The Copper House A detective story
will give you a quarter of an hour. When you come out of the room, I
shall be sitting in one of the wicker chairs near the staircase: you
must pass me, and if you have the paper, bow slightly, and walk slowly
out towards the Park, where I will join you in an hour's time."
The baron walked up to Rastakov, and looked meaningly at him: "If
anything goes wrong, you must look out for yourself," he added: "you
know our rules?"
"Yes," replied the other without flinching: "you need not remind me of
them." And without another word, he left the room. The baron looked
after him; his face resumed its usual cynical expression, and he
laughed. "Poor fool!" he said half-aloud.
He looked at the clock: it was half-past twelve. He yawned, examined
his finger-nails, and lighted a cigar. Then he took his coat, gloves
and Panama hat, and went towards the door, which burst open as he
approached it, and a short, stout, and very fashionably-dressed man
came in. The two men stood staring at one another, without a word of
greeting.
"Marcus Tassler," exclaimed the baron, impatiently, "what are you doing
here? Be quick, I am in a hurry."
"Two minutes, only two minutes, baron," replied the new-comer, in an
oily, businesslike voice. His flaccid sallow face, with its thick
red lips, was as Jewish as his voice, but his hair was fair and
close-cropped.
"I met Rastakov, and I know everything. But let me just warn you...."
"Warn me!" interrupted the baron, "it is too late for warnings. Our
preparations are made, and must come to a head shortly; the Tarraschin
memorandum will be the corner-stone of the edifice, and then the storm
may break! If you are afraid, you had better be silent."
"No, I am not afraid."
"Well, what is it then?"
Marcus Tassler drew an opened telegram from an inner pocket and struck
it with the palm of his hand. "I warn you," he said again emphatically.
"This bomb business in Christiania has compromised our position, and
there is danger in the air. Though no one may have discovered our
plans, the Press are on the alert, and sniffing suspiciously in every
direction...."
"Much that matters!" said the baron, coolly. "The fools believe that we
are working for one of the belligerent powers, as spies and dynamiters:
let them think so. The explosions in Christiania were a blunder, but
nothing worse; the idiot who managed the affair, acted on his own
initiative; I have isolated the consequences, and directed suspicion
towards a quarter which will make the whole of Scandinavia gasp." The
baron laughed contentedly. "We are stronger than any of the Great
Powers, and our plan is the most colossal ever conceived by the brain
of one man. So why need you worry?"
Marcus Tassler nodded, rubbed his hands, and burst out with a sort of
enthusiastic eagerness: "Yes, I admit that Gabriel Ortiz...."
The baron shot a threatening glance at him: "Hush! Never that name,
except in a whisper, or when you are alone."
"All right, our Chief, then. I admit that his genius seems able to
surmount any obstacle: but, baron, his genius has not yet been put to
positive proof. I am of opinion that what is just beginning...."
"Look here, are you ever coming to the point?"
"I begin to suspect that we have an antagonist."
"An antagonist? Are you mad? Since nobody knows us, how can anyone
become our antagonist?"
"You think not? How about this wire from our Agent in Göteburg?"
"What does he say?"
"That Leonard Grath, the owner of the Copper House, arrived in Göteburg
yesterday, and is already in Stockholm by this time."
The baron looked serious, took the telegram himself, and read it
through.
"You can't think that this stripling will turn out to be our
antagonist?" said he.
"No, but the fact of his arriving in Stockholm simultaneously with
Jenin, points to a premeditated plan. You know what the Copper House
means to us. No one expected that the owner would return, at any rate
so suddenly. Do you think, baron, that someone has sent for him to
turn us out of the house--that would be a catastrophe, wouldn't it?"
The baron returned to the table, where he stood and meditated for a
short time. "The Copper House--I didn't expect that news," he murmured,
then turned round and said: "We shall find some way out of it. For the
moment, Jenin is our chief consideration. Have you taken any steps
towards having Leonard Grath met?"
"Yes, of course he is being shadowed, and the first thing to do will be
to go through his papers."
"Right, and try to get me a photograph of him."
"I believe that has been seen to already."
"Presumably he will go down to the Copper House; that cannot be
avoided, but of course he must discover nothing there."
"That is obvious!" replied Tassler. "But suppose he _should_ find out
anything?"
"In that case, he need not survive it. He might meet with an accident,
the sea is close by--I leave it to you to work out the details."
As if by mutual consent, the two gentlemen avoided looking at each
other at this moment.
"Was there anything else?" asked the baron.
"No."
"Then you had better go. We will meet at four this afternoon in the
usual place. Don't come again to the hotel: Rastakov is in room 23 now."
Tassler's complexion looked paler than ever, and he did not wait to
hear any more. When the baron turned round, he had left the room.
Baron Fayerling took a good pull at his cigar. The big hotel was very
quiet, and the atmosphere felt close and lifeless under the heated
sunblinds. Through the open windows he could hear the monotonous hum
of the street, impregnated with the warm odor of sun-baked granite and
asphalt, and punctuated by the crescendo and diminuendo of the trams,
as they stopped, started, and rang their bells; in this third summer of
the Great War one heard rather less of the hooting of motor-cars, and
of the groaning and creaking of cables, behind the smoke-stained walls
of the central depot. The baron listened absently, whilst he bestowed
another minute's thought on Tassler.
