The Secret of the Silver Car - Wyndham Martyn (red white royal blue txt) 📗

class="calibre1">“He is funny, this new chauffeur from London is he not Pauline?”

But Pauline had a mischievous idea. She spoke to Peter Sissek, that powerful and jealous servant, and he flashed a look of hatred at Trent. He thoroughly believed that the new man had indeed made the insulting remarks Pauline ascribed to him.

“Michael,” said Pauline caressingly, “let us see what this bold man would do if Peter threatened him. We will not let Peter hurt him but it will be a lesson.” Pauline knew men and she saw in Trent one who could not easily be forced to do anything.

Poor Peter Sissek urged by his master to avenge himself upon this hated alien rushed to his fate. Ina way Trent was sorry. He had no real grievance against the man. But Peter was immensely strong and spurred on by a lively hatred. It was his idea to get his long arms about the slenderer man and throw him to the ground and there beat his sneering face in. He was stopped in his rush by a stinging left jab which caught him square on an eye. While he stood still in amazement another blow fell, this time on his nose.

The big man paused in angry amazement that one built so much more slenderly than he could hit with this terrific force. Pauline leaned forward her lips parted and the red flush of excitement victor over art’s rouge. She was a woman of violent loves and hates and had urged many a love sick swain into unequal contest for amusement’s sake. Although Trent had attracted her she was not sure that she did not want to see Sissek punish him. He had paid as little attention to her charms as though he thought she was old and ugly.

As she looked at the foreigner she noted that his face had changed. He looked keen, hawklike, dangerous. It would have been wiser for Anthony Trent had he allowed Peter Sissek to triumph.

Then, suddenly, Peter made a rush. He put down his bullet head and jumped at his man. Anthony Trent saw the opportunity for as pretty an uppercut as one might need. For Peter Sissek it was the whole starry firmament in its splendor that showed itself, and then the night came down.

“He has killed Peter!” the count roared.

“That is not death,” Pauline said clapping her hands.

For an uneasy moment the count remembered that not many minutes earlier he had buffetted this quiet, grim fighter, this same man who hit his opponent at will and evaded his enemy’s blows with practised ease. These English speaking peoples with their odd notions of independence and their skill with their brutal fists were dangerous. It might well be that even he, Michael Temesvar had best remember his new chauffeur was not docile like Peter Sissek and the others.

“This is murder!” the count said still angrily.

“He’ll come to,” Trent said carelessly. “Shall I drive you back?”

“No,” said the count. He looked coldly at the man who had charge of the Lion. But Trent knew very well that the anger in his face was not from any sympathy with Peter Sissek. It was the thought that Pauline had deceived him and that this young man was too skillful in too many ways that annoyed the aristocrat.

“I will send a car back,” Count Michael asserted, “meanwhile stay with the man you have so cruelly assaulted.”

Peter Sissek awoke to consciousness a few seconds later and looked with difficulty on the world. His nose was cut, an eye was closed and his car was gone. He made strange outcries and became so excited that Trent with a black look bade him be silent. Sissek knew what was meant and started at a run along the road.

Trent was not so sure he had done well that morning. He had angered the count. Well, such anger would probably pass under ordinary conditions. He had interested that magnificent animal Pauline, reigning favorite, and autocrat, and Pauline was not discreet. Sooner or later the count would see the way she looked at his chauffeur and then the game would be up. He would be sent back to London his mission a failure. To get Pauline’s enmity would be fatal, too. She would not hesitate to rum a man she hated and the count would always believe her word against that of Alfred Anthony. The American sat on the edge of the first tee and cursed all irregularly run establishments. He looked up presently to see the car returning. It was driven by Hentzi.

“What is this I hear?” Hentzi said severely.

“I don’t give a damn what you have heard,” Trent said crossly.

“What? You talk like this to me?”

“To you or anyone else,” Trent retorted. “Look here, my little man, I came here to look after a high powered car and risk my neck on mountain passes. All right. I’m agreeable. But if you or anyone else thinks I’m a golf caddie or a footman or a servile beast like Sissek you’re all mistaken. I’m a good mechanic and I can drive a car against almost anyone but I’m not going to stand for oppression. The count hit me.” Anthony Trent patted himself on the chest as the enormity of the offence grew larger, “he hit me!”

“You talk as though you were a gentleman,” Hentzi said coldly. “My friend you are of the people and you have read too much. You probably think you are my equal. It is an honor to serve a Temesvar but if you are anxious to go to your own country I have no doubt your company can send another

man.”

“There’s no need for that,” Trent said less irascibly, “but what makes Pauline think I’m going to carry her clubs around when I’ve got my own work to do?”

“So that was it,” Hentzi commented. “That was why Count Michael stormed at me so. My good Alfred, you are young and life is sweet. I counsel you to remember that always while you are at Radna. The Temesvars have always been hot headed. You see that steep cliff yonder?”

Trent looked above him to where the side of a mountain was cut so sharply that a drop of four hundred feet would be the lot of one stepping from the edge.

“That has been the scene of many tragedies,” Hentzi said, “many men have stepped into space.”

“Murdered?” Trent demanded.

“Accidents,” Hentzi assured him, “unfortunate accidents. There was one lamentable occurrence not many years ago and he was a fellow countryman of yours by the way. A man of great personal distinction. But these are not for you, these reminiscences of high life. What will interest you is that the count says you can no longer live with the Sisseks. He does not want two valuable servants to kill one another. Room will be made for you at the Castle. That pleases you, eh?”

“Yes,” Trent said, conscious that his look of triumph had puzzled Hentzi. “I do not like Mrs. Sissek’s cooking.”

In reality he was delighted. Here he was to be taken into the Castle without having to make an effort. It was the first step. It would be strange if one as skilled and silent as he could not soon have every detail of the house at his command. He knew the servants drank their native spirits, brandies, made of cherries, apricots and plums. This assured sound sleep and unlimited opportunities. The count was a great drinker, too, and his guests feasted well.

As if in conspiracy against him the major domo, chief of the indoor servants, put him in the least desirable of rooms, a rat-ridden chamber away from the sleeping apartments of the rest of the help. In the heat of summer it would be unbearable. There was fortunately a great bolt which barred the door from intruders. The one long, deep window opened inwards. An old square copper pipe used to drain the roof far above passed his window. He took hold of it and found it immovable. It would easily support his weight. The ground lay twenty feet below. It was the windows that this copper pipe passed which most interested Trent. If they had catches similar to his own he could open them with a hair pin. He was eager for night to fall. And because he was now assured of action he became much more docile. He allowed Hentzi to lecture him severely on his brutal behaviour.

During the next week he was worked so hard that he had little opportunity, apart from his long journeys to Fiume, to do aught else than make a mental plan of the windows on his side of the castle. There were four apertures similar to that which gave light and air to his room. The heavy copper pipe passed by them all. To a gymnast with a clear head they were all within reach. The climb was probably less difficult than it would seem to an observer looking up from the ground. There was risk, of course, but Anthony Trent was always ready to take it.

In the daily life of the servants’ hall he noticed that the place had an enormous number of retainers, young and old, many more than seemed necessary. They were with a few exceptions sons and daughters of the Temesvar family, servants proud of their caste and the man they served. The major domo spoke German and French. He was a pompous person who ruled absolutely below stairs. He did not like the stranger but he had been commanded not to allow any brawls and he saw to it the chauffeur was let alone. There was much to eat and to drink. Count Michael owned herds of swine which grazed in the miles of oak and beech forests surrounding Castle Radna and the heady drinks that abounded were made from his own fruits by his own people.

As a rule the lower servants went early to bed. Those who remained up later were the major domo and such of his men as waited upon the count’stable. There came a dark cloudy night when Anthony Trent wearing black sneakers and a dark suit free from white collar or cuffs crawled out of his dungeon-like window and up the twelve feet of piping that intervened between his own and the next window above. He found himself looking down into what he supposed was the great entrance hall of the castle. Just below him was a great seat raised above the hall level on a platform of stone at the base of the fine sweep of stairway.

It was the official seat of the major domo. He could see the portly servant in a sort of antique evening dress, white gloves on podgy hands and a gilt chain of office about his thick neck. Below were three or four footmen in the maroon and canary of the Temesvars. They were yawning as though weary of inactivity. Plainly Trent could not emerge a few feet above the major domo’s head and in full view of the footmen.

A climb to the next embrasure revealed what at first seemed a checkmate to observation. He found on investigation that some great article of furniture was backed against the window. It was immovable. Another climb and he was able to step through the easily opened window to a dark corridor. Anthony Trent in a great silent house where danger and disgrace would attend his discovery was in his element. He moved silently, surely, and seemed possessed of a seventh sense. He had never before professionally worked in such a vast rambling place as Castle Radna. It was not easy even for one trained as he to keep the plan of the place in mind. He found himself on a floor of bedrooms few of which were