CHAPTER XVI
AN UNFINISHED LETTER
I have learnt on my way through the world how dangerous a thing is aconceit of a man's own cleverness; and among the most striking lessonsof this truth stands one which Mouraki Pasha taught me in Neopalia. Mygame was against a past master in the art of intrigue; yet I made sureI had caught him napping, sure that my wits were quicker than his andthat he missed what was plain to my mind. In vain, they say, is thenet spread in the sight of any bird. Aye, of any bird that has eyesand knows how to use them. But if the bird has no eyes, or employsthem in admiring its own plumage, there is a chance for the fowlerafter all.
These reflections occur to my mind when I recollect the hope andexultation in my heart as I followed the Governor's leisurely upwardmarch through the wood to the cottage. Mouraki, I said to myself,thought that he was allaying my suspicions and lulling my watchfulnessto sleep by the courtesy with which he arranged an interview betweenPhroso and myself. Was that what he was really doing? No, I declaredtriumphantly. He was putting in my way the one sovereign chance whichfate hitherto had denied. He was to be away, and most of his men withhim. Phroso, Kortes, and I would be alone together at the house, alonefor an hour, perhaps for two. At the moment I felt that I asked nomore of fortune. Had the Pasha never heard of the secret of theStefanopouloi? It almost seemed so; but I myself had told him of it,and Denny's information had preceded mine. Yet he was leaving us aloneby the hidden door. Had he remembered it? Had he stopped it? My ardourwas cooled; my face fell. He knew; he could not have forgotten; and ifhe knew and remembered, of a surety the passage would be blocked orwatched.
'By the way,' said Mouraki, turning to me, 'I want you to show me thatpassage you told me of some time to-morrow. I've never found time togo down there yet, and I have a taste for these mediaeval curiosities.'
'I shall be proud to be your guide, Pasha. You would trust yourselfthere with me?'
'Oh, my dear Wheatley, such things are not done now,' smiled thePasha. 'You and I will settle our little difference another way. Haveyou been down since I came?'
'No. I've had about enough of the passage,' said I carelessly. 'Ishould be glad never to see it again; but I must strain a point and gowith you.'
'Yes, you must do that,' he answered. 'How steep this hill is! ReallyI must be growing old, as Phroso is cruel enough to think!'
This conversation, seeming to fall in so pat with my musings, andindicating, if it did not state, that Mouraki treated the passage as atrifle of no moment, brought us to the outskirts of the wood. Thecottage was close in front of us. We had passed only one sentry: thecordon was gone. This change struck me at once, and I remarked on itto Mouraki.
'Yes, I thought it safe to send most of them away; there are one ortwo more than you see though. But he won't venture back now.'
I smiled to myself. I was pleased again at my penetration; and in thisinstance, unlike the other at which I have hinted, I do not think Iwas wrong. The cordon had been here, then Constantine had; the cordonwas gone, and I made no doubt that Constantine was gone also.
The front of the cottage was dark, and the curtains of the windowsdrawn, as they had been when I came before, on the night I killedVlacho the innkeeper and fell into the hands of Kortes and Demetri.The whirligig had turned since then; for then this man Mouraki hadbeen my far-off much-desired deliverer, Kortes and Demetri openenemies. Now Mouraki was my peril, Kortes my best friend,Demetri--well, what and whom had Panayiota meant?
'Shall we go in?' asked Mouraki, as we came to the house. 'Stay,though, I'll knock on the door with my stick. Madame Stefanopoulos is,no doubt, within. I think she will probably not have joined herhusband.'
'I imagine she'll have heard of his escape with great regret,' said I.
The Pasha knocked with the gold-headed cane which he carried. Hewaited and then repeated the blow. No answer came.
'Well,' he said with a shrug, 'we have given her fair warning. Let usenter. She knows you, my dear Wheatley, and will not be alarmed.'
'But if Constantine's here?' I suggested, with a mocking smile. 'Yourlife is a valuable one. Run no risks; he's a desperate man.'
The Pasha shifted his cane to his left hand, smiled in answer to mysmile, and produced a revolver.
'You're wise,' said I, and I took my revolver out of my pocket.
'We are ready for--anything--now,' said Mouraki.
I think 'anything' in that sentence was meant to include 'oneanother.'
