Sherlock Holmes in Russia (20 page)

Everyone did as they were told. Holmes asked the director to unlock the strongbox. The director then left. Holmes and Watson were left alone in the strongroom.

Left alone with Watson, Holmes opened the strongbox. It was filled with gold and bank notes. They dropped down behind it and switched off the lights.

Everything was still. Placing their revolvers beside them, they lay down silently on the floor. Time dragged on leaden feet. There wasn’t a sound from down below to give away the presence of the thieves. Nearly an hour passed.

But then, at last, somewhere in the distance, from under the floorboards, a slight rustle came through. At first it didn’t come through very clearly, but after a while, more and more. At last a light creak came through, as if someone had stepped on the precarious step of a ladder. This sound came not so much from under the trunk laden with money, but as if from a corner of the storeroom. Then the sounds ceased for a few moments.

Sherlock Holmes bent right up to Watson’s ear and whispered very softly, ‘There is a passageway through the wall, and then it goes between the floor and the ceiling.’ He was silent again, and pressed his ear to the metal flooring to pick up the slightest sound.

Someone moved softly under the floor, and from under the trunk laden with money, a tool scraped. Then, another. Under the trunk, two people were working purposefully.

Sherlock Holmes crawled towards the trunk and placed his palm over the bank notes to feel any movement beneath them.

Below them, two people were filing away uninterruptedly. Approximately another hour went by. It was very likely that the files were constantly oiled. That’s why the sounds were so weak.
And that’s why the watchman outside could hear nothing.

But now all was still again. It was still for a couple of minutes, but then there was a rustle under the floor, as if mice were scurrying about. And then, all of a sudden, Sherlock Holmes felt the money under his palm shake and begin to go down. He realised at once what was happening.

He touched Watson gently on the shoulder, took his hand and shoved it into the trunk. ‘The moment I pull you by the sleeve, jump right into the trunk,’ whispered Holmes.

He rose quietly to his feet, bent over the trunk, using his palm to monitor its descent together with the money. The very moment that the upper layer of money was down to the level of the surrounding floor, Holmes tugged at Watson’s sleeve and with one quick movement switched on the light. Both leaped into the trunk.

A sharp whistle sounded the alarm.

That very moment, the bottom of the trunk, which the thieves were lowering with their hands, collapsed under the weight of Holmes and Watson. The thieves were caught by surprise from the weight of the two bodies. Unable to hold the metal floor on which the trunk had stood, they let go and fell in different directions.

All this took two or three seconds. Now events followed one upon another with the speed of lightning.

The drop was not far. It was a mere three feet or so between the floor of the upper storey and the ceiling below. It was only the suddenness which stunned thieves and detectives, and then only slightly. A moment, and both sides had recovered so that a life-and-death struggle began in that narrow space.

As soon as Sherlock Holmes and Watson felt they had fallen on something solid, they drew their revolvers and threw themselves
on Compton and Alferakki. Those two, in their turn, thought there were only two in pursuit. So they, too, threw themselves at their adversaries. Several shots rang out.

But at this moment help arrived from above. Three policemen and the full complement of guards were already clambering through the aperture, rattling their arms.

The thieves realized the game was up as far as they were concerned. They fired a couple of shots at random, to stop their adversaries for half a minute, and threw themselves through the passageway in the wall, hoping to make their escape through the shop below.

Watson, wounded in the arm, fell with a groan.

Alferakki was already at the entrance, but Sherlock Holmes brought him down with a flying tackle, while a couple of soldiers piled on top of him.

Compton was less lucky. Lightly wounded in the leg when the shoot-out began, he fell behind his companion and for a moment was surrounded by his pursuers. Seeing that there was no way to save himself, he decided to sell his life dearly. With wild curses, he thew himself into the thick of his opponents and laid low two soldiers with three shots. But at this moment, one of the Centre’s watchmen, driven by the ferocity of what was happening, stuck a bayonet in his face. The blow was so fierce the bayonet went through his skull and he fell dead.

Alferakki was tied up. Guards were placed over the scattered money and a cashier assigned to count it. The criminal was led off to the police station.

The news of the attempt on the bank was all over the police station, and Sherlock Holmes was accorded a hero’s reception. Thanks were heaped on him.

The third member of the gang, the cashier Veskoff, was also brought to the police station. He had fainted, but a doctor had been summoned to bring him to, and when he was told how his partners-in-crime had intended to deal with him, he made a
clean breast of things.

Alferakki and Veskoff were placed in shackles and led away to await trial.

The very same day, Sherlock Holmes stopped by to visit Terehoff at home. ‘Your old premises are available again and it is unlikely any apparition will appear,’ he said with a smile. ‘But you’ll have to repair the wall.’

And he told the merchant the whole story. The happy Terehoff instantly laid out the promised sum of money, saying he’d pay Watson too. And he hastened to the Commercial Centre.

