Fandorin 1-10

They talked divine matters one other time too.

A lot of flies had appeared in Senka’s room. They’d obviously come in for crumbs – he’d become a real fiend for guzzling fancy pastries.

Masa didn’t like flies. He caught them, like a cat with its paw, but as for squashing or swatting them – not on your life. He always carried them to the window and let them fly away.

Senka asked him: ‘Why do you take all that trouble with them, Sensei? Just swat them, and the job’s done.’

And the answer was: You shouldn’t kill anyone if you don’t have to kill them.

‘Not even a fly?’

It makes no difference, Masa said. A soul is always a soul, no two ways about it. Now it’s a fly, but if it leads a good life as a fly, in the next it could be a man. Someone like you, for instance.

Senka took offence.

‘What’s that mean, like me? Maybe like you.’

What Masa said to that was: ‘If you go giving your teacher lip, you’ll definitely be a fly after you die. Come on now, he said, dodge. And he smacked Senka in the face so fast, there was no way you could dodge it. It fair set his ears ringing.’

That was how Senka learned Japanese wisdom.

And every day, at the end of the session, his strange teacher would ask the same thing: Didn’t he have a message for his master?

Senka batted his eyelids and kept mum. He couldn’t figure out what the master was getting at. Was it about the treasure? Or was it something else?

Masa didn’t pester him, though. He waited for about half a minute, nodded, said his ‘sayonara’ and went off home.

The days flew by fast. A lesson of gymnastics, a lesson of French, reinforced by a session in a French restaurant, then a stroll round the shops and another lesson, on elegant manners, with George, and then it was time for dinner and the practical class. ‘Practical class’ was what George called trips to the operetta, the dance hall, the bordello or some other society gathering place.

In the mornings Senka slept late, and by the time he had got up and washed, Masa was ready and waiting. And off he went again, just like a squirrel in a cage.

A couple of times, instead of his practical class, he dropped into Khitrovka to see Tashka – after dark, and not wearing any frock coat or tails, of course, but in his old clothes. Apache style, as George said.

This was how he did it.

He hired a steady, sober cabby on Trubnaya Street – the cabby had to have a number – and drove to Lubyanka Square with him. He got changed right there in the cab, with the leather hood pulled right down low.

Transformed from a merchant trader into an Apache, he left the driver to wait. Not a bad deal –just sit there, sleep if you like, for a rouble an hour. The only condition was, he mustn’t move from the box, or the clothes would be nicked off the seat in a flash.

Stubborn Tashka wouldn’t take any of the money Senka tried to give her. And she wouldn’t give up her whore’s trade, because she was proud. Who takes money from men, she said – not for working, but just like that? A moll or a wife. I can’t come and be your moll, because you and me, we’re mates. And I won’t be your wife, on account of the frenchies (not that Senka had asked her to marry him – Tashka thought that up all by herself). I’ll earn as much as I need. And if it’s not enough, then you can help me, as a mate.

But Senka’s tales of the high life had sparked Tashka’s ambition or, rather, her vanity. She’d decided she wanted to make a career as well – move up from a street mamselle to a ‘grammar school girl’, especially since she was the right age for it.

‘Grammar school girls’ didn’t walk the streets, a madame supplied their clients for them. Compared with a street whore’s work, it was much easier and the money was far better.

The first thing she had to do was buy a grammar school uniform, with a cape, but Tashka had money set aside for that.

She already knew a madame too. An honest woman, reliable, who took only a third as her cut. And there was no end of clients who set store by grammar school girls. All respectable men, getting on a bit, men with money.

She had only one problem, the same one as Senka had: not enough culture to conduct a classy conversation. After all, the client had to believe he’d been brought a genuine grammar school girl and not a dressed-up mamselle, didn’t he?

That was why Tashka had started learning French words and all sorts of elegant expressions. She’d made up her life story, and she started reciting it to Senka. She wasn’t sure of all the words yet, so she kept glancing at a piece of paper. Tashka was supposed to be in the fourth class at grammar school, and an inspector had seduced her and plucked the flower of her innocence, taught her all sorts of tricks, and now, behind Mama and Papa’s back, she was earning money for sweets and cakes with her female charms.

Senka listened to the story and, as a man with experience of society, suggested a few improvements. He advised her most ardently to take out the swear words.

Tashka was surprised by this advice. As a Khitrovka girl, she couldn’t tell the difference between decent expressions and obscene ones. Then he wrote down all the dirty words on a piece of paper for her, so she could remember them. Tashka took her head in her hands and started repeating *****, *****, *****, *****, *****. Senka’s ears had got used to cultured or, to put it even better, civilisedconversation, and they fairly wilted on his head.

Tashka had bought herself a poodle with the last money Senka had given her. The dog was small and white, very frisky, and he sniffed at absolutely everything. He recognised Senka the second time he saw him and started jumping up at him in delight. He could tell all Tashka’s flowers apart and had a special way of yapping for each one. His name was Pomponius, or just plain Pomposhka.

When Senka called round to see Tashka the second time – to tell her about how he’d seen his little brother and show her his new tooth (and there was one other thing, a money matter), the working girl lashed out: ‘What have you shown up here for? Didn’t you see I’ve got a red poppy in the window? Have you forgot what that means? I taught you! Danger, that’s what! Don’t come to Khitrovka, the Prince is looking for you!’

Senka knew that already, but how could he not come? After his society studies, and especially George’s practical classes, he had barely a quarter of the two thousand roubles left. He’d blown fifteen hundred in a week – that was an absolute disaster for him. He needed to restore his financial status urgently.

So he went down underground and restored it.

He wanted to take two rods, but changed his mind and took only one. No point in flashing it about just for the sake of it. Money to spare needs good care. It was time he started following that principle.

The jeweller Ashot Ashotovich greeted Senka like his long-lost brother. He left the parrot to keep an eye on the shop, took his guest in behind the curtain and treated him to cognac and biscuits. Senka gnawed on his biscuits and sipped on his cognac in a most cultured fashion, then he showed the jeweller the rod, but he didn’t led him hold it. Instead of four hundred roubles, he asked for a thousand. Now, would this shark pay up or not?

Samshitov gave him a thousand, all right, didn’t even say a word.

So what it said in Judge Kuvshinnikov’s book, about the real price, was true.

The jeweller kept pouring the cognac. He thought the Khitrovka halfwit would get drunk and let something slip. He asked whether there would be more rods and when that might be.

Senka was cunning with him. ‘That’s the last rod for a thousand, there was only one. You put me in touch with the client, Mr Samshitov, perhaps then more will turn up.’

Ashot Ashotovich blinked his ink-black eyes and sniffed a bit. But he knew his days of taking Senka for a ride were over.

‘What about my commission?’ he asked.

‘The regular rate, twenty per cent.’

Ashot Ashotovich started getting agitated. Twenty’s not enough, he said. Only I know the real clients, you can’t find them without me. You have to give me thirty per cent.

They haggled and settled on twenty-five.

Senka left the jeweller his address, so he could send word when anything came up, and left feeling very pleased with himself.

Samshitov called after him: ‘So I can hope, Mr Spidorov?’

And the parrot Levonchik squawked: ‘Mr Spidorov! Mr Spidorov!’

He went back to the cab and changed into his decent clothes, but he didn’t ride home in the carriage, he walked. He was going to be prudent from now on. An extra half-rouble was no great expense, of course, but he had to stick to the principle.

On the corner of Tsvetnoi Boulevard he looked round – he had a strange feeling he was being watched.

And who was the figure under a street lamp but his old friend Prokha! Had he followed him from Khitrovka, then?

Senka went dashing over to Prokha and grabbed hold of him by the sides. ‘Give me back the timepiece, you louse!’

He’d been walking around for almost a week with a new timepiece, but Prokha wasn’t to know that. If you stole from your own, you had to answer for it.

‘You’re dolled up very handsome, Speedy.’ Prokha hissed, and pulled himself free with a jerk. ‘Looking for a poke in the mug, are you?’

He slipped his hand in his pocket – and Senka knew he had the lead bar in there, or something even worse.

Suddenly there was the sound of a whistle and tramping feet, and a constable came rushing towards them – to protect the decent young man from the urchin.

Prokha shot off up Zvonarny Lane, into the darkness.

That’s right, you ragged prole. This ain’t Khitrovka, this is a nice decent neighbourhood. He shuddered at the idea – ‘a poke in the mug’.

HOW SENKA WAS DEATH’S LOVER

Of all the lessons taught by Masa, Senka paid the most avid attention to that supreme branch of learning – how to conquer the hearts of women.

The Japanese proved to be a genuine expert in this area, both in the language of courtship, and the actual horsing around. No, it would be better to put it this way: in theory and in practice.

For a long time Senka couldn’t understand why the slanty-eye Jap made Madam Borisenko go all bashful like that, why she was so fond of him. One time he came down to breakfast early, before the other guests arrived – and well, well! There was the landlady sitting on Masa’s knees, lavishing kisses on his thick neck, and he was just screwing his eyes up in pleasure. When she saw Senka, she squealed and blushed and darted out of the room like a young miss – but she must have been at least thirty.

Senka couldn’t resist it, so he asked Masa – that very day, during the break after the morning scuffle. Sensei, he said, how come you have such great success with women? Do a poor orphan the kindness of sharing your savvy.

Well, the Japanese read him an entire lecture, it was just like that time George took Senka to his institute. Only Masa was easier to understand than the professor, even if he was from foreign parts.

In summary, the wisdom came out like this.

In order to unlock a woman’s heart, you needed three keys, Masa taught. Confidence in yourself, an air of mystery and the right approach. The first two were easy, because they only depended on you. The third was harder, because you had to work out what sort of woman you were dealing with. This was called knowledge of the soul or, in scientific terms, psychology.

