Dusty Death

by Clifton Robbins

  “Thank you so much,” answered the secretary, gratefully, and went back to his seat at the side of the chairman.

  “The Baron again,” thought Harrison. “But he doesn’t realise he has given me a golden chance.”

  Two things were apparent when the delegates began settling down for the meeting. The first was that there was excitement in the air. They all knew about the Press attacks and the articles in the French newspapers and the air buzzed with life. They felt that this was an important occasion. They were not quite certain whether they liked it, but they had somehow been pushed into the international limelight and, for good or ill, the meeting that morning would be definitely eventful. The second was that Harrison could feel that he was by no means popular as an international figure. He was decidedly the villain of the piece. He could not quite understand this queer sidelight of crowd psychology, this blind acceptance of a suggestion from the all-powerful force of the Press, but he felt the coldness of the atmosphere around, and covert glances being cast at him from time to time. It was all very strange, rather annoying personally, but also quite amusing.

  The gathering of representatives of the Press also showed that this was no ordinary meeting. There were many more as compared with the first sitting. They sat eagerly waiting for the news which the delegates would necessarily provide.

  Harrison noticed with satisfaction that both the Baron and Miss de Marplay were in their places. His satisfaction was still stronger when they gave him the most cordial nods of recognition. The Baron is more pleased than he is entitled to be, thought Harrison, but that is all to the good.

  Dawnay slipped into the room and sat beside him just as the chairman was preparing to open the meeting.

  “Some fuss,” whispered Dawnay.

  “Great fun,” answered Harrison.

  “There’s been trouble here this morning,” said Dawnay. “Lots of it.”

  “Your fault,” said Harrison.

  “I suppose it is,” replied Dawnay. “I don’t mind admitting it. I hear France is going to propose open meetings, but I think you’ll get a backing. You should get away with it.”

  Signor Corazzi plunged immediately into the question which had roused so much interest, and pens at the Press table began to move rapidly. He was surprised that so much attention should have been devoted to their committee. Of course, they themselves knew how important they were, but they could not expect the world to accept their own estimate. But the world seemed to have done more than that. It had shown an interest in their proceedings for which the greatest optimist could not have hoped. That being the case, it was their duty to see what this interest meant, and he regretted to say that it amounted to criticism of the way they proposed to conduct their proceedings. He, for one, did not believe in secrecy, nor did his great country. He did not think that any of them believed in secrecy. That belonged to the bad old days. Coming from an advanced country, he realised that. But secrecy was important in some matters. Passport identification was a delicate proposition. There might be delegates who would not talk freely at a public sitting. He himself knew one or two things about the international passport system which he certainly would not feel justified in disclosing to the whole world. There was one rather serious point to be considered, however. Their deliberations had been made the starting point of an attack on a Government and, indeed, on a particular Government representative, Mr. Clay Harrison. Even in the benighted country of Italy where, according to some, ignorance reigned supreme—he would advise such people to come and see Italy to verify their judgment—even in Italy there were people who had heard the name of Clay Harrison. He was glad to say that Mr. Harrison himself wished to make a personal statement, and he would give him that opportunity immediately. He would only add that he felt sure that this incident had not in any way upset the very cordial relations existing between the different members of the committee.

  Harrison immediately got to his feet and explained how sorry he felt that there had been any unpleasantness, especially if he himself had caused it. He wished to remove one misunderstanding. He certainly was not and never had been sent to the committee by the British Government. Like some of the other delegates, he had been invited to attend as an expert because he was supposed to know something of international crime. He was not going to be modest about that, for he thought he did, and also thought he could help a little in the deliberations of the committee. He was convinced that they could do better work if they sat in private. He agreed with the chairman that there were many things which could not be said in public. And, after all, were they, an important League committee, to be dictated to by a small, malignant and unimportant section of the Press?

  There were rumours of approval at this, and Dawnay whispered: “That’s the line, you’re getting them.”

  “But,” continued Harrison, “I realise that many members of the committee do not share my views. This, Mr. Chairman, has been made a personal matter, and as such I must treat it. I therefore tender my immediate resignation from the committee. I have no ill-feeling towards any individual, but I have come to the conclusion that this is the only solution. I wish your labours the greatest success and thank you for your kindness in listening to me.”

  This was a shock, indeed, and the committee and its chairman gasped. For the sake of good feeling and national sentiment, would not Mr. Harrison alter his decision? A sudden wave of popularity welled around Harrison but he was not to be moved. Dawnay was dumbfounded. Everything had seemed to be going so well. He turned to Harrison but the only word he received was: “You’ll have to help me to-day, Dawnay. Get that list of the people who are mixed up with drugs in Geneva and meet me as quickly as you can at the bookseller’s we saw yesterday.”

  Dawnay felt still more hopelessly muddled but prepared to depart to obey orders. Harrison picked up a few papers, Henry, who had quietly returned and was enjoying the scene, picked up a few more—although it is not certain that they belonged to him. Harrison ostentatiously shook hands with the chairman, who looked as if he might burst into tears, and left the room, followed by Henry.

  “Now then, Henry,” said Harrison, as soon as they were outside. “A taxi, quickly. We can’t be followed for a moment and there are two things we must do before they get on the track again.”

  The dashed down the corridors and, within a few minutes, had been deposited by taxi-cab at the door of the bookshop.

  Harrison went in and found that it was kept by a M. Roche who was obviously the kind of man who would keep a mixed first and second hand bookshop. He was a type to be met with in most countries. Middle-aged and dried-up, untidy and absent-minded when the ordinary affairs of life were in question but once the subject of books was mentioned, alert, bright-eyed and enthusiastic as the youngest scholar.

  Harrison glanced through the shop and was satisfied to see that the door which he had noticed on Dawnay’s staircase was open. Moreover, it was easily accessible to anyone in the shop, there being no counter which would prevent access to it.

  With the casualness of his type, M. Roche came forward and asked Harrison if there was anything he could do or would he just like to look around.

  “You are M. Roche?” asked Harrison.

  The man nodded.

  “I’m afraid I have not come to purchase,” said Harrison. “The fact is, I’m looking for a friend.”

  “A queer rendezvous,” said the bookseller, with a chuckle.

  “A very pleasant one,” said Harrison. “But I’m afraid I haven’t come to meet him. He is an Englishman who seems to have disappeared.”

  “That is sad,” said M. Roche. “And a friend of yours?”

  “Yes, he disappeared at the beginning of last week,” answered Harrison. “And one of the few things we know about him was that he used to come regularly to your shop, M. Roche.”

  “And he was English?” said M. Roche.

  “Very English,” replied Harrison. “But that is all I can tell you.”

  “You don’t kno
w what he looked like then?” said M. Roche incredulously.

  “I’m afraid that is so,” said Harrison. “It is many many years since I met him and he is said to have changed almost beyond recognition.”

  “It is hard to help you,” replied M. Roche. “I would like to because I like the English. But very many English come to my shop. They like me also.”

  “I’m sure they do,” said Harrison. “By the way. Where does that door lead?”

  M. Roche was taken aback by the abruptness of the question: “To the staircase of some flats, sir, but why do you ask?”

  “And is it open all day?”

  “Yes, mainly,” said M. Roche. “There is little air in here and the books seem to make it worse. You know, I like a little air occasionally, M.—”

  “Harrison.”

  “—M. Harrison and so I keep the door open. But you will pardon my bewilderment, you ask strange questions.”

  “I’m very sorry, M. Roche, but I am indeed worried about my friend,” said Harrison, who was thinking rapidly.

  Obviously Twining had not used the door by arrangement with M. Roche or that would have brought some connection to the bookseller’s mind. Still, it would be best to be certain.

  “I am sorry to press the subject of your door,” continued Harrison. “But it would appear simple for a customer to use it?”

