Gibbs George
The Secret Witness
As his mind had grown clearer, the wisdom of his decision became more apparent. If a magistrate came, he would be obliged to see him, but he knew that his period of illness could cover a multitude of remembrances.
The magistrate came with a clerk, and questioned with an air of importance. Renwick realized that if he refused to answer, he might make himself an object of suspicion, and endanger the chances of his release upon recovery, and so, as he was not under oath, he invented skillfully.
"What is your name?"
"Peter Langer."
"What nationality?"
"Austrian, if you like. I am a citizen of the world."
The magistrate examined him over his glasses.
"The world is large. From what part of Austria did you come?"
"Vienna."
"Your parents are Viennese?"
"They were in Vienna when I was young."
"Were they born there?"
"I do not know."
"It is necessary that you should."
"I am sorry if it is necessary. I do not know."
"What brought you to Sarajevo?"
"I am a wanderer. I wished to see the world."
"A wish that has almost proved fatal. You have no business?"
"Merely the business of wandering."
The magistrate frowned.
"I beg that you will take this matter seriously, Herr Langer."
"I do. It is not in the least amusing."
The man consulted his notes for a moment.
"Where were you on the night of June twenty-eight?"
"I have been ill for a month. Dates mean nothing to me. My memory is bad."
"Ah! Well, then, where were you on the night of the assassination?"
"What assassination–?"
"The assassination of the Archduke," replied the magistrate sternly.
"In Sarajevo, I should say."
"Natürlich. But in what place?"
"In the street, perhaps—or in a house. I don't remember."
"I beg that you make the effort to remember."
"I cannot," said Renwick after a pause.
"You must."
"My mind is clouded."
The magistrate exchanged a glance with the nurse, who stood at the head of the bed, and spoke to her. "This man talks to you quite rationally?"
Fräulein Roth hesitated and then said: "Yes. But he has been very ill. I should suggest that you excuse him where possible."
"H—m! This is a matter of great seriousness. A police officer has been murdered by a person or persons unknown. This man was found near his body, both of them left for dead. It is not possible that he can have forgotten the circumstances—the fight, the shooting which preceded his unconsciousness." And then to Renwick—"You knew Nicholas Szarvas?"
"No."
"I would remind you that this is the man who was found dead beside you."
"I did not know him."
"What are your recollections of the evening I have mentioned?"
"I have no recollections."
"You said that you were in a house."
"Or the street—I forget."
"You remember having an altercation with someone?"
"In my dreams—yes. Many."
"But before your dreams, when you were conscious?"
"None."
"Szarvas was stabbed. Did you see him attacked?"
"I did not."
"Have you any idea who shot you?"
"A man who was my enemy, I should say."
"Ah—you had an enemy?"
"What man has not?"
"What was his name?"
"I don't remember."
The magistrate got up frowning, and paced up and down the room, his hands behind his back.
"I should advise you, Herr Langer, that it is my opinion that you are willfully endeavoring to impede the steps of this investigation. I would remind you also that those who try to thwart the officers of the law in the performance of their duty, are alike amenable to it. Your reticence—I can call it by a less pleasant word—is aiding and abetting a criminal, who must be brought to justice."
"It is not likely–" He paused.
"What?"
"That I should wish to save a man who had tried to murder me."
"But this is precisely what you are doing."
Renwick smiled.
"What would you? Have me invent a story for your record? I can say no more than I remember. I remember nothing."
The magistrate took off his glasses and rubbed them rigorously, as if by so doing he could clear his own mind as to what had best be done. Then he put them upon his nose and took up his hat and papers. It was certain that the patient's brain was still far from strong.
"I shall not pursue this investigation now," he said to Nurse Roth. "I shall wait a few days in which Herr Langer may have time to reflect. He is still very weak. In the meanwhile, Herr Langer, I would tell you that it would be wise for you to recover your memory."
"A desire which I sincerely share," said Renwick with a smile.
"If not," continued the magistrate with his most magisterial manner, "you will be detained, as a material witness, in Sarajevo."
"I have no intention of leaving Sarajevo unless someone should happen to pay my railroad fare," replied Renwick wearily.
The man left, followed by his clerk, and Nurse Roth closed the door behind them. When the sounds of their footsteps had faded away along the corridor, she turned to the table where she rearranged some roses in a vase.
"You lie very ingeniously, Herr Twenty-eight," she said with a smile.
Renwick regarded her calmly.
"It is not my nature, Nurse Roth. But a cracked skull doesn't improve the brains beneath."
She came over to him quickly, and stood beside the bed.
"You have some reason for concealing your identity. I know that you remember what happened. But I will protect you as far as I can, upon one condition."
"And that?" he asked anxiously.
"That you will give me your word of honor that it was not you who killed Nicholas Szarvas."
He caught her by the hand and smiled up at her with a look so genuine that there was no question as to his sincerity.
"I give it. I did not kill Nicholas Szarvas."
"Thank you," she said simply. "I believe you."
"I wish I could tell you," he whispered earnestly, "for I know that you are my friend, but"—and he relinquished her hand—"but I must keep silent."
She touched him gently upon the shoulder in token of understanding, and from that moment said no more.
The days passed slowly, but it was evident to those who were interested in the case that Number 28 gained strength very rapidly. His wounds had healed, and he was soon permitted to get up and sit in an armchair near the window, where he could look out over the minarets of the city below the hill. But to all except Nurse Roth, it seemed that the injury to his head had done something to retard the recovery of his memory. He spoke quite rationally to Colonel Bohratt upon matters regarding his physical condition, but sometimes even when the Head Surgeon was talking with him, he relapsed into a state of mental apathy which caused that worthy man to remove his bandage and examine the wound in his head. After which the Colonel would leave the room with a puzzled expression. And in consequence of this curious mental condition, it was thought wise to defer the visit of the officer of the law until the patient's mind should show a change for the better. There was even a consultation upon the advisability of another operation upon the head, but the patient showed such encouraging marks of growing lucidity that the operation was deferred.
It was a dangerous game that he was playing, and Renwick knew it, for the time would come when he must tell who he was, or find a chance to escape from the hospital. Escape was his hope and each day as he gained new strength, he thought of a hundred expedients by which it might be accomplished. He knew that even now he was under surveillance, and virtually a prisoner of the Austrian government, until he could give some account of himself, and of the events of the night of the twenty-eighth of June. And so he conserved his energies carefully, gaining courage and weight with each new day, playing the game of delay until he was assured of his strength and the moment was propitious. The chief difficulty which confronted him was a means to procure clothing. He was allowed the privileges of the hospital, permitted to walk upon the terrace, but he had no clothing except the sleeping suit of cotton and a wrapper-like affair which he wore when out of his room. Whether his restriction to this costume was by neglect or by design, he did not know, for all the other convalescents whom he met out in the air wore the clothes in which they had come to the hospital. The fact that he had been brought here unclothed was of little comfort to him, and he feared to request a change of garments for this might excite suspicion. There was nothing for it but to wait, and when strength enough came, seize the first opportunity presented to slip quietly away.
He had been studying his chances with a discriminating eye. His room was upon the second floor, but there was a rain-spout which passed just beside it, and given the strength of hand and wrist to accomplish the descent, the matter would be simple. There was a row of shrubbery just below the terrace, which led to a path over the hills, where he might be lost under cover of the night. But even at night he could not go into Sarajevo without clothing. For a while the idea of appealing to Nurse Roth occurred to him, but he at last rejected it, aware that she had already done much that could not be repaid, and unwilling to subject her to the alternatives of refusal or acquiescence—one of which might be hazardous to his own chances, the other surely fruitful of unpleasantness to herself. He had no right to ask this of her. He wished to incur no new obligations, for when the time came, he intended to go, and he could not repay her kindness with deceit. And so he waited, simulating weakness, exercising in secret, and gaining in strength for the hopeless task before him.
