Foreign Bodies

by Martin Edwards

  The examining magistrate spat on the floor and walked out of the bath-house. Dyukovsky followed him with his head hanging. Both got into the waggonette in silence and drove off. Never had the road seemed so long and dreary. Both were silent. Tchubikov was shaking with anger all the way. Dyukovsky hid has face in his collar as though he were afraid the darkness and the drizzling rain might read his shame on his face.

  On getting home the examining magistrate found the doctor, Tyutyuev, there. The doctor was sitting at the table and heaving deep sighs as he turned over the pages of the Neva.

  ‘The things that are going on in the world,’ he said, greeting the examining magistrate with a melancholy smile. ‘Austria is at it again…and Gladstone, too, in a way…’

  Tchubikov flung his hat under the table and began to tremble.

  ‘You devil of a skeleton! Don’t bother me! I’ve told you a thousand times over, don’t bother me with your politics! It’s not the time for politics! And as for you,’ he turned upon Dyukovsky and shook his fist at him, ‘as for you…I’ll never forget it, as long as I live!’

  ‘But the Swedish match, you know! How could I tell…’

  ‘Choke yourself with your match! Go away and don’t irritate me, or goodness knows what I shall do to you. Don’t let me set eyes on you.’

  Dyukovsky heaved a sigh, took his hat, and went out.

  ‘I’ll go and get drunk!’ he decided, as he went out of the gate, and he sauntered dejectedly towards the tavern.

  When the superintendent’s wife got home from the bath-house she found her husband in the drawing-room.

  ‘What did the examining magistrate come about?’ asked her husband.

  ‘He came to say that they had found Klyauzov. Only fancy, they found him staying with another man’s wife.’

  ‘Ah, Mark Ivanitch, Mark Ivanitch!’ sighed the police superintendent, turning up his eyes. ‘I told you that dissipation would lead to no good! I told you so—you wouldn’t heed me!’

  A Sensible Course of Action

  Palle Rosenkrantz

  Baron Palle Adam Vilhelm Rosenkrantz (1867–1941) was descended from a seventeenth century Danish nobleman, also called Palle Rosenkrantz, who was an envoy to the court of King James I. He was accompanied by a colleague called Gyldenstierne, and it does not take a Sherlock Holmes to deduce that Shakespeare borrowed their names (but not their life histories) for two characters in Hamlet.

  The Baron was a lawyer who—like many other lawyers before and since—took up writing to supplement his income. He became both prolific and successful, publishing novels, plays, non-fiction books, and radio plays, as well as translating Pygmalion and other plays by George Bernard Shaw into Danish. Of his detective fiction, The Magistrate’s Own Case was translated into English in 1908. Sir Hugh Greene described that book as ‘readable and ingenious’, and included Michael Meyer’s translation of ‘A Sensible Course of Action’, first published in 1909, in More Rivals of Sherlock Holmes. In 1973, Meyer’s version of the story was televised, with a glittering cast including John Thaw in his pre-Inspector Morse days, and Philip Madoc, best known for playing the title role in The Life and Times of David Lloyd George. Greene’s description of the story as ‘rather charmingly cynical’ is apt.

  She was very pretty; indeed, she was beautiful. Twenty-six at most, slim, very smart in a foreign style; unpretentious, but the real thing. She turned to Holst as he entered, and her grey dress rustled with the light whisper of silk. It sat as though moulded to her fine body, almost as though cast and not yet set. Her cheeks flushed, a little too redly, and her eyes flickered nervously.

  Holst bowed to the Inspector. His eyes rested on her for no more than a second; but he saw much in a glance.

  The Inspector asked him to sit. He sounded somewhat embarrassed. He sat at his desk facing the lady, restless as always, toying with a paper-knife, which he put down to scratch his sparse reddish hair.

  Holst seated himself and looked at the lady.

  ‘Lieutenant Holst, my assistant,’ explained the Inspector in French. Holst bowed slightly.

  The Inspector broke into Danish. He was not very fluent in French.

