The Red Symbol

“Dark, eh? Should you know her again?”

“I guess not. I tell you I didn’t really see her face.”

“How could she know you were an American?”

I shrugged my shoulders.

“Perhaps she can’t speak any language but English.”

“What is this?” He held up the handkerchief, and sniffed at it. It was faintly perfumed. How well I knew that perfume, sweet and elusive as the scent of flowers on a rainy day.

“A handkerchief. It fell at my feet, and I picked it up before I started to run.”

“It is marked ‘A. P.’ Do you know any one with those initials?”

Those beady eyes of his were fixed on my face, watching my every expression, and I knew that his questions were dictated by some definite purpose.

“Give me time,” I said, affecting to rack my brains in an effort of recollection. “I don’t think, – why, yes – there was Abigail Parkinson, Job Parkinson’s wife, – a most respectable old lady I knew in the States, – the United States of America, you know.”

His eyes glinted ominously, and he brought his fat, bejewelled hand down on the table with a bang.

“You are trifling with me!”

“I’m not!” I assured him, with an excellent assumption of injured innocence. “You asked me if I knew any one with those initials, and I’m telling you.”

“I am not asking you about old women on the other side of the world! Think again! Might not the initials stand for – Anna Petrovna, for instance?”

So he had guessed, after all, who she was!

“Anna what? Oh – Petrovna. Why, yes, of course they stand for that, but it’s a Russian name, isn’t it? And this lady was English, or American!”

He was silent for a minute, fingering the handkerchief, which I longed to snatch from the contamination of his touch.

“A mistake has been made, as I now perceive, Monsieur,” he said smoothly, at last. “I think your release might be accomplished without much difficulty.”

He paused and looked hard at my pocket-book.

“I guess if you’ll hand me that note case it can be accomplished right now,” I suggested cheerfully. I don’t believe there’s a Russian official living, high or low, who is above accepting a bribe, or extorting blackmail; and this one proved no exception to the rule.

I passed him a note worth about eight dollars, and he grasped and shook my hand effusively as he took it.

“Now we are friends, hein?” he exclaimed. “Accept my felicitations at the so happy conclusion of our interview. You understand well that duty must be done, at whatever personal cost and inconvenience. Permit me to restore the rest of your property, Monsieur; this only I must retain.” He thrust the handkerchief into his desk. “Perhaps – who knows – we may discover the fair owner, and restore it to her.”

His civility was even more loathsome to me than his insolence had been, and I wanted to kick him. But I didn’t. I offered him a cigarette, instead, and we parted with mutual bows and smiles.

Once on the street again I walked away in the opposite direction to that I should have taken if I had been sure I would not be followed and watched; but I guessed that, for the present at least, I would be kept under strict surveillance, and doubtless at this moment my footsteps were being dogged.

Therefore I made first for the café where I usually lunched, and, a minute after I had seated myself, a man in uniform strolled in and placed himself at a table just opposite, with his back to me, but his face towards a mirror, in which, as I soon discovered, he was watching my every movement.

“All right, my friend. Forewarned is forearmed; I’ll give you the slip directly,” I thought, and went on with my meal, affecting to be absorbed in a German newspaper, which I asked the waiter to bring me.

In the ordinary course I should have met people I knew, for the café was frequented by most of the foreign journalists in Petersburg, but the hour was early for déjeuner, and the spy and I had the place to ourselves for the present.

I knew that I should communicate the fact that Anne was in Petersburg to the Grand Duke Loris as soon as possible; in the hope that he might know or guess who were her captors, and where they were taking her; but it was imperative that I should exercise the utmost caution.

After we reached Petersburg, and before he left me, Mishka had, as his master had promised, given me instructions as to how I was to send a private message to the Duke in case of necessity. He took me to a house in a mean street near the Ismailskaia Prospekt – not half a mile from the place where I was arrested this morning – of which the ground floor was a poor class café frequented chiefly by workmen and students.

