To the Editor of the Diário de Notícias
Sir,
I am placing in your hands my personal account of an extraordinary affair in which I became involved in my capacity as a doctor, and I ask that you publish – in whatever way you deem appropriate – at least the substance of what I set before you.
So grave, so veiled in mystery, so seemingly steeped in criminality are the events I am about to describe, that I feel it is vital to make the facts available to the general public, as a way of providing the only key to unlocking what seems to me a truly horrifying drama, even though I was only present at one act, and know nothing of the preceding scenes, nor how it may end.
Three days ago, I was travelling back to Lisbon from the outskirts of Sintra in the company of F., a friend of mine, at whose house I had been staying for a few days.
We were riding horses kept by F. on his estate and which were due to be returned to Sintra by a servant who had set off for Lisbon the previous evening.
It was late afternoon as we crossed the moors. The melancholy of both the hour and the place coloured our mood, and we gazed silently about us as we trotted slowly along.
About halfway between São Pedro and Cacém – at a deserted spot whose name I do not know because I so seldom pass that way – we came across a coach stopped in the road.
It was a coupé, painted dark green and black and drawn by a pair of chestnut horses.
The coachman, who wore no uniform, was standing in front of the horses with his back to us.
Two fellows were bent over the wheels on the side of the coach we had to pass, and seemed to be intently studying some detail of the steering mechanism.
A fourth individual, also with his back to us, was standing near the ditch on the other side of the road, where he appeared to be looking for something, perhaps a stone to place beneath the wheel.
‘It’s all down to the disgraceful state of this road,’ observed my friend. ‘The axle’s probably broken or else a wheel’s come adrift from the hub.’
By this time, we were passing between the three men I mentioned, and F.’s conjectures had barely left his lips when the horse I was riding veered suddenly and fell to the ground.
The man beside the ditch, and to whom I had paid little attention, being too engrossed in studying the stationary carriage, had caused my horse to fall by snatching at its reins and tugging as hard as possible, while, simultaneously, driving the animal in the opposite direction with a hefty kick to its flank.
My mount, an inexperienced yearling that handled poorly at the best of times, slipped and tumbled over when it made that rapid, enforced about-turn.
The unknown man gave another tug at the reins to make the horse get up and, while helping me to my feet as well, he asked with some concern if I had hurt my leg, which had remained pinned beneath my horse when it fell.
He spoke in the modulated tones of the educated. The hand he offered me was smooth and delicate. A black satin mask of the kind used at masquerades covered his face, and I seem to recall that he wore a narrow black crêpe band about his hat. As demonstrated by the way he had caused my horse to fall, he was an agile and extremely strong young man.
I sprang to my feet and, before I could utter a word, I saw that during the time it had taken for me to be unseated from my horse, a scuffle had broken out between my companion and the other two individuals who had been pretending to examine the wheels and who also had their faces covered with masks like that of the man I have already described.
You may well say, sir, that this is pure pot-boiler fiction, worthy of Ponson du Terrail! But that is because life, even on the road from Sintra, can at times seem more like a novel than artistic verisimilitude can tolerate. But I am not creating art, I am recording facts.
Seeing one of men grab the bridle of his horse, F. had forced the man to let go by dealing him a blow to the head with the handle of his riding crop, which the other masked man immediately managed to wrench from his hand.
Neither of us was carrying a weapon. Nevertheless, my friend had pulled from his pocket the heavy key to the main door of his house in Sintra and, digging his spurs into his horse, he was stretching out along its neck as he attempted to use the key as a weapon to strike the head of the masked man still holding the bridle.
The fellow, however, kept a firm grip on the rearing horse with one hand, drew out a revolver with the other, and pointed it at my friend’s head, saying calmly:
‘Steady now!’
The man whom F. had set upon with the riding crop had felt obliged to sit down for a few minutes, leaning against the carriage door, visibly dazed but not wounded, for F.’s riding crop was made only of light whalebone with a handle of plaited horsehair. The man had now got up from the ground and put his hat back on.
By this time, the assailant who had felled my horse and helped me to my feet was also holding a pair of small silver-handled pistols, the kind the French call coups de poing and which can pierce a door at thirty paces. He now cordially offered me his arm, saying affably:
‘It seems a far more sensible option to accept the seat I have available in the carriage than for you to continue on horseback or to have to walk from here to the pharmacy in Porcalhota dragging a bruised leg.’
I am not readily intimidated by a show of weapons. I know what a gulf lies between threatening to fire a gun and actually doing so. I could move my bruised leg easily enough and F. was riding a strong horse; we are both of us robust types; we could perhaps have held out for another ten minutes or a quarter of an hour, during which time it was highly likely, on such a heavily frequented stretch of road, that some other travellers would arrive and help us out.
I must confess, though, that I felt greatly intrigued by the very unexpectedness of this strange adventure.
There was nothing in our previous lives to suggest that anyone would want to exert pressure on us or threaten violence.
For reasons I cannot satisfactorily explain, it did not seem to me at the time that the people surrounding us had robbery in mind, far less homicide. I’d had little chance to observe them closely and had only heard them utter a few fleeting words, but they appeared to me to be decent people. Considering these events calmly, I realise that my conjecture was based on various disparate details, which, however glancingly, I had made an unconscious attempt to analyse. For example, I remember that the lining of the hat belonging to the masked man whom F. had lambasted with his riding crop was made of pale grey satin. The one who had pointed the revolver at F. was wearing a pair of pewter-grey gloves fastened with two buttons. The one who had helped me up had very narrow feet shod in patent leather boots; his close-fitting nut-brown trousers had adjustable tabs at the waistband; and he was wearing spurs.
Notwithstanding my inclination to give up the fight and get into the coach, I asked my friend – in German – if he thought we should resist or surrender.
‘Surrender! Surrender!’ said one of the strangers gravely. ‘So that we can save precious time! Please come with us! One day you will know why we donned these masks and why we ambushed you. We give our word that tomorrow you will be safe in your homes in Lisbon and your horses will be back in Sintra two hours hence.’
After some reluctance, which I helped to overcome, F. dismounted and climbed into the coach. I followed him.
They gave us the most comfortable seats. The man who had been standing in front of the pair of coach-horses now roped together our two mounts; the one who had made my horse stumble climbed onto the coachman’s seat and took up the reins; the other two joined us in the carriage and settled into the seats facing ours. Then they closed the wooden blinds covering the side-windows of the carriage and drew a green silk curtain across the inside of the front window.
At the moment of our departure, the man who had taken up the reins tapped on the window and asked for a cigar. The other two men passed him a straw-work cigar box, and he tossed the mask he had been wearing through the same opening. Then we set off at full speed.
As I was getting into the carriage I thought I caught a glimpse in the distance of a horsedrawn omnibus and a cabriolet approaching from the direction of Lisbon. I don’t think I am deluding myself when I say that the occupants of these coaches must have seen our horses, one of which was grey and the other chestnut, and may perhaps be able to identify both the carriage in which we were travelling and the person who served as our coachman. As I mentioned earlier, the vehicle was green and black. The polished mahogany blinds had four narrow oblong slits at the top, in the form of a cross.
I do not have time now to write the rest of my story and still be able to despatch this letter by today’s mail. I will, therefore, continue later. And I will reveal, if you have not already guessed it, my reason for concealing both my own identity and that of my friend.