 Chapter 7 of the Book of All Power by Edgar Wallace This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, Recording by Peter Tomlinson Chapter 7 Kentski of Kiev Malcolm Hay drew rain half a verse from the church of St. Andrea. Though his shaggy little horse showed no signs of distress, Malcolm kicked his feet free from the stirrups and descended, for his journey had been a long one, the day was poisonously hot, and the step across which he had ridden for all its golden beauty, its wealth of blue cornflower and yellow janista, had been wearisome. Overhead the sky was an unbroken bowl of blue, and at its zenith rose a brazen, merciless sun. He took a leather cigar case from his pocket, extracted a long black churrut and lit it. Then, leaving his horse to its own devices, he mounted the bank by the side of the road, from which he could look across the valley of the Dnieper. That majestic river lay beneath him and to the right, before him at the foot of the long steep and winding road, lay the quarter which is called Podol. For the rest his horizon was filled with a jumble of buildings, magnificent or squalid, the half revealed roofs on the wooded slopes of the four hills, and the ragged fringe of belfry and glittering cupola which made up the picture of Kiev. The month was June and the year of Grace 1914, and Malcolm Hay, chief engineer of the Ukraine American Oil Corporation, had no other thought in his mind, as he looked upon the undoubted beauty of Kiev, than that it would be a very pleasant place to leave. He climbed the broken stone wall and stood, his hands thrust deeply into his breeches' pockets, watching the scene. It was one of those innumerable holy days which the Russian peasants celebrated with such zest. Rather it was the second of three consecutive feast days and, as Malcolm knew, there was small chance of any work being done on the field until his labours had taken their fill of holiness, and had slept off the colossal drunk which inevitably followed this pious exercise. A young peasant wearing a sheepskin coat despite the stifling heat of the day walked quickly up the hill leading a laden donkey. The man stopped where he was abreast of Malcolm, took a cigarette from the inside of his coat and lit it. God save you, Dadushka, he said cheerfully. Malcolm was so used to being addressed as little grandfather, and that for all his obvious youth that he saw nothing funny in the address. God save you, my little man, he replied. The newcomer was a broad-faced, pleasant-looking fellow with a ready grin and black eyebrows that met above his nose. Malcolm Hay knew the type, but today, being for idleness, he did not dread the man's lexicity as he would have had it been a working day. My name is Gleb, introduced the man. I come from the village of Pochkoi, where my father has seven cows and a bull. God give him prosperity in many calves, said Malcolm mechanically. Tell me, Gospodar, do you ride into our holy city today? Surely, said Malcolm, then you will do well to avoid the street of Black Mud, said Gleb. Malcolm waited. I speak wisely because of my name, said the man with calm assurance. Possibly your excellence has wondered why I should bear the same name of the great saint who lies yonder. He pointed to one of the towering belfrys, skimmering with gold, that rose above the shoulder of a distant hill. I am Gleb, the son of Gleb, and it is said that we go back a thousand years to the holy ones. Also it was prophesied by a wise woman, said the peasant, puffing out a cloud of smoke and crossing himself at the same time, that I should go the way of holiness and that after my death my body should be incorruptible. All this is very interesting, little brother, said Malcolm with a smile, but first you must tell me why I should not go into the street of Black Mud. The man laughed softly. Because of Israelkensky, he said significantly. You could not live within a hundred miles of Kiev and not know of Israelkensky. Malcolm realised with a start that he had not met the old man since he left him in London. In what way has Israelkensky offended, asked Malcolm, understanding the menace in the man's tone. Gleb, squatting in the dust, brushed his sheepskin delicately with the tips of his fingers. Little father, he said, all men know Israelkensky is a Jew, and that he practices secret devil-rights using the blood of Christian children. This is the way of Jews, as your lordship knows. Also he was seen on the plains to shoot pigeons, which is a terrible offence, for to shoot a pigeon is to kill the Holy Ghost. Malcolm knew that the greater offence had not yet been stated and waited. Today I think they will kill him if the Grand Duke does not send his soldiers to hold the people in check, or the Grand Duchess, his lovely daughter who has spoken for him before, does not speak again. But why should they kill Kensky? asked Malcolm. It was not the first time that Israelkensky had been the subject of hostile demonstrations. The young engineer had heard these stories of horrible rights practiced at the expense of Christian children, and had heard them so often that he was hardened to the repetition. The grin had left the man's face and there was a fanatical light in the solemn eyes when he replied. Gospodar, it is known that this man has a book which is called The Book of All Power. Malcolm nodded. So the foolish say, he said. It has been seen, said the other. His own daughter, Sophia Kensky, who has been baptized in the face of our blessed lord, has told the Archbishop of this book. She herself has seen it. But why should you kill a man because he has a book? demanded Malcolm, knowing well what the answer would be. Why should we kill him? A thousand reasons, Gospodar cried the man passionately. He who has this book understands the black magic of Kensky and the Jews. By the mysteries of this book he is able to torment his enemies and bring sorrow to the Christians who oppose him. Did not the man Ivan Nikolaevich throw a stone at him? And did not Ivan drop dead the next day on his way to Mass? Eye and term black before they carried him to the hospital? And did not Mishka Yakov, who sluttered him, suffer almost immediately from a great swelling of the throat, so that she is not able to speak Osvolo to this very day without pain? Malcolm jumped down from the wall and laughed. And it was a helpless little laugh. The laugh of one who, for four long years, had fought against the superstitions of the Russian peasantry. He had seen the work of his hands brought to naught, and a boring abandon just short of the oil, because a cross-eyed man attracted by curiosity had come and looked at the work. He had seen his world go up in smoke for some imaginary act of witchcraft on the part of his foreman, and though he laughed he was in no sense amused. Go with God, little brother, he said, some day you will have more sense and know that men do not practice witchcraft. Perhaps I am wiser than you, said Gleb, getting up and whistling for his donkey, who had strayed up the side lane. Before Malcolm could reply there was a clatter of hoose, and two riders came galloping round the bend of the road, making for the town. The first of these was a girl, and the man who followed behind was evidently the servant, of an exalted house, for he wore a livery of green and gold. Gleb's ass had come cantering down at his master's whistle, and now stood broadside on in the middle of the road, locking the way. The girl pulled up her horse with a jerk, and, half turning her head to the attendant, she called. The man rode forward. Get your donkey out of the way, fool, he boomed in a deep-chested roar. He was a big man broad-shouldered and stout, like most Russian domestic servants his face was clean-shaven, but Malcolm, watching the scene idly, observed only this about him, that he had a crooked nose and that his hair was a fiery red. Gently, gently, it was the girl who spoke and she addressed her rusty horse in English. As for Gleb, the pheasant, he stood his hands clasped before him, his head humbly hung, incapable of movement, and with a laugh, Malcolm jumped down from the bank, seized the donkey by his bridle, and drew him somewhat reluctantly to the side of the road. The girl's horse had been curverting and prancing nervously, so that it brought her to within a few faces of Malcolm, and he looked up, wondering what rich man's daughter this was who spoke English to her horse, only once before had he seen her in the light of day. The face was not pale, yet the colour that was in her cheeks so delicately toned, with the ivory white of forehead and neck that she looked pale. The eyes set wide apart were so deeper grey that, in contrast with the creamy colour of the brow, they appeared black. A firm red mouth, he noticed, thin penciling of eyebrows, a tangle of dark brown hair, but neither sight of her nor sound of her tired drawing voice gave her such permanence in his mind as the indefinite sense of womanliness that clothed her like an aurora. He responded wonderfully to some mysterious call she made upon the man in him. He felt that his senses played no part in shaping his view, if he had met her in the dark and had neither seen nor heard, if she had been a bare-legged peasant girl on her way to the fields, if he had met her anywhere, anyhow, she would have been divine. She, for her part, saw a tall young man, mahogany-faced, leanly made, in old shooting-jacket and battered Stetson hat. She saw a good forehead and an unruly moth of hair, and beneath two eyes, now awestricken by her femininity, this she might have guessed, rather than by her exalted rank. They were eyes with a capacity for much laughter, she thought, and wished Russian men had eyes like those. My horse is afraid of your donkey, I think, she smiled. My donkey, he stammered, and she laughed again, frankly, at his embarrassment. And then the unexpected happened, with a frightened neigh her horse let sideways toward him. He sprang back to avoid the horse's hoofs, and heard her little exclamation of dismay. In the fraction of a second he realised she was falling, and held out his arms to catch her. For a moment she lay on his breast, a soft cheek against his, the overpowering fragrance of her presence taking his breath away. Then she gently disengaged herself and stepped back. There was colour in her face now, and something which might have been mischief, or annoyance, or sheer amusement in her eyes. Thank you, she said. Her tone was even and did not encourage further advances on his part. I lost my balance. Will you hold my horse's head? She was back in the saddle, and turning, with a proud little inclination of her head, was picking away down the steep hill before he realised what had happened. He gazed after her, hoping at least that feminist curiosity would induce her to turn and look back, but in this he was disappointed. The peasant, Gleb, still stood by the side of the road, his hands clasped, his head bent as though in a trance. Wake up, little monkey, said