Dusty Death

by Clifton Robbins

  “Very clever, Mr. Harrison,” said Jeanne, with a sneer. “But where’s your proof?”

  “Possibly these are all only suggestions.”

  “That’s about all they are,” commented Jeanne, and Harrison thought the tone of her voice showed relief.

  “But that doesn’t make them any the less true,” said Harrison. “First of all, the tablets on the table were of a German make, which is never seen in England—”

  “That doesn’t prove anything.”

  “Quite true, but they might be made to prove something.”

  “But surely, Mr. Harrison, you don’t seriously suggest that I climbed into a window in a London house like some cat burglar. It’s foolish, on the face of it. Why, look at these—” she pointed to her skirts. “Fine climbing I should have with these.”

  “That’s my proof—to you, at any rate,” answered Harrison, imperturbably.

  “What do you mean?” asked Jeanne, the colour again going from her face.

  “Look,” said Harrison, and before Jeanne could stop him, he had pushed the contents of the trunk on the floor. From the lowermost garments he produced a pair of black tights and a close-fitting black silk jumper with a belt. On the side of the jumper was a pocket from which he pulled a small powder puff.

  Joanne went quite limp and leaned against the dressing-table.

  “Still only suggestions,” said Harris, “but very, very near the truth. You were wearing these things under a long coat in the cinema. Nobody would notice anything strange. Easy enough to slip off the coat when you were under the window and climb up just like a shadow. And when you had come down and put it on again you could look like a normal human being.”

  “And that’s why you ransacked my clothes when I was out of the room?” asked Jeanne, weakly.

  “I am afraid so. You see, Henry and I have been followed about by a shadow in Geneva, and I wanted to verify my theory. Risky business, but I suppose things were getting so dangerous you had to take risks. But it was the powder puff that clinched it.” He held it up again and looked at it with disgust. “When you murdered Mrs. Humbleby’s lodger, Miss de Marplay, you stopped to powder your face before you went out of the window again. You left some of the powder on the dressing-table.”

  Jeanne de Marplay gave a gasp and sat down on the bed. For a moment all her courage and daring seemed to have gone, but she soon looked at Harrison again without a tremor.

  “But you can’t prove it,” she said. “The fact that I have a peculiar kind of fancy dress in my luggage is no proof. You know that.”

  “I do,” answered Harrison. “I know I have told you the truth—you know I have—but proof is well nigh impossible. When I came here I made you an offer—that was before the powder puff changed everything. I won’t say I didn’t suspect you, but I felt certain I must be wrong.” Jeanne smiled. “I mean it. I hate the whole business now. But I made you an offer and, even though I can be certain you will never go straight, I am willing to let you get out of Switzerland without doing anything to stop you.”

  “And afterwards?”

  “That will depend on yourself,” answered Harrison. “If you set foot in England and I hear of it, I shall consider myself bound to do my duty. I shall then do my utmost to get you convicted. My utmost. But if I hear no more of you I shall keep my knowledge to myself.”

  “Very well,” said Jeanne. “I shall get out of Switzerland at once. That’s a bargain.”

  “It isn’t a bargain,” said Harrison. “I’m not bargaining with you. I’m only telling you what I propose to do.”

  Harrison moved towards the door.

  “Mr. Harrison,” called Jeanne, as he opened it.

  “Well?”

  “I want to thank you.”

  “I don’t want thanks.”

  “You’ve treated me magnificently,” said Jeanne, turning the full force of her eyes upon him until she made him realise what an intensely desirable woman she was. “I don’t deserve what you have done for me. I know that and I appreciate it. I shan’t forget it. Good-bye.”

  She held out her hand to him and, for a moment, Harrison paused. Then he looked at her hand, gazed squarely into her eyes, and quickly walked out of the room.

  As he shut the door behind him he heard “swine” shrieked in uncontrollable passion, followed by a string of invectives such as even his revised opinion of Jeanne de Marplay would hardly credit.

  At the door of the hotel he summoned a taxi-cab and, as it drew up, he noticed the bright-eyed watcher move out of a doorway nearby. “My friend sticks very closely to me,” he thought, as he told the driver to go to the League office.

  Some distance away he turned round and looked for signs of being followed, but there was nothing behind him that could suggest the other man was trailing him. He looked again a little later but there was still no sign and he sat back, for the moment rather puzzled.

  Then a ray of light came to him—the watcher was not for him this time. “Jeanne de Marplay won’t find it so easy to get out of Switzerland, after all,” he thought to himself.

  Chapter XVIII

  Henry Plays The Gramophone

  Harrison looked very thoughtful as he went up to Dawnay’s room. Dawnay was obviously waiting for him impatiently and jumped from his chair to greet him.

  “So you have arrived,” said Dawnay. “Well, now you’re here you’ll have to make a pretty long stay.”

  “I shall certainly do nothing of the kind,” answered Harrison.

  “You certainly will,” said Dawnay. “The police are after you in full cry, and I had taken for granted you had been arrested.”

  “As bad as that?”

  “I wonder I’m your friend any longer,” replied Dawnay, “after all I’ve been hearing about you. It’s an unholy mess at the moment, and sometimes I almost believe myself I have nourished a viper in my bosom—or an ostrich, according to Mr. Pecksniff.”

  “Really, Dawnay?”

  “But I’m the soul of loyalty,” answered Dawnay. “I expect it’ll be my undoing. I always stick to friends. Oh friendship, what crimes have been committed in thy name.”

  “Look here, Dawnay, I can’t listen to much more of this.”

  “Only a whole day of it, Harrison, that’s all. I must let off steam somehow. I’ve been having pow-wows with the great ever since I arrived and the fuss about you is enormous. I think I convinced them, but the Swiss police are a bit more difficult. You’ve seen the papers?”

  “Well, they say their information about you comes from the most remarkable source. It must be believed. There is no arguing about it. The League may be taken in by a plausible scoundrel, but they’re too wily for that. They’ve met your sort before and they know all about it. You’re a bad dope merchant, Harrison, and it’s prison for you.”

  “That’s serious.”

  “By heavens, it is serious,” said Dawnay. “That’s why you’ll have to stay here. It’s about the only safe spot at present.”

  “Nonsense,” answered Harrison. “I shall have a lot to do outside soon.”

  “You won’t be given the opportunity.”

  “We’ll see about that Dawnay,” said Harrison. “I do believe it’s pretty bad, but we’ll get round it. I wonder if they’ve got Henry?”

  “I shouldn’t be surprised,” said Dawnay. “They’re very keen—you see, someone with a fair amount of influence is pushing them rather hard.”

  “The Baron, of course,” commented Harrison.

  “Do you think so?” asked Dawnay.

  “It must be,” replied Harrison. “I put the wind up the poor man this morning. Dawnay, he’s on the run, but I must say he’s doing his very best to keep me from running after him. You see, I found him this morning.”

  “Where?”

  “At the Chemin des Noisettes.”

  “Good heavens,” exclaimed Dawnay.

  “Yes, I must admit it was pretty much of a shock to me when he actually opened the door. I ought to have rea
lised it but, quite frankly, I didn’t think my threads would lead to him so quickly. You know, I have been going on the theory that I arrived too quickly for them. Another day or two and they might have left no trace. But they did not expect things to be followed up. I won’t say they were slack—the Baron isn’t that type. They took precautions, but not enough of them. After the murder was done at the Chemin des Noisettes—for it was murder, there’s no doubt of that—the Baron very wisely stayed in the flat. That was a good precaution. But he did not move quickly enough about disposing of the furniture. That was a mistake.”

  “Why the furniture?”

  “Because the books betrayed the identity of the last occupant, and that was very inconvenient. I should say there were books with the name of the last occupant written inside, and the Baron could not afford to leave them in the flat. Very uncomfortable inquiries might be made.”

  “True.”

  “And there was the concierge, too.”

  “What of her?”

  “On the spot the Baron and his friends could keep an eye on her. Another good precaution. I should say it was necessary, too. That woman knows too much for the Baron’s good. Of course, she’s frightened of him. I should think she has good cause to be. But the Baron should have made his arrangements more quickly for removing her.”

  “Murder?”

  “I trust not, but, at any rate, it was impossible to allow her to remain in Geneva any length of time. I tell you again, Dawnay, I have arrived too quickly. Now I know that woman exists. The Baron won’t try foul play in Geneva. It’s too risky. He may try elsewhere, and I’m having the place watched for any sign of moving. I must get hold of that woman. She holds the key certainly, to one door.”

  “Do you think she is in danger?”

  “I can’t say, but I should think not yet.”

  “And the occupant of the room?”

  “That’s the problem, Dawnay,” said Harrison. “And I prefer not to talk about it. Things are getting a bit clearer, and that de Marplay woman has provided some useful clues. Henry would insist that an unpleasant episode in London had some connection with this business in Geneva. De Marplay gave me no option but to think so too. Her behaviour in London left little alternative. But I could not see what it all meant, and so I told poor Henry not to jump at conclusions—although he was not doing that; he was only putting two and two together. That was why I fixed on that photograph, which I brought with me from London, when we talked to Dr. Kellerman last night.”

  “That was a staggerer,” said Dawnay.

  “Not if the things are mixed up together,” answered Harrison. “Which I had to assume. The man who we gathered died in London had occupied the flat in the Chemin des Noisettes.”

  Dawnay was listening impatiently. “And Henry said—” he broke in.

  “By the way, Dawnay, don’t you think we’ve been rather forgetting Henry?” said Harrison.

  Dawnay looked crestfallen. “But you were going to tell me something?”

  “We can’t go on talking while Henry is possibly going through the most fearful tortures at the hands of the police,” replied Harrison.

  Dawnay was silent. He wanted to say that they had been talking quite a long time before Harrison remembered Henry, and, therefore, another minute or so wouldn’t do any harm. He realised that he was being put off in the most unblushing manner. That there was something more to be said, but that Harrison did not intend to say it. But even in his short acquaintance with Harrison, he knew that no pressing would extract another word from him if he didn’t want to utter one. So Dawnay, pushing annoyance on one side, was true to the diplomatic status accorded to his employment, and was silent.

  Harrison took up the telephone.

  “Ringing up the hotel?” asked Dawnay.

  Harrison nodded his head.

  “I expect the police will have been there already.”

  “We will be discreet,” answered Harrison with a smile, asking for the number.

  He was soon put through to his own room in the hotel, and he asked for “Clay Harrison.” A voice answered him in French, and, at the same time, he heard quite distinctly, the tones of a somewhat metallic gramophone. The voice at the other end of the telephone demanded that the music should cease forthwith, but seemed to have no effect until the machine, by the grating sounds it made, stopped violently. Harrison immediately explained that it did not matter, he would call Mr. Harrison again later, and hung up the receiver.

  “Henry wins the prize,” said Harrison, laughing heartily.

  “What does he say?” asked Dawnay.

  “Nothing,” replied Harrison. “He just played a gramophone.”

  “Extraordinary thing to do.”

  “Not when the police are in the room.”

  “Oh, they were there? Did they answer the telephone?”

  “Yes, and Henry played a gramophone to show me I was in danger.”

  “Very bright of him.”

  “I agree,” said Harrison. “But it’s making the whole thing a bit portentous, isn’t it? When someone answered me in French from my own room in the hotel, I might have guessed something was happening. Henry wouldn’t answer in French, even if he could, because it’s against his principles. I know the police are looking for me so it does not need supreme powers of deduction, Dawnay, to conclude that the foreign voice at the other end is intimately connected with the Genevese police.”