He had made no plans. What plans could he make when he had no means of making inquiries? Goritz was gone with Marishka,—by this time perhaps far beyond the German border, the girl a prisoner—or–? For a moment he paused as the new thought came to him. What would be the status of the Countess Strahni since the outbreak of war? The conditions which existed before the pact of Konopisht were no more. Germany's ambitions stultified—Austria forgiving—both nations involved in a great undertaking the prosecution of which must make them careless of all less vital issues! Had Goritz been recalled from this secret mission to another more important? And if so, where was Marishka? Could she have been released? There was a chance of it, but it seemed a slender one. Goritz! Something—some deeply hidden instinct, some suspicion harbored perhaps in the long days and nights of his unconsciousness, some pang of fear born of pain and unrest, advised him that, behind the secret duty which had first brought Goritz to Vienna, he was now playing a game of his own. The brief glimpse he had had of the man, short but fearfully significant, had made an unpleasant impression. He had seen the look in the eyes of the German as he had asked Marishka to go with him from the house of the garden, a look courteous and considerate, that had in it, too, something more than mere admiration. If the man were in love with her! And what man of any vision, learning to know Marishka could help caring for her! Not love, surely! Not love from a man who sheltered himself from danger by using her as a shield. He had been safe then. Renwick could not have fired then. And Goritz was clever enough to know it. But the dastardliness of such a trick! There was a long score to pay between Renwick and Goritz, a score the items of which had begun with the attempts upon the Englishman's life in Vienna and Konopisht, the imprisonment of Marishka, and the shooting in Sarajevo which had nothing to do with politics. They were enemies. Their countries were enemies. It was written.
Absorbed in these unpleasant meditations, Renwick sat upon the terrace of the hospital after supper, idly manicuring his nails with Nurse Roth's scissors. As it grew dark, he got up, slowly pacing up and down the length of the terrace. The moment was approaching when he would be called in to go to his room, but he grudgingly relinquished the moments in the soft evening air. It was curious how much latitude they gave him—curious, also, that the magistrate, after his second fruitless visit a few days ago, had not returned. As Renwick had continued evasive the magistrate had grown angry and at last had threatened him with the visit of one who would make him speak. Who was this new inquisitor to be? Someone in higher authority? Or perhaps some secret service agent who had finally succeeded in getting some clews as to the murder of the colossal Szarvas?
Of one thing Renwick was sure—that soon he must make a break for liberty. Tonight—now—into the dusk beyond the hills. He was not very strong yet, but it might be–
"Herr Twenty-Eight," said the voice of Nurse Roth at his elbow, "you are to go at once to your room for examination."
"Thanks, Fräulein. I shall go. It is the magistrate?"
She nodded soberly.
"The magistrate and another whom I have never seen. They are now in the office consulting the Head Surgeon."
Renwick smiled at her as he whispered, "I am to be grilled?"
"I fear so."
He shrugged. "The time for subterfuge is past." And then, taking her hand again, "I shall go at once. But whatever happens I want you to know that I shall never forget what you have done for me."
"It is nothing. Now go, please."
He bowed and preceded her into the hallway. As they passed the office the door was open and Renwick glanced in. The magistrate was there and another man, talking to Colonel Bohratt, all of them unaware of the patient in the darker hallway looking at them. Renwick started, and then gazed again at the third man leaning over the table facing him. His figure seemed familiar, his bowing and gestures more so, and yet for a second Renwick could not place him. And then the man smiled, showing a gold tooth which caught the reflection of the electric light upon the table. A gold tooth–
Nurse Roth was regarding Renwick who glanced at the open door behind him and then at Nurse Roth. The pause was momentous. Renwick quickly recovered his poise and went on a few steps.
"They wish to see me—in the office?" he asked in a whisper.
"In your room, please. I shall tell them that you are waiting."
"Thanks, again," said Renwick abruptly, with outstretched hand, "and good-by."
"Good-by?" she asked in alarm.
He smiled over the shoulder as he went up the stairs.
"I think I shall exchange the hospital—for the jail."
