The Complete Four Just Men (20 page)

‘But the Prince is our guest.’

‘He’s been here too long,’ said the practical and unsentimental commissioner; ‘let him go back to Spain – he’s to be married in a month; let him go home and buy his trousseau or whatever he buys.’

‘Is that a confession that you cannot safeguard him? “

The commissioner looked vexed. ‘I could safeguard a child of six or a staid gentleman of sixty, but I cannot be responsible for a young
man who insists on seeing London without a guide, who takes solitary motorcar drives, and refuses to give us any information beforehand as to his plans for the day – or if he does, breaks them!’

The minister was pacing the apartment with his head bent in thought.

‘As to the Prince of the Escorial,’ he said presently, ‘advice has already been conveyed to His Highness – from the highest quarter – to make his departure at an early date. Tonight, indeed, is his last night in London.’

The Commissioner of Police made an extravagant demonstration of relief.

‘He’s going to the Auditorium tonight,’ he said, rising. He spoke a little pityingly, and, indeed, the Auditorium, although a very first-class music hall, had a slight reputation. ‘I shall have a dozen men in the house and we’ll have his motor-car at the stage door at the end of the show.’

* * *

That night His Highness arrived promptly at eight o’clock and stood chatting pleasantly with the bareheaded manager in the vestibule. Then he went alone to his box and sat down in the shadow of the red velvet curtain.

Punctually at eight there arrived two other gentlemen, also in evening dress. Antonio Selleni was one and Karl Ollmanns was the other. They were both young men, and before they left the motor-car they completed their arrangement.

‘You will occupy the box on the opposite side, but I will endeavour to enter the box. If I succeed – it will be finished. The knife is best;’ there was pride in the Italian’s tone. ‘If I cannot reach him the honour will be yours.’ He had the stilted manner of the young Latin.

The other man grunted. He replied in halting French. ‘Once I shot an egg from between fingers – so,’ he said.

They made their entry separately.

In the manager’s office, Superintendent Falmouth relieved the tedium of waiting by reading the advertisements in an evening newspaper.

To him came the manager with a message that under no circumstances was His Highness in Box A to be disturbed until the conclusion of the performance.

In the meantime Signor Selleni made a cautious way to Box A. He found the road clear, turned the handle softly, and stepped quickly into the dark interior of the box.

Twenty minutes later Falmouth stood at the back of the dress circle issuing instructions to a subordinate.

‘Have a couple of men at the stage door – my God!’

Over the soft music, above the hum of voices, a shot rang out and a woman screamed. From the box opposite the Prince’s a thin swirl of smoke floated.

Karl Ollmanns, tired of waiting, had fired at the motionless figure sitting in the shadow of the curtain. Then he walked calmly out of the box into the arms of two breathless detectives.

‘A doctor!’ shouted Falmouth as he ran. The door of the Box A was locked, but he broke it open.

A man lay on the floor of the box very still and strangely stiff.

‘Why, what – !’ began the detective, for the dead man was bound hand and foot.

There was already a crowd at the door of the box, and he heard an authoritative voice demand admittance.

He looked over his shoulder to meet the eye of the commissioner.

‘They’ve killed him, sir,’ he said bitterly.

‘Whom?’ asked the commissioner in perplexity.

‘His Highness.’

‘His Highness!’ The commissioner’s eyebrows rose in genuine astonishment. ‘Why, the Prince left Charing Cross for the Continent half an hour ago!’

The detective gasped.

‘Then who in the name of fate is this?’

It was M. Menshikoff, who had come in with the commissioner, who answered.

He looked at the face of the stricken man.

‘Antonio Selleni, an anarchist of Milan,’ he reported.

Chapter 9

Don Emanuel builds a house

Carlos Ferdinand Bourbon, Prince of the Escorial, Duke of Buda-Gratz, and heir to three thrones, was to be married, and his many august cousins scattered throughout Europe had a sense of heartfelt relief.

A Prince with admittedly advanced views, an idealist, with Utopian schemes for the regeneration of mankind, and, coming down to the mundane practical side of life, a reckless motorcar driver, an outrageously daring horseman, and possessed of the indifference to public opinion which is equally the equipment of your fool and your truly great man, his marriage was looked forward to throughout the courts of Europe in the light of an international achievement.

Said his Imperial Majesty of Central Europe to the grizzled chancellor: ‘Te Deums – you understand, von Hedlitz? In every church.’

‘It is a great relief,’ said the chancellor, wagging his head thoughtfully.

‘Relief!’ the Emperor stretched himself as though the relief were physical, ‘that young man owes me two years of life. You heard of the London essay?’

The chancellor had heard – indeed, he had heard three or four times – but he was a polite chancellor and listened attentively. His Majesty had the true story-telling faculty, and elaborated the introduction.

‘ . . . if I am to believe his Highness, he was sitting quietly in his box when the Italian entered. He saw the knife in his hand and half rose to grapple with the intruder. Suddenly, from nowhere in particular, sprang three men, who had the assassin on the floor bound and gagged. You would have thought our Carlos Ferdinand would have made an outcry! But not he! He sat stock still, dividing his attention between the stage and the prostrate man and the leader of this mysterious band of rescuers.’

‘The Four Just Men!’ put in the chancellor.

‘Three, so far as I can gather,’ corrected the imperial story-teller. ‘Well, it would appear that this leader, in quite a logical calm, matter-of-fact way, suggested that the prince should leave quietly; that his motor-car was at the stage door, that a saloon had been reserved at Charing Cross, a cabin at Dover, and a special train at Calais.’

His Majesty had a trick of rubbing his knee when anything amused him, and this he did now.

‘Carl obeyed like a child – which seems the remarkably strange point about the whole proceedings – the captured anarchist was trussed and bound and sat on the chair, and left to his own unpleasant thoughts.’

‘And killed,’ said the chancellor.

‘No, not killed,’ corrected the Emperor. ‘Part of the story I tell you is his – he told it to the police at the hospital – no, no, not killed – his friend was not the marksman he thought.’

* * *

Madrid was
en fête
for the wedding of the Prince. His illustrious kinsman, the King of Catalonia and of Aragon, had decreed it, and the people of Spain had a warm corner in their hearts for Carlos of the Escorial.

Therefore armies of workmen emplanted gaily draped masts, and twined garlands of flowers, and built miles of rough unpainted tribunes from whence a friendly populace might view the procession.

It was three days before the royal wedding, and when from all parts of the world visitors were flocking into Madrid, that the Commissioner of Police at Scotland Yard received certain information from a source that had served him so well before.

He summoned Falmouth.

‘Shut the door,’ he said quietly, as the detective entered; then, ‘There’s to be a week’s truce, and I think we can safely slacken down for that period.’

‘What is the cause, sir?’ asked Falmouth.

‘The royal wedding,’ replied the commissioner, twisting in his fingers a soiled slip of paper; ‘the Reds are furious at the trick played on them at the Auditorium; they are going to kill that young man.’

The young Prince had made many friends during his stay in England, and not least this stern colonel of engineers turned policeman.

‘We can do nothing, of course, sir,’ he considered, ‘if you would care to go to Madrid for – a holiday you might be able to pick up a few threads.’

‘I’ll go,’ said Falmouth, after a second’s thought.

‘Good,’ said the chief commissioner, brightening up, ‘er – Falmouth,’ he called as the superintendent was making his departure, ‘you may – er – find your Four Just friends there, by the way.’

Falmouth looked suspiciously at his chief, but the commissioner did not raise his eyes from the paper he was so diligently studying.

* * *

Gonsalez sat at a window writing. Outside, in the narrow Calle de Recoletos, electric cars went jangling by, and, but for these, Madrid was a city of the dead, for it was the hour of the
siesta,
when labour slept in the shade of the limes, and capital dozed in cool dark chambers.

In the high-ceilinged room, Gonsalez sat alone, and on the table before him, was a litter of papers and books which he consulted from time to time. Old registers, yellow plans, and surveyor’s maps.

He wrote rapidly in the curious small cramped hand that usually denotes a life spent in the study of mathematics, and when he paused to consult an authority, it was a momentary pause.

There came a knock at the door and he rose and noiselessly unlocked it. ‘Would the señor see the illustrious Don Emanuel de Silva?’ The señor gravely nodded his head. The fact that illustrious Emanuel was a prosperous builder, fat and important with the self-assurance of the moneyed peasant, did not appeal to Gonsalez as possessing a humorous side. Long ago he had philosophically crystallized his attitude to the world in the sentence, ‘If I am to laugh at the absurdities of life, I must laugh always.’

Don Emanuel found the grave, young-looking man with the face of a priest regarding him respectfully, and that was the attitude that Don Emanuel liked best.

They exchanged the conventional courtesies, and Gonsalez bowed his visitor to a seat.

‘I have to inform your excellency,’ said Don Emanuel elaborately, ‘that your gracious commission is accomplished.’

Gonsalez nodded.

‘The difficulties,’ Emanuel went on impressively, ‘were stupendous, unparalleled, heart-breaking. Labour! with the wedding feasts a few days removed. Ah, you know our people! And then there was material, and the difficulty of carriage – you chose a lonely spot for your shooting house.’

Gonsalez nodded again. He did not resent the ‘thou’ of the other.

‘But I myself, Don Emanuel de Silva – I have the order of Isabel the Catholic, did you know that?’ he thumbed the lapel of his coat where the fat rosette of nobility flamed red and yellow – ‘I, who have erected palaces, I myself superintended the erection! Ah! those labourers of Avila! Señor, I raved, I stormed, I prayed and wept, but they would go their own pace. But night and day – ’ he shrugged his shoulders ecstatically, and ended abruptly, ‘it is finished.’

Again Gonsalez nodded. He opened a drawer at his hand and drew forth a thin sheet of paper.

‘As specified?’ he asked, and tapped the document.

‘Even better than as specified,’ breathed the builder with that quality of awe in his voice that comes to the man recounting his own achievements.

Gonsalez unlocked another drawer and brought out a thick pad of notes. He slipped off the rubber band that bound them together and deftly counted a number. These he laid on the table and recounted.

‘Fifteen thousand pesetas,’ he said. ‘I am grateful to you, Don Emanuel,’ and pushed the notes toward the builder.

There were some nourishing phrases of mutual satisfaction, a flourishing signature written across the King of Catalonia’s face, yet another flourish of genteel wishes, and the builder prepared to take his departure.

‘ . . . it has been a great happiness to serve your excellency, but . . . naturally my workmen asked why this strange hut was built . . . built into the side of the hill itself, and lined with thick logs of wood – I must warn you that it will be damp, for the rains are heavy and the soil is treacherous . . . ’ He was aching to ask questions.

All this Gonsalez saw.

‘You are discreet, señor?’ he asked quietly.

‘As death,’ answered the builder eagerly, if ambiguously. ‘No workman knows for whom this hut, cave, call it what you will, is built – I have thought a thousand reasons.’

‘And you employed only workmen of Avila?’

‘That is so – it was your instruction; it would have been cheaper to have taken my own men.’

‘Then,’ said Gonsalez slowly, ‘it will be well to take you into my confidence, Señor Don Emanuel – I am using this building for the same purpose as you used the little hut on the Sierras – you have forgotten, perhaps? You know the road that leads across the mountains of Tarifa?’

So far he got, noting the effect of his words. Then the stout prosaic builder sprang backward with a strangled cry, his eyes aglare with terror and his flabby face grey.

‘I – I – ’ he stammered.

Gonsalez waved his hands as though dismissing the subject. ‘I do not desire to remind you of the indiscretions of your youth – no man would recognize in Don Emanuel de Silva – why did you take the Jewish name? – the sometime – ’

‘Enough,’ gasped the other. ‘Give me the money and let me go.’

Gonsalez handed the packet of notes to the trembling man.

‘I may rely upon your discretion?’ he asked calmly.

‘To the death,’ whispered the other, and left the room.

Gonsalez turned to his desk again with a quiet smile on his lips. Later he took a locked notebook from the desk and entered –

Emanuel Mandurez, smuggler: murdered Civil Guard 1886 at Guella in the district of Malaga. Afterwards disappeared;
believed to be dead, but known to have settled down in Estremadura, where he became a successful business man. Dark hair, little beard, nose aquiline, cheek-bones high and large, strong jaw, eyes cold; projecting frontal eminence.’

Gonsalez was adding to that interesting collection of criminal data which was afterwards to appear in the form of that widely discussed book
Crime Facets.

This done he locked the book and methodically replaced it, then resumed his writing.

Some day I should like to devote time to the study of Leon Gonsalez, dilettante, scientist, and philosopher; that I am so constantly discovering him, in the process of making this book, engaged in work which is apart from the purpose of the story is disconcerting. Luckily his present occupation carries the story forward, but once when tracing the movements of the Four (it was in recording the story of the Silver God of M’Beta), I, arriving hot-foot at the heels of Leon, in a state of excitement natural to the biographer whose subject is in mortal danger, found myself chilled by the spectacle of a fugitive from death, pausing to gather material for his history of the Borgias.

Gonsalez wrote on steadily until a carriage clock before him pointed to the hour of two.

Then he cleared away the litter of papers, locked his manuscripts into a box, lit a cigarette, and sauntered forth into the white hot glare of day. He boarded a tram-car, and rode along the Alcala till he reached the Calle de Sevilla, then dropped off, and crossed the road to the Café Fornos.

He found Manfred and Poiccart sitting at one of the tables at the far end of the dining-room, and, sitting down, ordered his lunch.

‘Courlander?’ he asked.

‘Courlander is – well,’ said Manfred, smiling.

They carried on their conversation in English.

‘And the others?’

Manfred stroked his pointed beard thoughtfully.

‘The others are here,’ he said slowly; ‘but the work is to be done by local men – that is a difficulty.’

Leon frowned.

‘That sounds dangerous – the local men are few, and so far as I know, on one pretext or another, they have been arrested as a precautionary measure – Marshel, and Sumarez, and – ’

You needn’t enumerate them,’ said Poiccart shortly; ‘none of those are likely to be employed – the Red Hundred has gone to Catalonia for its tool.’

Leon made no reply, but his eyes wandered absently about the crowded room.

‘Tell me who will be the man,’ he said at length, with a shade of grimness in his voice, ‘and I will show you the place.’

The others regarded him attentively.

‘There is only one spot in the whole of Madrid where such an attempt could be made with any hope of success,’ Gonsalez went on. ‘I’ve spent the morning with official survey maps, measuring the width of streets. The Alcala is too broad. The Puerta del Sol too vast . . . ’ he took street by street to show their disabilities. ‘The Calle Mayor – is an ideal spot. Just beyond the Plaza del Mayor, where the street narrows, and high houses overhang the tiny thoroughfare and a man can drop a bomb on the Royal carriage as easily as I could toss a biscuit on the floor.’

He stirred the soup that had been placed before him.

‘Early this morning I promenaded – went to seek a place of vantage for the procession. There is a building on the identical spot, let off in flats. The first floor is irreproachable as to character. A countess and a marquess, and an official of the English Embassy – the second floor, bourgeois, but beyond suspicion. The top floor sub-let to well-known and easily identified local people, except one room, occupied in normal times by Genius in the shape of an artist.’

They listened without comment.

‘To him comes a beautiful lady who is staying at the Hôtel de la Paix. Imagine our artist, hat in hand to the glorious foreigner who desires accommodation for her brother, arriving tonight by the train from Barcelona. Accommodation for
Monsieur le frère
at the Hôtel de la Paix is unprocurable – could she rent his room for a week? She paid well, and the artist, with a fine contempt for the pageantry of royalty, surrenders his right to view the procession from his window for a consideration of a thousand francs.’

Manfred nodded.

‘He arrives tonight – and the woman?’

‘
“Slender and dark, with adorable eyes”,’ quoted Leon; ‘
“beautiful as the shadow of a summer valley”.’

Manfred smiled.

‘The artist’s description?’ he paused and looked at Poiccart; then, ‘The Woman of Gratz,’ he said soberly.