The Dark Frontier (28 page)

My wrist, I found, had been properly dressed, the throbbing had ceased and, beyond a certain amount of stiffness, was in working order. I suddenly discovered that all I needed was something to eat. In answer to my ring, Petar appeared, wreathed in smiles and accompanied by an enormous meal. Not even Carruthers’ pipe, which he smoked heavily while he talked and I ate, could spoil my appetite.

At two, Petar announced that a car had arrived from Toumachin to convey me to the Chamber. I finished my bath hurriedly and a quarter of an hour later was sitting beside Carruthers with an armed policeman and a military chauffeur in front. It was not until then that I realised that I had made no attempt to deny the responsibility to which Carruthers had committed me.

“Look here, Carruthers,” I began, “I’ve been meaning to speak to you about …”

“I know,” he interrupted with a grin. “But let it wait until we’ve seen Toumachin.”

“OK. It’s your responsibility, not mine,” I retorted.

He smiled.

A minute or two later we passed between machine-guns at the entrance to the Chamber of Deputies. We got out at the steps and were led through a maze of corridors to a first-floor room guarded by two soldiers with fixed bayonets.

It appeared to be an ante-room, for a pair of double doors, from behind which came a hum of voices, was set in one wall. An orderly stood at ease before the door. Our arrival was evidently awaited, for, as we were ushered in, the orderly clicked his heels and went to a telephone on the table. We heard him utter an Ixanian version of our surnames. Then he put down the receiver, clicked his heels again and, going to the double doors, flung them open. We walked through.

The scene was impressive. Sitting at a huge glass-topped desk sat Toumachin. Facing him in large leather armchairs sat three men, one unmistakably a countryman of mine. All looked solemn. Disposed about the room were one or two men and the woman whom I recognised as having been of the company in Toumachin’s lodging the night before.

As we entered, Toumachin rose to his feet and extended his hand with a welcoming beam.

“I have been given an account of your adventures of last night,” he said; “the Council and I are most grateful for your efforts.” He bowed slightly towards the three armchaired men. “Permit me to present you to their Excellencies the United States Minister, Monsieur Englebert, the French Minister, Monsieur Chappey, and the Roumanian
chargé d’affaires
, Monsieur Vitchescu.” He flourished a hand towards us. “Professor Barstow and Mr. Casey of the New York
Tribune
.”

We shook hands all round. Englebert looked at me curiously.

“I had a message about you from Washington last night, Mr. Casey,” he said grimly. “I was requested to keep you out of mischief. It appears that I was a little too late.”

“Sorry, Minister,” I said. “It’s a pity I didn’t get in touch with you sooner, but the circumstances were a little unusual.”

He smiled. “I have already been hearing about your experiences from Monsieur Beker. I understand from Monsieur Toumachin that you have undertaken the job of official press officer for the new Government.”

It was a question rather than a comment. I hesitated, then made up my mind. I turned to Toumachin, who had been watching us steadily.

“Monsieur Toumachin,” I said, “will you permit me a few moments’ conversation with Minister Englebert?”

“I understand perfectly, Monsieur,” he answered courteously.

The minister and I withdrew to the ante-room.

“Look here, sir,” I began when we were alone, “I’m in a bit of a jam.”

He nodded. “I guessed as much. It’s not for nothing, you know, that newspapers instruct their correspondents to keep themselves out of foreign party politics.”

“That’s all very well,” I went on, “but I’ve got a story out of this, sir. Unluckily they’ve got the idea that I’m some sort of international whiz-kid; but, even if they do have to shed some of their illusions, they do need someone to look after their PR campaign and, personally, I’d like to help them. The only thing is: if there’s going to be any trouble, if I’m going to embarrass you or the state department or the Roumanian
chargé d’affaires
or anyone else, then it’s off.”

He shrugged. “I think you need have no fears on that score. Technically there has been no revolution. Toumachin has acted shrewdly in fixing the affair within the limits of the constitution. I anticipate no complications. We had the
chargés d’affaires
of one or two neighbouring states here before you came. Unfortunately the Britisher is away hunting in the North, but the Frenchman, for one, doesn’t care much what happens here and, as long as these people don’t start any wars, neither will any of the others. I’m inclined to think, however, that you’ve completely missed the point so far as your possible usefulness to Toumachin is concerned.”

