The Fate of a Crown
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But I was now fully awake, and had no intention of sleeping while this strange individual occupied his seat beside me.
“Who are you?” I demanded. “A patriot?”
“Not as you use the term,” he answered, at once. “I am Mexican.”
“Mexican!” I echoed, surprised. “Do you speak English?”
“Truly, señor,” he answered, but his English was as bad as his Portuguese.
“Why are you here and a prisoner?” I asked.
“I had business with Señor de Pintra. I came from afar to see him, but found the soldiers inhabiting his house. I am timid, señor, and suspecting trouble I hid in an out-building, where the soldiers discovered me. Why I should be arrested I do not know. I am not conspirator; I am not even Brazilian. I do not care for your politics whatever. They tell me Miguel de Pintra is dead. Is it true?”
His tone did not seem sincere. But I replied it was true that Dom Miguel was dead.
“Then I should be allowed to depart. But not so. They tell me the great Emperor is here, their Dom Pedro, and he will speak to me in the morning. Is it true?”
This time I detected an anxiety in his voice that told me he had not suspected the Emperor’s presence until his arrest.
But I answered that Dom Pedro was then occupying de Pintra’s mansion, together with many of his important ministers.
For a time he remained silent, probably considering the matter with care. But he was ill at ease, and shifted continually in his chair.
“You are Americano?” he asked at last.
“Yes,” said I.
“I knew, when you ask me for my English. But why does the Emperor arrest an American?”
I smiled; but there was no object in trying to deceive him.
“I was private secretary to Dom Miguel,” said I, “and they suspect my late master to have plotted against the Emperor.”
He laughed, unpleasantly.
“It is well your master is dead when they make that suspicion,” said he; then paused a moment and asked, abruptly, “Did he tell you of the vault?”
I stared at him. A Mexican, not a conspirator, yet aware of the secret vault! It occurred to me that it would be well to keep my own counsel, for a time, at least.
“A vault?” I asked, carelessly, and shook my head.
Again the fellow laughed disagreeably. But my answer seemed to have pleased him.
“He was sly! Ah, he was sly, the dear Señor Miguel!” he chuckled, rocking his thin form back and forth upon the chair. “But never mind. It is nothing. I never pry into secrets, señor. It is not my nature.”
I said nothing and another silent fit seized him. Perhaps five minutes had passed before he arose and made a second stealthy circuit of the room, this time examining the barred window with great care. Then he sighed heavily and came back to his seat.
“What will be your fate, señor?” he asked.
“I shall appeal to our consul at Rio. They must release me,” I answered.
“Good. Very good! They must release you. You are no conspirator – a mere secretary, and an American.”
I nodded, wishing I might share his confidence. Presently he asked for my name and residence, and I answered him truly.
“I myself am Manuel Pesta, of the City of Mexico. You must not forget the name, señor. Manuel Pesta, the clockmaker.”
“I shall not forget,” said I, wondering what he could mean. And a moment later he startled me by bending forward and asking in an eager tone:
“Have they searched you?”
“Yes.”
“It is my turn soon. This morning.”
He leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and fell silent again.
For my part I lay back upon the pillow, yet taking care to face him, and so we remained until daylight came and gradually drove the shadows from the little room.
Even then my strange companion did not move. He was indeed a queer mixture of eager activity and absolute self-repression. Another hour passed, and then we heard footsteps approaching down the passageway.
With a start Pesta aroused himself and fixed a searching glance upon my face. Trembling with nervousness he suddenly raised his manacled hands and removed from his mouth a small object that glittered in the morning light.
My heart gave a sudden bound. It was the ring that opened the secret vault!
His own agitation prevented his noting my amazement. Thrusting the ring toward me he whispered, hurriedly:
“Conceal it, quickly, for the love of God! Keep it until I come for it – I, Manuel Pesta – until I demand it of Robert Harcliffe of New Orleans. It may be to-day – it may be many days. But I will come, señor, I – ”
The bolts of the door shot back and a squad of soldiers entered. Their sudden appearance barely gave me time to drop the ring into an outside pocket of my coat. As two of the soldiers seized him I noticed that the Mexican was trembling violently; but he arose meekly and submitted to be led from the room. Two others motioned me to follow, and in a few moments we were ushered into the room where I had had my interview with the Emperor.
