“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.”
“You are sure of that?”
“Quite sure.”
He stared at her steadily for a minute, and Virginia stared back in complete surprise at his tone.
Then, with a sigh, he relaxed.
“That’s odd,” he said. “How do you account for this?”
He held out the pistol. It was a small, dainty article, almost a toy—though capable of doing deadly work. Engraved on it was the name “Virginia.”
“Oh, it’s impossible!” cried Virginia.
Her astonishment was so genuine that Anthony could but believe in it.
“Sit down,” he said quietly. “There’s more in this than there seemed to be first go off. To begin with, what’s our hypothesis? There are only two possible ones. There is, of course, the real Virginia of the letters. She may have somehow or other tracked him down, shot him, dropped the pistol, stolen the letters, and taken herself off. That’s quite possible, isn’t it?”
“I suppose so,” said Virginia unwillingly.
“The other hypothesis is a good deal more interesting. Whoever wished to kill Giuseppe, wished also to incriminate you—in fact that may have been their main object. They could get him easily enough anywhere, but they took extraordinary pains and trouble to get him here, and whoever they were they knew all about you, your cottage at Datchet, your usual household arrangements, and the fact that you were at Ranelagh this afternoon. It seems an absurd question, but have you any enemies, Mrs. Revel?”
“Of course I haven’t—not that kind, anyway.”
“The question is,” said Anthony, “what are we going to do now? There are two courses open to us. A: Ring up the police, tell the whole story, and trust to your unassailable position in the world and your hitherto blameless life. B: An attempt on my part to dispose successfully of the body. Naturally my private inclinations urge me to B. I’ve always wanted to see if I couldn’t conceal a crime with the necessary cunning, but have had a squeamish objection to shedding blood. On the whole, I expect A’s the soundest. Then there’s a sort of bowdlerized A. Ring up the police, etc., but suppress the pistol and the blackmailing letters—that is, if they are on him still.”
Anthony ran rapidly through the dead man’s pockets.
“He’s been stripped clean,” he announced. “There’s not a thing on him. There’ll be dirty work at the crossroads over those letters yet. Hullo, what’s this? Hole in the lining—something got caught there, torn roughly out, and a scrap of paper left behind.”
He drew out the scrap of paper as he spoke, and brought it over to the light. Virginia joined him.
“Pity we haven’t got the rest of it,” he muttered. “Chimneys 11:45 Thursday—Sounds like an appointment.”
“Chimneys?” cried Virginia. “How extraordinary!”
“Why extraordinary? Rather high toned for such a low fellow?”
“I’m going to Chimneys this evening. At least I was.”
Anthony wheeled round on her.
“What’s that? Say that again.”
“I was going to Chimneys this evening,” repeated Virginia.
Anthony stared at her.
“I begin to see. At least, I may be wrong—but it’s an idea. Suppose someone wanted badly to prevent your going to Chimneys?”
“My cousin George Lomax does,” said Virginia with a smile. “But I can’t seriously suspect George of murder.”
Anthony did not smile. He was lost in thought.
“If you ring up the police, it’s goodbye to any idea of getting to Chimneys today—or even tomorrow. And I should like you to go to Chimneys. I fancy it will disconcert our unknown friends. Mrs. Revel, will you put yourself in my hands?”
“It’s to be Plan B, then?”
“It’s to be Plan B. The first thing is to get that maid of yours out of the house. Can you manage that?”
“Easily.”
Virginia went out in the hall and called up the stairs.
“Élise. Élise.”
“Madame?”
Anthony heard a
