"Now," Hartwig said, assuming a firm, determined attitude, "I hope you
entirely understand me. I am well aware of the despicable double game
you are playing, therefore if you refuse me the information I seek I
shall go downstairs and tell them how you are employed by His Excellency
General Markoff."
The traitor's face was ashen grey. He was, I could see, in wonder at
the identity of his visitor. Of course he knew me, but apparently my
companion was quite unknown to him. It was always one of Hartwig's
greatest precautions to remain unknown to any except perhaps a dozen or
so of the detective police immediately under his direction. From the
Secret or Political Police he was always careful to hide his identity,
knowing well that by so doing he would gain a free hand in his
operations in the detection of serious crime. At his own house, a neat,
modest little bachelor abode just outside Petersburg, in the Kulikovo
quarter, he was known as Herr Otto Schenk, a German teacher of
languages, who, possessing a small income, devoted his leisure to his
garden and his poultry. None, not even the agents of Secret Police in
the Kulikovo district, who reported upon him regularly each month, even
suspected that he was the renowned head of the Surete.
Standing there presenting such a bucolic appearance, so typically
English, and yet speaking Russian perfectly, he caused Danilovitch much
curiosity and apprehension.
Suddenly he asked of the spy:
"You were at Brighton last night? With what motive? Tell me."
The man hesitated a moment and replied:
"I went there to visit a friend--a compatriot."
"Yes. Quite true," exclaimed the great police official, leaning against
the end of the narrow iron bedstead. "You went to Brighton with an evil
purpose. Shall I tell you why? Because you were sent there by your
employer General Markoff--sent there as a paid assassin!"
The fellow started.
"What do you mean?" he gasped.
"Just this. That you followed a certain lady who accompanied this
gentleman here--followed and watched them for two hours." And then,
fixing his big, expressive eyes upon the man he was interrogating, he
added: "You followed them because your intention was to carry out the
plot conceived by your master--the plot to kill them both!"
"It's a lie!" cried the traitor. "There is no plot."
"Listen," exclaimed Hartwig, in a low, firm voice. "It is your
intention to commit an outrage, and having done so, you will denounce to
the police certain persons living in this house. Arrests will follow,
if any return to Russia, the General will be congratulated by the
Emperor upon his astuteness in laying hands so quickly upon the
conspirators, and half-a-dozen innocent persons will be sentenced to
long terms of imprisonment, if they dare ever go back to their own
country. You see," he laughed, "that I am fully aware of the remarkably
ingenious programme in progress."
The man's face was pale as death. He saw that his secret was out.
"And now," Hartwig went on: "when I tell these people who live below--
your comrades and fellow-workers in the revolutionary cause--what will
they say--eh? Well, Danilo Danilovitch, I shall, when I've finished
with you, leave you to their tender mercies. You remember, perhaps, the
fate of Boutakoff, the informer at Kieff, how he was attached to a baulk
of timber and placed upon a circular saw, how Raspopoff died of slow
starvation in the hands of those whom he had betrayed at Moscow, and how
Mirski, in Odessa, was horribly tortured and killed by the three
brothers of the unfortunate girl he had given into the hands of the
police. No," he laughed, "your friends show neither leniency nor
humanity towards those who betray them."
"But you will not do this!" gasped the man, his eyes dilated by fear,
now that he had been brought to bay.
"I have explained my intention," replied Hartwig slowly and firmly.
"But you will not!" he cried. "I--I implore you to spare me! You
appear to know everything."
"Yes," was the reply. "I know how, by your perfidious actions, dozens,
nay hundreds, of innocent persons have been sent into exile. To the
revolutionists throughout the whole of Russia there is one great leader
known as `The One'--the leader whose identity is unknown, but whose word
is law among a hundred thousand conspirators. You are that man! Your
mandates are obeyed to the letter, but you keep your identity profoundly
secret. These poor misguided fools who follow you believe that the
secrecy as to the identity of their fearless leader whom they only know
as `The Wonder Worker,' or generally `The One,' is due to a fear of
arrest. Ah! Danilo Danilovitch," he laughed, "you who lead them so
cleverly are a strong man, and a clever man. You hold the fate of all
revolutionary Russia in your hand. You form plots, you get your poor,
ill-read puppets to carry them out, and afterwards you send them to
Siberia in batches of hundreds. A clever game this game of terrorism.
But I tell you frankly it is at an end now. What will these comrades of
yours say when they are made aware that `The One'--the man believed by
so many to be sent providentially to sweep away the dynasty and kill the
enemies of freedom--is identical with Danilo Danilovitch, the bootmaker
of Kazan and police-spy. Rather a blow to the revolutionary
organisation--eh?"
"And a blow for you," I added, addressing the unkempt-looking fellow for
the first time. Though I confess that I did not recognise him as the
man who threw the bomb in Petersburg, I added: "It was you who committed
the dastardly outrage upon the Grand Duke Nicholas, and for which many
innocent persons are now immured in those terrible cells below the water
at Schusselburg--you who intend that His Imperial Highness's daughter
and myself shall die!" I cried.
He made no reply. He saw that we were in possession of all the facts
concerning his disgraceful past. I could see how intensely agitated he
had become, and though he was striving to conceal his fear, yet his
thin, sinewy hands were visibly trembling.
"You admit, by your silence, that you were author of that brutal
outrage!" exclaimed Hartwig quickly. "In it, my friend here narrowly
escaped with his life. Now, answer me this question," he demanded
imperiously. "With what motive did you launch that bomb at the Grand
Duke's carriage?"
"With the same motive that every attempt is made," was his bold reply.
"You lie!" Hartwig said bluntly. "That plot was not yours. Confess
it."
"No plot is mine. The various revolutionary circles form plots, and I,
as the unknown head, approve of them. But," asked the spy suddenly,
"who are you that you should question me thus?"
"I have already given you my name," he said. "Ivan Arapoff, of
Petersburg."
"Then, Mr Arapoff, I think we may change the topic of conversation,"
said the man, suddenly quite calm and collected. I detected that,
though an unprincipled scoundrel and without either conscience or
remorse, his was yet a strong and impelling personality--a man who,
among the enthusiastic students and the younger generation of Russia,
which form the bulk of the revolutionists, would no doubt be listened to
and obeyed as a leader.
"Good. If you wish me to leave you, I will do so. I will go and have a
little chat with your interesting and enlightened friends downstairs,"
exclaimed Hartwig with a triumphant laugh. Then, turning to me, he
added: "Come, Mr Trewinnard, let's go."
"No!" gasped the spy. "No, stop! I--I want to fully understand what
your intentions are--now that you know the truth concerning the identity
of `The One' and other recent matters."
"Intentions!" echoed the great detective. "I have none. I have merely
forewarned you of what you must expect--the fate of the informer,
unless--"
"Unless what?" he cried.
"Unless you confess the object of the outrage upon the Grand Duke."
"I tell you I do not know."
"But the plot was your own. None of your comrades knew of it."
"It was not my own."
"You carried it out?"
"And if I admit anything you will hand me over to the police--eh?"
"Surely you know that is impossible in England. You cannot be arrested
here for a political crime," Hartwig said.
"I saw you throw the bomb," I added. "You were dressed differently, but
I now recognise you. Come, admit it."
"I admit nothing," he answered sullenly. "You are both of you entirely
welcome to your opinions."
"Forty persons are now in prison for your crime," I said. "Have you no
remorse--no pity?"
"I have nothing to say."
"But you shall speak," I cried angrily. "Once I nearly lost my life
because of the outrage you committed, and last night you followed me in
Brighton with the distinct purpose of killing both Her Highness and
myself. But you were frustrated--or perhaps you feared arrest. But I
tell you plainly, if ever I catch you in our vicinity again I shall hand
you over to the nearest policeman. And at the police-court the truth
concerning `The One' will quickly be revealed and seized upon by the
halfpenny press."
"We need not wait for that, Mr Trewinnard," remarked Hartwig. "We can
deal with him this evening--once and for all. When we leave here we
shall leave with the knowledge that `The One' no longer exists and the
revolutionary party--Terrorists, as they are pleased to call themselves
on account of the false bogy which the Secret Police have raised in
Russia--will take their own steps towards punishing the man to whom they
owe all the great disasters which have befallen their schemes during the
past couple of years. Truly, the vengeance of the Terrorist against his
betrayer is a terrible vengeance indeed."
As he spoke the creak of a footstep was heard on the landing outside the
locked door.
I raised my finger to command silence, whereupon the man known
throughout all revolutionary Russia as "The One" crossed the room
swiftly, and unlocking the door, looked out. But he found no one.
Yet I feel certain that someone had been lurking there. That slow creak
of the bare boards showed that the pressure of a foot had been released.
Yet whoever had been listening had escaped swiftly down the stairs, now
dark and unlighted. Danilovitch reentered the bedroom, his face white
as a sheet.
"Somebody has overheard!" he gasped in a low, hoarse voice. "They know
the truth!"
"Yes," responded my companion in a hard, distinct tone. "They know the
truth because of your own failure to be frank with us. I warned you.
But you have not heeded."
"Your words were overheard," he whispered. "They no doubt suspected you
to be officers of police who had found me here in my hiding-place, and
were, therefore, listening. I was a fool!" he cried, throwing his hands
above his head. "I was an accursed fool!"
His lips were grey, his dark eyes seemed to be starting from his head.
Well did he know the terrible fate which awaited him as a betrayer and
informer.
"Why did you throw that bomb?" I cried. "Why did you last night follow
the Grand Duchess Natalia with such evil intent? Tell me," I urged.
"No!" cried "The One," springing at me fiercely. "I will tell you
nothing--nothing!" he shrieked. "You have betrayed me--you have cast me
into the hands of my enemies. But, by Heaven! you shall neither of you
leave this place alive," he shrieked. "My comrades shall deal with you
as you justly deserve. I will see that you are not allowed to speak.
Neither of you shall utter a single word against me!"
Then with a harsh, triumphant laugh he called loudly for help to those
below.
In an instant Hartwig and I both realised that the tables had been
suddenly and unexpectedly turned upon us, and that we were now placed in
most deadly and imminent peril. The object of the informer was to close
our mouths at once, for only by so doing could he save himself from that
terrible fate which must assuredly befall him.
It was his own life--or ours!