Motkin’s position was unique. He was one of very few who knew what had happened tonight. Working for the recovery of the stolen Bolshevist possessions, he would be more useful alive than he would be dead.
That, Motkin felt sure, would be the task assigned to him, especially as there would be no proof of negligence on his part. The one danger lay in other persons learning facts concerning the pillage of the vault. If Motkin, alone, could gain such information, he might find safety and success.
Squads of soldiers were still scouring the house where one had escaped. They would search until dawn — they might search longer. All efforts would be futile.
For Motkin, himself, held that very one. He, alone, could learn what might be known. The life of The Shadow had become very precious to Ivan Motkin!
CHAPTER XI. MOTKIN MEETS THE SHADOW
ANOTHER night had come to Moscow. The turmoil of the eventful evening when Senov had made his master stroke had long since been suppressed. Three days had passed since the raiders had pillaged the closely guarded vault.
Ivan Motkin was thinking of the subsequent events as he walked briskly along the street toward his residence. The perpetual scowl was on his face. Matters had gone both good and bad for Ivan Motkin.
His hunch that he would be ordered to recover all that had been stolen had proved correct. That very task had been assigned to him. But with complete power at his disposal, Ivan Motkin had not gained a single trace of the vanished wealth.
It was believed that the ring leaders — one at least — had escaped by airplane. Bolshevist troops had rounded up suspected Czarist agents. None had been captured alive; all had fought to the end.
Fate had been playing a strange game with Ivan Motkin. During these eight days, while his subordinates had been vainly seeking some clew to the vanished gems, he had held the one person whose testimony might prove the needed link. Yet he had been unable to interrogate his prisoner.
The man had apparently been hovering between life and death. Badly wounded in his conflict with the Bolshevik soldiers, he was recovering now, but seemed too weak for quizzing.
Entering the first floor of his apartment, Motkin encountered Gregori, the man who served as his chauffeur. Before the official could speak, Gregori held up his hand in warning.
A stocky, bearded man was descending the stairs. It was the physician whom Motkin had brought in to tend the captive.
“Prensky is guarding him,” whispered Gregori. “The doctor has been here for the last hour.”
Motkin nodded. He advanced to meet the physician.
“How is the patient, doctor?” he asked.
“Much better,” responded the physician. “His delirium has vanished. He is greatly improved — but seems very weak.”
“I can speak to him—”
“Not now” — the doctor shook his head — “but to-morrow, surely. He is sleeping, and must not be disturbed until the morning. He is past all danger. Soon he will be well. But should he be awakened now, his weakness might return very quickly.”
“You will come to-morrow?”
“Not unless it is absolutely necessary Ordinary care will assure his recovery from now on.”
Motkin watched the physician depart. Like many other professional men in Moscow, this doctor had once been suspected of Czarist leanings. Motkin had done much to assure the man’s safety under the Bolshevist regime. He knew that he could rely upon absolute silence.
WHEN Motkin reached his upstairs room, Prensky came in to see him, and repeated what the physician had said. The captive was sleeping quietly. A telephone bell rang before Motkin could make a reply.
Motkin’s voice was a growl as he answered the phone. Then it changed to a careful tone. Prensky knew that the man was speaking to some superior. He saw Motkin’s eyes light as his lips formed quick phrases.
“Yes? You have received a report from Paris? Ah… Michael Senov… Yes, he has been missing… In Paris, reported by our agents there? Good… I shall go… Soon, yes, soon.”
Motkin’s eyes showed a sudden shrewdness. Prensky, taciturn, but observant, knew that his master was thinking of the unknown prisoner.
“… Tomorrow,” declared Motkin, still speaking over the phone. “Tomorrow, in the afternoon… Yes, my aid will follow. Later… Good. I shall expect the passports in the morning.”
Motkin hung up the receiver and looked at Prensky. It was seldom that the Red official talked at length to his subordinate. This was one of the exceptions.
“Our agents have located Michael Senov,” declared Motkin. “He is in Paris, and has been in communication with Czarists there. He is the man whom we must catch. He has the” — Motkin caught himself — “He is the one we want.
“They are awaiting me in Paris, while they seek to learn Senov’s hiding place. It was suggested that I leave tonight. I insisted that it be to-morrow” —Motkin’s eyes were shrewd — “because then I may know facts that I do not know at present.”
“I shall stay here?” questioned Prensky.
“For a while, yes,” returned Motkin. “But I have made arrangements, so that you may follow me. We shall discuss that to-morrow — after I have spoken with our prisoner.”
Motkin went to a desk and began to busy himself with a pile of papers. It was Prensky’s cue to leave.
Long after the secretary had gone, Motkin was still at work. The official did not cease his labors until three o’clock in the morning. Then he retired.
IT was noon the next day when Ivan Motkin descended to the lower floor, and sat down to a quiet breakfast. An envelope was lying on the table. He opened it and found that it contained the passports for himself and Prensky.
With the passports were printed orders and cards for insertion of signatures, that might be checked in different localities.
All the red tape that bound persons in Moscow had been cut for Ivan Motkin and his aid. Typed instructions furnished all required information regarding rules at airports, facts concerning agents in Paris, and other details.
Motkin smiled as he laid the papers in two piles: one for himself, the other for Prensky. He was glad that he had arranged for his aid to follow him. Prensky was not only a valuable man, he also knew a great deal regarding Motkin’s secret.
Gregori knew, also, but he could remain. It was Motkin’s belief that one man who alone knew damaging facts would seldom conspire; but when two, together, possessed the same knowledge, there was always danger.
A stolid serving woman was clearing up the dishes after Motkin’s meal, when Gregori entered. The chauffeur waited until the woman had gone. Then he spoke in a low voice to his chief.
“Prensky says the prisoner is ready,” announced Gregori. “He is awake and able to talk. He has said a few words, in English.”
“Where is he?”
“Prensky helped him into your office. He is waiting there.”
“Good,” declared Motkin.
He paused to take an envelope which Gregori tended him. This had just come from government headquarters. Motkin stopped at the foot of the stairs to read the contents. This was a report from Paris, giving the details of the hunt for Senov.
Motkin felt himself in luck. The definite connection of Senov with the case would make it easy for him to quiz his prisoner with leading questions. Evil gleamed in Motkin’s eyes as he ascended the stairs. The door to his office was open. Prensky appeared.
“He will be able to speak,” whispered the aid. “He is weak, but much better; the doctor was right. He can talk English only.”
Motkin nodded. He gave Prensky his passports and papers. He explained tersely what their purpose was. He instructed the aid to remain within call. Then as an afterthought, he asked: