by Boris Akunin
“Cunningham?” Fandorin’s chief queried. “Gerald Cunningham? But I know the gentleman very well. We are members of the same club.” He spread his arms in amazement. “An extremely industrious gentleman, but I find it impossible to imagine him being involved with nihilists and assassinating full state counselors.”
“But he didn’t kill them, he didn’t!” exclaimed Erast Fandorin. “I thought at first that the lists contained the names of victims. I told you that in order to convey my train of thought. When you’re in a rush you can’t work everything out at once. But afterward, while I was jolting all the way across Europe in the train, it suddenly struck me! If it was a list of future victims, then why were the dates entered in it? Dates that were already past! That doesn’t fit! No, Mr. Brilling, we have something else here!”
Fandorin even leapt to his feet, his thoughts agitated him so powerfully.
“Something else? But what?” asked Brilling, screwing up his bright eyes.
“I think it is a list of members of a powerful international organization. And your Moscow terrorists are only a small link, the very tiniest.” At the expression that these words brought to his chief’s face, Erast Fandorin felt himself beginning to gloat—and was immediately ashamed of such an unworthy feeling. “The central figure in the organization, the main purpose of which remains as yet unknown to us, is Gerald Cunningham. You and I have both seen him—he is a most exceptional gentleman. ‘Miss Olsen,’ whose role has been played by Amalia Bezhetskaya since June, is the organization’s registration center, something like the personnel department. It receives information from all over the world concerning changes in the status of members of the society. Regularly, once a month, ‘Miss Olsen’ forwards the new information to Cunningham, who has been based in St. Petersburg since last year. I told you that Bezhetskaya has a secret safe in her bedroom. She probably keeps a full list of the members of this Azazel in it—it does seem as if that actually is the organization’s name. Or else it’s their password, something rather like an incantation. I have heard the word spoken twice, and on both occasions it was when a murder was about to be committed. In general it is rather like a Masonic society, except that it is not clear why the fallen angel is involved. But it seems to be on a bigger scale than the Masons. Just imagine—forty-five letters in one month! And the people involved—a senator, a minister, generals!”
Erast Fandorin’s chief gazed patiently at the young man, for the latter had clearly not yet concluded his narrative. He had wrinkled up his forehead and was thinking intensely about something.
“Mr. Brilling, I was just thinking about Cunningham…He is a British subject, after all, so I suppose we couldn’t simply turn up and search his house?”
“I suppose not,” Fandorin’s chief agreed. “Go on.”
“And before you can obtain sanction, he will hide the envelope so securely that we won’t find anything and won’t be able to prove a thing. We still don’t know what connections he has in high places and who will intercede for him. Special caution would seem to be recommended here. It would be best first to get a grip on his Russian operation and haul in the chain link by link, wouldn’t it?”
“And how can we do that?” Brilling asked with lively interest. “By means of secret surveillance? Logical.”
“We could use surveillance, but I think there is a more certain method.”
Ivan Brilling thought for a moment and then shrugged, as if surrendering.
Flattered, Fandorin dropped a tactful hint. “What about the full state counselor who was created on the seventh of June?”
“Check the emperor’s decrees on new titles?” Brilling slapped a hand against his forehead. “Say, for the first ten days of June? Bravo, Fandorin, bravo!”
“Of course, chief. Not even for the first ten days, just from Monday to Saturday, from the third to the eighth. The new general would hardly be likely to delay the happy announcement any longer than that. Just how many new full state counselors appear in the empire in the course of a week?”
“Two or three perhaps, if there happens to be a bumper crop. I have never actually inquired.”
“Well then, we put all of them under observation, check their statements of service, their circles of acquaintances, and so forth. We’ll winkle out our Azazalean in no time at all.”
“Right, now tell me, has all the information you gathered been forwarded by post to the Moscow Criminal Investigation Division?” Brilling asked, following his usual habit of skipping without warning from one subject to another.
“Yes, chief. The letter will arrive either today or tomorrow. Why—do you suspect someone in the ranks of the Moscow police? In order to emphasize its importance I wrote on the envelope: “To be delivered to His Honor State Counselor Brilling in person, or in his absence to His Excellency the Chief of Police.” So no one will dare to open it. And if he reads it, the chief of police will certainly contact you.”
“That’s logical,” Ivan Brilling said approvingly, and then fell silent for a long while, staring at the wall while his expression became gloomier and gloomier.
Erast Fandorin sat there with bated breath, knowing that his chief was weighing up all that he had heard and would now tell him what he had decided. To judge from his expression it was a difficult decision.
Brilling gave a loud sigh, followed by an oddly bitter laugh. “Very well, Fandorin. I’ll take all the responsibility on myself. There are certain ailments that can only be cured by surgery. That is what we will do. This is a matter of great importance, of state importance, and in such cases I have the right to dispense with the formalities. We will take Cunningham. And immediately, in order to catch him red-handed with the envelope. Do you believe the message is in code?”
“Undoubtedly. The information is too important. And after all it was sent by ordinary post, even though it was for urgent delivery. It could have fallen into the wrong hands or been lost. No, Mr. Brilling, these people do not like to take unnecessary risks.”
“All the more reason, then. That means Cunningham decodes it, reads it, and writes it out again for his card index. He must have a card index! I am afraid that in her accompanying letter Bezhetskaya may have informed him of your adventures, and Cunningham is a clever man. He will realize in an instant that you might have sent a report to Russia. No, he has to be taken now, without delay! And it would be interesting to read that accompanying letter. The business with Pyzhov bothers me. What if he is not the only one they suborned? We will talk things over with the English embassy later. They’ll be thankful to us. You do claim that the list included subjects of Queen Victoria?”
“Yes, almost a dozen of them,” Erast Fandorin said with a nod, gazing at his chief adoringly. “Of course, taking Cunningham now is the very best thing to do, but…what if we get there and we don’t find anything? I would never forgive myself if because of me you had…that is, I am prepared in all instances…”
“Don’t talk nonsense,” said Brilling, twitching his jaw in irritation. “Do you really think that if things turn out badly I would hide behind a boy? I have faith in you, Fandorin. And that is enough.”
“Thank you,” said Erast Fandorin in a quiet voice.
Ivan Brilling bowed sarcastically.
“No need for gratitude. Right then, enough of these idle compliments. Let’s get to work. I know Cunningham’s address. He lives on Aptekarsky Island, in the wing of the St. Petersburg Astair House. Do you have a gun?”
“Yes, in London I bought a Smith and Wesson. It’s in my travel bag.”
“Show me.”
Fandorin quickly brought in from the hallway the heavy revolver that he liked so much for its weight and solidity.
“Rubbish!” his chief said peremptorily, after weighing the gun on his palm. “This is for American cowboys and their drunken shoot-outs in the saloon. It’s no use to a serious agent. I’m taking it away from you, and I’ll give you something better in exchange.”
He left the room for a short
while and came back with a small, flat revolver, which fitted almost completely into the palm of his hand.
“There you are, a seven-round Belgian Herstal. It’s a new model, a special order. You wear it behind your back in a little holster under your coat. Quite indispensable in our line of work. It’s light and it doesn’t shoot very far or very accurately, but it’s self-cocking, and that guarantees a rapid shot. After all, we don’t need to hit a squirrel in the eye, do we? And the agent who stays alive is usually the one who fires first and more than once. Instead of a hammer to cock, there is a safety catch—this little button here. It’s rather stiff, to avoid accidental firing. Click it like that and then fire off all seven rounds if you like. Is that clear?”
“Yes,” said Erast Fandorin, gazing in fascination at the handsome toy.
“You can admire it later—there’s no time just now,” said Brilling, pushing him in the direction of the door.
“Are we both going to arrest him together?” Fandorin asked excitedly.
“Don’t talk nonsense.”
Ivan Brilling stopped beside the Bell’s apparatus, took hold of a horn-shaped tube and pressed it to his ear, then cranked some kind of lever. The apparatus grunted and something inside it clanged. Brilling set his ear to the other horn protruding from the lacquered box, and the horn gave out a squeaky sound. Fandorin thought he could just make out a faint, funny little voice pronouncing the words ‘duty adjutant’ and then ‘chancellery.’
“Is that you, Novgorodtsev,” Brilling bellowed into the tube. “Is His Excellency in his office? No? I can’t hear! No, no, don’t worry. Don’t worry, I say!” He drew as much air as he could into his lungs and began shouting even louder. “An urgent detachment for an arrest! Send them immediately to Aptekarsky Island. Ap-te-kar-sky! Yes! The wing of the Astair House! As-tair House! It doesn’t matter what it means—they’ll find it. And have a search group sent out! What? Yes, I will, in person. And hurry, Major, hurry.”
He returned the tube to its resting place and wiped his forehead.
“I hope that Mr. Bell will improve his design, or soon all my neighbors will know everything about the Third Section’s secret operations.”
Erast Fandorin was still entranced by the sorcery that had just been worked before his eyes. “Why, it’s like something from The Thousand and One Nightsl A genuine miracle! And there are still people who condemn progress!”
“We can talk about progress on our way. Unfortunately I have already dismissed my carriage, so we will have to look for a cab. Will you put down that damned travel bag! Come on, quick march!”
THE CONVERSATION ABOUT PROGRESS, however, never took place, for they rode to Aptekarsky Island in total silence. Erast Fandorin was trembling with excitement, and he made several attempts to draw his chief into conversation, but all in vain. Brilling was in a foul mood. He was clearly taking a great risk after all in launching an operation on his own authority.
The pale northern evening glimmered above the watery expanse of the Neva. It occurred to Fandorin that the bright summer night was most opportune. He would not be getting any sleep today in any case. And last night in the train he had not slept a wink either, he had been so worried that he might miss the envelope…The driver urged on his chestnut filly, earning his promised ruble honestly, and they reached their destination quickly.
The St. Petersburg Astair House, a beautiful yellow building that had previously belonged to the army engineers’ corps, was smaller in size than its Moscow equivalent, but it was drowning in greenery. It was a heavenly spot, surrounded by gardens and rich dachas.
“Ah, what will happen to the children?” Fandorin sighed.
“Nothing will happen to them,” Ivan Brilling replied aggressively. “Her ladyship will appoint another director and that will be the end of the matter.”
The wing of the Astair House proved to be an imposing Catherine-style mansion overlooking an agreeable, tree-shaded street. Erast Fandorin saw an elm tree charred black by lightning reaching out its dead branches toward the lighted windows of the tall second story. The house was quiet.
“Splendid, the gendarmes have not yet arrived,” said the chief. “We won’t wait for them—the most important thing for us is not to put Cunningham on his guard. And to be prepared for all sorts of surprises.”
Erast Fandorin thrust his hand under the back flap of his jacket and felt the reassuring chill of his Herstal. He felt his chest tighten, not out of fear—for with Ivan Franzevich Brilling there was nothing to fear—but out of impatience. Now at last everything would finally be settled!
Brilling shook the little brass bell vigorously, producing a melodious trill. A red-haired head glanced out of an open window on the second floor.
“Open up, Cunningham,” Fandorin’s chief said in a loud voice. “I have an urgent matter to discuss with you.”
“Is that you, Brilling?” the Englishman asked in surprise. “What’s the matter?”
“An emergency at the club. I must warn you about it.”
“Just a moment, I’ll come down. It’s my manservant’s day off.” And the head disappeared.
“Aha,” whispered Fandorin. “He got rid of his servant deliberately. He’s probably sitting there with the papers!”
Brilling nervously rapped on the door with his knuckles. Cunningham seemed to be taking his time.
“Will he not make a run for it?” Erast Fandorin asked in panic.
“Through the rear door, eh? Perhaps I should run ‘round the house and stand on that side?”
Just then, however, they heard the sound of steps from inside and the door opened.
Cunningham stood in the doorway in a long dressing gown. His piercing green eyes rested for a moment on Fandorin’s face, and his eyelids trembled almost imperceptibly. He had recognized him!
“What’s happening?” the Englishman asked guardedly in his own language.
“Let’s go into the study,” Brilling answered in Russian. “It’s very important.”
Cunningham hesitated for a second, then gestured for them to follow him.
After climbing an oak staircase, the host and his uninvited guests found themselves in a room that was furnished richly but clearly not for leisure. The walls were covered from end to end with shelves holding books and some kind of files. Over by the window, beside an immense writing desk of Karelian birch, there was a rack holding drawers, each of which was adorned with a gold label.
However, Erast Fandorin’s interest was not drawn to the drawers (Cunningham would not store secret documents in open view), but by the papers lying on the desk, where they had been hastily covered by a fresh copy of the Stock Exchange Gazette.
Ivan Brilling was evidently thinking along the same lines. He crossed the study and positioned himself beside the desk, standing with his back to the open window with the low sill. The evening breeze gently ruffled the lace curtain.
Grasping the significance of his chief’s maneuver, Fandorin remained standing by the door. Now there was nowhere for Cunningham to go.
The Englishman seemed to suspect that something was wrong.
“You are behaving rather oddly, Brilling,” he said in faultless Russian. “And why is this person here? I’ve seen him before—he’s a policeman.”
Ivan Franzevich Brilling glared sullenly at Cunningham, keeping his hands in the pockets of his wide frock coat.
“Yes, he is a policeman. And in a minute or two there will be a lot of policemen here, and so I have no time for explanations.”
The young detective saw his chief’s right hand come darting out of his pocket holding Fandorin’s Smith & Wesson, but he had no time to register surprise. He pulled out his own gun. Things were beginning to move now!
“Don’t!” the Englishman cried out, throwing his hands up in the air, and that very instant there was a thunderous shot.
Cunningham was thrown over backward. Erast Fandorin gazed in amazement at the green eyes staring as if they were still alive and the nea
t dark hole in the middle of the forehead.
“My God, chief, why?”
He turned toward the window. The black mouth of the barrel was staring straight at him.
“You killed him,” Brilling stated in a strange, unnatural voice. “You’re too good a detective. And, therefore, my young friend, I shall be obliged to kill you, which I sincerely regret.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
in which the narrative takes a sharp change of direction
TOTALLY BEMUSED, POOR ERAST FANDORIN took a few steps forward.
“Stop!” his chief barked out furiously. “And stop waving that gun around—it isn’t loaded. You might at least have taken the trouble to glance into the cylinder! Why must you be so trusting, damn you! You can never trust anyone but yourself!”
Brilling took an identical Herstal out of his left pocket and dropped the smoking Smith & Wesson on the floor at Fandorin’s feet.
“My gun here is fully loaded, as you will learn soon enough,” Ivan Brilling babbled feverishly, becoming more and more agitated with every word. “I shall place it in the hand of the unfortunate Cunningham here, and it will be obvious that you killed each other in an exchange of fire. You will be guaranteed an honorable funeral with heartfelt speeches of farewell. I know that means a lot to you. And stop looking at me like that, you damned greenhorn!”
Fandorin realized with horror that his chief was absolutely crazy, and in a desperate attempt to awaken Brilling’s suddenly clouded reason he shouted, “Chief, it’s me, Fandorin! Ivan Franzevich Brilling! State counselor!”
“Full state counselor,” said Brilling with a crooked smile. “You’re behind the times, Fandorin. The emperor’s decree was promulgated on the seventh of June. For a successful operation to disarm the terrorist organization Azazel. So you may address me as Your Excellency.”
Brilling’s dark silhouette against the window looked as if it had been cut out with scissors and pasted on gray paper. Dehind his back the dead branches of the dry elm radiated in all directions, forming a sinister spiderweb. A line from a childish jingle ran through Fandorin’s head: “ “Will you step into my parlor,” said the spider to the fly.”
