Fandorin in English 1-10

The princess twittered away in lively French and kept losing her footing all the time, providing a pretext for clutching at the secretary's arm as often as possible. Momos tried to make friends with venerable Zukhra, attempting to express his sympathy to her in gestures and exclamations. Zukhra, however, proved to be a genuine virago. The bitch refused to get to know him and merely cackled from under her chaddar and waved her stubby-fingered hand about, as if to say: Go away, I keep to myself. A genuine savage, in fact.

Mimi and the eunuch, on the other hand, were getting along like a house on fire. Momos waited until the oriental finally mellowed and offered the young lady permanent support in the form of his crooked arm and decided that was enough for the first time. He caught up with his young ward and intoned sternly: 'Sofiko-o, my little dove, it's time to go home for tea and bread-cakes.'

The following day 'Sofiko' was already teaching Tarik-bei how to skate (for which the secretary demonstrated quite outstanding ability). In general, the eunuch proved quite compliant: when Mimi lured him behind a fir tree and seemingly by accident set her plump lips right in front of his brown nose, he didn't shy away, but obediently kissed them. Afterwards she told Momos: 'You know, Momochka, I feel so sorry for him. I put my arms round his neck, and he was trembling all over, the poor thing. It's really atrocious to mutilate people like that.'

'The Lord gave the cussed cow no horns,' the callous Momos replied flippantly. The operation was set to take place the following night.

During the day everything went as smooth as butter: driven insane by passion, the princess completely lost her head and promised her platonic admirer that she would pay him a visit during the night. In promising, she emphasised the exalted nature of her feelings and the union of two loving hearts in the highest sense, with no crude vulgarity. She could not tell how much of this the oriental understood, but he was clearly overjoyed at the prospect of the visit and explained in broken French that he would open the garden gate at precisely midnight. 'But I shall come with my nanny' Mimi warned him. 'I know what you men are like.'

At that Tarik-bei hung his head and sighed bitterly. Mimi felt so sorry for him she almost cried.

That Saturday night there was a moon and stars, perfect for platonic love. After letting his coachman go outside the gates of the Governor's suburban villa, Momos took a look around. Ahead of him, beyond the mansion, was the steep drop to the River Moscow; behind him stood the fir trees of the Sparrow Park; to his right and his left he could see the dark silhouettes of expensive dachas. They would have to leave on foot afterwards: through the Acclimatic Garden to the Knacker's Quarter. There they could hire a troika at the inn on the Kaluga road at any time of day or night. And then a sleigh ride with bells jingling along the Kaluga highroad! Never mind the biting frost - the emerald would be warm against his heart.

They gave the secret knock at the gate and the little door opened immediately. The impatient secretary was obviously already standing there, waiting. He gave a low bow and beckoned for them to follow. They walked through the snow-covered garden to the entrance of the house. The three gendarmes on duty in the vestibule were drinking tea with hard, dry bread rings. They gave the secretary and his nocturnal visitors a curious glance; the sergeant-major with the grey moustache grunted and shook his head, but he didn't say anything. What business was it of his?

In the dark corridor Tarik-bei pressed a finger to his lips and pointed somewhere upstairs, then folded his hands together, put them against his cheek and closed his eyes. Aha, that meant His Highness was already sleeping - excellent.

The drawing room was lit by a candle and smelled of some kind of oriental incense. The secretary seated the chaperone in an armchair, set a bowl of sweetmeats and fruits in front of her and muttered something incomprehensible, but it was not hard to guess the significance of his request.

Ah, children, children,' Momos purred placidly, and wagged a finger in warning. 'But no nonsense, mind.'

The enamoured couple took each other by the hand and went out through the door and into the secretary's room to devote themselves to their exalted, platonic passion. He'll slobber all over her, the Indian gelding, Momos thought with a frown. He sat and waited for a while, to give the eunuch time to get carried away. He ate a juicy pear and tried some halva. Right, that should be long enough.

He had to assume that the master's chambers were over there, behind that white door with the moulding. Momos went out into the corridor, squeezed his eyes shut and stood like that for about a minute to let his eyes grow accustomed to the darkness. But after that he moved quickly, without making a sound.

He opened one door a little: it was the music room. Another -that was the dining room. A third - still not the right one.

He recalled that Tarik-bei had pointed upwards. That meant he had to go up to the first floor.

He slipped out into the vestibule and ran silently up the carpet-covered staircase - the gendarmes didn't even glance round. Another long corridor with another row of doors.

The bedroom turned out to be the third on the left. The moon was shining into the window and Momos could easily make out the bed, the motionless silhouette under the blanket and - hoorah! - the little white mound on the small bedside table. A moonbeam fell on the turban, and a bright ray was reflected from the glittering stone, straight into Momos's eye.

Momos approached the bed, walking on tiptoe. Ahmad-Khan was sleeping on his back, with his face covered by the edge of the blanket - all that could be seen was a head of short-trimmed, spiky black hair.

'Hushaby hushaby' Momos whispered gently as he placed a jack of spades right on the sleeper's stomach.

He reached out cautiously for the stone. When his fingers touched the smooth, gleaming surface of the emerald, a strangely familiar hand with short fingers suddenly shot out from under the blanket and seized Momos's wrist in a tight grip.

He squealed in surprise and jerked away with a start, but it was pointless: the hand had taken a firm hold on him. The blanket had slipped down, and gazing out at Momos from under its corner was the fat-cheeked physiognomy of Fandorin's valet, with its unblinking slanty eyes.

'I've been d-dreaming of meeting you for a long time, Monsieur Momos,' a low, mocking voice said behind his back. 'Erast Petrovich Fandorin at your service.'

Momos swung his head round like a trapped animal and saw that there was someone sitting in the tall Voltaire chair in the dark corner, with one leg crossed over the other.

CHAPTER 7

The Chief Is Amused

'Dzi-ing, dzi-ing!

The piercing, monotonous ringing of the electric bell penetrated Anisii's drifting consciousness from somewhere far away, on the other side of the world. Tulipov did not even realise at first what this new phenomenon could be that had supplemented the picture of God's wonderful world, already so incredibly enriched. However, a whisper of alarm from the darkness roused the sleuth from his state of bliss.

'On sonne! Qu'est que c'est?

Anisii jerked upright, immediately remembered everything and freed himself from a gentle, but at the same time remarkably tenacious, embrace.

The signal! The trap had been sprung! Oh, this was bad! How could he have forgotten his duty?

'Pardon,' he muttered, 'tout de suite.'

In the darkness he felt for his Indian robe, shuffled on his slippers and dashed to the door without turning back to answer the insistent voice that was still asking questions. Bounding out into the corridor, he locked the door with two turns of the key. There, now she wouldn't be flitting off anywhere. It was no ordinary room: it had steel bars on the windows. When the key scraped in the lock, he felt a sickening scraping sensation in his heart as well, but duty is duty.

Anisii shuffled smartly along the corridor in his 'bedroom slippers'. On the upper landing of the staircase the moon peeped in through the corridor window, plucking out of the darkness a white figure running towards him. The mirror!

Tulipov froze for a moment, trying to make out his own face in the gloom. Was it true? Was this him - little Anisii, the deacon's son, the imbecile Sonya's brother? If the happy gleam in the eyes were anything to go by (and in any case, he couldn't see anything else), it wasn't him at all, but someone quite different, someone Anisii didn't know at all.

He opened the door into Ahmad-Khan's' bedroom and heard Erast Petrovich's voice.

'... You will pay in full for all your pranks, Mr Jester. For the banker Polyakov's trotters, and for the merchant Patrikeev's "river of gold", and for the English lord, and for the lottery. And also for your cynical escapade directed against me, and for obliging me to smear myself with tincture of Brazil nut and walk around in an idiotic turban for five days.'

Tulipov already knew that when the Court Counsellor stopped stammering, it was a bad sign - Mr Fandorin was either under extreme stress or damnably angry. It this case it was obviously the latter.

The stage in the bedroom was set as follows: the elderly Georgian woman was sitting on the floor beside the bed, with her monumental nose strangely skewed to one side. Towering up over her from behind, with his sparse eyebrows knitted in a furious frown and his hands thrust bellicosely against his sides, was Masa, dressed in a long white nightshirt. Erast Petrovich himself was sitting in an armchair in the corner of the room, tapping on the armrest with an unlit cigar. His face was expressionless, his voice was deceptively languid, but its suppressed rumblings of thunder made Anisii wince.

The Chief turned to his assistant and asked: 'Well, how is our little bird?'

'In the cage,' Tulipov reported, waving the key with the double bit.

The 'chaperone' looked at the agent's hand raised in triumph and shook his head sceptically.

A-ah, Mr Eunuch,' the crooked-nosed woman said in such a resonant, rolling baritone that Anisii started. A bald head suits you.' And the repulsive hag stuck out her broad, red tongue.

And women's clothes suit you,' retorted Tulipov, stung. He instinctively raised a hand to his naked scalp.

'B-Bravo,' said Fandorin, approving his assistant's quick wit. 'I would advise you, Mr Jack, to show less bravado. You are in real trouble this time; you have been caught red-handed.'

Two days earlier, Anisii had been confused at first when the 'Princess Chkhartishvili' had shown up for a stroll in the company of her chaperone. 'Chief, you said there were only two of them - the Jack of Spades and the girl, and now some old woman has turned up as well.'

'You're an old woman yourself, Tulipov,' the 'prince' had hissed through his teeth as he bowed graciously to a lady walking in the opposite direction. That's him: our friend Momos. A virtuoso of disguise - give him his due. Except that his feet are a little large for a woman, and his gaze is rather too stern. It's him all right, my dear fellow. Couldn't be anyone else.'

'Shall we take him in?' Anisii had whispered excitedly, pretending to be brushing the snow off his master's shoulder.

'What for? The girl, now - well she was at the lottery, and we have witnesses. But nobody even knows what he looks like. What can we arrest him for? For dressing up as an old woman? Oh no, I've been looking forward to this; we have to be able to throw the book at this one: caught red-handed at the scene of the crime.'

To be quite honest, at the time Tulipov had thought the Court Counsellor was being too clever by half. But, as always, things turned out as Fandorin had said they would. The grouse had gone for the decoy and they had him bang to rights. There was no way he could wriggle out of it now.

Erast Petrovich struck a match, lit his cigar and began talking in a harsh, dry voice: 'Your greatest mistake, my dear sir, was deciding to joke at the expense of those who do not take kindly to being mocked.'

Since the prisoner said nothing, concentrating on setting his nose back in place, Fandorin felt it necessary to explain: 'I mean, firstly, Prince Dolgorukoi and, secondly, myself. No one has ever had the insolence to scoff at my personal life so impudently. And with such unpleasant consequences for myself

The Chief wrinkled up his brow in an expression of suffering. Anisii nodded in sympathy, remembering how things had been for Erast Petrovich before they were able to move from Malaya Nikitskaya Street to the Sparrow Hills.

'Certainly it was pulled off very neatly, I won't deny it,' Fandorin continued, in control of himself once again. 'You will, of course, return the Countess's things, without delay, even before the trial begins. I will not charge you with that - in order not to drag Ariadna Arkadievna's name through the courts.'

At this point the Court Counsellor began pondering something, then nodded to himself as if he were taking a difficult decision and turned to Anisii. 'Tulipov, if you would be so kind, check the things against the list drawn up by Ariadna Arkadievna ... send them to St Petersburg. The address is the house of Count and Countess Opraksin on the Fontanka Embankment.'

Anisii merely sighed, not daring to express his feelings in any bolder manner. And Erast Petrovich, evidently angered by the decision that he himself had taken, turned back to his prisoner: 'Well then, you have had some good fun at my expense. But everyone knows that pleasures must be paid for. The next five years, which you will spend in penal servitude, will allow you plenty of time to learn some useful lessons about life. From now on you will know who can be joked with and who cannot.'

From the flatness of Fandorin's tone, Anisii realised that his chief was absolutely raging furious.

'If you will permit me, my dear Erast Petrovich,' the 'chaperone' drawled in a familiar fashion. 'Thank you for introducing yourself at the moment of my arrest, or I would still have believed you to be an Indian prince. But I am obliged to wonder how you have arrived at the figure of five years' penal servitude. Let us check our arithmetic. Some trotters or other, some river of gold, an English lord, a lottery - all sheer guesswork. What has all of that got to do with me? And then, you mention some things belonging to a countess? If they belong to Count Opraksin, then what where they doing in your home? Are you cohabiting with another man's wife? That's not good. Although, of course, it's none of my business. But if I am being accused of something, then I demand formal charges and proof. There absolutely has to be proof

Anisii gasped at this insolence and glanced round anxiously at his chief. Fandorin chuckled ominously. And perhaps you would be so good as to tell me what you are doing here? - in this strange costume, at such a late hour?'

'It was just a bit of foolishness,' the Jack replied with a sniff of regret, 'a foolish hankering after the emerald. But this, gentlemen, is what is known as "provocation". You even have gendarmes on guard downstairs. This is an entire police conspiracy'

'The gendarmes don't know who we are,' said Anisii, unable to resist a chance to boast. And they're not part of any conspiracy. As far as they're concerned, we're orientals.'

'It doesn't matter,' the rogue said dismissively. 'Just look how many of you there are - servants of the state, all lined up against one poor, unfortunate man whom you deliberately led into temptation. In court any decent lawyer will give you a whipping that will leave you itching for ages afterwards. And if I'm right, that stone of yours is worth no more than ten roubles at best. One month's detention at the most. And you talk to me about five years' penal servitude, Erast Petrovich. My arithmetic is more accurate.'

And what about the jack of spades that you placed on the bed in front of two witnesses?' the Court Counsellor asked, angrily stubbing out his unfinished cigar in the ashtray.

Ah, yes, that was a bit unnecessary' said the Jack, hanging his head repentantly. 'I suppose you could say it was cynical. I wanted to shift the blame on to the "Jack of Spades" gang. They're the talk of Moscow at the moment. I suppose they'll probably add a church penance to my month of detention for that. Never mind; I'll redeem my sin through prayer.' He crossed himself piously and winked at Anisii.

Erast Petrovich jerked his chin, as if his collar were too tight, although the wide neck of his white shirt embroidered with oriental ornament was not fastened.

'You have forgotten your female accomplice. She can't get out of the lottery charge. And I don't think she will agree to go to prison without you.'

'Yes, Mimi likes company' the prisoner willingly agreed. 'Only I doubt that she'll sit quietly in your cage. Mr Eunuch, would you be so good as to let me take another look at that key?'

Anisii glanced at his chief, tightened his grip on the key and showed it to the Jack from a distance.

'Yes, I wasn't mistaken,' Momos said with a nod. 'An absolutely primitive, antiquated "grandmother's trunk" style of lock. Mimi can have one of those open in a second with a hairpin.'

The Court Counsellor and his assistant were up and away in the same instant. Fandorin shouted something to Masa in Japanese - it must have been 'Keep a close eye on him' or something else of the sort. The Japanese took a tight grip of the Jack's shoulders, and Tulipov didn't see what happened after that, because he had already darted out through the door.

They ran down the staircase and dashed across the vestibule, past the astounded gendarmes.

Alas, the door of 'Tarik-bei's' room was standing ajar. Their little bird had flown!

Erast Petrovich groaned as if he had toothache and went dashing back into the vestibule, with Anisii on his tail.

'Where is she?' the Court Counsellor barked at the sergeant-major.

The gendarme's jaw dropped at the shock of suddenly hearing the Indian prince speak in perfect Russian.

Answer me, quickly now!' Fandorin shouted at the serviceman. 'Where's the girl?'

'Well now ...' Just to be on the safe side the sergeant-major stuck on his helmet and saluted. 'She went out about five minutes ago. And she said her chaperone would stay on for a while.'

'Five minutes!' Erast Petrovich repeated agitatedly. 'Tulipov, let's get after her! And you, keep your eyes peeled!' They ran down the steps of the porch, dashed through the garden and bounded out through the gates.

‘I’ll go right, you go left!' the Chief ordered.

Anisii hobbled off along the fence. One slipper immediately got stuck in the snow and he had to hop along on one foot. The fence came to an end, and there was the white ribbon of the road, the black trees and bushes. Not a soul. Tulipov started spinning round on the spot, like a chicken with its head chopped off. Where should he look? Which way should he run?

Below the steep bluff, on the far side of the icy river, the gigantic city lay spread out in an immense black bowl. It was almost invisible, with just occasional bright strings of street lights in the darkness, but the darkness was not empty, it was clearly alive: something down there was breathing drowsily, sighing, groaning. A brief gust of wind swept the fine white snow across the ground, piercing Anisii's light robe and chilling him to the marrow of his bones.

He had to go back. Perhaps Erast Petrovich had had better luck?

They met at the gates. Unfortunately, the Chief had returned alone too.

Shivering from the cold, the two 'Indians' ran back into the house.

Strange - the gendarmes were not at their post; but from upstairs, on the first floor, they could hear a loud clattering, swearing and shouting.

'What the devil!' Still winded from their run along the street, Fandorfn and Anisii dashed up the stairs as fast as their legs would carry them.

In the bedroom everything had been turned upside down. Masa was squealing in rage, with two gendarmes hanging on to his shoulders, and the sergeant-major was wiping a red ear with his sleeve but keeping his revolver trained on the Japanese.

'Where is he?' asked Erast Petrovich, gazing around.

Who?' the sergeant-major asked in bemusement, spitting out a broken tooth.

'The Jack!' Anisii shouted. 'That is, I mean, that old woman!'

Masa babbled something in his own language and the gendarme with the grey moustache stuck the barrel of his gun in his stomach: 'You shut it, you heathen swine! Well then, Your ...' The serviceman hesitated, unsure of how to address this strange superior. Well then, Your Hinduness, we're standing downstairs, keeping our eyes peeled, as ordered. Suddenly upstairs a woman starts shouting. "Help," she screams, "murder! Save me" So we come up here, and we look and see this slanty-eyed devil's got the old woman who was with the young lady down on the floor and taken her by the throat. The poor woman's screeching: "Save me. This Chinese robber broke in and attacked me!" He's muttering away in his own heathen tongue, something like: "Nowoma, nowoma!" He's a strong devil - look here, he knocked my tooth out and he stove in Tereshchenka's cheekbone too.'

'Where is she - the old woman?' asked the Court Counsellor, grabbing the sergeant-major by the shoulders, obviously very hard - the gendarme turned as white as chalk.

'She's here somewhere,' he hissed. 'Where could she have got to? She's got frightened and hidden away in a corner somewhere. She'll turn up. Ow, would you mind ... That hurts!'

Erast Petrovich and Anisii exchanged glances without speaking.

'Is it back to the chase, then?' Tulipov asked eagerly, thrusting his feet deeper into his slippers.

'No, we've done enough running for Mr Momos's amusement,' Fandorin replied in a crestfallen voice.

The Chief released his grip on the gendarme, sat down in an armchair and let his arms dangle lifelessly. A strange, incomprehensible change came over his face. A deep, horizontal crease appeared across his smooth brow; the corners of his lips slowly crept downwards; his eyes closed. When his shoulders began to shudder, Anisii felt afraid that Erast Petrovich was about to burst into tears.

Then suddenly Fandorin slapped himself on the knee and broke into soundless peals of irrepressible, carefree laughter.

CHAPTER 8

'La Grande Operation'

Momos held up the hem of his skirt as he dashed along the fences, past the empty dachas in the direction of the Kaluga highway. Every now and then he glanced round to see if there was anyone in pursuit, if he ought to dive into the bushes which -the Lord be praised! - grew thickly along both sides of the road.

As he ran past a snowy grove of fir trees, a pitiful little voice called to him: 'Momchik, there you are at last! I'm frozen already'

Mimi peeped out from under a spreading fir, rubbing her hands together pitifully. He was so relieved he sat down right there on the edge of the road, scooped up a handful of snow and pressed it against his perspiring brow.

The false nose slid completely to one side and Momos finally tore the damn thing off and flung it into a snowdrift. 'Oof,' he said. 'It's a long time since I've run so hard.'

Mimi sat down beside him and lowered her head on to his shoulder. 'Momochka, there's something I have to confess to you ...'

What is it?' he asked cautiously.

'It wasn't my fault, honestly ... The thing is ... He wasn't a eunuch after all.'

'I know,' Momos muttered, furiously brushing the green needles off her sleeves. 'It was our acquaintance Mr Fandorin and his gendarme Leporello. They really took me for a ride. First class all the way'

Are you going to get your own back?' Mimi asked timidly, looking up into his face.

