"Well," said Garth, "I shall go in and hear the Greek. He always makesthings hum."
Henry, too, went in and heard the Greek, whose manner of oratory heenjoyed.
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Committee 9 met at three o'clock in the spacious and sunny saloonknown as Committee Room C. The only portion of the public admitted wasthe correspondent of the _British Bolshevist_, who sat behind thePresident's chair with a portfolio full of papers, looking pale,shabby, and tired, but exalted, like one whose great moment is athand.
After the minutes of the last meeting had been read, the Presidentrose to address the committee, in French. He had, he said, some freshand important facts to communicate. A quite new line of inquiry hadthat day been suggested to him by one who had for some time beensecretly pursuing investigations. The facts revealed were sostartling, so amazing, that very substantial evidence would benecessary to persuade committee members of their truth. It could atpresent be only a tentative theory that was set before the committee;but let the committee remember that _magna est veritas et prevalebit_;that they were there to fulfil a great duty, and not to be deterred byany fears, any reluctances, any personal friendships, any dread ofscandal, from seeking to draw out truth from her well. He asked hiscolleagues to listen while he told them a strange story.
The story, as he told it, gained from his more important presence, hismore eloquent and yet more impartial manner, a plausibility whichHenry's had lacked. His very air, of one making a painful andtentative revelation, was better than Henry's rather shrill eagerness.Every now and then he paused and waved his hand at Henry sittingbehind him, and said, "My friend Mr. Beechtree here has documentaryevidence of this, which I will lay before the committee shortly."When, after long working up to it, he gave the suspected member of theSecretariat the name of Wilbraham, it fell on the tense attention ofthe whole table. Henry, looking up to watch its reception, sawsurprise on many faces, incredulity on several, pleasure on more,amusement on a few. He met also the blue eyes of Mr. Macdermott fixedon him with a smile of cynical admiration. Macdermott would doubtlesshave something to say when the President had done. But what he was nowthinking was that the correspondent of the _British Bolshevist_ hadmore journalistic gifts than one would have given him credit for.
"Where, you may demand of me," proceeded the President, "is M.Wilbraham now? That I cannot tell you. He entered this system ofsecret passages last night in company with those who are suspected byMr. Beechtree of being his fellow conspirators, and he has not beenseen since. Have they, possibly, escaped, their evil work done?Whither have they gone? Who was that Protestant pastor? What doings,gentlemen, engage the attentions of M. Kratzky of Russia, that enemyof small republics, Sir John Levis of Pottle and Kett, that enemy ofpeace, a _soi-disant_ Protestant pastor, the presumed enemy of truereligion, and M. Wilbraham of the Secretariat? Mind, gentlemen, Iimpute nothing. I merely inquire."
A murmur of applause broke from the Latin Americans. As it died down,Henry, looking up, saw standing by the door Charles Wilbraham, cool,immaculate, attentive, and unperturbed, and the _soi-disant_Protestant pastor at his elbow.
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Henry allowed himself a smile. Here, then, arrived after all the yearsof waiting, was the hour. The hour of reckoning; the hour in which he,brought face to face with Charles Wilbraham, should expose him beforemen for what he was. The hour when Charles Wilbraham should face him,reduced at last to impotent silence, deflated to limp nothingness likea gas balloon, and find no word of defence. Shamed and dishonoured, hewould slink away, at long last in the wrong. In the wrong himself,after all these years of putting others there. Truly, Henry's hour hadarrived.
The President, too, had seen the new-comers now. He paused in hisspeaking; he was for a moment at a loss. Then, "Gentlemen, excuse me,but this is a strictly private session," he said clearly across thelarge room, in his faultless Oxford English.
Charles Wilbraham bowed slightly and advanced.
"Forgive me, sir, but I have a card of admittance. Also for my friendhere, Signor Angelo Cristofero."
"Angelo Cristofero"--the name seemed to ripple over a section of thecommittee like a wind on waters.
"Who is he?" asked Henry, of an Italian Swiss, and the answer camepat.
"The greatest detective at present alive. An Italian, but at home inall countries, all languages, and all disguises. Really a marvellousgenius. Nothing balks him."
"We have, you see," continued Wilbraham, in his disagreeable, sneeringvoice, "some rather important information to communicate to thecommittee, if you will pardon the interruption. Presently I will askSignor Cristofero to communicate it. But for the moment might I beallowed to ask for a little personal explanation? Since I entered theroom I heard a remark or two relating to myself and various friends ofmine which struck me as somewhat strange...."
M. Croza courteously bowed to him, with hostile eyes.
"You have a right to an explanation, sir. As you have entered at whatI can but call such a very inopportune moment, you heard what I wassaying--words uttered, need I say, in no malicious spirit, but in asincere and public-spirited desire to discover the truth. I wasaccusing and do accuse, no one; I was merely laying before thecommittee information communicated to me this morning by Mr. HenryBeechtree."
"Mr. Henry Beechtree?"
Charles Wilbraham turned on this gentleman the indifferent andcontemptuous regard with which one might look at and dismiss somesmall and irrelevant insect.
"And who, if I may ask, is Mr. Henry Beechtree?"
"The correspondent, sir, of one of the newspapers of your country--the_British Bolshevist_."
Charles laughed. "Indeed? Hardly, perhaps, an organ which commandsmuch influence. However, by all means let me hear Mr. Beechtree'sinformation. I am, I infer, from what I overheard, engaged in somekind of conspiracy, together with my friends M. Kratzky, Sir JohnLevis, and this gentleman here. May I know further details, or arethey for the private edification of the committee only?"
Charles heavily sarcastic, ponderously ironic--how well Henryremembered it.
"Are we," he went on, "supposed to have spirited away, or evenmurdered, the missing delegates, may I ask?"
"That," said M. Croza politely, "was Mr. Beechtree's suggestion--only,of course, a suggestion, based on various facts which had come to hisknowledge. You can, doubtless, disprove these facts, sir, or accountfor them in some other way. No one will be more delighted than thecommittee over which I preside."
"Might I hear these sinister facts?" Charles was getting smoother,more unctuous, more happy, all the time. It was the little curl of hislip, so hateful, so familiar, with which he said these words, whichseemed to snap something in Henry's brain. He pushed back his chairand sprang to his feet, breathless and dizzy and hot. He regarded notthe cries of "Order," from the chair and the table; order or not, hemust speak now to Charles.
"You shall hear them, sir," he said, and his voice rang shrilly up andup to a high and quivering note. "There is one, at least which youwill not be able to deny. That is that you have shares, large andnumerous, in the armaments firm of Pottle and Kett, of which Sir JohnLevis, your father-in-law, is chief director."
Charles fixed on him a surprised stare. He put on his pince-nez, thebetter to look.
"I do not think," he said, in his calm, smooth voice, "that I amcalled upon to discuss with you the sources of my income. In fact, I'mafraid I don't quite see how you come into this affair at all--er--Mr.Beechtree. But, since your statement has been made in public, perhapsI may inform the committee that it is wholly erroneous. I had oncesuch shares as this--er--gentleman mentioned. It ought to beunnecessary to inform this committee that I sold them all on myappointment to the Secretariat of the League, since to hold themwould, I thought, be obviously inconsistent with League principles. Ifit interests the committee to know, such money that I possess is nowmostly in beer. Mr.--er--Beechtree's information, Mr. President, isjust a little behind the times. Such a stirring organ as the _BritishBolshevist_ should, perhaps
, have a more up-to-date correspondent.Will you, Mr. President, request Mr. Beechtree to be seated? I fear Ifind myself unable to discuss my affairs with--er--him personally."
Charles's eyes, staring at Henry through his pince-nez, became likeblue glass. For a moment silence held the room. Henry flushed, paled,wilted, wavered as he stood. Thrusting desperately his monocle intohis eye, he strove to return stare for stare. After a moment Charles'shigh complacent laugh sounded disagreeably. He had made quite sure.
"How do you do, Miss Montana? We haven't, I think, met since January,1919." He turned to the puzzled committee. "Miss Montana, a formerlady secretary of mine in the Ministry of Information, Mr. President.Dismissed by me for incompetence. What she is doing here in thisdisguise I do not know; that is between her and the newspaper which,so she says, employs her. May Signor Cristofero now be permitted tolay his rather important information before the committee? We wastetime, and time is precious at this juncture."
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The situation was of an unprecedented unusualness. The President ofCommittee 9 hardly knew how to deal with it. All eyes gazed at Henry,who said quietly, "That is a damned lie," felt giddy, and sat down,leaning back in his chair and turning paler. The monocle dropped fromhis eye and hung limply from its ribbon. Henry literally could not,after his tiring night, his exhausting day, the emotional strain ofthe last hour, stand up to Charles Wilbraham any more. If he couldhave a dose of sal volatile--a cocktail--anything ... as it was, hewilted, all but crumpled up; all he was able for was to sit, ascomposed as might be, under a deadly fire of eyes.
The pause was ended by Fergus Macdermott, who heaved largely from hischair and remarked, "I would like to second Mr. Wilbraham's suggestionthat we will hear Mr. Cristofero's communication. May I also suggestthat the income of Mr. Wilbraham is between himself and his bankers,and the sex of Mr. Beechtree between him and his God, and that bothare irrelevant to the business before this committee and need not bediscussed." The committee applauded this, though they felt a keeninterest in both the irrelevant topics. The President called on SignorCristofero to address the committee, and beckoned Mr. Wilbraham to achair.
The little _soi-disant_ pastor stepped forward. He was a spare, small,elderly man, with a white face and gentian-blue eyes and a mouth thatcould make up as anything. During the last few days it had been a primand rather smug button. Now it had relaxed in shrewder, wider lines.He showed to Committee 9 the face not of the Calvinist pastor but ofthe great detective. He spoke the Italian of the Lombardy Alps, theFrench of Marseilles, the English of New York, the German of Alsace,the Russian of Odessa, the Yiddish of the Roman Ghetto, the Serbian ofDalmatia, the Turkish of the Levant, the Greek of the Dodacenese, andmany other of the world's useful tongues. He addressed the committeein French, speaking rapidly and clearly, illustrating his story withthose gestures of the hands which in reality (though it is notcommonly admitted) make nothing clearer, but are merely a luxuryindulged in by speakers, who thus elucidate and emphasise theirmeaning to themselves and to no one else. However, Signor Cristofero'swords were so admirably clear that his confusing gestures did notmatter.
He had, so he said, been sent for three weeks ago from New York, wherehe had been engaged on a piece of work which he had just concluded, byMr. Charles Wilbraham, who had requested him to come immediately toGeneva and investigate this strange matter of the disappearingdelegates. He had not known Mr. Wilbraham, but he had recognised theimportance of this matter. He had arrived incognito, assumed thecostume in which they now saw him, which is one the least calculatedto arouse suspicion in Geneva, and set to work. After careful secretinquiries and investigations, he had found that the suspicions he hadhad from the outset were confirmed. He had long known of a secretsociety which was at work to wreck the League of Nations. Itsactivities were so multifarious, so skilful, so obscure, and often soentirely legitimate, that it was impossible to check them. The societyhad its agents all over the world, in all countries. Some were paid,others worked out of good will. This society objected to the Leaguepartly because it was afraid of the decrease of armaments, andultimately of wars. Unlikely as this prospect sounded, the society wastaking no chances. Among its members were the directors of armamentfirms, inventors, professional soldiers of high rank, War Officeofficials, those who hoped to get some advantage for themselves ortheir countries out of wars, and those who genuinely thought theLeague a dangerous and foolish thing calculated to upset the peace ofthe world. Many of its members also objected to the League on allkinds of other grounds, disliking its humanitarian enterprises, itsinterference with nefarious traffickings, such as those in women,opium, and cocaine. Powerful patent medicine manufacturers wereexasperated by its anti-epidemic efforts; many great financiersobjected to the way it spent its money; some great powers thought theywould be freer in their dealings with smaller powers without it. Andso on and so forth. All over the world, in every department of life,there were to be found those who, for one reason or another, rightlyor wrongly, reasonably or unreasonably, objected to the League. And sothis society had been formed. It collected its agents as it could, andemployed them as occasion served. It was considered by the societyspecially important to prevent the success of this present session ofthe Assembly, which had a large and varied agenda before it, includingthe renewed discussion of the reduction of armaments, which was, itwas believed, to be pressed with great earnestness by certaindelegates, so that some issue could scarcely be evaded. Besides which,the society had come to the conclusion that to make, once, a completefool of the League Assembly and Council before the world, so that itsconstitution would be disintegrated and its achievements would be asdust before the wind, would deal the prestige of the League such aheavy blow as permanently to discredit it. To this end, after muchcogitation, the society had got hold of a very brilliant andaccomplished agent indeed; an agent who cared not what he did nor forwhat side he fought, so long as he was largely enough paid. To him, tothis unscrupulous and able man, the society had said, "Hold up anddiscredit the coming Assembly somehow. The method we leave to you. Youhave _carte blanche_ in the matter of money, and you shall be paid animmense sum for success."
