The Copper House A detective story
find the great chance of his lifetime in the grimmest tragedy that has
ever befallen the human race. It is true that in this war, as never
before, there have been openings for adventurers who are ready to sell
their swords or their skill to the highest bidder.
"Within the war-area, where, as in an earthquake, all the powers
of darkness rise to the surface, Ortiz found the desired field of
operations, where he might sow his millions, and reap an abundant
harvest of power. After due calculation, he fixed upon Russia as his
objective, and Stockholm as his starting-point. How long have you been
in his service?"
"Since October, 1915."
"Nearly from the beginning, then. I can tell by your accent that you
are a Finn. I suppose they made you believe that you would be working
for the liberty of Finland?"
"That was so," said B.22 in a low voice.
"Do you still think so, now that Finland is really free, in consequence
of the March Revolution? Was that Ortiz' work?"
The man crimsoned with rage and shame. He struck his hand on the table,
and said: "No, since I got to know the contents of the Tarraschin
document, I can see that Ortiz is neither working for freedom nor for
the Tsar: he thinks only of himself."
"Exactly," said Wallion, coldly, "and you should have realized that
long ago."
"How could I?" replied B.22 piteously; "I knew nothing of him, until
you told me all this. What shall I do?"
"Don't take it so hard. You have been too easily tempted by the thought
of quickly earned money, that's all, and now you're in a fix. You
haven't told me yet what happened in the boarding-house."
"I had only just got there," said B.22 excitedly, "when I heard the
telephone ring. One of the Russians answered it, and I was in the room
alongside. I guessed that Rastakov had rung up, and I heard the Russian
say: 'Yes, he has just come in.' They were speaking about me, and I
was alarmed to hear the man say: 'We had better shadow him; it would
be easier to get rid of him in Finland than here. Yes, we will keep an
eye on him; if he gives any trouble, we will find a way which won't
attract attention. No, he hasn't spoken to anyone yet....' Then I was
sure that my fate was sealed, and at first I felt paralyzed with fear,
but I knew that they would be after me in a few seconds, and, without
even stopping to get my knapsack, I crept downstairs, and out of the
house...."
Wallion could not help pitying the poor fellow, who looked like a man
sentenced to death, and could hardly speak coherently.
"Was that all?" he asked.
"It was quite enough for me; they mean to do something dreadful.... I
am not the first...."
"I know. I will help you on one condition: has our conversation
convinced you how necessary it is for you to tell me honestly and
openly everything that may lead to the annihilation of Ortiz and his
gang?"
"Yes, yes, only tell me what I can do."
"You won't only think of saving your own skin? You promise to help me
to the best of your ability?"
"Yes, yes, that's just what I want to do; only save me!"
The man's sincerity was undoubted; Wallion's earnestness had entirely
conquered his feeble will. He gazed at the journalist with doglike
submission, whilst the latter wrote a few lines, and his address, on a
card.
"Take this," he said, "go straight to my house in the Valhalla Road,
and hand the card to my housekeeper. Stay there till I come. Just wait
a minute, while I telephone to her."
B.22 seized the card with an audible sigh of relief and gratitude.
The journalist went into the outer room, and rang up his house. The
housekeeper answered, and he informed her briefly what she was to do
with B.22, and what further precautions he must observe. Then, after a
little consideration, he rang up the offices of the _Daily Courier_,
and asked for Robert Lang, who came at once to the telephone. "Has
anyone been to ask for me?" said Wallion. "What? Leonard Grath? He's
just gone? What a nuisance, I wanted particularly to see him. Don't you
know where he has gone? He really is far too headstrong to be allowed
to go off by himself, you should have kept him. No, I can't come up at
present, I must go and see what the baron and Tassler are up to, but I
want you to come at once to Tegnér Street, and find out what is going
on at the boarding-house there, if you can. It is probable that we
shall soon have to give official information to the police; we ought
to have sufficient proof in our hands in a few hours' time. Look here:
before you leave the office, arrange for somebody trustworthy--say,
Steno Beyler--to receive a young man named Bernard Jenin, who may turn
up there in the course of the day, and not to let him out of his sight
before I have had a word with him. Yes, that's all, I can tell you more
later; I've a big job on hand at present...."
He put down the receiver, and returned to the other room, but he
stopped short on the threshold: B.22 had disappeared. A door leading
to the passage stood open, and on the table lay a paper, with a few
hurried lines scrawled upon it. Wallion snatched it up, and ran into
the passage. After glancing into the garden, which was surrounded by
a high wall, he went out into the street, but B.22 was nowhere to be
seen. Feeling very anxious, the journalist read what was written on
the paper: "I must go. One of them is outside in the churchyard, and I
am sure he has seen me at the window. If they get to know that I have
anything to do with you, they will shoot me in the street. Expect me
early--about seven--to-morrow morning."
The journalist crumpled up the paper and put it in his pocket, after
which he lighted a cigarette. Not a single person was visible in the
whole length of the silent street.
