“They certainly are not simple,” answered Harrison, sternly. “They are very complicated, but the complications are in my hands and I intend to keep them there. That is why your punishment presents difficulties.”
“I don’t understand,” said the Baron, uneasily.
“You wouldn’t like to return to Russia, Baron Meyerling?” said Harrison.
The Baron’s face changed colour but he said nothing.
“From what I know of your past history, Baron,” Harrison went on, “you are not popular in Russia. You committed some offence there for which you were not tried or, at any rate, received no penalty. As the Russian Government has, therefore, a prior claim to you, I propose to let them exercise it.”
“You can’t do that,” said the Baron.
“That is what I am going to do,” answered Harrison. “I’m going to send you back to Russia.”
“It’s murder,” exclaimed the Baron.
“I don’t think we can go into that side of it,” said Harrison. “Murder has been done in Geneva, that’s all I understand.”
“M. Ringel,” said the Baron. “I appeal to you. I claim my right to be tried in Switzerland.”
The police chief looked at the Baron and did not answer.
“I claim my right,” repeated the Baron.
The police chief was still silent.
“Is this your vaunted British idea of justice,” said the Baron turning to Harrison. “Sending a man to certain death?”
“Mr. Crill and Mr. Dawnay will go with you to the Polish frontier,” said Harrison. “And there will be some of M. Ringel’s police on the train. By using your favourite method, Baron, we shall make known in the Polish press that you are travelling to Russia. So you will be expected.”
“It’s devilish,” cried the Baron.
“I refuse to argue with you,” said Harrison. “M. Ringel has left matters in my hands and that is my decision. You will be detained for the night by M. Ringel.”
The Baron, who had gone very white, was obviously thinking very quickly. “Very well,” he said. “I trust myself to M. Ringel.”
“You will, of course, not be allowed to communicate with anyone in Geneva,” said Harrison, guessing what was in the Baron’s mind. “I do not propose to give you the smallest chance of getting away.”
The Baron looked venomously at Harrison but kept his thoughts to himself.
“Are you ready, Baron?” said M. Ringel.
“Ready, only too ready,” was the reply. “Anything to get away from this detective who makes himself a judge of his fellow men as well.”
The police chief signed to his men and the Baron was escorted out of the room and down the stairs.
“Thank God you’re safe, Mr. Harrison,” said M. Ringel, with a sigh of relief.
“It was a near thing,” answered Harrison. “The Baron fought hard enough.”
“I don’t know if I like the job,” said Crill.
“Nor I,” echoed Dawnay.
“I know,” said Harrison. “It’s a rotten thing to have to do but it’s the only way. Absolutely the only way. I’m not trying to convince you but I want to show you two things. The first will interest Ringel particularly, the second should interest you all.”
Harrison went to the bookcase which had been broken on his previous visit to the flat and opened the glass door. He looked along the row of books and then took out a large volume. This he showed to the others. It was a standard work on medieval history.
“Now,” said Harrison, to M. Ringel, “let us look at the flyleaf and we may find something.”
Slowly he turned the cover and, written in a neat hand on the flyleaf, he disclosed the name:
“Timothy Mountford.”
The police chief gave an exclamation.
“That is the trace of Mr. Mountford in Geneva,” said Harrison to the police chief. “This is the evidence that the Baron and his friend had not time to get rid of. They did not see the need to do so at the start, and when I arrived in Geneva it was too late. The Baron must have decided to occupy the flat so that no accident should give these books away to a stranger. Things would have been far easier for him if he had not had to cope with medieval history. Poor Mountford.”
“And the second argument, Harrison?” said Dawnay.
“Well, it’s rather a personal one but I hope you won’t mind my using it,” said Harrison, sitting down again as if the strain of the last half hour had been almost too much for him.
“Good lord no,” said Crill. “Are you all right, though?”
“Only just,” answered Harrison. “That’s my second argument. You remember, M. Ringel, we talked about criminal technique—only a short while ago really, but it seems a long way off. I said I thought I had grasped the Baron’s technique or something like that. It’s lucky I did.”
“Why?” asked Ringel.
“Because the worthy Baron is at present being consoled with the knowledge that if he is to go to Russia, at any rate I shall be the first be die.”
“Good heavens, Harrison, what do you mean?”
“Exactly what I say. The Baron used his technique on me.”
“You don’t mean—” cried Dawnay with horror.
“I mean that the Baron tried to murder me in exactly the same way as Timothy Mountford and Gilbert Twining were both undoubtedly murdered. That is my second reason.”
The other three stared incredulously as Harrison raised his left hand, and there, sticking out of the leather wristband which he had before fixed tightly around it, was the broken end of a hypodermic needle.
Chapter XXIII
The Working Of The Double Disguise
“I take it that the meeting is now open for making reports and answering questions,” said Harrison, cheerfully puffing his cigar.
A week had passed and, at the pressing invitation of M. Ringel, those who had taken part in the pursuit of the Baron were dining with him at one of the charming lakeside cafés on the outskirts of the town. The evening was not warm enough for them to be in the open air but they were at a table in a great glass-covered balcony and could see the many twinkling lights on the other side of the lake.
Dawnay, Crill, and Henry were there, not forgetting Mona Warley, who still lived in a roseate dream regarding the part she had played in tracking the concierge. M. Ringel had provided a very excellent meal. The wine was good and altogether the wicked doings of the outside world seemed marvellously remote.
“It seems almost too pleasant an evening to have to get back to realities,” said Dawnay, looking at Mona Warley.
“I think so too,” said the girl, with an affectionate smile in return. “But that is partly why we came and I would like to hear everything.”
“I’m like you, Miss Warley,” said Crill. “I’m shrieking with impatience for news. Food and drink are all very well and M. Ringel is an expert but facts is facts.”
“I’m glad you feel like that,” said Harrison, “because most of us have something interesting to tell the others.”
“Well, quite honestly,” said Dawnay, “I want to hear as much as anybody.”
“I think the reports come first,” said Harrison. “As you are our host, M. Ringel, I think you are entitled to the privilege of beginning.”
“My report is very short,” said M. Ringel, with a smile for the whole company. “As it should be when an amateur like Mr. Harrison takes everything out of the hands of the police and does the work himself. Not that I am grumbling, he has been very useful to me in rather an awkward situation. But what would my critics say, if they knew the truth?”
“They won’t,” said Harrison.
“Not with Mr. Crill here?” asked M. Ringel.
“I will be very discreet,” replied Crill, solemnly.
“But I have heard that journalists write in their sleep,” said M. Ringel. “Still, I must take the risk. First, Mr. Kellerman. He was rather a problem. We did not want to prosecute him, did we, Mr. Harrison? He had certified de
ath rather carelessly but we were certain he thought it was suicide. The evidence, too, was very slender. We made inquiries about him and could not trace a great deal of the drug traffic in Geneva to him. So we thought it best to report the case to his brother doctors. I am afraid he will not practise in Geneva again but that is all. Indeed, Dr. Kellerman, acting on certain advice, has left Geneva and I do not think he will come back.”
“Good,” said Harrison. “And what about the others?”
“The man whom the Baron seemed to trust most of all,” said M. Ringel. “He had many names. What did you know him as?”
“I suppose you mean Ernst?” said Dawnay.
“Yes,” said the police chief. “That was one of his names. We found drugs at his home and he has been sent to prison for it. He is not Swiss so we shall get rid of him when he is free again. There were two Swiss men helping him. They have gone to prison, too, but they are not so bad as that man. We may be able to do something with them later.”
“And the man who sold me drugs?” asked Harrison.
“His shop is closed,” replied M. Ringel. “And he has gone to prison. We’re almost as glad about that, from the police point of view, as anything else. We’ve been suspecting him for years but have never been able to fix anything whatever on him. If I were asked to put them in their order of merit, I should say he was the worst of them all, then Ernst, then Kellerman, and lastly my two Swiss.”
