On Saturday morning, the twenty-seventh of June, the two horsemen emerged
from the canyon of the Zeleznitza into the plain of Ilidze. They had
slept in a friendly cottage at Madzari—to the sound of rain on the roof,
but now the sky was clearing.
“Ah, Haidar, this looks less like the infernal regions. How far is it
now?”
“You will be in Serajevo by noon, my lord.”
“Stop milording me, Haidar. When we get there, I am going to put your
knee to bed in the best hotel. Which one is it?”
“The Europa. But the hakim will not put me to bed. From here he proceeds
alone. I spend the night at Dobrinje, and he will find me here to-morrow,
by the crossroads. And there will be another horse, in case he brings a
friend.”
“Nonsense, Haidar. You must come with me, if only to bring back this good
beast of mine.”
“No, Hakim. It is Stepan Beg’s command. Two nights I sleep at Dobrinje.
If you are not here by noon on Monday, I am to go home, and the Europa
falls heir to your horse.”
There was no shaking Haidar, and Jaffer rode on alone. It was three
o’clock when he came into Bistrik, the southern part of the city, and
looked down on the old town with the river flowing through it like a blue
vein. Golden Serajevo! The Damascus of Europe! But the minarets gleamed
fairer than the churches, as if to say that some journeys to Damascus
fail.
He descended, and crossed the old Catholic bridge, and easily found the
hotel. He gave his horse to be stabled and fed. He washed up. Then he
inquired his way to the governor’s palace across the river, and walked
there, and gave in Stepan Beg’s note. It was marked “Immediate,” and
Jaffer thought it unnecessary to add spoken words.
Then he went to the address given him, and inquired for Mohammed Beg. The
maid servant thought he would be home for supper, and Jaffer promised to
call in the evening.
Things having progressed so far and so well, Jaffer reminded himself
that he had sent no word to Dr. Trench except by Dr. Yukitch. Really it
was time to communicate something or other. So he walked back to the
Koniakgasse and gave in the following:
Hope to find man to-morrow. Have met his father. I think better
of human nature.—R. R. J.
On being required to give his address and name, he gave the Europa and
the name on his passport. The operator began to click his instrument, but
as soon as Jaffer had gone out he stopped and laid the message aside for
military inspection, because “R. R. J.” did not tally with the sender’s
name.
Jaffer now felt free to wander. It was five o’clock, and he had had no
dinner. Supper was not yet ready at the Europa, but he remembered Dr.
Yukitch’s remark about the Café Bendbashi, and inquired his way thither.
He crossed once more to the north bank of the Milyatska, and walked up
the Appel Kai past the Rathaus, to where the river curves beneath the
citadel. Here he found the café, and descended into it through a sort of
tunnel. It was a beautiful place—hung with pictures, carpeted with rugs,
fitted with coffee services of beaten brass and with every variety of
smoking apparatus. But there was a garden beyond, and Jaffer penetrated
into the garden. It was altogether nice. Many a group could sit here by
the swift clear stream, and have perfect privacy.
Jaffer lingered for an hour, resting his limbs, eating such kickshaws as
the place afforded, inhaling the fragrance of real Mocha, and watching
five children who were splashing in the water on the other side of the
stream. He heard voices near him in the shrubbery, and caught the Serbian
words for “One, two, three, four, five.” Somebody was counting the
children on the opposite shore. Presently the speaker emerged, a tall
blond man, followed by two swarthy youths. The trio passed out. Left
quite alone now, Jaffer laid his arms on the little table, laid his weary
head on his arms, and took forty winks while the river rippled by.
On leaving the Bendbashi he wandered east, down the stream past the
Kaiser bridge, the Latin bridge, and the Cumuria bridge, where stood a
school for girls. He wandered through crooked lanes to the National Bank,
where two streets merge into one. He wandered back to the Europa, and
ate some real supper. After this he went again to call on Mohammed Beg.
Mohammed Beg had not come in.
That night Jaffer slept like a log, undisturbed by a muezzin who started
up in the middle of the night within a hundred feet of his window. It was
nine o’clock, June 28, 1914, before he went down to the café of the hotel.
