Gibbs George
The Secret Witness
CHAPTER XII
FLIGHT
The visions which disturbed Marishka Strahni in that dim borderland between sleep and waking persisted in her dreams. And always Goritz predominated—sometimes smiling, sometimes frowning but always cold, sinister and calculating. He made love to her and spurned her by turns, threatened her with the fate of the Duchess, whom she saw dead before her eyes, the victim of a shot in the back. There was a smoking pistol in Marishka's hand, and another figure lying near, which wore the uniform of an Austrian general—the Archduke Franz it seemed, until she moved to one side and saw that the figure had the face of Hugh Renwick. She started up from her couch, a scream on her lips—calling to Hugh–! Was she awake or was this another dream, more dreadful than the last? There followed a conflict of bewildering noises, as though night had mercifully fallen upon a chaos of disaster. She sat up and looked around her. A train.
She gasped a sigh of relief as her gaze pierced the dimness of the elusive shadows. She remembered now. Captain Goritz. But she was still alone. She lay down again, trying to keep awake in dread of the visions, but exhaustion conquered again and she slept, dreaming now of another Hugh, a tender and chivalrous lover who held her in his arms and whispered of roses.
It was daylight when she awoke. Captain Goritz was now sitting by the window smiling at her. She started up drowsily, fingering at her hair.
"You have slept well, Countess?" he asked cheerfully and without waiting for her reply. "It is well. You have probably a trying day before you."
Marishka straightened and looked out of the window past him at the sunlit morning. Could it be possible that this alert pleasant person was the Nemesis of her dreams? The world had taken on a new complexion, washed clean of terrors by the pure dews of the night.
"Thanks, Herr Hauptmann," she smiled at him. "I am quite myself again."
"That is fortunate," he said. "We are nearly at our journey's end—at least this part of it. Our train goes no further than Marburg."
"And then?"
"An automobile—a long journey."
"I am quite ready."
At Marburg they got down, and after Marishka had made a hurried toilet, they breakfasted in comfort at the Bahnhof restaurant. If Captain Goritz nourished any suspicion that they were being followed he gave no sign of it, and after breakfast, to Marishka's surprise, Karl the chauffeur appeared miraculously and announced that their car was awaiting them.
"If I were not sure that you were Herr Lieutenant von Arnstorf," laughed Marishka, "I should say you were the fairy of the magic carpet."
"The magic carpet—ach, yes—if we but had one!" he said genuinely.
The motion of the automobile soothed and satisfied her. At least she was doing what she could to reach Sarajevo before the archducal party arrived, and as her companion hopefully assured her, with a fair chance of success. If Marishka could see Sophie Chotek, all her troubles would be over, for then the Wilhelmstrasse would not care to oppose the dictum of the Duchess in favor of one who whatever her political sins in Germany's eyes, had made endless sacrifices to atone.
If Marishka succeeded! But if she failed?
The morning was too wonderful for thoughts of grim deeds or the authors of them. The poisons distilled in her mind the night before were dispelled into the clear air of the mountainside, over which singing streams gushed joyously down. Birds were calling—mating; wild creatures scampered playfully in thicket and hedge; and the peaceful valleys were redolent of sweet odors.
In the long hours of the afternoon Marishka's thoughts were of Hugh Renwick. Perspective had given him a finer contour, for she had Goritz to compare him with. She loved Hugh. She knew now how much. Her happiness had been too sweet to have had such a sudden ending. She had been unkind—cruel—broken with him even when he was bending every effort to aid her. He was trying to help her now for all that she knew.... She had written him a note from the German Embassy—just a few lines which she had enclosed with the message to her maid at the apartment—warning him that he was in danger and praying that he leave the country and return to England, a kindly note which by its anxiety for his safety conveyed perhaps more of what was in her heart than she would have cared to write had she believed that she was to see him again.
What reason had Captain Goritz for believing that Hugh would follow her in this mad quest? How could Hugh be sure where she had gone and with whom? There had been a quality of the miraculous in the judgment of Captain Goritz. What if even now Hugh Renwick were near her? Her pulse went a little faster. Pride—the pride which asks in vain—for a while had been dashed low, and she had scorned him with her eyes, her voice, her mien, her gestures, all, alas! but her heart. The women of the house of Strahni–! Hugh Renwick had kissed her. And the memory of those kisses amid the red roses of the Archduke was with her now. She felt them on her lips—the touch of his firm strong fingers—the honest gaze of his gray eyes—these were the tokens she had which came to her as evidence that the readings of her heart had not been wrong. A Serbian spy–! She smiled confidently.
