CHAPTER IV.THE BURLESQUE OF DEATH.
The Secret Police attached to the Russian Embassy in London are ever-watchful and untiring in their efforts to discover the plans and movements of our Party. It is, therefore, our constant endeavour to lead them upon false scents and direct their attention to quarters in direct opposition to that in which we are working.
No monarch possesses such a prodigious organisation of police spies andagents provocateursas the Tzar. His emissaries are in every European city, and it must be admitted that for cunning and astuteness they are unequalled. Attached to each Embassy is theOkhrannoë Otdelenïe, consisting of some twenty or thirty detectives, whose duty it is to closely watch political suspects and forward elaborate reports of their movements to General Sekerzhinski, chief of the department at Petersburg.
The stratagems practised by these agents and their insolence are unbounded. In smaller States,such as Bulgaria, Roumania, Switzerland, and Italy, both law and political decency are violated, and these men act as if they were in a Russian provincial town. No one in the Balkan Peninsular doubts that the two Bulgarians who attempted to assassinate Mantoff, the Prefect of Rustchuk, when he was so imprudent as to go to Bucharest, were the tools of Yakobson, then third secretary of the Russian Embassy in Roumania. Again, it was proved that they offered people bribes to clandestinely introduce implements for false coining into the lodgings of a well-known literary man, the Russian refugee, Cass-Dobrogeanu. In dozens of cases attempts have been made—often successfully—to introduce bombs and explosives into the houses of Russian suspects abroad in order that they may be accused and imprisoned, thus removing their revolutionary influence. After a recent trial in Paris where six men were condemned to long terms of imprisonment for having dynamite in their possession, it was proved most conclusively that into the houses of four of them the explosive had been introduced by persons bribed by a provocating agent of the Tzar’s Government!
It is also well known in our Circle that in the beginning of the last decade Colonel Soudeikin, the then chief of spies and provocating agents in Petersburg, proposed to his principal confidential agent—afterwards his murderer—Degayeff, in order to strengthen his reputation in revolutionarycircles, that he should murder an unimportant fellow-spy, P⸺, first exposing him to the revolutionists. “Of course,” remarked Soudeikin, “it is hard on him, but what can one do? You must gain their confidence in some way, and in any case P⸺ will never be good for anything.” Indeed, the man referred to was already suspected of being a spy, and all the revolutionists were on their guard against him.
At such a level of morality the prospect of a “paying job” is sufficient to inspire the agents of the Russian “State police” with a spirit of boundless enterprise. The advantage thus gained by the Russian Government is enormous; provocation is the surest way to give false impressions about the Russian patriots and to terrorise foreign public opinion to the detriment of the liberation movement.
Recently the foreign branch of the “higher police” has been strengthened and re-modelled. In London the section now works independently. Paris has been constituted the centre from which operations in other towns are superintended; then come university towns, such as Montpellier, Zurich, and Berne, and the towns specially frequented by Russians, as Nice and Mentone. From Paris “flying brigades” of spies and provocators are sent out to places where “special activity” is required. The staff of employees in the French capital has within the past year been “renewed,” and their numbers greatly augmented.As an instance, no fewer than twelve new agents were sent from Russia immediately after the assassination of General Seliverstroff in Paris.
More attention is bestowed upon London than elsewhere, because it has become known that many of the foremost of the so-called Terrorists reside in the English metropolis. The satellites of the “Security Section,” however, baffled by the watchfulness of our own spies, are unable to make much progress with their inquiries owing to the traps we lay for them. Indeed, finding their activity counteracted, they have now founded in London a kind of Russian institution, which by its artistic and literary attractions induces Russians living in the metropolis to visit it; the aim being to facilitate the obtaining of information and the choice of future victims for provocation. Members of the Party are, however, too wary to visit it.
At the time the events related in this chapter occurred, the Executive had resolved upon decisive action.
As a protest against the increasing tyranny of the late Tzar Alexander, it had been decided that a grandcoupshould be made at the Winter Palace at Petersburg, where two members of our Organisation were engaged as trusted servants in the Imperial household. News of the plot was conveyed secretly to the various Circles on the Continent, while we in London set about arranging the various details.
To Nicolas Tersinski, who lived in Heygate Street, Walworth, was the work of manufacturing a dynamite clock entrusted. He had been a locksmith in Warsaw and was skilled in mechanical contrivances. It was he who made the bombs which wrecked the Imperial train near Grodno, and the machines that had caused several other “outrages” were due to his ingenuity.
While these preparations were in progress, it was of course highly essential that our secret should be strictly guarded and that our ubiquitous enemies, the police spies, should entertain no suspicion of our intentions. Nevertheless, we were one day amazed and startled to discover that the “Security Section” had suddenly grown more active than usual, and that there were unmistakable signs that they had gained some knowledge of the conspiracy.
The Executive held a hurried meeting to consider the best means of averting their espionage. I was still living expensively as a young man about town, and as I rarely visited the house in Oakleigh Gardens, my connection with the revolutionists was unknown to the police. For this reason I was chosen, together with Grinevitch, to assist in the work of “shadowing” the spies in order that Pétroff and the committee might complete their plans and get the machine safely to Petersburg.
The work was exciting and somewhat risky; but it suited my adventurous spirit. The daring with which our Organisation acted inspired mewith confidence, and I went fearlessly about attired in various garbs, tracking the minions of the Tzar into all sorts of queer corners of London. They were indefatigable; but, owing to our headquarters being temporarily abandoned, they were entirely off the scent. It was my object to further puzzle them, and, assisted by half a dozen other members of the Party, I think I succeeded.
Meanwhile the clock was being completed and the plans for thecoupelaborated.
While sitting one evening at a small table in the Café Royal in Regent Street, smoking, sipping kummel, and lazily scanning thePetit Journal, a word in guttural Russian addressed to the waiter caused me to glance across to a tall dark man in evening dress, who had seated himself alone and unnoticed at the other side of the table opposite me. A momentary glance was sufficient for me to recognise in him the original of a photograph that had been given me and pointed out as Guibaud, the renowned French detective, who had recently been placed at the head of the “Security Section” in London.
He was lighting his cigar and flashing a fine diamond upon his finger, when I suddenly asked him for the lighted match for my cigarette. By that means I opened a commonplace conversation, and I quickly felt confident that he had no suspicion that I was a Terrorist. After spending nearly an hour together, and drinking at each other’s expense, we strolled to Oxford Circus,where we parted, not, however, before we had exchanged cards, he giving me one with the name “Jules Guibaud,” while upon mine was inscribed the words “Pierre Noirel—National Liberal Club.” He told me that he was a glove merchant in the Rue de la Paix, while I made him believe that I was a young Belgian of independent means living in England for the purpose of acquiring the language.
On leaving him, I jumped into an omnibus going in the direction of the Marble Arch; but as soon as the conveyance had travelled about five hundred yards, I alighted and followed the astute chief spy, who was then retracing his steps down Regent Street. Eventually I discovered that he resided in Russell Square, Bloomsbury, and from that evening I haunted him like a shadow, in order to obtain an insight into his methods. I quickly ascertained how closely day and night the prominent members of our Circle were being watched, not only by the Russian police, but by detectives from Scotland Yard, whose aid they had invoked. Guibaud and I met on several occasions, and always as friends.
One afternoon when I called at the house of Isaac Bounakoff in Aspland Grove, Hackney, to which our headquarters had been temporarily transferred, Pétroff made a statement that caused me considerable amazement and dismay. Notwithstanding our precautions, the spies had discovered Tersinski’s house in Walworth, and werewatching it. Isaac had recognised one of the “Security Section” men standing at the corner of the street. He had completed the machine, and was anxious to remove it to a place of safety before search was made by the English police. It was imperative that the incriminating object should be got out of the house without delay, and after some discussion the task of removing it devolved upon me, Grinevitch volunteering to assist.
