The Greatest Russian Stories of Crime and Suspense (30 page)

I

S
herlock Holmes was reading the papers when I came into his hotel room. Seeing me, he put aside the newspaper he was reading and said, “In the sort of life we lead, either we are asked to do something or, for some reason or another, we do it of our own accord.”

“You are speaking of—” I prompted.

“I am speaking of our profession. More often than not, we are approached for assistance by others, but there are times when something crops up and investigating it is a positive joy, despite the fact that nobody has asked us to look into the matter.”

“Do I take it that you’ve found something interesting in the papers today?” I asked.

“You are absolutely right, Watson,” Holmes answered. “Today’s papers are full of a particularly mysterious crime committed yesterday not far from Moscow and, if you are interested, let me read you one of the accounts of it.”

“But, of course,” I answered. “You know perfectly well that I am always interested in anything that interests you and you would be doing me a great favour if you were to read to me whatever it is that could intrigue you so much.”

Instead of answering, Holmes picked up one of the newspapers and, finding the required item, began to read out aloud.

“Last night, 25 May, at 11 o’clock in the evening, the police began to investigate a highly mysterious crime which took place near Moscow on the estate of a member of the gentry, Sergey Sergeyevitch Kartzeff.

“At three o’clock in the afternoon, Sergey Sergeyevitch Kartzeff locked himself in his bedroom to rest, as he always did after having dined at home. Normally, his valet would wake him by knocking on the door after a couple of hours. This time, despite several attempts by the valet, there was no answer. Surprised at his master’s failure to respond, the valet knocked harder, but there was still no response. The valet now became anxious, ran to fetch the cook and maid, and all three of them began to beat on the door, but there was still no response. Fearing that something untoward might have occurred, they broke it down and found Sergey Sergeyevitch Kartzeff dead. He was lying in his bed, his eyes bursting out of their sockets and his face blue. The district police and an investigator were immediately sent for and on arrival at the scene of the crime pronounced that Sergey Sergeyevitch had been strangled to death. A close inspection of the scene yielded only contradictory and incomprehensible results. First, it was established that at the time the crime was committed, the room was locked from the inside, though the lock was damaged because the staff had had to use force to break in. The window had been sealed for the winter and only a hinged pane in it could be opened, so small that a seven-year-old child could hardly squeeze through it. The room was on the second floor, and it had no other openings or apertures, even through the stove. Nevertheless, the old man’s throat showed clear traces of a strangler’s unusually long fingers. The face of the dead man was severely scratched in several places. An examination of the window, the windowsill and the ground beneath the window showed absolutely no clues of any sort. This might have been caused by a light drizzle which had been falling that day and most probably washed away all traces. The whole house stands in its own grounds. All that the investigators found were several strange traces on the wall outside of the room in which the corpse was found. These traces, most probably, belonged to some freak of nature whose fingers were inordinately long and left such strange prints. The staff were asked whether anyone in the house had deformed feet, but they all declared there never had been anyone like that. The investigators cross-examined the entire staff. Old man Kartzeff was a bit of a recluse, they said, enjoyed managing the estate, seldom received guests, visited neighbouring landowners and got along with everyone. He treated peasants and workers kindly, which ruled out revenge as a motive. Moreover, there is one other circumstance pointing to robbery as a motive. A drawer of the dead man’s desk was open and there were many papers and objects strewn all over the floor as if in haste. Asked by the investigators who had recently visited the deceased, the servants testified that since the end of winter there had only been two visitors. One was his nephew, Boris Nikolayevitch Kartzeff, who lived on his own small estate, Igralino, not too far away, and another nephew, Nikolai Nikolayevitch Kartzeff, brother of Boris, had dropped in a couple of times. The latter was by no means a rich man and occupied himself with some sort of private business in Moscow. Further inquiries established that both nephews had each spent the night in his own home. Thus the investigation has produced no results and it seems that catching the perpetrator will be no easy matter.

“So, my dear chap, what have you to say to that?” asked Holmes putting down the newspaper.

