“I’ll bet that the prince was poisoned,” Lidia Nikolaevna said quickly, turning to Arkhip Giatsintovich, who pretended that he had not heard.
“An inventive theory. And clever, too,” Mustafin said at length. “However, one must have an exceedingly active imagination to picture Princess Karakina carving up the body of her own sister with a bread knife while dressed in the garb of Eve.”
Everyone again began speaking at once, defending both points of view with equal ardor, although the ladies inclined to Fandorin’s version of events, while the gentlemen rejected it as improbable. The cause of the argument took no part in the discussion himself, although he listened to the points of both sides with interest.
“Oh, but why are you remaining silent?!” Lidia Nikolaevna called to him, as she pointed at Mustafin. “Clearly, he is arguing against something perfectly obvious simply in order not to give up his stake. Tell him, say something else that will force him into silence!”
“I am waiting for your Matvey to return,” Erast Petrovich replied tersely.
“But where did you send him?”
“To the Governor-General’s staff headquarters. The telegraph office there is open around the clock.”
“But that’s on Tverskoy Boulevard, five minutes’ walk from here, and he’s been gone more than an hour!” someone wondered.
“Matvey was ordered to wait for the reply,” the officer of special missions explained, then again fell silent while Arkhip Giatsintovich held everyone’s attention with an expansive explanation of the ways in which Fandorin’s theory was completely impossible from the viewpoint of female psychology.
Just at the most effective moment, as Mustafin was holding forth most convincingly about the innate properties of the feminine nature, which is ashamed of nudity and cannot endure the sight of blood, the door quietly opened and the long-awaited Matvey entered. Treading silently, he approached the collegiate assessor and, with a bow, proffered a sheet of paper.
Erast Petrovich turned, read the note, then nodded. The hostess, who had been watching the young man’s face attentively, could not endure to wait any longer, and so moved her chair closer to her guest. “Well, what’s there?” she whispered.
“I was right,” Fandorin answered, also in a whisper.
That instant Odintsova interrupted the lecture. “Enough nonsense, Arkhip Giatsintovich! What do you know of the feminine nature, you who have never even been married! Erast Petrovich has incontrovertible proof!” She took the telegram from the collegiate assessor’s hand and passed it around the circle.
Flabbergasted, the guests read the telegram, which consisted of three words:
“Yes. Yes. No.”
“And that’s it? What is this? Where is it from?” Such were the general questions.
“The telegram was sent from the Russian mission in Br-Brazil,” Fandorin explained. “You see the diplomatic stamp there? It is deep night here in Moscow, but in Rio de Janeiro right now the mission is in attendance. I was counting on that when I ordered Matvey to wait for a reply. As for the telegram, I recognize the laconic style of Karl Ivanovich Veber. This is how my message read. Matvey, give me the paper, will you? The one I gave you.” Erast Petrovich took the paper from the lackey and read aloud, “ ‘Karl, old boy, inform me the following soonest: is Russian subject born Princess Anyuta Karakina now resident in Brazil married? If yes, is her husband lame? And does the princess have a mole on her right cheek? I need all this for a bet. Fandorin.’ From the answer to the message it is clear that the pr-princess is married to a lame man, and has no mole on her cheek. Why would she need the mole now? In far-off Brazil there is no need to run to such clever tricks. As you see, ladies and gentlemen, Polinka is alive and well, married to her Renar. The terrible tale has an idyllic ending. By the by, the lack of a mole shows once again that Renar was a witting participant in the murder and knows perfectly well that he is married precisely to Polinka, and not to Anyuta.”
“So, I shall give orders to fetch the Caravaggio,” Odintsova said to Arkhip Giatsintovich with a victorious smile.
Translation by Anthony Olcott
Dead End
Julián Ibáñez
I took the wallet where he kept his papers and ID, and removed twelve banknotes for my pocket. Then I shooed off the flies and put the wallet back.
