“My dear,” announced Blacklock. “We are honoured to have the great Clay Harrison under our roof.”
“It is an honour indeed,” said Mrs. Blacklock, obediently seconding the motion, but looking vaguely at Dawnay, Henry and Harrison in turn.
Harrison stepped forward. “I am overwhelmed by the kindness of you both,” he said. “But I fear you are making rather too much of an unimportant individual.”
“No, no,” said the clergyman, very emphatically, while his wife smiled cordially and then looked rather vaguely at Dawnay and Henry.
“Surely you remember Mr. Dawnay of the League, my dear?” asked Blacklock.
“Of course I do,” she replied, going towards Henry.
Harrison again stepped into the breach. “I must introduce Henry to you, Mrs. Blacklock,” he said. “Henry’s my assistant and if the truth were known, he does far more towards the unravelling of mysteries than I do. Of course I get all the credit.” The complicated question of identities having thus been satisfactorily settled, Blacklock, though rather loth to do so, asked in what small way he could help Harrison.
“As a matter of fact, Mr. Blacklock,” said Harrison, “it may be a wild goose chase. I cannot tell you why I am in Geneva except that I am trying to trace a friend of mine whom I have not seen for some years and who seems to be missing.”
“Not murder, I hope?” asked Mrs. Blacklock, with a gasp.
“Good heavens, I should hope not,” replied Harrison. “You know I am out here for the passport committee.”
“Of course he is, my dear,” said Blacklock, with a hint of reproof. “But we never thought you would visit us.”
“I had been looking forward to seeing my friend when I got here,” continued Harrison. “But I was rather worried because I gathered from his last letter that he was in ill-health. Also he said he was moving, and he has given me no fresh address. I had hoped he would meet me at the station, but he didn’t, and now I come to you, Mr. Blacklock, to ask you a very serious question. Has any Englishman died during the last week here?”
Blacklock almost jumped at the suddenness of the last question, but he pulled himself together and said, “Well, no one who was known in Geneva died, and I cannot imagine that you would mean a man named Brown.”
“That’s just the man I do mean,” answered Harrison, so emphatically that Dawnay and Henry looked thoroughly bewildered.
“I thought that Brown hadn’t a real friend in the world.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, Mr. Blacklock,” said Harrison. “So poor Brown’s dead.”
“You have my deepest sympathy, Mr. Harrison,” replied Blacklock. “I’m sorry to be the one to give you such bad news. But all this is very queer, isn’t it, my dear?” He turned to his wife. “I told you all about that poor man we buried on Tuesday, didn’t I?”
“You did, dear,” said Mrs. Blacklock. “I felt so sorry about it myself.”
“I don’t want to distress you, Mr. Harrison,” continued Blacklock. “But I know you would like what details I can give.”
“Of course I should,” answered Harrison. “It is a great shock but I want to know everything.”
“Well, on Monday night, Dr. Kellerman, a Swiss doctor, came to me and told me that an Englishman had died in Geneva, that the burial had been arranged for Tuesday, and would I read the service. He said the dead man’s name was Brown, and that he had had a sudden heart attack. I said I was surprised that it should have been left to the doctor to come and see me, but he explained that Mr. Brown had led a very solitary life in Geneva and had very few friends. He had therefore, at personal inconvenience, done all he could to help, and he knew that Mr. Brown would have particularly liked an English burial service. So, of course, I agreed. What else could I do?”
“Nothing, of course,” said Harrison.
“I went to the cemetery on Tuesday,” went on Blacklock, “and, to my astonishment, Dr. Kellerman was the only person who appeared. No English people at all. I performed the ceremony, feeling very sorry for the Englishman who was receiving such a lonely burial and, afterwards, I tackled Dr. Kellerman on the subject. By the way, Dr. Kellerman is quite a reputable doctor here and I should have no reason to doubt anything he told me.”
“Quite,” said Harrison.
“Dr. Kellerman was quite open about the whole matter,” answered Blacklock. “He explained that, as far as he knew, Brown had been a recluse, living on some allowance he received from England and making no friends in Geneva. He had a small flat in a back street and—if you will forgive me saying so, Mr. Harrison—Dr. Kellerman suggested that he had rather bad habits.”
“That’s very surprising,” interrupted Harrison. “I didn’t know. What kind of habits?”
“Dr. Kellerman didn’t specify. He just said generally ‘bad habits,’ and I am afraid he left it at that. He said that a friend who happened to be in Geneva at the time had made all the necessary financial arrangements and would communicate with anybody in England who might be interested to know.”
“Did you hear the friend’s name, Mr. Blacklock?”
“Dear me, this is quite a cross-examination, Mr. Harrison,” said Blacklock, distressfully.
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Blacklock,” replied Harrison. “It’s not meant to be.”
“Oh, don’t apologise, Mr. Harrison. It makes me feel so dreadfully inadequate, that’s all. Of course, you would have thought of these questions straight away. I must confess I never thought to ask. How foolish of me.”
“And this friend did not appear at the funeral?”
“No, he didn’t. I thought to ask him about that. Dr. Kellerman explained that it was by pure chance that the friend was in Geneva at all. He was a business man, and it was essential for him to leave Geneva to keep an appointment. So he left it all to Dr. Kellerman.”
“And you were satisfied?”
“I must admit quite frankly that I was satisfied. I won’t say that it has happened exactly like this before, but it’s not an unusual story. I have spent most of my life abroad and it’s quite customary to come across lonely Englishmen—sometimes only hear of them—whose families certainly don’t want them back in England, and who live in some Continental centre, entirely friendless, usually drinking a good deal. Indeed, they know the natives of the place far better than they know the English there, mainly.”
“That may be so,” said Harrison. “But it all sounds rather queer to me.”
“Perhaps I made it sound queerer than it really is,” said Blacklock. “Of course, I made a few discreet inquiries for myself, but nobody seems to have heard of anyone named Brown. My wife, you know, was quite upset by the entire neglect of a fellow countryman. She felt she had to place some flowers on his grave, just to show someone had thought of him.”
“A very charming thought, Mrs. Blacklock,” said Harrison. “And I am sure his relations and friends will deeply appreciate your kindness.”
“Poor Mr. Brown,” said Mrs. Blacklock, sadly.
“And really that is all I can learn about him?” asked Harrison.
“I’m afraid so,” replied Blacklock. “I wish I could tell you more.”
“There’s one piece of information you can give me,” said Harrison, “and that is the address of Dr. Kellerman.”
“Nothing easier,” answered Blacklock, taking up the telephone directory. “Here it is: 27, Rue des Roses.”
“I must see him, of course,” said Harrison, “I am exceedingly grateful to you, Mr. Blacklock, for all the help you have given me. Of course, it has come as a great shock, and I shall have to try to find out something more about it—”
“You’re not dashing off, Mr. Harrison?” asked Mrs. Blacklock, with disappointment in her voice. “Surely I can offer you something?”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Blacklock, I’m afraid I mustn’t stop,” answered Harrison. “First of all, there may be a crowd of reporters waiting at my hotel, and they may say very harsh things if I don’t appear soon, and then I really mu
st find out what I can about poor Brown as quickly as possible.”
“I quite understand,” chimed in Blacklock. “Very distressing, I’m sure.”
“And one other thing,” added Harrison. “Even if you should mention my visit to anyone else, I shall be very grateful if you will not speak of the object of it. You realise how necessary that is?”
Neither husband nor wife did realise how necessary it was, but they were not disposed to make such an unpardonable admission, so they both agreed with the greatest fervour.
Farewells having been taken on both sides, Harrison, Dawnay and Henry returned to the taxi-cab.
“One more call,” said Harrison. “We really must make one more call before we go back to the hotel, but it’s on our way. We must go to the General Post Office.”
Instructions were given to the driver and Harrison settled back, with the words: “Very charming people—really most charming people. A pleasure to meet such good-hearted souls.”
“Curious that you should know this man Brown,” commented Dawnay.
“I didn’t,” said Harrison.
“You didn’t?” exclaimed Dawna.
