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The Mischief Maker, a novel by E. Phillips Oppenheim |
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Book 1 - Chapter 18. A Meeting Of Socialists |
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_ BOOK ONE CHAPTER XVIII. A MEETING OF SOCIALISTS The _brasserie_ into which the two men pushed their way was smaller and less ornate than the one which they had last visited. Many of the tables, too, were laid for supper. The tone of the place was still entirely Teutonic. Kendricks and his companion seated themselves at a table. "You will eat sausage?" Kendricks asked. "I will eat anything," Julien replied. "It is better," Kendricks remarked. "Here from the first we may be watched. We are certainly observed. Be sure that you do not let fall a single word of English. It might be awkward afterwards." "It's a beastly language," Julien declared, "but the beer and sausages help. How many of the people here will be at the meeting?" "Not a hundredth part of them," Kendricks answered. "It was a terrible job to get these tickets and I wouldn't like to guarantee now that we have them that we get there. Remember, if any questions are asked, you're an American, the editor or envoy of _The Coming Age._" "The dickens I am!" Julien exclaimed. "Where am I published?" "In New York; you're a new issue." Julien ate sausages and bread and butter steadily for several minutes. "To me," he announced, "there is something more satisfying about a meal of this description than that two-franc dinner where you stole my chicken." "You have Teutonic instincts, without a doubt," Kendricks declared, "but after all, why not a light dinner and an appetite for supper? Better for the digestion, better for the pocket, better for passing the time. What are you staring at?" Julien was looking across the room with fixed eyes. "I was watching a man who has been sitting at a small table over there," he remarked. "He has just gone out through that inner door. For a moment I could have sworn that it was Carl Freudenberg." Kendricks shook his head. "Mr. Carl Freudenberg takes many risks, but I do not think he would care to show himself here." "It is no crime that he is in Paris," Julien objected. "In a sense it is," Kendricks said. "These incognito visits of his must soon cease if they were talked too much about. Then there is another thing. This cafe is the headquarters of German socialism in Paris, and Herr Freudenberg is the sworn enemy of socialists. He fights them with an iron hand, wherever he comes into contact with them. This is a law-abiding place, without a doubt, and the Germans as a rule are a law-abiding people, but I would not feel quite sure that he would leave unmolested if he were recognized here at this minute." "You think he knows that?" Julien asked. "Knows it!" Kendricks replied scornfully. "There is nothing goes on in Paris that he does not know. He peers into every nook and corner of the city. He knows the feelings of the aristocrats, of the bourgeoisie, of the official classes. Not only that, he knows their feelings towards England, towards the Triple Alliance, towards Russia. He never seems to ask questions, he never forgets an answer. He is a wonderful man, in short; but I do not think that you will see him here to-night." The long hand of the clock pointed toward midnight. Kendricks called for the bill and paid it. "We go this way," he announced, "through the billiard rooms." They left the cafe by the swing-door to which Julien had pointed, passed through a crowded billiard room, every table of which was in use, down a narrow corridor till they came face to face with a closed door, on which was inscribed "Number 12." Kendricks knocked softly and it was at once opened. There was another door a few yards further on, and between the two a very tall doorkeeper and a small man in spectacles. "Who are you?" the doorkeeper demanded gruffly. Kendricks produced his tickets. The tall man, however, did not move. He scrutinized them, word for word. Then he scrutinized the faces of the two men. Kendricks he seemed inclined to pass, but he looked at Julien for long, and in a puzzled manner. "Of what nationality is your friend?" he asked Kendricks. "I am an American," Julien replied. "And your profession?" "A newspaper editor. I edit _The Coming Age_." "This is not altogether in order," the tall man declared. "The meeting which we are holding to-night is not one in which the Press is interested. We are here to discuss one man, and one man only. I do not think that you would hear anything you could print, and as you do not belong to our direct association here I think it would be better if you did not enter." Kendricks stood his ground, however. "I must appeal," he said, "to your secretary." The little man in spectacles came forward. Kendricks stated his case with much indignation. "Here am I," he announced, "editor of the only socialist paper in London worthy of the title. I come over because I hear of this meeting. I bring with me my American friend, the editor of _The Coming Age_. For no other reason have we visited Paris than for this. If you refuse us admission to this meeting, the whole of the English branch will consider it an insult." "And the American," Julien put in firmly. The two men whispered together. The taller one, still grumbling, stood on one side. "Pass in," he directed. "It is not strictly in order, but our secretary permits." The two men passed on. The room in which they found themselves was a small one and there were not more than fifty people present. It was very dimly lit and they could barely make out the forms of the row of men who were sitting upon chairs upon the platform. They contented themselves with seats quite close to the door. No drinks were being served here. Although one or two men were smoking, the general aspect seemed to be one of stern and serious intensity. A man upon the platform was just finishing speaking as they entered, and he apparently called upon some one else. A large and heavy German stood up on the centre of the slightly raised stage. He wore shapeless clothes and horn-rimmed spectacles. His face was benevolent. He had a double chin and a soft voice. "My brothers," he said, "at these our meetings we have many things to discuss. We have little time to waste. Why beat about the bush? I am here to speak to you of the greatest enemy our cause has in the world--Prince Adolf Rudolf von Falkenberg." He paused. There was an ugly little murmur through the room. It was very easy indeed to understand that the man whose name had been mentioned was unpopular. "The cause of socialism," the speaker continued, "is the one cause we all have at heart. In our Fatherland it flourishes, but it flourishes slowly. The reason that we are denied our just and legitimate triumphs is simply owing to the vigorous opposition, the brutal enmity, of Prince Adolf Rudolf von Falkenberg. My brothers, this man has been warned. His only answer has been a fresh and more diabolical measure. He fights us everywhere with the fierceness of a man who hates his enemy. It is our duty, brethren, that we do not see our cause retarded by the enmity of any one man. Therefore, it is my business to say to you to-night that that man should be removed." There was a murmur of voices, one clearer than the others. "But how?" The man on the platform adjusted his spectacles. "My brother asks how? I will tell him. Falkenberg loves war. We others hate it. We work always to infuse throughout the army our own principles and theories. Falkenberg falls upon them with all his might and main. There are orders posted in every barracks in Germany. Our literature is confiscated. Any man preaching our doctrines is drummed out upon the streets. I say that these things cannot last. I say that Falkenberg must go. A friend in the audience has asked how. I will answer you. There is a body of men whose beliefs are somewhat similar to ours, but who go further. It is possible they see the truth. But for us at present it is not possible to accept their general principles. This case is an exception. The anarchists of Berlin, one of whom, Franz Kuzman, is here to-night, will dispose of Falkenberg for us if we provide sufficient funds to make an escape possible, and an annuity for the executioner should he live, or for his wife should he die." There was a slow, ominous murmur of voices. The fat man on the platform beamed at everybody. "Kuzman is here upon the platform," he announced. "Does any one wish to hear him?" Kuzman stood up--an awkward, rawboned, dark-featured man. In a coat that was too short for him, he stood rather like a puppet upon the platform. "If you delegates of the socialist societies decide that it is just," he said, in a hoarse, unpleasant tone, "I am willing to see that Falkenberg meets his reward. I can say no more. I do not fail. I move against no one save those who deserve death and against whom the death sentence has been pronounced. But when I do move, that man dies." He resumed his seat. The fat man went on. "Is it your wish," he asked, "that Kuzman be authorized by you to arrange this affair?" The murmur of voices was scarcely intelligible. "Into the hands of every one of you," the fat man continued, "will be placed a strip of paper. You will write upon it 'Yes' or 'No.' Kuzman will be instructed according to your verdict." Some one on the platform bustled around. Kendricks and Julien were both supplied with the long strips. In a few minutes these were collected. The man upon the platform turned up the lights a little higher. He drew a small table towards him and began sorting out the papers into two heaps. One was obviously much larger than the other. Towards the end he came across a slip, however, at which he paused. He read it with knitted brows, half rose to his feet and stopped. Then he went on with his counting. Presently he got up. "My brothers," he said, "there are forty-two papers here. Of these, thirty-five agree to the appointment of Kuzman for the purpose we have spoken of. Six are against it. One paper I will read to you. The writer has not troubled to put 'Yes' or 'No.' This is what I find: "Falkenberg has served his Emperor and his country to the whole extent of his will and his capacity. He has given his life to make his country