by Boris Akunin
Just in case, Erast Petrovich glanced into the ‘Actors’ section, but he didn’t find Emeraldov there. That was only natural: why keep the folder if the man was already in the graveyard?
Unable to resist, he took out Eliza’s folder. He learned a few new things about her. For instance, her date of birth (1 January 1882); in the ‘preferences’ section it said: ‘perfume with the fragrance of Parma violets, the colour purple, don’t send her money, likes ivory’. Fandorin recalled that she often had fanciful grips made of something white in her hair. So the aroma of violets, which he had taken to be her natural scent, was explained by perfume? Erast Petrovich frowned at the ‘Lovers’ section. There were two names. The first was his own, crossed out. The second was Limbach’s, with a question mark.
All this, however, was mere nonsense, of no significance at all. The important thing was that his theory had been confirmed, so he could now proceed to the stage of clarifying matters face to face.
If the pinschers should return while the conversation was in full flow, that was no disaster. Those ruffians did not represent any danger for a professional. Nonetheless, Erast Petrovich laid his flat, compact Browning on the desk and covered it with a sheet of paper. He sat down in an armchair, crossed his legs and lit up a cigar. Then he called loudly:
‘Hey, you up there! Enough of that whispering! Come down here if you please!’
The vague muttering coming from the upper floor stopped.
‘Look lively, gentlemen! It is I, Fandorin!’
The sound of an overturned chair. Feet tramping on the stairs. Whistle burst into the study, clutching a Mauser in his hand. When he saw the visitor peaceably smoking a cigar, he froze. Mr Tsarkov stuck his head out from behind his henchman’s shoulder – he was still in his dressing gown, but without the nightcap, and his hair was sticking up in clumps round his bald patch.
‘Have a seat, August Ivanovich,’ Fandorin told him calmly, taking no notice of the Mauser. His relaxed pose was deceptive. The instant Mr Whistle’s finger started moving, the chair would have been empty and the bullet would merely have drilled a hole in its upholstery. Since the time when he had mastered the difficult art of instantaneous relocation, Erast Petrovich had taken good care to maintain his form.
Casting a significant glance at his assistant, the autocrat of all Moscow moved forward cautiously and stood facing his uninvited visitor. Whistle kept the seated man in his sights.
Excellent. The other man must have the illusion that he was in control of the situation and could break off the conversation at any moment – in a fashion fatal for Erast Petrovich.
‘I was expecting a visit from you. But under less extravagant circumstances.’ Tsarkov nodded at the window, from where they could hear the sound of shots, although less frequently now. ‘I am aware that you suspect me of something. Actually, I even know what it is. You could have made civilised arrangements to meet, and I would have disabused you.’
‘I wanted to take a look into your archive first,’ Fandorin exclaimed.
Only now did the Tsar notice the rifled cabinets. His pudgy face contorted in fury.
‘Whoever you might be, even if you’re Nick Carter or Sherlock Holmes a thousand times over, this is impudence that you will have to answer for!’
‘I’m willing. But f-first you answer me. I accuse you – or, to be technically precise, your principal assistant – of two murders.’
Lipkov whistled ironically.
‘Well, two might as well be three,’ he said menacingly. ‘Why be petty about things?’
‘Wait.’ The Tsar raised his hand to stop Whistle butting in. ‘Why on earth would I kill Emeraldov and that … what was the name now …’ He clicked his fingers, as if he couldn’t remember. ‘Well, that hussar … Damn it, I don’t even remember what he was called!’
‘Vladimir Limbach, and you know that perfectly well. There’s a dossier on him in your archive, with s-some extremely intriguing entries.’ Fandorin pointed to the folder. ‘So let’s start with Limbach.’ Tsarkov took the folder, glanced into it and tugged on his imperial.
‘I have all sorts of people in my filing cabinet … Am I supposed to remember all the small fry? Ah, yes. Cornet Limbach. “Make him an offer”. I remember.’
‘B-bravo. What did it concern? Was the boy not to pester Madam Lointaine with his attentions? And did the boy prove obstreperous?’
His fury mounting, the Tsar flung the folder back onto the desk.
‘You have broken into my lodgings in the middle of the night. Organised a cheap farce with all this whistling and shooting! You have rifled through my documents, and after that you dare to demand explanations from me? I only have to click my fingers to have you blasted to kingdom come.’
‘I don’t understand why you haven’t done that yet,’ Mr Whistle remarked.
‘They told me that you were a genius of intellectual deduction,’ the Tsar hissed through his teeth, ignoring Whistle. ‘But you are simply a presumptuous, puffed-up idiot. The very idea of it – breaking into my Office! And with trivial nonsense like this! Let me tell you, great luminary of the sleuths, that …’
‘Drop that pistol! I’ll shoot!’ a voice roared out from behind Lipkov’s back. Georges Nonarikin appeared in the doorway of the dining groom. His Nagant was aimed at Mr Whistle.
‘Erast Petrovich, I got here in time!’