“You will go to the place I shall show you,” he had informed me beforehand, “and call for a glass of tea, just like any one else. Then as you pay for it, you drop a coin, – so. You will pick it up, or the waiter will, – it is all one, that; any one may drop a coin accidentally! Now, if you were just an ordinary customer, nothing more would happen; the waiter would keep near your table for a minute or two, and that is all. But if you are on business you will ask him, ‘Is Nicolai Stefanovitch here to-day?’ Or you may say any name you think of, – a common one is best. He will answer, ‘At what hour should he be here?’ and you say, ‘I do not know when he returns – from his work.’ Or ‘from Wilna,’ or elsewhere; that is unimportant, like the name. But the questions must be put so, and there must be the pause, between the two words ‘returns from’ just for one beat of the clock as it were, or while one blows one’s nose, or lights a cigarette. Then he will know you are one of us, and will go away; and presently one will come and sit at the table, and say, ‘I am so and so, – ’ the name you mentioned. He will drink his tea, and you will go out together; and if it is a note you will pass it to him, so that none shall see; or if it is a message, you will tell it him very quietly.”

We rehearsed the shibboleth in my room. I did it right the first time, much to Mishka’s satisfaction; and when we reached the café he let me be spokesman. Within three minutes a cadaverous looking workman in a red blouse lounged up to our table, ordered his glass of tea, nodded to me as if I was an old acquaintance, and muttered the formula.

He and I had gone out together, leaving Mishka in the café, – since in Russia three men walking and conversing together are bound to be eyed suspiciously, – and my new acquaintance remarked:

“There is no message, as I know; this is but a trial, and you have done well. If there should be a letter, a cigarette, with the tobacco hanging a little loose at each end, – ” he rolled one as he spoke and made a slovenly job of it, – “is an excellent envelope, and one that we understand.”

We had separated at the end of the street, and Mishka rejoined me later at my hotel. But I had not needed to try the shibboleth since, though I had dropped into the café more than once, and drank my glass of tea, – without dropping a coin. And now the moment had come when I must test the method of communication as speedily as possible.

CHAPTER XVI

UNDER SURVEILLANCE

I paid my bill, strolled out, and in the doorway encountered a man I knew slightly – a young officer – with whom I paused to chat, thereby blocking the doorway temporarily, with the result that I found my friend the spy – as I was now convinced he was – at my elbow. My unexpected halt had pulled him up short.

“Pardon!” I said with the utmost politeness, stepping aside, so he had to pass out, though I guessed he was angry enough at losing my conversation, for I was telling Lieutenant Mirakoff of my arrest, – as a great joke, at which we both laughed uproariously.

“They should have seen that you were a foreigner, and therefore quite mad, – and harmless,” he cried.

“Now, I ought to call you out for that!” I asserted.

“At your service!” he answered, still laughing, as we separated.

The spy was apparently deeply interested in the contents of a shop window near at hand, and I went off briskly in the other direction; but in a minute or two later, when I paused, ostensibly to compare my watch with a clock which I had just passed, I saw, as I glanced back, that he was on my track once more.

This was getting serious, and I adopted a simple expedient to give him the slip for the present. I hailed a droshky and bade the fellow drive to a certain street, not far from that where Mishka’s café was situated. We started off at the usual headlong speed, and presently, as we whirled round a corner, I called on the driver to stop, handed him a fare that must have represented a good week’s earnings, and ordered him to drive on again as fast as he could, and for as long as his horse would hold out.

He grinned, “clucked” to his horse, and was off on the instant, while I turned into a little shop close by, whence I had the satisfaction, less than half a minute after, of seeing a second droshky dash past, in pursuit of the first, with the spy lolling in it. If my Jehu kept faith – there was no telling if he would do that or not, though I had to take the risk —monsieur le mouchard would enjoy a nice drive, at the expense of his government!

In five minutes I was at the café, where I dropped my coin; it rolled to a corner and the waiter picked it up, while I sipped my tea and grumbled at the scarcity of lemon. I asked the prescribed question when he restored the piece; and almost immediately Mishka himself joined me. This was better than I had dared to hope, for I knew I could speak to him freely; in fact I told him everything, including the ruse by which I had eluded my vigilant attendant.

