THE COPPER HOUSE
_A Detective Story_
BY JULIUS REGIS
AUTHOR OF "NO. 13 TORONI"
NEW YORK
HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY
1923
Copyright, 1923,
By
HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY
_First Printing, September, 1923_
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
CONTENTS
PART I THE WHIRLPOOL
PROLOGUE
I. BARON FREDERICK FAYERLING WAITS IN VAIN FOR THE MOST IMPORTANT
DOCUMENT IN EUROPE
II. A YOUNG MAN ARRIVES FROM CALIFORNIA, AND HEARS SOME UNEXPECTED NEWS
III. WALLION MEETS B. 22, AND CERTAIN REMARKABLE EPISODES IN A GREAT
MAN'S CAREER ARE DESCRIBED WITH THE DESIRED EFFECT
IV. LEONARD GRATH ACTS ON HIS OWN RESPONSIBILITY AND MEETS WITH A GIRL
WHO RUNS AWAY FROM HIM
V. IN WHICH IT IS OBVIOUS THAT THE OWNER IS A GUEST IN HIS OWN HOUSE
VI. THE PROBLEM-HUNTER
VII. THE SLAYERS
PART II
THE TWENTIETH OF JULY
VIII. LONA IVANOVNA ASKS HER FIRST QUESTION
IX. UNREST IN BOTH CAMPS; AN OUTPOST SKIRMISH AND A WARNING
X. THE SITUATION BECOMES ACUTE
XI. MAURICE WALLION LOOKS ABOUT HIM A BIT AND MAKES A NEW ACQUAINTANCE
XII. IN WHICH WE CATCH A GLIMPSE OF THE SHADOW OF NAPOLEON THE GREAT
XIII. LONA IVANOVNA ASKS A SECOND QUESTION AND GETS AN UNEXPECTED REPLY
XIV. THE STORY OF THE BERNIN FAMILY
PART III
GABRIEL ORTIZ
XV. THE STORM BURSTS
XVI. GABRIEL ORTIZ MUSTERS HIS FORCES AND COUNTS HIS PRISONERS
XVII. LEO AND SONIA DETERMINE TO STEAL A MOTOR-CAR BUT FALL INTO AN
UNEXPECTED TRAP
XVIII. TARRASCHIN'S MEMORANDUM CHANGES OWNERS
XIX. WALLION SPEAKS OUT AND RASTAKOV IS BALKED OF HIS PREY
XX. IN WHICH WALLION SHOWS THAT A GREAT DEAL CAN BE DONE IN TEN MINUTES
XXI. THE END OF A GLORIOUS DREAM
_Part I--The Whirlpool_
PROLOGUE
This is the story of a great peril, and how it was averted.
It is surprising to think how few persons were aware of this peril, or
had any suspicion of the extraordinary events that were taking place in
Stockholm during the fateful year 1917.
Nevertheless, at the beginning of the year, a little weekly newspaper
published a very striking open letter, entitled: "Who is the Man in the
Whirlpool?"
To whom was it addressed? There was no indication, but the writer was
evidently inspired by a deep and growing conviction of impending evil.
The article ran as follows:
Have we lost all power of distinguishing between essentials and
non-essentials? Stockholm has become a caravanserai, a link between
East and West, a central clearing-house for all those who, under
various disguises and with varying aims, seek to enrich themselves
in the blood-stained arena of War. Can no one foresee what sort
of crop must ultimately spring from this strife-sodden soil? It
is tragic, while almost laughable, to see how people persist in
labeling as 'espionage' every new development whose purpose is
unintelligible to them, in the same way that they would probably
account for all unexplained conflagrations with the glib verdict:
'a short-circuit.'
What _is_ espionage? Of course, it exists. But is there nothing
more?
Chips from many kinds of timber float on the surface of the
whirlpool. What a medley of strange faces, which nobody recognizes,
bob up from its mysterious depths!
The short-sighted public are content to go on believing that in
Stockholm, where secret committees and conferences, planners and
plotters from every quarter of the earth, are struggling together
for the mastery, these dark deeds are one and all the work of
secret agents of the belligerent powers.
Yet it is as certain as a problem of Euclid that at the vortex of
the Whirlpool we shall find a group of intelligences working solely
for their own interests. Let us suppose that amongst these, _one_
alone is to be found who is strong enough to fight his way through
chaos, or rather let us say, to _dominate_ chaos. Would not such a
man establish himself at the very heart of the Whirlpool, to direct
the various powers of destruction whither he will?
We need not limit ourselves to supposition: _He exists_. We do not
know who he is, and it is possible that his plans are known to no
one besides himself. The air is full of rumors, and no one can
tell what the future may bring forth. There is enough to show that
a powerful will is evidently directing the activities of many of
these lawless phenomena. Who is the Man in the Whirlpool?
Can no one answer the question before it is too late? For he
certainly exists.
This appeal fell on deaf ears. The few who read it shook their heads,
and laughed. The newspaper relapsed into silence with its next number.
To this very day, nobody knows who wrote the article, though Maurice
Wallion can make a pretty shrewd guess. The article does not affect
our story except as an example of the characteristic and frequently
recurring collapse which precedes the fulfilment of a truth, as the
prophetic slump gives warning of a financial crisis. It is known now
that there _was_ a Man in the Whirlpool, and in order to give an
account of that daring adventurer's gigantic attempt to organize chaos,
the author has had recourse to the evidence of a number of persons,
in particular Messrs. Wallion and Raebel, and, above all, Mr. Leonard
Grath.
But we must tell our tale methodically, and many things happened before
the actual appearance of the arch-villain himself. The story opens,
appropriately, with the arrival of two of the principal characters
in Stockholm, that is to say, on July 19th, 1917. From that moment,
the depths begin to seethe, the catastrophe looms nearer, and a Face
appears amidst the foaming waters....
The curtain rises....
CHAPTER I
_Baron Frederick Fayerling waits in vain for the most important
document in Europe_
"Well, what else?"
Baron Frederick Fayerling had a way of addressing his subordinates as
though he were cracking a dog-whip. He was standing by his writing
table, a strongly-built man of medium height, with cold blue eyes, and
a beard in the style that D'Annunzio brought into fashion. As he looked
down at the man who sat on a chair close by, he folded his arms, with a
look of disgust, as though he were thinking: "What a face! The fellow
is a regular freak."
The baron's well-kept teeth showed slightly, and the whip cracked
again. "Next! The report on Tarraschin's memorandum."
The man on the chair, who was slowly and sullenly twisting his hat in
his fingers, murmured in reply: "You forget, sir, that we are in a
hotel bedroom, with all sorts of folk within earshot."
"And _you_ forget, that when I wish to hear a report, you have only
to obey my orders. What's wrong with a room in a hotel? Stockholm
is absolutely full of spies and adventurers: so much the better for
you--there is safety in numbers. Go ahead!" The fellow cringed to the
lash, and made a start. "The man whom you expect is called Bernard
Jenin," he said rapidly and softly. "I made his acquaintance, as you
instructed me, and gained his confidence to a considerable extent. He
is quite young, and was traveling to Sweden by way of Finland, as we
anticipated; I was his only companion in the north-bound train. I am
absolutely convinced that he is in possession of the document: but he
is cautious. I gathered that he is an ardent admirer of Kerensky, but
as a matter of fact, he comes as a hunted fugitive from Russia."
"Did you manage to get a photograph of him?"
"Yes, easily: here it is."
Baron Fayerling took the snapshot and examined it closely. It showed
a portion of the gangway outside a railway carriage; a man, wearing
a very thin, almost ragged overcoat, was leaning against the iron
railing, and gazing dreamily at the landscape through which he was
passing; his clean-shaven face, with its broad brow and small mouth,
was youthful-looking and attractive, but with a striking expression of
calm resignation and patient expectation; his dark eyes were encircled
by a network of very fine wrinkles, which might be the result of bodily
suffering, or of many years of anxiety and strife.
"He looks weak," remarked the baron, throwing the photograph on one
side. "It should not be difficult to--persuade him. Were you able to
make any overtures to him?"
"No, he is not to be got at in that way; he is an honest revolutionary."
The baron laughed a little. "Honest? A dangerous attribute in these
days of war! Where is he now?"
"As soon as Bernard Jenin and I arrived at Stockholm this morning,
Rastakov took charge. Jenin believes that I am associated with his
friends; I have no idea who his friends are, I never saw him speak to
anybody or write a letter, but I persuaded him to engage a room in this
hotel, and to await a visit from a common acquaintance, who will give
him some important news."
"In this very hotel?" asked the baron sharply.
"Yes, he is at the present minute in room No. 23."
"Ah, in 23, that's better. Have you arranged that our friends should
keep on the adjoining rooms?"
"Yes, all is in order."
Baron Fayerling nodded approvingly, and the man began to twirl his hat
a little faster. His employer, who could read the signs of the times,
smiled contemptuously, took out some banknotes and threw them down on
the table.
