Reighert remained in the parlor long enough to deliver a solid blow
Chelsea Quinn Yarbro
to the side of Ruperts head, sending him into an oblivion he was convinced would last until morning, when he and Rowena Pearce-Manning would be far away.
When Reighert stepped out into the rear yard, taking care to close the kitchen door behind him, Bernard was in the front passenger seat of the Humber, the wheeled-chair secured to the rear seats, Rowena drooping in it, the blanket drawn carefully around her so that she had the appearance of being paralyzed instead of unconscious. After checking to be certain the wheeled-chair was not going to shift, Reighert cranked the motor into life, climbed into the drivers seat and edged the automobile along the alley to the narrow, canal-edge street, bound for the bridge that would lead him to the broad avenue and the train station. He patted his dark jacket lying on the seat behind the gearshift, making sure the tickets were still in place. “Its going to be close.” “But you will make it,” said Bernard, sounding very sleepy.
As they turned into the loading area in front of the train station, Reighert had to shake Bernard to recall him to his senses; as they wrestled Rowena and the wheeled-chair out of the rear seat of the Humber, Reighert said, “Remember to have a physician look at you.” “Once Yseult is taken care of,” Bernard agreed. “I will.”
“Can you drive without mishap?” It was more out of concern for the Humber he asked, and the desire to bring no attention to what they had done, than any regard for Bernard s health.
“Yes,” said Bernard defensively. “If you have any doubts, stay here and I will take the train with Miss Pearce-Manning.”
“No,” said Reighert, indicating the boot as he drew on his most respectable jacket and pulled the tickets from the pocket. “Get the bags. The train leaves in ten minutes.”
Bernard did as he was told, trying not to grumble as he followed Reighert and the wheeled-chair into the cavernous station, his stride faltering and not for the weight of the luggage alone. He found it difficult to read the platform signs, and had to rely on Reighert to find the right train. When he had bestowed the luggage in the overhead racks, he helped lug the wheeled-chair into the compartment, then turned to Reighert. “You will send the telegrams from Basel, is that right?” “One to Berlin, one to London: to our employer, and to her family,” said Reighert, reviewing their plan. “Yes. I will attend to it at Basel, as we planned.” He had taken his seat opposite Rowena. “Your final payment will be wired to you as soon as our employer receives the confirming telegram from me. The money should be in your hands in twenty-four hours.”
Writ in Blood
451
“Good,” said Reighert, stifling a yawn as he glanced down the track as the conductor gave the first of three departure calls. “I’ll be going now.”
“Considering what we encountered, you did very well,” said Reighert mendaciously. “I’ll ask our employer to give you a bonus. That’s no promise he will give you one, but he should pay attention to my recommendation.”
Rowena made a soft sound and her head rolled slackly.
“I’m off,” said Bernard, stepping back and closing the compartment door. He very nearly stumbled as he moved away from the train; by the time he got into the Humber, he was feeling queasy. He fought off the discomfort and drove to his own flat to change clothes and retrieve a tarpaulin before returning to Rowena’s house for the unpleasant chore of loading Yseult’s corpse into the automobile; the body was growing stiff and it was with difficulty that he propped her into the passenger’s seat with the tarpaulin under her feet for later use. He considered going back into the house to check on the Englishman, but decided against it; such actions might well attract attention, and if Rupert had regained consciousness, he might well try to put up a fight again. Certain that his decision was the right one, he got into the driver’s seat and drove off, knowing he would never return to that house again.
