Ischl’s a pretty little place, almost an island enclosed on three, sides by the rivers Traun and Ischl, and lying at the heart of some of the finest scenery in Europe, forest country and lakes and the mountains of the Saltzkammergut. Bad Ischl they call it nowadays, and I believe it’s become a favourite resort of the squarehead quality, but even in ’83 the Emperor’s patronage had made it fashionable, and there was more of Society about than you’d have expected, come to take the waters, inhabit the fine villas along the Traun, drive in the woods and on the river boulevards, promenade in the gardens of the New Casino, and throng the more elegant shops and cafés, of which there were a surprising number. The townsfolk were stout and prosperous, and the inevitable peasantry in their awful little black pants and suspenders seemed to know their place, and gave the scene an air of picturesque gaiety.
Which didn’t reflect my mood, exactly. Willem, I think, reckoned I was reluctant still, but would be bound to go through with his ghastly scheme; Kralta, on t’other hand, having a romantic and patriotic heart beneath her glacial exterior, and being partial to pork, was convinced I’d seen the light. She’d taken to me, no error, and wanted to trust me, you see. That was fine, but left me no nearer to finding a means of escape. The journey from Linz had afforded no chance at all, with Willem close on hand, and his four thugs in the next compartment, and at Ischl, where we were installed at the Golden Ship, in a side-street off the Marktplatz, they never let me out of their sight. That very first day, when we’d settled in and got our bearings in the town, strolling by the Traun, admiring the casino gardens, taking coffee in an opulent patisserie, and generally idling like well-bred little tourists, Willem stuck like a burr, and my beefy scoundrel lurked in the background.
How they’d act if I suddenly darted to the nearest copper, yelling that I was being kidnapped, I couldn’t guess and didn’t dare find out. Set aside that Willem might well have put a slug in my spine and faded out of sight, you’re at the deuce of a disadvantage being a foreigner, even if you speak the lingo. The authorities ain’t inclined to believe you, not in the face of explanations from an imposing lady of quality and her Junker escort, backed by four worthy cabbage-eaters in hard hats. "Poor cousin Harry, he’s English you know, and has fits. Don’t be alarmed, constable, we have a strait-jacket at the hotel." That would be their line, or something like it—and where would Cock Flashy be then, poor thing? At the bottom of the Traun the same evening, likely, with a bag of coal at his feet and Kralta dropping a sentimental tear.
So I played up as seldom before, smiling politely, talking wittily at ease, breathing in the breezes of the distant mountains with every sign of content, coaxing Kralta to buy a monstrous hat in one of the boutiques, drinking in a beer-garden with Willem and shaking my head ruefully as he cheated me at bezique (father’s son, no question), laughing heartily at the drolleries of Frosch the gaoler in Fledermaus at the little theatre in the evening, remarking at dinner that Austria’s contribution to civilisation must surely be the art of cooking cabbage decently,[17] rogering Kralta to stupefaction when we’d retired, and lying awake later with her sleeping boobies across my chest, cudgelling my wits for a way out.
I made the experiment of rising early next morning and dressing quietly while she was still asleep, slipping out on to the landing—and there was Beefy square-bottomed on a chair, glowering. I bade him a civil good-day and sauntered down into the street, and he simply followed a few paces behind as I strolled to the river and back for breakfast. Willem was already down; he raised an eyebrow, glancing at Beefy, and then asked me if I’d had a pleasant stroll. No alarms, no warning, so they must be sure enough of their grip on me to delegate the task of watchdog to a single ruffian, armed and ruthless no doubt, but still just one man. Interesting … and sufficient to raise my hopes a little.
And then, on that second day in Ischl, the whole affair changed, unbelievably, and escape became unthinkable.
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—"