Part 17

In fact, Peter had created in his own mind a vision of Vashka that went beyond the time when he would have killed Kirsakoff. It was sort of an unformed, inchoate dream which consisted of nothing more tenuous than mental flits into the future in which he always saw Vashka. As she knew the secret of his coming back to Chita, she would also hold his secret about who had killed Kirsakoff. She would always understand, as she understood now. Only a Russian, a Russian girl who knew as Vashka knew the terrors of the Valley of Despair, fitted his idea of a confidant in this affair. Katerin, as “Vashka,” had done her work well!

Peter was now sure that Fate had a hand in everything which had brought him back to the place of his boyhood. The whole thing had come about with an inevitableness which revealed a divinely directed plan. If some force had shaped events for him with such unerring accuracy, he saw no reason why the final result should not be brought about with the same ease with which he had come thus far on the way to his revenge.

He had a feeling that the task he had set himself was now accomplished—the finding of Kirsakoff. His mind was at rest, and he felt the need of relaxation from the strain of wavering hopes and doubts. Also, he suddenly felt hungry with that voracious appetite which comes to people who pass the crisis of a severe illness and know without reservation that they are on the way to complete recovery.

The fiddler he had heard on the floor above before going to talk with Katerin and her father, had now descended to the hotel dining room, and was playing merrily. There were other instruments, too—an orchestra. The music was a novelty for the hotel. It lifted Peter’s spirits, and dispelled the gloom of the place. For the first time since he had arrived in Chita Peter wished to move about among other people.

He washed at the little sink, and combed his hair. Then he went down the hall to the dining room. There were but a few people in the place—young men in Cossack uniform, with flashily dressed women, sitting by twos at the little tables along the wall under the frosty windows. The gloominess of the room was apparent even under the lights and the music, but it was the merriest scene Peter had seen in the city.

There were four musicians on a raised platform at the far end of the room close to the red-painted buffet-bar with the smashed mirrors. And the quartet was clad in poor and ill-fitting gray suits—the men were German prisoners of war.

Peter clicked his heels in the doorway and bowed before he entered. The officers at the table looked up with startled eyes, but inclined their heads slightly in response to the courtesy. But it was plain that his American uniform had attracted special attention, for the women companions of the Cossacks stared at him. Peter wondered if there was any resentment because he wore his belt and pistol, though he could not understand how he had committed any breach of etiquette by being armed, for the young Cossacks were all wearing their pistols and their sabers.

The musicians played a German air, sadly, and with good evidence that some of the strings were missing. There were two violins, a ’cello, and a clarinet.

A waiter came to Peter. The man was clad in the same bluish-gray as the musicians. He also was a war prisoner, and clicked his heels and was quite military in his manner.

“Have you a ticket, sir?” he asked, speaking in English.

“Is a ticket necessary?” asked Peter in surprise. “I am staying at the hotel.”

“Yes, sir,” said the waiter. “This is an officers’ mess—officers of the Ataman’s army.”

“Then I am sorry,” said Peter, reverting to Russian for the benefit of the Cossacks. “I thought this was the hotel restaurant. I had no intention of intruding,” and he pushed back his chair to rise from the table.

“You speak Russian, sir,” said the waiter, in Russian.

“Yes,” said Peter. “And you speak English surprisingly well—also Russian.”

“Hans!” A young Cossack who sat two tables beyond Peter, and faced him, called the waiter away and handed him something. The waiter was back to Peter by the time he had risen to leave the room.

“Here is a ticket for you, sir. The Cossack gentleman—the lieutenant—wishes you to have your supper here,” said the waiter.

Peter bowed to the young officer, who smiled across the shoulders of the woman with him. He was a thin-faced chap, with heavy black hair down on his forehead after the Cossack fashion. Gold straps covered his shoulders, and a great saber lay outside the table legs, where it swung down to the floor from his belt.

Peter sat down again. It would be in the nature of an affront not to accept the proffered hospitality. And the waiter brought thick cabbage soup with a yellowish scum of fat floating on its surface, black bread, a plate of chopped meat, with a mound of boiled grains of wheat, and a glass of tea.