CHAPTER IV
_Leonard Grath acts on his own responsibility, and meets with a
girl who runs away from him_
Leo left the problem-hunter's room like a man in a dream. It did not
occur to him to wait for Robert Lang's return, but when he got out into
the street, he found himself still holding the photograph in his hand.
Ought he not to put it back on Wallion's table? He looked hesitatingly
at it: "Sonia Bernin, the Copper House," he read once more. "So that's
Andrei Bernin's daughter. Well, there hasn't been such a beautiful girl
in the Copper House these last fifty years!" There spoke the artist; an
ordinary man would perhaps have called the girl striking, but certainly
not beautiful. Her face was not oval, but rather of an aquiline type;
her mouth was no Cupid's bow, but boyishly firm, above a self-willed
chin. But the large, dark eyes beneath their black, wing-like brows,
had a mysterious attraction for him--it seemed as though they were
calling to him, and the artist in him listened--who knows, perhaps the
man also!
Burchardt's story, Wallion's warnings, vanished in a moment from Leo's
mind. He put the photograph into his pocket and made his way to the
general station, where he went up to the booking-office, and demanded:
"A single to Karkby." A philosopher could no doubt draw many ingenious
deductions from this simple action, knowing that it was to influence
his future to an extraordinary degree. But Leo, who was anything but a
philosopher, did not give the matter a thought, and, having received
a scrap of brown pasteboard in exchange for a few silver coins, he
made his way past all obstructions to the platform, where the train
for Nynäs stood blowing off steam. He studied with a critical eye
the effect of the sun shining through the puffs of steam, and made a
mental note of the colors, "Pink and silver in the sunlight, violet in
the shade." With that, he got into the train. He had chosen the last
compartment, which was still quite empty, but a minute later, one other
passenger entered, and sat quietly down opposite. He was a young or
middle-aged man, in a threadbare overcoat: his tired face was pale,
almost grayish, the eyes encircled with innumerable tiny wrinkles;
the neat leathern attaché-case which he carried in his hand seemed to
cause him some anxiety, for he evidently debated with himself whether
he should put it up in the rack, then cast an uneasy glance at Leo,
and finally decided to keep it on his knee. Leo's amused expression
appeared to embarrass the man, for he stared straight in front of
him, with that air of constraint which betrays that one feels oneself
under observation. At the same time, he seemed to be listening for
something outside, and Leo heard him give a little sigh of relief when
the train gave a sudden jerk, and steamed out of the station, with
rapidly-increasing speed. They were alone in the carriage, that is, in
their half of it, for it was divided into two sections, with a gangway
between. Leo's thoughts began to wander. He felt curious and rather
excited at the thought of what he should find when he arrived at the
Copper House. The recollection that he would soon have no right to go
there made him serious again. Take it all in all, he had certainly
been a thoughtless, easy-going fellow! In a flash of clear-sighted
self-criticism, he passed the last few years in review: gay parties
at the studio in Montmartre, seaside amusements at Ostend, yachting,
tennis and garden-parties in California--one long, sunny playtime in
company with other idlers, who talked a great deal, and accomplished
little. And now, what was the result? He must sell the Copper House,
and tune his life to a new key, with less play and more work ... it was
jolly hard lines!
The conductor came round to clip the tickets, and as Leo put his back
into his pocket, his fingers came in contact with the photograph, and
he took it out for another look. Presently he heard a movement, and
the sound of a deep breath quite close to him, and he looked up. His
fellow-passenger had bent forward, and was gazing at the photograph
with wide-open eyes, but in a second he drew back, like a snail
into its shell, without meeting Leo's inquiring glance. The man sat
perfectly motionless, with his hands on his case, staring at the
opposite wall as before, but his lips were twitching, and his face, as
Leo put it to himself, had no more color in it than a pencil drawing.
All of a sudden Leo remembered Wallion's warning, the disappearance of
his pocket-book, the man with the camera, and Burchardt's anxious face.
He felt convinced that the strange figure opposite had been desperately
startled by the sight of the photograph, and he began to feel a chill
suspicion that he was somehow or other getting entangled in a huge net,
which was gradually tightening its meshes round him. What was up? Was
everybody going crazy?
He resolved to say something, but changed his mind as hastily, for the
other man looked as impassive as an image of Buddha. The situation was
becoming awkward, and meanwhile the train rattled on towards Nynäs
and the sea. Leo quitted the field, and took refuge at the nearest
passage-window. Refreshed by the strong sea-breeze, he made a laudable
attempt to sum up the experiences of this eventful day, but soon tired
of this, and began instead to gaze aimlessly at the passing landscape.
Could he have guessed that the most eventful part of the day was still
to come, he would perhaps have jumped out of the train then and there,
and returned to Stockholm; but, not being endowed with second-sight,
he alighted calmly at Karkby station. The first person he saw as he
reached the platform was the stranger with the attaché-case, who left
the train at the same time by another door. Leo saw him go up to the
pointsman and address him in good Swedish. Seeing a look of surprise
pass over the pointsman's face, the young man could not repress his
curiosity but strolled past them, and heard the pointsman exclaim: