by Boris Akunin
‘The double suicide of Moretta and Lycanthrope went very smoothly, and once again there was no apparent criminal involvement. Acting under your hypnotic suggestion or, perhaps, on your direct instructions, Ophelia declared at the seance that a messenger in a white cloak would appear to the Chosen One that night, bringing the word. Your calculations were precisely right: the members of the club were impressionable people, mostly of a hysterical disposition. It is strange, therefore, that only two of them dreamed of a messenger in a white cloak who appeared to them that night. And then, according to the farewell verse, the stranger who appeared to the youth was severe, with black eyes, and he arrived in the usual manner, through the door, while the girl dreamed of someone with bright eyes, who preferred the window, but then who would cavil over the petty details of a mystical vision?’
‘Nonsense,’ Prospero snorted. ‘Irresponsible conjecture. Keep writing, Horatio, keep writing. If I am destined to die at the hands of this madman, let the crime not go unpunished.’
I looked at Genji in confusion, and he smiled reassuringly.
‘Don’t be concerned. We are coming to the evidence now. The first evidence was provided to me by Avaddon, who died the day before I began my investigation. The clues were still perfectly fresh and the murderer had not had time to cover his tracks.’
‘Murderer?’ I exclaimed. ‘So the student was murdered?’
‘As surely as if he had been hanged on a gallows. It began, like the previous cases, with a sentence pronounced by Ophelia under hypnosis. And the business was brought to its conclusion by Signs: the howling of a Beast or, rather, a terrifying, inhuman voice repeating something that sounded like “go, go”. The voice was heard by the neighbours next door, so it could not possibly have been a hallucination. I examined the flat very carefully and discovered something rather curious. The hinges and keyhole of the door leading to the back staircase had been oiled very thoroughly, and very recently too. I inspected the lock with a magnifying glass and discovered fresh scratches showing that it had been opened with a key several times, and always from the outside, but no key had ever been inserted in the keyhole from the inside. I could not possibly imagine that the occupant of the flat had lived with the door on to the back staircase unlocked all the time. Therefore, someone must have unlocked it, entered the flat, done something there and quickly withdrawn.
‘The next time I visited the flat I went under cover of night and conducted a more exhaustive search, hoping to discover traces of some technical device capable of producing sound. Under the upper cornice of the kitchen window I found two lead pipes like those that are used in pneumatic alarms. They were both artfully concealed under the plaster and had openings that were stopped with corks. I removed the corks, but nothing happened. I had almost decided that they be must some innovative kind of ventilation system, when a gust of wind shook the window pane, and I distinctly heard a low, hollow wail: “G-o-o-o, g-o-o-o”. In the dark gloom of the flat it was genuinely terrifying. There was no doubt at all that the sound was produced by the concealed pipes. I replaced the corks, and the wailing immediately stopped. The ancient Egyptians used to employ something rather similar in the pyramids to prevent robbers from desecrating the sarcophagi. Combinations of pipes of different forms, installed where there was a draught, could produce entire words and even phrases. You used to be an engineer, Mr Blagovolsky, and rather a talented one, I believe. It would have been easy for you to design an essentially very simple structure like this. And that explained the mystery of the back entrance. In order to drive the occupant of the flat into suicide, the intruder entered the kitchen on a wild, windy night, removed the corks from the pipes and then calmly left, quite confident of the result of his actions. I knew that you had rented and furnished the flat for the poor student. That is one. The neighbours testified that the Beast did not fall quiet until morning, although Nikifor Sipyaga hanged himself some time before dawn. That is two. Why, one wonders, would the Beast continue calling on him to leave this world when he was already in the next one? I recalled you having told me that you felt concerned about Avaddon and you set out to visit him at the crack of dawn. That was when you closed the openings in the pipes. And that is three.’