'Oh, to hell with them. We need to clear out of Moscow. And the sooner the better.'

But in fact they didn't clear out of inhospitable Moscow, because the following day Momos had the idea for the grandiose scheme that he appropriately named 'La Grande Operation'. The idea occurred to him by pure chance, through a most amazing confluence of circumstances.

They were retreating from Moscow in strict order, taking every conceivable precaution. At the crack of dawn Momos had gone to the flea market and bought the equipment required for a total sum of three roubles, seventy-three and a half kopecks. He had removed all the make-up from his face, donned a five-sided cap with a peak, a quilted jacket and high boots with galoshes, transforming himself into an entirely unremarkable petty tradesman. Things had not been so simple with Mimi, because the police already knew what she looked like. After a little thought he had decided to turn her into a boy. In a sheepskin cap with earflaps, a greasy sheepskin jacket and huge felt boots she became absolutely indistinguishable from the kind of light-fingered Moscow juveniles to be found darting around the Sukharev Market - better watch out for your pocket!

In fact, Mimi really could rifle through other people's pockets quite as briskly as any regular market thief. Once, when they had found themselves all washed up in Samara, she had deftly relieved a rich merchant's waistcoat pocket of his grandfather's turnip watch. The watch was rubbish, but Momos knew it had sentimental value for the merchant. The inconsolable provincial had offered a reward of a thousand roubles for the family heirloom and been most voluble in his thanks to the girl student who found the watch in a roadside ditch. With those thousand roubles, Momos had opened up a Chinese pharmacy in that peaceful town and done a very good trade in herbs and roots for treating the various ailments suffered by merchants.

But what was the point in recalling former successes, when here they were, retreating from Moscow like the French, downcast and despondent? Momos assumed that there would be agents watching for them at the stations and he had taken appropriate measures.

First of all, in order to mollify the dangerous Mr Fandorin, he had sent all of Countess Addy's things to St Petersburg. He had, admittedly, been unable to resist adding a postscript to the accompanying receipt: 'To the Queen of Spades from the Jack of Spades.' He had sent the jade beads and the prints he had borrowed back to Malaya Nikitskaya Street via the municipal post, but without any postscript, preferring in this case to err on the side of caution.

He had decided not to put in an appearance at any railway station, but despatched his suitcases to the Bryansk Station in advance, to be loaded on to the following day's train. He and Mimi were going on foot. Once past the Dorogomilovskaya Gates, Momos was intending to hire a driver and ride in his sleigh as far as the first railway station, in Mozhaisk, where he would be reunited with his baggage on the following day.

He was in a sour mood, but meanwhile Moscow was still celebrating. It was Forgiveness Sunday, the final day of wild Pancake Week. At dawn the next day the fasting and praying would begin, the coloured globes would be taken down from the street lamps, the brightly painted fair booths would be dismantled and the number of drunks would sharply decrease; but today the people were still finishing up their revels, their food and their drink.

At the Smolensk market they were riding in 'diligences' down an immense wooden slope, everybody laughing and whistling and squealing. Everywhere you looked, they were selling hot pancakes - with herring heads, with buckwheat, with honey, with caviar. A Turkish conjuror in a red fez was cramming crooked yataghans into his white-toothed maw. An acrobat was walking on his hands and jerking his legs about in an amusing fashion. Some swarthy-faced, bare-chested fellow in a leather apron was belching tongues of flame out of his mouth.

Mimi turned her head this way and that like a genuine little urchin. Entering into her role, she asked Momos to buy her a poisonous red sugar rooster on a stick and delighted in licking the wretched treat with her sharp little pink tongue, although in real life she preferred Swiss chocolate, of which she could devour as many as five bars a day

But the people on the brightly decorated square were not only making merry and guzzling down pancakes. There was a long line of beggars sitting along the wall of the rich merchants' Church of the Mother of God of Smolensk, bowing their heads down to the ground, asking forgiveness from the Orthodox faithful and granting them forgiveness in return. This was an important day for the beggars, a profitable day. Many people approached them with offerings - some brought a pancake, some a half-bottle of vodka, some a kopeck.

Some big shot or other in an unbuttoned mink coat and with his bald head uncovered came striding heavily out of the church on to the porch. He crossed his puffy, repulsive features and shouted out in a loud voice: 'Forgive me, good Orthodox people, if Samson Eropkin has done you wrong!'

The beggars began bustling about and cackling discordantly: 'And you forgive us, little father! Forgive us, our benefactor!'

They were clearly expecting offerings, but no one pushed himself forward. Instead they all lined up briskly into two rows, clearing the way through to the square, where the big shot's magnificent open sleigh was waiting for him - lacquered wood lined with fur.

Momos stopped to see how a fat-face like this would go about buying his way into Paradise. It was obvious from his face that he was as vicious a bloodsucker as the world had ever seen, but even he was aiming for the Kingdom of Heaven. Momos wondered just what price he put on the entrance ticket.

A massive, black-bearded hulk with the face of an executioner came striding out after the pot-bellied benefactor, towering up over him by a head and a half. The hulk had a long leather whip wound round his right hand and elbow, and in his left hand he was carrying a canvas pouch. Every now and then the master turned to his massive lackey, scooped money out of the pouch and presented it to the beggars - one coin to each of them. When a little old man with only one leg lost patience and reached for the alms out of turn, the bearded hulk gave a menacing bellow and in a single, lightning-swift movement untwined the whip and lashed the cripple across the top of his grey head with the very tip of it - how the old fellow gasped!

Every time the mink-coated benefactor thrust a coin into one of the outstretched hands, he intoned: 'I give not to you, you pitiful drunks, not to you - but to the Lord God All-Merciful and the Mother of God, the Intercessor, for forgiveness of the sins of the servant of God, Samson.'

Momos looked harder and was able to satisfy his curiosity: as he ought to have expected, the fat-faced distributor of alms was buying his escape from the fires of hell rather cheaply, giving the beggars one copper kopeck each.

'Evidently the sins of the servant of God, Samson, are not so very great,' Momos muttered aloud, preparing to continue on his way.

A voice roughened and hoarse from alcohol mumbled right in his ear: 'They're great, right enough, son, oh they're great. You can't be from Moscow, then, if you don't know the famous Eropkin?'

Standing beside Momos was a skinny, sinewy ragamuffin with a nervous, twitching, yellowish face. The ragamuffin reeked of stale, cheap alcohol, and his gaze, directed past Momos at the niggardly donor, was filled with a fierce, burning hatred.

'That Samson sucks the blood of nigh on half of Moscow,' the jittery fellow explained to Momos. 'The dosshouses in Khi-trovka, the taverns in Grachi, at the Sukharev Market, and in Khitrovka again - they're almost all his. He buys up stolen goods from the Khitrovka "dealers" and lends money at huge rates of interest. In short, he's a vampire - a cursed viper, he is.'

Momos glanced at the repulsive fat man, who was already getting into his sleigh, with more interest now. Well, well, what colourful characters there did seem to be in Moscow.

And he cares nothing for the police?'

The ragamuffin spat. 'What police! He hangs about in the apartments of the Governor himself, Prince Dolgorukoi. But of course, Eropkin's a general now! When they were building the Cathedral he put up a million out of his profits, and for that he got a ribbon from the Tsar, with a big star and a position in a charitable institution. He used to be Samson the Bloodsucker, but now he's "Your Excellency". He's a thief, an executioner, a murderer.'

'Well now, I don't expect he's actually a murderer,' Momos said doubtfully.

'You don't?' said the drunkard, looking at the other man for the first time. 'Of course, Samson Kharitonovich Eropkin wouldn't get his own hands bloody. But did you see that mute, Kuzma? What about that whip? He's not a man; he's a wild beast, a guard dog on a chain. He won't just kill anyone; he'll tear them limb from limb while they're still alive. And he's done it too - there have been cases! Ah, son, the things I could tell you about what they get up to!'

Well come on, you tell me. We'll sit for a while, and I'll pour you a glass,' Momos invited him. He was in no hurry to get anywhere, and he'd obviously run into an interesting sort of fellow. You could learn all sorts of useful things from people like that. 'Just let me give my little boy twenty kopecks for the carousel.'

They took a seat in the tavern. Momos asked for tea and rusks; the drinking man took a half-bottie of gin and salted bream.

The man with the story to tell took a slow, dignified drink, sucked on a fish tail and began working his way up to his subject: 'You don't know Moscow, so I suppose you've never heard about the Sandunovsky Baths?'

'Of course I have - those baths are famous,' Momos replied, topping up the other man's glass.

'That's just it: they're famous. I used to be the top man there in the gentlemen's department. Everybody knew Egor Tishkin. Let your blood for you, and trim a corn, and give you a first-rate shave - I could do it all. But what I was really famous for was the massage business. Clever hands, I used to have. The way I used to drive the blood through their veins and stretch their bones had all the counts and the generals purring away like kittens. And I could treat all sorts of ailments too - with various potions and decoctions. Some months I raked in as much as fifteen hundred roubles! I had a house, and a garden too. I had a widow who came round to see me - her husband used to be a clergyman.'

Egor Tishkin downed his second drink with no ceremony, in one, and didn't bother to take a sniff at his fish.

'That louse Eropkin singled me out. He always used to ask for Tishkin. The number of times I was even called out to his house. As good as at home there, I was. I used to shave his ugly, bumpy face, and squeeze out his fatty tumours and cure his impotence for him. And who was it saved him from his kidney stones? Who put his hernia back in? Ah, Egor Tishkin used to have golden fingers then. And now he's a naked, homeless beggar. And all because of him, all because of Eropkin! I tell you what, son: get me another drop. My soul's burning up.'

When he'd calmed down a bit, the former bathhouse master continued: 'He's superstitious, Eropkin. Worse than an old countrywoman. He believes in all sorts of signs: black cats, and cocks crowing and the new moon. And let me tell you, my dear man, that Samson Kharitonovich used to have this amazing wart in the middle of his beard, right smack in his dimple. All black, it was, with three ginger hairs growing out of it. He used to really pamper it, used to say it was his special sign. He deliberately let the hair grow on his cheeks, but he had his chin shaved to make the wart more obvious. And it was me that took that special sign of his away ... I wasn't feeling too well that day - had too much drink the night before. I didn't use to indulge very often - only on holidays - but my mother had just passed away, and I'd been taking comfort, the way you do. Anyway, my hand was shaking, and that was a sharp razor - Damascene steel. And I sliced Eropkin's damned wart clean off. Blood everywhere, and the screams! "You've destroyed my good fortune, you cack-handed devil!" And Samson Kharitonovich starts sobbing and trying to stick it back on, but it won't hold - it just keeps falling off. Eropkin went absolutely wild and called Kuzma. First he works me over with that whip of his, but that's not enough for Eropkin. "Your hands should be torn off," he says, "all your crooked fingers torn out one by one." Kuzma grabs hold of my right hand, sticks it in the crack of the door and slams it shut and there's this terrible crunch... I shout out: "Father, don't destroy me, you'll leave me without a crust of bread, at least spare the left one." But it was pointless: he mangled my left hand too ...'

The drunk waved one hand in the air and for the first time Momos noticed the unnatural way his fingers stuck out without bending.

Momos poured the poor fellow more drink and patted him on the shoulder. 'This Eropkin's a really ugly brute,' he said slowly, recalling the benefactor's bloated features. He really disliked people like that. If he hadn't been leaving Moscow, he could have taught the swine a little lesson. 'So tell me: do his taverns and dosshouses bring in a lot of money?'

'Reckon it at something like thirty thousand a month,' answered Egor Tishkin, angrily brushing away his tears.

'Oh, come on. You're exaggerating there, brother.'

The bathhouse attendant sat up suddenly: 'I ought to know! I tell you, his house was like my own home. Every day God sends, that Kuzma of his goes off to the Hard Labour and the Siberia, and the Transit Camp, and the other drinking establishments Eropkin owns. He collects up to five thousand in a day. On Saturdays they bring it to him from the dosshouses. There's four hundred families living in the Birdcage alone. And what about the pickings from the street girls? And the loot, the stolen goods? Samson Kharitonovich puts all the money in a simple sack and keeps it under his bed. That's his way. He once arrived in Moscow as a country bumpkin with that sack, and he thinks he came by his wealth because of it. In other words, he's just like an old woman - believes in all sorts of nonsense. On the first day of every month he gets his earnings out from under the bed and drives them to the bank. Driving along in a carriage and four with his dirty sack, as pleased as Punch. That's his most important day. The money's secret, from illegal dealings, so on the last day he has trained bookkeepers sitting there drawing up false documents for the whole bundle. Sometimes he takes thirty thousand to the bank, sometimes more - it depends how many days there are in the month.'

'He keeps that sort of money at home, and no one's robbed him?' Momos asked in amazement, becoming more and more interested in what he heard.

'Just you try robbing him. There's a brick wall round the house, dogs running around in the yard, the menservants - and then there's that Kuzma. That whip of Kuzma's is worse than any devolver: he'll slice a mouse running past in half for a bet. None of the "businessmen" ever bother Eropkin. They'd only come off worse. There was one time - five years ago it was -when one hothead tried it. They found him later in the knacker's yard. Kuzma had torn all his skin off in strips with his whip. Neat as a whistle. And no one said a word; everyone kept mum. You can be sure Eropkin has the police in his pocket. The amount of money he has, there's no counting it. Only his wealth won't do him any good, the tyrant - he'll die of stone fever. He's got kidney stones, and with Tishkin gone there's no one to cure him. You don't think the doctors know how to dissolve a stone, do you? Samson Kharitonovich's people came to see me. "Come on, Egorushka," they said, "he forgives you. He'll give you money too - just come back and treat him." I didn't go. Maybe he forgives me, but he'll never have my forgiveness!'

'So tell me: does he often hand out alms to the beggars?' asked Momos, feeling the blood beginning to course recklessly through his veins.

Mimi glanced into the tavern, looking bored, and he gave her a sign: Don't interfere, this is business.

Tishkin propped his sullen head on his hand and his unsteady elbow slithered across the dirty tablecloth. 'Often. From tomorrow, when the Lenten Fast begins, he'll be coming to Our Lady of Smolensk every day. The bastard has an office here, on Pliushchikha Street. He'll get out of his sleigh along the way, hand out a rouble in kopecks and then ride on to rake in the thousands.'

'I tell you what, Egor Tishkin,' said Momos: 'I feel sorry for you. You come along with me. I'll get you a place to sleep for the night and give you a bit of money for a drink. You can tell me about your bitter life in a bit more detail. So you say he's highly superstitious, this Eropkin?'

It's just downright unfair, Momos thought as he led the stumbling martyr to the door. What sort of bad luck is this at the very last moment! It was February the shortest little month of all! Only twenty-eight days! There'd be thirty thousand less in the sack than in January or in March. But at least it was already the twenty-third. Not too long to wait until the end of the month, but still enough time to prepare properly. Only he'd have to get the luggage from the train.

There was an immense operation taking shape: he could wipe out all his Moscow fiascos in a single stroke.

The following day, the first day of the Week of the Adoration of the Cross, Smolenskaya Square was unrecognisable, as if the sorcerer Chernomor had shot by above the square in the night and with a single pass of his broad hands swept all the sinners, drunks, singers and shouters off the face of the earth, whisked away the spiced-tea men, piemen and pancake men, carried off the bright-coloured pennants, the paper garlands and the balloons, leaving behind only the empty fairground booths, only the black crows on the snow gleaming wetly in the sun, only the beggars on the porch of the Church of Our Lady of Smolensk.

Matins had been sung in the church while it was still dark, and the long, dignified fast, intended to last seven weeks, had begun. The church elder had already walked through the fasting congregation three times, collecting offerings, and three times carried a dish heavy with copper and silver into the sanctuary, when the most important parishioner of all, His Excellency Samson Kharitonovich Eropkin, arrived. He was in an especially mellow mood today: his broad, flabby face was cleanly washed, his sparse hair was combed in a neat parting and his long sideburns were slicked with oil.

Samson Kharitonovich positioned himself directly opposite the Holy Doors of the sanctuary and spent about a quarter of an hour bowing down to the ground and crossing himself with broad gestures. The priest came out with a candle, waved the censer at Eropkin and muttered: 'Lord, Master of my life, purify me, a sinner ...' And then up walked the elder with an empty dish. The praying man got up from his knees, parted the fabric flaps of his coat and put three hundred-rouble notes in the elder's dish - that was Samson Eropkin's established custom on the Monday of the Cross.

The generous man came out on to the square, where the poor beggars were already waiting, holding out their hands, bleating, jostling each other. But Kuzma simply swayed his whip slightly and the jostling immediately stopped. The paupers lined up in two ranks, like soldiers on parade. A solid mass of coarse grey cloth and tatters, except that on the left side near the middle there was something white.

Samson Kharitonovich Eropkin screwed up his puffy little eyes and saw a fine-looking boy standing among the beggars. The boy had large, bright-blue eyes. He had fine features and his face was clean. His golden hair was cut pudding-basin style (oh, what an outcry there'd been: Mimi had at first absolutely refused to have her lovely locks trimmed so short). The miraculous youth was dressed in nothing but a snow-white shirt - but he didn't seem to feel the cold at all (why, of course not: under the shirt there was a fine sweater of the best-quality angora, and Mimi's delicate bust was tightly wrapped in warm flannel). He had velveteen trousers, and bast sandals, and his light-coloured foot wrappings were unstained.

As he gave out his kopecks, Eropkin glanced now and then at the unusual beggar, and when he got close to the boy, he held out not one coin, but two, and told him: 'Here you are, pray for me.'

The golden-haired youth did not take the money. He raised his clear eyes to the sky and declared in a ringing voice: 'You give too little, servant of God. The dues you offer Our Lady of Sorrow are too small.' He looked Eropkin straight in the eye and the venerable believer was strangely disturbed by that stern, unblinking glance. 'I see your sinful soul. There is a bloody stain on your heart, and filthy decay within you. It must be pu-urged, it must be pu-urged,' the holy fool sang. 'Or else the stench and decay will devour you. Does your belly pain you, Samson? Does your kidney torment you with agony? That's from the filth; it must be pu-urged.'

Eropkin stopped dead in his tracks. And with good reason! His kidneys really were in a terrible state, and he had a large wine-coloured birthmark on the left side of his chest. The information was accurate, all right; it had come from Egor Tishkin.

'Who are you?' His Excellency gasped in fright.

The boy did not answer. He raised his blue eyes to the sky again and began moving his lips gently.

'He's a holy fool, benefactor,' eager voices told Eropkin from both sides. 'It's his first day here, father. Nobody knows where he came from. He talks in riddles. His name's Paisii. Not long since he had a falling fit, and foam came out of his mouth, but it smelt like heaven. He's one of God's own.'

'Then here's a rouble for you, if you're one of God's own. Pray for the forgiveness of my grievous sins.'

Eropkin took a paper rouble out of his wallet, but again the holy fool did not accept it. He said in a quiet voice: 'Do not give it to me. I don't need it: the Mother of God will feed me. Give it to him.' And he pointed to an old beggar known to the whole market, the legless Zoska. 'Your lackey offended him yesterday. Give it to the cripple, and I'll pray to the Mother of God for you.'

Zoska rolled up eagerly on his little trolley and held out his huge, knotty hand. Eropkin squeamishly thrust the rouble into it.

'May the Most Holy Virgin bless you,' the boy declared in a ringing voice, stretching out his slim hand towards Eropkin. And then a miracle happened that was remembered for a long time afterwards in Moscow.

From out of nowhere a huge raven flew up and landed on the holy fool's shoulder. The beggars in the crowd gasped out loud. But when they noticed that the black bird had a gold ring on its leg, everything went quiet.

Eropkin stood there, numb with fright, his thick lips trembling, his eyes starting out of his head. He tried to raise his hand to cross himself, but he couldn't do it.

Tears began flowing from the holy fool's eyes. 'I pity you, Samson,' he said, taking the ring off the bird's leg and holding it out to Eropkin. 'Take it, it's yours. The Holy Virgin does not accept your rouble; she is paying you back. And she sent a raven because your soul is black.'

The man of God turned and walked quietly away.

'Stop!' Samson Kharitonovich shouted, gazing at the glittering ring in confusion and dismay. 'You, you wait! Kuzma! Put him in the sleigh! We'll take him with us!'

The black-bearded hulk overtook the boy and took hold of his shoulder.

'Let's go to my house, do you hear? What's your name? ... Paisii!' Eropkin called to him. 'Live with me for a while, warm yourself

'I cannot live in a palace of stone,' the boy replied sternly, looking back. 'It blinds the soul. But you, Samson, do this. Tomorrow, when matins has been sung, come to Iverskaya Street. I shall be there. Bring a pouch of gold coins, and be sure it's full. I wish to entreat the Virgin for you again.'

Everybody watched as the holy fool walked away, with the black raven pecking at his shoulder and cawing hoarsely.

(The raven's name was Balthazar. He was a trained bird, bought at the famous Bird Market. The clever creature had quickly mastered a simple trick: Mimi stuffed millet into the shoulder seam of her shirt, Momos released Balthazar and he flew to the white shirt - at first from five paces, then from fifteen, and then from thirty.)

He came, the bloodsucker. Just as he'd been told to. And he brought the pouch too. Not actually a pouch, but a big, heavy leather purse. Kuzma was carrying it for his master.

During the night, as was only to be expected, the charitable general had been tormented by doubts. No doubt he had tried the Holy Virgin's ring with his teeth, and even tested it with acid. Have no doubts, Your Bloodsuckerness, it's an excellent ring, fine old work.

The holy fool Paisii was standing slightly to one side of the chapel - standing there calmly, with a cup for offerings hanging round his neck. When people put in enough money, he went and gave it away to the cripples. There was a crowd of people standing round the boy, at a respectful distance, eager for a miracle. After the previous day's occurrence the rumour had spread round the churches and the porches of a miraculous sign, a raven with a gold ring in its beak (the story had changed in the telling and retelling).

Today it was overcast and colder, but the holy fool was still only wearing a white shirt, except that his throat was wrapped in a piece of cloth. He did not glance at Eropkin or greet him when he approached.

From his position, of course, Momos could not hear what the bloodsucker said to him, but he assumed it was something sceptical. Mimi's task was to lead Eropkin away from all the places crowded with people. There had been enough publicity; it was no longer needed now.

Then the man of God turned to go, gestured for the paunchy general to follow and set off straight across the square, on a path directly towards Momos. Eropkin hesitated for a moment and set off after the holy fool. The curious onlookers were about to swarm after them, but the black-bearded janissary cracked his whip a couple of times and the idlers fell back.

'No, not this one; he has no sanctity in him,' Momos heard Mimi's crystal-clear voice say as she stopped for a moment beside a crippled soldier.

Beside a twisted hunchback the holy fool said: And not this one, his soul's asleep.'

But when he reached Momos, who had taken up a position slightly apart from the other female beggars, the boy stopped, crossed himself and bowed down to his feet. He told Eropkin: 'Give the pouch to this unfortunate woman. Her husband has passed on, and the little children are asking for food. Give it to her. The Holy Virgin pities such people.'

Momos began screeching in a piercing falsetto from under the woman's headscarf that was pulled almost right down to his nose: 'What's this "give"? What's this "give"? Whose boy are you, eh? How do you know about me?'

'Who are you?' asked Eropkin, leaning down to the widow.

'I'm Marfa Ziuzina, father,' Momus sang in a sweet voice now, 'a wretched widow. Our provider passed away, and I've got seven to feed, each one smaller than the last. If you gave me ten kopecks, I could buy them some bread.'

Eropkin snorted and looked at the widow suspiciously. 'All right, Kuzma, give it to her. But make sure Paisii doesn't run off.'

The black-bearded hulk handed the purse to Momos - it wasn't so very heavy.

What's this, father?' the little widow asked in fright.

Well?' said Eropkin, turning to the holy fool without answering. 'Now what?'

The boy mumbled something incomprehensible. He dropped to his knees and beat his forehead three times against the cobblestones of the road. Then he pressed his ear to the stone, as if he were listening to something. Then he stood up.

'The Holy Virgin says tomorrow at first light come to the Neskuchny Gardens. Dig in the earth under the old oak tree beside the stone arbour. Dig where the oak is overgrown with moss. And you will have your answer, servant of God.' The holy fool added quietly, 'Come there, Samson, and I will come too.'

Ah, no!' Eropkin exclaimed craftily. 'What kind of fool do you take me for? You're going with me, brother. Take him, Kuzma. You'll be all right in a stone palace for one night; you won't melt. And if you've cheated me - you're for it. I'll have my gold coins back out of your throat.'

Momos crept back and away, quietly, without getting up off his knees, then straightened up and darted off into the labyrinth of streets around Okhotny Ryad.

He untied the purse and put his hand in. There weren't many imperials after all - only thirty. Samson Kharitonovich Eropkin had decided to be mean; he'd been tight-fisted with the Holy Virgin. But never mind, the Mother of God wouldn't be stingy with her own faithful servant!

When it was still dark, Momos dressed with plenty of warm padding, took a flask of cognac with him and assumed his position at the spot he had spied out in advance: in the bushes, with a good view of the old oak tree. In the twilight he could make out the vague outlines of the white columns of the rotunda. At the hour of dawn there was not a single soul in the Neskuchny Gardens.

Momos's combat position was thoroughly equipped and prepared. He had just eaten a pork sandwich (never mind about the Lenten fast) and taken a drink from the lid of his Shustov cognac, when Eropkin's sleigh came rolling up along the alley.

The first to get there was the mute, Kuzma. He peered cautiously all around (Momos ducked down), walked around the oak for a moment and waved. Samson Kharitonovich walked across, holding the holy fool Paisii tightly by the hand. Another two men stayed sitting on the coachbox.

The boy walked up to the oak, bowed to it from the waist, and pointed to the agreed spot: 'Dig here.'

'Get the spades!' Eropkin shouted, turning towards the sleigh.

The two strong young fellows walked across, spat on their palms and started pounding away at the frozen earth. The earth yielded with wonderful ease, and very soon there was a clang (Momos had been too lazy to bury the treasure very deep).

'There's something here, Samson Kharitonovich!'

'What is it?'

'Seems like something metal.'

Eropkin dropped to his knees and started raking the clods of earth away with his hands. Grunting with the effort, he pulled up a copper vessel, green with age, out of the ground (it was an old saucepan, clearly from before the Fire of Moscow - bought from a junkman for fifty kopecks). Something glimmered faintly in the semi-darkness, catching the light from the sleigh's lantern.

'Gold!' gasped Eropkin. A lot of gold!'

He tipped the heavy, round coins on to his palm and held them up in front of his eyes. 'They're not my imperials! Kuzya, light a match!'

He read out loud: "An-na, emp-ress and au-to-crat ..." It's old treasure! There must be at least a thousand gold pieces here!'

Momos had tried to get hold of something a bit more intriguing, with Jewish letters, or at least Arabic script, but that had worked out too expensive for each coin. He'd bought gold two-rouble pieces from the reign of the Empress Anna and lobanchiks from the reign of Catherine the Great for twenty roubles apiece. He hadn't bought a thousand, but he'd bought plenty; there was lots of this old stuff in the antique shops at the Sukharev Market. Samson Kharitonovich would count the coins afterwards - he was bound to - and the number was a special one, not accidental; it would have its effect later.

'Things are bad with you, Samson,' the boy sobbed. 'The Holy Virgin doesn't forgive you; she's paying you back.'

'Eh?' asked Eropkin, crazed by the shimmering of the gold.

It's a great thing, a whole lot of gold coins all at once. It doesn't add up to such an astronomical sum in paper money, but it's spellbinding. It can make a greedy man lose his wits completely. This wasn't the first time Momos had exploited this strange property of gold. The important thing now was not to give Eropkin time to draw breath. The skinflint's head had to start spinning, swirling his brains around. Come on now, Mimi, this is your benefit performance.

'Either you gave too little again, or there's no forgiveness for you at all,' the holy fool declared in a piteous voice. 'You'll rot alive, you wretched orphan.'

'How's that, no salvation?' Eropkin exclaimed anxiously, and even from the bushes, twelve yards away, Momos could see the gleaming beads of sweat spring to his forehead. 'If it wasn't enough, I'll give more. I've more money than I can count. How much do I have to give, tell me!'

Paisii swayed from side to side on the spot and did not answer.

'I see ... I see a dark chamber. Icons on the walls, an icon-lamp burning. I see a feather mattress, swan's-down pillows, many pillows ... Under the bed is darkness, the darkness of Egypt. The golden calf is there ... A bast sack, crammed full with pieces of paper. That is the source of all the evil!'

The mute Kuzma and the men with the spades moved right up close to the boy; their faces were dazed, and Eropkin's shaven chin was trembling.

'Our Mother in Heaven does not want your money,' the young man of God intoned in a strange, ululating voice (she's using those modulations from La Bayadere, Momos realised). 'What our Intercessor wants is for you to purge yourself - for your money to be purged. It's dirty, Samson, and that's why it brings you no happiness. A righteous man must bless it, bless it with his sinless hand, and it will be purged. A great and righteous man, a holy man with a blind eye and a withered arm and a lame leg.'

'Where can I find someone like that?' Eropkin whined, shaking Paisii by his thin shoulders. Where is there a righteous man like that?'

The boy inclined his head to one side, listened to something and said in a soft voice: A voice ... A voice will speak to you ... out of the ground ... Do what it says.'

And then Mimi pulled a strange trick: in her usual soprano voice, she suddenly launched into a French chansonette from the operetta Jojou's Secret. Momos grabbed hold of his head in despair - she'd overdone it now, the little imp! She'd ruined everything!

'He's singing with the voice of an angel!' one of the men gasped, and crossed himself quickly. 'Singing in a heavenly language, the language of the angels!'

'That's French, you fool,' Eropkin croaked. 'I've heard it sometimes happens that holy fools start talking in foreign tongues they've never known in their lives.' And he crossed himself too.

Paisii suddenly collapsed on to the ground and started thrashing about in convulsions. A thick stream of foam bubbled out his mouth.

'Hey!' Samson Kharitonovich shouted, frightened. He bent down over the boy. Wait a bit with your fit! What kind of voice is it? And what does it mean - this holy man's going to purge my money? Will the money disappear? Or will it be returned with interest?'

But the boy only arched up his back and hammered his feet on the cold earth, shouting: 'A voice ... out of the ground ... a voice!'

Eropkin turned to his ruffians in astonishment and told them: 'He really does give off a sweet smell, a heavenly smell!'

I should think so, Momos chuckled to himself. The Parisian soap, 'L'arome du paradis', one and a half roubles for a tiny little bar.

However, the pause could not be dragged out any longer: it was time for the specially prepared star turn of the entire performance. It wasn't for nothing that the evening before he'd spent the best part of an hour laying a garden hose under the fallen leaves and sprinkling earth over it. One end with a wide funnel was now in Momos's hand, and the other, with a wider funnel, was precisely positioned between the roots of the oak. To conceal the secret, it was covered with wire mesh, and the mesh was covered with moss. It was a reliable system, experimentally tested; he just had to fill his lungs right up to the top with air.

And Momos tried his very best: he breathed in, pressed the tube tightly against his lips and boomed: At midnight... Come ... To the Varsonofiev Chapel...'

It sounded very convincing - almost too impressive. In fact, the impression produced was so strong that it caused a problem. When the sepulchral voice boomed out from under the ground. Eropkin squealed and jumped, his henchmen shied away as well, and they didn't hear the most important thing: where to take the money.

"... near the Novopimenovksy Monastery,' Momos boomed to make things clearer, but that cloth-eared blockhead Eropkin was so stunned he still didn't hear.

'Eh? What monastery?' He asked the ground fearfully. He looked around and even stuck his nose into a hollow in the oak.

Now what was Momos supposed to do? The Supreme Power wouldn't repeat everything ten times for the deaf dolt! That would turn the whole thing into a cheap comedy. This was a predicament.

Mimi solved his difficulty. She sat up and babbled in a quiet voice: 'The Varsonofiev Chapel, near the Novopimenovsky Monastery. The holy hermit is there. Take the sack to him. At midnight tonight.'

People in Moscow said bad things about the Varsonofiev Chapel. Seven years earlier the small gate church near the entrance to the Novopimenovsky Monastery had been struck by a bolt of lightning that had knocked down its holy cross and cracked its bell. What kind of house of God was it, if it could be struck by lightning?

The chapel had been boarded up and the clergy and the pilgrims and the simple public had started to avoid it. At night shrieks and terrible, inhuman groans were heard from inside the thick walls. It was either cats fornicating, with the echo under the stone vaults amplifying their howls, or there was something far worse than that taking place in the chapel. The father superior had held a prayer service and sprinkled the place with holy water, but it hadn't helped; people only became even more afraid.

Momos had spotted this wonderful place before Christmas and been thinking it might come in useful ever since. And now it had; it was just the thing.

He had considered the setting carefully and prepared the stage effects carefully. 'La Grande Operation' was approaching its finale, and it promised to be absolutely stunning.

'The Jack of Spades has outdone himself!' - that was what the newspapers would have written the following day, if only there had been genuine openness and freedom of speech in Russia.

When the small bell in the monastery gave a dull clang and began chiming midnight, there was the sound of cautious footfalls outside the double doors of the chapel. Momos imagined Eropkin crossing himself and reaching out a hesitant hand towards the gilded panel. The nails had been pulled out of the boards - one gentle tug and the door would open with a heart-stopping creak.

And now it had opened, but it was not Samson Kharitonovich Eropkin who glanced in; it was the mute Kuzma. The cowardly bloodsucker had sent his devoted slave on ahead.

The jaw under the black beard dropped open and the coiled whip slid off Kuzma's shoulder like a dead snake.

And indeed, eschewing all false modesty, there was something here worth gaping at.

Standing at the centre of the square space was a table of rough boards, with four candles flickering on it, one at each corner. There was also an old man in a white surplice, with a long grey beard and long, silky hair tied round on his forehead with string. He was sitting on a chair, hunched over an old book in a thick leather binding (Travels Into Several Remote Parts Of The World. In Four Parts. By Lemuel Gulliver, First a Surgeon, And Then A Captain Of Several Ships, published in Bristol in 1726 - bought at a book stall for its thickness and impressive appearance). One of the hermit's eyes was covered by a black patch and his left arm was in a sling. The sage did not appear to have noticed the man who had come in.

Kuzma gave a low grunt, turning away, and Eropkin's pale features appeared from behind his broad, massive shoulder.

Then, without looking up, the holy hermit spoke in a clear, resonant voice: 'Come here, Samson. I have been expecting you. You are mentioned in the secret book.' And he jabbed his finger at an engraving showing Gulliver surrounded by Houyhnhnms.

Stepping carefully, the entire honourable company entered the chapel: the most venerable Samson Kharitonovich, clutching the boy Paisii tightly by the hand, Kuzma and the same two men as before, who lugged in a plump bast sack.

The sage pierced Eropkin with a menacing glance from his single eye under its matted eyebrow and held up a finger in admonition. In response to this gesture, one of the candles suddenly hissed and went out. The bloodsucker gasped and let go of the boy's hand - which was the required effect.

The trick with the candle was a simple one, but impressive. Momos himself had invented it for use when he ran into difficulties at cards: the candles looked like ordinary ones, but the wick slid freely inside the wax. It was an unusually long wick, threaded though a crack in the table underneath the candle. Jerk your left hand under the table, and the candle went out (of course, Momos had the dolly to control the wicks hanging on his sling).

'I know, I know who you are and what kind of man you are,' the hermit said with an ominous laugh. 'Give me that sack of yours, stuffed full of blood and tears; put it there ... Not on the table, not on the magic book!" he shouted at the two men. 'Toss it under the table, so I can set my lame leg on it.'

He nudged the sack gently with one foot - it was damned weighty. Must be all one-rouble and three-rouble notes. At least three stones. But never mind - what's your own isn't heavy.

Eropkin was superstitious and none too sharp-witted, but he wasn't going to give away his sack that simply. Miracles alone weren't enough. Psychology was required: sudden pressure, rapid surprises. He mustn't be allowed to gather his wits, and think, to take a close look. So giddy up, now!

The old sage wagged his finger at Eropkin in warning, and immediately a second candle went out.

Samson Kharitonovich crossed himself

'Don't you go crossing yourself here!' Momos barked at him in a terrifying voice. 'Your hands will wither and fall off! Or don't you know who you've come to see, you fool?'

'I kn— I know, father,' Eropkin hissed: 'a holy hermit.'

Momos threw back his head and laughed malevolently - just like Mephistopheles played by Giuseppe Bardini.

'You are a stupid man, Samson Eropkin. Did you not count the coins in the treasure?'

'I did ...'

And how many were there?'

'Six hundred and sixty-six.'

And where did you hear the voice from?'

'From under the ground

'Who speaks from under the ground, eh? Don't you know that?'

Eropkin sat down, horrified - his legs had clearly given way under him. He was about to cross himself, but suddenly felt afraid and hastily hid his hands behind his back - then looked round at his men to make sure they weren't crossing themselves either. They weren't, but they were trembling.

'I need you, Samson,' said Momos, switching into a more cordial tone and shifting the sack ever so slightly towards himself with his foot. 'You are going to be mine. You are going to serve me.'

He snapped his fingers with a loud crunch; a third candle went out, and the darkness under the gloomy vaults immediately grew thicker.

Eropkin backed away.

'Where are you going? I'll turn you to stone!' Momos growled, and then he played on contrast once again, speaking ingratiatingly. 'Don't be afraid of me, Samson. I need men like you. Do you want a mountain of money that would make your lousy sack look like a heap of dust?' He gave the sack a derisive kick. 'You'll keep your sack; stop trembling over it. But how would you like me to give you a hundred like it? Or is that not enough for you? Do you want more? Do you want power over humankind?'

Eropkin gulped, but he didn't say anything.

'Pronounce the words of the Great Oath, and you will be mine for ever! Agreed?' Momos roared out the last word so that it echoed back and forth between the old walls.

Eropkin pulled his head down into his shoulders and nodded.

'You, Azael, stand here at my left hand,' the old man ordered the boy who ran behind the table and stood beside him.

'When the fourth candle goes out, repeat what I say, word for word,' the mysterious old man instructed Eropkin. And don't gawp at me - look up.'

Once he was sure that all four future servants of the Evil One had obediently thrown back their heads, Momos extinguished the final candle, squeezed his eyes shut and nudged Mimi in the ribs: Don't look!

The voice rang out again in the darkness: 'Look up! Look up!'

He pulled the sack towards himself with one hand and prepared to press the button with the other.

Up above, where the light of the candles had not reached, even when they were still burning, Momos had installed a magnesium Blitzlicht,the very latest German invention for photography. When its unendurable white flash blazed out in the pitch darkness, Eropkin and his cut-throats would be left totally blind for about five minutes. And in the meantime, the jolly trio - Momos, Mimi and the Money - would slip out through the back door, which had been oiled in readiness.

Outside the door there were a light American sleigh and a fleet little horse who was probably already weary of waiting. Once that sleigh darted away, then you, Samson Kharitonovich Eropkin, might as well try to catch the wind. This was no operation, it was a work of art.

It was time!

Momos pressed the button. Something fizzed, but he didn't see any bright flash from behind his closed eyelids.

Of all things, a misfire, just at that very moment! So much for the vaunted achievements of technical progress! At the rehearsal everything had been just perfect, but now the premiere had been turned into a fiasco!

Swearing silently to himself, Momos picked up the sack and tugged on Mimi's sleeve. They backed away towards the exit, trying not to make any noise.

But just then the accursed Blitzlicht came to life: it hissed, gave a dull flash, belched out a cloud of white smoke, and the chapel was illuminated with a feeble, flickering light. Four figures could clearly be made out, frozen motionless on one side of the table, and two others creeping away on the other.

'Stop! Where are you going?' Eropkin squealed. 'Give me my sack! Hold them, lads; they're Freemasons! Ah, the stinking rats!'

Momos made a dash for the door, since the light had faded, but then something whistled through the air and a noose tightened round his throat. That damned Kuzma and his cursed whip! Momos dropped the sack and clutched at his throat with a croak.

'Momchik, what's wrong?' Mimi asked, puzzled. She grabbed hold of him: 'Let's run!'

But it was too late. Rough hands emerged from the darkness, grabbed Momos's collar and threw him to the floor. Terrified and choking without air, he lost consciousness.

When consciousness returned, the first thing he saw was crimson shadows swaying across the black ceiling and the smoke-blackened frescoes. There was a lighted lantern flickering on the floor; it must have been brought from the sleigh.

Momos realised that he was lying on the floor with his hands tied behind his back. He turned his head this way and that, trying to assess the situation. The situation was awful; it couldn't possibly have been worse.

Mimi was squatting on her haunches, huddled up into a tight ball, with the mute monster Kuzma towering up over her, lovingly caressing his whip, the very sight of which made Momos twitch. The raw skin on his throat still stung.

Eropkin himself was sitting on a chair, bright crimson and sweaty. His Excellency had evidently been making a great deal of noise while Momos was in a state of blissful oblivion. The two minions were standing on tiptoe on the table, arranging something there. When Momos looked more closely, he saw two dangling ropes, and he didn't like the look of the arrangement at all.

'Well, my darlings,' Samson Eropkin said in an amiable voice when he saw that Momos had come round, 'wanted to clean out Eropkin himself, did we? You're cunning, you devils, cunning. Only Eropkin's smarter. Wanted to make me the laughing-stock of all Moscow, did we? But never mind,' he drawled with relish. 'Now I'll give you something to laugh about. There's a vicious fate in store for anyone who tries to take a bite at Eropkin, a terrible fate - to teach the others a good lesson.'

'Why this melodrama, Your Excellency' Momos said with a grin, putting on a brave front. 'It really doesn't become you. A full state counsellor, a bulwark of piety. After all, there is the court, the police. Let them punish us; why should you get your hands dirty? And then, after all, my dear fellow, you have lost nothing. Haven't you acquired an old gold ring? You have. And the treasure too. Keep them, as compensation, so to speak, for the injury.'

'I'll give you compensation,' said Samson Kharitonovich, smiling with just the corners of his mouth. There was a soft, frightening glow in his eyes. "Well, is it ready?' he shouted to his men.

They jumped down on to the floor. 'It's ready, Samson Kharitonovich.'

'Go on then, string him up.'

'I beg your pardon, how do you mean - "string him up"?' Momos asked indignantly when he was lifted off the floor with his feet upwards. 'This is beyond all - Help! Help! Police!'

'Shout away, shout away' Eropkin told him. 'If there's anyone walking by in the middle of the night, he'll just cross himself and take to his heels as fast as he can.'

Then Mimi suddenly started wailing piercingly: 'Fire! We're burning! Good people, we're burning.'

She'd come up with the right idea: a passer-by wouldn't be frightened by a shout like that; he'd come running to help or dash to the monastery to sound the alarm bell.

Momos joined in with her. 'Fire! We're burning! Fire!'

But they weren't allowed to carry on shouting for long. The black-bearded mute tapped Mimi gently on her head with his fist and the delicate little swallow simply slumped over, landing face-down on the floor. The stinging serpent of the whip wound itself round Momos's throat once again and his howl was reduced to a croak.

The torturers lifted up the bound man and dragged him on to the table. They tied one ankle to one rope and the other ankle to the other, pulled, and a moment later Momos was dangling above the rough-planed boards like a letter Y. His grey beard hung downwards, tickling his face; his surplice slid down, exposing legs in narrow breeches and boots with spurs. Once out in the street, Momos had been intending to tear off his grey hair, pull off his loose robe and transform himself into a dashing hussar - no one would ever have recognised him as the 'hermit'.

He ought to have been sitting in the troika now, with Mimi on one side and the sack with all that money in it on the other, but instead of that he'd been ruined by that dastardly German invention, and here he was, dangling in the air with his face towards that near but unreachable door that led out into the snowy night, to the sleigh, salvation, good luck and life.

He heard Eropkin's voice behind him: 'Tell me, Kuzya, how many blows would it take you to split him in half?'

Momos began twisting round on the ropes, because he was interested in the answer to that question too. When he twisted right round, he saw the mute holding up four fingers. Then he thought for a moment and added a fifth.

'Well, no need to do it in five,' Samson Kharitonovich said, to make his wishes quite clear. 'We're not in any hurry. Better do it gently, a little bit at a time.'

'Honestly Your Excellency' Momos said hastily, 'I've already learned my lesson and I've been badly frightened - honestly I have. I have some savings. Twenty-nine thousand. I'd be glad to pay them as a fine. You're a man of business. What's the point of giving way to emotions?'

'And I'll deal with the lad later,' Eropkin said thoughtfully, with obvious pleasure, as if he were talking to himself.

Momos shuddered, realising that Mimi's fate would be more terrible than his own. 'Seventy-four thousand!' he shouted, for that was exactly how much he had left from his previous Moscow operations. 'But the boy's not to blame: he's feeble-minded.'

'Go on, show him your skill,' ordered Eropkin.

The whip gave a predatory whistle. Momos gave a sickening screech, because something cracked and crunched between his outstretched legs. But there was no pain.

'You've unpicked his trousers very neatly there,' Eropkin said approvingly. 'Now go in little bit deeper. Just half a vershok. To make him howl. And then keep on going in by the same amount until we have two halves dangling on two ropes.'

Momos felt a cold draught on the most vulnerable, most delicate part of his body and realised that with his first virtuoso stroke Kuzma had slit open his breeches along the seam without touching him.

Oh Lord, if you exist, prayed the man who had never prayed in his life, the man who had once been called Mitenka Sawin, send me an archangel, or even your shabbiest little angel. Save me, Lord. I swear that henceforth I'll only turn over low snakes like Eropkin and no one else. Honestly, on my word of honour, Lord.

At that moment the back door opened. The first thing Momos saw in the opening was the night, with streaks of wet snow slanting down across it. Then the night retreated and became the background as its place was taken by the silhouette of a slim figure wearing a long, waisted coat and tall top hat, and carrying a walking cane.

CHAPTER 9

The Letter of the Law or the Spirit of Justice?

Anisii had scoured his features with soap, and pumice and even sand - but still the swarthiness had not completely gone. Erast Petrovich still had it too, but it looked well on a handsome devil like him, rather like a dense tan. On Tulipov, however, the nut colouring had distributed itself across his face in little islets as it faded, and now, with his patchy skin and thin neck, he looked like an African giraffe - only not so tall. But every cloud has a silver lining: his pimples had disappeared completely ... absolutely, as if they had never even existed. In two or three weeks his skin would be clear - the Chief had promised. And the cropped hair would soon grow back - no two ways about that.

The morning after they had caught the Jack red-handed with his female accomplice (whom Anisii could not recall without a languorous sigh and a sweet thrill in various parts of his soul and his body) and then let them go again, he and the Court Counsellor had had a brief but important conversation.

'Well now,' Fandorin said with a sigh. 'You and I, Tulipov, have made fools of ourselves, but we may assume that the Jack of Spades' Moscow tour is now at an end. What are you thinking of doing now? Do you wish to return to the department?'

Anisii gave no reply and merely blenched a deadly shade of white, although that could not be seen under his swarthy stain. The thought of returning to his miserable career as a courier after all the wonderful adventures of the last two weeks seemed absolutely unbearable.

'Naturally, I will give you the most flattering references possible for the chief of police and Sverchinsky. It is not your fault that I was not up to the job. I shall recommend that you be transferred to the investigative or operational unit -whichever you wish. But I also have another proposition for you, Tulipov...'

The Chief paused and Anisii, already shaken by the brilliant prospect of a triumphant return to the gendarmerie, strained forward, sensing that something even more breathtaking was about to be said.

'... Provided, of course, that you have nothing against working with me on a permanent basis, I can offer you a position as my assistant. My own position entitles me to a permanent assistant, but so far I have not made any use of this right and preferred to manage on my own. However, I think you would suit me. You are lacking in knowledge of people, you are inclined to ponder things for too long and have insufficient faith in your own abilities; but in our business those very qualities could be extremely useful, if they are turned in the necessary direction. Your scant knowledge of people frees you from making stereotyped judgements, and in any case it is a shortcoming that can be remedied. To hesitate before taking a decision is also useful - provided only that afterwards, once having decided, you do not delay. And lack of faith in your own abilities protects you from pointless bravado and acting heedlessly. It can develop into a salutary prudence. Your main virtue, Tulipov, is that your fear of finding yourself in a shameful situation is stronger than your physical fear, which means that in any situation you will attempt to conduct yourself in a worthy fashion. That suits me very well. And you really do think rather well for someone with five classes of ordinary secondary school. What do you say?'

Anisii said nothing: he had been struck dumb and he was terrified even to move a muscle - what if this marvellous dream suddenly evaporated? What if he rubbed his eyes and saw his squalid little room, and Sonya snivelling because she was wet, and the cold sleet outside the window, and it was time to go running off to work and start delivering documents round the city?

Seeming suddenly to recall something, the Court Counsellor said in a guilty voice: 'Ah, yes, I haven't named the terms; I sincerely beg your pardon. You will immediately be granted the title of collegiate registrar. Your position will have a long title: "Personal Assistant to the Deputy for Special Assignments of the Governor-General of Moscow". The salary is fifty roubles a month and some other kind of quarterly emoluments - I don't remember exactly. You will be paid moving expenses and provided with an apartment at public expense, for I shall require you to live nearby. Of course, the move might not be convenient, but I promise that the apartment will be comfortable and well suited for your family circumstances.'

He means Sonya, Anisii guessed, quite correctly.

'Since I am ... hmm ... returning to the bachelor life,' the Chief said with an indeterminate gesture, 'Masa has been ordered to find new servants: a cook and a maid. Since you will be living nearby, they can also serve you.'

I mustn't start bawling now, Tulipov thought in a panic; that would be just too embarrassing altogether.

Fandorin spread his arms wide in puzzlement: "Well, I don't know what else to tempt you with. Would you like ...'

'No, Your Honour,' Anisii howled, coming to his senses. 'I don't want anything else. That's already more than enough for me. When I didn't say anything, I only meant...' He broke off, not knowing how to finish.

'Excellent,' Erast Petrovich said with a nod. 'We would appear to be in agreement. And your first task will be as follows: just to be on the safe side - for God takes care of those who take care of themselves - keep a close eye on the newspapers for a week or two. And I'll give instructions for the office of the chief of police to send you the "Police Summary of Municipal Events" to look through every day. Take note of anything exceptional, unusual or suspicious and report to me. This Momos might possibly be even more impudent than we imagine.'

A day or two after this historical conversation that marked such a decisive change in Anisii Tulipov's life, he was sitting at the writing desk in his chief’s study at the house, looking through the marks he had made in the newspapers and the 'Police Summary' as he prepared to report.

It was already after eleven, but Erast Petrovich had still not emerged from the bedroom. Just recently he had been rather listless and taciturn in general and shown no real interest in Tulipov's discoveries. He would listen in silence, wave his hand and say: 'You can go, Tulipov. The office is closed for today'

Today Masa had looked in to see Anisii and whisper with him. 'Ver' bad,' he said. At nigh' no sleep, in day no eat, no do zazen or rensu.'

'What doesn't he do?' Anisii asked, also in a whisper.

'Rensu - this ..." The Japanese made some rapid, abrupt movements with his hands and swung one foot up above his shoulder in a single movement.

'Ah, Japanese gymnastics,' said Tulipov, recalling that on previous mornings, while he was reading the newspapers in the study, the Court Counsellor and his valet would go into the drawing room, move the tables and chairs aside, and then crash and clatter for a long time, every now and then emitting harsh screeching sounds.

'Zazen - this,' said Masa, continuing his explanation. He flopped down on to the floor, pulled his legs in under him, fixed his eyes on the leg of a chair and made an expressionless face. 'Unnerstan', Tiuri-san?'

When Anisii shook his head, the Japanese made no attempt to explain any more. He said anxiously: 'Need woman. With woman bad, without woman worse. I think go good brothel, talk with madam.'

Tulipov also felt that Erast Petrovich's melancholy was connected with the disappearance of Countess Addy from the house, but in his opinion it would be best to refrain from such a radical measure as appealing for help to the madam of a brothel.

Just as the consultation in the study was at its height, Fandorin entered. He was in his dressing gown, with a smoking cigar clenched in his teeth. He sent Masa to bring coffee and asked Anisii in a bored voice: 'Well, what have you got there, Tulipov? Are you going to read me the advertisements for the latest technical wonders again? Or about the theft of a bronze lyre from the tomb of Count Khvostov, like yesterday?'

Anisii hesitated in embarrassment, because he actually had marked out a suspicious advertisement in the Week that glorified the properties of a 'self-propelled wonder-bicycle' with some mythical kind of'internal combustion engine'.

'Oh, no, Erast Petrovich,' he protested with dignity seeking out something more impressive. 'There's a curious announcement here in yesterday's "Summary". They say there are rumours going round Moscow of some magical black bird that flew down from the heavens to Full State Counsellor Eropkin, gave him a gold ring and spoke with him in a human voice. And they also mention some holy fool, a miraculous boy whom they call either Paisii or Pafhutii. There's a note from the chief of police: "Inform the Consistory, so that the parish priests can explain to their flocks the harmfulness of superstitious beliefs."'

'Eropkin? A blackb-bird?' the Chief asked in surprise. 'Samson Kharitonovich Eropkin himself? Strange. Very strange. And tell me, is it a persistent rumour?'

'Yes, it says here that everyone mentions the Smolensk Market.'

'Eropkin is a very rich and very superstitious man,' Erast Petrovich said thoughtfully. 'I would suspect some kind of swindle in this, but Eropkin has such a reputation that none of the Moscow rogues would dare to tangle with him. He's as vicious a villain as the world has ever seen. I've had him in my sights for a while, but unfortunately Vladimir Andreevich has ordered me not to touch him. He says there are plenty of villains, you can't put them all in jail, and this one gives generously to the municipal budget and charity. So a bird spoke to him in a human voice? And it had a gold ring in its beak? Let me have a look'

He took the 'Police Summary of Municipal Events' from Tulipov and started reading the circled article.

'Hmm. In every case mention is made of a "blessed youth, with a, bright, clean face and golden hair, in a shirt whiter than snow". When did you ever hear of a holy fool with a bright, clean face and a shirt whiter than snow? And look at this, what it says here: "It is difficult to dismiss this rumour as a total invention in view of the remarkable amount of detail, which is not usually typical of such idle inventions." I tell you what, Tulipov: you take two or three agents from Sverchinsky and put Eropkin's house and his movements under secret surveillance. Don't explain the reason why; just say it's an order from His Excellency. Jack or no Jack, I sense some cunning intrigue in this. Let's get to the bottom of these holy miracles.'

The Court Counsellor pronounced this last phrase in a distinctly major key. The news of the magical black bird had produced a miraculous effect on Erast Petrovich. He stubbed out his cigar, and when Masa came in with the coffee things, he said: 'Give the coffee to Tulipov over there. You and I haven't done any sword training for a long time.'

The Japanese beamed brightly, dumped the tray on the desk, sending drops of black liquid flying into the air, and rushed headlong out of the study.

Five minutes later Anisii was standing at the window and wincing as he observed two figures, naked except for loincloths, trampling through the snow in the courtyard on slightly bent legs. The Court Counsellor was slim and muscular; Masa was as solid as a barrel, but without a single fold of fat. Each opponent was holding in his hands a stout stick of bamboo with a round guard on the hilt. You wouldn't kill anyone with a thing like that, of course, but you could very easily cripple them.

Masa held his hands out with his 'sword' pointing upwards, gave a blood-curdling howl and jumped forward. A loud crack of wood against wood, and once again the opponents were circling through the snow. 'Br-r-r-r-r,' Anisii said with a shudder, and took a sip of hot coffee.

The Chief dashed at the short Japanese, the clash of the sticks fused into a continuous crackling, and they began flashing about so fast that Tulipov's eyes were dazzled.

However, the fight did not last long. Masa slumped down on to his backside, clutching the top of his head, with Fandorin standing over him, rubbing a bruised shoulder.

'Hey, Tulipov,' he shouted merrily, turning towards the house, 'how would you like to join us? I'll teach you Japanese fencing!'

Oh no, thought Anisii, hiding behind the curtain. Some other time.

'You don't want to?' asked Erast Petrovich, scooping up a handful of snow and rubbing it into his sinewy midriff with evident pleasure. 'Off you go then; get on with the job. No more time-wasting!'

How do you like that? As if Tulipov had spent two days in a row sitting around in his dressing gown!

His Honour Mr Fandorin

26 February, second day of observation

I apologise for my handwriting - I am writing with a pencil and the sheet of paper is on agent Fedorov's back. The note will be delivered by agent Sidorchuk, and I have put the third agent, Latzis, on watch in a sleigh in case the mark departs suddenly.

Something strange is happening to the mark.

He has not been in his office either yesterday or today. We know from his cook that the holy fool, the boy Paisii, has been living in the house since yesterday morning. He eats a lot of chocolate and says that's all right, chocolate is not forbidden during the fast. Early this morning, when it was still dark, the mark went somewhere on his sleigh, accompanied by Paisii and three servants. On Yakimanka Street he got away from us and left in the direction of the Kaluga Gates - he has a very fine troika. We don't know where he went. He came back soon after seven, carrying an old copper saucepan that he held at arm's length. It looked quite heavy. The mark appeared agitated and even frightened. According to information received from the cook, he took no breakfast but locked himself in his bedroom and made jangling sounds there for a long time. There are whispers in the house about some 'huge great treasure' the master is supposed to have found. And a piece of total nonsense about the Holy Virgin herself supposedly appearing to E., or a burning bush speaking to him.

Since midday the mark has been here, in the Church of the Mother of God of Smolensk, praying furiously, bowing down to the ground in front of the Holy Icon. The boy Paisii is with him. The holy fool looks exactly as he was described in the summary. I would only add that he has a keen, lively gaze, not like holy fools have. Come quick, Chief, something is going on here. I'll send Sidorchuk now and go back into the church for communion.

Written at five hours forty-six and a half minutes in the afternoon.

A.T.

Erast Petrovich appeared in the church soon after seven, when the interminable 'Most Blessed Among Women' was already coming to an end. Tulipov (wearing blue spectacles and a ginger wig, so that he wouldn't be taken for a Tatar because of his shaved head) felt a touch on his shoulder. It was a swarthy-faced, curly-haired gypsy in a long fur coat, with an earring in his ear.

'Right, son, hand on the light of God,' the gypsy said, and when Anisii, astounded at such familiarity, took the candle from him, he whispered in Fandorin's voice: 'I see Eropkin, but where's the boy?'

Tulipov blinked, recovered his wits and pointed carefully.

The mark was kneeling on the floor, muttering prayers and bowing incessantly. There was a black-bearded man who looked like a bandit kneeling behind him but not crossing himself, just looking bored. Once or twice he even yawned widely, exposing the glint of his handsome white teeth. A pretty-looking youth was sitting to the right of Eropkin, with his hands folded into a cross and his eyes raised in sorrow, singing something in a thin voice. He was wearing a white shirt, but not actually as snow-white as the rumours had claimed - he clearly had not changed it for a long time. Once Anisii saw the holy fool fall face down on the floor in the ecstasy of prayer and quickly stuff a chocolate into his cheek. Tulipov was terribly hungry himself, but duty is duty. Even when he went outside to write his report he hadn't allowed himself to buy a smoked-sturgeon-belly pie on the square, although he had really wanted to.

'Why are you made up as a gypsy?' he asked the Chief in a whisper.

And who else do you think I can make myself up as with that Brazil-nut infusion still on my fizzog? A Moor, perhaps? A Moor has no business with the Mother of God of Smolensk.'

Erast Petrovich looked at Anisii reproachfully and suddenly, without the slightest stammer, he said something that made poor Tulipov's jaw drop: 'I forgot one substantial failing that is hard to transform into a virtue. You have a weak visual memory. Don't you see that the holy fool is a close, one might even say intimate, acquaintance of yours?'

'No!' exclaimed Anisii, clutching at his heart. 'It can't be!'

'Just look at her ear. I told you that every person's ears are unique. You see that short pink lobe, and the general outline -a perfect oval: that's rare, and the most distinctive detail - the slightly protruding antitragus. It's her, Tulipov, it is: the Georgian Princess. That means the Jack really is more impudent than I thought.'

The Court Counsellor shook his head as if in amazement at the mysteries of human nature. Then he began speaking curtly, in brief fragments: 'The very best agents. Definitely Mikheev, Subbotin, Seifullin and another seven. Six sleighs and horses good enough not to fall behind Eropkin's sleigh again. The strictest secrecy, following the "enemies all around" system, so that the pursuit will not be evident to the mark, or even to the public. It's quite possible that the Jack himself is hanging about somewhere near here. We don't know what his face looks like, and he hasn't shown us his ears. Quick march to Nikitskaya Street. Look lively!'

Anisii gazed like a man enchanted at the 'boy's' slim neck, and the ideal oval ear with that antitragus, and the thoughts that crept into the mind of the candidate for a state title were entirely inappropriate for a church, especially during the Lenten Fast.

He started, crossed himself and began making his way through to the exit.

Eropkin remained praying and fasting in the church until late and only arrived home after ten. From where the agent Latzis was freezing on the roof of the next house, people could be seen starting to harness horses into a closed sleigh. It seemed that, despite the late night hour, Samson Kharitonovich was not intending to take to his bed.

But Fandorin and Anisii had everything ready. There were three ways to drive away from Eropkin's house in Mertvy Lane: towards the Church of the Asssumption on the Graves, towards Starokoniushenny Lane, and on to Prechistenka Street, and there were sleighs standing unobtrusively at each crossroads.

The Full State Counsellor's sleigh - squat and covered with dark fabric - drove out of the oak gates at a quarter past eleven and set off towards Prechistenka Street. There were two strong-looking fellows in sheepskin jackets sitting on the coachbox, and the black-bearded mute was at the back, on the footboard.

The first of the two sleighs on duty at the entrance to Prechistenka Street set off in unhurried pursuit. The other five lined up behind and set off, keeping a respectful distance behind 'number one' - that was what the front echelon of the surveillance team was called in the jargon. At the back of number one there was a lighted red lantern that the sleighs behind could see from a long distance away.

Erast Petrovich and Anisii rode in a light sleigh, hanging back about a hundred and fifty yards behind the red lantern. The other numbers stretched out in a string behind them. There were peasant sleighs, and a coachman's troika, and a priest's twosome, but even the most unkempt-looking wooden sledges were solidly put together, on steel runners, and the horses had been specially selected to match - they might not be much to look at, but they had speed and stamina.

After the first turning (on to the embankment of the River Moscow), following instructions, number one fell back and, at Fandorin's signal, number two moved up, while number one fell in at the very end of the tail. Number two trailed the mark for exacdy ten minutes by the clock, and then turned off to the left, making way for number three.

In this case the strict observance of instructions proved far from excessive, because the black-bearded bandit on the footboard was wide awake; he was smoking a cigar and the thick-skinned brute wasn't bothered at all by the weather - he hadn't even covered his shaggy head with a cap, although a wind had come up and there were large wet flakes of snow fluttering down from the heavens.

Beyond the Yauza the sleigh turned left, but number three went straight on, giving way to number four. The Court Counsellor's sleigh was not included in the sequence of numbers, constantly maintaining second position.

And so they trailed the mark to his destination: the walls of the Novopimenovsky Monastery, with its squat towers glowing white in the night.

From a distance they saw one, two, three, four, five figures detach themselves from the sleigh. The last two were carrying something - either a sack or a human body.

A body!' gasped Anisii. 'Maybe it's time to take them.'

'Not so fast,' the Chief replied. 'We need to work out what's going on first.'

He set sleighs with agents on all the strategic routes and only then gestured to Tulipov to follow him at the double.

They approached the abandoned chapel cautiously and walked round it. On the far side, by a modest, rusty little door, they came across a sleigh and a horse tethered to a tree. It reached out its shaggy face to Anisii and gave a quiet, pitiful whinny - it had clearly been standing in the same spot for a long time and was feeling bored.

Erast Petrovich pressed his ear against the door; then, to test it, he pulled gently on the handle. The door unexpectedly opened slightly, without making the slightest sound. A dull light glimmered in the narrow crack and he heard a resounding voice uttering strange words: "Where are you going? I'll turn you to stone!'

'Curious,' whispered the Chief, closing the door hastily. 'The hinges are rusty, but they've been lubricated recently. All right, let's wait and see what happens.'

Five minutes later there was a loud commotion and rumbling inside, but almost immediately everything went quiet again. Fandorin put his hand on Anisii's shoulder: Not now; it's too soon.

Another ten minutes went by and suddenly a woman's voice started screeching: 'Fire! We're burning! Good people, we're burning!'

Immediately a man's voice took up the cry: 'Fire! We're burning! Fire!'

Anisii made a desperate rush for the door, but fingers of steel seized him by the half-belt of his greatcoat and pulled him back. 'I assume that so far this is just the first scene, and the main action is yet to come,' the Chief said quietly. 'We have to wait for the finale. It is no accident that the door has been oiled, and no coincidence that the horse is loitering outside. You and I, Tulipov, have taken up a key position. And one should only hurry in those cases when to delay is quite impossible.' Erast Petrovich raised a finger in admonition and Anisii could not help admiring the velvet glove with the silver press-studs.

The Court Counsellor had dressed like a dandy for the night operation: a long cloth coat lined with beaver fur, a white scarf, a silk top hat and a walking cane with an ivory knob. Anisii may have been wearing a ginger wig, but he had dressed up for the first time in his functionary's greatcoat with buttons bearing official crests and put on his new cap with a lacquered peak. Beside Fandorin, however, he was as dowdy as a sparrow beside a drake.

The Chief was about to say something else equally instructive, but suddenly there was such a bloodcurdling howl from behind the door, filled with such genuine suffering, that Tulipov also screamed at the shock of it.

Erast Petrovich's face tensed up; he clearly did not know if he ought to wait a little longer, or if this was the very case in which to delay was impossible. He twitched the corner of his mouth nervously and inclined his head to one side, as if he were listening to some voice that Anisii could not hear. The voice evidently told the Chief to act, because Fandorin resolutely swung the door open and stepped inside.

The scene that met Anisii's gaze was truly astonishing.

An old man with a grey beard, dressed in a hussar's uniform and a white robe that had slipped down towards his head, was hanging above an empty wooden table with his legs parted and attached to two ropes. Behind him, swinging a long, coiled whip, stood Eropkin's black-bearded cut-throat. Eropkin himself was sitting a bit further away, on a chair. There was a tightly stuffed sack lying at his feet, and the two sturdy young fellows who had travelled on the coachbox earlier, were squatting down by the wall, smoking.

But Tulipov only took all this in, out of the corner of his eye, in passing because his attention was immediately caught by the frail figure lying face-down and unmoving, lifeless. In three bounds Anisii rounded the table, colliding on his way with some weighty folio but keeping his footing and going down on his knees beside the recumbent woman.

When he turned her over on to her back with trembling hands, the blue eyes opened on the pale face and the pink lips muttered: 'Oh, how ginger ...'

Thank God, she was alive!

'What kind of torture chamber is this we have here?' Erast Petrovich's calm voice asked behind him, and Anisii straightened up, recalling his duty.

Eropkin switched his dumbfounded gaze from the dandy in the top hat to the nimble functionary and back. 'And who are you?' he asked menacingly. Accomplices? Right, Kuzma.'

The black-bearded mute made an imperceptible movement with his hand and a long shadow went slicing swiftly through the air towards the Court Counsellor's throat. Fandorin threw up his cane and the furiously swirling end of the whip wrapped itself round the lacquered wood. A single short movement, and the whip was jerked out of Kuzma's huge, bear-like paws and landed in Erast Petrovich's hands. He unhurriedly unwound the tight leather tail and without any apparent effort, using just his fingers, began tearing the whip into tiny pieces. As more and more scraps went flying to the floor, Kuzma seem to deflate visibly. He lowered his shaggy head into his massive shoulders and backed against the wall.

'The chapel is surrounded by police agents,' Fandorin said, when he had completely demolished the whip. 'This time, Eropkin, you will answer for your defiance of the law.'

However, the man sitting on the chair was not frightened by this announcement. 'That's all right,' he said with a grin; 'the purse will take care of it.'

The Court Counseller sighed and blew his silver whistle. There was a high, ear-splitting trill, and the police agents instantly came tramping in.

'Take these to the station,' said the Chief, indicating Eropkin and his accomplices. 'Draw up a report. What's in the sack?'

'The sack's mine,' Eropkin said hastily.

What's in it?'

'Money - two hundred and eighty-three thousand, five hundred and two roubles. My money, income from trade.'

'Such a substantial sum in a sack?' Erast Petrovich asked coldly. 'Do you have financial documents for it? The sources of income? Has the duty been paid?'

'You, sir - will you, just for a moment... step to one side ...' Eropkin leapt up off his chair and dashed towards the Court Counsellor. 'I know the way things are done, you know ...'

He started whispering. 'Let's say there's exactly two hundred thousand, and the rest is at your discretion.'

'Take him away' ordered Fandorin, turning away. 'Draw up a report. Count the money and register it in due order. Let the excise department deal with it.'

When the four prisoners had been taken out, a cheerful, if somewhat hoarse voice suddenly spoke up: 'Of course, that's very noble - to refuse bribes; but how much longer am I going to hang here like a sack myself? I'm seeing stars already'

Anisii and Erast Petrovich took hold of the dangling man's shoulders and the young lady, now completely recovered - Mimi, wasn't that her name? - climbed up on the table and untied the ropes.

They sat the tormented victim on the floor. Fandorin pulled off the false beard and grey wig, revealing a quite unremarkable, absolutely ordinary face: close-set blue-grey eyes; light-coloured hair, whitish at the ends; a characterless nose; a slightly crooked chin - everything just as Erast Petrovich had described. The rush of blood had turned the face scarlet, but the lips immediately extended into a smile.

'Shall we introduce ourselves?' the Jack of Spades asked merrily. 'I don't believe I've had the honour ...'

'Then it wasn't you at the Sparrow Hills,' the Chief said with an understanding nod. Well, well.'

'Which hills did you say?' the rascal asked insolently. 'I am retired Cornet of Hussars Kuritsyn. Shall I show you my residence permit?'

'L-Later,' the Court Counsellor said with a shake of his head. 'Very well, I shall introduce myself again. I am Erast Fandorin, Deputy for Special Assignments of the Governor-General of Moscow, and no great lover of audacious jests. And this is m-my assistant, Anisii Tulipov.' From the fact that the stammer had reappeared in the Chief's speech, Anisii concluded that the intense action was over now and he allowed himself to relax and steal a glance at Mimi.

She turned out to be looking at him too: 'Anisii Tulipov. That's beautiful. You could act in a theatre with a name like that.'

Suddenly the Jack - for, of course, despite all the casuistry, it was he - winked at Anisii in the most familiar fashion and stuck out a tongue that was as broad as a spade and quite amazingly red.

'Well now, Mr Momos, how am I going to deal with you?' asked Erast Petrovich, watching as Mimi wiped her accomplice's forehead, which was covered with fine beads of sweat. According to the dictates of the law or the spirit of justice?'

The Jack thought for a moment and said: 'If you and I, Mr Fandorin, had not met for the first time today, but had a certain history of acquaintance, I would naturally throw myself wholly and entirely on your mercy, for it is immediately clear that you are a sensitive and noble man. You would undoubtedly take into consideration the moral and physical torments that I have suffered, and also the unappetising character of the party with whom I attempted so unsuccessfully to jest. However, circumstances are such that I have no need to exploit your humane inclinations. It seems to me that I have no reason to fear the stern embrace of the law. His Porcine Excellency Samson Kharitonovich Eropkin is unlikely to take me to court for this innocent prank. It would not be in his interest.'

'In Moscow the law is His Excellency Prince Dolgorukoi,' Erast Petrovich answered the insolent scoundrel in the same tone. 'Or do you, Mr Jack, seriously believe in the independence of the judiciary? P-Permit me to remind you that you have offended the Governor-General most cruelly. And what are we to do with the Englishman? The city has to return his hundred thousand.'

'My dear Erast Petrovich, I really have no idea what Englishman you are talking about,' said the rescued man with a broad shrug. 'I have the most genuine and profound respect for His Excellency - and especially for his dyed grey hair. If Moscow is in need of money then see how much I have obtained for the municipal treasury - an entire sack full. It was greed that made Eropkin blurt out the money was his, but when he cools down he'll disown it again. I don't know a thing, he'll say, about anything. And a certain sum of money of unknown provenance will go to meet the needs of the city of Moscow. To be fair, I really ought to get a few per cent myself.'

'Well now, that is reasonable enough,' the Court Counsellor said thoughtfully. 'And then again, you did return Ariadna Arkadievna's things. And you didn't even forget my beads ... All right - according to the dictates of the law it is. You won't regret spurning the spirit of my justice?'

A slight hesitation was visible on the gentleman's unremarkable face. 'Thank you most kindly, but you know, I am used to relying on myself most of the time.'

'Well, as you wish,' Fandorin said with a shrug, and added without the slightest pause: 'You can g-go to the devil.'

Anisii was stunned, but the Jack of Spades hastily jumped to his feet, evidently afraid that the Governor's deputy would change his mind.

'Thank you! I swear I shall never set foot in this city again. And I'm thoroughly bored with my Orthodox homeland too. Come, Mimi, let us not detain Mr Fandorin any further.'

Erast Petrovich spread his arms wide: Alas, I cannot let your companion go. All the dictates of the law must be applied. She must answer for the lottery swindle. There are victims, there are witnesses. In this case an encounter with the courts cannot be avoided.'

'Oh!' the crop-headed girl exclaimed, so pitifully that Anisii's heart was wrung. 'Momchik, I don't want to go to prison!'

'It can't be helped, my girl; the law is the law,' the heartless swindler replied flippantly, edging gently towards the door. 'Don't you worry; I'll take care of you. I'll send you the most expensive lawyer in Russia, you'll see. May I go now, Erast Petrovich?'

'You rotter!' Mimi groaned. 'Stop! Where are you going?'

'I'm thinking of trying Guatemala,' Momos told her gleefully. 'I read in the newspapers they've had another coup. The Guatemalans have had enough of the republic; they're looking for a German prince to put on the throne. Perhaps I might suit?' And with a wave of farewell, he disappeared through the door.

The trial of the spinster Maria Nikolaevna Maslennikova, former actress of the St Petersburg Theatres, accused of fraud, criminal conspiracy and escaping from arrest, took place at the very end of April, in that blissful period after Easter when the branches are covered with succulent, swelling buds and the fresh grass is creeping untidily along the edges of roads that are still soft but beginning to dry out.

Her trial did not attract the attention of the broad public, since it was not a major case, but there were half a dozen or so reporters sitting in the courtroom - there had been vague but persistent rumours that the failed lottery swindle was connected in some way with the famous Jack of Spades, and so the editors had sent along their representatives just in case.

Anisii was one of the first to arrive and he took a place as close as possible to the dock. He was thoroughly agitated, since he had thought often during the previous two months about the jolly young lady Mimi and her unfortunate fate; and now it seemed that the final resolution had arrived.

In the meantime there had been quite a few changes in the life of the former courier. After Erast Petrovich had let the Jack go completely free, there had been an unpleasant scene at the Governor's residence. Prince Dolgorukoi had flown into an indescribable rage, refused to listen to anything and even shouted at the Court Counsellor, calling him a 'self-willed boy'. The Chief had immediately handed in his written resignation, but it had not been accepted because, when the Prince cooled down, he had realised just how much embarrassment he had been spared by the prudence of his Deputy for Special Assignments. The Jack of Spades' testimony concerning the case of Lord Pitsbrook would have shown the Prince up in an unfavourable light, not only to the people of Moscow but also to the Higher Spheres, in which the obdurate Governor-General had no few enemies who were only waiting for him to commit some blunder. And to become an object of fun was even worse than a blunder, especially if you were already seventy-six and there were others keen to take your place.

In fact, the Governor had come to the house on Malaya Nikitskaya Street, begged Erast Petrovich's pardon and even recommended him for yet another Order of St Vladimir - not for the Jack of Spades, of course, but for 'outstandingly zealous service and special work'. The Prince's generosity had even extended to Anisii: he had received a substantial financial reward, enough to settle into the new apartment, get a few treats for Sonya and acquire a complete set of uniforms. He had used to be plain, simple Anisii, but now he was His Honour Collegiate Registrar Anisii Pitirimovich Tulipov.

Today he had come to the court in his brand-new summer uniform, never worn before. Summer was still a long way off, but Anisii looked very impressive in his high-collared white jacket with gold trimming on the buttonholes.

When the accused was brought in, she noticed the white uniform immediately, smiled sadly, as if to an old acquaintance, and sat down with her head lowered. Mim-ochka's hair (Mimochka - that was how Anisii thought of her to himself) had not yet grown back properly and it was gathered into a simple little knot at the back of her head. The accused had put on a simple brown dress and she looked like a small grammar-school girl facing a strict school-council meeting.

When Anisii saw the jurors glancing sympathetically at the modest girl, his spirits rose slightly. Perhaps the sentence would not be too severe?

However, the prosecutor's opening address left him horrified. The counsel for the prosecution - a rubicund, heartless careerist - painted Mimochka's character in the most scandalous colours, described in detail the revolting cynicism of the 'charitable lottery' and demanded three years of penal servitude for the spinster Maslennikova, plus five years of exile in the less distant regions of Siberia.

The alcoholic actor who had played the part of the chairman of the lottery was released by the court because his guilt was so insignificant and he appeared as a witness for the prosecution. It looked as if Mimochka was destined to carry the can alone for everyone. She lowered her little golden head on to her folded hands and began crying silently.

Then Anisii took a decision. He would follow her to Siberia, find some place to live there and provide the poor girl with the moral support of his faithful devotion. Then, when she was released early, they would marry and then ... and then everything would be just fine.

And what about Sonya?' his conscience asked. 'Will you put your only sister, an invalid needed by no one, in the poorhouse?'

'No,' Anisii answered his conscience. ‘I’ll throw myself at Erast Petrovich's feet - he's a noble man; he will understand.'

Things had worked out quite well for Sonya. Fandorin's new maid, the big-bosomed Palasha, had become very fond of the cripple. She looked after her and kept an eye on her, and wove her plaits for her. Sonya had even started saying a few words: 'ribbon' and 'comb'. The Chief would surely not abandon the helpless creature, and afterwards Anisii would take her to his place, just as soon as he was settled ...

At this point the judge gave the floor to the counsel for the defence and for the time being Tulipov set aside his desperate thoughts and gazed hopefully at the barrister.

To be quite honest, he did not look very promising: swarthy-skinned, with a long, drooping nose and a stoop. They said he had been hired from the famous St Petersburg firm of Rubinstein and Rubinstein by a person unknown and had the reputation of an expert in criminal matters. However, the defender's appearance was distinctly unprepossessing. When he stepped out to the front, sneezed loudly into a pink handkerchief and then hiccupped as well, Anisii was seized by foreboding. Oh, that mean rogue Momos had been too miserly to hire a good lawyer; he'd sent some mangy scruff, and a Jew into the bargain. Just look at the way those anti-Semitic jurors were glowering at him; they wouldn't believe a single word he said.

Tulipov's neighbour on the left, an impressive gentleman with a bushy beard and gold-rimmed spectacles who looked like a Kalmyk, examined the lawyer, shook his head and whispered conspiratorially to Anisii: 'He'll ruin the whole case, you'll see.'

The defender stood facing the jurors, pressed his hands to his sides and declared in a sing-song accent: 'Ah, Mr Judge and gentlemen of the jury, can you explain to me what this man has been talking about for the best part of an hour?' He jabbed his thumb derisively in the direction of the prosecutor. 'I would be interested to learn what all the commotion is about. On what is the money of honest taxpayers, such as you and I, being spent?'

The 'honest taxpayers' looked at this over-familiar windbag with evident distaste, but the barrister was not embarrassed in the least.

'What does the prosecution have?' he inquired sceptically. A certain swindler, whom, just between you and me, our valiant police have failed to find, organised a fraud. He hired this sweet, modest young lady to give out tickets, saying that the money would go to a good cause. Look at this young woman, gentlemen of the jury. I appeal to you: how is it possible to suspect such an innocent creature of such villainy?'

The jurors looked at the accused. Anisii looked too, and sighed. The case looked hopeless. Perhaps somebody else might have moved the court to pity, but not this hook-nose.

'Come now,' said the defender with a wave of his hand, 'she is as much a victim as the others. Even more so than the others, since the cashbox of the so-called lottery was arrested and all those who presented a ticket were given their money back. Do not ruin the life of this young creature, gentlemen of the jury; do not condemn her to a life among criminals.'

The lawyer sneezed again and pulled a heap of papers out of his briefcase.

'That's pretty feeble,' Anisii's bearded neighbour commented with cool, professional confidence. 'They'll find the girl guilty. How would you like a wager?' And he winked from behind his spectacles.

A fine sense of humour! Anisii moved away angrily, preparing for the worst.

But the defender had not finished yet. He pinched at his goatee beard in the manner of Lord Beaconsfield and genially pressed one hand to a shirt that was none too fresh.

'That is approximately the speech that I would have made to you, gentlemen of the jury, if there were anything to discuss here. But there is nothing to discuss, because I have here' - he shook the papers in the air - 'statements from all the plaintiffs. They are withdrawing their suits. Close the proceedings, Mr Judge. There is no case to be tried.' The barrister approached the judge and slapped the statements down on the table in front of him.

