The Intriguers

“It is an eccentricity of mine, Princess, that I always walk wherever I can. Shall I tell you why?”

Nada looked at him kindly. “Yes, tell me why. I cannot tell you whether it is an eccentricity until I know the reason. Personally, I am a very lazy person, and never walk when I can ride.”

Corsini leaned towards her. He could inhale the fragrance of her hair, the stronger perfume that came from the roses she wore in her corsage.

“Princess, may I reveal to you some of my inmost cherished aspirations?” His eyes were glowing, he spoke with unusual vehemence.

“I should be honoured to receive your confidences,” replied the Princess softly.

“Ah, then, since you are so indulgent, I will tell you. My career up to a few months ago was an obscure one. Music is in my blood, as it is in yours. Am I not right?”

“Yes,” replied the Princess, in an even softer voice than before. “Music is in my blood, too. Everything fades into insignificance beside those lovely rapturous sounds, such as you and a few other great artists can evoke and render in your various media: through the voice, the violin, the piano – perhaps the weakest, the least convincing of all.”

She was very lovely, very alluring, thought Corsini. She had considerable mentality, even great spirituality. Alone with his violin and her, he could so charm her that perchance she might cast off her high estate, the estate of the Princess, and venture forth with him into the world of exquisite music and unknown dreams. But the time had not come for that. She had only extended a kind and gentle friendship. He could not, at the moment, ask for more. It would be presumption on his part.

“I trust I shall not weary you,” he said, with a smile of apology. “As a violinist, I have met with some success; as the Director of the Imperial Opera, I am not quite a failure. But these successes, for what they are worth, do not put limits on my ambition. I want to be something greater than either – the successful composer.”

The Princess sighed. “Ah, that is my ambition, too. I have tried every instrument, and failed. I have composed heaps of things, but there is no originality in them. I play Chopin and try to imitate him, Wagner with the same result. I have an artistic instinct, Signor Corsini, but no creative ability. I must be a listener all my life, envying the people who render what I would give all my fortune to express.”

Corsini thought of his interview with Salmoros, when that sedate and experienced financier had expressed the inmost desires of his soul, that he would give a hundred thousand pounds out of his princely fortune to acquire half of the Italian’s executive art.

Corsini looked at her, his artist soul beaming in his expressive eyes.

“It is one of the tragedies of life, Princess. You, like my good friend Salmoros, desire to be an executant, and your fingers refuse to obey the impulses of your soul. You want to be a composer, and you cannot express your ideas. You do not create, you only imitate.”

“Alas, yes,” answered the Princess mournfully.

Corsini half rose from his seat in his agitation. “With me, Princess, it is different. The executive part comes easily to me; I do not worry about that; it is, of course, a gift. But, as I told you, I long to be a composer. That is the reason why I always walk whenever the distance is not too long.”

“Ah, yes, we have wandered far from the original subject,” answered the Princess, realising that Corsini had got upon the great theme of self, and was no longer keen to listen to the recital of her small aspirations.

“Playing in these gilded saloons, shut up in my office at the Opera, my imaginative past is dull and dead. When I walk through the silent streets watching the tide of life as it flows by, the nobleman rolling by in his carriage, the beggar cringing for alms, great thoughts come to me. Overhead at night, the stars, full of mystery and wonder, this petty world beneath! Then, Princess, my imagination awakes. I feel in me some of that divine fire which must have informed the great Beethoven when he composed ‘The Moonlight Sonata,’ some of that inspiration which moved Chopin, Wagner, and the other great masters.”

He waved his arms with a dramatic gesture. “That is why I walk rather than ride. Speaking as a composer, when I am confined in a close space, I am dead artistically. When I walk and look round on life, I find inspiration.”

He was very glowing, very impassioned. Nada felt her pulses thrill as she listened to him. But perhaps, because she was not the full and complete artist that Corsini was, she always leaned to the practical side.

“Oh, please do not think I am not capable of understanding you,” she said. “If I were the artist you are, I should break away from the narrow confines of this Palace and seek inspiration, like you, from the moon and stars, even in the silent streets.”

