FREDERICK FROMAN’S house stood silent and forbidding in the night. To Harry Vincent, watching from the opposite side of the street, it was a place of silence and inactivity. The last light had been extinguished long ago. It seemed obvious that the occupants had retired.
But within that house, there was activity that could not be noticed from without. Frederick Froman was not asleep. Instead, he was seated, wide awake, in a dimly lighted room. The stone walls of the little room showed that it was located in the cellar of the old house. There was not a window in the room.
Froman was reclining comfortably in the one easy-chair. He was still attired in evening dress, as he puffed languidly at a panatella. His well-formed face was expressionless. He was waiting for something; yet he showed no signs of impatience.
The center of the floor began to rise. A solid square of cement came slowly upward, actuated by a force from below. Four metal rods, like the corners of a skeleton cabinet, appeared beneath the ascending slab.
Froman eyed this indifferently. He made no comment until the complete structure of an open-sided elevator had appeared and a short, stocky man had stepped from it.
“Well?”
Froman’s question was quietly addressed to the man who had emerged from the solid floor.
“He is ready to speak, sir.”
The stocky man’s reply was in a thickly accented voice. Froman smiled and spoke a few words in another language. The man answered in the same tongue.
Leisurely, Froman arose and stepped into the elevator. It descended into gloomy depths.
There, beneath the floor of the cellar, was a short passage illuminated by a single light. Striding to the end of this corridor, Froman stopped before a solid barrier that closed the way. He turned a knob that was located in the center of the blocking slab. The barrier slid upward, disappearing into the ceiling.
Three steps below lay a gloomy dungeon, a stone-walled room hewn in the depths beneath the cellar.
Two tough-faced men were there, standing with folded arms. They were looking at a huddled form straitjacketed against the wall.
Both watchers bowed as Froman entered. The light-haired man did not return the salutation. He advanced and looked coldly toward the prisoner. The huddled man turned a sweat-streaked visage toward the new inquisitor, hoping for relief.
Frederick Froman, captor, was face to face with Marcus Holtmann, captive!
THE anguish on Holtmann’s countenance showed that he had been undergoing some maddening torture.
There was no pity in Froman’s eye. His cold stare held a steely glint. He had the glance of a cruel eagle looking down upon its prey.
Neither man spoke. Holtmann, tight in the gripping pressure of the straitjacket, emitted a hopeless gasp.
That was the only sign that passed between the two.
Froman, however, turned to one of his formidable henchmen. He made a motion with his hands. The man leaned over Holtmann’s body, and adjusted the binding straps at the back of the jacket. Relieved, Holtmann sank back with a sigh.
Another sign from Froman. The three henchmen — for Froman’s conductor had entered with him — filed from the gloomy dungeon. The barrier dropped behind them. Froman was alone with his victim.
It was obvious from Holtmann’s wheedling stare that the prisoner had some inkling of why he had been brought here. Yet his pain-touched face showed a glimmer of defiance as he waited for Froman to speak.
The captor’s first expression was a contemptuous laugh. Froman seemed to enjoy Holtmann’s plight. At last, after a final survey of his prisoner, he spoke.
“You have been to Russia,” said Froman coldly. “You have learned much there. Surprising, is it not, to learn more of Russia outside of Russia?”
Holtmann’s lips moved. It was several moments before he could phrase a sentence. When he did speak, his tone was a mingling of bewilderment and indignation.
“Why am I here?” he gasped. “What have I done to you? Why do you want me? Who are you?”
Froman received each question with a smile of satisfaction. His eyes were gloating; his lips sneering. He folded his arms in a Napoleonic pose, and stopped the quizzing words with a hard, firm stare.
“I am of the old regime,” he said. “An American, by birth; a Russian by ancestry. My name is an adoption. These men whom you see here came to me after the Reds overswept Russia. They were the retainers of one of my relations — a man who perished in Russia. I have made Americans of them.
“That is enough concerning myself. I shall speak of you. You are a man with a mission that you believed was a secret. You went to Russia to study conditions there. You returned with new ideas. You have made it your appointed task to tour the United States creating interest in Russia — as it is now ruled.”
