Over in the Hotel Regengetz, on a little table in the centre of the room, lay a thick envelope with the royal arms emblazoned in the upper corner. It contained an invitation to the private circus that had been arranged for the little Prince, and it bore the name of Truxton King.
Across the foot of the bed hung his evening clothes, laid out by a faithful and well-tipped house valet, snug and ready for instant use.
But where was Truxton King?
CHAPTER X
THE IRON COUNT
When King, in the kindness of his heart, grasped the old woman to keep her from falling to the floor, he played directly into the hands of very material agencies under her control. There was nothing ghostly or even spiritual in the incidents that followed close upon the simulated fainting spell of the fortune-teller. It has been said before that her bony fingers closed upon his arms in a far from feeble manner. He had no time for surprise at this sudden recovery; there was only time to see a fiendish grin flash into her face. The next instant something struck him in the face; then with a fierce jerk this same object tightened about his neck. His attempt to yell out was checked before a sound could issue from his lips.
It all came to him in a flash. A noose had been dropped over his head; as he was pulled backward, his startled, bulging eyes swept the ceiling. The mystery was explained, but in a manner that left him small room for satisfaction. Above him a square opening had appeared in the ceiling; two ugly, bearded faces were leaning over the edge and strong hands were grasping a thick rope. In a frenzy of fear and desperation he cast the old woman from him and tore violently at the rope.
They were drawing hard from above; his toes were barely touching the floor; he was strangling. Frantically he grasped the rope, lifting himself from the floor in the effort to loosen the noose with his free hand. A hoarse laugh broke upon his dinning ears, the leering faces drew nearer; and then, as everything went black, a heavy, yet merciful blow fell upon his head. As consciousness left him, he felt himself rushing dizzily upward, grasped by powerful hands and whisked through the opening into air so hot and stiffling that his last thought was of the fires of Hell.
Not many minutes passed before consciousness, which had been but partially lost, returned to him. The ringing sensation remained in his head, but he was no longer choking. The noose had been removed from his neck; the rope itself was now serving as a bond for his hands and feet, a fact that impressed itself upon him when he tried to rise. For some time he lay perfectly still, urging his senses into play: wondering where he was and what had happened to him.
It was pitch dark and the air was hot and close. Not a sound came to his throbbing cars. With characteristic irrepressibility he began to swear softly, but articulately. Proof that his profanity was mild—one might say genteel—came in an instant. A gruff voice, startlingly near at hand, interrupted him.
“Spit it out, young feller! Swear like a man, not like a damn canary bird.”
Truxton tried hard to pierce the darkness, a strange thrill passing through his veins. The hidden speaker was unquestionably an American.
“What the devil does all this mean?” demanded the captive. “Where am I?”
“It means business, and you’re here, that’s where you are,” was the sarcastic answer.
“Are you an American?”
“No. I’m a Chinaman.”
“Oh, come off! Answer square.”
“Well, I was born in Newport.” As an afterthought: “Kentucky.”
“You’re in a damned nice business, I’ll say that for you,” growled Truxton. “Who is responsible for this outrage?”
He heard the man yawn prodigiously. “Depends on what you call an outrage.”
“This is the damnedest high-handed outrage I’ve ever—”
“Better save your breath, young feller. You won’t have it very long, so save what you can of it.”
Truxton was silent for a moment, analysing this unique remark. “You mean I am to stop breathing altogether?”
“Something like that.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know? Well, who does?”
“You’ll find out when the boss gets good and ready.”
“You are a fine American!”
“Look here, young feller, I’ve been polite to you, so don’t get gay. I’ll come over there and kick your jaw in.”
“Come ahead. Anything to break the monotony.”
“Didn’t you get enough of the hangman’s knot and the sandbag? Want more, eh? Well, if I wasn’t so darned comfortable I’d come over there and give it to you. Now don’t rile me!”
“I deserve to be kicked for being such a blithering fool as to get into this mess. Come on and kick me.”
