Mystery at Geneva: An Improbable Tale of Singular Happenings Read online

  After what seemed to Henry, unversed in these matters, a great deal ofunnecessary voting on the part of the Assembly and of the Council, itwas announced that the delegate for Norway, Dr. Svensen, was electedPresident. Amid cheers from those delegates who were pleased, fromthose who had self-control enough to conceal their vexation, and fromthe public in the galleries (for Dr. Svensen was the most widelypopular figure in the Assembly), the new President took his place andmade the appropriate speech, in his sonorous English. Many in the hallwere bored, some because the new President was known to be in with theEnglish, who are not always liked by other nations; some because hespoke English readily and French ill, and most of them understoodFrench readily and English not at all; others because he was of theparty which was bent on carrying out certain measures in Europe forwhich they saw no necessity.

  However, Dr. Svensen, a brief person and no word-waster, did notdetain his audience long. At six o'clock the Assembly adjourned.

  7

  Henry despatched a short scornful story of the proceedings to hisnewspaper (which would not, he knew, print a long or effusive one),and dined with another English journalist in a caf? in the old _cit?_.The other journalist, Grattan, came from Paris, and was bored with theLeague and with Geneva. He preferred to report crime and blood,something, as he said, with guts in it. Statesmen assembled togethermade him yawn. For his part, he wished something would happen duringthe Assembly worth writing home about--some _crime passionnel_, someblood and thunder melodrama. "Perhaps," said Henry, hopefully, "itwill."

  "Well, it may. All these hot-blooded Latins and Slavs herdedtogether ought to be able to produce something.... I bet you theSpanish Americans are hatching something to-night over there...." Hewaved his hand in the direction of the other side of the lake, wherethe great hotels blazed their thousand windows into the night. Behindthose windows burnt who knew what of passion and of plot?

  8

  Dr. Svensen, strolling at a late hour across the Pont du Mont Blanc(he was returning from dinner at the Beau Rivage to his own hotel),was disturbed by a whimpering noise behind him, like the mewing of alittle cat. Turning round, he saw a small and ragged form paddingbarefoot after him, its knuckles in its eyes. The Norwegian explorer,unlike most great men, was tender-hearted to children. Bending down tothe crying urchin, he inquired of it the cause of its trouble. Itsanswer was in Russian, and to the effect that it was very hungry. Dr.Svensen softened yet more. A hungry Russian child! That was an objectof pity which he never could resist. Russia was full of them; this onewas probably an exiled Bolshevik. He felt in his pockets for coins,but the hungry Russian infant tugged at his coat. "Come," it said, andDr. Svensen gathered from it that there were yet more hungry Russianswhere this came from. He followed....

  9

  The morning session of the Assembly was supposed to begin at ten, andat this hour next morning the unsophisticated Henry Beechtree tookhis seat in the Press Gallery. He soon perceived his mistake. The showobviously was not going to begin for ages. No self-respecting delegateor journalist would come into the hall on the stroke of the hour. Thesuperior thing, in this as in other departments of life, was to belate. Lateness showed that serene contempt for the illusion we calltime which is so necessary to ensure the respect of others andoneself. Only the servile are punctual....

  But "Nothing to swank about in being late," thought Henry morosely;"only means they've spent too long over their coffee and bread andhoney, the gluttons. I could have done the same myself."

  Indeed, he wished that he had, for he fell again into the hands of theelderly clergyman who had addressed him yesterday, and who was, ofcourse, punctual too.

  "I see," said the clergyman, "that you have one of the French comicpapers with you. A pity their humour is so much spoilt bysuggestiveness."

  Suggestiveness. Henry could never understand that word as applied incondemnation. Should not everything be suggestive? Or should allliterature, art, and humour be a cul-de-sac, suggesting no ideawhatsoever? Henry did not want to be uncharitable, but he could notbut think that those who used this word in this sense laid themselvesopen to the suspicion (in this case, at least, quite unjustified),that their minds were only receptive of one kind of suggestion, andthat a coarse one.

  "I expect," he replied, "that you mean coarseness. People often dowhen they use that word, I notice. Anyhow, the papers are not veryfunny, I find."

