In a shop where, that afternoon, the Countess had purchased some Lyons
silks, one of the clerks, Peter Niburg, was free at last. At seven
o’clock, having put away the last rolls of silk on the shelves behind
him, and covered them with calico to keep off the dust; having given
a final glance of disdain at the clerk in the linens, across; having
reached under the counter for his stiff black hat of good quality and
his silver-topped cane; having donned the hat and hung the stick to his
arm with two swaggering gestures; having prepared his offensive, so to
speak, he advanced.
Between Peter Niburg and Herman Spier of the linens, was a feud. Its
source, in the person of a pretty cashier, had gone, but the feud
remained. It was of the sort that smiles with the lips and scowls with
the eyes, that speaks pleasantly quite awful things, although it was
Peter Niburg who did most of the talking. Herman Spier was a moody
individual, given to brooding. A man who stood behind his linens, and
hated with his head down.
And he hated Peter. God, how he hated him! The cashier was gone, having
married a restaurant keeper, and already she waxed fat. But Herman’s
hatred grew with the days. And business being bad, much of the time he
stood behind his linens and thought about a certain matter, which was
this:
How did Peter Niburg do it?
They were paid the same scant wage. Each Monday they stood together,
Peter smiling and he frowning, and received into open palms exactly
enough to live on, without extras. And each Monday Peter pocketed his
cheerfully, and went back to his post, twirling his mustache as though
all the money of the realm jingled in his trousers.
To accept the inevitable, to smile over one’s poverty, that is one
thing. But there was more to it. Peter made his money go amazingly far.
It was Peter, for instance, who on name-days had been able to present
the little cashier with a nosegay. Which had, by the way, availed him
nothing against the delicatessen offerings of the outside rival. When,
the summer before, the American Scenic Railway had opened to the public,
with much crossing of flags, the national emblem and the Stars and
Stripes, it was Peter who had invited the lady to an evening of thrills
on that same railway at a definite sum per thrill. Nay, more, as Herman
had seen with his own eyes, taken her afterward to a coffee-house, and
shared with her a litre of white wine. A litre, no less.
Herman himself had been to the Scenic Railway, but only because he
occupied a small room in the house where the American manager lived. The
manager had given tickets to Black Humbert, the concierge, but
Humbert was busy with other thing, and was, besides, chary of foreign
deviltries. So he had passed the tickets on.
It was Peter, then, who made the impossible possible, who wore good
clothes and did not have his boots patched, who went, rumor said, to the
Opera now and then, and followed the score on his own battered copy.
How?
Herman Spier had suspected him of many things; had secretly audited his
cash slips; had watched him for surreptitious parcels of silk. Once he
had thought he had him. But the package of Lyons silk, opened by the
proprietor at Herman’s suggestion, proved to be material for a fancy
waistcoat, and paid for by Peter Niburg’s own hand.
With what? Herman stood confused, even confounded, but still suspicious.
And now, this very day, he had stumbled on something. A great lady from
the Court had made a purchase, and had left, under a roll of silk, a
letter. There was no mistake. And Peter Niburg had put away the silk,
and pocketed the letter, after a swift glance over the little shop.
An intrigue, then, with Peter Niburg as the go-between, or--something
else. Something vastly more important, the discovery of which would
bring Herman prominence beyond his fellows in a certain secret order to
which he belonged.
In a way, he was a stupid man, this pale-eyed clerk who sold the quaint
red and yellow cottons of the common people side by side with the heavy
linens that furnished forth the tables of the rich. But hatred gave him
wits. Gave him speed, too. He was only thirty feet behind Peter Niburg
when that foppish gentleman reached the corner.
Herman was skilled in certain matters. He knew, for instance, that
a glance into a shop window, a halt to tie a shoe, may be a ruse for
passing a paper to other hands. But Peter did not stop. He went, not
more swiftly than usual, to his customary restaurant, one which faced
over the Square and commanded a view of the Palace. And there he settled
himself in a window and ordered his dinner.
From the outside Herman stared in. He did not dine there. It was, for
one thing, a matter of bitterness to see sitting at the cashier’s high
desk, the little Marie, grown somewhat with flesh, it is true, but still
lovely in his eyes. It made Herman wince, even now, to see through the
window that her husband patted her hand as he brought her money to be
changed.
He lurked in the shadows outside, and watched. Peter sat alone. He had
bowed very stiffly to Marie, and had passed the desk with his chest out.
She had told him once that he had a fine figure.
Peter sat alone, and stared out. Herman took shelter, and watched. But
Peter Niburg did not see him. His eyes were fixed on the gloomy mass
across, shot with small lights from deep windows, which was the Palace.
Peter was calm. He had carried many such letters as the one now hidden
in his breast pocket. No conscience stirred in him. If he did not do
this work, others would. He shrugged his shoulders. He drank his brandy,
and glanced at Marie. He found her eyes on him. Pretty eyes they still
were, and just now speculative. He smiled at her, but she averted her
head, and colored. Many things filled Peter Niburg’s mind. If now she
was not happy, what then? Her husband adored her. It was fatal. A woman
should not be too sure of a husband. And probably he bored her. Another
six months, and perhaps she would not turn away her head.
He had until midnight. At that hour a messenger would receive the letter
from him in the colonnade of the cathedral. On this night, each week,
the messenger waited. Sometimes there was a letter, sometimes none. That
was all. It was amazingly simple, and for it one received the difference
between penury and comfort.
Seeing Peter settled, a steaming platter before him, Herman turned
and hurried through the night. This which he had happened on was a big
thing, too big for him alone. Two heads were better than one. He would
take advice.
Off the main avenue he fell into a smart trot. The color came to his
pale cheeks. A cold sweat broke out over him. He was short of wind from
many cigarettes. But at last he reached the house. It was near the park.
Although the season was early spring and there was more than a hint of
winter in the air, the Scenic Railway, he perceived, was already open
for business. Certainly the Americans were enterprising.
The double doors of the tall, gloomy house on the Road of Good Children
were already closed for the evening. As he stood panting, after he
had rung the bell, Herman Spier could look across to that remote and
unfashionable end of the great park where the people played on pleasant
evenings, and where even now, on the heels of winter, the Scenic Railway
made a pretense at summer.
The sight recalled that other vision of Marie and Peter Niburg, snugly
settled in a car, Marie a trifle pale and apprehensive. Herman swore
softly; and opened the doors.
Black Humbert was not in his bureau, behind the grating. With easy
familiarity Herman turned to a door beyond and entered. A dirty little
room, it was littered now with the preparations for a meal. On the
bare table were a loaf, a jug of beer, and a dish of fried veal. The
concierge was at the stove making gravy in a frying-pan--a huge man,
bearded and heavy of girth, yet stepping lightly, like a cat. A dark man
and called “the Black,” he yet revealed, on full glance, eyes curiously
pale and flat.
No greeting passed between them. Humbert gave his visitor a quick
glance. Herman closed the door, and wiped out the band of his hat. The
concierge poured the gravy over the meat.
“I have discovered something, something,” Herman said. “As to its value,
I know nothing, or its use to us.”
“Let me judge that.” But the concierge was unmoved, by Herman’s
excitement. He dealt in sensations. His daily tools were men less clever
than himself, men who constantly made worthless discoveries. And it was
the dinner hour. His huge body was crying for food.
“It is a matter of a letter.”
“Sit down, man, and tell it. Or do you wish me to draw the information,
like bad teeth?”
“A letter from the Palace,” said Herman. And explained.
Black Humbert listened. He was skeptical, but not entirely incredulous.
He knew the Court--none better. The women of the Court wrote many
letters. He saw a number of them, through one of his men in the post
office. There were many intrigues. After all, who could blame them?
The Court was dreary enough these days, and if they chose to amuse
themselves as best they could--one must make allowances.
“A liaison!” he said at last, with his mouth full. “The Countess is
handsome, and bored. Annunciata is driving her to wickedness, as she
drove her husband. But it is worth consideration. Even the knowledge of
an intrigue is often helpful. Of what size was the letter?”
“A small envelope. I saw no more.”
The concierge reflected. “The Countess uses a gray paper with a
coronet.”
