DISASTER
The surprise was so complete that Rowland stood for a moment immovable,
staring at the spot in the darkness where Monsieur Khodkine had been,
but before he had time to spring aside, there was an explosion and the
shock of a sudden impact against him as one of the packages flew from
his arms. Close shooting--but he was unhurt and thinking quickly,
dropped his bundles, dodged, and drew his revolver, waiting for the next
flash of Monsieur Khodkine's weapon.
No sign or sound. Then an anguished gasp from Tanya. "Grisha Khodkine!"
she cried. "Don't shoot again. You've killed him."
"Stand aside----"
It was all the mark that Rowland could hope for and he fired low at the
sound. A pause of a second and then the bullets from Monsieur
Khodkine's automatic crashed all around him. A splinter of wood struck
him in the cheek but if Rowland was hit in the body he did not know it
and fired rapidly at the flashes until the hammer of his revolver
clicked. His weapon was empty as was Khodkine's. Then creeping along
the shelves, groping with tense fingers, Rowland made for the spot where
the Russian had been. He felt a breath of air from outside through the
powder fumes and knew that he had reached the door. His fingers grasped
the cold steel of the door jamb, groped across the entrance and--touched
an arm. A cry of terror from Tanya as he caught at her fiercely.
"You, Mademoiselle--thank God!" he muttered, and released her.
"He is gone?" she stammered.
The answer came suddenly from behind them within the vault as Khodkine,
rushing blindly in the darkness at the sound, brought up against
Rowland, who twisted around in his grasp, freeing his right hand, which
struck blindly, harmlessly, and then at last found Khodkine's throat.
"Go, Mademoiselle," gasped Rowland. "It--it is better--I will----"
Something told him that Khodkine had another weapon and as he felt the
man free his right arm he caught at it desperately, pinioning it to his
side. His wrist ... a knife ... everything depended upon the knife....
He released the throat and while blows rained upon his head and
shoulders twisted Khodkine's wrist with both hands until he heard the
knife go clattering upon the floor.
"Even terms, Monsieur," he gasped, as body to body they swayed from side
to side in the darkness.
"You--fool," stammered the other. "To risk--fortune--on this
madness----"
"My--risk," grinned Rowland through his blood and sweat.
Rowland, thinking of Tanya and of Germany fought with cool desperation,
his arms around Khodkine, crushing, crushing the very breath from his
body. The man was weakening. Powerful as he was, his muscles had not
been trained as the American's had been in three years of life in the
open.
"A truce--Monsieur," Khodkine whispered hoarsely. But Rowland did not
hear him and bore him back against the shelves to the left, where their
feet stumbled over the pile of packages that Rowland had dropped, and
they fell, Rowland uppermost, upon the floor.
All the fight was out of Monsieur Khodkine by this time, and he lay
prone while Rowland, the fog of battle still upon him, clutched with his
bony fingers even after the man had stopped resisting. It was only when
the American realized how tired his fingers were that he sat upon
Khodkine's stomach, somewhat bewildered as to what had happened, aware
after a moment that his shoulder ached him badly and that his chest
burned from his labored breathing, but otherwise that he was quite sound
and cheerful.
"Do you give it up, you blighter?" he gasped in English, at last,
relapsing into the argot of his platoon of the Legion. "You've got
enough?"
A groan from the man beneath was the only reply.
"Well, what are you going to do about it?" he asked in a moment, in
French.
"N--nothing," stammered Khodkine, struggling for his breath. "I--I am
vanquished."
The situation was awkward. If Khodkine were strong enough, he might
still slip away in the darkness. Rowland was groping about on the floor
beside him for a weapon of some sort, when he heard a frightened whisper
behind him.
"Monsieur Rowlan'--! You are safe?" Tanya was murmuring.
"Yes, thanks. But I'm afraid to get up. Can you find the light
here--somewhere on the floor?"
"I'll try, Monsieur," she whispered. And he heard her groping about on
her hands and knees among the scattered packages. In a moment she found
the torch and threw its blinding glare into the eyes of the antagonists.
She stared at the sight of them, for the splinter wound in Rowland's
cheek still bled freely and made dark discolorations upon his clothing
and linen. But the American was sitting upon Monsieur Khodkine's
stomach, blinking cheerfully at the light.
"You--you're hurt, Monsieur?" she gasped.
"Am I? It can't be serious. I'm feeling quite all right. And you,
Monsieur Khodkine? Comfortable?"
The man groaned. "Enough, Monsieur."
Rowland straightened and released his wrists.
"There's about a million francs between his shoulder blades. Come, roll
over a bit, Monsieur. The steel floor will be more comfortable."
Khodkine obeyed as Rowland relinquished the pressure, while Tanya stood
dumb and motionless, as though the difficulties of their situation had
driven her to her wit's ends.
"Let me--let me up, Monsieur," groaned Khodkine.
"Why? So that you can try to murder me again? Hardly. You've broken
another Golden Bough----"
"And you--you have vanquished me," muttered Khodkine. "Kill me--or let
me go."
Rowland chuckled. "Either alternative is pleasant to me--but one is
dangerous."
"I am--am unarmed--also hurt," said Khodkine. "What harm can I do?
You--you are stronger than I----"
"No. Merely more in earnest." As the flash-light wavered a moment in
Tanya's hands it fell for a second on the rack of rifles. "Ah,
Mademoiselle, I have it. If you'll give me the light," said Rowland
calmly. And wondering, she handed it to him. "Now, if you please, take
a rifle there and load. The clips, I see, are upon the shelf."
While Rowland held the torch, Tanya obeyed quickly and handed the weapon
to Rowland, who after examining it and testing it carefully, got quickly
to his feet and ordered Khodkine to rise.
"I'm no murderer, Monsieur Khodkine," he said easily, "not in cold
blood, at least. And you're quite safe if you remain perfectly still,
while Mademoiselle Korasov continues in the task you interrupted."
Khodkine, who had gotten to his feet with an appearance of great
difficulty, now stood, quite subdued, still gasping for the breath which
Rowland had squeezed out of him.
"Monsieur--" he muttered, his gaze shifting this way and that, "let me
speak."
"By all means," said Rowland politely. "If you don't speak too long.
We have other business."
"You blame me for--for protecting the Treasury of Nemi. How should I
have known that your intentions and Mademoiselle Korasov's were
innocent?"
"Merely by our guilelessness, Monsieur Khodkine," grinned Rowland.
Khodkine's smile was sickly.
"You are clever," he said. "I have done you an injustice. But why
should we quarrel?"
"We won't. Our quarrel is ended. Is that all you want to say?"
"Let us be honest with each other. Our cause is the same----"
"Is it? Then I'm the worst scoundrel unhung. No, Monsieur Khodkine, we
shall go our ways, you yours--I mine. And now," with an inclination of
the head in excellent imitation of Monsieur Khodkine's satirical
amenities, "if you will permit us, Mademoiselle shall continue our
interrupted task."
Tanya saw his look of command, and setting the catch on the torch and
putting it upon the shelf, and filling her arms with the bundles of bank
notes, ran out through the door along the passage.
"What are you going to do with me?" asked Khodkine, moving slightly
toward the shelf behind him.
"Keep you safe until I can call the Council together." And then, as
Khodkine moved another pace. "I would advise you to remain motionless.
Another inch backward, Monsieur, and I'll fire."
Khodkine obeyed. The easy manner of the American had deceived him.
"What shall you tell them?" he asked, after a moment.
"That you had planned to rob the vault."
Khodkine laughed.
"This comes ill from you, Monsieur, who were already robbing it."
"No," said Rowland good-naturedly, "we were merely removing the notes to
a place of safety."
"Safety! And you think these others will believe you?"
"They will believe Mademoiselle Korasov."
"Ah. Is not my word as good as hers?"
Rowland shrugged. "You're wasting your breath."
Tanya returned at this moment, gathered up more bank notes, and saying
nothing, went running down the corridor again.
Khodkine moved his feet a little uneasily but did not move. And his
expression which had been shifting through all the phases of uncertainty
and apprehension, now broke into a smile.
"Monsieur Rowland, I admire your skill and _sang-froid_. You have a
better genius for the game of intrigue than many more experienced. We
should be friends, you and I. There is much we might accomplish
together."
Rowland laughed and purposely lowered the muzzle of his rifle a few
inches.
"Ah, yes, perhaps," he shrugged. He was a little curious for a peep
inside Monsieur Khodkine's brain. "What might we accomplish?"
Khodkine's pale eyes examined Rowland narrowly. And after a pause.
"You are an American, a nation which has blundered into European affairs
without cause. You, Monsieur, came to fight for France because you were
born for the spirit of adventure--because you live upon excitement and
have no fear. Is this not so?"
Rowland thought he saw where the fellow was driving but made no reply,
for at this moment Tanya came into the room again, loaded her arms and
departed.
"That's a correct statement," he smiled. "And I've surely found it
here."
He lowered the muzzle of the rifle a few inches more and saw Khodkine's
glance follow it.
Khodkine leaned slightly forward.
"You are taking this money to a place of safety, you say. That may or
may not be. But you will not succeed in getting it out of Switzerland."