Malcolm Testerly. Why did you not hold the horse for the lady whilst I helped her to mount? Doodushka, it is forbidden! Zepreschenko, said the man huskily, she is casion. The property of the Tsar. The Tsar, gasped Malcolm. He had lived long enough in Russia to have imbibed some of the ore and reverence of that personage. Little Master, said the man, it was her magnificence, the grand duchess Irina Shiaroslav. The grand... Malcolm gasped. The reality of his dreams, and he had not recognised her. Long after the peasant had departed, he stood on the spot where he had held her, like a man in a trance, and he was very thoughtful when he picked up the reins of his horse and swung himself into the saddle. Kiev is built upon many hills, and it has the beauty and distinction of possessing steeper roads than any other city in Europe. He was on his way to the grand hotel, and this necessitated his passing through Podol, crossing the hill of the cliff and descending into the valley beyond. Considering it was a feast day, the streets were strangely deserted. He met a few old men and women in festal garb, and suppose that the majority of the people were at the shrines in which Kiev abounds. He passed through the poorer Jewish quarter, and did not remember the peasant's warning not to go into the street of black mud, until he had turned into that thoroughfare. Long before he had reached the street, he heard the roar of the crowd and knew that some kind of trouble was brewing. The street was filled with lots of men and women, and their faces, by common attraction, were turned in one direction. The focal point was a densely packed crowd, which swayed toward the gateway of a tall, grim-looking house which he recognised as the home of the millionaire, Kensky. The roar intensified into a continuous shriek of malignant hate. He saw sticks and fists brandished, and heard above the scream of frenzied women the deep-throated, kill, death to the Jew, which was not unfamiliar to one who knew Kiev in moments of religious excitement. It was no business of his, and he drew his horse to the side of the street and watched, wondering what part of the black-bearded Russian priests who were in force and who seemed to form the centre of each knot of idlers were playing in this act of persecution. On the outskirts of the crowd he observed a green and gold coat, and it's where, returning his head, he recognised him as a swarthy menial who had ridden behind the Grand Duchess. He was as violent and as energetic as the most lawless, and seemed engaged in pushing men into the crowd and dragging forward hesitant bystanders to swell the throng, which was pressing about the iron gates of the building. And then Malcolm saw something which fraught his heart to his mouth, a white hand raised above, from above the bobbing black heads, a hand raised in appeal or command. Instinctively he knew its owner and spurred his horse into the throng, sending the people flying in all directions. There was a small clear space immediately before the door, which enabled him to see the two chief actors in the drama, long before he was within hailing distance. The space was caused by a dead horse, as he after was discovered, but for the moment his eyes were fixed on the girl who stood with her back to the grill, shielding with her frail body a little old man, white bearded and bent, who crouched behind her outstretched arms, his pale face streaming with blood. A broken key in the grill told the story of his foiled attempt to escape. Grimy hands clutched at Malcolm's knees as he drove through the press, a stone whistle past his ear and shrill voices uttered imprecautions at the daring foreigner, but he swerved to left and right and made a way until the sight of the dead horse brought his frightened mount to a quivering standstill. He let from the saddle and sprang to the girl's side, and to his amazement his appearance seemed to strike consternation into her heart. Why did you come? Get away as quickly as you can, she breathed. Oh, you were mad to come here. But you, he said. They will not hurt me, she said rapidly. It is the old man they want. Can you smash the lock and get him inside? Give us the book, Jew, yelled a deep voice above the babel of sound. Give us the book, and you shall live. Lady, magnificence, make the old man give us the book. Malcolm took a flying kick at the gate, and the lock yielded. He half lifted, half carried the old man and pushed inside, where another locked door confronted them. Have you a key? demanded Malcolm hurriedly. Quick! The old man felt in his pocket with trembling fingers, and in doing so he crept behind his guardian. Malcolm now turned and faced the crowd. Come in, for God's sake he called to the girl, and she shook her head. They will not hurt me, she said over her shoulder. It is you. At that moment Malcolm felt something heavy slipped into the loose pocket of his jacket, an aquivering voice, harsh with fear, whispered in his ear. Keep it, Gospodar. Tomorrow we'll come for it at the grand hotel at the middle hour. The crowd was now surging forward, and the girl was being pressed back into the little lobby by their weight. Suddenly the door opened with a crack, and the old man slipped through. Come, come, he cried. Malcolm let forward clasped the girl about the waist and swung her behind him. The streets of the crowd broke, and a new note crept into the pandemonium of sound, a note of fear. From outside came a clatter of hoofs on the cobbled roadway. There was a flash of red and white penons, the glitter of steel lances, and a glimpse of bottle-green coats, as half a sot near of Cossack swept the street clear. They looked at one another, the girl and the man, oblivious to the appeal of hand and voice which the old man in the doorway was offering. I think you are very brave, said the girl, or else very foolish. You do not know our Kiev people. I know them very well, he said grimly. It was equally foolish of me to interfere, she said quickly, and I ought not to blame you. They killed my horse. She pointed to the dead horse lying before the doorway. Where was your servant, he asked, but she made no reply. He repeated the question thinking she had not heard, and being at some loss for any other topic of conversation. Let us go out, she said, ignoring the querying. We are safe now. He was following her when he remembered the packet in his pocket and turned to the old man. Here is your, no, no, no, keep it, whispered Israel Kensky. They may come again tonight. My daughter told him that I was carrying it. May she roast. What is it? asked Malcolm curiously. The old man's lips parted in a toothless smile. It is the book of all power. He blanked up at Malcolm, peering into his face expectantly. They all desire it, Gospodar, from the grand duke in his beautiful palace to the music in his cellar. They all desire my lovely book. I trust you with it for one night, Gospodar, because you are English. Ah, well, you are not Russian. Guard it closely, for it holds the secret of tears and of happiness. You shall learn how to make men and women your slaves, and how to turn people into Jews, and how to make men and women adore you. Ah, hey, ah, hey, there are recipes for beauty in my book, which make plain women lovely and old men young. Malcolm could only stare. End of Chapter 7 Recording by Peter Tomlinson Chapter 8 Of the Book of All Power by Edgar Wallace This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Peter Tomlinson Chapter 8 The Grand Duke Is Affable The girl's voice called, and Malcolm left Old Kentsky without a word, and went to her side. Will you walk with me to my father's palace? she said. I do not think it is safe for you to be alone. A semi-circle of mounted cossacks surrounded them now, and the unfaithful Bulba, such was the servant's name he learnt, was standing with an impassive face, holding his horse's head. One of the soldiers will take you to your horse, she said. Bulba, you will follow us. Her voice was stern, and she looked the man straight in the eyes, but he did not flinch. Prick a zen, though. Highness, it is ordered, he said simply. She turned and walked the way she had come, turning into the big square followed by a small escort of cossacks. They walked in silence for some time, and it was a girl who first spoke. What do you think of Russia, Mr. Haye? she asked. He jerked his head round at her in surprise. You didn't know me on the hill, she laughed, but I knew you, and there are not so many foreigners in the Kiev region that you should be unknown to the Grand Duke, she said, and besides, you were at the reception which my father gave a year ago. I did not see your Highness there, said Malcolm. I came especially. He stopped short in confusion. That was probably because I was not visible, she replied, dryly. I have been to Cambridge for a year to finish my education. That is why your English is so good, he smiled. It's much better than your Russian, she said calmly. You ought not to have said ukolytse to people. You only say that to beggars, and I think they were rather annoyed with you. I should imagine they were, he laughed, but won't you tell me what happened to your servant? I thought I saw him on the outskirts of the crowd, and the impression I formed was, he hesitated. I shouldn't form impressions if I were you, she said hurriedly. Here in Russia one ought not to puzzle one's head over such things, when you meet the inexplicable, accepted as such an inquire no further. She was silent again, and when she spoke she was more serious. The Russian people always impressed me as a great sea of lava, boiling and spluttering and rolling slowly between frail banks, which we have built for them, said the girl. I often wonder whether those banks will ever break, said Malcolm quietly. If they do, yes, they will burn up Russia, said Malcolm. So I think, said the girl, father believes that the war, she stopped short, the war. Malcolm had heard rumours so often of the inevitable war, which would be fought to establish the hegemony of the Slav over Eastern Europe, that the scepticism in his tone was pardonable. She looked at him sharply. You do not think there will be war? One has heard so often, he began. I know, I know, she said, a little impatiently, and changed the subject. They talked about the people, the lovable character of the peasants, the extraordinary depth of their religious face, their amazing superstitions, and suddenly Malcolm remembered the book in his pocket, and was about to speak a bit, but stopped himself, feeling that, by so speaking, he was betraying the confidence of the old man, who had entrusted his treasure to a stranger's care. What is the story of the book of Kensky? The book of all power? She did not smile, as he had expected her to. Old Israel Kensky is a curious man, she said, guardedly. The people credit him with all sorts of powers, which, of course, he does not possess. They believe he is a wizard that he can bend people to his will. They say the most terrible