Dusty Death

by Clifton Robbins

  “I should think not,” said Henry.

  “When did you see any connection?” asked Dawnay.

  “I can’t say exactly,” answered Harrison. “But directly the man at the Post Office failed to recognise the photograph, I grew suspicious and, of course, Kellerman’s jump when he saw Mountford’s photograph confirmed everything. But then there was the problem of proof. I had been guessing all the time—I think my guesses were right but I could prove nothing. I can prove much more now but there is really very little evidence.”

  “There are still some gaps,” said Dawnay. “Have you any idea how Gilbert and Mountford met?”

  “That can only be conjecture, I’m afraid,” answered Harrison. “Twining had obviously spied out the land in connection with the drug traffic and found it very difficult. There was an excellent organisation and a lot of money and, if he was to do anything, his life would constantly be in danger. Yet he had to maintain his contact with the League of Nations for him to do anything at all. I should say that he had worked out the idea of disguising himself and having somewhere to go in a remote part of Geneva first of all. That would have seemed quite a sound idea.”

  “Before he met Mountford?” asked Crill.

  “I should say so,” replied Harrison. “Then on his Continental wanderings he met Mountford. They must have got very friendly and, I should say, Twining explained what he was doing. This must have led to the evolution of the great idea. Twining’s or Mountford’s or both. They were much of a height and build and not extraordinarily different in features. Why shouldn’t Mountford be engaged by Twining to live in retirement in Geneva—all he wanted was a little money and his books on medieval history. They could both get a similar kind of make-up, wigs and all that and then when Twining wanted to be in Geneva in disguise, he had only to slip into Mountford’s place and no one would be any the wiser, no suspicions would be roused. The studious gentleman would have been away for the night, that is all.”

  “Very cautious,” said Crill.

  “But don’t you see,” said Harrison, “that every precaution was essential? Directly they did spot Twining they murdered him and one can hardly doubt that the double disguise idea completely baffled them. It was ingeniously simple. Especially with the remarkably good wigs they had procured. So Mountford went home to Leeds to see his people and then became the recluse of the Chemin des Noisettes. The disguise must have been good because, despite the fact that the concierge noticed the change in tone of the two men—one of them displayed colossal ignorance of the flat, very deplorable indeed—and then, whenever Twining was there, the recluse became a man who was out of the flat all the time, in spite of all that, she never guessed the truth. And so, Twining was able to get to the League of Nations office, through Dawnay’s flat, without being observed, much to the annoyance of the Baron and his friends. Mountford was quite happy with his medieval history and everything was satisfactory.”

  “Until Culoz,” said the police chief.

  “That is so,” said Harrison. “Until Culoz. I should have thought of Culoz earlier in my guesses, for the list of towns found in Mountford’s pocket was headed with Culoz, but I didn’t. Mountford had this room at Culoz and directly Twining warned him that he wanted to be in Geneva, Mountford made for Culoz and met Twining at the station. Then Mountford went on to the farm and Twining changed into the disguise between Culoz and Geneva. So the recluse of Noisettes set out from Geneva one day and returned the next and no one was any the wiser. I should say that Mountford never abandoned his disguise at all. I suppose he thought it safer.”

  “And why did he go to London?” asked Dawnay.

  “Home-sickness, I should say,” answered Harrison. “He had been leading this very quiet life for a long time and when he got to Culoz for his last retreat, he must have felt that he couldn’t stand it any longer. He knew from past experience that Twining would be in Geneva about a fortnight, Twining may even have told him so, and so he decided to wander further afield. Paris, I assume, did not please him very much and he pushed on through Lille, Brussels and Ostend, but he really wanted home and so he went to London.”

  “That sounds right,” said Dawnay. “But how did the Baron’s people spot him?”

  “Simply enough,” said Harrison. “Directly after the Baron’s men had seen Twining and Mountford together at the station at Culoz the game was up. The Baron and his friends realised that the double disguise was the explanation and it was essential to find the other wearer of it.”