In a moment she stole a glance at Captain Goritz, who was bent forward studying his road map. She waited until he gave directions to the chauffeur and then spoke.
"Captain Goritz," she said carelessly, "you manage so cleverly that I am beginning to trust implicitly to your guidance and knowledge. But there is one thing that puzzles me. It must be more than a whim which makes you think that Herr Renwick will follow us to Sarajevo."
"Not us, Countess," he smiled; "I said you."
"But granting that he would follow me—which I doubt—how could he know where I have gone?"
Goritz laughed easily.
"He will find a way."
Marishka's face grew sober.
"I fear Herr Renwick's friendship cannot achieve miracles. The last he saw of me was in a hut in Bohemia. What clew could he have–? What possible–"
"Ah, Countess," Goritz broke in, "you do not realize as I have done the cleverness of the Austrian Secret Service. We have so far eluded them. We were very lucky but it cannot be long before the green limousine will be discovered, and the direction of our journey."
"But even that–"
"To a clever man like Herr Renwick—to a man whose affections are involved," he added slowly, "it would not be difficult to decide where you have gone. He knows the discomforts and dangers you have passed through to achieve your object. He will, of course, seek your apartment and read the meaning of your sending for your clothing just as easily"—he paused a moment and smiled at the back of Karl's head—"just as easily," he repeated slowly, "as though you yourself had written him a note telling him—er—exactly which train you had taken."
Marishka felt the warm color flooding her neck and brows. In writing Renwick she had broken her promise to this man not to communicate with her friends. Goritz watched her pretty distress for a moment with amusement which speedily turned to interest.
"Of course, Countess, you did not write to him?" he said, with sudden severity.
"I owe you an explanation, Captain Goritz–" she said timidly.
"You wrote—Countess?" evincing the most admirable surprise.
"I inclosed a few words in my note to my maid—a warning of danger and a request that Herr Renwick leave at once for England–"
And as Goritz frowned at her, "Surely there is no harm in that."
"Your word of honor–"
"I betrayed nothing of my whereabouts or plans," she pleaded.
"How can I know that you speak the truth?"
"I swear it."
Goritz shrugged lightly.
"It is, of course, a woman's privilege to change her mind. Still, you put me upon my guard. It is unfortunate. How can I be sure that you will not be sending other notes without my permission to the Europa when we reach Sarajevo?"
"The Europa–? I fail to understand."
"The Europa Hotel," he said with a curious distinctness, "where all English people stop, and where of course your friend Mr. Renwick will stop."
Marishka examined him keenly.
"Your prescience cannot be infallible."
"No. But Herr Renwick will come to Sarajevo," he repeated confidently.
He was still studying the road map and she was silent, thinking. But in a moment he raised his head and shrugged again.
"Of course it is nothing to me. As an English subject he has the protection of his Ambassador. Even if my orders demanded his arrest I should be without power to carry them out."
"It is easier to deal with the credulity of women," she said quietly.
"Countess Strahni, you make it very difficult for me—doubly difficult since I have learned how lightly you hold your promise."
"But confession absolves–"
"With me, perhaps, because I could refuse you nothing, but not with those that have sent me."
"But why should you be uneasy at the possibility of Herr Renwick following to Sarajevo?"
"I do not relish the disturbance of my plans."
She smiled a little at that.
"I think I should be a little happier if I knew just what those plans were."
He did not reply at once. Then he went on slowly, choosing his words with care.
"My sentiments of respect must by this time have told you that no harm can come to you. Last night His Excellency, the German Ambassador, informed me that I shall do a great damage to the friendship between your nation and mine, if I presume to take you across the German border without your consent. I have been much moved by his advice. He has already written to the Wilhelmstrasse in your behalf. I cannot yet absolve you from your promise since my own actions in Austria have been far from conventional. Herr Renwick, if he chooses, can make my visit to Sarajevo most unpleasant. But I see no reason, after our purpose has been achieved, why you should not be restored to your friends, even to Herr Renwick, if that is your desire," and then in a lower tone, "I can assure you, Countess Strahni, that I relinquish you to him with an ill grace."
"Herr Renwick is no Serbian spy, Captain Goritz," she said steadily.
He smiled.
"Oh, you do not believe me. Very well. You will discover it for yourself."
"How?" she asked timidly.
He looked at her with every mark of admiration, but his reply did not answer her question.
"Herr Renwick is indeed fortunate in having so loyal a friend—even though, as you say, there is nothing between you in common. I envy him the possession. I hope that he may better deserve it."
She smiled but did not speak for a moment and then, "Why is it that you so dislike a man whom you do not know—whom you—you have never seen?"
Goritz bent forward toward her, his voice lowered while his strange dark eyes gazed full into hers:
"Need I tell you?" he whispered. "You have thought me cruel, because I have done my duty, heartless—cold—a mere piece of official machinery which could balk at nothing—even the destruction of a woman's happiness—because my allegiance to my country was greater than any personal consideration. But I am not insensible to the appeals of gentleness, not blind to beauty nor deaf to music, Countess Strahni, as you have thought. Beneath the exterior which may have seemed forbidding to you, I am only human. Last night I took advantage of your weariness and weakness in telling you, with cruel bluntness, of Herr Renwick's relations with the Serbian government. I learned what you have labored to conceal—that you care for him—that you care for one who–"
"It is not true," she broke in calmly. "I do not care for Herr Renwick."
"It would delight me to believe you," he went on with a shake of the head, "but I cannot. It has been very painful to me to see you suffer, for whatever you have done in a mistaken sense of loyalty to your country, nothing can alter the fact of your innocence, your virtue, and your dependence upon my kindness in a most trying situation. I have told you the facts about Herr Renwick because I have believed it my duty, to you and to Austria. If I have hurt you, Countess Strahni," he finished gently, "I pray that you will forgive me."
Marishka was silent, now looking straight before her down the mountain road which they were descending slowly. The voice of Captain Goritz had a sonorous quality which could not have been unpleasant to the ears of any woman. She listened to it soberly, trying to detect the tinkle of the spurious, but she was forced to admit that beyond and behind the mere phrases which might in themselves mean nothing, there was a depth of earnestness that might have proved bewildering to one less versed in the ways of the world than herself. His eyes, singularly clear and luminous, dominated and held her judgment of him in abeyance. For the moment she was able to forget her terrors of the night before, his enmity for Hugh Renwick, and the threat he had hung over her freedom. She did not dare to trust him. Too much still hung in the balance of her favor or disfavor. And yet she was forced to admit the constraint of his fervor, his kindness and courteous consideration. A woman forgives much to those who acknowledge without question the scepter of her femininity.
At last she turned toward him with a smile and gave nun her hand. Nor did she withdraw it when bending low he pressed it gently to his lips. This was a game that two could play at.
"We are to be friends, then?" he asked quietly.
"Of course," she smiled at him.
Toward six of the afternoon a trifling mishap to the motor delayed them for two hours, and it was long after midnight before they reached Brod and learned that the train of the Archduke had left within the hour. This was a terrible disappointment, which seemed to menace the success of their venture. But Captain Goritz determined to go on as rapidly as possible, trusting to reach their destination before the royal party left its train, hoping that the sight of Countess Strahni by the Duchess would be sufficient to let down any official barriers which might be interposed. But an unforeseen difficulty at Brod still further delayed them, a difficulty which required all of the ingenuity of Captain Goritz to get them once more upon their way. It was three o'clock in the morning, when having made some necessary repairs to the machine, they reached the Austrian end of the great bridge across the Save. Here they were halted by an iron chain across the bridge entrance and a police officer who, it seemed, looked upon their night traveling with suspicion. Captain Goritz protested indignantly and produced his papers, which the officer inspected by the dim light of an ancient lantern held by a subordinate.
"I am sorry," he said firmly, "but no motor cars are permitted to cross into Bosnia until tomorrow morning."
"But, my friend," said Goritz with an air of outraged patience, "I am an officer of the Third Regiment of the Fifteenth Army Corps returning to Sarajevo from a leave of absence which expires at nine in the morning. It is necessary that my party goes through at once."
