Chapter II: The Triumph of Count Sandoff

The effect of the girl’s brief words upon Sandoff was startling.

His face suddenly assumed the color of ashes; he retreated to his desk, and stood there supporting himself by one hand and looking down at Vera Shamarin with an expression that was hard to define—a glance of mingled horror and pity.

The girl sprang forward and threw herself at his feet.

“Save him! Save him!” she cried incoherently. “He is my brother—all that I have in the world. If he is taken they will send him to Schlusselburg or to Siberia—or perhaps even worse.”

Sandoff drew back a little.

“Do you realize what you are asking of me?” he said. “Do you know that I could have granted you anything rather than that?”

He spoke in a low tone and signified to the girl to be equally cautious. But she was in no mood for reasoning.

“Your oath! Remember your oath!” she cried. “You dare not break it. You must save my brother, as you have sworn to do. It cannot imperil you, for none will ever know how he escaped. Give him such a passport as you give to your own agents when they are sent out of Russia on police business. He will be perfectly disguised, and the manner of his escape will never even be suspected.”

She looked at Sandoff, and seeing no trace of pity or of yielding on his stern features, she sank back on the chair and gave way to a flood of tears, her slender frame shaking with emotion.

Sandoff fixed his eyes vacantly on the floor. He was passing through a tremendous mental struggle. He could easily do what this girl asked of him—but only at the cost of his honor. He did not fear that his treachery to the government would be discovered—his power was too absolute for that—but he knew that the sting of conscience would be always with him; that he would ever be reminded by that self accusing mentor of his unfitness to retain his high position and the confidence of the Czar. But on the other hand his word was binding. He had sworn to aid this girl to his utmost power—had taken the oath with a full knowledge of the straits into which it might some day lead him, remote as such a contingency seemed at the time. Moreover, her tears and her beauty now moved him to pity. He deplored the fact that one so young and fair should be connected with the revolutionary party.

As he thus reviewed his unpleasant situation, a clock on his desk struck the hour of ten, and the girl rose quickly to her feet.

“If you intend to save him you must lose no time,” she sobbed. “Your police are drawing closer every moment, and he dare not leave his hiding place without means of getting away from the city. Do you think that it cost me nothing to save your life a year ago? You are mistaken. My act was discovered, and I was cruelly beaten. But for my brother I should have been killed. Do you still hesitate? If you care nothing for your oath, I appeal to your pity. Help me, I implore you, and I shall be grateful as long as I live. If you will send my brother safely out of Russia, I promise you that he shall never return. My influence over him is great, and he will do what I ask. Oh, help him—help him for my sake——”

Her voice failed her. She stood before Sandoff with her hands outstretched, and the tears coursing down her cheeks. He was visibly moved by her misery.

“Have no fear, your brother shall be saved,” he said gently. “I will keep my promise, even at the sacrifice of my honor. In return I ask of you two things—that Felix Shamarin shall never return to Russia, and that none shall know what I have done tonight.”

“Yes, yes, I promise,” she whispered brokenly. “You may rely upon it.” She caught his hand and covered it with kisses, but Sandoff quickly withdrew it, and, turning away without a word, seated himself at his desk. For a few moments he wrote briskly, glancing from time to time at the clock, while Vera’s eyes followed every motion of his own.

Finally he laid aside his pen and handed her a folded paper.

“Here is a passport for your brother,” he said quietly. “It is made out fictitiously, of course, but none will question the signature, and if he is properly disguised there will be no risk, either to him or to me. At midnight a through train leaves the Moscow terminus for Berlin. Let him take it, if possible. But are you sure that he can pass through the police lines in safety—my men are very close to Lyapin’s house?”

The girl started violently. “Ah, you know where he is concealed?” she cried. “You are the most noble—the most generous of men. Yes, he can pass through in safety; there is a way.”

She tried to say more, but her voice choked with emotion. She hastily donned her cloak and veil and approached the door. Sandoff preceded her.

