captivated, doubtless, by the very debonairness of his villainy and his
steady gambler’s nerve.
And all unwittingly the Archduke Armand had played directly into Lotzen’s
hands. Out of consideration for the Princess, he had insisted that they
forget the Book of Laws until the period of mourning were passed, and
Dehra, against her better judgment, had consented, though only upon
condition that they two should first make a thorough search of her
father’s apartments, which they did the following morning; she even
climbing up and looking behind the large pictures—much to Armand’s
amusement; he asking what would be the King’s object in concealing the
Book in such a place; and she retorting that, as there was no reason at
all for concealing it, the unreasonable place was the most likely.
And in that she was very right; for the box itself was now the most
unreasonable place, yet even her woman’s fancy stopped short of it.
The period of official mourning expired on the twentieth, and on the
twenty-first, the Princess telephoned to the Archduke to ride out to the
Palace for luncheon that day, and to bring the American Ambassador with
him—unless Mr. Courtney would object to being with Helen Radnor—and that
the day being very warm they would be served under the trees near the sun
dial, below the marble terrace—and that he and Courtney should join them
there—and that Helen was with her now. And Armand had laughed and readily
promised for them both.
As he hung up the receiver, Colonel Bernheim stood in the doorway, and he
nodded for him to come in.
Bernheim saluted and crossing to the desk put down a small package, about
as large as one’s fist.
“My lord,” he said, “here is the steel vest.”
The Archduke leaned back and laughed.
“You say that as naturally as though it were my cap or gloves,” he
commented.
“And why not, sir—Ferdinand of Lotzen is in Dornlitz, and the truce is
ended.”
“The truce?”
“The truce of mourning—you were quite safe so long as it lasted; Moore
and I made sure of that.”
“Really, Colonel, you surprise me,” said Armand. “How did you make sure?”
“By having some one buy Bigler plenty of wine, at the Club—and then
putting together stray words he let slip.”
The Archduke shook his head in mock reproof.
“You and Moore are a wonderful pair,” he said. “You think for me more
than I think for myself.”
A smile touched Bernheim’s stern mouth and impassive face.
“We need to, Your Highness,” he answered. “You don’t think at all; you
leave it to Lotzen.” He pushed the package a little nearer—“You will wear
it, my lord?”
Armand took it, and, cutting the wrapper, shook out the wonderful steel
vest, that had saved his life at the Vierle Masque when, from across the
hedge, the assassin’s dagger had sought his heart. It was, truly, a
marvellous bit of craftsmanship; pliable as silk and scarcely more bulky,
the tiny steel links so cunningly joined they had the appearance of dark
gray cloth. He bent and twisted it in admiring contemplation. Verily,
those armorers of old Milan understood their art—never could modern hand
have forged and knit so perfect a garment. He found the mark on the back,
where the bravo’s weapon struck—only a scratch, so faint it was almost
indistinguishable, yet the blow had sent him plunging on his face.
“It served you well that night,” said Bernheim.
The Archduke smiled. “And as its owner always does;” he smiled—and the
old Aide bowed—“but there is no Masque to-night.”
“Every night, now, is a Masque for Lotzen—and every day, too.”
“Heaven, man! you wouldn’t have me wear this constantly?”
“No—not in bed;” then seriously—“but at all other times, sir.”
Armand pushed the vest back on the desk and frowned.
“Has it come to this, then—that my life isn’t safe here—nor in my house,
nor on the street! Is this civilization or savagery?”
Bernheim shrugged his shoulders.
“Neither,” he said, “neither—it’s Hell. It’s always Hell where Lotzen
plays. Surely, sir, you have not forgot the past.”
“No—no—but that was a Masque, and assassination went with the costumes
and the atmosphere; yet now, in Dornlitz of the twentieth century—I can’t
bring myself to believe ... why don’t you threaten me with poison or a
bomb?”
“Poison is possible, but not a bomb—it is not neat enough for Lotzen.”
Armand looked at him in puzzled amusement.
“I see,” he said, “I see—he murders artistically—he doesn’t like a mess.”
“Just so, sir; and the most artistic and least messy is a neat hole
through the heart.... You will wear the vest, my lord?”
The Archduke’s glance wandered to the window—electric cars were speeding
down the avenue—an automobile whizzed by—and another—and another.
“Look,” said he, “look! isn’t it absurd to talk of steel vests!”
Bernheim shook his head. “Lotzen does not belong yonder—he is a remnant
of the Middle Ages.”