things about the religious ceremonies over which he presides. They were mounting the hill behind, which lay the fashionable quarter of Kiev, with its great stone palaces, its wonderful cherry gardens, and broad avenues. I like old Kensky, she went on. He sometimes comes to the palace to bring new silks. He is the greatest merchant in little Russia. He even tells me his troubles. He is a terrible daughter. You have heard about her? I thought she was rather good, said Markham humorously. Isn't she a Christian? The girl shrugged her shoulders. Evidently, her grand ducal highness had no great opinion of Sofia Kensky's conversion. The grand ducal palace was built in the Byzantine style and presented, from the broad carriage-drive that led from the road, a confusion of roofs, windows and bastions, as though the designer had left the working out of his plan to fifty different architects, and each architect had interpreted the scheme of construction in his own way. The grand duke was standing in the portico as he went through the gate and came down the steps to meet them. He was a mild-looking man of medium height and wore pince-nay. Markham remembered that on the one occasion he had met his highness, he had been disappointed in his lack of personal grandeur. My child, my child, said the duke, coming to the girl without stretched arms. What a terrible misfortune! How came you to be mixed up in this matter? The commandant has just telephoned to me. I have called for his resignation. Bystent, in a kester, I will not have the rabble breathing upon you. And this is the good gentleman who came to your rescue? He surveyed Malcolm with his cold blue eyes, but both glance and intonation lacked the cordiality which his words implied. I thank you. I am indeed grateful to you. You understand they would not have harmed the grand duchess, but this you could not know. As for the Jew, he became suddenly thoughtful. He had the air of a man wholly preoccupied in his secret thoughts, and who now emerged from his shell under the greatest protest. To Malcolm it seemed that he resented even the necessity for communicating his thoughts to his own daughter. I am happy to have been of service to your grand duchal highness, said Malcolm, correctly. Yes, yes, yes, interrupted the grand duch nervously. But you will stay and breakfast with me. Come, I insist. Mr. Hay, father, said the girl. The conversation throughout was carried on in English, which was not remarkable, remembering that that was the family language of the court. Yes, yes, yes, Mr. Hay, you must stay to breakfast. You have been very good, very noble, I am sure. Irene, you must persuade this gentleman. He held at his hand jerkily and Malcolm took it with a bow. Then without another word or even so much as a glance at his daughter, the grand duke turned and hurried back into the palace, leaving Malcolm very astonished and a little uncomfortable. The girl saw his embarrassment. My father does not seem to be very hospitable, she smiled, and once more he saw that little gleam of mischief in her eyes. But I give you a warmer invitation. He spread out his hands in mock dismay and looked down at his untidy clothes. Your Highness is very generous, he said, but how can I come to the grand duke's table like this? You will not see the grand duke, she laughed. Father gives these invitations, but never accepts them himself. He breakfasts in his own room, so if you can endure me alone, she challenged. He said nothing but look much, and her eyes fell before his. All the time he was conscious that red-haired Bulba stood stiffly behind him, a spectator, yet as Malcolm felt a participant in this small affair of the breakfast invitation. She followed Malcolm's look and beckoned the man forward. He had already surrendered the horses to an orderly. Take the Lord to a guest room, she said in Russian, and send a valet to attend to him. It is ordered, said the man, and with a nod the girl turned and walked into the house, followed at a more leisurely pace by Malcolm and the man with the crooked nose. Bulba led the way up a broad flight of stairs carpeted with thick red pile, along a corridor pierced at intervals with great windows, to another corridor leading off, and through a door which, from its dimension, suggested the entrance to a throne room into a sweet, gorgeously furnished and resplendent with silver electrolias. It consisted of a saloon leading into a bedroom, which was furnished in the same exquisite taste. A further door led to a marble-tiled bathroom. Such luxury, murmured Malcolm! Has the Gospodar any orders? It was the solemn Bulba who spoke. Malcolm looked at him. Tell me this Bulba, he said, falling into the familiar style of a dress, which experience had taught him, was the correct line to follow when dealing with Russian servants. How came it that your mistress was alone, before the house of Israel Kensky, the Jew, and you were on the outskirts of the crowd urging them on? If the man felt any perturbation at the bluntness of the question, he did not show it. Kensky is a Jew, he said coolly. On the night of the Pentecost he takes the blood of newborn Christian babies and sprinkles his money so that it may be increased in the coming year. This Sophia Kensky, his own daughter, has told me. Malcolm shrugged his shoulders. You are no ignorant Muzik, Bulba, he said contemptuously. You have travelled with his highness all over the world. This was a shot at a venture, but apparently was not without justification. How can you, an educated man of the people, believe such rubbish? He has a book, Gospodar, said Bulba, and we people who desire power would have that book, for it teaches men how they may command the souls of others, so that when they lift their little fingers, those who hate them best shall obey them. Malcolm looked at him in astonishment. Do you believe this? For the first time a smile crossed the face of the man with a crooked nose. It was not a pleasant smile to see, for there was cunning in it, and a measureless capacity for cruelty. Who knows all the miracles and wonders of the world, he said. My lord knows there is a devil, and has he not his angels on earth? It is best to be sure of these things, and we cannot be certain until we have seen the book which the Jew gave to your lordship. He paused a little before uttering the last sentence, which gave his assertion a special significance. Malcolm eyed him narrowly. The Jew did not give me any book, Bulba, he said. I thought your lordship, you thought wrongly, said Malcolm shortly. Bulba bowed and withdrew. The situation was not a particularly pleasant one. Malcolm had in his possession a book which men were willing to commit murder to obtain, and he was not at all anxious that his name should be associated with the practice of witchcraft. It was all ridiculous and absurd, of course, but then in Russia nothing was so absurd that it could be lightly dismissed from consideration. He walked to the door and turned the key, then took from his pocket the thing which Israel Kensky had slipped in. It was a six stoutly bound volume secured by two brass locks. The binding was of yellow calf, and it bore the following inscription in Russian, stamped in gold lettering. The book of all power. Herein is the magic of power and the words and symbols which unlock the sealed hearts of men and turn their proud wills to water. On the bottom left hand corner of the cover was an inscription in Hebrew which Malcolm could not read, but which he guessed stood for the birth name of Israel Kensky. He turned the book over in his hand, and curiosity overcoming him, he tried to force his thumbnail into the marbled edge of the leaves that he might secure a glimpse of its contents. But the book was too tightly bound, and after another careful examination he pulled off his coat and started to make himself presentable for breakfast. The little mill was wholly delightful. Besides Malcolm and the girl, they were present a faded Russian lady whom he guessed was her official chaperone, and a sow visaged Russian priest who ceremoniously blessed the food and was apparently the Grand Duke's household chaplain. He did not speak throughout the meal and seemed to be in a condition of wrapped contemplation. But for all Malcolm knew there might have been a hundred people present. He had eyes and ears only for the girl. She had changed to a dark blue costume beneath which was a plain white silk blouse cut deeply at the neck. He was struck by the fact that she wore no jewels, and he found himself rejoicing at the absence of rings in general, and of one ring in particular. Of course it was all lunacy, sheer clotted madness, as he told himself, but this was a day to riot in allusions, for undreamt of things had happened, and who could swear that the days of fairies had passed? To meet a dream irony on his way to Kiev was unlikely. To rescue her from an infuriated mob, for though they insisted that she was in no danger, he was no less insistent that he rescued her, since this illusion was the keystone to all others. To be sitting at lunch with such a vision of youthful loveliness, all these things were sufficiently outside the range of probabilities to encourage the development of his dream in a comfortable direction. Tonight, thought he, I shall be eating a prosaic dinner at the Grand Hotel, and the Grand Duchess Ardyn Yaroslav will be a remote person, whom I shall only see in the picture papers, or possibly over the heads of a crowd on her way to the railway station. And so he was outrageously familiar. He ceased to heinous her, laughed at her jokes, and in turn provoked her to merriment. The meal came to an end too soon for him, but not too soon for the nodding dowager, nor the silent contemplating priest, who had worn through his saintly period of saintly abstraction, and had grown most humanly impatient. The girl looked at her watch, Good gracious, she said, it is four o'clock, and I have promised to go to tennis. Malcolm loathed tennis from that hour. He took his leave of her with the return to something of the old ceremonial. Your grand ducal highness has been most gracious, he said, but she rested his eloquence with a little grimace. Please remember, Mr. Hay, that I shall be a grand ducal highness for quite a long time, so do not spoil a very pleasant afternoon by being over punctilius. He laughed. Then I will call you. He came to a dead end, and the moment was embarrassing for both. Though why a grand ducal highness should be embarrassed by a young engineer, she alone might explain. Halfway there arrived most unexpectedly the grand duke himself, and if his appearance was amazing, as it was to judge by the girl's face, his geniality was sensational. He crossed the hall and gripped the young man's hand. You're not going, Mr. Hay, he asked. Come, come, I have been a very bad host, but I do not intend to let you go so soon. I have much that I want to talk to you about. You are the engineer in charge of the Ukraine oil field, is it not so? Excellent! Now I have all on my estate in the Urals, but it has never been developed. He took the young man by the arm and let him through the big doors to the garden, giving him no chance to complete, or decently postpone his farewell to the girl, who watched with undisguised amazement this staggering affability on the part of her parent. End of Chapter 8 Recording by Peter Tomlinson Chapter 9 of The Book of All Power by Ed Gowallis This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Peter Tomlinson Chapter 9 The Hand at the Window An hour later she came from Tennis to find her father obviously bored, almost to the point of tears, yet making an heroic attempt to appear interested in Malcolm's enthusiastic dissertation of the future of the oil industry. The Grand Duke rose gladly on her appearance and handed him over. I have persuaded Mr. Hay to dine with us tonight, and I have sent to the hotel for his baggage. He is most entertaining, my little love, most entertaining. Persuade him to talk to you about oil and things, and he hurriedly withdrew. The girl sat down on the seat he had vacated. You're a most amazing person, Mr. Hay, she smiled. So I have been told, said Malcolm, as he filled a glass with tea from the Samovar. You also have a good opinion of yourself, it seems, she said calmly. Why do you think I am amazing anyway? said he recklessly, returning to the relationships they had established at luncheon. Because you have enchanted my father, she said. She was not smiling now, and a troubled little frown gathered on her brow. Please tell me your magic. Perhaps it is the book, he said justingly. The book, she looked up sharply. What book? And then, as the light dawned on her, she rose to her feet. You have. You have Israel Kenski's book, she whispered in horror. He nodded. Here, would you? Yes, here. He slapped his pocket. She sat down slowly and reached out her hand, and he thought it shook. I do not know who was the madder. Israel Kenski to give it to you, or you to take it, she said. This is the only house in Kiev where your life is safe, and even here she stopped and shook her head. Of course, you're safe here, she smiled. But I wish the book were somewhere else. She made no further reference either to the amazing volume or to her father, and that night, when he came down to dinner, feeling more on level terms with royalty, though his dress-suit was four years old and his patent shoes good enough for such mad society function as came his way, looked horribly cracked and shabby, he dismissed the matter from his mind. The dinner party was a large one. There were two bishops, innumerable popes, several bejeweled women, an officer or two, an inevitable duena. He was introduced to them all but remembered only Colonel Malinkov, a quiet man whom he was to meet again. To his amazement he found that he had been seated in the place of honour to the right of the Grand Duke, but he derived very little satisfaction from that distinction since the girl was at the other end of the table. She looked worried and her conversation, so far as he could hear, consisted of yes and no, and conventional expressions of agreement with the views of her companions. But the Duke was loquacious, and at an early stage of the dinner the conversation turned on the right of the morning. There was nothing remarkable in the conversation till suddenly the Grand Duke, without preliminary remarked in a matter of fact tone, the danger is that Kensky may very well use his evil powers against the welfare of Holy Church. There was a murmur of agreement from the black-bearded popes and Malcolm opened his eyes in astonishment. But surely your Highness does not believe that this man has any supernatural gift. The Grand Duke stared at him through his glasses. Of course, he said, if there are miracles of the Church, why should there not be performed miracles by the powers of darkness? Here in Kiev, he went on, we have no reason to doubt that miracles are performed every day. Who doubts that worship at the shrine of Saint Barbara in the Church of Saint Michael of the Golden Head protects us against lightning? That is undoubtedly the fact, your Imperial Highness said, a stout pope speaking with his mouth full. I have seen houses with lightning conductors struck repeatedly, and I had never known any place to be touched by lightning if the master of the house was under the protection of Saint Barbara. And beneath the Church of Exaltation the Grand Duke went on, more miracles have been performed than elsewhere in the world. He peered round the table for contradiction. It is here that the two brothers are buried, and it was their prayer that they should sleep together in the same grave. One died before the other, and when the second had passed away in the carriage's body to the tomb, did not the body of the first brother arise to make room? And there is not a column in the catacomb to which, if a madman is bound, he recovers his reason. And are there not skulls which exude wonderful oils which cure men of the most terrible diseases, even though they are on the point of death? Malcolm drew a long breast. He could understand the superstitious reverence of the peasant for these relics and miracles, but these were educated men. One of them stood near to the throne and was versed in the intricacies of European diplomacy. These were no peasants steeped in ignorance, but intellectuals. He tensioned himself to make sure he was awake as the discussion grew, and men swapped miracles in much the same spirit of emulation, as store loafers swapped lies. But the conversation came back to him, led there too by the Grand Duke, and once more it centred on that infernal book. The volume in question was not six inches from the Grand Duke, for Malcolm has stuffed it into his tail pocket before he came down to dinner, and this fact added a certain frequency to the conversation. I do not doubt your Highness, said a stout bishop who picked his teeth throughout the dinner, that Kenski's book is identical with a certain volume on devil worship which the Blessed Saint Basil publicly denounced and damned. It was a book especially inspired by Satan, and contained exact rules whereby he who practised the magic could bind in earthly and immortal obedience the soul of any body he chose, thus destroying in this life their chance of happiness and in the life to come their soul's salvation. All within reach of the bishop's voice crossed themselves three times. It would have been well, used the Grand Duke, if the people had succeeded this morning. He shot a glance at Malcolm, a glance full of suspicious inquiry, but the young man showed no sign, either a resentment or agreement. But he was glad when the dinner ended and the chance came to snatch a few words with the girl. The guests were departing early, and kumal and coffee was already being served on a large silver salver by the Bouffet Shek, whom Malcolm recognised as the ubiquitous boobah. I shall not see you again, said the girl in the low voice. I am going to my room, but I want you to promise me something, Mr Haye. The promise is made before you ask, said he. I want you to leave as early as you possibly can tomorrow morning for your mine, and if I send you word, I want you to leave Russia without delay. But this is very astonishing. She faced him squarely, her hands behind her back. Mr Haye, she said, and her low voice was vibrant with feeling. You have entangled yourself in an adventure which cannot possibly end well for you. Whatever happens, you cannot come out with credit and safety, and I would rather you came out with credit. I don't understand you, he said. I will make it plainer, said she, unless something happens in the next month or two, which will point the minds of the people to other directions, you will be suspect. The fact that you have the book is known. I know, he said. By whom, she asked quickly. By Bulba, your servant. She raised her hand to her lips, as if to suppress a cry. It was an odd little trick of hers which she had noticed before. Bulba, she repeated. Of course, that explains. At that moment the Grand Duke called him. The guest had dwindled away to half a dozen. Your coffee, Mr Haye, and some of our wonderful Russian kumo. You will not find its like in any other part of the world. Malcolm drank the coffee, gout down the fiery liquor, and replaced the glass on the tray. He did not see the girl again, and half an hour later he went up to his room, locked the door and undressed himself slowly, declining the assistance which had been offered to him by the trained valet. From the open window came the heavy perfume of helitrope, but it was neither the garden scent, nor the moderate quantity of wine he had taken, nor the languid beauty of the night, which produced this delicious sensation of weariness. He undressed and got into his pyjamas, then sat at the end of his bed, his head between his hands. He had sat for a long time like this, before he realized the strangeness of his attitude, and getting onto his feet found himself swaying. Doped, he said, and sat down again. There was little of his brain that was awake, but that little he worked hard. He had been drugged. It was either in the kummel or the coffee. Nothing but dope would make him feel as he was feeling now. He fell into bed and pulled the clothes about him. He wanted to keep awake to fight off the effects of the stuff, and by an absurd perversion of reasoning, he argued that he was in a more favorable position to carry out his plan if he made himself comfortable in bed, than if he followed any other course. The drug worked slowly and erratically. He had moments of complete unconsciousness with intervals, which, if they were not free from the effect of the agent, were at least lucid. One such interval must have come after he had been in bed for about an hour, for he found himself wide awake and lay listening to the thumping of his heart, which seemed to shake the bed. The room was bathed in a soft green light, for it was a night of full moon. He could see dimly the furniture and the subdued gleam of silver wool sconce. That caught the ghostly light and gave it a more mysterious value. He tried to rise, but could not. To roll his head from side to side seemed the limitation of conscious effort. And whilst he looked the door open, noiselessly enclosed again, somebody had come into the room, and that somebody passed softly across the foot of the bed and stood revealed against the window. Had he been capable of speech, he would have cried out. It was a girl! He saw her plainly in a moment. She wore a wrapper over her nightdress and carried a small electric lamp in her hand. She went to the chair where he had thrown his clothes and made a search. He saw her take something out and put it under her wrap, and then she went back the way she came, pausing for the space of a second at the foot of his bed. She stood there undecidedly, and presently she came up to the side of the bed and bent down over him. His eyes were half closed. He had neither the power of opening or shutting them. But he could see clearly the white hand that rested on the bed and the book that it held, and the polished table by the bedside reflecting the moonlight back to her face so that she seemed something as intangible and as shadowy as the night itself. A little smile played upon her pale face, and every whispered word she uttered was clear and distinct. Goodbye, poor Mr. Hay, she said softly. She shook her head as though in pity, then stooping swiftly. She kissed him on the cheek and passed quickly to the half-open door by which she had entered. She was nearing the door when she stopped dead and shrank back toward the bed. Another electric lamp gleaned unexpectedly. He saw the white of her nightdress show a dazzling strip of light where the beam caught it. Then the unknown intruder touched on the light and they stood revealed. The girl tall, imperious, a look of scorn on her beautiful face, and the stout menial with the crooked nose. Bulver wore an old dressing gown girdled about with a soiled rainbow sash. His feet were bare, and in his two hands, laying from palm to palm, was a long thin knife. At the sight of the girl, he fell back, a grotesque sprawling movement which was not without its comicality. A look of flanked bewodermint creased his big face. Lina, he croaked. The Jew, where is he? She was silent. Malcolm saw the quick rise and fall of her bosom, saw the book clutch closer to her side beneath the filmy silk and gown. Bulver looked from the girl to Malcolm, from Malcolm to the heavy curtains at either side of the open window, curtains which the drugged man had not drawn. He has left his quarters, Highness. Bulver spoke eagerly. He was seen to enter the grounds of the palace. Where is he? He took a step toward her. Stand back, you slave, she breathed, but with a bound he was upon her. There was a brief struggle, and the book was wrenched from her hand. Malcolm saw all this, but lay as one dead. He was conscious but paralyzed by the potion and could only watch the girl in the grip of the obese monster and feel his heart going like a steam hammer. Bulver stood gloating over his prize, fiddling the book in his big, coarse hands. Malcolm wondered why the girl did not scream, yet how could she? She was in his room in the middle of the night. She, a daughter of emperors. The man tried to wrench open the locks, which held the covers but failed. Suddenly he looked up and glared across at the girl. He said nothing, but the suspicion in that scar was emphasized when he moved to the wall near the window and the light of a bracket lamp. Again he examined the book, and for the first time spoke. Oh, Highness, was it you who sent for Izrakensky that the book should be restored? So far he got when an arm came out from behind the curtain. A hand blew veined, and it held a yellow handkerchief. The girl saw it, and a hand went to her mouth. Then the handkerchief struck full across Bulver's face, covering it from forehead to the mouth. For a moment the man was paralyzed, then he pulled the handkerchief away and clawed at the clay-like substance, which adhered to his face. He screamed the words, and dropping the book, stumbled forward, rubbing at his face, shrieking with pain. The girl ran swiftly through the open door, for feet were now pattering along the corridors, and the flicker of light showed through the doorway. Bulver was rolling on the ground in agony when the servants crowded in, followed by the Grand Duke, and he alone was fully dressed. Bulver, what is it? The book, the book, it's mine. Sea floor. But the book had disappeared. Where, Bulver? Where, my good Bulver? The voice of Bulver's master was tremulous. Show me, did he strike you? He shall suffer by the saints. Look for it, Bulver. Look, look, yelled the writhing man. How shall I look? I who am blind, blind, blind. End of Chapter 9 Recording by Peter Tomlinson Chapter 10 Of the Book of All Power by Edgar Wallace This LibriVox recording is in the public domain Recording by Peter Tomlinson Chapter 10 Terror in Making In the spring of 1919 Malcolm Hay came out from the Kursky voxel carrying his own well-worn valise, and in different cigars clenched between his white teeth and there was a sparkle of amusement in his grey eyes. He stood seventy inches in his stockings, and an excellent judge of men who looked him over noted the set and wits of shoulders, the upward lift of chin, the tanned face and the flexibility of body, marked him down, soldier, either American or English. Malcolm looked up and down the deserted street, and then caught the eye of the solitary in Tutsky, a thoughtful-looking man with a short square beard, looking monstrously stout in his paddy-green coat, the livery of the Moscow drosky driver. The man on the sidewalk smiled and walked across the pavement. Little brother, he said in fluent Russian, would you condescend to drive me to the hotel Dubazarslav? The driver who had noted so approving the shape of Malcolm's shoulders did not immediately answer, then, British, I thought you were. He spoke excellent English, and Malcolm looked up at him bewildered. I seem to know your face too, let me think. The cab driver tapped his bearded chin. I have it. Hey, I met you four years ago at a dinner-party in Kiev. You are the manager of an all-company or something of the sort. Right! said the astonished young man, but I don't exactly place you. The drosky driver smiled. And yet I dined with you, he said. I sat next to the grand Duchess Irene. Later, when war broke out, I invited you to my headquarters. Good God, Malcolm's jaw dropped! General Malinkov, commanding the 84th Caucasian Division, said the bearded man, dryly, and now commanding one little horse. If you'll get into my excellent cab, I will drive you to a restaurant where we may eat and drink and be almost merry for fifty roubles. Malcolm stepped into the little drosky like a man in a dream. Malinkov? He remembered him a fine figure on a horse, riding through Kiev at the head of a glittering throng of staff officers. There was a function at the Grand Hotel to meet the new commander, a great parade at that ancient palace in his honour. Malcolm had come in from the all-fields partly to meet him at dinner, partly for the news of one who had, of a sudden, vanished from his life. The drosky drove fiercely through the east end of the town, and the passenger noted that the driver was careful to avoid the big thoroughfares, which led to the Krasnaya Plotsard and the centre of Moscow, which is the Kremlin. Presently it drew up before a small eating-house in a poor street, and the driver hoisted himself to the ground. He left his horse unattended and, leading the way, pushed open the swing doors of the restaurant and passed down a long, low-ceiling room, crowded with diners, to a table at the far end. Sit down, Mr. Hay, I can promise you a fair, but by no means, Cybarat feast. Good morning, Nicholas Valerlitsky. He nodded pleasantly to a grey-haired man in a workingman's blouse sitting at the next table, and the man-address rose stiffly, bowed and sat down. If you wish your clothes valeted whilst you are in Moscow, I recommend my friend. Said the driver, snapping his fingers towards a stout waitress. Colonel Nicholas Valerlitsky is not only an excellent director of military intelligence, but he can press a pair of trousers with any man. He gave his orders briefly and turned to his companion. First of all, let me interrogate you. You are on your way to Petrograd. Yes, I am on my way home. During the war I have been controlling Allied supplies in Little Russia. The revolution stopped that. Fortunate man to have a country, said General Malinkov, and he spoke seriously and without bitterness, a country and an army, coherent, disciplined comrades in arms. He shrugged his padded shoulders. Yes, you are on your way to your home. It would take you months to leave the country, if you ever leave it. I tried to leave last month. I am a reactionary with a leaning toward discipline. I cannot breathe the air of democracy. I used to think I had liberal ideas. There was a time when I thought that a day would dawn when the world would be a great United States of free people. Ah, well, I am still a reactionary. Malcolm knew that behind those gray vies was a world of laughter, that beneath the solemn words was a gentle irony, and yet for the whole while he could not distinguish how much of tragedy there was in the man's fun. But why are you driving a cab to General Finnish the sentence? Because, my friend, I am human. I must eat, for example. I must have a room to sleep in. I need cigarettes and clean shirts at least three times a week. For God's sake, never let that be known. I must also have warm clothes for the winter. In fact, I must live. But haven't you money? Malcolm felt all a decent man's embarrassment. Forgive me butting into your affairs, but naturally I'm rather hazed. Naturally laughed the General. A bottle of Kavass, my peach of Turkestan, and a glass for our comrade. Long live that revolution! Wheezed the waitress mechanically. Long may it live, little mother, responded the General. When the girl had gone, he squared round to his companion. I have no shame, Mr. Hay. I'm going to let you pay for your own dinner, because I cannot, in these democratic times, forferise you by paying for you. No, I have no money. My balance in the State Bank has been confiscated to the sacred cause of the people. My State, a hundred verse or so from Moscow, confiscated to the sacred cause of the revolution. My house in Petrograd is commandeered to the sacred service of the Soviet. But your command! The General did not smile now. He laid down his knife and fork and threw a glance behind him. The men began shooting their officers in March 1917, he said, lowering his voice. They executed the divisional staff in May. The democratic spirit was of slow growth. They spared me because I had written a book in my youth urging popular government and had been confined to the fortress of Vilma for my crime. When the army was disbanded, I came to Moscow and the cab was given to me by a former groom of mine, one Isaac Mosovic, who is now a judge of the High Court and dispenses pretty good law, though he cannot sign his own name. Mr. Hay, he went on honestly, you did wrong to come to Moscow. Get back to Kiev and strike down into the Caucasus. You can reach the American post outside of Tiflis. You'll never leave Russia. The Bolsheviks have gone mad, blood mad, murder mad. Every foreigner is suspect. The Americans in the English are being arrested. I can get you a passport that will carry you to Odessa and you can reach Batun and Baku from there. Malcolm lent back in his chair and looked thoughtfully at the other. Is it so bad? Bad? Moscow is a madhouse. Listen, do you hear anything? Above the hum of conversation, Malcolm caught a sound like the cracking of whips. Rifle firing, said the general calmly. There's a counter-revolution in progress. The advanced