The Copper House A detective story
"Not yet," muttered Leo, "not yet."
He extinguished the candle, and they hurried out again into the rain,
which had come on more heavily. They looked around them, and Leo said:
"We must get out through the gates."
"It's the only way," she agreed, but broke off. "Oh, look, look!
They're coming!" she whispered.
Leo glanced instinctively up the avenue. Far back amongst the great
trees, lights began to be reflected in the puddles, and to throw
fantastic, leaping shadows on the path. There seemed to be four or five
lanterns, and their rapid movements showed that the men who carried
them were running.
Without a word, Leo made for the gates; they were just ajar, and
creaked horribly as they were pushed open to let the fugitives through.
Out on the high-road they could hear voices inside the park, giving
the alarm. In the middle of the road, eight or ten steps away, stood a
large car, quivering with the throbbing of its engine. Two fugitives in
wet coats were crouching under the hood, but they sprang out, and their
black shadows were clearly defined against the beams of the headlights.
"We must have this," said Leo, and he rushed forward ready to throw the
two figures into the mud. He immediately recognized one of them to be
Marcus Tassler; the other was, presumably, the chauffeur. The young man
"saw red," and he cried:
"Ah, here is our excellent friend, our benefactor, the honest merchant!
So you persist in hanging about here, sir! I suppose you carry about
the mortgages in your pocket, to make quite sure that I am not running
off with the securities for your cash. Come along, old boy!--you fat
little Nebuchadnezzar!--just come along, and I'll reckon up what I owe
you!"
He advanced threateningly, and, with a bound, Tassler placed himself in
safety on the other side of the car.
"The fellow is mad!" he yelled. "Shoot him! Knock him down!"
The chauffeur threw himself between them, with a spanner in his gloved
hand. He was a little bit of a man, and Leo put both arms around his
waist, lifted him up, in spite of his frantic struggles, and flung him
across the road, where he disappeared with a splash. Tassler continued
to shout and threaten from the further side of the car.
"Easy there, old boy!" said Leo. "I haven't time...."
Sonia had already clambered into the car, and he followed her. He threw
himself down behind the wheel, and grasped it as eagerly as though it
had been a life-buoy. It was a pleasant surprise to find that the car
was a "Mercedes," such as he had frequently driven in California. He
cast one more look through the gates, towards the avenue: the dancing
lights had almost caught them up. He touched the starting-gear with
a light and practiced hand, and the car began to purr gently, gave a
slight jerk, and rolled forward, as the tires took a grip of the wet
surface of the road.
Tassler tore open his coat, snatched out a little nickelled revolver,
and--piff, piff!--a couple of bullets whizzed past them. "Bang!" a
rifle replied from the avenue. The young man laughed aloud. Sonia
looked at him with surprise, and with renewed interest: he seemed
transformed. The fighting blood of the Graths had for a few short
moments wakened into life in this last effeminate scion of the race. At
that minute he would have marched up to a battery of machine-guns: his
eyes sparkled, and his long, "artistic" hair seemed to stand out round
his head like a halo. The car shot away, its fifty horse-power obedient
to the touch of his hand: they were off on the road to freedom. The
dazzling headlights illuminated the darkness for ten yards ahead of
them, and made the wet road shine like polished marble. The trees
bordering the road stood motionless, their boughs heavy with moisture.
And still the rain streamed and splashed down on them, in a tepid,
unceasing shower-bath: it gurgled in the ditches, and drummed on the
glass wind-screen of the car.
"Au revoir, Marcus!" Leo shouted over his shoulder. His voice was
drowned in a peal of thunder, but the girl clapped her hands.
"That's splendid!" she exclaimed delightedly. "They can't catch us!
Where will you drive to?"
"First of all to the nearest usable telephone," he replied. "And
then--well, I hope there may be some sort of police-station in this
neighborhood, otherwise we must make straight for Stockholm; it's all
plain sailing now."
"Do you know the way?"
"Don't I just! Like the inside of my pocket!"
His self-confidence had gone up a hundred per cent., since he got his
hands on the steering-wheel. He let out the car to its fullest extent,
murmuring:
"Good old Mercedes!--it's up to you, now! Show what you can do!"
And almost at the same instant, as the car obeyed him, and shot out
at full speed, with the dizzying rush of a torpedo--at that instant
the catastrophe was upon them! Their triumph was changed into bitter
disappointment, and now they understood why so few shots had been sent
after them; it was not freedom, but a murderous trap that awaited them.
"The wretches!" cried Leo. "They mean to murder us!"
Across the road in front of them, they caught sight of a network
of slender, gleaming, sharp-edged threads; they were steel wires,
stretched like a barbed-wire entanglement from side to side. At the
speed at which they were going, every one of these wires must meet
them like a sword-blade: it was impossible to evade them, they were
everywhere.
The steering-wheel spun round between the young man's
convulsively-working fingers; the car leaped from the track, swung
round on two wheels, gave a terrific lurch, and ran in under the trees
to a distance of several feet. The whole dead-weight of the ponderous
machine was flung crashing into the ditch. Leo was shot through the
air, and fell with outspread arms, and a sickening thud, deep into a
soft, water-logged swamp. He rolled over, felt the water spurt up under
his arms, and struggled to his knees. Both the lamps of the car had
been smashed, and impenetrable darkness surrounded him. Dizzy with the
shock, he felt as though he were still falling, and, faint with terror,
he managed to catch hold of a branch. At length his head cleared, and
he remembered his companion; what had become of her?
"Sonia!" he called anxiously; "Sonia!"
He scrambled to his feet. A sharp pain in his left shoulder showed
him that he had not escaped unhurt, but for the minute that seemed of
little consequence.
"Sonia, Sonia, where are you?"
"Here!" answered a faint voice.
He took a few steps, and ran into her; she was on her feet, leaning
against the trunk of a tree, and trying to bandage her right hand with
her handkerchief.
"Are you hurt?" he asked. "Can you walk?"
"Yes," she replied; "it's only a scratch. What about you?"
"Nothing to speak of."
"Let's go on," she murmured, but tottered as she spoke, and fell into
his arms. "My head is a little giddy--never mind me--go...."
He saw that she was on the point of fainting, lifted her up, and
carried her down to the road.
"Put me down," she said in a weak voice: "I can walk; we must hurry."
The lights from the gates were already quite near; they came on like a
swarm of flying gnats, and running footsteps splashed along the road.
At the sight of the wrecked car, a great shout of savage laughter was
raised, and a voice called out:
"Stay there, you two, or I shall shoot!"
They were surrounded, and rough hands caught hold of them. Marcus
Tassler's breathless voice panted in the background:
"Keep a sharp look-out on them, and take them with you to the Copper
House. That was a very short drive, wasn't it, my young friends! You
haven't much fight left in you, have you?"
He came up, laughing and rubbing his hands. Leo's excitement had died
away, his muscles relaxed, and he realized that he was beaten. Fate was
against them. Without a word, he and the young girl walked back side
by side to the gates, surrounded by eight or ten men who hustled them
along with coarse jests. They were prisoners once more. As Leo took a
last glance in the direction where their lost freedom awaited them, he
saw a little bright light shine out and twinkle, a long way off. It
seemed to come from one of the hills to the left of the road, about a
mile or so away, and was probably a signal. He wondered idly what it
meant, and took it for granted that it was exchanged between some of
Rastakov's men, but turned listlessly into the avenue, too worn-out
to think. He didn't care what happened now: he had done his best--and
failed!
Yet when he remembered Gabriel Ortiz, whose face he had already seen
for one terrifying moment, he shuddered. The girl murmured softly:
"Ortiz is waiting for us!"
CHAPTER XVIII
_Tarraschin's memorandum changes owners_
Inside the Copper House, the atmosphere of suspense became more and
more heavily charged; nobody quite knew the cause of the sounds
which now reached them from the avenue. It was impossible to guess
what Ortiz was thinking, for he had spread out a map on the table,
and was studying it carefully. Wallion could see that it was a map
of the environs of the Copper House. Suddenly Ortiz looked up into
the journalist's eyes, with a frown; at that moment he really looked
uncommonly like the "Little Gray Corporal." With his sparse, straggling
hair, his keen, rather preoccupied glance, his small mouth, and round
but determined chin, he was an exact copy of Napoleon, and the gray
coat enveloping his thick-set figure increased the realistic effect.
Although he was evidently aware of this, and took pleasure in
maintaining the pose, he did not lay himself open to ridicule: there
was a threatening expression in his eyes, and his remarks were
emphasized by the presence of the carbines at the door.
"Do you hear that?" he said, slowly; "there goes your last chance."
"It may be help coming," retorted Wallion imperturbably.
"Do you really think that?"
"You yourself need to study a map: you would be powerless against a
well-planned surprise."
Ortiz raised his eyebrows, but his immediate reply virtually admitted
the truth of the insinuation.
"A whole regiment would not be able to prevent my getting away by sea."
"As long as you did not fall in with two or three torpedo boats outside
the headland!"
"Ah," murmured Ortiz, "is that why you sent off your friends?"
"Yes, they will give the alarm to the coast guards, if they have not
already been warned. I had not counted on a stolen submarine when I
came here, but now I know where I have you...."
As they talked, both men were on the alert for sounds from outside;
people were approaching, and as though at a given signal, those inside
the room re-grouped themselves.
Ortiz and Fayerling took a few quick steps towards the door, and the
sentries grounded their rifles; Wallion, Raebel and Lona Ivanovna drew
back towards the window, and stood in front of the pretended Andrei
Bernin, in his armchair. The two groups kept a watchful eye on one
another across the room.
"Discussion is useless," said Ortiz, presently; "your friends have
failed--look!"
A confused mass of shadows became visible through the doorway, and
rifle-butts clanged on the hall floor. Two weary and dejected figures
were pushed forward into the circle of light in the middle of the room:
they were Leo and Sonia, and Wallion could not repress an exclamation
of disappointment.
"You have failed?" he said, going up close to Leo; "haven't you
telephoned or done anything?"
The young man shook his head wearily:
"We did our best, but they were too clever for us: it was a trap."
In a few words he told his story. Sonia had taken refuge in her aunt's
arms.
The journalist perceived that he could no longer expect help from