CHAPTER IX

SURPRISES

Zoya Rochal had watched the figure of Rowland until it disappeared among the shrubbery. Her brows were slightly drawn and her eyes, shadowed by her dark hair, peered eagerly into the half light of the garden. Monsieur Khodkine, it seemed, respected her intelligence. But it was a pity that he had sent out for Monsieur Rowland so soon. It would have required but ten minutes more to have hitched this handsome American to her chariot wheel. He was a nice boy and it would be a pity if anything happened to him, for it seemed quite certain that something was on the point of happening at Nemi, and whatever happened it was Monsieur Rowland who would be the loser. Against the will of Max Liederman she had chosen to throw her lot in with the new President of Nemi, because he seemed quite young, quite inexperienced and with good management could be made quite useful for her own ends. But she hadn't reckoned upon the speed of Monsieur Rowland's wooing and the sudden culmination of the adventure. She wasn't sure that she hadn't liked the spontaneity of his caress--hurried, boyish and quite ingenuous. She must do what she could to save this newly found admirer from the wiles of Monsieur Khodkine, and with this object in her general plan, she moved slowly in the direction of the house and encountered on her way Max Liederman, walking alone in a bypath and furiously smoking a long cigar.

"Ach, Madame," he growled. "So you've at last condescended. It's time----"

"Don't be a beast, Max," she said coolly.

"Well, this is no time for trifling," he growled.

"Sh!" she warned. "I'm not trifling. I've wasted no time. I've learned what I wanted to find out. Monsieur Rowland knows nothing."

"Does he look as if he knew anything?" he said contemptuously. "I could have told you that much. Khodkine twists him around his thumb."

"And so do I."

"Ach--and at what cost?" he muttered suspiciously.

Madame Rochal smiled up at Khodkine's lighted window.

"That's my affair," she said coldly.

"And in the meanwhile," he went on, "this precious Khodkine will get into the vault. Tonight, perhaps--How do I know that even now he hasn't the combination to the doors in his pockets. And I don't trust Fraeulein Korasov."

"Nor I. She is much too quiet."

Liederman threw his cigar into the bushes, thrust his fists into his trouser pockets and swayed heavily from one foot to the other.

"Zoya Rochal," he said hoarsely, "you see how things are here at Nemi. While Ivanitch led our committee we were sure at least of a man pledged deeply to Internationalism and the socialist cause. It was his fetish. He was orthodox. He even gave his life for his convictions. And now whom do we find as Priest of Nemi--a friend of France, full of meaningless catchwords about Peace and Liberty--a boy from America, now the enemy of my country, ready to be caught by the first wind that blows. You, Zoya, voted for him. You have placed yourself on his side,--why, God knows, when with Khodkine he may work our ruin."

"Nonsense."

"I know what I am talking about. Khodkine comes with credentials from Russia, but that means nothing. You carry credentials from the Central Committee of Munich. He may be a Russian or a Roumanian, an Austrian or an agent of the Wilhelmstrasse----"

"That is not possible. I know----"

"What difference does it make to me? I distrust him. You may turn hither and yon for advisers, but no one may say that I'm not loyal to those who sent me here. In Germany I was born and bred, but the cause I serve is greater than nationality, greater than patriotism. And whatever others may do I am ready to give my life for that cause."

Zoya Rochal smiled at him charmingly and laid her slim fingers along his hairy cheek and their touch seemed to quiet him.

"No one doubts your honesty, my great bear," she said with a laugh. "You may not always be pleasant, but you always have the courage of conviction."

"And what thanks do I get?" he growled.

"Mine," she whispered, running a hand through his arm.

"Bah!" he shrugged.

"What do you want me to do?" she asked.

"Nothing, except not to play with fire."

"You've planned something?"

"Yes," he growled. "And I'm going to do it, to-night."

She turned up toward him in eager inquiry.

"What?"

"I'm going to take no further chances with this situation."

"Are you serious?"

"Am I ever anything else? The money in the vault belongs to the Society of Nemi and the essence of the Society of Nemi--is Socialism. While I live, that money shall be spent in no other service."

"That is right, but you're not sure----"

"I trust no one here. And as the Council stands I can be out-voted. Shestov, Barthou, Colodna, Khodkine--and this young sprig of a Yankee. And the others----? We can't be sure of them. Most of this money should be appropriated for immediate use tomorrow, in Germany, in Austria, in Russia and Italy. And yet what assurances have we that it will not be wrongly used even, if used at all--or that Monsieur Khodkine this very night may not make away with it."

"What do you propose to do?"

"Take it, tonight--myself."

"You----!"

Max Liederman shook his massive shoulders and tapped her with a kind of elephantine playfulness upon the hands.

"Did you ever know me to make a boast that I couldn't fulfill?" Then in a hoarse whisper. "I'm going to break into the vault."

"You are prepared?"

"Yes. I've been prepared for a long time. I always believe in being ready for emergencies."

"Do you need my help----"

"Your society, _chere_ Zoya, let us say----"

"When will you do this?"

"Toward morning. I have a drill and explosives. With luck I should succeed in something over an hour."

"And the money? Where shall you take it?" Zoya asked.

"Away from here to a safer place. Will you go with me?"

"Suppose you fail?"

He smiled grimly. "I won't fail. There's no watch kept upon the Tree. Will you meet me here?"

"At what hour?"

"At three. It is the hour of deepest slumber. Your room adjoins mine upon the other side of the house. You must sleep soundly, for we may have to travel far."

Madame Rochal stood in a moment of silence and then assented.

"I see I've not put my faith in you for nothing, Max," she said quietly.

"I've told you," he muttered, "that I've always been worth considering. You shall see---- Will you kiss me, Zoya?"

She made a little _mouee_ at him and then obeyed with the deftness of one skilled in illusions.

"There, my great bear," she laughed. "And you'll wake me?"

"Yes. Now go and get your beauty sleep."

"And you? Shall you stay awake?"

"I sleep with one eye open--I can wake when I please. Borrow no trouble on that score."

She moved toward the house, whispering to him:

"Remain here. It will not do for us to be seen together. _Au revoir_." And blowing a kiss at him with her fingers, she floated away into the shadows.

Max Liederman was thorough. With characteristic prevision he had prepared all things, including a machine which was to be waiting at daylight outside the wall. Three o'clock found them at the iron door which led down into the passage. Liederman had been prepared to force this lock and to his amazement, and Zoya Rochal's, the key was in the door, which indeed was partly open.

Liederman stopped a moment to rock to and fro and gaze at the door in a puzzled way.

"Curious," he muttered, rubbing his head.

"Some one has been here before us?" questioned Zoya.

He nodded. "It looks so," he growled, "but we'll soon find out." Entering without hesitation and carrying his tools in their canvas wrapping, he threw the light of his pocket-torch down the steps and descended, while Zoya Rochal, her small nose sniffing the air daintily, followed, frowning.

"Don't you smell something?" she whispered when they reached the passage.

"I fancied--yes, I'm sure--the fumes of powder."

"Ah, I was not mistaken then. What can have happened?"

"I don't know. Perhaps we are mistaken."

Zoya, whose eyes seemed to be keener than his, suddenly darted forward ahead of him with a cry, and bending down beside the steel door picked up something and held it before Max Liederman's eyes.

"The Bough!" she cried. "The Golden Bough!"

Liederman started upright, his eyes big as saucers under his tangled brows.

"Khodkine!" he stammered. "Here!"

"It's quite green," she whispered. "Recently broken."

"He has killed--Monsieur----" she halted, her face white as paper.

"Your little Yankee--!" He shrugged uneasily. "Perhaps. Wait. I must see."

He bent forward with the lamp and examined the nickel knob and handle, turned the light down, then went upon his knees and put his face close to the stone floor.

"There are many footprints in the dust,--one small, one with high heels, Zoya."

"Tanya Korasov?"

"Who else?"

"She and Khodkine--but I don't understand----"

Max Liederman had settled down before the door of the vault with a business-like air, unwrapping the canvas covering of his tools, and examining the knob, listening intently. Then he threw off his coat and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt and set to work while Zoya, her hand trembling, held the light.

"Could they have killed him--do you think?" she asked again anxiously.

"How should I know? It would only be what he deserves," he grunted.

Zoya's dark eyes frowned at him, but she said nothing.

Meanwhile the drill was slowly eating its way into the steel door above the lock. She questioned again but he was intent upon his task and made no answer. The sweat stood out in beads upon his face and fell to the ground. He was a magnificent brute. There were women who ... But Zoya Rochal was difficult to please.

The first glimmerings of the dawn were filtering down through the iron door at the end of the passage before Max Liederman announced that his work was completed. Then he attached the fuse and he and Zoya Rochal went up the stairs, closed the iron door and waited.

A muffled explosion as the iron door swung open and a cloud of dust enveloped them. Liederman darted down the steps with Zoya at his heels. The charge had been cleverly placed and by the use of an iron rod and a short steel jimmy, at last the door of the vault yielded to Liederman's weight and swung inward upon its hinges.

Liederman threw the light into the room and it gleamed upon the swirling dust which for a moment obscured the vision. But as the cloud cleared, they saw a litter of papers upon the floor, and in the midst of the wreckage the figure of Rowland lying prone, his arms outstretched, smeared with blood and grime. A hasty glance around the shelves revealed no trace of the treasure of Nemi.

Liederman rocked to and fro in an awful moment of silent imprecation.

"_Schwein-hund_ that I am, for waiting," he muttered. "Khodkine has been here before us."

Zoya Rochal gazed at him wildly a moment, and then fell to her knees beside the prostrate figure upon the floor.

Liederman grunted incuriously.

"He's dead?" he asked.

"Yes--No! His heart beats----"

"Ach--we must get him out of this--into the air. Pfui! It is enough to stifle one. Can you help, Zoya? His feet----"

Max Liederman raised the prostrate man and between them, they half dragged, half carried him out along the corridor and up the steps into the air. Without waiting for instructions Zoya ran to the house and came back with water and brandy. By the time she returned Liederman had loosened the American's collar, and after a while, in response to treatment, Rowland moved slightly and opened his eyes. He turned his head from side to side, gazing up through the trees at the spreading dawn and then his look met Zoya Rochal's. He concentrated his gaze with some difficulty as though not sure of himself, and then with an effort raised himself upon one elbow, his hand to his brows in a moment of thought.

"Khodkine!" he muttered weakly in English. "And the--the blighter--got--got away with it."

"Khodkine--yes-----" uttered Liederman.

Rowland grinned up at his interrogator and nodded.

"Gone--got the best of me----"

"With the money? And Mademoiselle Korasov----?" questioned Liederman keenly.

Rowland brushed a hand across his brow and started upright.

"Mademoiselle Korasov! Yes. Yes----"

"They've robbed the vault, I tell you," cried Liederman wildly. "The money is gone----!"

It was here that Zoya Rochal took command of the situation.

"We can do nothing alone. Go, Max, arouse Shestov, Barthou and Signorina Colodna. They must learn of this."

"I'm quite all right," muttered Rowland. "Only a little confused. There was an explosion."

She gave him another drink of the brandy which he accepted gratefully.

"You are very kind, Madame," he said.

Zoya Rochal regarded him in a moment of anxiety.

"I warned you, Philippe Rowlan'," she said.

He smiled at her broadly and then whispered quizzically, "There was a pig in the vault," he laughed. "The trouble was that he hadn't any ring in his nose.

"It is no time to jest, Monsieur. I'm afraid you're badly hurt."

"I'm all right," he smiled, "but nitro-glycerine is not the best thing for a headache."

