CHAPTER 1 Introducing Malcolm Hay If a man is not eager for adventure at the age of twenty-two, the enticement of romantic possibilities will never come to him. The chairman of the Ukraine oil company looked with a little amusement at the young man who sat on the edge of a chair by the chairman's desk and noted how the eye of the youth had kindled at every fresh discouragement which the chairman had put forward. Enthusiasm, reflected the older man, was one of the qualities which were most desirable in the man who was to accept the position which Malcolm Hay was at that moment considering. Russia is a strange country, said Mr Tramain. It is one of the mystery places of the world. You hear fellows coming back from China who tell you amazing stories of the idiosyncrasies of the chink, but I can tell you from my own personal observations that the Chinaman is an open-looking word of one syllable compared with the average Russian pheasant.  Hay nodded. Oh yes, sir, he said, I've been talking Russian ever since I was sixteen, and I speak both the dialects. Good, nodded Mr Tramain. Now all that remains for you to do is to think both dialects. I was in southern Russia attending to our worlds for twenty years, in fact long before our worlds came into being, and I can honestly say that, though I'm not by any means an unintelligent man, I know just as little about the Russian today as I did when I went there. He's the most elusive creature. You think you know him two days after you have met him. Two days later you find that you have changed all your opinions about him, and by the end of the first year, if you'll cut to careful note of your observations and impressions in a diary, you will discover that you have three hundred and sixty-five different views, unless it happens to be a leap year. What happens in a leap year, asked the innocent Hay. You have three hundred and sixty-six views, said the solemn Mr Tramain. He struck a bell. We shan't want you to leave London for a week or two, he said, and in the mean time you have better study up our local special literature. We can give you particulars about the country, that part of the country in which the wells are situated, which you will not find in the guidebooks. There are also a few notable personages whom it will be advisable for you to study. I know most of them, said the youth, with easy confidence. As a matter of fact, I got the British consul to send me a local directory and swatted it. Mr Tramain concealed a smile. And what did the local directories say about Israel Kensky, he asked, instantly? Israel Kensky, said the puzzled youth, I don't remember that name. It is the only name worth remembering, said the other dryling, and, by the way, you'll be able to study him in a strange environment, for he is in London at this moment. A clerk had answered the bell and stood waiting in the doorway. Get Mr Hay those books and pamphlets I spoke to you about, said Tramain, and, by the way, when did M. Kensky arrive? Today, said the clerk, Tramain nodded. In fact, he said, London this week will be filled with people whose names are not in your precious directory, and all of whom you should know, the Yaroslavs are paying a sort of state visit. The Yaroslavs, repeated Hay, Oh, of course, the Grand Duke and his daughter, added Mr Tramain. Well, smiled the young man, I'm not likely to meet the Grand Duke or the Grand Duchess. I understand the royal family of Russia is a little exclusive. Everything is likely in Russia, said the optimist, Mr Tramain. If you come back in a few years' time and tell me that you've been appointed an admiral in the Russian Navy, or that you've married the Grand Duchess, Irina Yaroslav, I shall not for one moment disbelieve you. At the same time, if you come back from Russia without your ears, the same having been cut off by your peasant neighbours, to profitiate the ghost of Amata, who died six hundred years ago, I shall not be surprised either. That is the country you're going to, and I envy you. I'm a little surprised at myself, admitted Malcolm, it seems almost incredible. Of course, sir, I have a lot to learn, and I'm not placing too much reliance upon my degree. Your science degree, said Tramain, it may be useful, but a divinity degree would have been better. A divinity degree? Tramain nodded. It is religion you want in Russia, and especially local religion.  You'll find that the birth or death of four or five of them are celebrated every week, and that your workmen will take a day's holiday for each commemoration. If you're not pretty smart, they'll whip in a few saints who have no existence, and you'll get no work done at all. That will do.  Who is he? Mars Hay, curtisly? A local magnate. In a sense he is, and in a sense he's not, said the careful Mr Tramain.  However, you'll be able to judge for yourself. Malcolm Hay went out into the teeming streets of London, walking on air. It was his first appointment. He was earning money, and it seemed rather like a high-class dream. In major fare there are many little side streets, composed of shabby houses, covered with discoloured stucco, made all the more desolate and gloomy in appearance by the long and narrow strip of garden which runs out to the street. In one of these devoted to the business of a boarding-house, an old man sat at a portable bench under the one electric light which the economical landlady had allowed him. The room was furnished in a typically boarding-house style. But both the worker at the bench and the woman who sat by the table, her chin on her palms watching him, seemed unaffected by the poverty of their surroundings. The man was thin and bent, of back, as he crouched over the bench working with the fine tools, and what was evidently intended to be the leather cover of a book, his face lay in the shadow, and only one end of his straggling white beard betrayed his age. Presently he looked up at the woman and revealed himself as a hawk-nosed man of sixty. His face was emaciated and seamed, and his dark eye shone brightly. His companion was a woman of twenty-four, obviously of the Jewish type, as was the old man. What good looks she possessed were marred by the sneer on her lips. "'If these English people see you at work,' she said presently, they will think you are some poor man, little father. Israel Kensky did not stop his work. "'What book are you binding?' she asked after a while. "'Is it the Talmud which Levi Levisky gave you?' The old man did not answer, and a dark frown gathered on the woman's heavy face. You might not guess that they were father and daughter. Yet such was the case. But between Sophia Kensky and her father there was neither communion of spirit nor friendship. It was amazing that she should accompany him as she did wherever he went, or that he should be content to have her as his companion. The gossips of Kiev had it that neither would trust the other out of sight, and it may be that there was something in this, though a stronger motive might be suspected in so far as Sophia's actions were concerned. Presently the old man put down his tools, blinked, and pushed back his chair. "'It is a design for a great book,' he said, and chuckled hoarsely. A book with steel covers and wonderful pages. He smiled contemptuously. "'The book of all power,' he said. "'Little father, there are times when I think you are mad. For how can you know the secrets which are denied to others? And you who write so badly, how can you fill a great book with your writings?' The book of all power,' repeated the man, and the smile on the woman's face grew broader. "'A wonderful book,' she scoffed, filled with magic and mystery and spells. Do you wonder that we of Kiev suspect you?' "'We of Kiev,' he repeated mockingly, and she nodded. "'We of Kiev,' she said. So you are with the rabble, Sophia. He lifted one shoulder in a contemptuous little gesture. "'You are also of the rabble, Israel Kensky,' she said. "'Do you take your dinner at the Grand Duke's palace?' He was gathering together the tools on the table, and methodically fitting each graver into a big leather purse. The Grand Duke does not stone me in the street, nor set fire to my houses,' he said. "'Nor the Grand Duchess,' said the girl, meaningly. And he looked down at her from under his lowered brows. "'The Grand Duchess is beyond the understanding of such as you,' he said harshly, and the woman laughed. "'There will come a day when she will be on her knees to me,' she said prophetically, and she got up from the table with a heavy yawn. That I promised myself, and with this promise I put myself to sleep every night. She went on, and she spoke without heat. I see her sweeping my flaws in eating the bread I throw to her. Israel Kensky had heard all this before, and did not even smile.  God knows how such a one could be a daughter of mine.  "'I hate her not for the harm she has done me, but for the proud smile she gives to her slaves.  "'Perhaps I am,' said the woman, his daughter. "'Are you going to bed now?' He turned in the doorway. "'I am going to my room. I shall not come down again,' he said. "'Then I will sleep,' she yawned prodigiously. "'I hate this town.' "'Why do you come?' he asked. "'I did not want you.' "'I came because you did not want me,' said Sophia Kensky. Israel went to his room, closed the door, and locked it. He listened, and presently he heard the sound of his daughter's door close also, and heard the snap of the key as it turned. But it was a double snap, and he knew that the sound was intended for him, and that the second click was the unlocking of the door. She had locked and unlocked it in one motion. He waited, sitting in an armchair before a small fire, for ten minutes, and then, rising, crossed the room softly and switched out the light. There was a transom above the door so that anybody in the passage-out-cycle could tell whether his light was on or off. Then he resumed his seat, spreading his vain hands to the fire, and listened. He waited another quarter of an hour before he heard a soft creak and the sound of breathing outside the door. Somebody was standing there listening. The old man kept his eyes fixed on the fire, but his senses were alive to every sound. Again he heard the creaking, this time louder. A gerry-built house in Maida Vale does not offer the best assistance to the furtive business in which Sophia Kensky was engaged. Another creak, this time farther away and repeated at intervals, told him that she was going down the stairs. He walked to the window and gently pulled up the blind, taking his station so that he could command a view of the narrow strip of garden. Presently his vigil was rewarded. He saw her dark figure walk along the flag pavement, opened the gate and disappeared into the darkened street. Israel Kensky went back to his chair, stirred the fire and settled down to a long wait. His line faced grave and anxious. The woman had turned to the right and had walked swiftly to the end of the street. The name of that street or its pronunciation were beyond her. She neither spoke English nor was she acquainted with the topography of the district in which she found herself. She slowed her pace as she reached the main road and a man came out of the shadows to meet her. Is it you, little mother? he asked in Russian. Thank God you're here. Who is this? asked Sophia breathlessly. Boris Yakov said the other. I have been waiting for an hour and it is very cold. I could not get away before, she said as she fell in beside him. The old man was working with his foolery and it was impossible to get him to go to bed. Once or twice I yawned and he took no notice. Why has she come to London? asked her companion. It must be something important to bring him away from his money bags. To this the woman made no reply. Presently she asked, do we walk? Is there no drosky or little carriage? Have patience. Have patience. Grim the man good humidly. Here in London we do things in grand style. We have an auto-car for you but it was not wise to bring it so close to your house, little mother. The old man, oh finish with the old man, she said, impatiently do not forget that I am with him all the day. The antipathy between father and daughter was so well known that the man made no apology for discussing the relationship with that frankness which is the characteristic of the Russian peasant. Nor did Sophia Kensky resent the questions of a stranger nor hesitate to unburden herself of her grievances. The auto-car proved to be a very commonplace taxi cab, though a vehicle of some luxury to yak off. They say he practices magic, said that garrulous man as the taxi got on its way. Also that he bewitches you. That is a lie, said the woman, indifferently. He frightens me sometimes but that is because I have here, she tapped her forehead, a memory which is not a memory. I seem to remember something just at the end of a thread and I reach for it and lo it is gone. That is magic, said Yakov Gravely. Evidently he practices his spells upon you. Tell me, Sophia Kensky, is it true that you Jews use the blood of Christian children for your beastly ceremonies? The woman laughed, what sort of man are you that you believe such things? She asked contemptuously. I thought all the comrades in London were educated. Yakov made a little clicking noise with his mouth to portray his annoyance and while he might present this reflection upon his education, for he held a university degree and had translated six revolutionary Russian novels into English and French. This he explained with some detail and the girl listened with little interest. She was not surprised as an educated man she believed the fable of human sacrifices which had gained a certain currency in Russia. Only it seemed to her just a little inexplicable. The cab turned out of the semi obscurity of the side street into a brilliantly lighted thoroughfare and bowled down a broad and busy road. A drizzle of rain was falling and blurred the glass but even had the windows been open she could not have identified her whereabouts. To what place are you taking me? she asked. Where is the meeting? Yakov lowered his voice to a husky whisper. It is the cafe of the Silver Lion in a place called Soho, he said. Here we meet from day to day and dream of a free Russia. We also play Bagatelle. He gave the English name for the latter. It is a club and a restaurant. Tonight it is necessary that you should be here, Sofia Kensky, because of the great happenings which must follow. She was silent for a while then she asked whether it was safe and he laughed. Safe, he scoffed. There are no secret police in London. This is a free country where one may do as one wishes. No, no, Sofia Kensky, be not afraid. I am not afraid, she answered, but tell me Yakov, what is this great meeting about?  He might have added that he also was to learn, for as yet he was in ignorance. They drove into an labyrinth of narrow streets and stopped suddenly before a doorway. There was no sign of a restaurant and Yakov explained before he got out of the cab that this was the back entrance of the silver lion and that most of the brethren who used the club also used this back door. He dismissed the cab and pressed the bell in the lintel of the door. Presently it was opened and they passed in unchallenged. They were in a small hallway lodged with a gas jet. There was a stairway leading to the upper part of the premises and a narrower stairway also lighted by gas at the foot leading to the cellar and it was down the ladder that Yakov moved followed by the girl. They were now in another passage whitewashed and very orderly. A gas jet lit this also and at one end the girls saw a plain wooden door. To this Yakov advance and knocked, a small wicket set in the panel was pushed aside and after a brief scrutiny by the door's custodian it was opened and the two entered without further parlay. End of chapter one, recording by Peter Tomlinson. Chapter two of the Book of All Power by Edgar Wallace. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Peter Tomlinson. Chapter two, a gunman refuses work. It was a big underground room. The sort of basement dining room one finds in certain of the cafes in Soho and its decorations and furniture were solid and comfortable. There were a dozen men in this innocent looking saloon when the girl entered. They were standing about talking or sitting at the tables playing games. The air was blue with tobacco smoke. Her arrival seemed to be the signal for the beginning of a conference. Four small tables were drawn from the sides and placed together and in a few seconds she found herself one of a dozen that sat about the ward. The man who seemed to take charge of the proceedings she did not know. He was a Russian, a big clean shaven man, quietly and even well dressed. His hair was flaming red, his nose was crooked. It was this crooked nose which gave her a clue to his identity. She remembered in Kiev where physical peculiarities could not pass unnoticed, some reference to twist-nose and racked her brains in an effort to recall who that personage was. That he knew her, he very quickly showed. Sophia Kenski, he said, we are sent for you to ask you why your father is in London. If you know my father, she replied, you know also that I, his daughter, do not share his secrets. The man at the head of the table nodded. I know him, he said grimly. Also I know you, Sophia. I've seen you often at the meetings of our society in Kiev. Again she frowned, trying to recall his name and where she had seen him. It was not at any of the meetings of the secret society, of that she was sure. He seemed to read her thoughts for he laughed, a deep, thunderous laugh which filled the underground room with sound. Ha, ha, it is strange that you do not know me, he said, and yet I've seen you a hundred times and you have seen me. A light dawned on her. Bulba, the bouffet shek of the grand duke, she gasped. He nodded, absurdly pleased at the recognition. I do not attend the meetings in Kiev, little sister, for reasons which you will understand. But here in London, where I have come in advance of Yaroslav, it is possible. Now, Sophia Kensky, you are a prudent friend of our movement. She nodded, since the statement was in the way of a question. It is known to you as to us that your father, Israel Kensky, is a friend of the grand Duchess. Bulba, the president, saw the sullen look on her face and drew his own conclusions, even before she explained her antipathy to the young girl who held that exalted position. It is a mystery to me, Bulba, she said, for what interest can this great lady have in an old Jew? The old Jew is rich, said Bulba, significantly. So also is Irene Yaroslav, said the girl. It is not for money that she comes. It is not for money, agreed the other. It is for something else. When the grand Duchess Irene was a child, she was in the streets of Kiev one day in charge of her nurse. It happened that some Caucasian soldiers stationed in the town started a program against the Jews. The soldiers were very drunk. They were darting to and fro in the street on their little horses, and the nurse became frightened and left the child. Your father was in hiding and the soldiers were searching for him. Yet when he saw the danger of the grand Duchess, he ran from his hiding place, snatched her up under the hoods of the horses and bore her away into his house. "'I did not know this,' said Sophia, listening open mouth. Her father had never spoken of the incident and the curious affection which this high-born lady had for the old user of Kiev had ever been a source of wonder to her. "'You know it now,' said Bulba. The grand duke has long since forgotten what he owes to Israel Kensky, but the grand Duchess has not. Therefore she comes to him with all her troubles and that, Sophia Kensky, is why we have sent for you.' There was a silence. "'I see,' she said at last, "'you wish me to spy upon Israel Kensky and tell you all that happens.' "'I want to know all that passes between him and the grand Duchess,' said Bulba. "'She comes to London to-morrow with her father and it is certain she will seek out Israel Kensky. "'Every letter that passes between them must be opened. "'But,' she began, "'there is no but, Rod Bulba, "'here in a bay it is ordered.' "'He turned abruptly to the man on his left. "'You understand, Yaroslav arrives in London to-morrow. "'It is desirable that he should not go away. "'But excellency' standard the man on his left. "'Here in London,' Bulba nodded. "'But excellency wailed the man. "'In London we are safe. "'It is the one refuge to which our friends can come. "'If such a thing should happen, what would be our fate? "'We could not meet together. "'We should be hounded down by the police "'from morning until night. "'We should be deported. "'It would be the ruin of the great movement.' "'Nevertheless,' it is an order,' said Bulba doggedly. "'This is a matter beyond the cause. "'It will gain us powerful protectors at the court, "'and I promise you that though the commotion will be great, "'yet it will not last for very long, "'and you will be left undisturbed.' "'But,' began one of the audience, "'and Bulba silenced him with a gesture, "'I promise that none of you shall come to harm, "'my little pigeons, "'and that you shall not be concerned in this matter. "'But who will do it, excellency?' asked another member. "'That is too important to be decided "'without a meeting of all the brethren. "'For my part I would not carry out such an order "'unless I receive the instructions of our president. "'I promise that none of you shall take a risk,' sneered Bulba. "'Now speak, Yakov!' "'The man who had accompanied Sofia Krensky "'smiled importantly at the company, "'then turned to Sofia. "'Must I say this before Sofia Krensky?' he asked. "'Speak,' said Bulba. "'We are all brothers and sisters, and none will betray you.' Yakov cleared his throat. "'When your excellency wrote to me from Kiev, "'asking me to find a man, I was in despair,' he began, "'and evidently rehearsed speech. "'I tore my hair, I wept. "'Tell us what you have done,' said the impatient Bulba. "'For what does it matter in the name of the saints "'and the holy martyrs? "'Everyone at the table, including Bulba, crossed himself.  "'It was a difficult task, excellency,' said Yakov "'in a more subdued tone. "'But Providence helped me. "'There is a good comrade of ours who is engaged "'in punishing the bourgeoisie by relieving them of their goods. "'A thief, yes,' said Bulba. "'Through him I learnt that a certain man had arrived "'in England and was in hiding. "'This man is a professional assassin. "'They looked at him incredulously, "'all except Bulba, who had heard the story before. "'An assassin,' said one. "'Of what nationality?' "'American,' said Yakov, "'and there was a little titter of laughter. "'It is true,' interrupted Bulba. "'This man, whom Yakov has found, "'is what is known in New York as a gunman. "'He belongs to a gang which was hunted down by the police "'and our comrade escaped. "'But an American,' persisted one of the unconvinced. "'An American,' said Yakov. "'This man is desired by the police on this side "'and went into hiding with our other comrade, "'who recognised him. "'A gunman,' said Bulba, thoughtfully, "'and he uses the English word with some awkwardness. "'A gunman, if he would only, "'is he here?' he demanded, looking up. "'Yakov nodded. "'Does he know? "'I've told him nothing excellency,' said Yakov, "'rising from the table with alacrity, "'except to be here near the entrance "'to the club at this hour.   "'As he stood there, belted about his large waist, "'a billy-cock hat on the back of his head, "'he looked to be anything from a broken-down publican "'to an out-of-work plumber. "'He certainly did not bear the impress of a gunman. "'If he was out of his element, "'he was certainly not out of conceit with himself. "'He gave a cheery little nod to every face "'that was turned to him and stood, "'his hands thrust through his belt, "'his legs wide apart, "'surveying the company with a benevolent smile. "'Good evening, ladies and gents,' he said, "'shake hands with cherry-bim. "'Bim on my father's side and cherry by christening. "'Cherry-bim, named after the angels.' "'And he beamed again. "'This little speech delivered in English "'was unintelligible to the majority of those at present, "'including Sofia Kensky, but Yakov translated it. "'Solomly he made a circuit of the company, "'and a solemnly shook hands with every individual. "'And at last he came to Bulba. "'And only then did he hesitate for a second. "'Perhaps in that meeting there came to him "'some premonition of the future. "'Some half revealed half blurred picture of prophecy. "'Perhaps that picture was one of himself "'lying in the darkness on the roof of the railway carriage, "'and an obscene Bulba standing erect "'in a motor-car on the darkened station, waving his rage. "'Aire, the three quick shots rang out.' "'Cherry-bim confessed afterwards "'to a curious shivery sensation at his spine.  "'I'm down and out, and I'm free to confess it. "'And any of you ladies and gents "'who'd like to grub steak a stranger in a foreign land, "'why, here's your chance. "'I'm open to take on any kind of job "'that doesn't bring me into conspicuous relationship "'with the bulls.' "'Bulls, ladies and gentlemen, "'being in New York for policemen.' "'Then Bulba spoke, "'and he spoke in English slow but correct. "'Comrade,' he said, "'do you hate tyrants?' "'If he's a copper,' replied Mr. Bim, mistakenly, "'why, he's just as popular with me "'as a hollow tooth, as an ice-cream party.' "'What does he say?' asked the bewildered Bulba, "'who could not follow the easy flow "'of Mr. Bim's conversation, "'and Yakov translated to the best of his ability. "'And then Bulba, arresting the instruction "'of the American, explained. "'It was a long explanation. "'It dealt with tyranny and oppression "'and other blessed words "'dear to the heart of the revolutionary. "'It concerned millions of men "'and hundreds of millions of men and women in chains, "'under iron heels and the like. "'And Mr. Bim grew more and more hazy, "'for he's not used to the parable, "'the allegory or the metaphor. "'But towards the end of his address, "'Bulba became more explicit, "'and as his emotions were moved, "'his English a little more broken. "'Mr. Bim became grave, "'for there was no mistaking the tasks "'which had been set him. "'Hold hard, Mr.' he said. "'Let's get this thing right. "'There's a guy you want to croak. "'Do I get you right?' "'Again Mr. Yakov translated the idioms. "'For Yakov had not lived on the edge "'of New York's underworld without acquiring "'some knowledge of its language. "'Bulba nodded. "'We desire him killed,' he said. "'He is a tyrant, an oppressor. "'Hold hard,' said Bim. "'I want to see this thing plain. "'You're going to croak this guy, "'and I'm the man to do it.  "'It can't be done,' he said. "'I'm over here for a quiet peaceful life. "'And anyway, I've got nothing on this fellow. "'I'm not over here to get my picture in the papers. "'It's a new land to me. "'Why, if you put me in Piccadilly Circus, "'I shouldn't know which way to turn to get out of it. "'Anyway, that strong-arm stuff is out "'so far as I'm concerned.' "'What does he say?' said Bulba again. "'And again, Yakov translated. "'I thought you were what you call a gunman,' "'said Bulba, with a curl of his lip. "'I did not expect you to be frightened.' "'There's gunmen and gunmen,' said Cherry Bim, "'unpreterred by the patent sarcasm. "'And there's me. "'I never drew a gun on a man in my life "'that didn't ask for it or in the way of business. "'No, sirree, you can't hire Cherry Bim "'to do a low vulgar murder.' "'His tone was uncompromising and definite. "'Bulba realized that he could not pursue his argument "'with any profit to himself, "'and that if he were to bring this unwilling agent "'to his way of thinking, "'a new line would have to be taken. "'You will not be asked to take a risk for nothing,' he said. "'I'm authorized to pay you 20,000 rubles, "'that is 2,000 pounds in your money.' "'Not mine,' interrupted Bim. "'It's $10,000 you're trying to say.' "'Well, even that doesn't tempt me.  "'And I don't think you're being original "'when you offer me this commission. "'I've had it offered me before in New York City, "'and I've always turned it down, "'though I know my way to safety blindfolded. "'That's all there is to it, gentlemen, and ladies,' he added. "'So you refuse.' "'Neither Bulba's voice nor his manner was pleasant.' "'That's about the size of it,' said Cherry Bim, rising. "'I'm a grafter. I'll admit it. "'There ain't hardly anything I wouldn't do "'from smashing a bank downwards to turn a dishonest penny. "'But, gents, I'm short of the necessary nerve, "'inclination, lack of morals, and general ungodliness "'to take on murder in the first, second, or third degree.' "'You have courage, my friend,' said Bulba, significantly. "'You do not suppose we should take you into our confidence "'and let you go away again so easily?' "'Mr. Bim's smile became broader. "'Gents, I won't deceive you,' he said. "'I expected a rough house and prepared for it. "'Watch me!' "'He extended one of his hands in the manner of a conjurer, "'and with the other pulled up the sleeve above the wrist. "'He turned the hands over, waggling the fingers "'as though he were giving a performance, "'and they watched him curiously. "'There's nothing there, is there?' said Cherry Bim, "'beaming at the company. "'And yet there is something there. "'Look! No eyes were sharp enough "'to follow the quick movement of his hand. "'None saw it drop or rise again. "'There was a slur of movement, "'and then, in the hand which had been empty, "'was a long-barreled cult.' "'Cherry Bim, taking no notice of the sensation he created, "'tossed the revolver to the ceiling and caught it again. "'Now, gents, I don't know whether you're foolish "'or only just crazy. "'Get away from that door, Hector,' he said to a long-haired man "'who stood with folded arms against the closed door. "'And Hector, whose name was Nicolo Novoski "'Yasodernerski, in real life, made haste to obey. "'Wait a bit, sir, the careful gunman. "'That's a key in your waistcoat pocket, I guess.' "'He thrust a barrel of his revolver against the other side, "'and the long-haired man doubled up with a gasp. "'But Cherry Bim meant no mischief. "'The barrel of the gun clipped against the end of a key, "'and when Cherry Bim drew his revolver away, "'the key was hanging to it.' "'Magnetic,' the gunman kindly explained. "'It's a whim of mine. "'In no other words, he passed through the door "'and slammed it behind him.' End of Chapter 2 Recording by Peter Tomlinson Chapter 3 of the Book of All Power by Edgar Wallace This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Peter Tomlinson Chapter 3 The Grand Duchess Irene Israel Kenski was dozing before the fire when the sound of the creaking stair woke him. He walked softly to the door and listened, and presently he heard the steps of his daughter passing along the corridor. He opened the door suddenly and stepped out, and she jumped back with a little cry of alarm. There were moments when she was terribly afraid of her father, and such a moment came to her now. "'Are you not asleep?' Israel Kenski, she faltered. "'I could not sleep,' replied the other, "'in so mild a tone that she took courage. "'Come into my room. "'I wish to speak to you.' He did not ask her where she had been or to explain why, at three o'clock in the morning, she was dressed for the street, and she felt it necessary to offer some explanation. "'You wonder why I'm dressed,' she said. I heard a great noise in the street and went out to see. "'What does it matter?' asked Israel Kenski.  "'Why should you not walk in the street if you desire?' He switched on the light to augment the red glow which came from the fire. "'Sit down, Sophia,' he said. "'I've been waiting for you.  She made no reply. There was fear in her eyes, and all the time she was conscious of many unpleasant interviews with her father, interviews which had taken place in Kiev and other towns, the details of which she could never recall, and she was filled with the dread of some happening to which she could not give form or description. He saw her shifting in her chair and smiled slowly. "'Get me the little box which is on my dressing table,' Sophia Kenski, he said. He was seated by the fire, his hands outstretched to the red coal. After a moment's hesitation she got up, went to the dressing table and brought back a small box. It was heavy and made of some metal over which a brilliant black enamel had been laid. "'Open the box,' Sophia Kenski, said the old man, not turning his head. She had a dim recollection that she'd been asked to do this before, but again could not remember when or in what circumstances. She opened the lid and looked within. On a better black velvet was a tiny convex mirror about the size of a sixpence. She looked at this and was still looking at it when she walked slowly back to her chair and sat down. It had such a fascination, this little mirror, that she could not tear her eyes away. "'Close your eyes,' said Kenski in a monotonous voice, and she obeyed. "'You cannot open them,' said the old man, and she shook her head and repeated. "'I cannot open them. Now you shall tell me, Sophia Kenski, where you went this night.' In halting tone she told him of her meeting with Yakov, of their walk of the cab of the little door in the back street and the stone stairs that led to the whitewashed passage. And then she gave, as nearest she knew, a full account of all that had taken place. Only when she came to describe Bim and to tell of what he said did she flounder. Bim had spoken in a foreign language, and the translation of Yakov had conveyed very little to her. But in this part of the narrative, the old man was less interested. Again and again he returned to Bulba and the plot. "'What hand will kill the Grand Duke?' he asked, not once but many times, and invariably she answered, "'I do not know. On whose behalf does Bulba act?' asked the old man. "'Think, Sophia Kenski, who will give this foreigner twenty thousand rubles? I do not know,' she answered again. Presently a note of distress was evident in her voice, and Israel Kenski rose up and took the box from her hand.   Do you understand?' "'Yes,' Israel Kenski,' she replied slowly, and walked with weary feet from the room. Israel Kenski listened and heard her door clip, then closed his own, and, sitting at a table, began to write quickly. He was still writing when the grey dawn showed in his window at six o'clock. He blotted the last letter and addressed an envelope to the most excellent and illustrious highness, the grand duchess Ariny Yaroslav. Before, without troubling to undress, he sank down upon his bed into a sleep of exhaustion. Malcolm Hay had an appointment with Mr. Tremaine on the morning that saw Israel Kenski engaged in frantic letter writing. It was about Kenski that Tremaine spoke. "'He has arrived in London,' he said, and is staying in Colbury Terrace, made of ale. I think you'd better see him, because, as I told you, he is a local big wigger, may be very useful to you. Our wells, as you know, are about 30 miles outside Kiev, which is the nearest big town, so you may be seeing him pretty often. Also, by the way, he is our agent. If you have any trouble with government officials, you must see Kenski, who can generally put things square. I believe his daughter is with him,' Mr. Tremaine went on, but I know very little about her. Yet another neighbour of yours arrived by special train at midday. "'Another neighbour of mine,' repeated Malcolm with a smile. And who is that?' "'The Grand Duke Yaroslav. I don't suppose you'll have very much to do with him, but he's the king-pippin in your part of the world. A clerk came in with a type-written sheet covered with Russian characters. Here's your letter of introduction to Kenski. He knows just as much English if you will want him to know.' When Malcolm presented himself at the lodgings, it was to discover that the old Jew had gone out and had left no message as to the time he would return. Since Malcolm was anxious to meet this important personage, he did not leave his letter, but went into the city to lunch with an old college chum. In the afternoon, he decided to make his call and only remembered, as he was walking up the strand, that he had intended satisfying his curiosity as to that other neighbour of his, the Grand Duke Yaroslav. There was a little crowd about Charing Cross Station, though it was nearly two hours after midday when the Yaroslavs were due, and he was to discover, on inquiry of a policeman, that the cause of this public curiosity had been the arrival of two royal carriages. Some Russian prince or other, said the obliging Bobby. The vote was late, and here they come. Malcolm was standing on the sidewalk in the courtyard of Charing Cross Station when the two open landals drove out through the archway. In the first was a man a little over middle age, wearing a Russian uniform, but Malcolm had no eyes for him. It was for the girl who sat by his side, erect, haughty, almost disdainful, with her splendid beauty, and apparently oblivious to all that was being said to her by the smiling young man who sat on the opposite seat. As the carriage came abreast and the postillians reigned in their mounts before turning into the crowded strand, the girl turned her head for a second, and her eyes seemed to rest on Malcolm. Instinctively he lifted his hat from his head, but it was not the girl who returned his salutation, but the stiff figure of the elderly man at her side who raised his hand with an automatic gesture. Only for a second and then she swept out of view and Malcolm heaved a long, deep sigh. Some dame said a voice at his side. Well, I'm glad I saw him anyway. Malcolm looked down at the speaker. He was a stout little man who wore his hard-felt hat at a rakeish angle.  That was his grand nibs, wasn't it? Asked the man and Malcolm smiled. That was the grand duke, I think, he said. And who was the dame? The dame? I mean, the lady, the young Pechorino. Gee, she was wonderful. Malcolm shared his enthusiasm but was not prepared to express himself with such vigor. That girl said his companion speaking with evident sincerity is wasted.  Malcolm laughed. He was not a very approachable man but there was something about this stranger which broke down all barriers. Well, I'm glad I've seen him, said Mr. Cherry Bim again emphatically. I wonder what he's done. Malcolm turned to move off and the little man followed his example. What do you mean, what has he done? asked the amused Malcolm. Oh, nothing, said the other airily but I just wondered, that's all. I'm glad I've seen them, too, said Malcolm. I nearly missed them. I was sitting so long over lunch.  To have seen them, no, to have sat over lunch, said Cherry with an inward groan. My, I'd like to see what a lunch looks like. Malcolm looked at the man with a new interest and a new sympathy. Broke, he asked, and the other grinned. If I was only broke, he said, there'd be no trouble but what's the matter with me is that there ain't any pieces. Cherry Bim noticed a hesitation in Malcolm's face and said, I hope you're not worrying about hurting my feelings. How, said the startled Malcolm. Why, drooled the other, if it's among your mind that you'd like to slip me two dollars and you're afraid of me throwing it at you, why, you can get that out of your mind straight away. Malcolm laughed and handed half a sovereign to the man. Go and get something to eat, he said. Hold hard, said the other as Malcolm was turning away. What is your name? Does that matter, asked the young man with amusement? It matters a lot to me, said the other seriously. I like to pay back anything I borrow. Hey is my name, Malcolm Hey. It's no use giving you my address because I should be in Russia next week. In Russia, eh? That's rum. Cherry Bim scratched his unshaven chin. I'm always meeting Russians. He looked at the young engineer thoughtfully.  Malcolm looked at his watch. He would try Kentski again, he thought. But again, his mission was fruitless. He might have given up his search for this will of the wisp but for the fact that his new employers seemed to attack considerable importance to his making acquaintance with this notability of Kiev. He could hardly be out after dinner. He would try again. He addressed for the solitary meal, thinking that if his quest again failed, he could spend the evening at a theater. This time, the elderly landlady of the house in which Mr. Kentski lost informed him that her guest was at home. And a few minutes later, Malcolm was ushered into the presence of the old man. Israel Kentski eyed his visitor keenly, taking him in from his carefully tied dress bow to the tips of his polished boots. It was an approving glance. For Kentski, though he lived in one of the backwaters of civilization, though his attitude to the privileged classes of the world in which category he placed Malcolm, did that young man but know it, was deferential and even servile, had very definite views as to what was and was not appropriate in his superior's attire. He read through the letter which Malcolm had brought without a word and then, pray, sit down, Mr. Hay, he said in English. I have been expecting you. I had a letter from Mr. Tremaine. Malcolm seated himself near the rough bench at which he cast curious eyes. The paraphernalia of Kentski's hobby still lay upon its surface.  Do you think we in South Russia do nothing but make bombs? If I had not an aptitude for business, he said, he pronounced the word pizzenous and it was one of the few mispronunciations he made. I should have been a book binder. It is beautiful work, said Malcolm, who knew something of the art. It takes my mind from things, said Kentski and also it helps me. Yes, it helps me very much. Malcolm did not ask him in what manner his craft might assist a millionaire merchant for in those days he had not heard of the book of all power. The conversation which followed travelled through awkward stages and more awkward pauses. Kentski looked a dozen times at the clock and on the second occasion, Malcolm, feeling uncomfortable, rose to go, but was eagerly invited to seat himself again. You are going to Russia? Yes. It is a strange country if you do not know it and the Russians are strange people. And to Kiev also. That is most important. Malcolm did not inquire where the importance lay and dismissed this as an oblique piece of politeness on the other's part. I'm afraid I'm detaining you, Mr. Kentski.  After yet another anxious glance at the clock on the part of his host. No, no, no, protested Kentski. You must forgive me, Mr. Hay. If I seem to be dreaming and I do not entertain you, I am turning over in my mind so many possibilities, so many plans and I think I've come to the right conclusion. You shall stay and you shall know. I can rely upon your discretion, can I not? Certainly, but I know I can, said the old man nodding, and you can help me. I'm a stranger in London. Tell me, Mr. Hay, do you know the cafe of the Silver Lion? Yadda was staggered by the question. No, I can't say that I do, he admitted. I am a comparative stranger in London myself. Ah-ha, but you can find it. You know all the reference books which are so much Greek to me. You could discover it by inquiring of the police. Inquiries made very discreetly, you understand, Mr. Hay. Malcolm wondered what he was driving at, but the old man changed the subject to brunt me. Tonight you will see a lady here. She is coming to me. Again I ask for your discretion and your silence. Wait, he shuffled to the window, pulled aside the blind and looked out. She is here, he said in a whisper. You will stand just there. He indicated a position which to Malcolm was ludicrously suggestive of his standing in a corner. Further explanations could neither be given nor asked for. The door opened suddenly and a girl came in closing it behind her. She looked first at Kentski with a smile, and then at the stranger, and the smile faded from her lips. As for Malcolm, he was speechless. There was no doubt at all as to the identity. The straight nose, the glorious eyes, the full-parted lips. Kentski shuffled across to her, bent down and kissed her hand. Highness, he said humbly, this gentleman is a friend of mine. Trust old Israel Kentski, Highness. I trust you Israel Kentski, she replied in Russian, and with the sweetest smile that Malcolm had ever seen in a woman. She bowed slightly to the young man, and for the rest of the interview her eyes and speech were for the Jew. He brought a chair forward for her, dusted it carefully, and she sat down by the table, leaning her chin on her palm and looking at the old man. I could not come before, she said. It was so difficult to get away. Your Highness received my letter, she nodded. But Israel, her voice almost pleaded, you do not believe that this thing would happen. Highness, all things are possible, said the old man, here in London the sellers and garrets team with evil men. But the police, she began. The police cannot shelter you, Highness, as they do in our Russia. I must warn the Grand Duke, she said thoughtfully, and she hesitated, and a shadow passed over her face, and the Prince, is it not him they hate? Kensky shook his head. Lady, he said humbly, in my letter I told you there was something which could not be put on paper, and that I will tell you now, and if I speak of very high matters, your Highness must forgive an old man.  Your father, the Grand Duke Yaroslav, he said, has one child who is your Highness. She nodded. The heir to the Grand Duke to him is, he stopped inquiringly. The heir, she said slowly, why it is Prince Serginov. He is with us. Malcolm remembered the olive-faced young man who had sat on the seat of the royal carriage facing the girl, and instinctively he knew that this was Prince Serginov, though in what relationship he stood to the Grand Duke of Pair he had no means of knowing. The heir is Prince Serginov, said the old man slowly, and his Highness is an ambitious man. Many things can happen in our Russia, little lady, if the Grand Duke were killed. Impossible, she sprang to her feet. He would never dare. He would never dare. Who knows, he said. Men and women are the slaves of their ambition. She looked at him intently. He would never dare, she said slowly. No, no, I cannot believe that. The old man made no reply. Where did you learn this, Israelskis, she asked. From a good source highness, he replied evasively, and she nodded. I know you would not tell me this unless there was some foundation, she said. And your friend? She looked inquiringly at the silent hay. Does he know? Israelskis shook his head. I would wish that the Gospodar knew as much as possible because he will be in Kiev, and who knows what will happen in Kiev? Besides, he knows London. Malcolm did not attempt to deny the knowledge, partly because in spite of his protest, he had a fairly useful working knowledge of the metropolis. I shall ask the Gospodar to discover the meeting place of the rabble. Do suggest, she demanded, that Prince Surgeonov is behind this conspiracy, that he is the person who inspired this idea of assassination.  The world is a very wicked place, he said, and the Prince has many enemies, she added with a bright smile. You must know that, Israelskis. My cousin is chief of the political police in St. Petersburg, and it is certain that people will speak against him. The old man was eyeing her thoughtfully. Your Highness has much wisdom, he said, and I remember when you were a little girl, how you used to point out to me the bad men from the good. Tell me, lady, is Prince Surgeonov a good man or a bad man? Is he capable or incapable of such a crime? She did not answer. In truth, she could not answer. For all that Kensky had said, she had thought. She rose to her feet. I must go now, Israelskis, she said. My car is waiting for me. I will write to you. She would have gone alone, but Malcolm Haye with amazing courage stepped forward. If your Imperial Highness will accept my escort to your car, he said humbly, I shall be honoured. She looked at him in doubt. I think I would rather go alone.  I shall feel safer in my mind. She nodded and led the way down the stairs. They turned out of the garden into the street and did not speak a word. Presently the girls said in English, you must think we Russian people are barbarians. Mr Haye, suggested Malcolm, Mr Haye, that is Scottish, isn't it? Tell me, do you think we are uncivilised? No, Your Highness, stammered Malcolm, how can I think that? They walked on until they came in sight of the taillights of the car and then she stopped. You must not come any farther, she said. You can stand here and watch me go. Do you know any more than Isra Kensky told, she asked, a little anxiously. Nothing, he replied in truth. She offered her hand and he bent over it. Good night, Mr Haye. Do not forget I must see you in Kiev. He watched the red lights of the car disappear and walked quickly back to old Kensky's rooms. Russia and his appointment had a new fascination. End of chapter three, recording by Peter Tomlinson. Chapter four of The Book of All Power by Edgar Wallace. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, recording by Peter Tomlinson. Chapter four, The Prince Who Planned. Few people knew or know how powerful a man, Prince Surgeonov, really was, in these bad old days. He waged his hand and thousands of men and women disappeared. He beckoned and he had a thousand sycophantic suppliants. In the days before he became chief of the police to the entourage, he went upon a diplomatic mission to High Macedonia, the dark and sinister state. He was sent by none, but he had a reason for Demetrius, his sometime friend, had fled to the capital of the higher Balkan state and Surgeonov went down without authority to terrify his sometime confidant into returning for trial. In High Macedonia, the exquisite young man was led by sheer curiosity to make certain inquiries into the domestic administration of the country and learnt things. He hardly made himself master of these before he was sent for by the foreign minister. Highness, said the suave man, stroking his long brown beard, how long have you been in the capital? Some four days, excellency, said the prince. That is 96 hours too long, said the minister. There is a train for the north in 40 minutes. You will catch that and God be with you. Prince Surgeonov did not argue but went out from the ornate office and the minister called a man who was waiting. If his highness does not leave by the four o'clock train, cut his throat and carry the body to one of the common houses of the town, preferably that of the man Domopolo, the Greek, who is a bad character and well deserving of death. Excellency, said the man gravely and saluted his way out. They knew Surgeonov in High Macedonia and were a little anxious. Had they known him better, they would have feared him less. He did not leave by the four o'clock train but by a special which was across the frontier by four. He sat in a cold sweat till the frontier post was passed. This man was a mass of contradictions. He liked the good things of life. He brought his hosiery in Paris, his shoes in Vienna, his suits and cravats in New York and it is said of him that he made a special pilgrimage to London, the mecca of those who love good leatherwork for the characteristic attache cases which were so indispensable to the chief of gendarmerie of the Marsh town. He carried with him the irrepressible trimness and buoyancy of youth with his smooth, sallow face, his neat black mustache and his shapelessness of outline and exquisite of exquisites. They'd never felt the drafts of life or experienced its rude buffettings. His perfectly-appointed flat in the morse guia had been modelled to his taste and fancy. It was a sweet wherein you pressed buttons and comfortable things happened. You opened windows and boiled water or summoned a valley to your bedside by the gentle pressure you applied to a mother-of-pearl stud set in silver plate which, by some miracle, was always within reach. He had an entire suite converted to bathrooms where his masseur, his manicurist and his barber attended him daily. He had conscripted modern science to his service. He had so cunningly disguised its application that you might never guess the motive power of the old English clock which ticked in the spacious hall or realised at the soft night which came from the many branch candelabra which hung from the centre of his drawing-room was due to anything more up to date than the hundred most lifelike candles which filled the sockets. Yet this suave gentleman with his elegant manners and his pretty taste in old China, this genius who was the finest judge in the capital of Pecanese dogs, knew had been known to give a thousand ruble fee to the veterinary surgeon who performed a minor operation on his favourite bourgeois, had another aspect. He who shivered at the first chill winds of winter and wrapped himself in sabers whenever he drove abroad after the last days of September and had sent men and women to the bleakness of Aleksandrowski without a qualm, he had to fortify himself to face an American dentist. His fees for missed appointments would have kept the average middle-class family in comfort for a year. Was ruthless in his dealings with half-graved men and women who strayed across the frontier which divided conviction from propaganda. Physical human suffering left him unmoved. He hanged the murderer Palatov with his own hands. Yet in that operation someone saw him turn very pale and shrink back from his victim. Afterwards the reason was discovered. The condemned man had had the front of his rough shirt fastened with a safety pin which had worked loose. The point had ripped a little gash in the inexperienced finger of the amateur hangman. He brought Dr. von Kraus from Berlin because von Kraus was an authority upon blood infection and spent a week of intense mental agony until he's pronounced out of danger. He sat before a long mirror in his bedroom that gave on Horidge's hotel and surveyed himself thoughtfully. He was looking at the only man he trusted for it was not vanity but a love of agreeable company that explained the passion for mirrors which was the jest of St. Petersburg. It was his fourth day in London and a little table near the window was covered with patterns of cloth. He had spent an exciting afternoon with the representative of his tailor. But it was not of sartorial magnificence that he was thinking. He stretched out his legs comfortably towards his reflection and smiled. Yes, he said, as though answering some secret thought and he and the reflection nodded to one another as though they had reached a complete understanding. Presently he pushed the bell and his valet appeared. "'Has the Grand Duke gone?' he asked. "'Yes, Excellency,' replied the man. "'And the Grand Duchess?' "'Yes, Excellency.' "'Good,' surgeon of nodded. "'Is your Excellency's headache better?' asked the man. "'Much better,' replied the chief of police. "'Go to their highness's suite and tell their servant. "'What is the man's name?' "'Bulba, Excellency,' said the valet. "'Yes, that is the fellow. "'Ask him to come to me. "'The Grand Duke mentioned a matter "'which I forgot to tell Bulba.' "'Bulba made his appearance, a suave domestic, "'wearing the inconspicuous livery of an English butler "'rather than the ornate uniform "'which accompanied his office in Kiev.' "'That would do,' surgeon of dismissed his valet. "'Bulba, come here.' "'The man approached him and surgeon of lowered his voice. "'You have made a fool of me again, Bulba.' "'Excellency,' pleaded the man urgently. "'I have done all that was possible. "'You have placed my fortune and my life "'in the hands of an American criminal. "'If that is your idea of doing all that is possible, "'I agree with you,' said surgeon of. "'Be careful, Bulba. "'The arm of the bureau is a very long one, "'and greater men than you have disappeared from their homes.' "'Illustrious Excellency,' said the agitated man.  "'There are many reasons why I should not entrust this matter "'to the men of the secret society.' "'I should like to hear a few,' said surgeon of, "'cleaning his nails delicately. "'Excellency, the Grand Duke stands well with the society. "'He has never oppressed them, "'and he is the only popular member of the Imperial House "'without their society.' "'Our society, eh?' said surgeon of, noticing the slip.  "'Our plan was to get this American to shoot him in the park "'where he walks in the morning, "'and then for one of the society to shoot the American. "'That was a good plan, "'because it meant that the man who could talk "'would talk no more, "'and that the comrade who shot down the murderer "'would stand well with the government.' "'Surgeon of nodded. "'And your plan has failed,' he said, "'failed miserably at the outset. "'You dog!' "'He leapt to his feet, his eyes blazing, "'and Bulba stepped back. "'Heinus, wait, wait,' he cried. "'I have something else in my mind. "'I could have helped Heinus better if I'd known more. "'But I could only guess. "'I had to grope in the dark all the time.  "'What manner of fool am I? "'Tell me what you have guessed. "'You may sit down. "'Nobody will come in, "'and if they do you can be buttoning my boots. "'Bulba wiped his damp face with a handkerchief "'and leaned nearer to the man. "'If the Grand Duke dies, "'a certain illustrious person secedes to his estates,' he said, "'but not to his title.' "'Surgeon of looked at him sharply. "'The man had put into words the one difficulty "'which had occupied the mind of the chief of police for months. "'Well,' he said, "'the title is the gift of the Tsar,' said Bulba. "'He alone can create a Grand Duke "'who succeeds but is not in the direct line. "'Therefore the killing of Yaroslav would bring little "'but the property of the illustrious person, "'only if his Imperial Majesty decided upon a worthy holder "'or if the Grand Duke fell under a cloud at court "'could it pass to the illustrious person.' "'That I know,' said Surgeon of. "'Well?' "'Well, Highness, "'would it not be better if the Grand Duke were disgraced "'if he were brought to St. Petersburg "'to answer certain charges "'which the illustrious person formulated? "'After the Grand Duke might die, that is a simple matter. "'Russia would think that he'd been put to death "'by the court party as a matter of policy. "'Yaroslav is not in favour at the court,' he added significantly. "'But Surgeon of shook his head. "'He is not sufficiently out of favour yet,' he said. "'Go on, man, you have something in your mind.' "'Bulba edged closer. "'Suppose the Grand Duke or the Grand Duchess were involved "'in some conspiracy against the Imperial House?' "'He said, speaking rapidly. "'Suppose an evidence which could not be disputed, "'such as the evidence of the London police, "'it was proved that either the Grand Duke "'or his daughter was in league with an anarchist society, "'or was attending their meetings. "'Does your Excellency see?' "'I see,' said Surgeon of, "'but they do not attend meetings.' "'Bulba hesitated. "'Yet,' he said, speaking slowly, "'I would guarantee that I could bring the Grand Duchess "'Arini to such a meeting, "'and that I could arrange for the place to be raided "'while she was there. "'Surgeon of put down his orange stick and idea the keenly. "'You have brains, Bulba,' he said. "'Someday I shall bring you to St. Petersburg "'and place you on my staff, if you do not know too much.' "'He faced the apartment, his hands clasped behind his back. "'Suppose you get in touch with this American again, "'ring him to the meeting, unless he's afraid to come, "'and then boldly suggest to him "'that he goes to St. Petersburg "'to make an attempt upon the life of the Tsar himself. "'He would reject it,' said Bulba, shaking his head. "'What if he did? That doesn't matter,' said the surgeon "'of him patiently. "'It is sufficient that the suggestion is made. "'Suppose this man is amongst these infamous fellows "'when the London police raid and arrest them, "'and he makes a statement that he was approached "'to destroy the Imperial life "'and the Grand Duchess Arini is arrested at the same time. "'Bulba's eyes brightened. "'That is a wonderful idea, Highness,' he said admiringly. "'Surgeonov continued his pacing and presently stopped. "'I will arrange the police raid,' he said. "'I am in communication with Scotland Yard, "'and it would be better if I am present "'when the raid is conducted. "'It is necessary that I should identify myself "'with this chapter,' he said. "'But how will you induce the Grand Duchess to come?' "'Leave that to me, Highness,' replied the man, "'and gave some details of his scheme.' End of chapter 4, Recording by Peter Tomlinson. Chapter 5 of the Book of All Power by Edgar Wallace This LibriVox Recording is in the public domain. Recording by Peter Tomlinson. Chapter 5 The Raid on the Silver Lion Sophia Kensky was a loyal and faithful adherent to the cause she had espoused. And her report, written in the weird calligraphy of Russia, greatly interested the butter of the Grand Duke Yaroslav. From that report he learned of the visit which the Grand Duchess Irini had paid, learned too that she had been escorted to her car by an Englishman, whose name the woman did not know, and was to discover later that the said Englishman had been sent out by Israel Kensky on a special mission. That mission was to discover the Silver Lion, not very difficult task. In point of fact, it was discoverable in a London telephone directory because the upper part of the premises were used legitimately enough in the proprietor's business as restaurateur. Malcolm Hay had lunch at the place and saw nothing suspicious in its character. Most of the clientele were obviously foreign and not a few were Russian. Pretending to lose his way, he wandered through the service door and there made the important discovery that the kitchen was on the top floor and also that meals were being served somewhere in the basement. This he saw during the few minutes he was allowed to make observations because there was a service lift which was sent down to the unseen clients below. He apologised for his intrusion and went out. Officially, there was no basement room nor, from the restaurant itself, any sign of stairs which led down to an underground chamber. He made a further reconnaissance and found the back door which Sophie Kensky had described in her hypnotic sleep and the location of which the old man had endeavoured to convey to his agent. Malcolm Hay was gifted with many of the qualities which make up the equipment of a good detective. In addition, he had the education and training of an engineer that the underground room existed he knew by certain structural evidence and waited about in the street until he saw three men come out and the door closed behind them. After a while, another two emerged. There was nothing sinister or romantic about the existence of a basement dining room or even of a basement club room. The character of this club was probably well known to the police, he thought, and pursued his enquiries to Marlborough Street Police Station. There he found as he had expected that the club was registered and known as the Foreign Friends of Freedom Club. The officer who supplied him with the information told him that the premises were visited at frequent intervals by a representative of the police and that nothing of an irregular character had been reported. Have you any complaints to make? asked the official. None whatever, smiled Hay, only I'm writing an article on the Foreign Clubs of London and I want to be sure of my facts. It was the first and most plausible lie that occurred to him and it answered the purpose. He returned to Kentski with his information and the old man producing a map of London he marked the spot with a red cross. All this time Malcolm Hay was busy making preparations for departure. He would have been glad to stay on so that his leaving London would coincide with the departure of the Grand Duchess but his sleeper had already been booked and he had to make a call en route at Vienna. It was on the occasion of this visit with details of the location and character of the club that he first saw Sophia Kentski. He thought her pretty in a bold, heavy way and she regarded him with insolent indifference. It was one of the few occasions in his life that he spoke with her. The Gospodar is going to Kiev, Sophia Kentski. Introduce the old man. What were you doing Kiev? Excellency, asked the woman, indolently. I shall not be in Kiev, smiled Hay, except on rare occasions. I am taking charge of some oil wells about 20 verses outside the town. It is a terrible life living in the country, she said, and he was inclined to agree. This and a few trite sentiments about Russian weather and Russian seasons were the only words he ever exchanged with her in his life. Years later, when he stood, hardly daring to breathe, in the cupboard of a commissary's office and heard a wild denunciation of the man who had sent her to death, he was to recall this first and only meeting. Israel Kentski dismissed his daughter without ceremony, and it was then that Malcolm Hay told him the result of his investigations. The old man sat for a long time, stroking his beard. Two more days, they stay in this town, he said, half to himself, and that is the dangerous time. He looked up sharply at Hay.  Would you not help out an old man to save this young life from misery and sorrow? Malcolm Hay looked at him in astonishment. To save whom, he asked? The Grand Duchess, replied Kentski moodily, it is for her I fear more than for her father. Malcolm Hay was on the point of blurting out the very vital truth that there was nothing in the wide world he would not do to save that wonderful being from the slightest ache or pain, but he thought it best to disemble the craziest of infatuations that ever a penniless and obscure engineer felt for a daughter of the Imperial House of Russia. Instead, he murmured some conventional expressions of his willingness. It is in this club that the danger lies, said Kentski. I know these societies, Mr. Hay, and I fear they're most when they look most innocent. Could you not get the police to watch? asked Malcolm. Had he lived in Russia, or had he had the experience, which was his in the following 12 months, he would not have asked so absurd a question. No, no, said Kentski, this is not a matter for the police, it is a matter for those who love her. What can I do? asked Malcolm Haysterly. He had a horrible feeling that his secret had been surprised, for he was of the age when love is fearless of everything except ridicule. You could watch the club, said Kentski. I myself would go, but I am too old, and this English weather makes me sick. You mean actually watch it, said Malcolm, in surprise. Why? I'll do that like a shot. Note who goes in and who comes out, said Kentski. Be on hand at all times in case you are called upon for help. You'll see my daughter there, he said, after a pause, and a faint smile curved his pale lips. Yes, Sophia Kentski is a great conspirator. Whom do you expect me to see? asked the other bluntly. Kentski got up from his chair and went to a leather bag which stood on the sideboard. This he unlocked, and from a mass of papers took a photograph. He brought it back to the young man. Why? said Malcolm, in surprise. That is the man, Surjanov, the prince fellow. Kentski nodded slowly. That is Surjanov, he said. Here is another picture of him, but not of his face. It was, in fact, a snapshot photograph showing the back of the police chief, and it might have been, taught Malcolm, of a tailor's dummy with its wasp waist and its perfectly pleased trousers. Particularly, I wish to know whether he will visit the club in the next two days, said the old man. It is important that you should look for him. Anybody else? Kentski hesitated. I hope not, he said, I hope not. Malcolm Hay went back to his hotel, feeling a new zest in life. His experience of the past few days had been incredible. He, an unknown student, had found himself suddenly plunged into the heart of an anarchist plot, and on nodding turns with royal highnesses. He laughed softly as he sat on the edge of his bed and reviewed all the circumstances, but did not laugh when the thought occurred to him that the danger which might be threatening this girl was very real. That side of the adventure sobered him. He had enough sense to see that it was the unleanable right of youth to believe in fairies and to love beautiful princesses, and that such passions were entitled to disturb the rest and obscure the judgment of their victims for days and even for weeks. But he had an unpleasant conviction that he was looking at the grand duchess from an angle which was outside his experience of fairy stories. That night, when he went on his way to take up his police duty in the little street behind the Silver Lion, he saw two mounted policemen trotting briskly down the strand, followed by a clothed carriage, and in the light of the electric standard he caught a glimpse of a face which set his heart beating faster. He cursed himself for his folly, swore so vigorously and so violent as his own stupidity that he did not realize he was talking aloud until the open mouth indignation of an elderly lady brought him to a sense of decorum. She was going to the theatre, of course, he thought, and wondered what theatre would be graced by her presence. He half regretted his promise to Israelkensky which prevented him discovering the house of entertainment and securing a box or a stall from whence he could feast his eyes upon her face. His vigil was painfully monotonous. It was the most uninteresting job he had ever undertaken. Most of the habituaries of the club had eventually come at an early hour for he saw nobody come in and nobody go out until nearly eleven o'clock. It began to rain a fine thin drizzle which penetrated every crevice which insinuated itself down his neck though his collar was upturned and then on top of this came a gusty easterly wind which chilled him to the marrow. Keating in the shadow of the house's opposite he maintained, however, a careful scrutiny thereby earning the suspicion of a policeman who passed him twice on his beat before he stopped to ask if he were looking for somebody. As midnight chimed from the neighbouring church the door of the club opened and its members came out. Malcolm crossed the road and walked down to meet them since they all seemed to be coming in the same direction. There were about twenty men and they were speaking in Russian or Yiddish but the subjects of their discourse were of the most innocent character. He saw nobody he knew or had ever seen before. Israel Kensky had expected that the St. Petersburg Chief of Police would be present. That expectation was not realised. Then he heard the door bolted and chained and went home after the most unprofitable evening he had ever spent. How much better it would have been to sit in a warm theatre with perhaps a clear view of the girl watching her every movement, seeing her smile, noting her little tricks of manner or gesture. In the end he laughed himself into a sane condition of mind, et a hearty supper and went to bed to dream that Surgeonov was pursuing him with a hammer in his hand and that the grand Duchess was sitting in a box wildly applauding the efforts of her homicidal relative. The next afternoon Malcolm Hay was packing with the remainder of his belongings a few articles he had purchased in London. Amongst these was a small and serviceable cult revolver and he stood balancing this in the palm of his hand uncertain as to whether it would not be better to retain his weapon until after his present adventure. Twice he put it into his portmanteau and twice he took it out again and finally blushing at the act he slipped the weapon into his hip pocket. He felt theatrical and cheap in doing so. He taught himself that he was investing a very commonplace measure of precaution taken by old Israel Kensky who was probably in the secret police to protect his protégé with an importance and a romance which it did not deserve. He went down to his post that night feeling horribly self-conscious. This time he kept on the same side of the street as that on which the club was situated. His watch was rewarded by events of greater interest than had occurred on the previous night. He had not been on duty half an hour before two men walked rapidly from the end of the street and passed him so closely that he could not make any mistake as to the identity of one. Had he not been able to recognize him his voice would have instantly betrayed his identity for as they passed the shorter one of the two was talking. I'm one of those guys who don't believe in starving to death in a delicatessen store. Malcolm looked after the pair in amazement. It was the little man whom he had befriended in the courtyard of Charing Cross Station. Other people drifted through the door in ones and twos and then a man came walking smartly across the street betraying the soldier at every stride. Malcolm turned and strolled in his direction. There was no mistaking him, either, though he was muffled up to the chin.  There was no excuse for error. It was Colonel Prince Surgeonoff beyond a doubt. A quarter of an hour later came the real shock of the evening. A girl was almost on top of him before he saw her but she was wearing shoes which made no sound. He had only time to turn so that she did not see his face before she too entered the door and passed in. The grand duchess, Ann Surgeonoff, and the American adventurer. What had these three in common, he wanted? And now he recalled the warning of the old man. Perhaps the girl was in danger. The thought brought him to the door with his hand raised and touching the bell push before he realized his folly. There was nothing to do but wait. Five minutes passed in ten minutes and then Malcolm Hay became conscious of the fact that something unusual was happening in the street. It was more thickly populated. Half a dozen men had appeared at either end of the street and were moving slowly towards him. As though, and then in a flash he realized just what was happening, it was a police raid.  He first thought of the girl. She must not be involved in this. He raced towards the door, but somebody had ran quicker and his hand was on the bell push when he was swung violently backwards and an authoritative voice said, take that man, Sergeant. A hand gripped his shoulder and somebody peered in his face. Why is English, he said in surprise. Yes, yes, gas Malcolm. I'm sorry to interfere, but there is a lady in there in whom I'm rather interested.  That's about the size of it, said a man in civilian clothes and then suspiciously, who are you? Malcolm explained his status and called him. Take my advice and get away. Don't be mixed up in this business, said the officer. You can release him, Sergeant. What's the time? A clock struck at that moment and the officer in charge of the raid pressed the bell. If you've a lady friend involved in this, perhaps you'd like to stand by, he said. She may want you to bail her out. He added good humoredly. End of chapter five, The Raid on the Silver Lion. Recording by Peter Tomlinson. Chapter six of The Book of All Power by Edgar Wallace. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Peter Tomlinson. Chapter six, Prince Serginoff pays the price. Mr. Cherry Bim, a citizen of the world and an adventurer at large, was an optimist to his fingertips. He also held certain races in profound contempt, not because he knew the countries, but because he had met representatives of those nations in America and judged by their characteristics. So that the man called Yakov, whose task it was to invigor Mr. Bim again to the premises of the Friends of Freedom Club, found to his astonishment that Mr. Bim required very little in vaguely. The truth was, of course, that the gunman had a supreme contempt for all Russians, whom he had classified mistakenly as Lithuanians and Pollacks. To the fervent promise made by Mr. Yakov that no harm would come to him, Cherry Bim had replied briefly, but unprintedly. Of course, there'll be no harm come to me, he said scornfully. You don't think I would worry what that bunch will do? No, sir, but I'm powerfully disinclined to associate myself with people out of my class. It doesn't do a man any good to be seen around with Pollacks and let's. Yakov earnestly implored him to come and give the benefit of his experience to the assembly and had promised him substantial payment. This latter argument was one which Cherry Bim could understand and appreciate. He accepted on the spot and came down to the stuffy little underground room, expecting no more than to be asked to deliver a lecture on the gentle art of assassination. Not that he knew very much about it because Cherry, with three or four men to his credit, had shot them in fair fight. But a hundred pounds was a lot of money and he badly needed just enough to shake the mud of England from his shoes and seek a land more prolific in possibilities. The first thing he noticed on arrival was that Bulba, the man who had interrogated him before, was not present.  The second curious circumstance which struck him was that he was received also in an ominous silence. The black-bearded man who spoke in perfect English indicated a chair to the left of him. Sit down, comrade, he said. We have asked you to come because we have another proposition to make to you. If it's a croaking proposition, you needn't go any farther, said Cherry. And I won't trouble you with my presence, gents. And he looked in vain for the woman he had seen before and added that he might round off his sentence gracefully. Fellow murderers! Mr. Bim, said Nicholas in his curious sing-song tone, does it not make your blood boil to see the tyranny in high places? Now, can that stuff? said Cherry Bim. Nothing makes my blood boil or would make my blood boil except sitting on a stove, I guess. Tyranny doesn't mean any more in my young life than Hennessy and tyrants more than hydrants. I guess I was brought up in a land of freedom and glory where the only tyrant you ever meet is a traffic cop. If this is another croaking job, why, gents, I won't trouble you any longer. He half rose, but Nicholas pushed him down. Not even if it was the Tsar, he said calmly. Cherry Bim gaped at him.  What are you getting at? Would you shoot the Tsar for £2,000? asked Nicholas.  I'm through, he said, and that's all there is to it. It was at that moment that Surgeonov came through the door and Cherry Bim remained where he stood, surprised to silence, for the face of the newcomer was covered from chin to forehead by a black silk mask. The door was shut behind him. He walked slowly to the table and dropped into a broken chair. Cherry's eye is never leaving his face. For fifteen years, said the gunman, speaking slowly, I've been a crook, but never once have I seen a guy got up like that villain in a movie picture. Say, mister, let's have a look at your face. Cherry Bim was not the only person perturbed by the arrival of a mask stranger. Only three men in the room were in the secret of the newcomer's identity, and suspicions and scowling faces were turned upon him. You will excuse me, said the mask, but there are many reasons why you should not see me or know me again. And there's a mighty lot of reasons why you shouldn't know me again, said Cherry. Yet I've obliged you with a close-up of my distinguished features. You have heard the proposition, said the man. What do you think of it? I think it's a full proposition, replied Cherry, contemptuously. I've told these lads before that I'm not falling for the Lucretia-Vorger stuff, and I'm telling you the same. The masked man chuckled. Well, don't let us quarrel, he said. Nicholas, give him the money, we've promised. Nicholas put his hand in his pocket and brought out a roll of notes, which he tossed to the man on his left. And Cherry Vim, to whom tainted money was as acceptable as tainted pheasant to the Epicure, pocketed it with a smack of his lips. Now, there's anything I can do for you, boys, he said. Here's your chance to make use of me. Though I say it myself, there ain't a man in New York with my experience, tact and finesse. Show me a job that can be done single-handed with a dividend at the end of it, and I'll show you a man who can take it on. In the meantime, said he affably, the drinks are on me. Call the waiter and order the best in the house. Surgeonov held up his hand. Wait, he said. Was that the door? Nicholas nodded, and the whole room stood in silence and watched the door slowly open. There was a gasp of astonishment, of genuine surprise, for Irina Yaroslav was well known to them, and it was Irina Yaroslav who stood with her back to the door. She wore a long black cloak of sable, and by her coiffure it was evident that she was wearing an evening toilette beneath her cloak. Where is Izrael Kensky, she asked. She did not immediately see the man in the mask's face, for he sat under a light and his broad-brimmed hat threw his face into shadow. Nobody answered her, and she asked again, where is Izrael Kensky? He is not here, said Surgeonov Cooley, as she took two paces and stopped dead, clasping her hands before her. What does this mean, she asked. What are you doing here, sir? Stop! His voice was almost a shout, and yet there was a shake in it. Surgeonov realized the danger of his own position, if amongst these men were some who had cause to hate him. Do not mention my name, Irina. What are you doing here, she asked, and where is Izrael Kensky? He has not come. Surgeonov's voice was uneven and his hands shook. She turned to go, but he was before her and stood with his back to the entrance. He will wait, he said. What insolence is this, she demanded haughtily. I had a letter from Izrael Kensky telling me to come here under his protection, and I should learn the truth of the plot against my father. Surgeonov had recovered something of his self-possession and laughed softly. It was I who sent you that letter, Irina. I sent it because I particularly desired you here at this moment. You shall pay for this, she said, and tried to force her way past him. But his strong hands gripped her and pushed her back. She turned with a flaming face upon the men. You are men, she asked, that you allow this villain who betrayed my father and will betray you to treat a woman so. She spoke in Russian and nobody moved. Then the voice said, speak English, miss. She turned and glanced gratefully at the start little man with his grotesque derby hat and his good-humoured smile. I've been brought here by trick, she said breathlessly, by this man. She pointed to Surgeonov. Will you help me leave? You're English, aren't you? American, miss, said Cherry Bim.  Stop! cried Surgeonov hoarsely, and instinctively at the sight of the leveled revolver, Cherry's hands went up. You'll keep out of this and do not interfere, said Surgeonov. You have all the trouble you want before this evening is through. Irene, come here. At one side of the room was a narrow doorway which most of the members believed led to a cupboard but which a few knew was a safety bolt in case of trouble. The prince had recognised the door by its description and had edged his way towards it, taking the key from his pocket. He gripped the goal by the waist and inserted the key and flung open the door. She struggled to escape, but the hand that held the key also held the revolver and never once did it point anywhere but at Cherry Bim's anatomy. Hell! cried the girl. This man is Surgeonov, the chief of police at Petrograd. There was a crash in the sound of hurrying footsteps. A voice from the outer hall screamed, The police! At that moment, Surgeonov dragged the girl through the doorway and slammed it behind him. They were in a small cellar almost entirely filled with barrels with only a narrow alleyway left to reach the father door. He dragged us through this apartment up a short flight of stairs. They were on the level of the restaurant and the girl could hear the clatter of plates as he pushed her up another stairway into her room. By its furniture, she guessed it was a private dining room. The blinds were drawn and she had no means of knowing whether the apartment overlooked the front or the back of the premises.  I thought you would recognise me, he said coolly. What does this outrage mean? asked the girl with heaving bosom. You shall pay for this, Colonel. There will be a lot of payment to be made before this matter is through, he said calmly. Calm yourself, Irene, I have saved you from a great disgrace. Are you aware that at the moment I brought you from that room the English police were raiding it? I should not have been in the room but for you, she said. My father, it is about your father I want to speak, he said. Irene, I am the sole heir to your father's estate. Beyond the property which is settled on you, you have nothing. My affection for you is known and approved at court. Your affection, she laughed bitterly. I'd assume have the affection of a wolf. You could not have a more complete wolf than I, he said meaningly. Do you know what has happened tonight? An anarchist club in London has been raided and the Grand Duchess, Irene Yaroslav, has been found in the company of men whose object is to destroy the monarchy. She realised with a sickening sense of disaster all that it meant. She knew, as well as he, in what bad odour her father stood at court and guessed the steps which would be taken if this matter became public. I was brought here by a trick, she said steadily. A letter came to me as I thought from Israel Kensky. It was from me, he interrupted. And you planned the raid, of course, he nodded. I planned the raid in the most promising circumstances, he said. The gentleman who offered to be your good night is a well-known New York gunman. He is wanted by the police who probably have him in an custody at this moment. He was brought here tonight and an offer was made to him, an offer of a large sum of money on condition that he would destroy the czar. She gasped. You see, my little Irene, that when this gunman's evidence is taken in court, matters will look very bad for the Yaroslav family. What do you propose, she asked. There are two alternatives, he said. The first is that I should arrest you and hand you over to the police. The second is that you should undertake most solemnly to marry me, in which case I will take you away from here. She was silent. Is there a third possibility, she asked, and he shook his head. My dear, he said familiarly as he flicked a speck of dust from his sleeve. I think you will take the easier way.  As I happen to know, some of the best families in Russia are associated with plotters of this type. As for the American who might be inclined to talk, in a few weeks he will be on his way to New York to serve a life sentence. I've been looking up his record and particularly drew the attention to the English police to the fact that he would be here tonight. Cherry Bim creeping up the stairs in his stocking feet, he had marked and shot the fuse box to pieces before the police came in and had burst his way through the door in the wall, heard the sound of voices in the little room and stopped to listen. It was not a thick door and he could hear Sergeinov's voice very clearly. He stooped down to the keyhole. Sergeinov had not taken the key out and it was an old-fashioned key, the end of which projected an eighth of an inch on the other side of the door. Cherry Bim felt in his pocket and produced a pair of peculiar-shaped nippers and gripped the end of the key, turning it gently. Then he slipped his handy gun from his pocket and waited. Now, Irene, said Sergeinov's voice, you must decide. In a few minutes the police will be up here for they are instructed to make a complete search of the house. I can easily explain that you were here to witness the raid, all that I have followed you up and arrested you, which is it to be? She still did not answer. Sergeinov had laid his revolver on the table and this she was manoeuvring to reach. He divined her intention before she sprang forward and gripping her by the waist through her back.  Sure thing it will, said a voice behind him. He turned as swift as a cat and fired. The horrified girl heard only one shot, so quickly did one report follow the other. She saw a cherry-bim raise his hand and wipe the blood from his cheek, saw the splinter of wood where the bullet had struck behind him, then Sergeinov groaned and sprawled forward over the table. She dared not look at him, but followed Bim's beckoning finger. Down the stairs and out of that door, Miss, he said, all the bulls will have you. She did not ask him who the bulls were. She could guess. She flew down the stairs with trembling hands, unfastened the lock, and stepped into the street. It was empty, safe for two men, and one of these came forward to meet her without stretched hands. Thank God you're safe, he said. You weren't there, were you? Malcolm Hay was incoherent. The detective who was with him could but smile a little for the girl had come out of the door, which, according to his instructions, led only to the private dining room. Take me away, she whispered. He put his arm about her trembling figure and let her along the street. All the time he was in terror, lest the police should call her back and desire him to identify her. But nothing happened, and they gained Sharsbury Avenue and a blessed taxi cab. To Israelskensky, she said, I can't go home like this. He stretched out of the window and gave fresh instructions.  Oh, it was dreadful, dreadful. What happened, he asked. She shook her head. Then suddenly, no, no, I must go home. Will you tell the cabman? There is a chance that I may get into my suite without Bulba seeing. Will you go on to Israelskensky after you have left me and tell him what has happened? He nodded and again gave the change of instructions. They reached the hotel at a period when most of the guests were either lingering over their dinner or had gone to the theater.  How do I know that you will get in without detection? She smiled in spite of her distress.  She laughed. But I am afraid even you could not invent a story which will convince my father if he knew I'd been to that horrible place. Presently, she said, my room overlooks the street. If I get in without detection, I will come to the window and wave a handkerchief. He waited in a fit of apprehension until, presently, he saw a light leap up to three windows and her figure appeared. There was a flutter of a white handkerchief and the blinds were drawn. Malcolm Hay drove to made a veil feeling that the age of romance was not wholly dead. To his surprise, Kenski had had the news before he reached there. Is she safe? Is she safe? asked the old man tremorously. Now, thank Jehovah for his manifold blessings and mercies. I feared something was wrong. The Highness wrote to me this afternoon and I did not get the letter, said Israel. They way-laid the messenger and wrote and told her to go to the silver lion, the devils. His hand was shaking as he took out the poker to stir the fire. He, at any rate, would trouble none of us again. He said with malignant satisfaction. He? Who? Surgeonov, said the old man. He was dead when the police found him. And the American asked, hey? Only Russians were arrested, said Israel Kenski. I do not think I shall see him again. Unless he was wrong, those six years were to pass before they met. The mystic Israel Kenski, Cherry Bim, the modern night errant, and Malcolm Hay. End of chapter six, Recording by Peter Tomlinson.