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

the fountain. His eyes had grown accustomed to the darkness, and he searched the shadows of the bushes by the reflected moonlight which silvered the upper stories of the building. He saw that there was a door near the center of the house facing the fountain, and upstairs in the windows over it was the dull glow of a lamp or lantern. The windows of the other room, which he had observed from across the street, were now darkened. This was curious, but there was no time to debate upon it. He must act quickly. He was sure now that Marishka was somewhere in this house, a prisoner. She had sent for him, or why should Linke be here? He drew the revolver from the folds of his sash, and with a keen glance to right and left, crouching below the level of the shrubbery, he reached the door of the house and tried it.

It was locked. He hesitated for a moment, looking over his shoulder, and then slipping his weapon into his belt again, he put a foot into the trellis beside the doorway and began climbing. It was a dangerous thing to attempt, for as he emerged from the shadows below, his figure would be clearly outlined against the moonlit wall, and a well directed shot from the garden would send him clattering down like a maimed squirrel from a tree. But the game was worth the candle, for he had seen that the window in the room above the door was open, and as he had decided to enter the house at any cost, this was the only way. But it was slow work, for the trellis was old, and creaked beneath his weight, and once, when his foot slipped, he thought he must surely be discovered. Then he waited, with his fingers almost at the window ledge, listening. He heard the low murmur of voices, but they seemed to come from another part of the building, and so risking the whole venture in one effort, he quickly raised his head above the level of the window-ledge, and peered in. At first he saw only the flickering shadows of a lamp hanging from the ceiling, and then a figure in the corner opposite, which startled him until he saw that it was immovable—a suit of armor upright against the wall. The room appeared to be empty, and so he grasped the inside of the sill, and hauled himself up until his shoulders were within the window opening.

It was then that a female figure started up from a couch just beside him, stifling a cry. The light from the lantern above fell full upon her face, and her eyes were staring at him in terror. It was Marishka. He whispered her name, but still she stared at him wildly, and it was not until then that he remembered his disguise. He took off his fez, and spoke to her again.

"Marishka, it is I, Hugh!"

He saw her stare and then take a pace toward him as he clambered into the room, and in a moment she was in his arms.

"Hugh—belovèd!" she murmured brokenly, as she leaned heavily against him. "I have been so frightened——"

"Marishka! Your hands are ice cold. They have kept you here—against your will?"

"Yes. And you—Hugh—they've tried——"

"Don't fear," he smiled. "I've as many lives as a cat. Didn't you hear me scratching my way up the wall? Sh——"

He left her for a moment, and peered out into the darkness of the garden. All was silent as before, and so he returned and took her in his arms again.

"You've forgiven me?" he whispered.

"Need you ask? Oh, Hugh, I've wanted you so!"

"Thank God for that." Their lips met and she clung to him, all the pitiful longings of her days and nights of misery in her caress, the dependence of helpless womanhood, but greater than that, the fear for his safety, which took precedence over her own.

He kissed her tenderly, the joy of possession the greater for the dangers that they ran.

"You're trembling, Marishka. Don't worry."

But she clung to him anew.

"If anything should happen now—that I have you again."

"Dearest! I, too, have suffered with you—but I haven't despaired. I would never have given you up, you know," he said with a smile.

"I've never wanted you to give me up, Hugh. I've tested you cruelly—because—because—my pride was hurt——"

"It had to be, Marishka. But you've survived it——"

"My love is greater—greater than anything in the world to me," she murmured. "Danger has proved it—and yours——"

"It needed nothing. I love you—now and always."

"You forgive?"

He kissed her again and again, and for a long moment they clasped each other in silence, their lips together, questioning, replying in broken syllables. To the woman, nothing else mattered. If death came now, she knew that it would be sweet. And it was Renwick who found his reason first. Her hands still in his, he led her to the window, where he scanned the garden anxiously. But there was still no sign of anything suspicious, nor, in the house, any sound. But Renwick now questioned her quickly.

"You sent me a note in Vienna?"

"Yes. A warning. I was afraid. I urged you to return to England, but I hoped——"

"Ah! The note—a forgery!"

"What do you mean?"

"Your note told me to come to Sarajevo—to the Hotel Europa, where you would communicate with me."

"A forgery! Goritz! Now I understand. He said that you would follow."

"Goritz—the limousine chap! He is here?"

"I don't know. I haven't seen him since this morning. Hugh! He has laid plans to kill you—a trap——"

"We shall outwit him——"

"But I am frightened, even now with you here beside me, Hugh. He is clever—I am no match for him—I wrote you to come—tonight. It was what he wished. Don't you understand? A trap! You are in danger—here—now——"

But Renwick did not seem to be greatly disturbed. His mind had cleared amazingly.

"We shall fight him with his own weapons——"

"I am frightened. Are you sure that no one saw you enter the garden?"

"Positive." And then pursuing his thought, "You sent a note to the Hotel Europa?"

"Yes—" she stammered, "this afternoon. I asked you to come here—tonight at twelve. You received it?"

"No. It was intercepted."

"I don't understand."

He laughed. "I don't wonder. It's the luckiest thing in the world that I've found you."

He kissed her again, and then quickly, "The Harim is—where?"

