Erast Fandorin 04 - The Death of Achilles

by Boris Akunin

  He had fifteen seconds at most.

  He opened the window at the end of the corridor and hid behind the coat stand again. Literally the very next instant a man burst into the apartment. He looked like a merchant.

  The merchant was holding a revolver, a Herstal-Agent. A fine little gun; at one time Achimas had used one himself. The merchant froze over the motionless body for a moment, then did what he was supposed to, dashing around the rooms and finally vaulting through the window onto the roof.

  There wasn’t a sound on the staircase. Achimas slipped silently out of the apartment. Now he only had to take care of the koelner at the Metro-pole and he could consider the first point of his plan completed.

  * * *

  THIRTEEN

  Before he could proceed to the second point of his plan, a little brain-work was required. That night Achimas lay in his room in the Trinity, staring up at the ceiling and thinking.

  The tidying-up had been completed.

  The koelner had been dealt with. There was no need to worry about the police. The German line of inquiry would keep them busy for a long time yet.

  Now for the matter of his stolen fee.

  Question: How could he find the bandit called Little Misha?

  What did he know about him?

  He was the leader of a gang — otherwise he wouldn’t have been able to track Achimas down and then send someone to kill him. So far that seemed to be all.

  Now for the safecracker who had stolen the briefcase. What could be said about him? No normal-sized man could have squeezed through the small window opening. So it was a juvenile? No, it was unlikely that a juvenile could have opened the safe so skillfully; that required experience. On the whole it had been a rather neat job: no broken glass, no signs of breaking and entering. The thief had even locked the safe when he was finished. So it was a small man, not a juvenile. And the gang leader was called Little Misha. Which made it reasonable to assume that he and the safecracker were one and the same person. So this Misha must have the briefcase.

  To sum up, he had a slim, agile little man known as ‘Little Misha’ who knew how to crack safes and was the leader of a serious gang.

  That was really quite a lot.

  He could be quite sure that a conspicuous specialist like that would be well known in Khitrovka.

  But that was precisely why he would be far from easy to find. Pretending to be a criminal would be pointless — you had to know their customs, their slang, their rules of etiquette. It would make more sense to play the part of a ‘gull’ who required the services of a good safecracker. Say, a shop assistant who dreamed in secret of getting his hands into his master’s safe.

  Early on Sunday, before heset out for Khitrovka, Achimas was unable to resist the temptation to turn into Myasnitskaya Street and watch the funeral procession.

  It was an impressive spectacle. None of the many operations he had carried out in the course of a long career had produced such an impressive result.

  Standing in the crowd of people weeping and crossing themselves, Achimas felt as if he were the central character in this grandiose theatrical production, its invisible center. It was an unfamiliar, intoxicating feeling.

  Riding behind the hearse on a black horse was a pompous-looking general. Arrogant and pretentious. Certain that in this spectacle he was the only star of the first magnitude.

  But, like all the others, he was no more than a puppet. The puppet master was standing modestly on the pavement, lost to view among the sea of faces. Nobody knew him, nobody looked at him, but the awareness of his unique importance set his head spinning faster than any wine.

  “That’s Kirill Alexandrovich, the tsar’s brother,” someone said, referring to the mounted general. “A fine figure of a man.”

  Suddenly a woman in a black shawl pushed aside one of the gendarmes in the cordon and dashed out of the crowd to the hearse.

  “Whose care have you left us to, our dear father?” she keened in a shrill whine, pressing her face down against the crimson velvet.

  The Grand Duke’s Arabian steed flared its nostrils in fright at this heart-rending wail and reared up on its hind legs.

  One of the adjutants made to seize the panicking horse’s bridle, but Kirill Alexandrovich checked him with his powerful resonant voice: “Back, Neplyuev. Don’t interfere! I’ll handle it!”

  Retaining his seat without any difficulty, he brought his mount to its senses in an instant. Snorting nervously, it began ambling sideways in small steps, then straightened up again. The hysterical female mourner was taken by the arms and led back into the crowd, and the minor incident was over.

  But Achimas’s mood had changed. He no longer felt like the master pulling the strings in the puppet theater.

  The voice that had ordered the adjutant not to interfere had been only too familiar. Once heard, a voice like that could never be confused with any other.

  What a surprise to meet you like this, my dear Monsieur NN.

  Achimas cast an eye over the portly figure in the Cavalry Guards uniform. This was the true puppet master, the one who pulled all the strings, and the Cavaliere Welde, otherwise the future Count of Santa Croce, was a mere stage prop. So be it.

  He spent the whole day in Khitrovka. The funeral chimes of Moscow’s forty times forty churches reached even here, but the denizens of Khitrovka had no interest in the respectable city’s mourning over some general or other. This was a microcosm teeming with its own secret life, like a drop of dirty water under a microscope.

  Achimas, dressed as a shop assistant, had suffered two attempts to rob him and three to pick his pocket, one of which had been successful:

  Someone had slit his long-waisted cloth coat open with something very sharp and pulled out his purse. There was hardly any money in it, but the skill was most impressive.

  For a long time his attempts to find the safecracker produced no results. Most of the local inhabitants wouldn’t enter into conversation at all, and those who would suggested people he didn’t want — someone called Kiriukha, or Shtukar, or Kolsha the Gymnast. It was after four in the afternoon when he first heard Little Misha’s name mentioned.

  It happened while Achimas was sitting in the Siberia tavern, where secondhand dealers and the more prosperous professional beggars gathered. He was chatting with a promising ragamuffin whose eyes shifted their focus with that particular alacrity found only among thieves and dealers in stolen goods.

  Achimas treated his neighbor to some bad vodka and made himself out to be a cunning but none-too-bright assistant from a haberdashery shop on Tverskaya Street. When he mentioned that his master kept an enormous fortune in cash in the safe, and if only some knowledgeable person would teach him how to open the lock, it would be no problem to take two or three hundred out of it once or twice a week — nobody would miss it — the ragamuffin’s eyes glittered: The foolish prey had delivered itself straight into his hands.

  “Misha’s the one you need,” the local expert said confidently. “He’ll do a nice neat job.”

  Achimas put on a doubtful expression and asked: “Is he a man with brains? Not some cheap beggar?”

  “Who, Little Misha?” said the ragamuffin, giving Achimas a disdainful look. “You look into the Hard Labor this evening; Misha’s lads are in there drinking every night. I’ll call around and drop them a word about you. They’ll give you a grand reception.”

  The ragamuffin’s eyes glittered — he evidently had high hopes that Little Misha would pay him a commission for such a nice fat lead.

  Achimas was ensconced in the Hard Labor from early in the evening. But he hadn’t arrived dressed as a shop assistant; now he was a blind beggar, dressed in rags and bast sandals, and he had slipped small transparent sheets of calf’s bladder under his eyelids. He could see through them as if he were looking through fog, but they gave a convincing impression of his eyes being obscured by cataracts. Achimas knew from experience that blind men aroused no suspicion and nobody paid any attention to t
hem. If a blind man sat quietly, the people around him stopped noticing him altogether.

  He sat quietly. Not so much watching as listening. A company of tipsy men who were clearly bandits had gathered at a table a short distance away. They could be from Misha’s gang, but the agile little weasel wasn’t among them.

  Events started moving when darkness had already fallen outside the dim glass of the basement windows.

  Achimas took no notice of the new arrivals when they first came in. There were two of them: a junk dealer and a bandy-legged Kirghiz in a greasy kaftan. A minute later another one arrived — a hunchback doubled right over to the ground. It would never have occurred to him that they might be detectives. You had to give the Moscow police their due; they certainly knew their job. And yet somehow the disguised undercover agents were spotted.

  It was all over in a moment. Everything was peaceful and quiet and then two of them — the junk dealer and the Kirghiz — were stretched out, probably dead, the hunchback was lying stunned on the floor, and one of the bandits was rolling about and screaming that it ‘hurt something awful’ in a repulsive voice that sounded fake.

  The one Achimas had been waiting for appeared on the scene soon after that. A nervous, agile little dandy wearing European clothes, but with his trousers tucked into a pair of box-calf boots polished to a high gleam. Achimas was familiar with this particular criminal type, which he classified according to his own system as ‘weasels” — minor, but dangerous, predators. It was strange that Little Misha had risen to a position of such prominence in Moscow’s criminal underworld. “Weasels’ usually became stool pigeons or double agents.

  Never mind; it would be clear soon enough what kind of character he really was.

  They dragged the dead police agents behind a partition and carried the stunned one away somewhere else.

  Misha and his cutthroats sat down at their table and began eating and drinking. The one who had been lying on the floor, groaning, soon fell silent, but the event passed unnoticed. It was half an hour later before the bandits suddenly remembered and drank ‘to the repose of the soul of Senya Lomot,’ and Little Misha, with his thin voice, delivered a heartfelt speech, half of which consisted of odd words that Achimas didn’t understand. The speaker respectfully described the dead man as a ‘smooth operator,’ and all the others nodded in agreement. The wake didn’t last for long. They dragged Lomot away by the legs to the same place where they’d taken the two dead police agents, and the feasting continued as if nothing special had happened.

  Achimas tried not to miss a single word of the bandits’ conversation. The longer it continued, the more convinced he became that they knew nothing about the million rubles. Perhaps Misha had pulled the job on his own, without any help from his comrades in crime.

  In any case, he couldn’t get away now. Achimas only had to wait for the right moment to have a little confidential talk with him.

  When it was almost morning and the inn had emptied, Misha stood up and said loudly, “That’s enough talk. I don’t know about you, but I’m going to cuddle up close with Fiska. But first let’s have our little chat with the police spy.”

  Laughing and guffawing, the entire gang went behind the bar and disappeared into the depths of the basement.

  Achimas looked around. The innkeeper had been snoring away behind the planking partition for a long time already, and the only two customers left were a man and a woman who had drunk themselves unconscious. This was the right time.

  Behind the counter was a dark corridor. Achimas could see a dimly lit rectangle ahead of him and hear muted voices coming from it. A cellar?

  Achimas removed the membrane from one eye and cautiously glanced down. All five of the bandits were there. He would have to wait for them to finish off the fake hunchback and take them down quietly one by one when they started climbing back up.

  But things didn’t turn out that way.

  The police agent turned out to be nobody’s patsy. Achimas had never seen skill like it before. The ‘hunchback’ dealt with the entire gang in a matter of seconds. Without even getting up, he jerked one hand and then the other and two of the bandits grabbed frantically at their throats. Were those knives he had thrown at them? The police agent broke the skulls of another two bandits with a most curious device — a stick of wood on a chain. It was incredible — so simple and yet so effective.

  But Achimas was even more impressed by the deftness with which the hunchback carried out his interrogation of Misha. Now he knew everything that he needed to know. He hid in the shadows and followed the detective and his prisoner through the dark labyrinth without making a sound.

  They went in through some door and a moment later he heard the sound of shots. Who had come out on top? Achimas was sure that it wouldn’t be Misha. And if he were right, it made no sense to go barging in and getting himself shot by such an adroit police agent. Better ambush him in the corridor. No, it was too dark. He might miss and not kill him with the first shot.

  Achimas went back to the inn and lay down on a bench.

  The dexterous detective appeared almost immediately and — what a pleasant surprise! — he had the briefcase. Should Achimas shoot or wait? The hunchback was holding his revolver at the ready, his reactions were lightning-fast, and he would start shooting at the slightest movement. Achimas squinted with the eye that had no membrane in it. Was that the familiar Herstal? Could this be the same ‘merchant’ who had been at Knabe ‘s apartment?

  Events unfolded with dizzying speed as the detective arrested the innkeeper and found his men, one of whom, the Kirghiz, was still alive.

