CHAPTER XXVII
The Fate of Klostivitch
Red dawn was breaking when a Russian naval pulling-cutter ran alongside the Probenjsky Quay. Already the ice, that a few hours previously had been broken by gangs of men impressed under the Revolutionary Government's decree for that task, was again forming, rendering it a matter of difficulty for the boat to force her way through the last twenty yards of water.
The quay was deserted. Heavy showers of sleet had dispersed the crowds of demonstrators who had "run wild" the previous evening. In that respect nature had found a far more efficacious method of dealing with the disorderly mob than had the Red Guards and their ever-ready machine-guns. Many broken windows and walls splayed with bullet-marks were the remaining evidences of the orgy that had ended in bloodshed and rain, and now a fall of snow was obliterating sinister patches on the roadway and pavements in a mantle of dazzling whiteness.
At the head of the flight of stone steps stood a sentry-box, the diagonal stripes of the Imperial regime still discernible under a hastily-applied coat of yellow paint. Within, and reclining against the woodwork, was a sleeping sentry.
Upon the approach of half a dozen or more bluejackets he bestirred himself sufficiently to push aside an empty vodka glass and grasp his rifle.
"It is all right, comrade!" exclaimed the foremost of the party reassuringly. "We've just had private information as to where we can obtain some sides of beef. We haven't tasted fresh beef for nearly a month. We belong to the Kuptchino, and have just come in from Helsingfors."
"Have you your permit, comrade?" enquired the sentry.
The bluejacket solemnly closed one eye and slipped a sheaf of rouble notes into the man's hand.
"'Ts—sh!" he whispered. "These are better than permits, Comrade Ivan. We will not be long, and when we return there will be a bottle of vodka for you."
"So long as you do not get me into trouble I am content," remarked the befuddled soldier. "A whole bottle, mind, and none of the stuff from the Winter Palace."
He laughed at his own jest, and his listeners laughed too, for the story of the pillaged wine-cellars of the Imperial Palace was now common property—how the Red Guards had looted thousands of bottles, drunk their contents, and refilled them with coloured water. The inhabitants of Petrograd, eager to purchase wine from the ex-Tsar's stock, bought the proffered bottles with avidity, only to find that they had been "sold". There was no redress, for the deluded purchaser realized that arguing with an inebriated Red Guard was likely to end in a bayonet-thrust.
Having paved the way for their retreat, the landing-party—Captain Orloff and seven of his men, all in bluejackets' uniform—hastened along the deserted street until they arrived at the Bobbinsky Prospekt.
Here Orloff halted his men under an archway, and, taking one of the party, stole softly down the passage until he came to a gap between the two houses—a space fenced off by a tall iron railing.
In a very short space of time Orloff's companions filed through two of the bars, and, by means of a powerful tug, wrenched them sufficiently apart to admit a man's body. It was then a simple matter for the two Russians to lower themselves upon the slippery ice on the surface of the stream.
Flashing an electric torch, the captain of the Zabiyaka plunged into the arched passage, through which the now frozen water usually flowed. For nearly a hundred yards he went, until he stopped at a small barred grating barely a foot above the ice.
"Are you there, Monsieur Fordyce?" he whispered in his own language, knowing that the captive Sub-Lieutenant spoke Russian fluently.
"I am. Who is it?" asked Fordyce.
"A friend," replied Orloff. "Take courage again," Fordyce, by the by, had never lost it; "help is at hand. I am Boris Orloff, Captain-Lieutenant of the Zabiyaka, the destroyer that piloted your craft into Cronstadt."
"I am pleased to meet you, sir," said the Sub.
"And still more so under better auspices," rejoined Orloff. "Now listen: Here are a brace of revolvers. We are going to tackle Comrade Klostivitch. If he beats a retreat to this cellar, corner him. He is a desperate man, and doubtless armed. Cornered, he will not hesitate to shoot, unless you act promptly."
"He has someone with him," announced Fordyce. "A fellow from England. Whether he is an Englishman or a German I hardly know, although his sympathies are certainly Teutonic."
"We'll collar him too!" exclaimed the skipper of the Zabiyaka. "Now, make ready. In five minutes we'll be with you."
"One question, sir!" exclaimed the Sub. "Might I ask how you knew we were here? Did a dog——?"
"Yes," replied Orloff, "it was a dog that brought the news."
"Then Flirt—my dog—is safe?"
"I have every reason to believe so."
"That's good!" ejaculated the overjoyed Fordyce. A great weight had been lifted off his mind. The harassing thought that harm had befallen his devoted pet had troubled him more than his own difficult position. And now, thanks to Flirt, deliverance was at hand.
Retracing his steps, the Russian rejoined his companion, and, having bent the railings to their original position, the pair hurried back to the rest of the party.
"No unnecessary noise, my children," continued Orloff, speaking in the pre-Revolutionary manner with which an officer addressed his men. "Two of you will remain here; two more at the other side of the street; the rest will come with me."
The dwellers in the Bobbinsky Prospekt were still deep in slumber. Undisturbed, the Russian bluejackets effected a forcible entry into No. 19 by the drastic expedient of cutting away the door-post into which the bolts securing the door were fitted.
Entering the room—there was no lobby—the intruders reclosed the door and proceeded in their search for Vladimir Klostivitch. The first room they entered was that in which Fordyce had interviewed the Extremist official. They found someone asleep on the bed over the stove.
"Seize him, men!" ordered Orloff.
Strong hands dragged the sleeper from his bed. It was Mindiggle, or, to give him his true name, von Verbrennungsraum.
Before he could be effectually silenced the German gave a yell of terror.
"Gag him!" ordered the captain of the Zabiyaka.
It was too late. A shuffling sound announced that another inmate of the mysterious house was awake.
Revolver in hand, Orloff dashed up the creaking stairs, just in time to catch sight of a grotesquely-garbed figure disappearing up the next flight.
"Surrender!" shouted the naval officer, loath to fire lest the report should arouse the neighbourhood.
In spite of his years, Klostivitch possessed plenty of activity. Rushing into an attic, he slammed and bolted the door, piling articles of furniture against it as an additional safeguard.
Throwing caution to the winds, Orloff placed the muzzle of his revolver to the lock and pressed the trigger. Then, with a tremendous heave, he burst the door open.
The room was empty. An open dormer window showed the track of the fugitive. His pursuer, leaping upon a box, thrust his head through the opening.
Brave as he was, Orloff hesitated to follow his quarry. Klostivitch had gained the parapet and was contemplating a leap to the roof of the adjoining house.
Before the naval officer could thrust his hand through the narrow opening of the window, and level his pistol, the rascal, desperate in his courage, leapt from his precarious foothold.
It was not a great distance for a man to jump—six or seven feet at the outside; but the fugitive had not taken into consideration the ice-rimmed stonework.
Even as he leapt, Klostivitch's feet slipped from under him. With a shriek of horror he grasped vainly at the thin air, then, turning a complete somersault, crashed upon the paving-stones sixty feet below.