The Second Seal

by Dennis Wheatley

  All that evening thoughts of Ilona plagued him, but at length the time came for him to catch his train, and he found that he was sharing a sleeping compartment with a talkative French impresario in search of Balkan talent, so the amusing experiences of this voluble person took his mind off his abortive love affair until it was time to turn in. The following morning he reached Belgrade.

  It was a pocket capital and, apart from being a seat of government, could hardly have claimed the dignity of the term ‘city’. Its population was a mere 120,000, so it was actually no larger than Southampton, and its few good buildings were concentrated in quite a small area, beyond which spread a higgledy-piggledy collection of mostly ramshackle structures, nearly all of which had been erected a generation or less ago.

  Situated on rising ground, it overlooked the confluence of the Danube and the Save, but its proximity to the former mighty river was the only thing it had in common with the splendid city that de Richleau had left the night before.

  In fact, few contrasts could have been greater. In Vienna, there were endless miles of shops containing every variety of article that the ingenuity of man had devised to make life easy, elegant and pleasant. Here, there were only a few streets in which a modest selection of imported goods could be obtained. All but an infinitesimal proportion of the people in the Austrian capital were well-housed, well-fed and well-clothed; whereas the majority of those in the Serbian metropolis lived in near-squalor, ate only the coarsest foods, and were clad in home-made garments. The Viennese bourgeoisie had achieved the highest culture of any middle-class in the world: in Belgrade culture was almost non-existent, and the greater part of its inhabitants could not yet even read.

  Up to eighty years earlier, the Serbs had been an entirely peasant people and, apart from cottage industries, their manufactures were still negligible. For centuries, previous to 1830, Serbia had been a Turkish province, and the Sultans had seen to it that no feudal system ever developed there, so the Serbs had no nobility. When, at last, they had thrown off the Turkish yoke, it had been through a series of revolts instigated by courageous peasant leaders. The most successful of these had been Black George—or, to use his native appellation, Karageorge—a pig-dealer who had served in the Austrian army, and Milosh Obrenovitch, who invented for himself the title Prince of the Serbs. And between the descendants of these two had ensued a long and bitter feud for the domination of the country.

  Milosh’s son, Michael, had reigned till 1842, then been expelled by Alexander Karageorgevitch. In 1859 Michael’s partisans had regained the throne for him, and his descendants had occupied it until 1903 when, after the revoltingly brutal assassination of the unprincipled King Alexander and his ex-demi-mondaine wife, Queen Draga, by the founders of the Black Hand, the present King, Peter Karageorgevitch, has assumed the reins of power. Thus, there had been no more than a few generations of Serbian independence to form even a small middleclass of professional men and officers.

  Yet this uncultured people still cherished memories of the distant centuries before the Turkish hordes had invaded Europe. They had then had their own Tsars, defeated in turn the Greeks and the Bulgars, and even laid seige to mighty Byzantium. Under Stephen Nemanya, Urosh II and Tsar Dushan, Serbia had been a great kingdom. The names of these long-dead paladins were still venerated in every cottage and their spirits were still a living force which stirred the patriotism of every peasant to dreams of re-creating Serbia’s past greatness.

  The success of their recent wars had aroused in them a knowledge of their latent power. In 1912 they had avenged themselves for centuries of Turkish oppression. Then in 1913, when the members of the Balkan League had quarrelled over the spoils of victory, like an omen that the future might repeat the past they had, after a lapse of many centuries, once again defeated their ancient enemies, the Bulgarians.

  Now, with Turkey hurled back almost into Asia, their eyes turned north towards the Austrian Empire; for they regarded the Austrians as a race of oppressors, equalled only by the Turks, and bore them a corresponding hatred. Not only did the Dual Monarchy still hold enslaved a part of Serbia’s ancient territory and many thousands of her people, but the Empire had, less than ten years before, endeavoured to apply a strangle-hold to the economic life of the smaller nation. Serbia was the greatest pig-breeding country in Europe and the very existence of her people depended upon the export of swine. For generations Hungary had been her greatest and almost sole customer. Suddenly the Austrians had clamped down a ban on the import of pigs into their Empire. The Serbians had found other markets in Egypt, Greece and France; but it had been a desperate struggle, and those lean years of the ‘Pig War’ still rankled.

  The Serbians were a virile race, inured to hardship and, in time of war, capable of fighting a long campaign with few resources. They were, too, a dour people, as was evidenced by their national costumes which, instead of being embroidered with coloured silks as was customary among other middle and eastern European peasant populations, were of sober black, white and grey. They asked little of life and were most hospitable within their modest means; but they never forgot an injury and brooded bitterly over the wrongs they felt had been done them; so they were an easy prey to agitators sent out to stir their patriotism and ever ready to snatch up their rifles at the call to arms for a war of revenge.

  As de Richleau was driven in a rickety open carriage from the station to the Hotel Continental, he thought of all these things, and wondered if Colonel Dragutin Dimitriyevitch was already preparing to spring his mine. He wondered, too, if in the event of an Austro-Serbian conflict, von Hötzendorf would prove right in his estimate that, once mobilised, the armies he commanded would prove capable of overrunning Serbia in three weeks—and greatly doubted it.

  The hotel proved better than the Duke expected, as it was French-run and the management were endeavouring to attract the custom of travellers from the west. Nevertheless, the time-honoured custom of providing for the possible requirements of male patrons travelling alone was still maintained. He had been in his room only a few minutes when an olive-complexioned gentleman with a spiky moustache arrived, carrying under his arm a large book of photographs. They were of young ladies in various states of semi-nudity, any or all of whom would be delighted to call upon His Grace at any time. As a connoisseur of beauty in all its forms, de Richleau looked through the book, then politely declined and, after having given the man a couple of dinars for his trouble, firmly dismissed him.

  His unpacking did not take long as he had decided to leave most of his clothes in Vienna, and when he had completed it he went out for a walk round the town. On numerous occasions he had passed through Belgrade in the Orient Express, but he had never before visited it. Now, he found that it contained little of historical or artistic interest, except for the old walled citadel on the bend of the river, which had for centuries housed a garrison of Turkish janissaries. The churches were mostly small and had the same onion-shaped spires as those in Russia, which was not surprising since, like the Russians, by far the greater part of the population belonged to the Greek Orthodox Church.

  The lettering in the shops and street signs would have appeared gibberish to most Englishmen, as it was in Cyrillic script; but that, again, being used in common with the Russians was no puzzle to the Duke. Moreover, the language of the southern Slavs so closely resembled that of their kin in the great northern Empire that anyone who spoke one found no great difficulty in understanding the other, as de Richleau was already aware from having cross-questioned Serbian prisoners taken during his Balkan campaigns.

  Walking slowly, as it was now very hot, he amused himself for some time by working out the English equivalent of the prices of things in the shops, and, apart from a few imported articles, he found them incredibly cheap. He remembered a Turkish officer once telling him that in Serbia a comfortable cottage could be built for £20, and a middleclass family live reasonably well on £100 a year, which, at the time, he had thought scarcely credible. But the prices
he saw now, and the manner in which fruit, vegetables and farm produce were almost given away, went to confirm the statement.

  In due course he arrived opposite the Royal Palace. It was a modern building of very moderate size, and hardly more than a villa by comparison with the vast private palaces of some of the great nobles in Vienna and Budapest. The sentries outside its gate were smart and of good physique. As the Duke regarded them with professional appreciation, he began to wonder if Dimitriyevitch had been speaking the truth when he said that certain members of the Serbian royal family were sworn adherents of the Black Hand.

  One thing seemed fairly certain–that King Peter had had no knowledge of the plot to assassinate his predecessor, so could not have been involved in the origin of that sinister secret society. Owing to the hatred of the Obrenovitch for his family, he had lived abroad in exile most of his life. He had been educated in France, passed through the military college of St. Cyr, and, as a young officer, fought with distinction for the country of his adoption in the Franco-Prussian war of 1870. Seven years later, on the outbreak of a revolutionary movement in Bosnia, he had gone there, organised a small army, and for many months carried on a romantic guerilla war against the Turks. But at the time of Alexander’s assassination, in 1903, he was living quietly in Switzerland, and, as far as anyone knew, had been invited to ascend the vacant throne solely because he seemed to be the most suitable person to occupy it.

  Against that, it had to be remembered that he had shielded the assassins from punishment, even to the extent of remaining at loggerheads with the governments of most of the Great Powers on their account, for the first three years of his reign. The Powers had refused to accord him formal recognition as King of Serbia until he saw justice done. But he had fought the issue until, at last, conscious of the stupidity of continuing to deny the obvious, they had given way on his merely agreeing to retire the officers concerned into private life. And soon afterwards he had reinstated them.

  Such conduct might well be taken to indicate a strong sympathy for the secret aspirations of the Black Hand. Yet King Peter was very far from being the type of man whom one would have expected to associate himself willingly with a gang of murderers. He was not only a brave soldier, but a man of scholarly tastes and liberal views. Of that, he had given ample evidence by personally translating John Stuart Mill’s Essay on Liberty for the benefit of his countrymen.

  By and large, de Richleau was inclined to conclude that he had been, and still was, under great pressure from the Black Hand–that, had he attempted to bring its original members to trial, his own life would have been in serious jeopardy, and that his past subservience to them must be taken as evidence that he was unlikely to offer any serious opposition to their plans in future.

  Returning to his hotel, the Duke lunched, then wrote a note to Colonel Dimitriyevitch, informing him that he was staying for a few days in Belgrade, and asking when it would be convenient to call upon him. On receiving a few small coins, equivalent in value to twopence, a grinning hotel messenger ran off to deliver the note at the Ministry of War, and de Richleau retired to his room to sleep through the heat of the afternoon.

  When he came downstairs at six o’clock two officers, who were sitting drinking at one of the little tables in the lounge, immediately sprang to their feet, advanced towards him, and halted side by side with a sharp click of their heels, at a yard’s distance. They introduced themselves as Major Olgerd Tankosić and Captain Marko Ciganović? The former was a stocky, prematurely-bald man, with a bulldog jowl; the latter a tall fellow, almost chinless, and with heavy pouches under the light eyes of an albino. Both looked as if they could be extremely tough, but they were now obviously on their best behaviour.

  The Major said in French. “I much regret that Colonel Dimitriyevitch is temporarily absent from Belgrade; but I am dealing with his correspondence, and I opened your Excellency’s letter. I immediately recognised your name as that of a distinguished ex-enemy commander, and also I have heard the Colonel speak of you as the gallant gentleman who saved him from being butchered by a troop of Kurdish cavalry. He will, I am sure, be delighted to see you on his return. In the meantime Captain Ciganović and myself are entirely at your Excellency’s disposal, and we shall be honoured if you will allow us to show you something of Belgrade during your visit.”

  Dimitriyevitch’s absence was annoying, but there was nothing that de Richleau could do about it, and he felt that, with a little luck, he might pick up a few pointers from the Colonel’s subordinates. So he thanked the Major, shook hands with both officers with a cordiality that he was inwardly far from feeling, and accompanied them to their table.

  A fresh round of drinks was ordered, and an inquiry elicited the fact that Dimitriyevitch was not expected back before the weekend, or possibly later. That seemed to make it certain that the Duke would not have any opportunity of seeing him on this first visit to Belgrade, so he settled down to cultivate his new acquaintances with all the charm that came so naturally to him.

  For their part they treated him with the deference due to the rank he had held in the Turkish army, and were obviously flattered by his easy friendliness. With all the interest that different viewpoints give to the discussion of a past campaign by ex-enemies who have no personal animosity, they talked of the Balkan war. And as the rounds of drinks succeeded one another, the little group became a merry one. Later, they dined together, then the Serbians took de Richleau to a musical show, and afterwards to Belgrade’s one night haunt, which was called La Can-Can.