“God bless you, Inspector Sandoff,” she whispered.

The door opened and closed. Her light footsteps echoed through the hall and down the staircase. Then all was silence.

When she had gone Sandoff remained standing a moment by the door, pressing his hands to his forehead as though he would stifle the conflicting thoughts that were struggling for mastery in his brain.

Then he picked up a glass of vodka from the table, and swallowed a little of the strong spirit. The composing effect of this was instantaneous. He walked steadily across the floor and threw open the door of the middle room. An expression of relief appeared on his face as he saw that the apartment was empty, and the rear door as he had left it.

“My fears were groundless,” he thought. “Zamosc is the last man to pry into private affairs.”

He opened the back room and called the occupants out.

“I regret being compelled to keep you waiting so long,” he said in apologetic tones. “My visitor was very importunate.”

“It makes no difference,” said Zamosc; “but I am glad that you are here all the same, for I have an important engagement, and must leave at once. It is already half past ten. What about this stupid fellow whom I brought here?” he added in a low tone. “Does he know anything of the Shamarin affair?”

“Nothing new,” replied Sandoff. “He tells me that Shamarin is concealed within half a mile of the Ostroff bridge on the Fontana Canal—a piece of information which we have known for the past two days. By the way, if anything turns up before morning, let me know. I shall remain here all night.”

“Very well,” said Zamosc.

He passed out of the room, and his quick, firm footsteps were heard descending the stairs.

Sandoff turned to Poussin, who was seated on a chair, fumbling with his cap.

“Follow me. I have something to say to you,” he commanded.

He passed into the front room with Poussin at his heels, and, stopping before a ponderous iron chest in one corner, unlocked and opened the lid. He took out a roll of bank notes—a portion of his private fortune, received that morning from his bankers—and, approaching the table, counted out six thousand rubles in full view of Poussin, who watched the operation with sparkling eyes. Then he passed them into the fellow’s hand.

“Here is the reward for your information, and an extra thousand besides,” he said. “Put the money away, and say nothing to any one of what has occurred tonight. Do you understand? You must keep the information about Shamarin strictly to yourself. If you disobey me you will probably lose your money and your life, too. Stay, you had better not return to your home tonight. Go to some other quarter of the city. That is all. Remember my warning!”

Poussin stuffed the bank notes into his pocket with a trembling hand. His eyes were fairly bulging from their sockets at the unprecedented sight of so much money. He would have fallen at the feet of his benefactor, but Sandoff’s manner forbade any such demonstration.

The latter was tempted for an instant to ask the fellow if Zamosc had remained in the back room with him all the time, but a second later he changed his mind. He had implicit faith in his agent, and felt ashamed of the momentary suspicion that had crossed his mind. He opened the door, and Poussin shuffled out, half crazy with joy, and went slowly through the hall and down the stairs.

Sandoff paced the floor a couple of times, and then, drawing his chair up to the lamp that was burning cheerily on his desk, he lit a fresh cigar and picked up one of the evening papers. The clock unceasingly ticked off the minutes, and the street without, at first enlivened by the occasional tread of a passer by, soon became entirely deserted.

* * * * *

On this same evening, and while Victor Sandoff was reading the St. Petersburg papers at the headquarters of the Third Section, his uncle, Count Sandoff, was engaged in a similar occupation in his luxuriously furnished library of his stately residence on the Court Quay. A touch of gout had confined him to the house, and his right leg was propped on a couch surrounded by soft pillows. Consequently he was in an unusually vile temper, and this frame of mind was aggravated by the merry and continuous tinkle of bells from the sleighs that were speeding swiftly over the ice covered waters of the Neva, and along the frozen surface of the Quay.

Count Sandoff was a short, portly man, some sixty years of age. His features, once handsome and aristocratic, had become coarse and bloated by reason of many years of constant and excessive dissipation. As already stated, the count was on bad terms with his nephew Victor, and the cause of this estrangement shall be explained.

When Victor’s mother died—shortly before the assassination of her husband—she left to the latter her fortune, the income to be used by him during his lifetime, and the principal to revert to Victor at his father’s death. But the property was not legally tied up, and knowing this, Count Sandoff, who needed a large sum of money to retrieve recent losses at the gaming table, applied to his brother for a loan of one hundred thousand rubles from his deceased wife’s estate. Colonel Sandoff refused the request absolutely. He was a man of honor, and knew how little chance there was of the money being returned. Moreover, some years before, when the position of the brothers was reversed, a similar request on his part—though for a much smaller sum—had been indignantly refused by the count, who could easily have spared the money at that time.

From this point dated the coolness between the brothers; and when, after the death of his father, Victor came into possession of his inheritance, the count’s animosity toward his nephew deepened. He envied the young man the possession of so much wealth, which he fancied should, at least in part, have belonged to him. Indeed he went so far as to enter into a conspiracy with one of Victor’s own men—a very ambitious and unscrupulous fellow—with a view to accomplishing the downfall of his nephew by whatever foul means the course of events might offer. Up to the present time nothing had been accomplished, in spite of the count’s influence, which by the way was considerable. The name of his assistant in this nefarious plot was Serge Zamosc.

Perhaps the count’s thoughts were dwelling on the family feud this evening, for his face wore a bitter expression as he pored over the columns of the paper. Finally he flung the sheet aside with a muttered curse, and reached for a bell cord with the intention of summoning his servant. But before he could touch it a shadow fell across the doorway, and Serge Zamosc entered the room with an ease of manner that showed him to be a frequent and unannounced visitor.

“Oh, it’s you, is it?” said the count curtly. “Sit down. Nothing new, I suppose? Have a glass of wine?”

“Yes to the first question, no to the last,” replied Zamosc quietly, as he settled himself in an easy chair by the count’s side.

“What! Has your clever brain discovered a plan?” demanded the latter, suddenly becoming animated. “Do you mean to say that I shall succeed at last—after all this time! Don’t keep me in suspense. Explain yourself.”

“Softly, softly,” replied Zamosc. “I said nothing of the sort, did I? But let us suppose that I _had_ succeeded—that I _had_ discovered a sure and speedy way of accomplishing your object. Would you in that event be prepared to carry out the agreement you made some time ago?”

“You are concealing something,” growled the count in reply. “Why don’t you come to the point, Zamosc? You know how impatient I am. But stop—I will answer your question. In case you had really accomplished what you suggest, I would keep my word to the letter. I would see to it that you were appointed Inspector of the Third Section, in place of my nephew, and I would give you in addition the sum of ten thousand rubles.”

“But could you get the property into your hands?” said Zamosc. “The government, you know——”

“Yes, I know,” replied the count coolly. “The government usually confiscates the property of condemned criminals, but there are exceptions, and this would be one of them. I have already made my way clear for that, and I am sure of receiving at least one half of my nephew’s wealth—if not more.”

“Enough!” rejoined Zamosc. “Just sign this paper, will you?”

He passed the document to the count, who read its contents with a wrinkled brow. Then, after a brief hesitancy, he took a pen from the table, dipped it in ink and wrote his signature at the bottom.

“You watch the loopholes sharply,” he said, handing the paper back.

“True,” replied Zamosc, “else I should not be where I am. But now to business,” he added. “The supposition I mentioned a few moments ago is not a supposition at all, but a reality. I have in my possession proof that will send Victor Sandoff to Siberia for life, and that, too, without any risk to us, for the proof is genuine. We have been spared the trouble of concocting a conspiracy.”

The count rose up, heedless of the pain in his gouty leg.

“Is this true?” he cried sharply. “Pardon me, Zamosc, but your story seems incredible.”

“It is true,” replied Zamosc. “Wait a moment. I will convince you.”

