Dusty Death

by Clifton Robbins

  “Which, of course, he did?”

  “Yes. I don’t know what he did with himself but he disappeared for nearly a fortnight, and then he came in again and told me it was all fixed up. There was, however, one important essential, and that was that I should give up my flat. I thought this was going a bit far, but he smiled—the first smile I had seen from him for a considerable time—and said he had found me one equally nice and, indeed, had been so attracted by it that he had taken it for me on the spot. I must admit I was rather annoyed at this summary way of treating me, and I said I would do anything else for him but I certainly wasn’t going to leave my very comfortable quarters.”

  “Taking rather a lot for granted, wasn’t it?”

  “That’s what I felt at the time, but he didn’t seem upset at my refusal. He just made me promise that, at any rate, I wouldn’t turn down the idea until I had seen the new flat. Of course I gave in, and at lunch-time he took me along to it. It was only a minute away from the office in a very old building with shops underneath, and I must say it was a very pleasant flat, very pleasant indeed, and not unreasonable.”

  “So you took it?”

  “Well, not at once. I was still feeling rather sore about the calmness of the whole thing, and I stood out against the idea. Then Gilbert got annoyed as well, and asked me if I intended to wreck the whole scheme. I said I didn’t see how my changing flats could wreck his whole scheme, and he answered angrily that any fool, he thought, could have seen that he must have some convenient spot where he could disguise himself. That, I must say, rather beat me. I had never thought of disguises, they seemed to be something quite outside life as we know it, and I told him so. He then explained, and I could have kicked myself for not realising it, that if the drug traffic organisation was as good as I had said it was, or even half as good, he would be spotted in Geneva, his contact with the League would be known, and Gilbert Twining, appearing as himself, would be a marked man immediately.”

  “Obviously,” said Harrison, “Twining certainly worked it out in detail.”

  “Of course it was obvious,” answered Dawnay. “And I agreed immediately. He said that, of course, Gilbert Twining must not disappear altogether. That would be too suspicious, but while in Geneva he must maintain his ordinary character and, naturally, stay in Mr. Dawnay’s flat. He said he expected me to trust him as to why the new flat was more suitable for his purpose. It would not be good for me to know too much. He said he didn’t want to hurt my feelings, but I might give something away without my knowing it.”

  “And what was his disguise?” asked Harrison.

  “I never knew.”

  “I didn’t expect you’d know. That was another of his precautions, of course.”

  “Yes, it was, and I think he was right. He said that if I had any idea what he would look like as another man, one couldn’t be certain, however careful I might be, I might run up against him in the street one day unexpectedly and, even by the faintest involuntary flicker of recognition, give him away.”

  “Very sound,” said Harrison. “He evidently believed no one could be too cautious in dealing with ‘them’.”

  “The result was I never knew what he looked like.”

  “Nor, of course, any assumed name he used?”

  “No idea. Whenever I saw him he was Gilbert Twining dressed as he had always been.”

  “So you took the flat?”

  “Yes, I took it. I’m still there, as a matter of fact, and, in all fairness, I must admit I don’t regret the change.”

  “And what did Twining do?”

  “He saw me safely in and stayed the night with me, and then he announced that he was going to disguise himself and go about his work. By the way, that was another little rule he made. If he had been to the office to see me and had decided to go off again, I had to give him half an hour clear at the flat so that he could fix himself up and disappear without any chance of my seeing him.”

  “Good. And what happened to his disguise when he came to you as Twining?”

  “He had a cupboard of his own in the flat which he always kept locked. I have never seen into it. It’s still locked now and I’ve no idea what’s in there.”

  “We may have to open it, of course.”

  “Yes, I expect we shall. That’s for you to decide.”

  “So, to clear up that point,” said Harrison. “He definitely disguised himself in some way or another and you have no idea whatever what that disguise was like?”

  “None whatever.”

  “Not even one small point? Surely he gave himself away over something.”

  “Not over anything. He had worked it out too carefully for that.”

  “He was certainly very thorough. One can’t help admiring him for it. Now we must go on with the history.”

  “Well, he disappeared for quite a long time,” said Dawnay. “Then one day he came into my room and said he had a little news and told me how to get on the track of certain consignments of heroin which were being smuggled across the frontier of a certain European country. That was all; he just made his report, said things were going all right, his plans had worked out as he expected, and off he went again.”

  “And what about his information?”

  “I passed it on to the Government in question and the consignment of heroin duly arrived at the frontier as Twining had said and was seized straight away. I was very warmly congratulated for my good work and really felt rather mean at not being able to give the credit to Twining, but that would have been a mistake.”

  “And then?”

  “Well, he was here practically the whole of the Assembly a year ago, and very valuable he was. One curious thing, however, was that I thought that he would stay with me, but he told me he had changed his plans, and so, as far as I can gather, he went back to the flat every evening after he had done his job here and put on his disguise. He was here again next morning as Gilbert Twining—”

  “So he must have lived somewhere in disguise in Geneva during the Assembly? That’s what you mean?”

  “I think he must have done.”

  “That’s frightfully important,” said Harrison. “It may give us the real clue we need.”

  “I didn’t look at it like that,” said Dawnay honestly. “But it did strike me as curious. The same thing happened at the last Assembly.”

  “You’re rushing on again,” said Harrison. “There must be something during the year between.”

  “He came to see me occasionally for a day or two during the year, and he sometimes sent messages by some friend of the League who was coming to Geneva. He had a happy knack of making people bring his messages, and really we owe an enormous lot to Gilbert. All sorts of seizures of large consignments of drugs in different places were due to him. He really seemed able to tap some central headquarters, and he was never wrong. He must have been a frightful thorn in the side of the people running the show. You may recall a very recent case where a package of cigars was stopping going into a South American port, and each cigar was found to have been perfectly drilled so as to leave a hollow in the middle of it, and each of them contained quite a useful amount of cocaine. That’s only one instance, but Twining told us where it was to be found, and there it was.”

  “He did his work well,” said Harrison.

  “He did,” said Dawnay emphatically. “He spotted the new golf trick. Hollow golf clubs had been given up by the smugglers—when they were made of hickory. But the customs officers had not realised that the new steel shafts were hollow and even accommodatingly fitted with heads that screwed on—perfect containers. Gilbert stopped the flow of golf-playing sportsmen across the frontiers.”

  “Good work,” commented Harrison.

  “He it was who helped us to discover that when an agony column advertisement in an important newspaper displayed the initials ‘H.D.’ it had something to do with the traffic.”

  “‘H.D.’?” asked Harrison

  “We assume it refers to ‘happy dus
t’,” replied Dawnay. “The charming negro name for drugs of a very uncharming character. We find ‘H.D’ a most useful diminutive ourselves nowadays, but it was Gilbert who found out what it meant in the first place, and we certainly got on the track of a number of people in consequence. They seem to have stopped using ‘H.D.’ now; they saw it had been spotted.”

  “The people whose track you got on to,” said Harrison. “What were they like?”

  “Small people,” answered Dawnay. “Always small people. Like the seller of a pennyworth of tea as against the great wholesaler. It was certainly good to have tracked even them, but they aren’t the people we want.”

  “Any of them in Geneva?” asked Harrison.

  “Some of them,” answered Dawnay. “Why?”

  “Was any action taken against them?”

  “No, I don’t think so,” replied Dawnay. “There was little proof against them as far as I can remember. Yes, now I come to think of it, there was one, and that was the only case the police brought, but the man got off. Why do you ask?”

  “That may be important, too. I shall want a list of them.”

  “I’ll let you have it in the morning.”

  “Now,” said Harrison, “you’ve told me something about what happened on September 15th. That’s the day Twining disappeared and the day the telegram was sent. I want to get my mind absolutely straight on what happened.”

  Chapter IX

  A Late Sitting

  “I think I have told you most of what happened when Gilbert last came to see me,” said Dawnay. “But if I can think of anything else I will do so. Fire away.”

  “There may not be much more,” answered Harrison, “but I must be absolutely clear about September 15th. I must have every detail about it, and if we talk it over I may be able to get it quite straight. You see, Dawnay, this puzzle must take some piecing together. We have obviously got clever and unscrupulous people against us. The trail is as warm as it can be, possibly warmer than they like it to be. We can assume, because of the telegram, that Twining did not disappear willingly. We must therefore assume that something happened to him on September 15th at the hands of the dope people. That being so, we must check up every detail. That’s so, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” replied Dawnay.

  “Now you told me this morning that Twining said he was on the track of something very important, didn’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “But they had found out something about him, too?”

  “Yes, but I have no idea what it was.”

  “Then matters were in rather a critical position during Twining’s last stay here. He said he was on a line of evidence which would shatter the drug traffic organisation to bits.”

  “Yes.”

  “Did he say anything more?”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “He was optimistic when he came into the room that morning?”

  “Certainly he was.”

  “Do you know why?”

  “No.” Dawnay paused, as if thinking deeply. “Wait a second. I seem to remember—” he paused again, and then said suddenly: “I’ve got it. He said that it was very likely that the real head of the organisation was in Geneva at that moment.”

  “That’s important. Anything more? Try and think of the whole conversation.”

  “It was just a general discussion of the drug business, I’m certain of that. We talked things over generally. He said his discovery was not quite ready but that I could rely on its being sensational. He certainly wouldn’t leave Geneva until he had made that sure.”

  “He certainly wouldn’t leave Geneva,” repeated Harrison. “He was as near to his final revelation—shall I call it?—as that?”

  “He must have been.”

  “And what time did he leave your room?”

  “I couldn’t say but it might have been an hour before the telegram was sent.”

  “So he walks out of your office and that is the last that is heard of him, as far as we know. You didn’t worry when you didn’t hear from him?”

