THE TRIUMPH OF COUNT SANDOFF.
The effect of the girl’s brief words upon Sandoff was startling.
His face suddenly assumed the color of ashes; he retreated to his desk,
and stood there supporting himself by one hand and looking down at Vera
Shamarin with an expression that was hard to define—a glance of mingled
horror and pity.
The girl sprang forward and threw herself at his feet.
“Save him! Save him!” she cried incoherently. “He is my brother—all that
I have in the world. If he is taken they will send him to Schlusselburg
or to Siberia—or perhaps even worse.”
Sandoff drew back a little.
“Do you realize what you are asking of me?” he said. “Do you know that I
could have granted you anything rather than that?”
He spoke in a low tone and signified to the girl to be equally cautious.
But she was in no mood for reasoning.
“Your oath! Remember your oath!” she cried. “You dare not break it. You
must save my brother, as you have sworn to do. It cannot imperil you, for
none will ever know how he escaped. Give him such a passport as you give
to your own agents when they are sent out of Russia on police business.
He will be perfectly disguised, and the manner of his escape will never
even be suspected.”
She looked at Sandoff, and seeing no trace of pity or of yielding on his
stern features, she sank back on the chair and gave way to a flood of
tears, her slender frame shaking with emotion.
Sandoff fixed his eyes vacantly on the floor. He was passing through a
tremendous mental struggle. He could easily do what this girl asked of
him—but only at the cost of his honor. He did not fear that his treachery
to the government would be discovered—his power was too absolute for
that—but he knew that the sting of conscience would be always with him;
that he would ever be reminded by that self accusing mentor of his
unfitness to retain his high position and the confidence of the Czar. But
on the other hand his word was binding. He had sworn to aid this girl to
his utmost power—had taken the oath with a full knowledge of the straits
into which it might some day lead him, remote as such a contingency
seemed at the time. Moreover, her tears and her beauty now moved him to
pity. He deplored the fact that one so young and fair should be connected
with the revolutionary party.
As he thus reviewed his unpleasant situation, a clock on his desk struck
the hour of ten, and the girl rose quickly to her feet.
“If you intend to save him you must lose no time,” she sobbed. “Your
police are drawing closer every moment, and he dare not leave his hiding
place without means of getting away from the city. Do you think that it
cost me nothing to save your life a year ago? You are mistaken. My act
was discovered, and I was cruelly beaten. But for my brother I should
have been killed. Do you still hesitate? If you care nothing for your
oath, I appeal to your pity. Help me, I implore you, and I shall be
grateful as long as I live. If you will send my brother safely out of
Russia, I promise you that he shall never return. My influence over him
is great, and he will do what I ask. Oh, help him—help him for my sake——”
Her voice failed her. She stood before Sandoff with her hands
outstretched, and the tears coursing down her cheeks. He was visibly
moved by her misery.
“Have no fear, your brother shall be saved,” he said gently. “I will keep
my promise, even at the sacrifice of my honor. In return I ask of you two
things—that Felix Shamarin shall never return to Russia, and that none
shall know what I have done tonight.”
“Yes, yes, I promise,” she whispered brokenly. “You may rely upon it.”
She caught his hand and covered it with kisses, but Sandoff quickly
withdrew it, and, turning away without a word, seated himself at his
desk. For a few moments he wrote briskly, glancing from time to time at
the clock, while Vera’s eyes followed every motion of his own.
Finally he laid aside his pen and handed her a folded paper.
“Here is a passport for your brother,” he said quietly. “It is made out
fictitiously, of course, but none will question the signature, and if
he is properly disguised there will be no risk, either to him or to me.
At midnight a through train leaves the Moscow terminus for Berlin. Let
him take it, if possible. But are you sure that he can pass through the
police lines in safety—my men are very close to Lyapin’s house?”
The girl started violently. “Ah, you know where he is concealed?” she
cried. “You are the most noble—the most generous of men. Yes, he can pass
through in safety; there is a way.”
She tried to say more, but her voice choked with emotion. She hastily
donned her cloak and veil and approached the door. Sandoff preceded her.
“God bless you, Inspector Sandoff,” she whispered.
The door opened and closed. Her light footsteps echoed through the hall
and down the staircase. Then all was silence.
When she had gone Sandoff remained standing a moment by the door,
pressing his hands to his forehead as though he would stifle the
conflicting thoughts that were struggling for mastery in his brain.
Then he picked up a glass of vodka from the table, and swallowed a little
of the strong spirit. The composing effect of this was instantaneous. He
walked steadily across the floor and threw open the door of the middle
room. An expression of relief appeared on his face as he saw that the
apartment was empty, and the rear door as he had left it.
“My fears were groundless,” he thought. “Zamosc is the last man to pry
into private affairs.”
He opened the back room and called the occupants out.
“I regret being compelled to keep you waiting so long,” he said in
apologetic tones. “My visitor was very importunate.”
“It makes no difference,” said Zamosc; “but I am glad that you are here
all the same, for I have an important engagement, and must leave at once.
It is already half past ten. What about this stupid fellow whom I brought
here?” he added in a low tone. “Does he know anything of the Shamarin
affair?”
“Nothing new,” replied Sandoff. “He tells me that Shamarin is concealed
within half a mile of the Ostroff bridge on the Fontana Canal—a piece of
information which we have known for the past two days. By the way, if
anything turns up before morning, let me know. I shall remain here all
night.”
“Very well,” said Zamosc.
He passed out of the room, and his quick, firm footsteps were heard
descending the stairs.
Sandoff turned to Poussin, who was seated on a chair, fumbling with his
cap.
“Follow me. I have something to say to you,” he commanded.
He passed into the front room with Poussin at his heels, and, stopping
before a ponderous iron chest in one corner, unlocked and opened the
lid. He took out a roll of bank notes—a portion of his private fortune,
received that morning from his bankers—and, approaching the table,
counted out six thousand rubles in full view of Poussin, who watched the
operation with sparkling eyes. Then he passed them into the fellow’s hand.
“Here is the reward for your information, and an extra thousand besides,”
he said. “Put the money away, and say nothing to any one of what has
occurred tonight. Do you understand? You must keep the information about
Shamarin strictly to yourself. If you disobey me you will probably lose
your money and your life, too. Stay, you had better not return to your
home tonight. Go to some other quarter of the city. That is all. Remember
my warning!”
Poussin stuffed the bank notes into his pocket with a trembling hand. His
eyes were fairly bulging from their sockets at the unprecedented sight of
so much money. He would have fallen at the feet of his benefactor, but
Sandoff’s manner forbade any such demonstration.
The latter was tempted for an instant to ask the fellow if Zamosc had
remained in the back room with him all the time, but a second later he
changed his mind. He had implicit faith in his agent, and felt ashamed
of the momentary suspicion that had crossed his mind. He opened the door,
and Poussin shuffled out, half crazy with joy, and went slowly through
the hall and down the stairs.
Sandoff paced the floor a couple of times, and then, drawing his chair up
to the lamp that was burning cheerily on his desk, he lit a fresh cigar
and picked up one of the evening papers. The clock unceasingly ticked off
the minutes, and the street without, at first enlivened by the occasional
tread of a passer by, soon became entirely deserted.
* * * * *
On this same evening, and while Victor Sandoff was reading the St.
Petersburg papers at the headquarters of the Third Section, his uncle,
Count Sandoff, was engaged in a similar occupation in his luxuriously
furnished library of his stately residence on the Court Quay. A touch
of gout had confined him to the house, and his right leg was propped on
a couch surrounded by soft pillows. Consequently he was in an unusually
vile temper, and this frame of mind was aggravated by the merry and
continuous tinkle of bells from the sleighs that were speeding swiftly
over the ice covered waters of the Neva, and along the frozen surface of
the Quay.
Count Sandoff was a short, portly man, some sixty years of age. His
features, once handsome and aristocratic, had become coarse and bloated
by reason of many years of constant and excessive dissipation. As already
stated, the count was on bad terms with his nephew Victor, and the cause
of this estrangement shall be explained.