“I can say that the perpetrator carefully considered every possible way in and out,” I answered.

Holmes nodded, “I agree with you completely and, frankly, I wouldn’t have stopped upon this crime were it not for those strange references to abnormal traces left by the strangler firstly on the neck of the victim and then by the wall in the garden below.”

“My dear Holmes, from what you have said before and your reading of this account, I conclude that you wish to take up this case,” I said with a smile. Knowing full well the character of my friend and his inordinate interest in every sort of mysterious crime, I knew Holmes could not pass up such a case.

“Do have in mind,” I added, “that this case has intrigued not just you, but me as well. Hence, I volunteer in advance to be your assistant.”

“Oh, I didn’t have the least doubt on that score,” exclaimed Holmes, gleefully rubbing his hands, “and anticipated that you would make the offer first and since you know me so well, you knew I would get on with it without more ado.”

Instead of replying, I rose and began to put on my coat.

Seeing this, Holmes smiled and picked up his hat. “You are an indispensable assistant, my dear chap,” pronounced Holmes with one of those good-natured glances that so gladdened me, “and when I am with you, the work advances thrice as quickly as with any other person.”

“Just one thing,” I asked, “are we going out of town now?”

“Yes,” said Holmes, “I have to look at the scene of the crime and see everything for myself. That’s why we are off to the Nikolayevsk station to undertake a short trip to not-so-distant parts.”

Chatting thus, we went out and hired a hackney to take us to the station. We didn’t have to wait long for a local train. We were told to get off after two stops and that the estate of Sergey Sergeyevitch Kartzeff was just over three miles from the station.

II

The journey passed swiftly. Getting off the train, we hired a coach to take us to Silver Slopes, the name of the estate belonging to Sergey Sergeyevitch Kartzeff. We arrived to find everyone rushing hither and thither in a scene of total chaos. Last night’s crime was still too fresh in everyone’s mind and, moreover, the corpse was still there amidst the chaos and the bustle.

The investigator was there, as were the local chief of police and Boris Nikolayevitch Kartzeff, who had come from home when informed of his uncle’s sudden death.

Boris Nikolayevitch turned out to be a handsome man, some thirty-five years of age, with the outward appearance of a rake and gadabout. He was tall, with dark hair, an energetic look and a muscular body. His uncle’s death had evidently upset him and he now issued orders nervously and absent-mindedly.

A moment before we came in, Holmes whispered in my ear, “Remember, Watson, we mustn’t own up to our real names. Let’s pretend, say, that we are real estate agents here for the purchase of the estate. Dear uncle is dead, nephews are stepping into their inheritance, and this seems the appropriate moment to ask whether they are prepared to sell as soon as it is in their ownership.”

I nodded in agreement.

Our arrival was noted. Boris Nikolayevitch approached us first, asking who we are and what is our business.

On being told we are real estate agents working on commission, he involuntarily shrugged his shoulders. “Aren’t you a little premature? You come to the funeral like carrion crows!”

Somewhat rude, but under the circumstances, still understandable. In any case, something even a well-mannered man might say. But in the confusion round the corpse, we were soon ignored. This was enough for Holmes to start investigating. He left me to myself, bidding me to keep out of sight, and left to return all of an hour later. He took me by the elbow and said, “Let’s go, my dear chap. I’ve done everything I needed, but for the sake of appearances, let’s intrude on Boris Nikolayevitch with our original inquiry.”

Boris Nikolayevitch was pacing hither and thither, so intercepting him did not take long. But when we posed the same question to him again, he looked at us irritably and replied sharply, “It wouldn’t come amiss if you were to make yourself scarce. But just in case, leave your address.” Having said this, he looked intently at Holmes. He stared for some seconds, then his lips widened slightly in a little smile, “Perhaps I am wrong,” he said, “but I suspect you are not whom you make yourselves out to be. There is something about you which reminds me of someone else I came across accidentally during my travels abroad.”