"Why not?"
"Because it is a long way to the French border. You dare not go into
Germany. And the arm of Nemi is long."
Rowland looked aghast and the muzzle of the rifle dropped still further.
"I'm not afraid of the arm of Nemi--because," and he laughed, "it's my
arm, Monsieur."
Khodkine paused a moment, shrugged his disbelief, and then in a lower
tone,
"There is only one person who can help you get this money safely away,
Monsieur Rowland," he said.
"And he is----"
"Myself. The German border is less than fifteen kilometers away. Once
beyond it, I am safe. See!" And while Rowland watched him closely, he
thrust a hand into his pocket and drew out some papers, one of which
bore signatures, a photograph and a seal. "My _laisser passer_ and
yours, Monsieur, if you choose to accompany me."
Rowland's eyes opened wider and his jaw fell. This was the real
Khodkine--stripped to the skin that had been born Hochwald. But the
American made no reply and waited for the revelation to be complete.
Khodkine wasted no words, and his voice concentrated in a tense whisper.
"The money is negotiable, and will pave a broad highway from here to
Holland, if one knows the ropes. You are not a rich man, Monsieur. Nor
am I. Think what a great fortune like this means, even to you in
America where there are many great fortunes. You will be a prince. I
too. We will go together and the world will lie at our feet. Is it not
a wonderful picture?"
Rowland heard him through until the end, when the look of astonishment
upon his face--indeed more than half real--changed to sterner lines and
the muzzle of the rifle slowly came up level with Monsieur Khodkine's
breast.
"Why, you d---- rascal!" he growled sternly. "You pig--dog of a
thieving Boche!" he repeated deliberately. He paused a moment as
Khodkine straightened. "You're a poor conspirator, Herr Lieutnant
Gregory Hochwald!" he said with a malicious laugh, as Khodkine gasped.
"Hochwald of the Guard!" he repeated, "Prussian Guard 1906--Secret Agent
of General von Stromberg--Russian socialist! Bah, Grisha Khodkine.
I've got your _dossier_. It's a sweet one."
He paused in some satisfaction at the consternation he had created in
the face of Monsieur Khodkine, who was struggling hard to regain his
composure.
"My _dossier_, Monsieur!" he stammered, still staring incredulously.
"You are mad."
"Not so mad as I seem--nor so guileless--nor so even-tempered, Monsieur
Khodkine. I ought to kill you now as you stand and free Nemi of a spy
and Russia of a traitor. But I won't. But I'll draw your sting."
And then with a gesture, "March toward the door. Hands up!"
"What are you going to do?"
"Wake Shestov and Barthou--Ah! would you----!"
Rowland fired as Khodkine leaped back, crashing the light to the floor,
and turned toward where he had been, firing again at random, cursing
himself for his stupidity. The rifle was awkward in the confined space
and as he ran in the direction of the door of the vault to head the man
off, his foot struck something on the floor and he stumbled against the
shelves. When in desperation he found his way to the door of the vault,
it clanged shut with a heavy crash, and he heard the tumblers falling
into place.
He was locked in, and Khodkine--Khodkine had escaped!
The nature of this disaster did not for a moment occur to him. He
hammered on the unresponsive steel for an unreasoning moment, and then
stopped to upbraid himself.
"Silly fool," he muttered. "What did you go and do that for? You might
have known. You can't shoot, either. H---- of a soldier _you_ are!"
Suddenly the terrible meaning of his position began to dawn upon him.
The vault closed--with Khodkine outside--and the combination of numbers
that opened it unknown to anyone but himself--Unless Tanya--! He put
his ear to the steel door and listened. He thought he heard footsteps
in the passage-way outside and shouted her name. Silence. The darkness
seemed to be closing in on him, like the silence,
heavy--oppressive--burdened with meaning.
A tomb! And unless Tanya contrived to find a way to come to his rescue,
likely to be his own. And yet how could Tanya----? He dared not follow
his thought to its conclusion. Khodkine would find her there in the
darkness and ... Surely he would find her, for she would be coming back
to the vault for him. Picard--Stepan! Would they know what to do? And
even if they knew what had happened, how would they be able to release
him? One by one he thought of the various possibilities and at the last
was obliged to dismiss them all. He was caught--like a bear in a trap,
and like the bear, raged to and fro for a while, knocking himself and
breaking his knuckles against the shelves in the darkness, and cursing
his own stupidity, and the wits of Monsieur Khodkine, which after, all
had proved cleverer than his own. Khodkine had won--Khodkine, whom not
five minutes ago he had been laughing at for his stupidity! Was it only
five minutes or was it an hour ago?...
