When the Light Failed
After considerable delay the door was opened ajar by a diminutive,
white-haired old man, who demanded in a quavering voice the names and
business of the callers.
"We wish to see M. Vladimir Klostivitch on private affairs," replied
the Sub. "It is useless to give one's names, for we are unknown to
your master. You can inform him that we are comrades from England."
"I am Vladimir Klostivitch," announced the old man. "Be pleased to
enter."
"I am sorry to have made a mistake," said Fordyce apologetically.
"It is nothing," rejoined Klostivitch. "Can I offer you tea? Excuse
the fact that I am alone in the house. Please be seated."
The room into which Fordyce and his companion were shown was a large
low-ceilinged place, devoid of a fire-place. It was well heated,
warmth being obtained by means of a large closed-in stove in the
centre of the room, over which was a bed-box, similar to those
extensively used by the muzhiks in the smaller towns and villages of
central Russia. The furniture consisted of a massive table, two
arm-chairs and a few smaller ones, a plain sideboard, and a tall
press. The floor was composed of stone flags on which rushes were
strewn.
"By Jove," cogitated Fordyce, while his host set about to prepare tea
in the Russian style--strongly-brewed beverage with lemon juice
instead of milk, "I didn't picture Klostivitch to be such a shrimp of
a fellow! If his cunning only equals his bodily size, then we ought
to have an easy job. Hanged if I can imagine a white-haired,
soft-spoken fellow like that as a dangerous Anarchist or Extremist.
After all, there's little to choose between the two names."
Presently the tea was handed round to the accompaniment of an
exchange of small talk. Apparently the Russian was seeking to "draw"
his visitors, while Fordyce, in the joint role of interpreter and
delegate, carefully sounded his ground.
"I understand that you are interested in the cigarette industry,"
remarked Klostivitch. "Do you bear letters of introduction from the
head of our London house?"
"Cigarette industry?" repeated the Sub. "I never said so. We called
at the request of a Mr. Mindiggle, of the town of Otherport."
The Russian shook his head.
"I know nothing of a person of that name," he remarked bluntly.
"Perhaps you can give further particulars?"
He fixed his visitor with a piercing glance from his deep-set eyes
and awaited his reply.
Fordyce made no attempt to answer until he had thought out a new plan
of action, occasioned by Klostivitch's disclaimer.
"If you do not know Mr. Mindiggle there is nothing further to be
said," he remarked. "We must have made a mistake."
"Quite possibly," rejoined the other dryly.
"However, I might add," continued Fordyce, rising and holding up a
small leather bag, "that the gentleman whose identity you disclaim
entrusted me with a small parcel--of diamonds, I understand--to be
given to you personally."
Without allowing the dummy packet out of his hands, the Sub allowed
Klostivitch to read the address.
"Certainly it is for me," admitted the Russian. "But surely,
Monsieur, you have handled this precious parcel very carelessly? Are
you not aware that diamonds greatly deteriorate if exposed to low
temperatures?"
"Hanged if I am," declared Fordyce. "I was certainly not warned to
that effect. But, look here----"
Klostivitch held up a warning finger.
"No harm has apparently been done," he remarked. "In any case, a
brief examination of the diamonds will confirm my belief. If you will
come with me to my testing laboratory we will make a joint
investigation."
Again Fordyce hesitated. He was doubtful whether to tackle the man
straight away or to wait until the Russian himself made the discovery
that the packet contained nothing but broken glass. The mere fact
that the Extremist had finally accepted the statement that the
"diamonds" were for him was sufficient proof that he was in league
with a dangerous secret society in Great Britain. Cornered and
threatened, he would be pretty certain to give the names of his
accomplices and the formula of the ingredients from which the deadly
nitro-talcite was compounded.
The fellow might raise a terrific commotion afterwards, Fordyce
reflected, but the Sub was prepared to risk that. Once he and the
petty officer were clear they would discard their disguise and appear
in their true characters as members of Submarine R19's complement. In
any case, they could take efficient steps to prevent Vladimir
Klostivitch raising an alarm until several hours had elapsed.
"All right; lead the way, monsieur," he exclaimed.
The old man opened the door of the stove and thrust a strip of wood
into the glowing furnace. With this he lighted a cast-iron oil lamp.
"My laboratory is below the ground," he explained, "and owing to the
scarcity of candles, and the failure of the authorities to maintain
the supply of electric light, I am compelled to fall back upon this
lamp. It will be quite enough for the brief examination I propose to
make. Follow me, if you please."
Crossing the stone floor, Klostivitch threw back a thick, faded
curtain that hitherto concealed a doorway under the broad staircase.
A rush of warm air swept from the gloomy opening. In spite of the
otherwise cheerless conditions, the house in Bobbinsky Prospekt was
well heated, even the cellars.
"Be careful," cautioned the guide as he preceded his guests and held
the lamp low in order that its feeble rays might illuminate the worn
stone steps. "It is not often that visitors honour my laboratory with
their presence, otherwise I might have devoted a more accessible
place to my researches."
"It is quite all right," rejoined Fordyce. "At any rate," he
soliloquized, "you are in front of me, so it will go hard with you if
you try any low-down tricks."
Full fifteen steps were descended before the three men gained a level
passage. Placing his hand on one of the walls the Sub made the
discovery that the stonework was warm. On the other side of the wall
was, apparently, the large stove used for heating the whole house.
Suddenly the lamp went out.
"A thousand apologies!" exclaimed Klostivitch. "It was the draught.
Have you a box of matches by any chance?"
"Yes, I have," replied the Sub, secretly rejoicing that the
extinguishing of the lamp was by accident, not design, and that the
Russian seemed as anxious as the others to rectify matters.
He unbuttoned his heavy greatcoat, and, removing his gloves, fumbled
for his silver match-box.
"Here it is, monsieur," he exclaimed, extending his hand.
He waited a few seconds, under the impression that the Russian was
groping for the proffered article. Then he repeated the announcement,
adding, in a tone of involuntary impatience: "Where are you?"
"Here," replied a mocking voice above his head, "blundering
busybodies that you are! You are securely trapped this time, and you
will have good cause to repent of your unwarrantable and interfering
curiosity."
Then came the dull thud of a heavy stone slab falling into position,
and Fordyce and the petty officer found themselves prisoners in the
cellar of the mysterious house.