process submitted for his inspection was worthless, but that was only playing for time. It accomplished nothing definite. His thoughts revolved round the problem again and again without reaching any conclusion.
Groom laid down his knife and fork with a sigh of satisfaction.
“You may or may not know,” he said, “that Zovgorod boasts an Opera House. Tonight they are doing
The Magic Flute
. I have told the head waiter to get me two seats. If you are fond ofMozart you might care to join me. I asked for grand tier stalls. Dress is not necessary.”
Carruthers accepted with alacrity. Half an hour later they stepped into a taxi.
They were about to move off when Groom suddenly ordered the driver to wait. He turned to Carruthers apologetically.
“You will excuse the delay, Professor, but I don’t want to lose our bodyguard.”
With a chuckle he drew Carruthers’ attention to two men on the pavement a few yards from them. They were gesticulating wildly to a passing taxi.
Carruthers turned to him.
“Cator & Bliss?” he inquired facetiously.
“No, our friend the Countess,” said Groom solemnly. “She is taking no chances, you will observe.”
Seeing that the “bodyguard” had secured the taxi, he nodded to the driver. They drove off.
The first act was nearly over when they arrived at the Opera House. In the interval, his companion drew Carruthers’ attention to the Countess Schverzinski sitting in a box with a man wearing formal evening dress and a sash of office. Carruthers watched her, fascinated by her beauty and the ease of her manner, as she received visitors to her box. He found it painfully difficult to identify her, however indirectly, with the murder of Rovzidski.
Her companion in the box was, he was told, her brother Prince Ladislaus. A benevolent old gentleman with a single order on his shirt-front in the next box kissed her hand over the intervening ledge. Groom whispered that it was the President. Carruthers noted the arms of Ixania on the front of his box. An insignificant little man with a monocle was pointed out as the Minister of the Interior. He was, Groom explained, the son of a café proprietor, a fact which accounted, no doubt, for his assumption of a monocle, the symbol of military caste.
The roar of conversation died away as the lights dimmed. The leader of the orchestra raised his bâton. There was silence. Then Mozart began again.
It was music that was to remain with Carruthers for many days afterwards; flowing through his mind, a constant soft-voiced obbligato to the thoughts that crowded there; gently guiding and directing them as the banks of a river guide and direct the swollen stream that rushes between them to the sea. When it was finished he sat through the wild applause that broke out in silence. A sudden calm confidence seemed to fill him. It was as though he had been granted a new lease on life. But somewhere in his brain words were forming. They took shape for a moment and faded; but in that moment he saw a semblance of the truth. For he saw that the days of the man who called himself Conway Carruthers were numbered and that he was soon to die. Under his breath he whispered urgently to himself, “I must hurry.”
The company crowded on to the stage to take their final curtain. More bouquets were handed up to them. The applause was subsiding. A few “
Bravas
” still hung in the air. The orchestra leader raised his bâton. The drums rolled. The audience rose to its feet. The first triumphant chord of the Ixanian National Anthem shattered the silence. At that moment, every light in the Opera House flickered once and went out.
8
May 9th
C arruthers was awake early the following morning. As he lay in bed contemplating the sunlight already pouring through his window, the incident at the theatre was still impressed upon his mind. The picture of Groom fighting madly for the exit, the terrified faces, the vision of all he had seen in a few seconds by the light of a hastily
Groom laid down his knife and fork with a sigh of satisfaction.
“You may or may not know,” he said, “that Zovgorod boasts an Opera House. Tonight they are doing
The Magic Flute
. I have told the head waiter to get me two seats. If you are fond ofMozart you might care to join me. I asked for grand tier stalls. Dress is not necessary.”
Carruthers accepted with alacrity. Half an hour later they stepped into a taxi.
They were about to move off when Groom suddenly ordered the driver to wait. He turned to Carruthers apologetically.
“You will excuse the delay, Professor, but I don’t want to lose our bodyguard.”
With a chuckle he drew Carruthers’ attention to two men on the pavement a few yards from them. They were gesticulating wildly to a passing taxi.
Carruthers turned to him.
“Cator & Bliss?” he inquired facetiously.
“No, our friend the Countess,” said Groom solemnly. “She is taking no chances, you will observe.”
Seeing that the “bodyguard” had secured the taxi, he nodded to the driver. They drove off.
The first act was nearly over when they arrived at the Opera House. In the interval, his companion drew Carruthers’ attention to the Countess Schverzinski sitting in a box with a man wearing formal evening dress and a sash of office. Carruthers watched her, fascinated by her beauty and the ease of her manner, as she received visitors to her box. He found it painfully difficult to identify her, however indirectly, with the murder of Rovzidski.
Her companion in the box was, he was told, her brother Prince Ladislaus. A benevolent old gentleman with a single order on his shirt-front in the next box kissed her hand over the intervening ledge. Groom whispered that it was the President. Carruthers noted the arms of Ixania on the front of his box. An insignificant little man with a monocle was pointed out as the Minister of the Interior. He was, Groom explained, the son of a café proprietor, a fact which accounted, no doubt, for his assumption of a monocle, the symbol of military caste.
The roar of conversation died away as the lights dimmed. The leader of the orchestra raised his bâton. There was silence. Then Mozart began again.
It was music that was to remain with Carruthers for many days afterwards; flowing through his mind, a constant soft-voiced obbligato to the thoughts that crowded there; gently guiding and directing them as the banks of a river guide and direct the swollen stream that rushes between them to the sea. When it was finished he sat through the wild applause that broke out in silence. A sudden calm confidence seemed to fill him. It was as though he had been granted a new lease on life. But somewhere in his brain words were forming. They took shape for a moment and faded; but in that moment he saw a semblance of the truth. For he saw that the days of the man who called himself Conway Carruthers were numbered and that he was soon to die. Under his breath he whispered urgently to himself, “I must hurry.”
The company crowded on to the stage to take their final curtain. More bouquets were handed up to them. The applause was subsiding. A few “
Bravas
” still hung in the air. The orchestra leader raised his bâton. The drums rolled. The audience rose to its feet. The first triumphant chord of the Ixanian National Anthem shattered the silence. At that moment, every light in the Opera House flickered once and went out.
8
May 9th
C arruthers was awake early the following morning. As he lay in bed contemplating the sunlight already pouring through his window, the incident at the theatre was still impressed upon his mind. The picture of Groom fighting madly for the exit, the terrified faces, the vision of all he had seen in a few seconds by the light of a hastily
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