by Boris Akunin
Erast Petrovich also took advantage of the pause in the conversation to glance at the two functionaries whose duty it was to know all Moscow’s secrets. Khurtinsky squinted at him cordially, smiling with only his lips in an apparently friendly manner, and yet somehow smiling not at Fandorin, but at daydreams of his own. Erast Petrovich did not return the court counselor’s smile; he was only too familiar with people of this kind and disliked them intensely. However, he quite liked the look of the chief of police and smiled briefly at the general, although without the slightest hint of servility. The general nodded courteously, and yet the glance he cast at the young man seemed strangely tinged with pity. Erast Petrovich did not allow this to bother him — everything would be made clear in good time — and he turned back to the prince, who was also participating in this silent ritual of mutual inspection, conducted circumspectly within the bounds of due propriety.
One especially deep wrinkle had appeared on the prince’s brow in testimony to his state of extreme preoccupation. The main thought in His Excellency’s mind at that precise moment was: Could you possibly have been sent by the plotters, my pretty young fellow? To undermine my position, perhaps? It looks very much like it. I have enough trouble already with Karachentsev.
The police chief’s pitying glance, however, resulted from considerations of an entirely different nature. Lying in Evgeny Osipovich’s pocket was a letter from his direct superior, the director of the Department of State Police, Vyacheslav Konstantinovich Plevako. Karachentsev’s old friend and mentor had written in a private capacity to tell him that Fan-dorin was a sound individual of proven merit who had formerly enjoyed the confidence of the late monarch, and in particular of the chief of gendarmes, but during his years of foreign service he had lost touch with high-level politics and had now been dispatched to Moscow because no use could be found for him in St. Petersburg. At first glance Evgeny Osipovich had taken quite a liking to the young man, with that piercing gaze and dignified bearing of his. The poor fellow was unaware that the supreme authorities had washed their hands of him and that he meant no more to them than an old galosh destined for the rubbish heap. Such were General Karachentsev’s thoughts.
As for Pyotr Parmyonovich Khurtinsky — God only knew what he might be thinking. That enigmatic individual’s thoughts followed far too devious a course.
This dumb show was ended by the appearance of a new character, who emerged silently from the depths of the governor’s inner apartments. He was a tall, emaciated old man in threadbare livery with a shiny, bald cranium and sleek, neatly combed sideburns. The old man was carrying a silver tray with several small bottles and glasses.
“Time to take your constipation remedy, Excellency,” the servant announced grumpily. “Otherwise, you’ll be complaining afterward that Frol didn’t make you take it. Have you forgotten the terrible way you were moaning and groaning yesterday? Well, then. Come on now, open wide.”
The very same kind of tyrant as my Masa, thought Fandorin, although he could hardly look more different. What do we do to deserve such affliction?
“Yes, yes, Frolushka,” said the prince, capitulating immediately. “I’ll take it, I’ll take it. Erast Petrovich, this is my valet, Frol Grigorich Vedishchev. He has looked after me since I was a baby. Now, how about you, gentlemen? Would you care to try it? A most splendid herbal infusion. It tastes horrible, but it is supremely effective against indigestion and stimulates the functioning of the intestines quite superbly. Frol, pour them some.”
Karachentsev and Fandorin refused the herbal mixture point-blank, but Khurtinsky drank it and even declared that it tasted rather pleasant in an odd sort of way.
To follow, Frol gave the prince a decoction of sweet fruit liqueur and a slice of bread and butter (he did not offer these to Khurtinsky) and wiped His Excellency’s lips with a cambric napkin.
“Well now, Erast Petrovich, what special assignments am I to occupy you with? I really can’t think,” said Dolgorukoi, shrugging and raising his greasy hands. “As you can see, I already have enough advisers on secret matters. But never mind, don’t you fret. Settle in, get to know your way around.”
He gestured vaguely, thinking to himself: And meanwhile we’ll see what sort of chap you are.
At this point the antediluvian clock with the bas-relief chimed sonorously eleven times and the third and final link was added to the fatal chain of coincidences.
