Her Royal Highness: A Romance of the Chancelleries of Europe

“The brute,” whispered Waldron loudly to his companion. “He shall answer to me for this!”

“But I appeal to you,” she implored; “I – ”

“It is useless. I gave you an excellent opportunity of recovering your letters, but you have not taken it. The bargain, I repeat, was a fair and straightforward one. You wanted your letters – I wanted the key plan. But – ” and he hesitated as though a sudden suggestion had crossed his mind. “Just wait a few moments. I have forgotten something in my room. I will not be a minute or two – and then we can resume this highly interesting conversation.”

And the two men listening breathlessly heard the door open and shut, and then the silence was broken only by Lola’s low, despairing sobs within.

Chapter Thirty Two.

Through the Night

A quarter of an hour passed, but the spy of Austria did not return.

Both Waldron and the detective stood in wonder near the door conversing in low whispers.

Nearly half an hour went by, and they could only hear Her Highness pacing the room in her mad despair. Yet Flobecq had not returned.

“Is it possible that he could have overheard my threat of vengeance!” exclaimed the Englishman to his companion. “Has he suspected that the conversation has been heard and left the hotel?”

“Madonna mia! He may have done, signore,” Pucci replied. “He is a most alert person.”

“Go out and make inquiry. I will remain here. He knows me.”

“He knows me also,” laughed the Italian. “I kept observation upon him once in Livorno, where he was conducting some negotiations regarding the purchase of plans of two of our battleships being built in Orlando’s yard. That is why I have recognised him. He scented danger on that occasion and fled.”

“Just as he has now done, I fear,” said Hubert. “Go quickly and make inquiries.”

Ten minutes later the brigadier re-entered and said excitedly:

“He’s gone! He had a motor-car awaiting him round in the Via del Duomo. It was a strange car, a long, grey, open one, they say. It had been waiting an hour. The chauffeur was a Frenchman. They left by the Porta Maggiore, and have evidently taken the direction of Bolsena. He took his hand-bag with him, and left a fifty-lire note for his hotel bill.”

“Then he must have overheard me!” gasped Waldron dismayed. “By Jove! he’s got away, and with the Princess’s letters in his possession. What bad luck!”

By this time, of course, Pucci was aware of the whole circumstances.

Hubert Waldron was a man of action. Without a second’s hesitation he rapped at the door of the next room, and confronting Lola, who almost fainted at his sudden and unexpected appearance, explained how he had followed her, and listened to the tragic story as revealed by her conversation with the notorious Mijoux Flobecq.

“Then you know, Mr Waldron! You know all!” she gasped, her face pale as death.

“Everything,” he answered hastily. They were alone together, for Pucci had gone out to hire a car. “But I have no time to lose. The spy has escaped us, and we must follow instantly if we are to be successful in preventing this exposure. Return at once to Rome, and behave just as though nothing whatever had happened. Trust in me, Lola,” he said, and looking straight into her eyes he took her small hand gently in his, and raised it in reverence to his lips.

“Yes,” she whispered in a low, intense voice. “You are my only friend, Mr Waldron. I will put my entire trust in you.”

“Then addio– for the present,” he said hastily. “I have not a second to spare. I will do all I can to save you from exposure and scandal, Lola. So remain calm, and leave all to me.”

“I do – I do,” she answered frantically. “Ah! what should I do at this moment without your kind aid?”

“No, no,” he protested, again bowing and kissing her hand in his courtly manner.

He dared not kiss her upon the lips, though he was sorely tempted.

“Au revoir,” he said. “Return to Rome as soon as ever you can, I beg of you. Fear nothing from either Ghelardi or this spy who has vanished.”

And he hurried out, down the wide stone stairs of the great prison-like old palace, a fortress in the days of the Cinquecento, but now turned into an albergo.

Pucci stood below. A car would be round in ten minutes – the best and most powerful he could obtain. But of hire cars in the remote town of Orvieto not much could be expected, therefore when half an hour later they found themselves speeding in the twilight through the hills and dales of the white, dusty road towards the Lake of Bolsena they were not surprised to find that the engine had a nasty knock, and its firing distinctly bad.

The chauffeur, a dark, beetle-browed young man of the debonair giovanotto type, had, however, entered fully into the spirit of the chase, and was travelling with all speed, following the tracks of Flobecq’s car, which could be distinctly discerned in the thick white dust.

In the little town of Bolsena, beside the lake, they ascertained that a grey car had come swiftly through, and had turned to the right at the water’s edge, taking the road which at the end of the lake branched in two directions, one leading westwards to the sea at Orbetello, forty-five miles or so as the crow flics, or about ninety by road, while the other led direct north, the highway to Siena and Firenze.

It had now grown too dark to see the tracks in the dust, therefore taking their head-lamps they made careful examination of the road, but, alas! upon both they saw motor tracks which seemed in that uncertain light to be exactly similar.

Truly Mijoux Flobecq was an elusive person.

In that, one of the wildest and most unfrequented parts of Italy, where even to-day the motorist is lucky if he is not stoned, and where the peasantry are uncouth and hardly civilised, a night journey was not at all inviting.

After a brief consultation they both agreed that the most probable intention of the fugitive – if his suspicions had been aroused, as was most likely – would be to go north, join the railway on the main line to Florence, and probably get out of the country immediately, carrying with him the Princess’s letters.

The coup had failed, and Lola knowing him to be a spy, might reveal the truth. Flobecq was wary enough to foresee such an awkward eventuality. Hence his headlong flight, which had, no doubt, been cunningly arranged, as were all his rapid journeys.

Hubert was just about to mount into the car and continue northward along the straight, well-made road which ran first to Acquapendente and then to Radicofani – a village of bad repute on the top of a conical hill, where every car was stoned as it passed, the King’s included – when his quick ears caught a sound.

A motor cyclist was coming rapidly along the road leading westward.

As he approached Pucci hailed him, and he pulled up.

“Have you met a big, open, grey car half an hour or so ago?” the detective inquired of the young man, who seemed surprised at being thus stopped.

“Yes. It passed me just as I came out of Pitigliano village. At least I suppose it must have been the car you mention. The lights were out, and it was travelling very swiftly.”

“Going towards Orbetello – eh?”

“Yes. That is the only place it can reach. The road runs quite straight down the valley, and there are no branches until you get to the sea at Albegna.”

“He’s gone to Orbetello, no doubt,” Hubert exclaimed. “He will catch the express for Turin from there. We must make all haste possible.”

Then, thanking the motor cyclist for his information, the car was backed and turned, and soon they were tearing through the gathering darkness down a long, winding valley which echoed to the roar of their engine and the constant hoot of their horn.

Steep and dangerous was the road in many places, with a loose surface and a number of sharp turns. The drive was a wild one, but if Flobecq was to be intercepted before he caught the night express for the frontier they would have to drive madly.

The beetle-browed chauffeur of Orvieto drove as he had never driven before, though Italians are noteworthy as dare-devil drivers. They passed through Pitigliano – where the cyclist had met the fugitive – and on again into the wild, dark mountains to Manciano, a remote place in the midst of high, barren precipices. Then, after a steep descent, they at last, after nearly two and a half hours, met a drover who confirmed the cyclist, and said that a motor without lights had gone past long ago, after nearly running him down.

The chase was, indeed, exciting.

The Englishman and his companion sat in the car full of eager anxiety. Once Flobecq gained the train at its stopping-place, Orbetello – that quaint old town on the Mediterranean shore – then he would escape, as without a warrant he could not be detained.

So they urged on the chauffeur, who now drove with all the nerve and daring he possessed. The night became thick and black with those dark, low clouds which in spring in Italy are so frequent, and herald a thunderstorm.

The storm came at last, just about eleven. The lightning flashed and the thunder rolled, echoing and reverberating along the valley where the road ran beside the rushing torrent on its way to the sea.

Then, after four hours of the most exciting drive that either man had experienced, they came to the junction of the Albegna River, and then out upon a broad road across a plain, straight toward the open sea.

After a further eighteen miles or so, a red light showed suddenly – the light of a level railway crossing. They had at last gained the main line which runs by the Maremme from Rome to Pisa – the main line to Genoa and Turin.