She paused a moment, and then added, with her full knowledge of what was lying in wait for him, “But all the same, Signor, in spite of the inspiration you may derive, I wish you would not walk home to-night. Give the moon, the stars, the silent streets the go-by for once. Wait for your inspiration till to-morrow.”

He was flattered by that direct appeal to him from such a beautiful girl, but of course, he had no idea of the reason that had prompted it.

“But, Princess, why put an embargo on this exquisite night? As I walk along, great ideas will come to me. I may be able to think of something worthy of Chopin, Schumann, even of the great Wagner himself.”

She leaned forward to him a little from her side of the divan, and her flower-like face was very close to his. He could catch the subtle perfume of her hair, the scent of the roses at her breast.

“It is just a little whim of mine, Signor Corsini. You work very hard, you are devoured by your artistic ambitions which nourish the soul, but consume the body to ashes. Do not incur unnecessary fatigue. You have your carriage waiting?”

“No, Princess, I have never any carriage waiting. I nearly always walk to my hotel – the longer the distance, the better, because I have a longer time for inspiration.”

“I know, I know,” answered Nada quietly. “I fully appreciate all this, but one may sometimes overdo it. I do not think you are looking very well to-night, Signor. You have put too great a strain upon yourself lately. You say you have no carriage waiting. Permit me to supply you with one. The courtyard is choked up with vehicles. You have only to say the word and my maid will bring you one to the side door of the Palace. You can get in there and be driven home at once, without any tedious delay.”

A delightful thought crossed his brain. Was it possible that the Princess had appreciated his respectful homage, his silent devotion? Or was this solicitude for his welfare merely the expression of a womanly compassion for the man outside her world, but claiming the common kinship of art?

His voice broke as he declined her offer. “Ten thousand thanks, but I would not put you to such trouble. You have so many guests to see to. I have already taken up too much of your time. I will walk home as usual and seek my inspiration under the stars.”

Her troubled gaze sought his. If he would only prove amenable, she could still save him – at any rate for a time – from her ruthless brother, with the aid of her faithful maid, Katerina, out of the reach of those scoundrels who were waiting to convey him – she hoped into the arms of General Beilski’s police.

But Corsini was not to be saved to-night, although two women had done their best for him. He took the hand that the Princess offered him.

“You have been so very kind. I shall always cherish you in a warm corner of my heart, for were you not one of my earliest friends? At that time, I had not many friends, Heaven knows.”

“I shall always be your friend, Signor Corsini. I only wish you would allow me to order the carriage to take you home.” The concluding words almost sounded like an entreaty.

But Corsini would pay no attention. He was resolved on walking home to seek inspiration from the clear skies and the silent streets.

At the top of the great staircase the Prince was standing, to all appearances cordiality itself. But, from a far corner of the music-salon, he had been watching with angry eyes the conversation between his sister and Corsini.

But he could afford to be indifferent; he could afford to greet the young Italian with a smile. He had laid his plans cunningly.

Zouroff accompanied him to the door, guarded by a big hall-porter. In a corner of the hall lounged a small dapper man, Peter, his valet, the lover of Katerina.

“Good-night, Signor. Have you no carriage waiting? Ah, no, I understand it is a habit of yours to walk. Good! Exercise is a fine tonic. My secretary will send you a cheque to-morrow for your services. Again, good-night!”

The door closed on the retreating Corsini. Zouroff turned swiftly to the small, dapper man, and whispered in his ear.

“After him, Peter. Come back and tell me that they have done their work.”

The hall-porter opened the door at a sign from his imperious master, and the valet went out with a slow, stealthy tread.

He followed in the wake of Corsini, who marched along gaily, his violin-case swinging from his hand, his thoughts full of the Princess Nada, who had been so sweet to him, so gracious.

He hummed one of the gayest of the many gay airs from “Il Barbiere” as he walked along. It was one of his favourite operas, one in which La Belle Quéro was inimitable.

