The Russians Collection

by Michael Phillips

  But he picked up not a trace, not the faintest whiff of a clue as to Basil Anickin’s movements. The man must have turned into a ghost to escape the net of Dmitri’s vigilance, in addition to the handful of gendarmes whose help—no thanks to the chief—he had privately enlisted. He let it be known in dirty taverns and sleazy faro rooms that he was looking for the lawyer who was associated with the defense of revolutionaries, and that if Anickin had any backbone he’d face Dmitri like a man rather than assaulting helpless women.

  He made himself a visible and available target. But to no avail. Either Anickin had long since fled the city, or he was too set in his wicked plan to kill Katrina before setting his sights on her husband.

  Dmitri hunched over a glass of vodka. He had never been in this tavern before. It had always been his custom to do his drinking in other parts of town than this, but he couldn’t be choosy these days, not if he hoped to locate his quarry. He had thought of swearing off liquor until he caught Anickin, but had not been successful at such a resolve. No man should be expected to face this kind of stress, this kind of challenge, without something to steady him.

  He drank slowly, as if this would be his last glass of the foul stuff that was as responsible as anything for bringing his brief marriage nearly to ruins. For the hundredth time, or so it seemed, he mentally retraced his steps of the last three days. What could he have left out? Where had he not gone? He had thoroughly combed the island. This tavern now hosting his weary bones was the last and certainly the most vile. But most of his investigation had to be done without the aid of those locals he encountered. They made no attempt to hide their suspicions. A few he had been able to buy off, but their information was as suspect as their greedy countenances.

  Dmitri could not believe Anickin would have departed the city so quickly. He had been by the estate two or three times, and from the guards posted and general activity about the place, it appeared Anna’s Cossack friend had everything well in hand for his wife’s protection. If he did not find the murdering doctor tonight, tomorrow he would bathe and shave and put on some fresh clothes and make another appearance, perhaps even take Katrina home and dismiss Grigorov and take up the duties of protection himself. But he would make one more attempt to flush the lawyer out of hiding.

  Dmitri lifted his glass, grimaced when he found it empty, and absently ordered another.

  He tried to remember everything Katrina told him about the attack—everything Anickin said. There had to be a clue somewhere.

  Suddenly he remembered the blood! It had been on his sabre. He had seen a splotch or two on the carpet without realizing it. Of course . . . in Anna’s attack, she had wounded Basil!

  He wondered how serious it had been. To have drawn the kind of blood that would have splattered to the floor, the wound must have been somewhat severe. Anickin no doubt had required medical attention of some kind. No wonder he had not been seen or heard from! He was wounded . . . perhaps lying in bed someplace!

  Dmitri tossed back the remaining vodka in the glass and jumped up from his seat. He threw a few coins onto the counter and hurried away.

  There must be scores of doctors in the city. Dmitri’s first thought was Basil’s own father. But knowing Basil as he did, he realized his father would be the last person to whom he’d go for help. It would be too obvious. Besides, Dr. Anickin had openly disavowed his son when he had been arrested. Most other respectable physicians could be ruled out as well; for to assist a known escaped criminal, especially under the new tsar, could land them immediately in jail . . . or worse. He would have to begin his new search from the lower end of the physicians’ scale.

  70

  The remainder of the day and well into the night Dmitri spent ferreting out every scurrilous medical practitioner—legal or otherwise—that he could get a lead on, beginning where he was on Vassily Island.

  His quest finally took him to Grafsky Lane.

  It was late. Thank heaven for the white nights that provided a small protection against the evil happenings that flourish best in darkness, and flourished on Grafsky Lane at all times, day or night. Dmitri moved warily, aware of the comforting pressure of the sidearm inside his jacket.

  One of his interrogations, and fifty rubles, had put him on the track of a certain Dr. Bobov.

  The fellow was, he had been told, a failed medical student who nevertheless called himself Doctor. He apparently used the few tidbits of knowledge he had gained at the university to prey upon the unfortunate wretches who could ill-afford even some of the more skilled charlatans Dmitri had encountered on Maly Prospect.

