Gibbs George
The Secret Witness
CHAPTER XI
THE MAN IN BLACK
It was after dark when the train bearing Herr Windt and Renwick reached the Franz Josef station, the stolen machine of Altensteig having been left at Budweis with Hadwiger, who was to return it to its owner and in the name of the state to make proper arrangements for compensation. Herr Windt, sadder if no wiser, took a fiacre and drove off hastily, leaving Renwick to his own devices.
To the Englishman, Marishka's case seemed desperate, for though the identity of the driver of the green limousine was unknown, his cleverness in eluding the net which Herr Windt had spread for him indicated him to be an agent of the Wilhelmstrasse, a personal emissary of those near the Kaiser, who was moving with great skill, using every means of a great organization to keep Marishka's mission and identity a secret. But Renwick was not the sort of a man that gives up easily. In the back of his head an idea persisted, and he planned to follow its development for good or ill to its conclusion.
The correctness of his surmise as to the direction of Marishka's flight in the green limousine had convinced him that Vienna was not her final destination. He, too, took a fiacre and drove at once to the apartment of Baroness Racowitz. Marishka's guardian was away, but a fee to the Austrian maid put him in possession of the facts.
"No, Herr Renwick," she replied, "Countess Strahni did not return to the apartment, but she was in Vienna and had sent for a suitcase and clothing, which were delivered to a man who waited in an automobile."
"What sort of a man?"
"I couldn't exactly say, sir, a servant, a butler, perhaps; but there was a note for Herr Renwick."
"Ah—give it to me."
"My instructions were to deliver it at eight o'clock at Herr Renwick's residence in the Strohgasse. I have but just returned from there."
Renwick started down the steps and then turned. "There was nothing else?"
"Nothing."
"You do not know where Countess Strahni is?"
"I know nothing more than I have told you, sir."
Renwick rushed out to the waiting fiacre, and bade the driver go at top speed. A note from Marishka! Under different circumstances this would not perhaps have been surprising. The difference that the change in their personal relations had wrought in the last few weeks, her mood during their hurried flight to Konopisht, her desertion of him, all of these circumstances made the fact of her writing to him the more significant. She had accepted his services in the escape from Windt, because he had forced them upon her, but he could not forget that she had afterward repudiated him and fled from him without a word of explanation of her sudden decision. His own personal danger had warned him that Marishka, his companion eavesdropper, would also be in jeopardy at the hands of those unseen forces which were working in the interests of the Wilhelmstrasse. Marishka had thrown herself into their power and was perhaps at this very moment in danger. But he was soon to know the facts. At his apartment his servant handed him the note and hastily he tore it open and read.
I have gone to Sarajevo. I must do what I can, but I need you. I am a prisoner and in great personal danger if we are stopped en route. Therefore move secretly, telling no one. Go to the Hotel Europa, where I will try to communicate with you.
M. S.
Renwick read the communication through twice, and then glanced at his watch. Nine o'clock. There was no time to go to the British Embassy in the Metternichgasse, though he would have liked to know if anything had been seen of Marishka at the German Embassy which was just adjoining. But he wrote a note to Sir Herbert, then called his servant, who packed a bag while Renwick bathed and dressed. At ten he was seated in the train for Budapest—a slow train that he had taken two weeks before on his mission to Belgrade.
He had made this move on impulse, without second thought, for Marishka's message as to her destination again justified his surmises and corroborated his fears as to her perilous situation. No other thoughts save those of her danger and her need of him had entered his head, and he had moved quickly, aware that any loss of time might be fatal to his hope of helping her. But seated in his compartment of the railway carriage, he had time to consider the note in all its aspects and in its relation to the extraordinary events of the day. There were but two other occupants of the carriage, an old gentleman with a white beard, and a young Hungarian officer—a vacuous looking youth in uniform—neither of them obviously of material from which secret service agents are made. After the experience at the Konopisht railway station, Renwick had no humor to be shot at in such close quarters, where the range would necessarily be deadly. He settled his automatic comfortably in his pocket, and after another and more reassuring inspection of his travelling companions he took out Marishka's note and examined it carefully.
The knowledge he possessed as to her situation suggested caution. An agency which could attempt to take his life would not be above forgery. Marishka's hand? There seemed no doubt of it. It was not difficult for Renwick to remember the peculiarities of her angular writing. The notes he had received from her, invitations, appointments, apologies—very often apologies, he remembered with a slow smile—dainty, faintly scented missives on gray paper which bore her crest, differed from this hurriedly written scrawl on a heavier paper which he had no means of identifying. Only upon closer inspection did he discover a hesitation in the lower curves and upward strokes of the letters which were not characteristic of the decisive Marishka.
Without being certain of its spuriousness, he came to the conclusion that because of its contents, the note was for the present to be regarded as an object for suspicion. Would Marishka—the Marishka who a few hours ago had treated him with such acidulous politeness—write, "I need you"? Could contemptuous silence be turned so quickly into urgent appeal? Her danger made such a transition a possibility, and if she was now ready to recant, all the more reason why he should obey. The one thing about the message which struck a jarring note was the request for secrecy under plea of personal danger. And if a forgery—why should his enemies speak of her personal danger? A lure! So obvious a one that only the veriest dolt could be deceived by it. The situation then resolved itself into this: He was invited to go to Sarajevo—if by Marishka, to save her from personal danger or abduction by her captor—if by the German agent, with Marishka as a lure, to be the victim of a conspiracy which planned either murder or imprisonment. And, however keen his own prescience, Renwick realized that the note had so far succeeded in its object. He was on his way.
He was too tired tonight to do the situation justice, for the blow at the back of his head had taken some of his strength, and he realized that without sleep his utility would be impaired for the morrow. And after a glance at his companions, he decided to chance it, and settling himself comfortably, he was soon heavily sleeping.
Renwick was awakened some while later by the young Hungarian officer's cursing as he stumbled over the Englishman's feet. A glance at his watch showed Renwick that he had slept four hours. It was dawn. Beside him at the further end of the seat the old man with the white beard still slept. Renwick glanced out of the window and found that the station was Vacz. They were twenty or thirty miles from the Hungarian capital. The morning was cool, and Renwick stepped down from the open door upon the platform and stretched his limbs, sniffing the air eagerly. He felt renewed, invigorated, and the ache at his head was gone. He had made no plans beyond the very necessary one of getting money at the British Consulate and taking the first train south. The difficulties in making proper connections, the probability that somewhere he must desert the railroad and beg, buy, or steal a motor car, and the ever present danger of a shot from a German agent confronted him, but in his early morning humor nothing seemed impossible. He would get through in some way and find a means of reaching Marishka! And if Marishka were already spirited away? He would find her and the green limousine chap with whom he would have a reckoning.
Impatient of the delay of the train, he took out his cigarette case and was about to smoke, when the warning of the guard was shouted, and he got into his carriage, followed by another traveler who clambered in at the last moment and sank into the seat opposite. As the train moved, the two men scanned each other in the light of the growing dawn which now vied with the flickering light of the overhead lamp in their compartment. The stranger was a very tall man in dark clothes, who gave an instant impression of long rectangularity. He had a long nose, a long upper lip which hung over a thin slit of a mouth which resembled a buttonhole slightly frayed by wear. His chin was long and square and, like his upper lip, blue, as though a stiff black beard were in constant battle with a razor. His eyes were large and regarded Renwick with a mild melancholy as he bowed the Englishman a good morning. Renwick nodded curtly. He had planned another nap and hardly relished sitting awake and staring at the sepulchral visitor. Where last night's weariness had sealed his eyes to the ever-present sense of danger, morning brought counsel of caution and alertness. The leanness of the huge intruder was of the kind that suggested endurance rather than malnutrition, a person who for all his pacific and rather gloomy exterior, could be counted on to be extremely dangerous.
In a situation where any man might prove to be his hidden enemy, Renwick was learning to be wary. And so upon his guard for any movement of hostility, he sat bolt upright and smoked his cigarette, puffing it indolently into the face of his solemn companion. Beyond the first greeting, no words passed between them, and the Englishman, more at his ease, looked out of the window at the low marshlands along the river and planned the business which brought him. Day came swiftly, and before the train reached the city the sun was up in smiling splendor, melting the pale fogbanks of the Danube valley beneath its golden glow.
