“What is it, Count?” asked Oberstetten, bending nearer, one hand cupped to his ear.
“Roger. Will know.” He was certain that the journalist heard him. “Right you are,” said Oberstetten with the false cheerfulness of one expecting the worst. “We’ll put him in charge.”
“Good,” said Ragoczy, but in the lost tongue of his people, who had vanished more than two thousand years before. His voice was so soft that none of the men around him paid any attention to it; they were occupied by the continuing protestations of Paul von Nordlingen, who
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adamantly insisted on his innocence of intent in the shooting, and to demand understanding from those around him.
“Poor devil,” said Grunbach as he came up to the rest. It was impossible to tell if he meant von Nordlingen or Ragoczy.
Text of a report from Sidney Reilly to “C”, sent in code using Key 56, from Berlin to London by diplomatic courier, delivered September 1, 1910.
I have at last spoken with my agent’s man who witnessed the shooting, who declares that in spite of what the police have decided, the shooting was no accident, and that von Nordlingen was determined to shoot Ragoczy from the first day. His report says that von Nordlingen has harbored a grudge against Ragoczy for living on the estate he has long felt he deserves to own, and would have owned if one of his forefathers had not gambled away the family fortune. I have never met Paul von Nordlingen, but Renfred Meyer informs me that von Nordlingen has coveted all his family owned long ago, and has been known to express certainty that he will, in time, restore his family to the glory Fredrich von Nordlingen has lost. Until now, these claims have been regarded as the vanity of an ambitious young man, but now it is possible he has attempted to remove one of the obstacles from his path. Meyer is convinced that if Ragoczy had no will, or if he had no direct heirs, and had not survived the injury he suffered, that von Nordlingen would make a claim on the Schloss and its surrounds.
As to Ragoczy himself, I have learned that he has gone to Amsterdam. To the surprise of everyone, he did not die of blood loss, nor of any infection, although with such a wound, it might have been expected. He left the Schloss two days after being shot, in a private railway car, accompanied only by his manservant, who said it was his intention to consult with one of the physicians in Holland. Apparently he did not feel entirely safe in Germany, at least that is what Oberstetten has been saying in public, and he was on the same hunt, although not in Ragoczy s company when the shooting occurred. He does not believe that von Nordlingen fired on purpose, but he has stated that he thinks there are those who might want to take advantage of Ragoczy’s incapacity.
I am sending the man I have named Eduard Angebot to Amsterdam, with the hope that he will not be too incompetent to keep track of Ragoczy there. Given the severity of his injury, I would expect Ragoczy to remain in that city for some time; his recovery will not be an easy
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one, not after such a massive hurt as the one he suffered. I have already ascertained that Ragoczy has rented a house there, and that should make the task easy enough, even for Angehot. What troubles me the most about him is his continuing lack of comprehension of the stakes of this work we do. He is not willing to take the necessary steps his duty requires. It appears he still thinks spies are gentlemen, and that he must keep to the rules of the cricket field. I trust you or someone in your office will be able to persuade him that this is not the case. If I am not satisfied with his performance, I may well go along to Amsterdam myself for a day or two, to see what can be done with that chap.
Tomorrow I am meeting with Leopold Oberstetten in private, to determine how much of what he is saying is speculation and how much is knowledge. When I am through with the interview, I will be more able to analyze what I have learned thus far. I am absolutely convinced that there is more to this shooting than avarice and envy; in fact, I am now assuming that someone played upon von Nordlingens malice for reasons other than those that have been proposed. He is too obvious a figure to be the only one who might benefit from Ragoczys death. If I am fortunate, I will be able to discover from Oberstetten all who attended the hunting party, and then, with Renfred Meyers help, I may be able to determine what purpose Ragoczy’s wound serves. When I know this, I will inform you of it. Until then, I will keep my reports to a minimum, so as not to draw attention to what I am doing, or who I am watching. If Ragoczy has enemies in Germany, there may be others elsewhere as well. And Germans take trains to other countries regularly : Ragoczy will not be safe in Amsterdam if he is not safe in Berlin. So I will continue on my guard for the time being.
Sidney Reilly (Capt.)
5
Ragoczy turned away from the window and let the curtain fall back across it. “Thank all the forgotten gods that we do not overlook a canal,” he said in Byzantine Greek, half in jest, to Roger. “It would sap what strength I have just dealing with the water. At least we are far enough north that the sun does not wear on me, as it did in South America.”
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“The water troubles you? Even now? You are much improved.” It had been three weeks since they arrived in Amsterdam, and the wound Ragoczy had suffered was now nothing more than an angry red weal atop ancient white scars. For ten days Ragoczy had kept to his private quarters, lying atop his chest of native earth in a kind of stupor while Roger had tended him.
“Yes, even now. But not as it would have done at first; then the water would have been ... overwhelming. If it were not for Anna, on the floor above, I would not now be so . . . restored. I am obliged to her, little though she may know it.” His smile was wintery; he fingered the square sleeve of his dressing gown of black satin. In the lucid September light filling his parlor he was splendid darkness.
“She has enjoyed her dreams, has she not?” Roger asked, knowing the answer.
“Of course; and she has not lost more than a pint to me, over two weeks, and her dreams have been sweet. I think she has surprised herself with her dreaming. She will take no harm from me.” He folded his arms. “You need not worry, old friend. I am aware of my state: believe this.”
“I have no doubt,” said Roger dryly. “It is what you plan to do about it that concerns me.” He paused, his attention fixed on the art nouveau settee at the edge of the carpet. “Do you want to change your residence yet?”
“You mean that I would attract less attention in an older part of the city, where foreigners are not so . . . obvious?” Ragoczy suggested.
“Something of the sort, yes. Leonardo Straat will do for a while, but there will be questions if we continue on here much longer,” Roger agreed in Latin. “At least the buildings are new enough that your modifications are not noteworthy. With new construction all around us, it makes anything done here unremarkable.”
At that Ragoczy smiled, and switched to Latin as well. “I might still occupy the old press building. I own it.” He looked out at the street once more. “But that could lead to questions in official quarters I have not had the chance to prepare to answer, such as which of my relatives I am to be.”
Roger said nothing, but there was a look in his faded-blue eyes that revealed relief. “You don’t want to make it too easy for those hunting you to find you.”
“No; I do not, until I am ready to be found. No doubt they have followed me, but they have not yet resumed watching me; I would be aware of it if they had,” Ragoczy said, his voice cautious, his eyes less
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so. “Which is one of the reasons I am still a trifle reluctant to visit Miss Saxon at her studio. I do not want to expose her to risk through my presence.”
“But you will.” Roger was not as confident of this as he sounded, but as he spoke, he saw Ragoczy nod once. “Today?”
“Tomorrow, I think. I’ve prepared a note for her. If you would be good enough to carry it ’round to her?” He indicated his tall, Louis XVI secretary on the far sid
e of the room. “It is in the top drawer.”
“You know where she lives, then?” Roger asked, making the question almost an accusation.
“I know where she paints,” Ragoczy corrected him mildly. “It is the place you went last week, if I am not mistaken.” He paid no attention to the look of chagrin that crossed Roger’s features. “I do not know if she lives there or elsewhere, although I would suspect the former, but I do not know for certain, since I do not know if the address she provided is the same as the house she was going to let. I will find out when I see her, at her studio.” He glanced back at the window to watch a tortoiseshell cat amble across the street, tail up, fur glossy with health. “Now there is an animal to admire,” he said.
At this Roger looked startled. “You want to keep a cat?”
“No: not when their lives are so brief; it is hard enough keeping horses,” said Ragoczy sharply. “But I can admire the creatures, and I do.” He came away from the window, pacing the room in measured steps, the heels of his thick-soled shoes making a muffled report on the antique carpet. “When you take that note to Rowena Saxon, will you also visit the press? Be alert as you do, in case you are followed. I would like van Groot to know I am here. We will have things to discuss when I am more fully recovered. The press is in need of improvement.”