great. If he has been stern upon the cause of socialism, it is because he does not believe that socialism, as it is at present preached, is good for Germany. I vote, therefore, that Falkenberg live. "We desire to know," the speaker continued, "who wrote those words. They do not sound like the words of one of our delegates. Johann and Hesler, stand by the door. Turn up the lights. Let us see exactly who there is here to-night, unknown to us." There was a little murmur. A man who sat only three or four places off from Kendricks and Julien rose silently to his feet and moved towards the door. It was as yet locked, however. From the other end of the room the lights were suddenly heightened. The faces of the men were now distinctly visible. A light in the body of the hall flared up. A man was discovered with his hand upon the door handle. There was a hoarse murmur of voices. "Who is he? Hold fast of the door! Let no one pass out!" The man turned quickly round. The light flashed upon his face. Julien was the first to recognize him and he gripped Kendricks by the arm. "My God!" he muttered, "it's Falkenberg himself! Who is the man with the key?" Kendricks pointed to him. They crept closer. Then that hoarse murmur of voices turned suddenly into a low, passionate cry. "Falkenberg! Falkenberg himself!" The toymaker made no further attempt at concealment. He drew himself up and faced them. They were creeping towards him now from all corners of the room--an ugly-looking set of men, men with an ugly purpose in their faces. "Yes, I am Falkenberg!" he cried. "I am here to spy upon you, if you will. Why not? Kill me, if you choose, but I warn you that if you do the whole of Germany will rise against you and your cause." "Don't let him escape!" some one shouted from the platform. "Gag him!" "It is fate!" "He is ours!" "A rope!" There was no mistaking the feeling of the men. Julien whispered swiftly in Kendricks' ear. Simultaneously his right arm shot out. The man who guarded the door felt his neck suddenly twisted back. Kendricks snatched the key from his hand and thrust it in the lock. Some one struck him a violent blow on the head. He reeled, but was still able to turn the key. They came then with a howl from all parts of the room. Julien felt a storm of blows. Falkenberg, with one swoop of his long arm, disposed of their nearest assailant. "Get off, man," Kendricks ordered. "You first!" The door was wide open now. They half stumbled, half fell into the outer cafe. The orchestra stopped playing, people rose to their feet. Before they well knew what was happening, Falkenberg had slipped through their midst and passed out of the door. One of the pursuers, with a howl of rage, sprang after him, but he tripped against an abutting marble table and fell. Kendricks and Julien stepped quietly to one side, threading their way among the throng of customers in the cafe. Loud voices shouted for an explanation. "It was a pickpocket," some one called out from among those who came streaming from the room,--"a tall man with a wound on the forehead. Did no one see him?" They all looked towards the door. "He passed out so swiftly," they murmured. Several of them had already reached the door of the cafe and were rushing down the street in the direction which Falkenberg had taken. "There were two others," a grim voice shouted from behind. A waiter, who had seen the two men sit down, looked doubtfully towards them. Kendricks pushed a note into his hand. "Serve us with something quickly," he begged. The man pocketed the note and set before them the beer which he was carrying. Kendricks, whose knuckles were bleeding, laid his hand under the table. Julien took a long drink of the beer and began to recover his breath. "So far," he declared, "I have found your evening with the masses a little boisterous." Kendricks laughed. "Wait till my hand has stopped bleeding," he said, "and we will slip out. That was a narrow escape for Falkenberg. What a pluck the fellow must have!" "It seems almost like a foolhardy risk," Julien muttered. "If those fellows could have got at him, they'd have killed him. Have they gone back to their room, I wonder? Let us hear what the people say about the affair." "What was the disturbance?" he asked. The man shrugged his shoulders. "It was a meeting in one of the private rooms of the cafe," he declared, "a meeting of some society. They were taking a vote when they discovered a pickpocket. He bolted out of the room. They say that he has got away." "Did he steal much?" Julien inquired. The man shook his head. "A watch and chain, or something of the sort," he told them. "The excitement is all over now. The gentlemen have gone back to their meeting." Julien smiled and finished his beer. "Is our evening at an end, Kendricks?" he asked. Kendricks shook his head. "Not quite," he replied, binding his handkerchief around his knuckles. "If you are ready, there is just one other call we might make." "More German _brasseries_?" Kendricks smiled grimly. "Not to-night. We climb once more the hill. We pay our respects to Monsieur Albert." "The Rat Mort?" "Exactly!" _ |
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