_Wallion speaks out and Rastakov is balked of his prey_
The journalist's utterly unforeseen announcement electrified everyone,
and all faces were turned towards him, with intense surprise. That
Maurice Wallion could have obtained possession of Tarraschin's
memorandum, had occurred to none of them, least of all to Lona Ivanovna.
"You, you!" she stammered. "How is it possible?"
Ortiz' cold, hard voice broke in:
"Are you trying to shield her son? She is lying, the bag is empty--I do
not believe you."
"Allow me to explain the situation," said the journalist, who still
held in his left hand the cigarette which he had taken from his case,
and, in his right the cigar-lighter, whose little flame burned clearly
and evenly; his hands were perfectly steady.
"The paper really was in Lona Ivanovna's bag--until the time when,
after hearing the story of the Bernin family, I demonstrated to them
that the stick was empty, to Sergius Tassler's great astonishment.
Following your example, Ortiz, I concluded that his mother, wishing
to shift the responsibility on to her own shoulders, had secretly
removed the paper, but, unlike you, I went a step further, and
assumed, from what I knew of her character, that she had hidden
it in her workbag, that well-known receptacle which everybody was
accustomed to see hanging on her arm. I fully anticipated that you,
my dear Ortiz, would proceed to the sort of compulsion we have just
witnessed, and what would have been the good of her stratagem then?
I at once decided to remove the precious document to its third,
best, and final hiding-place. Under the pretext of examining Andrei
Bernin's room, I was left alone with Lona Ivanovna for a few minutes,
and--'hey presto!'--Russia's fate lay snugly in my waistcoat pocket.
That is the story. You may conscientiously leave mother and son in
peace, my dear Ortiz; the thief--that thief who caused the baron such
heart-searchings--is none other than myself!"
"Damnation!" ejaculated Ortiz, his eyes bloodshot and staring; "shall I
ever get hold of that infernal paper?"
"The outlook doesn't seem very promising," agreed the journalist,
smiling. "It has passed through various hands in the last day or two,
and its present owner--well, I have a pretty good idea that he will not
let it out of his possession!"
His unshaken audacity took Ortiz aback: he hesitated for a minute, and
the journalist availed himself of the pause.
"Let us talk things over," said he. "If anyone attempts to come near
me, or to threaten me with his gun, I swear that you will never have
the document."
"Where have you got it?" asked the adventurer reluctantly.
"Ah, where!" laughed Wallion. "One of your men searched me just now,
didn't he? Did he find it? No. And yet I can assure you that he saw it.
I believe he even touched it! You see this tiny flame, and this little
cigarette? The moment I light my cigarette, your dreams for the future
will vanish in smoke, Ortiz."
"You would pay dearly for it!"
"_You_ would, you mean. A far too expensive cigarette, and that's a
fact! Now, then, stand still, all the lot of you. Ortiz, keep them
quiet. It wouldn't take me a second, and my death wouldn't be much of a
compensation for your loss."
"I do not believe that Tarraschin's memorandum could be compressed into
so small a space," Ortiz objected incredulously.
"Don't you?" returned the journalist. "Didn't Lona Ivanovna say that
the paper was quite small, and tightly-rolled up? The idea struck me
when I removed it from her bag, and just before you came, I made this
arrangement, on the chance of my things being searched. You don't
believe me? Look here, then."
He squeezed the little cylinder between his fingers, so that the
cigarette paper burst, and fluttered to the ground, whilst a thin layer
of tobacco fell from the ends; there remained in his hand a tightly
rolled sheet of white paper, which began to uncurl as though a spring
had been released. Ortiz leaned forward.
"No, keep back!" said the journalist. "You observe that the flame is
all but touching the paper now. You can see perfectly well where you
are--do you recognize Prince Tarraschin's handwriting? Shall I tell you
that it is written in French? Shall I read it out to you?"
"You are mad!" muttered Ortiz hoarsely. "What can you do? If you leave
this room, you will be shot."
"Yes, from behind, I suspect. But I prefer to stop here, I have
something to say to you...."
"If you stay here with that paper in your hands, you will be shot. You
have never been in greater danger than you are now."
"I'm not so sure of that! Have you really the moral courage to watch
Tarraschin's document burn? Make up your mind, I am waiting."
Ortiz watched the journalist's movements like a lynx, but Wallion had
gauged him correctly: he could not bring himself to run the risk,
however willingly he would have given the order to shoot the man who
was daring to thwart him on the very threshold of success. He gave a
reluctant signal, and the weapons were lowered.