Women, Masa explained, were not all alike. They could be divided into two species.

‘Only two?’ Senka asked in amazement. He was listening very attentively, and really regretted that he didn’t have a piece of paper handy to take notes.

Only two, the sensei repeated gravely. Those who needed a father, and those who needed a son. The important thing was to determine the correct species, and without practice this was not easy, because women loved to pretend. But once you had determined this, the rest was simple. With a woman of the first species you had to be a father: not ask her about her life, and in general talk as little as possible –show her the strictness of a father. With a woman of the second you had to make sad eyes, sigh and look up at the sky all the time, so she would understand that you would be completely lost without her.

But if you did not want a woman’s soul, and her body was enough, the teacher continued, then it was more straightforward.

Senka exclaimed eagerly: ‘Yes, yes, that’s enough!’

In that case, Masa said with a shrug, you didn’t need words at all. Breathe loudly, make eyes like this, don’t answer clever questions. Don’t show her your soul. Otherwise it’s not fair – you don’t want the woman’s soul, after all. For her you must be a rittur animur, not a person.

‘Who?’ asked Senka, confused at first. ‘Ah, a little animal.’

Masa repeated the phrase with relish. Yes, he said, a rittur animur. Who will come running, sniff her under the tail and climb up on her straight away. Everybody wants women to be shy and seem virtuous – women get fed up of that. But why be shy of a little animal? It’s only an animal, after all.

The sensei spent a long time teaching Senka about this kind of thing, and even though Senka didn’t take notes, he remembered every last word.

And the very next day, an appropriate opportunity for a practical lesson came along.

George invited him to go to Sokolniki Park for a picnic (that was when you went into the woods and sat on the grass and ate with your hands, without making any fuss). He said he would bring along two girl students. He’d been after one of them for ages and, he said, the other will be just right for you (by that time they’d already drunk to Bruderschaft and were on intimate terms). A modern miss, he said, with no prejudices.

‘A tramp, is she?’ Senka asked.

‘Not exactly,’ George answered evasively. ‘But you’ll see for yourself.’

They got into a fancy gig, and off they went. Senka soon realised the student had bamboozled him. George’s girl was plump and jolly, and she kept laughing all the time, but he’d lumbered his comrade with some kind of dried fish with glasses and tight-pursed lips. And he’d done it on purpose, too, so this miserable specimen wouldn’t interfere with him trying to get off with her girlfriend.

While they rode along, Four-eyes yammered on about things Senka didn’t understand. Nietzsche-schmietzsche, Marx-schmarx.

Senka wasn’t listening, he was thinking about something else. According to Masa’s science of women, if you made the right approach, with psychology, you could get any woman, even a bighead like this one. What was it Masa had taught him? Simple women love gallant manners and clever words, but with the educated ones, on the contrary, you had to be simpler and rougher.

Maybe he should try it –just to check.

So he did.

She said: ‘Tell me, Semyon, what do you think about the theory of social evolution?’

He didn’t say a word, just laughed.

She started getting nervous and batting her eyelids. I suppose, she said, you probably support the violent overthrow of social institutions. And he just cocked his head and pulled a face – that was his only response.

In the park, when George took his gigglebox for a ride in a boat (Senka’s girl didn’t want to go, said the water made her feel dizzy), the time came for action.

Senka’s mysterious behaviour had driven the young lady into a real state – she kept jabbering on and on, just couldn’t stop. In the middle of an endless speech about someone called Proudhon and someone called Bakunin, he leaned forward, put his arms round Four-eyes’ bony shoulders and kissed her real hard on the lips. Didn’t she squeal! She pushed her hands against his chest, and Senka almost let go – he was no rapist, no sirrah. He was bracing himself for a slap round the face – though with those dainty little hands, she probably wouldn’t even make him flinch.

She resisted all right, but she didn’t push him off. Senka was surprised, and he carried on kissing her, feeling her ribs with his hands and unfastening the buttons on the back of her dress: maybe she’d come to her senses?

The girl student murmured: ‘What are you doing, Semyon, what is this . . . Is it true what George says, that you’re . . . Ah, what are you doing! . . . That you’re a proletarian?’

Senka growled to make himself seem more like an animal and got really cheeky, slipping his hand in under her dress where it was unbuttoned. The young lady’s back was bare at the top, where her backbone stuck out, but lower down he could feel silk underwear.

‘You’re insane,’ she said, panting. Her specs had slipped offside-ways and her eyes were half closed.

Senka ran his hands over her this way and that for about a minute, just to make absolutely sure that Masa’s theory was correct, and then backed off. She was awfully bony, but then he hadn’t started this out of mischief – it was a scientific experiment, as they said in cultured circles.

While they were driving back from Sokolniki, the scholarly girl didn’t open her mouth once – she kept staring hard at Senka, as if she was expecting something, but he wasn’t thinking of her at all, he was having a real epiphany.

So that was the power of learning for you! Knowledge could overcome any obstacle!

The next day at first light he was waiting at the door for Masa.

When his teacher arrived, he led him straight to his room, didn’t even let him take his tea.

And he begged Masa in the name of Christ the Lord: Teach me, Sensei, how to win the heart of the creature I adore.

Masa was fine about it, he didn’t mock Senka’s feelings. He told him to explain in detail what kind of creature they were dealing with. Senka told him everything he knew about Death, and at the end he asked in a trembling voice: ‘Well, Uncle Masa, is there really no way I can smite a swan like that with Cupid’s arrow?’

His teacher folded his hands on his belly and smacked his lips. Why, he asked, is there no way? For the true admirer all things are possible. And then he said something Senka didn’t understand: ‘Death-san is a woman of the moon.’ There are women of the sun and women of the moon, he explained, they’re born into the world like that. I prefer women of the sun, he said, but that’s a matter of taste. Women of the moon, like your Death-san, he said, have to be approached like this – and he went through the whole thing with Senka, blow by blow, may God grant him the very best of health.

That very evening Senka set out to see Death – and seek his good fortune.

He didn’t dress the way he’d had been planning to earlier – in a white tie with a bouquet of chrysanthemums. He kitted himself out in line with Masa’s teachings.

He put on the old shirt that Death had once darned for him, and deliberately tore it under one arm. He bought a pair of patched boots at the flea market, and sewed a patch on a pair of trousers that were perfectly sound.

When he took a look at himself in the mirror, it even made him feel all weepy. He was just sorry that he’d put that tooth in the day before – the gap would have made him look even more pitiful. But he reckoned that if he didn’t open his mouth too wide, the gold wouldn’t glitter too brightly.

Everything was washed and clean, and he’d been to the bathhouse too. Masa had impressed that on him: ‘Poor, but crean, they don’ rike dirty admirers.’

Senka got out of the cab on the corner of Solyanka Street and walked up along the Yauza Boulevard. He knocked loudly, but his heart was pounding away even louder.

Death opened the door without calling out, just like she did the time before.

Senka thought she was glad to see him, and the vice gripping his heart loosened a bit. Remembering that tooth, he didn’t open his mouth – anyway, the sensei had told him not to wag his jaw unless he really needed to. He was supposed to gaze at her with a pure, trusting look and keep blinking – that was all.

They went into the room and sat down on the sofa, side by side (Senka thought this was a good sign).

He’d had a special haircut done on Neglinnaya Street – ‘mon ange’, it was called: mop-headed and fluffy on top, with a strand hanging down over his forehead, pathetic but appealing.

‘I’ve been thinking about you,’ Death said. ‘Wondering if you were alive, if you were starving. Don’t stay here long. Someone might tell the Prince. That savage is furious with you.’

Senka had an answer ready. He looked at her through his flaxen strand and sighed. ‘I’ve come to say goodbye to you. I’m not going to get out of this alive anyway, they’ll find me and kill me. Let them kill me, I can’t bear to be involved in their murderous doings. It contradicts my principles.’

Death was really surprised: ‘Where did you pick up fancy words like that?’

Ah, he’d said it all wrong. This was no time to be clever and show off his learning, he had to play on her pity.

‘I’m famished, Death, from all this wandering around like a vagabond,’ Senka said, and he fluttered his eyelashes – could he coax out a tear? ‘My conscience won’t let me thieve and I’m ashamed to go begging. The nights have turned cold, it’s autumn already. Let me warm up a bit and have a bite to eat and I’ll go on my way.’

He was even moved to pity himself, he sobbed out loud. It had worked! Death’s eyes were wet and gleaming too. She stroked his hair and jumped up to put food on the table.

Even though Senka was full (before he came out, he’d put away a plate of poulardes and artichokes), he still guzzled the fine white bread with sausage and gulped the milk down noisily. Death sat there, resting her cheek on her hand. Sighing.

‘You’re really nice and clean,’ she said in a soulful voice. ‘And your shirt’s fresh. Who washed it?’

‘Who’d wash for me? I get by on my own,’ said Senka, looking at her with his eyes glowing. ‘In the evening I wash my shirt and pants in the river, and they’re dry by morning. ’Course, it’s a bit chilly with no clothes on, but I have to look out for myself. Only the shirt’s getting a bit shabby. I wouldn’t mind, but it’s a pity about your needlework.’ He stroked the flower sewn on his shirt and turned weepy. ‘Look, the shirt’s torn under my arm.’

Just like she was supposed to, Death said: ‘Take it off, I’ll sew it up.’

He took it off.

Mamselle Loretta, the one from the practical class, had said: You’ve got lovely shoulders, sweetheart, pure sugar, and your skin’s so soft and tender, I could just eat it. So now Senka straightened up his sugary shoulders and hugged his sides like a poor orphan.

