Gonnard looked bewildered. "Then ... why... Surely I ... I am
safe...."
"You jump to conclusions too hastily. The sender of the telegram was
not the White Knight, friend. He was paid by the White Knight to
send the telegram to you."
"Then ... then he must have seen the White Knight?"
"'Tall, though not very tall, about so high, perhaps a trifle bigger.
His eyes were brown, or blue, they might have been either. His hair
was inclined to blond, and he was dressed like any other man.' That
was his description!" Gunzi jeered. "I left him in prison. The
change may improve his memory. In the meantime I have a message for
you."
Never suspecting what was coming, Gonnard was but mildly curious.
His head was too full of other thoughts. "Well?"
"I was on my way to you, comrade. There was a meeting near the
station. I stopped for a short time to listen. When it was all over
a crowd of us moved away. Some one touched me on the shoulder and
whispered in my ear: 'Tell Comrade Gonnard, to-morrow.' I looked
round, but ... he might have been one of a dozen."
The commissary's mouth worked spasmodically. He endeavoured to
speak, but his tongue was paralysed. His twitching nerves betrayed
the panic which embraced him, and his head drooped.
"Cheer up, friend; do not let your fears get the better of you.
Surround yourself with a few of the Red guards; you must have a
pocketful of crowns else you cannot be much of a commissary. Grease
a few palms. The White Knight is only a man after all."
Gonnard looked up. "Gunzi, I am afraid," he whispered hoarsely.
The detective shrugged his shoulders. "Then you had better do as I
suggest as soon as you can. Meanwhile ... I think I will go and see
our friend who sent the telegram."
Gonnard, shivering with apprehension, watched the detective depart.
Gunzi had failed, the White Knight was at liberty. He clutched his
throat with his hands. He seemed to feel the rasp of the rope.
"Oh, Father in Heaven! Oh, Holy Mary!" Again and again he breathed
aloud these words. Life was so precious, so dear to him, and
to-morrow he might die, hang as he had seen a man hanged scarcely a
month back when Szamuelly had sat in judgment at one of the wayside
stations.
Clearly and concisely, as though he were at a cinema watching the
unfolding of a photographic drama, he remembered the horror depicted
on the man's face as he was marched toward the gallows. Vividly he
recollected the sudden jerk, the body stiffening.... "Save me, our
Father, save me!" he wailed, his uneducated mentality incapable of
varying his conjurations. "Oh; God, save me!"
The curtain at the window stirred slightly. With a sudden jerk which
set his heart tumbling and beating Gonnard turned his fear-shot eyes
in that direction. He saw it was but a sudden puff of wind, but it
might have been the White Knight, and at the mere idea he whimpered
to himself.
Well had Wenzel summed up the character of the Communist. As
reparation for the death of Coloman, Gonnard was suffering the
tortures of the damned. Conscience and cowardice were taking their
toll of the man.
Somewhere in the streets a clock chimed, and Gonnard started. Eleven
o'clock. Another thirteen hours and the morrow would arrive and then
... He crouched back into the chair, his hands warding off an
invisible horror. To-morrow the White Knight would come for him and
he would hang ... hang....
Mentally unhinged by the White Knight's repeated warnings, it never
occurred to Gonnard that, as Gunzi had suggested, he might easily
have surrounded himself by wily guards who would have been more than
sufficient to protect the commissary against the cunning of the White
Knight. Yet, with an uncanny insight, Wenzel had foreseen the
consequences of his melodramatic policy.
It was not from bravado, or a leaning toward the theatrical, that
Wenzel sent the warning messages to Gonnard. He wished to create the
impression of omnipotence, to hypnotize his victim into positive
belief in the powers of the White Knight. Then he had intended to
play a similar trick to the one he had perpetrated in Budapest when
he had rescued the Count Bakocz.
He had played his cards well, but, as he was to discover, he had not
under- but over-estimated the courage of his opponent. Gunzi's
message destroyed the last remnants of Gonnard's courage.
That the White Knight could touch the shoulder of the detective who
was searching for him, actually speak into his ear, and yet get
safely away, hinted to Gonnard of the supernatural.
Vague imaginings disturbed him. Anything was preferable to his
present misery--even death. Supposing--merely supposing--he hanged
himself. The White Knight would be cheated, he himself peaceful and
content at last.
The idea haunted him, and he laughed suddenly at the picture of the
White Knight's face. Perhaps it was the sound of his own insensate
mirth which brought him to his senses; when he realized the thoughts
which had been passing through his mind he shuddered, and once again
his everlasting prayer to God left his lips.
His terror increased when, after what seemed but a few minutes,
seconds almost, a near-by clock struck the hour of midday. Another
hour gone by--another hour nearer his death!
Something snapped in his brain. He must run, leave Aszod behind him,
get to Budapest. Bela Kun would protect him, Bela Kun would see that
the White Knight did not carry out his threat.
Just as he had arisen from his bed, dirty and unshaven, he scurried
from the _château_. Without hat or coat he gained the streets, and
blindly fled from a horror which, in his own conscience, pursued him
even through the streets, and all the time he seemed to see, some
distance behind, a vague, terrifying creature which mocked and gibed
at him, yet which always kept apace.
There was no train to Budapest for hours. So said the porter as he
spat on the ground.
The pursuing phantom laughed and gibed when Gonnard glanced behind,
and the commissary's trembling knees felt weaker. Somehow or other
he must get to Budapest! Bela Kun would save him!
There was a motor-car outside the station. Its engine groaned and
snorted, wasting away confiscated petrol. Once it had belonged to
the Thokoly family, but that was before the Revolution. Since then
the local commissary had commandeered it. At the moment its present
owner was purchasing tobacco.
The loud clamour of its carbonized cylinders attracted the attention
of another commissary. To Gonnard it seemed to say: "To Bud-a-pest
... to Bud-a-pest."
What matter to whom it belonged? It was a way of escape from Aszod,
a method of transportation to Budapest. For the first time for a
week a watery smile parted his lips, and the next moment he had
stepped into the driver's seat, let out the clutch, and was noisily
traversing the empty streets.
The houses thinned out, the intervals between them became larger, and
soon he was in the country. Of the direction in which he was
travelling he had not the remotest idea, all he knew was that Aszod
and the White Knight were being left behind.
At last he dared to look behind him. For a moment he believed the
road to be clear, but when he glanced to his side there was the
haunting, visionary avenger, keeping apace, laughing derisively....
"Keep away! Holy Mary, keep him away!" he shrieked, and pressed his
foot still harder on the accelerator, and the automobile shot
forward. In vain! With incessant, terrified glances he realized
that the shapeless form, the chimera of his guilty fear, was joined
by two other wraiths, which fell ... and fell ... even as had fallen
two Hungarian officers.
The car flew on along the rutted roads. The rusted speedometer
ticked away mile after mile, but Gonnard drove blindly forward. What
matter which direction he took? Behind him the vengeance of the
White Knight. If once he stopped he might hang....
For hours the car with its solitary passenger careered on unchecked,
taking first this road, then that; its bonnet pointing now to the
east, now to the west.
The hour might have been five, six, or seven o'clock. Gonnard knew
not. The passage of miles meant more to him than the passing time.
Moreover, he felt somewhat easier. The last time he had looked he
had failed to see the two officers. They had disappeared, left
behind, while the White Knight had seemed to be flagging.
He wanted to look again, but dared not, lest he should discover that
they were back. The urge continued, and slowly his glance slipped
round to his side, then to his back, and his heart seemed to bubble
over with unexpected relief. The White Knight was gone too, he had
outstripped his avenger. He was safe ... safe ... safe!
He patted and fondled the car with a loving air, and with his fears
dissolving common sense stepped in, making him realize that he must
find his way to Budapest before dark, the darkness of which he was
still afraid.
He passed through one or two villages. He did not recognize them,
but when he slowed down and inquired his way of the inhabitants they
jerked their thumbs forward with a surly air. Rumours were in the
air; hangings had been more frequent; and latterly they were not
quite so sure in their own minds that the dictum of Budapest was all
that it was represented to be.
Conscious of an easier mind than he had possessed for the last week,
Gonnard gradually turned his thoughts into more pleasant channels
than that of the death he believed he had barely escaped. Once he
arrived in Budapest he meant to make up for the past week.
Firstly he would put himself under the protection of Bela Kun. Then
afterward, perhaps a good meal, and the company of a charming woman,
whose lips would not be too backward.... In the days of the
Revolution there were many such. There were mothers to be kept
alive, or younger brothers and sisters. They had to be fed.... The
saddest sights of Budapest during the days of the Red Terror were the
women whose gentle, innocent souls were besmirched and befouled so
that others might subsist.
The road was inclining upward; in the distance was a group of hills
which Gonnard seemed to recognize. Soon he was sure. They were the
hills of Budapest. He would soon reach the city now.
Soon--soon--soon; the purring of the wheels on the road sang the
refrain. Despite its age the car took the gradient well, and mounted
higher into the hills.
Here the forestry encroached on the cultivated land: or, perhaps more
correctly, cultivation ceased to invade the forest. There was a
sweet smell of dewy vegetation in the air, the scent of pine and
herbs.
The last remnant of fear faded from Gonnard's mind, routed by the
thought of what lay before him in Budapest. He sucked in his lips
appreciatively, already enjoying in anticipation that which would be
reality within a few hours.
Should he pick a fair or a dark woman; one inclined to plumpness
or----? There was a staccato report, a slackening in the speed of
the car, and an unpleasant grinding sound.
Gonnard swore, and now that his courage had returned it was the Devil
he invoked. A puncture! He applied the brake, shut off the engine,
and the car glided to a standstill. The commissary jumped out; then,
not without a frightened glance to the rear to make quite sure the
White Knight was still not to be seen, he inspected the tyre.
It was perfectly flat, the cause of the trouble obvious, for not far
from the valve a large nail was embedded in the outer cover. There
was only one thing to be done. Gonnard cursed, and with smouldering
fury in his heart hastened to look under the seat for the necessary
repair appliances.
Fortunately everything needful was in its proper place, so stripping
off his coat he set to work. In twenty minutes the repair was
completed, and as he let down the jack he spat on the road, a mark of
relief.
It was at that moment he became conscious of a sound to his right.
He spun round, his body slumping into a crouching position, his eyes
gleaming with terror. He waved his hands weakly to ward off the
coming horror, but as the sound continued his appearance changed.
From fear, his expression changed to puzzlement, then gradually
broadened into cunning amusement and bestial anticipation. The sound
which had arrested him was that of a woman singing.
A woman! His thick, sensuous tongue licked his dry lips caressingly.
Had not his thoughts dwelt for the last half-hour or so on women?
Now, suddenly, there was one within less than a hundred yards from
him, and by the sound of her voice she was young. To the commissary
it seemed Fate had sent her. If she were alone...
Stealthily he crept into the forest, and made his way in the
direction from which floated the clear, low notes of the singer.
Carefully he threaded his way through the trees, and with every
footstep he took his thoughts became baser and more beastly.
He halted behind a near-by tree, where he remained, as he became
assured that the woman was approaching. He did not have to wait
long. From out of the tangle of greenery a vague form materialized,
until at last, as she emerged from behind a large shrub, she became
fully revealed to the lustful eyes of the Communist.
He sucked in his breath with a slight gasp, and his eyes gleamed
still more brightly with the flare of his aroused passion. The gods
were kind! Never before had he seen a more beautiful woman, a more
delicate shape, nor so divine a form. Even his wildest dreams were
surpassed by the reality.
She had been picking flowers; her arms were filled with beautiful
forest blossoms, piled up in cascades until they reached her chin,
framing the fascinating face above.
Gonnard grinned mirthlessly. She was the fairest flower--a few yards
more and she would be in his arms...
He remained motionless: the woman passed by. Rapidly he stepped
behind her, and catching her wrists wrenched them apart. The wild
flowers of the forest dropped mutely to the mossy carpet beneath.
Mentally stunned by the shock Elizabeth did not even attempt to
struggle. The next moment Gonnard gagged her mouth with one filthy
handkerchief, and tied her arms behind her with another. Then he
lifted her in his arms, and leering into her face grinned derisively
at her blazing eyes. He turned back to the car again.
Now what of the White Knight! His fears were gone, there were better
thoughts to occupy his mind. Indeed the gods were kind! He cranked
up the engine, and swung into the driver's seat. It would not be
long before they arrived in Budapest, and then... He chuckled to
himself as the car started forward.