“M. Ringel has made his report,” said Harrison, solemnly presiding over the meeting. “Any questions?”
“What about me?” asked Henry.
“Henry,” said Harrison, “I must warn you that is not the way to ask a question at a meeting of this kind. It’s too general.”
“What about my injured feelings after being kept a prisoner for a whole day, despite the fact that I was certainly innocent?”
“Haven’t you got over that yet, Henry?” asked Harrison.
“An Englishman ought not to be treated like that,” said Henry.
“I have apologised already,” replied M. Ringel. “And I willingly do so again. It was very stupid of me and I still cannot see how I came to make such a blunder. But I must claim to have been lucky, too, for you taught my men to sing the English national songs.”
Henry appeared to be more satisfied at this. An acute observer might have noticed—even if he had not been acute he might not have missed it—that Henry was not in the best of moods owing to Mona Warley’s extraordinary interest in Dawnay and the question was merely a way of expressing his belief that the world was a very cruel place.
After a look at M. Ringel which almost degenerated into a wink, Harrison said: “We are all very grateful to M. Ringel for his concise and lucid report. Now for the next. Mr. Dawnay or Mr. Crill or both?”
“I leave it to Crill,” said Dawnay. “He’s an expert.”
“Hardly,” said Crill, “‘I write occasionally but have been so often warned at the other end not to be picturesque—it costs too much money in telegraphing—that I really have got out of the habit.”
“Modesty,” said Mona Warley.
“I don’t know if we need any purple patches,” said Harrison, judicially. “Go ahead, Crill, if Dawnay disagrees, he can join in.”
“Good,” said Crill. “Somehow it ought to be a terrific word picture, this taking a man to a frontier with death waiting on the other side, and yet it seemed simple, almost tragically simple. The Baron was perfectly calm and chatted away as if we were on some journalistic stunt together. I almost felt ashamed of myself at times.”
“But—” said Dawnay.
“Yes, there is a ‘but,’” answered Crill. “The thing which seemed to keep his spirits up most of all, Harrison, was the idea that you were dead. An ugly gleam came into his eye when he mentioned it. He thought he was torturing us by so doing. He seemed to get enough satisfaction out of it to keep him going through the whole journey.”
“We could hardly restrain ourselves from telling the truth,” said Dawnay.
“Why did you insist, Harrison?” asked Crill.
“I rather guessed how he would feel about it,” said Harrison. “Of course I might have appeared at the station just as you were leaving and have done the old melodramatic stuff. ‘Not dead, after all, Baron Meyerling’ and a gloating smile. That sort of thing, you know. But I couldn’t. It was hitting a man when he was down, in a way, and I preferred to leave him with his own delusion about me.”
“Misplaced chivalry, I should call it,” said Dawnay. “If you had heard how he talked, you would have done so yourself.”
“Very possibly,” answered Harrison. “I’m glad I didn’t. Go on.”
“The Baron enjoyed his meals and his wine and gave no trouble at all until he was in Poland,” Crill continued. “Then he lost his wool at one of your less chivalrous touches. We got him a paper and he looked for the famous paragraph about himself. He found it all right and then he gave a yell of anger. ‘You laugh at me,’ he said. ‘The English can laugh at a dying man. But what could one expect.’ He pushed the paper away and sulked. I picked it up and looked at it. I can work out a little of the language. I could see nothing strange about it so I translated it as far as I could to Dawnay and he explained.”
“Crill thought ‘H.D.’ was a foreign order when he found it printed after the Baron’s name,” explained Dawnay.
“H.D.?” asked the police chief.
“Happy dust—drugs,” said Harrison. “A code they have been using for some time.”
“The Baron thought we had been making a cheap joke about his activities,” said Crill. “He was really upset about it. Why did you do it, Harrison?”
