by Boris Akunin
“Boots.”
The collegiate assessor cast a startled sideways glance at Masa dozing in the corner. Had they perhaps wasted their time in coming here? Was the old onshi already in his dotage?
“What?”
“Boots,” the inspector repeated. “Not shoes. Box-calf boots, shined as bright as a mirror. He never wears anything else.”
Fandorin’s heart stood still. Cautiously, as if he were afraid of alarming Grushin, he asked: “Do you mean you know the thief?”
“I know him very well,” said Grushin, with a smile of satisfaction covering his entire soft, wrinkled face, which had far more skin than the skull required. “It’s Little Misha, can’t be anyone else. Only it’s strange that he fumbled with the safe for such a long time; opening a hotel safe is as simple as falling off a log for him. Misha is the only safecracker who climbs in through the small window, and his picks are always lubricated with wax — his ears are very sensitive and he can’t bear the sound of squeaking.”
“Little Misha? Who’s th-that?”
“Why, everybody knows him,” said Xavier Feofilaktovich, untying his tobacco pouch and taking his time to fill his pipe. “The king of Moscow’s ‘businessmen’. A first-rate safecracker, and not squeamish about getting his hands bloody, either. He’s also a lady’s man, a fence, and the leader of a gang. A master of a wide range of trades, a criminal Benvenuto Cellini. Very short — only two arshins and two vershoks. Puny, but he dresses in style. Cunning, resourceful, vicious, and cruel. An individual of considerable repute in Khitrovka.”
“So well known and still not doing hard labor?” Fandorin asked in surprise.
The inspector chortled and sucked on his pipe in delight — the first puff in the morning is always the sweetest.
“Just you try to put him away. I couldn’t manage it, and I doubt whether the present crowd will, either. The villain has his own men in the force — that’s for certain. The number of times I tried to nail him. I never even came close!” Grushin waved his hand dismissively. “He escapes from every raid. They tip him off, those well-wishers of his. And people are afraid of Misha. Oh, they’re really afraid! His gang are all cutthroats and murderers. They have plenty of respect for me over in Khitrovka, but you couldn’t rip a single word about Little Misha out of them with pliers. And they knew I wasn’t going to try ripping it out with pliers; the worst I’d do is punch someone in the teeth. But afterward Misha would pick them to pieces with red-hot pincers, never mind pliers. There was one time, four years ago, when I managed to get really close to him. I was using one of his working girls; she was a good girl really, not a completely hopeless case yet. Then, just before the job when I was supposed to pick Misha up in their bandits’ hideaway, someone dumped a sack right in front of the department. Inside it was my informer — sawn up into joints, twelve of them. Eh, Erast Petrovich, the things I could tell you about his tricks, but if I understand right, you don’t have the time for that. Otherwise you wouldn’t have come around at half past five in the morning.”
And Xavier Feofilaktovich screwed up his eyes cunningly, proud of his perspicacity.
“I need Little Misha very badly,” Fandorin said with a frown. “Although it seems improbable, he must be connected in some way. However, I have no right… But I do assure you it is a matter of state importance and also of great urgency. Why don’t we go right now and pick up this Benvenuto Cellini of yours, eh?”
Grushin shrugged and spread his arms wide.
“That’s a tall order. I know every nook and cranny of Khitrovka, but I’ve no idea where Little Misha spends the night. It would take a mass raid. And it would have to come straight from the very top, not through any inspectors or captains — they’d tip him off. Cordon off the whole of Khitrovka, and do everything right, without rushing it. And then, if we don’t get Misha himself, we might at least pick up someone from his gang or one of his girls. But that would require about five hundred constables, no less. And they mustn’t be told what it’s all about until the last minute. That’s absolutely essential.”
