CHAPTER IV

ENTER THE RUSSIAN

The _Mary Rose_ steamed past Morro Castle into Havana harbor.

Just before we landed, Mrs. Breese took me aside and mournfully complained that Mr. Rice and Henry had both decided that the press-agent must go.

“What can I do?” she moaned. “Henry will do the most desperate things if I cross him.”

I assured her that my resignation was sincere and that she needn’t trouble herself on my account. And, of course, she swore me to secrecy on all events transpiring on the yacht.

After the necessary customs and immigration formalities had been observed, we were permitted to go ashore. I was the first of the passengers off, and I felt a curious relief in being on my own again. I clambered into a decrepit taxi and was whirled to my hotel. Mrs. Breese, her children and Rice were going to the winter palace her former husband had built several years ago in the Vedado. I presumed Guy Thomas would be shipped to some hotel, and then, like myself, cast off into the cold world.

To the noisiest and most cosmopolitan of hotels my driver brought me, and as soon as I was settled, I plunged forth to see the town. Before I knew it, I found myself on the marble-studded Prado where the lamps shine as green satin through the trees. I walked leisurely down this most delightful of promenades, watching the fascinating mixtures of browns, blacks and olive-whites who shuffled past me.

I repulsed a dozen miserable Chinese vendors of peanuts, successfully negotiated two optimistic guides who leered promises of night life, paused to listen to the army band struggling with “La Bohème,” and then found myself at the Prado Bar.

Now, the Prado Bar is the meeting place of the adventurers of the South, so it is not strange that it was here I was destined to see this evening the two men who were to be added to my cast of principals in the tragedy. It may have been a coincidence that Ben Smith was there. But I am inclined to believe that the Russian deliberately chose the scene. I refuse to take his assurance that our meeting was entirely accidental. But I am anticipating my story.

After my experience of the yacht, I took the Prado Bar to my bosom as one would a long-lost friend. Do not misunderstand me. The friendship was not at all alcoholic. There were no thirsty Americans clamoring for hard liquors. The Prado Bar is too far from the center of town, just around the corner from the battered Malecon where at night angry waters swirl over the sea wall and splash the proud boulevard.

I found the tumult of the waters pleasant music; the bartenders were polite and capable; the bacardi genuine and cheap. And Pancho, the proprietor, with his swarthy face framed in the radiance of his thousand bottles gleaming from the highly polished shelves, hospitably bade me welcome. There were few in the bar at the moment, but they looked my own kind--genteel wanderers, known commonly as tropical tramps. I was about to open conversational negotiations with two likely-looking prospects when someone called my name, and I whirled about to find myself face to face with Ben Smith.

“Of all people!” I welcomed him.

“The same to you!” And we shook hands warmly. I had not seen Ben Smith in three years.

He had been attached to Police Headquarters in Richmond when I covered that institution for the Star. He was responsible for the solution of the Stephenson murder--that strange crime where after many months of inquiry Smith finally discovered that the wealthy bachelor had been done to death by his own brother, one of Richmond’s wealthiest and most respectable citizens. You undoubtedly recall the case, for its ramifications were spread upon the newspapers of the world. Smith gained considerable recognition as a result of this coup, and when the Cuban police created an American department for the benefit of our crooks who wandered down there, Smith was loaned to head the department.

We had become good friends in Richmond, despite the detective’s suspicion of everything that tended to make life and his profession romantic. This tendency of his spoiled many a good story. Nevertheless, I was very glad to see him now.

He had not changed much. Smith never did look the usual police detective so easily ridiculed upon the stage. He was given to shell-rimmed glasses, an impassive though kindly face, and he always impressed you at first sight as a humdrum mediocrity. In any crowd he was just the average man. In Havana, with flannels, panama and a deep coat of tan, he seemed the typical tourist.

He wanted to know my immediate purpose in life, and I told him of my experience with Mrs. Breese. He listened carefully. When I was done, he said: “That’s very funny, because I was just talking about the lady this morning with--well, I never will remember his name. He’s a Russian.” Smith chuckled. “Strange duck! But I kind of like him. He’s going to meet me here later and I’ll introduce him to you.”

“Who is he?” I demanded.

“Well,” drawled Smith, “aside from the fact that I can’t remember his name, he showed me papers which prove that before the revolution he was a big gun with the Czarist police. He’ll tell you all about himself the first five minutes. He’s not exactly modest. How much there is to him, I don’t know. He came into my office one day and said he had a mission. It seems he’d been working on some murder in Riga just before the revolution broke, and he was right on the track of it when the Bolsheviks threw him out. He seems to have enough money and time, and he’s still working on the case long distance. For some reason or other, he’s particularly interested in Mrs. Breese.”

“But why?”

Smith shrugged his shoulders. “He won’t tell me. He asked me to see if I couldn’t place him on our staff. He wasn’t interested in salary. Just wanted the job. Of course, I couldn’t. I promised I’d talk it over with the chief. But I knew it was no use. We didn’t know the man and we haven’t got room for him if we did.” Smith suddenly whispered out of the corner of his mouth: “Here he is now.”

I observed a tall and well-made individual striding up to us. A giant in stature, he was an imposing sight and a remarkable contrast to Smith. This man would be distinguishable in any crowd, with his barrel chest, enormous shoulders, his massive face, ornamented by a proud and well-combed mustache of the Russian school, from which peered small blue eyes. He was impeccably dressed in flashing white linen, and as he walked he swung a heavy silver-headed cane as if it were a swagger stick.

“Hello, there,” Smith said. “I’ve talked it over with them but they can’t see it. Sorry!”

The big man bowed.

“Thank you. I did not expect otherwise.” His words were clipped, military. “I deeply appreciate your efforts.”

Smith introduced us.

“This is a newspaper friend of mine, Mr. Abbott,” he turned to the Russian apologetically. “I forget your name. I’m sorry. I was never much good on Russian names.”

“Boris Sergeivitch Perutkin, formerly of the Russian Secret Police,” the big man prompted, and bowed. “So you are a newspaper man. I am indeed pleased to meet you.”

Smith looked at his watch.

“I’ve got a date downtown,” he said. “But I’ll be back in an hour. By the way,”--he turned to the Russian. “Mr. Abbott here has just come down from New York with the Breese family. Maybe he can tell you what you want to know.”

The Russian’s little blue eyes were trained on me.

“So! That is very interesting. You must join me in a glass.”

“And,” Smith continued, “you’ll find that Mr. Abbott can be trusted. I’ve known him a long time.”

“I am sure of Mr. Abbott,” the Russian bowed politely, as Smith left us. Then he turned to the bartender: “_Cordon rouge_--the same as I had last night.” He turned back to me. “Do you mind champagne? I drink nothing else.”

We seated ourselves in a corner far from the other patrons of the bar, and soon the glasses with yellow magic were before us. The Russian sipped his drink slowly, with the air of a connoisseur. He did not at once ask anything of Mrs. Breese, but instead discussed far-flung topics from American politics to horses. I had an uneasy feeling that he was testing me. He seemed anxious to know everything that had happened to me since I was a child in swaddling clothes. Then, suddenly, his adroit questioning ceased, and he told me about himself.

“I am that anomaly,” he smiled, “a detective without a country. But I have a case--a very peculiar case. I have devoted six years to its solution, and I am still far from it. Mr. Smith says you can be trusted. I am going to tell you about that case, because you may be of great help to me. You know Mrs. Breese well?”

I said I knew her fairly well, but that I was no longer connected with her household.

“That does not matter,” he responded. “The difficulty hitherto has been that I could not legitimately gain access to the most important circle in my case. I conceive of my case as a series of circles, criss-crossing each other. In one of these circles my case is as plain as a photograph. I have not yet reached that circle. Perhaps you can help me.”

My face showed I was puzzled. He laughed. “Of course, you do not understand me. Let me put it this way. Who were your fellow-passengers on the yacht?”

I enumerated them: Mrs. Breese, her two children, Gordon Rice and Guy Thomas.

“Excellent!” murmured the Russian. “There is only one absent. Six years ago, Mr. Abbott, Mrs. Breese, her two children, Gordon Rice and Guy Thomas were in Riga. But Mr. Breese was there, too. He is the only one absent.”

“But I don’t see the significance,” I protested.

“Six years ago, in Riga, a very strange crime occurred which directly affected Mrs. Breese. A man was murdered. His murderer was never found. Do you see the significance now?”

“A murder affecting Mrs. Breese?” I indicated my scepticism. “I never heard a word of it.”

“There was never a word printed,” the Russian said. “Providence seemed to intervene on behalf of the criminal at the very moment that I thought the case would be solved. The murderer escaped. And yet I know, as surely as I know anything, one of your fellow-passengers on that yacht is the murderer.”

His sharp little eyes, almost hypnotic in their power, blazed angrily.

“There is no punishment for him--or her--now. My government is no more. But an innocent man walks with the shadow of suspicion upon him.” I quote the Russian’s exact words. “This man’s life-happiness has been taken away from him because of that crime. And if I cannot punish the murderer, I can at least help an innocent victim to re-establish himself. I can at least right a great wrong.”