  ‘A ridiculous business, Holst,’ he said. ‘I’m damned if I know what course of action we should take. This lady says her name is Countess Wolkonski, and that she is from Russia. Her papers are in order.’

  He tapped the desk with some documents which had been lying in front of him.

  ‘Countess Wolkonski from Volhynien, to be precise from Shitomir in the district of Kiev. She is a widow. Her husband died in a Russian prison. He was a naval officer who was implicated in the Odessa mutiny—she says. Her only son died too, not long after his father—she says. She is passing through Copenhagen and is staying at the Hotel Phoenix. She arrived the day before yesterday. But, and this is the point, she asserts that her husband’s brother, who is also named Count Wolkonski, is trailing her and intends to murder her, because he believes she betrayed her husband to the Russian authorities. She went into a long rigmarole about it, all straight out of a novelette. To cut a long story short, she wants me to protect her. A charming person, as you can see, but I’m damned if I know what to do about her.’

  ‘I am handing this case over to Mr Holst,’ he added in French to the lady.

  She inclined her head and looked at Holst, as though seeking his help. Her eyes were at the same time searching and pleading. She was very beautiful.

  ‘I have checked,’ continued the Inspector, ‘that there is a Count Wolkonski staying at the Phoenix. He arrived a few hours ago from Malmö, and asked to see the Countess. When the porter sent up to her she was out, but as soon as she returned and learned that the Count was there she came along here like a scalded cat. I’ve tried to explain to her that there’s really nothing I can do. She practically fell around my neck, which would have been delightful, but how can I possibly help her? We can’t arrest the man, for we’ve nothing against him, we can’t take her into custody, and she genuinely seems too terrified to go back to her cab. I’ve promised her I’ll send a man down to the hotel. You must have a word with this Russian fellow and find what it’s all about. Of course we could send her papers along to the Embassy, but I can’t keep her here. You take her along and do what you can. I know I can rely on you to take a sensible course of action.’

  Holst said nothing, but rose and bowed.

  ‘Please go with this gentleman,’ explained the Inspector, thinking how much more charming the words sounded in French: ‘voulez-vous aller avec ce monsieur?’

  The lady protested. She would not go.

  ‘Madame,’ said Holst. ‘You need have no fear. No harm can befall you if you come with me.’ He looked impressively heroic as he said it. He was much better-looking than the Inspector, and spoke much better French. His appearance radiated reliability. He was a handsome man.

  She accepted his hand a little timidly and looked at him with two deep black eyes in a way that would have bothered Holst’s wife Ulla if she could have seen it. He noticed a small movement at the corners of her mouth, a faint tremor of emotion. She looked very unhappy.

  The Inspector seemed impatient.

  Eventually the lady agreed to go with Holst; and as they walked through the offices, all the station clerks almost audibly craned their necks.

  The Inspector muttered something to himself and, most uncharacteristically, bit one of his nails.

  Holst drove with the lady towards Vimmelskaftet. As soon as she realized where they were going, she became very nervous.

  ‘Monsieur Olst,’ she said. ‘You must not take me to the hotel. He will kill me. He has sworn to kill me, and he will do it, at whatever cost. I am innocent, but he is a traitor, a very great traitor. He has killed my little Ivan—do you hear, they murdered my little Ivan!’ She was totally distraught, and began a long story which lasted until they reached the corne
r of Pilestraede. It was a strange story, involving Dimitri Ivanovitch and Nicolai and the police and an Admiral Skrydlov and a Lieutenant Schmidt and others besides.

  But she would not return to the Hotel Phoenix, and at the corner of Ny Ølstergade she tried to get out of the cab. Is she mad, wondered Holst. But she looked, no, sensible. Hysterical, yes, afraid certainly; this Dimitri Ivanovitch wanted to shoot her, of that she was sure.

  Holst did not get many words in. He leaned out of the cab and told the man to drive down St Kongensgade to Marmorpladsen. At least that would provide a temporary respite. Then he explained to her what he had in mind, and that calmed her somewhat. She continued her narrative about Odessa, Lieutenant Schmidt, and several Admirals.

