Part 13

SLIPITSKY was with Michael when Katerin returned from Peter’s room. The old Jew was consumed with curiosity about the American, and worried for the safety of his guests, for he sensed menace in the stranger. Schooled all his life in the secret intrigues among exiles and living in an atmosphere of spies and counter spies, he had an astounding mental perception in devious ways. The fact that Rimsky and Ilya, two peasants, had knowledge of the American which pointed to some hidden purpose in his arrival in the city, was proof enough to Slipitsky that something was seriously wrong. The chasm of caste in Siberia prevents an officer from dealing with the lower class of peasants—unless he is using them for an advantage against his own class. To the Russian, an officer comes from the upper classes, so the idea that Peter could have ever been a peasant was beyond the comprehension of Slipitsky or Kirsakoff.

Katerin slipped into the room quickly and fastened the bolt of the door. Slipitsky rose from his chair and turned to her inquiringly, but she put her finger to her lips for caution. Michael was sitting on the bed. He saw the trouble in Katerin’s face, and knew that she could not bring the good news which they had hoped for—that the American had come from friends.

“What is the word?” whispered Slipitsky. “What says the American?”

“He is a Russian!” said Katerin.

“Holy Saints!” gasped Michael, astounded, and his head began to shake with excitement.

“Russian!” exclaimed Slipitsky, looking at Katerin as if what she had said exceeded all probability. “How could he be a Russian? Is it that he has come to my house dressed as an American and is really a spy?”

“All I know is that he speaks the Czar’s Russian,” said Katerin. “He has not come from friends,” and then she went on and hastily told them how she had given Peter every hint that she dared, so that he might understand who she was, and that he had denied being sent to Chita to help anybody.

“Then that fool of an Ilya was lying!” said Michael wrathfully. “He has made fools of us! We came here expecting to find a dove and we have found a hawk. Ilya had sand in his brains! It was all done to fool us and get money! An American who is a Russian—what good can he do us?”

“Hah! A riddle!” said the Jew, and he rubbed his hands and drew himself a fresh glass of tea. “Now we must consider what it all means, Excellence! The rope is tangled and we must find the end of it!”

Michael sat for a few minutes with his eyes screwed up against the light from the window, his wrinkled old face twitching nervously. Presently he got up and began to pace the floor in his stockinged feet, hands behind his back, his shoulders bent forward in dejection. His weak knees bent beneath him as he shuffled about. His body quivered with excitement and his eyes glowed as if he were racked by a fever.

Katerin sat down by Slipitsky, and stared at the floor in reflection, seeking to piece together in her mind again the whole time of her visit to Peter and to gauge the value of what both of them had said. If only Ilya were still alive and could be questioned as to how he had learned that the American wanted to find her father!

“He knew at once that I was not of the servant class,” said Katerin.

“Only a Russian could do that,” mused Slipitsky. “It is all very strange,” and he wagged his head slowly and thoughtfully as he puzzled over it. “Did he tell you why he had come to Chita at all?—did he say nothing of his mission to this place?”

“Nothing. Yet if Ilya spoke the truth, Rimsky was told why the American had come. Why does he trust a _moujik_ and hide his purpose from me?”

“It would not be wise to have too many in the secret,” said the Jew. “He knew you were not what you pretended to be, and was careful. The man who rides a tiger cannot get off, and this Peter Petrovitch from Kiev is not too trusting. I give him credit for that, though we would like to know his business.”

“He is an enemy!” declared Michael.

“Then we shall know in good time,” said the Jew. “An awl cannot be hidden in a sack.”

“A Russian from America—the worst of all,” said Michael into Slipitsky’s ear, as the old general came and hung over the Jew’s chair. “They come back here from America with their accursed ideas of liberty! And what do they do? Kill the Czar and ruin the country—turn it over to the Mongols! Old friend, we have an enemy on our hands who is a greater danger than the Ataman. And we have brought trouble to you and your house.”

