Gibbs George
The Secret Witness
CHAPTER X
DIAMOND CUTS DIAMOND
Captain Leo Goritz made it a habit to neglect no detail. There was but a little more than an hour of time, but he acted swiftly. At his request the Ambassador procured money, and from the War Ministry the necessary papers, a safe conduct for an officer of the Fifteenth Army Corps, returning to his regiment at Sarajevo with his wife. Graf von Mendel attended to the secret arrangements for their departure from the Embassy and booked the passage. Captain Goritz sat at a desk in a private office, upon which was a small copper teapot above a spirit lamp. The water in the pot was steaming. A servant knocked at the door and brought him a letter.
"Ah! You followed my directions about the paper and ink?"
"As you ordered, Herr Hauptmann. And a maid is with the Countess Strahni."
"Very good. Wait outside and be prepared to take a message in an automobile."
"Zu befehl, Herr Hauptmann."
As the servant reached the door Goritz halted him.
"The room which the Countess Strahni has is not on the side toward the British Embassy?"
"No, Herr Hauptmann."
"Very good. You may go."
The man withdrew, closing the door gently. And Captain Goritz took the note of the Countess Strahni and held it in front of the copper teapot, moving it to and fro, the back of the envelope in the jet of steam. In a moment the flap of the envelope curled back and opened. The thing was simplicity itself. He took two slips of paper out of the envelope and read them through attentively, smiling amusedly as he did so. Then without waste of time, he put one of the notes before him, and drawing some writing paper nearer wrote steadily for ten minutes, tearing up sheet after sheet and burning each in turn. At last apparently satisfied with what he had written he put the sheet aside and burned the original note in which he had been so interested. Then he addressed several small envelopes, glancing from time to time at the other note of the Countess Strahni upon the desk in front of him. The envelopes all bore the words,
Herr Hugh Renwick Strohgasse No. 26 Wien.
At last, critically selecting one of those he had written, he burned the others, and folding the note enclosed it in the smaller envelope, which he sealed carefully, putting it with the Countess Strahni's letter into the original and larger envelope, which he pasted anew and carefully closed. Then he rang the bell, and when the man appeared:
"You will take this note to the given address. You will explain that the note within is to be delivered tonight at eight o'clock. Then you will wait twenty minutes for a suitcase or valise and bring it here. That's all. And hasten."
"Zu befehl, Herr Hauptmann."
Goritz sat for a moment—just a moment of contemplation. It was merely a thread of possibility, a chance, if other expedients had failed, but thoroughly worth taking. His man Kronberg was a good shot, but he might have missed, and if so Europe was large, and Herr Renwick clever. The hook of Leo Goritz was baited with a delectable morsel—most delectable—it would have been childish not to use it. Where Marishka Strahni was, there also was the heart of Renwick—the Englishman with the nine lives—the last of which must be taken.
This duty accomplished, Goritz went to a room upstairs, bathed and dressed in the uniform which had been provided, packing a large bag with several objects besides clothing and necessities of the toilet, including two automatic pistols, and went down to the Embassy office. All this had occupied an hour. He was awaiting Marishka when, somewhat refreshed and newly attired, she descended and entered the Embassy office. His Excellency rose and bowed over her hand—
"Captain Goritz tells me that you have consented to help us in this extraordinary affair. I wish you Godspeed, Countess Strahni, and a safe return," he added with some deliberateness.
She glanced at Captain Goritz who stood in a military attitude, but he only smiled politely and said nothing.
"I thank Your Excellency for your hospitality and protection," she said slowly. "I am sure that I shall be quite safe with Captain Goritz–"
"Ober Lieutenant Carl von Arnstorf, at your service," corrected Goritz, "of the Third Regiment, Fifteenth Army Corps."
Marishka smiled.
"And I?"
"Frau Ober Lieutenant von Arnstorf," said Goritz shortly.
"It is necessary, I suppose?"
Goritz bowed, and his Excellency added, "It simplifies matters greatly, Countess Strahni."
Marishka shrugged. It was no time for quibbling.
"The way is clear?" asked the Ambassador of von Mendel.
"Quite, Excellency. The side street has been patrolled for ten minutes."
Goritz opened a door which led to a small staircase, and he and Marishka descended and went through the kitchens to a small street or alley where a machine was awaiting them. A question—a reply from a man who had brought down their bags, and they moved slowly out of the alley into a small street.
