Fandorin in English 1-10

He suddenly felt like giving himself a present. A free man, especially one who had retired from business, could afford to indulge himself.

He wrote a letter:

Tomorrow at six a.m. be at the Trinity Inn on Khokhlovsky Lane. My room is number seven, with an entrance from the courtyard. Knock, twice, then three times, then twice again. I am leaving and I want to say good- bye. Nikolai.

He sent the letter from the station by the municipal post, with the envelope addressed as follows:

For delivery to Miss Tolle in person, the Anglia suites, corner of Petrovka Street and Stoleshnikov Lane.

It was all right; he could do it. Everything had been neatly tidied up. Of course, he couldn’t go showing his face at the Anglia again — Wanda might be under secret surveillance. But the surveillance would soon be lifted and the case closed; Monsieur NN would see to that.

He could give Wanda a good-bye present — the pitiful fifty thousand rubles she needed in order to feel free and live her life as she wished.

And perhaps even arrange a further meeting? In a different, free life.

The voice that had settled in the left half of Achimas’s chest only recently but had been drowned out by the louder considerations of business suddenly began running riot. “Why separate at all?” it whispered. “The Count of Santa Croce is quite a different matter from Achimas Welde. His Excellency does not have to live alone.”

The voice was instructed to be silent, but even so Achimas went back to the ticket office, returned his ticket, and bought one for a double sleeping compartment instead. The additional hundred twenty rubles was a mere trifle, and it would be more pleasant to travel without any neighbors. “Ha-ha,” commented the voice.

I’ll decide tomorrow, when I meet her, Achimas argued to himself. She will either get her fifty thousand or leave with me.

Suddenly he remembered that this had happened before. Twenty-five years ago, with Evgenia. But then he had avoided making a decision and not taken a horse for her. This time the horse was ready and waiting.

For the rest of the day Achimas thought about nothing else. In the evening he lay in his room, unable to fall asleep, something that had never happened to him before.

Eventually his thoughts became confused and unclear and gave way to a series of incoherent, fleeting images. Wanda appeared, then her face quivered slightly, and changed imperceptibly until it was transformed into Evgenia’s. Strange — he thought her features had been erased from his memory long ago. Wanda-Evgenia looked at him tenderly and said: “What transparent eyes you have, Lia. Like water.”

When the gentle knock came at the door Achimas, still not really awake, shot upright on the bed and grabbed his revolver from under the pillow. The gray light of dawn filled the window.

There was another knock, a simple sequence, with no intervals.

He went downstairs, stepping without making a sound.

“Mr. Klonov!” a voice called out. “An urgent telegram for you! From Monsieur NN!”

Achimas opened the door, holding the hand with the revolver behind his back.

He saw a tall man in a cloak. The face under the long peak of the cap was invisible, apart from the curled ends of the mustache. The messenger handed him an envelope and left without another word, disappearing into the hazy early- morning twilight.

Mr. Welde, the investigation has been halted. However, a slight complication has arisen. Collegiate Assessor Fandorin, acting on his own initiative, has learned of your whereabouts and intends to arrest you. We were informed of this by the chief of police in Moscow, who requested our sanction. We ordered him to take no action, but not to inform the collegiate assessor. Fandorin will arrive at your apartment at six in the morning. He will come alone, unaware that there will be no police to assist him. This man is acting in a way that threatens the outcome of the entire operation. Deal with him as you see fit. My thanks for a job well done. NN.

Achimas experienced two feelings at once, one pleasant and the other very unpleasant.

The pleasant feeling was simple enough. Killing Fandorin would make an impressive final entry in his service record and it would settle an old score. It would finally make everything neat and tidy.

But the second feeling was more complicated. How had Fandorin discovered the address? Obviously not from NN. And then six o’clock was the time set for Wanda’s visit. Could she really have betrayed him? That changed everything.

He looked at his watch. Half past four. More than enough time to prepare. There was absolutely no risk, of course — the advantages were all on Achimas’s side — but Mr. Fandorin was a serious individual and carelessness would be unpardonable.

And there was an additional difficulty involved. It was easy to kill someone who was not expecting to be attacked, but first he needed Fandorin to tell him how he knew the address.

Only let it not be from Wanda.

Nothing was more important than that to Achimas now.

From half past five he was at his post by the window, behind the curtain.

At three minutes past six a man in a stylish cream-colored jacket and fashionable narrow trousers entered the courtyard bathed in the soft light of morning. Now Achimas had an opportunity to study the face of his old acquaintance in detail. He liked the face — it was energetic and intelligent. A worthy opponent. He had only been unlucky with his allies.

Fandorin halted at the door and filled his lungs with air. Then for some reason he puffed out his cheeks and released the air in short bursts. Was this some kind of calisthenics?

He raised his hand and knocked gently.

Twice, then three times, then twice again.

PART THREE

WHITE AND BLACK

The Swedish gates

OR

The penultimate chapter In which Fandorin is reduced to zero

Erast Petrovich listened — there was no sound. He knocked again. Nothing. He pushed the door carefully and it yielded unexpectedly, with a hostile creak.

Could the trap possibly be empty?

Holding his revolver out in front of him with one hand, he ran quickly up the stairs three steps at a time and found himself in a square room with a low ceiling.

After the bright sunlight, the room seemed completely dark. On the right was the dark-gray rectangle of the window and, farther away, by the wall, there was an iron bed, a cupboard, and a chair.

What was that on the bed? A vague form covered with a blanket. Someone was lying there.

The collegiate assessor’s eyes had already adjusted to the dim light and he could make out an arm, or rather, a sleeve, dangling lifelessly from under the blanket. The gloved hand was turned palm upward. On the floor lay a Colt revolver with a small, dark puddle beside it.

This was quite unexpected. With his heart aching in disappointment, Fandorin put the now superfluous Herstal in his pocket, walked across the room, and pulled back the blanket.

Achimas stood absolutely still by the window, behind the thick curtain. He had been in a vile mood since the detective gave the coded knock at the door. So it was Wanda after all.

Everything in the room had been set up so that Fandorin wouldn’t bother to gaze around him, but instantly focus his attention in the wrong direction, turn his back on Achimas, and put his gun away.

All three goals had been achieved.

“Now, then,” Achimas said in a low voice. “Put your hands behind your head. And don’t even think of turning around, Mr. Fandorin. Or I’ll kill you.”

Annoyance was the first emotion that Fandorin felt when he saw the crude stuffed-clothing dummy under the blanket and heard that calm, self-assured voice. He had been duped like an idiot!

But annoyance was rapidly displaced by bewilderment. Why had Klonov- Pevtsov been ready for him? Had he been keeping watch at the window and seen that someone else had come instead of Wanda? But he had addressed him by name. That meant he had known and was waiting. How had he known? Could Wanda have managed to inform him after all? But then why had he waited; why had he not made his escape?

The conclusion was that his opponent knew about ‘Mr. Fandorin’s’ forthcoming visit, but not about the police operation. Very strange.

But then, this was not the time to be concocting hypotheses. What should he do? Throw himself to the side? It was a lot more difficult than the ersatz captain of gendarmes might imagine to hit a man who had studied with the ‘stealthy ones’.

But in that case, the sound of shots would bring the police running; they would open fire, and then it would be impossible to take the miscreant alive.

Fandorin put his hands behind his head. Calmly, in the same tone of voice as his opponent, he asked: “And now what?”

“Take off your jacket,” Achimas told him. “Throw it into the middle of the room.”

The jacket landed with a resounding clang. Evidently its pockets were stocked with more than just the Herstal.

The detective had a holster with a little pistol on the back of his belt.

“Take out the derringer. Throw it under the bed. Right under. Now bend over. Slowly. Pull up your left trouser leg. Higher. Now the right one.”

There it was — a stiletto attached to his left ankle with its handle downward. It was a pleasure doing business with such a prudent man.

“Now you can turn around.”

The detective turned around in the right way. With no hurry, in order not to strain his opponent’s nerves unnecessarily.

Why did he have those four metal stars on his suspenders? Some other cunning oriental trick, no doubt.

“Take off your suspenders. Throw them under the bed.”

The detective’s attractive features contorted in fury. The long eyelashes trembled — Fandorin was squinting in an attempt to make out the face of the man opposite him, who was standing with his back to the light.

Well, now he could show himself and see how good the young man’s visual memory was.

It proved to be good. Achimas took two steps forward and was gratified to see the handsome fellow’s cheeks blossom into patches of scarlet and then suddenly turn pale.

Now, young man, see what a capricious lady Fate is.

This was no man, but some kind of devil. He had even recognized the sharinken as a weapon. Erast Petrovich was seething with anger at being entirely stripped of his arsenal.

Or almost entirely.

Out of all his numerous means of defense (and he thought his selection had been too generous!), the only one left was the arrow in the sleeve of his shirt. A slim arrow of steel attached to a powerful spring. He only had to flex his elbow sharply and the spring would be released. But it was hard to kill anyone with an arrow — unless, that is, you could hit them precisely in the eye. And how could you make any sudden movements when you were looking down the barrel of a Baillard six-shooter?

At this point the dark silhouette moved closer and Fandorin finally had a clear view of his opponent’s face.

Those eyes! Those white eyes! The same face that Erast Petrovich had seen in his dreams all these years. It was impossible! This was another nightmare. If only he could wake up.

He had to exploit his psychological advantage, before his opponent could gather his wits.

“Who told you the address, the time, and the right knock?”

The detective didn’t answer.

Achimas lowered the barrel of his gun, aiming at a kneecap, but Fan-dorin didn’t seem to be frightened. On the contrary, he even seemed to turn a bit less pale.

“Wanda?” asked Achimas, unable to restrain himself, and there was a telltale note of hoarseness in his voice.

No, this one won’t tell me, he thought. He’ll die before he says anything. That’s his type.

Then suddenly the detective opened his mouth and spoke.

“I’ll tell you. In exchange for a question from me. How was Sobolev killed?”

Achimas shook his head. The boundless extent of human eccentricity never ceased to amuse him. But professional curiosity from a man about to die deserved some respect.

“All right,” he said with a nod. “But the answer must be honest. Your word on it?”

“My word.”

“A substance extracted from an Amazonian fern. Paralysis of the heart muscle when the heartbeat accelerates. No traces. The Chateau d’Yquem.”

No further clarification was required.

“Ah, so that was it,” muttered Fandorin.

“It was Wanda, then?” Achimas asked through clenched teeth.

“No, she didn’t give you away.”

The immense relief almost took Achimas’s breath away — for an instant he even closed his eyes.

When he saw the features of this man from his past tense in anticipation of his answer, Fandorin realized why he was still alive.

But the answer to this question that was so important to the man with white eyes would be followed instantly by a bullet.

He mustn’t miss that brief instant when the finger shifted slightly on the trigger as it began to move. An armed man dealing with an unarmed one inevitably suppressed his instinctive responses because he felt secure, and placed too much reliance on soulless metal. The reactions of such a man were retarded — this was basic to the art of the ‘stealthy ones’.

The important thing was to divine the precise moment. First dart forward to the left, and the bullet would pass you on the right. Then throw yourself at his feet, and the second bullet would pass over your head. And then an uppercut.

It was risky. Eight paces was quite a distance. And if his opponent decided to step back a bit, he could write the idea off.

But there was no other option.

And then the white-eyed man committed his first blunder — he closed his eyes for a moment.

That was enough. Erast Petrovich didn’t waste any time diving under bullets; he launched himself upward like a spring and shot through the window.

He broke out the frame with his elbows, flew on in a swirl of broken glass, somersaulted in the air, and landed safely in a squatting position. He didn’t even cut himself.

His ears were ringing — the man with white eyes must have fired a shot after all. But he had missed, naturally.

Fandorin began running along beside the wall. He snatched a whistle out of his trouser pocket and sounded the signal for the operation to begin.

Achimas had never seen a man move with such speed. One moment he was standing still, and the next his boots and white gaiters had disappeared through the window. He fired, but just a split second too late.

Without pausing for thought, he leapt over the glass-strewn windowsill and landed outside on all fours.

The detective was blowing frantically on a whistle as he ran. Achimas even felt slightly sorry for him — the poor fellow had been counting on support from the police.

Moving as lightly as a boy, Fandorin was already turning the corner. Achimas fired from the hip and chips of plaster sprayed off the wall. Not good enough.

But the outer courtyard was bigger than the inner one. His opponent would never reach the gates.

There they were, the gates — with their wooden canopy and carved pillars. A primordially Russian structure from the days before Peter the Great, but for some reason they were called ‘Swedish’ gates. Evidently in ancient times the Muscovites must have been taught this marvel of carpentry by some Swedish merchant.

The yardkeeper holding the broom froze in the middle of the courtyard with his gap-toothed mouth hanging open. The man who had been pretending to be a drunk was still sitting there on his bench, gawking at the collegiate assessor as he ran. The strange woman in the patterned shawl and shapeless coat had pressed herself fearfully against the wall. Erast Petrovich suddenly realized that they weren’t police agents! They were simply a yardkeeper, a lousy drunk, and a street beggar.

He heard running steps behind him.

Fandorin began zigzagging, and just in time. Something hot seared his shoulder. Nothing serious, just a graze.

Outside the gates the street was drenched in golden sunshine. It looked so close, but he would never make it.

Erast Petrovich stopped and turned around. What was the point of taking a bullet in the back?

The man with white eyes stopped, too. There had been three shots, so there were three bullets left in the Baillard. More than enough to put an end to the earthly journey of Mr. Erast Fandorin, twenty-six years of age, with no living relatives.

The distance was twenty-five paces. Too far for him to try to do anything. Where was Karachentsev? Where were his men? But he had no time to think about that now.

The arrow under the cuff of his shirt would hardly be effective at that kind of range. Nonetheless, Erast Petrovich raised his arm and prepared to flex his elbow.

The man with white eyes also took aim unhurriedly at his chest.

The collegiate assessor suddenly had a fleeting vision: the duel scene from Eugene Onegin. The man with white eyes was about to burst into song: “If I should fall, pierced by an arrow…”

Two bullets in the chest. Then walk up and put the third in his head.

Nobody would come running at the sound of shooting. In these parts you couldn’t find a constable for love or money. There was no need to hurry.

Then Achimas caught some rapid movement out of the corner of his eye. A low, squat shadow darting away from the wall.

Swinging around sharply, he saw a face with narrow slits for eyes contorted into a mask of fury beneath an absurd patterned shawl, he saw a mouth opened in a piercing shriek. The Japanese!

His finger squeezed the trigger.

The pitiful woman who had been huddling timidly against the wall suddenly uttered the war cry of the Yokohamayakuia and launched herself at the man with white eyes in exemplary jujitsu fashion.

The man turned adroitly and fired, but the woman ducked under the bullet and with a perfectly executed mawasagiri from the fourth position she knocked the gunman off his feet. The absurd patterned shawl slid down to her shoulders, exposing a head of black hair bandaged with a white towel.

Masa! How could he be here? He’d followed him, the rogue! Fan-dorin had thought he was much too willing to let his master go alone!

And that wasn’t a shawl at all, it was a doormat from the Dusseaux! And the shapeless coat was the cover of an armchair!

But this was no moment for exercising his powers of retrospective observation. Erast Petrovich dashed forward, holding out the arm with the arrow, but he hesitated to shoot in case he might hit Masa.

The Japanese struck the man with white eyes across the wrist with the edge of his hand — the Baillard went flying into the air, landed on stone, and fired straight up into the bright blue sky.

The next moment a fist of iron struck the Japanese on the temple with all its power and Masa went limp and fell to the ground nose down.

The man with white eyes glanced rapidly at Fandorin’s advancing figure and the revolver lying out of reach. With a single agile bound he was on his feet and dashing back toward the inner courtyard.

He couldn’t reach the Baillard. His opponent was agile and skilled in unarmed combat. While he was busy with Fandorin, the Japanese would come around, and he could never deal with two skillful fighters like that alone.

Back to the room. The loaded Colt was lying up there, beside the bed.

Fandorin reduced his speed slightly and snatched up the revolver from the ground. It took less than half a second, but the man with white eyes had already disappeared around the corner. Another inappropriate thought flashed through his mind: They were just like children playing games — all running in one direction, then all turning around and running back again.

There had been five shots, so there was only one round left in the cylinder. He couldn’t afford to miss.

When he turned the corner, Erast Petrovich saw the man with white eyes with his hand already on the handle of the door to room number 7. The collegiate assessor loosed his arrow without taking aim.

Pointless — his opponent disappeared through the doorway.

Inside the door, Achimas suddenly stumbled as his leg folded under his weight and refused to obey him.

He glanced down, baffled — there was a metal shaft protruding from the side of his calf. What kind of witchcraft was this?

Defying the acute pain, he managed somehow to get up the steps and crawl across the floor on all fours to where the black Colt was lying. Just as his fingers closed on the grooved handle, there was a clap of thunder behind him.

Got him!

The dark figure was stretched out at full length. The black revolver had slipped out of the nerveless fingers.

Erast Petrovich bounded across the room and snapped up the weapon. He cocked the hammer and stepped back, just to be on the safe side.

The man with white eyes was lying facedown. There was a damp stain spreading across the middle of his back.

The collegiate assessor did not turn around at the pattering sound behind him — he recognized Masa’s short, rapid steps.

He said in Japanese: “Turn him over. But be careful, he’s very dangerous.”

In all his forty years, Achimas had never once been wounded. He was very proud of this, but secretly afraid that sooner or later his good luck would run out. He was not afraid of death, but being wounded — the pain and the helplessness — yes, he was afraid of that. What if the torment should prove unbearable? What if he were to lose control over his body and his spirit as he had so often seen others do?

It wasn’t painful. Not at all. But his body wouldn’t obey him anymore.

My spine’s broken, he thought. The Count of Santa Croce will never reach his island. It was an ordinary thought, without any regret.

Then something happened. His eyes had been looking at the dusty floorboards. Now suddenly they saw the gray ceiling, festooned with cobwebs in the corners.

Achimas moved his eyes. Fandorin was standing over him with a revolver in his hand.

How absurd a man appeared when you looked up at him from below. That was the way dogs and worms and insects saw us.

“Can you hear me?” the detective asked.

“Yes,” Achimas replied, and was surprised to hear how steady and strong his voice was.

The blood was flowing out of him incessantly — he could feel it. If it wasn’t stopped, everything would be all over soon. That was good. He had to make sure that the blood wasn’t stopped. To do that he had to talk.

The man on the floor looked up intently, as if he were trying to discern something very important in Erast Petrovich’s face. Then he started talking. In sparse, clear sentences.

“I propose a deal. I save your life. You carry out my request.”

“What request?” Fandorin asked in surprise, certain that the man with white eyes was raving. “And how can you save my life?”

“The request later. You are doomed. Only I can save you. You will be killed by your superiors. They have crossed out your name. From the list of the living. I failed to kill you. Others will not fail.”

“Nonsense!” exclaimed Erast Petrovich, but he had a terrible sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. Where had the police got to? Where was Karachentsev?

“Let’s agree,” said the wounded man, licking his gray lips. “I tell you what to do. If you believe me, you carry out my request. If not, you don’t. Your word?”

Fandorin nodded, gazing spellbound at this man who had appeared out of his past.

“My request. There’s a briefcase under the bed. You know the one. No one will look for it. It’s a problem for everyone. The briefcase is yours. There’s also an envelope. It contains fifty thousand rubles. Send the envelope to Wanda. Will you do it?”

“No!” the collegiate assessor exclaimed indignantly. “All the money will be handed over to the authorities. I am no thief! I am a state official and a member of the nobility.”

Achimas turned his attention inward, to what was happening to his body. It seemed there was less time left than he had thought. It was getting harder to talk. He had to finish this.

“You are nobody and nothing. You are a dead man.” The outline of the detective’s face began to blur and Achimas started speaking more quickly. “Sobolev was condemned to death by a secret court. An imperial court. Now you know the whole truth. They will kill you for that. Raison d’etat. There are several passports in the briefcase. And a ticket for the Paris train. It leaves at eight. You have time. Otherwise you die.”

It was getting dark. Achimas made an effort and forced the shroud of darkness back.

