In salutation, the Orthodox Jew - though now I knew he was anything but - doffed not only his top hat but also the tangles of dark-brown hair attached to it, and bowed in my direction. As he leaned forward, his bald crown fringed in grey reflected the light. It was, as Dostoevsky rightly described, a head too large for the man’s short, round frame.
“Iss pleasure to meet you, Doctor,” said he extending a hand. “Holmes has told me much about you, and I look forward to reading the account he tells me is coming soon.”
“A Study in Scarlet,” I said proudly. “In a Christmas magazine due to be published in just a few days - Monday, in fact.” Not only did the man know how to charm, he could do so in serviceable English.
“Shall we mark the occasion with a glass of port?” I asked.
Porfiry Petrovitch raised his hand. “Not for me. Alcohol is not to my taste.” Indeed, I remembered hearing of the tea he and Holmes had enjoyed in St Petersburg. “Permit me to enjoy my vice,” the Russian added, “cigarettes.”
I was about to offer him one my own - from Bradley of Oxford Street - but with a sheepish smile, he reached inside his black coat and produced a small package. “For years, doctor tell me, stop.” Holding up an ill-shaped, dark-papered cigarette, he said, “You see result - heh, heh, heh. Makhorka. I - how to say? - roll them myself.”
Holmes offered Porfiry Petrovitch a box of Vestas, and we seated ourselves before the fire as the Russian struck a match. “Watson,” said Holmes “you and I shall have the wine if Porfiry does not object.”
With a nod and a smile, our guest offered his encouragement, and I filled two small glasses with dark-red port for Holmes and me. In spite of the foul-smelling cigarette smoke clouding the room, the three of us made quite the congenial group. It would be difficult for an outsider to discern that we were in the middle of an investigation involving two murderous attacks with an axe.
As he inhaled, Porfiry Petrovitch closed his eyes. Almost immediately, however, he opened them again. “I forget apology, gentlemen,” said he. “Please, forgive the disguise. Iss better if people do not know I am yet in London.”
“Not to worry,” said Holmes. “Your rooms are sufficient?”
“Spasiba. Thank you.”
“Puzhalsta,” Holmes replied in the strange Russian tongue. Until now, I had not a clue that he understood a word of the inscrutable language, let alone the ability to speak it. “The accommodations are suitable for the two of you?” he added.
“Da. Yes.”
“Porfiry is travelling with a - a friend,” Holmes explained to me. “I secured rooms for them in Montague Street near my old flat. He wanted to tour the British Museum.”
“I go today - in afternoon,” he said, eyes blinking. “I see Elgin Marbles and Egyptian mummies. Most satisfying.” He emphasised the pleasure with a long pull on his cigarette.
“Excellent choices,” said I. “But, Holmes, you never informed me that your friend was coming to London.”
Holmes sampled his port. “Though I arranged his rooms, I did not know for certain he would actually get here until I recognised him outside of Simpson’s. But here he most certainly is. And I should imagine that as the chief investigator of those pawnbroker murders in St Petersburg twenty years ago, he can enlighten us about the pawnbroker murders of our own.”
“Da,” said the Russian with an exaggerated blink. “I met Detective Lestrade at Scotland Yard today after Museum trip. He invite me to office tomorrow to meet - what is word? - principals. Two English gentlemen and Russian informer. Most interesting. You gentlemen will be there also?”
“Yes,” said my friend. “In fact, it was I who suggested to Lestrade that he collect the ‘principals,’ as you call them, for a round of questioning. At least two will not know who you are.”
“Iss good,” agreed the Russian. He was holding up the cigarette as he spoke, and I could not be sure whether he was referring to Holmes’ plan or to his tobacco.
The three of us sat for some time in silence, the Russian puffing sedately, Holmes and I sipping our drinks.
When little remained of his cigarette, Porfiry Petrovitch crushed the stub in a nearby ashtray and rose to his feet. “Iss time to go,” he said with a wink. “Tomorrow at Scotland Yard. Ten o’clock.” Setting his top hat and side locks in place, he became once more a man of piety and exited our sitting room.
“Tomorrow should prove most interesting, Watson,” said Holmes as he finished his drink. “I suggest you get some sleep.” He then picked up his violin and announced, “I shall prepare for the encounter by immersing myself in Russian music - Tchaikovsky seems appropriate.”
We climbed the stairs to our respective bedrooms, Holmes with fiddle in hand. As I fell into the arms of Morpheus, I found my descent accompanied by the heart-tugging cries and the lilting dances of Tchaikovsky’s violin concerto.
Chapter Ten: Interrogations
Inspector Lestrade had reserved an interview room for late Saturday morning. Within it, two small, wooden tables abutted each other. On one side of the tables stood four chairs to accommodate himself, Porfiry Petrovitch, Holmes, and me. The single chair opposite awaited the subject to whom we would address our questions.
When Holmes and I arrived, Lestrade indicated where we were to sit. Minutes later, a uniformed constable escorted Porfiry Petrovitch into the room, and we all rose to greet him. Today, sans side locks, the Russian wore a traditional grey suit with matching waistcoat, and, blinking at us from across the table, leaned forward and shook our hands.
I must also add that during these salutations we were very much aware of an unexpected visitor who, exchanging words in Russian with Porfiry Petrovitch, had accompanied the detective into