The sound of chimes striking the hour of four brought Rupert to hideous wakefulness. He blinked his eyes, and discovered that one of them was swollen closed. As he tried to move, pain assailed him from more sites on his body than he thought could all hurt at the same time, and for half an hour, he lapsed back into partial consciousness. Half an hour later he was awake again, and this time no kindly fainting saved him from the full realization of his injuries. It took him ten minutes to sit up, and fifteen more to get to his feet. In that time, several things had been brought home to him: he had been seriously hurt, Rowena was missing, he had overheard some mention of Innsbruck, his splendid new clothes were ruined, Rowena had been the target of the masked men for purposes he dreaded to contemplate, the authorities would only bring scandal and delay, a physician would be almost as bad, it was his duty to find her before anything beyond remedy occurred, and all this was somehow entirely Franchot Ragoczy’s fault—for which he must be made to answer, and soon. It was obvious to Rupert that the men who had attacked him and carried off Rowena had been working for Ragoczy, undoubtedly with the intention of compromising her in order to compel her into marriage. Burgeoning rage fueling his efforts,
Chelsea Quinn Yarbro
he felt his way toward the back of the house, supporting himself on the wall when the pain threatened to overwhelm him.
In the kitchen he dared to turn on the light, and was taken aback by the mess he encountered, including an ominous brownish stain on the side of the stove. At the sink, he used the dishrag to clean off the worst of the dried blood, using the small mirror Yseult had hung near the door to check his face; he winced at what he saw. His eye was puffy with an open cut along the line of his brow, and his upper lip was three times its normal size and purple. He was fairly certain two of his ribs were broken, and possibly his collarbone as well. His hands were stiff, knuckles cracked and swollen, the nails torn to the quick on three fingers.
Fortifying himself with a tot of brandy he took from the larder, he made himself leave the house, using a broom for a kind of crutch. He took care to close the door behind him, wanting to avert any possibility of idle investigation. He had decided he would send a telegram to the Amsterdam police when he reached Metz, for he was determined to seek Ragoczy out at his estate in Bavaria and demand that he shoulder the responsibility for the danger that had come to Rowena Pearce-Manning: if Ragoczy had been foolish enough to have Rowena brought to his Schloss—whatever it actually was—Rupert would demand her immediate release. Cursing that foreign opportunist for the cad he was, Rupert made his way to his Darracq, and after two attempts, cranked it into life, then, ignoring the occasional stares of the early-rising workmen on the street, he drove away from the canals, out of Amsterdam, into the flat, open countryside, pushing the racing automobile to its highest speeds, passing slower vehicles impatiently, determined to cover as much distance as he could before nightfall. He hoped his condition would not demand he abandon his resolution to drive into Germany before stopping to rest. As dawn gave way to early morning, he shut out his growing fear for Rowena and put all his concentration on the road, for the road would take him to Ragoczy, and Rupert could heap excoriations on him for all he had done.
By noon he was in Belgium, and found a bank to change money into French and German notes as well as Belgian for him while he had a hasty lunch of local cheese and cold ham, accompanied by three cups of coffee to keep him awake. His thoughts were black with vengeful intentions as he contemplated what he would do to Ragoczy when he found him, and saved Rowena from her disastrous infatuation with the Count. He purchased some medications at a chemists shop and affected minor repairs on his injuries as well as taking half a dozen tablets to re-
Writ in Blood
453
lieve the pain that surged through him with every movement, including breathing: he could not permit himself to feel anything.
In Metz that night he found a hotel selling petrol. He refilled his tank and purchased two five-litre containers more, in case he should have difficulty locating more o
n his long drive into Bavaria. He answered the anxious inquiries about his condition by saying “Very nearly had a nasty smash back there on the road from Luxembourg. It was a close thing, I can tell you. The other driver looks much the same as I, and his automobile is badly damaged.” He chuckled unconvincingly. “Lost my case, getting out; had everything in it. I’ll have to purchase a few new things, I suspect.”
The clerk, trying his best to conceal his dismay at Ruperts appearance, said, “Would you want to see a physician?”
“No,” said Rupert abruptly, then realized he needed to reassure the clerk or he would draw unwanted attention to himself, “Thanks, but this looks worse than it is. A good night s sleep will do me.” As he signed for his room, he asked, as if trying to figure out a puzzle. “Is it faster to Bavaria through Saarbrucken or Mulhouse? I’m afraid I don’t know the roads around here.”
