The Intriguers

In the midst of these happy thoughts, four black shadows loomed up against him, four men surrounded him.

What a fool he had been not to take the Princess’s advice and drive home! St. Petersburg, like every other populous city, was full of thieves.

Blindly he struck out with his disengaged hand. Shrilly he called out for help.

One of the burly men who had surrounded him threw a handkerchief over his face. In a few seconds his struggles had ceased.

His almost inanimate form was conveyed to the waiting carriage, standing in a side street not far from the Zouroff Palace. It was bundled inside, two of the men mounted the box, the others sat inside, and the horses set off at a fast trot in the direction of the Moscow road.

The valet, Peter, strolled back home. His master was lounging about in the vestibule to await the news. Peter whispered them in his ear.

Zouroff smiled a slow smile of gratified malice.

“The bird is trapped,” he exulted as he ascended the staircase, to mingle once more with his guests.

CHAPTER XVI

After having delivered her letter in the way recorded in a previous chapter, Katerina had sped away with the swiftness of the proverbial arrow. She was well on her way home before it reached the hands of General Beilski, who was closeted with an official of high importance and could not be disturbed till the interview was finished.

The Chief of Police was, above all things, a man of action. There was nothing in the letter itself to give the least clue as to the writer, but it was evidently genuine. He came to the conclusion that the woman who had sent it was unwillingly mixed up in some plot against which her conscience revolted.

He immediately called in one of his subordinates to make arrangements for the immediate despatch of a body of mounted police to Pavlovsk, where they would lie in wait for the arriving carriage.

The man who had taken the letter from the somewhat frightened maid was called in and questioned, but his evidence was of no value. His recollections of the appearance of the young woman were very hazy. She was young, slim, and rather good-looking, but he had taken so little notice of her that he admitted that he would not be sure of recognising her if he met her again. There were other callers at the time and his attention had been distracted.

The man was dismissed, and the General and his lieutenant closely scrutinised the letter for the second time. All that they could do was to agree upon two points. The handwriting was evidently a feigned one, and also that of a person of education.

“There is one peculiar thing about it; our informant wishes to save the person threatened,” remarked the Chief; “but she evidently wishes to involve as little as possible the perpetrators. Otherwise she would have told us where the carriage was going to start from for Pavlovsk, so as to save us the trouble of going all that way. Still, when we stop the carriage, we shall be able to get something out of the scoundrels who are in charge of it.”

“Unless they are too staunch or too well paid to give away their employer,” observed the subordinate, with a shrug of his shoulders. “Many of these criminals, and none but criminals would engage in such a job, are very loyal.”

“In the good old days we would soon have made them find their tongues,” said the General with a grim smile.

That night Beilski dined alone with Golitzine and his wife. After dinner was over, the two men adjourned to the Count’s study and sat late into the night, discussing various important matters.

When they were about to separate, the General drew from his pocket the anonymous letter, and handed it to his host.

“Read that, Count, although I don’t suppose you will be able to make more out of it than I. It was left to-day by a mysterious young woman who bolted as soon as she had given it into the hands of the porter. He took very little notice of her and doubts if he would recognise her again.”

The Count read the letter slowly, and meditated for a few seconds. “Strange, very strange,” he said at length. “A person of some importance in the artistic world!”

“Does that give you any clue?” inquired Beilski. “Of course you know a good many things that I don’t, and you also mix in more worlds than I do. Is there anybody you can think of, or are acquainted with, whose removal might be useful to some person or persons?”

It was some time before a sudden flash of inspiration came to Golitzine. When it did, he spoke slowly.

“At present, mind, it is only a conjecture. But I can think of a man who would answer to the description – Corsini, the Director of the Imperial Opera.”

The General elevated his eyebrows. “From all I have heard of him – I have never met him – a most quiet, unassuming fellow. How could he give offence to anybody?”

“I must let you into one of my secrets, Beilski. This young man is acting for me in a certain matter. I have given him some information which, according to my instructions, he has divulged to somebody else, a woman.”

“Is there any objection to telling me the name of the woman?”

“As I have gone so far, I may as well go a little bit farther,” was the Count’s answer. “But, at the moment, you must remember it is only a conjecture. The woman whom I suspect of having sent that note is La Belle Quéro.”

“The woman who gives supper parties to men whom we strongly suspect, but regarding whom we have, up to the present, no actual proof,” commented Beilski.

“Precisely.” The Count looked at his watch. “That carriage has started with its freight some time ago. I think we can soon solve the problem of whether Corsini is the occupant or not.”

“Your theory is, then, either that this Madame Quéro has more conscience than her associates, or is in love with the young man and has made up her mind to save him?”

Golitzine nodded his head. “If my suspicions are wrong, Corsini is at one of two places, either at his hotel or at the Zouroff concert. He told me yesterday he was going there to-night to play. We will send round a guarded note to each, only to be delivered into his own hands.”

This was done, and the two men waited for the result. The man despatched to the Palace returned first. He had inquired for Signor Corsini and was told that he had left a long time ago.

The other messenger arrived a few seconds later. He had seen the manager of the hotel. Corsini had not come back, a most unusual thing, since for a man in his profession he kept early hours.

“The inference seems pretty clear,” observed the General. “If he had intended to stay at the house of some friends he would have told the manager. Still, he may have gone on to some other party, although I doubt it. Well, if Corsini is in that carriage, and it seems most probable, we shall soon have him back in St. Petersburg.”

“And when we get him back we must have him closely guarded,” said Golitzine; “at any rate until we have discovered the perpetrators of this outrage.”

“That may prove an easy matter, or one of great difficulty,” was Beilski’s comment. “Madame Quéro herself is, of course, no use to us. She would never admit that she wrote that letter. Do you happen to know her handwriting?”

“Yes; I have had half a dozen letters from her on professional matters. The handwriting bears not the slightest resemblance to this. But, of course, she would be too shrewd to write it herself, even in a feigned hand. She dictated it to some female accomplice.”

“By the way,” added the Count as they separated for the night, “they will bring back the occupant of the carriage, who I think we may safely presume to be Corsini, to your own quarters, of course?”

“Of course,” assented the General.

“Well, bring him on to me while his impressions are red-hot, you understand? We want to bring it home to the real instigators.”

While these two high functionaries were discussing matters, the travelling carriage, with the senseless young man inside, was proceeding on the Moscow road at a fast pace.

One of the two ruffians produced a stout piece of cord and proceeded to twist it round the arms and legs of the helpless man.

“He doesn’t seem capable of showing much fight,” he said to his companion with an evil grin, “but one never knows. A liver-hearted chicken would fight for life and liberty. Best to make sure.”

He bound him securely. The other man handled the violin-case which had dropped from Corsini’s hand when so suddenly assailed. His eyes betrayed a covetous gleam.

“This is worth something, I expect, but we dare not handle it.”

“More than our lives are worth,” replied the other ruffian, in an equally regretful tone. “There will be a hue and cry in St. Petersburg to-morrow when it is known that the Director of the Imperial Opera has disappeared. We must all lie low. Any attempt to realise on that violin would give us away at once. Besides, we are being very handsomely paid.”

“That is true,” grunted his companion in villainy, as he sank back on his seat beside the unconscious man. “We don’t ask too many questions, but we can pretty shrewdly guess who is working this job. Peter is a wary bird and doesn’t let out much, but we know who is his master.”

The carriage sped on through the gathering night till it reached Pavlovsk. Here there had been ordered a relay of horses, which was awaiting them at a small posting-house.

Corsini was still wrapt in a profound slumber. Once he had shown signs of consciousness, and one of the two miscreants had given him another dose of the powerful narcotic. It saved trouble, to keep him in that condition till they reached their destination.