The Red Menace s-4

by Maxwell Grant

  gray-haired man, whose face was firm and dignified. Not the slightest semblance of a smile appeared

  upon his features.

  The young man in evening clothes was still there. He was seated a short distance away, and now his eyes

  fell upon the one man who remained.

  "Unfortunate," observed the young man. "This death of Jonathan was most unfortunate. I knew him rather

  well. Splendid chap, Graham."

  The gray-haired man nodded.

  "I seldom come here to the club," he said, "although I have made rather frequent visits during the past few

  weeks. I had only a speaking acquaintance with Graham. He must have been highly esteemed."

  "He was quite popular," replied the young man.

  "I believe I have met you once or twice before," observed the gray-haired man. "Your name is Cranston,

  is it not?"

  "Lamont Cranston," replied the other. "I have been away from town for several months; but I have seen

  you before that. I must confess, however, that your name has slipped my memory."

  "I am Richard Albion."

  "Oh, yes. Now I recollect. We once discussed Russia. Rather briefly, however. You told me that you

  had lived there, prior to the War."

  Richard Albion became thoughtful.

  "I have deep remembrances of Russia," he said. "Many of my friends belonged to the old regime. I have

  done much to aid them since the revolution. Some of them have come to America.

  "It is a sad sight—persons of high station who have become virtually destitute through events over which

  they had no control."

  "Some have not been so unfortunate," observed Lamont Cranston quietly.

  "I know of none," replied Albion. "Sometimes the past seems wholly obliterated from my mind. I wish

  that I could forget the present—and let my thoughts revert to days gone by."

  "That is not difficult," said Lamont Cranston. "Through concentration we can forget the present. I have

  done so, often."

  "I should like to know your method."

  LAMONT CRANSTON drew his left hand from behind the arm of the chair in which he was sitting. He

  extended his arm toward his companion.

  Albion noted the long, white, tapering fingers, and his eyes were immediately attracted to a large gem,

  mounted on a heavy ring.

  "An unusual stone," he said.

  "Yes," answered Cranston. "It is a girasol, or fire opal. Look at it in the light. Do you see its deep red

  light, glowing like the embers of a fire?"

  "I do," replied Albion. He was staring at the fire opal, as though suddenly fascinated by it.

  "Focus your gaze upon it," suggested Cranston quietly. "Concentrate. Center your mind upon its reddish

  light. It produces a strange mental reaction. It brings back lost memories -"

  Richard Albion's hands were twitching slightly. He seemed unconscious of their movement. He seemed

  lost in deep thought, as though the sight of the strange gem had awakened a great interest in his brain.

  Lamont Cranston spoke slowly as he watched his companion.

  "Perhaps you will recall some one who lived in Russia," he said. "A man who had great wealth—who still

  retains much of it. Perhaps his name will come to you. Does it?"

  "No," answered Albion, his eyes still upon the fire opal.

  "The name is in my mind," said Cranston. "It will be in yours, if you watch the gem. Listen. I shall reveal

  it."

  As he ended the sentence, Cranston pressed his fingers tightly together. The fire opal sprang back upon a

  hinge.

  Beneath it, in the base of the ring, was a gold surface, upon which was engraved a seven-pointed star.

  "Prince Zuvor!" whispered Lamont Cranston.

  RICHARD ALBION uttered a low exclamation. He gripped the arms of his chair, and, half rising, he

  cast a startled look at the man before him.

  Then his eyes reverted to the ring on Lamont Cranston's hand. The fire opal had dropped back into

  place. The red gem now glowed where the seven-pointed star had been.

  "Do you recognize the name?" questioned Lamont Cranston, with a slight smile.

  Richard Albion stared fixedly.

  "Prince Zuvor," he murmured. "I have heard of Prince Zuvor."

  "You are Prince Zuvor."

  The gray-haired man did not reply. His eyes met those of Lamont Cranston. For a few seconds the two

  men studied each other intently. Then Albion nodded slowly.

  "I am Prince Zuvor," he admitted. His voice was almost inaudible. "Yet few men know my identity. How

  you discovered it is a mystery.

  "Yet you possess the signet of the Seventh Star. That is a sign which I must acknowledge."

  Reaching in his pocket, Prince Zuvor brought forth a small gold coin. Pressing it between his hands, he

  made a twisting motion. The coin came apart. Prince Zuvor revealed one portion in the hollow of his

  hand.

  Engraved within the hollowed coin was a seven-pointed star, identical with the device that lay hidden

  beneath Cranston's fire opal.

  "The Seventh Star," said Zuvor, looking intently at Cranston, "is an order of the old regime. It belongs to

  the years before the revolution. But you are so young -"

  "My age," replied Cranston, with a slight smile, "is deceiving. Like you, prince, I have memories of

  Russia—as it was."

  He placed his right hand against the bosom of his shirt. His fingers were apart. He closed his hand and

  extended two fingers.

  His quick motion denoted the number seven. The action was observed by Zuvor. The man who called

  himself Richard Albion responded with the same sign.

  Lamont Cranston uttered three words in Russian. Zuvor replied. Then in English, Cranston said:

  "The stars are bright to-night."

