_Gabriel Ortiz musters his forces and counts his prisoners_
Maurice Wallion remained at the window for some little time. The
lightning had shown him the terrace empty: would the three messengers
succeed in getting past the sentries? He was quivering all over with
excitement....
Ah, what was that! That ominous whistle must mean that someone had seen
them. There was a flash through the darkness as a shot was fired; he
leaned out, and heard a confused noise among the trees, where lights
now began to dance like will o' the wisps.
Lona Ivanovna, at his elbow, gave a little gasp.
"That was a shot," she said; "what is wrong out there?" The lights
clustered together, then shifted rapidly from one spot to another.
"Hark, that's the Austrian's voice: it sounds as though they had caught
him ... but the others! Sonia!" she whispered anxiously; "if only we
could see!"
They held their breath, but now nothing could be heard except the swish
of the rain, and most of the lights had disappeared.
"They've done it!" said Wallion. "I believe they have got through." He
closed the window, and went out into the hall.
"Our part of the task remains to be done," he added; "look, there
comes the procession, but without its band and colors. This begins to
get exciting! I wonder in which character the great man will appear
to-night: emperor or millionaire?"
He posted himself just inside the glass doors, and watched with calm
interest the spectacle outside. It was really, as he said, a regular
procession that was advancing, though at present, one could only
distinguish a line of shadowy forms, interspersed with flickering white
lights.
Five of Rastakov's men ran first up the terrace steps, and took up
their position at some distance from one another; they were followed by
Rastakov himself, calling out a series of orders in Russian. A minute
later, the whole terrace was illuminated by the powerful glare of four
acetylene lights, carried by as many torch-bearers, who halted at the
top of the steps, and looked round them expectantly: other shadows were
visible behind them.
The short, upright figure in the waterproof now marched up the
steps, with Baron Fayerling on his left: his every movement was firm
and unhesitating. The baron was speaking: he was evidently giving
his report, to which the Chief listened without stopping, without
answering, without looking at his companion. Close behind them came
six men, wearing the uniform of marines, and armed with cutlasses and
carbines.
"Look at his bodyguard!" murmured the journalist; "the great man
doesn't trust himself entirely to his friends: one might almost
imagine...."
He broke off. The torch-bearers had shifted their position a little,
and the bright light fell directly on Ortiz' face. From that moment,
Wallion no longer saw anything ridiculous about his antagonist; he was
obliged to admit (like everyone else who had been brought into contact
with this man), that the first glimpse of Ortiz' face made a remarkable
impression upon him; its look of intense concentration fascinated him;
the man's whole self seemed bent on the attainment of an all-embracing,
all-absorbing, and as yet unrealized ambition. His face was pale, but
expressive of unlimited strength of will; the mouth small, straight,
thin-lipped, and unsmiling; the eyes, which were deep set and
penetrating, seemed to look far beyond their immediate surroundings
into some boundless realm of fancy, bright with the promise of
power and sovereignty; and from their depths shone the unquenchable
conviction which is the hall-mark of the fanatic.
"Do you see him?" whispered Lona Ivanovna.
"Yes," answered the journalist; "I see that I have made a
miscalculation."
"What did you expect?"
Wallion did not answer. What exactly had he expected? A caricature
of Napoleon? A common adventurer, acting a ridiculous part? No, and
yet he had perhaps unconsciously hoped that Gabriel Ortiz should turn
out to be--just the "Emperor of the Amazons." But the antagonist
who at length presented himself, after months of suspense, was no
comic hero--he was a man! A man who, in deadly earnest, was bent on
fulfilling his dearest ambition in defiance of law and order--and
between him and his ambition stood only one obstacle--Maurice Wallion.
"What a fight it will be," said the journalist aloud; "one of us must
go under!" He breathed hard, and clenched and unclenched his fists.
"Now!" whispered Lona Ivanovna.
The group on the terrace advanced again; Baron Fayerling had finished
talking, and stepped on one side. Gabriel Ortiz was walking towards the
house, his head bent, and his hands clasped behind him. Suddenly he
looked up, and said sharply:
"Who are in the house?"
The baron's reply was inaudible, but Wallion was sure that he only
mentioned three names, as he made a gesture towards the dark garden.
Ortiz nodded shortly. Lona Ivanovna remarked, from her place by
Wallion's side:
"If only I had that baron's throat between my fingers!"
He hushed her with a look, and drew her back from the door as she was
on the point of sallying forth.
"You must keep as cool as ice!" he warned her; "you will want all your
wits, all your cunning now. Our aim is to gain time, not to indulge in
heroics; put away your revolver, it would only make matters worse."