“We are all in the same boat, Excellence. If we lose our wits, we are lost. I am no worse for your coming, and you are no worse. The thing to do is to weigh and consider—and in time settle with this fellow who calls himself an American officer but hunts with peasants.”

Katerin was discouraged. She had set her hopes on the American’s coming to solve their problems and relieve them of the danger from the Ataman. But now they were involved in a new puzzle, and could not see their way out of it. For more than two years she and her father had managed to save themselves, but now it seemed that all their bravery, all their devices and stratagems had but pushed them further into a trap. Life had become an intolerable nightmare, and the trifles of daily existence had become a burden. It seemed easier to die than to go on with the struggle against the madness which had come over their world.

Michael went roaming about the room again while Katerin and Slipitsky sat in thought. He gazed abstractedly at the furniture, as if he expected to find in it some astounding quality which he had never noticed before. After he had walked about in this way for several minutes, he returned to his position between the chairs of his daughter and the old Jew, and leaning down between them, whispered, “We must rid ourselves of this man! We cannot live here under his nose and wait for him to strike. He is a Russian hunting me. That is no new thing—but it proves he wants me for no good. We must poison him!”

“No, no!” said Katerin, taking her father’s arm and pulling him toward her. “We cannot kill a man just because Ilya said Rimsky told him the stranger was seeking you—we must learn from Rimsky what we can, as much of the truth as we can get.”

“I say that, also,” declared Slipitsky. “It must be done. I shall send for Rimsky and question him so that he will not know the reason for my questions.”

“What! You will let Rimsky know that we are here?” asked Michael, alarmed at the idea.

“No, Excellence. But I can comb him for what he knows. A few drinks of wine and he will be as putty in my hands. You must trust to me to solve this riddle.”

“Then it is well,” said Michael. “But I am resolved upon one thing—we must do away with this American, no matter what Rimsky says.”

“I shall send for Rimsky at once,” said the Jew, rising and going to the door. “Be careful till I have had a talk with the old liar.” And with a gesture of caution, Slipitsky drew the bolt and disappeared in the hall.

Katerin secured the bolt, and sat down again, her hands clenched in her lap. She felt that she was at the end of her resistance. Yet she went on trying to think of some way in which to learn from Peter the truth of why he had come to Chita. There was no reason to fear him, so long as he did not know who she was. And there was a chance that the talk that he had come for her father was all foolishness, or a shrewd scheme to play upon the fears of herself and her father and gain money. In that case, she saw that the American might be a protection—that he might take them from the city.

“I shall go back to him and talk,” she said to her father.

“You shall go back to poison his samovar,” said Michael. “I have a feeling that this man knows already who you are, and is blinding your eyes. You must end his life!”

“Would you have me murder an innocent man on the word of Ilya?” she asked, making talk now only to keep her father’s mind engaged and prevent him from the despondency which threatened him.

“This man is an enemy!” insisted Michael. “We cannot risk such a menace. We have trouble enough with the Ataman, and I speak only for your own safety. Oh, Katerin Stephanovna! I care nothing for my own life! It is you I would save. I would sell the days I have left to live if they could be turned into years for you, my daughter. I would die this minute, if I could loan you life!”

The old general put his hand on her head and caressed her gently, his eyes full of tears and his body shaking with his sorrow for her.

“I know, little father,” she whispered, taking his hands in hers and kissing the withered skin. “But your life is dear to me—so dear that I would do as you say to save you to me. But I cannot believe that this young man intends to harm us. He is a Russian, true enough, but have you lost faith in all of our people? And this Peter Petrovitch appears to be kind and gentle. You and Slipitsky think in the old ways—only the old thoughts of violence and death. This man has been to America and he may not be an enemy at all. But if it is true that he is seeking you out for evil, then we must be sure of that before we do anything against him.”

“And how are you to find it out? Can you go to him and tell him that I am in the next room and ask him what he seeks me for? Do you forget that he is using peasants to trace me?”

“I shall learn his secret,” declared Katerin. “A woman has her own ways for such things—if he hunts you, he shall first tell me, and the why of it.”

