The Lady in the Car

“For a moment I was silent. In the course of years of travel I had met with many adventures, but none anything like this! Here was a charming girl in dire distress – a girl who had already enchanted me by her beauty and grace – appealing to my honour to help her out of a difficulty. Nay to save her life!

“She was Russian – no doubt a political suspect.

”‘Where is Madame?’ I inquired.

”‘Gone to Belgrade. We parted this morning, and I came here to you.’

”‘And your friend, Mehmed?’

”‘Bah! the yellow-faced fool!’ she cried impatiently with a quick snap of her white fingers. ‘He expects to meet me at the Court ball to-night!’

”‘And he will be disappointed!’ I added with a smile, at the same time reflecting that upon my passport already viséd for Constantinople – covered as it was, indeed, with visés for all the East – I could easily insert after my own name the words, ‘accompanied by his wife Louisa.’

“Besides, though I had several times been in the Sultan’s capital, I knew very few people there. So detection would not be probable.

“Olga saw my hesitation, and repeated her entreaty. She was, I saw, desperate. Yet though I pressed her to tell me the truth, she only answered:

”‘The police of Warsaw are in search of me because of the events of May last. Some day, when we know each other better, I will tell you my strange story. I escaped from the “Museum of Riga”’!”

“Pale to the lips, her chest rising and falling quickly, her blue eyes full of the terror of arrest and deportment to Poland she stood before me, placing her life in my hands.

“She had escaped from the ‘Museum of Riga,’ that prison the awful tortures of which had only recently been exposed in the Duma itself. She, frail looking, and beautiful had been a prisoner there.

“It wanted, I reflected, still eight days to the opening of the shooting which I was due to spend with friends in Scotland. Even if I returned by the roundabout route she suggested I should be able to get up north in time.

“And yet my duty was to remain there, for at noon on the morrow, by the Orient Express from Constantza to Ostend, a friend would pass whom I particularly wanted to meet on business for a single moment at the station. If I left with my pretty companion I should pass my friend on the Black Sea a few hours out of port. It meant either keeping the appointment I had made with my friend, or securing the girl’s safety. To perform my duty meant to consign her into the hands of the police.

“Acquaintance with political refugees of any sort in the Balkan countries is always extremely risky, for spies abound everywhere, and everybody is a suspect.

“I fear I am not very impressionable where the fair sex are concerned, but the romance and mystery of the situation whetted my appetite for the truth. Her sweet tragic face appealed to me. I had fallen in love with her.

“She interpreted my hesitation as an intention to refuse.

”‘Ah! M’sieur Martin. Do, I beg, have pity upon me! Once in your England I shall no longer fear those tortures of Riga. See!’ and drawing up her sleeve she showed me two great ugly red scars upon the white flesh scarcely yet healed. ‘Once in your England!’ she cried clasping her hands and falling at my feet, ‘I shall be free —free!’

”‘But how do you know that the police have followed you?’

”‘Mariniski, our military attaché in Sofia, is my cousin. He warned me that two agents of Secret Police arrived there yesterday morning. When I got here I received a wire from him to say they are now on their way here to Bucharest. Therefore not a moment must be lost. We can leave at three, and at ten to-morrow morning will have sailed from Constantza. They are due here at eleven-thirty.’

”‘To-night?’

”‘No, to-morrow.’

“She held my hands in hers, still upon her knees, her gaze fixed imploringly into mine. What could I do, save to render her assistance? Ah! yes, she was delightfully charming, her face perfect in its beauty, her hands soft and caressing, her voice musical and silvery.

“I gave her my reply, and in an instant she sprang to her feet, kissing my hands again and again.

“I sent the car back to Vienna, and early that morning we entered the train of dusty wagons-lits which had been three days on its journey from Ostend to the Orient, and next morning in the bright sunshine, found ourselves on the clean deck of the mail steamer for Constantinople.

“There were not more than twenty passengers, and together with my dainty little companion, I spent a happy day in the bright sunshine, as we steamed down the Black Sea, a twelve-hour run. Dinner was at half-past five, and afterwards, in the evening twilight, as we passed the Turkish forts at the beautiful entrance to the Bosphorus, we sat together in a cosy corner on deck, and I held her small, soft hand.

“She had, I admit, completely enchanted me.

