Another part which the Prince played in the present-day drama now being
enacted in Eastern Europe brought him in touch with "The Sign of the
Cat's-Paw," a sign hitherto unknown to our Foreign Office, or to readers
of the daily newspapers.
At the same time, however, it very nearly cost him his own life.
The affair occurred about a couple of months after the death of the
fascinating Olga Steinkoff. He had been sent back to the Balkans upon
another mission. Cosmopolitan of cosmopolitans, he had been moving
rapidly up and down Europe gathering information for Downing Street, but
ever on the look-out for an opening for the Parson and himself to
operate in a very different sphere.
Garrett, blindly obedient to the telegrams he received, had taken the
car on some long flying journeys, Vienna, Berlin and back to Belgrade,
in Servia. For two months or so I had lost sight of both the
mild-mannered, spectacled Clayton and the Prince, when one morning,
while walking down St James's Street, I saw Garrett in his grey and
scarlet livery driving the car from Piccadilly down to Pall Mall.
By this I guessed that his Highness had returned to London, so I called
at Dover Street, and twenty minutes later found myself seated in the big
saddle-bag chair with a "Petroff" between my lips.
He was in his old brown velvet lounge coat and slippers, and had been at
his writing-table when I entered. But on my appearance he threw down
his pen, stretched himself, and sat round for a gossip.
Suddenly, while speaking, he made a quick, half-foreign gesture of
ignorance in response to a question of mine, and in that brief instant I
saw upon his right palm a curious red mark.
"Hullo!" I asked. "What's that?"
"Oh--nothing," he replied, rather confused I thought, and shut his hand
so that I could not see it.
"But it is!" I declared. "Let me see."
"How inquisitive you are, Diprose, old chap," he protested.
So persistent was I, and so aroused my curiosity by finding a mark
exactly like the imprint of a cat's-paw, that, not without considerable
reluctance, he explained its meaning. The story he narrated was,
indeed, a most remarkable and dramatic one. And yet he related it as
though it were nothing. Perhaps, indeed, the puzzling incidents were of
but little moment to one who led a life so chock-full of adventure as
he.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Yes, it really was curious, he remarked at last. It was in March. I
had been in London's mud and rain for a fortnight, and grown tired of
it. Suddenly a confidential mission had been placed in my hands--a
mission which had for its object British support to the Bulgarian
Government against the machinations of Austria to extend her sphere of
influence southward across the Danube and Servia.
My destination was Sofia, the Bulgarian capital, and once more the
journey by the Orient Express across Europe was a long and tedious one.
I had wired to Garrett, who was awaiting me with the car at the
Hungaria, in Budapest, to bring it on to Sofia.
But I was much occupied with the piece of scheming which I had
undertaken to carry out. My patriotism had led me to attempt a very
difficult task--one which would require delicate tact and a good deal of
courage and resource, but which would, if successful, mean that a loan
of three millions would be raised in London, and that British influence
would become paramount in that go-ahead country, which, ere long, must
be the power of the Balkans.
I knew, however, that there were others in Sofia upon the same errand as
myself, emissaries of other governments and other financial houses.
Therefore, in the three long never-ending days the journey occupied, my
mind was constantly filled with thoughts of the best and most judicious
course to pursue in order to attain my object.
The run was uneventful, save for one fact. At the Staatsbahnhof, at
Vienna, just before our train left for Budapest, a queer, fussy little
old man in brown entered, and was given the compartment next mine.
His nationality I could not determine. He spoke deep guttural German
with the fair-bearded conductor of the train, but by his clothes--which
were rather dandified for so old a man--I did not believe him to be a
native of the Fatherland.
I heard him rumbling about with his bags next door, apparently settling
himself, when of a sudden my quick ear caught an imprecation which he
uttered to himself in English.
A few hours later, at dinner, I found him placed at the little table
opposite me, and naturally we began to chat. He spoke in French--
perfect French it was--but refused to speak English, though, of course,
he could had he wished.
"Ah! non," he laughed, "I cannot. Excuse me. My pronunciation is so
faulty. Your English is so ve-ry deefecult."
And so we chatted in French, and I found the queer old fellow was on his
way to Sofia. He seemed slightly deformed, his face was distinctly
ugly, broad, clean-shaven, with a pair of black piercing eyes that gave
him a most striking appearance. His grey hair was long, his nose
aquiline, his teeth protruding and yellow, and he was a grumbler of the
most pronounced type. He growled at the food, at the service, at the
draughts, at the light in the restaurant, at the staleness of the bread
we had brought with us from Paris, and at the butter, which he declared
to be only Danish margarine.
