The Copper House A detective story
though he had remembered something.
"And what's more," he cried across the hall, "I know how pigheaded you
are, Lona Ivanovna! All right, if you would rather have the Chief to
deal with, just let me know! But beware of meddling with Tarraschin's
memorandum, for it means death!"
With that, he disappeared. Lona Ivanovna took Leo by the arm, and drew
him with unexpected force, though not unkindly, into the dining-room
after her.
"Isn't it a case for the police?" he began.
"Don't mix yourself up in this," she said kindly. "Sonia, they want
to search the house: you must see that Mr. Grath is spared hearing
anything more of Rastakov...."
Sonia came up to them; she was very pale, but quite composed; the
boyish look had vanished, and she answered quietly: "If Mr. Grath is
determined to stay, I am afraid he will be obliged to see a good deal
both of Rastakov and of Baron Fayerling."
The two women looked expectantly at him. They could hear the hasty
steps of the searchers echoing through the whole house.
"I should like to know who this Rastakov is, that he takes so much upon
himself in a house where my honored guests are staying," said Leo,
emphasizing the word 'guests'--"neither have I heard anything of Baron
Fayerling. But I shall be glad to make the acquaintance of anyone who
is good enough to honor the Copper House with his presence."
He was quite aware that his tone was not courteous, in spite of the
formality of his speech, but he was thoroughly roused. He could see
now, as though a curtain had been drawn back, that these people,
whose strange dark faces were stamped with furtive menace, were the
mysterious offspring of the lurid shadows of the World War.
He thought of the panic-stricken fugitive whom he had just seen flying
for his life; of the shot which had so recently rung through the house:
of Lona Ivanovna with the revolver in her hand. The frenzied search
was still progressing overhead; footsteps and voices echoed through
the passages. "Living or dead!" As Rastakov's words recurred to Leo's
mind, he was seized with the horrible conviction that murder had been
committed already: what ought he to do?
The two women were watching his face as though they longed to read his
thoughts.
"Your room is quite ready," said the elder one gravely.
Before Leo had decided what to answer, he found himself alone. He
began to pace up and down in great perturbation. He could see one of
the men, with his gun, outside on the terrace, silhouetted against the
rosy, sunset sky. For the last few minutes, such a silence had fallen,
that he could have fancied himself alone in the house. He listened
attentively, but could hear nothing. His thoughts circled irresolutely
over what had occurred, but he could find no explanation of it, and
began to feel more and more uneasy. An hour passed by, the shadows
lengthened and still no sound broke the stillness. Was no one coming
back?
At last he could bear the suspense no longer, and he went into the
hall. He could still see, through the glass doors, the armed sentry on
the terrace, but inside the house all was empty and silent. He went
from one room to another, and ran upstairs to the first floor, but not
a soul did he meet. The thought that the fugitive was perhaps lying
dead, huddled away in some dark corner, obsessed him like a nightmare,
and his limbs trembled as though with fever. Suddenly a sort of panic
came over him, he ran breathlessly up another flight of stairs, burst
open the door of his bedroom, and shut it after him with a bang that
resounded through the house. Leaning against the door, and alone in the
little room, where everything was just as it always had been since his
earliest childhood, and where he had dreamed so many boyish dreams, he
breathed again.
"Have I gone mad?" he asked himself. "What is going on here? The
Problem-hunter was right, the Copper House is full of mysteries!"
He looked round for some water, for his lips felt parched, but there
was none in the room. "Can they have killed him!" he thought. "And is
it possible that I have stood by, without moving a finger, and allowed
a man to be done to death!"
At last he heard a door creak outside, and he peeped out into the dusky
corridor. The door of the spare bedroom at the other end of the passage
was opening slowly, an inch at a time, and he could see first a feeble,
bony hand, and then a stooping figure outlined against the window
behind.
The figure moved uncertainly, groping with a stick along the edge of
the carpet, and walked with short, senile steps towards the stairs. Leo
watched him narrowly, trying to get a glimpse of his face; he thought
he could make out a short white beard and straggling white hair under a
velvet skull-cap, and the glimmer of a pair of blue spectacles. A blind
man! In an instant he realized that his wealthy tenant, Andrei Bernin,
was before him for the first time. The old man seemed to hesitate,
and called softly: "Sonia!" but receiving no answer, he finally went
towards the staircase, tapping with his stick at every step. Leo could
hear his quavering voice calling to Lona Ivanovna, the sound getting
fainter as it receded. There was something so eerie about those feeble
tones, uttered in the silent, lonely house at nightfall, that the young
man, with a shudder, shut himself into his room again. After a minute
he double-locked the door, and went over to the open window. The sky
had faded to sulphur-yellow in the west, and night was closing in,
cool and dim, over the countryside. A soft breeze was blowing in from
the sea. He heard the crunching of gravel under his window, and leaned
out. Two figures passed beneath, one of whom pointed upwards, and said
something in an imperious tone. Leo fancied he recognized Rastakov's
voice.