'But that's smart,' Anisii's neighbour whispered, growing excited. 'What will the prosecutor have to say to that?'

The prosecutor sprang to his feet and began shouting in a voice breaking under the weight of righteous indignation: 'This is plain bribery! And I shall prove it! The proceedings cannot be stopped! This is a case of public importance!'

The defender turned to the shouting man and began taunting him: '"Plain bribery"? What new Cato do we have here? It would have been cheaper to bribe you, Mr Prosecutor. Everybody knows that your rate is not very high. As it happens, by the way, I have one of your receipts here. Where is it now? Ah, here!' He pulled some other piece of paper out of his briefcase and thrust it under the judge's nose. 'For a mere one and a half thousand our prosecutor cancelled the bigamist Brutyan's sentence, and Brutyan fled.'

The prosecutor clutched at his heart and slumped down on to his chair. A hubbub broke out in the hall and the correspondents, who had so far been feeling bored, came to life and started scribbling in their notepads.

The judge rang his bell and gazed in confusion at the compromising receipt, as the disagreeable attorney turned awkwardly, and several photographic prints fell out of his inexhaustible briefcase, scattering on to the table.

Anisii could not see what was in those photographs, but the judge suddenly turned as white as chalk and gaped at them, his eyes wide in horror.

'I do apologise,' said the defender, and yet he appeared in no hurry to gather up the photographs from the table. 'They have absolutely nothing to do with our case here today. They are from another case, concerning the corruption of young boys.'

It seemed to Anisii that the barrister emphasised the words 'today' and 'another' in a somewhat strange manner, but then he did speak with a rather distinctive intonation, and Anisii could have imagined it.

'Well now, shall we close the case?' the advocate asked, looking the judge straight in the eye as he gathered up the photographs. 'On the basis that no crime has been committed, eh?'

A minute later the proceedings were declared concluded.

Anisii stood on the porch in a state of terrible agitation, waiting for the miraculous advocate to lead out his acquitted client.

And there they were: Mimochka was smiling to the left and the right, not looking miserable and pitiful any more. The stooping advocate was leading her along, arm in arm, and waving away the reporters with his other hand, which held the briefcase.

Ah, I'm fed up with you all!' he exclaimed angrily as he helped his companion into the phaeton.

Anisii wanted to go up to Mimochka, but his neighbour from the courtroom, that interested commentator on the legal proceedings, stepped forward first.

'You'll go a long way, colleague,' he said to Mimochka's hooknosed saviour, slapped him patronisingly on the shoulder, and strode away, tapping his cane heavily.

'Who was that?' Anisii asked an usher.

'Him, sir,' the usher replied in a voice filled with unbounded admiration, 'why that was Fedor Nikiforich Plevako himself, the most brilliant lawyer in Russia. Gets people off without speaking more than a single sentence.'

At that moment, as Mimi plumped down on to the springy seat of the phaeton, she suddenly swung round and blew Anisii a kiss. The barrister also swung round. He looked sternly at the young lop-eared functionary in the white uniform jacket and suddenly did a very queer thing: he screwed up his face and stuck out a broad, bright-red tongue.

The carriage picked up speed, rumbling merrily over the cobblestones of the road.

'Stop! Stop!' Anisii shouted and went darting after it, but how could he possibly overtake it?

And what point was there, anyway?

THE DECORATOR CHAPTER I

A Bad Beginning

Erast Petrovich Fandorin, the Governor-General of Moscow's Deputy for Special Assignments and a state official of the sixth rank, a knight of many Russian and foreign orders, was being violently sick.

The finely moulded but now pale and bluish-tinged features of the Collegiate Counsellor's face were contorted in suffering. One hand, in a white kid glove with silver press-studs, was pressed against his chest, while the other clawed convulsively at the air in an unconvincing attempt by Erast Petrovich to reassure his assistant, as if to say, 'Never mind, it's nothing; I shall be fine in a moment.' However, judging from the intensity with which his distress continued, it was anything but nothing.

Fandorin's assistant, Provincial Secretary Anisii Pitirimovich Tulipov, a skinny, unprepossessing young man of twenty-three, had never before had occasion to see his chief in such a pitiful state. Tulipov himself was in fact a little greenish round the gills, but he had resisted the temptation to vomit and was now secretly feeling proud of it. However, this ignoble feeling was merely fleeting, and therefore unworthy of our attention, but the unexpected sensitivity of his adored chief, always so cool-headed and not disposed to excessive displays of feeling, had alarmed Anisii quite seriously.

'G-Go ...' said Erast Petrovich, squeezing out the word as he wiped his purple lips with one glove. His constant slight stutter, a reminder of a concussion suffered long ago, had been become noticeably stronger as a result of his nervous discomfiture. 'G-Go in ... T-Take ... d-detailed ... notes. Photographs from all angles. And make sure they don't t-t-trample the evidence

He doubled over again, but this time the extended hand did not tremble - the finger pointed steadfastly at the crooked door of the little planking shed from which only a few moments earlier the Collegiate Counsellor had emerged as pale as a ghost with his legs buckling under him.

Anisii did not wish to go back into that grey semi-darkness, into that sticky smell of blood and offal. But duty was duty.

He filled his chest right up to the top with the damp April air (he didn't want his own stomach to start churning too), crossed himself and took the plunge.

The little hut was used for storing firewood, but there was hardly any left, because the cold season was already coming to an end. Quite a number of people had gathered inside: an investigator from the Public Prosecutor's Office, detectives from the Criminal Investigation Department, the district superintendent of police, the local police inspector, a forensic medical expert, a photographer, local police constables, and also the yard-keeper Klimuk, first to discover the scene of the monstrous atrocity - that morning he had looked in to get some wood for the stove, seen it there, had a good long yell and gone running for the police.

There were two oil lamps burning, and shadows flickered gently across the low ceiling. It was quiet, except for a young constable gently sobbing and sniffing in the corner.

'Well now, and what do we have here?' forensic medical expert Egor Willemovich Zakharov purred curiously as he lifted some dark, bluish-crimson, porous object from the floor in a rubber-gloved hand. 'I do believe it's the spleen. Yes that's her, the little darling. Excellent. Into the little bag with her, into her little bag. And the womb too, the left kidney, and we'll have the full set, apart from a few odd little bits and pieces ... What's that there under your boot, Monsieur Tulipov? Not the mesentery, is it?'

Anisii glanced down, started in horror and almost stumbled over the outstretched body of the spinster Stepanida Andreichkina, aged thirty-nine years. This information, together with the nature of her occupation, had been obtained from the yellow prostitute's card left lying neatly on her sundered chest. But there was nothing else neat to be observed in the posthumous appearance of the spinster Andreichkina.

One could assume that even in life her face had not been lovely to behold, but in death it had become nightmarish: it was livid blue, covered with blobs of powder, the eyes had slipped out of their sockets and the mouth was frozen in a soundless scream of horror. What could be seen below the face was even more horrific. Someone had slashed open the poor streetwalker's body from top to bottom and from side to side, extracted all of its contents and laid them out on the ground in a fantastic design. By this time, though, Zakharov had already collected up almost the entire exhibition and put it away in little numbered bags. All that was left was the black patch of blood that had spread without hindrance and little scraps of the dress that had been either hacked or torn to shreds.

Leontii Izhitsin, the district prosecutor's Investigator for Especially Important Cases, squatted down beside the doctor and asked briskly: 'Signs of intercourse?'

'That, my darling man, I'll particularise afterwards. I'll compose a little report portraying everything just the way it is, very prettily. In here, as you can see for yourself, we have been cast into the outer darkness.'

Like any foreigner with a perfect mastery of the Russian language, Zakharov was fond of peppering his speech with various quaint and whimsical turns of phrase. Despite his perfectly normal surname, the expert was of English extraction. The doctor's father, also a medical man, had come to the kingdom of our late departed sovereign, put down roots and adapted a name that presented difficulty to the Russian ear - Zacharias - to local conditions, making it into 'Zakharov': Egor Willemovich had told them all about it on the way there in the cab. You could tell just from looking at him that he wasn't one of us Russians: lanky and heavy-boned, with sandy-coloured hair, a broad mouth with thin lips, and fidgety, constantly shifting that terrible pipe from one corner of his mouth to the other.

The investigator Izhitsin pretended to take an interest, clearly putting on a brave face, as the medical expert twirled yet another lump of tormented flesh between his tenacious fingers and inquired sarcastically: "Well, Mr Tulipov, is your superior still taking the air? I told you we would have got by perfectly well without any supervision from the Governor's department. This is no picture for over-dainty eyes, but we've already seen everything there is to see.'

It was clear enough: Leontii Izhitsin was displeased; he was jealous. It was a serious matter to set Fandorin himself to watch over an investigation. What investigator would have been pleased?

'Stop that, Linkov, you're like a little girl!' Izhitsin growled at the sobbing policeman. 'Better get used to it. You're not destined for special assignments; you'll be seeing all sorts of things.'

'God forbid I could ever get used to such sights,' Senior Constable Pribludko muttered in a half-whisper: he was an old, experienced member of the force, known to Anisii from a case of three years before.

It wasn't the first time he'd worked with Leontii Izhitsin, either - an unpleasant gentleman, nervous and jittery, constantly laughing, with piercing eyes; always neat and tidy - his collars looked as if they were made of alabaster and his cuffs were even whiter - always brushing the specks of dust off his own shoulders; a man with ambitions, carving out a career for himself. Last Epiphany, though, he'd come a cropper with the investigation into the merchant Sitnikov's will. It had been a sensational case, and since it also involved the interests of certain influential individuals to some degree, any delay was unacceptable, so His Excellency Prince Dolgorukoi had asked Erast Petrovich to give the Public Prosecutor's Office a helping hand. But everyone knew the kind of assistance the Chief gave - he'd gone and untangled the entire case in one day. No wonder Izhitsin was furious. He could sense that yet again the victor's laurels would not be his.

'That seems to be all,' the investigator declared. 'So what now? The corpse goes to the police morgue, at the Bozhedomka Cemetery. Seal the shed, put a constable on guard. Have detectives question everyone living in the vicinity, and make it thorough - anything they've heard or seen that was suspicious. You, Klimuk. The last time you came to collect firewood was some time between ten and eleven, right?' Izhitsin asked the yard-keeper. And death occurred no later than two o'clock in the morning?' (That was to the medical expert Zakharov.) 'So what we have to look at is the period from ten in the evening to two in the morning.' And then he turned to Klimuk again. 'Perhaps you spoke to someone local? Did they tell you anything?'

The yard-keeper (a broad, thick beard, bushy eyebrows, irregular skull, with a distinctive wart in the middle of his forehead, thought Anisii, practising the composition of a verbal portrait) stood there, kneading a cap that could not possibly be any more crumpled.

'No, Your Honour, not at all. I don't understand a thing. I locked the door of the shed and ran to Mr Pribludko at the station. And they didn't let me out of the station until the bosses arrived. The local folk don't know a thing about it. That is, of course, they can see as lots of police have turned up ... that the gentlemen of the police force have arrived. But the locals don't know anything about this here horror,' said the yard-keeper, with a fearful sideways glance at the corpse.

'We'll check that soon enough,' Izhitsin said with a laugh. 'Right then, detectives, get to work. And you, Mr Zakharov, take your treasures away, and let's have a full evaluation, according to the book, by midday'

'Will the gentlemen detectives please stay where they are.' Fandorin's low voice came from behind Izhitsin. Everybody turned around.

How had the Collegiate Counsellor entered the shed, and when? The door had not even creaked. Even in the semi-darkness it was obvious that Anisii's chief was pale and perturbed, but his voice was steady and he spoke in his usual reserved and courteous manner, a manner that did not encourage any objections.

'Mr Izhitsin, even the yard-keeper realised that it would not be good to spread gossip about this incident,' Fandorin told the investigator in a dry voice. 'In fact, I was sent here in order to ensure the very strictest secrecy. No questioning of the locals. And furthermore, I request - in fact I demand - that everyone here present must maintain absolute silence about the circumstances. Explain to the local people that... a st-streetwalker has hanged herself, taken her own life, a perfectly ordinary business. If rumours of what has happened here spread around Moscow, every one of you will be subject to official inquiry, and anyone found guilty of divulging information will be severely punished. I'm sorry, gentlemen, but th-those are the instructions that I was given, and there is good reason for them.'

At a sign from the doctor the constables were about to take the stretcher standing against the wall and place the corpse on it, but the Collegiate Counsellor raised his hand: 'Wait a m-moment. He crouched down beside the dead woman. 'What's this here on her cheek?'

Izhitsin, galled by the reprimand he had received, shrugged his narrow shoulders. A spot of blood; as you may have observed, there's plenty of blood here.'

'But not on her face.' Erast Petrovich cautiously rubbed the oval spot with his finger - a mark was left on the white kid leather of his glove. Speaking in extreme agitation, or so it seemed to Anissii, his chief muttered: 'There's no cut, no bite.'

The investigator Izhitsin watched the Collegiate Counsellor's manipulations in bewilderment. The medical expert Zakharov watched with interest.

Fandorin took a magnifying glass out of his pocket, peered from close up at the victim's face and gasped: 'The imprint of lips! Good Lord, this is the imprint of lips! There can be no doubt about it!'

'So why make such a fuss over that?' Izhitsin asked acidly. 'We've got plenty of marks far more horrible than that here.' He turned the toe of his shoe towards the open rib-cage and the gaping pit of the belly. 'Who knows what ideas a loony might get into his head?'

Ah, how foul,' the Collegiate Counsellor muttered, addressing no one in particular.

He tore off his soiled glove with a rapid movement and threw it aside. He straightened up, closed his eyes and said very quietly: 'My God, is it really going to start in Moscow ...?'

'What a piece of work is a man! How noble in reason! How infinite in faculties! Inform and moving how express and admirable! In action how like an angel! In apprehension how like a god! The beauty of the world! The paragon of animals! And yet, to me, what is this quintessence of dust?' No matter. What does it matter if the Prince of Denmark, an indolent and blasй creature, has no interest in man? I do! The Bard is half right: there is little angelic in the deeds of men, and it is sacrilege to liken the comprehension of man to that of God, but there is nothing in the world more beautiful than man. And what are action and apprehension but a chimera? Deception and vanity, truly the quintessence of dust? Man is not action, but body. Even the plants that are so pleasing to our eyes, the most sumptuous and intricate of flowers, can in no wise be compared with the magnificent arrangement of the human body. Flowers are primitive and simple, identical within and without, turn the petals whichever way you will. Looking at flowers is boring. How can the avidity of their stems, the primitive geometry of their inflorescences and the crude forms oftheir stamens rival the purple resilience of muscles, the elasticity of silky-smooth skin, the silvery mother-of-pearl of the stomach, the graceful curves of the intestines and the mysterious asymmetry of the liver?

How is it possible for the monotonous coloration of a blossoming poppy to match the variety of shades of human blood -from the shrill scarlet of the arterial current to the regal purple of the veins? How can the vulgar shade of the bluebell rival the tender blue pattern of the capillaries, or the autumnal colouring of the maple rival the deep blush of the menstrual discharge! The female body is more elegant and a hundred times more interesting than the male. The Junction of the female body is not coarse physical labour and destruction, but creation and nurturing. The elastic womb is like a precious pearl oyster. An idea! Some time I must lay open an impregnated womb to expose the maturing pearl within the shell-yes, yes, without fail! Tomorrow! I have been fasting too long already, since Shrovetide. My lips have shrivelled with repeating: 'Reanimate my accursed heart through this sacrificial fast!' The Lord is hind and charitable. He will not be angry with me for lacking the strength to hold out six days until the Blessed Resurrection. And after all, the third of April is no ordinary day: it is the anniversary of the Enlightenment. It was the third of April then too. What date it was in the other style is of no importance. The important thing is the music of those words: the third of April.

I have my own fast, and my own Easter. When the fast is broken, let it be in style. No, I will not wait until tomorrow. Today! Yes, yes, lay out a banquet. Not merely to sate myself but a surfeit. Not for my own sake, but to the glory of God.

For He it was who opened my eyes, who taught me to see and understand true beauty. More than that, to disclose it and reveal it to the world. And to disclose is to create. I am the Creator's apprentice.

How sweet it is to break the fast after a long abstinence. I remember each sweet moment; I know my memory will preserve it all down to the minutest detail, without losing a single sensation oj vision, taste, touch, hearing or smell.

I close my eyes and I see it...

Late evening. I cannot sleep. Excitement and elation lead me along the dirty streets, across the empty lots, between the crooked houses and the twisted fences. I have not slept for many nights in a row. My chest is constricted, my temples throb. During the day I doze for half an hour or an hour and am woken by terrible visions that I cannot remember when awake.

As I walk along I dream of death, of meeting with Him, but I know that I must not die, it is too soon; my mission has not been completed.

A voice from out of the darkness: 'Spare the money for half a bottle.' Trembling, hoarse from drinking. I turn my head and see the most wretched and abominable of human beings: a degraded whore, drunk and in tatters, but even so, grotesquely painted with ceruse and lipstick. I turn away in squeamish disgust, but suddenly my heart is pierced by the familiar sharp pity. Poor creature, what have you done to yourself! And this is a woman, the masterpiece of God's art! How could you abuse yourself so, desecrate and degrade the gift of God, abase your precious reproductive system?

Of course, you are not to blame. A soulless, cruel society has dragged you through the mud. But I shall cleanse and save you. My heart is serene and joyful.

Who could have known it would happen? I had no intention of breaking the fast-if I had, my path would not have lain through these pitiful slums, but through the fetid lanes and alleys of Khitrovka or Grachyovka, where abomination and vice make their home. But I am overflowing with magnanimity and generosity, only slightly tainted by my impatient craving.

'I'll soon cheer you up, my darling,' I tell her. 'Come with me.' I am wearing men's clothes, and the witch thinks she has found a buyer for her rotten wares. She laughs hoarsely and shrugs her shoulders coyly: 'Where are we going? Listen, have you got any money? You might at least feed me, or better still buy me a drink.' Poor little lost sheep.

I lead her through the dark courtyard towards the sheds. I tug impatiently on one door, a second - the third is not locked.

The lucky woman breathes her cheap vodka fumes on my neck, and giggles: 'Well fancy that! He's taking me to the sheds; he's that impatient.'

A stroke of the scalpel, and I open the doors of freedom to her soul.

Liberation does not come without pain; it is like birth. The woman I now love with all my heart is in great pain; she wheezes and chews on the gag in her mouth, and I stroke her head and comfort her - 'Be patient.' My hands do their work deftly and quickly. I do not need light: my eyes see as well at night as they do during the day.

I lay open the profaned, filthy integument of the body, the soul of my beloved sister soars upwards and I am transfixed by awe before the perfection of God's machinery.

When I lift the hot bread-roll of the heart to my face with a tender smile, it is still trembling, still quivering, like a golden fish fresh from the water, and I kiss the miraculous fish on the parted lips of its aorta.

The place was well chosen, no one interrupts me, and this time the Hymn to Beauty is sung to the end, consummated with a kiss to her cheek. Sleep, sister; your life was revolting and horrible, the sight of you was an offence to the eye, but thanks to me you have become beautiful...

Consider that flower again. Its true beauty is not visible in the glade or in the flower-bed, oh no! The rose is regal on the bodice of a dress, the carnation in the buttonhole, the violet in a lovely girl's hair. The flower attains its glory when it has been cut; its true life is inseparable from death. The same is true of the human body. While it is alive, it cannot reveal its delightful arrangement in all its magnificence. I help the body to ascend its throne of glory. I am a gardener.

But no, a gardener merely cuts flowers, while I also create displays of intoxicating beauty from the organs of the body. In England a previously unheard-of profession is becoming fashionable nowadays - the decorator, a specialist in the embellishment and adornment of the home, the shop window, the street at carnival time.

I am not a gardener; I am a decorator.

CHAPTER 2

From Bad to Worse

Holy Week Tuesday, 4 April, midday

Those present at the emergency meeting convened by the Governor-General of Moscow, Prince Vladimir Andreevich Dolgorukoi, were as follows: the Head Police Master and Major-General of the Retinue of His Imperial Majesty, Yurovsky; the Public Prosecutor of the Chamber of Justice of Moscow, State Counsellor and Usher of the Chamber, Kozlyatnikov; the head of the Criminal Investigation Department of the police, State Counsellor Eichmann; the Governor-General's Deputy for Special Assignments, Collegiate Counsellor Fandorin; and the Investigator for Especially Important Cases of the Public Prosecutor's Office of Moscow, Court Counsellor Izhitsin.

'Oh this weather, this appalling weather, it's vile.' These were the words with which the Governor-General opened the proceedings. 'It's simply beastly gentlemen. Overcast, windy, slush and mud everywhere and, worst of all, the River Moscow has overflowed its banks more than usual. I went to the Zamo-skvorechie district - an absolute nightmare. The water's risen three and a half sazhens! It's flooded everything up as far as Pyatnitskaya Street. And it's no better on the left bank either. You can't get through Neglinny Lane. Oh, I shall be put to shame, gentlemen. Dolgorukoi will be disgraced in his old age!'

All present began sighing anxiously, and the only one whose face expressed a certain astonishment was the Investigator for Especially Important Cases. The Prince, who possessed exceptionally acute powers of perception, felt that perhaps he ought to explain.

'I see, young man, that you ... er ... Glagolev, is it? No, Luzhitsin.'

'Izhitsin, Your Excellency' the Public Prosecutor prompted Prince Dolgorukoi, but not loudly enough - in his seventy-ninth year the Viceroy of Moscow (yet another title by which the all-powerful Vladimir Andreevich was known) was hard of hearing.

'Please forgive an old man,' said the Governor good-naturedly, spreading his hands. "Well then, Mr Pizhitsin, I see you are in a state of ignorance ... Probably your position does not require you to know. But since we are having this meeting... well then' -and the Prince's long face with its dangling chestnut-brown moustaches assumed a solemn expression - 'at Easter, Russia's first capital city will be blessed by a visit from His Imperial Highness. He will arrive without any pomp or ceremony - to visit and worship at the holy places of Moscow. We have been instructed not to inform the citizens of Moscow in advance, since the visit has been planned as an impromptu, so to speak. However, that does not relieve us of responsibility for the standard of his reception and the general condition of the city. For instance, gentlemen, this morning I received a missive from His Eminence Ioannikii, the Metropolitan of Moscow. His Reverence writes to complain that what is going on in the confectionery shops of Moscow before the holy festival of Easter is a downright disgrace: the shop windows and counters are stacked high with boxes of sweets and candy with pictures of the Last Supper, the Way of the Cross, Calvary and so forth. This is sacrilege, gentlemen! Please be so good, my dear sir,' said the Prince, addressing the Head Police Master, 'as to issue an order to the police today to the effect that a strict stop must be put to such obscenities. Destroy the boxes, donate their contents to the Foundlings' Hospital. Let the poor orphans have a treat for the holiday. And fine the shopkeepers to make sure they don't get me into any trouble before the Emperor's visit!'

The Governor-General nervously adjusted his curly wig, which had slipped a little to one side, and was about to say something else, but instead began coughing.

An inconspicuous door that led to the inner chambers immediately opened and a skinny old man dashed out from behind it, moving silently in felt overshoes with his knees bent. His bald cranium shone with a blinding brilliance and he had immense sideburns. It was His Excellency's personal valet, Frol Vedishchev. Nobody was surprised by his sudden appearance, and everybody present felt it appropriate to greet the old man with a bow or at least a nod for, despite his humble position, Vedishchev had the reputation in the ancient city of being an influential and in certain respects omnipotent individual.

He rapidly poured drops of some mixture from a small bottle into a silver goblet, gave them to the Prince to drink and disappeared with equal rapidity in the reverse direction without so much as glancing at anyone.

'Shank you, Frol, shank you, my dear,' the Governor-General mumbled to his favourite's back, shifted his chin to put his false teeth back in place and carried on without lisping any more. 'And so, if Erast Petrovich Fandorin would be so good as to explain the reason for the urgency of this meeting... You know perfectly well, my dear friend, that today every minute is precious to me. Well then, what exactly has happened? Have you taken care to make sure that rumours of this vile incident are not spread among the inhabitants of the city? That's all we need on the eve of the Emperor's visit...'

Erast Petrovich got to his feet and the eyes of Moscow's supreme guardians of law and order turned to look at the Collegiate Counsellor's pale, resolute face.

'Measures have been taken to maintain secrecy, Your Excellency' Fandorin reported. 'Everybody who was involved in the inspection of the scene of the crime has been warned of the responsibility they bear and they have signed an undertaking not to reveal anything. Since the yard-keeper who found the body is an individual with an inclination to intemperate drinking and cannot answer for himself, he has been temporarily placed in a s-special cell at the Department of Gendarmes.'

'Good,' said the Governor approvingly. 'Then what need is there for this meeting? Why did you ask me to bring together the heads of the criminal investigation and police departments?

You and Pizhitsin could have decided everything between you?'

Erast Petrovich cast an involuntary glance at the investigator for whom the Governor had invented this amusing new name, but just at the moment the Collegiate Counsellor was not in the mood for jollity.

'Your Excellency, I did not request you to summon the head of the Criminal Investigation Department. This case is so disturbing that it should be classified as a crime of state importance, and in addition to the Public Prosecutor's Office it should be handled by the operations section of the gendarmes under the personal control of the Head Police Master. I would not involve the Criminal Investigation Department at all, there are too many incidental individuals there. That is one.'

Fandorin paused significantly. State Counsellor Eichmann started and was about to protest, but Prince Dolgorukoi gestured for him to remain silent.

'It seems I need not have bothered you, my dear fellow,' Dolgorukoi said amiably to Eichmann. 'Why don't you go and keep up the pressure on your pickpockets and swindlers, so that on Easter Sunday they break their fast at home in Khitrovka and, God forbid, don't show their noses outside. I am relying on you.'

Eichmann stood up and bowed without speaking, smiled with just his lips at Erast Petrovich and went out.

The Collegiate Counsellor sighed in the realisation that he had now acquired a lifelong enemy in the person of the head of Moscow's Criminal Investigation Department, but this case really was horrific, and no unnecessary risk could be justified.

'I know you,' said the Governor, looking anxiously at his trusted deputy. 'If you say "one", it means there will be a "two". Speak out; don't keep us on tenterhooks.'

'I greatly regret, Vladimir Andreevich, that the sovereign's visit will have to be cancelled,' Fandorin said in a very low voice, but this time the Prince heard him perfectly.

'How's that - "cancelled"?' he gasped.

The other individuals present reacted more violently to the Collegiate Counsellor's brash announcement.

'You must be out of your mind' exclaimed Head Police Master Yurovsky.

'It's absolutely incredible!' bleated the Prosecutor.

The Investigator for Especially Important Cases did not dare to say anything out loud, because his rank was too low to permit the taking of such liberties, but he did purse his plump lips as if he were outraged by Fandorin's insane outburst.

'What do you mean - cancelled?' Dolgorukoi repeated in a flat voice.

The door leading to the inner chambers opened slightly, and the valet's face emerged halfway from behind it.

The Governor began speaking with extreme agitation, hurrying so much that he swallowed syllables and even entire words: 'Erast Petrovich, it's not the first year... you... idle words... But cancel His Majesty's visit? Why, that's a scandal of unprecedented proportions! You've no idea what effort I ... For me, for all of us, it's

Fandorin frowned, wrinkling his high, clear forehead. He knew perfectly well how long Dolgorukoi had manoeuvred and intrigued in order to arrange the Emperor's visit, and how the hostile St Petersburg 'camarilla' had plotted and schemed against it - they had been trying for twenty years to unseat the cunning old Governor from his enviable position! His Majesty's Easter impromptu would be a triumph for the Prince, sure testimony to the invincibility of his position. And next year His Excellency had a highly important anniversary: sixty years of service at officer's rank. With an event like that he could even hope for the Order of St Andrew. How could he suddenly turn around and ask for the trip to be cancelled!

'I understand all th-that, Your Excellency, but if it is not cancelled, things will be even worse. This case of mutilation is not the last.' The Collegiate Counsellor's face became more sombre with every word that he spoke. 'I am afraid that Jack the Ripper has moved to Moscow'

Once again, as several minutes earlier, Erast Petrovich's declaration provoked a chorus of protests.

'What do you mean - not the last?' the Governor-General asked indignantly.

The Head Police Master and the Public Prosecutor spoke almost with a single voice: 'Jack the Ripper?'

Izhitsin gathered his courage and snorted. 'Stuff and nonsense!'

'What ripper's that?' Frol Vedishchev croaked from behind his little door in the natural pause that followed.

'Yes, yes, who is this Jack?' His Excellency gazed at his subordinates in obvious displeasure. 'Everybody knows; I'm the only one who hasn't been informed. It's always the same with you.'

'Your Excellency, he is a famous English murderer who kills streetwalkers in London,' the District Prosecutor explained in his pompous fashion.

'If you will permit me, Your Excellency, I will explain in detail.'

Erast Petrovich took a notebook out of his pocket and skimmed through several pages.

The Prince cupped one hand round his ear, Vedishchev put on a pair of spectacles with thick lenses and Izhitsin smiled ironically.

'As Your Excellency no doubt remembers, last year I spent several months in England in connection with a case with which you are familiar: the disappearance of the correspondence of Catherine the Great. Indeed, Vladimir Andreevich, you even expressed your dissatisfaction at my extended absence. I stayed in London longer than absolutely necessary because I was following very closely the attempts of the local police to find a monstrous killer who had committed eight brutal murders in the East End in the space of eight months, from April to December. The killer acted in a most audacious fashion. He wrote notes to the police, in which he called himself "Jack the Ripper" and on one occasion he even sent the commissioner who was in charge of the case half of a kidney that he had cut out of one of his victims.'

'Cut out? But what for?' the Prince asked in amazement.

'The Popper's outrages had a tremendously distressing effect on the public, but not simply because of the murders. In a city as large and ill-favoured as London there is naturally no shortage of crimes, including those that involve bloodshed. But the manner in which the Ripper despatched his victims was genuinely monstrous. He usually cut the poor women's throats and then disembowelled them, like partridges, and laid out their entrails in a kind of nightmarish still life.'

'Holy Mother of God!' Vedishchev gasped and crossed himself.

'The abominations you speak of!' the Governor said with feeling: 'Well then, did they not catch the villain?'

'No, but since December the distinctive murders have ceased. The police have concluded that the criminal has either committed suicide or ... left England.'

'And what else would he do except come to see us in Moscow?' said the Head Police Master, with a sceptical shake of his head. 'But if that is the case, finding and catching an English cut-throat is child's play'

Why are you so sure that he is English?' Fandorin asked, turning to the general. All the murders were committed in the slums of London, the home of many immigrants from the continent of Europe, including Russians. Indeed, in the first instance the English police suspected immigrant doctors.'

And why doctors in particular?' Izhitsin asked.

'Because in every case the internal organs were extracted from the victims with great skill, with excellent knowledge of anatomy and also almost certainly with the use of a surgical scalpel. The London police were absolutely convinced that Jack the Ripper was a doctor or a medical student.'

Public Prosecutor Kozlyatnikov raised a well-tended white finger and the diamond ring on it glinted.

'But what makes you think that the spinster Andreichkina was killed and mutilated by the Ripper from London? As if we had no murderers of our own? Some son of a bitch got so tanked up on drink he didn't know what he was doing and imagined he was fighting some dragon or other. We have any number of those.'

The Collegiate Counsellor sighed and replied patiently: 'My dear sir, you've read the report from the forensic medical expert. No one in a drunken fury can dissect so precisely, and use "a cutting tool of surgical sharpness". That is one. And also, just as in the East End cases, there are none of the signs of sexual debauchery which are usual in crimes of this kind. That is two. The most sinister point is the imprint of a bloody kiss on the victim's cheek, and that is three. All of the Ripper's victims had that imprint - on the forehead, on the cheek, sometimes on the temple. Inspector Gilson, from whom I learned this detail, was not inclined to attach any importance to it, since the Ripper had plenty of other freakish whims. However, from the limited amount of information that forensic science possesses on maniacal murderers, we know that these fiends attach great significance to ritual. Serial killings with the features of manic behaviour are always based on some kind of "idea" that prompts the monster into repeatedly killing strangers. While I was in London, I tried to explain to the officers in charge of the investigation that their main task was to guess the maniac's "idea" and the rest was merely a matter of investigative technique. There can be no doubt at all that the typical features of Jack the Ripper's ritual and that of our Moscow murderer are identical in every respect.'

'But even so, it's just too fantastic,' said General Yurovsky with a shake of his head. 'For Jack the Ripper to disappear from London and turn up in a woodshed on Samotechnaya Street... And then, you must agree, cancelling the sovereign's visit just because some prostitute has been killed ...'

Erast Petrovich's patience was clearly almost exhausted, because he said rather sharply: 'Permit me to remind Your Excellency that the case of Jack the Ripper cost the head of London's police his job, and the Home Secretary also lost his position, because they refused for too long to attach any importance to the murders of "some prostitutes or other". Even if we assume that we now have our own, home-grown Ivan the Ripper, that does not improve the situation. Once he has tasted blood, he won't stop. Just imagine the situation if the killer hands us another present like today's during the Emperor's visit! And if it comes out that it is not the first such crime? The old capital will have a fine Easter Sunday.'

Prince Dolgorukoi crossed himself in fright and General Yurovsky raised a hand to unbutton his gold-embroidered collar.

'It is a genuine miracle that this time we have managed to hush up such a fantastic case.' The Collegiate Counsellor ran his fingers over his foppish black moustache, seeming preoccupied. 'But have we really managed it?'

A deadly silence fell.

'Do as you wish, Prince,' Vedishchev said from behind his door, 'but he's right. Write to our father the Tsar. Tell him this and that, and there's been a bit of a muddle. It's to our own detriment, but for the sake of Your Majesty's peace of mind we humbly request you not to come to Moscow.'

'Oh, Lord.' The Governor's voice trembled pitifully

Izhitsin stood up and, gazing loyally at his exalted superior, suggested a possible way out: 'Your Excellency, could you not refer to the exceptionally high water? As they say, the Lord of Heaven must take the blame for that.'

'Well done, Pizhitsin, well done,' said the Prince, brightening up. 'You have a good head. That's what I shall write. If only the newspapers don't manage to ferret out this business of the mutilation.'

Investigator Izhitsin glanced condescendingly at Erast Petrovich and sat down, but not in the same way as before, with half a buttock on a quarter of the stool, but fully at his ease, as an equal among equals.

However, the expression of relief that had appeared on the Prince's face was almost immediately replaced by dismay.

'It won't do any good! The truth will come out anyway. If Erast Petrovich says this won't be the last atrocity, then it won't be. He is rarely mistaken.'

Fandorin cast an emphatically quizzical glance at the Governor, as if to say: Ah, I see, so there are times when I am mistaken!'

At this point the Head Police Master began breathing heavily through his nose, lowered his head guiltily and said in a deep voice: 'I don't know if it's the last case or not, but it probably isn't the first. I am to blame, Governor; I didn't attach any importance to it, I did not wish to bother you over trifles. But today's murder looked too provocative altogether, and so I decided to report it to you in view of the Emperor's visit. However, I recall now that in recent times brutal murders of streetwalkers and female vagrants have probably been on the increase. During Shrovetide, I think it was, there was a report of a female beggar found on Seleznevskaya Street with her stomach slashed to ribbons. And before that, at the Sukharev Market, they found a prostitute with her womb cut out. We didn't even investigate the case of the beggar - there was no point - and we decided the prostitute's ponce had mutilated her in a drunken fit. We took the fellow in, but he still hasn't confessed; he's being stubborn.'

Ah, General Yurovsky how could you?' said the Governor, throwing his hands in the air. 'If we had launched an investigation straight away and set Erast Petrovich on the case, perhaps we might have already caught this villain! And we wouldn't have had to cancel His Highness's visit!'

'But Your Excellency, who could have known? - there was no deliberate deception. You know yourself what the city is like, and the people are blackguards; there's something of the kind every single day! I can't bother Your Excellency with every petty incident!' the General said, almost whining in his attempt to justify himself, and he looked round at the Public Prosecutor and the investigator for support, but Kozlyatnikov was gazing sternly at the chief of police and Izhitsin shook his head reproachfully, as if to say: 'This is not good.'

Collegiate Counsellor Fandorin interrupted the General's lament with a curt question: "Where are the bodies?'

'Where else would they be but at the Bozhedomka? That's where they bury all the dissolutes, idlers and people without passports. If there are any signs of violence, they take them to the police morgue first, to Egor Zakharov, and after that they ship them over to the cemetery there. That's the procedure.'

'We have to carry out an exhumation,' Fandorin said, with a grimace of disgust. 'And with no delay. Check the records at the morgue to see which female individuals have recently - let's say, since the New Year - been brought in with indications of violent death. And exhume them. Check for similarities in the picture of the crime. See if there have been any similar incidents. The ground has not thawed out yet, the c-corpses ought to be perfectly preserved.'

The Public Prosecutor nodded: 'I'll issue instructions. You deal with this, Izhitsin. And how about you, Erast Petrovich -would you not care to be present? It would be most desirable to have your participation.'

Izhitsin grinned sourly - apparently he did not consider the Collegiate Counsellor's participation to be so very desirable.

Fandorin suddenly turned pale - he had remembered his recent shameful attack of nausea. He struggled with himself for a moment, but failed to master his weakness: ‘I’ll assign m-my assistant Tulipov to help Izhitsin. I think that will be adequate.'

The heavy job was finished after eight in the evening, by the light of flaming torches.

As a finishing touch, the ink-black sky began pouring down a cold, sticky rain and the landscape of the cemetery, which was bleak in any case, became dismal enough to make you want to fall face down into one of the excavated graves and sleep in the embrace of mother earth - anything not to see those puddles of filth, waterlogged mounds of soil and crooked crosses.

Izhitsin was giving the orders. There were six men digging: two of the constables who had been at the scene of the crime, kept on the investigation in order not to extend the circle of people who knew about the case, two long-serving gendarmes and two of the Bozhedomka gravediggers, without whom they would not have been able to manage the job. First they had thrown the thick, spongy mud aside with their spades and then, when the metal blades struck the unthawed ground, they had taken up their picks. The cemetery's watchman had showed them where to dig.

According to the list, since January of the current year, 1889, the police morgue had taken delivery of fourteen bodies of women bearing signs of 'death from stabbing or cutting with a sharp instrument'. Now they had extracted the dead women from their wretched little graves and dragged them back into the morgue, where they were being examined by Dr Zakharov and his assistant Grumov, a consumptive-looking young man with a goatee that looked as if it was glued on and a thin, bleating voice that suited him perfectly.

Anisii Tulipov glanced inside once and decided not to do it again - it was better out in the open air, under the grey April drizzle. However, after an hour or so, chilled and thoroughly damp, and with his sensibilities blunted somewhat, Anisii sought shelter again in the autopsy room and sat on a little bench in the corner. He was discovered there by the watchman Pakhomenko, who felt sorry for him and took him back to his hut to give him tea.

The watchman was a capital fellow with a kind, clean-shaven face and jolly wrinkles radiating from his clear, child-like eyes to his temples. Pakhomenko spoke the language of the people - it was fascinating to listen to, but he put in a lot of Ukrainian words.

"Working in a graveyard, you need a callous heart,' he said in his quiet voice, with a compassionate glance at the exhausted Tulipov. Any folk will grow sick and weary if they're shown their own end every day: Look there, servant of God, you'll be rotting just like that. But the Lord is merciful: he gives the digger calluses on his hand so he won't wear the flesh down to the bone, and them as is faced with human woes, he gives them calluses on their hearts too. So as their hearts won't get worn away. You'll get used to it too, mister. At first I was afraid - green as burdock I was; but here we are, supping our tea and gnawing on our bread. Never mind, you'll get used to it in time. Eat, eat...'

Anisii sat for a while with Pakhomenko, who had been around in his time and seen all sorts of things in all sorts of places. He listened to his leisurely yarns - about worshipping at holy places, about good people and bad people - and felt as if he had been thawed out somehow and his will had been strengthened. Now he could go back to the black pits, the rough wood coffins and the grey shrouds.

It was talking to the garrulous watchman and home-grown philosopher that gave Anisii the idea that redeemed his useless presence at the cemetery with interest. It happened like this.

As evening was coming on, some time after six, they carried the last of the fourteen corpses into the morgue. The cheerful Izhitsin, who had prudently dressed for the occasion in hunting boots and rubberised overalls with a hood, called the soaking-wet Anisii over to summarise the results of the exhumation.