He left the room and returned shortly, followed by the man Poussin, who had been waiting in the lower hall. They drew their chairs close up to the count, and Zamosc related hurriedly the events of the evening—how he had overheard, by placing his ear to the crack of the door, the whole conversation between Inspector Sandoff and his fair guest, and how he waited outside until Poussin appeared and then compelled him by threats to confess the story of his bribery, and finally to accompany him to the house of the count.

As link after link in the chain of evidence was revealed, the count’s brutal eyes glowed with delight.

“Yes, we have him at last,” he cried. “But I would not have believed it of him, Zamosc—I swear I would not. He has thrown himself away for a woman—played right into our hands.”

“Yes,” replied Zamosc, glancing at the clock. “He is lost. And now for action. There is no time to lose. Shamarin must be arrested, first of all—the Moscow terminus will be the place for that—and then we will surprise the inspector at headquarters.”

“Yes, yes, that is a good plan,” exclaimed the count eagerly. “But you had better let the gendarmes make the two arrests. Go around to the first station on the Nevskoi Prospekt. You will find Captain Nikolin in charge. He has men there, and will act at once—a very necessary thing, for it is half past eleven o’clock now.”

“True,” said Zamosc, “and the train for Berlin leaves at midnight. Before morning the affair will be accomplished, and within a month, at the furthest, I shall expect a fulfillment of your promise, my dear count.”

“And you shall not be disappointed—if my influence counts for anything. Good night, and success to you.”

“Good night,” rejoined Zamosc.

He hurriedly left the room, taking Poussin with him, and a moment later the two were striding hurriedly along the Court Quay in the direction of the Nevskoi Prospekt.

* * * * *

Although the St. Petersburg newspapers seldom obtain any information concerning the movements of the police—at least not until it is several days old—no less than two of the morning journals announced, in their issue for January 11, that Felix Shamarin, the Nihilist, and his sister, had been arrested on the previous night at the Moscow terminus, and that Inspector Victor Sandoff was apprehended an hour later on a charge of aiding the aforesaid Felix Shamarin in his attempt to escape.

The assassination of the Czar could hardly have created more surprise and consternation throughout the city, and when the true facts became known, as they did in time, much pity was felt for Sandoff, and not a few expressed the opinion that he could not have acted differently under the circumstances.

But pity and public opinion have nothing in common with the Russian government. In spite of the high rank of the offender, Victor Sandoff was brought to trial three weeks after his arrest, convicted, sentenced to a term of ten years at hard labor in the Czar’s Siberian gold mines, and sent off post haste to begin his term of banishment. He attempted no defense, nor would any have been possible. The testimony of Zamosc and Poussin was beyond question, and the passport that had been taken from Shamarin was a still more damning bit of evidence.

Felix Shamarin and his sister had left St. Petersburg on the way to Siberia ten days earlier—for the devoted girl, despite her youth and beauty, was sentenced to share his punishment for the part she had played in his attempted escape. Neither of them was aware of Sandoff’s arrest. They believed that his perfidy was responsible for their own fate, and their hearts were full of bitterness and hatred toward him. Nor did Sandoff in turn know what had become of the Shamarins. All information was refused him. He rightly attributed his downfall to Serge Zamosc, but he was ignorant of the connection between the latter and his uncle, Count Sandoff. Not for an instant did he suspect the truth.

Two weeks after Sandoff’s conviction, the papers briefly announced that the ministry had appointed Serge Zamosc to fill the vacant office of Inspector of the Third Section, and a short time later it was rumored in club and social circles of the city that his Imperial Majesty the Czar had been graciously pleased, for family reasons, to permit one half of Victor Sandoff’s estate to revert to Count Boris Sandoff. So all the actors in the Shamarin affair received their reward. Zamosc attained the height of his ambition and the sum of ten thousand rubles, Count Sandoff replenished his bank account and entered on a fresh course of dissipation, and the rest—went to Siberia.