Gibbs George
The Secret Witness
CHAPTER XXI
AN IMPERSONATION
At least he now had a goal—"the center of the map, near the top"—the Tatra region by which Goritz had passed (if he had not been intercepted) into Galicia and so into Germany. Aside from the value of Selim's information, one other fact stood out. The secret service men who had visited Selim a month ago had not returned. Did this mean that Herr Windt had already succeeded in closing the door of escape? The passes through the Carpathians could of course be easily guarded and closed, for there were few of them accessible to traffic by automobile. Was Renwick's goal, after all, to be there and not beyond? He had put in one summer in the Tatra region with Captain Otway of the Embassy, and he knew the district well,—a country of mountain villages, feudal castles, and rugged roads. Otway had been interested in the military problems of the Austro-Hungarian empire, and Renwick remembered the importance of the Tatra as a natural barrier to Russian ambitions. The shortest automobile road into Silesia lay to the east of the Tatra range—and the passes through the Carpathians at this point were few and well known. By process of elimination, Renwick had at last assured himself that his first theory was tenable, for Selim had confirmed it. A hundred conjectures flashed into the Englishman's mind as he trudged onward, to be one by one dismissed and relegated to the limbo of uncertainty. But assuming that Selim had told the truth, Renwick had found the trail, and would follow wherever it might lead him, to its end.
His idea of traveling afoot by night and of hiding by day, at least for the first part of his journey, was born of the desire to leave nothing to chance. His own capture meant internment until the end of the war, or possibly an exchange for some Austrian in England. But they should not catch him! Concealed in his belt he wore the American revolver, and carried some cartridges which Zubeydeh had restored to him.
The weather fortunately had been fine, and the days and nights in the open were rapidly restoring him to strength. The discomfort at the wound in his body which had bothered him for a few days had disappeared. He was well. And with health came hope, faith even, in the star of his fortunes. It took him two weeks to reach Polishka, below which he crossed the Save at night in a boat which he found moored to the bank, and daylight found him at a small village through which a railroad ran north towards the plains of the Danube. Here he paused dead-tired for food and rest.
The innkeeper, who spoke German fairly well, swallowed Renwick's story, his taste somewhat stimulated by the sight of the ten-kroner piece which the Englishman used in paying for his breakfast.
But the time had now come for the execution of a bold plan which for some days and nights Renwick had been turning over and over in his mind. It was a good plan, he thought, a brave plan which stood the test of argument pro and con. The British Embassy in many of its investigations during times of peace,—investigations of a purely personal or financial nature,—had been in the habit of calling in the services of one Carl Moyer, an Austrian who ran a private inquiry bureau in Vienna. He was an able man, not directly connected with the secret service department of the Empire, but frequently brought into consultation upon matters outside the pale of politics. Renwick's interest in Moyer had been limited to the share they had both taken in some inquiries as to the standing of a Russian nobleman who had approached the Ambassador with a scheme of a rather dubious character. But a physical resemblance to Moyer, which had been the subject of frequent jokes with Otway, had now given Renwick a new and very vital interest in the personality of the man which had nothing to do with their business relations. Moyer was thinner than Renwick, and not so tall, but their features were much alike. When at first the idea of an impersonation had come to Renwick, he had rejected it as dangerous, but the notion obsessed him. The very boldness of the project was in its favor. He could now move freely along the railroads and if one ignored the hazard of meeting the man himself or someone who knew him intimately, he could pursue his object of following the trail of Captain Goritz with a brave front which would defy suspicion. True, he would have no papers and no credentials, but this, too, was a part of the guise of a man who might be moving upon a secret mission. Carl Moyer, disguised as an Austrian of the laboring class, moving from Bosnia to the Carpathians—what could be more natural?
As Renwick ate his breakfast in the small inn at Otok, he came to a sudden decision to put this bold plan into practice. And so, exhibiting another ten-kroner piece, he made known his wishes to the innkeeper. He was a Bosnian, he said, but in Hungary he did not wish to attract attention by wearing his native costume. In parts of Hungary there was a feeling that the Bosnians who lived near the Serbian border were not loyal to the Emperor and this, it had been said, might make it difficult for him to obtain employment. His purse was not large but if his host would procure for him a suit of western clothing, a coat, a pair of trousers, a shirt, a cravat, and a soft hat, he, Thomasevics, would offer his Bosnian clothing in exchange and do what was fair in the matter of money. The train from Britzka did not go north for an hour. Would it be possible to find these things in so short a time? The innkeeper regarded the worn and mud-stained garments of his guest rather dubiously, but the terms of the offer in the matter of money having been made clear, the transformation was accomplished without difficulty and Renwick boarded the train rather jubilant at the celerity and speed of his journey. By nightfall, with luck, he would be across the Danube and well within the borders of Hungary, mingling in crowds where all trace of his identity would be lost. He spent most of his afternoon on the train trying to recall the mannerisms of the man Moyer, a trick of gesture, a drawl and a shrug which he thought he could manage. Carl Moyer he now was, on a mission from Bosnia to the North, in which the better to disguise himself he was permitting his hair and beard to grow.
