Chapter Seventeen. The Cipher Dispatch.

Next day Hubert Waldron continued his inquiry with unceasing activity.

Armed with His Majesty’s authority, he had an interview with the Commendatore Bertini, the Questore, or Chief of Police of Rome. The secret or political police under Ghelardi was an entirely different department. Therefore, without telling the bald-headed Questore the reason or nature of the inquiry in which he was engaged he requested assistance in His Majesty’s name, and was given the Brigadier Giovanni Pucci, a well-known and astute officer of the brigade mobile.

To the tall, thin, athletic-looking, clean-shaven man with small black eyes, and hair turning a trifle grey, Hubert took a fancy at once, and in a taxi they went round to his rooms to hold secret council.

Beside the fire, while the detective, a crafty, keen-eyed Neapolitan, smoked cigarettes, the diplomat explained that he required strict inquiry made into the antecedents of the corporal, Tonini. He also desired information concerning the private lives of General Cataldi, his secretary, Pironti, and the official, Lambarini.

The detective made some careful memoranda in his pocket-book and promised most minute attention to the matter.

“Remember, Signor Pucci,” Waldron said, “this affair is strictly confidential and concerns His Majesty alone. I shall tell him that I have entrusted the inquiry to you.”

“I will do my very utmost, signore, and place in your hands all the information I can gather. You wish for a written report?”

“Certainly. And only actual facts.”

The detective showed greatest curiosity regarding the reason of such inquiries regarding public officials, but the Englishman told him nothing.

“Just make your inquiries, Signor Pucci,” he said, “this is all I require of you at present. I may be absent from Rome for a week, so while I am away please continue to work. As you know, the Questore has placed your services entirely at His Majesty’s disposal.”

“I appreciate the honour which has been done me,” was the astute officer’s reply, for he was a brigadier, and a terror to the criminal fraternity in the Eternal City. Having graduated in the underworld of Naples among the Camorra and the Mafia, he had become one of the Questore’s right-hand men. “His Majesty knows me,” he added, “for I have done duty with him many times on his journeys. I am often told off as his personal guardian.”

“In that case then I can rely upon you to treat this matter with the utmost confidence,” Hubert remarked, and soon afterwards Peters showed the tall man out.

Time after time Hubert examined the mysterious letter with which Her Highness had entrusted him. Why was Pujalet passing in Brussels as a Servian? What secret could that sealed envelope contain which could not be trusted to the post? Ah! if he could only discover it!

“Peters,” he said presently, as his man came in to stir the fire, “I may be leaving Rome for a day or two. I may even go to-night. So just pack my small suit-case.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Stay,” he said, and going to a drawer in a small occasional table which was laden with English books and magazines he took out a serviceable-looking Browning pistol, adding: “Just put that in also.”

“Very well, sir.”

It did not surprise Peters, for his master often took the weapon with him on night journeys upon Continental railways. Indeed in Italy one acquires the habit of carrying a gun.

In the afternoon Hubert strolled, as usual, up the Pincio where he met and greeted many of the great ones in Roman Society, not because he cared for it, but because it was the correct thing to do so, and as diplomat he had to bow always to Society’s decree.

He afterwards paid a call upon the Princess Altieri at the great old Grazini Palace, that fine mediaeval palazzo, the chief façades of which, as those who know Rome are aware, are in the Piazza della Valle and the Via del Sudario, that palace designed by the immortal Raphael and erected by Lorenzetto.

Entering the great portals where stood the pompous concierge in cocked hat and bearing his silver-headed staff of office, he ascended the great stone staircase at the head of which a flunkey met him and conducted him to the huge gilded salon wherein the Princess Altieri, a diminutive old lady in black, was entertaining a crowd of chattering friends.

After he had bowed over the old lady’s hand he glanced around and recognised a number of familiar faces. His own Chief, besides the Russian and French Ambassadors were there, while there were a dozen or so marquises and Counts with their women-folk, a few foreign notables, and a sprinkling of the ornamental men from the Embassies.

Hubert found himself chatting with Count Niccoli, Colonial Secretary of State, when presently his Chief came up and whispered in his ear: “Waldron, can you be round at the Embassy in an hour? I want to tell you something.”

“Certainly,” was the diplomat’s reply, and the two men were lost to each other in the crush.

The chatter went on, for the old Princess being highly popular in Rome, many people always came to her weekly receptions. In half a dozen tongues conversation was carried on, and the room with its ancient painted ceiling, its closed windows and high stoves, was unbearably hot. Indeed, half aristocratic Rome seemed to have dropped in after its sunset airing on the Pincio.

An hour later, however, when Hubert entered the Ambassador’s room, his Chief rose from his table with a grave expression upon his pale, refined face.

“Waldron,” he said, “I fear the secret of those stolen plans of the frontier fortresses is out.”

“The secret out!” gasped the other. “Why—what is known?”

“Look at this!” he said, taking from a drawer a telegram in cipher which was deciphered upon a sheet of paper to which it was pinned. “It came in at three o’clock. Read it.”

Waldron scanned it with eager eyes, and saw that the message which had been handed in at Vienna at half-past one was from Lord Ecclesbourne, British Ambassador to Austria, and read:

“From information received through confidential channels it seems that Austria-Hungary is now rapidly and secretly mobilising on the Italian frontier. The Seventh and Eleventh Army Corps are assembled at Bozen and Klagenfurt respectively. Orders have been sent to the Austrian fleet by wireless from Sebenico, but of these I have no knowledge. The Emperor returned to Vienna last night and a meeting of the War Council was held an hour afterwards at which he was present. Though the newspapers this morning merely announce a series of manoeuvres in the Tyrol, it seems clear that a crisis has occurred and that immediate hostilities against Italy are contemplated. Please regard foregoing as confidential and report back any information which may come to your knowledge. I have to-day sent dispatches by telegram and also by special messenger to London.—Ecclesbourne.”

“By Jove! This is extremely serious!” declared Hubert, standing aghast with the dispatch in his hand. “No doubt the truth is out. Have you told them here of this dispatch?”

“Certainly not. The information is ours, and, as you see, it is strictly confidential.”

“But surely I may warn His Majesty!”

“No,” was the Ambassador’s decided reply.

“But are we not a friendly Power?” argued the secretary. “Is it not our duty to tell them what we know?”

“It may be, but I cannot betray what is sent to me as strictly confidential,” was His Excellency’s response.

“But Lord Ecclesbourne is unaware of the actual truth. If he knew it he certainly would not withhold the information,” Hubert argued.

“True. But do you not remember that any information obtained through our Secret Service is strictly confidential, and must not on any pretext be given to a foreign Power?”

“I know that, of course. But such a rule surely cannot apply in such a case as this,” urged Waldron impatiently. “We know that the plans have been stolen, and that this hostile movement is the result. We surely ought to warn Italy, so that she is not taken by surprise, which is, no doubt, the intention of her arch-enemy.”

“No doubt it is,” replied the Ambassador. “And I regret that we cannot break the rule. Indeed, I dare not—without orders from home.”

“Those we shall never get, I fear. We cannot explain the facts by wire, and a messenger to Downing Street would take fully three days. Why, in that time the Austrians will be in Venice and Milan!” declared Waldron. “Can we do nothing to avert this war?” he asked frantically.

“What can we do, my dear fellow? Even if you went to His Majesty I do not see what benefit would accrue.”

“It would put the Ministry of War upon its guard.”

“They will know. Possibly they know already. Ghelardi is a good watch-dog, and he has his spies in Vienna, just as we have. Probably he knows as much as we do,” was the Ambassador’s reply as he stood upon the red Turkey hearthrug with folded arms, a fine diamond pin sparkling in his black cravat.

“But can we do nothing—nothing?” cried Waldron in impatience and alarm. “I promised His Majesty that I would work in the interests of Italy, and if I withhold this fact from him, surely I shall be held culpable!”

“Your first duty is to your own King, Waldron,” replied His Excellency very gravely. “To betray information obtained by our Secret Service is, by the regulations, absolutely forbidden, I repeat.”

“I know that full well. But in these circumstances is it not our duty as a friendly Power to place Italy on her guard, and save her from invasion?”

“Our first duty is to observe our own regulations,” replied the Ambassador, one of the old red-tape school, who like the ostrich hid his head in the sand and still believed in England as the chief and unconquerable Power among nations.

“And not to observe at the same time our cordial relations with a Power which has, on its own initiative, already given us plans of half a dozen improvements in modern ordnance—plans which we have used to our own advantage.”

“Well—if you desire, you are at liberty to send a cipher dispatch to Lord Westmere and try and obtain leave,” was the Ambassador’s reply. “I can, I regret, give no permission myself.”

For some seconds Waldron remained silent. He stood near the window gazing blankly out upon the broad handsome thoroughfare now lit by long rows of electric lights, the fine modern road which led to the Porta Pia.

“Very well,” he replied savagely, “I will myself obtain leave from Downing Street,” and turning upon his heel, he went away to the chancellerie and there wrote out a telegram which he reduced to cipher by aid of the small blue-covered book which he took from the strong-room, afterwards taking the message himself to the chief telegraph office and dispatching it.

The dispatch was a long one, but it was necessary to give full explanation.

It was then six o’clock by Italian time, or five o’clock in England. The night express left Rome for Paris at twenty minutes after midnight, and it was his intention to catch it, providing he received a reply in time to have audience with His Majesty prior to leaving.

He dressed and afterwards dined at the Embassy, as was his habit. Lady Cathcart, with the hauteur of the Ambassador’s wife, sat at the head of the table, and several of the staff were present, also two Members of Parliament, men to whom ambassadors always have to be civil. But the meal proved a very dreary one. Both Members—who were quite unimportant persons, and who would never have appeared in “Who’s Who” had not their Constituents placed them there—aired their ideas upon the European situation—ideas which were ridiculous and unsound, though none present were so impolite as to say so.

“Have you sent your dispatch?” asked His Excellency the Ambassador when they were alone together for a few moments after dinner.

“Yes,” Waldron replied. “I am expecting permission, and if so I shall have audience at once.”

The Ambassador’s grey face lit up with a faint smile, as he shook his head.

“I fear, my dear Waldron, that you will not get permission. The Powers must look after their own perils.”

Hubert, glad enough to escape from the official atmosphere, left the Embassy shortly afterwards, and after killing time for an hour in the club—where he chatted with Colonel Sibileff, the Russian military attaché, and young Count Montoro, one of the jeunesse dorée of the Eternal City—walked back to his rooms to see if any reply was forthcoming from London. He had given orders to Sheppard, the concierge at the Embassy, to send round at once any telegram addressed to him.

“Any message?” he asked eagerly of Peters as he let himself in with his latch-key.

“Yes, sir, a telegram arrived from the Embassy only two minutes ago.”

His master tore it open with eager, trembling fingers, but, alas! it was in cipher! He had never thought of that.

Dashing downstairs he tore back to the Via Venti Settembre, and in the chancellerie sat down and impatiently worked it out, placing each decipher over the code letter until the whole message ran as follows:

“Situation already reported from Vienna. Later inquiries show report exaggerated. Tension no doubt exists, but not sufficient to warrant breach of regulations.”

Hubert Waldron ground his teeth in despair. Downing Street had given him a polite but firm refusal.

And with that he was compelled to be satisfied, even though he knew that war was contemplated and was actually imminent.

He was now upon the horns of a dilemma. To wilfully disregard his instructions from London was impossible. What, he wondered, did the later inquiries in Vienna reveal?

He remembered his promise to the Princess. At all hazards he must make a flying visit to the Belgian capital. But during those six days which he must of necessity be absent, what might not occur? A great disaster was fast-approaching.

The Ambassador had gone to the theatre, therefore he left him a note, and again returning to his rooms, he sat down and scribbled a few lines to Her Highness, telling her of his departure. This he posted later on at the railway station soon after midnight, after which he entered the long, dusty wagon-lit marked “Roma-Torino-Parigi.”