Mystery at Geneva: An Improbable Tale of Singular Happenings

  Charles was not alone. He had with him M. Kratzky from Russia, SirJohn Levis, and a small, quiet Calvinist minister, whom Henry hadlately seen about Geneva.

  The four gentlemen turned out of the Rue du Perron down the narrow,ancient and curious Passage de Monnetier, and out of that into a deeparched alley running through a house into another street. Henry,watching from the corner of the Passage de Monnetier, did not dare tofollow nearer for some moments. When he had given them a little time,he softly tiptoed to the mouth of the alley. It was one of those deepcobbled passages that run through many houses in the old quarter. Itwas profoundly dark; Henry could only faintly discern the threefigures half-way down it. They seemed to have stopped, and to bebending down as if looking for something on the ground. The spark ofan electric torch gleamed suddenly, directed by the little clergyman;its faint disc of light swam over the dirty floor of the passage, tillit came to rest on an iron ring that lay flat to the ground. Theclergyman seized this ring and jerked at it; after a moment it leftthe ground in his hand, and with it the flap of a trap-door.

  Whispers inaudible to Henry passed between the members of the party;then, one by one, the three figures descended through the open trapinto the bowels of the earth, and the lid closed upon them.

  Henry tiptoed forward; should he follow? On the whole--no. On thewhole he would wait until Wilbraham, his father-in-law, M. Kratzky,and the clergyman emerged. What, after all, would be the use offinding oneself underground with desperate, detected criminals, whosehabit it apparently was to stick at nothing? What, after all, could hedo?

  Henry was shivering, less from fear than excitement. Here, indeed, wasa clue. Were they kept immured underground, these unfortunate captivedelegates? And did Wilbraham and his criminal associates visit themfrom time to time with food and drink? Or without? With nothing,perhaps, but taunts? And how many more in Geneva knew of thistrap-door and its secret? There were, every one knew, a number ofthese old _trappons_ in the city, leading usually to disused cellars;their presence excited no suspicion. Probably no one ever used theobscure and hidden trap in this dark alley.

  It was queer, how sure Henry felt that this curious nocturnalexpedition on the part of Charles, his father-in-law, M. Kratzky andthe Calvinist pastor had to do with the mystery of the delegates.He knew it beyond a doubt. Nor was he surprised. It came as aconsummation of his suspicion and his hopes. Of Charles Wilbraham'svillainy he had long been all but sure; of the villainy of M. Kratzkyall the world knew; of the villainy of an ammunitions knight and aCalvinist pastor there needed little to convince Henry. But he knewthat he must make sure. He must not go to the police, or to thecommittee, with an unproved tale. He must wait and investigate andprove.

  He waited, in the dark archway beneath the crazy jumble of houses,with the sudden voices and footfalls of the midnight city echoing fromtime to time in the dark streets beyond. He waited and waited andwaited. Now and then a dog or a cat rushed by him, startling him.Then, after twenty minutes or so, he wearied of waiting. Weariness andcuriosity defeated caution; he pulled up the trap-door by its ring andpeered down into blackness. Blackness, stillness, emptiness, and aqueer, mouldy smell. Henry sat on the hole's edge for a full minute,dangling his legs. Then, catching his breath a little (it may or maynot have been mentioned that Henry was not very brave), he swunghimself down on to a hard, earthy floor.

  It was a tunnel he was in; a passage about six feet high and four feetwide. How many feet or yards long was a more difficult and a much moreinteresting question. Feet? Yards? It might be miles. Henry'simagination bored through the impenetrable dark in front of the littlemoon thrown by his electric torch; through and along, through andalong, towards what? The horrid four who had preceded him--where werethey? Did they lurk, planning some evil, farther along the tunnel,just out of earshot? Or had they emerged by some other exit? Or werethey even now returning, to meet Henry in a moment face to face, tobrush by him as he pressed against the damp brick wall, to turn on himsuddenly that swimming moon of light ... and then what?

