The Copper House A detective story
them! All the millions which you have distributed so lavishly, cannot
alter the fact that you are a murderer, at war with Society, and,
there, self-condemned."
The adventurer glared angrily at him, and exclaimed:
"I do not expect you to understand me! You and I stand at opposite ends
of the great, unimpressionable fabric of Society; how could you enter
into my plans and my dreams?"
The journalist did not reply immediately. He had seen Max Raebel move a
shade closer to Sergius Tassler, and exchange two or three words with
him, and a suppressed excitement began to rise in him, as he continued:
"Is your plan so difficult to fathom? You forget that I have read
Tarraschin's memorandum, that I know what has become of your millions,
and that I am well aware of the snare of specious promises in which you
have entangled your dupes. You are not so strong as you imagine; you
have worked to overthrow one party, and to support the other, so that
you might use the gratitude of the successful one as a stepping-stone
to power. But the Russian Revolution in March was none of your doing:
you made a start in the opposite direction, and threw in your lot with
the reactionaries, whose prospects seemed the more favorable. You made
a mistake there: Kerensky still sits firmly in the saddle, and Prince
Tarraschin's promises will never be fulfilled, for however strong your
followers may be, they will never restore the Tsar to power."
He spoke slowly and impressively, and his words were now addressed to
the silent group by the door, rather than to their leader. He noticed a
strange expression in Rastakov's black eyes.
Perhaps Ortiz saw it too, for he exclaimed furiously:
"Silence! You lie!"
"Shall I give you a summary of Tarraschin's written promises?" returned
Wallion, calmly, and, as Ortiz did not answer, he continued:
"To be called 'Emperor of the Amazons' was, after all, a barren honor;
but as Governor-General of Siberia, you would rule over one of the
largest countries in the world. Can you deny that Prince Tarraschin
promised that post to you, on behalf of his party?"
A murmur went round the room, and Rastakov's face wore a threatening
look, as he took in the full meaning of Wallion's information. Ortiz
fathomed his enemy's intention, and grew pale; it almost seemed that
his iron will was shaken, but he controlled himself with a tremendous
effort, and said:
"You have read it yourself, and hold the proof of it in your hand. I
have never hesitated, and I do not hesitate now; but if you imagine
that my fate depends on a paper, you deceive yourself. I have many
strings to my bow. Governor-General of Siberia?--let that pass, as
you have said it, but it would only be a beginning: the whirlpool is
deep, I can subdue it." He raised his voice, and turned to the silent
audience round the door.
"Have I not proved to you that I keep my promises? Has your future ever
looked so bright as it does now? I tell you, I can give you all that
your wildest dreams can picture. Power or riches, you have only to
choose; I have them both at my command."
He chose his words cleverly, on the spur of the moment, and Wallion
realized that it was not only his millions that had attracted scores
of adherents to his cause. His personal strength fascinated them, and
his convincing arguments overruled their judgment. But the journalist
had no intention of allowing him time to vindicate himself. He gathered
that Max Raebel had by this time succeeded in conveying some sort of
brief, but evidently reinspiring intimation to Leonard Grath, Sonia,
and Lona Ivanovna in turn, for their faces had brightened with an
expression of eager anticipation. A moment later, seeing that Ortiz'
attention was temporarily diverted, the Austrian looked significantly
from Wallion to the two lamps. The journalist understood his meaning,
and nodded: it was nearly time!
"Do not promise more than you can perform, Ortiz!" he exclaimed. "What
about those earlier promises of yours? Did you not assure Rastakov and
his people that the Bolshevists are your friends? You, the organizer of
the Reactionary Party in Russia?--for shame, what duplicity! What about
these last Bolshevist uprisings in Petrograd? Were they your work?"
The vehemence of Wallion's attack struck Ortiz dumb.
"I ... I am not obliged to answer," he said after a pause; "you are not
my judge!"
"But you would like to be mine, wouldn't you? Perhaps you would rather
I burned the document?"
The paper hovered nearer the little blue flame, and Ortiz exclaimed:
"Name your own price!"
It was a sign of weakening: he was ready to buy what he could not take
by force.
Wallion laughed, feigning intense surprise:
"Is this little flame so valuable? You would see it extinguished at any
price?"
"I will give you ten millions if you will blow it out," sad the
adventurer. "And your liberty...."
"A fantastic offer!" said Wallion, his eyes glittering. "Does the
future Governor of Siberia propose it?"
"Yes."
"Well, I decline it. You are a beaten man, Ortiz. Kerensky's government
has suppressed the Bolshevist risings in Petrograd, and remains in
power till further notice. A reactionary rising would be even less
successful...."
Hardly had the journalist completed his sentence, when a dramatic
interruption occurred.
Rastakov sprang forward. All the savagery in his primitive nature had
risen to the surface, his face was convulsed, and his voice like the
snarl of some wild beast:
"Is it true that the Bolshevists are beaten?" he cried.
"Yes; did you not know it?" answered Wallion.
"No! I thought ... Ortiz, you have played us false! Remember what you
promised!"
Ortiz struck him full in the face.
"How dare you, Rastakov!" he exclaimed harshly. "I have not paid you to
insult me."
