“They asked me if I wanted to add to the dead men in the case,” her voice broke again.
“The brutes—the low brutes,” Harrison exclaimed.
“But I don’t want to,” said Miss Graham, almost hysterically. “I tell you I don’t want to. You’re in danger, Mr. Harrison, fearful danger. They’ll murder you if you go on. I know they will. That voice was utterly evil and convincing, too.”
“But what if I tell you there is no danger?”
“It won’t make any difference. The voice said there was and it told the truth.”
“So I’m to throw in my hand?”
“I beg you to,” said Miss Graham, pleadingly. “I appreciate what you have done, Mr. Harrison. I can never thank you enough. Your kindness is the one comfort in this awful business. But I am not going to have you risk your life, you mustn’t, you mustn’t.”
“Very well,” answered Harrison.
“And you will leave Geneva immediately. The voice said you must do that. It’s the only way for you to be safe.”
“If you say so, Miss Graham,” replied Harrison.
“Thank you, thank you,” cried the girl. “You’re not angry with me?”
“Angry?” said Harrison. “I feel sorry for you from the bottom of my heart.”
The conversation ended, Miss Graham having obviously again been overcome by the shock which had befallen her and being satisfied that she had accomplished what she had hardly expected to do.
“The brutes,” said Harrison again, this time quite loud enough to astonish Henry.
“Asking you to give up again, sir?” said Henry.
“Yes, Henry,” replied Harrison. “And I promised to do so.”
“You promised to give up?” exclaimed Henry, his voice rising almost to a squeak.
“Well, that’s practically what it came to.”
“But Sir, you can’t, you know—”
“It’s all right, Henry,” answered Harrison. “Someone might have been listening-in and I thought it the best thing to do. The Baron won’t believe it, but that can’t be helped.”
“I see, sir.”
“Not quite, Henry,” said Harrison. “I had to satisfy her too. They told her Twining was dead.”
“They told her that?”
“Yes, Henry,” answered Harrison, solemnly. “And she believed it.”
“And you believe it, too, sir?”
“I’m afraid I do, Henry,” said Harrison. “But what swine they must be to do that so as to frighten me out of the business or, shall I say, to frighten her to frighten me out of it. It’s damnable, Henry.”
“It is, sir,” replied Henry. “And you think Mr. Twining is dead?”
“Undoubtedly, Henry.”
“Then we go on?”
“Go on, Henry, I should think we do,” exclaimed Harrison. “For Miss Graham’s sake, if for no other reason. We’ve got to succeed, Henry.”
“Good,” said Henry. “By the tone of your voice, sir, if I may say so, you think you can see a way.”
“I think I can, Henry,” answered Harrison. “But there are so many loose threads. I wish we could settle down for half an hour and talk it over. But it can’t be done. We must get off to the Chemin des Noisettes or Dawnay will have let the doctor loose.”
“He won’t talk, sir, he’s too scared.”
“You may be right, Henry, but panic is a difficult thing to prophesy about. Come along.”
The Chemin des Noisettes was tucked away well past the Cornavin station. No. 28 proved to be a house in an old block of flats with an air of much decayed respectability. In London they would have become quite unpresentable, but Geneva does not seem to go to such irresponsible rack and ruin in its erstwhile opulent quarters.
Harrison looked into the concierge’s room and saw no one there so proceeded up the stairs, followed by Henry. The topmost flat on one side had a Swiss name above the bell while that on the other side was quite anonymous. He chose the anonymous flat and rang the bell.
A chain rattled behind the door which was finally opened, to Harrison’s amazement and Henry’s unmitigated surprise, by the Baron Meyerling.
The Baron looked as if he was going to close the door again but he conquered his own surprise with the greatest speed and bowed gallantly to his visitor.
“This is indeed a pleasure, Mr. Harrison,” said the Baron. “Won’t you come in?”
“Thank you, Baron,” answered Harrison, walking into the tiny hall, Henry following him.
“Perhaps your servant would not mind sitting in my kitchen,” said the Baron, pointing to a door leading off the hall. “I’m afraid there’s nowhere else.”
“I should prefer him to be with me,” said Harrison. “If you don’t mind, Baron. You see he is my confidential clerk, something very different from a servant.”
“But I should much prefer to talk to you alone,” said the Baron, with an evil look.
“Henry will stay with me,” said Harrison, firmly.
“Of course if you insist,” replied the Baron. “But I would again like to make it clear that it is not my custom to discuss important business in front of servants.”
Harrison did not answer but followed the Baron into a comfortably furnished sitting-room and motioned Henry to do the same. The room was not noteworthy except for a well-made bookcase on a cupboard base which occupied practically the whole of one of the walls. The books were covered with opaque glass so that their forms were visible but not the titles on their backs. In another part of the room was a cheap-looking portable gramophone.
The Baron indicated a chair by the window some distance from the bookcase and Harrison sat down. Seeing Henry in the background, the Baron magnanimously offered him a chair also while he himself stood in the centre of the room.
“It is very clever of you to find me,” said the Baron, “considering how few people know this address, Mr. Harrison. You will realise that a journalist like myself must have somewhere to work in peace in this terrible town. Of course, I have official quarters at one of the big hotels and I can be found there occasionally. But this spot is just far enough out of the way to save one from being worried, isn’t it, Mr. Harris.”
“Quite,” answered Harrison. “It is really so far out of the way that one wonders how you managed to discover it.”
“One wonders still more,” said the Baron, “how you, Mr. Harrison, managed to discover it.”
“Quite easily,” answered Harrison.
“You astonish me,” replied the Baron, with the most amiable coolness. “Indeed you cause me great disappointment, considering I had thought myself inaccessible. You said it was easy, did you not? Of course, I understand, it was our mutual friend, Miss de Marplay.”
“It was a mutual friend,” said Harrison. “But certainly not Miss de Marplay.”
“You puzzle me,” said the Baron, looking very keenly into Harrison’s eyes. “A mutual friend, you say. I did not know we had any, Mr. Harrison.”
“Dr. Kellerman,” said Harrison, sharply.
But if he thought that he was going to surprise Baron Meyerling with this pronouncement, he was doomed to disappointment. The Baron smiled pleasantly as it this was exactly the answer he had expected.
“How stupid of me,” answered the Baron. “But really not so stupid. I could hardly imagine that you knew Dr. Kellerman. And also, of course, Dr. Kellerman is not what you might call a friend of mine. He attended me here for some slight ailment some time ago. A clever doctor, Mr. Harrison, a very clever doctor. But surely you have not been feeling ill yourself?”
“It was the purest good luck that Dr. Kellerman gave me your address, Baron Meyerling,” answered Harrison.
“I am pleased to hear you say so,” said the Baron. “And now what can I do for you at this very early hour of the morning?”
“You can tell me something about Mr. Brown,” replied Harrison.
“Brown? I don’t know the name.”
“Mr. Brown died in this flat from an overdose of drug
s a week ago,” said Harrison.
Really, Mr. Harrison, you must be mad,” answered the Baron. “Why, I’ve occupied this flat for some months past and I have never heard of Mr. Brown.”
“I want the truth, Baron Meyerling,” said Harrison, sternly.
“Is that the usual way you talk to your host, Mr. Harrison?” said the Baron. “I should really be angry if it weren’t so laughable. But you detective people are all the same. You get an idea and then you run about after it until you convince yourselves it is true. Then you go and try to prove it by, shall I say, calling other people liars.”
“Maybe,” said Harrison calmly.
“It may be very English to do so,” continued the Baron. Henry stirred uneasily in his chair, but Harrison gave him a warning look. “And it may be English to force your servant’s company upon me, but—” here he raised his voice—“I resent it strongly, Mr. Harrison.”
“I’m sorry for that, Baron,” answered Harrison, apologetically. “But I think you understand what I’m talking about.”
