"Watch how you talk about my sister," Paul said, wondering who on earth his "sister" could be. He'd better move—and talk— carefully until he found out just what this was about. Charles Bredlon Summerdane had a sister, Lady Patricia Templar, now the wife of an energetic young prelate destined someday to become an archbishop, or even, if he had his way, a saint. But Paul was sure that his alter ego's sister was not the lady waiting for him in the visitor's room.
It was only two days ago that Paul had been permitted to see his first visitor, an elderly gentleman named Karl Stetelmeyer, possessor of a red nose, an overly bushy white beard, an old leather briefcase stuffed to the point of bursting its straps, and a mild and intelligent disposition, who had declared himself to be Paul's attorney. "I accepted your case," he had told Paul, "because the presiding magistrate wants you to be well represented, and I have a reputation, well-founded may I say, as an excellent advocate. Also I am too old to be overly concerned about what this case might do to my reputation. So don't expect miracles. Assassinating a duke! Murdering your own lady friend! I have reviewed the evidence against you. Would you like to, perhaps, plead guilty?"
"No, thank you," Paul had told him.
"Oh, well, one can but hope." He had stood up. "I shall return soon and we'll talk and see what we can do."
"Wait!" Paul also rose. "The evidence against me—what is it?"
"Soon!" Stetelmeyer had promised.
And now Paul's "sister" had come to visit. Was this, perhaps, some ploy of Stetelmeyer's? No, the aging attorney didn't look as though he was accustomed to use ploys of any sort. Paul paused at the door to the visitors' room. Well, here he was, and he would find out in a second.
The visitors' room was a small, airless cubicle with stone walls and two iron doors, one for the prisoner and one for his guest. The only furniture was a thick wooden table on a massive central pillar in the middle of the room, and two small wooden benches, one on each side. A wooden panel under the table assured that the feet of the prisoner could not reach the feet of the visitor. A thick black line across the center of the table separated the prisoner's space from his visitor's space.
The warder brought Paul into the room and sat him on the bench. Then he crossed his arms, stood by the door and glowered at Paul while a second warder came in and fastened a leg iron around his left leg. A short length of chain connected the leg iron to a large metal bolt sunk into the stone floor.
"Don't get off the bench," the new warder told him. "Don't touch your visitor or even pass your hand over that black line. Don't pass anything to your visitor or accept anything from your visitor. Is that clear?"
"Yes," Paul said.
The second warder left, and Paul sat silently, facing the door opposite and waiting to see what his sister looked like. The door opened slowly, and a tall, slim girl shyly entered. Her face had the fresh, wind-blown complexion of a true girl of the Alps, her blond hair was done into a severe bun atop her head, and her gray traveling dress was of a modest cut. She could well be the daughter of a comfortably bourgeois Bavarian beer merchant, and Paul had never seen her before in his life.
"Brother Paul," she said, sliding onto the bench on her side of the table. She reached across the table to touch his hand, but jerked her hand back at the cough of the warder, who was standing by the door on the prisoners' side. "Father and Mother and little Heidi miss you horribly," she said. "Father told me before I left, 'Ursula,' he said, 'tell Paul how much your mother and I love him, and that we're sure that he could never be guilty of what they say he did. Tell him that.' And I'm sure, too, Paul."
So her name was Ursula. That helped. And little Heidi, by god, that was a nice touch. But who was she really, and what was she doing there, and how could he find out with a warder standing behind him listening to every word?
As though she were reading his mind, Ursula looked up at the warder and said sweetly but firmly, "Herr Schnegel, the warden, told me that I could have a little privacy to talk to my brother."
The warder stared at her stolidly for a few seconds, and then, without a word, retreated to the far side of the door and closed it behind him.
Ursula smiled at Paul. "There now," she said softly in English, "that's better."
A physical shock slapped at Paul's chest, and he could feel the pounding of his heart. Who was this woman? Why did she speak to him in English? If this was some sort of trick—If this girl, whoever she was, was working for the authorities—If his secret was known—
"Excuse me," he said in German, "what did you say?"
His panic must have shown on his face. "Dear me," she said, "that was truly thoughtless of me. I apologize. I didn't mean to startle you. I come from your father. I mean, your father, the duke of Albermar. I switched to English because the warder is certainly trying to overhear our mumbles, and if we're mumbling in a foreign language he won't be able to understand any of it. But he shouldn't be able to tell for sure that it isn't German if we keep our voices down."
Paul took three deep breaths. "How did you get the warder to leave the room?" he asked.
"Herr Schnegel, the warden, a very pompous man who is overly polite to women, thinks that it's his idea," Ursula explained. "I told him, all wide-eyed and innocent, that I was sure you hadn't done what you were accused of and that I wanted to get you to tell me all about it so that I could find out what really happened and clear your name. He became all avuncular and held my hand. He said that he'd like nothing better and that if you were innocent he would personally see that you were released from here as soon as possible. I said that I was sure that I could get you to tell me about it if I was left alone with you because we've never had any secrets from each other. He made me promise that I would tell him everything you said—for your own good, of course. And here we are."
"And here we are," Paul agreed.
"Keep your voice low."
"My father," Paul said, "he doesn't think that I—that I ..."
"Of course not," Ursula told him.
"I can't figure out how all this happened—how I ended up as the primary suspect in the murder of my—of the girl I was going to—"
"And the assassination of the duke of Mecklenburg Strelitz."
"Yes, and that, too."
"Professor Moriarty has a theory."
Paul looked startled. "Professor Moriarty?"
"Keep your voice down. Do you know him?"
"Several of my sources here—what did my father tell you?"
"It was the professor who spoke with him. We know what you were doing here and why and the names of some of your associates."
"Several of my sources here are convinced that I am working for this Professor Moriarty, and that he is the head of a vast criminal conspiracy. And I wasn't even sure that there was a Professor Moriarty, I thought he was some sort of local myth, like the Rhine Maidens or the Iron Man."
"He's real," Ursula said. "Professor Moriarty is the most brilliant man I have ever known, and many men have attempted to impress me with their brilliance. Although he's not the head of a vast criminal conspiracy unfortunately, since it might be useful if he were. Your father employed him to come and save you. And I am working with him."
"Who are you?"
"My real name is—well—you can think of me as Madeleine, but for the present you'd better call me Ursula. We do seem to have a profusion of names about all of this, don't we? My profession used to be gun moll in the swell mob, but the professor says I'm fit for better things, and he's teaching me."
"A gun moll?"
She laughed. "Sorry, I couldn't resist that. It's thieves' cant. A 'gun' is a pickpocket, a 'gun moll' is a lady pickpocket. The 'swell mob' is a group of pickpockets that dress like ladies and gentlemen and show up at events where the swells will be milling about; like the opera or a fancy ball, or the better sort of racetrack."
"You're a pickpocket?"
"I was. There are worse professions for a lady."
"I suppose there are," Paul said, sounding
unconvinced.
"Besides we got to travel all over Europe, and we had to know how to fit in almost anywhere. It's an education, believe me."
"I do believe you. Which, I suppose, explains your German."
She shook her head. "I grew up in Alsace, so I speak fluent German and French. I didn't learn English until we moved to Ipswich when I was twelve. I think the rest of my history had better wait until we get you out of here."
"Fair enough. How are you and Professor Moriarty planning to accomplish that?"
"That is still an open question. We could either prove your innocence or break you out of this place. As long as we can do it without letting the Austrian authorities figure out whom you really are, we'll go with whichever works best."
Paul thought that over for a minute. "You said that Professor Moriarty had a theory," he said.
Madeleine nodded. "How much do you know about the murder of the duke of Mecklenburg Strelitz?"
"Almost nothing. He and his wife were riding in a coach and somebody shot at them. That's it."
"Yes. He was killed and she was wounded. The assassin was seen to be waving a Shugard Seuss revolver about, which, if you don't know, is a very distinctive weapon. He was wearing a green greatcoat and a brown cap. After the shooting he ran off through the crowd and disappeared."
"A green greatcoat," Paul said. "So."
"So indeed. When you were arrested you were wearing a green greatcoat and a brown cap. Also a Shugard Seuss revolver was found in your apartment."
Paul thought that over. "I think someone does not like me," he said. "I think perhaps I have not been as subtle as I believed I was being."
"Someone wanted you blamed for the assassination, that is clear," Madeleine agreed.
"But—" Paul swallowed. "But what of Giselle? Why would anyone want to kill her? How could anyone—"
"She had a key to your apartment, yes?"
"Yes. It was just to—"
"Never mind what it was just to; it is not your morality that we're concerned with here. Nor the girl's either. It is the professor's belief that someone went to your apartment to leave the Shugard Seuss, and possibly a few other pieces of incriminating evidence, and your lady friend had the bad luck to walk in on him."
"Then she was killed by accident," Paul said, his voice showing his anguish. "There was no reason for her death—it wasn't even part of the attempt to get at me." He buried his head in his hands.
"Sit up!" Madeleine said sharply. "We don't want to give the guard any reason to come in before his time."
"Yes." With an effort Paul sat up and dabbed at his eyes with the sleeve of his gray cotton pullover shirt. "I'm sorry."
"Don't be. Crying is a good thing sometimes. I would pass you a handkerchief, but it is forbidden."
