Chapter II: Introduction (2)

‘That the notes are not genuine, there can be no possible doubt,’ said the Minister gravely; ‘and that you or your father should be in possession of forged notes representing so large a sum is extraordinary.’

‘I pray you return them to me,’ wailed the bridegroom, looking very sorrowful and sad, while his trembling bride stood beside him the picture of puzzled distress. She seemed scarcely able to realize the situation, and her tearful eyes wandered from her husband to her brother, and from him to the Minister of Finance, as if in dumb entreaty to clear the mystery up, and not mar the pleasure of her wedding-day. But the Minister, although not there in any judicial position, clearly recognised that, as a servant of the State, he had a duty to perform, and, despite the painfulness of the situation in which he thus found himself, he felt forced to that duty.

‘I cannot return the notes,’ he said gravely, ‘and I must ask you to let me examine the other notes in your wallet.’

At this request, Golovnin pulled out his pocket-book without the slightest hesitation, and, producing a packet of notes, handed them--with the air of a man conscious of his own rectitude--to the Minister, who, having subjected them to a close scrutiny, pronounced them to be forgeries also.

The company were startled by this into a united cry of astonishment and alarm, while the unhappy bride, with a low moan, fell to the floor in a swoon.

‘Surely, sir, there is some mistake,’ suggested Briazga, pallid and pale as a corpse.

‘Of course it’s a mistake,’ shouted the bridegroom; ‘his Excellency is wrong--entirely wrong. It is impossible the notes can be forged. I am sure they are genuine.’

‘Briazga,’ said the Minister sternly, ‘you have been handling notes long enough in the Treasury to be able to tell a genuine one from a false one. Look at these, and give me your honest opinion.’

The Minister placed the notes on the table. Briazga took them up with a trembling hand one by one, and examined them, holding them to the light, and subjecting them to other tests, while the amazed guests held their breath in anxious suspense, as they waited for his verdict. Slowly and deliberately, notwithstanding that he was suffering from intense nervous emotion, Briazga went through the notes one by one, while his superior watched him intently and curiously. At last, when he had finished his task, he said:

‘Sir, I am forced to confess that every note there is nothing more than a clever imitation. But my brother-in-law must surely be the dupe of a knavish trick. The matter is capable of explanation.’

‘It must certainly be investigated,’ answered the Minister. ‘It is far too serious to be lightly passed over. I shall have to carry the notes away, and consult with the authorities as to the steps to be taken.’

‘Stay,’ exclaimed the bridegroom, with a pitiful wail of despair; ‘this may mean for me utter and irretrievable ruin. Remember, sir, it is my wedding-day, and my ruin involves also the ruin, and perhaps the death, of my wife, who has been my wife not yet a day; to say nothing of the ruin, dishonour, disgrace of those near and dear to me. Let me beseech of you, therefore, to delay taking any action until I myself have made inquiries. I am convinced--absolutely convinced--there is some hideous mistake somewhere. I am the victim of a cowardly trick. I will swear on oath that when I left home the notes I put into my pocket were good ones. Is it not possible that the hag of a fortune-teller has brought this about by her devilish art?’

At this everybody looked to see where the ‘hag’ was, but she had made herself invisible. In the hubbub and confusion consequent on the discovery that the notes were forged, she had managed to slip away unperceived, and had left the house.

‘I regret very much indeed,’ answered the Minister, ‘that such an unhappy affair as this should have occurred on your wedding-day; but it is far too grave a circumstance for me to adopt the course you suggest. In fact, I should not be justified in doing so. I repeat, I have a duty to perform, and I must do it, however unpleasant the consequences may be. Of course, as you say, the matter is capable of explanation, and any explanation you may offer will receive due attention; but a very serious official inquiry will have to be made, and the origin of these notes must be traced.’

With a dignified bow to the dumfounded company, the Minister passed out of the room and left the house, carrying the notes with him. On reaching his official residence, he found a letter waiting for him. It was from Danevitch, and read as follows:

‘YOUR EXCELLENCY,

‘I am suddenly called away from St. Petersburg, but shall be back in
three days’ time. I am happy to say I can restore the whole of the
stolen notes to the Treasury. I hope your Excellency enjoyed yourself
at the house of Briazga on the occasion of the wedding-feast.’

The Minister was a little mystified by this letter; and though he knew that Danevitch was not the man to make a rash statement, he sent for the chief of the police and questioned him. But that worthy had to confess that he himself was no less mystified. He said some harsh things about Danevitch, and even went so far as to express some doubt whether Danevitch was capable of fulfilling his undertaking to restore the whole of the stolen money.

‘I’ve faith in Danevitch,’ said the Minister. ‘What he says he means; and though he puzzles me very much, I feel certain that all will come right in the end.’

The chief had no answer to this, so he simply bowed and took his leave.

True to his promise, Danevitch returned to St. Petersburg in three days’ time, and, to the amazement of the officials and all concerned, he duly delivered to the Treasury the whole of the missing million roubles, and was enabled to lay such information before the authorities that Briazga and Ivan and Peter Golovnin were immediately arrested.

Ivan Golovnin lived at Vishni Volotchok, where he owned some property. He was an old man, and had been married twice. By his first wife he had had a large family, and they were nearly all scattered. By his second wife he had one son, Peter. This young fellow had been a managing clerk in a fur store in St. Petersburg, and had known Briazga’s family some years. Olga Briazga had fallen desperately in love with him, but her deformity prevented him reciprocating her passion. Between Olga and her brother an extraordinary affection existed--an affection unusual even between brother and sister. He idolized her; and when he saw she was breaking her heart about Peter, and that her life was in danger, he told Peter he would enrich him if he would marry her. From this a conspiracy was hatched, in which Briazga, Peter and Peter’s father joined interests. The old man was induced to enter into it for his son’s sake. It was prearranged that when Briazga was next engaged in the duty of conveying treasure from Moscow to St. Petersburg, an attempt should be made to purloin some of it; but from the first he gave his co-conspirators distinctly to understand that, while he would do all he possibly could to assist them, he would not keep a single rouble himself. The opportunity came at last with the removal of treasure from Moscow. Briazga knew a week beforehand that he would be employed upon the duty, and he also knew what money would be removed. Everything, therefore, seemed to favour him, and he lost no time in communicating the intelligence to the Golovnins. Peter at once set to work to prepare two facsimile boxes, and to fill them with paper, the whole being the exact weight of the Government boxes when filled with a million’s worth of rouble notes. The Government cord and the forged seal were supplied by Briazga. The train conveying the treasure stopped for a long time at Vishni Volotchok, that being a buffet station where passengers usually dined or supped. The night of the robbery happened to be very dark and very hot. On arriving at Vishni Volotchok, the treasure escort went four at a time to the buffet to eat and drink. Briazga was included in the first four. When they had finished they relieved the other four; but the night being sultry, Briazga’s party sauntered about the platform smoking, the door of the treasure waggon being locked. On the plea of getting some tobacco, Briazga returned to the waggon; he was not absent more than ten minutes--indeed, not so long; but during the time he was enabled to open the off-side door with a secret key, and to hand out the two boxes to Peter, who was lying in wait with the dummies. Thus was the robbery cleverly committed, as proved by the evidence twisted and wormed out of the culprits themselves by the inquisitorial nature of the Russian law.

The sequel of the remarkable story has yet to be told. When Danevitch took the matter up, he came to the conclusion after a time that the robbery had taken place at Vishni Volotchok. There were numerous and obvious reasons for that conclusion. It was no less obvious that one or more of the eight persons composing the escort must have had some hand in the robbery. He soon determined in his own mind that the gendarmes were guiltless. This reduced the suspects to the four Government officials. Now, assuming that the deduction was a correct one, it was no less clear that there must have been a confederate at Vishni Volotchok; so Danevitch set to work to find out which of the officials had any connection with that place, and he soon ascertained that the Briazgas and the Golovnins were acquainted. That stage of the inquiry reached, he began to feel that he would ultimately succeed in unravelling the mystery. The means that he employed to track down his quarry Danevitch was careful never to make public, for very obvious reasons, but he had a habit of setting them forth fully in his diary, and from that source I am able to give them here.

It was known almost throughout Russia that this remarkable man had a protean-like faculty for changing his appearance. He could so alter his voice and features that, in combination with change of dress, he could defy detection even by those who were well acquainted with him. His most favourite disguise was that of an old woman, whom he could imitate to the life. In the character of a female, therefore, he penetrated into the Golovnins’ home. He found, by close watching, that Peter made frequent journeys backwards and forwards between the house and a small plantation of firs, about a quarter of a mile away. As there was no apparent reason why the young man should go to the plantation so often, Danevitch was induced to search it, with the result that he found the two stolen boxes artfully concealed in an old quarry, which was almost entirely hidden by creepers and brambles. The boxes had been opened, but the contents were intact. This find was a great triumph for Danevitch, but his work was far from complete. It was necessary that he should spread a net that would capture all the culprits, and he carried this out with singular ingenuity. That one or both of the Golovnins had had a hand in the robbery was pretty evident, but others must also have been concerned, and they might escape if caution was not observed. When he ascertained that Peter Golovnin and Olga Briazga were on the eve of marriage, the plot seemed to make itself clear to him, and when he gained entrance to the marriage-feast in the rôle of fortune-teller, his triumph was complete. In the boxes hidden in the wood at Vishni Volotchok he had placed a large number of cleverly imitated notes, taking the genuine ones away. The imitations had been lying at one of the police bureaus for a very long time. They had been seized on the premises of a notorious note-forger. Danevitch was sure that Peter Golovnin, the bridegroom, would liberally supply himself with money from the boxes for his marriage, and if the forged notes were found in his possession, the evidence would be overwhelming.

It remains to say that the guilt was brought home to all concerned. They were condemned to death, as they had committed a crime against the State, but the sentence was commuted to banishment for life to Siberia. Poor Olga Briazga, whose love for Peter Golovnin had been the cause of the crime, accompanied her unhappy husband to Northern Siberia, where he was doomed to pass the first ten years of his sentence.

A MODERN BORGIA.