Returning at once to my chambers, I contrived, by the aid of a grey wig and the contents of my “make-up” box, to assume the appearance of an elderly man. Attiring myself in a seedy suit, I donned an apron, which I rolled up around my waist, so that when, an hour later, I alighted from an omnibus in the Walworth Road, I presented the appearance of a respectable mechanic. It was now quite dark, and as I turned down the quiet street I met an ill-clad man sauntering up and down, smoking a short, clay pipe. The light of a street lamp fell upon features which I recognised as those of Guibaud! He gave me a sharp, inquiring glance, but was unsuspicious; therefore I walked on until I came before Tersinski’s house—an eight-roomed dwelling, with area and basement of the usual South London type. Then I looked round suddenly, and seeing the spy’s back turned, darted up the steps leading to the front door, and swiftly let myself in with the latch-key.
The unfamiliar interior was pitch dark, and I was afraid to strike a match lest the detective’s attention might be attracted. Groping my way carefully up the stairs, I ascended to Tersinski’s workshop on the top floor, where he had told me I should find the box.
After a few moments’ search I found it standing under a bench near the window. Handling it with the utmost care—for it was already charged with a sufficient quantity of dynamite to wreck the whole street—I drew it forth and found it had the appearance of a small, black, tin deed box, with handles at each end, while upon the side the name “F. Evans, Esq.,” had been painted in white capitals.
I was just bending to lift it from the ground, when I was startled at feeling myself seized from behind.
“Ah! You are my prisoner!” cried a voice, which, in a moment, I recognised as that of Guibaud, who had evidently followed me into the house.
At first both my arms seemed pinioned, but not for long. In a few seconds I had recovered my breath, wrested my right arm free, and drawn my revolver.
It flashed across my mind that we were alone, and that it was imperative I should overpower him.
“Let me go, curse you!” I cried in French. “I give you warning that if you don’t I’ll fire into that box and blow you to the devil!”
“Do it,” he replied. “You would die too. I arrest you for the manufacture of explosives.”
“Don’t make too sure of your prey,” I said, at the same time taking him off his guard, and freeing myself by dint of a great effort.
In the dim uncertain light, I saw something lying upon the bench, and snatched it up. It was a hammer.
“Sacré,” hissed Guibaud, “you shall not escape now I have caught you in the act,” and his dark form darted forward.
I was only just in time. Raising the hammer, I brought it down with a crushing blow upon his skull.
Uttering a loud cry of pain, he reeled backwards and fell.
Without a moment’s hesitation I cast the hammer aside, thrust the revolver into my pocket, and grasping the box, dashed downstairs to the street door.
At that moment I heard a man passing outside, whistling a music-hall air. It was Grinevitch; I knew that no one was watching outside. Opening the door, I carried the box down the steps and hurried quickly away in the opposite direction to that by which I had approached. Walking down Deacon Street, in order to return to the Walworth Road, I was surprised to find so many police constables, for fully a dozen passed me. Nevertheless, I was unmolested, and on gaining the main thoroughfare hailed a passinghansom, and placing the box on the seat beside me, drove to my chambers.
I had not been joined by Grinevitch as I had arranged, and supposed that he had remained behind to ascertain the cause of the sudden arrival of the police.
It was well that I left the house as quickly as I did, for I afterwards learnt that a raid was made upon the place almost immediately. But beyond finding three rooms full of furniture, some locksmith’s tools, and the chief spy lying insensible, their vigilance was unrewarded.
A week later Guibaud had recovered from the blow I had dealt him, and I was again “shadowing” him. He was walking along the Strand, in the direction of Trafalgar Square, when I passed him and appeared to suddenly recognise him. After a few minutes’ conversation I found he was going into Oxford Street, therefore I proposed that he should accompany me along Shaftesbury Avenue, and call at my chambers for a whisky and soda, an arrangement to which he made no objection.
Soon afterwards he sat before my sitting-room fire admiring the artistic decorations of my little flat, while I stood upon the hearthrug smoking a cigarette, watching him with anxious expectation. He was foolishly unsuspicious, or he would not have drunk the liquor I offered him.
Almost immediately after emptying his glass he became dazed.
“I—I don’t know how it is—but—I feel strangely unwell,” he exclaimed, with an attempt to laugh, at the same time drawing his hand across his brow. “Dieu!—my head is swimming—I—I——”
And after struggling to rise, he fell back in the armchair unconscious.
Unbuttoning his coat, I quickly abstracted the contents of his pockets.
There were only several letters and a well-worn pocket-book. Carefully examining the entries in the latter, I found they consisted of the names, addresses, and descriptions of various Russian refugees. Some of the names had a cross against them, evidently denoting that they were revolutionists. In the cover of the book was a letter on thin foreign paper, which had been carefully preserved. Eagerly reading through the communication, I discovered that the writer had betrayed our secret, and gave a detailed outline of the conspiracy.
It was written in Russian by a person who gave his address at 88, Rue Royale, Dieppe, and signed with the initials “P. P.” But the caligraphy was unmistakable, for I had had a number of communications in that handwriting, which I recognised as that of Antìp Patrovski, a prominent member of the Paris Circle. A number of members of that branch of the Organisation had recently been arrested and sentenced to imprisonment, and now, from the letter I had discovered,it was clear that this traitor to our Cause was in the pay of the Secret Police. Taking a pencil and paper, I scribbled out a copy of the evidence of Patrovski’s treachery.
It was his death-warrant!
After I had made myself acquainted with the contents of the other letters, I replaced them all in the pockets of the insensible man, and then endeavoured to restore him to consciousness.
When at last he opened his eyes and roused himself, I treated the matter jocularly, attributing the result to the strength of the whisky combined with the heat of the room. Almost the first thing he did was to feel in his breast pocket. Finding both pocket-book and letters safe, his suspicions were apparently allayed, and after drinking a little brandy he pulled himself together and took a cab home.
Little did he dream that within half a dozen yards of where he had been seated was the dynamite clock which I had taken from under his very nose, and for which the police of London, Paris, and Berlin were busily searching.
Next day I reported Patrovski’s treachery to the Executive, and sentence was passed.
A week later news was received from Petersburg that all arrangements there had been perfected. An emissary from the Russian capital was to travel to Brussels and there receive the clock from the Executive. Every port of departure for the Continent was, however, being carefullywatched by the police, and passengers by the various mail trains were closely scrutinised at the London termini. Even had they not been watched, the ordinary routes would have been useless, for the Customs examination at any foreign port would have been fatal to our project. The exact size of the box had been sent to Petersburg, and arrangements had been made for smuggling it across the German and Russian frontiers.
At length, after much discussion, the Executive resolved that as the box was in my possession, I should undertake the handing of it over to the representative from Russia.
Owing to the spies at London stations, I was compelled to leave the beaten track. On the day following the final decision, I placed the box in a small portmanteau, together with some wearing apparel, and, calling a cab, drove to Croydon, thence taking train to the quaint old town of Deal. As there is no service of boats to the Continent from the sleepy little place, I felt secure, and took up my quarters at the “Ship,” an old-fashioned inn opposite the beach, frequented mainly by fishermen.
On the afternoon following my arrival, I was seated in the dingy little bar-parlour scanning a limp, beer-stained newspaper three days old, when an elderly toiler of the sea entered.
“Arf’noon, sir. Fresh breeze outside,” was his greeting in a deep, hoarse voice.
I acquiesced, and as he seated himself in the window-bench and ordered his rum of the ruddy-faced waiting-maid, I commenced to chat. From his conversation I learnt that he was the owner of a small smack, and that he and his three companions were going to “have a turn around the Goodwins at midnight.” When, with a landsman’s ignorance, I asked whether the fishermen of those parts were on good terms with the coastguard, he winked knowingly and remarked—
“There’s a good deal wot comes ashore here as don’t pay duty, you bet.”
This remark gave me confidence in my man.
“Look here,” I said in a low tone, after we had been discussing the various modes of evading the Customs dues. “The fact is, I’ve got something that I don’t want to pay duty upon. How much do you want to run me over to Belgium to-night—eh?”
The man looked keenly at me, and his features relaxed into a curious smile. Removing the long clay pipe from his lips, he gazed thoughtfully into his glass.
“Where do you want to land?” he asked.
