Sherlock Holmes in Russia (14 page)

‘Is he young?’ I asked.

‘Well, no,’ answered Sherlock Holmes. ‘I’d say, forty, and from his outward appearance, not someone I’d like to meet at night in a secluded place.’

‘What about the other stores?’

‘The fourth, belonging to a Semionoff, made me think all was not in order. The books are all bound, but they are in suspicious quantities, though, of course, that should not be enough to cast suspicion. Semionoff could very well argue that he bought the books from different publishers accidentally, not suspecting them to be stolen. Any accusation would fall apart.’

It was still quite early when Holmes woke me next morning. Opening my eyes, I was quite surprised to see an unfamiliar man with red hair and a thick red beard, wearing greasy, high boots and a red calico shirt showing from under his waistcoat.

‘What do you want?’ I asked, for some reason taking him for a labourer from outside.

The big chap fell about laughing.

‘Oh, damn!’ I exclaimed, recognizing my friend from his laugh. ‘By God, Holmes, you disguise yourself so well every time, the best detective wouldn’t know you.’

‘Yes, it happens to be one of my chief attributes,’ he said merrily, tugging a greasy black cap over his red wig. ‘I’m off this very minute on certain business and I’ll be back in a few hours. While I am away, will you find yourself an appropriate costume, well, at least one like mine. You’ll be more comfortable in it.’

He nodded and was gone. I began to dress. After breakfast I set off for Suhareff Tower and soon acquired all that was necessary.

Two hours later I was completely ready. I changed into my new costume, ordered a cold buffet with wine, and waited for Holmes. I didn’t have to wait long. Holmes returned at about ten.

‘Now isn’t this a treat!’ he said, looking at the table which had been set. ‘On my way home, I was thinking of a mid-morning snack. We’d best fortify ourselves as we might not be able to do so for some considerable time.’

We had a leisurely breakfast-cum-lunch while Holmes expounded on what he had been up to.

‘Yes, my dear Watson, you may compliment me on the wide circle of acquaintances amongst street bookstalls which I have made today. And getting to know the porter of the building in which Nikanoroff has his bookstore didn’t get in the way of
progress, either. And just imagine what I discovered!’

‘Well?’

‘Nikanoroff is not Nikanoroff at all. He is actually Gabriel Voropayeff. The book store is registered in Nikanoroff’s name, but he is unknown to the smaller stallholders and is never seen there, not as Nikanoroff. Gabriel Voropayeff, the boss, is the chap I had the pleasure of dealing with yesterday and he is nicknamed Gavriushka. I gather, from hints dropped by others, that he is a somewhat shadowy figure. Luckily, there is a third-rate tavern opposite his premises and from it we’ll be able to observe who comes and goes in and out of it.’

He fell silent and set about polishing off the roast beef. Having eaten, we left the hotel, with the suspicious eyes of grand-looking porters and door-keepers examining us from head to toe.

‘Perhaps I am mistaken, but I thought your absence was overlong,’ I said as we strode along.

‘Yes, I did stop off at a few more places,’ he answered. ‘I hope you won’t think it strange that as of today I am the assistant to the warehouseman of the publisher Dmitry Panfilovitch Yefimoff.’

‘Whatever for?’ I asked in surprise.

‘I had to do it to familiarize myself with his employees. Besides that, I was able to drop in on Kliukin, Karbasnikoff and other publishers who had suffered losses. I may now proudly say that I can easily recognize each of their employees.’

Thus, talking shop, we got as far as the book store outside which a black-and-white sign proclaimed:
NIKANOROFF BOOKS.
We crossed the road into an unclean, third-rate tavern, took a table by the window and ordered tea. Three hours passed in utter boredom and I cannot remember a single day of my life
when I drank so much tea.

Although Sherlock Holmes did appear totally at ease, I could see that he never dropped his eyes from the place across the road, examining with a close eye everyone who went in or out. We were going out of our minds from sheer boredom and finally left.

Not being familiar with the employees of the publishers who had been robbed, I couldn’t tell whether any of them were the ones who had been to Nikanoroff. However, since Holmes was making little notes from time to time, he had probably found familiar acquaintances amongst the visitors.

Having left the tavern, we strolled about for an hour or so, returned to our observation post and again got to drinking tea. Sometimes, I still wonder how I managed to survive all that tea.

Little by little, darkness fell. At seven o’clock precisely the shops began to close down. An athletic-looking, dark-haired man with the face of a gangster appeared on the threshold of Nikanoroff’s shop. Two employees appeared with him and the three began to put up shutters over windows and doors.

‘Quite the sympathetic looker, not so?’ Sherlock Holmes whispered ironically, indicating the athletic, dark-haired man with a nod of his head.

‘I take it, from your previous account, that this is undoubtedly the owner of the store,’ I said.

‘Spot on! This is Gavriushka Voropayeff, whom we are yet certain to be dealing with,’ answered Holmes.

Having locked up, Gavriushka stroked his beard as if he had all the time in the world and, having said something to his salesmen, made his leisurely way towards the tavern. I saw Holmes’s eyes light up when the man came in. Fortunately for us, he sat down at an adjoining table and asked for tea. Some twenty minutes later, a middle-aged, crafty-looking man walked in. He looked round, saw our man, approached and greeted him, and sat down beside him.

‘Well, then?’ asked Gavriushka out of the side of his mouth.

‘All right, everything’s OK,’ was the answer.

‘Look out, Fomka, see that you take care. You know for yourself, there’s new measures being undertaken. See that nothing comes out.’

The new arrival waved his hand cheerfully as if he did not have a care in the world, ‘They got the wrong ’uns!’

Gavriushka Voropayeff grinned smugly.

They were so near that we could hear every word, even when they lowered their voices to a whisper. For a while they fell silent.

‘I’m off to Petersburg tomorrow,’ Gavriushka Voropayeff said at last. ‘You tell the lads to get together in three days time. We’ll meet in the same tavern, in the back room.’

‘Done!’ answered Fomka. ‘Is something going on in Petersburg?’

‘I don’t just go for no reason. I’m simply tearing myself apart. Have to get to Petersburg and Nijni and Kharkoff. I am being summoned from all over.’

‘That’s it, you see. It is having a business that covers the whole of Russia,’ said Fomka smugly.

‘I’ll manage,’ answered Gavriushka.

They chatted for a few more minutes and left. We settled our bill and went after them. Out in the street, we saw that Voropayeff had said goodbye to Fomka, after which they parted ways.

‘That chappie will have to be watched,’ said Holmes, nodding his head in Fomka’s direction.

We followed him at a distance. This time it was a longish journey. Fomka must have been a man very careful with his money. He didn’t even take a tram, and we had to follow him as far as Marina Grove.

Fixing the house he had gone into, we halted for a minute and then, as if by accident, came up to the gates. Holmes asked me to
wait, vanishing into the courtyard. He returned a few minutes later, making a sign for me to follow. We met around the corner.

‘Well, have you found anything out?’ I asked.

‘Of course,’ answered Holmes. ‘That ten-kopeck coin I slipped the yard man must’ve had magical properties. Actually, I suspect Fomka upset him in some way, since he cursed him up and down behind his back. Fomka’s real name is Ivan Vihliayeff, but amongst the riff-raff he is known as Fomka Nikishkin. The yard man reckons he was in jug thrice and reckons it won’t be long before he goes in again.’

We walked silently for some time. Holmes was deep in thought. ‘My dear Watson,’ he said at last, ‘you’ll have to go to Petersburg.’

‘If it is absolutely necessary,’ I answered, ‘of course, I’ll go.’

‘And you have committed Gavriushka Voropayeff’s face to memory?’

‘Oh, yes!’

‘In that case, you’ll have to keep him under observation tomorrow and then travel with him, but I do beg of you not to let him slip out of your hands.’

‘I think you can depend on me,’ I answered. ‘Long practice with you has taught me a thing or two and if all that is required is to follow a man, I should be able to carry out such an assignment successfully.’

We caught a cab and returned to our hotel. That evening we dropped in on Dmitry Panfilovitch Yefimoff.

‘Do you believe in intuition?’ Holmes asked him.

‘Not really,’ answered the publisher.

Holmes shrugged, ‘Pity! But I do, and in my personal experience, there have often been occasions when my intuition has proved correct. Take now, for example. I have a feeling that tonight you will be robbed. I suggest you join us in setting up an ambush.’

‘If necessary,’ muttered Dmitry Panfilovitch Yefimoff.

‘Right-o! It’s late and all your employees are fast asleep, so we won’t be noticed. Take a torch with you.’

Dmitry Panfilovitch disappeared and was soon back suitably dressed with a torch in his hand. Within a few minutes we were entering Bahrushin House, where his storehouse was situated. He began to undo the locks.

‘Oho!’ exclaimed Holmes, ‘Five locks! Unlikely the thief will come this way. A better assumption would be that he is going to come through a passageway from a cellar next door.’

We entered and secured five locks after which Holmes lit a lamp and got to work. He meticulously examined all four walls.

‘The cellar from the house opposite goes under Kozitsky Alley,’ explained Yefimoff. ‘My cellar is a couple of yards short of that.’

‘That’s very important,’ said Holmes, approaching the wall.

His attention increased. But no matter which way he turned, no matter how many chinks he looked into, he found nothing. An hour of this, and Sherlock Holmes had to admit defeat. His efforts had been in vain.

‘There must be a way, of that I am certain,’ he muttered. ‘But it is done too well. Well, there’s no other way. We’ll have to sit it out. The thief will show us where his burrow lies.’

And he began to indicate our places to us. As for himself, he placed himself along the side wall where the passageway was most likely to be found. Yefimoff was hidden by the door behind bundles of goods. I was placed in the middle. The hours crept by wearily, but, at last, a dull sound came to our ears. We froze and held our breath.

And this is when something happened that even Sherlock Holmes did not expect. The door lock clicked. Then a second, and a third, and a fourth and a fifth … and the door opened.

In the doorway of the dark warehouse, Fomka’s figure appeared in outline. He looked round carefully and made a few steps forward, holding a large bunch of keys in his hand.

I looked at Holmes. He sat there hunched, like a cat waiting for a mouse, ready to spring.

Fomka advanced slowly in the direction of Yefimoff. And suddenly the unexpected happened and totally upset our calculations. The appearance of the thug must have frightened Yefimoff. And instead of calmly waiting, he suddenly sprang back like a madman and, at the top of his voice, yelled, ‘Stop thief!’

Fomka sprang towards the door. Holmes flew out of his spot like an arrow, but it was already too late. Fomka was through the door, slamming it shut after him, while Holmes, unable to stop in time, careened into it forehead first.

By the time we made it to the street, Fomka was far away. We heard him jabber something as he was caught in a leash by which a student was leading a dog, saw how he stumbled head over heels, as did the dog, but that only delayed him for a moment. Ignoring the student’s curses, he was up and away and soon was hidden from view. Willy-nilly, we had to return.

‘And you just had to start howling,’ Holmes said with reproach directed at Yefimoff, who, in the meantime, had come to and joined in the chase.

‘It’s all right for you to talk,’ was the answer. ‘This is the sort of thing that you’re used to, while it’s a first time for me.’

There was nothing to be done. The red-headed thug had vanished and after a few exchanges we went home.

We spent the whole of the following morning taking turns in the tavern opposite Gavriushka Voropayeff’s bookstore ostensibly owned by Nikanoroff. It was my turn when, through the window, I saw Gavriushka emerging. He spent a long time haggling with the cabbie and they were finally off.

I was after him and soon we were at the Nikolayevsk Railway Station. It was twenty minutes before the next train to Petersburg. I saw Gavriushka Voropayeff in the queue for third-class tickets and got an errand-boy to get me a ticket also.

The journey to Petersburg passed quickly enough and because I was travelling second class, I hardly saw Gavriushka. But then, at Tver, I was fortunate enough to see him go to the telegraph office and, standing behind him on the pretext, that I, too, was sending a telegram, I read his over his shoulder as he was so short. It was addressed to Panova’s Book Store in Petersburg, personally to an employee named Seriogin. The text was short and to the point:
ARRIVING THIS MORNING. MEET ME.

The telegram was a real find. Now, at least, I had some sort of key. Arriving in Petersburg, a fairly well-dressed young man approached Gavriushka Voropayeff on the platform. They greeted each other, spoke and made their way to the exit.

I left my case with its change of clothes in the station baggage room and followed them at some distance. At Liteiniy Prospect they turned right and soon we were over the Neva River. After some zig-zagging along the narrow alleys of the Viborg bank, Seriogin and Gavriushka went into a small tavern, whose customers must have been mostly cab drivers as there was a large cab station next door.