The door that led into the reception room swung open without any knock, the contorted features of a secretary appeared abruptly in the gap, and the atmosphere in the study was galvanized by the invisible but unmistakable charge of a Catastrophe.
“Disaster, Your Excellency!” the secretary declared in a trembling voice. “General Sobolev is dead! His personal orderly, Captain Gukmasov, is here.”
This news affected the individuals present in different ways, each in accordance with his own temperament. The governor-general waved his hand at the grief- stricken messenger, as if to say: Away with you, I refuse to believe it — and then crossed himself with that same hand. The head of the secret department momentarily opened his eyes as wide as they would go and then rapidly lowered his eyelids again. The redheaded chief of police leapt to his feet, and the young collegiate assessor’s face reflected two feelings in succession: initial extreme agitation, followed immediately by an expression of deep thought, which he retained throughout the scene that followed.
“Send in the captain, will you, Innokenty,” Dolgorukoi ordered his secretary in a low voice. “What a terrible thing to happen!”
The same valiant officer who the day before, at the hotel, had declined to throw himself into Erast Petrovich’s embrace entered the room with a precisely measured stride, jingling his spurs. He was clean-shaven now, and wearing his Life-Cossack dress uniform with an entire icon-screen of crosses and medals pinned to it.
“Your Excellency, senior orderly to Adjutant General Mikhail Dmitrievich Sobolev, Captain Gukmasov!” the officer introduced himself. “Woeful news…” He controlled himself with an effort, twitched his black bandit’s mustache, and continued. “The commander of the Fourth Army Corps arrived yesterday from Minsk en route to his estate in Ryazan and put up at the hotel Dusseaux. This morning Mikhail Dmitrievich was very late leaving his room. We became concerned and began knocking, but he did not answer. Then we ventured to enter, and he…” The captain made one more titanic effort and finally managed to complete his report without allowing his voice to tremble. “The general was sitting in an armchair. Dead. We called a doctor. He said that there was nothing to be done. The body was already cold.”
“Ay, ay, ay,” said the governor, propping his cheek on his palm. “How could it happen? Mikhail Dmitrievich was so young. Not even forty yet, I suppose?”
“He was thirty-eight, not yet thirty-nine,” Gukmasov replied in the same strained voice on the verge of breaking, and began blinking rapidly.
“But what was the cause of death?” asked Karachentsev, frowning. “The general was not unwell, was he?”
“Not in the least. He was perfectly hale and hearty, in excellent spirits. The doctor suspects a stroke or a heart attack.”
“Very well. You may go now, go,” said the prince, dismissing the orderly. He was shaken by the news. “I’ll see to everything and inform His Majesty. Go.” But when the door closed behind the captain, he sighed mournfully. “Ah, gentlemen, now there’ll be a fine to-do. This is a serious business — a man like that, loved and admired by all of Russia. And not only Russia — the whole of Europe knows the White General… and I was planning to call on him today… Petrusha, you send a telegram to His Highness the Emperor; you can work out what needs to be said for yourself. No, show it to me first. And afterward make arrangements for the period of mourning, the funeral and… well, you know all about that. And you, Evgeny Osipovich, maintain order for me. The moment the word spreads, everyone in Moscow will go rushing to the Dusseaux. So make sure that no one gets crushed in the excitement. I know the peop
le of Moscow. You must maintain discipline and decorum.”
The chief of police nodded and picked up a folder from an armchair.
“Permission to leave, Your Excellency?”
“Off you go. Oho, what an uproar there’ll be now, what an uproar,” said the prince, then he started, struck by a sudden thought. “But it is likely, is it not, gentlemen, that His Majesty himself will come? He is certain to come. After all, this is not just anybody, it is the hero of Plevna and Turkestan who has surrendered his soul to God. A knight without fear or reproach, deservingly dubbed the Russian Achilles for his valor. We must prepare the Kremlin Palace. I shall deal with that myself.”
Khurtinsky and Karachentsev started toward the door, intent on carrying out their instructions, but the collegiate assessor remained seated in his armchair as though nothing had happened, regarding the prince with a strange air of bafflement.