"Speak out!" he said, "what do you want?"
Wallion stepped back a few paces. His bold "coup" had made him master
of the situation for the time being, but the outlook was dangerous
in the extreme. He must keep an eye on practically all his enemies
at once: should but one of them succeed in raising his gun, he would
be lost; he was a prisoner, and compelled to plan his escape as best
he could, alone and unarmed, under the eyes of his captors. Speed
was all-important; never had he felt his mind clearer or cooler than
now, as he reviewed every possibility. He knew that Sergius Tassler
had a revolver within reach, hidden presumably among the rugs of his
armchair: and he remembered that Max Raebel only awaited a signal to
come to his assistance: on these two facts, his entire scheme must be
built up.
"Order Rastakov to stand back," he said briefly; "Sergius Tassler has
nothing more to do with this case."
The Russian had remained standing near Sergius, but at a nod from his
employer, he thrust his revolver back into his pocket, and returned to
his place by the door. As he did so, Wallion exchanged a rapid glance
with the Austrian. He saw Raebel's intelligent eyes widen inquiringly,
and he nodded almost imperceptibly. The Austrian understood the signal,
and would now be ready to play his part; Wallion relied implicitly upon
his experience and ready wit. The important thing now, was to engross
Ortiz' whole attention for the next few minutes, and the journalist
began again with a laugh:
"Yes, I have something to say to you, Ortiz; this is a good
opportunity, for I am afraid we shall not meet again after to-night.
You intend to kill me, if you can; I intend to render you harmless, if
I can: the situation is not without its piquancy."
Ortiz had pulled out his handkerchief, and was drying his hands
nervously: there was little of the Great Napoleon about his strained
features at this moment.
"You talk too much," he said hoarsely; "get to business."
"By all means. Your line has run out, my dear Ortiz. There was a time
when I admired you, in spite of my position as your natural enemy. Your
former adventures attracted me by a sort of simple and great-hearted
freshness which characterized them, but the gigantic plan which is now
dragging you to the verge of a precipice, is marked by an arrogance
which the gods might envy. I can no longer admire a man who allows
murder and robbery to be the milestones on his road to success; you
should have kept your hands clean, Ortiz: there is too much blood on
them! All the millions which you have distributed so lavishly, cannot
alter the fact that you are a murderer, at war with Society, and,
there, self-condemned."
The adventurer glared angrily at him, and exclaimed:
"I do not expect you to understand me! You and I stand at opposite ends
of the great, unimpressionable fabric of Society; how could you enter
into my plans and my dreams?"
The journalist did not reply immediately. He had seen Max Raebel move a
shade closer to Sergius Tassler, and exchange two or three words with
him, and a suppressed excitement began to rise in him, as he continued:
"Is your plan so difficult to fathom? You forget that I have read
Tarraschin's memorandum, that I know what has become of your millions,
and that I am well aware of the snare of specious promises in which you
have entangled your dupes. You are not so strong as you imagine; you
have worked to overthrow one party, and to support the other, so that
you might use the gratitude of the successful one as a stepping-stone
to power. But the Russian Revolution in March was none of your doing:
you made a start in the opposite direction, and threw in your lot with
the reactionaries, whose prospects seemed the more favorable. You made
a mistake there: Kerensky still sits firmly in the saddle, and Prince
Tarraschin's promises will never be fulfilled, for however strong your
followers may be, they will never restore the Tsar to power."
He spoke slowly and impressively, and his words were now addressed to
the silent group by the door, rather than to their leader. He noticed a
strange expression in Rastakov's black eyes.
Perhaps Ortiz saw it too, for he exclaimed furiously:
"Silence! You lie!"
"Shall I give you a summary of Tarraschin's written promises?" returned
Wallion, calmly, and, as Ortiz did not answer, he continued:
"To be called 'Emperor of the Amazons' was, after all, a barren honor;
but as Governor-General of Siberia, you would rule over one of the
largest countries in the world. Can you deny that Prince Tarraschin
promised that post to you, on behalf of his party?"
A murmur went round the room, and Rastakov's face wore a threatening
look, as he took in the full meaning of Wallion's information. Ortiz
fathomed his enemy's intention, and grew pale; it almost seemed that
his iron will was shaken, but he controlled himself with a tremendous
effort, and said:
"You have read it yourself, and hold the proof of it in your hand. I
have never hesitated, and I do not hesitate now; but if you imagine
that my fate depends on a paper, you deceive yourself. I have many
strings to my bow. Governor-General of Siberia?--let that pass, as
you have said it, but it would only be a beginning: the whirlpool is
deep, I can subdue it." He raised his voice, and turned to the silent
audience round the door.
"Have I not proved to you that I keep my promises? Has your future ever
looked so bright as it does now? I tell you, I can give you all that
your wildest dreams can picture. Power or riches, you have only to
choose; I have them both at my command."
He chose his words cleverly, on the spur of the moment, and Wallion
realized that it was not only his millions that had attracted scores
of adherents to his cause. His personal strength fascinated them, and
his convincing arguments overruled their judgment. But the journalist
had no intention of allowing him time to vindicate himself. He gathered
that Max Raebel had by this time succeeded in conveying some sort of
brief, but evidently reinspiring intimation to Leonard Grath, Sonia,
and Lona Ivanovna in turn, for their faces had brightened with an
expression of eager anticipation. A moment later, seeing that Ortiz'
attention was temporarily diverted, the Austrian looked significantly
from Wallion to the two lamps. The journalist understood his meaning,
and nodded: it was nearly time!
"Do not promise more than you can perform, Ortiz!" he exclaimed. "What
about those earlier promises of yours? Did you not assure Rastakov and
his people that the Bolshevists are your friends? You, the organizer of
the Reactionary Party in Russia?--for shame, what duplicity! What about
these last Bolshevist uprisings in Petrograd? Were they your work?"
The vehemence of Wallion's attack struck Ortiz dumb.
"I ... I am not obliged to answer," he said after a pause; "you are not
my judge!"
"But you would like to be mine, wouldn't you? Perhaps you would rather
I burned the document?"
The paper hovered nearer the little blue flame, and Ortiz exclaimed:
"Name your own price!"
It was a sign of weakening: he was ready to buy what he could not take
by force.
Wallion laughed, feigning intense surprise:
"Is this little flame so valuable? You would see it extinguished at any
price?"
"I will give you ten millions if you will blow it out," sad the
adventurer. "And your liberty...."
"A fantastic offer!" said Wallion, his eyes glittering. "Does the
future Governor of Siberia propose it?"
"Yes."
"Well, I decline it. You are a beaten man, Ortiz. Kerensky's government
has suppressed the Bolshevist risings in Petrograd, and remains in
power till further notice. A reactionary rising would be even less
successful...."
Hardly had the journalist completed his sentence, when a dramatic
interruption occurred.
Rastakov sprang forward. All the savagery in his primitive nature had
risen to the surface, his face was convulsed, and his voice like the
snarl of some wild beast:
"Is it true that the Bolshevists are beaten?" he cried.
"Yes; did you not know it?" answered Wallion.
"No! I thought ... Ortiz, you have played us false! Remember what you
promised!"
Ortiz struck him full in the face.
"How dare you, Rastakov!" he exclaimed harshly. "I have not paid you to
insult me."
The blow left a red mark on Rastakov's white face. He staggered back,
his hands clutching the air; his eyes looked like those of a blind man.
"Traitor!" he yelled.
Slipping his right hand into his pocket, he raised it high over his
head, grasping a round, black object, which he was about to fling at
Ortiz, when the baron, throwing his whole weight upon him, wrenched the
deadly thing away, and dashed it through the nearest window, far out
into the park.
The whole house was shaken by a terrific explosion, a column of earth
and flame rose high into the air, for a minute, and the atmospheric
pressure drove in the window-panes with a clatter of breaking glass.
Before the last splinters had fallen on the carpet, Ortiz drew a
revolver from his pocket, and, apparently without even taking aim, shot
Rastakov through the head. The unfortunate Russian fell where he stood,
and did not move again.
Rastakov was balked of his prey, and had paid for his mistake with his
life.
The sudden tragedy paralyzed them all. Ortiz stared down at the dead
body.
"One more!" he muttered; "one more!"
At that minute, the journalist made an alarming discovery; the
draught from the broken window had blown out the little flame in the
cigar-lighter. There was not an instant to lose!
"Now, Raebel!" he cried, and crouched down as quick as lightning. The
Austrian thrust his hand among the rugs on Sergius Tassler's armchair,
and pulled out a bright steel "Browning," which he aimed at the lamps.
Two shots rang out, and the lamps fell crashing to the floor.
The room was plunged in darkness.