“How?”

He contemplated my neck-tie thoughtfully. “Well, I don’t know how Toumachin put the proposition to you. I should imagine he would convey the impression that you were to act as a sort of extraordinary foreign minister with the fate of Ixania quivering at your fingertips.”

“Something like that,” I admitted.

He nodded. “I thought so. That’s the Ixanian way. If you’d been in this country as long as I have you’d know that an Ixanian
always says half what he means or double. In any event he never says exactly what he means. All the same, I think you underrate your importance to Toumachin’s Government. I should imagine that his chief worry at the moment is financial. Ten to one he’ll want to raise some short-term loans. The only way he can get them is by creating a favourable impression on the money markets as quickly as possible—plans to reorganise, establish new industries and so on. That’s what he wants you for, Mr. Casey.”

“I see.”

“Speaking unofficially,” he went on with a faraway look, “I should advise you to give the matter your consideration. What this country needs …” He stopped himself. “You must dine at the Legation as soon as you can spare the time,” he said; “you might bring Professor Barstow with you. My wife and I will be interested to hear an account of your adventures.” He hesitated. “By the way, who is that highly unprofessorial gentleman?”

“Certainly not Professor Barstow,” I said with a grin.

“Ah—just so,” he said, and I realised for the first time what the word “diplomacy” means.

Ten minutes later I had become an Ixanian Civil Servant.

For the next few days I saw little of the outside world. Installed in an office in the Chamber of Deputies with a French-speaking male stenographer and a telegraphist, I bombarded the international news agencies with pro-peasant stories that sometimes brought blushes to the cheeks of even the enthusiastic Beker. I had also to handle the delicate business of reporting the death of the Countess Schverzinski without making it look as if the accident to her car were a frame-up engineered by the new Government. As a precautionary measure it had been arranged that her funeral should take place in Belgrade.
Prince Ladislaus had demanded a princely price for his cooperation, but the situation had been too serious for haggling and the money had been hastily credited to him through an Italian Bank.

After accepting Toumachin’s offer, I had felt guilty about my desertion of the
Tribune
, and the moment communications were restored, I placated my conscience by sending Nash a full exclusive story of the whole affair, omitting nothing but the business of the Kassen secret. Toumachin and Carruthers had both been insistent upon the point and even threatened to censor my reports unless I agreed to their proposal. I was quite ready to do so as, now that the episode was finished, I realised more than ever the futility of trying to tell the story convincingly. To my special cable report to the
Tribune
, I added a postscript explaining the circumstances and resigning my appointment. This postscript produced a characteristic reply:

I sent off a long and heartfelt letter of thanks, wired Hansen in Paris and settled down to enlightening the financial world on the subject of Ixanian potentialities.

About two days later I was in the midst of dictating a vehement affirmation of the solidarity of public opinion in Ixania and the certainty of an overwhelming mandate for the Peasant Party at the elections, when Carruthers wandered into the room. I had not seen him for two days, and as I was glad of any excuse for stopping work, I asked him to have a drink.

He did not answer but perched himself on the edge of my
desk and sucked absently at an empty pipe. I noticed that he was looking desperately thin and ill, and said so. He muttered that he was “all right.” He seemed to have something on his mind.

“Everything OK?” he said at last.

I assured him that it was. He nodded vaguely and started fiddling with the stem of his pipe. He did not look at me as he went on:

“I’m leaving for Paris tonight.”

This was a surprise to me. I had heard from Beker that big inducements were to be offered to the “Professor” to stay in Ixania; but I said nothing, and waited for him to go on.

“You see,” he said carefully, “my work is finished here now. There’s nothing more for me to do.” He got to his feet as though they were weighted with lead. “I’m going by the night train.”

“That’s the train they’re sending the Countess to Belgrade on, isn’t it?”

