Chapter Forty.
Gives a Clue
That afternoon, at as early an hour as he decently could, he called at the British Legation, the big white mansion in the centre of the town. Both Sir Charles Harrison, the Minister, and his charming wife were well-known to him, for more than once he had been invited to dine on previous visits to Belgrade.
The Minister was out, but Lady Harrison received him in the big drawing-room on the first floor, a handsome apartment filled with exquisite Japanese furniture and bric-à-brac, for, prior to his appointment to Belgrade, the Minister had been Secretary of the British Embassy in Tokio.
The first greetings over, Charlie explained the object of his call. Whereupon the Minister’s wife replied:
“I think Mr Pashitch is mistaken, Mr Rolfe. I haven’t seen Maud Petrovitch for quite a year. She was on a visit to her aunt, Madame Constantinovitch, about a year ago, and used to come here very often.”
Charlie’s hopes fell again.
“Perhaps the Minister-President has made a mistake. It may have been at some other house Madame Pashitch met the Doctor’s daughter,” he said.
“Well, if she were in Belgrade she surely would come to see me. All her friends come to me on Thursdays, as you know,” replied the Minister’s wife, as the man brought in tea – with lemon – in the Russian style.
He glanced around the handsome room, and recollected the brilliant receptions at which he had been present. The British Legation was one of the finest mansions in Belgrade, and Sir Charles gave weekly dinners to the diplomatic corps and his personal friends. He and his wife entertained largely, to keep up the prestige of Great Britain amid that seething area of intrigue, political conspiracy, and general unrest.
Within a small room off the drawing-room, which was Sir Charles’ private den, many a diplomatic secret had been brewed, and many an important matter affecting the best interests of Servia had been decided. Surely the post of Belgrade was one of the most difficult in the whole range of British diplomacy abroad.
Before Charlie rose to go Sir Charles entered, a middle-aged, merry, easy-going man, who greeted him cheerily, saying: —
“Hullo, Rolfe! Who’d have thought of seeing you here? and how is Mr Statham? When will he buy us all up to-day?”
Rolfe briefly explained the nature of his mission to the ex-President, and then, after a few minutes’ chat, followed his host into the smaller room for a cigarette and chat. Eventually Rolfe, lying back in an easy-chair, said: “Do you know, Sir Charles, a very curious thing has happened recently in London?”
“Oh, I see by the papers that lots of curious things have happened,” was the diplomat’s reply, as he smiled upon his guest.
“Oh, yes; I know. But this is a serious matter. Doctor Petrovitch and his daughter Maud have disappeared.”
Sir Charles raised his eyebrows, and was in a moment serious.
“Disappeared! There’s been nothing about it in the papers.”
“No; it is being kept dark. The police haven’t been stirred about it. It was only a sudden removal from Cromwell Road, but both father, daughter, and household furniture disappeared.”
“How? In what manner did the furniture disappear?”
Rolfe explained, while Sir Charles sat listening open-mouthed.
“Extraordinary!” he ejaculated, when the younger man concluded. “What can be the reason of it. Petrovitch is an old and dear friend of mine. Why, I knew him years ago when I was attaché here. He often wrote to me. The last letter I had was from London about four months ago.”
“And he’s my friend also.”
“Yes; I know,” was the other’s reply. “It was whispered, Rolfe, that you were in love with the pretty Maud – eh?”
“I don’t deny it?”
“Why should you, if you love her.”
“But she’s disappeared – without a word.”
“And you are in search of her? Most natural. Well, I’ll make inquiries and ascertain if she’s been in Belgrade. I don’t believe she has, or we should certainly have seen something of her. My wife is very fond of her, you know.”
“I fear there’s been foul play?” Rolfe remarked.
The Minister shrugged his shoulders.
“It’s curious, to say the least, isn’t it?” he observed. There, in confidence, Charlie told the Minister of Marion’s friendship with Maud, of the strange and mysterious confession on the night of the disappearance, and her steadfast refusal to betray the girl’s secret.
Sir Charles paused and reflected.
“Political intrigue is at the bottom of this – depend upon it, Rolfe,” he said at last. “Petrovitch has enemies here, unscrupulous enemies, who would not hesitate to attempt his life. They fear that if he returns to power as the King had invited him, they will find themselves prisoners in the fortress – and that means death, as you know. When the Doctor acts, he acts boldly for the benefit of his country. He would make a clean sweep of his enemies once and for all.”
“Then you think they’ve anticipated this, and killed him in secret?” cried Rolfe.
“It is, I fear, quite possible,” was the diplomat’s reply.
“What causes you to believe this?”
“I possess secret knowledge.”
“Of a plot against him?”
