CHRISTIAN TUESKI.
While the men were straining and fighting to get admission into the room, I loaded my revolver, seized a heavy stick that lay in a corner, and opening the window noiselessly and with some little trouble and agility, got into the street. I let myself into the house and then I thundered at the outer door of my own rooms as if seeking immediate admission.
Instantly there was a great scuffling within, and I knew that the men were making off by the back, in the probable belief that they had been disturbed by some unexpected caller. Judging the time as best I could, so that I might perhaps catch one of them, I rushed in suddenly. One had fled, the second was in the act of dropping from a window, while a third was just clambering out.
I struck this one a blow on the head which laid him down senseless in a heap on the floor, and leaning out was in time to give the second a whack that must have nearly broken his arm. Then without wasting a moment I bound the man I had knocked down and closely bandaged his eyes.
Telling Paula Tueski that I had scared the rascals away, I dragged the fellow to the light, that she might recognise him. She identified him directly, and without a word being spoken except by me, I thrust him into a dark closet and turned the key on him while I settled what to do next.
"You knew him, I could see," I said, when I joined my visitor again. "Is he a police spy?"
"No, not in the ordinary sense. I have seen him with my husband: but exactly what he is, I don't know. I believe he is one of a small band of really villainous men, used for especially ugly work."
"But why am I marked out for a visit from them?"
"I believe my husband has suspected you—on my account. I know he hates you cordially. You remember that affair in the Opera lobby, when you insulted him so grossly." I nodded: but of course I had not the remotest idea what she meant. "He never forgives. Since then he has been accumulating every jot and tittle of fact against you—and you have given him plenty, Alexis—and if he can work your overthrow, he will."
"Yes: but why try to get me assassinated. I'll go at once and ask him," I said, readily and impulsively.
"Are you mad?" exclaimed my companion.
"On the contrary, I'll go and shew him the danger of interfering with me. Where is he to be found now?"
"At home. He will not leave for an hour yet to make his evening visit to the Bureau. But he will never consent to see you."
"At any rate I'll try; and I'm much mistaken if I don't force him. I have a plan," I added, after a minute's thought. "I will clear us both at a stroke. Go at once to my sister, and tell her from me that I wish her to come back here with you and wait for me. Mind, too, should anyone come to fetch away that fellow I've locked up, let Olga say enough in his presence to make it clear that she was here with us when the attack was first made. Be quick and careful: for much will depend on all this being well done."
I drove rapidly to the place and sending in my card asked for an immediate interview with the Chief of the Police, on urgent business. The reply came back that M. Tueski could not see me; I was to call at his office. I sent the messenger back with a peremptory reply that I must see him, as I had discovered an assassination plot. I was still refused admittance; though a longer wait shewed me he had considered the matter carefully.
This time I wrote a brief note:—"One of your hired assassins, has been identified, has confessed, and lies at this moment bound and in my power. If you do not see me now I shall communicate direct with the Ministry of the Interior."
That proved the 'Open Sesame,' and in a few moments, I was ushered into the presence of one of the most hated men in Russia,—the man I had been commissioned to kill.
He was a small man with a face that would have been common looking but for its extraordinarily hard and cold expression. It was lined and seamed in all directions: and each line might have been drawn by Nature with the express object of marking him out as an absolutely merciless, calculating, and emotionless man.
His eyes were very bright as they fixed on me, and his voice, harsh, high pitched and tuneless.
"Men don't belie your new character when they call you daring," was his greeting.
He was standing by the side of a long table with his black clothed figure outlined against the colours of luxuriant tapestries with which the walls were hung. He motioned me to a chair, near enough to be within the demands of courtesy to an officer bearing the Emperor's commission, and far enough removed from him to be safe should the visitor turn out to be dangerous. I noticed, too, that an electric bell button was well within reach. "What do you wish with me, Lieutenant? This visit is unusual."
"I am not accustomed to bother about what is usual where my life is concerned," I answered, firmly. "I want an answer to a plain question. Why do you send your bravoes to assassinate me?"
