Chapter 1  THE MAN WITH THE WHITE HAIR 

It was close on midnight when a man crossed the Place de la Concorde. In spite of the handsome fur coat which garbed his meagre form, there was something essentially weak and paltry about him. 

A little man with a face like a rat. A man, one would say, who could never play a conspicuous part, or rise to prominence in any sphere. And yet, in leaping to such a conclusion, an onlooker would have been wrong. For this man, negligible and 

inconspicuous as he seemed, played a prominent part in the destiny of the world. In an Empire where rats ruled, he was the king of the rats. 

Even now, an Embassy awaited his return. But he had business to do first - business of which the Embassy was not officially cognizant. His face gleamed white and sharp in the moonlight. There was the least hint of a curve in the thin nose. His father had been a Polish Jew, a journeyman tailor. It was business such as his father would have loved that took him abroad tonight. 

He came to the Seine, crossed it, and entered one of the less reputable quarters of Paris. Here he stopped before a tall, dilapidated house and made his way up to an apartment on the fourth floor. He had barely time to knock before the door was opened by a woman who had evidently been awaiting his arrival. She gave him no greeting, but helped him off with his overcoat and then led the way into the tawdrily furnished sitting-room. 

The electric light was shaded with dirty pink festoons, and it softened, but could not disguise the girl's face with its mask of crude paint. Could not disguise, either, the broad Mongolian cast of her countenance. 

There was no doubt of Olga Demiroff's profession, nor of her nationality. 

"All is well, little one?" 

"All is well, Boris Ivanovitch." 

He nodded murmuring: "I do not think I have been followed." 

But there was anxiety in his tone. He went to the window, drawing the curtains aside slightly, and peering carefully out. He started away violently. 

"There are two men - on the opposite pavement. It looks to me -" He broke off and began gnawing at his nails - a habit he had when anxious. 

The Russian girl was shaking her head with a slow, reassuring action. 

"They were here before you came." 

"All the same, it looks to me as though they were watching this house." 

"Possibly," she admitted indifferently. 

"But then -" 

"What of it? Even if they know - it will not be you they will follow from here." A thin, cruel smile came to his lips. 

"No," he admitted, "that is true." 

He mused for a minute or two and then observed. 

"This damned American - he can look after himself as well as anybody." 

"I suppose so." 

He went again to the window. 

"Tough customers," he muttered, with a chuckle. "Known to the police, I fear. Well, well, I wish Brother Apache good hunting." 

Olga Demiroff shook her head. 

"If the American is the kind of man they say he is, it will take more than a couple of cowardly apaches to get the better of him." 

She paused. "I wonder -" 

"Well?" 

"Nothing. Only twice this evening a man has passed along this street - a man with white hair." 

"What of it?" 

"This. As he passed those two men, he dropped his glove. One of them picked it up and returned it to him. A threadbare device." 

"You mean - that the white-haired man is - their employer?" 

"Something of the kind." 

The Russian looked alarmed and uneasy. 

"You are sure - the parcel is safe? It has not been tampered with? 

There has been too much talk... much too much talk." 

He gnawed his nails again. 

"Judge for yourself." 

She bent to the fireplace, deftly removing the coals. Underneath, from amongst the crumpled balls of newspaper, she selected from the very middle an oblong package wrapped round with grimy newspaper, and handed it to the man. 

"Ingenious," he said, with a nod of approval. 

"The apartment has been searched twice. The mattress on my bed was ripped open." 

"It is as I said," he muttered. "There has been too much talk. This haggling over the price - it was a mistake." 

He had unwrapped the newspaper. Inside was a small brown paper parcel. This in turn he unwrapped, verified the contents, and quickly wrapped it up once more. As he did so, an electric bell rang sharply. 

"The American is punctual," said Olga, with a glance at the clock. 

She left the room. In a minute she returned ushering in a stranger, a big, broad-shouldered man whose transatlantic origin was evident. His keen glance went from one to the other. 

"M. Krassnine?" he inquired politely. 

"I am he," said Boris. "I must apologize for - for the unconventionality of this meeting-place. But secrecy is urgent. I - I cannot afford to be connected with this business in any way." 

"Is that so?" said the American politely. 

"I have your word, have I not, that no details of this transaction will be made public? That is one of the conditions of - sale." 

The American nodded. 

"That has already been agreed upon," he said indifferently. "Now, perhaps, you will produce the goods." 

"You have the money - in notes?" 

"Yes," replied the other. 

He did not, however, make any attempt to produce it. After a moment's hesitation, Krassnine gestured towards the small parcel on the table. 

The American took it up and unrolled the wrapping paper. The contents he took over to a small electric lamp and submitted them to a very thorough examination. Satisfied, he drew from his pocket a thick leather wallet and extracted from it a wad of notes. These he handed to the Russian, who counted them carefully. 

"All right?" 

"I thank you, Monsieur. Everything is correct." 

"Ah!" said the other. He slipped the brown paper parcel negligently into his pocket. He bowed to Olga. "Good evening, Mademoiselle. Good evening, M. Krassnine." 

He went out, shutting the door behind him. The eyes of the two in the room met. The man passed his tongue over his dry lips. 

"I wonder - will he ever get back to his hotel?" he muttered. 

By common accord, they both turned to the window. They were just in time to see the American emerge into the street below. 

He turned to the left and marched along at a good pace without once turning his head. Two shadows stole from a doorway and followed noiselessly. Pursuers and pursued vanished into the night. Olga Demiroff spoke. 

"He will get back safely," she said. "You need not fear - or hope - whichever it is." 

"Why do you think he will be safe?" asked Krassnine curiously. 

"A man who has made as much money as he has could not possibly be a fool," said Olga. "And talking of money -" 

She looked significantly at Krassnine. 

"Eh?" 

"My share, Boris Ivanovitch." 

With some reluctance, Krassnine handed over two of the notes. She nodded her thanks, with a complete lack of emotion, and tucked them away in her stocking. 

"That is good," she remarked, with satisfaction. 

He looked at her curiously. 

"You have no regrets, Olga Vassilovna?" 

"Regrets? For what?" 

"For what has been in your keeping. There are women - most women, I believe, who go mad over such things." 

She nodded reflectively. 

"Yes, you speak truth there. Most women have that madness. I - have not. I wonder now -" She broke off. 

"Well?" asked the other curiously. 

"The American will be safe with them - yes, I am sure of that. But afterwards -" 

"Eh? What are you thinking of?" 

"He will give them, of course, to some woman," said Olga thoughtfully. "I wonder what will happen then..." 

She shook herself impatiently and went over to the window. Suddenly she uttered an exclamation and called to her 

companion. 

"See, he is going down the street now - the man I mean." 

They both gazed down together. A slim, elegant figure was progressing along at a leisurely pace. He wore an opera hat and a cloak. As he passed a street lamp, the light illuminated a thatch of thick white hair. 

第一章 白发男人

    将近子夜时分，一个人穿过协和广场（巴黎最大的广场，位于塞纳河右岸，城西北部。译注）。他虽然穿着贵重的皮毛大衣，还是不难使人看出他体弱多病，穷困潦倒。

    这个人长着一副老鼠的面孔。谁也不会认为这样一个身体虚弱的人在生活中会起什么作用。但正是他在世界的一个角落里发挥着他的作用。

    此时此刻，有一使命催他回家。但在回家之前，他还要做一件交易。而那一使命和这一交易是互不相干的。

    他来到塞纳河畔，穿过桥，到了巴黎的一个名声很坏的街区。他在一栋没有人看守的大楼前稍停片刻，左右窥视几眼，便上了四层楼。没等他伸手敲门，一个女人就把门打开了。这个女人仿佛是在等待着这个男人的到来。她帮助他脱掉了大衣，带他走进客厅。这个客厅的装饰和摆设都很俗气。污秽的灯罩下的灯光照在这个女人的面颊上。她象蒙古人一样颧骨突起，头上戴着廉价的首饰。这个女人名叫奥尔加·德米罗夫娜，说到她的职业，那人们就不必有什么怀疑了，就象不用怀疑她那民族的特性一样。

    “都办妥了吗？小宝贝！”

    “都办妥了，鲍里斯·伊万诺维奇。”

    他点了点头，压低了嗓门说：“我相信没我盯我的梢。”

    但是他的声音里却流露出胆怯的心情。他走到窗前，把窗帘拉开，向楼下张望了一下，蓦然回过头来说道：

    “外面有两个人，在街那边的人行道上。这可能是……”他的话音未落便思忖起来，正象他恐惧的时候时常做的那样。

    而那个俄国女人却若无其事地摇摇头。

    “他们在您来之前就在那里了……”

    “看样子，他们是在监视这座楼房。”

    “这是可能的。”她附和着说道。

    “如果这是这样的话……”

    “我想他们不会跟踪您，除非他们嗅到了什么。”

    这个男人的嘴角上浮现出一丝愚蠢而痛苦的笑容。

    “你说的对。”这个男人说道。

    他思虑了足有一分钟，然后带着充满仇恨的语调慢声细语地说道：“这个该死的美国佬真会保护自己，比谁都会。”

    “这一点我是相信的。”

    他又走到了窗前。

    “恶棍！”他嘟哝着，冷笑了一声，“是警察局的老相识，老弟，祝你们成功！”

    奥尔加·德米罗夫娜摇摇头。

    “若是那个美国佬象您所说的那样，那么就是有两个恶棍也不是他的对手。”

