A Princess of the Balkans/Chapter 6

Three days later, in their suite of rooms, from the windows of which one looked out upon the palace where King Alexander and his queen Draga were murdered, Stephen Dallas, Sir James, and Connors, the latter's servant, sat calmly discussing their plans for the abduction of the Lady Thalia and her persecuted friend, Countess Paula Rubitzki.

Scattered in some confusion about the room were the arms and accouterments of the sportsmen: costumes of canvas and khaki, puttee leggings, heavy, hobnailed hunting shoes, cartridge belts, camp gear of aluminum, flasks, high-powered binoculars, and weapons. With the last they had experienced no difficulty from the local authorities. One glance at Sir James' brick-red face, his monocle, and the faultless costumes of both men had been sufficient passport; the official ones had not even been asked for. Sir James was so obviously the ubiquitous British sportsman, to be found wherever there are animals to kill, and there is no lack of game in the Servian highlands. Moreover, England is about the only one of the powers held in esteem by the Servians, despite, or because of, the fact that only Great Britain withdrew her minister and kept him withdrawn after the bloodthirsty royal massacre which immediately preceded the accession of King Peter to the throne.

As Dallas and Sir James discussed their plans, the man Connors was carefully studying a map which was spread on the central table, and as the two friends talked they occasionally glanced toward the Irishman, as if for confirmation of their statements. For Connors, when the truth were known, was far better qualified for the work in hand than either of the two, being a veteran campaigner with a large fund of personal experience where dealing with savage peoples was concerned. For many years he had served as the orderly of Sir James' father, the late Colonel Sir Henry Fenwick, and had been through one campaign in India and another in the Sudan. Connors was a silent man, past middle age, of an iron physique, resourceful, highly courageous, and possessed of a keen sense of Irish humor. In appearance he was of medium height, very broad, with a lean frame and large, heavy bones. He had, of course, been fully informed as to the nature of the enterprise, which, while it jumped entirely with his inclination, he nevertheless felt under obligation outwardly to condemn.

"There will be fightin', sorr," he had said to Dallas, "or I'm no judge. I see be the map that this same Novibazar do be a mountainous counthry, and 'tis my expayrience that where there's mountains there do be paypul who w'u'd rather fight than ate. An' fightin' is bad in these days phwin kings talks p'ace and their subjec's do be smugglin' long-range rifles into the hills agin' the time phwin their naybors have laid down their arrums."

"But fighting is your proper trade, Connors," Dallas had said.

"Troth, sorr, and so it is, an' sh'u'd be Sir James' trade as well. But where there's wimmin mixed up wid it, sorr"—he shook his grizzled head—"fightin' is wan thing, sorr, an' wimmin is another, an' phwin the two is mixed 'tis no great job a mon will be doin' at ayther—unless maybe 'tis wid the wimmin."

Having thus expressed himself, the Irishman had set about to overhaul the weapons with a loving care which was scarcely consistent with his theoretic disapproval of the undertaking.

The proprietor of their inconspicuous hotel had promised to secure them a proper guide who should be familiar with the country and the local dialects of its inhabitants. As they were deep in the discussion of their plans, there came a rap at the door, and the German waiter—for the Serbs dislike menial work of any kind—ushered into their presence a swarthy-looking ruffian in a sheepskin cap, an upper garment of white which was half shirt, half smock, and white trousers, very full about the hips and fitting snugly about the legs, which were swathed in homespun stockings with a broad red band. On his feet he wore rawhide sandals, thonged across the instep and about the ankles. He was not a prepossessing-looking individual, but appeared to be clean; and his face, although sullen, showed an unmistakable intelligence.

Dallas looked up sharply, at which the man pulled off his sheepskin cap.

"Goo' morning, sar," said he, with a grin.

"H'm!" said Sir James. "So you speak English."

"Yes, sar. I American citizen."

"The deuce you are!" said Dallas.

"Yes, sar. I work three years in slaughterhouse in New York City. I belong to Fif' Ward. Vote for Tammany. Get two dollars."

"What do you do here?" asked Sir James.

"Raise hogs in beech woods over by head of Morava River."

"Do you know the country across the border in the sanjak of Novibazar?" asked Dallas. "The country in the neighborhood, of Rascia?"

The man threw him a quick, cunning glance.

"Yes, sar; know all that country well. My landlord live there. He Prince Emilio. No good."

The two friends exchanged glances.

"What's the matter with him?" asked Dallas.

"He boss grafter. Sometime he make me pay rent twice. All his people very bad. Got bands of Bulgarian Christians. Don't do a thing but cut throats other Christians."

"Are you a Christian?" asked Dallas.

"Me? No, I good man. Been to New York. Out for the dough."

"The Christian community," observed Sir James, "does not appear to stand particularly high. I think this man is what we need. Suppose we tell him. What do you think, Connors?"

The Irishman had been eying the man keenly, and did not appear to be favorably impressed, but he shrugged his shoulders.

"No doubt he knows the counthry, sorr, an' he looks to be a smart divil enough."

"One's as good as another, James," said Dallas in French. "It's only a question of money, and we will pay him well. Besides, he doesn't like Emilio."

Sir James nodded. "Suppose you tell him what we want, then," said he.

"What are you doing in Belgrade?" Dallas inquired.

"Jes' comedown with bunch of hogs. Now they all shipped for Vienna. Pretty soon I go back."

"Did you ever hear of a place called Dakabar?" asked Dallas.

The man scratched his matted head.

"Yes, sar. That high up in the mountain. People there all Shkipetari. They tough gang. Don't like Serbs." His beady eyes fastened keenly on Dallas. "You goin' there?"

"Yes," said Dallas. "Now listen to me: The Prince Emilio will be here in Belgrade to-morrow or next day. There are with him two ladies. We want to steal these two ladies and take them to Dakabar. Do you understand?"

The man looked at him keenly. His sullen face showed a quick flash of intelligence, then became dull again.

"That tough job."

"You will be well paid."

"How much you pay?"

"How much do you want?"

The man's eyes narrowed, and a crease appeared across his low forehead.

"This tough job," said he. "Suppose prince he get wise?" There was a significant gesture of his finger across his swarthy throat. "This job no cinch."

"Then you are afraid to tackle it?" asked Dallas.

"No, sar, not afraid. Suppose you pay good price—one hundred dollars"—he looked keenly at Dallas with his cunning, beady eyes—"then I fix it."

"All right. I will pay you one hundred dollars; and when we get safely to Dakabar, if you have done well, I will give you another fifty. Now what do you think is the best way to go about it?"

The man pondered.

"What's your name?"

"Dimitri, sar. I think best way for two ladies to take a drive some night. I give coachman fifty kroners keep his mouth shut. Then we get ponies and wait on the big road to Nis. Then I know crossroad through the hills by Rudnik. That very long—four days, five days—but railroad not safe. Then I think ladies better wear boy clothes, so nobody get wise."

Dallas and Sir James exchanged glances.

"All right, Dimitri," said Dallas. "You appear to know your business. Go ahead, then, and buy your horses and the boys' clothes for the ladies, and mind you get clean, new ones. Until we get well away from Belgrade, we will push along pretty fast," he said to Sir James.

"S'pose you write note to ladies, sar," said Dimitri. "Tell 'em go driving one night very soon."

Dallas picked up his portfolio and wrote a few lines, which he inclosed in an envelope and handed to their guide.

"All right," said Dimitri. "This tough job. This no cinch, but I fix it."