_Tarraschin's memorandum changes owners_
Inside the Copper House, the atmosphere of suspense became more and
more heavily charged; nobody quite knew the cause of the sounds
which now reached them from the avenue. It was impossible to guess
what Ortiz was thinking, for he had spread out a map on the table,
and was studying it carefully. Wallion could see that it was a map
of the environs of the Copper House. Suddenly Ortiz looked up into
the journalist's eyes, with a frown; at that moment he really looked
uncommonly like the "Little Gray Corporal." With his sparse, straggling
hair, his keen, rather preoccupied glance, his small mouth, and round
but determined chin, he was an exact copy of Napoleon, and the gray
coat enveloping his thick-set figure increased the realistic effect.
Although he was evidently aware of this, and took pleasure in
maintaining the pose, he did not lay himself open to ridicule: there
was a threatening expression in his eyes, and his remarks were
emphasized by the presence of the carbines at the door.
"Do you hear that?" he said, slowly; "there goes your last chance."
"It may be help coming," retorted Wallion imperturbably.
"Do you really think that?"
"You yourself need to study a map: you would be powerless against a
well-planned surprise."
Ortiz raised his eyebrows, but his immediate reply virtually admitted
the truth of the insinuation.
"A whole regiment would not be able to prevent my getting away by sea."
"As long as you did not fall in with two or three torpedo boats outside
the headland!"
"Ah," murmured Ortiz, "is that why you sent off your friends?"
"Yes, they will give the alarm to the coast guards, if they have not
already been warned. I had not counted on a stolen submarine when I
came here, but now I know where I have you...."
As they talked, both men were on the alert for sounds from outside;
people were approaching, and as though at a given signal, those inside
the room re-grouped themselves.
Ortiz and Fayerling took a few quick steps towards the door, and the
sentries grounded their rifles; Wallion, Raebel and Lona Ivanovna drew
back towards the window, and stood in front of the pretended Andrei
Bernin, in his armchair. The two groups kept a watchful eye on one
another across the room.
"Discussion is useless," said Ortiz, presently; "your friends have
failed--look!"
A confused mass of shadows became visible through the doorway, and
rifle-butts clanged on the hall floor. Two weary and dejected figures
were pushed forward into the circle of light in the middle of the room:
they were Leo and Sonia, and Wallion could not repress an exclamation
of disappointment.
"You have failed?" he said, going up close to Leo; "haven't you
telephoned or done anything?"
The young man shook his head wearily:
"We did our best, but they were too clever for us: it was a trap."
In a few words he told his story. Sonia had taken refuge in her aunt's
arms.
The journalist perceived that he could no longer expect help from
any quarter, and that he must rely entirely upon his own skill and
resourcefulness; it was like the final moves in a game of chess,
when the board has been swept clean of all but a few pieces, and the
antagonists are two evenly-matched and quick-witted players. Leo Grath
and the others were pale with mortification: they had lost heart, and
were powerless to make any further attempt to save themselves, though
Max Raebel, who stood just behind the journalist, said in a low tone:
"We are out of our depth, Mr. Wallion, things look bad for us. But if
you give the word, I am at your orders: at least, we can still use our
fists!"
The journalist did not reply, but turned to Ortiz, who was listening
to Rastakov's and Tassler's obsequious report.
"Gabriel Ortiz," he said quietly, "I warn you for the last time: we are
under the protection of the law of Sweden."
The adventurer turned round, and inspected him from head to foot.
"I presume I am to consider that as a formal protest?"
"Yes. It is addressed to your friends as well as to yourself."
"My friends!" echoed Ortiz, in an indescribably contemptuous tone; "if
I and my plans were dependent on my friends, I should be weaker than
you. Do you suppose I take either friends or enemies into account? Your
protest is futile, sir, and if you haven't perceived it already, I
shall convince you of it."
He gave an order in Russian. The two marines stepped forward, and
took possession of Lona Ivanovna's revolver, the butt of which was
protruding from her workbag. The old Russian lady was taken off her
guard, but she quickly realized that she was disarmed, and rapped out
an indignant oath. Sonia caressed her soothingly:
"Never mind, Auntie," she whispered. "Keep still; don't make Sergius
uneasy: he is looking this way, and I think he wants to say something
to you."
