CAMOUFLAGE
Rowland's long strides overtook Tanya before she reached the lighted
spaces of the lawn. He had called to her but she had not stopped and so
as he caught up with her he barred her way down the path.
"Mademoiselle Korasov," he blurted out eagerly, "just a word----"
She stopped and faced him, still pale in the moonlight, but quite
composed, waiting for him to go on.
"I--I've been placed in a false light--I would like----"
"How, Monsieur?" she said indifferently.
"What you saw, just now--there. Perhaps you think----"
His words stumbled and at last failed completely, for he saw that she
was bent on making explanations difficult.
"What does it matter to me," she said, "whom you embrace, and why?"
He felt the sting under her words, and realized that every phrase he
uttered only placed him at a greater disadvantage.
"I can make no explanation," he muttered. "If you think me a fool, I'm
sorry. And yet I'll prove that your confidence was not misplaced."
Another silence during which Tanya walked onward without sign that she
heard him.
"Madame Rochal has just confided that she is an agent of the Provisional
Government in Russia."
"And you believed her?"
"No. But she believes that I believe her."
"Are you sure?" she shrugged. "You are no match for a woman of her
antecedents----"
"I shall meet her with her own weapons."
"It seems," she said disdainfully, "that you have already begun well."
"Mademoiselle Korasov--enough of this!" he said firmly and after a swift
search of a bush nearby again placed himself in the path in front of her
so that she couldn't pass him. "You may think me a philanderer if you
like, or a fool, if that pleases you better. But the end is worthy of
the means. Already I've found out some of the things I wanted to know.
The vault beneath the tree will be robbed unless you and I can prevent."
Her eyes flashed with sudden attention. He had arrested her interest at
last.
"Ah, you know--?"
He grinned. "I'm in league with both burglars. I've only consulted
two. There may be others."
"Zoya Rochal?"
"And Khodkine. I suspect Liederman also."
Tanya stood silent a moment and then a wan smile rewarded him.
"You see? I was right." And then bravely, "This must be prevented,
Monsieur."
"Yes. But how?"
"Merely by robbing the vault yourself."
"But I shall need your help, Mademoiselle. This money must be removed
for safe keeping until it can be properly used."
"Yes. I can help in that."
"We must waste no time. The sooner the better. Where is the entrance to
the vault?"
"An iron door near the wall beyond the mound. I have a key."
"Meet me here then in the shadow of these trees to-night, at one
o'clock. Do you agree?"
"Yes," she said after a moment. "I must."
"And do you forgive me for--for----"
She raised her head and looked past him toward the lighted windows.
"What does it matter, Monsieur," she said coldly, "whether I forgive or
not? Come." And moving quickly she led the way toward the house while
Rowland followed, still certain that however clever he thought himself
he felt a good deal of a fool.
Khodkine pacing the floor of his room upstairs awaited Rowland's coming
impatiently, but with an effort composed his features in a smile as the
American appeared.
"Ah, Monsieur," he said. "It is too bad that I should feel it necessary
to interrupt your tete-a-tete with Madame Rochal, who as we all know is
the most charming woman in the world. But the President of Nemi is not
a free agent. There are matters requiring your attention in conference
with me."
"Of course."
"Then I may go, Monsieur?" asked Tanya from the doorway.
"Yes. Go," said Khodkine with an abstracted wave of his hand and a
peremptory tone which made a frown gather at Rowland's brow. Gone were
Monsieur Khodkine's soft accents of greeting and his courtly bow. And
Tanya seemed in awe of him, her look hanging upon his commands. Rowland
remembered the agitation in her manner when she had come to summon him
to this conference. Had Khodkine frightened her tonight? And how?
Why? Was there something between them, some threat of Russian for
Russian, born of politics or intrigue in which Khodkine played the
master hand? Or was it something nearer, more personal...? It seemed
curious to Rowland that he should be thinking of this for the first
time. He had formed his first impression of Tanya there last night in
the garden, when clad in her cowl and robes she had seemed so abstracted
from the world outside. "A very inferior Mother Superior," as she had
called herself, and by this token secluded but very human. He had
considered the fact of her extraordinary beauty merely as a fortunate
accident, and having dismissed her relations with Ivanitch from his
mind, had dismissed all other sentimental possibilities--all, that is,
except his own. A love affair--of course. With Khodkine? Perhaps. And
yet that would hardly explain the Russian's attitude toward her
tonight--or hers toward him. The one thing that seemed to rise
uppermost in Rowland's mind was Tanya's fear of Khodkine ... As he
joined the Russian at the table by the lamp, he found himself examining
Monsieur Khodkine with a new interest and a new antipathy.