Valcour was standing by the fireplace when we entered, and eyeing the Mexican with indifference he said to the captain:
“This is the man you found secreted in the out-building?”
“It is, senhor,” answered the captain.
“Have you searched him?”
“Only partially. We took from him this revolver, a knife, and this purse. There were no papers.”
Valcour took the weapons in his hands and examined them. The revolver, I could see as he threw back the barrel, was loaded in all six chambers. The knife he glanced at and turned to place upon the mantel when a second thought seemingly induced him to open the blades. It was a large, two-bladed affair, and the bright steel showed that it was sharpened as finely as a razor. As I watched the Emperor’s spy I chanced to look toward the Mexican and surprised an expression that nearly resembled terror upon his haggard face. Perhaps Valcour saw it, too, for he drew a handkerchief from his pocket and carefully wiped out the seats in the handles where the blades lay when the knife was closed. A small stain appeared upon the linen, and the spy carried the handkerchief to the window and inspected the stain with interest. While he was thus engaged the Emperor entered the room, followed by his ministers, and seating himself at the table calmly proceeded to light a cigar. Evidently he had just breakfasted, for he had an appearance of content that indicated a comfortable condition.
Valcour, returning from the window, first saluted the Emperor with great deference, and then addressed the Mexican.
“Why did you kill that man last evening and sever his hand with your knife?”
The Mexican gazed at him in horror.
“I – señor, as God hears me, I – ”
“Tell me why!” said Valcour calmly.
The fellow glared at him as if fascinated. Then he threw his hands, all manacled as they were, high above his head, and with a scream that caused even the Emperor to start, fell upon the floor in a swoon.
Valcour turned him over with his foot.
“Search him!” he commanded.
The men were thorough. Not a shred of clothing escaped their eyes. And after they had finished the detective himself made an examination.
Dom Pedro was evidently much interested. Without any explanation further than Valcour’s accusation, all present understood that the Mexican was charged with the murder of the man found in the shrubbery and therefore he must either have the ring upon his person or had deposited it in some secret place.
He lay unconscious after the search had ended, and Valcour, after a moment’s reflection, ordered the men to carry him back to the room where he had passed the night, to guard him well, and to send for a physician.
The Emperor relighted his cigar, which had gone out, and in the interval I heard the sound of a troupe of horse galloping up the drive. There was no mistaking the clank of sabers, and Dom Pedro leaned forward with an expectant look upon his face, in which the others joined.
Then the door burst open and a man entered and knelt before the Emperor. I could scarcely restrain a cry of surprise as I saw him.
It was Francisco Paola.
CHAPTER XV
A DANGEROUS MOMENT
Not since I parted with him in the road on the morning of Dom Miguel’s murder had I seen Paola or heard from him directly.
At that time, after giving me two men who had proved faithful both to me and the Cause, he had ridden on to the house of death – “to breakfast with his sister.” From that moment his actions had been a mystery not only to me but to all his fellow-conspirators.
But now it seemed easy to understand that the Minister of Police had been attending to the Emperor’s business, and that he had also been playing a double game from the beginning, and promoting the revolution that he might the more easily crush it.
As he rose to his feet after saluting the Emperor, Paola glanced around the room and noted my presence. I could not well disguise the scorn I felt for this treacherous fellow, and as he met my eyes he smiled and twirled his small moustache with a satisfied air.
“Well?” demanded the Emperor.
“All is indeed well, your Majesty,” returned the minister, lightly. “The leaders of the conspiracy, with one exception, are now under arrest.”
“And that one?”
“Sanchez Bastro, a coffee-planter with a ranch near by. He has crossed the border. But it is unimportant.”
“And Mendez?”
“Imprisoned in the citadel.”
“Barros?”
“He is comforting Mendez, in the same cell.”
“Treverot?”
“Unfortunately we were obliged to shoot him. He chose to resist.”
“Hm! And Piexoto?”
“Is below, under arrest.”
“Have him brought here.” The captain left the room, and again the Emperor turned to Paola.
“You have done well, senhor; and your reward shall be adequate. It was a far-reaching plot, and dangerous.” And Dom Pedro sighed as if greatly relieved.
Paola brushed a speck of dust from his sleeve and laughed in his silly fashion.
