THE WRONG MAN
Herbeck dropped his quill, and there was a dream in his eyes. His desk
was littered with papers, well covered with ink; flowing sentences, and
innumerable figures. He was the watch-dog of the duchy. Never a bill
from the Reichstag that did not pass under his cold eye before it went
to the duke for his signature, his approval, or veto. Not a copper was
needlessly wasted, and never was one held back unnecessarily. Herbeck
was just both in great and little things. The commoners could neither
fool nor browbeat him.
The dream in his eyes grew; it was tender and kindly. The bar of
sunlight lengthened across his desk, and finally passed on. Still he sat
there, motionless, rapt. And thus the duke found him. But there was no
dream in _his_ eyes; they were cold with implacable anger. He held a
letter in his hand and tossed it to Herbeck.
"I shall throw ten thousand men across the frontier to-night, let the
consequences be what they may."
"Ten thousand men?" The dream was shattered. War again?
"Read that. It is the second anonymous communication I have received
within a week. As the first was truthful, there is no reason to believe
this one to be false."
Herbeck read, and he was genuinely startled.
"What do you say to that?" triumphantly.
"This," with that rapid decision which made him the really great
tactician he was. "Let them go quietly back to Jugendheit."
"No!" blazed the duke.
"Are we rich enough for war?"
"Always questions, questions! What the devil is my army for if not to
uphold my dignity? Herbeck, you shall not argue me out of this."
"Rather let me reason. This is some prank, which I am sure does not
concern Ehrenstein in the least. They would never dare enter Dreiberg
for aught else. There must be a flaw in our secret service."
"Doubtless."
"I have seen this writing before," said Herbeck. "I shall make it my
business to inquire who it is that takes this kindly interest in the
affairs of state."
The duke struck the bell violently.
"Summon the chief of the police," he said to the secretary.
"Yes, yes, your Highness, let it be a police affair. This letter does
not state the why and wherefore of their presence here."
"It holds enough for me."
"Will your highness leave the matter in my hands?"
"Herbeck, in some things you are weak."
"And in others I am strong," smiled the chancellor. "I am weak when
there is talk of war; I am strong when peace is in the balance."
"Is it possible, Herbeck, that you do not appreciate the magnitude of
the situation?"
"It is precisely because I do that I wish to move slowly. Wait. Let the
police find out _why_ they are here. There will be time enough then to
declare war. They have never seen her highness. Who knows?"
"Ah! But they have violated the treaty."
"That depends upon whether their presence here is or is not a menace to
the state. If they are here on private concerns which in no wise touch
Ehrenstein, it would be foolhardy to declare war. Your highness is
always letting your personal wounds blur your eyesight. Some day you
will find that Jugendheit is innocent."
"God hasten the day and hour!"
"Yes, let us hope that the mystery of it all will be cleared up. You are
just and patient in everything but this." Herbeck idled with his quill.
The little finger of his right hand was badly scarred, the mutilation of
a fencing-bout in his student days.
"What do you advise?" wearily. It seemed to the duke that Herbeck of
late never agreed with him.
"My advice is to wait. In a day or so arrest them under the pretext that
you believe them to be spies. If they remain mute, then the case is
serious, and you will have them on the hip. If, on the other hand, this
invasion is harmless and they declare themselves, the matter can be
adjusted in this wise: ignore their declaration and confine them a day
or two in the city prison, then publish the news broadcast. Having
themselves broken the letter if not the spirit of the treaty, they will
not dare declare war. Every court in Europe will laugh."
The duke struck his hands together. "You are always right, Herbeck. This
plan could not have been devised better or more to my satisfaction." The
duke laughed. "You are right. Ah, here is the chief."
Herbeck read the letter in part to the chief, who jotted down the words,
repeating aloud in a kind of mutter: "A mountaineer, a vintner, a
carter, a butcher, and a baker. You will give me their descriptions,
your Excellency?"
Herbeck read the postscript.
"But you don't tell him who--"
"Why should he know?" said Herbeck, glancing shrewdly at the duke. "His
ignorance will be all the better for the plot."
"Then this is big game, your Highness?" asked the chief.
"Big game."
"One is as big and powerful as a Carpathian bear. Look out," warned
Herbeck.
"And he is?"
"The mountaineer."
"And the vintner?"
"Oh, he is a little fellow, and hasn't grown his bite yet," said Herbeck
dryly.
The duke laughed again. It would be as good as a play.
"I thank you, Herbeck. You have neatly arranged a fine comedy. I do not
think so clearly as I used to. When the arrest is made, give it as much
publicity as possible. Take a squad of soldiers; it will give it a
military look. Will you be on the field this afternoon?"
"No, your highness," touching the papers which strewed his desk; "this
will keep me busy well into evening."
The duke waved his hand cheerfully and left the cabinet.
"Your excellency, then, really leaves me to work in the dark?" asked the
chief uneasily.
"Yes," tearing up the note. "But you will not be in the dark long after
you have arrested these persons. Begin with the mountaineer and the
vintner; the others do not matter so much." Then Herbeck laughed. The
chief raised his head. He had not heard his excellency laugh like that
in many moons. "Report to me your progress. Unfortunately my informant
does not state just where these fellows are to be found."
"That is my business, your Excellency."
"Good luck to you!" responded Herbeck, with a gesture of dismissal.
When her highness came in from her morning's ride she found the duke
waiting in her apartments.
"Why, father," kissing him, "what brings you here?"
"A little idea I have in mind." He drew her down to the arm of the
chair. "We all have our little day-dreams."
"Who does not, father?" She slid her arm round his neck. She was full of
affection for this kindly parent.
"But there are those of us who must not accept day-dreams as realities;
for then there will be heartaches and futile longings."
"You are warning me. About what, father?" There was a little stab in her
heart.
"Herr Carmichael is a fine fellow, brave, witty, shrewd. If all
Americans are like him, America will soon become a force in the world.
I have taken a fancy to him; and you know what they say of your
father--no formality with those whom he likes. Humanly, I am right; but
in the virtue of everyday events in court life, I am wrong."
She moved uneasily.
He went on: "Herbeck has spoken of it, the older women speak of it; and
they all say--"
"Say!" she cried hotly, leaping to her feet. "What do I care what they
say? Are you not the grand duke, and am I not your daughter?"
In his turn the duke felt the stab.
"You must ride no more with Herr Carmichael. It is neither wise nor
safe."
"Father!"
He was up, with his arms folding round her. "Child, it is only for your
sake. Listen to me. I married your mother because I loved her and she
loved me. The case is isolated, rare, out of the beaten path in the
affairs of rulers. But you, you must be a princess. You must steel your
heart against the invasion of love, unless it comes from a state equal
or superior to your own. It is harsh and cruel, but it is a law that
will neither bend nor break. Do you understand me?"
The girl stared blindly at the wall. "Yes, father."
"It is all my fault," said the duke, deeply agitated, for the girl
trembled under his touch.
"I shall not ride with him any more."
"There's a good girl," patting her shoulder.
"I have been a princess such a little while."
He kissed the wheaten-colored hair. "Be a brave heart, and I shall
engage to find a king for you."
"I don't want any playthings, father," with the old light touch; and
then she looked him full in the eyes. "I promise to do nothing more to
create comment if, on the other hand, you will promise to give me two
years more of freedom."
The duke readily assented, and shortly returned to his own suite, rather
pleased that there had been no scene; not that he had expected any.
Now that she was alone, she slipped into the chair, beat a light tattoo
with her riding-whip against her teeth, and looked fixedly at the wall
again, as if to gaze beyond it, into the dim future. But she saw nothing
save that she was young and that the days in Dresden, for all their
penury, were far pleasanter than these.
Meantime the chief of police called his subaltern and placed in his
hands the peculiar descriptions. The word vintner caused him to give
vent to an ejaculation of surprise.
"He was in here last night. I have had him followed all day. He lives
over the American consulate. Among his things was found the uniform of a
colonel in the Prussian Uhlans."
"Ha! Arrest him to-morrow, or the day after at the latest. But the
mountaineer is the big game. Do not arrest the vintner till you have
him. Where one is the other is likely to be. But on the moment of arrest
you must have a squad of soldiers at your back."
"Soldiers?" doubtfully.
"Express orders of his highness."
"It shall be done."
Considerable activity was manifest in the police bureau the rest of that
day.
To return to Carmichael. He had never before concerned himself with
resignations. Up to this hour he had never resigned anything he had set
his heart upon. So it was not an easy matter for him to compose a
letter to the secretary of state, resigning the post at Dreiberg. True,
he added that he desired to be transferred to a seaport town, France or
Italy preferred. The high altitude in Dreiberg had affected his heart.
However, in case there was no other available post, they would kindly
appoint his successor at once. Carmichael never faltered where his
courage was concerned, and it needed a fine quality of moral courage to
write this letter and enclose it in the diplomatic pouch which went into
the mails that night. It took courage indeed to face the matter squarely
and resolutely, when there was the urging desire to linger on and on,
indefinitely. That she was not going to marry the king of Jugendheit did
not alter his affairs in the least. It was all hopeless, absurd, and
impossible. He must go.
Some one was knocking on the door.
"Come in."
"A letter for your excellency," said the concierge.
"Wait till I read it. There may be an answer."
"If Herr Carmichael would learn the secret of number forty Krumerweg,
let him attire himself as a vintner and be in the Krumerweg at eight
o'clock to-night."
This note was as welcome to the recipient as the flowers in the spring.
An adventure? He was ready, now and always. Anything to take his mind
off his own dismal affairs. Then he recalled the woman in black; the
letter could apply to none but her. More than this, he might light upon
the puzzle regarding the vintner. He had met the fellow before. But
where?
"What sort of clothes does a vintner wear?" he asked.
"A vintner, your Excellency?"
"Yes. I shall need the costume of a vintner this evening."
"Oh, that will be easy," affirmed the concierge, "if your excellency
does not mind wearing clothes that have already been worn."
"My excellency will not care a hang. Procure them as soon as you can."
So it came about that Carmichael, dressed as a vintner, his hat over his
eyes, stole into the misty night and took the way to the Krumerweg. He
knew exactly where he wished to go: number forty. It was gray-black in
the small streets; and but for the occasional light in a window the dark
would have had no modification. Sometimes he would lose the point of the
compass and blunder against a wall or find himself feeling for the curb,
hesitant of foot. The wayside shrine was a rift in the gloom, and he
knew that he had only a few more steps to take. After all, who was the
lady in black and why should he bother himself about her? She probably
came from the back stairs of the palace. And yet, the chancellor himself
had been in this place. What should he do? Should he wait across the
street? Should he knock at the door and ask to be admitted? No; he must
skulk in the dark, on the opposite side. He picked his way over the
street and stood for a moment in the denser black.
A step? He trained his ear. But even as he did so his arms were grasped
firmly and twisted behind his back, and at the same time a cloth was
wrapped round the lower part of his face, leaving only his eyes and nose
visible. It was all so sudden and unexpected that he was passive the
first few seconds; after that there was some scuffling, strenuous, too.
He was fighting against three. Desperately he surged this way and that.
Even in the heat of battle he wondered a little why no one struck him;
they simply clung to him, and at length he could not move. His hands
were tied, not roughly, but surely. In all this commotion, not a
whisper, not a voice; only heavy breathing.
Then one of the three whistled. A minute or two after a closed carriage
came into the Krumerweg, and Carmichael was literally bundled inside.
His feet were now bound. Two of his captors sat on the forward seat,
while the third joined the driver. Carmichael could distinguish nothing
but outlines and shadows. He choked, for he was furious. To be trussed
like this, without any explanation whatever! What the devil was going
on? Unanswered.
The carriage began to move slowly. It had to; swift driving in the
Krumerweg was hardly possible and at no time safe. Carmichael set
himself to note the turns of the street. One turn after another he
counted, fixing as well as he could the topography of the town through
which they were passing. At last he realized that they were leaving
Dreiberg behind and were going down the mountain on the north side,
toward Jugendheit. Once the level road was reached, a fast pace was set
and maintained for miles. At the Ehrenstein barrier no question was
asked, and Carmichael's one hope was shattered. At the Jugendheit
barrier the carriage stopped. There were voices. Carmichael saw the
flicker of a lantern. His captors got out. Presently there appeared at
the door an old man dressed as a mountaineer. In his hand was the
lantern.
"Pardon me, dear nephew--Fools!" he broke off, swinging round. "He has
tricked you all. This is not _he_!"
Three astonished faces peered over the old man's shoulder. Carmichael
eyed them evilly. He now saw that one was a carter, another a butcher,
and the third a baker. He had seen them before, in the Black Eagle. But
this signified nothing.
"Untie him and take off that rag. It may be Scharfenstein." The old man
possessed authority.
Carmichael, freed, stretched himself.
"Well?" he said, with a dangerous quiet.
"Herr Carmichael, the American consul!" The old man nearly dropped the
lantern. "Oh, you infernal blockheads!"
"Explanations are in order," suggested Carmichael.
"You are offered a thousand apologies for a stupid mistake. Now, may I
ask how you came to be dressed in these clothes on this particular
night?"
Carmichael's anger dissolved, and he laughed. All the mystery was gone
with the abruptness of a mist under the first glare of the sun. He saw
how neatly he had been duped. He still carried the note. This he gave to
the leader of this midnight expedition.
"Humph!" said the old man in a growl. "I thought as much." He whispered
to his companions. "Herr Carmichael, I shall have the honor of escorting
you back to Dreiberg."
"But will it be as easy to go in as it was to come out?"
"Trust you for that. The American consul's word will be sufficient for
our needs."
"And if I refuse to give that word?"
"In that case, you will have to use your legs," curtly.
"I prefer to ride."
"Thanks. I shall sit with the driver."
"That also will please me."
"And you ask no further questions?"
"Why should I? I know all I wish to know, which is more than you would
care to have me."
The mountaineer swore.
"If we talk any longer I shall be late for breakfast."
"Forward, then!"
On the way, it all came back to Carmichael with the vividness of a
forgotten photograph, come upon suddenly: Bonn, the Rhine, swift and
turbulent, a tow-headed young fellow who could not swim well, his own
plunge, his fingers in the flaxen hair, and the hard fight to the
landing; all this was a tale twice told.
Vintner? Not much!