“The hat and cloak. They were all you found?”
Prensky nodded.
“Where are they?”
“In the cabinet — in the corner of the office—”
“Very good.”
Deliberately, Ivan Motkin entered the office. Folding his arms, he looked toward a chair by the window.
Some one was reclining there.
This was the prisoner. Motkin surveyed him with curiosity. He was attired in a dressing gown which Prensky had provided. His left arm was bandaged and in a sling. His head also wore a bandage.
The face was peaked and pale. It seemed almost like a waxen form, with hollow cheeks and thin, hawklike nose. It was a face that carried dignity, but it betrayed the weariness of its owner.
The tall, extended figure seemed unusually thin. Motkin realized that the prisoner must have lost weight during his recuperation, yet he could scarcely believe that this was the demon fighter who had battled with a hundred soldiers and eluded them.
The prisoner’s eyes were closed. Motkin approached and stood above him. The eyelids flickered, and suddenly Ivan Motkin found himself staring into two steely eyes that met his gaze with a firm, bold challenge.
Motkin stepped back, in spite of himself. He had dealt with hard, unyielding men, and was used to facing eyes that did not flinch; yet never before had he seen eyes like those.
The eyes of The Shadow!
Those blazing orbs made Ivan Motkin tremble. Though he held this man in his power, the Russian felt ill at ease in the presence of those dynamic eyes.
CHAPTER XII. MOTKIN MAKES A PROMISE
IT was several minutes before either spoke. The first words that Motkin uttered were in Russian. He watched those steely eyes, and saw no change in them. The pale face was impassive, also. It was apparent to Motkin that the prisoner did not understand this language.
After a short pause, Motkin spoke in English. His first words were a question, by which he sought to make the other deliver a definite statement.
“Who are you?” asked Motkin.
The thin lips moved in response. Their words were given in a quiet tone, impressive because of its calmness.
“I am an American,” declared The Shadow.
“Your name?” growled Motkin.
“I have many names,” replied the man in the chair. “I utilize different ones on different occasions. At present, I am traveling under the name of Henry Arnaud. That should be sufficient for my identity.”
“You carried no papers—”
“My passport bears the name of Henry Arnaud. I did not bring it with me after I left Germany. It would have been of no use to me in Russia.”
Motkin scowled as he studied the man who called himself Henry Arnaud. The Russian official was puzzled by the prisoner’s attitude.
Despite the fact that the man was helpless and a captive in a city where an execution often preceded an investigation, he did not appear to be in the least disturbed. Motkin, seeking a new avenue of discretion, put forth a different question.
“You were the man whom the soldiers sought to capture, were you not?” he asked.
“Yes,” was the reply.
“How did you escape them?” asked Motkin.
A smile appeared upon the lips of Henry Arnaud. Those lips moved slowly, as Arnaud gave his reply.
“I saw your automobile waiting behind the armored car,” he said. “It offered a convenient refuge. I shattered the searchlight with a shot, and dropped from the second floor. Fortunately, I had sufficient strength to reach your automobile. I must thank you for having it there at my disposal.”
Motkin seemed annoyed as he strode to the corner of the room and opened an old cabinet. He drew out The Shadow’s cloak and hat, and held them up to the window.
“These are yours, Mr. Arnaud?” he asked.
“They are,” declared Arnaud calmly. “Again I must thank you, Mr. Motkin. It was kind of you to bring them along, after I had lost them.”
“How do you know my name?” demanded Motkin.
“I heard your man mention it,” said Arnaud. “Your name is also familiar to me. In New York, I heard it mentioned by a man named Marcus Holtmann.”
A wild, startled look spread over Motkin’s countenance. He viewed Henry Arnaud with alarm. Motkin had feared that some indiscretion of his own had paved the way to the attack on the secret vault. Until now he had not been able to check the exact source of the leak. The mention of Holtmann’s name worried him. His only recourse was rage and threat.
“Holtmann betrayed me!” he shouted furiously. “He told you of the vault’s location, so that you could come here and direct the attack. You are to blame for this! You will suffer!”
HENRY ARNAUD was not in the least perturbed by Motkin’s outburst. His cold eyes were fixed upon the official’s face. Motkin’s furor began to disappear. A worried scowl took its place, and Henry Arnaud smiled. That smile did not soothe Motkin’s worries.
“You are entirely mistaken,” declared Arnaud calmly. “I was not the first to speak with Marcus Holtmann. Others learned his secret before I did. It was they who planned the attack. I came here alone, to prevent it.”
“You came here to prevent the attack!” cried Motkin in an incredulous tone. “You expect me to believe such a statement?”
“I am speaking facts,” declared Arnaud solemnly. “I learned all from Holtmann. A plot was designed to steal the Romanoff gems. With my knowledge of those jewels and their history” — as Arnaud paused, a strange, knowing gleam appeared in his eyes — “I was not concerned with what might become of them.
My only object was to prevent futile bloodshed. I came here with the sole purpose of stopping what I considered unnecessary slaughter.”
The words were uttered so directly that Motkin became perplexed. He did not know whether to believe or disbelieve. Balked in his inquiry, he shrewdly directed another form of question.
“What is your connection with Michael Senov?” he asked.
“I have never heard of Michael Senov,” responded the person called Arnaud.
Again, Motkin was puzzled. Frankness was evident in Arnaud’s tone. Motkin was used to dealing with shrewd schemers, and he was a keen detector of suave replies to leading questions. Here he was confronted with a subject who seemed to rely on simple, direct statements.
Yet the truth seemed incredible to Ivan Motkin. In his own mind, he could not grasp the thought that any one could be so foolhardy as to thrust himself into the midst of such a terrible fray, with the sole purpose of protecting human life. Motkin thought he saw a weakness in his prisoner’s argument. He laughed coarsely.
“You say you wished to prevent bloodshed,” asserted Motkin. “Why, then, did you fight the soldiers who tried to capture you?”
“Self-preservation is always justifiable,” remarked Arnaud, in a matter-of-fact tone. “I am opposed to the infliction of death and injury, when it is entirely unnecessary and it can be avoided. That is all.”
Motkin realized that this interview had turned from the purpose which he intended. Had his prisoner remained obdurate, Motkin would have found ways in which to have made him speak, yet there was no reticence on Arnaud’s part regarding conversation.
Motkin understood that Arnaud possessed an amazing faculty for turning all talk to his own advantage.
Threats would be useless, he knew. Even combined with torture, they would fail — for this prisoner, in his weakened condition, could not undergo an ordeal.
Motkin’s one recourse seemed to be that of offering inducements. If he could gain Arnaud’s confidence and friendship, he might learn information.
MOTKIN’S position was unusual; by coincidence of facts, he was the one man in Moscow who could well afford to be lenient with this person, who was connected with the raid upon the storage vault.