The Prince Commands: Being Sundry Adventures of Michael Karl, Sometime Crown Prince & Pretender to the Thrown of Morvania (7 page)

For a moment he was tempted to seat himself as was his right, and then he shook his head. It wasn't his right any more, he had given that up as the price of his freedom. With a little sigh, perhaps half of regret, he looked down the long room with its chandeliers of crystal and gold.

The walls were painted with scenes from Morvanian history. Michael Karl had never seen the Hall of Mirrors, but at that moment he was sure, with a fierce pride, that nothing at Versailles could surpass the Throne Room of Rein Castle. He stood for a moment before the throne. Just so he might have stood in the glory of a white and gold hussar's uniform on the day of his coronation had he chosen to. But that, decided Michael Karl sternly, was past. Turning back to the passage he clicked the door shut behind him.

After the Throne Room, the black paneled room shown through the next peephole seemed small and mean for all its long table and seven high-backed chairs. Michael Karl thought, rightly, that it was some sort of a council chamber. There was no one there now and it didn't interest him. He went on, trying to remember where he had seen something which had given him the same queer feeling of power that the throne had impressed upon him. At last he remembered—the Werewolf's cloak-draped chair in the ruined castle. There was the same air of royal splendor and might about it as about the crimson canopied gold throne. Why?

He puzzled over that “why” until the passage came to an abrupt end before him. This time the peephole and the door were in the end instead of at the side.

Michael Karl saw a deep bed hung in crimson and embroidered in gold thread with the royal arms many times repeated. So this was the end of the old duke's bolthole, his bedroom. But, of course, at any sudden night alarm he might save his skin without trouble, and with what he had read and heard about his ancestors almost every one of them might have been driven to saving their skins at any moment. They had been a precious lot, the old Karloffs.

Like the Throne Room the bedroom aroused his curiosity to the point where he could no longer resist it. He stepped out and brought the door almost closed behind him, but wedged his handkerchief in to keep it open. For as yet he didn't know how to open the doors from the outside.

The rug under foot was thick and gray with the royal crest in red at its four corners. There were a couple of chests, museum pieces, and the massive bed where the crimson velvet upper cover had been turned back, as if waiting for the royal occupant, to show the sheerest of satin sheets and pillows trimmed in priceless lace. Michael Karl shuddered. What he had escaped! The somber magnificence of the room was suffocating.

Greatly daring he tiptoed across and pulled open one or the doors an inch or two. It led into a dressing room which was empty. Michael Karl crossed it softly to open the farther door. It was a wardrobe room, holding, to his dazed eyes, what seemed like hundreds and hundreds of all colors and kinds of uniforms. He closed it quickly. So that was more of what he had escaped.

Michael Karl hurried back to the bedroom. The other door he found upon investigation led into a reception room. Without the tall window the afternoon light was fading, and he was dreadfully afraid that it was past four o'clock. He stepped back to the secret door. To his relief it was still open, he had been haunted by the fear that it might have slammed shut in spite of his handkerchief.

Did he or did he not hear some sort of a rustling noise as he stepped into the passage? His nerves were probably on edge from excitement he decided as he hurried down the hall. If it were anything it would only be a rat.

The stairs tired him more than he thought. He would be glad to sit quietly the rest of the evening. Back again outside the panel in Ericson's house he listened until he thought the pounding blood in his head would break his ear drums. Michael Karl had no desire to show Ericson that he had discovered his secret by stepping through the secret door before the American's very eyes. And here, unfortunately, was no peephole.

At last when he could stand it no longer he took a chance and bore down upon the lever. The door swung open. Michael Karl caught a confused glimpse of Jan's coat tails disappearing through the door. The tea tray was on the desk, and the room was empty.

Jan would think he had been out for a moment. With a sigh of relief Michael Karl brushed a cobweb from his shoulder and allowed the panel to click shut behind him. He crossed to the desk and put his afternoon's work carefully away before he sat down with a well-sweetened cup of tea in one hand and his grammar in the other to learn his irregular verb.

“Hello, youngster. Still busy?”

Michael Karl regarded the American with a somewhat glassy eye. “Iagio, iagiar, iagiari,” he repeated.

Ericson reached over and took the book out of Michael Karl's hand.

“See here,” he said, “I don't propose to have my afternoon tea spoiled by you repeating that stuff. Chuck it awhile. Busy all afternoon?”

