The Dark Frontier (5 page)

He took out his passport and examined it.

Everything was in order. But for the name it might have been his own. He smiled grimly at the idea of the worthy Professor Barstow embarking on so hazardous an undertaking. It was almost as amusing as the picture of Groom confiding in Conway Carruthers of the Secret Service under the impression
that he was a harmless scientist. Little did the arms-maker know what that mistake would cost him.

He rang for the waiter and ordered an
aperitif
.

He had already decided to profit by Groom’s blunder by accepting the offer made to him on behalf of Cator & Bliss. The plan had many advantages. As Groom’s ally, he would, for instance, have access to that gentleman’s secret sources of information in Zovgorod. In any case, there was nothing to be gained by showing his hand at this stage. Up to a point, his programme coincided with Groom’s. Both of them wanted Kassen’s secret; both wished to prevent the manufacture of the Kassen atomic bomb in Ixania. What happened when those objectives were reached was another problem.

He wished now that he had had time to find out the name of the Ixanian representative before he left England. He had already made up his mind to ask his friend, André Durand, at the Paris
Sûreté
for information about Groom. Durand might also have been able to help him on the subject of the other.

Where a plan of campaign was concerned, Conway Carruthers always preferred the simple and positive to the ingenious and problematical. His adventures had taught him that where human motives were at work anticipation was a dangerous thing. True, the unexpected happened with almost monotonous regularity, but anticipation led to a game of “double-bluff” with chance in which the odds were all against the human player. Tortuous-minded enemies credited him with superhuman cunning. In reality, it was their own cunning that defeated them.

It would be too late when he arrived in Paris to do anything but find an hotel. In the morning he would see Durand at the
Sûreté
and afterwards, armed with information, pay his momentous visit to Groom at the Ritz. Until then, speculation was both unprofitable and dangerous. Having taken this
decision he rose, finished his drink, and made his way to the restaurant car.

He chose a seat at the end of the car from which he could see the other diners and ordered a
Sole Meunière
with a light French white wine. Then he sat back and watched his fellow-passengers.

The train was now travelling fast. The heavy window curtains swung uncertainly in the shaded amber light of the tables. The jangle of cutlery and the tinkle of glass formed a background to the rhythmic thud of the wheels. The warm scent of cigar smoke hung in the air. Unreality brooded over the scene. It was theatrical.
Act One: the stage is empty when the curtain rises. There is a fire glowing in the hearth. A single lamp sheds a soft light on the scene. Heavy shadows lurk in the corners of the room. There is silence for a moment, then the voices of people approaching are heard
. Only
this
stage wasn’t empty; the people were there, rows of them; but with the same remote quality in the murmur of their voices and their flickering movement.

Facing Carruthers on the opposite side of the gangway, a fat man was attempting with stolid lack of success to combat the motion of the train and transfer soup from his plate to his stomach. Beyond him, a wizened little fellow who looked like a chartered accountant was eating oysters and reading the
Times
. A man and a woman, their heads bent forward across their table, were talking rapidly in what sounded like Russian. An elderly Englishwoman was drinking tea. All different, yet with one common denominator—they were all eating and drinking. It robbed them of their individuality. In the shaded amber light, with the jangle of cutlery and the tinkle of glasses, they appeared a kindly, stupid set of people. The munching jaws of the wizened man, his earnest, preoccupied air, a large crumb of bread on his upper lip—these things gave him an almost childlike quality. Yet separate these people from this
environment and there would be a different tale to tell. The fat man might prove to be an escaping murderer, the wizened one an international jewel thief, that man and woman talking in Russian, they might … At that moment the woman looked up. For the first time, Carruthers saw her face.

The story goes that Conway Carruthers of Department “Y” was quite impervious to ordinary human feelings. But this Conway Carruthers, the one who had walked into being out of the Cornish moorlands, leaving only an overturned car and the husk of a personality behind him, was more vulnerable. He experienced an overwhelming desire to know that particular woman.

