by Boris Akunin
As he tossed chips with ever-longer strings of zeros onto the table, he recalled an incident from his American period.
It was 1866, and he had received a substantial commission from Louisiana. He had to eliminate the commissioner of the federal government, who was interfering with the sharing-out of various concessions by the carpetbaggers — enterprising adventurers from the North who came to the conquered South with nothing but an empty travel bag and left in their own personal Pullman cars.
Those were troubled times in Louisiana and human life was cheap. But the money offered for eliminating the commissioner was good, because it was very difficult to get close to him. The commissioner knew that he was being hunted down, and he behaved wisely, never leaving his residence at all. He slept, ate, and signed all his documents within the same four walls. His residence was guarded day and night by soldiers in blue uniforms.
Achimas put up at a hotel located three hundred paces from the commissioner’s residence — he was unable to secure anything closer. From his room he could see the window of the commissioner’s study. Every morning at precisely half past seven his target opened the curtains. This action took three seconds — not enough time to get a decent aim at such a great distance. The window was divided into two parts by the broad upright of the frame. An additional difficulty was caused by the fact that when the commissioner drew back the curtains, he stood either slightly to the right or slightly to the left of the upright. There would be only one chance to get off a shot — if Achimas missed, then he could forget about the job, because he wouldn’t get a second opportunity. Absolute certainty was imperative.
There were only two possibilities: The target would be either on the right or on the left. Then let it be the right, Achimas decided. What difference did it make? The long-barreled rifle with its stock gripped tight in a vice was trained on a spot six inches to the right of the upright, at exactly the height of a man’s chest. The most certain way would have been to set up two rifles, aiming to the right and the left, but that would have required an assistant, and in those years (and still even now, except in cases of extreme need) Achimas preferred to manage without help from anyone else.
The bullet was a special one that exploded on impact, unfolding its petals to release the essence of ptomaine within. It was enough for even the tiniest particle to enter the blood to render the very slightest of wounds fatal.
Everything was ready. On the first morning the commissioner approached the window from the left. Likewise on the second. Achimas did not try to hurry things. He knew that tomorrow or the next day the curtains would be pulled back from the right, and then he would press the trigger.
It was as if someone had cast a spell on the commissioner. From the very day that the sights were set, for six days running he parted the curtains from the left, not once from the right.
Achimas decided that his target must have established a routine, and he shifted his sights to a spot six inches left of center. Then on the seventh day the commissioner made his approach from the right! And again on the eighth day, and the ninth.
That was when Achimas realized that in a game played against blind chance the most important thing was not to get flustered. He waited patiently. On the eleventh morning the commissioner made his approach from the required direction, and the job was done.
Likewise last Christmas, at the seventeenth spin of the wheel, when his stake had risen to sixty-five thousand, the ball had finally landed where it should, and the house had paid out almost two hundred thousand to Achimas. His winnings had covered all the stakes that he had lost and left him slightly ahead of the game.
* * *
TWO
That September morning in 1872 had begun as usual. Achimas and Azalea had breakfasted alone together. She was a slim, loose-limbed Chinese girl with a remarkable voice like a small crystal bell. Her real name was something different, but in Chinese it meant ‘Azalea’ — or so the agency had informed him. She had been sent to Achimas on approval, as a sample of the oriental goods that had only recently begun to appear on the European market. The price asked was only half of the usual, and if Monsieur Welde wished to return the girl early, his money would be refunded. In exchange for such preferential conditions the agency had requested him, as a connoisseur and regular client, to give his authoritative opinion both on Azalea’s abilities and the prospects for yellow goods in general.
Achimas was inclined to award her the highest possible rating. In the mornings, when Azalea sang quietly to herself as she sat in front of the Venetian mirror, Achimas felt a strange tightness in his chest, and he did not like the feeling. The Chinese girl was simply too good. What if he were to grow accustomed to her and not wish to let her go? He had already decided that he would send her back ahead of time. But he would not demand a refund and he would give the girl excellent references, in order not to spoil her career.
Following his invariable custom, that afternoon Achimas entered the gaming hall at two-fifteen precisely. He was wearing a jacket the color of cocoa with milk, checked trousers, and yellow gloves. Attendants came dashing up to take the regular client’s cane and top hat. Herr Welde was a very familiar figure in the gambling houses of Ruletenburg. At first his manner of gambling had been accepted begrudgingly as an inevitable evil, but then they had noticed that the constant doubling-up of the stake practiced by the taciturn blond with the cold, pale eyes inflamed the passions of his neighbors at the table. Achimas had then become a most welcome guest.
He drank his usual coffee with liqueur and looked through the newspapers. England and Russia could not reach an agreement over customs duties. France was delaying the payment of reparations and in response Bismarck had sent a threatening diplomatic note to Paris. In Belgium the trial of the Pied Piper of Brussels was just about to begin.
After he had smoked a cigar, Achimas went over to table 12, where they were playing for high stakes.
There were three players and a gray-haired gentleman simply sitting there, nervously clicking the lid of his gold watch. Catching sight of Achimas, he fastened his eyes on him like limpets. Experience and intuition told Achimas that he was a client. His presence here was not accidental; he was waiting. But Achimas gave the gentleman no sign — let him make the first approach.
Eight and a half minutes later the required third of the wheel had been selected — the last one, from 24 to 36. Achimas staked a Friedrichs-dor. He won three. The gray-haired man kept on watching. His face was pale. Achimas waited for another eleven minutes before the next sector was determined. He staked a gold coin on the first third, from 1 to 12. Number 13 came up. The second time he staked two gold coins. Zero came up. He staked four gold coins. Number 8 came up. He had won twelve Friedrichsdors and was now five gold coins to the good. Everything was proceeding as usual, with no surprises. At this point the gray- haired man finally stood up. He came over and inquired in a low voice: “Mr. Welde?” Achimas nodded, continuing to follow the spinning of the wheel. “I have come to you on the recommendation of the Baron de —.” The gray-haired man named Achimas’s intermediary in Brussels. He was becoming more and more agitated and lowered his voice to a whisper as he explained. “I have a very important matter to discuss with you.”
“Would you perhaps care to take a stroll?” Achimas interrupted, slipping the gold coins into his purse.
The gray-haired gentleman proved to be Leon Fechtel, the owner of a banking house famous throughout Europe — Fechtel and Fechtel. The banker had a serious problem. “Have you read about the Pied Piper of Brussels?” he asked when they were seated on a bench in the park.
All the newspapers were full of the story: The maniac who had been kidnapping little girls had been captured at last. The Petit Parisien said that the police had arrested ‘Mr. F.,’ the owner of a suburban villa outside Brussels. The gardener reported that he had heard the muffled groans of children coming from the basement at night. When the police entered the house in secret, in the course of their search they had di
scovered a concealed door in the basement, and behind it things so horrible that the newspaper claimed ‘paper could never bear the description of this monstrous scene’. The scene was, however, described in lurid detail in the very next paragraph. In several oak barrels the police had discovered pickled parts of the bodies of seven of the little girls who had disappeared in Brussels and its environs during the previous two years. One body was still quite fresh and it bore the traces of indescribable tortures. In recent years fourteen girls ages six to thirteen had disappeared without a trace. On several occasions people had seen a respectably dressed gentleman with thick black sideburns offering a seat in his carriage to little flower girls or cigarette girls. On one occasion a witness had actually heard the man with sideburns urging the eleven-year-old flower girl Lucille Lanoux to bring her entire basket of flowers to his house and promising that if she did, he would show her a mechanical piano that played wonderful melodies all on its own. This was the occasion that had prompted the newspapers to stop calling the monster ‘Blue Beard’ and christen him ‘the Pied Piper of Brussels,’ by analogy with the fairy-tale Pied Piper who had lured the children of Hamlin away with the music of his magical flute.
Concerning the prisoner, Mr. R, it was reported that he was a member of the gilded youth from the very highest social circles, that he did indeed possess thick black sideburns, and that he had a mechanical piano at his villa. The motive for the crimes was clear, wrote the Evening Standard — it was perverted sensual gratification in the manner of the Marquis de Sade. The date and location of the court hearing had already been determined: the twenty-fourth of September in the little town of Merlain, only half an hour’s journey from the Belgian capital.
“I have read about the Pied Piper of Brussels,” said Achimas, with an impatient glance at the banker, who had said nothing for a long time. Wringing his plump hands spangled with rings, Fechtel exclaimed: “Mr. F. is my only son, Pierre Fechtel! He is destined for the gallows! Save him!”
“You have been misinformed about the nature of my activities. I do not save life, I take it away,” said Achimas, smiling with his thin lips. The banker whispered fervently: “They told me that you work miracles. If you will not take this job, then there is no hope. I implore you. I will pay. I am a very rich man, Mr. Welde, very rich.”
After a pause Achimas asked: “Are you certain that you even want such a son?” Fechtel senior replied without hesitation; it was clear that he had already asked himself that question. “I have no other son and never shall have. He was always rather wild as a boy, but he has a kind heart. If I can only extricate him from this business, he will learn a lesson that will last for the rest of his life. I have been to see him in prison. He is so frightened!”
Then Achimas asked the banker to tell him about the forthcoming trial.
The ‘rather wild’ heir was to be defended by two extremely expensive lawyers. The line of defense was based on proving that the accused was insane. However, according to the banker, the chances of a favorable verdict from the medical experts were slim — they were so obdurately set against the boy that they would not even agree to an unprecedentedly high fee. This latter circumstance had apparently astounded Fechtel senior more than any other.
On the first day of the trial the lawyers had to announce whether their client admitted his guilt. If he did, sentence would be pronounced by a judge; if he did not, the verdict would be delivered by a jury. If the conclusion of the psychiatric examination was that Pierre Fechtel was responsible for his own actions, the defense lawyers had recommended choosing the first route.
The inconsolable father explained angrily that the hangmen in the Ministry of Justice had deliberately chosen Merlain for the trial — three of the girls who had disappeared had lived in the little town. “There can be no fair trial in Merlain,” the banker complained. The population of the small town was in a state of high fever. At night they lit bonfires around the court building. The day before yesterday a crowd had tried to break into the prison and tear the suspect to pieces — they had had to treble the guard.
Mr. Fechtel had conducted secret negotiations with the judge, and he had proved to be a reasonable man. If the decision were to depend on him, the boy would receive a life sentence. But that would not really mean much. The general prejudice against the Pied Piper of Brussels was so great that the public prosecutor would be sure to appeal against such a verdict and a second court hearing would be scheduled.
“You are my only hope, Mr. Welde,” the banker concluded. “I have always regarded myself as a man for whom nothing is impossible. But in this instance I am powerless, and it is a matter of my own son’s life.”
Achimas looked curiously at the millionaire’s crimson face. It was clear that here was a man unused to displaying emotions. For instance now, at a moment of the most powerful agitation, his thick lips were extended in an absurd smile and there was a tear dribbling from one of his eyes. It was interesting: A face unused to molding itself for the expression of feeling was unable to portray a mask of grief. “How much?” asked Achimas. Fechtel swallowed convulsively. “If the boy remains alive, half a million francs. French francs, not Belgian,” he added hastily when his companion gave no reply.
Achimas nodded and an insane glow lit up the banker’s eyes. It was exactly the same glow that lit up the eyes of the madmen who staked all their money on zero at the roulette wheel. This glow had a name: It was called ‘just maybe’. The only difference was that this was clearly not all the money that Mr. Fechtel possessed. “And if you succeed…” The banker’s voice trembled. “If somehow you should succeed not only in saving Pierre’s life but also giving him back his freedom, you will receive a million.”
Achimas had never been offered such a huge fee. Following his usual habit, he translated the sum into pounds sterling (almost thirty thousand), American dollars (seventy-five thousand), and rubles (more than three hundred thousand). It was a very large amount indeed.
Narrowing his eyes slightly, Achimas said slowly and clearly: “Your son must refuse the psychiatric examination, declare himself not guilty, and demand trial by jury. And you must dismiss your expensive lawyers. I shall find a new lawyer.”
* * *
THREE
Etienne Licolle ‘s only regret was that his mother had not lived to see this day. How she had dreamed of the time when her boy would qualify as an advocate and array himself in the black robe with the rectangular white tie! But paying for his studies at the university had consumed all of her widow’s pension and skimping on doctors and medicine had shortened her life — she had died the previous spring. Etienne had gritted his teeth and refused to be defeated. Dashing from one lesson to another in the afternoon and poring over his textbooks at night, he had completed his studies after all — and the coveted diploma with the royal seal had been duly awarded. His mother could be proud of her son.
His fellow graduates and newly fledged advocates had invited him to go to a restaurant in the country — to ‘christen the gown’ — but Etienne had refused. He had no money for revels, but more important than that, on a day like this he wanted to be alone. He walked slowly down the broad marble staircase of the Palais de Justice, where the solemn ceremony had taken place. The entire city, with its spires, towers, and statues on rooftops, lay spread out below him, at the foot of the hill. Etienne stopped and admired the view, which seemed to be offering him a hospitable welcome. As if Brussels had opened its arms wide to embrace the new Maitre Licolle, enticing him with the prospect of every possible kind of surprise — for the most part, of course, pleasant ones.
Of course, who could dispute the fact that a diploma was only the beginning? Without useful connections and acquaintances he would not be able to find good clients. And in any case he lacked the means required to establish his own firm. He would have to work as an assistant to Maitre Wiener or Maitre Van Gelen. But that was not so bad — at least they would pay him some kind of salary.
Etienne Licolle pressed th
e folder containing the diploma with the red seal against his chest, turned his face toward the warm September sunshine, and squeezed his eyes tightly shut in an excess of emotion.
He was surprised in this absurd position by Achimas Welde.
Achimas had picked the young lad out while the hall was echoing to the boring, pompous speeches of the award ceremony. The youth’s appearance was ideally suited to requirements: pleasant-looking, but no Adonis. Slim, with narrow shoulders. Wide, honest eyes. When he stepped up to pronounce the words of the oath, his voice had proved ideally suited, too — clear, boyish, trembling with excitement. But best of all, it was immediately obvious that he was no rich gentleman’s son, but genuine plebeian stock and a hard worker.
While the interminable ceremony continued, Achimas had been able to make inquiries. His final doubts had been laid to rest; this was indeed ideal material. The rest could not have been simpler.
He walked up to the thin youth without making a sound and then cleared his throat.
Etienne started, opened his eyes, and turned around to find himself facing a gentleman in a traveling coat with a walking cane who had appeared out of nowhere. The stranger’s eyes were regarding him with keen seriousness. They were a rather unusual color, too, very pale. “Maitre Licolle?” the man inquired with a slight accent. It was the first time Etienne had been addressed as ‘Maitre’ and he liked the feeling.