“I can’t make terms until I talk with your niece.”
Kapaloff expostulated gently but firmly. “That is not possible. I am sorry, but you must understand that my position is very delicate, and I cannot permit it to become more complicated.”
“No talk, no terms,” Phil said flatly.
Kapaloff let his distress furrow his brow. “Think it over. You must know that I shall not be pleased by the necessity of making you suffer. In fact” — with a whimsical smile — “Serge will be the only participant who enjoys it.”
“Bring on the knife,” Phil said coolly. “No talk, no terms.”
Kapaloff nodded to Serge, who left the room.
“There is no hurry — a few minutes’ delay doesn’t matter,” Kapaloff urged. “Consider your position. Think! Under Serge’s skilled hands you will tell — do not doubt it — but then you lose the extra five hundred dollars, besides causing me no little anguish — to say nothing of your own plight.”
Phil’s smile matched Kapaloff’s for affability. “It would be just wasting time. If I can’t see Miss Kapaloff I’ll stand pat.”
Serge returned with an alcohol-lamp and a small poniard. He set the lamp on the table, lit it, and held the blade in the flame. Phil watched the preparations with a face that was tranquil. He noticed, suddenly, that the hand holding the poniard trembled, and, raising his eyes, he saw tiny globules of moisture glistening on Serge’s forehead. His face was haggard, with white lines around the mouth. Mikhail put Phil down on the bed again, gripping his ankles firmly. Phil said nothing. He was beginning to enjoy himself — knowing that he could stop the whole thing with a word. Serge’s knees were trembling noticeably now; and Mikhail’s fingers around Phil’s ankles jerked and were moist with perspiration.
Phil grinned and spoke banteringly to Kapaloff: “You should rehearse these men of yours. I bet their torturing is not better than their burglary.”
Kapaloff chuckled good-naturedly. “But you must consider that a bungling torturer may obtain effects that are beyond a skilled one.”
Then Serge came to the bed, the poniard glowing in his shaking hand.
Phil spoke casually: “If you don’t mind, I’d like to sit up and watch this.”
“Certainly!” Kapaloff assisted him to a sitting position. “Is there anything else I can do to make it more bearable?”
“Thanks, no. I can manage nicely now.”
Serge was extending the heated dagger toward the soles of Phil’s feet, from which Mikhail had removed the stockings. The blade was wavering in the man’s nervous hands; his eves were bulging, and his face was wet with perspiration. Mikhail’s fingers were pressing into Phil’s ankles, grinding the flesh painfully; both of Kapaloff’s assistants were breathing hoarsely. Phil forced himself to disregard the pain of Mikhail’s grip, and smiled derisively. The point of the poniard was within an inch of his feet. Then Serge let it fall to the floor, and shrank back from the bed. Kapaloff spoke to him. Slowly Serge stooped for the poniard, and went to the lamp to reheat it, his body quivering as with ague.
He came to the bed again, his teeth clenched behind taut, bloodless lips. He bent over the bed, and Phil felt the heat of the approaching blade. Lazily he glanced at Kapaloff, carrying his acting to its pinnacle just before surrendering. Then, with a choking cry, Serge flung the poniard from him and dropped on his knees before Kapaloff, pleading pitifully. Kapaloff answered with exaggerated gentleness, as one would speak to an infant. Serge got to his feet slowly, and backed away, his head hanging. One of Kapaloff’s hands came out of his pocket, holding a pistol. The pistol spat flame. Serge caught both hands to his body, and crumpled to the floor.
Kapaloff walked unhurriedly to where the man had fallen, put the toe of one trim shoe under Serge’s shoulder, and turned him over on his back. Then, the pistol hanging loosely at his side, he sent four bullets into Serge’s face, wiping out the features in a red smear.
Kapaloff turned and looked, with eyes that held nothing but polite expectation, at Mikhail. Mikhail had released Phil’s ankles at the first shot, and now stood erect, his hands at his sides. His chest was moving jerkily and the scar across his face was crimson; but his eyes were fixed upon the wall and his face was wooden. For a full minute Kapaloff looked at Mikhail, and then turned hack to the figure at his feet. A drop of blood glistened on the toe of the shoe with which he had turned the man over. Carefully he rubbed the foot against the dead man’s side until the blood was gone. Then he spoke to Mikhail, who lifted the lifeless form in his powerful arms and left the room.
Kapaloff pocketed his pistol, and a courteously apologetic smile appeared on his face; as if he were a housewife who had been compelled to rebuke a maid in the presence of a guest. Phil was sick and giddy with horror, but he forced himself to accept the challenge of the smile, and said with a fair semblance of amusement: “You shouldn’t have misinformed me about Serge’s love for the hot knife.”
Kapaloff chuckled. “The persuasion is postponed until tomorrow. I am afraid I shall have to leave you bound. Ordinarily I should simply leave Mikhail to guard you; but I am not sure that I can trust him now. Serge was his brother.”
He picked up the lamp and the poniard.
“The distressing scene you have just seen should at least convince you of my earnestness.” Then he left the room and the key turned in the lock.
Chapter VIII
Double-Crossed
Phil rolled over and buried his face in the bed; giving away to the sickness he had fought down in Kapaloff’s presence. He lay there and sobbed, not thinking, weak and miserable. But he was too young for this to last long; and his first thought was a buoying one: the torturing had been interrupted at the last moment, almost miraculously! His luck held!
He worked himself into a sitting position and attempted to loosen the cords around his wrists and ankles. But he only drove them deeper into the flesh, so he gave it up. He wormed his way to the floor and slowly, laboriously went over the room in the dark, hunting for something that would serve to free him, but he found nothing. The shutters were bolted and padlocked; the door was massive, He returned to the bed.
Time passed — hours he had no means of counting — and then the door opened and Mikhail came in, with a tray of food in his hands, followed by Kapaloff who went to a window and stood with his back to it while Mikhail set the tray on the table and untied Phil.
Kapaloff gestured toward the table. “I am sorry I cannot offer you greater hospitality, but my household is disorganized. I trust you will find my humble best not too uninviting.”
Phil drew a chair to the table and ate. His appetite was poor, but he forced himself to eat with every appearance of enjoyment. When the food was disposed of he lighted one of the cigarettes on the tray and smiled his thanks.
“Unless you have reconsidered,” the Russian said, “I regret that you will have to sleep tied. I am sorry, but I find myself in a position where I must not let my regard for you and my sense of what is due a guest outweigh the necessity of protecting my interests.”
Phil shrugged. The food had heartened him, and he was too young not to meet the challenge of his captors manner.
“I’m tough. Mind if I stretch my legs first?”
“No, no! I want you to be as comfortable as may be. Walk about the room and smoke. You will sleep the better for it.”