While the waiter was getting coffee and rolls for him, he overheard some
people talking in German, and learned that the Archduke Franz Ferdinand,
heir to the throne of Austria-Hungary and inspector general of the army,
was expected in town within an hour!
The news struck into him, deep, like a seizure of sudden illness. Was it
possible—that in April Saadi had been summoned by his sworn brother in
God to meet him on this day to carry out some deadly attempt on the life
of the Crown Prince? Was it possible that those Belgrad boys were also in
the plot? Jaffer pushed aside his untasted breakfast. His first impulse
was to run to the Koniak, but he reflected that Stepan Beg’s note ought
to cover the case so far as warning was concerned. Now it remained to
find Mohammed Beg and find him quickly.
He left the hotel and hurried to the little house where the youth from
Stolaz lived. The door was closed and locked. People were moving from
every direction south, toward the Appel Kai, to see the Crown Prince pass
as he came in from Ilidze.
Jaffer was in despair. He walked through crooked streets swiftly but
aimlessly. He began to feel faint, and stood still awhile. The faintness
passed, only to be succeeded by a gnawing sensation in the solar
plexus. He had passed a confectioner’s shop. He would go back and see
if the place was open on Sunday. That gnawing was not wholly unnatural,
considering that he had eaten nothing since half-past six the evening
before.
He turned round, but had taken no step, when he noticed several men
emerging from that shop. Each wore in his buttonhole the Serbian
tricolour. One of them was very tall, boyish, awkward, handsome. It was
unmistakably “Ned,” who, as he walked, was tucking away a newspaper into
the breast pocket of his coat. Jaffer stepped into an alley and watched.
Ned, Trifko, Gavro, all going south, and followed by several younger
fellows. Then came the two swarthy youths he had seen yesterday at the
Bendbashi, now proceeding east. Last of all, the tall blond man, walking
directly towards him. Jaffer waited till the tall man passed, and he
noticed that the thin face was drawn and set. Jaffer stepped out and
followed, lighting a cigarette with steady fingers. The gnawing at the
pit of his stomach was gone.
In a deserted street the leader entered a little gate. Jaffer gave him
two or three minutes to get settled, then opened the gate and advanced
through a garden to the house. He was about to ring the bell, but
withdrew his hand. He opened the door, glanced into an empty room at
the right, heard voices upstairs, and went up. There he stood, like a
burglar, listening. An angry conversation was going on, too swift and
muffled for him to understand, even had he known twice as much Serbian.
But two or three times he distinctly heard the word “Saadi,” with a pause
after it.
Jaffer knocked on the door, and the voices stopped. Then one called out,
“Nasto ze tuzite?” Jaffer understood that. It meant, “What’s the matter
with you?”
“Nothing much,” said Jaffer in English. “I have just come to make a call.
Dr. Trench asked me to drop in on you.”
“It is damn lie. I do not know voice.”
“Perhaps not. But you remember your cat’s name.”
An amazed oath followed. Then the voice said very sweetly, “Well, Jaffer,
you may drop in on me, but you must not drop on shoulder.”
Jaffer gently pushed the door and stepped in, and the door slammed shut.
Saadi stood with his back against it, levelling a murderous Browning at
the blond man.
It was rather a tense moment. Saadi did not look at Jaffer, but Jaffer
more or less brilliantly remarked: “I hope you are well.”
“Always well, same as Shaitan,” answered Saadi, reaching out a left hand
to be shaken. “Jaffer, you are remarkable pussycat and then some. How
much you know about this fool business?”
“I know Ned and Trifko and Gavro, and I know this gentleman’s two friends
by sight. He counted one, two, three, four, five naked children for
their benefit at the Bendbashi last evening.”
Saadi laughed. “Not kids, Jaffer, but motions when chucking bomb. It is
kismet. Gentleman I am pointing out to you with nose of gun is Professor
Ilitch. Professor, you don’t understand English”—here Saadi shifted to
German—“and my friend Dr. Jaffer doesn’t know Serbian, so we will all
talk German most damnably rapid.”
The blond man smiled a flickering smile. “Your friend is too late.”
“Maybe. My other one isn’t. Mohammed is on his way to Montenegro. I found
him fifteen minutes ago, standing where you put him, and he had sense
enough to give me his Browning and start.”