  “True,” said Dawnay. “But the gramophone is a bright idea, you must admit that.”

  “Of course it is,” answered Harrison. “Even though it isn’t original. The Baron played one just after we left him this morning, and that must have inspired Henry. Henry, I must say, rather likes the picturesque. He has watched all the steps in this case. Some of my reasoning, I think, has been quite good, but the only thing Henry really notices is the playing of a gramophone as a signal. He must have bought one of those portable arrangements directly he left me this morning. Still he thought he was really being helpful and I hope a policeman did not have to hit him on the head to stop the machine.”

  “I hope so, too,” said Dawnay. “Well, you can’t go back to the hotel and I expect this place is watched. So I was right. You’ll have to spend the day here.”

  “Not quite, Dawnay,” answered Harrison. “There’s another move before that happens. I want you to ask the head of the police department to come here and see me.”

  “What?” cried Dawnay, his eyes starting out of his head.

  “Surely, that’s obvious,” said Harrison. “I’ve got to make my peace with him. And I can’t go to him, that’s obvious. So he must come here.”

  “It can’t be done,” answered Dawnay.

  “Of course it can,” said Harrison. “You get hold of somebody who knows him. Explain the situation and he’ll come all right.”

  “I’m sure he won’t,” replied Dawnay.

  “You can only try,” said Harrison.

  At that moment the telephone bell rang and Dawnay answered. “It’s for you,” he said. “Miss Warley wants you urgently.”

  “Very well,” said Harrison. “And while I’m telephoning, you go and make the arrangements about the police. I want to see him as soon as possible. He ought to come at once really.” Dawnay looked at Harrison with almost pathetic despair and went out of the room.

  “Is that you, Miss Warley?” asked Harrison. “I’m most awfully grateful for all you’re doing for me. Now what’s the news?”

  “Not long ago a taxicab drove up to the house, Mr. Harrison, and a man and a woman got out,” answered Miss Warley. “The woman, who seemed youngish, was carrying a suitcase and went straight into the house. I am certain they were something to do with your flat.”

  “You may be right,” said Harrison, who felt certain that Jeanne de Marplay was again on the move.

  “The man,” continued Miss Warley, “paid off the taxi-cab and walked away but he has just come back driving a private car.”

  “What were hi
s eyes like, Miss Warley?” asked Harrison.

  “I wasn’t really close enough to see,” was the reply. “But from where I was sitting, they seemed to me rather brighter—you know, more shining—than they should be.”

  “Good,” said Harrison. “You’re doing first rate, Miss Warley. Thank you very much.”

  “I am so glad,” she answered, with certain pleasure in her voice. “You know him, then, Mr. Harrison?”

  “I think I do,” said Harrison. “Now, Miss Warley, I’m afraid I’m going to ask you a very great favour.”

  “Anything you like, Mr. Harrison.”

  “I want you to be a detective on your own, Miss Warley.”

  “How perfectly lovely.”

  “It may be a bit dangerous.”

  “Oh, I don’t mind that,” she answered. “What do you want me to do?”

  “Is there a garage nearby?”

  “Yes, there’s one not far down the road.”

  “Well, I think what you have seen means that they intend to take the concierge of the flats away in that car,” said Harrison. “So I want you to hire a car at once and, by the promise of what reward you think best to the driver, follow that car of theirs as far as you possibly can. When you have anything to report, ring up here again.”

  “Of course I will,” answered the girl.

  “You don’t mind?” said Harrison. “I know I’m asking a lot of you.”

  “Of course not. It’s perfectly thrilling,” was the reply. “I’ll ring you up as soon as I can. Good-bye.”

  Harrison put down the receiver with a certain satisfaction. His plans were working out even better than he had expected. Certainly it was a great pity that he could no longer use Henry but he had found an excellent ally in Mona Warley and Dawnay was proving a tower of strength.