A Secret Service: Being Strange Tales of a Nihilist — John Shaqi
A Secret Service: Being Strange Tales of a NihilistLe Queux, William
General
A Secret Service: Being Strange Tales of a Nihilist
Le Queux, William
Nihilism -- Fiction; Russia -- Politics and government -- 1801-1917 -- Fiction
A blow was immediately aimed at me, but fortunately it fell upon my left
arm. At that moment one of the men struck a light, and I found that all
four were in the little cabin with me.
The skipper, who had a life-preserver in his hand, noticed my revolver
and hesitated.
“Twenty poun’ ain’t enough,” he said fiercely, “so me and my mates mean
to have some of your jewellery.”
As these words fell from his lips, one of the men, a tall, burly fellow,
in a dirty yellow oilskin, grasped the handle of the portmanteau as if to
carry it upon deck.
“We want no jaw,” exclaimed the skipper. “Say a word, and we’ll drown you
like a rat.”
“Put that down,” I shouted to the man. “If you don’t, I’ll fire.”
But he laughed mockingly.
Pointing the pistol over his head, I pulled the trigger. The bullet
whizzed past his ear, and smashed the little square mirror that was
hanging up behind where he was standing. The man dropped the bag, and
drawing a knife, was in the act of rushing upon me, but one of his
companions held him back.
“No,” cried the fellow who had grasped his arm. “Give him one more
chance of life. If he hands over the bag to us, we’ll guarantee to land
him at Wenduyne.”
“I sha’n’t give it up,” I replied in anger. “In the first place, you
cowardly brutes have been caught in your own trap. There are no jewels
inside, but stuff that you’d rather not have on board this craft. All
that’s inside is dynamite!”
“Dynamite!” ejaculated the men, in alarm.
“Yes,” I replied. “Now, listen! You mistook your man. I’m not an
absconding thief, as you thought; but, nevertheless, I mean that you
shall take me to Wenduyne, and what’s more, land me there before sunrise.
If you don’t, my mission will be useless. I’m tired of life, and if you
fail to fulfil your contract, I shall touch the spring inside, and it
will send us all to kingdom come. Now, you infernal cut-throats, do as
you please. I shall remain here, and if you value your lives, you’ll
carry out the agreement for which I’ve paid you.”
Then I unlocked the portmanteau, and showed them the box concealed inside.
My fierce, determined attitude cowed them. Like beaten dogs, they
returned on deck without scarcely uttering a word.
The announcement that I had such a quantity of explosive had its effect,
for, just as dawn was spreading, I was put ashore in a small boat upon
a lonely part of the beach, about three miles north of Wenduyne, and
directed to the road down which the diligence to Blankenberghe would
pass.
That afternoon I took my seat in the mail train for the Belgian capital.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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