“Yes, it’s such terrible scribble you can hardly even read it,” the millionaire said in his deep voice, looking round for somewhere to put the cigar he had finished smoking. “As if it was written in a carriage or with a serious hangover.”
He didn’t find anywhere. He almost threw it to the floor, but decided not to; he cast a guilty glance at the Collegiate Counsellor’s back, wrapped the stub in his handkerchief and put it in his pocket. That’s right.
“You can go, Burylin,” Erast Petrovich said without turning round. “Until tomorrow you will remain under guard.”
The millionaire was highly incensed at that news. “I’ve had enough; I’ve already spent one night feeding your police bedbugs! They’re vicious beasts, and hungry. The way they threw themselves on an Orthodox believer’s body!”
Fandorin wasn’t listening. He pressed the bell button. The gendarme officer came in and dragged the rich man towards the door.
“But what about Zakharka?” Burylin shouted. “He’ll be calling for the money!”
“That’s no concern of yours,” said Erast Petrovich, and he asked the officer: “Has the reply to my inquiry arrived from the ministry?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Let me have it.”
The gendarme brought in some kind of telegram and went back out into the corridor.
The telegram produced a remarkable effect on Fandorin. He read it, threw it on to the desk and then suddenly did something very strange. He clapped his hands very quickly several times, and so loudly that Vedishchev banged his head against the glass in his surprise, and the gendarme, the adjutant, and the secretary stuck their heads in at the door all at once.
“It’s all right, gentlemen,” Fandorin reassured them. “It’s a Japanese exercise for focusing one’s thoughts. Please go.”
And then even more wonders followed.
When the door closed behind his subordinates, Erast Petrovich suddenly started to get undressed. When he was left in just his underclothes, he took a travelling bag that Vedishchev hadn’t noticed before out from under the desk and took a bundle out of the bag. The bundle contained clothes: tight striped trousers with footstraps, a cheap paper shirt-front, a crimson waistcoat and yellow check jacket.
The highly respectable Collegiate Counsellor was transformed into a pushy jerk, the kind that hover around the street girls in the evenings. He stood in front of the mirror, exactly a yard in front of Frol Vedishchev, combed his black hair into a straight parting, plastered it with brilliantine and coloured the grey at his temples. He twisted the ends of his slim moustache upwards and shaped them into two sharp points. (Bohemian wax, Frol Vedishchev guessed—he secured Prince Dolgorukoi’s sideburns in exactly the same way, so that they stuck out like eagles’ wings.)
Then Fandorin put something into his mouth and grinned, and a gold cap glinted on one tooth. He carried on pulling faces for a while and seemed perfectly content with his appearance.
The Yuletide masker took a small wallet out of the bag, opened it, and Vedishchev saw that it was no ordinary wallet: inside it he could see a small-calibre burnished steel gun barrel and a little drum like the one on a revolver. Fandorin put five shells into the drum, clicked the lid shut and tested the resistance of the lock with his finger—no doubt the lock played the role of a trigger. What will they think of next for killing a man? the valet thought, with a shake of his head. And where are you going dressed like a cheap dandy, Erast Petrovich?
As if he had heard the question, Fandorin turned towards the mirror and put on a beaver-fur cap, tilted at a dashing angle, winked familiarly and said in a low voice: “Frol Grigorievich, light a candle for me at vespers. I won’t get by without God’s help today.”
—
Ineska was suffering very badly, in body and in spirit—in body, because last night Slepen, her former ponce, had waited for the poor girl outside the City of Paris tavern and given her a thorough beating for betraying him. At least the creep hadn’t rearranged her face. But her stomach and sides were battered black and blue—she couldn’t even turn over at night; she just lay there shifting about until morning, gasping and feeling sorry for herself. The bruises weren’t the worst thing—they’d heal up soon enough, but poor Ineska’s little heart was aching so badly she could hardly stand it.
Her boyfriend had disappeared, her fairy-tale prince, the handsome Erastushka; he hadn’t shown his sweet face for two days now. And Slepen was as brutal as ever and always making threats. Yesterday she’d had to give her old pimp almost everything she earned, and that was no good; decent girls who stayed faithful didn’t do that.
