Red Masquerade - Louis Joseph Vance
"Sofia!"
As those syllables, freighted with that undying passion which consumed the
man, sounded upon the stillness, Victor turned sharply, with a gesture of
irritation, looking aside, listening.
Instantaneously the Asiatic disappeared, thrust back into its habitual
latency within the prison of European: Prince Victor was as he had been, as
always to the world, cool, composed, and crafty, master, never creature, of
his emotions.
A faint buzzing was audible, broken by muffled clicks.
Rising, Victor approached a table in a corner and with a key from his
pocket ring unlocked a heavy casket of bronze. As he raised its cover a
small electric bulb illuminated the interior, focussing on the
paper-covered face of a mechanical writing device, upon which a pencil with
a broad flat lead operated by a metal arm was tracing characters resembling
the hieroglyphics of the Chinese.
When the clicking ceased and the pencil was at rest, Victor caught an end
of the paper and pulled it forward until a blank surface again occupied the
writing-bed. Upon this with another pencil he inscribed a reply, then
closed and relocked the casket.
Back at the table with the lamp, the message just received became crisp
black ash on a brazen tray.
From a locked chest Victor produced an inverness and a soft hat of black
felt. Wearing these he moved quietly out of the lamp's radius of light, and
made himself one with the shadows that crowded one another round the walls.
He did not leave by the hall door; but of a sudden the room was untenanted.
VII
THE FANTASTICS
Downstream from The Pool, a little way below Shadwell, an uncouth row of
dilapidated dwellings in those days stood--or, better, squatted, like a
mute company of draggletail crones--atop a river-wall whose ancient blocks,
all ropy with the slime of centuries, peered dimly out through groups of
crazy spiles at the restless pageant of Thames-life.
Viewed by day, say from the deck of a river steamer, the spectacle they
offered was, according to bias of mood and disposition, unlovely and drear
or colourful and romantic: Whistler might have etched these houses, Dickens
have staged therein a lowly tragedy, Thomas Burke have made of one a frame
for some vignette unforgettable of Limehouse life.
Builded of stone or brick or both as to their landward faces, without
exception they presented to the river false backs of wooden framework which
overhung the water. Ordinarily, their windows were tight-shut, the panes
opaque with accumulated grime--many were broken and boarded. Their look was
dismal, their squalor desperate.
Below, by day, heavy wherries swung moored to the ooze-clad spiles or, when
the tide was out, sprawled upon stinking mud-flats with a gesture of
pathetic helplessness peculiar to stranded watercraft. Seldom was one
observed in use: to all seeming they existed for purposes of atmosphere
alone.
More seldom still did any dwelling betray evidence of inhabitation beyond
faint wisps of smoke, like ghosts of famine, drifting from the chimneypots,
or--perhaps--some unabashed exhibit of red flannel hung out to dry with
wrist or ankle-bands nipped between a window-sash and sill.
By night, however, a stir of furtive life was to be surmised from cryptic
lights that flared and faded behind the crusted window-glass or fell
through opened floor-traps to the thick black element that swirled about
the spiles, and from guarded calls as well, inarticulate cries of hate and
love and pain, rumours of close and crude carousal.
And ever and again the belated riverfarer would encounter one of the
wherries, its long oars swung by brawny arms and backs, stealing secretly
across the inky waters on some errand no less dark.
On land the buildings lined a cobbled street, from dawn to dark a
thoroughfare for thundering lorries and, twice daily, in murk of early
morning and gloom of early night, scoured by a nondescript rabble employed
in the vast dockyards whose man-made forests of masts and cordage, funnels
and cranes, on either hand lifted angular black silhouettes against the
misty silver of the sky.
Black and white and yellow and brown, men of every race and skin, they came
and went, their brief hours loud with babel of strange tongues and a
scuffling of countless feet like the sound of surf; and their goings left
the street strangely hushed, a way of sinister reticences, its winding
length ill-lighted by infrequent corner-lamps, its mephitic glooms
enlivened by windows of public houses all saffron with specious promise of
purchasable good-fellowship.
One of these, the Red Moon, faced the row of waterfront houses, standing at
the intersection of a street which struck inland to the pulsing heart of
Limehouse. A retired bully of the prize-ring ruled with a high hand over
its several bars and many patrons, yellow men and white girls, deck-hands
and dock-workers, pugilistic and criminal celebrities of the quarter, and
their sycophants. Its revels rendered the nights cacophonous, its portals
sucked in streams of sweethearts and more impersonal lovers of life and
laughter, and spewed out sots close-locked in embraces of maudlin affection
or brutal combat. Bobbies kept an eye on the Red Moon, a respectful one:
interference with the time-hallowed customs and prerogatives of its
clientele was something to be adventured with extreme discretion.