“Ah, you women trust too much,” said her father. “This is a matter in which no time must be lost with wiles. We must know before the Ataman finds——”

“I, too, think of the Ataman,” put in Katerin. “What if the American, though an enemy, should protect us from the Ataman?”

Michael gave her an incredulous stare. “Impossible!” he said.

“But it is not impossible,” insisted Katerin, who already had the inspiration of a sudden way out of the difficulty. “What if I should tell this American that I am seeking Michael Alexandrovitch? Would he not confide in me then? And if both of us are seeking you, it is not likely that he will keep his secret from me—especially if I should admit to him that I plan to have your life.”

Michael sat down upon the bed, speechless for a moment at the boldness of the plan.

“Holy Saints!” he whispered after a minute. “You would do that, Katerin Stephanovna? That is something worthy of the best of the Czar’s police! Ah, but you will be playing with fire—you will need your wits at every instant.”

“True, I shall need my wits,” said Katerin. “I am willing to play with fire, and match my wits against the stranger. And when I learn what I want—then we shall need our wits all the more.”

“I am old and my head is addled,” said Michael. “Sometimes I think I must be going mad—here I am, who was governor, hiding in my own city, helpless and with——”

There came a cautious knock at the door. Katerin went to it, and heard Slipitsky’s voice outside. She let him in—and with him was Wassili!

“You stupid one!” exclaimed Michael at sight of the old _moujik_. “Why have you come here? The Ataman will——”

Slipitsky made frantic signals for quiet, and when he had shot the bolt behind him, threw up his hands in an attitude of resignation.

Wassili was wrapped to the eyes against the cold, and stood dumbly waiting till he should be asked what he had come for.

“This is the last of us!” whispered the Jew. “We shall all be killed now! Zorogoff has been to your house, Excellence—and he told Wassili where you were—here in my house—the floor and the room! So poor Wassili has run away with the warning that you are discovered.”

Michael’s head sank upon his breast, as if he now submitted to fate.

“We must go at once!” said Katerin. “We cannot let you draw the wrath of the Ataman because you are hiding us, our friend! We shall prepare to go at once!”

“Go!” said the Jew. “You shall not till I am dead! We can all die together, mistress. Let the Ataman come, I say, and may he die with ten thousand devils dancing before his eyes!”

“Truth! Let him come,” said Michael. “You are here, Wassili, now stay with us. Let Zorogoff come, and by the Holy Saints he or I shall be carried out of the place on a board!”

“And perhaps the American will be glad to meet the Ataman, eh?” said Slipitsky. “We may as well bring him to the test, now that the Ataman knows where you are. We are riding a tiger, and we may as well pull his ears!”

XVI

KATERIN’S STRATAGEM

PETER found himself enmeshed in a maze of conjecture about Vashka. He knew that she was not a samovar girl, yet it was quite possible that she had been compelled to become one for her own safety. But whatever her purpose might be, it was apparent to him that she had expected to find in him a messenger—and that the expected messenger would be an American officer.

As Peter studied the matter, he saw that she would not know the expected messenger by sight, but would have to submit him to some test. It was plain enough that she had been greatly disappointed in Peter, for he had seen in her face signs of actual terror when she realized that she had blundered with him.

It was the possibility that some other American officer was expected in the city which worried Peter. Such an event might well interfere with his plans for killing Kirsakoff. Peter did not want it known to the American army that he had stopped in Chita—at least, only casually. He did not want his presence in the city, nor the time, established too well. He hoped to flit away to Irkutsk and report himself there without any mention of having been in Chita. Then he could come back, report himself in Chita and go on to some other city. In this way he wanted to establish the fact that he had been in Chita, but make it appear that his time in the city had been after Kirsakoff had been killed rather than during the period of the former Governor’s death.

