THE CAPSIZED BOAT
Next morning I could hardly persuade myself that what I had seen the
night before had not been all a dream. In the bright sunshine and in
the active work-a-day life of the city, the ghastly business seemed
impossible. But the effect of my experience lay heavy on my mind.
I felt I could do nothing. As a State affair it was no business of
mine to interfere; I could not decide even whether I should tell Von
Lindheim what I knew. I was to see him late that afternoon, and had the
greater part of the day at my disposal. Thinking that exercise would
be the best means of shaking off my depression, I determined to revert
to an old sport of mine, rowing. Accordingly, after a late breakfast,
I hired the lightest sculling boat I could find, and went for a pull
up the river. A picturesque stream, the Narvo, when once you get clear
of the wharves, mills, warehouses, and like unromantic accessories;
but the worst piece of water for a steady pull that I had ever dipped
oar into, and I had tried a good many, from the Wensum to the Danube.
No sooner did I get into my swing and the craft began to slip along,
than I had to hold her up for an eyot, or a patch of aggressive
water lilies, varied by what answers in those parts for a weir, or a
superfluous, if picturesque waterfall.
But the clearing of the obstacles was all in the day's work. I was not
bound against time for the source of the river, so pushed, hauled, and
punted energetically, thinking the change of working muscles no bad
thing. As a reward for my perseverance I presently got away from all
signs of the town; the banks grew higher and, with their overhanging
bushes, something like our Wye, shut out the hideous chimneys and other
unromantic evidences of Buyda's commercial prosperity. As I pulled
leisurely up a comparatively clear reach, my train of thought was
snapped by the bow of my boat striking against some light object. I
looked round and saw I had run against a floating scull. I took it into
my boat, thinking some one might have let it slip and been unable to
recover it, an awkward mishap not uncommon with duffers; then I rowed
on, thinking to come across the owner before long. The sound of rushing
water warned me that I was approaching another of the weirs, of which
just then I was getting rather tired, since they meant haulage. Beyond
a sharpish bend the river widened considerably, the current became
stronger, and, looking ahead, I could see an obstacle, half weir, half
natural waterfall, with the usual rotten posts and dilapidated rails. I
pulled on, undecided whether to take the trouble of carrying my craft
round or to return, when a stroke took me beyond, and so in sight of an
object lying caught in the sedge outside the current.
A capsized boat.
I did not like the look of it. "That accounts for the scull," I said,
and pulled round to examine her. No one was to be seen on the banks,
which were flat and open here. I ran my boat alongside the overturned
craft. With some difficulty I righted her. A row-boat, similar to mine,
she was of course empty, except that, jammed under the thwarts was a
walking-stick, an ordinary bamboo with a hook handle and the usual
silver band. This I threw into my boat, and then got ashore. Not a
soul was in sight. I walked up a good way past the fall, giving an
occasional shout, but there was no sign of any human being, dead or
alive, and the one seemed now as much to be looked for as the other.
So I returned to my boat without having got nearer to the mystery,
and now determined to pull homewards, for the river up higher did not
promise much reward for my exertions. As I went back, however, I looked
sharply about for any further evidences of a boating accident, but
found none. It looked to me very much as though the boat had gone over
the fall, and the walking-stick decidedly pointed to someone having
been in her. But I came to the conclusion that even then if the fellow
could swim and had kept his head he would probably have got off, with
an extremely unpleasant ducking, as the fall was not great, and the
water below clear of obstacles and fairly deep.
At the landing-stage I told my story, but the capsized boat did not
belong to the owner of mine, and the subject consequently lacked
interest for him. There had been accidents over the falls, he told me;
but it was people's own fault and stupidity. One of his men, however,
thought he had seen a gentleman rowing up earlier in the day, but did
not recognize him, or know where the boat had been hired. That was
all; so not seeing what more I could be expected to do, I went back to
the hotel, calling, however, at the police office on my way to give
information of what I had found. The officer in charge phlegmatically
assured me that the matter should be looked into, and bowed me out.
