The Puppet Crown - Harlod MacGrath (nice books to read TXT) 📗

gloomy, though outside the sun shone brilliantly. He ordered a stein of Hofbrau, and carried it into the main hall, which was just off the bar- room. It was much lighter here, though the hall had the tawdry appearance of a theater in the day-time; and the motes swam thickly in the beams of sunshine which entered through the half- closed shutters. It was only at night that Stuler's was presentable.

Scarcely a dozen men sat at the tables. In one corner Maurice saw what appeared to be a man asleep on his arms, which were extended the width of the table. It was the cosiest corner in the hall, and Maurice decided to establish himself at the other side of the table, despite the present incumbent. Noiselessly he crossed the floor and sat down. The light was at his back, leaving his face in the shadow, but shone squarely on the sleeper's head.

"I do not envy his headache when he wakes up," thought Maurice. He had detected the vinous odor of the sleeper's breath. "These headaches, while they last, are bad things. I know; I've had 'em. I wonder," lifting the stein and draining it, "who the duffer was who said that getting drunk was fun? His name has slipped my memory; no matter." He set down the stein and banged the lid.

The sleeper stirred. "Rich," he murmured; "rich, rich! I'm rich! A hundred thousand crowns!"

"My friend, I'm not in the position to dispute with you on that subject," said Maurice, smiling. He rapped the stein again.

The sleeper raised his head and stared stupidly,

"Rich, aye, rich!" He was still in half a dream. "Rich, I say!"

"Hang it, I'm not arguing on that," Maurice laughed.

The other swung upright at this, his round, oily face sodden, his black eyes blinking. He threw off the stupor when he saw that it was a man and not the shadow of one.

"Who the devil are you?" he asked, thickly.

Maurice seldom forgot a face. He recognized this one. "Oho!" he said, "so it's you, eh? I did not expect to meet you. Happily I had you in mind. You are not employed at present as a porter at the Grand Hotel? So it is you, my messenger!"

"Who are you and what are you talking about? I don't know you."

"Wait a moment and I'll refresh your memory." Maurice theatrically thrust a cigar between his teeth and struck a match. As the flame illumined his features the questioner started. "So you do not recognize me, eh? You haven't the slightest remembrance of Herr Hamilton and his sprained ankle, eh? Sit down or I'll break your head with this stein, you police spy!" dropping the bantering tone.

The other sat down, but he whistled sharply; and Maurice saw the dozen or so rise from the other tables and come hurriedly in his direction. He pushed back his chair and rose, his teeth firmly embedded in the cigar, and waited.

"What's the trouble, Kopf?" demanded the newcomers.

"This fellow accuses me of being a spy and threatens to break my head."

"O! break your head, is it? Let us see. Come, brothers; out with this fellow."

Maurice saw that they were about to charge him, and his hand went to his hip pocket and rested on the butt of the revolver which the Colonel had given him. "Gentlemen," he said, quietly, "I have no discussion with you. I have a pistol in my pocket, and I'm rather handy with it. I desire to talk to this man, and talk to him I will. Return to your tables; the affair doesn't concern you."

The intended assault did not materialize. They scowled, but retired a few paces. They saw the movement toward the hip pocket, and they noted the foreign twist of the tongue. Moreover, they did not like the angle of the speaker's jaws. They shuffled, looked questioningly at one another, and, as if all of a single mind, went slowly back to their chairs. Kopf grew pale. Indeed, his pallor was out of all proportion with the affair, which Maurice took to be no more than a comedy.

"Brothers," he said, huskily, "he will not dare."

"Don't you doubt it for a moment," interrupted Maurice, taking out the revolver and fondling it. "Any interference will mean one or more cases for the hospital. Come, I'm not the police," to Kopf. "I am not going to hurt you. I wish only to ask you a few questions, which is my right after what has passed between us. We'll go to my hotel, where we shan't be disturbed."

Together they left the hall. As they passed through the bar-room Stuler looked questions, but refrained from asking them. Maurice put away the revolver. As they went out into the street he drew Kopf's arm within his own.

"What do you want?" asked Johann, savagely.

"First. What is your place in this affair?"

"What affair?"

"The abduction."

"I had nothing to do with it, Herr, on my honor. I was only a porter, and I supposed my errand was in good faith."

"How about the gentle push you gave me when the door opened? My friend, I'm no infant. Lies will do you no good. I know everything, and wish only to verify. You are a police spy, in the employ of the duchess." Maurice felt the arm draw, and bore down on it.

"If I was, do you suppose I'd fool my time on this side of the Thalians?" Johann shrugged.

