All the World's a Stage

FISHING WITH LIVE BAIT

Some wise man, Erast Petrovich thought it was La Rochefoucauld, had said that very few people know how to be old. Fandorin had assumed that he belonged to that happy minority – and he had turned out to be mistaken.

Where has the rational, dignified equilibrium disappeared to? Where are you, calm and liberty, detachment and harmony?

Fandorin’s own heart had played him a trick that he had never expected. Life had been turned upside down, and all the immutable values had been reduced to dust. He felt twice as young as before and three times as stupid. The latter assertion was perhaps not entirely true. His intellect seemed to have deviated from its established course and lost its singleness of purpose, but it had retained its perpetual acuity, relentlessly noting all the stages and twists and turns of his illness.

At the same time, Fandorin was not certain that what was happening to him should be considered an illness. Perhaps, on the contrary, he had recovered his health.

It was a philosophical question, and he was helped in finding the answer to it by the very best of philosophers – Kant. The philosopher had been sickly from the day he was born, he was constantly unwell and this distressed him very badly, until one fine day the sage was struck by the excellent idea of regarding his sickly condition as good health. Being unwell was normal, there was nothing here to be sad about, das ist Leben. And if it suddenly happened that nothing was hurting in the morning – that was a gift of fate. And life was immediately filled with the light of joy.

Fandorin acted in similar fashion. He stopped obstinately setting his reason and his heart at odds. If this was love, so be it, let it be considered a normal state of soul.

He immediately felt slightly better. At least an end had been put to his inner discord. Erast Petrovich had enough reasons for torment without self-flagellation.

Falling in love with an actress was a truly heavy cross to bear – a thought to which Fandorin’s mind returned a hundred times a day.

With her he could never be sure of anything. Apart from the fact that in the next moment she would be different from the way she was in the previous one. Now cold, now passionate, now false, now sincere, now sweetly clinging, now spurning! The first phase of their relationship, which had lasted only a few days, had made him think that Eliza, despite her actress’s affectation, was nonetheless a normal, real, live woman. But how could he explain what had happened at Cricket Lane? Had it really happened, that explosion of devastating passion, or had he imagined it? Did it really happen that a woman flung herself into a man’s arms and then ran away – and ran in terror, even revulsion? What had he done wrong? Oh, Erast Petrovich would have paid dearly to receive an answer to the question that was tormenting him. Pride did not permit him to ask. Present himself in the pitiful role of a petitioner, a quibbler over feelings? Never!

In fact, everything was clear enough anyway. The question was rhetorical.

Eliza was firstly an actress, and secondly a woman. A professional enchantress, who needed powerful effects, emotional rupture, morbid passions. The sudden shift in her behaviour was dual in nature; firstly, she had taken fright at a serious relationship and didn’t wish to lose her freedom, and secondly, of course, she wanted to get him more securely fastened on the hook. Such paradoxical motivation was typical for women of the theatrical caste.

He was a wise old bird and he had seen all sorts of things, including the eternal female game of cat-and-mouse. And he had seen it performed with greater skill. In the art of binding a man to herself, a European actress was no match for an experienced Japanese courtesan with a command of jyojutsu, the ‘skill of passion’.

But although he understood this uncomplicated game perfectly well, he succumbed to it nonetheless and suffered, and his suffering was genuine. Self-reproach and logic were no help.

And then Erast Petrovich started trying to convince himself that he was very lucky. There was a stupid saying: ‘If you want to fall in love, then love a queen’. But a queen was some kind of nonsense, she wasn’t even a woman at all, but a walking set of ceremonial conventions. If you wanted to fall in love, then love a great actress.

She embodied the eternally elusive beauty of yugen. She was not one woman, but ten, even twenty: Juliet and the Distant Princess, Ophelia and the Maid of Orleans and Marguerite Gauthier. To conquer the heart of a great actress was very difficult, almost impossible, but if you succeeded, it was like conquering the love of all the heroines at once. And if you failed to conquer, nonetheless you loved the very best women in the world all at once. You would have to devote your entire life to the struggle for requited feelings. For even if you did win the victory, it would never be final. There would be no relaxation and peace – but who had ever said that that was a bad thing? Genuine life was this eternal trepidation, and not at all the walls that he had built round himself when he decided to grow old correctly.

Following the break-up, after having denied himself any possibility of seeing Eliza, he frequently recalled one conversation with her. Ah, how well they had spoken together during that brief, happy period! He remembered that he had asked her what it meant to be an actress. And she had answered.

‘I’ll tell you what it is to be an actress. It is to experience perpetual hunger – hopeless, insatiable hunger! A hunger so immense that no one can assuage it, no matter how greatly they love me. The love of one man will never be enough for me. I need the love of the whole world – all the young men, and all the old men, and all the children, and all the horses and cats and dogs and, most difficult of all, the love of all the women too, or at least most of them. I look at a waiter in a restaurant and I smile at him in a way that will make him love me. I stroke a dog and I tell it: love me. I walk into a hall full of people and I think: “Here I am, love me!” I am the unhappiest and the happiest person in the world. The unhappiest, because it is impossible to be loved by everyone. The happiest, because I live in constant anticipation, like someone in love before a tryst. This sweet ache, this torment is my happiness…’

At that moment she had been straining her ability to be sincere to its very limit.

Or had it been a monologue from some play?

But feelings were one thing, and work was another. The vicissitudes of love must not interfere with the investigation. That is, they quite definitely did interfere, periodically stirring up his line of deduction and obfuscating its clarity, but they did not distract Fandorin from his investigative activities. The viper in the basket of flowers was more like some piece of villainy out of an operetta, but a premeditated murder was no joke. Concern for the woman he loved and, when it came down to it, his civic duty, required that he expose the treacherous criminal. The Moscow Police were free to come to any conclusions at all (Erast Petrovich’s opinion of their professional abilities was not very high), but he personally had no doubt at all that Emeraldov had been poisoned.

That had become clear on the very first evening, in the course of his nocturnal visit to the theatre. Not that Fandorin had suspected from the very first that something was amiss with the suicide of the leading man – not in the least. But since another event that was both ominous and hard to explain had occurred in Eliza’s immediate vicinity, he had to get to the bottom of it.

What had become clear?

The actor had remained behind in the theatre because he had an appointment to meet someone or other. That was one.

He was in a wonderful mood, which is strange for someone intending to commit suicide. That was two.

Thirdly. The goblet from which, according to the police report, Emeraldov had voluntarily drunk poison had, naturally, been taken away by the investigator. However, the polished surface of the table bore marks from two goblets. So the actor had received his unknown visitor after all, and they had drunk wine.

Fourthly. Judging from the marks, one of the goblets was intact, but the other had a slight leak. The first had left behind rings of water, the second had left rings of wine. Obviously, before the stage-prop goblets were used, they had been rinsed under the tap and not wiped dry. And then a little wine had seeped out of the second one.

Erast Petrovich had taken away dried-out particles of the red liquid for analysis. There had not been any poison in the wine. So the presumptive murderer had drunk out of the goblet that had disappeared. That was five.

The next day the picture had become even clearer. The following morning, once again employing the useful method known as ‘greasing the palm’, Fandorin had gained entrance to the properties room with the help of an usher. Or rather, the usher had simply shown him where the room was located and Erast Petrovich had opened the door himself, with the help of an elementary picklock.

And what had he found? The second tin goblet was standing on the shelf perfectly calmly, beside the crowns, jugs, dishes and other properties from Hamlet. Fandorin immediately recognised the item he was looking for from its description: it was the only one there like it, with an eagle and a snake on its hinged lid. Judging from the dust, some little time ago two goblets had stood here. On the evening of the murder, Emeraldov had taken them directly from the stage, and then someone (presumably the murderer) had returned only one to its place. Examination through a powerful magnifying glass had revealed the microscopic crack through which the wine had seeped out. And in addition, it was clear that the goblet had been well washed, and as a result, unfortunately, no fingerprints were left.

Nonetheless, half the job had been done. The list of suspects had been drawn up. All that remained was to infiltrate that circle, in order to identify the murderer.

Another day went by and everything had arranged itself in ideal fashion. There would be no more need to act by stealth or bribe attendants. The play about the two comets had been accepted for production and Fandorin had become an acknowledged member of the company. A genuinely fortunate coincidence of civic duty and personal interest.

During the rehearsal, after asking various different people a few apparently casual questions, he had discovered the most important thing: who in the company had unlimited access to the properties room at any time of the day or night. The list of suspects had immediately shrunk to a minimum. The stores of stage properties, accessories and costumes were managed by the director’s assistant, Nonarikin. He took his responsibilities very seriously, never gave the keys to anyone and always accompanied everyone who needed to take anything out of storage. It was easiest of all for him to have returned the goblet to its place.

But there was one man in the company who would not have needed Nonarikin’s sanction – the manager of the theatre. In order to discover whether Stern had taken the key from his assistant, Fandorin would have had to ask questions, and that was not a good idea, so he decided to keep them both under suspicion.

The third subject had been added almost accidentally. In the Japanese play the ‘rogue’ Shiftsky had been given the part of Kinjo, a pickpocket, or rather, putting it more correctly, a ‘pick-sleeve’, since Japanese clothes were not equipped with any pockets and valuable items were usually kept in the sleeves. Kostya had played a pickpocket in a play based on Oliver Twist, and at the time he had studied that difficult craft assiduously in order to appear convincing on stage. And now, recalling the old days, the young man had yielded to the imp of mischief and decided to demonstrate his skill. During the break he rubbed up against one, two, three people and later chuckled as he returned Reginina’s purse, Nonarikin’s handkerchief and Mephistov’s bottle of some kind of medicine. Vasilisa Prokofievna good-naturedly called the artful dodger a ‘scallywag’, Nonarikin simply blinked, but Anton Ivanovich created an uproar, shouting that a decent man would never go rummaging through other people’s pockets even as a joke.

After this comical incident Fandorin added Shiftsky to his mental list too. Shiftsky had taken Nonarikin’s handkerchief, so he could have taken the key.

A day later a rather simple operation in the old detective genre of ‘fishing with live bait’ had been conceived and put into action.

During the afternoon Erast Petrovich had paid a stealthy visit to the properties room, once again resorting to the picklock. He placed his Bure chronometer beside the goblet. Turning round on hearing a rustling sound, he saw a large rat sitting on the shelf to his left and observing him with contemptuous equanimity.

‘We’ll m-meet again soon,’ Fandorin told the rat, and walked out.

Later, when at five o’clock everybody was drinking tea from the samovar (yet another tradition), the conversation turned to Emeraldov again and the actors started guessing what misfortune had made him decide to depart this life.

As if he were thinking out loud, but nonetheless speaking loudly, Erast Petrovich had drawled:

‘Suicide? I rather think not…’

Everyone had turned towards him.

‘But what was it, if not suicide?’ Gullibin asked in amazement.

‘I’ll answer that question for you soon,’ Fandorin had said confidently. ‘I have a few conjectures. Actually, not even conjectures, but facts. Don’t ask me about anything yet. I shall know for certain tomorrow.’

Eliza (this was still the very beginning of their relationship) rebuked him.

‘Stop talking in riddles! What have you found out?’

‘Is it from the realm of clairvoyance?’ Stern asked entirely seriously, without even the slightest irony. (His cheek twitched in a nervous tick. Or had Fandorin imagined that?)

Mephistov stood with his back to Fandorin and didn’t look round. That was strange – had his interest really not been piqued by such a tantalising subject?

Two cups of tea were standing in front of Erast Petrovich. He picked them up in his hands, looked at one, then at the other, and pensively repeated Claudius’s line as Gertrude drinks poison in front of him:

‘“It is the poisoned. cup. It is too late…” Yes, that is exactly what happened, two goblets, and in one of them d-death…’

He deliberately pronounced these words in a barely audible voice, almost a whisper. In order to make them out, the murderer would have to move close or crane his neck. An excellent method, invented by the Prince of Denmark in the ‘mousetrap’ scene. Once the suspects have been ascertained, it is not hard to follow their reactions.

Stern hadn’t heard anything – he had started talking to Sensiblin about something else. Mephistov still hadn’t turned round. But the director’s assistant had leaned bodily towards Fandorin and his strange smile had suddenly seemed more like a grimace.

That’s the entire investigation, Erast Petrovich thought, with a slight twinge of regret. We’ve had to deal with trickier charades than that.

He could, of course, have taken the criminal to task there and then, there was enough circumstantial evidence. A possible motive could also be postulated. But to anyone unacquainted with the theatrical milieu, the theory would seem fantastic. The justice system would hardly believe in it either, especially since the evidence was circumstantial through and through.

So the criminal would have to be caught dead to rights, so that he couldn’t squirm out of it.

Well then, let us proceed to the third act.

Erast Petrovich reached into his waistcoat pocket.

‘Oh, what’s this! Where’s my c-chronometer. Ladies and gentlemen, has anyone seen it? A gold “Pavel Bure”? And it has a special fob, a magnifying glass.’

Naturally, no one had seen the watch, but most of the actors, wishing to help the dramatist, immediately started looking for it. They glanced under chairs and asked Erast Petrovich to remember whether he could have left the chronometer in the buffet or, begging his pardon, in the water closet.

‘Ah yes, in the propert…’ – then he suddenly checked himself and started coughing.

An extremely primitive little interlude, played out for a fool. But in all honesty, it must be said that Erast Petrovich was not inclined to overestimate the intellectual abilities of his opponent.

‘Never mind, don’t c-concern yourselves, ladies and gentlemen, I’ve remembered where I left it,’ he announced. ‘I’ll collect it later. It’s safe enough where it is.’

Nonarikin behaved so much like the caricature villain in some provincial production, it was almost grotesque. He came out in red blotches, chewed on his lips and kept throwing furious glances at Erast Petrovich.

Fandorin did not have to wait long.

The rehearsal came to an end and the actors started going their separate ways.

Erast Petrovich deliberately dawdled. He sat down, crossed his legs and lit up a cigar. Eventually he was left on his own. But even then he didn’t hurry. Let the criminal’s nerves suffer a bit, let him languish in suspense.

The building was absolutely quiet now. Probably it was time.

THE JUDGEMENT OF FATE

He went out onto the stairs and walked down to the service floor. The dead-end corridor, onto which the doors of storerooms and workshops opened, was dark.

Fandorin stopped in front of the properties room and jerked on the door handle. It was locked – from the inside, he presumed.

He opened the door with the picklock. Inside it the darkness was pitch black. Erast Petrovich could have switched on the electric light, but he wanted to make the criminal’s task easier for him. The strip of pale light seeping in from the corridor was entirely adequate for him to walk over to the shelf and pick up the watch that he had left there.

As he walked through the darkness, expecting an attack at any moment, Fandorin felt a slight prick of shame at the extreme pleasure of his excitement: his pulse was beating out a drum tattoo, his skin was covered with goosebumps. This was the real reason why he hadn’t backed this home-grown Borgia up against the wall, why he hadn’t tangled him up in the chain of evidence. Erast Petrovich wanted to shake himself up, refresh himself, set the blood coursing through his veins. Love, danger, the anticipation of victory – this was genuine life, and old age could wait.

He wasn’t taking much of a risk. Not unless the criminal decided to shoot, but that was not very likely. Firstly, the watchman would hear and call the police. Secondly, judging from the impression that Fandorin had formed of the director’s assistant, this ‘poor man’s Lermontov’, as Stern had called him so accurately and pitilessly, Nonarikin would choose some more theatrical method.