A bath, food, and a glass of wine had restored Marishka, and she now faced the immediate future with renewed hope and courage. Apart from the belief, fostered by the careful detail of her companions arrangements, that she might still be successful in reaching the ear of the Duchess before the royal train reached Sarajevo, there was an appeal in the hazard of her venture with Captain Goritz. He was a clever man and a dangerous one, who, to gain his ends, whatever they were, would not hesitate to stoop to means beneath the dignity of honorable manhood—an intriguer, a master craftsman in the secret and recondite, a perverted gentleman, trained in a school which eliminated compassion, sentiment and all other human attributes in the attainment of its object and the consummation of its plans. And yet Marishka did not fear Captain Goritz. There is a kind of feminine courage which no man can understand, that is not physical nor even mental, born perhaps of that mysterious relation which modern philosophy calls sex antagonism—a spiritual hardihood which deals in the metaphysics of emotion and pays no tribute to any form of materiality. Captain Goritz, whatever his quality, to Marishka was merely a man. And whatever the forces at his command, her promise, the half uttered threat as to her fate—which she had refused to take seriously—she was aware that she was not defenseless. The elaborateness of the Ambassador's manner, the graces of Graf von Mendel, and Captain Goritz's now covert glances advised her that she was still armed with her woman's weapons. Marishka was young, but her two years in the life of the gayest court in Europe had sharpened her perceptions amazingly, but she knew that if beauty is a woman's letter of credit worth its face value with a man, it can also be a dangerous liability. Captain Goritz differed from the gay idlers of the Viennese Court. The signs of interest he had given her were slight,—a courtesy perhaps a trifle too studied, a lingering glance of his curiously penetrating eyes which might even have been impelled by professional curiosity, a thoughtfulness for her comfort which might have been any woman's due, and yet Marishka did not despair.
They reached the railway station uneventfully, where she learned that men from the Embassy had followed on bicycles as a matter of precaution, and the travelers found their compartment and were safely installed. She sank into her place silently and looked out of the window into the blur of moving lights as Vienna was left behind them. Upon the seat opposite her sat the newly created officer of the Fifteenth Army Corps, Ober Lieutenant Carl von Arnstorf, looking rather smart in his borrowed plumage. The intimacy of their new situation did not frighten her, for she thought that already she had read enough of her companion's character to know that at least so far she was on safe ground. She gave him permission to smoke without his asking it, and this, it seemed, made for the beginnings of a new informality in their relations.
"There isn't the slightest reason," she said with a smile, "that you should be uncomfortable. Since you are doomed for the present to share my imprisonment–"
"Doomed?" he exclaimed civilly. "You may be sure that I don't look upon such a doom with unhappiness, Countess. Are you very tired?"
"A little. I shall sleep presently."
"Do you know," he said as he thoughtfully inhaled his cigarette, "for the first time in my rather variegated career, I find myself in a false position."
"Really! How?"
"I will explain. I have had much dealing to do with women—with women of a certain sort. It is a part of my trade. Were you unscrupulous, intriguing, you would meet your match. As it is you have me at a disadvantage."
"I?"
"I have felt it—from the first. Even a secret agent has eyes, dimensions, senses. I am a little abashed as if in the presence of phenomena. Your helplessness and innocence, your loyalty and unselfishness—you must be sure that I am not unaware of them."
Marishka laughed easily.
"You restore my faith in human kind, Captain Goritz. You'll admit that your attitude toward me has been far from reassuring."
"Countess, I beg of you–"
"The alternative to disobeying your wishes—destruction—death!" she went on, shuddering prettily.
"I am merely a cog in the great wheel of efficiency. I spoke figuratively–"
"But of course you know," she broke in quickly, with another laugh, "that I didn't believe you. I haven't really been frightened at all. How could I be? You're not in the least alarming. To face the alternative you imposed would take courage. I am easily frightened at a mouse. The deduction is obvious–"
He laughed and then said soberly, "It is far from my wish to frighten you. That kind of brutality has its justification, but this is not the occasion, nor you the woman."
"I was sure of it. If I hadn't been I shouldn't have come with you."
"Ah!" Goritz straightened and stared at her. "But—your promise–"
"I should have broken that and asked the first gendarme in the Ringstrasse to take me home. You admit that the plan would have been feasible?"
He shrugged.
"The Countess Strahni's word of honor–"
"Honor is as honor does and I am here, Captain Goritz."
"I trust that you will have no reason to regret your decision."
"That sounds like another threat."
"It isn't. I actually mean what I say. A secret agent doesn't permit himself such a luxury very often," he laughed.
"Then you're not going to murder me offhand–"
"Countess, I protest–"
"You wish my last moments to be graced with courtesy. I shall at least die like a rose—in aromatic pain."
Her irony was not lost on him. He was silent a moment, regarding her soberly.
"Countess, you are too clever to be unkind—your lips too lovely to utter words so painful. I could not do you harm—it is impossible. I pray that you will believe me."
"I am merely taking you at face value, Herr Hauptmann," she returned coolly. "You have told me that you are merely a thinking machine, or a cog in the wheel of efficiency, which plans my elimination–"
"A figure of speech. Your silence was what I meant."
"Ah, silence! Perhaps. It seems that I have already said enough."