‘Well now, the pipes are genuine evidence,’ Blagovolsky admitted. ‘But the question is, against whom? Yes, I helped the poor student with his lodgings. And I was the first to find the body. Is that suspicious? Possibly. But no more than that. No, no, Mr Prince, you have not proven my guilt. Poor Avaddon was one of the incurable cases. No one could have saved him from suicide. He only needed a pretext to lay hands on himself.’
Even so, I could see that Genji’s arguments had had an effect on the Doge – he started fidgeting again and reached out to touch the bronze inkwell, as if it could help him.
Genji got up out of his chair and started walking round the room.
‘But what about Ophelia? Do you also classify her as an “incurable case”? The young girl had absolutely no desire to die, she was simply fascinated by everything mysterious and inexplicable. She really did possess abilities that modern science is unable to define and analyse. And you exploited her gift to the full. When I led the seance instead of you and summoned the spirit of Avaddon, Ophelia’s incredible sensitivity allowed her to sense or guess what I wanted. In the East they believe that powerful feelings can be preserved for a long time. A strong outpouring of positive or negative energy always leaves its mark. That is the reason why certain places are “cursed” or “blessed”. They possess a specific aura. And people like Ophelia possess the rare ability to sense this aura. As she went into her trance, the girl sensed the fear, horror and hopelessness that Avaddon felt during the final minutes of his life. Perhaps the mention of “howling” and a “beast” was simply prompted by Avaddon’s farewell poem and there was nothing mystical involved, but you were frightened. What if Ophelia, with her exceptional gifts, should happen to sense foul play? For after all, Blagovolsky, despite your cynical manipulation of human superstition, in your heart you yourself are a mystic and you believe in all sorts of dark supernatural nonsense.’
I thought I saw Prospero shudder at that point, but I cannot vouch for it. Genji sat back down in his chair.
‘Bravo,’ he said. ‘You are cautious. I deliberately left the revolver on the desk, then stood up and moved away a little, hoping that you would try to kill me. I have my trusty Herstahl in my pocket, and I would have put a hole in your head with a perfectly clear conscience, and then our pointless conversation would have been at an end.’
‘Why is it pointless?’ I asked. ‘You wish Mr Blagovolsky to be put on trial, do you not?’
‘I am afraid that trying him will do more harm than good,’ Genji sighed. ‘A sensational trial with glib speeches from eloquent advocates, an imposing defendant, a horde of reporters. What wonderful publicity for other would-be fishers of souls! The judgement of the court is hardly likely to frighten them.’
‘From what I have heard so far, only one judgement could be passed – innocent,’ Blagovolsky said with a shrug. ‘And your trap with the revolver is simply farcical. Do I look like a total dunce? You’d better get on with your story. You tell it rather well.’
Genji nodded imperturbably.
‘Indeed, let us go on. After the spiritualist seance that I led, you decided Ophelia was becoming too dangerous. What if she told someone about the hypnotic commands that you sent to her? It is not such a rare thing for a subject to break free of a hypnotist’s control. So far the girl was still only under your influence, but during the seance you saw that she submitted to the will of another controller with equal ease . . . What I could not understand was how it was possible to drive someone who had no intention at all of killing herself to commit suicide? I found the answer to this question in Ophelia’s implicit faith in supernatural phenomena, her irrational, unconditional submission to the Miraculous and, in general, the undoubtedly anomalous workings of her psyche – these were factors that the crimin
al could have exploited. And he only needed a few moments to put his plan into action. The girl returned home, happy and full of the joy of life, and went into her room, only to come back out almost immediately, transformed beyond all recognition. She said goodbye to her mother, walked to the bank of the river and threw herself into the water . . . There was one thing Ophelia had said that I could not get out of my mind – that she had been given a sign like the one sent to King Balthazar. And then I had an idea. I went to her house at night and cut the outer pane out of the window of her bedroom. The poor widow must have been surprised in the morning when she discovered that it had mysteriously disappeared. When I shone ultraviolet light through the glass I discovered a blurred, but perfectly legible inscription made with phosphorescent ink. This is a copy that I made of it.’
