The Secret of Chimneys
By Agatha Christie.
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To
Punkie
The Secret of Chimneys
I
Anthony Cade Signs On
“Gentleman Joe!”
“Why, if it isn’t old Jimmy McGrath.”
Castle’s Select Tour, represented by seven depressed-looking females and three perspiring males, looked on with considerable interest. Evidently their Mr. Cade had met an old friend. They all admired Mr. Cade so much, his tall lean figure, his suntanned face, the lighthearted manner with which he settled disputes and cajoled them all into good temper. This friend of his now—surely rather a peculiar-looking man. About the same height as Mr. Cade, but thickset and not nearly so good-looking. The sort of man one read about in books, who probably kept a saloon. Interesting, though. After all, that was what one came abroad for—to see all these peculiar things one read about in books. Up to now, they had been rather bored with Bulawayo. The sun was unbearably hot, the hotel was uncomfortable, there seemed to be nowhere particular to go until the moment should arrive to motor to the Matoppos. Very fortunately, Mr. Cade had suggested picture postcards. There was an excellent supply of picture postcards.
Anthony Cade and his friend had stepped a little apart.
“What the hell are you doing with this pack of females?” demanded McGrath. “Starting a harem.”
“Not with this little lot,” grinned Anthony. “Have you taken a good look at them?”
“I have that. Thought maybe you were losing your eyesight.”
“My eyesight’s as good as ever it was. No, this is a Castle’s Select Tour. I’m Castle—the local Castle, I mean.”
“What the hell made you take on a job like that?”
“A regrettable necessity for cash. I can assure you it doesn’t suit my temperament.”
Jimmy grinned.
“Never a hog for regular work, were you?”
Anthony ignored this aspersion.
“However, something will turn up soon, I expect,” he remarked hopefully. “It usually does.”
Jimmy chuckled.
“If there’s any trouble brewing, Anthony Cade is sure to be in it sooner or later, I know that,” he said. “You’ve an absolute instinct for rows—and the nine lives of a cat. When can we have a yarn together?”
Anthony sighed.
“I’ve got to take these cackling hens to see Rhodes’s grave.”
“That’s the stuff,” said Jimmy approvingly. “They’ll come back bumped black and blue with the ruts in the road, and clamouring for bed to rest the bruises on. Then you and I will have a spot or two and exchange the news.”
“Right. So long, Jimmy.”
Anthony rejoined his flock of sheep. Miss Taylor, the youngest and most skittish of the party, instantly attacked him.
“Oh, Mr. Cade, was that an old friend of yours?”
“It was, Miss Taylor. One of the friends of my blameless youth.”
Miss Taylor giggled.
“I thought he was such an interesting-looking man.”
“I’ll tell him you said so.”
“Oh, Mr. Cade, how can you be so naughty! The very idea! What was that name he called you?”
“Gentleman Joe?”
“Yes. Is your name Joe?”
“I thought you knew it was Anthony, Miss Taylor.”
“Oh, go on with you!” cried Miss Taylor coquettishly.
Anthony had by now well mastered his duties. In addition to making the necessary arrangements of travel, they included soothing down irritable old gentlemen when their dignity was ruffled, seeing that elderly matrons had ample opportunities to buy picture postcards, and flirting with everything under a catholic forty years of age. The last task was rendered easier for him by the extreme readiness of the ladies in question to read a tender meaning into his most innocent remarks.
Miss Taylor returned to the attack.
“Why does he call you Joe, then?”
“Oh, just because it isn’t my name.”
“And why Gentleman
