Flashman And The Tiger fp-11 Read online

  "Our proposal … d’you still need to sleep on it?"

  "Do I have a choice?" I wondered.

  "Hardly. But I’d like to think you were with me willingly—for the good cause, oh, and the fun of it!" He chuckled—gad, he was like Rudi, ruthless as cold iron but treating it as a game. "Come on, Harry—what d’you say?"

  "If I say `aye'—would you trust me?"

  "On your word of honour—yes." Lying bastard, but it gave me the chance to play bluff Flashy to the hilt. I sat up straight and looked him in the eye.

  "Very well," says I deliberately. "I’ll give it … in return for your word of honour that all you’ve told me is gospel true."

  He was on his feet like a shot, hand held out, smiling eagerly. "Done!" cries he. "On my honour! Oh, this is famous! I knew you’d come round! Here, we must certainly drink to this!" So we did, neither of us believing the other for an instant, but content with the pretence. At that, I ain’t sure that he didn’t half-believe me, for I can sound damned true-blue when I want to. We drank, and he clapped me on the shoulder, bubbling with spirits, and delivered me to my beefy watchdog, crying "Good night, old fellow! Sweet dreams!" as I was shepherded up the stairs.

  The lout saw me silently into a room, which was as I’d expected—bars on the window, lock clicking behind me, and Kralta sitting up in the great four-post bed, clad in a gauzy night-rail and a look of expectation.

  "Tell me he persuaded you!" cries she.

  "Not for a moment, my dear," says I, shedding my coat. "You see, I knew his father, and I’d not trust either of ’em round the corner." The fine long face hardened in dismay, and she drew back against the pillows as I sat down on the side of the bed. "No, he has not persuaded me …" I leaned towards her with my wistful Flashy smile, reaching out to touch her hair "… but you have. You see, I’m a simple sort of chap, Kralta, always have been. I don’t always know a wrong ’un when I meet one, but I do know when someone’s straight." I kissed her gently on the forehead, and felt her quiver distractingly. "You’re straight as a die. And while I ain’t much on politics, or the smoky things these statesmen get up to, or even understand above half all the stuff that Willem told me … well, that don’t matter, truly." I fondled a tit with deep sincerity, and felt it harden like a blown-up football. "If you think it’s a worthy cause … well, that’s good enough for me."

  Ever seen a horse weep? Nor I, but having watched the tears well in those fine blue eyes and trickle down her muzzle, and heard her whinny and bare her buck teeth in a smile of glad relief, I don’t need to. Her arms went round my neck.

  "Oh … but all my deceits and lies—"

  "Honourable lies, my darling, to a noble end. Why, I’ve told a few stretchers of that sort myself, in my time, when duty demanded it." I slipped the flimsy stuff aside to get a proper grip of the meat, and kissed her lingeringly on the mouth. She clung moistly, making small noises of contrition turning to passion, and I went to the glad work of entrapping the alien at the proper time.

  Ischl’s a pretty little place, almost an island enclosed on three, sides by the rivers Traun and Ischl, and lying at the heart of some of the finest scenery in Europe, forest country and lakes and the mountains of the Saltzkammergut. Bad Ischl they call it nowadays, and I believe it’s become a favourite resort of the squarehead quality, but even in ’83 the Emperor’s patronage had made it fashionable, and there was more of Society about than you’d have expected, come to take the waters, inhabit the fine villas along the Traun, drive in the woods and on the river boulevards, promenade in the gardens of the New Casino, and throng the more elegant shops and cafés, of which there were a surprising number. The townsfolk were stout and prosperous, and the inevitable peasantry in their awful little black pants and suspenders seemed to know their place, and gave the scene an air of picturesque gaiety.

  Which didn’t reflect my mood, exactly. Willem, I think, reckoned I was reluctant still, but would be bound to go through with his ghastly scheme; Kralta, on t’other hand, having a romantic and patriotic heart beneath her glacial exterior, and being partial to pork, was convinced I’d seen the light. She’d taken to me, no error, and wanted to trust me, you see. That was fine, but left me no nearer to finding a means of escape. The journey from Linz had afforded no chance at all, with Willem close on hand, and his four thugs in the next compartment, and at Ischl, where we were installed at the Golden Ship, in a side-street off the Marktplatz, they never let me out of their sight. That very first day, when we’d settled in and got our bearings in the town, strolling by the Traun, admiring the casino gardens, taking coffee in an opulent patisserie, and generally idling like well-bred little tourists, Willem stuck like a burr, and my beefy scoundrel lurked in the background.

