The Secret Witness

Renwick tried to think as Goritz would think. Why had Goritz come by the circuitous road over the Romanja Plain? Surely not to go north by way of Serbian territory. Goritz had a reason. The shortest road—the least traveled road, the road which avoided Brod, the main gateway into Bosnia, was the road by which he would pass through the rural districts of eastern Hungary, proceeding all the while along the level country of the Danube or the Thiess, reaching Silesia—the long tail of the German Empire which thrust out between Poland and Galicia.

Renwick paced the room with quick strides. The theory hung together. And given this to be the plan of Goritz, had he succeeded in carrying it out? Possibly. But Hungary was wide. It was five hundred miles at least from Sarajevo to the Carpathians, and much may happen to an automobile in five hundred miles. Marishka, Yeva told him, had fainted. It would have been inhuman for Goritz to have taken her such a distance without a chance for rest or recuperation. Goritz! Every theory that Renwick devised seemed to fall to the ground when he thought of him. The cleverness of the man was amazing. And what lay behind his cleverness? What of decency or what of deviltry lay behind the mask that Renwick had seen? The man had treated her with consideration—for Marishka had not complained of his attitude toward her—until there in the Turkish house, when he had seized her by the arm....

Deliberation had gained something—only a theory as yet, but if a theory, one which stood the acid of inspection from every angle.

Renwick's task seemed hopeless, but that spirit of persistence, of which Marishka had once spoken, was one of the dominating characteristics of his nature. Given a sound purpose, a worthy desire, he was not easily dismayed, and desperate as his chances of finding Marishka now seemed, it did not enter his head to give up and seek his way—as he might easily have done—to the Serbian border and so to safety. Marishka had forgiven him! During the long days of his convalescence the memory of their brief joyous moments in the Turkish house had renewed and invigorated him. He had heard her calling to him across the distances—despairingly, but hoping against hope that the man she loved was still alive. It thrilled him to think that he could still come to her—if she would wait—come even from the grave and answer her call to him—the call of one brave spirit to another, which needed no material fact of physical utterance to make itself heard. He would find her—not soon perhaps, but all in good time. Providence had not saved him miraculously for failure, and it was written that he should succeed. The gods would be with him now and arm him against disaster. He rejoiced to find how strong he felt today. All the tremors had gone out of his nerves, and he was ready to begin his journey whenever it should be time. But first he wanted to question Selim—Goritz had passed this house—there was a chance …

Selim Ali returned from the fields at supper time, greeted Renwick with bluff heartiness, and together they sat at a substantial meal of Jungfern-Braten, over which Selim's wife Zaidee presided. In the light of events, Renwick willingly reconstructed his estimate of Selim. Last night Renwick would have been suspicious of the angel Gabriel, but with the courage of the sunlight had come confidence in himself, and faith in his star. It seemed that Zubeydeh had told her cousin nothing of Renwick's nationality or predicament, but that he was a friend who had gotten into a trouble, and that the police of Sarajevo were looking for him. Selim was to shelter him and speed him upon his way. Selim asked many questions which Renwick answered as he chose, biding his own time. Yes, he, Stefan Thomasevics, had gotten into trouble in Sarajevo, all because of a woman (and this Renwick knew to be true), and desired to leave the country. He did not wish to go to the war and he would not fight against the Serbians who were not in the wrong. He, Thomasevics, wished to go north to Budapest where he would work in the factories and amass a fortune. Selim wagged his head wisely and laughed.

"You must work long, my young friend, and spend nothing," he said. "Come. You're a strong fellow—a little weak just now from smoking too many cigarettes and staying up too late at night. But I will give you work here upon my farm and pay you well."

But Thomasevics shook his head.

"Thank you. You are kind, but I have already made up my mind."

Selim shrugged and lighted his long pipe.

"As you will, but I have made you a good offer."

"A good offer. Yes. Which I would accept were my mind not set upon other matters." He paused and then, "Selim, you are a good fellow. I will tell you the truth. I would like to stay with you, but I am searching for something which may take me to the ends of the earth."

"That is a long way, my friend."

"Yes, a long way, when one doesn't know which way to go."

"Ah, that is even longer. There are but two things which will take a man like you so far as that—vengeance, or a woman."

Renwick smiled.

"I see that you are wise as well as clever. I go for both, Selim."

"A woman? Young?"

"Yes."

"Beautiful?"

"Yes."

"And the vengeance–"

"That shall be beautiful also."

Selim smoked his pipe solemnly and as Renwick hesitated,

"Will it please you to tell me more?" he asked.

Renwick deliberated.

"Yes. I am groping in the dark. And the darkness begins at Sarajevo. She left there in the night—with him."

"Ah, a man! Of course."

"They fled by the Visegrader Gate and they came upon this road, past this very house."

Selim shrugged.

"At night! It is a pity. I might have seen them but I sleep soundly."

"There are no other houses for a long distance in either direction. They might have stopped here."

"But they did not!" And as Renwick gave up despairingly, "You see, I worked very hard all last week and slept like a dead man."

"It was not last week," said Renwick gloomily, "almost two months ago–"

"Ah, as to that–" and Selim shrugged again. "One has no recollection of things that happened before the Hegira."

Of course it was hopeless. Renwick had only unraveled the thread to see how far it would lead. Here it broke off, and so he relinquished it. Rather wearily he sank back into his chair and gazed out of the window into the sunset.

Selim's wife entered with a tray to take away the dishes. She wore no yashmak, for Selim, though professing the Moslem faith, was somewhat lax in carrying out its articles. He did not believe in running a good thing into the ground, he said. So Zaidee came and went as she chose.

"I have been listening from the kitchen," she said with a smile. "It is always a woman that makes the trouble, nicht wahr?"

"Then how can Paradise be Paradise?" grunted Selim.

"Thou wouldst get on poorly without us, just the same," said Zaidee demurely.

"But I should not go to the ends of the earth, like Stefan, here."

"Thou! Thou dost not know the meaning of love. I wish I could help him."

"It is impossible," sneered Selim.

"But it is interesting," sighed Zaidee. "She went away with another man—that is cruel!"

"Perhaps Stefan is better off than he knows," said Selim.

"Selim," said Zaidee with great solemnity, "thou art a pig!"

"Pig I am not."

"Pig!" she repeated with more acerbity.

Renwick was in no mind to take a part in their quarrel and was moving toward the door of the adjoining room when a phrase caught his ear.

"And thou art a magpie, Zaidee, always croaking. It will get us into trouble, thy talking. I have but to set my foot outside the house and thy tongue wags like the clothing of a scarecrow."

"I have done no harm," she said angrily.

"It is no affair of thine—they will come again asking questions. I have no humor to talk with any of that accursed breed."

"What harm can come—if we tell the truth–?"

"Bah—what do the police care about the truth?"

Renwick turned and reëntered the room.

"The police!" he said quickly.

"Zaidee talks too much. A month ago in my absence they came inquiring."

"And what wouldst thou have said?" cried Zaidee angrily. "To shelter a sick woman is no crime–"

"I should have said nothing."

"And what happened?" asked Renwick eagerly, now aware of the bone that chance had thrown in the way of a starving man.

"In the middle of the night which followed the day upon which the Archduke was assassinated–"

"And whose tongue is wagging now—thou magpie?" put in Zaidee spitefully.

"Be quiet–" said Selim.

Renwick glared at the woman as though he would have liked to choke her, and she subsided.

"An automobile stopped at my door. There were three people, an Austrian officer, a lady who was sick, and a man who drove the car. They asked admittance on account of the Excellency who was sick. I could not refuse, for they said that they would pay me well."

Selim paused, hunting in his pockets for a match to light his pipe, and Renwick, containing his patience with difficulty, stood, his hands clenched behind him, waiting. They had stopped here—at this very house.

"And then–?" he asked calmly.

"We put the Excellency to bed–"

"I did," said Zaidee.

"Bah! What matter? They were bound upon a journey over the mountains to Vlasenica, where the Excellency was taking his wife for the waters."

"His wife," mumbled Renwick.

"They traveled at night to avoid the heat of midday, but the sudden sickness of the Excellency made further travel impossible."

"The officer Excellency lied–!" said Zaidee.

"Be quiet, thou–!" roared Selim.

"Let Zaidee speak. I am no policeman," said Renwick.

"What interest is it of yours?"

Renwick caught the man by the shoulders with both hands and glared at him.

"Merely because this is the woman I seek."

"An Excellency like—and you?"

"What I am does not matter. A hundred kroner if you tell the truth–"

"A hundred kroner——!"

His eyes searched Renwick eagerly, and then, "There is little I would not tell for a hundred kroner, but–"

"I am not of the police, I tell you. This lady is an Austrian noblewoman in danger."

"And the Austrian officer–"

"Is no Austrian, but an enemy of Austria–"

"A Serb–?"

"No."

"Who are you?"

"What does that matter?"

Selim shrugged. "Nothing perhaps—still–"

"And if I tell you, you will keep silent?"

"A hundred kroner will make me dumb."

"I am an Englishman," said Renwick after a moment.

"Ah—a spy!"

"No. A prisoner who has escaped."

"That is better."

"Speak!"

And as the man still hesitated Renwick unpinned the notes in his pocket and tossed one of them upon the table, in front of him. Selim took it eagerly.

"I am quite ready to believe anything you say–"

But Renwick seized his wrist in a strong grip. "You have not spoken yet."

"I will speak, then," said Zaidee. "Selim is a fool to hesitate. I nursed the Excellency for two nights and a day. I cooked her eggs and chicken and soup, but she would not eat. She was very much frightened."

"The man—he treated her badly?"

"Oh, no. Very politely, and paid us for our service, but the Excellency was frightened. I was kind to her, and she was grateful, but she spoke nothing of where she was going. Perhaps she did not know. But it was not to take the waters."

"You, Selim," broke in Renwick, "you heard the men speaking? What did they say?"

He shrugged.

"How can I remember? They planned their journey with a map, but I had no interest–"

"What map–?"

"A map—how should I know–"

"Of Hungary–"

"Hungary!" And then scratching his head, "Yes, it must have been of Hungary, for they spoke of Budapest–"

"And what else? The Danube—the Thiess?"

"I do not remember?"

"You must–!" Renwick's fingers closed again upon the hundred kroner note which Selim had put back on the table.

"What good would it do if I lied to you?"

"Think, man, think! They made marks upon the map?"

"Marks? Oh, yes—marks."

"Up and down, the way they were sitting?"

"Yes. I think so. By the beard of the Prophet! You can't expect a fellow to remember such things as this for two months."

"Did they speak of mountains?"

"Mountains–!" Selim scratched his head again. "How should I know?"

"The Carpathians?"

"The Carpathians. Perhaps. Ah–"

Selim tapped his brow with a stubby forefinger.

"There was a name they spoke many times. It was a strange name."

"What?"

"I can't think."

"Zaidee, you heard?" Renwick asked.

"I was listening, but I could not understand."

"Was it a city?"

"I do not know."

"Was it Cracow? Kaschau? Agram? Was it Brünn?"

But they made no sign.

"Think!" said Renwick. "At the top of the map—away from them—near the edge?"

Selim shrugged hopelessly. "I can't remember," he said.

Renwick despaired.

"Was the map large?"

"Yes. I remember that. It covered this table–"

"Ah—then you can tell me how they stood?"

"Yes. I can tell you that."

He got up and placed himself at the side of the table. "The Excellency was here—the map spread out–"

"Did he lean to the left or to the right?"

"He leaned well forward with both elbows upon the table—straight forward—yes—almost across—a pencil in his hand—the other was pointing. The lamp was just there–" pointing to the left center of the table.

"The lamp was on the map?"

"Yes—to keep it in position–"

"On the left-hand side?"

"Yes."

"And they didn't move the lamp?"

"No. It remained there until they raised it to take the map away."

"I understand. And they made marks up and down with a pencil?"

Selim shrugged.

"It is what I think, merely."

"And the name was–?"

"How can one be sure of a name? It is a wonder just now that I can remember my own. Had I known what was to happen–" And he shrugged and dropped wearily again into his chair.

"And the police—? What has Zaidee said to the police?"

"Merely that the Excellencies were here—in this house."

"The police are coming again?"

"I do not know. It would seem that they have forgotten."

"And if they come, you will speak?"

"The hundred kroner will make me dumb."

"And Zaidee?"

"I will not speak."

"Nothing of me, you understand. I am but Stefan Thomasevics–"

"It is understood."

"And you remember nothing more?"

"Nothing."

"You are sure. The Excellency left no message—no note–?"

"Nothing."

Renwick pushed the hundred kroner note toward Selim and straightened.

"You have done me a service, Selim. They have gone to the east of the Tatra–"

"Tatra!" suddenly shouted Selim triumphantly. "It is the name!"

"Are you sure?" asked Renwick excitedly.

"Yes. Tatra—that is it. They spoke of it for half an hour. Eh—Zaidee?"

"Yes. It is the name."

Renwick paced the floor with long steps.

"Selim," he said at last, "it is now dark. I must go at once."

"Tomorrow."

"Tonight. The stars are out."

He moved to the door and peered out.

"You will keep silent?" he asked.

"Have I not promised?" said Selim.

He caught them both by the hand.

"Allah will bless you."

"A hundred kroner—that is blessing enough for one day, Stefan Thomasevics," he laughed.

"Adieu!" said Renwick, and walked bravely off into the starlight.

CHAPTER XXI

AN IMPERSONATION

At least he now had a goal—"the center of the map, near the top"—the Tatra region by which Goritz had passed (if he had not been intercepted) into Galicia and so into Germany. Aside from the value of Selim's information, one other fact stood out. The secret service men who had visited Selim a month ago had not returned. Did this mean that Herr Windt had already succeeded in closing the door of escape? The passes through the Carpathians could of course be easily guarded and closed, for there were few of them accessible to traffic by automobile. Was Renwick's goal, after all, to be there and not beyond? He had put in one summer in the Tatra region with Captain Otway of the Embassy, and he knew the district well,—a country of mountain villages, feudal castles, and rugged roads. Otway had been interested in the military problems of the Austro-Hungarian empire, and Renwick remembered the importance of the Tatra as a natural barrier to Russian ambitions. The shortest automobile road into Silesia lay to the east of the Tatra range—and the passes through the Carpathians at this point were few and well known. By process of elimination, Renwick had at last assured himself that his first theory was tenable, for Selim had confirmed it. A hundred conjectures flashed into the Englishman's mind as he trudged onward, to be one by one dismissed and relegated to the limbo of uncertainty. But assuming that Selim had told the truth, Renwick had found the trail, and would follow wherever it might lead him, to its end.

His idea of traveling afoot by night and of hiding by day, at least for the first part of his journey, was born of the desire to leave nothing to chance. His own capture meant internment until the end of the war, or possibly an exchange for some Austrian in England. But they should not catch him! Concealed in his belt he wore the American revolver, and carried some cartridges which Zubeydeh had restored to him.

The weather fortunately had been fine, and the days and nights in the open were rapidly restoring him to strength. The discomfort at the wound in his body which had bothered him for a few days had disappeared. He was well. And with health came hope, faith even, in the star of his fortunes. It took him two weeks to reach Polishka, below which he crossed the Save at night in a boat which he found moored to the bank, and daylight found him at a small village through which a railroad ran north towards the plains of the Danube. Here he paused dead-tired for food and rest.

The innkeeper, who spoke German fairly well, swallowed Renwick's story, his taste somewhat stimulated by the sight of the ten-kroner piece which the Englishman used in paying for his breakfast.

But the time had now come for the execution of a bold plan which for some days and nights Renwick had been turning over and over in his mind. It was a good plan, he thought, a brave plan which stood the test of argument pro and con. The British Embassy in many of its investigations during times of peace,—investigations of a purely personal or financial nature,—had been in the habit of calling in the services of one Carl Moyer, an Austrian who ran a private inquiry bureau in Vienna. He was an able man, not directly connected with the secret service department of the Empire, but frequently brought into consultation upon matters outside the pale of politics. Renwick's interest in Moyer had been limited to the share they had both taken in some inquiries as to the standing of a Russian nobleman who had approached the Ambassador with a scheme of a rather dubious character. But a physical resemblance to Moyer, which had been the subject of frequent jokes with Otway, had now given Renwick a new and very vital interest in the personality of the man which had nothing to do with their business relations. Moyer was thinner than Renwick, and not so tall, but their features were much alike. When at first the idea of an impersonation had come to Renwick, he had rejected it as dangerous, but the notion obsessed him. The very boldness of the project was in its favor. He could now move freely along the railroads and if one ignored the hazard of meeting the man himself or someone who knew him intimately, he could pursue his object of following the trail of Captain Goritz with a brave front which would defy suspicion. True, he would have no papers and no credentials, but this, too, was a part of the guise of a man who might be moving upon a secret mission. Carl Moyer, disguised as an Austrian of the laboring class, moving from Bosnia to the Carpathians—what could be more natural?

As Renwick ate his breakfast in the small inn at Otok, he came to a sudden decision to put this bold plan into practice. And so, exhibiting another ten-kroner piece, he made known his wishes to the innkeeper. He was a Bosnian, he said, but in Hungary he did not wish to attract attention by wearing his native costume. In parts of Hungary there was a feeling that the Bosnians who lived near the Serbian border were not loyal to the Emperor and this, it had been said, might make it difficult for him to obtain employment. His purse was not large but if his host would procure for him a suit of western clothing, a coat, a pair of trousers, a shirt, a cravat, and a soft hat, he, Thomasevics, would offer his Bosnian clothing in exchange and do what was fair in the matter of money. The train from Britzka did not go north for an hour. Would it be possible to find these things in so short a time? The innkeeper regarded the worn and mud-stained garments of his guest rather dubiously, but the terms of the offer in the matter of money having been made clear, the transformation was accomplished without difficulty and Renwick boarded the train rather jubilant at the celerity and speed of his journey. By nightfall, with luck, he would be across the Danube and well within the borders of Hungary, mingling in crowds where all trace of his identity would be lost. He spent most of his afternoon on the train trying to recall the mannerisms of the man Moyer, a trick of gesture, a drawl and a shrug which he thought he could manage. Carl Moyer he now was, on a mission from Bosnia to the North, in which the better to disguise himself he was permitting his hair and beard to grow.

Hut success had made him over-confident, for at the Bahnhof at Zombor where he had to change into a train for Budapest, something happened which drove all thought from his head save that of escape from the predicament into which his imprudence had plunged him.

He was sitting upon a bench on the platform waiting for his train when a man approached and sat beside him. Renwick needed no second glance to reassure himself as to the fellow's identity. He was Spivak, Windt's man, the fellow who had kept guard on the cabin at Konopisht. The Englishman feared to get up and walk away, for that might attract attention. So he sat, slouched carelessly, his hat pulled well down over his eyes, awaiting what seemed to be the inevitable. Spivak—one of Windt's men sent of course to Zombor, one of the important railway junctions, to watch all arrivals from the south. Renwick had been ready with his story when he debarked from the train but there had been a crowd and he had been in the last carriage. Renwick's mind worked rapidly, and to an imagination already prescient of disaster, the man seemed to be inspecting him. As Spivak's chin lifted, Renwick faced him squarely. Their glances met—and passed. Renwick calmly took out a cigarette and bending his head forward lighted it coolly, aware that the man was saying something in Hungarian.

Renwick made a gesture of incomprehension, wondering meanwhile how he could kill the man on the crowded platform without attracting observation.

"The train from the south was crowded today," said Spivak in German.

"Crowded? Yes."

"Do you come from Brod or Britzka?"

"From Britzka," said Renwick without hesitation, and then with the courage of desperation—

"I have seen you before," he went on, calmly puffing at his cigarette.

"I have, I think, the same impression."

"Your name is Spivak—of the Secret Service–"

"You–"

"My name is Carl Moyer."

It was a gambler's chance that Renwick took. If Spivak intimately knew the man—but he did not and the effrontery disarmed him.

"You are Carl Moyer? I must have seen you," he muttered. "I have been in Vienna a little—with Herr Windt, but I am of the Hungarian branch. You have been in Sarajevo?"

"Yes," said Renwick easily following out a wild plan that had come into his mind. "I have been employed by the Baroness Racowitz to find the Countess Marishka Strahni."

"Ah, I see. It has come to that!" And then, regarding his companion with a new interest, "When did you come from Sarajevo?"