XX THE BLOW

PETER, alone once more in his room, found that a strange calmness had come to him once the secret of his purpose in returning to the Valley of Despair was in the keeping of two other persons. There was for him in that fact something of the relief of the confessional. For twenty years he had nursed in his soul the grievance of his father’s death, and his own imprisonment—nursed it most secretly, pent it up within his consciousness, till it seemed that his body had become a kind of culture tube of germinating hate.

For the first time since he had left Chita as a boy, he found an easement of his soul burden. These people to whom he had told his story, understood his deepest emotions regarding his father. No American could ever have understood fully, Peter was well aware. Prison to an American implies disgrace, some sort of stain upon the character which is never fully lived down. But to this old exile, as Peter supposed Kirsakoff to be, Peter’s story was an honor to him. For the old man had suffered the horrors of the exile system, mixing, as it did, the highest type of Russian with the lowest—the thinker with the cutthroat.

Peter knew he stood better in Katerin’s regard than before, now that she knew his story. He had seen in her face a deep and profound pity for him. What he mistook for pity was her alarmed concern when she discovered that Peter sought to slay her father. Peter could not know that she had suffered torture while he had sat looking into the lamp—that she knew how a look, a word or some turn of the head might betray her father.

Peter had always thought that the first assurance of a successful end to his quest for Kirsakoff would mean a delirious joy. Yet here he was coldly calm, a calm which was a steadiness that he ascribed to his own efforts to control all outward indications of his grim satisfaction. His brain was singing, over and over, in an endless refrain—“I shall find Kirsakoff.”

He turned the light in such way that he could see himself in the big mirror between the windows, and smiled at himself. His face was slightly flushed from the emotions and memories roused by telling how his father had been killed before the post-house, and how he himself had endured and escaped from the prison on the hill.

His eyes burned with a feverish light. In fact, he was drugged with elation, strangely soothed, much as a man is lulled with wine till his senses are subdued by the poison and his reasoning faculties are benumbed. Yet his alertness was in no whit deadened. On the contrary, he was well aware of what was before him, and he was alive to the necessities of the situation. He was approaching his long-waited moment of triumph, and he knew that he must hold himself against the slightest rashness in thoughts or actions. He must, he thought as he surveyed himself in the mirror, avoid the look of craftiness which was coming into his face—he must feign a bland innocence, and dispel everything which savored of eagerness, impatience, impulsive haste. He had days, weeks, in which to carry out his purpose, and at last he was on the right track. Besides, it would avail nothing unless he could accomplish the destruction of Kirsakoff without leaving the hint of a clew to the identity of the slayer.

He left off studying himself in the mirror, and began pacing the floor, head down and hands behind his back. There was a strange sense of satisfaction in the knowledge that Vashka knew his secret. He felt that it constituted a bond between them, a mutual sympathy such as is known only among exiles, or the children of exiles.

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.