  The last was a tawdry place compared with its equivalents in Paris or Vienna, but it had a good Tzigane band, and there was an air of riotous abandon about it which no longer arose spontaneously in such places in the cities of the west. The girls danced the can-can in the fashion of the ’70s, were hoisted on to the tables to make high-kicks, and sat on the men’s laps. They certainly appeared to enjoy it every bit as much as the young officers who were plying them with drinks and shouting applause at every naughty act.

  The Duke was quick to notice that these boisterous young men were of a very different type from the dashing subalterns he had seen in Vienna. The Austrians were elegant, charming, but they wore corsets to accentuate the slimness of their figures, and mentally had become more than a little soft. Whereas, these Serbians were youngsters only one generation removed from peasant stock. They were not good-looking, but their physique was excellent, and the moment they stopped laughing their hard, chunky faces showed determination and grit.

  They had hard heads for liquor too, as was proved by de Richleau’s companions, but he managed to keep up with them without difficulty, despite their efforts to make him drunk; and when they saw him back to his hotel at four o’clock in the morning, opinion was unanimous that they had had a splendid evening.

  At mid-day, the chinless wonder, Captain Ciganović, called upon him again and asked what he would like to do. Would he care to inspect the barracks of the Royal Guard and visit the Serbian Staff College, or would he prefer a drive in the country? In either case Major Tankosić sent his compliments and requested that His Excellency would honour the mess of the Kargujevatz Cavalry Regiment by dining there that night.

  Not wishing to show any undue interest in Serbian military affairs before Dimitriyevitch put in an appearance, the Duke said he would prefer to see something of the country.

  Accordingly, they set off in a Peugeot and were driven out to the National Park at Topchidere. It was a lovely spot, surrounded by dense forests, and they lunched there at a small inn off roast sucking-pig. In the afternoon, they continued their drive, making a wide circle before returning to Belgrade. Then, in the evening, a car was sent to collect de Richleau and take him to the Cavalry barracks.

  The bald, heavy-jowled Major Tankosić received the Duke and presented the other officers to him. In addition to the majors, captains and subalterns of the regiment, a bearded general and several colonels were present, and it was clear that these senior officers had be
en specially invited to meet the distinguished visitor. Many of them had been educated in Switzerland, and the majority spoke fairly good French or German, and used one of those languages when conversing with their guest. The effect was therefore all the more telling when, after de Richleau’s health had been drunk at the end of dinner, he got up and replied to the toast in a language which most of them took to be heavily accented and somewhat archaic Serbian.

  To win their hearts completely he had only to stand up again and inform them that he was half-Russian. It was to Russia, the traditional enemy of Austria, and the country of their early origin, that they all looked as friend, father and protector. The applause was terrific.

  All earlier restraint caused by the presence of a foreigner in their midst was now thrown off. They no longer harboured faint suspicions of him owing to his associations with their late enemy, but regarded him as one of themselves. Their flat, Slav faces flushed with the wine they had drunk, they openly toasted the downfall of the Dual Monarchy and the day when the Serbian Kingdom would once again stretch from sea to sea.

  His face belying his feelings, de Richleau smilingly drank glass for glass with them. He had his answer to another question, and it was again the reverse of what he had hoped. If this was a true sample of the Serbian army, and he saw no reason to doubt that, the Serbs were very far from being exhausted by their recent conflicts, and weary of war. These hardy virile men would shout with exultation at another chance to show their mettle. He wondered gloomily how many of the beardless ones would reach old age uncrippled by wounds—or even survive the next few years.

  When at length he made ready to leave, a number of the younger ones reverted to the peasant custom, always observed at weddings and other festivals, of firing off their weapons. Waving their revolvers, they cheered him to his car, then, as it moved towards the gate of the courtyard, they yelled their battle cry and let off a volley of shots.