She replaced the weapon reluctantly in her workbag, and they withdrew
silently.
At a signal from the baron, the lights were turned upon the entire
front of the house, shining right into the windows; slanting,
flickering shafts of light illuminated the hall, and just as Lona
Ivanovna and the journalist were leaving it, the locked doors yielded
to a violent push, showers of glass tinkled over the oak floor, and the
walls echoed to the steady tramp of men.
"Lights on everywhere!" ordered the baron. "Put a man at every door;
you two stop here."
Steps approached the dining-room: the curtain that screened it from the
hall, was pulled aside with a rattle, and Ortiz appeared in the doorway.
He looked coolly and critically at the persons who awaited him; then
he came in, still accompanied by the baron. Two of the men in uniform
stood on guard by the door, and two others placed their lamps on the
mantelpiece, filling the room with a dazzling light, in which faces
appeared unnaturally pale, and shadows unnaturally dark. There was
silence for an instant: Ortiz, his hands still behind him, signed to
his adjutant to draw back a little, that he might speak. His deep,
piercing glance travelled from the white-haired form in the armchair to
Lona Ivanovna's upright figure, and finally rested upon Wallion. He
seemed to be looking down upon them from a great height, taking stock
of everything, and coördinating all details into one complete whole.
But the journalist, who was growing impatient, could not deny himself
the satisfaction of the first word.
"Good evening, Gabriel Ortiz. I have long wished to meet you; dare I
hope that Baron Fayerling will introduce me?"
Ortiz unfastened his dripping waterproof, and threw his hat on a chair.
"It is not necessary, Maurice Wallion: I know you already."
"And my--friends?" asked the journalist, emphasizing the word
"friends," and waving his hand towards Lona Ivanovna and the sick man.
"Do you...?"
"I know them also."
Ortiz' reply was short and sharp. His expression changed as he looked
at the journalist: it evinced more hostility but at the same time, more
interest than before, and he added:
"Do you count them among your friends? That is risky; I am sorry that
you have come here, Maurice Wallion."
"Would it not be more to the point if you explained by what right you
invade the Copper House in this brutal way?"
"By the strongest right!"
"You are on Swedish soil: let me remind you of its laws."
"I have my own."
"In other words, you are an outlaw."
"From your point of view--not from mine."
"Do you depend so much upon our being helpless?"
"No, I depend only upon myself. I have not come here to make
terms: your point of view does not interest me. I have come to get
Tarraschin's memorandum."
"Are you sure that it exists?"
"Yes, for what else could you offer in exchange?"
"In exchange for what?"
"Your life."
Ortiz uttered these two words in a perfectly ordinary tone, but his
deep-set eyes remained somber and remote; his inmost thoughts seemed
to have strayed into that far-off region where his future lay hidden.
Wallion realized that to this dark and dangerous being, one life
signified less than nothing, but he said quietly:
"You are too hasty; threats are not a sign of strength."
Ortiz turned away without answering him.
"A table and a chair!" he commanded. The two men hastened to obey, and
placed what he asked for in the middle of the room; he seated himself,
and the baron took up his position close by.
Wallion remained on the alert for any sounds from outside. By this
time, the three messengers ought to have solved their problem. No
sound issued from the darkness that surrounded the house; the rain
had abated, and there were longer intervals between the flashes of
lightning. Was it possible that all three had got safely away?
"I miss three of your friends," said Ortiz suddenly; "where are they?"
"Do you wish to see them?"
"I do."
"Then I regret that I can give you no information about them."
Ortiz laid a paper on the table in front of him. It was covered with
names and dates; he ran his pen down the lines, making a mark against
three of them: finally he looked up.
"Rosenthal, gardener. Bring the man in, Baron Fayerling."
The baron went to the door, a scuffle was heard in the hall, and,
panting and dishevelled, a drenched figure was hustled up to the table:
it was the Austrian.
"Look at me," said Ortiz coldly. "Are you Rosenthal?"
"Yes," replied the gardener hoarsely.
"You were engaged on the recommendation of Madame Sumensov, on the 29th
of April?"
"Yes."
"You have made two attempts to betray us to-day; what have you to say
for yourself?"
The Austrian was silent.
"Have you nothing to say?"
"No."
"Can you deny that you are an Austrian detective named Max Raebel?"
said Ortiz.
The Austrian laughed bitterly:
"No, I am glad you know it," he replied. "It doesn't matter now; I have
done with you and your associates in Russia; you may do your worst...."