During the meal the orchestra continued to play. The Cossacks and their women talked in low tones. Finally, they began to drift away gradually till none was left but the young officer who had sent Peter the supper ticket. And in time his companion disappeared also. Then the young officer approached Peter’s table, and bowed.

“You are an American officer, but you speak Russian,” said the Cossack. He smiled and clicked his spurred heels.

“Yes,” said Peter, rising and saluting. They shook hands formally.

“I am Lutoff, a lieutenant in the army of the Ataman Zorogoff,” went on the Cossack with pride. “I heard that there was an American officer in the hotel—and I was about to call upon you this very evening.”

“That is very kind of you,” said Peter, seeing that there was some purpose after all in the matter of the supper ticket beyond the characteristic hospitality of all Cossacks. He saw that he would have to play the game, whatever it might be. “My name is Gordon, and I also am a lieutenant.”

Lutoff bowed again.

“Please sit down with me,” invited Peter, and they both sat down facing each other across the small table. Peter did not like Lutoff any too well—there was a craftiness in his eyes, an insincere suavity in his manner, an affability about him that was forced. His friendliness lacked a frankness which he did his best to simulate, but behind his smiles and his politeness there was a promise of lurking menace.

“You have not called upon the Ataman,” said Lutoff lightly, half in question, yet half in the nature of a statement of fact—perhaps a challenge.

“No,” said Peter. “I was three weeks coming up on the train, and my health was hurt—I have been resting.”

“I trust you will feel better soon,” said Lutoff. He uttered the words as if he meant more than that—Peter caught an implication that it would be well for him not to neglect calling upon the Ataman.

“Were you intending to pay an official call this evening?” asked Peter. He thought it advisable to probe a bit after Lutoff’s obscure inferences.

“No, just for a friendly chat. You speak Russian well for an American. You must have been in the country before.” Lutoff offered his cigarette case, a ponderous silver box covered with semiprecious stones of various kinds and studded with raised metal initials—mostly gold—of friends who had added to its ornate embellishments.

“My father was in business in Moscow. I was born and grew up there,” lied Peter glibly, as he took a cigarette. He had no intention of taking Lutoff into confidence about his early life. He considered that none of the Cossack’s business, and the personal prying a trifle impertinent.

“Are American soldiers coming to Chita?” pressed Lutoff. It was obvious now that he sought information for the Ataman.

“Oh, yes,” said Peter easily. “I understand a battalion will be coming up the line. That is something I intend to take up with the Ataman—how many barracks are available in this vicinity.”

Lutoff gave this consideration for several minutes, but made no comment. Then he looked over his shoulder toward the orchestra to make sure that no waiters were within hearing.

“As a friend, I wish to tell you something,” he said in a low tone.

“Thank you,” said Peter, but to all intents he was indifferent and smoked his cigarette with complacency.

“While I belong to the Ataman’s staff, I am not speaking officially,” said Lutoff. “It is merely as one friend to another. You understand my attitude, of course.”

“Of course. Have no hesitation in speaking.”

“Then what I wish to say to you is that if I were you, I would not trust civilians who live in this hotel.” Lutoff looked squarely at Peter, as if to gauge the effect of the advice on him.

“Civilians!” exclaimed Peter. “Why, I did not think of that. I supposed that nearly everybody in the hotel was in the Ataman’s service.”

“There are many who are not,” said Lutoff, a trifle annoyed by Peter’s coolness. “Surely, you do not think that all civilians quartered here are in the service of Zorogoff?”

“I am not so sure,” returned Peter. “But why shouldn’t I trust them? What is there wrong—or dangerous about the civilians?”

“There are spies among them.”

“You mean they are spies for the Ataman?” asked Peter, not taking his eyes from Lutoff’s. Peter was somewhat amused by Lutoff, and was taking considerable delight in beating him about the bush. The whole incident was so Cossack-like, so childishly dramatic.

Lutoff shrugged his shoulders. “The Ataman has his spies, of course.”

“And perhaps I have talked with some of them,” suggested Peter.

“Perhaps. But that is not what I mean. I only warn you to be careful.”

