Maurice Wallion looks about him a bit and makes a new acquaintance
As soon as the Problem-hunter saw Baron Fayerling go into the Copper House, he felt convinced that a crisis was at hand.
"Fayerling's arrival is a bad sign," he thought, "I would rather see Ortiz himself. Where on earth can he have got to?"
He lay still for several minutes, wondering how he could manage to dodge the cordon of men which was closing in round him from the direction of the field.
"It's high time I gave Robert Lang his final instructions--but how am I going to do it?" he pondered. "It is important for me to remain here, especially on Grath's account, as it is largely through me that he has got into this fix. The Copper House is completely surrounded, and these fellows would be able to shoot the lot of us, without anyone being near enough to help us. It is odd that they should have left the telephone at the lodge in working order, and cut off the one at the house. If only I could get down to the lodge!"
He took stock of the advancing forces, and made a wry face: as things were, he was obliged to admit that it was impossible to get past them. The only chance of escape was on the other side, towards the sea. He might possibly be able to reach the railway station in some roundabout way, and telegraph or telephone to Lang from there. He crept back along the terrace-wall, almost within reach of the seven or eight men who kept guard above, and began with great circumspection to make his way seawards. He passed behind the stable and cowhouse without meeting anybody, and as soon as he got in amongst the trees at the foot of the ridge, he started running over the soft carpet of brown pine-needles, and short grass. But in a few minutes, hearing steps and voices ahead of him, he turned off to the right. He got an occasional glimpse of the sea, gleaming through the trees, and went on boldly in that direction.
Suddenly he shrank back, and crouched down behind a thick cluster of bracken. Just where the ridge ended, on the left, he had seen three forest-guards walking towards him, and further on his right, between him and the sea, he espied yet another figure with a gun.
Had he been seen? Apparently not, but he decided that with so many men about, that way was impassable, too.
He gazed longingly at the calm, glittering Bay, which was practically an inland sea, the entrance being almost closed by a long, wooded island. Exactly below him, a path ran from the house to a dilapidated pier, on the left of which stood an even more tumble-down marine store, or fisherman's cottage, with a tiled roof and one small, unglazed window. A little way out from the pier was anchored a lighter, of the type of those which one frequently sees being towed in long lines through the island channels. A slender column of smoke was rising from the cabin chimney, and on the gunwale sat a man in a cotton shirt, fishing. While Wallion was watching him, he cautiously drew in his line, and landed a fish, which gleamed like silver in the sunlight.
But it was not the sight of the lonely fisherman which specially attracted the journalist's attention: it was a long, white scar in the side of the lighter, just above the water-line. It looked just as though someone had taken a huge knife and made a gash three or four yards long through the tarred planks. An ice-floe, swept along in a strong current, might have done it--but the mark was fresh, and last winter's ice had melted long ago, under the summer sun.
Wallion roused himself from his speculations, for the men who were descending the ridge were getting dangerously near him, and he beat a retreat for the second time towards the house. He moved without hurry or nervousness, but he was forced to admit that he had never been in a tighter corner, and he felt certain that the men who now surrounded the house had come to stay. It was worthy of notice that these extra guards were drawn up facing the building: evidently their aim was not so much to keep out any unauthorized visitor, as to prevent those inside the house from getting into communication with the outer world. Perhaps they already knew that Wallion was somewhere on the premises! This possibility made him look serious: if they knew where he was to be found, all was up with him. He stood still and listened. The three men were slowly walking along behind him; on the right he could hear other unwelcome sounds of twigs snapping and bushes rustling; there was open ground to the left, but even that was not unoccupied--four of the forest-guards were marching across the field in a line with his hiding place, and if he remained there, nothing could prevent his being discovered.
"What a nuisance," he thought, with annoyance, "I have only one resource left, and that is Rosenthal."
Once more he retraced his steps, passed the cowhouse again, this time on the other side, and scrambled over the palings into the orchard, which at this lower end was neglected, and overgrown with tall, waving grasses.
He now found himself just behind the gardener's little red cottage, and as he peeped cautiously round the corner, he could see one side of the terrace, and the southern wing of the house, with the kitchen door. He saw something else as well: that there was no chance of getting in there now, for men were turning up on all sides, under the windows and behind the bushes; something was going on indoors, probably a fresh search for Bernard Jenin and the memorandum, but no voices could be heard: an almost uncanny silence prevailed.
Wallion kept close to the cottage wall, and stood on tiptoe to look through one of the two windows. The gardener's house consisted apparently of a living-room and a kitchen, with an adjoining tool-house: it was at the window of the latter that he was standing. Nobody was there: the sun shone on hoes, spades, rakes and watering cans, shelves filled with flower pots of all sizes, worn-out scythes, and a perfect arsenal of gardening-knives.
Wallion opened the window with his penknife, and climbed in. Through a door which stood ajar, he could see part of a room alongside: a table by the window, with flowers growing in glasses and pots, a smaller table with books and newspapers on it, and an old rocking-chair.
