Kitabı oku: «The Fate of a Crown», sayfa 5

CHAPTER IX
THE MISSING FINGER

When I recovered I was lying upon a cot in the station-master’s private room. Sergeant Marco had ridden to a neighboring farmhouse and procured bandages and some olive oil and Figgot, who proudly informed me he had once been a surgeon, had neatly dressed and bandaged my burns.

These now bothered me less than the lameness resulting from my fall; but I drank a glass of wine and then lay quietly upon the cot until the arrival of the train, when my companions aroused me and assisted me aboard.

I made the journey comfortably enough, and felt greatly refreshed after partaking of a substantial luncheon brought from an eating-house by the thoughtful Figgot.

On our arrival at Rio we were met by a little, thin-faced man who thrust us all three into a cab and himself joined us as we began to rattle along the labyrinth of streets. He was plainly dressed in black, quiet and unobtrusive in manner, and had iron-gray hair and beard, both closely cropped. I saw at once he was not a Brazilian, and made up my mind he was the man called Mazanovitch by Paola and my companions. If so, he was the person now in charge of our quest for the ring, and with this idea I examined his face with interest.

This was not difficult, for the man sat opposite me with lowered eyelids and a look of perfect repose upon his thin features. He might have been fifty or sixty years of age; but there was no guide in determining this except his gray hairs, for his face bore no lines of any sort, and his complexion, although of pallid hue, was not unhealthy in appearance.

It surprised me that neither he nor my companions asked any questions. Perhaps the telegrams had explained all that was necessary. Anyway, an absolute silence reigned in the carriage during our brief drive.

When we came to a stop the little man opened the door. We all alighted and followed him into a gloomy stone building. Through several passages we walked, and then our conductor led us into a small chamber, bare except for a half-dozen iron cots that stood in a row against the wall. A guard was at the doorway, but admitted us with a low bow after one glance at the man in black.

Leading us to the nearest cot, Mazanovitch threw back a sheet and then stood aside while we crowded around it. To my horror I saw the form of Madam Izabel lying dead before us. Her white dress was discolored at the breast with clots of dark blood.

“Stabbed to the heart,” said the guard, calmly. “It was thus they brought her from the train that arrived this afternoon from Matto Grosso. The assassin is unknown.”

Mazanovitch thrust me aside, leaned over the cot, and drew the woman’s left hand from beneath the sheet.

The little finger had been completely severed.

Very gently he replaced the hand, drew the sheet over the beautiful face, and turned away.

Filled with amazement at the Nemesis that had so soon overtaken this fierce and terrible woman, I was about to follow our guide when I found myself confronting a personage who stood barring my way with folded arms and a smile of grim satisfaction upon his delicate features.

It was Valcour – the man who had called himself de Guarde on board the Castina – the Emperor’s spy.

“Ah, my dear Senhor Harcliffe! Do we indeed meet again?” he cried, tauntingly. “And are you still keeping a faithful record in that sweet diary of yours? It is fine reading, that diary – perhaps you have it with you now?”

“Let me pass,” said I, impatiently.

“Not yet, my dear friend,” he answered, laughing. “You are going to be my guest, you know. Will it not please you to enjoy my society once more? To be sure. And I – I shall not wish to part with you again soon.”

“What do you mean?” I demanded.

“Only that I arrest you, Robert Harcliffe, in the name of the Emperor!”

“On what charge?” I asked.

“Murder, for one,” returned the smiling Valcour. “Afterward you may answer for conspiracy.”

“Pardon me, Senhor Valcour,” said the little man, in a soft voice. “The gentleman is already under arrest – in the Emperor’s name.”

Valcour turned upon him fiercely, but his eyes fell as he encountered the other’s passive, unemotional countenance.

“Is it so, Captain Mazanovitch? Then I will take the prisoner off your hands.”

The little man spread out his palms with an apologetic, deprecating gesture. His eyes seemed closed – or nearly so. He seemed to see nothing; he looked at neither Valcour nor myself. But there was something about the still, white face, with its frame of iron-gray, that compelled a certain respect, and even deference.

“It is greatly to be regretted,” he said, gently; “and it grieves me to be obliged to disappoint you, Senhor Valcour. But since this man is a prisoner of the police – a state prisoner of some importance, I believe – it is impossible to deliver him into your hands.”

Without answer Valcour stood motionless before us, only his mobile face and his white lips showing the conflict of emotions that oppressed him. And then I saw a curious thing happen. The eyelids of Mazanovitch for an instant unclosed, and in that instant so tender a glance escaped them that Valcour trembled slightly, and touched with a gentle, loving gesture the elder man’s arm.

It all happened in a flash, and the next moment I could not have sworn that my eyes had not deceived me, for Valcour turned away with a sullen frown upon his brow, and the Captain seized my arm and marched me to the door, Figgot and Marco following close behind.

Presently we regained our carriage and were driven rapidly from the morgue.

This drive was longer than the first, but during it no word was spoken by any of my companions. I could not help staring at the closed eyes of Mazanovitch, but the others, I noticed, avoided looking at him. Did he see, I wondered? —could he see from out the tiny slit that showed beneath his lashes?

We came at last to a quiet street lined with small frame houses, and before one of these the carriage stopped. Mazanovitch opened the front door with a latchkey, and ushered us into a dimly lighted room that seemed fitted up as study and office combined.

Not until we were seated and supplied with cigars did the little man speak. Then he reclined in a cushioned chair, puffed at his cheroot, and turned his face in my direction.

“Tell me all you know concerning the vault and the ring which unlocks it,” he said, in his soft tones.

I obeyed. Afterward Figgot told of my meeting with the Minister of Police, and of Paola’s orders to him and Marco to escort me to Rio and to place the entire matter in the hands of Mazanovitch.

The little man listened without comment and afterward sat for many minutes silently smoking his cheroot.

“It seems to me,” said I, at last, “that the death of Senhora de Mar, and especially the fact that her ring finger has been severed from her hand, points conclusively to one reassuring fact; that the ring has been recovered by one of our band, and so the Cause is no longer endangered. Therefore my mission to Rio is ended, and all that remains for me is to return to Cuyaba and attend to the obsequies of my poor friend de Pintra.”

Marco and Figgot heard me respectfully, but instead of replying both gazed questioningly at the calm face of Mazanovitch.

“The facts are these;” said the latter, deliberately; “Senhora de Mar fled with the ring; she has been murdered, and the ring taken from her. By whom? If a patriot has it we shall know the truth within fifteen minutes.” I glanced at a great clock ticking against the wall. “Before your arrival,” he resumed, “I had taken steps to communicate with every patriot in Rio. Yet there were few able to recognize the ring as the key to the secret vault, and the murder was committed fifteen minutes after the train left Cruz.”

I started, at that.

“Who could have known?” I asked.

The little man took the cigar from his mouth for a moment.

“On the train,” said he, “were General Fonseca, the patriot, and Senhor Valcour, the Emperor’s spy.”

CHAPTER X
“FOR TO-MORROW WE DIE!”

I remembered Fonseca’s visit of the night before, and considered it natural he should take the morning train to the capital.

“But Valcour would not need to murder Madam Izabel,” said I. “They were doubtless in the plot together, and she would have no hesitation in giving him the ring had he demanded it. On the contrary, our general was already incensed against the daughter of the chief, and suspected her of plotting mischief. I am satisfied he has the ring.”

“The general will be with us presently,” answered Mazanovitch, quietly. “But, gentlemen, you all stand in need of refreshment, and Senhor Harcliffe should have his burns properly dressed. Kindly follow me.”

He led the way up a narrow flight of stairs that made two abrupt turns – for no apparent reason – before they reached the upper landing. Following our guide we came to a back room where a table was set for six. A tall, studious-looking Brazilian greeted us with a bow and immediately turned his spectacled eyes upon me. On a small side table were bandages, ointments, and a case of instruments lying open.

Within ten minutes the surgeon had dressed all my wounds – none of which, however, was serious, merely uncomfortable – and I felt greatly benefited by the application of the soothing ointments.

Scarcely was the operation completed when the door opened to admit Fonseca. He gave me a nod, glanced questioningly at the others, and then approached the table and poured out a glass of wine, which he drank eagerly. I noticed he was in full uniform.

“General,” said I, unable to repress my anxiety, “have you the ring?”

He shook his head and sat down with a gloomy expression upon his face.

“I slept during the journey from Cuyaba,” he said presently, “and only on my arrival at Rio did I discover that Senhora de Mar had traveled by the same train. She was dead when they carried her into the station.”

“And Valcour?” It was Mazanovitch who asked the question.

“Valcour was beside the body, wild with excitement, and swearing vengeance against the murderer.”

“Be seated, gentlemen,” requested our host, approaching the table. “We have time for a slight repast before our friends arrive.”

“May I join you?” asked a high, querulous voice. A slender figure, draped in black and slightly stooping, stood in the doorway.

“Come in,” said Fonseca, and the new arrival threw aside his cloak and sat with us at the table.

“The last supper, eh?” he said, in a voice that quavered somewhat. “For to-morrow we die. Eh, brothers? – to-morrow we die!”

“Croaker!” cried Fonseca, with scorn. “Die to-morrow, if you like; die to-night, for all I care. The rest of us intend to live long enough to shout huzzas for the United States of Brazil!”

“In truth, Senhor Piexoto,” said Marco, who was busily eating, “we are in no unusual danger to-night.”

Startled by the mention of the man’s name, I regarded him with sudden interest.

The reputation of Floriano Piexoto, the astute statesman who had plotted so well for the revolutionary party, was not unknown to me, by any means. Next to Fonseca no patriot was more revered by the people of Brazil; yet not even the general was regarded with the same unquestioning affection. For Piexoto was undoubtedly a friend of the people, and despite his personal peculiarities had the full confidence of that rank and file of the revolutionary party upon which, more than upon the grandees who led it, depended the fate of the rising republic.

His smooth-shaven face, sunken cheeks, and somewhat deprecating gaze gave him the expression of a student rather than a statesman, and his entire personality was in sharp contrast to the bravado of Fonseca. To see the two leaders together one would never suspect that history would prove the statesman greater than the general.

“Danger!” piped Piexoto, shrilly, in answer to Sergeant Marco’s remark, “you say there is no danger? Is not de Pintra dead? Is not the ring gone? Is not the secret vault at the Emperor’s mercy?”

“Who knows?” answered Fonseca, with a shrug.

“And who is this?” continued Piexoto, turning upon me a penetrating gaze. “Ah, the American secretary, I suppose. Well, sir, what excuse have you to make for allowing all this to happen under your very nose? Are you also a traitor?”

“I have not the honor of your acquaintance, senhor,” said I, stiffly; “nor, in view of your childish conduct, do I greatly desire it.”

Fonseca laughed, and the Pole turned his impassive face, with its half-closed eyelids, in my direction. But Piexoto seemed rather pleased with my retort, and said:

“Never mind; your head sits as insecurely upon its neck as any present. ‘Tis really a time for action rather than recrimination. What do you propose, Mazanovitch?”

“I am waiting to hear if you have discovered the present possessor of the ring,” answered the captain.

“No; our people were ignorant of its very existence, save in a few cases, and none of them has seen it. Therefore the Emperor has it, without doubt.”

“Why without doubt?” asked Mazanovitch.

“Who else could desire it? Who else could know its value? Who else would have murdered Madam Izabel to secure it?”

“Why the devil should the Emperor cause his own spy to be murdered?” inquired Fonseca, in his harsh voice. “You are a fool, Piexoto.”

“What of Leon de Mar?” asked the other, calmly. “He hated his wife. Why should he not have killed her himself, in order to be rid of her and at the same time secure the honor of presenting his Emperor with the key to the secret vault?”

“Leon de Mar,” said Mazanovitch, “is in Rio Grande do Sul. He has been stationed there for three weeks.”

For a time there was silence.

“Where is Paola?” suddenly asked Piexoto. “I want to know what Paola is doing in this crisis.”

“He was last seen near de Pintra’s residence,” said Figgot. “But we know nothing of his present whereabouts.”

“You may be sure of one thing,” declared Marco stoutly; “that Francisco Paola is serving the Cause, wherever he may be.”

The general snorted derisively, and Piexoto looked at him with the nearest approach to a smile his anxious face had shown.

“How we admire one another!” he murmured.

“Personally I detest both you and Paola,” responded the general, frankly. “But the Cause is above personalities, and as for your loyalty, I dare not doubt it. But we wander from the subject in hand. Has the Emperor the ring or is he seeking it as eagerly as we are?”

“The Emperor has not the ring,” said Mazanovitch, slowly; “you may be assured of that. Otherwise – ”

Piexoto gave a start.

“To be sure,” said he, “otherwise we would not be sitting here.”

CHAPTER XI
LESBA’S BRIGHT EYES

Later that evening there was a large gathering of the important members of the conspiracy, but the result of their deliberations only served to mystify us more than before as to the murderer of Madam Izabel and the possessor of the ring. Many were the expressions of sorrow at the terrible fate of Dom Miguel – a man beloved by all who had known him. The sad incident of his death caused several to waver in their loyalty to the projected Republic, and I was impressed by the fact that at this juncture the Cause seemed to be in rather desperate straits.

“If the ring is gone and the records discovered,” said one, “we would best leave the country for a time, until the excitement subsides, for the Emperor will spare no one in his desire for vengeance.”

“Let us first wait for more definite information,” counseled the old general, always optimistic. “Should an uprising be precipitated at this time we have all the advantage on our side, for the Republic is to-day stronger than the Empire. And we have yet to hear from Paola.”

So, after much comment, it was determined to watch every action of the court party with redoubled vigilance, and in case danger threatened the republicans, to give the signal that would set the revolution going in full swing. Meantime we would endeavor to get in touch with Paola.

But the Minister of Police had mysteriously disappeared, and although telegrams were sent in every direction, we could hear nothing of Paola’s whereabouts. Inquiries at the court failed to elicit any information whatever, and they were doubtless as ignorant on the subject as ourselves.

Officially, I was supposed to be occupying a dungeon in the fortress, and Mazanovitch had actually locked up a man under my name, registering the prisoner in the prescribed fashion. Therefore, being cleverly disguised by the detective, I ran little risk of interference should I venture abroad in the city.

Curiously enough, Mazanovitch chose to disguise me as a member of the police, saying that this plan was less likely than any other to lead to discovery. Wherever I might wander I was supposed to be off duty or on special service, and the captain enrolled me under the name of Andrea Subig.

I was anxious at times to return to Cuyaba, for Lesba’s white face, as I had last seen it on the morning of Dom Miguel’s incarceration, haunted me perpetually. But the quest of the ring was of vital importance, and I felt that I dared not return until I could remove my dear friend’s body from the vault and see it properly interred.

Under Mazanovitch’s directions I strove earnestly to obtain a clue that might lead to a knowledge of where the missing ring was secreted; but our efforts met with no encouragement, and we were not even sure that the murderer of Izabel de Mar had ever reached the capital.

On the third morning after my arrival I was strolling down the street toward the railway station, in company with Mazanovitch, when suddenly I paused and grasped my comrade’s arm convulsively.

“Look there!” I exclaimed.

Mazanovitch shook off my hand, impatiently.

“I see,” he returned; “it is the Senhorita Lesba Paola, riding in the Emperor’s carriage.”

“But that scoundrel Valcour is with her!” I cried.

“Scoundrel? We do not call Senhor Valcour that. He is faithful to the Emperor, who employs him. Shall we, who are unfaithful, blame him for his fidelity?”

While I sought an answer to this disconcerting query the carriage whirled past us and disappeared around a corner; but I had caught a glimpse of Lesba’s bright eyes glancing coyly into the earnest face Valcour bent over her, and the sight filled me with pain and suspicion.