“She seemed to have suddenly become greatly interested in me, for she inquired my profession, and the reason I visited the East, to which I gave evasive, if not rather misleading replies, for I led her to believe that I was the representative of a firm of London railway contractors, and was in Sofia taking orders for steel rails.

“It is not always judicious to tell people one’s real profession.

“When we reached the quay at Constantinople, and I had handed over my baggage to the dragoman of the Pera Palace Hotel, my pretty companion said in French:

”‘I lived here for quite a long time, you know, so I shall go and stay with friends out at Sarmaschik. I will call at your hotel at, say, eleven to-morrow morning. By that time you will have ascertained what is the next steamer to Naples.’

“And so, in the dirty ill-lit custom-house at Galata, with its mud, its be-fezzed officials and slinking dogs, we parted, she entering a cab and driving away.

“Next morning she kept her appointment and was, I saw, exceedingly well-dressed.

“I told her when we met in the big vestibule of the hotel, that there was a steamer leaving for Marseilles at four that afternoon, and suggested that route as preferable to Naples.

”‘I think we will delay our departure until to-morrow,’ she said. ‘My friends have a little family gathering to-night, and ask me to say that they would be delighted to meet you. They are not at all bigoted, and you will find them very hospitable.’

“I bowed and accepted the invitation.

”‘You will not find the house alone, as Constantinople is so puzzling,’ she said. ‘I will send their kavass for you at eight o’clock.’

“And a few moments later she drove away in the smart carriage that had brought her.

“That day I idled about the Sultan’s capital, looked in at St. Sophia, paused and watched the phantasmagoria of life on the Galata Bridge, and strolled in the Grand Rue at Pera, merely killing time. Case-hardened bachelor that I am, my mind was now filled with that sweet-faced, beautiful woman of my dreams who had been so cruelly tortured in that abominable prison at Riga, and whom I was aiding to the safe refuge of England’s shores.

“Once, while turning a corner at the end of the Grand Rue, the busy shopping centre of the Turkish capital, a mysterious incident occurred. Among the many figures in frock-coats and fezes my eye caught one which caused me to start. It struck me curiously as that of my sallow-faced friend, Mehmed Zekki, of Sofia. Yet in a crowd of Turks all dressed alike, one is rather difficult to distinguish from another, so I quickly dismissed the suspicion that we had been followed.

“I had already dined at the hotel and was sitting in the Turkish smoking-room, when there arrived a big Montenegrin kavass, in gorgeous scarlet and gold, and wearing an arsenal of weapons in his belt, as is their mode.

”‘Monsieur Martin?’ he inquired. ‘Mademoiselle Olga. She send me for you. I take you to ze house.’

“So I rose, slipped on my overcoat, and followed him out to the brougham, upon the box of which, beside the driver, sat a big black eunuch. The carriage had evidently been to fetch some ladies before calling for me.

“The kavass seated himself at my side, and we drove up and down many dark, ill-lit streets, where the scavenger dogs were howling, until we suddenly came out in view of the Bosphorus, that lay fairy-like beneath the full Eastern moon.

“Nicholas, the kavass, was from Cettinje, he told me, and when we began to talk, I discovered that his brother Mirko had been my servant on a journey through Albania two years before.

”‘What! Gospodin!’ cried the big mountaineer, grasping my hand and wringing it warmly. ‘Are you really the Gospodin Martin? I was in Cettinje last summer, and my dear old father spoke of you! I have to thank you. It was you who brought the English doctor to him and saved his life. Fancy that we should meet here, and to-night!’

”‘Why to-night?’

“The big fellow was silent. His manner had entirely changed.

“Suddenly he said: ‘Gospodin, you are going to the house of Mehmed Zekki and – ’

”‘Zekki!’ I gasped. ‘Then I was not mistaken when I thought I saw him. He had followed us.’

”‘Ah! Gospodin! Have a care of yourself! Take this, in case – in case you may require it,’ he said, and pulling from his sash one of his loaded revolvers, he handed it to me.

”‘But you said that mademoiselle had sent you for me?’ I remarked surprised.

”‘I was told to say that, Gospodin. I know nothing of mademoiselle.’

”‘Mademoiselle Olga Steinkoff. Have you never heard of her?’ I demanded.

”‘Never.’

”‘Then I will go back to the hotel.’

”‘No, Gospodin. Do not show fear. It would be fatal. Enter and defy the man who is evidently your enemy. Touch neither food nor drink there. Then, if you are threatened, utter the words, Shunam-al-zulah– recollect them. Show no fear, Gospodin – and you will escape.’

“At that moment the carriage turned into a large garden, which surrounded a fine house – almost a palace – the house wherein my enemy was lying in wait.

“Entering a beautiful winter-garden full of flowers, a servant in long blue coat and fez, conducted me through a large apartment, decorated in white and gold, into a smaller room, Oriental in decoration and design, an apartment hung with beautiful gold embroideries, and where the soft cushions of the divans were of pale-blue silk and gold brocade.

“Two middle-aged Turks were squatting smoking, and as I was shown in, scowled at me curiously, saluted, and in French asked me to be seated.

”‘Mademoiselle will be here in a few moments,’ added the elder of the pair.

“A few seconds later the servant entered with a tiny cup of coffee, the Turkish welcome, but I left it untouched. Then the door again opened and I was confronted by the sallow-faced, black-bearded man against whom the kavass had warned me.

”‘Good evening, Monsieur Martin,’ he exclaimed with a sinister grin upon his thin face. ‘You expected, I believe, to meet Mademoiselle Olga, eh?’

”‘Well – I expected to meet you,’ I laughed, ‘for I saw you in Pera to-day.’

“He looked at me quickly, as his servant at that moment handed him his coffee on a tray.

”‘I did not see you,’ he said somewhat uneasily, raising his cup to his lips. Then, noticing that I had not touched mine, he asked, ‘Don’t you take coffee? Will you have a glass of rahki?’

”‘I desire nothing,’ I said, looking him straight in the face.

”‘But surely you will take something? We often drank together in the Club at Sofia, remember!’

”‘I do not drink with my enemies.’

“The trio started, glaring at me.

”‘You are distinctly insulting,’ exclaimed Mehmed, his yellow face growing flushed with anger. ‘Recall those words, or by the Prophet, you do not pass from this house alive!’

“I laughed aloud in their faces.

”‘Ah!’ I cried, ‘this is amusing! This is really a good joke! And pray what do you threaten?’

”‘We do not threaten,’ Zekki said. ‘You are here to die.’ And he laughed grimly, while the others grinned.

”‘Why?’

”‘That is our affair.’

”‘And mine also,’ I replied. ‘And gentlemen, I would further advise you in future to be quite certain of your victim, or it may go ill with you. Let me pass!’ And I drew the revolver the kavass had given me.

”‘Put that thing away!’ ordered the elder of the men, approaching me with threatening gesture.

”‘I shall not. Let us end this confounded foolishness. Shunam-al-Zulah!’

“The effect of these words upon the trio was electrical.

“The sallow-faced attaché stood staring at me open-mouthed, while his companions fell back, as though I had dealt them both a blow. They seemed too dumbfounded to respond, as, revolver in hand, I next moment passed out of the room and from that house to which I had been so cleverly lured, and where my death had evidently been planned.

“At the hotel I spent a sleepless night, full of deep anxiety, wondering for what reason the curious plot had been arranged, and whether my dainty little companion had had any hand in it.

“My apprehensions were, however, entirely dispelled when early on the following been morning, Olga called to ask why I had absent when the kavass had called for me.

“I took her into one of the smaller rooms, and told her the whole truth, whereat she was much upset, and eager to leave the Turkish capital immediately.

“At seven that same evening we sailed for Naples, and without further incident duly arrived at the Italian port, took train for Rome, and thence by express to Paris and Charing Cross.

“On the journey she refused to discuss the plot of the jealous, evil-eyed Turk. Her one idea was to get to London – and to freedom.

“At eleven o’clock at night we stepped out upon Charing Cross platform, and I ordered the cabman to drive me to the Cecil, for when acting the part of Reggie Martin, I always avoided Dover Street. It was too late to catch the Scotch mail, therefore I would be compelled to spend the first day of the pheasants in London, and start north to my friends on the following day.

“Suddenly as we entered the station she had decided also to spend the night at the Cecil and leave next day for Ipswich, where a brother of hers was a tutor.

“I wished her good-night in the big hall of the hotel, and went up in the lift.

“Rising about half-past six next morning and entering my sitting-room, I was amazed to encounter Olga, fully dressed in hat and caracul jacket, standing in the grey dawn, reading a paper which she had taken from my despatch-box!

