by Boris Akunin
The prince’s soul almost took leave of his body without any shaking, just as soon as he heard about the intendant’s death.
Lockston was still jangling the key to the cell, Asagawa was still waving his fist menacingly through the bars of the locked door, but the prince needed to be resuscitated. After the inspector’s first furious shouts (‘Surprised to see us? Did you think Suga would finish us off? It turned out the other way round!’) Onokoji had jumped up off the bunk, turned as white as chalk and collapsed in a dead faint.
‘Well, would you look at that?’ the sergeant said in amazement. ‘Bright and chirpy all night, he was, singing Parisian chansonettes. Boasting that he’d be free in the morning.’
‘Water,’ Asagawa said curtly.
They splashed water from the glass into the prisoner’s face, slapped him on the cheeks, and the scion of feudal lords came round. He started sobbing and his teeth started chattering.
‘Did you … Did you kill him? That’s it, then, I’m done for.’
The prince was trembling so violently that his head wobbled back and forth on his thin neck. And apparently it was not simply because the effect of the morphine had worn off – Onokoji was in a total panic. At first Fandorin thought he was afraid of Asagawa and vengeance for his treachery. But the titular counsellor soon realised that he was mistaken.
First, the prisoner made no attempt to wriggle out of it. Quite the opposite, in fact!
‘I didn’t think it was possible, I swear! They told me the trap was a very cunning device! It’s his own fault,’ the prince babbled, grabbing hold of Erast Petrovich’s hand and apparently apologising for the fact that the trap hadn’t worked. ‘You tell him that, tell him!’
‘Tell who?’ asked Fandorin, leaning forward bodily in his eagerness. ‘We’ll certainly tell him, but who?’
Onokoji slapped his palm against his lips. His eyes turned round in terror.
‘No one,’ he said quickly. Then he groaned pitifully, contradicting himself: ‘That’s it, he’ll kill me now …’
‘Because you were responsible for the intendant’s death?’
The aristocrat nodded.
Well, this is one who won’t bite his tongue off, the vice-consul thought. And he won’t shoot himself either. It looks as if the Englishman won’t be able to wriggle his way out of this after all!
‘Don’t worry, Prince. We’ll be able to protect you against him.’
Onokoji just shook his head.
‘Do you think we don’t know who you are s-so afraid of? We know. Suga told us before he died. It’s Bullcox.’
‘Bullcox?’ said Lockston, wide-eyed in amazement. ‘What has Bullcox got to do with all this?’
‘Algernon Bullcox was at the head of the conspiracy against Okubo,’ Fandorin explained, carefully enunciating every word – more for Onokoji than the sergeant. ‘Suga was acting on the Englishman’s instructions. Right?’
The question was addressed to the prisoner. He nodded without opening his eyes.
‘What kind of nation are these English?’ the sergeant exploded. ‘India’s not enough for them. The seas are not enough! They want to dominate the whole world. And they don’t even go about it honestly! Let me tell you this, gentlemen. Old Dame Britannia is getting above herself. It’s high time she was put in her place. They’ve got no business being here in Japan. There are more decent countries that trade honestly and don’t go interfering in politics.’
The titular counsellor was entirely in agreement with the American on this point, although he suspected that by ‘more decent countries’, he did not actually mean the Russian Empire.
‘I don’t want to be released,’ Onokoji said suddenly, looking at Fandorin. ‘I’ll be killed. Take care of me. I’ll be useful to you.’
‘You tell us everything you know about Bullcox’s secret dealings, and Sergeant Lockston will allow you to live in the municipal prison for as long as necessary.’
‘No! He’ll find me here in no time at all.’
Seeing that the man was beside himself with fear, Erast Petrovich said gently:
‘Very well. I’ll give you refuge in the Russian consulate. But only on condition that you are absolutely frank with me.’
‘I’ll tell you everything. About Bullcox. But not now. I don’t feel well. And it will be worse soon. I need another dose. I’ll go to sleep and then … and then we’ll talk. Only take me away from here! Quickly! He … he must know that I’ve been arrested. He knows about Suga too! And he’ll guess straight away. He’s very clever!’