His complaints were amusing. He was possessed of much grim humour. At
first the _maitre d'hotel_ bustled about to do the bidding of the
new-comer, but very quickly summed him up, and only grinned knowingly
when called to listen to his biting criticism of the Compagnie
Internationale des Wagons-lits and all its works.
Next day, at Semlin, where our passports were examined, the
passport-officer took off his hat to him, bowed low and _vised_ his
passport without question, saying, as he handed back the document to its
owner:
"_Bon voyage_, Altesse."
I stared at the pair. My fussy friend with the big head must therefore
be either a prince or a grand duke! Just then I was not a prince--only
plain M'sieur Martin. In Roumania princes are as plentiful as
blackberries, so I put him down as a Roumanian.
As I sat opposite him at dinner that night he was discussing with me the
harmful writings of some newly discovered German who was posing as a
cheap philosopher, and denouncing them as dangerous to the community.
He leaned his elbow upon the narrow table and supported his clean-shaven
chin upon his finger, displaying to me most, certainly by accident, the
palm of his thin right hand.
What I discovered there caused me a good deal of surprise. In its
centre was a dark livid mark, as though it had been branded there by a
hot iron, the plain and distinct imprint of a cat's-paw!
It fascinated me. There was some hidden meaning in that mark, I felt
convinced. It was just as though a cat had stepped upon blood with one
of its fore-paws and trodden upon his hand.
Whether he noticed that I had detected it or not, I cannot say, but he
moved his hand quickly, and ever after kept it closed.
His name, he told me at last, was Konstantinos Vassos, and he lived in
Athens. But I took that information _cum grano_, for I knew him to be a
prince travelling _incognito_. The passport-officer at Semlin makes no
mistakes.
But if actually a prince, why did he carry a passport?
There is, unfortunately, no good hotel at Sofia. The best is the
Bulgarie, kept by a pleasant old lady to whom I was well-known as
M'sieur Martin, and in this we found ourselves next night installed. He
gave his name as Vassos, and to all intents and purposes was more of a
stranger in Prince Ferdinand's capital than I myself was, for I had been
there at least half a dozen times before. Most of the Ministers knew
me, and I was always elected a member of the smart diplomats' club, the
Union, during my stay.
The days passed. From the first morning of my arrival I found myself as
before in a vortex of gaiety; invitations to the Legations poured in
upon me, cards for dances here and there, receptions by members of the
Cabinet, and official dinners by the British and French Ministers, while
daily I spent each afternoon with my friend, Colonel Mayhew, the British
military _attache_, in his comfortable quarters not far from our Agency.
All the while, I must here confess, I was working my cards very
carefully. I had sounded my friend, Petkoff, the grave, grey-haired
Prime Minister--the splendid Bulgarian patriot--and he was inclined to
admit the British proposals. The Minister of War, too, was on my side.
German agents had approached him, but he would have none of them. In
Bulgaria just then they had no love of Germany. They were far too
Russophile.
Indeed, in this strenuous life of a fortnight or so I had practically
lost sight of the ugly old gentleman who had been addressed by the
passport-officer as his Highness. Once or twice I had seen him
wandering alone and dejected along the streets, for he apparently knew
nobody, and was having a very quiet time, Greeks were disliked in Sofia
almost as much as Turks, on account of the Greek bands who massacre the
Bulgars in Macedonia.
One night at the weekly dance at the Military Club--a function at which
the smart set at Sofia always attend, and at which the Ministers of
State themselves put in an appearance--I had been waltzing with the
daughter of the Minister of the Interior, a pretty dark-haired girl in
blue, whom I had met during my last visit to Bulgaria, and the Spanish
_attache_, a pale-faced young man wearing a cross at his throat, had
introduced to me a tall, very handsome, sweet-faced girl in a black
evening-gown trimmed with silver.
A thin wreath of the same roses was in her hair, and around her neck was
a fine gold chain from which was suspended a big and lustrous diamond.
Mademoiselle Balesco was her name, and I found her inexpressibly
charming. She spoke French perfectly, and English quite well. She had
been at school in England, she said--at Scarborough. Her home was at
Galatz, in Roumania, where her father was Prefect.
We had several dances, and afterwards I took her down to supper. Then
we had a couple of waltzes, and I conducted her out to the carriage
awaiting her, and, bowing, watched her drive off alone.
But while doing so, there came along the pavement, out of the shadow,
the short ugly figure of the old Greek Vassos, with his coat collar
turned up, evidently passing without noticing me.
A few days later, when in the evening I called on Mayhew at his rooms,
he said:
"What have you been up to, Martin? Look here! This letter was left
upon me, with a note asking me to give it to you in secret. Looks like
a woman's hand! Mind what you're about in this place, old chap! There
are some nasty pitfalls, you know!"
I took the letter, opened it, read it through, and placed it in my
pocket without a word.
With a bachelor's curiosity, he was eager to know who was my fair
correspondent. But I refused to satisfy him.
Suffice it to say that on that same night I went alone to a house on the
outskirts of Sofia, and there met at her urgent request the pretty girl
Marie Balesco, who had so enchanted me. Ours seemed to be a case of
mutual attraction, for as we sat together, she seemed, after apologising
for thus approaching me and throwing all the convenances to the winds,
to be highly interested in my welfare, and very inquisitive concerning
the reasons which had brought me to Bulgaria.
Like most women of the Balkans, she smoked, and offered me her
cigarette-case. I took one--a delicious one it was, but rather strong--
so strong, indeed, that a strange drowsiness suddenly overcame me.
Before I could fight against it the small, well-furnished room seemed to
whirl about me, and I must have fallen unconscious. Indeed I knew no
more until on awakening I found myself back in my bed at the hotel.
I gazed at the morning sunshine upon the wall, and tried to recollect
what held occurred.
My hand seemed strangely painful. Raising it from the sheets, I looked
at it.
Upon my right palm, branded as by a hot iron, was the Sign of the
Cat's-paw!
Horrified I stared at it. It was the same mark that I had seen upon the
hand of Vassos! What could be its significance?
In a few days the burn healed, leaving a dark red scar, the distinct
imprint of the feline foot. From Mayhew I tried, by cautious questions,
to obtain some information concerning the fair-faced girl who had played
such a prank on me. But he only knew her slightly. She had been
staying with a certain Madame Sovoff, who was something of a mystery,
but had left Sofia.
A month passed. Mademoiselle and Madame returned from Belgrade and were
both delighted when I suggested they should go for a run in the "sixty."
I took them over the same road as I had taken Olga Steinkoff. In a
week Mademoiselle became an enthusiastic motorist, and was full of
inquiry into the various parts of the engine, the ignition, lubrication,
and other details. One day I carefully approached the matter of this
remarkable mark upon my palm. But she affected entire ignorance. I
confess that I had grown rather fond of her, and I hesitated to
attribute to her, or to Madame, any sinister design; the strange mark on
my hand was both weird and puzzling. We drove out in the car often, and
many a time I recollected pretty Olga, and her horrible fate.
Vassos, who was still at the hotel, annoyed me on account of his extreme
politeness, and the manner in which he appeared to spy upon all my
movements. I came across him everywhere. Inquiries concerning the
reason of the ugly Greek's presence in Bulgaria met with negative
result. One thing seemed certain; he was not a prince _incognito_.
How I longed to go to him, show him the mark upon my hand, and demand an
explanation. But my curiosity was aroused; therefore I patiently
awaited developments, my revolver always ready in my hip pocket, in case
of foul play.
The mysterious action of the pretty girl from Galatz also puzzled me.
At last the Cabinet of Prince Ferdinand were in complete accord with the
Prime Minister Petkoff, regarding the British proposals. All had been
done in secret from the party in opposition, and one day I had lunched
with his Excellency the Prime Minister, at his house in the suburbs of
the city.
"You may send a cipher despatch to London, if you like, Mr Martin," he
said, as we sat over our cigars. "The documents will all be signed at
the Cabinet meeting at noon to-morrow. In exchange for this loan of
three millions raised in London, all the contracts for quick-firing guns
and ammunition go to your group of financiers." Such was the welcome
news his Excellency imparted to me, and you may imagine that I lost no
time in writing out a cipher message, and sending it by the man-servant
to the nearest telegraph office.
For a long time I sat with him, and then he rose, inviting me to walk
with him in the Boris Gardens, as was his habit every afternoon, before
going down to the sitting of the Sobranje, or Parliament.
On our way we passed Vassos, who raised his hat politely to me.
"Who's that man?" inquired the Minister quickly, and I told him all I
knew concerning the ugly hunchback.
In the pretty public garden we were strolling together in the sundown,
chatting upon the situation in Macedonia and other matters, when of a
sudden, a black-moustached man in a dark grey overcoat and round
astrachan cap, sprang from the bushes at a lonely spot, and raising a
big service revolver, fired point-blank at his Excellency.