Dusty Death

by Clifton Robbins

  Dawnay soon returned with a radiant smile.

  “That’s all right, then,” said Harrison.

  “You seem to get what you want, anyhow,” answered Dawnay. “I found a Swiss colleague who is pretty high up in the office and knows the Genevese officials fairly well. He was frightfully intrigued when I told him about you and said the head of the police department was a friend of his and he would ring him up immediately. And would you believe it, Harrison, the police chief was quite ready, almost relieved, at the suggestion. He said he would come along right away; only too pleased to, my friend said, by his tone.”

  “Good,” said Harrison, who might have felt entitled to say more. “Thank you very much, Dawnay.”

  Harrison sat thinking for a moment. He then turned to Dawnay and said: “I only want to ask you two more favours.”

  “Oh lord,” replied Dawnay. “You do expect a lot.”

  “Of course I do,” said Harrison. “But you seem able to get things done.”

  “I can see through the flattery,” answered Dawnay. “That’s not going to help you, kind Mr. Harrison. Well, what are they?”

  “Have you a junior you could spare for an hour or so?”

  “It’s most irregular,” said Dawnay. “Trying to turn the whole office upside down, that’s what it is. Give him an inch—but let me know what you want?”

  “Is there anywhere in Geneva where we could find back numbers of the English papers?”

  “Not very far back,” said Dawnay. “But I should think you could find them for a week or so at the Cosmopolitan Club.”

  “It’s only the daily illustrated papers and the brighter efforts of London journalism which run gossip columns.”

  “You might find them.”

  “Well, I want your junior to see if he—or she—can find them for Saturday, September 13th. He is to look through all the gossip paragraphs until he finds one about ‘doubles.’ I shouldn’t be surprised if it said that many famous people had doubles and that one had arrived in London. I should not be surprised, too, if the name of the famous person or persons or the name of the double contained the initials ‘H.D.’.”

  “Do you remember seeing the paragraph?” asked Dawnay.

  “Good heavens, no,” said Harrison. “I’m only making a guess as to what it might be. There may be nothing at all but it would help me greatly if somebody made a search.”

  “I’ll see that it’s done,” answered Dawnay. “Although it’s quite beyond me.”

  “It really is intensely logical,” said Harrison. “But I don’t propose to go into a long explanation of a thing that may not even exist.”

  “Very well, and the second request?”

  “That’s simpler still,” replied Harrison. “I want your junior on his—or her—way back to buy two of the leather straps which people wear for weak wrists. You know, they are quite broad pieces of leather.”

  “Do you propose to play tennis with both hands, Harrison?”

  “Don’t be futile,” replied Harrison. “They are quite important. Can you get this done for me?”

  “Much more easily than getting the police chief,” said Dawnay, settling down at once to give the necessary instructions.

  Although to Dawnay—and to many others at different times—Clay Harrison must have given the impression of almost too stolid calmness while waiting for a crisis and shown an almost alarming facility for small talk, his outward demeanour was not always an index to his inner feelings. During the time he was waiting for the police chief, he was really in a turmoil of impatience. His case was getting pretty complete and no more reasoning on different aspects seemed likely to help him. He now depended on the events of the day before him and could do nothing until they unfolded themselves. His thoughts described those circles which are often said to be “vicious” but which may be the result of having reached a definite conclusion and only circular in that they show the perfect symmetry of logical reasoning.

  It was with a great deal of relief, although he did not betray it, that Harrison heard the arrival of the head of the Geneva police department announced.

  M. Ringel struck Harrison at once as a man who had certainly gained his position by ability. He was of medium height with a closely-clipped beard and shrewd eyes which watched the faces of his companions with alarming penetration. Dawnay made himself known to M. Ringel and then introduced Harrison.

  “I am very happy to meet you, Mr. Clay Harrison,’ said M. Ringel, shaking his hand warmly, much to Dawnay’s astonishment.

  “The feeling is definitely mutual, M. Ringel,” answered Harrison. “Although I certainly don’t want to arrest you.”

