THE CONFERENCE
“HOW my head aches,” groaned Dick, “and every part of my body.” He
touched himself tenderly as he changed his position on the lounge.
“It is not surprising,” said Long, dryly, “after the experience you
went through last night, or rather early this morning. How I wish I had
been with you, instead of sitting up and chatting small talk with a
stuffy dowager. Just my beastly luck!”
“You are a nice one to begrudge me such an adventure, after all the
fighting you have seen,” retorted Dick. “I wish you had been with me,
though. Just thinking of that fearful needle hovering over me sends my
heart into my mouth.” He shuddered. “I never was so glad to see anyone
in my life as de Smirnoff.”
“It was a close shave. Have you had a chance to ask the Russian how he
came to be there?”
“No. I was in pretty bad shape, so de Smirnoff sent me back to town
with one of his assistants. We came directly here. It was good of you
to square me with my chief, Chester,” looking gratefully at Long. “How
did you do it?”
“After hearing your story I went to see Colonel Byrd and told him you
had stumbled into an affair of state over in Anacostia which couldn’t
be divulged at present. The old boy was very decent, took my word for
it, and said you were not to return to work until fit to be up and
doing. Then I returned here, and Mrs. Brisbane gave me a capital midday
dinner. She told me you did full justice to the share she sent up to
you.”
“Bless her heart! She is the salt of the earth. As poor as she is,
she is always doing something for her fellow man. Only last week she
sent five dollars to an indigent Southern friend, who is frightfully
hard up, thinking she would buy some much-needed underclothing. She
received a note yesterday from the Southerner saying that she and her
daughter were so obliged for her kind assistance. It had enabled them
to buy a canvasback duck, which they had wanted for a long time!”
“De Smirnoff said he would drop in this afternoon,” continued Dick. “He
ought to be here at any moment now,” glancing at his watch. “I asked
Mrs. Brisbane to have him shown right up.”
“Then I’ll be going.” Long started to rise.
“No, no, Chester; sit down. I particularly want you to know each other.”
A quick rap interrupted him, and Long hastened to open the door.
“Here is Count de Smirnoff,” said Mrs. Brisbane’s cheery voice from the
hall. As the Russian, with innate courtesy stood aside to allow her to
enter first, Dick rose and went into the hall.
“How are you, Count?” he said, cordially, and their hands met in a
strong, firm clasp. “Thanks so much, Mrs. Brisbane, for taking all this
trouble. Won’t you both come in?”
But Mrs. Brisbane shook her head and disappeared down the corridor.
Dick ushered the Russian into his room and closed the door.
“Count de Smirnoff--my friend, General Long,” he said, quickly.
“General Long is well known to me by reputation,” exclaimed de
Smirnoff. “It is a great pleasure to meet so distinguished an American.”
“I am glad of this opportunity of thanking you for what you did for my
friend, Tillinghast, last night, Count,” answered Long, shaking hands
warmly; while Dick busied himself putting cigars and cigarettes on the
table alongside a syphon of vichy and its accompanying bottle of Scotch.
“I am a poor hand at expressing my feelings, Count,” said the latter,
gravely. “I owe you a debt I can never repay.”
“If I have won your friendship, I am repaid,” replied de Smirnoff,
looking with admiration at Dick’s fine, determined face.
The Slav and the Anglo-Saxon have one trait in common--neither is
demonstrative. Long, seeing that both men were much embarrassed, broke
the awkward pause.
“Suppose, Count, you tell us how you came to arrive at the studio at so
opportune a moment for Dick.”
“May I speak of confidential matters?” asked the Russian, glancing
hastily about the room.
“Yes, indeed; there is no danger of our being overheard.”
“Some months ago our Secret Service Bureau, which is probably the
finest in the world, received information that the Camorra were
plotting against the Grand Duke’s life,” began de Smirnoff.
“I thought it was usually the Nihilists who do that,” interposed Long.
“The hands of the Nihilists, anarchists, the Mafia, and the Camorra are
all raised against law and order, General; call them what you will.
At present the Camorra desire to punish the Grand Duke because he was
instrumental in having certain information against their leaders given
to the Italian Government.
“Russia wishes to honor the memory of that great American, Lincoln,
whose friend she was; therefore, it was decided that the Grand Duke
should come to this country to attend the ceremonies of the dedication
of his Memorial. The moment they heard this the Camorra leaders laid
their plans to assassinate his Imperial Highness. I was put on the
case, and my researches brought me here.
“When I reached Washington I communicated with the Chief of your Secret
Service, and he immediately coöperated with me to safeguard the Grand
Duke. My agents brought me word that several Italians, disguised as
fruit venders, were spending much time in Anacostia with a certain
Tamaso Velati. I had my agent point out the latter to me. Despite his
disguise I recognized him as a man long suspected of having secret
dealing with that society. My suspicions were aroused, and I placed a
watch upon his movements.
