Chapter I: Inspector Sandoff

Victor Sandoff, the Inspector of that famous and dreaded branch of the Russian police known as the “Third Section,” was seated in a cheerful room at his headquarters. These, for the sake of secrecy, were located in the second floor of an old building which stood on a narrow and little frequented street not far from the Admiralty Place. The house was guarded day and night by police spies, and a secret entrance in the rear permitted Sandoff to enter and depart at will. As the history of Sandoff is a somewhat remarkable one, a few words concerning him will not be out of place at this point.

He was a man of tall and slender build, with a light beard and mustache, deep blue eyes, a ruddy complexion, and an expression that had a charm all its own. It betokened a strong individuality and a rare depth of character. At the time when this history opens he was just thirty years of age, and though possessed of a fortune that yielded an ample income, his time was devoted to the service of the Bureau of Police. He had already made his name dreaded among the revolutionary classes of St. Petersburg, and more than one unhappy prisoner immured in the Fortress dungeons, or plodding the snows of Siberia, owed his arrest and conviction to Victor Sandoff. He found a keen zest in the pursuit of criminals. In devoting his life to this work he was actuated by motives which none could question, for his father, Colonel Sandoff, who was Minister of Police at St. Petersburg during a long period, had been brutally assassinated ten years before, presumably by the Nihilists whose enmity he had incurred.

Though the assassins were never discovered, Victor Sandoff became more attached to his chosen profession each year, partly from a desire to avenge his father’s death indirectly—for he had lost hope of finding the real criminals after this lapse of time, and partly because he had inherited a natural aptitude for police work, his grandfather, as well as his father, having been identified with that branch of the ministry in his time. Sandoff was well educated and possessed a fluent knowledge of French and English, as well as his own language. He was well fitted to assume the high position that was his in the social and military circles of the Russian metropolis. He had wealth, for the fortune left him by his deceased mother yielded an annual income of thirty thousand rubles. But only on rare occasions was he seen in the clubs or salons of St. Petersburg, for the present state of Russia kept the Bureau of Police constantly on the alert. If Victor in his own heart preferred the gayer side of life he made no sign. He was untiring in his labors, and possessed the full confidence of the Czar and of the ministry.

He had an uncle in St. Petersburg with whom he was not on good terms owing to causes which will appear later. This was Count Sandoff, his father’s brother, a man sixty years of age, who divided his time between the clubs, the gaming table, and his yachts. He was reputed to be wealthy, but though ostensibly the owner of a mansion on the Court Quay and a country house on the Gulf of Finland, his losses at cards had covered his property with mortgages to the full extent of its value. Count Sandoff was living on the edge of a volcano into which he was liable to be precipitated at any day.

To return to Victor. His position in St. Petersburg was a peculiar one. As chief of the terrible Third Section his power was almost unlimited. He had his own force of men, and every month a large sum of money was placed to his credit in the Bank of Russia for current expenses. He was directly responsible to no one but the Minister of Police. His assistant and confidant in the affairs of the Third Section was Serge Zamosc—himself a very clever police agent. Zamosc was a short, spare man, and always wore his face smooth shaven, the better to assume needed disguises. He was about forty years old, and had been in the service for nearly one half of that period. It was he who ferreted out information for Sandoff, and then acted upon it according to the latter’s instructions.

On this particular evening Inspector Sandoff was in a complacent frame of mind as he sat smoking a fragrant cigar and sipping vodka and water from a glass standing on the table beside him. He was momentarily expecting to hear of an important arrest that would bring no little credit to him and his department. Felix Shamarin, a leader of the revolutionary party, and the publisher of its most incendiary newspaper, had long evaded the utmost vigilance of the police, who had been endeavoring to arrest him for a dozen offenses of which he was believed to be guilty or cognisant. Victor Sandoff’s men had at length discovered that he had found a refuge in a densely populated part of St. Petersburg, lying between two of the canals that intersect it. Since early morning the cordon of police had been tightening its lines about the locality in which Shamarin was supposed to be hiding, and it was almost impossible that he could escape.

As he sat and waited for the expected news, Sandoff’s thoughts went back to a previous encounter he had had with the set of Nihilists to which Shamarin belonged—an encounter so remarkable that every incident of it was indelibly graven upon his memory. He leaned back in his chair, contemplating the bluish haze of cigar smoke that dimmed the ceiling, and dreamily reviewed the scene as it passed before him.

At an early hour one morning, a little more than a year before, he had gone, with four of his men, to an obscure quarter of the town to raid a house believed to be the headquarters of Shamarin’s seditious journal. An entrance was forced, but the police encountered a more stubborn resistance than they had expected. There was a fierce fight, and in the struggle Sandoff’s forces became divided. The leader himself laid low two of the men who sprang upon him, and a third antagonist turned and fled before him. Sandoff’s blood was up, and, his zeal outrunning his discretion, he pursued the fleeing Nihilist along a dark passageway, at the further end of which the fugitive was lost to sight. Stumbling blindly forward in the almost total darkness, Sandoff passed through a doorway. Instantly the door closed behind him, and he heard the sharp click of a key turning in the lock.

