Chapter V: Introduction (5)

Mrs. Ivanoff started to her feet now, and uttered a low moan of agony. Somebody wanted to support her, but she pushed them back, and, steadying herself with a tremendous effort, she said:

‘Vassilo, what does this mean?’

‘Some hideous mistake,’ he murmured.

‘I hope so. God grant it is so,’ sobbed the unhappy lady. ‘But I remember Riskoff’s answer to your application for a loan. And now Riskoff is dead, your revolver is found in his house, and you are in possession of notes which he drew from his bank. Oh, my God, it’s awful! It’s too, too horrible! I am going mad!’

She uttered a suppressed scream, pressed her hands to her head, reeled and staggered, and fell fainting into the arms of some of her friends.

Apparently unmoved by this sad and pathetic scene, the Judge preserved his sternness and stolidity.

‘So Riskoff wrote to you?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ answered Ivanoff in a mechanical way.

‘Where is the letter?’

‘I will give it to you. Come with me.’

The Judge motioned to the armed men, and they placed themselves one on either side of the suspect, while the Judge himself brought up the rear. In this order they proceeded to Ivanoff’s studio, where, opening a bureau with a key he took from his pocket, he produced the letter he had received from Riskoff, wherein he point-blank refused to lend the money, and handed it to the Judge, who, having perused it, remarked:

‘This is a fatal piece of evidence against you. You had better make a clean breast of the whole affair.’

By this time Ivanoff had somewhat recovered himself, and said firmly:

‘I have nothing to confess. I am innocent before God.’

‘Most criminals declare themselves innocent at first,’ answered the Judge coldly. ‘However, I have no doubt you will tell another tale before we have done with you. I charge you now with being the murderer of Mr. Riskoff, and make you my prisoner. Secure him and bring him along.’

The policemen seized the wretched man, and fastened his wrists together with a pair of handcuffs. He begged to be allowed to write two or three letters, but this request was refused, and he was taken from the house, still protesting his innocence, and without being able to take a final leave of his wife, who remained unconscious. In accordance with the mode of procedure peculiar to Russia, the suspected man was conducted to the office of the criminal prison, where he was subjected to another cross-examination, and the Judge of Instruction handed in his procès-verbal, as the French call it. The Judge, having finished his part of the affair so far, received an official receipt for his prisoner’s body and left, while the prisoner himself, having been stripped of his clothing, and a prison suit allotted to him, was consigned to a secret cell, which meant that he would be kept isolated from everyone until the police had worked up sufficient evidence to secure his conviction. But in the event of their failing to do that, the prisoner himself would in all probability ultimately confess in order to be relieved from the awful horror of solitary confinement in a secret dungeon.

The case against Ivanoff seemed perfectly clear. The public condemned him from the first, for the evidence was so strong. There was the letter which Riskoff had written declining to lend the money Ivanoff had applied to him for. Yet within thirty-six hours of that letter being received, Riskoff was discovered dead in his own house. He had that very morning drawn from his bank a large sum of money. A portion of the money was found in Ivanoff’s possession. Riskoff had been shot from behind. A bullet had entered the back part of the head, traversing the brain and producing instant death. The deed was done with a revolver, which was left in the room, no doubt by an oversight on the part of the slayer. The revolver was the property of Ivanoff, as proved by a little silver plate let into the butt, on which his name was engraved. On his own confession, Ivanoff had visited Riskoff. He knew that he was about to set out on a journey. He knew also that he would draw money from the bank for the purposes of his journey. Therefore, having been refused the loan he had asked for, he went to the house with the deliberate intention of killing his erstwhile friend and robbing him of his money.

Such was the construction put upon the case, and it seemed as if no one but an idiot could doubt for a moment that Ivanoff had committed the crime. And as a piece of strengthening evidence the words he had uttered in the café were raked up against him. ‘It’s a burning shame,’ he had said, ‘that I should be poor when there are thousands less worthy than I am rolling in wealth. I feel as if I could do murder on those who hoard their gold when so many are suffering for the want of common necessaries.’

All these things taken into consideration left no room to doubt that Ivanoff was a murderer. He had committed a clumsy crime, and left such tracks behind him that in a very short time the outraged law had him in its grip.

The tragedy aroused more than the usual amount of interest, as both Ivanoff and Riskoff were well known, while the prisoner’s story was not without a certain romance which added to the interest. His poetical tendencies; his essays in art; his struggles; his wooing of the beautiful Maria in opposition to the sage counsels and earnest advice of his school-fellow and friend, Riskoff; his marriage; his monetary difficulties; his appeal for help to the man whose advice he had scouted--all these things afforded the general public subject-matter for discussion; they were so many chapters in an exciting tale, the end of which was murder.