"Quite," he smiled. "You have set Europe in a turmoil—another Helen–"
"With another Paris in your background?" she shot at him.
He smiled, lowering his gaze to the ash of his cigarette.
"You speak in riddles."
"It's your trade to solve them."
"Do not underestimate my intelligence, I understand you," he laughed. "It is a fortunate thing for me that you are not a secret agent. My occupation would be gone."
"It is a villainous occupation."
"Why?"
"Because no secret agent can be himself. It's rather a pity, because I'd like to like you."
"And don't you—a little?"
"I might if I thought that I could believe in you. If a man is not true to himself, he cannot be true to those that wish to be his friends."
He was silent for a moment.
"I think perhaps," he said quietly at last, "that you do me an injustice. I am merely the servant of my government–"
"Which, stops at no means—even death."
"I too look death in the face, Countess," he said with a slow smile. "It lurks in every byway—hangs in every bush."
"It is frightful," she sighed, "to live like that, preying upon others, and being preyed upon—when the world is so beautiful."
"The world is just what men have made it. I, too, once dreamed–" His words trailed off into silence, and he looked out of the window into the night.
"And now?" she asked.
Something in the tone of her voice made him straighten and glance at her. He had seen the same look in other women's eyes.
"And now, I dream no more, Countess Strahni," he said abruptly.
Marishka's gaze fell before his.
"I am sorry," she said.
There was another silence in which Captain Goritz took out another cigarette.
"I do not think that I quite—understand you, Countess Strahni–"
"Naturally," she broke in. "You have known me—let us see—a little less than twelve hours."
Her smile disarmed him.
"You are far from transparent, Countess," he said quizzically.
"And if I were?"
"It would probably be because you wished me to see something beyond," with a laugh.
"To one who deals in mystery and intrigue, sincerity must always be bewildering."
"H—m! I was once stabbed in the back by a woman who was too sincere."
The smile left Marishka's face. "How terrible!"
"It was. I nearly died. It was my mistake, you see."
Marishka was silent for a long moment. And then,
"I'm afraid, Captain Goritz, that the world has left you bitter."
"To the secret agent the world is neither sweet nor bitter. He has no sense of taste or of feeling. He is merely a pair of ears—a pair of eyes which nothing must escape–"
"Deaf to music—blind to beauty," sighed Marishka. "From the bottom of my heart I pity you."
Captain Goritz gazed at her for a long moment, in silence, then his eyes narrowed slightly and his voice was lowered.
"It is rather curious, Countess Strahni, that you should hold in such low esteem a profession practiced by one of your most favored friends."
"Mine?" she questioned, startled.
"Herr Renwick," he replied dryly, "is a secret agent of the Serbian government."
A gasp escaped her, and she struggled for her composure at the mention of Hugh Renwick's name.
"That is impossible."
"I beg your pardon," he said politely, "I happen to know it to be the truth."
She laughed uneasily.
"Until two weeks ago Herr Renwick was an attaché of the British Embassy," she asserted.
"Of course. But he has been also in the pay of the Serbian government—Austria's enemy."
"You are misinformed," she gasped.
"I beg your pardon. England and Serbia are on excellent terms. You will not deny that Herr Renwick has been to Belgrade in the last two weeks?"
"You—you–" she paused in consternation, aware again of this man's omniscience.
"The details had not been clear until my return to Vienna. Think for a moment. Herr Renwick visits Belgrade and Sarajevo while a plan is arranged to take the life of the Archduke Franz. It is well within the bounds of possibility–"
"Your skill in invention does you credit," she put in quickly, "but Herr Renwick has no interest in the death of the Archduke. On the contrary, he has done what he could to save him."
"You will admit that it was Renwick who gave you the information of this plot."
"Yes—but–"
"One moment. You'll also admit that he gave no authority for his information."
"But he did what he could to help me warn the Archduke."
"H—m! You did not know perhaps that it is to Serbia's interest and to Renwick's to warn the Archduke. Austria needs a pretext to make war on Serbia. Every diplomat in Europe is aware of that. If the Archduke is attacked in Sarajevo, war will be declared on Serbia within a week."
He paused a moment watching Marishka's face, intent upon its changing expressions.
"Herr Renwick is no enemy of Austria," she asserted firmly.
"If he is no enemy of Austria, how could he act for the Serbian government, which follows instructions from St. Petersburg? Herr Renwick knew of the plot against the life of the Archduke, for he told you of it. Where did he learn of it? In Sarajevo or Belgrade, where it was hatched. Who informed him? His friends of the Serbian Secret Service who live among the anarchists at Sarajevo and Belgrade."
"I do not believe you."
"You must. Serbia has done what she can to prevent this crime. His Excellency tells me that today the Serbian Minister in Vienna pleaded with the Austrian Ministry to use its efforts to have the visit of the Archduke Franz postponed. He was ignored."
