Sherlock Holmes in Russia (23 page)

‘What are you saying!’ exclaimed the countess.

‘He kills him, having lured him into a trap,’ Holmes continued imperturbably. ‘He dressed him in his own clothes, killed and placed him in a basket, having first mutilated his face and knowing full well that going by the gash on the leg and the clothes, the corpse would be taken for him. Why? Evidently, he reckoned that the third villain would fall for this. The death of the count would be trumpeted everywhere by the newspapers and the third one would come here to kidnap you. Of course, thinking the count dead, he wouldn’t be so careful—’

‘Sssh,’ I whispered at this moment, seeing the dark silhouette of a man walking back and forth across the road.

Sherlock Holmes abruptly stopped his account and ran to the curtain.

‘Now, then, my dear Watson,’ he whispered, ‘redouble your attenton.’

To the extent that the darkness allowed it, we saw that the man appearing to wander aimlessly opposite the house was above average height, well built, wearing a light well-fitting suit. Twice he walked past the countess’s home, stopped and turned his head to the right, peering into the darkness.

A couple of minutes later, a wagon, the kind used to transport furniture, drove from around the corner. It stopped some way from the house, and a man came from it and approached the man standing on the pavement.

The two exchanged a few words, after which one returned to the wagon, while the other remained standing on the pavement.

There were no passers-by.

‘Look! Look!’ whispered Holmes. ‘Look at the fence opposite.’

I looked in the direction he had indicated. A dark, half-rounded silhouette crawled over the top of the fence.

‘Someone is watching the man on the pavement,’ I whispered.

‘Yes, indeed!’ answered Holmes. ‘Slip off your shoes in case we have to move quietly.’

Meanwhile, the man on the pavement looked carefully on all sides and then swiftly crossed the street. Now he was under the window next to ours.

We froze, listening for the slightest sound, taking our revolvers out of our pockets, just in case. The poor countess sat there, more dead than alive, her heart beating loudly in the stillness. We now heard the noise of a cut being made.

‘Diamond cutter,’ whispered Holmes.

The sound was repeated several times and the glass cracked. The curtain billowed as the air blew in and we heard a rustle. Holmes jerked me nervously by the sleeve. I looked out on the street and saw a silhouette waist-high by the fence. The silhou
ette froze and a shot rang out.

The man on the windowsill gave a loud shriek and we heard his body collapse heavily on the pavement. At this moment, Sherlock Holmes swiftly flung the window open, leapt out and made for the fence.

I couldn’t very well leave him, so I threw myself after him, shouting to the countess, ‘Call the servants! Tie up the man lying outside if he’s lightly wounded! Send after that wagon!’

A moment later we were over the fence in pursuit of the killer. We were so quick that he was unable to run as far as the opposite end of the yard before we caught up with him. But to my surprise, he didn’t point his gun at us. On the contrary, he turned the barrel down towards the ground, waiting for us proudly, evidently not intending to defend himself.

Holmes aimed his revolver with one hand, and with the other took a torch out of his pocket and pointed the beam at the face of the criminal. The man who stood before us was of noble bearing with a handsome open face. He was pale as a sheet, but looked at us with the calm look of a man who had fulfilled his duty. It was the look of a man who had killed an opponent in a duel for insulting someone close or wounded his honour.

‘Count Piotr Vassilievitch Tugaroff, I arrest you,’ said Sherlock Holmes loudly and clearly, lowering his revolver.

‘I surrender,’ answered the count, ‘but I would like to know who I am dealing with.’

‘Of course,’ said Holmes, ‘I am Sherlock Holmes and this is my friend, Dr Watson.’

The count’s eyes lit up joyfully, ‘I am glad that it is you I have to deal with,’ he exclaimed. ‘You will understand me better than most. Let’s go to my house and should you still have any doubts about me, feel free to summon the police. I only ask that you hear my story before I am led away to prison.’

And he threw his weapon down.

‘I do believe you,’ said Holmes unexpectedly. ‘Let’s go. As for
the police, they’re bound to be here any minute.’

We made our way to the count’s house. The shot had already disturbed the quiet street. In the distance we heard the trill of a police whistle. At the front door Holmes gave a strong pull at the bell.

‘Who’s there?’ asked the countess.

‘Holmes and Watson,’ answered the former.

The door opened and we entered the well-lit hallway. Seeing her husband, the countess started back, then, with a loud sob, threw herself at him. He embraced her silently, while tears cascaded from her eyes.

It was a good half-hour before the countess calmed down.

‘I would like to tell all first and then I shall ask you to summon the police,’ said the count at last. ‘But where is the man I shot?’

‘He is heavily wounded and we’ve carried him inside,’ answered Irra.

‘All the better,’ the count nodded his head. ‘But let Irra be the first to know her past.’

‘I already know,’ she murmured and blushed.

‘How?’ he answered upset.

Holmes gave a brief account of his investigations.

‘Hmm! Your fame still doesn’t do you justice,’ said the count, staggered by what he heard. ‘But what convinced you it wasn’t me in that grave?’

‘That was very simple,’ explained Holmes. ‘I dug up the corpse at night and tried your boot on its leg. Moreover, a swarthy man came to the cemetery watchman and asked to see your grave. I saw him. He read the inscription on the tombstone and when he was convinced that you were buried there, he
smiled happily and left. A minute later I saw you flash through the greenery.’

