Dolgorukoi took his hand away from his ear, chewed on his lips, fluffed up his moustache and asked: “And when, Your Excellency, will His Majesty be informed of the outrageous crime?”
The minister narrowed his eyes, trying to penetrate the hidden motive underlying this question that appeared so simpleminded at first glance.
He penetrated it, appreciated it, and laughed very quietly: “As usual, from the morning of Good Friday the Emperor immerses himself in prayer, and matters of state, apart from emergencies, are postponed until Sunday. I shall be making my most humble report to His Majesty the day after tomorrow, before the Easter dinner.”
The Governor nodded in satisfaction. “The murder of Court Counsellor Izhitsin and his maid, for all the outrageousness of this atrocity, can hardly be characterised as a matter of state emergency. Surely, Minister, you will not be distracting His Imperial Highness from his prayers because of such a wretched matter? That would hardly earn you a pat on the back, I think?” Prince Dolgorukoi asked with the same naive air.
“I will not.” The upward curls of the minister’s grey moustache twitched slightly in an ironical smile.
The Prince sighed, sat upright, took out a snuff box and thrust a pinch into his nose. “Well, I assure you that before noon on Sunday the case will have been concluded, solved, and the culprit exposed. A…a…choo!”
A timid hope appeared on the faces of the Muscovites.
“Bless you,” Tolstoy said morosely. “But please be so good as to tell me why you are so confident? The investigation is in ruins. The official who was leading it has been killed.”
“Here in Moscow, my old chap, highly important investigations are never pursued along one line only,” Dolgorukoi declared in a didactic tone of voice. “And for that purpose I have a special deputy, my trusted eyes and ears, who is well known to you: Collegiate Counsellor Fandorin. He is close to catching the criminal and in a very short time he will bring the case to a conclusion. Is that not so, Erast Petrovich?”
The Prince turned grandly towards the Collegiate Counsellor, who was sitting by the wall, and only the sharp gaze of the Deputy for Special Assignments could read the despair and entreaty in the protruding, watery eyes of his superior.
Fandorin got to his feet, paused for a moment, and declared dispassionately: “That is the honest truth, Your Excellency. I actually expect to close the case on Sunday.”
The minister peered at him sullenly. “You ‘expect’? Would you mind giving me a little more detail? What are your theories, conclusions, proposed measures?”
Erast Petrovich did not even glance at Count Tolstoy, but carried on looking at the Governor-General.
“If Vladimir Andreevich orders me to, I will give a full account of everything. But in the absence of such an order, I prefer to maintain confidentiality. I have reason to suppose that at this stage in the investigation increasing the number of people who are aware of the details could be fatal to the operation.”
“What?” the minister exploded. “How dare you? You seem to have forgotten who you are dealing with here!”
The gold epaulettes on shoulders from St. Petersburg trembled in indignation. The gold shoulders of the Muscovites shrank in fright.
“Not at all.” And now Fandorin looked at the high official from the capital. “You, Your Excellency, are an adjutant-general of the retinue of His Majesty, the Minister of Internal Affairs and Chief of the Corps of Gendarmes. And I serve in the chancellery of the Governor-General of Moscow and so do not happen to be your subordinate by any of the aforementioned lines. Vladimir Andreevich, is it your wish that I should give a full account to the minister of the state of how affairs stand in the investigation?”
Prince Dolgorukoi gave his subordinate a keen look and evidently decided that he might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb. “Oh, that will do. My dear minister, my old chap, let him investigate as he thinks best. I vouch for Fandorin with my own head. Meanwhile, would you perhaps like to try a little Moscow breakfast? I have the table already laid.”
“Well, your head it is, then,” Tolstoy hissed menacingly. “As you will. On Sunday at precisely twelve-thirty, everything will be included in my report in the presence of His Imperial Majesty. Including this.” The minister got up and stretched his bloodless lips into a smile. “Well now, Your Excellency, I think we can take a little breakfast.”
The important man walked towards the door. As he passed Collegiate Counsellor Fandorin, he seared him with a withering glance. The other officials followed him, avoiding Erast Petrovich by as wide a margin as possible.
“What are you thinking of, my dear fellow?” the Governor whispered, hanging back for a moment with his deputy. “Have you taken leave of your senses? That’s Tolstoy himself! He’s vengeful and he has a long memory. He’ll hound you to death; he’ll find the opportunity. And I won’t be able to protect you.”
Fandorin replied directly into his half-deaf patron’s ear, also in a whisper: “If I don’t close the case before Sunday, neither you nor I will be here much longer. And as for the Count’s vengeful nature, please do not be too concerned. Did you see the colour of his face? He won’t be needing that long memory of his. Very soon he will be called to report, not to His Imperial Highness, but to a higher authority, the supreme one.”
“We all have to tread that path,” said Dolgorukoi, crossing himself devoutly. “We only have two days. You pull out all the stops, my dear chap. You’ll manage it, eh?”
—
“I decided to provoke the wrath of that serious gentleman for a very excusable reason, Tulipov. You and I have no working theory. The murder of Izhitsin and his maid Matiushkina changes the whole picture entirely.”
Fandorin and Tulipov were sitting in a room for secret meetings located in one of the remote corners of the Governor-General’s residence. The strictest instructions had been given that no one was to disturb the Collegiate Counsellor and his assistant. There were papers lying on the table covered in green velvet, and His Excellency’s personal secretary was on continuous duty in the reception room outside the closed door, with a senior adjutant, a gendarme officer and a telephone operator with a direct line to the chancellery of the (now, alas, former) High Police Master, the Department of Gendarmes and the district Public Prosecutor (as yet still current). All official structures had been ordered to afford the Collegiate Counsellor the fullest possible cooperation. The Governor-General had taken the care of the formidable minister on his own shoulders—so that he would get in the way as little as possible.
Frol Vedishchev, Prince Dolgorukoi’s valet, tiptoed into the study—he’d brought the samovar. He squatted modestly on the edge of a chair and waved his open hand through the air as if to say: I’m not here, gentlemen detectives; don’t waste your precious attention on such small fry.
“Yes,” sighed Anisii, “nothing’s clear at all. How did he manage to reach Izhitsin?”
“Well that’s actually no great puzzle. It happened like this…” Erast Petrovich strode across the room and took his beads out of his pocket with an accustomed gesture.
Tulipov and Vedishchev waited with bated breath.
“Last night, some time between half past one and two, someone rang the doorbell of Izhitsin’s apartment. The doorbell is connected to the bell in the servant’s room. Izhitsin lived with his maid, Zinaida Matiushkina, who cleaned the apartment and his clothes and also, according to the statements of servants in the neighbouring apartments, fulfilled other duties of a more intimate character. However, it would seem that the deceased did not allow her into his bed and they slept separately. Which, by the way, corresponds perfectly to Izhitsin’s well-known convictions concerning the ‘c-cultured’ and ‘uncultured’ classes. On hearing the ring at the door, Matiushkina threw on her shawl over her nightdress, went out into the entrance hall and opened the door. She was killed on the spot, in the entrance hall, by a blow to the heart with a sharp, narrow blade. Then the killer walked quietly though the drawing roo
m and the study into the master’s bedroom. He was asleep, there was no light—that was clear from the candle on the bedside table. The criminal appears to have managed without any light, a f-fact which is quite remarkable in itself, since, as you and I saw, it was absolutely dark in the bedroom. Izhitsin was lying on his back, and with a blow from an extremely sharp blade, the killer severed his trachea and his artery. While the dying man wheezed and clutched at his slit throat (you saw that his hand and the cuffs of his nightshirt were covered in blood), the criminal stood to one side and waited, drumming his fingers on the top of the secretaire.”
