by Boris Akunin
Fandorin realized with a hollow, sinking feeling that only one alternative remained open to him: to take the shopkeeper Kukin by the collar and drag him down to the station on Mokhovaya Street, where the suicide’s body was still lying in the mortuary, packed in ice, and arrange an identification. Erast Fandorin imagined the gaping skull with the crust of dried blood and brains, and an entirely natural association brought back the memory of the merchant’s wife Krupnova with her throat cut, who still continued to visit him in his nightmares. No, he definitely did not wish to make the trip to the ‘cold room.’ But there was some connection between the student from the Malaya Yauza Bridge and the suicide from the Alexander Gardens that absolutely had to be cleared up. Who could tell him whether Kokorin had pimples and a slouch and whether he wore a pince-nez?
Well, first, there was the landowner’s wife Spitsyna, but she was probably driving up to the Kaluga Gate by now. Second, there was the deceased’s valet. What was his name, now? Not that it mattered in any case. The investigator had thrown him out of the apartment; trying to find him now would be a complete waste of time. That left the witnesses from the Alexander Gardens, and above all the two ladies with whom Kokorin had been in conversation during the final minute of his life. They at least must have got a good look at the details of his appearance. Here it was written in his notepad: “Daughter of full privy counselor Eliz. Alexandrovna Evert-Kolokoltseva, 17, spinster Emma Gottliebovna Pfühl, 48, Malaya Nikitskaya Street, private residence.”
He would be obliged to go to the expense of a cab after all.
THE DAY WAS TURNING out to be a long one. The cheerful sun of May, still by no means weary of illuminating the golden-domed city, was reluctantly slipping down the sky toward the line of the roofs when Erast Fandorin, now two twenty-kopeck coins the poorer, descended from his cab in front of the smart mansion with the Doric columns, molded-stucco facade, and marble porch. Seeing his fare halt in hesitation, the cabman said, “That’s the one, all right, the general’s house—don’t you worry about that. This ain’t my first year driving ‘round Moscow.”
What if they won’t let me in? Erast Fandorin thought with a sudden twinge of fear at the possible humiliation. He took a firm grasp of the gleaming brass hammer and knocked twice. The massive door with bronze lion masks immediately swung open, and a doorman dressed in rich livery with gold braid stuck his head out.
“To see the baron? From the office?” he asked briskly. “Reporting or just delivering some document? Come on in, do.”
Finding himself in a spacious entrance hall brightly illuminated by both a chandelier and gaslights, the visitor was deserted by his final shred of courage.
“Actually, I’m here to see Elizaveta Alexandrovna,” he explained. “Erast Petrovich Fandorin, from the Criminal Investigation Division. On an urgent matter.”
“The Criminal Investigation Division,” the guardian of the portal repeated with a frown of disdain. “Would that be in connection with yesterday’s events? Out of the question. The young lady spent very nearly half the day in tears, and she slept badly last night as well. I won’t admit you and I won’t announce you. His Excellency has already threatened your people from the precinct with dire consequences for tormenting Elizaveta Alexandrovna with their interrogations yesterday. Outside with you, if you please, outside.” And the scoundrel actually began nudging Fandorin toward the exit with his fat belly.
“But what about the spinster Pfühl?” Erast Fandorin cried out despairingly. “Emma Gottliebovna, forty-eight years of age? I would like at least to have a few words with her. This is important state business!”
The doorman smacked his lips pompously. “Very well, I will admit you to her. Go through that way, under the stairs. Third door on the right along the corridor. That is where the madam governess resides.”
The door was opened in response to Fandorin’s knock by a gaunt individual who stared, unspeaking, at her visitor out of round brown eyes.
“I am from the police. My name is Fandorin. Are you Miss Pfühl?” Erast Fandorin inquired uncertainly, then repeated the question in German just to be sure: “Polizeiamt. Sind Sie Freilein Pfühl? Guten Abend.”
“Good efening,” the gaunt individual replied severely in Russian. “Yes, I am Emma Pfühl. Come in. Zit down zere on zat shair.”
