In the meanwhile Iván Volenski had suffered terribly. His was a
peculiar position at that moment. Anxious as he had been to serve the
great cause, he had imperilled it--unwittingly--almost beyond recall.
His comrades had trustingly placed their lives, their freedom in his
hands, lured by his promises of immunity, and twenty-four hours later
he had placed them all in the hands of an agent of that very police
they so justly dreaded.
And yet the Nuncio, in the morning following that eventful night, had
succeeded in somewhat reassuring him. Perhaps his Eminence felt a
trifle guilty in the matter of those candlesticks, and thought his
secretary was blaming him for allowing them to pass out of his hands.
He took great care to explain to Iván the accident to one of the
Cupid’s arms, which both he and Madame Demidoff had noticed, and which
finally decided him to accept her kind offer. Little by little
Volenski gleaned from the Cardinal a minute account of all that passed
between him and the fair Russian, on the subject of the Emperor’s
candlesticks. He heard that madame had, with her own hands, packed the
damaged _bibelot_ and placed it on one side, and had herself professed
to take the utmost care that not the slightest accident should happen
further.
Here was a reason, clearly, for once more thanking Providence that it
should have guided his hand towards the damaged candlestick, when
secreting the fateful papers.
Madame Demidoff so far knew nothing, that was a reasonable hope, and
as soon as his Eminence had left Vienna, which unfortunately would not
be till the evening, Iván meant to travel to Petersburg without
delay, and on behalf of his absent master ask Madame Demidoff to remit
the candlesticks to him, for safe custody within the walls of the
Papal Legation.
In the meanwhile not a word to his comrades. He had seen the president
the evening before and told him of the alteration in the Cardinal’s
plan, which would enable him, Volenski, to deliver the papers in
Taranïew’s hands two days before the anticipated time. To tell them
all of the dangers they were in, would be unnecessary cruelty. What
could they do but wait for the blow, if it was destined to fall?
Mirkovitch would wish to kill the Tsarevitch. It would be revolting to
murder a defenceless prisoner.
Now his Eminence had quieted his anxieties. There was no fear, no
hurry. After the Cardinal left, Volenski’s peace of mind enabled him
to sleep quietly, without harassing dreams of prisons and Siberia.
He felt alert and well the next morning, ready to take the express
through Oderberg to Petersburg; little more than twenty-four hours
after Madame Demidoff, following closely on her footsteps.
He breakfasted cheerfully, as one free from care, and with mechanical
hands opened the morning paper to glance at the news. And when he read
it, there was that in the paper that crushed all his hopes, and for
the first time led him to doubt that it was Providence who watched
over the Socialist cause.
“ANOTHER DARING ROBBERY ON THE FRONTIER.
“Yesterday, during the examination of passengers’ luggage at Oderberg,
at six o’clock in the morning, a daring robbery was committed.
“As Madame Demidoff, a lady well known in our aristocratic circles,
was alighting from her _coupé_, a man, disguised in the uniform of
our customs officials, offered to carry her dressing-bag and valise.
He appeared to be following her with her belongings, and it was not
till nearly a quarter of an hour later that Madame Demidoff realised
that the man and all her belongings had disappeared. It is stated by
the lady herself, that the valise contained some valuable articles;
her extraordinary agitation on hearing of her loss was much commented
upon. The matter is in the hands of the police, who already have an
important clue.”
What this announcement in the paper meant to Volenski the reader will
easily imagine. After the comparative peace and security of the last
few hours, the blow seemed to fall on him with almost stunning vigour.
The paper fell from his hand, and for fully ten minutes he sat there
staring into vacancy, unable to think, to plan, his brain almost
refusing to take in the fact and all the terrors it conveyed. But a
few hours ago those papers, which he had with so light a heart
confided to what he felt sure was the safest hiding-place he could
devise, had, by some mysterious help of Providence, escaped the eyes
of the most astute woman in Russia--unknown to herself she was
carrying the secrets of a band of young Nihilists safely across the
Russian frontier in the teeth of the police--she, an agent, a spy
herself.
The situation was hazardous. Volenski had trembled that some remote
chance might at the eleventh hour play him false, but the chance was
so slight a one, that he had even the heart to laugh inwardly at the
curious coincidence that caused a police agent to be the means of
conveying nihilistic papers across the border. Moreover, in two days
at most, he would once more have regained the papers, hand them over
to his comrades, and, when all was safe again, laugh at his own
terrors. But now how terribly was the situation altered. The fateful
papers at this moment were at the mercy of thieves or receivers of
stolen goods, who were sure to make the most profitable use of their
find; for the secret of the candlesticks could not remain one for
long, once they fell into the hand of _bric-à-brac_ dealers, so
expert in these matters. And Iván shuddered as he thought how
completely in the power of scoundrels he and his comrades would
presently be. Would the papers be used for blackmailing, denunciation,
or what?
The valet had come in some little while ago, to warn the secretary
that it was fully time to start, if he wished to catch the
Kassa-Oderberg express, but Iván had impatiently said that his plans
were changed; he was not starting that morning.
When the man had left him, and he was once more alone, he again took
up the _Fremdenblatt_, and read the fateful article through and
through, till his aching temples began to throb and the letters dance
before his burning eyes, till he felt dizzy and faint with that most
awful terror--the terror of the unknown.
“The police have an important clue,” he muttered. “What clue? and what
would happen if they did discover the stolen goods?”
The valise, of course, would be opened, and all the articles
identified and handed back to Madame Demidoff, who would after that
probably only be too glad to give the candlesticks back to Volenski,
and shift all further responsibilities from her shoulders; but in the
meanwhile they would be handled by dozens of pairs of hands: the
thieves first, then the police, then the officials, any one of whom
might chance upon the secret spring; and then----?
Volenski tried to persuade himself that this chance was very remote,
the secret receptacles very ingeniously hidden, the springs very
stiff, and only liable to yield after a great deal of pressure; but
still a restlessness now seized him, he felt unable to sit still, the
crowded streets seemed to lure him, and vaguely he had a hope, that
from the groups at the cafés he might hear fresh news, new
developments of this robbery, that was sure to set all tongues wagging
and discussing.
He took his hat and made his way down the Kolowrátring towards the
opera house. Instinct--the instinct of self-preservation--whispered to
him to control himself, not to let any passing stranger notice his
curious agitation, his wild, haggard look. He sauntered into one of
the larger cafés, exchanging hand-shakes and greetings here and
there. It seemed strange that not one of those he met referred to the
robbery at Oderberg. Volenski could not understand that an event of
such immense magnitude to himself should seem one of such utter
indifference to others. The new opera, the expected cabinet crisis,
Gallmeyer’s latest success, were all discussed around and with him,
but no one seemed to think the theft of Madame Demidoff’s valise of
the slightest importance, and Volenski dared not bring the subject up
himself; he feared lest his voice would tremble, his anxious eyes
betray his agitation.
Hungrily he listened for news, for comments, and went from one café
to another, but only once did he hear an allusion made to the robbery;
one young fellow said to another that no doubt Madame Demidoff had
already succeeded in putting the police on the track of the thieves:
she was so expert in police matters herself. The other young man
laughed, and the subject was dropped.
The hours passed slowly on; the enforced inactivity weighed heavily on
Volenski’s mind. The strain of weary waiting for some unknown
catastrophe that might be close at hand was beginning to tell on him,
and he left the busy streets of the city for some more remote, less
frequented spots, where he might allow himself a little more freedom,
his agitation a little more scope.
Thus his wanderings had led him towards the publishing offices of the
_Fremdenblatt_, outside which a great amount of bustle and noise
proclaimed the sending out of the first afternoon edition. Inwardly
thanking the chance that had led his footsteps in this direction,
Volenski purchased a copy of the paper and eagerly scanned its
contents.
Ah! there it was! some news evidently!
“THE ROBBERY AT ODERBERG.
“Our frontier police have once more displayed the wonderful insight
and promptness of action for which they are justly noted. The actual
thief who stole the dressing-bag and valise of Madame Demidoff at
Oderberg yesterday morning was arrested in a private room of the
‘Heinrich Marshall’ public-house in that same town, where he had taken
refuge with his accomplice, in order to divide the booty. As the
police forced their way into the room the two thieves were apparently
quarrelling loudly over some of the trinkets, which were scattered all
over the place. The man, a notorious character, who has long been
‘wanted’ by the police, seemed in too high a passion, or else too
scared, to attempt to flee, but his accomplice, who by the way is a
woman, succeeded in gathering a few articles together and effecting an
escape through the window. She was, however, recognised by one of the
police, and no doubt by now is also under arrest.
“The police were greatly aided in their discovery by two or three of
the porters at the station, who, it is said, were stimulated by the
large sum of money offered by Madame Demidoff as a reward. Great,
therefore, was the dissatisfaction and indignation amongst them when
the lady, under the pretence that one or two valuable articles were
missing, refused to give any reward till those articles were found.
She appeared much agitated on giving her evidence before the
magistrate, and explained this agitation on the grounds that one of
the missing articles was a pair of very valuable antique gold and
china candlesticks, which were not her property, but which were
entrusted to her special care by a friend, whose name she refused to
disclose. The lady’s singular excitement throughout the hearing of the
case is causing much comment.”
The paper dropped from Volenski’s hand, and he stood in the street
staring into vacancy, almost staggering, as though he were
intoxicated. The terrible thing about this whole drama that was being
enacted around him, was the fact that, though he was the person most
concerned in its developments, it was absolutely futile, nay,
dangerous, for him to take the slightest part in it; and not the least
of his sufferings was this feeling of utter powerlessness to do aught
that could tend to save his comrades and himself from the terrible,
crushing blow that might at any moment annihilate them all. But the
time for serious deliberation had now arrived; it became absolutely
imperative--Iván felt this--that he should trace himself a line of
conduct, adopt some plan, decide how far he would warn his comrades,
and perhaps seek their help and advice. But for this, quiet was
needed, and Volenski now retraced his steps towards his hotel,
feeling, moreover, that he had no right to neglect his Eminence’s
business and correspondence, as, alas! he had but too long done. On
his way home many a conflicting thought chased another, many a
surmise, a problem, the solution of which might mean life or death to
his friends and himself.
Having locked the door of his study, Iván set himself resolutely to
the task of chasing away all thoughts of his worries, and devoting
himself to his master’s work. He wrote what letters were necessary,
sorted those that would require to be forwarded to his Eminence,
arranged the papers that related to work done, and it was not till
late in the afternoon, when the valet brought him a light, that he
allowed himself the leisure of once more reverting to the
all-engrossing subject of the missing papers, and gave himself the
time for thinking over his plans.
The strict adherence to his duties had done him good, both mentally
and physically; his brain seemed more clear, his nerves less on the
quiver, than during those hours he had spent wandering idly and
restlessly in the streets.
Clearly, the situation at this moment was no worse than it had been in
the morning, and there was, as yet, no occasion to alarm his
fellow-conspirators by telling them the facts of the case, and turning
their wrath upon himself, who already had so much to bear.
No, it was better they should remain in ignorance a little longer, for
Iván had not abandoned the hope that the papers were still
undiscovered, and that he could, after the terrible fright she had
had, induce Madame Demidoff to give the candlesticks back to him, as
soon as she had recovered them from the police. The danger, the sole
danger throughout, lay in the fact that papers so terribly
compromising should be, if only for a short time, so hopelessly out of
his reach, that so deadly a secret should lie at the mercy of so mere
a chance.
As for his Eminence, Volenski well knew that, as soon as he was free
from diplomatic duties, he never even glanced at a newspaper; his
name, so far, had not been mentioned, and---- But here a fresh, a
curious train of thought arose in Iván’s mind, and the darker side of
the picture--he had vainly tried to look upon as bright--presented
itself before his mind. Why had the Cardinal’s name been so studiously
kept back by Madame Demidoff? Was it merely that, very naturally, she
did not wish him to know how badly she had failed in her trust, or was
there--and Iván paled at the thought--some reason for her wishing
that his Eminence should not hear of her loss, some reason for the
curious excitement into which, woman of the world as she was, she had
betrayed herself, to the extent of arousing the comments of the
magistrate and the reporters?
Had she, perchance, already discovered the dreaded secret, and,
wishing to claim the honour and glory of her find, was she anxious to
recover the papers, and, with them in her hands, denounce the
conspirators and claim her reward? Was her agitation the outcome of
her terror lest she should lose the precious proofs, without which,
perhaps, her memory might be at fault in naming the perpetrators of
the daring plot? Aye, all that was possible. Iván knew it all the
time, strive though he might to lure himself into the false belief
that all was sure to be quite safe so far. Madame Demidoff was
evidently staying at Oderberg, ready to claim her property at once.
Iván pondered if he should communicate with her; a sensible
proceeding enough, if she had not discovered the papers, but worse
than useless if she already had done so. One more chance now lay open
to Iván, and that was to approach the police himself--now that the
candlesticks had actually been mentioned as part of the missing
property--and find out if they would allow him to claim them, on
behalf of his Eminence the Papal Nuncio.
With that object in view, late as it was, he ordered a _fiaker_, and
drove off to the headquarters of the Detective Department. The chief
of the police, Baron de Hermansthal, he knew well, having frequently
met him in society, while in attendance on Cardinal d’Orsay. The baron
was a busy man, very busy, and he kept Volenski waiting three-quarters
of an hour in his ante-room; Iván had plenty of leisure, therefore,
to decide what line of diplomacy it were best to adopt.
He would tell Baron de Hermansthal, under an official seal of secrecy,
that the candlesticks alluded to by Madame Demidoff, in her account of
her missing property, were none other than those entrusted to her by
his master, Cardinal d’Orsay; that these antique candlesticks were to
be unofficially presented to a lady resident in Petersburg, by the
Papal Nuncio, on behalf of an exalted personage whom Volenski would
not name, but would leave Baron de Hermansthal to guess. Finally, he
would add that his Eminence completely relied on Baron de
Hermansthal’s well-known tact and discretion, and that both the
Cardinal and the exalted personage would desire that the matter be
kept as far as possible from further publicity, the candlesticks not
pass through any hands that were not absolutely necessary, and that it
was to further this object that Volenski, on behalf of his Eminence,
now claimed Baron de Hermansthal’s powerful assistance.
This plan and speech well formed in his head, Iván, feeling more
calm, was able to enter the private room of the chief of the Austrian
police, even without a tremor.
Baron de Hermansthal, a quiet, aristocratic-looking old man, with a
charming eighteenth-century manner, listened attentively to all
Volenski had to say, asked him to take a seat, while he would look
over his notes relating to the case, and after a few moments--
“My dear Volenski,” he said, “I should be very happy under the
circumstances to help his Eminence in any way that is within my power.
If you will tell me what you would wish me to do, I might see in what
way I can be of most assistance to you.”
“I merely want your permission to claim the candlesticks on behalf of
his Eminence, without their passing through any hands, save yours and
mine, and without all the formalities that usually attend the claiming
of property found by the police.”
“But Madame Demidoff is for the time being the person from whom these
candlesticks have been robbed, she might object to their being handed
over to anyone save herself.”
“Madame Demidoff has declared before the magistrate that they are not
her property,” replied Volenski. “I will communicate with her, as soon
as I have your authorisation to do so, and you will find that she will
be only too glad to hand over to me all responsibility in the matter.”
“That will be for her to decide,” rejoined the chief of the police
drily, “we can discuss the matter later on; anyhow, I can promise you
that I will communicate with you the moment the police have seized the
missing articles.”
“They have not yet been found then?” asked Iván, breathlessly.
“They are not actually in our possession,” corrected the chief of the
police.
“May I ask what that implies?” asked Volenski, whose parched lips and
quivering nerves hardly enabled him to frame an intelligible query.
“It implies that we know where they are, and that we can lay our hands
on them at any moment.”
“And----”
“Stay! let me explain,” added the polite baron kindly, as he noted
Volenski’s eagerness. “The police are, as you know, well acquainted
with the woman who was in the room with the thief at the time of the
arrest, and who ran away through the window with a part of the booty.
She is one of that class whom it is _bon ton_ to designate as the
‘unfortunate.’”
“Yes! I knew that the female thief had escaped, but I should have
thought----”
“That our police, usually so active, when there is a little
rough-and-tumble work to do, would not fail in overtaking and
capturing her. That would have been done, no doubt, but for a very
important reason, which is this: the officer in command, once having
recognised the woman, knew that he could lay hands on her at any
moment. She lives in Vienna, and haunts every _cabaret_ and third-rate
hotel, her favourite resort being the ‘Kaiser Franz.’ He therefore
intends to lull her into false security, with a view--by keeping a
constant watch on her movements--of discovering and bringing to
justice a gang of receivers of stolen goods, who, so far, have
completely baffled our vigilance, and whose tool we believe her to
be.”
