The Czar\'s Spy - William Le Queux
THE CZAR'S SPY
_The Mystery of a Silent Love_
By CHEVALIER WILLIAM LE QUEUX
_Author of "The Closed Book," Etc._
1905.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I. HIS BRITANNIC MAJESTY'S SERVICE
II. WHY THE SAFE WAS OPENED
III. THE HOUSE "OVER THE WATER"
IV. IN WHICH THE MYSTERY INCREASES
V. CONTAINS CERTAIN CONFIDENCES
VI. THE GATHERING OF THE CLOUDS
VII. CONTAINS A SURPRISE
VIII. LIFE'S COUNTER-CLAIM
IX. STRANGE DISCLOSURES ARE MADE
X. I SHOW MY HAND
XI. THE CASTLE OF THE TERROR
XII. "THE STRANGLER"
XIII. A DOUBLE GAME AND ITS CONSEQUENCES
XIV. HER HIGHNESS IS INQUISITIVE
XV. JUST OFF THE STRAND
XVI. MARKED MEN
XVII. THE TRUTH ABOUT THE "LOLA"
XVIII. CONTAINS ELMA'S STORY
CONCLUSION
CHAPTER I
HIS BRITANNIC MAJESTY'S SERVICE
"There was a mysterious affair last night, signore."
"Oh!" I exclaimed. "Anything that interests us?"
"Yes, signore," replied the tall, thin Italian Consular-clerk, speaking
with a strong accent. "An English steam yacht ran aground on the Meloria
about ten miles out, and was discovered by a fishing-boat who brought
the news to harbor. The Admiral sent out two torpedo-boats, which
managed after a lot of difficulty to bring in the yacht safely, but the
Captain of the Port has a suspicion that the crew were trying to make
away with the vessel."
"To lose her, you mean?"
The faithful Francesco, whose English had mostly been acquired from
sea-faring men, and was not the choicest vocabulary, nodded, and, true
Tuscan that he was, placed his finger upon his closed lips, indicative
of silence.
"Sounds curious," I remarked. "Since the Consul went away on leave
things seem to have been humming--two stabbing affrays, eight drunken
seamen locked up, a mutiny on a tramp steamer, and now a yacht being
cast away--a fairly decent list! And yet some stay-at-home people
complain that British consuls are only paid to be ornamental! They
should spend a week here, at Leghorn, and they'd soon alter their
opinion."
"Yes, they would, signore," responded the thin-faced old fellow with a
grin, as he twisted his fierce gray mustache. Francesco Carducci was a
well-known character in Leghorn; interpreter to the Consulate, and
keeper of a sailor's home, an honest, good-hearted, easy-going fellow,
who for twenty years had occupied the same position under half a dozen
different Consuls. At that moment, however, there came from the outer
office a long-drawn moan.
"Hulloa, what's that?" I enquired, startled.
"Only a mad stoker off the _Oleander_, signore. The captain has brought
him for you to see. They want to send him back to his friends at
Newcastle."
"Oh! a case of madness!" I exclaimed. "Better get Doctor Ridolfi to see
him. I'm not an expert on mental diseases."
My old friend Frank Hutcheson, His Britannic Majesty's Vice-Consul at
the port of Leghorn, was away on leave in England, his duties being
relegated to young Bertram Cavendish, the pro-Consul. The latter,
however, had gone down with a bad touch of malaria which he had picked
up in the deadly Maremma, and I, as the only other Englishman in
Leghorn, had been asked by the Consul-General in Florence to act as
pro-Consul until Hutcheson's return.
It was in mid-July, and the weather was blazing in the glaring
sun-blanched Mediterranean town. If you know Leghorn, you probably know
the Consulate with its black and yellow escutcheon outside, a large,
handsome suite of huge, airy offices facing the cathedral, and
overlooking the principal piazza, which is as big as Trafalgar Square,
and much more picturesque. The legend painted upon the door, "Office
hours, 10 to 3," and the green persiennes closed against the scorching
sun give one the idea of an easy appointment, but such is certainly not
the case, for a Consul's life at a port of discharge must necessarily
be a very active one, and his duties never-ending.
Carducci had left me to the correspondence for half an hour or so, and I
confess I was in no mood to write replies in that stifling heat,
therefore I sat at the Consul's big table, smoking a cigarette and
stretched lazily in my friend's chair, resolving to escape to the cool
of England as soon as he returned in the following week. Italy is all
very well for nine months in the year, but Leghorn is no place for the
Englishman in mid-July. My thoughts were wandering toward the English
lakes, and a bit of grouse-shooting with my uncle up in Scotland, when
the faithful Francesco re-entered, saying--
"I've sent the captain and his madman away till this afternoon, signore.
