by Graeme Davis
Until our arrival at the hotel he had never detected that I was following him, but on the second day in Paris we came face to face in the large central hall, used as a reading room. He glanced at me quickly, but whether he recognized me as the companion of Beatrice Graham in the hunting field I have no idea. All I know is that his movements were extremely suspicious, and that I invoked the aid of all three of our secret agents in Paris to keep watch on him, just as had been done in Petersburg.
On the fourth night of our arrival in the French capital I returned to the hotel about midnight, having dined at the Café Americain with Greville, the naval attaché at the Embassy. In washing my hands prior to turning in, I received a nasty scratch on my left wrist from a pin which a careless laundress had left in the towel. There was a little blood, but I tied my handkerchief around it, and, tired out, lay down and was soon asleep.
Half an hour afterwards, however, I was aroused by an excruciating pain over my whole left side, a strange twitching of the muscles of my face and hands, and a contraction of the throat which prevented me from breathing or crying out.
I tried to rise and press the electric bell for assistance, but could not. My whole body seemed entirely paralysed. Then the ghastly truth flashed upon me, causing me to break out into a cold sweat.
That pin had been placed there purposely. I had been poisoned and in the same manner as Beatrice Graham!
I recollect that my heart seemed to stop, and my nails clenched themselves in the palms in agony. Then next moment I knew no more.
When I recovered consciousness, Ted Greville, together with a tall, black-bearded man named Delisle, who was in the confidential department of the Quai d’Orsay§§ and who often furnished us with information—at a very high figure, be it said—were standing by my bedside, while a French doctor was leaning over the foot rail watching me.
“Thank heaven you’re better, old chap!” Greville exclaimed. “They thought you were dead. You’ve had a narrow squeak. How did it happen?”
“That pin!” I cried, pointing to the towel.
“What pin?” he asked.
“Mind! don’t touch the towel,” I cried. “There’s a pin in it—a pin that’s poisoned! That Russian evidently came here in my absence and very cunningly laid a deathtrap for me.”
“You mean Davidoff,” chimed in the Frenchman. “When, m’sieur, the doctor has left the room I can tell you something in confidence.”
The doctor discreetly withdrew, and then our spy said:
“Davidoff has turned traitor to his own country. I have discovered that the reason of his visit here is because he has in his possession the original draft of a proposed secret agreement between Russia and Germany against England, and is negotiating for its sale to us for one hundred thousand francs. He had a secret interview with our Chief last night at his private house in the Avenue des Champs Elysées.”
“Then it is he who stole it, after it had the Tzar’s approval!” I cried, starting up in bed, aroused at once to action by the information. “Has he disposed of it to France?”
“Not yet. It is still in his possession.”
“And he is here?”
“No. He has hidden himself in lodgings in the Rue Lafayette, No. 247, until the Foreign Minister decides whether he shall buy the document.”
“And the name by which he is known there?”
“He is passing as a Greek named Geunadios.”
“Keep a strict watch on him. He must not escape,” I said. “He has endeavoured to murder me.”
“A watch is being kept,” was the Frenchman’s answer, as, exhausted, I sank again upon the pillow.
Just before midnight I entered the traitor’s room in the Rue Lafayette, and when he saw me he fell back with blanched face and trembling hands.
“No doubt my presence here surprises you,” I said, “but I may as well at once state my reason for coming here. I want a certain document which concerns Germany and your own country—the document which you have stolen to sell to France.”
“What do you mean, m’sieur?” he asked, with an attempted hauteur.
“My meaning is simple. I require that document, otherwise I shall give you into the hands of the police for attempted murder. The Paris police will detain you until the police of Petersburg apply for your extradition as a traitor. You know what that means—Schlüsselburg.”