And so since early that morning Erast Petrovich had been roaming around a city in the grip of mourning, dashing back and forth between Tverskoi Boulevard and Krasnye Vorota, trying to find the topmost brass in town. The precious time was slipping away! With a fabulous haul like that, Little Misha could already have made a dash for the jolly haunts of Odessa, or Rostov, or Warsaw. It was a big empire, with plenty of room for a high-spirited fellow to cut loose. Since the night before last Misha had been sitting on a pile of loot the likes of which he could never have imagined, even in his dreams. The logical thing for him to do would be to wait for a little while and see whether there would be any uproar or not. Misha was an old hand, so he was bound to understand all this. But with money like that his bandit’s heart would be smarting. He wouldn’t be able to hold out for long — he’d make a run for it. If he hadn’t slipped away already. Ah, what a nuisance this funeral was…
Once, as Grand Duke Kirill Alexandrovich stepped toward the coffin and respectful silence filled the church, Fandorin caught Prince Dolgorukoi glancing at him and began nodding desperately to attract His Excellency’s attention, but the governor-general merely replied by nodding in the same way, sighing heavily and raising his mournful eyes to the flaming candles in the chandelier. However, the collegiate assessor’s gesticulations were noticed by His Highness the Duke of Liechtenburg, who seemed rather embarrassed to find himself surrounded by all this gilded Byzantine finery, and was crossing himself the wrong way, from left to right, not like everybody else, and generally looking as though he felt very much out of place. Raising one eyebrow slightly, Evgeny Maximilianovich fixed his gaze on this functionary who was making such strange signs, and after a moment’s thought he tapped Khurtinsky on the shoulder with his finger — the court counselor’s disguised bald spot was just peeping out from behind the governor’s epaulette. Pyotr Parmyonovich proved quicker on the uptake than his superior: He realized instantly that something out of the ordinary must have happened and jerked his chin in the direction of the side exit — as if to say, go over there and we’ll have a talk.
Erast Petrovich began slipping through the dense crowd once again, but in a different direction, not toward the center, but at a slant, so that now his progress was quicker. And all the while, as the collegiate assessor was forcing his way through the mourners, the deep, manly voice of the Grand Duke resounded under the vaults of the church, and everybody listened with rapt attention. It was not merely that Kirill Alexandrovich was the sovereign’s own well-loved brother. Many of those present at the requiem knew perfectly well that this stately, handsome general with the slightly predatory, hawkish face did more than merely command the Guards; he could in fact be called the true ruler of the empire, for he was also in charge of the War Ministry and the Department of Police and, even more significantly, of the Special Gendarmes Corps. And most important of all, it was said that the tsar never made a single decision of even the slightest importance without first discussing it with his brother. As he worked his way toward the entrance, Erast Petrovich listened to the Grand Duke’s speech and thought that nature had played a mean trick on Russia: If only one brother had been born two years sooner and the other two years later, the autocratic ruler of Russia would not have been the prevaricating, inert, morose Alexander, but the intelligent, farsighted, and decisive Kirill! Ah, how different torpid Russian life would have been then! And what a glittering role the great power would have played on the international stage! But it was pointless to rage in vain at nature and, if one chose to vent one’s rage after all, then it should not be at Mother Nature, but at Providence, who never decided any matter without a higher reason, and if the empire were not destined to rise from its slumber at the command of a new Peter the Great, then it must be that the Lord did not wish it. He had some other, unknown fate in mind for the Third Rome. At least let it be a joyful and bright one. And with this thought Erast Petrovich crossed himself, which
he did extremely rarely, but the movement failed to attract anybody’s attention, for the people around him were all repeatedly making the sign of the cross over themselves. Could they perhaps be having similar thoughts?
Kirill’s speech was splendid, filled with a noble, vital energy:
“… There are many who complain that this valiant hero, the hope of the Russian land, has left us in such a sudden and — why not face the truth? — absurd fashion. The man who was dubbed Achilles for his legendary good fortune in battle, which saved him many times from imminent doom, did not fall on the field of battle; instead of a soldier’s death, he died the quiet death of a civilian. But is that really so?” The voice assumed the ringing tone of antique bronze. “Sobolev’s heart burst because it had been exhausted by years of service to the fatherland, weakened by numerous wounds received in battles against our enemies. Achilles should not have been his name, oh, no! Well protected by the waters of the Styx, Achilles was invulnerable to arrows and sword; until the very last day of his life he did not spill a single drop of his own blood. But Mikhail Dmitrievich bore on his body the traces of fourteen wounds, each of which invisibly advanced the hour of his death. No, Sobolev should not have been compared with the fortunate Achilles, but rather with the noble Hector — a mere mortal who risked his own life just as his soldiers did!”
Erast Petrovich did not hear the ending of this powerful and emotional speech, because just at that point he finally reached his goal — the side door, where the head of the secret section of the governor’s chancelry was already waiting for him.
“Well, then, what’s going on?” the court counselor asked, twitching the skin of his tall, pale forehead and then pulling Fandorin out after him into the yard, farther away from prying ears.
Erast expounded the essence of the matter with his invariable mathematical clarity and brevity, concluding with the following words: “We need to carry out a mass raid immediately, tonight at the very latest. That is six.”
Khurtinsky listened tensely, gasped twice, and near the end of Fandorin’s account even loosened his tight collar.
“You have killed me, Erast Petrovich, simply killed me,” he said. “This is worse than the spy scandal. If the hero of Plevna was murdered for filthy lucre, we are disgraced before the entire world. Although a million rubles is not exactly a miserly sum.” Pyotr Parmyonovich began cracking his knuckles, trying to think. “Lord, what is to be done, what is to be done… There’s no point in pestering Vladimir Andreevich — the governor-general is in no condition for this today. And Karachentsev won’t be any help, either — he hasn’t got a single constable to spare at the moment. We can expect public unrest this evening in connection with the sad event, and so many important individuals have come — every one of them has to be guarded and protected from terrorists and bombers. No, my dear sir, nothing can be done about a raid tonight; don’t even think of it.”
“Then we’ll lose him,” Fandorin almost groaned. “He’ll get away.”
“Most likely he already has,” Khurtinsky sighed gloomily.
“If he has, then the tracks are still fresh. We might just be able to p-pick up some little thread.”
Pyotr Parmyonovich took the collegiate assessor by the elbow in an extremely tactful manner.
“You are quite right. It would be criminal to waste any more time. I am no novice when it comes to the secrets of Moscow. I also know Little Misha, and I have been trying to get close to him for ages, but he’s crafty, the rogue. And let me tell you something, my dear Erast Petrovich.” The court counselor’s voice assumed an affectionate and confidential tone; the eyes that were always hooded opened to their full extent and proved to be intelligent and piercing. “To be quite honest, I did not take a liking to you at first. Not at all. A windbag, I thought, an aristocratic snob. A scavenger hovering over prey won by others’ sweat and blood. But Khurtinsky is always willing to admit when he is wrong. I was mistaken about you — the events of the last two days have demonstrated that most eloquently. I see that you are a man of great intelligence and experience, and a first-rate detective.”
Fandorin bowed slightly, waiting to see what would follow.
“And so I have a little proposal for you. That is, of course, if you don’t find it too frightening.” Pyotr Parmyonovich moved close and began whispering. “To prevent this evening being entirely wasted, why don’t you take a stroll around the thieves’ dens of Khitrovka and do a bit of reconnaissance? I know that you’re an unsurpassed master of disguise, so to pass yourself off as one of the locals should be no problem at all for you. I am in possession of certain information, and I can tell you where you are most likely to pick up Misha’s trail. And I will provide you with guides, some of my very finest agents. Well, I hope you’re not too squeamish for this kind of work? Or perhaps too afraid?”
“I am neither squeamish nor afraid,” replied Erast Petrovich, who actually thought that the court counselor’s ‘little proposal’ made rather good sense. Indeed, if a police operation was impossible, why not have a go himself?