  Dmitri located him easily enough. He plied his trade with seeming immunity from the law, which was more concerned with the revolutionary element than a harmless old quack who had failed his exams. The pounding of Dmitri’s fist on the door must have startled the old man, for a crash of glass followed, and a string of curses sounded before the door was finally opened.

  “What do you want?” shouted Bobov, hitching a suspender over his shoulder. His greasy gray hair was tangled and unkempt. His face showed a thick stubble of beard. His eyes peered out of the darkened room, bleary, red, and squinting as if the bright light of the long-set sun had suddenly shone in them. Behind him in the room, Dmitri noted a rumpled cot with a table beside it that held an overturned bottle of kvass. On the floor, the shards of a broken glass, apparently the cause of the noise and the curses, were scattered in the puddle formed by the spilled kvass.

  “I would like to speak with you,” said Dmitri, “in private.”

  The man squinted even more at the cryptic words, looking over Dmitri’s shoulder as if expecting to see a squad from the Third Division at his back.

  “What for?” Bobov gave a loud, noisy sniff.

  Dmitri was in no mood for subtleties or delays. He shoved past the so-called doctor as if he indeed did have the Secret Police backing him up. Bobov stumbled backward as Dmitri spun around and slammed the door shut.

  “I am looking for a patient of yours,” he said with fire in his eyes as he turned back.

  Bobov stared at him silently, his face revealing nothing.

  “Don’t act dumb. I won’t stand for it,” Dmitri went on quickly. “The man had a wound in his right arm, perhaps his hand or wrist. He would have sought treatment two or three days ago.”

  “Got a name?”

  “His name is Anickin, though I doubt he would use it. Now tell me—what do you know about him?”

  “Assuming I had seen a fellow such as you’re describing, which I’m not admitting—”

  “Look, Bobov,” interrupted Dmitri, taking a menacing step closer, “I know well enough that you saw him! Now give me the information I want or it’s you who will need a doctor, and a real one rather than the likes of you!”

  “No need to get rough,” whined the doctor with a whimper as he backed up a step or two.

  But Dmitri misjudged the man’s intentions. He quickly leaped forward, grabbed the man’s soiled shirt with his fist, and slammed the pathetic body backward against the closed door.

  “I told you, I’m in no mood to be stalled!” he yelled threateningly. “Did I mention I am armed?”

  “I’m doing no such thing. You woke me up. Just let me have some spirits to clear the cobwebs out of my head.”

  “I’ve got no time for that . . . now talk!”

  “Evie’s friend, it was,” began Bobov.

  “Evie . . . who’s Evie?”

  “No-good woman—lives not far from here.”

  “What did the man look like?”

  “He was a mess—blood everywhere. But once we got it cleaned up, it wasn’t as bad as it looked.”

  “What did you do for him?”

  “Took a few stitches, that’s all.”

  “Where’d he go?”

  “How would I know?”

  But when Dmitri’s raised fist whitened in front of the man’s face, his memory suddenly improved.

  “Evie’s place,” he said. “Least I
got no reason to think otherwise. He’d lost some blood and was pale. So I told him he’d better lie low and—”

  “Where is it?” Dmitri cut in impatiently.

  “Round the corner—you’ll know it. Sign on the door advertising spirits and the like, people coming and going.”

  “Where was he?”

  “Upstairs, in Evie’s private room.”

  The only reward the disreputable doctor received from the angry and intoxicated count was a final shove that sent him sprawling onto the floor next to the broken glass and spilled kvass.

  71

  As Bobov had said, Dmitri found the place easily enough.

  The alleyway leading to the run-down, unsavory tavern was littered with garbage many days old. A tomcat screeched under his feet as Dmitri stepped into the dark passage, but he was so intent on his destination and the hopeful culmination of his hunt that he hardly paid it a second’s notice. He stalked through the door into the vile place as if he were attacking a Turkish fort—with none of the qualms of conscience of his brother-in-law.