During his long and remarkable career, Danevitch was called upon to solve problems of a very varied nature, and, while his efforts were not always crowned with success--and he never hesitates in his journals to confess his failures--the percentage of his triumphs was very large. Necessarily, of course, his work lay amongst the by-ways and alleys of life, so to speak; for so long as there are crimes and criminals--and that will be as long as the world lasts--men must be found who will endeavour to lessen the one and bring the other to book. In his own particular way, Danevitch was a genius; and it almost seemed sometimes as if Nature had endowed him with an eighth sense, for he saw and grasped points which no one else could see. Although a born detective, there are many other callings in which he might have risen to eminence, notably that of the stage. He was a perfect actor, and his powers of mimicry and of changing his expression and personal appearance were little short of marvellous. He could with ease assume the rôle of an ambassador or a peasant market woman, and he possessed to a remarkable degree the faculty of patience, which is indispensable to anyone who wishes to distinguish himself in the detective’s art. Moreover, he was well educated, and a fluent linguist, and these accomplishments helped him immensely. In referring to the case which I am now about to relate, he himself speaks of it as ‘a remarkable and complicated one,’ which all but baffled him; and he cites it as an example of the depths of depravity to which human nature is capable of descending.

It appeared that one summer night Colonel Ignatof, who was in command of an infantry regiment of the line, temporarily stationed in Moscow, returned to his barracks after being out all the evening, and, complaining of being very ill, ordered that the regimental doctor should be immediately sent for. From the time that the order was given to the arrival of the doctor in the commanding officer’s room not more than ten minutes elapsed. But during that short space the Colonel had vomited violently, and the doctor found him lying on the bed, cold, pallid, and collapsed. The soldier-servant who was with him said that his master had suffered awfully, and had described his feelings as if a fire was raging in his inside. The doctor administered remedies, which so far had a good effect that the patient rallied, and on being asked if he could account for his sudden illness--he had always been an exceedingly robust and healthy man--he faintly murmured that he believed it was attributable to some iced fish soup (a favourite Russian dish), of which he had partaken freely. He thought it probable that the fish from which the soup had been concocted were not quite fresh. It seemed a natural supposition, for the intense heat of the short Russian summer makes it very difficult to keep meat and fish fresh for many hours.

He was next asked where he had partaken of the soup, but before he could give an answer he was again seized with violent retching. When the spasm had passed, he collapsed once more, and all the remedies that were tried failed to restore him. He continued, however, to breathe for two hours, and then died. As the symptoms from which the unfortunate man had suffered were identical with those set up by irritant poison, an order was received that a post-mortem examination was to be made. In due course this order was carried out, and resulted in the discovery that death was due to an irritant poison that had set up violent inflammation of the stomach. This seemed to be quite consistent with the unfortunate man’s own theory that his illness was due to unwholesome soup.

The fish soup is a very common dish in Russia. It is made from various kinds of fish boiled to a pulp. It is then highly seasoned, thickened with rich, luscious cream; a quantity of olive-oil is next added, and the mess is iced until it is nearly frozen. It is a singularly seductive dish, but only those who have strong stomachs can stand it. As it is only partaken of in the summer, great care has to be exercised that the fish is quite fresh. Any carelessness in this respect is apt to produce serious illness. The peasantry, who cannot afford cream, and enrich the soup with large quantities of inferior oil, often suffer severely, and not infrequently die, after a hearty meal of this national soup, for as often as not the fish used is stale, and, as most people know, decaying fish is a virulent poison.

It was a knowledge of these facts which no doubt led the medical men to jump to the conclusion that the Colonel’s death was entirely due to the soup, a conclusion that seemed quite justified by what the dying man himself had said. Some attempt was made to discover where he had dined, but as this was not successful, the doctors certified that the deceased had died from internal inflammation after partaking of soup which was probably not fresh. Here the matter ended. The dead man was buried with military pomp and ceremony, and many eulogies were uttered over his grave. It was known amongst his intimate friends that he was a married man, but owing to ‘incompatibility’ he and his wife had long lived apart. All his effects he left by will to a nephew named Peter Baranoff, who was a Captain in an artillery regiment, which was also stationed in Moscow.

It was generally supposed that Colonel Ignatof was well off, if not wealthy, but it became known after his death that he died worth very little. This gave rise to much gossip, and it was more than hinted that he had squandered his means and substance on a certain lady to whom he had been greatly attached. However, these little incidents were not so rare as to cause any great surprise, and the Colonel and his affairs were soon forgotten, and the world went on as usual. Colonel Ignatof had been in his grave about twelve months, when Moscow was furnished with another sensation. Although he had died poor, relatively, his nephew had got something like three thousand pounds, besides a fair amount of jewellery, some plate, books, and other odds and ends. The young fellow had never been very steady, and after his uncle’s death launched out into excesses which brought him under the notice of his superiors; and he was warned that he would have to regulate his conduct a little better or he might be called upon to resign his commission, as his name was mixed up with a good many scandals, and there had been much talk about certain gambling debts he had incurred and was unable to meet. However, an unexpected and effective stop was put to his ‘goings on,’ and set everybody talking again.

Late one night a man was picked up near one of the gates of the Kremlin wall in a state of unconsciousness, and was conveyed by a police patrol to the nearest station-house, as the natural inference was that he was intoxicated. He was speedily identified as Captain Peter Baranoff, from cards and letters found in his pockets. Within half an hour of his admission his symptoms had become so serious as to cause alarm, and it was deemed advisable to communicate with the military authorities. No time was lost in doing this, but before any instructions could be received Baranoff collapsed, and within an hour of his admission he was dead, in spite of all the efforts made to restore him to consciousness and prolong his life.

The case, as may be supposed, surrounded with mystery as it was, caused an immense sensation. The deceased man’s social position, his connection with the army, and the financial difficulties in which it was thought he was involved, removed the matter out of the sphere of an ordinary affair, and it was the ‘talk of the town.’ As no reason could be assigned for his premature decease, an autopsy was made, and it was then found that, as in his uncle’s case, there was violent inflammation of the coats of the stomach and the intestinal track. In the stomach itself were the remains of some half-digested morsels of fish; and it was also made evident that a little while before his death the deceased had partaken freely of vodka. This led to the supposition--which was probably correct--that intoxication was accountable for the unconscious condition in which he was found; but intoxication would not account for his death. He was a young fellow of splendid physique, and none of the organs were diseased. His death, therefore, was not due to any natural cause; and after some discussion amongst the medical men, it was decided to certify that he had died from eating impure food, which, by its poisonous action, had set up inflammation, which had been much aggravated by the vodka. Of course, there was a good deal of curiosity to know where he had spent the evening, and how it was he should have been wandering alone outside of the Kremlin until he fell unconscious. The inference was that he had been revelling with friends at one or other of the numerous haunts which abound in Moscow, and which often lure young men to their destruction. Some attempt was made to trace his movements on the evening of his death; but all the attempt resulted in was that it was proved he left his quarters between six and seven. He was in private clothes, and he incidentally mentioned to a friend that he was going to the opera, and afterwards intended to sup with a lady acquaintance. He did go to the opera, but left early--that is, before ten o’clock. From that time until he was picked up unconscious later there was a blank that could not be filled in.

Strangely enough, at this time there was no suspicion of foul play. That he should die in a similar manner to his uncle was considered rather remarkable, but there the surprise ended. But within a week of the burial a sharp-eyed and thoughtful medical student, who was pursuing his studies in the great college at Moscow, addressed a few lines to the _Moscow Gazette_, in which he ventured to suggest that the doctors who examined Baranoff’s body had failed in their duty in not causing a chemical analysis to be made of the contents of the deceased man’s stomach; and he advanced the opinion that both Baranoff and his uncle had been wilfully done to death.

At first this idea was laughed at. It was spoken of as being ‘ridiculous,’ and the suspicion of foul play utterly unjustified. In a few hours, however, public opinion changed. It would be difficult to tell why, unless on the hypothesis that a new sensation was wanted. A clamour arose, and grave doubts were thrown upon the doctors’ judgment. Now, in Russia public opinion has not the weight that it has in England, and the popular voice is often stifled whenever it begins to grow a little too loud. But in this case there were certain details which lent a good deal of weight to the suspicion of foul play; and in official quarters, after much discussion, it was considered advisable that some notice should be taken of it. Probably it would have been otherwise but for the seeming fact that the medical men had done their duty in a very perfunctory way, and had not been at sufficient pains to establish the accuracy of the conclusion they came to from what they saw during their scientific investigations. It was pointed out that all the symptoms exhibited by the two men were quite compatible with the suggestions of drug-poisoning; that the theory that both met their end through inadvertently partaking of stale fish was so remarkable a coincidence that it could not be regarded as a commonplace matter; and that in the interest of justice, no less than of science, some further investigation should be permitted.

In the end an official order was issued that Baranoff’s body should be exhumed, and the usual means taken to test, by the aid of chemical knowledge, whether or not the deceased man came by death through an accident, through natural causes, or as the victim of foul play. In order to leave nothing to be desired in the way of research, a Professor of Chemistry, who stood at the very top of the profession, was instructed to make the analysis. This he did, with the result that he came to the conclusion that the deceased had met his death from a strong dose of black hellebore. As soon as the authorities were informed of the result of the analysis, they had Colonel Ignatof’s body taken up and subjected to chemical examination. And in this instance also the Professor declared that death had been brought about by black hellebore.

At this period black hellebore was by no means a well-known poison outside the medical profession, and the average doctor was perhaps quite ignorant of the morbid symptoms it set up in the human subject when a fatal dose was administered. It is classed amongst what is known as the true narcotico-acrids, and bears the botanical name of _Helleborus niger_, and is familiar to the general public as the Christmas rose. Few people, however, who admire the beautiful rose-tinted flowers of the Christmas rose, which serve to enliven the house in the gloomy winter months, have any idea how deadly a poison can be extracted from its roots and leaves. Its active principle, according to chemists, is an oily matter containing an acid. Its effects on the human being are violent retching and vomiting, delirium, convulsions, and intense internal pains. These symptoms generally appear in from an hour to two hours after the fatal dose is swallowed, and death usually results in about six hours. If administered in alcohol or food of any kind, no suspicion is aroused on the part of the person who takes it, as the taste is quite disguised. The morbid appearances produced in the human body are inflammation of the stomach, the digestive canal, and particularly the great intestines. Poisonous fish or food of any kind almost will produce these symptoms. Therefore the medical men who certified that Colonel Ignatof and his nephew, Captain Baranoff, both died from the effects of impure fish used for soup were misled, and jumped to too hasty a conclusion. Some excuse would be found for them, however, in the fact that the effects of hellebore were not as well known then as now; at any rate, not in Russia. And as the Colonel’s own dying opinion was that his illness was due to the iced fish soup he had partaken of, it was perhaps pardonable, all the other circumstances considered, that the doctors should have been put upon a false scent, and it is pretty certain that but for the medical student’s letter to the _Moscow Gazette_, which sounded the alarm, no suspicion of foul play would have been aroused.

