by Boris Akunin
“Well, it is certainly plausible,” allowed Dolgorukoi. “What action do you propose?”
“Immediately forward a query to St. Petersburg concerning the identity of Captain Pevtsov and what authority he has been granted. Meanwhile, Erast Petrovich and I will examine the suicide’s papers. I shall take the contents of his safe, and Mr. Fandorin will study Khurtinsky’s notebook.”
The collegiate assessor could not suppress a wry smile at the deft way in which the general had divided up the booty: In one half the contents of the safe, and in the other an ordinary notebook for business appointments, lying openly on the desk of the deceased.
Dolgorukoi drummed his fingers on the table and adjusted his wig, which had slipped slightly to one side, with a habitual gesture.
“It would seem, Evgeny Osipovich, that your conclusions amount to the following. Sobolev was not murdered, but died a natural death. Khurtinsky was a victim of inordinate avarice. Pevtsov is a man from St. Petersburg. Are you in agreement with these conclusions, Erast Petrovich?”
Fandorin’s reply was terse: “No.”
“Interesting,” said the governor, brightening. “Well, then, speak your piece. What conclusions have your calculations produced — ‘that is one,’ ‘that is two,’ ‘that is three’?”
“By all means, Your Excellency…” The young man paused — evidently for greater effect — and began resolutely.
“General Sobolev was involved in some secret business, the essence of which is not yet clear. P-proofs? Concealing his actions from everybody, he gathered together an immense sum of money. That is one. The hotel safe contained secret papers, which were concealed from the authorities by the general’s retinue. That is two. There is the very fact that Sobolev was under secret observation — I think Evgeny Osipovich is right when he says he was being observed — that is three.” At this point, Erast Petrovich mentally added: The testimony of the young woman Golovina — that is four. However, he chose not to involve the teacher from Minsk in the investigation. “I am not yet ready to draw any conclusions, but I am prepared to venture a few surmises. Sobolev was murdered. By some cunning means that imitates a natural death. Khurtinsky fell victim to his own greed; the illusion of his own impunity went to his head. Here I am once again in agreement with Evgeny Osipovich. But the true criminal, the man pulling the strings behind the scenes, is the person whom we know as ‘Captain Pevtsov’. Khurtinsky, a sly, cunning villain whose like would be hard to find anywhere, was mortally afraid of this man. This man has the briefcase. Pevtsov knows everything and appears everywhere. I very much dislike such supernatural agility. A blond man with pale eyes who has twice appeared in a gendarme uniform — that is the person we must find at any cost.”
The chief of police rubbed his temples wearily.
“It could well be that Erast Petrovich is right and I am mistaken. When it comes to deduction, the collegiate assessor can easily give me a hundred points’ start.”
Prince Dolgorukoi got up from his desk with a grunt, walked across to the window, and gazed out for about five minutes at the incessant stream of carriages flowing along Tverskaya Street. Then he turned around and spoke in an unusually brisk and businesslike manner.
“I shall report to the top. Immediately, by coded telegram. As soon as they reply, I shall summon you. Remain at your posts and do not leave them. Evgeny Osipovich, you will be where?”
“In my office on Tverskoi Boulevard. I shall go through Khurtinsky’s papers.”
“I shall be at the Dusseaux,” Fandorin announced. “To be quite honest, I can hardly stay on my feet. I have hardly slept at all for two days now.”
“Go on, then, my dear fellow, get an hour or two of sleep, and make yourself look respectable while you’re at it. I shall send for you.”
Erast Petrovich didn’t actually intend to sleep, as such, but he did intend to refresh himself — by taking an ice bath, and a massage afterward would be good. Sleep — how could he indulge in any sleep when there was business like this afoot? Who could possibly fall asleep?
Fandorin opened the door of his suite and started back sharply as Masa threw himself at his feet, pressed his cocooned head to the floor, and began jabbering.
