Sauntering from the elevated station at Eighth Street over to the
Square, Jacobelli mused upon the vagaries of a golden voice. His point
of view was changing with the speed of an Alpine tourist. Maria had
acquainted him with the decision of Carlota.
“Ah, signor, believe me, she does not feign illness. Her heart is not
breaking. It is freezing, which is worse. Never will she sing again,
she declares, if you deny her the one whom she loves. She spoke his
name in her sleep. It is the romance beautiful, the divine fire from
heaven alighted upon the altar of a woman’s heart, it is--”
“Enough!” exclaimed Jacobelli. “I capitulate. Doubtless she is right.
Two--three years nearly I have taught her all I know, and yet what is
it? She cannot sing the wonderful heart-throb music as the great woman
artiste must. Not all the technique in the world can put it into her
voice; yet one day she meets the man she loves, and lo! it is there,
she excels. I knew it when she came to me that day at the studio
after she had quarreled with him. I heard it then in her voice, the
glory--the abandon--the power of the woman who claims the universe for
her love. And I am a fool, Maria, I lose my head entirely. I am jealous
of this unknown teacher who has opened the heart of my star. I hate
him. At the Nevins fête I make the grand fool of myself, signora. But
now, I see, I bow. Let her have her love if she will. I have lunched
with the Marchese, and am at peace with the world. After the honeymoon
tell her we will resume her lessons.”
He felt marvelously benevolent as he made his way towards Ames’s
studio. Possibly his luncheon chat with the Marchese had much to do
with it, also the fact that later he had seen Casanova. Count D’Istria
had kept his word to Griffeth, and Casanova, ever ready to observe
the way of the wind with managerial straws, had promised to bring the
operetta to the immediate attention of the Metropolitan directors with
his sanction on its production the coming season.
Finding his way up the three flights of stairs, Jacobelli knocked upon
the door with his cane. Griffeth lay full length upon the cushions of
the dormer window-seat, depressed and miserable. He had been awake
all night, striving to get into communication with Carlota or Dmitri,
and had missed them at every point. Still his flowers had not been
returned. He had ascertained that much from the lad at the flower-stand
in the old market. He had sent twice to Dmitri’s house and he had not
returned since daybreak, they said.
The rap on the outer door made him spring to unlock it, expecting
either Dmitri or a message from Carlota. Instead there stood upon his
threshold Guido Jacobelli, from whom he had been parted by interested
friends only a night before, the one man in New York whom he regarded
as his enemy. He gave him no invitation to enter, but stood like
a glowering, expectant young stag, ready for the onslaught of his
adversary.
Jacobelli waved him aside airily, and entered the room, making himself
at home in the large oak armchair, and stroking Ptolemy who strolled
over to inspect him.
“We make friends, what you say, my boy?” he asked genially. “I forgive
you from my heart all you do to me in the past, see? Why? Because I,
Jacobelli, make the great discovery. You speak the truth. She is your
pupil.”
“What do you mean?” asked Griffeth suspiciously. “I heard all that you
said of her last evening. I understand perfectly that she is Paoli’s
granddaughter and backed by the patronage of Ogden Ward. I do not know
why it was her whim to come down here and play at being my pupil. It
has ruined my work and broken my heart, but I wish her all the success
and happiness in the world.”
Jacobelli beamed at him archly, his black eyebrows rising in crescents,
his lips a smiling, close curve above his two double chins.
“She came here because she loves you, my boy, because she longed to
give you her wonderful voice in your operetta. She is Love’s pupil. One
day she opens her mouth to sing for me, and, my God! it is there, the
temperament I have prayed for, it is there, and you have given it to
her. I salute you.”
“Has she sent you to me?” asked Griffeth eagerly. “May I see her at
once?”
Jacobelli chuckled, stroking the yellow fur of Ptolemy until it
crackled.
“I know nothing of her. I have not seen her since last night, but the
Signora Roma tells me she has tormented them all because they would not
permit her to see you. In fact, she tried to reach you last night; you
knew this?”
“I found her message when I returned. I tried to see her and walked
back home through the Park.”
“Which is just as well.” The old maestro smiled significantly. “Youth
is utterly mad. You rave now, and say your career is ended. My poor
boy, you have not heard from Casanova, no? This very hour he tells me
they will surely produce your operetta next season. Is not that enough?”