Think quickly, he thought, urging Fandorin on. You’re a clever man and I have no time left.

The man with white eyes was speaking the truth.

When the full realization hit Erast Petrovich, he swayed on his feet.

In that case, he was done for. He had lost everything — his career, his honor, the very meaning of his life. That scoundrel Karachentsev had betrayed him and sent him to a certain death. No, it wasn’t Karachentsev — it was the state, his country, his fatherland.

He was only alive now thanks to a miracle. Or rather, thanks to Masa.

Fandorin glanced around at his servant, who stared back, goggle-eyed, pressing his hand to his bruised temple.

The poor fellow. No head, not even the very thickest, could put up with that kind of treatment. Ah, Masa, Masa, what are we going to do with you? You have bound your life to the wrong man.

“The request. Promise,” the dying man whispered faintly.

“I’ll carry it out,” Erast Petrovich muttered reluctantly.

The man with white eyes smiled and closed his eyes.

Achimas smiled and closed his eyes. Everything was all right. A good life, a good ending. Die, he told himself. He died.

THE FINAL CHAPTER

In which everything could not possibly work out better

The station bell rang for the second time and the Ericsson locomotive began panting out smoke impatiently, eager to dart off and away along the gleaming rails in pursuit of the sun. The Moscow-Warsaw-Berlin-Paris transcontinental express was preparing to depart.

The sullen young man sitting in one of the first-class sleeping compartments (bronze, velvet, mahogany) was wearing a badly stained cream-colored jacket torn at the elbows. He gazed blankly out the window, chewing on a cigar and occasionally puffing out smoke, but without any trace of the enthusiasm displayed by the locomotive.

Twenty-six years old, and my life is over, the departing passenger thought. When I returned to Moscow only four days ago, I was so full of hope and energy. And now I’m obliged to forsake my native city, never to return. Dishonored, victimized, forced to abandon my career, to betray my duty and my fatherland. But no, no, I have betrayed nothing, it is my fatherland that has betrayed its faithful servant! These wonderful reasons of state that first transform an honest worker into an inconsequential cog in the wheel and then decide to eliminate him altogether! You should read Confucius, you fine gentlemen who watch over the throne. Where it says that the noble man can never be anyone else’s tool.

What now? They will slander me, declare me a thief, a wanted man throughout the whole of Europe.

But no, of course, they won’t declare me a thief — they will prefer to keep silent about the briefcase.

And they won’t pursue me openly — publicity is not in their interest.

But they will hunt for me, and sooner or later they will find me and kill me. It will not be too difficult to find a traveler accompanied by a Japanese servant. But what can I do with Masa? He won’t survive in Europe alone.

And where is he, by the way?

Erast Fandorin took out his Breguet watch. There were two minutes left until the train was due to leave.

They had arrived at the station in good time and the collegiate assessor (or, rather, former collegiate assessor) had been able to dispatch a package of some kind to the Anglia, addressed to a Miss Tolle, but at a quarter to eight, when they were already sitting in the compartment, Masa had rebelled, declaring that he was hungry and had absolutely no intention of eating the chicken eggs, loathsome cow’s butter, and raw pig meat smelling of smoke that they served in the restaurant car, and he had set out in search of hot bagels.

The bell sounded for a third time and the locomotive gave a cheerful, exuberant hoot of its whistle.

That oversized baby had better not have strayed too far. Fandorin stuck his head out the window, concerned.

There he was, tearing along the platform, clutching a prodigious paper bag. He had two white bandages in different places on his head: The bump at the back was still there and now he had a bad bruise on his temple as well.

But who was that with him?

Erast Petrovich shaded his eyes against the sun with his hand. A tall, thin man with luxuriant sideburns, wearing livery.

Frol Grigorich Vedishchev, Prince Dolgorukoi’s personal valet! What was he doing here? Ah, how very inopportune!

Vedishchev spotted him and waved: “Mr. Fandorin, Your Honor! I’ve come to fetch you!”

Erast Petrovich started back from the window, but immediately felt ashamed. It was stupid. And senseless. And he ought to find out what was behind this incredible coincidence.

He went out onto the platform, holding the briefcase under his arm.

“Oof, I was only just in time…”

Vedishchev puffed and panted, mopping at his bald patch with a loudly colored handkerchief.

“Let’s go, sir, His Excellency is waiting.”

“But how did you find me?”

The young man glanced around as the carriage slowly started to move.

Let it go. What point was there in trying to escape by railway if the authorities already knew which way he was going? They would send a telegram and have him arrested at the next station.

He would have to find some other way to get out of Moscow.

“I can’t go to His Excellency, Frol Grigorich; my circumstances now are such that I am obliged to resign the state service. I… I have to leave as soon as possible. But I will send the prince a letter explaining everything.”

Yes, yes! He could write to Dolgorukoi and tell him everything. Then at least someone would know the full background to this appalling and sordid story.

“Why waste the paper?” Vedishchev asked with a good-natured shrug. “His Excellency is perfectly well aware of your circumstances. Let’s go, you can tell him all the details yourself. All about that murderer, may he rot in hell, and how that Judas of a police chief deceived you.”

Erast Petrovich choked.

“But… but, how on earth? How do you know everything?”

“We have our ways and means,” the valet replied vaguely. “We learned about today’s business in good time. I even sent one of my men along to see what would happen. Didn’t you spot him there? Wearing a cap and pretending to be drunk. In fact he’s an extremely sober individual, never touches a drop, not even after Lent. That’s why I use him. He was the one who told me you ordered the cab to go to the Bryansk Station. Oh, the effort it cost me to get to you in time! And I’d never have found you without the Providence of God — I just happened to spot your Japanese servant here in the buffet. Could you see me running along all these carriages? I’m not a fit young man like you, sir.”

“But is His Excellency aware that this is a matter of… exceptional delicacy?”

“There’s no delicacy involved here; it’s a simple matter, one for the police,” Vedishchev snapped. “You arranged with the chief of police to arrest a suspicious character, a swindler who was passing himself off as a merchant from Ryazan. A highly respectable gentleman, they say, the genuine Klonov — seven poods, he weighs. That addle-headed Karachentsev got the time confused and you had to risk your life. It’s a pity you didn’t manage to take the scoundrel alive. Now we’ll never know what his intentions were. But at least you’re safe and unharmed, dear fellow. His Excellency described the entire business in a letter to St. Petersburg, to the sovereign himself. It’s clear enough what’s going to happen: They’ll throw the chief of police out on his ear, appoint a new one, and there’ll be a decoration for Your Honor. It’s all very simple.”

“Very s-simple?” Erast Petrovich asked, staring curiously into the old man’s colorless eyes.

“Couldn’t be simpler. Or was there something else?”

“No, there wasn’t anything else,” Fandorin replied after a moment’s thought.

“There, you see? Oh, just look at that briefcase you have there. A really fine piece of work. Foreign, I suppose.”

“It’s not my briefcase,” declared the collegiate assessor (no longer former, but quite current once again). “I’m going to send it to the Municipal Duma. It’s a large contribution from an anonymous benefactor, for the completion of the cathedral.”

“Quite large, is it?” the valet asked, with a keen glance at the young man.

“Almost a million rubles.”

Vedishchev nodded approvingly.

“That’s certainly good news for Vladimir Andreevich. We’ll finally get that cathedral off our hands, damn the thing; it’s swallowed more than enough money from the city’s coffers.” He began crossing himself fervently. “Oh, there are still generous people left in Russia, God grant them good health, and when they die may they rest in peace.”

But halfway through crossing himself, Frol Grigorich suddenly remembered something and threw his arms up in the air.

“Let’s go, Erast Petrovich, let’s go, dear fellow. His Excellency said he won’t sit down to his breakfast if you’re not there. And he has a regime to follow — he must take his porridge at half past eight. The governor’s carriage is waiting out on the square; we’ll be there as quick as a flash. Don’t you worry about your oriental here. I’ll take him with me; I haven’t had any breakfast yet, either. I’ve got a potful of yesterday’s cabbage soup with chitterlings — really good. And we’ll throw these bagels away — it’s not good to stuff yourself full of dough. Just swells up the stomach.”

Fandorin looked pityingly at Masa, who was flaring his nostrils and sniffing blissfully at the aroma coming from his paper bag. The poor fellow was in for a terrible ordeal.

THE END

THE JACK OF SPADESCHAPTER I

The Jack of Spades Oversteps the Mark

No one in the whole wide world was more miserable than Anisii Tulipov. Well, perhaps someone somewhere in darkest Africa or Patagonia, but certainly not anywhere nearer than that.

Judge for yourself. In the first place, that forename - Anisii. Have you ever heard of a nobleman, a gentleman of the bedchamber, say, or at the very least, the head of some official department, being called Anisii? It simply reeks of icon-lamps and priests' offspring with their hair slicked with nettle oil.

And that surname, from the word 'tulip'! It was simply a joke. He had inherited the ill-starred family title from his great-grandfather. When Anisii's forebear had been studying in the seminary, the father rector had had the bright idea of replacing the inharmonious surnames of the future servants of the Church with names more pleasing to God. For the sake of simplicity and convenience, one year he had named all the seminarians after Church holidays, another year after fruits, and great-grandfather had found himself in the year of the flowers: someone had become Hyacinthov, someone Balzamov and someone else Buttercupov. Great-grandfather never did graduate from the seminary, but he had passed the idiotic surname on to his progeny. Well, at least he had been named after a tulip and not a dandelion.

But never mind about the name! What about Anisii's appearance! First of all, his ears, jutting out on both sides like the handles of a chamber pot. Tuck them in under your cap and they just turned rebellious, springing back so that they could stick out like some kind of prop for your hat. They were just too rubbery and gristly.

There had been a time when Anisii used to linger in front of the mirror, turning this way and that way, combing the long hair that he had grown specially at both sides in an attempt to conceal his lop ears - and it did seem to look a bit better, at least for a while. But when the pimples had erupted all over his physiognomy - and that was more than two years ago now - Tulipov had put the mirror away in the attic, because he simply couldn't bear to look at his own repulsive features any more.

Anisii got up for work before it was even light - in winter time you could say it was still night. He had a long way to go. The little house he had inherited from his father, a deacon, stood in the vegetable garden of the Pokrovsky Monastery, right beside the Spassky Gates. The route along Pustaya Street, across Taganskaya Square, past the ominous Khitrovka district, to his job in the Department of Gendarmes took Anisii a whole hour at a fast walk. And if, like today, there was a bit of a frost and the road was covered with black ice, it was a real ordeal - your tattered shoes and worn-out overcoat weren't much help to you then. It fair set your teeth clattering, reminding you of better times, your carefree boyhood, and your dear mother, God rest her soul.

A year earlier, when Anisii had become a police agent, things had been much better: a salary of eighteen roubles, plus extra pay for overtime and for night work, and occasionally they might even throw in some travel expenses. Sometimes it all mounted up to as much as thirty-five roubles a month. But the unfortunate Tulipov hadn't been able to hold on to his fine, lucrative job. Lieutenant-Colonel Sverchinsky himself had characterised him as a hopeless agent and in general a ditherer. First he'd been caught leaving his observation post (he'd had to: how could he not slip back home for a moment when his sister Sonya hadn't been fed since the morning?). And then something even worse had happened: Anisii had let a dangerous female revolutionary escape. During the operation to seize a conspirators' apartment he'd been standing in the back yard, beside the rear entrance. Because Tulipov was so young, just to be on the safe side they hadn't let him take part in the actual arrest. But then, didn't the arresting officers, those experienced bloodhounds, let a female student get away from them? Anisii saw a young lady in spectacles running towards him, with a frightened, desperate look on her face. He shouted 'Stop!' but he couldn't bring himself to grab her - the young lady's hands looked so terribly frail. He just stood there like a stuffed dummy, watching her run away. He didn't even blow his whistle.

For that outrageous dereliction of duty they had wanted to throw Tulipov out of the department altogether, but his superiors had taken pity on the orphan and demoted him to courier. Anisii's job now was a lowly, even shameful one for an educated man with five classes of secondary school. And worst of all, it had absolutely no prospects. Now he would spend his entire life rushing about like an errand boy, without ever earning a state tide.

To give up on yourself at the age of twenty is no easy thing for anyone, but it wasn't even a matter of ambition. Just you try living on twelve and a half roubles. He didn't really need much for himself, but there was no way to explain to Sonya that her younger brother's career was a failure. She wanted butter, and cream cheese, and she had to be treated to a sweet every now and then. And wood to heat the stove - that cost a rouble a yard now. Sonya might be an idiot, but she still moaned and cried when she was cold.

Before he slipped out of the house, Anisii had managed to change his sister's wet bed. She had opened her piggy little eyes and babbled, 'Nisii, Nisii.'

'You be good now; don't get up to any mischief,' Anisii told her with feigned severity as he rolled over her heavy body, still hot from sleep. He put a coin on the table, the ten kopecks he had promised to leave for their neighbour Sychikha, who kept an eye on the cripple. He chewed hastily on a stale bread-bun, following it with a gulp of cold milk, and then it was time to head out into the darkness and the blizzard.

As he trudged across the snow-covered vacant lot towards Taganskaya Square, with his feet constantly slipping, Tulipov felt very sorry for himself. It was bad enough that he was poor, ugly and untalented, but his sister Sonya was a burden for the rest of his life. He was a doomed man; he would never have a wife, or children, or a comfortable home.

As he ran past the Church of Consolation of All the Afflicted, he crossed himself as usual, facing towards the icon of the Mother of God, lit up by its little lamp. Anisii had loved that icon since he was a child: it didn't hang inside where it was warm and dry but out there on the wall, exposed to the elements, only protected from the rain and the snow by a small canopy, with a wooden cross above it. The little flame was burning, unquenchable in its glass cover; you could see it from a long way away. And that was good, especially when you were looking at it from out of the cold darkness and howling wind.

What was that white shape, up on top of the cross?

A white dove. Sitting there preening its little wings with its beak, and it couldn't care a straw for the blizzard. It was a sure sign - his dear departed mother had been a great authority on signs - a white dove on a cross meant good fortune and unexpected happiness. But where could good fortune come from to him?

The low wind swirled the snow across the ground. Oh, but it was cold.

Today, however, Anisii's working day could hardly have got off to a better start. You could say that Tulipov had a real stroke of luck. Egor Semenich, the collegiate registrar in charge of deliveries, cast a dubious glance at Anisii's unconvincing overcoat, shook his grey head and gave him a nice warm job, one that wouldn't have him running all over the place across the boundless, wind-swept city: all he had to do was deliver a folder of reports and documents to His Honour Mr Erast Petrovich Fandorin, the Deputy for Special Assignments to His Excellency the Governor-General. Deliver it and wait to see if there would be any return correspondence from Court Counsellor Fandorin.

That was all right - Anisii could cope with that. His spirits rose. He'd have the folder delivered quick as a flash before he even had time to start feeling chilled. Mr Fandorin's apartments were close by, right there on Malaya Nikitskaya Street, in an outbuilding on Baron von Evert-Kolokoltsev's estate.

Anisii adored Mr Fandorin - from a distance, with timid reverence, without any hope that the great man would ever notice Tulipov even existed. The Court Counsellor had a special reputation in the Department of Gendarmes, even though he served in a different department. His Excellency Efim Efimovich Baranov himself, Moscow's chief of police and a lieutenant-general, considered it no disgrace to request confidential advice or even solicit patronage from the Deputy for Special Assignments.

And that was only natural - anyone who knew anything at all about high Moscow politics knew that the father of Russia's old capital, Prince Vladimir Andreevich Dolgorukoi, favoured the Court Counsellor and paid attention to his opinions. All sorts of things were said about Mr Fandorin: for instance, he was supposed to have a special gift for seeing right through anybody and spotting even his very darkest secret in an instant.

The Court Counsellor's duties made him the Governor-General's eyes and ears in all secret Moscow business that came under the aegis of the gendarmes and the police. That was why the information that Erast Petrovich required was delivered to him every day from General Baranov and the Department of Gendarmes, usually to the Governor's house on Tverskaya Street, but sometimes to his home, because the Court Counsellor's work routine was free, and he had no need to go to the office if he did not wish.

That was the kind of important person Mr Fandorin was, but even so he had a simple manner with people and he didn't put on airs. Twice Anisii had delivered packages to him at Tverskaya Street and been completely overwhelmed by the courteous manners of such an influential individual: he would never humiliate the little man, he always spoke respectfully, always offered you a seat.

And it was very interesting to get a close look at an individual about whom the most fantastic rumours circulated in Moscow. You could see straight away that he was a special man: that handsome, smooth, young face, that raven-black hair touched with grey at the temples; that calm, quiet way of speaking, with the slight stammer, but every word to the point, and he obviously wasn't used to having to say the same thing twice. An impressive kind of gentleman, no two ways about it.

Tulipov had not been to the Court Counsellor's home before and so, as he walked in through the openwork cast-iron gates with a crown on the top and approached the stylish single-storey outhouse, his heart was fluttering slightly. Such an exceptional man was bound to live in a special kind of place.

He pressed the button of the electric bell. He had prepared his first phrase earlier: 'Courier Tulipov from the Department of Gendarmes with documents for His Honour.' Then he remembered and tucked his obstinate right ear in under his cap.

The carved-oak door swung open. Standing there in the doorway was a short stocky oriental - with narrow little eyes, fat cheeks and coarse, spiky black hair. The oriental was dressed in green livery with gold braiding and, rather oddly, straw sandals.

The servant gazed in annoyance at the visitor and asked: 'Wha' you wan'?'

From somewhere inside the house a rich woman's voice said: 'Masa! How many times do I have to tell you! Not "What you want?" but "What can I do for you"!'

The oriental cast an angry glance back into the house and muttered unwillingly to Anisii: 'Wha' can do f'you?'

'Courier Tulipov from the Department of Gendarmes with documents for His Honour.'

'All righ', come,' the servant invited him, and moved aside to let him through.

Tulipov found himself in a spacious hallway. He looked around curiously and for a moment was disappointed: there was no stuffed bear with a silver tray for calling cards, and how could a gentleman's apartment not have a stuffed bear? Or did no one come calling on the Deputy for Special Assignments?

But even though there was no bear to be seen, the hallway was furnished very nicely indeed, and there was a glass cupboard in the corner with some peculiar kind of armour, all made out of little metal plates, with a complicated monogram on the chest and a helmet with horns like a beetle's.

An exceptionally beautiful woman glanced out through the door leading to the inner rooms - into which, of course, a courier could not be admitted. She was wearing a red dressing gown that reached right down to the floor. The beauty's thick, dark hair was arranged in a complicated style, leaving her slim neck exposed; her hands were crossed over her full breasts and her fingers were covered with rings.

The lady gave Anisii a disappointed look from her huge black eyes, wrinkled up her classic nose slightly and called out: 'Erast, it's for you. From the office.'

For some reason Anisii felt surprised that the Court Counsellor was married, although in principle there was nothing surprising in such a man having a lovely spouse, with a regal bearing and haughty gaze.

Madame Fandorin yawned aristocratically, without parting her lips, and disappeared back through the door, and a moment later Mr Fandorin himself came out into the hallway.

He was also wearing a dressing gown, not red, but black, with tassels and a silk belt.

'Hello, T-Tulipov,' said the Court Counsellor, fingering a string of green jade beads, and Anisii was simply overwhelmed with delight; he had never have expected Erast Petrovich to remember him, especially by name - there must be plenty of petty minions who delivered packages to him - but there it was.

'What's that you have there? Give it to me. And go through into the drawing room, sit down for a while. Masa, take M-Mr Tulipov's coat.'

Anisii walked timidly into the drawing room, not daring to gape all around, and sat down modestly on the edge of a chair upholstered with blue velvet. It was only a little while later that he started gazing stealthily around him.

It was an interesting room: all the walls were hung with coloured Japanese prints, which Anisii knew were very fashionable nowadays. He also spotted some scrolls with hieroglyphs and two curved sabres, one longer and one shorter, on a lacquered wooden stand.

The Court Counsellor rustled the documents, occasionally marking something in them with a little gold pencil. His wife paid no attention to the men and stood at the window, looking out into the garden with a bored air.

'My dear,' she said in French, 'why don't we ever go anywhere? It really is quite intolerable. I want society, I want to go to the theatre, I want to go to a ball.'

'Addy you yourself s-said that it's inappropriate,' replied Fandorin, looking up from his documents. "We might meet acquaintances of yours from Petersburg. It would be awkward. For me, personally it's all the same.'

He glanced at Tulipov, and the courier blushed. Well, he wasn't to blame - was he? - if he understood French, even with some difficulty.

So it turned out that the beautiful lady was not Madame Fandorin at all.

'Ah, forgive me, Addy' Erast Petrovich said in Russian. 'I haven't introduced Mr Tulipov to you; he works in the Department of Gendarmes. And this is Countess Ariadna Arkadievna Opraksina, my g-good friend.'

Anisii had the impression that the Court Counsellor hesitated slightly, as if he weren't quite sure how to describe the beautiful woman. Or perhaps it was simply the stammer that made it seem that way.

'Oh, God,' Countess Addy sighed in a long-suffering voice, and walked rapidly out of the room.

Almost immediately her voice rang out again: 'Masa, get away from my Natalya immediately! Off to your room with you right now, you vile girl! No, this is simply unbearable!'

Erast Petrovich also sighed and went back to reading the documents.

At that point Tulipov heard the tinkling of the doorbell, muffled by the noise of voices from the hallway, and the oriental he had seen earlier came tumbling into the drawing room like a rubber ball. He started jabbering away in some foreign mumbo-jumbo, but Fandorin gestured for him to be quiet.

'Masa, I've told you: when we have visitors, speak to me in Russian, not Japanese.'

Promoted to the rank of visitor, Anisii assumed a dignified air and peered curiously at the servant.

'From Vedisev-san,' Masa declared curtly.

'From Vedishchev? From Frol Grigorievich? Show him in.'

Anisii knew who Frol Grigorievich Vedishchev was all right. He was a well-known character, nicknamed 'the Grey Cardinal'. He had been with Prince Dolgorukoi since his childhood, first as an errand boy, then as an orderly, then as a manservant, and for the last twenty years as his personal valet - since Vladimir Andreevich had taken the ancient city into the tight grip of his firm hands. The valet might seem to be small fry but it was well known that the clever and cautious Dolgorukoi never took any important decisions without first consulting his faithful Frol. If you wanted to approach His Excellency with an important request, first you had to cajole and convince Vedishchev, and then you could consider the job already half-done.

An energetic fellow in the Governor's livery walked or, rather, ran into the drawing room and started jabbering from the doorway.

'Your Honour, Frol Grigorievich wants you to come. He insists you must come to see him as a matter of great urgency! It's a real rumpus, Erast Petrovich, a real rumpus! Frol Grigorievich says we can't manage without you! I'm in the Prince's sleigh; we'll be there in an instant.'

'What kind of "rumpus" is this?' the Court Counsellor asked with a frown, but he stood up and took off his dressing gown to reveal a white shirt and black tie. All right, let's go and t-take a look. Masa, my waistcoat and frock coat, and look lively!' called Fandorin, stuffing the documents into the folder. And you, Tulipov, will have to ride along with me. I'll finish reading these on the way'

Anisii was quite willing to follow His Honour anywhere at all, as he demonstrated by hastily leaping up off his chair.

This was something the courier Tulipov had never imagined -that one day he would take a ride in the Governor-General's closed sleigh.

It was a noble sleigh, a genuine carriage on runners. Inside it was upholstered in satin, the seats were Russian leather, and in the corner there was a little stove with a bronze flue, though it wasn't lit. The servant sat on the coachbox and Dolgorukoi's foursome of dashing trotters set off at a spanking pace.

As Anisii was swayed smoothly, almost gently, to and fro on the soft seat intended for far more noble buttocks, he thought to himself: Ah, no one will ever believe this.

Mr Fandorin cracked the sealing wax as he opened some despatch. He wrinkled his high, clear forehead. How very handsome he is, Tulipov thought with no envy, in genuine admiration, glancing sideways to observe the Court Counsellor tugging on his slim moustache.

After rushing them to the big house on Tverskaya Street in five minutes, the sleigh did not turn to the left, towards the office, but to the right, towards the formal entrance and the personal chambers of Vladimir Andreevich Dolgorukoi, 'the Great Prince of Moscow' (which was by no means the only nickname the all-powerful Governor had acquired).

'I beg your pardon, Tulipov,' Fandorin said hurriedly as he opened the little carriage door, 'but I can't let you go just yet. I'll jot down a couple of lines for the c-colonel later. But first I must sort out this little rumpus.'

Anisii followed Erast Petrovich out of the sleigh and into the grand marble palace, but then immediately dropped behind, intimidated by the sight of the imposing doorman with the gilded mace. Tulipov suddenly felt terribly afraid of being humiliated, concerned that Mr Fandorin would leave him to cool his heels below stairs, like some little puppy dog. But he overcame his pride and prepared to forgive the Court Counsellor: after all, how could you take a man into the Governor's apartments in a coat like this and a cap with a cracked peak?

"What are you doing stuck back there?' Erast Petrovich asked impatiently, turning round. He was already halfway up the stairs.

'Don't fall behind. You can see what a devil of a mess we have here.'

It was only then that Anisii finally realised that there really was something quite extraordinary going on in the Governor's house. If you looked closely, even the exalted doorman had an air that was not so much grand as confused. There were some brisk, rough-looking fellows carrying trunks, boxes and crates with foreign lettering on them into the hallway from the street. Was someone moving then?

Tulipov hopped and skipped up the stairs to the Court Counsellor and tried to keep within two paces of him, which meant that at times he had to trot in an undignified manner, because His Honour walked with a long and rapid stride.

Oh, how beautiful it was in the Governor's residence! Almost like in a church: variegated columns (perhaps they were porphyry?), brocade door curtains, statues of Greek goddesses. And the chandeliers! And the pictures in gold frames! And the parquet gleaming like a mirror, with those inlaid patterns!

Looking round at the parquet, Anisii suddenly noticed that his disgraceful shoes were leaving a dirty, wet trail on the wonderful floor. Oh Lord, don't let anyone notice that, he thought.

In a spacious hall that was completely deserted but had armchairs standing along the walls, the Court Counsellor said: 'Sit here. And hold the folder.'

He set off towards the tall, gilded doors, but they suddenly swung open to meet him. First there was a confused hubbub of voices in heated conversation, and then four men came out into the hall: a stately general, a lanky individual who did not look Russian wearing a check coat with a cape, a bald, skinny old man with absolutely immense sideburns and a civil functionary in uniform, wearing spectacles.

Recognising the general as Prince Dolgorukoi himself, Anisii quivered and drew himself up to attention.

From close up His Excellency did not look as fresh and sprightly as he appeared when viewed from a crowd: his face was covered with immensely deep wrinkles, his curls were unnaturally luxuriant, and the chestnut-brown of his long moustache and sideburns was too rich for a man of seventy-five.

'Erast Petrovich, just in time!' exclaimed the Governor. 'He mangles his French so badly you can't understand a thing, and he hasn't got a single word of Russian. You know English. So please explain what he wants from me! And how he was ever admitted! I've been trying to make sense of him for the best part of an hour, but it's a waste of time!'

'Your Excellency, how could we not have admitted him, when he's a lord and he visits the house,' the functionary in spectacles whined plaintively, clearly not for the first time. 'How could I have known ...'

At this point the Englishman also started speaking, addressing the new man and indignantly waving some piece of paper covered with seals in the air.

Erast Petrovich began translating dispassionately: 'This is a dishonest game; they don't do things like this in civilised countries. I was with this old gentleman yesterday; he signed a bill of sale for the house and we sealed the agreement with a handshake. And now, you see, he has decided not to move out. His grandson, Mr Speier, told me that the old gentleman was moving to a home for veterans of the Napoleonic Wars; he will be more comfortable there, because the care is good, and this mansion was for sale. This kind of dithering does him no credit, especially when the money has already been paid. And a large sum, too - a hundred thousand roubles. Here is the bill of sale!'

'He's been waving yon piece of paper around for ages, but he won't let us have it,' remarked the bald old man, who had so far remained silent. Obviously he must be Frol Grigorievich Vedishchev.

I'm Speier's grandfather?' the Prince babbled. 'They're putting me in an almshouse?'

The functionary stole up to the Englishman from behind, stood on tiptoe and managed to sneak a glimpse at the mysterious sheet of paper.

'It really does say a hundred thousand, and it's been witnessed by a notary' he confirmed. And it's our address: the house of Prince Dolgorukoi, Tverskaya Street.'

Fandorin asked: 'Vladimir Andreevich, who is this Speier?'

Prince Dolgorukoi mopped his scarlet brow with a handkerchief and shrugged. 'Speier is a very pleasant young man with excellent references. He was presented to me at the Christmas ball by ... mmm ... who was it now? Ah, no, now I remember. It wasn't at the ball. He was recommended to me in a special letter by His Highness the Duke of Saxen-Limburg. Speier is a very fine, courteous young fellow, with a heart of gold, and very unfortunate. He was in the Kushka campaign, wounded in the back, and since then he can't move his legs. He gets around in a wheelchair, but he hasn't let it get him down. He does charitable work, collects contributions for orphans and contributes huge sums himself. He was here yesterday morning with this mad Englishman, who he said was the well-known British philanthropist Lord Pitsbrook. He asked me to allow him to show the Englishman round the mansion, because His Lordship is a connoisseur and lover of architecture. How could I refuse poor Speier such a trifling request? Innokenty here accompanied them.' Dolgorukoi jabbed his finger angrily towards the functionary, who threw his hands up in the air despairingly.

'Your Excellency, how could I have ... You told me yourself to be as helpful as I possibly could

'Did you shake Lord Pitsbrook's hand?' asked Fandorin, and Anisii thought he caught the glint of a spark in the Court Counsellor's eyes.

'Why, naturally,' the Prince said with a shrug. 'First Speier told him something about me in English, then the lanky fellow beamed and reached for my hand to shake it.'

'And d-did you sign some kind of document before that?'

The Governor knitted his brows as he tried to remember. 'Yes, Speier asked me to sign the speech of welcome for the newly re-opened Catherine the Great Girls' Home. Such sacred work - re-educating juvenile harlots. But I didn't sign any bill of sale! You know me, dear fellow: I always read everything I sign very carefully'

And then what did he do with the address?'

'I think he showed it to the Englishman, said something and put it in a folder. The folder was lying in his wheelchair.' Dolgorukoi's face, already menacing, turned as dark as a storm cloud. Ah, merde! Could he really ...'

Erast Petrovich addressed the lord in English, apparently succeeding in winning the son of Albion's complete confidence, because he was given the mysterious sheet of paper to study.

All drawn up in due form,' the Court Counsellor muttered, running his glance over the bill of sale. "With an official seal and a stamp from the "Mobius" notary's office and the signature ... What on earth!' An expression of extreme perplexity appeared on Fandorin's face. 'Vladimir Andreevich, look here! Look at the signature!'

The Prince took hold of the piece of paper disdainfully, as if it were a toad, and held it as far away as he could from his longsighted eyes. He read out loud: '"Jack of Spades" ... I beg your pardon, what does this "Jack" mean?'

'Well, well, well...' Vedishchev drawled. 'That's clear then. The Jack of Spades again. Well, well. Our Lady in Heaven, what a turn-up this is.'

'The Jack of Spades?' said His Excellency, still unable to make any sense of anything. 'But that's the name of a band of swindlers - the ones who sold the banker Polyakov his own trotters last month, and helped the merchant Vinogradov pan for gold dust in the River Setuni at Christmas. Barabanov reported to me about them. We're looking for them, he said, the villains. I laughed at the time. But have they really dared try to swindle me - me, Dolgorukoi?' The Governor-General tore open his gold-embroidered collar and his face took on such a terrible expression that Anisii pulled his head back down into his shoulders.

Vedishchev fluttered across to the furious Prince like a startled hen and started clucking: 'Vladim Andreich, everyone makes mistakes sometimes; why distress yourself so? I'll get your valerian drops and call the doctor to let your blood! Innokenty give me a chair!'

However, Anisii was first to reach the Governor with a chair.

They sat the overwrought Prince down on the soft seat, but he kept struggling to stand up and pushing away his valet.

'Like some petty merchant or other! Do they take me for a boy? I'll give them the almshouse!' he cried incoherently. Vedishchev made all sorts of reassuring sounds and once even stroked His Excellency's dyed - or perhaps false - curls.

The Governor turned to Fandorin and said plaintively: 'Erast Petrovich, my friend, what is going on here? They've got completely out of hand, these bandits. In my person they have insulted, abased and mocked the whole of Moscow. Call out all the police and the gendarmes, but find the villains. I want them tried! Sent to Siberia! You can do anything, my dear fellow. From now on, regard this as your most important job, a personal request from me. Baranov won't be able to manage on his own; he can assist you.'

'We can't possibly use the police,' the Court Counsellor replied thoughtfully. There were no sparks glittering in Fandorin's eyes now; his face expressed nothing except concern for the reputation of the authorities. 'If the word spreads, the entire c-city will split its sides laughing. We can't allow that to happen.'

'I beg your pardon,' said Dolgorukoi, growing furious again. 'Then what are we supposed to do - just let these "Jacks" get away with it?'

'Under no circumstances. I shall handle this m-matter. But confidentially, with no publicity.' Fandorin thought for a while and continued: 'Lord Pitsbrook's money will have to be repaid out of the municipal t-treasury and we shall have to apologise to him, but not explain anything about the "Jack". We'll say it was all a misunderstanding. Your grandson took too much upon himself.'

On hearing his name mentioned, the Englishman agitatedly asked the Court Counsellor about something.

Fandorin replied briefly and turned back to the Governor: 'Vedishchev will think of something that will satisfy the servants' curiosity. And I'll start searching.'

'But how can you find such a set of rogues all on your own?' the valet asked doubtfully.

'Yes, it will not be easy. But it is not desirable to extend the circle of people who know about this.' Fandorin glanced at the secretary in spectacles, whom the Prince had called Innokenty and shook his head. Innokenty was obviously not suitable as an assistant. Then he turned towards Anisii, and Anisii's blood ran cold at the sudden keen awareness of how unpresentable he appeared: young and skinny with ears that jutted out, and covered in pimples as well.

'I won't ... I won't say a word,' he babbled. 'My word of honour.'

And who is this?' roared His Excellency the Governor, who had apparently only just noticed the pitiful figure of the courier. 'Why is he here?'

'This is Tulipov,' explained Fandorin, 'from the Department of Gendarmes. An experienced agent. It is he who is going to assist me.'

The Prince ran his glance over the cowering Anisii and knitted his brows menacingly. 'Now, you listen here, Tulipov. Make yourself useful, and I'll make a man of you. Make a mess of things and I'll grind you into dust.'

As Erast Petrovich and the dumbfounded Anisii walked towards the stairs, they heard Vedishchev say: As you wish, Vladim Andreich, but there's no money in the treasury A hundred thousand is no joke. The Englishman will have to make do with an apology'

Outside there was another shock in store for Tulipov. As he pulled on his gloves, the Court Counsellor suddenly asked him: 'Is it true what I've been told - that you support an invalid sister and have refused to give her into public care?'

Anisii had not expected such detailed knowledge of his domestic circumstances, but in his stunned condition, he was less surprised than he ought to have been. 'She can't go into public care,' he explained. 'She'd pine away. The poor simpleton is far too used to me.'

That was when Fandorin really astounded him. 'I envy you,' he sighed. 'You're a fortunate man, Tulipov. At such a young age you already have reason to respect yourself - something you can be proud of. The Lord has given you a firm core for the whole of your life.'

Anisii was still trying to grasp the meaning of these strange words when the Court Counsellor continued: 'Do not be concerned about your sister. Hire a nurse for her for the period of the investigation. At public expense, naturally. From this moment on until the case of the Jack of Spades is closed you will be at my disposal. We shall be working together for a while. I hope you won't find it too b-boring.'

This was his unexpected happiness, Tulipov suddenly realised. This was his good fortune.

Praise be for the white dove!

CHAPTER 2

The Science of Life According to Momos

In recent years he had changed his name so often that he had almost forgotten the original one, the one he had been born with. And in his own mind he had long since referred to himself as 'Momos'.

Momos is the name of a spiteful ancient Greek jester, the son of Nyx, the goddess of night. In a prophecy of the 'Egyptian Pythia', the same name is given to the jack of spades, a bad card that promises a meeting with a scoffing fool or a malicious trick of fortune.

Momos was fond of cards and even had a profound respect for them, but he didn't believe in fortune-telling and the meaning he invested in his chosen name was quite different.

It is well known that every mortal plays a game of cards with destiny. The cards that are dealt do not depend on man; you have to take what you are given: some will get nothing but trumps, others nothing but twos and threes. Nature had dealt Momos middling cards - rubbish, you could say: tens and jacks. But a good player will make a fight of it even with cards like that.

In terms of the human hierarchy, too, it was the jack that suited him best. Momos's assessment of himself was a sober one: he was no ace, of course, and no king, but he was no worthless card either. So he was a jack. But not some boring old jack of clubs or respectable jack of diamonds or - God forbid -sentimental, drooling jack of hearts, but a special jack, the jack of spades. Spades were a complex suit, the most junior suit in all the games except for bridge, in which they outranked clubs and hearts and diamonds. The conclusion was: decide for yourself what game you are going to play with life, and your suit will be the main one.

In his early childhood Momos had been obsessed by the Russian saying about chasing two hares at once. Why, he used to wonder in bewilderment, was it not possible to catch both of them? Did you just have to abandon one of them, then? Little Momos (he wasn't Momos yet; he was still Mitenka Sawin) definitely did not agree with that. And he had turned out to be absolutely right. The saying had proved to be a stupid one, designed for the dull-witted and lazy. On occasions Momos had managed to catch not just one or two long-eared, fluffy grey animals at once, but many of them. For that he had his own psychological theory, which he had developed specially.

People had invented many sciences, and most of them were of no benefit to a normal man, but they carried on writing treatises, defending their master's and doctoral dissertations, becoming members of academies. Ever since he was very little, Momos had been able to sense with his very skin, his bones, his spleen that the most important branch of learning was not arithmetic or Latin, but the ability to please. That was the key with which it was possible to open any door. It was strange, though, that this most important knowledge was never imparted by tutors or grammar-school teachers. He had had to discover its laws for himself. But if you thought about it for a moment, that was actually to his advantage. The boy had shown a talent for this most important branch of learning early on, and he could only thank God that others were unaware of the advantages of this discipline.

For some reason ordinary people failed to pay this crucial activity the serious attention it deserved. They thought: If someone likes me, that's good; if they don't, then that's just too bad - you can't force anyone to like you. Oh yes, you can, Mitenka thought as he grew up, you certainly can. And once you've made someone like you, managed to find the key that fits him, that person is yours to do with as you like.

It turned out that you could make anyone like you, and very little was required to do it - just to understand what kind of person they were, how they saw the world, what they were afraid of. And once you'd understood that, you could play them like a reed pipe, and choose your own melody. A serenade if you liked, or a polka.

Nine out of ten people would tell you everything about themselves if you were just willing to listen. The astounding thing was that nobody listened to anybody else properly. In the best case, if people were well brought up, they would wait for a pause in the conversation before mounting their own hobbyhorse again. But you could find out so many important and interesting things if you just knew how to listen!

Listening properly was a kind of art. You had to imagine that you were an empty bottle, a transparent vessel connected with the person you were talking to via an invisible tube, and let the contents of the other person flow into you a drop at a time, so that you were filled with liquid that was the same colour and strength, the same composition - to stop being yourself for a while and become him. And then you would come to understand that person's essential being, and you would know in advance what he was going to say and what he was going to do.

Momos mastered his science gradually and in his early years he applied it in a small way, for limited gain, but mostly for purposes of checking and experimenting: to obtain a good mark at his grammar school without having learned the lesson; then later, at military school, to win the respect and affection of his comrades; to make a girl fall in love with him.

Later, when he had joined the regiment and his skill and control had grown rather more sure, the benefits that it brought became more significant. For instance, you could clean out a man with money at cards, and he would sit there calmly and not take offence at this fine young chap, the Cornet Mitya Sawin. And he wouldn't stare at your hands any more than necessary. That was not bad, surely?

