The Copper House A detective story

THE COPPER HOUSE _A Detective Story_ BY JULIUS REGIS AUTHOR OF "NO. 13 TORONI" NEW YORK HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 1923 Copyright, 1923, By HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY _First Printing, September, 1923_ PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA CONTENTS PART I THE WHIRLPOOL PROLOGUE I. BARON FREDERICK FAYERLING WAITS IN VAIN FOR THE MOST IMPORTANT DOCUMENT IN EUROPE II. A YOUNG MAN ARRIVES FROM CALIFORNIA, AND HEARS SOME UNEXPECTED NEWS III. WALLION MEETS B. 22, AND CERTAIN REMARKABLE EPISODES IN A GREAT MAN'S CAREER ARE DESCRIBED WITH THE DESIRED EFFECT IV. LEONARD GRATH ACTS ON HIS OWN RESPONSIBILITY AND MEETS WITH A GIRL WHO RUNS AWAY FROM HIM V. IN WHICH IT IS OBVIOUS THAT THE OWNER IS A GUEST IN HIS OWN HOUSE VI. THE PROBLEM-HUNTER VII. THE SLAYERS PART II THE TWENTIETH OF JULY VIII. LONA IVANOVNA ASKS HER FIRST QUESTION IX. UNREST IN BOTH CAMPS; AN OUTPOST SKIRMISH AND A WARNING X. THE SITUATION BECOMES ACUTE XI. MAURICE WALLION LOOKS ABOUT HIM A BIT AND MAKES A NEW ACQUAINTANCE XII. IN WHICH WE CATCH A GLIMPSE OF THE SHADOW OF NAPOLEON THE GREAT XIII. LONA IVANOVNA ASKS A SECOND QUESTION AND GETS AN UNEXPECTED REPLY XIV. THE STORY OF THE BERNIN FAMILY PART III GABRIEL ORTIZ XV. THE STORM BURSTS XVI. GABRIEL ORTIZ MUSTERS HIS FORCES AND COUNTS HIS PRISONERS XVII. LEO AND SONIA DETERMINE TO STEAL A MOTOR-CAR BUT FALL INTO AN UNEXPECTED TRAP XVIII. TARRASCHIN'S MEMORANDUM CHANGES OWNERS XIX. WALLION SPEAKS OUT AND RASTAKOV IS BALKED OF HIS PREY XX. IN WHICH WALLION SHOWS THAT A GREAT DEAL CAN BE DONE IN TEN MINUTES XXI. THE END OF A GLORIOUS DREAM _Part I--The Whirlpool_ PROLOGUE This is the story of a great peril, and how it was averted. It is surprising to think how few persons were aware of this peril, or had any suspicion of the extraordinary events that were taking place in Stockholm during the fateful year 1917. Nevertheless, at the beginning of the year, a little weekly newspaper published a very striking open letter, entitled: "Who is the Man in the Whirlpool?" To whom was it addressed? There was no indication, but the writer was evidently inspired by a deep and growing conviction of impending evil. The article ran as follows: Have we lost all power of distinguishing between essentials and non-essentials? Stockholm has become a caravanserai, a link between East and West, a central clearing-house for all those who, under various disguises and with varying aims, seek to enrich themselves in the blood-stained arena of War. Can no one foresee what sort of crop must ultimately spring from this strife-sodden soil? It is tragic, while almost laughable, to see how people persist in labeling as 'espionage' every new development whose purpose is unintelligible to them, in the same way that they would probably account for all unexplained conflagrations with the glib verdict: 'a short-circuit.' What _is_ espionage? Of course, it exists. But is there nothing more? Chips from many kinds of timber float on the surface of the whirlpool. What a medley of strange faces, which nobody recognizes, bob up from its mysterious depths! The short-sighted public are content to go on believing that in Stockholm, where secret committees and conferences, planners and plotters from every quarter of the earth, are struggling together for the mastery, these dark deeds are one and all the work of secret agents of the belligerent powers. Yet it is as certain as a problem of Euclid that at the vortex of the Whirlpool we shall find a group of intelligences working solely for their own interests. Let us suppose that amongst these, _one_ alone is to be found who is strong enough to fight his way through chaos, or rather let us say, to _dominate_ chaos. Would not such a man establish himself at the very heart of the Whirlpool, to direct the various powers of destruction whither he will? We need not limit ourselves to supposition: _He exists_. We do not know who he is, and it is possible that his plans are known to no one besides himself. The air is full of rumors, and no one can tell what the future may bring forth. There is enough to show that a powerful will is evidently directing the activities of many of these lawless phenomena. Who is the Man in the Whirlpool? Can no one answer the question before it is too late? For he certainly exists. This appeal fell on deaf ears. The few who read it shook their heads, and laughed. The newspaper relapsed into silence with its next number. To this very day, nobody knows who wrote the article, though Maurice Wallion can make a pretty shrewd guess. The article does not affect our story except as an example of the characteristic and frequently recurring collapse which precedes the fulfilment of a truth, as the prophetic slump gives warning of a financial crisis. It is known now that there _was_ a Man in the Whirlpool, and in order to give an account of that daring adventurer's gigantic attempt to organize chaos, the author has had recourse to the evidence of a number of persons, in particular Messrs. Wallion and Raebel, and, above all, Mr. Leonard Grath. But we must tell our tale methodically, and many things happened before the actual appearance of the arch-villain himself. The story opens, appropriately, with the arrival of two of the principal characters in Stockholm, that is to say, on July 19th, 1917. From that moment, the depths begin to seethe, the catastrophe looms nearer, and a Face appears amidst the foaming waters.... The curtain rises.... CHAPTER I _Baron Frederick Fayerling waits in vain for the most important document in Europe_ "Well, what else?" Baron Frederick Fayerling had a way of addressing his subordinates as though he were cracking a dog-whip. He was standing by his writing table, a strongly-built man of medium height, with cold blue eyes, and a beard in the style that D'Annunzio brought into fashion. As he looked down at the man who sat on a chair close by, he folded his arms, with a look of disgust, as though he were thinking: "What a face! The fellow is a regular freak." The baron's well-kept teeth showed slightly, and the whip cracked again. "Next! The report on Tarraschin's memorandum." The man on the chair, who was slowly and sullenly twisting his hat in his fingers, murmured in reply: "You forget, sir, that we are in a hotel bedroom, with all sorts of folk within earshot." "And _you_ forget, that when I wish to hear a report, you have only to obey my orders. What's wrong with a room in a hotel? Stockholm is absolutely full of spies and adventurers: so much the better for you--there is safety in numbers. Go ahead!" The fellow cringed to the lash, and made a start. "The man whom you expect is called Bernard Jenin," he said rapidly and softly. "I made his acquaintance, as you instructed me, and gained his confidence to a considerable extent. He is quite young, and was traveling to Sweden by way of Finland, as we anticipated; I was his only companion in the north-bound train. I am absolutely convinced that he is in possession of the document: but he is cautious. I gathered that he is an ardent admirer of Kerensky, but as a matter of fact, he comes as a hunted fugitive from Russia." "Did you manage to get a photograph of him?" "Yes, easily: here it is." Baron Fayerling took the snapshot and examined it closely. It showed a portion of the gangway outside a railway carriage; a man, wearing a very thin, almost ragged overcoat, was leaning against the iron railing, and gazing dreamily at the landscape through which he was passing; his clean-shaven face, with its broad brow and small mouth, was youthful-looking and attractive, but with a striking expression of calm resignation and patient expectation; his dark eyes were encircled by a network of very fine wrinkles, which might be the result of bodily suffering, or of many years of anxiety and strife. "He looks weak," remarked the baron, throwing the photograph on one side. "It should not be difficult to--persuade him. Were you able to make any overtures to him?" "No, he is not to be got at in that way; he is an honest revolutionary." The baron laughed a little. "Honest? A dangerous attribute in these days of war! Where is he now?" "As soon as Bernard Jenin and I arrived at Stockholm this morning, Rastakov took charge. Jenin believes that I am associated with his friends; I have no idea who his friends are, I never saw him speak to anybody or write a letter, but I persuaded him to engage a room in this hotel, and to await a visit from a common acquaintance, who will give him some important news." "In this very hotel?" asked the baron sharply. "Yes, he is at the present minute in room No. 23." "Ah, in 23, that's better. Have you arranged that our friends should keep on the adjoining rooms?" "Yes, all is in order." Baron Fayerling nodded approvingly, and the man began to twirl his hat a little faster. His employer, who could read the signs of the times, smiled contemptuously, took out some banknotes and threw them down on the table. "There you are!" said he. "One thing more: you have been in Finland since the beginning of January; what is your number there?" "B.22," replied the man, gathering the notes together with a sort of enveloping maneuver. "That is all right; in other words, we shall not require you here any longer." B.22 rose obediently and went towards the door. "Send Rastakov here!" was the baron's parting salutation. The man disappeared, and two minutes later another person entered, closing the door quietly after him. He was a tall, dark, taciturn fellow, a regular Slav in appearance, about thirty years of age, with bold, resolute eyes, and a touch of self-satisfied impudence in his look. The baron's expression had altered, and he now spoke in a frank, friendly tone. "Good morning, Rastakov, did you meet B.22?" "Yes." "Did you verify his reports?" "Yes, they are correct." "Good; I don't trust the fellow any longer, and for the future he must be under supervision. Bernard Jenin is installed in room 23--with the most important paper in Europe in his possession, and now, Rastakov, the great thing is to get hold of it. If you are prepared to risk something for our cause, that paper should be in our hands in an hour's time." Rastakov made no reply, but he tightened his thin lips with a look of determination. "Have you warned all our friends?" inquired the baron. "Yes, they will keep out of the way till it is done." "And you have nothing about you which would compromise us, should you fail?" "I am not a child!" "Go in five minutes' time to Jenin's room, introduce yourself as the friend of whom B.22 spoke to him, and talk to him for a bit in such a way as not to arouse his suspicions, though he may feel a little puzzled. Then act as swiftly and silently as circumstances permit. I