"Yes, of course, child," murmured the old lady, irritably, "he wants
to fight, and so do I; it is only natural...." She leaned across to
the white-haired figure in the armchair, and a few brief sentences were
exchanged between mother and son. The journalist watched her closely,
for he feared that the hotheaded old Russian was contemplating some
rash step, and suddenly he guessed that Sergius was still armed. Lona
Ivanovna must be trying to persuade him to give her his revolver. Was
she determined to make a fight for the document? To his relief, Sergius
simply shook his head, and Lona Ivanovna drew back in high dudgeon. As
she looked at Wallion, he said softly:
"Let sleeping dogs lie! Leave your son's revolver, we may need it later
on."
The other marine now proceeded to search Wallion's clothes, turning
over his papers, and rummaging in his pockets. He seemed greatly
surprised at finding nothing, and called out something inquiringly.
Ortiz waved his hand, and the man returned to the door. Wallion had
allowed himself to be searched without saying a word, though he thought
the more. The man had over-hauled him thoroughly and rapidly, and had
probably been a policeman in former times: which would account for his
dexterity. Ortiz had chosen his men carefully; supposing one of them
had the inspiration to--no! The journalist resolutely banished that
thought from his mind.
But some obscure association of ideas made him open his cigarette case,
and light a cigarette at the tiny blue flame of the cigar-lighter which
he always carried in his waistcoat pocket. A barely perceptible smile
flitted across his face. Perhaps Ortiz noticed the smile, for he said
in a harsh voice:
"You are unarmed; you have no possible means of communicating with the
outer world; my will is paramount here: need I put things more plainly?
My will! In those two words you have the only law that carries weight
here to-night."
"And before what court of law will you enforce it?" inquired the
journalist politely.
"Do you insist upon a set trial?"
"Oh, don't put yourself out on my account!"
"Take care! I am not accustomed to be spoken to in such a tone. I
suppose you are trying to gain time? What can you hope for now? I
assure you we could blow the Copper House into atoms to-night, without
a single person being near enough to see even the reflection in the
sky. Don't you hear that?"
Hear? Wallion _felt_, with every nerve in his body, the long-drawn out
reverberations of the thunder-storm which raged anew over their heads,
whilst the dark window-panes were continually lit up by the glare of
the lightning. He knew perfectly well that the adventurer was not
exaggerating.
"A court of law," Ortiz repeated. "Baron Fayerling, these people seem
to expect us to perform a scene from comic opera!... Very good, if
they are such sticklers for form, I appoint you as general prosecutor,
baron, but be brief."
The baron said slowly:
"I accuse Maurice Wallion of having used force to hinder me in carrying
out an appointed task, of having attacked my assistant Rastakov, and of
having helped the thief, Bernard Jenin, to get away with Tarraschin's
memorandum."
"A comprehensive indictment!" remarked Wallion.
"Do you deny it?"
"What would be the good?"
After a minute's silence, the baron proceeded:
"I accuse Lona Ivanovna, Andrei Ivanovitch, and Sonia Andreievna,
of having received and hidden the thief, whose real name is Sergius
Tassler."
"And whose father stands there!" interrupted Lona Ivanovna in a
threatening voice, pointing at the merchant, who started back; "of
what can _you_ accuse your own son, and your former wife? Why are you
silent? Are you beginning to feel what an utter worm you are, little
Marcus? Speak, man! Out with it, or I am afraid you will choke...."
The merchant tried to reply, but his trembling lips could only
articulate an indistinct murmur.
"Silence!" said Ortiz sharply.... "You are to answer and not to ask
questions, Lona Ivanovna. Where have you hidden Sergius Tassler?" His
dark, steadfast gaze seemed to read her inmost thoughts....
"You refuse to answer?"
He put his hands behind his back, and came up to her, thrusting out
his head, and compelling her to meet his eyes.
"You are obstinate? Do you think I need your answer? I tell you, I saw
through the whole of your miserable little secret as soon as I got into
the room--but it amused me to play with you--look here!"
Before anyone guessed his intention, he had snatched the wig from
the fugitive's head; the blue spectacles fell on the floor, and were
broken. Sergius sprang up with a cry, and stood unmasked, pale and
agitated before Ortiz, who continued with appalling composure:
"The game is up. No, my lad, your plan was really too audacious! You
didn't calculate that I should be aware of the important fact that
Andrei Bernin was dead; and besides, the man who wears a flowing beard
on a young face, should be careful to keep in the dark...."
This revelation produced an overwhelming impression. The baron and
Rastakov, realizing how they had been tricked, stood mute, glaring
malignantly at the man who had foiled them; Lona Ivanovna tried
to spring forward, but one of Rastakov's men pushed her back and
raised his gun threateningly, whilst, as though in obedience to some
preconcerted signal, four more armed men came in from the hall.
"Let him alone!" cried Lona Ivanovna. "I forbid you to touch him!"
Ortiz did not seem to hear her; without changing his position, he
stood and studied Sergius Tassler's face, as though he were bent on
solving a problem. Wallion, who in his turn, watched Ortiz narrowly and
quietly, guessed what the problem was.
"So it was you who brought Tarraschin's memorandum out of Russia?" said
the adventurer at length, thoughtfully. "What have you done with it?"
"I shall not tell you," replied Sergius vehemently; "what have you to
do with us? We have a right...."
"I want no unnecessary explanations. I know all about you. Will you
give me the paper of your own free will?"
"Never!"
"Then I shall take it."
"Don't be so sure that you can find it!"
"I have no need to search," replied Ortiz, raising his hand. "I don't
think much of your intelligence: you are not wanting in brains, but you
rely too much on yourself, and you lack imagination. You have hidden
the paper somewhere about you--not in your clothes--they are liable to
be searched, aren't they?--what else have you? Ah, give me your stick!"
A strange expression passed over Wallion's face, as Sergius
mechanically held out his stick, and he could not restrain an audible
"bravo," at the ingenuity of Ortiz' reasoning.
Ortiz turned round, with the stick in his hand:
"I appreciate your compliment, but the thing was perfectly simple. One
could see from here that the handle of the stick unscrews. Meantime,
your 'bravo' betrays that the secret was known to you, which makes it
less likely that the paper is still in its hiding-place; indeed, it is
hardly worth while looking inside."
He tossed the stick to the baron, who with nervous haste unscrewed the
handle, and peeped into the cavity.
"Manifestly empty!" remarked Ortiz, coolly; "that was to be expected:
it was a poor hiding-place, and no doubt you discovered it at once, Mr.
Wallion?"
"Of course."
"You have it then?"
Wallion hesitated for the fractional part of a second.
"I can give you my word of honor that I have not removed the paper from
the stick," he said then. "Are you so sure that it is not there after
all?"
Leonard, who could not understand the journalist's intention, bit
his lips; he was beginning to think that Wallion was altogether too
complaisant, but Raebel gave him a dig in the ribs, and whispered with
a smile:
"Have you ever seen an acrobat on the top of a pole? He's nothing to
Wallion: just keep your eye on him. He's not the sort of man who comes
to grief at the first round!"
Although the Austrian spoke lightly, the perspiration stood on his
forehead: experience told him that the situation was critical, and he
could see that Ortiz was getting to an end of his patience. He did not
trouble further about the stick.
"Sergius Tassler," he said sharply, "if you wish to live you must
answer me. Did you have Tarraschin's memorandum in your stick?"
Sergius started back a little, but made no reply; his dark, resigned
face did not change, and he looked calmly at his tormentor.
"Answer him, for Heaven's sake," sobbed Sonia; "answer, Sergius, I
won't have you die!"
His face softened at her passionate appeal, and he said curtly:
"I did hide the paper in my stick; I do not know who took it out; I
have nothing further to say."
There was no mistaking his sincerity, and Ortiz showed no sign of
doubting his word.
"You have said enough," he remarked, his eyes beginning to sparkle;
"you have said more than enough, but you are even more imprudent than I
thought: now I understand!"
His eyes rested for an instant on the young girl, with a thoughtful
and not altogether unfriendly expression; then, with a shrug of the
shoulders, he dismissed her from his mind, and for the first time
turned his whole attention to Lona Ivanovna.