But all this had only been gymnastic exercises for developing the muscles. His knowledge and talent had come in genuinely useful six years earlier, when destiny had offered the future Momos his first real Chance. He hadn't yet known at that time that a Chance ought not to be fished for, but created. He had kept waiting for good fortune to swim into his hands of its own accord, and the only thing he had been afraid of was that he might let it slip. He hadn't.

At the time things in general were looking pretty mouldy for the young cornet. The regiment had been stationed in the provincial city of Smolensk for more than a year, and every opportunity to apply his talents had already been exhausted. He had won money at cards from everyone he could; everything he could borrow had been borrowed long ago; the colonel's wife loved Mitya with all her heart, but she was tight-fisted with money, and her jealousy exhausted him. And then there was his little slip with the remount money: Cornet Sawin had been sent to the horse fair at Torzhok, where he had got quite carried away and spent more than was permitted.

The general outlook was that he could either be taken to court, or make a run for it, or marry the merchant Pochechuev's pimply daughter. The first option, of course, was out of the question, and the capable young man was hesitating between the second and the third.

Then suddenly fortune had tossed him a trump widow card that might well be just enough for him to save his doomed hand. His great-aunt, a Vyatka landowner, bequeathed her estate to her favourite nephew. Once, when he was still a cadet, Mitenka had spent an extremely boring month with her and, for lack of anything better to do, had practised his science of life a little. Afterwards he had completely forgotten the old woman and never thought of her, but his aunt had not forgotten the dear, quiet little boy. It was certainly no vast latifundium that Mitya had inherited: only a miserable thousand acres, and that in some back-of-beyond province where it was shameful for a respectable man to spend even a week.

How would an ordinary, unexceptional little cornet have behaved if he had had such a stroke of luck? He would have sold the inheritance from his great-aunt to cover the shortfall in the remount money, paid off some of his debts and carried on living in the same old way, the stupid fool. Well, how else? you may ask.

Allow me to set you a little problem. You have an estate that is worth at best twenty-five, perhaps thirty thousand roubles. But you have debts amounting to a full fifty thousand. And, most important of all, you are sick to death of counting the kopecks, you want to live a decent life, with a good carriage, in the finest hotels; you want life always to taste sweet: you don't want to be kept by the colonel's fat wife, you want to acquire a fine, fragrant buttonhole of your own, a tuberose with tender eyes, a slim waist and a lilting laugh.

I've had enough of drifting along the river of life like a splinter of wood, Mitenka decided; it's time to take destiny by its long swan neck. And that was when the science of psychology came in truly useful.

He did not spend just a week or even two in that remote province; he lived there for three whole months. He rode around visiting the neighbours and succeeded in making each of them like him in their own way. With the retired major, a churlish recluse and boor, he drank rum and hunted a bear (and that really gave him a fright). With the collegiate counsellor's wife, a thrifty widow, he made jam out of paradise apples and wrote down advice about farrowing pigs in a little book. With the district marshal of the nobility, who had never graduated from the Corps of Pages, he discussed the news of the great world. With the justice of the peace he visited the gypsy camp on the other side of the river.

He was rather successful: at one and the same time he was a simple chap, a wild character from the capital, a serious young man, a bold spirit, a 'new man', a devotee of the old times and also a certain candidate for a bridegroom (in two families unacquainted with each other).

And when he decided that the soil had been sufficiently manured, he carried the entire business off in just two days.

Even now, years later, when you might think he had plenty of other things to remember and be proud of, Momos enjoyed going over the memory of his first genuine 'operation' - especially the episode with Euripides Callistratovich Kandelaki, who had a reputation among the local landowners as the greatest skinflint and addict of lawsuits ever to walk the earth. Of course, he could have got by without Kandelaki, but Mitenka was young and passionate then; he enjoyed the challenge of cracking tough nuts.

The niggardly Greek was a retired revenue officer. There's only one way to make a man of that sort like you: create the illusion that he can turn a profit at your expense.

The bold cornet galloped up to his neighbour's house on a lathered horse, flushed bright red, with tears in his eyes and his hands trembling. From the doorway he howled: 'Euripides Callistratovich, save me! You are my only hope! I confide in you as my confessor! They've summoned me back to the regiment, to the auditor! I embezzled some money! Twenty-two thousand!'

He really did have a letter from the regiment - concerning the indiscretion with the remount funds. The colonel had lost patience with waiting for Sawin to return from leave.

Mitya took out the envelope with the regimental seal and one other document as well. 'In a month's time I am due to receive a loan of twenty-five thousand from the Nobles' Land Bank secured against my aunt's estate. I thought,' he sobbed, knowing perfectly well that the Greek could not possibly be moved to pity, 'that I would get the money and cover the shortfall. But I won't have enough time! The shame of it! There's only one thing left for me - a bullet in the forehead! Save me, Euripides Callistratovich, my dear fellow! Give me twenty-two thousand, and I'll have a power of attorney drawn up for you to receive the loan. I'll go back to the regiment, make amends, save my honour and my life. And in a month you'll receive twenty-five thousand. Profit for you and salvation for me! I implore you!'

Kandelaki put on his spectacles, read the ominous letter from the regiment and carefully studied the mortgage agreement with the bank (also genuine, drawn up in due, correct form) chewed on his lips for a while and offered fifteen thousand. He finally settled on nineteen.

The scene in the bank a month later must have been truly remarkable, when the owners of the eleven powers of attorney issued by Mitya all turned up at once. His profits were pretty good, only after that, of course, he had had to change his life in the most radical manner. But to hell with his former life; he didn't regret it at all.

The former Cornet Sawin was not afraid of any difficulties with the police. The Empire, thank the Lord, was a big one, there were plenty of fools in it and more than enough rich towns. A man of imagination and spirit would always find scope for his ingenious pranks. And a new name and papers were a trifling matter. He could call himself whatever he wanted. He could be whoever he wanted.

As for his appearance, that was where Momos had been exceptionally lucky. He was very fond of his own face and could spend hours admiring it in the mirror. Hair a wonderful pale blondish-brown colour, like the overwhelming majority of the indigenous Slavonic population. Small, expressionless features, small grey-blue eyes, a nose of indefinite shape, a weak, characterless chin. All in all, absolutely nothing to hold the eye's attention. Not a physiognomy, but a blank canvas - paint whatever you like on it.

Average height, with no distinguishing features. The voice, it is true, was unusual - deep and resonant; but Momos had learned to control this instrument with consummate skill: he could boom in a deep bass and beguile in a charming tenor, squeak in a falsetto and even squeal a litde in a female soprano.

In order to change one's appearance and become unrecognisable, it is not enough simply to dye one's hair and glue on a beard. A man is made up of his facial expressions, his way of walking and sitting down, his gestures, intonations, the special little words he uses in conversation, the force of his glance. And, of course, his ambience - the clothes, the first impression, the name, the title.

If actors had earned big money, Momos would certainly have become a new Shchepkin or Sadovsky - he could sense that he had it in him. But no one paid the kind of sums he wanted, not even to leading actors in the theatres of the capital. And in any case, it was so much more interesting to act out plays not on the stage, with fifteen-minute intervals, but in real life, every day, from morning till night.

Who had he not played during the last six years? - it was impossible to remember all the roles. And what was more, every play had been entirely his own creation. Following the manner of military strategy, Momos referred to them as 'operations', and before the beginning of a new adventure he liked to imagine himself as Maurice of Saxony or Napoleon. But, of course, these were not sanguinary battles that he planned, but diverting amusements. That is, the other dramatis personae might not perhaps fully appreciate the wittiness of the plot, but Momos himself was always left entirely satisfied.

Many performances had been played out - both small and large, genuinely triumphant and less successful - but so far there had not been a single flop followed by booing and whistling.

At one time Momos had developed an interest in immortalising the memory of national heroes. The first time, after losing at whist on a Volga steamer and going ashore in Kostroma without a single kopeck to his name, he had tried collecting contributions for a bronze monument to Ivan Susanin. But the local merchants had been stingy, the landed gentry had tried to make their contributions in butter or rye, and the outcome had been a mere trifle - less than eight thousand. In Odessa, though, the contributions paid for a monument to Alexander Sergeevich Pushkin had been generous, especially from the Jewish merchants, and in Tobolsk the fur traders and gold miners had stumped up seventy-five thousand to the eloquent 'member of the Imperial Historical Society' for a monument to Yermak Timofeevich, the conqueror of Siberia.

The year before last the Butterfly Credit Union had proved a great success in Nizhny Novgorod. The idea had been simple and brilliant, designed for that extremely common breed of people whose belief in free miracles is stronger than their natural caution. Butterfly had taken loans from the locals at a fantastically high rate of interest. The first week, only ten people put their money in (nine of them decoys, hired by Momos himself). However, next Monday, when they all received ten kopecks for every rouble invested - the interest was paid out weekly - the town seemed to go insane. A queue three blocks long formed at the company's office. A week later Momos again paid out ten per cent, after which he had to rent another two offices and hire twelve new assistants to take in the money. On the fourth Monday the doors of the offices remained locked. The rainbow-winged Butterfly had fluttered on its way, quitting the banks of the Volga for ever in search of pastures new.

For any other man the pickings from Nizhny Novgorod would have been enough to last the rest of his life, but Momos never hung on to money for very long. Sometimes he imagined that he was a windmill fed by a broad stream of bank notes and jingling coins. The windmill waved its broad sails through the air, knowing no respite, transforming the money into the fine flour of diamond tie pins, thoroughbred trotters, wild sprees that lasted for days, breathtaking bouquets for actresses. But the wind always kept on blowing, and the flour was scattered into the boundless distance, and not a single speck remained.

Well, let it scatter, there was enough 'grain' to last Momos for ever. There would always be grist for the miraculous windmill.

He had made a thorough tour of all the trade fairs and provincial towns, constantly developing his skill. Last year he had reached the capital, St Petersburg, and cleaned up quite handsomely. The suppliers to the royal court, crafty bankers and commercial counsellors would not soon forget the Jack of Spades.

It was only quite recently that Momos had thought of declaring his exceptional gift to the public. He had succumbed to the blandishments of the imp of vanity, and begun to feel slighted. All those incomparably talented capers he had thought up, all that imagination and skill and passion he had invested, and there was no recognition for it. The blame was always lumped on to some band of swindlers, or Jewish plots, or the local authorities.

And the good people of Russia were unaware that all these elaborate chefs-d'oeuvre were the work of a single master.

Money was no longer enough for Momos; he wanted fame. Of course, it was much riskier to work with a trade mark, but fame was never won by the faint-hearted. And just you try to catch him, when he had his mask prepared for every operation! Who were you supposed to catch? Who should you be searching for? Had anyone ever seen Momos's genuine face? Well then ...

'Gasp and gossip and laugh in farewell' was Momos's mental valediction to his fellow-countrymen. Applaud a great artist, for I shall not be with you for ever.'

No, he wasn't preparing to die - not at all; but he had begun thinking seriously about parting with the Russian expanses that were so dear to his heart. There was just the old capital to work over, and then the time would be exactly right for Momos to make his debut on the international stage - he could feel that he was already strong enough to do it.

The wonderful city of Moscow. The Muscovites were even more stupid than the Petersburgians, more open-hearted and less callous, and they had just as much money. Momos had been based here since the autumn and had already pulled off several elegant swindles. Another two or three operations and it would be 'Farewell, my native land!' He ought to take a stroll around Europe and a look at America. They said many interesting things about the North American states. His instinct told him he would find the space to spread his wings there. He could launch a campaign to dig some canal, organise a stockholding company to construct a trans-American railroad or, say, to search for Aztec gold. And then again, German princes were in great demand just then, especially in the new Slav countries and on the South American continent. That was something worth thinking about. Indeed, in his prudent manner, Momos had already taken certain measures.

But for the time being, he had business in Moscow. He could go on shaking the apples off this tree for a long time yet. Give him time, and the writers of Moscow would be writing novels about the Jack of Spades.

*

The morning after the amusing caper with the English lord and the old governor, Momos woke late, with a headache - he had been celebrating all evening and half the night. Mimi just adored celebrations; they were her natural element, so they had had glorious fun.

The mischievous girl had transformed their deluxe suite in the Metropole Hotel into a Garden of Eden: tropical hothouse plants in tubs, the chandelier completely covered with chrysanthemums and lilies, the carpet littered with rose petals, baskets of fruit from Eliseev and bouquets from Pogodin everywhere. A python from Morselli's menagerie was looped round the palms in patterned coils, imitating the original Serpent Tempter - not very convincingly, however: because it was winter, the serpent dozed all the time and never once opened its eyes. But Mimi, in her role as Eve, was on top form. As he remembered, Momos smiled and rubbed his aching temple. That cursed Veuve Clicquot. When, after the fall had already taken place, Momos was luxuriating in the spacious porcelain bath tub, surrounded by floating Wanda orchids (at fifteen roubles apiece), Mimi had showered him with champagne from huge bottles. He had obviously been too zealous in striving to catch the frothing stream in his hps.

But yesterday even Mimi had worn herself out with her gambolling. Look at the way she was sleeping - you couldn't have woken her up if there was a fire. Her slightly swollen lips were half open, she had put both hands under her cheek in the way she usually did, and her thick golden locks were scattered across the pillow.

When they'd decided that they would travel together, Momos had told her: A man's life, my girl, is the same as he is. If he is cruel, then life is cruel. If he is timid, then it is terrifying. If he is sour, then it is sad. But I am a jolly man and my life is jolly, and so will yours be too.'

And Mimi had fitted into the jolly life as if she had been created especially for it, although he had to assume that in her twenty-two years she must have tasted more than her share of bitter radish and mustard. But Momos had not asked her about that - it was none of his business. If she wanted to tell him, she would. But she wasn't one of those girls who cling to bad memories and she certainly wouldn't try to appeal to his pity.

He had picked Mimi up the previous spring in Kishinev, where she was passing herself off as an Ethiopian dancer in a variety show and was wildly popular with the local fast livers. She had blackened her skin, dyed and frizzed her hair, and she leapt around the stage wearing nothing but garlands of flowers, with bracelets on her arms and legs. The Kishinevians took her for an absolutely genuine Negress. That is, at first they had had their doubts, but a visiting Neapolitan merchant who had been to Abyssinia had confirmed that Mamselle Zemchandra really did speak Ethiopian, and so all doubts had been dispelled.

It was precisely this detail that had first delighted Momos, who appreciated the combination of impudence with meticulous attention to detail in hoaxes. With those blue eyes the colour of harebells and that absolutely Slavonic little face, dark as it may be, to claim to be an Ethopian - that required great daring. And to learn Ethiopian into the bargain!

Later, when they were already friends, Mimi told him how it had happened. She'd been living in Peter, all washed up after the operetta went bankrupt, when she'd managed by chance to get a job as a governess for twins, the children of the Abyssinian ambassador. The Ethiopian prince - or Rass, in their language -simply had not been able to believe his good fortune: an obliging, cheerful young lady, content with a small salary, and the children adored her - they were always whispering with her about some secrets or other, and they had begun behaving like little angels. One day the Rass had been strolling through the Summer Gardens with State Secretary Morder, discussing difficulties in Italian-Abyssinian relations, when he'd suddenly seen a crowd of people. He'd walked over to it and - Lord God of Ethiopia! -there he'd seen the governess playing an accordion and his own little son and daughter dancing and singing. The audience had been gawking at the little blackamoors, clapping and throwing money into a turban made out of a twisted towel, and it was given unstintingly from the heart.

Anyway, Mimi had been obliged to make her escape from Russia's northern capital with all possible haste - with no luggage and no residence permit. She wouldn't have minded, she sighed, but she felt so sorry for the children. Poor little Mariamchik and Asefochka - their life was probably very boring now.

But then, I'm not bored with you here, thought Momos, gazing lovingly at the shoulder protruding from under the blanket, with those three moles that formed a neat equilateral triangle.

He put his hands behind his head and gazed round the suite into which they had moved only the previous day in order to cover their tracks - a superb set of apartments, with a boudoir, a drawing room and a study. The gilded moulding was slightly overdone, a little too much in the merchant taste. The apartments in the 'Loskutnaya' had been more elegant, but it been time to move out of there - in a perfectly official manner, of course, doling out generous tips and posing for a sketch artist from the Moscow Observer. It would do no harm to appear on the cover of a well-respected illustrated journal in the guise of 'His Highness' - you could never tell when it might come in useful.

Momos glanced up absent-mindedly at the gilded Cupid with fat, round cheeks who had ensconced himself under the canopy of the bed. The plaster mischief-maker was aiming his arrow straight at the guest's forehead. The arrow was not visible, though, because Mimi's 'flaming heart' lacy drawers were dangling on it. How had they got up there? And where had they come from? After all, Mimi had been playing the part of Eve. It was a mystery.

Something about the astounding drawers intrigued Momos. There ought to be an arrow underneath them, and nothing more - that was obvious. But what if there was no arrow there, but something else? What if the little Cupid was cocking a snook, with his plump little fingers folded into a contemptuous gesture that was held out like an arrow beneath the bright piece of material?

Yes, yes, he could make out the outline of something.

Forgetting his aching temples, Momos sat up on the bed, still staring at the drawers.

Anyone would have expected there to be an arrow underneath them, because an arrow was what was required by Cupid's official function and capacity; but what if there really was no arrow, only a contemptuous snook?

'Wake up, my girl!' he said, slapping the sleeper on her rosy cheek. 'Look lively! Paper and a pencil! We're going to compose an announcement for the newspaper!'

Instead of replying, Mimi pulled the blanket up over her head. Momos sprang out of bed, his feet landed on something rough and cold on the carpet and he shouted out in horror: the dozy python, the Tempter of Eden, was lying there, coiled up like a garden hose.

CHAPTER 3

A Cunning Rogue

Apparently you could spend your time at work in quite different ways.

As a police sleuth - standing out in the bushes under the pouring rain for hours, watching the second window from the left on the third floor - or trudging along the street after the 'mark' who had been passed on for you to take your turn, without knowing who he was or what he had done.

Or as a courier, dashing around the city with your tongue hanging out, clutching an official satchel crammed with packages.

Or even as a temporary assistant to His Honour the Governor's Deputy for Special Assignments ... Anisii was supposed to arrive at the outhouse on Malaya Nikitskaya Street at ten. That meant he could walk at a normal pace, not dashing through the dark side streets, not hurrying, but in a dignified manner, in the light of day. Anisii was also issued money for a cab, so he had no need to spend an hour on the journey; he could arrive at work in a carriage, like a lord. But it was all right, he didn't mind walking, and the extra fifty kopecks would always come in handy.

The door was always opened by the Japanese servant Masa, whom Anisii had already got to know well. Masa bowed and said, 'Goomorn, Tiuri-san,' which meant 'Good morning, Mr Tulipov.' The Japanese found it hard to pronounce long Russian words, and he could not manage the letter T at all, so 'Tulipov' was transformed into 'Tiuri'. But Anisii did not take offence at Fandorin's valet, and their relations had become perfectly friendly, one might even say conspiratorial.

The first thing Masa did was to inform Anisii in a low voice about 'the state of the atmosphere' - that was how Anisii referred to the mood pervading the house. If the Japanese said 'Cam,' it meant everything was calm, the beautiful Countess Addy had woken in a serene mood and was singing, billing and cooing with Erast Petrovich, and she would regard Tulipov with a distracted but benevolent glance. In that case, he could enter the drawing room quiet fearlessly. Masa would serve him coffee and a roll, Mr State Counsellor would launch into cheerful banter and his favourite jade beads would clack cheerfully and briskly in his fingers.

But if Masa whispered 'Lou,' which meant 'loud', Anisii had to slip through into the study on tiptoe and set to work immediately, because the atmosphere in the house was stormy. It meant that Addy was sobbing again and screaming that she was bored, that Erast Petrovich had ruined her life by taking her away from her husband, the most worthy and most noble of men. I'm sure you're very easy to lead, thought Anisii, leafing through the newspapers as he listened timidly to the peals of thunder.

