Part 6

And as she ordered, so she did—though sadly and regretfully—and, with a blessing upon her, the Court resumed its accustomed life and garb, and Dornlitz its gayety and pleasures. Yet Valeria was sorry enough at Frederick’s demise—sorrier far than he would have believed it could be. At the best, a King is of use, these days, only as a head for the Government—and when the new head is capable and popular, the old one is not missed for long.

As it was, the people had scarcely realized that Frederick was dead when they were met with the amazing Proclamation of Dehra’s Regency; with the result that usually follows when sorrow and joy mingle, with joy mingling last.

In the interval, there had been no developments as to the Book of Laws. The Duke of Lotzen had observed the very strictest of mourning; not transgressing, in the slightest particular, the most trivial canon of propriety. He had remained practically secluded in his big residence on the Alta Avenue, appearing in public only at intervals. He had paid his brief visit of condolence to the Princess and had been greeted by her with calm and formal dignity. He had made his call of ceremony upon the Governor of Dornlitz—the Archduke Armand—and had been received by him in the presence of half his Staff. Then, after the funeral of the dead King, he had settled down to wait the termination of the two weeks of enforced inactivity. He could well afford, for that long, to dally with the future. So he subdued his natural indisposition to quiet and orderly living, and sternly bade Bigler and the others do likewise, telling them that the search for the Laws and the removal of the American could abide for the time.

But never a word did he speak to them of having seen the Book and what Frederick had written the night before he died.

Sometime before midnight, of the day that Adolph, the valet, had been killed, the sergeant of the guard, in making his rounds, saw a man skulking in the private garden. At the order to stand, the fellow had dashed away, and, seemingly unharmed by the shot sent after him, he leaped the low wall into the park, where among the trees and bushes, he had little difficulty in escaping. The matter was duly reported to the officer of the day and an entry made of it, but as such occurrences were rather frequent in the park, due sometimes to petty pilferers from the town, and sometimes to soldiers out without pass, it received no special attention, beyond a cursory inspection of the locality the following morning.

Two days later, Adolph’s body was discovered by a gardener who was clipping the hedge; and then it was remembered that the valet had not been seen since the morning after Frederick’s death. No one had given him a thought—in truth, no one cared anything about him. Like most of his class under such circumstances, he had won the cordial hatred of every one about the Court—a spoiled, impudent and lying knave. Busy with the royal funeral, and the great crowds it brought to the Capital, the police gave the matter scant regard—the fellow was known to them as a night prowler and a frequenter of questionable resorts, and to have had numerous escapades with married women; and the autopsy indicating he had been dead at least thirty-six hours, they had promptly ascribed the death to the skulker shot at by the sergeant. There was no other clue to work on, so, after a perfunctory search, they shrugged it over among the other unsolved. What was the use of bothering about a valet, any way! Besides, it was a case to let alone, unless special orders came from higher powers.

So they saw to it that the affair was entirely suppressed—such happenings around royal palaces are not for the public—and the information was casually given out that the King’s valet was so distressed, by his royal master’s death, he found it quite impossible to remain in Dornlitz, and had returned to France.

Once again, had the fickle Goddess smiled upon the Duke of Lotzen, still captivated, doubtless, by the very debonairness of his villainy and his steady gambler’s nerve.

And all unwittingly the Archduke Armand had played directly into Lotzen’s hands. Out of consideration for the Princess, he had insisted that they forget the Book of Laws until the period of mourning were passed, and Dehra, against her better judgment, had consented, though only upon condition that they two should first make a thorough search of her father’s apartments, which they did the following morning; she even climbing up and looking behind the large pictures—much to Armand’s amusement; he asking what would be the King’s object in concealing the Book in such a place; and she retorting that, as there was no reason at all for concealing it, the unreasonable place was the most likely.

And in that she was very right; for the box itself was now the most unreasonable place, yet even her woman’s fancy stopped short of it.

The period of official mourning expired on the twentieth, and on the twenty-first, the Princess telephoned to the Archduke to ride out to the Palace for luncheon that day, and to bring the American Ambassador with him—unless Mr. Courtney would object to being with Helen Radnor—and that the day being very warm they would be served under the trees near the sun dial, below the marble terrace—and that he and Courtney should join them there—and that Helen was with her now. And Armand had laughed and readily promised for them both.