Hut success had made him over-confident, for at the Bahnhof at Zombor where he had to change into a train for Budapest, something happened which drove all thought from his head save that of escape from the predicament into which his imprudence had plunged him.
He was sitting upon a bench on the platform waiting for his train when a man approached and sat beside him. Renwick needed no second glance to reassure himself as to the fellow's identity. He was Spivak, Windt's man, the fellow who had kept guard on the cabin at Konopisht. The Englishman feared to get up and walk away, for that might attract attention. So he sat, slouched carelessly, his hat pulled well down over his eyes, awaiting what seemed to be the inevitable. Spivak—one of Windt's men sent of course to Zombor, one of the important railway junctions, to watch all arrivals from the south. Renwick had been ready with his story when he debarked from the train but there had been a crowd and he had been in the last carriage. Renwick's mind worked rapidly, and to an imagination already prescient of disaster, the man seemed to be inspecting him. As Spivak's chin lifted, Renwick faced him squarely. Their glances met—and passed. Renwick calmly took out a cigarette and bending his head forward lighted it coolly, aware that the man was saying something in Hungarian.
Renwick made a gesture of incomprehension, wondering meanwhile how he could kill the man on the crowded platform without attracting observation.
"The train from the south was crowded today," said Spivak in German.
"Crowded? Yes."
"Do you come from Brod or Britzka?"
"From Britzka," said Renwick without hesitation, and then with the courage of desperation—
"I have seen you before," he went on, calmly puffing at his cigarette.
"I have, I think, the same impression."
"Your name is Spivak—of the Secret Service–"
"You–"
"My name is Carl Moyer."
It was a gambler's chance that Renwick took. If Spivak intimately knew the man—but he did not and the effrontery disarmed him.
"You are Carl Moyer? I must have seen you," he muttered. "I have been in Vienna a little—with Herr Windt, but I am of the Hungarian branch. You have been in Sarajevo?"
"Yes," said Renwick easily following out a wild plan that had come into his mind. "I have been employed by the Baroness Racowitz to find the Countess Marishka Strahni."
"Ah, I see. It has come to that!" And then, regarding his companion with a new interest, "When did you come from Sarajevo?"
"Last night. It is a strange case."
"And you have found a lead?"
"Several–"
"You can do nothing against such a man as Goritz."
"It is Goritz—yes—but I will find her if I have to go through Germany with a harrow."
"They have not gone to Germany, my friend. Every gate out of Hungary has been closed to them since the assassination."
Renwick smiled. The thing had worked. The spirit of the venture glowed in him—its very impudence fascinated.
"Perhaps!" he replied. "Still, a man who could outwit Nicholas Szarvas–"
Spivak caught him so suddenly by the arm that Renwick trembled.
"You think he killed Szarvas–?" whispered Spivak eagerly.
"If not himself, it was by his orders. And the Englishman—Renck–"
"Renwick."
"I've found the evidence that Renck was lured to Sarajevo. He possessed a secret dangerous to Germany and so Goritz killed him."
"And this Peter Langer—who escaped from the hospital–?" asked Spivak cynically.
"The chauffeur of Goritz, left for dead in the fight with Szarvas and stripped of his clothing to hide all marks of identity. It is no wonder that he wished to escape–" The Englishman broke off with a rough laugh and rose. "But this won't do, I'm giving you all my thunder. Herr Windt does not relish my employment in this service, but since he has accomplished nothing you cannot blame my clients. I am on my way to Germany. The surest way to catch a fox is to smoke him out of his hole."
Spivak took a few paces away, and then slowly returned.
"What you say is interesting, Herr Moyer, and the theory hangs together, but you will waste your time in Germany."
"Why?"
"Because Captain Goritz is still in Hungary."
"What further reason have you for believing that he is here?"
Spivak smiled and hesitated a moment. And then, "You have talked freely. One good turn deserves another. I will tell you. We know that Captain Goritz is still in Hungary because within the past week the Wilhelmstrasse has sent urgent messages to Vienna inquiring for him."
