The Intriguers

“Can you carry your mind a little farther back, Signor Corsini? You recognise that you were kidnapped by some persons who desired your disappearance.”

“I understand that perfectly, Count. Let me go back a little. There are certain suspicious circumstances that recur to me.”

Beilski and the Count exchanged significant glances. Golitzine motioned the young man to proceed.

“I was engaged to play at the Zouroff Palace last night. I had already acquainted your Excellency with that fact.”

The Count nodded a little impatiently. He was anxious to get at the facts.

“A very singular thought has occurred to me, gentlemen. Madame Quéro was very insistent that I should not play at the Zouroff Palace. On two occasions she endeavoured strongly to dissuade me, to make me break my appointment.”

The other two men exchanged an even more significant glance. They were getting close to the truth.

Nello had paused. He seemed desirous to say more, but something kept him back. Golitzine noticed his hesitation.

“Come, Signor Corsini, out with it. You have not yet told us all you surmise or suspect. We know about La Belle Quéro. There is something else you can tell us if you choose.”

Corsini was never a very good dissembler. He was as wax in the hands of these experienced men of the world.

“A singular thing, gentlemen, after thinking over all those things, is this. Perhaps you know that it is a peculiarity of mine to always walk to and from my engagements.”

“It is a peculiarity of yours that has been already commented on,” said Golitzine, who knew everything about everybody. “Proceed, Signor.”

“It is just a thing that has struck me as a little peculiar, taken in conjunction with the whole circumstances. Madame Quéro, whom I know you suspect, was very insistent that I should not go to the Zouroff Palace, without assigning any definite or plausible reason.”

“We have already understood that,” interrupted Beilski, rubbing his hands. “Perhaps we may now come to something that throws more light on the affair.”

Corsini proceeded. “I had a brief conversation with the Princess Nada.” He blushed slightly as he continued. “She was pleased to express some solicitude for my welfare, my health. She thought I was not looking well, that I had been working too hard. She asked if I had a carriage waiting for me. I answered in the negative, telling her that I always preferred to walk home. She offered to procure a conveyance for me, and added that it could be drawn up at a private entrance to the Palace, as there was a great crush in the main entrance. Gentlemen, I have told you all the facts, it is for you to draw your inferences. It is pretty evident that both Madame Quéro and the Princess had an inkling, perhaps actual knowledge, of the danger that was threatening me, and dared not say more than they did.”

Golitzine rose and drew the General into a corner.

“The thing is clear enough. The two women have been in league to save this young man. La Quéro has split upon Zouroff, because she is in love with Corsini, and has enlisted the sympathies of the Princess, probably in love with Corsini herself. You see it, General?”

Beilski had not the agile intelligence of the Count, but when it was so clearly put before him, he saw it.

“The young woman who brought the note is the maid of one of them,” he said tersely. “Well, my men shall bring both the maids before me to-morrow and I will wring the truth out of one of them. In the meantime, how shall we proceed with Corsini?”

“Take him back to his hotel. Fudge any story you like to the manager – been taken ill in my house, or yours, it does not matter which. Let him go about his usual duties and let him be safely guarded till we bring this home to the proper quarters. How about those men accompanying the carriage?”

“Alas! I have only bagged a couple,” answered the General regretfully. “The others escaped through the want of vigilance on the part of my men.”

“And what have the two you captured got to say for themselves?”

“Just nothing. Their lips are sealed. They will take their own punishment, but they will not give away their employer. If we had lived in the old days we could have made them speak.”

Golitzine crossed over to the young Italian.

“Signor Corsini, I cannot say how deeply I am grieved that you should have been subjected to this outrage. Rest assured it shall be tracked home to the proper quarters, and you shall be amply avenged. I have asked General Beilski to put a secure guard around you whenever you venture abroad. You need fear no repetition. Salmoros would never forgive me if you came to harm.”

Corsini was taken back to his hotel, wondering over all the things that had happened to him. A tale was fudged up to the manager that he had been attacked with sudden indisposition at the house of Count Golitzine, and compelled to remain there. Beilski took good care that he was unobtrusively guarded by members of the secret police.

