THE STAR OF POLAND
The room in which Desmond found Nur-el-Din was obviously the parlor of
the house. Everything in it spoke of that dreary period in art, the
middle years of the reign of Victoria the Good. The wall-paper, much
mildewed in places, was an ugly shade of green and there were dusty and
faded red curtains at the windows and draping the fireplace. Down one
side of the room ran a hideous mahogany sideboard, almost as big as a
railway station buffet, with a very dirty tablecloth. The chairs were
of mahogany, upholstered in worn black horsehair and there were two
pairs of fly-blown steel engravings of the largest size on the wall. In
the centre of the apartment stood a small round table, covered with a
much stained red tablecloth and there was a door in the corner.
The dainty beauty of Nur-el-Din made a very forlorn picture amid the
unmatched savagery of this English interior. The dancer, who was
wearing the same becoming gray tweed suit in which Desmond had last
seen her, was sitting sorrowfully at the table when Desmond entered. At
the sight of him she sprang up and ran to meet him with outstretched
hands.
“Ah!” she cried, “_comme je suis heureuse de vous voir!_ It is good of
you to come!”
And then, without any warning, she burst into tears and putting her
hands on the man’s shoulders, hid her head against his chest and sobbed
bitterly.
Desmond took one of her hands, small and soft and warm, and gently
disengaged her. His mind was working clearly and rapidly. He felt sure
of himself, sure of his disguise; if this were an exhibition of woman’s
wiles, it would find him proof; on that he was resolved. Yet, dissolved
in tears as she was, with her long lashes glistening and her mouth
twitching pitifully, the dancer seemed to touch a chord deep down in
his heart.
“Come, come,” said Desmond gutturally, with a touch of _bonhomie_ in
his voice in keeping with his ample girth, “you mustn’t give way like
this, my child! What’s amiss? Come, sit down here and tell me what’s
the matter.”
He made her resume her seat by the table and pulled up one of the
horsehair chairs for himself. Nur-el-Din wiped her eyes on a tiny lace
handkerchief, but continued to sob and shudder at intervals.
“Marie, my maid,” she said in French in a broken voice, “joined me here
to-day. She has told me of this dreadful murder!”
Desmond stiffened to attention. His mind swiftly reverted to the last
woman he had seen cry, to Barbara Mackwayte discovering the loss of the
package entrusted to her charge by the woman who sat before him.
“What murder?” he asked, striving to banish any trace of interest from
his voice. He loathed the part he had to play. The dancer’s distress
struck him as genuine.
“The murder of Monsieur Mackwayte,” said Nur-el-Din, and her tears
broke forth anew.
“I have read of this in the newspapers,” said Desmond. “I remember you
told me he was a friend of yours.”
Briefly, with many sobs, the dancer told him of the silver box which
she had entrusted to Barbara Mackwayte’s charge.
“And now,” she sobbed, “it is lost and all my sacrifice, all my
precautions, have been in vain!”
“But how?” asked Desmond. “Why should you think this box should have
been taken? From what I remember reading of this case in the English
newspapers there was a burglary at the house, but the thief has been
arrested and the property restored. You have only to ask this Miss—what
was the name? ah! yes, Mackwayte for your box and she will restore it!”
“No, no!” Nur-el-Din answered wearily, “you don’t understand. This was
no burglary. The man who murdered Monsieur Arthur murdered him to get
my silver box.”
“But,” objected Desmond, “a silver box! What value has a trifling
object like that? My dear young lady, murder is not done for a silver
box!”
“No, no,” Nur-el-Din repeated, “you don’t understand! You don’t know
what that box contained!”
Then she relapsed into silence, plucking idly at the shred of cambric
she held between her fingers.
Already dusk was falling and the room was full of shadows. The golden
radiance of the afternoon had died and eerie wraiths of fog were
peering-in at the window.
Desmond held his peace. He felt he was on the threshold of a confession
that might rend the veil of mystery surrounding the murder at Seven
Kings. He stared fixedly at the ugly red tablecloth, conscious that the
big eyes of the girl were searching his face.
“You have honest eyes,” she said presently. “I told you that once
before... that night we met at your house... do you remember? Your eyes
are English. But you are a German, _hein?_”
“My mother was Irish,” said Desmond and felt a momentary relief that,
for once, he had been able to speak the truth.
“I want a friend,” the girl resumed wearily, “someone that I can trust.
But I look around and I find no one. You serve the German Empire, do
you not?”
Desmond bowed.
“But not the House of Hohenzollern?” the girl cried, her voice
trembling with passion.
“I am not of the Emperor’s personal service, if that is what you mean,
madame,” Desmond returned coldly.
“Then, since you are not altogether an iron Prussian,” Nur-el-Din
resumed eagerly, “you can differentiate. You can understand that there
is a difference between working for the cause of Germany and for the
personal business of her princes.”
“But certainly,” answered Desmond, “I am not an errand boy nor yet a
detective. I regard myself as a German officer doing his duty on the
front. We have many fronts besides the Western and the Eastern. England
is one.
“Ah,” exclaimed the girl, clasping her hands together and looking at
him with enraptured eyes, “I see you understand! My friend, I am much
tempted to make a confidant of you!”
Desmond looked at her but did not speak. Again he felt that silence was
now his only role. He tried hard to fix his mind on his duty; but the
man in him was occupied with the woman who looked so appealingly at
him.
“... but if I do,” the girl went on and her voice was hurried and
anxious, “you must swear to me that you will respect my confidence,
that you will not betray me to the others and that you will, if need
be, protect me.”
Seeing that Desmond remained silent, she hastened to add:
“Believe me, what I ask you to do is not in opposition to your duty. My
friend, for all my surroundings, I am not what I seem. Fate has drawn
me into the system of which you form part; but, believe me, I know
nothing of the service to which you and Mortimer and the rest belong!”
She spoke with painful earnestness and in a tone so mournful that
Desmond felt himself profoundly moved. “If only she is not acting!” he
thought, and sought to shake himself free from the spell which this
girl seemed able to cast about him at will.
“Promise me that you will respect my confidence and help me!” she said
and held out her hand.
Desmond’s big hand closed about hers and he felt an odd thrill of
sympathy with her as their hands met.
“I promise!” he said and murmured to himself something very like a
prayer that he might not be called upon to redeem his word.
She let her eyes rest for a moment on his.
“Be careful!” she urged warningly, while the ghost of a smile flitted
across her face. “Very soon I may call upon you to make good your
words!”
“I promise!” he repeated—and his eyes never left hers.
“Then,” she cried passionately, “find out who has stolen for the Crown
Prince the Star of Poland at the price of the life of a harmless old
man!”
“The Star of Poland!” repeated Desmond. “What is the Star of Poland?”
The girl drew herself up proudly and there was a certain dignity about
her manner as she answered.
“I am a Pole,” she said, “and to us Poles, the Star of Poland has stood
for centuries as a pledge of the restoration of our long-lost kingdom.
It was the principal jewel of the Polish Coronation sword which
vanished many hundreds of years ago—in the thirteenth century, one of
my compatriots once told me—and it was one of the most treasured
national possessions in the Château of our great king, John Sobieski at
Villanoff, outside Warsaw. My friend, I am not religious, and since my
childhood I have renounced the ancient faith of my fathers, but, when I
think of the extraordinary chain of circumstances by which this
treasure came into my possession, I almost believe that God has chosen
me to restore this gem to the King of an independent Poland.
“Four years ago I was in the United States, a very humble dancer in
vaudeville of the third or fourth class. When I was appearing at
Columbus, Ohio, I met a German, a man who had been an officer in the
Prussian Guard but had come to grief and had been forced to emigrate.
“This man’s name was Hans von Schornbeek. Like so many German officers
who go to America, in his time he had been everything—waiter, lift-man,
engine-driver and heaven knows what else, but when I met him he was
apparently well-off. It was only later on that I knew he was one of
your principal secret agents in America.
