All The World's A Stage

by Boris Akunin

  He took a chair, set it in front of himself and straddled it, facing the back.

  ‘You sit down as well. The real discussion is only just beginning. We have the scent now.’

  Subbotin sat down too – beside him, in exactly the same manner. The investigators were like two mounted knights at a crossroads.

  ‘Where do you want to start?’

  ‘From th-the head. That is, from Tsarkov. And to add to the fun, I’ll throw a little more k-kerosene onto the flames for you. Do you remember that at the beginning of the season someone slipped a snake into Madam Lointaine’s flowers?’

  ‘I read something in the newspapers. What does that have to do with this?’

  ‘This is what.’ Erast Petrovich smiled sweetly. ‘I recall – and, as you know, I have a good memory – a certain phrase that Tsarkov spoke to his adjutant general. What he said was more or less: “Find out who did it and punish them”. That is one. Before that he ordered Whistle to take half a dozen bottles of expensive Bordeaux to the leading man as a gift. That is two. And the third thing is that Emeraldov did not poison himself as the newspapers reported. He was poisoned, and with wine. A pity I didn’t think of analysing it to see exactly what kind. In any c-case, that is three. And the fourth thing is that, bearing in mind the character of the deceased leading man and his rivalry with Madam Lointaine, it is entirely possible that Emeraldov played that vile trick himself.’

  ‘A second murder in the same theatre!’ Subbotin jumped to his feet and sat back down again. ‘Whistle could have poisoned the artiste Emeraldov! But isn’t that too harsh a punishment for such a petty piece of nastiness?’

  ‘Not so very petty. A viper’s bite, together with the shock, could quite easily have dispatched the l-lady to the next world. And furthermore, as I recall, Tsarkov held a very low opinion of the Ark’s leading lover. He could have flown into a violent fury if he discovered that Emeraldov was responsible for the vile trick with the snake. But tell me more about Tsarkov, so that I can understand how dangerous his rage is. Everything you know.’

  ‘Oh, I know a lot about him. I collected a bit of material last year and I was thinking of trying to nail him, but there was no way.’ Sergei Nikiforovich gestured dismissively. ‘Too big a fish for me. With protectors in places that are too high. I can tell you straight out that August Ivanovich Tsarkov’s fury and his threats should be taken with the maximum possible seriousness. He’s quite a staid, restrained individual, who rarely gives free rein to his feelings. But once he gets his dander up …’ The investigator ran the edge of his hand across his throat in an eloquent gesture. ‘Speculation in theatre tickets is his favourite activity, but by no means his most important one. The Tsar can guarantee a production’s success. And he can make it fail. Stirring up scandal about a theatre, rumours, hecklers, reviews – he can control all of these. He can make an unknown newcomer a celebrity, but he can also destroy an actor’s career. The boxes that he owns are always at the disposal of the city’s bigwigs, and so they regard August Ivanovich as a delightful and courteous individual, whom riff-raff like Titular Counsellor Subbotin must not dare to bother with his petty little quibbles.’

  The policeman smiled bitterly.

  ‘Can the black market trade in tickets really bring in such large profits?’ Fandorin asked in surprise.

  ‘Make the calculation for yourself. In order to counter speculation, a municipal council regulation restricts the number of tickets that box offices can issue to any one individual to a maximum of six. But that’s no obstacle for the Tsar. He has about twenty so called “buyers” working for him, and they are always first in line at the box office window – it goes without saying that all the ticket sellers have been bribed. If we take a super-fashionable show like yesterday’s premiere, the Tsar’s net income from reselling tickets will be at least one and half thousand. And then there’s the Art Theatre, which you can’t simply walk into just like that. There’s the Bolshoi. There are shows in the Maly and Korsh theatres for which tickets are also hard to come by. There are high-demand concerts and functions of various kinds. The Tsar got his start in theatrical profiteering and he maintains a keen interest in this area, a profitable one in every possible sense, but his main income is derived from elsewhere. According to my information, he now has all the expensive brothels in Moscow under his control. The Tsar also provides services of an even more delicate nature to certain interested parties: he provides perfectly decent young ladies, not official whores with yellow tickets, to respectable men who wish to avoid publicity. And he provides a similar service to bored ladies – for good money he finds handsome young men to act as their male escorts. As you might expect, everything in Tsarkov’s enterprise in interconnected: dancers, both male and female, from the corps de ballet or the operetta, and sometime even rather well-known actors and actresses, are often not averse to acquiring an influential patron or a generous mistress.’