‘That’s true,’ said the count solemnly. ‘But let me begin at the beginning. To explain my connection with these two men, I have to tell you that I was orphaned at 17 and set off to travel. For over a year everything went well, but towards the end of the second year, when I was sailing from Calcutta to America, we were attacked in the Indian Ocean by the corsair Daudalama. During the attack, I fell into the sea. Luckily for me, the leader, Daudalama of the tribe of Tadjidi fell with me. He had a severe head wound and would have gone down but, driven by pity, I held him up, not knowing I had saved the life of such a villain. The pirate ship came by and fished us out. For having saved the life of their leader, I was allowed to live. Daudalama, who seemed to be like a cat with nine lives, soon recovered. He promised that my life would be spared, but with this proviso, that I was to swear an oath not to reveal his misdeeds. Otherwise, I would die. There was one other prisoner. He was a proper villain himself. He actually asked to be admitted as a member of the pirate crew. What was I to do? I decided to accede to the demand and escape at the first opportunity. The oath and the slashing of the legs was administered. I, Hammer (the other prisoner) and Daudalama swore to be blood-brothers. I spent two years with the pirates. Unfortunately, my passport was with me and the pirate discovered my name. He attacked ships and killed everyone on board, but that wasn’t enough to satiate him. I was present but did not take part. I was closely watched. Daudalama had a deadly enemy. This was Rajah Ben-Ali, who had hanged his father, also a bandit, after whom his son took. And so the pirate decided to avenge himself. The rajah worshipped his daughter, little Irra. Daudalama’s idea was to kidnap the little girl, hold her to ransom and then, having dishonoured her, to return her to her father. He told me I was to be his partner in this conspiracy. Hoping to escape, I agreed. And
so, Hammer and Daudalama and I set off for Bombay. The rest of the story you know. On the way back, at night, I escaped with the little child. For twelve days we were at sea in a plain Indian boat till a ship picked us up. To what authority was I to hand over the child? In any case, I was sure Daudalama would kidnap her all over again. That’s why, returning to Russia, I sent a letter to the rajah telling him not to worry about the child. I intended to bring her up and then return her to her father, hoping that by that time justice would overtake the pirate. As for me, I kept an eye on his whereabouts and misdeeds. That’s how it was till Irra was nine. But now Daudalama, by some twist of malign fate, discovered my whereabouts. Together with Hammer, he arrived in Russia to kidnap little Irra and carry out his revenge. He warned me in a threatening letter, saying I had best give the lass up voluntarily. But I didn’t answer. And so they appeared, lying in wait for her like beasts on the prowl. Hammer gave himself away when Irra was approaching the gate. I managed to put a bullet through his side but, despite the wound, he escaped. I suspect Daudalama didn’t want to leave his wounded partner behind. Nobody else knew what had happened. When Irra grew up, I wanted to return her to her father myself, but I … I fell in love. I was so afraid to lose the woman I loved I didn’t dare tell her her real name. Besides, I was afraid of the publicity and the fact that the world would ascribe mercenary ends to me. After all, the rajah was rich beyond the dreams of avarice. I thought the bandit had vanished, when the blow fell. Daudalama found me a second time and sent Hammer here. He wrote to me, saying that unless I give up Irra, his vengeance would fall on me too and, in any case, Irra would not escape dishonour. This was the second letter carrying the mark of Tadjidi. So I thought of a trap. I set off to meet Hammer in Kazan, where he was to arrive after going through Persia and the Caucasus. We met in Kazan. I told Hammer that I intended to give up Irra and asked him to write to Daudalama to this effect, that we were on our way to
Oriol to fetch her and would he join us there. Hammer’s clothes were too light for the Russian climate, so I gave him mine. I lured him to a spot I had prepared, killed him, cut him up into pieces, put the remains in a basket and hid myself away. Everything was as I expected. Daudalama read of my death in the newspapers. On the one hand, this reassured him. On the other, he was at a loss as to Hammer’s whereabouts. Perhaps he’d fallen into the hands of the police! Daudalama thought it through and decided he had nothing left to worry about. Running into me was no longer a risk. He could walk about freely and was getting ready to make off with Irra quite openly, which was why I was able to put a bullet into him.

The count fell silent.

Noises came in from the street.

The count spoke again, ‘And now, for the final proof.’

He went into his study and opened a secret compartment in one of the inlaid cupboards by pressing on one of the stones.

‘Here is my diary,’ he said, handing Holmes a thick notebook. ‘You will recognize that it was written long, long ago from the handwriting and ink. Here are the bandit’s letters, and here is my last will and testament, made ten years ago, in which I reveal Irra’s real name and leave her, in the event of my death, my entire estate. And now, I ask you to hand me over to the police.’

Sobbing, the countess fell at the feet of her husband and embraced his knees.

We stood there, not knowing what to do.

A month passed. The trial was over and he was found ‘not guilty!’

The wounded pirate was forced to confess to all his crimes. He
was handed over to the British authorities and his life ended on the gallows.

Soon enough, Rajah Ben-Ali was told of his daughter’s fate. His joy knew no bounds. He sent quite a deputation to fetch his daughter and son-in-law.

Sherlock Holmes and I received generous rewards and for some time corresponded with the count and countess, till time and other concerns distanced this enigmatic affair in our memories.