In the autopsy room Tulipov gritted his teeth, reinforced the calluses on his heart and it was all right: he walked from one table to the next, looked at the revolting deceased and listened to the expert's summaries.

'They can take these three lovelies back: numbers two, eight and ten,' said Zakharov, pointing casually with his finger. 'Our staff have got something confused here. I'm not the one to blame. I only dissect the cases that are under special supervision; otherwise it's Grumov who pokes about inside them. I think he's a bit too fond of the hard stuff, the snake. And when he's drunk, he writes whatever comes into his head in the conclusions.'

'What are you saying, Egor Willemovich?' Zakharov's goat-bearded assistant protested resentfully. 'If I do occasionally indulge in strong drink, it's only a drop, to restore my health and my shattered nerves. Honestly you should be ashamed.'

'Get away with you,' the gruff doctor said dismissively to his assistant and continued with his report. 'Numbers one, three, seven, twelve and thirteen are also not in our line either. The classic "jab in the side" or "slashed gizzard". Neat work, no excessive cruelty. Better take them away as well.' Egor Willemovich puffed a blast of strong tobacco smoke out of his pipe and lovingly patted a macabre blue woman on her gaping belly. 'But I'll keep this Vasilisa the Beautiful and the other four. I have to check how precisely they were carved, how sharp the knife was and so on. At first I'd hazard a guess that numbers four and fourteen were our friend's handiwork. Only he must have been in a hurry, or else someone frightened him off and stopped the fellow from properly finishing off the work he loves.' The doctor grinned without parting his teeth, which were gripping the pipe that protruded from them.

Anisii checked the numbers against the list. It all fitted: number four was the beggar Maria Kosaya from Maly Tryokhsvyatsky Lane. Number fourteen was the prostitute Zotova from Svininsky Lane. The same ones that the Head Police Master had mentioned.

For some reason the fearless Izhitsin was not satisfied with the pronouncements of the expert and started to check, almost sticking his nose into the gaping wounds and asking detailed questions. Anisii envied his self-possession and felt ashamed of his own uselessness, but he couldn't think of anything for himself to do.

He went outside into the fresh air, where the diggers were having a smoke

'Well, mister, was it worth all the digging?' asked Pakhomenko. 'Or are we going to dig some more?'

'There's no more digging to do,' Anisii responded gladly. 'We've dug them all up. It's strange, really. In three months in the whole of Moscow only ten streetwalkers were killed. And the newspapers say our city is dangerous.'

'Ha! Ten he says,' the watchman snorted. 'That's just how it looks. They're just the ones with names. But we stack the ones they bring us without names in the ditches?'

Anisii's heart started beating faster. 'What ditches?'

'What?' Pakhomenko asked in amazement. 'You mean the doctor didn't tell you? Come on, you can look for yourself.'

He led Anisii to the far side of the cemetery and showed him a long pit with a thin layer of earth sprinkled over the top.

'That's the April one. Just the beginning. And there's the March one, already filled in.' He pointed to a long mound of earth. And there's the February one, and there's the January one. But before that I can't tell; I wasn't here then. I've only been working here since Epiphany - I came here from the Optinaya Hermitage, from pilgrimage. Before me there was a Kuzma used to work here. I never saw him myself. At Christmas this Kuzma broke his fast with a bottle or two, tumbled into an open grave and broke his neck. That was the death God had waiting for him: You've been watching over graves, servant of God, so now you can die in one. The Lord likes to joke with us in the graveyard. We're like his yard-keepers. The gravedigger Tishka at Srednokrestny—'

'So do they bury a lot of nameless women in the ditches?' Anisii asked, interrupting the talkative fellow. He had completely forgotten his damp boots and the cold.

'Plenty. Just last month it must be nigh on a dozen, or maybe more. A person without a name is like a dog without a collar. Take them to the knacker's yard - it's nobody's concern. Anyone who's lost their name is more like a flea than a human being.'

And have there been any badly cut-up cases among the nameless women?'

The watchman twisted his face into a sad expression. 'Who's going to take a proper look at the poor darlings? They're lucky if the sexton from St John the Warrior rattles off a prayer over them, and sometimes I do, sinner that I am; I sing them "Eternal Peace". Oh, people, people ...'

So much for the Investigator for Especially Important Cases, such a meticulous man, Anisii gloated to himself. Fancy missing something like that. He gestured to the watchman in a way that meant: 'Sorry my friend, this is important,' and set off towards the cemetery office at a run.

'Come on, lads,' he shouted from a distance. 'There's more work to be done! Grab your picks and your shovels and let's get moving!'

Young Linkov was the only one to jump to his feet. Senior Constable Pribludko stayed sitting down, and the gendarmes actually turned away. They'd had enough of swinging picks and knocking themselves out in this unseemly work; the man giving the orders wasn't even their boss, and he wasn't so important anyway. But Tulipov felt he was responsible and he made the men move.

And, as it turned out, it was a good thing he did.

Very late in the evening - in fact it was really night, because it was approaching midnight already - Tulipov was sitting with his chief on Malaya Nikitskaya Street (such a fine outhouse with such fine rooms, with electric lighting and a telephone), eating supper and warming himself up with grog.

The grog was special, made with Japanese sake, red wine and prunes, prepared according to the oriental recipe of Masahiro Shibata, or Masa, Fandorin's servant. In fact, though, the Japanese did not behave or speak much like a servant. He was unceremonious with Erast Petrovich and did not regard Anisii as an important personage at all. In the line of physical exercise Tulipov was Masa's pupil and Anisii endured no little abuse and mockery from his strict teacher, and sometimes even thrashings disguised as training in Japanese fisticuffs. No matter what trick Anisii invented, no matter how he tried to shirk the practice of this hateful infidel wisdom, there was no way he could argue with his chief. Erast Petrovich had ordered him to master the techniques of ju-jitsu, and he had to do it, even if he was knocked out in the process. Only Tulipov did not make a very good sportsman. He was much more successful at getting himself knocked out.

'You squat hundred time this morninT Masa asked menacingly when Anisii had had a little to eat and turned pink from the grog. 'You beat pams on iron stick? Show me pams.'

Tulipov hid his palms behind his back, because he was too lazy to pound them against the special metal stick a thousand times a day, and anyway, you know, it was painful. The tough calluses were simply not developing on the edges of Anisii's hands, and Masa abused him seriously for that.

'Have you finished eating? All right, now you can report on business to Erast Petrovich,' Angelina told him and took the supper things off the table, leaving just the silver jug with the grog and the mugs.

Angelina was lovely, a real sight for sore eyes. Light-blonde hair woven into a magnificent plait that was arranged in a bun on the back of her head, a clear, white-skinned face, large, serious grey eyes that seemed to radiate some strange light into the world around her. A special woman: you didn't meet many like her. A swan like that would never even glance at a shabby, lop-eared specimen like Tulipov. But Erast Petrovich was a fine partner in every possible respect, and women liked him. During the three years that Tulipov had been his assistant, several passions, each more lovely than the last, had reigned for a while in the outhouse on Malaya Nikitskaya Street before leaving, but there had never been one as simple, bright and serene as Angelina. It would be good if she stayed a bit longer. Or still better -if she stayed for ever.

'Thank you, Angelina Samsonovna,' said Anisii, looking at her tall, stately figure as she walked away.

A queen - that was the word for her, even though she came from a simple lower middle-class background. And the Chief always had queens. There was nothing so surprising about it: that was the kind of man he was.

Angelina Krasheninnikova had appeared in the house on Malaya Nikitskaya Street a year earlier. Erast Petrovich had helped the orphan in a certain difficult business, and afterwards she had clung to him. She obviously wanted to thank him in the best way she could and, apart from her love, she had nothing to give. It was hard now to remember how they had managed without her before. The Collegiate Counsellor's bachelor residence had become cosy and warm, welcoming. Anisii had always liked being here, but now he liked it even more. And with Angelina there, the Chief seemed to have become a bit gentler and simpler somehow. It was good for him.

'All right, Tulipov, now you're well fed and drunk, t-tell me what you and Izhitsin dug up over there.'

Erast Petrovich had an unusual, confused expression. His conscience is bothering him, Tulipov realised, for not going to the exhumation and sending me instead. But Anisii was only too happy if he could come in useful once in a blue moon and spare his adored chief unnecessary stress.

After all, he was pampered by the Chief in every way: provided with an apartment at public expense, a decent salary, interesting work. The greatest debt he owed him, one that could never be repaid, was for his sister Sonya, a poor cripple and imbecile. Anisii's heart no longer trembled for her, because while he was at work, Sonya was cared for with affection and fed. Fandorin's maid Palashka loved her and pampered her. Now she had even moved in with the Tulipovs. She would run to her master's house and help Angelina with the housework for an hour or two, then run back to Sonya - Tulipov's apartment was close by, on Granatny Lane.

Anisii began his report calmly, working up to the main point. 'Egor Zakharov found clear signs that two of the women had been brutally mutilated after they were dead. The beggar Marya Kosoi, who died in unexplained circumstances on the eleventh of February, had her throat cut and her abdominal cavity slit open; her liver is missing. The woman of easy virtue Alexandra Zotova, who was killed on the fifth of April (it was assumed by her pimp Dzapoev) also had her throat cut and her womb was cut out. Another woman, the gypsy Marfa Zhemchuzhnikova, killed by a person or persons unknown on the tenth of March, is a doubtful case: her throat was not cut, her stomach was slashed open from top to bottom and side to side, but all her organs are in place.'

At this point Anisii happened by chance to glance to one side and stopped in confusion. Angelina was standing in the doorway with one hand pressed to her full breasts and looking at him, her eyes wide with terror.

'Good Lord,' she said, crossing herself, 'what are these terrible things you're saying, Mr Tulipov?'

The Chief glanced round in annoyance. 'Angelina, go to your room. This is not for your ears. Tulipov and I are working.'

The beautiful woman left without a murmur and Anisii glanced reproachfully at his chief. You may be right, Erast Petrovich, but you could be a bit gentler. Of course, Angelina Samsonovna is not blue-blooded, she's not your equal, but I swear she'd be more than a match for any noble-born woman.

Any other man would make her his lawful wife without thinking twice. And he'd count himself lucky. But he didn't say anything out loud; he didn't dare.

'Signs of sexual intercourse?' the Chief asked intently, paying no attention to Tulipov's facial expression.

'Zakharov had difficulty in determining that. Even though the ground was frozen, some time had still passed. But there's something more important than all that!'

Anisii paused for effect and moved on to the main point. He told Erast Petrovich how on his instructions they had opened up the so-called 'ditches' - the common graves for the bodies without names. In all they had inspected more than seventy corpses. On nine of the bodies - and one of them was a man -there had been clear signs of savage abuse. The general picture was similar to today's: someone with a good knowledge of anatomy and access to a surgical instrument had severely mutilated the bodies.

'The most remarkable thing, Chief, is that three of the mutilated bodies were taken from last year's ditches!' Anisii declared, and then modestly added: 'I ordered them to dig up the ditches for November and December just to make sure.'

Erast Petrovich had listened to his assistant very attentively, but now he suddenly leapt up off his chair: 'December, you say, and November! That's incredible!'

'I was indignant about it too. How about our police, eh? A monster like that active all these months in Moscow, and we don't even hear a word about it! If it's a social outcast who gets killed, then it's none of the police's business - they just bury them and forget about them. You know, Chief, in your place I think I'd really give Yurovsky and Eichmann what for.'

But the Chief seemed upset about something else. He walked quickly across the room and back again and muttered: 'It couldn't have happened in December, let alone in November! He was still in London then!'

Tulipov blinked. He didn't understand what London had to do with anything - Erast Petrovich had not yet acquainted him with his theory about the Ripper.

Fandorin blushed as he recalled the insulted look he had given Prince Dolgorukoi earlier when the Governor had said that his Deputy for Special Assignments was rarely mistaken.

It seemed that Erast Petrovich was sometimes mistaken, and seriously so.

The delightful decision has been realised. Only God's providence could have helped me to implement it so soon.

The whole day was filled with a feeling of rapture and invulnerability –following yesterday's ecstasy.

Rain and slush, there was a lot of work in the afternoon, but I don't feel tired at all. My soul is singing, longing for open space, to wander through the streets and waste plots of the neighbourhood.

Evening again. I am walking along Protopopovsky Lane towards Kalanchevka Street. There's a woman standing there, a peasant woman, haggling with a cabby. She doesn't strike a deal, the cabby drives off and she's standing there, shuffling her feet in confusion. I look and see she has a huge, swollen belly. Pregnant, seven months at least. I feel my heart start to race: there it is, it has found me.

I walk closer - everything is right. Exactly the sort I need. Fat, with a dirty face. Her eyebrows and eyelashes have fallen out - she must have syphilis. It is hard to imagine a creature further removed from the concept of Beauty.

I start talking to her. She's come from the village to visit her husband. He's an apprentice in the Arsenal. I say the Arsenal is not far and promise to show her the way. She is not afraid, because today I am a woman. I lead her through the waste lots towards the Immerovsky horticultural establishment. It is dark and deserted there. While we are walking, the woman complains to me about how hard it is to live in the country. I sympathise with her.

I lead her to the river bank and tell her not to be afraid, there is great joy in store for her. She looks at me stupidly. She dies silently. There is only the whistle of the air from her throat and the gurgling of her blood.

I am impatient to lay bare the pearl within and I do not wait until the spasms have ceased.

Alas, a disappointment awaits me. When I open the incised womb with hands trembling in sweet anticipation, I am overcome by disgust.

The living embryo is ugly and nothing at all like a pearl. It looks exactly like the little monsters in jars of alcohol in Professor Lints's faculty: a little vampire just like them. It squirms and opens its mousy little mouth. I toss it away in disgust.

The conclusion: man, like a flower, must mature in order to become beautiful. It is clear now why I have never thought children beautiful: they are dwarfs with disproportionately large heads and underdeveloped reproductive systems.

The Moscow detectives have begun to stir - yesterday's decoration has finally made the police aware of my presence here. It's funny. I am more cunning and stronger; they will never unmask me. 'What an actor is going to waste,' said Nero. That applies to me.

But I throw the body of the woman and her mouse into the pond. There is no point in stirring things up unnecessarily, and the decoration was not satisfactory.

CHAPTER 3

The 'smopackadj’

Holy Week Wednesday, 5 April, morning

From first thing in the morning Erast Petrovich locked himself away in his study to think, and Tulipov set out once again for the Bozhedomka - to have the October and September ditches opened up. He had suggested it himself: they had to determine when the Moscow killer had started his activities. The Chief had not objected. 'Why not?' he had said; 'You go,' but he was somewhere miles away, lost in thought - deducing.

It turned out to be dreary work, far worse than the previous day. The corpses that had been buried before the cold weather were severely decomposed and it was more than anyone could bear to look at them, let alone breathe the poisoned air. Anisii did puke a couple of times after all; he couldn't help himself.

'You see,' he said, with a sickly smile at the watchman, 'I still can't grow those calluses

'There are some as can't never grow them,' the watchman replied, shaking his head sympathetically. 'It's hardest of all for them to live in this world. But God loves them too. There you are now, mister, take a drop of this liquor of mine

Anisii sat down on a bench, drank the herbal infusion and chatted for a while with the cemetery philosopher about this and that; listened to his stories; told him about his own life -that mellowed his heart a little - and then it was back to digging the ditch.

Only it was all in vain. They didn't find anything new that was of use to the investigation in the old ditches. Zakharov said acidly: A bad head gives the legs no rest, but it would be all right if it were only yours that suffered, Tulipov. Are you not afraid the gendarmes will accidentally tap you on the top of your head with a pick? And I'll write in my report, all in due order: the Provincial Secretary brought about his own death: he stumbled and smashed his bad head against a stone. And Grumov will witness it. We're sick and tired of you and your rotten flesh. Isn't that right, Grumov?'

The consumptive assistant bared his yellow teeth and wiped his bumpy forehead with his soiled shirt. He explained: 'Mr Zakharov is joking.' But that was all right: the doctor was a cynical, coarse man. What offended Anisii was having to suffer mockery from the repulsive Izhitsin.

The pompous investigator had rolled up at the cemetery at first light - somehow he'd got wind of Tulipov's operation. At first he'd been alarmed that the investigation was proceeding without him, but then he'd calmed down and turned cocky.

'Perhaps,' he said, 'you and Fandorin have some other brilliant ideas? Maybe you'd like to dig in the pits while I lead the investigation?'

And the rotten swine left, laughing triumphantly.

In sum, Tulipov returned to Malaya Nikitskaya Street empty-handed. He walked listlessly up on to the porch and rang the electric bell.

Masa opened the door, in a white gymnastic costume with a black belt and a band bearing the word for 'diligence' round his forehead. 'Hello, Tiuri-san. Le's do renshu.'

What - renshu, when he was so tired and upset he could barely even stand?

'I have an urgent report to give the Chief,' Anisii said, trying to be cunning, but Masa was not to be fooled.

He jabbed his finger at Tulipov's protruding ears and declared peremptorily: 'When you have urgen' repor you have goggrin' eye and red ear, annow eye small and ear aw white. Take off coat, take off shoes, put on trousers and jacket. We goin' run and shout.'

Sometimes Angelina would intercede for Anisii - she was the only one who could resist the pressure from the damned Japanese - but the clear-eyed lady of the house was nowhere to be seen, and the oriental tyrant forced poor Tulipov to change into his gymnastics suit right there in the hallway

They went out into the yard. Jumping from foot to foot on the chilly ground, Anisii waved his hands around, yelled 'O-osu' to strengthen his prana and then the humiliation began. Masa jumped up on his shoulders from behind and ordered him to run in circles round the yard. The Japanese was not very tall, but he was stocky and solidly built, and he weighed four and a half poods at the very least. Somehow Tulipov managed to run two circles and then began to stumble.

But his tormentor spoke into his ear: Gaman! Gaman!' That was his favourite word. It meant 'Patience'.

Anisii had enough gaman for another half-circle, and then he collapsed. But not without an element of calculation: he collapsed right in front of a large dirty puddle so that this accursed eastern idol would go flying over his head and take a little swim. Masa went flying over the falling man's head all right, but he didn't come down with a splash in the puddle; he just put his hands down into it, then pushed off with his fingers, performed an impossible somersault in the air and landed on his feet on the far side of the watery obstacle.

He shook his round head in despair and said: Awri, go wash.'

Anisii was gone in a flash.

When his assistant reported in the study (after washing off the mud, changing his clothes and brushing his hair), Fandorin listened attentively. The walls were hung with Japanese prints, weapons and gymnastic equipment. Although it was already past midday, the Collegiate Counsellor was still in his dressing gown. He was not disappointed in the least by the lack of any result; in fact he even seemed rather glad. In any case, he did not express any particular surprise.

When his assistant stopped speaking, Erast Petrovich walked across the room, toying with his beloved jade beads and pronounced the phrase that always made Anisii's heart skip a beat: All right, 1-let us think about this.'

The Chief clicked a small sphere of green stone and swayed the flaps of his dressing gown.

'Don't think that your little trip to the cemetery has been wasted,' he began.

On the one hand it was pleasant to hear this; on the other hand the phrase 'little trip' hardly seemed an entirely accurate description of the torture Anisii had suffered that morning.

'To be quite sure, we had to check if there were incidents involving the disembowelling of victims prior to November. When you told me yesterday that two mutilated corpses had been found in the common grave for December and in the November grave, at first I began to doubt my theory about the Ripper moving to Moscow.'

Tulipov nodded, since the previous day he had been given a detailed account of the bloody history of the British ogre.

'But today, having reviewed my London notes, I came to the conclusion that this hypothesis should not be abandoned. Would you like to know why?'

Anisii nodded again, knowing perfectly well that just at the moment his job was to keep quiet and not interrupt.

'Then by all means.' The Chief picked a notebook up off the table. 'The final murder attributed to the notorious Jack took place on the twentieth of December on Poplar High Street. By that time our Moscow Ripper had already delivered plenty of his nightmarish work to the Bozhedomka, which would seem to exclude the possibility that the English and Russian killers might be subsumed in the same person. However, the prostitute Rose Millet, who was killed on Poplar High Street, did not have her throat cut, and there were none of our Jack's usual signs of savagery. The police decided that the murderer had been frightened off by passers-by who were out late. But in the light of yesterday's discovery, I am willing to surmise that the Ripper had absolutely nothing to do with this death. Possibly this Rose Millet was killed by someone else, and the general hysteria that had gripped London following the previous killing led people to ascribe a new murder of a prostitute to the same maniac. Now for the previous murder, committed on the ninth of November.'