Gibbs George
The Secret Witness
"It is horrible," she gasped brokenly. "A moment sooner, perhaps, and I should have succeeded. She recognized me—you saw?"
He nodded. "Kismet! It was written," he said grimly.
"But someone must pay—someone—who was–?"
"A Bosnian student—named Prinzep—a man said."
"He was but a boy—a frail boy–"
"He has been well taught to shoot," muttered Goritz.
"Death!" she cried hysterically. "And I–"
"Be quiet. People are watching you," said Goritz sternly. "Lean on my arm and go where I shall lead. It is not far."
The sight of strange, distorted faces regarding her gave Marishka the strength to obey. Mechanically her feet moved, but the sunlight blinded her. She passed through a maze of small streets lined with market stalls where groups of people shouted excitedly; and dimly as in a dream she heard their comments.
"The police—we have police—where were they? The Government will be blaming us. We are not murderers! No. It is a shame!"
Marishka shuddered and leaned more heavily upon the arm of her companion. She was weary unto death, body and spirit—but still her feet moved on, out of the maze of small alleys into a larger alley, where her companion stopped before a blue wooden gate let into a stone wall. He put his hand upon the latch, the gate yielded, and they entered a small garden with well ordered walks and a fountain, beside which was a stone bench. Upon this bench at the bidding of Captain Goritz she sank, burying her face in her hands, while he went toward the house, which had its length at one side of the garden. She put her fingers before her eyes trying to shut out the horrors she had witnessed, but they persisted, ugly and sinister. Over and over in her mind dinned the hoarse murmur of the crowd, "We are not murderers! No!" Who then–? Not the frail student with the smoking pistol … the agent of others.... The eyes of Sophie Chotek haunted her—eyes that had looked so often into her own with kindness. She had seen terror in them, and then—the mad turmoil, the dust, the acrid smell of powder fumes, and the silent group of huddled figures in the machine!…
There were sounds of voices and of footsteps approaching, but Marishka could not move. She was prone, inert, helpless.
"She is very tired," someone said.
"Ach—she must come within and sleep."
A woman's voice, it seemed, deep but not unsympathetic.
"A glass of wine perhaps—and food."
"It shall be as you desire, Excellency. I know what she needs."
Arms raised her, and she felt herself half led, half carried, into the house and laid upon a bed in a room upstairs. It was dark within and there was a strange odor of spices. Presently someone, the woman, it seemed, gave her something to drink, and after awhile the turmoil in her head grew less—and she slept.
CHAPTER XIV
THE HARIM
Dreams, colorful and strangely vivid, but not unpleasant. It seemed that Marishka lay upon a couch so soft that she sank deliciously without end to perfect rest. Above, about, below her, perfumed darkness, spangled with soft spots of light, which came and went curiously. She tried to fix her gaze upon one of them, but it was extinguished immediately and appeared elsewhere. She found another—and another, but they fled from her like ignes fatui. She heard the whir of a machine, fast and then slow again, near and then at a distance. Was it an automobile or an aeroplane? The notion of an automobile speeding in space was incongruous, the milky way—a queer concept! She smiled in her dreams.... Then suddenly a bright sunlight peopled with strange figures in fez and turban, faces that leered at her, lips that howled in excitement, arms that moved threateningly, dust, noise, commotion, from which she was trying in vain to escape.... And then darkness again and the subdued murmur of voices, one voice familiar, one gruff and unfamiliar.
"Ten thousand kroner—that is a large sum," said the gruff voice.
"Yours, Effendi, if the thing is accomplished."
"It should not be difficult. You may reply upon me."
"And you are to show the lady every attention—every comfort–"
"Zu befehl——"
There was a recurrence of the changing lights and the voices receded. Presently she seemed to hear them again.
"She is to be kept in seclusion of course, but otherwise you will accede to all her requests—all, you understand–Should she care to write—you will send a message. There are more ways than one to kill a goose. And this one lays the golden egg, Effendi–"
"I understands—a golden egg."
"Very good—perhaps tonight–We shall see."
"I shall be prepared, Excellency."
The voices died away and melted into the murmur of a crowd, which merged curiously into the whir of an automobile. But it was dark again and the spots of light in the darkness reappeared. One, two, three, a dozen she counted and then they vanished. She was alone, an atom in the expanse of infinity, but the darkness and the perfume now oppressed, suffocated her, and she tried to escape. But she moved her limbs with difficulty, and a weight sealed her eyelids. She struggled up against it and managed to rise upon one elbow and look about her.
