* * *
—
Stacey departed, with an air of disappointment. Truxon, scowling savagely, went into the next room of the suite. Rothstern showed his victim to a chair at the center table, himself taking a seat opposite.
“Now,” he said, rubbing his hands, “first, the treaty draft. Here, I have paper ready.”
“And the money?” asked Barnes in a cold voice.
“Ah, yes! The money, of course.” Rothstern reached into his pocket and brought forth an envelope, which he handed over. His gaze was greedy, excited, nervous. Barnes produced the sealed envelope which the ambassador had given him, and Rothstern snatched at it, broke the seals, drew out the folded paper. “Ah, this is it!”
“Of course,” said Barnes. “You want to copy it. Here’s a pen.”
He took the fountain pen from his pocket—then froze abruptly. Rothstern’s hand jumped forward, covering him with a pistol. The fat, jovial features were suddenly cruel, tense, deadly.
“Hands there on the table—that’s right!” cried Rothstern. “All right, Truxon.”
The latter appeared, giving Barnes a quick, cold grin.
“So, my very good friend!” snarled Rothstern viciously. “You think to play with me, eh? You think to take my money and go? Not so quickly, young man. You have a lot to learn. You have other things I want to see; what about your meeting with the Italian ambassador, Grimaldi? Yes, I know about that. You’re helpless. You’re in my hands now; I have the treaty entrusted to you. Be careful, or I can ruin you!”
“Rothstern, you’re a good actor,” said Barnes coolly. “Trying to work me, are you? Trying to force me to cough up all I know—and then you’ll kill me. Oh, don’t deny it. What about your instructions to Truxon and Stacey, that night you met them in the hotel at Nice?”
Rothstern started. His eyes distended a trifle. “Ah! Herr Gott! How do you know that?” he muttered thickly.
“Never mind. No time to discuss it,” Barnes rejoined. “I’ve only time to remind you of something, Rothstern. You’re a damned murderer. You were behind the death of Reilly, of McGibbons, just as you expected to be behind my death.”
“Well?” The gaze of Rothstern bored into him, no longer jovial, but wicked and cold with hatred. “What of it?”
Barnes shrugged and looked down. “I’m just reminding you, that’s all. Suppose you go ahead and copy the paper.”
And, casually, he unscrewed the top of the fountain pen and laid it down. Then he leaned back in his chair, produced a cigarette, and lit it, with an air of perfect unconcern.
Rothstern stared at him for a moment, as though trying to figure out his attitude. Then, putting the pistol on the table at one side, Rothstern emitted a grunt.
“You damned American swine!” he said slowly. “Ah, if I could only have my way, all of you would go—would go—”
He swallowed hard, opened and shut his mouth spasmodically, then fell back in his chair. A little sigh escaped him, and his chin sank on his breast.
“Good God!” cried out Truxon. “A stroke—”
With the word, Truxon darted forward, caught at the pistol, shoved it into his pocket, then leaned over the crumpled figure of Rothstern. He glanced up suddenly at Barnes, who had not moved. What he read in the face of Barnes, brought him erect.
“You!” he cried out. “You devil—”
His hand went to his pocket. Like a flash, Barnes was out of his chair, flinging himself forward—too late! Truxon had no idea whatever of using a pistol here in the hotel. A supple “persuader” leaped out in his hand. As Barnes came into him, he struck, struck once and with the swiftness of light.
Barnes went down like a shot and lay on the floor beneath the table, face to the carpet, senseless.
With a scornful oath, Truxon straightened up, then once more leaned over and caught Rothstern by the shoulder and shook him. He looked down and saw the paper in the hand of Rothstern. His eyes dilated upon it. There upon the paper was a scarlet rubber stamp—the figure of a Sphinx.
“So that was it!” muttered Truxon. “That was what—what—”
He caught his breath suddenly, turned, started for the door; but he did not reach it. Barnes came to himself presently. His eyes opened, as he lay there with his face against the carpet. For a moment he lay quiet. His gaze swept the floor. He saw the feet of the dead Rothstern, and over near the door he saw Truxon outstretched, both hands gripping at the carpet.
Then, without rising, Barnes drew himself away from the table, little by little. There was a trickle of blood on his cheek, and his head was swollen. Truxon had not spared strength in that blow. Presently Barnes gathered himself, came to one knee, and rose. He went to the nearest window and opened it, not without difficulty, for his head was swimming. He turned and looked at the room again.
“So! He knocked me over—and put me in the safest place of all,” he murmured, and a thin, hard smile touched his lips for an instant, and was gone.
He took from his pocket the envelope of Bank of England notes Rothstern had given him, and made a gesture of repugnance. He crossed to where Truxon lay, and felt the man’s limp, dead hand. He took the notes from the envelope and pressed the dead fingers hard about them; he kept the envelope, which bore his finger-marks. Then he came back to the table, reached out gingerly, and took up his fountain pen. He screwed the cap in place and pocketed the thing.
“Executions by gas,” he observed, his voice striking low and sharp upon the terrible silence of the room, “are still a novelty—in Europe.”
“There’s your warning, Europe!” he said grimly. “Tell ’em all your story, Rothstern; chancellories, police, detectives, secret agents, cabinet members—tell the whole blasted crowd your story! They’ll understand, right enough!”
A TILT WITH THE MUSCOVITE
GEORGE BRONSON-HOWARD
THE SHORT BUT OVERFULL LIFE of George Fitzalan Bronson-Howard (1884–1922) began with his birth in Howard County, Maryland, and included his acceptance to Johns Hopkins University at the precocious age of fourteen. When his mother died, his heartbroken father died by suicide two weeks later, so he was forced to go to work to take care of his four siblings. For the next seven years, he worked in several government departments and as a journalist in Baltimore, New York, San Francisco, and Manila.
It was during his time in the Philippines that he began to write fiction and had immediate success, selling work to the top pulps of the day, including Argosy, which published his first story, “The Making of Hazelton,” in its July 1903 issue. Two years later, Popular published the first Yorke Norroy story, his most successful fictional creation. A Norroy story appeared in each of the next six issues and, when they were collected in book form as Norroy, Diplomatic Agent (1907), he reaped a financial bonanza.
With his new financial comfort, he turned to write for the theater and got married in 1907. The marriage fared badly as he and his bride separated on their honeymoon; she claimed he spent the nights churning out stories and articles; their divorce became official the following year.
He had produced twenty-two stories in 1907, but by 1910 he had only one published, generally attributed to his drug addiction as he is reputed to have prodigiously smoked opium with his major playwriting collaborator, Wilson Mizner, and the cultural critic Willard Huntington Wright, who went on to fame and fortune writing mystery novels about Philo Vance under the pseudonym S. S. Van Dine.
He married again, a Ziegfield Follies chorus girl, and worked in Hollywood as a writer and director of eight two-reel Norroy films. In 1918, he served in World War I, joining the British Ambulance Corps. He appears to have suffered injuries in the war and died by suicide by inhaling gas in 1922.
Yorke Norroy works as a secret agent for the United States government. He appears to be little more than a fun-loving fashionable fop but in fact he is a high
ly intelligent and dedicated man of action. His adventures appeared in three books after his debut: Slaves of the Lamp (1917), The Black Book (1920), and The Devil’s Chaplain (1922).
Bronson-Howard’s stories served as the basis for more than fifty films, mostly silent shorts, many featuring Norroy, including seven episodes of Perils of the Secret Service (1917), The Further Adventures of Yorke Norroy (1922), The Man from Headquarters (1928, based on The Black Book), and The Devil’s Chaplain (1929).
“A Tilt with the Muscovite” was originally published in the May 1905 issue of Popular; it was first collected in Norroy, Diplomatic Agent (New York, Saalfield Publishing Company, 1907).
A TILT WITH THE MUSCOVITE
GEORGE BRONSON-HOWARD
CHAPTER 1
THE LETTER FROM PARIS
NO MATTER WHERE Yorke Norroy might go, the messages sent by the secretary of state always followed him. They were commonplace enough in wording, were signed simply with an initial, and were sent through the usual channels of the Western Union office. The boy assigned with the delivering of this particular message had followed Norroy from the Metropolitan Club to the secret agent’s apartment on Connecticut Avenue, and from there had perforce to transport his small person to the golf links at Chevy Chase.
Norroy never lost time in answering these summons, and that was his excuse for appearing in golf tweeds and tan shoes, with long loose coat and slouched hat. He removed the latter two articles of attire on entering the secretary’s residence, and when shown into the private library, lighted one of his ever-present cigarettes with the gold crest and waited the new detail. He was quite ready for it, as two months spent in enforced idleness was quite enough for him at one time.
They shook hands on the secretary’s entrance, but the head of the Department of State made no comment further than to request that Norroy read a letter, written in French, which he put into his hand.
“It’s rather badly put together. Writer isn’t a Frenchman,” observed Norroy, when he had glanced over it.
“Translate it aloud,” directed the secretary. “I have the gist of it, but I imagine your French is better than mine.”
To the Chief of the Foreign Office, Washington, United States of America.
Sir: If you would know what has become of M. Leo Gaylord, about whom your newspapers said so much two years ago, you can discover what you wish to know by sending someone to Paris, and have him write to M. Anton Dumercier, 16 Faubourg St. Gregoire. I cannot tell more by mail, as I am not authorized to do so. This is a most serious thing for Mr. Gaylord, as he is being held a prisoner by an European power for certain reasons unnecessary to explain to you.
When you receive this, please telegraph me immediately when your agent will be in Paris. With much respect,
Your obedient servant,
Paris, November 6th. A. D.
“Translated out of idiomatic French into idiomatic English, that is about the size of the letter,” remarked Norroy, as he returned the paper to the secretary.
“So I thought.” The secretary took from the pocket of his coat a number of newspaper clippings. “You had better read these at some time. They will be useful to you.”
“I am to go to Paris, then?” questioned the secret agent.
The secretary nodded. “You know about this man Gaylord, of course. Everyone does, thanks to the press. But there are two things that for two years you have not known, along with the general public. The first is: To where did he disappear——”
Norroy flicked some ashes from his cigarette. “Pardon me if I suggest that you also are in the dark concerning that, Mr. Secretary.”
“That I grant you. I am. But on the second point I am fully informed. You are well aware of Gaylord’s ability as an inventor, and of the many astoundingly clever devices he placed on the market, making a fortune for himself out of them. Now, for four years before his disappearance he had been at work on a gun—a rapid-firing gun—of tremendous power, which would carry the almost unbelievable distance of twenty-five miles—fired from a ship.”
Norroy seemed on the point of whistling, so great was his surprise. He did not, however, but his slender fingers beat a rapid tattoo on the table.
“You can readily understand what such an invention would mean to naval warfare. Twenty-five miles! It would render practically useless the navies of other nations—”
“But was it practicable?” inquired Norroy.
“That we do not know. Gaylord went away from the United States to work on it—received a concession from the secretary of war to utilize one of the islands in the Samoan group for the purpose of testing his invention. He refused any assistance in the way of skilled helpers, and went there to work by himself. Two years ago he appeared in Tutuila and wired the secretary of war a message to this effect: ‘Have completed model, tested it, found it practicable, destroyed it. Proceeding to United States via Europe. Need rest. Will confer with you in Washington three months’ time, probably utilizing naval gun factory purposes of building.’ ” The secretary had been reading the quotation from a notebook in his hand. He closed the book and replaced it in his pocket.
“That sounds as though he had succeeded,” remarked Yorke Norroy.
