by Boris Akunin
The assistant prosecutor’s concern was not occasioned by doubts concerning the loyalty of the police, but by the supreme responsibility of his task, and especially by the somewhat shaky nature of the evidence. Strictly speaking, there was no evidence as such—nothing but suspicious circumstances, not enough to build a genuine case. Bubentsov had been in this place and that place, he could have committed this act and that act, but what of it? A good defense lawyer would rapidly demolish such speculative suppositions. A great deal of preparatory work was required here, and Matvei Bentsionovich was not certain that he could cope. For a moment he thought with envy of the investigators of former times. Life had been so simple and easy for them. Pick up a suspect, put him on the rack, and he would happily confess all on his own. Of course, Berdichevsky was a progressive and civilized individual and his thoughts about the rack were not really serious, but a confession was absolutely essential in this case, and Vladimir Lvovich Bubentsov was not the kind of man to provide testimony against himself. Berdichevsky was placing all his hopes in the interrogation of the inspector’s henchmen, Spasyonny and the Circassian. He would work for a while with each of them separately, and who knew? Perhaps some inconsistencies, clues, or loose ends might turn up so that he could keep pulling at one of them and unwind the whole ball of thread.
If only there was some attempt to escape, or even better, to resist arrest, Matvei Bentsionovich daydreamed as they were on their way to detain Bubentsov.
To make quite certain of things—after all, this was the arrest of a murderer—the operation had been prepared by the book. Lagrange had gathered together thirty police constables and officers, ordered them to oil their pistols, and personally checked to make sure that they still remembered how to shoot. Before setting out, the chief of police had drawn out the entire plan on a piece of paper.
“This circle here, Matvei Bentsionovich, is the town square. The dotted line is the fence, with the courtyard of the Grand Duke behind it. The large square is the hotel itself, and the small one is the general’s wing. Bubentsov is at home; my people have already checked. I’ll set half the men around the edge of the square and order the others to conceal themselves behind the fence. You and I will go in with just two or three of them.”
“No.” Berdichevsky interrupted him. “I shall go into the yard alone. If we show up in a gang like that, they will see us through the window and, God only knows, they might lock themselves in and destroy the evidence. And I hope very much to find something useful in there. I’ll go in quietly, as if I am just paying a visit. I’ll invite Bubentsov to come for a talk—let’s say at the governor’s house. And as we come out into the yard, that’s when we’ll arrest our friend. If I get into any difficulties I’ll shout to you for assistance.”
“Why strain your throat?” the chastened Lagrange said with a reproachful shake of his head. “Here, take my whistle. Blow it, and I’ll be right there, quick as a wink.”
In actual fact, apart from professional considerations, Matvei Bentsionovich had personal reasons for wanting to take Bubentsov himself. He wanted very badly to get even with the base Petersburgian for that memorable tweak of his nose. With a feeling of anticipation unworthy of a Christian, but nonetheless sweet, he imagined how Bubentsov’s haughty features would turn pale and distorted by shock when he, Berdichevsky, said to him: “Be so good as to put your hands behind your back. You’re under arrest.”
Or even better, in a more worldly tone: “You know, my good fellow, you are under arrest. What a very unpleasant surprise it must be.”
BUT EVEN SO, as he crossed the courtyard alone, he began feeling unwell. His stomach knotted into cramps and his throat went dry.
Summoning up his courage, Matvei Bentsionovich stood on the porch of the general’s wing for a half a minute. This tidy little single-story house contained the very best suite of rooms in the entire hotel; it was intended for individuals of importance who visited the province on state business, as well as for rich people who regarded it as beneath their dignity to stay under the same roof as the other guests.
The windows of the wing were curtained over and Berdichevsky was suddenly afraid that Lagrange might have been mistaken. What if Bubentsov were not here?
His nerves suddenly calmed in the face of concern for the success of his mission. Matvei Bentsionovich did not even ring the bell as he had been intending to do—he simply pushed the door open and went in.
From the entrance hall he went through into a large room crammed full of open trunks and suitcases. Spasyonny and Murad Djuraev were sitting at the table, moving black and white stones around a board. Matvei Bentsionovich, who knew no games except for chess and preference, guessed that it must be backgammon.
“Inform Mr. Bubentsov that assistant provincial prosecutor Berdichevsky wishes to see him immediately,” he declared in an icy tone, addressing the secretary.
Spasyonny bowed respectfully and disappeared through the door that led into the inner chambers. The Circassian cast a quick glance at the visitor and fixed his gaze on the board again, muttering something unintelligible under his breath. It was remarkable that even indoors this wild man never removed his astrakhan hat and his faithful dagger.
Spasyonny returned and said, “If you please, sir.”
Bubentsov was sitting at a desk, dark-faced, writing something. He did not get to his feet or greet Berdichevsky. He merely tore his glance away from his papers for an instant and asked, “What do you want?”
This obvious insult finally soothed Matvei Bentsionovich’s nerves completely, because everyone knows that he who barks loudly is unlikely to bite. Bubentsov had nothing to bite with—his teeth had been blunted.
“Getting ready to leave?” the assistant prosecutor inquired politely.
“Yes.” Vladimir Lvovich threw down his pen angrily, sending splashes of ink flying across the green fabric. “After the governor, on your recommendation, ordered the investigation to be halted, there was nothing more for me to do here. But never mind, my dear gentleman of Zavolzhsk, I shall go to St. Petersburg and then return. And after that I shall scatter this almshouse of yours to the four winds.”
Matvei Bentsionovich had never seen the synodical inspector so irritated before. Where had that customary tone of lazy condescension gone?
“That will not be possible for some time,” sighed Berdichevsky, as if he regretted the fact.
“What will not be possible?”
“Your leaving.” Matvei Bentsionovich even spread his hands, entering completely into his role. “Anton Antonovich requests that you visit him immediately. He even orders it.”
“Orders it?” exploded Bubentsov. “I don’t care a damn about his orders.”
“That is as you wish, but his excellency has ordered not to allow you to cross the boundaries of the province until you have provided a satisfactory explanation with regard to the unlawful arrest of the Zyt elders and the killing of three Zyts who were trying to free them.”
“Rubbish! Everyone knows that the Zyts attacked representatives of authority while carrying weapons. They themselves are to blame. And as for the illegality of the arrest of the elders—we shall see about that. So you protect idolaters, do you? Very well, Konstantin Petrovich will see that you pay for that, too.” Vladimir Lvovich stood up and put on his frock coat. “Damn you. I shall call in to see your Haggenau. Not for his sake, but for Ludmila Platonovna’s. She is a real darling. I shall kiss her hand in farewell.”
Bubentsov’s eyes sparkled evilly—the inspector evidently had plans to play some humiliating trick on Anton Antonovich as a parting gift.
I rather think not, mused Matvei Bentsionovich, restraining a smile of triumph with some difficulty. Your reach is too short now, my good sir.
They walked through into the drawing room. The inspector’s associates were no longer playing backgammon. Spasyonny was packing a travel bag, while the Circassian was standing beside the window, watching something in the courtyard.
Then suddenly
something unexpected happened. Something, in fact, quite incredible, almost unimaginable.
In two catlike bounds Murad flew across to Matvei Bentsionovich and grabbed him by the throat with his short fingers of iron.
“Treason,” the Circassian cried hoarsely. “Volodya, don’t go! It’s an ambush!”
“What nonsense is this?” asked Bubentsov, gazing hard at him. “Have you lost your mind?”
Berdichevsky pulled the whistle out of his pocket and blew it with all his might. That very second there was the sound of numerous feet tramping in the yard.
The Circassian knocked Matvei Bentsionovich to the floor with a blow of his gnarled fist, dashed across to one of the suitcases, and pulled out a long-barreled revolver.
“Stop!” shouted Vladimir Lvovich, but it was too late.
Murad smashed out the glass with the barrel of the gun and fired through the window three times. There was a howl and in the next instant a hail of shots was returned from the courtyard, so thick that chips of plaster flew off the walls and the ceiling, the carafe of water with the chrysanthemum on the piano shattered, and the wall clock suddenly burst into desperate chiming.