A search of Alferakki’s apartment only confirmed Holmes’s suppositions. A projector was found, tools and correspondence which led to a whole gang of criminals being apprehended.

But a search of Compton’s apartment led to an unexpected finding. The ‘poor’ Englishman had 60,000 roubles hidden in his mattress and proof that he was directly responsible for the theft of money from the bank in which he had been employed. The stolen money was returned to the bank, which presented three thousand roubles each to Sherlock Holmes and Watson as a reward.

Watson recovered from his wound in a matter of days.

And a month later, the police were able to establish the identity of Alferakki. It turned out that he was David Gabudidze, an escaped convict, a brutal robber, once the terror of the Caucasus.

The search for a major criminal brought Sherlock Holmes and me to Kazan. We spent approximately a month here, returning by way of a two-berth cabin on a boat owned by a company called ‘The Flying Service’. We intended to sail along the Volga as far as Yaroslavl and catch a train to Moscow from there. It was peaceful sailing on the river. The weather was good. We spent all our time on deck, admiring the beautiful shores of the Volga.

Sherlock Holmes grew more cheerful and his ill humour at times vanished. I looked at my friend and was glad for him from the bottom of my heart. Several days passed in this way.

The boat sailed past Nijni-Novgorod and a day later we arrived at Kostroma. Here we were to load a large cargo and the captain announced we could rely on being there a good two hours.

‘Would you like a stroll through the town, my dear Watson,’ Sherlock Holmes suggested as our boat was made fast.

I readily agreed and we set off. But there was nothing of interest there, and after we had strolled about less than an hour, we returned to the pier.

Here all was bustle. A score of stevedores, carrying heavy bales, filed aboard the boat, bearing cargo from the warehouse on the pier.

We stopped at the entrance to the warehouse and silently watched all this activity. Twenty minutes or so went by. A few words, suddenly uttered behind us, caused us to prick up our ears and turn our heads.

The foreman was talking to a representative of the shipping line, ‘—hasn’t been collected for a while. I turned up yesterday – terrible smell. Couldn’t figure out where it came from. Seemed to come from some corner … This morning I turned over the whole warehouse, all the baggage, and found—’

‘What was it?’ asked the representative of the shipping line.

‘It came from a basket,’ answered the foreman. ‘Unbearable stink. A large basket sent as baggage to Kostroma from Kazan. It was unloaded five days ago, but the recipient hasn’t collected it.’

‘Let’s take a look,’ grumbled the representative of the shipping line unhappily.

Some instinct pulled us after them, and we followed them into the warehouse. The stink was something awful.

The representative of the shipping line made a face and spat frantically. ‘The devil knows what it is,’ he swore. ‘Turf out this disgusting basket. It’s probably full of rotting meat. A formal protocol will have to be drawn up, the river police called in and it has to be thrown away. Be a good chap, get the river police.’

The foreman ran out and was back soon with several river policemen of different ranks. The shipping line representative announced that the basket contained putrid cargo, that it had made the air in the warehouse foul, and that the basket would have to be opened. Interested in the goings-on, we approached the group. The basket was untied and the lid taken off. A loath
some smell came from it.

Inside the basket, a bale was tightly wrapped in a heavy tarpaulin. The tarpaulin was cut away on three sides and lifted off. Everyone jumped back in horror.

A corpse, chopped into pieces, was packed into the tarpaulin. There was no doubt that it was a human corpse. A wrist, sliced away from the corpse, lay on top.

‘The devil!’ said Sherlock Holmes, approaching the basket. ‘A cargo that’s been around for a while.’

‘I’ll ask you to get the hell out of here,’ a police officer, just noticing us, threw the words at us somewhat fiercely.

‘And why not simply say, “leave”?’ said Holmes lightly.

Such simple words maddened the policeman, unused to being reproved.

‘Just you wait and I’ll have you down at the police station,’ he yelled, and for some reason opened his briefcase, as if about to prepare a charge sheet.

‘You’re quite in order to do so,’ answered Holmes calmly. ‘Would you like my name? Sherlock Holmes.’

What a picture! The police officer was hopelessly embarrassed, confused and began to utter embarrassed apologies. As for the others, hearing the name of the famous detective, they silently examined him with wide-open eyes, forgetting all about the basket and its grisly contents. As if nothing untoward had occurred, Sherlock Holmes turned on his heels and left the warehouse without a word. I followed.

We returned to our boat and went to the dining room, intending to have a bite to eat. But hardly had our waiter approached us when the local Chief of Police, two policemen, and the police officer who had come down on us in the warehouse came hurry
ing in. Someone must have pointed us out, because the Chief of Police came straight over to our table.

‘I would like to proffer my deepest apologies for the slight lack of tact on the part of my subordinates,’ he said politely, addressing Holmes, ‘but in the heat of the moment and under similar circumstances, a man may lose his composure.’

