_COUNT MICHÆL TEMESVAR_
Count Michæl Temesvar, when he left behind him the great estate where he
ruled as absolute and tyrannical master and came to the fashionable,
pleasure-loving London, was a different man.
In London he paid due regard to the conventions and was entertained at
great houses and in return offered very splendid receptions to his
hosts. Meanwhile he kept a skilled finger on the hardening arteries of
new international affairs.
He knew very well that he was suspected of intriguing for monarchial
restoration and the confusion of the country where he was so pleasantly
entertained, by such men as the Earl of Rosecarrel. But for the main
part England still clung to her habit of disbelieving that a man who
could be so charming in society would commit the _betise_ of plotting
where he had played.
He was particularly interested in the Spring Automobile Show at the
Crystal Palace. He had heard a great deal of late of the Lion motor and
he wanted one. On his first visit to the show he told the manager that
the silver model there exhibited was the one that he would buy. He was
annoyed that the firm's representative would not allow it to be taken
away until the show finished.
On his second visit he was irritated to find that the manager raised
objections about selling it at all.
"You see, sir," said the manager, "a car like this demands careful
driving and constant attention. Our ordinary model would suit you
better."
"I want this because it is said to be the fastest car in the world,"
Count Michæl returned. "To me the price is nothing."
"It isn't that at all, sir," the manager said. "In confidence it
wouldn't do us any good if your own mechanics got it in such a condition
it couldn't do its best work. Bad advertisement you understand."
"You think I should have a special chauffeur then? Good. Send me one.
Send three if necessary but send me a man who has the nerve to drive
along my mountain roads by day or night at any speed I choose."
"That's a tall order, sir," the manager returned.
"But I pay. I always pay better than others because I want better work."
Count Michæl Temesvar beheld a blue-clad mechanic working under a car.
He struck him a sharp blow on the leg with his cane. A grimy-faced man
emerged rubbing the bruised limb.
"You," said the count peremptorily, "can you drive a car like this
Lion?"
The man grinned. The idea seemed to tickle him. He spoke with the
cockney accent of his kind.
"Me drive a Lion?" he said. "Ask Mr. King 'ere what I can do."
"I couldn't let him go," said Mr. King quickly. "He is my best
demonstrator and a wonder at tuning up an engine."
Count Michæl ignored the protesting manager.
"What is your wage?"
"I get five pound a week."
"I give you ten. You are my man. You leave for my place in Croatia when
the show is over. My secretary will see you are looked after. Serve me
well and you will never regret it. I am generous, when I am pleased." He
turned to his companion. "See that all arrangements are made. If he has
a wife and children bring them if he desires it. If he will be happier
without them let them remain here. I must have him. He has intelligence
and industry. Look you, he has gone back to his work. He loves his
engine as a good groom does his horse."
The mechanic had indeed crawled again under the huge car. The count
could have added that he was cautious for he drew his legs well into
cover.
The count and the secretary went off. The secretary was to call at the
office next day and arrange things. The manager was deferential, but
when they had left the glass-roofed hall he permitted himself to laugh.
Then he crossed to the car and bent down.
"It's all right, Mr. Trent," he said, "they've gone now; you can come
out."
Anthony Trent looked up at him and grinned.
"You can always get a job as an actor," he said.
"Your accent is a bit of all right," the manager returned, gratified.
"If it's etiquette for a manager to have a drink with a mere oil-stained
mechanic as I am, lead on to the nearest place."
"Well," said the manager later, "what do you think of him?"
Anthony Trent rubbed his leg.
"He struck me," said Trent in a curious, musing way. There was something
in his tone which made the manager look at him quickly. Anthony Trent's
face was grim and set.
"I don't think he meant it that way," Mr. King replied. He had visions
of assault and battery.
"Some day I shall give him the opportunity to apologize," said the
American.
Mr. King had received personal instructions from the chairman of the
Lion Motor, Ltd., to obey Mr. Anthony Trent in every particular. Mr.
Trent was to be allowed to have the run of the shops and the most expert
mechanics in the firm were to put all they knew at his disposal.
Anthony Trent started by giving the manager the best dinner he had ever
eaten. Then he coached him in the _rôle_ of a manager anxious not to
lose his best demonstrator. King was delighted that Count Michæl walked
into the trap set for him eagerly. He liked Trent but thought poorly of
his chances in a tussle with this big girthed foreigner.
"Must be fifty inches round the chest," he observed, sipping his drink
delicately, "and most of it muscle. One of the most powerful men I've
ever laid eyes on, Mr. Trent. Built like a wrestler. About five feet
ten I judge, a couple of inches less than you but five stone heavier."
"What was the big car on the aisle opposite us at the show?" Trent
asked, as King thought, irrelevantly.
"The 'Amazon,'" King answered scornfully. "All varnish and silver plate
and upholstery with a motor that isn't worth a tinker's dam."
"That's like the count," Trent smiled, "champagne, high living and
general dissipation have made a shell of him. He looks well enough to
the eye, like that Amazon car, but call on the motor and you'll see 'em
both hang out distress signals."
"Maybe," King conceded, "I'll put my bet on the Lion," he smiled in a
friendly fashion at the other, "and the Eagle."
They fell to talking technicalities and kept it up till the hour when
Michæl, Count Temesvar went to dine at a house in Bruton street. He told
his host that as a compliment to this country, his second home, he had
just bought an English car and engaged an English chauffeur. The other
guests thought it so broad-minded of him. He further endeared himself to
his company by deploring the retirement of his old adversary, that
eminent diplomat, the Earl of Rosecarrel.
His old adversary's occupation at the moment would have surprised him.
The earl was devising an ingenious cipher code having, it would seem to
the uninitiated, the various parts of a Lion motor which might need
replacing by telegram to the London factory. Anthony Trent would take a
copy with him, carefully concealed, and any telegram sent by him to the
works would instantly be forwarded to the code's inventor.
"What makes you so cheerful?" his daughter asked as she bade him
goodnight.
"That amazing American of yours," he answered.
"'Of mine,'" she repeated. But even in the grip of her unhappiness she
was not sure that the dim future did not hold some alleviation.
* * * * *
Few people were more careful of appearances than Anthony Trent. He was
always dressed with quiet distinction. In the early days of a profession
where it is not well to be too prominent, he chafed at this restraint.
Later he saw that it was the sign of sartorial eminence.
On assuming the name and characteristics of Alfred Anthony he also had
to dress the part and talk the part. From the men in the Lion shop he
had, with his mimic's cleverness, taken on their peculiar intonations
and slang until he certainly could deceive a foreigner. And since he was
thorough he forced himself to smoke the part.
He accompanied his great silver car across the channel to Ostend dressed
as the men in the shop dressed. And he moved with their brisk, perky
quickness and he alternated between shag in a bull-dog pipe and Woodbine
cigarettes. He was glad that Mr. Hentzi, the count's secretary observed
his altercation at the Belgian port with a customs official who made
him pay duty on an excess number of cigarettes.
"Ah," said Mr. Hentzi with condescension, "the cigarette of the Briteesh
Tommee!"
At Ostend, Trent superintended the despatch of his charge by fast
freight and then took the trans-continental express to Budapest. He was
to wait for the car and drive it to its new home. During the few days he
was forced to idle in the Hungarian capital he deplored the fact that
new status prevented him from going to the Bristol or the Grand Hotel
Royal. He stayed, instead, at an hotel of the second class and
encountered little friendliness. English or Americans, it seemed, were
still regarded as enemies.
He was saved from any violence by Hentzi's announcement that he must be
fitted for the Temesvar livery. It was no use to rebel. With incredible
swiftness the tailor turned it out. Trent looked at himself in the glass
with the utmost distaste. The color scheme was maroon and canary yellow.
He likened himself to those who stood before the fashionable stores on
Fifth avenue and opened limousine doors.
"With that livery," Hentzi said impressively, "you will be safe; you
will be respected."
Anthony Trent was too much overwhelmed to answer him. Certainly the
Anthony Trent who stared back at him from the mirror was a stranger. He
was wearing his hair longer than usual and a small moustache was already
sprouting. The hawklike look was not evident. He wore, instead, an air
of innocence that was Chaplinesque. Hentzi took this look of scrutiny to
be one of pride.
"You must have your photograph taken and send it to your best girl," he
laughed, "she will make all the other ones jealous."
"Yes," said the man who suddenly remembered he was Alfred Anthony of
Vauxhall Bridge Road, "she'll be fair crazy about it. Just like me."
But he did not wear it much. He preferred the chance of a row with the
populace to his unwished for splendor. The days of delay gave him
leisure to think over coming difficulties. He conceded he had been led
away by emotion and enthusiasm when he was betrayed into boasting of his
prowess. The two men who had failed had been good men no doubt and they
were dead.
Such a man as Temesvar must know that the brain who originated the
attempt at recovery of the draft was still scheming. The count must
constantly be on the watch. And if so, why had he engaged Alfred Anthony
with so little investigation? Like most high grade criminals, Anthony
Trent was apt to suspect simple actions when performed by men of the
Temesvar type and impute to them subtle motives. He wished he had been
able to take a longer look at the count instead of his momentary talk.
He reminded Trent very much of the celebrated painting of Francis the
First, that sensual monarch who was devoted to the chase, masquerades,
jewelry and the pursuit of the fair. But Francis, for all his
accomplishments, was weak and frivolous while Temesvar was ruthless and
a power, if Lord Rosecarrel was to be believed.
Before he left London Trent had secured what road maps he could of
Hungary and particularly the Adriatic coast of Dalmatia and Croatia. At
his hotel he spread them out on the table and spent hours poring over
them.
He ventured to ask Mr. Hentzi some particulars of the place, and why
Count Michæl had gone to the expense of importing the chauffeur and the
car when he had many machines in his garage and so many men at his
command.
Hentzi told him the count needed a clear-eyed, temperate man who could
make great speed and make it safely.
"Most of our men," Hentzi declared, "drink _shlivovitza_, a brandy made
of plums, and there are people who visit the count whose lives must not
be imperilled by recklessness."
