The Copper House A detective story
giving it up at the right moment, I want to add weight to the proofs
I obtained in Moscow; I allude to the proofs of our innocence of the
accusation brought against us in 1905."
"Really! You found them, then?"
"Yes, after the Revolution the police-archives became at last
accessible, and there I found the name of the traitor; then everything
became clear to me: my own father had played the part of Judas!"
"Marcus Tassler?"
"Yes, he was an infamous spy, and only allowed himself to be arrested
for the sake of appearances, to escape any reprisals. He was, I
suppose, driven by his uneasy conscience to bring about our liberation.
But through him, hundreds of brave young students had gone to their
death, or to Siberia; and that was my father ... mine...."
Lona Ivanovna checked him....
"That's enough, my boy, don't let us talk of the man any more. You can
understand now, Mr. Wallion, how, after Sergius' return yesterday,
Tassler's double-dealing became perfectly clear to me. In 1905 he had
made us accomplices in an act of treachery: what was his intention
now? Why were we in the Copper House? It was evidently not enough
for him that he had us outlawed twelve years ago; once again he must
drag us down to destruction! Ever since the March Revolution, this
year, I guessed that something was wrong, for Ortiz' activities did
not diminish, although Russia was now freed. It was, therefore, not
revolution, but something else that he was working for. The history of
Tarraschin's memorandum revealed the truth in a flash. From the moment
that Sergius told me about it, I became the enemy of Ortiz, and above
all, of Tassler who had dared to lie to me."
"Tell me," said the journalist, "what exactly happened yesterday when
your son arrived?"
"It all passed like a hurried dream. Suddenly, without any warning, he
was here, with Rastakov at his heels. I had barely a second to decide
what to do, and I did it. I sent him up with Sonia to Andrei's room, to
disguise himself as my brother, whom Rastakov was quite prepared to see
in the course of his investigations; I remained in the hall, and when I
heard Rastakov coming, I fired a shot, to mystify him, and gain time: a
shot always entails explanation and discussion, doesn't it?"
"So that's the true story of Bernard Jenin's disappearance?" said
Wallion, amused.
"Yes, Bernard Jenin will never be found now!"
Wallion got up, walked up and down for a minute, and stopped before
Sergius, sitting quiet and aloof, in his apparent blindness.
"And what about Tarraschin's memorandum?" he asked.
"It is hidden in a place where Rastakov would never dream of looking
for it," answered Sergius; "in fact, it is actually in my hand at the
present moment: look here, I will show it you."
All eyes were turned, as by common consent, on Sergius' right hand, in
which he was holding his stick. With a quick wrench, he unscrewed the
ivory handle, and they saw that the stick was hollow; without looking
into it, he handed it to the journalist.
"Will you be so kind?" said he; "the most important document in Europe
will be found inside, rolled up like a cigarette! Don't stand on
ceremony, please."
The journalist stretched out his hand, then drew it suddenly back; a
curious expression came into his eyes, and he thrust his hands into his
pockets.
"You are joking, surely, sir!"
"I? Certainly not. What do you mean?"
"There is nothing in the stick!"
Sergius Tassler grew pale, and stared, as though petrified, into the
hollow tube. Lona Ivanovna bent forward, and as the stick fell with a
thud on the floor, she said:
"Are you perfectly sure you put the paper in there yesterday?"
"Yes," he replied with a stupefied air; "I can't understand.... Sonia
saw it...."
The young girl sprang forward like a little fury:
"I saw you put the paper in the stick! Nobody else saw it, nobody knows
about it. Where is the document?" Her tone was almost an accusation,
but Sergius made no reply. His mother continued her work with
undisturbed equanimity, only remarking:
"You see, Mr. Wallion, that Tarraschin's memorandum is still capable of
providing us with a sensation."
"So it seems. I am sorry, for I should have liked to have your only
weapon in my hands."
"Our only weapon!" she echoed.
"Yes, without it, one doesn't know what may happen."
"Could Rastakov have taken it?" suggested Leo.
"Impossible," returned Sergius. "He hasn't even set eyes upon
the stick, and the baron said openly that their search had been
unsuccessful; it is a complete mystery to me...."
"Did you keep watch last night?" asked Wallion.
"Yes, all night, in turns."
"And you noticed nothing unusual?"
"Nothing whatsoever."
"Had you disturbed the contents of the stick since yesterday?"
"No, and I have never let it out of my sight."
The journalist examined it cursorily, screwed on the handle, and
restored it to its owner.
"Well, there you are!" said he. "You may console yourself with the
reflection that Ortiz would certainly never have suspected the
existence of such a highly-original hiding-place."
"Console myself? Do you attach so little importance to the
disappearance of the paper?" exclaimed the mortified and astonished
Sergius.
"No, not that, but I have an idea that it has not gone beyond recall.
The person who took it...."
"But who can it be? Who?"
"That remains to be seen. May I be allowed to examine Andrei Bernin's
bedroom with you?"
"Most willingly."
Sergius and Lona Ivanovna followed him upstairs, but they all three
returned very soon. Leo and Sonia, who were left sitting silent and
downcast, saw an expression in the journalist's face which they could
not quite fathom; it seemed almost as though he was quietly pleased
about something which nobody else had observed.