He paused and flecked his cigarette out of the window, while Marishka gazed straight before her, trying to think clearly of Hugh Renwick. A Serbian spy! It was impossible. And yet every word that this man spoke hurt her cruelly. Renwick had been in Sarajevo and Belgrade, for he had told her so. He alone of all persons outside the Secret Government of Austria had been in a position to know the details of the plot and to prepare her for them. He had sought to use her in warning the Duchess, not as an agent of humanity and Christian charity, but as the emissary of the cowardly and vicious government across the border, Austria's enemy, Serbia the regicide and the degenerate, about the fate of which hung the peace of Europe. Hugh Renwick!
Her mind refused her. Fatigue and want of sleep were making her light-headed. She would not believe. She shut her eyes and by an effort of will managed to get control of her voice. "I find that I am very tired, Captain Goritz," she said quietly.
"Ah, it was very thoughtless—inconsiderate of me," he said, with sudden accents of civility. "It is very painful to believe ill of those to whom one is attached," he finished suavely.
"You are mistaken," she said slowly. "There is no attachment between Herr Renwick and me."
"A friend, let us say, then," he put in keenly, "in whom one is disappointed."
"It is nothing to me, Captain Goritz," she said, meeting his eyes bravely, "what Herr Renwick is or does."
He smiled and bowed.
"Still," he said with his exasperating pertinacity, "it is of course interesting to know the truth. It would perhaps be still more interesting to know what Herr Renwick has to say in regard to the matter."
"I do not care what Herr Renwick would have to say. I do not expect to see Herr Renwick again, Captain Goritz, in Vienna or elsewhere."
He smiled at her politely.
"But you will admit, it is not within the bounds of possibility. Herr Renwick is clever—indefatigable–"
Marishka started up in her seat.
"You mean?"
"Merely that Herr Renwick is not easily discouraged. I would not be in the least surprised if he followed us on to Sarajevo."
Marishka stared at her companion for a moment and then sank back in her seat.
"Oh," she gasped.
Her long sustained effort to keep pace with events had been too much for her. Her faculties failed to respond, and she closed her eyes in an attempt to obliterate all sight and sound. Dimly she heard the voice of Captain Goritz above the grinding of the brakes of the train.
"I am sorry that you are so tired, Countess Strahni. I shall now leave you to your own devices. We have reached Brück, and I shall go to another compartment. I shall arrange with the guard to see to your comfort."
The train stopped and the guard opened the door.
"Good-night, liebchen," he said with a smile. And as she opened her eyes in astonishment, she heard him say to the guard:
"Frau Lieutenant von Arnstorf desires to sleep. I am going to smoke with a friend in the adjoining carriage. She is not to be disturbed. You understand."
The man saluted and closed the door, and Marishka was alone. With an effort she rose and mechanically made her dispositions for sleep, thinking meanwhile of the words of Captain Goritz and feeling a dull and unhappy sense of disappointment and defeat. There was a latent cruelty under his air of civility which astonished and terrified her. And the revelations with regard to Hugh Renwick, astounding though they were, had in them just enough of a leaven of fact to make them almost if not quite credible. Hugh Renwick, the man she had chosen—a friend, a paid servant of atrocious Serbia! She could not—would not believe it. And yet this man's knowledge of European politics was simply uncanny. If his civility had disarmed her earlier in the day, if she had been able to speak lightly of the threat of her imprisonment, the fear that had always been in her heart was now a blind terror—not of the man's passions but of his lack of them. He was cold, impenetrable, impervious—a mind, a body without a soul. He haunted her. She lay on her couch and stared wide-eyed at vacancy. The sound of his voice still rang in her ears. She wondered now why the memory of it was so unpleasant to her. And then she thought she knew that it was because the magnetism of his eyes was missing. His body was a mere shell covering an intricate piece of machinery. She tried to think what it must be like to be actuated by a mind without a soul. She had pledged herself obedience to this man, trusting to her implicit faith in the ultimate goodness of every human creature to bring her through this venture safe from harm.
Vaguely, as though in dreams, she remembered that this man had thought that Hugh Renwick would follow her to Sarajevo. She had written him a note of warning telling him to leave for England at once. Would he disregard her message, discover where she had gone, and if so, would he follow? Renwick's sins, whatever they were, seemed less important in this unhappy moment of her necessity. He had failed her in a crucial hour–
She started up from her couch a smile upon her lips. Hugh Renwick was no Serbian spy. The man, Goritz, lied. Hugh Renwick and Goritz—it was not difficult to choose! One a man who let no personal suffering—not even the contempt of the woman he loved interfere with his loyalty to his country; the other, one who used a woman's loyalty as a means to an end—cruelly, relentlessly—which was the liar? Not Hugh Renwick. Weary and tortured, but still smiling, Marishka sank back upon her couch and at last, mercifully, she slept.
