Chapter XIV A Coward’s Story
After a very short pause Livenza’s very shame at his own panic began to give him a sort of firmness of bravado. The worst about him had been made clear; he had shown that he was afraid and was willing to purchase his life; and it was a matter in which he must make the best terms he could. The pressure of imminent death once removed, he could breathe again. In the future he was to be my creature, and he recognised it. That was how I read the sullen, scowling look he gave me as he drew himself up slowly and crossed his arms.
“You can sit down if you wish,” I said, curtly, in the tone of a master, to make him feel my authority and to recall to him his former craven appeal.
“I have no wish: I can stand.”
“You know your life is forfeit,” and I glanced at the pistol in my hand, “and that I have the right to send the bullet crashing into your brain, if I please?”
He winced, and the light of fear glanced again in his eyes. I couldn’t have shot him in cold blood, of course, and the thrust was a cruel one. But I knew that he could have shot me under the circumstances, and that he would read my disposition by his own. He was a brute, and must be treated as a brute.
“If you mean to shoot me, do it,” he cried.
“I am willing to let you purchase your life, but the terms will be heavy.”
“I am in your power and must pay them,” he answered, sullenly, but with unmistakable relief.
“First, then, understand this: What has passed here to-night shall never be breathed by either my friends or myself. So far as we are concerned your reputation outside shall stand just where it did when you entered the room. On that I give you my word of honour—if you deal straightly with me. A sign of treachery or a single lie from you, and the truth shall be told.”
“I agree to that, of course.”
“Moreover, my right to fire this shot is merely postponed, not waived. You will put down in writing what will justify me should your treachery ever make it necessary for me to shoot you.”
“I will do that.” He was beginning to speak fluently and readily now.
“You will now answer my questions. Are you in Sebastian Quesada’s pay or in his power?”
“In his power. He concocted a false charge against me some time ago, confronted me with the proofs, and threatened to have me prosecuted. I dare not face the charge, and from that moment he has used me for various tasks.”
“Amongst them this business of the young King’s abduction?”
He started violently as I made this rather bold shot.
“What do you know?”
“Everything—except the details.” The reply was perhaps a little exaggeration; but I was guessing everything very fast.
“If he knows I have spoken of it to you, he will ruin me. I might as well be dead.”
“He will never know, unless you are fool enough to tell him. He sent you to Senorita Castelar’s house this afternoon?”
“Yes. He said you would be there.” He was sufficiently recovered now for his private feelings to reassert themselves somewhat, and there was a gleam of the old hate of me in his eyes as he gave the answer which let in such a flood of additional light upon my knowledge of Quesada’s treachery. I made another long shot.
“He has promised to help your suit with the senorita?”
“You are the devil. You do know everything, indeed,” he cried. “Who are you?”
“You are to answer, not question,” I returned, sternly. It was now as clear as the sun at noonday that Quesada had planned this quarrel of ours, sending Livenza to catch me with Sarita, with the certain assurance that his jealousy would lead to a duel in which one of us would be certain either to fall or to be laid by during the completion of his plans. He stood to gain almost equally by the death of either. “You took with you some final instructions about this plot; what were they?” I asked, after a moment’s pause.
For the first time he hesitated, and I saw the beads of sweat standing thick on his forehead, as he looked at me, trembling like a blade of grass.
“You are asking me for more than my life,” he murmured, his very teeth chattering in his irresolution.
“Answer me, or——” I thundered, lifting the pistol a few inches.
“You will never breathe a word of this?” he implored.
“Answer me,” I cried again, with implacable sternness.
“He gave me the privately agreed upon route of His Majesty’s drive for to-morrow afternoon.” He spoke in a voice low and hoarse, and the sentence was broken by three or four pauses, as if the effort to utter it was almost beyond his strength.
“Give it me,” I said, instantly.
“I—I dare not,” he answered, his voice no louder than a whisper.
“Give it me,” I repeated.
“I—I can tell it you,” he said, after a long pause.
“Give it me,” I cried, sternly. “I shall not ask again.”
He plunged a trembling hand into an inner pocket, and without withdrawing it gave me a glance of piteous entreaty.
“Anything but this!” he pleaded. “God have mercy on me; anything but this, senor, I beg you. I was to have destroyed it.”
“As you will. Then our conference fails. I will call in our seconds and——”
But he did not let me finish, for with a groan of despair he brought the paper out and laid it on the table.
I picked it up, and a glance showed me what a prize it was. The writing was Quesada’s, and it gave the route of the drive and actually suggested the place where the abduction could be made—a spot on the road to Buenavista, close to where the bridge crossed the Manzanares on the way to Aravaca, and specified the time, five o’clock; adding the significant note—“Only one aide in carriage, no escort; coachman and footman.”
When I had read it he held out his hand for it, dreaming apparently that I should return it; and when I put it in my pocket he threw up his hands with a deep sigh of despair.
“Why was to-morrow chosen instead of the following day?”
“I don’t know. There have been several changes.”
I stopped to think. I had indeed made a splendid haul, and there was little else Livenza was likely to be able to tell me. There was one question I had yet to answer; but it was certain that he would not know any more than I. What was Sebastian’s object in all this? I had thought of the probable solution when I was with Sarita—that he was playing for his own hand and meant to get rid of the young King and to crush the Carlists by one and the same stroke; and to pit myself against a man shrewd enough to conceive such a policy and daring enough to put it to the actual test, seemed like madness. But I had made up my mind to attempt it; and the document I now had in my pocket would be a powerful weapon if only I could see the means to use it shrewdly.
As I stood a minute or two revolving these matters, Livenza was staring at me with the fascinated gaze with which a hunted animal will watch the beast of prey that threatens its life, and at length said—
“Is there anything more. I am not well, senor.”
“No, you have saved your life; but you will remain close in your rooms until I send you word. To all but Sebastian Quesada you will be ill in bed. Any message he sends you, you will immediately forward to me; and he must not know that you are not acting just as usual. I will find someone who will nurse you day and night and watch you.”
“I cannot serve both you and Sebastian Quesada. I cannot do it. I must have either your protection or his,” he cried, feebly.
“You will have mine,” I answered, in a tone I might have used had I been the master of countless legions. “Serve me in this matter, and you will have your reward. Fail me, and I swear I will take your life.”
Without giving him time to answer, I called in the other men, and found that Captain Pescada had gone away, leaving many apologies. I apologised for having kept the others waiting.
“Colonel Livenza is ill, gentlemen,” I added. “He has given me proofs of his desire to make ample amends for the insult of this evening, offered under what he declares to have been a complete misunderstanding. While he is arranging matters I have consented to withhold my right under the duel. He will put this in writing with an acknowledgment that I shall be entitled to exercise that right should he fail in what he has undertaken to do, and I wish you to put your names to the document.”
He was so broken that he could scarcely keep a steady enough hand to write what was necessary; and while he was so engaged, I drew Mayhew on one side.
“You know many people in Madrid: do you know of any young doctor who would undertake to stay here with Livenza for a couple of days at most, but certainly until after to-morrow night, never losing sight of him and seeing that he does not commit suicide?”
“He won’t commit suicide,” said Mayhew, contemptuously.
“I know that; but it will make a good excuse for us to give to the doctor who is to watch him,” I returned, drily. “It must be a man who won’t talk either. And you’ll give me your word to say nothing of that distressing scene of his cowardice. There’s a good deal in this thing—a good deal. And will you look up Captain Pescada in the morning and get a pledge of secrecy from him?”
“Certainly I will; and I think I know the man you want.”
“Can you rouse him up to-night? Of course, I’ll see he’s well paid. I don’t want to be here any longer than necessary; and as soon as this thing’s done,” nodding to where Livenza was writing, “perhaps you could fetch him.”
The arrangements as I planned them were carried out without much further loss of time, and as soon as the paper had been read over and signed, and Livenza’s seconds had left, Mayhew started in search of his friend. Livenza went to bed, and when the young doctor came and I had given him my instructions, Mayhew and I left the house together.
“It’s all very mysterious, Ferdinand,” he said, fishing.
“Very, Silas; but I hope things will come right in the end.”
“You’re well out of an ugly business.”
“Or deeper in—it remains to be seen which,” I answered, cryptically, and smiled. “But whichever it is, our friendship will have to stand the strain of silence about it. I’m sorry, for I should much like to have you in it with me. But it can’t be—at any rate yet. All the better for you, perhaps.”
“That brute meant to kill you,” he said, after a pause.
“Not the only good intention that’s missed fire to-night, probably.”
“I couldn’t understand you a bit. You were as cool and certain as if you knew you’d come out on top.”
“I think I did know it, too, in a way. Anyhow, I felt dead certain, and that was just as good. But I know a lot more than I did, I’m glad to say.”
“What do you mean?” he asked, with quick curiosity.
“I know what it means to stand fire at close range.”
“All right; I won’t question you. But you’re a strange beggar;” and he laughed. I thought I could afford to laugh, too, so I joined him. I might not have many more occasions for much laughter, at any rate for a while; and soon after that we parted at the door of his house.
It was very late, but I sat for an hour smoking, studying the route of the young King’s drive for the next day, and making my plans; and when I turned in my nerves were still in good enough trim for me to get to sleep at once. I had had a very full and very exciting day, but unless I was mistaken the morrow would prove much more critical for me, and probably a no less fateful one for Spain.
I sent a letter first thing in the morning to the Embassy, excusing myself from attendance there on the plea of sudden business; and, hiring a horse, rode out to the spot where the attempt on the young King was to be made that afternoon.
It was cleverly chosen, indeed. A very quiet, lonely place, where the road dipped and then ran in a cutting between high banks up a sharp incline—such a place, indeed, as was exactly suited to the work. Fortunately I knew the district well, and where the various roads about there led; and I could form a pretty good idea of how the thing would be done.
I picked out a good spot where I could keep concealed, watch what transpired, and then follow in pursuit. My plan was a very simple one: To let the affair take place and the abductors get away with the King; then to follow, and just when they were confident all had gone well, strike in and act according to circumstances. My danger lay in the fact that I must be alone; but the personal risks of that were less than any attempt to get others to join me.
Of course, a mere word of warning sent to the palace would be sufficient to cause a change in the route for the King’s drive, and so check the plot for that afternoon. But that was by no means my sole object. I was bent on making a bold stroke for my own gain; and for this I was as anxious as any Carlist could be for the momentary success of the scheme. I must not only call check, but checkmate, to the desperate man I was fighting.
The knowledge I had gained from Vidal de Pelayo, that the Carlists would attempt to carry the King to Huesca, gave me a clue as to the line across country they were sure to take, and a gallop of a few miles refreshed my knowledge of it, and also showed me where in my turn I could make my rescue.
I returned to Madrid about noon, confident and in high spirits as the result of my ride, and my next task was to secure the fleetest and strongest horse that could be hired; and I had scarcely reached my rooms after arranging this when a very singular incident occurred.
A letter was brought me from Sebastian Quesada, and my servant told me the messenger was waiting for a reply. I opened and read it with great astonishment.
“Time changed. Six o’clock—not five; return route. Same spot. Communicate instantly.”
I had had no message from him, or invitation for a drive or ride that day. The letter was just in the brief style of twenty others he had sent me, and it seemed that some former invitation must have miscarried. I was on the point of penning a line to him to this effect when a light suddenly broke upon me.
The letter was not for me at all. It had been put by mistake in the wrong envelope. I saw the address was in Quesada’s own hand, and in his hurry he had apparently committed the blunder of mixing the two notes.
This referred without a doubt to the great event of the day, and my pulses tingled at the thought. I sent for the messenger.
“Did Senor Quesada give you this with his own hand?” I asked the man, whom I knew as a confidential servant of the Minister’s.
“Yes, senor. I took it first to the British Embassy, but they told me you had not been there to-day, and as my instructions were to await your answer, I came here.”
“Quite right,” I answered, casually. “I’m sorry I shall not be able to do what your master wishes. I have hurt my hand and cannot write,” and I lifted my right hand, round which I had bound my handkerchief. I could not send a written reply, as I did not know what I had to answer, and could afterwards blame his servant if my verbal message suggested any discrepancy.
As soon as his back was turned I was in a carriage driving fast to Livenza’s. I guessed that as this letter was for him, mine might have been enclosed to him, thus forming the counterpart of the mistake.
My guess was right, and I found him puzzling over a letter asking me in most pressing terms to join Quesada that afternoon in a long ride, and to dine with him quietly afterwards. I saw the object—to make it impossible for me to interfere in the business of that day, supposing by any chance I had got wind of it.
