Stolen Souls — IV - The Man with the Fatal Finger, part 1

THE MAN WITH THE FATAL FINGER.

Three years ago, while I was writing a novel which deals with Nihilism, and which brought the heavy hand of the Press Bureau at Petersburg upon me, I contrived, in order to sketch my characters from life, to obtain an introduction to the little colony of Russian revolutionists which exists in secret in a northwestern suburb of London.

I eventually won their confidence, and ingratiated myself with them by advocating Russian freedom in a series of articles in a certain London journal, which had the effect of enlisting public sympathy with the exiles in such a manner, that the editor received a number of donations, which he handed to me, while I in turn conveyed the money to my friend, Paul Grigorovitch, the head of the branch of the Narodnoe Pravo.

I was sitting at home, reading and smoking, in a very lazy mood, one winter's evening, when the servant girl entered and handed me a soiled, crumpled letter, which, she said, had been left by a strange-looking foreign woman.

This did not surprise me, for I sometimes received mysterious unsigned notes from my friends the refugees when they desired to see me.

The exiles are continually under the observation of the "Okhrannoe Otdelenie," or Secret Police attached to the Russian Embassy, hence the cautiousness of their movements.

I tore the envelope open and read its contents.

The words, written in a fine educated hand,--evidently a woman's,--were: "Come to Springfield Lodge, St. Margaret's Road, Regent's Park, to-night at nine.

Important."

I confess the communication puzzled me, for I knew no one living at the address, and the handwriting was unfamiliar.

Nevertheless, I resolved to obey the summons.

With some little difficulty I found the house.

It stood back from the road, concealed behind a high wall.

The thoroughfare was very quiet and eminently respectable.

Each house stood in its own grounds, and had an air of wealth and prosperity about it, while the bare black branches of the great trees on either side of the road met overhead, forming a long avenue.

I gave the summons used at Grigorovitch's, namely, four distinct tugs at the bell; and presently the heavy door was opened by a Russian maid-servant.

"Who are you?"

she demanded in broken English.

I told her my name, and showed her the note I had received.

"_Harosho_!

Step this way, sir, if you please," she exclaimed, when she had examined the letter by the feeble light shed by a neighbouring street lamp.

Then she closed the door and walked before me through a well-kept garden up to the house.

Entering, she conducted me to a small and rather well-furnished apartment, the French windows of which opened out upon a spacious tennis-lawn.

Around the walls were hung several choice paintings, and I noticed that upon the table lay a number of pamphlets similar to those which the organisation were secretly circulating throughout the Empire of the Tzar.

In a few moments the door opened, and a very pretty young Russian lady of about twenty-three years of age came forward to meet me.

"Good-evening," she said, smiling.

"My father will be here in a few minutes.

You will not object to wait, will you?"

I assured her I was in no hurry, whereupon she begged me to be seated, at the same time producing a large box of cigarettes, offering me one, and, in accordance with Russian etiquette, taking one herself.

She struck a vesta and lit hers quite naturally.

Then, as she seated herself upon a low chair, I recognised that she was very handsome, and that every lineament and feature was perfect.

Her countenance had an expression of charming ingenuousness and blushing candour, while her dark brilliant eyes had an intense and bewitching glance.

In her brown hair was a handsome crescent of diamonds, and her evening dress of soft black net disclosed her white chest and arms.

"Were you surprised at my curt note?"

she asked suddenly, blowing a cloud of smoke from her pursed-up lips.

"Well, to tell the truth, I was," I admitted.

"You see, we are strangers."

"Ah, I forgot!

I suppose I ought to introduce myself," she said, laughing.

"I'm Prascovie Souvaroff.

I know your name, and have heard how you assisted our cause."

After I had acknowledged the compliment, we commenced a commonplace conversation, which was interrupted by the entrance of a tall, elderly man, whose thin face, sunken cheeks, and deeply furrowed brow were indicative of heavy toil or long imprisonment.

Prascovie rose quickly and introduced him.

