Dusty Death

by Clifton Robbins

  “They say the dancers will be good,” said Henry, during a lull.

  “Who says?” asked Harrison.

  “The people in the hotel,” answered Henry. “Been brought all the way from Lyons for this performance. Pretty expensive, I should think—” and then: “Good lord.”

  “What is it, Henry?”

  “That woman’s here, sir.”

  “Of course she is.”

  “She seems to like to annoy us,” said Henry, sadly, “and if she weren’t so dangerous she might be worth dancing with.”

  “She does look attractive to-night, Henry, doesn’t she?” said Harrison, with a smile. “Why don’t you?”

  “Well, you see, sir,” started Henry but the music had begun again and indignant murmurs around them showed that their conversation was not regarded with any favour as an additional accompaniment.

  Miss de Marplay, in a striking and expensive gown, was much at home with a number of young men whom Harrison surmised were mainly junior members of British delegations to Geneva. As he looked across at her, and she was some distance away, she raised her eyes and saw him. She did not, however, greet him with the instant and almost effusive smile which he had hitherto received during their short acquaintance but she seemed confused, coloured slightly and immediately lowered her eyes again.

  Harrison was puzzled. The atmosphere had changed. He wondered why. It was impossible that Jeanne de Marplay should be genuinely disturbed at meeting anyone on earth. Harrison did not suffer from Henry’s pure fright of the young woman but he shared, in a great degree, the latter’s belief in her calculation and composure. She was therefore play-acting. Quite a habit of hers, one would imagine. But why? Someone had been talking to her in Geneva, that was it. She had reported to her chief and he had disapproved of her earlier tactics. That must be the case. She was to play the less bold and venturesome demoiselle, in future, they were her orders. She had done wrong in being too frank with him. She had given something away, then. There must be clues to be found in what she had said and done. That must the point. Her employer, or whatever one might call him, it must be a him, must have thought this possible or he would not have made her change her whole bearing. That was a line worth thinking over. It might not be quite right but it might lead somewhere, if you got it straight. Harrison made a mental note to talk things right out with Henry and then gave himself up once more to the seductions of Castanovian music.

  The room grew hotter but the musicians were untiring and worked their way very seriously through quite a long programme. Great applause, not entirely sincere from some of the audience, but certainly so on Harrison’s part, greeted their final flourish and then Henry’s dancers appeared. Henry, who was not exceptionally tall, stood on tiptoe to gain a view and, from his own standpoint, was amply rewarded. The dancing was certainly what Henry would have expected in a “foreign town”—“impossible,” he might tell you, “in London,” but none the less enjoyable out of it.

  The Castanovian representative, though loving music, had no particular opinion of dancing and also had a sense of humour. It happened that Castanovian national dancing was very popular on the variety stage in Europe at the time—no music-hall or cabaret was complete without it. Hearing that there was a troupe of Castanovian dancers at Lyons, he had invited them to appear in Geneva at his reception, half expecting what the result would be. It is doubtful whether the four charming ladies had ever set eyes on the magnificent scenery of Castanovia, they certainly did not speak the tongue and their conception of national costume was such that it might pass muster with a provincial music-hall manager. Some of the more definite characteristics of Castanovian dancing were certainly reproduced, to justify their advertised character, but after that the whole performance was deathless jazz, negroid erotics without grace, skill or enthusiasm. Henry was entranced. He had got what he expected and he applauded gratefully when this curious representation of barbaric gesture in nondescript costume was concluded.

  This finished the first part of the entertainment and the audience began to break up and drift towards the buffet, in some cases with unseemly haste but always with the same definite objective. While Harrison was feeling somewhat lost—for Henry, in some strange manner, had also drifted with the crowd—Dawnay appeared.

  “Hullo, Mr. Harrison,” he said, quite loudly. “Thought you might be too tired to come to-night.”

  Guests who were passing by heard the name and nudged one another to gain a glimpse as they went by.

  Dawnay drew Harrison into a corner where conversation might be less public.

  “I liked the music,” said Harrison.

  “Good, wasn’t it?” answered Dawnay. “No ecstasies for the dancing?”

  “Not my style,” said Harrison.

  “All the same undeniably international,” commented Dawnay. “Now they’re all going to get what refreshment they can obtain. It’s a bit of a struggle but they all usually get something in the end. After that, they will fall to dancing. I think we’d better wait till then. I’ll drift up to your room when they’re all comfortably settled and you’ll get there as soon as possible. There’ll be a lot of people want to talk to you, I expect, but don’t be too long.”

  “Why not now?” said Harrison.

  “Because it’s far better for you to talk to people. That’s your job as a member of the passport committee. You know, Mr. Harrison, you must take your official duties a bit more seriously.”

  Henry drifted past, having already made acquaintance with members of the other sex whose attractions undoubtedly had the opposite effect to those of Miss de Marplay. He looked anxiously at Harrison, as if questioning whether he would really be needed for business when pleasure was so obviously in hand, and, receiving a reassuring nod, went on his way with a rejoicing smile.

  “That’s Henry,” said Harrison to Dawnay.

  “And who is Henry?” asked Dawnay.

  “Henry is my invaluable clerk,” answered Harrison. “Henry is my audience when I want to talk. Henry is my bodyguard when I want to be alone. He also attends to all those little details without which life is so wearisome. He makes an excellent cup of tea.”

  “A remarkable person,” said Dawnay.

  “And an excellent ferret, too,” exclaimed Harrison. “Invaluable in London and, although he doesn’t know any French, he’ll find out what I want him to in Geneva, I’m sure of that.”

  As he talked he noticed the “Baron” who had interested him during the committee meeting wandering through the room as if searching for someone. Seeing Dawnay and Harrison, he smiled affably and came towards them.

  “My dear Mr. Dawnay,” he said, arriving with outstretched hand. “It is a pleasure indeed to see you again. I thought I recognised you this morning. I should be grateful if you would introduce me to Mr. Clay Harrison whom, of course, I know by face and name.”

  The necessary introductions were effected and Harrison shook the Baron’s hand. There was a certain pressure about the Baron’s grip which puzzled him. It was not affectation, it was not the ordinary grip of two men meeting, there seemed be something more in it than that. The Baron seemed to be indicating something, some definite meaning, with his handshake. Harrison, his suspicious mind still predominant, thought of the handshake of rival boxers before giving battle and was then rather ashamed of himself for the Baron was brimful of cordiality which, at any rate, impressed Dawnay as genuine. “Is one allowed to talk shop, Mr. Dawnay?” asked the Baron.

  “So long as it isn’t used in evidence against us,” answered Dawnay, with a smile.

  “Never that, Mr. Dawnay. One thing I think I have done in Geneva is to impress you all that the journalist can keep a secret, if necessary.”

  “That’s the impression you have given, Baron Meyerling, certainly,” answered Dawnay. “I have a much better opinion of journalists after meeting men like you.”

  “I’m flattered indeed,” said the Baron, bowing. “But might I say that there are secrets you are keep
ing to yourselves.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Dawnay.

  “Mr. Harrison does,” replied the Baron. “Why on earth this cloak of secrecy over the proceedings of the passport committee?”

  “I have no idea,” said Dawnay. “Of course, it’s not really my committee.”

  “Maybe, but you’re getting too secret for my liking,” said the Baron.

  Harrison was getting interested but thought that watching the Baron’s face was a more profitable pursuit than getting involved in an argument.

  “But the committee decided it for themselves,” answered Dawnay.

  “Committees should not be allowed to decide things for themselves,” said the Baron. “What are the officials of the League there for? To see that committees do not act stupidly and here is a committee settling down to antagonise the whole Press.”

  “Surely not that, Baron?”

  “Surely it is so, Mr. Dawnay. You should have heard the discussions after the meeting was over. Secret diplomacy at an end, secret negotiations frowned upon and yet the League itself can cover up its activities just how it likes. It won’t do, you know, Mr. Dawnay. We’ve already entered our protest.”

  “I heard about that, Baron. I’m sorry.”

  “I have myself felt bound to speak about it in my messages and I’m afraid there’ll be a bit of a hornet’s nest about it. I’m sorry I had to do it but it seemed so incredibly stupid. Don’t you think so, Mr. Harrison?”

  “I have a very great regard for the Press and the help it has always given me,” said Harrison. “I think that’s all I can say.”

  “Of course the Press is willing to help. Mr. Dawnay knows that,” said the Baron. “There is another thing which nobody seems to have thought of except myself.” He looked at Harrison. “This committee is spending public money and must therefore be watched. Now there is more than one door to the room. Suppose the committee prefers not to work. Why should not the members slide out of another door to their pleasures in Geneva while the innocent public still imagines them deep in consultation behind locked doors.”

  “Incredible,” said Dawnay, with a laugh.

  “Maybe,” answered the Baron. “Maybe you trust your fellow-men more than I do, Mr. Dawnay. However, it might make an amusing newspaper comment and the League people would not like that.”

  “It would be rather unfair,” said Dawnay.

  “Oh, I’m not suggesting that any decent journalist would do such a thing—” The Baron paused.

  “Except?” said Harrison.

  “You’re quite right, Mr. Harrison,” answered the Baron. “It’s no use making general statements. There is an exception.”

  “Still,” said Dawnay, “it’s hardly likely, is it?”

  “Of course not,” said the Baron. “But Mr. Harrison will agree with me that such a possibility, though remote, well, is a possibility.”

  Harrison looked at the Baron and tried to read something in that bland, rather benevolent face and certainly not unkindly eye. There was no indication there of irony, even of special purpose, but Harrison felt uncomfortable and was inclined to believe that the suggestion was not entirely an accident but one intended for his special consumption.

  The Baron, possibly feeling that he had carried his manoeuvre far enough, did not wait for an answer from Harrison but suggested that, as the guests were moving back into the hall and an orchestra was preparing for dance music, the buffet would be less crowded and a drink, therefore, much more easily obtainable. Dawnay excused himself on the grounds of the innumerable official bows he would be expected to make to other guests and the Baron and Harrison drifted into a side-room where they found a small table and procured drinks and cigars.

