THE RED MENACE
Maxwell Grant
CHAPTER I. A DESPERATE FLIGHT
A TAXICAB stopped at a corner in upper Manhattan. As it pulled to the curb, the passenger thrust his
hand through the open window beside the driver and pressed a ten-dollar bill into the taximan's glove.
'Keep the change,' came a low, quick voice with a foreign accent. 'Keep the change, and drive away.
Tell no one that you brought me here.'
Before the astonished driver could reply, the passenger was gone. The taximan caught a glimpse of his
back as the man hurried across the sidewalk and turned the corner.
It was one of those strange episodes which occur nightly in New York. The taxi driver shrugged his
shoulders as he pocketed the ten-dollar bill.
As the cab drew away from the brightly lighted corner, a sedan pulled up alongside of it. The two
vehicles ran along together, while unseen eyes from the sedan peered into the cab, as though seeking
some one.
Then the large automobile stopped; and as the cab went on, the driver of the sedan turned his car down
the street where the stranger had gone.
The block was a long one. The sedan had arrived in less than a minute after the passenger had left the
cab. There was little chance that the pedestrian could reach the next corner before the pursuing car
overtook him.
BUT the man had chosen a closer destination. At the very moment that the sedan had begun its chase,
the man on foot stopped at a house midway in the block.
He heard the approach of the sedan as he waited for admittance to the house. Instinctively he drew his
body into the protecting shadows of the doorway.
The effort to gain concealment was a failure. The eyes that peered from the sedan were too keen. An
exclamation came from the car; it stopped suddenly as the driver applied the brakes.
But as the sedan's momentum ceased, the door of the house was opened, and the man on the steps was
admitted.
Within the house, the hunted man gasped breathlessly as he stood in the dimly lighted hallway. He had
been admitted by a dull-faced, brutal-looking servant, and this individual now studied him in a rather
antagonistic manner.
'What do you want?' demanded the servant, in guttural tones.
'I must see Mr. Albion. At once!' The visitor's reply was urgent. 'Tell him it is important.'
'What is your name?'
'Berchik.'
The servant turned and went up the stairs.
The visitor stared anxiously at the closed door. He was a heavy-set man, dark in complexion, and with a
stern yet expressive face. His features showed the marks of worry.
The servant returned.
'Follow me,' he said.
He led the way upstairs. They came to a front room on the second floor. The visitor was admitted, and
the servant retired, closing the door behind him.
THE man called Berchik found himself in a most luxurious apartment. The decorations of the room were
almost barbaric in their splendor.
A Russian wolfhound was reclining upon a magnificent Oriental rug. The huge dog arose and stretched
itself; then it stalked across the room and rubbed its head against the visitor's hand. Berchik smiled as he
stroked the dog's back.
Two velvet curtains parted at the left side of the room. A man entered.
He was a tall man, of courtly appearance. His hair was gray; his face was clean-shaven. His features
were those of a stern, unyielding fighter; his entire appearance showed that he regarded himself as
superior to other persons.
The visitor bowed as he observed the man enter.
'Your name is Berchik?'
The tall man's words came in sharp syllables, with a slight accent.
'Yes,' replied the visitor, in a respectful tone.
'You asked to see me,' replied the tall man. 'I am Mr. Albion.'
Berchik looked at the tall man, and a smile of recognition dawned upon his face.
Despite the plainness of the man's attire—he was dressed in somber black —the visitor knew that he
stood in the presence of an important personage.
'I know you, sir,' explained Berchik, in a respectful tone. 'You are Prince Zuvor.'
The tall man held up a warning hand.
'Hush!' he commanded. 'Do not mention that name. It must be forgotten.'
HE walked across the room, and sat in a huge armchair. He waved his hand, and Berchik took his seat
opposite him.
'My name is Richard Albion,' said the tall man, with a slight smile. 'It is better that I should be known by
that name than by my former title.'
He stared anxiously about him; then pointed to the windows at the front of the room.
There were black window shades there. One was not fully drawn, and Berchik could see the bottom of
an outer yellow shade.
'I am Prince Zuvor,' admitted the man, in a low voice. 'But you can see the precautions I take to conceal
my identity and my actions. I always fear spies and intruders. As Richard Albion, I manage to avoid
troubles.'
Berchik nodded. He was still stroking the wolfhound, which stood beside his chair.
Prince Zuvor gazed intently at Berchik.
'I believe I recognize you,' he said. 'I remember you now. It is many years since you came to my palace
in Petrograd, with your master -'
The tall man ended his sentence abruptly, as though loath to mention the name that was upon his lips.
Berchik nodded to show that he understood.
'Your master is dead,' said Prince Zuvor quietly.
'Yes,' replied Berchik, in a voice choked with emotion.
'He was not so fortunate as I,' continued Zuvor. 'All of my wealth has been saved. He lost much; but I
have heard that he managed to retain a considerable portion of his valuables.'
Berchik nodded.
'That is why I have come here to-night,' he said eagerly. 'I am in danger, your excellency. You are the
only one to whom I can turn for help.'
Prince Zuvor smiled sympathetically.
'When Prince'—Berchik caught his words—'when my master died, he left me with a singular mission. I
was to bring what remained of his vast wealth here to America, to divide it among men who had
befriended my master when he was in trouble.'
'Did you succeed?'