That was his job in the morning now: to study the printed publications of the city of Moscow. It was pleasant work: you rustled the pages smelling of ink, reading about the rumours of the city and examining the tempting advertising announcements. There were sharp-pointed pencils on the desk, blue for ordinary marks, red for special notes. Yes indeed, Anisii's life was quite different now.

And by the way, the pay for such wonderful work was also twice as much as he had received before, and he had been promoted in the state rankings too. Erast Petrovich had dashed off a couple of lines to the department and Tulipov had immediately been made a candidate for a formal title. When the first vacancy arose, he would sit a trifling examination and that would be it - the former courier would be an official, Mr Collegiate Registrar.

This was how it had all begun.

On that memorable day when the white dove appeared to Anisii, he and Court Counsellor Fandorin went straight from the Governor's house to the notary's office that had registered the bill of sale with the scoffing signature. Alas, behind the door with the bronze plaque that read Ivan Karlovich Mobius, they found nothing. The titular counsellor's wife Kapustina, whose house it was, had opened the locked door with her own key and testified that Mr Mobius had rented the ground floor two weeks earlier and paid for a month in advance. He was a thorough and reliable man and he had printed very prominent announcements about his office in all the newspapers. She had been surprised when he had not appeared at the office the previous day.

Fandorin listened, nodding his head and occasionally asking brief questions. He ordered Anisii to make a note of the description of the vanished notary's appearance. Average height,' Tulipov's pencil recorded with a studious squeak. 'Moustache, little goatee beard. Mousy hair. Pince-nez. Rubs his hands and laughs all the time. Polite. Large brown wart on right cheek. Looks at least forty. Leather galoshes. Grey coat with black roll collar.'

'Don't write about the g-galoshes and coat,' said the Court Counsellor, glancing briefly at Anisii's notes. 'Only the physical appearance.'

Behind the door there was a perfectly ordinary office: in the reception room there was a writing desk, a safe with its door half open and shelves with files. The files were all empty, mere cardboard shells, but in the safe on the metal shelf, in the most obvious spot, there was a playing card: the jack of spades. Erast Petrovich took the card, examined it through a magnifying glass and dropped it on the floor.

He explained to Anisii: 'It's just an ordinary card, the same as they sell everywhere. I can't stand cards, Tulipov, and especially the jack of spades (which they also call Momos). I have some extremely unpleasant memories associated with it.'

From the office they went to the English consulate to meet Lord Pitsbrook. On this occasion the son of Albion was accompanied by a diplomatic translator, and so Anisii was able to record the victim's testimony himself.

The British citizen informed the Court Counsellor that the 'Mobius' notary office had been recommended to him by Mr Speier as one of Russia's most respectable and oldest legal firms. In confirmation of this assertion, Mr Speier had shown him several newspapers, each of which carried a prominent advertisement for 'Mobius'. The lord did not know any Russian, but the year of the company's foundation - sixteen hundred and something - had made a most favourable impression on him.

Pitsbrook also showed them one of the newspapers, the Moscow Provincial Gazette which, in his English manner, he called the Moscow News. Anisii stretched his neck to peer over Mr Fandorin's shoulder and saw a huge advertisement covering a quarter of the page:

MOBIUS

Notary's Office

Ministry of Justice registration certificate No. 1672

Wills and bills of sale drawn up, powers of attorney witnessed, mortgages secured, representation for the recovery of debts, and other sundry services

They took the British citizen to the office of ill-fame, and he gave a detailed account of how, having received the paper signed by 'the old gentleman' (that is, His Excellency the Governor-General) he had set out to come here, to the 'office'. Mr Speier had not gone with him, because he was not feeling very well, but he had assured him that the head of the firm had been informed and was expecting his titled foreign client. The lord had indeed been received very courteously and offered tea with 'hard round biscuits' (spice cakes, perhaps?) and a good cigar. The documents had been witnessed very promptly and the notary had taken the money - a hundred thousand roubles - for safe keeping and put it in the safe.

'Yes indeed, safe keeping,' Erast Petrovich muttered, and asked something, pointing at the safe.

The Englishman nodded, opened the unlocked iron door and hissed an oath.

The lord was unable to add anything substantial to the portrait of Ivan Karlovich Mobius; he simply kept repeating that he had a wart. Anisii even remembered the English word for it.

A distinctive feature, Your Honour. A large brown wart on the right cheek. Perhaps we'll find the rogue after all?' said Tulipov, expressing his sound idea with timid reserve. He had taken the Governor-General's words about being ground into dust very much to heart. He wanted to prove useful.

But the Court Counsellor did not take Anisii's contribution seriously and said absent-mindedly: 'That's nothing, Tulipov. A psychological trick. It's not difficult to give yourself a wart or, say, a birthmark that covers half your cheek. Usually witnesses only remember a striking feature like that, and pay less attention to the others. Let us focus instead on the protector of juvenile harlots, "Mr Speier". Did you note down his portrait? Show it to me. Height uncertain, because in wheelchair. Dark blondish-brown hair, short at the temples. Soft, gentle expression. (Hmm ...) Eyes apparently light-coloured. (That is important, we shall have to question His Excellency's secretary again.) Open, pleasant face. So, there is nothing to give us a lead. We shall have to trouble His Highness the Duke of Saxen-Limburg. Let us hope he knows something about this "grandson", since he provided him with a special letter of recommendation to the "grandfather".'

Erast Petrovich went to the Loskutnaya Hotel on his own, dressed up in his uniform, to see the royal prince. He was gone for a long time and returned with a face darker than a thunder cloud. At the hotel he had been told that His Highness had left the previous day to take the Warsaw train, but the tall passenger had failed to show up at the Bryansk Station.

That evening the Court Counsellor held a consultation with Anisii, which he called an 'operational analysis', to sum up the results of the long day. This procedure was new to Tulipov. Later on, when he was already used to the idea that every day concluded with an 'analysis', he began to get a little bolder, but that first evening he said nothing for most of the time, afraid of blurting out something stupid.

'Right, let's be rational about this,' the Court Counsellor began. 'The notary Mobius, who is not a notary at all, has gone, evaporated. That is one.' A jade bead on the rosary clicked loudly. 'The invalided philanthropist Speier, who is not a philanthropist at all, and unlikely to be an invalid, has also gone, disappeared without trace. That is two. (And once again - click!) What is especially intriguing is that the duke has also mysteriously disappeared, and unlike the "notary" and the "invalid", he would appear to have been genuine. Of course, Germany is just full of little crowned princes, far too many to keep track of, but this one was received in Moscow with full honours, the n-newspapers wrote about his arrival. And that is three (click!). On the way back from the station I dropped into the offices of The Week and the Russian Herald and asked how they had heard about the forthcoming visit by His Highness the Duke of Saxen-Limburg. It turned out that the newspapers had received the information in the usual manner, by telegraph from their St Petersburg correspondents. What do you make of that, Tulipov?'

Anisii immediately broke into a nervous sweat and said uncertainly: 'Who knows, Your Honour, who it was that actually sent them - those telegrams.'

'That's what I think too,' the State Counsellor said approvingly, and Tulipov instandy breathed a sigh of relief. Anyone at all who knew the names of the St Petersburg correspondents could have sent a telegram from anywhere at all... Oh, and by the way. Don't call me "Your Honour"; we're not in the army, after all. First name and patronymic will do, or ... or just call me "Chief" - it's shorter and easier.' Fandorin smiled grimly at something or other and continued with the 'analysis'. 'Look here - we're getting somewhere. A certain cunning individual, who has simply found out the names of a few correspondents (which requires no more than leafing through the newspapers), sends off telegrams to the newspaper offices about the arrival of a German prince, and after that everything simply follows its own course. Reporters meet "His Highness" at the station, Russian Thought prints an interview, in which the honoured guest expresses extremely bold opinions on the Baltic question, categorically distancing himself from Bismarck's political line, and there you have it. Moscow is conquered, our patriots accept the duke with open arms. Ah, the press - how few people in Russia realise how powerful it really is ... Right, then, Tulipov; now we move on to our conclusions.'

When the Court Counsellor, or 'Chief, paused, Anisii felt afraid that he would have to draw the conclusions, and the poor courier's head was suddenly full of formless mist.

But no, Mr Fandorin managed without Anisii's assistance. He strode energetically across the study, clattered his beads rapidly and then clasped his hands behind his back.

'The membership of the Jack of Spades gang is unknown. There are at least three men involved: "Speier", the "Notary" and the "Duke". That is one. They are brazenly insolent, highly inventive and incredibly self-assured. That is t-two. There are no tracks to follow. That is three . . .' Erast Petrovich paused for a moment and concluded quietly, almost even stealthily: 'But there are certain clues, and that is four.'

'Really?' Anisii asked eagerly. He had been feeling dejected, expecting a quite different conclusion: This is hopeless, Tulipov, so you can go back to your courier's job.

'I think so. The "jacks" are firmly convinced that they have got away with it, and most likely that means they will want to play another prank or two. That is one. Even before this business with Lord Pitsbrook they managed to pull off two highly successful and extremely daring hoaxes. Both times they came away with plenty of money, both times they had the effrontery to leave their calling card, but they never even thought of gathering up their substantial trophies and leaving Moscow. So now ... Would you like a cigar?' The Court Counsellor clicked open the lid of an ebony casket standing on the desk.

Although, for reasons of economy, Anisii did not use tobacco, he could not resist and took one - the slim, neat, chocolate-coloured cigars looked so very appetising, with their red and gold labels. Imitating Erast Petrovich, he smacked his lips as he kindled the flame into life and prepared to experience a heavenly bliss that was the exclusive prerogative of rich gentlemen. He had seen cigars like this on Kuznetsky Most, in the window of Sychov's Colonial Shop - at one and a half roubles apiece.

'The next point,' Fandorin continued, 'is that the "jacks" use the same methods repeatedly. That is two. In both the business with the "Duke" and the episode with the "notary" they exploited the natural human propensity to trust the printed word. Well, all right, never mind His Lordship. The English are used to t-trusting everything that The Times p-prints. But look what fine informants our Moscow newspapers are ... First they inform the citizens of Moscow about "His Highness's" arrival, then they go on to create a ballyhoo and fill everyone's head with nonsense ... Tulipov, you don't inhale a cigar!'

But it was too late. Having completed his thoroughgoing preparations Anisii breathed in and filled his chest with the astringent smoke that was prickling the roof of his mouth. The light dimmed and poor Tulipov felt as if his insides had been ripped open with a file. He doubled up, coughing and choking and feeling that he was about to die on the spot.

Having revived him (with the help of water from the carafe and energetic slaps to Anisii's skinny back), Fandorin summed up briefly: 'Our job is to keep our eyes peeled.'

And now Tulipov had been keeping his eyes peeled for a week. In the morning, on the way to his most enviable job, he bought a full set of Moscow's various newspapers. He marked everything that was remarkable or unusual in them and reported to his 'chief over lunch.

Lunch deserves a special mention. When the Countess was in good spirits and came to the table, the food served was exquisite -dishes delivered from the Ertele French restaurant: some kind of chaud-froid with snipe and truffles, salat Romain, macedoine in melon and other culinary miracles that Anisii had never even heard of before. But if Addy had spent the morning feeling miserable in her boudoir or had gone out to unwind in the haberdashery and perfumery shops, then Masa seized power in the dining room, and things assumed a quite different complexion. Fandorin's valet went to the Japanese and Chinese shop on the Petrovsky Lanes and brought back unsalted rice, marinated radishes, crunchy seaweed that tasted like paper and sweet fried fish. The Court Counsellor ate all this poison with obvious relish, and Masa gave Anisii tea, a fresh bagel and sausage. To tell the truth, Tulipov greatly preferred this kind of meal, because in the presence of the lovely but capricious Countess, he was so completely overwhelmed that he was unable to appreciate the wonderful delicacies properly anyway.

Erast Petrovich listened attentively to the results of Tulipov's morning research. He dismissed the greater part out of hand and agreed to bear the remainder in mind. In the afternoon they separated to verify the facts: Anisii checked the suspicious announcements and his chief checked the important individuals who had arrived in Moscow (on the pretext of bringing them greetings from the Governor-General; he took a close look to make sure they were not impostors).

So far it had all come to nothing, but Anisii was not dispirited. He would gladly have carried on working like this for ever.

That morning Sonya had a stomach ache - she must have been gnawing the lime from the stove again - and so Tulipov had no time for breakfast at home. He wasn't given any coffee in the Chief's house either - it was a 'loud' day. Anisii sat quietly in the study, leafing through the newspapers and, as luck would have it, his eyes kept stumbling across advertisements for all kinds of food.

'Safatov's shop on Sretenka Street has received a delivery of the exceptionally tender salted beef known as "Entrecote", he read, even though the information was of no use to him. At 16 kops a pound, all lean meat, it can replace ham of the very highest sort.'

All in all, he barely survived until lunch, and he wolfed down his bagel as he reported on the day's catch to Erast Petrovich.

On that day, 11 February 1886, the number of new arrivals was small: five military generals and seven counsellors of state. The Chief marked down two to be visited: the head of the naval quartermaster service, Rear-Admiral von Bombe, and the head of the state treasury, Privy Counsellor Svinin.

Then Tulipov moved on to the more interesting subject of unusual announcements.

'By decision of the Municipal Duma,' he read out, with significant pauses, 'two shop-owners from the Municipal Arcade on Red Square are to be invited to a consultation on the establishment of a joint-stock company for the purpose of rebuilding the Municipal Arcade and erecting on its current site an emporium with a glass dome.'

'Well, what do you f-find suspicious about that?' asked Fandorin.

'It doesn't make sense, does it - why does an emporium need a glass dome?' Anisii remarked reasonably. And anyway, Chief, you told me to point out to you any announcements that invite people to contribute money, and this is a joint-stock company. Perhaps it's a swindle?'

'It isn't,' the Court Counsellor reassured him. 'The Duma really has decided to demolish the Municipal Arcade and build an enclosed three-storey gallery in the Russian style in its place. Go on.'

Tulipov set aside the rejected article from the Moscow Municipal Gazette and picked up the Russian Word.

'Chess Tournament. At two o'clock this afternoon in the premises of the Moscow Society of Chess Lovers, M. I. Chigorin will play a tournament against ten opponents. Mr Chigorin will play a I'aveugle, without looking at the board or writing down his moves. The stake for a game is 100 roubles. An entry ticket costs 2 roubles. All who wish to attend are welcome.'

'Without looking at the board?' Erast Petrovich asked in surprise, and made a note in his little book. 'All right. I'll go along and play.'

Cheered by this, Anisii went on to read an announcement from the Moscow Municipal Police Gazette.

'Unprecedented real estate lottery. The international evangelical society "The Tears of Jesus" is holding its first monumental charitable lottery in Moscow to support the construction of the Chapel of the Shroud of the Lord in Jerusalem. Fantastically valuable prizes, donated by benefactors from all over Europe: apartment houses, villas in the finest European cities. Prizes are confirmed on the spot! One standard ticket for 25 roubles. Hurry, the lottery will only be in Moscow for one week, and then it will move on to St Petersburg.'

Erast Petrovich was intrigued. A monumental lottery? A very creative idea. The public will take to it. No need to wait for the draw; you learn if you've won anything straight away. Interesting. And it doesn't look like a swindle. Using the Police Gazette f-for a hoax is too bold a move altogether. Although we can expect anything from the "jacks" ... I think you'd better go there, Tulipov. Here's twenty-five roubles. Buy a ticket for me. Go on.'

'News! I have the honour to inform the respected public that in recent days my museum, located opposite Solodovnikov's Passage, has taken delivery from London of an extremely lively and cheerful chimpanzee with a baby. Entrance 3 roubles. F. Patek.'

And what has the chimpanzee done to displease you?' the Chief asked with a shrug. 'What do you s-suspect her of?'

'It's unusual,' Anisii mumbled. In all honesty, he had simply wanted to take a look at this great marvel, especially since it was so 'lively and cheerful'. And the entrance charge is too high.'

'No, that's not ambitious enough for the Jack of Spades,' said Fandorin, shaking his head. And you can't disguise yourself as a chimpanzee. Especially a baby one. Go on.'

'Missing dog. On 28 January this year a male dog, a large mongrel by the name of Hector, went missing. He is black, with a crooked rear left leg and a white patch on his chest. Anyone who returns him will receive 50 roubles. Bolshaya Ordynka

Street, the house of Countess Tolstaya, ask for Privat-Docent Andreev.'

The Chief sighed at this announcement too: 'You seem to be in the mood for fun this morning, Tulipov. What would we want with "large mongrel"?'

'But it's fifty roubles, Erast Petrovich! For a common mongrel! That's really suspicious!'

'Ah, Tulipov, people love that kind of beast, with crooked legs, more than the handsome ones. You don't understand a thing about love. Go on.'

Anisii sniffed resentfully, thinking: And you know so much about love, don't you? That's why the doors slam in your house in the morning and they don't serve my coffee.

He read out the next item of the day's harvest: 'Male impotence, weakness and the consequences of the sins of youth cured with electrical discharges and galvanic baths by Doctor of Medicine Emmanuel Straus.'

An obvious charlatan,' Erast Petrovich agreed. Only it's rather petty for the "jacks", isn't it? But go and check anyway'

Anisii returned from his expedition shortly after three in the afternoon, tired and with nothing to show for it, but in a good mood which, as a matter of fact, had been with him all through the preceding week. He was looking forward to the most enjoyable stage of the work: the analysis and discussion of the events of the day.

'I see from the absence of any gleam in your eyes that your nets are empty' the perspicacious Erast Petrovich said in greeting. He had evidently only got back recently himself -he was still wearing his uniform and the crosses of his decorations.

And what do you have, Chief?' Tulipov asked hopefully 'What about the generals? And the chess player?'

'The generals are genuine. And so is the chess player. A truly phenomenal gift: he sat with his back to the boards and didn't take any notes. He won nine games out of ten and only lost one. Not bad business, as the traders say nowadays. Mr Chigorin took in nine hundred roubles and paid out a hundred. A net profit of eight hundred, and all in about an hour.'

And who did he lose to?' Anisii asked curiously.

'Me,' his chief replied. 'But that's not important; the time was wasted.'

Wasted, was it? thought Tulipov. A hundred roubles' worth!

He asked respectfully: 'Do you play chess well?'

'Terribly badly. It was pure luck.' Looking in the mirror, Fandorin adjusted the already ideal wings of his starched collar. 'You see, Tulipov, in my own way I am also something of a phenomenon. The gambler's passion is unknown to me, I loathe all games, but I always have the most fantastic luck in them. I grew used to it a long time ago and it no longer surprises me. It even happens in chess. Mr Chigorin got his squares confused and ordered his queen to be moved to f5, instead of f6, right beside my rook, and he was so upset that he decided not to continue. Playing ten games without looking is really extremely difficult, after all. But what have you got to tell me?'

Anisii gathered himself, because at these moments he felt as if he were taking an examination. But it was an enjoyable examination, not like a real one. Nobody gave him poor marks or failed him here, and quite often he won praise for his keen observation or quick-wittedness.

Today, it was true, he had nothing special to boast about. Firstly Tulipov's conscience was not entirely clear: he had taken himself off to Patek's museum after all, spent three roubles of public money and gaped for half an hour at the chimpanzee and her baby (they really were both exceptionally lively and cheerful, the advertisement had not lied), although this was of absolutely no benefit to the job in hand whatsoever. He had also gone round to Bolshaya Ordynka Street, out of sheer professional zeal, had a word with the owner of the mongrel with the crooked leg and listened to his heart- breaking story, which had concluded in restrained manly sobbing.

Anisii did not really feel like telling the Chief all the details about the electrical doctor. He started, but then became embarrassed and broke off. In the line of duty he had had to submit to a shameful and rather painful procedure, and even now it still felt as if he had needles pricking his crotch.

'Straus, that doctor, is a repulsive character,' Anisii tattled to Erast Petrovich. "Very suspicious. Asks all sorts of foul questions.' And he concluded spitefully: 'There's someone the police ought to look into.'