Fandorin sat where he had been ordered, on a Viennese chair with a curved back standing beside a writing desk on which some textbooks and stacks of writing paper were laid out in an extremely tidy fashion. It was a pleasant room with good light but completely uninteresting, lacking in life. The only spot of bright color throughout its entire extent was provided by a trio of exuberant geraniums standing in pots on the window.
“Are you here about zat shtupid young man who shot himzelf?” Miss Pfühl inquired. “I answered all of ze policeman’s kvestions yesterday, but if you vish to ask again, you may ask. I understand vat ze vork of ze police is—it is very important. My uncle Günter zerved as an Oberwachtmeister in ze Zaxon police.”
“I am a collegiate registrar,” Erast Fandorin explained, not wishing himself to be taken for a sergeant major, “a civil servant, fourteenth class.”
“Yes, I know how to understand rank,” the German woman said with a nod, pointing to the lapel of his uniform jacket. “Zo, mister collegiate registrar, I am listening.”
At that moment the door swung open without a knock and a fair-haired young lady with an enchanting flush on her cheeks darted into the room.
“Fräulein Pfühl! Morgenfahren wir nach Kuntsevo!* Honestly. Papa has given his permission!” she babbled rapidly from the doorway. Then, noticing the stranger, she stopped short and lapsed into a confused silence, but the gaze of her gray eyes nonetheless remained fixed on the young official in an expression of the most lively curiosity.
“Veil brought-up young baronesses do not run, zey valk,” her governess told her with feigned strictness. “Ezpecially ven zey are all of zeventeen years old. If you do not run but valk, zen you haf time to notice a stranger and greet him properly.”
“Good day, sir,” the miraculous vision whispered.
Fandorin leapt to his feet and bowed, his nerves jangling quite appallingly. The poor clerk was so overwhelmed by the girl’s appearance that he was afraid he might fall in love with her at first sight, and that was something he simply could not do. Even in his dear papa’s more prosperous days, a princess like this would have been well beyond his reach, and now the idea was even more ridiculous.
“How do you do,” he said very dryly with a grave frown, thinking to himself: Cast me in the role of a pitiful supplicant, would you?
General was her father’s rank and designation,
A mere titular counselor was he, and poor,
So when he made his timid declaration,
She quickly had him put out of the door.
Oh no, you don’t, my dear lady! I still have a long way to go before I even reach titular counselor.
“Collegiate Registrar Erast Petrovich Fandorin, of the Criminal Investigation Division,” he said, introducing himself in an official tone. “I am pursuing an investigation into yesterday’s unfortunate incident in the Alexander Gardens. The need has arisen to ask a few more questions. But if you find it unpleasant—I quite understand how upset you must have been—it will be enough for me to have a word with Miss Pfühl alone.”
“Yes, it was quite horrible.” The young lady’s eyes, already very large, widened still further. “To be honest, I squeezed my eyes tight shut and saw almost nothing at all, and afterward I fainted…But it is all so fascinating! Fräulein Pfühl, may I stay for a while, too? Oh, please! You know, I am really just as much a witness as you are!”
“For my part, in the interests of the investigation, I would also prefer it if the baroness were present,” said Fandorin, like a coward.
“Order is order,” said Emma Pfühl with a nod. “I have told you over and over again, Lischen: Ordnung muss sein* Ze law must be obeyed. You may stay.”<
br />
Lizanka (the affectionate name by which Fandorin, now hopelessly lost, was already thinking of Elizaveta Evert-Kolokoltseva) seated herself eagerly on the leather divan, gazing wide-eyed at our hero.
He took a grip on himself, turned to Fräulein Pfühl, and asked, “Can you please describe the gentleman’s appearance for me?”
“Ze zhentleman who shot himzelf?” she asked. “Naja* Brown eyes, razer tall, no mustache or beard, zideburns none eizer, a fery young face, but not a fery good von. Now ze clothes—”
“We’ll come to the clothes later,” Erast Fandorin interrupted her. “You say it was not a good face? Why? Because of his pimples?”
“Pickeln”, Lizanka translated, blushing.
“Ahja, ze pimples.” The governess repeated the slightly unfamiliar word with relish. “No, zat zhentleman did not haf pimples. He had good, healthy skin. But his face vas not fery good.”