"They're a cowardly lot," he mused cynically. "Half of them are working
to promote their own feeble ideals, the rest care only for piling up
their banking-account, and they all imagine Ortiz to be an amiable
idiot, whose shekels will further their own ambitions. Let them muddle
along--the main thing is that we can make use of them."
He threw his cigar into the ash-tray, and his cold, calculating eyes
glittered. "An amiable idiot? Why not? Time enough to decide about
that--afterwards."
He left the room abruptly, closing the door behind him, and mounted
the stairs to the next floor, stopping on the landing. To the right
lay a red-carpeted corridor, similar to that in which his own room
was situated, and just at the bend of the passage he could see a door
numbered 23. This door, like all those near it, was shut, and the
corridor was empty. At the top of the stairs was a sort of recess,
with palms, three wicker armchairs, and a table with newspapers. In
the chair nearest the banisters sat a gentleman reading one of the
papers. The baron frowned: he would have preferred to find the place
unoccupied; still, not the ghost of a sound was to be heard from No.
23, and with a comforting recollection of Rastakov's proved skill
in transacting his business quietly and swiftly, he sat calmly down
on one of the chairs, and resigned himself to wait. He cast a hasty
glance at the reader, who appeared to be a middle-aged person, tall,
powerfully built, and very well-dressed: his face was buried in the
newspaper, and only the top of his sleek head could be seen. Then the
baron returned to his own meditations. He was surprised to find himself
a little excited: do what he would, his eyes kept straying towards
the closed door of room 23. The Tarraschin document would change the
whole situation; its possession meant an increase of power, its loss,
the renewal of such difficulties as are apt to wreck one's plans at
the last moment. To be disappointed now, when everything was ready,
and every day invaluable! Unthinkable, unless at great risk of an
even greater disaster. Peace overtures were already in the air--who
could tell, perhaps this very autumn.... The baron felt his excitement
increasing, the suspense was beginning to tell on him: what could be
the reason of Rastakov's delay! Perhaps Jenin had not the paper after
all. And so many precious months had gone by already--what was the date?
The man reading the newspaper opposite to him, looked over the top of
it and said in a quiet, pleasant voice: "July 19th, 1917." The baron
started, and for a moment he wondered if he could have been thinking
aloud; then he said stiffly: "Were you speaking to me, sir?" "Yes,"
replied the other, as pleasantly as before, "I noticed that you were
trying to make out the date of my newspaper, so I took the liberty of
supplying you with the information."
The speaker had an intelligent, clean-shaven face, with aquiline
features, and smiling gray eyes that beamed with a keen and
irrepressible desire for information. Just now they were fixed on
Baron Fayerling with a look which that aristocrat endeavored to return
with equal self-possession. He said hastily: "I am not aware, sir,
that I asked you for any information." The other smiled, and answered
slowly: "That is true, but I am delighted to overlook the--the lack of
invitation."
The baron suspected a hidden sarcasm in his neighbor's voice or
expression, but both were irreproachable. Confused by the situation in
which he found himself, he colored hotly, and replied sourly: "Sir, you
seem to me to be both persistent and inquisitive!" An instant later,
he realized that he had forgotten himself; but the other man did not
appear to notice what had been said: he struck a match, lighted a
cigarette, and returned to his paper as though the baron had ceased
to exist for him. The latter's self-control began to give way, and he
stared mutely at the newspaper, behind which a thin column of smoke
rose into the air. What business had the fellow on this landing? And
would Rastakov never come out of the mysterious door of room 23? The
silence seemed to become more intense with every moment that went by,
and at last the baron could stand it no longer. He got up. The reader
did not stir. He walked into the corridor and felt more comfortable now
that he was out of the other man's sight. He passed No. 23, turned and
walked past it again: not a sound to be heard. The quarter of an hour
allotted to Rastakov had expired long ago. The baron looked all round
him: not a human being was in sight. He put his ear to the key-hole:
deep silence reigned inside the room; he turned the handle: the door
was not locked. Finally he decided to enter. On the floor in front of
him lay a figure tied up like a parcel, with a handkerchief spread
over the face. The baron lifted the handkerchief, and saw Rastakov's
bloodshot eyes glaring at him in dumb fury, over a powerful gag. There
was nobody else in the room.
A small envelope was sticking out of the prisoner's breast-pocket in
a very obvious way, and the baron noticed his own name on it. Ripping
it open, he took out a card, upon which a few lines were written in a
bold, clear hand: "Dear baron,--Bernard Jenin desires to be remembered
to you, and I return Rastakov to you undamaged, having no further use
for him. Maurice Wallion."
The baron freed the captive, removing the gag, and cutting the cord
into fragments. Rastakov sat up, but did not speak.
"Don't sit there, rubbing yourself like an ass!" exclaimed the baron.
"What have you done?"
"Done?--nothing!" sputtered Rastakov.
"So I see. Speak out, man, what have you to say for yourself?"
Rastakov was like a madman: he beat his fists on the floor and shouted: