by Boris Akunin
Everything fitted. Pelagia was impressed by the sharp wits of the man from St. Petersburg, but her own thoughts were already hurrying on. “How can you tell which of the passengers is a razin? Do they have any distinctive features?”
Sergei Sergeevich smiled condescendingly. “If it’s a razin—and it definitely is a razin—then his trail has been cold for ages.”
“Where could he have gone? No one has been allowed off the steamer. The Sturgeon hasn’t moored at the shore.”
“And what of it? Cold water’s no problem for a razin, they swim like water rats. He slid down the anchor chain into the water, and he was gone. Or he jumped off earlier, immediately after the murder. Never mind. Give me a while. All the rest is just a matter of time now, Sister. I’ll send a request to all the departments along the river. We’ll find him all right…. What’s that you’re looking at there?”
While listening to Dolinin, Pelagia had gone across to the divan and carefully touched the pillow. “It doesn’t fit,” she said, leaning down and looking closer. “It simply doesn’t fit.”
“What doesn’t fit?” asked the investigator, walking up to her. “Come on now, come on, out with it.”
“Your solution to the puzzle won’t work. There wasn’t any fight, and the victim didn’t grab the killer by the hand. He was killed on the bed. Look,” said Pelagia, pointing, “there’s the imprint of a face in the pillow. That means that when the blow was struck, Manuila was lying face down. And there are drops of blood around it, oval ones. So they fell down from above. If he had jerked his head up, the drops would run on a slant.”
Sergei Sergeevich muttered in embarrassment: “Well, now, that’s right… And the trickles of blood on the face run from the back of the head to the nose. You’re right. I repent, I was careless. But then, begging your pardon, how did the body come to be on the floor, and in such a pose?”
“The killer dragged it off the divan. He pulled up his shirt and put the torn piece of a hundred-ruble bill in his hand. That’s the only possible explanation. As for why he did it—I’d rather not think about that.”
The investigator fixed the nun with a perplexed stare, paused for a little while, and shook his head. “What crazy nonsense. No, no, Sister, you’re mistaken. I think it happened differently. You have no idea how hard these so-called ‘prophets’ and ‘elders’ are to do away with. There’s some genuinely diabolical kind of energy smoldering inside them, and killing anyone possessed like that is no easy matter. I remember an instance from the time when I was still a court investigator. I was handling the case of the murder of a certain prophet of the Skoptsy sect. His spiritual sons very nearly took his head clean off him with an axe, it was left hanging by a single scrap of skin. Well, the prophet, just imagine, carried on running around the room and waving his arms for another minute. Blood spurting out of him like a fountain, his head bobbling about behind his shoulders like a rucksack, and he’s still running. How do you like that? It must have been the same with our Manuila here. The razin thought he’d killed him and stopped in the middle of the cabin to count the banknotes. But the dead man suddenly came to life and made a dash to get his money back.”
“With a hole like that in his head? With his brain damaged?” the doctor said doubtfully. “But then, all sorts of strange things do happen. The physiology of premortem convulsions has been too little studied by science.”
Pelagia did not argue—Sergei Sergeevichs explanation appeared more convincing than her own. So it seemed that this “puzzle” had been solved after all.
But others soon came to light.
The passenger in number thirteen
“AS YOU WISH, but even so, he still pulled up the dead man’s shirt,” said Pelagia. “Did you notice the folds? They ran down from the chest in the form of a letter V. If he had fallen, they wouldn’t have been like that.”
“Really?” Dolinin looked at the dead body, but owing to the modest nun’s good offices the shirt had been pulled down, so that no folds remained.
That did not put the holy sister off her stride. “You can look afterward, in the photographs. So it turns out the killer wasn’t at all horrified by what he had done; what he wanted was definitely to mock his victim. It takes a special personality type to act like that.”
Sergei Sergeevich looked into the meticulous witness’s eyes with extraordinary intensity. “I can sense you have some reason for saying that. Do you have any grounds for suspecting anyone?”
