THE GHOST OF POUBALOV.
Litizki laid the newspaper down and tried to reflect. He had not slept
at all since he awoke from a very brief nap in New York the morning
before; therefore, he had not dreamed the scene in the drawing-room
car. With his own hand he had actually struck Poubalov to the heart,
and his victim had fallen with the gasp and shudder of death. This was
so, and no newspaper could make it otherwise; but how should it happen
that the reporters had missed the episode?
It had happened upon a railroad train; what more probable, then, than
that the railroad officials had suppressed the news? He had read many
accounts of accidents in which the reporters set forth the reticence of
officials and employees.
"They imagine," thought Litizki, "that it is not for their interest to
let the public know that so violent a crime, so they would call it,
could be committed in one of their high-toned cars, and that, moreover,
the murderer could escape."
This thought appeased for a moment the new fear that threatened to
unman him for all time, the fear that he had failed! Though he openly
and emphatically repudiated all superstitions, and boasted over and
again that his life and views were ruled by reason alone, he was yet
subject to influences that, if they were not superstitions, were
remarkably like them. Among these were his estimate of Poubalov, whose
invincibility seemed to surpass human powers and attributes. Litizki
was conscious of this tendency to surround the spy with a supernatural
atmosphere, and he struggled against it, the result of his struggle
invariably being his deeper self-abasement as he recognized Poubalov's
immeasurable superiority. Now he felt again this superhuman character
of the spy appealing to him, setting his poor brain in a whirl, and
blurring his eyes as if a mighty wind had taken up the dust of the
street and held it suspended in a dense cloud before him.
"Bah!" exclaimed Litizki, striking his brow angrily, "he cannot"--and
he stopped suddenly, conscious that he was speaking aloud. There was
nobody in the room but a sleepy clerk, who looked up curiously from
his ledger and then bent his head again over his work. Litizki tried
to force his thoughts away from the topics that absorbed him. It
occurred to him that he had eaten nothing since the morning before,
and he went to the hotel restaurant. On the table at which he took a
seat was a newspaper left by some previous customer. It was the same
journal that had beaten its contemporaries in the first publication of
the rumor, that was finally accepted as news, concerning the elopement
of Strobel and Lizzie White. Litizki recalled the superior enterprise
of this paper, and while waiting for his breakfast, he looked it over.
Yes! there it was, and his heart bounded with joy and fear at once.
It was not a long story under a half-column head, but the few lines
were double-leaded, and paragraphed at every period. A newspaper man
would have seen at a glance that the item had come in late, after the
forms were made up, and that the editor had "lifted" a story of minor
interest to make room for this. "Probable Murder," was the caption, and
the statement beneath it was as follows:
"A passenger in one of the drawing-room cars attached to the New York
express due at Park Square at six P.M., but some hours late last
night, was stabbed just before the train reached the station.
"It is believed that the wound was mortal.
"The assailant took advantage of the excitement and confusion to jump
from the train.
"No trace of him has been found.
"The name of the victim is not known at this writing.
"No rumor concerning the tragedy reached this office until long after
midnight.
"The police, to whom the railroad officials secretly reported the
affair, for reasons best known to themselves, withhold information,
but they admit that the assault took place as described above.
"It is believed that the murderer will be arrested this morning.
"An extra edition giving full details of this occurrence will be
published at ten o'clock."
Litizki looked cautiously around the room. A policeman in full uniform
was eating at a table near the door. For one instant the tailor
meditated flight through an open window. Then he pulled himself
together and ate his breakfast. "We shall see," he thought, and he
hastened, that he might finish ahead of the policeman and pass directly
in front of him on the way to the office.
"If he is here to arrest me," reflected Litizki, "he will obey his
instructions when he sees me go out. If he lets me alone, it will mean
that there is still a chance for me."
The policeman did not stir when Litizki passed him. The tailor paid his
bill, and, the dock being open, went to the steamship office and bought
a steerage ticket for Liverpool. He was exultant once more, proud of
himself as a hero.
"The next edition, and then all the papers," he thought, "will print
my name, and everybody will know what I have done. When Strobel is
released there will be plenty of thinking people who will applaud me in
their hearts, whatever they may say aloud."
Believing that he could sleep now that his mind was relieved of
uncertainty, he went down into the men's department of the steerage
and crawled into a bunk away forward. A great many passengers were
booked for this trip, and a compartment never used except in the event
of a crowd had been fitted in the very prow of the ship. Litizki knew
that the steward would not assign the bunks there until none were left
elsewhere, and he hoped, therefore, to be undisturbed until after the
boat had started.
So he lay down upon the coarse mattress and tried to sleep. He closed
his eyes only to view again the scene in the drawing-room car. Physical
fatigue caused his mind to wander, and he would be conscious that he
was dropping into sleep when suddenly his nerves would seem to be on
fire with life, and he would start violently and grip the low rail of
his bunk as if he were about to fall out. By dint of will power he
compelled himself to remain there, although as the time passed he was
in momentary expectation of arrest. He began to regret that he had
shown himself so freely. Once the steamer was under way he would be
able to rest undisturbed by phantasies for ten days. After that, what
matter? Those ten days should be passed in full enjoyment of his one
successful act.
As the forenoon dragged along the steerage filled with men, and
there was a constant hum of voices, and the shuffling of feet as the
passengers jostled about in the narrow quarters and stowed their
baggage on and under their bunks. Several men came into Litizki's
compartment and took possession in turn of the unoccupied places. Some
of them remained, scraping acquaintance with one another, and passing
about the liquor without copious draughts of which few ocean travelers
regard a voyage as properly begun. In the saloon, champagne serves as
the exhilarant for a scene that should need no wine to set healthy
blood to sparkling; and in the steerage, the whisky flask accomplishes
its purpose just as effectively. A fellow-passenger offered his flask
to Litizki. He was no drinker, and he accepted the friendly offering
more to attract no comment to himself than because he craved a
stimulant.
Having mumbled "thanks, friend" and drunk as much as his throat would
tolerate of the fiery stuff, he lay down again. A moment or two later
he was surprised to find that he felt more composed, distinctly drowsy,
in fact. He correctly attributed this to the whisky, and he lay very
still in the hope that natural sleep would at last come upon him. This
might have been the case, but he was aroused by a rough hand on his
foot.
"Come on there, my man; come on," said a commanding voice.
"You want me, then, do you?" responded Litizki, sitting up quickly and
bumping his head against the deck.
"Save the ship, man," remarked the voice, jocosely, "and it will be
better for your head. That deck's made of iron. Let me see your ticket."
So it was not a policeman. Litizki showed his ticket, and the purser's
assistant passed on. It must be approaching the hour of departure. The
tailor, fully aroused, wished that his neighbor would offer him more
liquor.
"Do you think," he asked, "that I would have time to go ashore and get
a bottle of whisky?"
"Yes," was the facetious reply, "but you wouldn't have time to get
back. Never mind, partner. Have a drop of this," and again the flask
was passed to him.
Litizki did not lie down again immediately after drinking. He sat
crouched over with his hands about his knees, wondering if Miss Hilman
had received his letter. The men in his compartment were chatting and
laughing noisily. The single port-hole admitted so little light that he
could not have distinguished the features of any of them except by the
closest scrutiny. The steerage steward looked in.
"There's one place here, sir," he said, "that your man can have."
"All right," was the reply, in a wheezy, cracked voice; "take it,
Billings."
The tailor started. Was not that the name of the man whom Miss Hilman
had mentioned as the driver of Strobel's second carriage? Could it be
that he was taking flight, too? or was it a mere coincidence of names?
A young fellow, preceded by an odor of strong drink, and followed by a
decrepit old man, edged into the compartment. He carried a black, shiny
portmanteau which he threw upon the vacant bunk.
"There!" he growled, "that was heavy. Give me another swig, Mr. Dexter."