“He was fully aware of it himself. That is why he lived in England,” the Minister replied.
“But, surely, if he knew this, he might have taken steps for his self-protection!” Rolfe exclaimed. “The fact that his furniture was spirited away to some unknown place makes it almost appear as though he was in accord with the conspirators.”
“No; I think not. The conspirators removed his furniture in order to prevent undue inquiries as to the Doctor’s disappearance. The emptying of the house may have been one to make it appear to the police that the Doctor had suddenly removed – perhaps to avoid his creditors.”
Rolfe shook his head. His opinion hardly coincided with that of the British diplomat. Besides, Max Barclay’s story of having seen a man there closely resembling him wanted explanation. With what motive had an unknown man represented him on the night in question?
“Maud Petrovitch has never written to you?” asked Harrison.
“Not a line.”
The Minister pursed his lips.
“Well,” he said, “I’m perfectly sure if she’s been in Belgrade she would certainly have come to see us. My wife used to have frequent letters from her in London.”
“I have not told Lady Harrison the reason of my inquiry – or any of the facts,” Rolfe said. “I thought I would leave it to you to tell her if you think proper. Up to the present, the Doctor’s disappearance has been kept secret between my friend Max Barclay, who was the Doctor’s most intimate chum in London, and myself.”
“At present I shall not tell my wife,” declared the diplomat. He was a man of secrets, and knew how to keep one. “Who is Max Barclay?” asked the Minister, after a pause. Rolfe explained, but said nothing regarding his engagement to his sister Marion. To it all Sir Charles listened attentively, without comment.
At last, after a long silence, he said:
“Well, look here, Rolfe. A sudden thought has occurred to me. I think it possible that to-morrow, in a certain quarter, I shall be able to make a confidential inquiry regarding the whereabouts of the Doctor. All that you’ve told me interests me exceedingly, because I have all along believed that very shortly Petrovitch was returning to power and join forces with Pashitch.”
“But didn’t they quarrel a short time ago?” Rolfe remarked.
“Oh, a mere trifle. It was nothing. The Austrian press made a great stir about it, as they always do. All news from Servia emanates from the factory across the river yonder, at Semlin. If the journalists dared to put foot on, Servian soil they’d soon find themselves under arrest, I can tell you. No, the broad lines of policy of both Petrovitch and Pashitch are identical. They intend to develop the country by the introduction of foreign capital. The king himself told me so at an audience I had a month ago. He then told me, in confidence, that he had invited the Doctor to return and rejoin the Ministry. That is why I firmly believe that the poor Doctor, one of the best and most straightforward statesmen in Europe, has fallen a victim to his enemies.”
“Then you will set to work to discover what is known among the Opposition?” urged the young man.
“I promise you I will. But, of course, in strictest confidence,” was the Minister’s reply. “Petrovitch is my friend, as well as yours. I know only too well of the bitter enmity towards him in some quarters, especially among the partisans of the late king and a certain section of the Opposition in the Skuptchina. Mention of his name there causes cheers from the Government benches, but howls from the enemies of law and order. There was, some three years ago, a dastardly plot against his life, as you know.”
“No, I don’t know it. I have never heard about it,” was Rolfe’s reply.
“Ah! he never speaks about it, of course,” Sir Charles said, reflectively. “While driving out at Topschieder with his little orphan niece, of whom he was very fond, a bomb was thrown at the carriage. The poor child was blown to atoms, the horses were maimed, the carriage smashed to matchwood, and the coachman so injure that he died within an hour. The Doctor alone escaped with nothing more serious than a cut across the cheek. But that terrible death of his dead sister’s child was a terrible blow to him, and he has not been since in Belgrade. Because of that, I expect, he has hesitated to obey the king’s command to return to office.”
“Awful! I never knew of that. Maud has never told me,” said Rolfe. “What blackguards to kill an innocent child! Was the man who threw the bomb caught?”
“Yes. And the conspiracy was revealed by me activity of the secret police. They made a report to the Minister of Justice, who showed it to me in confidence.”
“Then you actually know who threw the explosive?”
“I know also who was responsible for the dastardly conspiracy – who aided and abetted it, and who furnished the assassins with money and promised a big reward if they encompassed the Doctor’s death!” said the Minister, slowly and seriously.
“You do! Who?” cried Rolfe.
“It was someone well-known to you,” was his reply. “The inquiries made by the Servian secret police led them far afield from Belgrade. They traced the conspiracy to its source – a source which would amaze you, as it would stagger the world. And if I am not much mistaken, Rolfe, this second plot has been formed and carried out by the same person whose first plot failed!”
“A person I know?” gasped the young man.
Chapter Forty One.
