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

"Oh," said Henry, "I'm sorry. I thought Mr. Wilbraham might possiblybe here."

  "No," said the young lady agreeably. "He is over at the Assembly. Willyou leave a message?"

  Henry laid his hat and cane on a table, and strode about the room. Alarge pleasant room it was, with a good carpet; the kind of room thatCharles Wilbraham would have, and always did have.

  "No. No, I'll look in again. Or I'll see him over there thisafternoon." He looked at his watch. "Lunch time. How quickly themorning has gone. It always does; don't you find that? And more sothan usual when it's an exciting morning like this."

  "It is exciting, isn't it. Have they found him yet? I do admire him,don't you?"

  "Completely. No, they haven't found him. Mr. Wilbraham says it lookssadly like an accident of some sort."

  She acknowledged his imitation of Mr. Wilbraham's voice with a smile.

  "That would be tragic. Svensen, of all the delegates! One wouldn'tmind most of them disappearing a bit. Some of them would be goodriddances."

  "Well," said Henry, changing the subject, "if we're both going out tolunch, can't we lunch together? I'm Beechtree, of the _BritishBolshevist_."

  Miss Doris Wembley looked at Beechtree, rather liked him, and said,"Right. But I must finish one letter first."

  She proceeded with her efficient, rapid, and noisy labours. She didnot need to look at the keyboard, she was like that type of knitterwho knits the while she gazes into space; she had learnt "Now is thetime for all good men to come to the help of the party."

  Henry, strolling round the room, observing details, had time tospeculate absently on the wonderful race of typists. He had inthe past known many of them well, and felt towards them a regarduntouched by glamour. How, he had often thought, they took life forgranted, unquestioning, unwondering, accepting, busy eternally withlabours they understood so little, performed so well, rattlingout their fusillade of notes that formed words they knew not of,sentences that, uncomprehended, yet did not puzzle them or give thempause, on topics which they knew only as occasioning cascades ofwords. To them one word was the same, very nearly the same, asanother of similar length; words had features, but no souls; didthey fail to decipher the features of one of them, another of thesame dimensions would do. And what commas they wielded, what colons,what semis, what stops! But efficient they were, all the same, forthey were usually approximately right, and always incredibly quick.Henry knew that those stenographers who had been taken out to Genevawere, in the main, of a more sophisticated order, of a higherintellectual equipment. But Charles Wilbraham's secretary was of theingenuous type. Probably the more sophisticated would not stay withhim. A pretty girl she was, with a round brown face, kind dark eyes,and a wide, sweet, and dimpling mouth. Henry, like every one else,liked a girl to be pretty, but, quite unlike most young men, hepreferred her to be witty. The beauty of the dull bored him verysoon; Henry had his eccentricities. He did not think that MissWembley was going to be amusing, but still, he intended to cultivateher acquaintance.

  Henry looked at his watch. It was twelve forty-five. "Can't the restwait?" he said.

  "I'm just on done. It's a re-type I'm doing. I spelt parliament with asmall p, and Mr. Wilbraham said he couldn't send it, not even if Irubbed it out with the eraser. He said it would show, and it was tothe F.O., who are very particular."

  "My God," Henry ejaculated, in a low yet violent tone, and gave abitter laugh. His eyes gleamed fiercely. "I can imagine," he said,with restraint, "that Mr. Wilbraham might be particular. He _looks_particular."

  "Well, he is, rather. But he's quite right, I suppose. Messy letterslook too awful. Some men will sign simply anything. I don't likethat.... There, now I've done."

  "Come along then," said Henry rapidly.

  12

  The Assembly met again at four o'clock, and proceeded under theDeputy President with the order of the day. But it was a half-heartedbusiness. No one was really interested in anything except the fate ofDr. Svensen, who, it had transpired from inquiry among theboat-keepers, had not taken a boat on the lake last night.

  "Foul play," said the journalist Grattan, hopefully. "Obviously foulplay."

  "Ask the Bolshevist refugees," the _Times_ correspondent said with ashrug. For he had no opinion of these people, and believed them tobe engaged in a continuous plot against the peace of the world, incombination with the Germans. The _Morning Post_ was inclined toagree, but held that O'Shane, the delegate from the Irish Free State,was in it too. Whenever any unpleasant incident occurred, at home orabroad (such as murders, robberies, bank failures, higher income tax,Balkan wars, strikes, troubles in Ireland, or cocaine orgies), the_Times_ said, "Ask the Bolshevists and the Germans," and the _MorningPost_ said, "Ask the Bolshevists and the Germans by all means,but more particularly ask Sinn Fein," just as the _Daily Herald_said, "Ask the capitalists and Scotland Yard," and some eminent_litt?rateurs_, "Ask the Jews." We must all have our whipping-boys,our criminal suspects; without them sin and disaster would be tootragically diffused for our comfort. Henry Beechtree's suspect wasCharles Wilbraham. He knew that he suspected Charles Wilbraham tooreadily; Wilbraham could not conceivably have committed all the sinsof which Henry was fain to believe him guilty. Henry knew this, andkept a guard on his own over-readiness, lest it should betray himinto rash accusation. Information; evidence; that was what he had tocollect.

  The question was, as an intelligent member of the Secretariat pointedout, who stood to benefit by the disappearance of Svensen from thescenes? Find the motive for a deed, and very shortly you will find thedoer. Had Svensen a private enemy? No one knew. Many personsdisapproved of the line he was apt to take in public affairs: hewanted to waste money on feeding hungry Russians ("No one is sorrierthan my tender-hearted nation for starving persons," the otherdelegates would say, "but we have no money to send them, and are notRussians always hungry?") and was in an indecent hurry aboutdisarmament, which should be a slow and patient process. ("No one ismore anxious than my humane nation for peace," said the delegates,"but there is a dignified caution to be observed.") Yes; many personsdisagreed with Svensen as to the management of the affairs of theworld; but surely no one would make away with him on that account.Far more likely did it seem that he had inadvertently stumbled intothe lake, after dining well. What an end to so great and good a man!

  13

  Lord Burnley, the senior British delegate, that distinguished,notable, and engaging figure in the League, had, as has been saidearlier, a strange addiction to walking. This afternoon, having partedfrom his friends outside the Assembly Hall, he started, as was afavourite pastime of his, to walk through the older and morepicturesque streets of the city, for which he had a great taste.

  As he strolled in his leisurely manner up the Rue de la Cit?, stoppingnow and then to look at its antique and curious shops, he came to abook shop, whose outside shelf was stocked with miscellaneousliterature. Lord Burnley, who could seldom pass an old bookshopwithout pausing, stopped to glance at the row of paper-backs, andwas caught by a familiar large bound book among them. Familiarindeed, for was it not one of his own works? He put on his glasses andlooked closer. Yes: the volume was inscribed _Scepticism as a Basisfor Faith_, by George Burnley. And printed on a paper label below thetitle, was the inscription, "Special Edition, recently annotated bythe Author."

  Strange! Lord Burnley was puzzled. For neither recently nor at anyother time was he conscious of having issued a special annotatededition of this work.

  For a minute or two he pondered, standing on the pavement. Then,deciding to inquire further into this thing, he stooped his head andshoulders and passed under the low lintel into the little dark shop.

  14

  Henry, having left the Assembly, sent off his message to his newspaper(it was entirely about the disappearance of Dr. Svensen), glanced intohis pigeon-hole on his way out, and found there, among varioussuperfluous documents, a note addressed to him by the ex-cardinalFranchi, suggesting that, if he should not find himself betteremployed, he should give the write
r his company at dinner at eighto'clock that evening, at his villa at Monet, two miles up the lake. Hewould find a small electric launch waiting for him at seven-thirty atthe Eaux-Vives jetty, in which would be Dr. Franchi's niece, who hadbeen attending the Assembly that afternoon.

  "Excellent," thought Henry. "I will go." For he was greatly attractedby Dr. Franchi, and liked also to dine out, and to have a trip up toMonet in a motor launch.

  He went back to his indigent rooms in the All?e Petit Chat, and washedand dressed. (Fortunately, he had at no time a heavy beard, so did nothave to shave in the evenings.) Well-dressed he was not, even in hisevening clothes, which were a cast-off of his brother's, and not, asevening clothes should be, faultless; but still they passed, and Henryalways looked rather nice.

  "Not a bad face," he reflected, surveying it in the dusty speckledglass. "A trifle weak perhaps. I _am_ a trifle weak; that is so. But,on the whole, the face of a gentleman and a decent fellow. And notdevoid of intelligence.... Interesting, to see one's own face.Especially in this odd glass. Now I must be off. Hat, stick, overcoat,scarf--that is everything."

  He walked down to the Eaux-Vives jetty, where a smart electric launchdid indeed await him, and in it a young lady of handsome appearance,who regarded him with friendly interest and said, in pronouncedAmerican with an Italian accent, "I'm real pleased to meet you, Mr.Beechtree. Step right in. We'll start at once."

  Henry stepped right in, and sat down by this prepossessing girl.

  "I must introduce myself," she said. "My name is Gina Longfellow, andI'm Dr. Franchi's niece."

  "What excellent English you talk," said Henry politely.

  "American," she corrected him. "My father was a native of Joliet, Ill.Are you acquainted with the Middle West?"

  "I've travelled there," said Henry, and repressed a shudder, for hehad found the Middle West deplorable. He preferred South America.

  "I am related to the poet," said Miss Longfellow. "That great poet whowrote _Hiawatha_, _Evangeline_, and _The Psalm of Life_. Possibly youcame across him out in the States?"

  "No," said Henry. "I fancy he was even then dead. You are a descendantof his?"

  "A descendant--yes. I remember now; he died, poor nonno.... The lakepleases you, Mr. Beechtree?"

  "Indeed, yes. It is very beautiful."

  Miss Longfellow's fine dark eyes had a momentary flicker ofresentment. Most young men looked at her, but Mr. Beechtree at thelake, with his melancholy brooding eyes. Henry liked handsome youngwomen well enough, but he admired scenery more. The smooth shimmer ofthe twilight waters, still holding the flash of sunset, the twinklingcity of lights they were swiftly leaving behind them at the lake'shead, the smaller constellations of the lakeside villages on eitherhand--these made on Henry, whose ?sthetic nerve was sensitive, anunsteadying impression.

  Miss Longfellow recalled his attention.

  "Do you think the League will last?" she inquired sharply. "Do youlike Geneva? Do you think the League will be moved somewhere else?Isn't it a real pity the French are so obstructionist? Will theAmericans come in?"

  Henry adjusted his monocle and looked at her in some surprise.

  "Well," she said impatiently, "I guess you're used to those questionsby now."

  "But you've left out the latest," Henry said. "What do you think canhave happened to Svensen?"

  "Ah, there you have us all guessing," she amiably returned. "PoorSvensen. Who'd have thought it of him?"

  "Thought what?"

  "Why, this. He always seemed such a white man. My, isn't it queer whatpeople will do?"

  Henry, who had been brought up on Dr. Svensen's narrations of hisArctic explorations, and greatly revered him, said, "But I don'tbelieve he's done anything."

  "Not done a get-away, you mean? Well now, why should he, after all?Perhaps he fell right into this deep lake after dining, and couldn'tget out, poveretto. Yet he was a real fine swimmer they say."

  "Most improbable," said Henry, who had dismissed that hypothesisalready. He leant forward and spoke discreetly. "I fancy, MissLongfellow, there are those in Geneva who could throw some light onthis affair if they chose."

  "You don't say! Dio mio! Now isn't that quite a notion!" MissLongfellow was interested. "Why, Mr. Beechtree, you don't suspect foulplay, do you?"

  Henry nodded.

  "I suppose I rather easily suspect foul play," he candidly admitted."It's more interesting, and I'm a journalist. But in this case thereare reasons----"

  "Now isn't this too terribly exciting! Reasons! Just you tell me allyou know, Mr. Beechtree, if it's not indiscreet. Non son'giornalista, io!"

  "I don't _know_ anything. Except that there are people who might beglad to get Svensen out of the way."

  "But who are they? I thought every one respected him ever so!"

  "Respect is akin to fear," said Henry.

  On that dictum, the launch took a swift turn to the right, and dashedtowards a jetty which bore on a board above it the words, "Ch?teauL?man. Defense."

  "A private jetty," said Henry.

  "Yes. The village jetty is beyond. This is my uncle's. That path onlyleads up to the Ch?teau."

  They disembarked, and climbed up a steep path which led through awrought iron gate into a walled garden that ran down to the lake'sedge. Henry, who was romantic, said, "How very delightful. How old isthe Ch?teau?"

  "Chi sa? Real old, I can tell you. Ask Uncle Silvio. He's great onhistory. He's for ever writing historical books. History andheresy--Dio mio! That is why they turned him out of the Church, youknow."

  "So I heard.... Are you a Catholic, Miss Longfellow?"

  She gave a little shrug.

