into the room, and stood deferentially by the door.
He was a big fair man, squarely built, with high Slavonic cheekbones, and dreamy fanatic eyes.
‘Who the devil are you?’ asked Anthony, staring at him.
The man replied in perfect English.
‘I am Boris Anchoukoff.’
‘Prince Michael’s servant, eh?’
‘That is so. I served my master. He is dead. Now I serve you.’
‘It’s very kind of you,’ said Anthony. ‘But I don’t happen to want a valet.’
‘You are my master now. I will serve you faithfully.’
‘Yes–but–look–here–I don’t need a valet. I can’t afford one.’
Boris Anchoukoff looked at him with a touch of scorn.
‘I do not ask for money. I served my master. So will I serve you–to the death!’
Stepping quickly forward, he dropped on one knee, caught Anthony’s hand and placed it on his forehead. Then he rose swiftly and left the room as suddenly as he had come.
Anthony stared after him, his face a picture of astonishment.
‘That’s damned odd,’ he said to himself. ‘A faithful sort of dog. Curious the instincts these fellows have.’
He rose and paced up and down.
‘All the same,’ he muttered, ‘it’s awkward–damned awkward