“Last night, accompanied by four of your Secret Service men, I crossed
over to Anacostia. We went to a tavern near the water-front and
waited for my spy to join me there. He was very late in keeping his
appointment; I was on the point of starting out after Tamaso without
waiting for him, when he appeared. He told me that he had traced Tamaso
to a deserted building some miles away, and had waited about until he
saw several men join the Italian. Thinking some deviltry was to pay,
he hastened back to warn me. He is familiar with the country about
Anacostia, and so took us by a short cut direct to the studio. The
Italians were so absorbed in dealing with you, Monsieur Tillinghast,
they never heard our cautious approach. I saw the light shining above
the broken skylight, climbed on the roof by aid of the tree, and
reached the opening just in time to shoot Tamaso as he bent above you.”
Dick drew a long breath. The agonizing scene was too fresh in his mind
to be pleasant.
“Take a drink,” he said, by way of relieving his feelings, and he
pushed the paraphernalia towards the Russian. De Smirnoff helped
himself liberally, and the others followed his example.
“What have you done with the prisoners?” questioned Long.
“Tamaso is to be buried to-morrow. I surrendered the two Italians to
your Chief of the Secret Service.”
“That accounts for three men; what became of the fourth?” asked Dick.
De Smirnoff colored with vexation. “He escaped,” he said, bitterly.
Dick swore softly. “It was this way,” hastily explained the Russian:
“As two of my men forced open the studio door one of the masked men,
who stood near a window, threw up its sash. The detective covering him
fired, but missed, and before he could take aim again the prisoner had
pushed open the shutter, vaulted through the window and was gone. Luck
was with him; every one of our shots went astray, and though I sent men
in pursuit, he made good his escape. The other two men, cowed by the
death of their leader, gave us no trouble.”
“Were they Italians?” inquired Dick.
“Yes. Why do you ask?”
Dick pondered a moment. Should he take de Smirnoff into his
confidence? He looked earnestly at the Russian’s face; the broad brow
and clever, handsome eyes, the slightly aquiline nose, and the firm,
thin-lipped mouth--he looked what he was: a keen, brilliant officer of
the Secret Service, brave to a fault, secretive perhaps, but withal a
gentleman. Quickly Dick made up his mind to trust him.
“Because the fourth masked man was an American,” he answered, slowly.
Long, as well as de Smirnoff, glanced at him in surprise. “It was
Alfred Clark.”
“Well, by gad!” muttered Long, completely taken aback.
De Smirnoff looked inquiringly at Dick.
“I went to Anacostia to cover an assignment for my paper,” the latter
hastened to explain. “While I was waiting for a Washington car, Clark
passed me. I never trusted the fellow, and seeing him there on such a
night and at that hour made me suspect that he was up to no good. So I
followed him, with what results you already know.”
“Did you overhear much of their talk?”
“Enough to know that the men were plotting to assassinate the Grand
Duke at the dedication of the Lincoln Memorial. Then they spoke of the
Trevor murder.”
“What did they say about it?” asked Long, as Dick stopped to strike a
match.
“If I remember correctly, Clark asked some question which I did not
catch, and Tamaso replied: ‘The Trevor affair is in the hands of
Giovanni Savelli. But are you not his direct agent?’ In trying to hear
Clark’s reply I leaned too far forward and fell through the skylight.
“Now,” went on Dick earnestly, “this fits in with a Black Hand threat
the Attorney General received on Friday afternoon. He is convinced the
Camorra is responsible for his wife’s murder, chiefly because he knows
she lived in fear of this Giovanni Savelli. He doesn’t know why she
feared him. The Black Hand letter spoke of the Fabriani Merger, but
that looks to me like a blind to throw him off the trail. Can you tell
me, Count, the best way to get track of this Savelli?”
De Smirnoff leaned thoughtfully back in his chair and considered the
question.
“It seems to me,” he said finally, “that the person you need to put
your hands on is Monsieur Clark. You heard Tamaso say that he was
Savelli’s direct agent in the affair.”
Dick sat up as straight as his sore body would permit, and swore
fluently. “Of course, you are right. What a blundering fool I have
been.”
“You were in no condition to reason out clews last night, Monsieur,”
smiled de Smirnoff, consolingly.
“I am sure your theory is right,” argued Long. “Clark must be the
guilty man. He knew the combination of the safe, and he also knew when
certain inmates of the house would be absent.”
“It looks plausible,” agreed Dick. “Clark may have joined the Camorra
while in Naples. But he must have been very deeply involved to commit
murder for this Savelli.”
“Perhaps Monsieur Clark is using the Camorra to shield his own deed,”
suggested de Smirnoff, slowly. “We, in the Secret Service keep in
touch with every country in the world. I recollect now that this Alfred
Clark, of whom you speak, was a resident in Naples for many years. He
did not have a very savory reputation. Madame Trevor, or as she was
then, Hélène de Beaupré, spent several winters in that city. Monsieur
Clark, before he lost his money, was her devoted lover.”
Long bent forward and helped himself to Scotch and vichy.
“The plot thickens,” he said, laconically.
De Smirnoff nodded his head. “I must take steps to have this Monsieur
Clark apprehended,” he said. “According to Count de Morny, Madame
Trevor,” he raised his glass and examined its contents critically,
“Madame Trevor was not--a good woman.”