The Copper House A detective story

"Take each floor in turn, and keep guard whilst you search the rooms. You, over there, don't pass over that corner--don't leave a stone unturned. Rastakov, take a couple of men with you, and search the attics thoroughly. Be sharp, now!" It was evident that the searchers meant to leave nothing to chance this time; the furniture was moved about, the walls sounded, and the tramp of many feet was heard in each room in turn, till the whole house seemed full of men. If there were really anyone hidden in the Copper House, thought Leo, he would certainly be found within ten minutes: what was the journalist doing? The young man listened, his heart beating fast. Now they were on the second floor, and coming to his room. He ran upstairs, with the desperate intention of preventing them from entering, but he was too late. As he came into the corridor, Rastakov was just leaving the room, and Leo saw with indescribable relief, that the Russian's face was dark with disappointment. They passed one another without a word, and Leo shut himself quickly in. He flung himself into a chair, and buried his head in his hands; what should he do? His mind refused to work, and he stamped his foot in impotent vexation. Had the journalist been caught in a trap, and helplessly resigned himself to his fate? Had he discovered Bernard Jenin's hiding-place? "Did you look in here?" he heard the baron ask just outside the door. "Yes," answered another voice further along the passage; "Rastakov has been there." "Go on, then." The steps and voices grew fainter. Leo had not raised his head. Suddenly he heard a slight sound on the floor close to his feet; a paper lay there, wrapped round a pebble. He picked it up, and saw that there was something written on the paper; he unfolded it, and read: "Don't worry, things are going as I expected. I have concluded some useful investigations, and shall soon make myself known. M. W." Leo sprang up. The window, which had been closed earlier in the day, had been opened later, and he realized that the little note had been thrown in through it. But he could not see a sign of the journalist outside. Only Rosenthal was walking slowly along, in his blue apron and broad-brimmed straw hat. CHAPTER XI _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?"