by Boris Akunin
In the middle of the wide room there was an empty space, surrounded on three sides by tables. Lying on each of them was a dead body covered by a tarpaulin. Standing along the walls behind the tables were the gendarmes, the constables, the grave-diggers and the watchman: two men for each body. Zakharov was sitting on a chair beside the end table, wearing his perpetual apron and with his eternal pipe in his mouth. The forensic expert's face looked bored, even sleepy. Grumov was loitering behind him and a little to one side, like a wife with her ever-loving in a lower-middle-class photograph, except that he didn't have his hand on Zakharov's shoulder. The assistant had a dejected look - evidently the quiet man wasn't used to such large crowds in this kingdom of silence. The room smelled of disinfectant, but beneath the harsh chemical smell there was a persistent undercurrent: the sweet stench of decomposition.
On a separate, smaller table at one side there was a heap of paper bags. The prudent Izhitsin had provided for anything -somebody might easily be sick.
'I'll be here,' said Izhitsin, indicating the spot. 'They're here.
At my command these seven will take hold of one cover with their right hand and another cover with their left hand, and pull them off. It's a remarkable sight. You'll see it soon for yourself. I'm sure the criminal's nerves won't stand up to it. Or will they?' the investigator asked in sudden alarm, surveying his stage setting sceptically.
'They won't stand up to it,' Anisii replied gloomily. 'Not one of the three.'
His eyes met Pakhomenko's and the watchman gave him a sly wink, as if to say: Don't get upset, lad, remember that callus.
'Bring them in!' Izhitsin barked, turning towards the doors and then, hastily running into the centre of the room, he assumed a pose of stern inflexibility, with his arms crossed on his chest and one foot slightly advanced, his narrow chin jutting forward and his eyebrows knitted together.
They brought in the prisoners. Stenich immediately fixed his eyes on the terrible tarpaulins and tugged his head down into his hunched shoulders. He didn't even seem to notice Anisii and the others. Nesvitskaya, however, was not even slightly interested in the tables. She glanced round everybody there, rested her gaze on Tulipov and laughed contemptuously. Anisii blushed painfully. The captain of industry stood beside the table with the paper bags, leaning on it with one hand, and began turning his head this way and that curiously. Zakharov winked at him and Burylin nodded gently.
'I'm a forthright man,' Izhitsin began in a dry, piercing voice, emphasising every word. 'So I'm not going to beat about the bush here. In recent months there have been a number of brutal, monstrous murders in Moscow. The investigating authorities know for certain that these crimes were committed by one of you. I'm going to show you something interesting and look into your souls. I'm an old hand at detective work; you won't be able to fool me. So far the killer has only seen his or her own handiwork by night, while in the grip of insanity. But now you can see how lovely it looks by the light of day. All right!'
He waved his hand, and the tarpaulin shrouds seemed to slide to the floor by themselves. Linkov certainly spoiled the effect slightly - he tugged too hard, and the tarpaulin caught on the corpse's head. The dead head fell back on to the wooden surface with a dull thump.
It really was a spectacular sight. Anisii regretted he hadn't turned away in time, but now it was too late. He pressed his back against the wall, took three deep breaths, and it seemed to have passed.
Izhitsin did not look at the bodies. He stared avidly at the suspects, moving his eyes from one to the other in rapid jerks: Stenich, Nesvitskaya, Burylin; Stenich, Nesvitskaya, Burylin. And again, and again.
Anisii noticed that, although Senior Constable Pribludko was standing there motionless and stony-faced, the ends of his waxed moustache were quivering. Linkov was standing there with his eyes squeezed tight shut and his lips were moving - he was obviously praying. The gravediggers had expressions of boredom on their faces - they'd seen just about everything in their rough trade. The watchman was looking at the dead women in sad sympathy. His eyes met Anisii's and he shook his head very slightly, which surely meant: Ah, people, people, why do you do such things to each other? This simple human gesture finally brought Tulipov round. Look at the suspects, he told himself. Follow Izhitsin's example.
The former student and former madman Stenich was standing there cracking the knuckles of his slim fingers, with large beads of sweat on his forehead. Anisii would have sworn it was cold in there. Suspicious? No doubt about it!