“The operetta?” repeated Griffeth grimly. “I had forgotten all about
it. When I lost her everything went out of my life. I felt like using
the world for a football and kicking the stars up a little higher out
of reach. You don’t know how blank life seemed to me until she came
down here. I had been across during the war with Carrollton Phelps in
the Aerial Service. We fell about the same time, and after months of
being patched up, I was sent home, excess baggage on the war wagon. I
was twenty then, and when I had my grip back, my father let me do as I
pleased, and I came here to work out some of the things I had always
hoped to do. I’ve felt like an idler beating out harmonies in this
bird’s-eye castle until she came.”
“Then I will tell you something to comfort you and light the path
again. Always remember the path is there even though you are in
darkness.” Jacobelli pressed his finger-tips together, his eyes
brilliant with the fire of enthusiasm. “One of your own great men
has said he would rather write the songs of a nation than its laws.
We are but teachers, my boy. You who compose music are the living
current between humanity and those mighty, immutable laws of harmony
and vibration which move the universe, is it not so?--and love is the
greatest of all divine laws.”
From a street piano at the curb below the studio windows the melody
of the “Barcarole” came to them in ascending volume. A taxicab drew
up beside it. Carlota could almost have blown kisses to each dear,
remembered spot along the Square as she alighted with Maria. Only
forty-eight hours since she had been to the studio, yet the tidal wave
of circumstance had nearly swept the happiness of her life out to sea.
She smiled at the Greek boy beside the pushcart, smiled at the children
playing in the patches of ground before the old brownstone row of
houses, smiled almost in the face of Sergeant Lorrie, of the Central
Detective Bureau, as she passed him on the steps.
Maria followed her, resigned and tragic. She had called up the Marchese
at the final moment, even after he had left them and returned to the
Lafayette, to tell him Carlota’s ultimate choice, and to her amazement
the old Italian courtier had congratulated her on her own defeat.
“Remember, signora,” he had urged buoyantly, a “certain ancient
gentleman of varied experience in matrimony, one King Solomon, has
stated as his opinion that love is stronger than death and many
waters cannot quench it. I agree with him perfectly. Request our
beloved Carlota that she will permit my presence at her nuptials with
Pierrot. I have a penchant for romantic weddings. They recall to me the
fragrance of roses abloom at Vallombrosa. Once, as we two walked under
the olive grove years ago, you refused me, Maria mia. When you are
tempted to be unyielding and forbidding to these children, these two
lovers, remember Vallombrosa, I implore you. Had you said yes, I should
not have carried the fragrance of roses as a bitter-sweet memory all my
life long.”
So it happened that, despite her sense of duty to the last wishes
of the old Contessa, Maria felt a thrill of sympathy in the great
adventure as she followed Carlota into the studio on the top floor.
“We have come for Carlota’s sake,” she said majestically. “It is
against my wishes and judgment, but we are here, signor. You have won.”
“What is it, dear?” exclaimed Griffeth, as he held Carlota’s hands in
his. “You are cold as ice, and trembling.” He drew her favorite Roman
chair forward to the open grate fire, but Carlota drew back.
There were shadows beneath her eyes and entreaty in the glance she gave
him.
“Have you heard from Dmitri?”
“Not a word since midnight. I left him then; why?”
She sank into the chair as he stooped eagerly to rouse the fire to a
blaze. “Why, it is almost laughable to find you here just as always,
perfectly safe, and you even seem happy.”
“I am happy. Jacobelli has just left me and we are great friends. He
came to tell me the operetta is accepted by Casanova. Isn’t that great
news, dear?”
“And you have heard nothing at all of what--what happened last night?
No one has been here?”
“No one. What do you mean?” He rose as Maria crossed to the window and
watched the Square below.
“The Marchese came and told us. Oh, Griffeth, it is all so horrible,
and I know, I know that you had nothing to do with it. You do not need
to tell me so.”
He held her close in his arms as she reached out to him, and Maria told
the news quickly, of the robbery and attack on Ward.
“They have implicated you because of your association with one of the
men who is dead and the man who is missing, Dmitri.”
“Dmitri!” repeated Griffeth. “What do you mean? Dmitri is my friend.
Who is dead?”
“Griffeth, do you remember”--Carlota lifted her head from his
shoulder--“the young Bulgarian I told you always followed me? The one
Dmitri recognized from the window here and told me I was never to fear
him? This morning we heard from the old Marchese that a double murder
had been committed next door to where Dmitri lived. No, please do not
speak yet,” as he gave a startled exclamation. “One of the men was the
Bulgarian boy, and they suspect Dmitri.”
“And you yourself, because you are his friend,” Maria added solemnly.
“The Marchese assured us you would be arrested for complicity.”
“But why did you come here last night?”
Carlota hesitated, but Maria’s eyes were tender.
“Because I wanted you to help me,” she said slowly. “There was no one
else to go to, and I was in trouble. Mr. Ward came to the apartment to
buy my rubies and while he was there he was assaulted and robbed.”
“Were you hurt?”
“I fainted.” Carlota’s lashes drooped before his steady gaze. “And
afterwards I was afraid to go back.”
“Why?” he demanded.
Maria’s hands fluttered out eagerly.
“You must not ask her disturbing questions when she is so nervous. It
is all very terrible, and mostly so for me. I was to have protected and
guarded her, and now, behold, it is as if she was utterly alone and
friendless.”
“Oh, do not even think about me!” Carlota cried passionately. “Where is
Dmitri, Griffeth? You believe in him, do you not? Maria, leave me here
alone. I must speak to him in confidence. Forgive me, tanta mia, I love
and trust you, but this concerns his friend. You will go, just for a
little while, won’t you?”
The roses of Vallombrosa. Signora Roma met the pleading look in
her eyes and the words of the old Marchese rang in her mind like a
sacred charge. Romance and youth and Vallombrosa. If she had not been
ambitious too, and had set her art ahead of love, what a long fair
road of companionship and happiness life might have been with Bernardo
Dinari, Marchese di Veracci. The tears rushed to her eyelids, and she
sighed heavily in surrender as she folded Carlota to her breast.
“Take her from us,” she said to Griffeth. “Ah, I am no longer blind and
hard of heart. You have taught her well, signor, and after all, it is
life’s sweetest and richest song. I will go and walk in the Square and
think I am back in Italy.”
Ames closed the door behind her, leaning against it, looking longingly
at the girl standing in the light from the dormer windows. Ptolemy
leaped up to her, rubbing his tawny length affectionately against her,
his eyes gleaming like topaz.
“Dear, look at me,” he said eagerly. “You came to me again, just as
you did that first day, my wonder girl. Even after everything, you had
faith in me--”
She held her hands out to him, giving them to his clasp, yet holding
him back.
“Have we any right to take our own happiness when it makes so many
wretched? Maria, who brought me up and gave me all her love and care,
and dear old Jacobelli--”
“But they are all willing now. It isn’t selfish, dear. It is our right.
Remember how Dmitri always said we were the inheritors of all the love
dreams of the past, and must hold the torch high for those who come
after us. You know all you have been to me for months, what it meant
to both of us that first night at Phelps’s when you met my eyes, and
it seemed as if everything in my whole being called out to you in
gladness. Carlota, don’t keep me from you! Why did you come here last
night to find me, why are you here to-day, why did Jacobelli come and
tell me frankly it was our love that had given your voice its power and
new beauty? Yet I’ve never even kissed you once, never held you in my
arms--”
Her eyes closed as his arms clasped about her and he turned her towards
him in a silent, tense embrace. When she lifted her head, she was
smiling, her lashes wet with tears.
“This is not the right ending for the opera. I have passed the wall of
Tittani and found you and there is no peril or suspense at all, just
the two of us here in the dear old studio, and Ptolemy to turn his back
and not look at us. He is a gentleman, isn’t he, Griffeth?”
Across the Square along the diagonal path to the old studio building
Dmitri walked with an easy, long-stepped gait. The troops that had
surged over the Belachrista Pass had the same stride. The collar of
his coat was turned up, his brown felt hat pulled low over his eyes,
his cigarette pointing upward. He had passed a pleasant and profitable
night. So engrossed he was in smiling at the future that he failed to
observe Signora Roma waiting in the circle by the fountain, failed to
notice three loiterers about the old studio row. One watched the dormer
windows of the garret. One stood at the corner of MacDougal Street to
take note of possible exits over adjacent roofs in case of need. One
leaned against the iron railing in the front yard and chatted with the
unwitting caretaker, and Dmitri passed them all by jauntily. Would it
be wiser, he mused, to tell Griffeth Ames everything? He had trained
him for months in the new law of humanity’s rights, yet was he not too
young to recognize the imperative need for silence. The breaking dawn
called to Dmitri’s imagination. The chant of the oppressed sounded in
his ears, not the old galley chorus that had kept time to the rhythm
of an Attic boatswain’s flute, nor the call from the steppe prisons
that had been the newborn wail of Russia’s freedom. The old order had
already changed. The heavens were rolling away as a parchment before
the new dayspring. A little struggling here and there, he told himself,
over the earth’s surface, a little blindness in the new light from eyes
long used to darkness, but steadily, inevitably the daybreak would
sweep on and in the full sunlight men should find themselves gazing
into one another’s eyes without fear and hatred and greed.
He mounted the three flights rapidly, two steps at a time, tapped on
the door, and opened before Griffeth could reach it.
“Aha!” cried Dmitri. “And so we may be sure that spring will come
again! Are you Harlequin or Pierrot this afternoon, or all the immortal
lovers of romance at once? And have you coffee for a wayfarer? I have
walked all over the city since daybreak. I see that in spite of my
precautions, Columbine has found her way right straight back to the
chimney-pot and the cat and the melody of one Pierrot.”
He sank down in the old dusty velvet chair by the fireplace, his hair
tousled into curls. Carlota gazed at him with wondering, questioning
eyes. Dmitri, no subtle, terrified criminal hiding from the law, but
as she had ever known him, the happy, confident, scholarly friend. She
forgot everything but his danger.
“Why”--she turned appealingly to Griffeth--“it’s almost laughable--it’s
like some horrible dream--that I am here with you both just as always,
and you are safe, Dmitri--”
“Why should I not be safe?” He smiled at her with keen, brilliant eyes.
“It is a most charming surprise to find you here, I admit. I was only
going to drop in and see my favorite friend before I leave. I was going
to entrust to him a commission, but since you are here--”
The door of the studio opened noiselessly. Dmitri’s lips were
silenced by the sight behind Griffeth and the girl. Lorrie, of the
Central Bureau, was not a person of dramatic instincts or emotional
possibilities. He stood in the patch of sunlight from the hall
skylight, his hands in his pockets, his hat pushed back on his head.
The hands grasped two automatics, but Lorrie never obtruded them on the
sensibilities of those he was sent to find until he found it necessary.
He stepped into the room, a slight smile on his lips as he took in the
group. Behind him stood two of his men.
“Kavec,” he said curtly, “you’re under arrest for the double murder of
Jurka and Steccho.”
Dmitri never stirred.
“But he is my friend, Carrollton Phelps’s friend!” exclaimed Griffeth
hotly. “I was with him up to midnight myself.”
“Don’t worry, you’re in too,” returned Lorrie laconically. “Complicity
in the robbery, accessory to the crime, and then some. Search them.”
“But I was with Mr. Kavec myself until early this morning,” Carlota
declared suddenly, her face lifted high, her eyes avoiding Griffeth’s.
“He had nothing to do with the robbery. He did not even know about it
until I told him myself. It is impossible that he could have done this
thing--”
She stopped dead short, the color leaving her lips. From Dmitri’s
pockets the detectives drew the rubies of the exiled queen. One by one
the separate pieces were laid upon the table, the necklace, the loosely
linked pendants, the girdle ornament.
Dmitri lit a cigarette with steady fingers.
“The tiara is inside my other coat,” he said. “It would be a shame to
break the set.”
“Dmitri, my God, what have you done!” gasped Griffeth. “Carlota, go to
Maria, out of this. I swear I knew absolutely nothing. Dmitri, tell her
Steccho gave them to you, didn’t he? Say something, man, can’t you?”
“He’s got nothing to say,” Lorrie answered. “Look here.” He threw out
papers on the table from Dmitri’s coat pockets. “Passage engaged for
Naples, sailing to-morrow. A quick get-away, eh, Kavec.”
“I do not believe one word of it!” flashed Carlota. “Who ordered this
arrest? The jewels were mine. I have made no complaint of being robbed.
Oh, I do not want any of them back. I hate the sight of them.”
She sank down in a chair, her face covered by her hands, her shoulders
shaken with sobs, deep, tearless, broken sobs of hopelessness. As Ogden
Ward entered the room hers was the first form his eyes rested on.
Leaning heavily upon a cane and Ishigaki’s arm, he walked slowly, and
with evident pain. Behind him was the tall, dignified figure of the
Marchese, his kindly face troubled and keen when he beheld the group
within the studio.
“My dear child”--he was beside Carlota instantly. “I am so very sorry
for you. I never dreamt of all this. I deemed it my duty to acquaint
Mr. Ward with your intention to come here as proof of your finality,
and he would come also, therefore I am with him.”
Dmitri’s gaze never left the face of Ward. Steadily he looked at him,
not sardonically nor with any animosity, but rather whimsically and
pityingly.
