THE COPPER HOUSE

A Detective Story

BY JULIUS REGIS

AUTHOR OF "NO. 13 TORONI"

NEW YORK HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 1923

Copyright, 1923, By HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY First Printing, September, 1923

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

PROLOGUE

This is the story of a great peril, and how it was averted.

It is surprising to think how few persons were aware of this peril, or had any suspicion of the extraordinary events that were taking place in Stockholm during the fateful year 1917.

Nevertheless, at the beginning of the year, a little weekly newspaper published a very striking open letter, entitled: "Who is the Man in the Whirlpool?"

To whom was it addressed? There was no indication, but the writer was evidently inspired by a deep and growing conviction of impending evil. The article ran as follows:

Have we lost all power of distinguishing between essentials and non-essentials? Stockholm has become a caravanserai, a link between East and West, a central clearing-house for all those who, under various disguises and with varying aims, seek to enrich themselves in the blood-stained arena of War. Can no one foresee what sort of crop must ultimately spring from this strife-sodden soil? It is tragic, while almost laughable, to see how people persist in labeling as 'espionage' every new development whose purpose is unintelligible to them, in the same way that they would probably account for all unexplained conflagrations with the glib verdict: 'a short-circuit.'

What is espionage? Of course, it exists. But is there nothing more?

Chips from many kinds of timber float on the surface of the whirlpool. What a medley of strange faces, which nobody recognizes, bob up from its mysterious depths!

The short-sighted public are content to go on believing that in Stockholm, where secret committees and conferences, planners and plotters from every quarter of the earth, are struggling together for the mastery, these dark deeds are one and all the work of secret agents of the belligerent powers.

Yet it is as certain as a problem of Euclid that at the vortex of the Whirlpool we shall find a group of intelligences working solely for their own interests. Let us suppose that amongst these, one alone is to be found who is strong enough to fight his way through chaos, or rather let us say, to dominate chaos. Would not such a man establish himself at the very heart of the Whirlpool, to direct the various powers of destruction whither he will?

We need not limit ourselves to supposition: He exists. We do not know who he is, and it is possible that his plans are known to no one besides himself. The air is full of rumors, and no one can tell what the future may bring forth. There is enough to show that a powerful will is evidently directing the activities of many of these lawless phenomena. Who is the Man in the Whirlpool?

Can no one answer the question before it is too late? For he certainly exists.

This appeal fell on deaf ears. The few who read it shook their heads, and laughed. The newspaper relapsed into silence with its next number.

To this very day, nobody knows who wrote the article, though Maurice Wallion can make a pretty shrewd guess. The article does not affect our story except as an example of the characteristic and frequently recurring collapse which precedes the fulfilment of a truth, as the prophetic slump gives warning of a financial crisis. It is known now that there was a Man in the Whirlpool, and in order to give an account of that daring adventurer's gigantic attempt to organize chaos, the author has had recourse to the evidence of a number of persons, in particular Messrs. Wallion and Raebel, and, above all, Mr. Leonard Grath.

But we must tell our tale methodically, and many things happened before the actual appearance of the arch-villain himself. The story opens, appropriately, with the arrival of two of the principal characters in Stockholm, that is to say, on July 19th, 1917. From that moment, the depths begin to seethe, the catastrophe looms nearer, and a Face appears amidst the foaming waters....

The curtain rises....

CHAPTER I

Baron Frederick Fayerling waits in vain for the most important document in Europe

"Well, what else?"

Baron Frederick Fayerling had a way of addressing his subordinates as though he were cracking a dog-whip. He was standing by his writing table, a strongly-built man of medium height, with cold blue eyes, and a beard in the style that D'Annunzio brought into fashion. As he looked down at the man who sat on a chair close by, he folded his arms, with a look of disgust, as though he were thinking: "What a face! The fellow is a regular freak."

The baron's well-kept teeth showed slightly, and the whip cracked again. "Next! The report on Tarraschin's memorandum."

The man on the chair, who was slowly and sullenly twisting his hat in his fingers, murmured in reply: "You forget, sir, that we are in a hotel bedroom, with all sorts of folk within earshot."