  How they’d act if I suddenly darted to the nearest copper, yelling that I was being kidnapped, I couldn’t guess and didn’t dare find out. Set aside that Willem might well have put a slug in my spine and faded out of sight, you’re at the deuce of a disadvantage being a foreigner, even if you speak the lingo. The authorities ain’t inclined to believe you, not in the face of explanations from an imposing lady of quality and her Junker escort, backed by four worthy cabbage-eaters in hard hats. "Poor cousin Harry, he’s English you know, and has fits. Don’t be alarmed, constable, we have a strait-jacket at the hotel." That would be their line, or something like it—and where would Cock Flashy be then, poor thing? At the bottom of the Traun the same evening, likely, with a bag of coal at his feet and Kralta dropping a sentimental tear.

  So I played up as seldom before, smiling politely, talking wittily at ease, breathing in the breezes of the distant mountains with every sign of content, coaxing Kralta to buy a monstrous hat in one of the boutiques, drinking in a beer-garden with Willem and shaking my head ruefully as he cheated me at bezique (father’s son, no question), laughing heartily at the drolleries of Frosch the gaoler in Fledermaus at the little theatre in the evening, remarking at dinner that Austria’s contribution to civilisation must surely be the art of cooking cabbage decently,[17] rogering Kralta to stupefaction when we’d retired, and lying awake later with her sleeping boobies across my chest, cudgelling my wits for a way out.

  I made the experiment of rising early next morning and dressing quietly while she was still asleep, slipping out on to the landing—and there was Beefy square-bottomed on a chair, glowering. I bade him a civil good-day and sauntered down into the street, and he simply followed a few paces behind as I strolled to the river and back for breakfast. Willem was already down; he raised an eyebrow, glancing at Beefy, and then asked me if I’d had a pleasant stroll. No alarms, no warning, so they must be sure enough of their grip on me to delegate the task of watchdog to a single ruffian, armed and ruthless no doubt, but still just one man. Interesting … and sufficient to raise my hopes a little.

  And then, on that second day in Ischl, the whole affair changed, unbelievably, and escape became unthinkable.

  It was Wednesday, the day which Willem had appointed for a scout in the direction of Franz-Josef’s lodge. It stood on rising ground on the other side of the town, above and beyond the little river Ischl, secluded enough among woodland to give royalty privacy, but an easy walk from the Ischl bridges which span the river by way of a little island lying in midstream.

  Willem and I walked through the town and across the bridge to the island, which was laid out as a park, with pleasant gardens among the trees and bushes. We found a quiet spot from which we could look across the river towards the high bank above which the lodge could be seen among the trees. Rudi scanned it through field-glasses and then we crossed the farther bridge for a closer look, strolling up the curving road, circling the lodge itself, and back to the road again. Here Willem led the way north, farther up the slope, to a point slightly above the lodge, and took a long slant through the glasses. There were a few folk about, tourists driving and strolling for a look at the royal residence.

  "But there won’t be a soul this side of the river after dark," says Wille
m. "Gad, ain’t it made for murder, though! Come across from Ischl by day, lie up in the woods—" he nodded to where the trees grew thicker above us "—then swoop down at night, break in, do old F-J’s business, and flee any way you like … across into the town to your hidey-hole, or back into the woods, or down the Ischl and then the Traun by boat!" He passed me the glasses, chuckling. "But since we shan’t give ’em the chance to flee, that don’t signify."

  He lounged back on the turf, chewing a blade of grass and shading his eyes against the autumn sun while I surveyed the lodge, a white three-storeyed building with a high-pitched roof to one side in which there were dormer windows. Odd little minarets decorated the gable ends, and at what seemed to be the front of the house there was a large square porch with ivy-covered pillars and a flat roof surrounded by a little balustrade. The whole place had an informal, almost untidy look; not very grand for an emperor, I thought.

  "I told you he liked to play the simple soul," says Willem. "All ceremony and etiquette at the Hofburg or Schonbrunn, but hail-fellow with the peasants when he’s out of town—provided he does the hailing and they knuckle their foreheads like good little serfs. He acts the genial squire, but he’s a pompous prig at heart, and God help anyone who comes the familiar with him. Or so I’m told; you’ve met him, I haven’t."

  I’d thought him stiff and stupid on short acquaintance, but what exercised me just then was that his lodge, while modest enough, was a sight too large to be guarded by a file of soldiers.

  "But not by two clever lads inside the place, who stick close by his nibs night and day, and know the geography," says Willem. "And who know also exactly where the Holnup will try to break in.,,

  I almost dropped the glasses. "How the devil can you know that?"

  He gave me his smart-alec smile. "I’ve never set foot in that bijou residence, but I know every foot of it like my own home. Builders' plans, old boy—you don’t think Bismarck overlooks items like that! I could find my way round it in the dark, and probably will."

  "But you can’t guess which way they’ll come—"

  "There’s a secret stair leading down from the Emperor’s bed-room to an outside door—no doubt so that he could sneak out for a night’s whoring in town without Sissi knowing … although why he should, with that little beauty waiting to be bounced about, beats me," he added, with fine irrelevance. "Anyway, even the servants don’t know about the secret stair—"

  "But you and Bismarck do, absolutely!"

  "Absolutely … and it’s St Paul’s to the parish pump that the Holnup know, too. Heavens, they’re not amateurs! They’d be mad not to take advantage of it, wouldn’t you say?"

  "And if they don’t? Or if it’s locked, as it’s bound to be?"

  He smote his forehead. "Damn! They’ll never have thought of that! So they won’t bring pick-locks or bolt-shears or anything useful, will they? Ah, well," says the sarcastic brute, "we can tell Bismarck he’s fretting about nothing. Oh, come along." He got to his feet, laughing at me. "The thing is, where to take ’em? At the door, or inside, or where? Well, we’ll have to think about that. One thing at a time …"

  We walked down the hill and back across the bridges to Ischl town, and had just reached the spot where the Landstrasse runs into the Kreutzplatz when we were aware of some commotion ahead; people on the Landstrasse were drawing aside to the pavements with a great raising of hats and bobbing of curtsies as a smart open carriage came bowling up the street, its occupant responding to the salutes of the whiffers by making stiff inclinations and tipping his tile. A couple of Hussars trotted ahead, and as they came level with us Willem drew me quickly back into a doorway.

  "The Grand Panjandrum himself," says he, "and the less he sees of us just now, the better. Don’t want to spoil tomorrow’s surprise, do we? Let’s grin into our hats ’till he’s past. We doffed, covering ourselves, and as the carriage crossed the Kreutzplatz to polite cheering, Willem laughed. "Tell you what, Harry—he looks more than half like you!"

  I don’t care to be told that I resemble royalty; it wakes too many unpleasant memories, and in the case of Franz-Josef it was downright foolish, for while he cut a fairish figure, tall, dark and well-moustached and whiskered, he had no more style than a clothes-horse—and I ain’t got a Hapsburg lip or the stare of a backward haddock. He didn’t have my shoulders or easy carriage, either, and as he’d raised his hat I’d noted that his hair was receding—and dyed, by the look of it. That aside, he hadn’t changed much in the fifteen years since I’d seen him. He’d be in his early fifties now, eight years my junior.

  "It’s a solemn thought," says Willem, as we resumed our walk down the Landstrasse, "that as he drives serenely by, the Holnup lads will be watching." He nodded at the fashionable shoppers thronging the pavements. "Aye, they’ll be here, biding their time for tomorrow night, or the next. Too smart to try a shot or a bomb in open day, though risky, and not near so impressive as cutting his throat in his own bedroom." He slipped his arm through mine. "Little do they know, eh?"