But there is an English signore waiting to see you."
"Who is he?"
"I don't know him. He will give no name, but wants to see the Signor
Console."
"All right, show him in," I said lazily, and a few moments later a tall,
smartly-dressed, middle-aged Englishman, in a navy serge yachting suit,
entered, and bowing, enquired whether I was the British Consul.
When he had seated himself I explained my position, whereupon he said--
"I couldn't make much out of your clerk. He speaks so brokenly, and I
don't know a word of Italian. But perhaps I ought to first introduce
myself. My name is Philip Hornby," and he handed me a card bearing the
name with the addresses "Woodcroft Park, Somerset ------ Brook's." Then
he added: "I am cruising on board my yacht, the _Lola_, and last night
we unfortunately went aground on the Meloria. I have a new captain whom
I engaged a few months ago, and he seems an arrant fool. Very
fortunately for us a fishing-boat saw our plight and gave the alarm at
port. The Admiral sent out two torpedo-boats and a tug, and after about
three hours they managed to get us off."
"And you are now in harbor?"
"Yes. But the reason I've called is to ask you to do me a favor and
write me a letter of thanks in Italian to the Admiral, and one to the
Captain of the Port--polite letters that I can copy and send to them.
You know the kind of thing."
"Certainly," I replied, the more interested in him on account of the
curious suspicion that the port authorities seemed to entertain. He was
evidently a gentleman, and after I had been with him ten minutes I
scouted the idea that he had endeavored to cast away the _Lola_.
I took down a couple of sheets of paper and scribbled the drafts of two
letters couched in the most elegant phraseology, as is customary when
addressing Italian officialdom.
"Fortunately, I left my wife in England, or she would have been terribly
frightened," he remarked presently. "There was a nasty wind blowing all
night, and the fool of a captain seemed to add to our peril by every
order he gave."
"You are alone, then?"
"I have a friend with me," was the answer.
"And how many of the crew are there?"
"Sixteen, all told."
"English, I suppose?"
"Not all. I find French and Italians are more sober than English, and
better behaved in port."
I examined him critically as he sat facing me, and the mere fact of his
desire to send thanks to the authorities convinced me that he was a
well-bred gentleman. He was about forty-five, with a merry round,
good-natured face, red with the southern sun, blue eyes, and a short
fair beard. His countenance was essentially that of a man devoted to
open-air sport, for it was slightly furrowed and weather-beaten as a
true yachtsman's should be. His speech was refined and cultivated, and
as we chatted he gave me the impression that as an enthusiastic lover of
the sea, he had cruised the Mediterranean many times from Gibraltar up
to Smyrna. He had, however, never before put into Leghorn.
After we had arranged that his captain should come to me in the
afternoon and make a formal report of the accident, we went out together
across the white sunny piazza to Nasi's, the well-known pastry-cook's,
where it is the habit of the Livornese to take their ante-luncheon
vermouth.
The more I saw of Hornby, the more I liked him. He was chatty and witty,
and treated his accident as a huge joke.
"We shall be here quite a week, I suppose," he said as we were taking
our vermouth. "We're on our way down to the Greek Islands, as my friend
Chater wants to see them. The engineer says there's something strained
that we must get mended. But, by the way," he added, "why don't you dine
with us on board to-night? Do. We can give you a few English things that
may be a change to you."
This invitation I gladly accepted for two reasons. One was because the
suspicions of the Captain of the Port had aroused my curiosity, and the
other was because I had, honestly speaking, taken a great fancy to
Hornby.
The captain of the _Lola_, a short, thickset Scotsman from Dundee, with
a barely healed cicatrice across his left cheek, called at the Consulate
at two o'clock and made his report, which appeared to me to be a very
lame one. He struck me as being unworthy his certificate, for he was
evidently entirely out of his bearings when the accident occurred. The
owner and his friend Chater were in their berths asleep, when suddenly
he discovered that the vessel was making no headway. They had, in fact,
run upon the dangerous shoal without being aware of it. A strong sea was
running with a stiff breeze, and although his seamanship was poor, he
was capable enough to recognize at once that they were in a very
perilous position.
"Very fortunate it wasn't more serious, sir," he added, after telling me
his story, which I wrote at his dictation for the ultimate benefit of
the Board of Trade.
"Didn't you send up signals of distress?" I Inquired.
"No, sir--never thought of it."