"Ah—that is interesting," said Renwick slowly, trying to hide the throb of triumph in his throat. "Then you think–?"
"Merely that he is in hiding—with the lady," said Spivak with a leer. "It is no new thing for a man to go in hiding with a lady."
Renwick's laugh was admirably managed, for fury was in his heart. "This information is helpful," he said. "You believe that it is true?"
"I am sure. Berlin is anxious because he has not returned. I do not know what they suspect over there, but the situation is changed. The war has made a difference. We have no idea where he has gone. All that we know is that it will be very difficult for him to get out."
In the distance the train was rumbling up the track, and Renwick was thankful. But he caught the fellow by the hand.
"You are a good fellow, Spivak. If at any time you wish to leave the government service and take a good place at a fair payment, you will come to see me in Vienna."
"Thanks, Herr Moyer. I shall remember. You are going on to Budapest?"
"Yes. And you?"
"I am detained here to watch for a Russian spy who is trying to get through to the Galician border." He laughed. "You're sure you're not–?"
"That's a good joke, Spivak," he smiled. "A Russian! I'd have precious little chance–" And then as the train rolled in—
"Don't forget—Ferdinand Strasse, Number 83–"
"I will not. Adieu!"
"Adieu, my friend."
And with a final wave of the hand Renwick turned and slowly mounted into his third class carriage. The plan had worked and the man, it seemed, had not the slightest suspicion. He was, as Renwick remembered from Konopisht, not infallible, and the ease with which Renwick had accomplished his object and the remarkable nature of his newly acquired information could only be explained by the fact that Spivak was seeking the Russian and not himself, and by the boldness of his impersonation, which had immediately pierced the crust of Spivak's professional reserve. All had gone well, but it seemed an age before the train drew out of the station. Renwick did not dare to look out of the window to learn if the man were still there, and until the bell of the locomotive rang announcing the departure of the train, he was unpleasantly nervous, for fear that a suspicion might dawn in the man's mind which would lead him to pursue the conversation.
Renwick never learned whether Spivak's second thoughts had warned him that all was not as it should be, for instead of taking any chances, the Englishman got down from the train at the first stop and disappeared into the darkness.
It was with a feeling of elation mingled with apprehension that Renwick made his way forward. Elation because of the new crumbs of information, apprehension because of the definite assurance that Goritz still held Marishka a prisoner somewhere within the borders of Hungary. Definite it seemed, for Spivak had spoken with the utmost confidence of things with which he was intimately concerned. The trail narrowed. It seemed as though Providence, aware of past impositions, was bent on making amends to one who had suffered much from her disfavor. The sudden appearance of Spivak, which had seemed to threaten disaster, had been turned by a bold stroke from calamity to good fortune. But Renwick determined to avoid further such encounters if possible. And so, resuming the mode of progress which had been so effective on the way to Tuzla, he walked at night, and slept under cover by day, reaching a town upon the banks of the Danube, where he bought new clothing, a straw hat, a change of linen, and a hand bag with which (representing himself as a grain merchant of Ujvidek), he boldly boarded a steamer upon the river, reaching Budapest without further incident.
It was not until he had passed the Quai and was safely in the Karoly Korut that Renwick breathed easily. He was now safe, finding his way to his immediate destination, the house of a person connected with the English Secret Service, into whose care he confidently entrusted himself.
