by Boris Akunin
'Ah!' The sigh rustled quietly round the saloon.
'I presume that you have already discussed the case, which is a mysterious one in many respects.' The commissioner jerked his double chin in the direction of the newspaper clipping, which was still in Fandorin's hands. 'And that is not all, mesdames et messieurs. I know for a fact that the murderer is travelling first class ..." (another collective sigh)'. . . and, moreover, happens to be present in this saloon at this very moment,' Gauche concluded. Then he seated himself in a satin-upholstered armchair by the window and folded his arms expectantly just below his silver watch chain.
'Impossible!' cried Renate, clutching involuntarily at her belly.
Lieutenant Renier leapt to his feet.
The ginger baronet began chortling and applauding demonstratively.
Professor Sweetchild gulped convulsively and removed his glasses.
Clarissa Stamp froze with her fingers pressed against the agate brooch on her soft collar.
Not a single muscle twitched in the face of the Japanese, but the polite smile instantly disappeared.
The doctor grabbed his wife by the elbow, forgetting to translate the most important thing of all, but to judge from the frightened expression in her staring eyes, Mrs Truffo had guessed for herself.
The Russian diplomat asked quietly:
'What reasons do you have for this assertion?'
'My presence here,' the commissioner replied imperturbably, 'is explanation enough. There are other considerations, but there is no need for you to know about them . . . Well then' -there was a clear note of disappointment in the policeman's voice - 'I see that no one is about to swoon and cry out: "Arrest me, I killed them!" But of course, I was not really counting on that. So listen to me.' He raised a stubby finger in warning. 'None of the other passengers must be told about this. And it is not in your interests to tell them - the rumour would spread instantly and people would start treating you like lepers. Do not attempt to transfer to a different saloon - that will merely increase my suspicion. And you will not be able to do it; I have an arrangement with the captain.'
Renate began babbling in a trembling voice.
'Darling M. Gauche, can you not at least spare me this nightmare? I am afraid to sit at the same table as a murderer. What if he sprinkles poison in my food? I shan't be able to swallow a single morsel now. You know it's dangerous for me to be worried. I won't tell anyone, anyone at all, honestly!'
'My regrets, Mme Kleber,' the sleuth replied coolly, 'but there can be no exceptions. I have grounds to suspect every person here, and not least of all you.'
Renate threw herself against the back of her chair with a weak moan and Lieutenant Renier stamped his foot angrily.
'You take too many liberties, monsieur . . . Investigator for Especially Important Cases! I shall report everything to Captain Cliff immediately.*
'Go right ahead,' said Gauche indifferently. 'But not just at this moment, a bit later. I haven't quite finished my little speech. So, as yet I do not know for certain which of you is my client, but I am close, very close, to my goal.'
Renate expected these words to be followed by an eloquent glance and she strained her entire body forward in anticipation, but no, the policeman was looking at his stupid pipe. He was probably lying and didn't have his eye on anyone in particular.
'You suspect a woman, it's obvious!' exclaimed Miss Stamp with a nervous flutter of her hands. 'Otherwise why would you be carrying around a newspaper article about some Marie Sanfon? Who is this Marie Sanfon? And anyway, it doesn't matter who she is. It's plain stupid to suspect a woman! How could a woman ever be capable of such brutality!'
Mrs Truffo rose abruptly to her feet, ready to rally to the banner of female solidarity.
'We shall speak of Mile Sanfon on some other occasion,' the detective replied, looking Clarissa Stamp up and down. 'I have plenty of these little articles and each of them contains its own version of events.' He opened his file and rustled the newspaper clippings. There must have been several dozen of them. 'Very well, mesdames et messieurs, I ask you please not to interrupt me any more!' The policeman's voice had turned to iron. 'Yes, there is a dangerous criminal among us. Possibly a psychopath.' (Renate noticed the professor quietly shift his chair away from Sir Reginald.) 'Therefore I ask you all to be careful. If you notice something out of the ordinary, even the very slightest thing, come to me immediately. And it would be best, of course, if the murderer were to make a full and frank confession. There is no escape from here in any case. That is all I have to say.'
Mrs Truffo put her hand up like a pupil in school.
'In fact I have seen something extraordinary only yesterday! A charcoal-black face, it was definitely not human, looked in at me from outside while I was in our cabin! I was so scared!' She turned to her other half and jabbed him with her elbow: 'I told you, but you paid no attention!'
'Oh,' said Renate with a start, 'and yesterday a mirror in a genuine tortoiseshell frame disappeared from my toiletry set.'
Monsieur the Lunatic apparently also had something to report, but before he had a chance the commissioner slammed his file shut.
'Do not try to make a fool of me! I am an old bloodhound. You won't throw Gustave Gauche off the scent. If necessary I shall have every one of you put ashore and we will deal with each of you separately. Ten people have been killed, this is not a joke. Think, mesdames et messieurs, think!'
He left the saloon, slamming the door loudly behind him.
'Gentlemen, I am not feeling well,' Renate declared in a weak voice. 'I shall go to my cabin.'
'I shall accompany you, Mme Kleber,' said Charles Renier, immediately leaping to her side. 'This is simply intolerable! Such incredible insolence!'
Renate pushed him away.
'No thank you. I shall manage quite well on my own.'
She walked unsteadily across the room and leaned against the wall by the door for a moment. In the corridor, which was empty, her stride quickened. Renate opened her cabin and went inside, took a travelling bag out from under the bed and thrust a trembling hand in under its silk lining. Her face was pale but determined. In an instant her fingers had located a small metal box.
Inside the box, guttering with cold glass and steel, lay a syringe.
Clarissa Stamp
Things had begun to go wrong first thing in the morning, when Clarissa quite distinctly spotted two new wrinkles in the mirror - two fine, barely visible lines running from the corners of her eyes to her temples. It was all the sun's fault. It was so bright here that no parasol or hat could save you. Clarissa spent a long time inspecting herself in that pitiless polished surface and stretching her skin with her fingers, hoping it might be the way she'd slept and it would smooth out. Just as she finished her inspection, she turned her neck and spotted a grey hair behind her ear. That really made her feel glum. Might that perhaps be the sun's fault too? Did hairs fade? Oh no, Miss Stamp, no point in deceiving yourself. As the poet said:
November's chill breath trimmed her braids with silver, Whispering that youth and love were lost forever.
She took greater pains than usual with her appearance. That grey hair was mercilessly plucked out. It was stupid, of course. Wasn't it John Donne who said the secret of female happiness was knowing when to make the transition from one age to the next, and there were three ages of woman: daughter, wife and mother? But how could she progress from the second state to the third, when she had never been married?
The best cure for thoughts like that was a walk in the fresh air, and Clarissa set out to take a turn round the deck. Huge as Leviathan was, it had long since been measured out in her leisurely, even paces - at least the upper deck, which was intended for the first-class passengers. The distance round the perimeter was 355 paces. Seven and a half minutes, if she didn't pause to admire the sea or chat with casual acquaintances.
At this early hour there were none of her acquaintances on deck, and Clarissa completed her promenade along the starboard
side of the ship unhindered, all the way to the stern. The ship was ploughing a smooth path through the brownish surface of the Red Sea and a lazy grey furrow extended from its powerful propeller right out to the horizon. Oh, but it was hot!
Clarissa looked enviously at the sailors polishing up the copper fittings one level below. Lucky beasts, in nothing but their linen trousers - no bodice, no bloomers, no stockings with tight garters, no long dress. You couldn't help envying that outrageous Mr Aono, swanning about the ship in his Japanese dressing gown, and no one in the least bit surprised because he was an Oriental.
She imagined herself lying in a canvas deckchair with absolutely nothing on. No, she could be in a light tunic, like a woman in Ancient Greece. And it was perfectly normal. In a hundred years or so, when the human race finally rid itself of prejudice, it would be absolutely natural.