The Gateway of the East
The diplomat would say nothing more. When pressed by Charlie Rolfe he said that it was a surmise. Until the truth was proved he refused to speak more plainly.
“You declare that the plot by which an innocent child died was formed by a friend of mine!” the younger man exclaimed.
“I tell you that such is my firm belief,” Sir Charles repeated. “To-morrow I will endeavour to discover whether the same influence that caused the explosion of the bomb at Topschieder is responsible for the Doctor’s disappearance.”
“But cannot you be more explicit?” asked Rolfe. “Who is the assassin – the murderer of children?”
“At present I can say no more than what I have already told you,” was the diplomat’s grave response.
“You believe that the same motive has led to the Doctor’s disappearance as was the cause of the bomb outrage at Topschieder?”
“I do.”
“Then much depends upon the Doctor’s death?”
“Very much. His enemies would reap a large profit.”
“His enemies in the Skuptchina, you mean?”
“Those – and others.”
“He had private enemies also – secret ones that were even more dangerous than the blatant political orators.”
“Then private vengeance was the cause?”
“No – not exactly; at least, I think not,” Sir Charles replied. “But please ask no more. I will tell you the truth when I have established it.”
“I wish I could discover where Maud is. Surely it is strange that the Prime Minister’s wife should have said she met her lately here, in Belgrade.”
“Maud Petrovitch is not in Servia. I am certain of that point.”
“Why?”
“Because her father would never allow her to return here after that tragedy at Topschieder.”
“The assassin – the man who threw the bomb. Where is he?”
“In the fortress – condemned to a life sentence,” the diplomat answered. “He was caught while running away from the scene – a raw peasant from Valjevo, hired evidently to hurl the bomb. He was subjected to a searching examination, but would never reveal by whom he was employed. He was tried and condemned to solitary confinement, which he now is undergoing. You know the horrors of the fortress here, on the Danube, with its subterranean cells – eh?”
“I’ve heard of them,” responded the younger man. “But even that fate is too humane for a man who would deliberately kill an innocent child!”
“A life sentence in the fortress is scarcely humane,” the British Minister remarked grimly. “No one has ever entered some of those underground dungeons built by the Turks centuries ago. Their horrors can only be surmised. To all outsiders, who have wished to inspect the place, the Minister of Justice has refused admission.”
“Then the assassin has only received his deserts.”
“The person who formed the plot and used the ignorant peasant as his cat’s-paw should be there too – or even instead of him,” declared Sir Charles angrily. “The peasant suffers, while the real culprit gets off scot-free and unknown.”
“Then he is still unknown?” exclaimed Rolfe in surprise.
“Save to perhaps three persons, of whom I am one.”
“And also the man who threw the bomb!”
“I have heard that the solitary confinement in a dark cell already worked its effect upon him. He is hopelessly insane.”
Rolfe drew a long breath, and glanced around the cosy room with its long row of well-filled book-cases, its big writing-table, and its smaller tables filled with Japanese bric-à-brac, of which Sir Charles was an ardent collector.
In the silence that fell the footman tapped at the door and presented a card. Then Rolfe, declaring that he must go, rose, gripped the grey-haired Minister’s hand, and extracting from him a promise to tell the truth as soon as he had established it, followed the smart English footman down the stairs.
That night, as he sat amid the clatter and music of the brilliantly lit Grand Café, he reflected deeply on all that had been told him, wondering who was the friend who had been responsible for the outrage, which had induced the Doctor to forsake his native land never to return. Servia was a country of intrigue and unrest, as is every young country. He looked around the tables at the gay crowd of smart officers with their ribbons and crosses upon their breasts and their well-dressed womenkind, and wondered whether any fresh conspiracy was in progress.
The rule of King Peter – maligned though that monarch had been – had brought beneficent reforms to Servia. And yet there was an opposition who never ceased to hurl hard epithets against him, and to charge him with taking part in a plot, of the true meaning of which he certainly had had no knowledge.
Belgrade is a city in which plots against the monarchy are hinted at and whispered in the corners of drawing-rooms, where diplomacy is a mass of intrigue, a city of spies and sycophants, of concession-hunters and political cliques. Gay, pleasant, and easy-going, with its fine boulevard, its pretty Kalamegdan Garden, and its spick-and-span new streets, it is different to any other capital of Europe; more full of tragedy, more full of plot and counter-plot.
Austria is there ever seeking by her swarm of secret agents to stir up strife and to organise demonstrations against the reigning dynasty. Germany is there seeking influence and making promises, while Bulgaria is ever watchful; Turkey is silent and spectral, and Great Britain looks on neutral, but noting every move of the deep diplomatic juggling of the Powers.