“I think this English joke has gone far enough,” said the Baron. “But before you go I would just like to show you this morning’s paper. I thought that was what you had come to see me about. Indeed, I half expected you to ask my help, but your manner rather puts one off. A little courtesy, Mr. Harrison, if I may say so, would have been much more useful than your heavy detective comedy.”
“I doubt it myself,” answered Harrison. “What does the paper say?”
“Possibly you don’t read French,” said the Baron, very sweetly. “At any rate, without mentioning names, it suggests that a well-known English detective, now in Geneva, is really a drug trafficker and asks the Geneva police to take immediate steps.”
“Nonsense,” said Harrison,
“As it stands, it might be considered so,” replied the Baron. “I myself could hardly bring myself to believe it. But the newspaper says that it can prove it.”
“Prove it?”
“Yes, and that a statement has already been made to the police.”
“Ridiculous.”
“Hardly ridiculous, Mr. Harrison; indeed, it seems to me very serious. The newspaper says there is a witness to prove that you actually brought drugs in with you in your luggage.”
“Good heavens,” exclaimed Harrison.
“You do not deny it?” said the Baron.
“How damnably clever,” said Harrison.
“You do not deny it?” persisted the Baron.
“So you put that in the paper,” said Harrison.
“Really, Mr. Harrison,” replied the Baron, his anger rising. “What reason should I have for doing such a thing?”
“A thousand.”
“Quite honestly I have a few, Mr. Harrison, even if they do not amount to a thousand,” said the Baron, viciously. “You’re a nuisance, Mr. Harrison, with all the fuss you are making in this town.”
“I’m glad you acknowledge it, Baron,” replied Harrison, with a smile.
“I wouldn’t smile, if I were you,” the Baron raised his voice a little. “Get out of Geneva or I’ll make things so hot for you that you’ll be sorry.”
“I like that tone better, Baron, I must say.”
“It’s no use blustering, Mr. Harrison. The bluff is called. Take my advice and get out.”
“Rather not. I prefer to stay.”
The Baron shrugged his shoulders and moved towards Harrison.
“Don’t come near me,” shouted Harrison. “I don’t like you enough.”
He sidled away from the Baron and moved towards the bookcase.
“Get away from that bookcase,” called the Baron, moving quickly towards him. Henry jumped from his chair but could not get to them before they were locked in each other’s arms and swaying near the bookcase. Suddenly one of Harrison’s arms shot up. He seemed to slip and his elbow shattered the glass in one of the doors of the case. The Baron staggered away from Harrison to avoid the falling glass, and Harrison stood erect again and made for the door. “Come along, Henry,” he shouted, and they dashed out of the room across the little hall and to the staircase of the flats.
When they had gone down one flight, Harrison stopped. “Henry,” he cried. “Listen.”
They were both still and heard what seemed to be the strains of the cheap gramophone from the flat they had just left.
“Extraordinary man,” said Henry. “Plays jazz directly after a row like that. Queer time for a bit of music.”
“It’s a signal of some kind, Henry,” said Harrison. “We shall have to hurry.” They dashed down the stairs at top speed and made for the low door of the concierge’s lodge. Harrison noticed that this time the good woman was at home, and so, trying to look as natural and unhurried as possible, he knocked on the door. The woman opened it and he and Henry went in. There was a haunted look about the woman which convinced Harrison that she, too, might be of assistance.
In his best French, Harrison explained that he was a great friend of the man who had died recently in the top flat. The woman’s face turned a ghastly colour and she dropped into a chair.
“It would be far best if you told me the whole truth, madam,” said Harrison. “I know a great deal already, but I want to know what you have to say.”
“Let me recover myself,” said the woman, gasping. “I will tell you.”
“Very well,” answered Harrison, “but I have no time to waste.”
The woman was about to speak when a look of horror spread over her face while her eyes were fixed on the door behind Harrison.
Both he and Henry turned round and there stood the man who had watched them on the boat and had followed them to Kellerman’s flat. “Madame is wanted upstairs at once,” said the man, in a tone of command.