"It must be you," he accused her. "You are intelligent and determined:
you said to yourself, 'It will be better for me to take the
responsibility, Sergius is too weak.' You watched over your son at
night, whilst he slept, didn't you? You need not answer: the thing is
obvious; you took the document secretly, that you might hide it more
securely. You felt yourself strong enough to bear the responsibility
alone. Very good. The entire responsibility is yours, since you will
have it so. Now you must answer me."
Lona Ivanovna replied steadily and unhesitatingly:
"Yes, I took it whilst Sergius was asleep. Only I know where it is to
be found now--and you cannot frighten me!" She laughed grimly:
"I think I have baffled you this time. You may kill me, but you won't
find what you are looking for. Those brutes have ransacked the whole
house twice, and you may do it once again. You have no chance of
succeeding, and you may believe that I know what I am saying, when you
recollect that I have all my life been accustomed to play hide-and-seek
with the Tsar's secret police. Go your way, Gabriel Ortiz, you have
failed. An old woman has beaten you!"
The adventurer showed no sign of discomposure; he allowed her biting
scorn to pass unobserved; not so her challenge.
After a few minutes' calculation, he said, more to himself than to her:
"There are only two or three places where you can have hidden it; but
why waste time in guessing? There is a much simpler way."
As he said this, he showed his white, even teeth, not in a smile, but
rather in the fixed grin of a wild beast, while a grim look came over
his face, almost transforming its expression. He turned to the marines,
and gave the word of command:
"Ready! The first to stir from his place will be shot."
Half a dozen rifle-muzzles were pointed at the prisoners.
"Rastakov, take your revolver and place it against Sergius Tassler's
forehead. I will count three--and at the word 'three,' you will fire."
The six marines took careful aim, and nobody stirred, while Rastakov
crossed the room, and placed his heavy weapon against Sergius' right
temple. There was a breathless silence, for they all realized Ortiz'
intention. Marcus Tassler turned ashen-gray; without a sound he left
the room, and was not seen again.
"I forbid anyone to stir a finger," Ortiz continued; "this business
is between you and me, Lona Ivanovna. I have your son--you have the
document: will you exchange?"
A dead pause ensued. The old lady raised her hand slowly to her throat,
and gazed as though fascinated at Rastakov's forefinger, which was
touching the trigger.
Sergius had closed his eyes.
"Don't think of me, Mother," he said, softly; "think only of our cause."
She opened her mouth, but no sound issued from her lips.
"One!"
Sonia sprang up, but Leo caught her in his arms, at a glance from the
journalist, who was now very pale. Lona Ivanovna remained stiff and
immovable.
"Let me go!" cried the girl, hysterically. "Oh,
you--cowardly--wretches! If only I were a man!"
She sank down, half fainting, but weeping as though her heart would
break. Wallion clenched his hands, but kept still; he seemed to be
waiting for something.
"Two!"
A glazed look came over Lona Ivanovna's eyes, and she stared at Ortiz
as though she had never seen him before; she seemed to look at him as
though from an immense distance, and to be straining every nerve to
control herself. She saw his pitiless eyes, his lips unclosing for the
third time ... she tore the workbag from her left arm, and threw it on
the table.
"There!" she exclaimed. "Let Sergius go, you murderer! The paper is in
the bag."
"In the bag!"
The adventurer put out his hand, but drew it quickly back.
"If you are lying, ..." he said threateningly.
"I am not lying," she replied wearily. "I took the paper out of the
stick whilst Sergius was sleeping. I was certain that nobody would
look for it in a place that was so apparent to everyone. The paper is
very small, and in a tiny roll; it is lying amongst the lace-work....
Forgive me, Sergius!"
She sank down on a chair. Ortiz turned the bag upside down, and shook
out the work on the table. Wallion was carefully choosing a cigarette
from his case; he smiled: the matter was taking the turn for which he
had hoped from the beginning, and Ortiz had already wasted nearly two
precious hours; his own opportunity was come at last.
"Well, Gabriel Ortiz," said he, in a nonchalant tone, "is the
memorandum there?"
The adventurer had searched all through the contents of the workbag; he
now pushed it aside, and began to examine the folds of the lace with
nervous eagerness.
"You won't find anything there," the journalist proceeded; "Lona
Ivanovna made a mistake. The paper is not in her workbag: _I_ have it!"