“If you wish,” said Roger, puzzled by the request.
Sensing Roger s bafflement, Ragoczy went on, “I will want to have a reason for being here, one that will not alert those—”
“Trying to kill you?” Roger supplied. “They will not be pleased to learn of your recovery.”
“No, they will not, whoever they are.” Ragoczy stopped still, as if listening for stealthy footfalls. “But if they are watching me, they will expect me to return to Germany if there is no obvious thing keeping me here.”
“Why not assume the Czar has ordered it?” Roger went to the secretary and opened it, pulling out a letter with the double-headed Romanov eagle embossed on it. “Surely they know you have had correspondence with Nicholas since you arrived?”
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“If the Czar ordered me anywhere, it would not be to Amsterdam; he has few connections here that would be useful to his plans for me,” Ragoczy declared. “He would send me to England, or call me back to Russia.”
“Are you certain of that?” Roger asked. “In his letter, he told you to remain where you could receive the best treatment for your injuries.”
“So he did,” Ragoczy said. “That does not mean he will not send me back to Germany when I am . . . shall we say well enough? to resume my mission. The danger is greater for his family than for me. He has a stricken child to protect. What is a foreign exile, compared to that?” He went to Roger’s side and handed him the note written to Rowena Saxon. “Here. If you will, wait for her answer; tell me how she reacts. Your observations will give me some notion of the reception I will receive from her.”
“Of course, my master,” said Roger, taking the note as an indication their discussion is over.
Ragoczy gave a single, apologetic laugh. “I am going back to my quarters, to lie down a while.” He put his hand to his side, the single indication of pain. “I’m . . . not so much restored as I like to think.”
Alarmed, Roger reached out to steady Ragoczy. “Is there trouble? Do you need anything—”
Ragoczy shook off Roger’s hand. “I am not that incapacitated, thank you.” His manner changed at once. “And I ask your pardon for being brusque with you. I had no reason to be so churlish.” He rubbed his face with one small, beautiful hand. “I am fatigued; more than I realized.”
“Yes,” said Roger, putting the note into the inner breast pocket of his coat. “I will attend to this at once.” He started toward the door, then stopped for a moment. “If you don’t mind, I will convey your personal greetings to Miss Saxon.”
“The note already does that,” said Ragoczy, wondering why Roger should be so specific about this.
“Nevertheless, I will reiterate.” He let this sink in before he added, “If you could see yourself, if you had a reflection, you would know how pale you are.”
“And you want to be certain Miss Saxon will want to accept. . . what I offer?” Ragoczy asked sardonically. “Well, I hope it hasn’t come to that, though you may well be right. I do not like to be so much in need of sustenance. It wears on me.” He watched Roger depart, then slowly climbed the stairs to his private quarters on the floor above, seeking the
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sanctuary of his bedroom and the succor of his thin mattress atop the chest of his native earth.
By late afternoon, Roger had returned with notes from Rowena Saxon and Jo van Groot. He was waiting in Ragoczys dressing room when the Count emerged from his bedroom shortly before sunset.
“You look pleased with yourself,” said Ragoczy with a smile that echoed Rogers. “I gather it all went well.”
“It did,” Roger confirmed, proffering the two notes he had brought. “Miss Saxon was delighted to hear you are well enough now to call on her, at her house where she has taken a two-year lease. It is nothing grand, but it is far from shabby. Her studio is on the top floor, and she has had skylight windows installed; she says her grand-father paid for the renovations. She is anticipating your portrait sittings with what I can only call eagerness.” His expression was smug as he watched Ragoczy open the envelope and pull out the note. “She was happy to know your wound has healed.”
Ragoczys expression was a mixture of satisfaction and irony. “You must have painted a very bleak picture the first time you called on her.” He read the brief note, clearly written in haste. “So,” he said as he put it down. “She will expect me tomorrow at three.”
“And van Groot will see you Friday.” Roger gave him the second note. “He was not so glad as Miss Saxon to know you are coming to see him.”
