The Council of Justice

It was the day of days for the Red Hundred. The wonderful international congress was meeting in London, the first great congress of recognised Anarchism. This was no hole-and-corner gathering of hurried men speaking furtively, but one open and unafraid with three policemen specially retained for duty outside the hall, a commissionaire to take tickets at the outer lobby, and a shorthand writer with a knowledge of French and Yiddish to make notes of remarkable utterances.

The wonderful congress was a fact. When it had been broached there were people who laughed at the idea; Niloff of Vitebsk was one because he did not think such openness possible. But little Peter (his preposterous name was Konoplanikova, and he was a reporter on the staff of the foolish Russkoye Znamźa), this little Peter who had thought out the whole thing, whose idea it was to gather a conference of the Red Hundred in London, who hired the hall and issued the bills (bearing in the top left-hand corner the inverted triangle of the Hundred) asking those Russians in London interested in the building of a Russian Sailors’ Home to apply for tickets, who, too, secured a hall where interruption was impossible, was happy⁠—yea, little brothers, it was a great day for Peter.

“You can always deceive the police,” said little Peter enthusiastically; “call a meeting with a philanthropic object and⁠—voilà!”

Wrote Inspector Falmouth to the assistant-commissioner of police:⁠—

It was the fury of the applause that disconcerted her; the taller of the two men who sat watching her realized that much. For when the shouting had died down and she strove to resume, she faltered and stammered and then was silent. Then abruptly and with surprising vehemence she began again. But she had changed the direction of her oratory, and it was upon another subject that she now spoke. A subject nearer to her at that moment than any other, for her pale cheeks flushed and a feverish light came to her eyes as she spoke.

“… and now, with all our perfect organization, with the world almost within our grasp⁠—there comes somebody who says ‘Stop!’⁠—and we who by our acts have terrorized kings and dominated the councils of empires, are ourselves threatened!”

The audience grew deadly silent. They were silent before, but now the silence was painful.

The two men who watched her stirred a little uneasily, as though something in her speech had jarred. Indeed, the suggestion of braggadocio in her assertion of the Red Hundred’s power had struck a discordant note.

The girl continued speaking rapidly.

“By some means we have been betrayed,” the chairman went on, and his voice lacked that confidence which characterized his earlier speech; “there is an organization⁠—an organization of reaction⁠—which has set itself to thwart us. That organization has discovered our identity.” He paused a little.

“This morning I received a letter which named me president of the Inner Council and threatened me.” Again he hesitated.

“It was signed ‘The Four Just Men.’ ”

His statement was received in dead silence⁠—a silence that perplexed him, for his compensation for the shock he had received had been the anticipation of the sensation his announcement would make.

He was soon enlightened as to the cause of the silence.

“I also have received a letter,” said François quietly.

“And I.”

“And I.”

“And I.”

Only Bartholomew did not speak, and he felt the unspoken accusation of the others.

“I have received no letter,” he said with an easy laugh⁠—“only these.” He fumbled in his waistcoat pocket and produced two beans. There was nothing peculiar in these save one was a natural black and the other had been dyed red.

“What do they mean?” demanded Starque suspiciously.

“I have not the slightest idea,” said Bartholomew with a contemptuous smile; “they came in a little box, such as jewellery is sent in, and were unaccompanied either by letter or anything of the kind. These mysterious messages do not greatly alarm me.”

“But what does it mean?” persisted Starque, and every neck was craned toward the seeds; “they must have some significance⁠—think.”

Bartholomew yawned.

Halfway down Half Moon Street was a motorcar, and as he came abreast, a man who stood by the curb⁠—and whom he had mistaken for a waiting chauffeur⁠—barred his further progress.

“Captain Bartholomew?” he asked respectfully.

“That is my name,” said the other in surprise.

“My master wishes to know whether you have decided.”

“What⁠—?”

“If,” went on his imperturbable examiner, “if you have decided on the red⁠—here is the car, if you will be pleased to enter.”

“And if I have decided on the black?” he asked with a little hesitation.

“Under the circumstances,” said the man without emotion, “my master is of opinion that for his greater safety, he must take steps to ensure your neutrality.”

There was no menace in the tone, but an icy matter-of-fact confidence that shocked this hardened adventurer.

In the dim light he saw something in the man’s hand⁠—a thin bright something that glittered.

“It shall be red!” he said hoarsely.

The man bowed and opened the door of the car.