"And you forget, that when I wish to hear a report, you have only to obey my orders. What's wrong with a room in a hotel? Stockholm is absolutely full of spies and adventurers: so much the better for you—there is safety in numbers. Go ahead!" The fellow cringed to the lash, and made a start. "The man whom you expect is called Bernard Jenin," he said rapidly and softly. "I made his acquaintance, as you instructed me, and gained his confidence to a considerable extent. He is quite young, and was traveling to Sweden by way of Finland, as we anticipated; I was his only companion in the north-bound train. I am absolutely convinced that he is in possession of the document: but he is cautious. I gathered that he is an ardent admirer of Kerensky, but as a matter of fact, he comes as a hunted fugitive from Russia."

"Did you manage to get a photograph of him?"

"Yes, easily: here it is."

Baron Fayerling took the snapshot and examined it closely. It showed a portion of the gangway outside a railway carriage; a man, wearing a very thin, almost ragged overcoat, was leaning against the iron railing, and gazing dreamily at the landscape through which he was passing; his clean-shaven face, with its broad brow and small mouth, was youthful-looking and attractive, but with a striking expression of calm resignation and patient expectation; his dark eyes were encircled by a network of very fine wrinkles, which might be the result of bodily suffering, or of many years of anxiety and strife.

"He looks weak," remarked the baron, throwing the photograph on one side. "It should not be difficult to—persuade him. Were you able to make any overtures to him?"

"No, he is not to be got at in that way; he is an honest revolutionary."

The baron laughed a little. "Honest? A dangerous attribute in these days of war! Where is he now?"

"As soon as Bernard Jenin and I arrived at Stockholm this morning, Rastakov took charge. Jenin believes that I am associated with his friends; I have no idea who his friends are, I never saw him speak to anybody or write a letter, but I persuaded him to engage a room in this hotel, and to await a visit from a common acquaintance, who will give him some important news."

"In this very hotel?" asked the baron sharply.

"Yes, he is at the present minute in room No. 23."

"Ah, in 23, that's better. Have you arranged that our friends should keep on the adjoining rooms?"

"Yes, all is in order."

Baron Fayerling nodded approvingly, and the man began to twirl his hat a little faster. His employer, who could read the signs of the times, smiled contemptuously, took out some banknotes and threw them down on the table.

"There you are!" said he. "One thing more: you have been in Finland since the beginning of January; what is your number there?"

"B.22," replied the man, gathering the notes together with a sort of enveloping maneuver.

"That is all right; in other words, we shall not require you here any longer."

B.22 rose obediently and went towards the door.

"Send Rastakov here!" was the baron's parting salutation.

The man disappeared, and two minutes later another person entered, closing the door quietly after him. He was a tall, dark, taciturn fellow, a regular Slav in appearance, about thirty years of age, with bold, resolute eyes, and a touch of self-satisfied impudence in his look.

The baron's expression had altered, and he now spoke in a frank, friendly tone.

"Good morning, Rastakov, did you meet B.22?"

"Yes."

"Did you verify his reports?"

"Yes, they are correct."

"Good; I don't trust the fellow any longer, and for the future he must be under supervision. Bernard Jenin is installed in room 23—with the most important paper in Europe in his possession, and now, Rastakov, the great thing is to get hold of it. If you are prepared to risk something for our cause, that paper should be in our hands in an hour's time."

Rastakov made no reply, but he tightened his thin lips with a look of determination.

"Have you warned all our friends?" inquired the baron.

"Yes, they will keep out of the way till it is done."

"And you have nothing about you which would compromise us, should you fail?"

"I am not a child!"

"Go in five minutes' time to Jenin's room, introduce yourself as the friend of whom B.22 spoke to him, and talk to him for a bit in such a way as not to arouse his suspicions, though he may feel a little puzzled. Then act as swiftly and silently as circumstances permit. I will give you a quarter of an hour. When you come out of the room, I shall be sitting in one of the wicker chairs near the staircase: you must pass me, and if you have the paper, bow slightly, and walk slowly out towards the Park, where I will join you in an hour's time."

The baron walked up to Rastakov, and looked meaningly at him: "If anything goes wrong, you must look out for yourself," he added: "you know our rules?"