"I'm not sure about that," said Maurice, puffing into Johann's face. "When cabinet ministers play spy, small fry like you will not cavil at the occupation. And you are not in their pay?" Johann glared. "I want to know," Maurice went on, "what you know; what you know of Colonel Beauvais, his plans, his messengers to the duchy, what is taking place underneath."

Johann's face cleared and a cunning light brightened his eyes. "If that is all you are after, I'll tell you. I'm a spy no longer; they have no more use for me, despite their promises. I'll play them off for quits."

"If that's all," repeated Maurice, "what did you think I wanted to ask you?"

Johann bit his lip. "I'm wanted badly by the chancellor, curse you, if you must know. I thought he might be behind you."

"Don't worry about that," said Maurice, to whom this declaration seemed plausible. "We'll talk as we go along."

And Johann loosened his tongue and poured into Maurice's ear a tale which, being half a truth, had all the semblance of straightforwardness. What he played for was time; to gain time and to lull his captor's suspicions. Maurice was not familiar with the lower town; Johann was. A few yards ahead there was an alley he knew, and once in it he could laugh at all pursuit. It might be added that if Maurice knew but little of the lower town, he knew still less about Johann.

Suddenly, in the midst of his narrative, Johann put his leg stiffly between his enemy's and gave a mighty jerk with his arm, with the result that Maurice, wholly unprepared, went sprawling to the pavement. He was on his feet in an instant, but Johann was free and flying up the alley. Maurice gave chase, but uselessly. Johann had disappeared. The alley was a cul de sac, but was lined with doors; and these Maurice hammered to ease his conscience. No one answered. Deeply disgusted with his lack of caution, Maurice regained the street, where he brushed the dust from his knees.

"I'll take it out of his hide the next time we meet. He wasn't worth the trouble, anyway."

A sybil might have whispered in his ear that a very large fish had escaped his net, but Maurice continued, conscious of nothing save chagrin and a bruised knee. He resumed the piecing together of events, or rather he attempted to; very few pieces could be brought together. If Beauvais had the certificates, what was his object in lying to Madame? What benefit would accrue to him? After all, it was a labyrinth of paths which always brought him up to the beginning. He drooped his shoulders dejectedly. There was nothing left for him to do but return to the Red Chateau and inform them of the fruitlessness of his errand. He would start on the morrow. Tonight he wanted once more to hear the band, to wander about the park, to row around the rear of the archbishop's garden.

"A fine thing to be born in purple-sometimes," he mused. "I never knew till now the inconveniences of the common mold."

He tramped on, building chateaux en Espagne. That they tumbled down did not matter; he could rebuild in the space of a second, and each castle an improvement on its predecessor.

His attention was suddenly drawn away from this idle but pleasant pursuit. In a side street he saw twenty or thirty students surging back and forth, laughing and shouting and jostling. In the center of this swaying mass canes rose and fell. It was a fight, and as he loved a fight, Maurice pressed his hat firmly on his head and veered into the side street. He looked around guiltily, and was thankful that no feminine eyes were near to offer him their reproaches. He jostled among the outer circle, but could see nothing. He stooped. Something white flashed this way and that, accompanied by the sound of low growls. A dog fight was his first impression, and he was on the point of leaving, for, while he secretly enjoyed the sight of two physically perfect men waging battle, he had not the heart to see two brutes pitted against each other, goaded on by brutes of a lower caste. But even as he turned the crowd opened and closed, and the brief picture was enough for him.

Her dog! And the students were beating it because they knew it to be defenseless. Her dog! toothless and old, who could not hold when his jaws closed on an arm or leg, but who, with that indomitable courage of his race, fought on and on, hopelessly and stubbornly.

He was covered with blood, one of his legs was hurt, but still the spirit burned. It was cowardly. Maurice's jaws assumed a particularly ferocious angle. Her dog! Rage choked him. With an oath he flung this student aside and that, fought his way to the center. A burly student, armed with a stout cane, was the principal aggressor.

Maurice doubled his fist and swung a blow which had one hundred and sixty pounds behind it, and it landed squarely on the cheek of the student, who dropped face downward and lay still. This onslaught was so sudden and unexpected that the students were confounded. But Maurice, whose plans crystallized in moments like these, picked up the cane and laid it about him.

The students swore and yelled and stumbled over one another in their wild efforts to dodge the vindictive cane. Maurice cleared a wide circle. The dog, half blinded by his blood and not fully comprehending this new phase in the tide of events, lunged at Maurice, who nimbly eluded him. Finally the opportunity came. He flung the cane into the yelling pack, with his left arm caught the dog about the middle, and leaped back into the nearest doorway. The muscles of his left arm were sorely tried; the dog considered his part in the fray by no means ended, and he tugged and yelped huskily. With his right hand Maurice sought his revolver, cocked and leveled