She was awake. Slowly memory returned, the memory of things which seemed to have happened a long while before, and time and distance seemed to have robbed them of their sting. She was awake and alone in a dark room, lying on a low couch, upon which were spread a number of pillows of strange design. A latticed window was near, and outside, the shadows of a tree branch fell across the barred rectangle, cutting the lines of light into broken lozenges of shadow. The room was furnished somberly but richly with heavy hangings and teakwood furniture decorated with mother-of-pearl. A lantern of curious design depended from the ceiling. There was a figure standing in the corner. She raised herself upon one elbow and examined the figure attentively, not frightened yet, but merely curious.
It was a suit of ancient armor of a period with which she was unfamiliar. She moved her limbs painfully and sat up. Her head throbbed for a few moments but she found that she was able to think clearly again. Slowly she realized where she was and what had happened. The blue door in the wall—this the house that adjoined the garden. She had slept—how long she did not know, but the beams of sunlight were orange in color and made a brilliant arabesque upon an embroidered hanging on the opposite wall. She must have slept long. Her dreams returned to her, fleeting and elusive, like the ignes fatui which had been a part of them. The whir of wheels, the vision of the vari-colored crowd, the murmur of voices speaking—these too had been a dream. She tried to recall what the voices had murmured. Phrases came to her. "Ten thousand kroner—the goose that lays the golden egg–" It was all like a story from a fairy tale. She looked about her—a dream—of course. Who could have been speaking of kroners and golden eggs here?
There were two doors to the apartment in which she lay, one, ornate with Turkish fretwork, which had in its center panel what seemed to be a small window, covered by a black grille. At the other end of the room another door, open, from which came a flicker of cool light, the soft pad of footsteps and the sound of a voice humming some curious Oriental air. Marishka did not get up at once, but sat among the pillows, her fingers at her temples as she tried to collect her thoughts. She knew that she must think. Everything seemed to depend upon the clearness with which her mind emerged from the fog of dreams. Slowly, the happenings of the last few days recurred—the flight, the wild ride down the ravines of the Brod, Sarajevo, the tragedy, the car of Death! She put her fingers before her eyes and then straightened bravely. And what now? Goritz! What was he going to do with her? She tried to judge the future by the past. She had given herself unreservedly into his hands in the hope of reaching Sophie Chotek before—before what had happened. Their interests had been identical—the saving of life—and if they had succeeded, there would have been no need for anxiety as to her own future. But now the situation seemed to have changed. Failure had marked her for its own, an unbidden guest in a strange country in which she was for the present at the mercy of her captor. She could not forget that she was his prisoner, and the terms of her promise to him came to her with startling clearness. His recantation, his courtesy, his ardent looks had allayed suspicion, but had not quite removed the earlier impression. In this hour of awakening and depression there seemed to be room for any dreadful possibility.
Was she a prisoner? If so, the window was not barred, and she saw that it let upon the tiny garden fifteen feet below. If she could gather the strength, it might not be difficult to lower herself from the window sill—drop to the garden and flee. But where? To whom? She turned quickly, listening for the sounds of the footsteps in the adjoining room, her hand at her breast, where her heart was throbbing with a new hope. Hugh! Hugh in Sarajevo! And yet why not? It came to her in a throb of joyous pride that in spite of all that she had done to deter him, he had persisted in helping and protecting her, oblivious of her denial of him and of her cutting disdain. But would the frail clew of her flight through Vienna be enough to point her object and destination? The memory of his cleverness and initiative in their night ride to Konopisht gave her new hope. Why should he not come to Sarajevo? Between the lines of the note she had written him he must have read the tenderness that had always been in her heart. He was no coward, and the idea of fleeing to England when danger threatened her would, of course, be the last that would come into his mind. It was curious that she had not thought of this before. He would come to Sarajevo if he could—perhaps he was here now–
A heavy figure stood in the doorway regarding her. She could not at first decide whether it was a man or a woman for the wide, baggy trousers resembled a skirt, and the short, sleeveless jacket was similar to that worn by the male Moslems she had seen in the Carsija. But in a moment, a voice of rather low pitch spoke kindly, in atrocious German.
"The Fräulein is at last awake. Does she feel better?"
"Ah, thanks, yes," said Marishka, at last deciding that it was a woman. "I have slept long."
"Seven hours at least, and like the dead. But you must be hungry. I will prepare something at once."
"Thank you. And if I could wash my face and hands."
"It shall be as you wish. If you will but come with me–"
Marishka rose, and as she did so, the door with the black grille opened from within, and a girl came into the room. Like the older woman she wore baggy trousers and slippers, but above the waist, typifying the meeting of East and West, a somewhat soiled satin blouse which might have been made either in Paris or Vienna. The face was very pretty, regular of feature and oval in contour, but the effect of its beauty was marred by the hair above it, which was dyed with henna a saffron red. But she wore a flower at her breast, and in spite of her artificialities exhaled the gayety of youth. She smiled very prettily and came forward with a confiding air, giving Marishka her hand.
"I have been waiting for you to wake up," she said in a soft voice. "I have never known anyone to sleep so soundly."
She laughed like a child who is very much pleased with a new toy, and holding Marishka's hand, looked at her curiously from head to foot. There was something very genuine in her interest and kindliness, and Marishka found herself smiling.
"I must have been very tired," she said.
"I am sorry. You are feeling better now?"
"Yes, but very dirty–"
"Come with me. Zubeydeh will bring food."
She led the way through the door of the black grille, down a short passage into a large room at the end of the house. The apartment was strewn with rugs, and its furniture was a curious mixture of the color of the East and the utility of the West—a French dressing stand beside a stove of American make, a Bosnian marriage chest, a table which might have come out of the Ringstrasse, a brass tray for burning charcoal, a carved teakwood stand upon which stood a nargileh, a box of cigars, some cigarettes, and two coffee cups still containing the residue of the last draught. There were latticed windows in meshrebiya, which overlooked the garden and street, and piled beside them were a number of pillows and cushions. The room was none too clean, but there were evidences here and there of desultory attempts at rehabilitation.
The girl with the red hair led Marishka to one of the window recesses, where she bade her sit upon a pile of pillows, bringing a basin and an ewer of water which she put upon the rug beside her.
"Ah, I was forgetting," said the girl, and going to the corner of the room produced with much pride Marishka's suitcase. "His Excellency left it for you this afternoon."
The sight of water and a change of clothing did much to restore Marishka's confidence and self-respect, and she opened the bag with alacrity, bringing forth from its recesses soap, clean linen and a washcloth.
While Marishka ate and drank, the girl with the red hair crouched upon her knees beside the suitcase, sniffed at its contents eagerly, and with little cries of delight touched with her fingers the delicate articles which it contained.
"How pretty! How soft to the touch!" And then rather wistfully, "It is a pity that one cannot get such things in Bosna-Seraj."
"You like them?" asked Marishka, reveling in the delight of being free from the dust of her journey.
"Oh, they are so beautiful!"
For all her years, and she must have been at least as old as Marishka, she had the undeveloped mind of a child.
"You, too, are beautiful," she sighed enviously, "so white, your skin is so clear. Your hair is so soft." And then as an afterthought, "But I think it would look just as pretty if it were red."
Marishka laughed.
"What is your name, my dear?" she asked.
"I am called Yeva—they say after the first woman who was born."
"Eve—of course. It becomes you well."
"You think so. Was she very beautiful?"
"Yes—the mother of all women."
"The ugly ones?"
"Yes. We cannot all be beautiful."
"It must be dreadful to be old and ugly like Zubeydeh."
As Marishka brought out brush and comb and a towel, Yeva ran quickly and procured a mirror—a small cheap affair with tawdry tinsel ornaments.
"You will let me brush your hair, Fräulein. It will be a great privilege."
"Of course, child—if you care to."
And while Yeva combed and brushed, Marishka questioned and she answered. The house in which she lived was near the Sirokac Tor. Her lord and master was of the Begs of Rataj, once the rulers of a province in Bosnia, where his father's fathers had lived, but now shorn of his tithes and a dealer in rugs. He was an old man, yes, but he was good to her, giving her much to eat and drink, and many clothes. She must ask him to get some of these pretty soft undergarments from Vienna. And the Excellency. She had seen him twice, some months before through the dutap, when he had conversed with the Effendi in the adjoining room. And was the beautiful Fräulein in love with the Excellency?
Marishka answered her in some sort, listening to the girl's chatter, meanwhile thinking deeply of the plan that had come into her mind. Scraps of suggestion that she had gleaned from her talks with Goritz gave her at least a hope that she might be successful in reaching Hugh Renwick by messenger. "The English always go to the Europa," he had said. There, if Hugh Renwick had come to Sarajevo, was the place where a note would find him. And so, the hair brushing having been successfully accomplished, she asked the girl if there was someone by whom she could secretly send a note.