anarchists are in revolt against the Bolsheviks. There is a counter-revolution every morning. We cab drivers meet after breakfast each day and decide amongst ourselves which of the streets shall be avoided. We are pretty well informed. Prince Dolgorsky, who was a captain in the Priyapakensky Guard, sells newspapers outside the Soviet headquarters and the comrades give him tips. One of these days the comrades will shoot him, but for the moment he is in favour and makes as much as a hundred roubles a day. The waitress came to the table and the conversation momentarily ceased. When she had gone, Malcolm put the question which he had asked so often in the past four years. Can you give me any news of the Grand Duke Yaroslav? The other shook his head. His Highness was in Petrograd when I heard of him last. And, and his daughter? She has been with the Russian Red Cross on the Riga front, I know. The bearded man shot a queer glance at his companion. In what circumstances did you see her last? he asked. Malcolm hesitated. He could hardly tell a stranger of that tragic scene which was enacted in his bedroom. From the moment she had fled through the door he had not set eyes upon her. In the morning when he had wakened, feeling sick and ill, he had been told that the Grand Duke and his daughter had left by the early northern express for the capital. Of vulva, that hideously blinded figure, he heard nothing. When he inquired for Israel Kensky, men shrugged and said that he had disappeared. His house was closed and the old man might be in prison or in hiding. Later he was to learn that Kensky had reappeared in Moscow, apparently without hindrance from the authorities. As for Bulba, he had kept his counsel. You seem embarrassed, smiled Malenkov. I will tell you why I ask. You know that her grand Duke Highness was banished from court for disobedience to the royal will. Malcolm shook his head. I know nothing, absolutely nothing. Kiev and Odessa are full of refugees and rumours, but one is as much a suspect as the other. She was not married, that is all. I forget the name of the exalted personage who was chosen for her, though I once helped to carry him up to bed. He drank heavily even in those days. God rest him. He died like a man. They hung him in a sack in Peter and Paul and he insulted the Soviets to the last. So, so she's not married. The general was silent, beckoning the waitress. My little dear, he said, what shall I pay you? She gave him the scores and they settled. Which way now? asked the general. I hardly know. What must a stranger do before he takes up his abode? First find and abode, said the general with a meaning smile. You ask me to drive you to the hotel Bazar Slav, my simple but most guarded friend. That is a Soviet headquarters. You will certainly go to a place adjacent to the hotel to register yourself and afterwards to the commissary to register all over again. And if you are regarded with approval, which is hardly likely, you'll be given a ticket which will enable you to secure the necessities of life. The tickets are easier to get than the food. The first call at the house near the Bazar Slav gave them neither trouble nor results. The Soviet headquarters was mainly concerned with purely administrative affairs and the organization of its membership. The corridors and doorway were crowded with soldiers wearing the familiar red armlet. And when Maninkov secured an interview with a weary-looking and unkempt official who sat collarless in his shirt sleeves at a table covered with papers, that gentleman could do no more than lean back in his chair and curse the interrupters voluably. We might have dispensed with the headquarters visit, said Maninkov, but it is absolutely necessary that you should see the commissary unless you want to be pulled out of your bed one night and shot before you are thoroughly awake. By the way, we have an interesting American in jail. By his description, I gather he is what you would call a gunman. Malcolm stared. Here, a gunman? Maninkov nodded. He held up the treasurer general of the Soviets and relieved him of his wealth. I would like to admit him, but I presume he is dead, justice is swift in Moscow, especially for those who hold up the officials of the revolution. What sort of justice do these people administer, asked Malcolm curiously? Maninkov shrugged his padded shoulders. Sometimes I think that the very habit of justice is dead in this land, he said. On the whole they were about as just and fair as was the old regime. That is not saying much, is it? The cruelty of our rule today is due rather to ignorance and ill will. A few of the men higher up are working off their old grievances and are profiting enormously, but the rank and file of the movement are laboring for the millennium. I think they're mad, said Malcolm. All injustices mad, replied Maninkov philosophically, now get into my little cab and I will drive you to the commissary. The commissary occupied a large house near the Igerian gate. It was a house of such noble proportions that at first Malcolm thought it was one of the old public offices, and when Maninkov had drawn up at the gate he put the question. That is the house of the Grand Duke Yaroslav, said Maninkov quietly. I think you were inquiring about him a little earlier in the day. The name brought a little pang to Malcolm's heart and he asked no further questions. There was a sentry on the Hodyesty, an untidy, unshaven man smoking a cigarette, and a group of soldiers filled the entrance, evidently the remainder of the guard. The commissary was out. When would he be back? Only God knew. He had taken the little mother for a drive in the country, or perhaps he had gone to Petrograd. Who knew? There was nobody to see but the commissary. On this fact they insisted with such remnants that Malcolm gathered that whoever the gentleman was, he broke no rivals and allowed no possible supplanter to stand near his throne. They came back at four o'clock in the afternoon but the commissary was still out. It was nine o'clock after five inquiries that the sentry applied yes to the inevitable question. Now you will see him, said Maninkov, and the future depends upon the potency of your favourite patron saint. Malcolm stopped in the doorway. General, he said. Not that word, said Maninkov quickly. Citizen or comrade? Comrade for preference. I feel that I am leading you into danger. I have been horribly selfish and thoughtless. Will it make any difference to you? You are seeing him. Maninkov shook his head. You are quite right. It is always dangerous to attract the attention of the committee for combating the counter-revolution, he said. But since I have taken you in hand, I might as well see him and stay outside on my cab, because he is certain to inquire who brought you here and it might look suspicious if I did not come in with you. Besides, somebody will have to vouch for you as a good comrade and friend of the Soviet. He was half in earnest and half joking, but wholly fatalistic. As he went up the broad spiral staircase which led to the main floor of the Yaroslav Palace, Malcolm had qualms. He heartily cursed himself for bringing this man into danger. So far as he was concerned, as he told himself, there was no risk at all because he was a British traveller, having no feeling one way or the other towards the Soviet government. But Maninkov would be a marked man, under suspicion all the time. Before the office of the commissary was a sentry without rifle, he sat at a table which completely blocked the doorway, except for about eight inches at one side. He inquired the business of the visitors, took their names, and handed them to a soldier and with a sideways jerk of his head invited them to squeeze past him into the bureau. End of Chapter 10 Recording by Peter Tomlinson Chapter 11 of the Book of All Power by Edgar Wallace This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Peter Tomlinson Chapter 11 The Commissary with the Crooked Nose There were a dozen men in the room in stained military overcoats and red armlets. One, evidently an officer who carried a black portfolio under his arm, was leaning against a paddled wall, smoking and snapping his fingers to a dingy white terrier that leapt up to his repeated invitations. At the table, covered with documents, were two people, the man and the woman. She, sprawling indolently forward, her head upon her arm, her strong brown face turned to the man, was obviously a duest. The papers were streaked and greasy, where her thick black ringlets had rested, and the ashes of a cigarette lay in little untidy heaps on the table. The man was burly with the great brets of shoulder and big rough hands. But it was his face which arrested the feet of Malcolm and brought him to a sudden halt, the moment he came near enough to see and recognised the Commissary. It was not by his bushy red beard nor the stiff upstanding hair, but the crooked nose that he recognised Bulba, sometimes serving man of the Grand Duke Yaroslav. Malcolm, looking at the sightless eyes, felt his spine go creepy. Bulba lifted his head sharply at the sound of an unfamiliar footfall. Who is this? he asked. Sofia Kensky, you who are my eyes, tell me who is this? Oh, a bourgeau, said the woman lazily. A foreigner too. Who are you, bourgeau? A Britisher, said Malcolm. Bulba lifted his chin and turned his face at the voice. A Britisher, he repeated slowly. The man of the oilfields. Tell me your name. Hey, Malcolm Hay, said Malcolm, and Bulba nodded. His face was like a mask and he expressed no emotion. And the other? Malenkov, snapped the voice at Malcolm's side, and Bulba nodded. Commanding an army, I remember. You drive a cab, comrade. Are there any complaints against this man? He turned his face to Sofia Kensky and she shook her head. Are there any complaints against this man, Sofia? he repeated. None that I know. He is an aristocrat and a friend of the Romanovs. The grunt sounded like a note of disappointment. What do you want? The stranger wishes permission to remain in Moscow until he can find a train to the north, said Malenkov. Bulba made no reply. He sat there, his elbows on the table, his fingers twining and untwining the thick red hair of his head. Where does he sleep tonight? He asked after a while. He sleeps at my stable near the Vasali prospect, said Malenkov. Bulba turned to the woman, who was lighting a new cigarette from the end of the old one, and said something in a low, growling tone. Do as you wish, my little pigeon, she said audibly. Again his hand went to his beard and his big mouth opened in meditation. Then he said curtly, sit down. There was no place to sit, and the two men fell back amongst the soldiers. Again the two at the table consulted, and then Sofia Kensky called a name. The man in a faded officer's uniform came forward, his big black portfolio in his hand, and this he laid on the table, opening the flap and taking out a sheaf of papers. Read them to me, Sofia, said Bulba, read their names. He groped about