“I remember quite well the case of Marie Garine,” he added. “I thoroughly investigated it and found that she had, no doubt, been killed by her lover. But I put it down to jealousy, and as the culprit had left Russia I closed the inquiry.”
“Then you could arrest him, even now,” I said.
“Not without considerable delay. Besides, in Petersburg they are against applying for extradition in England. The newspapers always hint at the horrors of Siberia in store for the person arrested. And,” he added, “I agree that it is quite useless to unnecessarily wound the susceptibilities of my own countrymen, the English.” It was those words he had spoken as we had come along Blurton Road.
Our position at that moment was not a very pleasant one, surrounded as we were by a crowd of desperate refugees. If any one of them recognised Ivan Hartwig, then I knew full well that we should never leave the house alive. Men who were conspiring to kill His Majesty the Emperor would not hesitate to kill a police officer and an intruder in order to preserve their secret, “Where is my good friend Danilovitch?” demanded Hartwig, in Russian. “Why does he not come forward?”
“He has not been well, and is in bed,” somebody replied. “He is coming in a moment. He lives on the top floor.”
“Well, I’m in a hurry, comrades,” exclaimed the great detective with a show of impatience. “Do not keep me waiting. I am bearer of a message to you all—an important message from our great and beloved Chief, the saviour of Russia, whose real identity is a secret to all, but whom we know as ‘The One’!”
“The One!” echoed two of the men in Russian. “A message from him! What is it? Tell us,” they cried eagerly.
“No. The message from our Chief is to our comrade Danilovitch. He will afterwards inform you,” was Hartwig’s response.
“Who is it there who wants me?” cried an impatient voice in Russian over the banisters.
“I have a message for Danilo Danilovitch,” my friend shouted back.