CHAPTER XVIII
NEARING THE END
There were, as I said, eight days in which to find Kaffar and bring him to London, counting the day on which we started our journey. It was Wednesday; by the following Wednesday, at midnight, I must prove to Gertrude that Voltaire was a villain and a liar. It should be done easily. It was but little more than a thirty hours' ride to Turin—that is, providing everything went smoothly. To put it at the outside, it was only a forty-eight hours' journey, allowing time for a sleep on the way. Thus four days would suffice for travelling, and I should have more than three days in which to find Kaffar. It was true Turin was a large town, but in three days I was sure I could find him. In that time I thought I could hunt every lodging-house and hotel in the city.
I shall say little of the journey. Mostly it was cold and wearisome enough. From Dover to Paris it was fairly comfortable, but from Paris to the Italian border we were travelling through a snowstorm, and thus, when we came to this our last stopping-place before going through the famous Mont Cenis Tunnel, we were four hours late. It was terribly cold there. Everything was ice-bound. Brooklets, waterfalls, rivers, all were held fast by the ice-king. Simon was much impressed by the scenery. The great giant mountains towering up on every hand were a revelation to him, and he stood open-mouthed, gazing at what is perhaps among the grandest sights in France.
We swept through Mont Cenis Tunnel, and then, with a cry of gladness, we entered the sunny land of Italy. What a change it was! Here the warm sun, which had been hidden on the other side by the high mountain range, had melted the snow, and so bright streams of water came rushing down the mountain sides, laughing as if in glee. The cottagers sat outside their doors, singing in the sun. The vine-covered hills, although not yet clothed with their green garment, were still beautiful, while away in the distance spread a broad Italian plain, dotted with villages, out of whose midst a modest church spire ever lifted its head.
I had seen all this before, but to Simon it was a marvel of beauty. In England the streets were muddy, and a yellow fog hung over London, and yet in forty-eight hours we were beneath sunny skies, we were breathing a comparatively humid air.
But I must not stay to write about this, for my story is not about Italian scenery, or beautiful sights of any sort. It is my work now to tell about my search after Kaffar.
We arrived in Turin on Friday evening, about fifty-one hours from the time we started from London. We had spent some little time in Paris, or we could have done it more quickly. We found Turin lit up with a pure bright light, and, as Simon declared, "looking one of the most purtiest places like, as ever he'd clapped his eyes on."
We stayed at Hotel Trombetta. We had several reasons for doing this. First, it was a good hotel. I had stayed there before, and so I knew. It was also near the station, and fairly near the place where, according to Simon's sketch, Kaffar was staying. We got into the hotel just in time for dinner. Simon declared that he "dar'n't go into the dining-room amo' the swells like; it would take away his appetite jist like waccination did;" but as I insisted, he gave way, and certainly did not draw any one's attention by his awkwardness. I had got him a perfectly fitting suit of clothes in Paris, in which he looked a respectable member of society.
Directly after dinner I went out, to try to find Kaffar's whereabouts; but although Turin is beautifully built, and the streets very straight, I found I had to put off my search until the morning.
Every hour of waiting was, as the reader may imagine, of great anxiety to me. I was now making my great move. If I missed in this, all was lost. Was Kaffar in Turin? Was he or had he been there? Was all this mesmerism so much hocus-pocus and nonsense to deceive me, a credulous fool? And yet I was sure Simon would not be a party in deceiving me. But might not I have been deceived by the professor? Could he not make my friend say, not what really existed, but what existed in his own mind? And yet the little man seemed honest! Anyhow, I could do no more, and it was my only hope. There could be no harm in trying. If I failed, well, I could not help it; I had done my best. I would go back and face Voltaire and Miss Forrest, and—well—I knew not what—! But if I found the Egyptian! Ah, it was too good to be true. I dared not dwell upon the thought. It was not for me to build castles in the air, and weave bright fancies; but to work, until I had accomplished the work I had set out to do.
And so I went quietly to bed, and, much to my astonishment, slept long
and soundly. The sun was shining in at my window when I awoke, and this
Italian city looked wondrously beautiful as it lay there this clear
December morning, in the light of the bright sun.
We wasted no time after breakfast before setting out—I with beating heart, Simon still calm and collected, looking with critical eyes on the sketch he had drawn in his mesmeric sleep.
"After all," remarked Simon, slowly, "it shows us how a feller can live away from his body, don't it, then? We are fearfully and terribly made, as Solomon said to the people on Mount Sinai."
I did not reply to Simon's philosophy, nor to his wonderful scriptural quotations. I was too anxious to get to this hotel, where I hoped Kaffar would be staying.
We came to the great square in which stood the palace of the king, but I paid no heed to the imposing building nor to the magnificently carved monuments that stood around in the square. I was too anxious to turn down the street in which my hopes lay.
I went slowly down, till I came to the bottom of it, where a narrow road branched off, leading to a kind of observatory; but I saw nothing of an hotel.
My heart became like lead.
Simon's sketch of the streets had not been a false one. If any of my readers have been to Turin, they will remember the long street leading from the station; they will also recognize the two squares which Simon indicated in his plan. True, he had sketched them out of proportion, while the street was far more straight than he had drawn it. Still, it bore a close resemblance to that particular part of the city.
But there was no hotel, nor sign of one in the street.
We walked up and down again and again, with no success. Could it be that I had come all these weary miles again only for a bitter and terrible disappointment? The thought almost drove me mad.
I would not give up, however! There might be no hotel, but it was possible Kaffar stayed in a lodging-house, or even in a private house. I would knock at every house in the street, and make inquiries, before I would give up.
The Italian language was not altogether strange to me. I could not by any means speak it fluently, but I knew it enough to enter into an ordinary conversation. So, seeing a soldier pass up the street, I saluted him and asked him whether he knew a lodging-house or private boarding establishment in the street?
No, the soldier said, he did not know any at all in that street, or, indeed, in that part of the town; but if I would go with him, he would direct me to a splendid place, marvellously convenient, marvellously clean, and marvellously cheap, and, best of all, kept by his mother's sister.
I cannot say I felt either elated or depressed by this answer. Evidently this was a keen youth, trying to get a suitable customer for his relations.
Another youth came up to me soon after, offering to sell me photographs of some of the principal sights in Turin. Could he tell me of any boarding or lodging establishment in the street?
Yes, he knew of three or four. For a franc he would give me their history and lead me to them.
Was there one about the middle of the street?
Yes, there were two close together. Should he take me?
I closed with the youth's offer, and accordingly we walked down the street together. He entered a tobacconist's shop, assuring me that this was a lodging-house.
A young Italian girl stood behind the counter, as if waiting for an order; so I asked to see the proprietor of the place.
She immediately went out of the shop and gave a shout, and a minute after a matronly woman entered, about fifty years of age, and who, from her close resemblance to the dark-eyed girl, was probably her mother.
Was she the proprietor of this establishment?
She was.
Did she keep a boarding-house?
She did—for well-behaved people.
She had no husband?
The Blessed Virgin had taken him home.
And a man did not conduct her business?
Certainly not. She was a capable woman, able to attend to the wants of her guests, while her daughter was a universal favourite because of politeness to customers and the good tobacco she sold. Should she have the pleasure of selling me some?
I did not reply except by a smile, which this Italian maiden evidently took for an assent to her mother's proposition, and accordingly proceeded to make some cigarettes for me. Meanwhile her mother assured me that her house was convenient and comfortable, and asked permission to show me some vacant rooms, and give me an idea of the attendance I should receive.
I accordingly followed her, and found rooms which, while not altogether according to my English tastes, did her credit.
"Have you many lodgers now?" I asked.
"Four," was the reply.
"Gentlemen?"
"All gentlemen."
"Might I ask their nationality?" I said.
"They are all Italian," was the reply.
My hopes had risen high, but they were by this answer dashed to the ground. Then I remembered that Simon had described Kaffar as being in a room with a man. So, after thanking the lady for her kindness and paying for the cigarettes, I asked the boy, who was waiting for his franc, to show me to the other lodging-house close by.
"Oh, sir," said the proprietress of this establishment, "don't go there! It's a bad house; it really is! The lodgers are bad men, and they are bad people." She said this evidently in earnest, while the little girl behind the counter hoped I should not go among those thieves.