"Ivan Souvaroff, my father," she exclaimed, and when we had exchanged greetings, she said, "Now I'll go, because you want to talk.

When you have finished your conversation, ring the bell, and I will return and bore you."

And, laughing gaily, she tripped out of the room.

Souvaroff took a cigarette, lit it, and, seating himself thoughtfully, looked into my face and said-- "I have to thank you for coming here to-night, sir; but the matter about which I desired to see you is one of urgency.

I have heard from Grigorovitch and others how you have assisted us in London and in Petersburg, and I thought it probable you would render me a small personal service."

"If it is in my power, I shall be most happy," I replied.

"It is quite easy if you will only do it; it is merely to insert a paragraph in the papers as news.

I have it here, ready written."

Then, taking a slip of paper from his pocket, he read the following announcement: "Prascovie, only daughter of Ivan Souvaroff, who escaped from Siberia after five years at the mines, died in London yesterday."

"Died?"

I repeated, in surprise.

"What do you mean?

Your daughter was here, alive and well, a few moments ago!"

"I'm aware of that," he replied, smiling mysteriously.

"You are not one of Us, otherwise I could tell you the reason."

"Does she know?"

"No, no," he exclaimed quickly.

"Don't tell her.

Promise to keep the matter strictly secret.

If you publish the paragraph, I will see she does not get hold of a copy of the paper."

"Very well," I said; "I'll do as you wish."

It was a puzzling paragraph, but I had already ceased to be astonished at any action on the part of these men, for the more I thought over their secrets, the more complicated they always appeared.

As he handed me the piece of paper, with an expression of earnest thanks, I noticed that he wore a glove upon his right hand, and commented mentally that it was a rather unusual custom to wear one glove while in the house.

A few moments after he had rung the bell, Prascovie returned, followed by the servant, bearing a steaming _samovar_.

"You've not been very long over your business," she remarked, glancing at me with a smile.

"Now it's all over, let's talk."

I was nothing loth to do this, and she and I resumed our chat.

Then Souvaroff related the story of his imprisonment, his transportation to Siberia, his work in the Kara silver mines, and his subsequent escape and journey to England, where he had been joined by his daughter.

Some English people thought, said he, that Russia was not prepared for the freedom the Narodnoe Pravo would like to see it possess; but he assured me that the time for autocracy was past, that the Tzar's Empire had outgrown the period of benevolent despotism, and that the Russian people were quite capable of governing themselves.

When he had described some of the exciting adventures connected with his escape, Prascovie, who had handed me some tea and lemon, seated herself at the piano and sang an old Russian love-song in a sweet contralto, full of harmony and tenderness.

In the meantime, her father had left us, and when she had finished, she turned upon the music-stool, and with few forewords inquired the nature of Souvaroff's business with me.

Of course, I was compelled to refuse to satisfy her curiosity, and at my request she returned to the instrument and commenced another song.

As she sang the second verse, there mingled with the music sounds of loud talking, boisterous laughter, and greetings in Russian, which proceeded from the hall.

Evidently some one had arrived, and was being welcomed by my host.

Prascovie heard it, and ceased playing.

For a moment she sat in an attentive attitude.

I noticed her face wore an expression of intense anxiety and that the colour had fled from her cheeks.

A few moments later I distinguished the voice of the servant answering her master, and after some further conversation a man exclaimed-- "_Dobroi notsche_, Souvaroff."

["Good-night."

] To this the man addressed replied in a cheery tone, the front door slammed, and my host returned into the room.

As he entered, he uttered some words in Polish _patois_ to his daughter.

It must have been some announcement of a startling character, for, uttering an ejaculation of alarm, she reeled and almost fell.

In a moment, however, she had recovered herself, and sank into an armchair in a grave, dejected attitude.

All the light had left her face, and with her chin resting upon her breast she gazed down in thoughtful silence upon the rosettes on her little morocco slippers.

Souvaroff appeared to have aged ten years since he left the room half an hour before, and although I endeavoured to resume our conversation, he only replied in monosyllables.

I marvelled at this sudden change.

Even if an unwelcome visitor had called, I could see no reason why such a strange effect should be produced.

I remained to supper, after which Prascovie threw a shawl about her shoulders and walked with me to the gate.

I expressed a desire to call again and spend another evening in listening to the passionate Caucausian songs, but she appeared strangely indifferent.

She merely wished me "_Prostchai_" very formally, and when we shook hands, she drew back, and I fancied she shuddered.

Then I turned away, and the gate was locked behind me.

Slowly I walked along the deserted road, absorbed in thought.

The night was bright and frosty, and there was no sound save the echo of my own footsteps.

I had been strolling along for perhaps five minutes, when suddenly I saw some object lying across the pavement.

The thoroughfare was very inadequately lit; indeed, so dark was it that I was unable to distinguish the nature of the obstacle.

Bending down, I passed my hands rapidly over it.

I found it was a man.

He was evidently drunk, therefore I resorted to the expedient of giving him a gentle but firm kick in the ribs, at the same time urging him to wake up.

This, however, had no effect; therefore, after repeated efforts to rouse him, I struck a vesta and held it close to his head.

The moment I saw the yellow pallor of the face and look of unutterable horror in the glazing eyes, I knew the truth.

He was dead!

His age was not more than thirty-five.

He had grey eyes, fair hair and beard, and from his dress I judged that he belonged to the upper class.

The heavy overcoat he wore was unbuttoned, and a silk muffler was wrapped lightly around his throat.

A glance sufficed to ascertain that he was beyond human aid, and after a moment's hesitation, I started off in search of a constable.

I was not long in finding one, and we returned to where the body lay.

Other assistance was quickly forthcoming, and, a doctor residing in the neighbourhood having made an examination and pronounced life extinct, the remains were conveyed to the mortuary.

Owing to the lateness of the hour and the quietness of the neighbourhood, there was no crowd of curious onlookers, nor was there anything to create horror, for no marks of violence could be discovered on the body.

At the inquest duly held I attended and gave evidence.

The medical testimony went to show that the unknown man had died suddenly owing to an affection of the heart, and the jury returned a verdict of "death from natural causes."

Nothing was discovered in the pockets which could lead to the unfortunate man's identification, and although his description was circulated by the police, the body was buried three days later in a nameless grave.

I had published the strange obituary notice Souvaroff had given me, and on the day of the inquest I again called at Springfield Lodge.

Only Prascovie and the servant were at home.

I had a pleasant _tete-a-tete_ with the fair Russian, and as we sat together, I commenced to relate my discovery on the night of my previous visit.

"Ah," she exclaimed, interrupting me, "you need not tell me!

I--I saw from the newspapers that you had found him.

The inquest was held to-day.

I'm so anxious to know the verdict."

I told her, and an exclamation of relief involuntarily escaped her.

This did not strike me as peculiar at the time, but I recollected the incident afterwards, and was much puzzled at its significance.

"Do they know his name?"

she asked eagerly.

"No. There was nothing to serve as a clue to his identity."

"Poor fellow!"

she sighed sympathetically.

"I wonder who he was."

Then our conversation turned upon other topics.

We smoked several cigarettes, and, after remaining an hour, I bade her adieu and departed, half bewitched by her grace and beauty.

When, however, I called a week later and gave the usual four tugs at the bell, my summons remained unanswered.

A dozen times I repeated it, but with the same effect, until a postman who chanced to pass informed me that the occupants had gone away suddenly five days before and left no address.

Surprised at this hurried departure, I walked to the house of Grigorovitch, about half a mile distant, and told him of my friends and their flight.

"Well," he said, with a smile, when I had told him their name, and explained the various circumstances, "I shrewdly suspect you've been tricked.

I know no one by the name of Souvaroff.

He is certainly not one of Us, and it is equally certain that he got you to insert that extraordinary paragraph by a very neat ruse."

And he laughed heartily, enjoying a joke that I confess I was unable to appreciate.