I recalled the Stammerer’s mysterious manipulations at the small house beside the Yauza. So that was what the self-appointed investigator had been doing that night!
Genji took a large sheet of paper, folded in four, out of his pocket and spread it out on the table. The inscription looked like this:
‘What’s that?’ I asked, examining the incomprehensible symbols.
He took the sheet of paper, turned it round and held it in front of the table lamp. Now I could read the letters, illuminated from behind:
Stirb2
‘When she entered her room, Ophelia saw a word written in glowing letters of fire that seemed to be floating in the air. It told her quite unambiguously to die. The Prince of Death had expressed his will quite clearly, and the poor girl did not dare oppose it. Ever since she was a child she had believed implicitly in the secret signs of destiny. Meantime . . .’ – Genji crumpled up the sheet of paper and tossed it on the desk in front of the Doge – ‘. . . you were certainly still outside, observing events. The most revolting thing about the entire story is not the murder, but the fact that when you had already condemned the girl to death, you decided to enjoy her almost childish body beforehand. You knew perfectly well that she secretly adored you, even worshipped you. You told her to stay when the other aspirants left and I presume that you demonstrated the exceptional ardour of your love – in any case, when Ophelia came home she looked absolutely happy. The nearness of death inflames your lust, does it not? You had thought everything through carefully. After sating your passion, you gallantly drove your victim home, said good night to her at the gate and then quickly wrote your fateful instruction on the bedroom window. You waited to make sure that the trick had worked, quickly wiped the window clean and then went back home. But there was one thing you failed to take into account, Sergei Irinarkhovich. The pane of glass is evidence, incontrovertible evidence.’
‘Incontrovertible evidence?’ Blagovolsky repeated with a shrug. ‘But how can you prove that I was the one who scribbled that word on the glass?’
I also thought that Genji seemed overconfident. Yes, I remembered that Prospero had told Ophelia to stay that evening and, knowing his habits, could easily imagine what had happened after that. However, that was not sufficient for a formal charge in law.
‘You are an engineer,’ Genji said to the Doge, ‘and you probably follow the progress of science. Has the discovery announced by the London police in June this year really escaped your notice?’
Blagovolsky and I both looked at the speaker in puzzlement.
‘I am referring to the Galton-Henry dactyloscopic method which makes it possible for the first time to identify a criminal from the prints left by his fingers. The finest minds in criminal investigation have been struggling for years with the problem of creating a system for classifying the papillary patterns on the tips of the fingers. The clearest prints of all are left on glass. You may have wiped off the phosphorescent letters with your handkerchief, but you did not wipe away all the prints of your fingers. I have photographs of the criminal’s dactylograms here with me. Would you compare them with your own?’
So saying, Genji took a small metal box out of the immense pocket of his leather jacket and opened it to reveal a small cushion impregnated with dark paint or ink, like those that are used for official stamps.
‘I would not,’ Prospero replied rapidly, jerking his hands away and putting them under the table. ‘You are quite right, scientific progress is constantly surprising us, and the surprises are not always pleasant ones.’
The comment was as a good as a confession!
‘When it came to the Lioness of Ecstasy, you dispensed with complicated tricks,’ said Genji, going on to the next victim. ‘This woman whose spirit was broken by grief really did long for death and she unhesitatingly accepted the appearance of three black roses on her bed as a Sign. This, as we know, was not a difficult trick to arrange.’
‘But last time you said the flowers were delivered by Caliban.’ I reminded him.
‘Yes, and that was the circumstance that led me astray. Since you have mentioned Caliban, Horatio, let us consider the real part played by this singular individual in our story. The bookkeeper confused the case very badly, he threw me off the track and diverted all suspicion from the main criminal. My mistake almost cost gullible Columbine her life.