  “The English have unique taste in cigars,” said the Baron, with obvious enjoyment of his own. “The head waiter here only produces his best cigars when there are Englishmen about. Of course, one pays the same for them but he knows the Englishman will recognise the quality. I owe you a debt of gratitude for this, Mr. Harrison.”

  “The Castanovian delegation might feel a trifle hurt at that,” said Harrison.

  The Baron laughed. “I feel altogether in a better mood now,” he said. “I am sorry I seemed rather out of temper when I talked to Mr. Dawnay. These people at the League will never understand the Press, that’s what annoys me.”

  “It’s not altogether easy,” said Harrison, with conviction.

  The Baron laughed again. “You’re thinking of Jeanne, Miss de Marplay,” he added.

  “I may as well confess I was,” answered Harrison. “But how do you know about it? Surely she hasn’t been boasting to you?”

  “Far from it, Mr. Harrison, I assure you,” said the Baron. “Far from boasting she has been very miserable. Indeed, in a way, I am her ambassador to apologise to you. I also feel I owe you my personal apology.”

  “Really it is not as important as all that,” said Harrison, uncomfortably. “When one thinks it over I can’t see how I can blame her. I refused to tell her I was coming to Geneva—in fact I said I wasn’t—and she said in the papers that I was. It was rather annoying but I had been somewhat foolish, too. But how did she know I was coming to Geneva?”

  “That is her business, Mr. Harrison,” replied the Baron. “She never told me that.”

  “So that’s that,” said Harrison. “I can’t see any need for your own personal apology.”

  “Well, you see, she is one of my correspondents and she has behaved as she should not have done; at any rate, not as I should have expected her to do. Indeed, as a responsible newspaper writer behaves. She came and told me all about it this morning, and I was very upset.”

  “I can’t see—” started Harrison.

  “Just a minute, Mr. Harrison,” interrupted the Baron, “and let me explain. As the work was getting rather heavy out here, I wired to her to come over as soon as possible. She told me this morning that, after much difficulty, she had tracked you to your lair and then found you were going to Geneva as well. For, though you may be modest, Harrison, and wish to avoid publicity, the newspapers are interested in what you do, and it is good journalism to find that out. Then she told me that, having met you on the boat, she thought it would be good fun to suggest to you that she was trailing you to Geneva, generally giving the idea that the investigator himself was being investigated.”

  “She certainly succeeded,” said Harrison coldly.

  “She even pointed notorious people out to you at the station here,” continued the Baron. “Notorious people who, I may say, are only notorious in her imagination, and altogether she seems to have enjoyed herself thoroughly at your expense.”

  “Even to—” said Harrison quickly, thinking of the episode of the face cream, but something warned him not to continue.

  “Even to what?” asked the Baron, to Harrison’s mind rather too eagerly.

  “Even to offering to pay for my dinner in Paris,” he answered without hesitating.

  “She told me that as a stroke of genius on her part,” said the Baron with a laugh. “And was really quite offended when I gave her a lecture on the whole silly business. I told her she was lucky I had not sacked her there and then; that a sense of fun is all very well in its place—I myself find the British rather exhausting in their idea of the right place—but certainly she had no right to indulge in it when acting on my behalf. If it were not so annoying it would be ludicrous, Mr. Harrison, but I do hope, for her sake and mine, you will try and forget this very unpleasant first impression of us.”

  “And she meant nothing at all?” asked Harrison.

  “Nothing at all, I assure you,” replied the Baron.

  “And I thought she was an extremely dangerous young woman,” said Harrison, with a hearty laugh.

  “An international crook, or something like that,” said the Baron.

  “Well, that kind of thing,” answered Harrison.

  “You see what idiotic folly it all is,” said the Baron. “And she has only herself
to blame for it. Of course, she may be called dangerous in one way, but you will agree a legitimate one. She is an extraordinarily good news-getter, and is certainly my ablest assistant. That may be dangerous, I agree.”

  “It certainly is,” said Harrison. “But she deserves congratulation on it.”

  “Then we have your forgiveness?” pleaded the Baron. “I should not be happy if I had not fixed up things satisfactorily. You really accept our apology?”

  “Of course I do,” said Harrison, heartily. “I hope we shall be the best of friends while I am in Geneva. There is a little favour I should like in return.” The Baron looked at him. “Oh, it’s nothing serious. When you were talking while Mr. Dawnay was here, you mentioned a journalist who was an exception to your general rule. Might ask who that was?”

  “It’s rather difficult, you know, Mr. Harrison,” replied the Baron. “I hardly like to talk about members of my own profession. You understand?”

  “Of course I do,” said Harrison. “And I appreciate your motive, but I am fresh to Geneva and don’t know the ropes and a few indiscreet words to the wrong person about my committee might do a lot of damage. A hint would be very useful.”

  “Yes, I realise that,” answered the Baron. “It is certainly an important point and I think you are entitled to my help. There is a man here named Crill. Bad-tempered and a bit warped, but a trained journalist. He writes for a London paper and certainly gets news, but it is usually news that will do harm to somebody or some institution and therefore does not add to his popularity. He seems to have a natural spite which he must vent somehow. That’s why I said possibly he might use a story of that kind even if nobody else would think of touching it.”