Lockston snorted.
‘Well, listen to that. That damn lousy Englishman’s really got him running scared.’
Suddenly a voice behind him asked:
‘Who’s that you’re talking about, Sergeant? Could it perhaps be me?’
They all looked round. Twigs was standing in the entrance of the cell, wearing a tie and a tight collar, as usual, with his old, scuffed doctor’s bag under his arm.
‘No, Doc, I wasn’t talking about you, I meant …’ the head of the municipal police began awkwardly, but Asagawa coughed loudly and Lockston finished rather incoherently, ‘I was talking about a completely different Englishman … a different Englishman.’
Erast Petrovich caught Asagawa’s eye and the inspector gave a slight shrug – a gesture that meant: Of course, Twigs-sensei is a most worthy individual, but the state interests and prestige of his homeland are involved here, so we had better keep quiet about Bullcox.
‘Well, how did the nocturnal expedition go?’ the doctor asked eagerly. ‘I must admit, I didn’t sleep a wink all night. I was terribly worried about you. Well, come on, tell me, then!’
They told him. Almost everything – the only part they didn’t mention was the Right Honourable.
‘So, we have evidence against Suga, but we don’t have Suga any more?’ the doctor summed up, mopping his bald head with a handkerchief. ‘But that’s marvellous! Why are you all looking so frustrated?’
There was a further exchange of glances, and the inspector shrugged again, but this time with a different meaning: Do what you think best.
‘In the intendant’s papers we found a diagram with all the inscriptions in strange s-symbols,’ said Erast Petrovich, showing the doctor the sheet of paper. ‘We know that they are the members of the conspiracy, but we can’t read the names …’
‘Let me take a look …’
Twigs moved his spectacles down to the very tip of his nose and peered eagerly at the paper. Then he suddenly turned it upside down.
‘Wait, wait … I’ve seen something like this before …’
‘Remember, Doctor, remember,’ all three of them cried together.
‘The cryptograms that the ninja used, that’s what this is,’ Twigs announced triumphantly. ‘The shinobi had their own system of phonetic writing, for secret correspondence.’
‘Intendant Suga was not a shinobi,’ Asagawa said doubtfully. ‘It’s not possible. He came from a good samurai family.’
‘What does that matter? He could have learned their alphabet, as I tried to do at one time. You know that I’m very interested in the history of the ninja. I can’t just read these signs for you off the top of my head, but if I rummage through my old notes, I might find something and be able to decipher them. I can’t promise, but I’ll try.’
‘We know how to read one of the words,’ said Fandorin, pointing to the central circle. ‘It’s the name of the leader.’
‘Oh, that’s very important. There are letters here that also occur in the other words. So tell me, what does this say?’
The titular counsellor said the name quietly:
‘Bullcox.’
The doctor turned crimson. And when he grasped the full significance of this information, his indignation knew no bounds. He proclaimed a blistering philippic on the subject of rogues and adventurers who besmirch the honour and principles of a great empire, concluding with this:
‘If your information is accurate, t
hen the Right Honourable Bullcox is a criminal. He will be exposed and punished as he deserves!’
Asagawa asked incredulously:
‘And does it not matter to you that your motherland will suffer?’
Squaring his shoulders proudly and raising one finger, Twigs said:
‘The honour of the Motherland, my dear Asagawa, is not maintained by him who conceals her crimes, but by him who is not afraid to purge her of them.’
This rousing maxim was followed by a pause. The others pondered the doctor’s words, wondering whether he was right, and, judging from the fact that the inspector winced, the sergeant nodded and the vice-consul sighed, they all reached rather different conclusions.
Asagawa brought the conversation back round to business.
‘Since we are all in agreement, I suggest we discuss our plan of action. This is not an easy task. It will require time … Where are you going?’
The question was addressed to Fandorin, who had suddenly shaken his head, as if coming to some decision, and set off towards the door.