Out of the hinterland of Limehouse, a tall man came to the Red Moon that
night, walking with long, loose-jointed strides, holding his head high and
looking over the heads of all he passed with a fixed, far gaze. He had a
hatchet-face, sallow, with lantern jaws, a petulant mouth, hot eyes that
showed too much white above their pupils. A lank black mane greased his
collar. His garments, shoddy but whole, were stained and bleached in spots,
apparently the work of acids, and so wrinkled and shapeless as to suggest
that their owner slept without undressing as a matter of habit. The pockets
of his coat bulged noticeably.
Shouldering heedlessly into the saloon-bar, he found it deserted except for
a chinless potman: the liveliest evening trade was always plied in the
cheaper bars adjacent.
One glance sufficed to identify him: with a surly nod the potman ducked
behind a partition to call the proprietor. Drinks were in order when this
last appeared; and a brief conference in undertones ended when, having made
careful reconnaissance, the publican nodded shortly to the patron, a jerk
of his thumb designating a small door let into the wall to one side of the
bar proper.
Through this the tall man passed to find himself upon a dark stairway, at
the foot of which another door admitted to an underground chamber where an
apparently exclusive social gathering was in session of Saturnalia.
In one corner a long-suffering piano was taking cruel punishment at the
hands of a flashily dressed, sharp-faced man of horsey type. Flanking him,
two young women of the world, with that insouciance which appertains--in
Limehouse--to sweet sixteen, were chanting shrilly to his accompaniment:
both more than comfortably drunk. In the middle of the room assorted
lawbreakers gathered round a table were playing fan-tan at the top of their
lungs. At smaller tables men and women sat consuming poisons of which they
were obviously in no crying need; while in bunks builded against one wall
devotees of the pipe reclined in various stages of beatitude. The air was
hot, and foul with cigarette smoke, sickening fumes of sizzling opium,
effluvia of beer and spirits, sour reek of sweating flesh.
Incurious glances greeted the newcomer: none paid him more heed than an
indifferent nod. On his part, brief but comprehensive survey having
deepened the stamp of scorn upon his features, he ignored them all and,
proceeding directly to a bunk of the lowermost tier, aroused its occupant
with a smart tap on the shoulder.
The ostensible drug-addict looked up dreamily, then opened his eyes wide,
with surprising docility rolled out and, uttering no word, lurched to the
fan-tan table. The tall man took his place, lay down, and drew together the
unclean curtains of sleazy stuff provided to afford privacy to shrinking
souls. This done, he turned on his side and knuckled in peculiar rhythm the
back of the bunk, a solid panel which slipped smoothly to one side,
permitting the man to tumble out into still another room, a cheerless
place, with floor of stone and the smell of a vault.
When the panel had slipped back into place, closing out the bunk, the man
stood in night absolute. But after a minute a slender beam of golden light
struck suddenly athwart the darkness and found his face. This he endured
impassively, only lifting a hand to describe an obscure sign. Immediately
the light was shut off, a door opened in the wall opposite, dull light from
behind disclosed the silhouette of a man in Chinese robes, his head
inclined in a bow of courteous dignity.
In good English but with musical Eastern inflection a voice gave greeting:
"Good evening, Thirteen. You are awaited--and welcome!"
"Good evening, Shaik Tsin," the European replied in heavy un-English
accents. "Number One is here, yes?"
"Not yet. But we have just received a telautographic message saying he is
on his way."
Nodding impatiently, Thirteen passed through the door, which the Chinaman
quickly closed and barred.
The chamber to which one gained admittance by ways so devious and fantastic
was large--exactly how large it was difficult to guess, since all its walls
were screened by black silk panels upon which golden dragons writhed and
crawled. A thick carpet of black covered every inch of visible floor space,
a black silk canopy hid the ceiling, and all the room was in deep shadow
save the space immediately beneath a great lamp of opalescent glass,
likewise draped in black.
Here stood an octagonal table of black teakwood, on seven sides of which
seven chairs were placed. When Thirteen had taken his seat all these were
occupied. On the eighth side an eighth chair stood empty on a low dais, the
heavy carving of its high back, its massive arms and legs, picked out with
gold.
The six who had anticipated Thirteen at this bizarre rendezvous hailed him
as a familiar, according to their several idiosyncrasies, brusquely,
indifferently, or with some semblance of cordiality. They made a motley
crew.
Two were Englishman in appearance, though the figure of languid elegance in
evening dress that might have graced the lounge of a West End club had a
voice soft with Celtic brogue. The other owned a gross body clothed in loud
checks and, with his mean blue eyes, his mottled complexion, and cunning
leer, would not have seemed out of place in a betting-ring.
Aside from these there were a moon-faced Bengali babu, a dark Italian with
flashing eyes and teeth, and a stout person of bovine Teutonic cast--the
type that is sage, shrewd, easy-going when unopposed, but capable under
provocation of exhibiting the most conscienceless brutality.
From this last Thirteen got his warmest welcome.
"You are late, mine friend."
"In good time, however," Thirteen responded with a nod toward the vacant
chair. "More than that, the summons was handed me only twenty minutes ago."
"How was that?" the babu asked. "It was sent at six o'clock."
"I was at work in the laboratory and had left orders I was not to be
disturbed. But for one thing"--the petulance of Thirteen's habitual
expression was lightened by a flash of self-gratulation, and his voice
shook a little with excitement--"I might not have received the summons
before morning."
"And that one thing?"
"Success, comrades! At last--after months of experimentation--I have been
successful!"
"'Ow?" dryly demanded the man in the checked suit.
"I have discovered a great secret--discovered, perfected, adapted it to
common means at our command. Comrades, I tell you, to-night we hold all
England in the hollow of our hands!"
With an incoherent exclamation and eyes afire the Russian sat forward.
Unconsciously the others imitated his action. Only the man in evening dress
made a show of remaining unimpressed.
"It's fine, fat words you're after using," he commented. "'All England in
the hollow of our hands!' If they mean anything at all, comrade, they
mean--"
"Everything!" Thirteen cut in with arrogant assertiveness; "all we've been
waiting for, hoping for, praying for--the end of the ruling classes,
extinction of the accursed aristocrats, subjugation of the thrice-damned
bourgeois, the triumph of the proletariat, all at a single stroke, swift,
subtle, and sure! Freedom for Ireland, freedom for India, freedom for
England, the speedy spreading of that red dawn which lights the Russian
skies to-day, till all the wide world basks in its warm radiance and
acclaims us, comrades, its redeemers!"
"Lieber Gott!" the German breathed. "Colossal!"
"'Ear, 'ear!" the Englishman applauded, perfunctory and skeptical. "Bli'me
if you didn't mike me forget where I was--'ad me thinking I was in 'Yde
Park, you did, listening to a bloody horator on a box."
"You may laugh," Thirteen replied with a sour glance; "but when you have
heard, you will not laugh. I am not boasting--I am telling you."
"Not a great deal," the Irishman suggested. "Your mouth is full of sounds
and fury, but till you tell us more you'll have told us nothing."
The face of Thirteen grew darker still, and for a moment he seemed to
meditate an angry retort; but he thought better of it, contenting himself
with an impatient movement and a mutter: "All in good time; Number One is
not here yet."
"W'y wyste time w'itin' for 'im?" demanded the Englishman. "'E's no good,
'e's done."
Thirteen's eyes narrowed. "How so?"
"'E's done, Number One is--finished, counted out, napoo! 'E's 'ad 'is d'y,
and a pretty mess 'e's mide of it--and it's 'igh time, I say, for 'im to
step down and let a better man tike 'old."
Growls in chorus endorsed this declaration of mutiny; but suddenly were
stilled by a voice, sonorous and calm, from outside the circle:
"You think so, Seven? Well--who knows?--perhaps you are right."
VIII
COUNCIL OF THE GODLESS
Someone exclaimed in an accent of alarm: "Number One!"
With a concerted turning of startled heads, a hasty thrusting back of
chairs, the gathering rose in involuntary deference. That is, five rose as
one; and, after a moment during which his spirit of insubordination
faltered and failed, the Englishman got awkwardly to his feet and stood
abashed and sullen.
The one to remain seated was the Irishman so well turned out by Conduit
Street; who made no move more than slightly to elevate supercilious brows
and slouch a little lower in his chair, glancing from face to face of the
circle, then back to the cold countenance presented by the author of the
abrupt interruption.
