The Dark Frontier (7 page)

“Indeed?”

“You know Zovgorod?” he said idly.

“I have been there.” She paused; then, turning swiftly to meet his eyes, “You go on business, Monsieur?”

The sudden directness took him unawares. She was watching him closely. With an uneasy feeling that he had aroused her suspicions of him by his question, he smiled disarmingly.

“Fortunately, no. I am merely indulging my hobby—photography. There is, I am told, some unique scenery in the neighbourhood of Zovgorod.”

She raised her eyebrows.

“So? I had not heard of it. Ixania sees few tourists. There is little of the picturesque in Ixania which is not reproduced, with the added advantage of adequate hotel accommodation, across her frontiers.”

She spoke bitterly and remained staring out of the window as if her words had started an unhappy train of thought. Carruthers, only too well aware of the probable fatuity of his hastily improvised explanation, hoped that her thoughts had been deflected. He was disappointed.

She turned to him again.

“You have been misinformed of the attractions of Ixania, my friend,” she said firmly. “I recommend you to change your plans.”

Carruthers shrugged his shoulders.

“One seeks novelty,” he said a trifle lamely. Mentally he resolved to make a camera one of his first purchases at Bâle.

“Change your plans nevertheless, Monsieur. Ixania is unhealthy for visitors—especially in the spring.”

Again he encountered her highly disconcerting stare. He
had no further doubts. He was being warned. In some mysterious way she had discovered his identity. Of whether she now knew him as Conway Carruthers or as Professor Barstow, technical adviser to Cator & Bliss, he was, however, ignorant. A lot might depend on how much she knew.

There was nothing to be gained by appearing too perceptive. He smiled incredulously and was about to reply when in loud, clear tones she interrupted him.

“Monsieur, would you have the goodness to tell me at what hour we arrive at Bâle?”

“Eight-thirty, Madame.”

“
Merci, Monsieur
.”

With a gracious smile she turned and retired into her own compartment, shutting the door behind her. Out of the corner of his eye, Carruthers discovered the reason.

At the end of the corridor, watching them, stood Groom.

I
t was early evening and the train was racing through the rich fields of the Saône valley before Groom referred to the encounter in the corridor.

Leaning back in his corner, Carruthers had been endeavouring to piece the situation together from the fragmentary facts he had gleaned and the conjectures he had made.

Firstly, Groom, the representative of an arms firm, was out to prevent the manufacture of the Kassen explosive. Secondly, Groom wished to secure the process for his own use. Thirdly, he had engaged, or thought he had engaged, a technical expert to assist him in the latter task. Fourthly, the Ixanian representative from London was unwittingly leading Groom towards his headquarters in Ixania. Fifthly, the presence of one particular person on the train had disconcerted him. The rest was conjecture. It was almost certainly the woman in the Roumanian coach who was the source of Groom’s particular anxiety. That woman had warned him, Carruthers, against entering Ixania.
He closed his eyes. He was suddenly conscious of his complete ignorance of the business in which he was involved. Groom had told a plausible enough story—it would certainly have satisfied the real Professor Barstow—but was it, after all, even plausible? Who was he? He felt himself lost, slipping, falling headlong, falling towards a mist which as it rushed towards him seemed peopled with vaguely familiar shadows. The voices in his head swelled into a roar until, quite suddenly, part of it died away into whispers, leaving only the thudding rhythm of the train embossed upon his returning consciousness. He could feel the sweat breaking out all over his body. With a start he pulled himself together. It was not like Conway Carruthers to doze.

Groom was talking.

“I am myself to blame, Professor,” he was saying. “I should have taken you into my confidence. I should have put you on your guard.”

“I’m afraid,” said Carruthers, “I don’t understand you.” That, at least, was true.

Groom lighted his inevitable cigar before replying. Carruthers suspected that his constant preoccupation with a cigar was a device to give himself time to weigh his words carefully without appearing to do so.

“I will explain,” he said; “but first tell me about the lady to whom you were talking this afternoon. Do you know her?”

