THE NEEDLE IN THE HAYSTACK
Herr Koulas was by birth a Greek, by citizenship, an Austrian, and by
occupation, a chemist; but his real métier, concealed under a most
docile and law abiding exterior, was secret inquiry in behalf of the
British government into all matters pertaining to its interests, either
social, political, or military. He knew his Hungary from Odenburg to
Kronstadt, from the Save to the Carpathians, and Renwick, while somewhat
dubious as to the wisdom of his visit under the circumstances, found
himself received at this excellent man's home with a warmth of welcome
which left no doubt in his own mind as to the unselfishness of his host.
Even before the war Renwick and Constantine Koulas had met in secret, so
that if trouble came no plan should mar the man's impeccable character
in Austrian eyes. And Renwick would not have come to him now, had not
his own need been great. But Herr Koulas, having heard the tale of his
adventures and reassured as to the present danger of pursuit, gave
willingly of his hospitality and counsel, and when he learned the
character of Renwick's mission, volunteered to procure him a set of
papers which would rob his pilgrimage to the north, at least, of its
most obvious dangers. He was ready with information, too, and offered a
mind with a peculiar genius for the kind of problem that Renwick
presented. The fact that the great Prussian secret agent, Leo Goritz,
was involved in the affair lent it an individuality which detracted
nothing from its other interest. Leo Goritz! Only last year there had
been a contest of wits between them, both under cover, and Koulas had
managed to get what he wanted, not, however, without narrowly escaping
the revelation of his own part in the investigation. Goritz was a clever
man and a dangerous one, young, brilliant, handsome, unscrupulous, who
wore an armor of impenetrability which had not yet revealed a single
weak link. And yet, Herr Koulas reasoned, broodingly, that there must be
one. A weak link! Where was the man without one? The messages from the
Wilhelmstrasse! Why had Goritz not returned to Berlin upon the outbreak
of the war? What was keeping him in Hungary? He was in the Tatra region?
Possibly. Which were the passes by which he might try to go? Uzoker,
Dukla, or perhaps even Jablunka. The Russians were already battering at
Przemysl--Uzoker Pass was out of the question. Jablunka--that was nearer
the German border, but eagerly watched even in times of peace. Goritz
would not have dared to try to abduct the Countess Strahni by way of
Jablunka! The railroad went through Jablunka, a narrow highway with no
outlet for many miles. It was not the kind of _cul-de-sac_ that Goritz
would have chosen. Dukla? Perhaps. A little farther to the east, of
course, but not yet menaced by the Russian advance.
The thing was puzzling, but interesting--very. The abduction of a loyal
citizen of Austria--a lady of noble birth--a hurried flight by
unfrequented roads and then an _impasse_! Had Herr Windt blocked the
way? Was the lady ill? Or had something else detained them?
Renwick sat in the back room of the small laboratory, his arms folded,
his brows tangled in thought, as Herr Koulas, puffing great clouds of
smoke from his long pipe, thus analyzed the situation.
"I have thought of all of these things, Herr Koulas," Renwick muttered,
"and my mind always comes back to the same point. If I know that Goritz
has come to this region, if I know that he has not gone out of it, I
also know that he remains. I do not care _why_--my question is
_where--where_?"
Koulas ran his long forefinger over the map upon the table.
"It is the map Goritz might use--a road map of the government," he
grumbled.
"The center near the top--Poprad--he would get through there with
difficulty----"
Renwick had risen and paced the floor slowly.
"I have not been through Dukla. It is accessible?"
"Yes. Svidnik to Przemysl. Rocks--a _schloss_ or two----" He turned. "It
was there that the Baron Neudeck was killed--you remember--three years
ago?"
"I have forgotten--Neudeck--an Austrian?"
"A German--Neudeck was selling military plans to the Russians--Goritz!"
Koulas sprang to his feet triumphantly--"Goritz! It was Goritz who
discovered him----"
Renwick was listening eagerly, and Koulas turned with a shrug. "Nothing
much, my friend. And yet--a coincidence perhaps--Goritz, Neudeck, Dukla.
Goritz--Strahni--'the center of the map--at the top.' It might be worth
trying."
