THE TURKISH CIGARETTE
He was a prosperous looking man, a small house-owner, perhaps, or
tradesman, but he had a broad brow and a look of alertness which were an
earnest of his intelligence. Rowland walked by his side conversing
easily of casual things until they reached a street upon the edge of the
town, built up with rows of smaller houses, all much alike, each in its
well kept yard. Into one of these houses Benz led the way and in a
moment they were safe from curious eyes. Rowland was quite certain that
he had not been observed either upon the train or in the town and it was
therefore with a feeling of confidence as to his own present security
that he informed Herr Benz of the nature of his errand and the necessity
for immediate aid from those friends who had the interests of the Order
of Nemi at heart. Herr Benz made no pretense of concealing his
antipathy for the Prussian government, and proclaimed his full
allegiance to the Socialist cause. The deference which he paid Rowland
and exacted of his son, a boy of sixteen, the supper served by the neat
Frau, and the willingness Herr Benz expressed to aid in any possible
way, showed Rowland how deep and strong was the undercurrent of
antagonism and unrest in the hearts of the placid easy going Bavarians.
Benz knew Starnberg, he said, as he knew the palm of his hand. He had
been born and bred here and for twenty years had conducted the small
bakery which was now his own. He knew every villa as far as Possenhofen
where Elizabeth, Empress of Austria, as Herr Rowland must be aware, the
daughter of Duke Max, was born. Every villa.... He must think. All
these people were good customers of his, and had been for years. His
son every morning early delivered the bread, a distance of two miles or
more to the furthest house. Did Herr Rowland believe the villa he
sought could be as far away as that? Rowland shrugged helplessly.
"I know nothing more than I have told you," he said. "A villa upon
Starnberg See--near Starnberg--that is all I know."
Benz nodded, but his brow was puzzled.
"Near? How near? A mile? Fortunately, all the villas that need be
considered are on the east bank of the lake. That reduces our labors.
I will try to remember them one by one."
That task seemed to be hopeless, even with the aid of the boy, who was
called in to testify. The day was now fading and so Rowland suggested
that they go out and walk the length of the road and attempt by a
process of elimination to isolate those houses which might for any cause
be classed as possibly open to suspicion. The suggestion was acceptable
to Herr Benz. And so he left word with his son that if any message came
from Herr Senf over the telegraph, arrangements for which had already
been made, Benz the younger was to bring the message along the road on
his bicycle, and keep passing to and fro until he found them. They then
set forth, smoking their cigars, very vile ones, which Herr Benz had
provided, and presently were walking down the well ordered driveway
along the shimmering lake. One by one Herr Benz named the owners of the
cottages, puzzling here and there over a doubtful case, Rowland with an
appearance of great unconcern, eagerly searching the grounds with his
glance, the lighted windows for a glimpse of a feminine figure which
might be Tanya's.
The night was warm and upon the terraces overlooking the water many of
the occupants of the houses were sitting enjoying the night air. He
heard the low murmur of their voices, a light laugh here and there, the
sound of a piano and young people singing, but nothing that could give
any immediate clue as to the location of the villa he sought. And yet
Tanya Korasov was here somewhere near him waiting for the aid that had
not come.
At the end of the driveway which now became a mere country road Herr
Benz paused, for the distance between the houses had grown greater and
except for a few small cottages in the dusk beyond, the region of larger
places had come to an end. The total results of Herr Benz's process of
elimination to this point were five houses as follows:--
Two small villas, the names of whose occupants were unknown; a large
unoccupied house belonging to an Italian, Count Monteori, who because of
the war had been absent for three years; the magnificent place of Baron
von Speck, occupied only by the servants, its owner being on the staff
of Prince Leopold in France; the chateau of Frau Baltazzi, an aged
Grecian woman of wealth who lived alone with a female companion.
It was with some difficulty that the impatient Rowland constrained
himself to sit with Herr Benz upon a rock overlooking the placid lake
and calmly discuss the matter.
"You are sure," he asked, "that you are quite familiar with the
antecedents of the occupants of all the other houses?"
"Quite, Herr Rowland. In the case of additional persons coming into
these houses, the orders for bread would undoubtedly be increased. My
son is a clever boy. He would hear of any new comers through the
kitchen doors. With these larger houses the case is different, Frau
Baltazzi is a woman of mystery. She has no friends in Starnberg. But
she is very old and an invalid. It is possible that Herr Hochwald may
have the authority to compel her--but I doubt it, Herr Rowland."
Indeed, after a process of question and reply which seemed to be
sufficiently conclusive, only the residences of Count Monteori and Baron
von Speck remained as probabilities. Having reached this conclusion, it
was decided for the present to concentrate all attention upon these two
places. And so, turning north, they walked slowly back toward the town,
while Benz told what he further knew of the two residences under
suspicion. The place of Baron von Speck was just before them on their
right, a pretentious stone mansion, in the midst of a grove of trees,
beyond a spacious lawn, at some distance from the road.
Rowland, who felt sure, because of the Baron's rank and affiliations
that the use of this house by a representative of the Prussian secret
service would be justified, was for entering the grounds at once and
making a thorough investigation of the premises. Time was precious and
it was worth taking a chance. But Herr Benz hesitated. Here again
Rowland discovered that awe of the military authority which he had
noticed in Max Liederman, a habit of thought bred in the bone since
childhood, which for a moment of inaction seemed to have created a
sudden atrophy in this man's interest and enthusiasm. But the moment
passed for Herr Benz did not lack courage.
"Wait here," he said at last. "I will go and inquire."
So Rowland concealed himself in a clump of shrubbery within the grounds
while he watched the figure of Benz go around the turn in the road
toward the house until he was lost in the shadows. He had promised not
to move, but every impulse urged him to follow and pursue the
investigation in his own way, for he felt sure that the end of the chase
was near. But he realized that Herr Benz had reasons for his method of
approach and decided at least for the present to await in patience the
result of his investigation. After awhile he heard the footsteps of the
man crunching the gravel of the driveway and in a moment had joined him.
Benz was shaking his head.
"I went to the kitchen and saw the housekeeper, telling her of the new
order as to the slight increase this summer of the ration of war bread.
She had not known of it and was thankful for the information, but
informed me that her own orders from the Baron were strict and that her
household had been reduced to three persons, so that what she was
allowed would be sufficient. Further conversation followed and she took
me to see the view of the lake from the terrace. There is no one there,
Herr Rowland, but the three servants. I would take my oath to it."
Rowland's hopes fell. And yet he realized that after all the decision
of Herr Benz had been a wise one.
"Did you make any inquiries in regard to the villa of Count Monteori?"
he asked.
"Yes, and they know nothing."
And so the two men went northward again more rapidly.
The Monteori villa, like that of Baron von Speck, lay within spacious
grounds well wooded, the house itself, built of stone and stucco, like
many of those famous residences on the lakes of Italy, just upon the
edge of the lake, the waters of which lapped the base of the stone wall
which protected its terrace and garden. As Benz had said, it had long
been unoccupied except for two servants and if the Prussian government
had seen fit to use it, for purposes of its own, the fact could, he
thought, be quite easily discovered. But the method of approach which
had been so successful in the case of the house of Baron von Speck might
be hazardous here, since Herr Benz was not upon terms with the
caretaker, Taglitz, a north German, an old man of a violent temper who
suffered much from asthma. Last year Benz had quarreled with him about
the payment of a bill. And so it was decided that he and Rowland should
separate before they reached the place, moving with caution under the
protection of whatever cover availed, in a quiet investigation of the
lighted windows and garden. Rowland chose the side toward the lake and
leaving the road where the shadows of the trees afforded protection,
moved down through the underbrush cautiously, peering forward, waiting
and listening and then making a long detour to avoid a stretch of lawn
until he reached a small ravine, down which a stream trickled to the
lake below. Progress was slow because of the necessity for caution, but
at last he emerged near the edge of the lake and hidden behind a huge
rock gazed upward toward the windows of the house, less than two hundred
feet away.
He saw that a wall of stone separated the terrace from the lawns. There
was a gate in the wall probably locked so that it seemed as though the
best mode of approach would be from the lake itself to the stairs which
led up to the terrace.
There was a light in one window of the house, upon the second floor
under the tiled roof, another, a dim one, in the room which let out upon
the terrace, and he thought that he could distinguish the low murmur of
voices above the lapping of the waters of the lake beside him. But he
was not sure. There was no way of getting nearer the house from this
side without a danger of being observed, for the moon had risen and
there was no cover on the lawn before him. And so he lay quiet for a
while, keeping watch on the windows. While he looked he fancied he
heard voices again from the window upstairs and then shortly afterward a
new light appeared in the wing of the house, a candle or lamp which
threw a large shadow upon the wall. For twenty minutes he watched it
and then he heard the sound of a door closing and at the same moment the
light went out. Whoever had gone to that room had left it, taking the
light with him.
He fancied now that he heard the sound of a masculine voice and then a
figure appeared upon the terrace, threw a cigarette over the wall into
the lake and then went indoors, but a cloud had come over the face of
the moon and it was not possible to distinguish the identity or
appearance of the smoker. But presently upon the light breeze was
wafted the odor of a Turkish cigarette. After a while the light on the
lower floor went out and so Rowland slowly retraced his steps up the
ravine to the road, determined to choose another point of observation.
He lighted his pipe and passing the gates to the park went on to the
farthest boundary, the appointed spot at which he and Herr Benz had
decided to meet and compare notes.
Herr Benz had heard nothing, seen nothing suspicious; but when Rowland
informed him as to the man with the Turkish cigarette Benz listened
attentively.
"You are quite sure that it was a Turkish cigarette?" he asked.
"Quite positive."
"That is curious."
"Why?"
"Because in Munich one smokes a pipe or a cigar. The cigarettes one may
buy are too expensive for such a man as Taglitz, this caretaker, to
smoke."
This seemed a slender straw to clutch at but as Rowland thought of it
the smell of the Turkish cigarette seemed to grow in significance.
Taglitz, an old man who suffered from asthma, would hardly choose a
Turkish cigarette, even if he dared smoke at all. And the only other
occupant of the house was his daughter, who cooked his meals and looked
after him. Either Fraeulein Taglitz had formed a very bad habit or Herr
Taglitz had visitors. And so they walked a short way down the road
toward the town while they planned. Herr Benz wanted to go to town and
bring two of his followers, one of whom could watch the driveway, the
other to hide near the house while Rowland found a means of entrance, by
the terrace, from a boat on the lake. To this Rowland agreed, insisting
however that he should remain watching the house in the meanwhile. They
had just bidden each other farewell and Rowland had turned back toward
the suspected villa when he heard the sound of voices behind him and
stopped to listen, returning quickly to the group.
Herr Benz introduced him quickly to a man young Benz had brought with
him.
"This is the Government telegraph officer at Starnberg station--but a
friend, Herr Rowland. He brings you a message from Georg Senf."
"A message----!"
"I know nothing of this matter," said the man in uniform. "The message
was in cipher. It is this: 'Herr Berghof was murdered this afternoon.
No clues. No trace of bag.'"
Berghof murdered! Rowland questioned the man eagerly.
"At what time did this message arrive?"
"Less than half an hour ago."
"It came by private code?"
"Yes, from Herr Weiss."
"I see. I owe you many thanks."
"I would do more if I could. But I must return at once."
"Go then. You will be on duty later?"
"Until morning, Herr Rowland."
"Good. I may have a message to send."
The man bowed and departed with the younger Benz, while Rowland watched
them in silence until their figures were merged into the night.
Berghof murdered! By whom? And why? The answers to these questions
were obvious if he chose to follow the train of thought that was
uppermost in his mind. Had Hochwald killed him? Or Foerster? or another
agent of von Stromberg? The motive one of two things, to secure the
black bag filled with the bank notes which Berghof had taken, or to
silence a tongue which had already spoken too much. Or perhaps both.
Whatever the facts, the death of the man with the squint was eloquent of
the fact that Rowland had not been far wrong in his deductions. Herr
Berghof had paid the penalty--either of cupidity or disloyalty to those
who employed him. In any event it was clear that if the black bag had
ever been in his possession it had now passed to a confederate--or to
Gregory Hochwald! And therefore if----
A warning sound from Herr Benz brought his speculations to a close for
from within the grounds they had just left came the sound of an
approaching motor car.
"It must have been hidden in the porte-cochere," Benz was muttering. "I
did not see it."
As the machine approached, they walked toward it and it passed them at a
rapid rate going in the direction of the village. Just one glimpse they
had of the occupants, a chauffeur and a man wearing a cap, sitting in
the shadow of the curtains in the tonneau and smoking a cigarette. Who
was he? It was impossible to tell. But to Rowland's keen eyes the
figure seemed strangely like that of Herr Hochwald.