“You brought this on yourself, Ames,” Ward said slowly. “I did it to
protect the interests of Miss Trelango. Through the criminal associates
she met in your place here, she lost hundreds of thousands of dollars
worth in jewels. I resolved, after hearing her decision from the
Marchese, to tell her myself of your deliberate sacrifice of her to get
possession of these gems. From the first moment that I learned of the
double murder, I myself took up the pursuit of the guilty parties with
the commissioner himself, and this is the result.”
“Pardon.” Ward started at the first sound of Dmitri’s voice, suave and
evenly pitched, as if he had heard it before. “When was that first
moment, if one may ask, Mr. Ward?”
Ward’s face set in deeper lines. Only Dmitri and he himself of all
those in the room knew the menace behind the words. Until that instant
he had not known of the presence there of one who had spoken to him
over the wire at daybreak that morning. Lorrie looked at the banker
sharply, waiting for his reply.
“You don’t have to be annoyed by him, you know, Mr. Ward. My orders are
to bring them both down to headquarters.”
Ward lifted his hand.
“I will be responsible, sergeant,” he said coldly. “Wait below.”
With the Marchese’s arm around her, Carlota watched in amazement the
man she loved, the man who hated him, and Dmitri last of all. He was
smiling, courteous as ever, thoroughly at ease and even enjoying the
situation.
“May I draw your attention, Mr. Ward,” he remarked, motioning to the
table where the jewels lay. “See, they are there. I was bringing them
here to give them to their rightful owner, Miss Trelango. It was best
that she should not see me, so I was about to transfer them to the care
of my friend, Mr. Ames. They are all there, not one missing. Stay.
There is one the genial sergeant overlooked, but it is not of that
set.” He reached in his pocket and drew out his tobacco pouch. “For
safe-keeping,” he smiled, and produced the opal which Steccho had saved
for the golden-haired Maryna to play with.
Ward’s eyes stared at it fixedly, seeing instead the room at Carlota’s
apartment, the shattered lamp, the scattered gems, and one lithe,
leaping figure in the dim oblong of light from the open window.
“I have seen that before,” murmured the Marchese thoughtfully, “a
beautiful gem.”
“When I spoke to you on the telephone this morning I asked you if you
had lost a jewel?” Dmitri’s tone took on a keener edge as he leaned his
hands upon the bare ebony table between them, and addressed Ward. “I
also told you that I had just discovered a most unfortunate accident
which had cost Count Jurka his life. I suggested, in view of certain
papers which I had found in the Count’s notebook regarding--”
“You are a criminal now in the eyes of the law,” Ward cut in. “You know
the value of a criminal’s testimony.”
“I am not speaking in court. I speak to my friends,” said Dmitri
gently. “And I am no criminal, save at your own good pleasure, Mr.
Ward. Would you prefer that I state the facts here, or wait until we
arrive at police headquarters or possibly the grand jury?”
Ward’s face seemed to turn gray as they looked upon him.
“You can’t prove a damned word.” His eyes, bright and round, met
Dmitri’s in sudden challenge.
“Can I not?” laughed the latter cheerily. “Ah, my dear Mr. Ward, life
is so very strange and so amusing, and so unexpected, and yet it is all
one grand harmony. I show to you the jewels, the rubies and pearls of
the royal collection. You know where I got them from, and yet you can
sit there and threaten me. You are a fool, because I have the proof
against you!”
Ward rose heavily.
“Call Lorrie,” he gasped. “Marchese, I demand it.”
“You will not call any one until you have heard me out,” Dmitri said
deliberately. “I have the signed confession and all the correspondence
that passed between you and Georges Yaranek.”
The Marchese moved away from Carlota to the table. She turned to
Griffeth in relief, both of them listening in silent amazement to
Dmitri’s story.
“This man, Ogden Ward, is not the person he seems to be,” he said
almost gayly, yet with accusation. “He is not your silent, stern
capitalist and banker, your international pawn-broker who can kill or
save a nation by his munificent charity. He is also of a most exquisite
artistic temperament, a nature which responds to the richest and
priceless in art and beauty. He will have only the best, your Mr. Ward.
And this is known all over the world by those who live upon loot for
gold. It was not enough that Count Jurka should recover the missing
crown jewels. He must convert them into cash for use in the royalist
cause. And through his own researches he discovered another on the same
trail, the trail of the Zarathustra ruby. This was Ogden Ward, who
wished to add it to his collection, together with the Orient pearls and
other rubies of the set. Jurka had not been dispatched upon this secret
mission alone. Always, in such cases, there are two set forth together,
that one may succeed if one should fail. Steccho had told me this,
and of the court chamberlain’s trusted attendant and courier, Georges
Yaranek. He is very clever, but he is nervous. When he discovered
the two dead bodies he lost his nerve. And he left behind two most
important things, the wallet of Jurka, and this letter in the dead hand
of my friend.”