‘Precisely what a policeman ought not to do,’ Holmes shrugged. ‘In England it is a severely punishable offence.’

‘You are completely in the right,’ agreed the Chief of Police. ‘But I do beg of you most earnestly to overlook this untoward occurrence.’

The Chief of Police sat down at our table and spoke so pleasantly and in such a friendly manner that Holmes finally gave up. ‘Very well, then. Consider it long forgotten. After all, travelling through Russia, if I were to remember every slight large or small, to which we English are subjected and to which we aren’t used – why, I would’ve had to leave long since.’

The atmosphere changed and the conversation turned to the crime. However, at that moment the third whistle was blown and we had to bid each other farewell. We left Kostroma and, a day later, were already in Moscow. But the events which had taken place continued to interest us very much. The newspapers gave daily reports, but the news only revealed that the investigation wasn’t progressing and the outcome was unlikely to be a positive one.

The investigation was simply unable to establish a motive for the murder. Nor was there any clue as to the identity of the victim, though it was hoped that would be discovered: the perpetrators had mutilated, but hadn’t had the time or simply hadn’t thought of destroying his clothes.

It was eventually established that the dead man was Count Piotr Vassilievitch Tugaroff. He owned a small estate in Kazan Province and a house in the city of Kazan itself.

When the newspapers had published news of the murder and
described his clothes, it was expected that relatives or someone near would respond. The victim, as Holmes and I had anticipated, was identified by his wife, the Countess Tugarova. She had seen reports of the murder and had written a letter full of despair saying that her husband, living with her in Oriol, had vanished three weeks earlier. What little description there was, fitted him. Judging by the material from which the clothes were made and the gold chain round his neck, it was possible to assume the victim came from the moneyed classes. All else was a mystery.

Some days later, matters improved somewhat. But even this fresh information did not lead to any results. The investigation continued to tread water and there was no further progress.

That evening, Holmes and I had just returned from a stroll, and he was sitting down to write a letter to England, when there was a knock at the door.

I said, ‘Come in!’ and a lady dressed in elegant black with black crepe from head to toe came in.

She was about 20 or 25. She had a beautiful figure, dark complexion with regular features and black hair. She did not look Russian at all.

She looked us both over, bowed with a sad look on her face and addressed me. ‘Might one of you be Sherlock Holmes?’ she asked.

I gestured toward my friend.

‘Won’t you sit down, madam,’ Holmes said.

She sat down without further ado.

‘I am the Countess Tugarova,’ she said softly. Her accent didn’t sound at all Russian. ‘I was in Kostroma, where my husband’s body was found, and heard of you by accident. I was
told you had gone to Moscow and this is where I finally found you, with the help of the local police.’

Sherlock Holmes gave a little bow.

‘Forgive me,’ she said. There was entreaty in her voice. ‘I’ve heard so much about you, so it isn’t surprising that I turn to you for help. As far as I can see, the investigation is hardly moving forward—’

She broke off what she was saying and began to speak English. ‘You must help me! Once, you and I were citizens of the same country. I owe so much to my husband, I am determined, at all costs, to bring the evildoer to justice.’

As soon as she began to speak, Holmes smiled, ‘Undoubtedly, you are of mixed race. From which side?’

‘You’re right,’ said the countess simply. ‘It was my mother who was English.’

‘Forgive me for the interruption,’ smiled Sherlock Holmes, ‘but I shan’t interrupt any more unless it is absolutely necessary. I am all ears. If you want me to take up this matter, you must tell me everything in order, not omitting the slightest matter.’

He made himself more comfortable in his armchair and repeated, ‘I am ready.’

‘We came to Russia some time ago,’ began the Countess. ‘But if you must have a full account, I must begin with my own life story. I am now 21. My husband was 45 a little while ago. Originally, I was a foster child. On several occasions he told me that while travelling through India, he stopped off at Bombay, where he rented a small private residence. That’s where he got me for a present. To put it at its simplest, I was abandoned and left to him when I was 3. His first thought was to place me with the local police, because of the difficulty for a grown man of
dealing with a child. But he changed his mind and decided to take me home to show off as a curiosity. I repeat this, as he told it to me himself, when sharing his own past with me. He was 23, when I was abandoned. During his stay in Bombay I was looked after by an old Indian woman who, naturally enough, told one and all of his intention to take me home. Before he left, the count received a letter from my father. In it, he said that he was of mixed race, and his wife had been an Englishwoman, who died in childbirth. But he was very poor and decided to foist the child on the count in the hope that, in good hands, she would have a better future than with a poor mulatto. He didn’t give his name. The count took me along on his travels, and when he returned to Russia handed me over to the old woman who had been his own nurse. That’s when, for some reason, I was brought up to call him “Papa”. Having handed me over to his nurse, he vanished again for several years and returned when I was 9. But in his letters to his steward and to the nurse, he often mentioned me and showed his concern for my education—’

Sherlock Holmes gestured for the countess to stop and asked, ‘Tell me, please, where exactly did the letters come from?’

