INTRODUCING HERR FRANZ VON BLENHEIM
The words of Franz von Blenheim seemed to fill the hall and reecho
from the walls and arches, deafening me, leaving me stunned as if by
an earthquake or by a flash of lightning from clear skies. Yet I never
though of doubting them. Comatose as my state was, slowly as my brain
was working, I recognized vaguely how many features of the mystery, both
past and present, these words explained.
It was odd, but never once had it occurred to me that Van Blarcom might
be a German. He himself, I began to realize, had taken care of that.
With considerable acumen he had filled every one of our brief interviews
with vigorous denunciations of somebody else, dark hints as to intrigues
that surrounded me and might enmesh me, and solemn warnings and prudent
counsels, which had brilliantly served his turn. He had kept me so busy
suspecting Miss Falconer--at the thought I could have beaten my head
against the wall in token of my abject shame--that my doubts had
never glanced in his direction; a most humiliating confession, since I
couldn’t deny, reviewing the past in this new light, that circumstances
had afforded me every opportunity to guess the truth.
There was no time, however, for dwelling on my deficiencies. The next
half hour would be an uncommonly lively one, I felt quite sure. I might
call the thing bizarre, fantastic; I might dub it an extravaganza; the
fact remained that I was shut up in this lonely spot with four entirely
able-bodied Germans and must match wits with them over some affair
that apparently was of international consequence; for if it had been
a twopenny business, Herr von Blenheim, the star agent of the kaiser,
would never have thought it worth his pains.
With all my fighting spirit rising to meet the odds against us, I cast a
speculative eye over the Teutons, who had now dissolved their group.
Van Blarcom himself--Blenheim, rather--descended in a leisurely fashion
while one of his friends, remaining on the staircase, fixed me with a
look of intentness almost ominous and the other two placed themselves
as if casually before the door. They were stalwart, well set-up men,
I acknowledged as I surveyed them. Though not bad at what our French
friends call _la boxe_, I was outnumbered. It was obviously a case of
strategy--but of what sort?
A much defaced table, flanked with a few battered chairs, stood near me,
and with a premonition that I should want two hands presently, I set my
candle there. Then I drew a chair forward and turned to the girl with
outward coolness.
“Please sit down, Miss Falconer,” I invited. I wanted time.
She inclined her head and obeyed me very quietly. She was not afraid; I
saw it with a rush of pride. As she sat erect, her head thrown back,
on gloved hand resting on the table, she was a picture of spirit and
steadiness and courage. If I had needed strength I should have found it
in the fact that her eyes, oddly darkened as always when her errand was
threatened did not rest on our captors, but turned toward me.
“We’ll all sit down,” Franz von Blenheim agreed most amiably. It
evidently amused him to retain the late Mr. Van Blarcom’s dialect and
air. “We can fix this business up in no time; so why not be sociable?”
He strolled to a chair and sank into it and motioned me to do the same.
“Thanks,” I returned, not complying. “If you don’t mind, I’d like first
to untie that woman. I confess to a queer sort of prejudice against
seeing women bound and gagged. In fact I feel so strongly on the subject
that it might spoil our whole conference for me.” I took a step toward
the shadowy figure of Marie-Jeanne.
Blenheim did not move, but his eyes seemed to narrow and darken.
“Just leave her alone for the present. She is too fond of
shrieking--might interrupt our argument,” he declared. “And see
here, Mr. Bayne,” he added, warned by my manner, “I want to call your
attention to the gentleman on the stairs, my friend Schwartzmann. He’s
a crack shot, none better, and he has got you covered. Hadn’t you better
sit down and have a friendly chat?”
Though the stairs were dim, I could see something glittering in the hand
of the person mentioned, who was impersonating for the evening a dashing
young captain of the general staff. My fingers strayed toward my pocket
and my own revolver. Then I pried them away, temporarily, and took a
provisional seat.
“That’s sensible,” Franz von Blenheim approved me blandly. “Now, Miss
Falconer, you know what I’m here for, isn’t that so? Just hand me those
papers and you’ll be as free as air. I’ll take myself off; you’ll never
see me again probably. That’s a fair bargain, isn’t it? What do you
say?”
I was sitting close to the girl, so close that her soft furs brushed
me and I could feel the flutter of her breath against my cheek. At
Blenheim’s proposition I glanced at her. She was measuring him steadily.
Then she looked at me, and her eyes seemed to hold some message that I
could not read.
“Perhaps, Miss Falconer,” I interposed, “you have not quite grasped the
situation.” I was sparring for time; she wanted to convey something to
me, I was sure. “It is rather complicated. This gentleman has turned
out to be a well-known agent of the kaiser. He was traveling on the _Re
d’Italia_, I gather, on a forged passport, and had helped himself to my
baggage as the most convenient way of smuggling some papers to the other
side.”
He grinned assentingly.
“You owe me one for that,” he owned. “You see, it was my second trip
on that line, and I thought they might have me spotted; I had a lot of
things to carry home,--reports, information, confidential letters, and I
concluded they would be safer with a nice, innocent young man like you.
It didn’t work, as things went. It was just a little too clever. But if
you hadn’t mixed yourself up with this young lady, and tossed packages
overboard for her under the noses of the stewards, and got yourself
suspected and your baggage searched, I should have turned the trick!”
His share in the tangled episode on board the steamer was unfolding. I
understood now why he had sprung to my rescue in the salon when I was
accused. Naturally he had not wanted my traps searched, considering what
was in them.
“As you say, you were a little too clever,” I agreed.
His eyes glinted viciously.
“Well, it’s no use crying over spilt milk,” he retorted; “and besides,
the papers you are going to hand me to-night will even up the score. It
was a piece of luck, my running across Miss Falconer on the liner. Of
course the minute I heard her name I knew what she was crossing for.”
The dickens he did! “All I had to do was to follow her, and by the time
we reached Bleau I had guessed enough to come ahead of her. But I’ll
admit, Mr. Bayne, now it’s all over, it made me nervous to have you
popping up at every turn! I began to think that you suspected me--that
you were trailing me. If you had, you know, I shouldn’t have stood a
chance on earth. You could have said a word to the first gendarme you
met and had me laid by the heels and ended it. That was why I kept
warning you off. But I needn’t have worried. You drank in everything I
told you as innocent as a babe!”
If he wanted revenge for my last remark, he had it. I looked at the
girl beside me, so watchfully composed and fearless, then at the
fixed, terrified glare of the motionless Marie-Jeanne. With a little
rudimentary intelligence on my part this situation would have been
spared us.
“Yes,” I acknowledged bitterly; “I did.”
“Except for that,” he grinned, “it went like clockwork. There wasn’t
even enough danger in the thing to give it spice. Do you know, there
isn’t a capital in Europe where I can’t get disguises, money, passports
within twelve hours if I want them. Oh, you have a bit to learn about
us, you people on the other side! I’ve crossed the ocean four
times since the war started; I’ve been in London, Rome, Paris,
Petrograd--pretty much everywhere. I’m getting homesick, though. The
_laissez-passer_ I’ve picked up, or forged, no matter which, takes
me straight through to the Front; and I’ve got friends even in the
trenches. Before the Frenchies know it I’ll be across no-man’s-land and
inside the German lines!”
For a moment, as I listened, I was dangerously near admiring him. He was
certainly exaggerating; but it couldn’t all be brag. The life of this
spy of the first water, of international fame, must be rather marvelous;
to defy one’s enemies with success, to journey calmly through their
capitals, to stroll undetected among their agents of justice--were not
things any fool could do. He carried his life in his hand, this Franz
von Blenheim. He had courage; he even had genius along his special
lines. His impersonation on the liner, shrewd, slangy, coarse-grained,
patronizing, had been a triumph. Then, suddenly, I remembered a murdered
boy beside whom I had knelt that morning, and my brief flicker of homage
died.
“You think I can’t do it, eh?” He had misinterpreted my expression.
“Well, let me tell you I did just a year ago and got over without a
scratch. To get across no-man’s-land you have to play dead, as you
Yankees put it; you lie flat on the ground and pull yourself forward a
foot at a time and keep your eye on the search-lights so that when they
come your way you can drop on your face and lie like a corpse until
they move on. It’s not pleasant, of course; but in this game we take our
chances. And now I think I’ll be claiming my winnings if you please.”
I straightened in my chair, recognizing a crisis. With his last phrase
he had shed the bearing of Mr. John Van Blarcom, and from the disguise
all in an instant there emerged the Prussian, insolent, overbearing,
fixing us with a look of challenge, and addressing us with crisp
command. No; the kaiser’s agent was not a figure of romance or of
adventure. He was a force as able, as ruthless, as cruel as the land he
served.
“Miss Falconer,” he demanded briefly, “where are those papers? I am not
to be played with, I assure you. If you think I am, just recall this
morning, and your chauffeur. We didn’t kill him for the pleasure of it;
he had his chance as you have. But when we went for our car he was there
in the garage, sleeping; he seemed to think we had designs on him, and
tried to rouse the inn.”
“Do you call that an excuse for a murder?” I exclaimed. “You
cold-blooded villain!”
“I don’t make excuses.” His voice was hard and arrogant. “I am calling
the matter to your notice as a kind warning, Mr. Bayne. You said a
little while ago that to see a woman gagged and bound distressed you.
Well, unless I have those papers within five minutes, you will see
something worse than that!”
At the moment what I saw was red. There was something beating in my
throat, choking me; I knew neither myself nor the primitive impulses I
felt.
“If you lay a finger on Miss Falconer,” I heard myself saying slowly, “I
swear I’ll kill you.”
Then through the crimson mist that enveloped me I saw Blenheim laugh.
“Come, Mr. Bayne,” he taunted me, “remember our friend Schwartzmann.
This is your business, Miss Falconer, I take it. What are you going to
do?”
The girl flung her head back, and her eyes blazed as she answered him.
“You can torture me,” she said scornfully. “You can kill me. But I will
never give you the papers; you may be sure of that.”