Chapter XIX
Haas, in San Francisco, waited impatiently for word from the three who had sailed in pursuit of the ex-Chief of the Assassination Bureau. The days passed swiftly, each day bringing closer the end of the compact. Then, at long last, a letter arrived via the mail packet.
“Dear Haas:
“I can see you pacing your room, muttering to yourself in Greek and Hebrew, wondering if we have fallen victim to the lazy charm of this beautiful island. Or if we have fallen victim to D. You can relax; we have done neither.
“But the task has not been easy. D. laid a very neat trail to the west; we are convinced his true flight will be to the east. We are watching his daughter and Hall carefully. The first move they make in this direction will place us on the scent.
“We realize that time is running out, but do not fear. The Bureau has never failed and will not fail now. You can expect a coded cable any day.
“By the way, some incidental intelligence: D. has also used the name Constantine in his travels. We discovered this when we located him aboard the Eastern Clipper. Yes, he escaped. When we get together, after this is all over, we will tell you the whole story.
“Starkington.
“P.S. Lucoville has fallen in love with poi, an unpalatable mess made from taro root. We shall have even greater trouble with him and his diet once we return.”
Haas laid down the letter with a frown. The mail packet had sailed from Honolulu nine days earlier; certainly there should have been a cable from Starkington by this time. The trio had been in Hawaii nearly a month; less than six weeks remained to complete the assignment. He picked up the letter again, studying it carefully.
Constantine, eh? It rang some faint bell. There was a large export and import firm with that name. They had offices in New York, he knew; possibly they also had offices in Honolulu. He sat in the quiet of the room, the letter dangling from his fingers, while his tremendous brain calculated all of the possibilities.
In sudden resolve he arose. If there were no cable within the next two days he would catch the first steamer to the islands. And in the meantime he would prepare himself, for there would be precious little time once he arrived there. Folding the letter, he slipped it into his pocket and left the room.
His first stop was at the public library. A willing librarian furnished him with a large map of the Hawaiian Islands, and he spread it out upon a table and hunched over it, studying the details of Oahu with care. The trail had been to the west; his finger traced a spidery line that ran along the coast from Honolulu through Nanakuli and Waianae to a small finger of land marked Kaena Point. He nodded. That had been the false trail; Starkington would make no mistake on that score.
The roads to the east were more complex. Some ran over Nuuanu Pali pass and ended in the bush, or meandered down to unnamed beaches. Another thin line marked a road running up and back of Diamond Head, and then coming to the coast at a curved spit marked Mokapu Point. He pushed aside the map and leaned back, thinking.
He tried to put himself in Dragomiloff’s place. Why remain on Oahu? Why not leave for one of the many islands like Niihau or Kauai that spread out to the west; some deserted, some so sparsely inhabited as to make discovery virtually impossible in the little time left to the Bureau? Why remain on the one island that offered the greatest possibility for discovery?
Only, of course, if discovery were desired. He sat up, his brain racing. And why would discovery be desired? Only for a trap! His eye flashed once again to the map before him, but it told him nothing. He knew too little of the terrain. He leaned back once more, employing his giant intelligence.
A trap to catch three people with certainty was difficult. An accident? Too uncertain; one might always remain alive. An ambush? Almost impossible against three trained men such as Starkington, Hanover, and Lucoville. If he were Dragomiloff, faced with the problem, in what manner would he attempt to resolve it?
Not on land. There was always cover available; the conditions were never certain. For one man, yes; but never three. If he were Dragomiloff he would set his trap on the sea, where escape and cover were unavailable. He bent over the large map once again, his heart beating faster.
The eastern coast wound about tenuously, marked by little coves and scattered offshore islands. An island? Possibly. But again there would be the problem of possible cover, although escape would be more difficult. No; it would be the sea. But how do you trap three men on the barren sea? Three men of extraordinary intelligence, each highly trained in assassination, and also in self-protection?
He sighed and folded the map. Further investigation was necessary. He returned the chart to the librarian, thanking her, and left the cool building. One additional possibility occurred to him and he turned his steps in the direction of the Court House.
The clerk of land records nodded pleasantly.
“Yes,” he said. “We do have copies of land transactions in Hawaii. That is, if they are more than six months old. It takes that long to have them registered and filed here.” He peered at the thin, intense man facing him. “What would the purchaser’s name be, please?”
“Constantine,” Haas replied. “S. Constantine & Co.”
“The importers? If you will wait one moment....”
Haas stared through the dusty window facing the Bay and the constant passage of small and large ships in the distance, but he saw none of this. In his mind’s eye he saw a beach, and a boat—no, two boats—bobbing on the ocean off the shore. In one boat Dragomiloff sat quietly, while the other contained Starkington and the others. They remained there, fixed upon his mind, while he searched the scene for some indication of the trap, some means to explain why Dragomiloff was luring them there.
The clerk returned.
“Here we are, sir. S. Constantine & Co. purchased an office block on King Street in 1906. Five years ago. The details are all here, if you would care to examine them.”
Haas shook his head.
“No. I am speaking about another land purchase. More recent. On the eastern coast....” He hesitated, and suddenly the picture became clear. Suddenly he was sure. Dragomiloff had been planning this coup since the very first day. He straightened, speaking more positively. “The land was bought between ten and eleven months ago.”
The clerk disappeared into his files once again. This time when he returned Haas could not repress a small smile of triumph, for again the clerk was carrying a folder.
“I think this is what you are looking for, sir. But the purchase was not effected by the company. It was made in the name of Sergius Constantine, and comprises a small island off the eastern coast of Oahu.”
Haas read the details swiftly. His magnificent memory, recalling the chart of the coastline with perfect clarity, instantly located the small island. Thanking the clerk, he left, his footsteps faster, his mind flying as he reviewed the many possibilities.
There could be no doubt that it was a trap, planned for months, and now in the process of execution. The victims had not been known; fate had selected them. He must send a cable at once; Starkington would need to be warned.
He turned into his hotel, forming the words for the telegram in his mind, picturing his code-book lying in his suitcase hidden beneath his shirts. With his key he was handed a small envelope. He slit it open as he walked towards the stairway, and then stopped short. The message was brief and conclusive:
“Haas: Regret to inform you that Starkington, Hanover, and Lucoville died as the result of an unfortunate boating accident. Knew you would want to know. Hall.”
For a moment he remained, his fingers grasping the cable tightly as his mind encompassed the disaster. Too late! No time now for warnings; little time for anything. He must take the first boat. The first boat was—the Amberly, sailing at dusk. He would need to go to their offices to arrange passage; they were just a few blocks away.
He rushed to the door and into the street, jostling people as he forced his way through the noon-day crowd. Poor Starkington, he had always liked him so much! Hanover, gentle and scholarly, always so excited at the thought of wrong-doing in this naughty world! And Lucoville; he would never again grouse over his food!
The shipping offices were there across the street. Without looking he sprang into the pavement, never noting the huge brewery wagon bearing down upon him. There was a scream from someone along the sidewalk; a startled curse from the driver pulling madly and vainly on the reins. The twin span of grays, frightened by the apparition of the small figure before them, and frenzied by the violent tug of the bit, lashed out wildly. Haas fell beneath the flailing hooves, his last thoughts a recognition of unbearable pain, and the wonder that he should die so far from the palm-fringed beach and the end of his quest.
By mutual consent it was agreed to pass the final days of the fateful year upon the island. Here Dragomiloff, Grunya, and Hall lived in simple fashion, doing their own cooking, drawing their own water, finding their food in the sea as the natives before them had done for years. Surprisingly, they found it pleasant, a relaxing change from the flurry of their lives upon the mainland. But each knew it to be an escape from their problems, and one which could last but a short time.
To his own amazement, Hall found his liking for Dragomiloff returning daily, despite the frightful recollection of Starkington’s death. The memory was fading; it slid further into the recesses of his mind until it appeared as a remembered scene from a book long since read, or a panel of a mural viewed in some obscure gallery long forgotten.
Dragomiloff never shirked his share of the chores, nor did he attempt by reason of his position or his age to direct or command. He was always ready with a helping hand at the fishing and the cooking, and the evenness of his temper often led Hall to wonder if the dreadful scene of the whirlpool had actually existed. Yet daily, as the calendar flew, the small man kept more and more to himself. He sat at meals silent and increasingly thoughtful; the tasks he selected were now those suitable to one person. And daily he spent more and more time along the beach, staring across the empty expanse of the sea towards the mainland, as if waiting.
It was in the late afternoon of the penultimate day that he approached Hall, who was crouching in the surf sifting the shallows for the succulent crabs that hid there. His face was taut, although his voice remained even.
“Hall, you are certain that you cabled to Haas?”
Hall looked up, surprised.
“Of course. Why do you ask?”
“I cannot imagine why he has not come.”
“Possibly some circumstance beyond his control.” Hall stared at his companion. “You know, he is the last of the Assassination Bureau.”
Dragomiloff’s face was expressionless as he contemplated the brown face of the crouching man.
“Except for me, of course,” he stated quietly, and turned in the direction of the hut.
Hall’s eyes followed Dragomiloff’s figure for a moment and then, with a shrug, he returned to his crabbing. When the small wicker basket was sufficiently full to insure a good evening meal he straightened up, rubbing the cramped muscles of his back. We are all on edge, but there is but one last day, he thought with satisfaction, and then frowned. There was no doubt but that he would miss the island.
The sun was sinking into the green hills of the mainland as he came back to the hut. He placed the basket of squirming crabs in the small kitchen and padded through into the living room. Grunya was bent in deep conversation with her father; they both stopped short as soon as he entered. It was evident they did not wish to be disturbed. Feeling a bit hurt, Hall left the scene abruptly and walked down to the beach. Secrets? he thought a bit bitterly as he tramped the damp sand. Secrets at this late stage?
It was dark when he returned. Dragomiloff was in his room, bent over his writing table, his lamp casting the shadow of his profile sharply against the thatched wall. Grunya was sitting by a small lamp weaving a small mat from palm-fronds. Hall dropped into a chair opposite her and watched the play of her strong hands silently for a few moments. Her usual smile at sight of him was missing.
“Grunya.”
She looked up inquiringly, her face set.
“Yes, Winter?”
“Grunya.” He kept his voice low. “We are at the end of our days here. Soon we shall return to civilization.” He hesitated, somewhat frightened by the solemnity of her face. “Will you—still wish to marry me?”
“Of course.” Her eyes dropped once again to the work in her lap; her fingers picked up their chore. “I want nothing more than to marry you.”
“And your father?”
She looked up, no muscle of her face moving. Not for the first time Hall noted the sharp resemblance to the blond man in the strong, fine lines of her face.
“What about my father?”
“What will he do? The Assassination Bureau will be no more. It was a large part of his life.”
“It was all of his life.” Then her eyes came up, unfathomable. They slid over Hall’s shoulder and stopped. Hall swung about. Dragomiloff had come into the room and was standing quietly. Grunya’s eyes came back to Hall. She attempted a smile.
“Winter, we ... we need water. Would you...?”
“Of course.”
He rose, took the bucket, and walked in the direction of the small spring at the northern end of the island. The moon had risen, large and white, and lit his path with dancing shadows from the stirring flowers along the way. His heart was heavy; Grunya’s strange sternness—almost coldness—weighed upon him. But then a lighter thought came. Each of us, he thought, has been subject to strain these past few days. Lord knows how I must have appeared to her! Just a few more days and they would find themselves aboard ship, and the captain could marry them. Man and wife! He filled the bucket and started back, whistling softly to himself.
The water butt was in the kitchen. He up-ended the bucket and poured; water overflowed, washing against his bare feet. The butt had been full. In sudden fear he threw the bucket down and dashed for the living room. Grunya was still working silently, but her cheeks were wet with tears. A sheaf of papers lay upon the table before her, curled and heavy under the lamp.
“Grunya, my dear! What....”
She attempted to continue her work but the tears streamed faster and faster until she flung the weaving from her and fell into his waiting arms.
“Oh, Winter...!”
“What is it? What is it, my darling?” Sudden suspicion came to him and he turned in the direction of Dragomiloff’s room. The room was dark, but the moonlight, streaming in at the open window, fell across the empty bed. He sprang for the door, but Grunya clutched his arm.
“No! You must not! Read this!”
He paused irresolutely, but the pressure of her hand upon his arm was demanding. Her eyes, raised to his, were filled with tears, but they were filled, also, with determination. Slowly he relaxed and reached for the sheaf of papers. Grunya watched his face as he read, her eyes roving from the broad forehead to the stern jaw, noting the marks of the man who would be her only refuge forever.
“Dear Children:
“I can wait no longer. Haas has not come and my hours are running out.
“You must try and understand me and—as Hall would call it—my madness. I speak now of the action I must take. As head of the Assassination Bureau I accepted a commission; this commission will be fulfilled. The Bureau has never failed and it will not fail now. To do so would negate everything it has ever stood for. I am sure that only death could have prevented Haas from accomplishing his mission, but in our organization the duty always passes to another. As the last member, I must accept it.
“But I do not accept it with sadness. The Bureau was my life, and as it vanishes, so must Ivan Dragomiloff vanish. Nor am I accepting it with shame; pride marks the step I shall take this night. Possibly we were wrong—at one time you, Hall, convinced me that we were. But we were never wrong for the wrong reasons—even in our wrongness there was a rightness.
“That we killed, and that many times, we do not deny. But the terrible thing in killing is not the quantity of victims, but the quality. The death of one Socrates is a far greater crime against humanity than the slaughter of endless hordes of the savages that Genghis Khan led on the brutal rape of Asia; but who truly believes it? The public—were they to know—would scream imprecation down at our Bureau, even as, with the same breath, they glorified to the heavens all forms of thoughtless and needless slaying.
“You doubt me? Walk through the parks of our great cities, and our squares, and our plazas. What monuments do you find to Aristotle? Or to Paine? Or Spinoza? No; these spaces are reserved for the demigods, sword in hand, who led us in all our slaughtering crusades since we raised ourselves from the apes. The late war with Spain will doubtless fill the few remaining spots, both here and in Spain, with horsed heroes, arms raised in bloody salute, commemorating in deathless bronze the victory of violence in the battle for men’s minds.
“Yet I allowed myself to be convinced that we were wrong. Why? Because in essence we were wrong. The world must come to recognize the joint responsibility for justice; it can no longer remain the aim of a select—and self-selected—few. Even now, the rumblings that come from Europe foreshadow a greater catastrophe than mankind has yet endured, but the salvation must come from a larger morality than even we could offer. It must come from the growing moral fibre of the world itself.
“Yet, one doubt; one question. If that moral fibre be not forthcoming? Then, in some distant age, the Assassination Bureau may well be re-born. For of the deaths that can be laid at our doors, the following may be said: No man died who did not deserve it. No man died whose death did not benefit mankind. It is doubtful if the same will be said of those whose statues rise from the squares after the next ‘final’ war is fought.
“But time runs out. I ask you, Hall, to guard Grunya. She is the life I bequeath to this earth, the proof that no man, right or wrong, can pass without leaving his mark.
“One last kiss to my Grunya. One final handclasp to you, my friend.
“D.”
Hall lifted his eyes from the papers between his fingers; they sought the beautiful face of his loved one.
“You did not attempt to stop him?”
“No.” Her gaze was steady and brave. “All my life he has done everything for me. My slightest wish was granted.” Her eyes misted; her mouth quivered with an effort for control. “I love him so much! I had no other means of repaying him.”
Hall gathered her in his arms, wonder at her great strength flooding him. Suddenly the strain was too much; she burst into violent tears, clutching his arms with all her force.
“Oh, Winter, was I wrong? Was I wrong? Should I have begged him for his life?”
He held her tightly, soothingly. Through the open doorway his eyes sought the smooth sea reflected brightly in the brilliant moonlight. A shadow crossed his vision, a slight figure in the distance, bent easily over a paddle, moving quietly to the center of the channel to await the Huhu Kai. He did not know whether he saw it or imagined it, but suddenly one arm seemed to rise from the dwindling canoe in a happy salute.
“No,” he said fiercely, holding her tighter. “No, my darling. You were not wrong.”
THE END
[Jack London stops and Mr. Fish begins on page 122]