“And if you should pick up a thread,” Khurtinsky continued, “it would be possible to launch a raid at dawn. Just give me the word. I won’t be able to get you five hundred constables, of course, but that many wouldn’t be needed. We must, after all, assume that by then you will have narrowed the scope of the search, must we not? Just send word to me through one of my men and I’ll see to the rest myself. And we shall manage perfectly well without His Excellency Evgeny Osipovich Karachentsev.”
Erast Petrovich frowned, detecting in these last words an echo of the high-level intrigues of Moscow politics, which were best forgotten at this moment.
“Th-thank you for your offer of assistance, but your men will not be required,” he said. “I am used to managing on my own, and I have a very able assistant.”
“That Japanese of yours?” asked Khurtinsky, surprising Fandorin with how well- informed he was. But then, what was there to be surprised at? That was the man’s job, to know everything about everybody.
“Yes. He will be quite sufficient help for me. There is only one other thing I need from you: Tell me where to look for Little Misha.”
The court counselor crossed himself piously in response to the tolling of a bell high above them.
“There is a certain terrible place in Khitrovka. An inn by the name of Hard Labor. During the day it is merely a revolting drinking parlor, but as night approaches the ‘businessmen’ — that is what bandits are called in Moscow — gather there. Little Misha often drops in, too. If he is not there, one of his cutthroats is certain to turn up. And also watch out for the landlord, a truly desperate rogue.”
Khurtinsky shook his head disapprovingly.
“It is a mistake not to take my agents. That place is dangerous. This isn’t the Mysteries of Paris; it’s the Khitrovka slums. One slash of a knife and a man is never heard of again. At least let one of my men take you to the Hard Labor and stand guard outside. Honestly, don’t be stubborn.”
“Thank you kindly, but I’ll manage somehow myself,” Fandorin replied confidently.
* * *
EIGHT
In which disaster strikes
“Nastasya, will you stop squealing like a stuck pig?” Xavier Feofilaktovich said angrily, glancing out into the entrance hall, where the shouting was coming from.
His cook was an empty-headed woman with an intemperate tongue, who treated her master irreverently. Grushin only kept her on out of habit, and also because the old fool baked quite magnificent pies with rhubarb or liver. But her strident foghorn of a voice, which Nastasya employed unsparingly in her constant squabbles with the neighbor Glashka, the local constable Silich, and beggars of every description, had often distracted Xavier Feofilaktovich from his reading of the Moscow Police Gazette or his philosophical ruminations and even his sweet early-evening sleep.
Today once again the accursed woman had started kicking up such a racket that Grushin had been obliged to abandon
his pleasant doze. It was a pity — he had been dreaming that he wasn’t a retired police inspector at all, but a head of cabbage growing in a kitchen garden. His head was sticking straight up out of the soil of the vegetable patch and there was a raven sitting beside it, pecking at his left temple, but it was not at all painful; on the contrary, it was all very pleasant and restful. He didn’t need to go anywhere, he was in no hurry, and he had nothing to worry about. Sheer bliss. But the raven had started getting carried away, gouging his head cruelly with a loud crunch, and then the villain had begun cawing deafeningly in his ear and Grushin had woken up with his head throbbing to the sound of Nastasya’s screeching.
“I hope you gets all cramped up even worse,” the cook was howling on the other side of the wall. “And you, you heathen brute, what are you squinting at? I’ll give you such a whack with my duster across your greasy chops!”
Listening to this tirade, Xavier Feofilaktovich began wondering who it was out there that was all cramped up. And who could this heathen brute be? He got to his feet with a grunt and set out to restore order.
The meaning of Nastasya’s mysterious words became clear when Grushin stuck his head out on the porch.
So that was it — more beggars, the kind that roamed the pitiful, narrow streets of Zamoskvorechie all day long from dawn till dusk. One of them was an old hunchback, bent over double and supporting himself on two short crutches. The other was a grubby Kirghiz wearing a greasy robe and tattered fur cap. Good Lord, you certainly saw all kinds in old Mother Moscow!
