The Copper House A detective story
Wallion pulled out his notebook and laid it on the table.
"Mr. Max Raebel, let us compare notes: first, you have only been here
since April 29th, at all events under the name of Rosenthal. You only
began to interest yourself in Ortiz's affairs after the Tarraschin
document appeared on the scene; therefore this document is what you are
on the look-out for: may I ask why?"
The Austrian's fair face and friendly eyes clouded over a little, and
he did not answer immediately.
"I am no politician," he said finally; "I am a detective, and sent out
with a definite end in view. My task is to make sure that Tarraschin's
memorandum does not fall among thieves, to prevent it from being
illegally employed, and, in the last resort, to destroy it. One of
the statesmen of my country, whose name you may perhaps guess, but I
must not mention, would be deeply compromised were that document to be
unscrupulously handled."
The Austrian bent forward.
"And not only he, but a more exalted personage still," he added.
Wallion opened his eyes.
"Aha," he said, "that is worse than I feared!" He considered a little.
"I took it for granted that Tarraschin's scheme affected Russia only."
The Austrian shook his head.
"Let me tell you something, Mr. Wallion; everything that happens
nowadays is of world-wide importance; all that concerns Tarraschin's
memorandum is highly characteristic of the circumstances which have
produced it. Look back a bit; the Russian Revolution had long been
expected, but who could have foretold that it would break out in March,
1917? It fell upon Europe like an avalanche, the sudden upheaval of a
mighty mass; and not as the immediate result of some great ideal, or
political disturbance, but apparently in consequence of the scarcity
of food at Petrograd. At all events, the way was prepared for it, and
once set going, the landslide crashed down into the depths, leaving
devastation in its wake. Was it possible to restore order? This was
a question in which all countries were interested. Before anything
else, it was of the utmost importance to ascertain the policy of the
Russian Conservative party, the State officials, the officers of the
army, and certain members of the Tsar's immediate 'entourage'--all
those, in a word, who belonged to the governing class. Would they be
strong enough to organize a counter-revolution before the new men had
grown powerful enough to check them? Even on March 15th, the Tsar had
virtually abdicated the throne; was that a sign of the disintegration
and consequent ineffectiveness of the reactionary party? No, for
they still had a symbol round which to rally: there was the army. At
that moment, Prince Tarraschin appeared on the scene. Do you know his
history?"
"Yes, more or less. He was one of the most typical leaders of the old
régime. It was he who got the reputation of having run through one
fortune every year! He was a daring politician, and a friend of the
Grand Duke Nicolai--an intelligent man, and perhaps an honorable one,
according to his lights."
"There is no doubt as to his intelligence," said the Austrian; "now
let me tell you what he did. One can hardly say that the Revolution
ruined him, for he had just about ruined himself. But he could not
bring himself to accept it: to him, the Revolution was the end of all
things. His one idea was that power and mastery must be regained at
any cost. He set to work undauntedly, and for a short time it looked
as though he would succeed in winning over the strongest element in
the Conservative party to his cause. He drew up an ingenious scheme
of counter-revolution; he had two methods of dealing with waverers:
promises and money. The history of Tarraschin's promises you have
probably never heard: it is like a fairy tale."
"Go on, go on," said Wallion, as the Austrian stopped; "I know
something about Tarraschin's correspondence with certain individuals in
Austria."
Max Raebel raised his eyebrows.
"You know that, do you? But you say 'certain individuals,' there was
only one, the Austrian statesman to whom I alluded just now. The
highly confidential correspondence between him and Tarraschin had to
do with Balkan affairs, and was concluded before the outbreak of the
March Revolution. There was no question, as people declared, of any
understanding with Austria, in the event of the establishment of a
democratic Russian monarchy desirous of peace; it was an absolutely
private discussion between two political specialists, so to speak; yet
at this crisis, Tarraschin did not hesitate to avail himself of this
correspondence. He represented my countryman's statements in the light
of promises inspired by a higher authority, an authority which had,
as the whole world knew, an intense desire for peace. In this way,
Tarraschin managed to secure one more means of support, calculated to
strengthen the weaker brethren amongst the reactionaries. It mattered
nothing to him that he was compromising two of the most highly-placed
dignitaries in my country. Next, as regards funds----"
"Ah, there our paths meet, Mr. Raebel," broke in Wallion; "the funds
for Tarraschin's intended revolution were supplied by Gabriel Ortiz."
"Exactly. Ortiz financed the enterprise through a channel, at one
end of which we find Tassler and Fayerling, but at the other, Madame
Sumensov and Tarraschin. How much gold has been distributed by their
means, is more than I can say."
"I can give you a rough estimate: it was, in round numbers, fifteen to
twenty million roubles."
The Austrian laughed.
"Really! A perfect fortune, and the last which Tarraschin had the
pleasure of squandering, for, as you know, he died suddenly on the 29th
of March. There is no doubt that he was assassinated, and not by the
revolutionaries, but by his own friends."
For the first time during their conversation the journalist looked
surprised.