Erast Petrovich, a man of delicate sensibilities, did not inquire into the details. He said with a serious air: 'It was praiseworthy of you to subject yourself to the electrical procedure, especially since in your case any "consequences of the sins of youth" are scarcely possible. Self-sacrifice for the sake of the cause deserves every encouragement, but it would have been quite enough to restrict yourself to a few questions. For instance, how much this doctor charges for a session.'

'Five roubles. Here, I even have a receipt,' said Anisii, reaching into the pocket where he kept all his financial records.

'No need,' said the Court Counsellor, waving the paper aside. 'The "jacks" would hardly bother getting their hands dirty for the sake of five roubles.'

Anisii wilted. That accursed pricking had begun spreading so fast across his electrically tormented body that he actually squirmed on his chair and, in order to undo the unfavourable impression created by his foolishness, he began telling Erast Petrovich about the monumental lottery.

A respectable institution. Only one word for it: Europe. They're renting the first floor in the building of the Tutelary Council for the Care of Orphans. The queue goes all the way down the stairs, people of every rank and class, even quite a few from the nobility. I stood there for forty minutes, Erast Petrovich, before I reached the counter. Russian people are certainly responsive to an appeal for charity.'

Fandorin twitched one sable eyebrow vaguely. 'So you think it's all above board? Not a whiff of any swindle?'

'Oh no, not at all! There's a constable at the door, with a shoulder belt and sword. He salutes everyone respectfully. When you go in, there's a counter, and behind it there's a very modest, pretty young lady with a pince-nez, all in black, with a white headscarf and a cross hanging round her neck. A nun or a lay sister, or perhaps just a volunteer - you can't tell with those foreigners. She takes the money and lets you spin the drum. She speaks fluent Russian, only with an accent. You spin it yourself and take the ticket out yourself - it's all fair and square. The drum's made of glass, with little folded pieces of cardboard in it - blue for twenty-five roubles and pink for fifty roubles - that's for those who want to contribute more. No one took any pink ones while I was there, though. You open up the ticket right there, in front of everyone. If you haven't won, it says: "May the Lord save you." Here, look.' Anisii took out a handsome piece of blue cardboard with Gothic lettering on it. And anyone who's won anything goes in behind the counter. There's a desk in there, with the chairman of the lottery sitting at it, a very impressive, elderly clerical gentleman. He confirms the prizes and does the paperwork. And the young lady thanks the people who don't win most cordially and pins a beautiful paper rose on their chests as a sign of their charity'

Anisii took out the paper rose that he had carefully tucked away in his pocket. He was thinking of taking it to Sonya; she would be delighted.

Erast Petrovich inspected the rose and even sniffed it. 'It smells of "Parma Violets",' he observed. An expensive perfume. You say the young lady is modest?'

'She's a really nice girl,' Tulipov confirmed. And she has such a shy smile.'

'Well, well. And do people sometimes win?'

'I should say so!' Anisii exclaimed! When I was still standing in the queue on the stairs one fortunate gentleman came out who looked like a professor. All flushed, he was, waving a piece of paper with seals on it - he'd won an estate in Bohemia. Five hundred acres! And this morning, they say some official's wife drew a tenement house actually in Paris. Six storeys! Just imagine that kind of luck! They say she had quite a turn; they had to give her smelling salts. And after that professor who won the estate, lots of people started taking two or three tickets at once. Who minds paying twenty-five roubles a time for prizes like that? Ah,

I didn't have any money of my own with me, or I'd have tried my luck too.'

Anisii squinted up dreamily at the ceiling, imagining himself unfolding a piece of cardboard and finding ... What would it be? Well, for instance, a chateau on the shores of Lake Geneva (he had seen the famous lake in a picture - oh, it was so beautiful).

'Six storeys?' the Court Counsellor asked, off the subject. 'In Paris? And an estate in B-Bohemia? I see. You know what, Tulipov: you come with me, and I'll play this lottery of yours. Can we get there before it closes?'

So that was his cool, god-like self-control - and he said the gambler's passion was unknown to him.

They barely got there in time. The queue on the stairs had not grown any shorter; the lottery was open until half past five, and it had already struck five o'clock. The clients were feeling nervous.

Fandorin walked slowly up the steps until he reached the door and then said politely: 'Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen, I'd just like to take a look - out of curiosity'

And - would you believe it! - he was allowed through without a murmur. They'd have thrown me out, for sure, thought Anisii, but they'd never think of doing that to someone like him.

The constable on duty at the door, a fine, upstanding young fellow with a dashing curl to his ginger moustaches, raised his hand to his grey astrakhan cap in salute. Erast Petrovich strolled across the spacious room divided into two by a counter. Anisii had taken a look round the lottery office the last time, and so he immediately fixed his envious gaze on the spinning drum. But he also kept glancing at the pretty young lady, who was just pinning a paper flower on the lapel of a distraught student and murmuring something consoling.

The Court Counsellor inspected the drum in the most attentive manner possible and then turned his attention to the chairman, a fine-looking, clean-shaven gentleman in a single-breasted jacket with an upright collar. The chairman was clearly bored and he even yawned briefly once, delicately placing his open hand over his mouth.

For some reason Erast Petrovich pressed a single white-gloved finger to the plaque bearing the legend 'Ladies and gentlemen who buy a pink ticket are allowed through ahead of the queue' and asked: 'Mademoiselle, could I please have one pink ticket?'

'Oh, yes, of course; you are a real Christian,' the young lady said in agreeably accented Russian, at the same time bestowing a radiant smile on this benefactor and tucking away a lock of golden hair that escaped from under her headscarf as she gladly accepted the fifty-rouble note proffered by Fandorin.

Anisii held his breath as he watched his chief casually reach into the drum, take hold of the first pink ticket he came across between his finger and thumb, pull it out and unfold it.

'It's not empty, surely?' the young lady asked in dismay. Ah, I was quite certain that you were sure to win! The last gentleman who took a pink ticket won a genuine palazzo in Venice! With its own mooring for gondolas and a front porch for carriages! Perhaps you would like to try again, sir?'

With a porch for carriages. My, my' said Fandorin, clicking his tongue as he examined the little picture on the ticket: a winged angel with its hands folded in prayer and covered with a piece of cloth that was obviously intended to symbolise a shroud.

Erast Petrovich turned to face the queue of customers, doffed his top hat respectfully and declared in a loud, resolute voice: 'Ladies and gentlemen, I am Erast Petrovich Fandorin, His Excellency the Governor-General's Deputy for Special Assignments. This lottery is hereby declared under arrest on suspicion of fraud. Constable, clear the premises immediately and do not admit anyone else!'

'Yes, Your Honour!' the constable with the ginger moustaches barked, without the slightest thought of doubting the resolute gentleman's authority.

The constable proved to be an efficient fellow. He flapped his arms as if he were herding geese and drove the agitated, clamouring customers out through the door with great alacrity. No sooner had he rumbled 'If you please, if you please, you can see what's happened for yourselves' than the room cleared and the guardian of order drew himself erect at the entrance, ready to carry out the next order.

The Court Counsellor nodded in satisfaction and turned towards Anisii, who was standing there with his mouth hanging open at this unexpected turn of events.

The elderly gentleman - the pastor or whoever he was - also seemed to be quite perturbed. He stood up, leaned over the counter and froze, blinking goggle-eyed.

But the modest young lady reacted in an absolutely amazing manner. She suddenly winked one blue eye at Anisii from behind her pince-nez, ran across the room and leapt up on to the broad window sill with a cry of 'Hup-la!' Then she clicked open the catch and pushed the window open, letting in the fresh, frosty smell from the street outside.

'Hold her!' Erast Petrovich shouted in a despairing voice.

With a sudden start, Anisii went dashing after the agile maiden. He reached out a hand to grab her skirt, but his fingers simply slid across the smooth, resilient silk. The young lady jumped out of the window and Tulipov slumped across the window sill, just in time to see her skirts expand gracefully as she glided downwards.

The first floor was high above the ground, but the dare-devil jumper landed in the snow with the agility of a cat, without even falling. She turned round and waved to Anisii, then lifted her skirt high to reveal a pair of shapely legs in high galoshes and black stockings, and went dashing off along the pavement. A moment later, and the fugitive had slipped out of the circle of light cast by the street lamp and disappeared into the rapidly gathering twilight.

'Oh, my gosh!' said Anisii, crossing himself as he scrambled up on to the window sill. He knew as a matter of absolute certainty that he was about to hurt himself, and he would be lucky just to break a leg, but it could easily be his back. He and Sonya would make a fine pair then: the paralysed brother and the idiot sister - a wonderful couple.

He squeezed his eyes shut, preparing to jump, but the Chief's firm hand grabbed hold of him by the coat-tails.

'Let her go,' saidFandorin, watching the young lady's receding figure with amused bewilderment. 'We have the main culprit here.'

The Court Counsellor walked unhurriedly across to the chairman of the lottery, who threw up his arms as if in surrender and without waiting for any questions, started jabbering: 'Your, Your Excell— I just accepted a small emolument ... I have no idea what is going on, I just do what they tell me ... There's the gentleman over there - ask him ... the one pretending to be a constable.'

Erast Petrovich and Tulipov turned in the direction indicated by the trembling hand, but the constable was not there. There was just his uniform cap, swaying gently to and fro on a hook.

The Chief dashed towards the door, with Anisii following him. Once they saw the dense, agitated crowd on the stairs, they knew there was no way they could force their way through it. Fandorin grimaced violently, rapped himself on the forehead with his knuckles and slammed the door shut.

Meanwhile Anisii was examining the astrakhan cap that the fake constable had left behind. It was just an ordinary cap, except that that there was a playing card attached to its lining: a coyly smiling page-boy wearing a plumed hat, under the sign of the suit of spades.

'But how on earth -? How did you -?' Anisii babbled, gazing in amazement at his infuriated chief. 'How did you guess? Chief, you're an absolute genius!'

'I'm not a genius, I'm a blockhead!' Erast Petrovich retorted angrily. 'I fell for it, hook, line and sinker! I went for the puppet and let the leader get away. He's cunning, the rogue, oh, he's cunning ... You ask me how I guessed? I didn't have to guess. I told you I never lose at any game, especially if it's a matter of luck. When the ticket didn't win, I knew straight away it was a swindle.' He paused for a moment and added: And anyway, who ever heard of a Venetian palazzo with a porch for carriages? There aren't any carriages in Venice, only boats ...'

Anisii was about to ask how the Chief had known that the

Jack of Spades was behind everything, but before he could, the Court Counsellor roared in fury: 'Why are you still examining that damned cap? What's so interesting about it?'

CHAPTER 4

One Good Turn Deserves Another

If there was one thing he simply could not stand, it was the mysterious and inexplicable. Every event, even the sudden appearance of a pimple on your nose, had its own prehistory and immediate cause. Nothing in the world ever happened just like that, entirely out of the blue. But suddenly here, by your leave, an excellently planned, elegant and - why indulge in false modesty? - brilliant operation had simply collapsed for no obvious reason whatever.

One half of the study door swung open slightly with a repulsive squeak and Mimi's cute little face appeared in the crack. Momos grabbed a leather slipper off one foot and flung it furiously, aiming at that golden fringe - keep out; don't interrupt when I'm thinking. The door hastily slammed shut. He ruffled up his hair furiously, sending curling papers flying in all directions, clamped his teeth on his chibouk and started scraping the copper nib of his pen across a sheet of paper.

The accounts looked abominable.

At an approximate calculation, the earnings from the lottery at the end of the first day came to seven or eight thousand. The till had been confiscated, so that was a complete loss.

Over the week, the lottery ought to have gathered speed at an increasing rate, bringing in sixty thousand at the most conservative estimate. It couldn't have been dragged out any longer than that - some impatient owner of a villa in Paris would have gone to admire his winnings and seen that the object concealed beneath the 'flaming heart' drawers - that is, under the shroud - was not at all what he had thought it was. But they could have gone on gathering honey for a week at least.

So their unearned profit came to sixty thousand, and that was the minimum minimorum.

And what about the non-recoverable expenditure on the preparations? It was a mere trifle, of course. Renting the first floor, printing the tickets, equipment. But this was a matter of principle - Momos had been left with a loss!

Then, they'd arrested the stooge. Admittedly he didn't know a thing, but that was bad; it was untidy. And he felt sorry for the old fool, an actor from the Maly Theatre who had taken to drink. He'd be feeding the fleas in the lock-up now for his miserable thirty roubles advance.

But he felt sorriest of all for his magnificent idea. A monumental lottery - it was so delightful! What was the worst thing about those overplayed swindles called lotteries? First the client paid his money, and then he had to wait for the draw. A draw, note, that he himself wouldn't see. Why should he take anyone's word that everything was honest and above board? And how many people actually liked to wait? People were impatient -everybody knew that.

This had been different, however: pick out your own beautiful, crisp little ticket to heaven with your own fair hand. The little angel entices you, seduces you: have no doubts, dear Mr Blockhead Idiotovich. What could there possibly be behind this alluring little picture but absolute delight for you? Unlucky? Well, never mind; why don't you try again?

The details had been important, of course - so that it wouldn't be just an ordinary charitable lottery but a European, evangelical lottery. The Orthodox believers weren't over-fond of members of other creeds, but where money was concerned they trusted them more than their own - that was a well-known fact. And organising it not just anywhere, but at the Tutelary Council for the Care of Orphans! And advertising it in the Police Gazette! In the first place, it was a paper the people of Moscow loved and enjoyed reading, and in the second, who would ever suspect anything crooked there? And then there was the constable at the entrance!

Momos tore off his curling papers and tugged a lock of hair down from his forehead to his eyes - the ginger colour was almost gone. He only had to wash it once more and it would be fine. It was a pity that the ends of his hair had faded and split -that was from dying it so often. There was nothing to be done about that; it was part of his profession.

The door squeaked again and Mimi said quickly: 'Pussy cat, don't throw anything. A man's brought what you told him to.'

Momos roused himself. 'Who? Sliunkov?'

'I don't know; he's repulsive, hair slicked over a bald patch. The one you cleaned out at whist at Christmas.'

'Send him in!'

The first thing Momos always did when he was preparing to conquer new territory was acquire a few useful people. It was like going hunting. When you came to a rich hunting ground, you took a look around, checked the forest paths, spied out convenient hidey-holes, studied the habits of the game; and in Moscow Momos had his own informants in various key positions. Take this Sliunkov, for instance: a man with a lowly position, a clerk from the secret section of the Governor's chancellery, but he could be so useful. He'd come in handy in that business with the Englishman, and he was just what was needed now. Reeling in the clerk couldn't possibly have been any easier: Sliunkov had lost three and a half thousand at cards and now he was bending over backwards to get his IOUs back.

The man who came in had sleeked-down hair and flat feet, with a document folder under his arm. He spoke in a half-whisper, constantly glancing round at the door: Antoine Bonifatievich' - he knew Momos as a French citizen - 'in the name of Christ the Lord, this is a hard-labour offence. Be quick, don't ruin me. I'm shaking in my shoes.'

Momos pointed without speaking: Put the folder on the desk, his gesture said. Then he waved his hand, still without speaking: Now wait outside the door.

The folder bore the following heading:

Deputy for Special Assignments

ERAST PETROVICH FANDORIN

At the top left there was a stamp:

Office of the

Governor-General of Moscow. Secret records

And then, written by hand: 'Top secret'. There was a list of documents pasted inside the cardboard cover:

Service record Confidential references Personal information

Well now, let's take a look at this Fandorin who's appeared to taunt us.

Half an hour later the clerk left on tiptoe with the secret file and a cancelled IOU for five hundred roubles. For a good turn like that, Momos could have handed back all his IOUs, but he might still come in useful again.

Momos strolled thoughtfully round the study, toying absent-mindedly with the tassel of his dressing gown. So that was him: an unmasker of conspiracies and master of secret investigations? He had more orders and medals than a bottle of champagne. A Knight of the Japanese Orders of the Chrysathemums - that was remarkable. And he'd distinguished himself in Turkey, and Japan, and travelled on special assignments to Europe. Yes indeed, a serious gentleman.

What had it said there in the references? - 'Exceptional abilities in the conduct of delicate and secret matters, especially those requiring skills of investigative deduction.' Hmm. He would like to know how the gentleman had deduced the nature of the lottery on the very first day.

Well never mind, my scary Japanese wolf; it still remains to be seen whose tail will end up in the trap, Momos warned his invisible opponent. But he shouldn't put his entire trust in official documents, no matter how secret they might be. The information on Mr Fandorin needed to be supplemented and 'fleshed out'.

The fleshing-out of the information took three days. During that time Momos undertook the following actions.

Having transformed himself into a manservant looking for a position, he befriended Prokop Kuzmich, the yard-keeper of Fandorin's landlord at the estate. They took a drop of vodka together, with pickled mushrooms, and had a chat about this and that.

He visited Korsh's Theatre and observed the box where Fandorin was sitting with his lady-love, the fugitive wife of the St Petersburg Usher of the Chamber, Opraksin. He did not look at the stage, on which, as chance would have it, they were performing Mr Nikolaev's play Special Assignment, but only at the Court Counsellor and his current flame. He made excellent use of his Zeiss binoculars, which looked like opera glasses, but had a magnification factor of 10. The Countess was, of course, a perfect beauty, but not to Momos's taste. He knew her kind very well and preferred to admire their beauty from a distance.

Mimi also made her contribution. In the guise of a milliner, she made the acquaintance of the Countess's maid Natasha and sold her a new serge dress at a very good price. In the process they drank coffee with cakes, chatted about women's matters and gossiped a little.

By the end of the third day the plan of the counter-attack was ready. It would be subtle and elegant - exactly what was required.

The operation was set for Saturday, 15 February.

The military action unfolded precisely according to the planned dispositions. At a quarter to eleven in the morning, when the curtains were drawn back at the windows of the outhouse on Malaya Nikitskaya Street, a postman delivered an urgent telegram addressed to the Countess Opraksina.

Momos was sitting in a carriage diagonally across from the estate, keeping an eye on his watch. He noticed some kind of movement behind the windows of the outhouse and even thought he could hear a woman shouting. Thirty minutes after the delivery of the message, Mr Fandorin himself and the Countess hastily emerged from the house. Trotting along behind them, tying up her headscarf, came a ruddy-cheeked young woman -the aforementioned maid Natasha. Madame Opraksina was in a state of obvious agitation. The Court Counsellor was saying something to her, apparently trying to calm her down, but the Countess evidently did not wish to be calmed. But then, he could understand how Her Excellency must be feeling. The telegram that had been delivered read: 'Addy, I am arriving in Moscow on the eleven o'clock train and coming straight to you. Things cannot go on like this. You will either leave with me or I shall shoot myself before your very eyes. Yours, insane with grief, Tony'

According to information received from the maid, Madame Opraksina might have abandoned her legal spouse, the Privy Counsellor and Usher of the Chamber Count Anton Apollonovich Opraksin, but she still called him Tony. It was perfectly natural that Monsieur Fandorin would decide to spare the lady an unpleasant scene. And, of course, he would accompany her as she was evacuated, since Ariadna Arkadievna was highly strung and would need to be consoled at length.

When Fandorin's conspicuous sleigh with its cavern of fluffy American bearskin had disappeared round the corner, Momos unhurriedly finished his cigar, looked in the mirror to check that his disguise was in order and, at precisely twenty minutes past eleven, jumped out of the carriage. He was wearing the uniform of an usher of the chamber, complete with ribbon, star and sword, and a three-cornered hat with a plumage on his head. For a man who had come straight from the train, of course, it was a strange outfit, but it ought to impress the oriental servant. The important thing was to be swift and decisive - to give him no chance to gather his wits.

Momos walked through the gates with a determined stride, crossed the yard at a half-run and hammered loudly on the door of the wing, although he could see the bell clearly enough.

The door was opened by Fandorin's valet, a Japanese subject by the name of Masa, who was absolutely devoted to Fandorin. This information, and also the previous day's close study of Mr Goshkevich's book on Japanese manners and customs, had been of assistance to Momos in determining how he ought to comport himself

Aha, Monsieur Fandorin!' Momos roared at the slanty-eyed short-ass, rolling his eyes in a bloodthirsty manner. Abductor of other men's wives! Where is she? Where is my adored Addy? What have you done with her?'