  "The brightest stars are the planets," replied Zuvor, in a low voice.

  "And they are seven," whispered Cranston.

  "The seven which shall rule," answered Zuvor.

  The two men had exchanged the pass words of the Seventh Star—the secret order of Royalist Russia,

  which had numbered among its members only the most trusted nobles of the czarist regime.

  Yet, despite Lamont Cranston's prompt responses, Prince Zuvor still eyed him with a remnant of doubt.

  "Your age may be deceiving," he said. "Yet you are not a Russian."

  "I was in Russia during the first months of the War," replied Cranston. "As the agent of another

  government, I became a member of the Seventh Star."

  "Ah! Now I understand. You were one of the chosen few."

  Lamont Cranston nodded.

  PRINCE ZUVOR glanced anxiously about the room. He and Cranston were alone, isolated in the

  spacious lounge of the Cobalt Club. Here they could not be overheard.

  "We are not in Russia," he said softly. "Yet there are dangers even here. You, I hope, have not

  experienced them. But I am watched. There are Red agents in New York."

  Lamont Cranston nodded.

  "Yet they are slow to strike," continued Zuvor. "They hold no menace—to those who are careful. Still,

  we must not underestimate their power. They can kill."

  "The case of Jonathan Graham stands as evidence of that," replied Lamont Cranston.

  An expression of amazement came over Prince Zuvor's face. Then his eyes narrowed for an instant. He

  looked at Cranston sharply.

  "You believe that?" he questioned.

  "I do?"

  "Why?"

  "Graham was a millionaire. A capitalist."

  Prince Zuvor indulged in a depreciating smile.

  "There are many such in Ne
w York," he said.

  "Graham was an importer," said Cranston. "He may have had dealings with Soviet agents."

  "Perhaps;" Zuvor was still doubtful.

  "Then again," suggested Cranston, "he may have had some private dealings, of which we do not know."

  "Have you any evidence of such dealings?" questioned Zuvor.

  "No," replied Cranston. "It is merely conjecture. I have long suspected that Red agents are at work in

  New York. They are subtle in their methods."

  "Extremely subtle," agreed Zuvor, "but their activities are confined to narrow quarters. I, for instance, am

  under constant observation. It is not safe for any friend to visit me."

  "Indeed." Cranston's tone denoted interest. "That intrigues me. I should like to visit you."

  Prince Zuvor smiled in unfeigned admiration.

  "You would be quite welcome," he said. He handed Cranston a card, bearing the name and address of

  Richard Albion. "But I warn you. If you come openly to my home, and leave openly, you will be a

  marked man from then on."

  "They watch you that closely?"

  "They do. But I can thwart them."

  "How?"

  "My house is one of mystery," explained Prince Zuvor. "One may be seen going in—yet not seen,

  leaving.

  "Not long ago"—he became reminiscent—"I had a visitor. He was the faithful servant of—of a Russian

  prince who is now dead. This man was under observation. He could not leave New York, because of

  the Red agents who were watching him. I enabled him to escape."

  "How?"

  "By one of my secret methods. I have several. I could leave New York to-night if I chose. But -"

  Prince Zuvor frowned and made a motion with his hands. He had evidently decided that he had said

  enough. He glanced at his watch, and rose from his chair.

  "I have many enemies," he said quietly. "But few friends, here in America. Most of them are dependent

  upon me. I am glad to know that you are one of us.

  "Can I depend upon you, in time of stress?"

  "You can," replied Cranston.

  "Very well," remarked Zuvor. "I shall communicate with you here, when I need your assistance. We are

  of the old regime. I know that you are my friend."

  "I shall visit you, some time."

  "It will involve a risk."

  "I enjoy risks."

  Prince Zuvor bowed. Lamont Cranston rose and shook hands with him in parting. The Russian left the

  Cobalt Club.

  Cranston was watching through the window, as the man who called himself Richard Albion drove away

  in a cab. The vehicle had not gone a hundred yards before a sedan pulled away from the opposite curb

  and followed.

  Lamont Cranston took a chair in the corner of the lounge. He drew a pen from his pocket, laid a sheet of

  paper upon a magazine, and wrote:

  Richard Albion is Prince Zuvor. He is being watched. Those who enter his home are watched. X can be

  traced through those who watch. This is another way of reaching X.

  As Lamont Cranston reread the words which he had inscribed, the writing slowly faded away. The young

  man in evening dress smiled as he crumpled the paper and tossed it in a wastebasket.

  CHAPTER XIII. THE RED MEETING

  PROKOP was seated at the desk in his apartment. He was busily engaged in writing. A clock on the

  desk showed half past ten. Prokop went to the bookcase and removed the encyclopedia which he used

  to conceal his important papers.

  He removed a few documents. Then he looked puzzled. An envelope lay among them—an envelope

  which was addressed to him in bright-red ink. The color of the writing carried significance.

  Prokop opened the envelope. He had not placed it there himself. He could not imagine how it had come

  among his papers.

