The Red Menace s-4

by Maxwell Grant

  The Red Menace

  ( Shadow - 4 )

  Maxwell Grant

  THE RED MENACE

  Maxwell Grant

  CHAPTER I. A DESPERATE FLIGHT

  A TAXICAB stopped at a corner in upper Manhattan. As it pulled to the curb, the passenger thrust his

  hand through the open window beside the driver and pressed a ten-dollar bill into the taximan's glove.

  "Keep the change," came a low, quick voice with a foreign accent. "Keep the change, and drive away.

  Tell no one that you brought me here."

  Before the astonished driver could reply, the passenger was gone. The taximan caught a glimpse of his

  back as the man hurried across the sidewalk and turned the corner.

  It was one of those strange episodes which occur nightly in New York. The taxi driver shrugged his

  shoulders as he pocketed the ten-dollar bill.

  As the cab drew away from the brightly lighted corner, a sedan pulled up alongside of it. The two

  vehicles ran along together, while unseen eyes from the sedan peered into the cab, as though seeking

  some one.

  Then the large automobile stopped; and as the cab went on, the driver of the sedan turned his car down

  the street where the stranger had gone.

  The block was a long one. The sedan had arrived in less than a minute after the passenger had left the

  cab. There was little chance that the pedestrian could reach the next corner before the pursuing car

  overtook him.

  BUT the man had chosen a closer destination. At the very moment that the sedan had begun its chase,

  the man on foot stopped at a house midway in the block.

  He heard the approach of the sedan as he waited for admittance to the house. Instinctively he drew his

  body into the protecting shadows of the doorway.

  The effort to gain concealment was a failure. The eyes that peered from the sedan were too keen. An

  exclamation came from the car; it stopped suddenly as the driver applied the brakes.

  But as the sedan's momentum ceased, the door of the house was opened, and the man on the steps was

  admitted.

  Within the house, the hunted man gasped breathlessly as he stood in the dimly lighted hallway. He had

  been admitted by a dull-faced, brutal-looking servant, and this individual now studied him in a rather

  antagonistic manner.

  "What do you want?" demanded the servant, in guttural tones.

  "I must see Mr. Albion. At once!" The visitor's reply was urgent. "Tell him it is important."

  "What is your name?"

  "Berchik."

  The servant turned and went up the stairs.

  The visitor stared anxiously at the closed door. He was a heavy-set man, dark in complexion, and with a

  stern yet expressive face. His features showed the marks of worry.

  The servant returned.

  "Follow me," he said.

  He led the way upstairs. They came to a front room on the second floor. The visitor was admitted, and

  the servant retired, closing the door behind him.

  THE man called Berchik found himself in a most luxurious apartment. The decorations of the room were

  almost barbaric in their splendor.

  A Russian wolfhound was reclining upon a magnificent Oriental rug. The huge dog arose and stretched

  itself; then it stalked across the room and rubbed its head against the visitor's hand. Berchik smiled as he

  stroked the dog's back.

  Two velvet curtains parted at the left side of the room. A man entered.

  He was a tall man, of courtly appearance. His hair was gray; his face was clean-shaven. His features

  were those of a stern, unyielding fighter; his entire appearance showed that he regarded himself as

  superior to other persons.

  The visitor bowed as he observed the man enter.

  "Your name is Berchik?"

  The tall man's words came in sharp syllables, with a slight accent.

  "Yes," replied the visitor, in a respectful tone.

  "You asked to see me," replied the tall man. "I am Mr. Albion."

  Berchik looked at the tall man, and a smile of recognition dawned upon his face.

  Despite the plainness of the man's attire—he was dressed in somber black —the visitor knew that he

  stood in the presence of an important personage.

  "I know you, sir," explained Berchik, in a respectful tone. "You are Prince Zuvor."

  The tall man held up a warning hand.

  "Hush!" he commanded. "Do not mention that name. It must be forgotten."

  HE walked across the room, and sat in a huge armchair. He waved his hand, and Berchik took his seat

  opposite him.

  "My name is Richard Albion," said the tall man, with a slight smile. "It is better that I should be known by

  that name than by my former title."

  He stared anxiously about him; then pointed to the windows at the front of the room.

  There were black window shades there. One was not fully drawn, and Berchik could see the bottom of

  an outer yellow shade.

  "I am Prince Zuvor," admitted the man, in a low voice. "But you can see the precautions I take to conceal

  my identity and my actions. I always fear spies and intruders. As Richard Albion, I manage to avoid

  troubles."

  Berchik nodded. He was still stroking the wolfhound, which stood beside his chair.

  Prince Zuvor gazed intently at Berchik.

  "I believe I recognize you," he said. "I remember you now. It is many years since you came to my palace

  in Petrograd, with your master -"

  The tall man ended his sentence abruptly, as though loath to mention the name that was upon his lips.

  Berchik nodded to show that he understood.

  "Your master is dead," said Prince Zuvor quietly.