"There you are!" said he. "One thing more: you have been in Finland
since the beginning of January; what is your number there?"
"B.22," replied the man, gathering the notes together with a sort of
enveloping maneuver.
"That is all right; in other words, we shall not require you here any
longer."
B.22 rose obediently and went towards the door.
"Send Rastakov here!" was the baron's parting salutation.
The man disappeared, and two minutes later another person entered,
closing the door quietly after him. He was a tall, dark, taciturn
fellow, a regular Slav in appearance, about thirty years of age, with
bold, resolute eyes, and a touch of self-satisfied impudence in his
look.
The baron's expression had altered, and he now spoke in a frank,
friendly tone.
"Good morning, Rastakov, did you meet B.22?"
"Yes."
"Did you verify his reports?"
"Yes, they are correct."
"Good; I don't trust the fellow any longer, and for the future he must
be under supervision. Bernard Jenin is installed in room 23--with the
most important paper in Europe in his possession, and now, Rastakov,
the great thing is to get hold of it. If you are prepared to risk
something for our cause, that paper should be in our hands in an hour's
time."
Rastakov made no reply, but he tightened his thin lips with a look of
determination.
"Have you warned all our friends?" inquired the baron.
"Yes, they will keep out of the way till it is done."
"And you have nothing about you which would compromise us, should you
fail?"
"I am not a child!"
"Go in five minutes' time to Jenin's room, introduce yourself as the
friend of whom B.22 spoke to him, and talk to him for a bit in such
a way as not to arouse his suspicions, though he may feel a little
puzzled. Then act as swiftly and silently as circumstances permit. I
will give you a quarter of an hour. When you come out of the room, I
shall be sitting in one of the wicker chairs near the staircase: you
must pass me, and if you have the paper, bow slightly, and walk slowly
out towards the Park, where I will join you in an hour's time."
The baron walked up to Rastakov, and looked meaningly at him: "If
anything goes wrong, you must look out for yourself," he added: "you
know our rules?"
"Yes," replied the other without flinching: "you need not remind me of
them." And without another word, he left the room. The baron looked
after him; his face resumed its usual cynical expression, and he
laughed. "Poor fool!" he said half-aloud.
He looked at the clock: it was half-past twelve. He yawned, examined
his finger-nails, and lighted a cigar. Then he took his coat, gloves
and Panama hat, and went towards the door, which burst open as he
approached it, and a short, stout, and very fashionably-dressed man
came in. The two men stood staring at one another, without a word of
greeting.
"Marcus Tassler," exclaimed the baron, impatiently, "what are you doing
here? Be quick, I am in a hurry."
"Two minutes, only two minutes, baron," replied the new-comer, in an
oily, businesslike voice. His flaccid sallow face, with its thick
red lips, was as Jewish as his voice, but his hair was fair and
close-cropped.
"I met Rastakov, and I know everything. But let me just warn you...."
"Warn me!" interrupted the baron, "it is too late for warnings. Our
preparations are made, and must come to a head shortly; the Tarraschin
memorandum will be the corner-stone of the edifice, and then the storm
may break! If you are afraid, you had better be silent."
"No, I am not afraid."
"Well, what is it then?"
Marcus Tassler drew an opened telegram from an inner pocket and struck
it with the palm of his hand. "I warn you," he said again emphatically.
"This bomb business in Christiania has compromised our position, and
there is danger in the air. Though no one may have discovered our
plans, the Press are on the alert, and sniffing suspiciously in every
direction...."
"Much that matters!" said the baron, coolly. "The fools believe that we
are working for one of the belligerent powers, as spies and dynamiters:
let them think so. The explosions in Christiania were a blunder, but
nothing worse; the idiot who managed the affair, acted on his own
initiative; I have isolated the consequences, and directed suspicion
towards a quarter which will make the whole of Scandinavia gasp." The
baron laughed contentedly. "We are stronger than any of the Great
Powers, and our plan is the most colossal ever conceived by the brain
of one man. So why need you worry?"
Marcus Tassler nodded, rubbed his hands, and burst out with a sort of
enthusiastic eagerness: "Yes, I admit that Gabriel Ortiz...."
The baron shot a threatening glance at him: "Hush! Never that name,
except in a whisper, or when you are alone."
"All right, our Chief, then. I admit that his genius seems able to
surmount any obstacle: but, baron, his genius has not yet been put to
positive proof. I am of opinion that what is just beginning...."
"Look here, are you ever coming to the point?"
"I begin to suspect that we have an antagonist."
