# Terence O'Rourke/Part 2/Chapter 14

CHAPTER XIV
THE CAPTAIN OF VILLAINY
Danny, the careworn, the solicitous of his master's fortunes—he of the brilliant head of hair—who slumbered peacefully on the foot of O'Rourke's bed, was roused by the application of the toe of O'Rourke's boot.
He looked up, yawning and digging clenched fists into his sleep-laden eyes. O'Rourke stood over him, ejecting the cartridges from the cylinder of his revolver and reloading the weapon with a scrupulous care.
Without even a sidelong glance at his body servant, the Irishman absentmindedly, carelessly, kicked him a second time. "Get up, ye lazy gossoon!" he murmured softly. "Who d'ye think ye are, to be wallowing there and making the night hideous with the snoring of ye? Get up—and that at once, Danny!"
Grumbling a remonstrance, Danny got to his feet and stretched himself; he looked at the clock. "Three, is it?" he cried. "Sure, now, sor, 'tis yersilf that's the late one to bed! Sit down, sor, and I'll be taking aff the boots av ye."
"Ye'll be doing naught of the sort, Danny," remarked O'Rourke pleasantly. "'Tis yourself, on the contrary, who'll be putting a hat over that fiery crop of ye, and coming along with me."
"Sure, now, sor, 'tis yer honor's joking," expostulated Danny.
"Um-m," agreed O'Rourke. "But 'tis not the time for ​the laugh yet, Danny. Ye stick that other gun in your pocket, now. Is it loaded? Good! And remember that the O'Rourke is a great man, and ye have only to stick by him, and your fortune's as good as made."
He twirled the cylinder; it worked smoothly, easily. "Is it not so?" asked O'Rourke.
Danny dodged a third well-aimed kick. "Sure, an' 'tis the living truth!" he hastened to agree. "Phwat is yer honor going to do, if I may make so bold as to ask?"
"Faith, Danny, I'm going to solve a puzzle. Come on with ye, now, and no hanging back at all, as ye value your peace of mind, Danny."
Quickly and quietly they left O'Rourke's apartments and the grounds of the Hôtel d'Angleterre; in two minutes they were in the street, climbing up the hillside toward the dazzling white citadel that crowns Tangiers.
As they proceeded, O'Rourke enlivened the tedium of a walk at an 'hour so unholy with a running fire of comment and instruction.
"There will be two ways of solving a puzzle, Danny," he said. "One is to take hold of the clue the maker of it puts in your hand, and run around like a chicken with its head off, wondering what 'tis all about. The other and most approved method is to get right at the black heart of the mystery and butt your way out to daylight. Ye follow me?"
"Yis, sor," assented Danny, gaping at the O'Rourke's display of erudition.
"I misdoubt that ye are lying, Danny. At the same time, it is indisputable that a gun in the hand is worth two in the Hôtel d'Angleterre. And 'tis a long worm that has no turning. I'm convinced that the Herr Captain von Wever has reached the end of his rope. Do ye not hold with me there, ​Danny? Sure ye do. If ye stumble again and yelp I'll break the thick head of ye. Now listen to what I'm expounding. Ye see this letter?" He displayed an old envelope which he had taken from his pocket. "Ye do? 'Tis the penetrating mind ye have, Danny. Take it in your hand. Ye obsarve 'tis addressed to me. No matter.
"Presently we'll be standing in front of the house of Captain von Wever—a God-forsaken Dutchman, Danny. I will knock at the door, and stay in the shadow of it. Ye will stand in the street, and when the Herr Captain puts his head out of the window, Danny, ye'll tell him ye are a boy from the Hôtel d'Angleterre with a note for him from a lady. When he comes down to open the door, I'll attend to the captain, Daniel."
"And phwat will I do then, sor?"
"Ye will trot yer damnedest to Mr. Senet's residence, Danny—'tis but the bit of a walk from here—tell Mr. Senet what I have done and where to find me, and that he's to come to me."
"And if he says 'Why?' sor?"
"Tell the man that 'tis in the name of the Countess of Seyn-Altberg. I'm convinced that will fetch him, hotfoot."
By then the two had gained the crown of the hill and passed on out into the suburbs of Tangiers. Presently they halted before a detached residence that lay dark and silent in the moonlight—a building of the old Mooresque type with a high, blank wall fronting upon the street and broken only by an overhanging latticed balcony on the second story and by the main doorway.
