The Crown Jewels of Jerusalem

The Crown Jewels of Jerusalem

The Spa at Gross-Kroplets is not one of the fashionable watering places of the Triune Monarchy, else Doctor Eszterhazy would scarcely have been found there. Nor, as he did not practice the curiously fashionable habit of abusing his liver for forty-nine weeks of the year, did he ever feel the need of medicating it with the waters of mineral springs for the remaining three.

It was entirely for the purpose of making a scientific analysis of those waters — or, specifically, those at Gross-Kroplets — which had brought him from his house in Bella, Imperial Capital of Scythia-Pannonia-Transbalkania, to the comparatively small resort high in the Rhiphaean Alps. Two moderately large and three moderately small (five, if one counts the House of the Double-Eagle) hotels served to provide room and board for visitors to the Spa; and although all were privately owned, the Spring itself had been the property of the Royal and Imperial House of Hohenschtupfen since the Capitulations of 1593 and was under the management of the Ministry of the Privy Purse.

Anyone, therefore, not in a condition of gross drunkenness or equally gross nakedness, is free to drink the waters (the waters may actually be drunk free in the original, or Old, Pump Room in what is now the First Floor or Basement, but few except the truly indigent care to avail themselves of the privilege; most visitors preferring to employ the drinking facilities in the First, Second, or Third Class Sections of the New or Grand Pump Room reached from the Terrace where a schedule of fees is in operation); and anyone is, accordingly, free to walk about the pleasantly, if not splendidly, landscaped grounds.

Eszterhazy, therefore, neither said nor did anything when he became aware that someone was not only closely observing him but in effect closely following him. When, of a morning, he walked with his equipment from the small, old-fashioned Inn called The House of the Double-Eagle, someone presently appeared behind his back and and plodded after him. When he set up his equipment next to the basin of rough-worked stone where the Spring welled and bubbled on its way upstairs and down, someone stood outside the doorless chamber and looked in. When he returned with his samples to the Inn, someone followed after him and had vanished before he reached the sprawling old building.

In the afternoons, the whole thing was repeated.

In the evenings, when what passed at Gross-Kroplets for A High Fashionable Occasion was at its most, Eszterhazy stayed in his sitting-room, making entries in his Day-Book, after which he read, first, from some technical work and, next, from some nontechnical one. He was particularly fond of the light novels of an English writer named G. A. Henty, although he more than once complimented the stories of G. de Maupaissant, Dr. A. Techechoff, and H. George Wells.

It was on the morning of the fourth day of his visit, when he was on his knees commencing a check of comparative sedimentation with the aid of a pipette, when someone came to the doorway of the springroom and, after coughing, said, “Are you not Engelbert Eszterhazy, Doctor of Medicine?” Since Eszterhazy felt several simultaneous emotions, none of them amiable, he was for a moment incapable of elegance. — Why, for example, was the cough considered a sound worthy of announcing a supposedly polite address? Why not a gasp, an eructation, a hiccough, or a flatulency? But all he first said was, “You have caused me to contaminate the pippette.”

The questioner paid as much attention to this as he might have to, say, "Brekekeke koax koax.” And, with his eyebrows raised, he merely made an inquiring sound of “Mmm?" which moved his previous question. He was an inordinately ordinary-looking man, with, in a short jacket, baggy trousers, string tie, a mustache which straggled too long on the right side, and pinch-nose spectacles, the look of a drummer for a firm of jobbers in odd lots of oilcloth. A writing-master in a fifth-rate provincial gymnasium. Or, even, the owner by inheritance of two “courts” in one of the proliferating jerry-built suburbs of Bella, whose rents relieved him of the need to be anything much in particular. And, with only another wiggle of the raised eyebrows, this person again repeated his “Mmm?" and this time on a note of higher urgency or pressure.

“Yes, sir, I am Engelbert Eszterhazy, Doctor of Medicine,” the scientist said, irritably. “I am also Engelbert Eszterhazy, Doctor of Jurisprudence; Engelbert Eszterhazy, Doctor of Philosophy; Engelbert Eszterhazy, Doctor of Science; and Engelbert Eszterhazy, Doctor of Literature. And I do not know why any of this should entitle you to burst in upon my quietness and research.”

The other man, as he heard all this, looked all around him, as though inviting spectators (of whom there were none) to witness it; then he said, “I must depart from my invariable incognito to inform you, sir, that I am King of Jerusalem and that you have unfortunately just prevented yourself from the reception of a very important appointment at my court!”

Eszterhazy looked down into the bubbling waters and heaved a silent sigh of self-reproach at himself for allowing himself to be irritated by a noddy. When he looked up, a moment later, prepared to offer a soft and noncommittal

rejoinder, the man had gone.

During the rest of his stay in Gross-Kroplets, he did not see any more of the man; and his single enquiry met with no information at all.

He recollected the incident next, some months later, at the Linguistic Congress, during the middle of an interesting discussion on the Eastern and the Western Aramic, with the Most Reverend Salomon Isaac Tsedek, Grand Rabbi of Bella — who, with his perceptive mind and eye, and observing that a different idea had occurred to Eszterhazy, paused inquiringly. “— Your pardon, Worthy Grand Rabbi. Who is King of Jerusalem?”

“Almighty God, King of Heaven and Earth ... in a theological sense. In a secular sense, I suppose, the Sultan of Turkey.” He did not offend against good manners by adding, “Why do you ask,” as he — as all sensible men and women should — recognized that if a person wished to say why he asked, he would say why he asked. And they returned to their discussion of the construct case, and the genitive.

Some weeks after the Linguistic Congress, Eszterhazy, passing peacefully through the Pearl Market, where he had been pricing some Russko chalcedonies, observed his friend Karrol-Francos Lobats, Commissioner of the Detective Police, deeply engaged in conversation with De Hooft, then President of the Jewelers Association. De Hooft, usually reserved to the point of being phlegmatic, was shaking his head excitedly and even took the Commissioner by the coat lapels. Lobats did notice Eszterhazy, who was going on by, and made as if to disengage himself; after a moment he fell back, as though it had not happened. And Eszterhazy continued on his way.

The visit to the Pearl Market, where gems of all sorts, plus ivory and amber, had been bought, sold, appraised, and bartered for centuries, was a mere brief amusement. Eszterhazy had an overflowing schedule. For one thing, he wished to prepare the final draft of his report on the therapeutic qualities (or otherwise) of medicinal spring water for the Journal of the Iberian Academy of Medicine. For another, he had already begun another study, an enquiry into the practice of clay-eating among the so-called Ten Mountain Tribes of Tsiganes (in which Herrek, his manservant, was of course of invaluable assistance). — Eszterhazy liked to have one enquiry overlapping another, in order to avoid the letdown, the lethargy, which otherwise often accompanied the conclusion of an enquiry.

And, in addition, the end of the Quarterly Court of Criminal Processes was approaching. Eszterhazy wished few men ill; he was by no means a Mallet of Malefactors; but the chance — which the conclusion of every quarter furnished him — of examining from the viewpoint of phrenology the freshly shaven heads of anywhere from fifty-odd to two-hundred or so newly convicted criminals was one which could not be passed up. Indeed, a few of the regular recidivists looked forward to the examination with an enthusiasm which the fact that Eszterhazy always gave each one a chitty payable in chocolate or tobacco at the canteen in the Western Royal and Imperial Penitentiary Fortress could not alone explain.

“See, this noggin o’ mine goes down into history for the third time,” one professional thief announced triumphantly to the guard, after Eszterhazy had completed the reading of his remarkably unlovely head.

“The rest of yous has already gone down into history five or six times on the Bertillion System” the guard said.

“Ahah, yous is just jealous, har har, thanks Purfessor for the baccy chit!” And he swaggered off, prepared to spend three to five years under circumstances which no farmer would provide for his dogs or oxen. However, interventions on the part of Eszterhazy had already worked to the abolishment of the so-called Water Cure punishment and of the infamous Pig Pen.

So the Docket of Doctor Eszterhazy was rather full.

And so he made no much-about the tiny article, almost a filler, in the Evening Gazette of Bella:

The Honorable Police can give no substance to rumors about alleged thefts of certain antique jewelry, it was learned today by Our Correspondents.

And he passed on to the lead-feuilleton of the issue, entitled, by a most curious coincidence, The Romance of Old Jewelry. Liebfrow, the Editor of the Evening Gazette, was in many ways an old nannykins. But not in so many ways that he was unable to get a point across with a delicacy envied by other editors.

Skimming through the article, noticing references to the Iron Crown of the Lombards, the Cyprus Regalia, and the Crown of St. Stephen (the feuilleton seemed somewhat heavy on regalia), Eszterhazy noticed some word which triggered a small mechanism deep in his mind. He had not quite

registered it on the upper level and was about to go over the article, column by column, when his Tsigane Servant, Herrek silently set upon the table a dish of cheese dumplings. And although the master of the premises at Number 33, Turkling Street, could have endured it very well if cheese dumplings were to be abolished by joint resolution of both Houses of the Imperial Diet, he knew that his housekeeper, Frow Widow Or gats, prided herself on her cheese dumplings — indeed, she regarded it as though an article of faith established by the Council of Trent that her master was delirious-fond of her cheese dumplings — speaking of them in high praise to the Faculties of Law and Medicine — and praising their remarkable lightness and sweetness to the Gentry and Nobility: in fact

(Esterhazy knew damned well from experience) she was certainly even now behind the dining-room door, waiting expectantly.

So he performed.

“Ah, Herrek, Herrek!”

“Lord,” said Herrek, a Tsigane of few words.

“Ah, these cheese dumplings of Frow Widow Orgats!”

“Lord.”

“How delightfully sweet, how incredibly light!”

“Lord.” .

“Herrek, be sure and see she gives you some. Let me know, should she overlook doing so.”

“Lord.”

And next Eszterhazy made a series of sounds indicating his being reduced to wordless ecstasy by the mere mastication of the cheese dumplings. And then he felt free to continue the rest of his dinner. Should he overlook having done all this, Frow Widow Or gats, an, after all, truly first-rate Cook and Housekeeper, otherwise would clump down back into her kitchen a prey to Injury and Grudge, slam about the tinned-copper cookpots, and burn the coffee.

And, by the time this Comedy of Manners was completed, Eszterhazy had clean forgotten what it was that he wanted to do about the newspaper piece on the Romance of Jewels. So he set it aside to be boxed for later perusal.

It was over the coffee and the triple-distillation liqueur of plum that the message arrived at the hands of Emmerman the night- porter. The message consisted of some words scribbled over, as it happened, a copy of the same feuilleton.

“What’s this, Emmerman?”

“Someone give it me, Lord Doctor.”

“What someone?”

“Dunno Lord Doctor. He ran off.” Emmerman, bowing, de­parted to take up his post of duty

from Lemkotch, the day-porter.

“Well, Eszterhazy,” said himself to himself, “you train your servants to be brief, you must not complain if they are not prolix.”

See Sludge, said the message, in its entirety. The handwriting tended towards the script favored in the official Avar-language schools of Pannonia, which brought it down to only seven million or so possible people. Still, that was a start of sorts. As for Sludge. The word was an epithet for any of the three and one half to four million Slovatchko-speaking subjects of the Triune Monarchy and for their language. Its use was rather a delicate matter. “Who you shoving, Sludge?” was, for example, grounds for blows. Yet. Yet the same person who violently objected to the word might easily say, “Speak Sludge” — meaning, Talk sense. Or: “What, three beers ‘much to drink?” Who you talking to? You talking to a Sludge!” On reflection, and considering that the message had been scribbled on a newspaper....

There was always a kind of genteel pretense in the office of the Evening Gazette that the premises constituted a sort of extension of the College of Letters. No such notion had ever obtained in the raucous chambers of the Morning Report, where sometimes the spit hit the spittoon, and sometimes it did not, and nobody cared or commented, as long as the details of the interview with the Bereaveds of the latest butcher-shop brawl got set down in full, rich, descriptions. Whereas the Gazette (if it mentioned the distasteful matter at all) might say, The deceased was almost decapitated by the fatal blow. One of his employees was taken into custody: the Report would be giving its readers something to the effect that, Blood was all over the bedroom of the Masterbutcher Helmuth Oberschlager whose head was pretty nearly all chopped off by the frenzied blows supposedly delivered in an enraged lovequarrel over the affections of Frow Masterbutcher Helga Oberschlager, third wife of the elderly Masterbutcher Helmuth Oberschlager. The corpse lay almost upside-down propped against the bloodstained bed and the scant undergarment of Journeyman- butcher, etc.

That was the way they did things at the Report.

As the editor of the Report had been born in the Glagolitic Alps, the very heart-land of the Slovatchko, he was not eligible to become President of the United States. So, instead, he had accomplished something almost as difficult namely, becoming editor of the largest circulation Gothic- language newspaper in the Imperial (and, officially Gothic-speaking) Capital. Where he disarmed all insults in advance by using the nickname of “Sludge” almost to the entire exclusion of his real name.

There would be little point in making references to someone’s illegitimacy if he chose to answer his telephone with, “Bastard speaking, yeah?”

So.

“Hello, Sludge.”

“Hel-lo Hel-lo! Doctor Eszterhazy! What an honor! Clear out of that chair, you illiterate son of a vixen” — this, to his star reporter, who had in fact already stood up and was offering the chair — “and let the learned doctor sit down. “Thank you, Swarts.”

Sludge, a squat, muscular man with a muddy complexion and prominent green eyes, looked at his visitor with keen appraisal. “I suppose you haven’t really come to give us a story to the effect that Spa water is as good for the bowels as an Epsom Salts physic, and no goddamn good whatsoever for consumption, rheumatism liver complaint, kidney-trouble, and all the rest of it, eh?”

Eszterhazy did not ask him how he had put two and two together. They looked at each other with an understanding. “You may perhaps be interested in a forthcoming article in the Journal of the Iberian Academy of Medicine.’’

The editor, who had eagerly picked up a pencil, flung his head to one side, and put the pencil down again. “Oh, why, certainly, I’ll have Our Special Correspondent in Madrid His voice trailed away, the pencil was taken back, a note made. “I would ask what you would advise about it, eh, Doctor?” What the doctor would advise about it was that the Report wait until an abstract had appeared in the French medical journal, which would be excerpted in the British Lancat. After that, an article in a Swiss scientific publication of immense standing was inevitable- And the subject would by then be provided with all sorts of guarantees and precedents, and ready to be sprung upon the population of Bella without risk of Sludge spending perhaps 30 days in jail for, say, Libel of the National Patrimony (to wit, its medicinal Spas).

“Yeah. Yeah.” Sludge scribbled away. “But not me, never, no. Not even thirty days. Not even thirty minutes.”

He arose without a word of warning, and, at the top of his lungs, screamed something absolutely incomprehensible — waited. From somewhere far-off, above the clatter of the typewriting machines, the pounding of the steam-presses, a voice called up words equally obscure. Sludge smiled, sat down. He looked at his caller again. Waiting.

Who was not yet quite ready.

“Why not?” asked Eszterhazy. “You are the Responsible Editor of the Report. What?” Sludge rapidly shook his head. The star reporter smiled. “But .... it says so, on the masthead. ‘L. Methodios Hoz- zenko, Responsible Editor.’ “

Sludge smiled. The star reporter laughed out loud.

“That’s my Uncle Louie,” Sludge said. “The world’s worst loafer, bar none. I am down on the payroll as L. M. Hozzenko, Nephew, Municipal Editor, see? — Trouble comes up, who goes down to the Court House? Uncle Louie. Who goes to jail? Uncle Louie. We bring him cheap cigars and beer in a bucket and sandwiches and hot sausage-and-crout, and he plays cards with the cops .... He don’t care! — And what really brings you here, Doctor E.?”

Eszterhazy said that the Romance of Old Jewels brought him there. The star reporter choked on a snort. Sludge threw his head back and his arms out.