“Ah, yes, Erast Petrovich, my dear fellow,” said Dolgorukoi, suddenly remembering the newcomer. “As you can see, I have no time for you just now. You can get your bearings in the meantime. Yes, and stay close at hand. I may have instructions for you. There will be plenty of work for everyone. Oh, what a terrible calamity.”
“But Your Excellency, surely there will be an investigation?” Fan-dorin asked unexpectedly. “Such an important individual. And a strange death. It ought to be looked into.”
“Come now, what investigation?” the prince replied with a frown of annoyance. “I told you, His Majesty will be coming.”
“Nonetheless, I have grounds to suppose that foul play is involved,” the collegiate assessor declared with astounding equanimity.
His calm words produced the impression of an exploding grenade.
“What kind of absurd fantasy is that?” cried Karachentsev, instantly abandoning the slightest shred of sympathy for this young fellow.
“Grounds?” Khurtinsky snapped derisively. “What grounds could you possibly have? How could you possibly know anything at all?”
Without even glancing at the court counselor, Erast Petrovich continued to address the governor.
“By your leave, Your Excellency. I happen by chance to be staying at the Dusseaux. That is one. I knew Mikhail Dmitrievich for a very long time. He always rises at dawn, and it is quite impossible to imagine that the general would remain in bed until such a late hour. His retinue would have become alarmed at six in the morning. That is two. And I saw Captain Gukmasov, whom I also know very well, at half past eight. He was unshaven. That is three.”
Here Fandorin paused significantly, as though the final point were of particular consequence.
“Unshaven? Well, what of it?” the chief of police asked, puzzled.
“The point, Your Excellency, is that never, under any circumstances whatever, could Gukmasov be unshaven at half past eight in the morning. I went through the B-Balkan campaign with that man. He is punctilious to the point of pedantry, and he never left his tent without having shaved, not even if there was no water and he had to melt snow. I suspect that Gukmasov already knew his superior was dead first thing in the morning. If he knew, then why did he keep silent for so long? That is four. This business needs to be investigated. Especially if His M- Majesty is going to be here.”
This final consideration seemed to impress the governor more powerfully than any other.
“What can I say; Erast Petrovich is right,” said the prince, rising to his feet. “This is a matter of state importance. I hereby initiate a secret investigation into the circumstances of the demise of Adjutant General Sobolev. And, clearly, there will also have to be an autopsy. But take care, Evgeny Osipovich, tread carefully, no publicity. There will be rumors enough as it is. Petrusha, you will gather the rumors and report to me personally. The investigation will be led, naturally, by Evgeny Osipovich. Oh, yes, and don’t forget to give instructions to embalm the body. A lot of people will want to say good-bye to their hero, and it is a hot summer. God forbid he should start to smell. And as for you, Erast Petrovich, since the hand of fate has already placed you in the Dusseaux, and since you knew the deceased so well, try to get to the bottom of this business in your own way, acting in a personal capacity, so to speak. It is fortunate that you are not yet known in Moscow. You are, after all, my deputy for special assignments — and what assignment could possibly be more special than this?”
* * *
TWO
In which Fandorin sets about his investigation
Erast Petrovich’s way of setting about his investigation in to the death of the TWO illustrious general and people’s favorite was rather unusual. Having forced his way into the hotel with considerable difficulty, since it was surrounded on all sides by a double cordon of police and grieving Muscovites (from time immemorial, mournful rumors had always spread through the ancient city even more rapidly than the voracious conflagrations of August), the young man, glancing neither to the right nor the left, walked up to suite 20 and flung his uniform cap and sword at his servant without speaking, answering all his questions with a brief nod. Well used to his ways, Masa bowed understandingly and promptly spread out a straw mat on the floor. He respectfully wrapped the short little sword in silk and placed it on the sideboard. Then, without saying a word, he went out into the corridor, stood with his back to the door, and assumed the pose of the fearsome god Fudomyo, the lord of fire. Whenever anybody came walking along the corridor, Masa pressed his finger to his lips, clucked his tongue reproachfully, and pointed either to the closed door or the approximate position of his own navel. As a result, the rumor instantly spread through that floor of the hotel that the occupant of suite 20 was a Chinese princess who was due to give birth, and perhaps she was even giving birth at that very moment.
Meanwhile, Fandorin was sitting absolutely motionless on the mat. His knees were parted, his body was relaxed, his hands were turned with their palms upward. The collegiate assessor’s gaze was directed at his own belly or, more precisely, at the bottom button of his uniform jacket. Somewhere beneath that twin-headed gold eagle there lay the magical tanden, the point that is the source and center of spiritual energy. If he could renounce all thoughts and immerse himself completely in apprehending his own self, then enlightenment would dawn in his spirit and even the most complex and puzzling of problems would appear simple, clear, and soluble. Erast Petrovich strove with all his might for renunciation and enlightenment, a very difficult goal that can only be achieved after long training. His natural liveliness of thought and the restless impatience that it bred made this exercise in inward concentration particularly difficult. But, as Confucius said, the noble man does not follow the road that is easy, but the one that is hard, and therefore Fandorin obstinately continued staring at that accursed button and waiting for something to happen.
At first his thoughts absolutely refused to settle down. On the contrary, they fluttered and thrashed about like little fish in shallow water. But then all external sounds gradually began to recede until they disappeared completely; the fish swam away to seek deeper waters, and his head was filled with swirling fog. Erast Petrovich contemplated the crest on the circle of metal and thought of nothing. A second, a minute, or perhaps even an hour later, the eagle quite suddenly nodded both its heads, the crown began sparkling brightly, and Erast Fandorin roused himself. His plan of action had composed itself of its own accord.
The collegiate assessor’s subsequent movements were confined to the limits of the hotel, following a route from the foyer to the doorman’s lodge to the restaurant. His conversations with the hotel staff occupied somewhat more than an hour or two, and when Erast Petrovich eventually found himself at the door leading into what was already known in the Dusseaux as ‘the Sobolev section,’ it was almost evening; the shadows had lengthened and the sunlight was as thick and syrupy as lime-flower honey.
Fandorin gave his name to the gendarme guarding the entrance to the corridor, and was immediately admitted into a realm of sorrow, where people spoke only in whispers and walked only
on tiptoe. Suite 47, into which the valiant general had moved the previous day, consisted of a drawing room and a bedroom. In the first of these a rather large company of people had gathered: Erast Petrovich saw Karachentsev with high-ranking gendarme officers, the deceased’s adjutants and orderlies, the manager of the hotel, and Sobolev’s valet, Lukich, a character famous throughout the whole of Russia, who was standing in the corner with his nose thrust into the door curtain and sobbing quietly. Everyone kept glancing at the closed door of the bedroom, as if they were waiting for something. The chief of police approached Fandorin and said in a quiet, deep voice, “Welling, the professor of forensic medicine, is performing the autopsy. Seems to be taking a very long time. I wish he’d hurry up.”
As though in response to the general’s wish, the white door with carved lions’ heads gave a sudden jerk and opened with a creak. The drawing room immediately fell silent. A gray-haired gentleman with fat, drooping lips and a disgruntled expression appeared in the doorway, wearing a leather apron surmounted by a glittering enamel Cross of St. Anne.
“Well, now, Your Excellency, of course,” the fat-lipped man — evidently Professor Welling himself — declared gloomily, “I can present my findings.”
The general looked around the room and spoke in a more cheerful voice.
“I shall take in Fandorin, Gukmasov, and you.” He jerked his chin casually in the direction of the hotel manager. “The rest of you please wait here.”
The first thing that Erast Petrovich saw on entering the abode of death was a mirror in a frivolous bronze frame draped with a black shawl. The body of the deceased was not lying on the bed, but on a table that had evidently been brought through from the drawing room. Fandorin glanced at the form vaguely outlined by the white sheet and crossed himself, forgetting about the investigation for a moment as he remembered the handsome, brave, strong man he had once known, who had now been transformed into an indistinct, elongated object.