This was a low, arched postern, deep set in the stone walls. Without further words O'Rourke motioned his man to the center of the street, where the moon glare showed him clearly ​while O'Rourke flattened himself in the embrasure of the doorway.
He hammered a thunderous alarm upon the panels; at first getting no response. But, as he continued to bruise his knuckles upon the hard wood, a stir was audible within, and a moment later a harsh, angry voice could be heard from the balcony.
"What the devil is this?" stormed Captain von Wever. "What the devil do you want—you out there in the moonlight?"
"Will that be Captain von Wever?" Danny pretended to consult the address on the envelope.
"I am Captain von Wever. Well?" angrily demanded the German.
"'Tis a note that I have, sor, from a lady at the hotel, sor. She said ye must have ut at once, sor, and gave me a dollar for the bringin' of ut."
"Good boy!" commended O'Rourke in an undertone.
There was moment's pause; and then the German laughed—laughed exultantly. "So soon!" he cried. "Very well—I'll come down and get it, boy."
He retired from the lattice, still chuckling. O'Rourke ground his teeth with resentment; under the circumstances, it seemed a particularly nasty laugh.
"'Twill be from the other side of your mouth that ye'll be laughing next, Herr Captain!" he threatened.
He waved a hand to Danny. "Be off!" he whispered, and his body-servant stole silently away toward the city.
There was a rattle of chain bolts within, and the rasping squeak of a rusty lock. O'Rourke put his shoulder to the door, on the side of the lock, and as the German turned the handle, pushed with all his strength, driving it inward with ​a crash. In an instant he had stepped within, closed and locked the door behind him.
"'Tis a fine morning, Captain von Wever," he remarked briskly. "The top of it to ye, sir."
The surprise was a complete success. The German stood stolidly staring at O'Rourke, to all appearances absolutely benumbed with astonishment. His small, round eyes were open to their fullest extent, giving his heavy-jowled face, with its bristling mustache, an expression of childish stupidity.
He stood in his pajamas, his toes thrust into loose, heelless slippers. Through the folds of the night garments his heavily builded figure shaped impressively—well set up and soldierly. In one hand he held a candle, whose flame flickered and smoked in the draft.
For a moment he maintained this attitude of bewilderment; and then rage began to gather at the back of his eyes. His thick lips settled into a cruel line, as he placed the candle on a convenient little table and stepped forward.
"What does this mean, sir?" he shouted furiously. "By what right—"
"Softly, softly," O'Rourke deprecated. "Don't ye attempt to strike me, sir, or, be the Eternal, I'll knock ye to the end of the passage! Besides," he added, seeing that the fellow was unawed by his threat, "I've a gun in me pocket. Is it that ye're wanting me to stick it under the pink nose of ye?"
Von Wever restrained himself. He eyed the Irishman as though now, for the first time, he was recognizing him.
"O'Rourke," he said slowly, "are you going to this insolent intrusion explain?"
"All in me own good time," the Irishman airily assured him. "'Tis the bit of a confabulation I'd be having with ​ye. I take it ye have a convenient room where we can sit down and discuss things at ease?"
"Yes," grunted the German. "But—"
"Then suppose we go there, and ye'll not be catching your death of cold standing here in your nighties."
With an inarticulate growl, von Wever wheeled about and pushed aside a portière. "I've no doubt you will some explanation make," he said surlily. "Enter, if you please."
"Oh, after yourself, sir!" protested O'Rourke with exaggerated courtesy. "And—light a lamp before ye sit down, captain, dear."
Again the mystified German obeyed, O'Rourke remaining on guard at the entrance, while the captain's slippered feet paddled around into the darkness of the apartment. A match was struck, and a hanging lamp of Moorish design ignited. O'Rourke removed his hand from the butt of his weapon, and entered.
The room was the reception room of the house, as was evident from its furnishings. A smell of stale tobacco smoke pervaded it, and on a little stand by a divan were bottles and glasses.
Von Wever sulkily threw himself on the divan, motioned O'Rourke to an armchair, and, with another wave of his hand, signified that the whiskey was at his unwelcome guest's disposal.
"Thank ye," said O'Rourke drily. "I'm not drinking this night."
Von Wever was; he poured himself a stiff dose and downed it, then looked expectantly at the Irishman. "Well?" he said.
"'Tis to refresh me memory that I'm knocking ye up at this early hour," O'Rourke began. "Ye'll pardon me, I'm sure, when I state me case."
​"I'm waiting," growled von Wever non-committally.
"I suspected as much. To get on: 'Twas the matter of two years ago, I believe, Herr Captain, that ye came to Tangiers?"
"What business is that of yours?"
"'Tis coming to that I am. Yes or no?"
"Well,—yes."
"D'ye happen to call to mind visiting the slave market at Tetuan shortly after setting up this pretty little home, captain, dear?"
"What's that to you?"
"I was there—that's all. I seem to remember observing ye, while ye purchased a naygur or two—a likely-looking girl from the Soudan, was it not? And a light man into the bargain?"
Von Wever sat up, his little eyes glinting vindictively.
"If you think for an instant that I'm going to submit to your cross-examination," he snarled, "you mistaken are! Do you wish me the door to show you?"
"Aisy, aisy, captain, dear," laughed O'Rourke. "For what end? I'm not ready to go, and 'tis yourself that's going to sit on that couch until I permit ye to get up. I've warned ye that I am armed. Is not a word in your ear as good as a bullet through your head?"
"What's your game?"
"Answer me question." O'Rourke twirled his weapon giddily on his forefinger.
"Yes."
"Ye bought the girl?"
"Yes."
"And the man?"
"Yes."
​"A very light man, for a slave—eh, captain, dear? Almost as white as a white man, wasn't he, now?"
"Many of the Fazzi are, I am told," muttered the German. The muzzle of that revolver was bulking very large upon his range of vision; it seemed to fascinate him.
At that moment a knock resounded upon the outer door.
"A friend of mine," explained O'Rourke, in a matter-of-course tone. "Get up, captain, dear, and open the door to him."
"I—I—"
Von Wever rose, shaking his fist at O'Rourke—a huge, heavy fist that trembled with passion. "You'll pay for this!" he declared.
"One of us will, that's sure," assented O'Rourke. "For the present, ye'll pay attention to what I tell ye. Open that door, ye swindler!" he thundered, with an abrupt change of manner.
The German hastily obliged, O'Rourke following him out into the hall with a quiet suggestion that von Wever would do wisely to "try no funny business."
Senet was admitted. "Captain von Wever?" he said. "I'm told you wish to see me."
"'Twas meself that sent for ye, Senet, lad," spoke up O'Rourke, over the German's shoulder. "Come on in."
He waited silently until both had entered the reception room, then followed them. "Be seated, gentlemen," he said, waving the dumbfoundered Senet into a chair. "'Tis a little reminiscence that Captain von Wever is regaling me with. I thought ye'd be interested. Sit tight, me boy, and ye'll understand why before long."
Continuing in his standing position, he addressed the German.
​"Now," he said sharply, "we'll come down to business, with no frills, sir! Ye bought this slave—this white slave?"
"Yes." The revolver forced the monosyllable from the German.
"What have ye done with him?"
"None of your cursed business!"
"Answer me!"
Men, by the regiment, had heeded O'Rourke's commanding voice. The German, a craven at heart, weakened, cowering.
"The slave is in his quarters," he admitted sullenly.
"Call him, then—or, better still, take us to him."
"I—he cannot be seen."
"Why?"
"The man is dying."
"Ah!" O'Rourke's eyes were informed with a hard light. "Ah!" he repeated. "Dying?"
Still with an eye for the German, he began to talk rapidly to Senet.
"I'm going to tell ye a little story, Mr. Senet," he said. "Be good, enough not to interrupt me. The captain here isn't going to speak unless I give him permission.
"Part of this I read in a scandal-mongering newspaper in Paris, and forgot. Part of it I heard from another man when first I came here, and noticed this von Wever buying slaves in the sok at Tetuan; and that, too, I forgot. Part of it is pure deduction; but we shall see if Herr Captain von Wever dares to deny it.
"To begin at the beginning, a girl named Ellen Dean, of the States—"
Senet started up from his chair, but O'Rourke silenced him with a gesture. The German looked around him furtively, with something of the expression of a trapped animal. ​But O'Rourke was too vigilant for him; there was no possibility of escape.
