Читать книгу The Ostrekoff Jewels - E. Phillips Oppenheim - Страница 7

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With groaning and creaking and jerking of couplings, which sent every one momentarily off his balance, the long train started again on its crawl westward. Walter Pearson, who was aching to see a game of football or baseball, and to whom the ladies and cafés of Petrograd had made no appeal compared with the glamour of Broadway, rose to his feet and waved his glass.

"Here's a long farewell to the foulest country on the earth," he cried.

The Counsellor, who had been looking out of the window, resumed his seat.

"A little premature, young man," he remarked. "That's only a temporary station we've been in—kind of rehearsal for the real thing. The frontier is on the other side of that great semicircle of lights."

Wilfred Haven groaned. The blow fell heavier upon him than upon his fellow worker.

"Are you sure about that, sir?" he asked eagerly. "Those two men certainly belonged to the customs and there was no doubt about the passport officer."

"Positive," was the uncompromising reply. "I've done this journey a great deal oftener than you youngsters, and I can assure you that we're still on Russian soil. When you hear the whistle blow and we leave the next station, you can shout yourselves hoarse."

Haven seemed to have lost his appetite. He laid down his roll and took a long gulp of the wine. The girl by his side watched him curiously.

"Why are you so anxious about the customs?" she teased him. "Love letters are not dutiable."

"I'm not afraid of the ordinary customs," he explained irritably. "The trouble of it is that the Russians are examining all outward-bound luggage and confiscating anything to which they take a fancy. My letters might be the commencement of a great scandal."

"Then this should certainly be a lesson to you," she admonished. "All love letters should be destroyed. Your behaviour to-night is teaching me a lesson. You shall not receive any love letters from me!"

He made no comment and she abandoned the subject, leaning back in her seat and drawing a little away from him. Nevertheless, even in her new position, she seldom took her eyes from the bag which was still chained to his wrist. Haven seemed to have forgotten her very existence. His eyes were fixed upon that growing semicircle of lights. Apprehension was fastening itself upon him. There seemed something sinister in their slow progress towards the station, the curved roof of which was already in view from the window. The attitude of the officials who had recently visited them was in itself disturbing. Law, order, etiquette, diplomatic privileges—none of these things, he felt, counted for a rap in this new world, which was being born in travail and with bloodshed. Violence was the only weapon its inhabitants understood or cared to understand.

Inside the covered station, pandemonium seemed to have merged into bedlam. People were all jammed together, struggling even for breathing room. The train crawled along by the side of the platform until they were almost out of the station again. Then, with the same series of convulsive jerks, it came to a standstill. They gazed out of the window at the seething mob in consternation.

"Where do they come from, these crowds, and where are they going to?" the girl cried.

No one knew. They might have been exiles trying to get back to join in the political cataclysm. They might have been refugees arrived so far and anxious to continue their journey. Men and women, old and young, children and invalids, they were herded together under the low-hanging oil lamps, some of them talking fiercely, others in stolid, suffering silence.

"Say, look at the three musketeers!" Walter Pearson called out.

They gazed in astonishment at the three gigantic figures who towered head and shoulders above the mob which surged around them. They wore long, semi-military overcoats, Cossack turbans and high boots clotted thickly with snow and mud, as though they had recently arrived from a journey. All the time it seemed to Wilfred as though by slow but powerful pressure they were drawing nearer to the railway carriage.

The attention of the little party was suddenly distracted. The officer who had entered their carriage at the last stopping place presented himself again, followed by one of the soldiers. There was a malicious grin upon his face.

"Open all bags," he ordered.

"I claim diplomatic privilege on behalf of myself and party," John Hayes declared. "The bags of which I am in charge contain only articles of no value, or Embassy papers with which I am not permitted to part."

The officer raised a whistle to his lips. The sound of groaning and shrieking came from the corridor as the advancing soldiers forced their way through the crowd.

"The Government of Russia recognises no diplomatic privileges," he insisted. "Your bags will be taken from you by force unless you open them."

The Counsellor shrugged his shoulders. All papers of importance had either been destroyed within the last few days or sent home a month before. One by one he unlocked his bags. They contained nothing but packets of worthless papers or articles of clothing and food.

"Do what you like with the rest of the things," he grumbled, "but if you take our food—especially that ham—it will mean war."

The official pushed the bags and their contents away from him contemptuously. He pointed to the satchel chained to Haven's wrist.

"Unlock that," he ordered.

Haven rose to his feet. His right fist was clenched and there was murder in his eyes. To fail so soon in his enterprise! It was incredible.

"I'll be damned if I do," he answered.

The official held up his hand and two of the soldiers pushed their way unceremoniously into the carriage. Haven looked at the naked points of their bayonets and made a rapid calculation. The situation seemed hopeless.

"The contents of this bag are not my property," he declared. "I have promised to defend them with my life and I shall do so. You can murder an American official, if you think it worth while," he added. "You'll get all the trouble that's coming to you in this world before any one has a chance of dealing with me. It's hell for the three of you, I say," he shouted in Russian.

His right hand jerked out of his overcoat pocket. With his elbow doubled into his side and his automatic held in a steady grip he stood for a brief period of madness, his finger upon the trigger, the gleaming barrel not more than a couple of yards from the Russian officer's heart.

"Don't be a fool," Hayes thundered out. "Are you mad, Haven?"

At that moment and during the moments that followed, Wilfred Haven certainly thought that madness had enveloped him and that he had passed into the world of oblivion. What had happened wasn't possible. They must have killed him and this was the nightmare of resurrection. Nothing that had taken place was possible and yet there he was. The outside door of the compartment, against which he planted his back, had suddenly been opened, and he had fallen into the grasp of two of the huge men whom they had seen battling their way through the mass of people. He was between them now, their hairy overcoats pressed against him, the weight of their bodies all the time forcing him on. In front was the third man, swinging his arms to right and to left, clearing a way for him through that surging mass of humanity. A hundred pairs of curious eyes seemed to be looking at him with indifferent wonder. No one appeared to be greatly disturbed by the fact that this young foreigner was being dragged through their midst by three officials who were probably conducting him to the nearest wall. They gave way where they could and fell upon their neighbours with groans when they were pushed on one side. From the waiting train behind came a confused sound of shouting and over their heads the bullets whistled. A not unpleasant sense of impotence crept over him. He was entirely powerless, ready to accept what fate might come. His fingers were locked like mechanical things of steel around the handle of the bag which was still under his arm. He had concentrated so completely upon it that to him it was the only thing in life. He had long ago ceased his first struggles and was now even assisting his own progress. In the clutch of his captors, he passed through the great overheated waiting room, the doors of which were lying flat on the floor. Once under the outside shelter, they all four, Haven included, broke into a run and issued directly into the huge snow and wind-swept yard which, compared with the thronged station itself, was almost deserted. Exactly opposite the door a large automobile was waiting with flaring lights. Haven, notwithstanding his great strength, was literally thrown inside. Two of his three guardians mounted with him into the interior, the third took his place by the side of the immovable chauffeur, who appeared to be merely a mass of furs. In a few seconds they were off, bumping across the yard, out of the iron gates. They turned their backs upon the lights of the town and plunged into what seemed to be a long, evil-looking road, leading into impenetrable gloom. Haven, with the bag under his arm, and the snowflakes which drifted in through the half-opened window stinging his cheeks with their icy coldness, found breath at last to speak.

"Where the hell are you taking me?" he demanded.

The man opposite to him shook his head. The one by his side, however, answered at once in correct but guttural English.

"We are obeying orders," he announced. "There will be no danger for a quarter of an hour. American gentleman had better take a drink of this."

He produced a huge flask and filled a small silver cup full of brandy. Haven drank it to the last drop. After all, he could never be in a worse mess than he had been in on the railway train. The bag was still under his arm and neither of his two companions appeared to feel any curiosity concerning it.

"You are a brave man?" his neighbour asked.

"I don't think I am a coward."

The other was loosening his overcoat.

"Then rest tranquilly for a few minutes," he advised. "Rest is always good."

Haven leaned back in his seat and drew a long breath of relief. Somehow, his two companions, terrifying though they were externally, imbued him with a sense of confidence. He was beginning to feel a man again. The bag was there, still chained to his wrist. His fully charged automatic remained safely in his pocket. He could feel the warmth of the belt with every breath he drew. They were travelling at thirty or forty miles an hour across a great plain, a drear enough region in the daytime, he imagined, a black chaos now, with occasional pin pricks of light.