I was not displeased at this. I did not think Kaffar would be very particular as to his society, and he would be more likely to stay at this disreputable place than in a respectable lodging-house.
Accordingly, I told the good lady that I should not take lodgings there, and, if I took apartments in any place in the city, hers should have the first consideration. This considerably mollified her, so my guide proceeded to lead the way to the other lodging-house. This was also a tobacconist's shop, but a dirty old woman stood behind the counter. She was very polite, however, and quickly called down the proprietor of the establishment.
This was a lodging-house, was it not?
He assured me that my surmise was correct, and forthwith began to enumerate the advantages received by those who were fortunate enough to be received as lodgers.
"Have you many lodgers at present?" I asked.
"Five," was the reply.
My heart began to beat violently now, for I felt I was near the time when my labours would be rewarded by success, or I should have to give up my search in despair.
"Are they all Europeans?" I asked.
"No. There was one Turk, one Frenchman, two Italians, and one Egyptian."
My heart gave a great bound. Surely I had been guided aright; I should find him at last.
"Are they at home during the day?"
"No," was the reply; "they are mostly out."
"But they come home at night?"
"Yes, they come home at night, all except one."
Which was he?
The Egyptian.
Did he stay at home during the day?
He really could not say. He only came a little more than two days ago, and his habits seemed uncertain.
"And is the Egyptian at home now?"
"No," said the man, eyeing me keenly.
"Might I ask when he will be home?" I asked eagerly.
"I do not think it right to answer questions about my lodgers," said the man, sharply. "You have asked a great many; I must know your reasons for so doing before I answer any more."
I began to chide myself for my folly. I had raised suspicions, and now I might not be able to get the information I wanted. "I did not intend to be offensive," I said. "If I mistake not, this Egyptian gentleman is acquainted with a man in England whom I know, and I have a message of great importance to convey."
"To Mr. Kaffar's advantage?" asked the Italian, eagerly.
No words can express what I felt as the man unthinkingly uttered Kaffar's name. I had not come on a false report. The Egyptian bore the name of the man I wanted to find.
"He can turn it to his advantage," I replied.
"Mr. Kaffar is not in Turin at present," he said confidentially.
"Could you tell me where he is?" I said, with beating heart.
"I cannot. You see—" and the Italian put his face close to mine. "Might
I ask if you are somewhat of a—well, a gentleman fond of play?"
I did not reply.
"Ah, I thought so," said he, cunningly. "At first I was afraid you were a detective fellow, but I see now. Well, you will perhaps know that Mr. Kaffar is a very accomplished gentleman, and he left yesterday afternoon for a little tour—where I don't know. Another accomplished gentleman went with him. We have a jolly house, and you Englishmen would enjoy a few nights here. Come up to-night and win some of our Italian gold."
"When will Mr. Kaffar be back?"
"He said he might be back on Monday night—on Tuesday morning at latest."
"I daren't come and play till he comes," I said. "Will he let you know when he is coming back?"
"Yes; he said he'd telegraph."
"Would you mind letting me know the train? I am staying at the Hotel
Trombetta."
"Yes, yes, I shall be delighted; and then, when he comes, we'll—But what name shall I write on my message?"
"Herod Voltaire," I said.
I went away then, and began to think. I found the man, and yet I had not. Nothing was certain yet. It was now Saturday, and he would not return until Monday night or Tuesday morning, and I must be in London by Wednesday at midnight, or all was lost. Say he came back on Tuesday by noon, there would then be only thirty-six hours left in which to get to London. Thirty-six hours, and many hundreds of dreary, weary miles between! Or if he should not come at all! If the Italian were deceiving me!
I shall not try and relate what happened the next two days, except to say that I set Simon to watch every train that came into Turin station, while I did all I could to discover whether he were hiding in Turin.
Neither of us saw Kaffar, nor did we hear anything of him.
Monday night came. I had received no message from the lodging-house keeper, neither had I heard any news. The suspense was becoming terrible.
Six o'clock! Seven o'clock, and no news!
"Simon," I said, "go to that lodging-house and ask whether any message has been received."
The willing fellow, still with a smile on his face and a cheery look, started to do my bidding. I do not know how I should have borne up during those two terrible days, but for my faithful friend.
He had not been gone above half a minute before he came bounding back to my room.
"A message jist 'a come, yer honour!" he cried.
Eagerly I snatched it, and read—"Expect me home to-night by the midnight train.—KAFFAR."
I caught up a time-table and anxiously scanned it. The telegram was from Nice. There was a train due from this fashionable seaport at 12.30.
The lodging-house keeper had kept his word, and Kaffar would be safe. It was become intensely real, intensely exciting!
Five hours to wait—five hours! Only those who have felt as I did can know what they meant.
At twelve o'clock I sent Simon to the station, while I went to the lodging-house to await Kaffar's arrival.
"Mr. Kaffar will have supper, I suppose?" I said to the proprietor of the house.
"Yes, I shall prepare supper."
"Where?"
"In his own room."
"Just so. Could you manage to put me in a room where I can see him at supper without being observed? I should like to enter quietly and give him a surprise."
"You mean nothing wrong?"
"On my honour, I do not."
"It is said," mused the Italian, "that an English gentleman's honour is like English cloth; it can always be depended on. The adjoining room is empty, sir."
"Thank you," I replied, while he led the way to the room.
I had not been there long before I heard some one enter with the landlord. The two rooms, like many we find in French hotels, could easily be made one, as a doorway led from one to the other. I had arranged my door to be slightly ajar, so was able to see.
The man with the landlord was Kaffar!
I found that Kaffar could not speak Italian. He spoke French enough to make himself understood, and, as his host was proficient in that language, French was the tongue in which they conversed.
"Has any one been asking for me?" asked Kaffar.
"Yes, sir."
"Who?"
"A gentleman from England."
"From England! What kind of a man?"
"A giant, with brown hair."
"A giant, with brown hair! Man, where is he now?"
"How can I say?" said the Italian.
Kaffar held down his head for a minute, and then said hastily, "And his message?"
"Something to your advantage, sir."
"My advantage? Can it be he? Did he give his name?"
"Herod Voltaire!"
"Voltaire! Never! He dare not come near me; I'm his master for many reasons—he dare not come! But—"
He checked himself, as if he were telling the Italian too much. The host then left the room, while Kaffar went on with his supper.
I opened the door noiselessly and went into the room, and said distinctly, "Good evening, Mr. Kaffar."
He looked up and saw me. Never, I think, did I see so much terror, astonishment, mingled with hate, expressed on a human face before.
He made a leap for the door. I caught him, and held him fast.
"No, Mr. Kaffar, you must not escape," I said, leading him back to his chair.
"You cannot—kill me—here!" he gasped. "I mean no wrong—to you. I—Ah, you've followed me for revenge."
For an answer I went to the door and locked it.
"Have mercy!" he said. "Don't kill me. I—you don't know all! Voltaire's your enemy, not I."
"You knew I was following you, did you?" I said.
"Yes. Voltaire said you were mad for my life; that you swore to be revenged; that you would pull me limb from limb! Ah, you do not know."
Surely I had found out the man's nature. He was a coward, and stood in deadly fear of me. He had been Voltaire's tool, who had frightened him to do his every bidding. Now I must use his fear of me to make him do my will.
"Well, I have found you out," I said. "You thought you would master me, didn't you?"
"Well, I'm master of you both. Voltaire's influence over me is gone, and now he is in my power; while you—"
"Ah, Mr. Blake, have mercy," he whined. "I only did what he told me, and he has treated me like a dog."
"Yes; he intended me to kill you, while both of you tried to ruin me."
"Curse him! I know he did. Oh, I am not his friend now. Mr. Blake, forgive me. Ah, say—"
I felt that if I allowed this man to think my welfare depended on his doing my will, he would defy me. I must use means suitable to the man.
"Kaffar," I said, "had I a heart like you Egyptians, you know what I should do; but—well, I will be merciful on one condition."
"Oh, what-what?"
"That you will come back to England with me at once."
"I cannot; I dare not. He has promised to take my life-blood if I do."
"No harm shall happen to you, I promise."
"You will not allow him to touch me?"
"He shall not."
"Then I will go."
My point was gained. The man had promised to accompany me willingly, while I had expected a difficult matter in getting him to England.
Early the next day we were on our way to England, Simon and I taking turns in watching the wily Egyptian.