The Pasha opened the door and passed in. Nothing seemed changed sincemy last visit. The door of the room on the right was open, the tablewas again spread, for two this time; the left-hand door was shut.
'You see the fugitive is not in that room,' observed the Pasha, wavinghis hand to the right. 'Let us try the other,' and he turned thedoor-handle of the room on the left, and preceded me into it.
At this point I am impelled to a little confession. The murderousimpulse is, perhaps, not so uncommon as we assume. I daresay manyrespectable men and amiable women have felt it in all its attractivesimplicity once or twice in their lives. It seems at such momentshardly sinful, merely too dangerous, and to be recognised asimpossible to gratify only by reason of its danger. But I perceivethat I am accusing the rest of the world in the hope of excusingmyself; for at that moment, when the Pasha's broad solid back waspresented to me, a yard in front, I experienced a momentary butextremely strong temptation to raise my arm, move my fingerand--transform the situation. I did not do it; but, on the otherhand, I have never counted the desire to do it among the great sins ofmy life. Mouraki, I thought then and know now, deserved nothingbetter. Unhappily we have our own consciences to consider, and thusare often prevented from meting out to others the measure their deedsclaim.
"WE ARE READY FOR--ANYTHING--NOW."]
'I see nobody,' said the Pasha. 'But then the room is dark. Shall Ipull back the curtain?'
'You'd better be careful,' said I, laughing. 'That's what Vlacho did.'
'Ah, but you're on the same side this time,' he answered, and steppedacross the room towards the curtain.
Suddenly I became, or seemed to become, vaguely, uncomfortably, eventerribly conscious of something there. Yet I could see nothing in thedark room, and I heard nothing. I can hardly think Mouraki shared mystrange oppressive feeling; yet the curtain was not immediately drawnback, his figure bulked motionless just in front of me, and herepeated in tones that betrayed uneasiness:
'I suppose I'd better draw back the curtain, hadn't I?'
What was it? It must have been all fancy, born of the strain ofexcitement and the nervous tension in which I was living. I have hadsomething of the feeling in the dark before and since, but never sostrong, distinct and almost overpowering. I knew Constantine was notthere. I had no fear of him if he were. Yet my forehead grew damp withsweat.
Mouraki's hand was on the curtain. He drew it back. The dull eveninglight spread sluggishly through the room. Mouraki turned and looked atme. I returned his gaze. A moment passed before either of us lookedround.
'There's nobody behind the curtain,' said he, with a slight sigh whichseemed to express relief. 'Do you see any one anywhere?'
Then I pulled myself together, and looked round. The chairs near mewere empty, the couch had no occupant. But away in the corner of theroom, in the shadow of a projecting angle of wall, I saw a figureseated in front of a table. On the table were writing-materials. Thefigure was a woman's. Her arms were spread on the table, and her headlay between them. I raised my hand and pointed to her. Mouraki's eyesobeyed my direction but came quickly back to me in question, and hearched his brows.
I stepped across the room towards where the woman sat. I heard thePasha following with hesitating tread, and I waited till he overtookme. Then I called her name softly; yet I knew that it was no use tocall her name; it was only the protest my horror made. She would hearher name no more. Again I pointed with my right hand, catchingMouraki's arm with my left at the same moment.
'There,' I said, 'there
--between the shoulders! A knife!'
I felt his arm tremble. I must do him justice. I am convinced that hedid not foresee or anticipate this among the results of the lettingloose of Constantine Stefanopoulos. I heard him clear his throat, Isaw him lick his lips; his lids settled low over his cunning eyes. Iturned from him to the motionless figure in the chair.
She was dead, had been dead some little while, and must have diedinstantly on that foul stroke. Why had the brute dealt it? Was it mererevenge and cruelty, persistently nursed wrath at her betrayal of himon St Tryphon's day? Or had some new cause evoked passion from him?
'Let us lay her here on the sofa,' I said to Mouraki; 'and you mustsend some one to look after her.'
He seemed reluctant to help me. I leant forward alone, and putting myarm round her, raised her from the table, and set her upright in thechair. I rejoiced to find no trace of pain or horror on her face. As Ilooked at her I gave a sudden short sob. I was unstrung; the thingwas so wantonly cruel and horrible.
