TARZAN: 8 Novels in One Volume. Edgar Rice Burroughs

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      Once outside his thoughts took definite shape, to the end that twenty minutes later he entered a police station not far from the Rue Maule. Here he soon found one of the officers with whom he had had the encounter several weeks previous. The policeman was genuinely glad to see again the man who had so roughly handled him. After a moment of conversation Tarzan asked if he had ever heard of Nikolas Rokoff or Alexis Paulvitch.

      “Very often, indeed, monsieur. Each has a police record, and while there is nothing charged against them now, we make it a point to know pretty well where they may be found should the occasion demand. It is only the same precaution that we take with every known criminal. Why does monsieur ask?”

      “They are known to me,” replied Tarzan. “I wish to see Monsieur Rokoff on a little matter of business. If you can direct me to his lodgings I shall appreciate it.”

      A few minutes later he bade the policeman adieu, and, with a slip of paper in his pocket bearing a certain address in a semirespectable quarter, he walked briskly toward the nearest taxi stand.

      Rokoff and Paulvitch had returned to their rooms, and were sitting talking over the probable outcome of the evening’s events. They had telephoned to the offices of two of the morning papers from which they momentarily expected representatives to hear the first report of the scandal that was to stir social Paris on the morrow.

      A heavy step sounded on the stairway. “Ah, but these newspaper men are prompt,” exclaimed Rokoff, and as a knock fell upon the door of their room: “Enter, monsieur.”

      The smile of welcome froze upon the Russian’s face as he looked into the hard, gray eyes of his visitor.

      “Name of a name!” he shouted, springing to his feet, “What brings you here!”

      “Sit down!” said Tarzan, so low that the men could barely catch the words, but in a tone that brought Rokoff to his chair, and kept Paulvitch in his.

      “You know what has brought me here,” he continued, in the same low tone. “It should be to kill you, but because you are Olga de Coude’s brother I shall not do that—now.

      “I shall give you a chance for your lives. Paulvitch does not count much—he is merely a stupid, foolish little tool, and so I shall not kill him so long as I permit you to live. Before I leave you two alive in this room you will have done two things. The first will be to write a full confession of your connection with tonight’s plot—and sign it.

      “The second will be to promise me upon pain of death that you will permit no word of this affair to get into the newspapers. If you do not do both, neither of you will be alive when I pass next through that doorway. Do you understand?” And, without waiting for a reply: “Make haste; there is ink before you, and paper and a pen.”

      Rokoff assumed a truculent air, attempting by bravado to show how little he feared Tarzan’s threats. An instant later he felt the ape-man’s steel fingers at his throat, and Paulvitch, who attempted to dodge them and reach the door, was lifted completely off the floor, and hurled senseless into a corner. When Rokoff commenced to blacken about the face Tarzan released his hold and shoved the fellow back into his chair. After a moment of coughing Rokoff sat sullenly glaring at the man standing opposite him. Presently Paulvitch came to himself, and limped painfully back to his chair at Tarzan’s command.

      “Now write,” said the ape-man. “If it is necessary to handle you again I shall not be so lenient.”

      Rokoff picked up a pen and commenced to write.

      “See that you omit no detail, and that you mention every name,” cautioned Tarzan.

      Presently there was a knock at the door. “Enter,” said Tarzan.

      A dapper young man came in. “I am from the Matin,” he announced. “I understand that Monsieur Rokoff has a story for me.”

      “Then you are mistaken, monsieur,” replied Tarzan. “You have no story for publication, have you, my dear Nikolas.”

      Rokoff looked up from his writing with an ugly scowl upon his face.

      “No,” he growled, “I have no story for publication—now.”

      “Nor ever, my dear Nikolas,” and the reporter did not see the nasty light in the ape-man’s eye; but Nikolas Rokoff did.

      “Nor ever,” he repeated hastily.

      “It is too bad that monsieur has been troubled,” said Tarzan, turning to the newspaper man. “I bid monsieur good evening,” and he bowed the dapper young man out of the room, and closed the door in his face.

      An hour later Tarzan, with a rather bulky manuscript in his coat pocket, turned at the door leading from Rokoff’s room.

      “Were I you I should leave France,” he said, “for sooner or later I shall find an excuse to kill you that will not in any way compromise your sister.”

      A Duel

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      D’Arnot was asleep when Tarzan entered their apartments after leaving Rokoff’s. Tarzan did not disturb him, but the following morning he narrated the happenings of the previous evening, omitting not a single detail.

      “What a fool I have been,” he concluded. “De Coude and his wife were both my friends. How have I returned their friendship? Barely did I escape murdering the count. I have cast a stigma on the name of a good woman. It is very probable that I have broken up a happy home.”

      “Do you love Olga de Coude?” asked D’Arnot.

      “Were I not positive that she does not love me I could not answer your question, Paul; but without disloyalty to her I tell you that I do not love her, nor does she love me. For an instant we were the victims of a sudden madness—it was not love—and it would have left us, unharmed, as suddenly as it had come upon us even though De Coude had not returned. As you know, I have had little experience of women. Olga de Coude is very beautiful; that, and the dim light and the seductive surroundings, and the appeal of the defenseless for protection, might have been resisted by a more civilized man, but my civilization is not even skin deep—it does not go deeper than my clothes.

      “Paris is no place for me. I will but continue to stumble into more and more serious pitfalls. The man-made restrictions are irksome. I feel always that I am a prisoner. I cannot endure it, my friend, and so I think that I shall go back to my own jungle, and lead the life that God intended that I should lead when He put me there.”

      “Do not take it so to heart, Jean,” responded D’Arnot. “You have acquitted yourself much better than most ‘civilized’ men would have under similar circumstances. As to leaving Paris at this time, I rather think that Raoul de Coude may be expected to have something to say on that subject before long.”

      Nor was D’Arnot mistaken. A week later on Monsieur Flaubert was announced about eleven in the morning, as D’Arnot and Tarzan were breakfasting. Monsieur Flaubert was an impressively polite gentleman. With many low bows he delivered Monsieur le Count de Coude’s challenge to Monsieur Tarzan. Would monsieur be so very kind as to arrange to have a СКАЧАТЬ