And in the rocking-chair sat Rosenthal, who called out, as he caught sight of him:
"Good afternoon, Mr. Wallion; I was just expecting you!"
The journalist stepped into the room.
"Did you know that I was in this part of the world?"
"I have seen you already this morning; you are every bit as venturesome as I hoped you would be. I saw you as you were climbing in through the window with Grath. You see, that happened to be my 'beat'; no one has come to or from the Copper House since yesterday afternoon without my knowledge. To avoid all misunderstanding, I may tell you that I also observed our friend Grath's little escapade last evening."
The gardener spoke very deliberately and accurately, with a slight accent. His ruddy face and blue eyes were lighted up with pleasant anticipation. The journalist sat down opposite, and lighted a cigarette, first offering his case, which the other declined. They looked at one another with an expression of mutual understanding.
"You are far more daring than I," said Wallion, "since you have ventured to live in this neighborhood for several months, Mr. Max Raebel."
The gardener got up, and shook Wallion warmly by the hand, then sat down again, smiling all over his face.
"Quite right, I am Max Raebel," he said; "how do you know that, as you have never seen me before?"
"I saw you when you were cutting roses in the garden; in talking to Grath, you raised your head, and I recognized the best detective in Austria, disguised as a gardener. Oh, no need to be modest about it--of course I have heard of you a hundred times, and equally of course, I have your portrait in my collection. I have long suspected that someone of your calibre was taking a hand in the game, but couldn't find out under what name that somebody was working. Since you have managed to secure such a good place--right in the stalls!--I suppose you have succeeded in gaining Fayerling's confidence in some extraordinary way?"
"Not at all, it was perfectly easy; I got a recommendation from Madame Sumensov in Petrograd."
"From Madame herself?"
"Yes, for nobody knows as yet that she serves two masters with equal fidelity!"
"No, it is news to me. You probably know, as I do, that she is a tool of Ortiz? Are you not afraid she may betray you to him?"
"That's one possibility. Another is that I shall have finished my work here before she can do so," replied the Austrian very calmly.
He glanced out of the window.
"They are beginning to get nervous," he added; "nervousness is the beginning of panic, and panic is half-way to defeat."
They both looked at the Copper House for a minute, and saw Rastakov appear at one of the upper windows, and shout an order to the men on the terrace. The baron came out, and looked up at him. Rastakov made an angry gesture, implying that he had had no luck, to which the baron replied with a shrug of his shoulders, and called out in his cool, clear voice: "Look more carefully!"
The Austrian laughed.
"Yes, look, my boy, look!" he echoed.
Wallion turned round.
"In the meantime, Ortiz is on his way here," he remarked.
"Yes," said the other, "we are all waiting for him, aren't we?"
Wallion pulled out his notebook and laid it on the table.
"Mr. Max Raebel, let us compare notes: first, you have only been here since April 29th, at all events under the name of Rosenthal. You only began to interest yourself in Ortiz's affairs after the Tarraschin document appeared on the scene; therefore this document is what you are on the look-out for: may I ask why?"
The Austrian's fair face and friendly eyes clouded over a little, and he did not answer immediately.
"I am no politician," he said finally; "I am a detective, and sent out with a definite end in view. My task is to make sure that Tarraschin's memorandum does not fall among thieves, to prevent it from being illegally employed, and, in the last resort, to destroy it. One of the statesmen of my country, whose name you may perhaps guess, but I must not mention, would be deeply compromised were that document to be unscrupulously handled."
The Austrian bent forward.
"And not only he, but a more exalted personage still," he added.
Wallion opened his eyes.
"Aha," he said, "that is worse than I feared!" He considered a little. "I took it for granted that Tarraschin's scheme affected Russia only."
The Austrian shook his head.
"Let me tell you something, Mr. Wallion; everything that happens nowadays is of world-wide importance; all that concerns Tarraschin's memorandum is highly characteristic of the circumstances which have produced it. Look back a bit; the Russian Revolution had long been expected, but who could have foretold that it would break out in March, 1917? It fell upon Europe like an avalanche, the sudden upheaval of a mighty mass; and not as the immediate result of some great ideal, or political disturbance, but apparently in consequence of the scarcity of food at Petrograd. At all events, the way was prepared for it, and once set going, the landslide crashed down into the depths, leaving devastation in its wake. Was it possible to restore order? This was a question in which all countries were interested. Before anything else, it was of the utmost importance to ascertain the policy of the Russian Conservative party, the State officials, the officers of the army, and certain members of the Tsar's immediate 'entourage'--all those, in a word, who belonged to the governing class. Would they be strong enough to organize a counter-revolution before the new men had grown powerful enough to check them? Even on March 15th, the Tsar had virtually abdicated the throne; was that a sign of the disintegration and consequent ineffectiveness of the reactionary party? No, for they still had a symbol round which to rally: there was the army. At that moment, Prince Tarraschin appeared on the scene. Do you know his history?"