  ‘So T-Tsarkov has an entire organisation. How is it set up?’

  ‘In ideal fashion. It runs like clockwork, with both full-time and part-time employees. At the lowest level, the “buyers” work for a daily rate. Whistle’s assistants hire petty bureaucrats and students who have taken to drink from among the derelicts on Khitrovka Square. They queue at the box offices overnight and buy up all the best places for the fashionable shows. The “buyers” are dressed up for the job – they’re issued with shirtfronts, hats and jackets. Special “foremen” keep an eye out to make sure a Khitrovkan doesn’t just run off with the money and get drunk. There are specially trained “pushers” who create a crush at the box office, forcing their own people through and shoving everyone else out of the way. There are the “touts”, who hang about outside every theatre and peddle the tickets. They’re watched over by “pinschers”, who are responsible for arranging things with policemen on the beat and putting an end to any activity by amateur touts. Oh yes, I forgot about the “informants”. They’re the secret agents, so to speak. The Tsar has someone from the management or the acting company in his pay in every theatre. They report on what’s going to be in the repertoire, changes in productions, internal events, the leading men’s drinking bouts and the leading ladies’ migraines – you name it. Thanks to his “informants” the Tsar never makes a mistake. He has never once bought all the tickets for a show that ended up being cancelled, or for a premiere that turned out to be a flop.’

  ‘Well, that’s all fairly clear. Now tell me about Mr Whistle, please. What exactly is he in charge of in this hierarchy?’

  ‘A little bit of everything, but mostly the “pinschers”. They’re a kind of “flying squad”. Whistle has recruited dashing young blades who can give anyone a sound thrashing, or even finish them off if need be. The Tsar didn’t win control of the brothels without offending a few people, he had to take that juicy morsel away from some very serious characters.’

  ‘I used to know those serious characters,’ Erast Petrovich said with a nod. ‘Levonchik from Grachovsky Park, Acrobat from Sukharev Square. I haven’t heard anything about them for a long time now.’

  ‘Well, this is why you haven’t. Last spring Levonchik went back home to Baku. In a wheelchair. Just imagine, he accidentally fell out of a window and broke his back. And Acrobat announced that he was retiring from the business. That was just after his house burned down and his two closest deputies disappeared.’

  ‘Last spring? I was in the Caribbean. I m-missed that.’ Fandorin shook his head. ‘Well, nice going, Mr Whistle. And no trouble with the police?’

  ‘Zero. My reports don’t count for anything. Official instructions were not to do anything about it. And in a confidential conversation I was told: “We shall be grateful to August Ivanovich for doing our job for us and clearing the city of gangster elements”. And there’s another thing too, Erast Petrovich. Lipkov is very popular with the municipal police, especially the district inspectors. He’s their hero and idol, you could say. Once a year, on his birthday, he organises a special functi
on, by invitation only, at the Bouffe Theatre – it’s actually called “The Police Inspector’s Ball”. They reminisce about that occasion the whole year round in all the police districts. I should think so too: a superb concert with satirical rhymers, a cancan and clowns, swanky food and drink and the company of vivacious young ladies. Mr Whistle gets an opportunity to show off to his former colleagues – there, just look how rich and powerful I’ve become! And at the same time he keeps up useful contacts. Police raids on the racketeers are a waste of time. Whistle’s little friends in the force always warn him in advance. When I was getting close to the Tsar, I thought about raiding his so-called “Office” to obtain evidence and proof of criminal activity. But I had to abandon the idea. My own assistants would have been the first to inform Whistle about the operation, and the Office would have moved to a new address in the twinkling of an eye. It moves constantly from place to place anyway.’

  ‘What f-for? If the Tsar isn’t afraid of the police?’

  ‘But he is afraid of the hoodlums, they’ve got it in for him. And in any case, August Ivanovich is obsessively cautious. A week or two is the longest he stays anywhere. He seems like a conspicuous sort of gentleman, his automobiles and carriages can be seen at all the theatres, but just you try finding out where he’s living at the moment – no one knows.’

  Erast Petrovich got up and swayed back slightly on his heels, pondering.

  ‘Mmmm, and what kind of clues were you expecting to find in his Office?’

  ‘The Tsar follows the American accounting system and keeps scrupulous records. He ordered two large filing cabinets on wheels from Chicago to help him do it. They contain all his records, his accounts … you name it. August Ivanovich respects order, and he’s not afraid of a search. And there’s the fact that there are armed guards protecting all the documents and their owner. The Tsar always resides where his Office is. And Mr Whistle lodges with him. They’re as inseparable as Satan and his tail.’

  The investigator pressed his spectacles into the bridge of his nose, giving Fandorin an incredulous look.

  ‘Surely you’re not going to … Don’t even think about it. It’s far too risky. Especially on your own. You can’t rely on the police. My men will only be a hindrance, I’ve explained that. I could help in a private capacity, of course, but …’

  ‘No, no, I don’t wish to compromise you in the eyes of your superiors. Especially since they have specifically warned you not to bother Mr Tsarkov. But perhaps you might at least know where the infamous Office is located just at the moment?’

  Sergei Nikiforovich shrugged and spread his hands.

  ‘Unfortunately …’

  ‘Never mind. That’s no g-great problem.’

  BACK TO THE GOOD OLD DAYS

  Fandorin thought that he would determine the current location of Mr Tsarkov’s ‘Office’ in elementary fashion: by following Mr Whistle. But it all proved to be a bit more complicated than that.

  It was a job he was familiar with and it had its pleasant side. Erast Petrovich justifiably regarded himself as a master when it came to trailing someone. In recent years however, he had only rarely had to play the part of the ‘tail’ himself, which made him all the more keen to shake off the cobwebs.

  An automobile was also a very convenient thing – he could take several changes of dress with him, and his make-up materials, and all the tools that he needed, and even tea in a Thermos flask. In the nineteenth century he would have had to conduct the pursuit in less comfortable conditions.

  Erast Fandorin didn’t find his mark at Theatre Square, so he moved to Kamergersky Lane, where he spotted the commander of the touts at the entrance to the Art Theatre. As usual, Lipkov was standing there whistling, as if he had nothing much to do, and people occasionally came up to him – no doubt ‘touts’ or ‘pinschers’, or possibly ‘informants’. The conversation was always brief. Sometimes Whistle opened his green briefcase and took something out of it or, on the contrary, put something into it. Basically, he was labouring by the sweat of his brow, without leaving his post.

  Fandorin stopped his car about fifty paces away, beside a ladies’ dress shop, where several carriages and automobiles were already parked. He conducted his observation with the assistance of an excellent German innovation: a pair of photo-binoculars, with which he could take instant photos. Just to be on the safe side, Erast Petrovich photographed everyone Mr Whistle talked to – not really for any practical purpose, but simply to check the apparatus.

  At half past two the mark moved from his spot – on foot, which indicated that he was not going far. At first Fandorin was going to follow him in the automobile, since Kamergersky Lane was lively, with plenty of pedestrians around, but he realised in time that Whistle had escorts: two substantially built young men were walking fifteen or twenty strides behind him, one on each side of the street. Erast Petrovich had captured both of their images with his camera a little earlier. They were obviously ‘pinschers’, performing the function of bodyguards for their boss.

  The Isotta Fraschini had to be left behind. Fandorin was dressed in an inconspicuous short jacket (on one side it was grey, but when turned inside out, it was brown). In a shoulder bag of the kind that commercial travellers carried, he had a spare costume – another double-sided jacket. His false beard, secured with an adhesive of his own concoction, could be removed in a single movement; and spectacles with a tortoiseshell frame rendered his face almost unrecognisable.

