Special Assignments

by Boris Akunin

  "... recalling our old pranks from those memorable days. That time, seven years ago, it fell on Holy Week Wednesday too, like today'

  For some reason the professor paused for a moment and shook his head bitterly. 'As they say: Out with your eye for remembering the past, but if you forget, out with both. And they also say: It will all work out in the end. And it has worked out. We've got old, turned fat and flabby. Thanks to Kuzma for still being such a wild man and occasionally shaking up us boring old disciples of Aesculapius.'

  At that point everyone began laughing and cackling, turning towards a man who was sitting in an armchair in a stately pose with one leg crossed over the other and drinking wine from an immense goblet. Evidently he was Kuzma Burylin. An intelligent, jaundiced-looking face of the Tatar type - with broad cheekbones and a stubborn chin. His black hair was stuck up in a short French crop.

  'It may have worked out for some, but not for everyone,' said a man with long hair and a haggard face, who did not look like the others. He was also wearing tails, but they were obviously not his own, and instead of a starched white shirt, he was definitely wearing a false shirt-front. 'You got away scot-free, Zenzinov. Of course, you were the faculty favourite. Others weren't so lucky. Tomberg became an alcoholic. They say Stenich went crazy. Sotsky died a convict. Just recently I keep thinking I see him everywhere. Take yesterday, for instance ...'

  'Tomberg took to drink. Stenich went crazy, Sotsky died and Zakharov became a police corpse-carver instead of a doctor,' their host interrupted the speaker unceremoniously. However, he was looking not at Zakharov but at Erast Petrovich, and with distinct hostility.

  'Who's this you've brought with you, Egorka, you English swine? Somehow I don't remember this bright spark as one of our medical brotherhood.'

  Then the forensic expert, the Judas, demonstratively moved away from the Collegiate Counsellor and declared, as if everything were perfectly normal: 'Ah, this, gentlemen, is Erast Petrovich Fandorin, a very well-known individual in certain circles. He works for the Governor-General on especially important criminal cases. He insisted that I bring him here. I could not refuse - he is my superior. In any case, please make him welcome’

  The members of the brotherhood began hooting indignantly. Someone leapt out of his chair. Someone else applauded sarcastically.

  'What the hell is this!'

  'These gentlemen have gone too far this time!'

  'He doesn't look much like a detective.'

  These comments, and similar ones that assailed him from all sides, made Erast Petrovich blench and screw up his eyes. This business was taking an unpleasant turn. Fandorin stared hard at the perfidious forensic expert, but before he could say anything, the master of the house had dashed across to his uninvited guest in a couple of strides and taken him by the shoulders. Kuzma Sawich's grasp proved to be very powerful; there was no way to wriggle out of it.

  'In my house there's only one superior: Kuzma Burylin,' the millionaire roared. 'Nobody comes here without an invitation, especially detectives. And anyone who does come will regret it later.'

  'Kuzma, do you remember that bit in Count Tolstoy' the long-haired man shouted, 'how they tied a constable to a bear and threw them in the river! Let's give this fop a ride too. And it will be good for your Potapich; he's been getting a bit dozy'

  Burylin threw his head back and laughed loudly. 'Oh, Filka, you delightful soul, that's what I value about you: your imagination. Hey! Bring Potapich here!'

  Several of the guests who were not yet completely drunk tried to reason with their hosts, but two burly lackeys had already brought in a shaggy bear in a muzzle from the dining room, leading it on a chain. The bear was growling in annoyance and did not want to come; he kept trying to sit down on the floor, and the lackeys dragged him along, with his claws scraping along the highly polished parquet. A palm in a tub was overturned and went crashing to the floor, scattering lumps of earth.

  'This is going too far! Kuzma!' Zenzinov appealed. 'After all, we're not boys any longer. You'll have to face the repercussions! In any case, I'm leaving if you don't stop this!'

  'He's right,' some other reasonable individual chimed in, in support of the professor. 'There'll be a scandal, and nobody needs that.'

  'Well, you can go to the devil then!' Burylin barked. 'But remember, you clyster tubes, I've engaged Madam Julie's establishment for the whole night. We'll go without you.'