  An interesting detail: When the hunchback was bandaging his friend’s head with a towel, they spoke to each other in Japanese. Miracles would never cease — a Japanese in Khitrovka! Achimas was familiar with the fluent rolling sounds of that exotic tongue from a job of three years before, when he had carried out a commission in Hong Kong. The police agent called the Japanese ‘Masa’.

  Now that the disguised detective was no longer feigning an old man’s trembling voice, Achimas thought that he sounded familiar. He listened more closely — was that really Mr. Fandorin? A truly resourceful young man, there was no denying it. You didn’t meet many of his kind.

  And Achimas decided that it definitely wasn’t worth taking any risks. You had to be doubly careful with an individual like that, especially since the detective was not letting his guard down — he kept darting glances in all directions and his Herstal was always close at hand.

  The three of them — Fandorin, the Japanese, and the innkeeper with his hands tied — went outside. Achimas watched them through the dusty window. The detective, still clutching the briefcase, went off to look for a cab; the Japanese stayed behind to guard the prisoner. The innkeeper tried to kick out, but the short oriental hissed angrily and knocked the strapping Tartar off his feet with a single swift movement.

  I’ll have to keep chasing the briefcase, thought Achimas. Sooner or later Mr. Fandorin will calm down and lower his guard. Meanwhile, I should check to see if my debtor Little Misha is dead or alive.

  Achimas walked quickly through the dark corridors and pulled at the half-open door. The little room behind it was dimly lit. There didn’t seem to be anyone there.

  He went across and felt the crumpled bed — it was still warm.

  Then Achimas heard a low groan from the corner. Swinging around sharply, he saw a huddled figure. It was Little Misha, sitting on the floor, clutching his stomach with both hands. He raised his moist, gleaming eyes and his mouth twisted pathetically as he uttered a thin, plaintive whine.

  “Brother, it’s me, Misha… I’ve been shot. Help me… Who are you, brother?”

  Achimas clicked open the blade of his clasp knife, leaned down, and slit the sitting man’s throat. There would be less bother that way. And it was a debt repaid.

  He ran back to the inn and lay down on the bench.

  Outside, hooves clattered and wheels squeaked. Fandorin came runni
ng in, this time without the briefcase, and disappeared into the corridor. He had gone to get Little Misha. But where was the briefcase? Had he left it with the Japanese?

  Achimas swung his legs down off the bench.

  No, there was no time.

  He lay down again, beginning to feel angry. But he mustn’t allow his exasperation to affect him — that was the source of all errors.

  Fandorin emerged from the bowels of the underground labyrinth with his face a contorted mask, swinging the Herstal in all directions. He glanced briefly at the blind man and dashed out of the inn.

  Outside a voice shouted: “Let’s go! Drive hard to Malaya Nikitskaya Street, to the Department of Gendarmes!”

  Achimas pulled out his cataracts. He had to hurry.

  * * *

  FOURTEEN

  He drove up to the Department of Gendarmes in a fast cab, jumped out as it was still moving, and asked the sentry impatiently: “Two of our men just brought in a prisoner. Where are they?”

  The gendarme wasn’t at all surprised by the peremptory tone of the determined man who was dressed in rags, but had a gleam of authority in his eyes.

  “They went straight through to see His Excellency. Less than two minutes ago. And the prisoner’s being booked. He’s in the duty office.”

  “Damn the blasted prisoner!” the disguised officer exclaimed with an irritable gesture. “I need Fandorin. You say he went to see His Excellency?”

  “Yes, sir. Up the stairs and along the corridor on the left.”

  “I know the way well enough!”

  Achimas ran up the stairs from the vestibule to the second floor. He looked to the right. From behind the white door at the far end of the corridor he could hear the clash of metal on metal. It must be the gymnastics hall. Nothing dangerous there.

  He turned to the left. The broad corridor was empty, with only occasional bustling messengers in uniforms or civilian clothes emerging from one office door, only to disappear immediately into another.