“There’s no more digging to do,” Anisii responded gladly. “We’ve dug them all up. It’s strange, really. In three months in the whole of Moscow only ten streetwalkers were killed. And the newspapers say our city is dangerous.”
“Ha! Ten he says,” the watchman snorted. “That’s just how it looks. They’re just the ones with names. But we stack the ones they bring us without names in the ditches?”
Anisii’s heart started beating faster. “What ditches?”
“What?” Pakhomenko asked in amazement. “You mean the doctor didn’t tell you? Come on, you can look for yourself.”
He led Anisii to the far side of the cemetery and showed him a long pit with a thin layer of earth sprinkled over the top.
“That’s the April one. Just the beginning. And there’s the March one, already filled in.” He pointed to a long mound of earth. “And there’s the February one, and there’s the January one. But before that I can’t tell; I wasn’t here then. I’ve only been working here since Epiphany—I came here from the Optinaya Hermitage, from pilgrimage. Before me there was a Kuzma used to work here. I never saw him myself. At Christmas this Kuzma broke his fast with a bottle or two, tumbled into an open grave and broke his neck. That was the death God had waiting for him: You’ve been watching over graves, servant of God, so now you can die in one. The Lord likes to joke with us in the graveyard. We’re like his yard-keepers. The gravedigger Tishka at Srednokrestny——”
“So do they bury a lot of nameless women in the ditches?” Anisii asked, interrupting the talkative fellow. He had completely forgotten his damp boots and the cold.
“Plenty. Just last month it must be nigh on a dozen, or maybe more. A person without a name is like a dog without a collar. Take them to the knacker’s yard—it’s nobody’s concern. Anyone who’s lost their name is more like a flea than a human being.”
“And have there been any badly cut-up cases among the nameless women?”
The watchman twisted his face into a sad expression. “Who’s going to take a proper look at the poor darlings? They’re lucky if the sexton from St. John the Warrior rattles off a prayer over them, and sometimes I do, sinner that I am; I sing them ‘Eternal Peace.’ Oh, people, people…”
So much for the Investigator for Especially Important Cases, such a meticulous man, Anisii gloated to himself. Fancy missing something like that. He gestured to the watchman in a way that meant: “Sorry, my friend, this is important,” and set off towards the cemetery office at a run.
“Come on, lads,” he shouted from a distance. “There’s more work to be done! Grab your picks and your shovels and let’s get moving!”
Young Linkov was the only one to jump to his feet. Senior Constable Pribludko stayed sitting down, and the gendarmes actually turned away. They’d had enough of swinging picks and knocking themselves out in this unseemly work; the man giving the orders wasn’t even their boss, and he wasn’t so important anyway. But Tulipov felt he was responsible and he made the men move.
And, as it turned out, it was a good thing he did.
—
Very late in the evening—in fact it was really night, because it was approaching midnight already—Tulipov was sitting with his chief on Malaya Nikitskaya Street (such a fine outhouse with such fine rooms, with electric lighting and a telephone), eating supper and warming himself up with grog.
The grog was special, made with Japanese sake, red wine, and prunes, prepared according to the oriental recipe of Masahiro Shibata, or Masa, Fandorin’s servant. In fact, though, the Japanese did not behave or speak much like a servant. He was unceremonious with Erast Petrovich and did not regard Anisii as an important personage at all. In the line of physical exercise Tulipov was Masa’s pupil and Anisii endured no little abuse and mockery from his strict teacher, and sometimes even thrashings disguised as training in Japanese fisticuffs. No matter what trick Anisii invented, no matter how he tried to shirk the practice of this hateful infidel wisdom, there was no way he could argue with his chief. Erast Petrovich had ordered him to master the techniques of ju-jitsu, and he had to do it, even if he was knocked out in the process. Only Tulipov did not make a very good sportsman. He was much more successful at getting himself knocked out.
“You squat hundred time this mornin’?” Masa asked menacingly when Anisii had had a little to eat and turned pink from the grog. “You beat pams on iron stick? Show me pams.”
Tulipov hid his palms behind his back, because he was too lazy to pound them against the special metal stick a thousand times a day, and anyway, you know, it was painful. The tough calluses were simply not developing on the edges of Anisii’s hands, and Masa abused him seriously for that.
“Have you finished eating? All right, now you can report on business to Erast Petrovich,” Angelina told him and took the supper things off the table, leaving just the silver jug with the grog and the mugs.
Angelina was lovely, a real sight for sore eyes. Light-blonde hair woven into a magnificent plait that was arranged in a bun on the back of her head, a clear, white-skinned face, large, serious grey eyes that seemed to radiate some strange light into the world around her. A special woman: you didn’t meet many like her. A swan like that would never even glance at a shabby, lop-eared specimen like Tulipov. But Erast Petrovich was a fine partner in every possible respect, and women liked him. During the three years that Tulipov had been his assistant, several passions, each more lovely than the last, had reigned for a while in the outhouse on Malaya Nikitskaya Street before leaving, but there had never been one as simple, bright and serene as Angelina. It would be good if she stayed a bit longer. Or still better—if she stayed for ever.
“Thank you, Angelina Samsonovna,” said Anisii, looking at her tall, stately figure as she walked away.
A queen—that was the word for her, even though she came from a simple lower-middle-class background. And the Chief always had queens. There was nothing so surprising about it: that was the kind of man he was.
Angelina Krasheninnikova had appeared in the house on Malaya Nikitskaya Street a year earlier. Erast Petrovich had helped the orphan in a certain difficult business, and afterwards she had clung to him. She obviously wanted to thank him in the best way she could and, apart from her love, she had nothing to give. It was hard now to remember how they had managed without her before. The Collegiate Counsellor’s bachelor residence had become cosy and warm, welcoming. Anisii had always liked being here, but now he liked it even more. And with Angelina there, the Chief seemed to have become a bit gentler and simpler somehow. It was good for him.
“All right, Tulipov, now you’re well fed and drunk, t-tell me what you and Izhitsin dug up over there.”
Erast Petrovich had an unusual, confused expression. His conscience is bothering him, Tulipov realised, for not going to the exhumation and sending me instead. But Anisii was only too happy if he could come in useful once in a blue moon and spare his adored chief unnecessary stress.
After all, he was pampered by the Chief in every way: provided with an apartment at public expense, a decent salary, interesting work. The greatest debt he owed him, one that could never be repaid, was for his sister Sonya, a poor cripple and imbecile. Anisii’s heart no longer trembled for her, because while he was at work, Sonya was cared for with affection and fed. Fandorin’s maid Palashka loved her and pampered her. Now she had even moved in with the Tulipovs. She would run to her master’s house and help Angelina with the housework for an hour or two, then run back to Sonya—Tulipov’s apartment was close by, on Granatny Lane.
Anisii began his report calmly, working up to the main point. “Egor Zakharov found clear signs that two of the women had been brutally mutilated after they were dead. The beggar Marya Kosoi, who died in unexplained circumstances on the eleventh of February, had her throat cut and her abdominal cavity slit open; her liver is missing. The woman of easy virtue Alexandra Zotova, who was killed on the fifth of April (it was assumed by her pimp Dzapoev) also had her throat cut and her
womb was cut out. Another woman, the gypsy Marfa Zhemchuzhnikova, killed by a person or persons unknown on the tenth of March, is a doubtful case: her throat was not cut, her stomach was slashed open from top to bottom and side to side, but all her organs are in place.”
At this point Anisii happened by chance to glance to one side and stopped in confusion. Angelina was standing in the doorway with one hand pressed to her full breasts and looking at him, her eyes wide with terror.
“Good Lord,” she said, crossing herself, “what are these terrible things you’re saying, Mr. Tulipov?”
The Chief glanced round in annoyance. “Angelina, go to your room. This is not for your ears. Tulipov and I are working.”
The beautiful woman left without a murmur and Anisii glanced reproachfully at his chief. You may be right, Erast Petrovich, but you could be a bit gentler. Of course, Angelina Samsonovna is not blue-blooded, she’s not your equal, but I swear she’d be more than a match for any noble-born woman. Any other man would make her his lawful wife without thinking twice. And he’d count himself lucky. But he didn’t say anything out loud; he didn’t dare.
