THE FATE OF VASSILO IVANOFF.
Possiblyvery few readers of these chronicles know anything of the peculiarity—I had almost said iniquity—of the Russian law. The freeborn Briton, who in his own country may spout and write treason as long as it pleases him, and do anything that is not regarded as a legally punishable offence—and the law is very tolerant in this respect—is apt to open his eyes in astonishment when he goes on the Continent and finds himself haled to a prison-house simply because he has been jotting down some memoranda in a note-book, or mayhap has taken a snap-shot with a Kodak at a picturesque fortification which he thinks will look well in his album when he gets home. This arbitrary and high-handed proceeding is common to all parts of Europe outside of Great Britain. But though the liberty of the subject and of the foreigner is ever menaced on the Continent, and a simple indiscreet act may serve to bring the might of the law down on the luckless offender, this state of things is nothing as compared with that which prevails in Russia. It is a plain statement of fact to say that, of all the countries which boast of their civilization, Russia is the least civilized. The Russians themselves are a most hospitable people, they are clever, they make good friends and good neighbours; but their laws are antiquated, the method of government is barbarous, while the system of espionage which is in force all over the country would irritate a Briton into madness. And there is another aspect of the law, which, though ithas been denied, still obtains in Russia, and that is the power of the law to keep an untried man whose guilt is not proved in prison indefinitely, and to subject him to such mental or physical torture that, to escape from it, the victim either confesses to a crime of which he is innocent or goes raving mad. To understand this, one must bear in mind that, while in our country a man is considered innocent until he is proved guilty, in Russia, as soon as ever he falls under suspicion, he is regarded as a criminal. He can then be thrown into a dungeon and kept there. If he persists in asserting his innocence, the law, if it can procure no proof one way or the other, will persist in regarding him as guilty, and will exhaust every means to overcome him, and if compelled to let him go will do so with the greatest reluctance.
This is really no exaggerated statement. A thousand and one proofs can be furnished in support of it. Danevitch, who was Russian to the backbone, was nevertheless sufficiently broad-minded to frankly admit that the laws of his native country left much to be desired. The case dealt with in this story will illustrate very forcibly what I have stated in the foregoing lines.
Vassilo Ivanoff was by profession an architect, with, as was supposed, a large and profitable connection. He was also an artist of some repute, and two or three of his pictures had found a place on the walls of the St. Petersburg Salon. His friends sometimes rated him for devoting too much time to painting pictures that did not pay, and too little to his profession, which did pay. Ivanoff, however, was young, ardent, enthusiastic; a dreamer somewhat. He believed in himself, in his future. The world was beautiful, life was good, all men were brothers. Such in effect were his principles; but he forgot the maxim of science, which insists that theory and practice should go together. Ivanoff was a theorist, but he found it difficult to be practical. He had long been engaged to Maria Alexeyevina, who had the reputation of being one of the most beautiful young women in St. Petersburg. She was a member of an exceedingly good family, who, thoughpoor, boasted of their noble descent. The marriage of the young couple had been delayed from time to time on the grounds that, until his financial position improved, he could not afford to keep a wife. It was a great disappointment to him, but he set to work with a will, and so far increased his business that he felt justified at last in appealing to Maria and her relatives that the marriage should be no longer delayed.
Among Ivanoff’s most intimate friends was one Riskoff by name, who was said to be wealthy, and also exceedingly practical. He and Ivanoff had been to school together, and had studied at college together; but Riskoff, being considerably older than his friend, completed his studies some years before the other.
Ivanoff was in the habit of consulting Riskoff about many things, and he took him into his confidence with regard to the marriage; but Riskoff, knowing that Ivan was improvident, as well as impractical, strongly counselled him to delay the marriage. Ivanoff, however, was head-strong, Riskoff was persistent, with the result that the lifelong friends virtually quarrelled, and in the circles which they frequented it was a matter of comment that these two men, who had been like brothers, now passed each other by as if they were strangers.
Unable at last to control his feelings, Ivanoff pleaded so pathetically to Maria to consent to the marriage that she yielded, and they became man and wife. The marriage ceremony was one of those semi-grand affairs peculiar to the middle classes in Russia, and the festivities that followed were conspicuous by their magnificence and the lavish expenditure incurred. It was noted with much surprise at the time that Riskoff was not present at the wedding or the feast. It was known that there had been strained relations between the two men; nevertheless, everyone expected that Riskoff would have been invited. But, in spite of his friend’s absence, Ivanoff was supremely happy; the beautiful woman for whom he would have laid down his life willingly, had she desired it, was his at last. What more could mortal man wish for? Lifehenceforth would know no pang. The doting couple would exist on each other’s love, and not the tiniest of clouds should ever obscure the matrimonial sky. It was all very pretty. Others had thought the same thing over and over again, only to find, when the first transports of joy were past, that the married state is not quite the Elysium they believed it to be when they hastened to exchange single blessedness for wedded bliss. The blessedness is at least a known quantity, but the bliss is as often as not found to be little better than a delusive mirage. Ivanoff, however, did not concern himself about the future. With him, sufficient for the day was the evil thereof. Why think of the morrow when the to-day was so full of joy? That was his theory, and he lived up to it.