But the other former student, Burylin, who had severed the ear, seemed somehow too calm altogether: he had a mocking smile hovering on his face and his eyes were glittering with evil sparks. No, the millionaire was only pretending that it all meant nothing to him - he'd picked up a paper bag from the table and was holding it against his chest. That was called an 'involuntary reaction' - the Chief had taught Anisii to take note of them in his very first lesson. A lover of the high life like Burylin could easily develop a thirst for new, intense sensations simply because he was so surfeited.
Now the woman of iron, Nesvitskaya, the former prison inmate, who had learned to love surgical operations in Edinburgh. An exceptional individual - you simply never knew what an individual like that was capable of and what to expect from her. Just look at the way her eyes blazed.
And the 'exceptional' individual immediately confirmed that she really was capable of acting unpredictably.
The deathly silence was shattered by her ringing voice: 'I know who your target is, Mister Oprichnik,' Nesvitskaya shouted at the investigator. 'How very convenient. A "nihilist" in the role of a bloodthirsty monster! Cunning! And especially spicy, because it's a woman, right? Bravo, you'll go a long way! I knew what kind of crimes your pack of dogs is capable of, but this goes far beyond anything I could have imagined!' The female doctor suddenly gasped and clutched at her heart with both hands, as if she'd been struck by sudden inspiration. 'Why it was you! You did it yourselves! I should have realised straight away! It was your executioners who hacked up these poor women -why not? you've got no pity for "society's garbage"! The fewer of them there are, the simpler it is for you! You scum! Decided to play at Castigo, did you? Kill two birds with one stone, eh? Get rid of a few vagrants and throw the blame on the "nihilists"! Not very original, but most effective!' She threw her head back and laughed in scornful hatred. Her steel-rimmed pince-nez slid off and dangled on its string.
'Quiet!' Izhitsin howled, evidently afraid that Nesvitskaya's outburst would ruin his psychological investigation. 'Be silent immediately! I won't allow you to slander the authorities.'
'Murderers! Brutes! Satraps! Provocateurs! Scoundrels! Destroyers of Russia! Vampires!' Nesvitskaya shouted, and it was quite clear that her reserve of insults for the guardians of law and order was extensive and would not soon be exhausted.
'Linkov, Pribludko, shut her mouth!' the investigator shouted, finally losing all patience.
The constables advanced uncertainly on the midwife and took her by the shoulders, but they didn't seem to know how to go about shutting the mouth of a respectable-looking lady.
'Damn you, you animal!' Nesvitskaya howled, looking into Izhitsin's eyes. 'You'll die a pitiful death; your own intrigues will kill you!'
She threw up her hand, pointing one finger directly at the pompous investigator's face, and suddenly there was the sound of a shot.
Izhitsin jumped up in the air and bent over, clutching his head. Tulipov blinked: how was it possible to shoot anyone with your finger?
There was peal of wild laughter. Burylin waved his hands in the air and shook his head, unable to control his fit of crazy merriment. Ah, so that was it. Apparently, while everyone was watching Nesvitskaya, the prankster had quietly blown up a paper bag and then slammed it down against the table.
'Ha-ha-ha!' The captain of industry's smothered laughter soared up to the ceiling in an inhuman howling.
Stenich!
'I can't sta-a-and it!' the male nurse whined. 'I can'
t stand anymore! Torturers! Executioners! Why are you tormenting me like this? Why? Lord, why, why?' His totally insane eyes slid across all of their faces and came to a halt, gazing at Zakharov, who was the only person there sitting down - sitting there silently with a crooked smile, his hands thrust into the pockets of his leather apron.
'What are you laughing at, Egor? This is your kingdom, is it? Your kingdom, your witch's coven! You sit on your throne and rule the roost! Triumphant! Pluto, the king of death! And these are your subjects!' He pointed to the mutilated corpses. 'In all their grace and beauty!' And then the madman started spouting rubbish that made no sense at all. 'Throw me out, unworthy! And you, you, what did you turn out to be worthy of? What are you so proud of? Take a look at yourself! Carrion crow! Corpse-eater! Look at him, all of you, the corpse-eater! And the little assistant? What a fine pair! One crow flies up to another; one crow says unto the other: "Crow, where can we dine together?'" And he started trembling and burst into peals of hysterical giggling.