  Charles Wilbraham was no taker of human life, Henry felt assured. Hewas too prudent, too respectable, too much the civil servant. M.Kratzky, on the other hand, _was_ a taker of human life--he did it asnaturally as others would slay midges; while he breathed he slew. IfHenry should be discovered spying, M. Kratzky's counsels would be allfor making forthwith an end of Henry. Sir John Levis was an armamentknight: members of the staff of the _British Bolshevist_ needed not toknow more of him than that: the Calvinist minister was either aCalvinist minister, and that was bad, or a master-criminal of theunderworld disguised as a Calvinist minister, and that was worse. Orboth of these. Four master-criminals of the underworld--theseintriguing, appalling creatures, so common in the best fiction, sorare even in the worst life--if one were to meet four of them togetherin a subterranean passage.... Could human flesh and nerves endure it?

  Henry, with his shuddering dislike of seeing even a goldfish injuredor slain, shrank far more shudderingly from being injured or slainhimself. The horrid wrench that physical assault was--and then, perhaps,the sharp break with life, the plunge into a blank unknown--and neverto see again on this earth the person whom one very greatly loved....

  As has been said, Henry was not brave. But he was, after all, ajournalist on the scent of a story, and that takes one far; he wasalso a hunter in pursuit of a hated quarry, and that takes onefarther.

  Henry crossed himself, muttered a prayer and advanced down thepassage, his torch a lantern before his feet, his nerves shiveringlike telegraph wires in a winter wind, but fortunately not making thesame sound.

  37

  On and on and on. It was cold down there, like death, and bitter likedeath, and dark. Rats scuffled and leaped. Once Henry trod on one ofthem; it squeaked and fled, leaving him sick and cold. His imaginationwas held and haunted by the small quiet pastor; he seemed, on thewhole, the worst of the four miscreants. A sinister air of deadlybadness there had been about him.... Lines ran in and out of Henry'smemory like cold mice. Something about "a grim Genevan minister walkedby with anxious scowl." ... Horrid.... It made you sweat to think ofhim. Then on the passage there opened another passage, running sharplyinto it from the right. That was odd. Which should be followed?

  Henry swung his flashlight up each in turn, and both seemed the samenarrow blackness. He advanced a few steps, and on his left yet anotherturning struck out from the main tunnel.

  "My God," Henry reflected, "the place is a regular catacomb."

  If one should lose oneself therein, one might wander for days, as onedid in catacombs.... Having no tallow candle, but only an electrictorch, one might eat one's boots ... the very rats....

  Not repressing a shudder, Henry stood hesitating at the cross-roads,looking this way and that, his ears strained to listen for sounds.

  And presently, turning a corner, he perceived that there weresounds--footsteps and low voices, advancing down the left-hand passagetowards him. Quickly shutting his light, he stepped back till he cameto the right-hand turning, and went a little way up it, to where itsharply bent. Just round the corner he stopped, and stood hidden. Hewas gambling on the chance that whoever was coming would advance, backor forward, along the main tunnel when they struck into it. If, on theother hand, they crossed this and turned up his passage, he couldhastily recede before them until perhaps another turning came, orpossibly some exit, or until they turned on him that horrid moon oflight and caught him....

  Well, life is a gamble at all times, and more particularly to thosewho play the spy.

  Henry listened. The steps came nearer. They had a queer, hollow soundon the earthy floor. Low voices murmured.

  It came to Henry suddenly that these were not the voices of CharlesWilbraham, of Sir John Levis, of M. Kratzky, or, presumably then, ofthe little pastor. These were voices more human, less deadly.

  The footsteps reached the main passage, and then halted.

  "Here's a puzzle," said a voice. "Which way, then? Will we divide, ortake the one road
?"

  And then Henry, though he loved not Ulster, thanked God and cameforward.

  At the sound of his advance a flashlight was swung upon him, and theUlster voice said, "Put them up!"

  Henry put them up.

  "It's all right, man. It's only Beechtree," said another voice, aftera moment's inspection, and Henry, though he loved not the _MorningPost_, blessed its correspondent.

  "Good Lord, you're right.... What are you doing here, Beechtree? Isyour paper in this damned Republican plot, as well as Sinn Fein,Bolsheviks, Germans, and the Pope? I wouldn't put it past the _BritishBolshevist_ to have a finger in it----"

  "Indeed, no," said Henry. "You are quite mistaken, Macdermott. Thisplot is being run by armament profiteers, White Russia, and Protestantministers. They're all down here doing it now. I am tracking them. AndHis Holiness, you remember, sent an encouraging message to theAssembly----"

  "The sort of flummery he _would_ encourage.... I beg your pardon,Beechtree. We will not discuss religion: not to-night. Time is short.How did _you_ get into this rat-trap? And whom, precisely, are youtracking?"

  "Through a _trappon_ in an archway off the Passage de Monnetier. And Iam tracking Wilbraham, Sir John Levis, M. Kratzky, and a Protestantclergyman, who all preceded me through it. But I don't know in theleast where they have got to. There are so many ramifications in thisaffair. I took it for a single tunnel, but it seems to be a regularsystem."

  "It is," said Garth. "It extends on the other side of the water too.We got into it this evening through that house in the Place Cornavinwhere Macdermott was bilked by a Sinn Feiner."

  "We had our suspicions of that house ever since," Macdermott went on;"so we went exploring this evening, and by the luck of God they'd goneout and left the door on the latch, so we slipped in and searchedaround, and found a trap-door in a cupboard--where they'd have shovedme down if they hadn't given up the idea half-way. It lets you downinto a passage just like this, that runs down to the water and comesout in the courtyard of one of those tumble-down old pigeon-cotes bythe Quai du Seujet. We came out there, and then tried over this side,through a trap by the Molard jetty I'd noticed before, and it led ushere. There are dozens of these _trappons_ on both sides. Lots ofthem are inside houses. I always thought they led only to cellars....As to your four chaps, wherever they've got to, no doubt they'reexploring too. Wilbraham in a plot! Likely."

  "It is," said Henry. "Very likely indeed. There are plenty of factsabout Wilbraham you don't know. I've been finding them out for severalyears. I shall lay them before Committee 9 to-morrow."

  The other two looked at him with the good-natured pity due to thecorrespondent of the _British Bolshevist_.

  "Your lunatic paper has turned your brain, my son," Garth said.

  "Well, let's be getting on," Macdermott impatiently urged. "Which waydid your plotters take, Beechtree? We may as well be getting afterthem, anyhow."

  "I don't know. I've lost them. I didn't follow at once, you see; Iwaited, thinking they would come out presently. When they didn't, Icame down too. But by that time they'd got a long start. And, as thereare other exits, they may have got out anywhere."

  "Well, let's come along and look. We'll each take a different passage;we'll explore every avenue, like Cabinet Ministers. I'll go straightahead; one of you two take that right-hand road, and the other thenext turning, whenever it comes. We'll each get out where and how wecan. Come on."

  Garth turned up to the right. Henry went on with Macdermott for someway, till another turning branched off, running left.

  "Ah, there's yours," said the Ulster delegate. "I shall keep straighton, whatever alluring avenues open on either side to tempt me.To-morrow (if we get out of this) we'll bring a gang of police downand do the thing thoroughly. Good luck, Beechtree. Don't scrag honestcivil servants or good clergymen on sight. And don't let old Kratzkyscrag you. Politically he's on the right side (that's why he'd want toscrag you, and quite right, too), but personally he's what you mightcall a trifle unprincipled, and that's why he'd do it as soon as lookat you."

  38

  Henry walked alone again. The passage oozed water. The silence waschilly and deep. Against it and far above it, occasional sounds beat,as the world's sounds beat downwards into graves.