“We heard from him again from Hong-kong, from Cairo and from Vienna. His next place to stop at was St. Petersburg. He is supposed to have never arrived there. The clippings and the detectives’ reports will tell you all you may not know, but which has been brought to light. Perhaps Anton Dumercier may be able to supply the missing links.”
Norroy rose and the secretary also. “Remember, Norroy, the importance of this affair is without parallel. I do not think we have ever had any case on our hands which caused as many sleepless nights as has Leo Gaylord’s. Imagine a gun that would destroy at twenty-five miles in the possession of any European power! It would mean the supremacy of the sea—the absolute supremacy. And what would be the result?”
There was no need for either man to answer the question. Both understood perfectly what the mission meant.
“I shall go to New York to-night and take the Lucania to-morrow. You will hear from me in six days from Paris.”
“And remember,” were the secretary’s parting words, “spare no expense and no effort to glean every atom of the truth from Dumercier—or whoever wrote that letter.”
The hard lines around Norroy’s mouth were excellent reasons to believe that no such instructions were needed to exert him to his utmost in this case.
The large, fair-haired man with the military carriage hesitated at the entrance of the cafe of the Hotel Continental, and his eyes roamed about the low-ceilinged room as though he were in search of some one. Presently the vision of an elaborately attired boulevardier in frock coat and tall hat was mirrored in his orbs to the exclusion of the other patrons of the cafe. For the letter had said that the representative of the United States would wear a yellow chrysanthemum as a boutonniere. Such lapel decorations being rare in Paris, M. Dumercier hesitated no more.
He approached the table and stood before it, regarding the man with the chrysanthemum and the rimless monocle.
“Comment vous portez-vous, m’sieur?” he inquired, with respect.
“Tres bien, merci, m’sieur,” was the calm reply.
“C’est M’sieur Lemaire?” asked the fair-haired man, tentatively.
“Oui, m’sieur,” replied the monocled one, with brevity.
It was sufficient introduction, and the two men studied each other over the foaming bocks which the garçon brought at the command of the one addressed as Lemaire. The conversation was mainly on the weather and the recent turmoils in the Senate. By Dumercier’s speech it was easily told he was not a Parisian—the average listener would have decided he was from one of the lost provinces. Lemaire, too, had a slight accent which proved him not of the Bo
ulevards, but which might easily obtain with a native of Languedoc or perhaps Gascony.
They did not linger long in the cafe, but adjourned to Lemaire’s apartments on the second floor of the hotel. No words were wasted between the two on the way. Lemaire threw open the door of his private reception room and bade Dumercier enter. The door was locked and both men went into the bedroom adjoining, Lemaire closing the second door as they passed in.
From his pocket Lemaire drew a letter which he handed to his companion.
“You wrote this?” he inquired.
The other replied in the affirmative.
“Well?” It was easily seen from Lemaire’s manner that he expected to share little in the conversation and that he did not intend to draw it out to the extent of a personal chat.
“I am a Pole, M. Lemaire,” began the other, apologetically almost, “and I was an officer in his imperial Russian majesty’s army. I am not now. I was lucky to escape unharmed. That is all regarding myself that I need say, is it not?”
“Unless it concerns M. Gaylord—yes.”
“Well, M. Gaylord is in a Russian prison. He has been there for two years. That was news to you until my letter came, was it not, m’sieur?”
The other nodded.
“I was a sergeant in the Paulowskis when he came. Afterward I became an officer—but no matter. How I came to discover what I know is also no matter. Briefly, I will tell you. M. Gaylord was arrested near Moscow, and he is now a prisoner but a few versts from that city—in the fort of St. Basil.
“They did not intend to keep M. Gaylord prisoner long. They thought to find on his person some sketch or plan which would tell them about the new cannon which he had invented. But there were no papers of any kind on him or in his bags and boxes. Therefore, he was taken to St. Basil.
The Big Book of Espionage Page 103
