MEN of three factions were in this room. Ivan Motkin, agent of the Moscow Reds, had captured Michael Senov, the leader of the Czarist invaders who had rifled the Bolshevik storage vault. With Senov, Motkin had taken an unknown stranger — an American whose connection with this case was hazy.
The situation, as Motkin had discovered it, proved that an enmity existed between Senov and the other man. Supreme in confidence, Motkin came directly to the point as he questioned Cliff in English.
“Who are you?” he demanded.
“I’m an American,” returned Cliff calmly.
The reply was an echo of the past. Another man had given that answer to Motkin in Moscow.
Instinctively, the shrewd Bolshevik agent connected this American with the other.
“Your name?” asked Motkin.
“My name is Marsland,” responded Cliff.
“Marsland,” said Motkin thoughtfully. “That is different from another name that I have heard. I recall a man whom I have met. His name was Arnaud.”
Motkin was watching Cliff narrowly, hoping that he would betray some surprise at the mention of the name. Cliff still maintained his poker-face expression.
Motkin laughed. This negative sign indicated to his clever mind that there was a definite connection between Arnaud and Marsland.
“A man named Henry Arnaud,” remarked Motkin thoughtfully. “A remarkable man — he was. He is dead, now. Dead, in Moscow.”
Again Cliff gave no sign of interest. Yet Motkin’s own brain was realizing that, after all, the man called Henry Arnaud must have spoken the truth. If Marsland and Arnaud were joined in the same cause, they were truly opposed to both factions that had fought in Russia.
Motkin’s thoughts changed as he recalled the words that he had overheard upon entering. His suave face showed a sudden cunning. He spoke in a slow, reflective tone, continuing in English, which both his prisoners could understand.
“The steamship Gasconne,” he remarked. “What is the significance of the steamship Gasconne?”
He glanced coldly at Senov; then at Cliff. Back and forth went his shrewd eyes. Cliff avoided them and stared toward Senov. There, as Motkin was glancing away, Cliff caught a momentary tightening of the big Russian’s lips. He knew that Senov wanted him to preserve silence.
To Cliff, both Senov and Motkin were enemies. They were also enemies of each other. It was obvious that they both regarded Cliff as a lesser foe. Thinking of his own situation, Cliff could see that the most natural way out would be to treat with Motkin.
IT was for that very reason that Cliff evolved another plan. He could tell that he was dealing with merciless men — one as bad as the other. To curry Motkin’s favor might bring promises, but he would still be in the shrewd-faced man’s power.
On the contrary, Senov, like Cliff, was in a dangerous position. He was facing death. To side with Senov would be to win a friend. So, as he met Motkin’s eyes, Cliff returned a calloused gaze. Senov was watching Cliff. The big Russian’s face was adamant.
“You will not speak?” Motkin was questioning Cliff, choosing him as the one most likely to yield. “You will not speak? We shall see!”
He motioned to his companion to cover Senov. The man obeyed. Motkin turned his revolver toward Cliff, and advanced with slow tread, fixing a hypnotic gaze on the man before him. Cliff waited.
“Unless you speak” — Motkin’s voice became a hiss as he spoke — “it will mean death!”
Motkin’s eyes were close to Cliff’s. They bore a stern, malicious threat. Cliff’s lips quavered, as though they were unable to speak, through fright. Motkin laughed hoarsely.
Then Cliff performed the unexpected. From a state of pretended weakness, he became a swift, fierce power of action. He flung himself directly upon the menacing man with a fury so surprising that he caught Motkin unawares.
Cliff’s left hand thrust flat for the muzzle of the gun, while his right delivered a hooking blow.
Had Motkin pressed the trigger of his revolver, he would have wounded Cliff in the hand, not in the body. That was Cliff’s protection, but his rapid action served him better.
He thrust the gun aside, and his right hand passed Motkin’s instinctive guard. The Bolshevik agent crumpled to the floor, Cliff upon him, fighting for the gun which clattered on the boards.
Motkin’s companion did the obvious. He turned in the direction of the fray and shot at Cliff, but the bullet missed by inches. Now, with Motkin and Cliff grappling on the floor, the man could not risk another shot.
He turned to stop Senov, whose presence suddenly occurred to him. Before he could fire, the huge Russian struck him down.
For a moment, the combined forces of Marsland and Senov had gained the field. Senov, with a brutal laugh, seized the gun that Motkin’s companion had dropped. He kicked the prostrate man squarely in the face; then turned to attack Motkin.
At that instant, footsteps sounded on the stairs. Senov turned to meet new enemies. He fired point-blank at the first one who appeared. The man dropped at the report of the gun, and Senov, like a huge bull, crashed through the others. His heavy form went charging down the stairs.
Cliff, unheeding what was going on about him, had gained a certain hold on Motkin. He was pinning the Red agent to the floor. Then, one of the men who had staggered back from the door came to the rescue.
Leaping forward, he dealt a hard blow with his revolver. Cliff collapsed upon the floor.
Motkin, half choked by Cliff’s furious grip, rose to his feet. He looked about to see that Senov had gone.
He paused as he heard shots from the street below.
“Watch him!” he exclaimed, in Russian, as he pointed to Cliff. “I shall need him later!”
With that, he hurried to the street in pursuit of Senov. Motkin was sure that the Czarist could not escape.
A few guards had been watching earlier in the evening. The Bolshevists had captured them. A score of Red agents were about the house.
But when he reached the street, Motkin encountered two of his breathless men.
“He went that way,” one exclaimed, “into the little restaurant.”
“Come!” shouted Motkin.
THE leader and a dozen men attacked the door of L’Aigle d’Argent. The crowd surged through, with Motkin at the rear.
They were met by a volley of shots. Three Bolsheviks fell. The others returned the fire.
Senov and three men, evidently Czarist reserves, were backed against the far wall of a passage. Wild, quick shots echoed through the corridor. It was a battle to the end. More of Motkin’s men were entering.
In the midst of the smoke-filled passage, men were slumping and pitching headlong. Six Bolshevists were down. Senov’s companions were lying in a huddled heap. Only the big Russian remained.
His reddened eyes saw Motkin. Senov raised his revolver, but Motkin fired first. Senov toppled forward.
He was the last of the defenders. Motkin dashed forward ahead of his men. He found Senov dead.
Leaving his shock troops to drag away the bodies, Motkin, sputtering oaths, hurried from the corridor.
He had wanted to hear Senov talk. That was impossible, now. One other informant remained— the American whom his men had overpowered.
Reaching the upstairs room, Motkin discovered Cliff bound and propped against the wall. Savagely, the Russian spoke to him in English, demanding an answer.
“The Gasconne!” he cried. “Who is on the Gasconne! What is on the Gasconne!”
White-faced, Cliff Marsland met the challenge.
“You will never know!” he answered the inquisitor.
Venom marked Motkin’s scowl. He stepped away and stood across the room. He knew that Cliff Marsland would never speak. Motkin’s blood-maddened brain turned only to thoughts of death.
“Then you shall die!” snarled Motkin.
With the air of a critic about to witness a rare drama, Motkin motioned to one of the half dozen men who stood about the room. The fellow, grinning with a toothless leer, approached.
“Let him taste the knife, Kolsoff,” ordered Motkin.
The underling drew a sharp blade from a sheath at his side. He approached Cliff Marsland, and waved the dirk above the helpless man. At a word from Motkin, he stood slightly to one side, so that his leader could witness the bloody work.
Motkin emitted a chuckling snarl. His lips paused as the word to kill trembled upon them. This moment was sweet to him. This would be the second of the intruding Americans to perish by the knife. One in Moscow — one in Paris.
Motkin thought of Senov. He had slain the leader of the Czarist invaders, and had annihilated his men.
Now his command would bring death to a member of another faction.
“Strike!” cried Motkin.