  “No, he wasn’t a regular caller,” said Dawnay. “I assumed he would come in again when he felt like it. Still I have been pretty busy myself and it’s wonderful how quickly the week slips by. You hardly notice it.”

  “That’s true,” said Harrison. “Now I don’t think you can tell me much more, but we’ve something to go on. First of all, the drug people have got wind of something. Twining said they had found out something about him. Secondly, he had certainly found out something about them. Something very important, even to the fact that he thought the head of the organisation was in Geneva. It looks bad, Dawnay; it looks as if it was essential to get rid of Twining somehow and immediately. They might have kidnapped him and still have him locked up somewhere—”

  “You think so?” asked Dawnay, with pathetic eagerness.

  “I’m afraid it’s difficult to think so,” answered Harrison, gently.

  “You think, then, it must mean murder?”

  “Twining knew a great deal, we can be certain of that,” said Harrison. “If they only kept him prisoner it would be just putting off the evil day.”

  Dawnay sat silent.

  “Do you read the Geneva newspapers?” asked Harrison.

  “Pretty fairly.”

  “No mention of a crime of violence during the last week?”

  “None, as far as I remember. Things like that rarely happen in Geneva.”

  “I didn’t expect they would give themselves away like that. Were there any suicides mentioned in the papers?”

  “That is rare, too.”

  “It wouldn’t matter what nationality, for we don’t know his disguise.”

  “No, I’m practically certain there wasn’t. Anything like that makes quite a stir here. I remember a suicide when the town demonstrated for nearly the whole of a Sunday. No, I don’t think there could have been. Of course, that could be easily checked.”

  “Of course, he may have died a natural death in his disguise.”

  “You seem to be certain he is dead,” said Dawnay, gloomily.

  “Not certain,” answered Harrison. “But we must follow every probable line. I’m sorry to have to be so pessimistic, Dawnay, but we’ve got to face the facts, and you’re one of the few people who can help me.”

  “Tell me how to help you,” said Dawnay. “I’ll do anything.”

  “First of all, have you a photograph of Twining?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, let me have it to-morrow.”

  “Certainly.”

  “Next, I’m going to do a little thinking-in to-night, and there is one thing I want cleared up before I go much further. That cupboard in your flat which Twining kept locked?”

  “Yes,” answered Dawnay, rather nervously.

  “I want you to open it.”

  “I don’t know—” said Dawnay, hesitatingly.

  “You must open it,” answered Harrison. “It’s vitally important, and you must open it directly you get home. Look through its contents and then telephone to me.”

  “To-night?” asked Dawnay.

  “Well, it’s more like this morning to me,” said Harrison, with a smile. “But you must do it, and directly you get home, too.”

  “Very well,” said Dawnay. He suddenly turned to Harrison. “I do appreciate what you’re doing, Harrison. I can’t thank you enough. I’ll do everything I can to help you. Goodnight.”

  The men shook hands and Dawnay went out of the room.

  Within a minute Henry appeared, looking as alert as if he had just settled down for the day’s work.

  “Had a good evening, Henry?” asked Harrison.

  “Quite good, sir,” answered Henry. “A great deal too many foreigners, sir, but some of the typists, the English ones, of course, are very intelligent.”

  “I’m glad to hear that,” answered Harrison, solemnly. “It makes one proud of one’s country.”

  “Proud,” said Henry, with utter
depth of feeling. “There is only one country, sir, and the more I’m out of it the more I realise it.”

  “Good,” said Harrison. “Did you pick up anything?”

  “Not yet, sir,” replied Henry. “But like most offices, they seem to know quite as much as their employers. They may be useful—worth cultivating, at any rate.”

  “Henry, Henry,” laughed Harrison, “that’s a poor excuse. Be honest.”

  “Well, I admit I like a little feminine society, sir,” said Henry. “But to-night was a good bit of reflected glory, all the same. What they said about you, sir, I wonder your ears aren’t burnt right off.”

  “That’s pleasant hearing, at any rate,” said Harrison. “Somebody appreciates me.”

  “They certainly do, sir, and I can’t blame them,” answered Henry. “But I get rather tired of them all wanting to be introduced to you. I certainly wasn’t enough for them.”

  “That’s a pity,” said Harrison.

  “I suppose that means an all-night sitting,” went on Henry, watching Harrison light another cigar.

  “I’m afraid so, Henry,” replied Harrison. “I’ve a lot to think about. I didn’t get much sleep last night, thanks to the railway company, and I shan’t get much to-night, thanks to certain evil-doers who trade in drugs. It’s a hard life, Henry—”

  “And you know you like it, sir.”

  “Henry, the truth is a bad habit at such a moment. Now go and make some more tea, and when you bring it, bring that invaluable notebook and pencil, too.”

  Harrison prepared to settle down in the most comfortable chair when there was a faint tinkle on the telephone bell. This struck him as somewhat queer. Dawnay could not have long left the hotel and certainly would not have had time to go home and break open the cupboard. He finally decided that the hotel operator or whoever was responsible for the telephone at that hour must have touched the bell by mistake.