The next thing was to get hold of the two maids. The General’s satellites secured the one in the service of Madame Quéro, and brought her along.

Beilski interrogated her himself, but the cross-examination of five minutes convinced him that she was not the woman who had brought the note. And the porter was equally certain on this point. She was a person of different build.

He dismissed her with a caution, as he handed her some coins.

“I would prefer that you kept your mouth shut about this visit. Still, it is very probable you will blab about it to your mistress.”

“Not after your generosity, your Excellency,” answered the maid gratefully, with a smirk.

The General grunted. “That is as it may be. I don’t know that I trust you farther than that door. But if you should feel disposed to take your mistress into your confidence, you can tell her this – that we have our eye upon her and know more than she thinks.”

Half an hour later the terrified Katerina was brought into his presence. She had been taken in charge a few yards outside the Zouroff Palace, whence she was proceeding on a shopping errand for her young mistress.

The General, with his experienced eye, read at once in her demeanour the signs of great perturbation. She was no hardened criminal, only a weak, trembling girl. He had rough and ready methods for such as these.

“Speak the truth, girl, and fear not; the strong arm of the law shall protect you,” he thundered in his loud, vigorous accents. “You are the young woman who brought me a note the other day from the Princess Nada. My hall-porter has recognised you.”

This, of course, was a flight of the gallant General’s imagination. The hall-porter had distinctly said that he would not be certain of recognising her; but it was enough to scare the shrinking Katerina.

She sank upon her knees, trembling in every limb. “It is true, your Excellency. Are you going to kill me, or send me to Siberia?”

The General smiled grimly. “Neither, my excellent young woman, as you have confessed without any unnecessary trouble. Give my compliments to your young mistress, and tell her I will give myself the pleasure of waiting upon her this afternoon on a little private matter. You can tell her that I have interrogated you, and you have confessed. You can also mention that the police, presided over by General Beilski, has a long arm, and a very wide espionage; also that we find out things pretty quickly, however carefully they are concealed.”

Poor Katerina hurried away, her brain in a whirl. As she scurried home, she reproached herself that, under the awe-inspiring presence of the formidable General, she had given her young mistress away. But, after all, she was not to blame. The Princess ought not to have sent her on such an errand.

Nada had been wondering at her absence. The shopping errand on which she had been despatched should not have occupied her very long.

Poor Katerina had to confess to her interview with the General. Nada spoke no word of blame; it was her own fault that she had chosen so weak an instrument. And she further admitted to herself that if Beilski’s emissaries had seized her instead of her maid and conveyed her to his headquarters, she would have lost her head as her maid had done.

And the General was coming to-day to worm out of her all he could. Of course, she knew she would be as wax in his hands. But even above her own immediate troubles rose the one anxious thought – was Corsini safe? had he escaped the vengeance of her ruthless brother?

She could not make use of the already too terrified Katerina any more. She sent around a brief note to Corsini at his hotel, in which she asked him to procure for her a certain piece of music of which he had spoken to her in a brief conversation a little time ago.

The messenger came back with the information that Signor Corsini was engaged in his duties at the Opera, and that the note would be given him on his return.

This relieved her very much. Corsini, at any rate, was safe. Her strategies had succeeded. She braced her nerves for the forthcoming interview with the General. She knew it would be a strenuous one. How, in the name of all that was marvellous, had he discovered that she was the sender of that letter?

Beilski had chosen a most fortunate day from her point of view. Her mother was in bed with a feverish cold. She would have to receive the General alone. He would go to the point at once. If she had her mother’s protecting presence, decency, respect for his old friend of many years, would have tied his tongue to some extent. He might hint his suspicions of Zouroff to a sister; he would conceal them from a mother, ruffian as he knew the son to be.

But though her heart was fluttering, she received him very prettily and graciously. Had she not known him from a child?

“An unexpected pleasure, my dear General. It is not often that you come to the Zouroff Palace.”

“Not so often as I would wish, my dear child, but my time is very fully occupied. As you can guess, these are troublous times. How is your dear mother?”