  "I was brought up Catholic. Women believe what they are taught, as arule, don't they?"

  "I hadn't observed it," Henry said, "particularly. Are women so unlikemen then?"

  "That's quite a question, isn't it. What do you think?"

  "I can't think in large sections and masses of people," Henry replied."Women are so different one from another. So are men. That's all I cansee, when people talk of the sexes."

  "_Macch?!_ You don't say!" said Miss Longfellow, looking at himinquiringly. "Most people always think in large masses of people. Theyfind it easier, more convenient, more picturesque."

  "It is indeed so," Henry admitted. "But less accurate. Accuracy--doyou agree with me?--is of an importance very greatly underestimated bythe majority of persons."

  "I guess," said Miss Longfellow, not interested, "you're quite aclever young man."

  Henry replied truthfully, "Indeed, no," and at this point they turneda bend in the path and the ch?teau was before them in the eveninglight; an arcaded, balconied, white-washed building, vine-covered andred-roofed, with queer outside staircases and green-shuttered windows,many of which were lit. Certainly old, though restored. A little wayfrom it was a small belfried chapel.

  "Charming," said Henry, removing his eyeglass the better to look."Amazingly charming."

  A big door stood open and through this they passed into a hall lit bylarge hanging lamps and full of dogs, or so it seemed to Henry, for onall sides they rose to stare at him, to sniff at his ankles, for themost part with the air of distaste commonly adopted towards Henry bythese friends of man.

  "You're not a dog lover?" Miss Longfellow suggested, and Henry againreplied that he could not like or dislike his fellows in largesections; some dogs he liked, others not, as with men, women, andchildren.

  "But I guess they don't like you very much," she returned, shrewdlyobserving their manners to him. "Now isn't that cute, how they take tosome people and not to others. They all love Uncle Silvio on sight.Stray dogs follow him in the road and won't leave him. Half these arestrays.... They know he likes them, that's what it is. Dogs alwaysknow, they say, don't they."

  "Know what?" asked Henry, suspicious that she meant that dogs know agood character from a bad, which was what "they" ("they" meaning thegreat collection of noodles who constitute the public) do actuallysay. The things "they" say! They even sa
y that children too (the mostfoolish of God's creatures) have this intuitive knowledge; they saythat to drink hot tea makes you cooler, that it is more tiring goingdown-hill than up, that honesty is the best policy, that love makesthe world go round, that "literally" bears the same meaning as"metaphorically" ("she was literally a mother to him," they will say),that an apple a day keeps the doctor away, that those who say leastfeel most, that one must live. There is truly no limit to what "they,"in their folly, will say. So Henry, wincing among the suspicious dogs,moodily, and not for the first time, reflected.

  Miss Longfellow did not answer his inquiry, but stood in the hall andcried, "Zio!" in a voice like a May cuckoo's.

  A door opened, and in a moment Dr. Franchi, small and frail andcharming, came forward with a sweet smile and hand outstretched,through a throng of fawning, grinning dogs.

  "A pleasure indeed, Mr. Beechtree."

  "He is like Leo XIII.," was Henry's thought. "Strange, that he shouldbe a heretic!"

  15

  They sat at dinner on a terrace, under hanging lamps, looking out atthe lake through vine-festooned arches. The moon rose, like thesegment of an orange, sending a softly glowing path to them acrossblack water. Here and there the prow lanterns of boats rosily gleamed.The rest was violet shadow.

  How Henry, after his recent experiences of cheap caf?s, again enjoyedeating a meal fit for a gentleman. Radiant silver, napery like snow(for, in the old fashion still in use on the continent, Dr. Franchihad a fair linen cloth spread over his dinner-table; there is no doubtbut that this extravagant habit gives an old-world charm to a meal),food and wines of the most agreeable, conversation to the liking ofall three talkers (which is, after all, the most that can be said ofany conversation), one of the loveliest views in Europe, and gentlenight air--Henry was indeed fortunate. How kind, he reflected, wasthis ex-cardinal, who, having met him but once, asked him to such apleasant entertainment. Why was it? He must try to be worthy of it, toseem cultivated and agreeable and intelligent. But Henry knew that hewas none of these things; continually he had to be playing a part,trying to hide his folly under a pretence of being like other people,sensible and informed and amusing, whereas really he was more like ananimal, interested in the foolish and fleeting impressions of themoment. He was not fit for a gentleman's dinner-table.