NUMBER 28
For a month the Landes Hospital had been greatly interested in the mystery of patient Number 28. In spite of the imminence of war, and the preparations which were being made to care for the wounded along the border, the physicians, the nurses, and the other patients had all formed theories as to the man's history and the possible causes of his injuries. And during the long period in which he lay unconscious, hovering in the dim realm between life and death, not a day passed in which his temperature, respiration, and other symptoms were not discussed from one end of the hospital to the other. The Head Surgeon, Colonel Bohratt, inclined to the opinion that if the man continued for a few days longer without change he would recover. But the Head Nurse shook her head sagely. The wound in the head had been difficult, as the operation was an unusual one, the wound in the shoulder was nothing, but the one in the stomach! If the operation of Colonel Bohratt proved successful, then a miracle had been performed.
The interest in the case, both from the sentimental as well as the professional point of view, was so great that the man's bed had been carefully wheeled from a ward where he had been taken from the operating table, into a private room, where every chance would be given him to recover.
On the twenty-seventh of July, Fräulein Roth, the nurse on duty at the bedside of the man of mystery, noted a slight change in his breathing, and saw that he had opened his eyes, which were regarding her calmly, but with the puzzled expression of one who has come a great distance into a strange country. She knew then that what the Head Surgeon had said was true, and that the man of mystery had turned the corner which led away from the land of the Great Beyond. But being a prudent person, she gave no sign of her delight, merely moving softly closer to the bedside, and in German quietly asked him if he felt better.
The man did not or could not reply at once, but she saw that his gaze slowly passed beyond her to the bare walls of the room and to the open window, beyond which were clouds, sunshine, and the distant drowsy murmur of the city.
"You are feeling more comfortable?" she asked again, in German.
"Yes," he muttered.
"You have been sick," she whispered softly, smoothing his pillow.
"Ah, yes, sick," the man muttered, and closing his eyes, slept again.
It was not long before the news of the awakening of Number 28 had reached the nurses and attending physicians. Colonel Bohratt, greatly pleased at the correctness of his prophecy and the end of the period of coma, at once a tribute to his wisdom as well as to his professional skill, came himself and viewed the patient, gave directions for treatment and predicted speedy recovery.
That night, the man of mystery awoke again, exchanged a few words with Fräulein Roth as before, and again slept. And on the morrow, a sure sign that all was going well with him, he had gained so much strength that he moved freely in his bed, and took more than the casual interest of the desperately sick in his situation and surroundings. Fräulein Roth had been given instructions to keep him quiet, but she smiled at him when quite rationally he questioned her.
"Is this a hospital?" he asked.
"Yes—the Landes Hospital."
"Where?"
"Sarajevo."
"Ah,—Sarajevo."
He remained silent for a long moment.
"I have been here long?" he asked again.
"A month."
"A month! And the date?"
"The twenty-eighth of July——"
"Yes. I understand."
Fräulein Roth wished him to be quiet, but after a long moment of contemplation of the ceiling, in which his brows puckered in a puzzled way, he spoke again.
And when Fräulein Roth anxiously desired him to be quiet, she discovered that Number 28 had a will of his own and only smiled at her earnestness.
"I am feeling quite strong," he said weakly. "It will do me no harm to talk, for some things puzzle me. I was brought here. Won't you tell me how?"
She debated with herself for a moment, but after an inspection of her patient she decided to tell him the facts.
"A peasant had discovered two men lying in a strip of woods near the road to Gradina. At first he had thought that both were dead, but upon closer examination he found that one of the men, although desperately wounded, still breathed, and notified the police, who summoned the ambulance."
"I?" asked the sick man.
She nodded. "You were brought here—to the Landes Hospital in a bad condition. The other man was dead."
"The other man—dead?"
"Yes," said the nurse, "with stab wounds in the back, and one in the heart." She regarded her patient keenly a moment, and then went on. "There were no marks of identification upon either of you. You were without clothing. Following so closely upon the assassination of the Archduke Franz and his wife, the circumstances were suspicious, and the police of Sarajevo and the secret service officials have done all they could to find some clew to the murderers. You see," she concluded with a smile, "you are a man of mystery and all Sarajevo awaits your recovery."
"Oh, I see. They are waiting for me to speak?"
Number 28 lay silent, regarding the ceiling intently, frowning a little. His mind worked slowly and Fräulein Roth saw that he found some difficulty in mental concentration.
"We will talk no more at present," she said firmly. "If you are no worse—perhaps again tomorrow."
But on the following day and the next the condition of the patient was not so favorable, for he lay in a drowsy condition and showed no interest in anything. It seemed that the pallid fingers of Death were still stretched over him. There were whispered consultations at the bedside, and a magistrate came to take a deposition, but the Head Surgeon advised delay. He had a reputation at stake.
The wisdom of his advice was soon proved, for at the end of three days Number 28 rallied, his fever subsided, and he smiled again at Nurse Roth. But she had learned wisdom and refused to talk.
Number 28 straightened in bed and ran his thin fingers through the beard with which his face was now covered. He ate of his food with a relish and then eagerly questioned.
"I am quite strong again, Fräulein. See—my hand does not even tremble. Will you not talk with me?"
"My orders are to keep you quiet."
"I have been quiet long enough—a month!" he sighed. "The world does not stand still for a month."
The nurse smiled. "I see that you are used to having your own way," she said.
"Is it not natural that I should wish to know what has happened in the world? Tell me. The Archduke Franz was killed. Did they discover a plot?"
"A plot? Yes. The boy Prinzep was employed by the Serbians."
"He confessed?"
"Not to that—but it is obvious."
"And what has happened?"
She examined him intently, aware now of what she herself had long suspected, that this patient was no ordinary kind of man. His German had a slight accent, but whether he came from central Europe or elsewhere she could not decide.
"Austria Hungary is on the eve of great events. A week or more ago Austria Hungary sent an ultimatum to the Serbian government, to which an unsatisfactory reply was received. The Austro-Hungarian minister has left Belgrade, and war has been declared upon Serbia."
"War! and Russia?"
"Russia, France and Germany have mobilized."
"And England?"
"Nothing is known of what England will do. But it is feared that she may join the cause of Russia and France."
Number 28 lay silent for a moment thinking deeply, and then—
"It has come at last. War. All of Europe——"
"It is frightful. There has already been fighting on the Serbian border. We are preparing here to receive the wounded."
He remained silent a moment, his eyes sparkling as he thought of what she had told him and then quietly, "War!" he muttered. "I must get well very quickly, Nurse, I must——"
She waited for him to go on, for, being a woman, curiosity as to his history obsessed her, but he said no more. And in spite of her interest in this man whom she had faithfully watched and served for more than a month, some delicacy restrained the questions on her tongue.
"You will not get well for a long while, Herr Twenty-Eight, if you do not keep quiet," she said quickly.
"You are very good to me," he replied. "I shall do as you wish."
Several days after this, the patient having gained strength rapidly, he was permitted solid food. He slept much, and in his waking hours seemed to be thinking deeply. He was very obedient, as though concentrating all his mind upon an effort toward speedy recovery, but he did not talk of himself. His strength now permitting more frequent conversation, the nurse brought him the news of the world outside, which included the declaration of war by Great Britain against Germany—and the certainty of a declaration against Austria Hungary.
"It is as I suspected," he muttered. "England——"
Again her patient was silent, and Nurse Roth glanced at him quickly. English!
She did not speak her thought, for the import of her news had sent her patient into one of his deep spells of concentration. No Englishman that she had ever met had spoken the German language so fluently. But concealing her interest and curiosity when he turned toward her again, she smiled at him brightly.
"You are now getting much stronger, Herr Twenty-Eight," she said. "The Head Surgeon has given permission for your examination."
"Examination?"
"A magistrate will come tomorrow to take your deposition."
"I don't understand."
"About all the facts connected with your injuries."
"They have learned nothing?"
"A little. The man who was found with you has been identified."
"Ah!"
"As Nicholas Szarvas, a Hungarian police officer——"
"Szarvas!"
"You knew him?"
The patient was silent again. She had come suddenly upon the stone wall which had balked all her efforts. Her hand was near him upon the bed. He took it and pressed it to his lips.
"Do not think me ungrateful for all your kindnesses, Fräulein. Some day perhaps I can repay you. But there are reasons why I cannot speak."
She drew her hand away from him slowly.
"But you must speak when the magistrate questions," she said gently.
"Perhaps!" And he was silent again.
With his growing strength had come wariness. If England declared war, he, Hugh Renwick, at present unknown, would be interned, a prisoner; and all hope of finding Marishka and the German, Goritz, would be lost. In the first few days of his awakening, he had thought of sending for Warwick, the British Consul, and putting the matter entirely in his hands. But before he had had the strength to decide what it was best to do, had come the declarations of war, and he had determined to remain silent and act upon his own initiative. Unless he had muttered something of his past in his fever, and this he doubted, or some sign of it would have come from Fräulein Roth, there would he no means of identifying him as an Englishman, and when he recovered, they would let him go. As it was, he was a man of mystery, and as such he intended to remain. He had noted the marks of interest in the face of the nurse, and in her questions, and his gratitude to her was very genuine, but he was sure now that he was in no position to take chances. War being declared, Warwick would have been given his passports, and would have left the country. No one in Sarajevo knew the Englishman, Renwick—at least no one who would be likely to connect the man of mystery of the Landes Hospital with the former secretary of the British Embassy in Vienna.
As his mind had grown clearer, the wisdom of his decision became more apparent. If a magistrate came, he would be obliged to see him, but he knew that his period of illness could cover a multitude of remembrances.