  Geneva was amazing. How many people knew that it was under-run by thisso intricate tunnel system? Did the town authorities know? Surely yes.And, knowing, had they not thought, when the recent troubles began, toexplore these avenues? (How that horrid phrase always stuck in one'smind; one could not get away from it, as many a statesman, many anorator daily proved.) But possibly they had explored them with noresult. Possibly Sub-section 4 (Organisation of Search) of Committee 9knew all about them. What that sub-section did not yet know was thatCharles Wilbraham, hand in glove with autocrat Russia, armament kings,and the Calvinist church, lurked and plotted in the avenues by night,like the spider in her web waiting for flies.

  There were turnings here and there, to one side or the other, butHenry kept a straight course.

  At last he was brought up sharp, nearly running his face into a roughclay wall, and above him he saw a trap-door. Here, then, was his exit.The door was only just above his head; he pushed at it with his hands;it gave not at all.

  After all, one would expect a trap-door to be bolted. He wondered ifit would be of any use to knock. Did it give on to a street, acourtyard, or a house?

  He rapped on it with the end of his electric torch, softly and thenloudly. He went on rapping, and knew the fear that assails theassaulter of impregnable, unyielding silence, the panic of him whocalls aloud in an empty house and is answered only by the tiny soundsof creaking, scuffling, and whispering that cause the skin to creep,the blood to curdle, the marrow to freeze, the heart to stop, and thespirit to be poured out like water. Strange and horrid symptoms!Curdled blood, frozen marrow, unbeating heart ... who first discoveredthat this is what occurs to these organs when fear assaults thebrain? Have physiologists said so, or is it a mere amateur guess attruth, another of the foolish things "they" say?

  In these speculations Henry's mind engaged while he stood in the blackbowels of the earth and beat for entry at the world's closed door.

  At last he heard sounds as of advancing steps. Bolts were drawnheavily back; the trap-door was raised, and a face peered down; abrownish face with a small black moustache and a smooth skin stretchedtightly over fat. A glimmer of light struggled with the darkness. "Chic'??" said a harsh voice, whispering.

  "Sst! son'io." Henry thought this the best answer. His nerves hadrelaxed on hearing the Italian language, a tongue not spokenhabitually by Wilbraham, M. Kratzky, Sir John Levis, or Calvinistpastors. It is a reassuring tongue; one feels, but how erroneously,that those speaking it cannot be very far out of the path of humangoodness. And to Henry it was partly native. The very sight of theplump, smooth, Italian face made him feel at ease.

  The face peered down into the darkness, and a stump of candle burningin a saucer threw a wavering beam on to Henry's face looking up.

  "Gi?," the voice assented to Henry's rather obvious statement. "Voulscendere, forse?"

  Henry said he did, and a stool was handed down to him. In anotherminute he stood on the stone floor of a largish cellar, almostcompletely blocked with casks and wood stacks. From it steps ran up toanother floor.

  The owner of the plump Italian face had a small plump figure clad inshirt, trousers, and slippers. His bright dark eyes stared at hisvisitor, heavy with sleep. He had obviously been roused from bed.Surprise, however, he did not show; probably he was used to it.

  He talked to Henry in Italian.

  "You roused me from sleep. You have a message, perhaps? You wishsomething done?"

  Henry, not knowing whether this Italian Swiss knew more than he oughtto know, or whether he was merely assisting the police investigations,answered warily, "No message. But I have been down there on thebusiness, and had to return this way. I must now go as quickly aspossible in to the town."

  He added
, at a venture, glancing sideways at the other, "SignorWilbraham was down there with his colleagues."

  The man started, and the saucer wavered in his hand. Signor Wilbrahamwas obviously either to him a suspect name, or else his master andleader in intrigue. He was frightened of Wilbraham.

  "Where is he now?" he asked. "Will he come here?"

  "I think not. Be at ease. He has disappeared in another direction.Have the kindness to show me the way out."

  The man led the way to the steps and up them, into a tiny ground-floorbedroom, and through that into a passage. As he unbolted a side door,Henry said to him, "You know something about Signor Wilbraham, then?"

  The plump little figure shrugged.

  "A good deal too much, certainly."

  "Good," said Henry. "Later you shall tell what you know. Don't beafraid. He can't hurt you."