“You astonish me,” said Ragoczy with faint amusement in his dark eyes. “I, too, am looking forward to seeing Miss Saxon more than I am to my interview with van Groot.” He sat down, looking at the brushes and basin set out on the dresser. “Yes, I suppose it is time to be shaved again.”
“It would be advisable,” said Roger, and began to strop the razor.
Aside from his pallor, Ragoczy appeared wholly restored and at ease as he arrived at Rowena Saxon s studio; he was in a neat suit of superfine black wool, with a dull, deep-burgundy waistcoat edged in black twist over a white silk broadcloth shirt and a black silk tie with his eclipse-sigil worked into the pattern of the silk. He went up the stairs to the door of the narrow house, doing his best to ignore the enervating presence of the canal behind him.
Rowena herself opened the door, her short-cropped strawberry-blonde hair looking particularly stylish. She was dressed for afternoon tea in a dress of muted gold wool crepe a shade lighter than her eyes, with a square neckline and full, elbow-length sleeves covered in ecru lace. The high waist was not so tight as fashion decreed, and the double-pleated skirt was an inch or two shorter, revealing neat brown pumps
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and silk stockings. Around her neck and in her earlobes she wore the golden frog jewelry Ragoczy had sent her. Her smile at the sight of him was more revealing than she knew. “Count,” she exclaimed as she stepped back to admit him. “Come in, please.”
“With pleasure, Miss Saxon,” said Ragoczy as he crossed the threshold. He bowed slightly as she closed the door behind him; the faint vertigo the water had caused him ceased.
“I can’t tell you how good it is to see you,” she said in good form, making more room for him in the small, white-painted entry.
“I am very happy to be here,” said Ragoczy, and smiled, his penetrating dark eyes on hers. “I have been looking forward to seeing you again.”
“I haven’t had the opportunity to thank you for these wonderful. . . frogs. They are marvelous. And unique. I have not seen anything like them.”
He smiled courteously. “I am glad you like them, Miss Saxon.” “They are treasures.” She looked away, her small talk becoming labored. “I ... I am so ... so gratified to have you ... I wasn’t sure you would be willing to ... ” Color mounted in her cheeks as she strove to regain her composure. “I hope you do not think me terribly forward for asking you here. I realized after I sent the note that you might well think I had gone beyond the bounds ...”
“I am not Rupert Bowen, Miss Saxon, nor am I your mother,” Ragoczy reminded her gently, and lifted one of her hands to kiss it. “I do not think you forward; far from it. I do, however, think you have flattered me by wanting to paint my portrait.”
Her color brightened. “Well, I do,” she said almost defiantly. “And I cannot do it in a single afternoon.”
“I did not suppose you could,” Ragoczy responded, and waited for her to speak again.
She made a quick, impulsive gesture encompassing the house, which served to restore her sense of self-possession. “Welcome, then. And let me show you around before we begin.”
“Thank you; I would appreciate that.” He nodded his encouragement.
She started down the hall, occasionally walking backward as she pointed out various features of the house she wished to bring to his attention. “As you can see, it is not very wide; just twenty-three feet. I am told that when these were built, taxation was based on width and number of stairs to the front door. It is quite deep, however. This ground floor is just over seventy feet long. The corridor runs the length
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of the house on the first two floors. The top floor is open. It was servants’ quarters once, and then an attic. Now it is my studio.” She was talking too fast, but she could not stop herself. “The parlor is in front, through the double doors, with a withdrawing room behind; it is very dark, having only one small window. Then there is the dining room, and behind that, the kitchen. The stairs are opposite the dining room.” She began to walk toward them, her strides long and quick. “I have two bedrooms and a bath on the next floor; it is not so long as the ground floor, so that the skylights in the dining room and kitchen keep them from being like tombs. The rear bedroom has a small skylight, which makes it very pleasant.” She started up the stairs, looking back down at Ragoczy as she climbed. “I have turned the front bedroom into a sort of study, and the second one is . . . where I sleep.”
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