Erast Fandorin 04 - The Death of Achilles

by Boris Akunin

  The young man’s heart was pounding rapidly. The idea that had occurred to him was new and daringly simple. For all its convenience, communication by telephone, which was rapidly gaining in popularity among the inhabitants of Moscow, was technically far from perfect. It was almost always possible to make out the sense of what was said, but the membrane did not convey the timber and nuances of the voice. In the best case — which was not every time — one could hear if it was a man’s voice or a woman’s, but no more than that. The newspapers wrote that the great inventor Mr. Bell was developing a new model that would transmit sound much more precisely. However, as the wise Chinese saying has it, even imperfections have their charm. Erast Petrovich had not actually heard of anyone pretending to be someone else in a telephone conversation. But why should he not try it?

  The voice in the earpiece was squeaky, interrupted by crackling, not at all like Wanda’s contralto.

  “Kolya, is that you? How delighted I am that you decided to telephone me!”

  Kolya? Delighted? Hmm!

  Wanda shouted through the telephone, running the syllables together.

  “Kolya, you’re in some kind of danger. A man has just been here looking for you.”

  “Who?” asked Fandorin and froze in expectation — now she would give him away.

  But Wanda answered as if it were not that important.

  “Some detective. He is very shrewd and clever. Kolya, he says terrible things about you!”

  “Rubbish,” Erast Petrovich responded curtly, thinking that this femme fatale seemed to be head over heels in love with her gendarme captain of the first guild.

  “Really? Oh, I just knew it! But even so I was terribly upset! Kolya, why are you telephoning? Has something changed?”

  He said nothing, feverishly trying to think of what to say.

  “Are we not going to meet tomorrow-morrow?” An echo had appeared on the line, and Fandorin plugged his other ear with his finger, because it had become difficult to follow Wanda’s rapid speech. “But you promised you wouldn’t go away without saying good-bye-ood-bye! Kolya, why don’t you say something? Is the meeting canceled?”

  “No.” Taking his courage in his hands, he chanced a rather longer phrase. “I only wanted to check that you remembered everything correctly.”

  “What? Check what?”

  Evidently Wanda couldn’t hear very well, either, but that was actually rather helpful.

  “Whether you remember everything!” Fandorin shouted.

  “Yes, yes, of course! The Trinity Inn at six, number seven, from the yard, knock twice, then three times, then twice again. Maybe instead of six we could make it a bit later? I haven’t got up that early in a hundred years.”

  “All right,” said the emboldened collegiate assessor, mentally repeating: six, number seven, from the yard, two-three-two. “At seven. But no later. I’ve got business to deal with.”

  “All right, at seven,” shouted Wanda. The echo and the crackling had suddenly disappeared and her voice came through so clearly that it was almost recognizable. It sounded so happy that Fandorin suddenly felt ashamed.

  “I’m hanging up,” he said.

  “Where are you telephoning from? Where are you?”

  Erast Petrovich thrust the earpiece into its cradle and twirled the handle. Deception by telephone was quite exceptionally simple. He must remember that in the future, in order not to be caught out himself. Perhaps he ought to invent a separate password for every person he spoke to? Well, not for everyone, of course, but for police agents, say, or simply for confidential occasions.

  But he had no time to think about that now.

  He could forget about his house arrest. Now he had something to offer his superiors. At six o’clock the next morning the elusive, almost incorporeal Klonov-Pevtsov would be at a place called the Trinity Inn. God only knew where it was, but in any case Fandorin wouldn’t be able to manage without Karachentsev. This was an arrest that required thorough planning, everything done by the book. Their cunning opponent must not be allowed to get away.

  The house of the chief of police on Tverskoi Boulevard was one of the most elegant sights of Russia’s ancient capital. With a facade overlooking the respectable boulevard where in fine weather the very finest of Moscow society performed its elegant perambulations, the two-story house painted municipal yellow seemed to be watching over and, in a certain sense, blessing the decent, honest folk in their refined and tranquil recreation. Stroll on, my cultured ladies and gentlemen, along this narrow European promenade, breathe in the aroma of lime-tree blossoms, and do not concern yourselves with the snuffling and snorting of this immense semi-Asiatic city, populated for the most part by people who possess neither education nor culture — authority is close at hand, here it stands, on guard over civilization and order; authority never sleeps.

  Erast Petrovich was granted an opportunity to ascertain the veracity of this claim when he rang at the door of the famous mansion shortly before midnight. The door was opened not by a footman but by a gendarme with a sword and a revolver, who listened austerely to what the nocturnal visitor had to say, but uttered not a single word in reply and left him standing there on the doorstep — after summoning the duty adjutant with an electric bell. Fortunately, the adjutant proved to be a familiar face — Captain Sverchinsky. He had no difficulty in recognizing the foreign-looking gentleman as the ragged beggar who had caused such a commotion in the department that morning, and was instantly politeness itself. It emerged that Karachentsev was taking his usual stroll along the boulevard before retiring for the night; he was fond of his bedtime walk and never missed it in any weather, not even if it was raining.

  Erast Petrovich went out onto the boulevard and walked in the direction of the bronze statue of Pushkin, and there, strolling toward him at a leisurely pace, he did indeed see a familiar figure in a long cavalry greatcoat with the hood pulled forward over his forehead. The instant the collegiate assessor began to dash toward the general, two silent shadows appeared out of nowhere at his sides, as if they had sprung up out of the ground, and two equally determined silhouettes appeared behind the police chief’s back. Erast Petrovich shook his head: So much for the illusory solitude of a high state official in the age of political terrorism. Not a single step without guards. Good God, what was Russia coming to?

  The shadows had already taken Collegiate Assessor Fandorin by the arms — gently but firmly.

  “Erast Petrovich, I was just thinking about you!” Karachentsev declared happily and then shouted at the agents: “Shoo, shoo! Would you believe it, out stretching my legs and thinking about you. Couldn’t sit still under house arrest, eh?”

  “I’m afraid n-not, Your Excellency. Let us go inside, Evgeny Osipovich, there is no time to waste.”

  Asking no questions, the chief of police immediately turned toward the house. He walked with broad strides, every now and then glancing sideways at his companion.

  They went through into a spacious oval office, and sat down facing each other at a long table covered with green baize. Karachentsev shouted: “Sverchinsky, stand outside the door! I might be needing you!”

  When the leather-bound door silently closed, Karachentsev asked impatiently: “Well, what is it? Have you picked up the trail?”

  “Better,” Fandorin informed him. “I have found the criminal. In person. M-may I smoke?”

  The collegiate assessor puffed on a cigar as he related the results of his investigations.

  Karachentsev’s frown grew deeper and deeper. Having heard the story out, he scratched his high forehead anxiously and tossed back a stray lock of ginger hair.

  “And what do you make of this enigma?”

  Erast Petrovich shook a long tip of ash off his cigar.

  “Sobolev was planning some bold political initiative. Possibly an eighteenth- century-style coup. What the Germans call a putsch. You know yourself how popular Mikhail Dmitrievich was with the army and the people. Respect for our supreme authority has n
ever been so low… But I don’t need to tell you that; you have the entire Department of Gendarmes working for you, gathering rumors.”

  The chief of police nodded.

  “I know nothing of any conspiracy as such,” said Fandorin. “Either Sobolev saw himself in the role of Napoleon or — which is more likely — he intended to place one of the emperor’s relatives on the throne. I do not know, and I do not wish to guess. In any case, for our purposes, it is not important.”

  At that Karachentsev merely jerked his head and unbuttoned his gold- embroidered collar. Beads of sweat stood out above the bridge of the police chief’s nose.

  “In any case, our Achilles was planning something really serious,” the collegiate assessor continued, as if he had noticed nothing, and blew an elegant stream of smoke, a sheer delight to behold, up toward the ceiling. “However, Sobolev had certain secret, powerful opponents who were informed about his plans. Klonov, alias Pevtsov, is their man. The anti-Sobolev party decided to use him to get rid of the self-appointed Bonaparte, but quietly, with no fuss, imitating a natural death. And it was done. The executioner was assisted by our f-friend Khurtinsky, who had links with the anti-Sobolev party; indeed all the signs indicate that he represented their interests in Moscow.”