“Master it is unforgivable, unforgivable. I failed to protect your onshi or to guard your leather briefcase. But that was not the end of my offenses. Unable to bear such shame, I wished to lay hands on myself and dared to make use of your sword for that purpose, but the sword broke, and so I have committed yet another terrible crime.”
The small ceremonial sword was lying on the table, broken in two.
Erast Petrovich sat down on the floor beside his miserable servant. He stroked his head cautiously — he could feel the immense bump even through the towel.
“Masa, you are not to blame for anything. I am responsible for Grushin-sensei’s death, and I shall never forgive myself for it. Your courage did not fail you; you showed no weakness. It is just that life here is different and there are different rules, to which you are not accustomed. And the sword is worthless trash, a knitting needle. It is quite impossible to cut yourself open with it. We shall buy another; they cost fifty rubles. It is not my family sword.”
Masa straightened up with tears running down his contorted face.
“But I still insist, master. It is not possible for me of live after I have failed you so terribly. I deserve to be punished.”
“All right,” sighed Fandorin. “You will learn off by heart the next ten pages of the dictionary.”
“No, twenty!”
“All right. But not now, later, when your head has healed. Meanwhile, prepare an ice bath.”
Masa dashed downstairs with an empty bucket and Erast Petrovich sat down at the table and opened Khurtinsky’s notebook. It was not actually an ordinary notebook, but an English schedule book, a diary in which every day of the year is allotted its own page. A convenient item — Fandorin had seen others like it before. He began leafing through it without really hoping to find anything significant. Of course, the state counselor had kept everything that was in the least degree secret or important in the safe, and only various minor items that he needed to remember, such as the times of business meetings, audiences, and reports, were written in the book. Many names were indicated by only one or two letters. Fandorin would have to make sense of all of it. The collegiate assessor’s glance halted on Tuesday 4 July (that is, Tuesday 22 June in our Russian style), attracted by a strangely elongated blot. So far there had not been a single blot or even correction in the book — Khurtinsky was obviously an extremely neat individual. And the form of the blot was very odd — as if the ink had not fallen from a pen, but been deliberately smeared. Fandorin held the page up against the light. No, he could not make it out. He carefully ran the tip of his finger over the paper. There seemed to be something written there. The dead man had used a steel nib and pressed hard with it. But there was no way to read it.
Masa brought a bucket of ice and flung it into the bath with a crash and a clatter. There was the sound of running water. Erast Petrovich picked up the travel bag that held his tools and took out the device he required. He turned over the page with the blot, applied an extremely thin sheet of rice paper to its reverse side, and ran a rubber roller over it several times. This was not ordinary paper; it had been impregnated with a special solution that reacted sensitively to the slightest irregularity in the surface on which it lay. The collegiate assessor’s fingers were trembling with impatience as he lifted the sheet of paper away. Against the matte background he could make out several pale but distinct words: “Metro-pole No. ISIKlonov.” It had been written on 22 June. What had happened on that day? The commander of the Fourth Army Corps, General of Infantry Sobolev, had concluded his maneuvers and submitted his application for leave. Well, and a certain Mr. Klonov had been in suite 19 at the hotel Metro-pole. What connection was there between these two facts? Most likely, none. But why would Khurtinsky have wanted to obscure the name and address? Very i
nteresting.
Erast Petrovich undressed and climbed into the bath of ice, which obliged him to abandon extraneous thoughts for a moment, as usual straining his mental and physical powers to the utmost. Fandorin ducked his head under the water and counted to a hundred and twenty, and when he surfaced and opened his eyes, he gasped and blushed bright red: Standing in the doorway of the bathroom, rooted to the spot in amazement, was the Countess Mirabeau, the morganatic wife of His Highness Evgeny Maximilianovich, Duke of Liechtenburg. Her face was also crimson.
“I beg your pardon, Monsieur Fandorin,” the countess babbled in French. “Your servant admitted me to the suite and pointed to this door. I assumed that it was your study.”