_CHAPTER XII_
In the meanwhile, back in Aszod, Wenzel awaited the hour of eight,
when the plans which he had laid so carefully should commence to
fructify. He knew that Gunzi was searching the city for him; at
times he had shadowed the detective to assure himself that the other
was not too warm on the scent.
Cunningly he had arranged that Gunzi should track him soon after
eight, and for that purpose had left behind a host of clues. When
the plans materialized Gunzi would learn of the whereabouts of the
White Knight. He would arrive just too late. Alarmed by the
closeness of the detective the White Knight would have fled.
Gunzi, he knew, would hurry back to Gonnard. What would be the
reaction? The White Knight had not set Francis Bakocz to study the
habits of the commissary before Gonnard moved on to Aszod and
remained unaware that he would turn to wine and women.
In the days of the Revolution English money meant much. With the
crown falling and falling a few Treasury notes would buy a man's
soul, and would still more encourage a woman, who already hated the
Communists for all they had done to her young sister, to listen with
a willing ear to Wenzel's suggestions.
A rendezvous--a pretty woman--potent wine--and in the middle of the
supper--retribution.
It was a pretty scheme and there were no loopholes. Even if Gonnard
should fail to fall into the baited trap he was prepared with an
alternative--but the White Knight was confident of his man. At seven
o'clock Arnold would arrive. Wenzel glanced at his watch; just
four-fifteen, and therefore time to set his plans in motion.
He lounged out of the room he had confiscated together with several
Reds in the name of the Commune. Downstairs one of his
fellow-proletarians was just entering.
"What, going out? You are a queer fellow, comrade--different from
the rest of us. We sleep all day, and at night..." He grinned.
"Well, I could take you to several little haunts, my friend. Why
don't you join us? I know a pretty blonde; her lips are redder than
a ripened cherry, and warmer than the hot springs of Margaret Island.
She would bring life into those dull eyes of yours, and set your
blood racing."
"Women!" Wenzel shrugged his shoulders. "What do I want of women?
I have had a surfeit of them until I am tired of their monotonous
caresses."
The other looked at him enviously. "You are a lucky fellow. A case
of beauty and the beast, eh?"
Wenzel turned upon him, and the Communist saw that in his eyes which
made him feel afraid. "All right, comrade," he added hastily; "I was
only joking, of course."
Wenzel growled, "Keep your jests to yourself, friend, for sometimes
they are like curses and chickens--and come home to roost," then
turning away he lounged out.
For some time he walked heedlessly. "Beauty and the beast!" So
hideous was he that even his own sex were conscious of the fact! For
the first me he wondered what Arnold thought of him. Did he too see
his leader in the same light?
Remorselessly he forced the trend of his thoughts into other
directions. He knew from past experience the after-effect of too
much communing with himself on that subject, for the bitterness of
his thoughts ate into his soul, and the world became a black
place--too black, for was there not supposed to be a better one
elsewhere?
He saw a train steaming into the station from Budapest, and, more to
keep his thoughts occupied than for any other reason, he joined the
throng of idle sightseers who lounged near the entrance watching the
exit of the passengers.
The people streamed through; some hesitatingly, pausing outside to
look around and find their different ways; others, with a contempt
bred of familiarity, dispersed quickly and decisively along the
adjacent streets.
Suddenly Wenzel stiffened, and frowned slightly. Arnold was supposed
to arrive by a later train, yet he was even now jostling his way
through a party who clustered round a newsboy.
Not seeing Wenzel, Arnold would have passed on, but the White Knight
stepped forward.
"Hullo, comrade!" he cried loudly. "So you are back again? How go
things in Budapest?"
"Well, my friend; well." Arnold's expression never altered. "Our
troops beat back the enemy in every direction, and the People's
Government becomes stronger and more fully recognized every day. It
is said that the Allies have expressed a desire to treat with our
great leader, Bela Kun."
"Excellent, excellent! Come, Stephen, I will see you home. You
shall tell me more."
They moved on, talking evenly until the people thinned out.
"One of Gunzi's men was near by," explained Wenzel. "But now, why
come you by an earlier train?"
Arnold's face clouded over. "Bad news, Wenzel; bad news. Apor was
caught corresponding with the Whites and has been arrested."
Wenzel's face turned pale with passion. "The fool, the fool! Why
did he? Did I not give him strict injunctions to serve me alone?
Now, not only must he suffer for his folly, but you, I, and others of
his own people, as well. My eyes and ears cut off from me, my plans
prejudiced: if he dies it is no more than he deserves."
"He will die, Wenzel." There was a quiet suggestion in Arnold's
voice which Wenzel did not fail to perceive.
"You are right, Arnold. Korvin-Klein is merciless, there is no hope
for him."
"None at all?" There was wistful pleading in Arnold's voice.
"You liked him, did you not, Arnold? So did I. Now you hint at
rescue. But what of my mission here? I have sworn Gonnard shall
die, to-night will see the fulfilment of my vow. Afterwards we will
go to Budapest."
"To-morrow will be too late, Geoffrey; surely Gonnard can wait? Is
not the life of Apor more to be desired than the death of a
Communist?"
"Be quiet!" His voice rasped with anger. "My plans are all
prepared. Nothing must be allowed to upset them."
For a little while they walked along in silence, but eventually
Arnold spoke: "I do not understand you to-day, Geoffrey. Has Gonnard
done you any personal injury that his death should be of more
importance than the life of one who has served you faithfully? We
may not save Apor--I cannot see how such a feat could possibly be
carried out successfully--yet it will hurt me always if I--no, I say,
we, Geoffrey--do not, at least, make an attempt."
The White Knight knew how true were the words of his lieutenant. In
speaking aloud to Arnold he had been arguing with himself. If he
went to Budapest Gonnard would escape his clutches, perhaps never to
fall into them again, and then what of his word to Elizabeth? He had
sworn that Gonnard should die--Gonnard, the murderer of Elizabeth's
cousin. On the other hand, there was Apor. Had not Apor risked his
life, time after time, to get him news of the movements of the
Communists, information which was of the utmost importance to the
White Knight in his rescue of the unfortunate victims of Bolshevik
persecution? Had not Apor, descendant of generations of warring
aristocrats, demeaned himself, humbled his pride, to serve in the
enemy ranks that he might more usefully aid the White Knight? Was
all that service to count for naught?
Wenzel sighed. "You are right, Arnold. Gonnard must wait. We will
catch the next train to Budapest."
They turned toward the station, and as they approached Wenzel looked
behind him, smiling grimly: "What an unpleasant day Gonnard will
spend to-morrow waiting for the blow to fall!"
* * * * * *
Gonnard knew Budapest as he knew the lines of his face. There was
not a criminal resort with which he had not been acquainted in the
old days of law and order, while the number of more or less habitable
quarters where he might lie securely hidden from the prying eyes of
the detectives, and to which he had the _entrée_, was well into
double figures.
To one of these he drove the helpless Elizabeth. As he brought the
car to a halt he gave a quick glance up and down the narrow road, but
fortunately no one was about, so with a deft movement, which was hard
to associate with one of his clumsy build, he picked her up in his
arms, and with scarcely any effort carried his burden within, up the
four flights of stairs to the whitewashed attic, and there carefully
locked the door behind him.
Once safely there, apparently unnoticed, he plucked the gag from her
mouth.
"Well, well," he mocked, "here you are, little chicken, and here you
will remain until I have finished with you." Like all cowards he was
a bully at heart, and he spoke with blustering braggadocio.
She gazed at him unflinchingly. "What do you want of me?" she asked
calmly.
The question set him roaring with laughter. "Ho, ho! Innocent one!
So you do not know for what I have brought you here to my little
love-nest? Ho, ho! Think it well over, my sweet, and see if you
cannot find out before I return." Suddenly his attitude became
menacing. "Sit down!" he ordered.
Elizabeth laughed slightly. "You are a fool," she said easily. "Do
you think you can hold me here against my will? I have only to raise
my voice and I do not doubt that I should have half a dozen people
flocking to my aid--in addition to the police."
He seemed to find humour in her answer, for his face again broadened
to a grin. "You think so? Let me assure you to the contrary. In
the first place, people who live in this district mind their own
business. Half a dozen ... flocking ... your aid..." He could not
finish for the laughter which consumed him. "Women have screamed for
help before now, but no one has interfered. We have more manners
than that. As for the police---- We live in different days, my
sweet: the police do not arrest commissaries."
