Flashman And The Tiger

It was Wednesday, the day which Willem had appointed for a scout in the direction of Franz-Josef’s lodge. It stood on rising ground on the other side of the town, above and beyond the little river Ischl, secluded enough among woodland to give royalty privacy, but an easy walk from the Ischl bridges which span the river by way of a little island lying in midstream.

Willem and I walked through the town and across the bridge to the island, which was laid out as a park, with pleasant gardens among the trees and bushes. We found a quiet spot from which we could look across the river towards the high bank above which the lodge could be seen among the trees. Rudi scanned it through field-glasses and then we crossed the farther bridge for a closer look, strolling up the curving road, circling the lodge itself, and back to the road again. Here Willem led the way north, farther up the slope, to a point slightly above the lodge, and took a long slant through the glasses. There were a few folk about, tourists driving and strolling for a look at the royal residence.

"But there won’t be a soul this side of the river after dark," says Willem. "Gad, ain’t it made for murder, though! Come across from Ischl by day, lie up in the woods—" he nodded to where the trees grew thicker above us "—then swoop down at night, break in, do old F-J’s business, and flee any way you like … across into the town to your hidey-hole, or back into the woods, or down the Ischl and then the Traun by boat!" He passed me the glasses, chuckling. "But since we shan’t give ’em the chance to flee, that don’t signify."

He lounged back on the turf, chewing a blade of grass and shading his eyes against the autumn sun while I surveyed the lodge, a white three-storeyed building with a high-pitched roof to one side in which there were dormer windows. Odd little minarets decorated the gable ends, and at what seemed to be the front of the house there was a large square porch with ivy-covered pillars and a flat roof surrounded by a little balustrade. The whole place had an informal, almost untidy look; not very grand for an emperor, I thought.

"I told you he liked to play the simple soul," says Willem. "All ceremony and etiquette at the Hofburg or Schonbrunn, but hail-fellow with the peasants when he’s out of town—provided he does the hailing and they knuckle their foreheads like good little serfs. He acts the genial squire, but he’s a pompous prig at heart, and God help anyone who comes the familiar with him. Or so I’m told; you’ve met him, I haven’t."

I’d thought him stiff and stupid on short acquaintance, but what exercised me just then was that his lodge, while modest enough, was a sight too large to be guarded by a file of soldiers.

"But not by two clever lads inside the place, who stick close by his nibs night and day, and know the geography," says Willem. "And who know also exactly where the Holnup will try to break in.,,

I almost dropped the glasses. "How the devil can you know that?"

He gave me his smart-alec smile. "I’ve never set foot in that bijou residence, but I know every foot of it like my own home. Builders' plans, old boy—you don’t think Bismarck overlooks items like that! I could find my way round it in the dark, and probably will."

"But you can’t guess which way they’ll come—"

"There’s a secret stair leading down from the Emperor’s bed-room to an outside door—no doubt so that he could sneak out for a night’s whoring in town without Sissi knowing … although why he should, with that little beauty waiting to be bounced about, beats me," he added, with fine irrelevance. "Anyway, even the servants don’t know about the secret stair—"

"But you and Bismarck do, absolutely!"

"Absolutely … and it’s St Paul’s to the parish pump that the Holnup know, too. Heavens, they’re not amateurs! They’d be mad not to take advantage of it, wouldn’t you say?"

"And if they don’t? Or if it’s locked, as it’s bound to be?"

He smote his forehead. "Damn! They’ll never have thought of that! So they won’t bring pick-locks or bolt-shears or anything useful, will they? Ah, well," says the sarcastic brute, "we can tell Bismarck he’s fretting about nothing. Oh, come along." He got to his feet, laughing at me. "The thing is, where to take ’em? At the door, or inside, or where? Well, we’ll have to think about that. One thing at a time …"

We walked down the hill and back across the bridges to Ischl town, and had just reached the spot where the Landstrasse runs into the Kreutzplatz when we were aware of some commotion ahead; people on the Landstrasse were drawing aside to the pavements with a great raising of hats and bobbing of curtsies as a smart open carriage came bowling up the street, its occupant responding to the salutes of the whiffers by making stiff inclinations and tipping his tile. A couple of Hussars trotted ahead, and as they came level with us Willem drew me quickly back into a doorway.