Nonetheless, Erast Petrovich’s hearing was stretched to the limit, prepared to catch the quiet click of a firing hammer being raised. It wasn’t so very easy to hit a fast-moving black cat in a dark room (Fandorin was wearing a black suit today).

He had already determined the killer’s location from a very faint rustling that he heard coming from the right-hand corner. No one but Fandorin, who in his time had made a special study of listening to silence, would have attached any importance to that sound, but Erast Petrovich immediately recognised it as the rustle of fabric against fabric. The man waiting in ambush had raised his hand. What was in it? A cold weapon? Something blunt and heavy? Or was it a revolver after all, and the hammer had been raised in advance?

Just to be on the safe side, Fandorin took a rapid step to one side, out of the greyish strip of light and into the darkness. He started whistling Alyabiev’s romance ‘Nightingale, My Nightingale’ in a special way, shifting his lips to one side and pursing them up. If the criminal was taking aim, he would have the illusion that his target was standing one step farther to the left.

Come on now, Monsieur Nonarikin. Be bold! Your victim suspects nothing. Attack!

However, there was a surprise in store for Erast Petrovich. A switch clicked and the properties room was flooded with light that was very bright by contrast with the darkness. There now, so that was why the assistant director had raised his hand.

It was him, naturally – with his forelock tousled and his eyes glinting feverishly. Fandorin’s powers of deduction had not let him down. But even so, there was yet another surprise, apart from the light. Nonarikin was holding in his hand not a knife, not an axe, not some vulgar kind of hammer, but two rapiers with cup-shaped hilts. They had previously been lying one shelf below the goblet – stage props from the same show.

‘Very impressive,’ said Erast Petrovich, clapping his hands silently. ‘It’s a pity that there’s no audience.’

There was one spectator, however: Fandorin’s acquaintance, the rat, was sitting in its former position with its little eyes glittering in fury. No doubt from the rat’s point of view they were both ignorant louts who had impudently invaded its private domain.

The assistant director blocked off the way out of the room. For some reason he was holding out the rapiers with the handles forward.

‘Why d-did you switch on the light? It would have been easier in the dark.’

‘It’s against my principles to attack from behind. I’m offering you up to the judgement of Fate, you false playwright. Choose your weapon and defend yourself!’

Nonarikin was strange. Calm, one could even say solemn. Exposed murderers didn’t behave like that. And what was this fairground burlesque with stage weapons? What was the point of it?

Even so, Fandorin took a rapier, the one that was closer to hand, without examining them. He glanced briefly at the point. You couldn’t stick that through a man, but you might just scratch him with it. Or raise a lump on his head if you took a good swing.

Erast Petrovich had not yet assumed a defensive posture (that is, he had not even decided yet whether to participate in this charade) when his opponent launched into the attack with a cry of ‘Gardez-vous!’, making a rapid lunge. If Fandorin had not possessed outstandingly fast reactions, the rapier would have pricked him straight in the chest, but Erast Petrovich swayed to one side. Even so the rapier tip tore through his sleeve and scratched his skin.

‘Touché!’ Nonarikin exclaimed, shaking the drop of blood off the blade. ‘You’re a dead man!’

An excellent frock coat had been completely ruined, and the shirt together with it. Erast Petrovich ordered his clothes from London and he was dreadfully angry.

It should be said that he fenced rather well. Once in his youth he had almost lost his life in a sabre duel and after that incident he had taken care to fill this dangerous gap in his education. Fandorin moved onto the attack, cascading blows on his opponent. So you want some fun? Then take that!

Incidentally, from the psychological point of view, one sure way to crush your opponent’s will is to defeat him in some kind of competition.

Nonarikin was under serious pressure, but he defended himself skilfully. Only once did Erast Petrovich succeed in striking the assistant director a serious blow to the forehead with the length of the blade, and once he caught him on the neck with a slashing blow. Backing away under the onslaught, the assistant director gaped in ever greater amazement at Fandorin, who was pale with fury. Nonarikin evidently hadn’t expected this kind of sprightliness from the playwright.

Right, that’s enough playing the fool, Erast Petrovich told himself. Finiamo la commedia.

With a double thrust he hooked up his opponent’s weapon, performed a twist – and the rapier went flying into the farthest corner. Forcing Nonarikin back against the wall with his blade, Fandorin said scathingly:

‘Enough theatre. I suggest a return to the confines of real life. And real death.’

His defeated enemy stood there quite still, squinting downwards at the rapier point pressed against his chest. Beads of sweat glinted on his pale forehead, where the lump was flooding with crimson.

‘Only don’t stab me,’ he gasped hoarsely. ‘Kill me some other way.’

‘Why would I kill you?” Fandorin asked in surprise. ‘And in any case, that is rather hard to do with a blunt piece of metal. No, my good fellow, you will serve hard labour. For cold-blooded, villainous murder.’

‘What are you talking about? I don’t understand.’

Erast Petrovich frowned.

‘My dear sir, don’t try to deny the obvious facts. From a theatrical point of view it will turn out very b-boring. If you did not poison Emeraldov, then why on earth would you arrange an ambush for me?’

The assistant director raised his round brown eyes and started batting his eyelids.

‘Are you accusing me of murdering Hippolyte? Me?’

For an actor of third-level parts he portrayed astonishment rather well. Erast Petrovich even laughed.

‘Who else?’

‘But surely you did it, didn’t you?’

Fandorin had not often encountered such barefaced insolence. He even felt slightly disconcerted.

‘What?’

‘But you gave yourself away! Today, during the tea break!’ Nonarikin cautiously touched the rapier blade, moving it away from his chest. ‘I’d been tormented by doubt since the day before yesterday. A man like Hippolyte couldn’t kill himself! It simply doesn’t make any sense. He loved himself too much. Then suddenly you started talking about goblets. And it hit me! There was someone there with Hippolyte! Someone drank wine with him. And slipped poison in his drink! I went to the properties room to take a look at the other goblet. And then I saw the Bure watch. It was as if a veil fell from my eyes! It all fitted together! The mysterious Mr Fandorin, who turned up here for no obvious reason, then disappeared and then appeared again – the day after Hippolyte was killed! That slip about the goblets! The lost watch! I guessed that you would come back for it. You know, I’m no great master at solving mysteries, but I believe in the justice of Fate and God’s judgement. So I decided that if you came, I would challenge you to a duel. And if Fandorin was the criminal, Fate would punish him. I went to my dressing room, came back here and started waiting for you, and you came. But you’re still alive, and now I don’t know what to think…’

He shrugged in bewilderment.

‘Raving nonsense!’ Fandorin sniggered. ‘Why on earth would I want to kill Emeraldov?’

‘Out of jealousy.’ Nonarikin gave him a look of weary reproach. ‘Emeraldov was pestering her far too openly. And you’re in love with her, that’s obvious. You’ve lost your head over her too. Like so many others…’

Feeling himself blushing, Fandorin didn’t even bother to ask who Nonarikin meant by that and raised his voice.

‘We’re not talking about me, but you! What was that nonsense you were spouting about the judgement of God? You can’t kill anyone with these twigs!’

The assistant director cast a wary look at the blade.

‘Yes, it’s a stage-prop rapier. But with a precisely directed blow you can pierce the skin with it – I did that with my first thrust.’

‘What of it? No one has ever died from a little scratch.’

‘It depends what kind of scratch. I told you that I went to get something from my dressing room. I have a medicine chest there, with remedies for every possible occasion. All sorts of things happen in the company, you know. Mr Mephistov has epileptic fits, Vasilisa Prokofievna has the vapours, and there are injuries too. And I’m responsible for everything and everyone. I have to be a jack-of-all-trades. They taught us that in the officers’ school: a good commander must know how to do everything.’

‘What are you t-telling me this for? What business is your medicine chest of mine?’ Fandorin interrupted him irritably, annoyed that the secrets of his heart had been so obvious to an outsider.

‘Along with everything else in there I have a little bottle of concentrated venom of the central Asian cobra. I brought it from Turkestan. An indispensable remedy for nervous ailments. Our ladies often suffer very serious hysterics. If Madam Vulpinova gets really carried away, she can go into convulsions. But I just have to put a couple of drops on cotton wool, rub her temples – and it’s gone, like magic.’ Nonarikin demonstrated how he rubbed the venom into the skin. ‘So I got this idea. I smeared the tip of one of the rapiers. The way Laertes did in Hamlet. I thought: if Fandorin poisoned Hippolyte, let him die of poison too, it will be God’s judgement. The rapiers are absolutely the same to look at, I didn’t even know myself which of them was poisoned. So our duel wasn’t theatrical at all, it was absolutely, genuinely, to the death. If the venom gets into the blood, the terminal spasms set in after two minutes, and then the breathing is paralysed.’

Erast Petrovich shook his head – this was raving lunacy after all.

‘But what if you’d been scratched by the poisoned rapier?’

The assistant director shrugged and replied:

‘I told you, I believe in Fate. Those are more than just empty words to me.’

‘But I don’t believe you!’ Fandorin raised the tip of the rapier right up to his eyes. It really did seem to have a damp gleam.

‘Careful, don’t prick yourself! And if you don’t believe me – let me have it.’

Erast Petrovich willingly handed him the weapon, but also lowered his hand into his left pocket, where his revolver lay. This assistant director was a strange individual. It wasn’t clear what to expect from him. Was he pretending to be half-witted? Would he attack again now? That would be the simplest finale. Fandorin deliberately turned his back, since he could follow Nonarikin’s movements from the shadow on the floor.

The former lieutenant’s silhouette swayed, then folded over double at lightning speed, with his outreached arm ending in the thin line of the rapier. Erast Petrovich was prepared for an attack, he jumped to the left and turned round. However, the shadow had misled him. It turned out that Nonarikin had made a thrust in the opposite direction.

With a cry of: ‘I lay a ducat that it is dead!’ he jabbed the rapier at a rat sitting peacefully on the floor, but didn’t run it through, merely pricked it slightly and flung it against the wall. The little beast squealed and darted away, knocking over cardboard goblets and papier-mâché vases.

‘You’ve l-lost your ducat. Now what?’ Erast Petrovich asked spitefully. He felt embarrassed about his desperate leap. At least he hadn’t pulled out his revolver.

But Nonarikin didn’t seem even to have noticed that Fandorin had shied away from him. The assistant director wiped the tip of the blade very cautiously with a handkerchief and started moving out the shelves.

‘Feast your eyes on that.’

The rat was lying there belly up, with all four legs twitching.

‘On this little animal the venom acted almost instantaneously. I told you, I wanted to punish a murderer. But Fate has acquitted you. You have been purged in my eyes.’

Only at this point did Erast Petrovich really believe that he had escaped an absurd, cruel death by a miracle. If not for his eternal good luck, which had prompted him to choose the poisoned weapon without even pausing for thought, he would be lying on the floor now, like that rat, with his open mouth straining convulsively. It would have been an idiotic death…

‘M-merci beaucoup. Only you have not yet been purged in my eyes. Afterwards the poisoner brought the second goblet back to the properties room. You are the only one with free access to the properties room. And you also had a motive: Emeraldov had been given the part that you were counting on.’

‘If we killed each other over parts, the theatres would have turned into graveyards a long time ago. You have an excessively romantic idea of actors.’ Nonarikin actually smiled. ‘As for the properties room, I certainly do have the key. But your example shows that it is possible to gain entry without it. And another thing. Do you know when exactly Hippolyte met his killer?’

‘I do. The nightwatchman saw him shortly after nine. And according to the post-mortem results, death occurred no later than midnight. I enquired from the police.’

‘So the crime was committed some time between shortly after nine and twelve o’clock. Then I have an alibi.’

‘What is it?’

Nonarikin hesitated before he replied.

‘I would never have said, but I feel guilty for almost having killed you. I repeat, I was certain that you were the poisoner, but now it turns out that you are searching for the poisoner. Fate has acquitted you.’

‘Stop talking about Fate!’ Erast Petrovich exploded, angry because he realised that he had missed the mark with his theory. ‘It gives me the impression that I’m talking to a lunatic!’

‘You shouldn’t talk like that.’ Nonarikin flung out his arms and looked up at the ceiling, or, to use a more solemn expression, raised his eyes to the heavens. ‘The man who believes in a Higher Power knows that nothing happens by accident. Especially when it is a matter of life and death. And the man who does not believe in a Higher Power is in no way different from an animal.’

‘You said something about an alibi,’ Fandorin interrupted him.

The assistant sighed and spoke in an ordinary voice, without any declamatory intonation.

‘Naturally, this is strictly between the two of us. Give me your word of honour. It concerns the reputation of a lady.’

‘I won’t give you any k-kind of word. You were with a woman that evening? With whom?’

‘Very well. I rely on your common decency. If you ever tell her about it (you understand who I mean), it will be a base and dishonourable act.’ Nonarikin hung his head and sighed. ‘That evening I left the theatre with Zoya Nikolaevna. We were together until the morning…’

‘With Comedina?’ Erast Petrovich asked after a second’s pause: he hadn’t understood immediately who Nonarikin meant. No one had ever called the little ‘leading boy’ by her first name and patronymic in his presence. However, if he was surprised by this confession, it was only for a moment.

‘Yes.’ The assistant director rubbed his bruised forehead unromantically. ‘As Terentius said: “I am human and nothing human is alien to me”. You are a man, you will understand me. After all, there are physiological needs. Only don’t ask me if I love Zoya Nikolaevna.’

‘I won’t,’ Fandorin promised. ‘But I shall definitely have a word with Madam Comedina. And you and I will continue this conversation…’

A MILLION TORMENTS

Despite the rather late hour, he drove directly from the theatre to the hotel in his automobile, so that Nonarikin could not get there ahead of him and conspire with Comedina. The precaution was strictly superfluous: Erast Petrovich had no doubt that the alibi would be confirmed, but in a serious case like this every detail had to be checked.

After Fandorin had managed, not without some difficulty, to locate the little actress’s room in the Madrid, he apologised to her for this unexpected visit and apologised even more profusely for the bluntness of the question he was about to ask. He had to talk to this young lady without any beating around the bush. And that was what he did.

‘It concerns the circumstances of Mr Emeraldov’s death,’ he said. ‘Let us therefore temporarily set aside questions of d-decorum. Tell me, where were you on the evening and the night of 13 September?’

Comedina’s freckled features extended into a foolish smile.

‘Oho! So you think I look like a woman who could spend the night with someone? That’s actually rather flattering.’

‘Don’t waste time on playing games. I’m in a hurry. Just tell me if you were with Mr Nonarikin. Yes or no? I am not interested in your morals, madam. I simply want to know the t-truth.’

The smile didn’t disappear, but every trace of contrived merriment evaporated, leaving the green eyes gazing at this uninvited visitor without any expression at all. It was impossible to guess what the owner of those eyes was thinking. It’s a good thing that Madam Comedina plays children on the theatrical stage, and not in the cinematograph, Erast Petrovich said to himself. With an expression like that you couldn’t possibly act the part of a child in a close shot.

‘You said today that Emeraldov didn’t kill himself,’ Comedina said slowly. ‘So you have your suspicions… And you suspect Georges, am I right?’

Fandorin was familiar with this type of personality. Other people were inclined not to take these individuals seriously, simply because of the way they looked and behaved. And more often than not other people were mistaken about them. Small individuals, regardless of their gender, usually possessed a strong character and were far from stupid.

‘I don’t know who you really are. And I don’t wish to know,’ Zoya went on. ‘But you can exclude Georges from your calculations. He spent the night on that bed over there.’ Without looking round, she jabbed her finger in the direction of the narrow iron bedstead and grinned even more unpleasantly. ‘First we abandoned ourselves to sinful passion. Then he slept and I lay beside him, watching. It’s a narrow bed but, as you can observe, I don’t take up very much space. Are you interested in the details?’

‘No.’ He lowered his eyes, unable to withstand her glittering gaze. ‘I beg your p-pardon, but it was necessary…’

After that he examined the rapier taken from the properties room in his home laboratory. Mr Nonarikin proved to be a very thorough individual. A genuine jack-of-all-trades. The point had been smeared with the venom of naja oxiana, mixed with animal fat, obviously added so that the toxin would not dry out. An injection of this filthy muck would undoubtedly have resulted in a very rapid and agonising death.

In the morning, before the rehearsal, Fandorin completed his essential check with a visit to the criminal police department, where he was very well known. He asked a question and received an answer. Emeraldov had been killed with a completely different poison – classic cyanide.

On his way to the theatre Erast Petrovich yielded to gloomy thoughts about how he had frittered away his detective skills and how remarkably stupid being in love had made him. Not only had he constructed a mistaken theory, he had also revealed himself to that whimsical eccentric, Georges Nonarikin. He would have to clarify the situation with Nonarikin today, and insist that the assistant director keep his mouth shut – otherwise he could frighten off the real poisoner.

However, he didn’t manage to talk to Nonarikin on that day, because Eliza suddenly agreed to go to Cricket Lane with him to choose a kimono, and first the miracle happened, and then the enchantment was shattered, leaving Erast Petrovich alone in a deserted, absolute dead house.

Nonarikin showed up himself in the afternoon of the following day. Fandorin had not left the house since Eliza had fled. He had just remained sitting there in his dressing gown, immersed in a strange lethargy and smoking one cigar after another. Every now and then he suddenly became agitated and started walking round the room, talking to someone invisible, then he sat down, sinking back into immobility. The hair of this habitual stickler for neatness dangled down in loose white locks, his chin was covered with black stubble and below his blue eyes matching blue circles had appeared.

The assistant director presented a stark contrast with the seedy-looking dramatist. When Fandorin finally shuffled feebly to the door in his slippers and opened it (the bell must have been ringing for five or ten minutes), he saw that Monsieur Nonarikin had decked himself out in a new morning coat, buttoned on a gleaming white shirt collar and knotted on a silk necktie, and he was clutching a pair of white gloves in his hand. His officer’s moustache jutted out to the sides in bellicose fashion, like two cobras poised to attack.

‘I asked Noah Noaevich for your address,’ Nonarikin said austerely. ‘Since you didn’t condescend to spare me any time yesterday and did not even put in an appearance today, I have come to you myself. There are two matters concerning which we need to clear the air.’

He has probably just seen Eliza, was the only thought that occurred to Fandorin when he saw the assistant director.

‘Is the rehearsal already over, then?’ he asked.

‘No. But Mr Stern has let everyone go apart from the two leads. Madam Lointaine and your stepson are rehearsing the love scene. I could have stayed, but I preferred to leave. He is far too eager altogether, this Japanese of yours. It was painful for me to watch it.’

This was a painful topic for Erast Petrovich too and his face contorted in a wry grimace.

‘What does that matter to you?’

‘I love Madam Lointaine,’ Nonarikin declared calmly, as if merely affirming a well-known fact. ‘Like many others. Including yourself. I would like to clear the air on this subject.’

‘Well, then, c-come in…’

They sat down in the drawing room. Georges held his back straight and kept hold of the gloves. Is he going to challenge me to a duel again? Fandorin chuckled languidly to himself.

‘I’m listening. Please c-continue.’

‘Tell me, are your intentions concerning Madam Lointaine honourable?’

‘They could not p-possibly be more so.’

Never to see her again and to try to forget her, he added to himself.

‘Then as one honourable man to another, I propose an agreement not to resort to any base, deceitful tricks in the contest for her hand. Let her be united in marriage with the one who is more worthy, who will be hallowed by the light of heaven!’ Following his penchant for lofty expression, the assistant director raised his eyes to the chandelier, from which little Japanese bells dangled, swaying in the draught. Ting-a-ling, ting-a-ling, they tinkled gently.

‘L-let her. I don’t mind.’

‘Excellent! Give me your hand! But bear in mind that if you break our agreement, I shall kill you.’

Fandorin shrugged. He had listened to similar threats from more dangerous opponents.

‘All right. That’s the first matter dealt with. We won’t come b-back to it again. What is the second matter?’

‘Hippolyte’s murder. The police aren’t doing anything. You and I must find the murderer.’ Georges leaned forward and tugged belligerently on his moustache. ‘In cases of this kind, I am even less adroit than you.’ (Erast Petrovich raised his eyebrows at that.) ‘But even so I can still come in useful. It will be easier if there are two of us. I am willing to be your deputy, the position of an assistant is one to which I am accustomed.’

‘Thank you, but I already have an assistant,’ Fandorin would have replied a few days earlier. But now he answered in a dull voice:

‘Very well. I shall bear that in mind.’

The sufferings occasioned by the rift with the woman he loved were aggravated by another that was equally onerous: the breach in his relationship with Masa, the only person with whom he was close. For thirty-three years they had been inseparable, they had come through a thousand trials together and were accustomed to relying on each other in everything. But in recent days Erast Petrovich had been feeling increasingly irritated with his old comrade.

It had begun on the fifteenth of the month, the day when the play was read. Fandorin had taken Masa with him to the theatre in order to make the strongest possible impression on Stern. When dealing with theatre people, act theatrically. Here is a play drawn from Japanese life for you, and here as an appendix to it is an absolutely genuine Japanese, who can act as your consultant on any questions you might have.

Erast Petrovich had foreseen that the question would arise of where to find someone to play the male lead – someone who could juggle, walk a tightrope and perform various acrobatic tumbles – and he had been quite certain that no such actor existed anywhere in the world, so Stern would be obliged to invite the dramatist himself to play the part. In fact Fandorin had written this role for himself. It had no words, so that his damned stammer would not cause any problems; there was no need for him to show his face (except just once, at the very end); and most importantly of all – there was a love scene with the heroine. Imagining how he would embrace Eliza had lent the author’s inspiration a powerful additional impulse…

But what had happened? The Japanese had been given the part! The director had found Masa’s round face, with its narrow eyes, more interesting than Erast Petrovich’s features. And Masa, the swine, had had the insolence to accept the offer. And when he saw that his master was displeased, he had explained in Japanese that this way it would be much more convenient to observe the theatre company from the inside. That was entirely logical and Fandorin had muttered sourly: ‘Sore va tashikani soo da kedo…’[1] He couldn’t possibly argue about the role in front of witnesses. In his own mind he cursed himself: firstly, for not acquainting Masa with his plans; and secondly, for dragging the Japanese along with him.

Afterwards he had told his servant everything that he thought. He had emphasised in particular the fact that Masa would not be able to play a sinobi because, unlike Fandorin, he had not been trained in the clan. Masa objected that Russians would never notice subtle points like that, they couldn’t even tell the difference between udon noodles and soba. He was right, of course. In any case, the director had already made his decision. Erast Petrovich’s hopes of achieving intimacy with Eliza, at least in the role of her stage lover, had been wrecked.

True, intimate relations had been established anyway, and not onstage, but in real life. Only the conclusion had been a catastrophe, which would probably not have happened if they were acting in the same play. Erast Petrovich already knew enough about the psychology of actors to realise that a leading artiste would never allow herself to break off a relationship with her stage partner – it would have ruined the production.

However, even before the catastrophe there had been more than enough occasions of suffering. When Fandorin was still attending rehearsals, he was constantly tormented by his painful envy of Masa, who had the right to touch Eliza, and in the most intimate fashion too. That damned director, who was obsessed with sensuality, wanted to make the love scene look ‘convincing’. For instance, he introduced an unprecedentedly bold element: driven by his rampaging emotions, Masa’s hero did not simply embrace the geisha, but slipped his hand inside her kimono. Noah Noaevich assured everyone that a natural touch like that would absolutely stun the audience. Meanwhile, it was Erast Petrovich who was stunned. There was not a trace of naturalism in his play, which dealt with spiritual love.

Masa’s behaviour was simply repulsive. He kissed Eliza fervently on the neck, reached eagerly into the top of the actress’s kimono and toyed so freely with her bust that Fandorin got up and walked out. He was especially infuriated by the generous praise that the Japanese showered on Eliza. ‘Her lips are very soft, but her breasts on the contrary are firm and springy! My master has made a good choice,’ he said after the rehearsals, gleaming with sweat and smacking his lips – and all this with an air of the keenest possible friendship and sympathy!

The hypocrite! Oh, Fandorin knew all about his servant’s habits. And that avaricious glint in his eyes, and that voluptuous smacking of his lips. It was the riddle of all riddles how Masa managed to win women’s hearts (and bodies), but in that area he could give his master a clear hundred points’ start.

On the other hand, it was unjust to condemn the Japanese for being unable to resist Eliza’s magic. She was that kind of woman. Everyone lost their head over her.

True love and true friendship are incompatible, Erast Petrovich ruminated bitterly. It’s either one or the other. This is a rule which admits no exceptions…

THE COURSE OF THE ILLNESS

What had happened to Fandorin is what happens to every strong-willed, cerebral man who is accustomed to keeping his feelings on a tight rein when his prancer suddenly zooms off, flinging its abhorrent rider out of the saddle. This had already happened to Erast Petrovich twice before, on both occasions because of love that had been broken off tragically. Of course, this time the finale appeared farcical, rather than tragic, but that only made the helpless condition that had overwhelmed the former rationalist all the more humiliating.

His will had evaporated, not a trace remained of his mental harmony, his reason had declared a strike. Fandorin sank into a shameful apathy that dragged on for many days.

He didn’t leave the house, but just sat there for hours, staring at an open book without even seeing the letters. And when a period of agitation set in, he started exercising furiously, to the point of physical exhaustion. Only when he had drained his strength completely could he get to sleep. Then he woke up at some unpredictable time of day – and everything started all over again.

I am unwell, he told himself. Some day this will end. The other times were far, far worse, and it passed off after all. Ah, but then, he protested, he had been young. A long life made the heart grow weary and weakened its capacity for recovery.

Perhaps the illness would have passed off more quickly if not for Masa.

Every day he returned from the rehearsal at the theatre exhilarated and greatly pleased with himself, and started reporting on his success: what he had said to Eliza and what she had said to him. Instead of telling him to shut up, Erast Petrovich couldn’t help listening, and that was bad for him.

The Japanese was not surprised by his master’s pitiful condition. In Japanese it was called koi-wazurai, ‘love disease’, and was considered perfectly respectable for a samurai. Masa advised him not to fight against the melancholy, to write poetry and ‘water his sleeves with tears’ as often as he could, in the way that the great hero Yoshitsune did when parted from the beautiful Shizuka.

On that fateful night when Eliza had made Fandorin the happiest and then the unhappiest man in the world (in his sick condition Erast Petrovich thought in precisely such ludicrously stilted expressions), Masa had seen everything. The Japanese had slipped out discreetly through the rear entrance and loitered in the courtyard for several hours. When the heavy rain set in, Masa had hidden under the archway of the gates. He had only come back into the house when Fandorin was left alone. And he had immediately begun pressing him with questions.

‘What did you do to her, master? Thank you for not closing the curtains, it was interesting. But at the end it turned really dark and I could not see anything any more. She ran off wildly and aimlessly, sobbing loudly and even slightly unsteady on her feet. You must have permitted yourself something quite exceptional. Tell me, in the name of our friendship – I am dying of curiosity!’

‘I don’t know what I did,’ Fandorin replied in bewilderment. ‘I don’t understand what happened.’

His expression was wretched, and his servant stopped pestering him. He patted the tormented man on the head and made him a promise,

‘Never mind. I will set everything right. She is a special woman. She is like an American mustang. Do you remember the American mustangs, master? They have to be tamed gradually. Trust me, all right?’

Fandorin nodded listlessly – and condemned himself to the torment of listening to Masa’s stories every day.

If the Japanese could be believed, he went to the theatre exclusively in order to ‘tame’ Eliza. Supposedly he did nothing else there but describe his master’s virtues to Eliza as advantageously as possible. And supposedly she was gradually mellowing. She had begun asking after Fandorin without displaying any resentment or animosity. Her heart was thawing day by day.

Fandorin listened morosely, without believing a single word. He found the sight of Masa abhorrent. Envy and jealousy choked him. The Japanese spoke to her and as part of his role he hugged her tight, kissed her and touched her body (damn it!). Was it possible to imagine a man who would not submit to the necromantic charms of this woman in those circumstances?

September came to an end and October began. There was no difference between one day and another. Fandorin waited for the next report about Eliza in the way that a totally degraded opium addict waits for the next dose of his drug. And when he got it, he didn’t feel any relief, he merely despised himself and hated the supplier of this poison.

The first sign of a recovery appeared when it occurred to Erast Petrovich to take a look at himself in the mirror. In normal life he paid a considerable amount of attention to his appearance, but now it was more than two weeks since he had combed his hair.

He looked – and was horrified (also an encouraging symptom). His limply dangling hair was almost completely white, while his beard, on the contrary, was completely black, without even a single thread of grey. Not a face, but a drawing by Aubrey Beardsley. A noble man does not descend to the crudeness of the brute even in the most onerous of circumstances, said the sage. And there is nothing onerous about your circumstances, Fandorin told his reflection reproachfully. Merely a temporary paralysis of the will. And he immediately realised the first step that must be taken in order to restore his self-control.

Leave the house, in order not to see Masa and not listen to what he said about Eliza.

Erast Petrovich tidied himself up, dressed with the most meticulous possible care and went out for a stroll.

It turned out that while he was lurking in his lair, sucking on his paw, autumn had made itself undisputed master of the city. It had recoloured the trees on the boulevard, washed down the road with rain, lightened the sky to a piercing azure and set ornamental flocks of birds flying southwards across it. For the first time in all these days Fandorin attempted to analyse what had happened.

There are two causes, he told himself, scattering the dry leaves about with his cane. Age – that is one. I decided to inter my feelings too soon. Like Gogol’s Pannochka, they have jumped out of the coffin and frightened me half to death. The strange coincidence – that is two. Erast and Liza, the anniversary year, St Elizaveta’s day, the white arm in the beam of light from the projector. And three is the theatre. Like the exhalations of a swamp, this world clouds the mind and distorts the outlines of all objects. I have been poisoned by this pungent air, it is contraindicated for me.

It was comforting to think and set out a line of logic. Erast Petrovich was feeling better with every minute that passed. And not far from Strastnoy Monastery (he had not even noticed that his stride had carried him all the way round the Boulevard Ring to this spot), a chance encounter occurred that finally set the sick man on the road to recovery.

He was distracted from his thoughts by a crude howl.

‘You boor! You swine! Watch where you’re going!’

The usual story; a cab driver had driven through a puddle close to the pavement and splashed a passer-by from head to foot. The splattered gentleman (Fandorin could only see a narrow back in a pepper-and-salt jacket and a grey bowler hat) broke into a torrent of abuse, jumped up on the running board and started lashing the gargantuan man around the shoulders with his stick.

The driver looked round and must have determined in an instant that the individual before him was a person of no great significance (as everyone knows, cabbies are true psychologists in such matters), and being twice as broad across as his assailant, he snatched the stick out of the other man’s hand and snapped it in two, then grabbed him by the lapel and drew back a massive fist.

Half a century without the slavery of serfdom has blurred the boundaries between the social orders somewhat after all, Erast Petrovich thought distractedly. In 1911 a member of the lowest class no longer allows a gentleman in a hat to inflict punishment on him with impunity.

The gentleman in the hat started jerking about, trying to break free. When he turned his profile towards Fandorin, he turned out to be an acquaintance – Anton Ivanovich Mephistov, the actor who played the roles of villains and mischief-makers. Erast Petrovich decided it was his duty to intervene.

‘Hey, badge 38-12!’ he shouted, running across the street. ‘Keep your hands to yourself! It’s your own fault!’

The ‘psychologist’ required only one glance to see that this was a man who should not be wrangled with. The cabby released Mephistov and expressed the praiseworthy intention of fighting for his rights in a civilised manner.

‘I’ll take him to the magistrates’ court. Oho, fighting with a stick! That’s not in any rules!’

‘Q-quite right,’ Erast Petrovich said approvingly. ‘They’ll fine him for fighting and fine you for his ruined clothes and broken cane. You’ll be even.’

The cabby glanced at Anton Ivanovich’s trousers, figured something out, croaked and lashed at his horse.

‘Hello, Mr Mephistov,’ said Fandorin, greeting the pale-faced ‘villain’.

Mephistov brandished his fist at the receding carriage and exclaimed:

‘The brute! The proletarian! If not for you, I’d have smashed his face to pulp… But anyway, thank you for intervening. Hello.’

He wiped off his clothes with a handkerchief, his bony features shuddering in fury.

‘Mark my words, if Russia is destroyed by anything, it will be exclusively by loutishness! A lout sits on another lout and drives a lout along! Nothing but louts from top to bottom.’

However, he calmed down quite quickly – he was, after all, an actor, a creature with feelings that are tempestuous, but shallow.

‘I haven’t seen you for a long time, Fandorin.’ He looked Erast Petrovich up and down more closely and his sunken eyes glinted with curiosity. ‘My, but you certainly look the worse for wear. You’ve started looking like a human being. You used to be like a picture from a ladies’ magazine. Are you unwell, then? Your Japanese didn’t mention anything.’

‘I was a little unwell. I have almost recovered now.’

Fandorin found this encounter distasteful. He touched his fingers to his top hat, intending to take his leave, but the actor grabbed hold of his sleeve.

‘Have you heard our news? A scandal! Pornography!’ His lizard-like face glowed with happiness. ‘Our great touch-me-not beauty, our Egyptian princess, has utterly disgraced herself. I mean Eliza Altairsky, if you haven’t realised yet.’

But Fandorin had understood him perfectly well. He had also realised that this chance encounter had not come about entirely by accident. He was about to learn something important, and it might possibly accelerate his recovery. However, crude talk about her could not be permitted.

‘Why do you speak so spitefully about Madam Altairsky-Lointaine?’ he asked in a hostile tone.

‘Because I cannot bear beauties and all sorts of prettiness,’ Mephistov explained with great eagerness. ‘A certain ugly writer once spoke some stupid words that are repeated endlessly by all sorts of blockheads: “Beauty will save the world”. Gibberish, sir! It will not save it, but destroy it! This truth is expounded remarkably well in your little play. Genuine beauty does not assault the eye, it is concealed and accessible only to the chosen few. It is invisible to the blockhead and the lout! The first reaction to a powerful, innovative work of art is the fear and revulsion of the crowd. If I had my way, I would mark every pretty-pretty face with a fiery brand, to prevent it glowing with its chocolate-box prettiness! I would replace all the sumptuous palaces with structures of steel and concrete! I would shake all the mouldy old rubbish out of the museums and…’

‘I have no doubt that is precisely what you would do, if you had your way,’ Fandorin interrupted him. ‘But what, after all, has happened to Madam Altairsky-Lointaine?’

Anton Ivanovich started shaking with silent laughter.

‘She was caught with an admirer in a most titillating pose! In her hotel room! With Limbach, the cornet of hussars, the young Adonis. She wearing almost nothing, and her lover was down on his knees, with his head stuck right up under her nightshirt and kissing away for all he was worth. I told you – a pornographic postcard!’

‘I don’t believe it,’ Erast Petrovich said in a strangled voice.

‘I wouldn’t have believed it either. But the hussar didn’t sneak in to see her quietly, on the sly – he demolished half the hotel in his amorous fury. And the indecent scene was witnessed by people who wouldn’t make it up: Stern, Vaska Gullibin and Nonarikin.’

Fandorin’s face must have contorted in pain. In any case Mephistov said:

‘It seems strange now that I used to think of you as a saccharine-sweet pretty face. You have a rather interesting appearance, the face of a Roman patrician from the period of the empire’s decline. Only the moustache is superfluous. If I were you, I’d shave it off.’ Anton Ivanovich indicated his own upper lip as an example. ‘I just decided to stroll to the hotel after the rehearsal, to clear the fumes. Won’t you keep me company? We could drop into the buffet for a drink.’

‘Thank you. I’m busy,’ Erast Petrovich replied through his teeth.

‘And when will you come to see us in the theatre? We’ve made great progress, it would be interesting for you. Really, do come to a rehearsal.’

‘Most definitely.’

The damned ‘troublemaker’ finally left him in peace. Fandorin looked at the pieces of Mephistov’s cane lying on the pavement, then snapped his own entirely innocent stick of the strongest ironwood in half and snapped the pieces in half again.

He also recalled the idiotic compliment about his appearance. It was Dostoyevsky’s Fyodor Karamazov who had ‘the face of a Roman patrician from the period of the empire’s decline’! And as it happens, the repulsive old erotomaniac was about the same age as me, he thought. And in that very instant his blighted will shuddered and came to life, flooding his entire being with the strength he had been waiting for.

‘With red-hot iron,’ Fandorin declared out loud, and stuck the fragments of the broken stick in his pocket, in order to avoid littering the pavement.

And then he added:

‘Enough of this p-puerility.’

It was fate: a depraved actress, a sprightly cornet and a vicious-tongued ‘villain’ who turned up along his way at just the right moment had mercifully combined forces to return the sick man’s reason and calmness of mind.

It was over.

The world felt free, cool and spacious.

At breakfast the next day Fandorin read the newspapers that had accumulated and for the first time he listened to Masa’s chatter without feeling irritated. The Japanese clearly wanted to tell him about the disgusting incident with the cornet: he began delicately with comments regarding the special moral character of courtesans, geishas and actresses, but Erast Petrovich redirected the conversation to the astounding events in China, where a revolution was beginning and the throne of the Manchurian Qing dynasty had been shaken.

Masa tried to turn the conversation back to the theatre.

‘I shall call in there today. Later on,’ said Fandorin, and the Japanese fell silent, evidently trying to understand the change that had come over his master.

‘You don’t love her any more, master,’ he concluded after a moment’s thought, with his perennial perspicuity.

Erast Petrovich could not resist passing a spiteful comment.

‘No, I don’t. You can feel absolutely free.’

Masa didn’t reply to that. He sighed and started pondering.

Fandorin drove up to Theatre Square at two o’clock, counting on arriving exactly in time for the lunch break in the rehearsal. He was calm and collected.

Madam Lointaine is free to arrange her private life as she sees fit, that is her business. However, the investigation that has been interrupted by my psychological indisposition must be continued. The killer must be found.

Fandorin had barely emerged from his Isotta Fraschini before a nimble little man came scurrying up to him.

‘Sir,’ he whispered, ‘I have a ticket for the premiere of the new Noah’s Ark production. A superb play of oriental life. An original title – Two Comets in a Starless Sky. With quite incredible tumbling tricks and astoundingly frank scenes. The tickets have not reached the box office yet, but I have some. Fifteen roubles in the circle and thirty-five in the orchestra stalls. It will be more expensive later.’

So the title and the subject of the play were no longer a secret, and what was more, the day of the premiere had been set. Well, these matters did not concern Erast Petrovich now. To hell with the play.

As he walked to the entrance, hucksters pestered him again twice. They were doing a brisk trade. And some distance away, in the same spot as last time, the grand marshal of the touts was loitering with his perennial green briefcase under his arm. He kept glancing up at the autumn sky, stamping his shoe with its thick rubber sole on the ground and whistling absent-mindedly, but at the same time he seemed able to survey everything around him. Erast Petrovich caught the gaze of those little eyes boring into him with either curiosity or suspicion. God only knew why he had provoked such a lively reaction from this murky individual with a face of clay. Perhaps he had remembered about the pass for the box? What about it? But then, that was of no importance.

During the time since Fandorin had last been here, certain changes had taken place. A large photograph of the deceased Emeraldov was hanging to the left of the entrance – with a lighted icon lamp and a heap of flowers piled up directly on the pavement. There were two smaller photographs beside it, apparently of hysterical women who had taken their own lives in their inconsolable grief for their idol. An announcement in a flirtatious little mourning frame informed people that there would be an ‘Evening of Tears’ in the small auditorium ‘for a small circle of invited individuals’. Naturally, the prices had been raised.

Erast Petrovich felt a slight stabbing sensation in his heart when he saw the photograph on the other side of the entrance – the leading lady in a kimono, with a takashimada hairstyle. The curt caption read: ‘Mme ALTAIRSKY-LOINTAINE IN HER NEW ROLE AS A JAPANESE GEISHA’. There were flowers lying in front of the famous actress’s portrait too, although not as many.

I did feel a twinge nonetheless, Fandorin noted, and hesitated. Perhaps he should put off his visit until tomorrow? Apparently the wound had not yet healed over sufficiently.

A horse cab pulled up behind him and a ringing voice shouted out:

‘Wait!’

There was a jangle of spurs and a clatter of heels and a hand in a yellow glove set a basket of violets in front of the actress’s portrait.

At this point Erast Petrovich felt a more powerful stabbing sensation in his chest. He recognised the cornet whom he had once admitted to the box. Limbach recognised him too.

‘I put some here every day!’ The fresh, youthful face lit up in an ecstatic smile. ‘I consider it my duty. Have you brought flowers too? Don’t you recognise me? We were at Poor Liza together.’

Erast Petrovich turned away without speaking and walked off to one side, indignant at the furious pounding of his heart.

Sick, I’m still sick…

He had to wait a little and take himself in hand. Fortunately he was standing right in front of the announcement of the new production.

Just a theatre-lover, studying a poster. Nothing special.

The letters attempted to look like hieroglyphs. The artist had drawn some stupid little figures in a style that was more Chinese than Japanese. And for some incomprehensible reason the whole composition was crowned by a branch of sakura, although it was a blossoming apple tree that was mentioned in the play. But that didn’t matter. The most important thing was that the condition he set had not been broken: where the author’s name should have been, there were only the initials ‘E.F.’

I need to forget about this shameful episode as soon as possible, thought Fandorin. And in his own mind he prayed to the Russian and the Japanese gods and the muse Melpomene for the play to be a resounding failure, so that it would be excluded from the repertoire and expunged for ever from the annals of theatrical art.

Without even wishing to, every now and then Erast Petrovich squinted sideways at his fortunate rival. He felt furious and the humiliation of it tormented him, but the urge was too strong.

The boy still didn’t go away – the man with the briefcase moved closer to him and they started talking about something. The conversation gradually grew more animated. In fact, the leader of the ticket touts behaved calmly and didn’t raise his voice, and it was the cornet who did most of the shouting. Fragments of phrases reached Fandorin’s ears.

‘This is monstrous! You can’t dare to do that! I’m an officer of His Majesty’s guard!’

And then there was a phrase that sounded very strange, coming from ‘an officer of His Majesty’s guard’.

‘You and your Tsar can both go to hell!’

The man with the briefcase whistled again, not mockingly this time, but menacingly, and said something else in a quiet, insistent voice.

‘I’ll pay everything back! Soon!’ Limbach exclaimed. ‘On the word of a gentleman!’

‘You’ve given the word of a gentleman before!’ the other man finally exploded. ‘Either cough up the money, or…’

The tout-in-chief grabbed the cornet crudely by the shoulder, and his hand was clearly not a light one – the youth’s knees even buckled slightly.

What a pity that she cannot see her lover grovelling to his creditor, Fandorin thought in a malicious impulse that was unworthy of a noble man. In my time an officer of the hussars didn’t behave like a stray puppy dog. He would have challenged him to pistols at five paces, and that would have been the end of it.

However, Limbach found a different way out of the scandalous situation. He shoved his assailant in the chest, took a run up, jumped into the horse cab and yelled:

‘Drive! Drive!’

The shove sent the creditor’s hat flying off his head and the briefcase fell out from under his arm. The lock came open and papers slid out onto the pavement, including a yellow cardboard folder that seemed familiar to Fandorin.

He took several steps forward to take a better look at it. He was right: Stern had handed out the parts to his actors in similar folders. Erast Petrovich’s keen glance made out the words printed in large capitals: ‘TWO COMETS…’

Rapidly stuffing the papers back into his briefcase, the whistling enthusiast scowled at Fandorin.

‘What are you doing always hanging around here, trying to sniff everything out, Nat Pinkerton?’

Now this was interesting.

‘So you kn-know me?’ Erast Petrovich asked, standing over the ruffian, who was squatting down on his haunches.

‘That’s the job – knowing everything.’ The other man stood up and turned out to be half a head taller than Fandorin. ‘What interests keep you hanging about here, Monsieur Sleuth? Professional matters, or perhaps affairs of the heart?’

These impudent words were accustomed by winking and derisive whistling.

Fandorin was in a foul mood today, and his nerves were not in good order. So he behaved in a manner that was less than absolutely worthy. Normally he considered it impossible to touch a gentleman of this type with his hands unless there was some urgent necessity to do so, but this time he broke his own prohibition. He took hold of a button on the man’s jacket between two fingers, tugged gently – and the button was left in his hand. He did the same with the other three buttons. Then he stuck them in the ruffian’s breast pocket.

‘Well, since you know who I am, don’t be impertinent with me. I don’t like it. And sew on your buttons, you’re improperly dressed.’

Good grief, a retired state councillor, a respectable man of fifty-five, and I behave like some pugnacious whippersnapper!

He had to give the scalper-in-chief credit. He obviously really had found out something about Fandorin, because he didn’t look for trouble. But there wasn’t even a hint of fear in his spiteful little eyes either. This time the whistle was mockingly respectful.

‘Jupiter is angry. So it’s an affair of the heart. Well, I wish you luck. No more, no more. I’m going to sew on my buttons.’

He tipped his hat and backed away.

This little outburst finally convinced Fandorin that his state of mind had not yet normalised.

Tomorrow, he told himself. I shall be in better form tomorrow.

He got into his automobile and drove away.

THE PREMIERE

The painful operation was carried out the next day, and on the whole it was a success. Only in the very first moment, when she glanced round, looked at the new arrival in the room and threw her hand up to her throat, as if she couldn’t catch her breath, Fandorin’s breath also faltered, but he controlled himself. Everyone dashed to shake his hand and greet him noisily, complaining about his pallor and rebuking ‘Mikhail Erastovich’ for not telling them that his ‘stepfather’ was unwell.

Erast Petrovich said hello to everyone, including even Eliza – politely and distantly. She didn’t look up. The aroma of her hair presented a clear and distinct danger. Catching the dizzying scent of Parma violets, the convalescent moved away quickly.

That’s it, he told himself in relief, it will be easier now.

But it didn’t get any easier. Every encounter, every accidental (and especially non-accidental) clash of glances, and in particular every exchange of even a couple of entirely insignificant words, paralysed his breathing and triggered a twinge in his chest. Fortunately Fandorin attended rehearsals infrequently. Only if the director asked him to come or the investigation required it.

After the embarrassment with Nonarikin and the enforced break of two weeks, he had to start over again almost from scratch and draw up his list of suspects anew.

He had no answer to the most important question: why had someone wanted to poison that fatuous popinjay Emeraldov? And was there any connection between the murder and the snake in the basket?

He had come up with about ten theories – effectively the number of members in the theatre company – but they were all unconvincing and contrived. On the other hand, in this strange world, many things seemed contrived: the actors’ behaviour, their manner of speaking, their relationships, the motivations for their actions. In addition to the ‘internal’ theories (those that were limited to the bounds of the Ark) there was one ‘external’ theory, which was rather more realistic, but a serious effort was required to elaborate it, and Erast Petrovich was not really in a fit state for serious effort. Although he regarded himself as recovered, he was still subject to fits of apathy and his brain was not working as well as usual.

Conducting the investigation in this condition, all on his own, without an assistant, was like rowing with one oar, setting the boat endlessly describing the same circle over and over again. Fandorin was used to discussing the progress of his deductions with Masa, it helped him to systematise and clarify the direction of his thinking. The Japanese often made useful comments, and in this grotesque case his common sense and close knowledge of the possible suspects would certainly have come in very useful.

But one of the proofs that Erast Petrovich was not yet fully recovered was the fact that he still found it hard to tolerate his old friend’s company. Why, oh why, had he spoken those words: ‘You can feel absolutely free’? The damned oriental Casanova had eagerly taken advantage of his permission and now hardly ever left Eliza’s side. It was more than Erast Petrovich could bear to see them rehearsing the passionate love scene. If he happened to be in the auditorium at the time, he immediately got up and left.

Thank God, the Japanese knew nothing about the investigation, or it would have been impossible to get rid of him. At the very beginning, when it was only a matter of the operetta viper in the basket of flowers, Fandorin had not seen any need to involve his assistant in such a frivolous case. And at the initial stage the matter of Emeraldov’s death had not seemed too complicated to him either. And, as we know, before the fiasco of the ‘Fishing with Live Bait’ operation, relations between master and servant were already ruptured – Masa had arrogantly usurped the role that Fandorin wrote for himself.

The days stretched out in this way. The theatre company was in a feverish state ahead of the premiere. Masa came back from rehearsals late in the evening – and invariably discovered that his master had already retired to the bedroom. And Fandorin, hating himself for the feebleness of his thinking, kept going round and round the same circle. He wrote out names and hypothetical motives on a sheet of paper.

‘Mephistov: pathological hatred of beautiful people?

‘Vulpinova: resentment: pathological psychology?

‘Aphrodisina: was she having a secret affair with the murdered man?

‘Reginina: extremely hostile relations with Emeraldov.

‘Stern: a pathological passion for sensationalism.

‘Gullibin: by no means as simple as he seems.’

And so on in the same vein.

Then he angrily crossed it all out: puerile babble! The word ‘pathological’ appeared in the list more frequently than was permissible in criminalistic theory. But then, beyond the slightest doubt, this environment was itself pathological. Stern loved to repeat Shakespeare’s phrase: ‘All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players’. The actors really were convinced that the whole of life was one big stage, and the stage was the whole of life. Here appearance became immutable reality, the mask was inseparable from the face and dissimulation was the natural norm of behaviour. These people regarded as insignificant those things that constituted the meaning of greatest significance for an ordinary person; and vice versa, they were willing to lay down their lives for things to which everybody else attached no importance…

A few days before the premiere Noah Noaevich called Fandorin in for an urgent consultation. He wanted to know whether the author would object to the main accent of the ending being shifted slightly – from the text to a visual effect. Since in the final scene the heroine was sitting in front of an open jewellery casket, ‘the prop had to be put to work’, for in the theatre there should not be any guns that did not fire. And so Nonarikin had come up with an interesting idea. He spent a long time fiddling about with wires and hanging suspended from the ceiling in a cradle, tinkering with the casket before eventually presenting the fruits of his engineering concept to the director. Stern was ecstatic – the invention was exactly to his taste.

After the phrase with which the author concluded his play, a miracle would occur: two comets consisting of little light bulbs would suddenly blaze up above the hall. Throwing her head back and raising her right hand, to which the attention of the audience would be riveted, with her left hand the heroine would imperceptibly press a little button – and everyone would gasp.

Georges demonstrated his invention. The work had been carried out impeccably, and in the front of the casket, where the audience could not see it, the master craftsman had mounted an electrical panel that showed the time: hours, minutes and even seconds.

‘I was taught that on an electrical combat-engineering course,’ he said proudly. ‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’

‘But what is the clock in the casket for?’ Eliza asked.

‘Not what is it for, but who is it for. It’s for you, my dear,’ Noah Noaevich told her. ‘So that you won’t drag out the pause. That’s a little fault that you do have. Watch the seconds, don’t get carried away. An excellent idea. Georges! It would be good to have a blinking clock, a big one, to hang above the stage on the inside. For the actors. We have too many ladies and gentlemen who like to hog the limelight.’

His assistant was nonplussed.

‘Oh no, that’s not what I did it for… I thought that afterwards, when the play’s taken out of the repertoire, Eliza could keep the casket – as a souvenir. A clock is a useful thing… There’s a little wheel here at the side, you can turn it if the clock’s running too slow or too fast. There are lots of wires inside it now, but later on I’ll disconnect them all, and the casket can be used for various cosmetics and such… And it runs off an ordinary electrical adaptor.’

Eliza smiled tenderly at Nonarikin, who was blushing.

‘Thank you, Georges. That’s very sweet of you.’ She looked at Fandorin. ‘You won’t object if the performance ends with a light show, will you? Mr Nonarikin has made such an effort.’

‘Whatever you wish. It’s all the s-same to me.’

Erast Petrovich turned his eyes away. Why was she looking at him imploringly? Surely not because of this little trinket? It must be the usual actress’s affectation – if you have to make a request, then do it with a tear in your eye. And all she wanted to do was encourage the zeal of yet another admirer. After all, she had to be loved by everyone around her – including even ‘all the horses, cats and dogs’.

As far as the finale was concerned, that really was all the same to him. He would have been glad not to come to the premiere – and not at all because of author’s nerves. Erast Petrovich was still hoping that the show would be a resounding flop. If the audience felt even a hundredth part of the revulsion that this sloppy romantic melodrama now inspired in the dramatist, then the result was not in any doubt.

Alas, alas.

The premiere of Two Comets, which took place exactly a month after the company was first acquainted with the play, was a resounding triumph.

The audience ecstatically drank in the exoticism of the karyukai or ‘world of flowers and willow trees’, the Japanese name for the chimerical kingdom of tea houses where unbelievably elegant geishas indulge their demanding clients with ephemeral, recherché, incorporeal pleasures. The stage sets were miraculously good, the actors performed splendidly, transforming themselves into puppets and then back into living people. The mysterious chiming of a gong and the honeyed recitation by the Storyteller alternately lulled and galvanised the audience. Eliza was dazzling – there was no other word for it. Under cover of darkness, from his position as one of a thousand spectators, Fandorin could watch her unhindered and he relished the forbidden fruit to the full. A strange feeling! She had nothing to do with him, but at the same time she spoke in his words and obeyed his will – after all, he was the author of this play!

Altairsky-Lointaine was given a magnificent reception and after every scene in which she appeared there were cries of ‘Bravo, Eliza!’ However, the completely unknown actor playing the part of the fateful killer enjoyed even greater success. In the programme it simply said ‘The Inaudible One: Mr Swardilin’ – that was how Masa had translated his Japanese name, Shibata, which consisted of the hieroglyphs for ‘meadow’ and ‘field’. His somersaulting and pirouetting (performed in a very mediocre fashion in Erast Petrovich’s biased view) sent a theatrical public not pampered by acrobatic tumbling into raptures. And when, as the plot required, the ninja pulled off his mask and turned out to be a genuine Japanese, the auditorium erupted into shouts of acclaim. No one had been expecting that. Caught in the beam of the spotlight, Masa glowed and shimmered like a golden Buddha.

The audience was also astounded by Nonarikin’s electrotechnical invention. When the lights went out and the two comets blazed into life high above their heads, a sigh ran through the auditorium. The stalls were a solid expanse of white faces raised to the ceiling, which was quite an effect in itself.

‘Brilliant! Stern has outdone himself!’ said the influential reviewers in the director’s box, where Fandorin was sitting. ‘Where did he get this miraculous Oriental? And who is this “E.F.” who wrote the play? He must be Japanese. Or American. Our playwrights don’t know how to do this sort of thing. Stern is deliberately concealing the name, so the other theatres won’t poach the author. And what about that love scene? Bordering on the scandalous, but so powerful!’

Erast Petrovich had not seen the love scene. He lowered his eyes and waited until the audience stopped gasping and gulping. The repulsive sounds could be heard quite clearly in the shocked silence that filled the hall.

The curtain calls went on for absolutely ages. Some people in the hall tried calling out ‘Author! Author!’ – but rather uncertainly: no one knew for certain whether the author was even in the theatre. It had been agreed with Stern that Erast Petrovich would not be invited up onto the stage. The audience clamoured briefly and stopped. They had quite enough people to celebrate and shower with flowers without the dramatist.

Erast Petrovich looked through his opera glasses at Eliza’s face, glowing with happiness. Ah, if only just once in his life she would look at him with that expression, nothing else would matter… Masa bowed ceremoniously from the waist and immediately started blowing kisses to the audience like a regular leading man.

But that was not the end of Fandorin’s trials. He still had to survive the backstage banquet – it was absolutely impossible not to go.

A RUINED BANQUET

Erast Petrovich spent a long time smoking in the foyer after the public had gone home and the bustle in the cloakroom had faded away. Eventually he heaved a sigh and went up to the actors’ floor.

First Erast Petrovich walked along the dark corridor onto which the doors of the actors’ dressing rooms opened. He suddenly felt an irresistible urge to glance into the room where Eliza prepared for her entrances, transforming herself from a real, live woman into a role: sitting in front of a mirror and exchanging one existence for another, like a kitsuné. Perhaps the appearance of the space that she used for these metamorphoses would somehow help him to understand her mystery?

He looked round to make sure there was no one near by and tugged on the brass door handle, but the door didn’t yield, it was locked. That was strange. As far as Fandorin was aware, the actors of the ‘Ark’ were not in the habit of locking their dressing rooms. Erast Petrovich found this small fact symbolic. Eliza would not allow him into her secret world, she wouldn’t let him get even a brief glimpse of it.

He walked on, shaking his head. Not only were most of the dressing rooms not locked, their doors were actually standing ajar. The very last door was firmly closed, but when he turned the handle tentatively, it swung open immediately.

The scene revealed to Fandorin’s surprised gaze was in the spirit of the indecent Japanese shunga prints that are so popular with foreigners. Right there on the floor, between the make-up tables with their mirrors, Masa, wearing a close-fitting ninja jacket, but without the lower half of his costume, was intently turning up the kimono of Serafima Aphrodisina, who played the part of a trainee geisha in the show.

‘Oh!’ the ‘coquette’ exclaimed, jumping to her feet and adjusting her clothing. Erast Petrovich did not get the impression that she was seriously embarrassed. ‘Congratulations on the premiere!’

Gathering up the hem of her kimono, she darted out through the door.

The Japanese watched her go regretfully.

‘Do you need me, master?’

‘So you’re having an affair with Aphrodisina and not…?’ Fandorin didn’t finish his question.

Masa got up and said philosophically:

‘Nothing turns women’s heads like a Great Success. This beautiful girl showed no interest in me before, but after a thousand people applauded and shouted and cheered, Sima-san started making such wide eyes at me, it would have been stupid and impolite to leave the matter without any continuation. Many women in the hall were looking at me in exactly the same way,’ he concluded, examining himself in the mirror with satisfaction. ‘Some of them said: “How handsome he is! A genuine Buddha!”’

‘Put your trousers on, Buddha.’

Leaving the newborn star to admire his irresistibly handsome features and adjust his clothing, Fandorin walked on. He really had come to dislike Masa. The worst thing was that this puffed-up nobody was right: now he would become even more attractive to Eliza – after all, actresses were so susceptible to the tinsel glitter of success! He ought to tell her about Masa’s monkey business with Aphrodisina – but unfortunately, for a noble man, that was quite inconceivable…

Erast Petrovich was so consumed by his misery, it didn’t occur to him that he was also enveloped in the glittering cloud of a Great Success. This fact was only made clear to him when he entered the buffet quietly, trying not to attract any attention. No such luck!

‘Here he is, our dear author! At last! Erast Petrovich!’ Everyone came dashing towards him, vying with each other to congratulate him on the brilliant premiere, the superb triumph and his new-found fame.

Stern raised a glass of champagne.

‘Here’s to a new name on the theatrical Mount Olympus, ladies and gentlemen!’

Madam Reginina in her purple kimono, her eyes extended with mascara (all the actors were still in their stage costumes and make-up), declared with feeling:

‘I have always been an advocate of an author’s theatre, not a director’s or actors’ theatre! You are my hero, Erast Petrovich! Ah, if only you had written a play about a woman who is no longer young, but whose heart is still vibrant and filled with powerful passions!’

She was elbowed aside by her former husband, with his gleaming false bald patch and waxed samurai pigtail.

‘It is only now that I have really understood the concept of your work. It is majestic! You and I have a lot in common. Some day I shall tell you the story of my life…’

But the company’s female ‘intriguer’ was already pushing herself forward, her lips extended to reveal a small-toothed smile.

‘The most interesting plays in the world are the ones in which the central character is on the side of evil. You have shown that brilliantly.’

On the other hand, Vasya Gullibin, who had still not removed the swords from his belt, thanked Fandorin for ‘giving villainy its comeuppance’ – which, in his opinion, was the most important idea of Fandorin’s play and of existence in general.

And then Erast Petrovich stopped seeing and hearing them, because Eliza came up to him, took his neck in her hot hand, stunning him with an aroma of violets, kissed him and whispered every so quietly:

‘My best one, my very best! Forgive me, my darling, there was nothing else I could do…’

She slipped away, yielding her place to others and leaving Fandorin tormented by uncertainty: had she really said ‘my darling’ and not just ‘my dear’? He wasn’t sure that he had heard her correctly. So much depended on that! But he couldn’t just ask her, could he?

Calm down, it means absolutely nothing, he told himself. Madam Lointaine is an actress, and she is also under the spell of a Great Success. For her I am no longer just a man, but a Highly Promising Dramatist. That kiss is not worth a thing and I cannot be lured into the same trap for a second time, no thank you very much. And he deliberately added an extra dash of bitterness by asking: But why is your chosen favourite nowhere to be seen, my lady?

He actually had not seen Limbach at the premiere today and had drawn the only possible conclusion: there was no need for the cornet to besiege the fortress, if it had already been taken. He must be waiting in a hotel room with flowers and champagne. Well, good luck to him. To coin a phrase – may your bed be feather-soft!

After the actors, the dramatist was congratulated by the very small number of guests – the banquet was for the ‘inner circle’ only. The influential reviewers whom Erast Petrovich had seen in the box came over and paid him condescending compliments. Then his elbows were taken by two extremely amiable gentlemen, one with a pince-nez and the other with a perfumed beard. They were interested in whether he had any more compositions in hand or ‘on the drawing board’. Stern immediately came flying across and wagged his finger at them jokingly.

‘Vladimir Ivanovich, Konstantin Sergeevich, no pilfering our authors now. Or I’ll poison both of you, as Salieri poisoned Mozart!’

The last person to approach him, when all the others had gone back to the table, was the patron of the muses, Shustrov. He didn’t pay any compliments, but took the bull by the horns immediately.

‘Could you write a scenario on a theme from Japanese life?’

‘I b-beg your pardon? I don’t know that word.’

‘A scenario is the word for a cinematographic play. It’s a new idea in the field of film-making. A detailed exposition of the action, with dramatic instructions and scenes described in detail.’

Fandorin was surprised.

‘But what for? As far as I’m aware, the film-maker simply tells the actors playing the roles how to stand and which way to move. After all, there isn’t any dialogue, and the plot can change, d-depending on money, the weather and how busy the actors are.’

‘That’s how it used to be. But all that will change soon. Let’s have a talk about it later.’

The director tapped his fork against a glass and called the millionaire.

‘Andrei Gordeevich, you wished to make a speech! This is the right moment, everyone is here!’

The heartbreaker Swardilin had just shown up, with the bristles of his freshly grown hair gleaming. The scoundrel sat down beside Eliza, who said something affectionate to him. But then, where else was the person playing the male lead supposed to sit?

Erast Petrovich was also seated in a place of honour, at the opposite end of the table, beside the director.

Mr Shustrov began the speech in his usual manner.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, this is a good show, people will write about it and talk about it. I have been convinced yet again that I calculated correctly when I put my money on Noah Noaevich and your entire company. I was especially delighted by Madam Altairsky-Lointaine, who has a great future ahead of her… If we can see eye to eye…’ he added after a pause, gazing intently at Eliza. ‘Permit me, madam, to make you a small symbolic gift, the meaning of which I shall explain in a little while.’

He took a small velvet case out of his pocket and extracted from it a very delicately made rose of reddish gold.

‘How charming!’ Eliza exclaimed. ‘What craftsman could possibly have produced such intricate work?’

‘That craftsman’s name is nature,’ the entrepreneur replied. ‘You are holding in your hands a living flower bud, sprayed with a layer of gold dust – the very latest technology. Thanks to the film of gold the beauty of the living flower has been rendered eternal. It will never wilt.’

Everyone applauded, but the capitalist raised his hand.

‘The time has come to explain the main idea behind the establishment of our Theatrical and Cinematographic Company. I decided to invest money in your theatre group because Noah Noaevich was the first person working in the theatre to realise that truly colossal success is impossible without sensationalism. But that is only the first stage. Now that the newspapers of both of Russia’s capital cities are writing about Noah’s Ark, my plan is to elevate your fame to an even higher level – first of all, right across the whole of Russia, and then right around the world. This cannot possibly be achieved by means of theatrical touring, but there is another means: the cinematograph.’

‘You wish to make a film of our production?’ Stern asked. ‘But what about the sound, the words?’

‘No, my partner and I wish to create a new type of cinematograph, which will become a fully fledged art form. The scenarios will be written by authors with a literary reputation. We won’t ask just anyone to act in the films, but first-class actors. We will not be satisfied, as others are, with cardboard or canvas scenery. But the most important thing is that we shall make millions of people love the faces of our stars. Oh, this concept has an immense future! The art of an outstanding theatrical actor is like a living flower – it is spellbinding, but the enchantment comes to an end when the curtain closes. I wish to render your art imperishable by coating it in gold. What do you think about that?’

No one said anything, and many of the actors turned to look at Stern. He got up. It was clear that he did not wish to upset his benefactor.

‘Mmmm… Highly respected Andrei Gordeevich, I understand your desire to earn greater profit, that is only natural for an entrepreneur. And I myself, God knows, never let slip an opportunity to milk the golden calf.’ A ripple of laughter ran round the room and Noah Noaevich inclined his head comically, as if to say: Guilty, I admit it. ‘But surely you find the results of our Moscow tour satisfactory? I don’t think any theatre has ever had takings like this – no offence intended to my colleagues in the Art Theatre. Today’s premiere brought in more than ten thousand roubles! Naturally, it would only be just for us to start sharing, in mutually advantageous proportions, with the company that has given us shelter.’

‘Ten thousand roubles?’ Shustrov repeated. ‘That’s a joke. A successful film will be watched by at least a million people and on average each of them will pay fifty kopecks at the box office. Minus the production costs and the theatre-owners’ commission, plus foreign sales and the trade in photocards – and the net profit will be at least two hundred thousand.’

‘How much?’ Mephistov gasped.

‘And we intend to produce at least a dozen pictures like that in a year. So count it up for yourselves,’ Andrei Gordeevich continued. ‘And at the same time bear in mind, ladies and gentlemen, that one of our stars will receive up to three hundred roubles for a day of filming, a second-level actor like Mr Sensiblin or Madam Reginina will receive a hundred, and a third-level actor will get fifty. And that’s not counting the nationwide adoration that will be guaranteed by our own press, working together with Noah Noaevich’s brilliant gift for creating sensations.’

Eliza suddenly stood up, her face blazing with inspiration and the pearl droplets in her tall hairstyle glittering.

‘When money is the cornerstone of everything, it is the end of genuine art! You have given me this rose and, of course, it is beautiful. But you are mistaken when you say that it is alive! It died as soon as you condemned it to this golden captivity! It was transformed into the mummified corpse of a flower! It is the same with your cinematograph. The theatre is life! And like all life, it is instantaneous and unrepeatable. There will never be another moment exactly the same, it cannot be halted, and that is why it is beautiful. You Fausts, who dream of halting a beautiful moment, fail to grasp that beauty cannot be recorded, it will die immediately. That is what the play we acted today is about! You must understand, Andrei Gordeevich, that eternity and immortality are the enemies of art, I am afraid of them! A play may be good or bad, but it is alive. A film is a fly in amber. Exactly as if it were alive, only it is dead. I shall never, do you hear, never act in front of that box of yours with its big glass eye!’

God, how lovely she was at that moment! Erast Petrovich pressed his hand against his left side, feeling a stabbing pain in his heart. He looked away and told himself: Yes, she is magnificent, she is magical and miraculous, but she is not yours, she doesn’t belong to you. Don’t give way to weakness, don’t lose your dignity.

It should be said that not many of those present liked Shustrov’s mathematically dry address. If they had applauded the entrepreneur, it was merely out of politeness, while Eliza’s impassioned speech was greeted with loud exclamations of approval and clapping.

The grande dame Reginina asked in a loud voice:

‘Well, sir, so you assess my value at only a third of Madam Altairsky’s?’

‘Not your value,’ the entrepreneur began explaining, ‘but the contribution of your roles. You see, during filming I intend to make extensive use of a new approach known as “blow-up”, that is, showing an actor’s face across the entire screen. For this technique flawlessly attractive and young faces are preferable…’

‘But the cinematographic business has no interest in old fogeys like you and me, Vasilisochka,’ the company’s ‘philosopher’ put in. ‘We shall be cast aside, like worn-out shoes. But everything is in God’s hands, I’m an old stager, I’ve been around the block on my own account, and I’ll certainly get by without the protection of the cinematograph. Am I right, my foxy little sister?’ he asked Vulpinova, who was sitting next to him.

But she was looking at the millionaire, not Sensiblin, and smiling at him in an extremely pleasant manner.

‘Tell me, my dear Andrei Gordeevich, is it your intention to make films in the Gothic style? I read in a newspaper that the American public has fallen in love with films about vampiresses, sorceresses and witches.’

It really was quite incredible, the way Mr Shustrov had of saying appalling things to people in the politest possible tone of voice.

‘We are thinking about it, madam. But research has indicated that even a negative heroine, whether it be a sorceress or a vampiress, must possess an attractive appearance. Otherwise the public will not buy the tickets. I think that with your distinctive face it would be best to avoid close-ups.’

Xanthippe Petrovna’s ‘distinctive face’ immediately shed its smile and contorted in a malign grimace, which suited it far better.

The discussion of the cinematograph soon stumbled to a halt, although Shustrov tried to go back to the subject. When everyone got up from the table and started wandering about at will, he came over to Erast Petrovich and started explaining that cinematic scenario writing was a career with a wonderful future; it promised great fame and an immense income. The capitalist offered to arrange a meeting with his partner, Monsieur Simon, who would be able to explain all this better and was a highly engaging individual altogether. But Fandorin failed to show any interest in the profession with a wonderful future or the engaging partner, and he fled from his tedious conversation partner just as soon as he could.

Then Shustrov set to work on Eliza. He took her aside and started saying something to her with a very serious air. She listened, twirling the golden rose in her hands and smiling benignly. When the impudent fellow permitted himself the liberty of taking her by the elbow, she did not pull away from him. And Fandorin did not like it at all when the young man led her out of the room. As he walked past them with a cigar, Erast Petrovich heard Shustrov say:

‘Eliza, I need to talk to you alone about an important matter.’

‘Well then, see me to my dressing room,’ she replied, running a rapid glance over Fandorin’s face. ‘I need to remove my make-up.’

And out they went.

I can’t take any more, Erast Petrovich told himself. What this woman does is no concern of mine, but there is no point in my watching her flirt with men. It smacks too much of masochism. He calculated when he could leave without it looking like an insult, and decided that it would be in about ten minutes.

Exactly ten minutes later he approached Stern and said goodbye in a whisper, trying not to attract anyone’s attention to his departure.

Noah Noaevich was looking either disconcerted or preoccupied. He had probably been alarmed by his patron’s speech.

‘A brilliant debut, brilliant, congratulations,’ he murmured, shaking Erast Petrovich by the hand. ‘Let’s think about the next play.’

‘D-definitely.’

Fandorin set off towards the way out with a sense of relief, manoeuvring between the actors and the guests, most of whom were holding cups of tea or glasses of cognac.

The doors opened towards Erast Petrovich of their own volition and he barely managed to catch Eliza as she literally fell against him bodily. Her face was frozen in a mask of horror and her pupils were so distended that her eyes seemed black.

‘Aaaaah…’ she moaned, not seeming to recognise Fandorin. ‘Aaaaah…’

Shustrov came running along the corridor, dabbing at his forehead with a handkerchief.

‘What have you done to her, damn you to hell?’ Erast Petrovich shouted at him.

‘Back there…’ mumbled the entrepreneur, who was always so calm, pointing with a trembling finger. ‘There, in the dressing room… Eliza took the key off the board and opened the door… And there… We have to call the police! The telephone… Where’s the telephone?’

The dead man was lying in the dressing room right next to the door, in a fetal pose – curled up, with his hands pressed against his stomach. Trying not to step in the vast pool of blood, Fandorin cautiously removed a folding knife with a very sharp, slightly curving blade from the clenched fingers.

‘A clasp knife,’ Masa said behind him.

‘I can see that for myself. Move back and don’t let anyone through. There’s a lot of evidence here,’ Erast Petrovich told him drily.

There were splashes of blood everywhere in the room, the inside of the door was covered with bloody hand prints and the red tracks of boots with pointed soles could be seen on the floor. The dead man was wearing cavalry boots exactly like that.

‘Let me in!’ Stern shouted angrily. ‘This is my theatre! I have to know what’s happened.’

‘I advise you not to g-go in. The police won’t like it.’

Noah Noaevich glanced into the dressing room, turned pale and stopped insisting.

‘The poor boy. Was he stabbed to death?’

‘I don’t know yet. I believe the cornet died from loss of blood. The broad knife wound on the stomach didn’t kill him instantly. He floundered round the room and grabbed at the door handle, then his strength deserted him.’

‘But… why couldn’t he get out into the corridor?’

Fandorin didn’t answer. He remembered how he had walked along the corridor before the banquet and been surprised that the door was locked. Apparently Limbach must have been lying there, only a step away, obviously already dead or unconscious.

‘A sea of blood,’ Stern told the others, looking back. ‘The hussar was stabbed or he stabbed himself. Either way, we’ll be in all the newspapers again tomorrow. The reporters will sniff out in an instant that the youngster was one of Eliza’s admirers. How is she, by the way?’

‘Simochka and Zoya Comedina and Gullibin are with her,’ Vasilisa Prokofievna replied. ‘She’s barely conscious, the poor soul. I can imagine what it’s like, to open the door of your own dressing room and see something like that… I don’t know how she’ll survive it.’

These words were uttered with a special significance, which Fandorin understood perfectly well.

‘At least now it’s clear why the cornet wasn’t on the rampage at the premiere,’ Sensiblin remarked cold-bloodedly. ‘I wonder how on earth he got in here. And when.’

Stepping on the toes of his shoes between the splashes of blood, Fandorin took hold of a card protruding from the pocket of the formal red hussar’s jacket and pulled it out. It was a pass to the artistes’ floor, without which no outsider would have been allowed in here on the day of a premiere.

‘In view of the fact that none of the actors saw Limbach, he must have found his way into the corridor after the performance had already begun. Mr Stern, who hands out passes like this one?’

Noah Noaevich took the card and shrugged.

‘Any of the actors. Sometimes myself or Georges. Visitors normally use their passes during the interval or after the performance. But we performed without an interval, and everybody went to the buffet immediately after the show. No one came in here.’

‘Painfur,’ said Masa.

‘What do you mean?’

‘When the sutomach is cut right across, it’s painfur. He is not a samurai, he yerred. Very roud.’

‘Of course he yelled. But there was music playing in the hall, and there wasn’t a soul here. No one heard.’

‘Rook, master.’ Masa’s finger was pointing at the door.

In among the drying streaks of blood, two crudely daubed letters could be made out: ‘Li’. The second letter was smeared, as if the writer had run out of strength.

‘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 that 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.’

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 function, 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 beautiful 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.

The next day he went to the theatre with Masa. According to the rules established by Stern, rehearsals of the current production had to take place every day. Noah Noaevich’s credo stated that the premiere was only the beginning of the real work and every new performance of a play had to be more perfect than the one before it.

Master and servant ate their breakfast in a graveyard silence and remained silent all the way to the theatre. Masa actually gazed demonstratively out of the window. The Japanese was still offended because Erast Petrovich had not informed him about how the investigation was going. And that was very good, thought Fandorin, who did not yet feel any desire to make peace.

At the beginning of the rehearsal Erast Petrovich waited until the individual he was interested in was free and then did what he had come here for.

Fandorin was interested in the actor Konstantin Shiftsky, who played the part of a petty thief.

‘Are you an “informant”?’ Erast Petrovich asked without any preliminaries, after first leading the actor out into the corridor.

‘How do you mean?’

‘Do you work for the Tsar? Don’t t-try to deny it. Ten days before the premiere I saw the folder containing your role in Mr Whistle’s briefcase. The colour for your roles is yellow, isn’t it?’

The prankster’s mobile features face started twitching and his eyes blinked rapidly. Kostya didn’t answer.

‘If you start getting stubborn, I’ll tell Stern about your earnings on the side,’ Fandorin threatened.

‘Don’t,’ Kostya said quickly, and looked round to make sure that there was no one near by. ‘I’m not doing anything bad, after all… Well, I answer a few questions about how things are going, what’s happening… I tell him about changes in the repertoire. When the new play appeared, the Tsar was interested, of course. He liked it a lot, by the way, and predicted it would be a great success.’

‘Merci beaucoup. So, are you constantly in contact with the Tsar?’

‘No, I deal more with Whistle. Only occasionally with the Tsar. The last time we talked about you. He was very curious…’

‘Was he really?’

‘Yes. He asked my opinion about whether he could give you a valuable gift on the occasion of the premiere. I advised him against it. I said: Mr Fandorin is a reserved kind of man, not very sociable. He might not like it…’

‘Why, you’re a psy-psychologist.’

‘The Tsar wasn’t surprised. I think he knows more about you than I do…’

Erast Petrovich remembered his confrontation with Whistle. Everything was clear now. The Tsar had taken an interest in the new playwright, made enquiries about him and learned all sorts of interesting things. Well now, that was most opportune.

‘Where did you meet the Tsar? In his Office?’

‘Yes. They took me somewhere out past Ostankino.’

‘Do you remember the place?’

‘I remember it. But Whistle said they were moving out of there the next day. And that was almost two weeks ago…’

‘Do you know where the Tsar is staying now?’

‘How could I?’

Fandorin thought for a moment and said:

‘Then I tell you what. You go and give Whistle a n-note to deliver to the Tsar. He’s loitering in front of the theatre right now. Write: “Fandorin was asking questions about you. We need to meet.” They’ll take you straight to the Office.’

Shiftsky immediately wrote down everything as dictated, although he pursed his thick lips sceptically.

‘But why would they do that? What’s the big deal if a dramatist is asking a few questions? You don’t know what kind of man the Tsar is. Oho, he’s a big kind of man.’

‘Whistle will take you straight to the Tsar,’ Erast Petrovich repeated. ‘They’ll be nervous. And you’ll tell them that when I talked to you I mentioned my suspicions. Say that Fandorin thinks Emeraldov was killed by the Tsar’s people.’

‘What do you mean, killed? He committed suicide,’ said Kostya, starting to get flustered. ‘If I were you, I wouldn’t rub these people up the wrong way. They might take offence.’

‘When I come round to your hotel this evening, you can tell me if they’ve taken offence or not. But the most important thing you have to do is remember exactly where they take you.’

Fandorin watched through the window of the foyer as his prediction came true.

Shiftsky walked out and went over to Mr Whistle. He said something, with his head pulled into his shoulders ingratiatingly, and handed Whistle the folded sheet of paper. Whistle unfolded it and frowned. Then he waved his hand – and after that, everything happened exactly as it had the previous day. Two ‘pinschers’ ran over, the Ford drove up, the second car blocked off the street and the actor was taken away to have a talk with the autocrat of the Moscow scalpers.

Before evening arrived Erast Petrovich took action on another front and had a meeting with Mr Shustrov, after first telephoning the Theatrical and Cinematographic Company. The entrepreneur said that he would receive the dramatist immediately.

‘Well, have you changed your mind?’ Andrei Gordeevich asked as he shook his visitor’s hand. ‘Are you going to write scenarios for me?’

The style of his office was strangely non-Russian. Fine-boned furniture, constructed out of sticks and metal poles; huge windows stretching from the floor to the ceiling, with a view of the River Moscow and the factory chimneys towering up beyond it; strange pictures on the walls – nothing but cubes, squares and zigzag lines. Erast Petrovich did not understand modern art, but he attributed that to his advanced age. Every new era had its own eyes and ears – people wanted to see and hear something different. At one time even the snug, cosy Impressionists had seemed like hooligans, and now this respectable capitalist had an appalling purple woman with three legs hanging above his desk, and that was just fine.

‘The game you are getting involved in is a serious one,’ Fandorin said gravely, letting his eyes linger on posters for the latest films from Europe (Dante’s Inferno, Ancient Roman Orgy, Sherlock Holmes versus Professor Moriarty). ‘And I am a serious man. I have to know the rules and understand them.’

‘Naturally,’ the young millionaire said with a nod. ‘What is it that concerns you? I’ll answer any questions you have. I am extremely interested in collaborating with someone like you. Why do you hide from the reporters? Why have you only put your initials on the posters, and not your full name? That’s not right, it’s a mistake. I’d like to make you a star.’

This was a gentleman who had to be spoken to bluntly, so Fandorin asked his question without beating about the bush.

‘How do you get along with Tsarkov? As far as I can understand, if one is not on good terms with this wheeler-dealer, it is rather d-difficult, if not impossible, to establish a theatrical and cinematographic industry in Moscow.’

Shustrov was not embarrassed by this direct question.

‘I get along excellently with the Tsar.’

‘Oh, indeed? But you are a protagonist of civilised entrepreneurial activity, and he is a gentleman who likes to fish in murky waters, a semi-bandit.’

‘First and foremost, I am a realist. I have to take into account the specific features of Russian business. In this country the success of any large-scale initiative requires support from above and from below. From the clouds up above…’ – Andrei Gordeevich pointed to the towers of the Kremlin, visible through the window at the end of the room – ‘…and from underground…’ – he jabbed his finger down towards the floor. ‘The powers that be permit you to do business. And nothing more than that. But if you want that business to make progress, you have to turn to the unofficial power. In our state, which is so clumsy and inconvenient for business, the unofficial power helps to lubricate the rusty gearwheels and trim the rough edges.’

‘You are t-talking about figures such as Tsarkov?’

‘Of course. Cooperation with this underground magnate is absolutely essential in my field of work. Working without his help would be like trying to get things done with one arm missing. And if he were hostile, our enterprise would be entirely impossible.’

‘What does his help consist of?’

‘Many things. For instance, are you aware that pickpockets don’t ply their trade at Noah’s Ark productions? One newspaper article attributed this phenomenon to the beneficial influence of high art on callous criminal hearts. But in fact the pickpockets have been frightened off by Tsarkov’s people. That was done as a favour to me. He also stirs up the ballyhoo around touring performances – if he regards them as promising. It’s useful for him as concerns speculation in the tickets and for me in that it increases the value of the theatre that I have backed. But the Tsar will be at his most useful to us when we develop the cinematographic side of our activity. Then his underground enterprise will expand to cover the whole of Russia. We shall have to control the distributors, maintain order in the electric theatres, curtail the production of illegal copies. The police will not be able to do this work and will not wish to. And so the Tsar and I have great plans for each other.’

Shustrov explained enthusiastically and at length how the empire of performance and spectacle that he was in the process of creating would function. Everyone in it would do the job that he had the talent for. Brilliant writers like Mr Fandorin thinking up plots and storylines. Brilliant directors like Mr Stern making films and staging inventive theatrical productions, with the former sharing a thematic connection with the latter: that is, if the current emphasis is on orientalism, a play on Japanese life is followed by two or three films on the same subject matter. This develops demand, while at the same time providing a saving on scenery and costumes. The company’s own newspapers and magazines inflate the cult of its own actors and actresses. Its own electric theatres mean that takings do not have to be shared with anyone. The entire system is safe and secure from top to bottom in all its branching ramifications. Good relations with the authorities provide protection against any difficulties with the law, and good relations with the Tsar guarantee protection against criminals and sticky-fingered employees.

As Erast Petrovich listened, he wondered why, here in Russia, in all ages, the most important requirement for the success of any venture was ‘good relations’. It must be because the Russians regarded laws as irritating, arbitrary obstructions invented by a certain hostile power in its own interests. And that hostile power was called ‘the state’. There was never anything rational or benevolent in the actions of the state. It was an immense, sprawling, vicious monster. The only salvation was that it was also half-blind and rather stupid, and every one of its greedy gullets could be fed. Without that, it would be absolutely impossible to live in Russia. Establish good relations with the gaping, toothy maw closest to you and do whatever you like. Only don’t forget to fling chunks of meat into it on time. That was the way things had been under the Rurikoviches, that was how things were under the Romanovs, and that was how things would remain until relations between the general population and the state changed fundamentally.

Having promised to give the millionaire’s proposal serious thought, Erast Petrovich walked out of the Theatrical and Cinematographic Company pondering the situation seriously. The opponent he had challenged had proved to be more serious than originally thought.

The technological spirit of the twentieth century was already making inroads into the dense thickets of the criminal world of Moscow. This Tsar had American bookkeeping, a sound business structure, automobiles, and professionally organised protection. It was probably not really wise to go up against an organisation like that on his own. Like it or not, he would have to make peace with Masa…

A TRUE FRIEND

The Japanese did not come home to spend the night, but Erast Petrovich did not attach any importance to that. Out chasing after skirts again, he thought. Well, that’s all right, the plan for a little visit to Sokolniki can be discussed tomorrow.

That evening Shiftsky had reported on his visit to the Tsar. The actor was frightened and intrigued, because the news of Fandorin’s suspicions had seriously alarmed the lord of the speculators.

‘But who are you? I mean, really?’ Kostya asked Erast Petrovich fearfully. ‘They ordered me to report every word you say immediately… Why are they so frightened of you?’

‘I have no idea,’ Fandorin replied, fixing the actor with an unblinking gaze. ‘But I advise you very seriously not to inform Mr Whistle about every word I s-say.’

Shiftsky gulped.

‘I g-get it…’ And then he panicked. ‘Oh, I didn’t mean to make fun of you! It just happened!’

‘I believe you. So, a two-storey detached house in Sokolniki, at the end of Deer Grove Street? I tell you what, sit down and draw the area as accurately as you can. I’m curious about the surroundings…’

At home on Cricket Lane, with the help of a detailed police map of the Meshchansky district, which included Deer Grove Street, along with all the rest of Sokolniki, Erast Petrovich identified Mr Tsarkov’s present address. The building to which Shiftsky had been taken was once a country house outside the city, but now it stood on the grounds of the park. On the map it was actually marked as ‘Deer Grove’. Under cover of night Fandorin paid a visit to the north-eastern sector of Sokolniki in order to take a look at the objective and, if the opportunity arose, carry out his plan there and then.

He was obliged to abandon the idea of a full-frontal cavalry charge. At first glance the house appeared to be located conveniently. Dense bushes ran almost right up to it from three sides. However, this apparent ease of access was deceptive. The Office was well protected. There was one ‘pinscher’ on guard all the time on the porch, keeping his eyes fixed on the alley leading to the isolated house. When Fandorin trained his binoculars on the windows, he counted another four of them on watch inside. All the curtains were tightly closed, but even so there were little gaps left at the top, just below the cornice. In order to get some idea of how the ground floor was arranged, Erast Petrovich had to climb trees on three sides of the house. It was an undignified kind of activity, but refreshing – it made Fandorin feel a bit younger. And at the same time he gained a fairly accurate impression of the layout of the Office.

The upper floor contained the Tsar’s chambers and Mr Whistle’s room. Down below there were two large spaces. One of these, to judge from the furnishings, was the dining room. The other – where guards loitered constantly – was the working office. Fandorin even managed to examine two large, lacquered cabinets of unusual design which glinted in the orange light of the kerosene lamps. Without a doubt, they were the personal archive of His Speculative Majesty.

It was no Plevna fortress, of course, but it couldn’t be taken by storm, especially by one man acting alone. But two men – himself and Masa – now that was a different matter.

After his successful reconnaissance, feeling restored for the first time in an entire month, he went back home and slept for four hours, and then it was time to go to the theatre. Erast Petrovich had to catch Masa before the rehearsal began, so at half past ten he was already sitting in the auditorium, concealed behind a newspaper – an excellent way to avoid the idle chatter of which actors were so fond. He had observed long ago that reading a newspaper, especially if one assumed an air of concentration, inspired respect in others and warded off any superfluous contact. But Fandorin did not even have to act out any pretence. Today’s Morning of Russia carried an extremely interesting interview with the minister of trade and industry, Timashev, about the excellent fiscal situation in the empire: liquidity reserves of more than 300 million roubles had been accumulated from budget surpluses, the Russian currency’s exchange rate was strenghtening day by day and the government’s energetic policy was quite certain to set Russia on the road to a bright future. Erast Petrovich’s own prognoses concerning the future of Russia were not optimistic, but how glorious it would be to be mistaken!

From time to time he glanced at the doors. The theatre company was gradually gathering. Everyone was in their normal clothes – the established rules called for rehearsals to be conducted with scenery, but without make-up or costumes. The brilliant Noah Noaevich believed that this laid bare an actor’s technique, rendering the errors and miscalculations more obvious

Aphrodisina came in. Erast Petrovich did not lower his eyes back to the newspaper, expecting that Masa would appear after her, but he was mistaken – the ‘coquette’ had arrived alone.

He had to read another article, about the historical events in China. A revolt by a single battalion in the provincial city of Wuchang, which had begun a week earlier, had led to Chinese everywhere cutting off their pigtails, refusing to submit to the authority of the emperor and demanding a republic. It was incredible to think what an immense behemoth had been set in motion by such a little spark – 400 million people! And the Europeans were apparently not even aware that mighty, somnolent Asia had awoken. It could not be stopped now. As its oscillations slowly gathered amplitude, spreading wider and wider, it would submerge the entire planet under its waves. The world was ceasing to be white and – as the Japanese put it – ‘round-eyed’; now it would turn yellow and its eyes would inevitably grow narrower. How interesting all this was!

He looked up from Morning of Russia, trying to picture to himself newly awoken, black-haired Asia in alliance with enlightened, golden-haired Europe. And he froze. There was Eliza walking into the hall, arm-in-arm with Masa. They were smiling at each other and whispering about something.

The newspaper rustled as it slid down off Fandorin’s knees.

‘Good morning, gentlemen,’ said the vilest, loveliest woman in the world. Spotting Erast Petrovich, she glanced at him with obvious embarrassment, even timidity. She hadn’t been expecting to meet him.

But Masa looked at his master with a most independent air and thrust his chin out proudly. The Japanese also had newspapers under his arm. He had only recently developed a passion for reading the press – since the journalists had started writing about the director Stern’s ‘oriental discovery’. Now Masa bought all the Moscow publications early in the morning.

‘Nothing today. They only write that the day after tomorrow is the second pu-er-o-form-ance,’ he enunciated painstakingly, placing the newspapers on the director’s little desk. ‘And that the pubric is waiting impatientry for the next triumph of Madam Rointaine and the inimitabur Swardirin. Look, here.’ He pointed out a tiny article circled in thick red pencil.

Some of the actors came over to see whether there was anything written about them as well. To judge from the expressions on their faces, no one was mentioned apart from the two leading artistes.

Fandorin gritted his teeth, feeling completely crushed by this new, double, betrayal. He no longer remembered that he had intended to patch things up with his friend. The only thing he wanted to do was to leave. But he could only do that without attracting attention to himself after the rehearsal began, and for some reason it simply didn’t begin.

Nonarikin walked out onstage.

‘Noah Noaevich telephoned. He apologised and said he was with Mr Shustrov and has been delayed.’

The actors, who had been about to take seats in the front row, got up again and scattered throughout the hall.

The ‘villainess’ Vulpinova walked over to the desk, beside which the two leading artistes were seated like a pair of turtle doves. She picked up The Capital Rumour and spoke to Masa in a sweet voice.

‘Dear Swardilin, please read us something interesting.’

‘Yes, yes, I love to listen to you too!’ Mephistov put in, smiling with his entire immense mouth.

The Japanese did not have to be asked twice.

‘What sharr I read?’

‘Anything you like, it doesn’t matter,’ said Vulpinova, winking at Mephistov. ‘You have such a resonant voice! Such enchanting delivery!’

At any other time Fandorin would not have permitted these spiteful characters to mock his comrade, but just at this moment, he experienced a repulsive gloating. Let this puffed-up turkey, this brand-new ‘star’, make a laughing stock of himself in front of Eliza and all the others! This wasn’t as easy as tumbling around the stage without a single line to speak!

Masa was very fond of the sound of his own voice, so he did not find the request surprising. He gladly opened the double page of newsprint, cleared his throat and with the intonation of a genuine orator started reading out everything, with no exceptions. There were advertisements in handsome frames at the top of the page – he didn’t even omit those.

He began with an advertisement for ‘Sobriety’ pastilles, which promised a cure for drinking bouts, and read the text expressively all the way to the end.

‘…A huge number of habituar drunkards have sent touching expressions of gratitude, enthusiasticarry praising the miracurous effects of the pastirres.’

‘We’ve tried these “Sobriety” pastilles,’ Sensiblin boomed in his deep voice. ‘They’re no good. Just give you heartburn.’

Masa read out with equal feeling an invitation by ‘the firus-crass artist V. N. Reonardov’ to enrol as one of his pupils in a course of painting and drawing.

‘What is “firus-crass”?’ he asked.

‘“Crass” means “very good”, “very beautiful”,’ Mephistov explained without batting an eyelid. ‘For instance, you could be called a “really crass actor”.’

Erast Petrovich frowned, seeing the grins on some of the actors’ faces as they listened to Masa. The jealous man was unable to take any pleasure in them.

However, not everyone was mocking the Japanese as he distorted his words. Aphrodisina, for example, was smiling wistfully. In the eyes of a woman of her character, infidelity probably only increased the value of a lover. The grande dame Reginina was also listening with a touching smile.

‘Ah, read something about animals,’ she requested. ‘I’m very fond of the “Zoological Gardens News” section on the last page.’

Masa turned over the sheet of newsprint.

‘“Pyton Attacks Doctor Sidorov”.’

And he did not simply read but in effect he reproduced the entire appalling scene of the python’s attack on the head of the terrarium. The doctor had been bitten on the arm and the reptile had only unclenched its teeth when it was doused with water.

‘How terrible!’ Vasilisa Prokofievna exclaimed, clutching at her ample bosom. ‘I immediately recalled the nightmarish snake in the basket! I can’t imagine how you survived that, dear Eliza. Really, I would have died on the spot!’

Madam Lointaine turned pale and squeezed her eyes shut. Masa (the scoundrel, the scoundrel!) got up, stroked her shoulder soothingly and carried on reading – about a newborn lion cub that had been rejected by its mother. The little mite had been saved by a stray mongrel bitch who agreed to feed it with her milk.

Reginina liked this article far more.

‘I can just imagine it, how charming – the tiny little lion cub! And that wonderful, magnanimous mongrel! Really, I could just go and take a look at that!’

Encouraged by his success, Masa said:

‘Farther on here there’s a very interesting rittur articur. “Bears’ Rives in Danger”.’ And he read out an article about the mysterious illness of two brown bears and how the mystery had been solved by the veterinarian Mr Tobolkin. It had been suspected that the animals were suffering from plague but, as Masa joyfully informed his listeners: ‘“In the doctor’s opinion, the irrness was the resurt of the intensive masturbation in which the bears indurged from morning untir evening. This fate is rare among bears, but it often affects monkeys and camers.” That’s absorutery true! In the jungur I myserf have often seen rittur monkeys…’

Masa stopped short, with an expression of incomprehension on his round face: why had Vasilisa Prokofievna turned away indignantly and the two ‘villains’ burst into hysterical laughter?

Fandorin suddenly felt sorry for the poor fellow. The difference in codes of education, in conceptions absorbed in childhood concerning what was decent and what was not, were an almost insuperable barrier. The callow youth from Yokohama had lived far away from Japan for almost thirty years, but he still could not completely accustom himself to the mores of the ‘redheads’: either he blurted out something that was scandalous from the viewpoint of a ‘grande dame’, or blushed bright red in shame at something which to the Western eye was entirely innocent – for instance, a seated woman has dropped her umbrella and pulled it closer with the toe of her little shoe (monstrous vulgarity!).

From sympathy it was only a single step to understanding. Erast Petrovich looked at Masa’s red face – and suddenly seemed to see the light. The Japanese had quite deliberately made up to Eliza, and the fact that he had arrived with her following his overnight absence was no coincidence either! This was not the action of a traitor; on the contrary, it was the action of a true and faithful friend. Knowing his master as well as he did and seeing the pitiful state that he was in, Masa had tried to cure him of his fatal obsession, using a method that was cruel but effective. He had not tried to persuade Erast Petrovich by wasting empty words on him – they would not have had any effect in any case. Instead of that he had graphically demonstrated the true worth of the woman who – exclusively through a perfidious concatenation of circumstances – had forced a breach in a heart encased for so long in horny defences. It was all the same to this artiste whom she conquered – just as long as the trophy was presentable. She had turned the boy-cornet’s head, but not allowed him into her bed – he was not a high enough flyer. A successful playwright or a fashionable Japanese actor, now that was a different matter. There was nothing surprising here, nothing to wax indignant about. Fandorin had intuitively sensed that from the very beginning, had he not, when he was figuring out the most reliable path to Madam Lointaine’s heart (no, only to her body)? Indeed it was Masa, that connoisseur of women’s hearts, who had prompted him to take that path.

Of course, Erast Petrovich was no longer angry with his comrade. He was actually grateful to him.

But even so, to watch the way Eliza smiled affectionately at the Japanese and the way he took her by the elbow and whispered something in her ear was beyond all enduring.

Without an assistant Erast Petrovich could not carry out the operation he had planned. But he felt that he could not take Masa with him; he did not wish to. The very idea seemed intolerable to him, and Fandorin immediately found logical grounds for his feeling. A surgical incision, although it was made for a virtuous purpose, always stung and bled. Time was required for the scar to heal over.

‘Ladies and gentlemen!’ the assistant director appealed loudly to the assembled company. ‘Do not let yourselves be distracted! You know that Noah Noaevich demands absolute concentration before a rehearsal! Let us begin the first scene. And when Noah Noaevich arrives, we’ll go through it again.’

‘Now look what he wants,’ Sensiblin growled. ‘A rehearsal of a rehearsal – that’s something new.’

The others took no notice of Nonarikin’s appeals either. In his anguish, the assistant director pressed his hands against his breast – the edge of a false cuff protruded from the sleeve of his skimpy little jacket.

‘None of you genuinely love art!’ he exclaimed. ‘You only pretend to believe in Noah Noaevich’s theory! Ladies and gentlemen, that isn’t right! You have to devote yourself wholeheartedly to your calling! Remember: “All the world’s a stage!” Let us try to begin! I shall read the Storyteller’s part myself!’

No one apart from Fandorin was listening to him. But Erast Petrovich was struck by an unexpected idea.

Why not take Georges Nonarikin with him on the job?

He had his eccentricities, of course, but he was very brave – one only had to recall the poisoned rapier. That was one.

A former officer. That was two.

And also – a point of particular importance – not indiscreet. He wouldn’t let anything slip to anyone about Fandorin’s investigation into Emeraldov’s death. And, what was more, not once since that incident had he made any attempts to talk about it, although Erast Petrovich had caught his curious, enquiring glance. Truly exceptional restraint for an actor!

Yes, really. The plan of the operation could be adjusted to reduce the role of the assistant to a minimum.

Basically, Masa’s talents – his fighting skills, initiative and lightning-fast reactions – would not be required here. A sense of duty and firm resolution would be enough. And Georges certainly had no lack of those qualities. It was no accident that Stern had chosen him as his assistant…

The conversation with the assistant director confirmed the correctness of the spontaneous decision.

Erast Petrovich led the distressed Nonarikin into the side apron of the stage.

‘You once offered t-to help me. The hour has come. Are you ready? But I must tell you that the job entails a certain risk.’ He corrected himself: ‘I would even say, a significant risk.’

Nonarikin didn’t think about it for even a moment.

‘I am entirely at your disposal.’

‘Are you not even going to ask what it is that I want from you?’

‘There is no need.’ Georges looked at Fandorin unflinchingly with his big, round eyes. ‘Firstly, you are a man who has seen the world. I saw how respectfully the police officer listened to you.’

‘And secondly?’ Fandorin asked curiously.

‘Secondly, you could not suggest anything unworthy to me. You are a man of noble spirit. That is clear from your play and from your manner. I especially appreciate the fact that since our conversation on that occasion your conduct with regard to a certain individual has been beyond reproach. And neither have you told anyone about my own unfortunate weakness (I mean Mademoiselle Comedina). In short, whatever idea you may have come up with, I am prepared to follow you. And all the more so if the business that lies ahead is dangerous.’ The assistant director jerked up his chin in a dignified manner. ‘If I refused, I should lose all respect for myself.’

Of course, he was slightly comical with that high-flown manner of speaking that he had, but moving at the same time. Erast Petrovich, who was accustomed to playing close attention to his own attire, could not help noticing that Nonarikin was dressed poorly; a jacket that was neat, but had seen better days; a shirtfront instead of a shirt; shoes that were well polished, but had patched heels. Noah Noaevich did not reward the efforts of his assistant very generously – in fact, he paid him as a ‘third-level’ actor, in accordance with the significance of the roles that he played.

And all because, Fandorin mused, the model of humanity created by Stern lacks one important set of parts. It is somewhat exotic, but without it the palette of dramatic roles is incomplete and life is insipid. Moreover, this type is encountered more often in literature than in everyday life. Georges would suit the role of a ‘noble eccentric’ quite excellently – Cervantes’ Don Quixote, Griboedov’s Chatsky, Dostoevsky’s Prince Mishkin.

Certainly, Nonarikin’s awkwardness could result in unexpected problems. Erast Petrovich promised himself to reduce his assistant’s role to the absolutely simplest possible. Never mind, it was better to go on serious business with a man who might be slightly inept, but was noble, than with some self-seeking police careerist, who at the crucial moment would decide that his own interests were more important. Someone who possessed a highly developed sense of his own dignity could let you down through an inadvertent blunder, but never out of base villainy or cowardice.

How much easier it would be to live in this world, if only everybody regarded himself with respect, Fandorin thought after his conversation with the assistant director.

There was a class of human individuals that Erast Petrovich had always regarded with disgust. There were people who said quite calmly, without the slightest embarrassment: ‘I know that I’m shit’. They even saw a certain virtue in this, a distinctive kind of honesty. Of course, the immediate continuation of this remorseless confession was this: ‘And everyone around me is shit too, only they hide behind beautiful words’. In every noble action a person like this immediately searched for a base motive and he was furious if he could not guess it immediately. But in the end, of course, he figured something out and heaved a sigh of relief. ‘Oh, come on!’ he exclaimed. ‘You can’t fool me. We’re all cut from the same cloth.’ The philanthropist was generous, because he felt flattered by the awareness of his own superiority. The humanist was kind only in words, but in actual fact he was false through and through and only wanted to show off. Anyone who went to serve hard labour for his beliefs was a stupid ass, pure and simple. The martyr offered himself up for slaughter because individuals of that kind derived perverted sexual pleasure from feeling victimised. And so on. People who were willing to consider themselves shit could not live without rationalisations – that would have shattered their entire picture of existence.

THE DEER GROVE OPERATION

On the way there he asked his partner to demonstrate the result of his training once again. It was evening time, almost night, the Isotta Fraschini was hurtling along between the ill-famed vacant lots and flophouses of the Sokolniki streets and the undulating trill that Nonarikin emitted after applying his fingers, folded into a ring, to his teeth rang out ominously. If there was anyone wandering belatedly through the darkness somewhere near by, the poor devil’s heart must surely have sunk into his boots.

After the rehearsal Erast Petrovich had secluded himself with Georges in the empty make-up room and informed him of the results of the investigation.

According to the conclusions drawn by Fandorin, the sequence of events was as follows:

Emeraldov’s male jealousy and envy of his stage partner’s success drive him to commit the vile trick with the viper. The Tsar instructs his lieutenant to find out who is responsible for the trick. Mr Whistle reports to his boss that the actor is the guilty party. Aware that the success of the extremely profitable tour by Noah’s Ark depends first and foremost on Eliza, and fearing that Emeraldov will play another mean trick on her, the Tsar orders the threat to be removed. In his opinion (and he has been proved right), a leading man like Emeraldov will be no great loss for the company in any case. When Whistle shows up at Hippolyte’s dressing room with the wine, the actor doesn’t suspect anything bad. They have probably drunk together before. The former policeman slips poison into the Chateau Latour. If not for the crack in the second goblet, the staged suicide would have passed off entirely successfully.

Not everything about the second murder was so clear. Obviously, Limbach owed the Office a lot of money and he did not want to repay it, and, what’s more, he did everything he could to avoid any discussion of the matter – Fandorin had witnessed one such scene in front of the entrance to the theatre. During the premiere of Two Comets, Whistle somehow found out that Limbach had sneaked into Eliza’s dressing room and was waiting for her there – probably in order to congratulate her face to face. This time there was no way the cornet could avoid the discussion. Apparently the conversation had ended in an argument and Whistle had been obliged to make use of his clasp knife. The murder was most likely not premeditated – otherwise the criminal would have finished off his victim. Instead of that, he panicked, ran out into the corridor and waited until the wounded man went quiet. The duplicate key had probably been made by the cornet, especially so that he could sneak into the dressing room – it was possible to surmise that Whistle had discovered this in the course of their turbulent discussion. While Whistle was holding the door to prevent the wounded man from getting out into the corridor, a plan had occurred to him. If he locked the door with the key from the board and the second key was discovered on the dead man, everybody would be certain that Limbach had locked himself in and slashed his own stomach. All that was required was to put the knife in the dead man’s hand, and this had been done. However, as in the case of the leaking goblet, Mr Whistle had again failed to pay close enough attention. He hadn’t noticed that the dying man had traced out in blood on the door the initial letters of the name ‘Lipkov’, which had eventually led the police (as Fandorin modestly put it) onto the trail.

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 from 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 even 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.

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?’

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.

‘This is the third time.’ Her eyes, as always, looked at him and past him at the same time. ‘About a month ago someone wrote about 1s again. The first time there were eight 1s, the second time there were seven, and today, for some reason, there are five. The joker has probably lost count…’

‘Three times?’ Fandorin frowned. ‘That’s rather too m-many for a joke, even a stupid one. I’ll ask Noah Noaevich to show me the Tablets.’

‘And you know,’ Eliza said suddenly. ‘I’ve had a proposal.’

‘What kind of proposal?’ he asked, although he had guessed immediately what she meant.

Ah, his heart, his heart! Supposedly he and it had agreed about everything, but still it betrayed him and started fluttering.

‘Of the hand and the heart.’

He forced himself to smile.

‘And who is this bold fellow?’

I should not have spoken ironically, it sounded bitter!

‘Andrei Gordeevich Shustrov.’

‘Aha. Well now, a serious man. And young.’

Why did I say ‘young’? As if I were complaining that I am no longer young myself!

So that was what she had wanted to talk about. She was going to ask his advice, was that it? Well, no, thank you very much.

‘An excellent match. Accept.’

Now that sounded bad.

Her face took on such an unhappy look that Erast Petrovich felt ashamed. He had played the little boy again after all. A genuine adult would have given the lady the satisfaction of feigning jealousy, while inwardly remaining unperturbed.

An actress and a millionaire – an ideal couple. Talent and money, beauty and energy, feeling and calculation, flower and stone, ice and flame. Shustrov will make her a ‘star’ right across Russia, even right round the world, and in her gratitude she will transform the entrepreneur’s arithmetical life into a festival of fireworks.

Everything inside him was seething and bubbling.

‘I b-beg your pardon, it is time for me to go.’

‘You’re leaving again? Will you not go into the hall?’

‘A business matter. I completely forgot. I’ll call in tomorrow,’ he said abruptly.

‘I have to do more work on myself. Self-control, restraint, discipline. And it’s a very good thing that she is getting married. Every happiness to them. Now everything is completely finished,’ Fandorin whispered as he walked down the steps. ‘There was something I was going to do, wasn’t there?’

But his thoughts were in a tangle.

All right, then. Everything later.