"I shall try it. There is nothing else for me to do. The Pass is used
for transport?"
"No. The line of communication is through Mezo Laborcz."
"It will be risky----"
"Not unless you make it so. With luck you shall bear a letter to General
Lechnitz (which you need never deliver) as a writer for a newspaper."
"That can be managed?"
"I hope--I believe--I am confident."
Renwick smiled. Herr Koulas was something of a humorist.
"Tell me more of this Neudeck case," asked the Englishman.
"There is unfortunately little more to tell. Neudeck was a German baron
with military connections, not too rich and not above dishonesty. Goritz
traced the plans to Schloss Szolnok, an ancient feudal stronghold which
an elder Baron Neudeck had bought----"
"In the Dukla?"
"--in the Dukla--where some Russian officers were invited for the
shooting. They did not know how little they were to enjoy it----" Koulas
chuckled and blew a cloud of smoke--"for Goritz shot Neudeck before
their very eyes, and took the plans back to Germany. This is secret
history--a nine days' wonder--but it passed and with it a clever
scoundrel who well deserved what he got."
"And since his death who lives in Schloss Szolnok?"
"I don't know." He laughed again. "You jump very rapidly at conclusions,
my friend."
"Time passes. I must jump at something. I am going to Dukla
Pass--tomorrow if you will help me."
"That goes without saying. For the present you shall go to bed and sleep
soundly. I would like to go with you, but alas--I am not so young as I
was and I can best serve all your interests here."
Renwick shook Koulas by the hand and took the bedroom candle that was
offered him.
"Good night," he said. "I pray that no harm may come to you from this
imprudence of mine."
"Do not worry, my friend. I am well hedged about with alibis. Good
night."
The next evening after dark Renwick, now Herr Max Schoff of the _Wiener
Zeitung_, supplied with a pass which Herr Koulas by means of his
underground machinery had managed to procure, took the night train for
Kaschau, which he reached in the early morning of the following day,
going on later to Bartfeld, the terminus of the railroad, a small and
ancient town under the very shadow of the mountains. Here, it being late
in the afternoon, he found the Hungaria, a hotel to which he had been
directed, where he made arrangements to stop for the night while he
leisurely pursued his inquiries.
Now at last, so very near his destination, he was curiously oppressed
with the futility of his pilgrimage. He had come far, braving the danger
of detection and death, for he had no illusions regarding the status of
an Englishman approaching the battle lines under the guise of a
newspaper writer. If taken, it would be as a spy, and he would be
treated as such.
Herr Koulas had warned him not to be too sanguine, for the roads out of
Hungary were many, and Dukla Pass, merely because of a bit of forgotten
secret history, a possibility not to be neglected. Herr Koulas had also
warned him that the methods in induction which had been open to him had
also been open to the Austrian secret service men who, perhaps, had
already taken measures to follow the same scent. And so it was that the
golden smile of Herr Windt still persisted in Renwick's dreams by night,
and in his thoughts by day. If Spivak had told his story of his meeting
with the spurious Moyer, his conversation about Szarvas would
immediately identify him as Renwick the Englishman. But however near the
two trails ran, Windt's men had not yet come up with him, and, until
they did, Renwick knew that he must move boldly and quickly upon his
quest. And so at last resolution armed him anew.
It was now approaching dusk, and he cast about for a person to whom he
might talk without arousing suspicion, and so he turned into an inn at
the corner of the street and ordering beer sat himself upon a bench
along the wall before a long wooden table. The few men who sat drinking
and smoking gave him a curious glance, and the proprietor of the
establishment, aware of a stranger, felt it to be his duty to learn
something of his mission to this small town and of his identity. This
was what Renwick wanted, and as the man spoke in German, he told with
brief glibness his well rehearsed story, inviting his host to join him
in a glass, over which they were presently chatting as thick as thieves.
He was a newspaper writer, Renwick said, upon his way to the front, and
showed the letter to General Lechnitz. But he had never before been in
this part of the country and intended to see it, upon the way. It was an
interesting town, Bartfeld, a fine church too, St. Aegidius. Had his
host lived in Bartfeld a long time?
The man was a native, and very proud of his traditions, expanding
volubly in reply to Renwick's careless questions. His father and
grandfather had kept this very inn, and indeed for all he knew their
fathers' fathers. A quiet town, but interesting to those who were fond
of historical associations. Renwick listened patiently, slowly drawing
the man nearer to the subject that was uppermost in his mind. It was a
short distance to Dukla Pass, a very picturesque spot, he had been told,
one well worth a visit, was it not?
"Dukla Pass!" said the man. "A name well known in the annals of the
country in the days of John Sobieski, long before the railroad went
through beyond; a wonderful spot with cliffs and ravines. I have been
there often. In the season, before the war, one drove there--for the
view. Now alas! what with the Cossacks running over Galicia, the people
had more serious things to think about."
"It is easily reached?" asked Renwick.
"By the road beyond the town--a short cut--a climb over the mountains,
but not difficult at this time of the year."
"There is a village there?"
"A few farmhouses merely, in the valley along the streams. The glory of
the Dukla is its ruins."
"Ah, of course, there are feudal castles----"
"Javorina, Jägerhorn, Szolnok----"
"Szolnok!" said Renwick with sudden interest. "I have heard that name
before----"
He paused in a puzzled way.
"It was the summer residence of Baron Neudeck----"
"Ah, then it is not a ruin?"
"Until three years ago he lived there--in the habitable part--when
something terrible happened. No one about here is sure--but the place
has an evil name."
"That is interesting. Why?"
"The facts have never been clearly explained. The story goes that Baron
Neudeck was in the midst of entertaining guests--a hunting party of
gentlemen; that there was a night of revelry and of drinking. One of the
servants, entering the dining-hall in the morning, found Baron Neudeck
lying dead upon the hearth with a bullet wound in his forehead. The
guests had disappeared--vanished as if the earth had swallowed them."
"And the police?"
"The police came and went. It was very strange. Nothing further was
heard of the matter. But no one about here will go within a mile of the
place after nightfall."
"And the servants--what became of them?"
The man shrugged. "They did not come from around here. They were
Germans, who came with the Baron. If the police are satisfied, I am."
The man shrugged and drained his glass.
"The other castles are ruined, you say? Then it cannot be long before
Szolnok will share their fate--since it is not occupied," suggested
Renwick.
"Perhaps," said the man indifferently, rising with a view to closing the
conversation.
Renwick ordered another glass of beer, and sat looking out of the small
casement window at the passers-by, thinking deeply.
The inspiration of Herr Koulas had at least set him upon a scent which
still held him true upon this trail. The information he had received
might mean much or little. German servants? Had Goritz used the servants
of Baron Neudeck in unraveling the secret of the stolen plans? Had they
been implicated in the affair? Did he hold them his creatures by a
knowledge of their share in the guilty transaction? Three years had
passed since the killing of Neudeck. What had happened in the meanwhile?
Had the title of the property passed to others? Had the Schloss been
occupied since the Baron's death, or was it deserted? He evolved a
theory rapidly, determining to test it at once. It would perhaps be
imprudent to question further this innkeeper, a public character, and it
seemed quite probable that he knew little more than had already been
told. A visit to the farmhouses in the valley would reveal something. He
would go----
Renwick had been gazing out of the window, but his attention was
suddenly arrested by the figure of a man at the corner of the street,
who stood, smoking a cigarette. There was nothing unusual in his
clothing or demeanor, but the thing which had startled Renwick into
sudden alertness was the rather vague impression that somewhere he had
seen this man's face before. A vague impression, but definite in the
sense that to Renwick the face had been associated with something
unpleasant or disagreeable. But even as Renwick looked, the man tossed
his cigarette into the cobbles and turning on his heel walked up the
street, passing out of Renwick's range of vision. The Englishman started
up from his unfinished glass with the notion of following, but a second
thought urged caution. It was still light outside, and if the stranger's
memory for faces were better than his own, a meeting face to face would
merely court unnecessary danger. So Renwick returned to his bench and
made a pretense of finishing his beer, awaiting in safety the darkness.