"I have sent no bravoes to assassinate you, Lieutenant. I don't understand you. We don't hire assassins." As though the whole thing were ridiculous.
"Yet your wife recognised this man instantly."
"My wife!" he exclaimed, with a sufficient change to shew how this had touched him.
"Yes. Your wife. She was in my rooms when these men came."
He drew in a deep breath while he looked at me with eyes of hate. I had got right between the joints of his armour of impassivity. It was a cruel thrust; but I had an ugly game to play, and was forced to hit hard.
He seemed to struggle to repress his private feelings and to remain the impassive official. But human nature and his jealousy beat him, and his next question came with a jerk that shewed the effort behind it.
"What was she doing there?" His tone was the essence of harsh bitterness.
"What was she doing there?" I echoed, as if in the greatest astonishment. "Why, what should she be doing but calling with my sister? They are there now, keeping guard over your—assistant."
He turned away for a moment to prevent my seeing in his face the relief which I could hear in his voice as he answered:—
"You are an even bolder man than I thought."
"I don't understand you, of course; but I have need to be bold," I retorted, "with you against me ready to plan my private execution. They're heavy odds. But now, perhaps, you'll answer my question—Why do you do this?"
"There might be many reasons—if it were true," he answered in the same curt tone he had first used.
"One's enough for me, if it's true," I replied, copying his sharp manner.
He stood a minute looking at me in silence, and then sat down.
"I think I've been doing you an injustice, Lieutenant," he said, presently. "I thought when you forced your way into me you might be coming to assassinate me. But I see now you're not such a fool as to try and do anything of that kind when you have left a broad trail behind you that would lead to your certain detection. You are young; with all the weaknesses of youth strongly developed—rash, hotheaded, sometimes tipsy, a fool with women, and when, necessary, a knave too, loose in money matters and unscrupulous, a gambler, a dicer, and a bankrupt in morals, religion, and honour. But you are shrewd—for you've deceived everyone about your sword-skill and your courage—and under the garb of a worthless fellow you have a cool, calculating, and yet dare-devil head that should make your fortune. Others are more right about you than I."
"Others?" I asked, interested and amused by this quiet enumeration of the results of the analysis of two very different, but united characters. "Who are the others?"
A faint ghost of what in another man would have been a smile relaxed the grim, hard, straight lips for an instant, in mockery of my attempt to draw him.
"You are not unknown, Lieutenant, as you may find soon; but you are a fool to mix yourself up with the Nihilists."
It was my turn now to be on the defensive.
"That is a charge which a child can make and the wisest man can sometimes fail to rebut," I answered, sharply. "I am not a Nihilist."
He waved his hand as if my repudiation were not worth a serious thought.
"I can make you a career, if you will. If you will act under me...."
"Thank you," I returned, coldly. "I know what you can do. You can put me first on the list for some task which will insure my being served as you meant me to be served to-day. One commission is enough for me, and I prefer the Emperor's."
"You don't know what you say, nor what you refuse."
"All the more reason for not regretting my refusal," I retorted, lightly. "But this does not answer my question—Why do you seek to have me assassinated?"
"Siberia is getting overpopulated," he returned, manifestly angry at my refusal.
"You mean it's cheaper to kill than to exile."
"One must have some regard for its morals, too," he sneered, with a contempt at which my rage took fire.
I looked at him with a light in my eyes which he could read plainly enough.
"You are a coward, M. Tueski," said I, sternly: "because you presume upon the office you hold to say things which without the protection that guards you, you would not dare to let between your teeth."
"It is useless to talk in that strain to me," he said, shortly. "I know you."
"No—by Heaven, you don't—yet. But I'll let you know something of me now. Men say you know no fear; that your loves, desires, emotions, are all dead—all, save ambition. I'll test that. This plot you have laid against my life is your own private revenge for some fancied wrong. You have sought to carry it out even at the very moment when you had had a hint to guard me. It was cunningly laid, and nearly succeeded; and then you would have set the blame down at Devinsky's door."