Ilitch shrugged his shoulders. “I wish Trisitch had never introduced him
to me.”
“What do you mean? He’s only a kid, and you’re a man. He was ready to
quit When he got my letter—only he wouldn’t go back on his word to you.”
Ilitch again shrugged his shoulders. “My impression is that he mentioned
the thing first.”
“What if he did! It had been on his mind for three years, and he got the
idea from me. But I’ve learned something in three years, Ilitch, and my
letter to you made it clear that the thing couldn’t be done without a
smashup from Paris to Pitjer.”
“You didn’t prove it, Saadi. We don’t expect to involve Servia. What we
do expect is a prompt uprising of Croatia, Dalmatia, Slavonia, Bosnia,
and of course the Duchy.”
“You fool!” cried Saadi. “Haven’t I come from Belgrad? Didn’t I leave
a part of my collar in the Major’s hands? Don’t I know that the boys
can be traced to Tuzla? Didn’t I visit their host Misko and his damfool
picture-show? And you talk about not involving Servia! Good God, man!
Ever since Bukarest, Austria has been waiting for the first chance. She
privately informed Germany and Italy on August ninth.”
“But they can’t prove it, Saadi. The blame will fall on Budapest. The
boys are going to take cyanide. The dead tell no tales, and every one of
them is a hero.”
“If you mean Gavro,” exclaimed Jaffer, “he will throw up any poison that
he takes—even cyanide.”
At this moment the sound of rapid footsteps was heard, and a boy of
sixteen burst into the room. Saadi lowered the gun, but the boy hardly
noticed him. “Mr. Ilitch,” he cried, “Nedjelko has thrown and never
touched him. It exploded under the next auto and hurt a lot of people.
Ned jumped into the river in front of the girls’ school, and Mr. Lojo
jumped in after him and held on to him, and the gendarmes have got him.”
Jaffer took the boy by the arm and marched him across the room to where
Ilitch stood. Saadi grinned with joy.
“Thank you, doctor. Stand very still, little boy, close to the professor,
or this gun will go off and scare you. Now, Ilitch, it is yet half an
hour to do something while the party is in the Rathaus. Where are the
boys?”
“Gavro is by the Latin bridge, on this side. Trifko is on the Kaiser
bridge. Vaso and Cvetko are at the bank, near where Mohammed Beg was. You
don’t know any of them but Trifko, and you can’t budge him.”
“But you can, Ilitch. Take pencil and write four notes, and send the kid
with them. Write, ‘Route changed, come here quick.’”
“I won’t do it, Saadi. When I got your letter, I was in doubt, and told
the boys so. But war with Servia is nothing. It will be localised like
the last two wars.”
“Fool!” cried Saadi; “you are journalist, but nothing reaches you. I went
from Chicago straight to Petersbourg. I tell you it will be war for whole
world. Write!”
The plucky Serbian messenger spoke up: “I won’t carry any notes.”
“I will,” said Jaffer. “And permit me to remark that if they have caught
Ned alive, they will learn the whole story. Gavro can hold his tongue,
but Ned can’t.”
“Then write, Ilitch!”
“You must excuse me, Saadi.”
“Then I’ll kill you.”
“You’ll hang for it.”
“Of course. I shall do that anyhow. Write!”
Ilitch shook his head, and it was all that saved his life. The bullet
knocked his fez off and flattened itself against the wall. The messenger
boy shrank into the corner.
Whether it was the deafening report, or fear of Saadi, or fear of Ned’s
tongue, Ilitch yielded. He drew from his pocket a note-book, tore out
four leaves, and wrote. Jaffer took the scraps of paper and left.
The two boys at the bank were easily found and went with the silent
Peshawari. He saw them safely inside and disarmed, and placed their
weapons on Saadi’s person. Then he went south, and at last found Trifko
on the crowded Appel Kai. He had left the Kaiser bridge on hearing the
bomb.
Jaffer drew him aside into an alley. “I told you you might see me here.
Ilitch wants to speak with you at once. Here’s his note.”
“Ilitch is not my master,” said Trifko. “What is this change of route?”
“I don’t know, but he seemed anxious.”