At the Westbahnhof, Renwick got down, and bag in hand made his way to the railway restaurant for a cup of coffee. The keen morning air had made him hungry, and he breakfasted like a man who does not know where his next meal is coming from. It was not until he paid his check and got up from the table that he noticed his gigantic companion of the train doing likewise, but he gave the matter no thought, and getting into a waiting fiacre drove to the British Consulate to make some necessary arrangements, including the procuring of money for possible large expenses. The Archduke and Duchess, he discovered, had slept in their car, which had been shifted to a train that had left for the south in the early hours of the morning. The service on the road was none too good, except that of the Orient Express, which had gone through last night, but by haste Renwick managed to catch the nine o'clock train for Belgrade, planning to get off it at Ujvidek and trust to Providence for an automobile.
He was no sooner comfortably seated in his compartment and congratulating himself upon its emptiness, which would permit of opportunity for sleep, when the door was thrown open and his tall companion of the early morning solemnly entered. Renwick did not know whether to be surprised or angry, and finished by being both, glancing at the intruder through his monocle in a manner distinctly offensive. But the tall man if aware of the Englishman's antagonism gave no sign of it, clasping his cotton umbrella with large bony hands and gazing gloomily at the passing landscape.
An accidental meeting of two travelers bound in the same direction? Perhaps. But there was too much at stake for Renwick to be willing to take chances, and yet he could not kill and throw out of the window an entire stranger who looked like the proprietor of a small confectionery shop, in mourning for a departed friend. Of course there was nothing to be done, but the man's presence irritated Renwick. As the moments went on, and the man still silently stared out of the window, Renwick's choler diminished. The fellow was quite harmless, a person from whom murder and secret missions were miles asunder. If the man of the green limousine had foreseen that Renwick would take the nine o'clock train for Budapest and had set this behemoth upon him, the man would have made an attempt upon his life this morning in the ride between Vacz and the capital. And how, since the telegraph lines were closed to the German agent, could this person have been put upon the scent? It hardly seemed possible that this was an agent of Germany. And yet as the miles flew by, the stranger's silence, immobility and unchanging expression got on Renwick's nerves. He was in no mood to do a psychopathic duel with a sphinx.
The morning dragged slowly. At Szabadka he got down for lunch and was not surprised to see his traveling companion at his elbow, eating with a deliberation which gave Renwick a momentary hope that the train might get off without him. Renwick was already in his carriage and the guard calling when the fellow stalked majestically from the eating-room munching at the remains of his Böhmische Dalken and entered the carriage, still clinging to the cotton umbrella, and quite oblivious of the powdered sugar with which he was liberally besmeared. Secret agent! The man was a joke—a rectangular comedy in monosyllables.
There was no connection for Brod at Szabadka until late in the afternoon and Renwick hoped to make better time by going on to Ujvidek, a large town, somewhat sophisticated, where the buying or hiring of a machine would be a possibility. During the afternoon he took Marishka's letter from his pocket and studied it again, now quite oblivious of the creature who had curiously enough resumed the same seat opposite him. And in his concentration upon the problem of the note the man was for the moment forgotten. It was only when he glanced up quickly and quite unintentionally that he saw the gaze of his neighbor eagerly watching him. It was only a fleeting glance, but in it, it seemed, the whole character of his fellow traveler had changed. His hands still clasped the umbrella, the sugar was still smeared upon his sallow cheeks, but it seemed that his eyes had glowed with a sudden intentness. A second later when Renwick looked at him again, the man was staring dully at the passing cornfields and vineyards and he thought he had been mistaken. He would have liked to know more of this fellow, and was again tempted to try to draw him out but the recollection of his former venture dismayed him. So he relapsed into silence and lying back in his seat, one hand in his pocket, he closed his eyes and feigned slumber, watching the man through his eyelashes. For a long while nothing happened. Then at last as Renwick's breathing became regular the giant's head turned, and his eyes regarded the Englishman stealthily. Renwick did not move. But he saw his companion lean slightly forward while one hand left the umbrella handle, unbuttoned his coat and then moved very slowly behind him. That was enough for Renwick, who started upright and covered the man with his automatic. But the other had merely drawn a large and rather soiled handkerchief from a pocket of his trousers and was in the act of blowing his nose when he looked up and saw the impending blue muzzle of Renwick's weapon.
Then his jaw dropped and his eyes flew wide open.
"Herr Gott!" he stammered in a husky whisper. "Don't shoot!"
