by Boris Akunin
‘And where is Mr Masa?’
Erast Petrovich waved his hand vaguely.
‘Not far from here, in a basement, a secret Chinese opium den. It moved from Sukharevka to Khitrovka after a police raid the year before last. Those people know all sorts of things.’
‘You mean that Mr Masa can speak Chinese?’
‘A little. There are many Chinese in his home town of Yokahama.’
Just then we heard an intricate bandit-style whistle from around the corner and I cringed.
‘There he is now,’ Fandorin said with a satisfied nod. He folded his fingers together in some special manner and whistled in exactly the same way, only even more piercingly – it actually left me deaf in one ear.
We walked on along the narrow side street and very soon met the Japanese. He was not at all surprised to see me and merely bowed ceremonially. I nodded, feeling extremely stupid without my livery and with blood spattered on my shirt.
They babbled away to each other in some incomprehensible language – I don’t know whether it was Japanese or Chinese – and all I could make out was the constant repetition of the word stump, which failed to make anything clearer to me.
‘I was right,’ Fandorin eventually condescended to explain. ‘It really is Stump – he has lost one hand and is in the habit of holding the stump in his pocket. He is a very serious bandit, the head of one of the new and most dangerous gangs in Khitrovka. The Chinese say their hideout is on Podkopaevka Street, in an old wine warehouse. It won’t be easy to get in there – they post sentries as if it was an army barracks, and they have even introduced a “scrip”, that is a password . . . That’s all very well, but what am I going to do with you, Ziukin? You’ve made yourself a real problem now. I can’t let you go wandering round Khitrovka on your own. You never know, you could get your throat cut.’
I was greatly piqued by these words and was on the point of saying that I would manage very well without anyone else looking after me – although, I must admit, I did not find the thought of a solitary stroll through the Khitrovka evening very attractive – when he asked: ‘Tell me, Ziukin, are you a physically robust man?’
I straightened my shoulders and replied with dignity: ‘I have served at court as a footman and postilion and on excursions. I do French gymnastics every morning.’
‘All right then, we’ll s-see,’ said Fandorin, with an insulting note of doubt in his voice. ‘You’ll come with us. Only on one condition: don’t take any action on your own; you must obey Masa and myself unquestioningly. Do you give me your word?’
What else could I do? Go back with nothing, as they say, for all my pains? And would I be able to get out of this cursed place on my own? And then it would be verymuch to the point to find this Stump. What if Fandorin was right, and the police operation on Arbat Street failed to produce any results?
I nodded.
‘Only your appearance isn’t really suitable for Khitrovka, Ziukin. You could compromise Masa and myself. Who can we turn you into? Well, at least a servant from a good house who has taken to drink.’
And, so saying, Fandorin leaned down, scooped up a handful of dust and poured it on the crown of my head, then wiped his dirty hand on my shirt, which was already stained with red blotches.
‘Ye-es,’ he drawled in satisfaction. ‘That’s a bit better.’
He squatted down and tore the gold buckles off my shoes, then suddenly took hold of my culottes and jerked hard, so that the seam at the back split and parted.
‘What are you doing?’ I cried in panic, jumping back.
‘Well, how’s that, Masa?’ the crazed state counsellor asked the Japanese, who inclined his head, looked me over and remarked: ‘Stockings white.’
‘Quite right. You will have to t-take them off. And you are far too clean-shaven, that is not comme il faut around here. Come on . . .’
He stepped towards me and, before I could even protest, he had smeared dust from the crown of my head right across my face.
I gave up. I took off my white silk stockings and put them in my pocket.
‘All right, that will do in the dark,’ Fandorin said condescendingly, but his valet actually favoured me with praise: ‘Ver’ good. Ver’ beeutfuw.’
‘Now where? To this Stump?’ I asked, burning with desire to get down to business.
‘Not so f-fast, Ziukin. We have to wait for night. Meanwhile, let me tell you what is known about Stump. He has the reputation of a mysterious individual with a big future among the criminals of Moscow. Rather like Bonaparte during the Directoire period. Even the King himself is rather afraid of him, although no state of war has been declared between the two of them. The one-armed bandit’s gang is small but select – everyone pulls their weight. Nothing but toffs, all well tried and tested. My man in the criminal investigation department, a highly authoritative professional, believes that the future of the Russian criminal world belongs to leaders like Stump. There are no drinking binges or fights in his gang. They won’t touch any small-time business. They plan their raids and robberies thoroughly and execute them cleanly. The police do not have a single informer among Stump’s men. And this gang’s hideaway, as I have already had the honour of informing you, is guarded with great care, military fashion.’
This all sounded most discouraging.
‘But how are we going to reach him, if he is so cautious?’
‘Over the rooftops,’ said Fandorin, gesturing for me to follow him.
We made our way through dark, dismal, foul-smelling courtyards for a while, until eventually Fandorin stopped beside a blank windowless wall that was indistinguishable from the others beside it. He took hold of a drainpipe, shook it hard and listened to the rattling of the tin plate.
‘It will hold,’ he muttered as if he were talking to himself, and then suddenly, without the slightest apparent effort, he started climbing up the flimsy structure.
Masa thrust his bowler further down onto his head and climbed after him, looking like a fairground bear who has been taught to scramble up a pole to get a sugarloaf.
As the common people say, in for a kopeck, in for a rouble. I spat on my hands the way our kitchen servant Siavkin doeswhen he is chopping firewood, crossed myself and took hold of an iron bracket. Right, one foot on the step in the wall, now the other – hup! Reach up to that hoop, now get my other arm over that ledge . . .
In order not to feel afraid, I started adding up my financial losses over the last fewdays. The day before before I had lost fifty roubles on the bet with Masa, today I had spent two and a half roubles on a cab in the morning and five in the evening, making seven and a half in all, and then the Khitrovka ‘dogs’ had gone off with my porte-monnaie and forty-five roubles. Then add to that my ruined clothes – they might only be my official uniform, but even so it was upsetting.
At this point I accidentally looked down and immediately forgot all about my losses because the ground was a lot further away than I had thought. The wall had not seemed all that high from below, only three storeys, but looking down made my heart skip a beat.
Fandorin and Masa had clambered onto the roof a long time ago, but I was still creeping up the drainpipe, trying not to look down any more.
When I reached the overhang of the roof, I suddenly realised that there was absolutely no way I could climb over it – all my strength had gone into the climb. I hung there, with my arms round the drainpipe, for about five minutes, until a round head in a bowler hat appeared against the background of the purple sky. Masa took hold of my collar and dragged me up onto the roof in a jiffy.
‘Thank you,’ I said, gulping in the air.
‘No need gwatitude,’ he said, and bowed although he was on all fours.
We crawled over to the other side of the roof, where Fandorin was spreadeagled on his belly. I settled down beside him, impatient to find out what he was watching for.
The first thing I saw was the crimson stripe of the fading sunset, pierced by the numerous black needles of bell towers.
Fandorin, however, was not admiring the sky, but examining a lopsided old building with boarded-up windows located on the opposite side of the street. I could see that once, a long, long time ago, it had been a fine strong building, but it had been neglected, fallen into disrepair and begun to sag – it would be easier to demolish than renovate.
‘Back at the beginning of the century this used to be a warehouse that belonged to the Mobius brothers, the wine merchants,’ Erast Petrovich began explaining in a whisper, and I noticed that when he whispered the stammer disappeared completely from his speech. ‘The basement consists of wine cellars that go very deep. They say that they used to hold up to a thousand barrels of wine. In 1812 the French poured away what they didn’t drink and supposedly a stream of wine ran down the Yauza. The building is burnt out from the inside and the roof has collapsed, but the cellars have survived. That is where Stump has his residence. Do you see that fine young fellow?’
On looking more closely, I observed a ramp sloping down from the road to a pair of gates set well below the level of the street. There was a young fellow wearing a peaked cap just like Fandorin’s, standing with his back to the gates and eating sunflower seeds, spitting out the husks.
‘A sentry?’ I guessed.
‘Yes. We’ll wait for a while.’
I do not know how long the wait lasted, because my chronometer was still in my livery (something else to add to the list of losses: a silver Breguet awarded for honourable service – I regretted that most of all) but it was not just one hour or two, but more – I was already dozing off.
Suddenly I sensed that Fandorin’s entire body had gone tense, and my sleepiness disappeared as if by magic.
I could hear muffled voices from below.
‘Awl,’ said one.
‘Husk,’ replied the other. ‘Come on through. Got a message?’
I did not hear the answer to this incomprehensible question. A door in the gates opened and then closed, and everythingwent quiet again. The sentry lit up a hand-rolled cigarette and the lacquer peak of his cap glinted dully in the moonlight.
‘Right, I’m off,’ Fandorin whispered. ‘Wait here. If I wave, come down.’
Ten minutes later a slim figure approached the building, walking in a loose, slovenly manner. With a glance back over its shoulder, it loped springily down to the sentry.
‘Wotcher, Moscow. Guarding the wall?’
It was Fandorin of course, but for some reason his speech had acquired a distinct Polish accent.
‘Shove off back to where you came from,’ the sentry replied hostilely. ‘Or shall I tickle your belly with a pen?’
‘Why use a pen?’ Fandorin laughed. ‘That’s what an awl’s for. An awl, get it?’
‘Why didn’t you say so before?’ the sentry growled, taking his hand out of his pocket. ‘Husk. So who would you be then, a Polack? One of thatWarsaw mob, are you?’
‘That’s right. I need to see Stump.’
‘He’s not here. And he said as he wouldn’t be back today. Expect him tomorrow, he said, by nightfall.’ The bandit lowered his voice, but in the silence I could still hear what he said, and asked curiously, ‘They say as the narks done for your top man?’
‘That’s right,’ Fandorin sighed. ‘Blizna, and three other guys. So where’s Stump, then? I’ve got some business to talk over with him.’
‘He don’t report to me. You know the way the music plays nowadays, Polack. He’s on the prowl somewhere – ain’t shown his face since early morning. But he’ll be here tomorrow, for sure. And he’s put out the word for all the lads to come to a meet . . . Many of yourWarsaw mob left?’
‘Just three,’ Fandorin said with a wave of his hand. ‘Vatsek One-Eye’s in charge now. How many of yours?’
‘Counting Stump, seven. What’s this bazaar tomorrow, d’you know?’
‘Na-ah, they don’t tell us anything, treat us like mongrels . . . What’s your handle, Moscow?’
‘Code. And who are you?’
‘Striy. Shake?’
They shook hands and Fandorin glanced around and said: ‘Vatsek was spieling about some doktur or other. Did you hear anything?’
‘No, there wasn’t no yak about no doktur. Stump was talking about some big man. I asked him what sort of man it was. But you can’t get nothing out of him. No, he didn’t spiel about no doktur. What doktur’s that?’
‘Devil knows. Vatsek’s got a tight mouth too. So Stump’s not here?’
‘I told you, tomorrow, by nightfall. Come on in and have a banter with us. Only you know, Striy, our den’s not like the others – you won’t get no wine.’
‘How about a bit of hearts are trumps?’
‘Not done around here. For cards Stump’ll smash your neb in with his apple without thinking twice. Heard about the apple, have you?’
‘Who hasn’t heard about it. No, I won’t come in. It’s more fun round at our place. I’ll call round tomorrow. By nightfall, you say?’
And just then there was the sound of a clock striking the hour from the German church, a vague dark outline in the distance. I counted twelve strokes.
1 Symbolic, isn’t it?
2 Casket.
3 Are you mad, Georgie, or what?
4 Thank you, sir, thank you. I needed to hear that.
10 May
‘Roll up when them bells is clattering,’ said Code, jerking his head in the direction of the church. ‘Stump ordered the meet for midnight sharp. Righty-ho, Polack, be seeing you.’
Fandorin waddled away, and the Japanese jabbed me in the back and gestured to indicate that it was time to get down off the roof.
I will not tell you how I climbed down the drainpipe in the total darkness. It is best not to remember such things. I skinned my hands, ripped my long-suffering culottes wide open and finally jumped down straight into a puddle, but the important thing is that I did not break my arms or legs, for which, O Lord, I thank Thee.
We were unable to hire a cab for a long time, even after we left Khitrovka. Once they got a good look at the three of us, the night-time cabbies simply lashed on their horses without saying a word and disappeared into the night. Moreover, I got the impression that the drivers’ doubts were aroused, not so much by Fandorin and Masa, as by my own tattered and spattered personage.
Finally we got a cab – when we had already reached the KitaigorodWall. All the way back I was worried that Erast Petrovich would refuse to pay again, and I didn’t have a kopeck on me. But no, this time he did pay, and in fact more generously than he need have done, as if he were paying for both journeys at once.
In my condition it seemed inappropriate to go in through the gates and I suggested, with some embarrassment, that we should climb over the fence again, although, God knows, in the day just past I had done more than enough climbing over fences and roofs. However, Fandorin glanced at the brightly lit windows of the Hermitage glimmering through the trees and shook his head.
‘No, Ziukin, we’d better go in through the gates. Otherwise we’ll probably get shot as well.’
It was only then I realised that light in the windows at such a late hour was a strange and alarming sign. There were two men in civilian clothes standing beside the usual gatekeeper. And, on looking more closely, I noticed that there were indistinct figures in the gardenonthe other side of the railings. Gentlemen from the court police, there was nobody else they could possibly be. And that could only mean one thing: for some reason the sovereign had come to visit the Hermitage in the middle of the night.
After long explanations at the entrance which concluded with Somov being sent for and the humiliating confirmation of my identity (the expression on my Moscow assistant’s face was a sight to behold when I appeared before him in such a state) we were admitted, and as we walked along the drive to the house I saw several carriages. Something out of the ordinary was clearly going on.
In the hallway there was another ordeal in store for me: I came face to face with the governess.
‘Mon Di
eu!’ she exclaimed, fluttering her eyelashes, and in her agitation forgetting our agreement to speak to each other only in Russian. ‘Monsieur Ziukin, qu’est-ce qui s’est passé? Et qui sont ces hommes? C’est le domestique japonais?’1
‘It is I, Mademoiselle,’ Fandorin said with a bow. ‘Afanasii Stepanovich and I have been taking a brief tour of the sights of Moscow. But that is of no importance. Please tell me how your meeting went. Did you see the boy?’
That was when I learned the circumstances under which Her Majesty had lost her sapphire collar.
‘It’s very bad that the gendarmes went off in pursuit,’ Erast Petrovich said anxiously. ‘They should not have done that under any circumstances. Describe the c-carriage for me.’
Mademoiselle wrinkled up her forehead and said: ‘Black, dusty, a window with a rideau . . . The wheel had eight rais . . . Spikes?’
‘Spokes,’ I prompted.
‘Yes, yes, eight spokes. On the door – a brass handle.’
‘That’s right!’ I exclaimed. ‘The handle on the door of the carriage that I saw was in the form of a brass ring!’
Fandorin nodded. ‘Well then, they have used the same carriage twice. Lind is too sure of himself and has too low an opinion of the Russian police. And that’s not a bad thing. Describe the man who took the reticule from you.’
‘Tall, brown eyes. His nose a little crooked. His moustache and beard ginger, but I think they were not real, glued on. Outre cela. 2 . . .’ Mademoiselle thought. ‘Ah, oui! A mole on the left cheek, just here.’ And she touched my cheek with her finger, making me start.
‘Thank you, that is something at least,’ Fandorin told her. ‘But what is going on here? I saw the carriages of the tsar and the grand dukes in front of the house.’
‘I don’t know,’ Mademoiselle said plaintively, switching completely into French. ‘They don’t tell me anything. And they all look at me as I were to blame for everything.’ She took her elbows in her hands, gulped and said in a more restrained voice, ‘I think something terrible has happened. An hour ago a package was delivered to the house, a small one, and everyone started running around, and the phones started ringing. Half an hour ago His Majesty arrived, and Grand Dukes Kirill and Simeon have just arrived too . . .’