“Well, I’ll go. I’ve been trying to find Gavro. It is an awful
responsibility we’re taking, Dr. Jaffer. I’d be glad of an excuse—”
And Trifko went his way. He had hardly gone when the crowd began to
cheer, and two or three automobiles appeared, coming west along the
river. Jaffer tried to buck the line, only to get wedged in.
But he was much taller than the Bosnians, and could see perfectly.
The first car, as he learned from remarks of those about him, carried
the Burgomaster and the Royal Commissioner of Serajevo. Next to the
chauffeur of the second car sat a hard faced man whom Jaffer guessed to
be Governor Potiorek. Behind him appeared the nodding plumes of the Crown
Prince’s helmet, and beside the prince, on the running board, stood an
aristocratic officer, as if to shield the prince with his own body.
But at the right of the prince, and therefore nearer to Jaffer, sat the
Duchess of Hohenburg, a summer-like figure. Jaffer noted the tall black
pompon in her white hat, the pearls about her throat, the roses in her
belt, the fur cloak which she wasn’t wearing, but which she might need
to pull up round her shoulders later in the day. Beside her fluttered a
little tricolour flag, as if to say, “She is Slavonic, and she thinks
all Slavs dear and good and friendly.” The car was moving very slowly,
and Jaffer smilingly struggled to get his arm free that he might salute.
The quick eye of the Duchess caught the smile and the movement, and she
turned to her husband. Instantly Franz Ferdinand raised his hand to
his helmet, his little eyes half closed with amusement, and as Jaffer
disengaged his arm and returned the salute, the Duchess bowed. Her
smile was almost a laugh, so pretty and genuine that Jaffer immediately
vowed that she ought to be Empress. What a shame that the laws of
“Ebenbürtigkeit” ruled her out.
The first car reached the corner of Franz Joseph Street, about a hundred
feet from where Jaffer stood. It turned to the right, then stopped, and
proceeded along the river. But the manœuvre had halted the car of the
Crown Prince, and as it stood there for a few seconds, a shot rang out.
Then another. There was a great scuffle and confusion, and the car moved
on, turning to the left over the Latin bridge.
Apparently the shots had gone wild. The crowd swayed. Though jammed
against the wall, Jaffer caught a glimpse of Gavro as he was dragged
along by the gendarmes. The boy’s hat was gone, his face was covered with
blood, and his mouth was open, as if with mortal sickness. As the crowd
began to follow the prisoner, and the jam yielded, Jaffer made his way
out and hastened to the rendezvous.
It was a roomful now, with Saadi holding them all at bay. Trifko
was standing there with the rest, his arms held high, according to
instructions, and Saadi was compelling all to listen while he went over
the political situation. It was evident that he had made an impression,
and Trifko looked relieved in more than a physical sense when Jaffer
disarmed him.
“Gavro,” said Jaffer, “has fired and been arrested. I don’t think he hurt
anybody, and the game is up. I wish to assure Trifko that I have not
broken my promise, and I hope that the gentleman who showed me how to get
here will be able to get back to Belgrad.”
The words had hardly left Jaffer’s lips when another boy dashed in,
gasping. “He killed them both, Mr. Ilitch!”
“You mean Potiorek?”
“No! The Duchess!”
A piteous silence fell upon the room. Saadi began to take the cartridges
out of the three revolvers, and Jaffer relieved Saadi’s bulging sash and
pockets of four bombs that looked like lumps of soap. Saadi was the first
to speak.
“Let the younger fellows take these things, and go home, and give them to
their mothers to get rid of.” He gave two boys a burden, and they went.
“You are safe from us, Saadi Beg,” said Trifko, “but you are not safe.”
“I know it, boy. I was recognised last night at Ilidze. I was there
because I thought you would operate there. I’ve done my damnedest to find
you all. I’ve been clear to Oblaj and then to Hadsisi to find Gavro, and
to Pale after you, and to Zenitza after Ned, and missed you all. I must
try now for Starigrad. Who comes with me? You?”
“No, Saadi Beg. I must go to Pale.”
“Don’t! Don’t stop at Pale. They will catch you sure as fate.”
“I must say good-bye to Mother.”
“All right, then. I’d do the same thing myself. But keep to the Planina
and don’t enter Vishegrad. Good-bye, boy.”