  "Yes," replied Berchik, in a voice choked with emotion.

  "He was not so fortunate as I," continued Zuvor. "All of my wealth has been saved. He lost much; but I

  have heard that he managed to retain a considerable portion of his valuables."

  Berchik nodded.

  "That is why I have come here to-night," he said eagerly. "I am in danger, your excellency. You are the

  only one to whom I can turn for help."

  Prince Zuvor smiled sympathetically.

  "When Prince"—Berchik caught his words—"when my master died, he left me with a singular mission. I

  was to bring what remained of his vast wealth here to America, to divide it among men who had

  befriended my master when he was in trouble."

  "Did you succeed?"

  "Yes. After difficulties. I dealt with one man alone—the man who had been appointed by my master to

  divide the wealth among the others.

  "But since then, I have been hounded. Agents of the Reds have been upon my trail. I have not dared to

  attempt an escape."

  "What do they want of you? Do you still have any of your master's wealth?"

  "None of it. I have some money of my own enough to enable me to escape."

  "Why do they seek you then?"

  "To learn the name of the man to whom I delivered the jewels," explained Berchik. "They seek to capture

  me, to torture me; that I may betray my trust.

  "For if they learn the name of that man—a name which I alone know - they will seek to take his portion

  from him."

  "He received more than the others?" questioned Prince Zuvor.

  "Yes," replied Berchik,
"he gained twice as much as any other; and he knows the names of all to whom

  he delivered a share."

  PRINCE ZUVOR was silent. So was Berchik. Both men listened. They could hear sounds from the

  street outside the house the throbbing of a motor came to their ears.

  Were Berchik's pursuers waiting there?

  "Where do you wish to go?" asked Prince Zuvor suddenly.

  "To Australia," replied Berchik. "If I can elude these Soviet agents, I can easily gain safety. Then I can

  communicate with the American to whom I gave the jewels."

  Prince Zuvor nodded.

  "He should be warned," he said. "But is it right that you should leave? He may be in danger, and may

  need your advice."

  "It is dangerous for me to stay here," objected Berchik.

  "That is true," replied Prince Zuvor. He seemed to be formulating a plan.

  "Perhaps I can help you—to escape. Perhaps I can also—keep a guarding eye upon this American

  whom you have mentioned."

  A smile of relief appeared upon Berchik's face. The Russian servant seemed to be freed of his former

  anxiety. His appeal to Prince Zuvor had been successful.

  "What is the American's name?" questioned Prince Zuvor quietly.

  "Bruce Duncan," whispered Berchik. He drew a slip of paper from his pocket, and scrawled some

  words upon it. "This is his address. Can I count on you to protect him, your excellency?"

  "Certainly," replied Prince Zuvor, with a smile. "Now for your escape, Berchik!

  "Unknown to any one, I have devised a plan whereby I can flee from here at a moment's notice. That

  plan will be utilized to-night; but it will be you who will escape. You have money, you say?"

  Berchik nodded.

  Prince Zuvor went to a handsome mahogany writing table, and inscribed a series of directions. He

  passed the paper to Berchik. The servant read the words, and smiled. Prince Zuvor shook hands with

  Berchik, as the latter rose.

  "Go!" he said. "Ivan will start you on the way to safety."

  He rang the bell, and the dull-faced man entered. Berchik followed him, and was conducted to the cellar.

  There, Ivan, with amazing skill, placed make-up on Berchik's face that gave an entirely different

  appearance to Berchik's features. Then Ivan supplied him with a new overcoat, of different pattern than

  his own.

  Prince Zuvor's servant opened a door, and Berchik found himself in a concealed alleyway that led to the

  street in back of the house.

  Berchik was off to safety!

  HE followed the alleyway to the side of the house in back of Prince Zuvor's residence. The house was

  apparently deserted. But Berchik, following the directions which he had read, opened the side door and

  entered.

  He went to the front door of the house and peered through the glass panel. A taxicab drove up. It had

  been summoned to this address by Prince Zuvor. Berchik hurried out and entered the cab.

  As they turned the corner to the avenue, a car rolled by in the opposite direction. It was the sedan that

  had followed Berchik to Prince Zuvor's house. The eyes within must have spotted Berchik in spite of his

  disguise, for the sedan stopped suddenly.

  "Hurry!" said Berchik to the driver. He had given the man an address named on the list of directions.

  The cab sped rapidly onward. It turned into a side street, and Berchik left it.

  He entered a small unpretentious house, which was entirely dark, and locked the door behind him. He

  saw the sedan draw up as the cab pulled away.

  Berchik dashed through the empty house and ran out the back door into another tiny alley which did not

  go to the front of the house. This way led him to another street, where he found a second cab awaiting

  him.

  He instructed the driver to take him to the One Hundred and Twenty-fifth Street railway station.

  The sedan had lost the trail.

  Berchik caught his train; one hour later, he reached a small town in Connecticut. There he went to a

  garage, and gave his name as Robert Jennings. The garage man brought out a small coupe. The car was

  an old one, but as Berchik drove away, he realized that it was in excellent running order.

  A few miles outside the little town, Berchik stopped the car. Beneath the front seat, he found two New

  York license plates.

  He removed the Connecticut plates, and threw them into the woods beside the road. He attached the

  New York plates and drove along.

  He smiled contentedly in the darkness. His safety was now assured.

  This automobile, kept in the Connecticut town under an assumed name, would enable him to reach a city

  named in the directions; there he would take a train for the West.

  AS Berchik's car whirled along the deserted road, the fleeing man felt the first relief that he had known

  since he had come to America to deliver his master's wealth.

  The Red agents had picked up his trail after he had given the jewels to Bruce Duncan. Since then they

  had played a waiting, catlike game.

  Now he was safe—free from any avenging hand. He could write a warning letter to Bruce Duncan from

  the Middle West; and could keep on to California; then to Australia.

  These thoughts were in Berchik's mind as he rounded a long curve, on the side of a hill. Below him, at the

  right, yawned a deep ravine.

  "Prince Zuvor is clever," murmured Berchik. "This is the plan he chose for escape. They are watching

  him—as they watched me. But there is no danger for me now. I am safe. They cannot strike me."

  He turned the wheel to the left, as the curve increased. From the back of the car he heard a slight click.

  He wondered what it meant. Then came a second click.

  A sudden fear came over Berchik. He thrust his foot forward to the brake pedal.

  But his action was too late. Before Berchik could save himself from the unknown danger, a terrific

  explosion came from the rear of the car.

  The back of the light coupe was lifted upward as though by a giant hand. The shattered automobile

  hurtled forward and crashed through the fence at the side of the road.

  Rolling in its plunge, the car fell over and over into the ravine below, leaving a trail of wreckage as it

  went. It smashed into a large tree, and its course ended there.

  In ten brief seconds, the speeding automobile had become a battered hulk, and in the mass of twisted

  metal and broken glass lay the dead body of Berchik.

  CHAPTER II. ONE HOUR TO LIVE

  THE young reporter glanced nervously at his wrist watch as he sat by the window in the waiting room.

  Nearly four o'clock. He had been waiting half an hour.

  He looked out the window and studied the myriad buildings that lay below. Manhattan was an amazing

  spectacle when viewed from the thirty-eighth floor of the Farworth Building; but his eyes scarcely saw the

  scene.

  He was anxiously waiting his interview with Jonathan Graham, the millionaire importer.

  The reporter started suddenly as a quiet, somber man approached and spoke to him.

  "I am Mr. Berger," explained the man. "I am Mr. Graham's secretary. What can I do for you?"

  The reporter arose and fumbled nervously with his hat.

  "Stevens is my name," he said. "Reporter on the Morning Sphere. I'd like a private interview with Mr.

  Graham."

  "He is very busy," replied the secretary smoothly. "I usually take care of these matters for him."

  "I must see him personally."

  The secretary shrugged his shoulders.

/>   "I think that will be impossible," he told the reporter. "It is late in the afternoon. Mr. Graham has urgent

  matters on his mind."

  "I made the appointment by phone this morning," objected Stevens.

  "I understand that well," answered Berger. "But I attend to all matters such as newspaper interviews. You

  will have to talk with me."

  The door of the inner office opened, and a stout, gray-haired man entered the waiting room. He spoke to

  a stenographer seated at a desk; then he turned to go back into his office.

  The reporter saw him and recognized him.

  "Mr. Graham!" he exclaimed, darting away from the secretary. "I am from the Sphere, Mr. Graham. May

  I talk with you for a few minutes?"

  The millionaire looked disapprovingly at Stevens. Then he pointed to his secretary.

  "Mr. Berger will take care of you," he said.

  "But this is a personal interview, Mr. Graham," pleaded the reporter. "I won't be long, sir. Just a few

  minutes. I hate to bother you, sir. But it means a lot to me -"

  The millionaire smiled indulgently.

  "Come in," he said, holding the door open. "I'll see you in ten minutes, Berger. Bring Miss Smythe with

  you. I have some letters to dictate."

  Safely within the private office, the young reporter sat on the edge of a large leather-covered chair, and

  looked at the millionaire as the latter took his position behind a mahogany desk.

  "My name is Stevens, sir," explained the reporter. "They gave me this assignment because our regular

  man was laid up. They waited for him to come back; but he won't be in until to-morrow. So I have to get

  this interview. Your name was on the list -"

  "What is it all about?" demanded Jonathan Graham.

  "It's a series of articles we're running," said the reporter. "Prominent people are interviewed on the same

  subject. We get all kinds of different opinions.

  "We ask them what they would do if they had only one hour more in which to live -"

  Jonathan Graham held up his hand.

  "That's enough," he said coldly. "I've seen that absurd column in the Sphere. One man says that he would

  call up all of his friends and give them a farewell party. Another says that he would take the opportunity

  to pay off debts of gratitude.