They knew, then, that he was in his bedroom, and they were keeping
an eye on him! The conviction awakened fresh misgivings. He sat down
on the bed, and buried his head in his hands. Was he afraid? Yes, he
had to confess that he _was_ afraid, because there was nobody within
reach in whom he could confide, or whom he could ask for advice.... The
Problem-hunter! He sprang to his feet.
Five minutes later, he had climbed down the thick clumsy copper
gutter-spout, with the same soundless agility, and the same intense
excitement as had characterized such escapades twenty years ago. He
expected to be halted by a challenge from the shadowy avenue, but
none came, and the owner of Copper House crept away like a Red Indian
through the trees into the wood. Three times he caught a glimpse of
the dark forms of the men whom Sonia Bernin called forest-guards,
but, lucky for once, he did not attract their notice. When he turned
round, he could see in the far distance, behind the top of the massive
pile of the Copper House, a flickering, bluish glimmer, which seemed
to come from the direction of the Bay. He did not venture to delay
that he might investigate the source of this unusual light.... When he
strung himself aboard the last train to Stockholm, which was already
moving out of Karkby, he was gasping for breath, and drenched with
perspiration.
CHAPTER VI
_The Problem-hunter_
It was past midnight, when a young man, evidently dead-tired, and
looking thoroughly exhausted, entered the office of the night Editor
of the _Daily Courier_, and asked to see Maurice Wallion. The night
Editor, a somewhat callous personage, looked at him without any special
interest.
"Wallion?" he answered dryly. "He's not here."
"Where can I find him?"
"That's more than I can tell you--we haven't seen him ourselves! There
is just one chance in a thousand that he's at home, but if he is, he
doesn't answer the telephone, anyway--I have tried! He won't be best
pleased when he sees how his office here has been turned upside down."
"Upside down?"
"That's putting it mildly. You might tell him, if you find him,
that his room looks as though a squad of small hurricanes had been
performing war-dances in it, and that nobody knows how or when. Here's
his address, if you really feel you want the exercise of a night ramble
from here to Valhalla Road."
The Editor pushed a scrap of paper into Leo's hand, and showed him out
with a polite, though rather suggestive, zeal.
The young man stood for a while in the deserted street, to collect his
thoughts. He also turned up his coat-collar, for the keen air made him
shiver after his exertions in the wood; and with a gesture of undaunted
resolution, he started on his pilgrimage through the shadowy wilderness
of stone, beneath the rows of extinguished street lamps.
Women accosted him with inviting glances and alluring voices: and knots
of revelers passed him with discordant bursts of laughter; further on,
a policeman with his hands behind him, stood gazing after him.
These shadows, appearing and vanishing in the mists of night, recalled
the events of the last few hours, as did the glaring, owl-like orbs of
the clock-tower, and he hastened his steps, breaking into an occasional
run.
When he at last reached the broad, lonely Valhalla Road, past the
Stadion and the barracks, his clothes were clinging to him, and he
was quite out of breath. It now occurred to him for the first time,
that the outer door of the block of flats, in one of which the
Problem-hunter lived, would probably be locked, but when he arrived
there, he saw that it was partly open, and, without stopping to
consider the reason for this, he ran quickly up the stairs....
He came to a standstill before the folding-doors, which bore a brass
plate with the name of Maurice Wallion. One of the doors stood ajar,
and on the stone floor of the lobby were scattered several splinters of
white wood. He heard the stairs creaking on the next landing, as though
someone were making his escape that way, startled by his unexpected
arrival. All was dark in front of him, but he pushed the door open and
stepped over the threshold.
A hand hovered above his head like a swooping hawk and seized him by
the neck. The owner of the hand came out from behind the door, and a
strong voice said mockingly in his ear: "Come along in, young fellow!
No, don't struggle, I've been waiting for you impatiently. I can't say
you are much of a hand at forcing a Yale lock, it has taken you the
best part of half an hour--and now--glad to see you, take a seat!"
With what seemed to Leo superhuman strength, he was lifted up and flung
headlong into a corner, where he fell on to a heap of something soft,
clothes evidently. The electric light was turned on with a click, and
he saw bending over him a tall man in shooting costume. A pair of keen
gray eyes, that sparkled with energy and humor, were peering down at
him, and Leo guessed instinctively who this must be.
"Good morning, Mr. Wallion," he said. "Pleased to meet you...."
"It's you, is it?" answered the Problem-hunter, without seeming in the
least taken aback. "Why are you sitting there?"
Leo got up.
"I was under the impression that there was an earthquake just as I came
in, but perhaps I was mistaken!"
"It was I who was mistaken, my dear Mr. Grath. One of Baron Fayerling's
aides-de-camp has been playing about with the lock of my door
for the last half-hour, and I have been standing behind the door
waiting--naturally they thought I was out--and just as he was on
the point of getting in, you interrupted him, and fell into my trap
instead...."
The Problem-hunter broke off, and sprang to the door, but at the same
instant, they heard a terrific clattering down the stairs, and the
outer door at the bottom was banged to.
"He had evidently no wish to wait, when he knew that I was at home,"
remarked Wallion. "I must really beg your pardon for the very rough