The Poisoned Pen(Fiscle Part-3) - Arthur B. Reeve (best detective novels of all time TXT) 📗

In

A Russian Peasant's Blouse,  Bending Laboriously Over A Writing-

Desk. So Absorbed Was He That Not Until Kharkoff Spoke Did He Look

Up. His Figure Was Somewhat Slight And His Face Pointed And Of An

Ascetic Mould.

 

"Ah!" He Exclaimed. "You Have Recalled Me From A Dream. I Fancied

I Was On The Old Mir With Ivan,  One Of My Characters. Welcome,

Comrades."

 

It Flashed Over Me At Once That This Was The Famous Russian

Novelist,  Boris Kazanovitch. I Had Not At First Connected The Name

With That Of The Author Of Those Gloomy Tales Of Peasant Life.

Kazanovitch Stood With His Hands Tucked Under His Blouse.

 

"Night Is My Favourite Time For Writing," He Explained. "It Is

Then That The Imagination Works At Its Best."

 

I Gazed Curiously About The Room. There Seemed To Be A Marked

Touch Of A Woman's Hand Here And There; It Was Unmistakable. At

Last My Eye Rested On A Careless Heap Of Dainty Wearing Apparel On

A Chair In The Corner. "Where Is Nevsky?" Asked Dr. Kharkoff,

Apparently Missing The Person Who Owned The Garments.

 

"Ekaterina Has Gone To A Rehearsal Of The Little Play Of

Gershuni's Escape From Siberia And Betrayal By Rosenberg. She Will

Stay With Friends On East Broadway To-Night. She Has Deserted Me,

And Here I Am All Alone,  Finishing A Story For One Of The American

Magazines."

 

"Ah,  Professor Kennedy,  That Is Unfortunate," Commented Kharkoff.

"A Brilliant Woman Is Mademoiselle Nevsky--Devoted To The Cause. I

Know Only One Who Equals Her,  And That Is My Patient Downstairs,

The Little Dancer,  Samarova."

 

"Samarova Is Faithful--Nevsky Is A Genius," Put In Kazanovitch.

Kharkoff Said Nothing For A Time,  Though It Was Easy To See He

Regarded The Actress Highly.

 

"Samarova," He Said At Length To Us,  "Was Arrested For Her Part In

The Assassination Of Grand Duke Sergius And Thrown Into Solitary

Confinement In The Fortress Of St. Peter And St. Paul. They

Tortured Her,  The Beasts--Burned Her Body With Their Cigarettes.

It Was Unspeakable. But She Would Not Confess,  And Finally They

Had To Let Her Go. Nevsky,  Who Was A Student Of Biology At The

University Of St. Petersburg When Von Plehve Was Assassinated,  Was

Arrested,  But Her Relatives Had Sufficient Influence To Secure Her

Release. They Met In Paris,  And Nevsky Persuaded Olga To Go On The

Stage And Come To New York."

 

"Next To Ekaterina's Devotion To The Cause Is Her Devotion To

Science," Said Kazanovitch,  Opening A Door To A Little Room. Then

He Added: "If She Were Not A Woman,  Or If Your Universities Were

Less Prejudiced,  She Would Be Welcome Anywhere As A Professor.

See,  Here Is Her Laboratory. It Is The Best We--She Can Afford.

Organic Chemistry,  As You Call It In English,  Interests Me Too,

But Of Course I Am Not A Trained Scientist--I Am A Novelist."

 

The Laboratory Was Simple,  Almost Bare. Photographs Of Koch,

Ehrlich,  Metchnikoff,  And A Number Of Other Scientists Adorned The

Walls. The Deeply Stained Deal Table Was Littered With Beakers And

Test-Tubes.

 

"How Is Saratovsky?" Asked The Writer Of The Doctor,  Aside,  As We

Gazed Curiously About.

 

Kharkoff Shook His Head Gravely. "We Have Just Come From His Room.

He Was Too Weak To Talk,  But He Asked That You Tell Mr. Kennedy

Anything That It Is Necessary He Should Know About Our

Suspicions."

 

"It Is That We Are Living With The Sword Of Damocles Constantly

Dangling Over Our Heads,  Gentlemen," Cried Kazanovitch

Passionately,  Turning Toward Us. "You Will Excuse Me If I Get Some

Cigarettes Downstairs? Over Them I Will Tell You What We Fear."

 

A Call From Saratovsky Took The Doctor Away Also At The Same

Moment,  And We Were Left Alone.