'He has made good use of his liberty,' I said in a low fierce tone,turning on Mouraki in a sudden burst of anger against the hand thathad set the villain free. But the Pasha's composure wrapped him like acloak again. He knew what I meant and read the implied taunt in mywords, but he answered calmly:
'We have no proof yet that it was her husband who killed her.'
'Who else should?'
He shrugged his shoulders, remarking, 'No proof, I said. Perhaps hedid, perhaps not. We don't know.'
'Help me with her,' said I brusquely.
Between us we lifted her and laid her on the couch, and spread overher a fur rug that draped one of the chairs. While this was done wedid not exchange a word with one another. Mouraki uttered a sigh ofrelief when the task was finished.
'I'll send a couple of women up as soon as we get back. Meanwhile theplace is guarded and nobody can come in. Need we delay longer? It isnot a pleasant place.'
'I should think we might as well go,' I answered, casting my eye againround the little room to the spot where Vlacho had fallen envelopedin the curtain which he dragged down with him, and to thewriting-table that had supported the dead body of Francesca. Mouraki'shand was on the door-handle. He stood there, impatient to be out ofthe place, waiting for me to accompany him. But my last glance hadseen something new, and with a sudden low exclamation I darted acrossthe room to the table. I had perceived a sheet of paper lying justwhere Francesca's head had rested.
'What's the matter?' asked Mouraki.
I made him no answer. I seized the piece of paper. A pen lay betweenit and the inkstand. On the paper was a line or two of writing. Thecharacters were blurred, as though the dead woman's hair had smearedthem before the ink was dry. I held it up. Mouraki stepped brisklyacross to me.
'Give it to me,' he said, holding out his hand. 'It may be something Iought to see.'
The first hint of action, of new light or a new development, restoredtheir cool alertness to my faculties.
'Why not something which I ought to see, my dear Pasha?' I asked,holding the paper behind my back and facing him.
'You forget the position I hold, Lord Wheatley. You have no suchposition.'
I did not argue that. I walked to the window, to get the best of thelight. Mouraki followed me closely.
'I'll read it to you,' said I. 'There isn't much of it.'
I held it to the light. The Pasha was close by my shoulder, his paleface leaning forward towards the paper. Straining my eyes on theblurred characters I read; and I read aloud, according to my promise,hearing Mouraki's breathing which accompanied my words.
'My lord, take care. He is free. Mouraki has set--'
That was all: a blot followed the last word. At that word the pen musthave fallen from her fingers as her husband's dagger stole her life.We had read her last words. The writing of that line saw the moment ofher death. Did it also supply the cause? If so, not the old grudge,but rage at a fresh betrayal of a fresh villainy had impelledConstantine's arm to his foul stroke. He had caught her in the act ofwriting it, taken his revenge, and secured his safety.
After I had read, there was silence. The Pasha's face was still by myshoulder. I gazed, as if fascinated, on the fatal unfinished note. Atlast I turned and looked him in the face. His eyes met mine in unmovedsteely composure.
'I think,' said I, 'that I had a right to read the note after all;for, as I guess, the writer was addressing it to me and not to you.'
For a moment Mouraki hesitated; then he shrugged his shoulders,saying:
'My dear lord, I don't know whom it is addressed to or what it means.Had the unfortunate lady been allowed to finish it--'
'We should know more than we do now,' I interrupted.
'I was about to say as much. I see she introduced my name; she can,however, have known nothing of any course I might be pursuing.'
'Unless some one who knew told her.'
'Who could?'
'Well, her husband.'
'Who was killing her?' he asked, with a scornful smile.
'He may have told her before, and she may have been trying to forwardthe information to me.'
'It is all the purest conjecture,' shrugged the Governor.
I looked him in the face, and I think my eyes told him pretty plainlymy views of the meaning of the note. He answered my glance at firstwith a carefully inexpressive gaze; but presently a meaning came intohis eyes. He seemed to confess to me and to challenge me to make whatuse I could of the confession. But the next instant the momentarycandour of his regard passed, and blankness spread over his faceagain.