The first year of his married life, so far as was known, was a very happy one; the young couple revelled in each other’s society. Their social functions were attended by people from far and near, for Maria’s beauty was the talk of the town, and her husband was very happy and very proud. He believed that no such woman as his wife had ever walked the fair earth before. Romance, however, cannot last for ever, and joy must ever be evanescent in this wicked world. Vassilo Ivanoff was soon to prove the truth of this. Necessity compelled him at last to look into his affairs, and he found to his horror that he was on the verge of bankruptcy. Bills were pouring in upon him, but there was nothing in the exchequer to meet them with. It was a terrible state of matters, and to a sensitive man with a poetical temperament little short of maddening. From his ideal world he had suddenly to descend to the vulgar commonplace one, where the butcher, the baker, and candlestick-maker clamour for their little accounts; where summonses and writs run; and where brokers’ men and sheriffs’ officers have no bowels of compunction. It was a revelation, and a very terrible one, to Vassilo, and he had to face the fact that he was heavily in debt, with no means to meet his engagements. He could not apply to his wife’s relations for assistance, for they were poor and proud, and, while unable to help him, they would not have hesitated torate him for the disgrace he would bring upon them if his affairs should be made public, and there was every probability that such would be the case.
It was subsequently brought to light that in his distress he applied to various friends for temporary assistance; but, because they either could not or would not render it, his appeals met with no response. There is no doubt that his affairs at this stage of his career were in a very complicated state, and he realized for the first time that he was practically ruined; and to such an extent did it affect him, that one night he was seen at one of the fashionable and best-known cafés in a state of intoxication. Probably a good deal was due to his mental excitement rather than to the amount of stimulant he had imbibed, for he was a most temperate man, and rarely went to excess. Some acquaintances tried to persuade him to go home, but his excitement only increased, and he was heard to exclaim: ‘It’s a burning shame that I should be poor when there are thousands less worthy than I am rolling in wealth. I feel as if I could do murder on those who hoard their gold when so many are suffering for the want of common necessaries.’
This little outburst of passion and ill-will was no doubt due entirely to his condition; but it was a dangerous sentiment to give expression to in a Russian café, though, but for subsequent events, no importance would have been attached to it.
With some difficulty the unfortunate man was taken to his home, and it would appear that on the following day, when no doubt he, figuratively speaking, sat on the stool of repentance, he resolved, in his extremity, to appeal to his whilom friend Riskoff. With that intention he went to Riskoff’s house, but found that he was out; and, as it was uncertain when he would return, Vassilo asked for pen and paper, and wrote a letter, in which he confessed that he had been living in a fools’ paradise. But he had come to his senses, and intended to be more business-like in future. He wound up with begging Riskoff to lend him two thousand roubles, promising faithfully to repaythe loan in six months’ time. The following day he received this reply:
‘Dear Ivanoff,‘I confess to feeling some surprise, after the coolness there has been between us of late, that you should apply to me in your monetary difficulties for assistance. It is true I have the reputation of being a rich man, and it is highly probable that under different circumstances I would have accommodated you with this loan. But I flatly refuse to do so now. I do not consider you have treated me well. I was your warm friend at one time, and would have done anything for you; but you thought proper to trifle with that friendship, so there’s an end of it. As you have made your bed, so you must lie upon it. I don’t know that I am an unkindly man—indeed, I am sure I am not; but I feel angry now, and my heart hardens against you. I am truly sorry for your beautiful wife, and consider that you have done her a gross wrong in bringing her to this state of poverty. It is no use your writing to me or calling here again, as to-morrow morning I set off on my journey to visit my estates, and shall not be back for a month. I hope in the meantime you will pull through your difficulties, and that the lesson which poverty teaches will not be lost upon you.‘Riskoff.’
‘Dear Ivanoff,
‘I confess to feeling some surprise, after the coolness there has been between us of late, that you should apply to me in your monetary difficulties for assistance. It is true I have the reputation of being a rich man, and it is highly probable that under different circumstances I would have accommodated you with this loan. But I flatly refuse to do so now. I do not consider you have treated me well. I was your warm friend at one time, and would have done anything for you; but you thought proper to trifle with that friendship, so there’s an end of it. As you have made your bed, so you must lie upon it. I don’t know that I am an unkindly man—indeed, I am sure I am not; but I feel angry now, and my heart hardens against you. I am truly sorry for your beautiful wife, and consider that you have done her a gross wrong in bringing her to this state of poverty. It is no use your writing to me or calling here again, as to-morrow morning I set off on my journey to visit my estates, and shall not be back for a month. I hope in the meantime you will pull through your difficulties, and that the lesson which poverty teaches will not be lost upon you.
‘Riskoff.’
It is easy to understand the effect a letter of this kind would have upon a sensitive and proud man. The refusal of his friend to help him must have been a stinging and bitter blow to Ivanoff. It appeared that for a long time he sat in moody and gloomy silence. Then he showed the letter to his wife, and it was a shock to her. Up to that moment she had not quite realized that things were as bad as they were. Allowing her feelings to get the better of her, she reproached her husband, and he made an angry retort, with the inevitable result that other harsh things were said on both sides, until the young wife, in a fit of petulance and wounded pride, hastily put on her cloak andbonnet and went off to her parents. Soon afterwards the unhappy husband also went out, and was absent for some hours. In the evening his wife returned, accompanied by her brother. She had repented her hastiness, and her people had told her that her place was at her husband’s side. In the meantime he also had come back. He seemed in a much happier frame of mind, and Maria’s brother witnessed a very pleasant reunion. He spent the evening with her. They had supper, and were happy. Before retiring, Vassilo told his wife that he was in funds again, and all would be well. He said the little cloud that had over-shadowed them had passed, and that henceforth they would live in clover. She asked him how he had managed to so suddenly bring about the change, but he laughingly replied that he couldn’t explain just then, but would do so later on.
