by Boris Akunin
The impact of the Doge’s sudden movement shook the desk: the roulette wheel trembled and turned through another half-circle. A few drops of vodka splashed out of the glasses into the pockets of the wheel.
‘Ooph,’ Prospero exclaimed in relief. ‘What a persistent gentleman. And all because we didn’t drink in time for the peace of his soul. Drink it down, Horatio, drain your glass. Or else he’ll climb back out again. Come on!’
The Doge knitted his brows menacingly and I meekly picked up my vodka.
‘We drink on one, two, three,’ Blagovolsky told me. ‘And damn my sick liver. One, two, three!’
I tipped back the glass and almost choked as the fiery liquid seared my throat. I should say that I am no lover of the Russian national beverage and usually prefer Moselle or Rheinwein.
When I wiped away the tears that had sprung to my eyes, I was astounded by the change that had come over Blagovolsky. He was standing absolutely still, clutching his throat with one hand, and his eyes were staring out of his head. I am unable to describe the expression of boundless horror that contorted the Doge’s face. He wheezed, tore at his collar and doubled over.
I couldn’t understand a thing, and events began following each other so rapidly that I could barely turn my head fast enough.
First there was a knocking sound and when I looked round I saw a hand grab the edge of the hatch. Then a second hand did the same, and a moment later Genji’s head appeared out of the hole – his hair was dishevelled and his scowling forehead was covered with scratches. A few moments later this amazing man had already climbed out and was brushing the white dust off his elbows.
‘What’s wrong with him?’ Genji asked, wiping his grazed and bloody fingers with a handkerchief.
The question referred to the Doge, who was rolling about on the floor and howling desperately. He kept trying to get to his feet, but could not.
‘He drank some vodka, and he has a sick liver,’ I explained stupidly, still not recovered from my stupor.
Genji stepped across to the desk. He picked up my glass, sniffed it and put it down again. Then he leaned down to the roulette wheel and looked at the spot where Blagovolsky’s glass had stood. I saw that the spilled drops of vodka had left strange white marks on the black pocket.
Genji bent over, looked at Prospero writhing convulsively on the floor and remarked in a low voice: ‘It looks like “royal vodka”, a mixture of nitric and hydrochloric acid. It must have completely burned away his oesophagus and stomach. What a terrible way to die!’
I started shaking when I realised that the villainous Prospero had intended the poison for me, and only a lucky chance – the jolt that had turned the Wheel of Fortune – had saved me from a hideous fate.
‘Let’s go, Horatio,’ said Genji, tugging on my sleeve. ‘There’s nothing more for us to do here. The unfortunate Radishchev d-died in exactly the same way. There is no way to save Blagovolsky. And no way to ease his suffering either – except by shooting him. But I shall not render him that service. Let’s go.’
He walked towards the door and I hurried after him, leaving the dying man howling in agony behind us.
‘But . . . but how did you manage to climb out of the well? And then, when Blagovolsky closed the hatch again, I distinctly heard a rumbling sound. Didn’t you fall?’ I asked.
‘It was the chair I was standing on that fell,’ Genji replied, pulling on his massive gauntlets. ‘I shall miss my Herstahl very badly. It was an excellent revolver. You can’t b-buy them anywhere, they have to be ordered from Brussels. Of course, I could climb down the well and look for it on the bottom, but I really don’t feel like going back into that hole. Br-r-r!’
He shuddered, and so did I.
‘Wait about a quarter of an hour and then phone the p-police,’ he said when we parted.
As soon as he was gone, an unexpected thought struck me like a bolt of lightning. The Doge of the suicide club killed himself! There’s higher justice for you! So God does exist!
This idea now occupies my mind more and more. I am even willing to concede that all the shocking events of the recent past had only one purpose: to bring me to this revelation. Ah yes, but that is no concern of yours. I have already written far more than necessary for an official document.
In summary of the above, I testify on my own responsibility that everything happened as I have described it.
Sergei Irinarkhovich Blagovolsky was not killed by anyone. He died by his own hand.
And now goodbye.
With every assurance of my most sincere disrespect,
F.F. Weltman, doctor of medicine
P.S. I considered it my duty to inform Mr Genji of the interest shown in him by yourself and the ‘highly placed individual’ of your acquaintance. He was not in the least surprised and asked me to tell you and the ‘highly placed individual’ not to trouble yourselves with any further searches or attempts to cause him any unpleasantness, since tomorrow (that is, in fact, today) at noon he is leaving the city of Moscow and his God-fearing homeland and taking his friends with him.
It was for this reason – in order to give Mr Genji time to travel beyond the bounds of your jurisdiction – that I did not telephone the police from the scene of last night’s events, but waited for the whole day and am sending you this letter in the evening, not by courier, but via the ordinary post.
Genji is not at all like Isaiah, but his prophecy concerning me appears to have come true: the strong has come forth out of the weak.
1. I’m waiting
2. Die (German)