He nodded and turned to go. I put a hand on his arm.

“Look here, Carruthers,” I said. “You’re a sick man. Why not stick around a bit, get fit again and see what happens. You’re sitting pretty with the Government, they’d give you their back teeth if you asked them.”

“You forget,” he answered wearily, “that I’m not Professor Barstow. They’re bound to find that out sooner or later.”

“You needn’t worry,” I assured him. “Beker was asking me yesterday who you really were. They’re not quite dumb, you know. As a matter of fact, their hunch is that you’re a Soviet agent. For all I know they may be right. Englishmen have been more unexpected things. I suppose you don’t feel like telling me all about it? Frankly, I’m curious.”

I did not tell him that the British Consul had that very morning endeavoured to pump me on the subject, but I found out later that Carruthers had been playing hide-and-seek with his country’s representative for the past twenty-four hours.

Now he seemed about to answer me; then he stopped. There was a hunted look in his eyes. They avoided mine.

“It’s no use,” he mumbled, “my work is done.”

Before I could stop him he had gone.

At nine o’clock that night I stood on the departure platform at Zovgorod station. With me was the British Consul. The horn sounded for the train to start.

“Doesn’t look as though he’ll catch it,” said the consul gloomily.

The train began to move and soon rumbled slowly into the darkness beyond the swinging arc-lamps. The consul said politely that “it couldn’t be helped” and invited me to broach a case of whisky he had received that day from England.

When I arrived back at my hotel a note was waiting for me. It was from Carruthers.

That was the last I heard of the man who called himself Carruthers. Two days later, the Havas Agency reported that Professor Barstow, noted English savant, had been the victim of an attack on the Bâle-Paris express.

I
t was some months before I was free to devote myself to the problem over which I had spent so many fruitless hours of conjecture; that of Carruthers’ identity. By September, however, Toumachin and his Government had established themselves politically and financially in the graces of London, Paris and New York, and my term of usefulness came to an end. Early in October I returned to Paris to resume the work that Hansen had been doing so capably in my absence.

One of the first things I did on my arrival was to turn up the French newspaper reports on the subject of the Bâle-Paris express incident.

They were surprisingly uninformative. Professor Barstow had been discovered between Mulheim and Belfort apparently suffering from severe concussion. A large bruise on the head suggested that he had been sandbagged by a train thief. The occupants of the neighbouring compartments had been unable to throw light on the occurrence. The thief had obviously
been disturbed at his work, for there was money in the Professor’s pocket when he was found. Of Professor Barstow’s mysterious disappearance from England five weeks previously nothing was said. Even more curious was the omission of all reference to the incident in the many newspapers controlled directly and indirectly by the French armament combine. The only comment on the affair appeared in a left-wing sheet which declared bitterly that here was yet another outrage for which the Freemasons must accept responsibility.

A day or two later I called at the offices of the Chemin de Fer de l’Est and asked if and when I could interview the
chef de train
of the express concerned. I was told that Monsieur Abadis would arrive in Paris from Bâle the following day.

I duly ran M. Abadis to earth at the Gare de l’Est and, after some necessary preliminaries, induced him to give me his recollections of May 26th of that year.

He was inclined, at first, to be reticent, but when he found that I was more interested in the other passengers in the coach in which the wounded man had been found than in Professor Barstow himself, he opened up a little. I was anxious to test a theory I had formed. Had there, I asked him, been another person with an English passport in the coach? There had been. He himself had interviewed the other occupants of the coach in the hope that someone had seen the scoundrel. Could M. Abadis describe the Englishman? He smiled tolerantly. One saw so many with English passports and so many months ago … he shrugged. I described Groom and his eyes lighted up.
Si, si
, he remembered the gentleman now. The name? Ah, that was to ask too much. Groom? He shook his head slowly. Grindley-Jones? No, it was lost. Coltington?
Si, si, si!
 … Mr. Coltington, that was he; now he remembered. The gentleman had left the train at Belfort when the police came on. Denis, the
wagon-lit
attendant, had remarked that it was strange to leave a fellow-countryman when he was in distress.