If Mr Goshkevich could be trusted (and why not trust such a highly respected scholar?), there was nothing worse for a Japanese than a shameful situation and a public scandal. And furthermore, the yellow-skinned sons of the Mikado had a highly developed sense of responsibility to their suzerain and lord and, for this round-cheeked chappy, Court Counsellor Fandorin was his suzerain.

The valet was genuinely alarmed. He bowed from the waist and muttered: Apowogy apowogy. I at fawt. I steal wife, cannot weturn.'

Momos did not understand the oriental's mutterings or what it had to do with anything, but one thing was clear: as befitted a Japanese vassal, the valet was prepared to accept responsibility for his master's guilt.

'Ki me, I at fawt,' the faithful servant said with a bow and backed inside, gesturing for the menacing visitor to follow.

Aha, he doesn't want the neighbours to hear, Momos guessed. Well, that suited his own plans perfectly.

Once inside the hallway, Momos pretended to look more closely and realise his mistake: 'Why you're not Fandorin! Where is he? And where is she - my beloved?'

The Japanese backed away to the door of the drawing room, bowing all the time. Realising that he could not pass himself off as his master, he straightened up, folded his arms across his chest and rapped out: 'Massa no hea. Gon way. Foweva.'

'You're lying, you rogue,' Momos groaned, dashing forward and pushing Fandorin's vassal aside.

Sitting in the drawing room, cowering in his chair, was a puny, lop-eared, pimply creature in a shabby frock coat. His presence was no surprise to Momos. This was Anisii Tulipov, a lowly employee of the Department of Gendarmes. He dragged himself all the way here every morning, and he'd been at the lottery.

Aha-a!' Momos drawled rapaciously. 'So that's where you are. Mr Libertine.'

The puny, lop-eared creature leapt to his feet, gulped convulsively and babbled: 'Your ... Your Excellency ... I don't, actually

Aha, Momos concluded, that means the boy is aware of his superior's personal circumstances - he'd realised immediately who'd come calling.

'How, how, did you lure her away?' Momos groaned. 'My God, Addy' he roared at the top of his voice, gazing around, 'what did this ugly freak tempt you with?'

At the word 'freak', the puny creature flushed bright scarlet, clearly taking offence. Momos had to switch tactics in mid-stride.

'Could you really have yielded to this wanton gaze and these voluptuous hps!' he howled, addressing the innocent Addy. 'This lustful satyr, this "knight of the chrysanthemums" only wants your body, but I cherish your soul! Where are you?'

The puny youth drew himself erect. 'Sir, Your Excellency. I am only aware of the delicate circumstances of this situation by pure chance. I am not Erast Petrovich Fandorin, as you seem to have thought I was. His Honour is not here. Nor is Ariadna Arkadievna. And so there is absolutely no point in your—'

'What do you mean, not here? Momos interrupted in a broken voice, slumping on to a chair in exhaustion. 'Then where is she, my little kitten?' When he received no reply, he exclaimed: 'No, I don't believe you! I know for certain that she is here!'

He set off round the house like a whirlwind, flinging open the doors, thinking to himself on the way: A fine apartment, and furnished with taste. When he came to the room with the dressing table covered with little jars and crystal bottles, he froze and sobbed: 'My God, it's her casket. And her fan.' He lowered his face into his hands. And I was still hoping, still believing it wasn't true

The next trick was intended for the Japanese snuffling behind him. It was something he ought to like. Momos pulled his short sword out of its scabbard and with a face contorted by passion, he hissed: 'No, better death. I cannot endure such shame.'

Spotty-faced Tulipov gasped in terror, but the valet looked at the disgraced husband with unconcealed admiration.

'Suicide is a grave sin,' the little sleuth said, pressing his hands to his chest in great agitation. 'You will destroy your soul and condemn Ariadna Arkadievna to eternal suffering. This is love, Your Excellency; there is nothing to be done. You should forgive. Act like a Christian.'

'Forgive?' the miserable usher of the chamber muttered, perplexed. 'Like a Christian?'

'Yes!' the boy exclaimed passionately. 'I know it's hard, but it will lighten the burden of your soul, you'll see!'

Momos wiped away a tear, dumbfounded. 'To truly forgive and forget ... Let them laugh, let them despise me. Marriages are made in heaven. I shall take my darling away. I shall save her!' He raised his eyes prayerfully to the ceiling, and large, genuine tears flowed down his cheeks - that was another miraculous gift that Momos possessed.

The valet suddenly came to life. 'Yes, yes. Take way, take way home, awtogeweh,' he said, nodding. "Vewy ansom, vewy nobuw. Why hawakiwi, no need hawakiwi, not wike Chwischan!'

Momos stood there with his eyes closed and his brows knitted in suffering. The other two waited with bated breath to see which feeling would win out: wounded pride or nobility.

It was nobility.

Momos shook his head decisively and declared: "Very well, so be it. The Lord has preserved me from mortal sin.' He thrust the sword back into its scabbard and crossed himself with vigorous sweeps of his hand. Thank you, my dear man, for saving a Christian soul from damnation.' He held his hand out to the puny creature, who clutched it and held on to it, squeezing Momos's fingers with tears in his eyes.

The Japanese asked nervously: 'Take wady's fings home? Awtogeweh?'

'Yes, yes, my friend,' Momos said with a nod of noble sadness. 'I have a carriage. Take her things and put them in it, her clothes, her tri-tri-trinkets.' His voice trembled and his shoulders began to shake. The valet dashed away and began stuffing trunks and suitcases, afraid the mournful husband might change his mind. The pimply boy dragged the luggage out into the yard, puffing and panting. Momos walked round the rooms again and admired the Japanese prints. Some of them were most entertaining, with indecent details. He stuffed a couple of the more savoury ones inside his jacket - to amuse Mimi. In the master's study he took a set of jade beads, as a souvenir. And he left something in their place, also as a souvenir. It took less than ten minutes to load everything.

The valet and the pimply sleuth both saw the 'Count' to his carriage and even helped him up on to the footboard. The carriage had sunk considerably lower on its springs under the weight of Addy's luggage.

'Drive,' Momos told the coachman in a melancholy voice, and rode away from the field of battle.

He held the Countess's jewellery box in his hands, lovingly fingering the glittering stones. It was actually not a bad haul at all. Pleasure had been combined with business in a most satisfactory fashion. The sapphire diadem alone - the one he had already taken note of in the theatre - was probably worth a good thirty thousand. Or should he give it to Mimi, to go with her lovely blue eyes?

As he drove along Tverskaya Street, a familiar sleigh came rushing along in the opposite direction. The Court Counsellor was alone, with his fur coat unbuttoned and a resolute look on his pale face. He was on his way to have things out with the ferocious husband. Most praiseworthy - he was a brave man. But it was Madame Addy to whom the dear fellow would have to make his explanations now and, according to the information that Momos possessed and his own personal impressions, those explanations would not be easily made. Addy is going to give you hell, Momos thought, delighted at the prospect. That will teach you to spoil Momos's fun, Mr Fandorin. One good turn always deserves another.

CHAPTER 5

A Grouse Hunt

The meeting to consult on the case of the Jack of Spades was limited to a narrow circle: His Excellency Prince Dolgorukoi, Frol Grigorievich Vedishchev, Erast Petrovich Fandorin and, like a quiet little mouse in the corner, the humble servant of God, Anisii.

It was evening time and the lamp under its green shade illuminated only the Governor's writing desk and its immediate surroundings, so that candidate-for-a-state-rank-title Tulipov was as good as invisible in the soft shadows that filled the corners of the study.

The speaker's voice was low, dry and monotonous, and His Excellency the Governor seemed to be almost dozing off: his wrinkled eyelids were closed and the long wings of his moustache were trembling in time to his slow, regular breathing.

Meanwhile the report was approaching its most interesting part: the conclusions.

'It would be reasonable t-to assume,' Fandorin stated, 'that the gang consists of the following members: the "Duke", "Speier", the "Notary", the "Constable", the girl with exceptional gymnastic abilities, "Count Opraksin" and his coachman.'

At the words 'Count Opraksin', one corner of the Court Counsellor's mouth turned down in suffering, and a tactful silence filled the study. However, when Anisii looked a little closer, he saw that he was the only one actually maintaining a tactful silence and everyone else was simply saying nothing without being the slightest bit tactful. Vedishchev was smiling openly in glee, and even His Excellency opened one eye and gave an eloquent grunt.

In fact the outcome of the previous day's events had been very far from funny. After the Chief discovered the jack of spades (on the malachite paperweight in the study, where his jade beads had been lying), his perennial sangfroid had deserted him. Admittedly, he hadn't said a word of reproach to Anisii, but he had berated his valet ferociously in Japanese. Poor Masa had been so affected by it that he wanted to do away with himself and had even gone running into the kitchen to get the bread knife. It had taken Erast Petrovich a long time to calm the poor fellow down afterwards.

But that had been just the beginning; the real fireworks had begun when Addy came back. Recalling what had happened then, Anisii shuddered. The Chief had been presented with a stern ultimatum: until he returned her toiletries, scent and jewellery, Ariadna Arkadievna would wear the same dress and the same sable cloak; she would apply no scent and keep the same pearl earrings on. And if that should make her ill, then Erast Petrovich would be solely and completely to blame. Tulipov had not heard what came after that, because he had taken the coward's way out and withdrawn but, if the Court Counsellor's pale face and the dark circles under his eyes were anything to go by, he had not got any sleep last night.

'I warned you, my dear fellow, that nothing good would come of this escapade of yours,' Prince Dolgorukoi declared in a didactic tone, 'nothing good at all. A respectable lady, from the highest echelon of society, a husband with a very substantial position. I even received complaints about you from the Court Chancellery. As if there aren't enough women without husbands, or at least of more modest rank.'

Erast Petrovich flushed and Anisii was frightened he might say something more than could be permitted to his high-ranking superior, but the Court Counsellor took himself in hand and carried on talking about the case as if nothing out of the ordinary had been said: 'That was how I imagined the membership of the gang as late as yesterday. However, after analysing what my assistant has told me about yesterday's ... events, I have changed my opinion. And entirely thanks to Mr Tulipov, who has rendered the investigation invaluable assistance.'

Anisii was most surprised by this declaration and Vedishchev, the spiteful old man, interposed venomously. 'Why, of course, he's a well-known agent. Anisii, why don't you tell us how you carried the suitcases out to the carriage and took the Jack by the elbow and helped him in so that he wouldn't, God forbid, miss his step.'

Tulipov blushed bright red in torment, and wished the earth would simply swallow him up.

'Frol Grigorievich,' said the Chief, interceding for Anisii, 'your gloating is out of place. All of us here have been made fools of, each in his own way ... begging your pardon, Your Excellency' The Governor had started dozing again and gave no response to the apology, and Fandorin continued. 'So let us try to make allowances for each other. We have a quite exceptionally strong and audacious opponent.'

'Not opponent - opponents. An entire gang,' Vedishchev corrected him.

'What Tulipov told me has made me doubt that.' The Chief slipped his hand into his pocket, but immediately jerked it back out, as if he'd burned his fingers. He was going to take out his beads, Anisii guessed, but the beads aren't there.

'My assistant remembered what the "Count's" carriage looked like and described it to me in detail, in particular the monogram "ZG" on the door. That is the sign of the Zinovy Goder company, which rents out carriages, sleighs and fiacres, both with coachmen and without. This morning I visited the company's office and was able without any difficulty to locate the very carriage: a scratch on the left door, crimson leather seats, a new rim on the rear right wheel. Imagine my surprise when I learned that yesterday's "important gentleman" in uniform and wearing a ribbon took the carriage with a coachman!'

'Well, and what of it?' asked Vedishchev.

'Oh come now! It meant that the coachman was not an accomplice, not a member of the gang of jacks, but a complete outsider! I found that coachman. Admittedly, I did not profit greatly from talking to him: we already had a description of the "Count" without him, and he was unable to tell me anything else that was useful. The things were delivered to the Nikolaevsky Station and deposited at the left-luggage office, following which the coachman was let go.'

And what did you find at the left-luggage office?' asked Prince Dolgorukoi, suddenly awake again.

'Nothing. An hour later a cabby arrived with the receipts, took everything and left for an unknown destination.'

'Well then, and you say Anisii rendered assistance,' said Frol Grigorievich with a dismissive wave of his hand. 'It was a total flop'

'Far from it,' said Erast Petrovich, almost reaching for his beads again and stopping himself with a frown of annoyance. What does this give us? Yesterday's "Count" arrived alone, without any accomplices, even though he has an entire gang of them, and all outstanding actors. They would have been able to manage the simple role of a coachman somehow. And yet the "Count" complicates the plan by involving an outsider. That is one. "Speier" was recommended to the Governor by the "Duke", but by letter, not in person. That is to say, the "Duke" and his protege were never seen together. The question is, why? Surely it would have been simpler for one member of the gang to introduce another in person? That is two. Now, gentlemen, can you explain to me why the Englishman went to see the "Notary" without "Speier"? It would have been more natural to complete the deal with both sides present. That is three. Let us go on. In the case of the lottery caper, our Jack of Spades made use of a decoy chairman who was also not a member of the gang. He was simply a pitiful drunk who had been told nothing, hired for a small fee. That is f-four. And so we see that in each of these episodes we are faced with only one member of the gang: either the "Duke" or the "Invalid" or the "Notary" or the "Constable" or the "Count". And from this I conclude that the Jack of Spades gang consists of only one individual. Probably the only permanent assistant he has is the young woman who jumped out of the window'

'Quite impossible,' rumbled the Governor-General, who had a rather strange way of dozing without missing anything of importance. 'I didn't see the "Notary", the "Constable" and the "Count", but the "Duke" and "Speier" can't be the same person. Judge for yourself, Erast Petrovich. My self-styled "grandson" was pale and puny; he had a high voice, a flat chest and a stoop, with thin black hair and a quite distinctive duck's-bill nose. Saxen-Limburg is a fine, handsome fellow: broad in the shoulders, with a military bearing and a voice trained to command. An aquiline nose, thick sandy sideburns, a rollicking laugh. Absolutely unlike "Speier"!'

And how t-tall was he?'

'Half a head shorter than me. So he was average.'

And our lanky Lord Pitsbrook described the "Notary" as being "just above his shoulder", so he was average height too. So was the "Constable". And how about the "Count", Tulipov?'

Fandorin's bold hypothesis had thrown Anisii into a fever. He leaped to his feet and exclaimed: 'I should say he was average too, Erast Petrovich. He was slightly taller than me, by about one and a half vershoks.'

'Height is the one part of a person's appearance that is difficult to alter,' the Court Counsellor continued. 'It is possible to use high heels, but that is too obvious. True, in Japan I did encounter one individual from a secret sect of professional killers who deliberately had his legs amputated so that he could change his height at will. He could run on his wooden legs better than on real ones. He had three sets of artificial limbs - short, medium and tall. However, such selflessness in one's profession is only possible in Japan. As far as our Jack of Spades is concerned, I believe I can describe his appearance to you and provide an approximate psychological portrait. His appearance, however, is largely irrelevant, since this man changes it with ease. He is a man without a face, always wearing one mask or another. Nonetheless, let me try to describe him.'

Fandorin stood up and began walking around the study with his hands clasped behind his back.

'Well then, this man's height is ...' - the Chief glanced briefly at Anisii's upright figure - '... two arshins and six vershoks. His natural hair colour is light - dark hair would be more difficult to disguise. And his hair is probably also brittle and bleached at the ends from the frequent use of colouring agents. His eye s are blue-grey rather close-set. His nose is average. The face is unremarkable, so perfectly ordinary that it is hard to remember and pick out in a crowd. This man must often be confused with someone else. And now for his voice ... The Jack of Spades controls it like a true virtuoso. To judge from the fact that he can easily mimic a bass or a tenor with any specific modulations, his natural voice must be a sonorous baritone. His age is hard to guess. He can hardly still be youthful, since he obviously has experience of life, but he is not elderly - our "constable" disappeared into the crowd very n-nimbly indeed. The ears are a very important detail. Criminological science has demonstrated that they are unique to each individual and their form is impossible to change. Unfortunately, I have only seen the Jack in the guise of the "constable", and he was wearing a cap. Tell me, Tulipov, did the "Count" remove his cocked hat?'

'No,' Anisii replied curtly. He tended to take any reference to the subject of ears - especially to their uniqueness - personally

'And you, Your Excellency - did you pay any to attention to what kind of ears the "Duke" and "Speier" had?'

Dolgorukoi answered sternly: 'Erast Petrovich, I am the Governor-General of Moscow, and I have plenty of other matters to concern me apart from examining someone's ears.'

The Court Counsellor sighed: A pity. That means we won't be able to squeeze much out of his appearance ... Now for the criminal's personality traits. He comes from a good family; he even knows English. He is an excellent psychologist and a talented actor - that much is obvious. He possesses uncommon charm and is very good at winning the trust of people he hardly even knows. He has lightning-fast reactions and is very inventive. An original sense of humour.' Erast Petrovich glanced severely at Vedishchev to make sure he didn't giggle. 'In general, clearly an exceptional and highly talented man.'

'We could use talents like that to populate Siberia,' Prince Dolgorukoi muttered. Why don't you stick to the point, my dear chap, without the glowing testimonials? We're not proposing Mr Jack of Spades for a decoration. Can he be caught - that's the important question.'

'Why not? - anything is possible,' Fandorin said thoughtfully. 'Let us size things up. What are our hero's vulnerable points? He is either excessively greedy or fantastically extravagant - no matter how much he gets away with, it is never enough for him. That is one. He is vain and longs for admiration. That is two. The third point- and the most valuable for us - is his excessive self-assurance and tendency to underestimate his opponents. That gives us something to work on. And there is a fourth point. Despite the precision with which he acts, he still sometimes makes mistakes.'

'What mistakes?' the Governor asked quickly. 'He seems as slippery as an eel to me - no way to grab hold of him.'

'There have been at least two mistakes. Why did the "Count" mention the Knight of the Orders of Chrysanthemums to Anisii yesterday? I do happen to be a Knight of the Japanese Orders of the Greater and Lesser Chrysanthemums; however, in Russia I do not wear them, I do not boast about them to anyone, and you will not learn anything about these regalia of mine from my servants. Certainly, the genuine Count Opraksin, as a man of some standing in the state who has access to higher spheres, might have been able to discover such details, but the Jack of Spades? Where from? Only from my personal file and service record, which lists my decorations. Your Excellency, I shall require a list of all the functionaries in the secret section of your chancellery, especially those who have access to p-personal files. There are not so very many, are there? One of them is connected with the Jack. I think an internal informant must also have been required in the fraudulent transaction with the English lord.'

'It's unimaginable,' Prince Dolgorukoi exclaimed indignantly, 'for one of my people to play me such a dirty trick!'

'Nothing easier, Vladim Andreich,' Vedishchev put in. 'How many times have I told you you've got a fine crop of spongers and toadies.'

Unable to restrain himself, Anisii asked quietly: And what was the second mistake, Chief?'

Erast Petrovich answered in a steely voice: 'Making me really angry. This was a professional matter, but now it's personal'

He strode along the front of the desk with a springy step, suddenly reminding Tulipov of the African leopard in the cage beside the unforgettable chimpanzee.

But then Fandorin stopped, took hold of his own elbows and started speaking in a different tone of voice, thoughtful and even rather dreamy: 'Why don't we play M-Mr Jack of Spades, alias Momos, at his own game?'

We could play him all right,' commented Frol Grigorievich, 'only where are you going to find him now? Or do you have some idea where he is?'

'No, I don't,' the Chief snapped, 'and I don't intend to go looking for him. Let him come and seek me out. It will be like a grouse hunt with a decoy. You put a plump papier-mache grouse hen in a spot where it's easy to see, the male grouse c-comes flying up and - bang! - it's all over.'

'Who's going to play the grouse hen?' asked Dolgorukoi, half-opening a cautious eye. 'Could it perhaps be my favourite Deputy for Special Assignments? After all, you are also a master of disguise, Erast Petrovich.'

It suddenly struck Tulipov that the few comments the old prince made were almost always exceptionally precise and to the point. Erast Petrovich, however, did not seem to find Dolgorukoi's perspicacity surprising in the least.

