Authors: Eric Ambler
Carruthers had expected this.
“Mr. Groom,” he said, “I will be equally frank with you. I have not forsaken my views on the subject. I still believe in them implicitly.”
Groom raised his eyebrows.
“But,” continued Carruthers thoughtfully, “there were, I decided, other factors to be considered. I am a poor man, Mr. Groom. I have, for some time now, been handicapped in my research work by lack of funds. I asked myself a question. Could I, in fairness to myself, afford to refuse your offer? I decided that I could not. After all, your failure to secure particulars of Kassen’s secret eventually is in any case unlikely. Why should I not assist you to hasten the process?”
He had chosen the reason for his acceptance carefully as that most likely to be viewed sympathetically by a man of Groom’s calibre. He had not been mistaken. A glance at Groom’s face told him that his explanation had done much to lull the other’s suspicions.
Groom nodded appreciatively.
“Professor,” he said with a disarming smile, “I see that you are a man after my own heart. I salute the good fortune that prompted me to inform you of my movements.”
Carruthers saw the trap immediately. Groom was trying to ascertain if his presence on the train was traceable to the activities of a third party.
He laughed.
“I could wish,” he said, “that your information had been a trifle more detailed than it was. It is more by luck than judgement that I am with you now. I missed you at the Ritz. The hall porter there was, however, able to help me.”
This seemed to satisfy Groom.
“Well, Professor, I may be surprised and my self-esteem has certainly suffered, but I confess that I am glad to see you. Supposing we adjourn to the dining-car; we can perhaps discuss business better over luncheon.”
“Mr. Groom,” remarked Carruthers later, “we may disagree on points of ethics, but in the matter of food and wine my admiration for your judgement is profound.”
Groom shrugged.
“One does one’s best, but these trains …!” He raised despairing hands. “I trust the Bordeaux is not entirely undrinkable; the motion is enough to ruin any wine.”
“An excellent choice.”
“Then perhaps we can proceed to business. In the first place, Professor, I want to impress upon you again the necessity for absolute secrecy. It is possible, though not, I believe, probable that our competitors may also have heard of Kassen’s discovery. If that is the case I shall know how to deal with them. The point to remember, however, is that behind Kassen is the Ixanian Government. Any indiscreet move on our part might mean failure.”
Carruthers, in the role of the ingenuous Professor Barstow, nodded vaguely. Privately he wondered if “failure” were not a rather mild way of describing the receipt of a bullet in the back. Still, it was no part of Groom’s policy to intimidate his new lieutenant. He changed the subject abruptly.
“Then we understand one another,” he went on swiftly. “Now, Professor, we come to the question of your fee. I need hardly say that you will not find Cator & Bliss niggardly. As I said before, any reasonable demand on your part would receive our most sympathetic consideration. I take it you have given the matter some thought?”
Carruthers exhibited confusion.
“Well,” he began uncertainly, “I am not a business man, Mr. Groom … I hardly know …”
“Perhaps,” interrupted the other smoothly, “you will permit me to make a suggestion.”
Carruthers registered relief.
“Just what I was about to propose.”
Groom settled himself comfortably.
“As I have already pointed out, Professor, any work in this matter done by you on behalf of Cator & Bliss would remain our sole and absolute property. Further, we should expect you to place yourself under contract with us for a period of, say, five years; you will appreciate that we have to protect ourselves as far as possible. I imagine, however, that such a contract would not prove irksome. Your actual work for us will cease on the day our factories are in a position to produce the Kassen explosive.”
“That is reasonable enough,” admitted Carruthers.
“Very well then, Professor, we come to the financial aspect of the question. Here is my proposition. On the day I have already mentioned, when we are actually in production of the Kassen explosive, you would receive an honorarium of fifty thousand pounds. In addition—” He paused impressively. “In addition, you would receive ten thousand pounds a year for each of the five years of your contract. In the event of Cator & Bliss deciding to licence other manufacturers to use the Kassen process, you would receive further honoraria of fifty thousand pounds for each licence. In other words, one hundred thousand pounds for you certainly, with the possibility of considerably more. Well, Professor, what do you say?”
