THE LITTLE FRONT ROOM.
When Poubalov had fallen to the floor of the car and Clara was bending
over him, his dark eyes shone with savage luster as he said:
"I am not hurt, Miss Hilman, but I would I were, if I could thereby
gain your sympathy."
"Not hurt!" she repeated aghast at the spectacle he presented, and
unable to credit his words. He lay flat on his back, and protruding
upward from his closely-buttoned coat was the dagger. It looked as if
half the length of the blade had been buried in his body.
The passengers gathered about, horrified and excited, while the man
whom they supposed to be dying, sat up in the aisle and deliberately
wrenched the blade from his bosom.
"See," he said holding it aloft where nearly everybody could observe
it, "the point is badly blunted, and I shall have to grind it down, but
there is no blood upon it!"
Then he laughed quietly, sprang to his feet, and with strong arms
helped Clara back to her chair. She was horribly shocked by the
episode, for Litizki's melancholy meditations rushed back upon her, and
she seemed again to hear him promising yet to do something for her that
should be of great service. And this was it!
She did not then realize that it was a remark of her own that had
inspired his mad brain to action, and it was well that she did not,
for it was enough that she should suffer as she did, accusing herself
of failing to foresee what would happen if the little tailor were
permitted to go on tormenting himself with the mystery, and indulging
his immeasurable hatred of Poubalov. How could she have been so
selfish, she thought, as to encourage the unfortunate man to devote his
life to her purpose, and to arouse such devotion that he was carried by
it to the very commission of murder? She shuddered as the word occurred
to her, and she looked appealingly at Poubalov, as if to seek from
him some further assurance that the miracle had occurred to avert the
tragedy that Litizki had planned.
"It is absolutely nothing, Miss Hilman," said the spy, interpreting her
glance correctly, "save a hole in my coat and the probable perforation
of some interesting documents. I will show you."
Having just placed her in the chair, he was bending over her as he
spoke, and now he stood erect, and while all the passengers looked on
amazed, he unbuttoned his coat and drew from the breast pocket a large
leather wallet filled with papers.
"I wear no armor," he said, smiling as he laid the dagger on the window
ledge, that he might use both hands in showing how he had escaped.
One side of the wallet had the mark of the knife, a gash clean cut in
the leather, evidence sufficient that the blow had fallen with all
the force that Litizki could command. Opening the wallet, he took out
several folded papers, showing without revealing their nature, that the
blade had pierced them. At last he drew forth a little copper plate,
and held it up to the light.
"Yes," he said, "that finished it. The wallet itself was almost
sufficient to save me, but without this plate I think I should have
been scratched a bit. I had this plate engraved a short time ago in New
York, as I wished to present my card with my name printed in characters
that would be intelligible to English-speaking people. The engraver
gave me the plate, of course, when he delivered my cards, and at the
moment I put it here for convenience. I had forgotten all about it. You
see," handing the plate to a gentleman who stood beside him, "my friend
managed to erase my name but he left me my life."
"You are to be congratulated," exclaimed the gentleman, returning the
plate after a vain attempt to decipher the name. The point of the
dagger had completely obliterated several letters and scratched most of
the rest.
Clara sat during this with her handkerchief to her lips, trying to
recover her mental poise, and concentrating her mind on the fact that a
tragedy had not taken place. The train rolled slowly into the station,
and the passengers were speedily occupied with escaping from their
confinement. One officious gentleman remarked to Poubalov:
"You will, of course, report this matter to the police? I shall be
pleased to give you my card if you require a witness, although I was in
the wash-room at the time you were struck down."
"Thank you," responded Poubalov, with a grave smile, "I shall not
require your card, as I have no complaint to make."
"What!" blustered the passenger, "you won't have your assailant
arrested? Such a man ought not to be at large."
"The railroad officials may take that view of it if they choose," said
the spy, calmly; "I have no desire in the matter."
Amazed and indignant, the officious passenger hunted up an official of
the company, and having insisted on a thorough investigation of the
attempted murder, went home complacent in that he had done his duty as
a citizen. The train-men, of course, reported what they knew of the
occurrence to their chief, but the assailant had leaped from the train,
the name of the victim was not known, and the result was a lame account
of the episode at the nearest police station late in the evening. The
police had nothing to work upon, and, therefore, said nothing of it
to the reporters when they made their regular calls at the station;
and when at last, very late at night, a reporter to whose ears an
exaggerated rumor had come, telephoned for corroboration, the sergeant
in charge could only say that something of the kind had occurred; and
thus it came about that one enterprising newspaper had an excusably
imperfect report of the occurrence.
Clara would have left the train without Poubalov's assistance, but
he took her arm in his, caught up her handbag, and helped her to the
platform, in spite of herself. Still suffering from the shock, she
realized by the close contact with him how masterful was his influence,
and how by force of character alone he must accomplish quite as much in
his unattractive employment as by intrigue and deceit.
"I thank you," she said faintly when she stood upon the platform; "I
can go alone quite well now. I cannot tell you how glad I am that you
escaped. I should have felt guilty if anything serious had happened,
and I feel to blame for what has occurred."
"You mustn't borrow trouble that way, Miss Hilman," he responded,
gallantly; "the sanest man might well leap to folly if he imagined that
you wished him to."
"It pains me to have you make light of it," said Clara; "I assure you
that I have quite recovered."
"You will permit me to hand you to a carriage, Miss Hilman? I will not
intrude further, believe me."
She nodded assent, and they were about to proceed along the platform
when Poubalov stepped squarely in front of her.
"Pardon me," he said earnestly, "if I do not go as far even as the
carriage. I have not yet had opportunity to say what I called to tell
you about Wednesday evening, or to explain why I left your house so
abruptly and informally. I shall call to-morrow to complete my errand.
I do not ask your permission to call, as what I would say is important,
and you will want to hear it. This way, cabby! take care of this lady.
Till to-morrow, Miss Hilman."
He had moved about slightly as he spoke and now darted away with
quick strides. By standing in front of her and moving as he did, he
had completely concealed from her view the driver, Billings, who was
walking rapidly down the platform and who passed close by them.
Mystified as usual by his strange conduct, but relieved that he was
gone, Clara followed the cabman and in due time arrived safely at
home. She went to bed at once, telling her cousin enough of what had
occurred to show that she had endured a strain. Louise sat in her room
until late at night, but Clara slept peacefully to all appearances, and
seemed to require no watching. In the early morning Litizki's letter
arrived, and a servant took it to Clara's room. She read it before
dressing.
While it recalled the shudders with which she had viewed the
possibilities of Litizki's crime, and made her conscientious soul
more sensible of what she deemed her responsibility in the matter, it
nevertheless awakened hope afresh in her heart. Litizki was so positive
in his belief that Ivan was confined in Poubalov's lodging-house, that
she was well nigh convinced by his assurances, crazy though his brain
undoubtedly was; but there were Poubalov's own utterances on that night
when the little tailor had started to open the door to the hall room.
They were not direct, but was ever Poubalov direct save when telling a
straightforward lie? He had prevented Litizki from opening that door,
and were not his ambiguous words susceptible of the interpretation that
Ivan was, as Litizki had said, confined there, bound and gagged?
She read and reread again the parts of the letter that had reference to
this clew, and decided that it would be wrong not to act upon Litizki's
suggestions. She was resolved that nothing she would do should be
calculated to precipitate another tragedy, but rescue her lover she
must, and she set herself to thinking how it could be done.
When she was dressed, she went to her cousin's room, and Louise was
surprised to be awakened by Clara, who looked none the worse for her
extraordinary adventures.
"I'm not going to ask you how you are this morning," said Louise, with
mock resentment; "I couldn't look as well as you do if I employed a
trained nurse the year round."
"Perhaps I look better than I feel, dear," responded Clara; "but I
confess that, in spite of everything, I do feel hopeful. Here is a sad
letter from poor Litizki. Read it, and tell me if, underneath all his
terrible madness, there is not some ground for hope."
Louise read with awe-struck attention, and laid the long letter down
with a shudder of horror.
"How dreadful!" she exclaimed under her breath, "and yet with what
perfect clearness he expresses himself! No rambling, few repetitions,
everything directly to the point as he sees it."
"That is the way it impresses me. Litizki was not all mad. Would it not
be madness in us to ignore his information?"
"Indeed it would! what will you do?"
"Do you know Paul Palovna's address?"
"No, but Ralph would."
"I shall write a note to Paul. Get right up, please, and write to
Ralph, telling him to see that my note reaches Paul as soon as
possible. Of course, we cannot follow poor Litizki's plan, for he
believed that he had killed Poubalov. How he must suffer! But we can
investigate his theory, at all events, in our own way."
The letters they wrote were taken to Ralph Harmon by a servant, and
shortly before noon Paul appeared at Mr. Pembroke's house, in answer to
Clara's summons. Her uncle had returned to Boston as he had planned,
but he had sent word that he should not be able to come home until some
time in the evening. So, again, Clara was thrown upon her own resources
for guidance and action.
Clara went over the whole situation with Paul, who expressed his regret
that she had not sooner called upon him for assistance.
"Not," he said, "that I could have done anything better than you have,
but that I should have liked to help."
"Events have happened too rapidly," she replied, "to make it possible
for me to think of more than each episode as it occurred. I don't want
you to take a step in this if it is to be at the cost of the slightest
danger to yourself."
"There is no danger," said Paul; "I do not underrate Poubalov's
capacity for evil, but he has no reason to work against me. I doubt
if he would recognize me, though he probably knows my name as that of
Strobel's most intimate friend. As I understand it, you wish me to make
a thorough investigation of Poubalov's house."
"Yes, it should have been done days ago, and I would have seen to it
had Litizki told me of his experience there."
"It will be very simple. I will go there to look for rooms. Even if
he should be there, and see me, he cannot well prevent me from going
through the house. I will report to you before the day is over."
Clara had not shown Litizki's letter to Paul, but she told him enough
about it and its contents to convince him that the tailor had been on
the right track. He was in feverish haste to get downtown and effect a
solution of the mystery at once, and he more than half believed that he
should succeed.
His hope that Poubalov would not be in at the time of his call was
realized, of course, for the spy was at that time on his way up the
harbor after bidding the Cephalonia bon voyage. A scrubwoman answered
his ring at 32 Bulfinch Place and left him standing in the hall while
she went for the landlady.
Paul had observed that the window just over the door was concealed by
the blinds, whereas every other window on the front of the house was
fully exposed.
"I have several rooms vacant," said the landlady as she came jingling a
bunch of keys from a back room. She was a stout, good-humored-looking
woman whose pleasant face, a little hardened by business dealings,
perhaps, did not suggest the duplicity that would be essential to an
alliance with such a man as Poubalov. "What kind of a room do you want?"
Paul thought he would look at them all.
"I don't mind the price so much," he said, "as the way the room strikes
me."
"Well," responded the landlady with a sigh, "if you want a five-dollar
room, I'd like to save climbing stairs to show those at two dollars.
Come on."
"There's a room for five," she said, opening the door of the back room
up one flight. It was the room adjoining that occupied by Poubalov.
"The others on this floor are occupied."
"This little front room, too?" asked Paul, his hand on the door. He
had quietly tried it and found it locked before she answered in the
affirmative and started up the next flight.
They looked at every room in the house above the second floor. Some of
them were occupied, but the landlady opened the doors and looked in.
Paul noticed that the only locked door was the one to the front hall
room next to Poubalov's.
"Well," said the landlady at last as they stood on the landing beside
Poubalov's door, "do you see anything you like?"
"Yes," answered Paul, "I'll take this back room," and he took a
five-dollar bill from his pocket and gave it to her. He said he would
occupy the room at once, and the landlady gave him a house key.
While this transaction was in progress, a young woman came up the
stairs, humming a tune with that nonchalance that indicates familiarity
with one's surroundings, opened the door of the little front room with
a key she took from her purse, and went in, leaving the door open until
she had thrown back the blinds.
"She's been with me a year and a half," remarked the landlady,
complacently, "and I don't believe you could hire her to occupy any
other room."