THE KEY TO IVAN'S PRISON.
The train was proceeding at such comparatively slow speed that Litizki,
though he had jumped blindly and though he fell full length on the
ground, was not hurt. Before the rear car had passed he was on his feet
and making across the tracks. A fence too high for him to scale barred
his progress, and he hurried in the direction of Roxbury, looking for
some means of egress from the "yard" through which the railroad ran.
He found it at last, a narrow gate in the fence at the end of a short
street. The gate was unlocked, and Litizki was soon upon Columbus
Avenue.
Until then he had been conscious of no especial emotion, and his course
had been taken instinctively rather than with a definite purpose of
effecting his escape; but instead of breathing free now that he was
where for a time at least he could mingle with the passers unsuspected,
a great fear came upon him. Throughout all the long journey he had
nursed his awful purpose calmly and steadfastly, never for an instant
wavering; now he seemed still to feel the handle of the dagger in his
palm, he saw the blade flash as he poised it over Poubalov's heart, and
he heard again the loud gasp with which the spy fell under the blow.
Litizki trembled. His throat was parched, his skin hot, but dry as the
dust on the pavement. He glanced furtively up and down the avenue, as
if to see the policeman who would presently arrest him.
Litizki had paused, unable to walk without staggering, when he dropped
so completely from heroism to trepidation. He grasped a trolley post
for support and was dimly conscious that two or three girls who were
passing laughed at him for being helplessly drunk. Half unconsciously
he felt in his pocket and drew forth the revolver with which he had
intended to kill the spy. Should he not end his misery then and there,
and cheat the hangman? He looked down at the tiny barrel, so large
in its tragic possibilities, and with the thought that he had but to
exercise a steady hand upon himself as he had upon Poubalov in order to
plunge into oblivion, he began to recover. The grated cover of a sewer
basin was at his feet and he dropped the weapon upon it. It rebounded a
very little and then slipped through the grating, out of sight and out
of reach. Litizki instantly wondered why he had done that.
"That was unreasonable. The revolver was not evidence," he muttered,
and then a wild joy surged in his heart as he reflected that he had
accomplished his purpose.
"That was no crime in the light of reason," he argued. "The necessities
of the situation demanded it, and though the law will say otherwise, I
am content."
He was almost himself again now, and it flashed upon him that his work,
after all, was but half done. There was one other step to be taken
before his heroic deed could be of service to her whom he worshiped,
and to his benefactor whom he idolized. Strobel must be freed, but how?
Certainly not by standing there at the curb in plain view, waiting to
be arrested. No; whatever be his ultimate fate, he must effect at least
a temporary escape.
Once more steadied by a purpose to strive for, Litizki crossed the
avenue and walked on in the same general direction until he came to
Washington Street. His delay at the curb had been brief as measured by
the watch. With every step he took his brain grew clearer. He saw the
folly of going to Poubalov's lodging-house in Bulfinch Place for the
purpose of releasing Strobel. His conviction that Strobel was confined
there had not been shaken by any of the events since his failure to
expose Poubalov's secret. News of the murder would undoubtedly be taken
to that house before he could get there. The release must be effected
by some other hand than his own; but what matter? He had made the
release possible. Miss Hilman would ever give him credit for it, and
that was enough, as undoubtedly she would tell Strobel how it came to
pass.
His plan of operation was fully formed when he reached Washington
Street. He boarded the first Chelsea ferry car that came along, and set
himself to thinking of it. When the conductor touched his shoulder to
remind him of his fare, he started violently as if the avenging hand of
law had been laid upon him. There was a recurrence of the dreadful fear
that had momentarily possessed him, and again he shook as if with an
ague. He felt an almost irresistible impulse to jump from the car and
run; and when at last he left it, near the far end of Hanover Street,
he had not yet recovered. With great difficulty he dragged his steps
through the crowded streets of the North End until he came to the house
where Vargovitch lived. As he climbed the stairs, he felt his courage
return; and when Vargovitch bade him enter, he was again the somber,
depressed figure with which all his acquaintances were familiar.
"Vargovitch," he said directly but with averted eyes, "I leave the
country to-morrow, never to return. Do not ask me why. You will know
soon enough after I have gone. See, I have so much money," and he
emptied the contents of his purse upon the table. "It is enough for the
present, perhaps, but I shall some day need more, and I leave behind me
accounts and stock, to say nothing of business good will, that are of
value. I want you to help me realize upon them."
Vargovitch looked sternly at his friend.
"That mad head of yours," he responded, "has led you at last to
difficulty from which there is no exit. I will ask no questions,
Litizki, but I will not be concerned in your affair. You should not
have come here."
Litizki was sufficiently master of himself to repress the tremor that
threatened him.
"Do you desert me, Vargovitch?" he asked, turning his dull eyes
apathetically on his comrade.
"I'll accept no responsibility for what you may have done," returned
Vargovitch, "I will neither harbor you nor inform upon you."
"I do not ask the one, and I know you would not do the other. I shall
remain but a short time. Come! will you take my business and dispose of
it for me?"
"Money cannot be raised among our people to-night."
"I know it, but you can send me some when you have collected. Let me
sit down and write a moment."
Vargovitch silently placed writing materials before him, and Litizki
wrote rapidly. When he had done, he handed the paper to his friend. It
was a surrender of all his business property to Vargovitch, as complete
a bill of sale as he could draw.
"Take it or destroy it," said Litizki; "I go now, and by and by I shall
send you my address. If you have accepted the trust I impose upon you,
you will send me money; if not--" The tailor shrugged his shoulders and
went to the door. "It is the last time you look upon me, Vargovitch,"
he concluded.
"It is a wild scheme," muttered Vargovitch, looking at the document,
"but we will see."
The noise of the door closing aroused him. Litizki had left the room.
On the street Litizki again had to struggle against the fear that his
crime excited. All through the long night it came to him at irregular
intervals, and he vibrated between an exaltation when he regarded
himself as a hero, and abject cowardice when the rustling of a leaf
made his very soul shiver. On this occasion, that is, after leaving
Vargovitch, he staggered through unfamiliar streets and alleys,
hoping that no friend would see him, and at length during a period of
self-possession, he crossed the ferry to East Boston. There he took a
room in an emigrant's hotel near the Cunard steamship dock. He knew
that some boat of this line would depart on the morrow, the regular
sailing day, and he had resolved to take passage in it.
In the office of the hotel he found that the boat was the Cephalonia,
and that she was scheduled to start at half-past eleven. That was a
late hour, and he would be in great peril until then, but there was
nothing for it but to take his chances. So he gathered up a lot of
writing materials and retired to his room. He spent most of the night
in writing to Clara.
"In staying your hand," he began abruptly, without address of any
sort, "from exacting from Alexander Poubalov the penalty of his crime
against you, the penalty which your hand alone was worthy to exact, I
was impelled not by egotism, or sudden emotion. It was my purpose to
save you for a happier career than with all your nobility of character
you could have achieved had you yourself done the deed. I shall try
to escape the punishment that society would inflict upon me for this
act of justice, for I find that at this moment I cling to my miserable
life as does the dog whose master starves and maltreats him. If I do
not escape, it will matter not at all, and I ask no tears from your
beautiful eyes. I know your character so well that I shall die content
with the gratitude that I know will warm your heart for your unworthy
servant.
"The blow that struck away the mighty obstacle to your success and
happiness was but the key to the door that is closed upon Ivan Strobel.
The happiness of opening that door with my own hands is not to be for
me, and I do not deserve it. I am content to show you the way.
"Poubalov's rooms are at 32 Bulfinch Place. He occupies two, possibly
three rooms there, and in the sense that he has undoubtedly bought
the landlady, the whole house is his. I am convinced that Strobel is
confined there, and that that has been his prison house since his
abduction last Monday. There will be no bar now to your going to the
house and releasing your lover and my benefactor. I will tell you what
room he is in, or at all events was in last Thursday night; and that
you may thoroughly understand me, I will relate how I came to know
this, although in so doing I shall lay bare to you the secrets of my
heart and confess to you the weak, good-for-nothing that I am--such as
you yourself have found me to be. I hope my action of this evening will
redeem me somewhat in your eyes."
Here followed a detailed account of Litizki's attempted rescue of
Strobel, and he mitigated none of the mortifying occurrences, freely
confessing himself a child in the hands of his adversary.
"The room where Strobel was confined on that night," he continued, "is
the little one adjoining Poubalov's main room. It is directly over the
hall as you enter, one flight up. I doubt very much whether Poubalov
has transferred his prisoner to any other part of the house, for that
would have provoked comment and perhaps suspicion among the lodgers.
Your happiness, therefore, is now in your own hands, and if I escape I
shall never see you again. I could almost wish that I would be taken,
for the certainty that you would come to visit me in my cell; but it is
my desire to relieve you of everything that might even remind you of
sorrow, and I therefore take leave of you in this letter with the hope
that you will act upon it without delay, and that no accident will rob
you of the reward which your loyalty merits."
He signed his name without any formal concluding phrases, and having
addressed, stamped and sealed the envelope, he went out to post it. The
dawn was just breaking, and he could see with sufficient clearness all
about the street and the freight yard in the vicinity of the hotel.
No one, apparently, was stirring save himself. Believing that Clara
would get the letter sooner if he took it to a post office instead of
a street box, he attempted to find one. He knew there must be a branch
office in East Boston somewhere, but he knew not where to look for it.
He had come to the corner of Maverick Square when he saw a policeman
standing within the shadow of a building. A violent shudder came over
him as he suddenly realized that he had taken one step toward the
officer with a view to asking the way to the post office! One of his
fits of fear attacked him and again he staggered, but if the policeman
had any thought of arresting him for drunkenness, he gave no indication
of it, and Litizki stumbled on undisturbed.
When he thought he could do so safely, he turned into a doorway to
recover. He saw a street letter-box within twenty feet, but as he
started toward it, letter in hand, he heard a bell ringing.
"The ferry!" he muttered, and he began to run toward the river.
With all his fears the little tailor kept his head faithful to his
purpose. It was now in his thoughts that he would cross the river to
the mainland and post his letter in the general office on Devonshire
Street, whence he knew it would be taken with the least delay to Mr.
Pembroke's house. He was conscious of the risk in thus showing himself
even in the solitary hours of the early morning, but his courage was
returning, and he felt again a hero who would brave all for her to whom
he owed fealty.
The gateman at the ferry heard him running down the street and held the
boat for him. Litizki sank breathless upon a bench and felt again the
triumph of his deed. He reveled in the difficulties he was overcoming
and the dangers that beset him.
A car was waiting at the city side of the ferry, and Litizki rode in
it as far as Scollay Square. Then he walked to the post office, and
remembering that a stamp window was open all night, he found it and
added to his letter a "special delivery."
"Now," he muttered, dropping the important missive in the box, "it
doesn't matter what happens to me."
He returned on foot by devious ways to the ferry, more than once
evading marketmen and other early pedestrians as he felt the recurrence
of terror, and at length came again to his hotel. The employees of the
house were astir, steerage passengers were beginning to arrive, and
Litizki felt a sudden repugnance to the solitude of his chamber. He sat
by a window in the office and watched the groups of men and women who
gradually gathered at the entrance to the dock, waiting to go on board
the Cephalonia or to bid good-by to friends and relatives.
Before very long he heard the strident voice of a newsboy calling his
morning wares. He listened for a quotation of startling headlines,
expecting that the murder of a passenger in a drawing-room car would be
the great news feature of the day. Perhaps this boy had not read his
papers carefully. At all events, he shouted nothing whatever concerning
the event that had crowned Litizki's life and made him a hero and a
coward at once.
After some hesitation the tailor bought a paper, and ran his eyes over
the captions of the leading articles. He found no reference to his deed
there. He examined the paper, column by column, from first page to
last, and not one line set forth so much as a hint of Poubalov's tragic
end.