IN WHICH ARTHUR WHARTON FINDS A TRAVELLING COMPANION, BUT NOTHING
ELSE OF IMPORTANCE
Arthur Wharton was seldom slow in putting two and two together, and the
sum in simple arithmetic which Lord Ealing had set him presented no
difficulties. He had read about the Radlett case in the evening papers:
his uncle had told him that John Pasquett was Radlett's partner, and he
was fully aware that the Anglo-Asiatic was trusting for the revival of
its fortunes to a big Russian deal with Radlett.
Apparently, Radlett's murder had upset Lord Ealing's calculations,
and he had very special reasons for desiring that Pasquett should be
found at once. It needed little perspicacity to see that the police
would also want to find Pasquett, in case he could throw any light on
the crime, or to conclude from Lord Ealing's way of proceeding that he
wanted to be beforehand with the police in seeing Radlett's partner.
Evidently, this was the purpose of his mission, and it seemed best not
to inquire too closely into his uncle's motives in trying to steal a
march on the police. The effect was to give him what would probably be
an enjoyable trip. He had often wanted to visit Poland, and had never
done so. And his mission, he told himself, was quite innocent. He had
only to deliver his letters and come back with Pasquett at once.
Arthur saw Lord Ealing again that afternoon before leaving on the boat
train for Paris, where he was to pick up the air route to Warsaw. His
uncle stressed again the strictly confidential nature of his mission,
and gave him a packet of letters. "Mr. Franklin's is there, as well as
mine," he said, and wished his nephew good speed and a pleasant journey.
Arthur knew his Paris. He made no stay there, going straight from the
boat train to the aerodrome, where he would find the plane that would
take him to Warsaw. His seat had already been booked by telephone. As
he was waiting for the plane to start, he saw a car drive up. In it
was a tall, fair man, with blue eyes and a cheerful expression, and a
tall, dark girl of striking beauty, who occupied the driver's seat.
Arthur watched them alight, and saw them say good-bye in the manner of
old friends. He began half-consciously wondering who they were. Not
lovers, he thought; but certainly not brother and sister. Yet there
was surely some close bond between them. They looked, he decided,
like fellow-adventurers, close friends too busy thinking about their
common affairs to have thought of falling in love with each other. An
attractive pair, he said to himself.
He was glad, therefore, when, having said farewell to the girl and
talked to her earnestly for a few minutes, as if he were giving her
careful instructions, the man came towards where he was standing, and
inquired of a mechanic whether this was the plane for Warsaw. Arthur
was glad the man with the laughing eyes was to be his fellow-passenger.
He observed him closely as he stood talking to the mechanic, noting his
great strength and physical vigour. The man looked somewhere between
thirty-five and forty. He had an air of maturity, of being at the very
height of all his powers, mental and physical. He carried himself well
and easily, with a light swing of the shoulders as he walked. His blue
eyes laughed as he passed some jest with the mechanic. Arthur could see
he was the kind of man who made friends at once.
So, when they were bidden take their seats, Arthur climbed gladly into
a place beside the unknown, and at once found a way of opening up talk
with him. From the weather they soon passed to more interesting topics,
especially to discussing the men and countries they had seen. Arthur
soon discovered that his new acquaintance had been a great traveller.
He seemed to know every part of Europe, from Paris to Moscow. He knew
Russia well, and America no less well. London he knew slightly, but
the rest of England not at all. Arthur was puzzled to discover his
nationality. He did not talk like an American, or, quite, like an
Englishman. His English was perfect, but he used some American turns
of phrase, and there was a faint suggestion of French in his accent.
Arthur tried, by talking about himself and his career at Oxford
(saying, of course, nothing of his confidential mission), to make his
fellow-passenger do the same. At length he asked him point-blank what
his nationality was. "I was born a British subject," was the reply,
"but I think I'm a cosmopolitan. I'm at home everywhere."
Arthur did not pursue the subject, and their talk turned to other
things. They discussed everything--politics, art, commerce, the ways
of women--nothing seemed to come amiss to the stranger. At Prague they
had a longish wait, due to some trouble with the engine. They took a
meal together, and then went together to see the sights--or rather the
stranger showed Arthur the city, with which he was well acquainted.
When at length they reached Warsaw, Arthur was sorry to part with
his new acquaintance, who seemed already like a friend. He had, it
appeared, urgent business in the city, and was making no stay. Not till
he had gone did Arthur fully realise that, though they had spoken of
most things, neither had learnt the other's name. Only with Englishmen,
he told himself, would that have been possible. The stranger must be an
Englishman, who had picked up his Americanisms and his slightly foreign
accent through long residence abroad. An American or a foreigner would
have been certain to say who he was. Arthur's psychology was a little
insular: he had been trained at Oxford.
At Warsaw, Arthur booked a room at the Hotel Foch, which has an
excellent cuisine, and, after a good meal, began his search at once.
