Murder on the Leviathan

by Boris Akunin

  The commissioner (with a shrug): 'Well, what of it?'

  Fandorin (pointing): 'Down here at the bottom. Do you see the headline of the next article: "Cholera epidemic on the wane"? And what it says about "the vigorous prophylactic measures taken by the physicians of Paris"?'

  Truffo-sensei: 'Why, yes indeed, gentlemen, Paris has been plagued by outbreaks of cholera all winter. They even set up a medical checkpoint in the Louvre for the boats arriving from Calais.'

  Fandorin-san: 'That is why the sudden appearance of a physician did not make the servants suspicious.

  No doubt their visitor acted confidently and spoke very convincingly. He could have told them it was getting late and he still had several more houses to visit, or something of the kind. The servants evidently decided not to bother the master of the house, since he was suffering from an attack of gout, but of course they called the security guards from the second floor. And it only takes a moment to give an injection.'

  I was delighted by the diplomat's perspicacity and the ease with which he had solved this difficult riddle. His words even set Commissioner Gauche thinking.

  "Very well then,' he said reluctantly. 'But how do you explain the fact that after poisoning the servants this medic of yours didn't simply walk up the stairs to the second floor, but went outside, climbed over the fence and broke in through a window in the conservatory?'

  Fandorin-san: 'I've been thinking about that. Did it not occur to you that two culprits might have been involved? One dealt with the servants, while the other broke in through the window?'

  The commissioner (triumphantly): 'Indeed it did occur to me, my dear monsieur clever clogs, it most certainly did. That is precisely the assumption that the murderer wanted us to make. It's perfectly obvious that he was simply trying to confuse the trail! After he poisoned the servants, he left the pantry and went upstairs, where he ran into the master of the house. Very probably the thief simply smashed in the glass of the display case because he thought there was no one else in the house. When his Lordship came out of his bedroom to see what all the noise was about, he was murdered. Following this unexpected encounter the culprit beat a hasty retreat, not through the door, but through the window of the conservatory. Why? In order to pull the wool over our eyes and make it seem like there were two of them. You fell for his little trick hook, line and sinker. But old papa Gauche is not so easily taken in.'

  The commissioner's words were greeted with general approval. Renier-san even said: 'Damn it, Commissioner, but you're a dangerous man!' (This is a common turn of speech in various European languages. It should not be taken literally. The lieutenant meant to say that Gauche-san is a very clever and experienced detective.)

  Fandorin-san waited for a while and asked: 'Then you made a thorough study of the footprints and came to the conclusion that this person jumped down from the window and did not climb up on to the window sill?'

  The commissioner did not answer that, but he gave the Russian a rather angry look.

  At this point Stamp-san made a comment that turned the conversation in a new direction.

  'One culprit, two culprits - but I still don't understand the most important thing: what was it all done for?' she said. 'Clearly not for the Shiva. But what then? And not for the sake of the scarf either, no matter how remarkable and legendary it may be!'

  Fandorin-san replied to this in a matter-of-fact voice, as if he were saying something perfectly obvious: 'But of course it was precisely for the sake of the scarf, mademoiselle. The Shiva was only taken in order to divert attention and then thrown into the Seine from the nearest bridge because it was no longer needed.'

  The commissioner observed: 'For Russian boyars (I have forgotten what this word means, I shall have to look it up in the dictionary) half a million francs may perhaps be a mere trifle, but most people think differently. Two kilograms of pure gold was "no longer needed"! You really are getting carried away, monsieur diplomat.'

  Fandorin-san: 'Oh come now, Commissioner, what is half a million francs compared with the treasure of Bagdassar?'

  'Gentlemen, enough of this quarrelling!' the odious Mme Kleber exclaimed capriciously. 'I was almost killed, and here you are still harping on the same old tune. Commissioner, while you were so busy tinkering with an old crime, you very nearly had a new one on your hands!'

  That woman simply cannot bear it when she is not the centre of attention. After what happened yesterday I try not to look at her - I have a strong urge to jab my finger into the blue vein pulsating on her white neck. One jab would be quite enough to dispatch the loathsome creature. But of course that is one of those evil thoughts that a man must drive out of his head by an effort of will. By confiding my evil thoughts to this diary I have managed to diminish the violence of my hatred a little.

  The commissioner put Mme Kleber in her place. 'Please be quiet, madam,' he said sternly. 'Let us hear what other fantasies our diplomat has concocted.'

  Fandorin-san: 'This entire story only makes sense if the stolen shawl is especially valuable in some way. That is one. According to what the professor told us, in itself the shawl is of no great value, so it is not a matter of the piece of silk, but of some other thing connected with it. That is two. As you already know, the shawl is connected with the final will and testament of the Rajah Bagdassar, the last owner of the Brahmapur treasure. That is three. Tell me, professor, was the rajah a zealous servant of the Prophet?'

  Sweetchild-sensei (after a moment's thought): 'I can't say exactly ... He didn't build mosques, and he never mentioned the name of Allah in my company. The rajah liked to dress in European clothes, he smoked Cuban cigars and read French novels . . . Ah yes, he drank cognac after lunch! So he obviously didn't take religious prohibitions too seriously.'

  Fandorin-san: 'Then that makes four: although he is not overly devout, Bagdassar makes his son a final gift of a Koran, which for some reason is wrapped in a shawl. I suggest that the shawl was the most important part of this legacy. The Koran was included for the sake of appearances ... Or possibly the notes made in the margins in Bagdassar's own hand contained instructions on how to find the treasure with the help of the shawl.'

  Sweetchild-sensei: 'But why did it have to be with the help of the shawl? The rajah could have conveyed his secret in the marginalia!'

  Fandorin-san: 'He could have, but he chose not to. Why? Allow me to refer you to my argument number one: if the shawl were not immensely valuable in some way, it is unlikely that ten people would have been murdered for it. The shawl is the key to five hundred million francs or, if you prefer, fifty million pounds, which is approximately the same. I believe that is the greatest hidden treasure there has ever been in the whole of human history. And by the way, Commissioner, I must warn you that if you are not mistaken and the murderer really is on board the Leviathan, more people could be killed. Indeed, the closer you come to your goal, the more likely it becomes. The stakes are too high and too great a price has already been paid for the key to the mystery.'

  These words were followed by deadly silence. Fandorin-san's logic seemed irrefutable, and I believe all of us felt shivers run up and down our spines. All of us except one.

  The first to recover his composure was the commissioner. He gave a nervous laugh and said: 'My, what a lively imagination you do have, M. Fandorin. But as far as danger is concerned, you are right. Only you, gentlemen, have no need to quake in your boots. This danger threatens no one but old man Gauche, and he knows it very well. It comes with my profession. But I'm well prepared for it!' And he glanced round us all menacingly, as if he were challenging us to single combat.

  The fat old man is ridiculous. Of everyone there the only person whom he might be able to best is the pregnant Mme Kleber. In my mind's eye I glimpsed a tempting picture: the red-faced commissioner had flung the young witch to the floor and was strangling her with his hairy sausage-fingers, and Mme Kleber was expiring with her eyes popping out of her head and her malicious tongue dangling out of her mouth.
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  'Darling, I'm scared!' I heard the doctor's wife whisper in a thin, squeaky voice as she turned to her husband, who patted her shoulder reassuringly.

  The red-headed freak M.-S.-san (his name is too long for me to write it in full) raised an interesting question: 'Professor, can you describe the shawl in more detail? We know the bird has a hole where its eye should be, and it's a triangle. But is there anything else remarkable about it?'

  I should note that this strange gentleman takes part in the general conversation almost as rarely as I do. But, like the author of these lines, if he does say something then it is always off the point, and so the unexpected appropriateness of his question was all the more remarkable.

  Sweetchild-sensei: 'As far as I recall, apart from the hole and the unique shape there is nothing special about the shawl. It is about the size of a small fan, but it can easily be hidden in a thimble. Such remarkably fine fabric is quite common in Brahmapur.'

