The Second Seal

by Dennis Wheatley

  “Sorry!” said Sir Pellinore. “Wrong horse. All right; we’ll start again.”

  “You are wasting your time and mine.”

  “Oh no I’m not. Never spent a more valuable evening in me life, Anyhow, we’ve got one point clear. Now tell me what you’re hopin’ to get out of the accursed war?”

  “Hoping to get!” repeated the Duke. “You must be crazy!”

  “Far from it. The one point we have got clear is that you want it to happen. Well, seein’ you’re a professional soldier, I suppose you can’t be blamed for that.”

  The Duke was quivering with rage. He stood up. “How dare you impute such motives to me?”

  “Can’t help it, my dear feller. Only one alternative. Shouldn’t have thought it myself, but all things are possible. Perhaps you’re afraid to tackle Dimivich again, and I must regard you as a lily-livered rat.”

  His grey eyes blazing, de Richleau snatched at his half-empty tumbler. In another second he would have thrown its remaining contents in Sir Pellinore’s face. But the big man had now also risen, and seized his arm just in time.

  “Sorry!” he grinned. “Wrong horse again. I did say, though, that I shouldn’t have thought it myself. Still, if you’re not afraid to go back, it must be that you want the war to happen. That’s logic, ain’t it?”

  “No,” snarled de Richleau. “It is not. I would do anything in the world to stop this terrible catastrophe.”

  Sir Pellinore shrugged his mighty shoulders. “Then why d’you refuse to lend us a hand?”

  “Because I have already done what I was asked, and have got for you the only information that really matters. All else can be of only minor importance: so one of your regular agents can go to Belgrade and hold a watching brief there just as well as I can. Please get it into your head once and for all that I am not a spy, either by inclination or profession.”

  “Who the hell said you were? But you’re about the only person in the world who stands a chance of keeping the peace of Europe.”

  De Richleau gave a weary sigh. “You’re talking the most utter nonsense. These maniacs have made up their minds. The die is as good as cast already. There is positively nothing that I can do to stop them.”

  “Yes there is. Go back and muscle in on this Black Hand gang. You’re the only living soul who’s in a position to do that; and on it rests our one hope of preventing war. Our one and only hope, d’you understand? If you can find out what sort of a mine Dimivitch means to spring, and let us know in advance, with God’s help we’ll find a way to spike his guns and save humanity.”

  For a moment the Duke was silent. From the instant he had set eyes on Sir Pellinore in the semi-darkened lounge, his instinct had told him that he was about to be caught up in the web again. He had struggled against it vainly, seeing no reason why he should allow himself to be made use of rather than someone else. But now Sir Pellinore had produced a reason, against which there was no conceivable argument. Slowly, he drank the rest of his brandy, then said bitterly:

  “All right. Since there is no alternative, I’ll do as you wish.”

  “Thank God!” exclaimed Sir Pellinore. “Here! Give me that tumbler, will you? I’m going to knock off the rest of this Kümmel. Heaven knows, I need it.”

  “Not as much as I do,” muttered the Duke. “Damn you, I’ll change my mind unless you give me half.”

  At that they both laughed; the tension was relaxed and they sat down to finish the bottle between them, while they debated the situation with the mutual liking and respect they really felt for one another.

  Actually, there was little more to be said. They discussed the possibility of de Richleau returning to Belgrade before the 16th of June, in order to gain additional time in which to work, but decided against it as being directly contrary to Dimitriyevitch’s instructions, so too liable to arouse his suspicions. It was, therefore, simply a question of the Duke acting on the orders he already had, then discovering details of Dimitriyevitch’s intentions, if he possibly could, in time for the British Foreign Office to take measures which might either forestall or render them abortive. As an example, Sir Pellinore suggested that if Serbia was about to make a formal demand that Austria should grant Home Rule to Bosnia, the British Government could pour cold water on that powder barrel by getting in first with a proposal that a conference of the nations should be called to discuss the matter: but he had neither instructions to give, nor advice to offer. He had come to Vienna only to secure a continuance of the Duke’s help and, having achieved his object, now proposed to leave for home on the next express.