There was Mr Fandorin riding towards her with a squeak of rubber tyres on his American tricycle. They did say that kind of exercise was excellent for developing the elasticity of the muscles and strengthening the heart. The diplomat was dressed in a light sports outfit: check pantaloons, gutta-percha shoes with gaiters, a short jacket and a white shirt with the collar unbuttoned. His bronze-tanned face lit up in a friendly smile of greeting. Mr Fandorin politely raised his cork helmet and went rustling by. He did not stop.
Clarissa sighed. The idea of a stroll had been a failure, all she had succeeded in doing was to soak her underwear with perspiration. She had to go back to her cabin and change.
Breakfast had been spoiled for Clarissa by that poseuse Mme Kleber. What an incredible ability to transform her own weakness into a means of exploiting others! At the precise moment when the coffee in Clarissa's cup had cooled to the required temperature, that unbearable Swiss woman had complained that she felt stifled and asked for someone to loosen the bodice of her dress. Clarissa usually pretended not to hear Renate Kleber's whinges and some male volunteer was always found, but a man was clearly not suitable for such a delicate task, and as luck would have it Mrs Truffo was not there - she was helping her husband attend to some lady who had fallen ill. Apparently the tedious creature had previously worked as a nurse. What remarkable social climbing, straight up to the wife of the senior doctor and dining in first class! And she tried to act like a real British lady, but overdid it rather.
Anyway, Clarissa had been forced to fiddle with Mme Kleber's lacing, and in the meantime her coffee had gone completely cold. It was a trivial matter, of course, but it was that Kleber woman to an absolute T.
After breakfast she went out for a walk, did ten circuits and began feeling tired. Taking advantage of the fact that there was no one nearby she peeped cautiously in at the window of cabin No. 18. Mr Fandorin was sitting at the secretaire, wearing a white shirt with red, white and blue braces, a cigar clenched in the corner of his mouth. He was tapping terribly loudly with his fingers on a bizarre black apparatus made of iron, with a round roller and a large number of keys. Clarissa was so intrigued that she let her guard down and was caught red-handed. The diplomat jumped to his feet, bowed, threw on his jacket and came across to the open window.
'It's a Remington t-typewriter,' he explained. 'The very latest model, only just on sale. A most c-convenient device, Miss Stamp, and quite light. Two porters can carry it with no difficulty. Quite indispensable on a journey. You see, I am p-practis-ing my stenography by copying out a piece of Hobbes.'
Still red with embarrassment, Clarissa nodded slightly and walked away, then sat down under a striped awning close by. There was a fresh breeze blowing. She opened La Chartreuse de Parme and began reading about the selfless love of the beautiful but ageing duchess Sanseverina for the youthful Fabrice del Dongo. Moved to shed a sentimental tear, she wiped it away with her handkerchief, and as if by design, at that very moment, Mr Fandorin emerged onto the deck, wearing a white suit with a broad-brimmed panama hat and carrying a cane. He looked exceptionally handsome.
Clarissa called to him. He approached, bowed and sat down beside her. Glancing at the cover of her book, he said:
'I am willing to b-bet that you skipped the description of the Battle of Waterloo. A pity - it is the finest passage in the whole of Stendhal. I have never read a more accurate description of war.'
Strangely enough, Clarissa was indeed reading La Chartreuse de Parme for the second time and both times she had simply leafed through the battle scene.
'How could you tell?' she asked curiously. 'Are you a clairvoyant?'
'Women always miss out the battle episodes,' said Fandorin with a shrug. At least women of your temperament.'
'And just what is my temperament?' Clarissa asked in a wheedling voice, feeling that she cut a poor figure as a coquette.
'An inclination to view yourself sceptically and the world around you romantically.' He looked at her, his head inclined slightly to one side. 'And specifically concerning yourself I can say that recently there has been some kind of sudden change for the b-better in your life and that you have suffered some k-kind of shock.'
Clarissa started and glanced at her companion in frank alarm.
