The Secret Witness by George Gibbs (book recommendations txt) 📕

a small alley which he took at random, at the end of which he paused for observation. The house with the meshrebiya windows was now just below where he stood, but opposite him was an ancient stone wall, and in its center was a blue door. There were trees within the enclosure, and he heard the sound of falling water. He found a dark doorway and crouched silently, watching.

A cul-de-sac? Perhaps. Disappointment and chagrin had done their worst to him. He would wait see what was to happen, and if nothing came of the venture he would merely have his labor for his pains. He noted above the wall that there were windows of the house which overlooked the garden. In one of them, in the room which the chauffeur had been observing, the light still dimly burned, but he saw no shadows. Peering out from the angle of the alleyway, he thought he had discovered a doorway or court between the house he was watching and the one below it toward the Carsija, and in a moment fancied that he could distinguish the sound of whispering voices, from that direction; but the shadow of a mosque nearby threw its shadow upon this part of the street, and he could see nothing clearly. If there were men there, they were keeping in the shadow of the wall around the turn of the street, beyond the range of Renwick's vision, but the night breeze which carried the sound of the whispers also wafted the odor of a native cigarette. The smell of it made Renwick wish to smoke, for the suspense and inaction were telling upon him, but he resisted the impulse, sinking lower into the shadow, and awaiting events.

Minutes passed—hours they seemed to the waiting Renwick—and then came the deep boom of a bell, which echoing down the silent streets, seemed just at Renwick's elbow—another—another—until he counted twelve, of the belfry of the cathedral announcing midnight.

He waited, thinking deeply. The machine which had come a long journey? The lighted windows which the chauffeur watched? The whisper of voices from the street below him? There was mystery here. He crouched lower and watched the dark shadow of the arch below the house.

CHAPTER XVI THE BEG OF RATAJ

When Marishka reached the top of the stairs, entered the Harim, gazing terrified into the darkness from which she had emerged, she pushed aside the Kis-Kelim and listening fearfully for sounds of footsteps below, then closed the door, turned the key, and put her back against it, viewing with a new vision the interior which a while ago had seemed so friendly. Without Yeva who had given its disorder a personality, the room seemed alien, hostile and madly chaotic. For the first time since the reassurances of Captain Goritz in the green limousine as to her safety, she had a definite sense of personal danger. She was not timorous by nature, and the hope of success in her mission of atonement had given her the courage for the venture. She realized now that the will which had kept her buoyant through two arduous days and nights had suddenly forsaken her and left her supine, without hope or initiative. The actions of the man at the doorway below had frightened her. He had been so uncompromising in his ugliness. The shock of her awakening had been rudely unexpected, and had bewildered her with its brutal significance. She was a prisoner in this Turkish house, in an obscure quarter of a half Oriental town, and night was imminent, a night which seemed to possess untold possibilities for evil. What was to happen? Why had not Captain Goritz returned? Enemy though she now knew him to be, even Goritz was a refuge in this perilous situation. And yet it seemed certain that the man at the foot of the stairs was acting under his orders or under the orders of another who was accountable to him.

Weakness overpowered her and she threw herself on the pile of cushions in the window and buried her face in her hands, as if by blinding herself to the imminent facts of her surroundings she could free her spirit of the terrors which were overtaking it. As in her dream, her faculties were elusive, thoughts and half-thoughts conflicting and interchangeable. The rush and the roar of the hurrying motor car, the kaleidoscope of the maddened crowd, the shots, the sunlight and then the spangled darkness with the sound of voices. She started upright in her cushions, her face pallid and drawn, her thoughts now focusing with sudden definiteness. The voices! They were no dream—no more a dream than the other horrors that encompassed her. She tried to remember what they had said. "Ten thousand kroner—the goose that lays the golden egg——" What did the phrases mean? Another—"To be kept in seclusion, of course, but you will accede to all her wishes." The meaning of the voices became clearer, at every moment. "Should she care to write, you will send a message!" Marishka put her hand to her lips as though to stifle a cry, and then sank back with a gasp of comprehension. Goritz! He had expected her to send a message, and had prepared for its delivery. But why? How could he have known!... Slowly the meaning of it all came to her. His certainty and insistence as to Hugh Renwick's pursuit—the belief that Renwick would go at once to the Hotel Europa! The power of suggestion! And she had followed it blindly—unawares, leading Hugh Renwick into this deadly trap which Goritz had laid. She read the plan now in all its insidious perfection. There was something malign—hypnotic—in an influence which could so easily compel compliance. And Hugh? She had written him to come here—to the door in the court below, where men would be waiting—perhaps to take his life. It was too horrible!