"You shall have it, my boy, and welcome," croaked the old man,
producing a flask from his pocket; "take a good, long drink. That's
it! down with it, he! he! Pleasant voyage to you, Billings, my boy!"
He patted the young fellow on the shoulder; and Billings, supposing
that his hand was extended to take the flask, turned his back, and when
he had drunk, corked the flask and remarked thickly:
"I'll keep it thish time."
"All right, all right," responded Dexter; "you may have it now. I'm
going on deck. It's too close here."
He hobbled away, and Billings staggered after him.
Full of wonder, and almost forgetting his own part in the Strobel
matter, Litizki descended from his bunk and went up to the deck also.
To his amazement, he found that the Cephalonia was already a hundred
yards from the dock. Several conceited little tugs were puffing away
at stem and stern, to turn the gigantic ship about. A great crowd
of people were on the pier, waving hands and handkerchiefs, and the
salutes were frantically returned by the hundreds on board who crowded
close to the rail.
Billings had gone to the rail away from the shore, and Dexter stood
beside him, still talking with forced jocularity, to which the young
man listened with only half comprehension. The most that his fuddled
brain could recognize was that he was on board a steamer bound for
Europe, a big enough fact in itself to subdue the ordinary mind.
Litizki watched the pair with troubled curiosity. Could this be the
same Billings? and could his going away portend any failure for the
plan that Litizki had executed at such heroic self-sacrifice? It could
not be possible! The guilty driver might well flee from punishment,
but neither his presence nor his absence could materially affect the
outcome.
Thinking thus, the tailor allowed his eyes to wander from Billings and
Dexter, taking in the sights of the ship with indifferent interest.
Suddenly he retreated a pace, and grasped a hatchway to prevent himself
from sinking prone upon the deck. Were all his railings against
superstition and the supernatural but empty words? Had he gone stark
mad, or was that the ghost of Poubalov leaning negligently over
the rail of the promenade deck and grinning down at him in evident
amusement at his consternation?
A long cry of terror seemed to struggle for utterance in Litizki's
throat, but it found vent in a pitiable whine that nobody heard above
the joyous cheering of the passengers except his frightened self. He
could not take his eyes from that awful face, whose every feature
seemed to glow with perfect health. How long he stood there, gasping,
powerless under the terrible spell, Litizki could not have told, but a
complete revulsion of feeling overcame him when the figure on the deck
above shrugged its shoulders, sneered, and strode forward out of sight.
Then Litizki knew that he had failed.
Where now was all the exaltation of heroism that had sustained him?
Where his devotion to Reason, that false goddess whose dictates had
seemed to him infallible? Even in his agony of humiliation the light
broke in upon him, and he saw that the guiding spirit of his miserable
career had not been abstract, unimpeachable Reason, but a base, weak
imitation--the lucubration of a disordered intellect, Litizki's reason.
The unhappy man tried to think, not so much to explain how it had
happened that the dagger had not done its work, but how should he act
now? There was no withdrawal from the voyage already begun, and he
wished least of all to go ashore. Why had he so insanely thrown away
his revolver? The breast that had resisted a knife driven by his feeble
arm could not withstand the force of a well-directed bullet.
What should he do? Would fate be once more kind, just once more, and
some time during the coming ten days, put Poubalov in his way so that
he could push the villain overboard?
Whisky mounted to his brain and told him to hope. He crawled up the
steps to the forecastle-top whence he could command a view of the
promenade deck throughout its entire length. Poubalov was there,
idly observing the passing harbor. He hardly stirred until, just
after passing Boston Light, the steamer's engines were stopped, and
with several others, ladies and gentlemen, he went to the main deck.
A tug came alongside, the visitors and the representatives of the
Cunard Company crossed the plank, and in another moment the great
vessel throbbed again with the revolutions of the screw that, barring
accident, would not cease its work until it had propelled the steamer
to the other side of the world.
Poubalov stood in front of the wheel-house of the tug and waved his
hat to Litizki, and by the side of the spy stood the decrepit old man,
Dexter.