"This man," said Signor Cristofero, "undertook the mission. Withunparalleled skill, scheming and ingenuity, he decoyed and entrappedmember after member of the Assembly, luring each one by some suitablebait to some spot where there was a trap-door giving on to thesystem of underground passages which runs, as is well known to theauthorities, beneath part of Geneva. What the authorities did _not_know, is the number of trap-door entries to these passages, and wherethey ultimately lead. I have been exploring them now for some days.Last night I conducted Mr. Wilbraham through them, together with hisfriends M. Kratzky and Sir John Levis. At a certain point in one ofthe tunnels one appears to come up against an earth wall; it seems tobe a cul-de-sac. I made the discovery that it is not a cul-de-sac. Theearth wall is a skilful disguise; it swings back, and the passagecontinues. It continues, gentlemen, on and on, far outside the city,running beside the lake, till it ends at last in a cellar. Whatcellar, you demand? Gentlemen, it is the cellar of a ch?teau two milesup the lake. A large and ancient ch?teau, inhabited by a formercardinal of the church. He was retired from this office some yearsago; he said and says it was for heretical opinions expressed inbooks. In reality it was less for this (though this too had itsinfluence in the decision of the Church) than for a plethora of wives.The wives without the heresies might have been winked at, for theChurch has a wise blind side and knows that its children are but dust;even (though this is less probable) the heresies without the wivesmight have been ignored; but the combination was excessive. Thecardinal had to go. Since then he has been living in this ch?teau,writing vast and abstruse works on theology and enjoying theloveliness of the scenery, the beauty of his house and garden, theamenities of such witty and scholarly society as he could collectaround him, and the companionship of a lady whom he inaccurately callshis niece. His name--gentlemen, many of you know it and him--isFranchi, Dr. Silvio Fran
chi. Here, indeed, was a sharp tool readyto the hands of our society. They send for him; he accepts thecommission; he conceives the ingenious scheme of secretly extendingthe underground tunnels to his ch?teau and adding trap-door entries tothem in houses and courtyards where he could command the services ofthe owners, who were generously paid. One by one he lures thedelegates into these houses, these alleys. Lord Burnley he decoys withthe display of a book of his own, strangely inscribed; that we know.The baits offered to the other gentlemen and ladies we do not yet knowfully of, though a few have come to my knowledge. We shall doubtlesseventually have the story of each. Anyhow, one after another, and eachin his appropriate manner, the delegates disappear underground. Theyare then conveyed by Dr. Franchi's employees either underground allthe way to the ch?teau or to an exit close to the lake, whence theycan be secretly embarked by covered boat. By whatever means, theyarrive at the ch?teau, and are there accommodated in what is known asthe Keep Wing, which has the appearance of a large, commodious andmany-roomed guest house, but which is as strongly guarded as a prison.They are not ill-treated; they are made comfortable; often they dinein company with Dr. Franchi, who enjoys their society and keeps themwell amused. I learnt this yesterday from Dr. Franchi's trustedservant, a scoundrel of a Roumanian Baptist, who was moved at last bythe persecution of his co-religionists and relatives in Roumania,touchingly set before him by Mademoiselle the Roumanian delegate, togive the League a chance. After many years' faithful service thisruffian betrayed his master and is assisting me to arrest him. Thehuman heart is truly a strange mixture.
"I have myself, last night, together with the three gentlemen Imentioned, been along the tunnel as far as the ch?teau cellar. Wecould not, of course, then enter it, and we returned the way we came.Dr. Franchi does not know that his secret has been discovered. I havearranged to call on him, with a detachment of police, to-day, in orderto inform him of it, arrest him, and release the prisoners. That isall I have to tell you, gentlemen."