CHAPTER XVIII.
THE KEY TO IVAN'S PRISON.
The train was proceeding at such comparatively slow speed that Litizki,though he had jumped blindly and though he fell full length on theground, was not hurt. Before the rear car had passed he was on his feetand making across the tracks. A fence too high for him to scale barredhis progress, and he hurried in the direction of Roxbury, looking forsome means of egress from the "yard" through which the railroad ran.He found it at last, a narrow gate in the fence at the end of a shortstreet. The gate was unlocked, and Litizki was soon upon ColumbusAvenue.
Until then he had been conscious of no especial emotion, and his coursehad been taken instinctively rather than with a definite purpose ofeffecting his escape; but instead of breathing free now that he waswhere for a time at least he could mingle with the passers unsuspected,a great fear came upon him. Throughout all the long journey he hadnursed his awful purpose calmly and steadfastly, never for an instantwavering; now he seemed still to feel the handle of the dagger in hispalm, he saw the blade flash as he poised it over Poubalov's heart, andhe heard again the loud gasp with which the spy fell under the blow.Litizki trembled. His throat was parched, his skin hot, but dry as thedust on the pavement. He glanced furtively up and down the avenue, asif to see the policeman who would presently arrest him.
Litizki had paused, unable to walk without staggering, when he droppedso completely from heroism to trepidation. He grasped a trolley postfor support and was dimly conscious that two or three girls who werepassing laughed at him for being helplessly drunk. Half unconsciouslyhe felt in his pocket and drew forth the revolver with which he hadintended to kill the spy. Should he not end his misery then and there,and cheat the hangman? He looked down at the tiny barrel, so largein its tragic possibilities, and with the thought that he had but toexercise a steady hand upon himself as he had upon Poubalov in order toplunge into oblivion, he began to recover. The grated cover of a sewerbasin was at his feet and he dropped the weapon upon it. It rebounded avery little and then slipped through the grating, out of sight and outof reach. Litizki instantly wondered why he had done that.
"That was unreasonable. The revolver was not evidence," he muttered,and then a wild joy surged in his heart as he reflected that he hadaccomplished his purpose.
"That was no crime in the light of reason," he argued. "The necessitiesof the situation demanded it, and though the law will say otherwise, Iam content."
He was almost himself again now, and it flashed upon him that his work,after all, was but half done. There was one other step to be takenbefore his heroic deed could be of service to her whom he worshiped,and to his benefactor whom he idolized. Strobel must be freed, but how?Certainly not by standing there at the curb in plain view, waiting tobe arrested. No; whatever be his ultimate fate, he must effect at leasta temporary escape.
Once more steadied by a purpose to strive for, Litizki crossed theavenue and walked on in the same general direction until he came toWashington Street. His delay at the curb had been brief as measured bythe watch. With every step he took his brain grew clearer. He saw thefolly of going to Poubalov's lodging-house in Bulfinch Place for thepurpose of releasing Strobel. His conviction that Strobel was confinedthere had not been shaken by any of the events since his failure toexpose Poubalov's secret. News of the murder would undoubtedly be takento that house before he could get there. The release must be effectedby some other hand than his own; but what matter? He had made therelease possible. Miss Hilman would ever give him credit for it, andthat was enough, as undoubtedly she would tell Strobel how it came topass.
His plan of operation was fully formed when he reached WashingtonStreet. He boarded the first Chelsea ferry car that came along, and sethimself to thinking of it. When the conductor touched his shoulder toremind him of his fare, he started violently as if the avenging hand oflaw had been laid upon him. There was a recurrence of the dreadful fearthat had momentarily possessed him, and again he shook as if with anague. He felt an almost irresistible impulse to jump from the car andrun; and when at last he left it, near the far end of Hanover Street,he had not yet recovered. With great difficulty he dragged his stepsthrough the crowded streets of the North End until he came to the housewhere Vargovitch lived. As he climbed the stairs, he felt his couragereturn; and when Vargovitch bade him enter, he was again the somber,depressed figure with which all his acquaintances were familiar.
"Vargovitch," he said directly but with averted eyes, "I leave thecountry to-morrow, never to return. Do not ask me why. You will knowsoon enough after I have gone. See, I have so much money," and heemptied the contents of his purse upon the table. "It is enough for thepresent, perhaps, but I shall some day need more, and I leave behind meaccounts and stock, to say nothing of business good will, that are ofvalue. I want you to help me realize upon them."
Vargovitch looked sternly at his friend.
"That mad head of yours," he responded, "has led you at last todifficulty from which there is no exit. I will ask no questions,Litizki, but I will not be concerned in your affair. You should nothave come here."
Litizki was sufficiently master of himself to repress the tremor thatthreatened him.
"Do you desert me, Vargovitch?" he asked, turning his dull eyesapathetically on his comrade.
"I'll accept no responsibility for what you may have done," returnedVargovitch, "I will neither harbor you nor inform upon you."
"I do not ask the one, and I know you would not do the other. I shallremain but a short time. Come! will you take my business and dispose ofit for me?"
"Money cannot be raised among our people to-night."
"I know it, but you can send me some when you have collected. Let mesit down and write a moment."
Vargovitch silently placed writing materials before him, and Litizkiwrote rapidly. When he had done, he handed the paper to his friend. Itwas a surrender of all his business property to Vargovitch, as completea bill of sale as he could draw.
"Take it or destroy it," said Litizki; "I go now, and by and by I shallsend you my address. If you have accepted the trust I impose upon you,you will send me money; if not--" The tailor shrugged his shoulders andwent to the door. "It is the last time you look upon me, Vargovitch,"he concluded.
"It is a wild scheme," muttered Vargovitch, looking at the document,"but we will see."
The noise of the door closing aroused him. Litizki had left the room.
On the street Litizki again had to struggle against the fear that hiscrime excited. All through the long night it came to him at irregularintervals, and he vibrated between an exaltation when he regardedhimself as a hero, and abject cowardice when the rustling of a leafmade his very soul shiver. On this occasion, that is, after leavingVargovitch, he staggered through unfamiliar streets and alleys,hoping that no friend would see him, and at length during a period ofself-possession, he crossed the ferry to East Boston. There he took aroom in an emigrant's hotel near the Cunard steamship dock. He knewthat some boat of this line would depart on the morrow, the regularsailing day, and he had resolved to take passage in it.
In the office of the hotel he found that the boat was the Cephalonia,and that she was scheduled to start at half-past eleven. That was alate hour, and he would be in great peril until then, but there wasnothing for it but to take his chances. So he gathered up a lot ofwriting materials and retired to his room. He spent most of the nightin writing to Clara.
"In staying your hand," he began abruptly, without address of anysort, "from exacting from Alexander Poubalov the penalty of his crimeagainst you, the penalty which your hand alone was worthy to exact, Iwas impelled not by egotism, or sudden emotion. It was my purpose tosave you for a happier career than with all your nobility of characteryou could have achieved had you yourself done the deed. I shall tryto escape the punishment that society would inflict upon me for thisact of justice, for I find that at this moment I cling to my miserablelife as does the dog whose master starves and maltreats him. If I donot escape, it will m
atter not at all, and I ask no tears from yourbeautiful eyes. I know your character so well that I shall die contentwith the gratitude that I know will warm your heart for your unworthyservant.
"The blow that struck away the mighty obstacle to your success andhappiness was but the key to the door that is closed upon Ivan Strobel.The happiness of opening that door with my own hands is not to be forme, and I do not deserve it. I am content to show you the way.
"Poubalov's rooms are at 32 Bulfinch Place. He occupies two, possiblythree rooms there, and in the sense that he has undoubtedly boughtthe landlady, the whole house is his. I am convinced that Strobel isconfined there, and that that has been his prison house since hisabduction last Monday. There will be no bar now to your going to thehouse and releasing your lover and my benefactor. I will tell you whatroom he is in, or at all events was in last Thursday night; and thatyou may thoroughly understand me, I will relate how I came to knowthis, although in so doing I shall lay bare to you the secrets of myheart and confess to you the weak, good-for-nothing that I am--such asyou yourself have found me to be. I hope my action of this evening willredeem me somewhat in your eyes."
Here followed a detailed account of Litizki's attempted rescue ofStrobel, and he mitigated none of the mortifying occurrences, freelyconfessing himself a child in the hands of his adversary.
"The room where Strobel was confined on that night," he continued, "isthe little one adjoining Poubalov's main room. It is directly over thehall as you enter, one flight up. I doubt very much whether Poubalovhas transferred his prisoner to any other part of the house, for thatwould have provoked comment and perhaps suspicion among the lodgers.Your happiness, therefore, is now in your own hands, and if I escape Ishall never see you again. I could almost wish that I would be taken,for the certainty that you would come to visit me in my cell; but it ismy desire to relieve you of everything that might even remind you ofsorrow, and I therefore take leave of you in this letter with the hopethat you will act upon it without delay, and that no accident will robyou of the reward which your loyalty merits."
He signed his name without any formal concluding phrases, and havingaddressed, stamped and sealed the envelope, he went out to post it. Thedawn was just breaking, and he could see with sufficient clearness allabout the street and the freight yard in the vicinity of the hotel.No one, apparently, was stirring save himself. Believing that Clarawould get the letter sooner if he took it to a post office instead ofa street box, he attempted to find one. He knew there must be a branchoffice in East Boston somewhere, but he knew not where to look for it.He had come to the corner of Maverick Square when he saw a policemanstanding within the shadow of a building. A violent shudder came overhim as he suddenly realized that he had taken one step toward theofficer with a view to asking the way to the post office! One of hisfits of fear attacked him and again he staggered, but if the policemanhad any thought of arresting him for drunkenness, he gave no indicationof it, and Litizki stumbled on undisturbed.
When he thought he could do so safely, he turned into a doorway torecover. He saw a street letter-box within twenty feet, but as hestarted toward it, letter in hand, he heard a bell ringing.
"The ferry!" he muttered, and he began to run toward the river.With all his fears the little tailor kept his head faithful to hispurpose. It was now in his thoughts that he would cross the river tothe mainland and post his letter in the general office on DevonshireStreet, whence he knew it would be taken with the least delay to Mr.Pembroke's house. He was conscious of the risk in thus showing himselfeven in the solitary hours of the early morning, but his courage wasreturning, and he felt again a hero who would brave all for her to whomhe owed fealty.
The gateman at the ferry heard him running down the street and held theboat for him. Litizki sank breathless upon a bench and felt again thetriumph of his deed. He reveled in the difficulties he was overcomingand the dangers that beset him.
A car was waiting at the city side of the ferry, and Litizki rode init as far as Scollay Square. Then he walked to the post office, andremembering that a stamp window was open all night, he found it andadded to his letter a "special delivery."
"Now," he muttered, dropping the important missive in the box, "itdoesn't matter what happens to me."
He returned on foot by devious ways to the ferry, more than onceevading marketmen and other early pedestrians as he felt the recurrenceof terror, and at length came again to his hotel. The employees of thehouse were astir, steerage passengers were beginning to arrive, andLitizki felt a sudden repugnance to the solitude of his chamber. He satby a window in the office and watched the groups of men and women whogradually gathered at the entrance to the dock, waiting to go on boardthe Cephalonia or to bid good-by to friends and relatives.
Before very long he heard the strident voice of a newsboy calling hismorning wares. He listened for a quotation of startling headlines,expecting that the murder of a passenger in a drawing-room car would bethe great news feature of the day. Perhaps this boy had not read hispapers carefully. At all events, he shouted nothing whatever concerningthe event that had crowned Litizki's life and made him a hero and acoward at once.
After some hesitation the tailor bought a paper, and ran his eyes overthe captions of the leading articles. He found no reference to his deedthere. He examined the paper, column by column, from first page tolast, and not one line set forth so much as a hint of Poubalov's tragicend.
The Mission of Poubalov Page 18