by Boris Akunin
Khurtinsky stood up.
“Amen to that. Now, gentlemen, you can finish up here, and with your permission I shall take my leave. His Excellency is waiting for my report.”
It was well after midnight when Erast Petrovich reached the hotel. Masa was in the corridor, standing motionless in front of the door.
“Master, she is here again,” the Japanese declared laconically.
“Who?”
“The woman in black. She came and she does not leave. I looked in the dictionary and said that I did not know when you would come back: “Master not here now. Here later.” She sat down and is still sitting. She has been sitting three hours, and I have been standing here.”
With a sigh, Erast Petrovich opened the door slightly and peered in through the gap. Sitting by the table with her hands folded on her knees was a golden-haired young woman in a mourning dress and a wide-brimmed hat with a black veil. He could see the long eyelashes lowered over her eyes, a thin, slightly aquiline nose, the delicate oval outline of her face. Hearing the door creak, the stranger raised her eyes and Fandorin froze when he saw how beautiful they were. Instinctively recoiling from the door, the collegiate assessor hissed: “Masa, but you said she was old. She’s no more than twenty-five!”
“European women look so old,” said Masa, shaking his head. “And anyway, master, is twenty-five years young?”
“You said she was ugly!”
“She is ugly, the poor thing. Yellow hair, a big nose, and watery eyes — just like yours, master.”
“I see,” whispered Erast Petrovich, stung. “So you’re the only handsome one here, are you?”
And, heaving another deep sigh, but this time for a quite different reason, he entered the room.
“Mr. Fandorin?” asked the young woman, rising abruptly. “You are conducting the investigation into the circumstances of Mikhail Dmitrievich Sobolev’s death, are you not? Gukmasov told me.”
Erast Petrovich bowed without speaking and gazed into the stranger’s face. The combination of willpower and fragility, intelligence and femininity was one not often seen in the features of a young woman’s face. Indeed, this lady was somehow strangely reminiscent of Wanda, except that there was not the slightest sign of cruelty or cynical mockery in the line of her mouth.
The night visitor walked up close to the young man, looked into his eyes, and in a voice trembling from either suppressed tears or fury, asked: “Are you aware that Mikhail Dmitrievich was murdered?”
Fandorin frowned.
“Yes, yes, he was murdered.” The girl’s eyes glinted feverishly. “Because of that accursed briefcase!”
* * *
SEVEN
In which everyone mourns and Fandorin wastes his time
From early on Sunday morning, the incessant pealing drifted across a tranquil sky, bleached almost white by brilliant sunlight. The day seemed to have turned out fine, and the golden onion domes of the innumerable churches shone so brightly that it made you blink to look at them. But the heart of this city sprawling across the low hills was filled with a chill anguish, and there was a doleful and despondent cadence to the constant droning of those far-famed bells — today the grieving people of Moscow were praying for the eternal repose of the recently departed servant of God, Mikhail.
The deceased had lived for a long time in St. Petersburg and only made brief, flying visits to Russia’s ancient capital, and yet Moscow had loved him more intensely than had cold, bureaucratic Peter, loved him with a devoted, womanly love, without sparing too much thought for the true virtues of its idol — it was enough that he was dashingly handsome and famed for his victories. And above all Sobolev was beloved of Muscovites because in him they sensed a genuine Russian soul, untainted by foreign arrogance and duplicity. This was the reason why lithographs of the bushy-bearded White General wielding his keen-edged saber hung in almost every house in Moscow, whether the inhabitants were minor functionaries, merchants, or bourgeois.
The city had not manifested such great grief even in March of the previous year, when the requiem was held for the treacherously slain emperor Alexander the Liberator, after which people had worn mourning for a whole year, without dressing up smartly, or organizing any festivities, or styling their hair or staging any comedies in the theaters.