A message! To an Excellency—a Herr Hauptmann—or perhaps a General—yes. She was sure that it could be managed. She herself perhaps could take it. Had not the Effendi told her that the Fräulein was to want for nothing? And greatly excited at the thought of intrigue, brought a tabourette which she placed before Marishka, then found paper, ink and envelopes and squatted upon a pillow, watching eagerly over Marishka's shoulder. But the girl's scrutiny troubled Marishka. Was she in the confidence of Captain Goritz? And if not, could she be persuaded to hold her tongue? Instead of writing at once, Marishka relinquished the pen and took Yeva's hand.
"It is very necessary for my peace and happiness that the contents of this note should be only seen by the person to whom it is delivered–"
"Ah, Fräulein, it shall be as you say. By Allah, I swear–"
"Do you care enough? I will give you anything I possess if you will keep my secret."
"Ah!" her eyes were downcast and her tone was pained. "That the Fräulein should not believe in my friendship–"
"But I do believe in it–"
"Still," broke in Yeva smiling craftily, "I should very much like to have something by which to remember the Fräulein—the pink sleeping garment which is so sweetly smelling and soft to the touch."
"It is yours, Yeva. See," and Marishka took it from the valise, "I give it to you."
The girl gurgled delightedly, and crooned and kissed the garment like a child with a new doll. She was for trying it on at once and, thus for the moment relieved of Yeva's scrutiny, Marishka bent over the tabourette, pen in hand. But before she wrote she called Yeva again.
"There is no entrance to this house except by the garden, Yeva?" she asked.
"Oh, yes, to the selamlik, the mabein door and this–"
She walked to the side of the room and thrusting aside a heavy Kis-Kelim, showed Marishka a door cunningly concealed in an angle of the wall.
"That leads—where?" Marishka asked.
"To a small court of the next house."
"And the street below?"
Yeva nodded and renewed the inspection of her new present in the mirror, so Marishka wrote:
Hugh,
I am a prisoner in a house near the Sirokac Tor beyond the Carsija—a house with a small garden the gate of which has a blue door. I am treated with every courtesy, but I am frightened. Come tonight at twelve to the small court at the left of the house and knock twice upon the door. I will come to you. Forgive me.
Marishka.
While Yeva was scrutinizing her new adornment in the small mirror Marishka reread the note. She did not wish to alarm her lover unduly, for perhaps after all there were no need for grave alarm.
The intentions of Captain Goritz were perhaps of the best, his given word to liberate her, to free her from her promise and return her to her friends, had been spoken with an air of sincerity, which under other conditions might have been impressive. But some feminine instinct in her still doubted—still doubted and feared him. And in spite of his many kindnesses, his few moments of insensibility to her weariness and distress there in the motor in the flight from Konopisht, and in the railway carriage when he had spoken of Hugh Renwick's connection with hated Serbia—these memories of their association lingered and persisted. She feared him. The failure of their mission would perhaps have made a difference; and the promise of a man whose whole existence was a living lie, was but a slender reed to hang upon.
She straightened abruptly and gazed before her in sudden dismay. Her word of honor—as a Strahni! She was breaking her promise—had already broken it. For she had pledged herself to Goritz—to go with him whither he pleased, if he would enable her to save the life of Sophie Chotek.
But he had failed! But he had failed! She clutched at the sophistry desperately. Goritz had failed. Under such conditions should she consider her promise binding? It had been conditional. Liberty, there in the street below, just at her elbow, and Hugh Renwick within reach! She came to this conclusion with desperate speed, and quickly addressed and sealed the envelope.
Yeva, before the mirror, was wrapped in admiration of her new possession.
"Am I not beautiful in it, Fräulein?" she was asking as she twisted and turned, examining herself at every angle.
"Yes, Yeva," said Marishka quietly, "but it is not a garment in which one goes out upon the street."
"The street!" Yeva laughed deliciously. "I would make a sensation in Bosna-Seraj, I can tell you, attired only in this and a yashmak."
And then seeing the note lying upon the tabourette, she came running with little childish footsteps. "Ah, you have sealed it! And you are not going to let me see?"
"It is nothing, Yeva."
"But I thought–" peevishly.
"How can you be interested in my little affairs?"
"I hoped that he might come and I should see him through the dutap."
"Perhaps he may!" said Marishka with an inspiration. "Could you be trusted to keep this message a secret? To tell no one?"
"I have already promised–"
"Not even to Zubeydeh–?"