  “Why essential?” asked Crill.

  “If, as I believe, the Baron had intended to get rid of Twining,” answered Harrison, “it was essential for the other man to be spotted and very carefully watched. If Twining, in the disguise, had been disposed of in the Chemin des Noisettes, for it is pretty clear that the Baron carried out his plan exactly as he had conceived it, it would be decidedly awkward if the same man, to all intents and purposes, appeared in Geneva or, for that matter, in any part of Switzerland where he might be recognised by somebody. Possibly they did not contemplate a second murder at that time but they sent out a message to their agents all over Europe to watch for a man looking like Mountford. As you know, they found him in London.”

  “You seemed pretty certain of finding that paragraph about doubles in the paper, Harrison,” said Dawnay.

  “It seemed to me the most obvious way,” answered Harrison. “So simple and yet so effective.”

  “Why not telephone?” asked Crill.

  “Generally too risky,” answered Harrison. “One doesn’t know who may be listening in. This gossip paragraph idea was pretty safe and seemed to work extraordinarily well. You must admit it was a very neat idea. They only used the telephone in cases of the greatest emergency. For example, they telephoned to Miss Graham but they knew they were taking a terrific risk. Still, things were getting pretty lively and they could not be too particular.”

  “And after the paragraph appeared?” asked Crill.

  “They realised then that they had the pieces of the game roughly where they wanted them,” replied Harrison. “Still Mountford was a great danger. They did not know his position at all. Did he know everything Twining knew? Would he start talking to Scotland Yard? Would he try to reappear in his old flat? There was possible danger in almost everything he chose to do. So Jeanne de Marplay took action. She visited the Chemin des Noisettes, saw Twining lying dead in bed, and then caught the night train to Paris. She got to London at the earliest possible moment, picked up Mountford’s trail from members of the gang, and then murdered him, leaving him and his room in exactly the same position as she had seen Twining and his room the day before. A perverted sense of artistic fitness. That was why Kellerman was so knocked out when he saw the photograph. A mad thing to do.”

  “She murdered him?” asked Henry with a gasp.

  “She did,” answered Harrison.

  “But she would have had to climb through the window,” objected Henry.

  “She did,” repeated Harrison. “She was very fittingly dressed for the occasion in a devilish kind of fancy dress. Black tights and a close-fitting black jumper.”

  “And it was her face powder?” asked Henry.

  “Yes. Mrs. Humbleby was right, you see,” said Harrison.

  “What a woman,” said Henry.

  “And that brings me to one of the conclusions of the whole affair,” said Harrison, “if there are no more questions?”

  “None,” was the chorus.

  “I think it is possible that I have misjudged Miss de Marplay,” said Harrison.

  “Misjudged?” said Henry incredulously.

  “M. Ringel,” continued Harrison, “I recall that a little while ago you said the Baron was not a first-class criminal. What exactly did you mean by that?”

  “He had not a very original mind,” answered M. Ringel. “His own methods were not very ingenious. For example, his telephone message to me was not of a very high standard of strategy, was it? He was vain and somewhat b
oastful. No, certainly not first-rate.”

  “You instance his telephone message to you,” said Harrison. “Can you think of anything else?”

  “Well, his alibi with the journalist’s clock might have been described as clumsy, to say the least,” answered the police chief.

  “True,” said Harrison. “Can you think of anything else?”

  “Not at the moment,” was the reply.

  “You realise that both of these things happened when one might describe the Baron as on his own?” said Harrison.

  “Of course I do,” said M. Ringel.

  “You mean, he wasn’t the leading spirit?” asked Dawnay.

  “In fact, he carried out other people’s schemes,” said Crill.

  “That is partly what I do mean,” said Harrison. “M. Ringel, I want to ask you a straightforward question.”

  “My answer is ‘yes’ before you ask it,” said M. Ringel.

  “Is Jeanne de Marplay a first-rate criminal?”

  “That was the question I expected,” said the police chief.

  “Then you agree?” asked Harrison.

  “So you think so, too, Mr. Harrison,” said M. Ringel, with a smile. “Far be it from me to contradict you, but I should like to know why you think so.”

  “Because she told me she was doing it for the love of adventure. And I believed her. She did not mind what the reward was, it was the excitement only that mattered. The Baron was made of much inferior stuff.”

  “And so she bluffed you?” asked Mona Warley.

  “To a certain extent, I am afraid she did,” answered Harrison. “She told me a lot of the truth and then confused me by making the Baron apologise for her. I thought she was frightened at having given too much away, but she was only manoeuvring to gain time.”

  “And that last scene?” asked Dawnay.

  “I should say that was genuine enough,” answered Harrison. “She broke down for the moment, and I should say she went through hell until she was able to get some more drugs. She’d be less afraid of death than of being without drugs. So I may have been right, it was a possible kind of punishment. But I’m afraid I didn’t realise at the time that she wasn’t a subordinate in the organisation. Everything pointed to the Baron being the head, as she intended it to, and he liked it to. It needed that last interview with him to convince me.”

  “So we haven’t done with her yet?” said Henry gloomily.

  “I can’t say that,” answered Harrison. “She may have had enough of us and our paths may not cross again. Cheer up, Henry, I’ll look after you.”

  “Any other conclusions?” asked Crill.

  “Yes, one more,” answered Harrison, “if you’ll bear with me for a few more minutes. I’ve realised from this business that the solitary investigator, if he ever existed, is a thing of the past. It is all very well to be known as the famous Clay Harrison—if you will forgive me saying so—but it is impossible to be Clay Harrison at all without the team-work to help me.”

  There was a murmur of dissent.

  “No, I mean what I say,” continued Harrison, earnestly. “Without all of you, Miss Warley, Dawnay, Crill, Henry, and, dare I add, M. Ringel, I could not have reached a successful conclusion. Had I been single-handed against the Baron and de Marplay, things would have gone very badly. I might have guessed right all the time but they could have forestalled every step I took. The detection of crime is a question of co-operation, and I have been lucky in the help I have received. The investigator is not like the writer of the gossip pages the Baron used—he cannot be in six places at once—and yet it is sometimes necessary to be.”

  “But the Baron had his friends to help him,” said Dawnay. “Why couldn’t he have beaten you at the same game?”

  “I suppose because he had the idea that I really was working on my own,” replied Harrison. “He watched me very carefully, but he did not grasp the idea of my having friends too, and he was also at a disadvantage because he had no idea who my friends were.”

  “So a detective has really to be a gang nowadays?” asked Crill.

  “The Clay Harrison gang,” said Mona Warley. “Do we have to wear a badge?”

  “You are right,” said M. Ringel. “The police of all the countries are discovering that. The individual investigator is all very well, but there must be many more patiently seeking for information in different places so that in the end the complicated pattern can be worked out.”

  “Good,” said Harrison.

  “But—” continued M. Ringel.

  “I thought there must be a ‘but,’” said Harrison.

  “But,” said M. Ringel, “there must be one mind to coordinate all the facts. To make suggestions, to sift theories. One line of approach fails, this mind must suggest another. Two men ring in different pieces of information, this min must put them together, if they can be put together. The criminal must be understood as an individual even if his actions must be assembled from very scattered searches. The individual investigator alone can do this. The individual is still the most important. Miss Warley and gentlemen, Mr. Harrison is too modest, I drink his health.”

  The toast was drunk with enthusiasm. Henry, now quite oblivious of the fact that all Mona Warley’s interest was for Dawnay, turned a look of the warmest affection to his master and swallowed uncomfortably.

  “Now,” said Harrison, “the business of the committee is at an end. We have all contributed our share and equally deserve the credit, despite the charming compliment of M. Ringel. I suggest that we adjourn to a certain room in a certain hotel in Geneva and see what fearful music Henry can extract from what must be described as a very inferior gramophone.”

