CHAPTER III

_Wallion meets B.22, and certain remarkable episodes in a great man's career are described, with the desired effect_

Maurice Wallion quitted the neighborhood of room 23 rather hurriedly, as soon as the baron had gone in: not from fear--there was no such word in his vocabulary--but because, in consequence of this somewhat unexpected commencement of hostilities, he found himself suddenly involved in a regular network of complicated problems.

Bernard Jenin's unexpected arrival had completely upset his plans, and forced him to show his hand prematurely to a powerful, prompt and intelligent adversary, who would certainly stick at nothing in the way of frustrating him. He did not regret the opportunity of dealing the first blow, for his frankness had probably baffled the baron at the start; but he foresaw that the approaching struggle would be a fierce though brief one--brief, because in the course of a few hours he must either be definitely beaten, or in possession of the information which would make it possible for him to place the matter in the hands of the police. It was, therefore, important for him to get quickly and surely to work, before Baron Fayerling had had time to call up reinforcements.

He slipped out of the hotel, and jumped into a tram, bound for the northern district. He wondered which way Jenin had gone, for it disturbed him a little that he had been able to do nothing for the unfortunate young fellow, beyond hurrying him away, with an urgent warning to keep clear of Fayerling's spies, and in case of need to take refuge in the offices of the _Daily Courier_.

There was undoubtedly something mysterious about Jenin himself, but Wallion consoled himself with the thought that the young man's fate would soon be settled in one way or another, and he decided to mention the matter to Robert Lang. For the time being, he had more important business to attend to. The tram turned into Tegnér Street and he got out. He walked slowly up the street, stopped opposite one of the ugly, gray, five-storied houses, and began, quite unostentatiously, to watch the windows on the first floor.

He had known for the last month, that this was one of Ortiz's headquarters, and he suspected that Ortiz himself had stayed there for some time at the beginning of the year. It was ostensibly a Finnish boarding-house, but it was not advertised as such, and there never seemed to be any rooms to let except to lodgers recommended by the baron or by Tassler. For the time being, the only lodgers were three persons who had recently arrived from Russia, and had some sort of regular work at the Finno-Russian Import and Export Company. Rastakov, too, generally stayed there, whenever he did not happen to be at the Copper House. Wallion took it for granted that the man who was known as B.22, and had shadowed Jenin on his journey to Stockholm, would come here, and he was already considering the advisability of setting Robert Lang to watch the house, when he suddenly saw B.22 himself come out of the door, and go quickly down the street.

The journalist was somewhat taken aback by this unexpected apparition; it was quite obvious that something unusual had happened to the spy, for he kept looking round, and Wallion could see that he appeared very nervous.

The journalist thought for a bit. What had happened? B.22 had evidently gone straight to the boarding-house from the hotel, and had apparently found some trouble awaiting him. Nothing was to be seen at the windows.

Feeling rather puzzled, he began to follow the man, who turned hurriedly down one side street after another, behaving more and more strangely. He stood still now and then, staring anxiously behind him with his large dark eyes, and not taking the slightest notice of the journalist; his hands fidgeted in and out of his coat-pockets, and his lips moved as though he were whispering to himself. Then he darted forward again, through a passage that intersected a corner building, and cut across an adjoining churchyard.

Wallion, who began to grow tired of this extraordinary game, stepped quickly up, and tapped him on the shoulder: "Good morning, my friend," he exclaimed, "why this hurry?"

The man started so violently that he nearly fell; Wallion caught hold of him. "Now then, no nonsense!" he said sternly. "I know everything, and I want to have a talk with you. If you tell me the truth, I may be able to help you."

He threw out this remark by way of a feeler, but the man took it literally; a look of relief appeared on his haggard face, and he said doubtfully: "Are you one of Jenin's friends? I don't know you, what do you want with me? Are you a detective, by any chance?" he added suspiciously.

"No, I am a newspaper reporter," said Wallion, still keeping hold of his arm. "Come along with me."

They went into a small, empty café, and sat down at a table in an inner room. B.22 remained silent and watchful, but Wallion left him no time for consideration.

"I won't ask you your real name, B.22," said he, "but you had better be quite straight with me, or it may be the worse for you. You have a rotten set of friends, my lad, and it is high time you quit working with them. Now tell me, what is going on at the boarding-house?"

"Yes, I will tell you," the fellow burst out excitedly. "I will have no more to do with them, they are going too far. I don't want to lose my life...."

His eyes were bloodshot, and he tugged at his collar as though he felt a halter round his neck already. He flung himself suddenly across the table, and seized the journalist by the sleeve. "Help me," he stammered, "I am afraid of them! Ortiz is coming, and he will ruin us all, if nobody can stop him."

Wallion looked sharply at him. He had already observed him in the hotel, and had formed his conclusions as to the man's character. "Since when have you made up your mind to betray Ortiz?"

B.22 hung his head. "Since yesterday," he replied indistinctly. "When Bernard Jenin told me what Tarraschin's memorandum was about, I was afraid to have anything more to do with it--it is altogether too ghastly...."

He really seemed to be hesitating, and Wallion decided to come to the point quickly, for there was no time to waste in unnecessary preliminaries.

"How much do you know about Ortiz?" he asked.

"I? Nothing. They told me that he was the boss, and that we were paid with his money: and he pays well."

Wallion made a movement of disgust. The payment seemed all that this man cared about.

"Have you ever seen Ortiz?"

"No. Baron Fayerling always gave me my orders, and paid me. They say that Ortiz is a rich and powerful man, and that he will soon be one of the greatest persons in Europe. But I have never seen him, and I know nothing of him."

"Well, I am going to tell you something about him; it is because you know so little that you are so much afraid of him. He is one of the most daring adventurers that ever lived, and anyone who espouses his cause is on the road to ruin."

B.22 shuddered, and Wallion watched him narrowly.

"Did you ever hear of the Emperor of the Amazons?" he asked.

B.22 shook his head in surprise.

"Emperor of the Amazons?" he repeated; "it sounds like a farce."

"It was a farce, too, at any rate the newspapers called it so, and it was played seven years ago. A young Brazilian millionaire who had already made himself conspicuous by his lavish and eccentric propensities, concluded one fine day that he could no longer endure the restrictions of life in a community of law-abiding citizens, and his fertile brain, which was always revolving ambitious schemes, decided to create an absolutely new environment.

"His name was Gabriel Napoleon Ortiz, and he was a reputed descendant of Napoleon the Great; he had already been implicated in a formidable scandal in Paris, where he had attempted to organize a Monarchist rising against the Republic, in the hope of getting himself recognized as Napoleon IV. At that time he was only a youth of nineteen, and it was an easy matter to deport him to Brazil. But the lion's claws were not drawn, and by degrees he gathered round him quite a number of adventurers, who aided and abetted him in his far-reaching plans. One day, early in 1910, he steamed away up the River Amazon in his armored pleasure yacht, and disappeared into the interior of Brazil. It was given out that he was subsidizing an expedition for scientific research, but about six months later, the Brazilian Government was astounded to receive a highly-imposing document, signed Gabriel Napoleon I, Emperor of the Amazons, in which the new monarch stated that he had proclaimed himself Emperor over the tracts of land at the sources of the River Amazon, the country being rich and extensive, but chiefly inhabited by Indians. He demanded, first, official recognition by the Brazilian Government, secondly, free access to the River Amazon, and thirdly, an immediate and definite revision of boundary questions. At the same time, through the medium of the South and North American newspapers, he invited enterprising and energetic people to settle as colonists in his dominion, declared his intention of founding a capital, and purchased six liners for passenger traffic down the great river. Of course, the whole thing was impossible; nobody took the man seriously, and the papers treated the matter as a huge joke; it was altogether too far-fetched! Before many months had gone by, the Emperor of the Amazons was taken into custody by Brazilian troops: he was found at the head of an army of a hundred and twenty men, which immediately took to flight. He was handed over to his relations, amongst whom was the famous aëroplane-constructor Ortiz; feeling rather crestfallen, he was obliged to consent to leave the country quietly, and nobody gave another thought to the Empire of the Amazons."

"Emperor of the Amazons," muttered B.22 with a laugh. "I do seem to have a hazy recollection of it now. And so that man was Ortiz! I begin to understand...."

The journalist saw that his story had made an impression, and he continued: "You will notice that this Brazilian millionaire-adventurer was not without certain elements of greatness. Such causes as his have prospered before now. It was only that he lived in an age when, under normal circumstances, adventures of that kind are absurd. Public opinion is formed by the Press, and the Press laughed the Empire of the Amazons to scorn. Fifteen years earlier, the man might have succeeded, but, as it was, he had learnt a dearly-bought lesson--till next time! He had not abandoned a single detail of his great project, but he could bide his time: he could go on with his preparations. The next act in the drama was played in New York. Ortiz proved himself a financial genius of the first order, floated one gigantic speculation after another, with truly Napoleonic strategy, and was acclaimed before long as one of Wall Street's brightest stars, or, more correctly, meteors. Finally, he 'swung' a 'corner' in coffee with unscrupulous skill, increased his already colossal fortune tenfold, and gained the nickname of 'The Coffee King.' The Emperor of the Amazons had become a Coffee King! At any rate, you can see what he was aiming at. As 'emperor' he had brought imprisonment on at most forty persons; as 'king' he had ruined thousands. His power for evil had increased, but it was not yet fully developed, and the great opportunity was still to come. He does not advance step by step, like other men. No, his ambition demands constant movement, culminating in some tremendous display of strength. His motto is: 'Better a grand catastrophe than a meagre victory.' Laws do not exist for a man with such ideas, and what can those persons expect who are bold enough to follow him as assistants or subordinates, but a prison cell, or something even worse, for their pains?"

B.22 was listening as though he had been hypnotized, and Wallion went on: "After his 'coup' on the coffee market, Gabriel Ortiz disappeared from New York. He realized his assets, and was seen no more in Wall Street. He had attained his primary aim, and provided himself with the means of carrying out even the wildest and most ambitious of his dreams. The episode in the Amazons had taught him experience: in New York he had acquired millions. He was now fully equipped, and only waited for a favorable opportunity. In August, 1914, the Great War broke out."

The journalist sat silent and thoughtful for a little while. Then he continued: "It is horrible to think that a Brazilian freebooter should find the great chance of his lifetime in the grimmest tragedy that has ever befallen the human race. It is true that in this war, as never before, there have been openings for adventurers who are ready to sell their swords or their skill to the highest bidder.

"Within the war-area, where, as in an earthquake, all the powers of darkness rise to the surface, Ortiz found the desired field of operations, where he might sow his millions, and reap an abundant harvest of power. After due calculation, he fixed upon Russia as his objective, and Stockholm as his starting-point. How long have you been in his service?"

"Since October, 1915."

"Nearly from the beginning, then. I can tell by your accent that you are a Finn. I suppose they made you believe that you would be working for the liberty of Finland?"

"That was so," said B.22 in a low voice.

"Do you still think so, now that Finland is really free, in consequence of the March Revolution? Was that Ortiz' work?"

The man crimsoned with rage and shame. He struck his hand on the table, and said: "No, since I got to know the contents of the Tarraschin document, I can see that Ortiz is neither working for freedom nor for the Tsar: he thinks only of himself."

"Exactly," said Wallion, coldly, "and you should have realized that long ago."

"How could I?" replied B.22 piteously; "I knew nothing of him, until you told me all this. What shall I do?"

"Don't take it so hard. You have been too easily tempted by the thought of quickly earned money, that's all, and now you're in a fix. You haven't told me yet what happened in the boarding-house."

"I had only just got there," said B.22 excitedly, "when I heard the telephone ring. One of the Russians answered it, and I was in the room alongside. I guessed that Rastakov had rung up, and I heard the Russian say: 'Yes, he has just come in.' They were speaking about me, and I was alarmed to hear the man say: 'We had better shadow him; it would be easier to get rid of him in Finland than here. Yes, we will keep an eye on him; if he gives any trouble, we will find a way which won't attract attention. No, he hasn't spoken to anyone yet....' Then I was sure that my fate was sealed, and at first I felt paralyzed with fear, but I knew that they would be after me in a few seconds, and, without even stopping to get my knapsack, I crept downstairs, and out of the house...."

Wallion could not help pitying the poor fellow, who looked like a man sentenced to death, and could hardly speak coherently.

"Was that all?" he asked.

"It was quite enough for me; they mean to do something dreadful.... I am not the first...."

"I know. I will help you on one condition: has our conversation convinced you how necessary it is for you to tell me honestly and openly everything that may lead to the annihilation of Ortiz and his gang?"

"Yes, yes, only tell me what I can do."

"You won't only think of saving your own skin? You promise to help me to the best of your ability?"

"Yes, yes, that's just what I want to do; only save me!"

The man's sincerity was undoubted; Wallion's earnestness had entirely conquered his feeble will. He gazed at the journalist with doglike submission, whilst the latter wrote a few lines, and his address, on a card.

"Take this," he said, "go straight to my house in the Valhalla Road, and hand the card to my housekeeper. Stay there till I come. Just wait a minute, while I telephone to her."

B.22 seized the card with an audible sigh of relief and gratitude. The journalist went into the outer room, and rang up his house. The housekeeper answered, and he informed her briefly what she was to do with B.22, and what further precautions he must observe. Then, after a little consideration, he rang up the offices of the _Daily Courier_, and asked for Robert Lang, who came at once to the telephone. "Has anyone been to ask for me?" said Wallion. "What? Leonard Grath? He's just gone? What a nuisance, I wanted particularly to see him. Don't you know where he has gone? He really is far too headstrong to be allowed to go off by himself, you should have kept him. No, I can't come up at present, I must go and see what the baron and Tassler are up to, but I want you to come at once to Tegnér Street, and find out what is going on at the boarding-house there, if you can. It is probable that we shall soon have to give official information to the police; we ought to have sufficient proof in our hands in a few hours' time. Look here: before you leave the office, arrange for somebody trustworthy--say, Steno Beyler--to receive a young man named Bernard Jenin, who may turn up there in the course of the day, and not to let him out of his sight before I have had a word with him. Yes, that's all, I can tell you more later; I've a big job on hand at present...."

He put down the receiver, and returned to the other room, but he stopped short on the threshold: B.22 had disappeared. A door leading to the passage stood open, and on the table lay a paper, with a few hurried lines scrawled upon it. Wallion snatched it up, and ran into the passage. After glancing into the garden, which was surrounded by a high wall, he went out into the street, but B.22 was nowhere to be seen. Feeling very anxious, the journalist read what was written on the paper: "I must go. One of them is outside in the churchyard, and I am sure he has seen me at the window. If they get to know that I have anything to do with you, they will shoot me in the street. Expect me early--about seven--to-morrow morning."

The journalist crumpled up the paper and put it in his pocket, after which he lighted a cigarette. Not a single person was visible in the whole length of the silent street.