“Why?”
“It vas nasty. He looked as zough he did not vish to kill himzelf, but zomeone altogether different. Oh, it vas a nightmare!” exclaimed Emma Pfühl, becoming excited at her recollection of events. “Spring, zuch zunny veather, all ze ladies and gentlemen out valking in ze vonderful garden covered vith flowers!”
At these words Erast Fandorin cast a sidelong glance at Lizanka, but she had evidently long ago become quite accustomed to her companion’s distinctive mode of speech and she was gazing at him as trustingly and radiantly as ever.
“And did he have a pince-nez? Perhaps not on his nose but protruding from a pocket? On a silk ribbon?” Fandorin threw out questions one after another. “And did it not perhaps seem to you that he slouched? And another thing. I know he was wearing a frock coat, but was there not anything about him to suggest he was a student—uniform trousers, perhaps? Did you notice anything?”
“Alvays haf I noticed eferyzing,” the German woman replied with dignity. “Ze trousers vere check pantaloons of expensive vool. Zere vas no pince-nez at all. No slouching eizer. Zat zhentleman had good posture.” She began thinking and suddenly asked him, “Slouching, pince-nez, and a shtudent? Vy did you say zat?”
“Why do you ask?” Erast Fandorin said cautiously.
“It is strange. Zere vas von zhentleman zere. A shtudent with a slouch vearing a pince-nez.”
“What? Where?” gasped Fandorin.
“I zaw zuch a gentleman…jenseits*…on ze ozer side of ze railings, in ze street. He vas standing zere and looking at us. I even sought zis shtudent vas going to help us get rid of zat dreadful man. And he vas slouching very badly. I saw zat afterward, after ze ozer zhentleman had already killed himzelf. Ze shtudent turned and valked avay qvickly qvickly. And I saw zat he had a bad slouch. Zat happens ven children are not taught to sit correctly in childhood. Sitting correctly is very important. My vards alvays sit correctly. Look at ze Fräulein Baroness. See how she holds her back? It is very beautiful!”
At that Elizaveta Evert-Kolokoltseva blushed, and so prettily that for a moment Fandorin lost the thread of the conversation, although Fräulein Pfühl’s statement was undoubtedly of the utmost importance.
CHAPTER FOUR
which tells of the ruinous power of beauty
SHORTLY AFTER TEN O’CLOCK IN THE MORNING the following day, Erast Fandorin, endowed not only with his chief’s blessing but also with three rubles for exceptional expenses, arrived at the yellow university building on Mokhovaya Street. His mission was simple enough in principle but would require a certain degree of luck: to locate a rather ordinary-looking, somewhat pimply student with a slouch and a pince-nez on a silk ribbon. It was entirely possible that this suspicious individual did not study at the premises on Mokhovaya Street at all but in the Higher Technical College or the Forestry Academy or some other institute of learning, but Xavier Grushin (regarding his young assistant with a mixture of astonishment and joy) had concurred wholeheartedly in Fandorin’s surmise that in all probability the ‘sloucher,’ like the deceased Kokorin, pursued his studies at the university, and there was a very good chance that he did so in the self-same Faculty of Law.
Dressed in his civilian clothes, Fandorin dashed headlong up the cast-iron steps of the front porch, rushed past the bearded attendant in green livery, and took up a convenient position in the semicircular window embrasure—a vantage point that afforded an excellent view of the vestibule, with its cloakroom, and the courtyard, and even the entrances to both wings of the building. For the first time since his father had died and the young man’s life had been diverted from the clear road straight ahead, Erast Fandorin beheld the venerable yellow walls of the university without an aching in his heart for what might have been. Who could say which mode of existence was the more fascinating and more useful for society: the book learning of a student or the grueling life of a detective pursuing an investigation into an important and dangerous case? (Well, perhaps not dangerous, exactly, but certainly crucially important and highly mysterious.)
Approximately one out of every four students who hove into this attentive observer’s field of view was wearing a pince-nez, and in many cases it hung precisely on a silk ribbon. Approximately one student out of every five was sporting a certain quantity of pimples about his face. Nor was there any shortage of students with a slouch. However, all three of these features seemed stubbornly disinclined to combine together in the person of a single individual.
