The Copper House A detective story
added, with renewed vehemence, "the loss of the Copper House is an idea
that it will take me some time to digest."
"It is too late to prevent it now, Leo."
"That is just what makes it so hard to bear! Besides, I can't get over
the fact of such people as these taking such a fancy to the Copper
House; I'm sure there's something wrong somewhere."
"There is nothing wrong with their money, at all events," remarked
Burchardt patiently.
"Money!" snorted Leo, turning round. His expressive face lighted up,
and he added eagerly: "Nobody knows yet that I am in Sweden. Suppose I
go straight back to California, and try to make a fortune. How's that
for an idea?"
The lawyer remained silent: he had not the heart to reply. But the
young man's remark reminded him of something, and he bent down and took
an envelope from his desk.
"Somebody seems to have expected your arrival," he said, "for this
letter has been waiting for you since yesterday."
"A letter!" repeated Leo, taking it with surprise, "so it is, and by
the postmark a local one, posted here in Stockholm. Isn't that odd!"
He opened and read it, first to himself, then aloud:
"MR. LEONARD GRATH, c/o Burchardt & Co.,
Stockholm.
"Sir,--Should you intend taking any steps with regard to the Copper
House, may I beg you to wait for further information from me? The
matter is serious. Above all, let nobody know that you are in
Stockholm, and on no account go out to the Copper House. Ask Mr.
Burchardt to observe similar precautions. He can tell you who I am.
"Yours in great haste,
"MAURICE WALLION."
Leo read these lines once again. The lawyer pricked up his ears, as if
at the sound of a bugle. "Maurice Wallion," he repeated.
"Yes, that's the name. What's all this about? Who is the fellow, and
what does he mean?"
Burchardt took the letter, and read it in his turn, slowly and
attentively. Leo, who was watching him, noticed that the lawyer
actually looked disturbed, almost alarmed.
"What is it?" asked the young man, quickly. "Who on earth is Maurice
Wallion?"
"Unexpected, perfectly unexpected!" murmured the lawyer. "Serious? Yes,
that may well be, if _he_ says so. Leo, this message comes from a man
who wishes you well. I happen to know him; few persons have met him,
but many have heard of him. They call him 'the problem-hunter,' and his
nominal occupation is that of a contributor to the _Daily Courier_. But
he is more than a journalist: he has a way of turning up on the scene
of any crime or mystery, if he thinks there is anything abnormal about
it."
Leo smiled slightly: "That sounds very mysterious," he said, "but as I
am not guilty of any deeds of darkness, I can't say I feel particularly
alarmed...."
"I was engaged on young Ravenscrone's case, when Wallion recovered
his estate for him," replied the lawyer gravely; "that problem was a
hundred years old: but he solved it in an hour."
"And now I suppose he will offer to recover mine," said Leo. "Why,
what business is it of his? How did he know, to begin with, that I was
coming here?"
"How, indeed," echoed the lawyer significantly.
They looked at one another, and the young man's smile gave place to a
frown. "I call it either great cheek or a very poor joke for anyone to
meddle unasked in my affairs," he said, taking up the letter to put it
in his pocket-book.
Burchardt shook his head, and at the same moment Leo uttered a cry of
vexation. "My pocket-book!" he exclaimed, "that scoundrel has stolen
it!"
"Who has?" asked the lawyer, jumping up.
"A man who ran into me on the stairs about half an hour ago. It can
have been no one else, for I had it in my hand not five minutes before.
He was a tall, thin fellow, with black eyes; I thought he was drunk,
for he barged right into me, without saying a word; I gave him a good
shove, and he lurched out into the street. Of course the beggar was
after my pocket-book."
"What had you in it?"
"Not much money, but practically all my papers, passport and
everything."
At this minute the door opened, and one of Burchardt's clerks came in.
"A boy has just left this parcel for Mr. Grath," he said, putting
down an oblong packet, and departing. Leo tore open the white paper,
which bore no address, and looked up with a mixture of amusement and
bewilderment in his face.
"What's the date to-day?" he inquired.
"July 19, 1917," replied the puzzled lawyer.
"Make a note of it, as being a day of surprises."
"What is it now?"
"I have got back my pocket-book. It is here, in this parcel."
"You don't say so! Empty, of course?"
"No," replied Leo, after looking through it, "that is the most
surprising thing of all. Nothing is missing. He has not taken a single
thing."
"Impossible, it's too absurd. Look again more carefully."
Both men examined the pocket-book again, but it was as Leo had stated:
both money and papers were totally undisturbed.
"This is certainly a very striking commentary on our friend the
'problem-hunter's' letter," remarked the young man; "is he given to
playing such tricks as these?"
"Nonsense," said Burchardt, curtly. "His letter is a warning, and
this incident is a case in point. Some person has had recourse to an
uncommonly daring way of finding out everything that concerns you,
evidently wishing to identify you by the aid of your own papers."
In spite of himself, Leo began to feel rather uncomfortable but he
pulled himself together, and said: "I begin to think that there is a
general conspiracy to make a fool of me: a profiteering baron wants
to compel me to sell the Copper House: a thief steals my papers, and
sends them back untouched: a problem-hunter sends me unintelligible
warnings--my poor brain is getting quite muddled! I wish I was back in
California, there are such a queer lot of folk in Sweden, since last I
was here."
"Listen to me, Leo," said the lawyer slowly. "There is something wrong
about all this. That fellow Tassler must have some motive of which
we know nothing. The first thing for you to do is to find out what
Maurice Wallion knows."
"I am going straight to him."
"Now? He is not easy to get hold of, unless he wishes, but at any rate
you can try."
"I intend to. So long, sir!"
Leonard Grath left the lawyer's office with his usual impetuosity,
and ran whistling down the stairs. Burchardt's office was near the
Kungstrad Park, and the young man crossed the road to get into the
shade of the lime-trees. It was a beautiful, sunny morning, the
beds were gay with flowers, and a great many people were about. A
well-dressed man, carrying a small but expensive camera, passed him,
turned quickly, and raised the camera; a click, and it was done. So
rapid were the man's movements, that Leo did not at first realize that
he himself had been the target of the camera. He took the cigarette
from his mouth, and shouted: "I say, you there! You, sir!" But at that
minute the unknown photographer boarded a passing tram, and was whirled
away.
"What next?" wondered Leo. "Another one who wants to know what I
look like! I seem to be very much in demand!" He looked round him in
perplexity, and was presently aware of an uncanny feeling that he was
being watched by someone in the crowd. Yet wherever he turned, he could
see no one whom he knew, or who appeared to recognize him. Lights and
shadows flickered through the green leaves, and the sunshine lighted
up pretty faces and summer costumes. He began to feel dazed, and sat
down on one of the green benches. "I must be dreaming," he thought.
"This is all too strange to be true. Yes, of course I am dreaming."
He got up, walked on a short way, then stopped again. "If only I had
the smallest idea what is up!" He laughed. "I shall go and see Wallion."
Ten minutes later he entered the offices of the _Daily Courier_, and
asked for Maurice Wallion, half-expecting to be laughed at for his
pains, and informed that no such person was known there. But the young
and energetic reporter to whom he addressed his inquiries, looked at
him attentively, and said: "Did you make an appointment to meet him
here?"
"Not exactly."
"Then I'm afraid it is no use your waiting."
"But I have had a letter from him."
"Ah, that alters the case," observed the reporter, opening an
engagement book. "What name, please?"
"Leonard Grath," replied the other in surprise.
"That's good!" said the reporter with a smile, immediately becoming
much more friendly in his manner; "my name is Robert Lang, and you are
expected."
"Expected!" echoed Leo, more astonished than ever.
"Yes, but I can tell you at once that nobody knows why, except Wallion.
I am his assistant, and I believe he is most anxious to see you.
Unfortunately he is out at present. I haven't seen him since yesterday
evening, but step into his room, and we'll see."
They went into a small room leading off the corridor, and the cheery
young reporter went briskly to the telephone. After ringing up several
places, he said: "I can't get on to him, he is neither at his house,
nor at any of the places where we can usually get word to him. It's
always the way! Sometimes he disappears for weeks on end, and we can do
nothing but wait until he thinks fit to turn up again."
Leo smiled, but he felt terribly disappointed.
"The worst of it is, that there is no time to lose," he remarked. "I
fear it may be too late as it is."
"But you hinted that Wallion knows something about it already?"
"Yes, so I understand."
"Then you needn't worry. He won't let it be too late."
Robert Lang said this with a calm certainty that impressed Leo, whilst
it made him feel more curious than ever.
"Do _you_ know what your friend the Problem-hunter wants me for?"
"No, but that doesn't matter. I am only his assistant, his
sub-lieutenant, so to speak...."
Here, the conversation was interrupted, as Robert Lang was called away.
Leo wandered round the room, which was filled with bookcases, files of
newspapers, and card-index cabinets. On the large writing table lay
manuscripts, photographs, foreign newspapers, and several volumes of
works of reference. The young man could see from a distance that one
of the photographs was that of a charming girl, whose dark and rather
appealing eyes seemed to be gazing right into his own. He could not
resist the temptation to pick up the portrait and examine it more
closely.
"What a pretty girl," he thought: "brown eyes, decidedly--and black
hair:--an Italian, perhaps? Or no, more likely a Russian, with that
heart-shaped face, arched eyebrows, and audacious though sensitive
mouth."
And here, Leo noticed something which made him open his own mouth,
and stare like one bewitched. In the lower corner of the picture was
written:
Sonia Bernin,
THE COPPER HOUSE.
CHAPTER III
_Wallion meets B.22, and certain remarkable episodes in a great
man's career are described, with the desired effect_
Maurice Wallion quitted the neighborhood of room 23 rather hurriedly,
as soon as the baron had gone in: not from fear--there was no such
word in his vocabulary--but because, in consequence of this somewhat
unexpected commencement of hostilities, he found himself suddenly
involved in a regular network of complicated problems.
Bernard Jenin's unexpected arrival had completely upset his plans,
and forced him to show his hand prematurely to a powerful, prompt and
intelligent adversary, who would certainly stick at nothing in the way
of frustrating him. He did not regret the opportunity of dealing the
first blow, for his frankness had probably baffled the baron at the