"An antagonist? Are you mad? Since nobody knows us, how can anyone
become our antagonist?"
"You think not? How about this wire from our Agent in Göteburg?"
"What does he say?"
"That Leonard Grath, the owner of the Copper House, arrived in Göteburg
yesterday, and is already in Stockholm by this time."
The baron looked serious, took the telegram himself, and read it
through.
"You can't think that this stripling will turn out to be our
antagonist?" said he.
"No, but the fact of his arriving in Stockholm simultaneously with
Jenin, points to a premeditated plan. You know what the Copper House
means to us. No one expected that the owner would return, at any rate
so suddenly. Do you think, baron, that someone has sent for him to
turn us out of the house--that would be a catastrophe, wouldn't it?"
The baron returned to the table, where he stood and meditated for a
short time. "The Copper House--I didn't expect that news," he murmured,
then turned round and said: "We shall find some way out of it. For the
moment, Jenin is our chief consideration. Have you taken any steps
towards having Leonard Grath met?"
"Yes, of course he is being shadowed, and the first thing to do will be
to go through his papers."
"Right, and try to get me a photograph of him."
"I believe that has been seen to already."
"Presumably he will go down to the Copper House; that cannot be
avoided, but of course he must discover nothing there."
"That is obvious!" replied Tassler. "But suppose he _should_ find out
anything?"
"In that case, he need not survive it. He might meet with an accident,
the sea is close by--I leave it to you to work out the details."
As if by mutual consent, the two gentlemen avoided looking at each
other at this moment.
"Was there anything else?" asked the baron.
"No."
"Then you had better go. We will meet at four this afternoon in the
usual place. Don't come again to the hotel: Rastakov is in room 23 now."
Tassler's complexion looked paler than ever, and he did not wait to
hear any more. When the baron turned round, he had left the room.
Baron Fayerling took a good pull at his cigar. The big hotel was very
quiet, and the atmosphere felt close and lifeless under the heated
sunblinds. Through the open windows he could hear the monotonous hum
of the street, impregnated with the warm odor of sun-baked granite and
asphalt, and punctuated by the crescendo and diminuendo of the trams,
as they stopped, started, and rang their bells; in this third summer of
the Great War one heard rather less of the hooting of motor-cars, and
of the groaning and creaking of cables, behind the smoke-stained walls
of the central depot. The baron listened absently, whilst he bestowed
another minute's thought on Tassler.
"They're a cowardly lot," he mused cynically. "Half of them are working
to promote their own feeble ideals, the rest care only for piling up
their banking-account, and they all imagine Ortiz to be an amiable
idiot, whose shekels will further their own ambitions. Let them muddle
along--the main thing is that we can make use of them."
He threw his cigar into the ash-tray, and his cold, calculating eyes
glittered. "An amiable idiot? Why not? Time enough to decide about
that--afterwards."
He left the room abruptly, closing the door behind him, and mounted
the stairs to the next floor, stopping on the landing. To the right
lay a red-carpeted corridor, similar to that in which his own room
was situated, and just at the bend of the passage he could see a door
numbered 23. This door, like all those near it, was shut, and the
corridor was empty. At the top of the stairs was a sort of recess,
with palms, three wicker armchairs, and a table with newspapers. In
the chair nearest the banisters sat a gentleman reading one of the
papers. The baron frowned: he would have preferred to find the place
unoccupied; still, not the ghost of a sound was to be heard from No.
23, and with a comforting recollection of Rastakov's proved skill
in transacting his business quietly and swiftly, he sat calmly down
on one of the chairs, and resigned himself to wait. He cast a hasty
glance at the reader, who appeared to be a middle-aged person, tall,
powerfully built, and very well-dressed: his face was buried in the
newspaper, and only the top of his sleek head could be seen. Then the
baron returned to his own meditations. He was surprised to find himself
a little excited: do what he would, his eyes kept straying towards
the closed door of room 23. The Tarraschin document would change the
whole situation; its possession meant an increase of power, its loss,
the renewal of such difficulties as are apt to wreck one's plans at
the last moment. To be disappointed now, when everything was ready,
and every day invaluable! Unthinkable, unless at great risk of an
even greater disaster. Peace overtures were already in the air--who
could tell, perhaps this very autumn.... The baron felt his excitement
increasing, the suspense was beginning to tell on him: what could be
the reason of Rastakov's delay! Perhaps Jenin had not the paper after
all. And so many precious months had gone by already--what was the date?
The man reading the newspaper opposite to him, looked over the top of
it and said in a quiet, pleasant voice: "July 19th, 1917." The baron
started, and for a moment he wondered if he could have been thinking
aloud; then he said stiffly: "Were you speaking to me, sir?" "Yes,"
replied the other, as pleasantly as before, "I noticed that you were
trying to make out the date of my newspaper, so I took the liberty of
supplying you with the information."
The speaker had an intelligent, clean-shaven face, with aquiline
features, and smiling gray eyes that beamed with a keen and
irrepressible desire for information. Just now they were fixed on
Baron Fayerling with a look which that aristocrat endeavored to return
with equal self-possession. He said hastily: "I am not aware, sir,
that I asked you for any information." The other smiled, and answered
slowly: "That is true, but I am delighted to overlook the--the lack of
invitation."
The baron suspected a hidden sarcasm in his neighbor's voice or
expression, but both were irreproachable. Confused by the situation in
which he found himself, he colored hotly, and replied sourly: "Sir, you
seem to me to be both persistent and inquisitive!" An instant later,
he realized that he had forgotten himself; but the other man did not
appear to notice what had been said: he struck a match, lighted a
cigarette, and returned to his paper as though the baron had ceased
to exist for him. The latter's self-control began to give way, and he
stared mutely at the newspaper, behind which a thin column of smoke
rose into the air. What business had the fellow on this landing? And
would Rastakov never come out of the mysterious door of room 23? The
silence seemed to become more intense with every moment that went by,
and at last the baron could stand it no longer. He got up. The reader
did not stir. He walked into the corridor and felt more comfortable now
that he was out of the other man's sight. He passed No. 23, turned and
walked past it again: not a sound to be heard. The quarter of an hour
allotted to Rastakov had expired long ago. The baron looked all round
him: not a human being was in sight. He put his ear to the key-hole:
deep silence reigned inside the room; he turned the handle: the door
was not locked. Finally he decided to enter. On the floor in front of
him lay a figure tied up like a parcel, with a handkerchief spread
over the face. The baron lifted the handkerchief, and saw Rastakov's
bloodshot eyes glaring at him in dumb fury, over a powerful gag. There
was nobody else in the room.
A small envelope was sticking out of the prisoner's breast-pocket in
a very obvious way, and the baron noticed his own name on it. Ripping
it open, he took out a card, upon which a few lines were written in a
bold, clear hand: "Dear baron,--Bernard Jenin desires to be remembered
to you, and I return Rastakov to you undamaged, having no further use
for him. Maurice Wallion."
The baron freed the captive, removing the gag, and cutting the cord
into fragments. Rastakov sat up, but did not speak.
"Don't sit there, rubbing yourself like an ass!" exclaimed the baron.
"What have you done?"
"Done?--nothing!" sputtered Rastakov.
"So I see. Speak out, man, what have you to say for yourself?"
Rastakov was like a madman: he beat his fists on the floor and shouted:
"The devil take the room, and Jenin too! I came straight here, and
nobody was about, except a man who was sitting by the staircase,
reading the paper. I opened the door, and saw Jenin walking towards the
window, and I saw nothing more, for somebody seized me by the arms from
behind, threw me on the floor, and had muffled me up before I had the
chance to get a sight of him. I am no weakling, but he must have been
twice as strong. When he had bound and gagged me, he suddenly threw a
cloth over my face, and immediately after I heard him whispering to
Jenin. This lasted about a minute, then they left the room together,
shutting the door after them."
"And Tarraschin's document?"
Rastakov made an expressive gesture, and the baron seemed to see the
most important paper in Europe fluttering away into space, so near, and
yet so far. The facts seemed to confirm Tassler's warning: "There are
things which make me suspect that we have an antagonist," and as this
dawned on him, he dragged Rastakov roughly up from the floor.
"Who is Maurice Wallion?" he demanded sharply. The other made no reply,
and the baron rushed out of the room and along to the staircase. The
mysterious newspaper reader was no longer there, but on the table lay
an envelope similar to that which he had recently taken from Rastakov's
pocket. The baron tore it open, and read: "P.S.--I waited to see you in
actual communication with room 23. I am indeed _persistent_ when I have
to deal with those who traffic in criminal mysteries, and _inquisitive_
about abuses which I intend to expose. Maurice Wallion."
Baron Fayerling was no coward, but for a second even his blood ran
cold, and he felt the first gusts of possible defeat moaning round him.
But the blast subsided: he was himself again. Rastakov now joined him
and he said to him: "Take the next train to the Copper House. I will
telephone further orders this afternoon."
With these words, he too went his way.