  “I suppose it would,” answered M. Roche. “I had never thought of that but I don’t remember to have seen anyone do it. Very well-behaved, my customers.”

  That settles that, thought Harrison, now for a gambling shot. “My friend, M. Roche, had a curious habit,” said Harrison. “He moved about very quietly and he sometimes used to startle me because I found him in the room when I could have sworn nobody had come in. Rather a disturbing habit, M. Roche.”

  M. Roche thought for a moment and then exclaimed excitedly: “I know him. I know him.”

  “Come, come, M. Roche, that’s splendid,” said Harrison. “You really know my friend?”

  “If it’s the same Englishman,” answered the bookseller. “Then I know your friend.”

  “And his name?”

  “That I do not know,” answered M. Roche. “I do not know the names of quite a number of my customers. They come in and buy a book. They chat with me a little while and they say ‘M. Roche’ because it is outside the shop but I say ‘sir.’ There is nothing else and so I do not know their names. But if it is your friend, he has been here many times.”

  Henry groaned with disappointment, and Harrison looked somewhat dejected but he soon pulled himself together. They had made some progress, at any rate.

  “Tell me something about him, M. Roche,” said Harrison.

  “As you say yourself, M. Harrison, your friend was quite disturbing,” answered the bookseller. “I am standing in my shop, looking at a book, arranging a shelf, or something like that and there suddenly he is standing beside me and I do not know where he comes, how long he has been there. He seems like a ghost and sometimes I used to think he could make himself invisible, he does it so quickly. I decided to speak to him for he worries my nerves and the last time of all especially.”

  “When was that?” asked Harrison.

  “Let me see,” said M. Roche. “I should remember that, although my memory is not usually very good, but he gave me such a fright. Yes, last Monday it was just before I had my lunch.”

  “You are certain, M. Roche?” asked Harrison.

  “Positive,” was the reply. “I was in the shop alone when suddenly I turn round and see the Englishman standing in the middle. I had no idea he had come and I was going to speak to him when he says: ‘Pardon, M. Roche, I cannot wait. I will see you to-morrow.’ And he runs out of the shop. Why, I ask myself, come into the shop if you are going to rush out again like that. So I decided to speak to him. But he did not come on Tuesday and he has not been since.”

  “Thank you very much, M. Roche,” said Harrison. “It certainly must have been my friend. There is no doubt whatever. Could you describe him to me?”

  “That is not easy,” said M. Roche. “He wore a kind of cloak and a dark, soft hat, rather a big one. He walked with a stoop and had greyish hair. He was not very young and yet his eyes seemed younger than the rest of him. Keen searching eyes he had, M. Harrison.”

  “Did he come regularly?” asked Harrison.

  Dawnay had now joined the group and was listening to the conversation.

  “I should not say that,” said M. Roche. “He would not come for some months but I should say he always seemed to come about this time of the year.”

  “And you have no idea of his name?”

  “None whatever.”

  “And you never sent any books to any address for him?”

  “No, he always took them away himself. I am sorry, M. Harrison, I wish I could give you more help.”

  “You have already been too kind, M. Roche,” answered Harrison. “And exceedingly useful. I shall soon get on his track now, I am sure.”

  “I hope you find your friend,” said M. Roche, wishing them good-bye. “And tell him he must not come frightening me any more. I shall lose my nerves,” and he laughed as Harrison, Dawnay and Henry left the shop.

  “Now, Dawnay, who’s the English clergyman here?”

  “Edgar Blacklock.”

  “What’s he like?”

  “A very good sort.”

  “Do you know his address?”

  “Yes, I’ve been to dinner very occasionally.”

  “Right,” said Harrison. “Tell the taxi-man and we’ll go there straight away.”

  “Very well,” said Dawnay, uncertainly but nevertheless giving an address to the driver.

  “Getting warmer, Henry,” said Harrison, as they settled themselves again in the taxi-cab.

  Chapter XII

  The Lonely Funeral

  “Now then Dawnay,” said Harrison, “I want to know something about Montreux.”

  “Not a word until you’ve explained your gross conduct this morning,” answered Dawna.

  “There’s nothing to explain,” said Harrison, with a twinkle.

  “By jove, isn’t there?” exclaimed Dawnay. “Here comes a man into Geneva—” he seemed to be addressing an imaginary crowd of sympathisers—“who worms himself into my confidence and then does his best to lose me my job.”

  “You don’t say so,” said Harrison.

  “What would your verdict be, Henry?” asked Dawnay, with mock tragedy in his voice.

  “Not guilty if it’s Mr. Harrison,” answered Henry.

  “A packed jury, that’s what would happen,” said Dawnay. “But seriously, Harrison, why did you suddenly change round this morning?”

  “It was such a great opportunity, Dawnay, to surprise the Baron. I couldn’t resist. I haven’t had time to explain to you yet, but I have come to the conclusion they’re rattled. I was convinced when I saw that it had got to a personal attack. The Baron wanted to make it very uncomfortable for me. I don’t think he has succeeded. It may even be the other way.”

  “You may be right, Harrison, but they’ll be watching everything you do now.”

  “They would have done so, at any rate,” replied Harrison. “Geneva is a small town, and even if I did slip out of a private meeting by a back door I’m certain somebody would have picked up my trail very, very quickly. So, although I agreed with you at the start, and am very grateful to you for your help, Dawnay, this seemed the better way.”

  “I see,” said Dawnay.

  “You know you don’t really,” said Harrison. “There’s more in it than that. If they’re jumpy, we’ve got to keep them guessing. That puts them at a terrific disadvantage—and then they’ll get more jumpy still. I’ve just said Geneva was a small place, and it must be easy to watch anyone in it anywhere at any time, but here I am going about in the daylight quite unobserved.”

  “Are you certain of that?”

  “Absolutely. I’ll swear the Baron could not have foreseen h
ow this morning’s meeting was going to go, and that he never thought I should leave it so quickly. I think I am therefore entitled to assume that he had posted none of his little watchers for me. He certainly could not have got out in time himself, and so I am hoping the poor man is worried to death as to what I may be doing now.”

  “I shouldn’t be surprised if you found all the journalists at the Hotel when you get back,” said Dawnay. “You certainly seem like a piece of news.”

  “Led by the Baron and the charming lady,” said Harrison, looking at Henry. “Almost certainly, I should think, and I’m looking forward to seeing them. That’s why I must know something of the latest gossip of Montreux.”

  The taxi-cab was slowing down and drew up at the door of a rather charming villa, well-kept and snug-looking.

  “This must be the clergyman’s home,” said Harrison to Henry. “We’ll leave Montreux until the drive back to the hotel, Dawnay. What’s his name again?”

  “Blacklock, Edgar Blacklock. Quite a good fellow—and a charming wife.”

  “Good,” said Harrison. “We’ve had an excellent day up to the present, Henry, may your luck hold now.”

  They were admitted to the villa by a neat German–Swiss maid, and were soon in the presence of the Reverend Edgar Blacklock, a clergyman of pleasant aspect whose care of his Geneva flock seemed to be an infinite joy to him, and who mainly found the world and its contents wondrously delightful.

  Dawnay introduced Harrison, and Blacklock’s eyes lit up with enthusiasm.

  “Not the Harrison?” he said, shaking hands eagerly.

  “Of course,” said Dawnay.

  “I mean the detective, you know,” said Mr. Blacklock.

  “Well, I call myself an investigator,” said Harrison. “A detective needs much more technical training and skill than I possess. I should be indeed proud if I could really call myself a detective.”

  “But Clay Harrison himself,” said Blacklock. “I really must call my wife. My dear! My dear!”

  In answer to this call a youngish and fresh-looking woman, obviously holding the same cheerful view of life as her husband, came into the room.