A Sword Duel
Rome. The whole of Italy is talking about a sword duel that took place between General Andreotti and Deputy Cavallo. In the speech that he gave last week to veterans of the Battle of Solferino, General Andreotti expressed concern about Jewish dominance of the newspaper and publishing world of Europe. Deputy Cavallo, who is of Jewish origin, felt insulted by this entirely justified assertion and, speaking in parliament, he called the general a “Sicilian ass,” as a result of which the duel took place. In the second skirmish Andreotti was slightly wounded in the shoulder by a sword, after which the duel terminated. The opponents shook hands.
Minister’s Illness
St. Petersburg. The Minister of Railways, who fell ill with pneumonia a few days ago, is somewhat improved: he has no more chest pains. The patient passed the night comfortably. He is fully conscious and aware of his surroundings.
Anisii even read the advertisements: about a cooling glycerine powder, about a cream for galoshes, about the latest folding beds and nicotine-filtering cigarette holders. Overcome by a strange apathy, he spent a long time studying a picture with the following caption: “The patented smell-free powder-closet using the system of mechanical engineer S. Timokhovich. Cheap and meets all the requirements of hygiene, can be located in any room in the home. At Adadurov’s house near Krasnye Voroty you can observe the powder-closet in action. Can be rented out for dachas.”
After that he simply sat there and stared despondently out of the window.
Izhitsin, on the other hand, was a whirlwind of energy. Under his personal supervision they brought additional tables into the autopsy room, so that there were thirteen of them in all. The two gravediggers, the watchman, and the constables carried three identified bodies out of the ice-room on stretchers, one of them the juvenile vagrant. The investigator gave several instructions for the bodies to be laid out this way or that way—he was striving for the maximum visual effect. Anisii simply shuddered when he heard Izhitsin’s piercing, commanding tenor through the closed door:
“Where are you moving that table, you dolt! On three sides, I said, on three sides!” Or even worse: “Not like that! Not like that! Open her belly up a bit wider! So what if it is all frozen together; use the spade, the spade! Right, now that’s good.”
The prisoners were brought shortly after two in the afternoon, each one in a separate droshky with an armed guard.
Through the window Tulipov saw them bring the first one into the morgue—a round-faced man with broad shoulders in a crumpled black tailcoat and a white tie that had slipped to one side—he could assume that he was the manufacturer Burylin, who hadn’t managed to get home since being arrested the day before. About ten minutes later they brought Stenich. He was wearing a white coat (he must have come straight from the clinic) and glaring around like a trapped animal. Soon after that they brought in Nesvitskaya. She walked between two gendarmes with her shoulders held back and her head high. The midwife’s face was contorted by an expression of hatred.
The door creaked and Izhitsin came into the office. His face was agitated and flaming red—a genuine theatrical entrepreneur on an opening night.
“For the moment our dear guests are waiting in the front office, under guard,” he told Anisii. “Take a look and see if this is all right.”
Tulipov stood up listlessly and went into the dissection theatre.
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 gravediggers 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 a 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 any more! 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 éclairs, 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 éclairs. “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, a
ll 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.”
The Big Book of Jack the Ripper Page 50