"Yes," replied the other without flinching: "you need not remind me of them." And without another word, he left the room. The baron looked after him; his face resumed its usual cynical expression, and he laughed. "Poor fool!" he said half-aloud.

He looked at the clock: it was half-past twelve. He yawned, examined his finger-nails, and lighted a cigar. Then he took his coat, gloves and Panama hat, and went towards the door, which burst open as he approached it, and a short, stout, and very fashionably-dressed man came in. The two men stood staring at one another, without a word of greeting.

"Marcus Tassler," exclaimed the baron, impatiently, "what are you doing here? Be quick, I am in a hurry."

"Two minutes, only two minutes, baron," replied the new-comer, in an oily, businesslike voice. His flaccid sallow face, with its thick red lips, was as Jewish as his voice, but his hair was fair and close-cropped.

"I met Rastakov, and I know everything. But let me just warn you...."

"Warn me!" interrupted the baron, "it is too late for warnings. Our preparations are made, and must come to a head shortly; the Tarraschin memorandum will be the corner-stone of the edifice, and then the storm may break! If you are afraid, you had better be silent."

"No, I am not afraid."

"Well, what is it then?"

Marcus Tassler drew an opened telegram from an inner pocket and struck it with the palm of his hand. "I warn you," he said again emphatically. "This bomb business in Christiania has compromised our position, and there is danger in the air. Though no one may have discovered our plans, the Press are on the alert, and sniffing suspiciously in every direction...."

"Much that matters!" said the baron, coolly. "The fools believe that we are working for one of the belligerent powers, as spies and dynamiters: let them think so. The explosions in Christiania were a blunder, but nothing worse; the idiot who managed the affair, acted on his own initiative; I have isolated the consequences, and directed suspicion towards a quarter which will make the whole of Scandinavia gasp." The baron laughed contentedly. "We are stronger than any of the Great Powers, and our plan is the most colossal ever conceived by the brain of one man. So why need you worry?"

Marcus Tassler nodded, rubbed his hands, and burst out with a sort of enthusiastic eagerness: "Yes, I admit that Gabriel Ortiz...."

The baron shot a threatening glance at him: "Hush! Never that name, except in a whisper, or when you are alone."

"All right, our Chief, then. I admit that his genius seems able to surmount any obstacle: but, baron, his genius has not yet been put to positive proof. I am of opinion that what is just beginning...."

"Look here, are you ever coming to the point?"

"I begin to suspect that we have an antagonist."

"An antagonist? Are you mad? Since nobody knows us, how can anyone become our antagonist?"

"You think not? How about this wire from our Agent in Göteburg?"

"What does he say?"

"That Leonard Grath, the owner of the Copper House, arrived in Göteburg yesterday, and is already in Stockholm by this time."

The baron looked serious, took the telegram himself, and read it through.

"You can't think that this stripling will turn out to be our antagonist?" said he.

"No, but the fact of his arriving in Stockholm simultaneously with Jenin, points to a premeditated plan. You know what the Copper House means to us. No one expected that the owner would return, at any rate so suddenly. Do you think, baron, that someone has sent for him to turn us out of the house—that would be a catastrophe, wouldn't it?" The baron returned to the table, where he stood and meditated for a short time. "The Copper House—I didn't expect that news," he murmured, then turned round and said: "We shall find some way out of it. For the moment, Jenin is our chief consideration. Have you taken any steps towards having Leonard Grath met?"

"Yes, of course he is being shadowed, and the first thing to do will be to go through his papers."

"Right, and try to get me a photograph of him."

"I believe that has been seen to already."

"Presumably he will go down to the Copper House; that cannot be avoided, but of course he must discover nothing there."

"That is obvious!" replied Tassler. "But suppose he should find out anything?"

"In that case, he need not survive it. He might meet with an accident, the sea is close by—I leave it to you to work out the details."

As if by mutual consent, the two gentlemen avoided looking at each other at this moment.

"Was there anything else?" asked the baron.

"No."

"Then you had better go. We will meet at four this afternoon in the usual place. Don't come again to the hotel: Rastakov is in room 23 now."

Tassler's complexion looked paler than ever, and he did not wait to hear any more. When the baron turned round, he had left the room.