'Who else should dress up as the stuffed bird, if not me, Your Excellency. After what happened yesterday, I will not yield that honour to anyone.'

And just how is he going to find the grouse hen?' Vedishchev asked with lively curiosity.

'Just as he should in a grouse hunt: he will hear the call of the hunter's whistle. And for our hunter's whistle, we shall employ the same means as Momos himself

'If a man is accustomed to duping everyone he wishes, it is not so very difficult to trick him too,' the Chief said to Anisii when they had returned to Malaya Nikitskaya Street and secluded themselves in the study for an 'analysis'. 'It simply never occurs to a swindler that anyone would have the nerve to out-trick the trickster and rob the thief. And in particular he can scarcely anticipate such perfidious guile from an official personage, especially one of such high rank.'

As he listened reverently, Anisii thought at first that by 'an official personage of high rank', the Court Counsellor meant himself. However, as subsequent events demonstrated, Erast Petrovich was aiming far higher than that.

Having propounded his initial, theoretical thesis, Fandorin paused for a while. Anisii sat there motionless - God forbid that he might interrupt his superior's thinking process.

'We need the kind of decoy that will have Momos drooling at the mouth and also - even more importantly - provoke his vanity. He has to be lured not just by a large haul, but also by the prospect of great fame. He is far from indifferent to fame.'

The Chief fell silent again, pondering the next link in the chain of logic. After seven and a half minutes (Anisii counted them on the huge clock, obviously an antique, in the form of London's Big Ben) Erast Petrovich declared: 'Some gigantic precious stone ... Say, from the legacy of the Emerald Rajah. Have you ever heard of him?'

Anisii shook his head, looking his chief straight in the eye.

For some reason the Court Counsellor seemed disappointed: 'Strange. Of course, that business was kept secret from the general public, but some rumours did leak out into the European press. They must have reached Russia, surely. But then, what am I thinking of? When I took that memorable voyage on the Leviathan, you were still a child.'

'Did you say you took a voyage on a leviathan?' asked Anisii, unable to believe his ears, picturing Erast Petrovich sailing across the stormy waves on the broad back of the legendary whale-fish monster.

'It doesn't matter,' Fandorin said dismissively. 'Just an old investigation that I was involved in. It's the idea that's important here: an Indian rajah and an immense diamond. Or a sapphire or emerald? It doesn't matter which. That will depend on the mineralogical collection,' he muttered in a totally incomprehensible closing remark.

Anisii blinked in puzzlement, and the Chief felt it necessary to add something (which still failed to introduce any clarity): 'It's a bit crude, of course, but for our Jack it ought to b-be just the thing. He should take the bait. Right then, Tulipov, enough idle gaping. To work!'

Erast Petrovich opened the latest number of the Russian Word, immediately found what he wanted and started reading out loud:

A Visitor from India

Truly there is no counting the diamonds that lie concealed in the caves of stone, especially if those caves lie on the lands owned by Ahmad-Khan, the heir to one of Bengal's richest rajahs. The prince has arrived in old Mother Moscow on his way from Teheran to St Petersburg and will be a guest of the city of golden domes for at least a week. Prince Vladimir Andreevich Dolgorukoi is according our high-ranking visitor every appropriate honour. The Indian prince is staying at the Governor-General's villa on the Sparrow Hills and tomorrow evening the Assembly of Nobles is hosting a ball in his honour. The cream of Moscow society is expected to gather, eager for a glimpse of the prince from the East, and even more of the famous 'Shakh-Sultan' emerald that adorns Prince Ahmad's turban. It is said that this gigantic stone once belonged to Alexander the Great himself. We have been informed that the prince is travelling unofficially and almost incognito, with no retinue or pomp and ceremony. He is accompanied only by his devoted old wet-nurse Zukhra and his personal secretary Tarik-bei.

The Court Counsellor nodded in approval and put the newspaper down.

'The Governor-General is so angry with the Jack of Spades that he has sanctioned the holding of a b-ball and will take part in this performance himself. I believe he will actually quite enjoy it. For the "Shakh-Sultan" they have issued us a faceted beryl from the mineralogical collection of Moscow University. It is impossible to distinguish it from an emerald without a special magnifying glass, and we are not likely to allow anyone to inspect our turban through a special magnifying glass, are we, Tulipov?'

Erast Petrovich opened a hat box and took out a white brocade turban with an absolutely immense green stone and turned it this way and that, so that the facets glinted blindingly.

Anisii smacked his lips together admiringly - the turban really was a joy to behold. 'But where are we going to get Zukhra from? And that secretary - what's his name - Tarik-bei. Who's going to be them?'

The Chief looked at his assistant with something between reproach and pity, and Anisii suddenly understood. 'No, how could you?' he gasped. 'Erast Petrovich, have mercy! What kind of Indian would I make! I'll never agree, not even to save my life!'

'I think we can assume that you will agree, Tulipov,' sighed Fandorin, 'but Masa will require a little more persuasion. He's not likely to find the role of an old wet-nurse to his liking

On the evening of 18 February the whole of Moscow high society really did convene at the Assembly of Nobles. In the jolly, devil-may-care atmosphere of Pancake Week, the people of the city weary after the long, cold winter, celebrated almost every day, but the organisers of today's festivities had made a really special effort. The snow-white staircase of the palace was entirely covered in flowers, the footmen in powdered wigs and pistachio camisoles positively flung themselves at people to catch the fur coats and cloaks as they slipped off the ladies' and gentlemen's shoulders, and from the dining room there came the alluring tinkle of crystal and silver as the tables were laid for the banquet.

In his role as host of the ball, the Lord of Moscow, Prince Vladimir Andreevich Dolgorukoi, was smart and fresh, genial with the men and gallant with the ladies. However, the genuine centre of gravity in the marble hall today was not the Governor-General but his Indian guest.

Everyone took a great liking to Ahmad-Khan, especially the ladies, young and old. The nabob was wearing black tails and a white tie, but his head was crowned by a white turban with a quite immense emerald. The oriental prince's jet-black beard was trimmed in the latest French fashion and his brows were pointed arches, but the most impressive features of his swarthy face were the bright-blue eyes (it had already been ascertained that His Majesty's mother was French).

Standing modestly slightly behind and to one side of him was the prince's secretary, who also attracted no small attention. Tarik-bei was not as handsome as his master, and his figure was not very impressive, but on the other hand, unlike Ahmad-Khan, he had come to the ball in genuine eastern costume: an embroidered robe, white shalwars or loose trousers and golden slippers with curving, pointed toes and open backs. It was a pity that the secretary did not speak a single civilised language and his only reply to all questions and greetings was to press his hand either to his heart or to his forehead and give a low bow.

All in all, the two Indians were quite wonderfully fine.

Anisii, who had not hitherto been unduly spoiled by the attentions of the fair sex, froze completely rigid on finding himself at the centre of a bevy of beauties. The young ladies twittered gaily, discussing the details of his costume without the slightest embarrassment, and one, the extremely pretty Georgian Princess Sofiko Chkhartishvili, even called Tulipov 'a lovely little Moor'. A phrase that was often repeated was 'poor thing', which set Anisii blushing deeply (thank God, no one could see that under his Brazil-nut make-up).

In order to clarify the matter of the make-up and the comments about the 'poor thing', we shall have to turn the clock back a few hours, to the moment when Ahmad-Khan and his faithful secretary were preparing for their first grand social entrance ...

Erast Petrovich, already sporting a pitch-black beard, but still in his household dressing gown, made Anisii up himself. First he took a little bottle of dark chocolate-coloured liquid and explained that it was an infusion of Brazil nut. He rubbed the thick, odorous oil into the skin of Anisii's face, ears and eyelids. Then he glued on a thick black beard and pulled it off again. He stuck on a different one, something like a goatee, but rejected that too.

'No, Tulipov, we can't make a Moslem out of you,' the Chief told him. 'I was too hasty with Tarik-bei. I should have said you were a Hindu. Some kind of Chandragupta or other.'

'Can't I just have a moustache, without a beard?' asked Anisii. It was an old dream of his to have a moustache, but the way his own grew was unconvincing somehow, in little clumps.

'It's not done. In oriental etiquette that is too dandified for a secretary' said Fandorin. He turned Anisii's head to the left, then to the right and declared: 'There's nothing else for it; we'll have to make a eunuch of you.' He mixed up a little yellow grease and started rubbing it into Anisii's cheeks and under his chin -'to loosen the skin a bit and gather it into a fold'. He inspected the result and was satisfied: A genuine eunuch. Just what we need.'

But that was not the end of Tulipov's torments. 'Since you're a Moslem now, the hair has to go' - the Court Counsellor passed sentence implacably.

Already crushed by his transformation into a eunuch, Anisii bore the shaving of his head without a murmur. The shaving was carried out deftly by Masa, with an extremely sharp Japanese dagger. Erast Petrovich rubbed the smelly brown infusion into Anisii's naked cranium and told him: 'It shines like a cannon ball.' He took a little brush, tinkered with Anisii's eyebrows a little and approved his eyes: brown, with a slight slant, just right.

He made Anisii put on the broad silk trousers and some sort of short, patterned woman's jacket, then the robe, and finally jammed a turban on his bald pate and unfortunate ears.

Anisii walked across to the mirror with slow, reluctant steps, expecting to see some hideous monstrosity - and instead was pleasantly astonished: staring out at him from the bronze frame was a picturesque Moor - no sign at all of pimples or protruding ears. What a pity it was he couldn't stroll around Moscow like that all the time!

'You're done,' said Fandorin. 'Just rub some make-up into your hands and neck. And don't forget your feet and ankles -you'll be wearing loose slippers ..."

The gilded morocco sandals, which Erast Petrovich referred to so unromantically as slippers, caused Anisii problems, because he wasn't used to them. They were the reason why Anisii stood absolutely stock-still at the ball. He was afraid that if he moved from the spot one of them was bound to fall off - it had already happened on the staircase. When the lovely Georgian lady asked in French if Tarik-bei would care to dance a waltz with her, Anisii became flustered and, instead of following instructions and replying silently with an oriental bow, he whispered quietly: 'Non, merci, je ne danse pas.'

Thank God, the other girls didn't seem to have caught what he muttered, or the situation would have become complicated. Tarik-bei was not supposed to understand a single white man's language.

Anisii turned anxiously to his chief, who had been talking for several minutes to a dangerous guest, the British Indologist Sir Andrew Marvell, an exceedingly boring gentleman wearing spectacles with thick lenses. A little earlier, when Ahmad-Khan had been exchanging bows with the Governor-General on the upper landing of the staircase, Dolgorukoi had whispered excitedly (Anisii had heard snatches of the exchange): 'Why the devil did he have to turn up? ... And he would have to be an Indologist!... I can't turn him out, he's a baronet... What if he sees through your disguise?'

However, to judge from the calm way in which the prince and the baronet were conversing, Fandorin was in no danger of being seen through. Anisii did not know English, but he heard he often-repeated words 'Gladstone' and 'Her Britannic Majesty'.

When the Indologist blew his nose loudly into a handkerchief and walked away the prince summoned his secretary to him with a brief, imperious gesture of a swarthy, ring-bedecked hand and hissed to him: Wake up, Tulipov. And be more affectionate with her; don't look so surly. Only don't overdo it.'

'More affectionate? Who with?' Anisii asked in an astonished whisper.

'Why with that Georgian. Can't you see that it's her? The window-jumper.'

Tulipov looked round and was struck dumb. It was her! Why hadn't he realised it straight away! Yes, the white-skinned young lady from the lottery now had swarthy skin, the hair that had been golden was black and woven into two plaits, her eyebrows had been painted out as far as her temples, and a delightful mole had somehow appeared on her cheek. But it was her, definitely her! And the sparkle in her eyes was exactly the same as that other time, just before her reckless leap from the window ledge.

The bait had been taken! The grouse was circling round the decoy hen.

Gently, now, Anisii, you mustn't go frightening him off. He pressed his hand to his forehead, then to his heart, and bowed to the starry-eyed charmer with true oriental gravity.

CHAPTER 6

Platonic Love

But was he a charlatan? - that was the first thing that had to be checked. The last thing he needed was to bump into some professional colleague on tour, come to pluck the plump Moscow geese. An Indian rajah, the Shakh-Sultan emerald -there was more than a whiff of the operetta about all these oriental delights.

He had checked. And the very last person His Bengali Highness resembled was a crook. Firstly from close up it was immediately obvious that he came from a genuine royal blood line: from his bearing, his manners, from the benevolent languor of his gaze. Secondly Ahmad-Khan had struck up such a highly intellectual conversation with 'Sir Andrew Marvell', the well-known Indologist who had happened so opportunely to be in Moscow - all about the internal politics and religious confessions of the Indian Empire - that Momos had been afraid he might give himself away. The prince's polite question about his opinion of the practice of suttee and whether it reflected the true spirit of Hinduism had obliged him to change the subject to the health of Her Majesty Queen Victoria, feign a sudden attack of sneezing and beat a hasty retreat.

But the most important thing was that the emerald shone with such seductive conviction that not a trace of doubt remained. How he longed to detach that glorious green cobblestone from the noble Ahmad-Khan's turban, saw it up into eight substantial gemstones and sell off each one for something like twenty-five thousand. Now that would be just the job!

Meanwhile Mimi had been working on the secretary. She said that although Tarik-bei was a eunuch, that didn't stop him shooting keen glances into a lady's decollete, and he was clearly not indifferent to the female sex in general. Mimi could be trusted in such matters; there was no way to fool her. Who could say how eunuchs felt about such things? Perhaps the natural desires never went away even when the means of satisfaction had been lost?

The plan for the forthcoming campaign, which in his own mind Momos had already dubbed the 'Battle for the Emerald', had taken shape of its own accord.

The turban was always on the Rajah's head. But surely we could assume that he removed it when he went to bed?

Where did the Rajah sleep? In the mansion on the Sparrow Hills. That meant Momos had to go there.

The Governor-General's villa was intended for use by honoured guests. There was a wonderful view of Moscow from that spot on the hills, and there were not so many idle onlookers to annoy the visitors. It was good that the house was rather out of the way. But the villa was guarded by a gendarme post, and that was bad. Clambering over walls in the night and then hightailing it to the shrilling tones of a police whistle was in bad taste, not Momos's style.

Ah, if only the secretary weren't a eunuch, the whole thing could not have been simpler. The Georgian princess, driven to desperation by her passion, would have paid Tarik-bei a secret night-time visit and, once she was in the house, she would have found some way of wandering into the Rajah's bedroom to see whether the emerald might be persuaded to leave that boring turban in search of new adventures. After that it would be a purely technical matter, and Momos knew all about that sort of thing.

But this line of thought, entirely speculative as it was, set a black cat's sharp claws scraping at Momos's heart. For an instant he imagined Mimi in the embraces of a handsome, broad-shouldered young fellow with a luxuriant moustache who was no eunuch but quite the opposite, and he did not like what he saw. It was nonsense, of course, sentimental drivel, but - would you believe it! - he suddenly realised that he would not have gone down this most simple and natural route, even if the secretary's means had been a match for his desires.

Stop! Momos jumped off the desk on which he had been sitting until that moment, dangling his legs (his thoughts moved more nimbly like that) and walked across to the window. Stop-stop-stop ...

The coaches and fours, and the sleighs, and the carriages on their spiked winter wheels were pouring down Tverskaya Street in an unbroken stream. Soon spring would arrive, bringing slush. It was Lent, but today the sun still shone without warming, and the main street of Moscow looked smart and full of life. It was four days since Momos and Mimi had moved out of the Metropole and into the Dresden. Their suite was a little smaller, but it had electric light and a telephone. They couldn't have stayed in the Metropole any longer. Sliunkov had come to see him there several times, and that was dangerous. That little fellow was too unreliable altogether. With a responsible, in fact secret job like that, he still dabbled at cards, and didn't even know his own limits. What if the ingenious Mr Fandorin or some other chief of his were to take hold of him by the lapels and give him a good shaking? No, God looked after those who looked after themselves.

Anyway the Dresden was a very fine hotel, and located exactly opposite the Governor's palace, which was like home to Momos now, after the business with the Englishman. It gave him a warm feeling just to look at it.

The previous day he'd seen Sliunkov in the street and deliberately moved up close to him, even nudged him with his shoulder, but the clerk still hadn't recognised the Marseilles merchant Antoine Bonifatievich Darioux, a long-haired dandy with a waxed moustache, as Momos. Sliunkov had simply muttered, 'Pardon,' and trudged on, hunched over under the powdery falling snow

Stop-stop-stop, Momos told himself again. He had an idea: why couldn't he kill two birds with one stone as he usually did? -or, to be more precise, kill the other man's bird and keep his own away from the stones; or to put it another way, have his cake and eat it. Yes that was exactly the way it would be: innocence preserved and capital acquired.

And why not? - it could very well work! And things were coming together well. Mimi had said that Tarik-bei understood a little French, and 'a little' was exactly the amount that was required.

From that moment on the operation had a new title. It was called 'Platonic Love'.

He knew from the newspapers that after dinner His Indian Highness liked to stroll along the walls of the Novodevichy Convent, where the winter amusements and rides were laid out. There was ice-skating, and wooden slides, and all sorts of sideshows - plenty for the foreign visitor to look at.

As we have already said, it was a genuine Shrovetide day -light and bright with a touch of frost - and so, after strolling round the frozen pond for an hour, Momos and Mimi were chilled through. It wasn't so bad for Mimi. Since she was playing a princess, she was wearing a squirrel-skin coat, with a pine-marten hood and a muff - only her cheeks were ruddy and flushed. But Momos was frozen through to the bone. For the good of the cause he had decked himself out as an elderly oriental chaperone, gluing on thick eyebrows that ran together across the bridge of his nose, deliberately leaving his upper lip unshaved and blackening it and sticking an extension like the bowsprit of a frigate on his nose. His headscarf, with the plaits of false hair streaked with grey dangling from under it, and the short rabbit-fur jacket over his long beaver coat did little to keep him warm; his feet were freezing in their soft felt shoes, and still the damned Rajah did not show up. To amuse Mimi and avoid getting bored himself, from time to time Momos intoned in a soaring contralto with a Georgian accent: 'Sofiko, my darling little chick, your old nurse is absolutely frozen,' or something else of the same kind, and Mimi giggled and stamped her chilly feet in their pretty scarlet boots.

His Highness eventually deigned to arrive. Momos spotted the closed sleigh upholstered in blue velvet from a distance. There was a gendarme in a greatcoat and dress-uniform helmet with a plume sitting on the box beside the coachman.

The prince, wrapped in sables, strolled unhurriedly along beside the skating rink in his tall white turban, casting curious glances at the amusements of these northerners. Trotting along behind His Highness was a low, squat figure in a sheepskin coat that reached down to the ground, a shaggy round cap and a yashmak - presumably the devoted wet nurse Zukhra. The secretary Tarik-bei, in an overcoat of woollen cloth, beneath which his white shalwars could be seen, kept falling behind, gaping eagerly at a gypsy with a bear, or stopping beside a man selling hot spice tea. The pompous gendarme with the grey moustache brought up the rear, in the role of guard of honour. That was helpful: he could take a good look at the ladies who would come visiting that night.

The public showed tremendous interest in the colourful procession. The simpler among them gaped open-mouthed at the infidels, pointing their fingers at the turban and the emerald and the old oriental woman's covered face. The respectable, washed public behaved with greater tact, but also evinced great curiosity. Momos waited until the people of Moscow had had their fill of ogling 'the Indians' and returned to their former amusements, then gave Mimi a gentle nudge in the ribs: it was time.

They set off towards the others. Mimi curtseyed lightly to His Highness and he nodded graciously. She beamed joyfully at the secretary and dropped her muff. The eunuch did what he was supposed to do and rushed to pick it up. Mimi also squatted down and she and the oriental bumped foreheads in a most charming fashion. Following this small, entirely innocent incident, the length of the procession quite naturally increased, with the prince still striding along at the front in regal solitude, followed by his secretary and the princess, and then the two elderly eastern women, with the sniffling, red-nosed gendarme bringing up the rear.