‘Consult without me for the time being, g-gentlemen. I have urgent business.’
‘Wait! What about me?’ shouted Onokoji, dashing over to the bars of his cell. ‘You promised to give me refuge!’
Fandorin was so entirely preoccupied with his own idea that words cannot possibly express how reluctant he felt to waste his time dealing with this repulsive specimen.
But he had given his word.
From the beginning,
Enduring until the end –
The Word is the Word
AN AUTUMN LEAF
Masa couldn’t sleep all night, he was too anxious.
In the evening, pretending he believed that his master suddenly needed a newspaper, he left the house, but of course he didn’t go to any Grand Hotel, he hid behind a tree instead. He followed his master to the station without being seen, and when he saw that the vice-consul was going to Tokyo, he was on the point of buying a ticket himself. Then, however, Inspector Asagawa showed up. From the way that he walked past the master without even saying hello it was quite clear that they had some joint business to deal with.
Masa hesitated. Inspector Asagawa was a real yoriki, he couldn’t be fooled. He’d spot that he was being followed in an instant. And, moreover, he was a serious man, responsible. The master could be trusted to a man like that.
Anyway, he didn’t go. That was why he was in anguish. From all appearances, this business that his master had set out on was no laughing matter. The bag that he had packed in secret contained a night spy’s outfit. Oh, how hard was the life of a vassal who could not make himself understood in words to the person he served! If only he knew the language of the northern barbarians, Masa would have told his master: ‘You do not have and never will have a more faithful and diligent helper than me. You wound my heart and my honour painfully when you disdain my help. I am obliged to be with you everywhere and always, it is my duty’. Never mind, the master was very clever, every day he knew more and more Japanese words, and the day was not far off when it would be possible to talk to him in proper human language, without making gestures and pulling faces. Then Masa would be able to serve him properly.
But in the meantime he did what he could; first, he didn’t sleep; secondly he didn’t allow Natsuko into his bed, even though she turned sulky, because she really wanted Masa’a karada very badly (never mind, she could wait, the karada had to obey the spirit); thirdly he had recited eight hundred and eighty-eight times a dependable incantation against calamities of the night that he had learned from a certain courtesan. The sovereign of that woman’s heart was a night bandit. Every time he went off to work, she received no clients, but burned incense and prayed to the big-bellied god Hotei, the patron of all whose fate depended on luck. And every time her beloved returned in the morning with a sack full of booty over his shoulder and, most importantly, alive and unhurt – that was how powerful the incantation was. But one day the stupid woman lost count and, just to be on the safe side, she repeated the prayer more times than necessary. And what happened? That very night the unfortunate robber was seized by the guards, and the next day his head was already grinning at passers-by from the bridge across the Sakuragawa. The courtesan, of course, jabbed a hairpin through her neck, and everyone said that was what she deserved, the irresponsible fool.
To make sure he didn’t lose count, Masa gathered rice grains together into little heaps. He recited and added a grain, recited and added a grain. The little heaps of eight grains built up into bigger heaps, consisting of ten little ones. Morning had arrived by the time there were eleven of the big heaps. Masa chanted the prayer unhurriedly another eight times. As he added the final grain to the heap he glanced out of the window and saw a shiny black-lacquered carriage of indescribable beauty drive up to the gates of the consulate, harnessed to a team of four horses. The haughty driver sitting on the box was covered in gold braid and he had feathers in his hat.
The door opened and the master jumped down lightly on to the pavement. He didn’t actually have a sack over his shoulders, but he was alive and unhurt. And then, surely a carriage was as good as any sack! Hail to the magical incantation!
Masa dashed over to meet him.
Even more wonderful was the change that had taken place in the master. After that cursed night when he had left the pavilion earlier than usual and stumbled all the way home, like a blind man, the master’s face had become like the mask of the Ground Spider in the Noh theatre – dark and stiff – and his nose, which was long enough already, had turned so sharp, it was a ghastly sight.