"Yes, more or less. He was one of the most typical leaders of the old régime. It was he who got the reputation of having run through one fortune every year! He was a daring politician, and a friend of the Grand Duke Nicolai--an intelligent man, and perhaps an honorable one, according to his lights."
"There is no doubt as to his intelligence," said the Austrian; "now let me tell you what he did. One can hardly say that the Revolution ruined him, for he had just about ruined himself. But he could not bring himself to accept it: to him, the Revolution was the end of all things. His one idea was that power and mastery must be regained at any cost. He set to work undauntedly, and for a short time it looked as though he would succeed in winning over the strongest element in the Conservative party to his cause. He drew up an ingenious scheme of counter-revolution; he had two methods of dealing with waverers: promises and money. The history of Tarraschin's promises you have probably never heard: it is like a fairy tale."
"Go on, go on," said Wallion, as the Austrian stopped; "I know something about Tarraschin's correspondence with certain individuals in Austria."
Max Raebel raised his eyebrows.
"You know that, do you? But you say 'certain individuals,' there was only one, the Austrian statesman to whom I alluded just now. The highly confidential correspondence between him and Tarraschin had to do with Balkan affairs, and was concluded before the outbreak of the March Revolution. There was no question, as people declared, of any understanding with Austria, in the event of the establishment of a democratic Russian monarchy desirous of peace; it was an absolutely private discussion between two political specialists, so to speak; yet at this crisis, Tarraschin did not hesitate to avail himself of this correspondence. He represented my countryman's statements in the light of promises inspired by a higher authority, an authority which had, as the whole world knew, an intense desire for peace. In this way, Tarraschin managed to secure one more means of support, calculated to strengthen the weaker brethren amongst the reactionaries. It mattered nothing to him that he was compromising two of the most highly-placed dignitaries in my country. Next, as regards funds----"
"Ah, there our paths meet, Mr. Raebel," broke in Wallion; "the funds for Tarraschin's intended revolution were supplied by Gabriel Ortiz."
"Exactly. Ortiz financed the enterprise through a channel, at one end of which we find Tassler and Fayerling, but at the other, Madame Sumensov and Tarraschin. How much gold has been distributed by their means, is more than I can say."
"I can give you a rough estimate: it was, in round numbers, fifteen to twenty million roubles."
The Austrian laughed.
"Really! A perfect fortune, and the last which Tarraschin had the pleasure of squandering, for, as you know, he died suddenly on the 29th of March. There is no doubt that he was assassinated, and not by the revolutionaries, but by his own friends."
For the first time during their conversation the journalist looked surprised.
"Do you mean his political associates?" he asked.
"Yes. They were mortally afraid, as soon as they realized how irretrievably Tarraschin was about to compromise them. Instead of replacing the crown on the Tsar's head, they were in danger of finding their own heads removed from their shoulders. And with characteristic Russian philosophy they said to themselves: 'It is better that one man die for the people.'... Nevertheless, our friend Tarraschin had already done his worst: he had drawn up a detailed memorandum of the plans for the counter-revolution, in which he had set down with the most scrupulous exactitude what each one of the participators had pledged himself to do--with name, place and time, in full; everything very skilfully thought out, and perfectly feasible, and from a military point of view, quite certain to result in over a hundred executions. And, in addition, as I said just now, it compromised two persons who, like Cæsar's wife, must be above suspicion."
"One might fancy," remarked the journalist, "that Ortiz had had a hand in the production."
"Not a doubt of it: he would want some hold over the men who were receiving his money, and with this paper in his possession he can compel them to do anything he likes. Tarraschin's death is of no consequence in comparison with the possibilities raised by his memorandum. It constitutes the keystone of Ortiz's gigantic scheme: without the memorandum, the whole of his plan will melt into thin air."
"And in consequence, we can pretty well guess his present designs," supplied Wallion.
They looked at one another.
"He is magnificent!" said the Austrian.
"But quite mad!" replied Wallion.
A step was heard outside the window, and a shadow fell across the glass. It was Rastakov. The journalist flattened himself against the wall, with a noiseless wriggle of his body. The gardener got slowly up, yawned loudly, and opened the window.
"What do you want, Rastakov?"
The man outside was breathing heavily.
"Why are you not with us, Rosenthal? The baron wants to know if you have seen anyone leave the Copper House; we cannot find Bernard Jenin anywhere."
"I have not seen any unauthorized person leave the house," said the gardener; "why is the baron so persistent? I told you yesterday evening that Bernard Jenin had disappeared, Comrade Rastakov."
"He cannot have disappeared. He must be somewhere on the premises. The baron has decided that the house and its surroundings are to be totally isolated, I can tell you that. All those inside are prisoners, even Grath. Be ready for anything; the Chief is due this evening, and within the next twenty-four hours we shall probably have cleared out of this."
"You may depend upon me," the gardener reassured him.
Rastakov stood for a minute, shifting undecidedly from one foot to another, then took his departure.
The Austrian's face wore a new expression of military decision and firmness.
"Well, they have burnt their boats now!" said he; "and may I be there to see the end of it," he added after a pause.