For a few seconds Holmes was silent and now it was he who gazed intently at Boris Nikolayevitch Kartzeff. “I’d be interested to know where,” he finally said.

“England,” answered Kartzeff.

“In that case, no point in concealing our identities any further,” said Holmes. “You guessed correctly and it is a great tribute to your memory. I am Sherlock Holmes and this is” —indicating me—“my friend Dr. Watson.”

A look of unutterable joy came over the face of Boris Nikolayevitch Kartzeff. “So I was right. The reason that I recognized you was that I saw you in London when you were a witness in an important case. But I felt too embarrassed to say so right away, and then I was completely taken aback by your superb Russian.”

He came close and shook our hands warmly.

“But since this has happened and since you are here at your own initiative, it seems fate has brought you to our help and I cannot tell you how relieved I am, knowing full well that the villain who perpetrated this foul deed will not escape you. As of this moment, you are the most welcome, the most longed-for guests in this house, and I now beg your permission to present you to our investigator and the police authorities who are here.”

Holmes bowed his consent. With an exchange of pleasantries we went into the dining-room which was full of people.

“Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to present Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson,” Boris Nikolayevitch said loudly.

Our names created a sensation. Investigators and police jumped to their feet as if we were their superior officers. Compliments rained on Sherlock Holmes’s head.

“This gives us fresh hope!” was heard on all sides.

We joined the company and the conversation soon turned to the murder. As was to be expected, there were many presuppositions, but they were to such an extent without foundation that neither Homes nor I paid much attention to them.

From their conversation, we learned that several people had been arrested, amongst them the valet, cook and maid.

“Are you sure that the valet and the cook together smashed a door definitely locked from within?” Homes asked the investigator.

“Oh, yes,” the man answered with total conviction. “There is absolutely no doubt, as you will see for yourself from so much as a glance. Only a locked door could have been mangled in such a way.”

“Then why did you arrest them?” Holmes asked in astonishment.

“More as a matter of form,” was the answer. “I’m sure we’ll have to let them go in a few days.”

Having questioned the investigator and police chief concerning certain details, Holmes asked whether he could examine the dead man’s room without wasting any further time. Needless to say, the request was granted, though I couldn’t help but notice the smirk that appeared momentarily on both their faces.

We all went to the dead man’s bedroom. It was just as we had been told. The door was smashed in and the key still stuck from the lock on the bedroom side.

Having examined this closely, Holmes said softly, “Yes, there is no doubt the bedroom was locked from inside and the door smashed in, in its locked form. This is apparent from the fact that the lock is twisted and the key is so jammed as a result that it would only be possible to take it out if the lock were to be taken apart.”

Having done with the door, Holmes next approached the bed in which Sergey Sergeyevitch had been strangled and, taking his magnifying glass out of his pocket, he proceeded to examine the bedclothes closely. Knowing my friend as well as I did, I couldn’t help noticing that he looked puzzled as he examined them.

Some minutes later he bent down to the floor and again began to examine something the others had missed. From the barely perceptible nod he gave, he had evidently found something.

We all watched with intense curiosity. From the bed he moved to the window. Here he pottered about for quite a while. It would appear he examined every little bit, even a little spot left by a fly. Gradually his face became more puzzled and more serious. And when Holmes finally moved away from the window, I could see that he was intensely absorbed.

Questions came at him from all sides.

“Not just yet, not just yet,” Holmes said absent-mindedly as he turned to his questioners.

“Surely you don’t intend to keep us in such a state of uncertainty?” asked Boris Nikolayevitch. “We’re all closely connected to each other and to the case.”

“There are certain matters it is sometimes premature to discuss,” Holmes answered.

“But at least can you not point to anything suspicious, which may be a clue?” the investigator asked impatiently.

“Yes, there are one or two things,” said Holmes enigmatically. “But, gentlemen, I repeat that, owing to certain considerations, I must refrain from further explanations.”

Everyone shrugged at this reply and a brief look of distrust appeared once again on the faces of the investigator and the police chief.