  The letter was also in red ink; its characters had been carefully printed, and its words were short in their

  explanation:

  You will not find this letter until just before the meeting. I have just been to see Berger. He will commit

  suicide. He was about to betray us. Watch Harry Vincent, who lives at the Hotel Metrolite. He is an

  enemy.

  A strange, cryptic sign appeared at the bottom of the note. Prokop knew that it had come from the Red

  Envoy. That mysterious individual had come unknown to the apartment, last night and had left this

  message.

  Prokop added it to the papers which he had just written. He thrust the entire lot into his pocket, and

  donned an overcoat. Then he left the apartment.

  After walking several blocks, Prokop hailed a taxicab. It took him to a corner near an elevated station.

  He took the "L," and rode a few stops onward.

  Reaching the street, he again utilized a cab for a distance of half a mile. He left it at the corner of a side

  street. After the vehicle had driven on, Prokop looked about him.

  Then, sure that he was not being observed, he went down the street, and turned suddenly along a walk

  that led between two warehouses. He reached the back of an old house, and entered a basement door.

  Moving through the darkness, the man arrived in a small room. There he lighted an oil lamp. The cellar

  room was windowless.

  Prokop went to a corner, and removed a few boxes that were filled with tin cans and pieces of junk.

  Under them was an old box with a hinged top. He opened it, and drew out a dozen black hooded robes.

  He donned one of these, and the masklike front fell before his face, leaving only two eye holes to see

  through.

  With his identity thus concealed, Prokop reached under his robe, and drew a small red tag from his coat

  pocket. He pinned this to the left sleeve of the robe which enveloped him.

  Then he sat upon a box which stood on end, and waited, motionless.

  A FEW minutes later, there was a slight tap at the door. The man beneath the robe uttered a peculiar

  whistle, which was soft, yet clear. The door opened, and Volovick entered. He spoke a few words in

  Russian. Prokop replied.

  "Agent F," said Volovick, in English.

  "Correct," answered Prokop.

  Volovick donned one of the black robes, and stood in an attitude of attention.

  "Report," said Prokop.

  Volovick spoke low and rapidly, in Russian. He was giving an account of last night's happenings. Prokop

  made no comment.

  When Volovick had finished, Prokop made a single remark in Russian. Volovick obeyed it as a

  command. He opened a door on the far side of the room, and entered another compartment of the cellar.

  A second visitor gave the signal outside. This one brought no report. While he was donning his robe, a

  third person tapped at the door.

  Prokop hissed a different whistle. It signified that the person should wait. As soon as the second agent

  had completed his disguise, and had gone to join Volovick, Prokop admitted the third person.

  One by one, the Red agents arrived. Each was submitted to a brief questioning by Prokop. Each gave his

  designated letter.

  Seven of them had entered the inner chamber; yet Prokop still waited. A tap at the door. Prokop

  responded with the signal. A girl came in—she was the girl known as Arlette DeLand.

  "Agent R," she announced.

  "Correct," replied Prokop.

  The girl donned one of the robes.

  "Report," said Prokop.

  "I have met Bruce Duncan," said the girl.

  "What have you learned?"

  "Nothing, as yet."

  "You have had sufficient time."<
br />
  "Not to work without suspicion. You ordered me to work slowly. It will require patient effort. I am

  anxious to let him mention the subject of the jewels of his own accord."

  "That is best. You are right. Proceed cautiously. If you obtain unexpected results, give the usual signal.

  Stop in front of the Pink Rat, at eight o'clock. Wait there five minutes; but do not enter."

  Prokop pointed to the inner room. The girl joined the others.

  A few seconds later, there was another tap at the door. A ruddy-faced man with a short-clipped

  mustache was admitted by Prokop.

  "Agent K," he said, in guttural tones.

  "Correct."

  The man appeared to be a German. He stepped methodically across the room, and garbed himself in one

  of the cowled robes.

  "Report, Agent K."

  The German spoke in English. His voice was low and thick. Prokop listened closely, intent upon every

  word.

  "Zuvor was at the club to-night," he said. "He returned shortly before I came away."

  "Do you think that he is planning any scheme?"

  "I do not know."

  "Watch him closely. You are sure that he has arranged no new methods of escape?"

  "I am sure. The dictaphone is hidden in his room. I can hear all from the third floor."

  "What about his other servant?"

  "Ivan is the same as always. He knows nothing. He suspects nothing. He never leaves the place."

  "Very good." Prokop motioned to the other room. Fritz, the German, left to join the others. Prokop

  bolted the door of the little room; then he, too, went to the meeting place.

  THE black-robed group had assembled in a large, stone-walled room, where their forms seemed like

  spectral shapes, beneath the light of three lanterns that hung from the low ceiling.

  Prokop stood at one end of the room, like a master of the inquisition. He alone knew the identities of the

  assembled agents. He had absolute control over the entire group.

  He raised one hand above his head, and held it there. The others copied the action. Prokop lowered his

  hand. The agents did likewise.

  Moving about the group, Prokop spoke to each one in turn— repeating a short, cryptic sentence. Each

  black-cowled person spoke in response. Having renewed their oaths of fealty, Prokop prepared to

  dismiss them.