  His soldier’s instincts served him well, for he knew that the best position any man could hope for in battle was that of surprise. Hesitation now, even for a brief moment, could make him lose the advantage he possessed.

  He stormed through the empty common room, took in the scene in an instant, located the stairs, and bounded up them with no hesitation. As he took the stairs two at a time, he drew out his revolver and held it poised in readiness.

  There was only one door on the landing above. It was closed.

  Dmitri paused only momentarily, drew in a deep breath, then raised his leg and crashed his booted foot hard against it. The latch and fittings all snapped from the blow, and as the splintering wood was still raining down around him, Dmitri burst into the room.

  Basil lay outstretched on a bed three meters from him, with such a look of astonishment and shock on his face that Dmitri might have found it humorous had his business been less deadly. A woman garbed in a flimsy dressing gown of faded reddish color lounged in a threadbare overstuffed chair next to the bed. She was some years older than Anickin, or at least looked it, even though a thick layer of rouge and powder tried to hide the fact.

  Dmitri absorbed the scene in seconds, noting in particular the bandage around Basil’s right wrist some five centimeters above the base of the hand. The brief interval filled with stunned silence ended as Basil regained his control.

  “So,” he sneered, “the swaggering count has found me at last.” His glaring eyes seemed almost pleased at the turn of events.

  “Yes, Anickin,” rejoined Dmitri. “Now we will see how you fare when up against other than helpless women.”

  “Helpless, ha! ha!” Basil gave a croaking laugh, but his right eye twitched with anything but merriment.

  “Get up!” Dmitri ordered.

  “Why not kill me right here in my bed?” His tone challenged, his eyes dared.

  “I, at least, have some regard for female sensitivities.” Dmitri turned his head toward the woman. “But I will either kill you or see you behind bars today, one way or another! Now move!” He cocked the pistol.

  Basil measured his adversary for one more moment before swinging his legs off the bed. Dmitri did not take his eyes off the lawyer, following his movements with the gun. He would put nothing past this lunatic! Yet despite his wariness, Basil’s next move nevertheless caught Dmitri unawares.

  As Anickin gained his feet, even before he had fully risen, he suddenly grabbed at the woman’s arm and yanked her toward him with such force that he fairly lifted her bodily from the chair. She had not even time to let out a surprised scream before she was firmly grasped in his arms as an effective shield against Dmitri’s weapon.

  “How many lives will you take, Remizov?” he shouted.

  “You are a vile animal!” cried Dmitri. He kept his weapon trained on Basil, cocked and prepared to fire at the first opportunity. There could be no thought of an honorable battle. The man was a wild beast, and must be approached and dealt with as such.

  Keeping Evie in front of him, facing Dmitri, Basil slowly worked his way toward the door. Although the woman looked terrified, she made no attempt to escape, nor did she struggle in the least. Dmitri wondered if the whole hostage scenario was a charade and whether he ought to call Anickin’s bluff.

  But there was no time for moral debates. Basil was at the door, and suddenly threw the woman toward Dmitri and sprang for the latch.

  The pistol fired out of control as the woman’s body slammed against Dmitri, knocking the gun from his hand. She slumped to the floor.

  Dmitri froze, aghast at what he had done. But his instincts allowed only a moment of horror before he sprang into action. Without pausing to retrieve his gun, he leaped over the woman’s body and bolted down the stairs in pursuit.

  Basil’s weakened condition was no match for the strength and speed of righteous fury. Before the wounded lawyer had reached the outer door, he felt a vise-grip upon his shoulder. Dmitri yanked him around and slammed him up against the sooty wall of the empty common room in one quick, violent motion. Basil scarcely had time to catch what was left of his breath when he found himself the victim of an unrelenting barrage of blows to his face and midsection.

  The superior strength he had exerted in their last encounter together had all but left him, and Basil was completely ill-equipped to fight back. Dmitri caught him by the throat, and, after several more vicious blows, began beating his head against the brick wall.

  Suddenly the air exploded with the sharp report of gunfire.

  With the force of the shot, Dmitri was thrown off balance. He felt a sharp, searing pain in his shoulder as he hit the ground.