Anisii thought he was already used to everything, but this was too much, even for him. “Oh come on, Chief, that’s too much—the bit about the fingers. You told me yourself that when you’re reconstructing a crime you mustn’t fantasise.”
“God forbid, Tulipov; this no fantasy,” Erast Petrovich said with a shrug. “Matiushkina really was a careless maid. There is a layer of dust on the top of the secretaire, and it has been marked by the numerous repeated impacts of fingertips. I checked the prints. They are a little blurred, but in any case they are not from Izhitsin’s fingers…I shall omit the details of the disembowelment. You saw the result of that procedure.”
Anisii shuddered and nodded.
“Let me draw your attention once again to the fact that, during the…dissection, the Ripper somehow managed without any light. He obviously possesses the rare gift of being able to see in the dark. The criminal left without hurrying: he washed his hands in the washbasin and cleaned up the marks of his dirty feet in the rooms and the entrance hall with a cloth, and very thoroughly too. In general, he did not hurry. The most annoying thing is that everything indicates that you and I reached Vozdvizhenskaya Street only about a quarter of an hour after the killer left.” The Collegiate Counsellor shook his head in vexation. “Those are the facts. Now for the questions and the conclusions. I will start with the questions. Why did the maid open the door to the visitor in the middle of the night? We don’t know, but there are several possible answers. Was it someone they knew? If it was, then who knew them—the maid or the master? We don’t know the answer. It is possible that the person who rang simply said that they had brought an urgent message. In his line of work Izhitsin must have received telegrams and documents at all times of the day and night, so the maid would not have been surprised. To continue. Why was her body not touched? And—even more interestingly—why was the victim a man, the first in all this time?”
“Not the first,” Anisii put in. “Remember, there was a male body in the ditch at Bozhedomka too.”
It seemed like a useful and pertinent remark, but the Chief merely nodded “yes, yes,” without acknowledging Tulipov’s retentive memory.
“And now the conclusions. The maid was not killed for the ‘idea.’ She was killed simply because, as a witness, she had to be disposed of. And so we have a departure from the ‘idea’ and the murder of a man—and not just any man, but the man leading the investigation into the Ripper. An energetic, cruel man who would stop short at nothing. This is a dangerous turn in the Ripper’s career. He is no longer just a maniac who has been driven insane by some morbid fantasy. He is now prepared to kill for new reasons that were previously alien to him—either out of the fear of exposure or c-confidence in his own impunity.”
“A fine business,” Vedishchev’s voice put in. “Streetwalkers won’t be enough for this killer now. The terrible things he’ll get up to! And I see you gentlemen detectives don’t have a single clue to go on. Vladimir Andreevich and I will obviously be moving out of here. The devil take the state service—we could have a fine life in retirement—but Vladimir Andreevich won’t be able to bear retirement. Without any work to do he’ll just shrivel up and pine away. What a disaster, what a disaster…”
The old man sniffed and wiped away a tear with a big pink handkerchief.
“Since you’re here, Frol Grigorievich, sit quietly and don’t interrupt,” Anisii said sternly. He had never before taken the liberty of talking to Vedishchev in that tone, but the Chief had not finished his conclusions yet; on the contrary, he was only just coming to the most important part, and then Vedishchev had stuck his oar in.
“However, at the same time, the departure from the ‘idea’ is an encouraging symptom,” Fandorin said, immediately confirming his assistant’s guess. “It is evidence that we have already got very close to the criminal. It is now absolutely clear that he is someone who is informed about the progress of the investigation. More than that, this person was undoubtedly present at Izhitsin’s ‘experiment.’ It was the investigator’s first active move, and vengeance followed immediately. What does this mean? That in some way he himself was not aware of, Izhitsin annoyed or frightened the Ripper. Or inflamed his pathological imagination.”
As if in confirmation of this thesis, Erast Petrovich clicked his beads three times in a row.
