The Secret Witness, George Gibbs [world of reading TXT] 📗
- Author: George Gibbs
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Vaguely, as though in dreams, she remembered that this man had thought that Hugh Renwick would follow her to Sarajevo. She had written him a note of warning telling him to leave for England at once. Would he disregard her message, discover where she had gone, and if so, would he follow? Renwick's sins, whatever they were, seemed less important in this unhappy moment of her necessity. He had failed her in a crucial hour——
She started up from her couch a smile upon her lips. Hugh Renwick was no Serbian spy. The man, Goritz, lied. Hugh Renwick and Goritz—it was not difficult to choose! One a man who let no personal suffering—not even the contempt of the woman he loved interfere with his loyalty to his country; the other, one who used a woman's loyalty as a means to an end—cruelly, relentlessly—which was the liar? Not Hugh Renwick. Weary and tortured, but still smiling, Marishka sank back upon her couch and at last, mercifully, she slept.
CHAPTER XI THE MAN IN BLACKIt was after dark when the train bearing Herr Windt and Renwick reached the Franz Josef station, the stolen machine of Altensteig having been left at Budweis with Hadwiger, who was to return it to its owner and in the name of the state to make proper arrangements for compensation. Herr Windt, sadder if no wiser, took a fiacre and drove off hastily, leaving Renwick to his own devices.
To the Englishman, Marishka's case seemed desperate, for though the identity of the driver of the green limousine was unknown, his cleverness in eluding the net which Herr Windt had spread for him indicated him to be an agent of the Wilhelmstrasse, a personal emissary of those near the Kaiser, who was moving with great skill, using every means of a great organization to keep Marishka's mission and identity a secret. But Renwick was not the sort of a man that gives up easily. In the back of his head an idea persisted, and he planned to follow its development for good or ill to its conclusion.
The correctness of his surmise as to the direction of Marishka's flight in the green limousine had convinced him that Vienna was not her final destination. He, too, took a fiacre and drove at once to the apartment of Baroness Racowitz. Marishka's guardian was away, but a fee to the Austrian maid put him in possession of the facts.
"No, Herr Renwick," she replied, "Countess Strahni did not return to the apartment, but she was in Vienna and had sent for a suitcase and clothing, which were delivered to a man who waited in an automobile."
"What sort of a man?"
"I couldn't exactly say, sir, a servant, a butler, perhaps; but there was a note for Herr Renwick."
"Ah—give it to me."
"My instructions were to deliver it at eight o'clock at Herr Renwick's residence in the Strohgasse. I have but just returned from there."
Renwick started down the steps and then turned. "There was nothing else?"
"Nothing."
"You do not know where Countess Strahni is?"
"I know nothing more than I have told you, sir."
Renwick rushed out to the waiting fiacre, and bade the driver go at top speed. A note from Marishka! Under different circumstances this would not perhaps have been surprising. The difference that the change in their personal relations had wrought in the last few weeks, her mood during their hurried flight to Konopisht, her desertion of him, all of these circumstances made the fact of her writing to him the more significant. She had accepted his services in the escape from Windt, because he had forced them upon her, but he could not forget that she had afterward repudiated him and fled from him without a word of explanation of her sudden decision. His own personal danger had warned him that Marishka, his companion eavesdropper, would also be in jeopardy at the hands of those unseen forces which were working in the interests of the Wilhelmstrasse. Marishka had thrown herself into their power and was perhaps at this very moment in danger. But he was soon to know the facts. At his apartment his servant handed him the note and hastily he tore it open and read.
I have gone to Sarajevo. I must do what I can, but I need you. I am a prisoner and in great personal danger if we are stopped en route. Therefore move secretly, telling no one. Go to the Hotel Europa, where I will try to communicate with you.
M. S.
Renwick read the communication through twice, and then glanced at his watch. Nine o'clock. There was no time to go to the British Embassy in the Metternichgasse, though he would have liked to know if anything had been seen of Marishka at the German Embassy which was just adjoining. But he wrote a note to Sir Herbert, then called his servant, who packed a bag while Renwick bathed and dressed. At ten he was seated in the train for Budapest—a slow train that he had taken two weeks before on his mission to Belgrade.
He had made this move on impulse, without second thought, for Marishka's message as to her destination again justified his surmises and corroborated his fears as to her perilous situation. No other thoughts save those of her danger and her need of him had entered his head, and he had moved quickly, aware that any loss of time might be fatal to his hope of helping her. But seated in his compartment of the railway carriage, he had time to consider the note in all its aspects and in its relation to the extraordinary events of the day. There were but two other occupants of the carriage, an old gentleman with a white beard, and a young Hungarian officer—a vacuous looking youth in uniform—neither of them obviously of material from which secret service agents are made. After the experience at the Konopisht railway station, Renwick had no humor to be shot at in such close quarters, where the range would necessarily be deadly. He settled his automatic comfortably in his pocket, and after another and more reassuring inspection of his travelling companions he took out Marishka's note and examined it carefully.
The knowledge he possessed as to her situation suggested caution. An agency which could attempt to take his life would not be above forgery. Marishka's hand? There seemed no doubt of it. It was not difficult for Renwick to remember the peculiarities of her angular writing. The notes he had received from her, invitations, appointments, apologies—very often apologies, he remembered with a slow smile—dainty, faintly scented missives on gray paper which bore her crest, differed from this hurriedly written scrawl on a heavier paper which he had no means of identifying. Only upon closer inspection did he discover a hesitation in the lower curves and upward strokes of the letters which were not characteristic of the decisive Marishka.
Without being certain of its spuriousness, he came to the conclusion that because of its contents, the note was for the present to be regarded as an object for suspicion. Would Marishka—the Marishka who a few hours ago had treated him with such acidulous politeness—write, "I need you"? Could contemptuous silence be turned so quickly into urgent appeal? Her danger made such a transition a possibility, and if she was now ready to recant, all the more reason why he should obey. The one thing about the message which struck a jarring note was the request for secrecy under plea of personal danger. And if a forgery—why should his enemies speak of her personal danger? A lure! So obvious a one that only the veriest dolt could be deceived by it. The situation then resolved itself into this: He was invited to go to Sarajevo—if by Marishka, to save her from personal danger or abduction by her captor—if by the German agent, with Marishka as a lure, to be the victim of a conspiracy which planned either murder or imprisonment. And, however keen his own prescience, Renwick realized that the note had so far succeeded in its object. He was on his way.
He was too tired tonight to do the situation justice, for the blow at the back of his head had taken some of his strength, and he realized that without sleep his utility would be impaired for the morrow. And after a glance at his companions, he decided to chance it, and settling himself comfortably, he was soon heavily sleeping.
Renwick was awakened some while later by the young Hungarian officer's cursing as he stumbled over the Englishman's feet. A glance at his watch showed Renwick that he had slept four hours. It was dawn. Beside him at the further end of the seat the old man with the white beard still slept. Renwick glanced out of the window and found that the station was Vacz. They were twenty or thirty miles from the Hungarian capital. The morning was cool, and Renwick stepped down from the open door upon the platform and stretched his limbs, sniffing the air eagerly. He felt renewed, invigorated, and the ache at his head was gone. He had made no plans beyond the very necessary one of getting money at the British Consulate and taking the first train south. The difficulties in making proper connections, the probability that somewhere he must desert the railroad and beg, buy, or steal a motor car, and the ever present danger of a shot from a German agent confronted him, but in his early morning humor nothing seemed impossible. He would get through in some way and find a means of reaching Marishka! And if Marishka were already spirited away? He would find her and the green limousine chap with whom he would have a reckoning.
Impatient of the delay of the train, he took out his cigarette case and was about to smoke, when the warning of the guard was shouted, and he got into his carriage, followed by another traveler who clambered in at the last moment and sank into the seat opposite. As the train moved, the two men scanned each other in the light of the growing dawn which now vied with the flickering light of the overhead lamp in their compartment. The stranger was a very tall man in dark clothes, who gave an instant impression of long
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