“She’s gone. I sent her for some special scent—told her the shop in question was open until eight. It won’t be, of course. She’s to follow after me by the next train without coming back here.”
“Good,” said Anthony approvingly. “We can now proceed to the disposal of the body. It’s a timeworn method, but I’m afraid I shall have to ask you if there’s such a thing in the house as a trunk?”
“Of course there is. Come down to the basement and take your choice.”
There was a variety of trunks in the basement. Anthony selected a solid affair of suitable size.
“I’ll attend to this part of it,” he said tactfully. “You go upstairs and get ready to start.”
Virginia obeyed. She slipped out of her tennis kit, put on a soft brown travelling dress and a delightful little orange hat, and came down to find Anthony waiting in the hall with a neatly strapped trunk beside him.
“I should like to tell you the story of my life,” he remarked, “but it’s going to be rather a busy evening. Now this is what you’ve got to do. Call a taxi, have your luggage put on it, including the trunk. Drive to Paddington. There have the trunk put in the Left Luggage Office. I shall be on the platform. As you pass me, drop the Cloak Room ticket. I will pick it up and pretend to return it to you, but in reality I shall keep it. Go on to Chimneys, and leave the rest to me.”
“It’s awfully good of you,” said Virginia. “It’s really dreadful of me saddling a perfect stranger with a dead body like this.”
“I like it,” returned Anthony nonchalantly. “If one of my friends, Jimmy McGrath, were here, he’d tell you that anything of this kind suits me down to the ground.”
Virginia was staring at him.
“What name did you say? Jimmy McGrath?”
Anthony returned her glance keenly.
“Yes. Why? Have you heard of him?”
“Yes—and quite lately.” She paused irresolutely, and then went on. “Mr. Cade, I must talk to you. Can’t you come down to Chimneys?”
“You’ll see me before very long, Mrs. Revel—I’ll tell you that. Now, exit Conspirator A by back door slinkingly. Exit Conspirator B in blaze of glory by front door to taxi.”
The plan went through without a hitch. Anthony, having picked up a second taxi, was on the platform and duly retrieved the fallen ticket. He then departed in search of a somewhat battered secondhand Morris Cowley which he had acquired earlier in the day in case it should be necessary to his plans.
Returning to Paddington in this, he handed the ticket to the porter, who got the trunk out of the cloak room and wedged it securely at the back of the car. Anthony drove off.
His objective now was out of London. Through Notting Hill, Shepherd’s Bush, down Goldhawk Road, through Brentford and Hounslow till he came to the long stretch of road midway between Hounslow and Staines. It was a well-frequented road, with motors passing continually. No footmarks or tyre marks were likely to show. Anthony stopped the car at a certain spot. Getting down, he first obscured the numberplate with mud. Then, waiting until he heard no car coming in either direction, he opened the trunk, heaved out Giuseppe’s body, and laid it neatly down by the side of the road, on the inside of a curve, so that the headlights of passing motors would not strike on it.
Then he entered the car again and drove away. The whole business had occupied exactly one minute and a half. He made a détour to the right, returning to London by way of Burnham Beeches. There again he halted the car, and choosing a giant of the forest he deliberately climbed the huge tree. It was something of a feat, even for Anthony. To one of the topmost branches, he affixed a small brown-paper parcel, concealing it in a little niche close to the bole.
“A very clever way of disposing of the pistol,” said Anthony to himself with some approval. “Everybody hunts about on the ground, and drags ponds. But there are very few people in England who could climb that tree.”
Next, back to London and Paddington Station. Here he left the trunk—at the other cloak room this time, the one on the Arrival side. He thought longingly of such things as good rumpsteaks, juicy chops, and large masses of fried potatoes. But he shook his head ruefully, glancing at his wrist watch. He fed the Morris with a fresh supply of petrol, and then took the road once more. North this time.
It was just after half-past eleven that he brought the car to rest in the road adjoining the park of Chimneys. Jumping out he scaled the wall easily enough, and set out towards the house. It took him longer than he thought, and presently he broke into a run. A great grey mass loomed up out of the darkness—the venerable pile of Chimneys. In the distance a stable clock chimed the three quarters.
11:45—the time mentioned on the scrap of paper. Anthony was on the terrace now, looking up at the house. Everything seemed dark and quiet.
“They go to bed early, these politicians,” he murmured to himself.
And suddenly a sound smote upon his ears—the sound of a shot. Anthony spun round quickly. The sound had come from within the house—he was sure of that. He waited a minute, but everything was still as death. Finally he went up to one of the long French windows from where he judged the sound that had startled him had come. He tried the handle. It was locked. He tried some of the other windows, listening intently all the while. But the silence remained unbroken.
In the end he told himself that he must have imagined the sound, or perhaps mistaken a stray shot coming from a poacher in the woods. He turned and retraced
