When the banquet broke up I hurried out ahead of the others and posted
myself at the top of the staircase leading down to the side door of the
street. The Prince's carriage--an ordinary cab--was ordered to this
door to escape the crowd and to avoid any delay. This I learned from my
old friend Alcorn of the Central Office, who was in charge of the
detectives at the dinner, and who in answer to my request said:
"Certainly I'll let you through. Come alone, and don't speak to me as
you go by. I'll say you're one of us. The crowd thinks he's going out
by the other door, and you can get pretty close to him."
The Prince came first, wrapped in furs--the black-bearded Russian at
his side in overcoat, silk hat and white gloves. The Ambassador and the
others had bidden them good-night at the top of the staircase.
Under Alcorn's direction I had placed myself just inside the street
door where I could slip out behind the Prince and his black-bearded
companion. As a last resort I determined to walk straight up to him and
say: "You haven't forgotten me, Mr. Bing, have you?" If I had changed
so as to need proof of my identity Alcorn would furnish it. Whatever
his answer, his voice would solve my mystery.
He walked down the stairs with an easy, swinging movement, keeping a
little behind the Prince; waited until Alcorn had opened the street
door and with a nod of thanks followed Polinski out into the night.
Once outside I shrank back into the shadow of the doorway and held my
breath to catch his first spoken word--to the coachman--to the
Prince--to any one who came in his way.
At this moment a man in a slouch hat and poorly dressed, a light cane
under his arm, evidently a tramp, hurried across the street to hold the
cab door. I edged nearer, straining my ears.
The Prince bent his head and stooped to enter the cab. The tramp leaned
forward, shot up his right arm; there came a flash of steel, and the
next instant the tramp lay writhing on the sidewalk, one hand twisted
under his back, the other held in the viselike grip of the
black-bearded man. Alcorn rushed past me, threw himself on the
prostrate tramp, slipped a pair of handcuffs over his wrists, dragged
him to his feet, and with one hand on his throat backed him into the
shadow of the side door.
The Prince smiled and stepped into his carriage. The black-bearded man
dusted his white gloves one on the other, gave an order in a low tone
to the coachman, took his place beside his companion and the two drove
off.
I stood out in the rain and tried to pull myself together. The rapidity
of the attack; the poise and strength of the black-bearded Russian; the
quickness with which Alcorn had risen to the occasion; the absence of
all outcry or noise of any kind--no one but ourselves witnessing the
occurrence--had taken my breath away. That an attack had been made on
the life of the Prince, and that it had been frustrated by his friend,
was evident. It was also evident that accosting a Prince on the
sidewalk at night without previous acquaintance was a dangerous
experiment. When I recovered my wits both Alcorn and the would-be
assassin had disappeared. So had the cab.
Only two morning journals had an account of the affair; one dismissed
it with a fling at the police for not protecting our guests from
annoyance, and the other stated that a drunken tramp had demanded the
price of a night's lodging from the Prince as he was leaving
Delmonico's, and that a member of the Prince's suite had held the
fellow until a policeman came along and took him to the station-house.
Not a word of the murderous lunge, the flash of steel, the viselike
grip of the black-bearded man or the click of the handcuffs.
That night I found Alcorn.
"Did that fellow try to stab the Prince?" I asked.
"Yes."
"With a knife?"
"No, a sword cane."
"The papers didn't say so."
"No, I didn't intend they should. Wouldn't have been pleasant reading
for his folks in St. Petersburg. Besides, we haven't rounded up his
gang yet."
"The Prince didn't seem to lose his nerve?" I asked.
"No, he isn't built that way."
"You know him, then?"
"Yes--been with him every day since he arrived."
"Who is the black-bearded man with him?"
"He is his intimate friend, Count Lovusski. Been all over the world
together."
"Is Lovusski his ONLY name?" This seemed to be my chance.
Alcorn turned quickly and looked into my face.
"On the dead quiet, is it?"
"Yes, Alcorn, you can trust me."
"No--he's got half a dozen of 'em. In Paris in '70 he was Baron
Germunde with estates in Hungary. Lived like a fighting-cock; knew
everybody at the Palace and everybody knew him--stayed there all
through the Franco-Prussian War. In London in '75 he was plain Mr.
Loring, trying to raise money for a mine somewhere in Portugal--knew
nobody but stockbrokers and bank presidents. In New York five years ago
he was Mr. Norvic Bing, and worked on some kind of a dictionary; lived
in a boarding-house on Union Square."