Paulvitch Plots Revenge
As Jane and Tarzan stood upon the vessel’s deck recounting to one
another the details of the various adventures through which each had
passed since they had parted in their London home, there glared at them
from beneath scowling brows a hidden watcher upon the shore.
Through the man’s brain passed plan after plan whereby he might thwart
the escape of the Englishman and his wife, for so long as the vital
spark remained within the vindictive brain of Alexander Paulvitch none
who had aroused the enmity of the Russian might be entirely safe.
Plan after plan he formed only to discard each either as impracticable,
or unworthy the vengeance his wrongs demanded. So warped by faulty
reasoning was the criminal mind of Rokoff’s lieutenant that he could
not grasp the real truth of that which lay between himself and the
ape-man and see that always the fault had been, not with the English
lord, but with himself and his confederate.
And at the rejection of each new scheme Paulvitch arrived always at the
same conclusion—that he could accomplish naught while half the breadth
of the Ugambi separated him from the object of his hatred.
But how was he to span the crocodile-infested waters? There was no
canoe nearer than the Mosula village, and Paulvitch was none too sure
that the Kincaid would still be at anchor in the river when he returned
should he take the time to traverse the jungle to the distant village
and return with a canoe. Yet there was no other way, and so, convinced
that thus alone might he hope to reach his prey, Paulvitch, with a
parting scowl at the two figures upon the Kincaid’s deck, turned away
from the river.
Hastening through the dense jungle, his mind centred upon his one
fetich—revenge—the Russian forgot even his terror of the savage world
through which he moved.
Baffled and beaten at every turn of Fortune’s wheel, reacted upon time
after time by his own malign plotting, the principal victim of his own
criminality, Paulvitch was yet so blind as to imagine that his greatest
happiness lay in a continuation of the plottings and schemings which
had ever brought him and Rokoff to disaster, and the latter finally to
a hideous death.
As the Russian stumbled on through the jungle toward the Mosula village
there presently crystallized within his brain a plan which seemed more
feasible than any that he had as yet considered.
He would come by night to the side of the Kincaid, and once aboard,
would search out the members of the ship’s original crew who had
survived the terrors of this frightful expedition, and enlist them in
an attempt to wrest the vessel from Tarzan and his beasts.
In the cabin were arms and ammunition, and hidden in a secret
receptacle in the cabin table was one of those infernal machines, the
construction of which had occupied much of Paulvitch’s spare time when
he had stood high in the confidence of the Nihilists of his native
land.
That was before he had sold them out for immunity and gold to the
police of Petrograd. Paulvitch winced as he recalled the denunciation
of him that had fallen from the lips of one of his former comrades ere
the poor devil expiated his political sins at the end of a hempen rope.
But the infernal machine was the thing to think of now. He could do
much with that if he could but get his hands upon it. Within the little
hardwood case hidden in the cabin table rested sufficient potential
destructiveness to wipe out in the fraction of a second every enemy
aboard the Kincaid.
Paulvitch licked his lips in anticipatory joy, and urged his tired legs
to greater speed that he might not be too late to the ship’s anchorage
to carry out his designs.
All depended, of course, upon when the Kincaid departed. The Russian
realized that nothing could be accomplished beneath the light of day.
Darkness must shroud his approach to the ship’s side, for should he be
sighted by Tarzan or Lady Greystoke he would have no chance to board
the vessel.
The gale that was blowing was, he believed, the cause of the delay in
getting the Kincaid under way, and if it continued to blow until night
then the chances were all in his favour, for he knew that there was
little likelihood of the ape-man attempting to navigate the tortuous
channel of the Ugambi while darkness lay upon the surface of the water,
hiding the many bars and the numerous small islands which are scattered
over the expanse of the river’s mouth.
It was well after noon when Paulvitch came to the Mosula village upon
the bank of the tributary of the Ugambi. Here he was received with
suspicion and unfriendliness by the native chief, who, like all those
who came in contact with Rokoff or Paulvitch, had suffered in some
manner from the greed, the cruelty, or the lust of the two Muscovites.
When Paulvitch demanded the use of a canoe the chief grumbled a surly
refusal and ordered the white man from the village. Surrounded by
angry, muttering warriors who seemed to be but waiting some slight
pretext to transfix him with their menacing spears the Russian could do
naught else than withdraw.
A dozen fighting men led him to the edge of the clearing, leaving him
with a warning never to show himself again in the vicinity of their
village.
Stifling his anger, Paulvitch slunk into the jungle; but once beyond
the sight of the warriors he paused and listened intently. He could
hear the voices of his escort as the men returned to the village, and
when he was sure that they were not following him he wormed his way
through the bushes to the edge of the river, still determined some way
to obtain a canoe.