    他没有吭声。

    “我在想……”

    “怎么？”

    “要知道，今天晚上有一个人两次到过这条街，是一个白发男人。”

    “他要干什么？”

    “没有什么。当这个人走到那个人身旁时，好象故意掉下一只手套在地上，其中一个人把手套拾起来又交还给了白发男人。真是一场滑稽剧。”

    “你认为这个白发男人是这两个家伙的后台吗？”

    “有点象。”

    这回俄国佬有点吃惊。

    “你果真认为是这样？包裹还安全吗？没有什么人动过？事情越来越复杂了。”

    他又陷入了深思。

    “您要有信心！”

    她在火炉旁弯下腰把煤块摆拨动了一下，从中取出一个纸包递给了他。

    “真聪明！”他满意地说道。

    “这所房子已经被搜查了两次，我的床单都被撕破了。”

    “我已经说过，我们说的太多了。”他叨咕着，“对价钱过多的考虑是致命的错误。”

    他撕去了包裹的外层，里面还包着一层纸。他打开纸，看了一眼里面的东西，又紧紧地包上了。这时电铃声突然响起。

    “美国佬准时来到了。”奥尔加看了一下手表。她走出房间，没过多久她带进来一个陌生人，高个头、宽肩膀，从外貌上一眼就可以看出是个美国人。美国人先是瞟了一眼女人，继而又向那个男人扫了一眼。

    “您是克雷斯内先生吗？”美国佬客气地问道。

    “正是，正是我。”鲍里斯回答道。“请原谅，接头地点变动了。要知道，最紧要的是：我们的交易不能露出马脚。我不能把这种东西带在身上去接头。”

    “啊，是这样。”美国人很有礼貌地说道。

    “您曾对我说过，这桩交易只是能在我们之间进行，是吗？这是这桩买卖的重要条件之一。”

    美国人点了一下头。

    “这方面我们是一致的。”他冷淡地说。“您是否现在把货拿出来让我看一下。”

    “您的钱拿来了吗？是钞票？”

    “是的。”对方回答道。

    可是他没有提到他的钱是否已带在身上。克雷斯内犹豫了下，就把纸包放在桌子上了。

    美国人打开纸包。他走到灯光下把里面的东西取出来，细心地看了一会儿，似乎还比较满意。他从口袋里掏出一个厚厚的信封，拿出来一叠钞票，交给了俄国人，俄国人谨慎地数着钞票。

    “对吗？”

    “谢谢，完全对。”

    “好，好极啦！”美国人说道。

    美国人把纸包放进自己的衣袋里，对奥尔加鞠了一躬。

    “再见，小姐。再见，克雷斯内先生。”

    道别后，他便离开了房间，房门在他身后关上了。剩下的两个人面面相视了一会儿。

    男的用舌头舔着干燥的嘴唇说道：“我在想，他会不会回到他下榻的饭店去呢？”

    两人不约而同的向窗外望去。这时那个美国人正好走到街上。他向左边瞥了一眼，随即猛然加快了脚步向前走去。墙角处有两个人悄悄地跟上了他。跟踪和被跟踪者都消失在漆黑的夜幕中。

    奥尔加·德米罗夫娜说道：“他一定回家了。您不用替他担心，也不要对他抱有希望。”

    “你为什么认为他一定很安全呢？”克雷斯内问道。

    “如果一个人有那么钱，那他决不是傻瓜。”奥尔加说，“足够的钱……”她意味深长地看着克雷斯内。

    “嗯？”

    “我的那一份，鲍里斯·伊万诺维奇？”

    他很不情愿地给了她两张钞票。她默不作声地谢了他，把钱塞进袜统里。

    他好奇地看着奥尔加。

    “你不感到惋惜吗？奥尔加·德米罗夫娜？””

    “有什么可惋惜的呢？”

    “你把那么绝妙的首饰放弃了。我相信，大多数女人对这种东西爱得发狂。”

    她点点头。

    “您说的对。很多女人都有这种疯狂般的特点，可是我没有。我只想知道一件事……”

    “什么？”克雷斯内问道。

    “这个美国人拿到了宝石，且又安然无事。对此我深信无疑。可是以后会怎样呢……”

    “以后会怎样呢？”

    “他肯定会把宝石送给一个女人。”奥尔加说着，遐想着，“我想，如果给了一个女人，会怎么样呢？”

    她又走到窗前，突然喊了一声，把头转向她的同伙。

    “您瞧。走在路边上的那个人，就是我刚才提到过的那个人。”

    一个身子又瘦又长的，很潇洒的男人沉着地走过。他头戴一顶圆帽，穿着大衣。

在路灯照耀下，可以清楚地看到他的露在圆帽外边的一头长发。