Erast Fandorin 01 - The Winter Queen

by Boris Akunin

  “I see. Call me Ivan Franzevich or, better still, simply chief, since we’re going to be working together. I read your report,” Brilling continued without marking the transition with the slightest pause. “Intelligent. Observant. Efficient. I’m pleasantly surprised by your intuition—that’s the most valuable thing of all in our profession. When you don’t yet know how a situation is likely to develop, but instinct prompts you to take precautionary measures. How did you guess that the visit to Bezhetskaya’s might be dangerous? Why did you think it necessary to wear a protective corset? Bravo!”

  Erast Fandorin turned an even darker shade of crimson.

  “Yes, it was a splendid idea. It wouldn’t save you from a bullet, of course, but against cold steel it serves pretty well. I’ll give instructions for a batch of such corsets to be bought for agents assigned to dangerous missions. What make is it?”

  Fandorin replied bashfully, “Lord Byron.”

  “Lord Byron,” Brilling repeated, making a note in a little leather-bound book. “And now tell me, when could you come back to work? I have something special in mind for you.”

  “Good Lord, tomorrow, if you like,” Fandorin exclaimed fervently, gazing lovingly at his new boss, or rather new chief. “I’ll dash over to the doctor’s in the morning, get the stitches taken out, and then I’m at your disposal.”

  “That’s splendid. How would you characterize Bezhetskaya?”

  Erast Fandorin became flustered, and he made a rather awkward start, supporting his words with lavish gesticulations.

  “She’s—she’s an exceptional woman. A Cleopatra. A Carmen…Indescribably beautiful, but it’s not even a matter of her beauty…has a magnetic gaze…No, the gaze isn’t the thing, either…The main thing is—you can sense an immense power in her. A power so strong that she seems to be toying with everyone. Playing a game with some incomprehensible rules, but a cruel game. That woman, in my view, is highly depraved and at the same time…absolutely innocent. As if she were taught wrongly when she was a child. I don’t know how to explain it…” Fandorin turned pink, realizing that he was spouting nonsense, but he finished what he was saying nonetheless. “It seems to me she is not as bad as she wishes to appear.”

  The state counselor scrutinized him curiously and gave a mischievous whistle.

  “So that’s how it is…I thought as much. Now I can see that Amalia Bezhetskaya is a genuinely dangerous individual…especially for young romantics during the period of puberty.”

  Pleased with the effect that this joke produced on Erast Fandorin, Ivan Brilling stood up and looked around again.

  “How much do you pay for this kennel—ten rubles?”

  “Twelve,” Erast Fandorin replied with dignity.

  “The style of decor is familiar. I used to live like this myself at one time. When I attended the gymnasium in the splendid city of Kharkov. You see, like you I lost my parents at an early age. Well, for building character it’s actually quite beneficial. Is your salary thirty-five rubles, according to the official table?” asked Brilling, once again switching subjects without the slightest pause.

  “Plus a quarterly bonus for overtime.”

  “I’ll give instructions for you to be paid a bonus of five hundred out of the special fund. For devotion to duty in the face of danger. And so, until tomorrow. Come in, and we’ll work on the various scenarios.”

  And the door closed behind the astonishing visitor.

  THE CRIMINAL INVESTIGATION Division really was quite unrecognizable. There were unfamiliar gentlemen with files under their arms trotting along the corridors, and even his old colleagues no longer waddled along but walked smartly, with an upright bearing.

  In the smoking room—miracle of miracles—there was not a soul to be seen. Out of curiosity Erast Fandorin glanced into the former refreshment room, and, true enough, standing there on the table in place of the samovar and the cups was a Baudot apparatus, and a telegrapher in a double-breasted uniform jacket glanced up at the intruder with a strict, interrogatory glance.

  The investigation headquarters was located in the office of the head of division, for the superintendent had been relieved of his duties as of the previous day. Erast Fandorin, still rather pale after the painful procedure of having the stitches removed, knocked on the door and glanced inside. This office had also changed: the comfortable leather armchairs had disappeared and their place had been taken by three rows of simple chairs. Standing against the wall were two school blackboards, completely covered with charts of some kind. It looked as though a meeting had only just ended—Brilling was wiping his chalk-dusted hands with a rag, and the officers and agents, talking intently among themselves, were moving toward the exit.