Nada explained that the Princess was in bed with the first symptoms of a feverish cold.

The General took a few sips of the cup of tea that the charming young Princess offered him. His bushy eyebrows worked from time to time. He was a perfect gentleman at heart; he was also very chivalrous to women. He did not at all relish the mission he was engaged on. It was the breaking of a butterfly upon a wheel, and the butterfly was the little girl to whom he used to bring chocolates and bon-bons a few years ago.

“Sorry to hear it, my dear child. Keep her warm and she will soon be all right.” Of course he was not really sorry at all that the Princess Zouroff was well out of the way; it was now all plain sailing.

After a long pause, he spoke in gruff accents. “There is no need to fence, Nada. You got the message from your maid. You know why I have come and what I have come for.”

“Yes, I know,” answered the young Princess in a faltering voice.

The General drew his chair closer. “Now, out with it all. From whom did you get the information that prompted you to write that letter?”

CHAPTER XVIII

Zouroff had exulted very greatly on that night when he had said good-bye to Corsini at the doors of the Palace. The carriage was waiting a short distance away. In a few hours the young musician would cease to be a menace to him.

He was doomed to grievous disappointment. One of the escaping band had managed to despatch a telegram in cipher acquainting him with the fact that his plans had miscarried, that Corsini had been rescued by the police at Pavlovsk.

Upon receipt of that telegram, he went into one of his violent rages, but of course nobody witnessed his distress. After he had recovered himself, he sought out his valet and imparted to him the news.

Later, in obedience to his master’s instructions, the valet learned that Corsini was back at the Opera; further, that General Beilski had surrounded him with a strong bodyguard, which was to protect him, in an unobtrusive fashion, day and night.

His suspicions fell at once on La Belle Quéro. If he had obeyed the promptings of his wild and savage nature, he would at once have gone to her dressing-room at the Opera, taxed her with her treachery, and strangled her with his own hands. Needless to say, he had no idea of the part played by his sister in the rescue of the hated musician.

But he was wily as well as savage. He would take his own measures with this treacherous Spanish woman in due course. She certainly would not escape his vengeance; but he would do nothing rash, nothing calculated to bring his own neck into jeopardy. He would meet her as if nothing had happened. He would be more lover-like than ever.

And things, as he thought, were now hastening so rapidly towards the goal that his revenge need not be long delayed.

Corsini had resumed his duties at the Opera, and his brief disappearance had been plausibly explained. The story of a short indisposition had satisfied all curiosity.

His feelings at this particular period were, perhaps, a little uncertain. He was not quite sure that the excellent Salmoros, whom he had once looked upon as a pure and benevolent philanthropist, ever ready to extend a helping hand to a struggling genius, had done him such a good turn, after all.

True, he had made certain strides in his calling: he might be said now to have gained a European reputation in place of a purely local one. On the other hand, he was mixed up in the political schemes of Golitzine. He had been kidnapped, and but for the tenderness of a woman, perhaps two women, might have been done to death by now.

On the whole, England seemed a safer place than Russia. In Russia there was only one bright spot. And that was the presence of the Princess Nada.

And this constant, ubiquitous bodyguard annoyed him. Of course he was quite sensible enough to know that it was necessary. Whoever his enemy might be, Zouroff or another, he would try and kidnap him again, undeterred by the failure of the first attempt. Golitzine and the Chief of Police were quite right to put a cordon round him.

It irked him very much, this body of four patient men who guarded him day and night, not in any way obtrusively, but always within reach – lurking in the corridor of his hotel, in the passages and lobbies of the Opera House, always ready to rush to his assistance if he were suddenly surprised.

In London he could walk east, west, south, or north without fear – to the breezy heights of Hampstead, the sylvan glades of Richmond. For, if he were to seek inspiration, he must fly from closed rooms, from shut doors, and hold communion with the stars.

On the second night of his return, the four patient men accompanied him on one of his walks, scattering discreetly, but ever on the alert.

Inspiration had come to him. The fugitive notes, with difficulty recaptured, were shaping themselves into music in his brain. Suddenly a tall figure loomed out of the darkness and stood in front of him. The four silent watching men formed up and drew closer.

“Do not fear,” whispered the man; “I am a friend. I see there are men looking after you. They are members of the police, I am sure. Tell them not to be afraid for your safety; but I would like them to withdraw out of earshot.”

“I seem to remember your voice, I have a faint recollection of your face,” answered Corsini, “but at the moment I cannot recall when and where we met.”

The big man laughed softly. “Throw back your memory a little while. A lonely road leading out of a still more lonely village filled with troops and mounted police. Your train had broken down, you had taken a quiet walk. You were saying your prayers before a village ikon. There suddenly appeared a tall, bearded man who implored your charity.”

Then Corsini recognised him. “Ivan the Cuckoo, Ivan the outlaw! What are you doing here?”

“Get your friends a little out of earshot and then we can talk quietly,” was the outlaw’s answer.

Corsini went up to the leader of the four men, who had drawn very close.

“This is a man whom I met on my first entrance into this country under very strange circumstances. I have good reason to believe he is well disposed towards me; but he wishes to speak to me in private. Will you withdraw a little so that you cannot hear what he says?”

The chief of the party looked somewhat doubtfully on the big figure of the outlaw. “He seems a bit of a ruffian, Signor, but it is as you wish. We will go out of earshot, as you request, but we will keep our pistols well levelled at him, in case of accident. You are sure you can trust him?”

“I think so,” replied Corsini. “I am afraid he is not a very estimable character and his appearance is not in his favour, but I helped him once when he was in great straits, and he swore to return the obligation. I am inclined to trust him myself.”

The four men withdrew. The big man chuckled quietly. “So you have persuaded them to get out of the way. They were urging you not to trust me, eh?”

“Something of the sort. Well, Ivan, what have you got to say?”

“Simply this. On that day you saved me, when the police were waiting within a few yards to trap me like a rabbit, I swore I would pay back the debt, did I not?”

“You did, Ivan. I remember that promise well. But you don’t mean to say you are going to pay it back to-night.”

“If not to-night, very shortly, Signor Corsini. You see, I know something about you. Well, I will tell you something you may, or may not, know; you have a very bitter enemy, who is resolved to hunt you to death.”

“That is true, Ivan. I can guess his name, but you know it. Is that not so?”

“It is quite true,” replied the outlaw in low tones. “Your enemy is mine, too, the dastard and scoundrel who enjoys the style and title of Prince Zouroff.”

“Your enemy also?” queried Corsini in wondering tones. “But how can you have crossed his path?”

“I have a heavy account against the man and his family,” answered the outlaw in his low, fierce voice. “In the old bad days of serfdom, his father, who was even a bigger ruffian, if it is possible, than his son, had my father flogged to death for a trivial offence. That was burnt into my brain.”

He tore open his clothes and showed his naked chest, on which was a long scar.

“You see that. Boris insulted my sister, a pure and innocent girl, born on his estate as I was. She told me the story. I borrowed a sword. I lay in wait for him in the woods one night. I challenged him to fight. I wounded him, thank Heaven, but he got his sword in too and left me with that scar. You can guess that I have got a big account against this Prince who swaggers about St. Petersburg and boasts amongst his intimates that he will dethrone the Czar.”

For a few seconds the outlaw paused, struggling to regain his composure, which the recital of his wrongs had so disturbed.

“After that incident, you will guess there was no safety for me, Signor. It was no longer possible for me to remain on this villain’s estate,” he resumed. “I wandered forth to embrace a life of crime – to become a thief, a bandit, a marauder. But, as Heaven is my judge, my guilt lies at his door.”

“You spoke of repaying a debt, Ivan,” interjected Corsini, with a view of recalling the unhappy man from these troublous and disturbing memories. “And if not to-night, very shortly. I don’t know that I very much desire repayment. What I did was out of feelings of humanity. Some people might say misplaced humanity. But what I did that night I should do again to-morrow if we were both in the same position.”

The big, bearded man regained his calmness, and spoke in slow, measured tones. “I have seen your portrait in the newspapers, Signor, and so was able to give a name to my preserver. It is in my power to put you in possession of an important secret that will bring great distinction to you, when you impart it to the proper quarters. In return you will secure for me a full pardon. I am not asking too exorbitant a price; I am sure you will admit that.”

“It is a secret, I can guess, concerning the man whom you describe as our common enemy, Prince Boris Zouroff.”

Ivan nodded his big head. “Listen! I have many friends in St. Petersburg, most of them certainly not of a reputable class. But I have one friend, quite a decent and honest fellow, born like myself on the Prince’s estates. His name is Stepan, and he is in the service of the well-known opera-singer, popularly known as La Belle Quéro.”

Corsini started. At first he had felt inclined to pay little heed to the outlaw’s rather wild talk. How could a man in his position be of any serious use, a man who had to skulk in obscure corners, lest he drew upon himself the too vigilant attention of the police?

“Stepan and I were boys together and great comrades. The poor fellow is heavily handicapped in the fact that he is very deaf. At times he can hear a little, but his hearing is never to be depended on. He was rather a favourite of Zouroff’s, who, I suppose, found him useful in certain ways, perhaps because of his infirmity: what he could not hear he could not communicate to others.”

“I quite understand,” interposed the young Italian.

“Some considerable time ago, Zouroff brought him up from the country and installed him in the service of Madame Quéro. Of course he had a motive in this, which you will presently comprehend. I must explain to you that owing to his deafness being so acute, all those who want to speak to him have to use signs. All the same, he is a very intelligent fellow, and can see through a brick wall as clearly as anybody. His speech is affected, too.”

“For what purpose did his master hand him over to Madame Quéro?” queried Corsini.

“I will explain, Signor. The singer has constantly at her house parties of men; no other woman but herself appears at them; and these parties consist of Zouroff and his friends. I have made it my business to find out all their names. You can have that list when you want it; it will be useful to certain persons in high quarters.”

Decidedly, Ivan was growing very interesting. The young Italian listened with the closest attention.

“In the side wall of Madame Quéro’s villa there is a secret door, my friend Stepan is janitor. On the night when these parties assemble he is on duty. A small bell is pulled, which he cannot hear, but he sees the wire of it vibrating. Stepan ushers them into an inner chamber across which, screening it from the small vestibule, hang heavy black velvet curtains. These men, Signor, are conspirators, one and all. Stepan is too deaf to overhear what they are conspiring about, but he has his suspicions.”

“One moment, Ivan,” interrupted Corsini. “You said that Prince Zouroff has showed this man favours. Is he not loyal to his master?”

“No more loyal than I am, Signor, although, like him, I was born on the villain’s estates. Shall I tell you why? When Stepan was a youngster, before this terrible deafness came upon him, he was in love with my sister. You can now understand that he hates Zouroff with only a few degrees less hatred than myself.”

“It is quite intelligible, Ivan. Please go on.”

“Now I am getting to the point where you come in,” explained the outlaw. The four patient men were still watching the prolonged interview, with their pistols ready to be discharged at a moment’s notice, should this burly stranger show any suspicious movement.

“These men conduct their conversation in French; that much Stepan knows. On the nights of these assemblies, both the vestibule and inner chamber are very dimly illuminated. Stepan could manage to hide me there to overhear. But, as you know, Signor, I speak French very imperfectly myself and it would be impossible for me to follow them. I often have to ask you to repeat your words slowly, to catch the sense.”

Corsini admitted that it was so.

“Now, Signor, here comes the strange thing, a coincidence that must have been fashioned by Providence to direct our ends. In a dim light, you and Stepan are as alike as two peas; it was this resemblance that put the idea into my head. I will not say that in the broad daylight the difference between you might not be discernible.”

Corsini drew a deep breath. He was beginning to have an idea of the scheme which had worked in Ivan’s cunning brain. “You want to dress me up as Stepan, put me in his place, and overhear what they are plotting, so that I can communicate it to the police?”