The Secret Witness, George Gibbs [world of reading TXT] 📗

Renwick had assumed that the Austrian was an agent of Herr Windt, who unable to follow him on to Sarajevo had guessed the train upon which he had left and had sent this man up from Budapest to get into his carriage. But his most recent accomplishment seemed to leave this presumption open to doubt. If Herr Linke had stolen the letter in the belief that it contained secret information which would be of value to Austrian secret service officials, the mere reading of it would have convinced him of its innocence in so far as Marishka was concerned. And if a forgery! Perhaps something in the message which Renwick had overlooked would put him upon the track of the fellow of the green limousine. He went along the river bank from the bridge toward the hotel, the location of which was familiar to him, hurrying his pace. At any rate the note was gone and with it the mysterious Linke, facts which clearly indicated one purpose. Herr Linke was bent upon intercepting any message which might come to the Hotel Europa for the Englishman. And given that to be his purpose, what was his intention with regard to the Countess Strahni?

Still puzzling over the mysteries, which gained in elusiveness as he hurried into Franz Josef Street, he reached the hotel, which was near the Carsija, and made hurried inquiries of the Turkish porter, who smiled and professed ignorance, but said to the Excellency that he would diligently inquire, bringing Renwick at last to the major-domo, who informed him that a note bearing the name of Herr Renwick had been left at the hotel an hour before, but that not twenty minutes ago, Herr Renwick had called and claimed it.

"That is not possible," said Renwick hotly, "since I am Herr Renwick."

The major-domo shrugged and bowed obsequiously. It was most unfortunate, he said, but of course as Excellency must know, the Hotel Europa was not a postoffice and could not be held responsible for the proper delivery of letters when it knew nothing of the identity of those to whom they were addressed.

Renwick paused a moment, and then said quickly, "To whom was the note delivered? You saw?"

"Yes, Excellency. The person who said he was Herr Renwick was tall, attired in black clothing, and carried an umbrella."

"Who brought the note?"

"As to that—I do not know."

The major-domo moved majestically away, but the Turkish porter who stood listening, broke in.

"If your Excellency will permit. It was I who received the note, late this afternoon. It was brought by a woman in a yashmak—a Turkish woman. Of course I could not know her, since one looks with averted eyes upon the women of Islam, but she would have come from the Turkish quarter of the town—from beyond the Carsija—perhaps. I do not know. I can say no more."

Renwick paused irresolutely and giving the man a fee, went out of the hotel into the street, mingling with the crowds upon Franz Josef Street, where but a few hours before on a nearby corner, the Archduke and Duchess had met their deaths. Deciding that at all hazards he must remain inconspicuous while he thought out a plan, he crossed the river and went into a small park, where he sank wearily into a bench and buried himself in new speculations.

A pipe and tobacco soothed, if they failed to stimulate his faculties. He had reached an impasse. What if the Enigma in black were playing some deep game of his own with regard to Marishka? What if, after all, he was no agent of Herr Windt, but represented perhaps the military party of Austria, which had as deep an interest in Marishka's silence as had the Wilhelmstrasse? And yet such a theory was hardly plausible, for if Linke were interested in Marishka's silence he would also be interested in Renwick's, and this being the case, the easiest way out of the business would have been to have dropped Renwick into some deep pool of the Save or the Bosna while he slept. Herr Linke puzzled Renwick, but reason informed him that the unknown limousine chap was the greater menace both to Marishka and himself. That he held Renwick's life cheaply was indicated by the frequent attempts upon it in Vienna and in Bohemia and the mere fact that he had twice failed was no sign that a third attempt might not be successful. The most unfavorable phase of the situation was that the German agent knew Renwick by sight, and would have every opportunity of following him to some secluded spot—shooting him in the back and escaping into a nearby street before the excitement subsided. What did the German agent look like? He might pass the fellow, elbow to elbow, and the Englishman would not know him. Renwick had no fear of meeting the man on even terms, but the thought of being stabbed in the back or shot at by any casual passer-by was disturbing to his morale. Every innocent bush, every tree was an enemy. What did the green limousine chap look like? A Prussian? With a bulky nose, small mustache, and no back to his head? Or was he small, clean shaven, and ferret-like? How would he be dressed? In mufti? Or in some favoring disguise which might better lend itself to his purposes?

Renwick rose suddenly and, with a careful glance about him, made slowly for the Lateimer Bridge, sure at least, that he had not been followed, and convinced that he must equalize the hazards between this German and himself by playing the game according to the standards of the Wilhelmstrasse. So he found his way carefully into the Carsija, and found a stall where he managed to buy a native Bosnian costume,—fez, white shirt, short jacket, wide trousers fitting close below the knee, sash and slippers. His automatic having been taken by the prudent Linke, he was unarmed, but managed to find a revolver of American make and cartridges which fitted it. With his newly acquired purchases he returned in the darkness to the other bank of the river, where he found a small inn in the Bistrick quarter.

He concealed ten one hundred kroner notes in the lining at the belt of the trousers, and pinned it securely. The remainder of his money, a few fifty crown notes and coins, he put in his pockets with his watch and other valuables, and changed his clothing. When he had finished dressing he examined himself in a mirror. His face was tanned by exposure, and the dust of the journey which he retained gave him a soiled appearance sufficiently Oriental. He was now Stefan Thomasevic, a seller of sheep and goats, which he had brought to the market. He left his English clothing in a bundle in the care of the innkeeper and advising the man that he would return later in the night or at least upon the morrow, went forth across the river again, with a sense of greater security from the observations of any who meant mischief to Hugh Renwick. If he did not know what the green limousine chap looked like, the limousine chap at least could not know him.

As he slouched through the alleys of the Carsija, reassured as to the completeness of his disguise, he smoked a native cigarette, and asked many questions among the keepers of the stalls, squatting cross-legged with them upon the ground and learning much of all matters save of the one with which he was most concerned.

"Few but Moslem people had passed through the Carsija upon this day," they said, "for the terrible happenings of the morning had kept the Austrian Excellencies in their own part of the town and Islam—Islam in time of trouble was always wise to find its company among its own people."

Renwick's task seemed hopeless, but he did not despair, leaving the bazaar at last, and climbing the hill to the old town beyond the Bastion. Here he again questioned every passer-by. "Had the Effendi seen a tall Excellency dressed in black who carried an umbrella? He, Stefan Thomasevic, had sold the Excellency some sheep and goats, but the Excellency had not yet paid all of that which he owed. It was not a matter about which to laugh. If the Excellency did not soon appear in the Carsija, it was a matter for the police."

But no one could help him. Herr Linke was moving with discretion, for it was probable that if such a creature had strolled through the Carsija, there would be a dozen idlers who would have observed and noted the fact. Renwick's chief hopes were crumbling. And yet, if Linke suspected that the note which had been sent to the Hotel Europa was a bait, he would of course act with great caution. It was nearly midnight when, weary and disappointed, Renwick returned from the Kastele quarter in the direction of the Carsija. The houses were dark save for a glimmer of light in an upper window here and there, but the moon had come out, and Renwick, moving silently along in the shadow of walls and houses, gazed about him with the eagerness of despair. For a while he stopped in the angle of a wall, and listened to the sounds of the city below him, the rush of the river below the Bastion, the motor and bell of the electric tram-car, the whistle of a freight locomotive at the further end of the town—strident noises brought from the West to break the drowsy murmur of the Orient, but not a sight nor a sound which could give him a clew as to the whereabouts of Linke or Countess Marishka. The inaction was maddening. In his belt the American revolver hung its futile weight. Had it not been for Linke, he might have had a chance at least to follow the instructions of the note of the Hotel Europa to some conclusion whether for good or ill—it did not matter. If Marishka herself had written it!... She would be awaiting him now—and he could not come to her.... In his stead—Linke the gigantic, the mellifluous....

Renwick turned slowly into a side street, and crouched in the dark angle of a wall, for a motor car was coming toward him. Motors in the region of Franz Josef Street and the river were not uncommon, but as a rule they were seldom to be seen in the hilly region near the Bastion. From his dark vantage point, Renwick saw the car approach and pass him, quietly coasting, and stop a short distance below the angle of the street from which he had emerged. He caught a glimpse of the profile of the chauffeur, and noted the condition of the car. He judged that it had come a long journey, for Sarajevo and the part of Bosnia through which his own machine had traveled, had suffered much from the drought. This machine was covered with dust, of course, but it was also literally spattered with mud. The Englishman watched the machine for a while, but the chauffeur having silenced the engine, remained motionless, in deep shadow, waiting. Of course belated visitors from the European section of the city to the Kastele were a possibility, but the quietness with which the chauffeur had approached, and the eager way in which he now leaned forward in his seat watching the meshrebiya windows of a house at some distance, excited Renwick's curiosity. Why was the man there? Who was he watching in the house of the lighted window? Had this mystery anything in common with his own? Renwick watched the windows too. A light burned dimly within, and once he thought a shadow passed. The window and the chauffeur interested him, but he was too far away to distinguish the house clearly, and so, moving stealthily, he stole quietly up the hill to a cross street, and turning to the left, in the shadow of a wall, walked rapidly down to