Life itself depended upon his reaching the Kincaid and enlisting the
survivors of the ship’s crew in his service, for to be abandoned here
amidst the dangers of the African jungle where he had won the enmity of
the natives was, he well knew, practically equivalent to a sentence of
death.
A desire for revenge acted as an almost equally powerful incentive to
spur him into the face of danger to accomplish his design, so that it
was a desperate man that lay hidden in the foliage beside the little
river searching with eager eyes for some sign of a small canoe which
might be easily handled by a single paddle.
Nor had the Russian long to wait before one of the awkward little
skiffs which the Mosula fashion came in sight upon the bosom of the
river. A youth was paddling lazily out into midstream from a point
beside the village. When he reached the channel he allowed the sluggish
current to carry him slowly along while he lolled indolently in the
bottom of his crude canoe.
All ignorant of the unseen enemy upon the river’s bank the lad floated
slowly down the stream while Paulvitch followed along the jungle path a
few yards behind him.
A mile below the village the black boy dipped his paddle into the water
and forced his skiff toward the bank. Paulvitch, elated by the chance
which had drawn the youth to the same side of the river as that along
which he followed rather than to the opposite side where he would have
been beyond the stalker’s reach, hid in the brush close beside the
point at which it was evident the skiff would touch the bank of the
slow-moving stream, which seemed jealous of each fleeting instant which
drew it nearer to the broad and muddy Ugambi where it must for ever
lose its identity in the larger stream that would presently cast its
waters into the great ocean.
Equally indolent were the motions of the Mosula youth as he drew his
skiff beneath an overhanging limb of a great tree that leaned down to
implant a farewell kiss upon the bosom of the departing water,
caressing with green fronds the soft breast of its languorous love.
And, snake-like, amidst the concealing foliage lay the malevolent Russ.
Cruel, shifty eyes gloated upon the outlines of the coveted canoe, and
measured the stature of its owner, while the crafty brain weighed the
chances of the white man should physical encounter with the black
become necessary.
Only direct necessity could drive Alexander Paulvitch to personal
conflict; but it was indeed dire necessity which goaded him on to
action now.
There was time, just time enough, to reach the Kincaid by nightfall.
Would the black fool never quit his skiff? Paulvitch squirmed and
fidgeted. The lad yawned and stretched. With exasperating
deliberateness he examined the arrows in his quiver, tested his bow,
and looked to the edge upon the hunting-knife in his loin-cloth.
Again he stretched and yawned, glanced up at the river-bank, shrugged
his shoulders, and lay down in the bottom of his canoe for a little nap
before he plunged into the jungle after the prey he had come forth to
hunt.
Paulvitch half rose, and with tensed muscles stood glaring down upon
his unsuspecting victim. The boy’s lids drooped and closed. Presently
his breast rose and fell to the deep breaths of slumber. The time had
come!
The Russian crept stealthily nearer. A branch rustled beneath his
weight and the lad stirred in his sleep. Paulvitch drew his revolver
and levelled it upon the black. For a moment he remained in rigid
quiet, and then again the youth relapsed into undisturbed slumber.
The white man crept closer. He could not chance a shot until there was
no risk of missing. Presently he leaned close above the Mosula. The
cold steel of the revolver in his hand insinuated itself nearer and
nearer to the breast of the unconscious lad. Now it stopped but a few
inches above the strongly beating heart.
But the pressure of a finger lay between the harmless boy and eternity.
The soft bloom of youth still lay upon the brown cheek, a smile half
parted the beardless lips. Did any qualm of conscience point its
disquieting finger of reproach at the murderer?
To all such was Alexander Paulvitch immune. A sneer curled his bearded
lip as his forefinger closed upon the trigger of his revolver. There
was a loud report. A little hole appeared above the heart of the
sleeping boy, a little hole about which lay a blackened rim of
powder-burned flesh.
The youthful body half rose to a sitting posture. The smiling lips
tensed to the nervous shock of a momentary agony which the conscious
mind never apprehended, and then the dead sank limply back into that
deepest of slumbers from which there is no awakening.
The killer dropped quickly into the skiff beside the killed. Ruthless
hands seized the dead boy heartlessly and raised him to the low
gunwale. A little shove, a splash, some widening ripples broken by the
sudden surge of a dark, hidden body from the slimy depths, and the
coveted canoe was in the sole possession of the white man—more savage
than the youth whose life he had taken.
Casting off the tie rope and seizing the paddle, Paulvitch bent
feverishly to the task of driving the skiff downward toward the Ugambi
at top speed.
Night had fallen when the prow of the bloodstained craft shot out into
the current of the larger stream. Constantly the Russian strained his
eyes into the increasing darkness ahead in vain endeavour to pierce the
black shadows which lay between him and the anchorage of the Kincaid.
