It was in a narrow street, in one of the most squalid quarters of
Vienna, that the _fiaker_ stopped, after some ten minutes’ rattle over
the cobbled streets of the city.
Sergeant Meyer jumped out, followed by Iván and the other police
officer, and casting a quick, searching glance along the apparently
deserted street, he walked unhesitatingly under one of the wide
porticoes in front of him. The house was one of a row of tall
buildings, ugly, square, and straight, with a balcony running along
outside the first-floor fronts, the whole length of the street, and a
wide, open _porte cochère_, leading, through a square courtyard, to
the lodgings at the back of the buildings. There was a lodge for the
_concierge_ on the right, at the foot of the wide stone staircase that
leads up to the front of the house, but no one guarded the apartments
that overlooked the courtyard: there was nothing there worth guarding,
the inhabitants belonging mostly to the very poorest classes of
Vienna, who had nothing worth stealing.
A group of women, with untidy hair and dirty aprons, stopped their
chatter and nudged each other significantly with great, coarse, bare
elbows, as they caught sight of the police uniform; and one or two
heads appeared at some of the windows, as the heavy steps of Sergeant
Meyer and his followers echoed on the stone pavement of the courtyard.
Having reached the dark and narrow staircase leading to the floors
above, Sergeant Meyer turned to Iván.
“I do not see either of our fellows anywhere about, so I conclude the
woman has gone out.”
“So much the better,” said Volenski, “we need have no disturbance
then; I suppose the people of the house are used to this sort of
thing, for they took very little heed of your uniform or our
presence.”
The sergeant shrugged his shoulders, intimating that he cared little
for any disturbance that might arise, and he added--
“This house is one of the worst-famed in this part of Vienna; it is
almost entirely tenanted by women of Grete Ottlinger’s class. A police
inspection of their premises is a very frequent occurrence, and the
inhabitants have, I think, one and all, spent some time in prison or
hospital.”
The three men now began cautiously ascending the dark stone stairs,
guiding themselves by the narrow, iron hand-rail, and feeling their
way with utmost care. Sergeant Meyer, who was in front, seemed to be
very sure of where he was going, for it was without any hesitation
that he stopped somewhere about the fifth floor, and crossing a dark
passage, tried the handle of one of the doors that opened thereon.
The door, however, seemed to be locked, and after one or two repeated
loud knocks, the sergeant applied his broad shoulders to the feebly
resisting timber, and broke it open without any difficulty.
The room, in which the three men now found themselves, was but dimly
illumined by a glimmer of light, that came in through the window from
the courtyard below. The sergeant struck a match and lighted his
lantern; the aspect of that room then presented itself in all its
squalor and hideousness: an iron bedstead, covered with a ragged,
coloured counterpane, stood out from the centre of the wall opposite;
to the right as they entered, an earthenware stove with the tiles
mostly cracked and loose; then a coarsely-painted chest, the drawers
of which were mostly open, displaying a medley of dirty laces and
faded ribbons; two or three chairs in a rickety condition propped
against the walls, and a table with a broken ewer and cracked basin,
completed the furniture of this abode of misery and degradation; the
floor was bare, the boards unwashed and rough, on the window-sill
stood a mirror and two or three pots of powder and cosmetics, while on
the chest of drawers lay a litter of papers and two or three faded
photographs.
Iván stood gazing round in horror. It had never been his misfortune
to witness the type of misery, sordid and abject, that was depicted by
this bare room, by the tawdry scraps of ribbon, the half-empty,
evil-smelling pots of cosmetics, and his mind reverted to the exalted
notion he and his comrades had of the “people,” of the poor, who were
in the future to frame laws and rule empires, the “people” about whom
they talked so much, and knew so little, the “people” whose men and
women lived like _this_.
Then pulling himself together he gazed blankly round him. Save for
that chest of drawers, which appeared half empty, he could see nothing
wherein the Emperor’s candlesticks could have been hidden, and a cold
perspiration stood on his forehead as he turned to Meyer and asked him
what course he intended to pursue.
The sergeant once more shrugged his shoulders, then pointing to the
bed he ordered his man to turn the paillasse over.
“Would you like to search that chest of drawers?” he smiled,
sarcastically addressing Volenski. “My impression is that the bird has
flown and taken her treasures with her.”
Iván waited not for a second offer, he was already emptying the
drawers, throwing ribbons and rags in a confused heap on the floor.
Hope was fast dwindling away; this golden opportunity, from which he
had expected so much, was proving futile. The splendid chance he would
have had in this dark room, if only the candlesticks were to fall in
his hands, was not to be his after all. Half fainting with the
closeness of the atmosphere, and the nerve-strain consequent on the
bitter disappointment he was experiencing, Iván dared not let the
sergeant see his face, frightened lest the astute detective should
notice his strange agitation, and jump at conclusions, which he might
afterwards communicate to his chief.
“It seems to me,” said Meyer at last, “that we are wasting our time
here; the woman has evidently taken with her what valuables she had
stolen, either because she is always prepared for a police raid during
her absence, or she may actually have gone to dispose of them. Anyhow,
monsieur,” he added, “with your permission, we will leave the matter
for the present, and report proceedings to the chief.”
Iván had completely emptied the drawers, and was now impatiently
turning over the letters and papers that were lying in a confused heap
on the top of the chest. A half-torn, almost wholly faded photograph
had riveted his attention. A somewhat coarse, large-featured woman’s
face, with dark, provoking eyes, and a wide, laughing mouth. He
wondered, as he looked at it, whether this was the woman who held his
fate and that of his comrades in one of those clumsy, low-bred hands,
and whether he would ask Sergeant Meyer if this was Grete Ottlinger.
“Is this the woman?” he asked at last with sudden determination,
turning towards the police officer and holding out the photograph.
“Yes! it is,” replied Meyer, after a hasty glance. “No beauty, is
she?” he added with a laugh.
Then the other man having opened the door, the sergeant stood
evidently impatient to be gone, his lantern in his hand dimly lighting
the dark passage beyond. Volenski with a sudden impulse slipped the
photograph into his pocket, and throwing a last hopeless look at the
squalid abode he had entered so full of hope, followed Meyer down the
narrow stairs.
He was loth to give up all hope, his was a sanguine and buoyant
disposition, that refused to give way to despair. A plan had already
formed in his brain, a confused idea that would require the quietness
of the deserted streets to order and to organise.
“As we have not found anything belonging to me up there,” he said to
Sergeant Meyer, as the latter prepared to step into the cab that was
waiting for them outside, “I don’t think there is any necessity for me
to follow you to his Excellency’s office. What do you think?”
“You know best, monsieur, of course,” replied Meyer. “I have a very
short report to make about the woman’s absence, together with every
article of stolen property; also the fact that our two fellows are no
doubt on her track, as I do not see them anywhere about. His
Excellency must then decide, if it is worth while going to the ‘Kaiser
Franz’ to-night on the chance of finding her there, or leave the
matter alone till her return.”
“I should think the latter is by far the wisest course,” said Iván
hastily; “however, that is none of my business. Will you tell his
Excellency, that as my property has not been found, I will call on him
again to-morrow morning, and in the meanwhile will communicate with
Madame Demidoff?”
Sergeant Meyer and his assistant bowed to Iván as they stepped into
the _fiaker_. Volenski waited a few moments till the sound of the
wheels died out in the distance, then taking a cigarette from his case
he lighted it with great deliberation and sauntered off towards the
Ringstrasse with an anxious but determined look on his young face.