Good breeding would not allow the panic-stricken Erast Petrovich to remain seated in the presence of a lady and he instinctively leapt to his feet, but a second later he plunged back down into the water in even greater panic. Blushing even more deeply, the countess backed out of the doorway.
“Masa!” Fandorin roared in a wild voice. “Masa!”
The villainous rogue appeared, holding a dressing gown in his hands, and bowed.
“What can I do for you, master?”
“I’ll give you ‘what can I do for you’!” screeched Erast Petrovich, his dignity totally undermined by his embarrassment. “For this I will make you disembowel yourself, and not with a knitting needle, but with a chopstick! I already explained to you, you brainless lout, that in Europe the bathroom is a private place! You have put me in an impossible position and made a lady burn with shame!” Switching into Russian, the collegiate assessor shouted: “I do beg your pardon! Make yourself comfortable, Countess, I’ll just be a moment!” And then again in Japanese: “Bring me my trousers, frock coat, and shirt, you repulsive bandylegged insect!”
Fandorin emerged into the room fully dressed, with an impeccable part in his hair, but still red-cheeked and unable to imagine how he could possibly look the countess in the eye after the scandalous incident that had just taken place. Contrary to his expectations, however, the countess had completely recovered her composure and was scrutinizing the Japanese prints hanging on the walls with avid curiosity. She glanced at the functionary’s disconcerted face and the ghost of a smile even glimmered in her blue Sobolev eyes, but it was immediately replaced by an extremely serious expression.
“Mr. Fandorin, I have taken the liberty of calling on you because you are an old comrade of Michel’s and are investigating the circumstances of his demise. My husband left Moscow yesterday with the Grand Duke. Some urgent business or other. I shall take my brother’s body to the estate for burial.” Zinaida Dmitrievna hesitated, as though uncertain whether to continue, but she plunged on resolutely.
“My husband left with only light luggage and a servant found this in one of his frock coats that remained here.”
The countess handed him a folded sheet of paper, and as he took it Fandorin noticed that she had kept hold of another sheet. The message in French below the letterhead of the Fourth Army Corps was written in Sobolev’s sprawling hand.
Eugene, be in Moscow on the morning of the 25th for the final explanation of the matter already known to you. The hour draws near. I shall stay at the Dusseaux. I embrace you. Your Michel.
Erast Petrovich glanced inquiringly at his visitor, anticipating clarification.
“This is very strange,” she said, whispering for some reason. “My husband didn’t tell me that he was due to meet Michel in Moscow. Eugene said only that we had to make a few visits, and then we would go back to St. Petersburg.”
“That really is strange,” Fandorin agreed, noting from the cancellation stamp that the message had been sent from Minsk by courier on the sixteenth of the month. “But why did you not ask His Highness about this?”
Biting her lip, the countess held out the second sheet of paper.
“Because Eugene also concealed this from me.”
“What is it?”
“A note from Michel, addressed to me. Evidently it must have been attached to the other message. For some reason Eugene did not pass it on to me.”
Erast Petrovich took the sheet of paper. It had clearly been written in haste, at the very last moment:
Dear Zt, you must come to Moscow together with Eugene. It is very important. I do not want to explain anything to you now, but it could he that [then half a line had been crossed out] we shall not see each other again for a long time.
Fandorin went over to the window and pressed the note against the glass in order to read what had been crossed out.
“Don’t waste your time; I’ve already made it out,” Zinaida Dmitrievna’s trembling voice said behind him. “It says: ‘that this meeting will he our last’.” The collegiate assessor ruffled up his wet, freshly combed hair. So, it seemed that Sobolev had known that his life was in danger. And the duke also knew this? That was very interesting.
He turned toward the countess. “There is nothing that I can say to you now, madam, but I promise I shall investigate all the circumstances as thoroughly as possible.” Glancing into Zinaida Dmitrievna’s perplexed eyes, he added: “And, naturally, as t-tactfully as possible.”
