The Copper House A detective story
start; but he foresaw that the approaching struggle would be a fierce
though brief one--brief, because in the course of a few hours he must
either be definitely beaten, or in possession of the information which
would make it possible for him to place the matter in the hands of the
police. It was, therefore, important for him to get quickly and surely
to work, before Baron Fayerling had had time to call up reinforcements.
He slipped out of the hotel, and jumped into a tram, bound for the
northern district. He wondered which way Jenin had gone, for it
disturbed him a little that he had been able to do nothing for the
unfortunate young fellow, beyond hurrying him away, with an urgent
warning to keep clear of Fayerling's spies, and in case of need to take
refuge in the offices of the _Daily Courier_.
There was undoubtedly something mysterious about Jenin himself, but
Wallion consoled himself with the thought that the young man's fate
would soon be settled in one way or another, and he decided to mention
the matter to Robert Lang. For the time being, he had more important
business to attend to. The tram turned into Tegnér Street and he got
out. He walked slowly up the street, stopped opposite one of the ugly,
gray, five-storied houses, and began, quite unostentatiously, to watch
the windows on the first floor.
He had known for the last month, that this was one of Ortiz's
headquarters, and he suspected that Ortiz himself had stayed there for
some time at the beginning of the year. It was ostensibly a Finnish
boarding-house, but it was not advertised as such, and there never
seemed to be any rooms to let except to lodgers recommended by the
baron or by Tassler. For the time being, the only lodgers were three
persons who had recently arrived from Russia, and had some sort of
regular work at the Finno-Russian Import and Export Company. Rastakov,
too, generally stayed there, whenever he did not happen to be at the
Copper House. Wallion took it for granted that the man who was known as
B.22, and had shadowed Jenin on his journey to Stockholm, would come
here, and he was already considering the advisability of setting Robert
Lang to watch the house, when he suddenly saw B.22 himself come out of
the door, and go quickly down the street.
The journalist was somewhat taken aback by this unexpected apparition;
it was quite obvious that something unusual had happened to the spy,
for he kept looking round, and Wallion could see that he appeared very
nervous.
The journalist thought for a bit. What had happened? B.22 had evidently
gone straight to the boarding-house from the hotel, and had apparently
found some trouble awaiting him. Nothing was to be seen at the windows.
Feeling rather puzzled, he began to follow the man, who turned
hurriedly down one side street after another, behaving more and more
strangely. He stood still now and then, staring anxiously behind him
with his large dark eyes, and not taking the slightest notice of the
journalist; his hands fidgeted in and out of his coat-pockets, and his
lips moved as though he were whispering to himself. Then he darted
forward again, through a passage that intersected a corner building,
and cut across an adjoining churchyard.
Wallion, who began to grow tired of this extraordinary game, stepped
quickly up, and tapped him on the shoulder: "Good morning, my friend,"
he exclaimed, "why this hurry?"
The man started so violently that he nearly fell; Wallion caught hold
of him. "Now then, no nonsense!" he said sternly. "I know everything,
and I want to have a talk with you. If you tell me the truth, I may be
able to help you."
He threw out this remark by way of a feeler, but the man took it
literally; a look of relief appeared on his haggard face, and he said
doubtfully: "Are you one of Jenin's friends? I don't know you, what
do you want with me? Are you a detective, by any chance?" he added
suspiciously.
"No, I am a newspaper reporter," said Wallion, still keeping hold of
his arm. "Come along with me."
They went into a small, empty café, and sat down at a table in an inner
room. B.22 remained silent and watchful, but Wallion left him no time
for consideration.
"I won't ask you your real name, B.22," said he, "but you had better
be quite straight with me, or it may be the worse for you. You have a
rotten set of friends, my lad, and it is high time you quit working
with them. Now tell me, what is going on at the boarding-house?"
"Yes, I will tell you," the fellow burst out excitedly. "I will have no
more to do with them, they are going too far. I don't want to lose my
life...."
His eyes were bloodshot, and he tugged at his collar as though he felt
a halter round his neck already. He flung himself suddenly across
the table, and seized the journalist by the sleeve. "Help me," he
stammered, "I am afraid of them! Ortiz is coming, and he will ruin us
all, if nobody can stop him."
Wallion looked sharply at him. He had already observed him in the
hotel, and had formed his conclusions as to the man's character. "Since
when have you made up your mind to betray Ortiz?"
B.22 hung his head. "Since yesterday," he replied indistinctly. "When
Bernard Jenin told me what Tarraschin's memorandum was about, I was
afraid to have anything more to do with it--it is altogether too
ghastly...."
He really seemed to be hesitating, and Wallion decided to come to
the point quickly, for there was no time to waste in unnecessary
preliminaries.
"How much do you know about Ortiz?" he asked.
"I? Nothing. They told me that he was the boss, and that we were paid
with his money: and he pays well."
Wallion made a movement of disgust. The payment seemed all that this
man cared about.
"Have you ever seen Ortiz?"
"No. Baron Fayerling always gave me my orders, and paid me. They say
that Ortiz is a rich and powerful man, and that he will soon be one of
the greatest persons in Europe. But I have never seen him, and I know
nothing of him."
