by Boris Akunin
Nonarikin had listened with rapt attention.
‘When this is all over, you should write a play about it,’ he declared. ‘It would be a sensation – a criminal drama hot on the heels of the villainous crime! Noah Noaevich would like the idea. And that profit-hungry Shustrov would like it even more. It would be my dream to play Whistle! Will you write that part for me?’
‘First play yourself,’ said Erast Petrovich, cooling Nonarikin’s ardour and inwardly regretting that he had become involved with the actor. ‘Tonight. Only watch out: in this theatre of ours a flop can result in death. Of the real kind.’
Not in the least bit frightened, Georges exclaimed:
‘Then let’s rehearse. What do I have to do?’
‘Whistle artistically. Consider it practice for playing the part of Mr Whistle. Every self-respecting Moscow gang has its own way of communicating. It’s like in the animal world – a sound signal serves a double function: to allow your own kind to recognise you and to frighten away strangers. I have assembled an entire music collection of bandits’ whistles. The Sukharev Square gang, led by a certain Acrobat, which was driven away from its rich feeding trough some time ago by our f-friends, uses a trill like this.’ Erast Petrovich folded his fingers together in a special way and gave a resounding, rollicking, hooligan whistle that rang through the empty theatre. ‘Right, then, you try to repeat that.’
‘What for?’ Nonarikin asked after thinking for a moment.
‘Let’s agree,’ Fandorin said with a polite smile, ‘that if I tell you to do something, you don’t think about it and ask me “what for”, but simply do it. Otherwise our p-plan could turn out badly.’
‘Like in the army? Orders are not to be discussed, but carried out? Yes, sir.’
Fandorin’s assistant asked his commanding officer to show him one more time and then, to Erast Petrovich’s amazement, at the first attempt he produced a rather convincing imitation of the Sukharev Square villains’ battle call. ‘Bravo, Georges. You have a talent.’
‘I’m an actor, after all. Imitating is my profession.’
By nightfall, after practising zealously, Georges had achieved genuine mastery, which he demonstrated with every possible diligence.
‘N-no more! You’ve deafened me.’ Erast Petrovich took one hand off the steering wheel and gestured to stop the enthusiastic whistler. ‘You do that excellently. The Tsar and his guards will be absolutely convinced that the Sukharev Square gang has attacked them. Tell me once again what you have to do.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Nonarikin flung up his hand in military style to the rakishly angled peaked cap that had been issued to him especially for the operation. The smart blades from Sukharev Square flaunted headgear like that – unlike the Khitrovka bandits, who preferred soft, eight-sided caps, or the Grachovka hoodlums, who considered it chic to go around bareheaded.
‘I wait in the bushes to the south-west of the house …’
‘Where I position you,’ Fandorin specified.
‘Where you position me. I look at my watch. Precisely every three hundred seconds I start to whistle. When men come running out of the house, I fire two shots.’ Fandorin’s assistant took his officer’s Nagant revolver out of his belt. ‘Into the air.’
‘Not simply into the air, but vertically upwards, hiding behind a tree trunk. Otherwise the pinschers will identify your location from the flashes and start firing straight at you.’
‘Yes, sir.
‘And then?’
‘Then I start moving in the direction of the Yauza river, firing every now and then.’
‘Into the air as before. It is not our intention to kill anyone. You simply have to lure the guards away.’
‘Yes, sir. In tactics that is called “drawing the main forces of the enemy against oneself”.’
‘Yes, that’s it.’ Erast Petrovich cast a dubious sideways glance at his passenger. ‘For God’s sake, don’t let them cut down the distance between you. Don’t go playing the hero. Your job is to get them to follow you to the river, and there you’ll stop firing and simply run off. That’s all. That will be the end of your mission.’
Nonarikin protested with a dignified air.
‘Mr Fandorin, I am an officer of the Russian army. In tactical matters I can perform a false retreat, but I do not consider it possible to run away, especially from some riff-raff or other. Believe me, I am capable of more than that.’
What am I doing? Erast Petrovich asked himself. I’m putting a dilettante’s life in danger. And all because I took offence at Masa, like a stupid idiot. Perhaps I should call off the operation before it’s too late?
‘On the other hand, discipline is discipline. The order will be carried out,’ Nonarikin sighed. ‘But promise me this: if you need any help, you’ll whistle to me in the Sukharev Square style, and I’ll come rushing to assist you.’
‘Excellent. Agreed. If I don’t whistle, it means I don’t need your help,’ Fandorin said in relief. ‘But there is nothing to be worried about. There will not be any complications. Trust my experience.’
‘You’re in command, you know best,’ the retired lieutenant replied briefly, and Erast Petrovich felt almost completely reassured.
Now, according to the science of psychology, in order to dispel any excessive nervousness, he ought to strike up a conversation on some distracting subject. There were still ten minutes left until they reached Sokolniki Park. A fine rain had started falling. That was most opportune for the operation.
‘I find it strange that a man of your character left military service in order to walk the boards,’ Fandorin said in a light tone of voice, as if they were on their way to some kind of society event. ‘The uniform probably suited you and a military career is an excellent match for your character. After all, you’re an idealist, a romantic. And the life of a theatre director, such as you wish to be, ultimately consists of highly p-prosaic matters: is a play good, will it bring in money at the box office, will the public come to see your actors … The status of a theatre is not determined by the quality of the art, but by the price of a ticket. Noah Noaevich and the famous Stanislavsky are regarded as geniuses because on their posters it says: “Seat prices increased”.’
This attempt to distract his companion with an alternative topic was successful.
‘Oh, how mistaken you are! I’m an absolute theatre addict. For me, not only is all the world a stage, for me the theatre is the centre of creation, its ideal model, stripped of banal and unnecessary impurities! Of course here, just as in the ordinary world, everything has its price. But the point is precisely that the price has been increased. Its value is higher than that of pitiful reality. When I’m on the stage, everything else ceases to exist! Nothing has any significance – neither the audience in the hall, nor the city outside the walls of the theatre, nor the country, nor the entire globe of the earth! It is like genuine love, when all you want in the whole, wide world is one woman. You are prepared to love the whole of the human race in her, and without her the human race is worth nothing to you, it has no meaning.’
‘You exaggerate s-somewhat, but I understand what you have in mind,’ Erast Petrovich remarked morosely.
Georges muttered discontentedly.
‘I never exaggerate. I am a very precise individual.’
‘Well then, carry out everything precisely as we agreed. We’ve arrived. We go on from here on foot.’
There was quite a distance to walk. A long alley led from Sokolniki Avenue to Deer Grove House. Naturally, it was impossible to drive along it in the automobile – in the silence of the night the rumbling of the motor would have alarmed the guards. They moved along without speaking, each of them thinking his own thoughts. Or perhaps our thoughts are about the same thing, Fandorin suddenly thought. That is, about one and the same person …
Because of the low clouds and the lingering drizzle, they couldn’t see the road. Erast Petrovich was wary of switching on a torch. In pitch darkness even a feeble gleam can be seen fro
m a long distance. They walked side by side, but not in step. Suddenly Nonarikin exclaimed loudly and disappeared – quite literally.
‘What’s happened to you?’
‘Here I am …’
A head wearing a cap appeared straight up out of the ground.
‘There’s a ditch here. Give me your hand …’
For some reason a narrow ditch really had been dug across the road. On the vehicular section it had been covered over with planks, but on the margin, along which the two accomplices were walking, there was no covering. Erast Petrovich had been lucky – he had stepped over it without noticing, but Georges’ foot had hit the precise centre of the hole.
‘Never mind, I’m not hurt…’ Fandorin’s assistant clambered out. ‘Thank you.’
This little incident did not appear to have disturbed Nonarikin’s equilibrium. Erast Petrovich mentally acknowledged the strength of the former sapper’s nerves. Dusting off his clothes, Nonarikin said pensively:
‘Not long ago I would have regarded this fall as a bad omen, a sign of the ill-disposition of Fate. I told you that I am in the habit of trusting providence blindly. But I have reconsidered my views. There is nothing fatalistic in the fact that you strode over the ditch and I fell. It is simply that you are luckier than I am. You know, I think now that there is no Fate. Fate is blind. Only the artist is sighted! Everything is decided and determined by one’s own will.’
‘I am more or less of the same opinion; however, if you have put your c-clothing in order, let us move on. And for God’s sake, watch your step!’
When the house appeared in the distance, in the middle of a small clearing, with its curtained-off windows glowing dully, Erast Petrovich moved off the margin of the road into the bushes. He wanted to get this simple job that was dragging on for so long over and done with.
‘Stay here,’ he whispered to Nonarikin, leaving him behind an old birch tree on the edge of the clearing. ‘Here, take my watch. It has phosphorescent hands. Precisely five minutes.’
‘Your word is my command.’
Georges waved his Nagant cheerfully.
Fandorin took off his leather jacket and cap and was left clad in a black gymnastic leotard. He bent down and ran out into the clearing, then flattened himself out completely and started creeping along, counting off the seconds. At two hundred he was already in position, fifteen strides from the porch where the bored sentry was languishing.
The plan for luring out the ‘pinschers’ was primitive in the extreme, but Fandorin was always guided by a rule that said: do not complicate anything that does not need to be complicated. The opponents he was up against were not spies or saboteurs, or even a gang of killers. These thugs were not used to waging war; the way they would behave in a critical situation was easy to predict. Obviously, the Tsar was not seriously afraid of a frontal assault – otherwise he would not have moved into such an isolated spot. He and Whistle regarded the mobility of the Office and their distance from the city neighbourhoods as the guarantee of their safety. So a visit from the Sukharev Square gang, whom they regarded as defeated, would come as all the more of a surprise to them …
Just as long as the absolute theatre fanatic didn’t mess things up …
He didn’t. When Erast Petrovich’s count reached three hundred a rakish whistle rang out from the bushes. Georges managed superbly, reproducing the Sukharev Square whistle in three distinct registers, as if there were several of the whistling bandits there. That was exactly how the Acrobat’s men would have behaved if they had found out where the Office was and made a drunken decision in the middle of the night to get even with their old foes. They would have rushed to the park in a cab, driving with reckless derring-do, but as they got closer to the Office, their wild belligerence would have evaporated. They would have had just enough courage to whistle out of the bushes, but no one would have crept out into open space to face the pinschers’ bullets.
The sentry flew down off the steps, grabbing a revolver out of his pocket. Apparently Mr Whistle hired serious troopers, not the timid kind. Two shots rang out in the thickets – Nonarikin was playing his part irreproachably. The pinscher also fired a shot at random. Thank God, not in the direction of the spot where the assistant director was hiding.
The other four guards were already running out of the house, holding their guns at the ready.
‘Where are they? Where?’ the watchmen shouted.
Mr Whistle came darting out – in his braces, with no jacket.
A window frame banged on the upper floor. It was the Tsar glancing out. He was wearing a dressing gown and a nightcap.
‘It’s bunkum, August Ivanich!’ Whistle exclaimed, throwing his head back. ‘The Sukharev louts have gone crazy. We’ll soon teach them a lesson. Piebald, you stay here. Everyone else, forward! Give them a good thrashing!’
The four pinschers went dashing forward, firing haphazardly and shouting. There was the indistinct retort of a shot in the bushes too – already some distance away.
‘They’re sloping off. Over that way!’
Boots tramped and branches cracked, and the pack was lost to sight. The shooting and the howling started moving farther away.
So far everything was going ideally.
‘I told you, Lipkov,’ the Tsar shouted angrily from up above. ‘We should have eliminated that gorilla Acrobat from the Sukharev mob! Come up here! We’ll have a talk.’
‘Eliminate him – it’s never too late, August Ivanich. We’ll do it.’
But the Tsar was no longer in the window.
Whistle scratched his cheek perplexedly and called curtly to the sentry who was nicknamed Piebald.
‘You keep your eyes peeled.’ And he disappeared into the house.
Meanwhile, Fandorin had picked up a conveniently sized cobble. Erast Petrovich had been a master at the art of throwing stones since his time in Japan.
A dull, sappy thud – and Mr Piebald tumbled down off the steps without a shout or a groan. The profession that he had chosen for himself was fraught with various kinds of risks. The risk, for instance, of incurring a moderately serious concussion.
Fandorin entered the house, moving soundlessly. He ran through the dining room and found himself in the study.
