_The Problem-hunter_
It was past midnight, when a young man, evidently dead-tired, and
looking thoroughly exhausted, entered the office of the night Editor
of the _Daily Courier_, and asked to see Maurice Wallion. The night
Editor, a somewhat callous personage, looked at him without any special
interest.
"Wallion?" he answered dryly. "He's not here."
"Where can I find him?"
"That's more than I can tell you--we haven't seen him ourselves! There
is just one chance in a thousand that he's at home, but if he is, he
doesn't answer the telephone, anyway--I have tried! He won't be best
pleased when he sees how his office here has been turned upside down."
"Upside down?"
"That's putting it mildly. You might tell him, if you find him,
that his room looks as though a squad of small hurricanes had been
performing war-dances in it, and that nobody knows how or when. Here's
his address, if you really feel you want the exercise of a night ramble
from here to Valhalla Road."
The Editor pushed a scrap of paper into Leo's hand, and showed him out
with a polite, though rather suggestive, zeal.
The young man stood for a while in the deserted street, to collect his
thoughts. He also turned up his coat-collar, for the keen air made him
shiver after his exertions in the wood; and with a gesture of undaunted
resolution, he started on his pilgrimage through the shadowy wilderness
of stone, beneath the rows of extinguished street lamps.
Women accosted him with inviting glances and alluring voices: and knots
of revelers passed him with discordant bursts of laughter; further on,
a policeman with his hands behind him, stood gazing after him.
These shadows, appearing and vanishing in the mists of night, recalled
the events of the last few hours, as did the glaring, owl-like orbs of
the clock-tower, and he hastened his steps, breaking into an occasional
run.
When he at last reached the broad, lonely Valhalla Road, past the
Stadion and the barracks, his clothes were clinging to him, and he
was quite out of breath. It now occurred to him for the first time,
that the outer door of the block of flats, in one of which the
Problem-hunter lived, would probably be locked, but when he arrived
there, he saw that it was partly open, and, without stopping to
consider the reason for this, he ran quickly up the stairs....
He came to a standstill before the folding-doors, which bore a brass
plate with the name of Maurice Wallion. One of the doors stood ajar,
and on the stone floor of the lobby were scattered several splinters of
white wood. He heard the stairs creaking on the next landing, as though
someone were making his escape that way, startled by his unexpected
arrival. All was dark in front of him, but he pushed the door open and
stepped over the threshold.
A hand hovered above his head like a swooping hawk and seized him by
the neck. The owner of the hand came out from behind the door, and a
strong voice said mockingly in his ear: "Come along in, young fellow!
No, don't struggle, I've been waiting for you impatiently. I can't say
you are much of a hand at forcing a Yale lock, it has taken you the
best part of half an hour--and now--glad to see you, take a seat!"
With what seemed to Leo superhuman strength, he was lifted up and flung
headlong into a corner, where he fell on to a heap of something soft,
clothes evidently. The electric light was turned on with a click, and
he saw bending over him a tall man in shooting costume. A pair of keen
gray eyes, that sparkled with energy and humor, were peering down at
him, and Leo guessed instinctively who this must be.
"Good morning, Mr. Wallion," he said. "Pleased to meet you...."
"It's you, is it?" answered the Problem-hunter, without seeming in the
least taken aback. "Why are you sitting there?"
Leo got up.
"I was under the impression that there was an earthquake just as I came
in, but perhaps I was mistaken!"
"It was I who was mistaken, my dear Mr. Grath. One of Baron Fayerling's
aides-de-camp has been playing about with the lock of my door
for the last half-hour, and I have been standing behind the door
waiting--naturally they thought I was out--and just as he was on
the point of getting in, you interrupted him, and fell into my trap
instead...."
The Problem-hunter broke off, and sprang to the door, but at the same
instant, they heard a terrific clattering down the stairs, and the
outer door at the bottom was banged to.
"He had evidently no wish to wait, when he knew that I was at home,"
remarked Wallion. "I must really beg your pardon for the very rough
reception I gave you just now. The blackguard, he has quite ruined this
lock: however, that's easily remedied--just a minute, and then we shall
be able to have our little chat in comfort."
As he spoke, he was quickly and deftly screwing a strong bolt on the
door.
"There, that will do. Now, will you come this way?"
They went into the study, and Wallion lighted a lamp with a yellow
shade, that stood upon his writing-table.
"Of course, you are very much surprised at my knowing you again,"
inquired Wallion, looking with interest, though not disconcertingly so,
at his belated visitor, whilst he brought out the ingredients for a
refreshing drink of "Johnnie Walker" and soda, fetched cigarettes, and
drew the curtains. "You see, I got to know what you looked like as much
as three months ago...."
"That didn't surprise me so much," said Leo, who felt quite revived, as
he glanced round him at the comfortable room, with its bookshelves and
tables. "But how on earth did you know that I was coming to Stockholm?
Not two months ago, I hadn't an idea of it myself!"
"A sudden fancy, I suppose?"
"Yes, something put it into my mind, I don't know exactly what...."
"And the minute you get back, you find yourself in a whirlpool of the
most extraordinary events?"
"Extraordinary hardly expresses them!"
Maurice Wallion smiled, and sat down opposite Leo.
"I am afraid I owe you another apology," said he. "So you don't exactly
know why you came to Stockholm? I can tell you--it was to help me. Yes,
I know, you will say that you were not even aware of my existence,
until you got my letter in Burchardt's office. No matter. I knew that
you were in Los Angeles, where you were not required, and that you
ought to be in Stockholm, where you were not expected. If I had written
direct to you, and asked you to come, you would certainly have treated
it as a joke, especially as I could have given you no reasonable
explanation--just then.
"But do you remember Mrs. Gregory at Los Angeles? Do you remember how
often she turned the conversation latterly on the Copper House, what
interest she showed in it, how she drew you on to give her such glowing
descriptions of it that you began to feel quite home-sick? And how,
by degrees, she inspired you with the idea of a voyage home, without
further delay. Don't you remember all that?"
"Now you mention it--yes, I believe it really was that pretty Mrs.
Gregory who put the journey into my head."
"You see, during my travels, I made friends in all sorts of places.
There were you in Los Angeles; I ransacked my memory--ha! Mrs.
Gregory!--capital, an intelligent lady, a regular diplomat. I sent her
an elaborate telegram. Can you forgive me?"
"My dear Mr. Wallion," replied Leo at once; "I am flattered, delighted!
We must be friends now, and don't, whatever happens, spirit me back to
California, before you have explained how I have become the object of
such unbounded interest."
"In your capacity as owner of the Copper House."
"I haven't been a great success so far, in that line," remarked Leo.
"When I tell you that I have been as good as turned out of it...."
He broke off his sentence in rather guilty confusion, at an
unexpectedly piercing look from the other.
"Have you been there already, in spite of my warning?"
The young man nodded.
"And the immediate result is this nocturnal visit?" continued Wallion.
"So you have been there? I was wondering all the time what could have
happened to agitate you so much; I might have realized that you are one
of those folks who never take advice.... Well, never mind, I am rather
reluctant to take it myself, without knowing the reason for it. What
did you see, to scare you so desperately?"
At this question, a sort of panic terror overwhelmed Leo. He saw once
more the fugitive stumbling into the hall: he heard the shot ring out.
He faltered: "I believe that a man has been killed--shot--at the Copper
House; they didn't want me to see...."
Wallion bent down and looked into the young man's eyes, as a doctor
would examine his patient.
"Tell me all about it," said he.
Leo thereupon poured out a very disjointed story, which the journalist
heard in silence.
"You are sure that the girl called out 'Sergius'?"
"As sure as I am that Rastakov called the fugitive Bernard Jenin."
"And you think that Jenin certainly came into the house, but did not
leave it again?"
"No, for it was impossible for him to get away."
"And you say that he disappeared altogether after that shot had been
fired?"
"Yes, as though he had been instantaneously annihilated."
Wallion looked puzzled, and threw himself back in his chair with a
gesture of vexation.
"Things don't tally! Talk of magic! I am brought up short whichever
way I turn in this affair. Why should Lona Ivanovna shoot Bernard
Jenin?--they ought...."
He scratched his head meditatively, and got up from his seat. "I know
where I am with Rastakov, he is quite definitely on my black list. But
Lona Ivanovna? and the girl who called out 'Sergius'?"
Presently Leo ventured to ask a question which had been on the tip of
his tongue for a long time.
"I think it's my turn now to ask you for some light on these
difficulties," said he; "you were joking, weren't you, when you said
you needed my help?"
Wallion turned round and answered: "I suppose you know the Copper House
like the palm of your hand?"
"Who should, if not I?"
"Exactly, you know the house, and you have the _right_ to do so. Do you
understand why these people want to buy the property? Simply to deprive
you of that right. No one but yourself is in a position to know what is
going on at the Copper House; and some underhand work is on foot there,
which is bound to come to a head sooner or later. But I won't tantalize
you with riddles, I will speak out."
He sat down again, and continued:
"It is a good thing you didn't run off to the police; that will come
later, but not yet. I presume you did not meet Marcus Tassler?"
"No," replied Leo.
"That's just as well; it leaves us free to see the situation clearly."
"Excuse me," interrupted Leo, "I don't see anything clearly, as yet!"
"I am going to tell you a story," said Wallion. "Five months ago, I
was sent for early one morning to see a dying man. I asked his name,
and, to my surprise, I was given the name of a person who, several
years previously, had been a friend of mine, and who had had the
reputation of being a very promising journalist. But, in consequence
of an extremely unfortunate and ridiculous love-affair, he went all to
pieces, and finally disappeared, of his own accord, from our circle.
"I hastened to him, and found a poor, battered, neglected creature,
lying, watch in hand, and speculating with a sort of childish
curiosity, as to who would reach him first--myself or Death. They had
told me beforehand that the unfortunate wretch had come home tipsy
the night before, and had fallen out of a passage window on the fifth
story, down to the stone pavement below. Everyone in the building had
been aroused by the cry he uttered as he fell.
"I won't mention his name, for obvious reasons.
"When I came into the poverty-stricken bedroom, he raised his head
from the pillow, and said very slowly and softly: 'I was afraid they
wouldn't let you come!'
"I fancied he was delirious, and he looked as though he could barely
have another minute to live.
"'Who do you mean?' I asked him.
"'The men who killed me,' was his reply.
"I hardly know what I said, for it was a dreadful shock to see the man
whom I remembered full of life and health, lying an utter wreck before
me. His back was broken. The change in him was so overwhelming that he
could not but notice my consternation.
"'Yes, it is I,' he said, 'but in a minute or two I shall not be here
any longer ... quick, quick, bend down--no, do not touch my hand!' And
he turned away his head, as though in shame.
"'Send away the doctor,' he murmured. I asked the doctor if he would
remain outside the room until I called him, and stooped down over the
dying man. His eyes glittered with fever, in his haggard, unshorn face.
'Do you know why I am dying?' said he. 'It's because I have seen too
far into the depths of the Whirlpool ... you are blind--all of you
blind! Can you see nothing?...'
"He brought out these words with such an effort that it made him gasp
for breath, and I gave him some water.
"'Mark my words,' he began again, in brief sentences and with repeated
pauses. 'I have thrown away my own life ... they bought me to do their
work, but I won't ... it is the beginning of Chaos ... first in
Russia ... then it will spread everywhere ... the man who dominates the
Whirlpool is called Gabriel Ortiz; I found that out yesterday, and last
night they killed me ... for I am as good as dead already.'
"His failing energy beat out every word like the sparks from an anvil,
and I listened breathlessly, for I realized that he was husbanding the
last remnants of strength to make some amazing revelation.
"'Gabriel Ortiz ... remember that name ... his right hand is Baron
Fayerling ... but there are many others ... their plan ... it's
appalling ... the wild beast shall possess the earth!...'
"He groped for my hand, as though by clinging to me he could retain his
hold on life a little longer. His anguish was fearful to see.
"'The War is nothing to what will happen, if Ortiz is not crushed ...
but be careful ... they kill'; ... his voice grew fainter, and he
lapsed into unconsciousness. I called in the doctor, but after a few
minutes, he died.
"The dim room still seemed to echo with the sound of his voice. What
was it he wanted to tell me?"
Wallion lighted a cigarette, and Leo could see that he was deeply moved.
"You see for yourself what a fantastic confession it appeared. And
yet it never occurred to me to doubt the dead man's information,
though I could find nothing to confirm it amongst his papers. But I
made discreet inquiries of his neighbors, and when I went away, I was
convinced that he had really been murdered by two men, who had lain in
wait for him on the staircase, and pushed him through the window. I
felt sure he had been in his right mind, but that he had been unable
to complete a communication which would have been of incalculable
importance."
"Could you find no clue to it?"
"No, but I took it for granted that he was the author of an article,
headed: 'Who is the Man in the Whirlpool?' which had appeared a
few weeks previously, in a little popular weekly paper. It proved
impossible to verify it, because, for some unknown reason, the
newspaper came to an end shortly after, and its contributors were all
dispersed. In this remarkable article, attention was called to the
fact that, during the War, Stockholm had become a center of activity
for adventurers of a type hitherto unknown to civilization, and it was
asserted that amongst them was a man who, as it were behind the back of
the War, was organizing these mysterious forces, no one could say how
or why.
"At all events, the writer of the article and the dying man took the
same view, that something was brewing, and I had suspected as much
already; things were going on in Stockholm which aroused my notice,
there was a sort of subterranean movement which puzzled me. The image
of a whirlpool was extraordinarily apt, and I could not doubt that the
poor fellow I had just seen die, had been sucked into the vortex by
sheer want, or by the temptation of easily earned money. Many weak and
unfortunate characters have gone that way in these times! But what he
caught sight of in the Whirlpool had evidently alarmed him, and he had
made an effort to save his soul alive. Had I only arrived on the scene
a few minutes earlier, I might have learned everything. At any rate,
he had not summoned me in vain; I knew now that the Master Villain was
called Gabriel Ortiz.
"But when I tried to obtain particulars as to this Gabriel Ortiz, I
immediately met with the most extraordinary difficulties, which were
in themselves a proof that he existed, but that he had safeguarded
himself with the most intricate precautions. I had only just started
my investigations in earnest, when the Russian Revolution broke out in
March. At once I became aware, here in Stockholm, that under my very
eyes, the sinister development was gaining strength. The Whirlpool
was beginning to seethe. My attention had been directed towards Baron
Fayerling, but I had not succeeded in discovering anything mysterious
about him. He stays at one of the best hotels, goes everywhere, and
lives officially on the rents of his Roumanian property. But as
Roumanian property is just now a very uncertain source of income, Baron
Fayerling also does business of the most up-to-date kind, and has
associated himself for this purpose with Marcus Tassler, the manager
of the Finno-Russian Import and Export Company, a thorough going
profiteer, and even outside business matters a regular shark.
"Meanwhile, the odd thing about Tassler is the interest he takes in the
Copper House. Mark this: we have at the Copper House three perfectly
inconspicuous persons, who seem to prefer living in the most complete
retirement; they are Andrei Bernin, his sister and his daughter. As
long as I have had my eye on them, they have never left the Copper
House, and have not evinced any particular friendship for Tassler
or the baron, who often stay there as self-invited guests. Tassler
has shown unremitting interest in the Copper House, and it is he who
has brought about, first the lease of the entire property, and now
the liberal offer to purchase it. He has installed there a staff of
attendants, whom he commands with almost military zeal. The gate-keeper
is called Tugan; no one knows his nationality, but he is a regular
watchdog, and only too glad to get food, drink and fighting, provided
gratis. He, of course, lives at the lodge.
"Then we have the gardener, whom you have probably not seen yet;
his name is Rosenthal, a taciturn, meditative sort of fellow, with
something refined about him which distinguishes him slightly from the
rest. He has two underlings, and these three live in the gardener's
cottage behind the big house.
"Next we have the cowhouse and the stable, which now contain only three
cows and two horses--but four cowherds and two grooms are kept to look
after them--what do you make of that?
"Wait! The list is not complete yet. There are the six men whom Sonia
Bernin calls the forest-guards, and they really _do_ keep watch in the
wood, as you can testify from personal experience!
"And finally, two individuals are installed at the little cottage
beside the pier that runs out into the Bay; they fish, and sail in and
out of the farther islands, but what they catch, neither you nor I can
say!
"So there we have a retinue of eighteen men--but not a trace of either
men or women servants in the Copper House itself. Not counting the
three Bernins, who are Russians, every one of the others on the place
is a foreigner, although ten or eleven of them can speak Swedish, and
six have been naturalized as Swedish citizens."
"And you said you didn't know the Copper House!" exclaimed Leo; "why,
you know it better than I do!"
"Anybody can find out that sort of thing," replied Wallion. "There is
no secret about it. But the burning question is: what is _really_ going
on at the Copper House?"