Dusty Death

by Clifton Robbins

  They were drawing up by the Hotel des Montagnes.

  “There they are, sir,” said Henry, pointing to the steps of the hotel.

  “They certainly are,” answered Harrison, as he caught sight of the Baron Meyerling and Miss Jeanne de Marplay standing in the doorway, obviously awaiting his arrival. “Now for a happy half-hour.”

  Chapter XIII

  The Infallible Clock

  The Baron came forward as Harrison jumped out of the taxi-cab, while Miss de Marplay gave him one of her most fascinating smiles.

  “Good morning, Mr. Harrison,” said the Baron, stretching out his hand and again giving that warning pressure which seemed to Harrison so characteristic of his handshake. “Mr. Dawnay, too. I didn’t know the drug traffic was so intimately connected with passport regulations.”

  “Really, very obvious, Baron,” answered Dawnay with a smile. “Drugs are undesirable and are taken about the world by undesirable people. The passport system is mainly instituted to frustrate the undesirable. A very logical connection.”

  “Very logical,” said the Baron, with a laugh. But not practical, Mr. Dawnay, I assure you. The trafficker in dope, I expect, laughs at passport regulations, and, despite Mr. Harrison’s presence here, may I venture to add, will continue to laugh at them.”

  Harrison looked straight into the Baron’s eyes but could gather nothing from their expression and was therefore silent.

  “Well, Harrison, what do you say?” asked the Baron, thus showing his disappointment at not having provoked some reply.

  “Come, Mr. Harrison,” urged Miss de Marplay, directing all the batteries of her feminine charms at him.

  “You see,” said Harrison, “I cannot but feel, Baron, that your last remark implied such a decidedly low estimate of my own abilities—with which, of course, I entirely agree—that I imagined my opinion would be quite valueless.”

  “Oh, don’t think that, Mr. Harrison,” said the Baron, earnestly. “I should be miserable if I thought I had given that impression. Personally, I think you are amazingly clever—”

  “So do I,” murmured Jeanne.

  “Indeed almost too clever.”

  “You flatter me,” said Harrison.

  “Far from it,” said the Baron, seriously. “But I sometimes feel that your cleverness might get you into really dangerous positions, especially when dealing with international questions.”

  “If I did not understand your position in Geneva so perfectly, Baron,” said Harrison, “that would almost seem to me like a threat.”

  “A warning, let us say, Mr. Harrison,” replied the Baron, “from an internationalist with a somewhat longer experience than your own.”

  “Are you suggesting that there is a chance of the lives of the committee being in danger, Baron?” asked Dawnay.

  “Mr. Harrison knows what I mean,” answered the Baron.

  “Might I say, Baron, that I have no idea on earth what you are talking about,” said Harrison.

  “At any rate, there’s no need to be so frightfully serious about it all,” said Jeanne with a laugh. “I shall get the jumps and expect a Chicago gang with a machine gun to come round the corner and have a shot at us.”

  “I’m sure Geneva would never get over that,” commented Dawnay, joining in her laugh.

  “And so you’re leaving us, Mr. Harrison?” queried the Baron.

  “I am,” replied Harrison with surprise. “But how on earth did you know?”

  “It was in one of the London newspapers this morning. Crill’s paper.”

  “But you can’t have seen the London papers here?” said Harrison.

  “You forget the telephone, Mr. Harrison. I’m really surprised at you. A good internationalist should never forget the telephone. As a matter of fact, I was talking to a friend of mine in London this morning and asked him if there was anything in the morning papers about Geneva, and he told me the only thing he could see was an interview with you in which you said you’d have to go back to London immediately. Is that so?”

  “I’m afraid it is so,” answered Harrison. “But I don’t want everybody to know. You, Baron, can understand that I haven’t been out in Geneva for the passport committee alone. I had another commission to execute—for a private client.”

  “Oh, that is very interesting,” said the Baron.

  “So I thought I could kill two birds with one stone,” continued Harrison.

  “Sounds like my Chicago gunmen again,” broke in Jeanne.

  “And you have found out what you wanted in Geneva. That is why you are going back?” asked the Baron.

  “Oh, no, I haven’t really started,” answered Harrison. “But my client—and it shows how difficult clients are—wrote to me this morning cancelling the whole business. And that’s curious, too, Baron; you talked about danger a minute ago. By a singular coincidence my client had a telephone call from some unknown person saying that I was taking a certain amount of risk by pursuing investigations in Geneva. So the whole thing’s off.”

  “Mr. Harrison,” said Jeanne, “you are not the sort of man, surely, to give up because there is an element of danger in the case?”

  “I appreciate your high opinion of me, Miss de Marplay. And for myself, I don’t know what I should do, for I value my own life quite highly, but I am, after all, only a hired man in a case like this. I obey orders, and if my client tells me to stop, I have no alternative.”

  “A great pity, Mr. Harrison,” said the Baron, his voice conveying a distinct disbelief of the facts as related, “because you are mainly successful, aren’t you?”

  “It’s kind of you to say so,” answered Harrison. “I must admit that success in this case, at any rate, would have been a very probable conclusion.”

  Harrison thought he saw a look, if not of alarm, certainly of wonder, in the eyes of Jeanne de Marplay.

  “That is hard luck indeed,” said the Baron. “But that is not really why I mentioned the matter. You will recall that I rather warned you against Crill—for your own good, believe me—yet he seems to be the only journalist who has obtained an interview of any value out of you.”

  “Mr. Crill is a good journalist,” answered Harrison, quietly. “I had a pleasant trip on the lake to Montreux yesterday afternoon, and Mr. Crill happened to be on board. He discovered me and made me talk, and the result is in to-day’s paper. What else could I do? Mr. Crill, I repeat, is a good journalist.”

  “I never thought of that,” said Jeanne, with a certain amount of disappointment.

  At that moment the individual under discussion appeared from the interior of the hotel. “Good morning, Mr. Harrison,” said Crill, joining the group. “Really this is too bad. There are a number of us waiting inside for an interview, and the Baron knows it, yet he been keeping you out here all to himself.”

  “A curious argument from you, Crill,” said the Baron, “when you had Mr. Harrison to yourself all yesterday afternoon.”

  Crill looked at Harrison and, receiving an encouraging nod in return, said nothing.

  “That’s true,” said Harrison. “But I must be courteous to the Press, mustn’t I, Baron? Would there be any objection if I saw you all together?”

  “None at all,” replied the Baron. “That’s quite usual here.”

  “Very well,” said Harrison. “Well, good-bye for the present, Mr. Dawnay,” he added, so that the others might hear. “Be punctual for lunch.”

  Dawnay departed and Harrison and Henry followed the Baron, Jeanne and Crill into the lounge of the hotel where a number of journalists, mainly British and American, were assembled. The Baron undertook the duty of introduction and Harrison realised that he had to deal with the representatives of most of the important newspapers in the English-speaking world.

  “I must apologise for detaining you, gentlemen,” said Harrison. “But, first of all, I did not expect the honour of a visit from you, and, secondly, I expect to return to London to-night and so had to waste a certain amount of time procuring railw
ay tickets.”

  “Going back to-night, Mr. Harrison?” asked one of them.

  “Yes, my work is finished here. That’s obvious,” replied Harrison. “I think I took the only course open to me this morning.”

  “But suppose they invite you back to the committee?” asked Hawker, the representative of an American agency.

  “Is there any likelihood of that?” said Harrison.

  “They’re discussing it now,” replied Hawker. “And I expect they will. International committees, Mr. Harrison, don’t like rifting the lute.”

  “That complicates it,” answered Harrison. “And I suppose I must be discreet. Now, gentlemen, what do you really want me to tell you?”

  There was silence for a moment, and then a voice exclaimed: “Did you mean what you said this morning?”

  “Certainly, every word of it.”

  “You don’t represent the British Government in any way?”

  “No, I’m a private expert, and I attended at the invitation of the League.”

  “You weren’t on the preliminary list of delegates?”

  “No, there was considerable doubt until the last moment whether I could get away from London, and so it was left open. The League people really have been kindness itself. But I almost wish I hadn’t come.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, gentlemen, you’ll put it in your own way, of course, but it is rather embarrassing to become an innocent storm centre without any apparent reason.”

  “But you did want the sessions to be secret?”

  “Some of them, I agree. I think more can be done that way.”

  “And you have left the committee because your ideas have not been adopted?”

  “Certainly not,” said Harrison, rather heatedly. “I have left the committee because my own country was attacked as a result of my perfectly innocent action, and because I think it can get on very well without me.”

  “Do you think these committees are any use at all?” asked Hawker.

  “Isn’t that rather a large question?” said Harrison. “I have only had one day’s experience of them.”

  “But the public would like to know?”

  “I am afraid I cannot give you an answer.”

  “Then I suppose we can assume the negative?” said Hawker.

  “Of course you may assume anything,” replied Harrison. “But I should prefer you not to write it. If I must give some kind of opinion, then, I should say they can be very valuable if—”

  “If?”

  “If they maintain their independence and do not bow to outside opinion.”

  “And what if they ask you to return.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t do it. I must get back to London now.”

  “But that will create a very bad impression?” queried Hawker.

  “It will, I agree,” said Harrison. “Without your aid, gentlemen. I have done my best to help you in my own small way. It is very small, I admit, but I am not used to publicity. This is a new line to me and, quite frankly, I don’t like it. I prefer modest retirement. Too much publicity can only do me harm. To become internationally notorious, as you gentlemen are doing your best to make me, might mean complete ruin.”

  “Somewhat of an exaggeration, surely, Mr. Harrison?” said one of them.

  “Not so much as you think,” answered Harrison. “Stir up the Press of the world and print my photograph everywhere and every criminal—or shall I just say individual?—who particularly wants to recognise me before I can recognise him, will cut that picture out for future reference. It’s a serious consideration, gentlemen, and that’s why I throw myself on your mercy. I feel it’s very difficult to stay, but I don’t want it suggested that I have gone out of sheer pique. It’s just an unfortunate series of events. I really need your help, gentlemen.”