"What about the roads?" Trent asked thinking of the weight of the Lion
and its tremendous wheel-base.
"From Karlstadt to Fiume runs the Maria Louise road which is superb. It
is one over which you will pass many times. Then there is the Josephina
road from Zengg and many fine highways built not for the Croatian
peasants but for strategic purposes. You have seen in this war which is
passed what good roads mean, eh?"
"You 'it it on the 'ed, Guv'ner," Trent said cheerfully. "What do I go
down to Fiume for?"
"To meet passengers from the steamers or from the count's yacht. It is
one hundred and twenty miles from Fiume to Radna Castle. What could you
do that distance in? The road down the mountain to Karlstadt is good but
narrow."
Alfred Anthony spat meditatively.
"The old girl will do it in three hours," he said, "she'll shake 'em up
a bit inside but if there aren't no traffic cops or big towns I can do
it in three hours or bit more."
"No. No," Hentzi cried nervously, "that is suicide. We have been
satisfied to take six hours."
"With 'orses?" Alfred Anthony demanded, "pretty good time with 'orses,
but this is a Lion."
Hentzi sat on the front seat during the long drive and pointed out the
path. On the whole he was a good natured man but he did not permit the
count's chauffeur to forget that he was talking to the count's
secretary. Hentzi had formerly been a clerk in the estate office of the
Temesvar family and had been promoted to his present position because he
was faithful and a good linguist.
He was afraid of the count. Trent could detect a fear of him whenever
the name was mentioned. When Hentzi warned the new chauffeur to be
careful if his employer was in an angry mood the American demanded the
reason.
"If I do my duty," said the pseudo mechanic, "he can't hurt me."
"You talk as a child talks," Hentzi laughed. "He will do as he likes and
as the devils that are in him at the moment. He fears neither God, man,
nor devil. Pauline only may mock when he rages."
"Who is Pauline?" Trent asked, "the missus?"
"The Countess," Hentzi said with dignity, "is in perpetual retreat with
the Ursuline sisters near Vienna."
"Is Pauline the daughter?"
"His daughters are married." Hentzi laughed, "Castle Radna is not a
place where it is wise to ask questions. You think because his
excellency was cheerful when you last saw him he is like that always? I
tell you if Pauline has been unkind he may visit it on you. I prefer
that he does. I am tired of his humours and you are younger and
stronger."
"You don't mean he might hit me?" Trent cried.
Hentzi seemed to find Trent's anxious manner amusing.
"Most certainly he will," the secretary assured him, "but you need not
be alarmed. He will fling you gold when his temper has spent itself."
"I'm not going to let any man strike me," Trent said doggedly. "It would
raise the devil in me and I might be sorry for it."
"You would," Hentzi said thinking that the chauffeur meant he might lose
his job.
Anthony Trent, instead, was thinking that he might, in order to succeed
in his venture, have to submit to indignities that would be torture to
one of his temperament. It would not be wise to let the secretary know
this so he turned the subject to the woman who dare laugh when the count
was angry.
"Who is Pauline?" he asked.
"She was a skater from the Winter Palace in Berlin. She is beautiful or
she would not be at Castle Radna; she is clever or she could not control
Count Michæl who has broken many women's hearts. She is bad or she would
not have driven the countess from her home. For myself I hate her and
the men and women with whom she fills the place."
"So they keep a lot of company up there?"
"Company!" Hentzi replied, "there is no such castle in Europe. I have
seen life in Buda and Vienna but up there! You may be sure when the
master drinks champagne the servants will drink _shlivovitza_. But do
not think they are all Pauline's friends. No. No. The great of the world
come there too and Pauline's friends are banished. You will drive great
personages up from Fiume and you will not know who they are or what
their errand."
"Is the count a politician?"
Hentzi laughed with good natured contempt at such a naïve query. Not to
know Michæl, Count Temesvar's reputation in the field of world politics
was to admit ignorance of all the troubled currents which worried kings
and presidents.
He was rudely brought back from his lofty attitude by the sudden
stopping of the car. He was almost thrown from his seat.
"Look!" Trent cried, pointing to a piece of close cropped turf, "a golf
green as I live."
"What of it?" Hentzi snapped, "what do you know of golf?"
"I used to be a caddie," Trent lied glibly. "Who plays there?"
"The count because his doctor tells him to. I because I hate it, and
Pauline that her figure may remain seductive. Thank God there are but
nine holes! It encourages our master to have one man who always plays
worse than he. Look, that is the castle."
Almost under the shadows of Mount Sljeme the rugged building lay. Around
it, nestling at its gates were many other lesser stone buildings which
Hentzi told him were stables, dwellings and out-houses. It was situated
in the _Zagorje_ or land beyond the hills and had, despite its fine
gardens and the green turf of the links a forbidding air.
When the Lion was run into its garage Hentzi introduced the new
chauffeur to the man with whom he was to live, a man who with his wife
had one of the cottages outside the castle wall. Peter Sissek, the man,
was unfriendly from the start. He resented the importation of a
chauffeur with the new car as a slight to his own skill. But as he spoke
only Croatian and Hungarian, and Trent understood neither tongue, his
grievances were not voluble.