When it was already after one o’clock, Erast Fandorin extracted a salami sandwich from his pocket and fortified himself without leaving his post. By this time he had succeeded in establishing thoroughly amicable relations with the bearded doorkeeper, who told Fandorin to call him Mitrich and had already imparted to the young man several extremely valuable pieces of advice concerning entry to the ‘nuversity.’ Fandorin, who had represented himself to the garrulous old man as a young provincial cherishing fond dreams of buttons adorned with the university crest, was already wondering whether or not he ought to change his story and interrogate Mitrich directly about the pimpled sloucher, when the doorman suddenly became animated, grabbing the peaked cap off his head and pulling open the door—this was Mitrich’s regular procedure whenever one of the professors or rich students passed by, for which he would every now and again receive a kopeck or perhaps even a five-kopeck piece. Glancing around, Erast Fandorin noticed a student approaching the exit, clad in a sumptuous velvet cloak newly retrieved from the cloakroom, with clasps in the form of lion’s feet. Gleaming on the bridge of the fop’s nose was a pince-nez, and adorning his forehead was a scattering of pink pimples. Fandorin strained hard in order to diagnose the condition of this student’s posture, but the confounded cape of the cloak and its raised collar thwarted his efforts.
“Good evening, Nikolai Stepanovich. Would you like me to call you a cab?” the doorkeeper said with a bow.
“Tell me, Mitrich, has it stopped raining yet?” the pimply student inquired in a high-pitched voice. “Then I’ll take a stroll. I’m tired of sitting.” And he dropped a coin into the outstretched palm from between the finger and thumb of his white-gloved hand.
“Who’s that?” Fandorin asked in a whisper, straining his eyes to follow the dandy’s receding back. “Doesn’t he have a bit of a slouch?”
“Nikolai Stepanich Akhtyrtsev. Rich as they come, royal blood,” Mitrich declared reverentially. “Doles out at least fifteen kopecks every time.”
Fandorin suddenly felt feverish. Akhtyrtsev! Surely he was the one who had been named as executor in Kokorin’s will!
Mitrich bowed respectfully to yet another teacher, the long-haired lecturer in physics, and on turning back discovered to his surprise that the respectable young provincial gentleman had vanished into thin air.
THE BLACK VELVET CLOAK was easily visible from a distance, and Fandorin had overtaken his suspect in a trice but he hesitated to hail him by name. What accusation could he actually put to him? Even supposing he were to be identified by the shopkeeper Kukin and the spinster Pfühl (at this point Erast Fandorin sighed he
avily as he recalled Lizanka yet again for the umpteenth time), then what of it? Would it not be better to follow the guidance of the great Fouché,* that incomparable luminary of criminal investigation, and shadow the object of his interest?
No sooner said than done. Especially as shadowing the student proved to be quite easy: Akhtyrtsev was strolling at a leisurely pace in the direction of Tverskaya Street, without looking around, merely glancing after the pretty young milliners every now and then. Several times Erast Fandorin boldly stole up very close to the student and even heard him carelessly whistling Smith’s serenade from The Fair Maid of Perth. The failed suicide (if, indeed, this were he) was clearly in the most cheerful of moods. The student halted outside Korf’s tobacco shop and spent a long time surveying the boxes of cigars in the window, but he did not go in.
Fandorin was beginning to feel convinced that his mark was idling away the minutes until some appointed time. This conviction was reinforced when Akhtyrtsev took out a gold pocket watch and nicked open its lid, then increased his pace as he set off up the sidewalk, switching into a rendition of the more decisive ‘Boys’ Chorus’ from the new-style opera Carmen.
Turning into Kamergersky Lane, the student stopped whistling and stepped out so briskly that Erast Fandorin was obliged to drop back a little, otherwise it would have looked too suspicious. Fortunately, before he reached the fashionable ladies’ salon of Darzans, the mark slowed his pace and shortly thereafter came to a complete halt. Fandorin crossed over to the opposite side of the street and took up his post beside a bakery that breathed out the fragrant aromas of fancy pastries.