The corners of the forensic expert's mouth bent down in a grimace of disapproval. Grumov smiled uncertainly.
A wonderful 'experiment', thought Anisii, looking at the investigator clutching his heart, and the suspects: one shouting curses, one laughing, one giggling. Well, damn you all, gentlemen.
Anisii turned and walked out. Phew, how good the fresh air was.
He called into his own apartment on Granatny Lane to check on Sonya and have a quick bowl of Palasha's cabbage soup, and then went straight to the Chief's house. What he was most anxious to learn about was what mysterious business Erast Petrovich had been dealing with today.
The walk to Malaya Nikitskaya Street was not very long -only five minutes. Tulipov bounded up on to the familiar porch and pressed the bell-button. There was no one there. Well, he supposed Angelina Samsonovna must be at church or in the hospital, but where was Masa? He felt a sharp stab of alarm: what if, while Anisii was undermining the investigation, the Chief had needed help and sent for his faithful servant?
He wandered back home listlessly. There were kids dashing about in the street and shouting. At least three of the urchins, the wildest, had black hair and slanting eyes. Tulipov shook his head, remembering that Fandorin's valet had the reputation of a sweetheart and a lady-killer among the local cooks, maids and laundrywomen. If things carried on like this, in ten years' time the entire district would be populated with Japanese brats.
He came back again two hours later, after it was already dark. Delighted to see light in the windows of the outhouse, he set off across the yard at a run.
The lady of the house and Masa were at home, but Erast Petrovich was absent, and it turned out that there hadn't been any news from him all day long.
Angelina didn't let her visitor go. She sat him down to drink tea with rum and eat eclairs, one of Anisii's great favourites.
'But it's the fast,' Tulipov said uncertainly, breathing in the heavenly aroma of freshly brewed tea, laced with the strong Jamaican drink. 'How can I have rum?'
'Oh, Anisii Pitirimovich, you don't observe the fast anyway' Angelina said with a smile. She sat facing him, with her cheek propped on her hand. She didn't drink any tea or eat any eclairs. 'The fast should be a reward, not a deprivation. That's the only kind of fast the Lord needs. If your soul doesn't require it, then don't fast, and God be with you. Erast Petrovich doesn't go to church, he doesn't acknowledge the statutes of the Church, and it's all right - there's nothing terrible in that. The important thing is that God lives in his heart. And if a man can know God without the Church, then why coerce him?'
Anisii could hold back no longer, and he blurted out what had been on his mind for so long: 'Not all the statutes of the Church should be avoided. Even if it's not important to you, then you can think about the feelings of people close to you. Or else, well, see how it turns out. Angelina Samsonovna, you live according to the law of the Church, you observe all the rites, sin would never even dare come anywhere near you, but in the eyes of society ... It's not fair, it's hurtful...'
He still wasn't able to say it directly and he hesitated, but clever Angelina had already understood him.
'You're talking about us living together without being married?' she asked calmly, as if it were a perfectly ordinary topic of conversation. 'Anisii Pitirimovich, you mustn't condemn Erast Petrovich. He has proposed to me twice, all right and proper. I was the one who didn't want it.'
Anisii was dumbstruck. 'But why not?'
Angelina smiled again, only this time not at Anisii, but at some thoughts of her own. 'When you love, you don't think about yourself. And I love Erast Petrovich. Because he's very beautiful.'
'Well that's true,' said Tulipov with a nod. A more handsome man would be hard to find.'
'That's not what I meant. Bodily beauty is not enduring. Smallpox, or a burn, and it's gone. Last year, when we were living in England, there was a fire in the house next door. Erast Petrovich went in to drag a puppy out of the flames and he got singed. His clothes were burned, and his hair. He had a blister on his cheek, his eyebrows and eyelashes all fell out. He was a really fine sight. His whole face could have been burned away. Only genuine beauty is not in the face. And Erast Petrovich really is beautiful.'
Angelina pronounced the last with special feeling, and Anisii understood what she meant.
'But I'm afraid for him. He has been given great strength, and great strength is a great temptation. I ought to be in church now: it's Great Thursday today, the commemoration of the Last Supper; but, sinner that I am, I can't read the prayers that I'm supposed to. I can only pray to our Saviour for him, for Erast Petrovich. May God protect him - against human malice, and even more against soul-destroying pride.'