The investigator’s astuteness made the holy sister lower her eyes. She had no grounds for suspicion, there was no way she could have. But the abominable prank to shame the dead body and, even more so, the eyeballs that had come out of their sockets had reminded her of another trick of a similar character. Should she tell, or would that be wrong?
“Well, then?” said Dolinin, pressing her.
“It’s not really a suspicion,” the nun said, and hesitated. “It’s just that there is a certain gentleman traveling onboard … tall, with a long mustache, wearing thigh boots. And he has a glass eye. I’d like to know who that man is.”
The investigator looked at Pelagia from under his eyebrows, with his head lowered, as if he were trying to read in her face what she had left unsaid. “Tall, long mustache, in thigh boots, with an artificial eye?” he said, repeating the description and turned to the captain. “Is there someone like that?”
“There is, sir, in cabin number thirteen. Mr. Ostrolyzhensky, he has a ticket from Nizhni to Kazan.”
“In thirteen?”
Dolinin turned rapidly on his heels and went out. The others exchanged glances, but refrained from any exchange of opinions. The captain poured some water from a carafe, wiped the edge of the glass with his handkerchief, and drank voraciously. Then he poured himself some more. Pelagia, the police commander, the doctor, and the photographer watched his Adam’s apple twitching above the collar of his white tunic. Ah, that was very wrong, Pelagia thought uneasily. I’ve cast a shadow on someone without any good reason….
The captain had barely polished off his second glass of water and set about a third, when the door swung open sharply. “Did you order all the passengers to stay in their cabins?” Dolinin barked at the captain from the doorway.
“Yes.”
“Then why is thirteen empty?”
“How do you mean, empty? I saw Mr. Ostrolyzhensky go in there with my very own eyes! And I warned him not to go anywhere until he was specifically instructed!”
“Warned him! You should have put a sailor in the corridor!”
“But it’s absolutely impossible! By your leave, I …”
The captain dashed toward the door.
“Don’t bother,” Sergei Sergeevich said with a frown of distaste. “I’ve just come from there. His luggage is all there, but the passenger’s gone. I forbid anyone to go in and touch anything. I’ve put a police constable on the door.”
“I don’t understand a thing,” said the captain, shrugging and spreading his hands.
“Search the vessel!” Dolinin ordered with a gloomy, intense expression. “From the funnel to the coal hole!”
The captain and the police commander ran out into the corridor, and the investigator spoke to the nun in a completely different tone of voice, as an equal to an equal. “This Glass-Eye of yours has disappeared. So there you have it, Mademoiselle Pelagia, puzzle number two.”
The holy sister was not offended by the ironic “Mademoiselle,” because she realized the free-and-easy form of address was not intended as mockery, but as an expression of liking.
“This man is no razin,” the investigator mused. “They never take tickets, especially not in first class. He’s probably a dasher. It’s their style.”
“A dasher—is that a bandit?”
“Yes, from one of the respected gangs on the River. Or else a casual migrant—there are quite a few lone wolves among them.”
The suspicious disappearance of the man with one eye freed Pelagia of her sense of guilt, a
nd she grew bolder: “You know, that man really did look like a bandit. Only not some petty predator, not even a wolf, but something like a tiger or a leopard.” Once she had said it, she felt ashamed of her excessively flowery turn of phrase, and so she switched to a dry, businesslike tone of voice. “What I don’t understand is this. If the murder was committed by a high-class bandit, then what do we make of the sack, what was it called—a swag bag? What would a man like that want with petty theft?”
“A puzzle,” Dolinin admitted. “A definite puzzle.” And he made an entry in his notebook.
He leafed through the small pages covered in writing and sketches, and began summing up: “That would seem to be all for the initial investigation. And so, thanks to you, dear Sister, we have acquired a prime suspect. We have his description—I’ll take it down from your words in more detail later—and also his name. Although the name is most likely false. Now we need to examine the victim.” Dolinin leaned down over the corpse and frowned in annoyance. “Just look at how distorted his face is. Identification’s going to be a problem.”