  I hardly heard him. Somehow the sight of Franz-Josef had driven it home to me that in a few hours I’d be embarked on the lunatic business of faking a game leg in his coverts, being taken in as his guest, and prowling his blasted house in the middle of the night in the company of this bloodthirsty young ruffian, waiting for assassins to break in. It was like some beastly dream, there in this bustling, sunny resort, with respectable, decent folk strolling by, the women exclaiming at the shop windows, their men pausing indulgently, young people chattering gaily at the café tables—dammit, a pair of polizei twirling their moustaches at the next corner … and Willem must have had some sixth sense, for his arm tightened on mine and he shot me a quick glance as we walked past them. The urge to wrench free and run screaming for help lasted only an instant; I daren’t, and I knew I daren’t … but, oh Lord, somehow, in the next few hours, I must summon up the courage to try … what? The sweat was breaking out on me as we reached the Golden Ship, and Willem called cheerfully for coffee and cake.

  And it was all wasted fear, for the die was cast already by hands other than Bismarck’s, and rolling in my direction.

  We dined early that evening, and for all his artless banter I sensed that Willem was wound tight, as was Kralta. She it was who proposed that we should visit the casino, less from an urge for play, I guessed, than for some distraction from the strain of waiting. Willem said it was a capital notion, and I forced a cheery agreement, so then we waited while Kralta donned her evening finery, and presently we strolled through the lantern-lit gardens to the New Casino, with Beefy acting as rearguard and taking post at the entrance as we passed into the salon.

  That feeling of unreality that had gripped me in the streets came back with a vengeance under the glittering chandeliers. It was a scene from operetta, like the Prince’s reception we’d seen at the theatre the previous night, a swirl of elegant figures clustered round the tables or waltzing in the ballroom beyond, all laughter and gaiety and heady music, gallants in immaculate evening rig or dress uniform, the ladies splendid in coloured silks, bright eyes and white shoulders and jewels a-gleam in the candleshine, glasses raised to red lips and white-gloved fingertips resting on stalwart arms, the rattle of the wheel and the voices of the croupiers mingling with the cries of delight or disappointment, the soft strains of "La Belle Hélene" and "Blue Danube" from the orchestra, Ruritania come to life on a warm Austrian evening that would go on flirting and laughing and dancing forever … and a bare mile away, the lonely lodge among the dark silent trees with its precious royal tenant all unguarded against the creeping menace that would come by night, and only one desperate adventurer and one shivering poltroon to save the peace of Europe, unless at the eleventh hour that poltroon could streak to safety in the tall timber.

  D’you wonder that while I retain a vivid image of the scene in that casino, I haven’t the faintest recollection of the play? Not that I’m much in the punting line; running a hell in Santa Fe convinced me that it’s mon
ey burned unless you hold the bank, but if I’d been as big a gambling fool as George Bentinck I’d not have noticed whether it was faro or roulette or vingt-et-un we wagered on; I was too much occupied keeping down my fears, mechanically holding Kralta’s stakes and muttering inane advice, working up my courage with brandy while Willem smoked and watched me across the table.

  I know Kralta won, smiling coolly as her chips were pushed across, and suggesting we escape from the noise and crowd into the garden. Willem nodded, and she went off to find her stole and to tittivate while I collected her winnings from the caissier and sauntered out of the salon to the entrance, my heart going like a trip-hammer, for I knew it was now or never.

  Beefy was on the q.v. at the head of the steps, so I told him offhand that her highness would come presently, and I would wait for her at the little fountain yonder. He scowled doubtfully, and as I went leisurely down the steps to the gravel walk I saw him from the tail of my eye, hesitating whether to wait or come after me. Sure enough, he stuck to his orders, and followed me; I heard his beetle-crunchers on the gravel as I paused to light a cheroot and loafed on idly towards the fountain, glittering prettily under the lanterns a few yards ahead. There were clusters of light every-where in the gardens, but deep stretches of dark among the trees—let me side-step swiftly into one of these and be off to a flying start, and if I couldn’t give that lumbering oaf ten yards in the hundred, even at my time of life, I’d deserve to be caught. And then I’d be in full flight with the length and breadth of Europe before me, Kralta’s winnings and my own cash to speed my pass-age, by train or coach or on foot or on hands and knees if need be—if I’ve learned one thing in life it’s to bolt at the first chance and let the future take care of itself … so now I strolled unhurriedly high', savvy?" That meant the Prime Minister, in politicals' lingo … Gladstone. "And higher still," adds Hutton sharply. My God, that could only mean the Queen …