Dusty Death

by Clifton Robbins

  “Astonishing,” commented Dawnay.

  “Not so astonishing,” said Harrison, “when you realise how much it widens one’s scope and, with some of the people she came into contact with, it might almost have been a protection. Now think of the hotel people making inquiries at the next town—for she certainly won’t cross the frontier into Switzerland—for a young man driving a car. Somebody might have seen a young and attractive woman driving a car into the town but no young man fitting in with the description will have been seen because, for the time being, he no longer exists.”

  By this time the concierge, who not only was not interested in a conversation in a foreign language but was also exhausted by the hectic events of the day, had fallen tranquilly asleep. There was therefore little talking among the others until they reached Dawnay’s flat. She woke up with a start and did not feel at all inclined to go into a strange building but Harrison explained as best he could why he must obtain certain information and pointed out a policeman on the other side of the road to whom she could apply for help if she really felt doubtful.

  Something in the ring of his voice gave her confidence and she finally went up to Dawnay’s flat with Harrison, Dawnay and Miss Warley following behind.

  The concierge was settled down in a comfortable chair and given a glass of one of those sweet stimulants so popular on the Continent and so unattractive to the English palate.

  “You would like this lady to stay with you?” Harrison asked the concierge, indicating Miss Warley with his head.

  The concierge was emphatically affirmative and hinted that nothing would induce her to remain if she was deprived of female society.

  “What do you say, Miss Warley?” asked Harrison.

  “You turned me out very harshly the other night, Mr. Harrison,” she answered, “just as the excitement was starting. Don’t think you can do it a second time.”

  “Very well, then,” he said. “But you must make a cup of tea first. I’m sure you’re dying for one and I really can’t go any further without it.”

  The tea was duly made and Harrison lit a cigar. The others settled themselves comfortably and, with his cup and cigar, Harrison felt ready to begin.

  “Now, madam,” said Harrison, “I want you to answer my questions carefully. I am very interested in the Englishman who died in the Chemin des Noisettes and I want to know everything about him.”

  “The poor Englishman,” said the woman, with tears in her eyes.

  “He was a great friend of mine,” answered Harrison. “And I greatly appreciate your sympathy.”

  “One could not help loving him, sir,” said the woman.

  “I am glad to hear that,” said Harrison.

  “Although he was a little strange,” continued the woman.

  “Now I don’t want to get things muddled,” said Harrison, “so we will start at the beginning. When did he come first of all?”

  “Two years ago.”

  “Yes, that would be right.”

  “I shouldn’t forget that, sir.”

  “What was his name?”

  “Brown.”

  “Anything else?”

  “No, just M. Brown, the Englishman.”

  “And why did he come to you?”

  “The small flat was to let and the regisseur sent him. He was in ecstasies when he saw it. Exactly what he wanted, he said. By the way he talked it might have been the only flat in the world and just built for him. But the English are like that, sir, if you will pardon me. A very polite gentleman, M. Brown.”

  “I’m sure of that,” said Harrison.

  “But he was queer, there’s no denying that,” continued the woman. “He had only been with me a week when he says that he is going away for the night—”

  “Just a moment, madam,” interrupted Harrison. “Haven’t you forgotten something?”

  “Forgotten something, sir,” she bristled. “I think not.”

  “His luggage and furniture,” said Harrison. “The books, for example?”

  “They don’t come yet, sir, they come later. He only brought a small trunk with him.”

  “I’m sorry, madam. I didn’t mean to interrupt,” apologised Harrison. “He seemed queer, you said?”

  “Yes, sir, I did. For he went away for the night and when he came back he did not seem to recognise the flat at all. He remembered where some things were but he kept on missing things he had put away himself. It seemed strange because when he first came he looked into every corner and knew all about the cupboards and everything else. And he didn’t always remember what he told me to do—he ordered things twice over—little things but one couldn’t help noticing them.”

  “You looked after him, of course?”

  “Oh, yes, I had a key to his flat and used to pop in and out and clear up and cook and generally take care of him. I will say he never forgot the arrangement he made with me. It was only the little things!”

  “And the books?”

  “They arrived soon after he came back himself. Quite a lot of them, in cases, and he was very proud of them. He used to make me laugh by calling them his children. ‘A large family,’ he would say. ‘But they don’t eat.’ And I use to say, for I enjoy a joke: ‘But they don’t earn their living either, M. Brown.’ And he would laugh again and answer: ‘You never know, they may some day. Clever things are books’.”

  “And what were his habits?”

  “At that time, sir?”

  “Yes, at that time, madam.”

  “Very regular,” she answered, “at that time.”

  “You mean they varied?”

  “They changed altogether, sir, and then he went back again if you understand what I mean.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t quite, madam,” said Harrison.

  “I thought you wouldn’t,” said the concierge, cheerfully. “You see, when he got his books, nothing could tear him from them. He sat in his room most of the day, reading and writing. He only went out occasionally in the evening, and then only for a short while. He seemed quite happy, but it didn’t seem the right kind of life for a man like that.”

