The Price of Power

“Why do you suspect him?”

“Because of information which has reached me – information which shows that it was his hand which launched the fatal bomb which killed the Grand Duke Nicholas. His Imperial Highness was actually killed by an agent of Secret Police! When that fact reaches the Emperor’s ears there will, I expect, be searching inquiry.”

“Have you actual proof of this?” he asked in a thick, hoarse voice, his cheeks paler than before.

“Yes. Or at least my informant has. The traitor was recognised among the crowd; he was seen to throw the bomb.”

General Markoff remained silent. He saw himself checkmated. His secret was out. He had intended to raise a false scare of a probable attempt at Brighton in order to terrify me, but, to his amazement, I had shown myself conversant with his methods and aware of the truth concerning the mysterious outrage in which the Grand Duke Nicholas had lost his life.

From his demeanour and the keen cunning look in his steely eyes I gathered that he was all eagerness to know the exact extent of my knowledge concerning Danilo Danilovitch.

Therefore, after some further conversation, I said boldly:

“I expect that, ere this, the Central Committee of the People’s Will has learned the truth regarding their betrayer – this man to whose initiative more than half of the recent plots have been due – and how he was in the habit of furnishing your department with the lists of suspects and those chosen to carry out the outrage. But, of course, General,” I added, with a bitter smile, “you would probably not know of this manufacture of plots by one in the pay of the Police Department.”

“Of course not,” the unscrupulous official assured me. “I surely cannot be held responsible for the action of underlings. I only act upon reports presented to me.”

I smiled again.

“And yet you warn me of an outrage which is to be attempted with your connivance by this fellow Danilovitch – the very man who killed the Grand Duke – eh?”

“With my connivance!” he cried fiercely. “What do you insinuate?”

“I mean this, General Markoff,” I said boldly; “that the yellow card of identity found in Danilovitch’s rooms by the girl to whom he was engaged bore your signature. That card is, I believe, already in the hands of the Revolutionary Committee!”

“I have all their names. I shall telegraph to-night ordering their immediate arrest,” he cried, white with anger.

“But that will not save your agent-provocateur– the assassin of poor Marie Garine – from his fate. The arm of the revolutionist is a very long one, remember.”

“But the arm of the Chief of Secret Police is longer – and stronger,” he declared in a low, hard tone.

“The Emperor, when he learns the truth, will dispense full justice,” I said very quietly. “His eyes will, ere long, be opened to the base frauds practised upon him, and the many false plots which have cost hundreds of innocent persons their lives or their liberty.”

“You speak as though you were censor of the police,” he exclaimed with a quick, angry look.

“I speak, General Markoff, as the friend of Russia and of her Sovereign the Emperor,” I replied. “You warn me of a plot to assassinate the Grand Duchess Natalia. Well, I tell you frankly and openly I don’t believe it. But if it be true, then I, in return, warn you that if any attempt be made by any of your dastardly hirelings, I will myself go to the Emperor and place before him proofs of the interesting career of Danilo Danilovitch. Your Excellency may be all-powerful as Chief of Secret Police,” I added; “but as surely as the sun will rise to-morrow, justice will one day be done in Russia!”

And then I turned upon my heel and passed out of the room, leaving him biting his nether lip in silence at my open defiance.

Chapter Twelve.

Watchers in the Night

After Her Highness and Miss West had dined with me at the “Métropole” at Brighton on the following evening, the trusted old companion complained of headache and drove home, leaving us alone together.

Therefore we strolled forth into the moonlit night and, crossing the road, walked out along the pier. There were many persons in the hall of the hotel, but though a good many heads were turned to see “Miss Gottorp” pass in her pretty décolleté gown of black, trimmed with narrow silver, over which was a black satin evening cloak, probably not one noticed the undersized, insignificant, but rather well-dressed man who rose from one of the easy chairs where he had been smoking to follow us out.

Who, indeed, of that crowd would have guessed that the pretty girl by whose side I walked was an Imperial Princess, or that the man who went out so aimlessly was Oleg Lobko, the trusty agent of the Russian Criminal Police charged by the Emperor with her personal protection?

With the man following at a respectable distance, we strolled side by side upon the pier, looking back upon the fairy-like scene, the long lines of light along King’s Road, and the calm sea shimmering beneath the clear moon. There were many people enjoying the cool, refreshing breezes, as there always are upon an autumn night.

A comedy was in progress in the theatre at the pierhead, and it being the entr’acte, many were promenading – mostly visitors taking their late vacation by the sea.

My charming little companion had been bright and cheerful all the evening, but had more than once, by clever questions, endeavoured to learn what had taken me to the Embassy on the previous night. I, however, did not deem it exactly advisable to alarm her unduly, either by telling her of my defiance of General Markoff, of my discovery of Danilo Danilovitch, or of the attempt to terrify me by the declaration that another plot was in progress.

Truth to tell, Tack, before his return to Petersburg, had run Danilovitch to earth in Lower Clapton, and two private detectives, engaged by me, were keeping the closest surveillance upon him.

Twice had we circled the theatre at the pierhead, and had twice strolled amid the seated audience around the bandstand where military music was being played in the moonlight, when we passed two young men in Homburg hats, wearing overcoats over their evening clothes. One of them, a tall, slim, dark-haired, good-looking, athletic young fellow, of perhaps twenty-two, raised his hat and smiled at my companion.

She nodded him a merry acknowledgment. Then, as we passed on, I exclaimed quickly:

“Hulloa! Is that some new friend – eh?”

“Oh, it’s really all right, Uncle Colin,” she assured me. “I’ve done nothing dreadful, now. You needn’t start lecturing me, you know, or be horrified at all.”

“I’m not lecturing,” I laughed. “I’m only consumed by curiosity. That’s all.”

“Ah! You’re like all men,” she declared. “And suppose I refuse to satisfy your curiosity – eh?”

“You won’t do that, I think,” was my reply, as we halted upon one of the long benches which ran on either side of the pier. “Remember, I am responsible to the Emperor for you, and I’m entitled to know who your friend is.”

“He’s an awfully nice boy,” was all she replied.

“He looks so. But who is he?”

“Somebody – well, somebody I knew at Eastbourne.”

“And you’ve met him here? How long ago?”

“Oh! nearly a month.”

“And so it is he whom you’ve met several times of late – eh?” I said. “Let’s see – according to the report furnished to me, you were out for half an hour on the sea-front on Tuesday night; five minutes on Wednesday night; not at all on Thursday night, and one whole hour on Friday night – eh? And with a young man whose name is unknown.”

“Oh, I’ll tell you his name. He’s Dick Drury.”

“And who, pray, is this Mr Richard Drury?”

“A friend of mine, I tell you. The man with him is his friend – Lance Ingram, a doctor.”

“And what is this Mr Drury’s profession?”

“He does nothing, I suppose,” she laughed. “I can’t well imagine Dick doing much.”

“Except flirting – eh?” I said with a smile.

“That’s a matter of opinion,” she replied, as we again rose and circled the bandstand, for I was anxious to get another look at the pair.

On the evenings I had referred to, it appeared that Her Highness, after dinner, had twisted a shawl over her head, and ran down to the sea-front – a distance of a hundred yards or so – to get a breath of air, as she had explained to Miss West. But on each occasion the watchful police-agent had seen her meet by appointment this same young man. Therefore some flirtation was certainly in progress – and flirtation had been most distinctly forbidden.

My efforts were rewarded, for a few minutes later the two young men repassed us, and this time young Drury did not raise his hat. He only smiled at her in recognition.

“Where are they staying?” I asked.

“Oh you are so horribly inquisitive, Uncle Colin,” she said. “Well, if you really must know, they’re staying at the ‘Royal York.’”

“How came you to know this young fellow at Eastbourne?” I asked. “I thought you were kept in strictest seclusion from the outside world. At least, you’ve always led me to believe that,” I said.

She laughed heartily.

“Well, dear old uncle, surely you don’t think that any school could exactly keep a girl a prisoner. We used to get out sometimes alone for an hour of an evening – by judicious bribery. I’ve had many a pleasant hour’s walk up the road towards Beachy Head. And, moreover, I wasn’t alone, either. Dick was usually with me.”

“Really, this is too dreadful!” I exclaimed in pious horror. “Suppose anyone had known who you really were!”

“Well, I suppose even if they had the heavens wouldn’t have fallen,” she laughed.

“Ah!” I said, “you are really incorrigible. Here you are flirting with an unsuspected lover.”

“And why shouldn’t I?” she asked in protest. “Dick is better than some chance acquaintance.”

“If you are only amusing yourself,” I said. “But if you love him, then it would be a serious matter.”

“Oh, horribly serious, I know,” she said impatiently. “If I were a typist, or a shopgirl, or a waitress, or any girl who worked for her living, I should be doing quite the correct thing; but for me – born of the great Imperial Family – to merely look at a boy is quite unpardonable.”

I was silent for a few moments. The little madcap whom the Emperor had placed in my charge, because her presence at Court was a menace to the Imperial family, was surely unconventional and utterly incorrigible.

“I fear Your Highness does not fully appreciate the heavy responsibilities of Imperial birth,” I said in a tone of dissatisfaction.

“Oh, bother! My birth be hanged!” she exclaimed, with more force than politeness. “In these days it really counts for nothing. I was reading it all in a German book last week. Every class seems to have its own social laws, and what is forbidden to me is quite good form with my dressmaker. Isn’t it absurdly funny?”

“You must study your position.”

“Why should I, if I strictly preserve my incognito? That I do this, even you, Uncle Colin, will admit!”

“Are you quite certain that this Mr Drury is unaware who you really are?” I asked.

“Quite. He believes me to be Miss Natalia Gottorp, my father German, my mother English, and I was born in Germany. That is the story – does it suit?”

“I trust you will take great care not to reveal your true identity,” I said.

“I have promised you, haven’t I?”

“You promised me that you would not flirt, and yet here you are, having clandestine meetings with this young man every evening!”

“Oh, that’s very different. I can’t help it if I meet an old friend accidentally, can I?” she protested with a pretty pout.

At that moment we were strolling along the western side of the pierhead, where it was comparatively ill-lit, on one side being the theatre, while on the other the sea. The photographer’s and other shops were closed at that late hour, and the light being dim at that spot, several flirting couples were passing up and down arm in arm.

Suddenly, as we turned the corner behind the theatre, we came face to face with a dark-featured, middle-aged man, with deeply-furrowed brow, narrowly set eyes and small black moustache. He wore a dark suit and a hard felt hat, and had something of the appearance of a middle-class paterfamilias out for his annual vacation.

He glanced quickly in our direction, and, I thought, started, as though recognising one or other of us.

Then next moment he was lost in the darkness.

“Do you know that man?” asked my companion suddenly.

“No. Why?”

“I don’t know,” she answered. “I fancy I’ve seen him somewhere or other before. He looked like a Russian.”

That was just my own thought at that moment, and I wondered if Oleg, who was lurking near, had noticed him.

“Yes,” I said. “But I don’t recollect ever having seen him before. I wonder who he is? Let’s turn back.”

We did so, but though we hastened our steps, we did not find him. He had, it seemed, already left the pier. Apparently he believed that he had been recognised.

Once again we repassed Drury and his friend just as the theatre disgorged its crowd of homeward-bound pleasure-seekers.

We were walking in the same direction, Oleg following at a respectable distance, and I was enabled to obtain a good look at him, for, as though in wonder as to whom I could be, he turned several times to eye me, with some little indignation, I thought.

I judged him to be about twenty-five, over six feet in height, athletic and wiry, with handsome, clear-cut, clean-shaven features and a pair of sharp, dark, alert eyes, which told of an active outdoor life. His face was a refined one, his gait easy and swinging, and both in dress and manner he betrayed the gentleman.

Truth to tell, though I did not admit it to Natalia, I became very favourably impressed by him. By his exterior he seemed to be a well-set-up, sportsmanlike young fellow, who might, perhaps, belong to one of the Sussex county families.

His friend the doctor was of quite a different type, a short, fair-haired man in gold-rimmed spectacles, whose face was somewhat unattractive, though it bore an expression of studiousness and professional knowledge. He certainly had the appearance of a doctor.

But before I went farther I resolved to make searching inquiry unto the antecedents of this mysterious Dick Drury.

The walk in the moonlight along the broad promenade towards Hove was delightful. I begged Her Highness to drive, but she preferred to walk; the autumn night was so perfect, she said.

As we strolled along, she suddenly exclaimed:

“I can’t help recalling that man we saw on the pier. I remember now! I met him about a week ago, when I was shopping in Western Road, and he followed me for quite a distance. He was then much better dressed.”

“You believe, then, he is a Russian?” I asked quickly.

“I feel certain he is.”

“But you were not alone – Oleg was out with you, I suppose?”

“Oh, yes,” she laughed. “He never leaves me. I only wish he would sometimes. I hate to be spied upon like this. Either Dmitri or Oleg is always with me.”

“It is highly necessary,” I declared. “Recollect the fate of your poor father.”

“But why should the revolutionists wish to harm me – a girl?” she asked. “My own idea is that they’re not half as black as they’re painted.”

I did not reveal to her the serious facts which I had recently learnt.

“Did you make any mention to Oleg of the man following you?”

“No, it never occurred to me. But there, I suppose, he only followed me, just as other men seem sometimes to follow me – to look into my face.”

“You are used to admiration,” I said, “and therefore take no notice of it. Pretty women so soon become blasé.”

“Oh! So you denounce me as blasé – eh, Uncle Colin?” she cried, just as we arrived before the door in Brunswick Square. “That is the latest! I really don’t think it fair to criticise me so constantly,” and she pouted.

Then she gave me her little gloved hand, and I bent over it as I wished her good-night.

I wished to question Oleg regarding the man we had seen, but I could not do so before her.

I turned back along the promenade, and was walking leisurely towards the “Métropole,” when suddenly from out of the shadow of one of the glass-partitioned shelters the dark figure of a man emerged, and I heard my name pronounced.

It was the ubiquitous Hartwig, wearing his gold pince-nez. As was his habit, he sprang from nowhere. I had clapped my hand instinctively upon my revolver, but withdrew it instantly.

“Good evening, Mr Trewinnard,” he said. “I’ve met you here as I don’t want to be seen at the ‘Métropole’ to-night. I have travelled straight through from Petersburg here. I landed at Dover this afternoon, went up to Victoria, and down here. I arrived at eight o’clock, but learning that Her Highness was dining with you, I waited until you left her. It is perhaps as well that I am here,” he added.

“Why?” I asked.

“Because I’ve been on the pier with you to-night,” was the reply of the chief of the detective department of Russia, “and I have seen how closely you have been watched by a person whom even Oleg Lobko, usually so well-informed, does not suspect – a person who is extremely dangerous. I do not wish to alarm you, Mr Trewinnard,” he added in a low voice, “but I heard in Petersburg that something is intended here in Brighton, and the Emperor sent me post-haste to you.”

“Who is this person who has been watching us?” I asked eagerly. “I noticed him.”

“Oleg doesn’t know him, but I do. I have had certain suspicions, and only five days ago I made a discovery in Petersburg – an amazing discovery – which confirmed my apprehensions. The man who has been watching you with distinctly evil intent is a most notorious and evasive character named Danilo Danilovitch.”

“Danilovitch!” I cried. “I know him, but I did not recognise him to-night. His appearance has so changed.”

“Yes, it has. But I have been watching him all the evening. He returned by the midnight train to London.”

“I can tell you where he is in hiding,” I said.

“You can!” he cried. “Excellent! Then we will both go and pay him a surprise call to-morrow. There is danger – a grave and imminent danger – for both Her Highness and yourself; therefore it must be removed. There is peril in the present situation – a distinct peril which I had never suspected. A disaster may happen at any moment if we are not wary and watchful. And there’s another important point, Mr Trewinnard,” added the great detective; “do you happen to know a tall, thin, sharp-featured young man called Richard Drury?”

Chapter Thirteen.

The Catspaw

Just as the dusk had deepened into grey on the following evening I alighted from a tram in the Lower Clapton Road, and, accompanied by Hartwig, we turned up a long thoroughfare of uniform houses, called Powerscroft Road, until we reached Blurton Road, where, nearly opposite the Mission House, we found the house of which we were in search.

Hartwig had altered his appearance wonderfully, and looked more like a Devonshire farmer up in London on holiday than the shrewd, astute head of the Sûreté of the Russian Empire. As for myself, I had assumed a very old suit and wore a shabby hat.

The drab, dismal house, which we passed casually in order to inspect, was dingy and forbidding, with curtains that were faded with smoke and dirt, holland blinds once yellow, but the ends of which were now dark and stained, and windows which had not been cleaned for years, while the front door was faded and blistered and some of the tops of the iron railings in front had been broken off. The steps leading to the front door had not been hearthstoned as were those of its neighbour, while in the area were bits of wastepaper, straw, and the flotsam and jetsam of the noisy, overcrowded street.

Unkempt children were romping or playing hopscotch on the pavement, while some were skipping and others playing football in the centre of the road – all pupils of the great County Council Schools in the vicinity.

At both the basement window and that of the room above – the front parlour – were short blinds of dirty muslin, so that to see within while passing was impossible. In that particular it differed in no way from some of its neighbours; for in those parts front parlours are often turned into bedrooms, and a separate family occupies every floor. Only one fact was apparent – that it was the dirtiest and most neglected house in the whole of that working-class road, bordering upon the Hackney Marsh.

To me that district was as unfamiliar as were the wilds of the Sahara. Indeed, to the average Londoner Lower Clapton is a mere legendary district, the existence of which is only recorded by the name written upon tramcars and omnibuses.

Together we strolled to the bottom of Blurton Road, to where Glyn Road crosses it at right angles, and then we stopped to discuss our plans.

“I shall ascend the steps, knock, and ask for Danilovitch,” the great detective said. “The probability is that the door will be unceremoniously slammed in my face. But you will be behind me. I shall place my foot in the door to prevent premature closing, and at first sign of resistance you, being behind me, will help me to force the door, and so enter. At word from me don’t hesitate – use all your might. I intend to give whoever lives there a sudden and sharp surprise.”

“But if they are refugees, they are desperate. What then?”

“I expect they are,” he laughed. “This is no doubt the hornets’ nest. Therefore it behoves us to be wary, and have our wits well about us. You’re not afraid, Mr Trewinnard?”

“Not at all,” I said. “Where you dare go, there I will follow.”

“Good. Let’s make the attempt then,” he said, and together we strolled leisurely back until we came to the flight of unclean front steps, whereupon both of us turned and, ascending, Hartwig gave a sharp postman’s knock at the door.

An old, grey-whiskered, ill-dressed man, palpably a Polish Jew, opened the door, whereupon Hartwig asked in Russian:

“Is our leader Danilo Danilovitch here?”

The man looked from him to me inquiringly.

“Tell him that Ivan Arapoff, from Petersburg, wishes to speak with him.”

“I do not know, Gospodin, whether he is at home,” replied the man with politeness. “But I will see, if you will wait,” and he attempted to close the door in our faces.

Hartwig, however, was prepared for such manoeuvre, for he had placed his foot in the door, so that it could not be closed. The Polish Jew was instantly on the alert and shouted some sharp word of warning, evidently a preconcerted signal, to those within, whereat Hartwig and myself made a sudden combined effort and next second were standing within the narrow evil-smelling little hall.

I saw the dark figures of several men and women against the stairs, and heard whispered words of alarm in Russian. But Hartwig lost no time, for he shouted boldly:

“I wish to see Danilo Danilovitch. Let him come forward. If he does not do so, then it is at his own peril.”

“If you are police officers you cannot touch us here in England!” shouted a young woman with dark, tousled hair, a revolutionist of the female-student type.

“We are here from Petersburg as friends, but you apparently treat us as enemies,” said Hartwig.

“If you are traitors you will, neither of you, leave this house alive,” cried a thick-set man, advancing towards me threateningly. “So you shall see Danilovitch – and he shall decide.”

I heard somebody bolting the front door heavily to prevent our escape, while a voice from somewhere above, in the gloom of the stairs, shouted:

“Comrades, they are police-spies!”

A young, black-haired Jewess of a type seen everywhere in Poland, thin-featured and handsome, with a grey shawl over her shoulders, emerged from a door and peered into my face. There seemed fully fifteen persons in that dingy house, all instantly alarmed at our arrival. Here was, no doubt, the London centre of revolutionary activity directed against the Russian Imperial family and Danilo Danilovitch was in hiding there. It was fortunate, indeed, that the ever-vigilant Tack had succeeded in running him to earth.

I had told Hartwig of the allegation which Tack had made against Danilovitch, that, though in the service of the Secret Police, he had arranged certain attempts against members of the Imperial family, and how he had deliberately killed his sweetheart, Marie Garine. But Hartwig, being chief of the Sûreté, had no connection with the political department, and was, therefore, unaware of any agent of Secret Police known as Danilovitch.