As may be imagined, Mrs. Ivanoff’s friends were furious, for, though poor, they were as proud as Lucifer, and felt strongly embittered against the man who had brought such disgrace into the family. Poor Maria came in for a fair amount of blame. She was told very bluntly that she had no business ever to have married such a man. These reproaches made her dreadful position still harder to bear; but when the first shock of the disclosure and the arrest had passed, she rose equal to the occasion, and startled everyone she knew by declaring her unalterable belief in her husband’s innocence. This seemed to most people like flying in the very face of Providence. The accused man’s guilt was so obvious that it was an outrage on intelligence to argue otherwise. But Maria Ivanoff was a young and newly-married woman. She had married for love. Her husband had always treated her with the greatest tenderness and consideration. Over and over again he had told her he worshipped the very ground she walked upon, and had done everything in his power to prove that he did not speak mere words. She believed in him; she believed in his assertion that he was innocent; and though all the world condemned him she would not. She was his wife, his loving wife, and she would try to save him. The poor woman saw clearly enough that she stood alone, and that she could expect neither sympathy nor help from anyone. Nevertheless, she was not daunted, nor was she deterred, and her first step was to seek an interview with the Minister of the Interior, or, as we should call him, the Home Secretary. It was not easy to obtain this interview, but thanks to the influence of a gentleman holding a high official position, with whom she was acquainted, she succeeded at last, and found herself face to face with the proud and pompous personage who was invested with such tremendous power that he could snatch a person from his doom even at the eleventh hour. To the Minister she pleaded, literally on her knees, for an order to visit her husband. At first the official was obdurate; but her tears, her eloquence, her distress, and perhaps, more than all, her beauty, softened him; and she left his bureau with a Government order which granted her a twenty minutes’ interview with the prisoner. She flew to the gloomy prison, presented the order, and in a little while, in the presence of numerous officials, husband and wife met again; but it was in a dismal corridor, and they were separated from each other by an iron grill.

Although only little more than a week had elapsed since that cruel night when he was torn from her side, a wonderful change had taken place in him. He looked ten years older. He was haggard and ghastly, and no wonder, for he had suddenly changed the sunshine and brightness of the world for a pestiferous dungeon, far below the ground, where every movement of the prisoner was watched, where the walls were lined with felt to deaden all sound; where miasma rose up from the ground, and ooze and slime dropped from the roof; where no human voice was heard, for the stern warders were prohibited from opening their lips to a prisoner; where the food was horrible, and even the common decencies of life were not observed. No wonder that in such a place men went mad; no wonder that even in a few weeks youth and vigour were changed to tottering age.

Maria was startled and horrified. She would have thrown her arms about her wretched husband’s neck, but cruel bars kept them asunder. Ivanoff iterated and reiterated again and again that he was innocent. He swore it by all that a Russian holds most sacred, and he begged with streaming eyes that his wife would use every means possible to prove his innocence and secure his release, otherwise he would in a very short time be raving mad.

When Maria Ivanoff left that awful place and got into the light again, she felt like one who had come up out of a tomb, where she had looked upon death. She knew that there was but little hope for her husband unless his innocence was made clear as day. She thoroughly believed his assertions; and she made a mental resolve that she would rest neither night nor day until she had exhausted every possible means to release him. Her friends were angry with her; everybody said it was an impossible task to prove a guilty man innocent. Her distress of mind may be imagined, not described; she told her friends she herself would go mad if somebody did not come to her assistance. Then it was that her brother, with what he intended to be the most pointed irony, said:

‘You are seeking to do that which is impossible. Now, if there is a man in all Russia who can perform seemingly impossible deeds, that man is Michael Danevitch, the Government detective. Why don’t you go to him? He might perform a miracle, who knows?’

Maria Ivanoff jumped at the suggestion, though it was never intended she should take it seriously. But she sought out Danevitch. She laid all the facts of the case before him. It was the first he had heard of the matter. It was the first time he had ever set his eyes on Maria. But her moving tale stirred him; her beauty won him; her tears found their way to his heart. He consoled her in a measure by a pledge that he would examine the case from every possible point of view, and communicate with her later on. Nearly a fortnight passed before she saw him again.

‘There is one point, and a very curious point it is,’ he said, ‘that makes the evidence against the accused weak, and yet nobody seems to have noticed it.’

‘What is it?’ cried Maria, breathless with new hope.

‘On the day that Riskoff was murdered, he drew from the bank three thousand roubles. Your husband had one thousand of this sum, according to his own statement, and the most critical investigation has failed to prove this statement false; not a rouble over and above the one thousand has been traced to his possession.’

‘Yes, yes; go on,’ moaned Maria, as she clasped her hands together with the emotion the detective’s words begot. ‘What has become of the other two thousand?’

‘Ah, that is what I want to know. If your husband murdered Riskoff for the sake of the money, why did he only take one thousand roubles and leave two thousand? And if he left two thousand behind, what has become of them?’

Maria was holding her breath with that intensity of nervous emotion which one experiences when it seems as if some revelation is about to be made which means life or death to the listener. Danevitch remained thoughtful and silent. His eyes were fixed on vacancy; his lips were closely compressed; he looked absorbed and dreamy, as was his wont when he was unusually thoughtful. At last Maria could endure her pent-up feelings no longer, and in a husky voice she asked:

‘What inference do you draw?’

‘An inference which on the face of it seems to corroborate your husband’s assertion of his innocence. Mark you, I only say it seems to do so. I do not say it does.’

Maria covered her face with her hands and wept passionately, but her tears were rather the result of hope than of despair. Her over-strained nerves were in that state when they were as liable to give way under the effects of joy as they were under the effects of sorrow. She fell on her knees at Danevitch’s feet, and, clasping her hands in passionate appeal, implored him to save her husband. He raised her up, and said softly:

‘I will do what I can.’

It was really remarkable that it should have been left for Danevitch to bring out that curious point about the money. All the police officials had overlooked it. They were cock-sure, for they believed that the case was so clear against the prisoner that it would not admit of a doubt. For some days after the interview with Maria, Danevitch concerned himself with endeavouring to prove if Ivanoff had had more than the one thousand roubles, but the most exhaustive inquiries, and the most rigorous search of his house, failed to get a trace of a single rouble beyond the one thousand which he had declared Riskoff had lent him, a portion of which he had paid away to his creditors. When it became known that Danevitch was engaged on the case, and that he was trying to find out what had become of the two thousand roubles out of the three thousand drawn from the bank, not only was public curiosity aroused, but to some extent opinion swung round, and sympathy was expressed for the prisoner. The police, however, were not moved, unless it was to become still more prejudiced against Ivanoff. They knew the power of Danevitch, and the influence he had in high quarters, and they were determined not to lose their prey. They therefore resorted to all the forms and pressure allowed by the Russian law to exact from the unhappy man a confession of his guilt. Beyond the facts they had already got together, they could obtain no other evidence. They knew that it was just possible those facts might fail to secure a conviction, whereas a confession wrung from the suspected man, no matter under what torture it was obtained, would be accepted without question. Such was the law in Russia.

Weeks passed, and it leaked out that the prisoner’s obstinacy had at last been overcome. All that remained, therefore, to be done was to bring him up for trial, which would be a mere perfunctory business, and fix the date for his transportation. At last he appeared before the judges. The interest the case had aroused caused the court to be crowded to suffocation. When the prisoner appeared at the bar, those who had known Ivanoff previous to his arrest were shocked. They saw now an old white-haired man, with a haggard, hunted expression of face, and a wild stare in the restless eyes, as if he had suffered some tremendous mental shock. He seemed stunned, and as if he did not recognise anyone, and could not realize his position. Truly it is said of him who is sent to a Russian dungeon: ‘He shall return no more to his house, neither shall his place know him any more.’ The prisoner had been chained, tortured, and punished until he had become imbecile. But what of that? Was he not the slayer of a fellow-man--a scarlet-handed murderer who for the sake of a comparatively small sum of money had ruthlessly taken the life of his best friend? He himself had confessed to it, so that no one could raise up a doubt. The counsel for the prosecution seemed to have an easy task of it. He went over all the evidence that was known. Ivanoff had applied to his friend for a loan; the loan was refused, and the letter of refusal was read in court with a great flourish. Nevertheless, the prisoner went to his friend’s house, taking a revolver engraved with his own name with him. What passed between them would never be known until the secrets of all hearts were revealed; but a little later Riskoff was found dead. Some distance from him was Ivanoff’s revolver. The dead man had been shot with a bullet from that revolver. The bullet had gone through his brain. By an inconceivable act of folly, the prisoner left his revolver behind. It must have fallen from his hand when he was rifling the victim’s pockets for the money, and he had forgotten to pick it up. Subsequently the money was found in his possession. Was ever there clearer circumstantial evidence in the world? But to make assurance doubly sure, there was the prisoner’s confession, taken down from his own lips in his cell, by the Judge of Instruction; there it was for the jury to inspect, duly witnessed and attested and legalized by the great seal of the Minister of the Interior.

The prosecuting counsel sat down with the air of one who had performed a noble deed and scored a great triumph. The prisoner was silent, motionless, his eyes staring blankly into space, and his white face without any expression. Amidst a hush that was painful, the counsel for the defence--one of the ablest men in Russia--rose to his feet, and, adjusting his gown with professional gravity, said: ‘I claim one of two things: either an immediate acquittal of the prisoner on the grounds of lack of condemnatory evidence, or an adjournment of the trial for a few days, when I shall be able to prove his innocence. As everyone knows, Riskoff, the murdered man, drew three thousand roubles from his bankers on the morning of his death. One thousand roubles only was traced to the prisoner. All the money was in small notes. I have here one thousand five hundred of the missing two thousand. There are witnesses present from the bank who will identify every note. We hope to regain the other five hundred shortly. These notes were not in possession of the prisoner, but of another man, the man who committed the murder, and who will yet be brought to justice. The prisoner at the bar is innocent.’