Eszterhazy said, “Details. Details. Details.”

“This won’t get out? All right, excuse me, Doctor, of course you won’t — Not until our morning first edition gets out. After that — ‘Details?’ Well, what is it you don’t know? Obviously you do know that the Crown Jewels of Jerusalem have been stolen, and that —”

A multitude of thoughts rushed headlong through Eszterhazy’s mind. “The Cyprus Regalia!” he exclaimed.

Sludge shrugged, indulgently. “That’s for you educated folks,” he said, without malice. “Us Glagolitski, we never even heard of the Cyprus Regalia. Never even heard of Cyprus! But — the Crown Jewels of Jerusalem? Oh, boy, did we ever hear of them! Say: one day, down at the old little farmstead, Grandpa rushes up, waving his stick, ‘Who let the dogs knock over the barrow of pit-shit, was it you?' ‘Oh, no, Bobbo! It wasn’t me! I swear it, I swear it, by the Crown Jewels of Jerusalem, 1 swear it!’ —See?”

And the star reporter said it was just the same among the Avars. “Suppose two old peasants have agreed on a deal for the rent of the orchards for the next plum-harvest. They join hands and repeat the terms, and then each one says in turn, T swear to keep this word and I swear it by the Holy Cross and the Avenging Angel and the Crown Jewels of Jerusalem ...’ You talk to any of them about Cyprus Regalia, and he’s likely to think he’s being insulted, and to

hit you with his pig-stick.”

Eszterhazy slowly, slowly nodded, looked around the disorderly office. Observed with only a sense of the familiar the photograph of the Presence. Observed with mild surprise the photograph of the American President, A. Lincoln. “Yes ... I could sit here and, without having to send out for research materials, write an entire book to be titled ... say ... The Cyprus Regalia or Crown Jewels of Jerusalem in Law, Legend, and History in the Triune Monarchy... ' ”

Said Sludge: “And also, With Added Details As To Its Theft from the Crypt of Saint Sophie ... Yeah....”

From the article, THE ROMANCE OF OLD JEWELRY, published in the Evening Gazette newspaper, Bella, April 7th, 190-

Among the other items of jewelry pertaining to our beloved Monarchy are those sometimes called The Cyprus Regalia, or the Crown Jewels of Jerusalem. These consist of a crown with pendants, an orb with cross, and a sceptre, which, in turn, bears a miniature orb and cross. Tlje most popular history of these items derives, ultimately,

from the Glagolitic Chronicle, composed for the most part, by the Monk Mazimilianos. According to this document of the later Anti-Turkish Resistance Period, these items form the Crown Jewels of the Christian Kings of Jerusalem during the Crusades. Most modern historians tend not to accept this account. Some, such as Prince Proszt-and-Proszt, concede that the Regalia did form part of the Crown Jewelry of the Lusignan Kings who reigned over Cyprus prior to the rule of Venice — though only a part — and who were indeed crowned in two ceremonies: one, as Kings of Cyprus, and, two, as Kings of Jerusalem. The learned Prince, denies, however, that these same Regalia were ever actually used during the earlier, or Jerusalem period at all. Other modern historical scholars, of whom it may suffice to mention only Dr. Barghardt and Professor Sz. Szneider, do not agree even to this account. The learned Dr. Barghardt goes so far as

to state: “The Turks could not have found them in the vaults of Famagusta when they captured Cyprus, for the very good reason that they (that is, the Jewels) never were in Cyprus at all.” And Prof. Sz. Szneider suggests that the Regalia were probably made for the use of one of the many late medieval Christian princes of the Balkania whose brave defiance of the Turks, alas .…

Eszterhazy sighed, ran his finger further down the column, grunted, stopped the finger in its tracks.

But popular opinion prefers to accept the traditional account that these were indeed the very Crown Jewels of Jerusalem, that they were in very truth captured from Prince Murad in single combat by the great and noble Grand Duke Gustave Hohentschtupfen, direct ancestor of our beloved Monarch. Popular opinion makes a very definite connection between the possession of these Regalia by the Royal and Imperial House, and the

August Titles of our beloved Ruling Family: which, as every school commence with “Holy Roman Emperor of Scythia, Apostolic King of Pannonia, and Truly Christian King of Jerusalem, Joppa, Tripoli and Edessa”, and ....

Popular opinion, to be sure, was taking the whole thing very, very seriously indeed. Already reports were coming in from the wilder regions of Transbalkania that some of the peasantry were claiming that, with the loss of the Holy Crown Jewels of Holy Jerusalem, the Imperial and Royal power had passed, in effect, into abeyance, that Satan was now let loose to wage war upon the Saints, and that it was accordingly no longer necessary to pay the salt tax and the excise on distilled spirits.

All things religious were always touchy in the wilder regions of Transbalkania, but even close to home: in fact, two blocks away, Eszterhazy had heard a drayman shouting to a troika-driver, “Did you hear what them God-damned Turks have done, the dogs?”

“Yes, the dirty dogs,” the troikanik had howled, “they stole back the Holy Jewels, we ought to send our gunboats down the Black Sea and bombard Consta’ until

they give them back, the dogs!”

The drayman had a caveat.

“We haven’t got no gunboats on the Black Sea, Goddamn it!” “Well, we better get some there then, blood of a vixen, the dirty dogs, shove!” And he cracked his whip over the backs of his horses, as though Ali Pasha, Murad the Midget, and Abdul Hamid themselves were all in the traces.

And now a voice called from the staircase, “Berty, art thou there?” Not many people addressed Engelbert Eszterhazy in the thou-form. Even fewer called him “Berty.”

“To thee, Kristy!” he called back.

Visits from his first-cousin once-removed Count Kristian- Kristofr Eszterhazy - Eszterhazy were rare. When he was not acting in his official capacity as Imperial Equerry, the Count preferred, in his purely personal capacities, to visit places much more amusing than the house at 33, Turkling Street. No merely familial duty nor memories of boyhoods spent much together had brought him here now, his moustache unwaxed, his figure for once unassisted by the usual corset, and smelling rather strongly of cognac, cologne, and extreme agitation. Without pause or further greetings, he made rapidly for the champagne bucket in the corner and, with a hand which trembled slightly, poured himself a drink from the bottle, tossed half of it off, and —

“No,” said Dr. Eszterhaxy, “it is not champagne. It is a mixture of geneva with an Italian wine which has been steeped in a profusion of herbs. Courtesy of the American Minister. He calls it a ‘martini,’ I don’t know why.”

Count Kristy downed the other half, sighed. “Listen, Berty, up, up, and into the saddle. Bobbo has gone round the bend.”

It was one His Royal and Imperial Highness’s amiable little habits, and which much endeared him to his Slovatchko subjects, that he liked to refer to himself in the third person ... at certain times .... by the term which meant, varying slightly in the Glagolitic dialects, Grandfather, Godfather, Foreman, Headman, Father-in-law, or — somewhat mysteriously — a boar with either three tusks. Or three testicles. “What!” he would exclaim, to a delegation from the Hither-Provinces. “What! No rain this year? What! Crops bad? What! Want your land-rates reduced? Ah, my children, you did right to come to Bobbo! Bobbo will take care of it! Pray for Bobbo! Bobbo is your Friend!” And so the Dissolution of the Triune Monarchy would be postponed for another five years. At times the intelligentsia and the underground felt certain that Ignats Louis was a stupid old fool. At other times, they were not so sure.

“What? Like poor old Mazzy?”

“Well ... not quite so bad as that. Doesn’t ride his white horse up and down the stairs hunting for Bonaparte. What he does do: he blubbers, flops on his knees every other minute and prays, shouts, storms, curses, weeps, smacks his riding-crop on his desk, and — It’s these damned Cyprus Regalia things. (Wouldn’t be surprised if they aren’t actually glass, myself.) Poor old Bobbo, he has the notion that until and unless the Holy Jewels are found, his Crowns, his real crowns, I mean, are in peril.”

Eszterhazy, whose devotion to the Person of the Imperial Presence was based upon a deep-seated preference for King Log over King (or President, or Comrade) Stork, winced, shook his head.

“This is not quite reasonable,” he said.

“When you are eighty-one years old, and an Emperor,” Count Kirsty pointed out, “you don’t have to be quite reasonable. The Old Un is really in a state, I tell you! Won’t review the Household Troops. Won’t read the Budget. Won’t sign the Appointments or the Decrees. Won’t listen to Madame play the harpsichord—”

“Oh! Oh!” If Ignats Louis would not listen to the twice-daily harpsichord performance by Madame de Moulifre, whose position. . , as maitresse en titre had,

presumably, for many years been so purely titular indeed that it rested chiefly on the remembrance of things past and on the twice-daily performance upon the harpsichord — then, then, things were very bad indeed.

“Weeps, prays, storms, stamps,” Count Kristy recapitulated. “Reminds everyone that it is still part of the Imperial Prerogative to flay his servants up to and including the rank of Minister — Well. And, speaking of which. The Prime —

“The Prime Minister has ordered extra guards around the Turkish Legation, yes. What else?”

“Aunt Tillie asked me to mention that she is also very disturbed.”

The Grandduchess Matilda was the wife of the Heir. And where was the Heir? “Where would he be? If he isn’t murdering grouse, stags, and boars, he’s on maneouvres. Right now — fortunately! — he is on maneouvres just about as far away as he can be, in Little Byzantia, with no posts, no telegraphs, and the heliograph limited to matters purely military.”

Little Byzantia was, in fact, one

of the kernels in the nut. Little Byzantia was, nominally, still a pashalik, although the Triune Monarchy had administered it for forty-two years. During all that time, its eventual annexation to the Triple Crowns had been anticipated. And now, though very sub rosa, final negotiations with the Sublime Porte were underway. The Sublime Porte did not very much care at all. The Byzantian underground nationalists cared very much. Negotiations were very delicate. Anti-Turkish riots were not desired. Or — and this was another kernel in the nut — they were not desired now. The nut, of course, had many kernels. The temper of the Heir, always largely under control when at home and surrounded by ceremony, tended to become less and less under control the farther away from home it got.

There was a very possible and very undesirable order of progression. It went like this: First, Anti-Turkish riots in Bella ... or, for that matter, in Transbalkania, where a minority of several score thousand Turks still slept away their days over their hookahs and their prayer beads. Following such riots: A Reaction, any kind of a Reaction, on the part of Turkey. Following that, and assuming the Heir to find out (and find out he must, sooner or later), precipitate action on the part of the Heir. Following that: A stroke, a heart attack, or any of the other disasters lying in wait for an exited old man of eight-one. And, following that—

The Heir had many lovable qualities. One loved the Heir. One wished him many more long years ... As Heir.

Slowly, Eszterhazy said, “In fact, Kristy, I am working on it now. But I will need time. And I will need help.”

Count Eszterhazy-Eszterhazy said, “I can’t do a damned thing about Time. But as for help, well—” he fished something out his Equerry’s Pouch. “Bobbo ordered me to give you ... this.”

“Jesus Christ!"

“This” was a piece of parchment, deeply imprinted with the Triple Crowns at the top. In the middle, a hand (and Doctor Eszterhazy well knew Whose) had scrawled the one word ASSIST. Underneath ASSIST, The same Hand had drawn the initials:

IL

IR

And, at the bottom (more or less), in wax, the Seal Imperial. And, in each corner, was another initial, forming together the 1NRI.

“I’ve never even held one in my hand before!”

The Count said, somewhat gloomily. “Neither has anyone else now alive, hardly. — One more glass of that American wine—St. Martin’s, you call it? —then I must go”

The old King-Emperor’s mind had, under stress and woe, evidently (at least in this one matter) gone back clear sixty-five years, when the Provo (as it was commonly called) had last been used: and that was to harry the horse-thieves of the Lower Ister. (Quite successfully, as a matter of fact.) Usually worn out in the course of their commissions, only a few survived to be seen even in museums. But everyone had seen pictures of them, in newspapers, magazines, even almanacs. Theater bills and posters. They were a staple feature of the popular melodrama.

“Baron Blugrotz, will nothing stay you from your mad determination to throw me and my aged wife out of our cottage into the snow because we will not allow you to take our promised-in-marriage- daughter into your castle?”

“Nothing [with a sneer]! Nothing, nothing, will stay me!”

A commotion, the door is flung open.

“This will stay you!” The This being, of course, the Provo which the hero holds up in his hand. —At which the evil baron and all his henchfellow’s fall upon their knees and bare their heads and cross themselves they will be merely hanged and not flayed or impaled, and the audience jumps to its feet and shouts and stamps and claps.

Perhaps the aged mind of Ignats Louis had buckled under the strain. Thinking that this relic of the Middle Ages and the Early turkish Wars was appropriate in the era of the telephone, telegraph, and police force. However. Ignats Louis [I L] had, indeed, issued it. He was, indeed, Imperator and Rex [I R]. And it took not much to see clearly the association in his ancient and pious mind between the supposed Crown Jewels of Jerusalem and the Eszterhazy letters, traditionally placed around the corners of the parchment, initials of the words Iesus Nazarenus, RexIudaeorum....

“Well,” said Doctor Eszterhazy, crisply, “it is not for me to bandy words with my Sovereign. He issues, I accept. — Make His Imperial Majesty an appropriate reply.”

“And what,” asked Count Kristy, putting his uniform cap back on and, with a rather wary shrug, preparing to depart, “what is ‘an appropriate reply’?”

“Tell him,” said Doctor Eszterhazy, “tell him I said, ‘Adsum....’”

“Lemkotch, I am not at home to anyone.”

He had known now for some time that the key word in the Gazette article, and the one which tripped the flare in his mind — he had known now for some time that the word was Jerusalem.

"Are you not Engelbert Eszterhazy, Doctor of Medicine?"

"I must depart from my invariable incognito to inform you, sir, that I am King of Jerusalem...."

Over and over again, head resting in his hands, in the silence and solitude of his study, he went over the odd scene in the old spring-room at the mountain spa. Was there, now that he deliberately tried to think that there might be, was there something else in his memory, besides that single scene, connecting himself with the man behind that totally unmemorable face? Or was this delusion?

After a while he sat up, took a pad and drawing-pencil, and, as best he could, made a sketch of the man as he remembered him. The clothing, he somehow felt, the clothing was nothing. The face — He discarded the first drawing and sketched, and larger, the face alone. With the pinch-nose eye-glasses. And the absurd moustache, trimmed shorter on one side. And the hair .... The hair, now .... Well, the man had worn a hat, a hat like millions. Take off the hat, then, and draw the face without it.

Did he part his hair in the middle? Perhaps. Trim it close, like a Prussian officer? Unlikely. Or was he, perhaps, bald? On the whole, and although he could not say why he thought so, Eszterhazy rather thought that the man was bald. He finished the sketch. And stared. Still nothing. Or, rather .... something....

Take off the eyeglasses.

Take off the moustache, too.

After another while, he got up and, fixing the latest sketch to a drawing-board, set this one up on an easel. Tumed the gas-lights down very low.'Turned the shade of the electric-lamp so that it acted as a spot-light. Sat back in his chair. Allowed all the rest of the world to fall away ... except for The Face....

Had he seen it before?

He had seen it before.

Question and answer.

Where had he seen it before?

Question — but no answer.

The stillness grew. There seemed no one passing in the street. There seemed no carriages in the city. The Cathedral bells did not ring. The last voice in the world spoke, many, many blocks away. Then all fell silent.

But, if the sense of sound vanished, other senses remained. There was a smell, and a rather bad smell it was. He could not exactly say what the smell was. Familiar, though. Damnably familiar. That face. Face. Where had he seen —

Without even being able to recall the steps in between, Eszterhazy was in the kitchen. His housekeeper stared at him, her mouth all agape and askew.

“What did you say?” he was asking her, urgently, urgently.