  In the first light of the summer dawn, de Richleau saw his visitor off in a night-hawk cab, then he went thoughtfully up to bed.

  When he awoke, the sun was shining through the chinks of the heavy curtains and he found that it was close on eleven o’clock. Unhappily, he recalled his midnight interview and the new commitment with which it had landed him: but he quickly decided that as there was over a fortnight still before he could take any steps in the matter, the less he thought about it the better. Moreover, he had other urgent affairs to occupy him; for to have Königstein in a fit state to entertain the Heir Apparent there in twelve days time was no light undertaking.

  After sending off a telegram to his steward, to meet him at the castle on Sunday afternoon, his first requirement was to secure a suitable staff, and in this he sought Frau Sacher’s help. Although it was Saturday, she enabled him to interview a butler, a chef and a housekeeper that afternoon, all of whom he engaged on her recommendation. To them he left the task of engaging underservants required in their respective departments, with instructions that they and their teams should report for duty at Königstein on the following Tuesday.

  Next, he had to find a lady who would act as official hostess for him—nominally to be responsible for the comfort of his women guests and take charge of his female staff. The problem was not easy as he would normally have chosen one of several old friends, but all of them were women whom he knew would be averse from openly associating themselves with an entertainment given for Sophie von Hohenberg. But on pondering the matter, he recalled a Countess Prava who had been a friend of his father’s, and whom he had met again recently. She was of good birth and at one time had been a great beauty, but had not married till comparatively late in life, and then to a Czech who, some years later, had gone bankrupt and committed suicide. Now, in greatly reduced circumstances, she was endeavouring to keep up appearances and bring out two daughters. Unforeseen objections apart, she seemed the very person for the role, as she was grande dame in her own right, but had Czech associations and should welcome a party for her girls of the sort that she could not possibly afford to give. The Duke promptly dispatched a note to her by hand, asking if he might call upon her the following morning.

  At mid-day he presented himself to his father’s old flame. On his explaining matters, and tactfully intimating that he would be responsible for the dressmaker’s bills of the Prava ladies for the occasion, the Countess at once expressed her willingness to act for him, and they proceeded to draw up a provisional list of guests for submission to the Archduke.

  De Richleau calculated that the castle would accommodate about thirty guests, in addition to themselves; but from his boyhood he had known a number of families in the neighbourhood and felt he could rely on them to put up a further fifty or so for the night of the dance. With these neighbours, the list ran to just over a hundred, and included, besides the suites of Franz-Ferdinand and Ilona Theresa, Conrad von Hötzendorf, Count Tisza, Count Hoyos, and a number of other prominent personalities.

  That afternoon, the Duke left for Königstein to undertake a herculean labour. It was several years since he had even visited the castle, let alone lived in it for any length of time, and he knew that many of the rooms had not been occupied since his father’s day; so he dreaded the state in which he might find them. His only comfort was that he had always allocated a reasonable amount from the revenues of the estate to th
e upkeep of the castle, and when he arrived there he found to his relief that his steward had not misapplied them.

  The castle was picturesquely situated on a bend in the Danube. Its pointed turrets rose two hundred feet above the river, but a large part of it had been modernised, and from a terrace on its south side gardens sloped down to the water’s edge.

  A thorough inspection showed that the roofs of the building had been kept in good repair, and damp prevented from penetrating the walls by the occasional lighting of fires in all the principal rooms in winter. But the place was much too large for the caretaker and his family, who were its only permanent occupants, to keep properly cleaned. Coverings protected most of the best furniture, but little clouds of dust puffed up round their feet as they walked across the carpets of the upstairs rooms, and in some places mice had battened unchecked on hangings and materials.

  De Richleau congratulated his people on matters being no worse after his long absence, but said that within a week every room in the castle must be spotless. He told his steward that servants would be arriving to help on Tuesday, and in the meantime at least a hundred men and women must be mustered from the estate to start next day on a thorough spring cleaning.

  On the Monday morning he was up himself by six, and as soon as the emergency cleaners arrived organised them into groups for various duties. Great cauldrons of water were boiled in the laundry for washing covers and curtains; scores of carpets were carried out into the grounds, hung on ropes and beaten; twenty women were put to scrubbing floors, and another twenty to polishing furniture. The place was a bedlam, a fog of dust and a sea of soapy water; but through it all the Duke moved as quietly and efficiently as if he were directing a battle; and by Tuesday afternoon, when the professional servants arrived, although a host of matters still required attention, order was beginning to emerge out of chaos.

  First thing on Wednesday, he set off in a hired car on a round of visits to his neighbours. Some were away from home, but those whom he found in residence were delighted to hear that Königstein was to be opened up again, and that the Heir Apparent was shortly to come there on a visit. Only one stuffy old lady declined to meet the Duchess of Hohenberg; the others readily accepted, and willingly agreed to put up some of de Richleau’s guests.

  That evening he returned to Vienna and, after dinner, called at a first-class livery stable, where he selected a handsome bay mare for the following morning. Half past seven next morning saw him mounted on her and riding out towards the Prater. Just under the railway bridge, near the main entrance to the six square miles of park and playgrounds, he pulled up, and sat waiting eagerly to see again the lovely girl, for a few hours of whose company he was putting himself to such vast labour and expense. From the bridge ran the splendid Hauptallee that intersected the Prater lengthways, so he felt confident that in whatever part of the park Ilona meant to ride she would enter it that way.

  Soon after eight she arrived, but in a carriage and pair, with Paula von Wolkenstein beside her and Adam Grünne opposite. On seeing the sulky-faced little Baroness, de Richleau swore under his breath, looked quickly away and made no move to draw attention to himself. As he was in the shadow of the bridge he hoped that she had not noticed him loitering there. When the carriage had passed, he turned his mount and followed it at a discreet distance, praying that Ilona’s horses were waiting for her a mile or so farther along the avenue, and that when she was mounted he would have a better chance of appearing to run into her by accident.

  As he rode along he now had the Wurstelprater on his left. It was a big area devoted to a permanent fair-ground, with merry-go-rounds, marionette theatres, scenic railways, grottoes, a dozen restaurants and a score of booths, where the Viennese enjoyed themselves by the thousand on Sundays, and took their children up in the great wheel to see the panorama of their lovely city. Then, to the right and left spread the Prater gardens, with innumerable walks shaded by fine trees and flower-beds set in green lawns. On one side lay a chain of lakes and on the other rose the vast Rotunde which periodically housed Vienna’s exhibitions.

  On that morning in early June there were as yet few people about, but the scene breathed the essence of happiness, security and pleasure. It seemed difficult to believe that the brutalised armies of hostile invaders had camped there more than once; yet the black thought crossed de Richleau’s mind that in the dark future, which now seemed to loom so close ahead, they might soon do so again.

  It was not until Ilona’s carriage reached the end of the gardens opposite the stadium, that it drew up, and there, as the Duke had hoped, grooms were waiting with horses for her party. When they were mounted, he continued to follow at a distance for another half mile. As they turned off on to the open parkland that now bordered the long avenue on either side, he did likewise and, putting his mare into a canter, set off in a wide semi-circle which would presently bring him round face to face with them.

  He rode straight at the group until he was within fifty yards of it; then, as though suddenly recognising Ilona, swept off his hat and swerved his mare away in deference to her approach. But she had already been watching him for some minutes, and now called to him to come to her.

  As they halted, barely a yard apart, he thought, as always on seeing her afresh, that there could be no one lovelier. The early morning air had whipped her fresh complexion into milk and roses, and her deep blue eyes were sparkling in the sunshine. But the Baroness Paula was too close at hand for them to exchange a word in private.

  Ilona greeted him as though they had not met since they had danced together at the Czernins, and asked how he was enjoying his stay in Vienna. That at least gave him the opportunity of informing her of the progress of his secret plan, as he was able to say that he had been absent from the capital for some days, preparing his castle at Königstein for a party on the 10th and 11th, which His Imperial Highness the Archduke Franz Ferdinand and the Duchess of Hohenberg had consented to honour with their presence.