'Don't be frightened,' the astonishing diplomat reassured her. 'I know absolutely nothing about you. It is simply that I have developed my powers of observation and analysis with the help of special exercises. Usually a single insignificant detail is enough for me to recreate the entire p-picture. Show me a charming button like that (he pointed delicately to a large, ornamental pink button on her jacket) and I will tell you immediately who lost it - a very big pig or a very small elephant.'
Clarissa smiled and asked:
'And can you see right through absolutely everybody?'
'Not right through, but I do see a lot. For instance, what can you tell me about that gentleman over there?'
Fandorin pointed to a thickset man with a large moustache observing the shoreline through a pair of binoculars.
'That's Mr Babble, he's . . .'
'Stop there!' said Fandorin, interrupting her. 'I'll try to guess myself.'
He looked at Mr Babble for about 30 seconds, then said: 'He is travelling to the East for the first time. He married recently. A factory owner. Business is not going well, there is a whiff of imminent bankruptcy about this gentleman. He spends almost all his time in the billiard room, but he plays badly.'
Clarissa had always prided herself on being observant and she began inspecting Mr Babble, the Manchester industrialist, more closely.
A factory owner? Well, that was possible to guess. If he was travelling first class, he must be rich. It was clear from his face that he was no aristocrat. And he didn't look like a businessman either, in that baggy frock coat, and his features lacked animation. All right then.
Recently married? Well, that was simple enough - the ring on his third finger gleamed so brightly it was obvious straightaway that it was brand new.
Plays billiards a lot? Why was that? Aha, his jacket was smeared all over with chalk.
'What makes you think that Mr Babble is travelling to the East for the first time?' she asked. 'Why is there a whiff of bankruptcy about him? And what is the basis for your assertion that he is a poor billiards player? Perhaps you have been there and seen him play?'
'No, I have not been in the b-billiard room, because I cannot stand pastimes that involve gambling, and I have never laid eyes on this gentleman before,' Fandorin replied. 'It is evident that he is travelling this way for the first time from the stubborn persistence with which he is studying the empty shoreline. Otherwise Mr Babble would be aware that he will not see anything of interest on that side until we reach the Strait of Mandeb. That is one. This gentleman's business affairs must be going very badly, otherwise he would never have embarked on such a long journey, especially so soon after his wedding. A badger like that might leave his set if the end of the world is nigh, but certainly not before. That is two.'
"What if he is taking a honeymoon voyage together with his wife?' asked Clarissa, knowing that Mr Babble was travelli
ng alone.
'And lingering forlornly on the deck like that, and loitering in the billiard room? And he plays quite incredibly badly - his jacket is all white at the front. Only absolutely hopeless players scrape their bellies along the edge of the table like that. That is three.'
'Oh, all right, but what will you say about that lady over there?'
Clarissa, now completely engrossed in the game, pointed to Mrs Blackpool, who was proceeding majestically along the deck, arm in arm with her female companion.
Fandorin scanned the estimable lady in question with a disinterested glance.
'With this one everything is written in the face. She is on her way back from England to join her husband. She has been to visit their grown-up children. Her husband is a military man. A colonel.'
Mr Blackpool was indeed a colonel in command of a garrison in some city or other in northern India. This was simply too much.
'Explain!' Clarissa demanded.
'Ladies of that kind do not travel to India on their own b-business, only to their husbands' place of service. She is not of the right age to have embarked on a journey like this for the first time - so she must be going back somewhere. Why could she have travelled to England? Only in order to see her children. I am assuming that her parents have already passed away. It is clear from her determined and domineering expression that she is a woman used to command. That is the look of the first lady of a garrison or a regiment. They are usually regarded as a level of command senior to the commanding officer himself. Perhaps you would like to know why she must be a colonel's wife? Well, because if she were a general's wife she would be travelling first class, and this lady, as you can see, has a silver badge. But let us not waste any more time on trifles.' Fandorin leaned closer and whispered: 'Let me tell you about that orang-utan over there. A curious specimen.'