“Rest easy,” Norroy assured him. “I am no Sidney Carton. This is not a question of heroics. I have my orders to see that you are free, and this is part of the carrying out of them. I hope to see you in Washington within the month.” He raised his voice and called out in the hoarse tones which he had assumed for the part of Mobrikoff. “I have finished with the prisoner. Open the door.”
Again the bolt was released and the door creaked. “Now go,” he whispered to Gaylord. “And be cautious—very cautious.”
Gaylord pushed up the collar of the coat and as the door opened passed out. Norroy heard him tell the orderly to lead him to the courtyard.
As the door grated back to its former place, and Norroy knew that now he was a prisoner in a Russian dungeon, it would have seemed that a feeling of unquiet would have come over him. But Mr. Yorke Norroy only laughed softly, as was his wont, and twirled about on his finger the seal ring of the Count Mobrikoff.
CHAPTER IV
THE PLIGHT OF THE GOVERNOR
“You took great risks,” said the secretary gravely, when Norroy had proceeded thus far with his narrative.
Norroy waved his cigarette airily. “Really, I think you overrate my modest endeavors, Mr. Secretary,” he replied. “I took no risks at all, strictly speaking.” He straightened the crescent of pearls in the crimson scarf which he wore, and crossed his legs, showing a pair of well-formed ankles in crimson hose, and shapely feet shod in tan shoes. He was attired for the tennis courts, carried a racquet in his hand and wore a suit of white flannels. He was seated in the place where his conversations with the secretary were generally held—in that gentleman’s private library.
The sun streamed through the bay windows and revealed the trees in the grounds without just about ready to open their buds in the warm zephyr of a beautiful spring day. It was just a month since Norroy had taken Gaylord’s place in the Moscow prison.
“However, to cut the story rather short—for I have an appointment at three and it only lacks twenty minutes of that at the present time—I remained in that cell for that day and night and well into the next day. By that time I was quite sure that Gaylord and Miss Hardesty were ensconced in the Zu Hohenloe, so I decided that it was about time to teach M. Mebristiwsky that there were other people capable of playing a high-handed game outside of his imperial Russian majesty’s domains. Therefore I kicked up an infernal racket that brought the guard in with blood in his eye and a desire to murder me. I told him that I wished to see the governor immediately. You see, it was the day for the second knouting of Gaylord, and I had no desire to pose as a martyr for the cause, especially after having seen Gaylord’s back. It appears that the governor had given instructions that if Gaylord thought better of being knouted he was to be brought into his worshipful presence, so into that presence I was taken.
“The guard, being a squat Siberian and as devoid of intelligence as a hedgehog, didn’t notice any difference in my appearance and that of Gaylord’s—all foreigners looking alike to him, I suppose. But when I was put before M. Mebristiwsky, that gentleman’s face was a study. Finally he managed to call the soldier two or three things which I wouldn’t care to translate into English, and told him he had brought the wrong man. I presumed it was about time for me to cut in then, consequently I did. I told him that I was the only M. Gaylord in the prison, and that if he would send away his soldiers I would explain. He was rather timorous, so he had my hands tied behind my back and then told the soldiers to leave the room.
“It didn’t take me very long to explain to M. Mebristiwsky exactly how the trick had been turned, and his cheeks got flabby and his complexion an ashy-gray. I told him that if he would examine the index finger of my right hand, he would see M. Mobrikoff’s seal ring. I further informed him that M. Mobrikoff was out of Russia, and that he was in the hands of my confederates, and closely guarded by M. Gaylord himself.
“Deponent further saith that M. Mobrikoff will be held for the space of one week. If, at the end of that time, I do not appear in a certain city outside the czar’s domains, there will be one Russian nobleman the less in the Almanach de Gotha. Also, M. Gaylord would immediately file his complaint against the Russian Government with the United States minister at Berlin, telling the whole story, but omitting the death of Mobrikoff. Somehow, this method of reasoning seemed to appeal to M. Mebristiwsky.”
The secretary laughed. “I should imagine that it would have influenced him.”
“It did, and there were rare doings about the fort of St. Basil for some time after that. I assured the governor that I was a gentleman and would make no attempt to get away if my hands were untied. He untied them and gave me some vodka—he was not a bad sort, but the vodka was. Then he sent out messengers to Moscow, and before an hour had passed I became the center of an astounded group of Russkis. The governor of Moscow was there, and the czar’s civil administrator; also the Grand Duke Vladimir and any number of high ranking army officers.
“They went into another room and held a consultation, leaving me to my cigarettes and vodka, and the perusal of some English magazines lying about. At the end of a little time the governor entered. It had evidently been decided that I had the whip hand.
“The governor said my story had been received with great surprise; that it was news to them that they were holding an American prisoner; that M. Mobrikoff had stated that Gaylord was a dangerous Finnish nihilist who had threatened the life of the Little Father of all the Russias; that if I had come to them and told them the story, they would have released Gaylord and disgraced Mobrikoff. It was a beautiful string of falsehoods; well-constructed lies, with the local color all correct and told in the most sincere manner.
“The governor emphasized the love which lay between the countries of Russia and the United States—sang me that old song about Russia having saved the Union during the Civil War by sending her fleet to protect us. Hold me prisoner? Why, certainly not. They admired my courage and devotion in rescuing my friend, and insinuated that I was in the service of the United States. I told them that I was not; that Gaylord was my cousin and that I was an actor by profession; that I had a Russian nurse and had learned the language from her; my name was Harold Mellin; in fact, I handed them just as intricate a tangle of untruths as they handed me.
“The governor finished by saying that if Mobrikoff were killed it would serve him right; and that if my companions did not harm him they had better warn him not to return to Russia, for if he did so he would be given a pleasant assignment in Omsk or thereabouts, with a coal pick as his means of sustenance. Of course I knew all this was not true, and that Mobrikoff would not be deprived of a single perquisite of his rank and station unless the United States wanted revenge and a scapegoat was needed.
“Of course it was perfectly plain to them that they lost everything and gained nothing by keeping me a prisoner, or by harming me in any way. They wanted Mobrikoff back, and they didn’t want the United States to kick up any shindy. Now that they had lost the secret of the gun, they didn’t care anything about me.
“To cut the story short”—Norroy looked at his watch and replaced it—“I dined that evening with the whole assortment of dignitaries, and they made a sweet attempt to get me drunk and let loose all I knew. But, boasting aside, it is a good Russian who can take more of the fiery liquor than I can, so that failed. After dinner we went to a ball at the Winter Palace, and I met many and various pretty women, who enticed me to drink more. However, that doesn’t matter.
“The next morning, to the sorrow of M. Mikhaelovitch, I gathered up the three Broadway show girls and deposited them on the express for Paris. The next train was for Konigsberg, and that I took, promising the governor, who accompanied me to the station in state, that M. Mobrikoff would arrive in Moscow at an early date.
“Of course there were four or five of the governor’s spies on the train, and they had the temerity to suppose tha
t I didn’t know them. They followed me to the hotel, but they learned nothing.
“Adelaide Hardesty and Gaylord were there, Gaylord under the name of Moray, and Adelaide also. Gaylord had two rooms, and in one of them he kept that big trunk. Adelaide said that it gave him great pleasure to go in there and talk to the repentant Mobrikoff. I am afraid Gaylord was a little cruel, for he kept Mobrikoff bound hand and foot all the time, feeding him with oats and black bread only—prison fare. When I arrived, I swear I think the beggar was sorry, for I fear he had set his mind on dispatching M. Mobrikoff.