Carruthers remained silent for a moment. His first impulse was to laugh. So Groom really took him for the simpleton of a professor he was impersonating. One hundred thousand pounds—but only if Groom were able to create the opportunity for him to do the work and then only if that work bore fruit. Cator & Bliss stood to lose nothing; Professor Barstow stood to lose a great deal, even his liberty, possibly his life. Again there was no guarantee that, when he had fulfilled his part of the bargain,
Cator & Bliss would acknowledge it. Certainly Groom would give him some sort of contract but, hedged about with “ifs” and “buts” as it would be, it would not be worth the paper it was written on. Besides, Cator & Bliss would undoubtedly refuse to define the exact nature and limits of his work in a written contract that might serve at some future date as evidence of the nature of their operations.
Groom was watching him closely. Carruthers affected a bewildered grin. “It’s a lot of money, Mr. Groom.”
The other smiled faintly.
“I told you, Professor, that you would not find Cator & Bliss niggardly. I take it that you accept our terms?”
“Of course, of course. I can only hope,” he added apologetically, “that my work will justify the generosity of your treatment of me.”
Groom’s smile broadened.
“Then we’ll take it as settled. The train stops for an hour at Bâle. That will give me time to arrange about your contract with our office there. Meanwhile—another brandy, I think.”
“Ah, I see, a little celebration,” said Carruthers with a professorial giggle. “Well, Mr. Groom, I think I may exceed my allowance for once. Thank you!”
Groom’s plump face was more congenial than ever as he ordered the liqueurs. When they came he turned to Carruthers, a broad smile on his lips, his glass raised for a toast.
“To the success of our …”
He did not finish the sentence. His eyes staring over Carruthers’ shoulder suddenly narrowed. In a moment his face tightened into the bland mask of suspicion Carruthers had already seen once that day.
Two people had entered the restaurant car.
Groom’s eyes followed them until they drew level with the table. The two passed on to a table a little farther down the car. Carruthers, his every sense alert, watched the retreating
figures of a man and a woman with a growing feeling of excitement. As the two turned to sit down he glimpsed their faces. He had been right then. It was the man and woman of the Paris boat-train.
He became aware that Groom was talking to him.
“I beg your pardon, Professor,” he was saying, “for the moment I thought I had seen a ghost.”
Once more he raised his glass.
“As I was saying, Professor—to the success of our enterprise.”
But his face had lost its geniality, his tone had lost conviction.
Back in their compartment, Groom’s usual garrulity had deserted him. Muttering that he had some business to attend to, he disappeared behind what appeared to be a voluminous report and read steadily, pausing only occasionally to scribble a note.
Carruthers, for his part, was more than thankful for the breathing space. He found the rôle of the ingenuous Professor Barstow a little trying to sustain. Besides, he had much food for thought.
His fellow-travellers of the Havre-Paris express had certainly been recognised by Groom and, just as certainly, that recognition had proved an unpleasant surprise. Were this man and woman connected in any way with Groom’s present enterprise? It was possible. They might conceivably be the Ixanian representatives from England. But in that case why should the sight of them surprise Groom? Once again he cursed Durand’s shameful treachery. Durand might have known something. Durand—then an idea struck him. Representatives? Groom had spoken of only one. The woman might, of course, be the man’s wife, or his “secretary.” He found the hypothesis singularly depressing. He glanced in his mind’s eye at the picture they had presented in the
Havre-Paris train. The man, judging from the glimpses he had caught of him, certainly fitted the part of representative of the Ixanian Government. Neat, plump, dark, he reminded Carruthers of an Istanbul rug merchant he knew, not at all the sort of man, he thought, to capture the affection of such a woman. The man appeared to treat her, too, with a certain deference, as a superior. It occurred to him suddenly that the presence of the woman might be the unexpected factor which had caused Groom such dismay. Who was she? Obviously, Groom would give him no information. The less Professor Barstow knew, the better. He must find out for himself.
He rose and, murmuring that he was going for a stroll, went out into the corridor, closing the door to the compartment firmly behind him. The first thing was to ascertain the whereabouts of the mysterious man and woman. If his conjectures had been right they would also be in the Roumanian coach bound for Zovgorod.
Giving way to the movements of the train in order to render his progress as slow as possible without arousing suspicion, he started to walk the length of the coach. As he passed each compartment he glanced casually at the occupants. He had almost reached the end of the corridor and the conclusion that his theory was wrong before he saw them. They were in a compartment by themselves, the man apparently dozing, the woman reading a book.
Carruthers did not pause and continued his way to the end of the corridor. There he stopped and, leaning on the handrail, gazed out of the window. By turning his head slightly he had an uninterrupted view of the entire corridor of the Roumanian coach: a few feet away was the entrance to the compartment of what he now felt practically certain was the Ixanian representative and his companion; beyond that, at the far end of the corridor, was Groom’s compartment.
The train roared over a viaduct and into a cutting. Watching the embankment stream by, Carruthers considered his next move.
Obviously, he must make the woman’s acquaintance, talk to her. But how? It was out of the question to reveal his true identity and business or even his imposture of Professor Barstow. He must, then, engage her in conversation as a fellow-traveller. It would not, he thought, be easy. She did not look the sort of person to encourage casual acquaintances. He considered several conceivable gambits only to reject them as clumsy and was still wondering how best to accomplish his purpose when Fate took a hand in the game.
The train had left the cutting and entered a long tunnel. Suddenly, he noticed that it was slowing down. By the time it emerged it was moving at little more than walking pace, while from below came a continuous and penetrating grinding. A few yards more and the train stopped with a jerk.
Immediately windows were flung open and heads appeared all along. A covey of officials descended onto the line and began peering beneath the coach. They were soon joined by the driver in his long blue coat. An excited conclave took place. The trouble appeared to be caused by the brakes of the Roumanian coach and the driver began plucking at a lever which projected from one of the bogeys. The officials followed suit and each in turn pulled the offending lever, to a running fire of facetious comment from the carriage windows.
Several passengers now took it into their heads to scramble down on to the line and gather round the group of officials. They were quickly followed by others. One or two waggled the lever with an air of understanding.
Carruthers, from his vantage-point at the window, watched the scene with amusement. Suddenly he heard the compartment door behind him open. “Pardon, Monsieur, will you please tell me what is the matter?” said a clear voice in English.
As he turned to reply, Carruthers gave no indication of his delight at this good fortune.
“Apparently,” he said gravely, “an overheating brake. As you see”—he waved his hand towards the commotion below—“the matter is now receiving attention.”
A faint smile hovered on her lips. Her beauty was more than ever apparent.
“May I ask, Madame,” pursued Carruthers, “how you knew that I was English.”
The smile deepened.
“If this had been England,” she answered, “the passengers would have waited patiently in their compartments for the train to start again. It would occur to no one to leave the train. Over here we order things differently.”
Carruthers laughed.
“Madame is a psychologist,” he said with a slight bow.
She did not respond but looked anxiously at the gesticulating assembly on the line.
“Tell me, Monsieur,” she asked seriously, “do you think that we shall be delayed for long?”
“I think not, Madame,” he assured her; “the brake, I gather, is already in working order. It is now, it seems, more an affair of the driver’s honour.”
“That, perhaps, is a matter not so easily disposed of.”
As she spoke there was the blast of a whistle and cries of “
en voiture
” as the passengers hurriedly scrambled back into the train.
Carruthers cast about desperately for a means of continuing the conversation. The train was already moving and she was making as if to return to her compartment.
“Are you going to Bucharest, too, Madame?”
She was non-committal. To Bucharest, yes; but not to stay there. She volunteered no further information. Carruthers changed his tactics.
“I, too, am travelling beyond Bucharest. I am going to Zovgorod.”
He sensed an immediate almost imperceptible change in her attitude towards him. She spoke softly.