"And yet you knew that you might be lost?" I remarked with recurring
suspicion.
The canny Scot, whose name was Mackintosh, hesitated a few moments, then
answered--
"Well, sir, you see the fishing-boat had sighted us, and we saw her
turning back to port to fetch help."
His excuse was a neat one. Probably it was his neglect to make signals
of distress that had aroused the suspicions of the Captain of the Port.
From first to last the story of the master of the _Lola_ was, I
considered, a very unsatisfactory one.
"How long have you been in Mr. Hornby's service?" I inquired.
"Six months, sir," was the man's reply. "Before he engaged me, I was
with the Wilsons, of Hull, running up the Baltic."
"As master?"
"I've held my master's certificate these fifteen years, sir. I was with
the Bibbys before the Wilsons, and before that with the General Steam.
I did eight years in the Mediterranean with them, when I was chief
mate."
"And you've never been into Leghorn before?"
"Never, sir."
I dismissed the captain with a distinct impression that he had not told
me the whole truth. That cicatrice did not improve his personal
appearance. He had left his certificates on board, he said, but if I
wished he would bring them to me on the morrow.
Was it possible that an attempt had actually been made to cast away the
yacht, and that it had been frustrated by the master of the felucca, who
had sighted the vessel aground? There certainly seemed some mystery
surrounding the circumstances, and my interest in the yacht and its
owner deepened each hour. How, I wondered, had the captain received that
very ugly wound across the cheek? I was half-inclined to inquire of him,
but on reflection decided that it was best to betray no undue curiosity.
That evening when the fiery sun was sinking in its crimson glory,
bathing the glassy sea with its blood-red light and causing the islands
of Gorgona and Capraja to loom forth a deep purple against the distant
horizon, I took a cab along the old sea-road to the port where, within
the inner harbor, I found the _Lola_, one of the most magnificent
private vessels I had ever seen. Her dimensions surprised me. She was
painted dead white, with shining brass everywhere. At the stern hung
limply the British flag, while at the masthead the ensign of the Royal
Yacht Squadron. The yellow funnel emitted no smoke, and as she lay
calmly in the sunset a crowd of dock-loungers and crimps leaned upon the
parapet discussing her merits and wondering who could be the rich
Englishman who could afford to travel in a small liner of his own--for
her size surprised even those Italian dock-hands, used as they were to
seeing every kind of craft enter the busy port.
On stepping on deck Hornby, who like myself wore a clean suit of white
linen as the most sensible dinner-garb in a hot climate, came forward to
greet me, and took me along to the stern where, lying in a long wicker
deck-chair beneath the awning, was a tall, dark-eyed, clean-shaven man
of about forty, also dressed in cool white linen. His keen face gave one
the impression that he was a barrister.
"My friend, Hylton Chater--Mr. Gordon Gregg," he said, introducing us,
and then when, as we shook hands, the clean-shaven man exclaimed,
smiling pleasantly--
"Glad to make your acquaintance, Mr. Gregg. You are not a stranger by
any means to Hornby or myself. Indeed, we've got a couple of your books
on board. But I had no idea you lived out here."
"At Ardenza," I said. "Three miles along the sea-shore. To-morrow I hope
you'll both come and dine with me."
"Delighted, I'm sure," declared Hornby. "To eat ashore is quite a treat
when one has been boxed up on board for some time. So we'll accept,
won't we, Hylton?"
"Certainly," replied the other; and then we began chatting about the
peril of the previous night, Hornby telling me how he had copied the two
letters of thanks in Italian and sent them to their respective
addresses.
"Phil blasphemed like a Levant skipper when he copied those Italian
words!" laughed Chater. "He had made three copies of each letter before
he could get all the lingo in accordance with your copy."
"I've been the whole afternoon at them--confound them!" declared the
owner of the _Lola_ with a laugh. "But, of course, I didn't want to make
a lot of errors in spelling. These Italians are so very punctilious."
"Well, you certainly did the right thing to thank the Admiral," I said.
"It's very unusual for him to send out torpedo-boats to help a vessel in
distress. That is generally left to the harbor tug."
"Yes, I feel that it was most kind of him. That's why I took all the
trouble to write. I don't understand a word of Italian, neither does
Chater."
"But you have Italians on board?" I remarked. "The two sailors who rowed
me out are Genoese, from their accent."
Hornby and Chater exchanged glances--glances of distinct uneasiness, I
thought.
Then the owner of the _Lola_ said--
"Yes, they are useful for making arrangements and buying things in
Italian ports. We have a Spaniard, a Greek, and a Syrian, all of whom
act as interpreters in different places."