Spasyonny dropped flat to the floor and crawled toward the study. Bubentsov also squatted down on his haunches. When the firing eased off a little, he said disdainfully: “Murad, you’re a blockhead. What a mess. You made it, now you can clear it up. I’m leaving by the back door and going to the stables. I’ll ride to Peter. Don’t you worry; I’ll fix this. You keep firing for a while so that I can get away, and then surrender. I’ll have you freed. Understand?”
Without waiting for an answer, still bent over double, he went out through the door. Spasyonny, still lying on his belly, crept out after him.
“I understand, Volodya, what’s so hard about it?” the Circassian said in a soft voice. “Only Murad doesn’t know how to surrender.”
He put his hand out over the sill, aimed, and fired. Someone cried out again in the courtyard, and the volley of shots started up again. Seizing his chance, the Abrek fired once more, but this time he was unlucky. His astrakhan hat went flying to the floor, his blue-gray shaven head jerked, and a crimson furrow appeared on his cheek, blood instantly welling up out of it. Murad angrily wiped his face with the sleeve of his dirty beshmet and fired over the windowsill.
By this time Matvei Bentsionovich had been engaged in a tormented inner struggle with himself for about a minute. One side of his faltering scales held nothing but his duty, the other held his wife, his twelve (in fact, now almost thirteen) little children, and his own life thrown into the bargain. Unequal loads, it must be admitted. Berdichevsky decided that he would sit there quietly—after all, they could send a detail in pursuit of Bubentsov. But immediately after he had taken this salutary decision there was a lull in the firing and Matvei Bentsionovich crossed himself and shouted, “Lagrange, the back door!”
Murad swung around in fury and Berdichevsky saw an incredibly huge black hole staring straight at the bridge of his nose. The hammer gave a dry click, then again, and the Circassian swore in a style that was not Russian as he flung the useless revolver aside.
But Matvei Bentsionovich’s miraculous deliverance was no more than a dream, because then the Circassian pulled out his monstrous dagger, bent over, and came rushing at the assistant prosecutor.
Berdichevsky struck the fearsome man with an unconvincing blow to the side of his head, but it was as if he were banging his fist against a stone. Matvei Bentsionovich froze, spellbound by the enigmatic gleam of that wide blade.
The Circassian put his arm around his prisoner’s neck, pressed the cold steel against his throat, and spoke, breathing a smell of blood and garlic into Berdichevsky’s face.
“I slit you later, not now. If I do it now they kill me straightaway. But this way we keep talking our talk a long time. When Volodya gets well away, then I slit you.”
Matvei Bentsionovich squeezed his eyes tightly shut, unable to bear the closeness of the wild eyes, the black beard, and the bleeding cheek.
Outside, Felix Stanislavovich’s voice called out: “Get a carriage on to Malaya Kupecheskaya Street! You three, to the gates, quick march. Lower the bars! Eliseev, take four men and go to the stables!”
Now Bubentsov cannot get away, Berdichevsky realized, but the thought brought him no comfort. It was difficult to breathe with the arm around his neck, the dreary terror was beginning to make him feel nauseous, and he even wished the Abrek would slit his throat there and then to put an end to his torment.
Lagrange’s head peered up cautiously from behind the windowsill.
“Mr. Berdichevsky, are you alive?”
Murad replied.
“You interfere and he’ll be dead.”
Then the chief of police, growing bolder, raised up his hand, holding a revolver, and grinned, “Well now, Djuraev, shot all your bullets, have you? I counted them. You touch his excellency, and I’ll shoot you like a mad dog. I won’t take you alive, I swear by Jesus Christ I won’t.”
“Murad’s not afraid of death,” the bandit retorted contemptuously, protecting himself with Berdichevsky like a shield.
Felix Stanislavovich scrambled slowly up onto the windowsill.
“You’re lying there, brother. Everyone’s afraid of the old noseless reaper.”
He cautiously lowered his feet to the floor.
“One more step and I slit him,” the Circassian promised quietly but convincingly.
“I’m finished,” the chief of police assured him, “see, I’m putting the revolver down.
“Now, Djuraev, let’s talk peace terms.” Lagrange took out his cigarette case and lit one up. “You’ve put holes in two of my men. For that I ought to drop you where you stand. But if you let his excellency go and surrender, I’ll take you to prison alive. And we won’t even beat you, on my word as an officer.”
Murad snorted contemptuously.
“Well, have you caught him?” Felix Stanislavovich asked his subordinates, turning around to the window.
Somebody answered him, but the words could not be made out inside the room.
“Ah, you villains, you let him go!” the colonel roared menacingly and smashed his fist down hard on the windowsill, but so clumsily that it hit the protruding barrel of the revolver.
Following this blow, in perfect conformity with the laws of physics, the revolver described a complicated somersault through the air and landed on the floor with a clatter in the very middle of the drawing room.
Releasing his hostage, the Circassian was beside the gun in a single predatory bound.
And then it became clear that the trick with the flying revolver had been played deliberately by the crafty chief of police. From out of nowhere a second revolver, a little smaller, appeared in Felix Stanislavovich’s hand and belched flame and smoke at Djuraev.
The bullets threw the Circassian back against the wall, but he immediately leapt to his feet and advanced on the colonel, waving his dagger.
Lagrange took good aim and fired three more shots—all on target—but Murad did not fall; each step simply cost him an ever greater effort.
When the Circassian was little more than a yard away from the windowsill the colonel jumped down onto the floor and set the gun barrel right against Djuraev’s forehead. The top of the shaven skull shattered into flying shards.
The dead man swayed a little and finally collapsed onto his back.
“Damned hard to kill,” said the chief of police, shaking his head in amazement as he leaned down over the body. “Some kind of werewolf. Just look, he’s still batting his eyelids. If you told anyone, they’d never believe you.”
Then he went over to Berdichevsky, who was more dead than alive after so many shocks to his nerves, and squatted down on his haunches beside him.
“Well, you’re a brave man, Matvei Bentsionovich.” He shook his head respectfully. “I’m amazed you weren’t afraid to shout about the back entrance!”
“But it did no goo
d,” the assistant prosecutor said in a weak voice. “Bubentsov got away anyway.”
Lagrange laughed, showing his white teeth.
“He got away, you say! We got him. Him and his nasty little secretary. Right there in the stables.”
“But what about…?” Matvei Bentsionovich asked, staring wildly. He no longer understood anything that was happening.
“I deliberately swore at my men like that, for the Circassian. So it would look more convincing when I tossed him the revolver.”
Berdichevsky was so delighted and relieved that he couldn’t find the right words to say.
“I…Really, Felix Stanislavovich, you are my savior…I shall never forget what you did for me.”
“I hope very much that you will not,” said the gallant chief of police, peering searchingly into his eyes. “I’ll carry on serving you faithfully, on my word of honor. Only don’t let the story about that blasted bribe get out. I was tempted by the devil. I’ve even given the merchant his money back. Put in a word for me with the bishop and Anton Antonovich, eh?”
Berdichevsky gave a heavy sigh, remembering how eloquently he had denounced the cupidity of officials that sprouted up like thistles through the very best of good intentions—if it was not money, then it was the notorious borzoi pups.
And wasn’t a life saved just like a borzoi pup?
CHAPTER 11
The Trial
THE HEARING OF the Zavolzhsk murder case opened in the new provincial court building, which was remarkably spacious and elegant. Anton Antonovich von Haggenau had approved the architect’s designs himself and personally supervised the construction work, because he regarded this building as being of great importance. He had always said that you could tell whether the people of any particular region respected the rule of law from the appearance of their courthouses. In Russia court offices were dirty, cramped, and shabby, and one saw every manner of injustice and abuse committed in them. But it was the governor’s unshakable (although, perhaps, also naïve) conviction that if the courtroom possessed a distinct resemblance to a clean and beautiful church, then far fewer violations would be committed within its walls. And our local administrator also had another idea in mind when he gave instructions for such a substantial sum to be allocated to the building work: The new courthouse was to usher in a golden age in the history of Zavolzhsk, firmly established on the secure foundations of legality and justice.