As he hung up the receiver, Colonel Bernheim stood in the doorway, and he nodded for him to come in.

Bernheim saluted and crossing to the desk put down a small package, about as large as one’s fist.

“My lord,” he said, “here is the steel vest.”

The Archduke leaned back and laughed.

“You say that as naturally as though it were my cap or gloves,” he commented.

“And why not, sir—Ferdinand of Lotzen is in Dornlitz, and the truce is ended.”

“The truce?”

“The truce of mourning—you were quite safe so long as it lasted; Moore and I made sure of that.”

“Really, Colonel, you surprise me,” said Armand. “How did you make sure?”

“By having some one buy Bigler plenty of wine, at the Club—and then putting together stray words he let slip.”

The Archduke shook his head in mock reproof.

“You and Moore are a wonderful pair,” he said. “You think for me more than I think for myself.”

A smile touched Bernheim’s stern mouth and impassive face.

“We need to, Your Highness,” he answered. “You don’t think at all; you leave it to Lotzen.” He pushed the package a little nearer—“You will wear it, my lord?”

Armand took it, and, cutting the wrapper, shook out the wonderful steel vest, that had saved his life at the Vierle Masque when, from across the hedge, the assassin’s dagger had sought his heart. It was, truly, a marvellous bit of craftsmanship; pliable as silk and scarcely more bulky, the tiny steel links so cunningly joined they had the appearance of dark gray cloth. He bent and twisted it in admiring contemplation. Verily, those armorers of old Milan understood their art—never could modern hand have forged and knit so perfect a garment. He found the mark on the back, where the bravo’s weapon struck—only a scratch, so faint it was almost indistinguishable, yet the blow had sent him plunging on his face.

“It served you well that night,” said Bernheim.

The Archduke smiled. “And as its owner always does;” he smiled—and the old Aide bowed—“but there is no Masque to-night.”

“Every night, now, is a Masque for Lotzen—and every day, too.”

“Heaven, man! you wouldn’t have me wear this constantly?”

“No—not in bed;” then seriously—“but at all other times, sir.”

Armand pushed the vest back on the desk and frowned.

“Has it come to this, then—that my life isn’t safe here—nor in my house, nor on the street! Is this civilization or savagery?”

Bernheim shrugged his shoulders.

“Neither,” he said, “neither—it’s Hell. It’s always Hell where Lotzen plays. Surely, sir, you have not forgot the past.”

“No—no—but that was a Masque, and assassination went with the costumes and the atmosphere; yet now, in Dornlitz of the twentieth century—I can’t bring myself to believe ... why don’t you threaten me with poison or a bomb?”

“Poison is possible, but not a bomb—it is not neat enough for Lotzen.”

Armand looked at him in puzzled amusement.

“I see,” he said, “I see—he murders artistically—he doesn’t like a mess.”

“Just so, sir; and the most artistic and least messy is a neat hole through the heart.... You will wear the vest, my lord?”

The Archduke’s glance wandered to the window—electric cars were speeding down the avenue—an automobile whizzed by—and another—and another.

“Look,” said he, “look! isn’t it absurd to talk of steel vests!”

Bernheim shook his head. “Lotzen does not belong yonder—he is a remnant of the Middle Ages.”

“Well, I’m not; so no armor for me, my dear Bernheim—I’ll keep my eyes open and take my chances. I don’t believe the crown of Valeria will be the reward of an assassin.”

Disappointment shone in the Aide’s eyes.

“I’m something of a Fatalist, myself, sir,” he said, “but I wouldn’t play with a tiger after I had goaded him to fury.”

Armand smiled. “The case isn’t exactly parallel.”

“No—not exactly:—the tiger might not kill me.”

The Archduke picked up the letter knife and slowly cut lines on the blotter.

“You need not go into the tiger’s cage,” he remarked.

“There isn’t any cage—the beast is at large.”

“Nonsense, Colonel; this fellow Lotzen has got on your nerves. I thought you hadn’t any.”

“The pity of it is, sir, that he hasn’t got on yours.”

“And when he does,” said Armand kindly, “will be time enough for the chain-mail.”

Bernheim took the vest and deliberately laid it on the blotter.

“For the sake of those who love you, my lord,” he said—“and”—turning to a picture of the Princess, which hung on the opposite wall, and saluting—“for her whom we all serve.”

The Archduke looked at the picture in silence for a moment.

“Send the vest to the Epsau,” he said; “I will wear it—sometimes.”

And Bernheim knew he had to be satisfied with the sometimes—though as even that was more than he had dared to hope for, he was well content.

The Archduke and the American Ambassador met by appointment at the outer gate of the City, and as the former had been delayed, they rode at speed to the Summer Palace. It was the first time they had been together, informally, since the King’s death, but beyond the usual friendly greeting and an occasional word en route there was no conversation. There was much that Armand wished to discuss with his friend, but this was not the place for it—it needed a quiet room and the other aids to serious consultation.

“I want a word with you, Dick, before you go back to town,” he remarked, as they dismounted.

And Courtney nodded comprehendingly.

“As many as you wish, my boy,” he said.

But the Princess also wanted a word with Courtney; she knew his keen insight into motives and men; his calm judicialness of judgment; his critical analysis of facts, and, most important of all, his influence with Armand, and she desired his counsel and his aid. She had not forgot the part he had played in the recent past; that but for him there would be no Archduke Armand; that, indeed, it was this quiet diplomat whom she had to thank for the happiest days of her life, and the happy prospect for the days to come; and, but for whom, there would be to her only the memory of that ride in the forest with the American Captain Smith; and Ferdinand of Lotzen would be King; and she—she might even be his Queen—and have yet to learn his vileness and his villainy.

All this she knew, and her heart warmed to Courtney as now it warmed to none other save Armand himself. And that very morning, as the two men crossed the terrace and came toward them, she had told Lady Helen Radnor, with the smiling frankness of a comrade, that if she sent this man away, no act in all her life would equal it in folly; then without waiting for an answer she had gone to greet her guests.

Now, when the luncheon was ended, she dismissed the servants and turned to Courtney.

“Will you do something for Armand?” she asked.

“Don’t you think I have already done him service enough?” he said, looking at her with a significant smile—“more than he deserves or can ever appreciate.”

“Well, may be you have,” she smiled, catching his humor, “so do this for me—help me to make him King.”

“What can I do?” he asked.

She leaned a bit nearer. “Keep him firm for his birthright; don’t let him fling it aside in disgust, if the struggle drags out, for long.”

Courtney nodded. “I understand,” he said; “but you need have no concern; you yourself will keep him firm—it’s the only way he can make you Queen.” He paused and tapped his cigarette meditatively against his glass. “You think there isn’t any doubt as to the decree in his favor?” he asked.

“None—absolutely none.”

“Then all you have to do is to find the Book—that shouldn’t be so very difficult.”

“True enough; it shouldn’t—but it will be.”

“You seem very positive,” he said.

“A woman’s intuition.”

Courtney smiled. “Which isn’t infallible.”

“Will you try to prove that?” she asked. “Will you help us find the Book?” And without waiting for his answer she turned to the Archduke. “Armand,” she said, “tell Mr. Courtney what we know as to the Laws; I want his advice.”

Armand laughed. “I fancy he already knows it, my dear—it’s his business to know things.”

“And it’s also particularly his business,” she retorted, “never to betray that he knows—therefore, we must tell him.”

“Bear with him, Your Highness,” said Courtney—“I assure you he will learn in time.... Meanwhile, Monsieur le Prince, I’m all attention.”

Armand leaned over to Lady Helen. “His manners are rather crass,” he remarked, in a confidential whisper, “but he really means well.” Then he pushed the cigarettes across to Courtney.

“Take a fresh one, old chap; the story may be a bit long.”

VIII INFERENCE OR FACT

Through the story Courtney sat with half closed eyes, pulling at his gray imperial, the unlighted cigarette between his lips. With the main facts he was already familiar, as was every Embassy in Dornlitz, but much of the small details were new to him; and at the end, for a while, he was silent, fitting the incidents together in his mind.