Was the ship still riding there upon the waters of the Ugambi, or had
the ape-man at last persuaded himself of the safety of venturing forth
into the abating storm? As Paulvitch forged ahead with the current he
asked himself these questions, and many more beside, not the least
disquieting of which were those which related to his future should it
chance that the Kincaid had already steamed away, leaving him to the
merciless horrors of the savage wilderness.
In the darkness it seemed to the paddler that he was fairly flying over
the water, and he had become convinced that the ship had left her
moorings and that he had already passed the spot at which she had lain
earlier in the day, when there appeared before him beyond a projecting
point which he had but just rounded the flickering light from a ship’s
lantern.
Alexander Paulvitch could scarce restrain an exclamation of triumph.
The Kincaid had not departed! Life and vengeance were not to elude him
after all.
He stopped paddling the moment that he descried the gleaming beacon of
hope ahead of him. Silently he drifted down the muddy waters of the
Ugambi, occasionally dipping his paddle’s blade gently into the current
that he might guide his primitive craft to the vessel’s side.
As he approached more closely the dark bulk of a ship loomed before him
out of the blackness of the night. No sound came from the vessel’s
deck. Paulvitch drifted, unseen, close to the Kincaid’s side. Only the
momentary scraping of his canoe’s nose against the ship’s planking
broke the silence of the night.
Trembling with nervous excitement, the Russian remained motionless for
several minutes; but there was no sound from the great bulk above him
to indicate that his coming had been noted.
Stealthily he worked his craft forward until the stays of the bowsprit
were directly above him. He could just reach them. To make his canoe
fast there was the work of but a minute or two, and then the man raised
himself quietly aloft.
A moment later he dropped softly to the deck. Thoughts of the hideous
pack which tenanted the ship induced cold tremors along the spine of
the cowardly prowler; but life itself depended upon the success of his
venture, and so he was enabled to steel himself to the frightful
chances which lay before him.
No sound or sign of watch appeared upon the ship’s deck. Paulvitch
crept stealthily toward the forecastle. All was silence. The hatch was
raised, and as the man peered downward he saw one of the Kincaid’s crew
reading by the light of the smoky lantern depending from the ceiling of
the crew’s quarters.
Paulvitch knew the man well, a surly cut-throat upon whom he figured
strongly in the carrying out of the plan which he had conceived. Gently
the Russ lowered himself through the aperture to the rounds of the
ladder which led into the forecastle.
He kept his eyes turned upon the reading man, ready to warn him to
silence the moment that the fellow discovered him; but so deeply
immersed was the sailor in the magazine that the Russian came,
unobserved, to the forecastle floor.
There he turned and whispered the reader’s name. The man raised his
eyes from the magazine—eyes that went wide for a moment as they fell
upon the familiar countenance of Rokoff’s lieutenant, only to narrow
instantly in a scowl of disapproval.
“The devil!” he ejaculated. “Where did you come from? We all thought
you were done for and gone where you ought to have gone a long time
ago. His lordship will be mighty pleased to see you.”
Paulvitch crossed to the sailor’s side. A friendly smile lay on the
Russian’s lips, and his right hand was extended in greeting, as though
the other might have been a dear and long lost friend. The sailor
ignored the proffered hand, nor did he return the other’s smile.
“I’ve come to help you,” explained Paulvitch. “I’m going to help you
get rid of the Englishman and his beasts—then there will be no danger
from the law when we get back to civilization. We can sneak in on them
while they sleep—that is Greystoke, his wife, and that black scoundrel,
Mugambi. Afterward it will be a simple matter to clean up the beasts.
Where are they?”
“They’re below,” replied the sailor; “but just let me tell you
something, Paulvitch. You haven’t got no more show to turn us men
against the Englishman than nothing. We had all we wanted of you and
that other beast. He’s dead, an’ if I don’t miss my guess a whole lot
you’ll be dead too before long. You two treated us like dogs, and if
you think we got any love for you you better forget it.”
“You mean to say that you’re going to turn against me?” demanded
Paulvitch.
The other nodded, and then after a momentary pause, during which an
idea seemed to have occurred to him, he spoke again.
“Unless,” he said, “you can make it worth my while to let you go before
the Englishman finds you here.”
“You wouldn’t turn me away in the jungle, would you?” asked Paulvitch.
“Why, I’d die there in a week.”
“You’d have a chance there,” replied the sailor. “Here, you wouldn’t
have no chance. Why, if I woke up my maties here they’d probably cut
your heart out of you before the Englishman got a chance at you at all.
It’s mighty lucky for you that I’m the one to be awake now and not none
of the others.”
“You’re crazy,” cried Paulvitch. “Don’t you know that the Englishman
will have you all hanged when he gets you back where the law can get
hold of you?”
“No, he won’t do nothing of the kind,” replied the sailor. “He’s told
us as much, for he says that there wasn’t nobody to blame but you and
Rokoff—the rest of us was just tools. See?”
