Royal Flash

when the chance comes in Strackenz, they will act as he says. He can force the thing—he has the vision— das genie.'

Aye, perhaps he had the genius. Now, of course, I know that he could have done it—I doubt if there was any diplomatic coup that that brilliant, warped intelligence couldn't have brought off; for all that he was the most dreadful bastard who ever sat in a chancellery, he was the greatest statesman of our time. Yes, he could have done it—he did, didn't he, in the end, and where is Strackenz now? Like Schleswig and Holstein, it is buried in the German empire that Otto Bismarck built.

It was just my bad luck that I had been cast—through the sheer chance of an uncanny resemblance—to be the first foundation-stone of his great dream. This was to be his initial step to power, the opening move in his great game to unify Germany and make it first of the world's states. Squatting there, on the damp turf of the Jotun Gipfel, I saw that the crazy scheme in which he had involved me had a flawless logic of its own—all he needed was something to strike a spark in Strackenz, and I was the tinder. Thereafter, with him gently guiding from the wings, the tragic farce could run its course.

De Gautet groaned, and brought me back to earth. He was lying there, this foul brute who would have put a bullet in my back—aye, and had already planted his sabre cuts in my skull. In a rage I kicked him—this was the pass that he and his damned friends had brought me to, I shouted, stranded in the middle of their blasted country, incriminated, helpless, certain to be either murdered by Bismarck's crew or hanged by the authorities. He roared and pleaded with me to stop.

'Aye, you can howl now,' say I. 'You were ready enough an hour ago to show me no mercy, curse you!' A thought struck me. 'I don't suppose you showed any to that poor Danish sod, either. Where's Carl Gustaf, then? Lying somewhere with his throat cut and a letter in his pocket saying: 'A present from Flashy and Lord Palmerston'?'

'No, no—he is alive—I swear it! He is being kept—safe.'

'What for? What use is he to bloody Bismarck?'

'He was not to be—nothing was to befall him—until— until… .'

'Until I'd had my weasand slit? That's it, isn't it? You dirty dogs, you! Where is he then, if he's still alive?'

At first he wouldn't say, but when I flourished the knife at him he changed his mind.

'In Jotunberg—the old castle of the Duke. Yonder, over the crags—in the Jotunsee. I swear it is true. He is under guard there—he knows nothing. The Baron leaves nothing to chance—if aught had gone wrong, he might have been needed—alive.'

'You callous hound! And otherwise—he would have got a bullet, too, eh?'

I had to give him some more toe-leather before he would answer, but when he did it was in some detail. To ensure that no mischance should lead to his being rescued, Carl Gustaf was in a dungeon in the castle, with a handy shaft in its floor that came out somewhere under the Jotunsee. His body would never be found once they popped him down there—which they would certainly do once they heard that my corpse had been delivered back to Strackenz, and the uproar over my identity was going nicely. Well, it looked bad for Carl Gustaf in any event—not that it was any concern of mine, but it helped to fan my righteous indignation, which was powerful enough on my own behalf, I can tell you.

'De Gautet,' says I. 'You're a foul creature—you don't deserve to live another minute—'

'You swore!' He babbled, struggling in his bonds. 'You gave me your solemn promise!'

'So I did,' says I. 'To let you go, wasn't it? Well, I will. Come along, let's have you up.'

I dragged him to his feet, and took my belt from round his ankles. He could hardly stand with the pain of his toes, and I had to support him.

'Now, de Gautet,' says I. 'I'm going to let you go—but where, eh? That's the point, ain't it?'

'What do you mean?' His eyes were staring with fear. 'You promised!'

'So did Bismarck—so did you. You're a dirty creature, de Gautet; I think you need a wash.' I propelled him to the edge of the precipice, and held him for a second. 'I'll let you go, all right, you murderous cur—down there.'

He let out a shriek you could have heard in Munich, and tried to wrench free, but I held him fast and let him look, just to let him know he was really going to die. Then I said: 'Gehen sie weg, de Gautet,' and gave him a push.

