The Princess Galva: A Romance

  CHAPTER XVI

  THE GENTLEMAN IN THE TWEED SUIT

  It was nine o'clock when Mr. Povey left the little modern red-brickpost-office situated in one of the principal thoroughfares, that ransteeply inland from the boulevard, and made his way down the hill.

  Nine o'clock was an important hour of the twenty-four to theinhabitants of Corbo, for it was then that the late edition of _ElImparcial de Corbo_ made its appearance. The editor and proprietor ofthat enterprising journal had an arrangement by which the latestEuropean news was sent to him direct from a relative employed on thestaff of one of the great Parisian papers. There was another paperpublished in Corbo, but it was not one that appealed to thesensation-loving San Pietrians. _El Dia_ was a heavy mass of stodgyreading matter, that was run, only too evidently, for political reasonsand in the interests of Spain. It is little wonder, then, that as nineo'clock approached a little flutter of excitement and anticipationmanifested itself in the crowds that thronged the cafes and boulevards.

  Edward called to a little bare-footed, black-eyed urchin, who wascalling his papers, and bought a copy. He had no desire, in hispresent state, nor did he think it a correct thing, to be seen at anyof the fashionable haunts facing the gaily lighted promenade, and heturned and walked slowly up the street, keeping his eye open for aplace where he could take his refreshment and read his paper in peace.

  He decided upon a corner cafe that did not seem to be too wellpatronized, and made his way to one of the little round marble-toppedtables sheltered by the glass wind-screen, by which the proprietorprotected his guests from the sharp gusts which at times beat throughthe narrow streets of this part of the town.

  Calling a waiter, Edward ordered a coffee and cognac, and, lighting acigar, opened his paper. It was a badly printed sheet, still damp fromthe press, and smelling evilly of inferior printers' ink. As he gazedidly down the columns, Edward could well understand the popularity ofthe wretched rag. Sensation was evidently the keynote of itspolicy--that and scare and scandal. To the editor of the _Impartial deCorbo_ nothing was sacred. Povey read first a long leader on thecareer of King Enrico, of whose health the reports had the last fewdays been again more favourable. The tone of the article plainlyshowed that the editor resented this temporary recovery of a monarchwhom he evidently considered to be of more worth dead than on thethrone of San Pietro. It mattered nothing to him that the Royal victimof his pen lay dying within a mile of his printing press. Ruthlesslythe ruler of San Pietro was attacked--virulently and viciously. Hismode of legislature, his family quarrels, his private morals, all cameunder the lash of the pen. On the question of morals the writer,scenting something to whet the appetite of his readers, had let himselfgo with a vengeance.

  The useful relative in Paris had kept him well supplied with anecdotesand paragraphs relating to Enrico's frequent visits to the Frenchcapital. These, while the king had been in good health, he had notdared to publish; but now, when any moment might be the last, he wasdrawing on the stores of his pigeon-holes, with the result that thecafe loungers of Corbo were given something to talk about.

  Edward put down the paper in disgust. It seemed to his English way ofthinking, a poor thing, this attacking of a dying man, who, if reportspoke true, must be having a bad enough passing as it was.

  He looked up to where, between the gables of the opposite houses, thepalace rose up gaunt and sombre above the town. The portion of thebuilding which came within his vision was in darkness, save where inthe eastern wing a short row of windows showed little patches of yellowlight. It was in those rooms that he understood the dying king lay.

  Edward pictured the scene behind those windows, the evil-living manhelplessly waiting for what he must hope would be annihilation. Heimagined the men round the bed, men intent on plunder, and who couldbarely wait until the breath left their royal master's body. Hewondered what visions were disturbing the king's last hours, and hethought of the many things he had heard of the monarch's past life.

  He remembered the tales of murdered and mutilated natives in the rubberplantations of the tiny colony in West Africa which was under the ruleof San Pietro. He thought of Enrico's sisters and brothers, all ofwhom had put their relative out of their lives--and of the heir,travelling where no one knew. The death couch of the King of SanPietro must be an uneasy one indeed.

  The words of Fagin ran through his mind as he watched the windows; howdid they go--"_as it came on dark, he began to think of all the men hehad known who had died.... They rose up in quick succession, that hecould hardly count them_."--Yes, Enrico's last hours must be very likethose spent by the old Jew in his Newgate cell.

  Edward shuddered a little and took a sip of cognac. Then he picked upthe paper again idly and turned to the home news. There were the usualamusement notes and the statistics of play at the tables in the Casino.He read with little interest how a wealthy Austrian nobleman had had asuccessive run of seventeen on the black, and how he had been forced tohave the assistance of one of the attendants to carry the spoil to thehotel.

  He looked in vain for an account of the accident on the Alcador road.Galva's death had been soon forgotten, the readers of _El Imparcial deCorbo_ were no more interested in it than in the suicide two dayspreviously of the young American, a ruined gambler, who had thrownhimself into the sea from the rocks east of the bay.

  As he rose to pay his bill, voices at a near table arrested him, and hesat down again and lit the stump of his cigar. Two men, of the middleclass, were discussing the motor-car fatality. One of them hadremarked how Lieutenant Mozara should have known that road better thanto have had such an accident. The speaker himself had seen him oftenstart out that way, and he had a sister, the wife of an innkeeper atAlcador, who had told him that the lieutenant seldom missed thebull-fights that took place periodically in the Plaza of that town.Edward, with his eyes glued to the paper he held before him, drank inevery word. It seemed to him corroboration of Anna Paluda's doubts.There was only one direct road to Alcador, and it was difficult toimagine for one moment that such an experienced driver as LieutenantMozara undoubtedly was would forget the dangerous bend that wound abovethe Ardentella rapids.

  And yet he said to himself that Gaspar Mozara was scarcely the man totake the risk of the fall. He would be running the same danger asMiranda, and yet here he was in Corbo, to the best of Edward's belief,unhurt. The next words from the adjoining table made matters a littleclearer. It was the other man who was speaking now.

  "----I was on the road when they were getting the wrecked car out ofthe water. I gave them a hand, and, although the machine was badlysmashed, one thing struck me as very curious. The brakes had not beenapplied--whatever happened, the car had gone through the wall at fullspeed."

  The lieutenant's words of the afternoon returned to the man who waslistening behind the newspaper, how he had put on the brakes when hehad seen the danger. Edward was now convinced that Mozara was lying,but even then he was no nearer the solution of the mystery. Perhaps,after all, Miranda had been in the car, but Edward would not allowhimself to think that.

  He felt sure that some sign further than the hat and cloak would havebeen found. It was barely possible that the girl's body would be soseparated from the car as to leave a hat and cloak only. It was allbut a certainty that she would have been pinned beneath the wreckage.The dainty motor bonnet, too, tied tightly, as he remembered, beneaththe chin--how could that have become detached?

  No, the more Edward Povey thought of the affair the more certain hebecame that the girl was being held prisoner by some one who suspectedher identity. The lieutenant was, no doubt, acting under the orders ofothers, and she would be kept in captivity until Dasso, after theking's death, was secure on the throne. Her's was too valuable a lifeto dispose of, unless it were absolutely necessary.

  All these things passed through Edward's mind as he made his way in thedirection of Venta Villa. The boulevard was crowded with its usualthrong of pleasure seekers. From the interior of
the cafe came theclattering of dishes and the laughter of those who were drinking orsupping. Each place, too, had its little orchestra, the uniformsshowing hazily through the smoke-laden atmosphere.

  As Povey passed the Cafe de l'Europe, the largest and most fashionablein Corbo, he ran his eyes over the people seated at the little tables.Gaily dressed women smoked cigarettes and drank tiny liqueurs as theyjoked with bored-looking men in evening attire. Here and there thegorgeous uniform of the King's Own Hussars splashed a note of barbariccolour over the scene.

  With a little catch of the breath, Edward suddenly pulled up short andslipped back into the shadow of a newspaper kiosk. From behind this hepeeped cautiously at the figure of an elderly gentleman who was seatedalone before a table on which stood a stone tankard of Pilsener. Thenhe passed hastily up the little avenue between the crowded tables andentered the main body of the Cafe de l'Europe.

  Here were blotters containing paper and envelopes, and he drew a sheettowards him and wrote a short note. Then, calling a waiter, he askedhim to hand it to the gentleman in the tweed suit who was drinking beeroutside. He also, ascertaining that this particular waiter spoke alittle English, told the man to tell the gentleman in the tweed suitthat the writer of the note would be glad of a word with him inprivate. Then he leaned back and watched through the large plate-glasswindows.

  * * * * *

  Mr. Jasper Jarman, as the waiter touched him on the shoulder and handedhim the note, started violently. For him a touch on the shoulder meantbut the one thing, in fact he had been dreaming night and day, eversince his arrival on the island, of touches upon the shoulder.

  "Ze gentleman, sir, he speak with m'sieu."

  "The devil he will." Jasper Jarman rose hastily and grabbed up his hatand umbrella. "I don't know a soul in the dam island, waiter, and Idon't want to. You have made a mistake, my good man."

  Jasper unfolded the note as he spoke, and his eye travelled to thesignature. He gave a gasp and turned again to the waiter.

  "Where is he?"

  The man bowed, and pointed to the interior of the cafe.

  "I will show m'sieu."

  Edward, however, had risen, and he met his uncle as he edged his waybetween the crowded tables.

  "Not a word here," he said, and, taking the old man's arm, he led himout of the sight of the people, some of whom he noticed were alreadygiving them their attention.

  They crossed the crowded pavement and the road to the other side of thepromenade. This part, bordered as it was by a low sea wall, andwithout shops or cafes, was practically deserted, and the two men madetheir way eastward until they came to a flight of a few shallow stepsleading down to the well-kept gardens that were the pride of Corbo.

  Edward, still with his hand affectionately linked in his uncle's arm,led the way through shrub-bordered paths to a stone seat that, halfhidden in a mass of palm foliage, faced the sea. Here it was quiet,the sound of the promenaders reaching them only in a confused murmur.Little lights gleamed here and there from the yachts anchored in thebay.

  "So, uncle, there you are," began Edward, unconsciously quoting Hamlet.

  "Yes, Edward Povey, I'm here, through your rotten criminal acts,you--you--jail-bird, you----"

  "There is no need, I assure you, my dear Uncle Jasper, to beoffensive," said Edward Povey.