For half an hour the Russian pleaded or threatened as the mood seized
him. Sometimes he was upon the verge of tears, and again he was
promising his listener either fabulous rewards or condign punishment;
but the other was obdurate. [condign: of equal value]
He made it plain to the Russian that there were but two plans open to
him—either he must consent to being turned over immediately to Lord
Greystoke, or he must pay to the sailor, as a price for permission to
quit the Kincaid unmolested, every cent of money and article of value
upon his person and in his cabin.
“And you’ll have to make up your mind mighty quick,” growled the man,
“for I want to turn in. Come now, choose—his lordship or the jungle?”
“You’ll be sorry for this,” grumbled the Russian.
“Shut up,” admonished the sailor. “If you get funny I may change my
mind, and keep you here after all.”
Now Paulvitch had no intention of permitting himself to fall into the
hands of Tarzan of the Apes if he could possibly avoid it, and while
the terrors of the jungle appalled him they were, to his mind,
infinitely preferable to the certain death which he knew he merited and
for which he might look at the hands of the ape-man.
“Is anyone sleeping in my cabin?” he asked.
The sailor shook his head. “No,” he said; “Lord and Lady Greystoke have
the captain’s cabin. The mate is in his own, and there ain’t no one in
yours.”
“I’ll go and get my valuables for you,” said Paulvitch.
“I’ll go with you to see that you don’t try any funny business,” said
the sailor, and he followed the Russian up the ladder to the deck.
At the cabin entrance the sailor halted to watch, permitting Paulvitch
to go alone to his cabin. Here he gathered together his few belongings
that were to buy him the uncertain safety of escape, and as he stood
for a moment beside the little table on which he had piled them he
searched his brain for some feasible plan either to ensure his safety
or to bring revenge upon his enemies.
And presently as he thought there recurred to his memory the little
black box which lay hidden in a secret receptacle beneath a false top
upon the table where his hand rested.
The Russian’s face lighted to a sinister gleam of malevolent
satisfaction as he stooped and felt beneath the table top. A moment
later he withdrew from its hiding-place the thing he sought. He had
lighted the lantern swinging from the beams overhead that he might see
to collect his belongings, and now he held the black box well in the
rays of the lamplight, while he fingered at the clasp that fastened its
lid.
The lifted cover revealed two compartments within the box. In one was a
mechanism which resembled the works of a small clock. There also was a
little battery of two dry cells. A wire ran from the clockwork to one
of the poles of the battery, and from the other pole through the
partition into the other compartment, a second wire returning directly
to the clockwork.
Whatever lay within the second compartment was not visible, for a cover
lay over it and appeared to be sealed in place by asphaltum. In the
bottom of the box, beside the clockwork, lay a key, and this Paulvitch
now withdrew and fitted to the winding stem.
Gently he turned the key, muffling the noise of the winding operation
by throwing a couple of articles of clothing over the box. All the time
he listened intently for any sound which might indicate that the sailor
or another were approaching his cabin; but none came to interrupt his
work.
When the winding was completed the Russian set a pointer upon a small
dial at the side of the clockwork, then he replaced the cover upon the
black box, and returned the entire machine to its hiding-place in the
table.
A sinister smile curled the man’s bearded lips as he gathered up his
valuables, blew out the lamp, and stepped from his cabin to the side of
the waiting sailor.
“Here are my things,” said the Russian; “now let me go.”
“I’ll first take a look in your pockets,” replied the sailor. “You
might have overlooked some trifling thing that won’t be of no use to
you in the jungle, but that’ll come in mighty handy to a poor sailorman
in London. Ah! just as I feared,” he ejaculated an instant later as he
withdrew a roll of bank-notes from Paulvitch’s inside coat pocket.
The Russian scowled, muttering an imprecation; but nothing could be
gained by argument, and so he did his best to reconcile himself to his
loss in the knowledge that the sailor would never reach London to enjoy
the fruits of his thievery.
It was with difficulty that Paulvitch restrained a consuming desire to
taunt the man with a suggestion of the fate that would presently
overtake him and the other members of the Kincaid’s company; but
fearing to arouse the fellow’s suspicions, he crossed the deck and
lowered himself in silence into his canoe.
A minute or two later he was paddling toward the shore to be swallowed
up in the darkness of the jungle night, and the terrors of a hideous
existence from which, could he have had even a slight foreknowledge of
what awaited him in the long years to come, he would have fled to the
certain death of the open sea rather than endure it.
The sailor, having made sure that Paulvitch had departed, returned to
the forecastle, where he hid away his booty and turned into his bunk,
while in the cabin that had belonged to the Russian there ticked on and
on through the silences of the night the little mechanism in the small
black box which held for the unconscious sleepers upon the ill-starred
Kincaid the coming vengeance of the thwarted Russian.