“Do you care to tell me what the police make of it?” he asked.

“Nothing, as usual,” Armand answered. “Their intelligence doesn’t run beyond a hidden panel, and sounding every wall and floor in the Palace; they scorn any theory but that His Majesty concealed the Book.”

“Which is perfectly absurd,” Dehra added; “why should he conceal it, with the box and the vault at hand?”

“Why don’t you make them take another lead?” Lady Helen asked.

“Because I’m sick of them and their ways.—I’ve sent them away—and away they stay; in another day there wouldn’t have been a wall in the Palace.”

“She told the officer in charge the only way he could ever find the Book was not to search for it,” Armand laughed. “And then gave him a grade in rank to salve the words.”

“Don’t interrupt, sir!” the Princess exclaimed. “And remember I can’t give you a grade.”

“Was any one with the King after you left him that night?” Courtney asked.

“Only Adolph, the valet,” Dehra replied. “I’m quite sure he would receive no one at that hour.”

“And what did Adolph say as to the Book?”

“That he hadn’t seen it for four days prior to Frederick’s death,” said Armand.

“Who told you that?” the Princess asked quickly.

“He told the Council.”

“Then he deliberately deceived you; he saw it the night I did—the last night;—he came to the door just after the King spoke of Armand’s decree.”

Courtney struck a match and carefully lit the cigarette.

“Where is Adolph?” he asked.

“He has gone back to France, I think.”

Courtney sent a quick, inquiring look at Armand, which the latter missed, having turned toward Lady Helen.

“Oh, I remember,” he replied; “there was a stray line about him in the paper—grief and so forth. At the time, I inferred he had been banished by the police, for some reason.”

“We can have him back,” she interjected.

The Archduke looked around. “Adolph is dead,” he said. “His body was found behind the hedge under the King’s library windows three days after Frederick’s demise.”

“But his return to France?” Dehra exclaimed.

“A fiction of your police, doubtless,” said Courtney dryly; “they are very clever.... He was—killed, of course?”

“In the Park, the night the King died; a dagger wound in the heart,” the Archduke explained.

“Do you know that to be the fact; or is it the police theory?”

“I don’t know anything—indeed, it was only yesterday I learned of it and sent for the papers in the case.”

“And the—killer, I assume, has not been apprehended.”

“Naturally not,” said Armand; and proceeded to explain the matter as the police viewed it.

“What do you think, now?” Dehra demanded, at the end.

A bit of a smile crept into Courtney’s face.

“I think,” he said, “that the only circumstance which relieves the police from utter imbecility is their not knowing that the valet had lied to the Royal Council as to the Book.”

The Princess’ finger tips began to tap the table, and the little wrinkle showed between her eyes.

“Don’t, my dear, don’t,” laughed Armand; “you can’t give the entire Bureau a grade in rank—and besides, they are not to blame. I called the Chief down hard yesterday, only to have him tell me it was the ancient and rigid custom never, except by special order, to investigate a crime that touched the royal household, nor to follow any clue which led inside the Palace. And I apologized—and instantly abolished the custom.”

“They were specially ordered to search for the Book of Laws,” the Princess insisted; “wouldn’t that lead them to Adolph?”

“Under their theory Adolph had nothing to do with the Book,” said Courtney.

“Just so,” the Archduke remarked; “and between their rotten theories and customs the business has been sadly bungled.”

“Their fatal fallacy,” said Courtney, “was, it seems to me, in assuming that no one but His Majesty and Her Highness could open the vault.—I have no doubt the valet had discovered the combination.”

“But the box,” Dehra objected; “it was locked when I got it, and Adolph could not have had the key.”

“He might have had a duplicate.”

“I think not,” said Armand; “it is a trick lock with a most complicated arrangement, and to make a duplicate would have required the original key.”

“Well, however that may be is not essential,” said Courtney; “the fact remains that, between eleven o’clock of one night and ten o’clock of the second day thereafter, the Book disappeared; and the last time it was seen, to our knowledge, it was lying under the King’s own hand, on the table in his library, with the open box beside it; and that the latter was found, closed and locked and empty, in its place in the vault, while the most thorough search for the Book has been ineffectual except, it seems, to prove that it is not in the Palace. We can safely assume that His Majesty did not hide it; hence he returned it to its place; and whoever took it, got it out of a locked box in a locked vault. For this, Adolph had the best opportunity.”