Death’s needle flashed in and out, but she kept glancing at Senka’s creamy white skin.

‘There was only one moment in my whole miserable life, in all my wretched destiny,’ Senka said in a quiet, soulful voice. ‘When you kissed me, a poor orphan . . .’

‘Really?’ Death said in astonishment; she even stopped sewing. ‘That was such great happiness for you?’

‘There’s no words to say what it. . .’

She put down the shirt. ‘Lord,’ she said, ‘then let me kiss you again, what’s it to me?’

He turned all pink (that happened quite naturally).

‘Ah, then I won’t be afraid to snuff it

But he kept his hands to himself for the time being and just fluttered his eyes – timidly, not brazenly.

Death walked up to him and leaned down. Her eyes were tender and moist. She stroked his neck and his shoulder, then pressed her lips against Senka’s so tenderly, so kindly.

He felt like he’d been tossed into a hot stove, right into the flame. He forgot all about his sensei’s teachings and jerked upwards towards Death, hugged her as tight as he could and tried to keep kissing her, but in his passion, all he could do was breathe in the minty, dizzying scent of her hair – ah! ah! – and he couldn’t breathe it out, he wanted to keep it in.

And something happened, honest to God, it did! Not for long, only a few little seconds, but Death’s body responded, it was filled with the same heat, and her gentle, motherly kiss was suddenly firm, greedy and demanding, and her hands slipped round Senka’s back.

But those impossible seconds ended – she unhooked Senka’s arms and sprang back.

‘No,’ she said, ‘no. You little devil, don’t tempt me. It’s impossible, and that’s an end of it.’

She started shaking her head, like she was trying to drive away some kind of phantasmagorical vision (that was what people said when they saw something that wasn’t really there).

‘Ooh, you snake, only knee high to a grasshopper, and already as cunning as the devil. You’ll make the girls cry all right.’

But Senka was still in the stove, he still hadn’t realised it was over, and he reached out to hug Death again. She didn’t move away, but she didn’t respond either – it was just like hugging a statue.

‘Ah, so that’s who you do it with, you whore!’

Senka looked round and froze in horror.

The Prince was standing in the doorway with his handsome mug all twisted out of shape and his eyes glittering. Of course – the street door wasn’t locked, so he’d just walked in, and they hadn’t heard anything.

‘Who’s this you’ve taken as a lover, you rotten bitch! A whelp! A lousy little tapeworm! Just trying to mock me, are you?’

He took a step towards Senka, grabbed his numb victim by the neck and jerked him up so that he had to stand on tiptoe.

‘I’ll kill you,’ he said. ‘I’ll wring your neck.’

And Senka could see he was going to wring it, there and then. At least there was one good thing about that, Senka wouldn’t suffer. The Prince could have done what he did with that huckster, cut off his ears and stuck them in his mouth, or even worse, gouged his eyes out.

Senka turned his eyes away so as not to see the Prince’s face – he was terrified enough without that. He decided it would be better to look at Death in his final moment, before his soul went flying out of his body.

And what he saw then was wonderful, miraculous: Death picking up the jug with the leftover milk and smashing it down on the bandit’s head.

The Prince was startled. He let go of Senka and sank to the floor. Holding his head in his hands, with blood and milk running through his fingers.

Death shouted: ‘Don’t just stand there! Run.’

And she pushed the shirt she hadn’t finished darning into his hand.

But Senka didn’t run. Someone else, like a second Senka, said from inside him: ‘You come with me. He’ll kill you.’

‘He won’t kill me,’ she answered, and so calmly that Senka believed her straight away.

The Prince turned his face towards Senka. His eyes were murky and wild. He jumped to his feet with a jerk, then staggered and clutched at the table – he hadn’t properly recovered his wits and his legs wouldn’t hold him. But he managed to wheeze out: ‘I’ll find you, if I have to turn Moscow upside down. Even underground, I’ll find you. I’ll rip your sinews out with my teeth!’

He was so terrifying Senka just screamed out loud. He shot off as fast as his legs would carry him, tumbled off the porch arse over tip, then dashed this way and that, wondering which way to run.

The second Senka, the one buried farther down, proved cleverer and stronger than the first. Go where the Prince told you to go, it said, go underground. He just hoped he wouldn’t have to emigrate from Moscow. The Prince would never calm down now until he’d done for the poor orphan.

And if that was how it was looking, he’d better put some money away.

He paid another visit to the treasure vault. And he took a fair lot this time, five rods. He’d decided not to haggle with the jeweller and let him have them for a thousand each. Ashot Ashotovich was welcome to his good fortune.

Only Samshitov never got the chance to relish Senka’s generosity.

When Senka came out on to Maroseika Street, he saw two constables in front of the jewellery shop and inside – he could see through the display window – there was a whole crowd of blue uniforms.

Oh blimey! Ashot Ashotovich had traded his last rod of government silver. Someone must have squealed on him. Or maybe Judge Kuvshinnikov was even sharper than he seemed. He’d found out which of the numismatists had picked up Yauza rods and enquired who they bought them from –just like that.

But then, that wasn’t so terrible, was it? Senka hadn’t given the judge his address. And apart from Senka, no one knew where the treasure was.

The coppers might as well try to catch the wind.

Ah, but no! He’d told the Armenian about Madam Borisenko’s boarding house. Big nose would give him away, he was bound to!

Senka didn’t hang about making himself obvious in the wrong place. He ran to get a cab.

He had to move out of the boarding house before he was nabbed.

The outlines had emerged of a tendency towards a deterioration in the conditions of Senka’s existence, or, to put it simply, things were totally loused up: the Prince was on his tail, so were the police, and there was no one to sell the rods to, but Senka was feeling so cock-a-hoop that he couldn’t care less.

The hoofs clip-clopped along the road, the horse twitched its tail, the headwind ruffled the final traces of ‘mon ange’ from his hair and, in spite of everything, life was wonderful. Senka bobbed along on the seat of the cab, feeling perfectly content.

Maybe not for long, only a few moments, but he had been Death’s lover, and almost for real.

HOW SENKA’S TONGUE WAS LOOSENED

That very evening Senka changed his lodgings. He was going to say goodbye to George, but his teacher had gone off for a wander. And so Senka left English-fashion, like a perfect swine. The only one to see him off to the cab was Madam Borisenko, who had transferred part of her fond feelings for Masa to his pupil. She asked, dismayed: ‘And will Masaul Mitsuevich not be calling any more?’

‘He’ll turn up tomorrow morning for certain,’ Senka promised. He still hadn’t decided whether he was going to let the Japanese know about his change of address. Tell him that Semyon Spidorov said thank you for the trouble he took and wishes him the very best of health.’

Senka had to put as much distance as possible between him and the Prince. So he took off to the back of beyond, even farther west than the Presnya District, and moved into a hotel for railway workers. A good place: nobody knew anybody else, men just spent the night there and then carried on along their way.

And at the same time he changed his name, so no one could pick up his trail. At first he was going to call himself something ordinary, but then he decided that if he was going to change his name, it might as well be something grand, in keeping with his new life. He put himself down in the register of guests Apollon Sekandrovich Schopenhauer, commercial traveller.

That night he dreamed of all sorts of things. Steamy scenes of passion (about Death), and frightening scenes of horror (the Prince climbing in through the window, a knife in his teeth, and Senka getting tangled up in the blanket so he couldn’t get out of bed).

At dawn Senka was woken by a loud knocking at the door.

He sat up and clutched at his heart, thinking the Prince and Deadeye had tracked him down. He was all set to scarper down the drainpipe – just as he was, wearing next to nothing – but then he heard Masa’s voice.

‘Senka-kun, open door!’

Phew! You can’t imagine how relieved Senka felt at that. He didn’t even wonder how the Japanese had found him there so quickly.

He opened the latch, and Masa walked quickly into the room, followed by (well, blow me down!) Erast Petrovich in person. They both looked gloomy and severe.

Masa stood by the wall, and his master took Senka by the shoulders, turned him to face the window (it was still early, morning twilight) and said briskly. ‘Now, Apollon Sekandrovich, no more p-playing the fool. I can’t afford to waste any more time on your m-mysterious personality. Tell me everything you know: about the m-murder of the Siniukhins and about the murder of the Samshitovs. This has to be stopped!’

The Sam . . . Samshitovs!’ Senka exclaimed, choking over the name. ‘B-but I thought

Now he’d started stammering too – was it infectious?

‘Get d-dressed,’ Erast Petrovich told him. ‘We’re leaving.’

And he walked out into the corridor without bothering to explain anything else.

As he pulled on his trousers and shirt, Senka asked his sensei: ‘How did you find me?’

‘Cab numba,’ Masa replied tersely, and Senka realised Madam Borisenko had remembered the cabby’s number, and he’d told them where he took his fare.

So much for keeping things secret and covering his trail. ‘And where are we going?’

‘To the scene of the clime.’

Oh Lord! What good will this do? But Senka didn’t dare argue. This pair would use force, drag him out by the scruff of his neck (we know, we’ve had a bit of that already).

Senka was feeling terribly nervous all the way to Maroseika Street. And the closer they came, the worse it got. So Ashot Ashotovich hadn’t been arrested after all? He’d been done in? Erast Petrovich had said ‘the Samshitovs’ – so that meant they’d killed his ever-loving wife? Who, robbers? And what did he, Senka Spidorov, have to do with it?

There were no police outside the shop, but there was a string with a seal across the door, and a light burning inside. The street was still empty, the shops hadn’t opened, or a crowd of people would have gathered for sure.

They went into the house from the yard, through the back entrance. A police official in a blue uniform was waiting for them –quiet, nondescript, wearing specs.

‘You took your time,’ he rebuked Erast Petrovich. ‘I asked you . . . I phoned you at midnight, and now it’s half past five. I’m taking a risk here.’

‘I’m sorry, Sergei Nikiforovich. We had to f-find an important witness.’

Even though Erast Petrovich had called him important, Senka still didn’t like the sound of that. What was he supposed to have witnessed?

‘Tell us about this killing,’ Erast Petrovich said to the official. ‘What was it p-possible to establish from an initial examination?’

‘Come this way, please,’ said Sergei Four-eyes, beckoning to them. They walked through from the hall into the rooms. ‘The jeweller had a kind of office here, at the back of the shop. The living space was upstairs. But the criminal didn’t go up there, it all happened down here.’ He glanced at his notepad. ‘The doctor believes that Nina Akopovna Samshitova, forty-nine years of age, was killed first, with a blow to the temple from a heavy object. Her body was lying just here.’

On the ground by the door there was a rough outline of a human figure, not a very good likeness, and beside it there was a dark patch. Blood, Senka guessed, and shuddered.

‘The criminal tied up Ashot Ashotovich Samshitov, fifty-two years of age, and sat him in this chair. As you can see, there’s blood everywhere: on the headrest, the arms, the floor. And both veinous and arterial, different oscillatory fluctuations . . . I’m sorry, Erast Petrovich, I’m not being very clear, I don’t know medical terminology very well,’ the official said, embarrassed. ‘You were always at me, trying to get me to study a bit, but the new bosses didn’t require it, so I never got round—’

‘Never mind that,’ Erast Petrovich interrupted. ‘I understand: Samshitov was t-tortured before he died. Was a knife used?’

‘Probably, or else they stabbed him with a pointed object.’

‘And the eyes?’

‘What about the eyes?’

‘Were the b-bodies’ eyes put out?’

‘Ah, you’re thinking of the Khitrovka murders ...’ Sergei Nikiforovich shook his head. ‘No, the eyes weren’t put out, and the overall picture of the crime is rather different, too. So it has been decided to make this a separate case from the Khitrovka Blinder murders.’

The Khitrovka B-blinder?’ said Erast Petrovich, wincing. ‘What a stupid name! I thought only newspapermen used it.’

‘It was thought up by the superintendent of the Third Myasnitsky Precinct, Colonel Solntsev. The reporters pounced on it, although, of course, from a grammatical—’

‘All right, to hell with the g-grammar,’ said Erast Petrovich, walking round the room. ‘Shall we go upstairs?’

‘No point. It’s quite clear that the killer didn’t go up there.’

‘Killer? Not killers? Has it been established that there was only one c-criminal?’

‘Apparently so. The neighbours testified that Samshitov never served more than one customer at a time, he only let one in the shop then locked the door after them immediately. He was very afraid of being robbed, Khitrovka’s not far off, after all.’

‘Signs of robbery?’

‘None. Nothing’s been taken, even in the shop. There are a few trinkets lying in the shop window there, but they’re not worth very much. I told you, everything happened in this room.’

Erast Petrovich shook his head and walked through into the shop. The official and Masa followed him. And Senka too – so as not to be left alone in a room splattered with blood.

‘And what’s this?’ asked Erast Petrovich, pointing to the birdcage.

The parrot Levonchik was lying in it with his head thrown back.

Sergei Nikiforovich shrugged. ‘Parrots are nervous birds, sensitive to loud sounds. And there must have been plenty of screaming and groaning . . . His heart gave out. Or perhaps he was left unfed too long.’

‘The cage d-door’s open. Yes and . . . Aha, t-take a look, Masa.’ Erast Petrovich picked up the little body and handed it to Masa.

The Japanese clicked his tongue: ‘They wrung it’ neck. Murda.’

‘Yes, it’s a pity the coroner didn’t examine it,’ the policeman chuckled, evidently thinking that the Oriental was joking, but Senka knew that for his sensei a soul was a soul, whether it was a man’s or a bird’s.

‘How low the p-professionalism of the Moscow d-detective police has sunk,’ Erast Petrovich intoned sadly. Ten years ago such c-carelessness would have been unimaginable.’

‘Don’t I know it.’ Sergei Nikiforovich sighed even more bitterly. ‘Things aren’t what they were in your day. You know, I get no satisfaction from the work at all. All they want are results, convictions, they’re not interested in proving anything. The triumph of justice doesn’t even come into it. Our bosses have different concerns. By the way’, he said, lowering his voice, ‘I didn’t mention it on the telephone . . . Your presence in Moscow is no secret. I happened by chance to see a secret instruction on the desk of the chief of police: your place of residence is to be determined and you’re to be put under secret observation. Someone’s recognised you and reported you.’

Erast Petrovich was not in the slightest upset by this news; in fact, he seemed rather flattered: ‘It’s not surprising, m-many people in Moscow know me. And clearly, they haven’t f-forgotten me. Thank you, Subbotin. I know the risks you’ve taken, and I appreciate it. G-goodbye.’

He shook the man in specs by the hand, and Subbotin muttered in embarrassment: ‘Oh, it’s nothing. But you should be careful anyway . . . Who knows what they’ve got in mind. His Highness is very vindictive.’

Senka didn’t understand who ‘they’ were – or ‘His Highness’, for that matter.

From the yard behind Samshitov’s shop they walked along a side street to Lubyanka Passage, and then turned into the public garden.

At the very first bench Erast Petrovich gestured, inviting Senka to take a seat. They sat down, Senka in the middle, the other two on either side. A prisoner and his guards.

‘Well now, M-Mr Schopenhauer,’ said Erast Petrovich, turning towards him. ‘Shall we talk?’

‘What’s it to do with me?’ Senka grumbled, knowing this wasn’t going to be pleasant. ‘I don’t know nothing.’

‘Deduction t-tells me differently.’

‘Who does?’ Senka said, cheering up. ‘I’ve never laid eyes on this Deduction of yours. She’s a liar, a rotten bitch!’

Erast Petrovich twitched the corner of his mouth. ‘This lady, Spidorov (I think I’d b-better address you like that now), never lies. You remember the seventeenth-century silver k-kopeck I found in Siniukhin’s pocket after he was killed? Of course you remember it –you ignored it so very p-pointedly. Where would a poor pen-pusher come by a numismatic c-curiosity like that? That is one. Let us continue. At the m-murder scene you deliberately kept turning away and even closing your eyes, although, as Masa has observed, you are c-certainly not short of curiosity. And neither did you d-display the astonishment and horror that are natural at such a sight. You must admit this is strange. That is t-two. To proceed. On that day, there was silver in your p-pocket as well as Siniukhin’s, and it was jangling rather loudly. To judge from the sound, the c-coins were small, of a size no longer m-minted in our day. And in your hand you were carrying a rod of p-pure silver, which is entirely out of the ordinary. Where would a Khitrovka g-guttersnipe like you get a small fortune in silver? That is three.’

‘Calling me names, now, are you? Swearing at a poor orphan?’ Senka asked in a surly tone of voice. ‘You ought to be ashamed of yourself, mister, a decent gent like you.’

Masa dug an elbow into his side. ‘When Masta say “that one, that two, that three”, keep quiet. You frighten away deduction.’

Senka looked round – there wasn’t a lady in sight. Who was there to frighten away? But to be safe he held his tongue. So far the sensei had only given him a gentle poke with his elbow, but he could easily belt him a lot harder than that.

Erast Petrovich went on as if he had never been interrupted. ‘Although I was not intending to investigate this c-crime, because I am involved in a completely d-different case, your behaviour intrigued me so much that I instructed Masa to look after you. However, the latest b-brutal murder, of which I was informed last night by an old c-colleague of mine, has changed my plans. I have to intervene in this business, because the authorities are clearly not capable of f-finding the killer. The investigating officers cannot even see that these c-crimes are links in a single chain. Why do I think so, you are about to ask?’ Senka wasn’t about to ask anything of the kind, but he didn’t try to argue with the stern gent. ‘Well, you see, from M-Maroseika Street to Khitrovka, where the Siniukhins were killed, is only a five-minute walk. These atrocities possess two f-fundamentally similar features that are encountered far too rarely for this to b-be regarded as pure coincidence. The killer is clearly p-pursuing some scheme far too grandiose for him to be d-distracted by mere details such as people or cheap m-medallions in the window of a jeweller’s shop. That is one. And another noteworthy f-feature is the diabolical caution that drives the criminal to l-leave no witnesses, not a single living creature, not even one as harmless as a three-year old infant or a b-bird. That is two. Right, and n-now for you, Spidorov: I am absolutely convinced that you know a great d-deal and can be of help to me.’

Senka had been certain he was going to hear more about the murderer, and was jolted by this abrupt conclusion. Squirming under the keen gaze of those blue eyes, he shouted: ‘So they topped that jeweller, what’s that got to do with me?’

Masa poked him with his elbow again, harder this time. ‘Have you forgotten about the snot-nosed kid? The one who earned a rouble following you? He saw you take the silver sticks into that shop.’

Senka realised there was no point denying it, so he changed tack from market-trader barking to snivelling: ‘What is it you want? Why don’t you ask properly . . . You’re just trying to frighten me, beating me in the ribs ...’

‘Stop that p-poor-mouthing,’ said Erast Petrovich. ‘Masa describes you in a most flattering f-fashion. He says that you’re not hard hearted, that you have an inquisitive m-mind and – a most v-valuable human quality – you strive towards self-improvement. Previously, before this latest c-crime, Masa simply asked you if you had d-decided to share your secret with us. He was certain that s-sooner or later he would earn your trust and you would want to unburden your heart to him. Now we c-can’t wait any longer. No more t-tact or delicacy – I demand that you answer two questions. The first is: what is the murderer l-looking for? And the second is: what do you know about this p-person?’