on the table and found first a rubber stamp, and then a small, flat ink pad. Sofia lifted the first of the papers and spelt out the names. Mishka Sasanov, she said, and the man growled. An upstart woman and very ugly, he said, I remember her. She used to whip her servants. Tell me, Sofia, tell me, Sofia, my life, what has she done now? Plotted to destroy the revolution, said the woman. Grunted the man, as he brought his rubber stamp to the paper, passing it across to the waiting officer, who replaced it in his portfolio. And the next? Paul Gelskin, she said, and passed the document to him, plotting to overthrow the revolution. A bourgeois, a tricky young man, in league with the priest, he said, and again his stamp came down upon the paper, and again the paper went across the table into the portfolio of the officer. The soldiers about Malcolm and his friend had edged away, and they were alone. What are these? whispered Malcolm. Death warrants, replied Malinkov leconically, and for the second time a cold chill ran down Malcolm's spine. Name after name were read out, and the little rubber stamp, which carried death to one and sorrow to so many, thudded down upon the paper. Malcolm felt physically ill. The room was close and reeked of vile tobacco fumes. There was no ventilation, and the oil lance made the apartment insufferably hot. An hour or two passed, and no further notice was paid to the two men. I can't understand it quite, said Malinkov in a low voice. Ordinarily this would mean serious trouble, but if the commissary had any suspicion of you or me, we should have been in prison an hour ago. Then suddenly Bulba rose. What is the hour, he said? A dozen voices replied. Half past ten it's time that the sweeper was here. He threw back his head and laughed, and the men joined in the laughter. With a great yellow handkerchief, which reminded Malcolm of something particularly unpleasant, Bulba wiped the streams from his sightless eyes and bent down to the woman at his side, and Malcolm heard him say, what is his name? He told me, and then he stood up. Hey, he said, you are a bourge you. You have ordered many men to sweep your room. It is not good that a house should be clean, eh? Very good, Bulba, said Malcolm quietly. Bulba, he calls me. He remembers well. That is good. I stood behind him, comrades, giving wine and coffee and bowing to this great English lord. Yes, I, Bulba, he struck his chest, crawling on my knees to this man, and he calls me Bulba now. Bulba! he roared ferociously. Come here. Do this. Clean my boots. Bulba. Come, little Bulba. Bowl thy neck, that I may rest my foot. A voice from the door interrupted him. Good, he said, my sweeper has arrived. Hey, once a day she sweeps my room, and once a day she makes my bed. No ordinary woman will satisfy Bulba. She must come in her furs, driving her fine carriage from the Nijintka. Behold! Malcolm looked to the door, when was struck dumb with amazement. The girl who came in was dressed better than he had expected any woman to be dressed in Moscow. A sable wrap was about her shoulders. A sable toke was on her head. He could not see the worn shoes, nor the shabby dress beneath the costly furs. Indeed, he saw nothing but the face, the face of his dreams, unchanged, unlined, more beautiful than he had remembered her. She stood stiffly in her pride, her little chin held up, her contemptuous eyes fixed upon the man at the table. Then, loosing her wrap, she hung it up upon a peg, and opening the cupboard took out a broad broom. Sweep Irene Yaroslav, said the man. Malcolm winced at the word, and Malinkov turned to him sharply. You know her, he said. Of course you do, I remember. Was that why Bulba kept us waiting? He was butler in the Yaroslav household, said Malinkov, in the same tone. That explains it, said Malinkov. All this is for the humiliation of the grand duchess. Sweetwell, little one, scoffed Bulba from his table. Does it not do your heart good, Sophia Kensky? Oh, if I had only eyes to see! Does she go on her knees? Tell me, Sophia! But the woman found no amusement in the sight, and she was not smiling. Her high forehead was knitted, her dark eyes followed every movement of the girl. As Bulba finished speaking, she leant forward and demanded harshly. Irene Yaroslav, where is Israel Kensky? I do not know, replied the girl, not taking her eyes from her work. You lie, said the woman. You shall tell me where he is, and where he has hidden his book of all power. She knows, Bulba. Peace, peace, he said, laying his big hand on her shoulder. Presently she will tell and be glad to tell. Where is your father, Irene Yaroslav? You know best, she replied, and the answer seemed to afford him amusement. He was a religious man, he scoffed. Did he not believe in miracles? Was there any saint in Kiev he did not patronize? He is with the saints this day. And then, in a fierce whisper to Sophia, how did she look? Tell me, Sophia, how did she look when I spoke? He died three weeks ago, said Irene quietly, at the fortress of Peter and Paul, and Bulba wrapped out an oath. Who told you? Who told you, he roared? Tell me, who told you? And I will have his heart out of him. I wanted to tell you that myself. The high commissary Boyuska, she replied, and Bulba swallowed his rage. For who dared criticise the high commissaries, who hold power of life and death in their hands, even over their fellow officials? He sank down in his chair again, and turned impatiently to Sophia. Have you no tongue in your head, Sophia Kensky, he asked irritably? Tell me all she does. How is she sweeping? Where? By the men near the big bookcase, said the woman reluctantly. Yet, yes, he nodded his great head. He rose, walked round the table, and paced slowly to the girl, as she stood quietly waiting. Markham had no weapon in his pocket. It had been worn by Melanchov that visitors were searched. But on the table lay a sheath sword, possibly the mark of authority which Bulba carried. But evidently this ceremony was a nightly occurrence. Bulba did no more than pass his hand over the girl's face. She is cool, he said, in a disappointed tone. You do not work hard enough, Irene Yaroslav. Tomorrow you shall come with water, and shall scrub this room. The girl made no reply, but as she walked back to his seat of authority, she continued her work. Her eyes fixed on the floor, oblivious of her surroundings. Presently she worked round the room until she came to where Markham stood, and as she did so for the first time she raised her head, and her eyes met his. Again he saw that little trick of her, so her hand went to her mouth, and her head went down, and she passed on as though she had never seen him. What did she do, Sophia? Tell me what she did when she came to the Englishman. Did she not see him? She was startled, grumbled Sophia. That is all. Bulba let the woman go. Nay, my little pigeon, she must finish her work. She has finished, said Sophia, impatiently. How long must this go on, Bulba? Is she not an aristocrat and a Romanov? And are there none of your men who want wives? Markham felt rather than saw the head of every soldier in the room lift to these words. Wait a little, said Bulba, you forget the book, my little pigeon, the book of all power. I would have that rather than that Irene Yaroslav found a good husband from our comrades. You may go, Irene Yaroslav, he said. Serge, the officer who had taken the death warrants and who stood waiting for dismissal came forward. Take our little brother Malenkov and the Britisher Hay and place them both in the prison of St. Basil. They are proved enemies to the revolution. I wonder who will feed my horse tonight, said Malenkov, as handcuffed to his companion he marched through the streets in the light of dawn en route as he believed to certain death. End of Chapter 11 Recording by Peter Tomlinson Chapter 12 of the Book of All Power by Edgar Wallace This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Peter Tomlinson Chapter 12 in the Prison of St. Basil The temporary prison called by Bulba St. Basil was made up of four blocks of buildings. All saved one were built of grey granite and presented, when seen from the courtyard below, tiers of little windows set with monotonous regularity in discoloured walls. The fourth was evidently also of granite, but at some recent period an attempt had been made to cover its forbidding façade with plaster. The workmen had wearied of their good intent and had left off when their labours were half finished, which gave the building a gruesome appearance of having been half-skinned. Flush with the four sides of the square was an open concrete trench, approached as intervals by flights of half a dozen stone steps leading to this alleyway. Malcolm Hay was pushed down one of these, hurried along the alleyway, passing a number of mailed iron doors and as many barred windows, and was halted before one of the doors whilst the warder, who all the time smoked a cigar, produced a key. The door was unlocked and Hay was thrust in. Malinkov followed. The door slammed behind them, and they heard the click-clock of the steel lock shooting to its socket. The room was a medium-sized apartment, innocent of furniture, safe from a table in the centre of the room, and a bench which ran round the walls. Light came from a small window giving a restricted view of the courtyard and a barred transom above the doorway. An oblong slit of ground glass behind, which was evidently an electric glow, served for the night. There were two occupants of the room who looked up, one a grimy, dishevelled priest, blankly, the other with the light of interest in his eyes. He sat in his shirt sleeves, his coat being rolled up, to serve as a pillow. Above the bed hung a derby hat, an incongruous object. He was short, stout and fresh-coloured, with a startling black moustache elaborately curled at the ends, and two grey eyes that were lined around with much laughter. He walked slowly to the party and held out his hand to Malcolm. Welcome to the original bug-house, he said, and from his accent it was impossible to discover whether he was American or English. On behalf of self and partner, we welcome you to bug-house lodge. When do you go to the chair? He's due to-day, he jerked his thumb at the crooning priest. I can't say I'm sorry, so far as I am concerned he's been dead ever since they put him here. Malcolm recognised the little man in a flash. It was his acquaintance of London. You don't remember me, smiled Malcolm, but what is your particular crime? The little man's face creased with laughter. Shooting up Cherekin, he said tersely, and Manon coughs eyebrows rose. Your beam, is that how you pronounce it? Bim, said the other, B-I-M. Christian named Cherry, Cherry Bim. See the idea, named after the angels. Say, when I was a kid I've got a photograph way home in Brooklyn to prove it. I had golden hair in long ringlets. Manon cough chuckled softly. This is the American who held up Cherekin, and nearly got away with ten million rubles, he said. Cherry Bim had taken down his derby and had adjusted it at the angle demanded by the circumstances. That's right, but I didn't know they were rubles. I should excite my mentality over waste paper. No, we got word that it was French money. There was another man in it, said Manon cough, lighting a cigarette. There had been no attempt to search them. Don't let that much go out, begged Cherry Bim, and dug a stub from his waistcoat pocket. Yes, he puffed. Isaac Moskova. They killed poor old Issy. He was a good fella, but too, too, what's the word when a fella falls to every dame he meets? Impressionable, suggested Malcolm. That's the word, nodded Cherry Bim. We'd got away with twenty thousand dollars' worth of real sparklers in Petrograd. They used to belong to a princess, and we took him off the lady friends of Grubel, the food commissioner, and I suggested we should beat it across the Swedish frontier. But no, he had a girl in Mosko. He was that kind of guy who could smell patchouli a million miles away. Malcolm gazed at the man in wonderment. Do I understand that you are a, a, he hesitated to describe his companion in misfortune, realizing that it was a very delicate position. I'm a cavalier of industry, said Cherry Bim, with a flourish. Chevalier is the word you want, suggested Malcolm, responding to his geniality. It's all one, said the other cheerfully. It means crook, I guess. Don't think, he said, seriously. Don't you think I'm one of those cheap gunmen you can buy for ten dollars, because I'm not. It was the love of guns that brought me into trouble. It wasn't trouble that brought me to the guns. I could use a gun when I was seven, he said. My dad, God love him, lived in Utah, and I was born at Broke Creek, and cut my teeth on a forty-five. I could shoot the tail feathers off a fly's wing, he said. I could shoot the nose off a mosquito. It was the deceased Isaac Moskava, who had brought him to Russia, he said. They had been fellow fugitives to Canada, and Isaac, who had friends in a dozen Soviets, had painted an entrancing picture of the pickings, which would be had in Petrograd. They worked the way across Canada and shipped on a Swedish bark, working their passage before the mast. At Stockholm, Issy had found a friend who forwarded them carriage-paid to the capital, whereafter things went well. Have you got any food? asked Cherrybimm suddenly. They starve you here. Did you ever eat shy? It's hot water smelling of cabbage. Have you been tried? asked Malinkov, and the man smiled. Tried, he said contemptuously, say what do you think is going to happen to you? Do you think you'll go up before a judge and hire a lawyer to defend you? Not much. If they try you, it's because they've got something funny to tell you. Look here! He leapt up onto the bench with surprising agility and stood on tiptoe, so that his eyes came level with a little grating in the wall. The opening gave a view of another cell. Look! said Cherrybimm, stepping aside, and Malcolm peered through the opening. At first he could see nothing, for the cell was darker than the room he was in, but presently he distinguished a huddled form lying on the bench, and even as he looked it was galvanized to life. It was an old man who had leaped from the bench, mumbling and mouthing in his terror. I am awake! I am awake! he screamed in Russian. Gospodar, observe me! I am awake! His wild yell shrunk to a shrill sobbing, and then with a long sigh he climbed back to the bench and turned his back to the wall. Malcolm exchanged glances with Malenkov, who had shared the view. What is it? he asked. Come down and I'll tell you. Don't let the old man hear you speak. He's frightened. What did he say? he asked curiously. Malcolm repeated the words and Cherrybimm nodded. I see. I thought they were stuffing me when they told me, but it's evidently true. He's a Jew, he went on. Do you think them guys don't kill Jews? Don't you make any mistake about that? They kill anybody. This old man has a daughter or a granddaughter, and one of the comrades got fresh with him. So poor old Moses, I don't know his name, but he looks like the picture of Moses we had in our Bible at home, shot at this fellow and broke his jaw. So they sent him to be killed in his sleep. In his sleep, repeated Malcolm incredulously, and Cherrybimm nodded. That's it, he said. So long as he's awake, they won't kill him. At least they say so. I guess when his time comes, they'll settle him. Sleep or awake. The poor old guy thinks that so long as he's awake, he's safe. Do you get me? It's hellish, said Malcolm between his teeth. They must be devils. Oh, no, they're not, said Cherrybimm. I've got nothing on the Soviets. I bet the fellow that invented that way of torturing the old man thinks he's done a grand bit of work. Say, suppose you turned a lot of kids loose to govern the United States. Why? Broadway would be all cluttered up with dead nursery maids and murdered governesses. That's what's happening in Russia. They don't mean any harm. They're doing all they know to govern, only they don't know much. Take no notice of his reverence. He always gets like this round about mealtimes. The voice of the black-coated priest grew louder. He stood before the barred window, crossing himself incessantly. It is the celebration of the divine mystery, said Malenkov in a low voice, and removed his cap. For our Holy Fathers, the High Priest of Basil the Great, Gregory the Divine, Nicholas of Myra in Lycia, for Peter and Alexis and Jonas, and all holy high priests, grown the man, for the holy wonder-workers, the disinterested Cosmos and Damians, Cyrus and John, Panteleon and Hermelas, and all unmercenary saints. By the intercession of these, look down upon us, oh God. He walked back to his seat, and, taking compassion upon this man with a white, drawn face, Malcolm went to him. Little Father, he said, Is there anything we can do for you? He produced his cigarette-case, but the Pope shook his head. There is nothing, my son, he replied in a weary voice, which he did not raise above one monotonous tone. Unless you can find the means of bringing Bulba to this cell, oh, for an hour with the old life. He raised his hand and his voice at the same moment, and the colour came to his cheeks. I would take this Bulba, he said, as holy Ivan took the traitors before the Kremlin, and first I would pour boiling hot water upon him, and then ice-cold water, and then I would flay him, suspending him by the ankles, then before he was dead I would cut him in four pieces. Phew! said Malcolm, and walked away. Did you expect to find a penitent soul? asked Maninkov, dryling. My dear fellow, there is very little difference between the Russian of today and the Russian of twelve months ago, with this exception, that the men who had it easy are now having it hard, and those who had to work and to be judged are now the judges. Malcolm said nothing. He went to the bench and making himself as comfortable as possible he lay down. It was astounding that he could be, as he was, accustomed to captivity in the space of a few hours. He might have lived in bondage all his life, and he would be prepared to live forever so long as he did not want to think of the girl, that sweeper of Bulbas. As to his own fate he was indifferent, somehow he believed that he was not destined to die in this horrible place, and prayed that at least he might see the girl once more before he fell a victim to the malice of the ex-butler. To his agony of mine was added a more prosaic distress. He was ravenously hungry, a sensation which was shared by his two companions. I had never known them to be so late, complained Cherry Bim regretfully. There's usually a bit of black bread, if there's nothing else. He walked to the window and, leaning his arms on the sill, looked disconsently forth. Hi! Rusky he yelled at some person unseen, and the other inmates of the room could see him making an extravagant pantomime, which produced nothing in the shape of food. It was three o'clock in the afternoon, and Malcolm was dozing when they heard the grate of the key in the lock and the slipping of bolts, then the door opened slowly. Malcolm leapt forward. Arine! Your Highness! he gasped. The girl walked into the cell without a word and put the big basket she had been carrying upon the table. There was a faint colour in the face she turned to Malcolm. Her hands were outstretched to him, and he caught them in his own and held them together. Poor little girl! she smiled. Mr. Hay! you have made good progress in your Russian since I met you last, she said. General Malenkov, isn't it? The general stood strictly to attention, his hand at his cap, a fact which seemed to afford great amusement to the jailer, who stood in the doorway, and who was an interested spectator. It was Bourba's idea that I should bring you food, said the girl, and I've been ordered to bring it to you every day. I have an idea that he thinks—she's not—that he thinks I like you. She went on frankly, and of course that is true. I like all people who fly into danger to rescue distressed females, she smiled. Can anything be done for you? asked Malcolm in a low voice. Can't you get away from this place? Have you no friends? She shook her head. I have one friend, she said, who is an even greater danger than I. No, I do not mean you, Mr. Hay! she lowered her voice. There may be a chance of getting you out of this horrible place, but it is a very faint chance. Will you promise me that if you get away you will leave Russia at once? He shook his head. You asked me that once before, Your Highness, he said. I am less inclined to leave Russia now than I was in the old days, when the danger was not so evident. Highness, it was the priest who spoke. Your magnificence has brought me food also? Highness, I served your magnificent father. Do you not remember Gregory the priest in the cathedral at Vladimir? She shook her head. I have food for you, father, she said, but I do not recall you. Highness, he spoke eagerly, and his eyes were blazing. Since you go free, will you not say a prayer for me before the miraculous virgin, or better still before the tomb of the holy and sainted Demetri in the cathedral of the archangel? And Lady, he seized her hand in entreaty, before the relics of St. Philip the Martyr in our holy cathedral of the assumption. Gently the girl disengaged her arm. Father, I will pray for you, she said. Goodbye, she said to Malcolm, and again extended both her hands till tomorrow. Malcolm raised the hands to his lips, and stood like a man in a dream long after the door had slammed behind her. G! said the voice of Cherry Bim with a long sigh. She don't remember me, and I don't know whether she'd be glad or sorry. Some peach! Malcolm turned on him savagely, but it was evident the man had meant no harm. She's a friend of mine, he said sharply. Sure she is, said the placid Cherry, unpacking the basket, and the right kind of friend. If this isn't caviar, say shut your eyes, and you'd think you were at Rectoris.