“Signs of sexual intercourse?” the Chief asked intently, paying no attention to Tulipov’s facial expression.
“Zakharov had difficulty in determining that. Even though the ground was frozen, some time had still passed. But there’s something more important than all that!”
Anisii paused for effect and moved on to the main point. He told Erast Petrovich how on his instructions they had opened up the so-called “ditches”—the common graves for the bodies without names. In all they had inspected more than seventy corpses. On nine of the bodies—and one of them was a man—there had been clear signs of savage abuse. The general picture was similar to today’s: someone with a good knowledge of anatomy and access to a surgical instrument had severely mutilated the bodies.
“The most remarkable thing, Chief, is that three of the mutilated bodies were taken from last year’s ditches!” Anisii declared, and then modestly added: “I ordered them to dig up the ditches for November and December just to make sure.”
Erast Petrovich had listened to his assistant very attentively, but now he suddenly leapt up off his chair: “December, you say, and November! That’s incredible!”
“I was indignant about it too. How about our police, eh? A monster like that active all these months in Moscow, and we don’t even hear a word about it! If it’s a social outcast who gets killed, then it’s none of the police’s business—they just bury them and forget about them. You know, Chief, in your place I think I’d really give Yurovsky and Eichmann what for.”
But the Chief seemed upset about something else. He walked quickly across the room and back again and muttered: “It couldn’t have happened in December, let alone in November! He was still in London then!”
Tulipov blinked. He didn’t understand what London had to do with anything—Erast Petrovich had not yet acquainted him with his theory about the Ripper.
Fandorin blushed as he recalled the insulted look he had given Prince Dolgorukoi earlier when the Governor had said that his Deputy for Special Assignments was rarely mistaken.
It seemed that Erast Petrovich was sometimes mistaken, and seriously so.
—
The delightful decision has been realised. Only God’s providence could have helped me to implement it so soon.
The whole day was filled with a feeling of rapture and invulnerability—following yesterday’s ecstasy.
Rain and slush, there was a lot of work in the afternoon, but I don’t feel tired at all. My soul is singing, longing for open space, to wander through the streets and waste plots of the neighbourhood.
Evening again. I am walking along Protopopovsky Lane towards Kalanchevka Street. There’s a woman standing there, a peasant woman, haggling with a cabby. She doesn’t strike a deal, the cabby drives off and she’s standing there, shuffling her feet in confusion. I look and see she has a huge, swollen belly. Pregnant, seven months at least. I feel my heart start to race: there it is, it has found me.
I walk closer—everything is right. Exactly the sort I need. Fat, with a dirty face. Her eyebrows and eyelashes have fallen out—she must have syphilis. It is hard to imagine a creature further removed from the concept of Beauty.
I start talking to her. She’s come from the village to visit her husband. He’s an apprentice in the Arsenal. I say the Arsenal is not far and promise to show her the way. She is not afraid, because today I am a woman. I lead her through the waste lots towards the Immerovsky horticultural establishment. It is dark and deserted there. While we are walking, the woman complains to me about how hard it is to live in the country. I sympathise with her.
I lead her to the river bank and tell her not to be afraid, there is great joy in store for her. She looks at me stupidly. She dies silently. There is only the whistle of the air from her throat and the gurgling of her blood.
I am impatient to lay bare the pearl within and I do not wait until the spasms have ceased.
Alas, a disappointment awaits me. When I open the incised womb with hands trembling in sweet anticipation, I am overcome by disgust. The living embryo is ugly and nothing at all like a pearl. It looks exactly like the little monsters in jars of alcohol in Professor Lints’s faculty: a little vampire just like them. It squirms and opens its mousy little mouth. I toss it away in disgust.
The conclusion: man, like a flower, must mature in order to become beautiful. It is clear now why I have never thought children beautiful: they are dwarfs with disproportionately large heads and underdeveloped reproductive systems.
