THE HEAD OF THE MANCHURIAN SYNDICATE
No reader can have failed to notice one remarkable point in the
interview between the Princess Y---- and myself. I refer of course to
her invitation to me to dine with her in the course of a day or two.
Unless the etiquette of the Russian Court differed greatly from that
of most others in Europe, it would be most indecorous for a
lady-in-waiting, during her turn of service, to give entertainments
at her private house.
I felt certain that this invitation concealed some trap, but I
puzzled myself uselessly in trying to guess what it could be.
In the meantime I did not neglect certain other friends of mine in
the city on the Neva, from whom I had some hope of receiving
assistance.
Although I have never gone so far as to enroll myself as an active
Nihilist, I am what is known as an Auxiliary. In other words, without
being under the orders of the great secret committee which wages
underground war with the Russian Government, I have sometimes
rendered it voluntary services, and I have at all times the privilege
of communicating with it, and exchanging information.
While waiting for the next move on the part of the Princess,
therefore, I decided to get in touch with the revolutionists.
I made my way on foot to a certain tavern situated near the port, and
chiefly patronized by German and Scandinavian sailors.
The host of the Angel Gabriel, as the house was called, was a
Nihilist of old standing, and one of their most useful agents for
introducing forbidden literature into the empire.
Printed mostly in London, in a suburb called Walworth, the
revolutionary tracts are shipped to Bergen or Lubeck, and brought
thence by these sailors concealed in their bedding. At night, after
the customs officers have departed, a boat with a false keel puts off
from a quay higher up the Neva, and passes down the river to where
the newly arrived ship is lying; the packages are dropped overboard
as it drifts past the side and hidden under the bottom boards; and
then the boat returns up the river, where its cargo is transferred to
the cellars of the tavern.
The host, a namesake of the Viceroy of Manchuria, was serving in the
bar when I came in. I called for a glass of vodka, and in doing so
made the sign announcing myself as an Auxiliary.
Alexieff said nothing in reply, but the sailors lounging in the bar
began to finish off their drinks and saunter out one by one, till in
a short time the place was empty.
"Well?" said the tavern-keeper, as soon as we were alone.
It was not my first visit to the Angel Gabriel, and I lost no time in
convincing Alexieff of my identity. As soon as he recognized me, I
said:--
"You know the Princess Y----?"
The expression of rage and fear which convulsed his features was a
sufficient answer.
"You know, moreover, that she is at present working her hardest to
bring about a war between Russia and Japan, with the hope of
ultimately involving Great Britain?"
He nodded sullenly.
"How does that affect your friends?" I asked cautiously. Something in
the man's face warned me not to show my own hand just then.
"We hate her, of course," he said grudgingly, "but just now we have
received orders that she is not to be interfered with."
I drew a deep breath.
"Then you regard this war----?"
"We regard it as the beginning of the revolution," he answered. "We
know that the Empire is utterly unprepared. The Viceroy Alexieff is a
vain boaster. Port Arthur is not provisioned. The Navy is rotten. The
Army cannot be recruited except by force. The taxes are already
excessive and cannot be increased. In short, we look forward to see
the autocracy humiliated. The moment its prestige is gone, and the
moujik feels the pinch of famine, our chance will come."
I saw that I had come to the wrong quarter for assistance.
"Then you will do nothing against this woman at present?" I remarked,
anxious to leave the impression that she was the only object of my
concern.
"No. At least not until war is definitely declared. After that I
cannot say."
"And you think the war sure to come?"
"We are certain of it. One of our most trusted members is on the
board of the Manchurian Syndicate."
"The Syndicate which has obtained the concessions in Korea?"
"Against which Japan has protested, yes."
I felt the full force of this announcement, having watched the
proceedings of the Syndicate for some months for reasons of my own.
Every student of modern history has remarked the fact that all recent
wars have been promoted by great combinations of capitalists. The
causes which formerly led to war between nation and nation have
ceased to operate. Causes, or at least pretexts, for war continue to
occur, but whether they are followed up depends mainly on commercial
considerations. A distant Government is oppressing its subjects, it
may be in Turkey, it may be in Cuba, it may be in Africa. No matter,
some great Power suddenly discovers it is interested; the drums are
beaten, the flag is unfurled, and armies are launched on their path.
The next year, perhaps, the same Power sees its own subjects
massacred wantonly off its own coasts by a foreign fleet. Nothing
happens; a few speeches are made, and the whole incident is referred
to arbitration, and forgotten.
It is the consideration of money which decides between peace and war.
Perceiving it was useless to ask any assistance of the Nihilists in
my forlorn enterprise, I returned sadly to my hotel.
Hardly had I finished the immense lunch on which I was compelled to
gorge myself, when a waiter brought me a card, the name on which gave
me an electric shock.
"_M. Petrovitch._"
Every one has heard of this man, the promoter of the Manchurian
Syndicate, and, if report spoke truly, the possessor of an influence
over the young Czar which could be attributed only to some occult
art.
I could not doubt that this powerful personage had been instigated to
call on me by the Princess Y----.
What then? Was it likely that she would have sent the most
influential man in the imperial circle to wait upon a traveling
fanatic, a visionary humanitarian from Exeter Hall?
Impossible! Somehow something must have leaked out to rouse the
suspicions of this astute plotter, and make her guess that I was not
what I seemed.
It was with the sensations of a man struggling in the meshes of an
invisible net that I saw M. Petrovitch enter the room.
The celebrated wire-puller, whose name was familiar to every
statesman and stock-broker in Europe, had an appearance very unlike
his reputation.
He was the court dandy personified. Every detail of his dress was
elaborated to the point of effeminacy. His hands were like a girl's,
his long hair was curled and scented, he walked with a limp and spoke
with a lisp, removing a gold-tipped cigarette from his well-displayed
teeth.
As the smoke of the cigarette drifted toward me, I was conscious of
an acute, but imperfect, twinge of memory. The sense of smell, though
the most neglected, is the most reliable sense with which we are
furnished. I could not be mistaken in thinking I had smelt tobacco
like that before.
"I have come to see you without losing a moment, Mr. Sterling," he
said in very good English. "My good friend Madame Y---- sent me a
note from the Palace to beg me to show you every attention. It is too
bad that an ambassador of peace--a friend of that great and good man,
Place, should be staying in a hotel, while hundreds of Russians would
be delighted to welcome him as their guest. My house is a poor one,
it is true, and I am hardly of high enough rank, still----"
The intriguer was asking me to transfer myself to his roof, to become
his prisoner, in effect.
"I cannot thank you enough," I responded, "but I am not going to
stay. The Princess has convinced me that the war-cloud will blow
over, and I think of going on to Constantinople to intercede with the
Sultan on behalf of the Armenians."
"A noble idea," M. Petrovitch responded warmly. "What would the world
do without such men as you? But at all events you will dine with me
before you go?"
It was the second invitation to dinner I had received that day. But,
after all, I could hardly suspect a trap in everything.
"Do you share the hopes of the Princess?" I asked M. Petrovitch,
after thanking him for his hospitality.
The syndicate-monger nodded.
"I have been working night and day for peace," he declared
impudently, "and I think I may claim that I have done some good. The
Japanese are seeking for an excuse to attack us, but they will not
get it."
"The Manchurian Syndicate?" I ventured to hint, rising to go to the
bell.
"The Syndicate is wholly in favor of peace," he assured me, watching
my movement with evident curiosity. "We require it, in fact, to
develop our mines, our timber concessions, our----"
A waiter entered in response to my ring.
"Bring me some cigarettes--your best," I ordered him.
As the man retreated it was borne in on my guest that he had been
guilty of smoking in my room without offering me his case.
"A thousand pardons!" he exclaimed. "Won't you try one of mine?"
I took a cigarette from the case he held out, turned it between my
fingers, and lit it from the end farthest from the maker's imprint.
"If I am satisfied that all danger is removed I should be inclined to
apply for some shares in your undertaking," I said, giving the
promoter a meaning look.
From the expression in his eyes it was evident that this precious
scoundrel was ready to sell Czar, Russia and fellow-promoters all
together.
While he was struggling between his natural greed and his suspicion
the waiter reentered with some boxes of cigarettes.
I smelt the tobacco of each and made my choice, at the same time
pitching the half-smoked cigarette given to me by M. Petrovitch into
the fireplace, among the ashes.
"Your tobacco is a little too strong for me," I remarked by way of
excuse.
But the Russian was wrapped up in the thought of the bribe at which I
had just hinted.
"I shall bear in mind what you say," he declared, as he rose.
"Depend upon it, if it is possible for me to meet your wishes, I
shall be happy to do so."
I saw him go off, like a fish with the bait in its mouth. Directly
the door closed behind him I sprang to the fireplace, rescued the
still burning cigarette and quenched it, and then, carefully brushing
away the dust, read the maker's brand once more.
An hour later simultaneous messages were speeding over the wires to
my correspondents in London, Amsterdam and Hamburg:
Ascertain what becomes of all cigarettes made by
Gregorides; brand, Crown Aa.