"I must obey orders, Herr Ober Lieutenant."
"But my papers are correct. They are signed, you will observe, by General von Hoetzendorf himself."
"I am sorry, but you cannot go through. If you choose to take up the matter with my superior officer, you will find the Kaserne in the main street near the mosque. I shall pass you only upon his visé. That is final. You will please turn your car and return to the village."
Captain Goritz gazed longingly along the pale beam of the motor lamps into the dark reaches of the bridge, and then at the shadow of the heavy chain. At last with reluctance he gave the order to turn back. There seemed no doubt that the restriction was unusual, and that the visit of the Archduke had much to do with the obstruction of traffic between Sarajevo and central Europe. The car moved slowly back through the darkened village in the direction from which they had come, while Goritz planned what was better to be done. The nearest other crossing at Kobas was twenty miles away, over the road by which they had come, and they knew that the roads upon the Bosnian side of the river were mere cow tracks. If the officer at the bridge refused to pass them, how were they to be certain that they would fare any better at the hands of his superior, probably a crusty village official who would not relish being awakened in the small hours of the morning even by a belated army officer? At the order of Captain Goritz, the chauffeur Karl backed the car into a meadow and put out the lights. Then Goritz lighted a cigarette and smoked rapidly.
"Brod is Serbian for ford. Is the passage above the bridge or below?"
"Below, Herr Hauptmann, but dangerous at this season. I should not risk it."
"Ah, I see." He paused a moment, thinking rapidly. "Is there a chain at the other end of the bridge?"
"I have never seen one, Herr Hauptmann."
"Very good. You will await me here."
And without further words he got down and disappeared into the darkness. Marishka sat trembling with uncertainty, trying to pierce the obscurity in the direction in which her companion had gone. Silence, except for the droning of the insects and the distant rushing of the river. Fifteen, twenty minutes in which Marishka sat tensely waiting, hoping, fearing she knew not what, and then silently, merely a darker shadow of the night itself, a figure appeared and silently mounted into the seat beside the waiting Karl.
CHAPTER XIII
TRAGEDY
She heard a few phrases pass between them and then, without lights, the machine suddenly moved forward. The explosions of the engine, muffled though they were, seemed like rifle shots to ears newly accustomed to the silences of the night. But the speed of the motor increased rapidly, and she felt the damp of the river fog brushing her cheek. She could see nothing though she peered into the blackness eagerly. The car was rushing to destruction for all that she knew, yet Karl was driving straight and hard for the entrance of the bridge. Marishka saw the dim gleam of a lantern, heard a hoarse shout, and then the sound of shots lost in the crashing of the timbers of the bridge as they thundered over, the throttle wide, past the bridge house at Bosna-Brod upon the other side of the river, and on without pause through the village into the open road beyond. All this in darkness, which had made the venture the more terrible.
It was with relief that she heard the light laugh and even tones of Captain Goritz.
"That is well done, Karl. Your eyes are better than mine. But I have no humor for a bath in the Bosna, so we will have the lights, if you please."
"They will follow us?" stammered Marishka.
"There is a greater danger of detention at Dervent or Duboj, but I'm hoping the bridge-tender may keep silent. It was stupid of him not to guard the chain."
"You lowered it–?"
"It made a fearful racket, but the roar of the river helped."
A little further down the road, at a signal, Karl brought the car to a stop and silenced the engine, while Goritz got down into the road and listened intently, striking a match meanwhile and looking at the dial of his watch. There were no sounds in the direction from which they had come but the distant roar of the river and the whispering of the wind in the trees.
"It is half-past three, Karl. How far have we to go?"
"More than two hundred kilos—two hundred and fifty perhaps."
"Ah, so much?" and he frowned. "I wish to reach the capital by eight o'clock, Karl," he said.
"Zu befehl, Herr Hauptmann—if it is in the machine. I can at least try."
As Goritz got in beside Marishka, he started the engine, and they were off again. As a sign that at least the chauffeur was trying to carry out his orders, in a moment they were rushing along at a furious pace which seemed to threaten destruction to them all. In spite of an impending storm which had now, fortunately, passed, at Brod Karl had lowered the top of the car in order to make better speed in the final race for their goal, and the rush of wind seemed to make breathing difficult, but Marishka clung to the bracket at her side, trying to keep her balance as they swung around the curves, and silently praying. Conversation was impossible until the road rose from the plains of the Save into the mountains, where the speed was necessarily diminished. The car, fortunately, seemed to be a good one, for no machine unless well proven could long stand the strain of such work as Karl was giving it to do. Through Dervent they went at full speed, seeing no lights or human beings. Beyond Duboj the moon came out, and this made Karl's problems less difficult, though the road wound dangerously along the ravines of the Brod river, which tumbled from cleft to cleft, sometimes a silver thread and again a ragged cataract hundreds of feet below. There were no retaining walls, and here and there as they turned sudden and unexpected corners it almost seemed to Marishka that the rear wheels of the machine swirled out into space. She held her breath and closed her eyes from time to time, expecting the car to lose its equilibrium and go whirling over and over into the echoing gorge below them, the depth of which the shadow of the mountains opposite mercifully hid from view. But Karl had no time in which to consider the thoughts of his passengers. He had his orders. If achievement were in the metal he intended to carry them out. The feudal castles of old Bosnia passed in stately review, Maglaj, Usora, clinging leech-like to their inaccessible peaks, grim sentinels of the vista of years, frowning at the roaring engine of modernity which sent its echoes mocking at their lonely dignity. Marishka could look, but not for long, for in a moment would come the terrible down-grade and the white, leaping road before them, which held her eyes with fearful hypnotism. Death! What right had she to pray for her own safety, when her own lips had condemned Sophie Chotek? There was still a chance that she would reach Sarajevo in time. She had no thought of sleep. Weary as she was, the imminence of disaster at first fascinated—then enthralled her. She was drunk with excitement, crying out she knew not what in admiration of Karl's skill, her fingers in imagination with his upon the wheel, her gaze, like his, keen and unerring upon the road.
Beside her Captain Goritz sat silently, smiling as he watched her.
"It is wonderful, is it not?" he said in a lull, when the machine coasted down a straight piece of road. "Fear is the master passion of life. Even I, Countess, am in love with fear." And then with a laugh, "We shall arrive in time if the tires hold. It is a good machine, a very good machine."
Dawn stole slowly across the heavens between the mountain peaks, an opal dawn, pale and luminous. Here and there objects defined themselves against the velvety surfaces of the hills, a hut by the river brink, a thread of smoke rising straight in the still air, a herdsman driving his flock in a path across the valley. But Karl, the chauffeur, drove madly on, more madly, it seemed, as the light grew better. People appeared as if by magic upon the road, with loaded vehicles bound to market—awe-stricken peasants, who leaped aside and then turned wondering.
The machine climbed a mountain from which a vista of many miles of country was spread out before them, but there was no sign of their destination. Half-past eight—nine–! The roads became crowded again, with vehicles, horsemen, footmen, and groups of soldiers, all traveling in the same direction. Sarajevo was not far distant but they went at a snail's pace, their nerves leaping in the reaction. Marishka, pallid with fatigue, sat leaning forward in her seat, dumb with anxiety. Goritz rubbed his chin thoughtfully. But he had not yet begun to despair. Suddenly the car came to a turning in the road, and the Bosnian capital was spread out at their feet. Goritz looked at his watch. It was nearly ten. If the thing they dreaded had not yet come to pass there might still be time. As they descended the hill into the valley of the Miljacka, it was apparent that the town was in holiday attire. Flags floated from many poles, and the streets and bridges were crowded with people. At the direction of Captain Goritz, Karl drove quickly to the railroad station, where a group of officials stood gesturing and talking excitedly.
"Has His Highness gone into the city?" asked Goritz of the man nearest him.
The fellow paused and turned at the sight of the Austrian uniform.
"Ah, Herr Lieutenant—you have not heard?"
"I have just come down from the hills. What is the matter?"
"A bomb has been thrown into the automobile of the Archduke–"
"He is killed?" asked Goritz, while Marishka leaned forward in horror.
"Fortunately, no. He cast the bomb into the street, but it exploded under the vehicle of his escort, killing several, they say."
"She is safe—Her Highness is safe?" questioned Marishka.
"Yes, but it was a narrow escape," said another man.
"Where is the Archduke now?" asked Goritz.
