The Council of Justice, Edgar Wallace [english novels to read .txt] 📗
- Author: Edgar Wallace
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singing of anthems and the enthusiastic proselytizer had spoken on that
occasion two hours and forty minutes by the clock.
After twelve months’ labour the Christian gentleman discovered that
the advantages of Christianity only appeal to very rich Jews indeed, to
the Cohens who become Cowans, to the Isaacs who become Grahames, and to
the curious low-down Jews who stand in the same relation to their
brethren as White Kaffirs to a European community.
So the hall passed from hand to hand, and, failing to obtain a music
and dancing licence, went back to the mission-hall stage.
Successive generations of small boys had destroyed its windows and
beplastered its walls. Successive fly-posters had touched its blank
face with colour. Tonight there was nothing to suggest that there was
any business of extraordinary importance being transacted within its
walls. A Russian or a Yiddish or any kind of reunion does not greatly
excite Middlesex Street, and had little Peter boldly announced that the
congress of the Red Hundred were to meet in full session there would
have been no local excitement and—if the truth be told—he might still
have secured the services of his three policemen and commissionaire.
To this worthy, a neat, cleanly gentleman in uniform, wearing on his
breast the medals for the relief of Chitral and the Soudan Campaigns,
the two men delivered the perforated halves of their tickets and passed
through the outer lobby into a small room. By a door at the other end
stood a thin man with a straggling beard. His eyes were red-rimmed and
weak, he wore long narrow buttoned boots, and he had a trick of pecking
his head forwards and sideways like an inquisitive hen.
‘You have the word, brothers?’ he asked, speaking German like one
unaccustomed to the language.
The taller of the two strangers shot a swift glance at the sentinel
that absorbed the questioner from his cracked patent leather boots to
his flamboyant watch-chain. Then he answered in Italian:
‘Nothing!’
The face of the guardian flushed with pleasure at the familiar
tongue.
‘Pass, brother; it is very good to hear that language.’
The air of the crowded hall struck the two men in the face like the
blast from a destructor. It was unclean; unhealthy—the scent of an
early-morning doss-house.
The hall was packed, the windows were closed and curtained, and as a
precautionary measure, little Peter had placed thick blankets before
the ventilators.
At one end of the hall was a platform on which stood a semicircle of
chairs and in the centre was a table draped with red. On the wall
behind the chairs—every one of which was occupied—was a huge red flag
bearing in the centre a great white ‘C’. It had been tacked to the
wall, but one corner had broken away revealing a part of the painted
scroll of the mission workers:
‘…are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth.’
The two intruders pushed their way through a group that were
gathered at the door. Three aisles ran the length of the building, and
they made their way along the central gangway and found seats near the
platform.
A brother was speaking. He was a good and zealous worker but a bad
orator. He spoke in German and enunciated commonplaces with hoarse
emphasis. He said all the things that other men had said and forgotten.
‘This is the time to strike’ was his most notable sentence, and notable
only because it evoked a faint buzz of applause.
The audience stirred impatiently. The good Bentvitch had spoken
beyond his allotted time; and there were other people to speak—and
prosy at that. And it would be ten o’clock before the Woman of Gratz
would rise.
The babble was greatest in the corner of the hall, where little
Peter, all eyes and startled eyebrows, was talking to an audience of
his own.
‘It is impossible, it is absurd, it is most foolish!’ his thin voice
rose almost to a scream. ‘I should laugh at it—we should all laugh,
but the Woman of Gratz has taken the matter seriously, and she is
afraid!’
‘Afraid!’
‘Nonsense!’
‘Oh, Peter, the fool!’
There were other things said because everybody in the vicinity
expressed an opinion. Peter was distressed, but not by the epithets. He
was crushed, humiliated, beaten by his tremendous tidings. He was
nearly crying at the horrible thought. The Woman of Gratz was afraid!
The Woman of Gratz who…It was unthinkable.
He turned his eyes toward the platform, but she was not there.
‘Tell us about it, Peter,’ pleaded a dozen voices; but the little
man with the tears twinkling on his fair eyelashes waved them off.
So far from his incoherent outburst they had learnt only this—that
the Woman of Gratz was afraid.
And that was bad enough.
For this woman—she was a girl really, a slip of a child who should
have been finishing her education somewhere in Germany—this same woman
had once risen and electrified the world.
There had been a meeting in a small Hungarian town to discuss ways
and means. And when the men had finished their denunciation of Austria,
she rose and talked. A short-skirted little girl with two long flaxen
braids of hair, thin-legged, flat-chested, angular, hipless—that is
what the men of Gratz noticed as they smiled behind their hands and
wondered why her father had brought her to the meeting.
But her speech…two hours she spoke and no man stirred. A little
flat-chested girl full of sonorous phrases—mostly she had collected
them from the talk in Old Joseph’s kitchen. But with some power of her
own, she had spun them together, these inconsiderable truisms, and had
endowed them with a wondrous vitality.
