“For that kind of help I’d unwind the evil bastard’s guts with my bare hands,” Glashka said in a calm, convincing voice. “Lord knows, we need the freaks too. Let my Matryoshka live—what’s it to him?”
“And from the way he talked, who is he—a gentleman or a working man? How was he dressed?”
“You couldn’t tell from his clothes. Could have worked in a shop, or maybe some kind of clerk. But he spoke like a gent. I remembered one thing. When he looked at Matryoshka, he said to himself: ‘That’s not ringworm, it’s a rare nevus matevus.’ Nevus matevus—that’s what he called my Matryoshka; I remembered that.”
“Nevus maternus,” Erastik said, putting her right. “In doctor’s talk that means ‘birth mark.’ ”
He knows everything, he’s so bright.
“Erastik, let’s go, eh?” Ineska said, touching her sweetheart’s sleeve. “The cognac’s still waiting.”
“Why go?” that cheeky bitch Glashka piped up. “Since you’re already here. I can find some cognac for a special guest, it’s Shutov; I’ve been keeping it for Easter. So what’s that your name is, you handsome man?”
—
Masahiro Shibata was sitting in his room, burning incense sticks and reading sutras in memory of the servant of the state Anisii Tulipov, who had departed this world in such an untimely fashion, his sister Sonya-san and the maid Palashka, whom the Japanese had his own special reasons to mourn.
Masa had arranged the room himself, spending no small amount of time and money on it. The straw mats that covered the floor had been brought on a steamboat all the way from Japan, and they had immediately made the room sunny and golden, and the floor had a jolly spring under your feet, not like stomping across cold, dead parquet made out of stupid oak. There was no furniture at all, but a spacious cupboard with a sliding door had been built into one of the walls, to hold a padded blanket and a pillow, as well as the whole of Masa’s wardrobe: a cotton yukata robe, broad white cotton trousers and a similar jacket for rensu, two three-piece suits, for winter and summer, and the beautiful green livery that the Japanese servant respected so very much and only wore on special festive or solemn occasions. On the walls to delight the eye there were coloured lithographs of Tsar Alexander and Emperor Mutsuhito. And hanging in the corner, under the altar shelf, there was a scroll with an ancient wise saying: “Live correctly and regret nothing.” Standing on the altar today there was a photograph: Masa and Anisii Tulipov in the Zoological Gardens. It had been taken the previous summer: Masa in his sandy-coloured summer suit and bowler hat, looking serious, Anisii with his mouth stretched into a smile that reached the ears sticking out from under his cap, and behind them an elephant with ears just the same, except that they were a bit bigger.
Masa was distracted from mournful thoughts on the vanity of the search for harmony and the fragility of the world by the telephone.
Fandorin’s servant walked to the entrance hall through the dark, empty rooms—his master was somewhere in the city, looking for the murderer, in order to exact vengeance; his mistress had gone to the church and would probably not be back soon because tonight was the main Russian festival of Easter.
“Harro,” Masa said into the round bell mouth. “This is Mista Fandorin’s number. Who is speaking?”
“Mr. Fandorin, is that you?” said a metallic voice, distorted by electrical howling. “Erast Petrovich?”
“No, Mista Fandorin not here,” Masa said loudly, so that he could be heard above the howling. They had written in the newspapers that new telephones had appeared with an improved system which transmitted speech “without the slightest loss of quality, remarkably loudly and clearly.” They ought to buy one. “Prease ring back rater. Would you rike to reave a message?”
“No thank——” The voice had gone from a howl to a rustle. “I’ll phone later.”
“Prease make yourself wercome,” Masa said politely, and hung up.
Things were bad, very bad. This was the third night his master had not slept, and the mistress did not sleep either; she prayed all the time—either in the church or at home, in front of the icon. She had always prayed a lot, but never so much as now. All this would end very badly, although it was hard to see how things could be any worse than they were already.