“Of course not,” said Harrison. “I feel rather ashamed of myself for having to deceive those two good people in that way. But I thought it would have been obvious to you, Dawnay, that I didn’t know him. What about you, Henry?”
“Well, sir,” said Henry. “I’ve heard you do better.”
“I agree, Henry, absolutely,” answered Harrison. “It was a very poor performance. I felt it myself. If they had asked me the name of my friend, instead of telling me themselves, I might have found it much more difficult.”
“But what does it all mean, Harrison?” asked Dawnay.
“Exactly nothing, at the moment,” replied Harrison. “But I should have thought it would have been obvious if a man suddenly disappears in a foreign town to go and make inquiries of the English clergyman there.”
“But then, you’re assuming that Gilbert is dead?” exclaimed Dawnay.
“I’m assuming nothing,” said Harrison, sternly. “And don’t go jumping rashly at conclusions. You’re as bad as Henry.”
“But you are trying to connect Gilbert with Brown, aren’t you?”
“I am trying to do nothing of the kind,” answered Harrison. “At the moment I’m collecting stray facts. I had to go on getting all the details about Brown, once I had started. I said, you know, that it all seemed queer just to find out what Blacklock really thought. He was very definite in his opinion that it wasn’t. And he has had some experience in things like this. You see, Dawnay, one has got to fire off any number of shots in the dark, and one can’t expect a hit from every one of them.”
“But you must think something more than that, I’m positive of it,” persisted Dawnay. “There’s something at the back of your mind.”
“You compliment me, Dawnay,” replied Harrison. “But there’s nothing else to think. Blacklock has told a plain, straightforward story of a plain, straightforward happening. That’s all we know. We mustn’t start imagining things and building up a fine theory without any foundations. There are major facts and minor facts that don’t count at all but you insist on persuading yourself that everything that happens must be a major fact—if I have anything to do with it. We must have some sense of proportion, Dawnay. But—”
“But what?” said Dawn, eagerly.
“Is Dr. Kellerman a plain, straightforward fact?”
“Blacklock said he was,” replied Dawnay.
“That’s true,” answered Harrison. “A reputable doctor, he said. But we only have Blacklock’s second-hand statement of Dr. Kellerman. Blacklock struck us all as a simple man who believed very strongly in his fellow men. Now suppose Kellerman also knew the type he was dealing with—not very difficult—and made up his story accordingly—”
“That’s possible,” said Dawnay.
“He might have done it quite honestly for an extra fee, of course,” said Harrison. “But he might not. We don’t know. We have to look at every side of it, and that means that I must have a look at Dr. Kellerman and form my own opinion of him.”
“You must admit,” said Dawnay, “you are remarkably interested in Brown’s death, aren’t you?”
“Now, look here, Dawnay—” expostulated Harrison, but was unable to continue as the taxi-cab stopped outside the General Post Office.
“This will only take a few minutes,” said Harrison, jumping out.
He ran up the steps and made for the counter where telegrams are despatched to other countries. He was lucky to find the clerk disengaged at the time, and immediately greeted him in the warmest manner possible.
“Does a telegram take long to get to London?” he asked.
“It gets there very quickly,” answered the operator. “Or, I will say it goes through the air quickly. They say that the delivery from the London Post Office is not as quick as in Geneva.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Harrison.
“But I cannot say for certain,” answered the clerk. “I have never been to London. It is what I hear, only.”
“Of course, of course,” said Harrison, politely. “You send a great number of telegrams to London in a day?”
“Yes, quite a large number, sir.”
“So, of course, you would not recognise people again who had sent telegrams from here?”
“That is expecting rather a lot, sir,” said the clerk. “There are, of course, some people who are always sending telegrams to London.”
“Yes, I suppose there are, but I am afraid my friend would not be that kind.”
“Your friend?”
“Yes, I am trying to find a friend—English, of course, who telegraphed to me from here, and I was wondering if you could help me.”
“I am afraid not, sir,” said the clerk. “We are forbidden by the regulations to give information unless you have a special permit.”
“My friend fell ill on Monday,” continued Harrison, without any suggestion that he had heard what the clerk was saying. “And he came in here to send a telegram. I think he was ill when he came in.”