“But what possible motive?” the Princess exclaimed.

Courtney smiled. “If I could tell you that, we would be far toward finding the Book; yet he had a motive—his lie to the Council proves it.”

“You think he stole the Laws?” she asked.

Courtney sent a smoke cloud shooting upward and watched it fade.

“I think,” said he, “that if Adolph didn’t steal them, he knows who did; his lie can bear no other construction.”

“And his death?” the Archduke asked.

Courtney watched another smoke ring and made no reply.

“Come,” insisted Armand; “answer.”

The other shook his head.

“I stop with the lie,” he said. “Indeed, I can’t get beyond it. The valet would have but one reason for stealing the Book—to sell it to—Some-one, who would have every reason to conceal or even to destroy it. Every logical inference points to this Some-one; and yet, for once, logic seems to be at fault.”

“You mean the Duke of Lotzen?” said the Princess.

Courtney smiled, but made no answer.

“Your pardon,” she said, “but at least you can tell us why the logic is at fault.”

“Because,” said he, “the actual facts are otherwise. As Armand knows, I like to play with mystery, and when I may help a friend I like it all the more. The logical solution of the matter, in view of the decree, is a knowing valet, and a ready buyer; yet the latter was not in Dornlitz, when the Book was stolen, nor has my most careful investigation disclosed any communication, by Adolph, with him or his friends. On the contrary, the evidence is absolutely conclusive against it; and hence acquits the Some-one of having had any hand in the theft.”

“You knew, then, of Adolph’s death?” Armand asked.

“Yes—though not all the details as you related them.”

The Archduke smiled; there were very few details missed when Courtney started an investigation.

“Your argument, Richard,” he said, “is based upon the hypothesis that Adolph is the thief, which appears most probable; yet did your examination suggest no other solution?”

“Absolutely none—and, more peculiar still, I was unable to find the slightest trace of the valet outside the Palace, between the time he left the Council and the discovery of his dead body behind the hedge—though you and Her Highness saw him in the library after the Council adjourned.”

“And that is the last time I ever saw him,” said Dehra.

“And more than that,” Armand added, “it’s the last time any one saw him in the Palace; I had that matter looked into yesterday. The Council rose about noon and afterward not a servant nor soldier so much as laid eyes on him.”

“Isn’t there something particularly significant in the place where Adolph was found?” the Princess asked. “Mightn’t he have been killed in the library and then, from the window, the body dropped behind the hedge?”

Courtney’s hand went to his imperial reflectively.

“A very reasonable and a very likely explanation,” he said; “and the nature of the wound supports it; it was a noiseless assassination;—but, again, that eliminates the Some-one.”

“Very true,” said the Archduke; “he left the Council before it adjourned, to return at once to town.”

“But did he return at once?” Dehra persisted. “Mightn’t he have remained and killed Adolph—some how, some way—I don’t know, but mightn’t he?”

Armand shook his head. “I think not,” he said. “I looked into that too, and there seems to be no doubt Lotzen was in Dornlitz before one o’clock; and every moment of his time, until Adolph was found, has been accounted for; so, even assuming he didn’t leave the Palace immediately, he would have had to kill the valet within half an hour after we saw him in the library; and that, under all the conditions, is utterly incredible.”

“Nothing’s incredible where Lotzen is concerned,” she answered. “So let us assume he did kill Adolph, in the King’s library, during that very half hour between noon and twelve-thirty, and answer me this: Why did he kill him?”

“Either to get the Book of Laws or because Adolph knew too much concerning it,” said Armand, smiling at her earnestness.

“Exactly; and, therefore, Lotzen either has the Book or he knows where it is.... Am I not right?” she demanded, turning to Courtney.

“Undoubtedly, Your Highness—according to your premises.”

“You don’t admit the premises?”

“I can’t—they are too improbable—and the facts are against them.”

“Oh, facts!” she exclaimed, “facts! I don’t care a rap for facts. Lotzen killed Adolph and Lotzen has the Book.”