If only the master would find whoever had killed Tiuri-san and murdered Sonya-san and Palasha. Find him and give his faithful servant a present—give that person to Masa. Not for long, just half an hour. No, an hour would be better…
Engrossed in pleasant thoughts, he didn’t notice the time passing. The clock struck eleven. Usually the people in the neighbouring houses were already asleep at this time, but today all the windows were lit up. It was a special night. Soon the bells would start chiming all over the city, and then different-coloured lights would explode in the sky, people in the streets would start singing and shouting, and tomorrow there would be a lot of drunks. Easter.
Perhaps he ought to go the church and stand with everyone and listen to the slow bass singing of the Christian bonzes. Anything was better than sitting all alone and waiting, waiting, waiting.
But he didn’t have to wait any longer. The door slammed and he heard firm, confident footsteps. His master had returned!
“What, mourning all alone?” his master asked in Japanese, and touched him gently on the shoulder.
Such displays of affection were not their custom, and the surprise broke Masa’s reserve; he sobbed and then broke into tears. He didn’t wipe the water from his face—let it flow. A man had no reason to be ashamed of crying, as long as it was not from pain or from fear.
The master’s eyes were dry and bright. “I haven’t got everything I’d like to have,” he said. “I thought we’d catch him red-handed. But we can’t wait any longer. There’s no time. The killer is still in Moscow today, but after a while he could be anywhere in the world. I have indirect evidence: I have a witness who can identify him. That’s enough; he won’t wriggle out of it.”
“You will take me with you?” Masa asked, overjoyed by the good news. “You will?”
“Yes,” his master said, with a nod. “He is a dangerous opponent, and I can’t take any risks. I might need your help.”
The telephone rang again.
“Master, someone phoned before. On secret business. He didn’t give his name. He said he would call again.”
“Right then, you take the other phone and try to tell if it’s the same person or not.”
Masa put the metal horn to his ear and prepared to listen.
“Hello. Erast Petrovich Fandorin’s number. This is he,” the master said.
“Erast Petrovich, is that you?” the voice squeaked. Masa shrugged—he couldn’t tell if it was the same person or someone else.
“Yes. With whom am I speaking?”
“This is Zakharov.”
“You!” The master’s strong fingers clenched into a fist.
“Erast Petrovich, I have to explain things to you. I know everything is against me, but I didn’t kill anyone, I swear to you!”
“Then who did?”
“I’ll explain everything to you. Only give me your word of honour that you’ll come alone, without the police. Otherwise I’ll disappear, you’ll never see me again, and the killer will go free. Do you give me your word?”
“Yes,” the master answered without hesitation.
“I believe you, because I know you to be a man of honour. You have no need to fear: I am not dangerous to you, and I don’t have a gun. I just want to be able to explain…If you still are concerned, bring your Japanese along, I don’t object to that. Only no police.”
“How do you know about my Japanese?”
“I know a great deal about you, Erast Petrovich. That’s why you are the only one I trust…Come immediately, this minute to the Pokrovskaya Gates. You’ll find the Hotel Tsargrad on Rogozhsky Val Street, a grey building with three storeys. You must come within the next hour. Go up to room number fifty-two and wait for me there. On
ce I’m sure that only the two of you have come, I’ll come up and join you. I’ll tell you the whole truth, and then you can decide what to do with me. I’ll accept any decision you make.”
“There will be no police, my word of honour,” the master said, and hung up.
“That’s it, Masa, that’s it,” he said, and his face became a little less dead. “He will be caught in the act. Give me some strong green tea. I shan’t be sleeping again tonight.”
“What weapons shall I prepare?” Masa asked.
“I shall take my revolver; I shan’t need anything else. And you take whatever you like. Remember: this man is a monster—strong, quick, and unpredictable.” And he added in a quiet voice: “I really have decided to manage without any police.”
Masa nodded understandingly. In a matter like this, of course it was better without the police.
—
I admit that I was wrong: not all detectives are ugly. This one, for instance, is very beautiful.
My heart swoons sweetly as I see him close the ring around me. Hide and seek!