The Hotel Foch itself knew nothing of John Pasquett. No one of that
name had been staying there of late. He would need to go further
afield. Armed with a list of the principal hotels in the town, and
finding no difficulty in making himself understood with his excellent
French, varied occasionally by a few words of German, he went his
round. At the fifth attempt he had some success. He was told at the
Hotel of Poland and the Universe that a Mr. Robertson had left that
very afternoon, after spending a week in the hotel. He was a business
gentleman from Reval, who had stayed there several times before.
Robertson is a common enough name, but there were hardly likely to be
two Robertsons at a place like Reval. And "Robertson, Reval," was the
postal address at which Lord Ealing had communicated with Radlett.
Probably Robertson would be in touch with Pasquett. Robertson, it
appeared, was short and stout, with a fair moustache, bald, probably
about fifty years of age. He had left no address. Having only light
luggage with him, he had walked away carrying it, at about three
o'clock in the afternoon, in the direction of the main railway station.
Arthur now found himself in a dilemma. It was not Robertson he really
wanted, but Pasquett. Should he follow up Robertson, and endeavour to
get on Pasquett's track with his help? Or had he better resume his
search for Pasquett himself? He decided finally on the latter course.
If he could get no direct clue to Pasquett's whereabouts, he could
follow up Robertson later. But, in any case, it was too late to do more
that evening. He returned to his hotel and went to bed.
Before going to bed, however, he wrote out a message to be telegraphed
to his uncle as soon as the office opened in the morning. "No trace yet
of P.," he wrote. "Robertson of Reval left here to-day. Am pursuing
inquiries. Wire any instructions Hotel Foch.--WHARTON."
On the following morning he returned to his search. The British
Embassy, which he tried first, had records of Pasquett's presence in
Warsaw on previous occasions, but none of his having been recently
in the city. The American Embassy had never heard of him. Arthur
next spent a considerable time in vain inquiries at the remaining
hotels, followed by a fruitless hour at the railway station, where he
interrogated voluble but unhelpful porters and officials. But he had no
idea what Pasquett looked like, and he soon saw that this made all such
inquiries fruitless. He next tried the Warsaw police, who were most
polite, but could give him no word of Pasquett. At length he made up
his mind to return to Robertson's hotel and try to get on his track, as
a means of tracing Pasquett indirectly.
Then followed three days of energetic but, for a long time,
unproductive activity. He managed to find a Warsaw merchant who had
seen Robertson. Robertson, he heard, had gone to Prague. Arthur chased
him there, only to discover that he had gone to Berlin. Again Arthur
followed, and at last ran Robertson to earth in a Berlin hotel. But
here again disappointment awaited him. Robertson knew Pasquett, and
had been in Warsaw up to the very day of Arthur's arrival there; but
he had not seen Pasquett there, and did not know of his presence in
the city. All he could do was to give Arthur introductions to several
Warsaw merchants whom Pasquett might have been to see. He himself had
last seen Pasquett in Reval, two months before. He did not know Radlett
personally, but he said that Pasquett had often spoken of him, and he
expressed horror at the circumstances of his death. With an intimate
knowledge of Russian affairs, Robertson totally refused to accept the
theory that Radlett had been killed by Bolsheviks.
Armed with Robertson's introductions, Arthur returned to Warsaw,
writing to Lord Ealing once again to explain how he had fared. All
through these days of fruitless inquiry, his uncle had sent him one
wire after another inciting him to continue his search, and he had
reported each stage of his unsuccessful progress. His second call at
Warsaw gave him something more definite to report. The merchant to whom
he put his question told him that Pasquett had come to see him on the
very day of Arthur's first arrival in Warsaw. But the man had no idea
where Pasquett had gone. He had come on business for the Paris firm of
Culpepper, and had left when his business was done, without any hint of
his destination. Arthur wired this news to his uncle, and continued his
inquiries. He found at length two more merchants on whom Pasquett had
paid business calls on the same day, but from neither could he get any
news of his later movements. It seemed evident that Pasquett had left
Warsaw, and it was still unknown where he had stayed while he was in
the city.
Arthur sent a despondent telegram to his uncle, and returned to his
hotel. But there he found awaiting him a wire from Lord Ealing. "P.
arrived here. Come back. E." it ran. So all his journeyings had been
for nothing, after all. As he had surmised at first, Pasquett had
gone straight back from Warsaw to London. Possibly he had heard of
his partner's murder, and had hastened to the scene of the crime.
Possibly he had only fulfilled his original plan. In either case,
he--Arthur--had been wasting his time.
Arthur returned to London at his leisure, allowing himself a free day
in Paris on his way home. He travelled this time by train and boat, and
it was a full week after his departure that he presented himself again
at the offices of the Anglo-Asiatic. He had accomplished nothing, but
he had enjoyed his wild-goose chase. And his failure did not matter,
since Pasquett had turned up in London of his own accord. His one
regret was that he had failed to exchange names and addresses with the
pleasant companion with whom he had travelled from Paris to Warsaw. The
man remained in his thoughts: Arthur wanted to meet him again.