Masa nodded: come on, don’t be a coward, tell us.

Well, Senka told them everything, just like at confession. About the bandit deck, and about Deadeye, and about Death, and how the Prince wanted to finish him off, out of jealousy, like.

Well, he didn’t tell them everything, that goes without saying. He was cagey about the treasure hoard: there was supposed to be something of the kind, but whether it was true or not, Senka didn’t know. Well, when people went to confession, they didn’t tell the whole truth either, did they?

‘So, according to what you say, Spidorov, it seems this P-Prince and his jack killed Siniukhin in an attempt to extort the secret of the t-treasure from him?’ Erast Petrovich asked after listening to Senka’s rather incoherent story. ‘And the Prince p-paid a visit to the antiquary in order to find out your address?’

‘It stands to reason. Prokha squealed to him, the rat. He saw me near the shop, I told you! That’s why nothing was robbed, the Prince couldn’t give a damn for cheap baubles. He wants to get to me.’

‘But are you sure the Prince is only l-looking for you out of jealousy?’ Erast Petrovich wrinkled up his smooth forehead as if there was something he didn’t quite understand. ‘Maybe he wants you b-because of the treasure?’

Senka got this sudden aching feeling in his gut: he’d guessed, the wily gent had guessed the whole thing! And now he’d start pestering Senka: You tell me where those silver sticks are hidden.

Just to gain time, Senka started babbling: ‘He’s so jealous, it’s something awful! It’s that Deadeye he should be chasing! He’s always hanging around Death too. He gives her cocaine, and you know what she gives him. But it’s not really ’cause she’s a floozy. How can you blame her – when they’re on the candy cane, they can’t control themselves. It’s a real weakness with them ...’

‘In the old days, I b-believe there was a mint in the Yauza District, where they minted silver c-coins,’ Erast Petrovich declared thoughtfully when Senka paused for breath. ‘All right, I’m not interested in the t-treasure right now. Tell me, Spidorov, c-can you introduce me to this intriguing individual who has d-driven the underworld beau monde insane. You say they c-call her Death? What a d-decadent name.’

Senka’s heart suddenly felt lighter.

‘I can introduce you. But what’s going to happen to me, eh? You won’t give me away to the Prince, will you?’

HOW SENKA SAW A SCENE FROM BOCCACCIO

Erast Petrovich, righteous man that he was, didn’t abandon the poor orphan to the mercy of fate. In fact, he told him to collect his things and took him off to his own apartment, the one on Asheulov Lane, where Senka had the unfortunate idea (or perhaps it wasn’t unfortunate at all, but the very opposite – how could you tell?) of nicking that bundle from the ‘Chinee’.

It was a queer sort of apartment, not like what normal people had.

In one room there wasn’t any furniture at all, just stripy mattresses on the floor and that was all. That was where Masa and his master did their renzu, Japanese gymnastics. Just watching it was frightening. The way they flailed away with their arms and legs, it was a miracle they didn’t kill each other. Masa tried to get Senka to join in and scrap with them, but he got scared and ran off into the kitchen.

The kitchen was interesting too. Masa was in charge there. There was no stove, and no barrels of pickled cabbage or cucumbers. But in one corner there was this big cupboard called a ‘refrigerator’, which was always as cold as an ice cellar on the inside, and there was raw fish in it, on plates. The two tenants cut the fish into pieces, sprinkled it with brown vinegar and ate it just like that, with rice. They tried to give Senka some for breakfast too, but he didn’t touch the heathen muck and just chewed a bit of rice. And he didn’t drink the tea, either, because it wasn’t right at all – a funny yellow colour, it was, and not sweet at all.

Senka was given a place to sleep in his sensei’s room – there weren’t even any beds there, nothing but mats on the floor, like in Kulakov’s dosshouse. Never mind, Senka thought, better to sleep on the floor than in the cold damp ground with a pen stuck in your side. We’ll stick it out.

The weirdest place of all was the master’s study. Well, that’s what it was called, but it was more like a mechanic’s workshop really. The books on the shelves were mostly technical, in foreign languages: the desk was heaped high with strange drawings (they were called ‘blueprints’, with lots of very complicated lines); there were different-shaped bits of metal lying round the walls, with springs, rubber hoops and all sorts of other stuff. That was because Erast Petrovich was an engineer, he’d studied in America. Even his name wasn’t Russian: Mr Nameless. Senka really wanted to ask him what he needed all these thingamajigs for, but on that first day of his life on Asheulov Lane, there was no time for that.

They slept until late, after the kind of night they’d had. When they woke up, Mr Nameless and Masa were off, leaping about on the mattresses and yelling, battering away at each other, then they ate some of their raw fish, and Senka took Erast Petrovich off to meet Death.

On the way they started arguing about what she – Death that is –was like, good or bad.

Erast Petrovich said she was bad. ‘Judging from what you have t-told me, Spidorov, this woman revels in her ability to m-manipulate men, and not just any men, but the most c-cruel and pitiless of criminals. She is aware of their atrocities and lives a c-comfortable life on stolen money, but she is not g-guilty of anything herself, as it were. I am familiar with this b-breed, it can be found in all countries and in all classes of society. These so-called femmes fatales or infernal women are absolutely immoral creatures, they p-play with people’s lives, it is the only game that brings them any pleasure. Surely you can see that she was just t-toying with you, like a cat with a mouse?’

And when he said that Erast Petrovich was really angry, not like himself at all, as if he’d really suffered at the hands of these infernal women and they’d torn his life apart.

Only Death wasn’t any kind of infernal woman and she wasn’t immoral either, she was just unhappy. She didn’t revel in anything, she was simply lost, she couldn’t find her way. Senka told Erast Petrovich that. And he didn’t just say it – he shouted it out loud.

Erast Petrovich sighed and smiled – sadly, not sneering. ‘All right, Spidorov,’ he said. ‘I didn’t wish to offend your f-feelings, only I’m afraid there’s a painful d-disappointment in store for you. Well then, is she really so very lovely, this Khitrovka C-Carmen?’

Senka knew who Carmen was, he’d gone to the Bolshoi Theatre to see her with George. She was a fat Spanish woman with a big, loud voice who kept stamping her big feet and sticking her hands on her fat hips. Erast Petrovich looked like a clever man but he didn’t understand a thing about women. He could do with a few lessons from his servant.

‘Your Carmen’s a swamp toad compared with Death,’ Senka said, and spat to emphasise his point.

At the turn from Pokrovsky Boulevard on to Yauza Boulevard, Senka half stood up in the cab, then ducked back down and pressed himself down into the seat.

‘That’s her house,’ he whispered. ‘Only we can’t go there now. See those two hanging about over there? That’s Cudgel and Beak, they’re from the Ghoul’s deck. If they see me, there’ll be trouble.’

Erast Petrovich leaned forward and tapped the driver on the shoulder. ‘Drive round the c-corner and stop on Solyanka Street.’ And to Senka he said: ‘Apparently there’s something interesting g-going on. I’d like to take a look.’

When they’d driven past the Ghoul’s men, Senka straightened up again. ‘A look’s not very likely, but you could have a listen.’

And he led Erast Petrovich to the house through the back alleys.

The barrel that Senka had rolled up to the window was still standing where he left it.

‘Can you get through there?’ Senka asked, pointing to the half-open window of the water closet.

Mr Nameless jumped straight up on to the barrel from where he was standing, without any run-up, then he jumped again, pulled himself up with his hands and wormed his way through the small square opening, without any real effort. His heels disappeared inside. Senka climbed in too – not as nimbly, but even so he was in the privy soon enough.

‘A strange way of g-getting in to see a lady’, Erast Petrovich whispered, helping Senka to climb down. ‘What is behind the d-door?’

‘The room,’ Senka gasped. ‘The sitting room, that is. We could open the door a crack, quiet like, only just a little bit.’

‘Hmm, I see you have already p-patented this method of observation.’

And that was the end of the conversation.

Erast Petrovich opened the door a little bit, just a hair’s breadth, and put his eye to the crack. Senka tried arranging himself this way and that way (he was interested too) and eventually found the right position: he squatted down on his haunches and pressed himself against Mr Nameless’s hip, with his forehead against the doorpost. That is, he took a seat in the stalls.

He couldn’t believe his eyes – there had to be something wrong with them!

Death and the Ghoul were standing in the middle of the room with their arms round each other, and that greasy-haired slug was stroking her shoulder!

Senka either sobbed or sniffed – he couldn’t tell which it was himself – and he got a quick slap round the back of the head from Mr Nameless.

‘Ah, my lovely’ the Ghoul purred in a slimy voice. ‘Now that’s real consolation, that sweetens life up a bit. Of course, I’m not the Prince, I can’t give you gemstones, but I’ll bring you a silk scarf, from India. Incredibly beautiful, it is!’

‘Give it to your moll,’ said Death, backing off.

He grinned. ‘Jealous? My Manka’s not jealous. I’m in here with you, and she’s round the corner, keeping watch.’

‘Then give it to her, for her trouble. I don’t want your presents. That’s not what I love you for.’

‘What is it, then?’ the Ghoul asked, smiling even more broadly (Senka winced – his teeth were all yellow and rotten). ‘The Prince is a real wild one, but I’m better, am I?’

She gave a short, unpleasant laugh. ‘No one’s better than you in my mind.’

The Ghoul stared at her and screwed his eyes up. ‘I can’t understand you . . . But then, no one has enough nous to understand you women.’

He grabbed her by the shoulders and started kissing her. In his despair Senka hit his head against the wooden door – loudly. Erast Petrovich smacked him round the head again, but it was too late.