When Victor’s mother died—shortly before the assassination of her
husband—she left to the latter her fortune, the income to be used by
him during his lifetime, and the principal to revert to Victor at his
father’s death. But the property was not legally tied up, and knowing
this, Count Sandoff, who needed a large sum of money to retrieve recent
losses at the gaming table, applied to his brother for a loan of one
hundred thousand rubles from his deceased wife’s estate. Colonel Sandoff
refused the request absolutely. He was a man of honor, and knew how
little chance there was of the money being returned. Moreover, some years
before, when the position of the brothers was reversed, a similar request
on his part—though for a much smaller sum—had been indignantly refused by
the count, who could easily have spared the money at that time.
From this point dated the coolness between the brothers; and when, after
the death of his father, Victor came into possession of his inheritance,
the count’s animosity toward his nephew deepened. He envied the young
man the possession of so much wealth, which he fancied should, at least
in part, have belonged to him. Indeed he went so far as to enter into a
conspiracy with one of Victor’s own men—a very ambitious and unscrupulous
fellow—with a view to accomplishing the downfall of his nephew by
whatever foul means the course of events might offer. Up to the present
time nothing had been accomplished, in spite of the count’s influence,
which by the way was considerable. The name of his assistant in this
nefarious plot was Serge Zamosc.
Perhaps the count’s thoughts were dwelling on the family feud this
evening, for his face wore a bitter expression as he pored over the
columns of the paper. Finally he flung the sheet aside with a muttered
curse, and reached for a bell cord with the intention of summoning his
servant. But before he could touch it a shadow fell across the doorway,
and Serge Zamosc entered the room with an ease of manner that showed him
to be a frequent and unannounced visitor.
“Oh, it’s you, is it?” said the count curtly. “Sit down. Nothing new, I
suppose? Have a glass of wine?”
“Yes to the first question, no to the last,” replied Zamosc quietly, as
he settled himself in an easy chair by the count’s side.
“What! Has your clever brain discovered a plan?” demanded the latter,
suddenly becoming animated. “Do you mean to say that I shall succeed at
last—after all this time! Don’t keep me in suspense. Explain yourself.”
“Softly, softly,” replied Zamosc. “I said nothing of the sort, did I?
But let us suppose that I _had_ succeeded—that I _had_ discovered a sure
and speedy way of accomplishing your object. Would you in that event be
prepared to carry out the agreement you made some time ago?”
“You are concealing something,” growled the count in reply. “Why don’t
you come to the point, Zamosc? You know how impatient I am. But stop—I
will answer your question. In case you had really accomplished what you
suggest, I would keep my word to the letter. I would see to it that you
were appointed Inspector of the Third Section, in place of my nephew, and
I would give you in addition the sum of ten thousand rubles.”
“But could you get the property into your hands?” said Zamosc. “The
government, you know——”
“Yes, I know,” replied the count coolly. “The government usually
confiscates the property of condemned criminals, but there are
exceptions, and this would be one of them. I have already made my way
clear for that, and I am sure of receiving at least one half of my
nephew’s wealth—if not more.”
“Enough!” rejoined Zamosc. “Just sign this paper, will you?”
He passed the document to the count, who read its contents with a
wrinkled brow. Then, after a brief hesitancy, he took a pen from the
table, dipped it in ink and wrote his signature at the bottom.
“You watch the loopholes sharply,” he said, handing the paper back.
“True,” replied Zamosc, “else I should not be where I am. But now to
business,” he added. “The supposition I mentioned a few moments ago is
not a supposition at all, but a reality. I have in my possession proof
that will send Victor Sandoff to Siberia for life, and that, too, without
any risk to us, for the proof is genuine. We have been spared the trouble
of concocting a conspiracy.”
The count rose up, heedless of the pain in his gouty leg.
“Is this true?” he cried sharply. “Pardon me, Zamosc, but your story
seems incredible.”
“It is true,” replied Zamosc. “Wait a moment. I will convince you.”
He left the room and returned shortly, followed by the man Poussin, who
had been waiting in the lower hall. They drew their chairs close up to
the count, and Zamosc related hurriedly the events of the evening—how he
had overheard, by placing his ear to the crack of the door, the whole
conversation between Inspector Sandoff and his fair guest, and how he
waited outside until Poussin appeared and then compelled him by threats
to confess the story of his bribery, and finally to accompany him to the
house of the count.
As link after link in the chain of evidence was revealed, the count’s
brutal eyes glowed with delight.
“Yes, we have him at last,” he cried. “But I would not have believed it
of him, Zamosc—I swear I would not. He has thrown himself away for a
woman—played right into our hands.”
“Yes,” replied Zamosc, glancing at the clock. “He is lost. And now for
action. There is no time to lose. Shamarin must be arrested, first of
all—the Moscow terminus will be the place for that—and then we will
surprise the inspector at headquarters.”
“Yes, yes, that is a good plan,” exclaimed the count eagerly. “But you
had better let the gendarmes make the two arrests. Go around to the first
station on the Nevskoi Prospekt. You will find Captain Nikolin in charge.
He has men there, and will act at once—a very necessary thing, for it is
half past eleven o’clock now.”
“True,” said Zamosc, “and the train for Berlin leaves at midnight. Before
morning the affair will be accomplished, and within a month, at the
furthest, I shall expect a fulfillment of your promise, my dear count.”
“And you shall not be disappointed—if my influence counts for anything.
Good night, and success to you.”
“Good night,” rejoined Zamosc.
He hurriedly left the room, taking Poussin with him, and a moment later
the two were striding hurriedly along the Court Quay in the direction of
the Nevskoi Prospekt.
* * * * *
Although the St. Petersburg newspapers seldom obtain any information
concerning the movements of the police—at least not until it is several
days old—no less than two of the morning journals announced, in their
issue for January 11, that Felix Shamarin, the Nihilist, and his sister,
had been arrested on the previous night at the Moscow terminus, and that
Inspector Victor Sandoff was apprehended an hour later on a charge of
aiding the aforesaid Felix Shamarin in his attempt to escape.
The assassination of the Czar could hardly have created more surprise
and consternation throughout the city, and when the true facts became
known, as they did in time, much pity was felt for Sandoff, and not a few
expressed the opinion that he could not have acted differently under the
circumstances.
But pity and public opinion have nothing in common with the Russian
government. In spite of the high rank of the offender, Victor Sandoff
was brought to trial three weeks after his arrest, convicted, sentenced
to a term of ten years at hard labor in the Czar’s Siberian gold mines,
and sent off post haste to begin his term of banishment. He attempted no
defense, nor would any have been possible. The testimony of Zamosc and
Poussin was beyond question, and the passport that had been taken from
Shamarin was a still more damning bit of evidence.
Felix Shamarin and his sister had left St. Petersburg on the way to
Siberia ten days earlier—for the devoted girl, despite her youth and
beauty, was sentenced to share his punishment for the part she had played
in his attempted escape. Neither of them was aware of Sandoff’s arrest.
They believed that his perfidy was responsible for their own fate, and
their hearts were full of bitterness and hatred toward him. Nor did
Sandoff in turn know what had become of the Shamarins. All information
was refused him. He rightly attributed his downfall to Serge Zamosc, but
he was ignorant of the connection between the latter and his uncle, Count
Sandoff. Not for an instant did he suspect the truth.
Two weeks after Sandoff’s conviction, the papers briefly announced that
the ministry had appointed Serge Zamosc to fill the vacant office of
Inspector of the Third Section, and a short time later it was rumored in
club and social circles of the city that his Imperial Majesty the Czar
had been graciously pleased, for family reasons, to permit one half of
Victor Sandoff’s estate to revert to Count Boris Sandoff. So all the
actors in the Shamarin affair received their reward. Zamosc attained
the height of his ambition and the sum of ten thousand rubles, Count
Sandoff replenished his bank account and entered on a fresh course of
dissipation, and the rest—went to Siberia.