IT was several minutes before either spoke. The first words that Motkin uttered were in Russian. He watched those steely eyes, and saw no change in them. The pale face was impassive, also. It was apparent to Motkin that the prisoner did not understand this language.
After a short pause, Motkin spoke in English. His first words were a question, by which he sought to make the other deliver a definite statement.
“Who are you?” asked Motkin.
The thin lips moved in response. Their words were given in a quiet tone, impressive because of its calmness.
“I am an American,” declared The Shadow.
“Your name?” growled Motkin.
“I have many names,” replied the man in the chair. “I utilize different ones on different occasions. At present, I am traveling under the name of Henry Arnaud. That should be sufficient for my identity.”
“You carried no papers—”
“My passport bears the name of Henry Arnaud. I did not bring it with me after I left Germany. It would have been of no use to me in Russia.”
Motkin scowled as he studied the man who called himself Henry Arnaud. The Russian official was puzzled by the prisoner’s attitude.
Despite the fact that the man was helpless and a captive in a city where an execution often preceded an investigation, he did not appear to be in the least disturbed. Motkin, seeking a new avenue of discretion, put forth a different question.
“You were the man whom the soldiers sought to capture, were you not?” he asked.
“Yes,” was the reply.
“How did you escape them?” asked Motkin.
A smile appeared upon the lips of Henry Arnaud. Those lips moved slowly, as Arnaud gave his reply.
“I saw your automobile waiting behind the armored car,” he said. “It offered a convenient refuge. I shattered the searchlight with a shot, and dropped from the second floor. Fortunately, I had sufficient strength to reach your automobile. I must thank you for having it there at my disposal.”
Motkin seemed annoyed as he strode to the corner of the room and opened an old cabinet. He drew out The Shadow’s cloak and hat, and held them up to the window.
“These are yours, Mr. Arnaud?” he asked.
“They are,” declared Arnaud calmly. “Again I must thank you, Mr. Motkin. It was kind of you to bring them along, after I had lost them.”
“How do you know my name?” demanded Motkin.
“I heard your man mention it,” said Arnaud. “Your name is also familiar to me. In New York, I heard it mentioned by a man named Marcus Holtmann.”
A wild, startled look spread over Motkin’s countenance. He viewed Henry Arnaud with alarm. Motkin had feared that some indiscretion of his own had paved the way to the attack on the secret vault. Until now he had not been able to check the exact source of the leak. The mention of Holtmann’s name worried him. His only recourse was rage and threat.
“Holtmann betrayed me!” he shouted furiously. “He told you of the vault’s location, so that you could come here and direct the attack. You are to blame for this! You will suffer!”
HENRY ARNAUD was not in the least perturbed by Motkin’s outburst. His cold eyes were fixed upon the official’s face. Motkin’s furor began to disappear. A worried scowl took its place, and Henry Arnaud smiled. That smile did not soothe Motkin’s worries.
“You are entirely mistaken,” declared Arnaud calmly. “I was not the first to speak with Marcus Holtmann. Others learned his secret before I did. It was they who planned the attack. I came here alone, to prevent it.”
“You came here to prevent the attack!” cried Motkin in an incredulous tone. “You expect me to believe such a statement?”
“I am speaking facts,” declared Arnaud solemnly. “I learned all from Holtmann. A plot was designed to steal the Romanoff gems. With my knowledge of those jewels and their history” — as Arnaud paused, a strange, knowing gleam appeared in his eyes — “I was not concerned with what might become of them.
My only object was to prevent futile bloodshed. I came here with the sole purpose of stopping what I considered unnecessary slaughter.”
The words were uttered so directly that Motkin became perplexed. He did not know whether to believe or disbelieve. Balked in his inquiry, he shrewdly directed another form of question.
“What is your connection with Michael Senov?” he asked.
“I have never heard of Michael Senov,” responded the person called Arnaud.
Again, Motkin was puzzled. Frankness was evident in Arnaud’s tone. Motkin was used to dealing with shrewd schemers, and he was a keen detector of suave replies to leading questions. Here he was confronted with a subject who seemed to rely on simple, direct statements.
