Free The Dark Frontier by Eric Ambler Page B

on.
    Carruthers nodded.
    “A competitor of mine,” said Groom, “for whom I have thegreatest respect and admiration. The biggest mistake he ever made was to let the newspapers get hold of him. ‘The Mystery Man of Europe’ they called him. Mysteries always mean one thing to the public—that there’s something to be found out. What the newspaper man doesn’t suspect, the public doesn’t grieve over. Publicity may be the lifeblood of ordinary commerce, but it’s poison to our industry. I flatter myself that there’s not a reporter in the world who knows anything about me or my business.”
    Carruthers wondered how such a colossal conceit had managed to escape the attentions of even the most obtuse reporter.
    “I mentioned Zaharoff,” Groom continued, “because he once told me that in these days there was no such thing as a secret weapon—that it was an impossibility. It’s true of course; why, you can usually find out all the details of every so-called secret weapon a few weeks after it has been made. The engineering and other technical journals publish them quite openly.”
    “But in this case …”
    “Exactly. In this case, we’re ahead of everyone else. That means that we shall be in a position to grant other firms licenses to manufacture. I believe I mentioned your position as far as licenses are concerned.”
    “But if it’s so easy to discover the process, won’t other nations ignore Cator & Bliss and manufacture on their own account?”
    Groom looked shocked.
    “Really, Professor, for an idealist your views on business ethics are extraordinarily cynical. Why, during the 1914 war, an English arms firm made an enormous number of a special type of fuse for the use of the British armies. After the war, the owners of the patent, a well-known German firm, claimed a large sum of money from the English firm by way of royalties. The matter was settled amicably as a matter of course. Outof court, naturally, but settled it was. And rightly so,” he concluded austerely.
    Carruthers pondered this new aspect of commercial probity. Such agile moralists would, no doubt, be more than equal to the task of reconciling the necessity for bribery and corruption of state officials with their other principles.
    He looked across the compartment at Groom. Night was falling. Whoever was in charge of the train had apparently forgotten or been unable to switch on the lights, for they were in semi-darkness. Carruthers could see Groom, faintly outlined by the failing daylight behind the glowing end of his cigar, sprawled comfortably on the seat. Suddenly, a cold rage possessed him; a rage against these monsters who battened on the wretchedness, the weakness of mankind. Just for once, he resolved, they would be defeated—yes, even if it cost him his life.
    He felt incapable of remaining in the compartment with Groom and, with a muttered excuse, went into the corridor.
    Leaning on the window-rail he gazed out into the gathering darkness. Far away he could see a line of hills traced delicately against the strip of cold cerulean sky left by a dying sun. The clouds still hung, black and heavy, overhead. The sound of the train seemed to echo across the plain as if in a great waiting silence. He turned his head towards the freshening breeze.
    They reached the Ixanian frontier at two o’clock in the morning.
    Roused by the slowing of the train, Carruthers stretched his cramped limbs and climbed down on to the platform of the frontier station. The moon had risen and by the look of the surrounding country, Carruthers guessed that they were in a high-altitude pass.
    It was bitterly cold and, burying his hands in the pockets of his thin overcoat, he walked up and down to restore his circulation.
    Some slovenly-looking soldiers were grouped round a brazier at one end of the platform. These, doubtless, were the Ixanian frontier guards. Several corrugated-iron sheds flanked the station and as Carruthers drew level with them a