_In which we catch a glimpse of the shadow of Napoleon the Great_
The Problem-hunter and the Austrian detective remained standing
together, and watching from behind the curtains a commotion at the
house. Some kind of dispute seemed to be taking place there, the cause
of which became apparent when they heard Lona Ivanovna's commanding
voice exclaiming: "Out you all go!"
Quite a number of men came tumbling out on to the terrace, and the old
lady appeared behind them at the kitchen door; she was like a Valkyrie
of old, and the men quailed before her as trees bend before a gale.
"Why, goodness me, men, you have your precious master there, haven't
you?" said she, pointing one long, bony finger at the baron; "he can
tell you that there isn't a spot the size of a farthing in this house,
which hasn't been examined. You can all see that Bernard Jenin is not
here; ask your Roumanian baron if he can suggest any corner in which a
fugitive could still be hidden."
"That will do, madam," said the baron, sourly; "we have not finished
yet: we know what we know...."
"Perhaps you don't know what I know, for all that!"
"And what may that be?"
"That you are a worthy leader of the biggest set of blockheads I have
ever seen!" answered the old lady, with a loud laugh, as she shut the
door again.
Baron Fayerling shrugged his shoulders, and went off with Rastakov;
Marcus Tassler hurried after them, and the three men disappeared down
the avenue. But they left the house under the close supervision of a
cordon of dark, determined, armed men, who, after a few apparently
aimless movements in different directions, extended their line in such
a way as to include the gardener's cottage within its limits.
The two detectives at the window commented on this fresh turn of events
with critical approval, rather as though they had been two spectators
in a box at the Opera.
"Rastakov has managed that well," said Wallion, smiling; "now all the
approaches to the house are effectively isolated--and we with them."
At that instant, a sharp shower that almost amounted to a squall, swept
over the garden, whirling away, like a gray specter, across the woods
to the southwest. A deep stillness followed; everything was motionless,
and each little leaf shone like glass in the hot, dazzling sunshine.
The broad expanse of the steep copper roof, which was green with
verdigris, took on a more richly enameled glow, and the very roses in
the garden seemed to deepen in color.
"_You_ are isolated," said the Austrian after a moment's silence, "but
_I_ have a certain amount of liberty--don't forget that I am one of
them--for the time being."
The journalist laughed.
"What's become of your two under-gardeners?" he asked.
"Rastakov has mobilized them."
"Are they...."
"They are nothing more nor less than--Bolsheviks!"
It was the first time that the word had been mentioned by either of
them, and Wallion bent forward.
"Do you know that for certain? I presume you have discovered that
Rastakov has dealings with the Bolshevik gang?"
The other nodded.
"It set me thinking," he admitted; "they support Ortiz with
extraordinary keenness, though I don't believe he half knows what ideas
Rastakov cherishes inside that ugly mug of his. Of the men he has under
his orders, half, to my knowledge, are Bolsheviks, that is, they belong
to the extremist party which is working to overthrow Kerensky. Ortiz is
working for that also, but from another motive.
"The situation is involved, and if Rastakov gets to know the real
import of Tarraschin's memorandum, there may be a surprise in store for
our friend Ortiz."
"A Bolshevik revolt is in progress at Petrograd at the present time,"
remarked Wallion, thoughtfully; "all depends upon what Ortiz intends
to do. Do you think he is still there?"
"At Petrograd? I did not know he was there at all: I imagined him to be
in Finland!" exclaimed the Austrian.
"Yes, at the beginning of this week I could tell, by various signs,
that he was in Petrograd. But now that the Tarraschin memorandum has
been snatched from under his very nose, he is naturally coming here,
and should arrive this evening, at latest."
"Yes, as soon as it is dark enough."
"Does he always come at night?"
"Always, since the end of March."
"I guessed as much," said the journalist, "when I saw how the side of
the lighter had been knocked about: some sort of craft had evidently
come alongside in the dark. But tell me, why does that blue light,
which looks like an acetylene flare, appear every evening?"
"It is some kind of signal which they show from the lighter, and it
burns every evening at such times as Ortiz is expected. They do it
these nights, especially, as they are engaged in shifting a secret
cargo on board the lighter."
"A secret cargo? Arms, you mean?"
"Yes, a good deal of stuff was brought here on the motor-launch
_Nelly's_ contraband trips. It was a sad blow for Ortiz when the
_Nelly_ was captured, but, as one would expect, they had obliterated
all traces very skilfully, and the police made no search here. There
are still several thousand Mauser rifles, packed in wine-cases, as
well as a quantity of other articles, calculated to influence Russian
opinion as regards the reactionary program!"
Whilst the Austrian talked, he was unconsciously smelling a fragrant,
red rose, which he had picked up, and his voice was as unruffled as a
mild spring day.
"Where did they store all those things before they were moved to the
lighter?" asked Wallion.
"Isn't that down in your notes, yet?" retorted the other, looking up
from his rose with a smile.
"I was looking round a bit, and it struck me what a good hiding place
there would be under the hay in the cowhouse."
"You've hit it! What sharp eyes you have! But I don't think we need
waste much time over contraband goods. Only a minimum of weapons have
been despatched from here; Ortiz has probably bought the greater
part of his stock in Russia itself, for the ruffians who once formed
the Tsar's fine army, sell everything they can lay hands on--rifles,
machine-guns, ammunition, everything--even heavy artillery! And to
anyone who wants them! And cheap!--eight or ten roubles for a nice
little cannon: five for a machine-gun."
The Austrian burst out laughing, and Wallion smiled.
"These are fine times for adventurers," said he; "we need only look out
of the window to see that. What an extraordinarily tangled web the War
has woven in this one little spot. Bernard Jenin with the Tarraschin
memorandum: Baron Fayerling and Marcus Tassler with Ortiz' millions:
Rastakov with his Bolsheviks: the Bernin family: the question of
contraband: and at the back of them all, the hitherto invisible Gabriel
Ortiz, with his shadowy and fantastic schemes."
"If we could get hold of the memorandum, we could break up the whole
gang," interrupted the Austrian; "if only I knew what they had done
with Jenin!"
"You still think he is in the house?" asked the journalist, with an odd
smile.
"Most assuredly, for he has never left it, that I can swear to. You
have not once gone in or out unobserved: _I_ saw you. Oh, he is
certainly there--but where?"
Maurice Wallion wrote a few lines on a piece of paper, and handed it to
his companion.
"Will you do me the favor of getting this in some way or other to
Leonard Grath?" he said. "I won't show myself yet, though there is
little more for us to talk about, except the beginning of all these
mysteries. Perhaps you never heard of the Emperor of the Amazons?"
"No," replied the gardener, looking surprised.
"Then I'll tell you about him; I'll wait for you here, whilst you
deliver my message to Grath."
The other man looked curiously at him, and said: "Good! I can see
you are better informed on some subjects than I am. You stay here,
and if you think you hear anyone else coming, just go into the
tool-house--you'll be safe there--or go up into the loft."
He indicated a wooden staircase in the corner, took up the note, and
went out. Wallion watched him from the window go slowly up the garden,
and disappear round the house. Dark faces popped up here and there
behind the bushes at the sound of his footsteps, but on seeing that it
was Rosenthal, they vanished again noiselessly.
Five minutes later he returned, and Wallion noticed, with some
annoyance, that he was now accompanied by two stalwart forest-guards,
of a peculiarly bovine cast of countenance.
The three men stopped outside the door, and a lively conversation
followed, in which they were joined by five or six of the other men,
who came strolling up to listen. Suddenly a name was mentioned which
made the journalist prick up his ears.
"Wallion isn't far off," said one of the men.
"And who may he be?" growled another.
"Rastakov says he is a detective. It looks as though we may have to get
out of this to-night, if we have a fellow of that sort on our track,
but if he turns up before we are ready to quit, I guess he'll find
trouble awaiting him. We needn't be too particular now, you know!"
"But how shall we get away from here?" asked a doubtful voice.
"Oh, don't bother me, that's the Chief's look-out: he'll see to that
when he comes. What are you going to do, Rosenthal?"
"Go indoors, and get a bit of sleep," replied the gardener. "I was on
guard all last night, it's your turn now; besides, we've all got to be
up to-night."
A chorus of protest greeted this announcement, but Rosenthal dispersed
them with a few vigorous expressions, and, as soon as they were gone,
he opened the door, and came in to his visitor.
"Grath has got your note," he said quietly. "I threw it in at his
window, and made sure that he had picked it up, before I came away. Did
you hear what those fellows were saying?"
"I seem to be in great demand!" replied Wallion.
"They believe that you are on your way here; two men are awaiting
your arrival at the station, and others are patrolling the roads.
Practically the whole gang is assembled here, and ripe for anything.
The baron has shown them your portrait, so they know what you look
like, and if you attempt to leave here, and to get into communication
with your friends, you had better take the precaution of having an
aeroplane handy!"
"I shall certainly stop where I am: it's very cosy here," said Wallion.
"But where did the baron get a picture of me?"
"He probably cut it out of some newspaper. What do you say to having a
bit of lunch, whilst we discuss the situation?"
"I say yes, with all my heart," laughed the journalist. "Can we count
on being left in peace for so long?"
"Yes, on the whole. The baron and Tassler have returned to Stockholm,
and are not expected back for three or four hours: this is the calm
before the storm."
The Austrian set to work on his preparations for lunch with the skill
of an old campaigner, and the journalist lent a hand, so that in a
quarter of an hour's time they were sitting down to a simple but
plentiful meal.