He was in a very happy frame of mind to-night as he walked through the silent streets. He even thought tenderly of La Belle Quéro, and went to the length of forgiving her for what he had once considered her groundless jealousy of the Princess.

In the midst of these happy thoughts, four black shadows loomed up against him, four men surrounded him.

What a fool he had been not to take the Princess’s advice and drive home! St. Petersburg, like every other populous city, was full of thieves.

Blindly he struck out with his disengaged hand. Shrilly he called out for help.

One of the burly men who had surrounded him threw a handkerchief over his face. In a few seconds his struggles had ceased.

His almost inanimate form was conveyed to the waiting carriage, standing in a side street not far from the Zouroff Palace. It was bundled inside, two of the men mounted the box, the others sat inside, and the horses set off at a fast trot in the direction of the Moscow road.

The valet, Peter, strolled back home. His master was lounging about in the vestibule to await the news. Peter whispered them in his ear.

Zouroff smiled a slow smile of gratified malice.

“The bird is trapped,” he exulted as he ascended the staircase, to mingle once more with his guests.

CHAPTER XVI

After having delivered her letter in the way recorded in a previous chapter, Katerina had sped away with the swiftness of the proverbial arrow. She was well on her way home before it reached the hands of General Beilski, who was closeted with an official of high importance and could not be disturbed till the interview was finished.

The Chief of Police was, above all things, a man of action. There was nothing in the letter itself to give the least clue as to the writer, but it was evidently genuine. He came to the conclusion that the woman who had sent it was unwillingly mixed up in some plot against which her conscience revolted.

He immediately called in one of his subordinates to make arrangements for the immediate despatch of a body of mounted police to Pavlovsk, where they would lie in wait for the arriving carriage.

The man who had taken the letter from the somewhat frightened maid was called in and questioned, but his evidence was of no value. His recollections of the appearance of the young woman were very hazy. She was young, slim, and rather good-looking, but he had taken so little notice of her that he admitted that he would not be sure of recognising her if he met her again. There were other callers at the time and his attention had been distracted.

The man was dismissed, and the General and his lieutenant closely scrutinised the letter for the second time. All that they could do was to agree upon two points. The handwriting was evidently a feigned one, and also that of a person of education.

“There is one peculiar thing about it; our informant wishes to save the person threatened,” remarked the Chief; “but she evidently wishes to involve as little as possible the perpetrators. Otherwise she would have told us where the carriage was going to start from for Pavlovsk, so as to save us the trouble of going all that way. Still, when we stop the carriage, we shall be able to get something out of the scoundrels who are in charge of it.”

“Unless they are too staunch or too well paid to give away their employer,” observed the subordinate, with a shrug of his shoulders. “Many of these criminals, and none but criminals would engage in such a job, are very loyal.”

“In the good old days we would soon have made them find their tongues,” said the General with a grim smile.

That night Beilski dined alone with Golitzine and his wife. After dinner was over, the two men adjourned to the Count’s study and sat late into the night, discussing various important matters.

When they were about to separate, the General drew from his pocket the anonymous letter, and handed it to his host.

“Read that, Count, although I don’t suppose you will be able to make more out of it than I. It was left to-day by a mysterious young woman who bolted as soon as she had given it into the hands of the porter. He took very little notice of her and doubts if he would recognise her again.”

The Count read the letter slowly, and meditated for a few seconds. “Strange, very strange,” he said at length. “A person of some importance in the artistic world!”

“Does that give you any clue?” inquired Beilski. “Of course you know a good many things that I don’t, and you also mix in more worlds than I do. Is there anybody you can think of, or are acquainted with, whose removal might be useful to some person or persons?”

It was some time before a sudden flash of inspiration came to Golitzine. When it did, he spoke slowly.

“At present, mind, it is only a conjecture. But I can think of a man who would answer to the description – Corsini, the Director of the Imperial Opera.”

The General elevated his eyebrows. “From all I have heard of him – I have never met him – a most quiet, unassuming fellow. How could he give offence to anybody?”

“I must let you into one of my secrets, Beilski. This young man is acting for me in a certain matter. I have given him some information which, according to my instructions, he has divulged to somebody else, a woman.”

“Is there any objection to telling me the name of the woman?”

“As I have gone so far, I may as well go a little bit farther,” was the Count’s answer. “But, at the moment, you must remember it is only a conjecture. The woman whom I suspect of having sent that note is La Belle Quéro.”

“The woman who gives supper parties to men whom we strongly suspect, but regarding whom we have, up to the present, no actual proof,” commented Beilski.

“Precisely.” The Count looked at his watch. “That carriage has started with its freight some time ago. I think we can soon solve the problem of whether Corsini is the occupant or not.”

“Your theory is, then, either that this Madame Quéro has more conscience than her associates, or is in love with the young man and has made up her mind to save him?”

Golitzine nodded his head. “If my suspicions are wrong, Corsini is at one of two places, either at his hotel or at the Zouroff concert. He told me yesterday he was going there to-night to play. We will send round a guarded note to each, only to be delivered into his own hands.”

This was done, and the two men waited for the result. The man despatched to the Palace returned first. He had inquired for Signor Corsini and was told that he had left a long time ago.

The other messenger arrived a few seconds later. He had seen the manager of the hotel. Corsini had not come back, a most unusual thing, since for a man in his profession he kept early hours.

“The inference seems pretty clear,” observed the General. “If he had intended to stay at the house of some friends he would have told the manager. Still, he may have gone on to some other party, although I doubt it. Well, if Corsini is in that carriage, and it seems most probable, we shall soon have him back in St. Petersburg.”

“And when we get him back we must have him closely guarded,” said Golitzine; “at any rate until we have discovered the perpetrators of this outrage.”

“That may prove an easy matter, or one of great difficulty,” was Beilski’s comment. “Madame Quéro herself is, of course, no use to us. She would never admit that she wrote that letter. Do you happen to know her handwriting?”

“Yes; I have had half a dozen letters from her on professional matters. The handwriting bears not the slightest resemblance to this. But, of course, she would be too shrewd to write it herself, even in a feigned hand. She dictated it to some female accomplice.”

“By the way,” added the Count as they separated for the night, “they will bring back the occupant of the carriage, who I think we may safely presume to be Corsini, to your own quarters, of course?”

“Of course,” assented the General.

“Well, bring him on to me while his impressions are red-hot, you understand? We want to bring it home to the real instigators.”

While these two high functionaries were discussing matters, the travelling carriage, with the senseless young man inside, was proceeding on the Moscow road at a fast pace.

One of the two ruffians produced a stout piece of cord and proceeded to twist it round the arms and legs of the helpless man.

“He doesn’t seem capable of showing much fight,” he said to his companion with an evil grin, “but one never knows. A liver-hearted chicken would fight for life and liberty. Best to make sure.”

He bound him securely. The other man handled the violin-case which had dropped from Corsini’s hand when so suddenly assailed. His eyes betrayed a covetous gleam.

“This is worth something, I expect, but we dare not handle it.”

“More than our lives are worth,” replied the other ruffian, in an equally regretful tone. “There will be a hue and cry in St. Petersburg to-morrow when it is known that the Director of the Imperial Opera has disappeared. We must all lie low. Any attempt to realise on that violin would give us away at once. Besides, we are being very handsomely paid.”

“That is true,” grunted his companion in villainy, as he sank back on his seat beside the unconscious man. “We don’t ask too many questions, but we can pretty shrewdly guess who is working this job. Peter is a wary bird and doesn’t let out much, but we know who is his master.”

The carriage sped on through the gathering night till it reached Pavlovsk. Here there had been ordered a relay of horses, which was awaiting them at a small posting-house.

Corsini was still wrapt in a profound slumber. Once he had shown signs of consciousness, and one of the two miscreants had given him another dose of the powerful narcotic. It saved trouble, to keep him in that condition till they reached their destination.

It had been a cold drive. The two men who had guarded the prisoner stepped outside and stamped their feet. The other two, who were more chilled, dismounted from the box.