For an instant he tottered on the brink, trying to keep his balance, and screaming hoarsely; then he fell out and down, and I watched him turn slowly over in the air, crash onto the jutting rocks half-way down the cliff, and spin outwards, like a rag doll with his legs waving, before he vanished into the spray at the precipice foot.

It was an interesting sight. I'd killed before, of course, although never in what you might call cold blood, but I've never felt anything but satisfaction over the end of de Gautet. He deserved to die, if anyone ever did. He was a heartless, cruel rascal, and I'd have been lucky to come off as easily if things had been the other way round. I'm not justifying myself, either for torturing him or killing him, for I don't need to. Both had to be done—but I'm honest enough to admit I enjoyed doing them. He was a good horseman, though.

However, his death, though first-rate in its way, solved nothing so far as my immediate comfort and safety were concerned. I was still in the very devil of a pickle, I realised, as I gazed round the empty clearing and tried to decide what to do next. It was certain that de Gautet had arranged some means of getting word quickly to Rudi and Co. to say that Flashy was a goner and all was well. How long would it be before they realised something had gone wrong? An hour or two? A day? I must assume it would be sooner rather than later—and then the hunt would be up with a vengeance, with me as the poor little fox. I had to get out of Strackenz at once—but where to?

These thoughts put me into a blue funk, of course, and I paced up and down that summit muttering 'Where? where? Oh, Jesus, how can I get out of this?' Then I steadied up, telling myself that when you've been hounded by Afghans and come safe home, you need hardly take the vapours over a pack of Germans. Which is just rubbish, of course, as I assured myself a second later; one's as beastly dangerous as the other. Still, this was a comparatively civilised country, I spoke the language tolerably, and I'd had enough experience of skulking, surely, to get me out of it. I hadn't a horse, and only a knife for protection—de Gautet's empty pistols were useless—but the first thing was to get down from the Jotun Gipfel, and plot my course as I went.

Before starting out, I burned the incriminating papers they had sewn in my tunic. Then I took to the woods at right angles from the path we had been following, scrambling down over mossy rocks and through thick brushwood; it wasn't easy going, but I was too busy with my thoughts to notice much. One point stuck clear in my mind, and it was the advice given by the late lamented Sergeant Hudson when he and I were on the run from the Afridis on the Jallalabad road: 'When the bastards are after you, go in the direction where they'll never think o' looking for you— even it it's right back in their faces.'

Well, I wasn't going to Strelhow, that was flat. But if I was Bismarck or Rudi, where would I expect Flashy to run? North, for certain, towards the coast, less than a hundred miles away. So that was out of court. Of the other directions, which was the least likely for a fugitive? All were hazardous, since they would take me long journeys through Germany, but south seemed the most dangerous of all. By God, the last place they would expect me to make for was Munich, at the far end of the country, where all the bother had begun.

My legs trembled at the thought, but the more I considered it the better it seemed. They'd never believe I'd risk it, so they wouldn't look thereaway. It was horribly chancy, but I was certain that if Hudson had been with me that was the way he'd have pointed. Let me get a horse—no matter how—and I could be over the Strackenz border by nightfall and galloping south. I'd have to beg, hire, borrow, or steal, changes on the way—well, it wouldn't be the first time. I might even use the railway, if it seemed safe to do so. At any rate I was free, for the moment, and if they could catch old Flashy with the wind up him—well, they were smarter fellows than I thought they were.

I hurried on down the hillside, and found myself after half an hour or so on more level land, where the trees thinned out. There was a wisp of smoke coming from behind a copse, and I stole forward cautiously to have a look-see. There was a little farm-building with great trees behind it, but no one about except a few cows in the field to one side and an old dog drowsing in the yard. It didn't look like the kind of place where the new ducal consort of Strackenz would be known, which suited me-the fewer folk who got a glimpse of me, the less chance Bismarck's bullies had of getting on my track.

I was wondering whether to go forward boldly, or scout round for a horse to pinch, when the farm door opened and an old man in gaiters and a sugar-loaf hat came out. He was a peasant, with a face like a walnut, and when he saw me he brought up short and stood glowering at me, the way country folk do at everyone who hasn't