The Copper House A detective story

Then Leo and Sonia turned and fled, without looking behind them. Gabriel Ortiz' face had terrified them by its indomitable strength, and they realized that all was lost, unless they succeeded in obtaining help. Stumbling along through the pools of water, they hurried on faster and faster. CHAPTER XVI _Gabriel Ortiz musters his forces and counts his prisoners_ Maurice Wallion remained at the window for some little time. The lightning had shown him the terrace empty: would the three messengers succeed in getting past the sentries? He was quivering all over with excitement.... Ah, what was that! That ominous whistle must mean that someone had seen them. There was a flash through the darkness as a shot was fired; he leaned out, and heard a confused noise among the trees, where lights now began to dance like will o' the wisps. Lona Ivanovna, at his elbow, gave a little gasp. "That was a shot," she said; "what is wrong out there?" The lights clustered together, then shifted rapidly from one spot to another. "Hark, that's the Austrian's voice: it sounds as though they had caught him ... but the others! Sonia!" she whispered anxiously; "if only we could see!" They held their breath, but now nothing could be heard except the swish of the rain, and most of the lights had disappeared. "They've done it!" said Wallion. "I believe they have got through." He closed the window, and went out into the hall. "Our part of the task remains to be done," he added; "look, there comes the procession, but without its band and colors. This begins to get exciting! I wonder in which character the great man will appear to-night: emperor or millionaire?" He posted himself just inside the glass doors, and watched with calm interest the spectacle outside. It was really, as he said, a regular procession that was advancing, though at present, one could only distinguish a line of shadowy forms, interspersed with flickering white lights. Five of Rastakov's men ran first up the terrace steps, and took up their position at some distance from one another; they were followed by Rastakov himself, calling out a series of orders in Russian. A minute later, the whole terrace was illuminated by the powerful glare of four acetylene lights, carried by as many torch-bearers, who halted at the top of the steps, and looked round them expectantly: other shadows were visible behind them. The short, upright figure in the waterproof now marched up the steps, with Baron Fayerling on his left: his every movement was firm and unhesitating. The baron was speaking: he was evidently giving his report, to which the Chief listened without stopping, without answering, without looking at his companion. Close behind them came six men, wearing the uniform of marines, and armed with cutlasses and carbines. "Look at his bodyguard!" murmured the journalist; "the great man doesn't trust himself entirely to his friends: one might almost imagine...." He broke off. The torch-bearers had shifted their position a little, and the bright light fell directly on Ortiz' face. From that moment, Wallion no longer saw anything ridiculous about his antagonist; he was obliged to admit (like everyone else who had been brought into contact with this man), that the first glimpse of Ortiz' face made a remarkable impression upon him; its look of intense concentration fascinated him; the man's whole self seemed bent on the attainment of an all-embracing, all-absorbing, and as yet unrealized ambition. His face was pale, but expressive of unlimited strength of will; the mouth small, straight, thin-lipped, and unsmiling; the eyes, which were deep set and penetrating, seemed to look far beyond their immediate surroundings into some boundless realm of fancy, bright with the promise of power and sovereignty; and from their depths shone the unquenchable conviction which is the hall-mark of the fanatic. "Do you see him?" whispered Lona Ivanovna. "Yes," answered the journalist; "I see that I have made a miscalculation." "What did you expect?" Wallion did not answer. What exactly had he expected? A caricature of Napoleon? A common adventurer, acting a ridiculous part? No, and yet he had perhaps unconsciously hoped that Gabriel Ortiz should turn out to be--just the "Emperor of the Amazons." But the antagonist who at length presented himself, after months of suspense, was no comic hero--he was a man! A man who, in deadly earnest, was bent on fulfilling his dearest ambition in defiance of law and order--and between him and his ambition stood only one obstacle--Maurice Wallion. "What a fight it will be," said the journalist aloud; "one of us must go under!" He breathed hard, and clenched and unclenched his fists. "Now!" whispered Lona Ivanovna. The group on the terrace advanced again; Baron Fayerling had finished talking, and stepped on one side. Gabriel Ortiz was walking towards the house, his head bent, and his hands clasped behind him. Suddenly he looked up, and said sharply: "Who are in the house?" The baron's reply was inaudible, but Wallion was sure that he only mentioned three names, as he made a gesture towards the dark garden. Ortiz nodded shortly. Lona Ivanovna remarked, from her place by Wallion's side: "If only I had that baron's throat between my fingers!" He hushed her with a look, and drew her back from the door as she was on the point of sallying forth. "You must keep as cool as ice!" he warned her; "you will want all your wits, all your cunning now. Our aim is to gain time, not to indulge in heroics; put away your revolver, it would only make matters worse." She replaced the weapon reluctantly in her workbag, and they withdrew silently. At a signal from the baron, the lights were turned upon the entire front of the house, shining right into the windows; slanting, flickering shafts of light illuminated the hall, and just as Lona Ivanovna and the journalist were leaving it, the locked doors yielded to a violent push, showers of glass tinkled over the oak floor, and the walls echoed to the steady tramp of men. "Lights on everywhere!" ordered the baron. "Put a man at every door; you two stop here." Steps approached the dining-room: the curtain that screened it from the hall, was pulled aside with a rattle, and Ortiz appeared in the doorway. He looked coolly and critically at the persons who awaited him; then he came in, still accompanied by the baron. Two of the men in uniform stood on guard by the door, and two others placed their lamps on the mantelpiece, filling the room with a dazzling light, in which faces appeared unnaturally pale, and shadows unnaturally dark. There was silence for an instant: Ortiz, his hands still behind him, signed to his adjutant to draw back a little, that he might speak. His deep, piercing glance travelled from the white-haired form in the armchair to Lona Ivanovna's upright figure, and finally rested upon Wallion. He seemed to be looking down upon them from a great height, taking stock of everything, and coördinating all details into one complete whole. But the journalist, who was growing impatient, could not deny himself the satisfaction of the first word. "Good evening, Gabriel Ortiz. I have long wished to meet you; dare I hope that Baron Fayerling will introduce me?" Ortiz unfastened his dripping waterproof, and threw his hat on a chair. "It is not necessary, Maurice Wallion: I know you already." "And my--friends?" asked the journalist, emphasizing the word "friends," and waving his hand towards Lona Ivanovna and the sick man. "Do you...?" "I know them also." Ortiz' reply was short and sharp. His expression changed as he looked at the journalist: it evinced more hostility but at the same time, more interest than before, and he added: "Do you count them among your friends? That is risky; I am sorry that you have come here, Maurice Wallion." "Would it not be more to the point if you explained by what right you invade the Copper House in this brutal way?" "By the strongest right!" "You are on Swedish soil: let me remind you of its laws." "I have my own." "In other words, you are an outlaw." "From your point of view--not from mine." "Do you depend so much upon our being helpless?" "No, I depend only upon myself. I have not come here to make terms: your point of view does not interest me. I have come to get Tarraschin's memorandum." "Are you sure that it exists?" "Yes, for what else could you offer in exchange?" "In exchange for what?" "Your life." Ortiz uttered these two words in a perfectly ordinary tone, but his deep-set eyes remained somber and remote; his inmost thoughts seemed to have strayed into that far-off region where his future lay hidden. Wallion realized that to this dark and dangerous being, one life signified less than nothing, but he said quietly: "You are too hasty; threats are not a sign of strength." Ortiz turned away without answering him. "A table and a chair!" he commanded. The two men hastened to obey, and placed what he asked for in the middle of the room; he seated himself, and the baron took up his position close by. Wallion remained on the alert for any sounds from outside. By this time, the three messengers ought to have solved their problem. No sound issued from the darkness that surrounded the house; the rain had abated, and there were longer intervals between the flashes of lightning. Was it possible that all three had got safely away? "I miss three of your friends," said Ortiz suddenly; "where are they?" "Do you wish to see them?" "I do." "Then I regret that I can give you no information about them." Ortiz laid a paper on the table in front of him. It was covered with names and dates; he ran his pen down the lines, making a mark against three of them: finally he looked up. "Rosenthal, gardener. Bring the man in, Baron Fayerling." The baron went to the door, a scuffle was heard in the hall, and, panting and dishevelled, a drenched figure was hustled up to the table: it was the Austrian. "Look at me," said Ortiz coldly. "Are you Rosenthal?" "Yes," replied the gardener hoarsely. "You were engaged on the recommendation of Madame Sumensov, on the 29th of April?" "Yes." "You have made two attempts to betray us to-day; what have you to say for yourself?" The Austrian was silent. "Have you nothing to say?" "No." "Can you deny that you are an Austrian detective named Max Raebel?" said Ortiz. The Austrian laughed bitterly: "No, I am glad you know it," he replied. "It doesn't matter now; I have done with you and your associates in Russia; you may do your worst...." Ortiz seemed to ignore this remark; he made a sign to the baron, pointed to the paper, and said a few words in an undertone. The baron shrugged his shoulders: "That's impossible!" he replied with a contemptuous glance at the Austrian. Ortiz got up, went across to the detective, and looked him straight in the face. "You have been here two months," said he, reflectively; "have you made any notes?" "Do you think so little of me as to ask me that?" retorted Raebel. "I never take notes, but I have a good memory...." "What is your memory worth?" Raebel did not reply. "A million, perhaps?" "No. Do you wish me to name my terms?" "Yes." "Give me Tarraschin's memorandum, surrender yourself to the authorities, and distribute your millions among the poor, and I may consider the matter!" Ortiz turned his back upon him, returned to the table, and said, without raising his voice: "See that this fellow is taken on board, when we leave here." "Would it not be better to do it at once?" suggested the baron.