"I have here some documents requiring your attention, in order that you
may familiarize yourself with the order of business tomorrow when our
circle is complete. The report of Herr Liederman from the Socialists of
Germany, that of Mademoiselle Colodna from Rome, appeals from Shestov
and Barthou. You will read them tonight, Monsieur?"
"Willingly. But this, Monsieur Khodkine, was not why you interrupted my
tete-a-tete in the garden," said Rowland slowly. "You had another
motive."
Khodkine smiled, got up and shut the door and went on in a low tone.
"Why should I not be honest with you? Madame Rochal is not to be
trusted, Monsieur. She has already surprised me. She opposed Liederman
in accepting you unreservedly as our leader. It was from these two that
I had expected resistance. Liederman is a member of the Reichstag.
Madame Rochal--?" He shrugged. "If you can tell what she is, you are
cleverer than the rest of us. She brings credentials from a central
committee in Bavaria, but that means nothing. Such things are arranged.
I merely wished to warn you before you had committed yourself to her
interests."
"You need have no fear. I've grown my pin feathers. The cause in which
we are interested is more important to me than the fascinations of
Madame Rochal."
"We understand each other, Monsieur. We are friends. You will help me.
I will help you. We shall work together in a harmony that will bring
great good to the world. Are you satisfied?"
"Quite."
Khodkine offered his hand and Rowland took it, longing at that moment in
a boyish sense of bravado to try grips with the Russian and see which
was the better of the two. But his common sense told him that if there
were to be a trial of strength between them, it would be a test of mind,
of Rowland's cleverness against the Russian's finesse, of the American's
skill in dissimulation against Khodkine's skill in intrigue. As yet
there was no damage done, and with Tanya's help, Rowland perhaps held
the stronger hand.
"To show you the confidence I place in you, Monsieur Rowland, I shall
give you this."
And Khodkine, with a deliberateness intended to convey the importance of
the matter, took out of his card case a small flat silver disk which he
fingered a moment and then handed to Rowland. The American examined it
curiously. It bore, in low relief, the double-headed just upon the
pedestal in the room downstairs, and below it, the words REX NEMORENSIS.
"A proof of your confidence--Monsieur. What----"
"The talisman of our society. Taken from the watch chain of the dead
Priest. Worn only by the Priest but known throughout Europe. Shown to
members of our committees, it will carry you safely anywhere."
"Ah, thanks, Monsieur."
"You will forgive me for sending for you, will you not? But it will not
do for you to move in the dark. Trust no one but me." He took up the
papers on the table and handed them to the American. "Now go to your
room, and study these papers carefully with my notes upon the margins,
for it is according to this that the council must act tomorrow. But see
no one else tonight. Tomorrow morning I will come to your room and tell
you of my plan to enter the vault."
"I shall do as you suggest, Monsieur. I am very tired. When I read
these papers I shall be ready for a good night of sleep."
"That is well. Good night, Monsieur."
"Good night."
In the seclusion of his room, the Leader of Nemi had much to think of.
The labyrinth had grown deeper, its mazes more tortuous, but like
Theseus he still held to the silken cord which bound him to Tanya
Korasov, and having trusted to his own instincts he was now ready to
follow blindly where she led him. But it was clear that Tanya had not
under-rated the skill and strength of Monsieur Khodkine. He was indeed
an adversary worthy of any man's metal. Under his polished veneer,
Monsieur Khodkine was made of hardy wood of a fine grain but none the
less strong because of that. Though there had been no chance to verify
his impressions by a conversation with Tanya, Rowland had decided that
Khodkine was working in the interests of Germany for a separate peace
with Russia, which would throw all the strength of the German armies
upon France, England, Italy and the United States. A mere surmise and
based upon the instinct that Tanya was true and a friend of Russia, for
which Rowland had fought and was fighting. Without Tanya the whole
structure of his intrigue fell to the ground. If he believed that
Madame Rochal was an agent of the Provisional Government of Russia, he
must also believe that Tanya was plotting against it. And if Madame
Rochal were an agent of the Wilhelmstrasse working in the same interests
as Monsieur Khodkine, why should the Russian distrust her?
And what was the threat which Khodkine held over Tanya? There seemed no
end to the tangle and no course of action but to move softly and await
developments. The story of the amount of treasure in the vault below
the Tree had opened his eyes. Here, perhaps, was the answer to some of
the questions that perplexed him. Politics of the sort that had been
disclosed here, would stop at nothing. The times in which he lived made
murder a matter of small importance, and what was his own career in
France but that of murder highly specialized? Rowland was sure that his
own safety now hung upon his continued display of friendship and
collaboration in Monsieur Khodkine's plans. And those plans in brief
seemed to be nothing less than the looting of the strong-box of Nemi
before Madame Rochal or Max Liederman could get at it. And for what
Cause? For Germany? Or merely for Grisha Khodkine?
Rowland had no weapons, not even a pocket-knife, and Khodkine carried an
automatic in his hip pocket, for Rowland had contrived to brush his arm
against it earlier in the evening. The situation was interesting, but
hardly to his liking. He longed for a good American Colt revolver, one
shot of which, well placed, was worth all the automatics in the world.
But the business before him tonight admitted of no delay nor of any
consideration for his own safety. At one o'clock he was to meet Tanya
at the lower end of the garden, and with luck, by morning the money and
papers in the vault would be well out of harm's way if Tanya could find
a place for their safe-keeping. Then, so far as Rowland was concerned,
they might dynamite the vault to their heart's content.
"_Droite_ 72 _Gauche_ 23 _Droite_ 7." He had repeated the figures to
himself frequently and now continued to do so, taking a new delight in
their significance. Twenty-five millions of francs! Five million
dollars! They might go far, if properly used, in the interests of the
cause he served. Whose money was this? How long had it accumulated?
And what the purpose of those who had contributed? Peace? Surely Peace
would come most quickly if Germany were defeated. And was he not the
President of Nemi--the chosen of the Council to represent all the
members of the society, whether socialists, revolutionists, maximalists,
minimalists or what not? The way was difficult. So difficult that
there was no arbitrament but the sword. The counter revolutionists of
Russia should not betray France, and those who led Russia to destruction
under the protection of a fine catchword should not succeed in their
treachery if it was in his power to prevent.
Reasoning in this way, Phil Rowland lighted another of the cigarettes of
the dead Ivanitch while he scanned the documents entrusted to him by
Grisha Khodkine and awaited the hour when he should join Tanya Korasov
below in the garden. He had no watch but a clock in the hall downstairs
announced the hours slowly. At eleven he blew out his candle and sat in
a chair by the window; waiting and listening. It was necessary that
Monsieur Khodkine should be disarmed. He heard footsteps in the hall
outside from time to time and snored discreetly. He had taken the
precaution to fasten the bolt of his door and so feared nothing from the
hall. Outside in the garden all was quiet. The moon had set--the moon
that had shed its inconstant beams upon his own dissimulation and Zoya
Rochal's.... Alluring female, that! The essence of all things
enchanting, the woman of thirty, a woman with a past.... A component of
faint delightful odors.... Women like that had a way of going to a
fellow's head. What the deuce had happened to her after Rowland's
sudden exit from the stage she had set for him? He smiled as he
remembered the results of his rather violent caress. If Tanya
hadn't----
Rowland frowned into the darkness outside. Tanya! He would have given
much if Tanya Korasov hadn't come along just at that moment. Women were
strange creatures. He had fallen immeasurably in Tanya's eyes, the only
ones at Nemi that mattered. He hadn't really wanted to kiss Zoya
Rochal. It was merely that her lips were there to take--and he had
taken them. He seemed quite sure that Madame Rochal had not been
displeased.... And tomorrow he must still play the game.
The clock in the hallway struck the half hour. Half-past twelve.
Rowland bent over and took off his shoes and then moved stealthily to
the window where he stood behind the curtain peering out into the
obscurity of the garden. There was no lantern upon the mound and no
dark figure watching by the Tree as there had been last night. Sure
that no one was watching outside, he stuck his head and shoulders out of
the window and looked around. All the lights were out. He had at first
thought of descending from the window which was less hazardous than
passing down the corridor and stairs, but remembered that last night
after Tanya's warning he had assured himself that there was no means of
entrance to his room by the window. The wall below was quite bare of
vines or projections and at least thirty feet high. There was nothing
for it but to go by the corridor.
And so with infinite pains to make no sound he slowly moved the bolt of
the door until it was drawn entirely back and then waited listening.
Silence. He turned the knob cautiously and opened the door. So far so
well. After another moment of listening he took up his shoes and on
tip-toe went noiselessly down the hallway. The house was as silent as
the tomb. If the other members of the Council had any suspicion of one
another or of him they gave no sign of it. The house indeed was too
quiet--a snore from the door of Monsieur Khodkine would have comforted
him.