Yet the truth seemed incredible to Ivan Motkin. In his own mind, he could not grasp the thought that any one could be so foolhardy as to thrust himself into the midst of such a terrible fray, with the sole purpose of protecting human life. Motkin thought he saw a weakness in his prisoner’s argument. He laughed coarsely.
“You say you wished to prevent bloodshed,” asserted Motkin. “Why, then, did you fight the soldiers who tried to capture you?”
“Self-preservation is always justifiable,” remarked Arnaud, in a matter-of-fact tone. “I am opposed to the infliction of death and injury, when it is entirely unnecessary and it can be avoided. That is all.”
Motkin realized that this interview had turned from the purpose which he intended. Had his prisoner remained obdurate, Motkin would have found ways in which to have made him speak, yet there was no reticence on Arnaud’s part regarding conversation.
Motkin understood that Arnaud possessed an amazing faculty for turning all talk to his own advantage.
Threats would be useless, he knew. Even combined with torture, they would fail — for this prisoner, in his weakened condition, could not undergo an ordeal.
Motkin’s one recourse seemed to be that of offering inducements. If he could gain Arnaud’s confidence and friendship, he might learn information.
MOTKIN’S position was unusual; by coincidence of facts, he was the one man in Moscow who could well afford to be lenient with this person, who was connected with the raid upon the storage vault.
Motkin thought he was clever enough to play any game. His scowl faded as he tried new tactics.
“I have saved your life,” he declared. “You have been accorded excellent treatment here. I am in a position to help you; but I also have my own affairs to consider. What can you offer me, if I agree to give you your freedom?”
“Something has been stolen,” stated Arnaud quietly. “Its safe return is of vital interest to you. I, alone, am capable of regaining all that has been stolen, without further injury or death. If you grant me safe conduct immediately, I shall guarantee the return of everything that was in your keeping.”
A shrewd expression appeared on Motkin’s face. To him this proposal was ludicrous. He regarded it as a futile trick on Arnaud’s part to gain a freedom that could be of no value to Motkin.
For a moment the Bolshevik official was on the point of another outburst; then he changed his mind, and nodded slowly, as though approving the suggestion.
“Tell me,” he said, “what are your tendencies? Do you favor the old regime in Russia, or the new?”
“I am concerned with neither,” said the man in the chair wearily. “To me, all gems are mere trifles. Whether they be worthless or priceless, the glittering baubles that were stolen are as nothing, compared with the life of a single innocent person.
“I can obtain them” — he spoke with an assurance that astonished Motkin— “and I could offer them to any one who could give me the opportunity that I require. It so happens that you can give me this opportunity. That is why I have promised to return them to you, if you will arrange my safe conduct from Moscow by tonight.”
Motkin was thoughtful. He was not at all satisfied with this proposal, but he wisely curbed his disdain. He noted that the man in the chair was becoming visibly weakened, that the eyes, despite their firm gaze, appeared tired.
He decided that his best course was to pretend that he might accede to his prisoner’s wishes.
Accordingly, Motkin spoke in an unusually cagey tone.
“Let me consider this matter for a while,” he declared. “There are certain points which I must decide in my own mind.”
With that, Motkin walked away. Henry Arnaud’s eyes closed. He appeared to be asleep.
Motkin went to the desk at the other side of the room, and began to arrange papers which he drew from his pocket. Here, away from the gaze which had seemed to penetrate his thoughts, Motkin’s mind began to scheme.
The Russian had no intention, whatever, of granting safe conduct to the man he now held a prisoner.
Nevertheless, he was perplexed. It was necessary that he should go to Paris to work with Red agents, and he had hoped to gain some useful information before he left.
He knew that he must not delay his departure any longer than absolutely necessary; he also realized that his chances of ferreting information from the mysterious Arnaud were very slender.
Motkin, as he pondered, began to regard this prisoner as a menace. It was evident that the man knew too much. He had mentioned Marcus Holtmann to Motkin; therefore he might mention the same name to others, if he had the opportunity. With Holtmann’s name involved, the slip-up which had allowed the Czarists to make their raid could be traced directly to Motkin himself.
