The Copper House A detective story
"I think I have baffled you this time. You may kill me, but you won't
find what you are looking for. Those brutes have ransacked the whole
house twice, and you may do it once again. You have no chance of
succeeding, and you may believe that I know what I am saying, when you
recollect that I have all my life been accustomed to play hide-and-seek
with the Tsar's secret police. Go your way, Gabriel Ortiz, you have
failed. An old woman has beaten you!"
The adventurer showed no sign of discomposure; he allowed her biting
scorn to pass unobserved; not so her challenge.
After a few minutes' calculation, he said, more to himself than to her:
"There are only two or three places where you can have hidden it; but
why waste time in guessing? There is a much simpler way."
As he said this, he showed his white, even teeth, not in a smile, but
rather in the fixed grin of a wild beast, while a grim look came over
his face, almost transforming its expression. He turned to the marines,
and gave the word of command:
"Ready! The first to stir from his place will be shot."
Half a dozen rifle-muzzles were pointed at the prisoners.
"Rastakov, take your revolver and place it against Sergius Tassler's
forehead. I will count three--and at the word 'three,' you will fire."
The six marines took careful aim, and nobody stirred, while Rastakov
crossed the room, and placed his heavy weapon against Sergius' right
temple. There was a breathless silence, for they all realized Ortiz'
intention. Marcus Tassler turned ashen-gray; without a sound he left
the room, and was not seen again.
"I forbid anyone to stir a finger," Ortiz continued; "this business
is between you and me, Lona Ivanovna. I have your son--you have the
document: will you exchange?"
A dead pause ensued. The old lady raised her hand slowly to her throat,
and gazed as though fascinated at Rastakov's forefinger, which was
touching the trigger.
Sergius had closed his eyes.
"Don't think of me, Mother," he said, softly; "think only of our cause."
She opened her mouth, but no sound issued from her lips.
"One!"
Sonia sprang up, but Leo caught her in his arms, at a glance from the
journalist, who was now very pale. Lona Ivanovna remained stiff and
immovable.
"Let me go!" cried the girl, hysterically. "Oh,
you--cowardly--wretches! If only I were a man!"
She sank down, half fainting, but weeping as though her heart would
break. Wallion clenched his hands, but kept still; he seemed to be
waiting for something.
"Two!"
A glazed look came over Lona Ivanovna's eyes, and she stared at Ortiz
as though she had never seen him before; she seemed to look at him as
though from an immense distance, and to be straining every nerve to
control herself. She saw his pitiless eyes, his lips unclosing for the
third time ... she tore the workbag from her left arm, and threw it on
the table.
"There!" she exclaimed. "Let Sergius go, you murderer! The paper is in
the bag."
"In the bag!"
The adventurer put out his hand, but drew it quickly back.
"If you are lying, ..." he said threateningly.
"I am not lying," she replied wearily. "I took the paper out of the
stick whilst Sergius was sleeping. I was certain that nobody would
look for it in a place that was so apparent to everyone. The paper is
very small, and in a tiny roll; it is lying amongst the lace-work....
Forgive me, Sergius!"
She sank down on a chair. Ortiz turned the bag upside down, and shook
out the work on the table. Wallion was carefully choosing a cigarette
from his case; he smiled: the matter was taking the turn for which he
had hoped from the beginning, and Ortiz had already wasted nearly two
precious hours; his own opportunity was come at last.
"Well, Gabriel Ortiz," said he, in a nonchalant tone, "is the
memorandum there?"
The adventurer had searched all through the contents of the workbag; he
now pushed it aside, and began to examine the folds of the lace with
nervous eagerness.
"You won't find anything there," the journalist proceeded; "Lona
Ivanovna made a mistake. The paper is not in her workbag: _I_ have it!"
CHAPTER XIX
_Wallion speaks out and Rastakov is balked of his prey_
The journalist's utterly unforeseen announcement electrified everyone,
and all faces were turned towards him, with intense surprise. That
Maurice Wallion could have obtained possession of Tarraschin's
memorandum, had occurred to none of them, least of all to Lona Ivanovna.
"You, you!" she stammered. "How is it possible?"
Ortiz' cold, hard voice broke in:
"Are you trying to shield her son? She is lying, the bag is empty--I do
not believe you."
"Allow me to explain the situation," said the journalist, who still
held in his left hand the cigarette which he had taken from his case,
and, in his right the cigar-lighter, whose little flame burned clearly
and evenly; his hands were perfectly steady.
"The paper really was in Lona Ivanovna's bag--until the time when,
after hearing the story of the Bernin family, I demonstrated to them
that the stick was empty, to Sergius Tassler's great astonishment.
Following your example, Ortiz, I concluded that his mother, wishing
to shift the responsibility on to her own shoulders, had secretly
removed the paper, but, unlike you, I went a step further, and
assumed, from what I knew of her character, that she had hidden
it in her workbag, that well-known receptacle which everybody was
accustomed to see hanging on her arm. I fully anticipated that you,
my dear Ortiz, would proceed to the sort of compulsion we have just
witnessed, and what would have been the good of her stratagem then?
I at once decided to remove the precious document to its third,
best, and final hiding-place. Under the pretext of examining Andrei
Bernin's room, I was left alone with Lona Ivanovna for a few minutes,
and--'hey presto!'--Russia's fate lay snugly in my waistcoat pocket.
That is the story. You may conscientiously leave mother and son in
peace, my dear Ortiz; the thief--that thief who caused the baron such
heart-searchings--is none other than myself!"
"Damnation!" ejaculated Ortiz, his eyes bloodshot and staring; "shall I
ever get hold of that infernal paper?"
"The outlook doesn't seem very promising," agreed the journalist,
smiling. "It has passed through various hands in the last day or two,
and its present owner--well, I have a pretty good idea that he will not
let it out of his possession!"
His unshaken audacity took Ortiz aback: he hesitated for a minute, and
the journalist availed himself of the pause.
"Let us talk things over," said he. "If anyone attempts to come near
me, or to threaten me with his gun, I swear that you will never have
the document."
"Where have you got it?" asked the adventurer reluctantly.
"Ah, where!" laughed Wallion. "One of your men searched me just now,
didn't he? Did he find it? No. And yet I can assure you that he saw it.
I believe he even touched it! You see this tiny flame, and this little
cigarette? The moment I light my cigarette, your dreams for the future
will vanish in smoke, Ortiz."
"You would pay dearly for it!"
"_You_ would, you mean. A far too expensive cigarette, and that's a
fact! Now, then, stand still, all the lot of you. Ortiz, keep them
quiet. It wouldn't take me a second, and my death wouldn't be much of a
compensation for your loss."
"I do not believe that Tarraschin's memorandum could be compressed into
so small a space," Ortiz objected incredulously.
"Don't you?" returned the journalist. "Didn't Lona Ivanovna say that
the paper was quite small, and tightly-rolled up? The idea struck me
when I removed it from her bag, and just before you came, I made this
arrangement, on the chance of my things being searched. You don't
believe me? Look here, then."
He squeezed the little cylinder between his fingers, so that the
cigarette paper burst, and fluttered to the ground, whilst a thin layer
of tobacco fell from the ends; there remained in his hand a tightly
rolled sheet of white paper, which began to uncurl as though a spring
had been released. Ortiz leaned forward.
"No, keep back!" said the journalist. "You observe that the flame is
all but touching the paper now. You can see perfectly well where you
are--do you recognize Prince Tarraschin's handwriting? Shall I tell you
that it is written in French? Shall I read it out to you?"
"You are mad!" muttered Ortiz hoarsely. "What can you do? If you leave
this room, you will be shot."
"Yes, from behind, I suspect. But I prefer to stop here, I have
something to say to you...."
"If you stay here with that paper in your hands, you will be shot. You
have never been in greater danger than you are now."
"I'm not so sure of that! Have you really the moral courage to watch
Tarraschin's document burn? Make up your mind, I am waiting."
Ortiz watched the journalist's movements like a lynx, but Wallion had
gauged him correctly: he could not bring himself to run the risk,
however willingly he would have given the order to shoot the man who
was daring to thwart him on the very threshold of success. He gave a
reluctant signal, and the weapons were lowered.
"Speak out!" he said, "what do you want?"
Wallion stepped back a few paces. His bold "coup" had made him master
of the situation for the time being, but the outlook was dangerous
in the extreme. He must keep an eye on practically all his enemies
at once: should but one of them succeed in raising his gun, he would
be lost; he was a prisoner, and compelled to plan his escape as best
he could, alone and unarmed, under the eyes of his captors. Speed
was all-important; never had he felt his mind clearer or cooler than
now, as he reviewed every possibility. He knew that Sergius Tassler
had a revolver within reach, hidden presumably among the rugs of his
armchair: and he remembered that Max Raebel only awaited a signal to
come to his assistance: on these two facts, his entire scheme must be
built up.
"Order Rastakov to stand back," he said briefly; "Sergius Tassler has
nothing more to do with this case."
The Russian had remained standing near Sergius, but at a nod from his
employer, he thrust his revolver back into his pocket, and returned to
his place by the door. As he did so, Wallion exchanged a rapid glance
with the Austrian. He saw Raebel's intelligent eyes widen inquiringly,
and he nodded almost imperceptibly. The Austrian understood the signal,
and would now be ready to play his part; Wallion relied implicitly upon
his experience and ready wit. The important thing now, was to engross
Ortiz' whole attention for the next few minutes, and the journalist
began again with a laugh:
"Yes, I have something to say to you, Ortiz; this is a good
opportunity, for I am afraid we shall not meet again after to-night.
You intend to kill me, if you can; I intend to render you harmless, if
I can: the situation is not without its piquancy."
Ortiz had pulled out his handkerchief, and was drying his hands
nervously: there was little of the Great Napoleon about his strained
features at this moment.
"You talk too much," he said hoarsely; "get to business."
"By all means. Your line has run out, my dear Ortiz. There was a time
when I admired you, in spite of my position as your natural enemy. Your
former adventures attracted me by a sort of simple and great-hearted
freshness which characterized them, but the gigantic plan which is now
dragging you to the verge of a precipice, is marked by an arrogance
which the gods might envy. I can no longer admire a man who allows
murder and robbery to be the milestones on his road to success; you
should have kept your hands clean, Ortiz: there is too much blood on