The effect of this announcement was startling and dramatic in the highest degree. Everybody seemed affected except the prisoner--he was unmoved; he continued to stare into space. There was a hasty consultation among the jury, and a hurried whispering with the Judge, who asked if it was true that Michael Danevitch had the case in hand. He was answered in the affirmative, and in the end he announced that no verdict would be given that day, but the prisoner would be put back for a fortnight.

Mrs. Ivanoff had not been present at her husband’s trial. She was prostrated with illness, the result of long mental strain and intense anxiety; but a day or two before the case came on Danevitch called upon her and bade her be of good cheer, for her husband was innocent. Although she knew that Danevitch was not likely to make such a definite statement as that without warrant, she exclaimed:

‘But it is rumoured that my husband has confessed the crime.’

‘I have heard the same rumour,’ Danevitch answered; ‘but a confession that is wrung from a prisoner is not always reliable. But come, now, take heart. I told you, in the first instance, that I was much struck by the fact that only one thousand roubles could be traced to your husband. If he murdered his friend for his money, why did he not take the lot? It seemed absurd that, having committed the crime, he contented himself with one-third only of the amount he could have had. His story was that he visited Riskoff, who repented of his hastiness, and said he had written the letter of refusal when he was in a bad temper, and that had your husband not called, he was going to write an apology to him and enclose him one thousand roubles. As it was, he handed him the money, for which your husband gave a receipt as an acknowledgment that he was indebted to Riskoff to the extent of a thousand roubles. Subsequently, on Riskoff saying he was going to a gunsmith’s to buy a gun and a revolver to take with him on his journey, your husband pulled his own revolver out and offered the loan of it to his friend. The offer was accepted, and soon afterwards the two men parted. On the first blush this story had the appearance of being very far-fetched, and calculated to tax one’s credulity; but when I came to examine it in connection with all the circumstances, it presented itself to me as a statement of fact. Now I have no hesitation in saying that in the main, if not in actual detail, it is true.’

Mrs. Ivanoff heard this in silent thankfulness. She felt that her prayers had been heard, for night and day the poor woman had prayed that her husband might be proved innocent. Like most Russian women, she had an intense faith in the rites of her Church and the efficacy of prayer. Needless to say that after Danevitch’s statement her faith was strengthened, for she knew he was not the man to express such a pronounced opinion without he had a very good foundation for it.

As he himself had said, when he came to look into the matter the case presented itself to him in a very different aspect, and the prisoner’s story appeared probable. If that story was true, it necessarily followed that a third person must have been aware of the monetary transaction between the two men, and, taking advantage of the circumstances, had himself committed the crime for the sake of the two thousand roubles. It was upon that theory that Danevitch set to work. Riskoff led a bachelor life. His household consisted of two female servants and a man servant. On the morning of the crime the man had gone to the market. One of the females was an old woman who had been in the service of the family for upwards of fifty years, and had nursed Riskoff when he was a baby; the other was a young girl of about eighteen. The old woman at the time was in bed suffering from an ulcerated foot, the result of a cut with a piece of glass on which she had inadvertently stepped. Consequently the girl--Olga was her name--was in charge of the house. She admitted Ivanoff, and very soon afterwards her master and the visitor went out, and were absent nearly an hour. Her master told her that he was going to the bank to draw some money for his journey on the morrow. The two men returned together. In about half an hour afterwards she opened the door for Ivanoff to depart. The murder was not discovered until the return of the man-servant. Then Olga went to her master’s room to inquire whether he intended to dine alone that evening or whether there would be guests. On opening the door, she was horrified to find her master lying dead on the floor.

Such was Olga’s story, and it seemed probable enough, but Danevitch was not satisfied. The missing two thousand roubles set him pondering deeply, and he had a private interview with the old housekeeper, and questioned her about Olga.

‘Was Olga a steady girl?’

‘Yes.’

‘Had she a lover?’

The old woman thought not; at any rate, no one who came to the house. But did nobody visit her? Well, yes, a brother had been to see her the previous day. Her brother was called Andrey. He was a soldier stationed at Cronstadt, but was on furlough, and passed through St. Petersburg on his way to visit his parents, who resided at a place called Ladeinoe Pole, a little village lying to the north of St. Petersburg and the east of Lake Ladoga.

‘Was the brother at the house on the day of the murder?’

The housekeeper did not know. She thought not. But, still, he might have been without her knowing it.

