by Boris Akunin
I keep thinking about Mr Fandorin's story. It is not as simple as it seems.
That third merchant is Sweetchild. Yes, when I heard the end of the story, I suddenly realized that he is a dangerous madman! There is an uncontrollable passion raging in his soul, and if anyone should know what that means, it is me. I have been gliding around after him like an invisible shadow ever since we left Aden.
I have already told you, my precious Emily, that I spent the time we were moored there very profitably. I'm sure you must have thought I meant I had bought a new navigational instrument to replace the one that was stolen. Yes, I do have a new sextant now and I am checking the ship's course regularly once again, but what I meant was something quite different. I was simply afraid to commit my secret to paper. What if someone were to read it? After all, I am surrounded by enemies on every side. But I have a resourceful mind, and I have invented a fine stratagem: starting from today I am writing in milk. To the eye of a stranger - it will seem like a clean sheet of paper, quite uninteresting, but my quick-witted Emily will warm the sheets on the lampshade to make the writing appear! What a spiffing wheeze, eh?
Well then, about Aden. While I was still on the steamer, before they let us go ashore, I noticed that Sweetchild was nervous, and more than simply nervous, he was positively jumping up and down in excitement. It began soon after Fandorin announced that the shawl stolen from Lord Littleby was the key to the mythical treasure of the Emerald Rajah. The professor became terribly agitated, started muttering to himself and kept repeating: Ah, I must get ashore soon.' But what for, that was the question!
I decided to find out.
Pulling my black hat with the wide brim well down over my eyes, I set off to follow Sweetchild. Everything could not have gone better at first: he didn't glance round once and I had no trouble in trailing him to the square located behind the little custom house. But there I was in for an unpleasant surprise. Sweetchild called one of the local cabbies and drove off with him. His barouche was moving rather slowly, but I could not go running after it, that would have been unseemly. Of course, there were other barouches on the square, I could, easily have got into any of them, but you know, my dearest, how heartily I detest open carriages. They are the devil's own invention and only reckless fools ride in them. Some people (I have seen it with my own eyes more than once) even take their wives and innocent children with them. How long can it be before disaster strikes? The two-wheelers which are so popular at home in Britain are especially dangerous. Someone once told me (I can't recall who it was just at the moment) that a certain young man from a very decent family, with a good position in society, was rash enough to take his young wife for a ride in one of those two-wheelers when she was eight months pregnant. It ended badly, of course: the mad fool lost control of the horses, they bolted and the carriage overturned. The young man was all right, but his wife went into premature labour. They were unable to save her or the child. And all because of his thoughtlessness. They could have gone for a walk, or taken a ride in a boat. If it comes to that, one can take a ride on a train, in a separate carriage. In Venice they take rides in gondolas. We were there, do you remember? Do you recall how the water lapped at the steps of the hotel?
I am finding it hard to concentrate, I am constantly digressing. And so, Sweetchild rode off in a carriage, and I was left standing beside the custom house. But do you think I lost my head? Not a bit of it. I thought of something that calmed my nerves almost instantly. While I was waiting for Sweetchild, I went into a sailors' shop and bought a new sextant, even better than the old one, and a splendid navigational almanac with astronomical formulae. Now I can calculate the ship's position much faster and. more precisely. See what a cunning customer I am!
I waited for six hours and 38 minutes. I sat on a rock and looked at the sea, thinking about you.
When Sweetchild returned, I pretended to be dozing and he slipped past me, certain that I had not seen him.
The moment he disappeared round the corner of the custom house, I dashed across to his cabby. For sixpence the Bengali told me where our dear professor had been. You must admit, my sweet Emily, that I handled this business most adroitly.
The information I received only served to corroborate my initial suspicions. Sweetchild had asked to be taken from the port directly to the telegraph office. He spent half an hour there, and then went back to the post office building another four times. The cabby said: 'Sahib very-very worried. Run backwards and forwards. Sometimes say: take me to bazaar, then tap me on back: take me back, post office, quick-quick.' It seems quite clear that Sweetchild first sent off an urgent message to someone and then waited impatiently for an answer. The Bengali said that the last time he came out of the post office he was 'not like himself, he wave paper' and told the cabby to drive him back to the ship. The reply must have arrived.