“Why not?” Holtmann’s question was challenging. “I have confidence in Russia of to-day. It is no crime for me to do as I have planned. I am not an agent of the Bolshevist government—”
“I have made no accusation” — Froman’s interruption was smooth-toned — “nor have I criticized your method. I have merely stated facts. You and your plans — they are nothing to me. But there is something else — a coincidence that has made you valuable to me.”
Holtmann’s gaze was blank. Froman smiled at his prisoner’s puzzled look. With arms still folded, the inquisitor spoke slowly and emphatically.
“WHEN you went to Russia,” he declared, “you were seeking opportunity. You found it. You received a proposal from a high official in Moscow.
“You were to come to America, to gain the confidence of men of industry; to persuade them to apply their methods and their wealth secretly in Russia, with hopes of great profits.
“Your gain would be commissions for your services. As an independent go between, an American convinced that the development of Russia’s resources would be profitable to foreign capitalists, your position was ideal. You have your own appointed purpose. Unfortunately, I have found it necessary to interfere.”
As Froman paused, Holtmann’s red-rimmed eyes stared warily. The prisoner was trying to divine the captor’s purpose. Thinking that he had discovered it, Holtmann blurted a protest.
“Why should you injure me?” he demanded. “My work is not illegal! There is no proof of the things you have said. You are the offender. In seizing me, you have committed a crime. You must let me go!”
Froman smiled coldly.
“Let me go!” Holtmann’s repetition was a maddened scream. “Let me go — I can pay you—”
Froman held up his hand for silence. Wild words died on Marcus Holtmann’s lips.
“You can pay me?” Froman’s tones were contemptuous. “Yes, you can pay me — but not with the paltry leavings you have intended to gain. You are trying to play a safe game. That is where we differ. You play safe — for trivial stakes. I seek danger — when I see tremendous gain.”
Froman’s eyes were sparkling as they stared at Holtmann. Those eyes were scarcely seeing. They were filled with the glow of the scheming brain behind them.
“Tonight I captured you” — Froman laughed — “with ridiculous ease. The taxicab you summoned from the station near Waddell’s — another man took it. The cab that came in its stead was the trap that you entered.
“My agents are few, Holtmann, but they work well. You have disappeared. Where? The police will never know.
“Let them investigate. The most that they can learn will be facts concerning your shady deals. They will gain that information if I consider it necessary. You will be branded as an ex-officio representative of the Moscow government. It will be believed that you betrayed those who offered you opportunity.”
The gleam in Froman’s eyes was unmistakably plain. Holtmann, staring with ghastly expression, saw doom reflected in those shining optics. He was too frightened to speak.
“So far as you are concerned,” resumed Froman, “I promise nothing. My purpose is to demand. You will have only one choice — to obey. You are stupid, Holtmann — so stupid that you do not yet realize why I have arranged your capture!
“Let me go back to when you were in Moscow. You became very friendly with a man who held important power. You and he agreed upon the terms under which you would work. You made one important proviso; namely, that you should receive prompt payment for services which you might render. That was promised.”
HOLTMANN’S shifting eyes were aghast. His captor was telling him facts which he thought were known only to himself and the man with whom he had negotiated in Moscow.
“You were playing a shrewd game,” continued Froman. “You had established yourself well. So you became wary. You wanted surety — proof that you would be able to collect whatever might be owed you. You expressed doubts concerning the financial security of the Moscow government.
“The man with whom you were dealing became confidential. He promised to give you all the proof you needed. You played the part of a skeptic. He was ready to convince you that whatever monetary claims you might have could be paid instantly — not in gold” — Froman’s voice became slow and emphatic — “not in gold, but in—”
Holtmann’s face was distorted with terror. Froman, leaning over the pitiful captive, was delivering his words in a tone that carried a grim threat. These revelations had brought astonishment; Holtmann’s expression showed that Froman was striking home.
“Your friend in Moscow was indiscreet,” declared Froman. “He told you too much. He even showed you the proof which you desired. Then he swore you to secrecy.
“But, unfortunately, his indiscretion ceased after a certain point. His promises to you were overheard. But when it came to the actual information, and the display of the proof, he relied upon secrecy.
“Perhaps he regretted the confidence that he had shown in you. Nevertheless, he was forced to rely upon your silence. You had other friends in Moscow. They would have protected you had that one man tried to cover his indiscretion by silencing your tongue forever.”
Beads of perspiration were forming on Holtmann’s forehead. His parched lips twitched and moved apart as he made a last defiant effort to parry with his captor.
“It is all a lie!” he gasped. “I never learned— I never even saw— I— do not know—”
Froman was standing erect, his eyes harsh, his smile cruel. His well-formed features displayed the hardness of chiseled granite. He was a man of stone.
“You will speak!” he declared. “You will tell all you know! Those words will be drawn from your lips. We have been seeking long to learn what we now believe you know.
“In Moscow, we are handicapped. The few men who know the secret are beyond our reach. Here, in New York, we can work. You will taste our methods, Holtmann.”
“I know nothing” — Holtmann’s protest was wild — “I know nothing—”
“It will be unfortunate for you if you know nothing,” said Froman coldly. “You are the base ore from which we intend to crush precious wealth. Should that ore contain no vast wealth” — he shrugged his shoulders — “it will be crushed just the same. We will not cease until we are sure that we have extracted all that we need.”
A flicker of departing hope came over Holtmann’s face. Froman smiled cruelly.
“You are thinking of deception?” His tone was derisive. “That cannot help you. You will not gain freedom when you speak. We intend to hold you until we have completed our work.”
“And then—”
Holtmann blurted the words in a last effort toward salvation.
“I promise nothing,” replied Froman.
Holtmann’s lips tightened. His attitude changed. His pleading expression ended. He seemed determined to fight to the finish. Froman saw that he contemplated resistance. He offered one more opportunity.
“Speak now—”
The order came in a cold, even voice. Holtmann closed his lips and adopted a grim attitude.
Froman turned on his heel and went to the door. He turned the knob and opened the barrier. His three henchmen trooped into the chamber of doom. Froman uttered terse words in Russian. The men approached the straitjacketed form of Marcus Holtmann.
NO time was lost in preparations. Before Froman’s arrival, Holtmann had felt the binding pressure of the torture jacket. Now, while one man held him propped, another drew the thongs tighter until the huddled body winced in agony.
Holtmann was game. He fought against the torture, writhing futilely as his teeth chewed at his lips.
Trussed tightly, he became obdurate, seeking to outlast the pain until unconsciousness would come to his rescue.
Froman spoke to the third man. The fellow produced an oddly-shaped torch and lighted it. He thrust the burning brand into Holtmann’s face. The flame scorched the victim’s cheeks. It approached his eyes, and the helpless man closed his lids tightly to escape the searing touch.
Froman, stolid and unyielding, stood waiting. He gave no word to direct the progress of the torture.
These men were artists in the primitive work of inflicting suffering.
At times the brand drifted away from Holtmann’s scorched face. Instinctively, the man would open his eyes. All that he could see was the stern, unmoving face of Frederick Froman.
Then the light would dance before his vision, throwing its livid heat upon his eyeballs, forcing him to shut his eyes again and seek some freedom from the torturing heat.
Not one of the three inhuman brutes desisted. At times the jacket would be loosened; again, the flaming torch would move away; these were but short respites that presaged a new round of torture.
The deadening pain of the straitjacket was counteracted by the terror of the live torch. There was no escape for Marcus Holtmann. His blistered face showed dry before the light. He was reaching the limit of human endurance.
A pause; then Frederick Froman acted. His signal called for his men to desist.
The pressure of the binding straps relaxed suddenly. The firebrand was drawn away. His throat too parched to emit a sigh, Marcus Holtmann opened his eyes and found himself staring into the sneering face of Frederick Froman.
“Speak!”
The single word reached Holtmann’s ears in a low tone that seemed to come from a great distance.
Mechanically, Holtmann moved his lips. He spoke in gasping tones that only Froman, leaning close, could hear.
Short, vague phrases became connected sentences. Holtmann’s terrified eyes were staring at the searing torch that wavered threateningly above Froman’s shoulder. The menace was too great for human resistance.
Marcus Holtmann spoke; and Frederick Froman, listening intently, smiled as he heard the words.
He was learning the facts that he sought to know!