Chapter Seven.
The Professor brings in a Prisoner.
“I have met you before, I think, Herr Professor,” Vasilovich at length remarked. “And your card says that you have important business with me. What can I do for you?”
“You can do a great deal for me, Count,” answered von Schalckenberg, composedly. “But first of all,” he continued, “I have a little thing here that I wish to show you; you are a connoisseur in such things, and it will interest you.”
So saying, the professor slipped his hand into his pocket, and produced a pistol, made apparently of polished silver, but really of aethereum. He held it by the barrel and offered it to the Count, remarking—
“There, Count, that is a simple enough weapon, to all appearance, is it not? Kindly examine it, and see if you can discover anything remarkable about it.”
A sudden look of terrified anxiety leapt into Vasilovich’s eyes as the professor produced the handsome little weapon; but the placid manner of the latter as he tendered the pistol for examination seemed to reassure him, and grasping the butt, he looked at it intently.
“Is the pistol an invention of yours which you wish the Russian Government to adopt?” he demanded, as he turned the weapon about in his hand, eyeing it curiously.
“That is as it may be,” answered von Schalckenberg. “At present, knowing you to be, perhaps, as good a judge as any man in Russia of such tools, I merely wish to obtain your unbiassed opinion of its merits.”
“Its merits?” demanded Vasilovich, impatiently. “What are its merits? I see nothing peculiar about it excepting this cylinder from which the barrel projects. Is that a magazine?”
“It is,” answered the professor; “it accommodates twenty cartridges. But that is not the most extraordinary thing about it. Can you discover the method of firing the weapon?”
“No,” answered Vasilovich, “I cannot. I was about to ask you as to that.”
“It is perfectly simple. Permit me,” remarked the professor, in the easiest and most matter-of-fact tone imaginable. And, so saying, he took the pistol from Vasilovich’s unresisting hand.
“There are still two other peculiarities connected with this weapon,” remarked von Schalckenberg; “namely, the marvellous rapidity with which it can be fired, and the fact that it is absolutely noiseless when discharged. Please observe, Count. You see those two decanters upon the table? Kindly fix your eyes upon their stoppers.”
The decanters referred to were standing upon the table, some twelve paces distant from von Schalckenberg, and some eight feet apart, where they had been carelessly placed by the servant before leaving the count to the solitary enjoyment of his tobacco and vodki. As the professor spoke,
he suddenly raised his hand and levelled the pistol with lightning quickness first at one decanter and then at the other. There was a sharp clink-clink, and the tops of the smashed stoppers fell upon the table all but simultaneously.
Vasilovich looked astounded. He stared first at the decanters, then at von Schalckenberg, then back again at the decanters.
“Did you break those stoppers by firing at them with that pistol?” he at length demanded, in a tone of mingled apprehension and rage.
“Certainly,” answered the professor, placidly. “Did you not see me do it, or was I rather too quick for you? Shall I do the trick again? Just watch the necks of the decanters this time—”
“Stop!” shouted Vasilovich, springing from his chair in a paroxysm of fury. “How dare you, you scoundrel! What do you mean by coming here and destroying my property in this insolent way, eh?” And he reached towards a hand-bell that stood near him on the table.
“Sit down, and keep your hand from that bell,” retorted von Schalckenberg, sternly, levelling the pistol, quick as light, at the count’s head. “Utter a sound above a whisper, or move so much as an eyelid, and I will riddle your worthless brain with bullets. My little exhibition just now was simply intended to convey to you, in a thoroughly practical manner, some idea of the capabilities of this weapon of mine. I have fired two shots from it, and there are consequently eighteen left; furthermore, I have another weapon of the same kind in my other pocket, fully loaded. I have, therefore, thirty-eight shots at my disposal, and, if I please, I can kill you so silently that no one shall be any the wiser. And I will do it, too, without a moment’s hesitation, if you refuse to give me the information I require. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, I understand you,” answered Vasilovich, slowly and reluctantly, as his fascinated gaze peered down the barrel of the pistol with which von Schalckenberg relentlessly continued to cover him. “What is it you want?”
“I want the truth as to the present whereabouts of Colonel Sziszkinski. I know all about his imprisonment, at your instigation, in the fortress of Peter and Paul. Is he there still?” demanded the professor. “Consider before answering,” he continued, “and remember that I want the truth. I shall not trust to your statements, I shall verify them through other sources of information; and I caution you to be very careful indeed in what you say, because if you dare to lie to me, or to withhold from me the smallest scrap of information, or to deceive me in any way, you will simply be pronouncing your own death-sentence.”