She pointed to the door with the grille, and he regarded it with a new interest. In the silence that followed, they heard again the murmur of voices, a woman's and a man's.

"Zubeydeh!" she whispered. "The woman here and—a man's voice."

"We must find a way out quickly. They may come around this way."

He noticed the door upon the other side of the room.

"Where does that lead?"

"To the selamlik, I think. But it is better to go by the window. I can climb. Let us go."

He shook his head.

"It's dangerous. The stairs——"

"It is dark below. I don't know where they lead."

"To the garden. They must. The door is locked on the inside, but perhaps there's another exit at the rear. Come."

He drew his revolver from his belt, and taking her by the hand, led her to the stair, and there they stopped, for Marishka clutched his arm in sudden consternation. From the Harim came a sudden muffled noise—as though some one were beating upon a carpet.

"Shots!" whispered Renwick. "We must hurry."

"Shots! What does it mean?"

"I'll explain later. Hurry!"

There were cries now—the shriek of a woman, and above all, a hoarse bellow as of some enraged animal. Renwick had already descended a few steps, Marishka following him, when the door to the selamlik opened, and a female figure clad in Marishka's silk drapery rushed forth. It was Yeva.

"Fräulein——" she whispered in awed tones to Marishka. "Forgive me!" she pleaded. "I have seen. It was beautiful. I could not see harm come to you. His Excellency has been in the street at the back of the house, but when the fighting began came up the rear stairway of the selamlik——"

"Goritz!" stammered Marishka in terror.

"But I have locked the upper door."

"He will come here, Yeva!"

"Excellency must go—if there is yet time."

"The garden!"

"No," said Renwick, looking about for a place of concealment. "I shall stay."

"It is death——" whispered Marishka.

But Yeva was resourceful. "The armor!" she whispered. "I have often hidden in it from Zubeydeh. Quickly, Excellency! It stands upon brackets in the wall."

And while Marishka watched the stairhead in terror, Yeva helped the Englishman into this strange place of concealment. Excited as Yeva was at her share in the affair, her fingers were nimble, and she buckled the straps quickly, then turning fled into the selamlik and unlocked the door. But Goritz by this time had managed to find a way to the stairs to the mabein, and came up stealthily, listening eagerly to the increasing commotion in the Harim. He found Marishka and Yeva hand in hand at the door to the selamlik staring in consternation at the door of the black grille. There were no more shots, but more ominous even than shots were the sounds of voices, strained, subdued, tense with effort—the heavy breathing of men, the crashing of furniture, and then at last the jar of heavy bodies falling—a cry of triumph—and silence.

Captain Goritz had folded his arms and waited expectant.

"It is very strange," he said coolly to Yeva. "Someone has broken into the Harim?"

"Excellency, I do not know. I was at the other end of the house. The Fräulein was frightened and called to me," she lied glibly.

"It is not to be wondered at——" he said with a strange smile. "They have made enough noise to raise the dead. I have a pardonable curiosity as to what has happened." But as he strode toward the door and laid a hand upon the knob, Yeva rushed forward.

"Excellency!" she whispered. "You dare not! The law!"

He looked at her for a moment, then shrugged and turned to Marishka.

"I would suggest, Countess Strahni, that you go with this girl at once into the selamlik. I have no idea of what has happened, but it must be something quite disagreeable—an intruder within the Harim—the penalty is severe——"

Marishka was leaning against the rail of the stairway near the suit of armor, and Goritz watched her curiously.

"I—shall not go," she stammered faintly, wondering at the growing mystery.

He shrugged. "As you please," he muttered, "but I warn you that the situation may be—unpleasant——"

"I shall remain—" she said again.

There were sounds of heavy footsteps, and the door of the dutap swung open, revealing the Beg of Rataj, torn and dishevelled, his face distorted with passion. He paused in the doorway, and looked from Goritz to Marishka, breathing rapidly.

"Ah, Excellency," he gasped. "I call you all to witness. A man has entered the Harim—a Christian. Yeva, I knew, was not there, but I saw him and followed from the street with my friends—my son, my brother-in-law, my cousins. He is here. We have killed him."

Goritz glanced at Marishka, but she stared past the dreadful apparition into the corridor, behind him, incapable of speech or thought.

"A Christian!" said Goritz. "Incredible!"

"You shall see," said the Effendi. And turning to those within he uttered a phrase in Turkish, and presently Zubeydeh and a man came forward dragging something behind them. Marishka hid her face in her hands, and crouched nearer the corner where the armor was.

She saw Goritz suddenly start forward, his gaze upon the prostrate figure in black, which its bearers had deposited none too gently in the middle of the rug. Then he peered into the upturned face, starting upright and glaring at the Effendi.

"Vermalerdeiter Hällen——" he cried. "It's not the man!"

"What do you mean, Excellency?" cried the Beg.

"What I say—Idiots!"

"A Christian—in my Harim!" wailed the old ruffian. "He has ruined my furniture and killed my brother-in-law and my cousin."

"What do I care?" cried Goritz furiously. "You've got us all into trouble with your bungling. Do you know who this man is?" he stormed.

"Who, Excellency?" cried the Effendi.

"Nicholas Szarvas—the most famous secret service agent in Hungary."

"What