It was past midnight, when a young man, evidently dead-tired, and looking thoroughly exhausted, entered the office of the night Editor of the Daily Courier, and asked to see Maurice Wallion. The night Editor, a somewhat callous personage, looked at him without any special interest.
"Wallion?" he answered dryly. "He's not here."
"Where can I find him?"
"That's more than I can tell you--we haven't seen him ourselves! There is just one chance in a thousand that he's at home, but if he is, he doesn't answer the telephone, anyway--I have tried! He won't be best pleased when he sees how his office here has been turned upside down."
"Upside down?"
"That's putting it mildly. You might tell him, if you find him, that his room looks as though a squad of small hurricanes had been performing war-dances in it, and that nobody knows how or when. Here's his address, if you really feel you want the exercise of a night ramble from here to Valhalla Road."
The Editor pushed a scrap of paper into Leo's hand, and showed him out with a polite, though rather suggestive, zeal.
The young man stood for a while in the deserted street, to collect his thoughts. He also turned up his coat-collar, for the keen air made him shiver after his exertions in the wood; and with a gesture of undaunted resolution, he started on his pilgrimage through the shadowy wilderness of stone, beneath the rows of extinguished street lamps.
Women accosted him with inviting glances and alluring voices: and knots of revelers passed him with discordant bursts of laughter; further on, a policeman with his hands behind him, stood gazing after him.
These shadows, appearing and vanishing in the mists of night, recalled the events of the last few hours, as did the glaring, owl-like orbs of the clock-tower, and he hastened his steps, breaking into an occasional run.
When he at last reached the broad, lonely Valhalla Road, past the Stadion and the barracks, his clothes were clinging to him, and he was quite out of breath. It now occurred to him for the first time, that the outer door of the block of flats, in one of which the Problem-hunter lived, would probably be locked, but when he arrived there, he saw that it was partly open, and, without stopping to consider the reason for this, he ran quickly up the stairs....
He came to a standstill before the folding-doors, which bore a brass plate with the name of Maurice Wallion. One of the doors stood ajar, and on the stone floor of the lobby were scattered several splinters of white wood. He heard the stairs creaking on the next landing, as though someone were making his escape that way, startled by his unexpected arrival. All was dark in front of him, but he pushed the door open and stepped over the threshold.
A hand hovered above his head like a swooping hawk and seized him by the neck. The owner of the hand came out from behind the door, and a strong voice said mockingly in his ear: "Come along in, young fellow! No, don't struggle, I've been waiting for you impatiently. I can't say you are much of a hand at forcing a Yale lock, it has taken you the best part of half an hour--and now--glad to see you, take a seat!"
With what seemed to Leo superhuman strength, he was lifted up and flung headlong into a corner, where he fell on to a heap of something soft, clothes evidently. The electric light was turned on with a click, and he saw bending over him a tall man in shooting costume. A pair of keen gray eyes, that sparkled with energy and humor, were peering down at him, and Leo guessed instinctively who this must be.
"Good morning, Mr. Wallion," he said. "Pleased to meet you...."
"It's you, is it?" answered the Problem-hunter, without seeming in the least taken aback. "Why are you sitting there?"
Leo got up.
"I was under the impression that there was an earthquake just as I came in, but perhaps I was mistaken!"
"It was I who was mistaken, my dear Mr. Grath. One of Baron Fayerling's aides-de-camp has been playing about with the lock of my door for the last half-hour, and I have been standing behind the door waiting--naturally they thought I was out--and just as he was on the point of getting in, you interrupted him, and fell into my trap instead...."
The Problem-hunter broke off, and sprang to the door, but at the same instant, they heard a terrific clattering down the stairs, and the outer door at the bottom was banged to.
"He had evidently no wish to wait, when he knew that I was at home," remarked Wallion. "I must really beg your pardon for the very rough reception I gave you just now. The blackguard, he has quite ruined this lock: however, that's easily remedied--just a minute, and then we shall be able to have our little chat in comfort."
As he spoke, he was quickly and deftly screwing a strong bolt on the door.
"There, that will do. Now, will you come this way?"
They went into the study, and Wallion lighted a lamp with a yellow shade, that stood upon his writing-table.
"Of course, you are very much surprised at my knowing you again," inquired Wallion, looking with interest, though not disconcertingly so, at his belated visitor, whilst he brought out the ingredients for a refreshing drink of "Johnnie Walker" and soda, fetched cigarettes, and drew the curtains. "You see, I got to know what you looked like as much as three months ago...."
"That didn't surprise me so much," said Leo, who felt quite revived, as he glanced round him at the comfortable room, with its bookshelves and tables. "But how on earth did you know that I was coming to Stockholm? Not two months ago, I hadn't an idea of it myself!"
"A sudden fancy, I suppose?"
"Yes, something put it into my mind, I don't know exactly what...."
"And the minute you get back, you find yourself in a whirlpool of the most extraordinary events?"
"Extraordinary hardly expresses them!"
Maurice Wallion smiled, and sat down opposite Leo.
"I am afraid I owe you another apology," said he. "So you don't exactly know why you came to Stockholm? I can tell you--it was to help me. Yes, I know, you will say that you were not even aware of my existence, until you got my letter in Burchardt's office. No matter. I knew that you were in Los Angeles, where you were not required, and that you ought to be in Stockholm, where you were not expected. If I had written direct to you, and asked you to come, you would certainly have treated it as a joke, especially as I could have given you no reasonable explanation--just then.
"But do you remember Mrs. Gregory at Los Angeles? Do you remember how often she turned the conversation latterly on the Copper House, what interest she showed in it, how she drew you on to give her such glowing descriptions of it that you began to feel quite home-sick? And how, by degrees, she inspired you with the idea of a voyage home, without further delay. Don't you remember all that?"
"Now you mention it--yes, I believe it really was that pretty Mrs. Gregory who put the journey into my head."
"You see, during my travels, I made friends in all sorts of places. There were you in Los Angeles; I ransacked my memory--ha! Mrs. Gregory!--capital, an intelligent lady, a regular diplomat. I sent her an elaborate telegram. Can you forgive me?"
"My dear Mr. Wallion," replied Leo at once; "I am flattered, delighted! We must be friends now, and don't, whatever happens, spirit me back to California, before you have explained how I have become the object of such unbounded interest."
"In your capacity as owner of the Copper House."
"I haven't been a great success so far, in that line," remarked Leo. "When I tell you that I have been as good as turned out of it...."
He broke off his sentence in rather guilty confusion, at an unexpectedly piercing look from the other.
"Have you been there already, in spite of my warning?"
The young man nodded.
"And the immediate result is this nocturnal visit?" continued Wallion. "So you have been there? I was wondering all the time what could have happened to agitate you so much; I might have realized that you are one of those folks who never take advice.... Well, never mind, I am rather reluctant to take it myself, without knowing the reason for it. What did you see, to scare you so desperately?"
At this question, a sort of panic terror overwhelmed Leo. He saw once more the fugitive stumbling into the hall: he heard the shot ring out. He faltered: "I believe that a man has been killed--shot--at the Copper House; they didn't want me to see...."
Wallion bent down and looked into the young man's eyes, as a doctor would examine his patient.
"Tell me all about it," said he.
Leo thereupon poured out a very disjointed story, which the journalist heard in silence.
"You are sure that the girl called out 'Sergius'?"
"As sure as I am that Rastakov called the fugitive Bernard Jenin."
"And you think that Jenin certainly came into the house, but did not leave it again?"
"No, for it was impossible for him to get away."
"And you say that he disappeared altogether after that shot had been fired?"
"Yes, as though he had been instantaneously annihilated."
Wallion looked puzzled, and threw himself back in his chair with a gesture of vexation.
"Things don't tally! Talk of magic! I am brought up short whichever way I turn in this affair. Why should Lona Ivanovna shoot Bernard Jenin?--they ought...."
He scratched his head meditatively, and got up from his seat. "I know where I am with Rastakov, he is quite definitely on my black list. But Lona Ivanovna? and the girl who called out 'Sergius'?"
Presently Leo ventured to ask a question which had been on the tip of his tongue for a long time.
"I think it's my turn now to ask you for some light on these difficulties," said he; "you were joking, weren't you, when you said you needed my help?"
Wallion turned round and answered: "I suppose you know the Copper House like the palm of your hand?"
"Who should, if not I?"
"Exactly, you know the house, and you have the right to do so. Do you understand why these people want to buy the property? Simply to deprive you of that right. No one but yourself is in a position to know what is going on at the Copper House; and some underhand work is on foot there, which is bound to come to a head sooner or later. But I won't tantalize you with riddles, I will speak out."
He sat down again, and continued:
"It is a good thing you didn't run off to the police; that will come later, but not yet. I presume you did not meet Marcus Tassler?"
"No," replied Leo.
"That's just as well; it leaves us free to see the situation clearly."
"Excuse me," interrupted Leo, "I don't see anything clearly, as yet!"
"I am going to tell you a story," said Wallion. "Five months ago, I was sent for early one morning to see a dying man. I asked his name, and, to my surprise, I was given the name of a person who, several years previously, had been a friend of mine, and who had had the reputation of being a very promising journalist. But, in consequence of an extremely unfortunate and ridiculous love-affair, he went all to pieces, and finally disappeared, of his own accord, from our circle.
"I hastened to him, and found a poor, battered, neglected creature, lying, watch in hand, and speculating with a sort of childish curiosity, as to who would reach him first--myself or Death. They had told me beforehand that the unfortunate wretch had come home tipsy the night before, and had fallen out of a passage window on the fifth story, down to the stone pavement below. Everyone in the building had been aroused by the cry he uttered as he fell.
"I won't mention his name, for obvious reasons.
"When I came into the poverty-stricken bedroom, he raised his head from the pillow, and said very slowly and softly: 'I was afraid they wouldn't let you come!'
"I fancied he was delirious, and he looked as though he could barely have another minute to live.
"'Who do you mean?' I asked him.
"'The men who killed me,' was his reply.
"I hardly know what I said, for it was a dreadful shock to see the man whom I remembered full of life and health, lying an utter wreck before me. His back was broken. The change in him was so overwhelming that he could not but notice my consternation.
"'Yes, it is I,' he said, 'but in a minute or two I shall not be here any longer ... quick, quick, bend down--no, do not touch my hand!' And he turned away his head, as though in shame.
"'Send away the doctor,' he murmured. I asked the doctor if he would remain outside the room until I called him, and stooped down over the dying man. His eyes glittered with fever, in his haggard, unshorn face. 'Do you know why I am dying?' said he. 'It's because I have seen too far into the depths of the Whirlpool ... you are blind--all of you blind! Can you see nothing?...'
"He brought out these words with such an effort that it made him gasp for breath, and I gave him some water.
"'Mark my words,' he began again, in brief sentences and with repeated pauses. 'I have thrown away my own life ... they bought me to do their work, but I won't ... it is the beginning of Chaos ... first in Russia ... then it will spread everywhere ... the man who dominates the Whirlpool is called Gabriel Ortiz; I found that out yesterday, and last night they killed me ... for I am as good as dead already.'
"His failing energy beat out every word like the sparks from an anvil, and I listened breathlessly, for I realized that he was husbanding the last remnants of strength to make some amazing revelation.
"'Gabriel Ortiz ... remember that name ... his right hand is Baron Fayerling ... but there are many others ... their plan ... it's appalling ... the wild beast shall possess the earth!...'
"He groped for my hand, as though by clinging to me he could retain his hold on life a little longer. His anguish was fearful to see.
"'The War is nothing to what will happen, if Ortiz is not crushed ... but be careful ... they kill'; ... his voice grew fainter, and he lapsed into unconsciousness. I called in the doctor, but after a few minutes, he died.
"The dim room still seemed to echo with the sound of his voice. What was it he wanted to tell me?"
Wallion lighted a cigarette, and Leo could see that he was deeply moved.
"You see for yourself what a fantastic confession it appeared. And yet it never occurred to me to doubt the dead man's information, though I could find nothing to confirm it amongst his papers. But I made discreet inquiries of his neighbors, and when I went away, I was convinced that he had really been murdered by two men, who had lain in wait for him on the staircase, and pushed him through the window. I felt sure he had been in his right mind, but that he had been unable to complete a communication which would have been of incalculable importance."
"Could you find no clue to it?"
"No, but I took it for granted that he was the author of an article, headed: 'Who is the Man in the Whirlpool?' which had appeared a few weeks previously, in a little popular weekly paper. It proved impossible to verify it, because, for some unknown reason, the newspaper came to an end shortly after, and its contributors were all dispersed. In this remarkable article, attention was called to the fact that, during the War, Stockholm had become a center of activity for adventurers of a type hitherto unknown to civilization, and it was asserted that amongst them was a man who, as it were behind the back of the War, was organizing these mysterious forces, no one could say how or why.
"At all events, the writer of the article and the dying man took the same view, that something was brewing, and I had suspected as much already; things were going on in Stockholm which aroused my notice, there was a sort of subterranean movement which puzzled me. The image of a whirlpool was extraordinarily apt, and I could not doubt that the poor fellow I had just seen die, had been sucked into the vortex by sheer want, or by the temptation of easily earned money. Many weak and unfortunate characters have gone that way in these times! But what he caught sight of in the Whirlpool had evidently alarmed him, and he had made an effort to save his soul alive. Had I only arrived on the scene a few minutes earlier, I might have learned everything. At any rate, he had not summoned me in vain; I knew now that the Master Villain was called Gabriel Ortiz.
"But when I tried to obtain particulars as to this Gabriel Ortiz, I immediately met with the most extraordinary difficulties, which were in themselves a proof that he existed, but that he had safeguarded himself with the most intricate precautions. I had only just started my investigations in earnest, when the Russian Revolution broke out in March. At once I became aware, here in Stockholm, that under my very eyes, the sinister development was gaining strength. The Whirlpool was beginning to seethe. My attention had been directed towards Baron Fayerling, but I had not succeeded in discovering anything mysterious about him. He stays at one of the best hotels, goes everywhere, and lives officially on the rents of his Roumanian property. But as Roumanian property is just now a very uncertain source of income, Baron Fayerling also does business of the most up-to-date kind, and has associated himself for this purpose with Marcus Tassler, the manager of the Finno-Russian Import and Export Company, a thorough going profiteer, and even outside business matters a regular shark.
"Meanwhile, the odd thing about Tassler is the interest he takes in the Copper House. Mark this: we have at the Copper House three perfectly inconspicuous persons, who seem to prefer living in the most complete retirement; they are Andrei Bernin, his sister and his daughter. As long as I have had my eye on them, they have never left the Copper House, and have not evinced any particular friendship for Tassler or the baron, who often stay there as self-invited guests. Tassler has shown unremitting interest in the Copper House, and it is he who has brought about, first the lease of the entire property, and now the liberal offer to purchase it. He has installed there a staff of attendants, whom he commands with almost military zeal. The gate-keeper is called Tugan; no one knows his nationality, but he is a regular watchdog, and only too glad to get food, drink and fighting, provided gratis. He, of course, lives at the lodge.
"Then we have the gardener, whom you have probably not seen yet; his name is Rosenthal, a taciturn, meditative sort of fellow, with something refined about him which distinguishes him slightly from the rest. He has two underlings, and these three live in the gardener's cottage behind the big house.
"Next we have the cowhouse and the stable, which now contain only three cows and two horses--but four cowherds and two grooms are kept to look after them--what do you make of that?
"Wait! The list is not complete yet. There are the six men whom Sonia Bernin calls the forest-guards, and they really do keep watch in the wood, as you can testify from personal experience!
"And finally, two individuals are installed at the little cottage beside the pier that runs out into the Bay; they fish, and sail in and out of the farther islands, but what they catch, neither you nor I can say!
"So there we have a retinue of eighteen men--but not a trace of either men or women servants in the Copper House itself. Not counting the three Bernins, who are Russians, every one of the others on the place is a foreigner, although ten or eleven of them can speak Swedish, and six have been naturalized as Swedish citizens."
"And you said you didn't know the Copper House!" exclaimed Leo; "why, you know it better than I do!"
"Anybody can find out that sort of thing," replied Wallion. "There is no secret about it. But the burning question is: what is really going on at the Copper House?"