From the inner hatband of his soft felt hat he removed the crumpled
paper Steccho’s hand had groped for in death, and smoothing it out,
he read it gently, from a student comrade. He had written briefly,
fatalistically. There could be nothing worse than all that had gone
before.
Your mother is dead these five months, one of many aged who died from
starvation. Maryna is lost. I have made careful inquiries, but can
only ascertain that she appealed to Jurka’s agent in this district
at the time of the demonstration made by the royalist faction, and
was taken with other girls from Rigl and adjacent villages to the
mountain camps by the soldiers. None returned alive.
“Jurka tricked the boy,” Dmitri said quietly. “He needed him in the
work here and promised in return full protection to his mother and
sister by the queen’s own secret agents. This letter came to Steccho
through my hands the night he took the jewels. He came to me and told
what he had seen in the Trelango apartment. Shall I speak in detail?”
He smiled most courteously at Ward.
“What you say is immaterial. I was called by Miss Trelango herself
that night to complete a business transaction. I had advanced certain
sums for her musical education and training under certain conditions
to which she had agreed. She broke these conditions. It was her own
suggestion that she pay back in full her obligations to me with the
jewels.”
“Which were worth, let us say, about fifty times the amount you had
advanced, eh?” Dmitri supplemented. “Ah, you are a financier and a very
fine appraiser of values, Mr. Ward, in jewels and--otherwise. With Miss
Trelango’s own testimony and my own as to what my friend told me he
saw and heard, there might be a difference of opinion on the price of
rubies, yes?”
“Dmitri, let me end this,” demanded Griffeth hoarsely. “I can’t be
quiet any longer.”
“My boy, you are under arrest, and one call from Mr. Ward will bring
his friends below. Not that I think he would call, but he might. Let
me finish my story first that all may be clear to Mr. Ward, so he will
not think we are deceiving him in any way. I myself told Steccho to
give the jewels back to whomever he had stolen them from and to leave
the service of Count Jurka. He said he could not afford to jeopardize
the safety and lives of his mother and sister. This letter cleared
up that point in his mind. I know he had called at the Hotel Dupont
before coming to me and had left word for Jurka that he had fulfilled
his mission. As you know, their two bodies were found dead in the boy
Steccho’s room. I myself notified Mr. Ward of this as soon as I found
it out, did I not?”
Ward’s face was a perfect blank. He stared at Dmitri in silence.
“I told Mr. Ward so that he would understand what had happened, and
requested him to keep the entire matter silent with the police until he
heard from me.”
“Why did you call Mr. Ward instead of the police?” asked the Marchese
sternly.
“It was not a matter for the hands of the city police. It was
international in its import and should have been kept absolutely
secret, but Mr. Ward thought otherwise. Doubtless he did not believe
me, that I held the proofs.”
“What proofs?” Carlota’s hand closed over that of the old Marchese,
feeling his sympathy for her.
“The proofs of Mr. Ward’s private business with the queen’s
chamberlain. Doubtless they were not criminal; mind, I do not say they
were, but I do not think that they were diplomatically ethical, shall
we say, Mr. Ward?”
Ward waited, still silent and immobile, never relaxing his gaze on the
face of Dmitri.
“So, and now we come to the unexpected part, when, as I tell you often,
Griffeth, the gods lean down and deal the cards themselves. When I
come out of my door to cross to where Steccho lived, in the gray dawn
I see a closed limousine turn the corner of Third Avenue. That is most
unusual for the quarter where I live, and I notice it particularly.
Then I find in my friend’s room the two dead bodies, both warm. Jurka
was strangled by the boy and shot him in the side as they struggled.
No mystery there. But the jewels for which they fought were gone, only
one opal belonging to Mr. Ward in Steccho’s coat pocket. I always
search pockets. They are so handy for hiding things. And I find out
first that whoever took those jewels did not have time or sense to
look through the pockets of the dead men. Possibly he was nervous.
I did look and I found several interesting things in Count Jurka’s
possession, his personal wallet and notebook, his keys and a letter
which he had doubtless written himself to Mr. Ward before he left the
hotel to find Steccho. I have that letter; it escaped the attention
of the gentlemen of the police when they searched me. Carlota, my old
leather music folder is there on the piano behind you, if you please,
my dear.” Wonderingly Carlota gave the old brown flat bag to him. He
produced from it the gold-capped wallet of Jurka and several letters
and documents.
“I was most fortunate in arriving at the Dupont at an hour when
vigilance is relaxed. The number of the Count’s suite was on his hotel
key. I made my way up to that floor by the back stairs, as you say,
the servants’ way, and I found myself alone in his rooms. I hurried
in my search of his locked trunk and desk, and I found all I wanted.
And suddenly there was another key inserted in the door and Georges
Yaranek came in. I stepped back behind a door and when he passed me I
seized him. He is very much the stronger and I am no fighter at all,
but I have to get the better of him just the same, so I use tricks. It
is always permissible, is it not, Mr. Ward, when your cause is just?
I take and tie him up with the heavy silk portière cords so he can do
no damage, and then I find all the jewels on him, all of them. You
see what a very clever precaution that is to send two out on a secret
mission, and if one fails, the other he will carry it out. Georges
Yaranek is no servant. He is of the Bulgarian secret service, a spy of
the queen, and when Jurka came to get the jewels from Steccho, Yaranek
came likewise lest the Count come not back from that house next to
mine. I have his written and sworn confession of all he did, so that
Mr. Ward would not feel the slightest doubt or suspicion of my word.”
“Where is Yaranek?” demanded Ward. “Why was his written confession
necessary? Why did you not turn him over to the police?”
“I have already told you this was an international affair, not for the
city police which is very friendly to Mr. Ward, I believe. And mind,
I would say this, there is something we all lose sight of in this day
of upheavals. To every man his country and its cause. What is criminal
to one is patriotism to another. Both Jurka and Yaranek acted most
honorably according to their code. They are of the old régime, the
royalists; they kill, they make war, they rob the poor, they do forever
as they like, you see, and it is not wrong to them. Jurka was loyal
to the old queen’s interests. She ordered him to come here and find
the missing jewels. For what? Not for her to wear--one wears no crowns
in exile--but to convert into ready money, into gold, for immediate
use. This is the hour of opportunity, mind, in Europe. Your watcher of
signs sees all sorts of maneuvers not on battle-fields. The people are
so hungry and harassed and deceived that they waver and do not know
which side God is on. A suave and promising tongue can sway them in any
direction that promises rest and safety. So with gold at her command
instead of paper money, the exiled queen might seize Bulgaria. And
there was only one man who would pay in cash the price of the royal
rubies, so Jurka dickered with him, once he struck the right trail.
That man was Ogden Ward. Oh, I have the correspondence between you,
Mr. Ward,” as Ward rose threateningly. “It is quite authentic, and
nothing missing. Jurka had to protect himself in case of discovery, and
doubtless saved the evidence in order to command your full protection.
Mr. Ward agreed in writing to pay $750,000, in full for the five pieces
of the collection, including the Zarathustra ruby, which is the finest
pigeon-blood ruby in the world, they claim. Of course, when he found he
could get them so very much cheaper, he tried himself and failed.”
“But on the face of it, it is absurd,” sneered Ward. “Marchese, how
could these men have conveyed that amount in gold at this time to
Europe without discovery?”
“Ah, that was most cleverly provided for also, by Mr. Ward,” exclaimed
Dmitri jocularly. “It was to have been shipped by Mr. Ward’s own
bankers as part of a consignment for the relief of stricken, starving
Bulgaria. Count Jurka himself suggested this plan, since he was here as
one of the relief committee. It was all really very touching.”
“What if I say that I was aware of the whole secret plot, and merely
acted as I did to betray these men, and save the rubies for Carlota
Trelango?”
“It is very apt, but I am afraid it will not pass,” sighed Dmitri. “The
dates on these letters show your dealings with Jurka and Yaranek before
you even knew that she owned the rubies.”
“And where is Yaranek?” asked Ward. “Why was he not handed over to the
police by you? Why was it necessary for you to have his sworn statement
when he might give his own testimony? Since you were accumulating
evidence against me, why not go the limit?”
“Well, I will tell you, Mr. Ward, although I do not think you will ever
comprehend my motives.” Dmitri sat lightly on the edge of the table
and smoked slowly, happily. “I am a propagandist, but I only propagate
my own propaganda, see? I have my own creed of right living and it is
based upon our mutual responsibility for other people’s welfare and
happiness. I believe in the right to live, but I do not believe that
any human group of people has any right to govern others against their
will. So I fight in my own way for the small, helpless races that get
crushed in the great stampede. And when I can I like to talk this way.