Long before the funeral procession set out across the center of the city to Krasnye Vorota, where the requiem was due to be celebrated in the Church of the Three Hierarchs, the pavements, windows, balconies, and even roofs along Theater Lane, Lubyanka Street, and Myasnitskaya Street were thronged with hordes of spectators. Little boys perched in trees, and the most audacious of them even clung to drainpipes. The forces of the city garrison and cadets from the Alexander and Junker colleges were drawn up in ranks that lined the entire route to be traveled by the hearse. The funeral train — fifteen carriages decorated all over with flags, St. George crosses, and oak leaves — was already waiting at the Ryazan Station. Since St. Petersburg had chosen not to bid farewell to the hero, it was Mother Russia herself who would say the final good-bye, and her heart lay midway between Moscow and Ryazan, where the White General would finally be laid to rest in the village of Spasskoe in the district of Ranenburg.
The procession extended for a good verst. There were more than twenty velvet cushions bearing the orders and decorations of the deceased, with the Star of St. George, first class, carried by the commander of the St. Petersburg military district, General of Infantry Ganetsky. And the wreaths, all those wreaths! A huge one from the traders of Okhotny Ryad, and from the English Club, and the Moscow Bourgeois Council, and the Cavaliers of St. George — far too many to list them all. The hearse — a gun carriage covered with crimson velvet and surmounted by a canopy of gold — was preceded by heralds on horseback bearing inverted torches and the masters of ceremonies — the governor-general of Moscow and war minister. The coffin was followed by a solitary rider on a black Arabian steed — the brother and personal representative of the sovereign, Grand Duke Kirill Alexandrovich. Behind him came Sobolev’s famous snow-white Akhaltekin, draped with a black blanket of mourning, with adjutants leading him by the bridle. Then came the guard of honor, marching in slow time, carrying yet more wreaths, more modest in size, and the most important guests, walking along with their heads uncovered — high officials, generals, members of the Municipal Duma, financial magnates. It was a magnificent, quite incomparable spectacle.
Then, as though suddenly ashamed of its misplaced brightness, the June sunshine hid itself behind dark clouds. The day turned gray, and when the procession reached Krasnye Vorota, where a hundred thousand mourners stood sobbing and crossing themselves, a fine, miserable drizzle began to fall. Nature was finally in harmony with the mood of human society.
Fandorin squeezed his way through the dense crowd, trying to find the chief of police. He had gone to the general’s home on Tverskoi Boulevard shortly after seven, when it was barely light, but he had come too late — they told him that His Excellency had already left for the hotel Dusseaux. This was serious business, a special day, and a great responsibility. And everything depended on Evgeny Osipovich.
Then a string of misfortunes had followed. At the door of the hotel Dusseaux, a captain of gendarmes informed Erast Petrovich that the general “was here just this minute and went galloping off to the department.” But Karachentsev was not at the department on Malaya Nikitskaya Street, either — he had dashed away to restore order in front of the church, where people were in danger of being crushed.
Of course, Erast Petrovich’s urgent little matter of vital importance could have been decided by the governor-general. There was no need to search for him — there he was, clearly visible from all sides, at the very head of the procession, perched on his dappled-gray horse with a seat as firm as a bronze Cavalry Guard. No point in trying to get anywhere near him.
In the Church of the Three Hierarchs, which Fandorin was only able to enter thanks to the timely appearance of the prince’s secretary, thin
gs were no better. By applying the science of the ‘stealthy ones,’ Erast Petrovich was able to squeeze his way through almost to the very coffin, but there the backs closed together in a sheer, impenetrable wall. Vladimir Andreevich Dolgorukoi, with a solemn face and pomaded hair, his bulging eyes moist with old man’s tears, was standing nearby with the Grand Duke and the Duke of Liechtenburg. It was absolutely impossible to talk with him, and even if it had been possible, at that moment it was unlikely that he would have appreciated the urgency of the matter.
Furious in his helplessness, Fandorin listened to the touching sermon by the Reverend Amvrosii, who was expounding the inscrutability of the ways of the Lord. A pale and agitated young cadet declaimed a long verse epitaph in a ringing voice, concluding with the words:
And did not he our foemen proud Inspire with dread and trepidation? Though his remains lie in the ground, His spirit lives, our inspiration. Not for the first time, or even the second, everybody there shed a tear, shuffling their feet and reaching for their handkerchiefs. The ceremony proceeded with a lack of haste that befitted the occasion.
