The Copper House A detective story
"A common thief," replied the baron contemptuously.
"Don't call him that!" snarled the other, with sudden vehemence. "A
common thief! And what are we, then?"
"Well, who is the creature, then?"
"It is Sergius!"
The baron started. The news fell upon him like a bolt from the blue,
and he stared at Tassler with a look of keen inquiry. Finally he gave
a short and somewhat ironical laugh, and said:
"Sergius! The much-talked-of Sergius, whom I have never seen! Of
course! Now we know what took him out to the Copper House. I might have
guessed."
He reached for the photograph, and examined it carefully, after which
he put it back in his pocket.
"So little Sergius has a finger in the pie--on his own account! This
will amuse Ortiz immensely. What a joke! Now we have only to hold out
our hands for Tarraschin's memorandum: Sergius will be delighted to
give it up to you as soon as he sees you, Tassler."
"He loathes me."
"That's no business of mine, it's your own affair. All I can say is
that you must manage to get speech with him, by Lona Ivanovna's help.
Why man, with such cards in our hands, we can't help winning the game.
When is the next train to Karkby?"
Tassler's fishy eyes seemed to conceal all manner of dark and crafty
thoughts.
"When is the Chief to arrive?" he asked after a pause.
"This evening, or, at latest, to-morrow."
"How much does he know?"
"Nothing of Sergius' arrival, or Wallion's interference. He expects to
find Tarraschin's memorandum in our hands; his plans are ripe, and he
is growing impatient. Things are going to move a bit in the Copper
House, before we are many hours older. Every man is at his post, and we
mustn't let any risks hinder us now. Come along."
He took Marcus Tassler by the arm, and they went out together.
* * * * *
As soon as breakfast was over, Leo hurried up to his room, but Maurice
Wallion was no longer there. A little thread of blue smoke was still
curling up from a cigarette in an ash-tray on the window-ledge; the
window had been fastened, which Leo interpreted to mean that the
Problem-hunter had not left the room that way, but was making a
reconnaissance inside the house.
The young man went out into the corridor, and before he could say "Jack
Robinson" the journalist confronted him, calm and smiling. Leo started,
and looked anxiously round, but Wallion said:
"Go downstairs again, and try not to look as though you were accessory
to a crime! I have only been looking about me a little. Where does that
winding staircase lead to, in the lumber-room at the back?"
"Down to a little passage between the kitchen and the back door,"
replied Leo.
"Can one reach the first floor that way?"
"Yes, there is a landing and a door there."
"That's fine! Have you met Andrei Bernin?"
Leo described in a few words what had taken place.
Wallion smiled again, and said:
"So they are expecting me?"
"Yes, anxiously. Something seems to have alarmed them; they have quite
changed their attitude since yesterday."
The Problem-hunter nodded thoughtfully.
"That's to be expected; they are beginning to wake up now. I shall set
to work when Marcus Tassler has been here."
"Do you think he is coming?"
"Yes, he is bound to. You must receive him!"
Wallion fixed his gray eyes for a moment on Leo.
"You are keeping cool, that is right. Don't forget that I am here."
He nodded once more, and slipped quietly away. Leo saw him vanish in
the direction of the back stairs; he was beginning to think that this
man was independent of sleep at night, and breakfast in the morning,
and he marveled at the buoyancy of his disposition.
Sonia Bernin's voice called from below:
"Mr. Grath, where are you?" and he went downstairs.
A bank of cloud was drifting slowly up from the direction of Stockholm;
the sun shone palely from an almost colorless sky. A distant rumble of
thunder sounded through the uncomfortably close atmosphere like the
echo of a cannonade.
The young man went out with the girl into the garden. He could see,
through the dining-room window, the blind man sitting in the shadow
of the curtain, with his sister, who was working as usual. At some
distance away in the garden, a man with a knife was cutting a bunch
of red flowers. He wore a broad-brimmed straw hat, and a blue apron.
It struck Leo that the garden was the only part of his property that
showed signs of being carefully, and even lovingly tended. It was
fragrant with the scent of old-fashioned flowers: silky-soft sweet peas,
white stocks, and modest mignonette, growing between beautiful crimson
and deep yellow roses. A carpet of velvety pansies contrasted with the
brilliant display of sunflowers, peonies and dahlias. Some way off,
the orderly ranks of the useful vegetables were marshaled; pale-green,
dark-green, and purple cabbages, crimson beetroots, and regular masses
of radishes, carrots and parsley. Cucumbers lay beneath the panes of
the forcing-frames, and behind the glass walls of the hothouses was a
mighty though nondescript array of reserve forces in green uniforms.
"What colors!" said Leo. "Your gardener must be an artist...."
"That's Rosenthal," said the girl, pointing towards the man in the blue
apron. "He is mad on flowers!"
They approached the man, who looked up as they reached him. His face
was fair but sunburnt, with light-blue eyes and a kindly mouth. He
touched his cap, but in such a way that Leo saw at once that he was a
well-bred man.
"Good morning," said Leo: "'il faut cultiver notre jardin,'
n'est-ce-pas?"
"Voltaire was wrong there," replied the man quietly: "it is not a duty,
but a pleasure to cultivate a garden."
He spoke as to an equal, and Leo raised his eyebrows and looked at him
more attentively. There was something military in his bearing, but his
speech was that of an educated man, and his thoughtful eyes were those
of a poet.