"I'm sorry, Monsieur." He saw Madame Rochal start and put her finger to her lips. "Sh--," she whispered and peered out from behind the bush where Rowland was sitting, toward the wall. He got up to his knees and followed her glance. It was still quite dark, but in the growing light he saw a movement in the branches of a tree near by and presently made out a pair of legs, dangling above the top of the wall. "It's a man," whispered Madame Rochal, "coming over. What----?"

Rowland slowly got to his feet and stood, his hand in warning on the arm of Madame Rochal, waiting until the man should descend. The gray figure hovered for a moment on the top of the wall and then they heard the thud of his boots as he reached the ground. In a moment, as the man emerged from the bushes, Rowland sprang out and faced the intruder. And as each man recognized the other in the growing light, he stepped back, the one in, surprise, the other in consternation.

"Picard----!"

"You, Monsieur Rowland! Safe!" He breathed hard like one in the last stages of exhaustion.

"Quite, as you see. Mademoiselle Korasov sent you?"

Picard gasped and nodded. "With this note to Monsieur Shestov."

"Let me see it."

While Zoya Rochal turned on the light of Liederman's torch Rowland unfolded the slip of paper covered with close writing--in Russian.

"The devil!" cried the American. "Madame Rochal--read!"

Zoya Rochal obeyed, translating rapidly.

"Ivan Shestov,

The American Rowland, imprisoned in vault. He will die unless door is forced. Lose no time. I am prisoner of Gregory Khodkine fleeing with bank notes into Germany by upper road--a machine--destination--Munich. Follow.

Tatyana."

As she finished, Rowland turned quickly to Picard.

"And Stepan----?"

"Dead, Monsieur. He resisted. Mademoiselle warned me. I obeyed Monsieur Khodkine until the time came, when I took this paper and fled. I have been running for two hours."

"You have done well, my friend. We shall lose no time. But how was Stepan killed?"

"Monsieur Khodkine said that he had broken the Golden Bough--that you, Monsieur Rowland, were killed and that he was the Priest of Nemi. We did not believe him. He ordered Stepan to carry the bank notes--which were already in the suit-case--along the road. Stepan refused to obey and Monsieur Khodkine struck him in the head with a stick. His body is near the road only a hundred yards or so from the wall."

"And you----?"

"Mademoiselle had whispered, 'Do nothing! Obey!' And I went with them, carrying the suit-case until we came to an empty machine standing by the roadside----"

"Liederman's----" explained Zoya Rochal.

"I see," muttered Rowland. And then, to Picard, "They had passed the German border when you returned?"

"Yes, Monsieur--a matter of three or four miles perhaps. The machine slowed down upon a hill and I slipped out and ran into a wood, coming back as fast as I could run."

"You saw no one?" asked Zoya Rochal.

"No, Madame. I knew where the sentries were stationed on the frontier and avoided them."

Shestov and Barthou now came with Liederman, drawing on clothing as they ran, their faces wan in the growing light as the details of the situation were explained to them.

"Your note, Monsieur Shestov," said Rowland coolly, handing it to him. "We took the liberty of reading it, As you will see, there's little time to lose."

The tall Russian frowned as he read while the impatient Barthou questioned anxiously.

"But I can't understand how Herr Liederman----"

Zoya Rochal cut him short.

"I heard the sounds of shots and called Herr Liederman," she explained glibly. "We went to the vault which showed signs of having been tampered with. And so with a crow-bar which Monsieur Khodkine had left, we broke into it. Is this not so, Monsieur Rowland?" she challenged him.

Their glances met in comprehension. Rowland turned aside.

"That is true," he said coolly. "Monsieur Khodkine was robbing the vault. I interfered. We fought but he outwitted me and got away----"

"But I don't understand----" persisted Barthou.

"Monsieur," cut in Rowland quickly, "there is no time for explanations. The bank-notes of Nemi are in a machine bound for the interior of Germany. Some of us must follow at once. A machine----

"Mine is in the village," said Zoya.

"Passports----"

"Mine----" cried Liederman.

"And Monsieur Rowland----?" questioned Zoya.

"I shall take my chances. We must go at once."