  “Not so fast, Erast Petrovich,” the chief of police implored him. “My head is spinning. What party? Where? Right here, in the Ministry of Internal Affairs?”

  Fandorin shrugged.

  “Very possibly. In any case, your boss Count Tolstov has to be involved. Remember the letter in justification of Khurtinsky, and the telegram shielding Pevtsov. Khurtinsky made a real mess of the job. The court counselor was too greedy — he was tempted by Sobolev’s million rubles and decided that he could combine business with pleasure. But the central figure in this entire story is undoubtedly the blond man with the pale eyes.”

  At this point Erast Petrovich started, struck by a new idea.

  “Wait now… Perhaps everything is even more complicated than that! Why, of course!”

  Fandorin leapt to his feet and began walking rapidly from one corner of the study to the other — Karachentsev merely watched him striding to and fro, afraid to interrupt the flow of the sagacious functionary’s thoughts.

  “The minister of the interior couldn’t have organized the murder of Adjutant General Sobolev, no matter what he was planning. That’s sheer nonsense!” Erast Petrovich was so excited that he had even stopped stammering. “Our Klonov is very probably not the Captain Pevtsov about whom Count Tolstov writes. Probably there is no genuine Pevtsov. This business smacks of a cunning intrigue, planned in such a way that if things were to go wrong, all the blame could be shifted onto your department!” the collegiate assessor fantasized wildly. “Yes, that’s it, that’s it.”

  He clapped his hands rapidly several times and the general, who was listening intently, almost leapt into the air.

  “Let us assume that the minister knows about Sobolev’s conspiracy and arranges to have the general followed in secret. That is one. Someone else also knows about the conspiracy and wants Sobolev killed. That is two. Unlike the minister, this other person, or more probably, these other people, whom we shall call the counterconspirators, are not bound by the law and are pursuing their own goals.”

  “What goals?” the chief of police asked in a weak voice, totally confused.

  “Probably power,” Fandorin replied casually. “What other goals can there be when intrigue unfolds at such a high level? The counter-conspirators had at their disposal an exceptionally inventive and enterprising agent, who is known to us as Klonov. There is no doubt that he is certainly no merchant. He is an exceptional man with quite incredible abilities. Invisible, elusive, invulnerable. Omnipresent — he has always appeared everywhere ahead of the two of us and struck the first blow. Even though we ourselves acted rapidly, he has always left us looking like fools.”

  “But what if he really is an officer of the gendarmes acting with the sanction of the minister?” asked Karachentsev. “What if the elimination of Sobolev was sanctioned from the very top? I beg your pardon, Erast Petrovich, but you and I are professionals, and we know perfectly well that the protection of state secrets sometimes involves resorting to unorthodox methods.”

  “But then why was it necessary to steal the briefcase, especially from the Department of Gendarmes?” Fandorin asked with a shrug. “The briefcase was already in the Department of Gendarmes, and you would have forwarded it to St. Petersburg by the appropriate channels, to Count Tolstov himself. No, the ministry has nothing to do with this business. And then killing a national hero — that’s not quite as simple as strangling some General Pichegru in his prison cell. How could they raise their hand against Mikhail Dmitrievich Sobolev? Without benefit of trial and due process? No, Evgeny Osipovich, even with all the imperfections of our state authorities, that would be going too far. I can’t believe it.”

  “Yes, you’re right,” Karachentsev admitted.

  “And then the facility with which Klonov commits his murders does not look much like state service.”

  The chief of police raised his hand.

  “Hang on now, don’t get carried away. What murders exactly? We still don’t know whether Sobolev was killed or died of natural causes. The conclusion of the autopsy was that he died.”