"Look out of the window ahead," his companion invited.

He obeyed, although the snowflakes stung his cheeks and the icy wind nearly sucked away his breath. Far away down the straight road, several miles ahead, was a huge electric-light standard, the unshaded globe of which was like a ball of white fire.

"Do you see the light?"

"I should be blind if I didn't."

"The frontier."

"Which way?" Haven asked quickly. "I don't know where we are. You can't mean that we shall be back in Russia."

The man by his side shook his head.

"No," he confided, "it will be Poland. Where the light flares, it is the end of Russian territory. There we shall be stopped for what we take out of the country. Just beyond, where the red light shines, are the Polish customs. Both are very dangerous to us."

"No way round, I suppose?"

"There is no way round," was the uncompromising reply. "The country for many miles here is a marsh. Under the lights are sentinels. The Russians will fire at us, we shall fire back at them. From the Poles, we have not, I think, so much to fear. They can use the telephone and have us stopped farther on in the country—if they can find out where we're going."

"By the by, where are we going?" Haven enquired.

His companion ignored his question. He had produced an automatic twice the size of Haven's and was crouching by the window, ready to open it.

"You have a gun," he muttered. "I felt it."

"Yes, I have a gun," Haven admitted. "I'm not sure whether I could hit much going at this pace."

"Keep in the bottom of the car. You take my place or Ivan's if we are wounded."

"I wish to God you'd tell me who you are and where we're going," Haven complained. "All the same, I'll take a chance."

They seemed to be nearing, if not a town, some sort of a settlement. The lights flashed past them. Suddenly they came within the arc of that great white circle of illumination. Haven caught a glimpse of men tumbling out in huge overcoats from a square white stone building at the side of the road. There was a challenge, unanswered—a shout—a shot—then a fusillade of shots. The side windows of the car were smashed to pieces and Haven felt his cheek cut by one of the flying fragments. All the time their own automatics were barking out. There was the swish of a bullet through both windows of the car, piercing the astrakhan turban of one of the kneeling men.... They were outside the circle of the white light now, travelling at a tremendous pace, swaying from side to side of the road, surrounded by a perfect tornado of snow thrown up by the wheels. The bullets from behind were coming more scantily. A single challenge reached them from underneath the red light. The men in the car withheld their fire and passed safely.

"Are either of the two in front hit?" Haven asked breathlessly.

His immediate companion let down the window and talked to the chauffeur for a moment. When he drew back there was a look of relief upon his heavy inexpressive features.

"It is good news," he announced. "Neither of them are touched. In a quarter of an hour we leave the main road. Once we have done that, no one will find us."

Haven lit a cigarette and addressed himself to his English-speaking friend.

"Now look here," he began firmly, "you're giving me a jolly good run for my money and I must admit that you got me out of a nasty hole at the railway depot, but who are you? How do you come to be mixed up in my affairs? For whom are you doing this?"

The man by his side was unexpectedly solemn. He lifted his hand in a salute. His companion, as though automatically, followed his example.

"We are Ostrekoff men," the former confided. "Three brothers. Alexis is my name, Ivan there, Paul outside. We have formed the bodyguard of His Highness since he became Chief of the Imperial Household. Before that we were rangers here on His Highness' estates in Poland and down in Georgia. Those days are over. Russia is a lost country. This is the last time we work for our master."

Haven felt a new and delightful sense of security. But for the dignity and aloofness of their own manners, he could have almost embraced his three companions.

"And where are you taking me now?" he asked.

Alexis suddenly sprang up, threw down the window and looked out. He talked rapidly to the driver and their speed diminished. Presently they turned abruptly to the right, continued for about a mile along a villainous wagon track, and stopped. There was no building to be seen, not a house anywhere in sight, nothing but a bare, barren plain. Then lights flashed out scarcely a dozen yards ahead of them, and, drawn up by the side of the road, they saw another and even larger automobile. Alexis waved his hand in triumph.

"Descend, Master," he begged Haven. "It is here we change."

"And afterwards?" Haven asked, as he buttoned his coat up to his throat.

"An hour's drive and then there will be safety. Wait till Paul has cleared the snow, then descend."