At the top of the stairway he paused. There was one step that creaked,
the tenth from the bottom, he had counted it as he came up tonight. The
tenth from the bottom and there were thirty-three in all. The
twenty-third then.... He went down carefully until he had counted
twenty-two and then with a hand on the balustrade stepped over what he
thought would be the offending stair upon the twenty-fourth--when a loud
crash seemed to resound from one end of the echoing house to the other.
Idiot! Twenty-four of course! He had not counted the top step.
To his own ears, used to the silence of the house, the noise seemed loud
enough to have awakened the dead Ivanitch, and he stood listening for a
long minute, awaiting the shuffling of feet or the sounds of opening
doors above. But nothing happened. The Councilors of Nemi still slept.
Rowland grinned. "Fool's luck," he muttered to himself and carefully
opening the door into the garden, went out, stealing along the shrubbery
past the kitchen, and in a moment had reached the security of the trees.
There he stopped to put on his shoes and repeat to himself the numbers
of the combination. "72 23 7. _Gauche Droite Gauche_." Or was it
_Droite Gauche Droite_? The numbers were right--but the direction----
This was no time to be uncertain in such a matter. That Boche bombing
party must have done something queer to his head. No. It was _Droite,
Gauche, Droite_--he was sure. Tanya would confirm that perhaps.
He found her in the shadow of the designated trees where she had
preceded him by some moments. She wore her cowl and robe from beneath
the folds of which she brought forth a revolver which she handed to him.
"You have read my mind, Mademoiselle," he whispered joyfully, "it was
this that I wanted the most."
"You heard nothing?"
"No. But one of the steps creaked abominably. And you--have you been
here long?"
"No. I came down the back stairs." And then, turning into the
shrubbery beside them with no more ado, "Follow me, Monsieur," she said.
Her manner was eloquent of the business they had at hand and reminiscent
of nothing personal in their relations. Her thoughtfulness in arming
him was merely a matter of self-protection, her trust in him was a
matter of necessity for had she not already given him the numbers of the
combination? He followed her quietly. They stole along the outside
wall in single file, making a complete detour of the garden until they
reached a clump of shrubbery near the spot where Rowland had come over
the wall. There they followed a well-worn path into the bushes and were
confronted by a mound of earth, in the face of which was an iron door.
Here Tanya paused, brought forth a key and in a moment led the way down
a flight of steps underground. It was pitch black below but Tanya who
seemed to have thought of everything brought out from the folds of her
gown an electric pocket lamp which she turned into the passage-way
before them, at the end of which Rowland made out a steel door with a
shining nickel knob and a handle.
"The vault, Monsieur Rowlan'," she said coolly. "It is of American
manufacture. Doubtless you are familiar----"
She was looking at him as she spoke, and her eyes for the moment drove
all thought of numbers from his head. He caught at her hand.
"Mademoiselle--before we go on, tell me that you've forgiven me. I was
but serving your cause----"
She shrugged away from him and flashed the light upon the shining metal
knob of the vault door.
"Serve it here, then," she said quickly. "There!--The numbers,
_Droite--Gauche_----"
She was quite relentless. He chose to think her repudiation of him the
measure of her own purity and with a last look at her fine profile bent
forward and fingered the metal knob.
"_Gauche_ 72----" he muttered and paused.
"_Droite_, Monsieur!" she said sharply. "Do you mean to say that you
have forgotten?"
"If you would be kind to me, Mademoiselle----" he pleaded smiling,
"perhaps I could remember better."
"Oh!" she gasped. "This is no time to lose one's wits----"
"You've robbed me of all I ever had----"
"Monsieur Rowlan'," she whispered in anguish, "the numbers!"
"Say that you forgive me, Mademoiselle," he pleaded again, turning
toward her.
She threw out her arms and the light of the torch went out.
"Mademoiselle," he was whispering. "Forgive----"
The light of the torch flared suddenly, full on his face. She had moved
a pace away from him and the cowl had fallen from her head, but her eyes
were studying his face intently.
"Forgive!" he repeated, smiling eagerly.
Something in his expression may have satisfied her, for she thrust out
her hand to meet his own.
"Yes, yes," she muttered hurriedly. "I forgive." And suddenly switched
the light upon the door of the vault. "And now the numbers."
"Ah," he laughed. "I remember them, instantly. _Droite_ 72, _Gauche_
23, _Droite_ 7. _Droite_. Is it not extraordinary? I cannot do
without you, Mademoiselle Tanya--nor you without me. I shall prove it
to you. You shall see----"
As she did not reply he relapsed into silence, bending in sudden
concentration upon his task. And in a moment, the click of a falling
tumbler within the lock announced success. The knob moved no more.
Then he took hold of the heavy handle and turned toward the girl with a
laugh.
"OPEN, SESAME!" he said. "The Princess Tatyana wishes to enter."
The light wavered as the girl drew back and Rowland saw amazement in her
eyes.
"Princess!" she was whispering. "Who told you of my title?"
He stared at her blankly and then her meaning came to him.
"Why, no one, Mademoiselle. The Princess Tatyana is a fairy-friend of
my childhood. I dreamed of her as now I dream of you."
She stood puzzled a moment and then switched the light upon the door.
"Open, Monsieur Rowlan'," she said in a half whisper.
He grasped the massive handle in both hands and with an effort, swung
the heavy mass of steel outward and the dark entrance to the vault lay
open to them.
With no further words, Tanya flashed the light into the interior and
quickly entered, while Rowland followed. The place had a musty smell
but seemed quite dry, a fact afterwards explained by a double wall and a
deep drainage system. The air was close but the electric torch burned
brightly, revealing rows of shelves, each carefully lettered, upon which
were ancient parchments, discolored and illegible, documents bearing
pendant seals, in metal boxes tied with heavy silken cords. There was a
grinning skull, a steel casque of the Middle Ages, a spearhead, and an
ancient piece of sculpture draped with jewels; upon the floor at the
further end bulging leather sacks, and a rack of modern rifles and
ammunition. All these Rowland's glance took in at a first look, but his
attention was quickly arrested by the actions of Tanya Korasov, who bade
him hold the light while she went to a shelf upon the right where her
nimble fingers quickly began running over a pile of documents, in modern
envelopes, tied with tape. She read the superscriptions eagerly and at
last came to the one she sought.
As she did so and took the envelope into her hands a slight gasp of
triumph escaped her. Rowland looking over her shoulder read eagerly the
fine script.
"_Dossier de Gregory Khodkine._"
And while Rowland's eyes sparkled with this discovery, Tanya without
ceremony broke the seal and took out the contents, scanning the papers
rapidly, smiling and exclaiming by turns.
"His history, here," she whispered over her shoulder to Rowland,
indicating the first sheet. "And the evidence--there," pointing to the
documents. "It is what I have longed for, for months. Evidence--proof.
Look," she said excitedly. "Read. Gregory Hochwald. A commission in
the Prussian Guards--1905--signed Wilhelm--1908--appointment to the
Staff, 1910--Resignation. Liberal tendencies--(authorized at Potsdam)
Russia 1911--Instructions from Graf von Stromberg--1912--(Head of the
Secret Service, Monsieur)--Member of the Duma. Other letters of
instruction 1913, 1914, 1916,--_since_ the war, Monsieur Rowlan'. Is it
not damnable?"
"Magnificent," gasped Rowland over her shoulder. "We've got him,
Mademoiselle--" and with a grin he paraphrased triumphantly, "where
Molly wore her beads."
She glanced at him in a moment of incomprehension, then thrust the
papers into their envelope and slipped them into the belt beneath her
gown.
"You see, Monsieur," she whispered, "Kirylo Ivanitch was well prepared
to deal with this situation. He feared Grisha Khodkine always, but
seemed to do as he wished. Now I know why--he was awaiting the overt act
which should throw the man into his hands----"
"My heritage," whispered Rowland.
"And mine," said Tanya.
"You've feared him, Mademoiselle. He holds some threat over you.
Today--tonight, I saw----"
"I fear him no longer, Monsieur Rowlan'--" she smiled confidently.
"Mademoiselle," said Rowland with boyish eagerness, "if you'll only tell
me. Let me help you. I will----"
"No more violence, Monsieur. I shall deal with Grisha Khodkine in my
own way."
She took the torch from his hand without a word and led him to a corner
of the vault, where upon the lower shelf were a number of packages
carefully wrapped in black oil-cloth.
"Bank notes," she said. "Each note of a thousand francs or its
equivalent. There are twenty-five thousand of them."
"What shall we do with them? You have a plan?"
The girl nodded.
"It is arranged. We have no time to lose. Picard and Stepan are
outside the wall. You will drop them over. I will show you."
And taking up several packages of oil-cloth she bade Rowland hold out
his hands while she filled his arms.
"Careful! Each one contains a fortune. Follow me."
She turned toward the door into the passageway, then gasped suddenly and
stopped, dropping her torch which clattered upon the steel floor. But
in the second before the light was extinguished, Rowland saw that a
figure stood at the entrance to the vault, a branch of foliage in one
hand while in the other, pointed directly toward him, was a most
significant weapon.