Imagination? Perhaps. Rowland's interest in the villa Monteori was now
such that he was ready to think anything that would confirm his growing
belief that here was the prison of Tanya Korasov. Herr Benz too shared
his excitement. Herr Hochwald hurrying to the Committee meeting he had
called! The thing hung together. There were few enough motor cars in
the Empire, and all those not in use by officials of Munich had been put
into requisition for military purposes. There was but one machine in
Starnberg, an ancient affair which could only be hired at a price beyond
the means of any but the most wealthy of the town. He had seen a
machine this afternoon rapidly passing his bakery which was on the
highway to Munich--was it this very machine? It had a top like this, a
chauffeur and one man sat within. He had commented upon its passage to
his boy. The young fellow, who shared the mystery of their search, now
voluntarily cleared their minds of doubt, for with that omniscience in
all things which pertain to makes of cars, he ventured in a guarded
tone--
"It is the very machine which came from Munich this afternoon."
"How do you know?" asked Rowland, eagerly.
"It's a Mercedes, sir," he said. "I know it by the shape of the hood."
If a machine went back and forth between the Villa Monteori and the city
of Munich it was doubtless because of urgent affairs in which some
official empowered to use automobiles was involved. Who but Hochwald?
And what affairs, unless those of Tanya and the black bag of the
Bayrischer Hof? Rowland had reached the point where he felt that he
must leap at a conclusion of some sort. At any rate there were two men
the less at the Villa Monteori and it was time to risk everything in an
effort to bring this adventure to a conclusion whether in failure or
success.
Rowland planned rapidly. A short distance below them there was a cross
road which led down to the lake, at the foot of which in the dusk of the
evening he had noticed a small pier or jetty near which a number of
canoes, sailboats and row-boats were moored. He proposed to take one of
these boats and under cover of the darkness, row down in the shadow of
the bank to the stone steps of the villa which led from the terrace wall
to the water. As the sky had now become cloudy and the night quite dark
it would thus be possible to come unnoticed much nearer to the house
than if he attempted to enter by the road or to cross the lawns where
the stone wall must be climbed. Herr Benz would wait in the Pavilion
which seemed to be deserted. If Rowland did not return before ten
o'clock he was to take another row-boat with the other two men whom
young Benz had gone to fetch from Starnberg and follow.
Benz demurred at first, professing a desire to share his dangers, but at
last consented to the arrangement, and Rowland embarked and set off upon
his solitary venture. As it was still early there were many young
people out on the lake in canoes and sailboats returning to shore and
the sounds of their voices came softly across the water.
Their presence in the neighborhood was reassuring and likely to distract
the attention of any visitors at the Villa Monteori. Rowland slipped
slowly down under the very shadow of the terrace wall where his boat
drifted in close to the steps where Rowland listened for a long moment,
and then fastened the painter to a ring in the wall and disembarked.
He had determined to enter this house and search it from top to bottom,
regardless of consequences. A fool's errand? Perhaps; for he had
little evidence to confirm his theory which after all had been born more
of hope and desperation than any proof. And yet the chance was worth
taking for at the best it meant merely a discussion with an irascible
and asthmatic watchman; at the worst perhaps an encounter with a
government official who had a private commission, with which he could
have no concern, and this meant a rapid retreat and the saving of his
skin. But the death of Berghof and the passage of the mysterious
automobile from what was reported to be an untenanted house, had seemed
to point him a way which he couldn't ignore. If Tanya were here the
element of surprise would be in his favor, and as his head reached the
level of the top of the steps, where he paused for a long moment of
inspection of the house, he saw no indication of watchfulness on the
part of those within. There were a rustic table and a number of benches
and chairs upon the terrace, and crawling up on his hands and knees he
hid himself behind a bench where he could examine the lower floor of the
house at closer quarters.
There was a loggia enclosed in glass just before him. Within, in the
main body of the house, a light was burning. At some risk of detection
from the windows above he moved closer and quickly rising, turned the
knob of the glass door. To his surprise it yielded and without
hesitation he entered, closing it softly behind him.
"Careless beggars, to forget there was a lake," he muttered.
Rowland's spirits were fast rising, and his fingers were itching for a
grip on something tangible, preferably the Adam's apple of
Khodkine-Hochwald. Denied that, anyone else's would do. But a
disappointment awaited him here, for the door to the main body of the
house was locked. He drew aside into the shelter of the wall and rubbed
his chin thoughtfully. "Not so dull, after all," he said to himself.
"But I'll make it, if it takes the butt of an automatic."
Fortunately he was not obliged to resort to that extremity for a French
window with a loose catch rewarded his patience.
"It's flat burglary, nothing less," he said with a grin as he crossed
the sill and entered the room. It was quite dark here, the only
illumination coming from a lamp in an inner room, and he paused a moment
to get his bearings and listened. A sound of voices somewhere upstairs.
His breath came a little more quickly--the deep bass of a man and he was
sure the tones of a feminine reply. Taglitz and his daughter? He would
soon find out. It took him a few moments of noiseless investigation to
study the plan of the lower floor, the location of the steps which led
upstairs and the hall which led to the rear of the house. Then he
peered into the lighted room beyond.
It was empty and upon the table lay what remained of a meal, the dishes
of which had not yet been cleared away. At the further end of the room
was a swinging door which led to the kitchen and Rowland crossed to it,
in accordance with a quickly formulated plan to make safe the lower
floor, before he went upstairs. But just as he was about to go forward
there were sounds of heavy footsteps in the kitchen passage just beyond
and he had barely time to flatten himself against the wall when the door
was pushed open and a man entered and walked to the table. He was an old
man, with bent shoulders, possibly a little deaf, and his breath wheezed
like that of a horse with the heaves. It seemed a shame to do it, but
there was no time for moral compunctions and stepping quickly behind him
Rowland thrust an arm around the fellow's neck and with a knee in the
small of his back garrotted him noiselessly and effectually. Then he
laid the man upon the floor and with a warning hand on his throat, which
he threatened to tighten at the least indication of an outcry,
questioned in tense whispers.
"Herr Hochwald left this house half an hour ago?"
There was no reply but a terrible gasp as Taglitz fought for his breath.
"Answer me," growled Rowland with an air of ferocity he was far from
feeling. "Answer me, or I'll choke----"
Taglitz raised a feeble hand and tried to move his head, gasping
horribly meanwhile.
So Rowland waited an anxious moment fearing that the fellow would die.
Then questioned again--
"Where has Herr Hochwald gone?"
Taglitz shook his head.
"I--I--don't--know," he gasped.
Rowland could have shouted for joy. Hochwald!
"Where is your daughter?"
"Gone out--since supper--to visit in Starnberg."
"Who are upstairs?"
The eyes of Taglitz stared, and beneath him, Rowland could feel the
man's limbs trembling in terror. But he wouldn't reply, so Rowland's
fingers closed gently upon his throat.
"Answer me," he whispered, "or I'll choke you."
Already Taglitz's eyes were starting from his head and Rowland released
the pressure.
"Answer," he said sternly.
Taglitz gasped for a few moments of fearful unhappiness then, as
Rowland's fingers tightened, held up a feeble hand.
"Who are upstairs?" repeated Rowland.
"Herr--Herr Foerster----"
"Who else?"
"Fraeulein Korasov."
"At what time did Herr Hochwald reach here?"
"Be-fore supper."
"How long before supper?"
Taglitz paused and Rowland's hand moved toward him.
"An hour," he answered.
Rowland's brain was now acting quickly.
"What did he do with the black bag he brought?"
"I--I don't know."
Rowland's eyes sparkled.
"Did he carry it upstairs?"
The terror in the man's eyes was pitiful and the trembling began anew
but Rowland was merciless.
"Answer me." Again the hand threatened.
"Don't--strangle me. I will tell," and as Rowland released him. "He
took it to his room."
"Where is his room?"
"In the wing to the south."
The room which Rowland had been watching when he lay below the rock an
hour ago--the shadow had been Hochwald's!
Rowland grinned at the frightened face beneath him while he reached for
a napkin upon the table.
"You're a brick, Herr Taglitz," he muttered in English. "That's what
you are--a brick. But bricks are silent--and harmless--unless in
riotous hands."
"What are--are you"--croaked the prisoner.
The words were stifled by the napkin which Rowland thrust into his
mouth. It was a large napkin and the ends tied firmly at the neck and
chin made a neat gag. The two other napkins, one around his knees, the
other at his elbows behind him completed Rowland's purpose, which was to
render one hundred and sixty pounds of potential Prussianism as helpless
as Rameses the Second. He rolled Taglitz under the table, assuring
himself that the man was in no danger of death, then searched the lower
floor for signs of other occupants. But the man had spoken the truth
for there was no one else upon the lower floor.