I do not know what was in it, but it is perfectly clear that the professor, or whoever he really is, has accomplices.
That was two days ago. Since then Sweetchild has been a changed man. As I have already told you, he speaks of nothing but precious stones all the time, and sometimes he suddenly sits down on the deck and starts drawing something, either on his cuff or his handkerchief.
This evening there was a ball in the grand saloon. I have already described this majestic hall, which appears to have been transported here from Versailles or Buckingham Palace. There is gilt everywhere and the walb are covered from top to bottom with mirrors. The crystal electric chandeliers tinkle melodically in time to the gentle rolling of the ship. The orchestra (a perfectly decent one, by the way) mostly played Viennese waltzes and, as you know, I regard that dance as indecent, so I stood in the corner, keeping an eye on Sweetchild. He was enjoying himself greatly, inviting one lady after another to dance, skipping about like a goat and trampling on their feet outrageously, but that did not worry him in the least. I was even distracted a little, recalling how we once used to dance and how elegant your arm looked in its white glove as it lay on my shoulder. Suddenly I saw Sweetchild stumble and almost drop his partner, then without even bothering to apologize, he fairly raced across to the tables with the hors d'oeuvres, leaving his partner standing bewildered in the centre of the hall. I must admit that this sudden attack of uncontrollable hunger struck me as rather strange too.
Sweetchild, however, did not even glance at the dishes of pies, cheese and fruit. He grabbed a paper napkin out of a silver napkin holder, hunched over the table and began furiously scribbling something on it. He has become completely obsessed, and obviously no longer feels it necessary to conceal his secret even in a crowded room! Consumed with curiosity, I began strolling casually in his direction. But Sweetchild had already straightened up and folded the napkin into four, evidently intending to put it in his pocket. Unfortunately, I was too late to glance at it over his shoulder. I stamped my foot furiously and was about to turn back when I noticed Mr Fandorin coming over to the table with two glasses of champagne. He handed one to Sweetchild and kept the other for himself. I heard the Russian say: 'Ah, my dear Professor, how terribly absent-minded you are! You have just put a dirty napkin in your pocket.' Sweetchild was embarrassed, he took the napkin out, crumpled it into a ball and threw it under the table. I immediately joined them and deliberately struck up a conversation about fashion, knowing that the Indologist would soon get bored and leave. Which is exactly what happened.
No sooner had he made his apologies and left us alone than Fandorin whispered to me. conspiratorially: 'Well, Sir Reginald, which of us is going to crawl under the table;'' I realized that the diplomat was as suspicious of the professor's behaviour as I was. We understood each other completely in an instant. 'Yes, it is not exactly convenient,' I agreed. Mr Fandorin glanced around and then suggested: 'Let us do this thing fairly and honestly. If one of us can invent a decent pretext, the other will crawl after the napkin.' I nodded and started thinking, but nothing appropriate came to mind. 'Eureka!' whispered Fandorin, and with a movement so swift that
I could barely see it, he unfastened one of my cufflinks. It fell on the floor and the diplomat pushed it under the table with the toe of his shoe. 'Sir Reginald,' he said loudly enough for people standing nearby to hear, 'I believe you have dropped a cufflink.'
An agreement is an agreement. I squatted down and glanced under the table. The napkin was lying quite close, but the dratted cufflink had skidded right across to the wall, and the table was rather broad. Imagine the scene. Your husband crawling under the table on all fours, presenting the crowded hall with a view that was far from edifying. On my way back I ran into a rather embarrassing situation. When I stuck my head out from under the table, I saw two young ladies directly in front of me, engaged in lively conversation with Mr Fandorin. When they spotted my red head at the level of their knees, the ladies squealed in fright, but my perfidious companion merely said calmly: 'Allow me to introduce Baronet Milford-Stokes.' The ladies gave me a distinctly chilly look and left without saying a word. I leapt to my feet, absolutely bursting with fury and exclaimed: 'Sir, you deliberately stopped them so that you could make fun of me!' Fandorin replied with an innocent expression: 'I did stop them deliberately, but not at all in order to make fun of you. It simply occurred to me that their wide skirts would conceal your daring raid from the eyes of the hall. But where is your booty?'