Whether it was the pleasure of discovering that the man had at last found his tongue or whether the innocence of his purpose was explained, Renwick found himself much relieved.
"Are you crazy?" the other was saying. "To draw a pistol upon me like that! What do you mean?"
But Renwick still held the pistol pointed in his neighbor's direction.
"I will trouble you to stand," he said quietly, "with your hands up and back toward me."
The man stared at him wide eyed but at last obeyed, lifting his huge back to its full height, and Renwick ran an investigating hand over his hip pockets. They were empty.
"Thanks," he said at last, "you may be seated." He felt a good deal of a fool but he managed an uncomfortable laugh as he returned the automatic to his pocket. "You see," he explained, "I owe you an apology–"
"Yes, sir—such an outrage upon my dignity. I do not understand–"
"Let me explain," went on Renwick, feeling more idiotic every moment; "I have an enemy who seeks my life and when you put your hand in your pocket I thought that you–"
"It is strange that a gentleman in a railway carriage may not be permitted to blow his nose without being threatened with a pistol," he said hotly.
"But you will admit, my friend, that your always being next to me in trains is at least suspicious."
"Donnerwetter! And why, for the same reason, should I not be suspicious of you?"
"I trust at least that you have no enemies who seek your life."
"Who knows?" he shrugged. "Every man has enemies. I will thank you, sir, to keep your pistol in your pocket."
"Willingly. And in return I may say that you may blow your nose as often as you please."
"Danke," with some irony. "You are very kind. I suppose, if when reaching Ujvidek, I should happen to be going in your direction you would shoot me without further question."
"That would depend on which direction you are taking," replied Renwick, with a sense of abortive humor.
"I go to Brod—thence to Sarajevo–"
"The devil you do–!" cried Renwick in English, starting forward and staring at the man. And then more calmly in German,
"And how are you going?"
The fellow paused and looked out of the window again. "As to that—I do not know," he said slowly.
He had resumed his air of settled gloom, the dignity of which was somewhat marred by a vestige of powdered sugar upon his chin, but in spite of the low esteem in which Renwick had held him, all his former suspicions of the creature rushed over him in a moment.
"And suppose that I, too, should be going to Brod and Sarajevo?" he asked brusquely.
The stranger turned toward him a slow bovine gaze which gradually relaxed into the semblance of a smile.
"Ach so," he replied blandly, "then it is just possible that we may go together."
His manner was sphinxlike again, and the Englishman eyed him curiously, feeling a strong desire to kick him in the shins. But luckily he refrained, saying coolly.
"And what means of transportation do you propose to employ? Of course you know there are no trains–"
"Natürlich."
"Then how shall you travel?"
"And you, Herr Shooter, how shall you go?"
Renwick smiled indulgently.
"If I took an automobile–"
"I should be constrained to go with you."
"Constrained?"
"If you would invite me—or condescend to permit me to pay my share of the expenses."
The man's personality was slowly expanding. Second class confectioners who venture on wild goose chases were rare in Renwick's acquaintance. He was becoming interesting as well as elusive, but Renwick was in no humor for further quibbling.
"I regret that that is impossible. I go on alone," he said decisively.
"Ach, so," said the other sadly. "That is too bad–" His words trailed off into a melancholy silence and he resumed his occupation of looking out of the window. The incident in so far as Renwick was concerned, was concluded.
At least he thought that. At Ujvidek, when Renwick, bag in hand, got down upon the station platform, the stranger stood beside him, fingering his cotton umbrella foolishly and looking this way and that. But when the Englishman after an inquiry of a loiterer, started in search of a garage, he found his fellow traveler at his heels, and the frown which Renwick threw over his shoulder failed utterly to deter him from his purpose—which clearly seemed to be that of continuing his journey in the Englishman's company.
When Renwick reached the garage and talked with the proprietor, a Hungarian whose German was almost negligible, the man of the cotton umbrella abandoned the doorway which he had been darkening with his shadow, and shuffled forward awkwardly.
"If you will permit me," he said solemnly. "I speak the Hungarian quite well. I should be glad to interpret your wishes."
The man's impertinence was really admirable. Renwick's desire to get forward on his long journey made him impatient of obstacles. He shrugged.
"Very well, then. Tell him I must have a machine and chauffeur to take me to Sarajevo by way of Brod. I will pay him handsomely and in advance. I must travel today and all night. I must reach Sarajevo in the morning."