“Who is he? The three suspects from yesterday are under surveillance, but surveillance is not imprisonment under guard. We need to check whether any of them could have evaded the police agents last night. To continue. We ourselves must personally investigate everybody who was present at yesterday’s ‘investigative experiment.’ How many men were there in the morgue?”
Anisii tried to recall. “Well, how many…Me, Izhitsin, Zakharov and his assistant, Stenich, Nesvitskaya, that, what’s his name, Burylin, then the constables, the gendarmes, and the men from the cemetery. I suppose about a dozen, or maybe more, if you count everybody.”
“Count everybody, absolutely everybody,” the Chief instructed him. “Sit down and write a list. The names. Your impressions of each one. A psychological portrait. How they behaved during the ‘experiment.’ The most minute details.”
“Erast Petrovich, I don’t know all of their names.”
“Then find out. Draw up a complete list for me; our Ripper will be on it. That is your task for today; get on with it. And meanwhile I’ll check whether any member of our trio could have made a secret nocturnal outing.”
—
It’s good to work with clear, definite instructions, when the task is within your ability and its importance is obvious and beyond all doubt.
From the residence the Governor’s swift horses carried Tulipov to the Department of Gendarmes, where he had a talk with Captain Zaitsev, the commander of the mobile patrol company, about the two commandeered gendarmes, asking if he’d noticed anything strange about their characters, about their families and their bad habits. Zaitsev began to get alarmed, but Anisii reassured him. He said it was a top-secret and highly important investigation that required special supervision.
Then he drove to Bozhedomka. He called in to say hello to Zakharov, only it would have been better if he hadn’t. The unsociable forensic specialist mumbled something unwelcoming and buried his nose in his papers. Grumov was not there.
Anisii also visited the watchman to find out about the gravediggers. He didn’t give the Ukrainian any explanations, and the watchman didn’t ask any questions—he was a simple man, but he had a certain understanding and tact.
He went to see the gravediggers too, ostensibly to give them a rouble each as a reward for assisting the investigation. He formed his own judgement about both of them. And that was it. It was time to go home and write out his list for the Chief.
When he finished the extensive document, it was already dark. He read it through, mentally picturing each person on it and trying to figure out if he fitted the role of a maniac or not.
The gendarme sergeant-major Siniukhin: an old trooper, a face of stone, eyes like tin—God only knew what he had in his soul.
Linkov. To look at, he wouldn’t hurt a fly, but he made a very strange kind of constable. Morbid dreams, wounded pride, suppressed sensuality—there could be anything.
The gravedigger Tikhin Kulkov was an unpleasant character, with his haggard face and pockmarked jaw. What a face that man had—if you met someone like that in a deserted spot, he�
�d slit your throat without even blinking.
Stop! He’d slit your throat all right, but how could his gnarled and crooked hands manage a scalpel?
Anisii glanced at his list again and gasped. Beads of sweat stood out on his forehead and his throat went dry. Ah, how could he have been so blind? Why hadn’t he realised it before? It was as if his eyes had been blinded by a veil. It all fitted! There was only one person in the entire list who could be the Ripper!
He jumped to his feet and dashed off, just as he was, without his cap or his coat, to see the Chief.
Masa was the only person in the outhouse: Erast Petrovich was out and so was Angelina, praying in the church. Yes, of course, today was Good Friday: that was why the church bells were tolling so sadly—for the procession of the Holy Shroud.
Ah, such bad luck! And there was no time to lose! Today’s inquiries at Bozhedomka had been a mistake—he must have guessed everything! But perhaps that was for the best? If he’d guessed, then he’d be feeling anxious now, making moves. He had to be tracked down! Friday was almost over; there was only one day left!
Only one consideration made him doubt the correctness of his inspiration, but there was a telephone in the house on Malaya Nikitskaya Street and that helped him resolve it. In the Meshchanskaya police district, which included Bozhedomka, Provincial Secretary Tulipov was well known and, despite the late hour, the reply to the question that was bothering him was given immediately.
The Big Book of Jack the Ripper Page 52