The Dark Frontier (13 page)

“But can we trust him? I tell you, since the Rovzidski affair, I am uneasy.”

“Colonel Marassin will look after Kortner. A word to the police in Berlin and it would be all up with him. As for your unhappiness, my friend, forget it and think of Bonn and Chicago.”

Kassen laughed. It was an unpleasant sound.

They had lapsed into Ixanian again. Carruthers waited for a moment, then, deciding that there was nothing more to be learnt there, silently worked his way back to the shelter of the bushes.

He had a lot to think about. The disquieting Colonel Marassin was obviously the man responsible for Rovzidski’s death and probably a prime mover in the Red Gauntlet Society of which Groom had spoken. There were other things, too: the mention of the factory, the news that only two persons now held the Kassen secret, the possibility that Groom was doomed to failure. At last he had something to work on.

He arrived back at the fence and squeezed through it again without mishap. He dare not risk being seen on the valley road by the Countess returning to Zovgorod and started to climb back the way he had come.

He had gone about six paces when he heard a rustle ahead. It might be a bird starting up, but he was taking no chances. He stopped, then, bending double to move clear of the tell-tale leaves, he crept forward, using the loose stones that lay about to steady himself. He heard the rustle of the descending blow just in time. With a quick movement he turned. His assailant was caught off balance. Carruthers straightened as his arm shot out. The man crashed into a bush and was still.

Carruthers looked at the stone that he still grasped. There would be no more trouble from the unknown yet awhile.

His first instinct was to run. But the noise of loose stones falling might betray him where the noise already made might pass unnoticed. Also, he wanted to see who the attacker was. He stayed absolutely still. There was no sign from the laboratory. He parted the leaves and looked through.

There, spread-eagled in the undergrowth, a thin trickle of blood oozing from a cut on his forehead, lay Casey, the representative of the
Tribune
.

C
arruthers looked down at the unfortunate Casey in some confusion. What was he doing there? Was he acting for the Countess? Was he the representative of another armament manufacturer? Or was he merely a go-ahead young newspaper man after a story? It was, to be sure, unlikely that he was working for the Countess. He would certainly have raised the alarm if that had been the case. But he might well be either of the other two alternatives. But which? If he were the former, it were wiser to know him for an enemy; if he were really a
Tribune
man, then he might prove a useful ally.

Carruthers hoisted him carefully out of the undergrowth and laid him down on level ground. His pulse was almost normal. His eyes showed that the concussion was not serious. There was no water within easy reach, but the cut was not bleeding badly. Carruthers sat down to wait. It was not long before Casey’s breathing became stertorous and his eyes opened.

He looked at Carruthers and then as memory returned to him he tried to rise. Carruthers motioned him to be silent and pressed him back. Then, leaning down, he whispered:

“Don’t talk or they’ll hear. Wait until you’re feeling better and then we’ll move.”

Casey closed his eyes again. It was half an hour by Carruthers’ watch and days in his thoughts before Casey raised himself painfully on his arm and whispered that he was “OK.”

Carruthers led the way back to the top of the quarry. Casey was still dizzy and had to be helped part of the way, but once on the path they were able to travel fairly quickly. Carruthers remembered a stream he had crossed on the ridge and mentioned the fact to Casey. Otherwise, they plodded up in silence.

It was not until Casey had bathed his head and they had both drunk from the stream that the silence was broken. Producing a crushed packet of Lucky Strike, Casey offered them to Carruthers. The latter, however, produced his pipe. They both lit up.

“Well, Professor,” said Casey thoughtfully, “I guess there ought to be a bit of explaining.”

Carruthers nodded.

“Yes, but not now. Before we go any further, though, perhaps you’ll tell me why you tried to hit me.”

“I thought you were one of the inmates of that place come out to take a poke at me. I wanted to get mine in first.”

“I had the same ideas about you,” admitted Carruthers.

“Say, Professor, do you know what that place is?”

Carruthers thought for a moment before replying noncommittally, “We’ll talk about that later.”

“OK. Let’s go.”

As they emerged from the belt of trees which had been Carruthers’ first objective, he pointed to the valley below. A car was bumping along the road back into Zovgorod.

“All clear now,” he said, and started the climb down.

“The Countess?”

Carruthers nodded.

It was dark when they reached the outskirts of the city. They found a taxi and drove immediately to a restaurant, for they were both ravenously hungry.

By mutual consent, they postponed conversation until the more pressing need of food was satisfied. Then, lighting a cigarette, Casey leant back in his chair.

“Well, Professor, what about it?”

Carruthers, busying himself with his pipe, did not look up as he answered.

“You know, Mr. Casey, I’ve been thinking that in discussing this matter with you I may be committing a very unfortunate indiscretion. Unfortunate for me, I mean, and my particular interests.”

Casey nodded.

“I see what you mean, Professor. You’d like to know just who this Casey is and what he wants before you talk.”

“That,” admitted Carruthers, “is my feeling. Foolish perhaps, but understandable, I think.”

“That’s all right, Professor. I’ll give an account of myself. Before I do, though, there’s just one question I want to ask you.”

“Go ahead.”

“These interests of yours, Professor. I suppose they wouldn’t, by any chance, be identical with those of Messrs. Cator & Bliss?”

“No, Mr. Casey, strange as it may seem, they are not.”

“Fine,” said Casey. “Now we know where we are.”

He fished about in his pocket and produced a passport, from which he drew a small folded card.

“First,” he said briskly, “there’s my passport. You’ll find that all in order, I think. Next, here’s my press warrant from the
Tribune
. OK? Right. About three weeks ago our Bucharest
correspondent reported that there was something peculiar going on in this state. Nothing definite, mind you, but a lot of small items which pieced together made up a sizable query. For instance, they had one or two almighty big explosions, big enough to make craters eighty feet across and nearly as deep in solid rock. Inquiries were made by Bucharest and they said they were blasting for stone. They picked some curiously inaccessible places to do it in. Places where there are no means of transporting stone available. Again, they’ve been recruiting for the army by offering increased rates of pay. They’ve also had some manoeuvres. There was something funny about those manoeuvres. Ixanians are generally reckoned pretty poor soldiers; but it seems that these manoeuvres were even dumber than usual. They looked fishy to the people in Bucharest. Have you ever heard of an army attacking with telephone exchanges? Well, that’s what this one was doing. I know a bit about tactics and I saw their maps. Where their supporting artillery should have been they had telephone exchanges. What’s more, they manoeuvred in every case for retirement. Can you explain that?”

“As a matter of fact, I think I can,” said Carruthers, “but go on.”

“There were one or two other things, mostly political. The general impression, however, seemed to be that little Ixania was trying to make her presence felt, that she had been manufacturing excuses to be an unfriendly neighbour, sabre-rattling in fact. There was nothing much doing in Paris so, thinking that there might be some meat here, the office sent me along to write a series about the Balkan powder keg. Well, what with one thing and another, I figured that there might be meat for more than a series. I said so and they told me to stick around for a week or two.

“The first thing that puzzled me was Rovzidski’s death. The Countess Schverzinski is the government here and he was a
friend of hers. She’d travelled back with him, too, I remembered that. Why was he killed? I found out that he was to have been in charge of a new factory they’ve built up on the shores of the lake above the dam. Nobody seemed to know what they were going to make there. My guess was that it was something to do with munitions. The arrival of Cator & Bliss in force seemed to point that way too. Were Cator & Bliss selling arms to Ixania? It cost me a bit in graft to find out, but I did find out. They weren’t; nor had Ixania any intention of buying arms from them or anybody else. They had already placed an order with Skoda for routine items, as I believe I told you. I was puzzled. Particularly I was puzzled about you, Professor. You so obviously knew something, but I couldn’t make out what about or why exactly you were here. I’m hoping to know before the night’s out. Anyhow, I came to the conclusion that the Countess was the focal point of the whole business, so I kept my eyes on her. It’s been a nice job, she’s easy to look at, but I didn’t find out much from that source. What I did find out was that there’s a group of army officers calling itself the Red Gauntlet Society who were responsible for killing Rovzidski and a few more besides; and that there’s a laboratory of sorts hidden up in that valley on the subject of which they are very touchy. I was up there today having a look for myself when you slugged me.”

“Excuse my interrupting, Mr. Casey,” put in Carruthers, “but I should be very interested to know just how you found that out.”

“If you’re thinking that I’ve done anything smart you’re wrong,” answered Casey frankly. “I had a piece of luck. Have you heard of the Young Peasants’ Party?”

Carruthers thought for a moment, then searched his pockets. He found the “manifesto” and laid it before Casey.

“You mean the authors of this?”

“That’s it. It’s run by a bird named Andrassin. He was exiled by the old monarchist government for sedition and went to
New York. I got to know him there. He had a bookshop over on the East Side. I used to buy off him sometimes. He once sold me a calf-bound copy of Florio’s
Montaigne
for a nickel. He was that way if he liked you. He’s a good little guy and pretty intelligent. I used to talk to him for hours. He taught me a lot one way and another and I was able to help him out over one or two things. He’s a socialist and used to get very hot under the collar about the peasants’ burdens. When the republic was declared he threw his hat in the air and rushed back to the fatherland. Now he says that the republic’s even worse than the monarchy. To hear him talk about his fellow-countrymen you’d think that oblivion would be about the best thing for them. All the same he tries to organise them and hammer a little sense into their thick heads. They’re cretins, he says, and you’ve got to talk to them in cretin language or they won’t understand.”

“Hence the quasi-religious tone of this pamphlet,” inquired Carruthers.

“Ideals,” said Casey, “are the principal produce of America. That’s why we had to invent salesmanship and publicity. Without them we should never have been able to make the ideals racket pay. When he was in the States, Andrassin fell hard for the hot gospellers—technically, so to speak. He reckoned that they knew all there was to know about recruiting public opinion. For all that, he is, as I say, a pretty intelligent man. I ran across him soon after I arrived. He put me wise to a lot of things. He gave me all the dope on Rovzidski and the other things. But he said that there was a lot going on he didn’t understand. Nothing specific, unfortunately, but his idea was that the capitalist party—he’s got all the jargon—were starting something that was going to be mighty unpleasant for someone or other. He probably knows more than he’ll tell even me. He says that the Young Peasants’ Party will be ready when the time comes. I never heard of a political party that wasn’t going to
be ready when the time came. The trouble is,” he concluded gloomily, “they never know the right time.”

He lit another cigarette and exhaled thoughtfully for a moment; then he turned once more to Carruthers.

“I guess you’re wondering,” he said, “why in the world the
Tribune
is interested in Ixania’s domestic affairs.”

“I am,” said Carruthers.

“The Ixanian Government is trying to negotiate a big loan back home. If there’s a likelihood of big trouble coming here, the time to know about it is now.”

“But no one, surely, would lend Ixania money?”

“You wouldn’t think so, would you? But apart from the fact that bankers love to lend money they haven’t got to their creditors so that the creditors can pay back what they don’t really owe, Ixania has hinted that there’s oil here.”

“They could sell the concession.”

“They could, but they won’t, for the simple reason, Professor, that there isn’t any oil; at least, that’s my guess. They won’t allow any drilling and they won’t reveal just where the oil is. I suppose that their proximity to Roumania is supposed to lend colour to the idea. If there isn’t any oil they must need money pretty badly to try to get away with a bluff like that. Nobody but an international banker would fall for it. Those birds don’t need reasons for lending, they want excuses to do so.”

“They do need money badly,” said Carruthers.

“What for?”

“To make confectionery with.”

Casey looked bewildered.

Carruthers leant forward.

“Large candies,” he said slowly, “just a little larger than a Mills bomb; candies, Mr. Casey, that will make craters eighty feet across and nearly as deep in solid rock; candies that kill men by the hundred.”

Casey frowned incredulously.

“Are you trying to tell me, Professor, that the charges that made those craters were no larger than Mills bombs?”