“Well, I’m not; so no armor for me, my dear Bernheim—I’ll keep my eyes
open and take my chances. I don’t believe the crown of Valeria will be
the reward of an assassin.”
Disappointment shone in the Aide’s eyes.
“I’m something of a Fatalist, myself, sir,” he said, “but I wouldn’t play
with a tiger after I had goaded him to fury.”
Armand smiled. “The case isn’t exactly parallel.”
“No—not exactly:—the tiger might not kill me.”
The Archduke picked up the letter knife and slowly cut lines on the
blotter.
“You need not go into the tiger’s cage,” he remarked.
“There isn’t any cage—the beast is at large.”
“Nonsense, Colonel; this fellow Lotzen has got on your nerves. I thought
you hadn’t any.”
“The pity of it is, sir, that he hasn’t got on yours.”
“And when he does,” said Armand kindly, “will be time enough for the
chain-mail.”
Bernheim took the vest and deliberately laid it on the blotter.
“For the sake of those who love you, my lord,” he said—“and”—turning to a
picture of the Princess, which hung on the opposite wall, and
saluting—“for her whom we all serve.”
The Archduke looked at the picture in silence for a moment.
“Send the vest to the Epsau,” he said; “I will wear it—sometimes.”
And Bernheim knew he had to be satisfied with the sometimes—though as
even that was more than he had dared to hope for, he was well content.
The Archduke and the American Ambassador met by appointment at the outer
gate of the City, and as the former had been delayed, they rode at speed
to the Summer Palace. It was the first time they had been together,
informally, since the King’s death, but beyond the usual friendly
greeting and an occasional word en route there was no conversation. There
was much that Armand wished to discuss with his friend, but this was not
the place for it—it needed a quiet room and the other aids to serious
consultation.
“I want a word with you, Dick, before you go back to town,” he remarked,
as they dismounted.
And Courtney nodded comprehendingly.
“As many as you wish, my boy,” he said.
But the Princess also wanted a word with Courtney; she knew his keen
insight into motives and men; his calm judicialness of judgment; his
critical analysis of facts, and, most important of all, his influence
with Armand, and she desired his counsel and his aid. She had not forgot
the part he had played in the recent past; that but for him there would
be no Archduke Armand; that, indeed, it was this quiet diplomat whom she
had to thank for the happiest days of her life, and the happy prospect
for the days to come; and, but for whom, there would be to her only the
memory of that ride in the forest with the American Captain Smith; and
Ferdinand of Lotzen would be King; and she—she might even be his
Queen—and have yet to learn his vileness and his villainy.
All this she knew, and her heart warmed to Courtney as now it warmed to
none other save Armand himself. And that very morning, as the two men
crossed the terrace and came toward them, she had told Lady Helen Radnor,
with the smiling frankness of a comrade, that if she sent this man away,
no act in all her life would equal it in folly; then without waiting for
an answer she had gone to greet her guests.
Now, when the luncheon was ended, she dismissed the servants and turned
to Courtney.
“Will you do something for Armand?” she asked.
“Don’t you think I have already done him service enough?” he said,
looking at her with a significant smile—“more than he deserves or can
ever appreciate.”
“Well, may be you have,” she smiled, catching his humor, “so do this for
me—help me to make him King.”
“What can I do?” he asked.
She leaned a bit nearer. “Keep him firm for his birthright; don’t let him
fling it aside in disgust, if the struggle drags out, for long.”
Courtney nodded. “I understand,” he said; “but you need have no concern;
you yourself will keep him firm—it’s the only way he can make you Queen.”
He paused and tapped his cigarette meditatively against his glass. “You
think there isn’t any doubt as to the decree in his favor?” he asked.
“None—absolutely none.”
“Then all you have to do is to find the Book—that shouldn’t be so very
difficult.”
“True enough; it shouldn’t—but it will be.”
“You seem very positive,” he said.
“A woman’s intuition.”
Courtney smiled. “Which isn’t infallible.”
“Will you try to prove that?” she asked. “Will you help us find the
Book?” And without waiting for his answer she turned to the Archduke.
“Armand,” she said, “tell Mr. Courtney what we know as to the Laws; I
want his advice.”
Armand laughed. “I fancy he already knows it, my dear—it’s his business
to know things.”
“And it’s also particularly his business,” she retorted, “never to betray
that he knows—therefore, we must tell him.”
“Bear with him, Your Highness,” said Courtney—“I assure you he will learn
in time.... Meanwhile, Monsieur le Prince, I’m all attention.”