Carruthers affected bewilderment. Actually, calm and collected once more, his moment of unaccountable weakness forgotten, he was thinking fast.

“Good heavens, no. She seemed worried about the breakdown to the train. I reassured her. We got into conversation.”

“What did you talk about?”

Carruthers had been waiting for this question.

“Oh, generalities. She said she knew Ixania.”

“You told her you were going there?”

“Certainly. Why not?”

Groom permitted himself an exasperated sigh.

“What reason did you give?”

Carruthers shrugged.

“I said I was going to take photographs of Ixanian scenery.”

“Have you got a camera?”

“No.”

“You must get one at Bâle. You will probably be searched for it at the Ixanian frontier.”

Carruthers smiled grimly to himself at Groom’s duplication of his own forethought. Meanwhile he had a part to play.

“I don’t understand.”

“I think you will. Ixania is, as you are probably aware, a republic with a president and a so-called chamber of deputies. The republic was the outcome of the revolution of 1921 against the monarchy. It was an unnecessarily bloody affair and, in that, typically Ixanian. The King, Mihail the Seventh, was only too ready to abdicate, the army was republican to a man and the people laboured under what must have been one of the last outposts of the feudal system in Europe. However, with the usual shortsightedness of revolutionary bodies, the republicans overlooked the fact that the business of government has, like any other business, to be learnt. A period of anarchy and confusion was the inevitable result. Equally inevitable was the re-introduction into the governing body of a section of its prevailing ruling class. I say re-introduction, but that is not perhaps the word. Insinuation would be nearer the mark. To do the republicans justice, a certain amount of discretion was exercised and the governing power was nominally invested in the President and Chamber. But the real power in Ixania to this day is in the hands of an oligarchy from the
ancien régime
. They are secure, for their responsibility is borne by the President and Chamber, although, in actual fact, the Chamber has not been summoned for three or four years now. The people
have a superstitious respect for them. It takes more than a few months’ madness to expunge the Ixanians’ centuries-old reverence for titles and high birth.”

He paused to examine the ash on his cigar.

“The situation,” ventured Carruthers, “is not a novel one.”

“Fortunately for our business no,” said Groom calmly. “The novelty of the Ixanian situation is the way in which these people allow the most corrupt and incompetent bureaucracy in Europe to handle home affairs while they themselves spend their time annoying other nations. The royal blood, of course; there’s a sort of seedy imperialist philosophy with a lacing of Fascism behind it all. That sort of fancy dress is splendid when the country concerned can pay its bills, but the peasants in Ixania are a poor lot and can’t pay their taxes. The trouble with the aristocratic party is that they are fervent patriots and therefore, with one notable exception, stupid: well-intentioned perhaps, but irrevocably stupid.” Groom shook his head sadly. “Somebody once called the munition industry the bloody international. He must have forgotten the flagmakers.”

He looked up with his cold, faintly contemptuous smile on his lips. “You can’t blame engineers for supplying what the world is so fervently anxious to buy. If I didn’t, somebody else would. The only power that can legislate for fools is God.”

“Or reason,” put in Carruthers.

“Ah, but we were talking of patriotism,” said Groom quickly. “And,” he went on thoughtfully, “of one patriot in particular; the one who, heaven only knows how, manages to combine intelligence with patriotism. That person is the real ruler of Ixania. Her name is Countess Schverzinski.”

Carruthers remained very still.

“An amazing woman, Professor,” Groom continued. “I can think of few European diplomats capable of outwitting her. As a negotiator she is superb. She has all the Ixanians’ love of intrigue and dissimulation with a Gallic sense of reality. Given
a less sketchy background than that of her fatherland she would be a power in Europe. Even the best of card players cannot win with a hopeless hand. But with the Kassen invention as a trump card, the situation is materially altered. Last week Ixania rejected a customs union with a neighbouring state although the government had previously signified its agreement to the terms of the union. It was finally rejected as a result of representations made to the President by Prince Ladislaus, brother of La Schverzinski and titular leader of the aristocratic party. His instructions came, of course, from his sister. She has other plans for the restoration of Ixania’s fortunes.”