“You are very kind,” said Peter. “But have you any particular person in mind?” He wondered if Lutoff could be working along a definite line.

“You would be wise to avoid those people you have been talking with,” said Lutoff, and leaned back in his chair to blow smoke rings toward the ceiling, thoughtfully.

Peter laughed quietly. “Rather a vague warning,” he said. “I have talked with several persons in the city—just as I am talking with you.”

“You know the people I mean,” said Lutoff with some tartness, still gazing at the ceiling.

“I appreciate your consideration for me, sir. I assure you I would be glad to follow your advice if you will limit it to the people you evidently have in mind. But so far, what you have said might refer to anybody.”

Lutoff looked at the table, twisted a bit of black bread off a slice which lay on a plate, and kneaded the bread into a ball of dough on the cloth.

“You have been talking with people in this hotel,” he said presently.

“Not many,” said Peter. He was sure now that Lutoff was referring to Vashka and her father, and began to be disquieted. Did Lutoff know anything, or was he merely guessing? Was it possible that a spy of the Ataman had heard the conversations with Vashka and her father? If so, had the spy heard Peter tell his story and his reason for wanting to find Kirsakoff? If the latter was true, it was likely that Kirsakoff already knew of Peter and his purpose, for according to Vashka, Kirsakoff was hand in glove with Zorogoff. Peter was really alarmed now. He wondered if Wassili was to be trusted. He wondered if Vashka was really a spy. He doubted that, for if Lutoff were in the service of Zorogoff, Lutoff would scarcely be warning Peter against Vashka. But the situation was dangerous, Peter knew well.

“True, you have not been talking with many,” said Lutoff. “But those with whom you have been talking—they are not safe for you.”

“That is quite possible,” said Peter, smiling. “Almost any one here is dangerous to a stranger. You see, when it comes to that, I am most discreet with you, Mr. Lutoff.”

Lutoff bowed his head slightly. “You compliment me. But I am not trying to mystify you or to frighten you. When a man comes and warns you, you cannot very well say he is a menace to you.”

“No,” said Peter. “But your warning is vague. If it is to be of any value to me—who are the people you warn me against?”

“I speak of the old man—and the girl,” said Lutoff abruptly, and lifted his eyes to Peter’s.

“The old man and the girl!” repeated Peter, with an amazement which was well feigned. “Here in the hotel? I am not sure that I know whom you mean.”

“And I am sure that you do,” shot back Lutoff. He had dropped his polite indirectness and was ready to argue with Peter—almost ready, it appeared, to dictate to Peter on whom he should talk with in the hotel or the city.

“Then you know what you know,” said Peter calmly. “But I cannot be sure what you know, unless you tell me, thus I cannot be sure that you speak as a friend. First, if I am to consider your advice, you must give me some assurance that you have knowledge of whom I have been talking with—otherwise, my friend, you are seeking information rather than giving it.” He had no intention of being trapped into admitting that he had been talking with Vashka and her father. The Ataman and Kirsakoff might suspect what they liked, but Peter was not going to tell Lutoff anything.

“These people are hiding here in the hotel,” said Lutoff, resuming his kneading of the brown dough on the tablecloth.

“Hiding?”

“Yes.”

“From the Ataman?” asked Peter.

Lutoff looked up with an angry grimace, and Peter knew that he had put one shot home. He had revealed some knowledge of the Ataman’s tactics, and he had satisfied himself that Vashka and her father were telling the truth. He had put Lutoff into something of a hole, which the Cossack might find it difficult to get clear of again.

“You had better keep your hands off this matter,” warned Lutoff.

“Oh, is that it?” asked Peter. “Then this is a warning about listening to people who have something to say about the Ataman, is it?”

“You may judge for yourself,” replied Lutoff.

“I already have,” said Peter, suavely. “I judge that you are not warning me so much against certain people, as that you are warning me to beware of the Ataman Zorogoff.”

“If I were you, I would not mix in political matters in this city, Mr. Gordon.”

“You must remember that you are talking to an American officer,” said Peter. “Am I to understand that an officer of the Ataman Zorogoff tells me what I should do or should not do in Chita?”