“Anywhere that’s safe. My bag contains jewels—their description is in the hands of the police—you understand?”
“Stolen,” he muttered, nodding his head. “I’ve done the same thing afore for gents,” and he took a deliberate pull at his pipe. “Wenduyne ’ud be the best place to run into. Nobody about; andyou could take the dilly-gance to Blankenberghe and then go by train direct to Brussels.”
“Very well; how much?”
“Twenty poun’.”
I tried to convince him that the sum asked was too much, but he argued that it was “a contraband job,” and that there were three of his mates to be paid out of it.
At last I consented.
“All right,” he said, “we’ll start at seven and land you afore daybreak.”
The evening was dark and stormy, but at the hour appointed I managed to get the portmanteau out of the inn unobserved, and met him on the beach. Quickly assuming the oilskin and sou’-wester he handed me, I jumped into a small boat with the four men—about as rough-looking a quartette as one could imagine—and a quarter of an hour later we boarded the smack that lay at anchor some distance from the shore.
We lost no time in preparing to start, and soon hoisted sail, let go our moorings, and set our bows around the Goodwins in the direction of the Belgian coast. Gradually the weather grew more boisterous, and our boat laboured heavily through the rolling seas until midnight, when the storm abated.
The men were on deck managing the craft, while I, with the portmanteau under the bench near me, sat alone in the corner of the narrow,dirty little cabin, smoking and reading a newspaper by the uncertain light of a swinging oil lamp. The motion of the boat must, I think, have lulled me to sleep, for I was suddenly awakened by hearing whispering near me.
The lamp had gone out and I was in total darkness.
I listened, feeling convinced that I had heard subdued voices.
Suddenly hoarse, ominous words broke upon my ear.
“Garn. Don’t be a fool, Ned. He’s got jewels in the bag wot he’s stole. There ain’t no reason why we shouldn’t share.”
It was the voice of the skipper.
“Hush! You’ll wake him,” exclaimed another voice.
“If he stirs, darn him, we’ll chuck him overboard, like we did the other cove, that’s all.”
I sat breathless, hesitating to move. It was plain that the men were a gang of unscrupulous villains who intended to rob me.
While I was reflecting upon my position, I heard the portmanteau being dragged from under the seat where I had placed it. I knew I must act.
“Well, what do you want with my bag, pray?” I cried, jumping to my feet.
“Lie still, won’t you,” replied the skipper’s gruff voice; “we’re going to have our pick o’ the stones, and if you utter a word we’ll put you over where you can’t walk home.”
“Oh, indeed,” I shouted, drawing my revolver and standing erect and resolute. “Although I can’t see you, you devils, the first one who touches my bag is a dead man.”
A blow was immediately aimed at me, but fortunately it fell upon my left arm. At that moment one of the men struck a light, and I found that all four were in the little cabin with me.
The skipper, who had a life-preserver in his hand, noticed my revolver and hesitated.
“Twenty poun’ ain’t enough,” he said fiercely, “so me and my mates mean to have some of your jewellery.”
As these words fell from his lips, one of the men, a tall, burly fellow, in a dirty yellow oilskin, grasped the handle of the portmanteau as if to carry it upon deck.
“We want no jaw,” exclaimed the skipper. “Say a word, and we’ll drown you like a rat.”
“Put that down,” I shouted to the man. “If you don’t, I’ll fire.”
But he laughed mockingly.
Pointing the pistol over his head, I pulled the trigger. The bullet whizzed past his ear, and smashed the little square mirror that was hanging up behind where he was standing. The man dropped the bag, and drawing a knife, was in the act of rushing upon me, but one of his companions held him back.
“No,” cried the fellow who had grasped hisarm. “Give him one more chance of life. If he hands over the bag to us, we’ll guarantee to land him at Wenduyne.”
“I sha’n’t give it up,” I replied in anger. “In the first place, you cowardly brutes have been caught in your own trap. There are no jewels inside, but stuff that you’d rather not have on board this craft. All that’s inside is dynamite!”
“Dynamite!” ejaculated the men, in alarm.
