Again it seemed necessary to make sure that all of our party understood the dangers we were facing. We were putting ourselves at a grave risk in our efforts to rescue Rebecca. Dracula dutifully advised us that we breathing folk, at least, were risking arrest and imprisonment, which in Russia could involve a fate more terrible than quick death.
However, we were all in agreement that duty and honor alike forbade any thought of turning back. Whatever fate our enemy might inflict upon his helpless hostage if we persisted, there was no reason to think that she would be spared the same doom if we withdrew.
At last–whether it came through some mysterious local contact of Dracula’s, or whether it was first established through Sarah Kirkaldy, I never learned–there fell into our hands the first real clue as to where and when we might reach Kulakov.
At last, to our great relief, we believed we had succeeded in identifying the house in the city where Rebecca Altamont was being held, almost a mile from the count’s own townhouse. Having ascertained this much, we thought it safe to assume that Kulakov would not likely be very far from this other dwelling, or remain absent from it for any great length of time. We remained determined to take whatever chances were necessary to effect the young woman’s rescue.
Unfathomable complications lurked in the fact that we still had not learned who the important Gregory Efimovich might be. Holmes suspected the name might be that of some Russian mastermind who was engineering a deep plot.
We had received an indication that Kulakov expected to meet this mysterious individual on a certain night–and in the very house where Rebecca Altamont was also being confined.
Welcome confirmation of our first clue came by another route: A servant, angry at master or mistress for some abuse and therefore susceptible to being bribed, had claimed to know the identity of the enigmatic Gregory Efimovich, and had even affirmed that the man we had so long sought to identify would be in the palatial residence tomorrow night; but when our agent demanded to know who Gregory Efimovich might be, more money was demanded. before the matter could be resolved, the conversation was interrupted and the informant of our informant had been called away.
Sherlock Holmes in particular, as he paced through our connecting rooms in our hotel, fretted and pondered over this continuing lack of knowledge. Neither in Holmes’s world of police and crime, in mine of medicine, nor in Prince Dracula’s peculiar domain–that netherworld of the strange and the occult, straddling the aristocracy as well as the lower classes–could we locate any Gregory Efimovich who seemed likely to be of particular importance to our quarry.
Holmes gave vent to his frustration. “It would appear that the man must be of the first importance–and yet he does not exist!”
“I trust our lack of knowledge on the subject will not prevent our accomplishing our objectives,” I observed.
He smote the table beside him. “We must not allow it to do so. but I fear the want will make itself felt!”
The house, or perhaps I should say the palace, in which we at last ran our quarry to earth was one of those great mansions in the district including bolshaya Morskaya Street and several of the more important cross streets in the western portion of the city.
Even at this late date, it is perhaps wise for me to refrain from specifying closely the exact location of the house involved, or telling more about its ownership. Suffice it to say that it stood near the Court Embankment, and that not far away were the palaces of the Grand Duke Alexandrovich, and Grand Duke Mikhail Nikolayevich. The Yusupov Palace on the Moika Canal stood within a stone’s throw. In the vicinity of the Winter Palace there were also the Stieglitz Palace, Shermetev Palace, beloselsky Palace, Stroganov Palace, Marinsky Palace, Chernishevskaya Palace, Vladimir Palace, and many others.
On the appointed night, Holmes, Dracula, and I made our way to a rendezvous just outside the mansion. Martin Armstrong also was ready to play his assigned role, which consisted of having a hired carriage in readiness for a quick getaway, not far from the house.
Having staked out our several positions, we waited until past midnight for Kulakov to appear, but without result. Possibly, we thought, he had entered without our seeing him; there might be another entrance than those we were covering. At length we decided to delay no longer; even if our quarry had eluded us, Rebecca Altamont presumably remained inside, and having come this close, we did not intend to leave without her.
At first, in planning our excursion, we had thought that the owner of the mansion might possibly be induced to invite us in, or some of us, if we simply presented ourselves at the door and sent in our cards as if making a social call. On the other hand, the chance of our being turned away had seemed very great, as did the likelihood that our attempt would alert our enemy.
In the end we thought another arrangement more likely to succeed. Ideally of course an entrance during the day was preferable, but as matters stood, the only feasible time seemed to be at night, when fortunately late revelry seemed the rule rather than the exception, and neither domestic staff nor invited guests would be likely to take much notice of an extra gentleman or two, who behaved as if they had a right to be there. At least we could hope that such would be the case.
One encouraging sign upon the night we watched the house was a series of carriages coming and going at the main entrance, testifying that an even greater and later celebration than usual was in progress.
The treacherous servant, to whom I have already alluded, admitted us through a side door.
The mansion’s resplendent interior was in keeping with its outward aspect. Furnishings included ornaments of old English silver, inlaid chests, Renaissance bronzes, and carved wooden chairs and tables. One anteroom contained a set of furniture made chiefly from elephant tusks. The dining room, decorated with gilt cups and majolica plates, boasted a Persian carpet and a splendid inlaid sideboard, upon which stood a magnificent bronze and crystal crucifix–Holmes, in an aside, whispered to me that it was Italian, of the seventeenth century.
Once inside, and free to move about, walking boldly and taking care to avoid any appearance of furtiveness, we found ourselves in a mansion the equal in splendor and elegance of any to be found in England. The furnishings included old European master paintings, Chinese jade, vases of Dresden porcelain, and French and English inlaid furniture.
It boasted an oak-paneled dining room, capable of seating at least forty people at a single table, with red-velvet curtains and a red-granite mantelpiece. On passing into the house, I had observed that on the ground floor there were at least two kitchens, and the one into which I obtained a glance was walled with marble.
The servant who had admitted us spoke English fairly well, and as we came in, he whispered to us where Rebecca Altamont was to be found. He added that Count Kulakov had now arrived as well; I was about to turn away when the fellow appended, almost as an afterthought, the information that the Gregory Efimovich, about whom we had been inquiring earlier, was now also present.
“Then you know who he is?” I demanded eagerly.
“Not I, no sir. but when I say the name to Sasha, who work in the kitchen, he laugh, and say he know who is this Gregory Efimovich, and has seen his dealings with the high nobility. Then Sasha was called away and I heard no more. but I think the man you want has just come into the house.”
We three intruders in evening dress glanced at one another with a heightened resolve, knowing that we might find ourselves confronting not one deadly enemy but two. Yet our first care must be to rescue the helpless girl.