simpletons like me and Kralta) so that Starnberg could murder Franz-Josef with Bismarck’s blessing, and start another war—he’d done it before, God knows, twice at least, and wouldn’t have scrupled to do it again if it had suited his book. But it didn’t, you see; he’d built Germany into a European Power, by blood and skulduggery, and had nothing to gain by another explosion. He could rest on his laurels and let nature take its usual disastrous course—as it is doing, if only imbeciles like Asquith would notice. Well, I’m past caring.
At a lesser remove, I couldn’t figure Starnberg’s behaviour in the mine. Why, having done his level damnedest to kill me, had he saved me from going down that awful chasm into the bowels of the earth? ’Cos he’d wanted to put me away with his own steel? To prolong my agony? Or from some mad, quixotic impulse which he mightn’t have understood himself? Search me. Folk like the Starnbergs, father and son, don’t play by ordinary rules. I. only hope there ain’t a grandson loose about the place.
I still wondered, too, why Caprice had cut him down in cold blood, and why she wouldn’t talk of it, even. Vanity would have tempted me to take Hutton’s judgment that she was dead spoony on me and had done him in for that reason, if she had not since handed me my marching orders. (And on the pretext of fidelity to some muffin of a military historian! I still couldn’t get over that. Aye, well, the silly bint would rue her lost opportunities when next Professor Charles-Alain clambered aboard her—in the dark, probably, and wearing a nightcap with a tassel, the daring dog.) My own view, for what it was worth, was that she’d murdered Starnberg because it struck her (being female) as the fitting and tidy thing to do—and gave her the last word, so there. Delzons, her chief, who knew her better than anyone, had a different explanation which he gave me the day before we left Ischl, and you must make of it what you will.
Hutton had gone back to London by then, after assuring me that Government was satisfied; no official approval, of course, but no censure either; my assistance had been noted, and would be recorded in the secret papers. Aye, I’m still waiting for my peerage.
Delzons had stayed on to close the Ischl house as soon as I was fit to take the open air. Paris was no keener on maintaining bolt-holes out of secret funds than London, and the pair of us transferred to the Golden Ship, myself to complete my convalescence and Delzons to enjoy a holiday—or so he said, but I suspect he was keeping an eye on me to see that I didn’t get into mischief. I was glad enough of his company, for he was the best kind of Frog, shrewd and tough as teak, but jolly and with no foolish airs.
It would be late November, when I was healed and feeling barely a twinge, that we walked across the Ischl bridges and up the hill to the royal lodge. The trees were bare, there was a little snow lying, and the river was grey and sullen with icy patches under the banks. The lodge itself was silent under a leaden sky, with only a servant in sight, sweeping leaves and snow from the big porch; it would be months before Franz-Josef returned to add to the collection of heads in that dark panelled chamber where his aides had crawled about, giggling in drink, and I’d had conniptions as I stared at the doctored cartridges.
We circled the place, and Delzons pointed out the spot where he’d lain doggo and Caprice had slipped away to shadow the Holnups. I studied the open ground, dotted with trees and bushes, between where we stood and the lodge, and remarked that a night-stalk would have been ticklish even for my old Apache chums, Quick Killer and Yawner.
'But not for la petite,' smiles Delzons. 'She has no equal. Is it not remarkable, one so delicately feminine, so pretty and vivace, so much a child almost, but of a skill and courage and … and firm purpose beyond any agent I have seen?' He nodded thought-fully. 'We have a word, colonel, that I think has no equivalent in English, which I apply to nothing and no one but her. Formidable.'
'She’s all o' that.' Plainly he was as smitten with her as Hutton had been, but with Delzons it was fond, almost paternal. 'Where did she learn to stalk and … so on?'
'In the Breton woods as a child, with her three elder brothers.' Ile chuckled. 'She was une luronne—a tomboy, no? Oui, un garcon manque. Six years younger than they, but their match in all sport, running, climbing, shooting … oh, and daring! And they were no poules mouillees, no milksops, those three lads. Yet when she was only twelve she was their master with foil and pistol. Some brothers would have been jealous, but Valery and Claude and Jacques were her adoring slaves—ah, they were close, those four!'
'You knew ’em well, then,' says I, as we strolled back.
'Their father was my copain in Crimea, before I joined the intelligence. I was to them as an uncle when they were small, and grew to love them, Caprice above all … well, a lonely bachelor engrossed in his work must have something to love, non?' He paused, musing a moment, then went on. 'But then I was posted abroad for several years, and lost touch with the family until the terrible news reached me that the father and three sons had all fallen in the war of ’70—he was by then chef de brigade, and the three boys had but lately passed through St Cyr. I was desolate, above all for Caprice, so cruelly deprived at a stroke of all those she loved. I wrote to her, of my grief and condolence, assuring her of my support in any way possible. Thus it was, two years later, when I came home to command the European section of the departement secret, that she came to see me—asking for employment. Mon dieu!' He heaved in emotion, and at once became apologetic. 'Oh, forgive me … perhaps I weary you? No? Then het us sit a moment.'
We settled on a bench by the path overlooking the river, and Delzons lit his pipe, gazing down at the distant snow-patched roofs.
'You conceive my amazement, not only to discover that my little gamine had become a lovely young woman, but that she should seek an occupation so unsuitable, mais inconcevable, for one so chaste et modeste. `Why, dear child?' I asked. `I cannot be a soldier like my father and brothers. I shall fight for France in my own way.' That was her reply. As gently as might be, I suggested that there were other ways to serve, that the world of the departement secret was a hard and dangerous one, and … highly unpleasant in ways which she, a convent-reared girl of eighteen, could not conceive. Do you know what she said, colonel? `Uncle Delzons, I have studied the world from the tableaux vivants of the Folies Gaites, and moved among its clientele, who are also hard, dangerous, and unpleasant.' Before I could even express my scan-dal, for I had known nothing of this, she added—oh, so quiet and demure with that laughter in her innocent eyes—`Also I am fluent in languages, and fence and shoot even better these days.' '
Delzons took the pipe from his mouth, looked at it, and stuck it back. 'What could I say? I was shocked, yes—but I saw, too, that beneath the fresh, lovely surface there was a metal that I had never suspected. It is rare, such metal, and essential to the departement secret. And if I had refused her, I knew there were other sections of the departement which would not.' He laughed ruefully. 'The truth was, she was a gift to any chef d’intelligence. And so she proved, in small things at first, as translator, courier, embassy bricoleur—what you call jack-of-all- trades—and later as secret agent in the field … and you know what that means. Yes … she was the best.'
I said he must have been sorry to lose her, and he grimaced. 'She told you? Yes, sorry … but I rejoiced also. For six years I had lost sleep, whenever she went into danger. Oh, seldom enough—our work, as you are aware, brings a moment’s peril in a year of routine—but when that peril comes … No, I am glad she has gone. When I think of the risks she ran—of her facing a man like Starnberg to the death, my heart ceases to beat. If we had lost her … my friend, I should have died. It is true, my heart would have ceased forever then.'
The usual exaggerated Froggy vapouring, but Delzons wasn’t the usual Frog, and I guessed he believed it. I took the opportunity to canvass his opinion.
'Well, you needn’t ha' fretted. He was a capital hand with a sabre, but not in her parish.' I paused deliberately. 'Can’t think I’ve ever seen a neater … execution.'
His head came round sharply. 'Ah! You confirm M. ’Utton’s opinion—which I happen to share. The evidence of Starnberg’s wounds was conclusive. As you say … an execution.' His eyes were steady on mine. 'But in my report, self-defence. As it must always be when an agent kills … in the line of duty.'
That reminded me of something Hutton had said. 'He told me Starnberg wasn’t the first she’d sent down. Were the others self-defence, too?'
He frowned and muttered a nasty word. 'I have a great respect for our colleague ’Utton, but he talks too much.' He sucked at his dead pipe, and continued rapid-fire. 'Yes. She has killed before. Twice. In Egypt, in Turkey. One was a minor diplomat who had found out she was a French agent. The other an informer whose silence was essential. She was not under my control on either occasion. My responsibility is for Europe. She was on detachment to another section. I did not seek details.' Abruptly he got to his feet, his mouth set like a trap. 'Nor have she and I ever mentioned the incidents. Shall we walk on, colonel?'
And this was the girl who had giggled with me over Punch. I fell into step beside him as we walked down to the bridges, his stick fairly cracking at each stride, but there was a grim grin under his heavy moustache.