“There is no need to caution me so elaborately,” retorted the count. “I have no objection to giving you the information you require, and I give it the more readily that it will not be of the slightest use to you. You are a friend of Sziszkinski’s, I presume, and your anxiety to ascertain his present whereabouts leads me to suppose that you may have planned some mad scheme to effect his rescue. If so, it will perhaps be a disappointment to you to learn that he left Odessa this afternoon, as a convict, bound to Sakhalien, on board the convict-steamer Ludwig Gadd, from which ship, and from the officials in charge of her, no human power can now deliver him.”
“Have you any proof of the truth of what you say?” demanded von Schalckenberg, still keeping his pistol levelled at the count’s head.
“Yes,” answered Vasilovich, with a ring of triumph in his voice; “I received a telegram this afternoon from Odessa, informing me of the departure of the Ludwig Gadd, with Sziszkinski on board.”
“Is that telegram still in your possession?” inquired von Schalckenberg.
“Certainly it is,” answered Vasilovich; “it is in my breast pocket. Would you like to see it?”
“Yes,” replied the professor, “I should. Produce it, if you please. But,” he continued, warningly, “be very careful what you are about; bear in mind that I am covering you, and I warn you that if I detect the slightest appearance of haste in your movements, or if you produce anything except the telegram from your pocket, I shall shoot you, without a particle of compunction.”
The count, keeping a wary eye upon von Schalckenberg, proceeded, with much care and deliberation, to feel in his pocket for the telegram, which he presently produced, in its envelope, and placed upon the table before him.
“Are you sure that is it?” demanded von Schalckenberg.
“Quite certain,” responded Vasilovich.
“Then, have the goodness to take it out of the envelope and spread it open on the table,” commanded the professor.
Without a word, Vasilovich did as he was ordered.
“Now,” resumed the professor, “rise from your chair, turn your back to me, and march slowly forward until you are against the wall. March!”
“Confound you!” exclaimed Vasilovich, his eyes gleaming with fury, “you will not give me a chance!” And he rose, obedient to von Schalckenberg’s command, faced about, and moved forward to the wall, the professor following him until the telegram was within his reach, when he stretched out his hand, took possession of the document and, still watching his prisoner out of the corner of his eye, read as follows, in Russian—
“Convict-steamer Ludwig Gadd just sailed for Sakhalien with Sziszkinski safe on board.
“Tchernigov.”
The message was dated that same day, and timed as having been despatched from Odessa at four-forty.
“Thank you; that will do,” remarked von Schalckenberg, as he thrust the paper into his pocket. “Now,” he continued, “I want you to take a walk with me in the park. We shall pass out through the principal entrance of the château. But I wish to warn you again to be extremely careful, for I assure you that your life hangs by a hair, and if I see that there is even a possibility of anything going wrong I shall shoot you at once, taking my chance with your servants afterwards. So, in the event of our encountering any of your domestics on our way out, you will instantly order them to retire. Now, sir, have the goodness to lead the way.”
And, as the professor spoke, he laid upon the table a document setting forth the fact that Count Vasilovich had been “removed,” as a punishment for the many crimes of which he had been guilty.
The glitter of deadly hate in Vasilovich’s eyes as he faced round and began to move, in obedience to von Schalckenberg’s order, warned the latter to be on his guard; but the professor was not the man to be taken unawares in the prosecution of such an adventure as he had now undertaken, and no doubt Vasilovich saw it, for he led the way so circumspectly as to show plainly that he fully appreciated the imminent peril of his situation. Fortunately for both, perhaps, no one was encountered, either in the house or in the courtyard, as the pair made their way toward the park; and a whispered reminder from von Schalckenberg proved sufficiently effectual to carry them safely past the gate-keeper’s room. Once clear of this point, the rest was easy, and a few minutes later, as the pair passed a clump of laurels, Mildmay stepped forward from his place of concealment and stationed himself on the other side of the prisoner remarking cheerfully—
“So you have captured your man, eh, Professor? Had you any trouble with him? I was beginning to feel a trifle anxious about you.”
Thereupon the professor proceeded to relate briefly his experiences at the château, thus beguiling the way until the curiously assorted trio reached the Flying Fish, at the vast bulk of which Vasilovich stared in stupefied amazement. His captors, however, afforded him but scant time for indulgence in surprise or conjecture, conveying him forthwith to the tank chamber, wherein they securely locked him, taking the additional precaution of placing his hands and feet in fetters and attaching him thereby to a ring-bolt, thus rendering it absolutely impossible for him to do the slightest mischief. Having made everything secure, they hastily changed their attire and joined the rest of the party in the drawing-room, preparatory to sitting down to dinner.