“Why, High-born—”

“What did you say, what did you say —” He forced himself to speak in a softer voice. “Good- woman, now, do not be afraid. But it is very important. What did you say, a while back, you said something about ...” He strained memory; memory submitted, yielded up. “— something about needing something. You said,” he clenched his fists behind his back in the face of her massive incomprehension, the two moles near her mouth, one with a hair in it, never longer, never shorter —

“You said, ‘We need to get some more —’ Now. Goodwoman. You need to get some more of what?”

But still she stood frozen. A figure bobbed behind her. A figure in a greasy apron. Probably the scullery maid. “If you please, Frow Widow Orgats,” the kitchenwoman murmured, “you had been saying, a minute or so back, how we was needing to get more disinfectant. For the, please pardon for the servants’ privy. In the yard.”

Something was out of the ordinary at the Western Imperial Penitentiary Fortress, where his card was always sufficient to bring Smits, the Sub-Governor, bowing respectfully, and saluting, as well, when he had done bowing. Smits was a career screw, up through the ranks of the Administration of Guards. It was, of course, the Governor, Baron von Grubhorn, who interviewed journalists and discussed with them the theories of Lombroso on The Criminal Type. It was the Govenor of the prison who made the weekly address to the prisoners, as they stood in chains, exhorting them on their duties as Christians and loyal subjects of the Triune Monarchy. But it was the Sub-Governor who checked the bread ration, saw to the cell assignments, and even tasted the prison stew — or, as it was unaffectionately called, ‘the scum’ — and, had the Sub-Governor not done so, the bread ration would have diminished, more murders been committed in the cells, and the stew been even scummier.

Now, however, the Sub-Governor was neither bowing nor saluting. He stood in the mud at the entrance to the Fortress, directing the emplacement of what seemed to be a Gatling gun. All about him were guards with rifles at the ready; they poured in and out of the entrance, moiling like atits. Eszterhazy stopped the steam runabout (whose bronze hand-bell no one here had seemed to have heard) about two hundred feet away, proceded on foot.

“What’s wrong, Smits?”

The look Smits flung him was bleak as a rock. “Can’t come here now. Away with you!” He peered, recognized the approaching visitor. “Can’t come here now, Doctor! Governor’s orders! The prisoners are about to riot, Sir, they think their bread ration is about to be reduced — a damned lie, but try to tell them that — Back, Sir! I says, Away with you! Don’t you hear — ” He gestured, said some words in a lower voice. Two captains and a number of ordinary guards began to trot forward, holding the rifles at the oblique, to bar his way.

He reached into his pocket and thrust holding his forearm up at the traditional forty-five degree angle, thrust out the Provo.

Sub-Governor, Captains, and guards alike, sweeping off their caps, fell on their knees in the mud; the Sub-Governor, who alone was unencumbered with a rifle, crossing himself repeatedly.

The Governor himself stood on the inner parapet, shouting at the prisoners below. All along the platform were guards, rifles pointing down into the yard. But no one could hear a word the

Baron was saying over the noise of the shouting and the ringing chains of the convicts. He turned his head, as Eszterhazy approached, and his mouth fell silent. That is, presumably it fell silent. At any rate, his mouth ceased to move. Eszterhazy stepped next to him and held up the Provo.

With one great and simultaneous crash of chains, the convicts fell on their knees.

A ringing, echoing silence followed.

“I have received this from the Emperor,” Eszterhazy said. “I bring you assurance that the bread ration is not to be reduced.”

They did not, after all, give three cheers for the Emperor. Perhaps it was shock. One man, however, in a loud, hoarse voice, half growl, half-shout: "Good old Bobbo/”

“No punitive measures will be taken .... this time .... but you are to return to your cells, at once!” The words were Eszterhazy’s. The Governor, speechless, gestured to the Sub-Governor. The Sub-Governor barked an order. All the rifles went цр — straight up. And stayed so. Down in the yard, someone (a trusty, by his red patch) cried, “Hump, tump, thrump. Jump!” The convicts fell into ranks, turned about, and, line by line, in lock-step, began to file out of the yard.

C/asA-clash-clash-clash.

C/asA-clash-clash-clash ....

The riot was over. This time.

The Sub-Governor gave a long look at the sketch which Eszterhazy showed him. (The Gbv-ernor was drinking brandy and looking at nothing.)

“Why, yes, Sir Doctor,” said Sub-Governor Smits. “Yes, I do remember him. You says to me, ‘This one’s got a bad lung, so keep him out of the damp if you possibly can.’ Which I done, Sir Doctor, which I done, inasmuch as we of the Administration of Guards are human beings after all, and not aminals like some would have it said.” Even up here, in the middle story of the old tower, far above the cell-blocks, the smell of sweat and urine and of disinfectant seemed very strong. “Consequently is why he left here alive and in better health than he come in.”

Eszterhazy stared. “It has been a fatiguing week, Sub-Governor. A fatiguing week.” On the mottled wall, Ignats Louis, bifurcated beard and all, looked down, benignly. “Assist my memory, please. When did I say this?”

Smits raised a rough, red hand to his rough, red chin. “Why .... Strange that I should remember, Sir — his face, not his name — and you not, with your great mind. But, then, I never was one much for writing and for reading. But I could remember by sight, as a boy, every beast in our township. — Well. When. Why, when you examine his noggin, Sir. Excuse me, Sir Doctor, we are rough men here. — When you give the first of them free no-logical examinations. Is when.”

And so, after much digging up of old records and after much checking and cross-checking of the prison files, it was found.

Number 8727-6. Gogor, Teodro. Age, 25.

Offense, Forgery, 2nd class. State, Confused. Remarks, Perhaps Dement. Prae.

And so on. And so on. And so on.

“Well, well ... I am much obliged. And now I must get back to Bella, and to think about this.”

The Sub-Governor rose along with him, said, casually, “And so you think, Sir Doctor, that this old lag, Gogor, he might be the one that’s tookenthe Holy Jewels?”

Eszterhazy once again looked at his Sovereign’s face. After a moment, he turned back to Smits. “Why do you think that?”

Smits shrugged, began to hold up Eszterhazy’s overcoat for him. “Well, I dunno for sure, of course. But they were cracked from old St. Sophie’s Crypt, it’s been in all the papers. They say, the papers, that it was,an amateurish job. Which it succeeded because the crib they were in, it was so old, the mortar was crumbly, and so on. “Amateurish,’ but the same time they say, ‘Professional tools may have been employed,’ Yes.”

Eszterhazy buttoned his coat. “Thank you, Smits. Yes — and so?”

“Well, Sir Doctor. It come into my mind as we were talking, this Gogor, he was in old cell 36-E-2. And who was in there with him? Szemowits, another fancy-writer (forger, that is). A chap I can’t recall his name, up for Rape, Second. And Old Bleiweisz. Do you recollect Old Bleiweisz? Well, he was a cracksman. One of the best, they tell me. Anyways, he said he was. Always talking about How To Do it, and how he Done It. And so, well, just perhaps, now the thought came to me, maybe that is how this Gogor — if it was him — how he got the idea of how to do it. You see....”

Eszterhazy, nodding, buttoned his gloves. “I see. An interesting thought. Would it be possible to speak to this Bleiweisz?”

But the Sub-Governor said it would not be possible. “He’s drawn the Big Pardon, as the lags say. He’s under the flagstone now. What was it, now, as done for him? Ah, yes.”

He opened the door, gestured Eszterhazy to pass ahead of him.

“It was lungs, that was it. Dunno why. He was healthy when he come in.”

Lobats did not seem to have gotten enough sleep, lately. He looked at the paper Eszterhazy had given him, blinked, shook his head. “What is this? Something about somebody sent up for a Forgery, Second, seven years ago? — Better take this downstairs to records, Doctor. I’ve got something, well, a lot bigger to worry about.”

Eszterhazy said that he was sure of (hat ... that he had suspected as much ever since he had seen Commissioner of the Detective Police Karrol-Francos Lobats so deep in conversation in the Pearl Market. Conversation with Jewellers’ Association President De Hooft. So deep that Lobats had not even time for a word with his old aquaintance and so-often companion, Dr. Engelbert Eszterhazy ....

