_Wallion meets B.22, and certain remarkable episodes in a great
man's career are described, with the desired effect_
Maurice Wallion quitted the neighborhood of room 23 rather hurriedly,
as soon as the baron had gone in: not from fear--there was no such
word in his vocabulary--but because, in consequence of this somewhat
unexpected commencement of hostilities, he found himself suddenly
involved in a regular network of complicated problems.
Bernard Jenin's unexpected arrival had completely upset his plans,
and forced him to show his hand prematurely to a powerful, prompt and
intelligent adversary, who would certainly stick at nothing in the way
of frustrating him. He did not regret the opportunity of dealing the
first blow, for his frankness had probably baffled the baron at the
start; but he foresaw that the approaching struggle would be a fierce
though brief one--brief, because in the course of a few hours he must
either be definitely beaten, or in possession of the information which
would make it possible for him to place the matter in the hands of the
police. It was, therefore, important for him to get quickly and surely
to work, before Baron Fayerling had had time to call up reinforcements.
He slipped out of the hotel, and jumped into a tram, bound for the
northern district. He wondered which way Jenin had gone, for it
disturbed him a little that he had been able to do nothing for the
unfortunate young fellow, beyond hurrying him away, with an urgent
warning to keep clear of Fayerling's spies, and in case of need to take
refuge in the offices of the _Daily Courier_.
There was undoubtedly something mysterious about Jenin himself, but
Wallion consoled himself with the thought that the young man's fate
would soon be settled in one way or another, and he decided to mention
the matter to Robert Lang. For the time being, he had more important
business to attend to. The tram turned into Tegnér Street and he got
out. He walked slowly up the street, stopped opposite one of the ugly,
gray, five-storied houses, and began, quite unostentatiously, to watch
the windows on the first floor.
He had known for the last month, that this was one of Ortiz's
headquarters, and he suspected that Ortiz himself had stayed there for
some time at the beginning of the year. It was ostensibly a Finnish
boarding-house, but it was not advertised as such, and there never
seemed to be any rooms to let except to lodgers recommended by the
baron or by Tassler. For the time being, the only lodgers were three
persons who had recently arrived from Russia, and had some sort of
regular work at the Finno-Russian Import and Export Company. Rastakov,
too, generally stayed there, whenever he did not happen to be at the
Copper House. Wallion took it for granted that the man who was known as
B.22, and had shadowed Jenin on his journey to Stockholm, would come
here, and he was already considering the advisability of setting Robert
Lang to watch the house, when he suddenly saw B.22 himself come out of
the door, and go quickly down the street.
The journalist was somewhat taken aback by this unexpected apparition;
it was quite obvious that something unusual had happened to the spy,
for he kept looking round, and Wallion could see that he appeared very
nervous.
The journalist thought for a bit. What had happened? B.22 had evidently
gone straight to the boarding-house from the hotel, and had apparently
found some trouble awaiting him. Nothing was to be seen at the windows.
Feeling rather puzzled, he began to follow the man, who turned
hurriedly down one side street after another, behaving more and more
strangely. He stood still now and then, staring anxiously behind him
with his large dark eyes, and not taking the slightest notice of the
journalist; his hands fidgeted in and out of his coat-pockets, and his
lips moved as though he were whispering to himself. Then he darted
forward again, through a passage that intersected a corner building,
and cut across an adjoining churchyard.
Wallion, who began to grow tired of this extraordinary game, stepped
quickly up, and tapped him on the shoulder: "Good morning, my friend,"
he exclaimed, "why this hurry?"
The man started so violently that he nearly fell; Wallion caught hold
of him. "Now then, no nonsense!" he said sternly. "I know everything,
and I want to have a talk with you. If you tell me the truth, I may be
able to help you."
He threw out this remark by way of a feeler, but the man took it
literally; a look of relief appeared on his haggard face, and he said
doubtfully: "Are you one of Jenin's friends? I don't know you, what
do you want with me? Are you a detective, by any chance?" he added
suspiciously.
"No, I am a newspaper reporter," said Wallion, still keeping hold of
his arm. "Come along with me."
They went into a small, empty café, and sat down at a table in an inner
room. B.22 remained silent and watchful, but Wallion left him no time
for consideration.
"I won't ask you your real name, B.22," said he, "but you had better
be quite straight with me, or it may be the worse for you. You have a
rotten set of friends, my lad, and it is high time you quit working
with them. Now tell me, what is going on at the boarding-house?"
"Yes, I will tell you," the fellow burst out excitedly. "I will have no
more to do with them, they are going too far. I don't want to lose my
life...."
His eyes were bloodshot, and he tugged at his collar as though he felt
a halter round his neck already. He flung himself suddenly across
the table, and seized the journalist by the sleeve. "Help me," he
stammered, "I am afraid of them! Ortiz is coming, and he will ruin us
all, if nobody can stop him."
Wallion looked sharply at him. He had already observed him in the
hotel, and had formed his conclusions as to the man's character. "Since
when have you made up your mind to betray Ortiz?"
B.22 hung his head. "Since yesterday," he replied indistinctly. "When
Bernard Jenin told me what Tarraschin's memorandum was about, I was
afraid to have anything more to do with it--it is altogether too
ghastly...."
He really seemed to be hesitating, and Wallion decided to come to
the point quickly, for there was no time to waste in unnecessary
preliminaries.
"How much do you know about Ortiz?" he asked.
"I? Nothing. They told me that he was the boss, and that we were paid
with his money: and he pays well."
Wallion made a movement of disgust. The payment seemed all that this
man cared about.
"Have you ever seen Ortiz?"
"No. Baron Fayerling always gave me my orders, and paid me. They say
that Ortiz is a rich and powerful man, and that he will soon be one of
the greatest persons in Europe. But I have never seen him, and I know
nothing of him."
"Well, I am going to tell you something about him; it is because you
know so little that you are so much afraid of him. He is one of the
most daring adventurers that ever lived, and anyone who espouses his
cause is on the road to ruin."
B.22 shuddered, and Wallion watched him narrowly.
"Did you ever hear of the Emperor of the Amazons?" he asked.
B.22 shook his head in surprise.
"Emperor of the Amazons?" he repeated; "it sounds like a farce."
"It was a farce, too, at any rate the newspapers called it so, and
it was played seven years ago. A young Brazilian millionaire who
had already made himself conspicuous by his lavish and eccentric
propensities, concluded one fine day that he could no longer endure the
restrictions of life in a community of law-abiding citizens, and his
fertile brain, which was always revolving ambitious schemes, decided to
create an absolutely new environment.
"His name was Gabriel Napoleon Ortiz, and he was a reputed descendant
of Napoleon the Great; he had already been implicated in a formidable
scandal in Paris, where he had attempted to organize a Monarchist
rising against the Republic, in the hope of getting himself recognized
as Napoleon IV. At that time he was only a youth of nineteen, and it
was an easy matter to deport him to Brazil. But the lion's claws
were not drawn, and by degrees he gathered round him quite a number
of adventurers, who aided and abetted him in his far-reaching plans.
One day, early in 1910, he steamed away up the River Amazon in his
armored pleasure yacht, and disappeared into the interior of Brazil.
It was given out that he was subsidizing an expedition for scientific
research, but about six months later, the Brazilian Government was
astounded to receive a highly-imposing document, signed Gabriel
Napoleon I, Emperor of the Amazons, in which the new monarch stated
that he had proclaimed himself Emperor over the tracts of land at the
sources of the River Amazon, the country being rich and extensive, but
chiefly inhabited by Indians. He demanded, first, official recognition
by the Brazilian Government, secondly, free access to the River Amazon,
and thirdly, an immediate and definite revision of boundary questions.
At the same time, through the medium of the South and North American
newspapers, he invited enterprising and energetic people to settle
as colonists in his dominion, declared his intention of founding a
capital, and purchased six liners for passenger traffic down the great
river. Of course, the whole thing was impossible; nobody took the man
seriously, and the papers treated the matter as a huge joke; it was
altogether too far-fetched! Before many months had gone by, the Emperor
of the Amazons was taken into custody by Brazilian troops: he was found
at the head of an army of a hundred and twenty men, which immediately
took to flight. He was handed over to his relations, amongst whom was
the famous aëroplane-constructor Ortiz; feeling rather crestfallen, he
was obliged to consent to leave the country quietly, and nobody gave
another thought to the Empire of the Amazons."
"Emperor of the Amazons," muttered B.22 with a laugh. "I do seem to
have a hazy recollection of it now. And so that man was Ortiz! I begin
to understand...."
The journalist saw that his story had made an impression, and he
continued: "You will notice that this Brazilian millionaire-adventurer
was not without certain elements of greatness. Such causes as his
have prospered before now. It was only that he lived in an age when,
under normal circumstances, adventures of that kind are absurd. Public
opinion is formed by the Press, and the Press laughed the Empire of the
Amazons to scorn. Fifteen years earlier, the man might have succeeded,
but, as it was, he had learnt a dearly-bought lesson--till next time!
He had not abandoned a single detail of his great project, but he could
bide his time: he could go on with his preparations. The next act in
the drama was played in New York. Ortiz proved himself a financial
genius of the first order, floated one gigantic speculation after
another, with truly Napoleonic strategy, and was acclaimed before long
as one of Wall Street's brightest stars, or, more correctly, meteors.
Finally, he 'swung' a 'corner' in coffee with unscrupulous skill,
increased his already colossal fortune tenfold, and gained the nickname
of 'The Coffee King.' The Emperor of the Amazons had become a Coffee
King! At any rate, you can see what he was aiming at. As 'emperor' he
had brought imprisonment on at most forty persons; as 'king' he had
ruined thousands. His power for evil had increased, but it was not yet
fully developed, and the great opportunity was still to come. He does
not advance step by step, like other men. No, his ambition demands
constant movement, culminating in some tremendous display of strength.
His motto is: 'Better a grand catastrophe than a meagre victory.' Laws
do not exist for a man with such ideas, and what can those persons
expect who are bold enough to follow him as assistants or subordinates,
but a prison cell, or something even worse, for their pains?"
B.22 was listening as though he had been hypnotized, and Wallion went
on: "After his 'coup' on the coffee market, Gabriel Ortiz disappeared
from New York. He realized his assets, and was seen no more in Wall
Street. He had attained his primary aim, and provided himself with
the means of carrying out even the wildest and most ambitious of his
dreams. The episode in the Amazons had taught him experience: in New
York he had acquired millions. He was now fully equipped, and only
waited for a favorable opportunity. In August, 1914, the Great War
broke out."
The journalist sat silent and thoughtful for a little while. Then he
continued: "It is horrible to think that a Brazilian freebooter should
find the great chance of his lifetime in the grimmest tragedy that has
ever befallen the human race. It is true that in this war, as never
before, there have been openings for adventurers who are ready to sell
their swords or their skill to the highest bidder.
"Within the war-area, where, as in an earthquake, all the powers
of darkness rise to the surface, Ortiz found the desired field of
operations, where he might sow his millions, and reap an abundant
harvest of power. After due calculation, he fixed upon Russia as his
objective, and Stockholm as his starting-point. How long have you been
in his service?"
"Since October, 1915."
"Nearly from the beginning, then. I can tell by your accent that you
are a Finn. I suppose they made you believe that you would be working
for the liberty of Finland?"
"That was so," said B.22 in a low voice.
"Do you still think so, now that Finland is really free, in consequence
of the March Revolution? Was that Ortiz' work?"
The man crimsoned with rage and shame. He struck his hand on the table,
and said: "No, since I got to know the contents of the Tarraschin
document, I can see that Ortiz is neither working for freedom nor for
the Tsar: he thinks only of himself."
"Exactly," said Wallion, coldly, "and you should have realized that
long ago."
"How could I?" replied B.22 piteously; "I knew nothing of him, until
you told me all this. What shall I do?"
"Don't take it so hard. You have been too easily tempted by the thought
of quickly earned money, that's all, and now you're in a fix. You
haven't told me yet what happened in the boarding-house."
"I had only just got there," said B.22 excitedly, "when I heard the
telephone ring. One of the Russians answered it, and I was in the room
alongside. I guessed that Rastakov had rung up, and I heard the Russian
say: 'Yes, he has just come in.' They were speaking about me, and I
was alarmed to hear the man say: 'We had better shadow him; it would
be easier to get rid of him in Finland than here. Yes, we will keep an
eye on him; if he gives any trouble, we will find a way which won't
attract attention. No, he hasn't spoken to anyone yet....' Then I was
sure that my fate was sealed, and at first I felt paralyzed with fear,
but I knew that they would be after me in a few seconds, and, without
even stopping to get my knapsack, I crept downstairs, and out of the
house...."
Wallion could not help pitying the poor fellow, who looked like a man
sentenced to death, and could hardly speak coherently.
"Was that all?" he asked.
"It was quite enough for me; they mean to do something dreadful.... I
am not the first...."
"I know. I will help you on one condition: has our conversation
convinced you how necessary it is for you to tell me honestly and
openly everything that may lead to the annihilation of Ortiz and his
gang?"
"Yes, yes, only tell me what I can do."
"You won't only think of saving your own skin? You promise to help me
to the best of your ability?"
"Yes, yes, that's just what I want to do; only save me!"
The man's sincerity was undoubted; Wallion's earnestness had entirely
conquered his feeble will. He gazed at the journalist with doglike
submission, whilst the latter wrote a few lines, and his address, on a
card.
"Take this," he said, "go straight to my house in the Valhalla Road,
and hand the card to my housekeeper. Stay there till I come. Just wait
a minute, while I telephone to her."
B.22 seized the card with an audible sigh of relief and gratitude.
The journalist went into the outer room, and rang up his house. The
housekeeper answered, and he informed her briefly what she was to do
with B.22, and what further precautions he must observe. Then, after a
little consideration, he rang up the offices of the _Daily Courier_,
and asked for Robert Lang, who came at once to the telephone. "Has
anyone been to ask for me?" said Wallion. "What? Leonard Grath? He's
just gone? What a nuisance, I wanted particularly to see him. Don't you
know where he has gone? He really is far too headstrong to be allowed
to go off by himself, you should have kept him. No, I can't come up at
present, I must go and see what the baron and Tassler are up to, but I
want you to come at once to Tegnér Street, and find out what is going
on at the boarding-house there, if you can. It is probable that we
shall soon have to give official information to the police; we ought
to have sufficient proof in our hands in a few hours' time. Look here:
before you leave the office, arrange for somebody trustworthy--say,
Steno Beyler--to receive a young man named Bernard Jenin, who may turn
up there in the course of the day, and not to let him out of his sight
before I have had a word with him. Yes, that's all, I can tell you more
later; I've a big job on hand at present...."
He put down the receiver, and returned to the other room, but he
stopped short on the threshold: B.22 had disappeared. A door leading
to the passage stood open, and on the table lay a paper, with a few
hurried lines scrawled upon it. Wallion snatched it up, and ran into
the passage. After glancing into the garden, which was surrounded by
a high wall, he went out into the street, but B.22 was nowhere to be
seen. Feeling very anxious, the journalist read what was written on
the paper: "I must go. One of them is outside in the churchyard, and I
am sure he has seen me at the window. If they get to know that I have
anything to do with you, they will shoot me in the street. Expect me
early--about seven--to-morrow morning."
The journalist crumpled up the paper and put it in his pocket, after
which he lighted a cigarette. Not a single person was visible in the
whole length of the silent street.