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 and
_agents provocateurs_ as 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 the _Okhrannoë 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
revolutionary circles, 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 grand _coup_ should 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 me with
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 the _coup_
elaborated.
While sitting one evening at a small table in the Café Royal in Regent
Street, smoking, sipping kummel, and lazily scanning the _Petit 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 were watching 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 passing
hansom, 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 carefully
watched 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; and you 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 his arm. “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 the _table
d’hôte_ at 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 the
_salle 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
occasion of the festival of the Knights of St. George at the Winter
Palace, the _coup_ was 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 you _bon 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 the _salle à manger_
presently, 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.