A spade had been produced and a way made clear. Quickly everything was transferred to the other car. Then they all turned their attention to the deserted one. On the right-hand side of the road was a drop of about twelve feet into the marshes. The driver turned the wheel, the three giants pushed. In a few seconds the great vehicle slid over and fell with a crash of breaking glass and splintering wood-work. With less than ten minutes' delay they were off along the new road, travelling more slowly now but also more smoothly. The three brothers were all inside, the other chauffeur having taken the front seat. Haven looked at them in amazement. Ivan, the shortest of the three, must have been six feet four, Paul was at least an inch taller, and the English-speaking Alexis, his immediate guardian, was little under seven feet.

"If you have been the Prince's men all your lives, what will you do when you leave me, now that the Prince and Princess are dead and the estates are broken up?" he asked them.

A moment before they had all been laughing and chatting volubly with the vivacity of children. Paul had been snapping his fingers and humming the tune of a Russian folk song. They were suddenly dumb.

"You will go back to Russia? You have wives and families perhaps?"

"We have wives and families," Alexis groaned, "but whether we shall ever see them again God only knows. It is a dunghill which we have left. There is no Russia."

"You don't believe in the new freedom then?" Haven asked.

"What does that mean to those of us who have served the Prince?" Alexis growled. "The people are mad. They have red poison."

"When we leave you," Paul confided in broken English, "we shall go south. In Georgia there may be hope. Around Moscow and in Petrograd we are known as the Ostrekoff men who have sometimes guarded the Tsar. There will be nothing but a prison or the wall there for us."

Their progress grew slower as the snow storm became denser. Sometimes the runners of the car became blocked and they had to stop while huge chunks of frozen ice were cut away. Haven, lulled into a curious sense of security, and worn out with the excitements of the day, began to doze. He woke from a fitful sleep to find Alexis rubbing the window clear with his coat sleeve. They had just passed between two great iron gates, with a lodge on each side, and were travelling up what appeared to be an avenue bordered with tall trees, ghostly white. At the end of about half a mile they pulled up in front of a square stone house of great size. Alexis sprang to the ground. The others tumbled out after him. Notwithstanding their height and weight, they all seemed to have the vitality and light-footedness of boys.

"We are arrived!" Alexis exclaimed. "American Master will be glad. There will be fire and food. It is a great journey we have made."

Strange-looking peasant servants opened the door and came out, bowing and curtseying. One, who seemed to have something of the dignity of Alexis and his brothers, and was evidently a sort of major-domo, led Haven across the stone hall to a great dining room, bare except for an enormous table and a score or more of fine oak chairs, all emblazoned with the Ostrekoff arms. The walls were panelled with some ancient wood which showed everywhere signs of decay. At the farther end was a musicians' gallery, empty and dilapidated. The place was marvellously heated by an immense stove, set in front of a fireplace, upon which an ox might easily have been roasted. Haven threw off his overcoat and stretched himself with a delightful sense of returning animation. He dipped his fingers in a porcelain bowl presented by Paul, passed them over his forehead, wiped his face and hands on fine linen offered by Ivan, and drank a glass of old vodka tendered by Alexis. In the background, the little company of servants were still peering and gesticulating.

"Where are we?" Haven enquired.

"It is the shooting lodge of an estate belonging to His Highness," Alexis explained. "Once there were bear here and His Highness would come for the shooting. Now the farmer and the farm hands live near by. The Master will be safe. We shall watch. There is food coming."

Haven flung the water once more over his eyes and conquered for a time his deadly sleepiness. He sank into the chair which Alexis had placed at the end of the table. Half a dozen servants had been running back and forth, but the place was now deserted. In front of him stood a huge brown dish full of some sort of stew. Alexis removed the cover. A deliciously appetising odour escaped with the steam which floated upwards toward the ceiling. There was a loaf of bread, and a great chunk of butter on one side; on the other, a bottle of whisky, a bottle of red wine of Hungarian growth, and a jug of water.

"American Master is served," Alexis announced.

Later on, in a room almost as large as the banquet hall, and on a bed the size of a tent, Haven slept like a log. Outside on the landing, with his back to the door, Alexis, with his gun on his knees, also ate his stew, smoked his pipe and watched through the night until he was relieved by Ivan. Downstairs, in the centre of the hall facing the front door, Paul too, with a rifle by his side, ate his stew and watched.