The Ghoul swung round sharply and pulled out his revolver. ‘Who’ve you got in there?’

‘Well, aren’t you the nervous one, and you a businessman too,’ said Death, wiping her lips in disgust. ‘It’s the draught blowing through the house, slamming the doors.’

There was a sudden whistle. And from close by too – inside the hallway, was it?

A hoarse voice (that was Beak, the one with the collapsed nose) said: ‘Manka’s given the shout – the superintendent’s on his way from Podkolokolny. With flowers. Maybe he’s coming here?’

‘Walking through Khitrovka, on his own?’ the Ghoul asked, surprised. ‘With no coppers? That takes guts.’

‘Boxman’s with him.’

The Ghoul disappeared like a shot. Then he shouted – probably from the hallway: ‘All right, darling, we’ll talk later. Give my regards to the Prince – that stag has big horns!’

The door slammed and it went quiet.

Death poured some brown water out of a carafe (Senka knew it was Jamaica rum) and took a sip, but she didn’t drink it, just rinsed out her mouth and spat it back into the glass. Then she took a piece of paper out of her pocket, unfolded it and held it up to her nose. After she’d breathed in the white powder, she relaxed a little bit and started sighing.

But Senka didn’t have any cocaine, so he just sat there numb, as if he’d turned into a block of ice. So an honest young lad with sugar-sweet shoulders and a ‘mon ange’ didn’t suit her, she couldn’t do it with him! But she could with this sticky-lipped slimeball?

Senka moved – and the engineer’s fingers beat a warning tattoo on the top of his head: Sit still, it’s too soon to come out.

Oh Lord, it couldn’t be true! Only it was, she was a whore with no morals at all, Erast Petrovich was right . . .

But this was only the first shock for Senka.

A minute went by, or maybe two, and there was a knock at the door.

Death swayed on her feet and pulled her shawl tight across her chest. She shouted: ‘It’s open!’

There was a jangle of spurs, and a bold officer’s voice said: ‘Here I am, Mademoiselle Morte. I promised to come for your answer at exactly five, and as a man of honour, I have kept my word. You decide: this is a bunch of violets, and this is an order for your arrest. Choose for yourself.’

Senka didn’t understand at first what violets had to do with anything, but then Superintendent Solntsev – it was his voice – went on to say:

‘As I already told you, I am in possession of reliable information from my agents which demonstrates beyond all doubt that you are involved in a criminally culpable relationship with the bandit and murderer Dron Vesyolov, also known as the Prince.’

‘And why waste government money on paying your agents? Everybody knows about me and the Prince,’ Death answered in a casual voice, sounding almost bored.

‘It’s one thing to know, and another to have properly documented and signed witness statements and, in addition, photographic pictures taken secretly, according to the very latest method. That, Frдulein Tod, contravenes two articles of the Criminal Code. Six years of exile. And a good prosecutor will tack on aiding and abetting banditry and murder. That’s hard labour, seven years of it. It’s appalling even to think what the guards – and anyone else whose fancy you tickle – will do with a girl from a simple family like you. I don’t envy your beauty. You’ll come out a total ruin.’

Then Colonel Solntsev himself appeared in the crack of the door –smart and spruce, with that gleaming parting. He really was holding a bunch of Parma violets (‘cunning’ in the language of flowers) in one hand, and a piece of paper in the other.

‘Well, and what is it you want?’ Death asked, setting her hands on her hips, which really did make her look like the Spanish woman in the opera. ‘Do you want me to betray my lover to you?’

‘What the hell do I want with that Prince of yours!’ the superintendent exclaimed. ‘When the time comes, I’ll take him anyway! You know perfectly well what I want from you. I used to beg before, but now I demand. If you won’t be mine, then it’s penal servitude! On the word of an officer!’

A steely muscle in Erast Petrovich’s thigh twitched – Senka felt it with his cheek – and Senka’s own hands clenched into tight fists. What a rotten louse that superintendent was!

But Death only laughed. ‘My gallant knight, do you woo all the ladies this way?’

‘I’ve never wooed anyone,’ said Solntsev, and his voice was trembling with passion. ‘They come running after me. But you ... you have driven me out of my mind! What’s that criminal to you? Tomorrow or the next day, he’ll be lying in the gutter, shot full of holes by police bullets. But I’ll give you everything: full upkeep, protection from your former friends, the position you deserve. I can’t marry you –I won’t lie, and you wouldn’t believe me anyway. But love and marriage are quite different substances. When the time comes for me to marry, I won’t choose my bride for her beauty, and my heart will still belong to you. Oh, I have great plans! The day will come when you’ll be the uncrowned queen of Moscow, and perhaps even more! Well?’

Death didn’t answer straight away. She tilted her head, and looked at him as though he was some curious object.

‘Tell me something else,’ she said. ‘I just can’t make up my mind.’

‘Ah, so that’s the way!’ said the superintendent, flinging the bouquet down on the floor. ‘All’s fair in love and war. I won’t just throw you in prison, I’ll close down that damn orphans’ poorhouse you support. It runs on stolen money and it only raises more thieves! Don’t you forget, my word’s as tough as steel!’

‘Now that’s more like it,’ said Death, smiling at something. ‘That’s convincing. I agree. Tell me your terms and conditions, Innokentii Romanich.’

The colonel seemed rather taken aback by this sudden compliance, and he backed away a couple of steps, which took him out of view again.

But it didn’t take him long to recover. There was a creak of boot leather and a hand in a white glove reached down to pick up the bouquet.

‘I do not understand you, Seсora Morte, but let that be, it is not important. Only bear in mind that I am a proud man and I will not be made a fool of. If you take it into your head to cheat me ...’ His fist clenched round the violets so tightly that all the stems snapped. ‘Is that clear?’

‘Yes, that’s clear. Get to the point.’

‘All right, then.’ Solntsev reappeared in the crack. He was about to present her with the bouquet, but then he noticed that the flowers were limp and lifeless, and tossed them on to the table. ‘Until I take out the Prince, you will live here. I’ll come in secret, at night. And you’d better be affectionate! I don’t tolerate coldness in love.’

He took off his gloves, threw them on the table too and reached out for her.

‘And won’t you be afraid to come to me?’ Death asked. ‘Doesn’t it frighten you?’

The superintendent’s hands dropped. ‘That’s all right. I’ll bring Boxman with me. The Prince won’t dare stick his nose in with him around.’

‘I don’t mean the Prince,’ she said quietly, moving closer. ‘Isn’t it a fearful thing to toy with Death? Have you never heard what happens to my lovers?’

He laughed. ‘Nonsense. Tall tales for ignorant proles.’

She laughed as well, but in a way that made Senka’s skin crawl. ‘Why, Innokentii Romanich, you’re a materialist. That’s good, I like materialists. Well then, let’s go to the bedroom, since you’re so very brave. I’ll give you the sweetest hugging I can.’

Oh, didn’t Senka just groan at that! To himself, of course, quietly, but that only made the groan all the more painful. What George said about women was right: ‘Moncher, essentially they are all bedspreads. They lay themselves out for whoever pushes the hardest.’

Senka thought the superintendent would go dashing into the bedroom after what she’d just said, but he jangled his watch and sighed. ‘I am ablaze with passion, but I cannot quench the flames now, I’ve been called to the police chief’s office to report at half past six. I’ll drop in late this evening. And mind now, no tricks!’

The brazen dog patted Death on the cheek and walked to the door, jingling his spurs.

Death took out her handkerchief and lifted it to her face, as if she was going to wipe her cheek, but she didn’t. She sat down at the table and sank her face into her crossed arms. If she had started to cry, Senka would have forgiven her everything, but she didn’t cry –her shoulders didn’t shake, and he couldn’t hear any sobbing. She just sat there like that.

Senka raised his head and gave Mr Nameless a rueful look: what a fool I am.

But he shook his head thoughtfully and moved his lips, and Senka guessed rather than heard what he said: ‘An interesting individual . . .’

Erast Petrovich winked at him, as if to say: don’t let it get you down. Then he signalled – the time had clearly come to get involved.

But more footsteps came – not crisp steps, like the superintendent’s, but heavy, plodding ones, with a bit of a shuffle.

‘Well then, begging your pardon,’ said a gruff bass voice.

Boxman! Senka grabbed Mr Nameless by the knee: Stop, you mustn’t go out! ‘His Honour forgot his gloves. He sent me, decided not to come himself.’

Death raised her head. No, there weren’t any tears on her face, but her eyes were blazing even brighter than they always did.

‘I should think not.’ She laughed. ‘Innokentii Romanich made such a grand exit. Coming back for his gloves would spoil the whole effect. Take them, Ivan Fedotich.’

She picked the gloves up off the table and threw them to him. But Boxman didn’t go straight away.

‘Oh, girl, girl, just look at what you’re doing to yourself! God gave you all that beauty, and you drag it through the mud, you mock God’s gift. That peacock came out of here gleaming like a fresh-polished boot. So you didn’t refuse him either. But that titch is nothing, he’s not even a peacock – he’s a wet chicken. And the Prince, your fancy man, is a festering pimple. Squeeze him, and he’ll burst. Is that the kind you really want? You’ve got fog in your head and a darkness in your soul. You need a straightforward, strong man with a huge fortune, something you can cling to while you catch your breath and get your feet on the ground.’

Death raised her eyebrows in surprise: ‘What’s this, Ivan Fedotich. Have you turned matchmaker in your old age? I’d be interested to know who you want to match me with. Who is this rich man you talk of?’

Just then an angry voice shouted from somewhere – could it have been the hallway?

‘Boxman, you idle good-for-nothing, what are you doing in there so long?’

