She looked at the man in the chair and then at the telephone. Her course was quite clear, she must ring up the police at once.
But still she did not do so. She stood quite still, paralysed with horror and with a host of conflicting ideas rushing through her brain. The bogus telegram. Had it something to do with this? Supposing Élise had not stayed behind? She would have let herself in—that is, presuming she had had her latchkey with her as usual, to find herself alone in the house with a murdered man—a man whom she had permitted to blackmail her on a former occasion. Of course she had an explanation of that; but thinking of that explanation she was not quite easy in her mind. She remembered how frankly incredible George had found it. Would other people think the same. Those letters now—of course she hadn’t written them, but would it be so easy to prove that?
She put her hands on her forehead, squeezing them tight together.
“I must think,” said Virginia. “I simply must think.”
Who had let the man in? Surely not Élise. If she had done so, she would have been sure to have mentioned the fact at once. The whole thing seemed more and more mysterious as she thought about it. There was really only one thing to be done—ring up the police.
She stretched out her hand to the telephone, and suddenly she thought of George. A man—that was what she wanted—an ordinary level-headed, unemotional man who would see things in their proper proportion and point out to her the best course to take.
Then she shook her head. Not George. The first thing George would think of would be his own position. He would hate being mixed up in this kind of business. George wouldn’t do at all.
Then her face softened. Bill, of course! Without more ado, she rang up Bill.
She was informed that he had left half an hour ago for Chimneys.
“Oh, damn!” cried Virginia, jamming down the receiver. It was horrible to be shut up with a dead body and to have no one to speak to.
And at that minute the front-door bell rang.
Virginia jumped. In a few minutes it rang again. Élise, she knew, was upstairs packing and wouldn’t hear it.
Virginia went out in the hall, drew back the chain, and undid all the bolts that Élise had fastened in her zeal. Then, with a long breath, she threw open the door. On the steps was the unemployed young man.
Virginia plunged headlong with a relief born of overstrung nerves.
“Come in,” she said. “I think that perhaps I’ve got a job for you.”
She took him into the dining-room, pulled toward a chair for him, sat down herself facing him, and stared at him very attentively.
“Excuse me,” she said, “but are you—I mean——”
“Eton and Oxford,” said the young man. “That’s what you wanted to ask me, wasn’t it?”
“Something of the kind,” admitted Virginia.
“Come down in the world entirely through my own incapacity to stick to regular work. This isn’t regular work you’re offering me, I hope?”
A smile hovered for a moment on her lips.
“It’s very irregular.”
“Good,” said the young man in a tone of satisfaction.
Virginia noted his bronzed face and long lean body with approval.
“You see,” she explained, “I’m in rather a hole, and most of my friends are—well, rather high up. They’ve all got something to lose.”
“I’ve nothing whatever to lose. So go ahead. What’s the trouble?”
“There’s a dead man in the next room,” said Virginia. “He’s been murdered, and I don’t know what to do about it.”
She blurted out the words as simply as a child might have done. The young man went up enormously in her estimation by the way he accepted her statement. He might have been used to hearing a similar announcement made every day of his life.
“Excellent,” he said, with a trace of enthusiasm. “I’ve always wanted to do a bit of amateur detective work. Shall we go and view the body, or will you give me the facts first?”
“I think I’d better give you the facts.” She paused for a moment to consider how best to condense her story, and then began, speaking quietly and concisely.
“This man came to the house for the first time yesterday and asked to see me. He had certain letters with him—love letters, signed with my name——”
“But which weren’t written by you,” put in the young man quietly.
Virginia looked at him in some astonishment
“How did you know that?”
“Oh, I deduced it. But go on.”
“He wanted to blackmail me—and I—well, I don’t know if you’ll understand, but I—let him.”
She looked at him appealingly, and he nodded his head reassuringly.
“Of course I understand. You wanted to see what it felt like.”
“How frightfully clever of you! That’s just what I did feel.”
“I _am_ clever,” said the young man modestly. “But, mind you, very few people would understand that point of view. Most people, you see, haven’t got any imagination.”
“I suppose that’s so. I told this man to come back to-day—at six o’clock. I arrived home from Ranelagh to find that a bogus telegram had got all the servants except my maid out of the house. Then I walked into the study and found the man shot.”
“Who let him in?”
“I don’t know. I think if my maid had done so she would have told me.”
“Does she know what has happened?”
“I have told her nothing.”
The young man nodded, and rose to his feet.
“And now to view the body,” he said briskly. “But I’ll tell you this—on the whole it’s always best to tell the truth. One lie involves you in such a lot of lies—and continuous lying is so monotonous.”
“Then you advise me to ring up the police?”
“Probably. But we’ll just have a look at the fellow first.”
Virginia led the way out the room. On the threshold she paused, looking back at him.
“By the way,” she said, “you haven’t told me your name yet?”
“My name? My name’s Anthony Cade.”
9
Anthony Disposes of a Body
Anthony followed Virginia out of the room, smiling a little to himself. Events had taken quite an unexpected turn. But as he bent over the figure in the chair he grew grave again.
“He’s still warm,” he said sharply. “He was killed less than half an hour ago.”
“Just before I came in?”
“Exactly.”
He stood upright, drawing his brows together in a frown. Then he asked a question of which Virginia did not at once see the drift:
“Your maid’s not been in this room, of course?”
“No.”
“Does she know that you’ve been into it?”
“Why—yes. I came to the door to speak to her.”
“After you’d found the body.”
“Yes.”
“And you said nothing?”
“Would it have been better if I had? I thought she would go into hysterics—she’s French, you know, and easily upset—I wanted to think over the best thing to do.”
Anthony nodded, but did not speak.
“You think it a pity, I can see?”
“Well, it was rather unfortunate, Mrs. Revel. If you and the maid had discovered the body together, immediately on your return, it would have simplified matters very much. The man would then definitely have been shot _before_ your return to the house.”
“Whilst now they might say he was shot _after_—I see—”
He watched her taking in the idea, and was confirmed in his first impression of her formed when she had spoken to him on the steps outside. Besides beauty, she possessed courage and brains.
Virginia was so engrossed in the puzzle presented to her that it did not occur to her to wonder at this strange man’s ready use of her name.
“Why didn’t Élise hear the shot, I wonder?” she murmured.
Anthony pointed to the open window, as a loud backfire came from a passing car.
“There you are. London’s not the place to notice a pistol shot.”
Virginia turned with a little shudder to the body in the chair.
“He looks like an Italian,” she remarked curiously.
“He is an Italian,” said Anthony. “I should say that his regular profession was that of a waiter. He only did blackmailing in his spare time. His name might very possibly be Giuseppe.”
“Good heavens!” cried Virginia. “Is this Sherlock Holmes?”
“No,” said Anthony regretfully. “I’m afraid it’s just plain or garden cheating. I’ll tell you all about it presently. Now you say this man showed you some letters and asked you for money. Did you give him any?”
“Yes, I did.”
“How much?”
“Forty pounds.”
“That’s bad,” said Anthony, but without manifesting any undue surprise. “Now let’s have a look at the telegram.”
Virginia picked it up from the table and gave it to him. She saw his face grow grave as he looked at it.
“What’s the matter?”
He held it out, pointing silently to the place of origin.
“Barnes,” he said. “And you were at Ranelagh this afternoon. What’s to prevent you having sent it off yourself?”
Virginia felt fascinated by his words. It was as though a net was closing tighter and tighter round her. He was forcing her to see all the things which she had felt dimly at the back of her mind.
Anthony took out his handkerchief and wound it round his hand, then he picked up the pistol.
“We criminals have to be so careful,” he said apologetically. “Fingerprints, you know.”
Suddenly she saw his whole figure stiffen. His voice, when he spoke, had altered. It was terse and curt.
“Mrs. Revel,” he said, “have you ever seen this pistol before?”
“No,” said Virginia wonderingly.
“Are you sure of that?”
“Quite sure.”
“Have you a pistol of your own?”
“No.”
“Have you ever had one?”
“No, never.”