Desperately I struggled with myself, clinging to self-control. To thisday I believe that, had my life and my life only been in question, Ishould then and there have compelled Mouraki to fight me, man to man,in the little gloomy room where the dead woman lay on the sofa. Weshould not have disturbed her; and I think also that Mouraki, who didnot want for courage, would have caught at my challenge and criedcontent to a proposal that we should, there and then, put our quarrelto an issue, and that one only of us should go alive down the hill. Iread such a mood in his eyes in the moment of their candour. I saw thecourage to act on it in his resolute lips and his tense stillattitude.
Well, we could neither of us afford the luxury. If I killed him, Ishould bring grave suspicion on Phroso. She and her islanders would beheld accomplices; and, though this was a secondary matter to hot rage,I myself should stand in a position of great danger. And he could notkill me; for all his schemes against me were still controlled andlimited by the necessities of his position. Had I been an islander, oreven an unknown man concerning whom no questions would be asked, hiswork would have been simple, and, as I believed, would have beencarried out before now. But it was not so. He would be heldresponsible for a satisfactory account of how I met my death. It wouldtax his invention to give it if he killed me himself, with his ownhand, and in a secret encounter. In fact, the finding of the note leftus where we were, so far as action was concerned, but it tore away thelast shreds of the veil, the last pretences of good faith andfriendliness which had been kept up between us. In that swift, full,open glance which we had exchanged, our undisguised quarrel, the greatissue between us, was legibly written and plainly read. Yet not a wordpassed our lips concerning it. Mouraki and I began to need words nomore than lovers do. For hate matches love in penetration.
I put the note in my pocket. Mouraki blinked eyes now utterly freefrom expression. I gave a final glance at the dead woman. I felt atouch of shame at having for a moment forgotten her fate for myquarrel.
'Shall we go down, Pasha?' said I.
'As soon as you please, Lord Wheatley,' he answered. This formal modeof address was perhaps an acknowledgment that the time for hypocrisyand the hollow show of friendship between us was over. The change wasjust in his way, slight, subtle, but sufficient.
I followed Mouraki out of the house. He walked in his usual slowdeliberate manner. He beckoned to the sentry as we passed him, toldhim that two women, who would shor
tly come up, were to be admitted,but nobody else, until an officer came bearing further orders. Havingmade these arrangements, he resumed his way down, taking his place infront of me and maintaining absolute silence. I did not care to talk.I had enough to think about. But already, now I was out in the freshair, the feeling of sick horror with which the little room hadaffected me began to pass away. I felt braced up again. I was betterprepared for the great effort which loomed before me now as a presentand urgent necessity. Mouraki had found an instrument. He had setConstantine free, that Constantine might do against me what Mourakihimself could not do openly. My friends were away. The hour of thestroke must even now be upon me. Well, the hour of my counter-strokewas come also, the counter-stroke for which my interview with Phrosoand Mouraki's absence opened the way. For he thought the passage nomore than a mediaeval curiosity.
We reached the house and entered the hall together. As we passedthrough the compound I had seen an alert sentinel. Looking out fromthe front door, I perceived two men on guard. A party of ten or adozen more was drawn up, an officer at its head; these were the menwho waited to attend Mouraki on his evening expedition. The Pashaseated himself and wrote a note. He looked up as he finished it,saying:
'I am informing the Lady Euphrosyne that you will await her here inhalf-an-hour's time, and that she is at liberty to spend what time shepleases with you. Is that what you wish?'
'Precisely, your Excellency. I am much obliged to you.'
His only answer was a dignified bow; but he turned to a sub-officerwho stood by him at attention and said, 'On no account allow LordWheatley to be interrupted this evening. You will, of course, keep thesentries on guard behind and in front of the house, but do not letthem intrude here.'
After giving his orders, the Pasha sat silent for some minutes. He hadlighted his cigarette, and smoked it slowly. Then he let it out--athing I had never seen him do before--lit another, and resumed hisslow inhalings. I knew that he would speak before long, and after afew more moments he gave me the result of his meditations. We were nowalone together.
'It would have been much better,' said he, 'if that poor woman--whosefate I sincerely regret--had been let alone and this girl had diedinstead of her,' and he nodded at me with convinced emphasis.
'If Phroso had died!' leapt from my lips in astonishment.
'Yes, if Phroso had died. We would have hanged Constantine together,wept together over her grave, and each of us gone home with a sweetmemory--you to your _fiancee_, I to my work. And we should haveforgiven one another any little causes of reproach.'
To this speculation in might-have-beens I made no answer. The feelingswith which I received it shewed me, had I still needed shewing, whatPhroso was to me. I had been shocked and grieved at Francesca's fate;but rather that a thousand times than the thing on which Mourakicoolly mused!
'It would have been much better, so much better,' he repeated, with acuriously regretful intonation.
'The only thing that would be better, to my thinking,' I said, 'isthat you should behave as an honourable man and leave this lady freeto do as she wishes.'
'And another thing, surely?' he asked, smiling now. 'That you shouldbehave as an honourable man and go back to Miss Hipgrave?' A low laughmarked the point he had scored. Then he added, with his usual shrug,'We are slaves, we men, slaves all.'
He rose from his chair and completed his preparations for going out,flinging a long military cloak over his shoulders. His momentaryirresolution, or remorse, or what you will, had passed. His speechbecame terse and resolute again.
'We shall meet early to-morrow, I expect,' he said, 'and then we mustsettle this matter. Do I understand that you are resolved not toyield.'
'I am absolutely resolved,' said I, and at the sight of his calmsneering face my temper suddenly got the better of me. 'Yes, I'mresolved. You can do what you like. You can bribe ruffians toassassinate me, as I believe you've bribed Constantine.'
He started at that, as a man will at plain speech, even though theplain speech tells him nothing that he did not know of the speaker'smind.
'The blood of that unhappy woman is on your head,' I cried vehemently.'Through your act she lies dead. If a like fate befalls me, the blameof that will be on your head also. It is you, and not your tool, whowill be responsible.'
'Responsible!' he echoed. His voice was mocking and easy, though hisface was paler even than it was wont to be. 'Responsible! What doesthat mean? Responsible to whom?'
'To God,' said I.
He laughed a low derisive laugh.
'Come, that's better,' he said. 'I expected you to say public opinion.Your sentiment is more respectable than that clap-trap of publicopinion. So be it. I shall be responsible. Where will you be?' Hepaused, smiling, and ended, 'And where Phroso?'
My self-restraint was exhausted. I sprang up. In another moment myhands would have been on his throat; the next, I suppose, I shouldhave been a prisoner in the hands of his guard. But that was not hiswish. He had shewn me too much now to be content with less than mylife, and he was not to be turned from his scheme either by his owntemper or by mine. He had moved towards the door while he had beenspeaking to me; as I sprang at him, a quick dexterous movement of hishand opened it, a rapid twist of his body removed him from my reach.He eluded me. The door was shut in my face. The Pasha's low laughreached me as I sank back again in my chair, still raging that I hadnot got him by the throat, but in an instant glad also that myrashness had been foiled.
I heard the tramp of his party on their orderly march along the roadfrom the house. Their steps died away, and all was very still. Ilooked round the hall; there was nobody but myself. I rose and lookedinto the kitchen; it was empty. Mouraki had kept his word: we werealone. In front there were sentries, behind there were sentries, butthe house was mine. Hope rose again, strong and urgent, in my heart,as my eyes fell on the spot under the staircase, where lay theentrance to the secret passage. I looked at my watch; it was eleveno'clock. The wind blew softly, the night was fine, a crescent moon wasjust visible through the narrow windows. The time was come, the timeleft free by Mouraki's strange oversight.
It was then, and then only, that a sudden gleam of enlightenment, asudden chilling suspicion, fell upon me, transforming my hope to fear,my triumph to doubt and misgiving. Was Mouraki Pasha the man to beguilty of an oversight, of so plain an oversight? When an enemy leavesopen an obvious retreat, is it always by oversight? When he seems toindicate a way of safety, is the way safe? These disturbing thoughtscrowded on me as I sat, and I looked now at the entrance to the secretpassage with new eyes.
The sentries were behind the house, the sentries were in front of thehouse; in neither direction was there any chance of escape. One waywas open--the passage--and that one way only. And I asked the questionof myself, framing the words in an inarticulate low whisper, 'Is thisway a trap?'
'You fool--you fool--you fool!' I cried, beating my fist on the woodentable.
For if that way were a trap, then there was no way of safety, and thelast hope was gone. Had Mouraki indeed thought of the passage only asa mediaeval curiosity? Well, were not _oubliettes_, down which a manwent and was seen no more, also a mediaeval curiosity?