‘You, Prospero, had good reason for favouring this madman, who had been driven insane by extreme suffering and a tormented conscience. He really was your obedient Caliban, the servant of the all-powerful wizard – a servant who was blindly and irrationally devoted to you. You praised his abominable verse, you showed him all sorts of favours and – most importantly of all – he dreamed that you would intercede for him and win the goodwill of Death, so that his “term of imprisonment” would be reduced. At first he dutifully carried out your instructions, obviously without much idea of their real significance. I assume that the concealed pipes in Avaddon’s flat were installed by Caliban – you would hardly have been able to manage such a difficult job, requiring a high level of manual skill and uncommon physical strength, and you would not have risked giving such an unusual commission to a stranger. Give three black roses to Lorelei’s domestic companion? Why not? You obviously told Papushin that you wanted to play a joke on the Lioness, whose extravagant mannerisms Caliban had always found so irritating.
‘How could I ever have believed that this burly halfwit was the evil genius of the “Lovers of Death”? How could he ever have invented the tricks with the letters of fire and the wailing beast? How right the Chinese sage was when he said “The obvious is rarely true” . . .’ Genji shook his head angrily. ‘But your faithful genie did not stay in his bottle, he escaped and started acting on his own initiative. The searing pain of his desperate desire for death became ever more excruciating. When he took his revenge on Gdlevsky, the bookkeeper ruined your entire artful plan, which was so near to realisation. Why did you need to destroy that proud, talented boy? Merely in order to flatter your own vanity? First the Russian Sappho, then the Russian Rimbaud – and both of them would take their own lives in obedience to your will. You would deprive modern Russian poetry of two of its most brilliant names, while remaining in the shadows, and you had every chance of getting away scot-free. How pitiful, compared to you, were those trivial destroyers of genius, Dantes and Martynov!
‘Or did it all happen far more simply and intuitively? A romantic youth, enthralled with his mystical theory of rhyme, happened by chance to open a book at the word “breath”, which rhymes with “death” and haughtily informed you about this miraculous Sign. The next Friday you had already made thorough preparations by leaving a book on the table, knowing that Gdlevsky would immediately grab it to tell his own fortune. I remembered the book and I took the first possible opportunity to examine it carefully.’ Genji turned towards me. ‘Horatio, if it’s not too much trouble, would you mind going to the drawing room and bringing back the collected plays of Shakespeare from the third shelf ?’
I immediately did as he asked and found the book without any difficulty. When I took it down off the shelf, I gasped: it was the same volume that Cyrano had examined on the last evening o
f his life!
As I walked back I turned the book this way and that, but I failed to observe anything suspicious about it. Nature, alas, did not endow me with exceptional powers of observation, as Genji confirmed when he took the volume from my hands.
‘Look at the top of the book. Do you see the yellow colour extending to the middle of the pages? That is ordinary office glue. Try opening the book at random, at any page.’
I tried opening the book between my finger and thumb and could scarcely believe my eyes – it opened at the title page of Macbeth.
‘Now do you understand?’ Genji asked me. ‘The result of Gdlevsky’s divination on the second Friday had been determined beforehand.’
Yes, the trick had been precisely calculated for psychological effect. And I suddenly realised that this was the ‘bombshell’ that Cyrano had intended to print in the morning edition of his paper. Like Genji, he had discovered the trick with the glue and immediately realised that he could season his investigation with a spicy sauce. The entire business had suddenly acquired a criminal flavour. Poor Cyrano had not suspected that he would be blown up by his own bombshell . . .
‘On the third Friday you decided to make absolutely sure of things and leave Gdlevsky no chance. After his “good luck” on the first two Fridays, the youth’s nerves were naturally so wrought up that he was seeing Signs in everything going on around him. It would not have been at all surprising if he had discovered his fateful rhyme without any assistance from you, but to guarantee the outcome you arranged for him to find what he was seeking right outside your house. You paid a wandering organ grinder to sing a song with a particular refrain – but only until a certain young man whose appearance you described in detail would enter the house. I don’t think you explained your plans to the organ grinder, but you did impress on him that once he had completed his assignment he should clear out as quickly as possible, and the old man did precisely that, with all the speed that he could muster. When I dashed out into the street two minutes later, I couldn’t find him anywhere.