“He praised my talents highly and offered to furnish the capital to
start me as an Oriental dancer with a large company of my own. There
was only one condition attaching to his offer, a condition, _ma foi!_
which was not disagreeable to me. It was that, after six months tour in
the States and Canada, I should go to Brussels and settle down there in
a house that Herr von Schornbeek would present me with.
“_Mon ami_, in those days, I understood nothing at all of diplomacy. I
knew only that I was often hungry and that I had a little talent which,
were it given a chance, might keep me from want. Herr von Schornbeek
fulfilled his promises to me. I had my company, I did my tour of
America and Canada with great success and finally I came to Europe and
made my debut at Brussels.
“I knew Brussels already from the old days. As a half-starved, unhappy
child with a troupe of acrobats, I had often appeared there. But now I
came to Brussels as a conqueror. A beautiful villa in the suburb of
Laeken was ready to receive me and I found that a large credit had been
opened in my name at one of the principal banks so that I could keep
open house.
“I think I scarcely realized then the rôle that I was destined to fill
by the German Secret Service. In all my life before, I had never been
happy, I had never ceased to struggle for my bare existence, I had
never had pretty clothes to wear, and motor-cars and servants of my
own.”
She paused and glanced around her. The room was almost dark; the fog
outside hung like a veil before the window.
“Light the lamp!” she begged, “I do not like the dark!”
Desmond struck a match and kindled an oil lamp, which stood on the
sideboard.
“Ah! my friend,” the girl resumed. “I took my fill of life with both
hands. The year was 1913. Now I know that I was one of the German
agents for the penetration of Belgium in preparation of what was
coming. My mission was to make friends among the Belgians and the
French and the cosmopolitan society of Brussels generally, and invite
them to my house where your people were waiting to deal with them.
“My pretty villa became the rendezvous for half the rascals of Europe,
men and women, who used to meet there with all kinds of mysterious
Germans. Sometimes there was a scandal. Once a Belgian Colonel was
found shot in the billiard-room; they said it was suicide and the thing
was hushed up, but _dame!_ now that I know what I know...
“_Enfin!_ I shut my eyes to it all... it was none of my business... and
I revelled in my _robes_, my dancing, my new life of luxury!
“And then the war came. I was at Laeken, resting after a visit to Rome.
There was a lot of talk about the war amongst the people who came to my
house, but I did not see how it could affect me, an _artiste_, and I
never read the newspapers. My German friends assured me that, in a
little while, the German army would be at Brussels; that, if I remained
quietly at home, all would be well. They were very elated and
confident, these German friends of mine. And rightly; for within a few
weeks the Germans entered the city and a General quartered himself in
my villa. It was he who brought the Crown Prince to see me.
“_Mon cher_, you know this young man and his reputation. I am not
excusing myself; but all my life had been spent up to then in the
_bas-fonds_ of society. I had never known what it was to be courted and
admired by one who had the world at his feet. _Parbleu!_ one does not
meet a future Emperor every day!
“_Enfin!_ the Prince carried me with him back to Metz, where he had his
headquarters. He was very _épris_ with me, but you know his
temperament! No woman can hold him for more than a few weeks, vain and
weak and arrogant as he is. But _pardon!_ I was forgetting that you are
a good German. I fear I offend your susceptibilities...”
Desmond laughed drily.
“Madame,” he said, “I hope I have preserved sufficient liberty of
judgment to have formed my own opinion about our future sovereign. Most
Germans have...”
“_Alors_,” she broke in fiercely, her voice shaking with passion, “you
know what an ignoble _canaille_ is this young man, without even enough
decency of feeling to respect the troops of whom he has demanded such
bloody sacrifices. At Metz we were near enough to the fighting to
realize the blood and tears of this war. But the Prince thought of
nothing, but his own amusement. To live as he did, within sound of the
guns, with parties every night, women and dancing and roulette and
champagne suppers—bah! _c’était trop fort!_ It awakened in me the love
of country which lies dormant in all of us. I wanted to help my
country, lest I might sink as low as he...”