Having changed my clothes, I went on to Von Lindheim's. He had not
returned home, although it was past his usual hour, but shortly after
my arrival he made his appearance. He seemed in better spirits, and I
was glad to notice that the cloud of the previous evening had passed
away. He had been detained at the Chancellerie, he said, by extra work;
D'Urban was away, whether on leave or through illness he had not been
able to find out.
"It was rather hard on me," Von Lindheim said, "but I had to stay over
a stupid protocol, although I told Krause, our chief, that I was taking
an English friend to the theatre. However, we have just time for a
short dinner, and the coffee we can get between the acts."
We were going together _en garçon_ to see Harff in Shylock, and
accordingly sat down to a hurried meal.
It had been in progress scarcely ten minutes when word came in that Von
Lindheim's friend and colleague, Szalay, was waiting to see him on most
urgent business.
"I told the Herr you were engaged, sir," said the servant, "but he said
he must see you without delay."
My friend looked grave, and jumping up with a word of apology to me,
hurried from the room. I concluded that the visit had to do with the
discovery of Von Orsova's death, and began to turn over in my mind
whether I ought to say what I knew. But after all, I argued, it has
nothing to do with these men; I had better perhaps ignore a matter of
which I have no right to be cognizant. In a few minutes Von Lindheim
returned, followed by his visitor.
"You are a man of the world, my dear Tyrrell, and we have come to put a
case before you."
I nodded assent.
"Szalay here has called to see me on a very serious matter indeed. He
has been challenged to fight a duel."
I whistled. "Who's your man?"
"A ridiculous little ass in the Royal Guard here; a fellow who is
always swaggering about full of his own importance, a certain Captain
Rassler de Hayn, or Hahn, as he is nicknamed."
"And the cause of the quarrel?"
Szalay broke in eagerly: "None that I can tell of. He sends a friend to
me to say that I have spoken disrespectfully of him, and so insulted
his uniform, his corps, the army, and the King. He will hear of no
apology."
"Fire-eating little fool!" Von Lindheim ejaculated.
"But perhaps you have insulted him, and all the rest of it?"
"Not particularly. Everybody laughs at the little spit-fire, you
understand; I have laughed with the rest. But not to his face; I have
manners."
"De Hayn is a dead shot and a clever swordsman," Von Lindheim observed
grimly. "These fools are not wanting in pluck."
"But why has he challenged me of all men?" Szalay cried, with a gesture
of bewilderment.
Lindheim gave a shrug. "Who can account for the action of a conceited
fathead? Szalay has come to ask me to act for him. Of course, the
whole affair is ridiculous, still it may end seriously if we treat it
as lightly as it deserves. I must go and see this Lieutenant Paulssen
without delay. What line would you take?"
"You come to the worst man in the world when you put such a case to an
Englishman," I answered, "for----"
"I know. You have no duels, and hold them supremely absurd. But as a
man of the world----"
"Don't call me that, even in a complimentary sense," I returned. "But
so far as my advice goes, it would be to see this Lieutenant Paulssen,
assure him that your principal has no recollection of having spoken
disrespectfully of his, far less of any intention to do so; that his
man has been misinformed, and generally to apologize for any careless
word by which he may have unwittingly reflected upon that constructive
list of institutions he is so jealous of. That's one way."
"And the other?"
"Well, are you good with the sword or pistol? I presume you, as the
challenged, will have choice of weapons."
"My dear Tyrrell, fighting is out of the question. One man is a
professional cut-throat; Szalay is a diplomat."
"I have not handled a sword since I left the university," his friend
added.
"Naturally you don't want to fight, no sane man does, especially over
such imbecility. Though, of course, if you could hit this little
bouncer it would be doing society a good service."
"Well, I'll go and see Paulssen at his quarters within the next hour,"
Von Lindheim said, "and you shall know the result."
So Szalay went off, in no very easy frame of mind.
"The worst of this business is," my host remarked when we were
alone, "that this Paulssen is himself a hot-headed young fool. He
probably will not want this affair stopped, if he calculates on an
opportunity for showing off. I must tell him he is only likely to make
an exhibition of himself. Now, I'm sorry to hurry you. We may as well
start together, and I will join you after the first act."