“The serpent is only dangerous, your Majesty, until its fangs are pulled,” he drawled, and strolled away toward Valcour, while the soldiers brought in Senhor Floriano Piexoto.
The famous patriot was not only hand-cuffed, but his elbows were bound together by cords across his back. But despite his bonds he walked proudly and scowled into Dom Pedro’s face as he confronted him. Indeed, I was filled with admiration to find that this man whom Fonseca had called “croaker” could be brave when occasion demanded it.
“So, my clever statesman has seen fit to turn traitor,” began the Emperor, sternly regarding the prisoner.
“A champion of Liberty must needs be a traitor to Dom Pedro,” replied Piexoto, with equal sternness.
“But the conspiracy is at an end, and I am inclined to be merciful,” resumed the Emperor. “I am told you were the trusted friend of Miguel de Pintra, and knew his secrets. If you will inform us how to unlock the secret vault, I will promise to regard your offense lightly.”
Piexoto stared at him a moment indignantly. Then he turned with a frown upon Paola.
“Ask of your Minister of Police,” he retorted; “for there stands a double traitor! It was he who stood closest to de Pintra, winning his confidence only to betray it. It was Francisco Paola who planned the secret vault. Who should know better than he how to open it?”
The Emperor turned to Paola with suspicion written visibly upon his stern features.
“Did you plan the vault?” he demanded.
“Truly, your Majesty. Otherwise the records would have been scattered in many places. I planned the vault that all might be concentrated in one place – where we should find them when we were ready to explode the conspiracy. Records – plans – money – all are now at our hand.”
“But we have not the key. Why did you plan so complicated a lock?”
“Nothing else would have satisfied de Pintra. As for the lock, it is nothing. A drill through one of the steel panels would have admitted us easily. But – ”
“But what, sir? Why do we not drill now, instead of seeking this cursed ring?”
The Minister smiled and again twirled his moustaches.
“Because Dom Miguel suddenly developed inventive genius on his own part. I was absent when the work was completed, and too late I discovered that de Pintra had made pockets everywhere between the steel plates, and filled every pocket with nitro-glycerine.”
“Well?”
“That is all. To drill into the vault is to explode a pocket of nitro-glycerine, which in turn will explode all the other pockets through concussion.”
“And then?”
“And then the contents of the vault would be blown to atoms. Of the mansion itself not one stone would remain upon another. The records we seek would be lost irrevocably.”
Valcour, pale with fear, uttered a cry and dashed through the door, while the Emperor rose to his feet with a look of terror upon his face.
“They are drilling now!” he gasped.
Silently we stood, none daring to move; and into our drawn faces Piexoto gazed with a grim and derisive smile.
Paolo, more composed than any of the others, except Piexoto, began rolling a cigarette, but remembering the Emperor’s presence he ceased.
And so we stood, motionless and silent, until footsteps were again heard and Valcour re-entered wiping the perspiration from his forehead with an embroidered handkerchief. His face wore a look of relief, but there was a slight tremor in his voice as he said:
“I have ordered the drilling stopped, your Majesty.”
Dom Pedro, thus reassured, strode back and forth in evident perplexity.
“We must have the key!” he said, angrily. “There is no other way. And the key cannot be far off. Has your prisoner, the Mexican, recovered?”
“I will go and see,” answered the detective, and again left the room.
I caught a look of surprise upon the face of the Minister of Police. It was fleeting, but I was sure it had been there.
“May I inquire who this prisoner is?” he asked. One of the men who acted as secretary to the Emperor, receiving a nod from Dom Pedro, informed Paola of the finding of the dead body in the shrubbery, and of the consequent arrest of the Mexican.
“And the key was not found in his possession?” he inquired, eagerly.
“No.”
“Then he secreted it, fearing arrest. Have the out-buildings been searched?”
“Not yet.”
“Let it be done at once.”
Valcour, entering in time to hear this, flushed angrily.
“That is my business, Senhor Paola. I will brook no interference from the police.”
“Ah! had it not been for the police, Senhor Valcour would have blown his Emperor into eternity,” returned Paola, smiling blandly into the spy’s disturbed countenance.
“Enough of this!” cried the Emperor. “Let the grounds and out-buildings be carefully searched. Is your prisoner recovered, Valcour?”
“He is raving mad,” returned the detective, in a surly tone. “It requires two soldiers to control him.”