The next day Ivanoff rose betimes. He attended to some business matters, paid several of the most pressing claims against him, and at mid-day he and his wife lunched at a café, and in the evening they dined at their own house in company with some friends who had been invited. In the midst of the dinner the company were suddenly startled by the violent ringing of the large bell which hung at the gate. It was by no means an ordinary ringing, but suggestive of impatience and anger. The servant whose duty it was to attend to the door had not time to get down before the bell was rung a second time still more violently. The servant hurried to the door, and, flinging it open, was confronted by an important-looking official known as a Judge of Instruction, accompanied by his two legal satellites and two armed policemen.
‘Is your master in?’ demanded the Judge angrily.
‘Do you mean Mr. Vassilo Ivanoff?’
‘Of course I do. Why have you kept me so long at the door?’
‘I came immediately, sir,’ answered the frightened servant.
‘Very well. Now, is your master in?’
‘Yes.’
‘Take me to him, then.’
‘He is dining with some friends.’
‘Blazes and thunder!’ roared the official; ‘what do I care whether he is dining with friends or whether he isn’t? Conduct me to him. Men, follow me.’
The now speechless servant led the way to the dining-room, and close at her heels were the Judge and his men. As the intruders thus unceremoniously entered, Vassilo jumped to his feet, and his wife uttered a little cry of alarm, while the visitors looked aghast, for the presence of the Judge and the police with drawn swords was ominous.
‘Sorry to disturb you,’ growled the Judge gruffly.
‘What do you want here?’ asked Ivanoff sharply.
‘I’ve come on business.’
‘What business?’
‘Very unpleasant business. I am empowered to search your house. Here is my authority.’ He displayed a blue document bearing the Government seal.
Vassilo’s wife had recovered her presence of mind by this time, and, going to her husband’s side, she remarked:
‘Oh, I suppose this is some absurd denunciation on the part of an enemy, for I am afraid that even I and my husband have enemies. But, happily for us, we never interfere in politics; we are content to lead peaceful lives.’
‘It is not a question of politics,’ answered the Judge, his gruff manner somewhat softening as he gazed upon the beautiful young wife and felt sympathy for her.
‘Not politics!’ she exclaimed, in new alarm, as she glanced at her husband’s face, which had become very pale.
‘No; my visit has nothing to do with politics.’
‘Why are you here, then?’ demanded Mrs. Ivanoff anxiously.
‘I am here on very serious business indeed. Your husband is accused of—well, that is, he is suspected of murder.’
‘Murder!’ broke like an echo from the wife’s lips, and all present started to their feet in deadly alarm, as if a bombshell had been exploded in the room.
‘I am accused of murder?’ gasped Ivanoff, looking dazed, as if he had received a blow on the head that had half stunned him.
‘Yes, murder,’ answered the Judge solemnly.
‘The murder of whom?’ asked the wife, a half-incredulous smile on her face.
‘Mr. Riskoff.’
‘Riskoff!’ echoed the poor lady, as the smile gave place to a look of terror, and she fixed her eyes on her husband as if every hope she had on earth hung on the words he would next utter.
‘Is he dead?’ Ivanoff gasped, the dazed expression strengthening.
‘Yes,’ said the Judge, ‘and you are charged with having murdered him.’
Ivanoff broke into a strange laugh as he exclaimed:
‘This is positively absurd. Why, I was with him yesterday.’
‘Yes, that fact is well known. You went to his house to see him?’
‘I did.’
‘No one was with him after you left him?’
‘That I have no knowledge of,’ moaned Ivanoff, as he passed his hand distressfully over his head from his forehead backward.
‘Soon after you had taken your departure from his house he was found dead in his library.’
Poor Mrs. Ivanoff was now almost in a state of collapse, and would have fallen had not one of the ladies present caught and supported her.
The Judge had become stern and hard again. His assistants had out their note-books, and while one wrote the questions and replies in shorthand, the other took them down in longhand.
‘You possessed a revolver?’ asked the Judge.
‘I did,’ muttered Ivanoff.
‘Where is it?’
‘I—I lent it to—to my friend Riskoff.’
‘You lent it to him!’ exclaimed the Judge ironically.
‘Yes.’
‘Why did you lend it to him?’
‘Because he asked for it.’
‘Ah! very likely,’ remarked the Judge, still more ironically. ‘Why did he ask you for it?’
‘He told me he was starting at once to visit his estates, and as he was without a revolver mine would be useful to him.’
‘Why did you take your revolver to his house?’
The Judge glanced at his assistants as he asked this question, then fixed a searching glance on the suspected man’s ghastly white face. Mrs. Ivanoff also gazed at her husband with staring eyes, and waited breathlessly for his answer. She had been led to a chair, and her friends were crowding round her; but with outstretched arms she kept them back, so that they might not obstruct her view of her husband, who stood motionless as a statue, save for the rapid rising and falling of his chest; and he was white as a statue, while his hands were clenched firmly together.
‘Give me an answer, sir,’ exclaimed the Judge angrily, as the suspected man remained dumb. ‘Why did you take your revolver with you to your friend’s house?’
Ivanoff was still silent. The assistants were busy writing. The Judge became more peremptory.
‘Again I ask you: Why did you take your revolver to Riskoff’s house?’
Ivanoff glanced nervously round the room now, and his eyes fell upon his wife. The pitiable sight she presented broke him down, and, covering his face with his hands, he burst into tears, and stammered forth, in a broken, emotional voice, the following reply:
‘I went to my friend to ask him to lend me some money. I took the revolver with me, determining to shoot myself if he refused.’
‘Or shoot him,’ said the Judge, with a sneer.
‘No, no—on my soul and before my God, no!’ cried Ivanoff, raising his hands to heaven.
‘Well, your friend was killed with a bullet fired from this revolver.’ He produced a revolver as he spoke. ‘Do you recognise it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Your name is engraved upon it. It was picked up on the floor of his room. Riskoff had been shot in the back of the head. The murderer, therefore, was behind him.’
A shudder ran through all present as this announcement was made. There was an exception, however. It was Mrs. Ivanoff; she sat motionless, as if she had been petrified. Her eyes were still fixed on her husband.
‘Have you any money?’ asked the Judge.
‘Yes,’ answered the wretched man.
‘In notes?’
‘Yes.’
‘Let me see them.’
Ivanoff put his hands into his pocket, and produced a well-filled pocket-book. The Judge took it, opened it, and disclosed a packet of new notes. He examined them carefully, and consulted certain memoranda he had made in his note-book.
‘Ah, this is very damning evidence!’ he said at last. ‘Riskoff drew from his bankers yesterday a large sum of money in notes. These notes are part of those he drew from the bank.’
Mrs. Ivanoff started to her feet now, and uttered a low moan of agony. Somebody wanted to support her, but she pushed them back, and, steadying herself with a tremendous effort, she said:
‘Vassilo, what does this mean?’
‘Some hideous mistake,’ he murmured.
‘I hope so. God grant it is so,’ sobbed the unhappy lady. ‘But I remember Riskoff’s answer to your application for a loan. And now Riskoff is dead, your revolver is found in his house, and you are in possession of notes which he drew from his bank. Oh, my God, it’s awful! It’s too, too horrible! I am going mad!’
She uttered a suppressed scream, pressed her hands to her head, reeled and staggered, and fell fainting into the arms of some of her friends.
Apparently unmoved by this sad and pathetic scene, the Judge preserved his sternness and stolidity.
‘So Riskoff wrote to you?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ answered Ivanoff in a mechanical way.
‘Where is the letter?’
‘I will give it to you. Come with me.’
The Judge motioned to the armed men, and they placed themselves one on either side of the suspect, while the Judge himself brought up the rear. In this order they proceeded to Ivanoff’s studio, where, opening a bureau with a key he took from his pocket, he produced the letter he had received from Riskoff, wherein he point-blank refused to lend the money, and handed it to the Judge, who, having perused it, remarked:
‘This is a fatal piece of evidence against you. You had better make a clean breast of the whole affair.’
By this time Ivanoff had somewhat recovered himself, and said firmly:
‘I have nothing to confess. I am innocent before God.’
‘Most criminals declare themselves innocent at first,’ answered the Judge coldly. ‘However, I have no doubt you will tell another tale before we have done with you. I charge you now with being the murderer of Mr. Riskoff, and make you my prisoner. Secure him and bring him along.’
The policemen seized the wretched man, and fastened his wrists together with a pair of handcuffs. He begged to be allowed to write two or three letters, but this request was refused, and he was taken from the house, still protesting his innocence, and without being able to take a final leave of his wife, who remained unconscious. In accordance with the mode of procedure peculiar to Russia, the suspected man was conducted to the office of the criminal prison, where he was subjected to another cross-examination, and the Judge of Instruction handed in his procès-verbal, as the French call it. The Judge, having finished his part of the affair so far, received an official receipt for his prisoner’s body and left, while the prisoner himself, having been stripped of his clothing, and a prison suit allotted to him, was consigned to a secret cell, which meant that he would be kept isolated from everyone until the police had worked up sufficient evidence to secure his conviction. But in the event of their failing to do that,the prisoner himself would in all probability ultimately confess in order to be relieved from the awful horror of solitary confinement in a secret dungeon.
The case against Ivanoff seemed perfectly clear. The public condemned him from the first, for the evidence was so strong. There was the letter which Riskoff had written declining to lend the money Ivanoff had applied to him for. Yet within thirty-six hours of that letter being received, Riskoff was discovered dead in his own house. He had that very morning drawn from his bank a large sum of money. A portion of the money was found in Ivanoff’s possession. Riskoff had been shot from behind. A bullet had entered the back part of the head, traversing the brain and producing instant death. The deed was done with a revolver, which was left in the room, no doubt by an oversight on the part of the slayer. The revolver was the property of Ivanoff, as proved by a little silver plate let into the butt, on which his name was engraved. On his own confession, Ivanoff had visited Riskoff. He knew that he was about to set out on a journey. He knew also that he would draw money from the bank for the purposes of his journey. Therefore, having been refused the loan he had asked for, he went to the house with the deliberate intention of killing his erstwhile friend and robbing him of his money.
Such was the construction put upon the case, and it seemed as if no one but an idiot could doubt for a moment that Ivanoff had committed the crime. And as a piece of strengthening evidence the words he had uttered in the café were raked up against him. ‘It’s a burning shame,’ he had said, ‘that I should be poor when there are thousands less worthy than I am rolling in wealth. I feel as if I could do murder on those who hoard their gold when so many are suffering for the want of common necessaries.’
All these things taken into consideration left no room to doubt that Ivanoff was a murderer. He had committed a clumsy crime, and left such tracks behind him that in a very short time the outraged law had him in its grip.
The tragedy aroused more than the usual amount of interest, as both Ivanoff and Riskoff were well known, while the prisoner’s story was not without a certain romance which added to the interest. His poetical tendencies; his essays in art; his struggles; his wooing of the beautiful Maria in opposition to the sage counsels and earnest advice of his school-fellow and friend, Riskoff; his marriage; his monetary difficulties; his appeal for help to the man whose advice he had scouted—all these things afforded the general public subject-matter for discussion; they were so many chapters in an exciting tale, the end of which was murder.
As may be imagined, Mrs. Ivanoff’s friends were furious, for, though poor, they were as proud as Lucifer, and felt strongly embittered against the man who had brought such disgrace into the family. Poor Maria came in for a fair amount of blame. She was told very bluntly that she had no business ever to have married such a man. These reproaches made her dreadful position still harder to bear; but when the first shock of the disclosure and the arrest had passed, she rose equal to the occasion, and startled everyone she knew by declaring her unalterable belief in her husband’s innocence. This seemed to most people like flying in the very face of Providence. The accused man’s guilt was so obvious that it was an outrage on intelligence to argue otherwise. But Maria Ivanoff was a young and newly-married woman. She had married for love. Her husband had always treated her with the greatest tenderness and consideration. Over and over again he had told her he worshipped the very ground she walked upon, and had done everything in his power to prove that he did not speak mere words. She believed in him; she believed in his assertion that he was innocent; and though all the world condemned him she would not. She was his wife, his loving wife, and she would try to save him. The poor woman saw clearly enough that she stood alone, and that she could expect neither sympathy nor help from anyone. Nevertheless, she was not daunted, nor was she deterred, and her first step was to seek an interview with theMinister of the Interior, or, as we should call him, the Home Secretary. It was not easy to obtain this interview, but thanks to the influence of a gentleman holding a high official position, with whom she was acquainted, she succeeded at last, and found herself face to face with the proud and pompous personage who was invested with such tremendous power that he could snatch a person from his doom even at the eleventh hour. To the Minister she pleaded, literally on her knees, for an order to visit her husband. At first the official was obdurate; but her tears, her eloquence, her distress, and perhaps, more than all, her beauty, softened him; and she left his bureau with a Government order which granted her a twenty minutes’ interview with the prisoner. She flew to the gloomy prison, presented the order, and in a little while, in the presence of numerous officials, husband and wife met again; but it was in a dismal corridor, and they were separated from each other by an iron grill.
Although only little more than a week had elapsed since that cruel night when he was torn from her side, a wonderful change had taken place in him. He looked ten years older. He was haggard and ghastly, and no wonder, for he had suddenly changed the sunshine and brightness of the world for a pestiferous dungeon, far below the ground, where every movement of the prisoner was watched, where the walls were lined with felt to deaden all sound; where miasma rose up from the ground, and ooze and slime dropped from the roof; where no human voice was heard, for the stern warders were prohibited from opening their lips to a prisoner; where the food was horrible, and even the common decencies of life were not observed. No wonder that in such a place men went mad; no wonder that even in a few weeks youth and vigour were changed to tottering age.
Maria was startled and horrified. She would have thrown her arms about her wretched husband’s neck, but cruel bars kept them asunder. Ivanoff iterated and reiterated again and again that he was innocent. He swore it by all that a Russian holds most sacred, and he beggedwith streaming eyes that his wife would use every means possible to prove his innocence and secure his release, otherwise he would in a very short time be raving mad.
When Maria Ivanoff left that awful place and got into the light again, she felt like one who had come up out of a tomb, where she had looked upon death. She knew that there was but little hope for her husband unless his innocence was made clear as day. She thoroughly believed his assertions; and she made a mental resolve that she would rest neither night nor day until she had exhausted every possible means to release him. Her friends were angry with her; everybody said it was an impossible task to prove a guilty man innocent. Her distress of mind may be imagined, not described; she told her friends she herself would go mad if somebody did not come to her assistance. Then it was that her brother, with what he intended to be the most pointed irony, said:
‘You are seeking to do that which is impossible. Now, if there is a man in all Russia who can perform seemingly impossible deeds, that man is Michael Danevitch, the Government detective. Why don’t you go to him? He might perform a miracle, who knows?’
Maria Ivanoff jumped at the suggestion, though it was never intended she should take it seriously. But she sought out Danevitch. She laid all the facts of the case before him. It was the first he had heard of the matter. It was the first time he had ever set his eyes on Maria. But her moving tale stirred him; her beauty won him; her tears found their way to his heart. He consoled her in a measure by a pledge that he would examine the case from every possible point of view, and communicate with her later on. Nearly a fortnight passed before she saw him again.
‘There is one point, and a very curious point it is,’ he said, ‘that makes the evidence against the accused weak, and yet nobody seems to have noticed it.’
‘What is it?’ cried Maria, breathless with new hope.
‘On the day that Riskoff was murdered, he drew from the bank three thousand roubles. Your husband had onethousand of this sum, according to his own statement, and the most critical investigation has failed to prove this statement false; not a rouble over and above the one thousand has been traced to his possession.’
‘Yes, yes; go on,’ moaned Maria, as she clasped her hands together with the emotion the detective’s words begot. ‘What has become of the other two thousand?’
‘Ah, that is what I want to know. If your husband murdered Riskoff for the sake of the money, why did he only take one thousand roubles and leave two thousand? And if he left two thousand behind, what has become of them?’
Maria was holding her breath with that intensity of nervous emotion which one experiences when it seems as if some revelation is about to be made which means life or death to the listener. Danevitch remained thoughtful and silent. His eyes were fixed on vacancy; his lips were closely compressed; he looked absorbed and dreamy, as was his wont when he was unusually thoughtful. At last Maria could endure her pent-up feelings no longer, and in a husky voice she asked:
‘What inference do you draw?’
‘An inference which on the face of it seems to corroborate your husband’s assertion of his innocence. Mark you, I only say it seems to do so. I do not say it does.’
Maria covered her face with her hands and wept passionately, but her tears were rather the result of hope than of despair. Her over-strained nerves were in that state when they were as liable to give way under the effects of joy as they were under the effects of sorrow. She fell on her knees at Danevitch’s feet, and, clasping her hands in passionate appeal, implored him to save her husband. He raised her up, and said softly:
‘I will do what I can.’
It was really remarkable that it should have been left for Danevitch to bring out that curious point about the money. All the police officials had overlooked it. They were cock-sure, for they believed that the case was so clear against the prisoner that it would not admit of a doubt.For some days after the interview with Maria, Danevitch concerned himself with endeavouring to prove if Ivanoff had had more than the one thousand roubles, but the most exhaustive inquiries, and the most rigorous search of his house, failed to get a trace of a single rouble beyond the one thousand which he had declared Riskoff had lent him, a portion of which he had paid away to his creditors. When it became known that Danevitch was engaged on the case, and that he was trying to find out what had become of the two thousand roubles out of the three thousand drawn from the bank, not only was public curiosity aroused, but to some extent opinion swung round, and sympathy was expressed for the prisoner. The police, however, were not moved, unless it was to become still more prejudiced against Ivanoff. They knew the power of Danevitch, and the influence he had in high quarters, and they were determined not to lose their prey. They therefore resorted to all the forms and pressure allowed by the Russian law to exact from the unhappy man a confession of his guilt. Beyond the facts they had already got together, they could obtain no other evidence. They knew that it was just possible those facts might fail to secure a conviction, whereas a confession wrung from the suspected man, no matter under what torture it was obtained, would be accepted without question. Such was the law in Russia.
Weeks passed, and it leaked out that the prisoner’s obstinacy had at last been overcome. All that remained, therefore, to be done was to bring him up for trial, which would be a mere perfunctory business, and fix the date for his transportation. At last he appeared before the judges. The interest the case had aroused caused the court to be crowded to suffocation. When the prisoner appeared at the bar, those who had known Ivanoff previous to his arrest were shocked. They saw now an old white-haired man, with a haggard, hunted expression of face, and a wild stare in the restless eyes, as if he had suffered some tremendous mental shock. He seemed stunned, and as if he did not recognise anyone, and could not realize his position. Truly it issaid of him who is sent to a Russian dungeon: ‘He shall return no more to his house, neither shall his place know him any more.’ The prisoner had been chained, tortured, and punished until he had become imbecile. But what of that? Was he not the slayer of a fellow-man—a scarlet-handed murderer who for the sake of a comparatively small sum of money had ruthlessly taken the life of his best friend? He himself had confessed to it, so that no one could raise up a doubt. The counsel for the prosecution seemed to have an easy task of it. He went over all the evidence that was known. Ivanoff had applied to his friend for a loan; the loan was refused, and the letter of refusal was read in court with a great flourish. Nevertheless, the prisoner went to his friend’s house, taking a revolver engraved with his own name with him. What passed between them would never be known until the secrets of all hearts were revealed; but a little later Riskoff was found dead. Some distance from him was Ivanoff’s revolver. The dead man had been shot with a bullet from that revolver. The bullet had gone through his brain. By an inconceivable act of folly, the prisoner left his revolver behind. It must have fallen from his hand when he was rifling the victim’s pockets for the money, and he had forgotten to pick it up. Subsequently the money was found in his possession. Was ever there clearer circumstantial evidence in the world? But to make assurance doubly sure, there was the prisoner’s confession, taken down from his own lips in his cell, by the Judge of Instruction; there it was for the jury to inspect, duly witnessed and attested and legalized by the great seal of the Minister of the Interior.
