The Greatest Russian Stories of Crime and Suspense (34 page)

“Oh, I shall never forget that look, a mixture of fear and loathing,” I said.

“If until then I had any reservations about his guilt, all doubt vanished from that moment. And so, during the night, I waited for confirmation of my presuppositions,” said Holmes. “In any case, there’s not much more to tell you about the most recent events. You saw for yourself how an invisible hand tried to open the pane for that cursed animal to get into our room. Now, Watson, all that’s left is to lure him to a last desperate step. As soon as we return, I will announce that we have decided to depart for the city and, depending on how he reacts, we’ll decide what to do next. In the meantime, let us take our time getting back.”

X

We strolled back.

Boris Nikolayevitch was busy in the yard, handing out some sort of orders concerning household matters, when Sherlock Holmes approached and firmly stated that we had to return to Moscow this very day.

A hardly discernible gleam appeared in Kartzeff’s glance. But it was only momentary and, taking himself in hand, he said indifferently, “I am so sorry you cannot stay longer, but it can’t be helped. Work must come first. If you don’t intend to stop off at Silver Slopes, I’ll send you to the station by the direct road. I am only sorry that I cannot do so immediately. My horses are all out on the road and you’ll have to wait a few hours.”

“Oh, that’s no problem,” answered Sherlock Holmes.

“I’ll give instructions for you to be driven to the ferry. It belongs to me, by the way. From there, the same horses will take you to the station.”

“Excellent!” said Sherlock Holmes.

We thanked him again and went inside, where we chatted with Nikolai Nikolayevitch and Boris Nikolayevitch who occasionally dropped in on us. Nevertheless, hour after hour went by and no horses appeared.

At a convenient moment, when both brothers were out of the room at the same time, Holmes whispered to me softly, “I forgot to tell you another little detail. This morning a sock went missing. I deliberately placed my boots outside the door and stuffed my socks inside them. Tell me, why do you think a sock went missing?”

“I haven’t a clue. Now why should he need an old sock of yours,” I said with a smile.

“All the same, it is a serious matter,” said Holmes. “I am nearly certain that he needed the sock for that ape to scent.”

Dinner was served at five and went off normally. It was another two hours before the host informed us the horses were ready and awaited us by the porch. But even here there was a delay. Kartzeff examined the carriage and claimed it hadn’t been properly oiled. He gave instructions for it to be oiled all over again. It was clearly a deliberate attempt to delay us further.

Night was beginning to fall when, at last, we thanked the brothers for their hospitality, bade them farewell and departed. After a mile along the road, the carriage entered a forest. Now the sun set and it became completely dark.

“Be even more on your guard and hold on to your revolver,” Holmes whispered.

As we drove into the forest, the driver slowed down.

Holding his revolver in his hand, Holmes looked back and ordered me to do the same. The precaution was not wasted. A couple of miles into the forest, Holmes pressed my hand forcefully. Leaning over the seat with his outstretched hand holding a revolver, it was as if he was expecting some invisible foe. And suddenly, despite the darkness, I saw the fairly large, dark silhouette of some strange creature. It sped along the road after us in silent leaps. I had hardly become aware of what was going on, hardly had the thought flashed through my mind that this might be the apestrangler, when the terrifying creature caught up with us and made a colossal flying leap.

Simultaneously, our shots rang out. The damned creature crashed to the ground.

At exactly the same moment the driver tumbled head over heels off the coach-box and vanished amongst the trees. The horses surged forward, only to be stopped by Holmes’s powerful grip. He quickly passed the reins to me and, revolver in hand, jumped off the carriage. He ran a few quick steps towards the animal lying on the ground and a third shot rang out. He returned dragging the dead ape along with him. He threw it in, jumped on the coach-box, seized the reins and we galloped away. We raced through the forest with the speed of lightning. The foaming horses pulled up by the ferry.

We yelled and yelled, but nobody appeared. We had no idea how the ferry operated and ended up wasting the best part of an hour in fruitless activity, jumping on and off it and then alongside.