  “Good girl!” said Basil through swollen, bleeding lips.

  The woman stood above them on the landing, bent and pale from her wound, holding Dmitri’s revolver in both her trembling hands.

  “I . . . I couldn’t let him kill you, Basil,” she rasped, then winced in pain as she slowly made her way down the stairs.

  “Give me the gun,” said Basil. “I’ll finish him off.”

  She hobbled toward him. “You’ll have to go now, won’t you?” she said.

  “There isn’t time for all that now, Evie—give me the gun.”

  “Take me with you, Basil. They’re sure to arrest me now, and . . . I don’t know if I’ll be strong enough to keep quiet. They’ll ask about my wound. How can I . . . take me with you . . . please.”

  “Of course I’ll take you. Now let me finish this rat off.”

  He grabbed the gun from her hand, and his lips twisted into a hideous grin as he pointed the gun back around at her and his finger squeezed the trigger.

  She did not even scream as the bullet penetrated her heart. She was dead before hitting the floor. Yet even as she crumbled lifeless, her lips wore the same look of relief, even of affection, that had come over her momentarily when for a few brief seconds, she thought they would be together.

  Even as the echo of the gunshot was reverberating through the room, Dmitri groggily came to himself. Hardly conscious of the burning pain in his arm, he lurched for the murderer’s feet. Basil stumbled back, tripped over Evie’s body, and reeled to the floor, the gun flying from his hand as he hit.

  Dmitri rolled to his left, stretched out his hand, and in a single motion swept up the weapon.

  Basil was back on his feet now. Dmitri fired.

  He was dizzy and his aim went wide. Still he fired . . . again . . . then again. It was only as the gun clicked empty that some of his vision began to clear and he saw that he was firing into thin air.

  Hurriedly he glanced around the empty room. Basil was nowhere to be seen. Dmitri struggled to pull himself to his feet. But his legs were sapped of all their strength. His head spun, and suddenly the wound in his shoulder came full force upon him. He staggered momentarily, then toppled over in a faint, collapsing in a heap over Evie’s body.

  When he awoke again, Dmitr
i had no idea how much time had passed. It could have been hours or only minutes.

  He instantly recalled everything that had transpired. His first two sensations were of the horrific pain in his swelling shoulder, and the lump of cold humanity lying beneath him.

  With revulsion, he crawled off Evie’s body and attempted to stand. The stiffness of his joints and the dried blood splotches might have indicated to him the passage of more than just a few minutes, but his brain did not absorb that information clearly. His first thought was only to be after Basil.

  He staggered to the door, grabbed the wall for support, then stumbled outside. The cool night air helped further to revive him, but the stench of garbage more than made up for it. The alley spun around and with effort he choked down his nausea. Inch by inch he gradually began making his way along the deserted close.

  But it was no use. Basil Anickin had long since disappeared, swallowed up in the gathering fog.

  Dimtri’s consciousness had already begun to fail him again when slowly he sensed that he was not alone.

  With blurry half-awareness he sensed that these people holding on to him were friends. Their uniforms indicated some royal regiment. They must have been sent to find him, to tell him all was well. They were now leading him home. And in a nice carriage, no less. It would feel good to get off his weary feet.

  But his head and shoulder ached dreadfully, and he could not keep his eyes open much longer.

  As Dmitri collapsed in unconsciousness, the two gendarmes on either side of him grabbed hold of his limp frame and stuffed him inside the paddy wagon. They climbed in beside him, yelling at the driver to make haste.

  With a man of this importance in tow, it would not do to keep Chief Vlasenko waiting.

  72

  Anna crossed herself with one hand and prayed fervently, while with the other she clutched Katrina’s squeezing fingers.

  The princess cried out, the sound of her voice shuddering through the little house. Katrina had long since given up any illusions about trying to maintain the restraint and propriety expected of her class. This was the greatest thrill, the greatest pain, the greatest exertion of a woman’s life. And for now, Katrina Viktorovna Fedorcenko was a woman, not a princess.