The Moscow detectives have begun to stir—yesterday’s decoration has finally made the police aware of my presence here. It’s funny; I am more cunning and stronger; they will never unmask me. “What an actor is going to waste,” said Nero. That applies to me.
But I throw the body of the woman and her mouse into the pond. There is no point in stirring things up unnecessarily, and the decoration was not satisfactory.
CHAPTER 3
The “smopackadj”
Holy Week Wednesday, 5 April, morning
From first thing in the morning Erast Petrovich locked himself away in his study to think, and Tulipov set out once again for the Bozhedomka—to have the October and September ditches opened up. He had suggested it himself: they had to determine when the Moscow killer had started his activities. The Chief had not objected. “Why not?” he had said; “You go,” but he was somewhere miles away, lost in thought—deducing.
It turned out to be dreary work, far worse than the previous day. The corpses that had been buried before the cold weather were severely decomposed and it was more than anyone could bear to look at them, let alone breathe the poisoned air. Anisii did puke a couple of times after all; he couldn’t help himself
“You see,” he said, with a sickly smile at the watchman, “I still can’t grow those calluses…”
“There are some as can’t never grow them,” the watchman replied, shaking his head sympathetically. “It’s hardest of all for them to live in this world. But God loves them too. There you are now, mister, take a drop of this liquor of mine…”
Anisii sat down on a bench, drank the herbal infusion and chatted for a while with the cemetery philosopher about this and that; listened to his stories; told him about his own life—that mellowed his heart a little—and then it was back to digging the ditch.
Only it was all in vain. They didn’t find anything new that was of use to the investigation in the old ditches.
Zakharov said acidly: “A bad head gives the legs no rest, but it would be all right if it were only yours that suffered, Tulipov. Are you not afraid the gendarmes will accidentally tap you on the top of your head with a pick? And I’ll write in my report, all in due order: the Provincial Secretary brought about his own death: he stumbled and smashed his bad head against a stone. And Grumov will witness it. We’re sick and tired of you and your rotten flesh. Isn’t that ri
ght, Grumov?”
The consumptive assistant bared his yellow teeth and wiped his bumpy forehead with his soiled shirt. He explained: “Mr. Zakharov is joking.” But that was all right: the doctor was a cynical, coarse man. What offended Anisii was having to suffer mockery from the repulsive Izhitsin.
The pompous investigator had rolled up at the cemetery at first light—somehow he’d got wind of Tulipov’s operation. At first he’d been alarmed that the investigation was proceeding without him, but then he’d calmed down and turned cocky.
“Perhaps,” he said, “you and Fandorin have some other brilliant ideas? Maybe you’d like to dig in the pits while I lead the investigation?”
And the rotten swine left, laughing triumphantly.
—
In sum, Tulipov returned to Malaya Nikitskaya Street empty-handed. He walked listlessly up on to the porch and rang the electric bell.
Masa opened the door, in a white gymnastic costume with a black belt and a band bearing the word for “diligence” round his forehead. “Hello, Tiuri-san. Le’s do renshu.”
What—renshu, when he was so tired and upset he could barely even stand?
“I have an urgent report to give the Chief,” Anisii said, trying to be cunning, but Masa was not to be fooled.
He jabbed his finger at Tulipov’s protruding ears and declared peremptorily: “When you have urgen’ repor you have goggrin’ eye and red ear, annow eye small and ear aw white. Take off coat, take off shoes, put on trousers and jacket. We goin’ run and shout.”
Sometimes Angelina would intercede for Anisii—she was the only one who could resist the pressure from the damned Japanese—but the clear-eyed lady of the house was nowhere to be seen, and the oriental tyrant forced poor Tulipov to change into his gymnastics suit right there in the hallway.
They went out into the yard. Jumping from foot to foot on the chilly ground, Anisii waved his hands around, yelled “O-osu” to strengthen his prana and then the humiliation began. Masa jumped up on his shoulders from behind and ordered him to run in circles round the yard. The Japanese was not very tall, but he was stocky and solidly built, and he weighed four and a half poods at the very least. Somehow Tulipov managed to run two circles and then began to stumble.
The Big Book of Jack the Ripper Page 43