"Ach, so," said the stranger, and Renwick listened to the conversation that ensued, endeavoring by the light of his small knowledge of the language to make out what was said. But he was lost in the maze of consonants.
In a moment the interpreter turned with a smile.
"It is good. There is a machine. This man will drive himself. The price is two hundred kroner and the petrol."
"Thank you. That is very good. I must leave within half an hour."
Renwick produced money, the sight of which brought about an amazing activity on the part of the garage man. Renwick strolled to and fro outside, alternately smoking and watching the preparations for departure, while the melancholy giant stood leaning upon his umbrella in the doorway. What was he waiting for? Renwick thought that he had made his intentions sufficiently explicit. At last, his impatience getting the better of him, he stopped before the man with the umbrella.
"I am greatly obliged to you for your kindness. But you understand? I go on alone."
The man in black regarded him blandly.
"That is not a part of the arrangement," he said.
"What do you mean?"
"That I am to go with you."
"I asked you to make no such arrangement."
"It is a pity that perhaps I misunderstood."
Renwick angrily approached the garage owner and tried to make him understand, but he only proceeded with his work with greater alacrity, bowing and pointing to the man in the doorway.
"You observe," said the tall man, "that you will only complicate matters?"
Renwick glared at the other, but he returned the look with an impudent composure, and Renwick, in fear of losing his self-control, at last turned away. Nothing was to be gained by this controversy. After all, what difference did the fellow's presence make? As a source of danger he had already proved himself a negligible quantity. So Renwick with an ill grace at last acquiesced, and within an hour they were on their way, crossing the Danube and turning to their right along a rough road by the Fruska mountains.
The first accident happened before the machine reached Sarengrad, a blowout which made another tire a necessity. The second, a broken leaf of a spring, which made rapid travel hazardous. But it was not until nightfall, in the midst of a desolation of plains, that carburetor trouble of a most disturbing character developed. Renwick paced up and down, offering advice and suggestion and then swearing in all the languages he knew, but the chauffeur only shrugged and sputtered, while the tall man gurgled soothingly. An hour they remained there when Renwick's patience became exhausted, and he gave way to the suspicion which had for some time obsessed him, that the pair of them were conspiring to delay him upon his way.
He came up behind the tall man who was bending over the open hood of the car, and catching him roughly by the elbow, swung him around and faced him angrily.
"I've had about enough of this," he said. "Either that car moves in five minutes or one of you will be hurt."
He moved his hand toward his pocket to draw his weapon but his wrist was caught in midair by a grip of steel that held Renwick powerless. The Englishman was stronger than most men of his weight and made a sharp struggle to get loose, but the man in black disarmed him as he would have disarmed a child, and calmly put the pistol into his own pocket. It was not until then that his bulk had seemed so significant, and the real purpose of his presence been so apparent. There was no use in battling with this melancholy Colossus who might, if he wished, break every bone in Renwick's body.
"Herr Renwick, if it will please you to be reasonable," he said, releasing the Englishman and speaking as if soothing a spoiled child.
At the mention of his name, Renwick drew back in growing wonder.
"Who—who are you?" he asked.
"My name is Gustav Linke," he said suavely. "I have been sent to keep you from coming to harm. You see"–and he patted the pocket which contained Renwick's pistol, "it is not difficult to run into danger when one is always pulling one's pistol out."
"Who sent you?" demanded Renwick furiously.
The man in black coolly picked up his cotton umbrella which in the struggle had fallen to the ground.
"That is not a matter which need concern you."
"I insist upon knowing and in going on to Brod without delay."
The other merely shrugged.
"I regret to say that that is impossible."
"Why?"
"Because my instructions were to keep you from reaching the Bosnian border until tomorrow morning."
"You are–?"
"Herr Gustav Linke—that is all, Herr Renwick."
"An agent of–"
"The agent of Providence—let us say. Come. Be reasonable. I am sure that the trifling disorder in the carburetor may be corrected. We shall go on presently. The night is young. We shall reach Brod perhaps by daylight. What do you say? Shall we be friends?"
There was nothing else to be done. The disgusted Renwick shrugged and got into the tonneau of the machine, awaiting the pleasure of his captor. Out of the chaos of his disappointment came the one consoling thought, that whatever Linke was, he was not a German.