"—of the States," he continued in an even tone, "married herself and her papa's money to a German count—the Count of Seyn-Altberg, we'll call him, because that's his title. He was a young chap, good-natured, weak, and a little lively—a captain in a crack infantry regiment of the German army, whose brother officers were a bad lot—such as von Wever here. One night, shortly after his marriage, he played cards with them. Someone—an officer who had fallen in love with the count's wife—accused the count of cheating. In fact, he proved it—found the cards up his sleeve, I believe. Eh, captain, dear?"
The German made no sign, and O'Rourke continued:
"Naturally, the others present were scandalized. They got together and agreed to keep silence, for the honor of their regiment, on one condition—the Count of Seyn-Altberg was to kill himself. He pledged his word to do so; and the others kept their words—all but one.
"This poor divvle of a count was frightened when he felt the touch of his razor on his throat. He weakened, and—fled here to Tangiers, without saying a word to a living soul save one—Captain von Wever! The count fell in bad ways. He was incognito, of course, and nobody gave a damn for him, and he gave a damn for nobody on earth but his wife, whom he looked upon as a memory. He never troubled the poor girl. But he went downhill faster than the pigs possessed by the devils that the priests will be telling ye about; he sunk lower and lower, and finally took to living in the native quarters—and the worst of them. And in the end, one bright and beautiful morning, the Count of Seyn-Altberg turned up missing.
​"About that same time, one Captain von Wever was cashiered for conduct unbecoming the officer and the gentleman he pretended to be. He came to Tangiers, and, though he had no visible means of support, lived on the fat of the land. He bought him slaves, the dirty dog—slaves to wait on him; and one of those slaves was a man nearly white, corresponding in every particular to the man who had once been the Count of Seyn-Altberg. Now—this is the tough part of me story, Senet; sit still and wait till I'm through with it—the money that kept Captain von Wever going came from—can ye not guess where and whom? It came from Germany, from the poor, terrorized, little Countess of Seyn-Altberg that once was an American girl.
"Mr. Senet—I'm not quite finished, sir! That's better.
"And she sent it to Captain von Wever, not because she loved the dog, but because he threatened to take back to Europe this miserable, degraded, semi-idiotic, hashish-crazed Thing who had at one time answered to the name of the Count of Seyn-Altberg—threatened to carry him home, and expose him, and bring shame and humiliation on the girl. He bled her; she sent him every cent she had in the world, and still the infamous whelp snarled for more. And when he found that she was at last at the end of her resources, he made her come here to meet him and told her—I heard him this night, Senet—that she must give him five thousand pounds or else marry him—marry him while her own husband was yet living, and while both knew it!"
O'Rourke paused and glanced swiftly at Senet. The younger man was clutching the arms of his chair as though by main strength alone he kept himself seated. His face had become fairly livid—as white, well-nigh, as his collar; and his eyes burned like live coals.
​"Von Wever," O'Rourke cried in a tone that brought the wretch's eyes obedient to his gaze, "tell Mr. Senet if this be true."
The German answered without premeditation, for O'Rourke had recounted his narrative with such a wealth of circumstance—and it was all so true—that he was appalled.
"The countess told you!" he snarled.
"Ah! but she did not," remarked O'Rourke. "Then it is true?"
"True?" The sound of his own voice carried a flush of returning courage to the man's heart. "True?" he raged. "Well, then, what if it is true? What are you going to do about it, eh? By God! O'Rourke, I'll make you suffer for this outrage! There's one thing that you've got to learn about Morocco, and that is that every man is a law unto himself here."
He was telling the plain, unvarnished truth; and because that was so, confidence was returning to him.
"You can't touch me!" he screamed. "Yes, you dogs, I've done all you accuse me of; but you—can't—touch—me!"
"No?" interrupted O'Rourke, with polite surprise. "Faith then, I'm deceiving meself wofully, Herr Captain. Let me tell ye one thing, blackmailer—no matter where ye go, sir, no matter how greatly ye esteem your liberty or how secure ye feel in your arrogance, there's this one thing ye'll answer to—the judgment of decent men, who weigh ye in the scales of decent living! Senet," he concluded, changing abruptly, "this is your affair. If ye want help I'll be outside the door, and ready and willing. I notice a rawhide dog whip in the corner there—ye may find it useful."
​Senet leaped from his chair; he was across the room in a trice; he faced about with the whip in his hand.
"Thank you, O'Rourke!" he panted gratefully.
And as the portière dropped behind him, the Irishman heard the crash and the clash of shattered glass as the table was overturned; a second later he heard the first shriek of von Wever's agony.