Cliff did not recognize the language. Senov, noting that the intruder appeared to be an American, tried English.
“What do you do here?” he asked.
“I have come to find out what you are doing here,” retorted Cliff. “What is this place — a hideout?”
Senov looked puzzled. He did not understand the term that Cliff had used.
“What do you know about David Tholbin?”
Senov stared as Cliff put the question. The Russian realized that he was dealing with a threat from an unexpected angle. He had hoped that Tholbin was free from all suspicion. Now, he knew that his hope was wrong.
“David Tholbin is sailing on the steamship Gasconne,” declared Cliff coldly. “It has been my business to learn that fact, which you doubtless know. I intend to spend half an hour here at the most. In that time I shall find out why you have dealt with Tholbin.”
Senov shrugged his shoulders. Cliff realized that the man was stalling for time. Cliff’s eyes hardened, and Senov saw the look. He knew that he was dealing with a man as unyielding as himself.
“Tell me” — Cliff’s tone was emphatic — “what is taking place on the Gasconne! Speak!”
“The Gasconne?” Senov’s tone was inquiring. “Ah, yes. The steamship Gasconne. It sails from Cherbourg. I shall be glad to tell you all about the Gasconne—”
His voice was slowly rising. Cliff noted the fact. He sensed a trap. But before he could make a move, he felt the cold muzzle of a revolver pressed against the back of his neck.
“Drop that pistol,” came a smooth voice in his ear.
Cliff let the automatic fall to the floor. He raised his hands. The cold steel pressed against his flesh, and Cliff’s shoulder was swung by a thrusting hand. He backed against the wall, to find himself facing a man who wore a black mask. Another masked figure stood behind the first.
Cliff’s arms were above his head. He stared indifferently away from the threatening revolver. He saw Senov, grinning triumphantly.
“You were wise, eh?” exclaimed the Russian. “Wise to come in here, with men of mine outside, watching? Ha ha! You have been very foolish.”
Senov turned to the first of the two men who had entered. This individual was no longer covering Cliff.
The second man had taken up that work.
“Well done, brother!” declared Senov in Russian.
Cliff could not understand the words, but he noted their commending tone, and cursed himself for his lack of precaution.
“Well done, brother,” repeated Senov. “You do not need your mask in here. Take it off.”
Slowly, the man removed his mask. At the same moment, he raised his revolver. A sharp, bewildered cry escaped Senov’s lips as he saw the face of the man whom he had termed “brother.”
He was staring into the eyes of Ivan Motkin!
Senov was trapped by his archenemy!
CHAPTER XV. THREE FACTIONS FIGHT
MEN of three factions were in this room. Ivan Motkin, agent of the Moscow Reds, had captured Michael Senov, the leader of the Czarist invaders who had rifled the Bolshevik storage vault. With Senov, Motkin had taken an unknown stranger — an American whose connection with this case was hazy.
The situation, as Motkin had discovered it, proved that an enmity existed between Senov and the other man. Supreme in confidence, Motkin came directly to the point as he questioned Cliff in English.
“Who are you?” he demanded.
“I’m an American,” returned Cliff calmly.
The reply was an echo of the past. Another man had given that answer to Motkin in Moscow.
Instinctively, the shrewd Bolshevik agent connected this American with the other.
“Your name?” asked Motkin.
“My name is Marsland,” responded Cliff.
“Marsland,” said Motkin thoughtfully. “That is different from another name that I have heard. I recall a man whom I have met. His name was Arnaud.”
Motkin was watching Cliff narrowly, hoping that he would betray some surprise at the mention of the name. Cliff still maintained his poker-face expression.
Motkin laughed. This negative sign indicated to his clever mind that there was a definite connection between Arnaud and Marsland.
“A man named Henry Arnaud,” remarked Motkin thoughtfully. “A remarkable man — he was. He is dead, now. Dead, in Moscow.”
Again Cliff gave no sign of interest. Yet Motkin’s own brain was realizing that, after all, the man called Henry Arnaud must have spoken the truth. If Marsland and Arnaud were joined in the same cause, they were truly opposed to both factions that had fought in Russia.
Motkin’s thoughts changed as he recalled the words that he had overheard upon entering. His suave face showed a sudden cunning. He spoke in a slow, reflective tone, continuing in English, which both his prisoners could understand.
“The steamship Gasconne,” he remarked. “What is the significance of the steamship Gasconne?”
He glanced coldly at Senov; then at Cliff. Back and forth went his shrewd eyes. Cliff avoided them and stared toward Senov. There, as Motkin was glancing away, Cliff caught a momentary tightening of the big Russian’s lips. He knew that Senov wanted him to preserve silence.
To Cliff, both Senov and Motkin were enemies. They were also enemies of each other. It was obvious that they both regarded Cliff as a lesser foe. Thinking of his own situation, Cliff could see that the most natural way out would be to treat with Motkin.
IT was for that very reason that Cliff evolved another plan. He could tell that he was dealing with merciless men — one as bad as the other. To curry Motkin’s favor might bring promises, but he would still be in the shrewd-faced man’s power.
On the contrary, Senov, like Cliff, was in a dangerous position. He was facing death. To side with Senov would be to win a friend. So, as he met Motkin’s eyes, Cliff returned a calloused gaze. Senov was watching Cliff. The big Russian’s face was adamant.
“You will not speak?” Motkin was questioning Cliff, choosing him as the one most likely to yield. “You will not speak? We shall see!”
He motioned to his companion to cover Senov. The man obeyed. Motkin turned his revolver toward Cliff, and advanced with slow tread, fixing a hypnotic gaze on the man before him. Cliff waited.
“Unless you speak” — Motkin’s voice became a hiss as he spoke — “it will mean death!”
Motkin’s eyes were close to Cliff’s. They bore a stern, malicious threat. Cliff’s lips quavered, as though they were unable to speak, through fright. Motkin laughed hoarsely.
Then Cliff performed the unexpected. From a state of pretended weakness, he became a swift, fierce power of action. He flung himself directly upon the menacing man with a fury so surprising that he caught Motkin unawares.
Cliff’s left hand thrust flat for the muzzle of the gun, while his right delivered a hooking blow.
Had Motkin pressed the trigger of his revolver, he would have wounded Cliff in the hand, not in the body. That was Cliff’s protection, but his rapid action served him better.
He thrust the gun aside, and his right hand passed Motkin’s instinctive guard. The Bolshevik agent crumpled to the floor, Cliff upon him, fighting for the gun which clattered on the boards.
Motkin’s companion did the obvious. He turned in the direction of the fray and shot at Cliff, but the bullet missed by inches. Now, with Motkin and Cliff grappling on the floor, the man could not risk another shot.
He turned to stop Senov, whose presence suddenly occurred to him. Before he could fire, the huge Russian struck him down.
For a moment, the combined forces of Marsland and Senov had gained the field. Senov, with a brutal laugh, seized the gun that Motkin’s companion had dropped. He kicked the prostrate man squarely in the face; then turned to attack Motkin.