and buzz of talk than usual went on. Where was Dr. Svensen? The other
members of the Norwegian delegation could throw no light on the
question. He had dined last night at the Beau Rivage, with the British
delegation; he had left that hotel soon after eleven, on foot; he had
meant, presumably, to walk back to the Metropole, which stood behind
the Jardin Anglais, on the Mont Blanc side. The hall porter at the
Metropole asserted that he had never returned there. The Norwegian
delegation, not seeing him in the morning, had presumed that he had
gone out early; but now the hotel staff declared that he had not spent
the 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 forthright
manner of speech. "He's a business-like fellow, Svensen. He'd have
turned 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 were
despatched to do this.
"I am afraid it looks rather serious," remarked a soft, grave,
important voice behind Henry's back. "I am pretty intimate with
Svensen; I was lunching with him only yesterday, as it happens. He
didn't say a word then of any plan for a night expedition, I am afraid
it looks sadly like an accident of some sort."
"Perspicacious fellow," muttered Jefferson, who did not like Charles
Wilbraham.
Henry edged away: neither did he like Charles Wilbraham. He did not
even 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 by
the arm to the corner where the alert-looking ex-cardinal stood,
talking with the Spaniard whom Henry had noticed in the lift at the
Secretariat buildings.
"Mr. Beechtree, Your Eminence," said the Reverend Cyril Waring, who
chose by the use of this title to show at once his respect for the
ex-cardinal, his contempt for the bigotry which had unfrocked him, and
his disgust at the scandalous tongues which whispered that the
reason for his unfrocking had been less heresy than the possession of
a wife, or even wives. If Canon Waring had heard these spiteful
_on-dits_, he paid no attention to them; he was a high-minded
enthusiast, and knew a gentleman and a scholar when he saw one.
"The correspondent of the _British Bolshevist_," he added, "and a
co-religionist of Your Eminence's."
The ex-cardinal gave Henry his delicate hand, and a shrewd and
agreeable smile.
"I am glad to meet you, Mr. Beechtree. You must come and see me one
day, if you will, at my lake villa. It is a pleasant expedition, and a
beautiful spot."
He spoke excellent English with a slight accent. A thousand pities,
thought Henry, that such a delightful person should be a heretic--such
a heretic as to have been unfrocked. Why, indeed, should any one be a
heretic? 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 a
trip, and Henry loved trips, particularly up lakes.
Dr. Franchi, observing the young journalist with approbation, liking
his sensitive and polite face, saw it grow suddenly sullen, even
spiteful, at the sound of a voice raised in conversation not far from
him.
"Perhaps you will do me the honour of lunching with me, M. Kratzky. I
have a little party coming, including Suliman Bey...."
M. Kratzky was, in his way, the most deeply and profusely
blood-stained of Russians. One of the restored Monarchist government,
he it was who had organised and converted the Tche-ka to Monarchist
use, till they became in his hands an instrument of perfect and deadly
efficiency, sparing neither age, infancy, nor ill-health. M. Kratzky
had devised a system of espionage so thorough, of penalties so
drastic, that few indeed were safe from torture, confinement, or
death, and most experienced all three. One would scarcely say that the
White tyranny was worse than the Red had been, or worse than the White
before that (one would indeed scarcely say that any Russian government
was appreciably worse than any other); but it was to the full as bad,
and Kratzky (the Butcher of Odessa, as his nickname was), was its
chief tyrant. And here was Charles Wilbraham taking the butcher's
blood-stained hand and asking him to lunch. What Mr. Wickham Steed
used to feel of those who asked the Bolsheviks to lunch at Genoa in
April, 1922, Henry now felt of Charles Wilbraham, only more so. And
Suliman Bey too ... a ghastly Turk; for Turk (whatever you might think
of Russians) _were_ ghastly; the very thought of them, for all their
agreeable manners, turned Henry, who was squeamish about physical
cruelty, 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 and
tolerant gesture. "But we do not, most of us, succeed in it."
"Oh, Wilbraham doesn't succeed. Indeed no. Most people see at once
that he is just a solemn ass. That face, you know ... like a
mushroom...."
"Ah, that is a Bernard Shaw phrase. A bad play, that, but excellent
dialogue.... But he is good-looking, Mr. Wilbraham."
Henry moodily supposed that he was. "In a sort of smug, cold way," he
admitted.
"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 to
look for further light on the mystery. How proud he would be if he
should 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 made
statements to Henry; he never liked to ask for them. But he was, he
flattered himself, as good as any one else at nosing out news stories,
mysteries, and so forth.
Musing deeply, he walked to the ice-cream café, close to the Assembly
Hall. There he ordered an ice of mixed framboise, pistachio, and
coffee, and some iced raspberry syrup, and sat outside under the
awning, slowly enjoying the ice, sucking the syrup through straws, and
thinking. He always thought best while eating well too; with him, as
with many others, high living and high thinking went together, or
would have, only lack of the necessary financial and cerebral means
precluded much practice of either.
While yet in the middle of the raspberry syrup he suddenly lifted his
mouth from the straws, ejaculated softly, and laughed.
"It is a possibility," he muttered. "A possibility, worth following
up.... Odder things have happened ... are happening, all the time....
In fact, this is not at all an odd thing...." Decisively he rapped on
the table for his bill, paid for his meal, and rose to go, not
forgetting 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 he
loved these _mouette_ rides, the quick rush through blue water, half
Geneva on either side, and the narrow shave under the Pont du Mont
Blanc. He was always afraid that one day they would not quite manage
it, but would hit the bridge; it was a fear of which he could not get
rid. He always held his breath as they rushed under the bridge, and
let it out in relief as they emerged safely beyond it. How cheap it
was: a lake trip for fifteen centimes! Henry was sorry when they
reached the other side. He walked thoughtfully up from the landing
stage to the Secretariat, where he ascended to the room of Mr.
Wilbraham. Mr. Wilbraham was not, of course, there; he was over at the
Assembly Hall. But his secretary was there; a cheerful young lady
typing letters with extraordinary efficiency and rapidity.
"Oh," said Henry, "I'm sorry. I thought Mr. Wilbraham might possibly
be here."
"No," said the young lady agreeably. "He is over at the Assembly. Will
you leave a message?"
Henry laid his hat and cane on a table, and strode about the room. A
large pleasant room it was, with a good carpet; the kind of room that
Charles Wilbraham would have, and always did have.
"No. No, I'll look in again. Or I'll see him over there this
afternoon." He looked at his watch. "Lunch time. How quickly the
morning has gone. It always does; don't you find that? And more so
than 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 looks
sadly 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't
mind most of them disappearing a bit. Some of them would be good
riddances."
"Well," said Henry, changing the subject, "if we're both going out to
lunch, can't we lunch together? I'm Beechtree, of the _British
Bolshevist_."
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 did
not need to look at the keyboard, she was like that type of knitter
who knits the while she gazes into space; she had learnt "Now is the
time for all good men to come to the help of the party."
Henry, strolling round the room, observing details, had time to
speculate absently on the wonderful race of typists. He had in
the past known many of them well, and felt towards them a regard
untouched by glamour. How, he had often thought, they took life for
granted, unquestioning, unwondering, accepting, busy eternally with
labours they understood so little, performed so well, rattling
out their fusillade of notes that formed words they knew not of,
sentences that, uncomprehended, yet did not puzzle them or give them
pause, on topics which they knew only as occasioning cascades of
words. To them one word was the same, very nearly the same, as
another of similar length; words had features, but no souls; did
they fail to decipher the features of one of them, another of the
same dimensions would do. And what commas they wielded, what colons,
what semis, what stops! But efficient they were, all the same, for
they were usually approximately right, and always incredibly quick.
Henry knew that those stenographers who had been taken out to Geneva
were, in the main, of a more sophisticated order, of a higher
intellectual equipment. But Charles Wilbraham's secretary was of the
ingenuous type. Probably the more sophisticated would not stay with
him. 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, he
preferred her to be witty. The beauty of the dull bored him very
soon; Henry had his eccentricities. He did not think that Miss
Wembley was going to be amusing, but still, he intended to cultivate
her acquaintance.
Henry looked at his watch. It was twelve forty-five. "Can't the rest
wait?" he said.
"I'm just on done. It's a re-type I'm doing. I spelt parliament with a
small p, and Mr. Wilbraham said he couldn't send it, not even if I
rubbed it out with the eraser. He said it would show, and it was to
the F.O., who are very particular."
"My God," Henry ejaculated, in a low yet violent tone, and gave a
bitter 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 letters
look too awful. Some men will sign simply anything. I don't like
that.... There, now I've done."
"Come along then," said Henry rapidly.
12
The Assembly met again at four o'clock, and proceeded under the
Deputy President with the order of the day. But it was a half-hearted
business. No one was really interested in anything except the fate of
Dr. Svensen, who, it had transpired from inquiry among the
boat-keepers, had not taken a boat on the lake last night.
"Foul play," said the journalist Grattan, hopefully. "Obviously foul
play."
"Ask the Bolshevist refugees," the _Times_ correspondent said with a
shrug. For he had no opinion of these people, and believed them to
be engaged in a continuous plot against the peace of the world, in
combination with the Germans. The _Morning Post_ was inclined to
agree, but held that O'Shane, the delegate from the Irish Free State,
was in it too. Whenever any unpleasant incident occurred, at home or
abroad (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 _Morning
Post_ 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
_littérateurs_, "Ask the Jews." We must all have our whipping-boys,
our criminal suspects; without them sin and disaster would be too
tragically diffused for our comfort. Henry Beechtree's suspect was
Charles Wilbraham. He knew that he suspected Charles Wilbraham too
readily; Wilbraham could not conceivably have committed all the sins
of which Henry was fain to believe him guilty. Henry knew this, and
kept a guard on his own over-readiness, lest it should betray him
into rash accusation. Information; evidence; that was what he had to
collect.
The question was, as an intelligent member of the Secretariat pointed
out, who stood to benefit by the disappearance of Svensen from the
scenes? Find the motive for a deed, and very shortly you will find the
doer. Had Svensen a private enemy? No one knew. Many persons
disapproved of the line he was apt to take in public affairs: he
wanted to waste money on feeding hungry Russians ("No one is sorrier
than my tender-hearted nation for starving persons," the other
delegates would say, "but we have no money to send them, and are not
Russians always hungry?") and was in an indecent hurry about
disarmament, which should be a slow and patient process. ("No one is
more anxious than my humane nation for peace," said the delegates,
"but there is a dignified caution to be observed.") Yes; many persons
disagreed with Svensen as to the management of the affairs of the
world; but surely no one would make away with him on that account.
Far more likely did it seem that he had inadvertently stumbled into
the 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 said
earlier, a strange addiction to walking. This afternoon, having parted
from his friends outside the Assembly Hall, he started, as was a
favourite pastime of his, to walk through the older and more
picturesque streets of the city, for which he had a great taste.
As he strolled in his leisurely manner up the Rue de la Cité, stopping
now and then to look at its antique and curious shops, he came to a
book shop, whose outside shelf was stocked with miscellaneous
literature. Lord Burnley, who could seldom pass an old bookshop
without pausing, stopped to glance at the row of paper-backs, and
was caught by a familiar large bound book among them. Familiar
indeed, for was it not one of his own works? He put on his glasses and
looked closer. Yes: the volume was inscribed _Scepticism as a Basis
for Faith_, by George Burnley. And printed on a paper label below the
title, was the inscription, "Special Edition, recently annotated by
the Author."
Strange! Lord Burnley was puzzled. For neither recently nor at any
other time was he conscious of having issued a special annotated
edition 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 and
shoulders 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 into
his pigeon-hole on his way out, and found there, among various
superfluous documents, a note addressed to him by the ex-cardinal
Franchi, suggesting that, if he should not find himself better
employed, he should give the writer his company at dinner at eight
o'clock that evening, at his villa at Monet, two miles up the lake. He
would find a small electric launch waiting for him at seven-thirty at
the Eaux-Vives jetty, in which would be Dr. Franchi's niece, who had
been attending the Assembly that afternoon.
"Excellent," thought Henry. "I will go." For he was greatly attracted
by Dr. Franchi, and liked also to dine out, and to have a trip up to
Monet in a motor launch.
He went back to his indigent rooms in the Allée Petit Chat, and washed
and dressed. (Fortunately, he had at no time a heavy beard, so did not
have to shave in the evenings.) Well-dressed he was not, even in his
evening clothes, which were a cast-off of his brother's, and not, as
evening clothes should be, faultless; but still they passed, and Henry
always looked rather nice.
"Not a bad face," he reflected, surveying it in the dusty speckled
glass. "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 not
devoid 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 launch
did indeed await him, and in it a young lady of handsome appearance,
who regarded him with friendly interest and said, in pronounced
American 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, and
I'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 he
had found the Middle West deplorable. He preferred South America.