Nature mercifully intervened. The strain of long days and nights of anguish had reached the limit of her endurance, and her nerves, too, long under tension, suddenly rebelled. She sank helplessly upon the floor, sobs racking her body from head to foot. She did not know how long she lay there, but when she raised her head it was already growing dark in the room, like the shadows that were stealing about her heart. Whichever way she turned, groping mentally for a thought which would lead her toward a light, disorder reigned, danger threatened. If there was a man at the foot of the stairs to prevent her escape, there would be others beneath the windows and at the door into the garden.

Yeva! She clung to the hope of Yeva's sincerity—the last thing left to her. It was difficult for her to believe that this child with the body of a woman could be guilty of complicity in any plot. She might have obeyed instructions to be the bearer of any note that Marishka might write—indeed her childish prattle as to the wishes of her lord and master verified the voices of Marishka's dream, and suggested that Marishka should be permitted to do as she chose—so that Yeva had offered, without fear of consequences, to deliver Marishka's note at the hotel. She had even consented to leave the lower door open that Marishka might escape and follow her. No woman of the world could have acted a part as Yeva had played it. If the girl had known of the guardian of the lower door, her skill in dissimulation was consummate—so much out of keeping with the simplicity of her mind as to be entirely incredible. Yeva was innocent, a mere tool in the hands of Captain Goritz, who disposed all the pawns in his command to play his game. Yeva had been permitted to depart without hindrance. Would Marishka's note reach its destination? Or would it be intercepted and its message read by Captain Goritz? His cunning had amazed her but it frightened her now. A ruse so carefully planned could have for its object nothing less than the obliteration of Hugh Renwick, as a prisoner or something worse—perhaps Death! She shuddered. She, Marishka, would unwittingly have caused it! She had asked him to come at midnight and knock upon the door in the court below and she knew enough of Hugh to be sure that if he received the message, no matter how great the danger to himself, he would come. The note! If she could recall it! She would suffer whatever Goritz had in store for her, if Hugh could only be spared. She had already done him hurt enough—without the chance of this last most dreadful sacrifice in her behalf—in vain. He would come to her and she must wait—without the power to warn him, and perhaps see him killed before her very eyes.

Her thoughts made her desperate—and the idea of another attempt to escape came into her head. If she could only reach the street, she could run—and it would be a better race with her pursuer than she had given Hugh in the rose gardens of the Archduke! She made the attempt, quietly opening the door by which she had entered the room and passing on tip-toe down the corridor to the door with the dutap. She drew aside the curtain which covered it and noiselessly turned the knob. As she peered out she found herself staring straight into the eyes of Zubeydeh. The woman's look was cold but full of understanding.

"Does the Fräulein wish anything?" she asked without the slightest change of expression. Her voice was colorless, like the speech which might be expected from a graven image.

"I—I was hungry," stammered Marishka helplessly. "I—I am sorry to bother you."

"If you will return to the room within, I will bring food at once," she said stolidly. And so Marishka, once more balked in her enterprise, went back to the Harim. Strong as she was, armed anew with the sudden strength of desperation, she knew that even if she could use her strength she was no match for this massive creature who, in the selamlik nearby, perhaps had men within call. She went to the windows and peered out into the street. There was no one in sight, except a tall man in black who carried an umbrella. She watched him a moment through the carved screen, but he went up the street and disappeared around a corner. The garden seemed to be deserted. Would the gate to the street be locked? She made an effort to move the lattice of meshrebiya, but it was nailed fast to the main wood work of the house. Her case was hopeless. There was nothing to do but wait upon the clemency—the mercy of Captain Goritz. A new idea of her captor was being born in her, of a creature who differed from the courteous German official of Vienna and Agram. His eyes haunted her, the dark eyes set just a little obliquely in his head, a racial peculiarity which she had not been able to identify. She knew now. They were Oriental, like Zubeydeh's, like those of the man at the door below, alien, hostile and cruel. And yet it was curious how the smile in them had disarmed her and she remembered, with a futile glow of returning hope, that she had not feared him, that she had even had the temerity to defy him. But her courage had ebbed—she could not have defied him now and in the darkness while she waited for Yeva she feared him—feared him.

It seemed strange that Yeva had not returned. She had been gone an hour or more and the Hotel Europa could not be a great distance away. As the moments passed she gave up the other hope of persuading the girl, when she returned, to go back at once to the hotel and reclaim the note, before Hugh could get it. Could anything have happened to her? Marishka wanted her—the sound of a voice,