by Jack London
“All right, after your death, or the expiration of the year, I shall serve this notice, backed by the threat of going to the police with my information.”
“They may kill you,” was the warning.
“Yes; they may. I shall have to take that chance.”
“You can avoid it. When you serve notice, inform them that all information is placed in escrow in half a dozen different cities, and that in event of your being killed it goes into the hands of the police.”
It was three in the morning before the details for disbanding the organization were arranged. It was at this time that a long silence fell, broken at last by Dragomiloff.
“Do you know, Hall, I like you. You are an ethical enthusiast yourself. You might almost have created the Bureau, than which I know no higher compliment, because it is my belief that the Bureau is a remarkable achievement. At any rate, not only do I like you, but I know I can trust you. You would keep your word as I keep mine. Now, I have a daughter. Her mother is dead and in the event of my death she would be without kith or kin in the world. I should like to put her in your charge. Are you willing to accept the responsibility?”
Hall nodded his acquiescence.
“She is a grown woman, so there is no need for guardianship papers. But she is unmarried, and I shall leave her a great deal of money, the investment of which you will have to see to. I am running out to see her this afternoon. Will you come along? It is not far, only at Edge Moor on the Hudson.”
“Why, I’m making a week-end visit to Edge Moor myself!” Hall exclaimed.
“Good. Whereabouts in Edge Moor?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never been there.”
“Never mind. It is not a large place. You can spare a couple of hours Sunday morning. I’ll run over for you in a machine. Telephone me where and when to come. Suburban 245 is my number.”
Hall jotted the number down and rose to go.
Dragomiloff yawned as they shook hands.
“I wish you would reconsider,” the other urged.
But Dragomiloff yawned again, shook his head, and showed his visitor out.
6
Grunya ran the machine that carried Winter Hall from the station at Edge Moor.
“Uncle is really eager to meet you,” she assured him. “He doesn’t know who you are, yet. I teased him by not telling him. Perhaps it is the teasing that accounts for his eagerness, for he certainly is eager.”
“Have you told him?” Hall asked significantly.
Grunya became suddenly absorbed in operating the car.
“What?” she asked.
For reply, Hall laid his hand on hers upon the steering wheel. She ventured one glance at him, looking into his eyes with audacious steadiness for a moment. Then the telltale flush betrayed her, the steady gaze wavered, and with dropped eyes she returned to the steering.
“That might account for his eagerness,” Hall remarked quietly.
“I—I never thought of it.”
Her eyes were turned from him, but he could see the rosy warmth in her cheek. After a minute he made another remark.
“It is a pity to shame so splendid a sunset with unveraciousness.”
“Coward,” she cried; but her enunciation made the epithet a love note.
And then she looked at him again, and laughed, and he laughed with her, and both felt that the sunset was unsmirched and that the world was very fair.
It was when they entered the driveway to the bungalow that he asked her in what direction lay the Dragomiloff place.
“Never heard of it,” was her response. “Dragomiloff? No such person lives in Edge Moor, I am sure. Why?”
“They may be recent comers,” he suggested.
“Perhaps so. And here we are. Grosset, take Mr. Hall’s suitcase. Where’s Uncle?”
“In the library, writing, miss. He said not to disturb him till dinner.”
“Then at dinner you’ll meet,” she said to Hall. “And you’ll only just have time. Show Mr. Hall his room, Grosset.”
Fifteen minutes later, Winter Hall, in the absence of Grunya, entered the living room and found himself face to face with the man he had parted from at three that morning.
“What the devil are you doing here?” Hall blurted out.
But the other’s composure was unshaken.
“Waiting to be introduced, I suppose,” he said, holding out his hand. “I am Sergius Constantine. Grunya has certainly surprised both of us.”
“And you are also Ivan Dragomiloff?”
“Yes; but not in this house.”
“But I do not understand. You spoke of a daughter.”
“Grunya is my daughter, though she believes herself my niece. It is a long story, which I shall make short, after dinner, when we get rid of Grunya. But let me tell you now, that the situation is beautiful, gratifyingly beautiful. You, whom I selected to watch over my Grunya, I find are already—if I am right—her lover. Am I right?”
“I—I don’t know what to say,” Hall faltered, his wit for one time not ready, his mind stunned by this most undreamed dénouement.
“Am I right?” Dragomiloff repeated.
“You are right,” came the answer, prompt at last. “I do love—her—I do love Grunya. But does she know . . . you?”
“Only as her uncle, Sergius Constantine, head of the importing house of that name—here she comes. As I was saying, I agree with you in preferring Turgenev to Tolstoy. Of course, this without detracting from the power of Tolstoy. It is Tolstoy’s philosophy that is repugnant to one who believes—ah, here you are, Grunya.”
“And already acquainted,” she pouted. “I had expected to be present at such a momentous encounter.” She turned chidingly to Hall, while Constantine’s arm encircled her waist. “Why didn’t you warn me you could dress with such speed?”
She held out her free hand to him.
“Come,” she said, “let us go in to dinner.”
And in this manner, Constantine’s arm around Grunya, and she lightly leading Hall by the hand, the three passed into the dining room.
At table Hall caught himself desiring to pinch himself in order to disprove the reality of which he was a part. The situation was almost too preposterously grotesque to be real—Grunya, whom he loved, alternately tilting and smiling at her father whom she believed her uncle, and whom she never dreamed was the originator and head of the dread Assassination Bureau; he, Hall, whom Grunya loved in return, joining in the badinage against the man to whom he had paid fifty thousand dollars to order his own execution; and Dragomiloff himself, unperturbed, complacent, unbending in the general mirth, until his habitual frostiness thawed into actual geniality.
Afterwards, Grunya played and sang, until Dragomiloff, under the double plea of an expected visitor and a desire for a man-talk with Hall, advised her, in mock phrases of paternal patronage, that it was bedtime for a chit of her years. With a parting fling, she said good night and left them, her laughter rippling back through the open door. Dragomiloff got up, closed it, and returned to his seat.
“Well?” Hall demanded.
“My father was a contractor in the Russian-Turkish War,” was the reply. “His name was—well, never mind his name. He made a fortune of sixty million rubles, which I, as an only son, inherited. At university I became inoculated with radical ideas and joined the Young Russians. We were a pack of Utopianists and dreamers, and of course we got into trouble. I was in prison several times. My wife died of smallpox at the same time that her brother Sergius Constantine died of the same disease. This took place on my last estate. Our latest conspiracy had leaked, and this time it meant Siberia for me. My escape was simple. My brother-in-law, a pronounced conservative, was buried under my name, and I became Sergius Constantine. Grunya was a baby. I got out of the country easily enough, though what was left of my fortune fell into the hands of the officials. Here in New York, where Russian spies are more prevalent than you imagine, I maintained the fiction of my name. And there you have it. I have
even returned once to Russia, as my brother-in-law, of course, and sold out his possessions. Too long did I maintain the fiction; Grunya knew me as her uncle, and her uncle I have remained. That is all.”
“But the Assassination Bureau?” Hall asked.
“Believing it was right, and stung by the charge that we Russians were thinkers, not doers, I organized it. And it has worked, successfully, perfectly. It has been a financial success as well. I proved that I could act, as well as dream dreams. Grunya, however, still calls me a dreamer. But she does not know. One moment.”
He went into the adjoining room and returned with a large envelope in his hand.
“And now to other things. My expected visitor is the man to whom I shall give the order of execution. I intended to do so tomorrow, but your opportune presence tonight expedites matters. Here are my instructions to you.” He handed over the envelope. “Grunya, legally, must sign all papers, deeds, and such things, but you must advise her. My will is in my safe. You will have to handle my funds for me until I die or return. If I telegraph for money, or anything, you will do as instructed. In this envelope is the cipher I shall use, which is likewise the cipher used by the organization.
“There is a large emergency fund which I have handled for the Bureau. This belongs to the members. I shall make you its custodian. The members will draw upon it at need.” Dragomiloff shook his head with simulated sadness and smiled. “I am afraid I shall prove very expensive to them before they get me.”
“Heavens, man!” Hall cried. “You are furnishing them the sinews of war. What you should do is to prevent their access to the fund.”
“That would not be fair, Hall. And I am so made that I must play fairly. And I do you the honor to believe that in the matter you will likewise play fairly and obey all my instructions. Am I right?”
“But you are asking me to furnish aid to the men who are going to kill you, the father of the girl I love. It is preposterous. It is monstrous. Put a stop to the whole thing now. Disband the organization and be done with it.”
But Dragomiloff was adamant.
“My mind is made up. You know that. I must do what I believe to be right. You will obey my instructions?”
“You are a monster! A stubborn, stiff-necked monster of absurd and lunatic righteousness. You are a scholar’s mind degraded, you are ethics gone mad, you are . . . are . . .”
But Winter Hall failed in his quest for further superlatives, and stuttered, and ceased. Dragomiloff smiled patiently.
“You will obey my instructions. Am I right?”
“Yes, yes, yes. I’ll obey them,” Hall cried angrily. “It is patent that you will have your way. There is no stopping you. But why tonight? Won’t tomorrow be time enough to start on this madman’s adventure?”
“No; I am eager to start. And you have hit the precise word. Adventure. That is it. I have not had it since I was a boy, since I was a young Bakuninite in Russia dreaming my boyish dreams of universal human freedom. Since then, what have I done? I have been a thinking machine. I have built up successful businesses. I have made a fortune. I have invented the Assassination Bureau and run it. And that is all. I have not lived. I have had no adventure. I have been a mere spider, a huge brain thinking and planning in the midst of a web. But now I break the web. I go forth on the adventure path. Why, do you know, I have never killed a man in my life. Nor have I ever seen one killed. I was never in a railroad accident. I know nothing of violence; I who possess the vast strength of violence have never used that strength save in amity, in boxing and wrestling and such exercises. Now I shall live, body and brain, and play a new role. Strength!”
He held out his lean white hand and looked at it angrily.
“Grunya will tell you that I can bend a silver dollar between those fingers. Was that all they were made for?—to bend dollars? Here, your arm a moment.”
Merely between fingertips and thumb, he caught Hall’s forearm midway from wrist to elbow. He pressed, and Hall was startled by the fierce pang of the bruise. It seemed as if fingers and thumb would meet through the flesh and bone. The next moment the arm was flung aside, and Dragomiloff was smiling grimly.
“No damage,” he said, “though it will be black and blue for a week or so. Now do you know why I want to get out of my web? I have vegetated for a score of years. I have used those fingers to write my signature and to turn the pages of books. From my web I have sent men out on the adventure path. Now I shall play against those men, and I, too, shall do. It will be a royal game. Mine was the master mind that made the perfect machine. I created it. Never has it failed to destroy the man appointed. I am now the man appointed. The question is: is it greater than I, its creator? Will it destroy its creator, or will its creator outwit it?”
He stopped abruptly, looked at his watch, and pressed a bell.
“Have the car brought around,” he told the servant who responded, “put into it the suitcase you will find in my bedroom.”
He turned to Hall as the servant left the room.
“And now my hegira begins. Haas should be here any moment.”
“Who is Haas?”
“Bar none and absolutely the most capable member we have. He has always been given our most difficult and hazardous commissions. He is an ethical fanatic, a Danite. No destroying angel was ever so terrible as he. He is a flame. He is not a man at all, but a flame. You shall see for yourself. There he is now.”
A moment later the man was shown in. Hall was shocked by the first view of his face—a wasted, ravaged face, hollow-cheeked and sunken, in which burned a pair of eyes the like of which could be experienced only in nightmares. Such was the fire of them that the whole face seemed caught up in the conflagration.
Hall acknowledged the introduction, and was surprised at the firm, almost savagely firm, grip of the handshake. He noted the man’s movements as he took a chair and seated himself. He seemed to move cat-like, and Hall was confident that he was muscled like a tiger, though all this was belied by the withered, blighted face, which gave an impression that the rest of the body was a shrunken slender shell. Slender the body was, but Hall could mark the bulge of the biceps and shoulder muscles.
“I have a commission for you, Mr. Haas,” Dragomiloff began. “Possibly it may prove the most dangerous and difficult one you have ever undertaken.”
Hall could have sworn that the man’s eyes blazed even more fiercely at the intimation.
“This case has received my sanction,” Dragomiloff continued. “It is right, essentially right. The man must die. The Bureau has received fifty thousand dollars for his death. According to our custom, one-third of this sum will go to you. But so difficult am I afraid it will prove, that I have decided your share shall be one-half. Here are five thousand for expenses—”
“The amount is unusual,” Haas broke in, licking his lips as if they were parched by the flame of his being.
“The man you are to kill is unusual,” Dragomiloff retorted. “You will need to call upon Schwartz and Harrison immediately to assist you. If, after a time, the three of you have failed—”
Haas snorted incredulously, and the fever that seemed consuming him burned up with increasing heat in his lean and avid face.
“If, after a time, the three of you have failed, call upon the whole organization.”
“Who is the man?” Haas demanded, and he bit the words out almost in a snarl.
“One moment.” Dragomiloff turned to Hall. “What shall you tell Grunya?”
Hall considered for a space.
“A half-truth will do. I sketched the organization to her before I knew you. I can tell her you are menaced. That will suffice. And no matter what the outcome, she need never know the rest.”
Dragomiloff bowed his approbation.
“Mr. Hall is to serve as secretary,” he explained to Haas. “He has the cipher. All applications for money and everything else will be made to him. Keep him informed from time to time of progress.”
“Who is the man?” Ha
as rasped out again.
“One minute, Mr. Haas. There is one thing I want to impress on you. Your pledge you remember. No matter who the person may be, you know that you must perform the task. You know in every way you must avoid risking your own life. You know what failure means, that all your comrades are sworn to kill you if you fail.”
“I know all that,” Haas interrupted. “It is unnecessary.”
“It is my wish to have you absolutely straight on this point. No matter who the person—”
“Father, brother, wife—ay, the devil himself, or God—I understand. Who is the man? Where will I find him? You know me. When I have anything to do, I want to do it.”
Dragomiloff turned to Hall with a smile of gratification.
“As I told you, I selected our best agent.”
“We are wasting time,” Haas muttered impatiently.
“Very well,” Dragomiloff answered. “Are you ready?”
“Yes.”
“Now?”
“Now.”
“I, Ivan Dragomiloff, am the man.”
Haas was staggered by the unexpectedness of it.
“You?” he whispered, as if louder speech had been scorched from his throat.
“I,” Dragomiloff answered simply.
“Then there is no time like now,” Hass said swiftly, at the same time moving his right hand towards his side pocket.
But even more swift was the leap of Dragomiloff upon him. Before Hall could rise from his chair the thing had happened and the danger was past. He saw Dragomiloff’s two thumbs, end on, crooked and rigid, drive into the two hollows at either side of the base of Haas’s neck. So quickly that it was practically simultaneous, at the instant of the first driven contact of the thumbs, Haas’s hand stopped moving in the direction of the weapon in his pocket. Both his hands shot up and clutched spasmodically at the other’s hands. Haas’s face was distorted in an expression of incredible and absolute agony. He writhed and twisted for a minute, then his eyes closed, his hands dropped, his body went limp, and Dragomiloff eased him down to the floor, the flame of him quenched in unconsciousness.
Dragomiloff rolled him on his face, and, with a handkerchief, knotted his hands behind his back. He worked quickly, and as he worked he talked.