CHAPTER XXII
THE NEEDLE IN THE HAYSTACK
Herr Koulas was by birth a Greek, by citizenship, an Austrian, and by occupation, a chemist; but his real métier, concealed under a most docile and law abiding exterior, was secret inquiry in behalf of the British government into all matters pertaining to its interests, either social, political, or military. He knew his Hungary from Odenburg to Kronstadt, from the Save to the Carpathians, and Renwick, while somewhat dubious as to the wisdom of his visit under the circumstances, found himself received at this excellent man's home with a warmth of welcome which left no doubt in his own mind as to the unselfishness of his host. Even before the war Renwick and Constantine Koulas had met in secret, so that if trouble came no plan should mar the man's impeccable character in Austrian eyes. And Renwick would not have come to him now, had not his own need been great. But Herr Koulas, having heard the tale of his adventures and reassured as to the present danger of pursuit, gave willingly of his hospitality and counsel, and when he learned the character of Renwick's mission, volunteered to procure him a set of papers which would rob his pilgrimage to the north, at least, of its most obvious dangers. He was ready with information, too, and offered a mind with a peculiar genius for the kind of problem that Renwick presented. The fact that the great Prussian secret agent, Leo Goritz, was involved in the affair lent it an individuality which detracted nothing from its other interest. Leo Goritz! Only last year there had been a contest of wits between them, both under cover, and Koulas had managed to get what he wanted, not, however, without narrowly escaping the revelation of his own part in the investigation. Goritz was a clever man and a dangerous one, young, brilliant, handsome, unscrupulous, who wore an armor of impenetrability which had not yet revealed a single weak link. And yet, Herr Koulas reasoned, broodingly, that there must be one. A weak link! Where was the man without one? The messages from the Wilhelmstrasse! Why had Goritz not returned to Berlin upon the outbreak of the war? What was keeping him in Hungary? He was in the Tatra region? Possibly. Which were the passes by which he might try to go? Uzoker, Dukla, or perhaps even Jablunka. The Russians were already battering at Przemysl—Uzoker Pass was out of the question. Jablunka—that was nearer the German border, but eagerly watched even in times of peace. Goritz would not have dared to try to abduct the Countess Strahni by way of Jablunka! The railroad went through Jablunka, a narrow highway with no outlet for many miles. It was not the kind of cul-de-sac that Goritz would have chosen. Dukla? Perhaps. A little farther to the east, of course, but not yet menaced by the Russian advance.
The thing was puzzling, but interesting—very. The abduction of a loyal citizen of Austria—a lady of noble birth—a hurried flight by unfrequented roads and then an impasse! Had Herr Windt blocked the way? Was the lady ill? Or had something else detained them?
Renwick sat in the back room of the small laboratory, his arms folded, his brows tangled in thought, as Herr Koulas, puffing great clouds of smoke from his long pipe, thus analyzed the situation.
"I have thought of all of these things, Herr Koulas," Renwick muttered, "and my mind always comes back to the same point. If I know that Goritz has come to this region, if I know that he has not gone out of it, I also know that he remains. I do not care why—my question is where—where?"
Koulas ran his long forefinger over the map upon the table.
"It is the map Goritz might use—a road map of the government," he grumbled.
"The center near the top—Poprad—he would get through there with difficulty–"
Renwick had risen and paced the floor slowly.
"I have not been through Dukla. It is accessible?"
"Yes. Svidnik to Przemysl. Rocks—a schloss or two–" He turned. "It was there that the Baron Neudeck was killed—you remember—three years ago?"
"I have forgotten—Neudeck—an Austrian?"
"A German—Neudeck was selling military plans to the Russians—Goritz!"
Koulas sprang to his feet triumphantly—"Goritz! It was Goritz who discovered him–"
Renwick was listening eagerly, and Koulas turned with a shrug. "Nothing much, my friend. And yet—a coincidence perhaps—Goritz, Neudeck, Dukla. Goritz—Strahni—'the center of the map—at the top.' It might be worth trying."
"I shall try it. There is nothing else for me to do. The Pass is used for transport?"
"No. The line of communication is through Mezo Laborcz."
"It will be risky–"
"Not unless you make it so. With luck you shall bear a letter to General Lechnitz (which you need never deliver) as a writer for a newspaper."
"That can be managed?"
"I hope—I believe—I am confident."
Renwick smiled. Herr Koulas was something of a humorist.
"Tell me more of this Neudeck case," asked the Englishman.
"There is unfortunately little more to tell. Neudeck was a German baron with military connections, not too rich and not above dishonesty. Goritz traced the plans to Schloss Szolnok, an ancient feudal stronghold which an elder Baron Neudeck had bought–"
"In the Dukla?"
"—in the Dukla—where some Russian officers were invited for the shooting. They did not know how little they were to enjoy it–" Koulas chuckled and blew a cloud of smoke—"for Goritz shot Neudeck before their very eyes, and took the plans back to Germany. This is secret history—a nine days' wonder—but it passed and with it a clever scoundrel who well deserved what he got."
"And since his death who lives in Schloss Szolnok?"
"I don't know." He laughed again. "You jump very rapidly at conclusions, my friend."
"Time passes. I must jump at something. I am going to Dukla Pass—tomorrow if you will help me."
"That goes without saying. For the present you shall go to bed and sleep soundly. I would like to go with you, but alas—I am not so young as I was and I can best serve all your interests here."
Renwick shook Koulas by the hand and took the bedroom candle that was offered him.
"Good night," he said. "I pray that no harm may come to you from this imprudence of mine."
"Do not worry, my friend. I am well hedged about with alibis. Good night."
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.