The sound told him the peril of his situation. He turned and grasped the handle of the door, but could not budge it. He felt along the wall—for there was not a ray of light—and to his dismay found that he was in a small, square room, with no means of exit—no avenue of escape from the cruel and unscrupulous men who held him prisoner.

As minutes passed by his hope of rescue grew fainter and fainter. The sounds of strife gave way to a complete silence. His men must have been outnumbered and overpowered by the Nihilists, and it would be hours before his absence would be discovered by the police and reinforcements sent to ascertain what had become of him. Before that time his fate was sure to be sealed. He could expect no mercy from his relentless enemies, who would wreak upon him a terrible vengeance for their losses in the fight with the police.

Sandoff had almost abandoned himself to despair when he heard a slight sound that seemed to come from the wall behind him. He was nerving himself to meet what he supposed must be his executioner, when a soft voice whispered:

“Make no noise as you value your life!”

A hand grasped his arm, and drew him toward a secret door that had opened in the wall of his prison. A faint gleam of light shone through it, dimly revealing to Sandoff’s astonished eyes the figure of a woman.

Mindful of her injunction, he followed her noiselessly through the secret doorway into a narrow passage. She led the way around several corners and down a winding flight of stairs, finally pausing in a small paved court hemmed in by lofty brick walls.

The light here was still too dim to reveal her face, but her figure was slight and her voice was of singular sweetness.

“I have saved your life, Victor Sandoff,” she said to him, “and at great peril to my own, as you will believe. Some day I may exact a similar favor of you. Will you grant it if that time ever comes?”

Sandoff was influenced by the tinge of romance that invested the situation. He was deeply grateful to the woman who had saved him, so he readily promised to grant whatever she might ask him.

“Swear it!” she said, and without hesitation he took the required oath.

Then she led him by more than one barred and bolted gate to a street on the canal bank, and left him there, vanishing without a word and as mysteriously as she had come. He knew his surroundings, and quickly made his way to the nearest police bureau, gathered a force of officers, and returned as speedily as possible to the house from which he had just escaped. All was quiet there. Sandoff’s four men were found lying in the hallway, bound and gagged, and all of them more or less severely wounded. The Nihilists, who had no doubt taken alarm on discovering Sandoff’s escape, had fled from the house, and disappeared in the mazes of the great city.

It was a year ago that these things had happened, and though Sandoff made diligent inquiry through his men as to the identity and whereabouts of the girl—for he was convinced that she must be very young—he never discovered the slightest trace of her. Tonight, under the fragrant influence of his cigar—which may have been stronger than usual—he found himself wondering vaguely if the fulfillment of his oath would ever be exacted, and trying to recall the girl as she appeared to him that night.

From this train of reveries he was aroused by footsteps in the hall. Then came a sharp rap on the door. As the command to enter left Sandoff’s lips Serge Zamosc stepped into the room, followed by a short thick set man, muffled to his ears in a great coat. Zamosc’s manner gave evidence of excitement. He glanced at Sandoff, and then turned to his companion, who stood awkwardly in the center of the floor with his eyes downcast and his hands pulling nervously at his fur coat.

“This is the Honorable Inspector,” he cried impatiently. “Now speak! Tell him what you know. If you have brought me here for nothing, it will fare ill with you.

“I found this fellow in the street a few moments ago,” he added to Sandoff. “He insisted that he had something of importance to communicate, and as he would have nothing to say to me, but insisted on seeing you, I thought it best to let him have his way. Possibly he brings some news bearing on the Shamarin affair.”

Sandoff turned to the man, whose dress and appearance showed him to belong to the lower classes.

“Well, what is it?” he said kindly. “I am Inspector Sandoff.”

“I—I beg pardon, your honor,” stammered the fellow appealingly. “I—I must see you alone.”

“Very well,” replied Sandoff. “That is easily arranged.”

He led the man into the adjoining apartment, which was the middle one of the suite of three rooms which formed the headquarters of the Third Section. A third room adjoined this, and like the one into which Sandoff had just ushered his visitor, it had a few chairs, a table, and a cot, and was lighted by a small barred window high up in the wall. These two rear apartments had witnessed many a tragic scene, for here prisoners were often brought for secret examination, and sometimes confined for a day or two. The walls were thick and the doors massive.

When Sandoff had shut off communication with the front room by closing the door, he turned questioningly to the stranger, who was sitting on the edge of a chair, with a very pale face.

“Is it true, your honor,” began the man finally, in a weak, quavering voice, “that a reward of five thousand rubles is offered for information that will cause the arrest of Felix Shamarin, the Nihilist?”

The fellow spoke the last words glibly enough. He had evidently committed them to memory.

“Ah!” thought Sandoff, “an informer?

“Yes,” he said aloud, “it is true that such a sum will be paid—not for any indefinite information, though. We have already located our man within a certain radius. Who are you, and what do you know?”

“My name is Poussin,” replied the fellow. “I have come to claim the reward. Felix Shamarin is in hiding at the house of one Lyapin, a locksmith, who dwells on the bank of the Fontana Canal, near the Ostroff bridge. He intends to escape before the break of another day, so you must lose no time if you wish to take him.”

Sandoff’s eyes sparkled.

“Are you sure this information is correct?” he asked.

“You can rely on it,” said Poussin. “I am in a position to know. But I trust that your honor will keep my share in the matter a secret,” he continued imploringly. “If it were known, my life would not be worth a kopec.”

“Have no fear,” said Sandoff. “If you are betrayed it will be your own doing. As for the reward, you will get it in good time, provided your information proves to be correct.”

He was interrupted by a sudden rap on the door, and when he walked over and opened it slightly he saw the face of his man Ivan, whose duty it was to stand guard in the hall.

“Beg pardon, your honor,” said the servant, “but a lady is outside demanding to see you. I told her that you were busy, but she would take no denial. She insists on speaking with you, and refuses to go away.”

“What does she look like?” asked Sandoff, wrinkling his brow. “Has she ever been here before?”

“Not to my knowledge,” replied Ivan. “Her face is covered with a thick veil, but she appears to be young.”

Sandoff hesitated for an instant. The wrinkles deepened on his forehead, and his hands trembled slightly as they rested on each side of the doorway.

“I will see her in a few moments,” he announced abruptly. “Give her that message, Ivan, and bid her wait in the hall.”

As Ivan went back to the front room, Sandoff closed the door and turned to Poussin.

“You must excuse me for a moment,” he said. “Some one is waiting for a private interview with me. I am going to put you in here,” leading the way to the rear apartment, “and as my agent Zamosc will be with you, I must caution you to be silent and to make no reply to any questions he may ask you,” for it was Sandoff’s custom to permit the identity of informers to be known to none but himself. “I know better than to open my lips,” returned the fellow shrewdly, and the reply thoroughly satisfied Sandoff. He left his companion and passed through to the outer room. Zamosc was sitting there by the desk, perusing a newspaper.

“I must ask you to retire to the rear room for a little while,” said Sandoff hurriedly. “You heard Ivan state that a lady wishes to see me. I think I know what she wants. It is some personal affair that should have been arranged at my house, but since she is here I may as well see her.”

“Don’t apologize, I beg of you,” replied Zamosc. He walked quietly back and entered the rear room, where Poussin was already seated.

Sandoff followed him, and then returned to the front apartment, closing both doors. He walked to the hall door and threw it open. “You may come in,” he said. “I am at leisure now.”

With a soft rustling of skirts a woman entered. She glided to the center of the room without a word, and quickly removed her cloak and veil.

Sandoff was thrilled with amazement and admiration. His eyes were riveted upon the slender figure standing opposite him—so close that he could have touched her by extending his hand. He had seen many beautiful women in his time, but never one to match this young girl—for she was scarcely more than twenty. Her hair was of a rich golden brown, her eyes gleamed with a slightly darker shade of the same color, from beneath long drooping lashes; her cheeks were faintly tinged with a hue like the early bloom of a peach, and the ivory whiteness of her neck and throat was only equaled by the pearly rows of teeth that showed through her parted lips as she breathed quickly and deeply. She wore a close fitting dress, made of dark material and richly trimmed with sable fur.

The two stood in silence for a moment, and then, meeting Sandoff’s eye, the girl blushed.

“You don’t know me?” she said abruptly. “Do you remember the night of the 30th of December, one year ago——”

The sweet voice, the accent, revealed the truth to Sandoff instantly.

“Yes; I remember now,” he said gravely. “It was you who saved my life.”

“And you remember the promise you made me?” she continued.

Sandoff inclined his head. He was greatly troubled by this visit, now that he began to guess its import. Yet he had no thought of breaking his oath.

“What can I do for you?” he said. “Speak! Don’t be afraid.”

The girl’s eyes sought the floor for a moment, and then were turned to Sandoff entreatingly.

“It is not for myself that I have come here tonight,” she said. “I want you to save the life of a friend—as I once saved yours. Unless he can leave the city before daylight he is lost. Only one thing can aid him, and that is a passport.”

“His name?” demanded Sandoff quickly. “Tell me his name!”

The girl sank upon a chair and buried her face in her hands. She sobbed audibly for an instant, and then looked up appealingly through her tears.

“His name,” she replied in a broken voice, “is Felix Shamarin. He is my brother. I am Vera Shamarin.”