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

The next evening after dark Renwick, now Herr Max Schoff of the Wiener Zeitung, supplied with a pass which Herr Koulas by means of his underground machinery had managed to procure, took the night train for Kaschau, which he reached in the early morning of the following day, going on later to Bartfeld, the terminus of the railroad, a small and ancient town under the very shadow of the mountains. Here, it being late in the afternoon, he found the Hungaria, a hotel to which he had been directed, where he made arrangements to stop for the night while he leisurely pursued his inquiries.

Now at last, so very near his destination, he was curiously oppressed with the futility of his pilgrimage. He had come far, braving the danger of detection and death, for he had no illusions regarding the status of an Englishman approaching the battle lines under the guise of a newspaper writer. If taken, it would be as a spy, and he would be treated as such.

Herr Koulas had warned him not to be too sanguine, for the roads out of Hungary were many, and Dukla Pass, merely because of a bit of forgotten secret history, a possibility not to be neglected. Herr Koulas had also warned him that the methods in induction which had been open to him had also been open to the Austrian secret service men who, perhaps, had already taken measures to follow the same scent. And so it was that the golden smile of Herr Windt still persisted in Renwick's dreams by night, and in his thoughts by day. If Spivak had told his story of his meeting with the spurious Moyer, his conversation about Szarvas would immediately identify him as Renwick the Englishman. But however near the two trails ran, Windt's men had not yet come up with him, and, until they did, Renwick knew that he must move boldly and quickly upon his quest. And so at last resolution armed him anew.

It was now approaching dusk, and he cast about for a person to whom he might talk without arousing suspicion, and so he turned into an inn at the corner of the street and ordering beer sat himself upon a bench along the wall before a long wooden table. The few men who sat drinking and smoking gave him a curious glance, and the proprietor of the establishment, aware of a stranger, felt it to be his duty to learn something of his mission to this small town and of his identity. This was what Renwick wanted, and as the man spoke in German, he told with brief glibness his well rehearsed story, inviting his host to join him in a glass, over which they were presently chatting as thick as thieves. He was a newspaper writer, Renwick said, upon his way to the front, and showed the letter to General Lechnitz. But he had never before been in this part of the country and intended to see it, upon the way. It was an interesting town, Bartfeld, a fine church too, St. Aegidius. Had his host lived in Bartfeld a long time?

The man was a native, and very proud of his traditions, expanding volubly in reply to Renwick's careless questions. His father and grandfather had kept this very inn, and indeed for all he knew their fathers' fathers. A quiet town, but interesting to those who were fond of historical associations. Renwick listened patiently, slowly drawing the man nearer to the subject that was uppermost in his mind. It was a short distance to Dukla Pass, a very picturesque spot, he had been told, one well worth a visit, was it not?

"Dukla Pass!" said the man. "A name well known in the annals of the country in the days of John Sobieski, long before the railroad went through beyond; a wonderful spot with cliffs and ravines. I have been there often. In the season, before the war, one drove there—for the view. Now alas! what with the Cossacks running over Galicia, the people had more serious things to think about."

"It is easily reached?" asked Renwick.

"By the road beyond the town—a short cut—a climb over the mountains, but not difficult at this time of the year."

"There is a village there?"

"A few farmhouses merely, in the valley along the streams. The glory of the Dukla is its ruins."

"Ah, of course, there are feudal castles——"

"Javorina, Jägerhorn, Szolnok——"

"Szolnok!" said Renwick with sudden interest. "I have heard that name before——"

He paused in a puzzled way.

"It was the summer residence of Baron Neudeck——"

"Ah, then it is not a ruin?"

"Until three years ago he lived there—in the habitable part—when something terrible happened. No one about here is sure—but the place has an evil name."

"That is interesting. Why?"

"The facts have never been clearly explained. The story goes that Baron Neudeck was in the midst of entertaining guests—a hunting party of gentlemen; that there was a night of revelry and of drinking. One of the servants, entering the dining-hall in the morning, found Baron Neudeck lying dead upon the hearth with a bullet wound in his forehead. The guests had disappeared—vanished as if the earth had swallowed them."

"And the police?"

"The police came and went. It was very strange. Nothing further was heard of the matter. But no one about here will go within a mile of the place after nightfall."

"And the servants—what became of them?"

The man shrugged. "They did not come from around here. They were Germans, who came with the Baron. If the police are satisfied, I am."

The man shrugged and drained his glass.

"The other castles are ruined, you say? Then it cannot be long before Szolnok will share their fate—since it is not occupied," suggested Renwick.

"Perhaps," said the man indifferently, rising with a view to closing the conversation.

Renwick ordered another glass of beer, and sat looking out of the small casement window at the passers-by, thinking deeply.

The inspiration of Herr Koulas had at least set him upon a scent which still held him true upon this trail. The information he had received might mean much or little. German servants? Had Goritz used the servants of Baron Neudeck in unraveling the secret of the stolen plans? Had they been implicated in the affair? Did he hold them his creatures by a knowledge of their share in the guilty transaction? Three years had passed since the killing of Neudeck. What had happened in the meanwhile? Had the title of the property passed to others? Had the Schloss been occupied since the Baron's death, or was it deserted? He evolved a theory rapidly, determining to test it at once. It would perhaps be imprudent to question further this innkeeper, a public character, and it seemed quite probable that he knew little more than had already been told. A visit to the farmhouses in the valley would reveal something. He would go——

Renwick had been gazing out of the window, but his attention was suddenly arrested by the figure of a man at the corner of the street, who stood, smoking a cigarette. There was nothing unusual in his clothing or demeanor, but the thing which had startled Renwick into sudden alertness was the rather vague impression that somewhere he had seen this man's face before. A vague impression, but definite in the sense that to Renwick the face had been associated with something unpleasant or disagreeable. But even as Renwick looked, the man tossed his cigarette into the cobbles and turning on his heel walked up the street, passing out of Renwick's range of vision. The Englishman started up from his unfinished glass with the notion of following, but a second thought urged caution. It was still light outside, and if the stranger's memory for faces were better than his own, a meeting face to face would merely court unnecessary danger. So Renwick returned to his bench and made a pretense of finishing his beer, awaiting in safety the darkness. Where had he seen this man before? He searched his mind with painful thoroughness—wondering if the injury to his head had robbed his brain of some of its clearness. He had seen this man's face before—before his sickness—he was sure of that. Hadwiger, Lengelbach, Linder—one by one he recalled the secret service men. The face of the stranger was that of none of these. Someone—a shadowy someone—out of darkness—or dreams. Could the idea have been born of some imaginary resemblance, some fancied recollection? The thing was elusive, and so he gave it up, aware that if his brain had played him no trick, there was here another confirmation of his hope that he was on the true scent. Were the threads converging?

The plan that he now had in mind was to go over the mountains afoot and make some quiet inquiries among the farmhouses in the valley below the Pass, in regard to Schloss Szolnok. And so as the light had grown dim, he got up and went forth into the street, pulling his soft hat well down over his eyes, and making his way toward the road which led to Dukla Pass. He verified the innkeeper's direction by inquiry at the end of the main street, and as the night was clear, set forth briskly upon his walk over the mountain road, for the idea of spending the evening in inactivity was not to be thought of until all the facts regarding this Schloss Szolnok were in his possession.

A ruin—uninhabited? And with its crumbling, his own hope.... It was no time for despair. Had he not come miraculously from death and traveled safely from one border of the enemy's country almost to the other, as though led or driven by some secret impelling force—some inspiration, some hidden guidon or command? At each turn, at each danger, he remembered he had acted with swiftness and decision, and had at no time been at a loss. Fortune had favored him at each stage of his journey and had directed his steps with rare assurance in this direction. Fortune or a will-o'-the-wisp? Or was Marishka calling to him? He had had the impression of her nearness often—there in the hospital—and since, at Selim Ali's—upon the road. It seemed strange and a little mystifying too, that he had never doubted that he would be able to find her.... And now—if not at Schloss Szolnok—elsewhere.

As the darkness of the mountain road deepened, swift vision came to him. The possible danger of attack ... Out of the gloom of shadowy rocks, he had a vision of men who interposed, barring his way, a man in a cap asking the time. Vienna—the night that he had left Marishka, when the three men had attacked him! The face of the man in the cap, and the stranger of Bartfeld—they were the same!

He could have shouted aloud in the joy of the revelation. The man who had attacked him in the streets of Vienna—this cigarette-smoking stranger in Bartfeld. A German? Who else? Perhaps the man who had shot at him—in Vienna—at the Konopisht railroad station, a minion of Goritz. Then Goritz could not be far away....

Renwick strode down the mountain side toward the distant lights of the valley, like a man in seven-league boots, searching eagerly meanwhile the gloomy peaks above him to his left for signs of Schloss Szolnok. He could distinguish nothing amid the deep shadows of the mountain side. But the lights below beckoned warmly, and finding a road to his right at the foot of the declivity, he went toward them rapidly, knocking boldly at the door of the first house to which he came.

An old man answered his summons, a tall old man with a long pipe in his hand, who inspected the visitor narrowly.

"I have lost my way," said Renwick with a smile, "and thought you might let me have a cup of milk and some bread, for which I will pay generously."

The man in the doorway waved his hand in assent, and Renwick followed him into the