Erastushka had gone missing; that lop-eared short-arse must have handed him over to the police and her pretty dove was sitting in the lock-up in the first Arbat station, the toughest in the whole of Moscow. If only she could send her darling a present, but that Sergeant Kulebyako there was a wild beast. He’d put her inside again, the same as last year, threaten to take away her yellow ticket, and then she’d end up servicing the whole police district for free, down to the last snot-nosed constable. It still made her sick to remember it, even now. Ineska would gladly have accepted that kind of humiliation if she could just help her sweetheart, but after all, Erastushka wasn’t just any boyfriend: he had brains, he was nice and clean, choosy; he wouldn’t want to touch Ineska after that. Not that their passion had actually come to anything yet, so to speak; love was only just beginning, but from the very first glance Ineska had taken such a fancy to his lovely blue eyes and white teeth, she’d really fallen for him; terrible it was, worse than with that hairdresser Zhorzhik when she was sixteen, rot his pretty face, the lousy snake—if he hadn’t drunk himself to death by now, of course.
Ah, if only he’d show up soon, her sweet honey-bunch. He’d put that vicious bastard Slepen in his place and he’d be sweet and gentle with Ineska, pamper her a bit. She’d found out what he’d told her to, and hidden some money in her garter too—three and a half roubles in silver. He’d be pleased; she had something to greet him and treat him with.
Erastik. It was such a sweet name, like apple jam. Her darling’s real name was probably something simpler, but then Ineska hadn’t been a Spanish girl all her life either; she’d been born into God’s world as Efrosinya, plain simple Froska in the family.
Inessa and Erast—that had a real ring to it, like music it was. If only she could stroll arm-in-arm with him through Grachyovka, so that Sanka Myasnaya, Liudka Kalancha, and especially that Adelaidka could see what a fine fancy-man Ineska had, and turn green with envy.
After that, they’d come to her apertiment. It might be small, but it was clean, and stylish too: pictures from fashion magazines stuck on the walls, a velvet lampshade, and a big, tall mirror; the softest down mattress ever, and lots of pillows, a whole seven of them—Ineska had sewn all the pillowcases herself.
Then, just as she was thinking her very sweetest thoughts, her cherished dream came true. First there was a tactful knock at the door—tap-tap-tap—and then Erastushka came in, in his beaver-fur cap and white muffler, with his wool-cloth coat with the beaver collar, hanging open. You’d never think he was from the Kutuzka jail.
Ineska’s little heart just stood still. She leapt up off the bed just as she was, in her cotton nightshirt, with her hair hanging loose, and threw herself on her sweetheart’s neck. She only managed to kiss his lips once; then he took hold of her by the shoulders and sat her down at the table. He looked at her sternly.
“Right, tell me,” he said.
Ineska understood—those vicious tongues had already been wagging.
She didn’t try to deny anything; she wanted everything to be honest between them. “Beat me,” she said, “beat me, Erastushka; I’m to blame. Only I’m not all that much to blame—don’t you go believing just anyone. Slepen tried to force me” (she was fibbing there, of course, but not so much really) “and I wouldn’t give him it, and he gave me a real battering. Here, look.”
She pulled up her shirt an
d showed him the blue, crimson, and yellow patches. So he would feel sorry for her.
But it didn’t soften him. Erastushka frowned. “I’ll have a word with Slepen afterwards; he won’t bother you again. Get back to the point. Did you find who I told you to?—the one who went with that friend of yours and barely came out alive?
“I did, Erastushka, I found her; Glashka’s her name. Glashka Beloboka from Pankratievsky Lane. She remembers the bastard all right—he nearly slit her throat open with that knife of his. Glashka still wraps a scarf round her neck, even now.”
“Take me to her.”
“I will, Erastushka, I’ll take you, but let’s have a bit of cognac first.” She took a bottle she’d been keeping out of the little cupboard, put her bright-coloured Persian shawl on her shoulders and picked up a comb to fluff up her hair and make it all glossy.
“We’ll have a drink later. I told you: take me there. Business first.”
Ineska sighed, feeling her heart melting: she loved strict men—couldn’t help herself. She went over and looked up into his beautiful face, his angry eyes, his curly moustache. “I think my legs are giving are giving way, Erastushka,” she whispered faintly.
But today wasn’t Ineska’s day for kissing and cuddling. There was a sudden crash and a clatter from a blow that almost knocked the door off its hinges, and there was Slepen standing in the doorway, evil drunk, with a vicious grin on his smarmy face. Oh the neighbours, those lousy Grachyovka rats, they’d told on her; they hadn’t wasted any time.
“Lovey-doving?” he grinned. “Forgotten about me, the poor orphan, have you?” Then the grin vanished from his rotten mug and his shaggy eyebrows moved together. “I’ll talk to you, Ineska, afterwards, you louse. Seems like you didn’t learn your lesson. And as for you, mate, come out in the yard and we’ll banter.”
Ineska rushed to the window—there were two of them in the yard: Slepen’s stooges, Khryak and Mogila.
“Don’t go!” she shouted. “They’ll kill you! Go away, Slepen, I’ll make such a racket all Grachyovka’ll come running”—and she had already filled her lungs with air to let out a howl; but Erastushka stopped her.
“Don’t, Ineska, you heard what he said; let me have a talk with the man.”
“Erastik, Mogila carries a sawn-off under his coat,” Ineska explained to the dimwit. “They’ll shoot you. Shoot you and dump you in the sewer. They’ve done it before.”
But her boyfriend wouldn’t listen; he wasn’t interested. He took a big wallet out of his pocket, tortoiseshell. “ ’Salright,” he said. “I’ll buy ’em off.” And he went out with Slepen, to certain death.
Ineska collapsed face down into the seven pillows and started whimpering—about her malicious fate, about her dream that hadn’t come true, about the constant torment.
Out in the yard there were one, two, three, four quick shots, and then someone started howling—not just one person, a whole choir of them.
Ineska stopped whimpering and looked at the icon of the Mother of God in the corner, decorated for Easter with paper flowers and little coloured lamps. “Mother of God,” Ineska asked her, “work a miracle for Easter Sunday and let Erastushka be alive. It’s all right if he’s wounded; I’ll nurse him well. Just let him be alive.”
The Heavenly Mediatress took pity on Ineska—the door creaked and Erastik came in. And not even wounded—he was as right as rain, and his lovely scarf hadn’t even shifted a bit.
“There, I told you, Ineska; wipe that wet off your face. Slepen won’t touch you any more; he can’t. I put holes in both his grabbers. And the other two won’t forget in a hurry either. Get dressed and take me to this Glashka of yours.”
And that dream of Ineska’s did come true after all. She went strolling through the whole of Grachyovka on her prince’s arm—she deliberately led him the long way round, though it was quicker to get to the Vladimir Road tavern, where Glashka lived, through the yards, across the rubbish tip and through the knacker’s yard. Ineska had dressed herself up in her little velvet jacket and batiste blouse, and she’d put on her crêpe-lizette skirt for the first time and even her boots that were only for dry weather—she didn’t care. She powdered her face that was puffy from crying and backcombed her fringe. All in all, there was plenty to turn Sanka and Liudka green. It was just a pity they didn’t meet Adelaidka; never mind, her girlfriends would give her the picture.
Ineska still couldn’t get enough of looking at her darling, she kept looking into his face and chattering away like a magpie: “She has a daughter, Glashka does—a real fright she is. That’s what the good folks told me: ‘You ask for the Glashka with the ugly daughter.’ ”
“Ugly? What way is she ugly?”
“She has this birthmark that covers half her face—wine colour; it’s a real nightmare. I’d rather put my head in a noose than walk around looking like that. In the next house to us, there was this Nadka used to live there, a tailor’s daughter…” But before she had time to tell him about Nadka, they’d already reached the Vladimir Road. They walked up the creaking staircase where the rooms were.
Glashka’s room was lousy, not a patch on Ineska’s apertiment. Glashka was there, putting on her make-up in front of the mirror—she was going out to work the street soon.
“Look, Glafira, I’ve brought a good man to see you. Tell him what he asks about that evil bastard that cut you,” Ineska instructed her, then sat sedately in the corner.
Erastik immediately put a three-rouble note on the table. “That’s yours, Glashka, for your trouble. What sort of man was he? What did he look like?”
Glashka was a good-looking girl, though in her strict way Ineska thought she didn’t keep herself clean. She didn’t even look at the money.