The reason why O-Yumi-san had chosen the red-haired Englishman was clear: he was much richer, he had a big, beautiful house and eight servants, not just one. The master was suffering terribly from jealousy, and just to look at him plunged Masa into despair too. He even started wondering whether he ought to kill the worthless woman. The master would be sad, of course, but that was still better than destroying your liver by imagining your beloved squirming in someone else’s embrace.
But now a miracle had happened, and the evil enchantment had been dispersed. Masa saw that straight away. Thanks to the kind god Hotei, or perhaps for some other reason, the master had been healed. His eyes glowed with confidence and the corners of his mouth were no longer turned down.
‘Masa, big job,’ he said in Japanese, in a strong voice. ‘Very big. Help, all right?’
A man in a crumpled, grimy frock coat climbed out of the carriage, skinny backside foremost, turned round and then swayed so violently that he almost fell.
To judge from his hook-nosed face, pampered skin and elegant little hands, he was an aristocrat.
‘He … live … home,’ the master said, snapping his fingers impatiently because he couldn’t immediately remember the words he wanted.
That means he’s a guest, Masa realised, and he bowed politely to the stranger, who hiccuped and staggered again. He was either ill or drunk – Masa couldn’t tell which.
They went into the building, with the master walking sideways somehow, as if he were shielding his guest from the windows of the Dirty Man.
The master walked along the corridor, thought for a moment and said:
‘There. He live there.’
Masa tried to explain that no one could live there, it was a cupboard. There were suitcases, a sack of rice, jars of pickled radish and ginger root in there, but the master wouldn’t listen to him.
‘Guarudu, guarudu …’ – he spoke the incomprehensible word twice. Then he muttered ‘Dammit’ (Masa knew that word, it meant ‘chikusho!’), brought the dictionary from his study and translated. ‘Guard. You he guard. Understand?’
‘Understand,’ Masa said with a nod.
He should have said so straight away. Masa grabbed the man with the hooked nose and pushed him into the cupboard. The man started whinging pitifully and sat down limply on the floor.
‘Polite,’ the master ordered strictly, using the dictionary a
gain. ‘Guard. Strict. But polite.’
Very well, politely. Masa brought a mattress, pillow and blanket from his own room and said to the prisoner:
‘Please make yourself comfortable.’
The aristocrat tearfully asked the master about something in English. Masa recognised only the familiar word ‘puriidz’.
The master sighed deeply and took a little box out of his pocket. There were tiny bottles of some kind of liquid lying in it, and a syringe, like the ones they used for smallpox inoculations. He gave the little box to the sniveller and locked the door of the cupboard.
‘Watch. Guard. Strict. Polite,’ he repeated, pointing his forefinger up in the air and wagging it about for some reason.
He turned round and almost ran out of the apartment.
He got into the carriage. He drove away.
For the first minute, out of sheer inertia, Erast Petrovich carried on thinking about the witness imprisoned in the cupboard. Masa could be relied on. He wouldn’t leave the door and he wouldn’t let anyone come close. The devil only knew what the servant thought about all this. Unfortunately, the vice-consul couldn’t explain – he didn’t have enough words.
The toll of disasters for which the titular counsellor would have to answer was increasing by the hour. Breaking into the lair of the head of police wasn’t enough for him, now he had added the concealment of an unauthorised individual on the premises of the consulate without his superior’s knowledge. He couldn’t tell anyone about the hidden prince, neither Doronin nor Shirota – at least not for the time being.
However, while this high-handed behaviour could at least be kept secret, the next act of folly that the titular counsellor intended to commit would inevitably lead to a high-profile scandal.
Strangely enough, that did not bother Erast Petrovich at all just at the moment.
As he swayed on the cushions of the light carriage that he had hired, the very best that could be found in the fleet of the firm ‘Archibald Griffin’ (‘Excellent horses and also Most Comfortable Carriages for all occasions at an hourly rate’), Fandorin felt very pleased with himself. The idea that made him abandon his colleagues at the height of a supremely important consultation had captivated the titular counsellor with its simplicity and indubitable practicability.