Mention of that terrible island fortress, dreaded by every Russian, caused him to quiver. He looked me straight in the face, and saw determination written there, yet he was unyielding, and refused for a long time to give the precious document into my hands. I referred to his stay at Stoke Doyle, and spoke of his friendship with the spy Moore, so that he should know that I was aware of the truth, until at last he suggested a bargain with me, namely, that in exchange for the draft agreement against England I should preserve silence and permit him to return to Russia.
To this course I acceded, and then the fellow took from a secret cavity of his travelling bag a long official envelope, which contained the innocent-looking paper, which would, if signed, have destroyed England’s prestige in the Far East. He handed it to me, the document for which he hoped to obtain one hundred thousand francs, and in return I gave him his liberty to go back to Russia unmolested.
Our parting was the reverse of cordial, for undoubtedly he had placed in my towel the pin which had been steeped in some subtle and deadly poison, and then escaped from the hotel, in the knowledge that I must sooner or later become scratched and fall a victim.
I had had a very narrow escape, it was true, but I did not think so much of my good fortune in regaining my life as the rapid delivery of the all-important document into Lord Macclesfield’s hands, which I effected at noon next day.
My life had been at stake, for I afterwards found that a second man had been his accomplice, but happily I had succeeded in obtaining possession of the actual document, the result being that England acted so promptly and vigorously that the situation was saved, and the way was, as you know, opened for the Anglo-Japanese Treaty,¶¶ which, to the discomfiture of Germany, was effected a few months later.
Nearly two years have gone by since then, and it was only the other day, by mere accident, that I made a further discovery which explained the death of the unfortunate Beatrice Graham.
A young infantry lieutenant, named Bellingham, having passed in Russian, had some four years before entered our Secret Service, and been employed in Russia on certain missions. A few days ago, on his return to London, after performing a perilous piece of espionage on the Russo-German frontier, he called upon me in Bloomsbury, and in course of conversation, mentioned that about two years ago, in order to get access to certain documents relating to the Russian mobilisation scheme for her western frontier, he acted as tutor to the sons of the Governor-General of Warsaw.
In an instant a strange conjecture flashed across my mind.
“Am I correct in assuming that you knew a young English lady in Russia named Graham—Beatrice Graham?”
He looked me straight in the face, open-mouthed in astonishment, yet I saw that a cloud of sadness overshadowed him instantly.
“Yes,” he said. “I knew her. Our meeting resulted in a terrible tragedy. Owing to the position I hold I have been compelled to keep the details to myself—although it is the tragedy of my life.”
“How? Tell me,” I urged sympathetically.
“Ah!” he sighed, “it is a strange story. We met in Petersburg; where she was employed in a shop in the Nevski. I loved her, and we became engaged. Withholding nothing from her I told her who I was and the reason I was in the service of the Governor-General. At once, instead of despising me as a spy, she became enthusiastic as an Englishwoman, and declared her readiness to assist me. She was looking forward to our marriage, and saw that if I could effect a big coup my position would at once be improved, and we could then be united.”
He broke off, and remained silent for a few moments, looking blankly down into the grey London str
eet. Then he said,
“I explained to her the suspicion that Germany and Russia were conspiring in the Far East, and told her that a draft treaty was probably in existence, and that it was a document of supreme importance to British interests. Judge my utter surprise when, a week later, she came to me with the actual document which she said she had managed to secure from the private cabinet of Prince Korolkoff, director of the private Chancellerie of the Emperor, to whose house she had gone on a commission to the Princess. Truly she had acted with a boldness and cleverness that were amazing. Knowing the supreme importance of the document, I urged her to leave Russia at once, and conceal herself with friends in England, taking care always that the draft treaty never left her possession. This plan she adopted, first, however, placing herself under the protection of the English charity, thus allaying any suspicions that the police might entertain.
“Poor Beatrice went to stay with her cousin, a lady named Hamilton, in Northamptonshire, but the instant the document was missed the Secret Services of Germany and Russia were at once agog, and the whole machinery was set in motion, with the result that two Russian agents—an Englishman named Moore, and a Russian named Davidoff—as well as Krempelstein, chief of the German Service, had suspicions, and followed her to England with the purpose of obtaining re-possession of the precious document. For some weeks they plotted in vain, although both the German and the Englishman succeeded in getting on friendly terms with her.