“This was white.”
Black Humbert reflected. “There is, of course, a chance that he has
already passed this on. But even if so, there will be others. The
Countess comes often to the shop?”
“Once in a week, perhaps.”
“So.” The big man rose, and untied his soiled apron. “Go back,” he
said, “and enter the restaurant. Order a small meal, that you may have
finished when he does. Leave with him and suggest the Hungaria.”
“Hungaria! I have no money.”
“You will need no money. Now, mark this. At a certain corner you will be
attacked and robbed. A mere form,” he added, as he saw Herman’s pallid
face go whiter. “For the real envelope will be substituted another. In
his breast-pocket, you said. Well, then suggest going to his room. He
may,” added the concierge grimly, “require your assistance. Leave him
at his lodging, but watch the house. It is important to know to whom he
delivers these letters.”
As the man stood, he seemed to the cowering Herman to swell until he
dominated the room. He took on authority. To Herman came suddenly the
memory of a hidden room, and many men, and one, huge and towering, who
held the others in the hollow of his hand. Herman turned to go, but at
the door the concierge stopped him.
“A moment,” he said. “We will select first the shape and fashion of this
envelope you saw. These matters require finesse.”
He disappeared, returning shortly with a wooden box, filled to the
top with old envelopes. Each had been neatly opened and its contents
extracted. And on each was neatly penned in a corner the name of the
sender. Herman watched while the concierge dug through it.
“Here it is,” he said at last. “The Countess, to her aunt in a nunnery
and relating to wool knitting. See, is this the sort of envelope?”
“That is gray,” Herman Spier said sullenly.
“But in size?”
“It is similar.”
“Good.” He held the envelope to the light and inspected it. “It would be
interesting to know,” he said, “whether the Countess has an aunt in this
nunnery, or whether--but go, man. And hurry.”
Left alone, he got together pens, ink, and carbon paper. He worked
awkwardly, his hands too large for the pen, his elbows spread wide over
the table. But the result was fair. He surveyed it with satisfaction.
Meanwhile, back went Herman over his earlier route. But now he did not
run. His craven knees shook beneath him. Fresh sweat, not of haste but
of fear, broke out over him. He who was brave enough of tongue in the
meetings, who was capable of rising to heights of cruelty that amounted
to ferocity when one of a mob, was a coward alone.
However, the sight of the restaurant, and of his fellow clerk eating
calmly, quieted him. Peter Niburg was still alone. Herman took a table
near him, and ordered a bowl of soup. His hands shook, but the hot food
revived him. After all, it was simple enough. But, of course, it hinged
entirely on his fellow-clerk’s agreeing to accompany him.
He glanced across. Peter Niburg was eating, but his eyes were fixed
on Madame Marie, at her high desk. There was speculation in them, and
something else. Triumph, perhaps.
Suddenly Herman became calm. Calm with hate.
And, after all, it was very easy. Peter Niburg was lonely. The burden
of the letter oppressed him. He wanted the comfort of human conversation
and the reassurance of a familiar face. When the two met at--the rack by
the door which contained their hats, his expression was almost friendly.
They went out together.
“A fine night,” said Herman, and cast an eye at the sky.
“Fine enough.”
“Too good to waste in sleep. I was thinking,” observed Herman, “of an
hour or two at the Hungaria.”
The Hungaria! Something in Peter’s pleasure-hungry heart leaped, but he
mocked his fellow-clerk.
“Since when,” he inquired, “have you frequented the Hungaria?
“I feel in the mood,” was the somewhat sullen reply. “I work hard
enough, God knows, to have a little pleasure now and then.” Danger was
making him shrewd. He turned away from Peter Niburg, then faced
him again. “If you care to come,” he suggested. “Not a supper, you
understand; but a glass of wine, Italian champagne,” he added.
Peter Niburg was fond of sweet champagne.
Peter Niburg pushed his hat to the back of his head, and hung his stick
over his forearm. After all, why not? Marie was gone. Let the past die.
If Herman could make the first move, let him, Peter, make the second. He
linked arms with his old enemy.
“A fine night,” he said.