  “Mr. Harrison has been engaged on a case in Geneva quite apart from his duties on the committee,” said the Baron.

  “Really, Baron Meyerling,” expostulated Harrison. “You shouldn’t have mentioned that. I told you that in confidence.”

  “I’m so sorry,” said the Baron, in a deeply apologetic tone.

  “Well, I suppose it doesn’t matter really,” said Harrison. “That’s the truth, gentlemen. I’ve been attending to certain private affairs of my own in Geneva and I feel I must get back to London.”

  “May one ask a few details of the case?” said Hawker.

  There were sounds of dissent from various other journalists.

  “Mr. Harrison will understand,” continued Hawker. “We’re journalists first and foremost, and the case you’re on, Harrison, may be a better story than the committee.”

  “Very likely it is, and some of you,” said Harrison, looking keenly at the Baron, “may be able to guess what it is, but I can’t mention it, and I should prefer that you gentlemen would be as careful as possible regarding the fact that I am in Geneva in what I may call my professional capacity. You realise the many problems it raises.”

  “Of course,” said a number of voices.

  The group started to break up and Harrison felt he had negotiated a rather difficult comer with moderate skill. He looked across the room and saw Crill staring at him, obviously trying to attract his notice. Directly he had done so, he gave the suspicion of a wink and called out: “Well, I must be going. I say, Hawker, what’s the time?”

  Hawker raised his wrist-watch and was just going to speak when Crill added, still with his eye on Harrison, “Not by that thing, Hawker; tell us the time by the wonderful travelling clock.”

  This remark was greeted by a general laugh from the other journalists.

  Harrison realised that Crill had spoken for his own special benefit, and so turned to Hawker and asked what the great joke might be.

  “Oh, it’s nothing, Mr. Harrison,” said Hawker, awkwardly. “We have our family jokes, you know, but this is really nothing, I assure you.”

  “Nothing to make a mess of your lunch-time, eh, Hawker?” said another journalist. “You didn’t think so when it happened.”

  “I am really rather curious,” said Harrison.

  “I should say it was a fuss about nothing,” said the Baron, as if saying the last word.

  “One ought to be able to rely on a Swiss watch, at any rate,” interposed Crill.

  “That’s just what I say,” said Hawker. “There’s really nothing in the story, Mr. Harrison, and yet it is rather curious. You might be able to make something of the mystery of a Swiss watch—” Harrison noticed that the Baron lifted his eyebrows—“You see it was a perfectly good travelling clock arrangement. I paid quite a lot for it and trusted it implicitly.”

  “Well?” said Harrison.

  “It let me down—badly,” said Hawker, mournfully.

  “I am very sorry to hear that,” answered Harrison gravely. “Anything I can do in my professional capacity, of course—but I am not a watchmaker.”

  “On Monday, wasn’t it?” said Crill.

  “You bet it was Monday,” answered Hawker. “And I’m not likely to forget it. My wife had people to lunch and I was a quarter of an hour late.”

  “And she didn’t believe the story of the watch?” said one of the journalists.

  “I hardly believed it myself,” replied Hawker, “when I started to tell it.”

  “Since you have asked me for my professional advice, Mr. Hawker,” said Harrison, with mock portentousness, “I shall have to ask you a few questions.”

  “Gather round,” said a journalist. “Mr. Harrison is going to give us an idea of his methods.”

  “Why not,” said Harrison, with a laugh. “Mr. Hawker does not mind being cross-examined, I hope?”

  “Not in the least,” was the reply. “I shall enjoy it. Fire away.”

  All the time Harrison was keeping the tail-end of his eye on the Baron who seemed to be listening very intently. He noticed incidentally that Miss de Marplay had disappeared from the group.

  “First of all, then,” said Harrison. �
��Why was this clock so important?”

  “That’s easily explained,” replied Hawker. “I had it on the desk while I worked. Always. I paid—”

  “Mr. Hawker,” said Harrison, again with portentous solemnity. “I must ask you only to answer my questions. If I wish to know the cost of the clock I shall not forget to ask you.”

  There was a laugh and Hawker said: “Sorry, sir.”

  “I take it I am right in assuming that the strange behaviour of your clock took place on Monday before lunch-time—”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Just before lunch-time?”

  “I cannot swear to that,” answered Hawker. “I know I only discovered it at lunch-time.”

  “Very well,” said Harrison. “Now tell me what happened—in your own words.”

  “I was working away at a draft report in the journalists’ room and I had the clock in front of me the whole morning. I must say I seemed to do more in my time than usual. Poor fish, I thought I was all fresh after the week-end but it was really because the old clock gave me an extra quarter of an hour. At a quarter to one I rose from my labours, like a virtuous husband—and a hungry one—to get back home by one o’clock, and, lo and behold, I did not reach there till a quarter past one.”

  “And you did not linger by the way?” asked Harrison.

  “Oh no, I wanted to be in time for my guests.”

  “And you trusted that clock?”