  'Then the key must lie in the eye of the bird and the triangular shape,' Fandorin-san concluded with exquisite assurance.

  He was truly magnificent. The more I ponder on his triumph and the whole story in general, the more strongly I feel the unworthy temptation to demonstrate to all of them that Gintaro Aono is also no fool. I also could reveal things that would amaze them. For instance, I could tell Commissioner Gauche certain curious details of yesterday's incident involving the black-skinned savage. Even the wise Fandorin-san has admitted that the matter is not entirely clear to him as yet. What if the 'wild Japanese' were suddenly to solve the riddle that is puzzling him? That could be interesting!

  Yesterday's insults unsettled me and I lost my composure for a while. Afterwards, when I had calmed down, I began comparing facts and weighing the situation up, and I have constructed an entire logical argument which I intend to put to the policeman. Let him work out the rest for himself. This is what Ishall tell the commissioner.

  First I shall remind him of how Mme Kleber humiliated me. It was a highly insulting remark, made in public. And it was made at the precise moment when I was about to reveal what I had observed. Did Mme Kleber not perhaps wish to shut me up? This surely appears suspicious, monsieur Commissioner?

  To continue. Why does she pretend to be weak, when she is as fit as a sumo wrestler? You will say this is an irrelevant detail. But I shall tell you, monsieur detective, that a person who is constantly pretending must be hiding something. Take me, for instance. (Ha ha. Of course, I shall not say that.)

  Then I shall point out to the commissioner that European women have very delicate white skin. Why did the negro's powerful fingers not leave even the slightest mark on it? Is that not strange?

  And finally, when the commissioner decides I have nothing to offer him but the vindictive speculations of an oriental mind bent on vengeance, I shall tell him the most important thing, which will immediately make our detective sit up and take notice.

  'M. Gauche,' I shall say to him with a polite smile, 'I do not possess your brilliant mind and I am not attempting, hopeless ignoramus that I am, to interfere in your investigation, but I regard it as my duty to draw your attention to a certain circumstance. You yourself say that the murderer from the rue de Grenelle is one of us. M. Fandorin has expounded a convincing account of how Lord Littleby's servants were killed. Vaccinating them against cholera was a brilliant subterfuge. It tells us that the murderer

  knows how to use a syringe. But what if the person who came to the mansion on the rue de Grenelle were not a male doctor, but a woman, a nurse? She would have aroused even less apprehension than a man, would she not? Surely you agree? Then let me advise you to take a casual glance at Mme Kleber's arms when she is sitting with her viper's head propped on her hand and her wide sleeve slips down to the elbow. You will observe some barely visible points on the inner flexure, as I have observed them. They are needle marks, monsieur Commissioner. Ask Dr Truffo if he is giving Mme Kleber any injections and the venerable physician will tell you what he has already told me today: no, he is not, for he is opposed in principle to the intravenous injection of medication. And then, oh wise Gauche-sensei, you will add two and two, and you will have something for your grey head to puzzle over.' That is what I shall tell the commissioner, and he will take Mme Kleber more seriously.

  A European knight would say that I had behaved villainously, but that would merely demonstrate his own limitations. That is precisely why there are no knights left in Europe, but the samurai are still with us. Our lord and emperor may have set the different estates on one level and forbidden us to wear two swords in our belts, but that does not mean the calling of a samurai has been abolished, quite the opposite. The entire Japanese nation has been elevated to the estate of the samurai in order to prevent us from boasting to each other of our noble origins. We all stand together against the rest of the world. Oh, you noble European knight who has never existed except in novels)! In fighting with men, use the weapons of a man, but in fighting with women, use the weapons of a woman. That is the samurai code of honour, and there is nothing villainous in it, for women know how to fight every bit as well as men. What contradicts the honour of the samurai is to employ the weapons of a man against a woman or the weapons of a woman against a man. I would never sink as low as that.