“I think the Americans wish to avoid trouble with the Ataman,” said Lutoff, with a bland smile.

“That remains to be seen—and is somewhat dependent upon how the Ataman Zorogoff conducts what he is pleased to call his government,” said Peter.

“Do the Americans intend to tell Zorogoff how he shall govern?” Lutoff showed in his face that this was a most important question to the Ataman—it was what Lutoff was seeking for Zorogoff, and Peter knew it.

“They might even do that,” replied Peter. “But it might depend upon the wishes of the bulk of the Russian people in this district.”

Lutoff grinned. “The bulk of the Russian people are behind Zorogoff,” he said.

“According to Zorogoff,” retorted Peter.

Lutoff rose. “I am not speaking officially,” he said. “Is that understood?”

“It is if you say so,” said Peter, also rising. “But I am speaking officially. And I wish to thank you for sending me the supper ticket, and for your advice. But I cannot limit myself regarding the people with whom I talk in Chita, even to please the Ataman.”

“Am I to tell the Ataman that?” asked Lutoff.

“You may tell the Ataman what you please of what I have said, or I am ready to tell him the same myself.”

“Very good, sir,” said Lutoff, and clicked his spurs again most formally. “But I can tell you now, sir, that you will come into conflict with the Ataman Zorogoff if you interfere—if you take any further action with these people to whom I have referred. And——”

“I cannot consider your warning unless you make clear to me just whom you are talking about,” interrupted Peter.

“You still pretend not to know?” asked Lutoff in surprise.

“I want names, not assumptions,” said Peter.

“Very good, then,” said Lutoff. “Let us not have any doubt about it, and then you cannot plead that you were not warned by the Ataman. I tell you not to mix yourself in this affair of the Kirsakoffs—old General Kirsakoff and his daughter Katerin Stephanovna!”

And Lutoff bowed again and walked directly out of the dining room, leaving Peter clutching at the table as he swayed before he sank back into his chair.

“Kirsakoff!” he whispered. “Kirsakoff—and his daughter Katerin Stephanovna!” and then his voice rose in a hysterical wailing burst of laughter above the playing of the orchestra.

XXI

THE CAT’S PAW HAS CLAWS

THE electric lamp on Peter’s writing table was still glowing under its shade, but it gradually waned as morning whitened the frost-bound windows.

Peter sat by the table near the door. He was fully dressed, just as he had come from the dining room after Lutoff had warned him to have no more dealings with the Kirsakoffs. Peter’s left arm lay limply on the dingy cloth, his automatic pistol close at hand lying on its side. He was wide-eyed awake and staring at the door into the hall, as if he were waiting for some one to enter. His jaw was set grimly, and at the right side of his mouth his upper lip was askew, as if he had spent the night in thoughts which resulted in nothing but a cynical smile. His face was pale under the night’s growth of beardy stubble. The soles of both his boots rested flatly on the floor, and were pulled back slightly under his knees as he had gradually slipped down into the chair. His shoulders were bent forward in a crouching attitude, and his chin rested upon the front of his tunic.

When full daylight finally vanquished the darkness of his side of the room, he lifted his head and pulled up the sleeve of his left arm to look at his wrist-watch. He thought a moment, as if in doubt what to do next, and wound the watch. He turned and looked at the windows behind him, rubbed his jaw reflectively with the tips of his fingers, and got up wearily to look for his shaving kit on the shelf under the mirror between the windows.

He studied himself in the mirror, smoothed his rumpled hair with his hand, and went about the business of getting out his razors. But he pushed the kit away irritably, and returned to the table. He picked up his pistol, took a cautionary glance at the catch which was so arranged that it revealed the weapon to be ready for firing, and slipped the pistol into its holster on his hip. Yet he did not button down the flap of the holster, but sprung the stiff leather flap back and tucked it in behind the belt. This left the butt of the pistol ready to his hand for instant use—he could draw and fire it without the trouble of unbuttoning the flap.

He went to the little wall sink near the wardrobe and dashed water in his face. Drying himself with a handkerchief, he went once more to the mirror and combed his hair with infinite pains. This done to his satisfaction, he stood before the door leading into Katerin’s room, in an attitude of listening.

He looked at his watch again after a time, and as if he had made a decision, walked to the door and rapped gently upon it. He waited, listening. He heard nothing. Finally he went to the push-button near the door to the hall and pressed it three times in the usual signal for a samovar. Then he fell to pacing the floor, head down, and his hands clasped behind his back.

After a considerable delay, the peasant girl who had served him when he first came to the hotel brought the samovar. She seemed to be still half asleep, and having set the samovar upon the table, departed promptly without so much as a look at Peter.

He took a few more turns up and down the room till the hissing of the samovar drew his attention. He put the tea to brewing and waited listlessly till it should be ready. He drank several glasses of the steaming tea without any apparent relish of it or stimulation from it. He seemed in a stupor, as he sat staring at the floor, haggard and hollow-eyed. His face was drawn, and reflected the bitterness in his soul. He hunted his pockets for cigarettes, but found none. He looked under the table. There he saw a litter of flattened mouthpieces and matches, the remains of his night-long smoking.

There came a gentle tapping at Katerin’s door. He sprang toward it and threw off the bolt. The door came open under his hand, and Katerin stood smiling at him. She did not look any too well, he thought—as if she had not slept herself. His eyes met hers, and he forced a smile. He bowed, and with a gesture invited her to enter. He did not look past her, but he was conscious of some one moving in the room beyond—her father’s room.

“Good-morning,” she said. “I did not bring the samovar because I did not want to risk being seen in the hall.” Her voice was low, and there was a note of worry in it, as if she had already sensed something inimical in his manner, or in the close stale air of the room which reeked with the fumes of dead tobacco smoke.

Peter turned toward the window to pull a chair from the writing table.

“You—you are ill!” she exclaimed suddenly, giving him a look of concern. “And you have not slept!” She took in the undisturbed blankets on his bed.

“Yes,” said Peter dully. “I have a cold—a headache. But it is nothing—see—I have already had my morning tea and feel better.”

“I am sorry. You look as if you had suffered much,” and she sat down, still observing him with troubled doubt. She saw the exposed pistol in the holster, but refrained from anything which would indicate that she had noticed it.

“What about Kirsakoff?” he asked, as if they should get to business.

His words startled her, but she concealed from him any indication of her inner alarm.

“I came to tell you,” she answered. “We sent Wassili out through the city last night, to people who have underground information. And he came back early with his report.” She affected a quiet complacence, as if seeking news of her father’s whereabouts was a trivial detail of everyday life.

“And what did he learn?” asked Peter, sitting down by the writing table with his back to the window. He was calmer now, resolved to play his part of utter ignorance of the truth about Kirsakoff.

“The last word that has come to Chita is that—Kirsakoff is in Harbin.” She looked straight at Peter to gauge the effect of her story upon him.

“In Manchuria,” he said, without surprise. “In that case, we should go to Harbin. Could you and your father get away to Harbin with me?”

“It might be possible—with your help.” Her face took on a trace of color as her heart began to respond to her rising hope that what she planned with Peter could be carried through. At least, he had interposed no objection to going to Harbin to find Kirsakoff, and actually had in mind a willingness to take her and her father along.

“But could we find him when we got there?” he asked.

“We have friends there who know where he could be found. It should not be difficult—there are not so many Russians in Harbin, after all.”

“You are a brave woman,” he said quietly. “You must know that this whole plan holds naked menace for your father—and yourself.”

“There is greater menace here,” she replied, looking steadily into his eyes.

He wondered if she could mean that he was part of the menace. It was possible that she knew Lutoff had been talking—and that what Lutoff had said was already known to her. If the latter were true, she must realize that it would be impossible to manipulate Peter so that he would save them from Zorogoff. He dismissed the thought—she was bent now on leading him on a fool’s errand to Harbin, and once safe from the Ataman, disappear in the Manchurian city.

It now struck Peter that it might be wise to get away from the Valley of Despair with the Kirsakoffs. Harbin offered possibility not only to the Kirsakoffs, but to himself. He could hardly expect to kill Kirsakoff in Chita and cover his own tracks.

“Have you a plan for escape from the city?” he asked.