Like most vegetable poisons, hellebore is difficult to detect, and it can only be discovered in the dead body by means of the most delicate tests. The chemical Professor who was charged with the important duty of examining the remains of Ignatof and Baranoff had made toxicology an especial study, and he had given particular attention to the very large class of vegetable poisons, having travelled for this purpose in various countries. He stood at the head of his profession in Russia, and it was owing to his skill and care, and the technical knowledge he brought to bear, that he was enabled, beyond all doubt, to establish the fact that the two subjects he was charged to examine were the victims of poison.

So much having been determined, the question was mooted whether or not the poison had been administered wilfully or accidentally. The theory of accident was at once negatived. It was like an outrage on common-sense to ask anyone to believe that two men, related to each other, should each die within a year from precisely the same cause. The coincidence was too remarkable to be admitted as probable; therefore the matter resolved itself into murder--it was an ugly word, and all the incidents suggested a tragedy of no ordinary kind. The case was placed in the hands of the chief of police, who was instructed to use every means possible to unravel the mystery. An attempt was at once made to trace the movements of the two men for some hours before their death. In the Colonel’s case this was not an easy matter, as he had been dead for a year; but it was discovered that Captain Baranoff called on a friend of his--a civilian named Alexander Vlassovsky, who lived in a villa just on the fringe of the town--and they went together to a café-restaurant, where they dined. After dinner they played billiards for a short time, when they separated, as Vlassovsky had an assignation with a lady. He did not know where Baranoff was going to. He did not ask him, and the Captain volunteered no information. It was proved, however, that he went to the opera, and left about ten. It was stated most positively that when Baranoff quitted the café he was in the pink of health, and in most excellent spirits. Some hours later he was found in a state of unconsciousness outside of the Kremlin walls. It followed, therefore, if the story about the café was correct--and there was no reason to doubt it--that Baranoff must have partaken of the fatal dose a short time before he was discovered, for the action of the poison is very rapid. From the time, however, of his leaving to the time he was discovered unconscious all remained a blank. Nothing could be ascertained of his movements. It was obvious that wherever he had been to, or whoever were the people he had been with, somebody had an interest in keeping his movements dark, as the efforts of the police quite failed to elicit any information. It was the same in the Colonel’s case, and no one could discover where he had been to on the fatal night. Moscow is a large city, honeycombed with evil haunts; crime flourishes there to a greater extent than in any other town or city in the whole of Russia. It has been the scene of very many deeds of violence, for blackguardism is rampant, and numerous are the traps for the unwary. Its population is perhaps more varied than that of any other city of the world. Here may be seen cut-throats from the Levant; fishermen and sailors from the Baltic; Circassians, Cossacks, Tartars, Persians, Bokharians, Georgians, Greeks, and Jews of almost every nationality. It may be imagined that in such a place, and amongst such a heterogeneous collection of humanity, wickedness of every description finds a congenial soil. Notwithstanding that, Moscow is known to all Russians as ‘The Holy City,’ and a devout Russian, who pins his faith to the Russo-Greek Church, regards Moscow with the same veneration that a Mohammedan looks upon Mecca.

After several weeks of fruitless effort to solve the mystery in which the deaths of Colonel Ignatof and his nephew was involved, the police had to confess themselves baffled. It seemed pretty evident that both men had been cruelly done to death by the hand of an assassin. But whose was the hand that committed the deed, and the motive for it, could not be ascertained.

It was at this stage of the proceedings that a request was made to Michael Danevitch--who was then in St. Petersburg--to come through to Moscow, and endeavour to solve the mystery. He complied with the request, and at once waited upon General Govemykin, the military governor of the city, by the General’s special desire.

‘I want you,’ said the General, ‘to use every means that your skill can suggest to clear up the mystery surrounding the deaths of Colonel Ignatof and Captain Baranoff. Both these gentlemen were murdered; of that there seems to be no doubt; and the murderers must be brought to book. During the last few years a good many soldiers have lost their lives in this city by foul play, and in several instances justice has gone unsatisfied. Now two officers, men of unblemished reputation and good social position, are killed by the same means, and yet the police are unable to bring the crime home to anyone. It seems to me that it is little short of disgraceful that the police supervision of a city like this is so deficient.’

‘Is it deficient?’ asked Danevitch.

‘Yes; otherwise, how is it officers and gentlemen can be brutally done to death and the murderers escape?’

‘As far as I gather, this is no ordinary crime,’ remarked Danevitch.

‘Well, perhaps not; but it shows a weakness in the organization when our police fail to get the slightest clue to the perpetrator of the crime. Now, what are you going to do?’

‘I don’t know,’ Danevitch answered, as brusquely as the General asked the question.

‘If you don’t know, what is the use of your taking the matter in hand?’

‘Pardon me, General, but I am not a prophet, therefore I cannot foretell what I am going to do.’

‘Well, no, perhaps not; but you must have some idea of the lines you intend to proceed upon.’

‘I shall simply try to succeed where the police have failed.’

‘And you may fail, too,’ exclaimed the General, who was a little piqued by Danevitch’s brusqueness.

‘Oh, that is very likely,’ was the answer.

‘If you do, I’ll take some other and more drastic means to solve the problem. Officers and men under my control shall not be done to death with impunity.’

Danevitch was not affected by this display of temper, and when the subject had been exhausted he withdrew. He recognised that the case was a difficult one, and, in view of the fact that the police had exhausted all their efforts, he was by no means sanguine, although he was of the opinion that the ordinary methods of the Russian police were very clumsy, and, in their eagerness to lay their hands on somebody, and their fossilized belief that the whole populace was ever engaged in some deep and dark conspiracy against constituted authority, they often committed the most ludicrous errors. He never hesitated to condemn the police methods of his country. He described them as inartistic, unscientific, and brutal. His outspokenness on this score made him very unpopular with the police, and they did not like him to have anything to do with cases in which they had failed. It is needless to say this did not disturb him. He had an independent mind; he worked by his own methods, and he never allowed himself to be influenced by jealousy or ill-will.

His first step in connection with Colonel Ignatof’s death was to try and get hold of his private letters and papers, as he was of opinion that they might furnish him with a keynote; but he was informed that private documents of all kinds belonging to the Colonel had passed into the possession of his nephew, and when the nephew died all his papers were secured by his executor, who declined to allow them to be seen by anyone until he himself had gone through them; for, though he did not give it as his reason, he was afraid of anything becoming known that might cause a family scandal. Danevitch next sought an interview with Alexander Vlassovsky, with whom Captain Baranoff had dined on the night he met his death.

Vlassovsky was a fashionable young man, and lived in what was known as the Slobodi quarter, where most of the wealthy merchants had their villas. The business he carried on in the city was that of a stockbroker, and, judging from his surroundings and the style he kept up, he was in a flourishing way. He was a bachelor, and made no secret about it that he was fond of gaiety.

According to the account he gave, he had been acquainted with Baranoff for a long time, and had lent him considerable sums of money to enable him to keep up his extravagances; for though Baranoff’s people were people of note, and exceedingly proud, they were not rich. At any rate, the young man was not able to get much from them, and his pay as a Captain was too small to enable him to uphold the position he aspired to. Of course, his financial transactions with Vlassovsky had been kept very secret, for had they become known to the military authorities, he would have got into serious trouble.

It will thus be seen that the relations between the young men were those of borrower and lender. They were not friends in the ordinary sense. Indeed, Vlassovsky remarked to Danevitch with some bitterness:

‘You know, like most young officers, he was as proud as Lucifer, and seemed to think I was not his equal; though he was never averse to dine with me and drink wine at my expense.’

‘Why did he come to you on the night of his death?’

‘To borrow money.’

‘Did you lend him any?’

‘Yes.’

‘How much?’

‘Two hundred roubles.’

‘What security did he give you for the various sums you lent him?’

‘Nothing beyond his acknowledgment.’

‘And you were satisfied with that?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

‘Because, if he had failed me at any time, I could have reported him to the military authorities, and that would have been his ruin.’

‘But you never had occasion to do that?’

‘No, certainly not.’

‘Did he ever pay you back any of the money he borrowed?’

‘Oh yes.’

‘Where did he get the money from to pay his debts?’

‘How can I tell you that? He did not make me his confidant.’

‘Did he owe you much at the time of his death?’

‘Yes.’

‘How much?’

‘Nearly ten thousand roubles.’

‘That is a large sum! I suppose you will lose it?’

‘Oh dear no!’

‘Why? Did he die worth money?’

‘His life was insured for ten thousand. I hold the policy and a letter from him to the effect that, should he die before paying me my due, I was to receive the policy money.’

‘Have you any idea where he spent his last evening, after leaving you?’

‘It is known that he went to the opera, because some acquaintances saw him there.’

‘But after that?’

‘I haven’t the remotest idea.’

‘Do you know nothing of his affairs of gallantry?’

‘Absolutely nothing.’

‘You think, however, that he had lady acquaintances?’

‘I should say there isn’t a doubt about it. He was wild.’

‘And possibly his death was due to jealousy on the part of a rival?’

‘Very possibly.’

‘Did you know his uncle?’

‘I did.’

‘Did you accommodate him with money?’

‘Yes, occasionally.’

‘Was he in your debt when he died?’

‘No; he paid me all he owed me a little while before his death.’

‘Have you any theory to suggest with reference to the deaths of these two gentlemen?’

‘None whatever.’

‘Were you very much surprised when you heard of the strange way in which they both died?’

‘I can’t say that I was.’

‘Why were you not?’ asked Danevitch quickly.

‘In the first place, I didn’t know they had been murdered.’

‘But when you did?’

‘Then I thought they had made themselves obnoxious to somebody, and the somebody had put them out of the way.’

‘And yet you have no idea who that somebody is?’

‘No.’

Danevitch stopped his questioning at this point. As he left the house of Alexander Vlassovsky he was of opinion he had ‘struck a trail’--to quote his own words--and he began to think out the ways and means of proving whether he was right or wrong.

In a semi-fashionable quarter of St. Petersburg lived a lady known generally as Madame Julie St. Joseph. She was of French origin, but had been a great many years in Russia. Her husband had carried on business in Moscow as an engraver and chromo-lithographer. He had been dead, however, a very long time, and seemed to have passed from the public mind; but it was vaguely remembered that he was almost old enough at the time of his death to have been his wife’s grandfather.

Julie St. Joseph was exceedingly handsome, and at this period was about forty years of age. She might have passed, however, for being even younger, as she was remarkably well preserved, fresh-looking, bright of eye, and with an abundance of animal spirits, which seemed rather to indicate the girl than the matured woman. Much wonder was very naturally expressed that the pretty widow had remained a widow so long, for, as was well known, she had had offers of marriage innumerable, and might, had she been so disposed, have made an excellent match. But the pretty Julie was fond of gaiety and freedom. As a wealthy widow--it was universally believed that she was wealthy--she could do as she liked, and attract around her men of all sorts and conditions, and of all ages. They paid her homage. She held them, so to speak, in her hand; she could twist them round her fingers. Quarrels about her were innumerable, and more than one jealous and hot-blooded fellow had lost his life in a duel of which the bewitching Julie was the cause.

The style she elected to live in was compatible with the possession of riches. She kept up a splendid establishment; her house was sumptuously furnished; she had numerous servants, many horses. Her winter sledges were renowned for their luxurious appointments; her summer carriages were almost unique. She was a woman of the most sybaritic tastes; and every taste was pandered to and pampered. Among her servants was a Creole; he was a man of medium height, though of powerful build, and with a sullen, morose expression. He was always called Roko, but of his origin and history nothing was known. He seemed to be very strongly attached to his mistress, and always attended her wherever she went; but no man endowed with the faculty of speech could have been more silent than he was. He rarely spoke, except when compelled to answer some question; and it was rumoured that, like a faithful hound, he slept at his mistress’s door, and kept watch and ward over her during the hours of night, while during the day he obeyed her slightest beck or call.

It was the beginning of the Russian New Year, and Madame Julie St. Joseph gave a ball. It was a very grand ball; everything was done on a lavish scale, and the pomp and magnificence was almost on a par with a State function. The people, however, who attended the widow’s festive gathering could not lay claim to any high social position--at any rate, not so far as the ladies were concerned. The ladies who were in the habit of frequenting the pretty Julie’s salons were of questionable reputations. Julie was not recognised as a person of social distinction, and in the female world some rather cruel things were said about her. The men, however, represented many grades of life: the Army, Navy, Law; the Diplomatic Service; Art, Literature, the Drama--intellectual Bohemia generally, though not a few of these men were at considerable pains to conceal the fact that they visited the charming widow, for, had it been generally known, their own women-folk might have protested in a way that would have been anything but pleasant, and they would have found themselves ostracised in those higher circles in which many of them moved. Probably Madame St. Joseph was indifferent to the opinions of her own sex, so long as she could exact homage from men; and there could be no two opinions about the power which she wielded over the sterner sex. It was, therefore, scarcely matter for wonder that the ladies of St. Petersburg should feel embittered against her. When a man is jealous, he takes a rough-and-ready means of showing his jealousy; if he has a rival, he generally ‘goes for him,’ and the best man wins. A woman’s jealousy, on the other hand, finds expression in a different way. In her bitterness she would sully the reputation of a spotless angel, and her mother-tongue has no words strong enough wherewith to express her hatred. No wonder that the old painters, in depicting jealousy, always took a female as a model. Of course Madame Julie St. Joseph’s beauty, and the power it enabled her to wield, made the women very jealous indeed; but if her female guests lacked quality, the deficiency was amply compensated for by the high standing of many of the men. She knew, and was proud of the fact, that there was hardly a man in Russia, no matter how exalted his position, that she could not have brought to her footstool had she desired to do so. Such a woman was necessarily bound to become notorious and have numberless enemies. But the widow was beautiful, she was rich, she gave grand receptions, she spent money liberally; therefore she had no difficulty in rallying around her a powerful body of adherents; and, while half St. Petersburg spoke ill of her, the other half lauded her.

Amongst the guests who attended the ball in question was a dark-skinned, somewhat peculiar-looking man, said to be a Polish Count, named Prebenski. He had a heavy moustache and beard, and wore spectacles. As he appeared to be an entire stranger to the company, the hostess took him for a time under her wing; but, as he could not or would not dance, and seemed to find irresistible attraction in the buffet, where there were unlimited supplies of vodka, as well as wines of all kinds, she left him to his own devices, and bestowed the favour of her smiles on more congenial guests. At length the Count, from the effects, apparently, of too great a consumption of strong drinks, sought a quiet nook in an anteroom, and ensconcing himself in a large chair, sank into a heavy sleep. Some time later, when the night was growing very old and the grayness of the winter dawn was beginning to assert itself, and the guests had dwindled down to a mere handful, Roko, the Creole, entered the room. Seeing the Count sleeping there, he paused for a moment as if surprised; then he shook the guest roughly, but getting no response, save a grunt, he went away, returning in a few minutes with another man. That man was Alexander Vlassovsky, who approached the Count, shook him, called him, and being no more successful in his efforts to arouse him than Roko had been, he told Roko to carry him upstairs to a bedroom. That was done, and the Count was tossed upon a bed and left there; but before half an hour had passed Vlassovsky came into the room carrying a small shaded lamp, for though it was fully daylight heavy curtains were drawn at the window.

