The Copper House A detective story
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