He left her standing there looking up at him in wonder or pity, and then turning the stairhead went on down the upper corridor. There were nurses conversing here, and a patient or two, so Renwick went slowly until he reached his room. But once within the door he acted with speed and resolution. First he turned the key in the lock and softly shot the bolt, then crossed the room quickly, his heart beating rapidly. He was not strong and his nerves already were warning him, but they did not fail him. He peered out of the window upon the terrace. It was not yet dark and there was a nurse below standing beside a man in a wheel chair. He could not go now for they would see him and surely give the alarm, and so he waited, going back to the door and listening for the sound of approaching male footsteps. As yet no sound. He peered down upon the head of the luckless nurse, mutely imprecating. The moments were precious. Would they never go in? It was past the hour for loitering on the terrace. For a moment the idiotic notion came to him to go out into the corridor and call the attention of the nurse in charge of the floor to the infraction of rules, but he turned again to the window. The nurse was moving now, slowly pushing the wheel chair toward the door. It was barely a hundred feet away, but to Renwick it seemed an eternity before the pair vanished within. Then taking off his slippers he put them in the pocket of his wrapper, and rolling it into a bundle, dropped it noiselessly upon the terrace below. His nerves quivered as he sat astride the window-sill but he set his jaw and lowered himself from the window, catching the iron gutter-pipe with bare fingers and toes. The spout seemed to creak horribly, and for a moment he thought that it was swaying outward with him. But the sensation was born of his own weakness. The pipe held and slowly he descended, reaching the ground, his knuckles bruised and torn, but so far, safe.
He paused for a moment to slip into his wrapper and then crossed the terrace quietly, reached the lawn and the shelter of the bushes below.
CHAPTER XIX
DISGUISE
Long ago he had planned the direction in which he should go when the time came for him to escape. And so without pausing to look behind him he hurried down the hill in the shelter of the hedge until he reached its end. A hundred yards away was a hillock. By going forward in a line which he had already marked he would have the partial protection of rocks and bushes. He paused just a moment to be sure that no one was coming after him. All was as before and the dark group of buildings, his home for nearly two months, loomed in silent dignity behind him. But Renwick knew that it would not be long before the whole countryside would be buzzing like a hornet's nest. In his enfeebled condition, he could hardly hope to cope with his pursuers in the matter of speed and so as he went on across the stream at the base of the hill, he tried to plan something that would outwit them. The nearest outlying houses of the town were but a few hundred yards distant, but instead of taking the road down the hill, he turned sharply to his left after crossing the road and entered the Moslem cemetery, laid according to the custom in a cypress grove. He now moved slowly and leaning against the bole of a tree regained his breath while he listened for the expected sounds of pursuit. The cemetery seemed to be deserted, but he decided to take no chances, so he found a tree with thick foliage, and climbed from one bough to another until he found a crotch of a limb where he disposed himself as comfortably as possible to wait until the pursuit had passed him by.
His pulses were still pounding furiously from the sudden effort of muscles long unused, and his nerves were tingling strangely, but he clung to his perch until the period of weakness passed and then planned what he had better do. Inside of an hour every policeman in Sarajevo would be warned by Herr Windt to look out for a man with a beard, wearing a sleeping suit and a blue woolen wrapper. The obvious thing therefore was to avoid Sarajevo or else find a means to change his costume. But if he begged, borrowed, or stole an outfit of native clothing—what then? Where should he turn? He had no money, for that, of course, had been taken by the ruffians who had carried his body into the woods and stripped him of his clothing. To all intents and purposes he had been born again—had come into the world anew, naked save for the unsightly flapping things in which he was wrapped. His English clothes were at the inn in the Bistrick quarter where he had left them, but to seek them now meant immediate capture. And if he wore English clothes in the streets of a town full of men in uniform he would be as conspicuous as though in sleeping suit and wrapper. A native costume was the thing—and a fez which would hide the plaster on his head. But how to get it? He heard voices, and two men passed below him weaving in and out among the trees; he blessed the inspiration which had bidden him climb. He would have known Windt. He was not one of them. They were men from the hospital, out of breath with running, and the phrases they exchanged gave Renwick comforting notion that they were already wearily impressed with the hopelessness of their task. A while they waited, and then he saw them go out on the further side of the copse as though glad to be well away from so melancholy a spot. Indeed the gray turban-carved tombstones were eloquent to Renwick and a newly made grave not far away was unpleasantly suggestive of the fate that had so nearly been his. It was starlight now, but dark, and the owls were already hooting mournfully as though the souls of those who lay in the sod beneath had come again to visit by night their last resting places. It was not the most cheerful spot for a man who had just come out of a bout with death, and Renwick had no mind to stay there. So when the men who had been searching for him had gone their ways, he clambered stiffly down. He lingered by the newly made grave, obsessed by the rather morbid notion of digging up the estimable Moslem who reposed there and exchanging his own hospital wrapper for the much to be desired native costume, but desperate as was his need the idea was too unpleasant. He would rob, if necessary, but not the dead.
As he wandered among the trees in the direction of the nearest lights, he felt a pair of scissors in the pocket of his wrapper—Fräulein Roth's. His fingers closed upon them now. A weapon? Better than that. A plan had come to him which he proceeded immediately to put into practice. Taking off his wrapper he seated himself upon a tombstone and began cutting it into pieces, shaping a short sleeveless jacket. He cut the sleeves of the wrapper lengthwise and made a turban.
Its skirt made him a belt with something left over. He puzzled for awhile over the remnant of cloth left to him, thinking of his legs, but at last discarded it as useless, and hid it among the bushes. Then, laboriously, he trimmed his mustache and beard. It was low work without light or mirror, but he persevered until to the touch of his fingers the merest bristle remained, a stubble such as a man would have who had gone a few days without shaving. Then, satisfied that under cover of the darkness he might pass in a crowd of people unnoticed, he slipped the scissors into the coat of his sleeping suit and sallied forth.
At least he was rid of the flowing robe which would have made of him a marked man. Fortunately the night was hot and sultry, and so far he suffered no inconveniences, but he knew that this disguise was only a makeshift and that by fair means or foul, he must come into the possession of some sort of costume in which he could face the light of day. In the road, he passed a farmer returning from the bazaar, and the careless greeting of the man reassured him. A polyglot costume surely—but this was a city of polyglots. The disguise would do—at least for this night. But the appearance of Windt had seriously alarmed him. It meant, if he was taken, that he would surely be interned, or worse, perhaps that he might be accused of complicity in the murder of Szarvas, Windt's own man. In the back of his head a plan had been forming, which meant if not active help in escaping from the city, at least a short refuge from pursuit, and perhaps something more. He meant to go to the house where Marishka had been—and speak to the girl, Yeva. It was the only hope he had of a clew to Marishka's whereabouts—the only hope of help in this city of enemies. He was quite sure that he would not be a welcome visitor, for it was the old ruffian in the turban, of course, who had taken the clothing from Renwick's body and left him for dead upon the hillside. The theory in the hospital had been that those who had carried Renwick into the woods had intended burying the bodies—for a spade had been found later near the place—but that the murderers had been frightened away before being able to carry out their plan. And lacking information upon the subject, Renwick had come to the same conclusion. He might not be welcome at the house of the blue door, but he knew the old man's secret and decided to risk danger by playing the game with an open hand.
Instead of going into the city by the nearest way, which would have led him in a few moments into the European part of the town, he bore to the left again, climbing the hill behind the Tekija mosque, until he reached an eminence back of the fortress above the Golden Bastion, and then slowly descended into the Turkish quarter of the town where the streets were narrow and dark and the danger of detection minimized. He had already passed many people who had merely glanced at him and gone their ways, and the success of his disguise gave him confidence; but as he approached the Sirocac Tor he was badly frightened, for on turning the corner of a street he ran directly into the arms of a stout Bosnian policeman who was looking for him. The man swore at him in bad German and Renwick drew back against the wall, sure that the game was up, until he realized that the fellow was only cursing because he was almost, if not quite as much startled as Renwick. So the Englishman, regaining his composure, bowed politely and would have gone on, but the policeman spoke.
"Which way have you come?" he asked.
"From the Kastele."
"You have seen no bareheaded man with a beard, wearing a long blue coat?"
"A long blue coat? There are none with long blue coats in the Kastele in the month of August."
"Pfui—! I do not wonder!" said the fat Bosnian, and hurried on.