Pursuing his inquiries, Danevitch found that this soldier brother had left St. Petersburg on the night of the murder for his home. Danevitch followed him there, but found on his arrival that, his furlough being up, he had returned to Cronstadt. The parents were peasants, and, like most Russian peasants, living a miserable sort of life; but Danevitch learnt this fact, that quite recently they had been to a neighbouring market-town and purchased a horse and two cows, which made the neighbours quite envious; and, of course, such an event in so small a village was a nine days’ wonder, and was much commented upon. The soldier son, who was so good to his parents, had no doubt provided them with the money. Danevitch, however, was well aware that, however dutiful and affectionate the son was, he could not save from his miserable pay a sum sufficiently large for the purchase of two cows and a horse. The pay of the Russian private is about one halfpenny a day. It is therefore impossible for him to save money. Having regard to these facts, the detective deemed some explanation imperatively necessary. But before he took his departure from the little village, it came to his knowledge that Andreyvitch, the father of Andrey, the soldier, was carrying on negotiations with a Jew--Weissmann by name--a nationalized German, for the purchase of a little plot of land in the village. Weissmann had had a mortgage on the land, had foreclosed, and was anxious to sell. At last a bargain was struck, and Andreyvitch paid one hundred roubles as earnest money. The hundred roubles was paid in notes. They formed part of the amount Riskoff had drawn from the bank. Thereupon Danevitch confronted old Andreyvitch with two armed officers of the law, and demanded to know where he got those notes from. The simple and ignorant old peasant at once answered that he had received them from his son.

‘Where did the son get them from?’

The father understood that his son had found a roll of notes, and though he ought to have delivered them at the bureau of police, his strong affection for his poor old parents prompted him to commit a breach of the law by retaining the money and giving it to his father.

‘Had the father any more notes?’

Yes, he had a roll of them. He produced them from a hole in the thatch of his house. They were carefully wrapped up in a piece of sheepskin to keep them from the damp. There were notes to the value of one thousand five hundred roubles. The old people had already spent about five hundred roubles in the purchase of the cows and the horse, and in clearing off certain debts. To the astonishment and terror of the old people, the notes were retained, and steps were taken to recover those that had already been paid away.

With the money in his possession, Danevitch returned to St. Petersburg, and handed it over to the defending counsel in time for him to make that dramatic _coup_ in court. The next step was the arrest of Olga and Andrey. They were arrested simultaneously, though one was in St. Petersburg, the other in Cronstadt. The woman was terrified at first, but when she was confronted with the Judge of Instruction, she became sullen, and refused to answer any questions. Not so Andrey; he at once confessed that he had stolen the money, but vowed that he did not commit the murder.

‘Who did commit the murder, then?’

He believed that Ivanoff did. All that he knew about it was what his sweetheart had told him; she said she had found her master shot. He was lying on the floor with a bullet-wound in the head, and on the table was a pile of bank-notes. She asked him to go to the room and take the notes, which he did.

Danevitch saw at once the discrepancies in this story. It was not at all likely that Ivanoff would have gone off leaving a large number of bank-notes on the table. So Olga and Andrey were each consigned to a secret dungeon. In the course of a week the discipline of the dungeon life had worked its effects on Olga, and with blanched lips she related the following story to the Judge of Instruction.

Her soldier lover had come to see her two days before the crime, and, unknown to her master, she had kept him in the house during those two days. On the morning of the crime, when her master and Ivanoff returned from the bank, she had to go into the room to take in some refreshments. She saw a great heap of notes on the table; she heard the conversation about the revolver, and saw Ivanoff hand his to her master. When the visitor had departed and she had closed the door upon him, she thought how easy it would be to murder the master, take his money, and let it seem as if Ivanoff had done it. Her fellow-servant was ill in bed; the man-servant was out. Her lover was at hand, and nobody knew that he was there. She hurried to him. She told him all. He was entirely under her influence. She went to her master’s room again. The notes were still on the table, so was the revolver. He was busy making up his books, and did not seem to notice her. As she removed a tray containing glasses and biscuits, she secretly took away the revolver also. Then she flew to Andrey, gave him the weapon, and they returned to the room. She opened the door gently; Riskoff was sitting at the table, still writing. Andrey crept in on his hands and knees and shot him. He took the notes and the receipt given by Ivanoff to his friend for the thousand roubles, and immediately left the house. In six months’ time he would be drafted into the reserve; then he and Olga would be married, and go to live with his people. Nobody would suspect them of the crime. The case was clear against Ivanoff; he would probably die, and there would be an end of it, for dead men tell no tales.

All would no doubt have turned out just as the wretches desired, had Danevitch not been brought upon the scene. The horrible story as told by Olga was corroborated in every detail, and the receipt given to Riskoff by Ivanoff was recovered. Andrey expiated his crime in the mines. Olga was sent to Northern Siberia for life. Ivanoff was released, but he was a mental wreck, and his loving and devoted wife had to place him in a lunatic asylum. Danevitch had saved him from Siberia, but could not save him from the living death to which a cruel fate had doomed him.

THE MERCHANT OF RIGA.

Ferguson, Tauchnitz and Co. were the largest firm of exporters in Riga. Their trade consisted of tallow, timber, corn, flax, hemp, flax-seed, quills, furs, etc. They had agents all over the great Russian Empire, including the far eastern and far northern parts of Siberia. The trade was principally with Great Britain, and it was said the firm employed a fleet of upwards of a hundred steam and sailing vessels, besides numerous small craft for the navigation of the Russian rivers.

