by Boris Akunin
‘And so Gdlevsky had been condemned to death by you and would certainly have carried out the sentence himself, if not for Caliban, who had been jealous of your young favourite for a long time. Now it seemed that Gdlevsky was favoured not only by you, but also by Death, and the insane bookkeeper decided to do away with his fortunate rival . . .
‘The killing of the reporter Lavr Zhemailo was the only death in which you were not directly involved. That is, if we do not take into account that you once called the newspaper informer a Judas, who would betray you as Christ was betrayed. To Caliban you really were his Saviour, and so when he discovered Cyrano’s true occupation, he killed him and hung him on an aspen tree.’
At that moment I must confess that I experienced a certain inner satisfaction. Not a very worthy feeling, but understandable. Apparently you do not know everything and do not notice everything, clever Mr Investigator, I thought to myself. You do not know that Caliban eavesdropped on Cyrano’s telephone conversation with his newspaper office.
Genji moved on to the final point of his prosecution speech.
‘Your preparations for Columbine’s suicide were the most thorough and cunning of all. First you slipped her the three pieces of card with inscriptions in German. The day before yesterday the young lady gave them to me and told me that they did not burn in fire. I subjected the paper to chemical analysis and discovered it had been impregnated with a solution of alums, which had rendered it non-flammable. An old trick that was once used by the Count of St Germain. In order to prompt Columbine to check whether the notes would burn, you deliberately slipped Papushin a note from Death as well, only it was written on ordinary paper. The scheme worked perfectly, but there was one thing you failed to anticipate – Caliban felt slighted and decided to take his revenge on Death’s Chosen One, just as he had done with Gdlevsky. Fortunately I happened to be at the scene.’
I noticed that Blagovolsky’s behaviour had changed now. The Doge was no longer objecting or trying to dispute any of his accuser’s assertions. He sat there hunched up, with his face completely drained of blood and his eyes – I could see that they were filled with fear and alarm – trained steadily on the speaker. Prospero must have felt that the end was approaching. His nervous state was also evident from the movements of his hands: the fingers of his right hand were stroking the bronze hero’s helmet again, while the fingers of his left clenched and unclenched spasmodically.
‘Fate gave you a generous gift in the person of Caliban. You had a very good chance of getting away with everything by shifting the blame for all your crimes on to the dead maniac’s shoulders. But you were unable to control yourself, you could not stop. Why did you decide to finish the girl off after all? That is the greatest riddle for me. Could you not forgive Columbine because she had grown indifferent to your charms? Or, as happens so often with hardened killers, did you really, somewhere deep in your heart, want someone to expose you and stop you?’
‘No, Mr Psychologist,’ said Prospero, suddenly breaking his silence. ‘It was neither of those. I simply do not like to abandon a job halfway through when it is going well.’
I immediately took down what he had said word for word: another indirect admission of guilt.
Genji’s face darkened slightly; he was evidently taken aback by this audacious reply.
‘Your attempt to finish your “job” was certainly most inventive. Columbine told me about the magical words “Ich warte” that appeared out of nowhere on a blank sheet of paper. Most impressive! It is hardly surprising that the girl immediately believed implicitly that it was a miracle. I visited Columbine’s flat and inspected both the sheet of paper and the book very closely. Another cunning chemical trick. Several pages before the bookmark you had glued into the book a piece of paper with the two fateful words written on it in lead acetate. And the marbled paper used as a bookmark had been soaked in a solution of sulphurated potash. When the book was closed, the lead acetate started seeping through the pages and about a day later the letters appeared on the marbled paper. This method of secret writing was developed by the Jesuits in the seventeenth century, so it is not original to you. You merely found a new use for the old recipe.’
Genji turned towards me and leaned on the armrest of his chair.
‘That is all, Horatio, the facts have been set forth. As for the material evidence, the window pane with the dactylograms is under guard in the porter’s lodge of the Spassky Barracks, the pipes in Avaddon’s flat are still in place, and I left the book from Blagovolsky’s library and the sheet of marbled paper in Columbine’s flat. No doubt the sheet of paper glued into the book and the sheet that was soaked in potash also bear the criminal’s fingerprints. The investigation should not encounter any difficulties. There is the telephone – make the call. As soon as the police arrive I shall withdraw, and you remember that you gave me your word.’
I stood up to walk across to the telephone hanging on the wall, but Blagovolsky gestured for me to wait.
‘Don’t be in such a hurry, Horatio. The gentleman detective has demonstrated his eloquence and perspicacity. It is only fair that I should have the right of reply.’
I glanced enquiringly at Genji. He nodded, with a wary glance at Prospero, and I sat down again.
Blagovolsky chuckled, opened the helmet lid of the inkwell and closed it again, then drummed his fingers on it.
‘You have unfolded an entire psychological theory that presents me as a cowardly halfwit. According to you, everything I have done can be explained by panic induced by fear of death; an attempt to wheedle a respite out of death by offering up human sacrifices. Nonsense, Mr Genji. Why underestimate and belittle your opponent? At the very least that is imprudent. Perhaps I was once afraid to die, but that was a very, very long time ago, before the stone walls of a prison cell exterminated all strong feelings and passions in me. Apart from one that is, the most exalted of all – the desire to be God. A long period of solitary confinement brings home very clearly the simple truth that you are alone in the world and the entire universe is in you, and so you are God. If you so wish, the universe will live. If you do not, it will die, with everything that it contains. That is what will happen if I, God, commit suicide. In comparison with this catastrophe, all other deaths are mere trifles. But if I am God, then I must rule, must I not? That is only logical, it is my right. My rule must be real and undivided. And do you know what God’s real power over people is? It is not a general’s epaulettes, a minister’s portfolio, or even a king’s throne. In our times dominion of that kind is becoming an anachronism. It will not be enough for the rulers of the new century that is beginning. There must be power, not over bodies, but over souls. Say to someone else’s soul, “Die!” – and it dies. As it was with the Old Believers, when hundreds threw themselves into the fire if the elder willed it, and mothers cast their infants into the flames. But the elder left the burning community and went to save another flock. You, Mr Genji, are a limited man and you will never understand this supreme pleasure . . . Ah, why am I wasting time on you? To hell with you, you bore me.’
After pronouncing the last two phrases in a rapid flurry of speech, Prospero suddenly cut his speech short. He turned the bronze inkwell figure clockwise, there was a loud metallic clang and a hatch opened under the chair on which Genji was sitting, creating a hole the precise size of the square rug. The rug, the chair and the man sitting in it disappeared into the black hole.
I shouted out in horror, with my eyes fixed on that opening in the floor.
‘Another of my engineering designs!’ Prospero exclaimed, choking on fitful laughter. ‘The most ingenious one of all!’ he waved his hand in the air, unable to cope with his paroxysm of merriment. ‘There sits the pompous fellow, the master of life. And then a turn of a lever, releasing a spring and bang! Please be so good as to fall down my well-shaft.’
Wiping away his tears, he told me: ‘You know, my friend Horatio, last year I got the idea of deepening the basement. When the workers started digg
ing they discovered an old brick-lined well. Very deep, almost thirty sazhens. I told them to build the shaft upwards with bricks so that it reached the floor at this point. And then I built the hatch on the top myself. I like to do a bit of work with my hands in my spare time, it helps me to relax. The late Mr Genji was mistaken in thinking that I was shy of physical work – I built the voice imitator in Avaddon’s flat myself. But I installed this secret hatch for amusement, not for use. I would sit here with a visitor, talking about this and that. With him in the place of honour in the armchair, and me at the desk, toying with the lever. And I would think to myself: “Your life, my little pigeon, is in my hands. Just a little turn, and you’ll disappear from the face of the earth. It’s very helpful for your self-respect, especially if the visitor is haughty and pompous, like our Japanese prince who has just met such an untimely end. I never thought that my little toy would come in so useful.’