Was it unfair for him to be rubbing it in like this? Maybe. Maybe not. Eszterhazy did not want it thought that he, and everything that his immense knowledge and capacity had to offer, could be regarded as the toy of an idle moment, to be picked up, and to be set aside or ignored when someone else might want to ....

“This Forgery, Second, fellow may be the fellow you are so worried about. We will both need all the information on him you can find ... in Records ... or out of Records. Do you take my word for it? Or shall I show, shall we say, Authority?” He had begun to have a superstitious notion that he ought to be chary about displaying the Provo, lest overexposure might ... somehow ... dissipate its power.

Lobats said, heavily, “I take your word for just about anything. But I am not worried about a forger. I’m worried about —”

“A jewel theft. Yes.”

For all his heaviness, Lobats got up quickly from his chair. “Well, it has been known for crooks to change styles. I sure hope you are right.”

Records, however, had only records. Old records. Seven years old.

If Gogor, Teodro, had committed any more recent offenses against his Royal and Imperial Majesty, His Realm, His Crown and Staff, he had not been apprehended for the crime.

Those other and perhaps equally important sources of information upon which the police of the world’s great cities (and, perhaps, their small ones, too) depend — to wit: informers — had nothing to say upon the subject,

either. His former employers, against whom the fogery had been committed (and, interestingly enough, they did deal in job-lots of oil-cloth), had heard nothing of him since. And wanted to hear nothing of him now. His family, consisting of an exceedingly respectable brother and sister in the provincial city of Praz (and no city is more respectable than Praz), knew nothing of his present or recent or post-prison career, either. They did offer the suggestion that he might have gone to America. Or to Australia.

“He was in Gross-Kroplets this same year,” Eszterhazy insisted. “Well. You keep onto that. I have some loose ends of my own which I must try to tie together. I shall see you tomorrow.”

On the third fldor of the house at 33, Turkling Street, Herra Hugo von Sltski was (after Dr. Eszterhazy himself) supreme. Here was Dr. Eszterhazy’s Library. And Herra von Sltski was Dr. Eszterhazy’s Librarian. This scholar had a bad complexion, a bad breath, and a worse temper; but he was familiar with all the languages and dialects of the Triune Monarchy — plus French, English, Latin, Greek, and Sanksrit — he was absolutely indefatigable. His employer had only to send him, via the pneumatic tube, a message to this effect: Gogor, Teo, in the

Criminal Phrenological Examinations, First Series: for the envelope to reach him, via the same tube, in less than five minutes.

He opened it and drew out the yellow-paper chart. Down the left-hand margin were listed the Proclivities, Propensities, and Faculties. Across the top were the ratings, ranging from Overdeveloped through Underdeveloped to Absent, with graduations between. At the bottom, in a series of small boxes, were the cranial measurements, taken by Eszterhazy himself, with calipers and other instruments (one of them, of his own invention). But he was not foremostly interested jn the measurements, a glance at them showing that Gogor had an average head as far as size and shape went. It had been his intention, after taking the readings of each quarter, to assess each one, and to make a Summary on the inner leaf of the chart. However, that year — the year he had first taken such readings of a large number of criminals — that year had also been an Epidemic Year. He had not had time to make the assessments. He had made them each quarter-year afterwards. Somehow, he had never gone back to the First Series.

Ah, well. So, then, now to it.

PHRENOLOGICAL ASSESS-

MENT OF TEODRO GOGOR, AGED 25, NATIONAL SUBJECT. The Region of the lower Back of the Head: SOCIAL PROCLIVITIES. Amativeness: Very large. Conjugality: Underdeveloped.

Philoprogenitiveness: Absent. Adhesiveness: Deficient. Inhabitive- ness: Oddly developed. Continuity: Overdeveloped.

The Regions behind and above the Ears: SELFISH PROPENSITIES. Vitativeness: Average Combativeness: Uncertain. Destructiveness: Weak. Alimentiveness: Deficient. Acquisitiveness: Strongly but oddly developed. Cuatiousness: Deficient.

The regions approaching and reaching the Crown of the head: THE ASPIRING FACULTIES, or LOWER SENTIMENTS. Appro- bativeness: strongly developed.

Self-esteem: Overdeveloped. Firmness: Overdeveloped.

The Coronal Region: THE MORAL SENTIMENTS: Conscientiousness: Deficient. Hope: Excessive development. Sprduality: Excessive. Veneration: Excessive. Benevolence: Deficient.

The Region of the Temples: THE SEMI-INTELLECTUAL or PERFECTIVE FACULTIES. Constructiveness: Slightly underdeveloped. Ideality: Strong. Sublimity: Overdeveloped. Imitation: Overdeveloped. Mirthfulness: Absent.

The Region of the Upper Forehead: THE REASONING FACULTIES. Causalty: Excessive. Comparison: Weak. Human Nature: Deficient. Agreeableness: Average.

The Region of the Center of the Forehead. THE LITERARY FACULTIES. Eventuality: Well- developed. Time: Average. Tune: Defective. Language: Average.

The Region of the Brows: THE PERCEPTIVE FACULTIES. Individuality: Slightly underdeveloped. Form: Average. Size: Average. Color: Average. Order: Developed. Calculation: Odd. Locality: Average.

Eszterhazy considered a segar, decided to let the plesure await him at the end of his task. But he did allow himself the pleasure of addressing an observation to himself. “I foresee,” he said aloud, “that great possibility, amounting almost to probability, that phrenology must give way to newer and younger sciences, which even now stand waiting at the door to accept, and without acknowledgement, the hard-won discoveries of their elder sister. The intangible aspects, the immaterial ones, will be taken over by psychology. The material and tangible ones, by physical anthropology. Calculations based upon the cephalic index and other cranial measurements have already taught us much about primitive man and will try to teach us even more about his modern descendants.” He bent to his work, then, lifting his head once more, said, slowly, “And it may be that these younger sisters of the sciences will find others, younger yet, waiting to suplantthem ....”

Long he pondered over the yellow-paper chart, and much he pondered. Overhead, in the great gasoliers wrought in red bronze in the shapes of mermaids with naked bosoms, the gas flames (each one cupped in the hands of one mermaid) cast their golden light all about.

One man may look at a mountain and see only rock. Most men, looking at a mountain, would see only rock. That one man in hundreds of thousands, trained in observation by geology, looking at the self-same mountain, will see half-a-hundred different kinds of rock, will see indications of ores buried in mine and matrix deep below the surface (though not that deep as to be beyond delving and discovering), will know what ancient writhings of the earth — ancient-most of mothers — sent which stratum buckling up, or down, and which stratum lying level as a rule-yard.

So it was in this case of Teodro Gogor.

And Eszterhazy, having been the first man, now proceeded to be the other.

The faculty of Location was merely averagely developed. The fugitive (if such were the proper term) was thus not greatly attached to his native place, which now knew him not. He might indeed have gone to Australia (or to America), but nothing in his innate nature compelled him to be a rolling- stone. The faculties of Form, Size, Weight, and Color were also average. His sense of Order was developed, naturally, or he could neither have planned nor carried out the audacious theft, however ‘amateurishly.’ His faculty of Calculation, now. It had been marked “odd.” His was no common covetousness, obviously; no desire for mere gold coin had moved him. He had been able to calculate how to commit the crime and how to — for the present, anyway — get away with it. Individuality, slightly underdeveloped. That fit. He had a conception of himself as an individual — but as the wrong individual. For, whoever might (or might not) be the true King of Jerusalem, it was surely not he.

Dovetailing with this was the fact that both Approbativeness, comprising “the desire for fame and acclaim,” and Self-esteem, were both overdeveloped: indeed, excessively so. And so was Firmness. No collywhobbler could have set out to steal a national treasure ... and done so. He was deficient in the quality of Conscientiousness, but in that of Hope, he had far too much. When the faculty of spirituality is excessive, as here, there is an inevitable tendency towards the fanatic.

All true, all — now — obvious. And all, so far, just so-much locking the stable-door after the horse was gone. What did it avail, here and now, to realize that Gogor’s sentiment of veneration was excessive? He might indeed be venerating the antique treasures. The point now was , where?

“Deficient in Benevolence.’” Very well, he would not fence the jewels in order to give the money to the poor. Indeed!

"Sublimity excessive, tending towards exaggeration.” Obviously. “Imitation, overdeveloped.” As true as anything could be true. Mirthfulness, entirely absent. Hmmm. No use to look for him enjoying a comedy turn in a music hall, then.

Well. Now for the Reasoning Faculties.

Excessive in Causalty: his

talents lay more towards the theoretical. He had little analytical ability, for his faculty of Comparison was weak. Deficient in Human Nature, he would have no discrimination — Eszterhazy sighed, shifted in his seat. So far, all of this seemed theoretical. “Merely average in the qualities of Time and Lanugage, deficient in that of Tune.” So no use expecting to find him at a concert, either. And surely a mere yawn and a nod of the head to see that, owing to a well-developed faculty of Eventuality, he, Gogor, would probably possess a great interest in history.

“Deficient in Cautiousness.” This might be to the good. He might very well tip his hand. “Acquisitiveness strongly but oddly developed.” This was but a double-confirmation of what had been disclosed in connection with Calculation. “Alimentiveness deficient,” eh. Merely eats to live. Not likely to haunt the better restaurants, nor send out for caviare, goose-liver, or champagne. Likely to drink little alcohol, or none. “Combativeness uncertain.” Would he fight for his “cause”? — or not? In the propensity towards “Destructiveness, very weak.” This was somewhat favorable, it seemed to add up to “Not Dangerous.”

And in Vitativeness, Gogor was merely average. He had had a bad lung, but he had recovered from it. Mm, well, so, nothing here, no point in posting watches before the apothecaries’.

And thus, so much for the Selfish Propensities. Now for the Social ones. And now for a quick prayer that Something, at least .Something, would turn up which would be of help —

“Continuity, overdeveloped.” Again: an indication of a possible fanatical devotion to some one thing. Inhabitiveness, or attachment to a place or cause, oddly developed. In other words — now we have all the other evidence — a tendency to form strong attachment to an odd cause. Bully. How often to plow this same furrow.

And now, oh God, only four left!

Adhesiveness (that is, friendship or affection) deficient.

Philoprogenitiveness, absent.

Conjugality, undeveloped.

Amativeness, very large.

And there it was. There it all was. And he might almost as well have skipped all the rest of it.

Eszterhazy clapped his hands in pleasure.

If one rules out Conjugality and Philoprogenitiveness, one rules out desire for home, wife, children. If even Adhesiveness is ruled out, a mistress is also ruled out. And so, what is left? Amativeness is left. In fact: “Amativeness is very large. ” Here we have a man with strong sexual passions, who has neither wife nor mistress. And so —

“Lord.”

Eszterhazy, slightly startled, looked up. “Ah, Herrek, what —? Ah, yes, I clapped, didn’t I. Ah ... no ... I had not meant — Wait! Herrek—”

“Lord.”

Eszterhazy thought for a moment. Then, “Herrek. In the lumber-room. The old pig-skin travelling-bag. The one with the- Paris stickers on it. Bring it, please. But, first — take the stickers off....”

“Lord.”

As the evening express from Praz was drawing into the Great Central Terminal, a man dressed in the height of the fashions of fifteen years earlier, and carrying a pig-skin travelling-bag of even earlier style, went up the side-steps to the central platform. He walked slowly across, mingling with the crowds getting off the express, and went down the main steps and out the main gates —

— and drew back, nervously, from what wits called “the artillery attack.”

"Fiacre, sir?Fiacre?"

"High-born Sir! This way! This way!"

“Fiacre, High-born Sir! Anywhere for a half-a-ducat!”

It seemed that half of the hackney-coaches in Bella had assembled in the wide street outside the station. And as though, now, half of their drivers had flung down their leathers and, leaping to the pavement, were intent on. rushing the newly arrived passengers into their hacks by main force and what was called “grabbage.” And now see a tall and stalwart figure, an ex-hussar by the height and carriage of him, and resplendent in the uniform of a railroad terminal commissionaire, approach the newly arrived provincial. “All right, Sir. Just please to tell me where it is as you’d like to go, and I’ll take care of everything.” And he seems to interpose himself between the newcomer and the mob of coachmen, who, seeing this, go bawling off and howling for other custom. Of which, after all, there seems no lack.

“Uh, I want, uh, I want to go, uh, to go, uh,” and he gropes in his pockets for an address which is not there. Of course not. It never is when wanted. The commissionaire looks at this familiar scene indulgently. And he glances, with the barest trace of a smile, hid before it begins to show, almost, at the faded dandy.

“Did you want to go to a hotel, Sir? I’m afraid one hears that the Grand Beatrix is full-up just now.”

Oh, what a relief for the visitor! Not to have to explain that he does not really want the famous (and justly so) Hotel Grand Beatrix, which would bankrupt him one day: besides being, really, much, much, much too, well, grand. And yet, how flattering to hear that he is obviously thought to be a Grand Beatrix type! “There is the Austerlitz and the Vienna, of course, Sir. Nice quiet places.” The commissionaire knows full well that the visitor does not w-ant a nice quiet place. “And there’s the Hotel de France, very reasonable rates, the gentry tells me, Sir. Of course,” here he gives a very slightly roguish look, “of course, some say it’s rather a bit too gay and fast there. But I daresay that the gentleman might not find it so.”

Hotel de France! Gay and fast! Almost before he knows it, the commissionaire’s whistle has blown, and there the gentleman is, and his luggage, too, luggage with not a single sticker to mar or mark its sturdy old sides, in a fiacre, and rattling over the stonepaved streets. But not rattling so very loudly. The stone paving-blocks are such smooth stone paving- blocks — quite unlike the streets of Praz, where ghastly primordial cobble-stones, shaped like eggs, constitute the paving of the central plaza and adjacent streets; and everywhere else the natural ..soil and earth allow the streets to be as dusty, or muddy, as it pleases the Good Lord to ordain.

The sides of the Hotel de France are painted with enormous letters, three stories in height, which inform the world that "Every room is furnished with the gas-light. ”

“A room for Monsieur? But certainly! Delighted!” The clerk slaps his hand on the desk-bell. "Garcon! Take Monsieur's bags up to Room 30-D!”

Monsieur! And garcon!

Sure enough, 30-D, at least, is furnished with gas-light. Sure enough, they rode up in a hydraulic elevator, started and stopped (and, for all the visitor knows to the contrary, Praz not even having a grain-elevator, propelled) by a cable running through the center from floor to roof.

And, in an alcove in the hallway, only a few doors from 30-D, there is even running water, should one’s pitcher run dry!

The French know how to live.

Lobats, meanwhile, had started at the bottom. Not, to be sure, at the very bottom. He did not bother with the two-penny drabs, poor wretched things, who plied their trade under the land arches of the Italian Bridge or in the doorways of the alleys round the Rag

Market. He had engravings made of a series of sketches by Eszterhazy, and he was now out directing their distribution — not in broadside quantities or by broadside methods; he did not want them on lamp-posts; it was not intended to take such fairly desperate methods ... yet. He was having them distributed where he thought they might do the most good.

In a dirty coffee-house by the Old Fish Wharf, for instance.

“Hallo, Rosa.”

“Oh, God, I’m not even awake yet” — it was two in the afternoon — “he wants to take me to jail. I haven't done nothing!"

“Oh, we know that, Rosa. Look here. Ever see this mug? No? Sure? Well, if you do ... or think you do ... well, you know how to pass the word along. Somebody might do herself a very good turn. Particularly if she needed one done. ‘Bye, Rosa.”

In a shebeen behind the Freight Yards, for instance.

“Hallo, Genau.”

A greasy, shriveled little man in a torn jacket of the same description seems about to dive beneath the counter. But he only dives deep enough to come up with a piece of paper. Also greasy and shriveled.

“Oh, I don’t want to see your tax-receipt, Genau. Look here.

Ever see this mug? No? Sure? Well, if you do .... Somebody might be able to make a very good deal for himself, if you know what I mean.”

Genau seems to know what he means.

In front of a cheap bakery in the South Ward.

“Hey, you, Tobacco. Come here.”

Tobacco comes there, eyes bulging with honesty. “I’m clean, Your Worship. Search me, ‘few like. Haven’t picked a tap since —” “— since last night. Never mind. Take a look here. Eh?” Tobacco takes a look. Shakes his head. “Not a regular.”

“We’d like to see him just the same. Twig? Secret fund. Twig?” Tobacco twigs. “I’ll be sure and letcha know. We don’t like irregulars, anyway. Mucking things up and making things difficult for the trained hands. Sure. I’ll letcha know.”

“Hallo, Lou—”

“Hallo, Frou —”

“Hallo, Gretchen—”

“Hallo, Marishka —” Marishka blinks her painted eyes. Gives a nod. A very tired nod. Genteely smothers a yawn. “Sure. He’s a bit dotty, ain’t he? But not dangerous. ”

Lobtas: “You have seen him, then? When?”

Marishka sips, licks beaten cream off her painted lip. “Last night,” she says, indifferently. “All night. Nothing special.” She means, first, that her last night’s guest had no very odd habits and, second, that he had paid only a standard fee.

“Where? Know where he might be?”

Marishka no longer even bothers to shrug. “He came in from the street,” she says. “And he went back out into the street.” She returns to her cup of coffee. It is all so very dull, life and its demands. They come in from the street. And they go back out into the street.

Over and over. However. Others can do that work. There is one thing more, which Doctor Eszterhazy had advised not be neglected. And Lobats, who has a little list (written, this time — he has many little lists, and quite a few long ones, in his head). One by one he checks them off, shop after shop, and fitting-room after fitting-room. Then, scratching his head, he goes farther afield.

Frow Widow Higgins, Theatrical Costumiere, was not from England, as the rich accents of her native South Ward indicated. But the late Higgins had been born there. The late Higgins, however, was very late indeed, and his widow made little mention of him. She looked up from her sewing- machine, through which she was running a tunic of 16th-century design ... one which much needed the restorative attentions of the machine and which, in fact, might indeed have been in semi-continual use since that century. She looked up from her sewing-machine and, for a moment, rested her foot at the treadle.

“Heah,” she said.

“When?”

“Oh .... Maybe last month....”

Lobats wants her to tell him all about it. And, politely, for Frow Widow Higgins is of an entirely respectable and, God knows, hard-working, character, he asks that she understand that he means all about it. Frow Widow Higgins runs her fingers over her tired eyes. Then she sums it up.

“He paid in cash,” she says.

Many are the brightly dressed ladies who pass in and out of the saloon bar of the Hotel de France. Rich in lace, with very rich color in their cheeks, and with very large hats that many egrets have died to adorn. They are agreeable to letting the gentleman from Praz buy them a richly colored drink. They listen with arch interest to his story. After all, every gentleman has a story. They make remarks indicating interest. “And you can’t settle the estate without him?” they repeat. "OA-what-a-sAame/” Well, any excuse will serve when a dandyish gent from the provinces wants to come up and have his bit of fun. There are few nicer pigeons to pluck than these dandyish gents from the provinces, after all. But the gentleman from Praz can’t seem to take a hint. And so, one after another, hints as to dinner ... the theater ... supper ... champagne ... the opera ... not only not being forthcoming, all such hints even on the ladies’ parts meeting with no more response than, “Yes, but surely some-one must know my brother: he has lived in Bella for years!"... well, sooner or later, the richly dressed ladies sigh and excuse themselves and move on.

Even if only to another table.

It is late.

Mile. Toscanelli.

Mile. Toscanelli is from Corsica. And if that is not French enough to suit any of the customers of the saloon bar of the Hotel de France, well, oh-lb-la! Mile. Toscanelli has no intention of wasting the evening over a peppermint shnops. She looks at the tin-type of the brother of the gentleman from Praz. “This has been retouched,” says Mile. Toscanelli.

“It is my brother Georg. We cannot settle the estate, you see, without him.”

Mile. Toscanelli has a question, one which seems to indicate that emotions other than the purely sentimental sometimes animate the bosoms of the daughters of the warm South.

“HOw much is it worth to you to find him?”

A faint change seems to come over the gentleman from Praz, in his obsolete finery, and with his funny-fancy manners. He meets the hard, bright, black light eyes of Mile. Toscanelli.

“Fifty ducats,” he says. "But no tricks!"

Mile. Toscanelli says, “En avance."

She counts the five notes of ten ducats each, snaps the tiny beaded and be-bijou’d reticule, starts to rise. “One moment, 1 wish to send a note,” says the gentleman from Praz. “He is — where?”

He is in Hunyadi Street, Lower Hunyadi Street, Mile. Toscanelli does not recollect the number, but there was an apthecary on the corner, and a bicycle shop next door to it.

It was as she said. However, the entire block had been erected by a builder who had used one set of house-plans. All the houses look alike; Mile. Toscanelli could not remember which one it was. Not even the sight of the police, while she was still gazing up and down the block, aided her memory. And, when even the offer of another fifty ducats failed, it had to be assumed she was telling the truth.

Ah, how many police, and so suddenly, in Lower Hunyadi Street! And in the streets behind. And all around —

The apothecary’s lips trembled. “But there was nothing illegal about it,” he protested. “I have a license to sell opium. Fifty pillules of the anhydrous, here, all properly noted in my Record Book. See? See? Well, if I am shouted at, I cannot think what house!”

By the time he had gotten his nerves and his memory together, the police were being reinforced by soldiery. The residents of Lower Hunyadi Street seemed divided between a desire to utilize the best seats, those by their windows, and view the show — whatever its purpose might be — and a desire to barricade their windows with bedding, china-closets, and clothes - cabinets.

“Open up, Number Forty-four! Open up! Concierge! Porter!”

Fifty years of almost-unbroken peace under the Triune Monarchy had not fully persuaded the inhabitants out of the habit formed during fifty pervious decades of almost-unbroken war. The gates of the houses in Bella tend to be thick.

“Well,” said Lobats, “we may as well send for the Firemen.” Axes, ladders, a full siege.

Eszterhazy was sure that the porter — or someone — was watching. Someone who could open the doors without a violent assault — if he — or she — wished to.

“Hold up,” he said. The police drew back. Then the soldiers. Eszterhazy walked across the street towards Number 44. Halfway across he stopped, drew his hand from his pocket, and, arm at the traditional forty-five degree angle, held up the Provo. A great sigh seemed to go up all around him. A moment later the gates swung open. He gestured to Lobats. They walked in.

A woman, not so old as concierges are generally assumed to be, stood to one side, sobbing. “The poor man!” she cried. “The poor man! So suppose — suppose he is cracked. What if he does think he is King? Does that hurt the real King?” The two men went on through the empty courtyard, started up the stairs. “Don’t be hurting him!” the woman screamed. “Don’you be hurting him ... the poor man ....”

He sat facing them, as they went in — and it had not taken them long to get in — but, in a moment, they realized that he was not really facing them at all. He was facing a full-length mirror. Somehow he had made shift to fix up a dais, and he had draped the chair all in crimson. It made do for a throne. He sat in his sleazy “robes” of state, cape and gown and collar of cotton-wool spotted with black tufts to resemble ermine. It was all false, even across foot-lights it would have looked almost false. His head was slumped to one side.

But the crown was on his head, his tell-tale head, the crown with its pendants was on his head, so tightly that it had not fallen off; and the orb and sceptre, though his hands had slid into his lap, still his hands clenched them tightly.

For most of his life he had been no one and nobody. For now, however, he was as much King of Jerusalem as the Crown Jewels could make him — or anyone — King of Jerusalem.

The crown and orb and sceptre of the ancient and mysterious Regalia. They, and the fully fatal dose of fifty pillules of anhydrous opium.