  Her voice was deep and rich. When she was calm, her face revealed a certain strength. But she was plainly very frightened, and it seemed unlikely to Holst that these fears could be wholly without foundation. Unless of course, she was mad.

  The cab stopped at Holst’s house, and he led the lady up the stairs and rang the bell. His wife was at home. It was lunchtime, and he introduced the Russian lady with a brief explanation of her presence. ‘Either she is mad,’ he said, ‘in which case I must get a doctor to her, or she is in genuine trouble, in which case we must try to help her. Talk French to her, and see if you can make anything of her. I’ll be back in half an hour.’

  So Ulla Holst found herself alone with the lady. It was the first time her husband had asked her to do anything like this. However, it seemed to her that if one member of the family had to have a tête-à-tête with so extraordinarily beautiful a woman, it was just as well that it should be she.

  The lady accepted a cup of coffee, sat down, and began to talk in a more ordered and logical manner. Gradually but visibly, she regained her self-composure. Ulla Holst sat and listened, blonde and calm, and found the Russian lady’s story by no means incredible. As she listened to its ramifications, Holst drove to the Hotel Phoenix and asked to see Count Dimitri Ivanovitch Wolkonski.

  He was in his room, and the porter took Holst up.

  The Count was a tall man, of military appearance, rather short-sighted, very swarthy, and far from attractive. A real Tartar, thought Holst. But he was courteous, and spoke exquisite French.

  ‘Count Wolkonski?’ asked Holst. The man nodded.

  ‘I am from the city police,’ continued Holst. ‘A lady residing in this hotel has come to us and asked for protection against you, on the grounds that you have designs upon her life.’

  Holst smiled politely and shrugged his shoulders. ‘The lady was in a very excited frame of mind—’

  ‘Where is she?’ interrupted the Russian, looking sharply at Holst.

  Holst didn’t like his eyes.

  ‘She struck us as mentally confused,’ replied Holst. ‘So we are keeping her under observation. Her story was so involved and improbable that we felt unable to regard it as anything but a—a hallucination.’

  The Russian said nothing.

  Holst went on: ‘I should appreciate it if you could tell me the truth of the matter. We naturally thought of approaching your Embassy—’

  ‘There is no need for that,’ interrupted the Russian quickly. ‘No need whatever. My sister-in-law is—not mentally ill—certainly not insane. But my brother’s unhappy fate upset her balance. Then her only child died. In my house, unfortunately, and she is convinced that I was to blame. That is the situation—as you have seen. I followed her here. She sold her estates in Russia; she had a fortune—she is very wealthy and spoiled. I traced her in Stockholm. She has made insane dispositions of her property, involving considerable sums that concern me. Enfin. I must speak to her, to try to bring her to her senses. Where is she?’

  Holst looked closely at the Russian. He thought the fellow was talking jerkily and a little hectically. But he might be telling the truth, and the lady’s behaviour had certainly been curious.

  ‘If you could accompany me to the Embassy it is possible that by discussing the matter with His Excellency and the Embassy doctor we might be able to arrange matters to your satisfaction. We cannot possibly take any action in this affair except through the authorities.’

  The Russian nibbled his lip.

  ‘You realize, officer, that our position in Russia is not easy. My brother was deeply compromised in a naval mutiny. He died in prison. I myself—God knows, I have been guilty of no crime, but I neither can nor will deal with the representative in your country of a ruler whom I regard as a tyrant. I hope you understand. Yours is a free country. Such political differences of opinion as may exist between the Tsarist régime and myself are no concern of yours, as I think you will agree. But I do not wish to have any intercourse with the Ambassador, or anything whatever to do with our Embassy.’

  Holst reflected.

  ‘It is unfortunate,’ he said. ‘But I appreciate your point of view. I have no official cause to take action against you. We do not perform political errands for foreign governments. I have received no orders in this affair and have no desire to take any step on my own initiative. Your sister-in-law asserts that you have designs on her life, but we cannot act on so vague a charge. But I must warn you that we shall be compelled to contact the Embassy, and it is possible that their reaction may alter the position.’

  ‘Will you arrest me?’ asked the Russian sharply.

  ‘Certainly not,’ replied Holst. ‘I have not the slightest ground or justification for that. But if you feel that any unpleasantness may result for you, my advice is that you should leave immediately. We shall have to speak to the Embassy and—well, I don’t know, but it is always possible that—. By leaving you will avoid any disagreeable consequences.’

  ‘I shall not leave without my sister-in-law,’ replied the Count.

  Holst was silent.

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘At the police station,’ said Holst. ‘If you care to go there, you can see her there.’

  ‘And meanwhile you will contact the Embassy?’

  ‘My superior has probably already done so,’ replied Holst. The Russian’s face pleased him less and less.

  ‘Very well. Then I shall come at once with you to the police station. When my sister-in-law has seen me and spoken with me, I hope she may come to her senses, unless—’

  He shrugged his shoulders.

  Holst felt unhappy. Now the Inspector would have another Russian on his hands. But what could be done? If this sinister character was really at odds with the Tsar, his position was hardly of the kind that could justify any action against him in Denmark. The newspapers had their eyes open, and the government would hardly be anxious to stretch itself to assist the present Russian régime. The main danger was for the Countess, if her brother-in-law really—but that was unthinkable. He scarcely suggested a mad nihilist with a revolver in his pocket; indeed, she seemed rather the less balanced of the two. Besides, he was under the eye of the police, and if the worst came to the worst Holst could help her to get out of the country while the Count discussed the matter with the Chief of Police, who would have to be brought in where such international issues were involved. Then the two could work out their problems in Malmö or Berlin, which were not in Holst’s district.

  To gain time, however, he prepared a long report giving the Count’s explanation of why he was trailing his sister-in-law. It read very plausibly. She had fled after somewhat precipitately disposing of her estates, to which he apparently had some legal claim; she was in a highly nervous and distraught state. His political opinions made it impossible for him to seek the assistance of the Russian Embassy; he therefore appealed to the police for assistance and, if necessary, medical aid, and undertook to present himself before the Chief of Police that day.

  Holst pocketed this paper and returned to his apartment.

  Ulla Holst had become quite friendly with the Countess. She had a kind heart, and the Countes
s’s story was of the kind to bring two sensitive ladies close together. Countess Helena Wolkonski was the daughter of a Lithuanian land-owner; at an early age she had married a naval officer, Count Nicolai Wolkonski, with whom she had spent six happy years. Then her husband, who was attached to the marine depot at Odessa, had become addicted to drink and cards. Marital infidelity had followed, and their home had broken up. The Count had allied himself to the forces of political discontent, thereby threatening the safety of his wife and child. In her despair the young wife had gone to his commanding officer and—she did not deny it—had betrayed him and his brother, who were hostile to the existing régime and were deeply implicated in the revolutionary movement. Count Wolkonski, by now in a state of physical degeneration, had been arrested and shortly afterwards had died in prison. His brother had saved himself by flight, taking with him her son, a boy of seven. Before long he had written to her demanding that she visit him in Vienna, whither he had betaken himself. She had no other relatives to turn to, and had therefore sold her estates. These realized a considerable sum. In Vienna she learned that her son was dead and—she declared—an old woman who had accompanied her brother-in-law on his flight had warned her that he was planning revenge. She said he had sworn to kill her to repay her for her treachery.

  Such was her story.

  She had fled, and he had followed her. She dared not return to Russia, for fear of the revolutionaries, so had gone to Stockholm, where he had traced her. Now she was fleeing southwards.

  Ulla Holst believed her story, and Holst had no evidence to contradict it. He briefly summarized his meeting with the Count and advised the Countess to leave the country with all speed, since she could produce no evidence for her charges against her brother-in-law. Her son’s death had been caused by pneumonia, and although it was not impossible that the Count was responsible there could be no means of proving this, or of taking any action against him.