Was it Michael Karl's imagination or was the American watching him closely? He thought swiftly. “Of course.” After all he had been busy but in a different way.

“Hard work?”

“Not very. Oh, I say,” Michael Karl remembered the green envelope. He reached down at his boot top. Funny, it had been right at the top, maybe it had slipped down though. He thrust his fingers farther down in and felt for the stiff paper. The green envelope was gone! It lay somewhere along his afternoon journeyings. He flushed.

“Yes?” prompted Ericson.

Michael Karl simply couldn't tell him. You couldn't say to a man who had practically saved your life, “See here, that letter you wanted came this morning but I lost it exploring your secret passage.” Michael Karl felt a dull lump of sickness go sliding down in his breast. He had muffed things for fair; his one chance would be to go through the passage again to-night and try to recover the thing. Meanwhile he wanted to get away from the American and his questions.

“What did you want?” asked the American. “Boy, are you ill?”

Michael Karl's face was very white.

“I have a headache. I guess I'll go to bed,” he said miserably. He wanted to get away and think this thing out. Hobbling across the room which seemed miles long he went out, knowing that the American was staring after him.

The stairs went up and up endlessly he thought. And after he reached his room he had the desire to sit down and howl. He felt as he hadn't since the night nine years before when the Colonel had taken a stray dog he had adopted from him.

Chapter
VII

The Council At Work

Michael Karl lay in a tangle of sheets wondering how long it would be before he could attempt the passage again. As he had just crawled into bed and the clock below had just boomed five, it was apt to be several hours.

There was a knock at the door. Michael Karl didn't answer. He must keep up his fiction of being ill and if he kept still perhaps the knocker would think he had fallen asleep and go away.

But that was just what the knocker didn't do. “What's the matter, boy?” Michael Karl, hearing the American's voice, felt more of a beast than ever. Ericson was really concerned, he only called Michael Karl “boy” when he wanted to praise or was worried about him.

“Nothing,” the answer was very much muffled in the bedclothes. The American, standing beside him, caught another scrap of sentence about “headache” and “sleep it off.”

He took Michael Karl firmly by the shoulder and turned him around so he could see the boy's flushed face.

“Don't be foolish. There is something the matter. You were all right up until a few minutes ago. Then after you started to tell me something you developed this sudden headache. What happened this afternoon?”

Michael Karl began to see that he had overplayed his role. It was going to be very hard to lie to the American. And, something inside of him said, he didn't want to anyway.

“Nothing,” he answered again in a small voice which sounded bitterly ashamed in his own ears.

The American shrugged. “Well, if you won't tell me, you won't I suppose. But I did think—”

The way he allowed his sentence to trail off unfinished hurt more than any words could have. Ericson was disappointed in him, and all at once Michael Karl knew that he cared more for the American's friendship than anything else in the world.

“There was something,” he said without meaning to. “I can't tell you now—”

But the American had gone. Michael Karl rolled over. If anything could have made him more miserable, it was that silent going. Ericson hadn't heard what he was going to say. He wished he had never seen that letter or been reckless enough to enter the secret door.

He was not going to think of Ericson he told himself sternly. But why had the American asked about how he had spent his afternoon? He had never done that before.

Suppose, Michael Karl caught his breath, suppose Ericson had known that he had used the passage and was waiting to see if he would “ ‘fess up.” Why didn't he? It couldn't be any worse than it was now and the American would have his letter. It might be frightfully important.

Michael Karl reached for the bell cord and then he shook his head. He would go down and face Ericson in that fatal library. With clumsy lingers he pulled on shirt, breeches and boots and hurried out into the hall.

He sped down the stairs, but the library was empty. Feeling queerly sick as if he had missed a step in the dark he summoned Jan with a pull of the bell cord. He was a coward and he knew it.

“The Dominde Ericson,” he demanded, “where is he?”

The little man seemed troubled. “The Dominde went out,” he answered slowly, but there seemed to be something on his mind. Michael Karl thought he was nerving himself to ask a question, but he couldn't quite make it and he bowed himself out his question unasked.

So Ericson had gone out. Then there was a chance that he might enter the passage, find the letter, and return before Ericson. He almost ran to the wall but this time there was no jutting corner to guide him and he didn't know how to work the releasing spring. Well, he'd have to learn and do it quick.

Michael Karl closed the library door and locked it. Jan and the rest would think that their master had returned and was busy.