The prosecuting counsel sat down with the air of one who had performed a noble deed and scored a great triumph. The prisoner was silent, motionless, his eyes staring blankly into space, and his white face without any expression. Amidst a hush that was painful, the counsel for the defence—one of the ablest men in Russia—rose to his feet, and, adjusting his gown with professional gravity, said: ‘I claim one of two things: either an immediateacquittal of the prisoner on the grounds of lack of condemnatory evidence, or an adjournment of the trial for a few days, when I shall be able to prove his innocence. As everyone knows, Riskoff, the murdered man, drew three thousand roubles from his bankers on the morning of his death. One thousand roubles only was traced to the prisoner. All the money was in small notes. I have here one thousand five hundred of the missing two thousand. There are witnesses present from the bank who will identify every note. We hope to regain the other five hundred shortly. These notes were not in possession of the prisoner, but of another man, the man who committed the murder, and who will yet be brought to justice. The prisoner at the bar is innocent.’
The effect of this announcement was startling and dramatic in the highest degree. Everybody seemed affected except the prisoner—he was unmoved; he continued to stare into space. There was a hasty consultation among the jury, and a hurried whispering with the Judge, who asked if it was true that Michael Danevitch had the case in hand. He was answered in the affirmative, and in the end he announced that no verdict would be given that day, but the prisoner would be put back for a fortnight.
Mrs. Ivanoff had not been present at her husband’s trial. She was prostrated with illness, the result of long mental strain and intense anxiety; but a day or two before the case came on Danevitch called upon her and bade her be of good cheer, for her husband was innocent. Although she knew that Danevitch was not likely to make such a definite statement as that without warrant, she exclaimed:
‘But it is rumoured that my husband has confessed the crime.’
‘I have heard the same rumour,’ Danevitch answered; ‘but a confession that is wrung from a prisoner is not always reliable. But come, now, take heart. I told you, in the first instance, that I was much struck by the fact that only one thousand roubles could be traced to your husband. If he murdered his friend for his money, why did he not take the lot? It seemed absurd that, havingcommitted the crime, he contented himself with one-third only of the amount he could have had. His story was that he visited Riskoff, who repented of his hastiness, and said he had written the letter of refusal when he was in a bad temper, and that had your husband not called, he was going to write an apology to him and enclose him one thousand roubles. As it was, he handed him the money, for which your husband gave a receipt as an acknowledgment that he was indebted to Riskoff to the extent of a thousand roubles. Subsequently, on Riskoff saying he was going to a gunsmith’s to buy a gun and a revolver to take with him on his journey, your husband pulled his own revolver out and offered the loan of it to his friend. The offer was accepted, and soon afterwards the two men parted. On the first blush this story had the appearance of being very far-fetched, and calculated to tax one’s credulity; but when I came to examine it in connection with all the circumstances, it presented itself to me as a statement of fact. Now I have no hesitation in saying that in the main, if not in actual detail, it is true.’
Mrs. Ivanoff heard this in silent thankfulness. She felt that her prayers had been heard, for night and day the poor woman had prayed that her husband might be proved innocent. Like most Russian women, she had an intense faith in the rites of her Church and the efficacy of prayer. Needless to say that after Danevitch’s statement her faith was strengthened, for she knew he was not the man to express such a pronounced opinion without he had a very good foundation for it.
As he himself had said, when he came to look into the matter the case presented itself to him in a very different aspect, and the prisoner’s story appeared probable. If that story was true, it necessarily followed that a third person must have been aware of the monetary transaction between the two men, and, taking advantage of the circumstances, had himself committed the crime for the sake of the two thousand roubles. It was upon that theory that Danevitch set to work. Riskoff led a bachelor life. His household consisted of two female servants and a manservant. On the morning of the crime the man had gone to the market. One of the females was an old woman who had been in the service of the family for upwards of fifty years, and had nursed Riskoff when he was a baby; the other was a young girl of about eighteen. The old woman at the time was in bed suffering from an ulcerated foot, the result of a cut with a piece of glass on which she had inadvertently stepped. Consequently the girl—Olga was her name—was in charge of the house. She admitted Ivanoff, and very soon afterwards her master and the visitor went out, and were absent nearly an hour. Her master told her that he was going to the bank to draw some money for his journey on the morrow. The two men returned together. In about half an hour afterwards she opened the door for Ivanoff to depart. The murder was not discovered until the return of the man-servant. Then Olga went to her master’s room to inquire whether he intended to dine alone that evening or whether there would be guests. On opening the door, she was horrified to find her master lying dead on the floor.
Such was Olga’s story, and it seemed probable enough, but Danevitch was not satisfied. The missing two thousand roubles set him pondering deeply, and he had a private interview with the old housekeeper, and questioned her about Olga.
‘Was Olga a steady girl?’
‘Yes.’
‘Had she a lover?’
The old woman thought not; at any rate, no one who came to the house. But did nobody visit her? Well, yes, a brother had been to see her the previous day. Her brother was called Andrey. He was a soldier stationed at Cronstadt, but was on furlough, and passed through St. Petersburg on his way to visit his parents, who resided at a place called Ladeinoe Pole, a little village lying to the north of St. Petersburg and the east of Lake Ladoga.
‘Was the brother at the house on the day of the murder?’
The housekeeper did not know. She thought not. But, still, he might have been without her knowing it.
Pursuing his inquiries, Danevitch found that this soldier brother had left St. Petersburg on the night of the murder for his home. Danevitch followed him there, but found on his arrival that, his furlough being up, he had returned to Cronstadt. The parents were peasants, and, like most Russian peasants, living a miserable sort of life; but Danevitch learnt this fact, that quite recently they had been to a neighbouring market-town and purchased a horse and two cows, which made the neighbours quite envious; and, of course, such an event in so small a village was a nine days’ wonder, and was much commented upon. The soldier son, who was so good to his parents, had no doubt provided them with the money. Danevitch, however, was well aware that, however dutiful and affectionate the son was, he could not save from his miserable pay a sum sufficiently large for the purchase of two cows and a horse. The pay of the Russian private is about one halfpenny a day. It is therefore impossible for him to save money. Having regard to these facts, the detective deemed some explanation imperatively necessary. But before he took his departure from the little village, it came to his knowledge that Andreyvitch, the father of Andrey, the soldier, was carrying on negotiations with a Jew—Weissmann by name—a nationalized German, for the purchase of a little plot of land in the village. Weissmann had had a mortgage on the land, had foreclosed, and was anxious to sell. At last a bargain was struck, and Andreyvitch paid one hundred roubles as earnest money. The hundred roubles was paid in notes. They formed part of the amount Riskoff had drawn from the bank. Thereupon Danevitch confronted old Andreyvitch with two armed officers of the law, and demanded to know where he got those notes from. The simple and ignorant old peasant at once answered that he had received them from his son.
‘Where did the son get them from?’
The father understood that his son had found a roll of notes, and though he ought to have delivered them at thebureau of police, his strong affection for his poor old parents prompted him to commit a breach of the law by retaining the money and giving it to his father.
‘Had the father any more notes?’
Yes, he had a roll of them. He produced them from a hole in the thatch of his house. They were carefully wrapped up in a piece of sheepskin to keep them from the damp. There were notes to the value of one thousand five hundred roubles. The old people had already spent about five hundred roubles in the purchase of the cows and the horse, and in clearing off certain debts. To the astonishment and terror of the old people, the notes were retained, and steps were taken to recover those that had already been paid away.
With the money in his possession, Danevitch returned to St. Petersburg, and handed it over to the defending counsel in time for him to make that dramaticcoupin court. The next step was the arrest of Olga and Andrey. They were arrested simultaneously, though one was in St. Petersburg, the other in Cronstadt. The woman was terrified at first, but when she was confronted with the Judge of Instruction, she became sullen, and refused to answer any questions. Not so Andrey; he at once confessed that he had stolen the money, but vowed that he did not commit the murder.
‘Who did commit the murder, then?’
He believed that Ivanoff did. All that he knew about it was what his sweetheart had told him; she said she had found her master shot. He was lying on the floor with a bullet-wound in the head, and on the table was a pile of bank-notes. She asked him to go to the room and take the notes, which he did.
Danevitch saw at once the discrepancies in this story. It was not at all likely that Ivanoff would have gone off leaving a large number of bank-notes on the table. So Olga and Andrey were each consigned to a secret dungeon. In the course of a week the discipline of the dungeon life had worked its effects on Olga, and with blanched lips she related the following story to the Judge of Instruction.
Her soldier lover had come to see her two days beforethe crime, and, unknown to her master, she had kept him in the house during those two days. On the morning of the crime, when her master and Ivanoff returned from the bank, she had to go into the room to take in some refreshments. She saw a great heap of notes on the table; she heard the conversation about the revolver, and saw Ivanoff hand his to her master. When the visitor had departed and she had closed the door upon him, she thought how easy it would be to murder the master, take his money, and let it seem as if Ivanoff had done it. Her fellow-servant was ill in bed; the man-servant was out. Her lover was at hand, and nobody knew that he was there. She hurried to him. She told him all. He was entirely under her influence. She went to her master’s room again. The notes were still on the table, so was the revolver. He was busy making up his books, and did not seem to notice her. As she removed a tray containing glasses and biscuits, she secretly took away the revolver also. Then she flew to Andrey, gave him the weapon, and they returned to the room. She opened the door gently; Riskoff was sitting at the table, still writing. Andrey crept in on his hands and knees and shot him. He took the notes and the receipt given by Ivanoff to his friend for the thousand roubles, and immediately left the house. In six months’ time he would be drafted into the reserve; then he and Olga would be married, and go to live with his people. Nobody would suspect them of the crime. The case was clear against Ivanoff; he would probably die, and there would be an end of it, for dead men tell no tales.
All would no doubt have turned out just as the wretches desired, had Danevitch not been brought upon the scene. The horrible story as told by Olga was corroborated in every detail, and the receipt given to Riskoff by Ivanoff was recovered. Andrey expiated his crime in the mines. Olga was sent to Northern Siberia for life. Ivanoff was released, but he was a mental wreck, and his loving and devoted wife had to place him in a lunatic asylum. Danevitch had saved him from Siberia, but could not save him from the living death to which a cruel fate had doomed him.