  "Suggestiveness," said the clergyman, "is seldom amusing."

  Before Henry had time to argue again about this word, he hurried on.

  "I sent yesterday a long message to the _Church Times_, the_Guardian_, the _Commonwealth_, and the _Challenge_ about the firstmeeting. It is most important that these papers should set beforetheir readers the part that the Church ought to play in promotinginternational goodwill."

  "Indeed," said Henry, who did not see Anglican journals. He addedvaguely, "The Pope sent a telegram...." For when people spoke to himof Church life, he said "the Pope" mechanically; it was his naturalreaction to the subject.

  "You interest me," said the English clergyman. "For the second timeyou have mentioned the Pope to me. Are you, perhaps, a RomanCatholic?"

  "I suppose," Henry absently agreed, "that is what you would call it."

  "We do, you know," the clergyman apologised. "Forgive me if it seemsdiscourteous.... You know, then, of course, who that is, opposite?"

  Henry looked across the hall to the opposite gallery, and perceivedthat his companion was referring to a small, delicate-looking elderlyman, with the face of a priest and the clothes of a layman, who hadjust taken his seat there.

  "I do not indeed."

  "He is the ex-cardinal Franchi. You know him by reputation, ofcourse."

  "Wasn't he suspended for heresy? I have, I think, seen some of hisbooks."

  "He is a great scholar and a delightful writer. No one has gone moredeeply into medi?val Church history and modern theological criticism.So I am told, but I have not read him myself, as he prefers to writein Italian, though he has a perfect command of several other tongues."

  "Nor I, as I am not very much interested in Church history ortheological criticism. Besides, his writings are, I suppose,heretical."

  "I don't know as to that; I am no judge. But he was, I believe, as yousay, retired for heresy. And now he lives in the most delightful ofmedi?val ch?teaux at Monet, a little village up the lake. I have beento see him there. If I may, I will introduce you. He enjoys making theacquaintance of his co-religionists. In this Calvinistic part of theworld the educated classes are nearly all Protestants. The ex-cardinaldoes not care for Protestants; he finds them parvenus and bourgeois.He is a delightfully courteous host, however, even to those, and awonderful talker. And his heart is in the League. A wit, a scholar, anaristocrat, a _bon-viveur_, and a philanthropist. If your Churchretains many priests as good as those she expels, she is to becongratulated."

  "She is," Henry agreed. "She can afford to fling out one or two by theway. Yes; I would like to know him, the ex-cardinal; he looks wittyand shrewd, and at the same time an idealist.... But how late they arein beginning. My watch is seldom right, but I imagine it must be afterten-thirty."

  The young man Grattan, with whom Henry had dined last night, loungedin, with his cynical smile.

  "You're very young and innocent, Beechtree. I suppose you've been heresince ten. It's just on eleven now. The President's not to hand and noone seems to know where he is. Oh, well, it's not his fault; peoplespoil him. His head's turned, poor Svensen. I expect he made a nightof it and is lying in this morning. I don't blame him. We don't need aPresident. But there seems to be some unrest among the Secretariat."

  This seemed, indeed, to be so. The members of this body, standingabout the hall and platform, were animated and perturbed; themore irresponsible juniors seemed amused, others anxious. TheSecretary-General was talking gravely to another high official.

  The correspondent of the _Daily Insurance_, who had been talking inthe hall to the delegates and Secretariat, watched by Henry from abovewith some envy, at this point entered the Press Gallery, edged his wayto his seat, picked up the papers he had deposited there earlier, andmade rapidly for the exit.

  "Got a story already?" Grattan said to him.

  "No, but there may be one any moment. They've sent round to theMetropole, and Svensen didn't sleep in his bed. He never came in lastnight after dinner."

  He was off. Grattan whistled, and looked more cheerful.

  "That's good enough. That's a story in itself. Didn't sleep in hisbed. That's a headline all right. Good old Svensen. Here, I'm goingdown to hear more. Mustn't let Jefferson get ahead of us. Comealong, Beechtree, and nose things out. This will be nuts for ourreaders. Even your crabbed paper will have to give a column to SvensenNot Sleeping in his Bed. Can't you see all the little eyes lightingup?"