Palace!
What are these geometrical figures? What does the zigzag line mean? And why are there three exclamation marks?
I cast a stealthy glance at Fandorin. He tugged at his ear lobe and muttered something that I didn't catch. I expect it was in Russian.
'What do you make of it?' I asked. 'Let's wait for a while,' the diplomat replied with a mysterious expression. 'He's getting close.'
Who is getting close? Sweetchild? Close to what? And is it a good thing that he is getting close?
I had no chance to ask these questions, because just at that moment there was a commotion in the hall and everyone started applauding. Then M. Driet, the captain's social officer, began shouting deafeningly through a megaphone: 'Ladies and gentlemen, the grand prize in our lottery goes to cabin number eighteen!' I had been so absorbed in the operation with the mysterious napkin that I had paid absolutely no attention to what was going on in the hall. It turned out that they had stopped dancing and set up the draw for the charity raffle 'In Aid of Fallen Women' (I wrote to you about this idiotic undertaking in my letter of 3 April). You are well aware of how I feel about charity and fallen women, so I shall refrain from further comment.
The announcement had a strange effect on my companion - he frowned and ducked, pulling his head down below his shoulders. I was surprised for a moment, until I remembered that No. 18 is Mr Fandorin's cabin, just imagine that, he was the lucky winner again!
"This is becoming intolerable,' our favourite of fortune mumbled, stammering more than usual. 'I think I shall take a walk,' and he started backing away towards the door, but Mrs Kleber called out in her clear voice: 'That's Mr Fandorin from our saloon! There he is, gentlemen! In the white dinner jacket with the red carnation! Mr Fandorin, where are you going, you've won the grand prize!'
Everyone turned to look at the diplomat and began applauding more loudly than ever as four stewards carried the grand prize into the hall: an exceptionally ugly grandfather clock modelled after Big Ben. It was an absolutely appalling construction of carved oak - one and a half times the height of a man, and it must have weighed at least four stone. I thought I caught a glimpse of something like horror in Mr Fandorin's eyes. I must say I cannot blame him.
After that it was impossible to carry on talking, so I came back here to write this letter.
I have the feeling something terrible is about to happen, the noose is tightening around me. But you pursue me in vain, gentlemen, I am ready for you!
However, the hour is already late and it is time to take a reading of our position.
Goodbye, my dear, sweet, infinitely adored Emily.
Your loving
Reginald Milford-Stokes.
Renate Kleber
Renate lay in wait for Watchdog (that was what she had christened Gauche once she discovered what the old fogy was really like) outside his cabin. It was clear from the commissioner's crumpled features and tousled grey hair that he had only just risen from his slumbers - he must have collapsed into bed immediately after lunch and carried on snoozing until the evening.
Renate deftly grabbed hold of the detective's sleeve, lifted herself up on tiptoe and blurted out:
'Wait till you hear what I have to tell you!'
Watchdog gave her a searching look, crossed his arms and said in an unpleasant voice:
'I shall be very interested to hear it. I've been meaning to have a word with you for some time, madam.'
Renate found his tone of voice slightly alarming, but she decided it didn't really mean anything - Watchdog must be suffering from indigestion, or perhaps he'd been having a bad dream.
'I've done your job for you,' Renate boasted, glancing around to make sure no one was listening. 'Let's go into your cabin, we won't be interrupted in there.'
Watchdog's abode was maintained in perfect order. The familiar black file reposed impressively in the centre of the desk with a neat pile of paper and several precisely pointed pencils lying beside it. Renate surveyed the room curiously, turning her head this way and that, noting the shoe brush and tin of wax polish and the shirt collars hung up to dry on a piece of string. The moustache man was obviously rather stingy, he polished his own shoes and did a bit of laundry to avoid having to give the servants any tips.
'Right then, out with it, what have you got for me?' Watchdog growled irritably, clearly displeased by Renate's inquisitive-ness.
'I know who the criminal is,' she announced proudly. This news failed to produce the anticipated effect on the detective. He sighed and asked: 'Who is it?'
'Need you ask? It's so obvious a blind man could see it,' Renate said with an agitated flutter of her hands as she seated herself in an armchair. 'All the newspapers said that the murder was committed by a loony. No normal person could possibly do anything so insane, could they? And now just think about the people we have sitting round our table. It's a choice bunch of course, perfectly matching blooms, bores and freaks every last one of them, but there's only one loony.'
'Are you hinting at the baronet?' asked Watchdog.
'Now you've got it at last!' said Renate with a pitying nod. 'Why, it's as clear as day. Have you seen his eyes when he looks at me? He's a wild beast, a monster! I'm afraid to walk down the corridors. Yesterday I ran into him on the stairs when there wasn't a soul around. It gave me such a twinge here inside!' She put one hand over her belly. 'I've been watching him for a long time. At night he keeps the light on in his cabin and the curtains are tightly closed. But yesterday they were open just a tiny little crack, so I peeped in. He was standing there in the middle of the cabin waving his arms about and making ghastly faces and wagging his finger at somebody. It was so frightening! Later on, in the middle of the night, my migraine started up again, so I went out for a breath of fresh air, and there I saw the loony standing on the forecastle looking up at the moon through some kind of metal contraption. That was when it dawned on me. He's one of those maniacs whose bloodlust rises at full moon. I've read about them! Why are you looking at me as if I were some kind of idiot? Have you taken a look at the calendar recently?' Renate produced a pocket calendar from her purse with a triumphant air. 'Look at this, I've checked it.
On the fifteenth of March, when ten people were killed on the rue de Grenelle, it was a full moon. See, it's written here in black and white: pleine lune.'
Watchdog looked all right, but he didn't seem very interested.
'Why are you goggling at it like a dozy owl?' Renate asked angrily. 'Don't you understand that today is a full moon too? While you're sitting around doing nothing, he'll go crazy again and brain somebody else. And I know who it will be - me. He hates me.' Her voice trembled hysterically. 'Eve
ryone on this loathsome steamer wants to kill me! That African attacked me, and that Oriental of ours keeps glaring and grinding his teeth at me and now it's this crazy baronet!'
Watchdog carried on gazing at her with his dull, unblinking eyes, and Renate waved her hand in front of his nose.
'Coo-ee! M. Gauche! Not fallen asleep have you, by any chance?'
The old grandpa grabbed her wrist in a firm grip. He moved her hand aside and said sternly:
'I'll tell you what, my dear. You stop playing the fool. I'll deal with our red-headed baronet, but I want you to tell me about your syringe. And no fairy tales, I want the truth!' He growled so fiercely that she shrank back in alarm.
At supper she sat there staring down into her plate. She always ate with such an excellent appetite, but today she had hardly even touched her sauteed eels. Her eyes were red and swollen and every now and then her lips gave a slight tremor.
But Watchdog was in a genial, even magnanimous mood. He looked at Renate frequently with some severity, but his glance was fatherly rather than hostile. Commissioner Gauche was not as formidable as he would like to appear.
'A very impressive piece,' he said with an envious glance at the Big Ben clock standing in the corner of the saloon. 'Some people have all the luck.'
The monumental prize was too big to fit in Fandorin's cabin and so it had been installed temporarily in Windsor. The oak tower continually ticked, jangled and wheezed deafeningly, and on the hour it boomed out a chime that caught everyone by surprise and made them gasp. At breakfast, when Big Ben informed everyone (with a ten minute delay) that it was nine o'clock, the doctor's wife had almost swallowed a teaspoon. And in addition to all of this, the base of the tower was obviously a bit too narrow and every strong wave set it swaying menacingly. Now, for instance, when the wind had freshened and the white curtains at the windows had begun fluttering in surrender, Big Ben's squeaking had become positively alarming.