And meanwhile precious time was slipping away.
The previous night Fandorin had been informed of circumstances that cast an entirely new light on the case. His nighttime visitor, whom his servant, unaccustomed to the European canon of beauty, had considered old and ugly, while his romantically inclined master had thought her intriguing and quite lovely, had proved to be a teacher at the girls’ secondary school in Minsk, Ekaterina Alexandrovna Golovina. Despite her frail frame and clearly agitated emotional state, Ekaterina Alexandrovna had expressed herself with a resoluteness and directness most untypical of secondary-school teachers — either it was her natural manner, or grief had hardened her.
“Mr. Fandorin,” she began, enunciating every syllable with deliberate clarity, “I should explain to you immediately the nature of the relationship that bound me to the, the… deceased.” It was almost impossible for her to get the word out. A line of suffering creased her high, clear forehead, but her voice did not tremble. A Spartan woman, thought Erast Petrovich, a genuine Spartan. “Otherwise you will not understand why I know what no one else does, not even Mikhail Dmitrievich’s closest aides. Michel and I loved each other.” Miss Golovina looked inquiringly at Fandorin and, evidently unsatisfied by the politely attentive expression on his face, felt it necessary to clarify the point. “I was his lover.”
Ekaterina Alexandrovna pressed her clenched fists to her breast, and at that moment Fandorin thought once again that she resembled Wanda; when she was speaking about her free love, there was that same expression of defiance and expectation of being insulted. The collegiate assessor continued looking at the young lady in exactly the same way — politely and without the slightest hint of condemnation. She sighed and explained to the dolt one more time: “We lived as man and wife, you understand? And so he was more open with me than with others.”
“I understand that, madam, please do go on,” said Erast Petrovich, opening his mouth for the first time.
“But surely you know that Michel had a lawful wife,” said Ekaterina Alexandrovna, still feeling the need to elaborate, making it clear from her entire bearing that she wished to avoid leaving anything unsaid and was not in the least ashamed of her status.
“I know, the Princess Titova by birth. However, she and Mikhail Dmitrievich separated a long time ago, and she has not even come for the funeral. Tell me about the briefcase.”
“Yes, yes,” said Golovina, suddenly confused. “But let me start at the beginning. Because first I must explain. A month ago, Michel and I had a quarrel…” She blushed. “In fact, we parted and did not see each other again. He left for maneuvers, then came back to Minsk for a day and then immediately—”
“I am aware of Mikhail Dmitrievich’s movements over the last month,” Fandorin said politely but firmly, redirecting his visitor to the main theme.
She hesitated, then suddenly said very clearly: “But are you aware, sir, that in May Michel cashed in all his shares and securities, drew all the money out of his accounts, mortgaged his Ryazan estate, and also took a large loan from a bank?”
“What for?” asked Erast Petrovich, frowning.
Ekaterina Alexandrovna lowered her gaze.
“That I do not know. He had some secret business that was very important to him, which he did not wish to tell me about. I was angry, we quarreled… I never shared Michel’s political views — Russia for the Russians, a united Slavdom, our own non-European path, and similar preposterous nonsense. Our final and conclusive quarrel was also caused in part by this. But there was something else. I sensed that I was no longer at the center of his life. There was something new in it, more important than me…” She blushed. “Or perhaps, not something, but someone… Well, that is all immaterial. The truly important thing is something else.” Golovina lowered her voice. “All the money was in a briefcase that Michel bought in Paris during his tour in February. Brown leather, with two silver locks with little keys.”
Fandorin half-closed his eyes as he tried to remember if there had been a briefcase like that among the dead man’s things during the search of suite 47. No, definitely not.
“He told me he would need the money for a trip to Moscow and St. Petersburg,” the teacher continued. “The trip was due to take place at the end of June, immediately after the maneuvers were over. You did not find the briefcase among his things, did you?”
Erast Petrovich shook his head.
“And Gukmasov says that the briefcase disappeared. Michel never let go of it, and in the hotel room he locked it in the safe — Gukmasov saw him do it. But then afterward, after… when Prokhor Akhrameevich opened the safe, there was nothing in it except a few papers; the briefcase wasn’t there. Gukmasov didn’t make anything of it, because he was in a state of shock, and anyway he had no idea what a huge sum the briefcase contained.”
“What was th-the sum?”
“To the best of my knowledge, more than a million rubles,” Ekaterina Alexandrovna said quietly.
Erast Petrovich whistled in surprise, for which he immediately apologized. This was decidedly ominous news. Secret business? What sort of secret business could an adjutant general, general of infantry, and corps commander have? And what kind of papers had been lying in the safe? When Fandorin looked into the safe in the presence of the chief of police, it was completely empty. Why had Gukmasov felt it necessary to conceal the papers from the police? This was very serious. And, most important of all, the sum was huge, quite incredibly huge. What could Sobolev have needed it for? And the key question — where had it gone?
Peering into the collegiate assessor’s preoccupied face, Ekaterina Alexandrovna spoke quickly and passionately.
“He was murdered, I know it. Because of that accursed million rubles. And then somehow they faked a death from natural causes. Michel was strong, a true warrior, his heart would have withstood a hundred years of battles and turmoil — it was made for turmoil.”
“Yes,” said Erast Petrovich, with a sympathetic nod. “That is what everybody says.”
“That is why I did not insist on marriage,” said Golovina, without listening to him. Bright pink now from the turbulence of her emotions, she continued: “I felt that I had no right, that his mission in life was different, that he could not belong just to one woman, and I didn’t want the leftover crumbs… My God, what am I saying! Forgive me.” She put her hand over her eyes and after that spoke more slowly, with an effort. “When the telegram from Gukmasov arrived yesterday, I dashed to the railway station immediately. Even then I didn’t believe in this ‘paralysis of the heart,’ and when I learned that the briefcase had disappeared… He was murdered, there can be no doubt about it.” She suddenly seized hold of Fandorin’s arm, and he was amazed at how much strength there was in her slim fingers. “Find the murderer! Prokhor Akhrameevich says that you are an analytical genius, that you can do anything. Do it! He couldn’t have died of heart failure! You d
idn’t know that man as I did!”
At this point she finally began weeping bitterly, thrusting her face against the collegiate assessor’s chest like a child. As he awkwardly embraced the young woman around the shoulders, Erast Petrovich remembered how only recently he had embraced Wanda, in quite different circumstances. Identically frail, defenseless shoulders, an identical scent from the hair. It seemed clear now why the general had been attracted to the songstress — she must have reminded the general of his love in Minsk.
“Naturally, I didn’t know him as you did,” Fandorin said gently. “But I did know Mikhail Dmitrievich well enough to doubt that his death was natural. A man of that kind does not die a natural death.”
Erast Petrovich seated the young woman, still shuddering and sobbing, in an armchair and he himself began walking around the room. Suddenly he clapped his hands loudly eight times. Ekaterina Alexandrovna started and stared at the young man through eyes gleaming with tears.
“Pay no attention,” Fandorin hastened to reassure her. “It is an oriental exercise to aid concentration. Very helpful in setting aside what is merely incidental and focusing on the fundamental. Let’s go.”
He strode resolutely out into the corridor and Golovina, dumbfounded by the suddenness of it, dashed after him. As he went, Erast Petrovich spoke rapidly to Masa, who was waiting behind the door.
“Get the travel bag with the tools and catch up with us.”
Thirty seconds later, as Fandorin and his companion were still descending the staircase, the Japanese was already at their heels, walking with small, quick steps and panting at his master’s back. In one hand the servant was holding the travel bag in which all the tools required for an investigation were kept — numerous items that the detective found useful and even vital.