“The devil!” said Holmes fiercely. “He’ll catch up with us.”

We made another desperate attempt and this time success crowned our efforts. Just as we managed to find the end of the mooring rope, we heard the sound of horses galloping, but we had hardly managed to cast off when a troika came straight for us and into the water.

Two men leaped out and before we had time to gather ourselves together, they scrambled on board.

“Aha, so that’s what you are up to,” we heard a hoarse voice rage. In that moment I saw Boris Nikolayevitch leap like a cat at Holmes standing by the mooring rope. I threw myself to help him but powerful hands pinioned me.

The ferry forged ahead at full speed and there was nobody to see the life-and-death struggle being waged on board. We fought with every ounce of strength we possessed, we fought tooth and nail as we rolled over and over. In the heat of the struggle I couldn’t see what was happening with Holmes. I gathered up my last reserves of strength, seized my opponent by the throat and with every ounce of strength bashed his head in the darkness against the wooden planking. He, too, made a desperate effort, slipped out of my hands to roll over and vanish beneath the waves.

I leapt to my feet to help Holmes. But it was too late. I was nearly at his side, but he was in a deathly embrace with Kartseff and they went overboard together. Holmes vanished out of sight.

I kept on yelling and screaming for him, but the river was as unresponsive as the grave. Somehow I managed to steer the craft to the opposite shore and at the first village I raised the alarm. I invoked the help of the villagers, and entreated them to find my friend.

All night and day we searched and searched. We even requested the help of the village downriver, but all was in vain. Holmes had irrevocably vanished. We searched a further five days but to no avail. I set off for Moscow, where I laid everything before the police. Soon I departed for England, grieving the premature end of my best friend.

VLADIMIR NABOKOV

REVENGE

Although Vladimir Vladimirovich Nabokov (1899–1977) became a naturalized American citizen in 1945, it is appropriate for him to be regarded as a Russian, too, having been born in St. Petersburg to an old family of nobility. In his childhood, he and his family spoke Russian, English and French fluently, and the boy was more comfortable in English during his pre-teen years. After his home was taken by the Bolsheviks, he left Russia, living in Germany and France from 1922 to 1940, when he moved to America. He earned his living by writing poetry and prose; his first nine novels were written in Russian, and subsequent work in English. Regarded as a major emigre Russian writer in the 1930s, his books were banned in the Soviet Union.

With the publication of
Lolita
in 1955 and its immediate (and enormous) success, he was able to retire from teaching (Russian and European literature at Cornell) and returned to Europe in 1961 to devote full time to writing. He settled into a luxury hotel in Switzerland and lived there for the rest of his life.
Lolita
is the famous novel of Humbert Humbert, a man who becomes obsessed with a 12-year-old girl, whose name has become part of the English language as a description of a sexually precocious girl. It was selected by the Modern Library as #4 on the list of the 100 greatest English language novels of the twentieth century. His other major works include
Pnin
(1957),
Pale Fire
(1962) and
Ada, or Ardor: A Family Chronicle
(1969).

“Revenge” was written in Russian and first published in 1924; it is collected in
The Stories of Vladimir Nabokov
(New York, Knopf, 1995).

1

O
stend, the stone wharf, the gray strand, the distant row of hotels, were all slowly rotating as they receded into the turquoise haze of an autumn day.

The professor wrapped his legs in a tartan lap robe, and the chaise longue creaked as he reclined into its canvas comfort. The clean, ochre-red deck was crowded but quiet. The boilers heaved discreetly.

An English girl in worsted stockings, indicating the professor with a motion of her eyebrow, addressed her brother who was standing nearby: “Looks like Sheldon, doesn’t he?”

Sheldon was a comic actor, a bald giant with a round, flabby face. “He’s really enjoying the sea,” the girl added sotto voce. Whereupon, I regret to say, she drops out of my story.