“A familiar face, Henry,” said Harrison. “That explains the gramophone.” He turned to the concierge again but the woman did not look into his face. She only muttered something quite unintelligible and went out of the lodge. The man with the too-bright eyes gave Harrison a look of glorious enmity and followed her upstairs.
“Nothing there then,” said Harrison.
“It’s a pity, sir,” said Henry, as they left the building. “She seemed to have something to say.”
“She had a great deal to say, Henry. But she is not allowed to say it. Still, we mustn’t despair. We’re getting along quite quickly. That gramophone wasn’t a bad idea.”
“Why, sir?”
“It is a nice easy way, Henry, of calling for help without arousing any suspicion. Far better than electric bells or telephones or things like that. I wonder if the Baron has special records for special emergencies? It does not matter. Just playing it was enough to bring our friend to him, I expect.”
“You might explain the bookcase, sir.”
“Why, Henry,” answered Harrison, “We just crashed into it. Unfortunate, of course, but it was as much the Baron’s fault as mine.”
“It didn’t seem like an accident to me, sir.”
“Quite right, Henry,” said Harrison. “I couldn’t see through the glass so I had to break it.”
“I thought as much, sir,” answered Henry. “But why?”
“I think I explained to you, Henry, that we have been working too quickly for the Baron, with the result that he couldn’t get rid of all the evidence against him. There are two important pieces of evidence which are still too easily discoverable. He has no chance of removing either of them. One is animate and the other inanimate. The poor concierge is obviously the first and the second is the bookcase.”
“I still don’t understand, sir. I see that the concierge may be important, but the bookcase?”
“A bookcase should contain books, Henry.”
“Yes, sir.”
“What kind?”
“I don’t know, sir.”
“That’s why I broke the glass, because I didn’t know either, and you can hardly guess the discovery I made. They were all medieval history.”
“Goo
d, Lord sir,” exclaimed Henry. “Mrs. Humbleby’s lodger again.”
“Just so, Henry,” answered Harrison. “They prove to my mind, that the room was occupied by Timothy Mountford or Smith or Brown or whatever name you like to give him.”
“But that means a worse confusion still, sir,” said Henry. “Mountford died in London, there is no doubt of that.”
“None, Henry,” said Harrison; “but we are getting warmer. The Baron obviously did not want me to look into the bookcase. Once you connect it with Mountford, the little story about Brown starts to get a bit thin. The Baron occupying the room makes it still worse. Something definitely queer about it. Don’t you think so, Henry?”
“I do, sir,” replied Henry emphatically. “But I can’t see where it all leads to.”
“I won’t go as far as that myself, Henry, at present,” said Harrison. “But I can confidently say we are getting very much warmer. Besides, I just saw something else inside that bookcase. I don’t know if the Baron realised I did, but it was rather what I was hoping to see.”
“What was that, sir?”
“A hypodermic syringe.”
“That’s good, sir,” said Henry enthusiastically.
“Now, Henry, we have a lot to do,” said Harrison. “I have a lunch appointment with Miss de Marplay—”
Henry groaned.
“I don’t intend to keep it, Henry,” said Harrison. “And I propose to call on her at the Hotel Voyage straight away and tell her so.”
“Why not ring her up, sir?”
“I think a personal call would be best. I want to have a word with her about those precious pots in my bag.”
“Putting your head in the lion’s mouth, I should call it, sir.”
“How ungallant of you, Henry,” answered Harrison. “It’s rather important, Henry, that I should see Miss de Marplay’s room. I want to examine some of her clothes.”
Henry looked scandalised.
“That’s all right, Henry,” Harrison laughed. “It’s all part of the case.”
“I don’t trust that woman an inch, sir,” said Henry. “You are certain it’s all right?”
Henry looked so pathetic that Harrison laughed aloud.
“Don’t worry, Henry,” said Harrison. “My morals are safe. You can trust me if you can’t trust her.”
Dusty Death Page 20