  “Arrest?” queried M. Ringel, with the most preposterous innocence. “My dear Mr. Harrison. Oh yes, I understand. That absurd paragraph in the papers this morning.”

  “Of course I can explain,” answered Harrison.

  “There is much you will have to explain to me,” said M. Ringel, “but not about that paragraph. These journalists must live, you know, Mr. Harrison, and they write things.”

  “Do you mean to say there is nothing in it?” asked Dawnay.

  “Steady, Dawnay,” said Harrison. “Give M. Ringel time. He will tell us in his own way, even as to why he had to look over my room in the hotel.”

  “Quite a mistake, Mr. Harrison, for which I apologise,” answered the police chief. “I will tell you what happened from the beginning. I have information about you from the very highest authority. One that I trust implicitly and I feel I must be ready to act. The drug traffic is the bane of our lives in Geneva and we cannot miss any opportunity of fighting it. You understand?”

  “Perfectly.”

  “I received the information late last night and I thought out what I should do. I did not tell the newspapers myself—”

  “But as your informant was likely to tell them, you were not surprised.”

  “You are very clever, Mr. Harrison,” said M. Ringel, with a bland smile. “But I was really shocked that such a thing should be printed. I wanted to inquire about you first.”

  “But it was the highest authority?”

  “As you say, Mr. Harrison, and so I put my police on the track, simply as a precaution, while I made my own inquiries. I rang up Scotland Yard as a matter of form.”

  Harrison laughed.

  “You may well laugh,” said M. Ringel, smiling as well. “They shouted back at me: ‘Have you never heard of Clay Harrison, the cat detective, the remarkable detective?’ They suggest I am not fit to be head of my department. They think M. Ringel of no account whatever because he has not heard of Clay Harrison. I say to them ‘Is he in Geneva?’ and they laugh and say: ‘You ought to know but if we can help you in any way we are willing to tell you that he is in Geneva.’”

  “And you believed them?” asked Harrison.

  “Your Scotland Yard does not lie,” said M. Ringel, solemnly.

  “I am glad to hear you have such a high opinion of them,” said Harrison.

  “But they laugh a great deal, Mr. Harrison,” said M. Ringel, with a sigh. “But I have made my inquiries, at any rate, and I have not made the mistake of arresting you. Still—”

  “Well, M. Ringel?” asked Harrison.

  “You are a very suspicious character.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “And your servant. He has a very poor opinion of us Swiss people, I am afraid.”

  “It might do him good to be arrested.”

  “Oh no Harrison, I will take my men away at once. I would have done so before but I came straight here and had not time to give the order.”

  “I’m glad you didn’t,” said Harrison. “You might keep him for a little while. I’m sorry for Henry but it would help me.”

  “If it will help you, Mr. Harrison, it should be done,” replied M. Ringel, with a sweeping gesture. “He shall be treated well. But I am curious as to your success in Geneva?”

  “My success?”

  “Yes, you are r
ounding up the dope people, of course.”

  Harrison looked admiringly at M. Ringel and said, “Why of course?”

  “By all your actions, Mr. Harrison,” answered the police chief. “Now how far have you got?”

  “The Baron,” replied Harrison.

  “Baron Meyerling?” asked M. Ringel.

  “That’s the man,” said Harrison. “Do you know anything against him?”

  “On the contrary,” was the answer. “I know everything in his favour. You’re on the wrong track there.”

  “I’m certain I’m on the right track,” said Harrison. “M. Ringel, Baron Meyerling is the head of the drug-traffickers, not only in Geneva, I should say throughout the world.”

  “Impossible,” answered M. Ringel.

  “Of course it was the Baron who gave you the information about me?”

  “Your ‘of course’ this time, Mr. Harrison. But that proves nothing. He said he had another person who could prove it.”

  “Jeanne de Marplay.”

  “A very charming young woman,” said M. Ringel.

  “A very dangerous young woman,” commented Harrison.

  “Dangerous,” said Dawnay, still harbouring some of his pleasant reflections. “Nonsense, Harrison, nonsense.”

  “I’m not going to explain that at present, Dawnay,” answered Harrison. “But I do warn M. Ringel that he has two remarkable international crooks in his city at the moment. The Baron and the woman.”

  “I shall take a great deal of convincing,” said M. Ringel.

  “You are too open-minded for that,” replied Harrison.

  “But the Baron has always been the one to give me information about the dope traffic—he has always been right and very useful.”

  “Bright of him,” said Harrison. “Even gives his own friends away.”

  “No, not quite that,” replied M. Ringel. “Only where I could expect to discover consignments of drugs. I have never caught anybody but I have found any amount of drugs in the queerest disguises.”

  “And suppose, M. Ringel, the Baron wanted to keep in with the Swiss police, especially yourself, would it not be a good idea occasionally to allow some of his drugs to be discovered by you. It’s almost like paying commission on a business deal. The profits are enormous, aren’t they?”

  “Terrific, I should say.”

  “Well, he could afford to let some go occasionally, just to keep on the right side of the law.”

  “That is possible, Mr. Harrison,” said M. Ringel. “But it sounds too easy. Can you give me any proof?”

  “None,” answered Harrison. “I frankly admit that, M. Ringel. But even if I had a little proof, you would not arrest the Baron.”

  “No, I don’t think I would.”

  “I have my own plans for dealing with him, as a matter of fact,” said Harrison. “I shall need your help, of course, but I know you will grant me that. I realise myself the scandal of arresting the Baron would do almost as much harm to Geneva and the League as it would to him. And what the journalists would say, I cannot imagine.”

  “You are asking a great deal when you say you want my help, Mr. Harrison,” said M. Ringel. “You have given me no hint at all that you have any evidence against Baron Meyerling. Your suppositions are quite clever but they do not carry me far. I must repeat the Baron has been very useful to me.”

  “I know,” said Harrison, wearily. “He seems to be useful to everybody. But I really must ask you to have a little confidence in me—Scotland Yard didn’t laugh at me, did they? If we can smash the dope ring, we shall be doing a power of good for the world, shan’t we?”

  “Of course we shall, Mr. Harrison,” said the police chief. “I do trust you and I’ll do what I can.”

  “First of all, then, don’t revoke any of your orders. It is essential that the Baron—or, shall we say, M. ‘X’—and his friends think that they have persuaded you to arrest me. Keep Henry in custody all day—”

  “It is hard on him, Mr. Harrison.”

  “It can’t be helped. I’m playing a difficult game and I can’t take any chances. Now you may have to arrest me later in the day. That may be vitally important. But I don’t want to be arrested before I’m ready for it.”

  “I will see to that,” said M. Ringel. “Just stop in front of one of my men and drop both your gloves and he will arrest you and bring you straight to my room.”

  “Excellent,” said Harrison.

  “And what else can I do?” asked M. Ringel.

  “I don’t think there is anything else,” was the reply. “Until I have put a few pieces together and find their places in the puzzle.”

  “Very well,” said M. Ringel, picking up his hat, “I will do my best for you. By the way, have you any further news of Mr. Timothy Mountford?”

  Harrison really jumped this time. He looked at M. Ringel’s smiling face and began: “What on earth—”

  “Only your Scotland Yard,” answered the police chief. “They asked me a day or two ago if I knew anything of Mr. Timothy Mountford and I wonder if your visit to Geneva has any connection with him. I see it has.”

  “In a way it has,” said Harrison. “Mr. Mountford died in London recently and we felt certain we should find traces of him in Geneva—”

  “You will be unlucky, Mr. Harrison,” answered M. Ringel. “No one of that name has been heard of in Geneva.”

  Harrison looked intently at the police chief and realised that the mention of Mountford’s name had only been a very chance remark. The police chief had put two and two together but had produced no result. It had, however, been definitely a shock to Harrison to hear that name in so startlingly sudden a manner.