“Why does he have to be identified?” the nun asked in surprise. “After all, he wasn’t traveling alone, he had companions. They’ll identify him.”
Sergei Sergeevich glanced at the doctor and the photographer, who were listening to the conversation, and said, “Doctor, go to the captain’s office and write your report. Keep it brief, but don’t leave anything essential out. And as for you”—this was to the photographer—“would you please go to the boatswain and bring me a ball of string. And ask for a knife too—a cable knife. The boatswain knows.”
Only when he was left alone with Pelagia did he answer the question, and he lowered his voice to a confidential undertone to do so: “Do you know, Mademoiselle, why I came dashing to investigate this murder myself?”
The question was clearly rhetorical, and after maintaining a pause for the period required by the laws of the stage, Dolinin would certainly have answered it himself. However, the nun, who was beginning to like this intelligent investigator more and more, permitted herself to take a liberty (since she was no longer “Sister” but “Mademoiselle”): “I assume you found your tour of inspection boring and wanted to get back to real live work.”
Sergei Sergeevich gave a short laugh, which softened the lines of his dry, bilious face and made it look younger. “Let’s assume that is correct, and it makes me admire your shrewdness yet again. You know, I really cannot get used to administrative work. My colleagues envy me. Such a rapid advance in my career, a general’s rank at the age of forty, a member of the council of a ministry, but I’m constantly tormented by nostalgia for my old job. Only a year ago I was still an investigator, for especially important cases. And not a bad investigator either, I assure you.”
“I can see that. No doubt your superiors singled you out for promotion for distinguished service?”
“If only.” Dolinin chuckled. “An investigator can be as wise as Solomon, he can wear out the knees of a thousand pairs of trousers and the elbows of a thousand frock coats, but he’ll never be elevated to such dizzy heights. That’s not the way great careers are made.”
“How, then?”
“With paper, dear Sister. Paper is the only magic carpet on which you can soar up to the mountain peaks in our mighty state. When I took up the pen, to be honest I wasn’t thinking about my career at all. Quite the opposite, I thought they would probably send me packing for such audacity. But I couldn’t go on watching the sheer Asiatic chaos in our investigative work. I wrote a project of reform and sent it to the individuals in high state positions who are charged with managing the protection of the rule of law. I decided to do it, come what may. I had already started looking for another job, as a lawyer. And suddenly this humble servant of God was summoned to Mount Olympus itself. ‘Well done,’ they said. ‘We’ve been waiting for someone like you for a long time.’” Dolinin raised his arms in a comical gesture, as if he were capitulating in the face of the unpredictable caprice of destiny. “I was instructed to prepare a reform designed to regulate the interaction between police investigative agencies and court investigations. Well, I asked for it, as they say. And now I’m like the Eternal Jew, wandering the cities and the provinces. At this stage I’ve done so much regulating, I could just sit down and howl, like a wolf. However, Mademoiselle Pelagia, you must not think that Dolinin has simply run away from a boring lesson, like some grammar-school boy. No, I am a responsible man, not given to puerile impulsiveness. You see, the case of the prophet Manuila is special. This is the second time he has been murdered.”
Magical Manuila
“HOW CAN THAT BE?” gasped Pelagia.
“It’s a fact. There are many people who cannot bear this particular individual.”
The holy sister nodded: “I’ve already realized that.”
“The first time Manuila was murdered was three weeks ago, in the province of Tver.”
“I’m sorry, but I don’t quite …”
Dolinin waved his hand, as if to say Please don’t interrupt, listen. “The dead man turned out to be a commoner by the name of Petrov or Mikhailov, I don’t remember now. A Foundling, a follower of Manuila and similar to him in appearance. Hence the rumors of Manuila’s immortality.”
“What if this isn’t him either?” asked Pelagia, pointing at the dead man.