“You wanted to get a poke at the old man’s eye, did ye? By thunder, that’s like an American. Never satisfied to let things alone. See what it got you into?”
“The old man’s eye? What old man?”
“That’s for you to find out, if you can. You’ve made a hell of a poor start at it.”
“You’re a good-natured scoundrel”
“Thanks for them kind words.”
“Well, what are you going to do with me? I don’t like the air in here. It’s awful. How long do I stay here?”
“Say, you’re a gritty little man. I like your nerve. Too bad we ain’t on the same side. I’ll tell you this: you won’t be here long. How would the old girl down there put it? You’re going on a long voyage. That’s it. But first we’ll get out of this rat hole, just as soon as them other guys come back from the cave. You’ll get fresh air purty soon. Now, don’t talk any more. I’m through gossipin’!”
“How do you, an American, happen to be mixed up in a deal like this?”
“It’s healthier work than makin’ barrels at—I was goin’ to say Sing Sing, but I hear they’ve changed the name. I prefer outdoor work.”
“Fugitive, eh?”
“You might call it that. I’m wanted in seven States. The demand for me is great.”
Truxton saw that he could get nothing out of the satirical rascal, so fell to speculating for himself. That he was still in the loft above the hovel was more or less clear to him. His mind, now active, ran back to the final scene in the kitchen. The trap-door in the ceiling, evidently a sliding arrangement, explained the mysterious disappearance of the owner of the eye; he had been whisked up through the aperture by confederates and the trap-door closed before it could be discovered. The smoking kettle no longer puzzled him, now that he knew of the secret room above the kitchen; a skilfully concealed blow-pipe could have produced the phenomenon. The space in which he was now lying, half suffocated, was doubtless a part of the cleverly designed excavation at the back of the hovel, the lower half being the kitchen, the upper an actual gateway to the open air somewhere in the mountainside.
That he had fallen into the hands of a band of conspirators was also quite clear to him. Whether they were brigands or more important operators against the Crown, he was, of course, in no position to decide. Time would tell.
It was enough that they expected to kill him, sooner or later. This, in itself, was sufficient to convince him that he was not to be held for ransom, but to be disposed of for reasons best known to his captors.
Like a shot the warning of Olga Platanova flashed into his brain. Here, then, was the proof that she actually knew of the peril he was in. But why should he be an object of concern to these men, whoever they were? His guard had mentioned “the old man.” Good heavens, could he mean Spantz? The cold perspiration was standing on King’s brow. Spantz! He recalled the wickedness in the armourer’s face. But why should Spantz wish him evil? Again intuition, encouraged by memory, supplied him with a possible, even plausible explanation.
The Anarchists! The Reds! Olga was an avowed Anarchist; she was almost a prisoner in the house of her uncle. Truxton’s guard sat up suddenly and felt for his weapon when the captive let out a bitter oath of understanding
and rage.
“By gad, they think I am a detective!” he added, light coming to him with a rush.
“What’s that?” snapped the other. Truxton could almost feel the other’s body grow tense despite the space between them. “Are you a detective? Are you? By God, if you are, I’ll finish you up right here. You—”
“No! They’re on the wrong scent. By Jove, the laugh’s on old man Spantz.”
“Oho! So you do know what’s up, then? Spantz, eh? Well, what you’ve guessed at or found out won’t make much difference, my fine young fellow. They’ve got you, and you’ll be worse off than Danny Deever in the mornin’! Hello! Here they come. Now we’ll get out of this infernal bake-oven. Say, do you know, you’ve been cuddlin’ up against a j’int of warm stove pipe for nearly an hour? Sh!”
The glimmer of a light came bobbing up from somewhere behind Truxton; he could see the flickering shadows on the wall. Two men crept into the room a moment later. One of them carried a lantern; the other turned King’s body over with his foot.
“You damned brute,” grated the captive.
“Call him what you like, young feller,” said his first acquaintance. “He can’t understand a word you say. Well, do we pull out?” This to the man with the lantern.
The roof was so low that they were compelled to stoop in moving about. Truxton saw that the three ruffians were great, brutal-faced fellows, with bared arms that denoted toil as well as spoils.
“Immediate!” said the lantern bearer. “Come; we drag him to the cave.”
“Drag? Nix; we c’n carry him, pard. I’m not for draggin’ him down that passage. Grab hold there,—you! Hey, get his feet, damn you!” The third man was reluctant to understand, but at last grasped the prisoner by the feet, swearing in a language of his own. The Yankee desperado took his shoulders, and together, with earnest grunts, they followed the man with the lantern, Truxton knew not whither except that it was away from the wretched sweat-hole.
He could see that they were crowding through a low, narrow passage, the earthen sides of which reeked with moisture. Twice they paused to rest, resuming the journey after a season of cursing, finally depositing him with scant courtesy upon the rocky floor of what proved to be a rather commodious cave. The breath was almost jarred from his body. He had the satisfaction of driving his two heels viciously against the person of the man who had held them the last ten minutes, receiving a savage kick in return.
Daylight streamed into this convenient “hole in the wall;” lying upon his side, Truxton faced the opening that looked out upon the world. He saw nothing but blue sky. Near the opening, looking down as if into the valley below, stood the tall, gaunt figure of a man, thin-shouldered and stooped. His back was to the captive, but King observed that the three men, with two companions, who sat at the back of the cave, never removed their gaze from the striking figure outlined against the sky.
Many minutes passed before the watcher turned slowly to take in the altered conditions behind him. King saw that he was old; grey-haired and cadaverous, with sharp, hawk-like features. This, then, was the “old man,” and he was not William Spantz. Unlike Spantz in every particular was this man who eyed him so darkly, so coldly. Here was a highborn man, a man whose very manners bespoke for him years at court, a life spent in the upper world, not among the common people. Truxton found himself returning the stare with an interest that brought results.
“Your name is King, I believe,” came from the thin lips of the old man. The tones were as metallic as the click of steel.
“Yes. May I inquire—”
“No, you may not inquire. Put a gag in his mouth. I don’t care to hear anything from him. Gag him and cut the rope from his feet. He may walk from now on.”
Three men sprang to do his bidding.
King felt in that instant that he was looking for the first time upon the features of the Iron Count, Marlanx the dishonoured. He lay there helpless, speechless for many minutes, glancing at this cruel tyrant. Into his soul sank the conviction that no mercy would come from this man, this hater of all men; justice would play no part in the final, sickening tragedy. It was enough that Marlanx suspected him of being in the way; to be suspected was to be condemned. The whole, hellish conspiracy flashed through his brain. He closed his eyes with the horror of it all.
Here was Marlanx on Graustark soil, conniving with cutthroats, commanding them without opposition. What could it mean except a swift-growing menace to the Crown—to the little Prince.
Marlanx was speaking. Truxton looked up, as at an executioner. The lean, cruel face of that beautiful girl’s husband was not far from his own; the fiery eyes were burning into his. The Iron Count sat upon a boulder near his feet.
“So you are the Quixote who would tilt at invisible windmills, eh? I remember you quite well. We have met before. Perhaps you remember meeting my eye in Dame Babba’s cabin—twice, I think. You remember, I see. Ha, ha! You were very slow not to have caught such an old man. You were near to it the first time, but—you missed it, eh? I thought you might have seen my heels as I disappeared. I dare say you are wondering what I intend to do with you, now that I have you. Well, I am not the man to mince words. Mr. King, you are quite young, but the good die young. I am very old, you observe. I will not say that you are to die tonight or tomorrow or any day, for I do not know. I am going to send you to a court. Not an ordinary court, Mr. King, but one of extreme perspicacity. I fancy you will die before long. We can spare you. I do not approve of meddlers. It seems to be quite settled that you are a police agent. Be that as it may, I imagine our little court of last resort will take no chances, one way or the other. A man or two, more or less, will not be counted a year from now.”
The steady, cruel eyes fascinated King. He knew that he was in desperate straits, that he had one chance in a million to escape, and yet he found himself held by the spell of those eyes, drinking in certain metallic monotones as if hypnotised.
“I am glad you called again at my temporary abode, Mr. King. Americans are always welcome: the sooner they come, the sooner it’s over. It may interest you to know that I am very partial to Americans. Were I a cannibal, I could eat them with relish. If I had my way, all Americans should be in heaven. The earth surely is not good enough nor big enough for them, and hell is already overcrowded. Yes,” reflectively pressing his nose with a bony forefinger, “I love the Americans dearly. I should enjoy a similar visit from Mr. John Tullis. Although, I may say, he seems to be choosing another way of testing my hospitality. I expect him to visit me in my humble castle before many days. I should like to have him remain there until his dying day.” There was a deep significance in his smile. King shuddered. His gaze followed the gaunt, spidery old man as he returned to the opening for another long survey of the valley below. Night was falling; the sky was growing darker, and the wind was rising. Marlanx’s sharp features were not so distinguishable when he returned to the boulder. The men in the cave had not spoken except in whispers. They appeared to be living in abject fear of this grim old nobleman.
“Night is coming. I must say farewell, my bold young friend. My way lies to the north. This is merely a land of promise to me. You go southward, to the city of Edelweiss. But not through the gates; oh, no! There are other ways, as you will find. If you should, by any chance, escape the jurisdiction of the court I am sending you to, I sincerely trust you may honour me with another visit here. I come often to the hovel in the glen. It is the only friendly house I know of in all Graustark. Some day I may be able to recompense its beauteous mistress. My good friends, Dangloss, and Halfont, and Braze—and Tullis, whom I know only by reputation—are, as yet, unaware of my glorious return to Graustark, else they would honour me with their distinguished presence. Some day I may invite them to dine with me. I shall enjoy seeing them eat of the humble pie I can put before them. Good-bye, my brave Sir Galahad; I may never see you again.”
With a courtly bow he turned from the tense-muscled captive and directed his final instructions to
the men. “Take him at once to the city, but be on your guard. A single false move now means utter ruin for all of us. Our affairs go so well at present that we cannot afford to offend Dame Fortune. She smiles on us, my men. Take this fool to the house on the Monastery road. There you will turn him over to the others. It is for them to drag the truth from his lips. I’d suggest, dear Mr. King, that you tell them all you know before they begin the dragging process. It is a very unpleasant way they have.” With a curt nod to the men, he strode out through the mouth of the cave and was gone. Dusk had settled down upon mountain and valley; a thin fog swam high in the air above. One of the men cut the rope that bound Truxton’s feet.
“Get up,” said the Newport man. “We’ve got to be movin’. How’d you like the old man? Smart bug, ain’t he? Say, he’ll throw the hooks into them guys down in Edelweiss so hard one of these days that they won’t come out till they rot out.”
Still gagged and somewhat dizzy, King was hurried off into the narrow mountain path, closely surrounded by the five men.
“They tell me your friend, the Cook guy, got plugged down in the Gap when he tried to duck this afternoon,” volunteered the Yankee unconcernedly.
Hobbs shot? King’s eyes suddenly filled with tears, a great wave of pity and shame rushing to his heart. Poor Hobbs! He had led him into this; to gratify a vain-glorious whim, he had done the little Englishman to death.
The silent, cautious march down the valley, through the Gap and along the ridge carried them far into the night. King knew that they were skirting the main roads, keeping to the almost hidden trails of the mountaineers. They carried no light, nor did they speak to each other, except in hoarse whispers. In single file they made their way, the prisoner between them, weary, footsore and now desperate in the full realisation of his position. Being gagged, he could make no appeal to the one man who might befriend him—his villainous countryman. It occurred to him—grim thought—that the astute Marlanx had considered that very probability, and had made it impossible for him to resort to the cupidity of the hireling.
The George Barr McCutcheon Megapack: 25 Classic Novels and Stories Page 88