  The police chief renewed his assurances of any kind of help and departed, while Dawnay looked at Harrison in an almost reverential manner.

  “You’ve captured him,” he said, triumphantly.

  “So did the Baron,” answered Harrison, slowly.

  “That’s true,” said Dawnay, rather crestfallen.

  “So did the Baron, I said,” repeated Harrison. “Did, did, all in the past, I’m thinking. The charm of Meyerling is getting a trifle threadbare.”

  Chapter XIX

  Capture Of A Concierge

  The luncheon hour had arrived before Harrison received further news.

  The first development came with the return of the official whom Dawnay had sent to the Cosmopolitan Club to study the old newspapers. He came in with a victorious look and, after handing Harrison his purchase of the two wrist-bands, he produced a small cutting.

  “Did you find it?” asked Dawnay, his mouth rather wide.

  “Here it is,” said the man. “Practically as Mr. Harrison said.”

  He passed the clipping to Harrison who read it through. It was the ordinary gossip paragraph and ran as follows:

  Every prominent person is said to have a double and the double is often delighted, too. I know a number of people who claim a superficial resemblance to the King while there are quite a crowd of embryo Prince of Wales all over the Empire. I was surprised to find, however, that the Duke of Connaught had a double, too. Yesterday I ran into Mr. H. D. Schweig, the well-known American broker, who has only just arrived in this country, and he told me how proud he was of this resemblance. As a matter of fact, it is quite striking and Mr. Schweig certainly has a right to be proud of looking like our much revered countryman.

  Dawnay took the paragraph and read it, with a face growing more and more twisted with disgust.

  “And people earn their living writing stuff like that,” he said.

  “And a very good living, too,” said Harrison.

  “Good lord,” commented Dawnay. “What a world. But even if people do earn their living by writing it, how, in heaven’s name, Harrison, do you find out by telepathy that they have done so?”

  “Telepathy,” laughed Harrison. “There is really nothing mysterious about it at all, just a bit of logic.”

  “How, then?” asked Dawn.

&nbs
p; “I can’t say more.”

  “You’re rather like a man I knew, Harrison, who used to say that he knew exactly how the Zancigs worked their thought-reading but he felt it wouldn’t be fair to tell anyone else. You can imagine what I thought of him.”

  “Don’t be too hard, Dawnay,” answered Harrison. “One thing I will say which you might have spotted for yourself, there is no mention in the paragraph as to where the writer actually met the well-known Mr. Schweig—”

  “That’s true.”

  “And, by the way, have you ever heard of Mr. Schweig?”

  “I can’t say I have.”

  “Nor have I. Nor, possibly, has anybody. That’s the cleverness of these gossip writers. They make you feel intimate with any number of people you don’t know. Even with people who may not exist.”

  “People who may not exist?”

  “Yes, Dawnay. I don’t think there ever such a person as Mr. Schweig, especially as his initials are ‘H. D.’.”

  “Happy Dust,” shouted Dawnay. “It’s a code message. I might have recognised it in the agony column, Twining put us up to that, but I never thought of it in the ordinary news. I say, Harrison, you’re a wonder.”

  “It was only a chance,” answered Harrison. “But, an obvious one. Do you see now?”

  “I think things are getting a bit clearer,” said Dawnay. “Poor old Gilbert.”

  “Well, keep it to yourself for the moment,” said Harrison gently. “If we can get hold of that concierge, we ought to straighten things out pretty quickly.”

  Dawnay did not answer. He suddenly seemed to see all the implications of Harrison’s moves in Geneva since he had settled down to the job of tracing Gilbert Twining. The telephone bell rang again and Dawnay answered it.

  “It’s Miss Warley,” he called to Harrison. “In a terrific hurry.”

  Harrison jumped to the instrument and Miss Warley’s voice came excitedly across the line.

  “I’m half-way up the Saléve,” she cried. “They stopped to get some more petrol and I have just been able to snatch a telephone.”

  “Who are they?” asked Harrison.