THE SPY.
With no little trouble they had finally reached a position where, by
drawing a door slightly ajar, they could look into a room where seven
men were seated, listening attentively to one who was standing and
speaking.
These men were seated around a long, bare wooden table. The one who was
on his feet stood in the place of honor at the head of the table.
They were bizarre. Some were small and heavy. One was thin, with
drooping shoulders, sunken chest, skinny neck, forward thrust, with a
long head, bulging at the temples, and straight, fine hair. He wore
spectacles, and looked like a person who had studied much. His skin was
yellow beneath the lamplight.
Another had a big head, with a lion-like mane of hair. His hands were
coarse and pudgy, and his eyelids over-hung his eyes so that he was
forced to lean far backward to look up at the speaker.
One little Frenchman was wonderfully narrow between the eyes, which were
moving, moving, moving all the time. He seemed the embodiment of energy
and restlessness.
Peri Montparnasse, with his long, twining, snaky fingers, was there.
François Lenoir, his long hair back-flung, his attitude studied and
stagey, was there. Fabian Vaugirad, with his square jaw and bull-like
neck, was there.
The man who was standing wore a full beard, and, in a certain way, he
was handsome. He looked very mild and harmless, for all of his beard,
and he spoke in a voice that was soft, soothing and musical. It was
plain, however, that he was not a Frenchman, for he was often forced to
pause and grope for a word, and his pronunciation was broken.
In his hand this man held something that gave Frank Merriwell a start.
It was a bomb!
The man was explaining about the construction of the deadly thing in his
fingers. He told that if it should slip and fall upon the table every
one in that room would be instantly killed, and the building would be
wrecked!
And the men around the table betrayed not the least excitement or alarm.
Before the speaker lay other bombs, some round balls with fuse
attachments, some made in pieces of gaspipe, six inches in length, some
formed one way, and some another.
Near the bombs sat a tiny square box, very harmless in appearance.
Mademoiselle Mystere pressed close to Frank, whispering in his ear:
“That man is Novesky, the great Russian nihilist and manufacturer of
death-dealing devices. He was forced to flee from Russia, and he is in
hiding in France. He is married and has several children. It is said
that he is the tenderest and most considerate of husbands and fathers,
yet for the cause to which his life is devoted he would shed rivers of
blood without a qualm.”
“Strange creatures these!” thought the boy. “I cannot understand them at
all. They must be mentally unbalanced.”
One by one Novesky picked up the bombs and explained about them, telling
how to handle them, and for what purpose each was designed. He seemed to
be very careless in his manner of handling the deadly things, and still
Frank saw that he was not. Each bomb was carefully returned to the table
when Novesky had finished explaining about it and its use.
At last the nihilist came to the small square box.
“This, my brothers, is the most deadly and effectual instrument of all,”
he said. “It is something that you may conceal to-day and set for its
work to-morrow, the next day, a week from now. It will not fail; it will
accomplish its mission at the hour set. You may be in England, may be
afar on the ocean, bound for some foreign land; when the hour and the
minute arrives, this little instrument will fulfill its mission. It is
called the infernal machine.”
Then he set about describing the workings of the deadly invention,
telling them how to handle it and how to set it for an explosion.
Frank was fascinated, and he quite forgot his own position of peril. He
listened with the keenest interest.
Once again Mademoiselle Mystere whispered in his ear, and this time she
said:
“Even if you could prove beyond the shadow of a doubt that you are not a
spy, what you have heard while standing here is enough to condemn you to
death. Knowing that you know what you do, they would not let you escape
for fortunes.”
“Very pleasant information, indeed!” thought the boy, but he did not
whisper the words for her to hear.
From that moment Frank’s impatience grew. The delay in escaping from the
building might be fatal. If he could get out without further delay—if he
could inform the police that these men were gathered here. Such a move
might crush anarchy in Paris, and it was for his interest to have those
men captured, executed, or imprisoned. Even if he escaped, they would
not forget him, and they might follow like hounds on his track if he
were to flee from France.
The anarchists were growing impatient. Some of them glanced toward the
door, which was in the shadow of a heavy curtain. Why was Durant so long
in the cellar? Surely he had taken time enough to finish his work twice
over.
Novesky finished speaking and sat down. There was no applause, but the
strange band fell to conversing in a subdued way. They did not drink,
and they had the air of scholars and scientists.
Lenoir got upon his feet, and they gave him their attention. He flung
back his long hair, struck an attitude, and recited a poem. It was about
the wrongs of the masses and the red day that was coming when anarchy
should triumph and the blood of aristocrats should flow like crimson
rivers in the streets of Paris.
He sat down, and it was plain that his fiery words had wrought upon
them. They showed it in their eyes, their faces, and their words and
gestures. They shook hands with each other, and they nodded over what
they had heard.
Then somebody asked for Durant, and all fell to wondering why he did not
return from the cellar.
“He has had time enough twice over to finish the spy, drop him through
the manhole into the sewer, and return,” said Vaugirad.
“That is true—quite true,” purred Montparnasse.
“Some one should go down and see why he is so long,” suggested Lenoir.
“I am ready to do so. Shall I go?”
“Go on, go on,” urged one and all.
The poet-burglar arose to his feet. (He was no burglar at all, and
Montparnasse was not a pickpocket; that was a little fiction of
Bornier’s to interest those who visited his place.) He turned toward the
door behind which stood Frank Merriwell and his masked companion.
“He is coming!” whispered Mademoiselle Mystere. “All is lost! We shall
not be able to escape!”
“Follow me!” returned the dauntless boy. “We will make a break for
liberty, and, taking them by surprise, as we shall, we may succeed. It
is one chance in a thousand; but we must take that chance.”
Frank nerved himself for the struggle that was to come. He gripped the
stone in hand, ready to bring it down with crushing force on the head of
Lenoir.
Tinkle-tinkle-ting! From some hidden spot a tiny bell rang out, causing
the anarchists to start and look at each other. Lenoir paused on his way
to the door and turned back.
“It is Verlain—it must be,” said Montparnasse. “What can have caused him
to leave his post and come here at this hour?”
“Something is up!” declared Vaugirad. “Admit him quickly.”
Two of them hastened from the room, and Frank drew a long, long breath
of momentary relief.
Those who remained behind speculated on the meaning of the signal.
In a few moments there was a sound of feet, and then one of the men who
had hastened to answer the signal came bursting into the room. Behind
him entered two men who clutched something that was enfolded in a
blanket. The other end of this something was carried by yet another.
The door was closed, and the object they had brought into the room was
dropped on the floor. Every man was on his feet, and all were asking
questions.
“There has been a great mistake,” declared one of the new arrivals, who
was Verlain. “Charron, our agent, is here. There he stands. He it was
who notified us that the spy was coming, and now he says we have made a
blunder—we have the wrong one. The one in the cellar is not the spy.”
“Is not?” cried several of the astonished anarchists.
“Then who is the spy?”
“We have him here! Look!”
The blanket was removed from the bundle it had concealed, and a man,
securely bound and gagged, was revealed. Montparnasse lifted a lamp from
the table and held it so the light fell on the face of the helpless
captive.
“The Englishman!” he cried.
“The spy!” asserted Charron.
“Harvey Wynne!” gasped Frank.
Mademoiselle Mystere clasped a hand over the boy’s lips, whispering in
his ear:
“Silence! They will hear you!”
But the anarchists were making considerable noise, and the boy was not
heard.
Harvey Wynne was conscious, and his keen eyes roved from face to face of
the terrible men around him. He was mentally noting the appearance of
each one.
For a little time the anarchists were so astonished that they could no
more than talk confusedly among themselves, with many shrugs and
gestures.
“If the one in the cellar is not the spy, who is he?” asked Lenoir.
“He must be what he represented himself to be—a tourist,” said Vaugirad.
“Mademoiselle Mystere is responsible for the blunder.”
“It is unaccountable how she could have made it.”
“By this time the youngster in the cellar is dead. He may no longer be
in the cellar; Durant may have cast the body through the manhole.”
“And even if he were alive and unharmed, it would not do to let him go
free. It would be necessary to destroy him.”
Novesky spoke.
“The shedding of innocent blood is always deplorable,” he said; “but it
cannot be helped sometimes, and we should let nothing stand between us
and the advancement of our noble cause.”
“Right!” flashed Lenoir.
“How did you happen to capture the true spy?” asked Montparnasse.
“He returned to the Red Flag with an officer,” explained Verlain.
“Charron was there and saw him. He recognized the spy instantly, and we
followed him. When he had left the police and was making his way home,
we came upon him where it was dark, and we soon had him down. Then it
was not difficult to call a cab, and make the driver believe we were
taking a drunken comrade home. This is Grand Prix night, you know, and
the whole city is carousing.”
“Grand Prix night?” thought Frank Merriwell. “And is it possible all
these things have happened in one night? Why, it seems as if days must
have passed since we first saw Mademoiselle Mystere in front of the Café
de la Paix.”
The masked girl drew closer to the boy.
“There is no hope for us,” she whispered. “Now they will give us no
opportunity to escape.”
“We must fight.”
“It is useless.”
“I am not so sure of that.”
“I cannot lift a hand against them.”
“Well, I can. I have a scheme. Will you listen?”
“Go on.”
“Go in there, make some excuse, and pass through. Go to the door and
unbolt it. Fling it wide open, and leave it thus. Then return to this
room. When I see you come back, I shall know you have left the door
open, and I will make a dash. Together we may get out upon the street.”
“It is useless, I tell you.”
“Why so?”
“Even though we were to reach the street, we could not get away.”
“Why not?”
“They would follow hot after us, like hounds that smell the fox himself.
The streets are dark, and this is the one quarter of Paris that may be
called low and bad. They would run us down, and finish the work in the
street.”