The leader of the party peered at the unconscious figure. “He is still in the land of dreams, my dear friends,” he said. “Well, while he is sleeping and we are changing horses, we will get a warm drink.”

The four men tramped into the bar of the small inn, where they comforted themselves with the refreshment they desired. They had no wish to delay their departure, but it would take a few minutes to change the tired horses, they might as well enjoy themselves in the interval. They were members of the criminal class whom Peter, the valet, had employed in his master’s interests, but they were very game fellows. They would never round on their old friend Peter.

Suddenly in the midst of their revels, for the one original drink had extended itself to three or four, a decrepit old ostler shambled in with a white and scared face. He was an aged man, toothless, and with a voice that scarcely rose above a hoarse whisper.

“Every man who wants to save himself had better run as fast as he can,” he croaked, with a meaning glance at the four men assembled in the small parlour. “The place is full of police. They have surrounded the carriage. They will be inside in a moment.”

The two younger men of the party took the hint at once, escaped through a side door and bolted somewhere away in the darkness of the night. The other two, staggered by the unexpected course of events, had not wit or agility enough to save themselves. In a second they were seized and handcuffed by the agents of the law.

Corsini’s inanimate form was carried in. General Beilski had taken the precaution to send a doctor along with the police. He had accurately guessed that those who wanted to “deport a certain person,” would take the precaution of drugging him first and keeping him under narcotics during the journey.

So heavily had the unfortunate young man been drugged, that it was some time before the doctor could bring him to a waking state. At last he opened his dazed eyes and gazed wonderingly round at the narrow little room in which he had been laid.

“Where am I?” he ejaculated slowly. His senses were not yet well ordered. He had hazy recollections of the Zouroff Palace, of a conversation with the Princess Nada, a confession to her of his ambition to be a great composer as well as a great executant, of a walk through the silent streets, the sudden appearance of some men. Then a blank.

The doctor bent over him and spoke in a soothing voice. In spite of the ashen and livid face, he recognised him at once. The doctor came from St. Petersburg in the company of the police, and he had seen the portrait of the new Director of the Imperial Opera in several newspapers. Here was some subtle mystery to which he had not the key.

“You are amongst friends, Signor Corsini. I am going to give you another injection, and after that you will have a little light food before we take you back to St. Petersburg.”

Corsini’s tired eyes wandered round the room. He saw the kind, compassionate face of the doctor bending over the sofa on which he had been laid. He saw also three men in police uniform and a tall, bearded man who was evidently the leader of the party. Then his eyes closed again and he relapsed into insensibility.

The doctor swore under his breath and turned to the tall, bearded man.

“They have nearly done for him with their infernal doping, but in an hour from now I shall have him in trim to take back to the General. Have you got all those scoundrels?”

The tall, bearded man shook his head with a melancholy air. “Alas! only two of them, doctor. The other two escaped, warned, no doubt, by some ruffian in this inn. Still, I have got two and I will do my best to make them speak before I have done with them.”

CHAPTER XVII

Corsini, pale and exhausted from his terrible experiences, sat in Golitzine’s study. General Beilski was there also.

“Now, Signor, we want to get at the bottom of this.” It was the Count who was speaking. Beilski was a devoted adherent of the Czar, and had been promoted to his high post through the Imperial favour, but he was not a man of very considerable mentality, and the astute secretary had, privately, a very poor opinion of him.

Corsini struggled to collect his wandering thoughts.

“It seems all like a very bad and confused dream, your Excellency. I remember playing at the Zouroff Palace. I had a short conversation with the Princess Nada. I left early; the Prince accompanied me to the door. I remember distinctly the hall-porter and an obscure sort of person lounging in the doorway. I left and walked along in the direction of my hotel. Suddenly I was surrounded by four men – footpads, as I surmised. They seized me and drugged me. The rest is a blank. I woke up in a little bedroom in an obscure inn, with a kind doctor bending over me. Then, there are sleeping and waking intervals, and I find myself here in your Excellency’s house.”