The chief topic of conversation at the dinner-table that night had, naturally, more or less direct reference to the professor’s capture of the tyrant, Vasilovich, and everybody was keenly anxious to learn from von Schalckenberg the full details of the feat. There was nothing for it, therefore, but for the hero of the adventure to describe the incident in extenso. When the relation came to an end Colonel Lethbridge remarked—
“Well, all I can say, Professor, is that it was an exceedingly plucky thing to attempt, and you appear to have carried it through with the most admirable nerve and sangfroid. Were you not afraid that the fellow would raise an alarm and bring all his retainers about you, like a nest of hornets? Had he done so, you would have been a lost man!”
“No doubt,” assented von Schalckenberg, imperturbably. “And of course I had to take the risk of his doing so. But I succeeded in thoroughly convincing him that any attempt of that kind, however successful it might be, would not help him in the least, because I should shoot him dead at the first indication of such an intention, and long before assistance could possibly arrive. And, as I had anticipated, his regard for his own life was sufficient to deter him from throwing it away for the sake of the very doubtful posthumous gratification of knowing that he had placed mine in jeopardy. In a word, he was simply too great a coward to risk so much for the sake of mere revenge.”
“Well,” observed Mildmay, “it was as magnificent an exhibition of ‘bluff’ as I have ever heard of. You have been completely successful thus far, Professor; and now, the most difficult part of your scheme being accomplished, I see no reason whatever why we should not be equally successful in the other part; in which event,” turning to Feodorovna, “I shall hope to have the pleasure of witnessing your reunion with your father to-morrow.”
“Oh, Captain—oh, Sir Reginald!” she exclaimed, the tears starting to her eyes, “if you can but compass that I will for ever bless and pray for you all!” And, springing to her feet, the poor girl retreated precipitately to her cabin to conceal her emotion.
“The next question that arises,” remarked Sir Reginald, discreetly ignoring the young lady’s hurried retreat, “is: At what time ought we to start in pursuit of the convict-ship?”
He seemed to address this question to the professor, who shrugged his shoulders expressively as he replied—
“That is for our friend Mildmay to say; he will know better than any of the rest of us what will be the most favourable hour at which to overtake her.”
Thus appealed to, Mildmay replied—
“Oh, I should say about daylight; call it half-past six to-morrow morning. That will necessitate our starting from here at—um! Before I can determine that I must see which way the wind is, and at what strength it is blowing. I will have a look round on deck after dinner, and let you all know.”
Accordingly, as soon as Lady Olivia had retired from the table, Mildmay rose from his seat, went on deck, and returned in about five minutes with the information that a bitterly keen, northerly wind was blowing at a strength of about twenty miles an hour.
“That,” he remarked, “is a dead fair wind for us, and will enable us to progress at the rate of one hundred and forty miles an hour over the ground, if we proceed at full speed, and we shall therefore—Stop a moment; I must work this out on paper.”
He drew an envelope from his pocket and proceeded to make a few rapid calculations upon it.
“Yes,” he resumed at length, as he ran over his figures a second time, “that is right. If we start at midnight we shall—assuming the wind to hold all the way as it is now—overtake the convict-ship about half-past six o’clock to-morrow morning at a point, say, one hundred and sixty-five miles south of Odessa, which is practically halfway across the Black Sea. The time and place are both suitable, and I do not think that we can do better.”
As this was essentially a point for a sailor to decide, the other members of the party at once fell in with this virtual proposal of Mildmay’s, and it was forthwith agreed, without further discussion, that a start should be made at midnight. The men then rose and joined the ladies in the drawing-room, or music-room, as the apartment was indifferently called.
This music-room was a most noble chamber, both as to dimensions and appearance, being the largest room in the ship. It was situated immediately abaft the dining-saloon, from which access to it was gained. It was, however, a much larger apartment than the other, being, like the dining-saloon, the full width of the ship, and forty feet in length between the fore and after bulkheads, its height being ten feet to the lower edge of the massive and richly moulded cornice from which sprang the coved and panelled ceiling. The walls were divided up into panels by a series of fluted pilasters surmounted by elegantly and fancifully moulded capitals upon which rested the above-mentioned cornice. Centrally between the pilasters, the side walls of the apartment were pierced with circular ports, or windows, about eighteen inches in diameter, glazed with plate-glass of enormous thickness that had been specially toughened, by a process invented by the professor, to enable it to withstand the terrific pressure to which it would be subjected when the ship should be submerged to great depths in the ocean. The frames of these ports consisted of foliated wreaths of polished aethereum, presenting the appearance of burnished silver, and were exceedingly decorative in effect. A light rod of aethereum above each port carried a number of burnished rings from which drooped handsome lace curtains, that could either be looped back or allowed to veil the window, according to the fancy of the occupants. Above these, again, were hung a number of exquisite pictures in water-colour. The floor was covered with a very rich and handsome Turkey carpet, into which one sank almost to the ankles, as into a thick bed of soft moss; chairs, couches, and divans of exquisite shape and seductive capacity were scattered here and there about the apartment, and at its fore or wider end stood, close together, a grand piano and a chamber organ, both in superbly modelled aethereum cases, and both, it need scarcely be said, of the finest quality and workmanship obtainable; while the narrower or after end was almost filled by a capacious electric stove, or fireplace, with a most singularly handsome mantelpiece, supported on either side by a beautifully modelled female figure. The centre of the mantelpiece was occupied by a handsome clock, having a set of silvery chimes for the quarters and a deep, rich-toned gong for the hours, and on either side of it were a number of elegantly shaped vases, full of choice hot-house flowers. But the most striking feature of the whole apartment was its beautiful coved and panelled ceiling, with its exquisitely moulded interlacing ribs, the choice and dainty paintings that adorned its panels, and the magnificent skylight that occupied its centre. This skylight, it may be mentioned, was such only in appearance, as it did not pierce the deck or derive its light from the outside; it was merely a fanciful and decorative device of the professor’s, the light emanating from a series of electric lamps shaded by coloured glass screens, so tinted as to permit, by the simple manipulation of certain concealed mirrors, the effect of every description of light, from that of the unclouded midday sun, through every gradation of morning or afternoon light, to that of sunset, the softest dusk of evening, or even the light of the full moon.
The apartment presented a charmingly cosy and comfortable as well as attractive appearance as the four men entered it, the electric stove emitting a cheerful glow and diffusing just the right degree of warmth, while an afternoon effect of brilliant sunlight streamed richly down through the magnificent stained-glass of the skylight in the centre of the ceiling. Lady Olivia and her guest, the young Russian girl, were sitting together on a large divan, in close contiguity to a handsome music cabinet, turning over books and sheets of music, for Feodorovna had consented to sing, and was now searching her hostess’s stock of music in quest of something with which she was familiar.
“Ach, that is good!” exclaimed the professor, as he noted the occupation of the ladies and guessed its import. “My little Feodorovna is about to sing? Then we shall all have a treat, for let me tell you, Lady Olivia, that my young friend possesses the voice of an angel, and the knowledge how to use it properly. Now, what is it to be? Tschaïkowski, Beethoven, Schubert, Brahms, Handel, Mozart? Ah, here is something that will suit your voice, little one, ‘Caro mio ben!’ by Giuseppe Giordani—quaint, delicate, old-fashioned. Come, I will play your accompaniment for you.” And, taking the girl’s hand, von Schalckenberg, who was an accomplished as well as an enthusiastic musician, led her to the piano, at which he forthwith seated himself and at once proceeded to play, with crisp yet delicate touch and manifest enjoyment, the prelude to the song.
And then, indeed, as the professor had promised, the listeners had a treat, for Mlle. Sziszkinski’s voice was of a rare quality, rich, pure, flexible, clear as a silver bell, under perfect control, sympathetic, and peculiarly adapted to render with precisely the correct feeling the pleading words—
“Caro mio ben, credimi almen, senza di te languisce il cor,” etcetera.
Tears gathered in her fine eyes as she sang, and the final note of the song was almost a sob; for she possessed the comparatively rare ability to evolve the feeling and sentiment of the words she sang and make them her own, thus bringing them home to the hearts of those who listened. Yet she laughingly apologised for herself the next moment, as she turned away from the piano, upon receiving the hearty thanks of her little audience; for, although she was a true artist, she was entirely free from any morbidity of feeling, being, in fact, a perfectly natural, light-hearted girl. And her gay and cheerful disposition was already reasserting itself now that, if she might accept the assurances of the professor and her new-found friends, her father’s troubles were nearing their end, and his deliverance from persecution was a matter of but a few hours more.
Then the professor sang a rollicking German students’ song. He was followed by Lady Olivia, who sang Gounod’s “Ave Maria,” accompanied by her husband on the piano, and the professor on the organ. Then Mildmay produced his violin. And so the time slipped rapidly on until the clock upon the mantelpiece struck the hour of midnight, when “Good-nights” were said, and the ladies retired to their respective cabins; while the four men wended their way to the pilot-house to indulge in a final smoke, and incidentally to raise the Flying Fish into the air and start her upon her long flight across Russia, from north to south.