"And make a handsome thing in the way of secret commissions, I suppose?"
I laughed.
"Of course. But to cruise in comfort one must pay and be pleasant,"
declared the man with the fair beard. "In Greece and the Levant they are
more rapacious than in Naples, and the Customs officers always want
squaring, otherwise they are for ever rummaging and discovering mares'
nests."
"Did you have any trouble here?" I inquired.
"They didn't visit us," he said with a smile, and at the same time he
rubbed his thumb and finger together, the action of feeling paper money.
This increased my surprise, for I happened to know that the Leghorn
Customs officers were not at all given to the acceptance of bribes. They
were too well watched by their superiors. If the yacht had really
escaped a search, then it was a most unusual thing. Besides, what motive
could Hornby have in eluding the Customs visit? They would, of course,
seal up his wines and liquors, but even if they did, they would leave
him out sufficient for the consumption of himself and his friends.
No. Philip Hornby had some strong motive in paying a heavy bribe to
avoid the visit of the _dogana_. If he really had paid, he must have
paid very heavily; of that I was convinced.
Was it possible that some mystery was hidden on board that splendidly
appointed craft?
Presently the gong sounded, and we went below into the elegantly fitted
saloon, where was spread a table that sparkled with cut glass and shone
with silver. Around the center fresh flowers had been trailed by some
artistic hand, while on the buffet at the end the necks of wine bottles
peered out from the ice pails. Both carpet and upholstery were in pale
blue, while everywhere it was apparent that none but an extremely
wealthy man could afford such a magnificent craft.
Hornby took the head of the table, and we sat on either side of him,
chatting merrily while we ate one of the choicest and best cooked
dinners it has ever been my lot to taste. Chater and I drank wine of a
brand which only a millionaire could keep in his cellar, while our host,
apparently a most abstemious man, took only a glass of iced Cinciano
water.
The two smart stewards served in a manner which showed them to be well
trained to their duties, and as the evening light filtering through the
pale blue silk curtains over the open port-holes slowly faded, we
gossiped on as men will gossip over an unusually good dinner.
From his remarks I discerned that, contrary to my first impression,
Hylton Chater was an experienced yachtsman. He owned a craft called the
_Alicia_, and was a member of the Cork Yacht Club. He lived in London,
he told me, but gave me no information as to his profession. It might be
the law, as I had surmised.
"You've seen our ass of a captain, Mr. Gregg?" he remarked presently.
"What do you think of him?"
"Well," I said rather hesitatingly, "to tell the truth, I don't think
very much of his seamanship--nor will the Board of Trade when his report
reaches them."
"Ah!" exclaimed Hornby, "I was a fool to engage him. From the very first
I mistrusted him, only my wife somehow took a fancy to the fellow, and,
as you know, if you want peace you must always please the women. In this
case, however, her choice almost cost me the vessel, and perhaps our
lives into the bargain."
"You knew nothing of him previously?"
"Nothing."
"And he engaged the crew?" I asked.
"Of course."
"Are they all fresh hands?"
"All except the cook and the two stewards."
I was silent. I did not like Mackintosh. Indeed, I entertained a
distinct suspicion of both master and crew.
"The captain seems to have had a nasty cut across the cheek," I
remarked, whereupon my two companions again exchanged quick,
apprehensive glances.
"He fell down the other day," explained Chater, with a rather sickly
smile, I thought. "His face caught the edge of an iron stair in the
engine-room, and caused a nasty gash."
I smiled within myself, for I knew too well that the ugly wound in the
captain's face had never been inflicted by falling on the edge of a
stair. But I remained silent, being content that they should endeavor
to mislead me.
After dessert had been served we rose, and in the summer twilight, when
all the ports were opened, Hornby took me over the vessel. Everywhere
was abundant luxury--a veritable floating palace. To each of the cabins
of the owner and his guests a bathroom was attached with sea-water or
fresh water as desired, while the ladies' saloon, the boudoir, the
library, and the smoking-room were furnished richly with exquisite
taste. As he was conducting me from his own cabin to the boudoir we
passed a door that had been blown open by the wind, and which he
hastened to close, not, however, before I had time to glance within. To
my surprise I discovered that it was an armory crammed with rifles,
revolvers and ammunition.
It had not been intended that I should see that interior, and the reason
why the Customs officers had been bribed was now apparent.
I passed on without remark, making believe that I had not discerned
anything unusual, and we entered the boudoir, Chater having gone back to
the saloon to obtain cigars.