“Listen, Captain,” said I, gloomily, “that girl knows all the important secrets of the conspiracy.”

“True,” answered the unmoved Mazanovitch.

“And she is riding in the Emperor’s carriage, in confidential intercourse with the Emperor’s spy.”

“True,” he said again.

“Paola has disappeared, and his sister is at court. What do you make of it, senhor?”

“Pardon me, the Minister of Police returned to his duties this morning,” said the man, calmly. “Doubtless his sister accompanied him. Who knows?”

“Why did you not tell me this?” I demanded, angrily.

“I am waiting for Paola to communicate with us, which he will do in good time. Meanwhile, let me counsel patience, Senhor Americano.”

But I left him and strode down the street, very impatient indeed, and filled with strange misgivings. These Brazilians were hard to understand, and were it not for Lesba I could wish myself quit of their country forever.

Lesba? What strange chance had brought her to Rio and thrown her into the companionship of the man most inimical to her brother, to myself, and to the Cause?

Was she playing a double game? Could this frank, clear-eyed girl be a traitor to the Republic, as had been Izabel de Mar?

It might be. A woman’s mind is hard to comprehend. But she had been so earnest a patriot, so sincerely interested in our every success, so despondent over our disappointments, that even now I could not really doubt her faith.

Moreover, I loved the girl. Had I never before realized the fact, I knew it in this hour when she seemed lost to me forever. For never had speech of mine brought the glad look to her face that I had noted as she flashed by with Valcour pouring soft speeches into her ears. The Emperor’s spy was a handsome fellow; he was high in favor at court; he was one of her own people —

Was he, by the by? Was Valcour really a Brazilian? He had a Brazilian’s dark eyes and complexion, it is true; yet now that I thought upon it, there was an odd, foreign cast to his features that indicated he belonged to another race. Yes, there was a similarity between them and the features of the Pole Mazanovitch. Perhaps Valcour might also be a Pole. Just now Mazanovitch had spoken kindly of him, and —

I stopped short in my calculations, for I had made a second startling discovery. My wanderings had led me to the railway station, where, as I approached, I saw the Emperor of Brazil, Dom Pedro de Alcantara, surrounded by a company of his Uruguayan guard, and in the act of boarding a private car attached to the Matto Grosso train.

I had never before seen the Emperor, but from descriptions of him, as well as from the deference of those about him, I had no doubt of his identity.

His hurried departure upon a journey, coupled with Paola’s presence at the capital, could only bear one interpretation. The Minister of Police had been in conference with the Emperor, and his Majesty was about to visit in person the scene of the late tragedy, and do what he might to unearth the records of that far-reaching revolution which threatened his throne.

Here was news, indeed! Half-dazed, I started to retrace my steps, when a soft voice beside me said:

“Have you money, senhor?”

“Yes,” I answered.

“Then,” continued Mazanovitch, “you must take this train for Cuyaba. Let the Emperor guide you. If danger threatens us, telegraph me the one word, ‘Lesba’! Do you understand, Senhor Harcliffe?”

“I think so,” said I, “but let me use some other word. Why drag a woman’s name into this affair?”

He coughed slightly.

“It is a word you will remember,” said he. “Good by to you, senhor.”

He had an odd way of disappearing, this strange Pole, whose eyes I had never seen. With his last word he actually melted into the crowd of loiterers who were watching the Emperor’s departure, and I could not have found him again had I so desired.

My first thought was to rebel at leaving Rio, where Lesba Paola had taken refuge from the coming storm. But the girl seemed amply amused without me, and my duties to the interests of my dead chieftain forbade my deserting the Cause at this crisis. Therefore I would follow the Emperor.

As the train moved slowly out of the station, I swung myself upon the steps of the rear car, and the next instant was tumbled upon the platform by a person who sprang up behind me.

Angrily protesting, I scrambled to my feet; but the fellow, with scarcely a glance in my direction, passed into the car and made his way forward.

The exclamations died suddenly upon my lips.

The belated passenger was Senhor Valcour, the spy.