XXVI. The Lady Who Lost £200
XXXV. Silinski Leaves Hurriedly
I. Eclipse
Men who think in millions, usually pay in installments, but this was not the case with Silinski, who had a mind for small things, and between whiles, when mighty financial schemes were not occupying the screen, had time to work out his landlady’s bill and detect the altogether fallacious addition of —
3 pesetas 25 centimos
4 “ 50 “
as 8 pesetas 75 centimos
He might, indeed, have hailed from Andalusia as did the Senora with her thrifty additions and her buxom red and white and black beauty, for he counted his pennies carefully and never received a duoro without testing it with his teeth.
He was a tall man with a stoop, and dressed invariably in black, which is the colour of Spain. Seeing him, on windy days, when bleak, icy air-streams poured down from the circling Sierras, and made life in Madrid insupportable, you might have marked him down as a Spaniard. His black felt hat and his velvet-lined cappa with its high collar would show him to be such from a distance, whilst nearer at hand, his long, melancholy face, with a thin nose that drooped over a trim black moustache slightly upturned, would confirm the distant impression. He spoke Spanish fluently, and affected a blazing diamond ring — such as a well-to-do Spaniard would delight in.
Silinski was, in fact, a Pole, and had been for many years a patriot, finding the calling lucrative.
Of all the bad men of whose history I have knowledge, or whose acquaintance I have made, none more than Silinski looked the part.
He was the transpontine villain to the life, and is the only instance I can recall of such a creature. He was in appearance so clever, so cunning, so snakelike, suave, and well-mannered, that men, and not a few women, trusted him from sheer perversity, reasoning, no doubt, that no man who looked so utterly untrustworthy could be anything but good at bottom. Reflecting on the bad men I have known, I enter into the spirit of the reasoning. Jan Muller was benevolent of face, with a kindly eye that twinkled behind gold-rimmed spectacles — yet Muller’s record is known, and for the five murders that were brought home to him, a score were undiscovered. Bawker had the face of a clown, a weak, goodnatured clown, with his loose lip and the puckered eyes of a lover of good living — Bawker was a coldhearted murdered. Agma Cymon — I doubt if that was his real name — was a cold severe, just man, infinitely precise and methodical; a mean man who would fight over a penny, and who invariably had his clothing patched, and his shoes resoled, yet Cymon’s defalcations amounted to £127,000, and the bulk of the money went to the upkeep of an establishment over which the beautiful Madame Carron-Setter presided.
Silinski looked what he was, yet people did not shake their heads over him. Eather they received him in their homes, and some, more intimately acquainted, joked with him on his Mephistophelian ensemble.
Silinski came to Burgos, from Madrid, by an excursion train that travelled all night, yet he was the trimmest and most alert of the crowd which thronged the Callo do Vitoria, a crowd made up of peasants, tourists, and soldiers.
He made slow progress, for the crowd grew thicker in the vicinity of the Casa del Cordon, where the loyal countryfolk waited patiently for a glimpse of their King.
Silinski stood for a little while looking up at the expressionless windows of the Casa, innocent of curtain, but strangely clean. He speculated on the value of life — of royal life.
“If I were to kill the King,” he mused, “Europe would dissolve into one big shudder. If, being dead, I came forward offering to restore him to life for fifty million francs the money would be instantly forthcoming on the proof of my ability. Yet were I to go now to the King’s minister saying—’It is easy for me to kill the King, but if you will give me the money you would spend on his obsequies. I will stay my hand,’ I should be kicked out, arrested, and possibly confined as a lunatic.”
He nodded his head slowly, and as he turned away he took a little notebook from his pocket, and inscribed— “The greatest of miracles is self-restraint.” Then he rolled a cigarette and walked slowly back to the Cafe Suiso in the Espollon.
A cleanshaven priest, with a thin, intellectual face, was stirring his coffee at one of the tables, and since this was the least occupied Silinski made for it. He raised his hat to the priest and sat down.
“I apologize for intruding myself, father,” he said, “but the other tables—”
The priest smiled and raised a protesting hand.
“The table is at your disposition, my son,” he said.
He was about the same age as Silinski, but he spoke with the assurance of years. Silinski noted that the priest’s voice was modulated, his accent refined, his presence that of a gentleman.
“A Jesuit,” thought Silinski, and regarded him with politely veiled curiosity. Jesuits had a fascination for him. They were clever, and they were good; but principally they were a mysterious force that rode triumphant over the prejudice of the world and the hatred in the Church.
“If I were not an adventurer,” he said aloud, and with that air of simplicity which ever proved to be his most valuable asset, “I should be a Jesuit.”
The priest smiled again, looking at Silinski with calm interest.
“My son,” he said, “if I were not a Jesuit priest, I should be suspicious of your well-simulated frankness.”