‘Damn! Who asked you to inter …’
Before Fandorin could finish, Lipkov swung round rapidly and flung up the hand holding the Mauser. The assistant director fired first, but the former policeman had foreseen that and he swayed nimbly to one side. The Mauser gave a dry squawk, much quieter than the Nagant, and there was a metallic clang as the bullet struck the door hinge. Splinters were sent flying, and one of them thrust itself into Nonarikin’s cheek.
Erast Petrovich was left with no choice. He grabbed his Browning from under the sheet of paper and, before Whistle could squeeze the trigger again, he fired, taking no chances, straight to the back of his head.
Killed outright, Lipkov slumped against a cabinet and slid down onto the floor. The pistol fell out of his limp fingers.
But Mr Tsarkov displayed unexpected speed and agility. He gathered up the hem of his dressing gown, set off at a run and sprang straight towards the window with a despairing cry. The curtains swayed, the windowpanes jangled, and Moscow’s Lord of Delights disappeared into the nocturnal darkness. Instead of setting off in pursuit, Fandorin dashed over to Georges.
‘Are you wounded?’
‘Fate protects the artist,’ said Nonarikin, jerking the splinter out of his bleeding cheek. ‘That’s to continue with the question of fatum …’
Fandorin’s relief was immediately replaced by rage.
‘What did you come back for? You’ve ruined everything!’
‘My pursuers scattered along the bank of the river, and I thought I ought to come back and make sure that you were all right. I didn’t intend to interfere … The door was wide open, there was shouting … I simply glanced in. I saw he was aiming at you, about to fire at any moment. But what am I apologising for?’ Nonarikin exploded. ‘I saved your life, and you …’
What point was there in arguing? Erast Petrovich merely gritted his teeth. It was his own fault, after all. He knew who he was taking with him!
He ran out onto the porch, but the Tsar’s tracks were long cold, of course. Pursuing him through the dark park would be hopeless.
Fandorin went back into the study and telephoned Subbotin at home – thank God, under the present rules every detective police officer was allocated a home telephone. After Erast Petrovich gave him a brief account of what had happened, Sergei Nikiforovich promised to send police officers from the nearest police district, the Fourth Meschansky, and to come himself.
‘Now leave,’ Erast Petrovich told his assistant. ‘Only, for God’s sake, in a different direction – towards the main avenue. The pinschers will probably get here before the police do.’
‘I wouldn’t even think of it.’ Nonarikin bound up his cheek with an absolutely immense handkerchief and became even more like the Knight of the Sad Visage. ‘How could I leave you here alone? Never!’
Ah, Masa, how badly I miss you, thought Erast Petrovich.
Strangely enough, the police arrived first. Or perhaps there was nothing strange about it: one could surmise that the pinschers had met the Tsar on their way back to the house and he had led them off out of harm’s way. It was hard to imagine August Ivanovich in the role of a general commanding a frontal assault against an armed position.
In order not to waste any time while waiting for an attack or reinforcements – it didn’t make any difference which – Fandorin told his wretched assistant to keep an eye on the approaches to the house, while he set about studying the archive in greater detail. By the time Subbotin arrived (he drove up in a horse cab about half an hour after the local police) the plan of subsequent action had more or less been defined.
‘There are two questions,’ Erast Petrovich said to the civil servant in their tête-à-tête conversation, after first informing him of how things stood. ‘The first is: where do we look for the Tsar? The second is: what do we do with this?’ He nodded at the American cabinets.
‘Do you want to destroy me? I won’t take the folders. There’s half of Moscow in there, including almost all my bosses. It doesn’t surprise me. The world and the people living in it are imperfect, I’ve know that for a long time. Sooner or later the Lord God repays everyone according to his deeds.’ The titular councillor nodded towards Mr Whistle, already laid out on a stretcher, but not yet loaded into the police carriage. ‘I tell you what, Erast Petrovich. You’d better take that dynamite yourself. It will be safer with you. In the search report I’ll say that the cabinets were empty. And as for Mr Tsarkov, we won’t see him in this city again. He’s no fool and he realises perfectly well that he could get away with any kind of caper, but not losing those files. Consider that the Tsar has abandoned the throne and gone into voluntary abdication.’
‘But I haven’t abandoned the Tsar,’ Fandorin said menacingly, stung by the failure of the operation. ‘He has two murders to answer for. I’ll dig August Ivanovich out wherever he hides.’
‘But where are you going to look for him? The world’s a big place.’
Erast Petrovich pointed to a pile of folders.
‘Our friend’s concern has three branch offices: in St Petersburg, Warsaw and Odessa. The Tsar has his own people there, and his own business interests. The names and addresses are all clearly stated. I’m certain he’ll slink off to one of those three c-cities. I have to calculate exactly which way the criminal will go – north, west or south.’
‘Calculate? But how?’
‘D-don’t worry. That’s what deduction is for. I’ll work that out and deliver him all neatly parcelled up,’ Fandorin promised, smiling pensively in anticipation of engrossing work in which he could bury his woes.
THE RETURN
Fandorin returned to Moscow on the first day of November. Empty-handed, but almost cured.