  “Come in, Fandorin, come in. Don’t hang about in the doorway,” Brilling said, hurrying along Erast Fandorin, who was suddenly overcome by timidity. “All patched up? That’s splendid. You’ll be working directly with me. I’m not allocating you a desk. You’ll have no time for sitting down anyway…It’s a pity you arrived late. We’ve just had a most interesting discussion concerning the ‘Azazel’ in your report.”

  “So there is such a thing? I wasn’t mistaken?” said Erast Fandorin, pricking up his ears. “I was afraid it was my imagination.”

  “It wasn’t your imagination. Azazel is a fallen angel. What mark did you get for Scripture studies? You remember about the scapegoats? Well, then, in case you’ve forgotten, there were two of them. One was intended for God, for the expiation of sins, and the other was for Azazel, so that he wouldn’t be angered. In the Jewish Book of Enoch, Azazel teaches people all sorts of nastiness: he teaches the men to make war and make weapons and the women to paint their faces and abort their young. In a word, he’s a rebellious demon, the spirit of exile.”

  “But what can it mean?”

  “One of your Moscow collegiate assessors expounded an entire detailed hypothesis about a secret Judaic organization…He told us all about the Jewish Sanhedrin and about the blood of Christian infants. He presented Bezhetskaya as a daughter of Israel, and Akhtyrtsev as a lamb slaughtered on the sacrificial altar of the Jewish God. Such a load of nonsense. I’ve heard enough of those anti-Semitic ravings already in St. Petersburg. When disaster strikes and the causes are not clear, they immediately start talking about the Sanhedrin.”

  “And what is your hypothesis…chief?” Fandorin asked, pronouncing the unaccustomed form of address with a certain trepidation.

  “If you’d be so kind as to look this way.” Brilling walked across to one of the blackboards. “These four circles at the top are the four scenarios. The first circle, as you see, has a question mark. This is the least likely scenario: the killer acted alone and you and Akhtyrtsev were his random victims. Possibly some maniac obsessed with demoniacism. That leaves us at a dead end until further similar crimes are committed. I’ve sent off requests by telegram to all the provinces, asking if there have been any similar murders. I doubt they will produce any result—if such a maniac had shown his hand earlier, I should have known about it. The second circle with the initials AB is Amalia Bezhetskaya. She is undoubtedly suspect. You and Akhtyrtsev could easily have been followed from her home to the Crimea. And then she has fled. However, the motive for the killing is not clear.”

  “If she has fled, it means she’s involved,” Erast Fandorin said heatedly. “And that means the white-eyed man is no solitary killer.”

  “That’s not a fact, not a fact by any means. We know that Bezhetskaya is an impostress and she was using a false passport. She is probably an adventuress. She was probably living at the expense of rich patrons. But as for murder, especially by the hand of such an adroit gentleman…Judging from your report, this was no dilettante but an entirely professional killer. A blow like that to the liver is exquisitely precise work. I’ve been to the morgue, you know, and examined Akhtyrtsev. If not for the corset, you’d be lying there beside him, and the police would believe it was a robbery or a drunken brawl. But let’s get back to Bezhets
kaya. She could have learned about the incident from one of her menials—the Crimea is only a few minutes’ walk away from her house. There was a lot of commotion—police, idle onlookers woken from their sleep. One of the servants or the yardkeeper, say, recognized the dead man as one of Bezhetskaya’s guests and told her. She, being quite reasonably afraid of a police inquiry and inevitable exposure, immediately goes into hiding. She has more than enough time to do so—your good Mr. Grushin only turned up with a warrant in the afternoon of the following day. I know, I know. You were concussed—you didn’t recover consciousness immediately. It took time for you to dictate the report, for the boss to scratch his head…Anyway, I have placed Bezhetskaya on the wanted persons list. She’s probably no longer in Moscow. I think she’s not even in Russia—that wouldn’t be too hard, after ten whole days. We’re drawing up a list of those who used to visit her house, but for the most part they are highly respectable individuals and tact is required. Only one of them rouses any serious suspicion in me.”

  Ivan Franzevich jabbed the pointer at the third circle, which contained the initials CZ.

  “Count Zurov, Hippolyte Alexandrovich by name. Evidently Bezhetskaya’s lover. A man entirely devoid of moral principles, a gambler, a rabid duelist, and general madcap. A Tolstoy-the-American type. There is some circumstantial evidence. He left in a state of extreme annoyance after a quarrel with the dead man—that’s one. He could have waited and shadowed you and sent the killer—that’s two. The yardkeeper testified that Zurov came home just before dawn—that’s three. And there’s a motive, too, although it’s a weak one: jealousy or morbid vindictiveness. Possibly there was something else. The main point of doubt is that Zurov is not the kind of man who would use someone else to kill for him. However, information from our agents indicates that he is constantly surrounded by all sorts of shady characters, so this scenario actually appears quite promising. And this is the one that you, Fandorin, will follow up. Zurov is being investigated by a whole group of agents, but you will operate alone—you do that well. We’ll discuss the details of the assignment later, but now let’s move on to the final circle. This is the one that I am following up.”

  Erast Fandorin wrinkled up his brow as he struggled to imagine what the initials NO might represent.

  “Nihilist organization,” his chief explained. “There are certain signs of a conspiracy here, only not a Jewish one, something more serious than that. That’s really the reason I was sent in. That is, of course Prince Korchakov asked me as well—as you are aware, Nikolai Akhtyrtsev was the son of his deceased daughter. But this whole business could turn out to be far from simple. Our Russian revolutionaries are on the verge of schism. The most determined and impatient of these Robespierres have grown weary of educating the peasants—a job so long and tedious that an entire lifetime is not time enough. The bomb, the dagger, and the revolver are far more interesting. I am expecting large-scale bloodshed in the very near future. What we have seen so far is nothing compared with what is to come. The terror against the ruling class could assume mass proportions. For some time now in the Third Section I have been handling the cases of the most extreme and conspiratorial terrorist groups. My patron, Lavrentii; Arkadievich Mizinov, who is head of the corps of gendarmes and the Third Section, instructed me to investigate this Azazel that has turned up in Moscow. A demon is an extremely revolutionary symbol. You see, Fandorin, the very fate of Russia hangs in the balance.” Not a trace was left of Brilling’s usual sardonic humor, and a note of fierce determination had appeared in his voice. “If the tumor is not surgically removed in the embryonic stage, then these romantics will give us a revolution that will make the French guillotine seem no more than a charming piece of idle mischief. You and I will not be allowed to grow old in peace, mark my words. Have you read Mr. Dostoevsky’s novel The Possessed? You should. It’s a most eloquent prognosis.”

  “So are there only four scenarios?” Erast Fandorin asked hesitantly.

  “Not enough? Are we overlooking something? Speak up, speak up! I recognize no differences of rank where work is concerned,” said his chief, encouraging him. “And don’t be afraid of appearing ridiculous—that’s just because you are so young in years. Better to say something stupid than miss something important.”

  Shy at first, Fandorin spoke with increasing fervor. “It seems to me, Your Wor…that is, chief, that you are wrong to leave Lady Astair out of the picture. She is, of course, a most venerable and respected individual, but—but, after all, the bequest is worth a million! Bezhetskaya gains nothing from it, neither does Count Zurov or the nihilists—except perhaps in the sense of the good of society…I don’t know how Lady Astair is involved—perhaps she has nothing at all to do with all this, but for form’s sake she really ought to be…After all, the investigatory principle says cuiprodest—“seek the one who benefits.” ”

  “Thanks for the translation,” Ivan Franzevich said with a bow, making Fandorin feel embarrassed. “A perfectly fair comment, except that in Akhtyrtsev’s story, which is included in your report, everything is comprehensively explained. The baroness’s name came up by chance. I have not included her in the list of subjects, first because time is precious, and second because I myself am slightly acquainted with the lady. I have had the honor of meeting her.” Brilling smiled amicably. “However, Fandorin, formally speaking you are correct. I do not wish to impose my own conclusions on you. Always think for yourself and never take anybody’s word for anything. Pay a visit to the baroness and question her on any subject you feel necessary. I am sure that apart from anything else you will find it a pleasure to make her acquaintance. The municipal duty office will inform you of Lady Astair’s Moscow address. And another thing, before you go, call in to the costume section and have your measurements taken. Don’t come to work in your uniform again. My greetings to the baroness, and when you come back a little wiser, we’ll get down to work—that is to say, to dealing with Count Zurov.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  in which it is asserted that pedagogy is the most important of all the sciences

  ON ARRIVING AT THE ADDRESS HE HAD BEEN given by the duty officer, Erast Fandorin discovered a substantial three-story building that at first glance somewhat resembled a barracks, but it was surrounded by a garden, the gates of which were standing invitingly open. This was the English baroness’s newly opened Astair House. A servant in a smart, light blue frock coat emerged from his striped booth and gladly explained that her ladyship did not reside here but in the wing, and the entrance was from the side street, around the corner to the right.

  Fandorin saw a gaggle of young boys in blue uniforms come running out of the doors of the building and begin galloping about the lawn with wild cries in a game of tag. The servant did not even attempt to call the young scamps to order. Catching Fandorin’s glance of surprise, he explained, “It’s not against the rules. During the break you can turn cartwheels and somersaults if you like, as long as you don’t damage the property. That’s the rule.”

  Well, the orphans here certainly seemed happy and carefree, not like the pupils at the provincial gymnasium, among whom our collegiate registrar had himself been numbered until quite recently. Rejoicing at the poor souls’ good fortune, Erast Fandorin set off along the fence in the direction indicated to him.

  Around the corner began one of those shady side streets of which the Khamovniki district possesses such an immense number: a dusty roadway, drowsy little mansions with little front gardens, spreading poplars that would soon release their downy white fluff into the air. The two-story wing in which Lady Astair was staying was connected to the main building by a long gallery. Beside the marble plaque bearing the inscription FIRST MOSCOW ASTAIR HOUSE. MANAGEMENT, a grave-looking door-keeper with sleekly combed side-whiskers was basking in the sunshine. Fandorin had never before seen such an imposing doorkeeper, in white stockings and a three-cornered hat, not even in front of the governor-general’s residence.

  “No visitors today,” said this
janissary, extending his arm like a boom to block the way. “Come tomorrow. On official business from ten to twelve, on personal matters from two to four.”

  No, Erast Fandorin’s encounters with the doorkeeping tribe were definitely not going well. Either his appearance was not impressive enough or something about his face was not quite right.

  “Detective police. To see Lady Astair on urgent business,” he muttered through clenched teeth in vengeful anticipation of seeing the dummy with the golden galloon bow.

  But the dummy did not even bat an eyelid.

  “There’s no point trying to see Her Excellency—I won’t let you in. If you wish, I can announce you to Mr. Cunningham.”

  “I don’t wish to see any Mr. Cunningham,” Erast Fandorin snapped. “Announce me to the baroness immediately, or you’ll be spending the night in the police station! And tell her I’m from the Criminal Investigation Division on urgent state business!”

  The doorkeeper sized up the irate official with a glance full of doubt, but nonetheless he disappeared inside the door. The scoundrel did not, however, invite Erast Fandorin in.

  Having been made to wait for rather a long time, Fandorin was on the point of bursting in without being invited, when the dour face in the side-whiskers glanced out again from the door.

  “Her ladyship will receive you, all right, but she doesn’t have much Russian, and Mr. Cunningham has no time to translate—he’s too busy. Unless perhaps you can explain yourself in French…” It was clear from his voice that the doorkeeper had little faith in such a possibility.

  “I can even explain myself in English,” Erast Fandorin threw out casually. “Which way shall I go?”

  “I’ll show you. Follow me.”

  Fandorin followed the janissary through a spotless entrance hall upholstered with damask and along a corridor flooded with sunlight from a row of tall Dutch windows to a white and gold door.