"At the Rathaus—where he is to receive a testimonial from the Burgomaster, in behalf of the city. From there they go to the Governor's palace, I think."
"Thanks," said Goritz with a gasp of relief, and gave the word to Karl to drive on toward the center of the town.
"'Forewarned is forearmed,'" he muttered to Marishka. "They may not dare to attempt it again. I think you need have no further anxiety, Countess."
"But I must reach Her Highness. I must let her know everything."
"We shall try." And then to Karl, "Go as far as you can into the town, to Franz Josef Street."
But at the tobacco factory the crowd was so great that they could not go on, and Goritz after some directions to Karl, helped Marishka down, and they went forward through the crowd afoot, listening to its excited comments.
"Cabrinobitch–"
"A Serbian, they say. The police seized him."
"I was as near to him as you are. Stovan Kovacevik was hit by a piece of the bomb. They have taken him to the hospital."
"Colonel Merizzi—they say he is dead. And Count von Waldeck badly wounded."
Marishka shuddered. She had known them both at Konopisht. She caught Captain Goritz by the arm and forced her way to the Stadt Park, following the crowd of people and at last reaching Franz Josef Street, which was filled almost solidly with an excited, gesticulating mass of humanity.
"A Serbian plot!" they heard a man in a turban say in polyglot German. "Not Serbian nor Bosnian. We have no murderers here."
"So say I," cried another. "They will blame it upon us. Where are the police, that the streets are not even cleared."
"Why does he come here to make trouble? We do not love him, but we are an orderly people. Let him be gone."
"He was at least brave. They say after the bomb was thrown into his machine he threw it into the street."
"Brave! Yes. But he is a soldier. Why shouldn't he be brave?"
"Courage may not save him. There is something back of this. A man told me there was a bomb thrower on every street corner."
Marishka pushed forward shuddering, with Captain Goritz close behind her.
"I cannot believe it," she whispered.
"The ravings of a crowd," he muttered. "It matters nothing."
But as they neared the corner of Rudolfstrasse, there was a stir and a murmur as all heads turned to look up the street in the direction of the Carsija.
"He comes again." "The machine is returning from the Rathaus." The word flew from lip to lip with the speed of the wind. A few Austrian soldiers were riding down the street clearing the way. They were all. No police, no other soldiers. It was horrible. The sides of the machine were utterly unprotected from the people, who closed in upon it, almost brushing its wheels. Marishka pressed forward again, jostled this way and that, until she stood upon the very fringe of the crowd at the corner of the street. Captain Goritz held her by the elbow. What purpose was in her mind he could not know. But every nerve in her—every impulse urged her to go forward to the very doors of the machine and protect Sophie Chotek, if necessary with her own body, against the dangers which, as the people about her said, lurked on every corner. The machine approached very slowly. There was no cheering, and it seemed strange to Marishka that there could be no joy in the hearts of these people at the courage of their Heir Presumptive, who had faced death bravely, and now with more hardihood than prudence was facing it again. The car was open, and she could see the figures of the royal pair quite clearly, their faces very pale, the Archduke leaning forward talking with a man in uniform in the front seat opposite him, the Duchess scanning the crowd anxiously. As the machine stopped again at the street corner, Marishka rushed forward until she stood just at its front wheels, waving a hand and speaking the Duchess's name. She saw the gaze of Sophie Chotek meet hers, waver and then become fixed again in wonder, in sudden recognition, and incomprehension. Words formed on the girl's lips and she called,
"It is I—Marishka Strahni, Duchess—I must speak–"
She got no further. Out of the mass of people just at her elbow the figure of a man emerging, sprang upon the running board of the machine. He seemed to wave his hand, and then there were sounds of shots. The Archduke started up, holding a protecting arm before the body of the Duchess, who had sunk back into her seat, her hand to her breast. The Archduke wavered a moment and then fell forward across the knees of the Duchess.
Of the mad moments which followed, Marishka was barely conscious. She was pushed roughly back into the turgid crowd and would have fallen had not an arm sustained her. Men seized the assassin and hurried him away. There were hoarse shouts, glimpses of soldiers, as the machine of death pushed its way through the mass of people, and always the strong arm sustained her, pushing her, leading her away into a street where there were fewer people and less noise.
"Come, Countess, he brave," Goritz was saying. "God knows you have done what you could."