 

"A Queer Situation,  Craig," I Remarked,  Glancing Involuntarily At

The Heap Of Feminine Finery On The Chair,  As I Sat Down Before

Kazanovitch's Desk.

 

"Queer For New York; Not For St. Petersburg," Was His Laconic

Reply,  As He Looked Around For Another Chair. Everything Was

Littered With Books,  And Papers,  And At Last He Leaned Over And

Lifted The Dress From The Chair To Place It On The Bed,  As The

Easiest Way Of Securing A Seat In The Scantily Furnished Room.

 

A Pocketbook And A Letter Fell To The Floor From The Folds Of The

Dress. He Stooped To Pick Them Up,  And I Saw A Strange Look Of

Surprise On His Face. Without A Moment's Hesitation He Shoved The

Letter Into His Pocket And Replaced The Other Things As He Had

Found Them.

 

A Moment Later Kazanovitch Returned With A Large Box Of Russian

Cigarettes. "Be Seated,  Sir," He Said To Kennedy,  Sweeping A Mass

Of Books And Papers Off A Large Divan. "When Nevsky Is Not Here

The Room Gets Sadly Disarranged. I Have No Genius For Order."

 

Amid The Clouds Of Fragrant Light Smoke We Waited For Kazanovitch

To Break The Silence.

 

"Perhaps You Think That The Iron Hand Of The Russian Prime

Minister Has Broken The Backbone Of Revolution In Russia," He

Began At Length. "But Because The Duma Is Subservient,  It Does Not

Mean That All Is Over. Not At All. We Are Not Asleep. Revolution

Is Smouldering,  Ready To Break Forth At Any Moment. The Agents Of

The Government Know It. They Are Desperate. There Is No Means They

Would Not Use To Crush Us. Their Long Arm Reaches Even To New

York,  In This Land Of Freedom."

 

He Rose And Excitedly Paced The Room. Somehow Or Other,  This Man

Did Not Prepossess Me. Was It That I Was Prejudiced By A

Puritanical Disapproval Of The Things That Pass Current In Old

World Morality? Or Was It Merely That I Found The Great Writer Of

Fiction Seeking The Dramatic Effect Always At The Cost Of

Sincerity?

 

"Just What Is It That You Suspect?" Asked Craig,  Anxious To

Dispense With The Rhetoric And To Get Down To Facts. "Surely,  When

Three Persons Are Stricken,  You Must Suspect Something."

 

"Poison," Replied Kazanovitch Quickly. "Poison,  And Of A Kind That

Even The Poison Doctors Of St. Petersburg Have Never Employed. Dr.

Kharkoff Is Completely Baffled. Your American Doctors--Two Were

Called In To See Saratovsky--Say It Is The Typhus Fever. But

Kharkoff Knows Better. There Is No Typhus Rash. Besides"--And He

Leaned Forward To Emphasise His Words--"One Does Not Get Over

Typhus In A Week And Have It Again As Saratovsky Has."

 

I Could See That Kennedy Was Growing Impatient. An Idea Had

Occurred To Him,  And Only Politeness Kept Him Listening To

Kazanovitch Longer.

 

"Doctor," He Said,  As Kharkoff Entered The Room Again,  "Do You

Suppose You Could Get Some Perfectly Clean Test-Tubes And Sterile

Bouillon From Miss Nevsky's Laboratory? I Think I Saw A Rack Of

Tubes On The Table."

 

Part 3 Chapter 3 (The Germ Of Death) Pg 25

"Surely," Answered Kharkoff.

 

"You Will Excuse Us,  Mr. Kazanovitch," Apologised Kennedy Briskly,

"But I Feel That I Am Going To Have A Hard Day To-Morrow And--By

The Way,  Would You Be So Kind As To Come Up To My Laboratory Some

Time During The Day,  And Continue Your Story."

 

On The Way Out Craig Took The Doctor Aside For A Moment,  And They

Talked Earnestly. At Last Craig Motioned To Me.

 

"Walter," He Explained,  "Dr. Kharkoff Is Going To Prepare Some

Cultures In The Test-Tubes To-Night So That I Can Make A

Microscopic Examination Of The Blood Of Saratovsky,  Samarova,  And

Later Of His Servant. The Tubes Will Be Ready Early In The

Morning,  And I Have Arranged With The Doctor For You To Call And

Get Them If You Have No Objection."