“A reasonable question. I’d like very much to find out. The appearance fits, as far as I can recall. It’s just a pity that we don’t have a photograph of the prophet. Manuila had no criminal record, so our department had no excuse for recording his charming features. And his traveling companions are nothing more than that. I’ve ordered them to be locked in a storeroom for the time being, but what sense can I get out of unbalanced creatures like them? They might even lie. Or they themselves could be confused about the dead man’s identity.”
“What an amazing story!”
“It certainly is. Not only is it amazing, even more importantly, it’s political.” Sergei Sergeevich became more serious. “The murder of a prophet, especially an immortal one, is a matter of state importance. It will be a huge sensation in all the newspapers, and not only in Russia. Which makes it all the more essential to determine for certain whether this is Manuila or another double.”
At this point the photographer returned with the string and a short, extremely sharp knife. The investigator called the police constables in from the corridor and gave them strange, indeed blasphemous, instructions.
“Dress him” (a nod in the direction of the dead man), “sit him on the chair, and tie him on with string. Quickly now!” Dolinin shouted at the suddenly timid men, and explained to the nun: “We have to get the corpse into an identifiable condition. It’s a new method, my own personal invention.”
While the policemen grunted as they inserted the still flexible limbs of the dead man into his trouser legs and sleeves, Dolinin very deftly ripped the soles off the prophet’s boot with the knife and slit open the tops.
“There, now,” he said in a satisfied voice, extracting some papers from the ripped leather. He gave them a quick glance and shrugged slightly. He didn’t show them to his confidante, and Pelagia felt awkward about asking, although she was really very curious.
“Have you got him sitting up?” Sergei Sergeevich asked, turning to the policemen. “The eyes, the eyes. Ah, damn it.”
The holy sister took a cautious peep—and immediately squeezed her own eyes shut. The eyeballs were hanging down on the dead man’s cheeks, and the sight was beyond all human bearing.
“The rubber glove from my bag,” the investigator’s brisk voice said. “That’s the way. Excellent, the peepers are back in. Cotton wool. No, no. Two small pieces, and roll them out a bit. Under the eyelids it goes, under the eyelids. Now they’re open, very good … Ah, the cornea has dried out, it’s dull. I’ve got a bottle of nitroglycerine and a dropper in there, give them here … Into the right… into the left… Ugh. Now we’ll comb his hair … and now
the wet towel… All done. Open your eyes, Mademoiselle, don’t be afraid.”
Wincing before she even started, Pelagia took a cautious look and was stupefied. Sitting there on the chair—admittedly in a rather forced pose, with his head hanging to one side—was a gaunt, bearded peasant who looked absolutely alive, watching her with intense, gleaming eyes. He was wearing a shirt, waistcoat, and trousers. His beard and long hair were neatly combed.
This sudden resurrection of the departed was so unexpected that the holy sister took a step back.
Sergei Sergeevich laughed contentedly. “There, now we can even photograph Mr. Shelukhin.”
“What did you call him?” Pelagia asked.
“That’s the name in his passport.” The investigator read from the document he had extracted from the top of the boot: “Pyotr Saveliev Shelukhin, thirty-eight years of age, religion Orthodox, peasant of the village of Stroganovka, Staritskaya Rural Territory of the Gorodets District in the province of Zavolzhie.”
“Why, that’s our province!” the holy sister gasped.
“But I’d heard that Manuila was born in the province of Vyatka. In any case, that was where he began preaching. The Foundlings, by the way, are convinced that their prophet was born in the Holy Land and will soon set out to go back. And actually, Shelukhin did have a ticket to Jaffa.”
The magnesium hissed and flared.
“One more full face. Then three-quarter profiles from the right and the left. And both full profiles,” Dolinin instructed. He gave the tidied-up corpse a skeptical look and sighed. “Height above average, facial features ordinary, light brown hair, blue eyes, slight build, no distinguishing features. No, gentlemen, this is simply not good enough. I need a hundred percent clarity.”
He wrinkled up his brow as he figured something out. Tugged on his wedge of beard. Shook his head decisively.
“Sister, from here to Zavolzhsk is twelve hours’ sailing, right? And how long from there to Gorodetsk?”