"Do you mean his political associates?" he asked.
"Yes. They were mortally afraid, as soon as they realized how
irretrievably Tarraschin was about to compromise them. Instead of
replacing the crown on the Tsar's head, they were in danger of finding
their own heads removed from their shoulders. And with characteristic
Russian philosophy they said to themselves: 'It is better that one
man die for the people.'... Nevertheless, our friend Tarraschin had
already done his worst: he had drawn up a detailed memorandum of the
plans for the counter-revolution, in which he had set down with the
most scrupulous exactitude what each one of the participators had
pledged himself to do--with name, place and time, in full; everything
very skilfully thought out, and perfectly feasible, and from a military
point of view, quite certain to result in over a hundred executions.
And, in addition, as I said just now, it compromised two persons who,
like Cæsar's wife, must be above suspicion."
"One might fancy," remarked the journalist, "that Ortiz had had a hand
in the production."
"Not a doubt of it: he would want some hold over the men who were
receiving his money, and with this paper in his possession he can
compel them to do anything he likes. Tarraschin's death is of no
consequence in comparison with the possibilities raised by his
memorandum. It constitutes the keystone of Ortiz's gigantic scheme:
without the memorandum, the whole of his plan will melt into thin air."
"And in consequence, we can pretty well guess his present designs,"
supplied Wallion.
They looked at one another.
"He is magnificent!" said the Austrian.
"But quite mad!" replied Wallion.
A step was heard outside the window, and a shadow fell across the
glass. It was Rastakov. The journalist flattened himself against the
wall, with a noiseless wriggle of his body. The gardener got slowly up,
yawned loudly, and opened the window.
"What do you want, Rastakov?"
The man outside was breathing heavily.
"Why are you not with us, Rosenthal? The baron wants to know if you
have seen anyone leave the Copper House; we cannot find Bernard Jenin
anywhere."
"I have not seen any unauthorized person leave the house," said the
gardener; "why is the baron so persistent? I told you yesterday evening
that Bernard Jenin had disappeared, Comrade Rastakov."
"He cannot have disappeared. He must be somewhere on the premises. The
baron has decided that the house and its surroundings are to be totally
isolated, I can tell you that. All those inside are prisoners, even
Grath. Be ready for anything; the Chief is due this evening, and within
the next twenty-four hours we shall probably have cleared out of this."
"You may depend upon me," the gardener reassured him.
Rastakov stood for a minute, shifting undecidedly from one foot to
another, then took his departure.
The Austrian's face wore a new expression of military decision and
firmness.
"Well, they have burnt their boats now!" said he; "and may I be there
to see the end of it," he added after a pause.
CHAPTER XII
_In which we catch a glimpse of the shadow of Napoleon the Great_
The Problem-hunter and the Austrian detective remained standing
together, and watching from behind the curtains a commotion at the
house. Some kind of dispute seemed to be taking place there, the cause
of which became apparent when they heard Lona Ivanovna's commanding
voice exclaiming: "Out you all go!"
Quite a number of men came tumbling out on to the terrace, and the old
lady appeared behind them at the kitchen door; she was like a Valkyrie
of old, and the men quailed before her as trees bend before a gale.
"Why, goodness me, men, you have your precious master there, haven't
you?" said she, pointing one long, bony finger at the baron; "he can
tell you that there isn't a spot the size of a farthing in this house,
which hasn't been examined. You can all see that Bernard Jenin is not
here; ask your Roumanian baron if he can suggest any corner in which a
fugitive could still be hidden."
"That will do, madam," said the baron, sourly; "we have not finished
yet: we know what we know...."
"Perhaps you don't know what I know, for all that!"
"And what may that be?"
"That you are a worthy leader of the biggest set of blockheads I have
ever seen!" answered the old lady, with a loud laugh, as she shut the
door again.
Baron Fayerling shrugged his shoulders, and went off with Rastakov;
Marcus Tassler hurried after them, and the three men disappeared down
the avenue. But they left the house under the close supervision of a
cordon of dark, determined, armed men, who, after a few apparently
aimless movements in different directions, extended their line in such
a way as to include the gardener's cottage within its limits.
The two detectives at the window commented on this fresh turn of events
with critical approval, rather as though they had been two spectators
in a box at the Opera.
"Rastakov has managed that well," said Wallion, smiling; "now all the
approaches to the house are effectively isolated--and we with them."
At that instant, a sharp shower that almost amounted to a squall, swept
over the garden, whirling away, like a gray specter, across the woods
to the southwest. A deep stillness followed; everything was motionless,
and each little leaf shone like glass in the hot, dazzling sunshine.
The broad expanse of the steep copper roof, which was green with
verdigris, took on a more richly enameled glow, and the very roses in
the garden seemed to deepen in color.
"_You_ are isolated," said the Austrian after a moment's silence, "but
_I_ have a certain amount of liberty--don't forget that I am one of
them--for the time being."
The journalist laughed.
"What's become of your two under-gardeners?" he asked.
"Rastakov has mobilized them."
"Are they...."