At night amid the clatter, the laughter, and the gipsy music of the Grand Café, with its billiard tables in the centre and its restaurant adjoining, the stranger would never dream of its close proximity to the tragedy of a throne. Just as the bright lights and calm, moonlit sea throw a glamour over that plague spot Monte Carlo, until the visitor believes that no evil can lurk in that terrestrial paradise, so in Belgrade is everything so pleasant, so happy, so careless that the stranger would never dream that the whole city sits ever upon the edge of a volcano, and that the red flag of revolt is ready at any, moment to be hoisted.
Charlie Rolfe knew Belgrade, and knew the tragedy that underlay its brightness. What greater tragedy could there be than the death of the innocent child blown to atoms by the bomb?
Who could be the culprit whom Sir Charles had told him was his “friend.” He had known the Doctor well, but not intimately as Max Barclay had done. Curious that Max had told him nothing concerning that tragic incident which had caused the Servian statesman and patriot to turn his back upon his beloved country and live in studious seclusion in England. Max had told him many things, but had never mentioned that subject.
Was Max Barclay the “friend” to whom Sir Charles had referred. Was it really possible? He held his breath, contemplating the end of his half-smoked cigar and wondering.
It was a strange suspicion. Of late, ever since Max had charged him with having been present at Cromwell Road on the night of the disappearance, he had somehow held aloof from the man to whom Marion was so devoted.
And now? Even she had disappeared! What could it mean?
Did Max Barclay really know how and why Marion had disappeared, and for motives of his own was making a mystery?
The message from Barclay worried him. Marion was missing. Why had she left Cunnington’s? She must have left of her own accord, he felt confident. She would never be discharged. Sam Statham would never, for a moment, allow that.
A tall man with a fair, pointed beard approached him, raised his hat, and gripped his hand. It was Drukovitch, the director of the National Theatre, and a friend of his. The new-comer seated himself at the table, and the waiter brought a tiny glass of “slivovitza,” or plum gin, that liqueur so dear to the Servian palate. Drukovitch was one of the best-known and most popular men in Belgrade; a thorough-going cosmopolitan, and a man of the world. Sometimes he went to London, and whenever there Charlie entertained him at his club, or they went to the theatre and supped at the Savoy.
As they chatted, Rolfe explaining that he was in Servia upon financial matters as usual, Drukovitch nodded to the officers and civilians whom he knew, many of them famous for the part they had played in the recent coup d’état. Some of them, indeed, wore the white-enamelled cross, which decoration marked them as partisans of the dynasty of the Karageorge. And meanwhile the orchestra were playing the popular waltz from “The Merry Widow,” the air haunting everybody and everyone.
That night there was a court hall at the Palace, and the forthcoming event was upon everyone’s lips. There was seldom any entertainment at the New Konak, for his Majesty led a very quiet life, the almost ascetic life of a soldier – riding out at dawn, attending to duties of state during the day, and retiring early.
Perhaps the most maligned man in all Europe, King Peter of Servia was, nevertheless, known to those intimate around the throne to be a most conscientious ruler, fully aware of all his responsibilities, and striving ever to pacify the various political factions, sustaining the prestige of Servia abroad, and ameliorating the condition of his people at home.
The truth regarding King Peter had never been written. Of libels and vile calumnies there had been volumes, but no journalist had ever dared to put into print the real facts of King Peter’s innocence of any connivance at the dastardly murder of Alexander and Draga.
Those who knew the real facts admired King Peter as a man and fearless patriot, but those who gathered their information from sensational newspapers and scurrilous books emanating from Austria believed every lie that the back-stairs scribes chose to write.
Drukovitch was one of the men who knew the truth, and many a time he had explained them to his friend, who, in turn, had told old Sam Statham, the hard-headed misanthrope whose prejudices were so strong, and yet the chords of whose heart-strings were so readily touched.
Sam had lent money to Servia – huge sums. And why? Because he knew his Majesty personally, and had heard from his own lips the story of his tragic difficulties and his high aspirations.
Once, indeed, in that silent study in Park Lane he had been reading a confidential report from Belgrade, predicting a black outlook, when he turned to his secretary and said:
“Rolfe. There will be trouble in Servia. But even though I may lose the million sterling I have loaned it will not trouble me. I have tried to assist an honest man who is at the same time a philanthropist and a king.”
Charlie Rolfe recollected these words at that moment as he sat amid the noise and chatter of the café, where, above every other sound, rose the sweet, tuneful strains of the waltz that had within the past few weeks gripped all Europe.
There was something bizarre, something incongruous with it all.
He was thinking of his lost love – his sweet-faced Maud with the unruly wisp of hair straying across her white brow.
Where was she? Ay, where was she?