Armand leaned over to Lady Helen. “His manners are rather crass,” he
remarked, in a confidential whisper, “but he really means well.” Then he
pushed the cigarettes across to Courtney.
“Take a fresh one, old chap; the story may be a bit long.”
VIII
INFERENCE OR FACT
Through the story Courtney sat with half closed eyes, pulling at his gray
imperial, the unlighted cigarette between his lips. With the main facts
he was already familiar, as was every Embassy in Dornlitz, but much of
the small details were new to him; and at the end, for a while, he was
silent, fitting the incidents together in his mind.
“Do you care to tell me what the police make of it?” he asked.
“Nothing, as usual,” Armand answered. “Their intelligence doesn’t run
beyond a hidden panel, and sounding every wall and floor in the Palace;
they scorn any theory but that His Majesty concealed the Book.”
“Which is perfectly absurd,” Dehra added; “why should he conceal it, with
the box and the vault at hand?”
“Why don’t you make them take another lead?” Lady Helen asked.
“Because I’m sick of them and their ways.—I’ve sent them away—and away
they stay; in another day there wouldn’t have been a wall in the Palace.”
“She told the officer in charge the only way he could ever find the Book
was not to search for it,” Armand laughed. “And then gave him a grade in
rank to salve the words.”
“Don’t interrupt, sir!” the Princess exclaimed. “And remember I can’t
give you a grade.”
“Was any one with the King after you left him that night?” Courtney
asked.
“Only Adolph, the valet,” Dehra replied. “I’m quite sure he would receive
no one at that hour.”
“And what did Adolph say as to the Book?”
“That he hadn’t seen it for four days prior to Frederick’s death,” said
Armand.
“Who told you that?” the Princess asked quickly.
“He told the Council.”
“Then he deliberately deceived you; he saw it the night I did—the last
night;—he came to the door just after the King spoke of Armand’s decree.”
Courtney struck a match and carefully lit the cigarette.
“Where is Adolph?” he asked.
“He has gone back to France, I think.”
Courtney sent a quick, inquiring look at Armand, which the latter missed,
having turned toward Lady Helen.
“Oh, I remember,” he replied; “there was a stray line about him in the
paper—grief and so forth. At the time, I inferred he had been banished by
the police, for some reason.”
“We can have him back,” she interjected.
The Archduke looked around. “Adolph is dead,” he said. “His body was
found behind the hedge under the King’s library windows three days after
Frederick’s demise.”
“But his return to France?” Dehra exclaimed.
“A fiction of your police, doubtless,” said Courtney dryly; “they are
very clever.... He was—killed, of course?”
“In the Park, the night the King died; a dagger wound in the heart,” the
Archduke explained.
“Do you know that to be the fact; or is it the police theory?”
“I don’t know anything—indeed, it was only yesterday I learned of it and
sent for the papers in the case.”
“And the—killer, I assume, has not been apprehended.”
“Naturally not,” said Armand; and proceeded to explain the matter as the
police viewed it.
“What do you think, now?” Dehra demanded, at the end.
A bit of a smile crept into Courtney’s face.
“I think,” he said, “that the only circumstance which relieves the police
from utter imbecility is their not knowing that the valet had lied to the
Royal Council as to the Book.”
The Princess’ finger tips began to tap the table, and the little wrinkle
showed between her eyes.
“Don’t, my dear, don’t,” laughed Armand; “you can’t give the entire
Bureau a grade in rank—and besides, they are not to blame. I called the
Chief down hard yesterday, only to have him tell me it was the ancient
and rigid custom never, except by special order, to investigate a crime
that touched the royal household, nor to follow any clue which led inside
the Palace. And I apologized—and instantly abolished the custom.”
“They were specially ordered to search for the Book of Laws,” the
Princess insisted; “wouldn’t that lead them to Adolph?”
“Under their theory Adolph had nothing to do with the Book,” said
Courtney.
“Just so,” the Archduke remarked; “and between their rotten theories and
customs the business has been sadly bungled.”
“Their fatal fallacy,” said Courtney, “was, it seems to me, in assuming
that no one but His Majesty and Her Highness could open the vault.—I have
no doubt the valet had discovered the combination.”
“But the box,” Dehra objected; “it was locked when I got it, and Adolph
could not have had the key.”
“He might have had a duplicate.”
“I think not,” said Armand; “it is a trick lock with a most complicated
arrangement, and to make a duplicate would have required the original
key.”
“Well, however that may be is not essential,” said Courtney; “the fact
remains that, between eleven o’clock of one night and ten o’clock of the
second day thereafter, the Book disappeared; and the last time it was
seen, to our knowledge, it was lying under the King’s own hand, on the
table in his library, with the open box beside it; and that the latter
was found, closed and locked and empty, in its place in the vault, while
the most thorough search for the Book has been ineffectual except, it
seems, to prove that it is not in the Palace. We can safely assume that
His Majesty did not hide it; hence he returned it to its place; and
whoever took it, got it out of a locked box in a locked vault. For this,
Adolph had the best opportunity.”
“But what possible motive?” the Princess exclaimed.
Courtney smiled. “If I could tell you that, we would be far toward
finding the Book; yet he had a motive—his lie to the Council proves it.”
“You think he stole the Laws?” she asked.
Courtney sent a smoke cloud shooting upward and watched it fade.
“I think,” said he, “that if Adolph didn’t steal them, he knows who did;
his lie can bear no other construction.”
“And his death?” the Archduke asked.
Courtney watched another smoke ring and made no reply.
“Come,” insisted Armand; “answer.”
The other shook his head.
“I stop with the lie,” he said. “Indeed, I can’t get beyond it. The valet
would have but one reason for stealing the Book—to sell it to—Some-one,
who would have every reason to conceal or even to destroy it. Every
logical inference points to this Some-one; and yet, for once, logic seems
to be at fault.”
“You mean the Duke of Lotzen?” said the Princess.
Courtney smiled, but made no answer.
“Your pardon,” she said, “but at least you can tell us why the logic is
at fault.”
“Because,” said he, “the actual facts are otherwise. As Armand knows, I
like to play with mystery, and when I may help a friend I like it all the
more. The logical solution of the matter, in view of the decree, is a
knowing valet, and a ready buyer; yet the latter was not in Dornlitz,
when the Book was stolen, nor has my most careful investigation disclosed
any communication, by Adolph, with him or his friends. On the contrary,
the evidence is absolutely conclusive against it; and hence acquits the
Some-one of having had any hand in the theft.”
“You knew, then, of Adolph’s death?” Armand asked.
“Yes—though not all the details as you related them.”
The Archduke smiled; there were very few details missed when Courtney
started an investigation.
“Your argument, Richard,” he said, “is based upon the hypothesis that
Adolph is the thief, which appears most probable; yet did your
examination suggest no other solution?”
“Absolutely none—and, more peculiar still, I was unable to find the
slightest trace of the valet outside the Palace, between the time he left
the Council and the discovery of his dead body behind the hedge—though
you and Her Highness saw him in the library after the Council adjourned.”
“And that is the last time I ever saw him,” said Dehra.
“And more than that,” Armand added, “it’s the last time any one saw him
in the Palace; I had that matter looked into yesterday. The Council rose
about noon and afterward not a servant nor soldier so much as laid eyes
on him.”
“Isn’t there something particularly significant in the place where Adolph
was found?” the Princess asked. “Mightn’t he have been killed in the
library and then, from the window, the body dropped behind the hedge?”
Courtney’s hand went to his imperial reflectively.
“A very reasonable and a very likely explanation,” he said; “and the
nature of the wound supports it; it was a noiseless assassination;—but,
again, that eliminates the Some-one.”
“Very true,” said the Archduke; “he left the Council before it adjourned,
to return at once to town.”
“But did he return at once?” Dehra persisted. “Mightn’t he have remained
and killed Adolph—some how, some way—I don’t know, but mightn’t he?”
Armand shook his head. “I think not,” he said. “I looked into that too,
and there seems to be no doubt Lotzen was in Dornlitz before one o’clock;
and every moment of his time, until Adolph was found, has been accounted
for; so, even assuming he didn’t leave the Palace immediately, he would
have had to kill the valet within half an hour after we saw him in the
library; and that, under all the conditions, is utterly incredible.”
“Nothing’s incredible where Lotzen is concerned,” she answered. “So let
us assume he did kill Adolph, in the King’s library, during that very
half hour between noon and twelve-thirty, and answer me this: Why did he
kill him?”
“Either to get the Book of Laws or because Adolph knew too much
concerning it,” said Armand, smiling at her earnestness.
“Exactly; and, therefore, Lotzen either has the Book or he knows where it
is.... Am I not right?” she demanded, turning to Courtney.
“Undoubtedly, Your Highness—according to your premises.”
“You don’t admit the premises?”
“I can’t—they are too improbable—and the facts are against them.”
“Oh, facts!” she exclaimed, “facts! I don’t care a rap for facts. Lotzen
killed Adolph and Lotzen has the Book.”
Courtney looked at her curiously—the idea was preposterous, naturally,
but the very arbitrariness of her conclusions was softened by her
earnestness and evident faith in their truth. It was, of course, just
another case of woman’s intuition, that begged every question and tore
logic into tatters; yet, sometimes, he had known it to guess truly,
despite the most adverse facts—might it be that here was just another
such guess?
The table stood back a little way among the trees, and was hidden from
the Palace by the hedge of rhododendron, that flanked the roadway where
it swept around the great marble pergola; and so they did not see the man
in undress cavalry uniform, who came slowly along the terrace, and,
descending the steps, took the path leading to the sun-dial. At it he
paused, with desultory interest seemingly, to read the shadow; bending
over, the while, to blow away the dust.
As he did so, the Princess saw him, through a rift in the hedge. First
she frowned, then a quizzical smile settled on her lips, and she glanced
again at Courtney.
“Do you still doubt?” she asked.
Courtney, preoccupied, looked at her a moment without replying.
“Yes,” he said; “being a man and intuitionless, I still must doubt.”
At that moment, the officer passed the hedge and they all saw him.
“Cousin!” the Princess called,—“cousin!”
The Duke of Lotzen faced about sharply, then doffed cap and approached.
“Your Highness spoke?” he said, bowing.
Dehra leaned on the table, her chin in her hand, and studied him a bit,
while the others wondered, and Armand’s anger rose.
“Cousin,” she said, “I have just asserted that you killed Adolph and have
the Book of Laws—is it not the truth?”
Lady Helen gasped; Armand half rose from his chair; even Courtney’s
studied immobility of countenance was not impervious to his surprise.
The Duke alone met the situation with perfect imperturbability. He
neither started, frowned, nor changed expression in the slightest; the
pleasant smile, that was on his lips, lingered unabated, while the hand
that rested on his sword hilt was as steady as the cold, blue eyes which
gave back the Princess’ gaze. Then, gradually, the smile broadened,
creeping slowly upward, until it touched the cold blue eyes, though
warming them not a whit; presently, he laughed, gently, and with just a
trace of jeer.
“It is not for a subject to contradict the Regent of Valeria,” he
said—and with a bow and a salute he turned languidly away.
And the Princess did not stop him, but in silence, chin still on hand,
she watched him out of sight.
IX
THE RECKLESS GAME
The Princess was the first to speak. “Tell me, Your Excellency,” she
said, “do you admit my premises, now?”
“Are you, yourself, quite as sure of them, as you were?” he asked.
“Sure!—sure! I’m absolutely sure—I saw the truth in his eyes—didn’t you,
Armand?”
“No,” said the latter, “I didn’t—I never saw truth anywhere in Lotzen.”
“If he were innocent, why should he plead guilty?” she demanded.
“And if guilty, why should he admit it?” the Archduke asked.
“Because in this case the truth is more misleading than a lie—he had no
notion we would believe him.”
“He is a very extraordinary man,” observed Courtney; “his mental
processes are beyond belief. Your question was the most amazing I ever
heard, and should have been instantly decisive of his guilt or innocence;
instead, it has only clouded the matter deeper for you and cleared it
completely for him. Your cards are exposed—his are still stacked.”
“They are not stacked to me,” said Dehra; “he is guilty.”
“Then, in that aspect, he has deliberately asked you what you’re going to
do about it.”
“I’m going to get the Book—for Adolph I don’t care—I’m glad he killed the
little beast.”
“And how,” said Armand, “are we to get the Book? No ordinary means will
suffice. Imprisonment would only make a martyr of him and strengthen him
enormously with the Nobles and the people; and banishment is absurd; he
may be the King.”
“If he has the Book, he would welcome banishment,” said Courtney; “it
would relieve him of your espionage. But, Your Highness, let me ask, why
should he have it now? Armand admitted to the Council he is ineligible
without King Frederick’s decree, so why would Lotzen preserve that
decree? The Book is not essential to his title.”
The Princess shook her head incredulously. “Ferdinand of Lotzen is a
knave but I won’t believe that of him.... A Dalberg destroy the Dalberg
Laws! Inconceivable!—oh, inconceivable!”
“So, between the Crown of Valeria and the Book of Laws, you think he
would chose the latter; and hand the Crown to Armand?”
“He would conceal the Laws—he wouldn’t destroy them,” she insisted.
The Archduke reached over and took her hand.