CHAPTER VI
THE CAPSIZED BOAT
Nextmorning I could hardly persuade myself that what I had seen the night before had not been all a dream. In the bright sunshine and in the active work-a-day life of the city, the ghastly business seemed impossible. But the effect of my experience lay heavy on my mind. I felt I could do nothing. As a State affair it was no business of mine to interfere; I could not decide even whether I should tell Von Lindheim what I knew. I was to see him late that afternoon, and had the greater part of the day at my disposal. Thinking that exercise would be the best means of shaking off my depression, I determined to revert to an old sport of mine, rowing. Accordingly, after a late breakfast, I hired the lightest sculling boat I could find, and went for a pull up the river. A picturesque stream, the Narvo, when once you get clear of the wharves, mills, warehouses, and like unromantic accessories; but the worst piece of water for a steady pull that I had ever dipped oar into, and I had tried a good many, from the Wensum to the Danube. No sooner did I get into my swing and the craft began to slip along, than I had to hold her up for an eyot, or a patch of aggressive water lilies, varied by what answers in those parts for a weir, or a superfluous, if picturesque waterfall.
But the clearing of the obstacles was all in the day’s work. I was not bound against time for the source of the river, so pushed, hauled, and puntedenergetically, thinking the change of working muscles no bad thing. As a reward for my perseverance I presently got away from all signs of the town; the banks grew higher and, with their overhanging bushes, something like our Wye, shut out the hideous chimneys and other unromantic evidences of Buyda’s commercial prosperity. As I pulled leisurely up a comparatively clear reach, my train of thought was snapped by the bow of my boat striking against some light object. I looked round and saw I had run against a floating scull. I took it into my boat, thinking some one might have let it slip and been unable to recover it, an awkward mishap not uncommon with duffers; then I rowed on, thinking to come across the owner before long. The sound of rushing water warned me that I was approaching another of the weirs, of which just then I was getting rather tired, since they meant haulage. Beyond a sharpish bend the river widened considerably, the current became stronger, and, looking ahead, I could see an obstacle, half weir, half natural waterfall, with the usual rotten posts and dilapidated rails. I pulled on, undecided whether to take the trouble of carrying my craft round or to return, when a stroke took me beyond, and so in sight of an object lying caught in the sedge outside the current.
A capsized boat.
I did not like the look of it. “That accounts for the scull,” I said, and pulled round to examine her. No one was to be seen on the banks, which were flat and open here. I ran my boat alongside the overturned craft. With some difficulty I righted her. A row-boat, similar to mine, she was of course empty, except that, jammed under the thwarts was a walking-stick, an ordinary bamboo with a hook handle and the usual silver band. This I threw into my boat, and then got ashore. Not a soul was in sight. Iwalked up a good way past the fall, giving an occasional shout, but there was no sign of any human being, dead or alive, and the one seemed now as much to be looked for as the other.
So I returned to my boat without having got nearer to the mystery, and now determined to pull homewards, for the river up higher did not promise much reward for my exertions. As I went back, however, I looked sharply about for any further evidences of a boating accident, but found none. It looked to me very much as though the boat had gone over the fall, and the walking-stick decidedly pointed to someone having been in her. But I came to the conclusion that even then if the fellow could swim and had kept his head he would probably have got off, with an extremely unpleasant ducking, as the fall was not great, and the water below clear of obstacles and fairly deep.
At the landing-stage I told my story, but the capsized boat did not belong to the owner of mine, and the subject consequently lacked interest for him. There had been accidents over the falls, he told me; but it was people’s own fault and stupidity. One of his men, however, thought he had seen a gentleman rowing up earlier in the day, but did not recognize him, or know where the boat had been hired. That was all; so not seeing what more I could be expected to do, I went back to the hotel, calling, however, at the police office on my way to give information of what I had found. The officer in charge phlegmatically assured me that the matter should be looked into, and bowed me out.
Having changed my clothes, I went on to Von Lindheim’s. He had not returned home, although it was past his usual hour, but shortly after my arrival he made his appearance. He seemed in better spirits, and I was glad to notice that the cloud of theprevious evening had passed away. He had been detained at the Chancellerie, he said, by extra work; D’Urban was away, whether on leave or through illness he had not been able to find out.
“It was rather hard on me,” Von Lindheim said, “but I had to stay over a stupid protocol, although I told Krause, our chief, that I was taking an English friend to the theatre. However, we have just time for a short dinner, and the coffee we can get between the acts.”
We were going togetheren garçonto see Harff in Shylock, and accordingly sat down to a hurried meal.
It had been in progress scarcely ten minutes when word came in that Von Lindheim’s friend and colleague, Szalay, was waiting to see him on most urgent business.
“I told the Herr you were engaged, sir,” said the servant, “but he said he must see you without delay.”
My friend looked grave, and jumping up with a word of apology to me, hurried from the room. I concluded that the visit had to do with the discovery of Von Orsova’s death, and began to turn over in my mind whether I ought to say what I knew. But after all, I argued, it has nothing to do with these men; I had better perhaps ignore a matter of which I have no right to be cognizant. In a few minutes Von Lindheim returned, followed by his visitor.
“You are a man of the world, my dear Tyrrell, and we have come to put a case before you.”
I nodded assent.
“Szalay here has called to see me on a very serious matter indeed. He has been challenged to fight a duel.”
I whistled. “Who’s your man?”
“A ridiculous little ass in the Royal Guard here; a fellow who is always swaggering about full of hisown importance, a certain Captain Rassler de Hayn, or Hahn, as he is nicknamed.”
“And the cause of the quarrel?”
Szalay broke in eagerly: “None that I can tell of. He sends a friend to me to say that I have spoken disrespectfully of him, and so insulted his uniform, his corps, the army, and the King. He will hear of no apology.”
“Fire-eating little fool!” Von Lindheim ejaculated.
“But perhaps you have insulted him, and all the rest of it?”
“Not particularly. Everybody laughs at the little spit-fire, you understand; I have laughed with the rest. But not to his face; I have manners.”
“De Hayn is a dead shot and a clever swordsman,” Von Lindheim observed grimly. “These fools are not wanting in pluck.”
“But why has he challenged me of all men?” Szalay cried, with a gesture of bewilderment.
Lindheim gave a shrug. “Who can account for the action of a conceited fathead? Szalay has come to ask me to act for him. Of course, the whole affair is ridiculous, still it may end seriously if we treat it as lightly as it deserves. I must go and see this Lieutenant Paulssen without delay. What line would you take?”
“You come to the worst man in the world when you put such a case to an Englishman,” I answered, “for——”
“I know. You have no duels, and hold them supremely absurd. But as a man of the world——”
“Don’t call me that, even in a complimentary sense,” I returned. “But so far as my advice goes, it would be to see this Lieutenant Paulssen, assure him that your principal has no recollection of having spoken disrespectfully of his, far less of any intention to do so; that his man has been misinformed, andgenerally to apologize for any careless word by which he may have unwittingly reflected upon that constructive list of institutions he is so jealous of. That’s one way.”
“And the other?”
“Well, are you good with the sword or pistol? I presume you, as the challenged, will have choice of weapons.”
“My dear Tyrrell, fighting is out of the question. One man is a professional cut-throat; Szalay is a diplomat.”
“I have not handled a sword since I left the university,” his friend added.
“Naturally you don’t want to fight, no sane man does, especially over such imbecility. Though, of course, if you could hit this little bouncer it would be doing society a good service.”
“Well, I’ll go and see Paulssen at his quarters within the next hour,” Von Lindheim said, “and you shall know the result.”
So Szalay went off, in no very easy frame of mind.
“The worst of this business is,” my host remarked when we were alone, “that this Paulssen is himself a hot-headed young fool. He probably will not want this affair stopped, if he calculates on an opportunity for showing off. I must tell him he is only likely to make an exhibition of himself. Now, I’m sorry to hurry you. We may as well start together, and I will join you after the first act.”
On our way I found that the news I had been all day expecting had burst upon the city. Newsvendors were crying the “terrible suicide of Herr Rittmeister von Orsova.” The sudden announcement came as a shock to Von Lindheim, yet it did not seem to strike him as in any way unaccountable. I could see that he, like myself, knew more of the affair than he cared to tell. We bought a paper, and read it eagerlyin the street. Von Orsova had been found by a servant early that morning lying dead in a corner of the great ball-room of the palace. By his side was an empty phial containing hydrocyanic acid; the unfortunate Rittmeister had evidently taken his own life, but the reason for the act was, up to that time, enveloped in mystery.
My companion looked very grave as he folded up the paper.
“I am not surprised,” he remarked simply, adding in a lower tone, “the game he was playing could scarcely end otherwise. Well, I must leave you here, and see this fellow. I will be at the theatre as soon as possible.”
About the middle of the second act he dropped quietly into the seat beside me.
“What success?” I whispered.
He shook his head. “None. I fear Szalay must fight, and if he does——” He gave an expressive shrug.
When the act was over we strolled out for coffee and a cigarette.
“De Hayn means to fight,” Von Lindheim said in answer to my inquiry. “Paulssen was instructed not to entertain any suggestion of an apology or explanation. Szalay is a dead man.”
“Can’t we have the affair stopped?” I suggested. “Surely it is not countenanced by the law.”
“No; but winked at, and, in the army, permitted under certain circumstances. There is only one chance that I see. The Chancellor is against duelling; he thinks it retrograde, and he is all for progress. If I could contrive that he had wind of it——”
A smart young fellow had come up to us and clapped him on the shoulder.
“My dear Von Lindheim, the Baroness Fornbach has sent me to tell you that she has been trying for thelast half-hour to catch your eye. But you are full of secrets this evening. You are to come to her box without fail, and disclose them to her. No; seriously, she wants to see you. Of course bring your friend.”
Von Lindheim introduced us, and we three went off to the Baroness’s box.
“I hope you don’t mind, old fellow; but I can’t throw a chance away to-night. The Baroness is good style and great fun.”
When we entered the box we found it occupied by two people. A man was in animated conversation with the Baroness. He had his back turned to me, and seemed to be finishing a good story, for they were both laughing as the man rose and made way for us. Von Lindheim presented me to the Baroness, a good-looking widow, still young, and evidently a woman of fashion. We shook hands, and she said a few graceful words to me, then, with a slight gesture, introduced me casually to her companion.
“Count, you know Herr von Lindheim? Mr. Tyrrell, Count Furello.”
Turning to bow, I found myself face to face with the man who had accosted me by Duke Johann’s chapel the night before, the man who had forced Von Orsova to his death. I knew him at once, despite the fact that both my former views of him had been imperfect; the feline eyes that glittered from the dark recess of the box were unmistakable. And a curious-looking man he was; a man whom at first sight and without my previous knowledge of him, one would hardly have known whether to set down as attractive or detestable, but certainly interesting.
He had a mass of straight chestnut hair brushed back from a high narrow forehead and falling in a thick even wall over the back of his head. His eyes were dark and alert, set a trifle too close together, his nose was long and thin, and his mouth drawn back bywhat seemed an habitual muscular contraction into a set grin, making a straight slit across his face in no way hidden by the small reddish moustache which was turned upwards well away from it. No doubt he, too, recognized me; however, he gave no sign of it, only made me a courtly bow with a few murmured words of compliment. I turned again as the Baroness spoke.
“Is it out of compliment to Mr. Tyrrell’s nationality that you have been too much absorbed in Shakespeare to notice your friends in the house, Herr von Lindheim?”
He made a—to me—obvious effort to throw off his worry, as he replied:
“No, indeed; I cannot claim such ultra politeness. Harff is at his very best to-night.”
“You are giving yourself a poor character as a diplomatist, Herr von Lindheim,” said Count Furello, “in confessing that even the excitement of superb acting can blind you to the realities of life around you.”
He said this very genially, almost banteringly, but the man’s good-humoured tone and laugh were obviously a mask; behind his easy manner and glib talk there was the suggestion of a sinister purpose; it was a personality which in any case would have kept me on my guard.