"So you are a commissary?" Elizabeth looked at him with a quiet
scorn, which pierced even his hide, and his eyes narrowed.
"Say all you want, my lady. It will be my turn later on. Yes, I am
a commissary. You and your kind no longer rule the country; the
proletariat have arisen. Government for the people by the people is
our watchword, with no more magnates living like princes on sweated
gold."
Elizabeth did not speak in reply to this diatribe. Despite her
defiant attitude her heart beat with a throbbing intensity. She knew
her danger and endeavoured to think of a way out, but she was
conscious of a hysterical panic which for all her courage she could
not repress, and the knowledge clouded her reason.
In the meantime Gonnard continued speaking. "Too proud to talk, eh?
Well, well! You will learn reason very soon." His eyes lit, and he
stepped up to her, so that she shrank away with a repulsing gesture.
"Why should I wait?" he asked thickly. "Why should I wait? You and
me----" Then he calmed down.
"No. I will get rid of the car first, and see Bela Kun. Just as
well he should know that----" He broke off short and glanced at
Elizabeth.
Then, without the slightest warning, he clasped her in his arms,
turned her round, and inspected the strength of her bonds. He
laughed grimly. "You will be safe enough. You won't undo that
handkerchief in a hurry. And just in case you should make too much
noise----" With a quick movement he forced her mouth open and
inserted the gag again.
Elizabeth helplessly watched his ungainly form as he lumbered across
the room. Under ordinary circumstances she would have shrunk from
him with loathing. Now, in his power, it seemed to her that he was
even more horrible, still more the chimera of an unbalanced
imagination.
Gurgling deep down in his throat he unlocked the door, then turned
and blew a kiss across the room. She shuddered slightly, and his
mirth rang out coarsely. Then he was gone, and she heard his
footsteps heavily descending the stairs.
She listened acutely. The echo of his steps grew fainter, until it
faded away; but presently she heard the whir of the motor below, then
the chug-chug of the engine as it progressed along the narrow street,
until that too died away, and an unnerving silence ensued.
Tired of standing she sat on a wooden chair, which wobbled
unsteadily, and nearly threw her to the floor, but she managed to
save herself by thrusting out a foot against the wall.
Her mouth hurt abominably--the plugged handkerchief nearly choked
her, while a fold of it tickled the back of her throat until she felt
a spasm of vertigo. Her wrists smarted with the rub of her bonds,
and her bones ached from the cramped position she had been forced to
occupy during the drive into Budapest.
Her physical pain, however, was as nothing to the mental anguish
which pricked and tortured her. Over and over again she chided
herself for her folly in venturing so far from the _château_.
Conscience played havoc with her nerves; she realized that the
discovery of her presence might create danger for the rest of the
refugees, and that if that were not so her disappearance might
subsequently have a similar effect, for she knew too that, as soon as
the fact was discovered that she was missing, search-parties would be
organized, and as they failed to find her they would surely venture
farther and farther afield. Was it not likely that in doing so they
might come into contact with curious peasants, or be seen by
suspicious Communists?
Her father--of what would he be thinking? What would be his
sensations as the hours passed and no good news of her arrived? She
rocked slightly in the agony of her thoughts, and the chair very
nearly tilted over.
There was one other, too, of whom she scarcely dared to think. The
White Knight, the man who had risked his life again and again to
rescue her father and herself, what would he think of her?
Her remorse was more than she could bear, and tears started to her
eyes for the first time in fifteen years. With an effort she rose to
her feet, and paced the floor as far as its limits would allow,
hoping that with the physical effort her thoughts would plague her to
a lesser degree.
Presently she crossed to the window and gazed down upon the road
beneath, then at the houses opposite, and she realized that, if the
depressing environment and the ill-cared-for state of the buildings
counted for anything, the commissary had not exaggerated his claims
to seclusion.
The street was dismal and unkempt; it radiated an evil atmosphere, a
suggestion of mystery. Here and there people moved about, but, such
is the force of habit, even though the Government was now in the
hands of the criminal community, and everything was done to favour
instead of incarcerate the criminal, the denizens of this quarter
still continued to slink warily, casting uneasy glances from side to
side.
