by Boris Akunin
‘Right, listen to me,’ said Erast Petrovich, switching to Japanese. ‘Keep a close eye on everyone here. That’s all I need you to do. I’ll handle this case myself, and Subbotin will assist me. The police have to be involved in any case.’
‘What are you saying?’ Noah Noaevich asked with a frown. ‘And why didn’t you let Georges call the police?’
‘I just told Masa that it’s time to do that now. First I had to make sure that no one would enter the dressing room and ruin the evidence. With your permission, I’ll make the telephone call. I have a police detective acquaintance, a very good specialist. Ladies and gentlemen, I ask you all to go back to the b-buffet! And you, Mr Stern, post two ushers at this door.’
SPECIALISTS AT WORK
‘No doubt about it – it’s suicide,’ said Moscow criminal police investigator Sergei Nikiforovich Subbotin, pressing the yoke of his spectacles into the bridge of his nose in his habitual manner and smiling as if in apology. ‘This time, Erast Petrovich, your hypothesis has not been confirmed.’
Fandorin couldn’t believe his ears.
‘Are you joking? A man ripped open his own stomach and then, all on his own, locked the door from the outside and hung the key on the board?’
Subbotin giggled in acknowledgement of the joke. He blotted his sparse white hair with a handkerchief – it was getting close to dawn and he had already put in several hours of intense work.
‘I’ll follow your method, Erast Petrovich, and run through the points. You told me that Cornet Limbach had no reason to commit suicide, since he had won a victory in love. According to your information the artiste Altairsky had bestowed her … er … favours on him, is that correct?’
‘Yes,’ Fandorin confirmed in an icy tone. ‘The cornet had no reason to do away with himself, especially in such an appalling manner.’
‘I’m afraid you are mistaken,’ Sergei Nikiforovich said with an even more guilty air, embarrassed at having to correct his former mentor. A very long time ago, twenty years in fact, the young police officer had begun his career under the stewardship of State Counsellor Fandorin. ‘While you accompanied the body to the autopsy room in order to establish the precise time of death I did a bit of investigating here. The artiste concerned and the hussar were not involved in an intimate relationship. The rumours are without any substance. You know what a stickler I am, I established the fact for certain.’
‘They were n-not involved?’
Erast Petrovich’s voice shook.
‘Absolutely not. And what’s more, I spoke to a friend of Limbach’s on the telephone, and the witness claimed that just recently the cornet had been driven distracted by the torments of love and he had declared repeatedly that he would kill himself. That, as you say, is one.’
‘And what will be two?’
Subbotin took out his notebook.
‘Witnesses Gullibin and Nonarikin testified that on the night when Limbach found his way into Madam Altairsky’s hotel room, they heard him on the other side of the door, threatening to rip open his stomach in the Japanese manner if she rejected him. That is two for you.’ He turned over the page. ‘In some way as yet undetermined, Limbach got hold of a pass and sneaked into the dressing room of the queen of his heart. I believe he wanted to punish his tormentor when she returned in triumph after the performance, smothered in flowers. Having lost all hope that his feelings might be requited, Limbach desired to kill himself in the terrible Japanese manner. Like a samurai committing hiri-kiri for a geisha.’
‘Hara-kiri.’
‘Isn’t that what I said? He carves himself open with the knife, suffering appalling agony, he’s bleeding to death and he tries to write her name – “Liza” – on the door, but his strength runs out.’
Getting carried away, the investigator started demonstrating how it had all happened: here was the cornet clutching at his stomach, writhing in agony, dipping his finger into his wound, starting to write on the door and falling. Well, Sergei Nikiforovich didn’t actually fall, it’s true – the floor of the dressing room had just been washed and it hadn’t dried out yet.
‘By the way, the incomplete name is three.’ Subbotin pointed to the door which, on his instructions, had been left untouched. ‘What did the coroner tell you? When did death occur?’
‘At approximately half p-past ten, plus or minus a quarter of an hour. That is, during the third act. The death agony lasted no more than ten minutes.’
‘There, you see. He waited until the performance was almost over. Otherwise there was a risk that someone else, and not Madam Lointaine, might glance into the dressing room, and then the entire effect would have been ruined.’
Fandorin sighed.
‘What’s wrong with you, Subbotin? All your deductions and the reconstruction aren’t worth a bent farthing. Have you forgotten that the door was locked? That someone must have locked it with a key?’
‘Limbach himself locked it. Obviously he was afraid that if he couldn’t bear the pain, he would go running out in his semi-conscious state. I found the key – or rather, a duplicate – in the pocket of the suicide’s breeches. Here it is – and that is four.’
A key glinted on the investigator’s open hand. Fandorin took out his magnifying glass. Yes indeed, it really was a duplicate, and one made recently – the marks of a file could still be seen on the bit. There was not the slightest trace of triumph or – God forbid! – gloating in the investigator’s voice, only calm pride in a job honestly done.
‘I checked, Erast Petrovich. The keys of the actors’ dressing rooms hang on a board, unattended. The rooms are not usually locked anyway, so the keys are almost never used. Limbach could have had a copy made during some previous visit.’
And Fandorin sighed again. Subbotin was rather a good detective, thorough. Not quite the sharpest pencil in the box, but a police officer didn’t have to be. He could have gone far. Unfortunately, after Erast Petrovich was obliged to resign, things had not worked out well for the young man. In post-Fandorin times quite different qualities were required for a policeman to make a successful career: delivering elegant reports and currying favour with superiors. Sergei Nikiforovich had not learned to do either of these from the state counsellor. Fandorin had always laid more emphasis on teaching him how to gather evidence and question witnesses. And here was the result of an incorrect education; the man was already past forty, and still only a titular counsellor, and he was always given the least advantageous, dead-end cases, which gave him no chance to distinguish himself. If not for Erast Petrovich’s direct request, there was no way that Subbotin would ever have been entrusted with a plum job like a bloody drama in a fashionable theatre. After all, the newspapers would all write about it, and he would become an instant celebrity. Provided, of course, that he didn’t make a mess of things.
‘And now you l-listen to me. Your theory of a “Japanese-style suicide” won’t hold water. I assure you that no one b-but a samurai from a previous age, who has prepared for such a death since he was a child, is capable of performing hara-kiri on himself. Except perhaps for a violent madman in a fit of acute insanity. But Limbach was not insane. That is one. Secondly: did you notice the angle of the cut? No? Well, that is why I went t-to the autopsy room with the body, to study the wound properly. The blow was delivered by a man who was standing face to face with Limbach. At the moment of the attack the cornet was sitting d-down, in other words he was not expecting the attack at all. As you recall, a substantial pool of blood collected beside the overturned chair. That is where the blow was struck. That is three. Now pay attention to the knife. What kind is it?’
Sergei Nikiforovich picked up the weapon and turned it over in his hands.
‘An ordinary clasp knife.’
‘Precisely. The Moscow b-bandits’ favourite tool, which is replacing the sheath knife in their arsenal. Using a weapon like this, a slicing blow can be delivered with no backswing, on the sly. You open it behind your back or quietly slip it out of a sleeve, so that your
victim doesn’t see it. The strike is made holding it in a closed fist with the handle towards the thumb. Let me have it, I’ll show you how it’s done.’
He made a swift movement, pulling his hand out from behind his back. Subbotin doubled over at the sudden surprise of it.
‘It leaves a characteristic wound, shallow at the end where penetration occurs and gradually deepening towards the point of withdrawal. That is, the opposite picture as compared with the blow of hara-kiri, in which the blade is first thrust in deeply and then jerked out at an angle. I repeat: only a samurai with incredible tolerance of pain, who has trained his hand for a long time, is capable of inflicting a wound as long as Limbach’s on himself. A Japanese suicide usually had only enough strength to thrust the dagger in, after which his second immediately severed the p-poor man’s head.’ Fandorin looked reproachfully at his former pupil. ‘Tell me, Sergei Nikiforovich, where would a cornet get a bandit’s knife?’