Donald Ferguson, the head of the firm, was a Scotchman, naturalized in Russia, where he had lived for nearly forty years. He had married a Russian lady, by whom he had several children.

Ferguson enjoyed the distinction of being reputed one of the wealthiest merchants in Russia, and he was no less conspicuous as a prominent citizen, who had done an immense deal for his adopted country. For many years he had taken a very active part in all philanthropic movements. He had spent large sums of money in the improvement of Riga and its harbour; he had built and endowed a national hospital; had founded schools, and done much for the improvement of the lower classes, whose cause he espoused with great warmth and enthusiasm. He had earned for himself, from one end of Russia to the other, a name for fair dealing, probity, and honourable conduct. In the mercantile world he and his firm were held in the highest repute.

One night at the beginning of spring he was found lying dead in his private office at his warehouse on the quay at Riga. It was thought at first that he had died a natural death, that he had had an apoplectic seizure; but when the body came to be examined, there was conclusive evidence of his having been strangled. On each side of the throat were unmistakable signs of thumb pressure, and a post-mortem examination made it clear that strangulation had caused death. Such a prominent and well-known man could not have died in an ordinary way without his fellow-citizens experiencing a shock and being deeply affected, but when the news spread that he had been murdered it caused a profound sensation. Then there was a universal expression of regret, followed by a cry of indignation and horror, and a demand for vengeance, swift and pitiless, on the slayer of this good man. Naturally enough, the first thought was that he had been killed in order that some of his property might be carried off, but a little investigation soon put a very different complexion on the affair, and proved that the crime was mysterious, inexplicable, and remarkable. When many hours had passed, and no trace of the murderer could be got, Michael Danevitch was communicated with.

The warehouse of Ferguson, Tauchnitz and Co. was an immense block of buildings on the Grand Quay at Riga. The counting-house was in the very centre of the block, and faced the quay and the harbour. Adjoining, but at the back of the counting-house, was Mr. Ferguson’s private room. This room was lighted by a large window overlooking a covered-in courtyard. On three sides of this yard were platforms provided with cranes and communicating with different floors, and it was here that carts and waggons were loaded and unloaded.

Frequently when business was very brisk, work was carried on all night at the warehouse; but the murder was committed in the early spring, when the export trade was only beginning, and the usual hour for closing up was six o’clock, and three o’clock on Saturdays. Mr. Ferguson met his death on Saturday, March 3, about seven o’clock. He was the last to leave the office, as he remained behind to close up some business he was engaged upon. It was then four o’clock, or thereabouts. He proceeded to his home on foot, being greeted on the way by many people who knew him.

His private residence was in the suburbs of Riga. His family at home consisted of his wife, two grown-up sons, and two daughters. He had two other sons, one being established in Hull as the English agent of the firm. The other travelled all over Russia, and was absent at the time of his father’s death. On arriving at his home, Mr. Ferguson partook of some refreshment. He then told his wife that he had suddenly remembered something of importance he neglected to do at the office, and he would go back. He did not say what this something was.

Mrs. Ferguson asked her husband how long he was likely to be, and he answered that he would return in an hour, or an hour and a half at the outside. When he left his house it was a few minutes past five. At this time his sons were out. They arrived a little after seven, and as their father had not returned, they set off, expecting to meet him. Failing to do that, they went on to the warehouse. On arriving there they were surprised to find the main entrance door slightly ajar. They pushed it open and entered. The place was in pitch darkness, and there was unbroken silence. They naturally thought there was something wrong, otherwise the door would not have been open, but did not feel any alarm. They groped their way to their father’s room. Darkness and silence there. In moving about, Donald, the elder of the two, struck his feet against something soft and yielding; he started back with a cry of horror.

‘What’s the matter?’ asked James, the younger one.

‘I don’t know,’ answered Donald; ‘but I believe there is a body lying on the floor.’

The young man procured a light as speedily as possible. Then was revealed to them sure enough the sight of their father lying on his back, with his left leg up, and his right arm bent under his body. At first the sons thought he had fainted, but the peculiar and ghastly appearance of his face soon undeceived them, and when they touched him they had painful evidence that their worst fears were well founded. Terribly alarmed, they rushed out and sought assistance, which was soon forthcoming. The police were informed and a doctor was procured. The latter at once said that Mr. Ferguson was dead, that he had been dead about an hour. The time then was a little after eight o’clock.

‘What has my father died of?’ asked Donald.

‘I am not prepared to say right off,’ said the doctor, ‘but I suggest apoplexy.’

Ferguson was a fine man. He was above medium height, well proportioned, muscular, and looked much younger than his years. His age was sixty-eight. He had gray hair, and a long flowing beard turning gray.

It was now noted by all present that the place was in great disorder. Ledgers, cash-books, and other books were lying in a confused jumble on the floor; papers and documents were scattered about in a very unbusiness-like way on the desk. A large safe was open, and its contents of papers and books had been hastily dragged out. These signs were suggestive of robbery, and the doctor was induced thereby to make a more thorough examination of Mr. Ferguson’s body. For this purpose the dead man was carried into a packing-room and placed on a counter. Then the medical man noticed the marks on the neck, and having satisfied himself that he was correct, he said it was a case of murder; Ferguson had been strangled, and there were indications of great force and strength having been used. Several scratches were noticeable on the dead man’s hands, and abrasions on his head, from which a little blood had flowed. These things had escaped the doctor’s notice in the uncertain light, but were revealed on closer inspection. They were suggestive of a struggle, a fight for life, and this was corroborated by the way things were scattered about the room.

Other policemen were now brought in, and means were taken to ascertain to what extent robbery had been committed; but, strangely enough, on the desk was a cash-box. It was open, and contained a considerable sum of money. In the safe, so conspicuous that it could not have been overlooked by the eager eyes of a thief who had committed murder in order to rob, was a leather bag full of money. Apparently the bag had not been touched; the mouth was still tied up with tape. On Mr. Ferguson’s person were many valuables, including money. It was difficult to understand how all this money should have remained untouched, if the deed of violence was the result of greed for gain. Why did the criminal, having committed murder, not avail himself of the hoard that lay to his hand? The investigators were naturally puzzled in the face of such an inexplicable state of matters.

In the meantime Ferguson’s partners had been communicated with, and arrived on the scene as speedily as possible. When they had made an examination, they expressed an opinion that nothing had been taken away. That the deceased had been murdered was evident; that no robbery had been committed was scarcely less evident. Here was a problem at once.

Did the murderer enter the premises to rob, and, finding the master there, slay him, and having done this fearful deed, did he become so indifferent to his first intent as to go off without the blood-money, which was there for the taking? Having realized the extent of his crime, was he so appalled that in his eagerness to escape from the awful scene he forgot the gold? Such a thing might be possible, but it didn’t seem probable. At any rate, it was hardly in accordance with the principles of debased human nature.

Mr. Tauchnitz, the second partner, who was intimately acquainted with the working of the business, and had been with Ferguson most of that day, could suggest no reason why the deceased should have gone back to the warehouse. He had never been known to do such a thing before.

As may be imagined, it was a dreadful night for the friends and relatives of the deceased; and the hour being so late when the discovery was made, the police were placed at a tremendous disadvantage. Riga is a large place. It is a populous and busy seaport, doing an enormous trade with other parts of Europe. An immense number of ships of various nationalities were lying in the harbour. As in all maritime places, there was a very rough element always prominent in the town, and after dark many shameful and brutal scenes took place. In addition to the sailors who came and went, there was always a large garrison, for the town is strongly fortified. So what with sailors and soldiers, and the nondescript hangers-on who are always to be found in their wake, law and order were not so well observed as in some other towns; and it will be understood that in the low quarters of such a place a criminal might find safe refuge from pursuing justice. In the instance we are dealing with, all the police could do was to notify the facts to their agents and spies as speedily as possible; but, necessarily, this was the work of hours; and through the long, dreary winter night--for, though nominally spring, the winter still lingered, though the ice had broken up--not much could be done. This, of course, was all in favour of the criminal. He had a big start, and unless he was absolutely a fool he would avail himself of his advantages.

The murder was supposed to have been committed about seven. The discovery was made a little after eight, but it was after nine--in fact, close upon ten--before the police really began to bestir themselves. During the time from half-past six to ten, several trains had left the town, vessels had left the harbour, and vehicles innumerable were driven forth in all directions. It will thus be seen that the murderer had many roads of escape open to him, and it could not be doubted that, if he was really desirous of saving his neck, he would avail himself of the chance he had to get clear.

That the murder was brutal could not be gainsaid; but on the face of it the crime was not one of the ordinary type. Danevitch’s preliminary investigations led him to the conclusion that the motive which had prompted the deed was not robbery. That admitted--and there was evidence of it--the case was invested with a certain mystery suggestive of many things. Tauchnitz and the other partners were questioned by Danevitch as to why Mr. Ferguson had remained behind at the office on that fatal Saturday afternoon, when everybody else had gone. No satisfactory answer could be given to this question. Tauchnitz, who had been with Ferguson all the morning, declared that there was no reason whatever, as far as the business was concerned, why the ill-fated man should have stayed at the office.

‘Was he in the habit of staying?’

‘No.’

‘Was he a methodical man?’

‘Most methodical.’

‘Was he given to making confidants?’

‘No. He was very reticent.’

‘But he bore the reputation of being straightforward, honest, upright, and just?’

‘Unquestionably. He won the respect of all men. His character, so far as one knew, was without blemish.’

The members of the dead man’s family spoke of him with profound sorrow and regret. He had proved himself a model husband, a kind, indulgent father, and though he was not communicative, either to his family or anyone else, no importance was attached to that. It was his nature to be somewhat silent and reserved.

Furnished with these meagre particulars, Danevitch began his work. From the first he formed the opinion that there was a deep and underlying motive for the crime, which, however, he did not consider was premeditated. And his reason for so thinking was this: A man who deliberately sets forth to slay another in cold blood generally provides himself with some lethal weapon. In this case the slayer would hardly have trusted entirely to his hands, unless he was a man of gigantic strength; for though Ferguson was well advanced in years, he was not only unusually vigorous, but unusually powerful. He was known also to be determined, resolute, fearless. Such a person was not likely to yield up his life easily. Consequently, anyone who was acquainted with him would surely have hesitated before engaging in a personal encounter. Of course it may be suggested that the murderer was an utter stranger, and knew nothing of his victim. But that was not the opinion of Danevitch, whose deductions were as follows:

Firstly, the murder was unpremeditated.

Secondly, the murderer met his victim by appointment. There were several reasons for thinking this. It was Saturday afternoon, and Ferguson had never been known to go back to the office after it was closed on Saturday afternoon before. His partners were emphatic in saying that there was nothing in connection with the business which required his personal attention at that time. No valuables having been carried off, so far as could be ascertained, and the confusion in which the papers were found, pointed to the motive being a desire on the part of the murderer to obtain possession of some document which certain circumstances and conditions, not definable at that stage, gave a greater importance to than money.

Thirdly, the victim and the murderer having failed to agree upon some point, and the former, perhaps, proving stubborn and immovable, the latter, in a sudden frenzy of passion, fell upon him, and got so much advantage in the very initial stage of the struggle that he was enabled to conquer with comparative ease, although the victim had made an effort to free himself from the death-grip.

Fourthly, the crime having been thus accomplished, and without forethought, the criminal, agitated and filled with fear and alarm, frantically turned over papers and books, and rummaged the contents of the safe, in his eager desire to find what he wanted. Finally, without discovering what he wanted to discover probably, he fled, and in his hurry and confusion forgot to close the door after him.

The foregoing was the line of reasoning that Danevitch pursued, but he kept it to himself. It was absolutely and entirely opposed to public opinion, and to the theories set forth by the police.

As is invariably the case at such times, some very wild suggestions were made; but there was a general tendency to believe that robbery was responsible for the crime, notwithstanding that nothing appeared to be missing. But public opinion did not influence Danevitch. He saw with his own eyes and thought with his own brains, and he came to the conclusion that he would probably find the key to the puzzle if he knew more of Mr. Ferguson’s private life. There, of course, he was at once confronted with great difficulty. Everyone spoke well of the victim. His family believed him perfect. For Danevitch, therefore, to have breathed a word calculated to tarnish, even by suggestion, the fair fame of this merchant prince and good citizen would have been to incur odium and ill-will. But he knew human nature too well to run any such risk for the sake of a mere hypothesis. The problem, however, had to be solved if possible, and he proceeded upon his own lines to search for a tangible clue.

In taking up a case of this kind, one must ever feel in the initial stage that he is groping in the dark; but the trained mind at once begins to reason the matter out, and the very first thing sought for is a feasible and probable motive. Motive is the very keynote in all detective work, and when the motive has been more or less accurately guessed, the next stage is to try and determine who was likely to have been actuated by that motive. These remarks necessarily apply to complicated cases, where the mystery surrounding them seems impenetrable. When a man is found murdered in his house, and his valuables have been carried off, the motive is apparent enough. That is a crime of mere vulgar sordidness, and the motive is writ large. All crime is, of course, more or less vulgar, but sordidness is not always the actuating influence. Whether sordidness was or was not at the bottom of this Riga crime, it was difficult at that stage to say; but the inquirer was confronted with the remarkable fact that nothing seemed to have been stolen.

In spite of the many rumours of this, that, and the other, and the various opinions expressed, all of which were counter to his own views, Danevitch remained uninfluenced by them, and adhered to the opinion he had formed, which, as I have endeavoured to show, was based on sound reasoning. The many documents scattered about the office where the murder took place, although carefully examined by Danevitch, did not help the inquiry, as they were all business papers, and obviously had been discarded by the murderer as of no value to him. They had been dragged rudely out of the large safe, and scattered broadcast on the ground. Now, that was either the act of a madman, or of someone who was searching hurriedly for something he knew or believed to exist, and which he expected to find in the safe.

Danevitch’s next step was to examine the contents of a large waste-paper basket that stood in the office. The basket was full of paper, torn and otherwise. He records that this proceeding of his was regarded as an absolutely useless one; but those who condemned it did not know what he was looking for. I have already said that, in weighing all the particulars he had gathered up so far, he formed an opinion that Mr. Ferguson had returned to his office to meet somebody by appointment. The reasons for this opinion have been set forth. One of his strong points was, having formed an opinion, which he never did until after much reflection, and a very careful examination of all details, so far as he could gather them up, he would not swerve from that opinion until he had proved it wrong; and as soon as ever he was convinced that he was in error, he was always ready to admit it.