Chapter XII

In the meanwhile, back in Aszod, Wenzel awaited the hour of eight, when the plans which he had laid so carefully should commence to fructify. He knew that Gunzi was searching the city for him; at times he had shadowed the detective to assure himself that the other was not too warm on the scent.

Cunningly he had arranged that Gunzi should track him soon after eight, and for that purpose had left behind a host of clues. When the plans materialized Gunzi would learn of the whereabouts of the White Knight. He would arrive just too late. Alarmed by the closeness of the detective the White Knight would have fled.

Gunzi, he knew, would hurry back to Gonnard. What would be the reaction? The White Knight had not set Francis Bakocz to study the habits of the commissary before Gonnard moved on to Aszod and remained unaware that he would turn to wine and women.

In the days of the Revolution English money meant much. With the crown falling and falling a few Treasury notes would buy a man's soul, and would still more encourage a woman, who already hated the Communists for all they had done to her young sister, to listen with a willing ear to Wenzel's suggestions.

A rendezvous—a pretty woman—potent wine—and in the middle of the supper—retribution.

It was a pretty scheme and there were no loopholes. Even if Gonnard should fail to fall into the baited trap he was prepared with an alternative—but the White Knight was confident of his man. At seven o'clock Arnold would arrive. Wenzel glanced at his watch; just four-fifteen, and therefore time to set his plans in motion.

He lounged out of the room he had confiscated together with several Reds in the name of the Commune. Downstairs one of his fellow-proletarians was just entering.

"What, going out? You are a queer fellow, comrade—different from the rest of us. We sleep all day, and at night..." He grinned. "Well, I could take you to several little haunts, my friend. Why don't you join us? I know a pretty blonde; her lips are redder than a ripened cherry, and warmer than the hot springs of Margaret Island. She would bring life into those dull eyes of yours, and set your blood racing."

"Women!" Wenzel shrugged his shoulders. "What do I want of women? I have had a surfeit of them until I am tired of their monotonous caresses."

The other looked at him enviously. "You are a lucky fellow. A case of beauty and the beast, eh?"

Wenzel turned upon him, and the Communist saw that in his eyes which made him feel afraid. "All right, comrade," he added hastily; "I was only joking, of course."

Wenzel growled, "Keep your jests to yourself, friend, for sometimes they are like curses and chickens—and come home to roost," then turning away he lounged out.

For some time he walked heedlessly. "Beauty and the beast!" So hideous was he that even his own sex were conscious of the fact! For the first me he wondered what Arnold thought of him. Did he too see his leader in the same light?

Remorselessly he forced the trend of his thoughts into other directions. He knew from past experience the after-effect of too much communing with himself on that subject, for the bitterness of his thoughts ate into his soul, and the world became a black place—too black, for was there not supposed to be a better one elsewhere?

He saw a train steaming into the station from Budapest, and, more to keep his thoughts occupied than for any other reason, he joined the throng of idle sightseers who lounged near the entrance watching the exit of the passengers.

The people streamed through; some hesitatingly, pausing outside to look around and find their different ways; others, with a contempt bred of familiarity, dispersed quickly and decisively along the adjacent streets.

Suddenly Wenzel stiffened, and frowned slightly. Arnold was supposed to arrive by a later train, yet he was even now jostling his way through a party who clustered round a newsboy.

Not seeing Wenzel, Arnold would have passed on, but the White Knight stepped forward.

"Hullo, comrade!" he cried loudly. "So you are back again? How go things in Budapest?"

"Well, my friend; well." Arnold's expression never altered. "Our troops beat back the enemy in every direction, and the People's Government becomes stronger and more fully recognized every day. It is said that the Allies have expressed a desire to treat with our great leader, Bela Kun."

"Excellent, excellent! Come, Stephen, I will see you home. You shall tell me more."

They moved on, talking evenly until the people thinned out.

"One of Gunzi's men was near by," explained Wenzel. "But now, why come you by an earlier train?"

Arnold's face clouded over. "Bad news, Wenzel; bad news. Apor was caught corresponding with the Whites and has been arrested."

Wenzel's face turned pale with passion. "The fool, the fool! Why did he? Did I not give him strict injunctions to serve me alone? Now, not only must he suffer for his folly, but you, I, and others of his own people, as well. My eyes and ears cut off from me, my plans prejudiced: if he dies it is no more than he deserves."

"He will die, Wenzel." There was a quiet suggestion in Arnold's voice which Wenzel did not fail to perceive.

"You are right, Arnold. Korvin-Klein is merciless, there is no hope for him."

"None at all?" There was wistful pleading in Arnold's voice.

"You liked him, did you not, Arnold? So did I. Now you hint at rescue. But what of my mission here? I have sworn Gonnard shall die, to-night will see the fulfilment of my vow. Afterwards we will go to Budapest."

"To-morrow will be too late, Geoffrey; surely Gonnard can wait? Is not the life of Apor more to be desired than the death of a Communist?"

"Be quiet!" His voice rasped with anger. "My plans are all prepared. Nothing must be allowed to upset them."

For a little while they walked along in silence, but eventually Arnold spoke: "I do not understand you to-day, Geoffrey. Has Gonnard done you any personal injury that his death should be of more importance than the life of one who has served you faithfully? We may not save Apor—I cannot see how such a feat could possibly be carried out successfully—yet it will hurt me always if I—no, I say, we, Geoffrey—do not, at least, make an attempt."

The White Knight knew how true were the words of his lieutenant. In speaking aloud to Arnold he had been arguing with himself. If he went to Budapest Gonnard would escape his clutches, perhaps never to fall into them again, and then what of his word to Elizabeth? He had sworn that Gonnard should die—Gonnard, the murderer of Elizabeth's cousin. On the other hand, there was Apor. Had not Apor risked his life, time after time, to get him news of the movements of the Communists, information which was of the utmost importance to the White Knight in his rescue of the unfortunate victims of Bolshevik persecution? Had not Apor, descendant of generations of warring aristocrats, demeaned himself, humbled his pride, to serve in the enemy ranks that he might more usefully aid the White Knight? Was all that service to count for naught?

Wenzel sighed. "You are right, Arnold. Gonnard must wait. We will catch the next train to Budapest."

They turned toward the station, and as they approached Wenzel looked behind him, smiling grimly: "What an unpleasant day Gonnard will spend to-morrow waiting for the blow to fall!"

* * * * * *

Gonnard knew Budapest as he knew the lines of his face. There was not a criminal resort with which he had not been acquainted in the old days of law and order, while the number of more or less habitable quarters where he might lie securely hidden from the prying eyes of the detectives, and to which he had the entrée, was well into double figures.

To one of these he drove the helpless Elizabeth. As he brought the car to a halt he gave a quick glance up and down the narrow road, but fortunately no one was about, so with a deft movement, which was hard to associate with one of his clumsy build, he picked her up in his arms, and with scarcely any effort carried his burden within, up the four flights of stairs to the whitewashed attic, and there carefully locked the door behind him.

Once safely there, apparently unnoticed, he plucked the gag from her mouth.

"Well, well," he mocked, "here you are, little chicken, and here you will remain until I have finished with you." Like all cowards he was a bully at heart, and he spoke with blustering braggadocio.

She gazed at him unflinchingly. "What do you want of me?" she asked calmly.

The question set him roaring with laughter. "Ho, ho! Innocent one! So you do not know for what I have brought you here to my little love-nest? Ho, ho! Think it well over, my sweet, and see if you cannot find out before I return." Suddenly his attitude became menacing. "Sit down!" he ordered.

Elizabeth laughed slightly. "You are a fool," she said easily. "Do you think you can hold me here against my will? I have only to raise my voice and I do not doubt that I should have half a dozen people flocking to my aid—in addition to the police."

He seemed to find humour in her answer, for his face again broadened to a grin. "You think so? Let me assure you to the contrary. In the first place, people who live in this district mind their own business. Half a dozen ... flocking ... your aid..." He could not finish for the laughter which consumed him. "Women have screamed for help before now, but no one has interfered. We have more manners than that. As for the police—— We live in different days, my sweet: the police do not arrest commissaries."

"So you are a commissary?" Elizabeth looked at him with a quiet scorn, which pierced even his hide, and his eyes narrowed.

"Say all you want, my lady. It will be my turn later on. Yes, I am a commissary. You and your kind no longer rule the country; the proletariat have arisen. Government for the people by the people is our watchword, with no more magnates living like princes on sweated gold."

Elizabeth did not speak in reply to this diatribe. Despite her defiant attitude her heart beat with a throbbing intensity. She knew her danger and endeavoured to think of a way out, but she was conscious of a hysterical panic which for all her courage she could not repress, and the knowledge clouded her reason.

In the meantime Gonnard continued speaking. "Too proud to talk, eh? Well, well! You will learn reason very soon." His eyes lit, and he stepped up to her, so that she shrank away with a repulsing gesture. "Why should I wait?" he asked thickly. "Why should I wait? You and me——" Then he calmed down.

"No. I will get rid of the car first, and see Bela Kun. Just as well he should know that——" He broke off short and glanced at Elizabeth.

Then, without the slightest warning, he clasped her in his arms, turned her round, and inspected the strength of her bonds. He laughed grimly. "You will be safe enough. You won't undo that handkerchief in a hurry. And just in case you should make too much noise——" With a quick movement he forced her mouth open and inserted the gag again.

Elizabeth helplessly watched his ungainly form as he lumbered across the room. Under ordinary circumstances she would have shrunk from him with loathing. Now, in his power, it seemed to her that he was even more horrible, still more the chimera of an unbalanced imagination.

Gurgling deep down in his throat he unlocked the door, then turned and blew a kiss across the room. She shuddered slightly, and his mirth rang out coarsely. Then he was gone, and she heard his footsteps heavily descending the stairs.

She listened acutely. The echo of his steps grew fainter, until it faded away; but presently she heard the whir of the motor below, then the chug-chug of the engine as it progressed along the narrow street, until that too died away, and an unnerving silence ensued.

Tired of standing she sat on a wooden chair, which wobbled unsteadily, and nearly threw her to the floor, but she managed to save herself by thrusting out a foot against the wall.

Her mouth hurt abominably—the plugged handkerchief nearly choked her, while a fold of it tickled the back of her throat until she felt a spasm of vertigo. Her wrists smarted with the rub of her bonds, and her bones ached from the cramped position she had been forced to occupy during the drive into Budapest.

Her physical pain, however, was as nothing to the mental anguish which pricked and tortured her. Over and over again she chided herself for her folly in venturing so far from the château. Conscience played havoc with her nerves; she realized that the discovery of her presence might create danger for the rest of the refugees, and that if that were not so her disappearance might subsequently have a similar effect, for she knew too that, as soon as the fact was discovered that she was missing, search-parties would be organized, and as they failed to find her they would surely venture farther and farther afield. Was it not likely that in doing so they might come into contact with curious peasants, or be seen by suspicious Communists?

Her father—of what would he be thinking? What would be his sensations as the hours passed and no good news of her arrived? She rocked slightly in the agony of her thoughts, and the chair very nearly tilted over.

There was one other, too, of whom she scarcely dared to think. The White Knight, the man who had risked his life again and again to rescue her father and herself, what would he think of her?

Her remorse was more than she could bear, and tears started to her eyes for the first time in fifteen years. With an effort she rose to her feet, and paced the floor as far as its limits would allow, hoping that with the physical effort her thoughts would plague her to a lesser degree.

Presently she crossed to the window and gazed down upon the road beneath, then at the houses opposite, and she realized that, if the depressing environment and the ill-cared-for state of the buildings counted for anything, the commissary had not exaggerated his claims to seclusion.

The street was dismal and unkempt; it radiated an evil atmosphere, a suggestion of mystery. Here and there people moved about, but, such is the force of habit, even though the Government was now in the hands of the criminal community, and everything was done to favour instead of incarcerate the criminal, the denizens of this quarter still continued to slink warily, casting uneasy glances from side to side.

The women were drab, their faces were hard and starved, while the men were brutal, their shaven heads intensifying the criminal cast of their faces. Horrified by all she saw, nevertheless Elizabeth could not withdraw from the window. It was all so new to her who had always lived on the broad, clean plains, who had seen only village life, except for glimpses of the world, now and again, from hotel windows.

A deep thinker and a student of physiognomy, she believed she would have been deeply interested had she been in more happy circumstances. As it was, studying the neighbourhood as far as the narrow compass of the window would permit, the sight did not help her to minimize her plight; rather it assumed, every second, an uglier garb, and she laughed mirthlessly. Supposing she were rescued, say, by any of the residents of the neighbouring buildings? It seemed a moot point as to whether she would be any better off, for her one thought then was whether any one face which she saw from the window was more evil than the next.

A minute later and, with a feeling of uncontrollable horror, she had to reverse her theory. There swung into her vision a tall man—like most tall men, stooping slightly. He was dressed in filthy clothes, a cap was crammed over his head and eyes, a scarf wound round his neck. He walked as did Gonnard, with a shuffling, uncouth gait.

At first she saw nothing of his face, but he stopped by the wall to light a cigarette, and apparently his cap must have caught on something sharp. Puffing the cigarette he stepped forward on his walk, and the hat came off his head.

For a brief second he gazed upward in surprise: it was then that Elizabeth realized that of all the vile, brutal faces which she had seen in the last half-hour there was not one to be compared with that upon which she now gazed.

Its monstrous ugliness hurt her, the blood-red scars which deformed his head and face sickened her, and her lips trembled. Supposing that it were he, not Gonnard, who held her prisoner....

She saw him snatch his cap from the wall. His lips moved, and she had no doubt that he cursed blasphemously. He would have crammed his hat back on his head when suddenly it seemed that her fixed gaze was magnetically riveting his attention. He looked upward, his eyes travelled toward her window.

With a shudder she jerked her head backward that he should not see her ... and the White Knight, wondering what impulse had made him glance upward, continued his way toward the rendezvous he had made with Arnold when they had parted at the station.