The dainty little chamber was upholstered in carnation-pink silk with
furniture of inlaid rosewood, and bore everywhere the trace of having
been arranged by a woman's hand, although no lady passenger was on
board.
Just as we had entered, and I was admiring the dainty nest of luxury,
Chater shouted to his host asking for the keys of the cigar cupboard,
and Hornby, excusing himself, turned back along the gangway to hand them
to his friend, thus leaving me alone for a few moments.
I stood glancing around, and as I did so my eyes fell upon a quantity of
photographs, framed and unframed, that were scattered about--evidently
portraits of Hornby's friends. Upon a small side table, however, stood a
heavy oxidized silver frame, but empty, while lying on the floor beneath
a couch was the photograph it had contained, which had apparently been
taken hastily out, torn first in half and then in half again, and cast
away.
Curiosity prompted me to stoop, pick up the four pieces and place them
together, when I found them to form the cabinet portrait of a
sweet-looking and extremely pretty English girl of eighteen or nineteen,
with a bright, smiling expression, and wearing a fresh morning blouse of
white pique. Her hair was dressed low and fastened with a bow of black
ribbon, while the brooch at her throat was in the form of a heart edged
with pearls. Whether it was her sweet expression, or whether the curious
look in her eyes had attracted my attention and riveted the face upon my
memory, I know not. Perhaps it was the mystery of why it should have
been so hastily torn from its frame and destroyed that held my
attention.
It seemed as though it had been torn up surreptitiously by someone who
had been sitting on that couch, and who had had no opportunity of
casting the fragments away through the port-hole into the water.
I looked at the back of the torn photograph, and saw that it had been
taken by a well-known and fashionable firm in New Bond Street.
About the expression of that pictured face was something which I cannot
describe--a curious look in the eyes which was at the same time both
attractive and mysterious. In that brief moment the girl's features were
indelibly impressed upon my memory.
Next second, however, hearing Hornby's returning footsteps, I flung the
fragments hastily beneath the couch where I had discovered them.
Why, I wondered, had the picture been destroyed--and by whom?
The face of the empty frame had been purposely turned towards the
panelling, therefore when he entered he did not notice that the picture
had been destroyed; but after a brief pause, explaining that that cosy
little place was his wife's particular nook, he conducted me on through
the ladies' saloon and afterwards on deck, where we flung ourselves into
the long chairs, took our coffee and certosina, that liqueur essentially
Tuscan, and smoked on as the moon rose and the lights of the harbor
began to twinkle in the steely night.
As I sat talking, my thoughts ran back to that torn photograph. To me it
seemed as though some previous visitor that day had sat upon the couch,
destroyed the picture, and cast it where I had found it. But for what
reason? Who was the merry-faced girl whose picture had aroused such
jealousy or revenge?
I purposely led the conversation to Hornby's family, and learned from
him that he had no children.
"You'll get the repairs to your engines done at Orlando's, I suppose?" I
remarked, naming the great shipbuilding firm of Leghorn.
"Yes. I've already given the order. They are contracted to be finished
by next Thursday, and then we shall be off to Zante and Chio."
For what reason, I wondered, recollecting that formidable armory on
board. Already I had seen quite sufficient to convince me that the
_Lola_, although outwardly a pleasure yacht, was built of steel, armored
in its most vulnerable parts, and capable of resisting a very sharp
fire.
The hours passed, and beneath the brilliant moon we smoked long into the
night, for after the blazing sunshine of that Tuscan town the cool
sea-wind at night is very refreshing. From where we sat we commanded a
view of the whole of the sea-front of Leghorn and Ardenza, with its
bright open-air cafe-concerts and restaurants in full swing--all the
life and gayety of that popular watering-place.
Presently, when Hornby had risen to call a steward and left me alone
with Hylton Chater, the latter whispered to me in confidence--
"If you find my friend Hornby a little bit strange in his manner, Mr.
Gregg, you must take no notice. To tell the truth, he is a man who has
become suddenly wealthy beyond the wildest dreams of avarice, and I fear
it has had an effect upon his brain. He does very queer things at
times."
I looked at my companion in surprise. He was either telling the truth,
or else he was endeavoring to allay my suspicions by an extremely clever
ruse. Now I had already decided that Philip Hornby was no eccentric, but
a particularly level-headed and practical man. Therefore I instantly
arrived at the conclusion that the clean-shaven fellow who looked so
much like a London barrister had some distinct and ulterior purpose in
arousing within my mind suspicion of his host's sanity.