You will find such features as hers in the paintings of the Umbrian schools; pale, delicate, oval features they are, the cheekbones gently modelled, the eyes dark and lustrous, the black hair drawn back sleekly from the high, white forehead. But it was her mouth that gave character to her face. It had a quality of inflexible resolution that seemed strangely to emphasise the intrinsic beauty of the rest.

She was dressed expensively and well in a dark-brown travelling suit which contrasted agreeably with her pale complexion. Her elbows resting on the table, her small, slender hands clasped easily together, she had an air of complete poise and self-possession as she idly surveyed her fellow-travellers.

For an instant her eyes met those of Carruthers watching her. Then she turned away and went on talking to her companion. Soon afterwards they rose and without a glance in Carruthers’ direction left the restaurant car. It was with a curious sense of elation that he returned to his own compartment. Somewhere, somehow, their paths would cross again, of that he was certain.

When the train drew into the Gare du Nord an hour later he was asleep.

• • •

The following morning he left his hotel early to visit the
Sûreté
.
^*

It was a clear, sunny spring morning and, as he strolled along the Quai d’Orsay, Carruthers found himself wishing that his business were not quite so urgent, that he might stay awhile in Paris and enjoy the season. He arrived at the graceful building that houses the French Scotland Yard all too soon.

Entering, he approached the
agent de police
in the office by the door and asked crisply for Monsieur Durand.

“Monsieur Durand,” repeated the man, “but which one? There are here four of that name.”

Carruthers was nonplussed. Four Durands? But he had never known that before; he had just asked for his friend Monsieur Durand and Durand had come, his eyes beaming with delighted recognition, his arms outstretched to greet him with an “Ah, the good Carruthers!” and a kiss for both cheeks. What had happened?

He tried again. He explained to the increasingly suspicious
agent
that it was his friend the great Durand that he sought, the Durand of a hundred daring exploits, the Durand whom France had rewarded with the red button of the Legion of Honour, the famous
Chef de la Sûreté
.

The
agent
permitted himself a smile. Only another lunatic after all! It might be amusing to humour him.

“Monsieur’s name?” he asked gravely.

Carruthers told him.

The man lifted the telephone at his elbow.

“
Chef de la Sûreté
,” he demanded, rolling the words round his tongue, and then, “Monsieur Convay Carruthers wishes to see you, Monsieur Durand.”

Carruthers waited confidently.

The
agent
replaced the receiver and turned to him with an immense affectation of surprise.

“Monsieur Durand regrets he cannot see you,” he said, shaking his head sadly.

“But—” began Carruthers.

“Monsieur cannot see you,” reiterated the
agent
sharply. It was a good joke, but it had gone far enough.

Carruthers expostulated. It was absurd. His good friend Durand had always seen him. Had he been given the name correctly? It was inconceivable that he should not wish to see Conway Carruthers—Carruthers who had helped him out of so many desperate situations, Carruthers who had given him the credit for so many famous captures. It was incredible.

The man became angry. If Monsieur did not remove himself immediately, Monsieur would be removed and he himself would do the removing.

Carruthers turned away.

So it was true. Durand, his good friend Durand whom he had helped so often, would not see him.

As he walked back the way he had come he felt his knees trembling a little. A great bitterness filled his heart. Durand had betrayed him. Then he pulled himself together; his eyes held a steely glint, his mouth tightened. Very well, he would do without Durand’s help. He had always played a lone hand before—he would play a lone hand again.

His first action was to buy an automatic and some ammunition at a gunsmith’s in the boulevard St. Michel. It was a Browning, a deadly little weapon, and Carruthers spent ten minutes practising with it in the gunsmith’s range before continuing on his way to see Groom at the Ritz. He did not anticipate having
to use the Browning, but he felt it was well to be prepared. He hailed a taxi.

Gone was his pleasure in the spring morning. Sitting back in his taxi he marshalled his thoughts in preparation for his meeting with Groom. At all costs Groom must not expect that he was other than a peaceable scientist. Could he maintain the pose? Carruthers felt that he could. After all, was not his own knowledge of atomic physics fully equal to that of this Professor, this Barstow? Carruthers felt that it was. Once let him examine Kassen’s work and the secret would be Kassen’s no longer. Meanwhile, he must gain Groom’s confidence. It should not be difficult. What happened when Groom discovered, as he must eventually discover, the sheep’s clothing was of no importance at the moment.

When he stepped out of his taxi and entered the rococo portals of the Ritz he felt confident of success.

The information clerk was very polite.

Monsieur Groom? But certainly. If Monsieur would be so good as to wait one moment. A rapid conversation on the telephone followed. Then he turned apologetically, profound regret in every line of his features.

“Monsieur is most unfortunate,” he said. “Monsieur Groom departed from the hotel ten minutes ago.”

Carruthers’ first impulse was to disbelieve the clerk. It was a ruse to put him off the scent. Then, remembering that it was as Barstow and not as himself that he was there, the absurdity of the notion struck him. The hotel clerk would have no reason to deceive him. He began to ask questions.

The clerk was most anxious to help. The hall porter was summoned. Yes, he remembered Monsieur Groom; he had been generous. He had left for the Gare de l’Est only ten minutes earlier.

Quickly, Carruthers asked for a railway time-table. One was produced. He soon found what he was looking for. Groom
had undoubtedly left to catch the train for Bucharest, the junction for the branch line to Zovgorod.

“Is there a ticket office in the hotel?” he asked.

No, but there was a
Wagons-Lit
bureau round the corner. If Monsieur desired …

Pressing a ten-franc piece into the man’s hand, Carruthers dashed out of the hotel and round to the
Wagons-Lit
bureau.

Here again fortune favoured him. The man there remembered Groom from Carruthers’ description. He had bought a ticket to Zovgorod that very morning and had booked a compartment to himself in the Roumanian through-coach to Bucharest. The train left in a quarter of an hour. Monsieur might catch it if he hurried.

Carruthers fumed with impatience while the complicated ticket was being prepared. By the time it was ready he had a taxi waiting. Spurred with a fifty-franc note and the promise of another if he were in time for the train, the driver flung the Renault round the corners at racing speed.

They swept up the approach into the station yard with a minute to spare. Tossing the promised fifty francs into the driver’s lap, Carruthers leapt out and raced into the station. The indicator told him that the train was on
Quai I
.

Whistles were blowing as Carruthers sprinted on to the platform. The train was already on the move when he leapt into the last coach.

He made his way along the corridor to the Roumanian through-coach. The first compartment in it appeared to be empty. He had pushed back the sliding door and entered before he noticed a large ticket marked
RÉSERVÉ
.

Suddenly a hand fell on his shoulder.

He spun round.

“So you changed your mind after all, Professor,” said Simon Groom.

C
arruthers did not lose his composure for an instant.

“Ah, Mr. Groom!” he said calmly; “the very person I am looking for. Yes, I changed my mind after all—it is, I believe, the scientist’s privilege.”

Groom gazed at him for a moment in silence; then, motioning him to a seat, he himself lounged back on the cushions opposite and lit a cigar. A faint and not too pleasant smile showed on his lips as he exhaled the blue smoke.

“Professor Barstow,” he said at last, “you have surprised me.”

Carruthers waited.

“Yes,” went on Groom, leaning forward, “I am surprised and, to tell you the truth, a trifle put out.”

Carruthers, filling his pipe, felt the other’s beady eyes fixed upon him.

“You see,” he continued, “I have always been inclined to pride myself on the accuracy of my judgements of men. That being so, I find this, shall we say,
volte-face
on your part almost
incredible. True, I did suggest that you might on mature reflection feel more disposed to accept my offer, but frankly I did not for one moment suppose that you would actually do so. May I inquire what induced you to forsake your somewhat—er—impractical ideals?”