On our way I found that the news I had been all day expecting had
burst upon the city. Newsvendors were crying the "terrible suicide
of Herr Rittmeister von Orsova." The sudden announcement came as a
shock to Von Lindheim, yet it did not seem to strike him as in any
way unaccountable. I could see that he, like myself, knew more of
the affair than he cared to tell. We bought a paper, and read it
eagerly in the street. Von Orsova had been found by a servant early
that morning lying dead in a corner of the great ball-room of the
palace. By his side was an empty phial containing hydrocyanic acid;
the unfortunate Rittmeister had evidently taken his own life, but the
reason for the act was, up to that time, enveloped in mystery.
My companion looked very grave as he folded up the paper.
"I am not surprised," he remarked simply, adding in a lower tone, "the
game he was playing could scarcely end otherwise. Well, I must leave
you here, and see this fellow. I will be at the theatre as soon as
possible."
About the middle of the second act he dropped quietly into the seat
beside me.
"What success?" I whispered.
He shook his head. "None. I fear Szalay must fight, and if he does----"
He gave an expressive shrug.
When the act was over we strolled out for coffee and a cigarette.
"De Hayn means to fight," Von Lindheim said in answer to my inquiry.
"Paulssen was instructed not to entertain any suggestion of an apology
or explanation. Szalay is a dead man."
"Can't we have the affair stopped?" I suggested. "Surely it is not
countenanced by the law."
"No; but winked at, and, in the army, permitted under certain
circumstances. There is only one chance that I see. The Chancellor is
against duelling; he thinks it retrograde, and he is all for progress.
If I could contrive that he had wind of it----"
A smart young fellow had come up to us and clapped him on the shoulder.
"My dear Von Lindheim, the Baroness Fornbach has sent me to tell you
that she has been trying for the last half-hour to catch your eye.
But you are full of secrets this evening. You are to come to her box
without fail, and disclose them to her. No; seriously, she wants to see
you. Of course bring your friend."
Von Lindheim introduced us, and we three went off to the Baroness's box.
"I hope you don't mind, old fellow; but I can't throw a chance away
to-night. The Baroness is good style and great fun."
When we entered the box we found it occupied by two people. A man was
in animated conversation with the Baroness. He had his back turned
to me, and seemed to be finishing a good story, for they were both
laughing as the man rose and made way for us. Von Lindheim presented
me to the Baroness, a good-looking widow, still young, and evidently
a woman of fashion. We shook hands, and she said a few graceful words
to me, then, with a slight gesture, introduced me casually to her
companion.
"Count, you know Herr von Lindheim? Mr. Tyrrell, Count Furello."
Turning to bow, I found myself face to face with the man who had
accosted me by Duke Johann's chapel the night before, the man who had
forced Von Orsova to his death. I knew him at once, despite the fact
that both my former views of him had been imperfect; the feline eyes
that glittered from the dark recess of the box were unmistakable. And
a curious-looking man he was; a man whom at first sight and without my
previous knowledge of him, one would hardly have known whether to set
down as attractive or detestable, but certainly interesting.
He had a mass of straight chestnut hair brushed back from a high narrow
forehead and falling in a thick even wall over the back of his head.
His eyes were dark and alert, set a trifle too close together, his nose
was long and thin, and his mouth drawn back by what seemed an habitual
muscular contraction into a set grin, making a straight slit across his
face in no way hidden by the small reddish moustache which was turned
upwards well away from it. No doubt he, too, recognized me; however,
he gave no sign of it, only made me a courtly bow with a few murmured
words of compliment. I turned again as the Baroness spoke.
"Is it out of compliment to Mr. Tyrrell's nationality that you have
been too much absorbed in Shakespeare to notice your friends in the
house, Herr von Lindheim?"
He made a--to me--obvious effort to throw off his worry, as he replied:
"No, indeed; I cannot claim such ultra politeness. Harff is at his very
best to-night."
"You are giving yourself a poor character as a diplomatist, Herr von
Lindheim," said Count Furello, "in confessing that even the excitement
of superb acting can blind you to the realities of life around you."
He said this very genially, almost banteringly, but the man's
good-humoured tone and laugh were obviously a mask; behind his easy
manner and glib talk there was the suggestion of a sinister purpose; it
was a personality which in any case would have kept me on my guard.