“She telegraphed to me, asking how she should dispose of the document, fearing to keep it long in her possession, but not being aware of the desperate character of the game, I replied that there was nothing to be feared. I was wrong,” he cried, bitterly. “I did not recognize the vital importance of the information; I did not know that Empires were at stake. The man Davidoff, who posed as a wealthy Austrian Baron, had by some means discovered that she always carried the precious draft concealed in the bodice of her dress, therefore he had recourse to a dastardly ruse. From what I have since discovered he one day succeeded in concealing in the fur of her cape a pin impregnated with a certain deadly arrow poison unknown to toxicologists. Then he caused to be dispatched from London a telegram purporting to come from me, urging her to meet me in secret at a certain spot on that same night. In eager expectation the poor girl went forth to meet me, believing I had returned unexpectedly from Russia, but in putting on her cape, she tore her finger with the poisoned pin. While waiting for me the fatal paralysis seized her, and she expired, after which Davidoff crept up, secured the missing document and escaped. His anxiety to get hold of it was to sell it at a high price to a foreign country, nevertheless he was compelled first to return to Russia and report. No one knew that he actually held the draft, for to Krempelstein, as well as to Moore, my poor love’s death was believed to be due to natural causes, while Davidoff, on his part, took care to so arrange matters, that his presence at the spot where poor Beatrice expired could never be proved. The spies therefore left England reluctantly after the tragedy, believing that the document, if ever possessed by my unfortunate love, had passed out of her possession into unknown hands.”
“And what of the assassin Davidoff now?” I inquired.
“I have avenged her death,” answered Bellingham with set teeth. “I gave information to General Zouboff of the traitor’s attempted sale of the draft treaty to France, with the result that the court martial has condemned him to incarceration for life in the cells below the lake at Schlüsselburg.”
* Beijing.
† Hunting lodge.
‡ The fox’s tail, traditionally kept as a trophy.
§ Although red in color, traditional fox-hunting jackets are known as “pinks.”
¶ A solution of strychnine.
# German name of the Lithuanian border town Virbalis.
** i.e. The German Kaiser and the Russian Czar.
†† This seems like a misprint for “ingenious,” but has not been changed.
‡‡ One of the top hotels in St. Petersburg, opened in 1875 and still in business at the time of publication.
§§ Home of the French Ministry of Foreign Affairs.
¶¶ The Anglo-Japanese Alliance of 1902, which, together with other treaties already in place, ensured that Russia was left without allies in the Far East and ultimately brought Japan into World War I on the British side.
THE SUPERFLUOUS FINGER
by Jacques Futrelle
1906
Jacques Futrelle started as a newspaperman. He wrote for the sports section of the Atlanta Journal before moving on to the New York Herald, the Boston Post, and the Boston American. It was there that he published his first story featuring Professor Augustus S. F. X. van Dusen, “the Thinking Machine.” Titled “The Problem of Cell 13,” it involved an experiment in which van Dusen undertook to escape from a prison cell within one week to prove his proposition that nothing is impossible when the human mind is properly applied.
The Thinking Machine went on to appear in fifty-one short stories and one novel—compared to fifty-six stories and four novels in the Sherlock Holmes canon. Although van Dusen is American, the influence of Holmes on his character is plain. He solves problems by remorseless logic, and unfurls his thinking at the end of a tale. He works with the police on occasion, but is not one of them; and he has a resourceful sidekick, the reporter Hutchinson Hatch, who combines the roles of Watson and the Baker Street Irregulars—although, perhaps strangely for a reporter, he does not narrate the tales of the Thinking Machine.