Saadi dropped his fluent Serbian and turned to Jaffer, speaking Halsted
dialect as he understood it. “Good-bye, Jaffer, good-bye, good-bye, and
give love to Doctor and all boys. You brave old son of gun, I would give
half of world to send letter by you to girl in Chicago, but you must not
be seen with us. Go to hotel and go to bed.”
Jaffer’s black eyes flashed. “If I were as inhospitable as you are, I’d
walk over and ask Potiorek for a bed in jail.”
Saadi reached up and chucked him under the chin. “You dead game old
sport, we will see! We will see if there is room in Starigrad for Old
Sleuth aus Peshawar! Come on, Jaffer! If we get there alive, we will
play whole bunch is with us. Deland can preach to kmets and play on
guzla. Ameen can talk Persian with Papa. Wu can put on specs and look for
blastomycosis in village. Becker can sit on top of kula and wish he owned
whole damn landscape. And Chat—well, Chat can try to prove assassination
is only bad dream.”
Jaffer, mollified, thanked him and accepted.
Meantime all the boys had stolen away except one. He lingered to
shake hands with Saadi and introduce himself. “I wish you had come
earlier, Saadi Beg. I had heard before that Franz Ferdinand was a
friend of the Slavs, but I didn’t believe it. You know he wouldn’t let
Red-Cross supplies come through. But when I saw him coming along so
devil-may-care—for I was with Ned before I went to the Bank—I simply
couldn’t shoot or throw.”
“You’re all right, Cvetko. Where do you live?”
“In Semlin. I’m only at school here. My father and mother—” Cvetko
stopped, his lips quivering.
“Yes, yes, old man. I know about fathers and mothers. Now haidee, Cvetko!
Get to them as quick as quick. What are you going to do with the toys?”
“Put them in the cellar of the Kostich house. Good-bye, Saadi Beg, and
may we meet again—ako Bog da!”
“Ako Bog da!—if God grant it,” echoed Saadi, and Cvetko was gone.
“Haidar is waiting for us at the crossroads, Saadi.”
“Haidar! What you know about Haidar!”
“I have been to Starigrad, Saadi Beg Sereef Stepanovitch Etcetera.
And your excellent father sent a signed message by me to Potiorek. It
contained just two words: ‘Remember Vareshanin.’ And Potiorek evidently
scorned it.”
Saadi shook his head. “Franz Ferdinand would not care for what Potiorek
said. Franz Ferdinand was little bit off trolley. It was old trouble
coming back and getting busy with central nervous system. I will tell
you about it sometime. But my God I am sorry for his babies. Sophie,
Maximilian, Ernest! Once in Chicago—with Deland—I did see them sitting
in church.” Saadi stood with veiled eyes, lost in vision. He softly
murmured, “On papa and mamma be peace.”
Jaffer touched him on the shoulder. “Are we wasting time?”
Saadi roused himself instantly. “Suremike. Well, Haidar is at crossroads.
How many horses?”
“There will be one for you, and mine is at the Europa. I can have a third
sent here, if you say so.”
Saadi turned to Ilitch. “Will you come, professor? It is only little walk
from Starigrad to Montenegro.”
“I don’t run away, Saadi.”
“Better get the habit. Slip around to London and Zürich and Budapest, and
I will pay the bills. In Budapest you will be scolded by Tisza, but he is
honest old Calvinist and will not let you starve. As soon as war begins,
he will give you Golden Cross of Merit for journalistic achievements.”
“Save your sarcasm,” responded Ilitch. “There is no need to drag Tisza or
anybody else into this business. Look to your own safety. You are going
to have trouble in getting to Dobrinje.”
“I suppose so, I suppose so. Inshallah, I will show Jaffer trick or two!
And now it is time to say good-bye. You know I did not enjoy pulling gun
on you.”
“Don’t mention it, Saadi. I—almost wish you had done it a month ago.”
“Well, Ilitch, we both did what we thought was best. I will say this for
you—boys obeyed you as if they were in school, and Serbian boys are not
very obedient. Good-bye, old man. It is crazy world, and they will hang
you, but you must not mind little thing like that. _Sbogom! Do vidjenja!_
See you in jail.”