“One day the Prince brought a young officer friend of his to dine with
me. This officer had come from the Eastern front and had been present
at the capture of Warsaw. After dinner he took a leather case out of
his pocket and said to the Prince: ‘I have brought your Imperial
Highness a little souvenir from Poland!’ As he spoke he touched a
spring and the case flew open, displaying an enormous diamond, nearly
as big as the great Orloff diamond which I have seen at Petrograd,
surrounded by five other brilliants, the whole set like a star.
“‘The Star of Poland,’ said the young officer (the Prince called him
‘Erich;’ I never heard his full name), ‘it comes from the long-lost
Coronation sword of the Polish kings. I took it for your Imperial
Highness from the Château of John Sobieski at Villanoff.
“I could not take my eyes off the gem. As the Prince held it down under
the lamp to study it, it shone like an electric light. I had met many
of my fellow countrymen in America and I had often heard of this jewel,
famous in our unhappy history.
“The Prince, who was gay with champagne, laughed and said:
“‘These lousy Poles will have no further use for this pretty trinket,
thanks to our stout German blows, will they, Erich?’
“And his friend replied:
“‘We’ll give them a nice new German constitution instead, your Imperial
Highness!’
“The Prince, as I have said, was very merry that night. He let me take
the jewel from its case and hold it in my hands. Then I fastened it in
my hair before the mirror and turned to show myself to the Prince and
his companion.
“‘_Donnerwetter!_ said Willie. ‘It looks wonderful in your hair,
Marcelle!’
“Then, as if struck by a sudden thought, he cried:
“‘Erich! What do you say, Marcelle is a Pole. She shall have the Star
of Poland and wear it in memory of me!’
“The other thought this a famous idea, and so the jewel passed into my
hands. That same evening I resolved that it should be a sacred duty on
my part to keep it in safety until I could hand it back to the lawful
sovereign of an independent Poland.
“I was very unhappy at Metz until the Star of Poland came to comfort
me. When I was alone, I used to take it from its case and feast my eyes
upon it. I made many attempts to get away, but the Prince would never
let me go, though he had long since tired of me and I was merely one of
his harem of women. _Pfui!_”
She gave an exclamation of disgust.
“It was the Crown Princess who eventually came to my rescue,” she
continued. “Long-suffering wife as she is, the stories that came to her
ears from Metz were such that she went to the Emperor and declared that
she would insist upon a divorce. There was a great scandal. The
Prince’s headquarters were moved and at length I got my release.
“I had no money. This was a detail which the Prince overlooked. But I
wanted to resume my stage work, so, with great difficulty, through the
influence of the Prince, I obtained a passport to Holland and from
there got across to England.
“I had hoped to turn my back once and for all on my connection with the
Prince. But your German Secret Service had been warned about me. The
Imperial Authorities were obviously afraid that I might tell tales out
of school. Scarcely had I arrived in London when a man who called
himself Bryan Mowbury, but who looked and spoke like a German, came to
see me and said he had been instructed to ‘look after me.’ What that
meant, I was soon to discover. In a very few days I found that I was
under the supervision of your Secret Service here. In fact, Mowbury
gave me to understand that any indiscretion on my part as to my stay at
Metz would result in my immediate denunciation to the English police as
a spy.
“My friend, I had no alternative. I am not German; I am not English; I
am a Pole. I have good friends in Germany, I have good friends in
England, and their quarrels are not mine. I held my peace about the
past and submitted to the incessant watch which Mowbury and his friends
kept on my movements.
“And then one day I had a letter. It was from Count Plettenbach, the
Crown Prince’s aide-de-camp, as I knew by the hand-writing, for it was
signed with an assumed name. In this letter the Count, ‘on behalf of a
mutual friend,’ as he put it, requested me to hand back to a certain
Mr. Mortimer, his accredited representative, ‘Erich’s present.’ There
were cogent reasons, it was added, for this unusual request.
“I sent no reply to that letter, although an address in Switzerland was
given to which an answer might be despatched. I was resolved, come what
may, not to part with the Star of Poland. When Mortimer came, five days
later, I told him the jewel was not mine to hand over, that it was part
of the regalia of Poland and that I would never give it up.
“Mortimer replied that the German and Austrian Governments had decided
to restore the independence of Poland, that probably an Austrian
Archduke would be made king and that it was essential that the Star of
Poland should be restored in order to include it in the regalia for the
Coronation. But I knew what this Austro-German kingdom of Poland was to
be, a serf state with not a shadow of that liberty for which every Pole
is longing. Since I have been in England, I have kept in touch with the
Polish political organizations in this country. Rass, as he calls
himself, the landlord of this inn, is one of the most prominent of the
Polish leaders in England.
“Mortimer reasoned with me in vain and finally went away empty-handed.
But he did not abandon hope. Four successive attempts were made to get
the jewel away from me. Twice my apartments at the Nineveh Hotel were
rifled; once my dressing-room at the theatre was entered and searched
whilst I was on the stage. But I wore the jewel day and night in a
little bag suspended by a chain from my neck and they never got it from
me.
“Two days before I came down to your house—it was the day before the
murder—I was hustled by a group of men as I came out of the theatre.
Fortunately the stage-door keeper came up unexpectedly and the men made
off. But the encounter frightened me, and I resolved to break my
contract with the Palaceum and bury myself down here in the country.
“But somehow Mortimer learnt of my intention. The next night—it was the
night of the murder—he came to the theatre and warned me against trying
to elude his vigilance by flight. I have never forgotten his words.
“‘I can afford to wait,’ he said, ‘for I shall get what I want: I
always do. But you have chosen to set yourself against me and you will
bitterly repent it!”
As though the recollection proved too much for her, Nur-el-Din broke
off her narrative and covered her face with her hands.
“And do you think that Mortimer did this murder?” asked Desmond gently.
Wearily the girl raised her head.
“Either he or one of his accomplices, of whom this girl is one!” she
answered.
“But why not have put the jewel in a bank or one of the safe deposits?
Surely it was risky to have entrusted it to a girl of whom you knew
nothing?”
“My friend,”, said the dancer, “I was desperate. Mortimer sees and
knows all. This unexpected meeting with the daughter of my old friend
seemed at the moment like a heaven-sent chance to place the jewel,
unknown to him, in safe hands. I felt that as long as I carried it on
me, my life was in constant danger. It was only to-day, when I heard of
the murder, that it dawned on me how indiscreet I had been. I might
have guessed, since Miss Mackwayte knew Mortimer—”
“Miss Mackwayte knows Mortimer?” echoed Desmond in stupefaction.
“But certainly,” replied Nur-el-Din. “Was it not I myself—” She broke
off suddenly with terror in her eyes.
“Ah, no!” she whispered. “It is enough. Already I have said too
much...”
Desmond was about to speak when the door opened and a foreign-looking
maid, whom Desmond remembered to have seen in the dancer’s
dressing-room, came in. She went swiftly to her mistress and whispered
something in her ear.
The dancer sprang to her feet.
“A little moment... you will excuse me...” she cried to Desmond and ran
from the room. The maid followed her, leaving Desmond alone.
Presently, the sound of Nur-el-Din’s voice raised high in anger struck
on his ears. He stole softly to the door and opened it. Before him lay
the staircase deserted. He tiptoed down the stairs to the first landing
and listened. The murmur of voices reached him indistinctly from the
room below. Then he heard Nur-el-Din crying out again in anger.
He craned his ear over the well of the staircase, turning his face to
the window which stood on the landing. The window gave on a small yard
with a gate over which a lamp was suspended and beyond it the fen now
swathed in fog. The dancer’s maid stood beneath the lamp in earnest
conversation with a man in rough shooting clothes who held a gun under
his arm. As Desmond looked the man turned his head so that the rays of
the lamp fell full upon his face. To his unspeakable consternation and
amazement, Desmond recognized Strangwise.