Unlike Holmes, though, van Dusen is little represented in other media. “The Problem of Cell 13” and “The Superfluous Finger” were adapted for television and radio by the BBC in 1973 and 2011 respectively, both for short-lived series presenting the rivals of Sherlock Holmes. He made a brief appearance in the graphic novel series The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen, which features an enormous cast of characters from literature.
Germany was more accepting of the Thinking Machine: between 1978 and 1999 the radio station RIAS broadcast seventy-nine Augustus van Dusen plays, a few based on stories by Futrelle, but most new creations by German author Michael Koser. All featured Hutchinson Hatch in the Watson role of narrator.
“The Superfluous Finger” first appeared in the Sunday Magazine, 25 November, 1906. Futrelle died on the Titanic in 1912, after forcibly placing his wife in a lifeboat.
She drew off her left glove, a delicate, crinkled suede affair, and offered her bare hand to the surgeon. An artist would have called it beautiful, perfect, even; the surgeon, professionally enough, set it down as an excellent structural specimen. From the polished pink nails of the tapering fingers to the firm, well moulded wrist, it was distinctly the hand of a woman of ease—one that had never known labour, a pampered hand Dr. Prescott told himself.
“The fore-finger,” she explained calmly. “I should like to have it amputated at the first joint, please.”
“Amputated?” gasped Dr. Prescott. He stared into the pretty face of his caller. It was flushed softly, and the red lips were parted in a slight smile. It seemed quite an ordinary affair to her. The surgeon bent over the hand with quick interest. “Amputated!” he repeated.
“I came to you,” she went on with a nod, “because I have been informed that you are one of the most skilful men of your profession, and the cost of the operation is quite immaterial.”
Dr. Prescott pressed the pink nail of the fore-finger then permitted the blood to rush back into it. Several times he did this, then he turned the hand over and scrutinized it closely inside from the delicately lined palm to the tips of the fingers. When he looked up at last there was an expression of frank bewilderment on his face.
“What’s the matter with it?” he asked.
“Nothing,” the woman replied pleasantly. “I merely want it off from the first joint.”
The surgeon leaned back in his chair with a frown of perplexity on his brow, and his visitor was subjected to a sharp, professional stare. She bore it unflinchingly and
even smiled a little at his obvious perturbation.
“Why do you want it off?” he demanded.
The woman shrugged her shoulders a little impatiently.
“I can’t tell you that,” she replied. “It really is not necessary that you should know. You are a surgeon, I want an operation performed. That is all.”
There was a long pause; the mutual stare didn’t waver.
“You must understand, Miss—Miss—er—” began Dr. Prescott at last. “By the way, you have not introduced yourself?” She was silent. “May I ask your name?”
“My name is of no consequence,” she replied calmly. “I might, of course, give you a name, but it would not be mine, therefore any name would be superfluous.”
Again the surgeon stared.
“When do you want the operation performed?” he inquired.
“Now,” she replied. “I am ready.”
“You must understand,” he said severely, “that surgery is a profession for the relief of human suffering, not for mutilation—wilful mutilation I might say.”
“I understand that perfectly,” she said. “But where a person submits of her own desire to—to mutilation as you call it, I can see no valid objection on your part.”
“It would be criminal to remove a finger where there is no necessity for it,” continued the surgeon bluntly. “No good end could be served.”
A trace of disappointment showed in the young woman’s face, and again she shrugged her shoulders.
“The question after all,” she said finally, “is not one of ethics but is simply whether or not you will perform the operation. Would you do it for, say, a thousand dollars?”
“Not for five thousand dollars,” blurted the surgeon,
“Well, for ten thousand then?” she asked, quiet casually.
All sorts of questions were pounding in Dr. Prescott’s mind. Why did a young and beautiful woman desire—why was she anxious even—to sacrifice a perfectly healthy finger? What possible purpose would it serve to mar a hand which was as nearly perfect as any he had ever seen? Was it some insane caprice? Staring deeply into her steady, quiet eyes he could only be convinced of her sanity. Then what?