He passed the light of the lamp over the sleeping man’s eyes, shook him, called him, but as the Count remained unconscious of these efforts, the intruder placed the lamp on a small table and, seating himself in a chair by the bedside, began to search the pockets of the guest. The search resulted in the production of a miscellaneous collection of articles, which were duly returned; but at last a pocket-book was drawn forth; it was opened, and found to contain a considerable number of bank-notes, representing in the aggregate a large sum of money. These notes Vlassovsky took the liberty of transferring to his own pocket, and replacing the lightened pocket-book, withdrew.

Some hours later Count Prebenski rang the bell in his room, and in response to the summons Roko appeared, bearing a lamp. The Count eyed him for some moments in apparent astonishment, and then asked:

‘Where am I?’

‘In the house of Madame Julie St. Joseph.’

‘What is the hour?’

‘It is three o’clock.’

‘In the morning?’

‘No. The afternoon.’ Roko drew the curtains, and revealed the bright, steel-coloured winter sky, tinged a little towards the horizon with a flush of red.

The Count seemed puzzled. He stared first at the sky, then at the Creole.

‘How is it I am here?’ he asked.

Roko revealed all his gleaming teeth as he grinned in reply.

‘How is it I am here?’ repeated the Count, peremptorily and hotly.

‘Your Excellency indulged too freely in liquor, and we had to put you to bed.’

‘Umph!’ mused the Count; ‘it was kind; now, tell me, did your mistress, Madame St. Joseph, know of my condition?’

‘She did.’

‘Was she angry?’

‘Well, Excellency, she certainly wasn’t pleased.’

‘Ah! I fear I have made a bea---- a fool of myself. Give me the wherewith to put myself in a presentable condition, and I will see madam. By the way, has she risen yet?’

‘Oh yes.’

‘Good; as soon as I have performed my toilet, return here and conduct me to your mistress.’

Roko bowed and withdrew. In half an hour he came back again, and, followed by the Count, led the way to Madame St. Joseph’s boudoir, a very comfortable little retreat, daintily furnished, cosy and bright with knick-knacks, cushions, curtains, luxurious rugs, and warmed to the high temperature beloved of Russians by means of a polished metal radiating stove. Dressed in a most elegant fur-trimmed dressing-gown, madame was stretched upon a divan. Beside her was a Moorish table, on which stood coffee and cigarettes. She was smoking as the Count entered. Without rising, she extended her delicate white hand to him, and, smiling sweetly, said:

‘Pray be seated, Count. Roko, pour out some coffee. Will you take vodka or cognac with it, Count?’

The Count chose vodka, and his wants having been supplied, the lady bade Roko retire.

‘I owe you an apology, madame,’ began the Count. ‘I forgot myself last night. It was good of you to take care of me. I am deeply indebted to you for your hospitality.’

‘Oh, a mere trifle,’ smiled the lady. ‘My faithful slave found you asleep in a chair, and as his efforts failed to awaken you, he carried you upstairs by my orders.’

At this point in the conversation the door opened, and Vlassovsky appeared on the threshold; but seeing that madame had a visitor, he quickly withdrew.

‘I am sorry to say I am the victim of a strange weakness,’ answered the Count. ‘I am a temperate man, but should I be tempted to indulge beyond my ordinary allowance it throws me into a sort of coma, from which I only recover after many hours of death-like sleep.’

‘You are to be pitied, Count.’

‘Your pity is worth having,’ he answered. ‘Now, tell me, madame, what penalty am I to pay for having so far forgotten myself?’

‘Penalty, Count!’

‘Yes. I am wealthy. Money is no object to me. I have notes. I am almost alone in the world.’

‘Indeed!’ exclaimed the lady, with animation, and regarding her guest with new-born interest; ‘you are fortunate. I presume you are staying here temporarily?’

‘Yes. I am travelling for my pleasure. When our mutual friend Trepoff was good enough to ask you to extend your courtesy to me, and sent me an invitation to your ball, I accepted it with pleasure, and was glad to leave the loneliness of my hotel; but it grieves me sorely to think that I so forgot myself.’

‘Pray, Count, do not let the matter give you any concern,’ said the charming widow, as she sat up and again extended her soft hand to him to kiss. ‘Are you likely to remain in St. Petersburg long?’

‘My stay will be regulated by the amount of pleasure I experience here. But a hotel is not the most comfortable place in the winter, and I confess I feel dull and lonely.’

The lady fixed her keen eyes upon him as she remarked:

‘Indeed, I can well understand that, Count. Now, if I might venture to ask you to make my poor abode your residence during your stay in the city, it would afford me great pleasure to play the hostess. Will you accept of my hospitality?’

‘Really, Madame St. Joseph, I, I----’