Passing the crossing, the gates closed behind them with a clang almost immediately, and then, the road ran parallel with the railway for many miles towards ancient Orbetello with its ponderous walls and the sea.

Hubert bent, and striking a match with difficulty, looked at his watch. It wanted eighteen minutes to midnight.

He and his companion had on the way calculated that if they lost no time they could reach Orbetello, which was one of the stopping-places of the night express from Rome for Paris, just before the train was due to arrive.

Twice after leaving the mountains they had news of the car they were chasing, once from a shepherd and again from two mounted carabinieri. If they could reach Orbetello they might prevent Flobecq from leaving.

“We must not yet demand his arrest,” the Englishman said to the man at his side. “If we did then it would result in just the thing we are endeavouring to avoid – exposure!”

“No, signore. We must catch him up and keep in touch with him until you decide what action to take in Her Highness’s interests.”

The chauffeur, urged on by Hubert, drove with reckless speed, with the railway line always on their left, and now and then passing red and green, signals, and the small, lonely houses of the watchmen of the line.

Already in the far distance could be seen the lights of the little town out at the end of a promontory at the foot of the high, dark Monte Argentario, rising straight from the sea, a corner of Italy which no one ever visits, though it is on the direct sea road to Rome.

“At last!” cried Waldron excitedly, pointing out the lights.

“Yes, signore, that is Orbetello!” declared Pucci. “But see,” he added quickly. “See that single light on the left yonder! Is it not moving – coming towards us?”

Hubert strained his eyes in the direction which the detective pointed.

“By gad! yes. Why – why it’s a train. And it is coming towards us!” he gasped.

At that moment they passed a signal which fell, showing the line to be clear.

Both men sat silent, watching the rather dim but fast-approaching light.

Yes, assuredly it was a train which had stopped at Orbetello and was now on its way towards the north!

On it came swiftly, with a red glare showing from the furnace, until suddenly, with a bursting roar, it thundered past.

Hubert saw the two long sleeping-cars with their blinds closely drawn.

“It’s the express!” he cried, dismayed. “The Paris express! The spy has caught it – and escaped!”

Pucci said nothing. He sat silent, turning to watch the red tail-lamps as the express bore on its way and out of sight.

And until the car reached the railway station at Orbetello, theft dark and deserted, with lights turned down, no further word was uttered by either man.

Of a sleepy porter Hubert, as he dashed out of the car, made quick inquiry.

“Si, signore,” replied the man. “An open car drove up a few moments before the express came in, and a signore got out and bought a ticket for Turin, and left by the train. The car went away at once, away in the direction of Montalto and Rome.”

Hubert described the man Flobecq, and according to the porter the description fitted exactly.

After that the two men returned to the car and held consultation.

“The train is due in Turin about eleven to-morrow morning. We cannot reach there before three in the afternoon.”

“If the individual is making for France he will proceed at eleven-thirty, and be across the frontier before we can reach Turin,” Pucci remarked thoughtfully.

“Exactly. Our only plan is to have him met at Turin and followed, and a report sent to us at Turin as soon as he arrives at his destination. He may go on to Milan, and thence to Trieste and Vienna – who knows? We must therefore telephone to the Questore in Turin to send down a sharp detective to pick him up and travel with him. You, Pucci, must use your authority as brigadier of detective police and make the request to the Questore.”

At once the detective called the porter and sent him for the stationmaster who, as soon as he ascertained the detective’s position, opened the office and upon the telephone called up the central police bureau at Turin.

For fully half an hour there was no reply.

At last a voice responded, whereupon the detective at the instrument explained that he was Brigadier Pucci of the brigade mobile of Rome, that he was following a dangerous person named Flobecq, alias Pujalet, who was in the Paris express due at Turin at eleven next morning.

Then he made an urgent request that he should be met, and followed abroad if he attempted to leave Italy. Again there was a silence for ten minutes, while the request was placed before the detective superintendent on duty.

At last came the request for the description of the fugitive, and this Pucci gave slowly, with professional exactness, so that it could be taken down.

“He is a very clever and elusive person, and no doubt suspects he may be followed,” Pucci added. “Therefore the greatest caution is necessary not to let him discover that observation is being kept. I am at Orbetello, and am coming on to Turin by the next train to report personally to the Questore.”

The voice in return assured the detective that the fugitive would be met and watched by one of the shrewdest officers available.

“Benissimo! I shall arrive about three. Please tell the Questore that the matter is a strictly confidential one – a private inquiry instituted by the direction of His Majesty the King.”

“Your message shall be sent to the Questore to his home at once,” the voice replied, and their communication was interrupted.

Would they be successful in cutting off the spy’s retreat?

Suspecting that he would be followed, he might leave the train at Pisa and go on to Florence, and thence to Milan. Or again, at Genoa he might decide to continue along to Ventimiglia and thus across the frontier into France at that point.

Hubert pointed out these loopholes of escape, whereupon Pucci returned to the telephone and was presently speaking to the Commissary of Police at the station of Ventimiglia, giving him a description of the fugitive, and asking that he might be followed. And afterwards he spoke to the police officer at Pisa station, warning him in similar manner.

Thus all that they could do from that dark, lonely, obscure little town they did, yet Hubert’s thoughts were chiefly with Lola. He was wondering if she had yet returned to Rome.

The startling truth which he had learnt while listening to the conversation in Orvieto that evening had staggered him.

The spy, Flobecq, still held the trump card – those foolish declarations of affection and admissions of her guilt.

Truly the situation was most serious, for the honour of the Royal House of Savoy was at stake!

Chapter Thirty Three.

Spreading the Net

At half-past three next day Hubert Waldron entered the private room of the Questore, or Chief of Police at Turin, where they found a rather elegant, brown-bearded man seated at his writing-table. He instantly recognised Pucci, and quick explanations ensued.

“The man you want duly arrived here,” said the official, “and was picked up by Cimino – whom I believe you know.”

“Certainly. He was with me in Genoa some years ago,” said Pucci.

“Well, all I know is, that the man Flobecq left by the Paris express just before noon, and Cimino is with him. I had a telephone message from you to the effect that His Majesty was making an inquiry. What is it about?” he asked, gazing from the detective to the Englishman.

“At present it is confidential,” replied Pucci, rather lamely. And then he introduced Waldron as a foreign diplomat, and explained that the matter concerned diplomacy, and that the King desired the affair to be kept entirely secret.

The curiosity of the bearded official was at once curbed. Cigarettes were lit by all three, and the Questore suggested that Pucci and his companion should go to the Hôtel Europe and await word from Cimino.

“I will give orders that at any hour when a wire may arrive a copy shall be sent over to you,” he promised.

“Excellent,” exclaimed Hubert, thanking the Chief of Police, and ten minutes later the pair left the Prefecture and drove to the hotel to await developments.

Hubert telegraphed to Lola, giving her brief word of what he had done, and signing himself “Your Friend.” He feared lest somebody might open the dispatch, because for aught he knew she might have left Rome to attend the Queen upon some public function or other, as she was so often forced to do. She scarcely knew from one day to another where she might be, for King Umberto’s Queen was a capricious lady, and somewhat erratic in attending the public ceremonies which were so frequent, and entailed such long and tedious journeys from end to end of the kingdom, one day in Bari, the next in Pisa, and the next in Como. Often Their Majesties, in the fulfilment of their public duties, travelled the whole twenty-four hours in order to arrive at a memorial, to lay a foundation-stone, launch a battleship, or inspect a corps of veterans – and those twenty-four hours of train journey in summer were often the reverse of pleasant. Truly the King worked as hard as any daily toiler within his kingdom.

The Europe, overlooking the big, wide piazza in Turin, proved a quiet place, and Hubert was glad of a stretch on the bed – in his clothes – after the wild motor journey of the previous night.

About twenty-four hours later came the eagerly awaited message from the Italian detective, reporting that Flobecq had installed himself in a small obscure establishment called the Hôtel Weber in the Rue d’Amsterdam, close to the Lazare Station in Paris, and that he was apparently in treaty with a person named Bernard Stein, a journalist of evil reputation.

“He is negotiating the sale of the Princess’s letters!” Hubert gasped when he read the copy of the detective’s telegram.

Therefore, within an hour, accompanied by Pucci, he was in the express, climbing that steep railroad which leads up to Bardonnechia, and the long tunnel of the Mont Cenis.

