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

“I will bring him back to you dead or alive as you command.”

“Fool,” the count shouted, “Who are you to do this, you who have not his skill nor so fast a car! Get you to Agram. I will telegraph to Fiume and Zara and Trieste and have him stopped for a thief.”

“But,” Pauline protested, “how dare you let it be known that it is the paper he has stolen? Dare you invite notice of it?”

The count looked at her very oddly. Never had he looked so coldly.

“Is it also his car?” he asked. “Have I no right to that?”

Weeks before Anthony Trent had hidden a spare key to the garage in a secret place. From the moment of closing the door of the armoire behind him, climbing down the copper pipe and starting his engine, Anthony Trent had not consumed more than four minutes. As he drove it out of the yard he saw Mrs. Sissek running toward him. Soon they would be on his track again. He did not care. He knew there was never a driver in all Europe who could hope to catch him between Castle Radna and Fiume.

A quick glance had assured him all was well with his Lion. Two extra wheels were carried which could be put on in three minutes. There was gasoline in his tanks and the purring hum of the motor was like a Beethoven symphony to his ears. And he knew that somewhere in the toolbox was concealed the little scrap of paper which had cost two lives already and might take his own as toll were he not careful. He prayed that the gods of chance might give him no less than an even break.

Down the mountain side he went singing. At night there was little or no traffic. The peasants were early abed and the way would be deserted until he struck the Marie Louise road.

Anthony Trent knew that not a car in the garage would pursue him with any chance of success. They would probably send a telegram from Agram but that contingency did not worry him very much. It had taken no more than a minute of his time to do damage that would take a hundred times as long to remedy. He smiled to think of the savage Sissek trying to start his Panhard. Then they would attempt to get the Fiat going and finally the old and tricky Mercedes. And they would all balk because that skilled mechanic Alfred Anthony had had his finger in the pie.

At the roar of his engines, magnified in the night silences, peasants turned over and went to sleep again. It was their lord or one of his exalted guests who passed. Sometimes one of them would hear, floating out for a moment, the sound of his singing.

It was a night of triumph and hope for Anthony Trent. He had succeeded where others had failed. The hours brought him nearer to a sight of the woman he loved and he could not put away from him the hope that somewhere happiness and content might wait for them.

There was not an untoward incident in his journey until he reached the high land overlooking the harbor of Fiume. Day would break in less than an hour. Stopping his motor he took the rain stained document from its shelter. Pauline had not failed him. She showed her thoughtfulness by placing sandwiches and a flask of wine in the tool box. He thought of her with a flood of gratitude. Until this reminder he had forgotten her very existence in the thought of the other woman.

Trent had not come idly to Fiume with the bare hope of being able to make his escape. He knew that there were in port several British destroyers that lay off a certain breakwater which he had observed on many occasions. Tied up at this stone pier were a number of rowboats. It would be an easy task to pull off to a destroyer and climb aboard. No commander would deny him the privilege he sought and there was not a gun in Fiume which dare be trained on a British or American vessel.

It was Anthony Trent’s way to look for opposition in his ventures and be a little uneasy if he met none. So far things had gone almost too smoothly.

He had threaded his way through the narrow streets of Fiume without other than a few laborers when he was suddenly halted by a policeman. The policeman stood before the Lion and waved his sword. It was plain he labored under stress of great excitement. Three others of his kind came running from a side alley. It seemed to the policeman that the great automobile made a vicious jump at him. He leapt aside with marvelous agility as the accelerated Lion passed him on its way to the pier.

There was just sufficient light for Trent to see the destroyer lying at her anchorage. Everything would have been comfortably done but for the cries of the pursuing police.

A groom of Count Michael’s had ridden a fast horse into Agram and the Fiume authorities were bidden apprehend a thieving chauffeur driving a blue and silver Lion. There was so liberal a reward that the police force was almost disorganized in contemplating it. Pursuers among civilian laborers and sailors joined in the chase.

Trent’s heart sank to see the little cove where the boats were tied was not empty at this early hour as he expected. There was a group of seven or eight fishermen getting their nets ready. Their quick ears caught sounds of the disturbance and saw that the man in the motor was to be caught. They seized a two inch hawser and stood across the pier barring the motor’s way. Four men holding to one end and three to another.

Trent took the situation in at a glance. Stupidly enough the fishermen supposed themselves to be able to stop the car of their own strength. Had they fastened the hawser around the cleats at their side Anthony Trent would have gone down to defeat. It was plain that he could not carry out his plan of rowing to the destroyer with these men at his heels.

There was one last desperate thing to do.

The great car responded to the accelerator and by the time it had reached the men holding the rope it was going at fifty miles an hour over the smooth stone breakwater. Two of the men were jerked clear into the water. They were all thrown down and one had an arm broken. Fascinated they watched the great car racing down the pier straight to destruction as they supposed. Then they looked, horrified, as it seemed to hurl itself from the jetty, hurtle through the air and disappear in a tomb of foam.

When police and fishermen strained their eyes and could see no trace of the chauffeur they naturally assumed he had been caught in the car.

“He has killed himself!” the sergeant cried.

“He was mad!” said another.

Anthony Trent had no difficulty in freeing himself from the sinking Lion. It was his wish to swim under water as far as possible and so elude those who watched for him in the faint light.

There was a strong current running and the destroyer lay a couple of cable lengths distant. It was a hard swim, clothes encumbered as he was, and he dare not discard the garment that held the paper. There was a despairing moment when he thought he could never make headway against the tide which would take him back into the harbor.

It was an astonished marine who saw the dripping exhausted man clamber aboard and fall to the deck.

“I must see your commander at once,” Trent cried, when his breathing was easier.

Lieutenant Maitland awaked from his sleep was not inclined to see him.

“What’s he like and the devil is it all about?” he demanded crossly.

“He’s about knocked out,” the marine answered, “and he says he won’t tell his business to anyone but you.”

Lieutenant Maitland put on a bath robe and interviewed the stranger. He was instantly taken by the man’s face and manner. He saw, too that he was dealing with one of his own class.

“I have important despatches for Lord Rosecarrel the Foreign Secretary which I must get to him at once.”

“Yes?” Maitland said interrogatively.

“I want you to take them and me,” Anthony Trent said.

“I’m afraid that’s impossible,” said the officer, “You see that is a little out of my beat. Even if your papers were for the First Lord of the Admiralty I could not proceed to a home port without instructions. I am bound for Malta and weigh anchor in. a little while.”

Anthony Trent was silent for a moment. He knew that private matters concerning Lord Rosecarrel and his son had nothing to do with the government directly. He knew, too, that to commandeer a destroyer for a private errand was inadmissable. But he was determined to get back and had no appetite for Fiume. There was a trump card which he had yet to play.

“Why does a squadron of destroyers stay so long in Fiume?” he asked.

“Admiralty orders,” Lieutenant Maitland said briefly.

“They are here because trouble may break out at any moment. The information I carry is necessary for the interests of your country and my own. I’m an American as I supposed you guessed. You will be thanked by the prime minister for taking me and my information back.”

“Why not cable it?” Maitland suggested, “I’ll wireless it for you in code.”

“I dare not trust it,” Trent said emphatically, “and they wouldn’t believe it anyhow. Mine is a preposterous story but it’s one that your government needs to know. Can’t Malta get on without you a little? It won’t take long. You fellows travel at forty miles an hour.”

“Who is to judge of the importance of the information?” Maitland demanded. “I have to think of that. If you are spooffing me I run the certainty of court martial. Really I think I must beg you to be decently careful in asking this of me.”

“That’s only fair,” Trent agreed. “Does the name of William, Prince of Misselbach, mean anything to you?”

“Only that I went to his funeral when he escaped from that island prison of his and w,as drowned. I was on the port guard ship at the time. I understand the allied powers breathed a sigh of relief that he had chosen to drown himself.”

Anthony Trent pointed to a group of boats at the end of the pier from which he had taken his leap. They were growing distinct in the light.

“Those fellows,” said Anthony Trent, accepting one of the officer’s cigarettes, “are grappling for my body. They believe I’m dead. Drowned as deep as ever Prince William of Misselbach ever was. You have just as much right to think the prince dead. I’ve seen him. I know where he’s been staying since his escape and I know who is behind the plot to put him on the throne of Hungary. Now, Lieutenant, do we steam back to England or shall I cable it?”

“I’ll take a chance and slip back to Portsmouth. What you need is a hot bath and some hotter coffee. By the time you’ve fed and got into some of my togs we shall be on our way back to fame or court martial.”

The lieutenant grinned cheerfully. He was still a boy for all the stern years he had witnessed disaster by sea and land. Also he liked Trent. It was rather a lark, he thought.

“By the way,” said Trent suddenly, “if they wigwagged you from shore that you were harbouring a man supposed to have stolen a Lion