When they had finished, Wallion lighted a cigarette, leaned back in his
chair, and looked at his watch.
"Three o'clock," he remarked. "Let's have a chat, before things get
going again."
"Yes," said the Austrian eagerly. "You mentioned a very curious title:
'Emperor of the Amazons,' I think it was; what sort of a Royal Nonesuch
was he?"
"You don't know the history of Gabriel Ortiz's earlier fortunes, then?"
"Oh, does it concern him? No, I have never heard his story: it ought to
be an interesting one: let's hear it, at all events."
The journalist gave a brief sketch of Ortiz' youthful escapade in
Paris, his rash adventure as Emperor of the Amazons, and his daring
finance as the "Coffee-King" of Wall Street. The Austrian listened with
breathless interest, and as Wallion finished, he exclaimed:
"All this is new to me. One may call it a fit prelude to the great
drama of his life. That he imagines himself to be descended from the
great Napoleon, explains a good deal; he is not the first to delude
himself with that fable, and I daresay that he, like most of the other
'soi-disant' descendants of Napoleon, has altogether omitted to provide
any proofs of his statement?"
"He stated that his grandfather was a natural son of Napoleon the
Great, born during his captivity at St. Helena; the mother was said to
be a young Creole, named Anita Ortiz. To begin with, Gabriel Ortiz'
father, at that time a wealthy Brazilian citizen, became acquainted
with the great secret of his family, and for many years he sought
in vain to establish the facts. After the Amazon adventure, Ortiz
was interviewed by an American reporter, and was simple enough to
boast that, with his noble birth, and his genius, he would show the
world once again to what heights a descendant of Napoleon could
rise. The result was, that the well-known Professor Hichens devoted
twenty minutes of his valuable time to our friend, and within that
time, completely annihilated his claim. The Professor proved that
no woman named Anita Ortiz had ever been at St. Helena at the time
specified, and that all the so-called natural descendants of the
imprisoned Emperor had been shown beyond a doubt to be impostors. As
far as I know, Gabriel Ortiz had nothing to say in reply. The whole
thing was simply the creation of a young man's imagination, but very
characteristic of this particular man."
"It is certainly most remarkable," said the Austrian thoughtfully. "I
have seen him out here twice, and he really does very strongly resemble
the Little Gray Corporal. He is short, pale and clean-shaven, with
thin dark hair, which he wears brushed over his forehead, a determined
mouth, and dark, gray-blue eyes, expressive of a despotic will and a
love of power. One is almost tempted to think...."
Wallion interrupted him:
"Don't let us worry ourselves over it, it doesn't really affect the
case: we can allow that Ortiz has a genuine talent for play-acting,
can't we? The important thing is to anticipate his wild schemes before
it is too late. Everything depends upon who has the Tarraschin document
in his possession by the end of to-day: and to get hold of it, we have
only to find Bernard Jenin."
"Which is not going to be so easy as you seem to think!" said the
Austrian, rather abruptly. "My dear Mr. Wallion, don't underrate the
baron and Rastakov: they are admirable sleuth-hounds, though they have
had no luck so far."
"And, therefore," retorted the journalist, "it must be a point of honor
with us to beat them at their own game! Don't you yourself insist that
Jenin must still be in the Copper House, living or dead? Why, my good
sir, the Copper House isn't like London: a man hidden in it can't
remain hidden indefinitely, after all! The sooner we can get speech
with him, the sooner we shall be able to control the entire situation.
I suggest...."
He paused, frowning a little, then smiled and continued:
"Of course, we must proceed with a certain amount of diplomacy, and
whatever happens, we must start with Lona Ivanovna as our ally; I'll
see to all that."
"Have you a plan?"
"I have three! But before anything else, you must, on my behalf, get
into communication with Robert Lang. You need only say a few words to
him, he will know what he has to do. Do you think you can manage it?"
The Austrian nodded.
"Yes, I can telephone at any time from the lodge; in case of need, I
have these to back me up," and he pointed with grim satisfaction to his
hip-pockets, in each of which reposed a burnished steel "Browning," of
the most powerful pattern.
"I can make things pretty hot for them, if the worst comes to the
worst," he added; "this is my last resource, and when I use it, it will
mean that my own life is at stake. None of us will come out of this
alive, if they discover us too soon, but I think we still have a good
chance. What am I to tell your friend Lang?"
Wallion considered:
"Tell him that there is no need to get anxious about the baron and
Rastakov until they get back here, which they should be allowed to
do unmolested, though under surveillance. Also say to him that
'to-night's the night'.... Hallo, what's that?"
He leaned forward and looked out of the window.
"What is that young scatterbrain up to now?"
Leo had come out of the house, accompanied by Sonia Bernin. The young
man seemed to have some special object in view, for, as the journalist
watched him, he ran quickly across the terrace, followed by the girl.