  “No, he was killed,” retorted Erast Petrovich. “Although it is not clear how the traces of the crime were concealed. If we had known at the time what we know now, we might possibly have instructed Professor Welling to conduct a more exhaustive investigation. He was, after all, convinced beforehand that death had occurred due to natural causes, and initial assumptions always determine a great deal. And then…” The collegiate assessor halted, facing the general. “It didn’t stop with Sobolev’s death. Klonov has blocked off every possible trail. I’m sure that Knabe’s mysterious death is his work. Judge for yourself — why would the Germans kill an officer of their own general staff, even if they were seriously alarmed? That’s not the way things are done in civilized countries. If worst came to worst, they would have forced him to shoot himself. But stab him in the side with a butcher’s knife? Incredible! For Klonov, however, the death would have been most timely — you and I were quite convinced that the case had been solved. If the briefcase with the million rubles had not turned up, we should have closed the investigation. The sudden death of the koelner from the hotel Metropole is also extremely suspicious. Clearly, the only mistake that the unfortunate Timofei Spiridonovich made was to help Klonov locate the agent he needed, Wanda. Ah, Evgeny Osipovich, everything looks suspicious to me now!” exclaimed Fandorin. “Even the way Little Misha died. Even Khurtinsky’s suicide!”

  “That’s taking things too far,” said the police chief, pulling a wry face. “What about the suicide note?”

  “Can you put your hand on your heart and tell me that Pyotr Par-tnyonovich would have laid hands on himself if he were threatened with exposure? Was he such a great man of honor then?”

  “Yes indeed, it is hardly likely.” Now it was Karachentsev who leapt to his feet and began striding along the wall. “He would be more likely to try to escape. Judging from the documents that we discovered in his safe, the dead man had an account in a bank in Zurich. And if he didn’t manage to escape, he would have begged for mercy and tried to bribe the judges. I know his kind — very concerned for their own skin. And Khurtinsky would most likely have got hard labor rather than the gallows. But even so, the note is written in his hand, there is no doubt about that.”

  “What frightens me most of all is that in every case either no suspicion of murder arises at all or, as in the case of Knabe or Little Misha, it is laid very firmly at someone else’s door — in the first case, German agents, and in the second, Fiska. That is a sign of supreme professionalism,” said Erast Petrovich, hooding his eyes. “There is just one thing I can’t make any sense of — why he would have left Wanda alive… By the way, Evgeny Osipovich, we need to send a detail for h
er immediately and get her out of the Anglia. What if the real Klonov should telephone her? Or even worse, decide to correct his incomprehensible oversight?”

  “Sverchinsky!” the general shouted and left the reception room to issue instructions.

  When he returned, the collegiate assessor was standing in front of a map of the city that was hanging on the wall and running his finger across it.

  “This Trinity Inn — where is it?” he asked.

  “The Trinity Inn is a block of apartments on Pokrovka Street, not far from Holy Trinity Church. Here it is,” said the general, pointing. “Khokhlovsky Lane. At one time there actually was a monastery inn there, but now it’s a labyrinth of annexes and extensions, semi-slums. The apartments are usually just called the Trinity. Not a salubrious area, only a stone’s throw from the Khitrovka slums. But the people who live in the Trinity are not entirely lost souls — actresses, milliners, ruined businessmen. Tenants don’t stay there for long: They either scramble their way back up into society or fall even lower, into the Khitrovka abyss.”

  As he gave this lengthy answer to a simple question, Karachentsev was thinking about something else, and it was clear that he was having difficulty reaching a decision. When the chief of police finished speaking, there was a pause. Erast Petrovich realized that the conversation was entering its most crucial phase.

  “Naturally, this is an extremely risky step to take, Evgeny Osipovich,” the collegiate assessor said quietly. “If my suppositions are mistaken, you could ruin your career, and you are an ambitious man. But I have come to you, and not to Prince Dolgorukoi, because he would definitely not wish to take the risk. He is too cautious — that is the effect of his age. On the other hand, his position is also less delicate than yours. In any case, the ministry has plotted and intrigued behind your back and — pardon my bluntness — assigned you the role of a dummy hand in the game. Count Tolstov did not think it possible to initiate you, the head of the Moscow police, into the details of the Sobolev case, and yet he trusted Khurtinsky, a dishonorable individual and a criminal to boot. Someone more cunning than the minister has conducted a successful operation of his own here. You were not involved in all these events, but in the final analysis responsibility will be laid at your door. I am afraid that it will be you who foots the bill for damaged goods. And the most annoying thing of all is that you will still not find out who it was that damaged them and why. In order to understand the true meaning of this intrigue, you have to catch Klonov. Then you will be holding an ace.”