On the Audi’s seats I found clothes and toiletries. No books, maps, or any other papers. Just silk shirts, a dozen pairs of yellow socks, some flashy Italian shoes, badger-hair brushes and cartons of Chester cigarettes.
I returned to the Ford, and drove towards a garden that could be seen in the distance.
After parking in the shade, I went through a gate and pressed the doorbell. A few seconds later I heard a woman’s voice:
“Who is it?”
“Someone passing by.” I was about to ask for a glass of water, but realized the priority was to inform the Guardia Civil. “Do you have a phone?”
“A telephone? . . . I’m afraid not . . . In the village. We’ll send someone. What’s it for?”
“Nothing.” I then remembered that the Ford’s tank was almost empty. “Do you have a car?”
“A car? No, I’m sorry . . . We have horses, though. I’ll get one saddled up for you.”
I glanced round. It was a modern house with a large, carefully tended garden.
I was about to return to the car when the front door opened. A woman of indefinite age was standing in the frame, very slim, with perfect corkscrew curls and a golden fringe that just brushed the tops of her eyebrows. She was wearing a very thin green dress which looked like silk.
“Is something wrong?”
“Nothing of importance.”
I evidently passed muster.
“Would you . . . would you like a cup of tea?”
“A cup of tea?”
“It’s just about ready . . . Why don’t you come in?” she said, drawing back from the frame. I squared my shoulders, removed the hands from my pockets, and went in. “You don’t mind if I serve you myself. The maid’s just changing the rooms upstairs.”
Nothing was to be heard, and little more to be seen. The temperature in the dim hall was ten degrees cooler.
I followed her in, my fingertips grazing the passage walls. We entered the living room, a faint light filtering in through the slats of the blinds.
“Take a seat, please . . . A little dark?” she said, gesturing towards an armchair. “Make yourself at home.”
I sat down. She left the room.
Dusty pictures on the walls; moth-eaten zebra skins on the floor, silver deities on the shelves of a glass display cabinet. A spider web hung above my head.
I stood up. Through a chink in the blinds I could see a truck drawn up on the road. Two men were walking towards the Audi.
She returned with a laden tea tray, and set it on a side table made of pinkish marble.
“Cigarette?”
I reached for my packet, but she stopped me with a gesture.
“Virginia blend?”
“. . . Fine . . .” I looked at her. “Chester, by any chance?”
“Chester? Yes, of course.”
She proffered a small box made of black wood. I took a cigarette and she did the same, inserting hers into a long marble holder.
For a few minutes we sat there, blowing smoke and sipping tea.
“What do you want from life?” she asked suddenly, sliding her bare foot over the settee’s damask surface.
“. . . Something like this, I guess. A peaceful chat and a nice quiet smoke.”
She smiled, then took a long drag and turning her head blew the smoke into my face. I breathed it in, not quite sure what to think.
She suddenly sat up.
“Excuse me.”
She set the holder down in the ashtray, and bumped into a couple of armchairs before disappearing through a door.
I cleaned my nails with a toothpick, then went over to the window. There were now a half dozen cars by the Audi.
Three or four Guardias were bent over the corpse. A couple of local farmers were gesturing with their heads in the direction of the house.
On her return, she bumped into the sofa, and a silver-mounted frame came crashing down on a side table. She flopped onto the settee, and I sat down again.
“Fancy a drink?”
I seemed to be wrapped in her fragrant breath.
“Only if you’ll join me.”
“What would you like?”
“. . . Anisette, with a little ice.”
“Really?” She looked at me with interest, arching her brows. “What colour do you prefer?”
“. . . Yellow.”
She gave a snort, and then couldn’t stop laughing for a while. When she finally regained control, she shook her head making the corkscrew curls dance, and then pointed to a small bar.
“But if you don’t mind . . . you can fix the drinks.”
I made the drinks and we sat there drinking them. For several minutes she spoke to me about her life as a young girl. She’d drained her glass in one gulp. Then she fell silent. Eventually, she looked at me with moist lips.
“. . . Sit down here, by my side . . .”
I drained my glass and picked up hers.
“First let’s have another round. I’ll give these a rinse.”
I went into the kitchen. It was spacious, with copper pans hanging from the walls. I looked for the sink. In the bucket was the knife, over a foot long, for cutting serrano ham. Very sharp. The blade and handle were covered in blood. I put down the glasses, turned on the tap and washed it carefully. After drying it, I put it in a drawer, washed and dried the glasses, and returned to the living room.
She had her eyes closed. Her chin was pointed up at the ceiling.
“. . . Sit down here . . .”
I fixed the drinks. The doorbell rang.
“I’ll get it,” I said.
The bell rang again. I paused in the hall, listening. It rang once more. I waited without moving, until I heard footsteps receding. Then I peeped through the spyhole. Two Guardias and a farmer were walking back towards the road. One of the Guardias turned to look back at the door.
I returned to the living room.
“Who was it?”
“A driver asking for directions.”
I handed her one of the glasses, sat down, and took a sip from mine. She did the same.
“Do you know . . . do you know how to play écarté?” she asked.
“I could learn.”
“. . . Let’s have a game before dinner . . . Then we’ll go for a stroll . . . I love walking barefoot on the grass.”
I put down my drink.
“I’d like to take a shower.”
She opened her eyes.
“Oh . . . please excuse me . . . Where are your suitcases?”
“In the car. I’ll get them later.”
“Yes, do . . . There’s a bedroom upstairs . . . You’ll find bathrobes and towels . . . Have a cold shower, it’s terribly hot.”
I went up and had a shower. The bedroom was a mess, bed unmade, wardrobe open and empty. There was nothing but a pair of Italian shoes, men’s shoes, on the dressing table, and a message in chalk on the mirror: “Goodbye, darling. The ones you bought me were too big. Enjoy shining them.” I put away the shoes and wiped off the message with a damp towel.
I went down to the living room, and found her sitting at the card table with a pack in her hands. She looked relaxed.
“Please have a seat . . . By the way, what’s your name?”
“Juan.”
“You deal, Juan.”
I shuffled and began to deal the cards. After a bit, there was a sound of chiming bells, but by then I was completely immersed in the game.
Translation by Andrew Davies
Die Wanderung
Michael Gregorio
The three men would be executed at dawn the following morning.
After reading out the death sentence, I took off my black cap and slipped the robe from my shoulders, watching as the prisoners were taken away to the cells, waiting while the large crowd filed out of the court-room. My thoughts were heavier than the hanging of a band of feckless Prussian rogues might have justified. I was thinking of an incident which had happened more than twenty years before.
Later that afternoon, I walked home along the dusty lane beneath the city walls. I paused when I reached my own gate. I could hear the voices of my wife and children in the garden at the rear of the house, but I did not go to join them. Nor did I announce that I was home. Instead, I slipped in through the side entrance like a thief, made directly for my study, and locked the door behind me. After taking down the Dutch clock from the mantelpiece, I removed the key which is hidden inside the case, and used it to unlock the bottom drawer of my desk. There I keep the leather-bound diary which accompanied me on the foreign travels of my youth.
I began to search through the pages until I found what I was looking for. It was a brief account of an episode which had taken place in Italy. When I wrote those lines, I was an untried student of jurisprudence, not the seasoned magistrate that I have since become. I had been a witness to a tragic event for which I could find no explanation at the time. And as every investigator knows, where there is no apparent motive for a crime, only the mystery remains. Still, after what I had heard in court that morning, I believed that I might be able to explain the fate of Enrico De Pretis to my own satisfaction.
The first time that I travelled outside East Prussia, I was twenty-three years old. It was the beginning of July, 1792, I had come into my allowance, and European politics had momentarily settled down in the aftermath of the French Revolution. The French had been forced back towards Paris by a united force of Austrians and Prussians; it was possible to travel through the German states. I was young, and I was restless. Despite the violence of my father’s opposition, and the subtler persuasion of my mother’s tears, I declared one day that I meant to go a-wandering. My plan was hastily devised and badly formed. No one would come with me. My brother, Stefan, was pursuing his short-lived career in the army (he would be dead within a few months). Various friends had expressed the will to join me, but they had not the means to do so. In a fit of stubbornness, I decided that I would go alone. My intention was to travel southwards by public coach, stopping off wherever I wished, continue on through Switzerland (where a paying passenger must walk up the mountains if he goes by public stages), then cross into the Kingdom of Lombardy. There, I would take account of how much money I had spent, and decide how much farther south I might still venture.
I had been frugal in my expenses, and so I pressed on, leaving Milan behind me.
Shortly after noon on 23 October, 1792, having come from Arezzo by way of Cortona, following the rolling wooded hills above the sparkling shores of Trasimeno Lake, the coach deposited me in Corso Vannucci, which is the main thoroughfare of the city of Perugia. All was brilliant light. There was not a shadow to be seen. The sky above my head was cerulean blue. Perugino, the painter after whom the Corso was named, had rendered the Umbrian sky to perfection, as I was soon to understand. I found comfortable lodgings in a pensione called La Rosa. Which is to say, I was accompanied there.
I was no longer alone.
No traveller ever is alone, unless he chooses to remain aloof. In the coach which carried twelve passengers from Zurich to Milan, I had made the acquaintance of Enrico De Pretis. He was reading the works of Goethe, and I, of course, declared my own fond admiration for the poet. As we were crossing the Alps that night, he suddenly dropped the window-sash and leant right out, intoning a line which was a particular favourite of my own. It is from the well-known passage which begins: “It is night. I am alone, forlorn on the hill of storms.”
“Rise moon from behind thy clouds!” he cried. “Stars of the night, arise!”
Though the moon and stars refused to emerge at his bidding, Enrico De Pretis and I became firm friends. He was returning home to Rome after having spent th
ree years as an apprentice clockmaker “in the company of prudes and Zwinglians”. The city of Zurich, as he described it, “woke up before dawn, and went to bed before sunset”. He had never liked the city, or its inhabitants. It was hellishly expensive, he said, though there was nothing on which to spend one’s money.
“Except for clocks,” he chuckled.
He had a predilection for a paradox.
Having deposited our bags, we wandered around Perugia for the rest of the day, and visited all the most notable sights. I was particularly impressed by the Scuola del Cambio where Perugino’s sky is always blue, the countryside peaceful and welcoming, and by the ornamental fountain which stands in front of the cathedral of S. Lorenzo. As the evening drew on, the shops were closed, the churches were shut up for the night, and we sat down to dine in a locanda called Il Grifo – a dish of salted quails and lentils, served with rich red wine. Afterwards, fresh fruit was brought to end the meal. Enrico picked up an apple on the point of his knife, waved it at me and declared with a grin: “Once I have paid for dinner, I’ll be eating apples all the way to Gianicolo.”
He had a coach ticket which would take him on to Rome, but no remaining cash.
“I’ll pay tonight,” I offered. “That will be my parting gift.”
“Parting?”
As we were travelling down through the Kingdom of Tuscany and into the Papal state of Umbria, I had slowly been coming to a decision. If I travelled any further south – I had set my heart on seeing the ancient ruins of Rome by moonlight – it would be too late in the season for me to safely cross the Alps again.
“Once winter comes,” I reasoned, “I’ll be obliged to stay in Italy. But if I turn back now, I will be able to travel westwards, perhaps as far as Paris, before I am forced to turn my sights on home again.”
Enrico was a warm-hearted soul. “I’ll be sad to see you go,” he said. “When are you thinking of leaving?”
“Tomorrow morning,” I replied. Having made a decision, I act upon it. “I’d have liked to visit the basilica in Assisi, but . . .”
The Mammoth Book Best International Crime Page 32