This last stood quietly beside the eighth chair, a hand on its carved arm,
one foot on the edge of the dais. A long robe of black silk enveloped him;
on its bosom a Chinese unicorn was embroidered. His girdle clasp was of
Imperial jade set with rubies. The girdle itself was yellow. A great ruby
button, nearly an inch in diameter, set in a mounting of worked gold,
crowned a hat like an inverted round bowl. His black silk shoes were heavy
with golden embroidery, and had white soles an inch thick. Authority lent
inches to his stature, so that he seemed to dominate his company physically
as well as spiritually.
A pace or two in the rear Shaik Tsin, with impassive face and arms folded
in voluminous sleeves, waited as might a bodyguard.
A sardonic glimmer in eyes half visible under heavy lids alone betrayed
relish of the situation, the homage commanded and the sensation created by
this inopportune and unheralded arrival: deliberately Number One mounted
the dais and posed himself in the throne-like chair. Then, as his look read
face after face, he smiled with twitching and disdainful nostrils.
"Gentlemen of the Council," he said, slowly, "I bow to you all. Pray be
seated."
In confounded silence the six resumed their seats, while the seventh--who
had not moved--lighted a cigarette, inhaled deeply, and through a veil of
smoke continued to regard Number One with insolent eyes.
"I fear my arrival was ill-timed, gentlemen. Seven had the floor, and I
confess to finding what I happened to overhear extremely interesting. If he
will be good enough to continue ..."
The Irishman gave a light, derisive laugh. Shifting uneasily in his chair,
the man in the checked suit flushed darkly, then stiffened his spine,
hardened his eyes, set his jaw, and faced Number One defiantly.
"You 'eard ... I 'olds by w'at I said."
"I am to understand, then, you think it time for me to abdicate and let
another lead you in my stead?"
The Englishman assented with an inarticulate monosyllable and a surly nod.
"And may one ask why?"
"Blue's plice in Pekin Street was r'ided this afternoon," Seven announced
truculently. "But per'aps you didn't know--"
"Not until some time before the news reached you," One replied, pleasantly.
"And what of it?"
"Three fycers in a week, Gov'ner--anybody'll tell you that's comin' it a
bit thick."
"Granted. What then?"
"That's only part of it. Tike last week: Eighteen pinched, the queer plant
in 'Igh Street pulled by the coppers--"
"I know, I know. To your point!"
Seven hesitated under that steely stare. "I leave it to you, Gov'ner," he
continued to stammer at length. "S'y you was me and I was Number One--w'at
would you think?"
"Why, quite naturally, that some superior intelligence has latterly been
collaborating with Scotland Yard."
"Aren't you a bit behindhand in arriving at that conclusion?" the Irishman
suggested with an ill-dissembled sneer.
"No, Eleven," Number One replied, mildly, "since I arrived at it some time
since."
"But took no measures--"
"You are in a position to state that as a fact?"
Eleven shrugged lightly. "Need I be? Does not our situation speak for
itself?"
"Since you cannot be as thoroughly acquainted as I am with the situation,
and since it seems I am required to account for my leadership or surrender
it to you, Eleven ... I believe you have selected yourself to replace me as
Number One, have you not?--that is to say, in the improbable event of my
abdication."
"Improbable?" repeated the Irishman. "I wouldn't call it that."
"You are right," Number One assented, gravely: "unthinkable is the word.
But you haven't answered my question."
"Oh, as for that, if the Council should see fit to appoint me Number One,
I'd naturally do my best."
"And most noble of you, I'm sure. But rather than bring down any such
disaster upon this organization, I will say now that measures have already
been taken, and I am to-night in a position to promise you that the new
spirit in Scotland Yard will no longer be a factor in our calculations."
"That wants proving," Eleven contended.
A spasm of anger shook the figure in the throne-like chair, but only for
an instant; immediately the iron will of the man imposed rigid
self-control; almost without pause he proceeded in level and civil accents:
"I think I can satisfy you and--this once--I consent to do so. But first, a
question: Have you yourself formed any theory as to the identity of this
hostile intelligence which has so hindered us of late?"
"I'd be a raw fool if I hadn't," the Irishman retorted. "We know the Lone
Wolf has been hand-in-glove with the authorities ever since the British
Secret Service used him during the war."
"You think, then, it is Lanyard--?"
"It's a wise saying: 'Set a thief to catch a thief.' I believe there's no
man in England but Lanyard who has the wit and vision and audacity to fight
us on our ground and win."
"I agree entirely. Therefore, I have this day tied the hands of the Lone
Wolf; he will not again dare to contend against us."
Eleven sat up with a startled gesture.
"Are you meaning you've got the girl?"
Number One indulged a remote and chilly smile.
"Then you, too, noticed the advertisement? Accept my compliments, Eleven.
Decidedly you might prove a dangerous rival--were I in a temper to
countenance competition.... But it is true: I have the girl Sofia--the Lone
Wolf's daughter."
"Where?"
The smile faded; the man on the dais looked down loftily.
"It is enough for you to know I have proved far-sighted and unfailing in my
fidelity to our common cause."
"So _you_ say ..."
Though the Irishman winced and fell silent under the cold glare of the
other's eyes, the voice that answered him was level and passionless.
"I am not here to have my word challenged--or my authority. If any one of
you imagines I am even thinking of surrendering the latter, under any
conceivable circumstances, he is mad. And if any one of you doubts my power
to enforce my will, I promise him ample proof of it before the night is
ended.... Let us now proceed to business, the question held over from our
last meeting. If Comrade Four will consult his minutes"--a nod singled out
the babu, who, beaming with importance, produced a note-book--"they will
show we adjourned to consider overtures made by the Smolny Institute of
Petrograd, seeking our cooeperation toward accelerating the social
revolution in England."
"Thatt," the Bengali affirmed, "is true bill of factt."
"If the temper in which you received those proposals is fair criterion,"
Number One resumed, "there can be little doubt as to our decision. Speaking
for myself, I think it would be suicidal to reject the overtures of the
Soviet Government in Russia. Let me state why."
He bowed his forehead upon a hand and continued with thoughtful gaze
downcast:
"England is ripe for revolution. The social discontent resulting from the
war has reached an acute stage. Only a spark is needed. It remains for us
to decide whether to permit Russia to bring about the explosion or--bring
it about ourselves. The soviet movement is irresistible, it will sweep
England eventually as it has swept Russia, as it is now sweeping Germany,
Hungary, Austria, Italy, as it must soon sweep France and Spain. Our power
in England is great; even so, we could hope to do no more than delay the
soviet movement were we to set ourselves against it--we could never hope to
stop it. It would seem, then, self-preservation to set ourselves at the
head of it, seize with our own hands--in the name of the British
Soviet--the symbols of power now held by an antiquated and doddering
Government. So shall we become to England what the Smolny Institute is to
Russia. Otherwise, in the end, we must be crushed."
"If we adopt the indicated course, there will be an end forever to this
hole-and-corner business which so hampers us, we will be able to work in
the open, the police will become our tools rather than weapons in the hands
of our enemies; our power will be without limits, Soviet Russia itself must
bow to our dictation."
He paused and lifted his head, looking round the circle of intent faces.
"If I am wrong or too sanguine, I am ready to be corrected."
He heard only a murmur of admiration, never a note of dissent; and a smile
of gratification, yet half satiric, curved his thin lips.
"I take it, then, the Council endorses my decision to proceed with the
negotiations instituted by Soviet Russia; to accept its proposals and
pledge our cooperation in every way?"
This time there was no mistaking the accuracy with which he had gauged the
minds of his associates.
"One thing remains to be decided: a plan of action, something which will
demand all that we have of imagination, ingenuity, common sense, and far
prevision. We can afford to waste not a single ounce of strength: the blow,
when we strike, must be sudden, sharp, merciless--irresistible. But if
Thirteen is not over-confident of the discovery which he says he has to-day
perfected, the means to deal just such a blow is ready to our hands....
Thirteen?"
A nod and gracious smile invited that one to speak. He rose, trembling a
little with excitement, bowed to Number One and, delving into capacious
pockets, produced a number of small tin canisters together with three
sealed bottles of brown glass. Surveying these, as he arranged them on the
teakwood table before him, he smiled a little to himself: the stars, it
seemed to him, were warring in their courses in his behalf; this was to
prove his hour of hours.
He began to speak in a quivering voice which soon grew more steady.
"It is true, Excellency--it is true, comrades--I have perfected a discovery
which I offer as a free gift to the cause, and by means of which,
intelligently employed, we can, if we will, make all London a graveyard.
Put the resources of this organization at my command, give me a week to
make the essential preparations, select a time of national crisis when the
Houses of Parliament are sitting and the Cabinet meets in Downing Street
with the King attending or in Buckingham Palace ..."
He paused and held the pause with a keen feeling for dramatic effect, his
eyes seeking in turn the faces of his fellow conspirators, an
insuppressible grin of malicious exultation twisting his scornful and
mutinous mouth.