‘I was too little then to be interested in such things, but later I discovered that the greatest number came from India, and two letters were stamped in Tonkin,’ she answered.

‘Thank you,’ Holmes bowed. ‘Pray, continue.’

‘Returning to Russia, he saw me,’ the countess continued. ‘At the time we were living on his estate. He was always affectionate towards me, was very satisfied with the progress I made in my studies, and at times examined me himself. But he never let me leave his side. This time he stayed a year in Russia, and I became very attached to him. Once, it was at the end of summer, he came to me pale and full of anxiety. ‘Irra,’ he said to me, ‘there’s a madman in the vicinity. He attacks people, bites and kills them. That’s why you mustn’t leave the house without me. I forbid it.’ I was terribly frightened. After that we always stayed together,
even going out in the garden. Nurse told me that Father was afraid for me. He hired four watchmen and guard dogs were chained in the yard. Nurse told me he frequently got up at night and went round the estate with a gun. Once, as evening was approaching, I wanted to pick some fresh roses. I went to look for Father, but not finding him, decided I’d go by myself. I put on a kerchief and went out through the yard and into the garden. I don’t know what made me do this, probably because I was frightened by the count’s warning, but I didn’t open the gate straight away. So first I peeked through a chink in the fence. And there, behind a shrub, was a human head. I screamed and ran back without so much as a look at the face of the man in hiding. Hearing my outcry, the count rushed out of the stables. I told him what had happened. He went for his gun and, as if crazed, rushed into the garden. I hid in my room, frightened to death. He didn’t find anyone and came back very upset and angry. For a whole hour he upbraided the watchmen, and the very same day hired four more and armed them. That evening he told me that we were leaving. He collected his personal belongings and papers himself, and ordered me to pack only three dresses, six changes of underwear and my favourite knick-knacks. Till the very last minute, none of the staff knew we were leaving. At eleven he ordered the best troika to be harnessed to the largest carriage and spare horses to be tied to the back.’

The countess paused and asked for a drink. With the agility of a young man, Sherlock Holmes jumped from his armchair and poured a glass of very good wine with water.

‘Thank you,’ said the countess, taking the glass.

She drank a little and smiled sadly, ‘I hope I’m not boring you.’

‘On the contrary,’ Sherlock Holmes exclaimed with animation. ‘It is utterly romantic and intrigues me more and more. If I were a writer, I would turn it into a novel. It would create a sensation.’

‘In that case, I shall go on,’ said the countess sadly.

‘And so, by eleven o’clock that night, all was ready,’ the countess began again. ‘But first, the count called together all the watchmen. He ordered them to make a circle around the estate and move out in a radius. Half a kilometre away, they were to fire a shot.

‘When the watchmen had gone off, the count summoned his steward, gave him a packet with instructions and announced to all that he was leaving. At this moment, we heard shots fired in the distance. That was the watchmen scaring off whoever it was, on the orders of their master. Our belongings were loaded and secured. With the staff looking at us in bewilderment, we drove through the gate and tore along the road as if we were crazed. The count personally indicated the route to be taken. We turned at the first crossroads and sped ahead, turning right and left by the minute, as if to cover our tracks. We covered about seventy kilometres, allowing the horses only a brief respite. When the horses were too weak to go on, the count ordered the spare horses to be harnessed and we sped off again. As the morning wore on, the coachman begged several times for the horses to be allowed to rest (the first troika we had set out with had simply been abandoned along the road), but the count was adamant. We sped on till the shaft-horse collapsed. The count ordered the coachman to mount one of the others and find, for any amount of money, the best possible horses. The loyal coachman (he’d served the count’s father) galloped off and an hour and a half later was back with three horses of lesser quality and their owner. He was happy to accept two of our exhausted horses with three hundred roubles in exchange for his. Our dead horse was left on the road. The horses were changed and we flew like the wind. At about five we heard a whistle and soon got to some railway station. You should have seen the count’s look of joy when he saw a train. I remember neither the line nor the name
of the station. The count jumped out of the carriage, ordered the porters to unload and then wrote something on a piece of paper to which he affixed his seal. Then, I remember, he called the coachman and said, “Listen, Dimitri! Go where you wish, but remember, this girl’s life depends on your silence. Rest here for a while, feed the horses, and go anywhere, where you can sell the carriage and horses. This note and your passport formally attest that they are yours. And here’s another two hundred roubles. Go to your native province of Orlov. I know your village and I’ll get in touch with you there. Should anyone ask after me or the girl, don’t say where you dropped us off. Say nothing about us. Farewell.” ‘