But it might take Peter a week or more to find Kirsakoff, and then it would take time to work out the details of the affair in such a way that there would not be the slightest indication that the American officer who had been staying at the hotel had had anything to do with it. But another American officer in the city would complicate the business. The newcomer would expect to keep in close touch with Peter, and would probably expect to share his room—and the stranger might have a Russian-speaking orderly with him. And that would mean that Peter’s facility with the language would be discovered, his request to be sent over into Trans-Baikailia would become significant, the leaving of the orderly at Nikolsk would build up a chain of circumstantial evidence. All that might be awkward for Peter if some slight trifle connected Peter with the killing of Kirsakoff.

Peter wondered if he would see Vashka again. It seemed a remote possibility that she would return. Why should she? She knew now that he was not a messenger, and to visit Peter again could do her no good and might reveal to him the line on which she was working. There was a slight chance that she might be in the American service, but he dismissed that thought, for she had given him no sign that she was a member of the military secret service. His mind being occupied along a certain channel, he had no basis on which to begin to analyze the aims of Vashka. The key to the solution of the problem, for him, was old Rimsky. But that Rimsky was in any way concerned with the visit from Vashka, was as remote from Peter’s mind as would be a suggestion that the samovar girl was the little daughter of Kirsakoff. That little girl still lived in Peter’s memory as a child sitting in a sledge the morning Peter’s father had been killed. His mind held that picture—held it without change. It was a picture which did not take cognizance of the passage of years, a butterfly caught in amber, say, through the ages.

If Vashka did not return, Peter resolved that he would go out and try his hand again with Rimsky. The old cigarette-seller might be induced to tell something which would afford a clew of the whereabouts of Kirsakoff. And it might be wise to loaf in the restaurant of the old post-house, and strike up an acquaintance with anybody who would talk. There was no time to be lost, if Peter was to find Kirsakoff and get about the business which had brought him back to the Valley of Despair.

When noon came, he rang for a samovar. Before long he heard some one moving in the hall, and after a short interval, there came a gentle tapping at his door.

“Come!” he called, and turned his head. “Vashka” entered with the samovar, pushing the door open before her with the forward end of the metal tray.

“Oh, I am sorry,” he said, rising from his chair. “I did not expect to see you—I thought the other girl would come.”

She smiled at him, quite gay and playful now, with a trace of coyness in her manner. She seemed amused at him because he had not expected her to return.

“Would you feel sad if I never came back? Would you miss me so much?”

“Of course I would miss you,” he replied, not sure what else would be safe to say. He would have preferred some light pleasantry which would answer her more in keeping with her mood, but he was afraid that she might resent gayety on his part, even though she affected it herself.

“Then I may presume to say that I am the favorite samovar girl of the American.”

“And it would not be presumption at all,” he said.

He moved and closed the door after her, while she busied herself at the table with the samovar. He had a mind for an instant to lock the door and to demand that she give an explanation of herself and her reason for coming to him in the guise of a servant. But he smiled at his own Russianism—his impulse to do the dramatic thing. He decided to draw her out in a more careful manner. One thing he was determined upon—to settle, as far as possible, her motives in playing servant.

“How long since you have seen Zorogoff?” he asked, going close to her and standing so that the light from the window fell across her face.

“I? Why, not so long ago.” She looked at him with curiosity as to why he had asked the question.

“Have you seen him since you were here?”

She laughed lightly. “If I had, it is quite likely that I would not have come back.”

“Then I’m glad you did not see the Ataman. And please don’t see him, if it is going to mean that you will come no more.”

“Thank you,” she said. “I don’t know what you mean—but it appears that there is an implied compliment. Do you mean it as a compliment?”

“What other things could I mean?”

“You might mean many things.” She shrank away from him now the least bit, as if she distrusted him.

Peter sat down in the chair at the end of the table.

“And what might I mean, for one thing?” he asked with a quick glance at her.

“You—you might mean—that you are suspicious of me, and that would make me feel sad.”

She stood, as if half intending to flee from the room, and observing him in wonderment.

“Suspicious! Why should you be under suspicion?”

“Everybody is under suspicion—no one trusts another here,” she replied.

“No doubt you have suspicions of me—because I speak Russian,” he countered.

“I am not sure of you,” she said frankly. “What have I but your coat to prove that you are an American officer?”

“You have no more than I have to prove that you are a samovar girl. Oh, come now! Let us not play with words! What did Zorogoff say when he learned that the American officer speaks good Russian?”

She straightened up suddenly and her body seemed to grow rigid. He heard the hiss of her breath, and then an hysterical laugh came gurgling from her lips.

“So that is it!” she cried. “You think I am a spy for Zorogoff!”

There was no mistaking the revulsion which she felt. Peter knew now that she was sincere.

“I don’t think so now,” he said. “But if I trust you, I must know that you are not a spy. You know that I am not the messenger you are waiting for, yet you have come back to me. I am glad that you came—but why?”

“Because death threatens me,” she replied. “And Zorogoff is my danger. I seek your help.” She uttered the words in a low monotone, but with an intensity of feeling which startled Peter. He got up and went to the door quickly and turned the big brass key in the lock—and pocketed the key.

“Does that mean I am your prisoner?” she demanded. But there was no fear in her.

“Sit down, please,” said Peter gently, ignoring her question. He made a gesture toward the chair at the end of the table opposite his own.

Katerin—“Vashka”—obeyed, willingly, it appeared. But her readiness to obey was not so much submission to his will as he supposed. She knew now that Peter had come seeking her father, though the reason was still a mystery. She was determined to solve the mystery and learn his secret.

Slipitsky had gone to Rimsky shortly after Wassili arrived at the hotel with the news that Zorogoff knew where the Kirsakoffs were hiding. The old cigarette-seller, alarmed by the fate which had overtaken Ilya, went into a panic of fear when Slipitsky charged him with knowledge of the American officer’s purpose in coming to Chita.

The Jew charged Rimsky with knowing more than Rimsky did—and Rimsky lied. He attempted to put the burden of the affair on Peter. Ilya was dead, so Rimsky felt safe in lying. And, in fact, he did not know exactly what he had said to Ilya over the vodka. So to clear his own skirts, Rimsky made the flat statement that the American had asked directly where Kirsakoff might be found. It was a lie—yet it was the truth in so far as Peter’s purpose was concerned.

Thus the story of Ilya was verified. Katerin and her father knew Peter sought them. And Katerin had been tempted to reply to Peter’s demand as to why she had returned to his room, by demanding why he had come to Chita. She refrained because she did not expect that Peter would tell her the truth in case he was an enemy. She intended to get at the secret by more devious methods.

“Now, you must trust me,” he began, in tones barely audible to her. “You have already told me that you are in danger from Zorogoff—which indicates that you do trust me to some extent. Why do you fear Zorogoff?”

“Because he has already threatened me with death—and worse,” she replied, calmly. “He is half Mongol. I do not fear death itself, because if he should take me from this place, I have poison——” She slipped back the cuff of her sleeve, and showed Peter two white capsules held in the hem of the cloth by thread sewn in loosely.

“So that is it!” said Peter, looking into her eyes and seeing the truth in them. His face began slowly to change from an expression of startled comprehension of her plight, to anger; he drew his lips back upon his teeth, and the rising anger glittered in his eyes. “The Mongol dog!” he whispered. “Can he dare—with a Russian woman—a woman like you!”

He saw relief from strain come into her face, and she clasped her hands together in a quick gesture of joy at his understanding and sympathy.

“So that is why I came back here to you. You were a Russian, and I knew you would understand—and an American officer.”

He took her hands and kissed them, with head bowed, after the Russian fashion, as an act of fealty and respect.

“I don’t know what I can do,” he said after a minute. “But I do know that if Zorogoff dares touch you, I shall stand in his way. True, I am a Russian—as this Mongol shall learn.”

“Thank you,” she said simply, withdrawing her hands. “You cannot fight an army, and Zorogoff has many men to do his bidding. You would be helpless against him. He is not a man to allow a single American to thwart him.”

“I do not fear him,” said Peter. “I doubt if he would dare kill an American officer.”

She smiled at his belief that Zorogoff could be checked by any fear of the American army.