The train was not an international one, therefore they were compelled to change at Modane, the frontier, where they took the P.L.M. rapide for Paris.

After another night journey across France, the two men alighted from a taxi at the Hôtel Weber, a small, uninviting-looking place with a dingy café beneath. It was then eight o’clock in the morning, and the valet de chambre, a clean-shaven man in shirt-sleeves and green baize apron, showed them two barely furnished rooms with the beeswaxed floors uncarpeted. They held consultation, being joined at once by the detective, Cimino, a short, stout man with small black eyes, and rather shabby clothes.

A few words sufficed to explain the situation.

He had followed Flobecq, unobserved, and had ascertained that on the previous day he had met in the Café de la Paix, a man named Stein, whom he afterwards found was an unattached journalist who wrote for certain of the most unprincipled of the Paris journals.

The two men spent several hours together, and were apparently bargaining. No agreement, he believed, had been arrived at, and they had arranged to meet again that day.

Hubert listened in silence to the man’s story, then, taking a taxi, he drove first to the British Embassy, and thence to an apartment near the Arc de Triomphe, where he was closeted for half an hour with Colonel Guy Maitland, the British military attaché.

Thence, just after half-past ten, he drove to the French Ministry of Foreign Affairs on the Quai d’Orsay, and there interviewed one of the permanent staff.

When he emerged he was accompanied back to the Hôtel Weber by a thin, insignificant-looking little man, wearing a bowler hat and grey gloves. The net was gradually being drawn around the famous spy, who had not yet left his room, and was still unconscious of how completely he was now surrounded. Truth to tell, the thin man in black was Berton, a detective inspector of the political department of the Sûreté, attached to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs.

Thus the four men waited impatiently in the hotel, Berton of the Sûreté having telephoned from the little bureau of the proprietor for two plain-clothes agents from the nearest poste of police.

At last Flobecq, on descending the stairs, was met by a waiter who told him that a gentleman was awaiting him in the little private salon on the first floor.

In surprise, he turned into the room indicated, and there came face to face with Hubert Waldron. His cheeks went pale, and he started at the unexpected encounter.

“Ah, m’sieur!” he exclaimed, with a strenuous attempt to conceal his surprise. “It is you – eh?”

“Yes, M’sieur Flobecq,” replied Hubert, at once closing the door. “I have great pleasure in meeting you again. You see your identity is well-known to me, and I require a few minutes’ private conversation with you.”

And as he uttered these words he placed himself between the spy and the door.

“Well, and what, pray, do you want with me?” asked Flobecq in French, his dark brows quickly knit with a hard, evil expression.

“I want you to hand over to me those letters you have of the Princess Luisa of Savoy,” Waldron said boldly.

The man laughed. He was well-dressed – a good-looking, easy-going figure of that type which always made an impression upon women, but which men instinctively hated.

“I have followed you here from Italy. And at Her Highness’s request I ask you for those letters. I know that you are in treaty with the journalist, Stein, regarding them. He is a dealer in scandals, and if he purchases them will, no doubt, have a ready market for them,” Hubert added.

“Your audacity is really amazing, M’sieur Waldron.”

“It may be. But I have, fortunately, gained knowledge of your heartless deception. I know the whole of the bitter circumstances; of your pretended affection for the Princess, and how you have compelled her to act as your cat’s-paw and become a thief. Further,” and he hesitated for a few seconds, “further, I am also well aware of your position as secret agent of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs at Vienna – a fact of which they are also aware, here in Paris – at the Quai d’Orsay!”

“My dear m’sieur,” laughed the other, folding his arms deliberately and facing the Englishman. “If you think you can bluff me, you are quite welcome to the illusion. The Princess is my friend – as you well know – you admitted it when we met at Brussels.”

“She was your friend. But to-day, you having been revealed as a spy of Italy’s enemy, she is no longer your friend. I am still her friend. And that is the reason of my presence here to-day. You were very clever in your escape from Orvieto, when you left her there in expectation. But there are others equally as evasive, I may assure you.” Waldron stood with his hands stuck deep in the pockets of his blue serge suit in an attitude of triumph. He could play the game of bluff equally with anyone, when occasion demanded.