Baron Fayerling took a good pull at his cigar. The big hotel was very quiet, and the atmosphere felt close and lifeless under the heated sunblinds. Through the open windows he could hear the monotonous hum of the street, impregnated with the warm odor of sun-baked granite and asphalt, and punctuated by the crescendo and diminuendo of the trams, as they stopped, started, and rang their bells; in this third summer of the Great War one heard rather less of the hooting of motor-cars, and of the groaning and creaking of cables, behind the smoke-stained walls of the central depot. The baron listened absently, whilst he bestowed another minute's thought on Tassler.

"They're a cowardly lot," he mused cynically. "Half of them are working to promote their own feeble ideals, the rest care only for piling up their banking-account, and they all imagine Ortiz to be an amiable idiot, whose shekels will further their own ambitions. Let them muddle along—the main thing is that we can make use of them."

He threw his cigar into the ash-tray, and his cold, calculating eyes glittered. "An amiable idiot? Why not? Time enough to decide about that—afterwards."

He left the room abruptly, closing the door behind him, and mounted the stairs to the next floor, stopping on the landing. To the right lay a red-carpeted corridor, similar to that in which his own room was situated, and just at the bend of the passage he could see a door numbered 23. This door, like all those near it, was shut, and the corridor was empty. At the top of the stairs was a sort of recess, with palms, three wicker armchairs, and a table with newspapers. In the chair nearest the banisters sat a gentleman reading one of the papers. The baron frowned: he would have preferred to find the place unoccupied; still, not the ghost of a sound was to be heard from No. 23, and with a comforting recollection of Rastakov's proved skill in transacting his business quietly and swiftly, he sat calmly down on one of the chairs, and resigned himself to wait. He cast a hasty glance at the reader, who appeared to be a middle-aged person, tall, powerfully built, and very well-dressed: his face was buried in the newspaper, and only the top of his sleek head could be seen. Then the

baron returned to his own meditations. He was surprised to find himself a little excited: do what he would, his eyes kept straying towards the closed door of room 23. The Tarraschin document would change the whole situation; its possession meant an increase of power, its loss, the renewal of such difficulties as are apt to wreck one's plans at the last moment. To be disappointed now, when everything was ready, and every day invaluable! Unthinkable, unless at great risk of an even greater disaster. Peace overtures were already in the air—who could tell, perhaps this very autumn.... The baron felt his excitement increasing, the suspense was beginning to tell on him: what could be the reason of Rastakov's delay! Perhaps Jenin had not the paper after all. And so many precious months had gone by already—what was the date?

The man reading the newspaper opposite to him, looked over the top of it and said in a quiet, pleasant voice: "July 19th, 1917." The baron started, and for a moment he wondered if he could have been thinking aloud; then he said stiffly: "Were you speaking to me, sir?" "Yes," replied the other, as pleasantly as before, "I noticed that you were trying to make out the date of my newspaper, so I took the liberty of supplying you with the information."

The speaker had an intelligent, clean-shaven face, with aquiline features, and smiling gray eyes that beamed with a keen and irrepressible desire for information. Just now they were fixed on Baron Fayerling with a look which that aristocrat endeavored to return with equal self-possession. He said hastily: "I am not aware, sir, that I asked you for any information." The other smiled, and answered slowly: "That is true, but I am delighted to overlook the—the lack of invitation."

The baron suspected a hidden sarcasm in his neighbor's voice or expression, but both were irreproachable. Confused by the situation in which he found himself, he colored hotly, and replied sourly: "Sir, you seem to me to be both persistent and inquisitive!" An instant later, he realized that he had forgotten himself; but the other man did not appear to notice what had been said: he struck a match, lighted a cigarette, and returned to his paper as though the baron had ceased to exist for him. The latter's self-control began to give way, and he stared mutely at the newspaper, behind which a thin column of smoke rose into the air. What business had the fellow on this landing? And would Rastakov never come out of the mysterious door of room 23? The silence seemed to become more intense with every moment that went by, and at last the baron could stand it no longer. He got up. The reader did not stir. He walked into the corridor and felt more comfortable now that he was out of the other man's sight. He passed No. 23, turned and