  Having expressed her interest, she asked him if he often rode in the Prater, and when he replied that he did so every morning when in Vienna, she graciously informed him that he might join her party now if he wished, and on any future occasion that he chanced to see it. Then she rode on with the fair little Baroness beside her, while he dropped back beside Adam Grünne.

  The dark, square-shouldered Count greeted him in a very friendly fashion, but as soon as the ladies were out of earshot he said, with a worried air: “You know, Duke, I have no wish to interfere in your affairs, but I beg you most earnestly to leave Vienna. Otherwise, this flirtation of yours with the Archduchess can only end in serious trouble.”

  De Richleau was feeling on the top of his form, and replied with a laugh: “If it were merely a flirtation, my dear Count, I would take your advice. But you are the one man to whom I can freely confess that if I had to leave Vienna, I would leave behind my heart.”

  “I am sorry to hear that, but it does not affect the fact that sooner or later your secret pursuit of her is bound to be remarked.”

  “Why should it be, if I use all possible discretion?”

  Count Adam’s brown eyes were full of foreboding as he answered: “Because she has an impulsive nature and lacks your experience in concealing her thoughts. If she continues to regard your attentions merely as an amusement, you may escape. But the danger is that she may fall in love with you. Should that happen, she is almost certain to commit some folly which will lead to your ruin and disgrace.”

  For a moment the Duke could find no reply, then he said: “Supposing that our positions were reversed—that you were in my shoes and Fraulein Sárolta was the Archduchess—would you then leave Vienna?”

  “You’ve got me there,” grinned the Count. “Of course I shouldn’t.”

  On that the conversation ended, as Ilona had just set off at a gallop, and the rest of them were hard put to it to keep up with her, even for a few hundred yards. The little Baroness soon dropped behind and Count Adam, although better mo
unted than the Duke, purposely let him get a lead; so that when Ilona reined in near the Lusthaus right at the far end of the Hauptallee, he was only a length behind her.

  Turning in her saddle, she said quickly: “Not to-morrow. Sárolta is indisposed. Come on Saturday.” Then the thunder of hooves drowned his swift assent as the others caught up with them.

  The Lusthaus had once been an Imperial hunting lodge, but was now a café, and at it the two ladies drank glasses of milk while still seated in their saddles. Then the party cantered back along a ride parallel with the avenue, to the place where the carriage was waiting. There, with a few polite words, Ilona dismissed the Duke, and he watched her drive away until she was out of sight.

  That day and the next he spent in a fever of activity, making a hundred preparations for the party. Frau Sacher helped him with the menus, and promised that her own chefs should provide a score of special dishes; but dozens of different foods had to be ordered elsewhere; also wines, cigars and flowers. He engaged a famous dance band and cars to transport them, bought two hundred pounds worth of fireworks and dispatched half a dozen skilled men to Königstein to start erecting the set pieces; then hired a big pleasure steamer for a water picnic on the Danube, and a stable full of horses for riding. In addition, feeling that the hangings, covers and cushions in some of the rooms badly needed renewing, he bought hundreds of yards of fine materials and had them sent out with seamstresses, to be made up on the spot.

  By Friday night he reckoned that at a rough estimate he had committed himself for well over £2,000 to pay for forty hours of entertainment, out of which he would be lucky if he could get Ilona to himself for forty minutes. But he was now madly in love with her, so did not grudge a penny of it.

  On Saturday morning he met her with Sárolta and Adam Grünne half-way along the Hauptallee. As soon as they were well away from it, among the trees of the park, she beckoned him up to her and sent Sárolta back to ride with Adam. Further than that, she dared not go. Even in the less frequented parts of the Prater there were always a few people about, and everyone knew her by sight; so had she ridden off with de Richleau to any distance from the others, it might have been thought that she was riding alone with him, and started a scandal. But she gave him her most dazzling smile and lowered her voice to ask: “How is my true knight this morning?”