“Very interesting, Mr. Groom,” said Carruthers politely, “but …”

“One moment, Professor. I will come to the point. I am, unfortunately, known to the Countess through past business relations. You will, I think, appreciate that under the circumstances my presence in Zovgorod would not be deemed desirable by the government. I had hoped to enter Ixania undetected. I have been disappointed. For some reason, the Countess is accompanying the London representative back to Zovgorod. She was the last person I expected to travel by this train. But there it is; she recognized me the moment she saw me. She gave no sign of having done so, but I am not such a fool as to suppose that she didn’t. Her inspection of you confirms it.”

“Then …?”

“Exactly, Professor. The lady you were talking to in the corridor a short time ago is Magda, Countess Schverzinski.”

Carruthers digested this information for a moment. He had played into her hands. Seeing him with Groom she had made it her business to find out where he stood. His lame talk of photography had been seen through immediately. He looked at Groom again.

“Will we be stopped at the Ixanian frontier?”

Groom shook his head.

“I think not. The relations between Cator & Bliss and the Ixanian Government are ostensibly cordial. The company’s representative is
persona grata
in Zovgorod. The damage is that we shall no doubt be under close surveillance during our stay. Every precaution will be certainly taken to insure against our gaining any information concerning Kassen or his work. It is a nuisance, but it cannot be helped. We shall have to employ other measures.”

“Such as?”

Groom smiled.

“Perhaps we had better not go into that, Professor. I think I have mentioned, however, that I should rely upon my knowledge of Ixanian officialdom to help us—that knowledge plus a large banking account. It is really quite simple.”

With a chuckle he settled himself back in his corner and returned to his papers. He had the air of a man with something up his sleeve.

Left to his own thoughts, Carruthers gazed out of the window at the lights of a distant town. He was not pleased with himself. Conway Carruthers seemed to be losing his grip. He had made the mistake of underrating an opponent. More, he had failed even to perceive an opponent. Could it be because she was a beautiful woman? Impossible! Had he not resisted the wiles, the womanly guile of countless beautiful spies? Had they not possessed tawny hair and sinuous bodies? Had they not reclined provocatively on gilt divans? Had not their green eyes held promise of untold delights in return for the secrets he alone could reveal? And had he not gone on his way smiling with grim amusement at their baffled fury, their childish simplicity? Of course. Yet perhaps it was that this woman’s eyes were dark, dark brown, that her hair was lustrous black, that her smile gave him a curious feeling in the pit of his
stomach, that she was infinitely—as those appreciative Italians put it—infinitely
simpatica
. Perhaps, but he was mooning—mooning like one of those love-sick young Englishmen who always ruined his plans in chapter twelve by dashing frantically but indiscreetly to the rescue of their terrified woman. No more of it! From now on, he, Carruthers, would be the master.

Before the train reached Bâle an incident occurred which Carruthers dismissed at the time as unimportant, but which he was to remember later.

Groom did not go into dinner and Carruthers ate the first half of his meal in silence. Facing him was a lean-faced, rather untidy young man who spoke to the waiter in fluent French but with an unmistakable American accent.

There is nothing like a French restaurant car travelling at speed for promoting casual acquaintance. It is difficult to maintain a formal reserve with soup and wine splashing sociably over both sides of the intervening table.

“They tell me,” said the American at last, dabbing ruefully with his napkin at the sleeve of his jacket, “that French railroad track is the worst in the world.”

“This section of it is certainly one of the oldest.”

“Then they ought not to serve soup
and
wine at the same time.”

The discussion became general. The American had apparently travelled widely. The conversation turned to places. Seizing a possible chance to obtain some information, Carruthers brought the conversation round to Eastern Europe.

Belgrade was mentioned. Then: “Have you ever been to Zovgorod?” inquired Carruthers casually.

The American met his eyes for a fraction of a second before replying briefly, “No.” He seemed disinclined to continue the
conversation, called for his bill, paid it and with a nod to Carruthers rose and left the car.