"You love color, don't you?" Leo continued.
"Yes," answered the man, "especially purple; it is the color of
royalty--and of revolution."
"A good idea," Leo agreed. At that minute he felt the girl give his arm
a little tug.
The man went on quietly with his flower-cutting, and after a second's
almost awkward silence, Leo turned away, feeling that he had been
tacitly dismissed.
"Why did you pull my arm?" he asked, softly.
"It is Rosenthal," whispered the girl: "he speaks in a way that somehow
frightens me. And Rastakov too...." Sonia's voice broke a little; her
complexion looked transparently clear this morning.
"Everything seems so strange since last night," she went on: "something
is going to happen!"
"What is it? Why won't you be frank with me?"
The girl did not reply. They were standing amongst the rose-bushes at
the corner of the terrace. Some distance away in the garden, Rosenthal
straightened himself up, shading his eyes with his hand. As he looked
down the avenue a whistle sounded suddenly from the direction of the
gate; he threw down his knife, and went off to the kitchen, carrying
the cut flowers in his apron. He came out again almost immediately, and
walked quickly away. At the same time, Lona Ivanovna opened the front
door, and stepped out on to the terrace.
Two persons now appeared in the avenue: one was Rastakov, the other a
short, stout gentleman, who looked very warm and agitated.
"Do you know who that is?" whispered Sonia.
"No," answered Leo.
"It is Marcus Tassler."
The newcomers went up to the terrace, where Lona Ivanovna received them
with what seemed to Leo to be an air of undisguised hostility.
"You come in good company, Marcus! But, to make your trio quite
complete, you should have brought the baron with you. What do you want?"
Tassler went up to her; his eyes were bloodshot, and his face had
turned a sort of sickly gray color.
"Baron Fayerling is here," he answered hoarsely, "he is coming
immediately; where is Sergius?"
"And _you_ ask for Sergius?" she exclaimed shrilly;--"you have no
right...."
"Who has a better right than I?"
"You have forfeited it. Besides, things have changed; I don't trust
you any longer, Marcus. Mind what you are about! The fire is kindled,
opposition awaits you at every turn--and as for Sergius, he is where
you will never get hold of him!"
"Lona Ivanovna," said Tassler in a stifled voice: "I warn you, it is
impossible to stop us!"
Sonia had seized Leo's hand quite unconsciously in hers, and was
squeezing it tightly.
"Oh, God! Oh, God!" she moaned softly.
Tassler turned his head and caught sight of them. Leo went up to him,
and both men raised their hats simultaneously, whilst the young man
said:
"I am pleased to meet you, Mr. Tassler; I am Leonard Grath. I don't
know if you have come out here to see me, but in any case...."
"Yes, I have come to speak to you," said the other heavily. "I hear
that you no longer wish to sell the Copper House: is that true?"
"Perfectly true," replied Leo politely.
Marcus Tassler looked at him as though this reply was not unexpected,
and puffed away at his cigar.
"My client is prepared to increase his offer," he said after a minute.
Leo smiled.
"It is not a question of increasing the offer, but of the entire
rejection of any offer whatsoever.... Besides, your client is Mr.
Andrei Bernin, isn't he? I have been talking to him, but he didn't
allude to the matter; it does not seem to interest him any longer,"
added the young man boldly. Lona Ivanovna stood listening to them, her
eyes bright, and her lips tightly shut: but she said nothing. Tassler
turned to her:
"Can I see Andrei Ivanovitch?" he asked sharply; "Rastakov tells me
that your brother is up...."
The old lady turned, and went indoors.
"Allow me to show you the way, gentlemen," she said, over her shoulder.
Her voice and look bore traces of an inward conflict.
Another peal of thunder rumbled in the distance.
CHAPTER X
_The situation becomes acute_
Maurice Wallion had gone down the winding staircase just as the
gardener came into the kitchen, and from his hiding place he heard
Rosenthal inquire in a low voice:
"Where is Rastakov?"
A gruff voice, which obviously belonged to the man on guard by the
kitchen door, replied:
"He is at the lodge."
There was a little rustling sound, as Rosenthal threw the roses down on
a table, and he called out:
"Here are your roses, Lona Ivanovna. I hear you have visitors, and
Tassler and the baron are expected," and without waiting for an answer,
the gardener went out again. Wallion, who had remained motionless on
the stairs, heard a distant sound from the front of the house, and
hesitated over his next move. Presently he went up to the first floor
and, after listening a little, he opened a window at the back of the
house, and jumped softly down. He slipped into the shrubbery, and
skirted the wall of the terrace until he came in sight of the main
entrance. He heard the old lady request the gentlemen to follow her,
and saw them enter the house behind her. Rastakov and the young girl
remained together, and the former said shortly:
"What are you waiting for?"
She went up to him, and said, in a grave voice that contrasted oddly
with her girlish appearance:
"Justice must be done. That is what I am waiting for." She looked
straight at Rastakov's swarthy face, and he returned her gaze fixedly.
"Justice! That is a wonderful word, Sonia Andreievna. There is no
justice nowadays; the bayonets have put an end to it. The future is
blood-red, Sonia Andreievna; don't pin your hopes to it."
He spoke in a hard, bitter voice, then turned and left her.
The girl put both her hands up to her face, and ran down the terrace;