“With the petrol you’ve purchased, I would recommend going through Saint Die to Mulhouse,” said the clerk, about to hand him a key. “An automobile like yours will handle the roads well, and there is not so much traffic on that route.”
“It’s rather pressing,” said Rupert, just to make his point.
“Judging by your appearance, it must be,” said the clerk, too experienced to let his misgivings show.
Rupert decided to ignore that remark. “Is it possible to send a telegram from here? I have to notify some of the others in this ... competition where I am putting up for the night.” One would not be to Ragoczy. That he had decided hours ago: he had also decided during his sixteen hours behind the wheel that if he was questioned, he would claim to be part of a kind of race, and would use his Darracq to prove his point.
“You may arrange it here, if you wish.” His regional accent made it difficult for Rupert to understand him; his French was strictly public school.
“You’ll tend to it, will you? They are urgent.” He took the forms that were handed to him and reached for the pen lying by the register. “How soon will they be able to go off?”
“Tonight, if you pay the additional price. If not, first thing in the
Chelsea Quinn Yarhro
morning.” He showed the list of charges for the various services.
“Very good; let s go for early morning,” said Rupert, handing over the amount. “There will be two of them. This will cover the cost. With something for your trouble.”
“Thank you,” said the clerk.
“And I will want to be wakened at six-thirty. Not a moment later.” He scribbled his messages on the telegram forms and returned them to the clerk. “Not a moment later than six-thirty,” he reiterated. “And let us pray for good weather.”
“The farmers say there will be rain,” the clerk warned.
“Then I hope it will come as late in the day as possible,” said Rupert, his manner brusque.
“Will you want breakfast, Monsieur?” the clerk inquired politely as he put the telegram forms into the pigeonhole designated for them.
“just black coffee and an egg, if you will. Have it ready when you wake me.” He tossed the man a couple of coins to ensure this service, then made his way slowly up the stairs, feeling very old, but resolute in his self-determined mission. He did his best to sponge himself off without dwelling on the condition of his body, then wrapped himself in a towel and dropped into bed, his exhaustion overriding his pain; his sleep was more stupor than slumber, and he wakened fired with greater purpose, his soul set on finding Ragoczy before he slept again.
It was near to two in the morning when Rupert Bowen arrived in Hausham, his body singing with aches, his thoughts swimming, but always coming back to his determination to let Ragoczy know just what his cavalier dalliance with Rowena would bring him. He was sorry now that the age of duels had passed: he would have loved to have Ragoczy^ in the sights of his pistol. Even that would not be enough to salvage Rowena s good name, he feared, but if he could reach her before the unthinkable happened—if indeed he was not already too late—he might contrive to account for her abduction in some acceptable way.
The village was quite dark, and on the streets nothing but the Dar-racq moved. He found the train station and discovered, as he hoped, a single railway clerk of vaguely middle age tending the station and watching the telegraph in a little pool of light. Rupert s German was rudimentary, but he was able to make it understood that he wanted Fran-chot Ragoczy.
“The Count, ja?” the man asked, listening closely to Rupert.
“Count Saint-Germain he calls himself, yes,” said Rupert, too worn out to be sarcastic.
“His Schloss is out that road,” said the railway clerk, pointing out into
Writ in Blood
455
the night. “There are iron gates, with a disk with wings in the middle of them. The gate is marked with lanterns.” He nodded several times as if to encourage understanding.
“Out the road,” Rupert said laboriously. “Iron gates, lanterns marking them. How far?” he added.
“Not far,” said the railway clerk. “Turn at the inn. To the right. That’s the road you want.” He scrawled a kind of map on a telegram form and gave it to Rupert. “You see?”
“I’ll find it,” said Rupert, his voice grim and hoarse.
“Good,” said the railway clerk, who was glad of this strange interruption in an otherwise dull night.
“Is he there?” Rupert demanded as an afterthought.
“The Count? Ach, ja. I think so.” He watched Rupert find his way out to his automobile, and made a note of the time.