‘I don’t know. He bought it for some reason. Possibly for this very purpose, judging from the sharpness of the blade,’ replied Subbotin, shaken, but still not convinced. ‘Let me remind you of the writing on the door.’ He pointed to the bloody letters ‘Li’. ‘If those are not the first letters of the name of the woman who was the reason why the young man decided to end his life, then what are they?’
‘I have an inkling, but first let us ask the witnesses a few questions. Now is precisely the right time.’
Eliza was waiting in the green room with the director and his assistant. The actress had been asked to stay by the investigator; Stern and Nonarikin had been asked to stay by Fandorin.
Subbotin sent a police constable for them. But he came back with only the actress and the assistant director.
‘Noah Noaevich flew into a fury and left,’ Nonarikin explained. ‘It really is awkward, gentlemen. A man like that being made to wait to be summoned, like some petty thief. I can answer any questions concerning procedures, schedules, the general organisation of the dressing rooms and all the rest of it. That’s my area of responsibility.’
‘How are you feeling?’ Fandorin asked the actress.
She was very pale and her eyes were puffy. Her geisha’s hairstyle had slumped to one side and traces of mascara could be seen on the sleeves of her kimono – Eliza must have wiped away her tears with them. Her face, however, had been washed clean and there was no make-up left on it.
‘Thank you, I’m feeling better,’ she replied in a quiet voice. ‘Simochka was with me almost all the time. She helped me to tidy myself up – I looked like a witch, covered in black streaks … Sima left half an hour ago, Mr Masa volunteered to see her home.’
‘I s-see.’
He’s jealous because I’m working with Subbotin, Erast Petrovich guessed. Well, to hell with him. He can console himself with his Aphrodisina, we’ll manage without him.
‘Two questions, madam,’ he said, adopting a businesslike tone of voice. ‘The first is: Was the door handle like that before?’
Erast Petrovich pointed to the inner surface of the door. The brass handle was slightly bent.
But apparently Eliza could see only the traces of blood. She screwed up her eyes and answered in a weak voice.
‘I … don’t know … I don’t remember …’
‘I remember,’ Nonarikin announced. ‘The handle was in perfectly good order. But what’s that written there?’
‘That will b-be my second question. Madam Lointaine, did the deceased ever call you “Liza”?’ Erast Petrovich tried to make the question sound completely neutral.
‘No. No one ever calls me that. Not for a long time.’
‘Perhaps in … intimate moments?’ The questioner’s tone of voice became even drier. ‘Please be frank. It is very important.’
Her cheeks turned pink and her eyes glittered angrily.
‘No. And now goodbye. I don’t feel well.’
She turned and walked out. Nonarikin dashed after her.
‘You can’t go anywhere in the kimono!’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘I’ll see you to the hotel!’
‘The car will take me.’
She left.
What did that ‘no’ of hers mean, Fandorin wondered in torment. That even in intimate moments Limbach never called her ‘Liza’, or that there weren’t any intimate moments? But if there weren’t, then why such turbulent manifestations of grief? This is more than simply shock at the sight of death, there is powerful, genuine feeling here …
‘And so,’ he summed up dispassionately. ‘As you see, the cornet never called Madam Altairsky-Lointaine “Liza”, and it would be strange if he decided to use a new name for her at the moment of his departure from this life.’
‘Then what does this incomplete word signify? Did he really decide to sign off with his own name: “Limbach, with best regards”?’
‘B-bravo. I’ve never observed any tendency towards irony and sarcasm in you before.’ Fandorin smiled.
‘With the life I have, I’d be finished without irony. But really, Erast Petrovich, what did happen here, in your opinion?’
‘I think it was like this. The murderer – someone well known to Limbach, who didn’t arouse his suspicion – sliced open the cornet’s stomach with a sudden blow and then walked or ran out into the corridor and locked the door, or simply leaned his body against it. The officer, fatally wounded, bleeding to death, but not yet unconscious, shouted, but apart from the criminal no one heard him. Then Limbach tried to get out of the dressing room, he grabbed the door handle and even bent it, but it was no good. Then the dying man tried to write his killer’s name, or some other word that would expose him, on the door, but his strength ran out. When the groaning and thrashing about stopped, the criminal entered the dressing room and slipped the duplicate key into the dead man’s pocket. He used the other k-key, taken from the board, to lock the door again from the outside. To make the police think that the suicide had locked himself in. Do you remember the testimony of Madam Lointaine and Mr Shustrov? When they reached the door and found it locked, the actress was rather surprised, but she found the key in its usual place – on the board. The fact that the criminal failed to notice the letters written in blood when he entered the room after Limbach died is hardly surprising – they don’t stand out among the other blotches and streaks. I didn’t notice them immediately myself.’
‘How convincingly you describe it all,’ simple-hearted Nonarikin exclaimed. ‘Like a real detective!’
The investigator cast a sideways glance at Erast Petrovich and grinned, but he didn’t pass any ironic comments.
‘You’ve convinced me,’ he admitted. ‘I expect you already have some theories?’
‘Several. Here is the f-first for you. Limbach had a strange, convoluted relationship with a certain individual who, as far as I can understand, runs the theatre ticket touts. An entirely criminal type. Very tall and unpleasant, with a face the colour of brick. Dresses in American suits and whistles all the time …’
‘His nickname is actually “Mr Whistle”,’ Sergei Nikiforovich said with a nod. ‘A well-known figure. The right hand of Mr Tsarkov, the so-called “Tsar”, who rules over an entire empire of ticket touts, a very influential man. On friendly terms with everyone in the municipal authorities and has his own box in every theatre.’
‘I know who you mean. And my next question would have been about Mr Tsarkov. I had the pleasure of sharing a box with him. Mr Whistle showed up there too. So that’s the “Tsar” the hussar was t-talking about …’ The theory was becoming more and more convincing. ‘You see, a few days ago, I happened to witness a contretemps between Mr Whistle and Limbach. The tout demanded repayment from the cornet for some debt or other, but the young man said: “You can go to hell, you and your Tsar”. I was surprised by that … I don’t know exactly what the conflict was about, but if a criminal character like Whistle happened to have a clasp knife in his pocket, I wouldn’t be surprised in the least. And a man like t
hat wouldn’t stop at m-murder, you can read that in his eyes. That’s theory number one for you. Let’s leave it for the time being and move on to theory number t-two …’
But they never even started on theory number two.
‘I know that Whistle!’ put in Nonarikin, who had been listening avidly. ‘And I know Tsarkov. Who doesn’t know them? Mr Tsarkov is a very polite and personable individual, the actors always receive bouquets and gifts from him after a successful show. As a sign of gratitude, so to speak. He usually thanks the director and the leading artistes in person, and he sends Mr Whistle to the others. But you’re mistaken, Erast Petrovich, Whistle isn’t a criminal at all, quite the contrary. Isn’t that right, Mr Policeman?’
‘Well, it’s like this,’ said Subbotin, happy to go back to the first theory – he found it interesting. ‘He used to be the inspector of the Myasnitsky district. And his departure wasn’t entirely voluntary. Something to do with bribes, but there were no judicial consequences. You know our people don’t like to hang the dirty linen outside in public view.’
‘I know. But g-go on.’
‘Gentlemen,’ Nonarikin butted in, shifting anxiously from one foot to the other. ‘If you don’t need me any more … What if the automobile didn’t wait for Madam Altairsky? She can’t walk home through the city at night alone – in a costume like that, and in such a distressed state! I’ll check and, if necessary, I can catch up with her. She can’t have got far in those Japanese sandals of hers.’
And he ran off, without waiting for permission. Erast Petrovich watched the assistant director go with an envious gaze.
‘… And Mr Whistle’s real name,’ the investigator continued, ‘is Sila Yegorovich Lipkov …’
He stopped short with his mouth hanging open. His light eyelashes started fluttering.
‘There, you see,’ Fandorin said in a slow, soft voice, instantly forgetting all about Eliza and her faithful paladin. ‘“Liza” has nothing to do with the case. So it’s Lipkov, then? Ye-es, let’s wait a while before moving on to theory number two.’