He went back to study the wall. The door panel was fifth from the fireplace and sixth from the corner of the room. Five and six made eleven, but that didn't mean anything, or did it? Each panel was carved with a bunch of grapes.

Everything that he had ever read about secret doors suggested that the grapes had something to do with the spring. Michael Karl counted the separate grapes carefully, if there were eleven on the bunch of the secret panel—There were but the same was true of the neighboring panels on either side.

It was like one of those bewildering field fortification problems which the Colonel used to torture him with. Given: one panel, eleven grapes, two leaves and a crooked stem. To find: the spring of a secret door. He pushed and pulled at each one of the grapes and then tried all combinations of grapes and leaves he could think of, but the door remained as fast set as ever.

Then he turned his attention to those panels on either side. It was when he looked at them closely that he discovered his first clue. On the one sixth from the fireplace five of the grapes were carved almost in a straight line, while on the one seventh from the corner of the room the grapes in a line numbered six. Taking a chance he pushed down on the fifth and the sixth grapes. There was a familiar click, and the secret door swung open.

The flashlight was on the shelf where he had left it and he stopped only to snatch it up before he started slowly along the passage and up the stairs allowing his light to penetrate into every corner of the stone steps. He passed the dungeon door and the door of the hall but nowhere did he see the slip of green.

At the throne room he halted and snapped open the door. He must search around the throne itself. The room was dark and he had to shelter the torch with his hand for fear of discovery as he crept about on his knees. Beyond discovering several rolls of gray dust which testified to the palace's poor housekeeping there was nothing for him to see.

Rather frightened—somehow he had been sure that he had dropped the letter by the throne—he crawled back into the passage. There was the rest of the hall and the king's bedroom to go over, he must find that letter.

He came to the end of the passage without seeing so much as a hint of green and hesitated before the door to the bedroom. If he didn't find it here what was he going to do?

The door opened to his touch and he was on the gray carpet again. Over and under the great bed and the chests his torch poked and pried with no result.

“Well, there's the dressing room and the wardrobe yet,” he tried to hearten himself aloud.

The dressing room was empty and he caught his breath as he stood before the wardrobe door. If he didn't find it inside, he was through. He opened the door an inch at a time afraid to look.

The beam from his torch sped along the polished floor until it caught and held a scrap of green paper. Michael Karl snatched the paper up eagerly and thrust it inside his shirt. He remembered at last how he had bent down to count the pairs of boots lined against the wall—it must have been then that he lost it.

Seeing the boots again gave him an idea. Since he had left off the last of his bandages that morn- ing Heinrich's loose boots had become something of a problem. These boots had been made to his measure in preparation for his coming, why not help himself? Michael Karl selected the pair nearest to hand, a pair of tall campaign boots like those the American had cut off him, and sat down on a dressing room chair to pull them on.

They fit perfectly, but he would have to pay for them. He pulled a handful of grimy bills from his pocket. Thank goodness the American had lent him these. Ten gruden would surely be a fair price, anyway it was all he could afford. Laying the money down on the table, he picked up his torch and went out.

Michael Karl slipped through the secret door and was back in the passage, almost light-hearted again when he moved and heard the soft crackle of the paper beneath his shirt. He could face the American with a clear conscience and tell the whole story. Though, he thought with a wry face, the telling of it was going to be hard.

He had time to notice something now which had escaped his attention when he came up. There was a light in the room he had named the Council Chamber, and through the secret door he could hear the murmur of voices.

Standing on tiptoe he looked in. The seven chairs were occupied and the table was snowed under by a heap of official looking papers. Michael Karl's old friend, the Count, presided while the General puffed and blew, his red face redder than ever, at the Count's black elbow. There was a stiff, brown-faced man with the air of a soldier, whose bushy eyebrows and cold eyes reminded Michael Karl of his old terror, the Colonel, at the Count's left. Next to the soldier was an effeminate youngster in a green and gold uniform which did not become his chinless, yellow face and lizard eyes. He did not seem to be paying much attention to the rest but was polishing his too-long nails on his silk handkerchief and eyeing with marked disfavor his neighbor, a roughly dressed fellow whose ragged mustache was lifted now and then in an unpleasant sneer.

“Our friend of the mustache,” thought Michael Karl, “doesn't seem at home with the rest of the bunch. He looks as though he thought they were a bunch of weak-minded children. I bet he's for action and the rest are holding back,”

On the left of the mustached one a tiny figure, so wrapped in a crimson cloak as to be almost invisible, was huddled back in the chair, the long white fingers of one hand playing nervously with a silver chain from which dangled a cross. So the Count had one of the Church to give him council.

The Churchman's neighbor was leaning forward, paying strict attention to something the Count was saying. He had the strength of the soldier and the impatience of the mustached one, but somehow he was different. Michael Karl felt that he was out of place in that assembly. The man's black hair hung untidily over his high tanned forehead, and his mouth was eager. As he listened he agreed or disagreed with violent shakes of his head.

The man beside him was as bored as his neighbor was interested. Like the youth on the other side of the table he was in uniform although this was as drab as the boy's was bright. He was gazing over the heads of all of them humming a little tune. Like the earnest man he was out of place, his face was neither crafty, cruel nor stupid.

Michael Karl wished that he knew who they all were. He began to believe that he had stumbled upon a meeting of the Council of Nobles. Although he strained his ears he could hear only a word now and then until the Count raised his voice and their disputing voices followed.

“It is madness,” said the Count dryly. “We dare not move until we have an heir for the throne.”

The young man looked up from his brilliant nails. “Do I not stand next to the throne?” he asked coolly.

He with the mustache favored the boy with a look of great contempt. “The people can stand much, but they will refuse to stomach you, Marquisa.”

The Marquisa shot him such a glance of pure hatred that even the mustached one appeared a little uneasy.

The Count was speaking again. “Herr Kamp is right. We can not bring any other than a Karloff to the throne no matter how good his claims may be.”

“What is the latest news from the mountains?” demanded the soldier.

The Count answered wearily. “The usual thing, which is nothing. The boy was probably killed long ago. He had no chance in the Werewolf's hands.”

“Then,” said General Oberdamnn heavily, “we are finished.”

“I think,” it was the man in the dull uniform who broke the silence, “that I may now have the pleasure of saying ‘I told you so.’ You should have kept Urlich Karl.”

“Nonsense!” exploded the youth in green.

The man leaned across the table. “How much did you get out of the Laubcrantz mines, Marquisa? And why did you spend a certain weekend in the mountains?”

The Marquisa jumped to his feet. He was very pale, and Michael Karl watched his hand clench as if to strike the speaker.

“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” chided the Count.

The man paid no attention to him. “The time has come,” he spoke slowly, “for a little plain speaking, if,” he paused and looked about him, “if there can be such a thing here. You want the money the American company can pay for the concession of the sulphur mines. That was and is the whole root of this cursed business. Well, because you knew that Urlich Karl wouldn't allow the wealth of the country to become the property of foreigners, because you knew that he would never sign the concession papers, Urlich Karl disappeared, and the Council according to law was proclaimed regent. And then you discovered that only the king may sign concessions. Count Kafner produced the American Prince and lost him to the Werewolf. Now, gentlemen, we are right where we were before. Who is going to sign that concession and make it legal?

“I promised to support your pretender with the weight of my influence because there were no more Karloffs left in Morvania. And while I live,” he stared straight at the Marquisa, “there shall be none but a Karloff on the throne of Morvania. My line has certain old loyalties which can not be broken even by such as I. But lately I have heard things. Count Kafner, did you or did you not order the death of Urlich Karl?”

General Oberdamnn's face was almost purple, and the man with black hair was tearing a sheet of paper before him into bits with a rasping sound. The youth flicked his tongue in and out like a lizard he so resembled. While the sneer of the man with the mustache was more pronounced, and even the Churchman shifted in his chair.

“Did you?” asked the man again. Only the soldier remained unmoved.

The Count seemed to be making a decision. At last he spoke. “I did,” he answered frankness with frankness; “it seemed best at the time. The Prince had certain ideas which were a menace to our plans. But”—he paused—“my orders were not carried out. There was some one before us.”

“Who?”

“The Werewolf. The Prince was stopped that night before he reached my men.”

The man in the dull uniform leaned back in his chair. “At least you can tell the truth when you wish, my dear Count. So the Werewolf has deprived us of two Princes? Well, and what are you going to do about the American concession now? Again I warn you that you can't put it through without the King's signature. And I swear to you,” his voice rang very clear, “I swear to you that the Marquisa Cobentz will never mount the throne while any of my name live. You might as well turn the country over to the Communists and be done with it.”