  “How old did he seem?”

  “I shouldn’t like to say, sir; between young and old, to my mind. I used to talk to him, sir, because I couldn’t always get on with my work with him always in the flat. I used to tell him he ought to take more pleasure, go out more, be more natural altogether. I was really quite frightened with myself, because he said, one day, ‘Perhaps you’re right. I’m going away for the night and when I come back, look out.’ He took quite a large case with him and I thought he had really taken my advice and was going on the loose. I really was frightened.

  “But he turned up again next day, case and all. Even then I wasn’t satisfied because his voice didn’t seem quite the same. He was more excited and he didn’t touch one of his books. He went out all day and sometimes came home very late, and when I mentioned his studies, he only laughed at me. He was altogether different.”

  “How long did that last?”

  “About a fortnight, I should say, that time. And then he went off for the night again and came back the same quiet, stay-at-home man he always was. Very queer it seemed to me until I got used to it. But men are queer. I’ve had a lot of dealings with them, and I take no notice.”

  “This happened regularly, did it?”

  “Oh, yes, on and off during the year.”

  “Did he have many letters?”

  “Very few. Some came from Germany, I remember, but I can’t recall his having one from England.”

  “You don’t imagine he was a criminal in hiding?”

  “A criminal?” asked the woman, incredulously.

  “Yes, that’s what it sounds like to me.”

  “Then you couldn’t have known M. Brown very well, sir,” said the concierge stoutly. “There was nothing of the criminal about him, sir. As a matter of fact, I thought he was something to do with the League of Nations.”

  “One up to the League,” sai
d Dawnay.

  “He was always at his worst when there was a big meeting of the League in Geneva,” said the concierge.

  “Not so good for the League, after all,” commented Mona Warley.

  “How do you mean?” asked Harrison.

  “Well,” answered the concierge, “when there was a meeting of the League of Nations and Geneva was full of people, he would leave his books and go away for the night. Then he would come back very excited. He would stay out all day and be thoroughly tired when he got home. He had hardly a word for me even, sometimes.”

  “At this time of the year?”

  “Yes, sir,” said the concierge. “Particularly at this time.”

  “And when he came back this last time?”

  “I must say, sir, he seemed worse than ever. He was very excited and he told me he was sleeping badly. He didn’t eat properly and was in and out in the strangest way.”

  “Now then, madam, we come to the most important part. What happened on the day he died?”

  The woman gave a shudder. “I’ll try and tell you, sir,” she said, with her voice trembling. “But even now I can hardly bear to think of it.”

  “I will do my best to make it easy for you,” said Harrison. “When did he come home?”

  “I am not quite certain, sir. You see, he did not make a habit of coming back during the day when he was in one of these moods of his. I know I said he was in and out, but that was more in the evenings. It was just after lunch-time and I thought I would go into his flat and give it a tidy up. As I opened the door, I heard what sounded like snoring and yet like something else. I hardly dared go into the sitting-room. I thought I would go and fetch somebody—but if M. Brown was only asleep—and there was no knowing what he might do—he would be very annoyed if I brought a stranger into his flat. So I pulled myself together and marched in.”

  “And you saw?”

  “M. Brown, sir, huddled up in an arm-chair and making that awful snoring noise. Even then I thought it might be drink. I had never known him to come home like that, but the best of men do break out occasionally. So I shook him, sir, but he did not wake up. He did not even seem like waking up, and I thought something must be very wrong. So I decided the best thing to do was to get a doctor.”

  “Quite right.”

  “And I went to the door to run downstairs. I had left it open, and there coming in, as I went to go out, was a man his friends call the Baron.”

  “I know him.”

  “‘Is he ill?’ said the Baron. ‘He may be dying,’ I said. ‘Stand aside, please, while I get a doctor.’ ‘Let me see him first,’ said the Baron, and dragged me into the room, shutting the door behind him. ‘What are you doing?’ I asked, and he answered, ‘He is a friend of mine.’”

  “Did he mention Mr. Brown’s name?”

  “I am not sure. I don’t think so.”

  “Nor do I. He didn’t know it.”

  “He wasn’t even a friend of his?” asked the woman.

  “He was his greatest enemy,” replied Harrison.

  The woman groaned. “That’s not difficult to believe,” she said. “But I wasn’t to know, was I?”

  “Of course not.”

  “He looked at M. Brown,” continued the woman, “and said he was very ill and that we had better get him to bed. That sounded all right, so I helped him undress the poor gentleman and we put him into bed, still with that terrible breathing. Then I said, ‘I’m going to get a doctor,’ and opened the front door, but Ernst was outside and wouldn’t let me pass.”

  “Ernst?” asked Harrison.

  “Yes, that terrible man you saw in my room this morning.”

  “Oh, that is Ernst, is it—the man with the bright eyes?”

  “Bright eyes,” said the woman. “Cruel eyes. A monster, that man is. He really enjoys twisting your arm round till it cracks.”