The lanterns were burning just as the railway clerk had said they would be. Rupert turned up the drive, pleased to find the gates open and the roadway freshly graveled so that he was not impeded by mud. He took this as a sign that Ragoczy was as lax about his property as he was about his conduct, an assumption that gave him savage satisfaction. As he emerged from the trees, he saw the Schloss ahead of him, and began to have his first niggle of suspicion that his impressions might be wrong. Such a building was not the property of an adventurer. If, he added darkly to himself, it was truly Ragoczy’s property. There was every chance it was not: Ragoczy was not above claiming ownership of a building that had been hired for the purpose of impressing the gullible. He pulled up in front of the main door and lurched out of the Darracq, all but falling against the door in his effort to break through. Propping himself against the iron-bound wood, he pounded with his fists as if the oak were Ragoczy’s flesh. He did not consider that he was unlikely to be admitted at this late hour: he was convinced that his arrival would provide Rowena with some comfort, and he bludgeoned away until his bruised hands began to bleed again.
A few minutes later Ragoczy himself opened the door, his burgundy dressing robe over his white shirt and black trousers. “Mister Bowen,” he said, startled by the man and his appearance. “What—”
He got no further. “You bloody blackguard!” Rupert howled, shoving his way into the Schloss. “Where is she?”
Ragoczy’s affability vanished to be replaced by stem apprehension. “What do you mean, Mister Bowen?” he asked as he followed Rupert into the main hall, increasingly aware of the young man’s exhaustion and injuries. “What are you doing here?”
Rupert swung around to face him. “Damn you, where have you got her?”
“Got whom?” Ragoczy asked, and knew the answer. “What has happened to Rowena?”
“You know exactly what happened to her!” Rupert bellowed. “Where is she? Rowena! Rowena /” He staggered toward the stair leading to the gallery above. “ROWENA!”
Ragoczy moved up behind Rupert. “Mister Bowen, she is not here.” His voice became low and commanding. “What has happened, that you think she was?”
Fatigued, enervated, and groggy from pain, Rupert steadied himself on the newel post and met Ragoczy s penetrating gaze with the last vestige of his strength. “You had her taken. Two men. Your men. Yesterday . .. the day before. In Amsterdam. Deny it if you dare, you swine.”
“No, Mister Bowen; I do not have her.” Ragoczy began to understand the oppression that had held him in its grip for the last two days. He had assumed it came from Madelaine de Montalia because of its power. Now he knew he had been terribly wrong. “Mister Bowen, tell me what happened.”
“You know 7 —” Rupert began, and then broke off. “It had to be your doing,” he insisted doggedly. Only that conviction had given him the strength to keep going when weariness had threatened to overcome him. If he had been wrong, he had failed Rowena doubly. He stared at Ragoczy with growing horror. “If not you, then who?”
Ragoczy came near enough to put his small hand on Rupert s shoulder. “If you will tell me exactly what took place, we shall discover the answer,” he promised the taller, younger man.
But the weight of the last two days caught up with Rupert. The last of his strength drained away, and with a gentle cry, he slumped to the stairs: never before in his life had he fainted.
Text of a summary report filed by Inspector Herbert Blau in Berlin.
In re: the investigation into the murder of the dancer Nadezna. Records of April 3-6, 1911.
April 3
Interviewed Lukas Strauss once more, and am satisfied that the first account he provided was accurate, for while his second interview was not precisely the same as his first, it is consistent in all significant details. He is willing to swear under oath that he observed Baron von Wol-
Writ in Blood
457
gast and a second man enter Nadeznas house approximately fifteen minutes after Franchot Ragoczy left it. His notes indicate they remained inside for about twenty minutes, and he was under the impression that von Wolgasts clothes were wet when he departed. He has given me his word to bring his employer, Oertel Morgenstern, to give me a report day after tomorrow.
Writ in blood : a novel of Saint-Germain Page 60
