While Gunzi reread the message, studying the handwriting, searching
for the watermark of the paper, or any other clue which might
ultimately lead to the disclosure of the mysterious White Knight,
Gonnard cast back his memory in retrospection.
It was one night some months before. Budapest lay covered in a white
mantle of snow, which happily concealed the garbage and rubbish
littering the streets. He and two other Communists were straggling
home. Fortunately the streets were empty; people were afraid to
wander much those nights, for parties of ex-Russian prisoners and
numbers of ex-soldiers, disbanded but not disarmed, roamed the
countryside, shooting and pillaging, even daring to enter the towns.
The three Communists wandered on, hazy with drink, their revolvers
spitting fire, which, in lieu of finding human billets, broke lamp
after lamp, window after window.
They had nearly reached their quarter when round the corner strode
two officers of the demobilized Hungarian Army, their uniforms still
glistening with the emblem of the royal crown.
The sight maddened the Communists, for the majority of ex-soldiers,
who for four years had, day in and day out, pluckily withstood the
forces of invading hordes, who, indeed, had fought for this very
emblem, now would tremblingly hack it off at the command of a few of
their own countrymen.
Lining up, they stopped the two officers, and hoarsely ordered them
to strip, their revolvers pointing with unpleasant directness at the
stomachs of the two men.
With a haughty motion of the chin the elder of the two, disdaining
the drunken men, stepped forward, and would have passed, but
Gonnard's pistol flashed, and a crumpled body slumped to the ground,
where it was quickly accompanied by the corpse of the second officer.
Thus died two who escaped the bayonets of Hungary's enemies to die of
the bullets of Hungary's men--the red of their blood gradually dyed
the pure white of the snow--the insignia of the Crown blemished by
the symbol of Communism.
Like a wraith he saw again the haughty officer falling--falling
toward him; the accusing eyes approaching nearer, the outstretched
hands grasping for his throat....
He called out chokingly, and the ghost dissolved into the smoke of a
cigarette which the placid urchin of the streets blew out of his
mouth in thick clouds.
Gonnard's dazed glance wandered from side to side--from the face of
the grinning messenger to the puzzled countenance of the detective.
How came this spectre from the past? How knew the White Knight that
he was the murderer?
"Well?" asked Gunzi inquiringly.
"Nothing--nothing," muttered Gonnard. "I want to know about that
note."
The detective turned it over and over in his fingers. "No clue of
any kind." He turned to the boy. "What was the man like who gave
you this? Can you describe him?"
"Yes, of course," answered the urchin, and Gonnard and Gunzi leaned
forward, a gleam of hope lighting up their faces. "He was tall,
though not too tall, say about--about as high as my father, who is
bigger than either of you, comrades. His eyes were a greeny blue, or
perhaps brown, I forget now. His hair was a darkish brown, nearly
black in parts, and he was dressed as you, not quite so well as I."
Gonnard groaned. The explanation might fit anyone in the world.
"Get out!" he shouted. The boy turned tail and ran, wondering what
had happened.
Gunzi grinned. "Not of very much assistance, comrade. Apparently
the Devil is not as conspicuous as I had believed."
Gonnard turned upon the detective with an ugly snarl. "Cease your
prattling, Gunzi. This is no laughing matter." His eyes narrowed
into mere slits, and he leaned forward in the other's direction,
gazing fiercely at him. "Listen, my friend. It is written that the
past is past. I am a People's Commissary now, and have the ear of
Bela Kun. It will be a bad day for you, Gunzi, if by next week you
have not laid this cursed _bourgeois_ by the heels. This day week
some one is going to hang, and if it is not the White
Knight--comrade, you have a nice soft neck. It would be a pity to
see its tender skin black and blue, rasped and bruised by a rope. Do
you think it within the bounds of possibility that you might bring
this dog to me--soon?"
His bombast did not worry the rat-faced Gunzi. He shrugged his
shoulders. "To-day week should be an interesting one. Yet it will
not be I who will hang--and it might not be the White Knight, friend."
With that he strolled from the room and left the ex-convict and
murderer alone with his thoughts.
_CHAPTER XI_
Comrade Gonnard spent an unpleasant night. At supper he both dined
and wined in unwise manner, so that no sooner had he laid his head
upon the pillow than he became conscious of the fact. Whatever his
feelings awake, they were mild compared to the succession of
nightmares which visited him asleep. It was an ill-tempered and
uneasy comrade who arose at a late hour next morning.
He drank his coffee with a gulp, and opened his newspaper. There was
a note pinned to the front page:
Still six days, Comrade Gonnard.
THE WHITE KNIGHT
His face whitened to a chalky pallor; he gazed at the warning with
dilated eyes.
For the rest of the day his mind dwelt upon matters which were of
anything but a pleasant nature. At every step he winced perceptibly
and kept an uneasy eye upon the door and the window. Though he had
been warned that there were still six more days for him to live, he
was convinced in his own mind that the White Knight was bluffing,
that the blow might be struck at any moment.
The day passed, and, despite his experience of the night before,
Gonnard again indulged in a heavy meal. The consequence was that his
dreams were even worse; his fears, in conjunction with his groaning
stomach, wreaked havoc with his inner consciousness. As the night
passed, the vision of the White Knight appeared more frequently, and
in different guises, each one of which was more terrible than the
last. When he was awakened by the welcome sunlight, which came
streaming in through a crack in the shutters, he found himself in a
sweat which poured off his forehead and down his body.
A newspaper, brought in to him with his breakfast by a friendly
Communist, lay on the table alongside his coffee. With trembling
fingers he unfolded it, and gasped with relief to find that this time
its creases hid no terrifying message. He almost enjoyed his
breakfast.
Then arrived the post. There was a letter for him; the writing was
feminine; there was a faint, lingering suspicion of perfume. A
letter to him from a woman! His eyes glistened with anticipation.
He inserted his bulgy forefinger and hastily slit open the envelope.
It was no _billet-doux_; only once again the fatal warning:
Five days more, Comrade Gonnard.
THE WHITE KNIGHT
The words faded away in the misty film which covered his eyes, and
his shaking fingers dropped the letter so that it fluttered to the
floor.
The days passed. Each morning he received another revised
message--by telegram, by telephone, once again by the post, and then,
on the last day, by Gunzi.
The detective looked tired and haggard. For six days he had scarcely
slept; clue after clue he had followed in vain. The White Knight was
more elusive than the _fata Morgana_.
When he saw Gonnard he stopped short in surprise and swore, and
Gonnard, seeing him, clutched his arm frantically:
"You have found him, Gunzi?"
"No."
The word was like a death-knell; Gonnard sank back into a chair,
shaking in every limb, and Gunzi eyed him scornfully. He had not
seen the commissary for five days, but in that time the once gross
and fleshy Communist had shrunk till the skin hung from him in
pouches.
His flickering, restless eyes unceasingly switched from one direction
to another, his drumming fingers everlastingly beat a tattoo upon the
object nearest to them. His clothes positively hung from him and
were buttoned only here and there; his boots were not even laced.
Gunzi stared at the wreck of a man and could scarcely believe him to
be the same as the bombastic commissary who had arrived the week
before to teach the people of Aszod the benefits of the Commune.
"Oh, God! Oh, God!" Gonnard whispered. "Gunzi, you must find him or
he will kill me. His messages haunt me wherever I go. I have not
dared to go out for the last three days lest I should be stabbed, or
shot in the back, or crushed by a passing automobile." His voice
rose to a shriek. "For God's sake, Gunzi, tell me you know where the
White Knight is hiding, that you will arrest him to-day, at once, and
save my life! You do know where he is, don't you?"