The blow left a red mark on Rastakov's white face. He staggered back,
his hands clutching the air; his eyes looked like those of a blind man.
"Traitor!" he yelled.
Slipping his right hand into his pocket, he raised it high over his
head, grasping a round, black object, which he was about to fling at
Ortiz, when the baron, throwing his whole weight upon him, wrenched the
deadly thing away, and dashed it through the nearest window, far out
into the park.
The whole house was shaken by a terrific explosion, a column of earth
and flame rose high into the air, for a minute, and the atmospheric
pressure drove in the window-panes with a clatter of breaking glass.
Before the last splinters had fallen on the carpet, Ortiz drew a
revolver from his pocket, and, apparently without even taking aim, shot
Rastakov through the head. The unfortunate Russian fell where he stood,
and did not move again.
Rastakov was balked of his prey, and had paid for his mistake with his
life.
The sudden tragedy paralyzed them all. Ortiz stared down at the dead
body.
"One more!" he muttered; "one more!"
At that minute, the journalist made an alarming discovery; the
draught from the broken window had blown out the little flame in the
cigar-lighter. There was not an instant to lose!
"Now, Raebel!" he cried, and crouched down as quick as lightning. The
Austrian thrust his hand among the rugs on Sergius Tassler's armchair,
and pulled out a bright steel "Browning," which he aimed at the lamps.
Two shots rang out, and the lamps fell crashing to the floor.
The room was plunged in darkness.
CHAPTER XX
_In which Wallion shows that a great deal can be done in ten
minutes_
It seemed as though a black velvet pall had been dropped over them. The
sudden transition from brilliant light to impenetrable darkness, was
almost physically painful, and ten or fifteen seconds passed before
anyone attempted to stir; each man was listening with bated breath for
his enemy's movements. A flash pierced the darkness: Ortiz had fired
at the journalist, or rather, at the spot where he had last seen him
standing. An infernal hubbub broke out: someone turned on an electric
torch, which was immediately shattered by a shot; a dozen rifles rang
out simultaneously, furniture fell to the ground, and panes of glass
jingled.
"Get lights!" cried Ortiz, imperiously; "let no one escape: stand by
the windows and doors!"
The journalist had carefully placed Tarraschin's memorandum in his
pocket-book, and was now ready to avail himself of the opportunity; he
moved noiselessly forward, and suddenly threw himself into the tumult
round the door. Striking out to right and left, his broad shoulders
soon cleared him a passage. A last shot was fired almost under his
chin, and he found himself out in the hall--free!
There was no time to lose. The hall was dark, but the tramp of feet
warned him that at least half a score of men were making their way
through the glass doors. That way was obviously impossible. Towards
the kitchen regions, a faint light could be seen through the half-open
door: that exit was blocked too; to reach the upper floor by the
staircase, was his only chance. He hastened in that direction,
blessing the thick carpet, which deadened his footsteps, and took the
twenty-five stairs in four bounds. As he gained the topmost stair, he
dropped down on the landing like a cat, and held his breath: he had
heard someone breathing close by. But in a moment he uttered a sigh of
relief, as a familiar voice said softly:
"It is I, Max Raebel. I know your step again, Wallion; this way!"
He discerned a shadowy form, and a hand grasped his.
"I think we may congratulate ourselves that we have won the first
round," added the Austrian.
"What about the others?"
"Oh, I told Sergius Tassler and Grath to see to the ladies; I advised
them to offer no resistance, but if possible to take refuge in the
gardener's cottage. Ortiz will concentrate his attention on us."
"It looks like it," Wallion agreed.
The hall beneath them was filled with light. Fresh lamps had been
brought in and lighted, but a strange condition of uncertainty seemed
to prevail, and two or three voices were clamoring for Rastakov. Baron
Fayerling hurried forward, and the six marines marched across the
hall towards the stairs, with Ortiz behind them. At sight of him, the
threatening murmurs died away, and with a few decided orders the baron
quelled the disturbance.
"The harmony seems slightly defective!" whispered the Austrian, "but it
will soon be too hot for us here; which way shall we go?"
"To the winding-staircase on the back landing," replied Wallion
promptly. They crossed the passage, and he opened the door leading to
the backstairs, but immediately retreated, and bolted it hastily; he
had almost run into the arms of three of the forest-guards, who were
evidently on the look-out for him, and now began to batter on the door.
"The deuce!" he murmured, "this is what one may call quick work! Back
again!"
They ran back to the main staircase, which was now their only chance,
if they were not to be caught on that floor.
"Are you armed?" asked Raebel.
"No, are you?"
"Yes, I have Sergius Tassler's revolver, but only four cartridges left."
Ortiz' bodyguard had nearly reached the top, when the two detectives
appeared on the landing. A shout greeted them, but before anyone could
shoot, the fugitives had gained the second floor, where Raebel turned
and fired a shot down the stairs.
"That'll just give them something to think about," he explained; "I am
generous, as long as I have anything to give away."
"That leaves you with only three shots, doesn't it?" said Wallion.
"Wait, that is not enough; I must get hold of something for myself
also."
They heard someone running up, and the journalist stood a little to one
side. One of the marines, more quick-footed than the rest, appeared at