Erast Fandorin 04 - The Death of Achilles

by Boris Akunin

  “A straightforward case,” the professor began dryly. “Nothing suspicious has been discovered. I will analyze some samples in the laboratory as well, but I am absolutely certain that vital functions ceased as a result of paralysis of the heart muscle. There is also paralysis of the right lung, but that is probably a consequence, not a cause. Death was instantaneous. Even if a doctor had been present, he would not have been able to save him.”

  “But he was so young and full of life; he’d been to hell and back!” Karachentsev exclaimed, approaching the table and folding back a corner of the sheet. “How could he just up and die like that?”

  Gukmasov turned away in order not to see his superior’s dead face, but Erast Petrovich and the hotel manager moved closer. The face was calm and solemn. Even the famous sideburns, the subject of so much humorous banter by the liberals and scoffing by foreign caricaturists, had proved fitting in death — they framed the waxy face and lent it even greater grandeur.

  “Oh, what a hero, a genuine Achilles,” the hotel manager murmured, burring the letter ‘r’ in the French manner.

  “Time of death?” asked Karachentsev.

  “Sometime during the first two hours after midnight,” Welling replied confidently. “No earlier, and definitely no later.”

  The general turned to the Cossack captain.

  “Right, now that the cause of death has been established, we can deal with the details. Tell us what happened, Gukmasov, as accurately as possible.”

  The captain evidently did not know how to describe events in great detail. His account was brief, but nonetheless comprehensive.

  “We arrived here from the Bryansk Station after five o’clock. Mikhail Dmitrievich rested until the evening. At nine we dined in the restaurant here, then we went for a ride to look at Moscow by night. We did not stop off anywhere. Shortly after midnight Mikhail Dmitrievich said that he wished to come back to the hotel. He wanted to make some notes; he was working on a new field manual.”

  Gukmasov cast a sidelong glance at the bureau standing by the window. There were sheets of paper laid out on the fold-down writing surface and a chair casually standing where it had been moved back and a little to one side. Karachentsev walked over, picked up a sheet of paper covered in writing, and nodded his head respectfully.

  “I’ll give instructions for all of it to be gathered together and forwarded to the emperor. Continue, captain.”

  “Mikhail Dmitrievich dismissed the officers, telling them that they were free to go. He said he would walk the rest of the way back, he felt like taking a stroll.”

  Karachentsev pricked up his ears at that.

  “And you let the general go off on his own? At night? That’s rather odd!”

  He glanced significantly at Fandorin, but the collegiate assessor appeared entirely uninterested in this detail — he walked over to the bureau and for some reason ran his finger over the bronze candelabra.

  “There was no arguing with him,” said Gukmasov, with a bitter laugh. “I tried to object, but he gave me such a look, that… After all, Your Excellency, he was used to strolling around on his own in the Turkish mountains and the Tekin steppes, never mind the streets of Moscow.” The captain twirled one side of his long mustache gloomily. “Mikhail Dmitrievich got back to the hotel all right. He just didn’t live until the morning.”

  “How did you discover the body?” asked the chief of police.

  “He was sitting here,” said Gukmasov, pointing to the light armchair. “Leaning backward. And his pen was lying on the floor.”

  Karachentsev squatted down and touched the blotches of ink on the carpet. He sighed and said: “Yes indeed, the Lord moves…”

  The mournful pause that followed was interrupted unceremoniously by Fandorin. Half-turning toward the hotel manager and continuing to stroke that ill- starred candelabra, he asked in a loud whisper: “Why haven’t you electricity here? I was surprised about that yesterday. Such a modern hotel, and it doesn’t even have gas — you light the rooms with candles.”

  The Frenchman tried to explain that candles were in better taste than gas, that there was already electric lighting in the restaurant, and it would definitely appear on the other floors before autumn, but Karachentsev cleared his throat angrily to cut short this idle chatter that had nothing to do with the case.

  “And how did you spend the night, Captain?” he asked, continuing with his cross- examination.