"Yes," Paul said. "They make rules here just for the pleasure of making rules. Is there any more to the professor's theory? So Giselle was killed by accident. Does he have any idea of who did all the rest of this, and why it was done?" He essayed a weak smile. "I thought I was a likable fellow, but I must have done something to offend somebody; but what could it have been?"
"Professor Moriarty's conclusion is based on the fact that no one has yet come forward to denounce you as a British agent. Even those who believe you're a minion of the notorious Professor Moriarty don't know that you're not really Paul Donzhof."
"That seems to be so."
"Therefore it is for Paul Donzhof that this plot was hatched. But Paul Donzhof, you will excuse me, is a person of little importance."
"Yes, of course. Deliberately so."
"So, if they, whoever they are, wanted to get rid of you, why not just murder you?"
Paul smiled grimly. "I'm glad you weren't around to give them, whoever they are, advice."
"I'm sure they thought of that. But they didn't do it. Because they wanted to see you discredited more than they wanted you dead."
"Discredited? What do you mean?"
"According to your father, your last few reports said that you thought you were being watched—followed."
"Yes. I'm pretty sure. I couldn't find out who was doing it, but I suspect it was someone from the anarchist group that I joined."
"Professor Moriarty thinks that someone suspects that you are other than you seem, but they don't as yet know just what you are."
"I thought so myself," Paul agreed.
"So they, whoever they are, wish to discredit you. To assure themselves that whatever you might say will not be believed."
"But not to kill me? Why the kindness?"
"Professor Moriarty believes that you know something that might prove dangerous to someone, and your enemy doesn't know whether you have passed this information on or not."
"What information, and on to whom?"
Madeleine sat straight up on her bench, her hands folded demurely on her lap. "There's the question," she said. "But, whatever it is, if you have passed it on, killing you would emphasize its importance, while making you appear to be a mad assassin would cause your masters to doubt whatever you might have told them. Remember, they believe you to be a spy of little worth."
"But I know nothing of such value. I report on tendencies and gradual shifts in policy, and who is spying on whom. If it's the anarchists, I report that they go around bombing and shooting; but everybody knows that they go around bombing and shooting."
"It is possibly something you know that you don't know you know," Madeleine told him.
"I think I understand that," Paul said. "It's true that I have uncovered hints that some major disruptive act is being planned by the anarchists, and curiously by a couple of the other groups that I was gathering reports on. I don't know whether it's the same big event they're all talking about or several that are coincidentally all looming on the horizon. But I know nothing of what this event, or these events, might be. I was preparing to try to find out when this happened."
"It may well be something connected with that," Madeleine agreed.
"There is one thing—," Paul said. "What?"
"I don't know if this is important, but it was peculiar. A man named Hermann Loge, a minor official in the Foreign Ministry, gave me a slip of paper at the opera a few days before—all this. It had a brief numbered list that made no sense to me written on it."
"He gave you a slip of paper?"
"Yes. He didn't know me at the time. I believe he mistook me for someone else."
"How so?"
"Well, I gave him an envelope containing a large sum of money, and apparently he expected someone he didn't know to do just that. He was annoyed at me because it wasn't as much as he expected—the money, that is."
Madeleine sat back in her chair and stared at Paul. "I believe I've entered Wonderland," she said, "although my name isn't Alice. You gave a complete stranger an envelope containing a large sum of money, but he was disappointed because he was expecting some other complete stranger to give him an even larger sum of money in return for a slip of paper containing a numbered list that made no sense?"
"Admirable," Paul said. "You have it."
"I'd better pass it on to the professor," she said. "Where is this list—and why were you giving this stranger an envelope full of money?"
Paul explained his method of recruiting unwitting agents for his amateur espionage ring. "The list is in my apartment, if the police don't have it," he said. "But I doubt if they've found it or considered it important. It's on my desk, folded like a small envelope, writing side in, and I put some stamps in it."
Madeleine clapped her hands. " 'The Purloined Letter!' " she said.
"Right," Paul admitted. "I borrowed the idea from Poe. Let's hope it still works."
"I imagine the professor will want to see if it's still there. Right now what he wants is for you to go over the last few weeks before you were arrested in your mind and tell me everything you can remember. Every little thing. Concentrate on events that, no matter how unimportant they might have seemed to you at the time, were out
of the ordinary."
"Strange events? I can't recall any such."
"No, not strange, just out of the ordinary. For example, if the postman usually brings the morning mail at nine, but one morning he came at eight or at ten, that's not particularly strange, but it is out of the ordinary."
"The mail was left in a box downstairs," Paul said.
Madeleine sighed. "Let us start on the Sunday two weeks before you were arrested. Cast your mind back and see what you can remember."
Paul closed his eyes and concentrated for a moment and then opened them. "Are you going to write this down?" he asked.
The Great Game Page 19