That being his purpose, how would he act when he got my reply? The story of the injured hand would seem to him to be the result of the trouble with Livenza; but it was almost certain that he would come himself to see me. If he did so, and found me absent, he might suspect, and perhaps even at the eleventh hour postpone the coup.
A question to Livenza showed me how he would communicate the change of time to those whom it concerned, and the moment I had arranged that I rushed back to my rooms, swathed my hand in bandages, improvised a sling under my coat, and sat down to wait. It was then three o’clock, and I must be away in two hours—by five, that was—if I was not to run a risk of being late, or perhaps of being observed.
My guess was right again, and at a quarter past three Quesada was shown into my room. He found me with his letter lying open on my table, while I was trying with infinite pains to write a reply with my left hand. I received him with a welcoming laugh as I flourished my right arm in its sling, and held out my left.
“My dear Ferdinand, Carlos brought me word that you had injured your hand and could not ride with me this afternoon. I was all anxiety, and have cancelled my arrangements that I may give up the time to cheer you. Tell me, are you much hurt? How did it all happen, in the name of misfortune?”
I cursed his solicitude, and saw his object. He had come to see that I did no mischief. But I replied lightly—
“That is the act of a good, true friend. Sit down, light a cigar, and let us chat. I was at that moment writing to you—have you ever tried to write with the left hand? It is the devil’s trouble. See here,” and I held out the letter, taking care that he should see his own at the same time, and laughed over the stumbling effort. “I have been trying ever since Carlos went to write and thank you, and say how sorry I am I can’t dine with you either, because I am engaged for the afternoon with my sister and her friend Mrs. Curwen. We came from England together, you know. But I am not due until four o’clock, so we can smoke, drink, and chatter till then.”
“But you’re hurt—what is wrong?”
“My dear Quesada, though you are what we at home call Home Minister, and therefore head of everything that pertains to law and order in the capital, as elsewhere—and a most capable head, too—this Madrid of yours is the devil’s own place for a brawl. And I am bound to say that when the Spanish blood’s up the knife’s out, and I can speak from experience that the man who gets his fingers in the way of a Spanish knife is a good many kinds of a fool for his trouble. But don’t ask any questions; I shall be right again in a day or so, and meanwhile I mean to take care of my left hand;” and I flourished it, laughed again, and gave him a look which might have been intended to suggest any kind of intrigue.
He accepted the explanation, I thought, and in a few minutes we were chatting much as usual. As the time passed I grew very anxious for him to go, but he sat on for an hour, showing no indication of leaving, and then I gave him a hint, which he didn’t take.
“Now do me a favour,” I said then. “Come with me this afternoon—I must go, for I am due now—and allow me to present you to my sister?” I said it as earnestly as though I knew Mercy and Mrs. Curwen were really at the hotel waiting for me, and to my dismay he hesitated.
“You tempt me strongly. Your sister must be Dolores’ and my friend.”
“Good; then you will come? It is excellent, too, for Mrs. Curwen is the American capitalist who is going to take up that silver mine business on the Castelars’ property, that you offered in London, you know, and she will be delighted to see you and ask you all kinds of questions about it. She is the most——”
But his face changed then.
“I do not like Americans just now,” he broke in, “and I have remembered something I omitted to do at my office. You must excuse me. But I will drive you to the hotel.”
“You are a thoughtful friend always,” I replied, knowing he did this because his suspicions of me were not yet allayed. Then came another point. I was dressed for riding—Norfolk jacket and riding gaiters—and could not change them. His quick eyes saw this instantly, and he said with a glance and a laugh—
“Your visit is an informal one, Ferdinand?”
“One’s sister learns the art of making excuses, and a man with only one hand can surely plead privilege.” And in that dress I started, leaving him only a moment while I secured my revolver and some ammunition.
He drove me right to the hotel, and did not leave me until he had actually heard me ask for Miss Carbonnell’s and Mrs. Curwen’s rooms, and looked after me as the waiter led me away.
A glance at my watch showed me it was then nearly half-past four, but I felt compelled to carry on the farce so far as to go to Mrs. Curwen’s room, perilously short though the time was growing.