THE FLIGHT
It must have been whilst Poltavo was in Paris that the ruling spirit
of the _Maria Braganza_ discovered that Count Poltavo was
indispensable, and that strange reconciliation occurred. Through
what agency Baggin and he came into touch is not known. It is
generally supposed that the warship ventured close to the French or
Spanish coast and sent a message of good will flickering through
space, and that some receiving station, undiscovered and
undemolished--there must have been a score of such stations--received
it, and transmitted it to Poltavo.
News of him came to Smith from Van Ingen, who, following a faint clue
of the Spanish dancer, had gone to Tangier. Work at the Embassy had
become unendurable to him, since the disappearance of the Nine Men
had marked also the disappearance of Doris, and despite the
expostulations of the ambassador, who was sorely distressed by
certain international complications of the situation--for both Baggin
and Grayson were Americans--despite also the detective's blunt advice
to let the business alone and return to the Embassy, Van Ingen had
set forth on his wild-goose chase.
The afternoon of his arrival, he climbed to the Marshan, the plateau
that commands Tangier. Here are villas, in which Moorish, Spanish,
and English styles of architecture, struggling for supremacy, have
compromised in a conglomerate type. And here, idling along the
promenade, scanning every figure as it passed, he had come face to
face with Catherine Dominguez.
At his start of surprise, for he had not expected such good fortune,
the lady paused, uncertainly.
The young man uncovered with a sweeping bow. "Pardon!" he exclaimed
gallantly, in Spanish, "but so often have I seen the lovely face of
the 'Belle Espagnole' in the newspapers that I recognised it before I
was aware!"
Catherine nodded amiably, and, at a word of invitation, Van Ingen
fell into step beside her.
* * * * * * *
That night he cabled to the detective:
"Poltavo in Tangier. C. Dominguez will sell his whereabouts for
£5,000.
"VAN INGEN."
To this he received the laconic reply, "Coming."
The trap which the detective laid, as the Sud Express fled shrieking
through the night, was simple. To capture Count Poltavo while the
"Mad Terror" remained afloat would be imbecile. But to frighten him
by a pseudo-attack out into the open, and then follow him to the
Nine----Smith smiled over the common-sense of his little scheme, and
fell asleep.
His interview, two mornings later, with Catherine Dominguez was most
amiable--both ignored their last meeting--and satisfactory, save in
one small particular. Upon reflection, the lady had raised her
price. For £10,000 she would divulge her secret. And the detective,
after a few protests, acceded to her demands. After all, she ran a
certain risk in betraying a man like the count. He thought, grimly,
of Hyatt and Moss.
At the conclusion of the conference, he wrote her a check.
She shook her head, smiling.
"I should prefer bank-notes," she said gently.
Smith appeared to hesitate. "Very well," he replied finally. "But,
in that case, you must wait until to-morrow. If your information is
good--the check will be also."
She took it from his hand, and he rose.
"Ver' good, Señor Smit'," she replied, looking up at him with an
engaging smile. "I will trust you." She fingered the paper absently.
Smith looked down at her. Something, he knew, she had left untold,
and he waited.
"One small thing I had almost forgot," she murmured pensively.
"Count Poltavo leaves for--Lolo--to-night."
Catherine Dominguez had not lied. Perhaps she had some secret grudge
against the Nine, whose faithful agent she had been, or perhaps she
was tired of obscure flittings, and wished to buy indemnity by
confession. The detective never knew.
Nevertheless, he felt grateful to her.
* * * * * * *
That night, a slender man, wearing a felt hat and a _cappa_,
descended the steps of one of the villas of the Marshan, and walked
through the garden.
There was a man standing in the middle of the white road, his hands
in his overcoat pocket, the red glow of his cigar a point of light in
the gloom. Farther away, he saw the figures of three horsemen.
"Count Poltavo, I suppose," drawled a voice--the voice of T. B.
Smith. "Put up your hands or you're a dead man."