  The mark proceeded along Kuznetsky Most Street, turned right and took up a position by the final column of the Bolshoi Theatre. Here everything was repeated all over again. Whistle clicked the lock of his briefcase and exchanged a few words with fidgety little men.

  Probably it was safe now to go back for the automobile, Fandorin reasoned. It was already clear that the mark would move on from the Bolshoi to Noah’s Ark – that was obviously his usual route.

  Ten minutes later the Isotta Fraschini was standing between the two theatres, at a point from which it was convenient to conduct observation in both directions.

  Mr Whistle moved on to the box offices of Noah’s Ark at precisely four o’clock. The touts here were different from the ones at the Art Theatre and the Bolshoi, but the ‘pinschers’ were the same. They kept an eye on their commander from the left and the right, but didn’t come close to him.

  There was another man with his hat pulled forward over his eyes and a light coat of shantung silk, loitering close to the stage door. Fandorin noticed the man, because he was acting strangely. Every time the door opened, he hid behind a pillar that was completely covered with posters. Erast Petrovich was obliged to get out of his car to examine this intriguing individual from closer quarters. He had a dark complexion, with a large Caucasian nose and eyebrows that grew together across its bridge. To judge from his bearing, he was a military man. Erast Petrovich photographed him – not with the binoculars, of course. For inconspicuous photography at short distances, he had a Stirn detective camera: a little flat box, attached under his clothing, with a powerful high-aperture lens that was disguised as a button. The inconvenient aspect of this miraculous invention was that it was single-loading, and Fandorin was soon convinced that he had wasted the camera shot for nothing. The Caucasian individual didn’t demonstrate the slightest interest in Mr Whistle and didn’t communicate with him in any way. Shortly after six o’clock, when the rehearsal was over, the actors started coming out of the door. When Eliza appeared, accompanied by Gullibin and Aphrodisina, the suspicious character hid.

  Fandorin pressed the binoculars to his eyes avidly. The woman who had robbed him of his harmony of soul was looking pale and sad today, but inexpressibly lovely nonetheless. She waved her hand to let her automobile go and set off with the other two towards Hunters’ Row. They had clearly decided to stroll back to their hotel.

  The man in the shantung silk coat followed the actors, and Erast Petrovich realised that he was nothing more than yet another admirer. He had been waiting for the beau
tiful woman to appear, and now that she had, he would creep along after her in a rapturous transport of delight.

  No, I’m not going to dance along with the other extras, Erast Petrovich thought angrily, and forced himself to move the binoculars from Eliza’s elegant silhouette to Lipkov’s repulsive features of clay

  ‘It’s time you were going home, my friend. No point in working yourself to a frazzle,’ Erast Petrovich whispered.

  As if he had heard, Mr Whistle waved his hand and an enclosed black Ford automobile that had been standing by the fountain drove across to the theatre. The ‘pinschers’ dashed over to the car. One swung the door open, while the other looked around. Then all three men got in.

  Fandorin started his engine, preparing to follow the Ford. He suppressed a yawn. The job will soon be over. Now we’ll find out where the Tsar has his den.

  But it was not to be.

  When the Ford pulled away from the pavement another automobile, an open Packard, blocked the roadway. Three young men of the same build as Lipkov’s bodyguards were sitting in it. Of course, Fandorin could have followed the covering car – it must be about to travel the same route – but it wasn’t worth taking the risk. He would have to abandon his motorised surveillance. Moscow was not New York or Paris, there were not many cars in the street, and every one stood out. The bodyguards in the Packard would be certain to spot a tenacious Isotta, that was precisely the kind of reason for which the second car acted as escort.

  So the day had been wasted. Apart, that is, from the fact that Fandorin had been convinced of the difficulty of attaining the goal that he had set himself. And the fact that he had looked at Eliza for a few seconds.

  For Erast Petrovich unforeseen obstacles had never been anything more than a reason to mobilise the additional resources of his intellect. And that was exactly what happened this time, although no exceptional effort was required. The task was not a complicated one, after all, and a new solution was quickly found.