So when I get Georges Yaranek tied and bound and I do not know what
to do with him, I talk to him. First, I trust him. I loosen his hand
and give him cigarettes so that we may both talk while we smoke. And
I prove to him by all of Jurka’s letters how he has lied to the boy
Steccho and deceived him, how he has played his own game and cheated
everybody else, even him, Yaranek. For look, Jurka is ambitious. The
queen is old and fond of him. He wants to share the glory with no one,
and so he had planned to get rid of Yaranek himself. Even while he
was working with him to recover the jewels for the royalist cause, as
emissary to the country from the queen to study the relief methods for
starving Bulgaria, he was ready to report Yaranek to Washington for
the very crime he was committing himself, collecting secret funds to
promote a royal reactionary uprising. Thus he could go back alone and
regret most profoundly that Yaranek, through some indiscretion, had
been apprehended.”
“Where is Yaranek?” asked Ward again.
“He awaits me at a certain place.” Dmitri smiled at him. “We were
to have sailed together. I am so very glad to announce his entire
conversion to my propaganda, Mr. Ward. Of course, if you would rather
we remained and conveyed our testimony to the proper government
authorities, we will do so. We will not permit our plans to interfere
with your wishes.”
Ward strode to the window and stared out at the Square below, a
conflict in his mind. He had played and lost. Not alone the jewels, but
the girl he had wanted. All his life he had purchased anything that was
necessary to success. He had weighed the issues of life itself in terms
of gold. When he turned from the window, he asked, tersely: “What do
you want?”
“I want to go back free and unhampered to my country,” returned Dmitri,
“with Yaranek. I want the rubies to be left unqualifiedly with Miss
Trelango--”
“Dmitri, I do not want them!” Carlota cried entreatingly. “They only
bring misery. You give them back for me to the people you love. They
are not mine or the queen’s. They belong to the children who are
starving.”
“The heirs of to-morrow?” smiled Dmitri whimsically. “I will gladly
do so if it is your wish. Mr. Ward, you are fond of rubies. You are
not interested as we are in international aspirations, shall we say,
or perhaps ideals. It matters not one iota to you whether the money
for these jewels goes to the royalist cause or to the feeding of those
starving ones, those little victims of diplomacy, shall we call it?
Will you buy these gems from Miss Trelango, and I will most gladly
convey the consignment of gold to the little ones that are left alive.”
“Is this your wish?” asked Ward, looking at Carlota.
Her eyes overflowed with tears. She could hardly answer as she stood
between the Marchese and Griffeth.
“I should love it more than anything,” she told him. “The Marchese will
attend to everything for me if you are willing.”
Suddenly in the doorway stood Maria, alarmed and prepared to defend her
charge at any price. But Dmitri met her with one of his low, courtly
bows that soothed her pride.
“Signora, you are just in time. Mr. Ward is being the bountiful fairy
godfather to us all. He grants us each one what we like the best.
I have a rendezvous with a friend. Mr. Ward, after you. Carlota,
Griffeth, I salute love immortal!”
Jauntily he gathered up the papers and wallet into the old brown
leather bag again, and handed it to the Marchese.
“Will you not personally hold these until I have sailed, and then
destroy them? I make you our neutral receiver, yes? And will you not
also kindly place the jewels in safe-keeping until Mr. Ward has paid
for them?”
Ward passed without a word down the winding staircase ahead of him,
without a backward glance at the four left in the old studio. Carlota
turned to Griffeth’s close embrace, weeping in deep soft sobs of
relief, and the Marchese smiled at Maria.
“The leaves lie thick in the Square. They are sweeping them up to
burn. Will you walk with me, Maria, and remember Vallombrosa while
these children follow their own path of gold? Then we will take up the
business of life once more, and put the rubies and papers in safety
deposit, but for now--”
He held the door open for her, and they passed down the way that Ward
had gone. Carlota lifted her head from Griffeth’s shoulder.
“Heirs of to-morrow, he said,” she whispered.
He kissed her lips. There seemed in their love almost a symbol of the
fulfillment of years of war, of tears and bloodshed and oppression and
intolerance, in what would be the dawn of a new world to those who were
indeed the heirs of to-morrow.
THE END
The Riverside Press
CAMBRIDGE . MASSACHUSETTS
U . S . A
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:
Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.
Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.
Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.
Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.