XVI KATERIN’S STRATAGEM

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Have you seen him since you were here?”

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

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

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

“What other things could I mean?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Suspicious! Why should you be under suspicion?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Who would know who killed you, or when?” she asked. “No, you must not risk your life for me. Zorogoff’s hand would not be known if you were destroyed—and I would not be any the better.”

“Does he know you are here—in this hotel?”

“Yes, he has traced me. The city is full of his spies, and there is a Russian behind his power—a Russian of the old régime who is advising Zorogoff.”

“Who?” asked Peter.

“Oh, you would not know him,” she said, with a shrug of her shoulders. “I fear him more than Zorogoff, for I know that that this Russian is a part of Zorogoff’s government.”

“But I should know,” insisted Peter. “If I am to help you, I should know all the facts in the case, so that I may inform my superiors. Who is this Russian?”

“He was a Governor here in the old days—before the revolution.”

Peter leaned forward across the table, keenly alert, though he attempted to conceal his interest. “A Governor of the old days,” he said slowly and softly, so that the sentence was akin to a caress. “That is interesting. I wish you might tell me his name.”

She brushed her hand across her brow. “It is a dangerous secret,” she warned.

He laughed lightly. “Dangerous secrets are my business,” he said. “Learning them—and sometimes keeping them.”

“As I am in great danger because of having this secret, you also would be in great danger from Zorogoff if you had it. Remember, I caution you—Zorogoff will do all in his power to prevent you from escaping Chita if he learns that you know who is behind him and his government.”

“I accept the danger,” said Peter. “Come—we shall be in danger together! What is the name of this former governor?”

“General Kirsakoff.” Her eyes held his as she spoke the name. She saw his eyelids lift swiftly, and heard him draw in his breath slowly. His hands began to close into fists, and the strong fingers sank into the palms while the knuckles grew white as the skin was drawn tautly across. He leaned back in his chair, and the little muscles of his jaws stood out under the skin of his cheeks as he set his teeth together. And there crept into his face a look of exultation, of infinite satisfaction—she saw him thrilled with the joy of the hunter who at last gets sight of his prey.

Peter turned away from Katerin and glanced at the window, but without seeing it. His face softened into a smile, and he got up from his chair, crossed the room, came back, and sat down again before her.

“Tell me more about this Kirsakoff,” he urged. “What is his name?”

“Michael Alexandrovitch,” she said. “He is a man of noble family—of old boyar stock. He ruled here many years before the revolution.” Katerin pretended not to notice the smile which was still playing at the corners of Peter’s mouth—she looked at him casually as he sat down again, but busied herself making squares and circles on the tablecloth with her finger.

“Is Kirsakoff in the city—now?” he asked.

“I presume so. He spends most of his time here, but he keeps well hidden.”

“Do you know where he may be found? Where he lives?”

“It could be easily learned. What would be the good of knowing?”

“It does not matter,” he said. “Still, it might be of use to know. Do you think you could easily find out whether he is in the city or not? How would you go about it?”

“My father was an exile here,” said Katerin. “He was transported ten years ago, and I followed from Moscow and lived in the Street of the Dames. My father was a political—and he knows too much now about Kirsakoff for our safety.”

“Then your father is in the city?” asked Peter.

“Here in the hotel with me. We came here and hid against Zorogoff—and Kirsakoff. That is why I came to you when I heard there was an American staying here. We knew we could trust you.”

She went on and told him how Zorogoff’s soldiers, and the Ataman himself, had given her and her father the mental torture with firing squads; of the threat of the Ataman for revenge upon her for her insults, and the flight from the house to the hotel when they heard that an American was at the hotel. But she did not mention Rimsky or Ilya.

“And you have no way of escape from the city?” asked Peter.

“It is impossible,” said Katerin. “Some of our friends got away. But Zorogoff put the cordons round the city after that, and then Kirsakoff joined with Zorogoff.”

“What kind of man is this Kirsakoff? What does he look like?” asked Peter, set upon getting all he could about his enemy.

Katerin looked over Peter’s head, toward the window, and thought for a second as if recalling the appearance of her father. “He is a tall man, strong but not heavy,” she said slowly. “A face inclined to redness—and black mustaches. He is a soldier, of course, and stands very straight.”

“Of course,” said Peter. He recognized the description, for Katerin had described her father as he had looked when he was in his prime. “Does he go about the city? Could I recognize him by his uniform?”

He was eager but cautious.

“He might be found at the sobrania late at night,” said Katerin. “But he will be well guarded. You should be careful in approaching him, for he has a secret bodyguard, as well as the officers who generally are drinking wine with him. He does not wear a uniform, but rich furs, and he wears his pistols out of sight. He does not always dress the same, for he has been a cruel man, and is much hated by many people.”

“Do you know where he lives?” asked Peter, who was taking care to conceal his eagerness to get all possible details. He asked his questions with an assumed indifference.

“No, I cannot say. But I am sure my father knows. But what good would it do you to know?”

“Not any,” said Peter. “Yet I would like to find this Kirsakoff. Where is your father?”

“Here—in the hotel,” said Katerin.

“Perhaps it would be as well if I were to ask the Ataman about Kirsakoff,” said Peter. “Yet I would like to talk with your father, if he would see me.”

“By all means talk with my father,” said Katerin hastily. “It would be fatal for you to admit to the Ataman that you had ever heard of Kirsakoff’s ever being here, or concerned in the government of the Ataman. That is a secret they will conceal at any cost—and that is why we are in danger, my father and I.”

“But Zorogoff would not know how I had learned about Kirsakoff. And I might plead ignorance—I might even test the Ataman by asking him if he knew where Kirsakoff might be found.”

“I have put my life in your hands,” said Katerin earnestly. “If you mention Kirsakoff to the Ataman, he will know that you have been talking with us here in the hotel. And Zorogoff’s soldiers will come for us at once.”

She rose, rather agitated by Peter’s idea of talking with the Ataman. The effect upon her was exactly what Peter sought—for he wanted to talk with her father. If she feared that Peter would go to the Ataman instead for information, she would make it possible for Peter to learn more of Kirsakoff and his haunts.

“I do not intend to increase your danger,” said Peter, also rising. “Have no fear on that score. But I am bound to find Kirsakoff in some way—unless your father can help me I shall have to make inquiries in my own way.”

“It can be arranged that you talk with my father,” she said, moving toward the door. “Is it really necessary that you find Kirsakoff?”

“Not necessary, perhaps,” he said. “But I strongly desire to find him.”

“I—I would like to know the reason.”

“I will tell you that when you tell me where he may be found,” said Peter with a smile.

She stood for a time looking into his face. He saw that she was pale, and far more excited than her restrained manner revealed to the casual glance.

“I will ask my father if he will see you,” she said presently. “He is very old and ill—he has been shot by sentries—a bullet through both his cheeks, though he is nearly recovered now from that. He is suspicious of all strangers, and you must be patient with him.”

“I promise to be patient,” said Peter. “If you will arrange it for me——”

“Ring for the samovar at five,” she said.

Peter held out his hand quickly, as if there were a compact between them which must be affirmed. She gave him her hand, and he bowed and lifted it to his lips.

“Vashka,” he whispered, “do you wish to leave this city?”

“If I could take my father with me,” said Katerin, “yes, I would be glad to escape the dangers here.”

“If your father will tell me where Kirsakoff may be found—I shall take you both away.”

“Oh, then we shall find Kirsakoff!” she said with a sudden return of her gay manner. “Please! I am your prisoner here! Allow me to return to my father!”

Peter unlocked the door, and she smiled over her shoulder at him as she ran down the hall.