They were old, old platitudes, if the truth be told, but at some
time in the history of revolution, some long dead genius had coined
them, and newly fashioned in the furnace of his soul they had shaped
men’s minds and directed their great and dreadful deeds.
So the Woman of Gratz arrived, and they talked about her and
circulated her speeches in every language. And she grew. The hollow
face of this lank girl filled, and the flat bosom rounded and there
came softer lines and curves to her angular figure, and, almost before
they realized the fact, she was beautiful.
So her fame had grown until her father died and she went to Russia.
Then came a series of outrages which may be categorically and briefly
set forth:—
1: General Maloff shot dead by an unknown woman in his private room
at the Police Bureau, Moscow.
2: Prince Hazallarkoff shot dead by an unknown woman in the streets
of Petrograd.
3: Colonel Kaverdavskov killed by a bomb thrown by a woman who made
her escape.
And the Woman of Gratz leapt to a greater fame. She had been
arrested half a dozen times, and whipped twice, but they could prove
nothing against her and elicit nothing from her—and she was very
beautiful.
Now to the thundering applause of the waiting delegates, she stepped
upon the platform and took the last speaker’s place by the side of the
red-covered table.
She raised her hand and absolute and complete silence fell on the
hall, so much so that her first words sounded strident and shrill, for
she had attuned her voice to the din. She recovered her pitch and
dropped her voice to a conversational tone.
She stood easily with her hands clasped behind her and made no
gesture. The emotion that was within her she conveyed through her
wonderful voice. Indeed, the power of the speech lay rather in its
delivery than in its substance, for only now and then did she depart
from the unwritten text of Anarchism: the right of the oppressed to
overthrow the oppressor; the divinity of violence; the sacredness of
sacrifice and martyrdom in the cause of enlightenment. One phrase alone
stood apart from the commonplace of her oratory. She was speaking of
the Theorists who counsel reform and condemn violence, ‘These Christs
who deputize their Calvaries,’ she called them with fine scorn, and the
hall roared its approval of the imagery.
It was the fury of the applause that disconcerted her; the taller of
the two men who sat watching her realized that much. For when the
shouting had died down and she strove to resume, she faltered and
stammered and then was silent. Then abruptly and with surprising
vehemence she began again. But she had changed the direction of her
oratory, and it was upon another subject that she now spoke. A subject
nearer to her at that moment than any other, for her pale cheeks
flushed and a feverish light came to her eyes as she spoke.
‘…and now, with all our perfect organization, with the world
almost within our grasp—there comes somebody who says “Stop!”—and
we who by our acts have terrorized kings and dominated the councils
of empires, are ourselves threatened!’
The audience grew deadly silent. They were silent before, but now
the silence was painful.
The two men who watched her stirred a little uneasily, as though
something in her speech had jarred. Indeed, the suggestion of
braggadocio in her assertion of the Red Hundred’s power had struck a
discordant note.
The girl continued speaking rapidly.
‘We have heard—you have heard—we know of these men who have
written to us. They say’—her voice rose—‘that we shall not do what we
do. They threaten us—they threaten me—that we must change our
methods, or they will punish as—as we—punish; kill as we kill—’
There was a murmuring in the audience and men looked at one another
in amazement. For terror unmistakable and undisguised was written on
her pale face and shone from those wondrous eyes of hers.
‘But we will defy—’
Loud voices and the sound of scuffling in the little anteroom
interrupted her, and a warning word shouted brought the audience to its
feet.
‘The police!’
A hundred stealthy hands reached for cunning pockets, but somebody
leapt upon a bench, near the entrance, and held up an authoritative
hand.
‘Gentlemen, there is no occasion for alarm—I am
Detective-Superintendent Falmouth from Scotland Yard, and I have no
quarrel with the Red Hundred.’
Little Peter, transfixed for the moment, pushed his way towards
the detective.
‘Who do you want—what do you want?’ he asked.
The detective stood with his back to the door and answered.
‘I want two men who were seen to enter this hall: two members of an
organization that is outside the Red Hundred. They—’
‘Ha!’ The woman who still stood upon the platform leant forward with
blazing eyes.
‘I know—I know!’ she cried breathlessly; ‘the men who threatened
us—who threatened me—The Four Just Men!’
CHAPTER II. The Fourth Man
The tall man’s hand was in his pocket when the detective spoke.
When he had entered the hall he had thrown a swift glance round the
place and taken in every detail. He had seen the beaded strip of
unpainted wood which guarded the electric light cables, and had
improved the opportunity whilst the prosy brother was speaking to make
a further reconnaissance. There was a white porcelain switchboard with
half a dozen switches at the left-hand side of the platform. He judged
the distance and threw up the hand that held the pistol.
Bang! Bang!
A crash of broken glass, a quick flash of blue flame from the
shattered fuses—and the hall was in darkness. It happened before the
detective could spring from his form into the yelling, screaming
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