Chapter XII

IN WHICH ARTHUR WHARTON FINDS A TRAVELLING COMPANION, BUT NOTHING
ELSE OF IMPORTANCE

Arthur Wharton was seldom slow in putting two and two together, and the sum in simple arithmetic which Lord Ealing had set him presented no difficulties. He had read about the Radlett case in the evening papers: his uncle had told him that John Pasquett was Radlett's partner, and he was fully aware that the Anglo-Asiatic was trusting for the revival of its fortunes to a big Russian deal with Radlett.

Apparently, Radlett's murder had upset Lord Ealing's calculations, and he had very special reasons for desiring that Pasquett should be found at once. It needed little perspicacity to see that the police would also want to find Pasquett, in case he could throw any light on the crime, or to conclude from Lord Ealing's way of proceeding that he wanted to be beforehand with the police in seeing Radlett's partner. Evidently, this was the purpose of his mission, and it seemed best not to inquire too closely into his uncle's motives in trying to steal a march on the police. The effect was to give him what would probably be an enjoyable trip. He had often wanted to visit Poland, and had never done so. And his mission, he told himself, was quite innocent. He had only to deliver his letters and come back with Pasquett at once.

Arthur saw Lord Ealing again that afternoon before leaving on the boat train for Paris, where he was to pick up the air route to Warsaw. His uncle stressed again the strictly confidential nature of his mission, and gave him a packet of letters. "Mr. Franklin's is there, as well as mine," he said, and wished his nephew good speed and a pleasant journey.

Arthur knew his Paris. He made no stay there, going straight from the boat train to the aerodrome, where he would find the plane that would take him to Warsaw. His seat had already been booked by telephone. As he was waiting for the plane to start, he saw a car drive up. In it was a tall, fair man, with blue eyes and a cheerful expression, and a tall, dark girl of striking beauty, who occupied the driver's seat. Arthur watched them alight, and saw them say good-bye in the manner of old friends. He began half-consciously wondering who they were. Not lovers, he thought; but certainly not brother and sister. Yet there was surely some close bond between them. They looked, he decided, like fellow-adventurers, close friends too busy thinking about their common affairs to have thought of falling in love with each other. An attractive pair, he said to himself.

He was glad, therefore, when, having said farewell to the girl and talked to her earnestly for a few minutes, as if he were giving her careful instructions, the man came towards where he was standing, and inquired of a mechanic whether this was the plane for Warsaw. Arthur was glad the man with the laughing eyes was to be his fellow-passenger. He observed him closely as he stood talking to the mechanic, noting his great strength and physical vigour. The man looked somewhere between thirty-five and forty. He had an air of maturity, of being at the very height of all his powers, mental and physical. He carried himself well and easily, with a light swing of the shoulders as he walked. His blue eyes laughed as he passed some jest with the mechanic. Arthur could see he was the kind of man who made friends at once.

So, when they were bidden take their seats, Arthur climbed gladly into a place beside the unknown, and at once found a way of opening up talk with him. From the weather they soon passed to more interesting topics, especially to discussing the men and countries they had seen. Arthur soon discovered that his new acquaintance had been a great traveller. He seemed to know every part of Europe, from Paris to Moscow. He knew Russia well, and America no less well. London he knew slightly, but the rest of England not at all. Arthur was puzzled to discover his nationality. He did not talk like an American, or, quite, like an Englishman. His English was perfect, but he used some American turns of phrase, and there was a faint suggestion of French in his accent. Arthur tried, by talking about himself and his career at Oxford (saying, of course, nothing of his confidential mission), to make his fellow-passenger do the same. At length he asked him point-blank what his nationality was. "I was born a British subject," was the reply, "but I think I'm a cosmopolitan. I'm at home everywhere."

Arthur did not pursue the subject, and their talk turned to other things. They discussed everything--politics, art, commerce, the ways of women--nothing seemed to come amiss to the stranger. At Prague they had a longish wait, due to some trouble with the engine. They took a meal together, and then went together to see the sights--or rather the stranger showed Arthur the city, with which he was well acquainted. When at length they reached Warsaw, Arthur was sorry to part with his new acquaintance, who seemed already like a friend. He had, it appeared, urgent business in the city, and was making no stay. Not till he had gone did Arthur fully realise that, though they had spoken of most things, neither had learnt the other's name. Only with Englishmen, he told himself, would that have been possible. The stranger must be an Englishman, who had picked up his Americanisms and his slightly foreign accent through long residence abroad. An American or a foreigner would have been certain to say who he was. Arthur's psychology was a little insular: he had been trained at Oxford.

At Warsaw, Arthur booked a room at the Hotel Foch, which has an excellent cuisine, and, after a good meal, began his search at once. The Hotel Foch itself knew nothing of John Pasquett. No one of that name had been staying there of late. He would need to go further afield. Armed with a list of the principal hotels in the town, and finding no difficulty in making himself understood with his excellent French, varied occasionally by a few words of German, he went his round. At the fifth attempt he had some success. He was told at the Hotel of Poland and the Universe that a Mr. Robertson had left that very afternoon, after spending a week in the hotel. He was a business gentleman from Reval, who had stayed there several times before.

Robertson is a common enough name, but there were hardly likely to be two Robertsons at a place like Reval. And "Robertson, Reval," was the postal address at which Lord Ealing had communicated with Radlett. Probably Robertson would be in touch with Pasquett. Robertson, it appeared, was short and stout, with a fair moustache, bald, probably about fifty years of age. He had left no address. Having only light luggage with him, he had walked away carrying it, at about three o'clock in the afternoon, in the direction of the main railway station.

Arthur now found himself in a dilemma. It was not Robertson he really wanted, but Pasquett. Should he follow up Robertson, and endeavour to get on Pasquett's track with his help? Or had he better resume his search for Pasquett himself? He decided finally on the latter course. If he could get no direct clue to Pasquett's whereabouts, he could follow up Robertson later. But, in any case, it was too late to do more that evening. He returned to his hotel and went to bed.

Before going to bed, however, he wrote out a message to be telegraphed to his uncle as soon as the office opened in the morning. "No trace yet of P.," he wrote. "Robertson of Reval left here to-day. Am pursuing inquiries. Wire any instructions Hotel Foch.--WHARTON."

On the following morning he returned to his search. The British Embassy, which he tried first, had records of Pasquett's presence in Warsaw on previous occasions, but none of his having been recently in the city. The American Embassy had never heard of him. Arthur next spent a considerable time in vain inquiries at the remaining hotels, followed by a fruitless hour at the railway station, where he interrogated voluble but unhelpful porters and officials. But he had no idea what Pasquett looked like, and he soon saw that this made all such inquiries fruitless. He next tried the Warsaw police, who were most polite, but could give him no word of Pasquett. At length he made up his mind to return to Robertson's hotel and try to get on his track, as a means of tracing Pasquett indirectly.

Then followed three days of energetic but, for a long time, unproductive activity. He managed to find a Warsaw merchant who had seen Robertson. Robertson, he heard, had gone to Prague. Arthur chased him there, only to discover that he had gone to Berlin. Again Arthur followed, and at last ran Robertson to earth in a Berlin hotel. But here again disappointment awaited him. Robertson knew Pasquett, and had been in Warsaw up to the very day of Arthur's arrival there; but he had not seen Pasquett there, and did not know of his presence in the city. All he could do was to give Arthur introductions to several Warsaw merchants whom Pasquett might have been to see. He himself had last seen Pasquett in Reval, two months before. He did not know Radlett personally, but he said that Pasquett had often spoken of him, and he expressed horror at the circumstances of his death. With an intimate knowledge of Russian affairs, Robertson totally refused to accept the theory that Radlett had been killed by Bolsheviks.

Armed with Robertson's introductions, Arthur returned to Warsaw, writing to Lord Ealing once again to explain how he had fared. All through these days of fruitless inquiry, his uncle had sent him one wire after another inciting him to continue his search, and he had reported each stage of his unsuccessful progress. His second call at Warsaw gave him something more definite to report. The merchant to whom he put his question told him that Pasquett had come to see him on the very day of Arthur's first arrival in Warsaw. But the man had no idea where Pasquett had gone. He had come on business for the Paris firm of Culpepper, and had left when his business was done, without any hint of his destination. Arthur wired this news to his uncle, and continued his inquiries. He found at length two more merchants on whom Pasquett had paid business calls on the same day, but from neither could he get any news of his later movements. It seemed evident that Pasquett had left Warsaw, and it was still unknown where he had stayed while he was in the city.

Arthur sent a despondent telegram to his uncle, and returned to his hotel. But there he found awaiting him a wire from Lord Ealing. "P. arrived here. Come back. E." it ran. So all his journeyings had been for nothing, after all. As he had surmised at first, Pasquett had gone straight back from Warsaw to London. Possibly he had heard of his partner's murder, and had hastened to the scene of the crime. Possibly he had only fulfilled his original plan. In either case, he--Arthur--had been wasting his time.

Arthur returned to London at his leisure, allowing himself a free day in Paris on his way home. He travelled this time by train and boat, and it was a full week after his departure that he presented himself again at the offices of the Anglo-Asiatic. He had accomplished nothing, but he had enjoyed his wild-goose chase. And his failure did not matter, since Pasquett had turned up in London of his own accord. His one regret was that he had failed to exchange names and addresses with the pleasant companion with whom he had travelled from Paris to Warsaw. The man remained in his thoughts: Arthur wanted to meet him again.