This wouldn't do. No time to be getting "rattled" now. Bad business.
Dark as the devil, too, but not hopeless. Nothing was entirely hopeless
unless one thought it so. Something might happen. But what? Short of
an earthquake that would tear the mound and vault to pieces, there
seemed little chance of anything happening except Tanya--and Khodkine
would see about her. Rowland was forced to admit that this was a
beautiful vengeance for Khodkine to discover, one quite fitting the
Boche idea of the eternal fitness of things. To imprison a man, to
starve him, to let him beat out his brains in madness against a steel
wall, to smother him--
Rowland frowned into the darkness and whistled thinly. To smother him!
The phrase seemed to have a new significance, the more terrible because
of its simplicity. Suffocation, slow but certain, as he struggled for
the exhausted oxygen. A matter of hours. The acid fumes of rifle and
pistol smoke still hung in the air--already he seemed to feel that
breathing had become difficult....
Imagination! He breathed quite easily and well. What time was it?
Something after two, perhaps. He didn't know. What he did know was
that he was tired as the devil standing up and that he wanted to sit
down somewhere, and have a smoke. He felt in his pockets. Cigarettes of
the luckless Ivanitch--and a box of matches. He struck a match and
lighted a cigarette. The skull on the shelf grinned at him. "Silly
beggar, to grin on and on for a thousand years. Happier though." _He_
always grinned when he could. It helped a lot. But he didn't seem to
feel like grinning now.
A thought came to him, and striking another match, he found the electric
torch upon the steel floor,--smashed this time beyond hope of use. He
threw it away from him in disgust and sat down on the hard steel floor,
his hands clasped over his knees, gazing at the light of the cigarette.
It was a singularly cheerful spot of light in the denseness of the
obscurity....
Fool that he was--smoking here, poisoning the little oxygen that was
left to him! Angrily he extinguished the cigarette upon the floor--and
then clasped his knees with his aching fingers and sat uncomfortably
waiting--waiting for what? A miracle? Could anything be expected of
Tanya? And even if she succeeded in eluding Khodkine, how could he hope
that she would know the numbers of the combination? He was sure that
she had not even committed them to memory. And if she succeeded in
reaching Shestov or Barthou and telling them of his predicament, it
would take a long while to break into the vault, at the end of which he,
Rowland, would be dead of suffocation.
He got to his feet, steadying himself by holding to the shelves. In the
darkness it seemed less easy to coordinate the movements of his
muscles.... Suffocation must be something like being "gassed"--only
less painful. He had seen fellows in the hospitals struggling for their
breath and remembered how they looked--livid--green. This was different
but it wasn't going to be pleasant. The pounding of his pulses seemed
to echo in the still chamber. He moved slowly to one end of the room
and reached upward. The ceiling was low, he could touch it easily with
his fingers. Stupid to build a vault with a ceiling as low as that.
What time was it? Four o'clock--five? It seemed as though he had lost
all notion of the passage of time. Was it daylight outside? He walked
around slowly, peering into the corners, seeking a glimpse of daylight
which would mean a breath of air for his lungs and a respite at least
until starvation came. Everywhere--blackness. The steel of the vault
was continuous. Kirylo Ivanitch had planned well.
Poor old Ivanitch. Good sort of a well-meaning lunatic! He was sorry
for Ivanitch ... but it hadn't been Rowland's fault. If Ivanitch had
only been Khodkine!
Rowland leaned against the gun rack and fingered the muzzles of the
rifles. He had wanted to die out there in the open with a weapon in his
hand, rushing a trench and yelling _Vive la France_. That was the kind
of a death for a good fellow----
Oh, well. He'd had a good time. He had taken his fun where he found
it.... But it was rotten luck that he couldn't show Tanya that he had
been worthy of her confidence. There was no use crying about it.
Somebody might come and let him out. If they didn't this was the end of
P. Rowland. He lay flat on the floor where the air seemed very good.
Might as well sleep as do anything else. Perhaps tomorrow something
would turn up. The ceiling seemed to be closing in on him, like the
Pendulum in the Pit. Poe was great on this sort of stuff--but Poe
didn't have anything on him.
Once or twice he straightened, thinking that he heard a sound--a dull
sound, somewhat like the throbbing of the blood in his ears, only ...
Imagination again. He didn't want to think--everything was black--even
thought.... He was very drowsy. It wasn't so bad, after all. Tomorrow
perhaps Tanya would come.... Princess Tatyana ... Pretty name....
Then suddenly in his dreams the air was riven and his eardrums hurt him
horribly as though the blackness in his brain were striving toward the
light ... And then--nothingness.