He listened without making a sign: quite impassively. But the mere fact that he did listen shewed me I was striking the right note, and further that he wished to see what I meant to do.
"Go on," he said, contemptuously, when I paused.
"I can prove this: aye, and I will prove it, even if I go to the Emperor himself: and prove it—by your own wife." He could not wholly conceal the effect of this. He knew the strength of the threat.
"More than that," I cried then, quickening my speech and shewing much more passion. "You know what the world says about me and your wife. You shewed me you knew it, when I told you just now that she was in my rooms when your men came to try and take my life. You have dared to smirch my honour in regard to women: and you have lied. So far as your wife is concerned, there has never been a thought of mine toward her tainted with dishonour. So far as I am concerned she is virgin pure. But, by God! beware how you taunt me. It lies with you to say whether I shall change; and if you drive me to it, I'll...."
I left the terrible sentence unfinished; and the change in the man's manner shewed me how he was inwardly shrinking and wincing at my desperate words.
"Go on. What do you want?" He spoke after a great effort and strove to keep his voice at the dead level of official lifelessness. But the man was an inward fire of rage and jealousy.
"This duel is not my seeking, but yours, M. Tueski," I continued. "And for my part I would as soon have a truce. But if we are to fight on, I will use every weapon I can lay my hand on,—and use them desperately. You can prove the truth of what I say. Send round someone to my rooms and fetch away the scoundrel who is there. My sister will let him go. Your wife, her friend, is staying with her to help in case of need. And whatever else I may be, at least I should not give my mistress to my sister for a friend."
"You are the devil!" The words forced themselves through his teeth at this word. I used it deliberately: and it was the shrewdest thing I could have done. He left the room without another word, going through a door behind him; and, calling to someone, he whispered some instructions.
"You have sent? You are right," I said, when he returned. "And now, call off these bloodhounds of yours; and so long as you play fair with me, my sister and your wife can be friends. And no longer. One other condition. Give me two police permits to cross the frontier on special business—one for me and one for my sister. You may not be sorry if I decide to take a holiday."
"I cannot give them, and you cannot leave," he answered.
"Write me the permits. I'll see about using them."
"No; I cannot write them. If I did, they would be cancelled to-morrow by the Ministry of the Interior."
"Why?"
"The fact is what I say. You cannot leave Russia."
"I care nothing for that. Write them—or we resume this duel, M. Tueski."
He was a changed man. He was so accustomed to exact implicit obedience to his will, and to ride roughshod over everyone about him, that now being beaten, his collapse was utter and complete. He was absolutely overcome by the pressure I could threaten and he thought I was blackguard enough to apply.
For once at least my old black character did me a good turn. He acted like a weak child now, entirely subjected by my will. He wrote the permits as I directed.
As he was writing it occurred to me there must be some influence behind the scenes which told with him. Else, why did he not forthwith write out the order for my imprisonment? He had done it hundreds of times before in the case of men infinitely more influential than myself. His signature would open the door of any prison in Russia. It suggested itself that it was this reason which was at the bottom of the attempt to get me killed. He dared not follow out his own desire.
"One thing puzzles me," I said, coolly, as I took the permits. "Why haven't you, instead of writing these, written an order packing me off to gaol? What is this power behind you?"
"I may live in hope, perhaps," he returned. "Your sword and your shrewdness may carry you far: and some day as far as the gaol you speak of. I shan't fail to write it when the time comes."
I left him with that.
As I left the house a man pressed close to me, and I turned to see what he wanted. There was no one else about.
"Is it done?" he whispered.
I looked at him keenly; but I had never seen him before, I thought.
"What do you mean?" I asked.
"The night in the riverside wharf," he whispered back.
He was a Nihilist; here right in the very eye of the police web.
"The way is laid," I answered, equivocally, as I hurried away.
I had actually forgotten in my eagerness all about my charge to kill the man with whom I had been closeted in conference.
But I saw instantly that the Nihilist would probably hold it for an act of treachery that I had been in Tueski's house and yet had let him live.