OTHER PEOPLE'S MONEY
"Mr. Hargreave, father is sending you upon a very strange mission,"
Lola told me in confidence one dull morning, after we had had
breakfast at the Midland Hotel, in Manchester, where we three were
staying about a fortnight after Rayne's generosity in returning the
famous jewels of the dead Sultan.
"What kind of mission?" I inquired with curiosity, as we sat together
in the lounge prior to going out to idle at the shop windows.
"I don't know its object at all," was her reply. "But from what I've
gathered it is something most important. I--I do hope you will take
care of yourself--won't you?" she asked appealingly.
"Why, of course," I laughed. "I generally manage to take care of
myself. I'd do better, however, if--well, if I were not associated
with Duperre and the rest," I added bitterly.
The pretty girl was silent for a few moments. Then she said:
"Of course you won't breathe a word of what I've said, will you?"
"Certainly not, Lola," was my reply. "Whatever you tell me never
passes my lips."
"I know--I know I can trust you, Mr. Hargreave," she exclaimed. "Well,
in this matter there are several mysterious circumstances. I believe
it is something political my father wants to work--some business which
concerns something in the Near East. That's all I know. You will, in
due course, hear all about it. And now let's go along to Deansgate. I
want to buy something."
In consequence we strolled along together, Rayne having gone out an
hour before to keep an appointment--with whom he carefully concealed
from me.
That same night Rayne disclosed to me the mission which he desired me
to carry out. He was a man of a hundred moods and as many schemes.
One fact which delighted me was that in the present suggestion there
seemed no criminal intent. And for that reason I quite willingly left
London for the Near East three days later.
My destination was Sofia, the Bulgarian capital, and the journey by
the Orient Express across Europe was a long and tedious one.
I was much occupied with the piece of scheming which I had undertaken
to carry out in Sofia. 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, Rayne had
said, 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.
The tentacles of the great criminal octopus which Rayne controlled
were indeed far-spread. In this he was making a bid for fortune,
without a doubt.
To the majority of people, the Balkan States are, even to-day, _terra
incognita_. The popular idea is that they are wild, inaccessible
countries, inhabited by brigands. That is not so. True, there are
brigands, even now after the war, in the Balkans, but Belgrade, the
Serbian capital, is as civilized as Berlin, and the main boulevard of
Sofia, whither I was bound, is at night almost a replica of the
Boulevard des Italiens.
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 those three long, never-ending days and nights which the
journey occupied, my mind was constantly filled with the thoughts of
the best and most judicious course to pursue in order to attain my
object.
The run East 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 to
mine.
His nationality I could not determine. He spoke in a deep guttural
voice 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 in the next compartment,
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 in the _wagon-restaurant_, I found him
placed at the same 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 talked 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. At first the _maitre d'hotel_ bustled
about to do the bidding of the newcomer, but very quickly summed him
up, and only grinned knowingly when called to listen to his biting
sarcasm of the Compagnie Internationale des Wagons-Lit 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, Highness."
I stared at the pair. My fussy friend with the big head must therefore
be either a prince or a grand duke!
As I sat opposite him at dinner that night, he was discussing with me
the harmful writings of some newly discovered Swiss author 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 fingers, displaying to me--most certainly
by accident--the palm of his thin right hand.
What I discovered there caused me a great deal of surprise. In its
center was a dark, livid mark, as though it had been branded there by
a hot iron, the plain and distinct imprint of a pet dog's pad!
It fascinated me. There was some hidden meaning in that mark, I felt
convinced. It was just as though a small dog had stepped in blood with
one of its forepaws 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, was Konstantinos Vassos, and he lived in Athens.
But I took that information _cum grano_, for I instinctively knew him
to be a prince traveling incognito. Before the passport officer at
Semlin, every one must pass before entering Serbia.
But if actually a prince, why did he carry a passport?
There is no good hotel at Sofia. The best is called the Grand Hotel de
Bulgarie, kept by a pleasant old lady, and in this we found ourselves
next night installed. He, of course, gave his name as Vassos, and to
all intents and purposes was more of a stranger in the Bulgarian
capital than I myself was, for I had been there previously once just
before the war.
Now Rayne had given me a letter of introduction to a certain Nicolas
Titeroff, who contrived rather mysteriously to get me elected to the
smart diplomats' club--the Union--during my stay.
The days passed. From the first morning of my arrival I found myself
at once in the vortex of gayety; invitations poured in upon me--thanks
to the black-bearded Titeroff--cards for dances here and there and
receptions and dinners, while I spent each afternoon with Titeroff and
a wandering Englishman named Mayhew, who told me he was an ex-colonel
in the British Army.
All the while, I must confess, I was working my cards carefully.
Thanks to the mysterious Titeroff I had received an introduction to
Nicholas Petkoff, the grave, grey-haired Minister of Finance, who had
early in life lost his right arm at the battle of the Shipka
Pass--and he was inclined to admit my proposals. A French syndicate
had approached him, but Petkoff would have none of them.
The mission entrusted to me by Rayne was one which, if I could obtain
the Government Concession which I asked, would mean the formation of a
great company and a matter of millions. And it seemed to me that my
black-bearded friend Titeroff, and Mayhew, were both pulling the
strings cleverly for me in the right direction. Often I considered
whether they were both crooks and members of the gang organized by
Rayne. I could not determine.
One night at the weekly dance at the Military Club--a function at
which the smart set of Sofia always attend, and at which the Ministers
of State themselves with their women-folk put in an appearance--I had
been waltzing with the Minister Petkoff's daughter, a pretty,
dark-haired girl in blue, whom I had met at Titeroff's house--when
presently the Turkish attache, a pale-faced young man in a fez,
introduced me to a tall, very handsome, sweet-faced girl in a black
evening gown.
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.
We had several dances, and afterwards I took her down to supper. Then
we had a couple of fox-trots, and I conducted her out to the car that
was 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 was chatting with Mayhew at the
hotel, he said:
"What have you been up to, Hargreave? 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!"
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 that same night I went alone to a house on the
outskirts of Sofia, and there met, at her urgent request, Marie
Balesco. After apologizing for thus approaching me and throwing all
the _convenances_ to the wind, she seemed to be highly interested in
my welfare, and very inquisitive concerning the reasons that had
brought me to Bulgaria.
Like most women of to-day, 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 de Bulgarie.
I gazed at the morning sunshine upon the wall, and tried to recollect
what had 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
dog's pad!
Horrified, I stared at it! It was the same mark I had seen upon the
hand of old Vassos! What could be its significance?
In a few days the burn healed, leaving a dark red scar, the distinct
imprint of a dog's foot. From Mayhew I tried, by cautious questions,
to obtain some information concerning the fair-faced girl who had
played such a trick upon me. But he only knew her slightly. He amazed
me by saying that she had been staying with a certain Madame Sovoff,
who was something of a mystery, but had left Sofia.
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 my
movements.
I came across him everywhere. Inquiries concerning the reason of the
ugly Greek's presence in Bulgaria met with a negative result. One
thing seemed certain, he was not, as I believed, 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 pocket in case
of foul play.
The mysterious action of the pretty girl from Galatz also puzzled me.
At last the Cabinet, after much political jugglery, being deposed, the
Council were in complete accord with Petkoff regarding my proposals.
All had been done in secret from the party in opposition, and one day
I had lunched with His Excellency the Minister of Finance at his house
in the suburbs of the city.
Nevertheless, I was obsessed by the strange mark which had been so
mysteriously placed upon my hand--the same mark as that borne by the
mysterious Vassos.
"You may send a cipher dispatch to London if you like, Mr. Hargreave,"
said the Minister Petkoff, as we sat over our cigars. "The documents
will be all signed at the Cabinet meeting at noon to-morrow. In
exchange for this loan raised in London, all the contracts for the new
quick-firing guns and ammunition go to your group of London
financiers."
Such was the welcome news His Excellency imparted to me, and you may
imagine that I lost no time in writing out a well-concealed message to
Rayne, and sending it by the manservant to the telegraph office.
For a long time I sat with His Excellency, 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 old fellow.
He grunted.
In the pretty public garden we were strolling together in the sundown,
chatting upon the European unrest after the war, the new loan, and
other matters, when, of a sudden, a black-mustached man in a dark grey
overcoat and a round fur cap sprang from the bushes at a lonely spot,
and, raising a big service revolver, fired point-blank at His
Excellency.
I felt for my own weapon. Alas! it was not there! _I had forgotten
it!_
The assassin, seeing the Minister reel and fall, turned his weapon
upon me. Thereupon in an instant I threw up my hands, crying that I
was unarmed, and an Englishman.
As I did so, he started back as though terrified, and with a spring he
disappeared again into the bushes.
All had happened in a few brief instants, for ere I could realize that
a tragedy had actually occurred, I found the unfortunate Minister
lying lifeless at my feet. My friend had been shot through the heart!
It was a repetition of the assassination of the Minister Stambuloff.
Readers of the newspapers will recollect the tragic affair which is,
no doubt, still fresh in their minds.
I told the Chief of Police of Sofia of my strange experience, and
showed him the mark upon my palm. Though detectives searched high and
low for the Greek, for Madame Sovoff, and for the fascinating
mademoiselle, none of them was ever found.
The assassin was, nevertheless, arrested a week later, while trying to
cross the frontier into Serbia. I, of course, lost by an ace Rayne's
great financial _coup_, but before execution the prisoner made a
confession which revealed the existence of a terrible and widespread
conspiracy, fostered by Turkey, to remove certain members of the
Cabinet who were in favor of British protection and assistance.
Quite unconsciously I had, it seemed, become an especial favorite of
the silent, watchful old Konstantinos Vassos. Fearing lest I, in my
innocence, should fall a victim with His Excellency--being so often
his companion--he had, with the assistance of the pretty Marie
Balesco, contrived to impress upon my palm the secret sign of the
conspirators.
To this fact I certainly owe my life, for the assassin--a stranger to
Sofia, who had been drawn by lot--would, no doubt, have shot me dead,
had he not seen the secret sign upon my raised hand.
When I returned to Overstow and related my strange adventure, Rayne
was furious that just at the very moment when the deal by which he was
to reap such a huge profit was complete, our friend the Minister
should have been assassinated.
Lola was in the room when I described all that had occurred, listening
breathlessly to my narrative.
I showed them both the strange mark upon my palm, a brand which I
suppose I shall bear to my dying day.
"Then you really owe your life to that girl Balesco, Mr. Hargreave?"
she said, raising her fine dark eyes to mine.
"I certainly do," I replied.
Her father grunted, and after congratulating me upon my escape, said:
"You had nothing to complain about regarding Titeroff, and the
assistance he and Mayhew gave you--eh?"
"Nothing. Without them I could never have acted. Indeed, I could never
have approached the Minister Petkoff."
"Yes," he remarked reflectively. "They're both wily birds. Titeroff
feathered his nest well when he was in Constantinople, and Mayhew is
there because of a little bit of serious trouble in Genoa a couple of
years ago. Of course you never mentioned my name--eh?"
"I only mentioned you as Mr. Goodwin--as you told me," I replied.
He smiled.
"They remembered me, of course?"
"Yes, when I delivered your note of introduction to Titeroff, he at
once made me welcome, and seemed much surprised that I was acquainted
with his friend, Mr. Goodwin."
It was now evident, as I had suspected, that the two men who were so
eager to serve me were international crooks, and members of the great
gang which Rayne controlled.
"Just describe the man Vassos as fully as you can," urged Rayne.
In consequence I went into a minute description of the fussy old
Greek, to which Rayne listened most interestedly.
"Yes," he said at last. "But tell me one thing. Did you notice if he
had any deformity?"
"Well--he walked with a distinct limp."
"And his hand?"
"The little finger on his left hand was deformed," I replied. "I now
remember it."
"Ah!" he cried in instant anger. "As I thought! It was old
Boukaris--the sly old devil. How, I wonder, did he know that I had
sent you to Sofia? He, no doubt, saved you by putting that mark on
your hand, Hargreave; but the brutes have been one too many for me,
and have done me down!"