  Chapter XXIV

  De Marplay’s Finishing Touches

  Harrison and Henry clambered up the stairs to the chambers with the feeling that home was really in sight. Henry’s relief was undisguised. Foreign countries were good enough for foreigners but it needed a true-born Englishman—even more, a true-born Londoner—to appreciate to the full chambers in the Inns of Court. Harrison himself was not sorry to get back. Geneva had been successful but tiring and a few days of the chambers would be a pleasant relaxation.

  They let themselves in and Henry picked up the odd letters on the mat and passed them to Harrison.

  “Tea, first of all, Henry,” said Harrison. “If you’re not too tired.”

  Henry looked scornfully at his master. Who could be too tired in England?

  The tea was soon made and Harrison again settled down to his cigar and his cup.

  “A great send-off,” said Harrison, with a twinkle.

  “Too much fuss altogether,” murmured Henry.

  “We might have been public benefactors, the way we were treated,” said Harrison.

  “You are a public benefactor, sir, I should think,” answered Henry. “They certainly ought to be grateful to you.”

  “But the send-off was more yours than mine,” said Harrison.

  “Not really, sir,” replied Henry.

  “I insist, Henry,” said Harrison. “And musical, too.”

  “What possessed them to start singing I can’t think,” said Henry.

  “A row of policemen singing: ‘Ding dong, we gallop along’,” commented Harrison. “Not too loudly but sufficient to be effective. Wonderful, Henry.”

  “I should have called it very tactless, sir. These foreigners have no sense. They can’t understand that what may be all right in a police station may not suit a railway station.”

  “Be careful, Henry, you nearly uttered an epigram,” said Harrison. “They certainly meant it as a touching compliment and you ought to appreciate it.”

  “I suppose I do, sir,” answered Henry. “It was my fault for teaching them in the first place. Thank heaven for the English sense of humour.”

  There was a pause for a moment while Harrison puffed quickly at his cigar.

  “I say, Henry,” said Harrison.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Were you very m
uch struck with Miss Warley?”

  “Very likeable, sir, very likeable.”

  “Nothing more?”

  “No, I don’t think so, sir. Of course, one never knows but it didn’t get as far as that.”

  “Sorry, Henry,” said Harrison. “But she’ll marry Dawnay.”

  “No doubt of that sir.”

  “A very good thing, Henry.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “A very nice girl, Henry.”

  “Yes, sir,” somewhat more emphatically.

  “And you stay with me, Henry?” said Harrison.

  “Of course, sir,” answered Henry, solemnly. “There is a lot to be said against marriage.”

  Harrison laughed heartily and Henry joined in, thus laughing away any lingering sentimental regrets of domestic felicity by way of Geneva.

  “I’ve heard from Miss Graham, Henry,” said Harrison.

  “Has she gone to Geneva, sir?” Henry asked.

  “Just gone,” answered Harrison. “Poor soul, it’s been a tragedy for her and yet she’s so pathetically grateful for what we’ve done. She’s going to stay with the Blacklocks. They’ll be kind to her and she’s sure to get on well with Mrs. Blacklock. M. Ringel will do all he can for her, too. A great man, Ringel, Henry.”

  “Pretty bright, sir.”

  “I suppose that is a fairly strong compliment from you,” answered Harrison. “I must confess that M. Ringel frightened me sometimes. He seemed to know so much without learning it. If you know what I mean, Henry?”

  “I think I do, sir.”

  “Here were we diligently searching out details and yet he seemed to know them without looking for them. I don’t envy the Swiss criminal, Henry, M. Ringel must make it very uncomfortable for them.”

  “I shouldn’t have said all that, sir.”

  “Only my opinion,” said Harrison. “I’ve also had a letter from Mrs. Humbleby, thanking me for letting her know what happened. An excellent letter. And that, I think, is all, isn’t it, Henry?”