The magistrate came with a clerk, and questioned with an air of importance. Renwick realized that if he refused to answer, he might make himself an object of suspicion, and endanger the chances of his release upon recovery, and so, as he was not under oath, he invented skillfully.
"What is your name?"
"Peter Langer."
"What nationality?"
"Austrian, if you like. I am a citizen of the world."
The magistrate examined him over his glasses.
"The world is large. From what part of Austria did you come?"
"Vienna."
"Your parents are Viennese?"
"They were in Vienna when I was young."
"Were they born there?"
"I do not know."
"It is necessary that you should."
"I am sorry if it is necessary. I do not know."
"What brought you to Sarajevo?"
"I am a wanderer. I wished to see the world."
"A wish that has almost proved fatal. You have no business?"
"Merely the business of wandering."
The magistrate frowned.
"I beg that you will take this matter seriously, Herr Langer."
"I do. It is not in the least amusing."
The man consulted his notes for a moment.
"Where were you on the night of June twenty-eight?"
"I have been ill for a month. Dates mean nothing to me. My memory is bad."
"Ah! Well, then, where were you on the night of the assassination?"
"What assassination——?"
"The assassination of the Archduke," replied the magistrate sternly.
"In Sarajevo, I should say."
"Natürlich. But in what place?"
"In the street, perhaps—or in a house. I don't remember."
"I beg that you make the effort to remember."
"I cannot," said Renwick after a pause.
"You must."
"My mind is clouded."
The magistrate exchanged a glance with the nurse, who stood at the head of the bed, and spoke to her. "This man talks to you quite rationally?"
Fräulein Roth hesitated and then said: "Yes. But he has been very ill. I should suggest that you excuse him where possible."
"H—m! This is a matter of great seriousness. A police officer has been murdered by a person or persons unknown. This man was found near his body, both of them left for dead. It is not possible that he can have forgotten the circumstances—the fight, the shooting which preceded his unconsciousness." And then to Renwick—"You knew Nicholas Szarvas?"
"No."
"I would remind you that this is the man who was found dead beside you."
"I did not know him."
"What are your recollections of the evening I have mentioned?"
"I have no recollections."
"You said that you were in a house."
"Or the street—I forget."
"You remember having an altercation with someone?"
"In my dreams—yes. Many."
"But before your dreams, when you were conscious?"
"None."
"Szarvas was stabbed. Did you see him attacked?"
"I did not."
"Have you any idea who shot you?"
"A man who was my enemy, I should say."
"Ah—you had an enemy?"
"What man has not?"
"What was his name?"
"I don't remember."
The magistrate got up frowning, and paced up and down the room, his hands behind his back.
"I should advise you, Herr Langer, that it is my opinion that you are willfully endeavoring to impede the steps of this investigation. I would remind you also that those who try to thwart the officers of the law in the performance of their duty, are alike amenable to it. Your reticence—I can call it by a less pleasant word—is aiding and abetting a criminal, who must be brought to justice."
"It is not likely——" He paused.
"What?"
"That I should wish to save a man who had tried to murder me."
"But this is precisely what you are doing."
Renwick smiled.
"What would you? Have me invent a story for your record? I can say no more than I remember. I remember nothing."
The magistrate took off his glasses and rubbed them rigorously, as if by so doing he could clear his own mind as to what had best be done. Then he put them upon his nose and took up his hat and papers. It was certain that the patient's brain was still far from strong.
"I shall not pursue this investigation now," he said to Nurse Roth. "I shall wait a few days in which Herr Langer may have time to reflect. He is still very weak. In the meanwhile, Herr Langer, I would tell you that it would be wise for you to recover your memory."
"A desire which I sincerely share," said Renwick with a smile.
"If not," continued the magistrate with his most magisterial manner, "you will be detained, as a material witness, in Sarajevo."
"I have no intention of leaving Sarajevo unless someone should happen to pay my railroad fare," replied Renwick wearily.
The man left, followed by his clerk, and Nurse Roth closed the door behind them. When the sounds of their footsteps had faded away along the corridor, she turned to the table where she rearranged some roses in a vase.
"You lie very ingeniously, Herr Twenty-eight," she said with a smile.
Renwick regarded her calmly.
"It is not my nature, Nurse Roth. But a cracked skull doesn't improve the brains beneath."
She came over to him quickly, and stood beside the bed.
"You have some reason for concealing your identity. I know that you remember what happened. But I will protect you as far as I can, upon one condition."
"And that?" he asked anxiously.
"That you will give me your word of honor that it was not you who killed Nicholas Szarvas."
He caught her by the hand and smiled up at her with a look so genuine that there was no question as to his sincerity.
"I give it. I did not kill Nicholas Szarvas."
"Thank you," she said simply. "I believe you."
