The Price of Power Part 14

"None whatever. The poor girl lost her life through her untoward discovery. The police themselves knew the truth, but on action being withdrawn, the fellow was perfectly free to continue his nefarious profession of _agent-provocateur_, for the great risk of which he had evidently been well paid."

"But does not Hartwig know all this?" I asked quickly, much surprised.

"Probably not. General Markoff keeps his own secrets well. Hartwig, being head of the criminal police, would not be informed."

"But he might find out, just as you have found out," I suggested.

"He might. But my success, sir, was due to the merest chance, remember," Tack said. "Hartwig's work lies in the detection of crime, and not in the frustration of political plots. Markoff knows what an astute official he is, and would therefore strive to keep him apart from his catspaw Danilovitch."

"Then, in your opinion, many of these so-called plots against the Emperor are actually the work of the Kazan shoemaker, who arranges the plot, calls the conspirators together and directs the arrangements."

"Yes. His brother is a chemist in Moscow and it is he who manufactures picric acid, nitro-glycerine and other explosives for the use of the unfortunate conspirators. Between them, and advised by Markoff, they form a plot, the more desperate the better; and a dozen or so silly enthusiasts, ignorant of their leaders' true calling, swear solemnly to carry it out. They are secretly provided with the means, and their leader has in some cases actually secured facilities from the very police themselves for the _coup_ to be made. Then, when all is quite ready, the astute Danilovitch hands over to his employer, Markoff, a full list of the names of those who have been cleverly enticed into the plot. At night a sudden raid is made. All who are there, or who are even in the vicinity are arrested, and next morning His Excellency presents his report to the Emperor, with Danilovitch's list ready for the Imperial signature which consigns those arrested to a living grave on the Arctic wastes, or in the mines of Eastern Siberia."

"And so progresses holy Russia of to-day--eh, Tack?" I remarked with a sigh.

The secret agent of British diplomacy, shrugging his shoulders and with a grin, said:

"The scoundrels are terrorising the Emperor and the whole Imperial family. The killing of the Grand Duke Nicholas was evidence of that, and you, too, sir, had a very narrow escape."

"Do you suspect that, if the story of the woman who recognised Danilovitch be true, it was actually he himself who threw the bomb?"

"At present I can offer no opinion," he answered. "The woman might, of course, have been mistaken, and, again, I doubt whether Danilovitch would dare to show himself so quickly in Petersburg. To do so would be to defy the police in the eyes of his fellow-conspirators, and that might have aroused their suspicion. But, sir," Tack added, "I feel certain of two facts--absolutely certain."

"And what are they?" I inquired eagerly, for his information was always reliable.

"Well, the first is that the outrage was committed with the full connivance and knowledge of the police, and secondly, that it was not the Grand Duke whom they sought to kill, but his daughter, the Grand d.u.c.h.ess Natalia, and you yourself!"

"Why do you think that?" I asked.

"Because it was known that the young lady held letters given her by Madame de Rosen, and intended to hand them over to the Emperor. There was but one way to prevent her," he went on very slowly, "to kill her!

And," he added, "be very careful yourself in the near future, Mr Trewinnard. Another attempt of an entirely different nature may be made."

"You mean that Her Highness is still in grave danger--even here--eh?" I exclaimed, looking straight at the clean-shaven man seated before me.

"I mean, sir, that Her Highness may be aware of the contents of these letters handed to her by the lady who is now exiled. If so, then she is a source of constant danger to General Markoff's interests. And you are fully well aware of the manner in which His Excellency usually treats his enemies. Only by a miracle was your life saved a few weeks ago.

Therefore," he added, "I beg of you, sir, to beware. There may be pitfalls and dangers--even here, in Brighton!"

"Do you only suspect something, Tack," I demanded very seriously, "or do you actually know?"

He paused for a few seconds, then, his deep-set eyes fixed upon mine, he replied.

"I do not suspect, sir, I _know_."

CHAPTER ELEVEN.

HIS EXCELLENCY GENERAL MARKOFF.

What Tack had told me naturally increased my apprehension. I informed the two agents of Russian police who in turn guarded the house in Brunswick Square.

A whole month went by, bright, delightful autumn days beside the sea, when I often strolled with my charming little companion across the Lawns at Hove, or sat upon the pier at Brighton listening to the band.

Sometimes I would dine with her and Miss West, or at others they would take tea with me in that overheated winter garden of the "Metropole"-- where half of the Hebrew portion of the City of London a.s.sembles on Sunday afternoons--or they would dine with me in the big restaurant. So frequently was she in and out of the hotel that "Miss Gottorp" soon became known to all the servants, and by sight to most of the visitors on account of the neatness of her mourning and the attractiveness of her pale beauty.

Tack had returned to Petersburg to resume his agency business, and Hartwig's whereabouts was unknown.

The last-named had been in Brighton three weeks before, but as he had nothing to report he had disappeared as suddenly as he had come. He was ubiquitous--a man of a hundred disguises, and as many subterfuges. He never seemed to sleep, and his journeys backwards and forwards across the face of Europe were amazingly swift and ever-constant.

I was seated at tea with Her Highness and Miss West in the winter garden--that place of palms and bird-cages at the back of the "Metropole"--when a waiter handed me a telegram which I found was from the secretary of the Russian Emba.s.sy, at Chesham House, in London, asking me to call there at the earliest possible moment.

What, I wondered, had occurred?

I said nothing to Natalia, but, recollecting that there was an express just after six o'clock which would land me at Victoria at half-past seven, I cut short her visit and duly arrived in London, unaware of the reason why I was so suddenly summoned.

I crossed the big, walled-in courtyard of the Emba.s.sy, and entering the great sombre hall, where an agent of Secret Police was idling as usual, the flunkey in green livery showed me along to the secretary's room, a big, gloomy, smoke-blackened apartment on the ground floor. The huge house was dark, sombre and ponderous, a house of grim, mysterious shadows, where officials and servants flitted up and down the great, wide staircase which led to His Excellency's room.

"His Excellency left for Paris to-day," the footman informed me, opening the door of the secretary's room, and telling me that he would send word at once of my arrival.

It was the usual cold and austere emba.s.sy room--differing but little from my own den in Petersburg. Count Kourloff, the secretary, was an old friend of mine. He had been secretary in Rome when I had been stationed there, and I had also known him in Vienna--a clever and intelligent diplomat, but a bureaucrat like all Russians.

The evening was a warm, oppressive one, and the windows being open, admitted the lively strains of a street piano, played somewhere in the vicinity.

Suddenly the door opened, and instead of the Count, whom I had expected, a stout, broad-shouldered, elderly man in black frock-coat and grey trousers entered, and saluted me gaily in French with the words:

"Ah, my dear Trewinnard! How are you, my friend--eh? How are you? And how is Her Imperial Highness--eh?"

I started as I recognised him.

It was none other than Serge Markoff.

"I am very well, General," I replied coldly. "I am awaiting Count Kourloff."

"He's out. It was I who telegraphed to you. I want to have a chat with you now that you have entered the service of Russia, my dear friend.

Pray be seated."

"Pardon me," I replied, annoyed, "I have not entered the service of Russia, only the private service of her Sovereign, the Emperor."

"The same thing! The same thing!" he declared fussily, stroking his long, grey moustache, and fixing his cunning steel-blue eyes upon mine.

"I think not," I said. "But we need not discuss that point."

"_Bien_! I suppose Her Highness is perfectly comfortable and happy in her _incognito_ at Brighton--eh? The Emperor was speaking of her to me only the other day."

"His Majesty receives my report each week," I said briefly.

"I know," replied the brutal remorseless man who was responsible for the great injustice and suffering of thousands of innocent ones throughout the Russian Empire. "I know. But I have asked you to London because I wish to speak to you in strictest confidence. I am here, M'sieur Trewinnard, because of a certain discovery we have recently made--the discovery of a very desperate and ingenious plot!"

"Another plot!" I echoed; "here, in London!"