“Yes,” I replied. “Now, listen! You mistook your man. I’m not an absconding thief, as you thought; but, nevertheless, I mean that you shall take me to Wenduyne, and what’s more, land me there before sunrise. If you don’t, my mission will be useless. I’m tired of life, and if you fail to fulfil your contract, I shall touch the spring inside, and it will send us all to kingdom come. Now, you infernal cut-throats, do as you please. I shall remain here, and if you value your lives, you’ll carry out the agreement for which I’ve paid you.”
Then I unlocked the portmanteau, and showed them the box concealed inside.
My fierce, determined attitude cowed them. Like beaten dogs, they returned on deck without scarcely uttering a word.
The announcement that I had such a quantity of explosive had its effect, for, just as dawn was spreading, I was put ashore in a small boat upon a lonely part of the beach, about three miles north of Wenduyne, and directed to the road down which the diligence to Blankenberghe would pass.
That afternoon I took my seat in the mail train for the Belgian capital.
At the dinner hour on the same day I had taken my place at thetable d’hôteat the Hôtel de l’Europe at Brussels, when a tall, handsome woman entered, and bowing stiffly, took a vacant chair opposite me. She was about thirty-five, and dressed with taste and elegance. Her dark, piercing eyes looked into mine inquiringly for a moment, while I gazed steadily at her. Then, to my surprise, she gave the sign of our Organisation. Immediately I gave the countersign, and glanced at her reassuringly.
During the meal we carried on a commonplace conversation in French, and when it had ended we rose to separate. As we were passing out of thesalle à manger, she whispered to me in Russian—
“My room is number 64. Meet me there in half an hour.”
I obeyed, and entered her private sitting-room unobserved. From the breast of her dress she drew forth her credential, a letter signed by the chief of the Petersburg Circle. As my room was in the same corridor, I experienced no difficulty in secretly conveying the box from my apartment to hers, and opening her dressing-case, she placed the clock in the side which had been specially constructed to receive it.
We sat talking for some time, she telling me of the progress of the propaganda in the Venice of the North, and explaining how, on the occasionof the festival of the Knights of St. George at the Winter Palace, thecoupwas to be made.
“I have been here four days,” she said, in reply to a question. “Early to-morrow morning I must leave on the return journey. I have now only five days, for it is imperative I should be back in time.”
“Well,” said I, rising to take my leave, “the Executive send you greeting, Madame, and wish youbon voyage. May this forthcoming blow to Autocracy prove decisive.”
“Merci, m’sieur,” she replied. “I am utterly devoted to the Cause.” And we grasped hands.
Next morning, when I went down to breakfast, I learned that Madame had already left—for Ostend they believed. After eating my meal I returned to my room, and was astonished to observe a well-dressed man emerging. A moment later I met Guibaud face to face.
“Why, my dear fellow,” he exclaimed, “they told me you were not up, so I came to make an early call. Well, what are you doing over here? A little love affair, eh?”
“No, I’ve just run over to see a couple of old chums. I was at college here, you know.”
“Ah, of course,” he said thoughtfully. “I remember, you told me. Well, I’m going down to get something to eat. Come into thesalle à mangerpresently, will you? We’ll spend the day together.”
I replied in the affirmative, and left him.
Entering my room, I at once discovered that my portmanteau had been opened, and its contents turned over.
But the vigilance of the great detective had been frustrated, for he had arrived a couple of hours too late.
At evening, six days later, I was walking down Pall Mall when a newsboy held a paper under my nose suddenly, crying, “’Ere y’are, sir. Extra spe-shall! Attempt to murder the Tzar! Spe-shall!”
I purchased a copy, and read the brief telegram regarding the explosion at the Imperial Palace. The Salle Blanche, and the adjoining State apartments, had been wrecked, and although no lives had been lost, several persons had been injured. We regarded the plot as successful, for once more, without the sacrifice of human life, we had terrified his Imperial Majesty, and showed him that, notwithstanding his rigorous measures, Nihilism was still active.
In the same journal, under the heading, “A Paris Mystery,” was the report of the discovery of a body in the Seine, and from the description I knew it was that of the traitor Patrovski.