 

I Assented,  And We Started Downstairs. As We Passed A Door On The

Second Floor,  A Woman's Voice Called Out,  "Is That You,  Boris?"

 

"No,  Olga,  This Is Nicholas," Replied The Doctor. "It Is

Samarova," He Said To Us As He Entered.

 

In A Few Moments He Rejoined Us. "She Is No Better," He Continued,

As We Again Started Away. "I May As Well Tell You,  Professor

Kennedy,  Just How Matters Stand Here. Samarova Is Head Over Heels

In Love With Kazanovitch--You Heard Her Call For Him Just Now?

Before They Left Paris,  Kazanovitch Showed Some Partiality For

Olga,  But Now Nevsky Has Captured Him. She Is Indeed A Fascinating

Woman,  But As For Me,  If Olga Would Consent To Become Madame

Kharkoff,  It Should Be Done Tomorrow,  And She Need Worry No Longer

Over Her Broken Contract With The American Theatre Managers. But

Women Are Not That Way. She Prefers The Hopeless Love. Ah,  Well,  I

Shall Let You Know If Anything New Happens. Good-Night,  And A

Thou-Sand Thanks For Your Help,  Gentlemen."

 

Nothing Was Said By Either Of Us On Our Journey Uptown,  For It Was

Late And I,  At Least,  Was Tired.

 

But Kennedy Had No Intention Of Going To Bed,  I Found. Instead,  He

Sat Down In His Easy Chair And Shaded His Eyes,  Apparently In Deep

Thought. As I Stood By The Table To Fill My Pipe For A Last Smoke,

I Saw That He Was Carefully Regarding The Letter He Had Picked Up,

Turning It Over And Over,  And Apparently Debating With Himself

What To Do With It.

 

"Some Kinds Of Paper Can Be Steamed Open Without Leaving Any

Trace," He Remarked In Answer To My Unspoken Question,  Laying The

Letter Down Before Me.

 

I Read The Address: "M. Alexander Alexandrovitch Orloff,--Rue De--

--,  Paris,  France."

 

"Letter-Opening Has Been Raised To A Fine Art By The Secret

Service Agents Of Foreign Countries," He Continued. "Why Not Take

A Chance? The Simple Operation Of Steaming A Letter Open Is

Followed By Reburnishing The Flap With A Bone Instrument,  And No

Trace Is Left. I Can't Do That,  For This Letter Is Sealed With

Wax. One Way Would Be To Take A Matrix Of The Seal Before Breaking

The Wax And Then Replace A Duplicate Of It. No,  I Won't Risk It.

I'll Try A Scientific Way."

 

Between Two Pieces Of Smooth Wood,  Craig Laid The Letter Flat,  So

That The Edges Projected About A Thirty-Second Of An Inch. He

Flattened The Projecting Edge Of The Envelope,  Then Roughened It,

And Finally Slit It Open.

 

"You See,  Walter,  Later I Will Place The Letter Back,  Apply A Hair

Line Of Strong White Gum,  And Unite The Edges Of The Envelope

Under Pressure. Let Us See What We Have Here."

 

Part 3 Chapter 3 (The Germ Of Death) Pg 26

He Drew Out What Seemed To Be A Manuscript On Very Thin Paper,  And

Spread It Out Flat On The Table Before Us. Apparently It Was A

Scientific Paper On A Rather Unusual Subject,  "Spontaneous

Generation Of Life." It Was In Longhand And Read:

 

Many Thanks For The Copy Of The Paper By Prof. Betaillon Of Dijon

On The Artificial Fertilization Of The Eggs Of Frogs. I Consider

It A Most Important Advance In The Artificial Generation Of Life.

 

I Will Not Attempt To Reproduce In Facsimile The Entire

Manuscript,  For It Is Unnecessary,  And,  In Fact,  I Merely Set Down

Part Of Its Contents Here Because It Seemed So Utterly Valueless

To Me At The Time. It Went On To Say:

 

While Betaillon Punctured The Eggs With A Platinum Needle And

Developed Them By Means Of Electric Discharges,  Loeb In America

Placed Eggs Of The Sea-Urchin In A Strong Solution Of Sea Water,

Then In A Bath Where They Were Subjected To The Action Of Butyric

Acid. Finally They Were Placed In Ordinary Sea Water Again,  Where

They Developed In The Natural Manner. Delage At Roscorf Used A

Liquid Containing Salts Of Magnesia And Tannate Of Ammonia To

Produce