The Secret Witness by George Gibbs (mobi reader android .txt) 📖

"It shall be as you wish. If you will but come with me——"

Marishka rose, and as she did so, the door with the black grille opened from within, and a girl came into the room. Like the older woman she wore baggy trousers and slippers, but above the waist, typifying the meeting of East and West, a somewhat soiled satin blouse which might have been made either in Paris or Vienna. The face was very pretty, regular of feature and oval in contour, but the effect of its beauty was marred by the hair above it, which was dyed with henna a saffron red. But she wore a flower at her breast, and in spite of her artificialities exhaled the gayety of youth. She smiled very prettily and came forward with a confiding air, giving Marishka her hand.

"I have been waiting for you to wake up," she said in a soft voice. "I have never known anyone to sleep so soundly."

She laughed like a child who is very much pleased with a new toy, and holding Marishka's hand, looked at her curiously from head to foot. There was something very genuine in her interest and kindliness, and Marishka found herself smiling.

"I must have been very tired," she said.

"I am sorry. You are feeling better now?"

"Yes, but very dirty——"

"Come with me. Zubeydeh will bring food."

She led the way through the door of the black grille, down a short passage into a large room at the end of the house. The apartment was strewn with rugs, and its furniture was a curious mixture of the color of the East and the utility of the West—a French dressing stand beside a stove of American make, a Bosnian marriage chest, a table which might have come out of the Ringstrasse, a brass tray for burning charcoal, a carved teakwood stand upon which stood a nargileh, a box of cigars, some cigarettes, and two coffee cups still containing the residue of the last draught. There were latticed windows in meshrebiya, which overlooked the garden and street, and piled beside them were a number of pillows and cushions. The room was none too clean, but there were evidences here and there of desultory attempts at rehabilitation.

The girl with the red hair led Marishka to one of the window recesses, where she bade her sit upon a pile of pillows, bringing a basin and an ewer of water which she put upon the rug beside her.

"Ah, I was forgetting," said the girl, and going to the corner of the room produced with much pride Marishka's suitcase. "His Excellency left it for you this afternoon."

The sight of water and a change of clothing did much to restore Marishka's confidence and self-respect, and she opened the bag with alacrity, bringing forth from its recesses soap, clean linen and a washcloth.

While Marishka ate and drank, the girl with the red hair crouched upon her knees beside the suitcase, sniffed at its contents eagerly, and with little cries of delight touched with her fingers the delicate articles which it contained.

"How pretty! How soft to the touch!" And then rather wistfully, "It is a pity that one cannot get such things in Bosna-Seraj."

"You like them?" asked Marishka, reveling in the delight of being free from the dust of her journey.

"Oh, they are so beautiful!"

For all her years, and she must have been at least as old as Marishka, she had the undeveloped mind of a child.

"You, too, are beautiful," she sighed enviously, "so white, your skin is so clear. Your hair is so soft." And then as an afterthought, "But I think it would look just as pretty if it were red."

Marishka laughed.

"What is your name, my dear?" she asked.

"I am called Yeva—they say after the first woman who was born."

"Eve—of course. It becomes you well."

"You think so. Was she very beautiful?"

"Yes—the mother of all women."

"The ugly ones?"

"Yes. We cannot all be beautiful."

"It must be dreadful to be old and ugly like Zubeydeh."

As Marishka brought out brush and comb and a towel, Yeva ran quickly and procured a mirror—a small cheap affair with tawdry tinsel ornaments.

"You will let me brush your hair, Fräulein. It will be a great privilege."

"Of course, child—if you care to."

And while Yeva combed and brushed, Marishka questioned and she answered. The house in which she lived was near the Sirokac Tor. Her lord and master was of the Begs of Rataj, once the rulers of a province in Bosnia, where his father's fathers had lived, but now shorn of his tithes and a dealer in rugs. He was an old man, yes, but he was good to her, giving her much to eat and drink, and many clothes. She must ask him to get some of these pretty soft undergarments from Vienna. And the Excellency. She had seen him twice, some months before through the dutap, when he had conversed with the Effendi in the adjoining room. And was the beautiful Fräulein in love with the Excellency?

Marishka answered her in some sort, listening to the girl's chatter, meanwhile thinking deeply of the plan that had come into her mind. Scraps of suggestion that she had gleaned from her talks with Goritz gave her at least a hope that she might be successful in reaching Hugh Renwick by messenger. "The English always go to the Europa," he had said. There, if Hugh Renwick had come to Sarajevo, was the place where a note would find him. And so, the hair brushing having been successfully accomplished, she asked the girl if there was someone by whom she could secretly send a note.

A message! To an Excellency—a Herr Hauptmann—or perhaps a General—yes. She was sure that it could be managed. She herself perhaps could take it. Had not the Effendi told her that the Fräulein was to want for nothing? And greatly excited at the thought of intrigue, brought a tabourette which she placed before Marishka, then found paper, ink and envelopes and squatted upon a pillow, watching eagerly over Marishka's shoulder. But the girl's scrutiny troubled Marishka. Was she in the confidence of Captain Goritz? And if not, could she be persuaded to hold her tongue? Instead of writing at once, Marishka relinquished the pen and took Yeva's hand.

"It is very necessary for my peace and happiness that the contents of this note should be only seen by the person to whom it is delivered——"

"Ah, Fräulein, it shall be as you say. By Allah, I swear——"

"Do you care enough? I will give you anything I possess if you will keep my secret."

"Ah!" her eyes were downcast and her tone was pained. "That the Fräulein should not believe in my friendship——"

"But I do believe in it——"

"Still," broke in Yeva smiling craftily, "I should very much like to have something by which to remember the Fräulein—the pink sleeping garment which is so sweetly smelling and soft to the touch."

"It is yours, Yeva. See," and Marishka took it from the valise, "I give it to you."

The girl gurgled delightedly, and crooned and kissed the garment like a child with a new doll. She was for trying it on at once and, thus for the moment relieved of Yeva's scrutiny, Marishka bent over the tabourette, pen in hand. But before she wrote she called Yeva again.

"There is no entrance to this house except by the garden, Yeva?" she asked.

"Oh, yes, to the selamlik, the mabein door and this——"

She walked to the side of the room and thrusting aside a heavy Kis-Kelim, showed Marishka a door cunningly concealed in an angle of the wall.

"That leads—where?" Marishka asked.

"To a small court of the next house."

"And the street below?"

Yeva nodded and renewed the inspection of her new present in the mirror, so Marishka wrote: