Chapter XIV A Night With Sowinski
The Persuasive Pistol—A Pass—Thorough—Captain Sinetsky—The Eastern Gate—An Empty Pistol
Jack had intended to deal with the Pole as he had dealt with his servant; but the fact of the two other Chinamen passing the door of the room close on his heels had thrown out his calculations. He could not afford to run the risk of the slightest struggle; it would certainly be heard. He had but an instant to decide on his course.
Behind the door was a chair. To this Jack tiptoed, and he had just seated himself when Sowinski opened the door. The Pole flung his hat on a chair, and moved towards the press, doubtless with the intention of getting a bottle of wine. He almost had his hand on the knob when he became aware, rather by instinct than by perception, of a movement behind him. Jack with his foot had gently swung the door to. Turning sharply round, Sowinski saw the red light of the shaded lamp reflected from the barrel of a pistol in the hand of a young Chinaman seated composedly within five feet of him. For a moment he was motionless; he was too much surprised for speech; a second glance showed him who his visitor was, and Jack, watching him keenly, saw his face go pale. He stood irresolute; the ominous pistol, not held rigidly, but moving gently from side to side, seemed to hold him spell-bound, as the swaying head of a snake fascinates a hare.
“Yes, Mr. Sowinski,” said Jack quietly, though his pulse was galloping; “yes, it is I, Jack Brown. You were looking for me? Speak low, or the pistol may go off.”
“You would be arrested at once,” said the Pole in a hard whisper.
“Possibly, but that would not help you. You would be dead.”
Sowinski ground his teeth. Rage and fear struggled for the mastery; but fear, as Jack had calculated, was the stronger. The man’s eye never left the barrel.
“First, Mr. Sowinski,” continued Jack, rising, and now pointing the revolver steadily at his head; “first, I wish to know where my father is.”
“Your father? How should I know? Am I your father’s keeper? He was deported.”
“You lie!” said Jack, his voice vibrant with anger. “Come, your reply; your life depends on it.”
Visibly cowed by Jack’s menacing look and tone, the Pole replied sullenly:
“Well, it is true; he was taken to Harbin, to be delivered to General Kriloff.”
“And where is he now?”
“I do not know. I swear that is the truth. General Bekovitch——”
“Does he know?”
“I cannot say. I do not know what message he sent to General Kriloff. I have heard nothing of your father since he went away.”
“He went in chains; did you know that?”
“Yes,” replied the Pole hesitatingly.
“Then where is he? You know that; you know more; a man is sent away in chains, herded with foul criminals; it is your doing; what have you done with him?”
“I don’t know; may I never speak again if that is not true. He is probably in the mines.”
As he said this, even the imminent pistol could not prevent Sowinski from betraying his rancorous satisfaction in a mocking curl of the lip and a half-suppressed chuckle. Yet Jack felt intuitively that in this case the man was speaking the truth; that he really did not know what had become of his victim after he had seen him safely wedged in the cattle-truck. There was scorn as well as a white heat of anger in Jack’s reply.
“You infamous scoundrel! You would be justly served if I shot you where you stand, and for my own part the satisfaction would be worth the risk. But I can’t kill even such vermin as you in cold blood; and if I spare you, be sure the day of reckoning is only deferred. There are a thousand Poles waiting to kill the traitor Ladislas Streleszki at sight.”
The amazed and wretched man swayed as he stood; his hue turned still more ashen than before; his whole body seemed to shrink together with craven fear.
“Now, choose,” continued Jack after a pause. “The pistol, or instant compliance with my demands.—Silence!” He heard the two Chinamen approach the door, and noticed a twitching of the Pole’s mouth suggesting a cry for help. The impulse, if impulse it was, was immediately checked by Jack’s stern command.
“Send them home.”
Sowinski called to the men that they might go; he would require them no more that night.
“Now close the shutters. Thank you! I see pen, ink, and paper on yonder shelf. Seat yourself at the table and write in Russian from my dictation.”
The Pole moved mechanically, under the spell of the covering revolver.
“‘To Lieutenant-Colonel Gudriloff,’” dictated Jack. “‘Please supply bearer, Chang Sin Foo, with a pass for the gates, and two good ponies; debit the charge to my account.’ Now sign your name—your present name. That is right. Now, Mr. Sowinski, you have been so obliging that I trust you will excuse what must seem a poor return for your complaisance. But my position in your—that is to say, my father’s house, being somewhat delicate, I have no alternative.”
The two Chinamen having gone away, Jack no longer subdued his tone. He had the whip hand. Still keeping the revolver steadily pointed at the scowling Pole’s head, he stepped to the press and, Sowinski looking on in amazement, called to the Chinese servant to come out. The man was as pale as his master; he was stricken with the very ague of fear.
“You have nothing to fear,” said Jack, pitying the fellow. “Do what I tell you quickly. Tear up that cloth.” He pointed to the none too clean cover on the table. “Tear it into six strips.”
The man tried, but the material was too tough, or his hands too much enfeebled from fright.
“Take the knife, but remember, at the first movement in this direction I will shoot you.”
With some difficulty the man did as he was bid.
“Now bind your master’s legs—first round the ankles. Quick!”—as the man recoiled before the glare in Sowinski’s eyes. Jack jerked up his pistol, and the trembling wretch hastened to obey. The Pole made no resistance; but if looks could have slain, both Jack and the Chinaman would have been killed on the spot.
“Now the arms,” said Jack, when, under his supervision, Sowinski’s legs had been securely trussed. “No, behind him—not in front: that is right. Now the knees. Now tie the wrists to the ankles. Now a gag; that fur cap will do. We are going to place your master in the press. You take the head; I will take the feet.”
Jack felt that he was giving the Chinaman a bare chance to close with him; but the man seeming so cowed, he took the risk, careful, however, to keep the revolver conspicuous. As they lifted the Pole they saw his face distorted with rage and hate. They stood him upright in the press, and closed the door, leaving sufficient space between it and the sides to admit air. Then with a feeling of relief after the tension of his perilous situation, Jack took up the order signed by Sowinski, and was wondering how to dispose of the Chinaman, when there was a loud knock at the outer door, followed immediately by footsteps in the passage. Jack’s heart beat violently; he caught a malicious look of triumph in the servant’s eyes. But he recovered his sang-froid, and at the same moment made his decision. A voice in Russian was calling for Sowinski; just as the footsteps approached the inner door Jack pushed the Chinaman in front of him.
“Send him away,” he whispered. “Remember the pistol.”
He had no time for more. The visitor was at the door. It opened.
“Ha, Sowinski!—” said the new-comer, a captain of Cossacks. Then he paused, seeing only two Chinese servants.
“Where is your master?”
“He is away, Excellency,” faltered the man; “not at home; he will not be back for some hours.” Jack touched his heel to quicken his invention. He continued: “He said he was going first to the Green Dragon, then to the railway-station. He expected to meet a friend. Can I give him any message?”
“It is very annoying,” said the officer. “I must see him to-night. The Green Dragon, you say? I will see whether he is there. If he returns, say that Captain Sinetsky called, and that he is to come and see me at my quarters at once.”
He turned on his heel and left the house. The tension was relaxed. The immediate danger was past, but Jack saw that his escape was still to be deferred. The captain’s look and tone of vexation showed that his business with Sowinski was important. Failing to find the Pole at the hotel he might return himself or send a messenger, and then, if Jack were absent, the prisoner would be discovered and released, and the hue and cry after the disguised Englishman would be hot before he could get his pass and be clear of the city. The gates would not be opened before daybreak. It would hardly be safe to leave the house much earlier. He made up his mind to wait.
Creaking and groaning, the massive gates barring the eastern entrance to Moukden swung back on their hinges; the squatting crowd patiently awaiting the opening awoke to sudden activity; there was a general movement of foot-passengers, chairs, and carts towards the archway. In a moment the rush was checked: a Cossack officer with a dozen sturdy troopers barred the way—one man only might pass at a time, and that after careful scrutiny.
When some two or three score had run the gauntlet, the officer, whose patience seemed to be sorely tried, permitted himself a hearty Russian oath, and growled to the sergeant at his side.
“These Chinese are all alike. What the goodness is the use of asking us to stop—what is it?”—he glanced at a paper in his hand—“‘a young Englishman, tall, slim, cleverly disguised as a native’? It’s absurd—it’s a job for a Chinaman, not for us.”
“But, little father, it must be quite easy to recognize an Englishman. They are all red-faced, with long noses, and big teeth, and side whiskers—I have seen pictures of them in the papers in Petersburg. They are ugly, the English—one would know them anywhere.”
Captain Vassily Nikolaeitch Kargopol, his feelings relieved by his brief outburst, smiled condescendingly. He recognized the sergeant’s description of the familiar continental caricature of John Bull; but as the crowd surged through he had no time for correcting his subordinate’s impressions. An old man, riding one pony and leading another, dismounted at the gate as the crowd thinned, and with elaborate kowtows presented his pass. The shadow of a wide-brimmed hat seemed to deepen the wrinkles of his parchment skin; but there was an alert look in the eye, and a nervous energy in the carriage, that told of a spirit still young.
“Pass the bearer, Chang Sin Foo, and two ponies. Gudriloff—Lieutenant-Colonel.” The captain read out the instructions, handed back the document, and signed to the Chinaman to proceed. Leading his ponies through the gate, the old man mounted, and rode slowly on. A mile out he quickened his pace, and struck off into a side track winding towards the hills that bounded the horizon north, south, and east. As he left the main road, the more rapid movement jolted a pistol from the folds of his voluminous garments. He glanced back and saw it lying on the track, but did not check his pace, though an odd smile disturbed the wrinkles of his mouth.
“It’s a good job,” he muttered in unmistakable English—“a jolly good job, Sowinski didn’t know it wasn’t loaded!”