At these words Anisii glanced at the clock and said anxiously: 'I must confess I'm more concerned about the human malice. It's after one in the morning and he's still not back. Thank you for the refreshments, Angelina Samsonovna; I'll be going now. If Erast Petrovich shows up, please be sure to send for me.'
As he walked home, Tulipov thought about what he'd heard. On Malaya Nikitskaya Street a saucy girl came dashing up to him under one of the gas lamps - a broad ribbon in her black hair, her eyes made up, her cheeks rouged.
'Good evening to you, interesting sir. Would you care to treat a girl to a little vodka or liqueur?' She raised and lowered her painted eyebrows and whispered passionately: And I'd be very grateful to you, handsome sir. I'd give you a time to remember for the rest of your life
Tulipov felt an ache somewhere deep inside him. The streetwalker was good-looking - very good-looking, in fact. But since the last time he had given in to temptation, at Shrovetide, Anisii had renounced venal love. He felt awful afterwards, guilty. He ought to marry, but what could he do with Sonya?
Anisii replied with paternal sternness: 'You shouldn't be wandering the streets at night. You never know, you might run into some crazy murderer with a knife.'
But the saucy girl wasn't bothered in the slightest. 'Oh, such concern. I don't reckon I'll get killed. We're watched - the boyfriend keeps an eye on us.'
And yes, there on the other side of the street, Anisii could see a silhouette in the shade. Realising he'd been spotted, the ponce came over unhurriedly, at a slovenly stroll. He was a very stylish specimen: beaver-fur cap pulled down over the eyes, fur coat hanging dashingly open, a snow-white muffler covering half his face and white spats as well.
He began speaking with a drawl, and a gold-capped tooth glinted in his mouth. 'I beg your pardon, sir. Either take the young lady or be on your way. Don't go wasting a working girl's time.'
The girl looked adoringly at her protector, and that angered Tulipov even more than her pimp's insolence.
'Don't you go telling me what to do!' Anisii said angrily. 'I'll drag you down to the station in no time.'
The ponce turned his head quickly to the left and the right, saw that the street was empty and inquired with an even slower, more menacing drawl: 'You sure the dragger won't come un
stuck?'
Ah, so it's like that, is it?' Anisii grabbed the rogue by his collar with one hand, and took his whistle out of his pocket with the other. There was a police constable's post round the corner on Tverskaya Street, and it was only a stone's throw to the gendarme station.
'Run for it, Ineska, I'll handle this!' the gold-toothed scoundrel said.
The girl immediately picked up her skirts and set off as fast as her legs would carry her, and the brazen ponce said in Erast Petrovich's voice: 'Stop blowing that thing, Tulipov. You've deafened me.'
The constable, Semyon Sychov, ran up, puffing and panting like a horse jangling its harness.
The Chief held out a fifty-kopeck piece to him: 'Good man, you're a fast runner.'
Semyon Lukich didn't take the money from the suspicious-looking man and glanced quizzically at Anisii.
'Yes, it's all right, Sychov, off you go my friend,' Tulipov said in embarrassment. 'I'm sorry for bothering you.'
Only then did Semyon Sychkov take the fifty kopecks, salute in a highly respectful manner and set off back to his post.
'How's Angelina - is she not sleeping?' Erast Petrovich asked, with a glance at the bright windows of the outhouse.
'No, she's waiting for you.'
'In that case, if you don't object, let's take a walk and have a little talk.'
'Chief, what's this masquerade in aid of? In the note it said you were going to approach things from the other side. What "other side" is that?'
Fandorin squinted at his assistant in clear disapproval. 'You're not thinking too well, Tulipov. "From the other side" means from the side of the Ripper's victims. I assumed that the women of easy virtue that our character seems to have a particular hatred for might know something we don't. They might have seen someone suspicious, heard something, g-guessed something. So I decided to do a bit of reconnaissance. These people aren't going to open up to a policeman or an official, so I chose the most appropriate camouflage. I must say that I've enjoyed distinct success in the role of a ponce,' Erast Petrovich added modestly. 'Several fallen creatures have volunteered to transfer to my protection, which has caused dissatisfaction among the competition - Slepen, Kazbek and Zherebchik.'