But the venture made Renwick more cautious, and he avoided the street-lights, moving under the shadows of walls and houses, at last reaching the tortuous alleyway down which he had once come to inspect the house with the meshrebiya windows. Almost two months had passed since he had stood in this spot, watching these same lighted windows, unaware of the success that had been almost within his grasp. Outwardly nothing was changed. The blue door faced him, and gathering courage, he crossed the street and entered the garden. It was very dark under the trees and he went quietly forward, stopping by the fountain to listen for sounds within the house. He realized that it was growing late, and that while the garden offered him a refuge from those who were seeking him in the city, daylight would make his tenure precarious even here. If the girl Yeva would only come down into the garden! He waited by the bench listening, and presently was rewarded by hearing a light rippling laugh from the room above the door. She was there—the girl—but not alone—with the old woman perhaps, or the man with the beard. Renwick listened again and watched the window, but heard nothing more. There was nothing for it but to put on a bold front, so summoning his courage, he walked to the door of the house and loudly knocked.
There was an exclamation, a sound of footsteps upon the stair, and at last the bolt of the door was shot and the door opened. Zubeydeh stood, a lantern in her hand, scrutinizing him.
He spoke in German at once. "I come upon an urgent matter," he said coolly. "Upon a matter very important to the owner of this house–"
"Speak—what do you want?" she asked.
"I bear a message."
"The Effendi is not at home–"
"Ah—then Yeva may receive it."
"Yeva! Who are you?"
He smiled. "For the present that need not matter."
Zubeydeh blocked the door more formidably with her body.
"No one enters this house in the Effendi's absence."
"I do not desire to enter the house. I merely wish to talk with Yeva, here–"
"That is not possible." The woman moved back and made a motion to close the door, but Renwick took a pace forward and blocked her effort with his foot.
"Wait," he said.
Something in the tone of his voice arrested her, and the hand which held the door relaxed. She regarded Renwick with a new curiosity. Her eyes narrowed as she peered into his face. She had seen someone who looked like this tall beggar, but where–?
"Who are you?" she asked again, this time with a note of anxiety, scarcely concealed.
Renwick smiled, but he had not yet removed his foot from the sill of the door.
"You do not remember me?"
"No—and yet–" She paused in bewilderment, and Renwick quickly followed his advantage.
"I am one who can save this house from a danger."
"Speak!"
"I have but to speak yonder," and he gestured eloquently toward the city below them, "and the danger will fall." He leaned forward, whispering tensely, "The secret police of the Austrian government wish to know more about the death of Nicholas Szarvas and–"
Zubeydeh dropped the handle of the door and seized Renwick's arm, while her narrow eyes glittered terrified close to his own.
"And you–?"
"It is merely that I did not die," he said coolly.
"You are–?"
"I am the man in the armor, Zubeydeh," he said solemnly.
She started back from him in affright, her hands before her eyes.
"Allah!" she whispered, and then leaned forward again touching his arm lightly, imploringly, while she looked past him into the dark recesses of the garden.
"Then they are there—the police are coming–?"
He quickly reassured her.
"No. I mean you no harm. Do you understand? I have said nothing—nor shall I speak unless–" he paused significantly.
"Unless–?"
"Unless you refuse to permit me to speak with Yeva. That is all. Listen, Zubeydeh; since that night I have been in the hospital. They would keep me here a prisoner. I have escaped—in this disguise. I make a bargain with you. You help me—I will be silent. If you refuse, I shall tell the police."
"What do you want?" she asked breathlessly.
"A disguise, a weapon, and some money—not much."
"Money! The Effendi has gone upon a journey."
"A few kroner only—enough to get me out of town."
"And you will keep silent?"
"As the grave. Don't you understand? I wish to go away from here—quickly, and then you will not see me again."
"How can I believe you?" she said suspiciously.
"Bah! Don't be stupid! If I had desired to betray you, I should have told the truth long ago."
Zubeydeh hesitated.
"You will go away?"
"Yes. I shall go–"
There was a sound upon the stairs behind Zubeydeh and Yeva thrust herself forward.
"I was at the window above. I heard. Allah be praised! You are alive?"
"Yeva! You know anything—of her?"
"No, nothing," sadly. And then as she examined him closely, "But you must come into the house. I will do what you wish."
The matter was now out of Zubeydeh's hands, for whatever her doubts, Yeva's swift confidence had swept them away. She stood aside and motioned for him to go up the stairs.
"You will not remain long?" she asked.
"Only long enough to change my clothing—you will provide?"