I breathed a sigh of relief, for I had feared the Mexican, in his terror, would betray the fact that he had given me the ring.
CHAPTER XVI
TRAITOR TO THE CAUSE
The Emperor retired while the search of the grounds was being conducted, and Piexoto and I were escorted to another room upon the ground floor and locked in. There were two unbarred windows looking upon the grounds, but a sentry was posted at each of these, and as we were still hand-cuffed, our escape was impossible.
For a time my companion did nothing but curse Paola in the most hearty and diversified manner, and I made no effort to stop him. But finally this amusement grew monotonous even to its author, and he asked me how I had allowed myself to be captured.
I therefore related my adventures, but said nothing about the ring.
“I have always suspected Paola,” he told me, “and often warned Dom Miguel against him. The man’s very nature is frivolous. He could not be expected to keep faith. Yet it is surprising he did not choose to betray the Emperor, rather than us; for the Revolution is too powerful and too far advanced to be quelled by the arrest of a few of its leaders.”
“But what of Fonseca?” I asked curiously. “Why was he not arrested also? Why was not his name mentioned to the Emperor?”
“I confess the fact puzzles me,” returned Piexoto, thoughtfully. “Fonseca is even more compromised than I am myself, and unless he had a secret understanding with Paola, and purchased immunity, I cannot account for his escaping arrest.”
“But the general will not forsake the cause, I am sure,” I said, earnestly. “And it seems that Senhor Bastro, also, has succeeded in eluding arrest. Therefore, should the royalists fail to find the key to the vault, all may yet be well, in spite of Paola’s treachery.”
“There is another perplexing matter,” returned Piexoto, pacing the room in deep thought. “Miguel de Pintra never told me the vault was sheathed with nitro-glycerine. Did you know it?”
“Yes,” I answered. “But the secret was revealed to me by Lesba Paola, the Minister’s sister.”
“I can scarcely believe it, nevertheless,” he resumed. “Yet what object could the traitor have in preventing their reaching the records, unless he knew the attempt to drill through the walls would destroy us all – himself included?”
“Perhaps he has fear that the records would incriminate him with the Emperor,” I suggested.
“Bah! He has made his terms, evidently. That he worked faithfully in our interests for a time is quite believable; but either the Emperor’s bribes were too tempting or he lost faith in the Cause.”
I was about to reply when the door opened to admit Paola. Piexoto paused in his walk to glare at the Minister, and I was myself no less surprised at the inopportune visit.
But Paola, with the old, smirking smile upon his face that nothing ever seemed to banish, nodded pleasantly at us and sat down in an easy-chair. He rolled a cigarette and carefully lighted it before he addressed us.
“Senhors, you are about to denounce me as a traitor to the Cause,” said he; “but you may both spare your words. Before the Cause existed I was Minister to the Emperor. A policeman walks in devious paths. If I am true to the oath I gave the Emperor, how dare you, Floriano Piexoto, who have violated yours, condemn me?”
“I don’t,” answered the other. “It is absurd to condemn a man like you. Treachery is written on every line of your false face. My only regret is that I did not kill you long ago.”
“Yet the chief, Dom Miguel de Pintra, trusted me,” remarked Paola, in a musing tone, at the same time flicking the ash from his cigarette with a deliberate gesture. “He was, it seems, the only one.”
“Not so,” said I, angry at his insolent bearing. “Your sister, sir, had faith in you.”
He looked at me with a quizzical expression, and laughed. I had ventured the remark in an endeavor to pierce his shield of conceit and indifference. But it seemed that even Lesba’s misplaced confidence failed to shame him, for at that moment the girl’s loyalty to the Cause seemed to me beyond a doubt.
“My sister was, I believe, an ardent republican. Poor little girl! How could she judge the merits of a political controversy? But there, senhors, let us have done with chidings. I am come for the key.”
Piexoto and I stared at each other aghast. The key! Could the Minister suspect either of us of possessing it?
“Quite prettily acted, gentlemen,” he resumed, “but it is useless to oppose my request. I suppose our friend Harcliffe has passed it on to you, senhor? No? Then he must have it on his person.”
“Are you mad?” I asked, with well-assumed contempt.
“No; but the Mexican is. I have just left his room, and he raves perpetually of a ring he has given to Robert Harcliffe, of New Orleans. A ring that must be restored to him on demand.”
“He raves,” said I, coolly, although my heart was beating wildly.
“He does, indeed,” acknowledged Paola. “And he tells exactly where the ring was placed – in the outer pocket of your jacket. Will you pardon me, senhor, if I prove the truth of his assertion?”
He rose and advanced to me with a soft, stealthy tread, and I backed away until I stood fairly against the wall, vainly endeavoring to find some way to circumvent him.
“Hold!” cried a clear voice, and as Paola swung around upon his heel I saw beyond him the form of Valcour outlined by the dark doorway.
“You were doubtless about to search the prisoner, senhor,” said the spy, calmly, as he approached us. “I have myself just come from the Mexican’s room and heard his ravings. But the task must be mine, since the Emperor has placed the search for the key in my hands.”
Paola turned with a slight shrug and resumed his seat.
“I have searched the prisoner already,” he announced, “but failed to find the ring. Doubtless he has passed it to Piexoto, or secreted it. Or, it may be, the Mexican’s words are mere ravings.”
The detective hesitated.
“Who is this Mexican, Senhor Paola?” he asked.
“Frankly, I do not know. Not a conspirator, I am sure, and evidently not a royalist.”
“Then how came he to know of the existence of the ring?”
“A mystery, my dear Valcour. Have you yet identified the man this Mexican murdered?”
“Not yet.”
“I myself have not had a good look at the body. If you will take me to him I will endeavor to locate the fellow. It was doubtless he who murdered Madam Izabel.”
As he spoke he rose and walked quietly toward the door, as if he expected Valcour to follow. But the spy, suddenly suspicious, cast a shrewd glance at me and replied:
“One moment, Senhor Paola. I must satisfy myself that neither Harcliffe nor Piexoto has the ring, in order that I may report to the Emperor.”
“As you like,” returned the Minister, indifferently, and resumed his chair.
Valcour came straight to my side, thrust his hand within my pocket, and drew out the ring.
“Ah!” he cried, his face lighting with joy, “your search must have been a careless one, my dear Paola! Here is news for the Emperor, at last.”
He hurried from the room, and Paola, still smiling, rose and faced us.
“It is a great pity,” said he, pleasantly, with his eyes on my face, “that God permits any man to be a fool.”
Before I could reply he had followed Valcour from the room, and Piexoto, regarding me with a sullen frown, exclaimed:
“I can say amen to that! Why did you not tell me you had the ring?”
I did not reply. The taunts and the loss of the ring had dazed me and I sank into a chair and covered my eyes with my hands.
Pacing the room with furious energy, Piexoto growled a string of laments and reproaches into my unwilling ears.
“My poor comrades! It is their death-warrant. These records will condemn to punishment half the great families of Brazil. And now when the battle is almost won, to have them fall into the Emperor’s hands. Thank God, de Pintra is dead! This blow would be worse to him than death itself.”
“However,” said I, somewhat recovering myself, “we shall now secure his body from that grim vault. That is one satisfaction, at least.”
He did not see fit to reply to this, but paced the floor in as great agitation as before.
Captain de Souza entered with two of his guards.
“The Emperor commands you to unlock the vault,” he said to me. “Be good enough to follow, senhor. And Senhor Piexoto is also requested to be present.”
“Tell the Emperor I refuse to unlock the vault,” I returned, firmly.
“And why?” demanded Piexoto, scornfully. “It is merely a question of time, now that they have the key, when they will find the right indentation in the door.”
“True,” I answered. Then, to the captain: “Lead on, I will follow.”
They escorted us to the library and down the winding stair until we stood in the well-known chamber at the end of the passage. The outer door of the vault lay open, displaying the steel surface of the inner door, with its countless indentations.
The Emperor and his secretary, together with Paola and Valcour, were awaiting us. The latter handed me the ring.
“His Majesty commands you to open the door, senhor Americano,” he said.
“I believe the Minister of Police designed this vault. Let him open it himself,” I replied, my resolution halting at the thought of what the open door would reveal.
“Yes, I designed it,” said the Minister, “but I did not execute the work. Doubtless in time I could open the door; but the Emperor is impatient.”
I saw that further resistance was useless. Bending over, I fitted the stone of the ring into the proper indentation, and shot the bolts. The great door was swung upward, a whiff of the damp, confined air entered my nostrils and made me shiver.