“He was ill on Monday?” said the clerk. “Yes, there was a man like that. He was not Swiss—he might have been English. Yes, he would have been. I was on duty in the morning, as I am to-day, and he came in as if he walked with difficulty. He was your friend, was he? At first I thought he had been drinking.”
“Well?” said Harrison.
“Well, he sat down at the desk and seemed to have great difficulty in writing his telegram, and then he brought it to me, swaying as he came. It was then I saw that he was ill and not drunk.”
“Will you let me see the telegram?”
“It is impossible without a permit, sir,” and he added reproachfully, “I am telling you all I can.”
“I’m exceedingly grateful,” replied Harrison. “Now, can you tell me what he looked like?”
“I am afraid that is impossible,” answered the clerk. “Even if you had a permit. I cannot describe people. I have no words for them, but I can always recognise them if I see them again. I should know your friend at once if he walked in now.”
“You mean that?” said Harrison, excitedly.
“Of course,” the clerk replied solemnly.
Harrison produced the photograph of Twining and laid it on the desk. “There,” he said. “That is my friend.”
The clerk looked at it carefully; took it up and examined it by the light. “Then,” he answered, “it was not your friend who came in when he was ill and sent that telegram.”
“Are you certain?” asked Harrison.
“Quite,” said the clerk.
“Suppose—suppose he had been disguised,” said Harrison, placing his hand over the top of the head in the photograph. “Could you recognise his look?”
“I think not,” answered the clerk. “It is too difficult.”
Harrison replaced the photograph in his pocket and turned to go.
“But there is more,” said the clerk. “I was afraid for your friend—that man.”
“Afraid for him—what do you mean?”
“As he came into this office and I thought him a little intoxicated, a rough-looking man followed him. One could not help noticing him, and he watched that man all the time he was writing his telegram.”
“Do you think he saw what was written on it?”
“That wasn’t what he was after,” said the clerk seriously. “I am afraid he wanted to rob him, seeing what a condition he was in.”
“What happened then?”
“Directly that man got up to give me the telegram, the ugly fellow moved too, and just waited about until that man had finished with me. It was then I was sorry for him because he was ill. As he went through the doorway, the other went quickly towards it. That was wrong, so what did I do?”
“What did you do?”
“I shouted at the fellow and he stopped. I asked him what he was up to and he said it wasn’t my business. Then he started to go again and I told him not to move or it might be the police’s business. He started swearing at me and I let him go on, and when he got tired I said I was almost inclined to send for the police because he had sworn. He was more apologetic then and said anyone had a right to come into a post office. Perhaps, I answered mysteriously, not knowing what else to say. I thought I had then given that man, the ill one, enough time to get round a corner so that he would be out of sight, and so I told the ugly man he could go, but I added: ‘Don’t do it again.’ That was a good finish, wasn’t it?”
“Excellent,” said Harrison, with a smile.
“Even then I was uneasy,” said the clerk. “And I went to the door myself but they were both out of sight. That is all.”
“I am more than grateful to you,” said Harrison. “And, if you do not object, I may trouble you again.”
“Of course,” said the clerk, shaking hands warmly.
Harrison rejoined Dawnay and Henry in the taxi-cab.
“Any luck?” asked Dawnay.
“I don’t know what to call it,” said Harrison. “I must think it over. I am getting information which doesn’t seem to help me. But it’s all part of the puzzle, Dawnay, of that I’m certain, and when the pieces join together they’ll all fit in their places in the complete picture. The trouble still is that Twining was disguised, and we don’t know what he looked like. These people may or may not have seen Twining, but we have no means of telling. I’d give a lot, Dawnay, if I had a photograph of him in his other character. But there’s nobody can give us one, and so we have to go on patiently searching in the dark. We’ve struck one or two matches and seen some curious things, so it may be that when we have struck a few more we may see something we really want. Let us hope we struck a specially good one when we found out the name of Dr. Kellerman. It may be nothing but—” he paused and looked at Dawnay. “Even so, the box isn’t nearly empty yet.”
Dusty Death Page 14