"Well, I am going to tell you something about him; it is because you
know so little that you are so much afraid of him. He is one of the
most daring adventurers that ever lived, and anyone who espouses his
cause is on the road to ruin."
B.22 shuddered, and Wallion watched him narrowly.
"Did you ever hear of the Emperor of the Amazons?" he asked.
B.22 shook his head in surprise.
"Emperor of the Amazons?" he repeated; "it sounds like a farce."
"It was a farce, too, at any rate the newspapers called it so, and
it was played seven years ago. A young Brazilian millionaire who
had already made himself conspicuous by his lavish and eccentric
propensities, concluded one fine day that he could no longer endure the
restrictions of life in a community of law-abiding citizens, and his
fertile brain, which was always revolving ambitious schemes, decided to
create an absolutely new environment.
"His name was Gabriel Napoleon Ortiz, and he was a reputed descendant
of Napoleon the Great; he had already been implicated in a formidable
scandal in Paris, where he had attempted to organize a Monarchist
rising against the Republic, in the hope of getting himself recognized
as Napoleon IV. At that time he was only a youth of nineteen, and it
was an easy matter to deport him to Brazil. But the lion's claws
were not drawn, and by degrees he gathered round him quite a number
of adventurers, who aided and abetted him in his far-reaching plans.
One day, early in 1910, he steamed away up the River Amazon in his
armored pleasure yacht, and disappeared into the interior of Brazil.
It was given out that he was subsidizing an expedition for scientific
research, but about six months later, the Brazilian Government was
astounded to receive a highly-imposing document, signed Gabriel
Napoleon I, Emperor of the Amazons, in which the new monarch stated
that he had proclaimed himself Emperor over the tracts of land at the
sources of the River Amazon, the country being rich and extensive, but
chiefly inhabited by Indians. He demanded, first, official recognition
by the Brazilian Government, secondly, free access to the River Amazon,
and thirdly, an immediate and definite revision of boundary questions.
At the same time, through the medium of the South and North American
newspapers, he invited enterprising and energetic people to settle
as colonists in his dominion, declared his intention of founding a
capital, and purchased six liners for passenger traffic down the great
river. Of course, the whole thing was impossible; nobody took the man
seriously, and the papers treated the matter as a huge joke; it was
altogether too far-fetched! Before many months had gone by, the Emperor
of the Amazons was taken into custody by Brazilian troops: he was found
at the head of an army of a hundred and twenty men, which immediately
took to flight. He was handed over to his relations, amongst whom was
the famous aëroplane-constructor Ortiz; feeling rather crestfallen, he
was obliged to consent to leave the country quietly, and nobody gave
another thought to the Empire of the Amazons."
"Emperor of the Amazons," muttered B.22 with a laugh. "I do seem to
have a hazy recollection of it now. And so that man was Ortiz! I begin
to understand...."
The journalist saw that his story had made an impression, and he
continued: "You will notice that this Brazilian millionaire-adventurer
was not without certain elements of greatness. Such causes as his
have prospered before now. It was only that he lived in an age when,
under normal circumstances, adventures of that kind are absurd. Public
opinion is formed by the Press, and the Press laughed the Empire of the
Amazons to scorn. Fifteen years earlier, the man might have succeeded,
but, as it was, he had learnt a dearly-bought lesson--till next time!
He had not abandoned a single detail of his great project, but he could
bide his time: he could go on with his preparations. The next act in
the drama was played in New York. Ortiz proved himself a financial
genius of the first order, floated one gigantic speculation after
another, with truly Napoleonic strategy, and was acclaimed before long
as one of Wall Street's brightest stars, or, more correctly, meteors.
Finally, he 'swung' a 'corner' in coffee with unscrupulous skill,
increased his already colossal fortune tenfold, and gained the nickname
of 'The Coffee King.' The Emperor of the Amazons had become a Coffee
King! At any rate, you can see what he was aiming at. As 'emperor' he
had brought imprisonment on at most forty persons; as 'king' he had
ruined thousands. His power for evil had increased, but it was not yet
fully developed, and the great opportunity was still to come. He does
not advance step by step, like other men. No, his ambition demands
constant movement, culminating in some tremendous display of strength.
His motto is: 'Better a grand catastrophe than a meagre victory.' Laws
do not exist for a man with such ideas, and what can those persons
expect who are bold enough to follow him as assistants or subordinates,
but a prison cell, or something even worse, for their pains?"
B.22 was listening as though he had been hypnotized, and Wallion went
on: "After his 'coup' on the coffee market, Gabriel Ortiz disappeared
from New York. He realized his assets, and was seen no more in Wall
Street. He had attained his primary aim, and provided himself with
the means of carrying out even the wildest and most ambitious of his
dreams. The episode in the Amazons had taught him experience: in New
York he had acquired millions. He was now fully equipped, and only
waited for a favorable opportunity. In August, 1914, the Great War
broke out."
The journalist sat silent and thoughtful for a little while. Then he
continued: "It is horrible to think that a Brazilian freebooter should