No, this isn’t a genuine adventure, he thought disappointedly. This is some kind of Detective Putilin’s Diary.
He had brought an entire set of picklocks with him, for every kind of lock. But the much vaunted American cabinets opened with the very first of them, the most elementary.
All right now, let’s see what kind of secrets of the court of Madrid we have here …
The first cabinet was divided into sections containing all the legal and illegal amusements of the first capital city of Russia (Erast Petrovich immediately dubbed this depository ‘The Garden of Delights’). There were six drawers. Each had a beautiful little label with a typed title and a small graphic symbol – a truly delightful sight. There was ‘Theatre’ with a mask, ‘Cinematograph’ with a little beam of light, ‘Circus’ with a strongman’s dumbbells, ‘Restaurants and Inns’ with a little bottle, ‘Sport’ with a boxing glove and ‘Love’ with a symbol that made Fandorin wince – he was not fond of obscenity. It turned out that Sergei Nikiforovich Subbotin did not have the full picture of the extent of the Tsar’s domain. Or perhaps the underground empire’s borders had expanded since last year, when the titular counsellor collected his information. It was a well-known fact that highly profitable corporations with multiple profiles expanded rapidly.
Erast Petrovich took out one folder at random from the sport section. All right, then, the Samson Wrestling Club. A surname on the cover, with ‘nominal owner’ in brackets; a second surname with the word ‘owner’ and the note: ‘see Personnel’. Inside there were dates, figures, sums of money and a list of fighters with payouts. The Tsar obviously made money from fixed fights as well as on the tickets. No ciphers or codes – sure testimony that the person who drew up the archive felt safe and was not ev
en slightly concerned about unexpected visits from the police.
As he went about his task quickly and confidently, Fandorin listened carefully for a creak on the stairs. He could still hear shots, as before, but from a significant distance away, and the shouting could not be heard at all. Good for Nonarikin; apparently he had already led the pinschers all the way to the Yauza. The second cabinet should have been named, in the manner of a library, ‘The Personal Catalogue’. Here the labels on the drawers said: ‘Actors’, ‘Debtors’, ‘Friends’, ‘Informants’, ‘Clients’, ‘Girls’, ‘Boys’, ‘Our People’, ‘Sportsmen’ and so on – at least twenty of them altogether. No playful little pictures, everything very businesslike. Inside there were more folders, with names on them. Erast Petrovich ran rapidly through the ‘Friends’ section and shook his head: almost the entire municipal council of Moscow, the councillors of the city parliament, an immense number of police officers. There was no time now to work out which of them were paid wages by the Tsar and which of them simply benefited from his favours. The job had to be carried out first.
Fandorin opened the drawer with the label ‘Debtors’ and found what he was looking for under the letter ‘L’: ‘LIMBACH, Vladimir Karlovich, born 1889, St Ptsbg, cornet of the Life Guards regiment’. The sums were noted on lined paper, from fifty to two hundred roubles. Some had been crossed out and marked ‘paid’. One entry said: ‘bouquet for 25 roubles’. The last two entries were these:
‘4.10. In liaison with Altairsky-Lointaine (?). Make him an offer.
‘5.10. He refused. Take measures.’
Well then, that seemed to be all. Probably the Tsar was alarmed when he heard that Limbach had become Eliza’s lover. The business of Emeraldov’s punishment demonstrated that the underground magnate was counting on great things from this actress. Obviously, like the millionaire Shustrov, he saw immense potential in her. (Erast Petrovich found that thought comforting: he hadn’t lost his head over some ordinary, run-of-the-mill coquette, after all, but over a great artiste, a truly outstanding woman.) While Eliza’s unpredictable and dangerous stage partner had simply been done away with, they had at least first tried to ‘make an offer’ to the tiresome cornet: let’s say, that he leave the actress alone in return for his debts being written off. Or, on the contrary: that Limbach take on the role of an informant, reporting to the Tsar on the leading lady’s behaviour and mood. Outside the theatre Fandorin had been a chance eyewitness to this attempt to clarify relations (or one of them). Limbach had refused (‘I am an officer of His Majesty’s guards!’). His next conversation with Mr Whistle had ended in a quarrel and a blow from a knife.