Read Online The Great Game by Michael Kurland - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Michael Kurland
Tags: Fiction, General, Historical, Mystery & Detective, Mystery Fiction, Holmes; Sherlock (Fictitious Character), Scientists, Moriarty; Professor (Fictitious Character)
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the brick walls. Neither Herr Werfel, nor any of the management of the chocolate manufactory knew of the use to which their box cellar was being put.
The members of the League professed anarchism and practiced terror. Their weapons were the bomb, the pistol, the ice pick, and the lives of their members. They seemed to be well financed, although how or by whom was known only to their leaders. The Vienna cell numbered between twelve and twenty-two men, depending on the phases of the moon, the vagaries of conscience, and the diligence of the Kundschafts Stelle —the Austrian counterintelligence bureau.
Fourteen men were present at tonight's meeting; among them a pair with the thick-necked, broken-nosed look of professional toughs who would not be out of place at a daily police lineup; a trio with the furtive look of unsuccessful sneak-thieves; and a well-dressed young man with a bowler hat and the detached air of a gentleman of leisure, or a successful pickpocket. Most of the rest looked like—and for the most part were—university students who divided their time between attending lectures on the economic consequences of the great upheavals of 1849 and plotting upheavals of their own.
The cell leader was known as "Number One" at meetings. Outside, as Paul Donzhof had discovered with a bit of discreet research, he was Dietrich Loomer, called "the Ferret" by his acquaintances. He was a gaunt, sallow, notably short, totally bald man with no eyebrows who habitually wore a black cloak made of a material usually reserved for horse blankets and a black, wide-brim hat pulled close over his eyes. This gave him a furtive look which made one instinctively put him down as a sneak thief or a police spy. He had been both. His formative years had been spent in a horse regiment of the Austrian Army, where he had risen to the rank of corporal before being kicked out for irregularities of a highly personal and unmentionable nature.
Paul, known as "Number Thirty-seven" to his fellow anarchists, was assigned to guard-duty for this meeting. His job was to stand outside the door and give warning if danger, in the form of the police or a Werfel employee, approached.
After a little while he was joined by Feodor Hessenkopf, who paused to smoke a cigarette before joining the meeting. They kept the door open a crack, so they could hear what was going on inside. Hessenkopf had forgone the humpback and was now dressed as a railroad conductor. Perhaps, Paul thought looking at him, the little man truly was a railroad conductor. The gray uniform showed the proper sort of wear that suggested that it was not a costume. Hessenkopf was to be called "Number Eleven" while at meetings; members were under strict orders to address each other only by their numbers and they were not encouraged to know each other outside, although most of them frequented the Café Figaro and could easily be identified by any of the waiters.
For the first half hour the members heard the reading of a new anarchist manifesto called The Coming Revolution, which had just arrived from Paris. It was supposedly written by the anarchist Brakinsky from his jail cell shortly before his execution for murdering three policemen.
A young man named Mandl with a vibrant voice and a sense of pathos stood under the gas mantle in the center of the meeting room and read from the pamphlet. " 'The day is coming when the landlords and the bourgeoisie shall no longer snatch the bread from the mouths of the children of the workers,' " he read fiercely. And, further on: " 'They would have you fight for your country, like a lamb fighting for its shearing pen, or a swine fighting for its abattoir. You are enslaved by fetters of the great lie called patriotism; they are invisible but they hold
The members of the League professed anarchism and practiced terror. Their weapons were the bomb, the pistol, the ice pick, and the lives of their members. They seemed to be well financed, although how or by whom was known only to their leaders. The Vienna cell numbered between twelve and twenty-two men, depending on the phases of the moon, the vagaries of conscience, and the diligence of the Kundschafts Stelle —the Austrian counterintelligence bureau.
Fourteen men were present at tonight's meeting; among them a pair with the thick-necked, broken-nosed look of professional toughs who would not be out of place at a daily police lineup; a trio with the furtive look of unsuccessful sneak-thieves; and a well-dressed young man with a bowler hat and the detached air of a gentleman of leisure, or a successful pickpocket. Most of the rest looked like—and for the most part were—university students who divided their time between attending lectures on the economic consequences of the great upheavals of 1849 and plotting upheavals of their own.
The cell leader was known as "Number One" at meetings. Outside, as Paul Donzhof had discovered with a bit of discreet research, he was Dietrich Loomer, called "the Ferret" by his acquaintances. He was a gaunt, sallow, notably short, totally bald man with no eyebrows who habitually wore a black cloak made of a material usually reserved for horse blankets and a black, wide-brim hat pulled close over his eyes. This gave him a furtive look which made one instinctively put him down as a sneak thief or a police spy. He had been both. His formative years had been spent in a horse regiment of the Austrian Army, where he had risen to the rank of corporal before being kicked out for irregularities of a highly personal and unmentionable nature.
Paul, known as "Number Thirty-seven" to his fellow anarchists, was assigned to guard-duty for this meeting. His job was to stand outside the door and give warning if danger, in the form of the police or a Werfel employee, approached.
After a little while he was joined by Feodor Hessenkopf, who paused to smoke a cigarette before joining the meeting. They kept the door open a crack, so they could hear what was going on inside. Hessenkopf had forgone the humpback and was now dressed as a railroad conductor. Perhaps, Paul thought looking at him, the little man truly was a railroad conductor. The gray uniform showed the proper sort of wear that suggested that it was not a costume. Hessenkopf was to be called "Number Eleven" while at meetings; members were under strict orders to address each other only by their numbers and they were not encouraged to know each other outside, although most of them frequented the Café Figaro and could easily be identified by any of the waiters.
For the first half hour the members heard the reading of a new anarchist manifesto called The Coming Revolution, which had just arrived from Paris. It was supposedly written by the anarchist Brakinsky from his jail cell shortly before his execution for murdering three policemen.
A young man named Mandl with a vibrant voice and a sense of pathos stood under the gas mantle in the center of the meeting room and read from the pamphlet. " 'The day is coming when the landlords and the bourgeoisie shall no longer snatch the bread from the mouths of the children of the workers,' " he read fiercely. And, further on: " 'They would have you fight for your country, like a lamb fighting for its shearing pen, or a swine fighting for its abattoir. You are enslaved by fetters of the great lie called patriotism; they are invisible but they hold
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