“You think, then, that the woman brought those candlesticks to Vienna
with her?”
“We know she did, for she was seen in Vienna this very morning, and is
being closely watched.”
“Surely your Excellency will give immediate orders to have her rooms
searched this very evening?” said Iván imploringly.
“I have no objection to doing that,” said Baron de Hermansthal
urbanely, “as I am anxious to prove to his Eminence how willing I am
to serve him.”
“Your Excellency will allow me to accompany the police?” asked
Volenski eagerly.
“To identify the candlesticks,” he added, seeing that Baron de
Hermansthal shook his head in emphatic refusal; “there may be others
there.”
“On one condition then, that you do not interfere with our men in the
discharge of their duty, merely pointing out the articles you claim as
your property, and that you allow the officer on duty to bring them
here, to my office, without opposition.”
“To your office?” said Iván.
“Yes! I shall have to insist that the candlesticks remain in my charge
until I hear definitely from you or Madame Demidoff herself, that she
wishes them handed over to you.”
“And in the meanwhile?”
“I promise you faithfully that no one shall even touch them; you shall
yourself see the parcel locked in my desk, and I shall be delighted to
give them up to you, as soon as I am satisfied that Madame Demidoff
has no objection to my doing so.”
Iván reflected a moment. In his mind there at once arose the idea
that chance would certainly favour him, once he actually had the
candlesticks in his hands; he had but to press the spring while the
police were searching another part of the room, and he could, he felt
sure, extract the papers unperceived. There were so many eventualities
that might happen, between the time when the candlesticks were found
and the moment when Baron de Hermansthal would finally turn the key of
his desk on them; so many opportunities, any one of which would find
him on the alert. His hesitation, therefore, lasted but a moment; the
next, he had assured the amiable baron that he would strictly adhere
to his instructions, and was quite willing to wait for Madame
Demidoff’s decision, once his fears, that the candlesticks might be
too much tampered with, had been allayed.
“In the name of his Eminence,” he added diplomatically, “I thank your
Excellency for your courtesy in the matter.”
“Pray say no more,” replied Baron de Hermansthal, as he touched the
bell in order to give the necessary instructions.
“Tell Sergeant Meyer I wish to speak to him,” he said to his valet.
“It is very late,” he added, looking at his watch; “nearly eight
o’clock, but that is no matter, as no doubt you will find the woman
has gone out on her nightly errands and left you the coast clear.”
A discreet rap at the door and the sergeant appeared, saluting his
chief.
“Meyer,” said his Excellency, “do I understand that the woman Grete
Ottlinger has, so far, not been caught trying to sell the stolen
property?”
“No, your Excellency, she has not left her rooms since this morning,
when she arrived from Oderberg. Two of my men have been stationed
outside her doors all day, and she has not gone out. Her _concierge_
thinks she has been in bed all day. She drove this morning direct from
the station to her room, and had then a large-sized box with her.”
“Very good! I wish you now to take one other man with you and go to
the woman’s room, with this warrant to search all her premises. You
will seize all the suspicious property you can find. If the woman is
there you may arrest her, if not, your men will be having an eye on
her, and she can be arrested when she comes home. Monsieur here has my
permission to accompany you and to identify certain articles that
belong to him, and which you must then bring back here to my office.
Do you understand?”
“Yes, your Excellency!”
“_Au revoir_ then, my dear Volenski,” said Baron de Hermansthal,
turning to Iván; “I shall expect you here with the candlesticks
according to your promise, on which I rely.”
And his Excellency, rising from his seat and dismissing the sergeant
with a nod, thereby intimated to Volenski that he had done all his
duty allowed him to do, and that the audience was at an end.
Iván once more was profuse in his thanks. Fate indeed favoured him;
it was now for him to seize the splendid opportunity with skill and
promptitude. He felt in his pocket-book that he was well provided with
money; a “douceur” to the sergeant, should he chance to see what
Volenski did not intend, might be necessary.
Five minutes afterwards he was in a _fiaker_ with Sergeant Meyer and
another member of the corps, and in his heart of hearts he hoped that
the next half-hour would see his precious papers transferred once more
to the inner pocket of his coat.