CHAPTER IX. A FINE NIGHT
In a shop where, that afternoon, the Countess had purchased some Lyonssilks, one of the clerks, Peter Niburg, was free at last. At seveno'clock, having put away the last rolls of silk on the shelves behindhim, and covered them with calico to keep off the dust; having givena final glance of disdain at the clerk in the linens, across; havingreached under the counter for his stiff black hat of good quality andhis silver-topped cane; having donned the hat and hung the stick to hisarm with two swaggering gestures; having prepared his offensive, so tospeak, he advanced.
Between Peter Niburg and Herman Spier of the linens, was a feud. Itssource, in the person of a pretty cashier, had gone, but the feudremained. It was of the sort that smiles with the lips and scowls withthe eyes, that speaks pleasantly quite awful things, although it wasPeter Niburg who did most of the talking. Herman Spier was a moodyindividual, given to brooding. A man who stood behind his linens, andhated with his head down.
And he hated Peter. God, how he hated him! The cashier was gone, havingmarried a restaurant keeper, and already she waxed fat. But Herman'shatred grew with the days. And business being bad, much of the time hestood behind his linens and thought about a certain matter, which wasthis:
How did Peter Niburg do it?
They were paid the same scant wage. Each Monday they stood together,Peter smiling and he frowning, and received into open palms exactlyenough to live on, without extras. And each Monday Peter pocketed hischeerfully, and went back to his post, twirling his mustache as thoughall the money of the realm jingled in his trousers.
To accept the inevitable, to smile over one's poverty, that is onething. But there was more to it. Peter made his money go amazingly far.It was Peter, for instance, who on name-days had been able to presentthe little cashier with a nosegay. Which had, by the way, availed himnothing against the delicatessen offerings of the outside rival. When,the summer before, the American Scenic Railway had opened to the public,with much crossing of flags, the national emblem and the Stars andStripes, it was Peter who had invited the lady to an evening of thrillson that same railway at a definite sum per thrill. Nay, more, as Hermanhad seen with his own eyes, taken her afterward to a coffee-house, andshared with her a litre of white wine. A litre, no less.
Herman himself had been to the Scenic Railway, but only because heoccupied a small room in the house where the American manager lived. Themanager had given tickets to Black Humbert, the concierge, butHumbert was busy with other thing, and was, besides, chary of foreigndeviltries. So he had passed the tickets on.
It was Peter, then, who made the impossible possible, who wore goodclothes and did not have his boots patched, who went, rumor said, to theOpera now and then, and followed the score on his own battered copy.
How?
Herman Spier had suspected him of many things; had secretly audited hiscash slips; had watched him for surreptitious parcels of silk. Once hehad thought he had him. But the package of Lyons silk, opened by theproprietor at Herman's suggestion, proved to be material for a fancywaistcoat, and paid for by Peter Niburg's own hand.
With what? Herman stood confused, even confounded, but still suspicious.And now, this very day, he had stumbled on something. A great lady fromthe Court had made a purchase, and had left, under a roll of silk, aletter. There was no mistake. And Peter Niburg had put away the silk,and pocketed the letter, after a swift glance over the little shop.
An intrigue, then, with Peter Niburg as the go-between, or--somethingelse. Something vastly more important, the discovery of which wouldbring Herman prominence beyond his fellows in a certain secret order towhich he belonged.
In a way, he was a stupid man, this pale-eyed clerk who sold the quaintred and yellow cottons of the common people side by side with the heavylinens that furnished forth the tables of the rich. But hatred gave himwits. Gave him speed, too. He was only thirty feet behind Peter Niburgwhen that foppish gentleman reached the corner.
Herman was skilled in certain matters. He knew, for instance, thata glance into a shop window, a halt to tie a shoe, may be a ruse forpassing a paper to other hands. But Peter did not stop. He went, notmore swiftly than usual, to his customary restaurant, one which facedover the Square and commanded a view of the Palace. And there he settledhimself in a window and ordered his dinner.
From the outside Herman stared in. He did not dine there. It was, forone thing, a matter of bitterness to see sitting at the cashier's highdesk, the little Marie, grown somewhat with flesh, it is true, but stilllovely in his eyes. It made Herman wince, even now, to see through thewindow that her husband patted her hand as he brought her money to bechanged.
He lurked in the shadows outside, and watched. Peter sat alone. He hadbowed very stiffly to Marie, and had passed the desk with his chest out.She had told him once that he had a fine figure.
Peter sat alone, and stared out. Herman took shelter, and watched. ButPeter Niburg did not see him. His eyes were fixed on the gloomy massacross, shot with small lights from deep windows, which was the Palace.
Peter was calm. He had carried many such letters as the one now hiddenin his breast pocket. No conscience stirred in him. If he did not dothis work, others would. He shrugged his shoulders. He drank his brandy,and glanced at Marie. He found her eyes on him. Pretty eyes they stillwere, and just now speculative. He smiled at her, but she averted herhead, and colored. Many things filled Peter Niburg's mind. If now shewas not happy, what then? Her husband adored her. It was fatal. A womanshould not be too sure of a husband. And probably he bored her. Anothersix months, and perhaps she would not turn away her head.
He had until midnight. At that hour a messenger would receive the letterfrom him in the colonnade of the cathedral. On this night, each week,the messenger waited. Sometimes there was a letter, sometimes none. Thatwas all. It was amazingly simple, and for it one received the differencebetween penury and comfort.
Seeing Peter settled, a steaming platter before him, Herman turnedand hurried through the night. This which he had happened on was a bigthing, too big for him alone. Two heads were better than one. He wouldtake advice.
Off the main avenue he fell into a smart trot. The color came to hispale cheeks. A cold sweat broke out over him. He was short of wind frommany cigarettes. But at last he reached the house. It was near the park.Although the season was early spring and there was more than a hint ofwinter in the air, the Scenic Railway, he perceived, was already openfor business. Certainly the Americans were enterprising.
The double doors of the tall, gloomy house on the Road of Good Childrenwere already closed for the evening. As he stood panting, after hehad rung the bell, Herman Spier could look across to that remote andunfashionable end of the great park where the people played on pleasantevenings, and where even now, on the heels of winter, the Scenic Railwaymade a pretense at summer.
The sight recalled that other vision of Marie and Peter Niburg, snuglysettled in a car, Marie a trifle pale and apprehensive. Herman sworesoftly; and opened the doors.
Black Humbert was not in his bureau, behind the grating. With easyfamiliarity Herman turned to a door beyond and entered. A dirty littleroom, it was littered now with the preparations for a meal. On thebare table were a loaf, a jug of beer, and a dish of fried veal. Theconcierge was at the stove making gravy in a frying-pan--a huge man,bearded and heavy of girth, yet stepping lightly, like a cat. A dark manand called "the Black," he yet revealed, on full glance, eyes curiouslypale and flat.
No greeting passed between them. Humbert gave his visitor a quickglance. Herman closed the door, and wiped out the band of his hat. Theconcierge poured the gravy over the meat.
"I have discovered something, something," Herman said. "As to its value,I know nothing, or its use to us."
"Let me judge that." But the concierge was unmoved, by Herman'sexcitement. He dealt in sensations. His daily tools were men less cleverthan himself, men who constantly made worthless discoveries. And it wasthe dinner hour. His huge body was crying for food.
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"It is a matter of a letter."
"Sit down, man, and tell it. Or do you wish me to draw the information,like bad teeth?"
"A letter from the Palace," said Herman. And explained.
Black Humbert listened. He was skeptical, but not entirely incredulous.He knew the Court--none better. The women of the Court wrote manyletters. He saw a number of them, through one of his men in the postoffice. There were many intrigues. After all, who could blame them?The Court was dreary enough these days, and if they chose to amusethemselves as best they could--one must make allowances.
"A liaison!" he said at last, with his mouth full. "The Countess ishandsome, and bored. Annunciata is driving her to wickedness, as shedrove her husband. But it is worth consideration. Even the knowledge ofan intrigue is often helpful. Of what size was the letter?"
"A small envelope. I saw no more."
The concierge reflected. "The Countess uses a gray paper with acoronet."
"This was white."
Black Humbert reflected. "There is, of course, a chance that he hasalready passed this on. But even if so, there will be others. TheCountess comes often to the shop?"
"Once in a week, perhaps."
"So." The big man rose, and untied his soiled apron. "Go back," hesaid, "and enter the restaurant. Order a small meal, that you may havefinished when he does. Leave with him and suggest the Hungaria."
"Hungaria! I have no money."
"You will need no money. Now, mark this. At a certain corner you will beattacked and robbed. A mere form," he added, as he saw Herman's pallidface go whiter. "For the real envelope will be substituted another. Inhis breast-pocket, you said. Well, then suggest going to his room. Hemay," added the concierge grimly, "require your assistance. Leave himat his lodging, but watch the house. It is important to know to whom hedelivers these letters."
As the man stood, he seemed to the cowering Herman to swell until hedominated the room. He took on authority. To Herman came suddenly thememory of a hidden room, and many men, and one, huge and towering, whoheld the others in the hollow of his hand. Herman turned to go, but atthe door the concierge stopped him.
"A moment," he said. "We will select first the shape and fashion of thisenvelope you saw. These matters require finesse."
He disappeared, returning shortly with a wooden box, filled to thetop with old envelopes. Each had been neatly opened and its contentsextracted. And on each was neatly penned in a corner the name of thesender. Herman watched while the concierge dug through it.
"Here it is," he said at last. "The Countess, to her aunt in a nunneryand relating to wool knitting. See, is this the sort of envelope?"
"That is gray," Herman Spier said sullenly.
"But in size?"
"It is similar."
"Good." He held the envelope to the light and inspected it. "It would beinteresting to know," he said, "whether the Countess has an aunt in thisnunnery, or whether--but go, man. And hurry."
Left alone, he got together pens, ink, and carbon paper. He workedawkwardly, his hands too large for the pen, his elbows spread wide overthe table. But the result was fair. He surveyed it with satisfaction.
Meanwhile, back went Herman over his earlier route. But now he did notrun. His craven knees shook beneath him. Fresh sweat, not of haste butof fear, broke out over him. He who was brave enough of tongue in themeetings, who was capable of rising to heights of cruelty that amountedto ferocity when one of a mob, was a coward alone.
However, the sight of the restaurant, and of his fellow clerk eatingcalmly, quieted him. Peter Niburg was still alone. Herman took a tablenear him, and ordered a bowl of soup. His hands shook, but the hot foodrevived him. After all, it was simple enough. But, of course, it hingedentirely on his fellow-clerk's agreeing to accompany him.
He glanced across. Peter Niburg was eating, but his eyes were fixedon Madame Marie, at her high desk. There was speculation in them, andsomething else. Triumph, perhaps.
Suddenly Herman became calm. Calm with hate.
And, after all, it was very easy. Peter Niburg was lonely. The burdenof the letter oppressed him. He wanted the comfort of human conversationand the reassurance of a familiar face. When the two met at--the rack bythe door which contained their hats, his expression was almost friendly.They went out together.
"A fine night," said Herman, and cast an eye at the sky.
"Fine enough."
"Too good to waste in sleep. I was thinking," observed Herman, "of anhour or two at the Hungaria."
The Hungaria! Something in Peter's pleasure-hungry heart leaped, but hemocked his fellow-clerk.
"Since when," he inquired, "have you frequented the Hungaria?
"I feel in the mood," was the somewhat sullen reply. "I work hardenough, God knows, to have a little pleasure now and then." Danger wasmaking him shrewd. He turned away from Peter Niburg, then facedhim again. "If you care to come," he suggested. "Not a supper, youunderstand; but a glass of wine, Italian champagne," he added.
Peter Niburg was fond of sweet champagne.
Peter Niburg pushed his hat to the back of his head, and hung his stickover his forearm. After all, why not? Marie was gone. Let the past die.If Herman could make the first move, let him, Peter, make the second. Helinked arms with his old enemy.
"A fine night," he said.