But I can facilitate his enlightenment a little. If I am not mistaken in him, he is an exceptional man. He won’t be frightened, but he will appreciate the lesson. I know it will cause him a lot of pain. At first. But later he will thank me himself. Who knows, perhaps we shall become fellow-thinkers and confederates. I think I can sense a kindred spirit. Or perhaps two kindred spirits. His Japanese servant comes from a nation that understands true Beauty. The supreme moment of existence for the inhabitants of those distant islands is to reveal to the world the Beauty of their belly. In Japan, those who die in this beautiful way are honoured as heroes. The sight of steaming entrails does not frighten anyone there.
Yes, there will be three of us, I can sense it.
How weary I am of my solitude. To share the burden between two or even three would be unspeakable happiness. After all, I am not a god; I am only a human being.
Understand me, Mr. Fandorin. Help me.
But first I must open your eyes.
CHAPTER 9
A Bad End to an Unpleasant Story
Easter Sunday, 9 April, night
Clip-clop, clip-clop, the horseshoes clattered merrily over the cobblestones of the street, and the steel springs rustled gently. The Decorator was riding through the Moscow night in festive style, bowling along to the joyful pealing of the Easter bells and the booming of the cannon. There had been illuminated decorations on Tverskaya Street, different-coloured little lanterns, and now on the left, where the Kremlin was, the sky was suffused with all the colours of the rainbow—that was the Easter firework display. The boulevard was crowded. Talking, laughter, sparklers. Muscovites greeting people they knew, kissing, sometimes even the popping of a champagne cork.
And here was the turn on to Malaya Nikitskaya Street. Here it was deserted, dark, not a soul.
“Stop, my good man, we’re here,” said the Decorator.
The cabbie jumped down from the coachbox and opened the droshky’s door, decorated with paper garlands. He doffed his cap and uttered the holy words: “Christ is risen.”
“Truly He is risen,” the Decorator replied with feeling, throwing back the veil, and kissed the good Christian on his stubbly cheek. The tip was an entire rouble. Such was the bright holiness of this hour.
“Thank you, lady,” the cabby said with a bow, touched more by the kiss than by the rouble.
The Decorator’s heart was serene and at peace.
The infallible instinct that had never deceived told him that this was a great night, when all the misfortunes and petty failures would be left behind. Happiness lay very close ahead. Everything would be good, very good.
Ah what a tour de force had been conceived this time. As a true master of his trade, Mr. Fandorin could not fail to appreciate it. He would grieve, he would weep—after all, we are all only human—but afterwards he would think about what had happened and understand; he was sure to understand. After all, he was an intelligent man and he seemed capable of seeing Beauty.
The hope of new life, of recognition and understanding, warmed the Decorator’s foolish, trusting heart. It is hard to bear the cross of a great mission alone. Even Christ’s cross had been supported by Simon’s shoulder.
Fandorin and his Japanese were dashing at top speed on their way to Rogozhsky Val Street. They would waste time finding room number fifty-two and waiting there. And if the Collegiate Counsellor should suspect anything, he would not find a telephone in the third-class Hotel Tsargrad.
The Decorator had time. There was no need to hurry.
The woman the Collegiate Counsellor loved was devout. She was in the church now, but the service in the nearby Church of the Resurrection would soon be over, and at midnight the woman would certainly come home—to set the table with the Easter feast and wait for her man.
Decorative gates with a crown, the yard beyond them, and then the dark windows of the outhouse. Here.
Throwing back the flimsy veil, the Decorator looked around and slipped in through the wrought-iron gate.
It would take a moment or two to fiddle with the door of the outhouse, but that was an easy job for such agile, talented fingers. The lock clicked, the hinges creaked, and the Decorator was already in the dark entrance hall.
No need to wait for such well-accustomed eyes to adjust to the darkness: it was no hindrance to them. The Decorator walked quickly round all the rooms.
In the drawing room there was a momentary fright caused by the deafening chime of a huge clock in the shape of Big Ben. Was it really that late? Confused, the Decorator checked the time with a neat lady’s wristwatch—no, Big Ben was fast, it was still a quarter to the hour.
The place for the sacred ritual still had to be chosen.
The Decorator was on top form today, soaring on the wings of inspiration—why not right here in the drawing room, on the dinner table?
It would be like this: Mr. Fandorin would come in from the entrance hall, turn on the electric light, and see the delightful sight.
That was decided then. Now where did they keep their tablecloth?
The Decorator rummaged in the linen cupboard, selected a snow-white lace cloth and put it on the broad table with its dull gleam of polished wood.
Yes, that would be beautiful. Wasn’t that a Meissen dinner service in the sideboard? The fine china plates could be laid out round the edge of the table and the treasures could be laid on them as they were extracted. It would be the finest decoration ever created.
So, the design had been completed.
The Decorator went into the entrance hall, stood by the window and waited, filled with joyful anticipation and holy ecstasy.
The yard was suddenly bright—the moon had come out. A sign, a clear sign! It had been overcast and gloomy for so many weeks, but now a veil seemed to have been lifted from God’s world. What a clear, starry sky! This was truly a bright and holy Easter night. The Decorator made the sign of the cross three times.
She was here!
A few quick blinks of the eyelashes to brush away the tears of ecstasy.
She was here. A short figure wearing a broad coat and hat came in unhurriedly through the gate. When she approached the door, it was clearly a hat of mourning, with…with a black gauze veil. Ah, yes, that was for the boy, Anisii Tulipov. Don’t grieve, my dear, he and the members of his household are already with the Lord. They are happy there. And you too will be happy, only be patient a little longer.
“Christ is risen.” The Decorator greeted her in a quiet, clear voice. “Don’t be frightened, my dear. I have come to bring you joy.”
The woman, however, did not appear to be frightened. She did not cry out or try to run away. On the contrary, she took a step forwards. The moon lit up the entrance hall with an intense, even glow, and the eyes behind the veil glinted.
“Why are we standing here like two Moslem women in yashmaks?” the Decorator joked. “Let’s show our faces.” The Decorator’s veil was thrown
back, revealing an affectionate smile, a smile from the heart. “And let’s not be formal with each other. We’re going to get to know each other very well. We shall be closer than sisters. Come now, let me look at your pretty face. I know you are beautiful, but I shall help you to become even more so.”
The Decorator reached out one hand, but the woman did not jump back; she waited. Mr. Fandorin had a good woman, calm and acquiescent. The Decorator had always liked women like that. It would be bad if she spoiled everything with a scream of horror and an expression of fear in her eyes. She would die instantly, with no pain or fright. That would be the Decorator’s gift to her.
One hand drew the scalpel out of the little case that was attached to the Decorator’s belt at the back; with the other he threw back the fine gauze from the face of the fortunate woman.
The face revealed was broad and perfectly round, with slanting eyes. What kind of witchcraft was this? But there was no time to make any sense of it, because something in the entrance hall clicked and suddenly it was flooded with blindingly bright light, unbearable after the darkness.
With sensitive eyes screwed tightly shut against the pain, the Decorator heard a voice speaking through the darkness: “I’ll give you joy right now, Pakhomenko. Or would you prefer me to call you by your former name, Mr. Sotsky?”
Opening his eyes slightly, the Decorator saw the Japanese servant standing in front of him, fixing him with an unblinking stare. The Decorator did not turn round. Why should he turn round, when it was already clear that Mr. Fandorin was behind him, probably holding a revolver in his hand? The cunning Collegiate Counsellor had not gone to the Hotel Tsargrad. He had not believed that Zakharov was guilty. Satan himself must have whispered the truth to Fandorin.
Eloi, Eloi, lama sabacthani? Or perhaps You have not abandoned me, but are testing the strength of my spirit?
Then let us test it.
Fandorin would not fire, because his bullet would go straight through the Decorator and hit the Japanese.
The Big Book of Jack the Ripper Page 56