Her brother, an ungainly, red-haired student on his way back to his university after the summer holidays, took the pipe out of his mouth and said, “He’s our biology professor. Capital old chap. Must say hello to him.” He approached the professor, who, lifting his heavy eyelids, recognized one of the worst and most diligent of his pupils.

“Ought to be a splendid crossing,” said the student, giving a light squeeze to the large, cold hand that was proffered him.

“I hope so,” replied the professor, stroking his gray check with his fingers. “Yes, I hope so,” he repeated, weightily, “I hope so.”

The student gave the two suitcases standing next to the deck chair a cursory glance. One of them was a dignified veteran, covered with the white traces of old travel labels, like bird droppings on a monument. The other one—brand-new, orange-colored, with gleaming locks—for some reason caught his attention.

“Let me move that suitcase before it falls over,” he offered, to keep up the conversation.

The professor chuckled. He did look like that silver-browed comic, or else like an aging boxer.…

“The suitcase, you say? Know what I have in it?” he inquired, with a hint of irritation in his voice. “Can’t guess? A marvelous object! A special kind of coat hanger …”

“A German invention, sir?” the student prompted, remembering that the biologist had just been to Berlin for a scientific congress.

The professor gave a hearty, creaking laugh, and a golden tooth flashed like a flame. “A divine invention, my friend—divine. Something everybody needs. Why, you travel with the same kind of thing yourself. Eh? Or perhaps you’re a polyp?” The student grinned. He knew that the professor was given to obscure jokes. The old man was the object of much gossip at the university. They said he tortured his spouse, a very young woman. The student had seen her once. A skinny thing, with incredible eyes. “And how is your wife, sir?” asked the red-haired student.

The professor replied, “I shall be frank with you, dear friend. I’ve been struggling with myself for quite some some time, but now I feel compelled to tell you.… My dear friend, I like to travel in silence. I trust you’ll forgive me.”

But here the student, whistling in embarrassment and sharing his sister’s lot, departs forever from these pages.

The biology professor, meanwhile, pulled his black felt hat down over his bristly brows to shield his eyes against the sea’s dazzling shimmer, and sank into a semblance of sleep. The sunlight falling on his gray, clean-shaven face, with its large nose and heavy chin, made it seem freshly modeled out of moist clay. Whenever a flimsy autumn cloud happened to screen the sun, the face would suddenly darken, dry out, and petrify. It was all, of course, alternating light and shade rather than a reflection of his thoughts. If his thoughts had indeed been reflected on his face, the professor would have hardly been a pretty sight. The trouble was that he had received a report the other day from the private detective he had hired in London that his wife was unfaithful to him. An intercepted letter, written in her minuscule familiar hand, began,
“My dear darling Jack, I am still all full of your last kiss.”
The professor’s name was certainly not Jack—that was the whole point. The perception made him feel neither surprise nor pain, not even masculine vexation, but only hatred, sharp and cold as a lancet. He realized with utter clarity that he would murder his wife. There could be no qualms. One had only to devise the most excruciating, the most ingenious method. As he reclined in the deck chair, he reviewed for the hundredth time all the methods of torture described by travelers and medieval scholars. Not one of them, so far, seemed adequately painful. In the distance, at the verge of the green shimmer, the sugary-white cliffs of Dover were materializing, and he had still not made a decision. The steamer fell silent and, gently rocking, docked. The professor followed his porter down the gangplank. The customs officer, after rattling off the items ineligible for import, asked him to open a suitcase—the new, orange one. The professor turned the lightweight key in its lock and swung open the leather flap. Some Russian lady behind him loudly exclaimed, “Good Lord!” and gave a nervous laugh. Two Belgians standing on either side of the professor cocked their heads and gave a kind of upward glance. He shrugged his shoulders and the other gave a soft whistle, while the English turned away with indifference. The official, dumbfounded, goggled his eyes at the suitcase’s contents. Everybody felt very creepy and uncomfortable. The biologist phlegmatically gave his name, mentioning the university museum. Expressions cleared up. Only a few ladies were chagrined to learn that no crime had been committed.