  After he said that, the voices of protest immediately fell silent.

  Erast Petrovich stood there calmly. He did not say a word and did not make the slightest attempt to free himself. His blue eyes gazed without any expression at the wild merchant.

  The master of the house gave brisk instructions to his lackeys. 'Turn Potapich's back this way, so he won't maul the detective. Have you brought the rope? And you turn your back this way, you state minion. Afonya, can Potapich swim?'

  'Why of course, Kuzma Sawich. In summer he's very fond of splashing about at the dacha,' a lackey with a forelock replied merrily.

  'Well then, he can splash about a bit now. The water must be cold, it's only April. Well, why are you being so stubborn!' Burylin shouted at the Collegiate Counsellor. 'Turn round!'

  He clutched Erast Petrovich's shoulders with all his strength, trying to turn his back to the bear, but Fandorin did not budge an inch, as if he were carved out of stone. Burylin pushed and strained against him. His face turned crimson and the veins stood out on his forehead. Fandorin carried on calmly looking at his host, with just the faintest hint of a mocking smile in the corners of his mouth.

  Kuzma Sawich grunted for a little longer but, realising that it looked extremely stupid, he removed his hands and gazed in astonishment at this strange official. The hall went very quiet.

  'You're the one I want to see, my dear fellow,' said Erast Petrovich, opening his mouth for the first time. 'Shall we have a talk?'

  He took the manufacturer's wrist between his finger and thumb and strode off rapidly towards the closed doors of the banqueting hall. Fandorin's fingers clearly possessed some special power, because his corpulent host grimaced in pain and minced after the man with black hair and white temples. The lackeys froze on the spot in bewilderment, and the bear slowly sat down on the floor and shook its shaggy head idiotically.

  Fandorin looked back from the doorway. 'Carry on enjoying yourselves, gentlemen. Meanwhile Kuzma Sawich will explain a few things to me.'

  The last thing Erast Petrovich noticed before he turned his back to the guests was the intense gaze of forensic medical expert Zakharov.

  The table that was laid in the dining hall was a marvel to behold. The Collegiate Counsellor glanced in passing at the piglet dozing blissfully, surrounded by golden rings of pineapple, and the frightening carcass of the sturgeon in jelly, at the fancy towers of the salads, the red claws of the lobsters, and remembered that his unsuccessful meditation had left him without any dinner. Never mind, he comforted himself. Confucius said: 'The noble man satisfies himself by abstaining.'

  In the far corner he could see the scarlet shirts and shawls of the gypsy choir. They saw the master of the house, and the elegant gentleman with a moustache leading him by the hand, and broke off their singing in mid-word. Burylin waved his hand at them in annoyance, as if to say: Stop staring, this is none of your business.

  The female soloist, covered in necklaces of coins and ribbons, misunderstood his gesture and began singing in a chesty voice:

  He was not her promised one, He was not her husband ...

  The choir took up the tune in low voices, at only a quarter of full volume.

  He brought his little darling Into the timbered chamber...

  Erast Petrovich released the millionaire's hand and turned to face him. 'I received your package. Should I interpret it as a confession?'

  Burylin rubbed his white wrist. He looked at Fandorin curiously. "Well, you really are strong, Mr Collegiate Counsellor. You wouldn't think so to look at you ... What package? And a confession
to what?'

  'You see, you know my rank, although Zakharov didn't mention it today. You severed that ear; nobody else could have done it. You've studied medicine, and you visited Zakharov yesterday with your fellow students. He was certain that whoever else was here today, you would be. Is this your writing?' He showed the manufacturer the wrapping paper from the 'smopackadj'.

  Kuzma Sawich glanced at it and laughed. 'Who else's? How did you like my little present? I told them to be sure to deliver it in time for dinner. Didn't choke on your bouillon, did you? No doubt you called a meeting and constructed hypotheses? Yes, I admit it, I like a joke. When the alcohol loosened Egorka Zakharov's tongue yesterday, I played a little prank. Have you heard about Jack the Ripper in London? He played a similar kind of trick on the police there. Egorka had a dead girl lying on the table - ginger-haired she was. I took a scalpel when he wasn't looking. I lopped off her ear, wrapped it in my handkerchief and slipped it in my pocket. His description of you was far too flowery, Mr Fandorin, you were this and you were that, and you could unravel any tangled thread. Well, Zakharov wasn't lying: you are a curious individual. I like curious individuals, I'm one myself.' The millionaire's narrow eyes glinted cunningly. 'I tell you what. You forget this little joke of mine - it didn't work anyway - and come along with us. We'll have a right royal time. Let me tell you in secret that I've thought up a most amusing wheeze for my old friends, the little doctors. Everything's all ready at Madam Julie's. Moscow will break its sides laughing when it finds out about it tomorrow. Come along with us, really. You won't be sorry'

  At this point the choir suddenly broke off its slow, quiet song and roared out as loud as it could:

  Kuzya-Kuzya-Kuzya-Kuzya,

  Kuzya-Kuzya-Kuzya-Kuzya,

  Kuzya-Kuzya-Kuzya-Kuzya,

  Kuzya-Kuzya-Kuzya-Kuzya,

  Kuzya, drain your glass!

  Burylin merely glanced over his shoulder, and the roaring stopped.

  'Do you often go abroad?' Fandorin asked, apropos of nothing.

  'This is the palace I often come to,' said his host, apparently not surprised by the change of subject. 'But I live abroad. I've no need to sit polishing the seat of my pants in the office here - I've got capable managers; they do things without me. In a big business like mine, there's only one thing you need: to understand people. Choose the right people and you can lie back and take it easy, the work does itself.'

  'Have you been in England recently?'

  'I often go to Leeds, and to Sheffield. I have factories there. I drop into the exchange in London. The last time was in December. Why do you ask about England?'

  Erast Petrovich lowered his eyelids a little in order to soften the glint in his eyes. He picked a speck of dust off his sleeve and said emphatically: 'I am placing you under arrest for mutilating the body of the spinster Sechkina. Only administrative arrest for the time being, but in the morning there will be a warrant from the Public Prosecutor. Your appointed representative must deposit your bail no later than midday tomorrow. You are coming with me, and your guests can all go home. The visit to the bordello is cancelled. It's not good to bring such respectable d-doctors into disgrace like that. And you, Burylin, will enjoy a right royal time in the cells.'

  *

  As a reward for saving the girl, I was sent a dream last night.

  I dreamed I was standing before the Throne of the Lord.

  'Sit on my left hand,' the Father of Heaven said to me. 'Rest, for you bring people joy and release, and that is heavy work. They are foolish, my children. Their views are inverted: they see black as white and white as black, woe as happiness, and happiness as woe. When in my mercy I summon one of them to Me in their childhood, the others cry and pity the one I have summoned instead of feeling joy for him. When I let one of them live to a hundred years, until his body is weak and his spirit is extinguished as a punishment and a warning to the others, they are not horrified by his terrible fate, but envy it. After a bloody battle, those I have turned away rejoice, even if they have received injuries, while they pity those who have fallen, summoned by Me to appear before My face, and secretly even despise them for their failure. But they are the truly fortunate, for they are already with Me, the unfortunates are those who remain. What am I to do with people, tell Me, you kind soul? How am I to bring them to their senses?' And I felt sorry for the Lord, vainly craving the love of his foolish children.

  CHAPTER 6

  The Triumph of Pluto

  Holy Week Thursday, 6 April

  Today it fell to Anisii's lot to work with Izhitsin.

  Late the previous evening, after an 'analysis' in the course of which it was determined that they now had more suspects than they required, the Chief had walked around the study for a while, clicked his beads and said: 'All right, Tulipov. We'll have to sleep on it. You go and rest; you've done more than enough running about for one day'

  Anisiii had expected the decision to be: put Stenich, Nesvitskaya and Burylin under secret observation, check all their movements for the last year and perhaps also set up some kind of investigative experiment. But no, the unpredictable Chief had come to a different conclusion. In the morning, when Anisii, shivering in the dreary drizzle, arrived at Malaya Nikitskaya Street, Masa handed him a note:

  I am disappearing for a while. I shall try to come at this business from the other side. In the meantime, you work with Izhitsin. I am afraid he might botch things up with his excessive zeal. On the other hand, he may not be a very pleasant character, but he is tenacious, and he could just dig something up.

  EF

  Well, did you ever? And just what 'other side' could that be?

  The pompous investigator was not easy to find. Anisii phoned the Public Prosecutor's office and they told him: 'He was called out by the Department of Gendarmes.' He called the Department of Gendarmes and they replied: 'He went out on urgent business that can't be discussed over the telephone.' The duty officer's voice sounded so excited that Tulipov guessed it had to be another murder. And a quarter of an hour later a messenger arrived from Izhitsin - it was the constable, Linkov. He had called at the Collegiate Counsellor's and not found him in, so he'd come round to Tulipov on Granatny Lane.

  Linkov was terribly agitated. 'It's an absolute nightmare, Your Honour,' he told Anisii. 'The brutal murder of a juvenile. It's terrible, terrible ...' He sniffed and blushed, evidently embarrassed by his own sensitivity.

  Anisii looked at the ungainly, scrawny-necked policeman and saw straight through him: literate, sentimental, and no doubt he liked reading books; joined the police out of poverty, only this rough work wasn't for him, the poor lamb. Tulipov would have been the same if not for his fortunate encounter with Erast Petrovich.

  'Come on, Linkov,' said Anisii, deliberately addressing the constable in a formal, polite tone. 'Let's go straight to the morgue; that's where they'll take her anyway'

  Deduction is a great thing. His calculation proved to be correct. Anisii had been sitting talking to Pakhomenko in his watchman's hut for no more than half an hour, enjoying a chat about life with the agreeable fellow, when three droshkies drove up to the gates, followed by a blind carriage with no windows, the so-called 'corpse-wagon'.

  Izhitsin and Zakharov got out of the first droshky a photographer and his assistant got out of the second, two gendarmes and a senior constable got out of the third. No one got out of the carriage. The gendarmes opened its shabby doors with the peeling paint and carried out something short on a stretcher, covered with a tarpaulin.

  The medical expert was dour, chewing on his eternal pipe with exceptional bitterness, but the investigator seemed to be in lively spirits, almost even glad about something.

  When he caught sight of Anisii, his face dropped: 'A-ah, there you are. So you already got wind of this? Is your chief here too?'

  But when it turned out that Fandorin was not there and would not be coming, and so far his assistant did not really know anything, Izhitsin's spirits rose again. 'Well, now things will really sta
rt moving,' he told Tulipov, rubbing his hands energetically. 'So, it's like this. At dawn today the railway line patrolmen on the Moscow-Brest transfer line discovered the body of a juvenile female vagrant in the bushes close to the Novotikhvinsk level crossing. Zakharov has determined that death occurred no later than midnight. It's not very pretty, I warn you, Tulipov, it was an incredible sight!' Izhitsin gave a brief laugh. 'Just imagine it: the belly, naturally, had been completely gutted and the entrails hung all around on the branches, and as for the face ...'

  'What, another bloody kiss?' Anisii exclaimed excitedly.

  The investigator burst out laughing and couldn't stop, he was helpless with laughter - obviously it was nerves.

  'Oh, you'll be the death of me,' he said eventually, wiping away his tears. 'Fandorin and you and that kiss of yours. Please forgive my inappropriate merriment. When I show you, you'll understand. Hey, Silakov! Stop! Show him her face!'

  The gendarmes put the stretcher down on the ground and turned back the edge of the tarpaulin. Anisii was expecting to see something particularly unpleasant: glassy eyes, a nightmarish grimace, the tongue lolling out of the mouth, but there was none of that. Under the tarpaulin there was some kind of black-and-red baked pudding with two round blobs: white, with a small dark circle in the centre.

  What is it?' Tulipov asked in surprise, feeling his teeth starting to chatter of their own accord.

  'Seems like our joker left her without any face at all,' Izhitsin explained with morose humour. 'Zakharov says the skin was slit along the hair line and then torn off, like the peel off an orange. There's a kiss for you. And, best of all, now she can't be identified.'

  Everything was still swimming and swaying in front of Anisii's eyes. The investigator's voice seemed to be coming from somewhere far in the distance.