“You must not try that again,” he said, in his sulky fashion. “It has served once, yes; but it will not serve again. When he finds that you have cheated him he will make his report, and then you will have, not one, but several spies to reckon with; that is, if they think it worth while. Still you have done well, – very well. Now you must wait until you hear from my master.” Mishka never mentioned a name if he could avoid doing so.

“But can’t you give me some idea as to where she is likely to be?” I demanded. To wait, and continue to act my part, as if there was no such person as Anne Pendennis in the world and in deadly peril was just about the toughest duty imaginable.

“I can tell you nothing, and you, by yourself, can do nothing,” he retorted stolidly. “If you are wise you will go about your business as if nothing had happened. But be in your rooms by – nine o’clock to-night. It is unlikely that we can send you any word before then.”

Nine o’clock! And it was now barely noon! Nine mortal hours; and within their space what might not happen? But there was no help for it. Mishka had spoken the truth; by myself I could do nothing.

It was hard – hard to be bound like this, with invisible fetters; and to know all the time that the girl I loved was so near and yet so far, needing my aid, while I was powerless to help her, – I, who would so gladly lay down my life for her.

Who was she? What was she? How was her fate linked with that of this great grim land, – a land “agonizing in the throes of a new birth?” If she had but trusted me in the days when we had been together, could I have saved her then? Have spared her the agony my heart told me she was suffering now?

Yes, – yes, I said bitterly to myself. I could have saved her, if she had trusted me; for then she would have loved me; would have been content to share my life. A roving life it would have been, of course, for we were both nomads by choice as well as by chance, and the nomadic habit, once formed, is seldom broken. But how happy we should have been! Our wanderings would never have brought us to Russia, though. Heavens, how I hated – how I still hate it; the greatest and grandest country in the world, viewed under the aspect of sheer land; a territory to which even our own United States of America counts second for extent, for fertility, for natural wealth in wood and oil and minerals. A country that God made a paradise, or at least a vast storehouse for the supply of human necessities and luxuries; but a country of which man has made such a hell, that, in comparison with it, Dante’s “Inferno” reads like a story of childish imaginings.

Yes, Russia was a hell upon earth; and Petersburg was the centre and epitome of it, I said in my soul, as I loitered on one of the bridges that afternoon, and looked on the swift flowing river, on the splendid buildings, gleaming white, as the gilded cupolas and spires of the churches gleamed fire red, under the brilliant sunshine. A fair city outwardly, a whited sepulchre raised over a charnel-house. A city of terror, wherein every man is an Ishmael, knowing – or suspecting – that every other man’s hand is against him.

There was a shadow over the whole land, over the city, over myself, the stranger within its gate; and in that shadow the girl I loved was impenetrably enveloped.

I raised my eyes, and there, fronting me across the water, sternly menacing, were the gray walls of the fortress-prison, named, as if in grim mockery, the fortress of “Peter and Paul.” Peter, who denied his Lord, though he loved Him; Paul, who denied his Lord before he knew and loved Him! Perhaps the name is not so inconsistent, after all. The deeds that are done behind the walls of that fortress-prison by men who call themselves Christians, are the most tremendous denial of Christ that this era has witnessed.

Sick at heart, I turned away, and walked moodily back to my hotel. The proprietor was in the lobby, and the whole staff seemed to be on the spot. They all looked at me as if they thought I might be some recently discovered wild animal, and I wondered why. But as no one spoke to me, I asked the clerk at the bureau for my key.

“I have it not; others – the police – have it,” he stammered.

“Oh, that’s it, is it?” I said. “They’re up there now? All right.”

I went up the stairs – there was no elevator – and found a couple of soldiers posted outside my door.

“Well, what are you doing here?” I asked, in good enough Russian. “This is my room, and I’ll thank you to let me pass.”

The one on the right of the door flung it open with a flourish, and motioned me to enter.

As I passed him he said, with a laugh to his fellow, “So – the rat goes into the trap!”

CHAPTER XVII

THE DROSHKY DRIVER

Inside were two officials busily engaged in a systematic search of my effects. Truly the secret police had lost no time!

I had already decided on the attitude I must adopt. It was improbable that they would arrest me openly; that would have involved trouble with the Embassies, but they could, if they chose, conduct me to the frontier or give me twenty-four hours’ notice to quit Russia, as they had to Von Eckhardt, and that was the very last thing I desired just now.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” I said amiably. “You seem to be pretty busy here. Can I give you any assistance?”

I spoke in French, as I didn’t want to air my Russian for their edification, though I had improved a good deal in it.

One of them, who seemed boss, looked up and said brusquely, though not exactly uncivilly: “Ah, Monsieur, you have returned somewhat sooner than we expected. We have a warrant to search your apartment.”

“That’s all right; pray continue, though I give you my word you won’t find anything treasonable. I’m a foreigner, as of course you know; and I haven’t the least wish or intention to mix myself up with Russian affairs.”

“And yet you correspond with the Grand Duke Loris,” he said dryly.

“I don’t!” I answered promptly. “I’ve never written a line to that gentleman in my life, nor he to me.”

“There are other ways of corresponding than by writing,” he retorted. I guessed I had been watched to the café after all, but I maintained an air of innocent unconcern, and, after all, his remark might be merely a “feeler.” I rather think now that it was. One can never be sure how much the Russian Secret Police do, or do not, know; and one of their pet tricks is to bluff people into giving themselves away.

So I ignored his remark, selected a cigarette, and, seeing that he had just finished his – I’ve wondered sometimes if a Russian official sleeps with a cigarette between his lips, for I fear he wouldn’t sleep comfortably without! – handed him the case, with an apology for my remissness. He accepted both the apology and the cigarette, and looked at me hard.

“I said, Monsieur, that there are other ways of corresponding than by writing!” he repeated with emphasis.

“Of course there are,” I assented cheerfully. “But I don’t see what that has to do with me in the present instance. I only know the Grand Duke very slightly. I was hurt in that railway accident last month, and his Highness was good enough to order one of his servants to look after me; and he also called to see me at an hotel in Dunaburg. I thought it very condescending of him. Though I don’t suppose I’d have the chance of meeting him again, as there are no Court festivities now; or if there are, we outsiders aren’t invited to them. Won’t your friend accept one of my cigarettes?”

This was addressed to the other man, who seemed to be doing all the work, and was puzzling over some pencil notes in English which he had picked out of my waste-paper basket. They were the draft of my yesterday’s despatch to the Courier, a perfectly innocuous communication that I had sent openly; it didn’t matter whether it arrived at its destination or not. As I have said, Petersburg was quiet to stagnation just now; though one never knew when the material for some first-class sensational copy might turn up.

“I’ll translate that for you right now, if you like,” I said politely. “Or you can take it away with you!”

I think they were both baffled by my apparent candor and nonchalance; but the man who was bossing the show returned to the charge persistently.

“Ah, that railway accident. Yes. But surely you have made a slight mistake, Monsieur? You incurred your injuries, from which, I perceive, you have so happily recovered.”

He bowed, and I bowed. If I hadn’t known all that lay behind, this exchange of words and courtesy – a kind of fencing, with both of us pretending that the buttons were on the foils – would have tickled me immensely. Even as it was I could appreciate the funny side of it. I was playing a part in a comedy, – a grim comedy, a mere interlude in tragedy, – but still comic.

“You incurred these, I say, not in the accident, but while gallantly defending the Grand Duke from the dastards who assailed him later!”

I worked up a modest blush; or I tried to.

“I see that it is useless to attempt to conceal anything from you, Monsieur; you know too much!” I confessed, laughing. “But I’m a modest man; besides, I didn’t do very much, and his Highness seemed quite capable of taking care of himself.”

I saw a queer glint in his eyes, and I guessed then that the attempt on the life of the Grand Duke had been engineered by the police themselves, and not, as I had first imagined, by the revolutionists.

My antagonist waved his hand with an airy gesture of protestation.

“You underrate your services, Monsieur Wynn! I wonder if you would have devoted them so readily to his Highness if – ”

He paused portentously.

“If?” I inquired blandly. “Do have another cigarette!”

“If you had known of his connection with the woman who is known as La Mort?”

That wasn’t precisely what he said. I don’t choose to write the words in any language; but I wanted to knock his yellow teeth down his throat; to choke the life out of him for the vile suggestion his words contained! I dared not look at him; my eyes would have betrayed everything that he was seeking to discover. I looked at the end of the cigarette I was lighting, and wondered how I managed to steady the hand that held the match.

“I really do not understand you!” I asserted blandly.

“Perhaps you may know her as Anna Petrovna?” he suggested.

“Anna Petrovna!” I repeated. “Now, that’s the second time to-day I’ve heard the lady’s name; and I can’t think why you gentlemen should imagine it means anything to me. Who is she, anyhow?”

I looked at him now, fair and square; met and held the gimlet gaze of his eyes with one of calm, interested inquiry. We were fighting a duel, to which a mere physical fight is child’s play; and – I meant to win!

“You do not know?” he asked.

“I do not; though I’d like to. The officer at the bureau this morning – I don’t suppose I need tell you that I was arrested and detained for a time – seemed to think I should know her; but he wouldn’t give me any information. You’ve managed to rouse my curiosity pretty smartly between you!”

“I fear it must remain unsatisfied, Monsieur, so far as I am concerned,” he said suavely. “Well, we will relieve you of our presence. I congratulate you on the admirable order in which you keep your papers.”

His subordinate had risen, with an expressive shrug of his shoulders. I knew their search must be futile, since I had fortunately destroyed Mary Cayley’s letter the day I received it; and there was nothing among my papers referring either directly or indirectly to Anne.

“You’ll want to see this, of course,” I suggested, tendering my passport. He glanced through it perfunctorily, and handed it back with a ceremonious bow. So far as manners went, he certainly was an improvement on the official at the bureau; and of course he already knew that my personal papers were all right.

He gave me a courteous “good evening,” and the other man, who hadn’t uttered a syllable the whole time, saluted me in silence. I heard one of them give an order to the guards outside, and then the heavy tramp of their feet descending the staircase.

I started tidying up; it would help to pass the time until I might expect some message from the Grand Duke. Mishka had said nine o’clock, and it was not yet seven.

Presently there came a knock at my door. I wondered if this might be another police visitation; but it was only one of the hotel servants to say a droshky driver was below, demanding to see me. He produced a dirty scrap of paper with my name and address scrawled on it, which the man had brought. I thought at once of the man who had driven me in the morning, and wondered how on earth he got my name and address. I was sure it must be he when I heard that he declared “the excellency had told him to call for payment.” This was awkward; the fellow must be another police spy, probably doing a bit of blackmailing on his own account. Well, I’d better see him, anyhow. I told the man to bring him up.

“He is a dangerous looking fellow,” he demurred.

“That’s my lookout and not yours,” I said. “If he wants to see me he’s got to come up. I’m certainly not going down to him.”

He went off unwillingly, and a minute or two later returned, showing in my queer visitor, a big burly chap who seemed civil and harmless enough.

I didn’t think at first sight he was the man who drove me, but they all look so much alike in their filthy greatcoats and low-crowned hats. He had a big grizzled beard and a thatch of matted hair, from which his little swinish eyes peered out with a leer. Yes, he looked exactly like any other of his class, but —

As he entered behind the servant, touched his greasy hat, and growled a guttural greeting, he opened his eyes full and looked at me for barely a second, but it was sufficient.

“Oh, it is you, Ivan; why didn’t you send your name up?” I said roughly. “How much is it I owe you? Here, wait a minute; as you are here, you can take a message for me. Wait here while I write it. It’s all right; I know the fellow,” I added to the servant. “You needn’t wait.”

He went out, and for a minute my visitor and I stood silently regarding each other. His disguise was perfect; I should never have penetrated it but for the warning he had flashed from those bright blue eyes, that now, leering and nearly closed, looked dark and pig-like again.

The droshky driver was the Grand Duke Loris himself.

CHAPTER XVIII

THROUGH THE STORM

I moved to the door and locked it noiselessly. I dared not open it to see if the servant had gone, for if he had not that would have roused his suspicions at once. The Duke had already crossed to the further side of the room, and I joined him there.

He wasted no time in preliminaries.