"I am related to the poet," said Miss Longfellow. "That great poet who
wrote _Hiawatha_, _Evangeline_, and _The Psalm of Life_. Possibly you
came across him out in the States?"
"No," said Henry. "I fancy he was even then dead. You are a descendant
of his?"
"A descendant--yes. I remember now; he died, poor nonno.... The lake
pleases you, Mr. Beechtree?"
"Indeed, yes. It is very beautiful."
Miss Longfellow's fine dark eyes had a momentary flicker of
resentment. Most young men looked at her, but Mr. Beechtree at the
lake, with his melancholy brooding eyes. Henry liked handsome young
women well enough, but he admired scenery more. The smooth shimmer of
the twilight waters, still holding the flash of sunset, the twinkling
city of lights they were swiftly leaving behind them at the lake's
head, the smaller constellations of the lakeside villages on either
hand--these made on Henry, whose æsthetic nerve was sensitive, an
unsteadying impression.
Miss Longfellow recalled his attention.
"Do you think the League will last?" she inquired sharply. "Do you
like Geneva? Do you think the League will be moved somewhere else?
Isn't it a real pity the French are so obstructionist? Will the
Americans come in?"
Henry adjusted his monocle and looked at her in some surprise.
"Well," she said impatiently, "I guess you're used to those questions
by now."
"But you've left out the latest," Henry said. "What do you think can
have happened to Svensen?"
"Ah, there you have us all guessing," she amiably returned. "Poor
Svensen. Who'd have thought it of him?"
"Thought what?"
"Why, this. He always seemed such a white man. My, isn't it queer what
people will do?"
Henry, who had been brought up on Dr. Svensen's narrations of his
Arctic explorations, and greatly revered him, said, "But I don't
believe 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't
get out, poveretto. Yet he was a real fine swimmer they say."
"Most improbable," said Henry, who had dismissed that hypothesis
already. He leant forward and spoke discreetly. "I fancy, Miss
Longfellow, there are those in Geneva who could throw some light on
this affair if they chose."
"You don't say! Dio mio! Now isn't that quite a notion!" Miss
Longfellow was interested. "Why, Mr. Beechtree, you don't suspect foul
play, 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 there
are reasons----"
"Now isn't this too terribly exciting! Reasons! Just you tell me all
you know, Mr. Beechtree, if it's not indiscreet. Non son'
giornalista, io!"
"I don't _know_ anything. Except that there are people who might be
glad 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 dashed
towards a jetty which bore on a board above it the words, "Château
Léman. Defense."
"A private jetty," said Henry.
"Yes. The village jetty is beyond. This is my uncle's. That path only
leads up to the Château."
They disembarked, and climbed up a steep path which led through a
wrought iron gate into a walled garden that ran down to the lake's
edge. Henry, who was romantic, said, "How very delightful. How old is
the Château?"
"Chi sa? Real old, I can tell you. Ask Uncle Silvio. He's great on
history. He's for ever writing historical books. History and
heresy--Dio mio! That is why they turned him out of the Church, you
know."
"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 a
rule, don't they?"
"I hadn't observed it," Henry said, "particularly. Are women so unlike
men 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 can
see, when people talk of the sexes."
"_Macchè!_ You don't say!" said Miss Longfellow, looking at him
inquiringly. "Most people always think in large masses of people. They
find it easier, more convenient, more picturesque."
"It is indeed so," Henry admitted. "But less accurate. Accuracy--do
you agree with me?--is of an importance very greatly underestimated by
the majority of persons."
"I guess," said Miss Longfellow, not interested, "you're quite a
clever young man."
Henry replied truthfully, "Indeed, no," and at this point they turned
a bend in the path and the château was before them in the evening
light; an arcaded, balconied, white-washed building, vine-covered and
red-roofed, with queer outside staircases and green-shuttered windows,
many of which were lit. Certainly old, though restored. A little way
from 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 by
large hanging lamps and full of dogs, or so it seemed to Henry, for on
all sides they rose to stare at him, to sniff at his ankles, for the
most part with the air of distaste commonly adopted towards Henry by
these friends of man.
"You're not a dog lover?" Miss Longfellow suggested, and Henry again
replied that he could not like or dislike his fellows in large
sections; some dogs he liked, others not, as with men, women, and
children.