  “He won’t enjoy that much longer, madam.”

  “I hope not,” said the concierge, emphatically. “I shouted at him, ‘What do you want?’ I was getting really frightened and things looked very bad to me. But he just pushed me in again and shut the door. I was just going to scream for help when the Baron came towards me and said, very softly, ‘I wouldn’t make a scene, if I were you, or we might have to take less pleasant measures.’ Then he said, very sternly, ‘Now keep quiet.’ ‘But the doctor,’ I said. ‘We must have a doctor for my poor Englishman.’ ‘Of course we must,’ he answered, ‘I’ll see to that.’ That sounded a bit better, I thought, and he went across to the telephone and rang up a number. ‘Now don’t worry any more,’ he said to me. ‘The doctor is coming. My friend is ill, very ill, but it is nothing for you to go screaming about. Now go downstairs and my man will look after you. But be certain to bring up the doctor when he comes.’ He opened the door and whispered to Ernst, who came downstairs with me. He gave me an arm-twisting on the way, just to show me what it was like, he said. I was thankful when the doctor came.”

  “Did you know him?”

  “No, sir; but there was no doubt he was a doctor. I expect he came from quite another part of the town. One can’t know all the doctors in a big place like Geneva.”

  “Of course not.”

  “He said he had been urgently summoned and, as there was no doubt, I took him up.”

  “You didn’t hear his name?”

  “I don’t think so, sir.”

  “It wasn’t Kellerman, by any chance?”

  “I’m afraid I didn’t hear, sir, and if I did, I was so upset I never remembered it.”

  “Well, you took him up and what next?”

  “The Baron opened the door to us and told us both to come in. He explained to the doctor that I was his friend’s devoted servant and then we went into the bedroom. M. Brown wasn’t snoring any more. He was lying stretched across his bed and looked to me to be dead.”

  “What did the doctor do?” asked Harrison.

  “He examined poor M. Brown and then picked up a bottle of tablets at the side of the bed and shook his head.”

  “Just a moment, madam,” said Harrison. “Did you recognise the bottle?”

  “No, sir, I had never seen it before.”

  “M. Brown had no bottle like that, to your knowledge?”

  “No, sir, there was nothing on the table when I did his room in the morning.”

  “Did you see them when you helped undress him and get him to bed?”

  “I could almost swear they weren’t there then, sir.”

  “That’s curious,” said Harrison. “Why could you almost swear to it?”

  “Well, sir,” she answered. “When I went in with the doctor I noticed them at once. They seemed to make you take notice of them, if you see what I mean. I’m sure I should have seen them.”

  “And what did the doctor say?”

  “The Baron asked him what he thought and he said there was no hope. I did break down for a moment then and asked the doctor if he couldn’t do anything to save my poor Englishman. Then I caught sight of Ernst looking at me through the door and his eyes were so terrible that I was more frightened than anything else.”

  “And the doctor?”

  “He said, sir, it was a clear case of suicide. I couldn’t think that M. Brown would do such a thing but that was what the doctor said. Then the Baron told me he didn’t want me any more and Ernst somehow got hold of me and took me downstairs.”

  “When did the doctor go?”

  “Some time after that, sir, he must have stayed talking with the Baron for quite a long time. I saw him go and would have liked to have said something to him but Ernst wouldn’t let me.”

  “And the Baron?”

  “He stayed in the flat. Later in the day, a young lady came and called on him.”

  “A young lady?”

  “Yes, you know, sir, the one who took me up the Saléve today. She’s as bad as the rest of them. She looked pretty enough but how she could go up into that flat with my poor M. Brown lying dead I can’t think. The Ba
ron came downstairs with her and I heard him say ‘Bon voyage’ as he said good-bye to her. He then came into my room and told me that, for the next little while, he himself would occupy M. Brown’s flat. He made horrible jokes about it being a nice quiet neighbourhood and he said he would trust Ernst to look after a charming person like myself.”

  “They gave you no chance to tell anyone else, then?”

  “None, sir. The funeral men came and I tried to talk to them but Ernst kept his eye on me so that I couldn’t. The next day they took away poor M. Brown in a coffin.”

  “And the Baron was there all the time?”

  “All that time, sir, but he has been out mostly ever since. He came back each night but that was about all.”

  “And Ernst?”

  “Ernst kept his eye on me all right. He stayed with me to start with and then he let me go out alone. I had to go to the market and that sort of thing, sir. But I never knew when he would be looking at me round some corner. I did try to say something at first but I always found that Ernst was somewhere near.”

  “But surely you ought to have spoken to the police?” said Harrison.

  “Oh, I daren’t do that, sir.”

  “Why not?”

  “The Baron told me that as it was suicide and the police hadn’t been told at once, I was as much in it as they were. He said that even if I did go to the police I should go to prison for not telling them before. I couldn’t get out of that.”

  “But you didn’t believe him?”

  “What else could I do, sir,” asked the concierge. “Isn’t that right?”

  “Of course not.”