The moment the countess left, Fandorin sat down at the table and, as usual when he wanted to concentrate, turned to a calligraphic exercise — he began drawing the hieroglyph for ‘serenity’. However, at only the third sheet of paper, when perfection was still very far off, there was another knock at the door — sharp and peremptory.
With a fearful backward glance at his master’s solemn ritual, Masa tiptoed across to the door and opened it.
There stood Ekaterina Alexandrovna Golovina, the golden-haired lover of the deceased Achilles. She was fuming with rage, which only made her seem even more beautiful.
“You disappeared!” the young lady exclaimed instead of greeting him. “I have been waiting, going out of my mind with all the uncertainty. What have you discovered, Fandorin? I gave you such important information, and you are sitting here, drawing. I demand an explanation!”
“Madam,” the collegiate assessor interrupted her sharply, “it is I who demand an explanation from you. Please be seated.”
He took his unexpected visitor by the hand, led her to an armchair, and sat her down. He moved up a chair for himself.
“You told me less than you knew. What was Sobolev planning? Why was he in fear of his life? What was so d-dangerous about his journey? What did he need so much money for? Why all this mystery? And, finally, what did you quarrel about? Because of your omissions, Ekaterina Alexandrovna, I assessed the situation incorrectly and a very good man was killed as a result. As well as several bad ones, who nonetheless still had immortal souls.”
Golovina hung her head. Her delicate face reflected an entire gamut of powerful feelings that clearly sat together rather uncomfortably. She began with a confession.
“Yes, I lied when I said that I didn’t know what Michel’s passion was. He thought that Russia was dying and he wanted to save her. All he ever spoke about recently was Constantinople, the German menace, the greatness of Russia… And a month ago, during our final meeting, he suddenly began talking about Bonaparte and asked me to be his Josephine. I was horrified. Our views had always differed. He believed in the historic mission of Slavdom and some special Russian destiny, but I believed and still believe that what Russia needs is not the Dardanelles, but enlightenment and a constitution.” Unable to control her voice any longer, Ekaterina Alexandrovna shook her fist in annoyance, as if that would help her over some difficult spot on the road. “When he mentioned Josephine, I was frightened, frightened that Michel would be consumed like some intrepid moth in the bright, alluring flame of his own ambition… And even more afraid that he might be successful. He could have been. He is so single-minded, so strong, so fortunate in everything. He was, that is. What would he have become, given the chance to control the fates of millions? It is terrible even to think of it. He would no longer have been Michel, but an entirely different person.”<
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“And did you report him to the authorities?” Erast Petrovich demanded sharply.
Golovina shrank away in horror.
“How could you think such a thing? No, I simply told him: choose — either me, or this undertaking of yours. I knew what the answer would be.” She wiped away an angry tear. “But it never even occurred to me that everything would end in such a vile and vulgar farce — the future Bonaparte killed for a bundle of banknotes. As it says in the Bible, “The proud shall be brought low.””
She fluttered her hands as if to say: No more, I cannot say any more, and burst into bitter tears, no longer even attempting to restrain herself.
Fandorin waited for the sobbing to pass and said in a low voice, “It would appear that what happened had n-nothing to do with the banknotes.”
“With what, then?” wailed Ekaterina Alexandrovna. “He was killed, after all, wasn’t he? Somehow I believe that you will uncover the truth. Swear that you will tell me the whole truth about his death.”
Erast Petrovich turned away in embarrassment, thinking that women were incomparably better than men — more loyal, more sincere, with greater integrity. Naturally, that is, if they truly loved.
“Yes, yes, definitely,” he mumbled, knowing perfectly well that never, no matter what, would he ever tell Ekaterina Alexandrovna the whole truth about the way the man she loved had died.
At this point the conversation had to be broken off, because a messenger from the governor-general had arrived for Fandorin.
“how did the contents of the safe look, Your Excellency?” Erast Petrovich asked Karachentsev. “Did you discover anything of interest?”