Ortiz seemed to ignore this remark; he made a sign to the baron,
pointed to the paper, and said a few words in an undertone. The baron
shrugged his shoulders:
"That's impossible!" he replied with a contemptuous glance at the
Austrian. Ortiz got up, went across to the detective, and looked him
straight in the face.
"You have been here two months," said he, reflectively; "have you made
any notes?"
"Do you think so little of me as to ask me that?" retorted Raebel. "I
never take notes, but I have a good memory...."
"What is your memory worth?"
Raebel did not reply.
"A million, perhaps?"
"No. Do you wish me to name my terms?"
"Yes."
"Give me Tarraschin's memorandum, surrender yourself to the
authorities, and distribute your millions among the poor, and I may
consider the matter!"
Ortiz turned his back upon him, returned to the table, and said,
without raising his voice:
"See that this fellow is taken on board, when we leave here."
"Would it not be better to do it at once?" suggested the baron.
"No, I might require him again. Isn't Rastakov ready yet?"
"Yes, he's just coming."
Rastakov entered the room.
"Well!" Ortiz greeted him.
"I have searched Rosenthal's room," replied Rastakov; "he has made no
notes, and I have found nothing."
"Good!"
Ortiz sat silent for a little time. It did not escape Wallion that the
baron and Rastakov exchanged a rapid glance full of uneasiness; he
could guess the reason.
Ortiz looked at his watch.
"Rastakov--have you left any of your men in Stockholm?"
"No, they are all here."
"Nobody missing?"
"No."
"Is everything aboard the lighter?"
"Yes."
"Good!" said the Chief once again. "Bring in Leonard Grath and Sonia
Bernin immediately; I don't wish to wait any longer."
The baron bit his lips and looked nervously at Rastakov. For several
seconds a dead silence reigned in the room, at the end of which
Rastakov went out, making an ambiguous sign to Fayerling.
"Well!" said Ortiz, raising his voice, and looking round him. "Where is
Rastakov gone? What does this mean? Am I not to be obeyed?"
Max Raebel had drawn close to Wallion, and said rapidly in a barely
audible voice:
"They caught me almost directly, but I played my part for all it was
worth, I can tell you! Three of them seized me at once and dragged me
down, but I believe the youngsters got away safely."
Ortiz fixed his dark eyes upon them, and exclaimed sharply: "Gentlemen!
You had better speak out loud; nobody whispers in my presence. Can
either of _you_ perhaps inform me where the two missing persons are to
be found?"
Wallion replied:
"They have gone to fetch some friends of mine, who might otherwise
arrive too late to meet you...."
Ortiz' eyes blazed; this time he was visibly provoked, and patches of
red appeared on his cheeks.
"So that is what you are waiting for! I saw through you from the first;
you are at the bottom of all this. You must be a very optimistic man,
Maurice Wallion, if you imagine that I have not anticipated your
action. Do I need to tell you that nothing can stop me?"
He struck the table with the palm of his hand.
"I am the master of Copper House for to-night, and I intend to show
it! You have sent them to alarm the authorities? That is a good move:
but do you suppose that Rastakov would be such a fool as to admit them?
And if he did, what would be the result? When the authorities get here,
they will find no one to tell them what has occurred. I sweep clean
after me, as you ought to know, after seeking me for so long."
"Brooms don't always sweep quite clean enough!" answered Wallion;
"to begin with, how do you know that the runaways have not taken
Tarraschin's memorandum with them, as literature for the journey?"
This shot struck home. Ortiz walked up to the journalist, and looked at
him intently.
"If you have dared to do that!" said he, slowly; "but no, it is
impossible. You couldn't be so foolishly reckless!"
He turned to Lona Ivanovna, who met his eyes without flinching.
"I know you, Lona Ivanovna! For you, and for him there," and he nodded
contemptuously at the silent figure crouched in the armchair, "the
document is altogether too costly!"
He swung round on his heel.
"Baron Fayerling! What are you waiting for? If there is such delay in
bringing in my prisoners, I must take more vigorous measures."
The baron bowed low.
"I believe they are on the way here," he answered.
The Austrian seized Wallion by the arm:
"Hark, I hear people coming up the avenue! Either they have been
caught, or else...."
A noise outside became audible. The journalist looked out of the
window, and saw a dozen lanterns coming up the avenue, in whose light
the dark faces of a band of men were visible; rifle-barrels gleamed,
and a voice shouted:
"Are you all here? In with you, there is no time to lose!"
A crowd of men surged into the hall.