“Instantly she dropped her hand, and stood staring at me without uttering a word, knowing full well that I had discovered the astounding truth.

“I recognised the document by the colour of the paper.

”‘Well, mademoiselle?’ I demanded in a hard tone, ‘And for what reason, pray, do you pry into my private papers like this?’

”‘I – I was waiting to bid you adieu,’ she answered tamely.

”‘And you were at the same time making yourself acquainted with the contents of that document which I have carried in my belt ever since I left Sofia – that document of which you and your interesting friend, Zekki, have ever since desired sight – eh?’ I exclaimed, bitterly. ‘My duty is to call in the police, and hand you over as a political Spy to be expelled from the country.’

”‘If m’sieur wishes to do that he is at perfect liberty to do so,’ she answered, in quick defiance. ‘The result is the same. I have read Petkoff’s declaration, so the paper is of no further use,’ and she handed it to me with a smile of triumph upon those childlike lips. ‘Arrest or liberty – I am entirely in monsieur’s hands,’ she added, shrugging her shoulders.

“I broke forth into a torrent of reproach for I saw that Bulgaria had been betrayed to her arch-enemy, Turkey, by that sweet-faced woman who had so completely deceived me, and who, after the first plot had failed, had so cleverly carried the second to a successful issue.

“Defiant to the last, she stood smiling in triumph. Even when I openly accused her of being a spy she only laughed.

“Therefore I opened the door and sternly ordered her to leave, knowing, alas! that, now she had ascertained the true facts, the Bulgarian secret policy towards Turkey would be entirely negatived, that the terrible atrocities in Macedonia must continue, and that the Russian influence in Bulgaria would still remain paramount.

“I held my silence, and spent a dull and thoughtful Sunday in the great London hotel. Had I remained in Bucharest, as was my duty, and handed the document in Petkoff’s handwriting to the King’s Messenger, who was due to pass in the Orient express, the dainty Olga could never have obtained sight of it. This she knew, and for that reason had told me the story of her torture in the prison at Riga and urged me to save her. Zekki, knowing that I constantly carried the secret declaration of Bulgaria in the belt beneath my clothes, saw that only by my unconsciousness, or death, could they obtain sight of it. Hence the dastardly plot to kill me, frustrated by the utterance of the password of the Turkish spies themselves.

“It is useless for a man to cross swords with a pretty woman where it is a matter of ingenuity and double-dealing. With the chiefs of the Foreign Office absent, I could only exist in anxiety and dread, and when I acted it was, alas! too late.

“Inquiries subsequently made in Constantinople showed that the house in which Zekki had received me, situated near the konak of Ali Saib Pasha, was the headquarters of the Turkish Secret Service, of which the sallow-faced scoundrel was a well-known member, and that on the evening of the day of my return to London the body of Nicholas, the Montenegrin kavass who saved my life, had been found floating in the Bosphorus. Death had been his reward for warning me!

“Readers of the newspapers are well aware how, two months later, as a result of Turkish intrigue in Sofia, my poor friend Dimitri Petkoff, Prime Minister of Bulgaria, was shot through the heart while walking with me in the Boris Garden.

“Both Bulgarian and Turkish Governments have, however, been very careful to suppress intelligence of a dramatic incident which occurred in Constantinople only a few weeks ago. Olga Steinkoff, the secret agent employed by the Sublime Porte, was, at her house in the Sarmaschik quarter, handed by her maid a beautiful basket of fruit that had been sent by an admirer. The dainty woman with the childlike face cut the string, when, lo! there darted forth four hissing, venomous vipers. Two of the reptiles struck, biting her white wrist ere she could withdraw, and an hour later, her face swollen out of all recognition, she died in terrible agony.

“The betrayal of Bulgaria and the assassination of Petkoff, the patriot, have, indeed, been swiftly avenged.”

Chapter Seven

The Sign of the Cat’s-Paw

Another part which the Prince played in the present-day drama now being enacted in Eastern Europe brought him in touch with “The Sign of the Cat’s-Paw,” a sign hitherto unknown to our Foreign Office, or to readers of the daily newspapers.

At the same time, however, it very nearly cost him his own life.

The affair occurred about a couple of months after the death of the fascinating Olga Steinkoff. He had been sent back to the Balkans upon another mission. Cosmopolitan of cosmopolitans, he had been moving rapidly up and down Europe gathering information for Downing Street, but ever on the look-out for an opening for the Parson and himself to operate in a very different sphere.

Garrett, blindly obedient to the telegrams he received, had taken the car on some long flying journeys, Vienna, Berlin and back to Belgrade, in Servia. For two months or so I had lost sight of both the mild-mannered, spectacled Clayton and the Prince, when one morning, while walking down St. James’s Street, I saw Garrett in his grey and scarlet livery driving the car from Piccadilly down to Pall Mall.

By this I guessed that his Highness had returned to London, so I called at Dover Street, and twenty minutes later found myself seated in the big saddle-bag chair with a “Petroff” between my lips.

He was in his old brown velvet lounge coat and slippers, and had been at his writing-table when I entered. But on my appearance he threw down his pen, stretched himself, and sat round for a gossip.

Suddenly, while speaking, he made a quick, half-foreign gesture of ignorance in response to a question of mine, and in that brief instant I saw upon his right palm a curious red mark.

“Hullo!” I asked. “What’s that?”

“Oh – nothing,” he replied, rather confused I thought, and shut his hand so that I could not see it.

“But it is!” I declared. “Let me see.”

“How inquisitive you are, Diprose, old chap,” he protested.

So persistent was I, and so aroused my curiosity by finding a mark exactly like the imprint of a cat’s-paw, that, not without considerable reluctance, he explained its meaning. The story he narrated was, indeed, a most remarkable and dramatic one. And yet he related it as though it were nothing. Perhaps, indeed, the puzzling incidents were of but little moment to one who led a life so chock-full of adventure as he.

Yes, it really was curious, he remarked at last. It was in March. I had been in London’s mud and rain for a fortnight, and grown tired of it. Suddenly a confidential mission had been placed in my hands – a mission which had for its object British support to the Bulgarian Government against the machinations of Austria to extend her sphere of influence southward across the Danube and Servia.

My destination was Sofia, the Bulgarian capital, and once more the journey by the Orient Express across Europe was a long and tedious one. I had wired to Garrett, who was awaiting me with the car at the Hungaria, in Budapest, to bring it on to Sofia.

But I was much occupied with the piece of scheming which I had undertaken to carry out. My patriotism had led me to attempt a very difficult task – one which would require delicate tact and a good deal of courage and resource, but which would, if successful, mean that a loan of three millions would be raised in London, and that British influence would become paramount in that go-ahead country, which, ere long, must be the power of the Balkans.

I knew, however, that there were others in Sofia upon the same errand as myself, emissaries of other governments and other financial houses. Therefore, in the three long never-ending days the journey occupied, my mind was constantly filled with thoughts of the best and most judicious course to pursue in order to attain my object.

The run was uneventful, save for one fact. At the Staatsbahnhof, at Vienna, just before our train left for Budapest, a queer, fussy little old man in brown entered, and was given the compartment next mine.

His nationality I could not determine. He spoke deep guttural German with the fair-bearded conductor of the train, but by his clothes – which were rather dandified for so old a man – I did not believe him to be a native of the Fatherland.

I heard him rumbling about with his bags next door, apparently settling himself, when of a sudden my quick ear caught an imprecation which he uttered to himself in English.

A few hours later, at dinner, I found him placed at the little table opposite me, and naturally we began to chat. He spoke in French – perfect French it was – but refused to speak English, though, of course, he could had he wished.

“Ah! non,” he laughed, “I cannot. Excuse me. My pronunciation is so faulty. Your English is so ve-ry deefecult.”

And so we chatted in French, and I found the queer old fellow was on his way to Sofia. He seemed slightly deformed, his face was distinctly ugly, broad, clean-shaven, with a pair of black piercing eyes that gave him a most striking appearance. His grey hair was long, his nose aquiline, his teeth protruding and yellow, and he was a grumbler of the most pronounced type. He growled at the food, at the service, at the draughts, at the light in the restaurant, at the staleness of the bread we had brought with us from Paris, and at the butter, which he declared to be only Danish margarine.

His complaints were amusing. He was possessed of much grim humour. At first the maître d’hôtel bustled about to do the bidding of the new-comer, but very quickly summed him up, and only grinned knowingly when called to listen to his biting criticism of the Compagnie Internationale des Wagons-lits and all its works.