“Everyone knows his kind: crazy,” she answered and wiggled her shoulders this way and that.
She stuck the money up her skirt anyway—not that she was that interested, just to be polite. And she stared at Erast that hard, ran her peepers all over him, the shameless hussy, that Ineska’s heart started fluttering.
“Men are always interested in me,” Glashka said modestly, to start her story. “But that time I was really low. At Shrovetide I got these scabs all over my face, so bad I was scared to look in the mirror. I walked and walked and no one took any interest; I’d have been happy to do it for fifteen kopecks. That one’s a big eater”—she nodded towards the curtain, from behind which they could hear the sound of sleepy snuffling. “Plain terrible, it is. And anyway, this one comes up, very polite, he was——”
“That’s right, that was the way he came up to me too,” Ineska put in, feeling jealous. “And just think, my face was all scratched and battered then too. I had a fight with that bitch Adelaidka. No one would come near me, no matter what I said, but this one comes up all on his own. ‘Don’t be sad,’ he says, ‘now I’ll give you joy.’ Only I didn’t do like Glashka did, I didn’t go with him, because…”
“I heard that already,” Erastik interrupted her. “You didn’t get a proper sight of him. Keep quiet. Let Glafira talk.”
Glashka flashed her eyes, proud-like, at Ineska, and Ineska felt really bad. And it was her own stupid fault, wasn’t it?—she’d brought him here herself.
“And he says to me: ‘Why such a long face? Come with me,’ he says. ‘I want to bring you joy.’ Well, I was feeling happy enough already. I’m thinking, I’ll get a rouble here, or maybe two, I’ll buy Matryoshka some bread, and some pies. Oh, I bought them all right, didn’t I?…had to pay the doctor a fiver afterwards, to have my neck stitched up.”
She pointed to her neck, and there, under the powder, was a crimson line, smooth and narrow, like a thread.
“Tell me everything in the right order,” Erastushka told her.
“Well, then, we come in here. He sat me on the bed—this one here—puts one hand on my shoulder and keeps the other behind his back. And he says—his voice is soft, like a woman’s—‘Do you think,’ he says, ‘that you’re not beautiful?’ So
I blurts out: ‘I’m just fine, the face will heal up all right. It’s my daughter that’s disfigured for the rest of her life.’ He says, ‘What daughter’s that?’ ‘Over there,’ I say, ‘take a look at my little treasure,’ and I pulled back the curtain. As soon as he saw my Matryoshka—and she was sleeping then too; she’s a sound sleeper, used to anything, she is—he started trembling, like, all over. And he says, ‘I’ll make her into such a lovely beauty. And it’ll make things easier for you too.’ I look a bit closer, and I can see he has something in his fist, behind his back, glinting like. Holy Mother, it was a knife! Sort of narrow and short.”
“A scalpel?” Erastik asked, using a word they didn’t understand.
“Eh?”
He just waved his hand: Come on, tell me more.
“I give him such a clout and I start yelling: ‘Help! Murder!’ He looked at me, and his face was terrible, all twisted. ‘Quiet, you fool! You don’t understand your own happiness!’ And then he slashes at me! I jumped back, but even so he caught me across the throat. Well then I howled so loud, even Matryoshka woke up. Then she starts in wailing, and she’s got a voice like a cat in heat in March. And he just turned and scarpered. And that’s the whole adventure. It was the Holy Virgin saved me.”
Glashka made the sign of the cross over her forehead and then straight off, before she’d even lowered her hands, she asked: “And you, good sir, you’re interested for business, are you, or just in general?” And she fluttered her eyelids, the snake.
But Erast told her, strict-like: “Describe him to me, Glafira. What does he look like, this man?”
“Ordinary. A bit taller than me, shorter than you. He’d be up to here on you.” And she drew her finger across the side of Erastushka’s head, real slow. Some people have no shame!
“His face is ordinary too. Clean, no moustache or beard. I don’t know what else. Show him to me, and I’ll recognise him straight away.”
“We’ll show him to you, we will,” Ineska’s sweet darling muttered, wrinkling up his clear forehead and trying to figure something out. “So he wanted to make things easier for you?”
The Big Book of Jack the Ripper Page 55