  He rushed away, and Henry followed. Meanwhile the bell was rung andMM. les D?l?gu?s took their seats. The deputy-President, the delegatefor Belgium, took the chair. The President, he announced, wasunfortunately not yet in attendance. Pending his arrival, the Assemblywould, since time pressed, proceed with the order of the day, whichwas the election of committees.... The Assembly, always ready to vote,began to do so. It would keep them busy for some time.

  10

  Meanwhile Henry stood about in the lobby, where a greater excitementand buzz of talk than usual went on. Where was Dr. Svensen? The othermembers of the Norwegian delegation could throw no light on thequestion. He had dined last night at the Beau Rivage, with the Britishdelegation; he had left that hotel soon after eleven, on foot; he hadmeant, presumably, to walk back to the Metropole, which stood behindthe Jardin Anglais, on the Mont Blanc side. The hall porter at theMetropole asserted that he had never returned there. The Norwegiandelegation, not see
ing him in the morning, had presumed that he hadgone out early; but now the hotel staff declared that he had not spentthe night in the hotel.

  "He probably thought he would go for a long walk; the night was fine,"Jefferson, who knew his habits, suggested. "Or for a row up the lake.The sort of thing Svensen _would_ do."

  "In that case he's drowned," said Grattan, who was of a forthrightmanner of speech. "He's a business-like fellow, Svensen. He'd haveturned up in time for the show if he could, even after a night out."

  The next thing was to inquire of the boat-keepers, and messengers weredespatched to do this.

  "I am afraid it looks rather serious," remarked a soft, grave,important voice behind Henry's back. "I am pretty intimate withSvensen; I was lunching with him only yesterday, as it happens. Hedidn't say a word then of any plan for a night expedition, I am afraidit looks sadly like an accident of some sort."

  "Perspicacious fellow," muttered Jefferson, who did not like CharlesWilbraham.

  Henry edged away: neither did he like Charles Wilbraham. He did noteven turn his face towards him.

  He jostled into his friend the English clergyman, who said, "Ah, Mr.Beechtree. I want to introduce you to Dr. Franchi." He led Henry bythe arm to the corner where the alert-looking ex-cardinal stood,talking with the Spaniard whom Henry had noticed in the lift at theSecretariat buildings.

  "Mr. Beechtree, Your Eminence," said the Reverend Cyril Waring, whochose by the use of this title to show at once his respect for theex-cardinal, his contempt for the bigotry which had unfrocked him, andhis disgust at the scandalous tongues which whispered that thereason for his unfrocking had been less heresy than the possession ofa wife, or even wives. If Canon Waring had heard these spiteful_on-dits_, he paid no attention to them; he was a high-mindedenthusiast, and knew a gentleman and a scholar when he saw one.

  "The correspondent of the _British Bolshevist_," he added, "and aco-religionist of Your Eminence's."

  The ex-cardinal gave Henry his delicate hand, and a shrewd andagreeable smile.

  "I am glad to meet you, Mr. Beechtree. You must come and see me oneday, if you will, at my lake villa. It is a pleasant expedition, and abeautiful spot."

  He spoke excellent English with a slight accent. A thousand pities,thought Henry, that such a delightful person should be a heretic--sucha heretic as to have been unfrocked. Why, indeed, should any one be aheretic? Atheism was natural enough, but heresy seemed strange. For,surely, if one could believe anything, one could believe everything.For his part, he believed everything....

  Nevertheless, he accepted the invitation with pleasure. It would be atrip, and Henry loved trips, particularly up lakes.

  Dr. Franchi, observing the young journalist with approbation, likinghis sensitive and polite face, saw it grow suddenly sullen, evenspiteful, at the sound of a voice raised in conversation not far fromhim.

  "Perhaps you will do me the honour of lunching with me, M. Kratzky. Ihave a little party coming, including Suliman Bey...."

  M. Kratzky was, in his way, the most deeply and profuselyblood-stained of Russians. One of the restored Monarchist government,he it was who had organised and converted the Tche-ka to Monarchistuse, till they became in his hands an instrument of perfect and deadlyefficiency, sparing neither age, infancy, nor ill-health. M. Kratzkyhad devised a system of espionage so thorough, of penalties sodrastic, that few indeed were safe from torture, confinement, ordeath, and most experienced all three. One would scarcely say that theWhite tyranny was worse than the Red had been, or worse than the Whitebefore that (one would indeed scarcely say that any Russian governmentwas appreciably worse than any other); but it was to the full as bad,and Kratzky (the Butcher of Odessa, as his nickname was), was itschief tyrant. And here was Charles Wilbraham taking the butcher'sblood-stained hand and asking him to lunch. What Mr. Wickham Steedused to feel of those who asked the Bolsheviks to lunch at Genoa inApril, 1922, Henry now felt of Charles Wilbraham, only more so. AndSuliman Bey too ... a ghastly Turk; for Turk (whatever you might thinkof Russians) _were_ ghastly; the very thought of them, for all theiragreeable manners, turned Henry, who was squeamish about physicalcruelty, sick. God, what a lunch party!

  "You know our friend Mr. Wilbraham, I expect," said Dr. Franchi.

  "Scarcely," said Henry. "He wouldn't know me."

  "A very efficient young man. He has that air."

  "He has. But not really very clever, you know. It's largely put on....I'm told. He likes to _seem_ to know everything ... so I've heard."

  "A common peccadillo." The ex-cardinal waved it aside with a large andtolerant gesture. "But we do not, most of us, succeed in it."

  "Oh, Wilbraham doesn't succeed. Indeed no. Most people see at oncethat he is just a solemn ass. That face, you know ... like amushroom...."

  "Ah, that is a Bernard Shaw phrase. A bad play, that, but excellentdialogue.... But he is good-looking, Mr. Wilbraham."

  Henry moodily supposed that he was. "In a sort of smug, cold way," headmitted.

  "E cosa fa tra questo bel giovanotto e quel Charles Wilbraham?"wondered the ex-cardinal, within himself.

  11

  Henry left the Salle de la Reformation and went out into the town tolook for further light on the mystery. How proud he would be if heshould collect more information about it than the other journalists!Than Jefferson, for instance, who was always ahead in these things,interviewing statesmen, getting statements made to him.... No one madestatements to Henry; he never liked to ask for them. But he was, heflattered himself, as good as any one else at nosing out news stories,mysteries, and so forth.

  Musing deeply, he walked to the ice-cream caf?, close to the AssemblyHall. There he ordered an ice of mixed framboise, pistachio, andcoffee, and some iced raspberry syrup, and sat outside under theawning, slowly enjoying the ice, sucking the syrup through straws, andthinking. He always thought best while eating well too; with him, aswith many others, high living and high thinking went together, orwould have, only lack of the necessary financial and cerebral meansprecluded much practice of either.

  While yet in the middle of the raspberry syrup he suddenly lifted hismouth from the straws, ejaculated softly, and laughed.

  "It is a possibility," he muttered. "A possibility, worth followingup.... Odder things have happened ... are happening, all the time....In fact, this is not at all an odd thing...." Decisively he rapped onthe table for his bill, paid for his meal, and rose to go, notforgetting first to finish his raspberry syrup.

  He walked briskly along the side of the lake to the Molard jetty,where he found a _mouette_ in act to start for the other side. How heloved these _mouette_ rides, the quick rush through blue water, halfGeneva on either side, and the narrow shave under the Pont du MontBlanc. He was always afraid that one day they would not quite manageit, but would hit the bridge; it was a fear of which he could not getrid. He always held his breath as they rushed under the bridge, andlet it out in relief as they emerged safely beyond it. How cheap itwas: a lake trip for fifteen centimes! Henry was sorry when theyreached the other side. He walked thoughtfully up from the landingstage to the Secretariat, where he ascended to the room of Mr.Wilbraham. Mr. Wilbraham was not, of course, there; he was over at theAssembly Hall. But his secretary was there; a cheerful young ladytyping letters with extraordinary efficiency and rapidity.