I sat there turned to stone, listening to this bloodcurdling speech, and feeling more afraid with every moment. I had to run, to get away from there immediately! He would never let me go alive – he would throw me down the well too.
I was about to make a dash for the door, but then my eye fell on the Bulldog, still lying on the edge of the desk. Prospero would grab the gun and shoot me in the back.
Well then, I had to get the gun myself!
The desperate nature of the situation lent me courage. I jumped up and reached for the gun, but Blagovolsky proved quicker and my fingers landed on his hand, which was already covering the revolver. A moment later we were struggling with each other, both clutching the gun with both hands. Taking small steps, we skirted round the table and then started jigging on the spot, as if we were performing some macabre dance.
I kicked at him and he kicked back, hitting me on the ankle. It was very painful, but I didn’t open my fingers. I jerked the gun towards me with all my strength and we both lost our balance and went tumbling to the floor. The Bulldog slipped out of our hands, slid across the gleaming parquet floor and stopped halfway over the edge of the hatch, swaying uncertainly. I scrambled towards it on my hands and knees, but I was too late. As if it had finally made up its mind, it tumbled over the edge.
A few dull thuds, growing fainter. Then silence.
Taking advantage of the fact that I had my back to him, Prospero grabbed me by the collar with one hand and by my coat-tail with the other and started dragging me across the floor towards the pit. Another second and it would all have been over, but by good fortune my fingers struck the leg of the desk and I clung to it with a grip of iron. My head was already hanging over the hole, but Blagovolsky could not move me another inch, no matter how he tried.
I was straining every muscle so hard that it was a while before I looked down into the hole – and in any case my eyes needed time to adjust to the darkness. The first thing I saw in the gloom was a vague rectangular shape that I only recognised a few seconds later as the chair, turned on its side – it had got stuck in the shaft, after falling less than a sazhen. And then I noticed two white spots below the chair. They were moving, and I suddenly realised that they were white shirt cuffs protruding from Genji’s leather sleeves! I couldn’t see his hands, but the starched cuffs were clearly visible through the darkness. So Genji had not gone plunging to the bottom, he had managed to grab hold of the chair when it got stuck!
This discovery emboldened me, although there did not really seem to be any real reason to rejoice: if Genji was not helped, he could only hold out like that for two or three minutes, and then he would fall in any case. And who was going to help him? Certainly not Blagovolsky!
Thank God, the Doge couldn’t see into the hole, and he had no idea that his main adversary was still alive, although quite helpless.
‘Horatio, do you play chess?’ Prospero’s faltering voice gasped behind me.
I thought I must have misheard.
‘In chess this kind of situation is called a stalemate,’ he went on. ‘Unfortunately, I am not strong enough to shove you into the well, and you cannot let go of the leg of the desk. Are we going to go on lying on the floor like this for ever? I have a better suggestion. Since force has not produced the desired result, let us return to a state of civilisation. By which I mean, let us negotiate.’
He stopped pulling on my collar and stood up. I also hastily jumped to my feet and moved as far away as possible from the hatch.
Both of us looked very much the worse for wear. Blagovolsky’s tie had slipped to one side, his grey hair was dishevelled and the belt of his dressing gown had come untied; I was no better, with a torn sleeve and missing buttons, and when I picked up my spectacles, I discovered that the right lens was cracked.
I was completely bewildered and did not know what to do. Run out into the street to get the police constable standing on Trubnaya Square? It would be ten minutes before I got back. Genji could not hold on for that long. I glanced involuntarily at the hole in the floor.
‘You’re right,’ said Blagovolsky, tying up his dressing gown. ‘That gap in the floor is distracting.’
He took a step forwards and turned the bronze figure anti-clockwise. The cover of the hatch slammed shut with a clang, making things even worse! Genji had been left in total darkness.
‘Now there are just the two of us, you and I,’ said Prospero. He looked into my eyes, and I felt the familiar magnetic influence of his gaze enveloping me and drawing me in. ‘Before you make any decision, I want you to listen carefully to your own heart. Do not make a mistake that you will regret for the rest of your life. Listen to me, look at me, trust me. The way you used to trust me, before this outsider invaded our world and spoiled and perverted everything . . .’
The sound of his clear baritone voice flowed on and on, until I no longer understood the meaning of the words. I realise now that Prospero had put me under his hypnotic influence, and very successfully too. I am highly suggestible and easily submit to the will of a stronger person, as you know very well from your own experience. And in addition, it is in my nature to take pleasure in my subservience – it is as if I dissolve into the personality of the other individual. While Genji was with me, I obeyed him unquestioningly, but now I was in the power of the Doge’s black eyes and mesmerising voice. I write about this bitterly, but soberly, in the full awareness of the more shameful aspects of my own nature.
It took very little time for Blagovolsky to transform me into a mesmerised rabbit, unable to move in the gaze of the python.
‘The superfluous third party is no longer with us, no one will disturb us,’ said the Doge, ‘and I shall tell you how everything really was. You are intelligent, you will be able to distinguish the truth from lies. But first you and I will have a drink – for the peace of the uninspired soul of Mr Genji. And in accordance with Russian tradition, let us drink vodka.’
And so saying, he walked into the corner, where there was a huge carved wooden cupboard standing in a niche. He opened its doors and I saw large bottles, carafes and goblets.
Now that I no longer felt his spellbinding stare on me, my mind seemed to awaken and start working again. I looked at the clock on the wall and saw that less than five minutes had gone by. Perhaps Genji was still holding on! However, before I could come to any decision, Blagovolsky came back to the desk and trained his black eyes on me, and once again I was overcome by a blissful apathy. I was no longer thinking about anything, only listening to the sound of his masterful voice. We were standing on opposite sides of the desk. The disgraced roulette wheel was between us and its nickel-plated rays glinted and sparkled.
‘Here are two glasses,’ said the Doge, ‘I don’t usually drink vodka – I have a sick liver, but after a shock like that I could do with a pick-me-up. Here.’
He set the glass on one of the pockets of the Wheel of Fortune (I remember it was a black one), gently pushed a little lever, and the crystal vessel described a semicircle as it slowly moved towards me. Prospero halted the roulette wheel and set the second glass down
on another black pocket in front of him.
‘You will trust me and only me,’ the Doge said, speaking slowly and ponderously. ‘I am the only one who sees and understands the workings of your soul. You, Horatio, are not a man, but half a man. That is why you need to seek out your other half. You have found it. I am your other half. We shall be like a single whole, and you will be calm and happy . . .’
Just at that moment there was a sharp cracking sound from under the floor and we both shuddered and turned to look. One of the parquet blocks on the door of the secret hatch had split in half and there was a small round black hole in the middle of the crack.
‘What the devil . . .’ Prospero began, but then there was another bang, and then another – five or six in all.
Several more holes appeared beside the first. Chips of wood were sent flying, two parquet blocks jumped out of the floor, and white crumbs of plaster showered down from the ceiling. I guessed that Genji must be firing into the cover of the hatch. But what for? How would that help him?
I soon found out. There were several dull blows against the underside of the hatch: one, two, three. And then, on the fourth blow, several parquet blocks stood up on end and I could hardly believe my eyes when I saw a fist emerge from the hole. It was incredible, but Genji had managed to punch through the cover of the hatch with his bare hand – at the spot where the bullets had made holes in it!
The fist opened, the fingers grasped the edge of the hole that had been made and began pulling the cover down, overcoming the resistance of the spring.
‘He’s the devil himself!’ Prospero exclaimed, flinging himself across the desk on his stomach and seizing the inkwell.
I had no chance to stop him. Blagovolsky turned the heroic folklore figure and the hatch swung shut. I heard a groan and a dull blow, and a moment later an ominous rumbling sound receding into the distance.