The women were drab, their faces were hard and starved, while the men
were brutal, their shaven heads intensifying the criminal cast of
their faces. Horrified by all she saw, nevertheless Elizabeth could
not withdraw from the window. It was all so new to her who had
always lived on the broad, clean plains, who had seen only village
life, except for glimpses of the world, now and again, from hotel
windows.
A deep thinker and a student of physiognomy, she believed she would
have been deeply interested had she been in more happy circumstances.
As it was, studying the neighbourhood as far as the narrow compass of
the window would permit, the sight did not help her to minimize her
plight; rather it assumed, every second, an uglier garb, and she
laughed mirthlessly. Supposing she were rescued, say, by any of the
residents of the neighbouring buildings? It seemed a moot point as
to whether she would be any better off, for her one thought then was
whether any one face which she saw from the window was more evil than
the next.
A minute later and, with a feeling of uncontrollable horror, she had
to reverse her theory. There swung into her vision a tall man--like
most tall men, stooping slightly. He was dressed in filthy clothes,
a cap was crammed over his head and eyes, a scarf wound round his
neck. He walked as did Gonnard, with a shuffling, uncouth gait.
At first she saw nothing of his face, but he stopped by the wall to
light a cigarette, and apparently his cap must have caught on
something sharp. Puffing the cigarette he stepped forward on his
walk, and the hat came off his head.
For a brief second he gazed upward in surprise: it was then that
Elizabeth realized that of all the vile, brutal faces which she had
seen in the last half-hour there was not one to be compared with that
upon which she now gazed.
Its monstrous ugliness hurt her, the blood-red scars which deformed
his head and face sickened her, and her lips trembled. Supposing
that it were he, not Gonnard, who held her prisoner....
She saw him snatch his cap from the wall. His lips moved, and she
had no doubt that he cursed blasphemously. He would have crammed his
hat back on his head when suddenly it seemed that her fixed gaze was
magnetically riveting his attention. He looked upward, his eyes
travelled toward her window.
With a shudder she jerked her head backward that he should not see
her ... and the White Knight, wondering what impulse had made him
glance upward, continued his way toward the rendezvous he had made
with Arnold when they had parted at the station.
_CHAPTER XIII_
That night the sun had scarcely buried itself beneath the rim of the
horizon when Gunzi entered a low-class bar in a quarter scarcely a
stone's-throw from where Elizabeth was imprisoned.
Many things had happened that day in Aszod. In the morning the White
Knight had been daring enough to touch him on the shoulder, whisper a
message in his ear, and yet dissolve into the crowd without betraying
himself in the slightest to the detective, and Gunzi, who could
conceive only that the White Knight had singled him out for the
purpose of fooling him, seethed with fury against the audacious
_bourgeois_.
He had masked it when giving Gonnard the whispered message. He
realized that the terror caused by the constant succession of
warnings was part and parcel of the White Knight's plan, in which
case it obviously suited him to assist it to its fulfilment, for he
was certain that sooner or later the White Knight would betray his
hand.
After leaving Gonnard he worked diligently all the morning, but with
no tangible result, and his anger increased, and burned within his
breast like a smouldering fire. Then, in the afternoon, he came
across his first clue. The man in prison recovered his memory, not
so much as regards his description of the White Knight, but as to an
address where the mysterious avenger had once stayed.
There was only one small matter: if it should be definitely proved
that his information was correct he was to be released
unconditionally. Gunzi, who aimed for bigger fry, was more than
agreeable to this proposal.
When Gunzi investigated, it was to find that the White Knight had
gone from there, but--"Look you, comrade, I had my suspicions of him.
He did not seem a true Communist, and he talked in his sleep. One
night when I was passing his door I heard the name of Comrade Gonnard
mentioned, whoever he may be, and this man was turning, twisting, and
swearing vengeance."
"Yes, yes; but where went he after leaving you?" Gunzi could
scarcely control his patience.
"Ah! friend, maybe I can tell you, maybe I cannot. Yet, some time
after he left me, I saw him coming out of a house in another part of
the city. Where was it? Well, comrade, am I not about to tell you?
Why should I hurry?..." And the detective had to listen for ten
minutes to unimportant and loquacious meandering, but in the end he
learned a fresh address.
Scarcely daring to hope he rushed post-haste across the town. The
door was opened by a smiling-faced, buxom woman. Did she have a man
so--and Gunzi described to the best of his ability as much as he knew
of the White Knight--staying at her charming residence?
"Why, yes, comrade, of course I knew him, but he left me four days
ago. Hearing that the _château_ of Zoltan Giesswein was to be taken
over by the Communists, he told me he intended to confiscate one of
the rooms for himself. He seemed a studious young man. He was kind
and kissed me when he left."
Later, Gunzi arrived at the _château_ of Zoltan Giesswein, once
magnate and owner of a huge steel-works, now a refugee in Vienna,
devoting his time to the formation of a White Army.
Here the men were more loth to answer questions, for they, unlike the
others, had not been coached in their answers. What did it matter to
Gunzi, they asked, if such a man now lived at the _château_? In no
uncertain words they told him to look for himself. Yet in the end he
secured the information for which he had been seeking.
"Him!" The man to whom the detective put the question laughed
scornfully. "He is out all day, yes, and he is out now. But he will
be back, comrade, do not worry. A cold-blooded fish--women do not
interest him; he told me so this very afternoon. Tried to make me
believe he had had too many. As if any man can have too many women!"
"So he will be back to-night?"
"I am not his mother. He did not tell me so."
"But you think he will?"
"Bah! I have no doubt that he will. Myself, I believe he is afraid
of the dark. He will be back. An early worm!"
There were no longer any doubts left in Gunzi's mind that he had
tracked his man, and chuckling to himself in triumph he hurried back
to Gonnard to let the commissary hear the good news.
When he looked for Gonnard the man had disappeared. The detective
could make neither head nor tail of the mystery, and with a sinking
heart came to the conclusion that the White Knight had succeeded in
his revenge, cleverly anticipating his ultimatum by a day, and he
realized the full cunning of the daily warnings.
For all that, where was the missing Gonnard? With a tenacity worthy
of a better cause Gunzi set to work again, and fitted together, piece
by piece, a possible solution.
The commissary had fled in fear; and from the facts he had collected
Gunzi could not believe that he had scuttled to anywhere save
Budapest. Determining to wait only long enough to arrest the Enemy
of the Commune, he resolved to follow.
He waited--in vain. Night arrived, and in the end he realized that
the White Knight too must have hurried to Budapest, more than
probably on the heels of Gonnard.
Under the new _régime_ Gunzi had no superiors. It was in his own
hands to depart instantly for the capital. As for the necessary
funds ... down one quiet road he saw an old man shuffling along. At
the pistol's point, and in the name of the Commune, Gunzi forced him
to turn out his pockets, and fortunately secured enough cash to get
him to Budapest and back, with the possibility of a drink or two in
between.
Arriving late in Budapest he made his way to a place he knew well, a
beershop which defied the official regulations as to the sale of
intoxicating liquor, and the White Knight, recognizing him, knew that
the Fates were playing into his hands, for he could have wished for
no better tool than Gunzi to use in the plot already fermenting in
his head for the rescue of his lieutenant from the clutches of the
Communists.
He followed Gunzi in and sat a couple of tables away. With a loud
but unsteady voice he ordered drink. His rough tones were heard even
above the din of voices and clatter of glasses; several pairs of
eyes, observing him, twinkled significantly.
For a while Wenzel remained quiet, drinking steadily, but after a
time he shuffled uneasily.
"More drink!" he shouted, and a fresh bottle of wine was placed on
the table before him. He filled his glass, rose to his feet, and
banged loudly. The noise of argument ceased, and he became a centre
of interest.
"Here ... here's to the Commune!" he toasted, and with a wavering
hand, which caused the wine to slop over the rim of the glass down
the front of his clothes, he guided the glass to his lips and drank
heavily.
"Hear! Hear!" There was an echoing chorus, and the toast was drunk.
Wenzel refilled his glass, and once again pounded on the table.
"And--and damnation--to all Whites!" he bellowed.
There was muttered laughter. The fellow was becoming amusing, and
for the sake of the fun they began to encourage him. Once again they
drank his toast.
"Go on, go on!" some one called out encouragingly.
Wenzel blinked, his head wagged stupidly from side to side. "And
death to all those who say otherwise," he hiccupped, and drained a
third glass.