“I thought it might make the Russians even more suspicious,” said Harrison. “I’m sorry about the Baron but I couldn’t take any chances. If he left Russia in connection with drugs then they might just possibly know the initials and spot him more easily.”
“He did not really cheer up again,” said Crill. “He harped on the fact that we were laughing at him. Even your death wasn’t quite such a comfort but he did say that it would have been well-merited for doing that alone.”
“A queer standard of punishment,” said M. Ringel.
“And you reached the frontier,” said Harrison.
“Yes,” answered Crill. “We took no risks and went right up with him to the barrier. The Russian people were on the look-out for somebody, presumably the Baron, by the care they were taking. The Baron walked straight ahead, a little in front of us, not saying a word. If one could use such a word in such circumstances, he was almost ‘debonair’. He did not stop to say anything to us. I suppose he thought formal farewells rather superfluous. He did not even look at us. He kept his feelings quite hidden and that was the last we saw of him.”
“Except that we thought the Russian guards spotted him the moment he appeared,” added Dawnay.
“A queer ending to a queer man,” said Harrison. “What do you think, M. Ringel?”
“Not a first-rate criminal,” was the reply.
“Are there any first-rate criminals?” asked Harrison.
“There have been one or two,” answered M. Ringel. “And I expect there will continue to be one or two. But we are dying with impatience to hear you, Mr. Harrison.”
“Very well,” said Harrison. “But first are there any questions to ask Mr. Crill and Mr. Dawnay?”
There was no answer and the company turned towards Harrison. “Well, my report is almost as short as M. Ringel’s,” said Harrison.
“The questions will be longer,” commented Crill.
“No doubt,” replied Harrison. “First of all, I did the most obvious thing and made a trip to Culoz.”
“Why?” asked Dawnay.
“Because the most important link in the chain was to be found there,” answered Harrison. “It took a long time, too. I could find no trace of my man in any of the obvious places. Naturally, you will say, but even I sometimes hope my job is going to be easier than it tur
ns out to be. Finally at a farm well outside Culoz I found what I wanted. The farmer’s wife was quite willing to supplement her income in a modest way by letting a room to the charming Englishman. He did not come often, that was a pity, but she was so particular that she hated letting a room in the ordinary way. So the Englishman could have the room whenever he appeared. He had told her he could never give her notice of his arrival. He would just walk in and, if she could accommodate him, well and good. Very queer these English she said, with apologies to me, but all the same quite charming—this time she did not apologise. A very delightful woman.”
“And the Englishman?” said Dawnay.
“Obviously Mountford,” answered Harrison. “I confirmed matters by showing her the photograph. She was very shocked. Indeed when she heard he was dead she cried a little. A very fine woman. But it was obviously Mountford.”
“Did Gilbert ever go there?” asked Dawnay.
“I’m making my report, Dawnay,” said Harrison, severely. “You may ask any questions afterwards.”
“Sorry,” murmured Dawnay.
“I should have thought you, of all people, would have known how to run a committee,” said Harrison, with a twinkle. “Unfortunately there were no papers at all to be found. Then I came back to Geneva and showed the same photograph to the man in the Post Office. He recognised it at once and nearly fainted. That obviously was Twining.”
Harrison waited but no one this time dared interject a remark.
“Finally,” he continued, “I showed it to the bookseller behind Dawnay’s flat and he recognised it, too. That is all, I think, except for the fact that I have attended one further meeting of the Passport Committee as the overdue prodigal. My reception was quite overwhelming and all is peace.”
“I think we must thank Mr. Clay Harrison for his concise, if somewhat confusing report,” said Crill mockingly. “Now may we ask questions?”
“Certainly,” said Harrison.
“How did you connect the two?” asked Crill.
“De Marplay did that for me,” answered Harrison. “It was pretty obvious really although I wouldn’t deprive Henry of the credit of seeing through it very quickly. But he jumped at conclusions and that is a thing I never allow—in front of other people, anyway. Still the connection wasn’t easy to see straight away.”
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