“Well, even if they do, it is better than being butchered here, like
sheep. We can make a break for life.”
It required considerable urging, but she finally consented.
“For you I will try it,” she said.
She clung about his neck a moment, and it was well the anarchists were
speaking excitedly in the room close at hand, else they might have heard
her breathing hoarsely.
With a sob, she tore herself from him. Then she boldly opened wide the
door and walked into the room.
They were astonished to see her enter by that door, and they shot a
score of questions at her. She lied glibly, declaring she had gone to
the cellar to see the executioner finish the spy. She said she had
hidden in the cellar and watched Durant cut the throat of the helpless
captive. She laughed as she told how the blood had spurted.
“Merciful Heaven!” thought the listening boy. “What a creature she is!
She has nerves of steel, and a heart of iron!”
Then Durant had finished the captive in the cellar? They asked her that.
Yes, the wretch was dead.
But he was not the spy; she had made a mistake. She would not believe
it; she pretended to be very angry. And then Charron stepped forward,
and told her of her error.
The masked mystery seemed quite overcome. She had received Charron’s
description of the spy, and she explained how she had come to settle on
Frank Merriwell as the one.
When they told her Wynne was the spy, she seemed eager to slay him with
her own hand. They grasped her, and held her back, whereupon she grew
angry, and flung herself out of the room.
“She is an admirable actress,” thought the watching boy. “Too bad she is
connected with such wretches as these. Why, she could become another
Bernhardt!”
He knew that she would not be long away, and he was right. She returned
just as Lenoir was once more starting for the cellar to see what kept
Durant so long.
“He is cleaning up the blood-stains, so the police can find no sign if
they come upon us,” declared the masked girl.
Frank prepared for the rush, and then he was staggered by a sudden
thought.
What if he escaped? They would be sure to kill Wynne with great haste.
He would not be given time to arouse the police and bring them back to
rescue the young newspaper correspondent.
For a moment the boy hesitated, and then a most desperate resolution
formed in his mind. He tore open the door, leaped into the room, shot
toward the table, and snatched up one of the bombs.
So quickly was this done that the boy was given an opportunity to
retreat to the door that led toward the street and freedom. In that
doorway he paused, the bomb held high above his head.
Vaugirad held a pistol, which was pointed straight at the boy.
“Shoot!” cried Frank, in French. “When you fire, I shall drop this bomb,
and we will all be blown into a thousand pieces! It means death for
every one of us!”
The men cowered and shrank back, their faces blanching. They saw that
the boy had snatched up the bomb which Novesky had proclaimed the most
deadly of the collection. If it were dropped to the floor, it must
explode.
“Upon him!” hissed Lenoir. “Tear it from his hand!”
“Stop!” commanded the Russian Nihilist. “It cannot be done! The bomb
will fall, and that will mean death and destruction! Hold a moment!”
They cowered, and then Montparnasse tried to creep toward the lad.
“Back!” shouted Frank, fiercely. “Keep back, or by the eternal skies! I
will cast this thing to the floor!”
Montparnasse fell back, cursing beneath his breath. Vaugirad whirled on
Mademoiselle Mystere.
“How is it you said the boy was dead, and he is here alive?” he
demanded. “Have you gone mad, girl?”
“There is no time for words,” came harshly from Frank Merriwell’s lips.
“I am not dead, but very much alive, as you can see. However, I am quite
ready to die with the rest of you, if you do not obey me in everything.
Do you understand?”
They were silent. Their faces showed great fear and fury. They could not
understand how this situation had come about, and so they were still
somewhat bewildered.
“Set that man free,” commanded Frank, pointing to Wynne. “If you
refuse—if you hesitate—I swear by all I hold dear to blow you all to
atoms!”
He looked as if he meant every word he uttered. In his eyes was the
glare of one that had become reckless of his own life.
“Lenoir,” said the boy, “you will take your knife and set the captive at
liberty. You are to cut his bonds, but not harm him. If you harm him, I
will drop the bomb, and this brotherhood will cease to exist in a
twinkling.”
And so Lenoir was forced to obey. He got down on his knees and cut the
cords which held Harvey Wynne.
The young newspaper correspondent got up, saying:
“Merriwell, you are a terror! Your match does not live!”
Frank stepped aside from the door.
“Go out this way,” he directed, “and do not stop till the street is
reached. Do not stop even then, but get away as fast as you can. I will
take care of myself.”
“But I cannot desert you now. I did once, and I am ashamed——”
“Do as I tell you, and be lively about it.” Wynne obeyed.
Frank waited till he was sure the fellow was outside the building, and
then said:
“I am going now. If you attempt to crowd me, I shall kill somebody with
this bomb. Beware! Keep back!”
Then he retreated through the doorway and made a dash for freedom. He
reached the street, but barely had he done so, when there was a
frightful explosion behind him. He was cast upon his face, beaten upon
and buried by _débris_. After some moments he struggled up and dragged
himself from the mass. Then he saw that the building he had just left
was in ruins.
------------------------------------------------------------------------