Where had he seen this man before? He searched his mind with painful
thoroughness--wondering if the injury to his head had robbed his brain
of some of its clearness. He had seen this man's face before--before his
sickness--he was sure of that. Hadwiger, Lengelbach, Linder--one by one
he recalled the secret service men. The face of the stranger was that of
none of these. Someone--a shadowy someone--out of darkness--or dreams.
Could the idea have been born of some imaginary resemblance, some
fancied recollection? The thing was elusive, and so he gave it up, aware
that if his brain had played him no trick, there was here another
confirmation of his hope that he was on the true scent. Were the threads
converging?
The plan that he now had in mind was to go over the mountains afoot and
make some quiet inquiries among the farmhouses in the valley below the
Pass, in regard to Schloss Szolnok. And so as the light had grown dim,
he got up and went forth into the street, pulling his soft hat well down
over his eyes, and making his way toward the road which led to Dukla
Pass. He verified the innkeeper's direction by inquiry at the end of the
main street, and as the night was clear, set forth briskly upon his walk
over the mountain road, for the idea of spending the evening in
inactivity was not to be thought of until all the facts regarding this
Schloss Szolnok were in his possession.
A ruin--uninhabited? And with its crumbling, his own hope.... It was no
time for despair. Had he not come miraculously from death and traveled
safely from one border of the enemy's country almost to the other, as
though led or driven by some secret impelling force--some inspiration,
some hidden guidon or command? At each turn, at each danger, he
remembered he had acted with swiftness and decision, and had at no time
been at a loss. Fortune had favored him at each stage of his journey and
had directed his steps with rare assurance in this direction. Fortune or
a will-o'-the-wisp? Or was Marishka calling to him? He had had the
impression of her nearness often--there in the hospital--and since, at
Selim Ali's--upon the road. It seemed strange and a little mystifying
too, that he had never doubted that he would be able to find her.... And
now--if not at Schloss Szolnok--elsewhere.
As the darkness of the mountain road deepened, swift vision came to him.
The possible danger of attack ... Out of the gloom of shadowy rocks, he
had a vision of men who interposed, barring his way, a man in a cap
asking the time. Vienna--the night that he had left Marishka, when the
three men had attacked him! The face of the man in the cap, and the
stranger of Bartfeld--they were the same!
He could have shouted aloud in the joy of the revelation. The man who
had attacked him in the streets of Vienna--this cigarette-smoking
stranger in Bartfeld. A German? Who else? Perhaps the man who had shot
at him--in Vienna--at the Konopisht railroad station, a minion of
Goritz. Then Goritz could not be far away....
Renwick strode down the mountain side toward the distant lights of the
valley, like a man in seven-league boots, searching eagerly meanwhile
the gloomy peaks above him to his left for signs of Schloss Szolnok. He
could distinguish nothing amid the deep shadows of the mountain side.
But the lights below beckoned warmly, and finding a road to his right at
the foot of the declivity, he went toward them rapidly, knocking boldly
at the door of the first house to which he came.
An old man answered his summons, a tall old man with a long pipe in his
hand, who inspected the visitor narrowly.
"I have lost my way," said Renwick with a smile, "and thought you might
let me have a cup of milk and some bread, for which I will pay
generously."
The man in the doorway waved his hand in assent, and Renwick followed
him into the house, where his host made a motion for him to be seated. A
girl and a woman sat by the table knitting, and an old crone sat in a
large chair by the fireplace, in which some embers still glowed. Renwick
was hungry, but not nearly so hungry as impatient for the crumbs of
information that these worthy people might possess, and so he invented a
story while he ate which the girl, who spoke German more fluently than
the old man, translated to her elders. The woman at the table spoke a
little German and shyly added her share to the rather desultory
conversation. Bartfa was not far, only a few miles over the mountain--a
short distance by wagon or horseback, but something of a distance for
one who was weary and footsore. Herr Schoff had come all the way from
Mezo Laborez--and afoot? A newspaper writer? That was a dangerous
occupation in times like these.
Renwick, having finished his bread and milk, deftly directed the
conversation to the possibilities of Dukla Pass from the Russian point
of view as a means of invasion of the Hungarian plain, and it was soon
quite clear that this possibility had not been absent from their minds.
Renwick praised the effectiveness of the Austrian army which he had
seen, and quickly reassured them. For Dukla Pass, as he had heard, was
but a slit in the mountains, which the Austrians could easily defend. A
few guns upon the rocks, and a million Cossacks could not break through.
It was encouraging, the man put in in his patois, for they had been
greatly disturbed by rumors among the country-folk and many soldiers
already had passed through.
"It is a place of historical interest," said Renwick easily, "a
_Schloss_ or two perhaps."
"Javorina--Jägerhorn, yes--but mere ruins, long ago the property of the
Rakoczi family. And Szolnok----" Here the man paused, glanced at the
girl and the woman, and they both made the sign of the cross with their
forefingers at their breasts.
In the slight period of embarrassment which followed, Renwick regarded
them with a new interest. The old crone at the fireside, who had been
leaning forward with a hand cupped at her ear, caught the significance
of the gesture and solemnly imitated them.
"Ah, I remember now," said Renwick with an air of seriousness which
matched their own. "Was it not at Szolnok that Baron Neudeck was
killed?"
The old man glanced at the others before speaking.
"Yes. It was there," he said quietly.
"And the place is no longer occupied?" asked the Englishman.
No one replied.
"There is a mystery attached to Schloss Szolnok?" asked Renwick,
lighting his pipe.
"He asks if there is a mystery," said the woman dully. And then followed
as before the strange ceremony of the cross.
"I am a stranger in these parts," Renwick went on, "and no mischief
maker. This story interests me. I should like to know----" He paused
again as the old man leaned forward toward him, and laid his skinny
forefinger along Renwick's knee.
"It is the abode of the devil," he whispered, and then crossed himself
again.
"Ah--something mysterious----"
"It is not a matter which we talk about in this house. We are poor,
hard-working people who fear God. But strange things are happening up
yonder night after night. Here in the valley, we no longer go near by
day--nor even look."
"Ah, I see. Then the place has long been unoccupied?"
The old man was silent, but the woman, gathering confidence, took up the
story.
"It was always a place of mystery--even in the days of Baron Neudeck,
who was an evil man. The servants were strangers to our people and spoke
not at all. They never came into the valley."
"And they did not come for food--for milk, eggs, butter?"
"Szolnok farm was above the Schloss upon the mountain side. They had
what they needed."
"Ah, I understand. And since the death of the Baron?"
"We do not know. We do not go there. Two years ago a young man from
this village went there seeking a sheep which had gone astray. He never
came back. And the sheep skin was found some days later at the foot of
the precipice. And scarcely a month ago, a venturesome young man from
Bartfa climbed the road to the castle in the dead of night on a wager.
What he saw no one will ever know, for he came running down the road to
his companion stricken with terror, and has never spoken of the matter
from that day to this. It was a ghost he saw, they say----"
"Or a devil," put in the old man.
"And by day? You see no one?"
"The Schloss is well within the gorge. I do not go to look, my friend."
"Have there been no lights at night for three years?"
"None that I remember--until now."
"Then it is only for a month or more that they have been seen?"
"Perhaps. I do not know."
The man was growing reticent and his family followed his example. The
character of the occupants of Szolnok was not a popular topic for
conversation in Dukla Valley. But this man could help Renwick, and he
determined to use him. And so as the woman bade him good night and went
upstairs, Renwick rose and went to the door, where the old man followed
him.
"It is late, my friend," he said, "and a weary walk for me to Bartfa. I
will pay you well for a bed."
"Willingly, if we but had the room----"
"Or a pallet of straw in your stable. I am not fastidious."
"Ah, as to that, of course. It can be managed." Renwick took out a
hundred-_kroner_ note, and held it before the man's eyes.
"If you will do as I ask I will give you this."
"And what is that?"
"A place in your stable tonight--breakfast at three in the morning, and
the clothing you now stand in----"
"My clothing?"
"No questions asked, and silence. Do you agree?"
"But I do not understand."
"It is not necessary that you should. I shall do you no harm."
"A hundred _kroner_--it is a large sum----"
"Yours--if you do what I ask----" And he thrust the note into the old
man's fingers.
This bound the bargain.