The Fate of Klostivitch
Red dawn was breaking when a Russian naval pulling-cutter ran
alongside the Probenjsky Quay. Already the ice, that a few hours
previously had been broken by gangs of men impressed under the
Revolutionary Government's decree for that task, was again forming,
rendering it a matter of difficulty for the boat to force her way
through the last twenty yards of water.
The quay was deserted. Heavy showers of sleet had dispersed the
crowds of demonstrators who had "run wild" the previous evening. In
that respect nature had found a far more efficacious method of
dealing with the disorderly mob than had the Red Guards and their
ever-ready machine-guns. Many broken windows and walls splayed with
bullet-marks were the remaining evidences of the orgy that had ended
in bloodshed and rain, and now a fall of snow was obliterating
sinister patches on the roadway and pavements in a mantle of dazzling
whiteness.
At the head of the flight of stone steps stood a sentry-box, the
diagonal stripes of the Imperial regime still discernible under a
hastily-applied coat of yellow paint. Within, and reclining against
the woodwork, was a sleeping sentry.
Upon the approach of half a dozen or more bluejackets he bestirred
himself sufficiently to push aside an empty vodka glass and grasp his
rifle.
"It is all right, comrade!" exclaimed the foremost of the party
reassuringly. "We've just had private information as to where we can
obtain some sides of beef. We haven't tasted fresh beef for nearly a
month. We belong to the _Kuptchino_, and have just come in from
Helsingfors."
"Have you your permit, comrade?" enquired the sentry.
The bluejacket solemnly closed one eye and slipped a sheaf of rouble
notes into the man's hand.
"'Ts--sh!" he whispered. "These are better than permits, Comrade
Ivan. We will not be long, and when we return there will be a bottle
of vodka for you."
"So long as you do not get me into trouble I am content," remarked
the befuddled soldier. "A whole bottle, mind, and none of the stuff
from the Winter Palace."
He laughed at his own jest, and his listeners laughed too, for the
story of the pillaged wine-cellars of the Imperial Palace was now
common property--how the Red Guards had looted thousands of bottles,
drunk their contents, and refilled them with coloured water. The
inhabitants of Petrograd, eager to purchase wine from the ex-Tsar's
stock, bought the proffered bottles with avidity, only to find that
they had been "sold". There was no redress, for the deluded purchaser
realized that arguing with an inebriated Red Guard was likely to end
in a bayonet-thrust.
Having paved the way for their retreat, the landing-party--Captain
Orloff and seven of his men, all in bluejackets' uniform--hastened
along the deserted street until they arrived at the Bobbinsky
Prospekt.
Here Orloff halted his men under an archway, and, taking one of the
party, stole softly down the passage until he came to a gap between
the two houses--a space fenced off by a tall iron railing.
In a very short space of time Orloff's companions filed through two
of the bars, and, by means of a powerful tug, wrenched them
sufficiently apart to admit a man's body. It was then a simple matter
for the two Russians to lower themselves upon the slippery ice on the
surface of the stream.
Flashing an electric torch, the captain of the _Zabiyaka_ plunged
into the arched passage, through which the now frozen water usually
flowed. For nearly a hundred yards he went, until he stopped at a
small barred grating barely a foot above the ice.
"Are you there, Monsieur Fordyce?" he whispered in his own language,
knowing that the captive Sub-Lieutenant spoke Russian fluently.
"I am. Who is it?" asked Fordyce.
"A friend," replied Orloff. "Take courage again," Fordyce, by the by,
had never lost it; "help is at hand. I am Boris Orloff,
Captain-Lieutenant of the _Zabiyaka_, the destroyer that piloted your
craft into Cronstadt."
"I am pleased to meet you, sir," said the Sub.
"And still more so under better auspices," rejoined Orloff. "Now
listen: Here are a brace of revolvers. We are going to tackle Comrade
Klostivitch. If he beats a retreat to this cellar, corner him. He is
a desperate man, and doubtless armed. Cornered, he will not hesitate
to shoot, unless you act promptly."
"He has someone with him," announced Fordyce. "A fellow from England.
Whether he is an Englishman or a German I hardly know, although his
sympathies are certainly Teutonic."
"We'll collar him too!" exclaimed the skipper of the _Zabiyaka_.
"Now, make ready. In five minutes we'll be with you."
"One question, sir!" exclaimed the Sub. "Might I ask how you knew we
were here? Did a dog----?"
"Yes," replied Orloff, "it was a dog that brought the news."
"Then Flirt--my dog--is safe?"
"I have every reason to believe so."
"That's good!" ejaculated the overjoyed Fordyce. A great weight had
been lifted off his mind. The harassing thought that harm had
befallen his devoted pet had troubled him more than his own difficult
position. And now, thanks to Flirt, deliverance was at hand.
Retracing his steps, the Russian rejoined his companion, and, having
bent the railings to their original position, the pair hurried back
to the rest of the party.
"No unnecessary noise, my children," continued Orloff, speaking in
the pre-Revolutionary manner with which an officer addressed his men.
"Two of you will remain here; two more at the other side of the
street; the rest will come with me."
The dwellers in the Bobbinsky Prospekt were still deep in slumber.
Undisturbed, the Russian bluejackets effected a forcible entry into
No. 19 by the drastic expedient of cutting away the door-post into
which the bolts securing the door were fitted.
Entering the room--there was no lobby--the intruders reclosed the
door and proceeded in their search for Vladimir Klostivitch. The
first room they entered was that in which Fordyce had interviewed the
Extremist official. They found someone asleep on the bed over the
stove.
"Seize him, men!" ordered Orloff.
Strong hands dragged the sleeper from his bed. It was Mindiggle, or,
to give him his true name, von Verbrennungsraum.
Before he could be effectually silenced the German gave a yell of
terror.
"Gag him!" ordered the captain of the _Zabiyaka_.
It was too late. A shuffling sound announced that another inmate of
the mysterious house was awake.
Revolver in hand, Orloff dashed up the creaking stairs, just in time
to catch sight of a grotesquely-garbed figure disappearing up the
next flight.
"Surrender!" shouted the naval officer, loath to fire lest the report
should arouse the neighbourhood.
In spite of his years, Klostivitch possessed plenty of activity.
Rushing into an attic, he slammed and bolted the door, piling
articles of furniture against it as an additional safeguard.
Throwing caution to the winds, Orloff placed the muzzle of his
revolver to the lock and pressed the trigger. Then, with a tremendous
heave, he burst the door open.
The room was empty. An open dormer window showed the track of the
fugitive. His pursuer, leaping upon a box, thrust his head through
the opening.
Brave as he was, Orloff hesitated to follow his quarry. Klostivitch
had gained the parapet and was contemplating a leap to the roof of
the adjoining house.
Before the naval officer could thrust his hand through the narrow
opening of the window, and level his pistol, the rascal, desperate in
his courage, leapt from his precarious foothold.
It was not a great distance for a man to jump--six or seven feet at
the outside; but the fugitive had not taken into consideration the
ice-rimmed stonework.
Even as he leapt, Klostivitch's feet slipped from under him. With a
shriek of horror he grasped vainly at the thin air, then, turning a
complete somersault, crashed upon the paving-stones sixty feet below.