“Of course I had given my word, and that ended his homicidal schemes. Mobrikoff was given a plentiful meal, and told to eat all of it possible, in order that it might last him for three. Then we packed him neatly into his box, put the clothes about him, gagged him, locked the trunk, and I stenciled on it in large letters: ‘M. Mebristiwsky, governor of Fort St. Basil, Moscow, Russia,’ and in red ink on the corner: ‘Game. Perishable. Open at once.’ ”
The secretary burst into a hearty laugh, and Norroy arose, twirling his racquet. “I should like to have seen the governor’s face,” the secretary remarked; “and to have heard what Mobrikoff said when he was unbound and ungagged.”
“Mr. Secretary,” said Yorke Norroy, “you have never heard a Russian when he is extremely angry. I have. Therefore, as I do not like the profane and the vulgar, I cannot share in your wish.”
The secretary stretched out his hand. “Well, play your tennis, Yorke,” he said, paternally. “You’ve done a good piece of work. I thank you. Come in to-morrow at five.”
Norroy’s eyes had in them a glint of satisfaction. A great respect and friendship existed between these two men.
“Thank you, Mr. Secretary,” said Norroy. “I rather think you’re right. But you really owe me no thanks. I discovered a marvelous brand of cigarettes in a little place in Moscow, and the trip was worth while just for that.”
He offered his Chinese case to the secretary, who shook his head. Norroy lighted one himself, drew on his gloves, caught the racquet in his left hand, and bade the secretary good-afternoon.
TROUBLE ON THE BORDER
JOHN FERGUSON
THE SCOTTISH-BORN clergyman, playwright, and mystery writer John Alexander Ferguson (1873–1952) was at one time ranked among the best writers of “sensational” mystery stories, along with Edgar Wallace, Gerald Fairlie, and a handful of others. H. Douglas Thomson, in his Masters of Mystery (1931), one of the tiny number of pre–World War II critical works devoted to mystery fiction, describes him as “one of the most delightful stylists in this genre,” and forgives him for being more focused on thrills and excitement than pure detection. Having read two of the Reverend Ferguson’s novels, it is clear that the bar for thrills and excitement was lower in the Golden Age between the world wars than it is today.
In The Dark Geraldine (1921), Ferguson introduces Francis MacNab, a likable policeman, but he is replaced by his son, also named Francis MacNab, a private detective, as a series character soon after with The Man in the Dark (1928).
In the nonmystery field, he wrote several plays, including a once-famous one-act play titled Campbell of Kilmhor (1921), which opened in Glasgow’s Royalty Theatre, where a critic praised it as “a new and significant type of Scottish drama.” It is set in 1745 at the time of the Jacobite uprising and features Mary Stuart, attempting to save her son. The BBC made a thirty-minute film version of it that aired on January 2, 1939.
Born in Callander, Perthshire, Ferguson’s role as an Episcopal minister caused him to move frequently, including stays at Skye, the island of Guernsey, Dundee, Glasgow, and Fife (he lived in the oppresive Dunimarle Castle, where Macbeth murdered Macduff’s wife and child).
I have been unable to trace the original publication of this story. It was collected in My Best Spy Story, edited anonymously (London, Faber & Faber, 1938).
TROUBLE ON THE BORDER
JOHN FERGUSON
JOHN PURCHAS, of the political staff, waited on the broad platform of Lahore railway station for the south-bound night express. He was like a keen young dog straining at the leash, for the mission on which he had been sent out was both delicate and dangerous. It was, besides, his first big job. He knew that out at the Anarkali headquarters some thought the business far too delicate for him to handle, while saying it was far too dangerous. He did not know that the Chief had insisted on sending him in spite of all protests. For Purchas considered he had earned this job. And for this reason:
All through that summer the political administration had been aware that there was bad, black trouble brewing in the Punjab. At first it was evident only to the sensitive and experienced heads of the political staff, but after certain news filtered through from the Tigris the symptoms could be read by the rawest subaltern out with the last draft from home. The bazaars seethed with disaffection, and the native police spies were for once at fault.
They all came in with reports of a mysterious and subtle propaganda working like leaven through the native quarters; but they never got hold of anything precise and specific. The military administration when they began to feel the pressure of the rising temperature clamoured for something to be done. Beyond insolent looks, however, there was no overt act for a long time, and from this it was inferred that a very strong hand held the hidden strings of intrigue.
Then one afternoon, in broad daylight, on the Mall, a stone was flung at a deputy commissioner as he mounted the steps of the club. It laid his chin open, but for all the notice he took it might have been no more than a fly settling on his cheek. Purchas had chanced to see the incident, and he overheard the scant sympathy accorded the sufferer by the soldiers present when the commissioner came in mopping up the blood.
“Now,” an old colonel growled, “perhaps you political swells will do something.”
“Do no end of good, that stone; we all need waking up at times,” another agreed.
“Sorry old Jenkins got it, though—good chap. Someone should go out and tell them they hit the wrong bird.”
“Yes, I’d like to see some other civil blighter get it in the neck—hard.”
“What are you proposing to do, Jenkins?” another asked the commissioner.
Jenkins looked over.
“Do?” he said innocently. “Oh, I don’t know—apply some sticking plaster if the steward has any.”
There was a chorus of indignant grunts over this wilful misunderstanding of the question. Jenkins relented when the steward left the room.
“As a matter of fact,” he said, “we are hanging on to this thing with teeth and nails. You think it’s bad. I tell you it’s ten times worse than you think. The Punjab goes on fire usually like dry straw, and it’s easily stamped out. This time there’s someone holding them back for the moment, but it will be a bonfire when it comes.”
“Meanwhile,” the colonel persisted, “what are you chaps doing?”
“Looking for the man with the match,” said Jenkins.
“I heard it said he is a Rajah of some native State,” Blane interjected.
“Who told you that?” the commissioner asked sharply.
“I—I forget,” said the other.
The colonel thumped the table.
“Then,” he cried, “why not send out half a platoon to fetch him in?”
“There are thirty-four native States in the N.W. Provinces alone,” said Jenkins; “to which would you send?”
They waited till the steward who had come in with the plaster had withdrawn.
Purchas had been amused at the blank look with which this information had been received. But he knew that to many of these native States men from his department had already gone, not in platoons, but singly and unobtrusively. First one, then another, went east, west, south, and—yes, even north, though he did not go by rail or travel as a Sahib.
“I heard,” sai
d Blane again, “it’s some Rajah with a diamond who’s piling up the trouble.”
Jenkins laughed as he drained off his peg and got on his feet.
“Now we’re getting warm,” he said. “We’ve only to find out which of the thirty-four Rajahs owns a diamond.”
They all laughed at Blane then, and in the midst of the merriment Jenkins left.
Young Blane got very red, and turning aside to Purchas, began to explain.
“But this was a very special diamond—something supernatural—a gift from some old god or other.”
“Who told you about it?” Purchas asked, affecting interest.
“Oh, I don’t mind telling you that,” said Blane. “It came from one of my men. There was a native woman got soft on him. This jewel, it appears, is a sort of Aladdin’s Lamp affair—Lord, isn’t it all here rather like the Arabian Nights. The holder of the gem, it seems, can get anything he wishes. It’s a regular rag with my men against Saunders—he’s the man the woman warned, you know. The other fellows pretend he’s got it in his pocket, and go up to him asking for the most impossible things. When they get nothing from him they say it’s because he’s a Scotchman and keeps it all to himself.”
Purchas did not need to affect interest in the anecdote now. Knowing his India he recognized the possible value of the clue chance had put into his hand. It was just in this way a hint might percolate through—a hint utterly beyond the reach of their native police spies.
“I’ve a great wish to see this Saunders,” he said at length.
“Easily gratified,” said the youthful Blane; “he’s my batman. But don’t mention the diamond; it’s like a red rag to a bull. He’s been chaffed no end. They call him Bumali Bill now.”
“Bumali!” said Purchas.
“That’s where the girl came from. I say,” he added in a changed tone, “you don’t think there’s anything in it?”
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