Erast Petrovich had only kept half his promise. He had correctly calculated the city to which Tsarkov had fled: Warsaw. August Ivanovich’s enterprise was established on a broader basis there than in St Petersburg or Odessa. And in addition, in case of any unpleasantness, the border was close at hand. The Tsar had availed himself of this emergency exit as soon as he got wind of the fact that a certain grey-haired gentleman, who was very well informed about all of the Moscow fugitive’s Warsaw contacts, had arrived in the governorate-general.
The pursuit had continued right across Germany and ended in the port of Hamburg. Fandorin had got there only twenty minutes too late – just in time to glimpse the stern of the ship on which the Tsar was making his escape to America. In the heat of the moment Erast Petrovich almost bought a ticket for the next sailing. Nothing could have been simpler than to have the emigrant held at New York – it would suffice to send the Pinkerton Agency a telegram telling them to meet the visitor at the quayside and not let him out of their sight until Fandorin arrived.
But the vehement thrill that had fuelled Erast Petrovich’s efforts through all the days of the pursuit was beginning to wane. The game was not worth the candle. The extradition proceedings would drag on for months and the outcome was uncertain. And after all, the Tsar had not murdered anyone himself; the actual killer and only witness was dead, and proving that the suspect was involved in crimes committed on the other side of the world would be practically impossible. But even if Tsarkov was handed over, Fandorin could be quite certain that no one in Moscow would bring him to trial. The last thing the municipal authorities wanted was scandalous legal proceedings with all the inevitable exposures. If Fandorin were to deliver the Tsar to Moscow, no one would be delighted.
Erast Petrovich travelled back, refreshed by the pursuit, and two days spent in a railway carriage compartment allowed him to put his thoughts and feelings in order. He considered that now he was ready to return to a life in which reason and dignity predominated.
It was a profound error to believe that an intelligent man was intelligent about everything. He was intelligent in matters that required intellect, but in matters involving the heart, he could be very, very stupid indeed. Erast Petrovich admitted his stupidity, sprinkled his head with ashes and firmly resolved to reform.
What exactly were ‘intelligence’ and ‘stupidity’, in essence? The same as ‘maturity’ and ‘infantility’. In this absurd business he had acted like a child all the time. But he had to behave like an adult. Restore normal relations with Masa. Stop feeling offended with Eliza, who was not to blame for anything. She was what she was – an exceptional woman, a great actress, and if she didn’t love him, there was nothing to be done about it. As they said, the heart knows no law. Did it know how to love at all, the heart of an actress? Be that as it may, Eliza deserved to be treated with calm, equable respect. Without any sneaking, puerile glances, without any idiotic resentments, without any jealousy to which he was not entitled.
From the Alexander Station he went straight to the theatre, where a rehearsal was due to be taking place. Fandorin knew from the newspapers that during his absence the Comets had been played twice, and triumphantly. Madam Altairsky-Lointaine had been praised greatly, and no less admiration had been expressed for her partner, who was referred to as ‘the genuine Japanese, Mr Swardilin’. The reviewers noted with particular satisfaction that tickets for the production had become more accessible, since the valiant Moscow police had finally succeeded in breaking up a network of theatre ticket touts. The calculating Stern had postponed the next performance of the ‘oriental play’ for two weeks – obviously to give the frenzied interest no chance to abate.
Erast Petrovich ascended the stairs leading to the auditorium in a perfectly calm state of mind. However, there was a surprise waiting for him in the foyer: Eliza was striding about there. At the sight of that neat figure, with the broad belt round its waist, his heart stood still, but only for a moment – a good sign.
‘Hello,’ he said in a low voice. ‘Why aren’t you at the rehearsal?’
Her cheeks turned pink.
‘You …? You’ve been away for so long!’
‘I travelled to Europe, on business.’
He could be pleased with himself: his voice was steady and its tone cordial, his smile was affable, there was no stammer. Eliza looked more agitated than he was.
‘Yes, Masa said that you left a note and went away … And you wrote to Nonarikin too. Why to him precisely? That’s strange …’ She said one thing, but seemed to be thinking of another. She looked as if there was something she wanted to say, but couldn’t bring herself to do it.
Erast Petrovich heard shouting from the auditorium. He recognised the director’s voice.
‘What is Noah Noaevich ranting about?’ Fandorin asked with a gentle smile. ‘Surely you didn’t commit some offence and he put you out of the room?’
&
nbsp; He pretended not to notice her embarrassment. He didn’t want to succumb to an actor’s wiles. With her female instinct, Eliza had probably sensed that he had changed, untangled himself from the web, and now she wanted to draw him back into her insubstantial, deceptive world. Such was the nature of an artiste – she could not accept the loss of an admirer.
But Eliza took up his jocular tone.
‘No, I came out myself. We have another scandalous incident going on in there. Someone has written something about a benefit performance in the Tablets again.’
It was a moment before Fandorin realised what she meant. Then he recalled that when he met the theatre company for the first time, in September, an inexplicable entry had appeared in the sacred journal – a certain number of 1s remaining until a benefit performance – and Stern had been outraged by the ‘sacrilege’ of it.
‘A j-joke repeated? That’s stupid.’
I’m stammering again, he thought. Never mind. It is a sign of reduced tension.