In a sense, Arnaud held the upper hand. An unexpected twist of fortune — such as might occur at any time under the uncertain conditions that existed in Moscow — might mean that the prisoner would hold more power than his captor. Motkin had infringed on a stringent government rule, by not turning his prisoner over to his superiors. If his action should become known, it would mean trouble for Ivan Motkin.
The Russian began to worry about his subordinates, Prensky and Gregori. As the situation now existed, they were accomplices in the capture and holding of the person called Henry Arnaud. Motkin was sure that he could rely on both of them, for the time being; but a future shift in affairs of the government might make it more profitable for them to betray him, than to stand by.
In Moscow, when men begin to lose power, their best friends and associates often become their most bitter enemies. Motkin realized that his own prestige had already suffered to some extent.
A CONSIDERABLE time elapsed while Motkin considered his dilemma. The telephone rang; the official answered it. It was a call from a man higher up, and Motkin received both information and a query.
He was told that the Bolshevik agents in Paris were closing in on Senov, and had new evidence to prove that Senov was hiding the stolen contents of the rifled vault. He was asked how soon he intended to leave for Paris, as his presence in that city was desired immediately.
When Motkin had suavely satisfied the official who had called him, he threw a quick glance in the direction of Henry Arnaud. The mysterious prisoner appeared to be sound asleep, his head inclining toward the side of the chair.
An evil smile formed on Motkin’s lips. The balance was changing! Arnaud, as a liability, was becoming more, formidable than Arnaud, as an asset. Motkin looked at the clock. He was surprised to see that it was almost three. It would take him nearly two hours to make his final preparations, and reach the airport in time for a plane that left for Warsaw at five.
Moving swiftly, but quietly, to the door, Motkin stepped into the hall and summoned Prensky with a hissing whistle. When the aid arrived, Motkin drew into the room and closed the door. He glanced toward Arnaud.
He was sure the man was still asleep; he was also positive that Arnaud could not understand Russian.
Hence he spoke in his native tongue when he addressed Prensky.
“I am leaving for Paris, immediately,” he said. “All will be well there. I have new information. We will not need him” — he motioned toward Arnaud — “so I shall leave him in your hands; Gregori will be back by eight o’clock. He will take you to the airport. A plane leaves at ten.”
“You mean—”
Motkin smiled and nodded. Prensky understood. He had done work like this before.
“Not until after dark,” whispered Motkin. “Then no one will see or suspect. I shall tell Gregori nothing, except to instruct him to obey you in every detail. You can leave the disposal of the body to him. Tell him what you have done, after he leaves you at the airport.”
Prensky smiled wickedly. He glanced contemptuously toward the weak, reclining form that was to be his victim. Tall, thin, and cadaverous, Prensky looked the part of an old-time executioner. He seemed to relish the task that had been proposed to him.
“You have your passports?” inquired Motkin. “Also the instructions?”
Prensky produced the papers. Motkin smiled knowingly, and motioned Prensky from the room. He walked over to the prisoner by the window and studied the pale, wearied face.
Arnaud’s eyes opened and glanced upward. Motkin smiled in a friendly manner.
“What were the terms that you proposed?” he asked, in English.
“That I be given safe conduct from Moscow” — Arnaud’s voice was drowsy, weakened — “so that I may recover the stolen—”
“Ah, just so,” interposed Motkin. “Well, Mr. Arnaud, I shall agree to your terms. I promise you that tonight before eight o’clock, you will leave this place.”
With a curt bow, Motkin swung on his heel, and strode to the door. He met Prensky in the hall and motioned him into the office.
Prensky understood. He was to remain on watch, guarding Arnaud, who was in a helpless, weakened condition — one who was to be his prey.
An ugly smile appeared on Prensky’s thin lips as he watched Ivan Motkin descend the stairs. The aid locked the door from the inside, and walked to the front window. There he watched his superior enter the car that was waiting in the courtyard. The big automobile rolled away.
Ivan Motkin was on his way to Paris, leaving behind him a helpless prisoner whom he had deceived with a false promise.
He had ordered the doom of The Shadow!