"Of course not. Zubeydeh is old and ugly. She would not understand what a young girl thinks about."
"And can you go out without her knowing?"
"By the private stairway. Of course. There is another door below, locked, but I can procure a key."
"Then I too–" Marishka paused and Yeva turned, reading her thoughts.
"Ah, I understand. You wish to go to him. It is a pity, but it is impossible."
"Impossible! Why?"
"I can do the Fräulein a favor, since she has been kind to me, but to disobey the commands of my lord and master—I would call upon myself the curses of Allah."
Marishka pondered for a moment. "The Effendi desires that I remain here?" she asked.
"That is his command, Fräulein."
"I see."
If Marishka had had any doubts as to the intentions of Captain Goritz, the Beg of Rataj had now removed them. How much or how little of what the girl revealed had been born of innocence or how much of design, Marishka could not know, but it hardly seemed possible that the child could be meshed so deeply in this intrigue. Marishka felt sure that Yeva had promised to deliver her note, because the situation amused and interested her, as did her visitor, and because of the pink garment Yeva was now so reluctantly laying aside.
Marishka took another garment from the valise, a dainty drapery of silk edged with fine lace, and held it up temptingly.
"Yeva," she said.
"Yes, Fräulein."
"This, too, is very beautiful, do you not think so?"
Yeva sighed wistfully.
"Yes. It is very beautiful."
"And would you care to have this too?"
"Would I–? Oh, Fräulein! I cannot believe–"
Yeva came forward with arms outstretched, brown fingers curling, but as she was about to touch the garment Marishka swept it away and put it behind her back.
"I will give it to you–"
"Yes–"
"If you will take me out with you by the secret door to the Europa Hotel."
"Fräulein!" The girl stopped aghast and then slowly turned away.
"You would have me disobey the commands of my lord and master?" she said in an awed whisper.
"I am asking only my rights," urged Marishka desperately. "I am an Austrian with many friends. I have believed that I was a guest in this house, welcome to come and to go as I choose. If the Effendi desires to keep me against my will he runs a great risk of offending the government of Austria and my friends."
"As to that I do not know–" said Yeva plaintively.
"It will do you no harm to be my friend."
"I am your friend. But to disobey the command of one's lord and master–"
"It is worse to disobey the laws of Bosnia."
"But what can I do?" asked the girl, helplessly weaving her fingers to and fro.
"You need do nothing but go out to deliver my message. Then you shall appear to lock the door below, but the bolt shall not catch. That is all. When you are gone I shall follow into the street."
"And I shall not see you—and your lover through the dutap?"
"You shall see us there—yonder. I promise you."
"It is a terrible thing that you ask."
"Yeva!" Marishka held the silk garment up before the childish gaze of the girl. "Look, Yeva."
It was enough. With a cry, Yeva seized the garment in both hands and carried it to her lips, kissing it excitedly.
"And if I do what you ask—you will never tell?"
"Never."
Marishka had won. It was with difficulty that she restrained her companion from disrobing again and putting on the new garment, but at last by dint of much persuasion she succeeded in getting Yeva to put on her own garments, her head dress, veil and yashmak, and in a short while they were both attired for the street. With a last look around the room, a short vigil at the dutap for sounds of watchful Zubeydeh, Yeva timorously found the key of the lower door, pushed the hanging aside, and with a last rapturous look at the draperies upon the dressing stand, vanished into the darkness of the door.
Marishka, her heart beating high with hope, quickly packed a few of her belongings into a small package and followed. It was very dark upon the narrow stair, but with a hand upon the wall to steady herself, she slowly descended. Feeling for the steps with her feet, at last she reached the floor below, and stepping cautiously forward came upon a blank wall. She turned to the left and found her egress stopped—to the right—yes, there was a door. She fingered for the latch and found it, opening the door, which let in the daylight. But just as she was about to step out, she started back in sudden consternation. Upon the step, grim and forbidding, dressed in fez, white shirt, and wide breeches, stood a man with folded arms facing her. He made no sign of greeting, nor did he change his posture by so much as a millimeter, but she heard his voice quite distinctly, though he spoke in a low tone.
"You will be pleased to return at once."
"But I–" It was the courage of desperation—short-lived, alas!
"At once," the man repeated, unfolding his arms. "At once—or shall I–"
Marishka waited no more upon the order of her going but went at once, finding her way up the dusty stairs, terrified, again a prey to the most agonizing fears.
Would Yeva find Hugh at the Hotel Europa?