  I am still uncertain whether the manoeuvre I am contemplating is worthwhile, but my state of mind is incomparably better than it was yesterday. So much so that I have even managed to compose a decent haiku without any difficulty:

  The moonlight glinting

  Bright upon the steely blade,

  A cold spark of ice.

  Clarissa Stamp

  Clarissa glanced around with a bored look on her face to see if anyone was watching and only then peeped cautiously round the corner of the deck-house.

  The Japanese was sitting alone on the quarterdeck with his legs folded up underneath him. His head was thrown right back and she could see the whites of his eyes glinting horribly between the half-closed lids. The expression on his face was absolutely impassive, inhumanly dispassionate.

  Br-r-r! Clarissa shuddered. What a strange specimen this Mr Aono was. Here on the boat deck, located just one level above the first-class cabins, there was no one taking the air, just a gaggle of young girls skipping with a rope and two nursery maids exhausted by the heat who had taken refuge in the shade of a snow-white launch. Who but children and a crazy Oriental would be out in such scorching heat? The only structures higher than the boat deck were the control room, the captain's bridge and, of course, the funnels, masts and sails. The white canvas sheets were swollen taut by a following wind and Leviathan was making straight for the liquid-silver line of the horizon, puffing smoke into the sky as it went, while all around the Indian Ocean lay spread out like a slightly crumpled tablecloth with shimmering patches of bright bottle-green. From up here she could see that the Earth really was round: the rim of the horizon was clearly lower than the Leviathan, and the ship seemed to be running downhill towards it.

  But Clarissa had not drenched herself in perspiration for the sake of the sea view. She wanted to see what Mr Aono was up to. Where did he disappear to with such unfailing regularity after breakfast?

  And she had been right to be curious. Look at him now, the very image of the inscrutable Oriental! A man with such a motionless, pitiless mask for a face was capable of absolutely anything. The members of the yellow races were certainly not like us, and it was not simply a matter of the shape of their eyes. They looked very much like people on the outside, but on the inside they were a different species altogether. After all, wolves looked like dogs, didn't they, but their nature was quite different. Of course, the yellow-skinned races had a moral code of their own, but it was so alien to Christianity that no normal person could possibly understand it. It would be better if they didn't wear European clothes or know how to use cutlery - that created a dangerous illusion of civilization, when there were things that we couldn't possibly imagine going on under that slickly parted black ha
ir and yellow forehead.

  The Japanese stirred almost imperceptibly and blinked, and Clarissa hastily ducked back out of sight. Of course, she was behaving like an absolute fool, but she couldn't just do nothing! This nightmare couldn't be allowed to go on and on for ever. The commissioner had to be nudged in the right direction, otherwise there was no way of knowing how everything might end. Despite the heat, she felt a chilly tremor run through her.

  There was obviously something mysterious about Mr Aono's character and the way he behaved. Like the mystery of the crime on the rue de Grenelle. It was strange that Gauche had still not realized that all the signs pointed to the Japanese as the main suspect.

  What kind of officer was he, and how could he have graduated from St Cyr if he knew nothing about horses? One day, acting purely out of humanitarian motives, Clarissa had decided to involve the Oriental in the general conversation and started talking about a subject that should have been of interest to a military man - training and racing horses, the merits and shortcomings of the Norfolk trotter. He was no officer! When she asked him: 'Have you ever taken part in a steeplechase?' he replied that officers of the imperial army were absolutely forbidden to become involved in politics. He simply had no idea what a steeplechase was! Of course, who could tell what kind of officers they had in Japan - perhaps they rode around on sticks of bamboo - but how could an alumnus of St Cyr possibly be so ignorant? No, it was quite out of the question.

  She had to bring this to Gauche's attention. Or perhaps she ought to wait and see if she could discover something else suspicious?

  And what about that incident yesterday? Clarissa had taken a stroll along the corridor past Mr Aono's cabin after she heard some extremely strange noises. There was a dry crunching sound coming from inside the cabin, as if someone were smashing furniture with precisely regular blows. Clarissa had screwed up her courage and knocked.