  “I paid a call to an army comrade of mine, Colonel Dadashev. We sat and talked. I got back to the hotel at dawn and collapsed into bed immediately.”

  “Yes, yes,” Erast Petrovich interjected, “the night porter told me that it was already light when you got back. You also sent him to get a bottle of seltzer water.”

  “That’s correct. To be quite honest, I had drunk too much. My throat was parched. I always rise early, but this time, as luck would have it, I overslept. I was about to barge in with a report for the general, but Lu-kich told me that he had not risen yet. I thought Mikhail Dmitrievich must have worked late into the night. Then when it got to half past eight, I said, Come on Lukich, let’s wake him or he’ll be angry with us, and this isn’t like him anyway. We came in here, and he was stretched out like this” — Gukmasov flung his head back, screwed up his eyes, and half-opened his mouth — “and cold already. We called a doctor and sent a telegram to the corps. That was when you saw me, Erast Petrovich. I apologize for not greeting an old comrade but — you understand, I had other things to deal with.”

  Rather than acknowledge the apology, which in any case was absolutely unnecessary under the circumstances, Erast Petrovich inclined his head slightly to one side, put his hands behind his back, and said: “But you know they told me in the restaurant here that yesterday a certain lady sang for His Excellency the general and apparently even sat at your table. An individual well-known in Moscow, I believe? If I am not mistaken, her name is Wanda. And it appears that all of you, including the general, left with her?”

  “Yes, there was a chanteuse of some sort,” the captain replied coldly. “We gave her a lift and dropped her off somewhere. Then we carried on.”

  “Where did you drop her off, at the hotel Anglia on Stoleshnikov Lane?” the collegiate assessor asked, demonstrating just how well-informed he was. “I was told that is where Miss Wanda resides.”

  Gukmasov knitted his menacing brows and his voice turned so dry that it practically grated: “I don’t know Moscow very well. Not far from here. It only took us five minutes to get there.”

  Fandorin nodded, evidently no longer interested in the captain — he had noticed the door of a wall safe beside the bed. He walked over to it, turned the handle, and the door opened.

  “What’s in there, is it empty?” asked the chief of police.

  Erast Petrovich nodded.

  “Yes indeed, Your Excellency. Here’s the key sticking out of the lock.”

  “Right, then,” said Karachentsev, tossing his red head of hair, “seal up any papers that we find. We’ll sort out later what goes to the relatives, what goes to the ministry, and what goes to His Majesty himself. Professor, you send for your assistants and get on with the embalming.”

  “What, right here?” Welling asked indignantly. “It’s not like pickling cabbage, you know, general.”

  “Do you want me to ferry the body all the way across the city to your academy? Look out the window, look how tightly they’re crammed out there! I’m afraid not; do the best you can here. Thank you, Captain, you are dismissed. And you,” he said, turning to the hotel manager, “give the professor everything he asks for.”

  When Karachentsev and Fandorin were left alone, the redheaded general took the young man by the elbow, led him away from the body under the sheet, and asked in a low voice, as though the corpse might overhear: “What, what do you make of it? As far as I can tell from the questions you ask and the way you behave, you weren’t satisfied with Gukmasov’s explanations. Why do you think he was not being honest with us? He
explained his unshaven condition that morning quite convincingly, after all, or don’t you agree? He slept late after a night of drinking — nothing unusual about that.”

  “Gukmasov could not have slept late,” Fandorin said with a shrug. “His training would never allow it. And he certainly would not have gone barging in to see Sobolev, as he says he did, without tidying himself up first. The captain is lying, that much is clear. But the case, Your Excellency—”

  “Call me Evgeny Osipovich,” the general interrupted, listening with rapt attention.

  “The case, Evgeny Osipovich,” Fandorin continued, bowing politely, “is even more serious than I thought. Sobolev did not die here.”

  “What do you mean, not here?” gasped the chief of police. “Where, then?”

  “I don’t know. But permit me to ask one question: Why did the night porter — and I have spoken with him — not see Sobolev return?”

  “He could have left his post and doesn’t want to admit it,” Karachentsev objected, more for the sake of argument than as a serious suggestion.

  “That is not possible, and in a little while I shall explain why. But here is a mystery for you that you will definitely not be able to explain. If Sobolev had returned to his suite during the night, then sat down at the desk and written something, he would have had to light the candles. But take a look at the candelabra — the candles are fresh!”

  “So they are!” said the general, slapping his hand against a thigh tightly encased in military breeches. “Oh, well done, Erast Petrovich. And what a fine detective I am!” He smiled disarmingly. “I was only recently appointed to the gendarmes; before that I was in the Cavalry Guards. So what do you think could have happened?”

  Fandorin raised and lowered his silky eyebrows, concentrating hard.

  “I would not like to guess, but it is perfectly clear that after supper Mikhail Dmitrievich did not return to his apartment, since it was already dark by then and, as we already know, he did not light the candles. And the waiters also confirm that Sobolev and his retinue left immediately after their meal. And the night porter is a reliable individual who values his job very highly — I don’t believe that he could have left his post and missed the general’s return.”

  “What you do or don’t believe is no argument,” Evgeny Osipovich teased the collegiate assessor. “Give me the facts.”

  “By all means,” said Fandorin with a smile. “After midnight the door of the hotel is closed on a spring latch. Anyone who wishes to leave can easily do so, but anyone who wishes to enter has to ring the bell.”

  “Now that is a fact,” the general conceded. “But please continue.”

  “The only moment at which Sobolev could have returned is when our d-dashing captain sent the porter to get some seltzer water. However, as we know, that happened when it was already dawn, that is to say, no earlier than four o’clock. If we are to believe Mr. Welling — and what reason do we have to doubt the judgment of that venerable gentleman? — by that time Sobolev had already been dead for several hours. What, then, is the conclusion?”

  Karachentsev’s eyes glinted angrily.

  “Well, and what is it?”

  “Gukmasov sent the porter away so that he could bring in Sobolev’s lifeless body without being noticed. I suspect that the other officers of the retinue were outside at the time.”

  “Then the scoundrels must be thoroughly interrogated,” the police chief roared so ferociously that they heard him in the next room, where the vague droning of voices immediately ceased.

  “Pointless. They have already conspired. That is why they were so late in reporting the death — they needed time to prepare.” Erast Petro-vich gave the general a moment to cool down and absorb what he had said, then turned the conversation in a different direction. “Who is this Wanda that everybody knows?”

  “Well, perhaps not everybody, but she is a well-known individual in certain circles. A German woman from Riga. A singer and a beauty, not exactly a courtesan, but something of the kind. A sort of dame aux camelias.” Karachentsev nodded briskly. “I see where your thoughts are leading. This Wanda will clear everything up for us. I’ll give instructions for her to be brought in immediately.”

  The general set off resolutely toward the door.

  “I wouldn’t advise it,” said Fandorin, speaking to his back. “If anything did happen, this individual will certainly not confide in the police. And she is certainly included in the officers’ conspiracy. That is, naturally, if she is involved at all in what happened. Let me have a talk with her myself, Evgeny Osipovich. In my private capacity, eh? Where is the hotel Anglia? The corner of Stoleshnikov Lane and Petrovka Street?”

  “Yes, just five minutes from here.” The chief of police was regarding the young man with evident satisfaction. “I shall be waiting for news, Erast Petrovich. God be with you.”

  He made the sign of the cross and the collegiate assessor left the room bearing the blessing of high authority.

  * * *

  THREE

  In which Fandorin plays heads or tails

  However, Erast Fandorin did not manage to reach the hotel Anglia in five minutes. Waiting for him in the corridor outside the fateful suite 47 was a sullen- faced Gukmasov.

  “Be so good as to step into my room for a couple of words,” he said to Fandorin and, taking a firm grasp of the young man’s elbow, he drew him into the suite next door to the general’s.

  The suite was exactly like the one that Fandorin himself was occupying. There was already a large group of men in it, scattered about on the divan and the chairs. Erast Petrovich glanced at their faces and recognized the officers from the dead man’s retinue whom he had seen only recently in the drawing room next door. The collegiate assessor greeted the assembled company with a slight bow, but no one made any response, and there was evident animosity in the gazes that they turned toward him. Fandorin crossed his arms on his chest and leaned against the doorpost, and the expression on his face changed from polite greeting to cold hostility.

  “Gentlemen!” Captain Gukmasov announced in a severe, almost ceremonial voice. “Allow me to introduce Erast Petrovich Fandorin, with whom I have the honor of being acquainted from the time of the Turkish War. He is now working for the governor-general of Moscow.”

  Again, not even a single officer so much as inclined his head in greeting. Erast Petrovich refrained from repeating his own greeting to them and waited to see what would happen next. Gukmasov turned to him and said: “And these, Mr. Fandorin, are my colleagues. Senior Adjutant Lieutenant Colonel Baranov, Adjutant Lieutenant Prince Erdeli, Adjutant Staff Captain Prince Abadziev, Orderly Captain Ushakov, Orderly Cornet Baron Eichgolz, Orderly Cornet Gall, Orderly Lieutenant Markov.”

  “I won’t remember them all,” responded Erast Petrovich.

  “That will not be necessary,” snapped Gukmasov. “I have introduced all these gentlemen to you because you owe us an explanation.”

  “Owe you?” Fandorin echoed derisively. “Oh, come now!”

  “Yes indeed, sir. Be so good as to explain in front of everyone here the reason for the insulting interrogation to which you subjected me in the presence of the chief of police.”

  The captain’s voice was menacing, but the collegiate assessor remained unperturbed and his constant slight stammer had suddenly disappeared.

  “The reason for my questions, Captain, is that the death of Mikhail Dmitrievich Sobolev is a matter of state importance, indeed it is an event of historical significance. That is one.” Fandorin smiled reproachfully. “But you, Prokhor Akhrameevich, have been trying to make fools of us, and very clumsily, too. That is two. I have instructions from Prince Dolgorukoi to get to the bottom of this matter. That is three. And you may be certain that I shall get to the bottom of it; you know me. That is four. Or are you going to tell me the truth after all?”

  A Caucasian prince in a white Circassian coat with silver cartridge belts — if only Fandorin could remember which of the two Caucasians h
e was — leapt up off the divan.

  “One-two-three-four! Gentlemen! This sleuth, this lousy civilian, is jeering at us! Prosha, I swear on my mother that I’ll—”

  “Sit down, Erdeli!” Gukmasov barked, and the Caucasian immediately did so, twitching his chin nervously.

  “I certainly do know you, Erast Petrovich. I know you and I respect you.” The captain’s expression was grave and cheerless. “Mikhail Dmitrievich respected you, too. If his memory is dear to you, do not interfere in this matter. You will only make things worse.”

  Fandorin replied no less sincerely and seriously: “If it were merely a matter of myself and my own idle curiosity, then I should certainly accede to your request. But I am sorry, in this case I cannot — it is a matter of duty.”

  Gukmasov cracked the knuckles of the fingers that he had linked together behind his back and began walking around the room, jingling his spurs. He halted in front of the collegiate assessor.

  “Well, now, I cannot accept that, either. I cannot allow you to continue with your investigation. Let the police try — but not you, never. This is the wrong case for you to apply your talents to, Mr. Fandorin. Be informed that I shall stop you by any means possible, regardless of the past.”

  “Which means, for example, Prokhor Akhrameevich?” Erast Petrovich inquired.

  “I’ll give you some means!” Lieutenant Erdeli interjected yet again, jumping to his feet. “You, sir, have insulted the honor of the officers of the Fourth Army Corps, and I challenge you to a duel! Pistols, here, this very minute. To the death, handkerchief terms!”