"Have you found out anything?" Leo asked, in a low tone.
"No," replied Wallion, abstractedly; "nothing that I didn't already
know."
After a minute he left the room.
* * * * *
An oppressive silence lay heavy and stifling over the Copper House.
Premature darkness had set in; the massive thunder clouds seemed to
settle slowly down upon the woods and the lonely house, till they shut
out the last rays of fading daylight.
Leo found the journalist at a window on the second floor, gazing out to
sea. His whole bearing was tense with expectation, and his gray eyes
dark and fixed. Leo wondered what he saw there, and placed himself
silently beside him. From this place they had an uninterrupted view of
the little bay, which lay gleaming inside its sheltering island.
Two men were busy with something spread out on the deck of the lighter;
it appeared to be part of some apparatus; Wallion watched them intently.
"What is it?" whispered Leo.
His friend did not reply.
Suddenly a cone of bluish light darted up into the dusk as a result of
the exertions of the two distant figures, and continued to burn with
a steady and far-reaching beam. The ray of light shifted hither and
thither, till it remained stationary between the islands and the right
shore of the bay, pointing towards the open sea.
"The light!" murmured Wallion. "Ortiz is at hand!"
_Part III--Gabriel Ortiz_
CHAPTER XV
_The storm bursts_
A gust of wind went soughing through the trees, which bowed their
crests before it in long, rippling lines. On the dark horizon,
lightning flashed in and out of the dense bank of clouds, and the
windows rattled as the peals of thunder sounded nearer and more
frequent.
Then, from some way off, a short, sharp cry was heard through the
rising storm. Men's steps came crashing through the bushes, and
suddenly two shots rang out. Inside the Copper House, all sprang
to their feet, and looked apprehensively at one another, with the
conviction that the critical moment had arrived.
Wallion ran noiselessly downstairs, with Leo after him, and saw Lona
Ivanovna crossing the hall, a revolver in her hand. Sonia had rushed to
the glass door, and was gazing out into the twilight: Sergius Tassler
stood in the entrance to the dining-room, with one hand in his pocket.
"Someone is climbing over the balustrade of the terrace," said the girl
suddenly, "and he has a revolver!"
"Who is it?" inquired Lona Ivanovna.
"I can't see yet--it's a man. Now he's turning round again."
Another revolver-shot cracked, and was answered by the report of a gun
further off. The revolver was fired once more, four shots in quick
succession; hasty steps sounded on the gravel, and the girl started
back from the door, as a shadow appeared just outside it, groping for
the handle.
Wallion threw the door open, and a man ran right into his arms. It was
Rosenthal, hatless, and with his coat torn.
"They discovered me," he panted, "shut the door, they are coming!"
Wallion did so, and returned to him, saying:
"What have you done?"
The Austrian began to reload his Browning.
"I went down to the lodge to telephone," said he.
"Well?"
"I got through to the _Daily Courier_, but Robert Lang was not there."
"Then, of course, you haven't spoken to him."
"No, I had no luck," said the Austrian stolidly; "and the worst of it
was, that while I was standing at the telephone, the baron and Marcus
Tassler returned from the station in a motor-car, and caught me.
Fayerling spotted me at once, and raised the alarm. I tried to hold my
ground, but was obliged to give in at last. Unfortunately, this puts an
end to anything I could do as Rosenthal the gardener, so from now on, I
become instead Max Raebel, the Austrian government detective, at your
service, ladies and gentlemen."
He bowed to the assembled company.
A step of an entirely different kind was now heard on the gravel:
light, firm, almost arrogant in its character.
It was Baron Fayerling, who tried the handle and shook the glass door.
He was alone, and at a sign from the journalist, Lona Ivanovna went
forward and opened the door.
"What do you want?" she demanded, looking him fearlessly in the face.
"I am not looking for you," replied the baron hastily: "I want that
spy...."
"Would you not rather talk to me?" suggested Wallion, pushing Max
Raebel on one side, and stepping forward.
The two men looked at one another. The baron raised his eyebrows, but
his impassive face betrayed no other sign of surprise, though Wallion
observed with considerable satisfaction, that he hesitated a little
over his reply.
"So you are tired of playing hide and seek?" he said at length. "I'm
afraid you must have found it very uncomfortable."
"Not in the least, baron, but I was beginning to fear that you had
forgotten me."
The baron looked round, as though he meditated raising an alarm, and
Wallion added quickly:
"Won't you come in? Perhaps you have something to say to me?"
"No, not yet. I suspected that you were here, when you were found to
have been out of Stockholm for a whole day. Our business will keep. I
presume that you have realized your mistake by this time?"
"In coming here, you mean? On the contrary, I made a great mistake in
not coming sooner; it would have spared both you and myself a lot of
trouble."
The baron looked narrowly at him.
"You should not have ventured here without a strong force!" he remarked.
"No, thanks, I prefer fair play."
"You don't lack self-confidence; I could tell that yesterday, from your
letter, which I have kept."
"Ah, as a keepsake, no doubt!"
"No, to hand it over to my superior officer!" and the baron turned
away, and left the room.
"What have you gained by that?" whispered Leo; "the fellow was white
with rage."
"Did you notice that he absolutely ignored Max Raebel?" answered the