Boxman finished his piece in a hurry: ‘I only want what’s good for you, you miserable fool. I have in mind a certain man, who would be your strength and protection and salvation. I’ll call in later and we’ll have a little talk.’

There was tramping of heavy boots, and the door slammed.

Death was alone again, but she didn’t sit down at the table this time. She walked to the far corner of the room, where the cracked mirror hung, stood in front of it and examined herself. She shook her head and even seemed to mutter something under her breath, but Senka couldn’t make it out.

‘Well now, Semyon Spidorov,’ Mr Nameless whispered. ‘Pardon the literary allusion, but this scene is straight from Boccaccio. Right, I’ll join in and try my luck. I bet my entrance will be even more impressive than the departure of Colonel Solntsev. And you climb back out, there’s nothing for you here. Through the window, at the double!’ And he pointed the way.

Senka didn’t argue. He stepped on to the china bowl (a ‘lavatory basin’, it was called, they had the same kind in the bordello, and there was another kind of bowl too, for women to rinse themselves off, that was called a ‘bidet’) and he pretended to be reaching up to the little window, only when Erast Petrovich knocked on the door and stepped into the room, Senka tumbled straight back down again. Resumed his observation post, so to speak.

HOW SENKA WAS DISILLUSIONED WITH PEOPLE

Erast Petrovich stepped unhurriedly into the centre of the room and tipped his hat (today he was wearing a checked cap with the earflaps turned up).

‘Do not be alarmed, dear lady. I will not d-do you any harm.’

Death did not turn round, she looked at her uninvited guest through the cracked mirror. She shook her head and ran her hand across the surface, then she looked over her shoulder, with a surprised expression on her face.

He bowed gently. ‘No, I am not a v-vision or a hallucination.’

‘Then go to hell,’ she snapped, and turned back to the mirror. ‘What a nerve you have! I only need to say the word, and you’ll be torn to pieces, whoever you are.’

Erast Petrovich walked closer. ‘I see you were not at all f-frightened. You really are a m-most unusual woman.’

‘Ah, so that was why the door creaked,’ she said, as if she was talking to herself. ‘And I thought it was a draught. Who are you? Where did you spring from? Did you jump up out of the sewer, then?’

He replied sternly to that: ‘For you, m-mademoiselle, I am an emissary of fate, and fate “jumps up” out of anywhere it sees f-fit, sometimes from very strange places indeed.’

At that she finally turned round to face him with a look in her eyes that seemed puzzled, not contemptuous – hopeful even, Senka thought.

‘An emissary of fate?’ she repeated.

‘Why, don’t I look the p-part?’

She moved towards him and looked into his face.

‘I don’t know . . . perhaps you do.’

Senka groaned – they couldn’t have stood in a less fortunate position. Mr Nameless’s tall figure concealed Death completely, and even he was visible only from the back.

‘Excellent,’ he said. ‘Then I shall speak p-poetically, as behoves an emissary of fate. My lady, a cloud of evil has c-condensed above the part of Moscow where you and I now stand. From time to t-time it waters the earth with a b-bloody rain. This cloud of iron-grey is not b-borne away by the wind, it seems to be held in place by some k-kind of magnet. And I suspect that m-magnet is you.’

‘Me?’ Death exclaimed in an agitated voice, and took one step to the side. Senka could see her clearly now. Her face looked bewildered, nothing like the way it usually was.

Erast Petrovich also moved, as if he wanted to keep some distance between them.

‘A wonderful t-tablecloth,’ he declared. ‘I have never seen such a marvellous d-design before. Who embroidered it? You? If you did, you have genuine t-talent.’

‘That’s not what you were talking about,’ she interrupted. ‘What makes you think the blood is shed because of me?’

‘The fact, Madame Death, that you have g-gathered around your good self the most d-dangerous criminals in the city. The Prince, a murderer and b-bandit, who supports you. A monster by the name of D-Deadeye, who supplies you with c-cocaine. The Ghoul, an extortionist and low scoundrel, whom you also seem to covet f-for some reason. What do you want with this c-cabinet of curiosities, this collection of aberrations?’

She said nothing for a long time. Senka thought she wasn’t going to answer at all. But then she did.

‘I suppose I need them.’

‘Who are you?’ Mr Nameless exclaimed angrily. ‘A g-greedy wealth-grubber? A vainglorious woman who likes to imagine herself as the q-queen of villains? A hater of men? A madwoman?’

‘I am Death,’ she declared quietly and solemnly.

He muttered in a barely audible voice: ‘Another one? Isn’t that t-too many for one city?’

‘What do you mean by that?’

He walked up close to her and said sharply, insistently: ‘What do you know about the m-murder of the Siniukhins and the Samshitovs? These c-crimes bear the signs of some strange satanic idolatry: either the eyes are p-put out, or every living thing is exterminated, even a p-parrot in its cage. A genuine b-banquet of death.’ His shoulders twitched.

‘I don’t know anything about that. Who are you, a policeman?’ She looked into his eyes. ‘No, they don’t have people like that in the police.’

He shook his head abruptly, in either annoyance or embarrassment.

‘I b-beg your pardon, I forgot to introduce myself. Erast Petrovich N-Nameless, engineer.’

‘An engineer? Then why are you interested in murders?’

There are two phenomena that n-ever leave me indifferent. The first is when evildoing g-goes unpunished and the second is a mystery. The f-former rouses an anger in my soul that will not allow me to breathe until j-justice has been restored. And the latter d-deprives me of sleep and rest. In this story both phenomena are evident: m-monstrous iniquity and a mystery – you. I have to s-solve this mystery.’

She smiled mockingly. ‘And how do you intend to solve me? In the same way as the other lovers of riddles?’

‘That has yet to be s-seen,’ he replied after a brief pause. ‘But you are quite right, there is a t-terrible draught.’

He swung round, walked straight towards Senka and closed the door; he even propped it shut with a chair. Now Senka couldn’t see a thing, and he could hardly hear anything that was happening in the room.

But he didn’t even want to hear any more anyway. He crawled out through the window, feeling sad. With a broken heart, you might say.

Senka was overwhelmed by total and complete disillusionment with human beings. Take this Erast Petrovich: he seemed like a serious man, very dignified, but he was the same kind of randy goat as all the rest of them. And the airs and graces he put on! Who could you trust in this world, who could you respect?

It went without saying that Mr Nameless would have her ‘solved’ now in a jiffy. Solving a floozie like that didn’t take any real effort, Senka thought, beating himself up. Oh, women! Cheap, treacherous creatures! The only one who was true was Tashka. She might be a mamselle, but she was honest. Or was that just because she was still young yet? Probably when she grew up, she’d be like all the rest of them.

HOW SENKA PULLED THE CHOKE OUT TOO FAR

Senka felt so sad and disillusioned, he just walked where his feet took him, gazing deep inside himself instead of looking around. And by force of habit his stupid feet took him out on to Khitrovka Square, the last place where Senka should be making a public show of himself. If anyone saw him, they’d whistle for the Prince, and then it would be farewell, Semyon Trifonich, that’s the last we’ll see of you.

When he realised where he was, he was terrified. He raised the collar of his jacket, pulled the boater down over his eyes and walked off rapidly towards Tryokhsvyatsky Lane – from there it was only a stone’s throw to places that were safe.

Then suddenly, talk of the devil, there was Tashka walking towards him. Not alone, though, with a client. He looked like a counter-clerk from a shop. Drunk, with a bright-red face. And one armed draped over Tashka’s shoulders – he could hardly even walk.

What a fool she was to be so proud! Why did she need to let herself get pawed and mauled like that for just three roubles? And there was no way of telling her it was a shame and a disgrace – she didn’t understand. Of course not, she’d lived in Khitrovka all her life. Her mother was a whore, her grandmother too.

Senka was going to go over and say hello. Tashka saw him too, but she didn’t nod, and she didn’t smile either. She just made big, round eyes at him and jabbed her finger at her hair. There was a flower in it, she must have put it there for an occasion like this. A red poppy – ‘danger’.

But who was the danger for, him or her?

He went across anyway and opened his mouth to speak, but Tashka hissed: ‘Clear off out of it, you fool. He’s after you.’

‘Who is?’

Then the counter-clerk stuck his oar in. He stamped his foot and started making threats. ‘What you doin’? Who are you? This little mamselle’s mine! I’ll rip your face off!’

Tashka punched him in the side and whispered: ‘Tonight... Come tonight, then I’ll tell you something really important ...’ and she dragged her admirer on down the street.

Senka didn’t like the way she was whispering. It wasn’t like Tashka to frighten him for nothing. Something must have happened. He’d have to go and see her.

He was thinking of waiting on the boulevard for night to come, but then he had a better idea.

Since he was already here, in Khitrovka, why not pay a visit to the basement and lay in a bit more silver? He had the other five rods hidden in his suitcase, wrapped up in his long-johns. It couldn’t hurt to have a few more. Who could tell which way fate would take him now? What if he suddenly had to leave his native parts in a hurry?

He took another four rods. So that made nine altogether. That was serious capital, no matter which way you looked at it. Ashot Ashotovich, may he rest in peace, wasn’t around any longer, but Senka would just have to hope that some other intermediary would turn up sooner rather than later. Thinking that way was a sin, of course, but the dead had their own interests and the living had theirs.

When he clambered out of the passage into the basement with the brick pillars (‘columns’ was the cultured word), Senka moved the stones back into place, took two of the sticks in each hand and set off through the dark basement towards the exit on Podkolokolny Lane.

He only had two more turns to make when something terrible happened.

Something heavy hit Senka on the back of the neck – and so hard that his nose smashed into the ground before he even had time to squeal. He still hadn’t realised how much trouble he was in when he was pinned to the floor, with a hobnailed boot to his back.

Senka floundered this way and that, gulping at the air. The rods went flying out of his left hand, jangling sweetly on the flagstones of the floor.

‘A-a-agh!’ poor Senka yelped, as steely fingers grabbed him by the hair and wrenched his head so far back his neck-bones cracked.

Out of sheer animal terror – it had nothing to do with courage –Senka swung the rods clutched in his right hand up behind him. He hit something, then he struck at it again with all his might. And then he struck it once more. Something up there gave a grunt, deep and hollow like a bear’s. The massive hand clutching Senka’s hair let go, and the boot shifted off his back.

Senka rolled over sideways, spinning like a top, got up on all fours, then on to his feet and dashed off, howling, into the darkness. When he ran into a wall, he recoiled and ran in the opposite direction.

He darted down the steps into the dark night street and ran as far as Lubyanka Square. Beside the low wall round the pool he dropped to his knees, and plunged his face into the water, and it wasn’t until after he’d cooled off a bit that he noticed he’d dropped the rods.

To hell with them. He was alive, that was what mattered.

‘Where did you g-get to, Spidorov?’ Mr Nameless asked as he opened the door of the apartment. Then he grabbed Senka by the arm and led him over to a lamp. ‘Who d-did this to you? What happened?’

He’d noticed the bump on Senka’s forehead and the swollen nose he’d smashed against the stone floor.

‘The Prince tried to kill me,’ Senka replied morosely. ‘Almost broke my neck.’

And he told Erast Petrovich what had happened. Of course, he didn’t say exactly where he’d been, or that he was carrying silver rods. He just said he’d looked into Yeroshenko’s basement, on some business or other, and that was where the terrible precedent happened.

‘Incident,’ Erast Petrovich corrected him without thinking, and a long crease appeared across his forehead. ‘Did you g-get a good look at the Prince?’

‘What do I need a good look for?’ Senka asked, mournfully studying his face in a mirror. What a nose – a real baked potato. ‘Who else wants to do me in? The Yerokha riff-raff won’t attack just anyone, they take a look first to see who it is. But this lug hit me without any warning, and real hard too. It was either the Prince or someone from his deck. Only not Deadeye – he wouldn’t have messed about, he’d have stuck his foil or his little knife straight in my eye. But where’s Masa-sensei?’

‘He has a prior engagement.’ Mr Nameless took hold of Senka’s chin and turned it this way and that – inspecting his face. ‘You need a c-compress. And mercurochrome here. Does that hurt?’

‘Yes!’ Senka yelled, because Erast Petrovich had taken a firm grip on his nose with his finger and thumb.

‘Never m-mind, it will heal soon enough. It’s not b-broken.’

Mr Nameless was wearing a long silk dressing gown and had a fine net over his hair – to hold his coiffure in place. Senka had one like that too, it was called a ‘garde-faзon’.

I wonder how it went with Death, Senka thought, glancing at the engineer’s smooth face out of the corner of his eye. Well, it was obvious enough. A fancy trotter like that wouldn’t let his chance slip.

‘Well then, Herr Schopenhauer, l-listen to me,’ Erast Petrovich declared when he had finished smearing smelly gunk on Senka’s face. ‘From n-now on you stick with Masa and me. Is that c-clear?’

‘Why wouldn’t it be?’

‘Excellent. Then g-go to bed, and straight into the sweet embrace of Morpheus.’

Senka went to bed all right, but it took him some time to cuddle up to Morpheus. Either his teeth started chattering, or he started shivering and just couldn’t get warm. It was only natural. Doom had flitted by awfully close and brushed his soul with its icy wing.

He remembered that he hadn’t gone to see Tashka. She’d said she wanted to tell him something, to warn him. He ought to go and visit her, but the very thought of going back to Khitrovka gave him the shakes, even worse than before.

If he slept on it, maybe in the morning everything wouldn’t seem so terrible. He fell asleep with that thought.

But the next day he still felt really afraid. And the day after, and the day after that too. He was afraid for a long time, a whole week. In the morning or the afternoon, if it wasn’t that bad, he’d think: today’s the day, I’ll go as soon as it gets dark. But by the time evening came he had that anxious feeling again, and his legs refused to carry him to Khitrovka.

It wasn’t as if all Senka did on those days was sit around and feel afraid. There were lots of things to be done, and the kind of things that could make you forget everything else in the world.

It all started when Erast Petrovich made a suggestion. ‘How would you like to t-take a look at my “Flying C-Carpet”?’

This was just after they’d had a conversation in which Senka begged him in the name of Christ the Lord to stop calling him ‘Spidorov’, because that offended him.

‘It offends you?’ Mr Nameless asked in surprise. ‘The fact that I address you f-formally? But I think you consider yourself an adult, d-don’t you? Between adults, less formal modes of address require s-some kind of reciprocal feeling, and I am not yet ready to address you in a m-more intimate manner.’

‘But you talk to Masa over there like a close friend, don’t you? It’s like I’m not even a human being for you.’

‘You see, Spidorov . . . I beg your pardon, I m-mean Mr Spidorov,’ the engineer said, beginning to get really annoyed with Senka, ‘I address Masa informally and he addresses me formally, because in J-Japan that is the only way in which master and s-servant can converse. In Japanese etiquette the n-nuances of speech are regulated very strictly. There are a dozen or so d-different levels of formality or informality for all kinds of relationships, whenever you address s-someone else. To address a servant in an inappropriate m-manner is quite grotesque, it is actually a g-grammatical mistake.

‘But here in Russia it’s only the intelligensia that talks to simple people politely, so they can show how much they despise them. That’s why the people don’t like them.’

Senka barely managed to persuade him. And even then, Erast Petrovich still wouldn’t call him ‘Senka’, like a mate. Instead of ‘Spidorov’, he began calling him ‘Senya’, as if he was some little gent’s son in short pants. Senka had to grin and bear it.

When Senka started batting his peepers at the words ‘Flying Carpet’ (he was prepared to expect all sorts of marvels from this gent, even magic), Erast Petrovich smiled.

‘It’s not magical, of c-course. It’s the name I’ve given to my three-wheeler m-motor car, a self-propelled carriage of my own d-design. Come on, you can take a l-look at it.’

Standing in the coach shed out in the yard was a carriage like a cab with sprung wheels, only it narrowed towards the front, and instead of four wheels, it only had three: the front one was low, with rounded sides, and the two at the back were big. Where the front board would be on a cab, there was a wooden board with numbers on it, and a little wheel sticking out on an iron stick, and some little levers and other fiddly bits and pieces. The seat was box calf leather and it could take three people. The engineer pointed all these things out.

‘On the right, where the wheel is, that’s the d-driver’s seat. On the left is the assistant’s seat. The driver is like a c-coachman, only instead of horses, he drives the m-motor. Sometimes you need two people –to t-turn the wheel or hold a lever in place, or just to wave a f-flag so that people will get out of the way.’

Senka didn’t twig straight off that this lump of metal would go all on its own, without a horse. According to what Erast Petrovich said (which was probably horse shit anyway), the iron box under the seat contained the strength of ten horses, so this three-wheeler could dash along the road faster than any wild cabby.

‘Soon n-nobody will want to use horses for p-pulling their carriages,’ Mr Nameless told him. ‘They’ll all want automobiles l-like this, with an internal combustion engine. Then horses will be liberated from their heavy labour, and in g-gratitude for their service to humanity over the millennia, they will be s-set free to graze in the meadows. Well, p-perhaps the most beautiful and spirited will be kept for races and romantic d-drives by moonlight, but all the others will be retired with a p-pension.’

Well now, I don’t know about a pension, Senka thought. If horses aren’t needed any longer, they’ll just be slaughtered for their skins and meat, no one’s going to feed them out of the kindness of their hearts. But he didn’t try to argue with the engineer, he was curious to hear what would come next.

‘You see, Senya, the idea of a three-wheeled motor car for all kinds of terrain was the subject of my diploma last year at the Technical Institute . . .’

‘You mean you were still a student just last year?’ Senka asked in surprise. Erast Petrovich looked really old. Maybe thirty-five, or even more – his temples were all grey already.

‘No, I took the mechanical engineering course as an external student, in Boston. And now the time has come to make my idea a reality, to test it in practice.’

‘But what if it won’t go?’ asked Senka, admiring the gleaming copper lamp on the front of the machine.

‘Oh, no, it goes very well, but that’s not enough. I intend to set a record with my three-wheeler, by travelling all the way from Moscow to Paris. The start is set for the twenty-third of September, so there’s not much time left to prepare, just a little over two weeks. And it’s a difficult business, almost impossible in fact. A similar journey was attempted recently by Baron von Liebnitz, but his automobile wasn’t hardy enough for the Russian roads, and it fell apart. My “Flying Carpet” will survive them, though, because the three-wheel design is better suited to bad roads than a four-wheeler, and I shall prove it. And then, there’s this, look.’

Senka had never seen Erast Petrovich looking so lively. His eyes were usually cool and calm, but now they were sparkling, and his cheeks were flushed. Mr Nameless was quite unrecognisable.

‘Instead of the new-fangled pneumatic tyres, which are perfectly convenient for an asphalt street, but entirely inappropriate for our appalling roads, I have designed single-piece solid rubber tyres with steel wire.’

Senka prodded a black tyre. The pimpled, springy surface felt pleasant to the touch.

The design is based on the “Patent-Motorwagen” from the Benz factory, but the “Flying Carpet” is far more advanced! On his new “Velo” Herr Benz has only a three-horse-power motor and the gearwheel drive is attached to the rear axle, while I have moved it to the frame – look! – and I have a motor of almost one thousand cubic centimetres! That makes it possible to reach a speed of thirty versts an hour. And on an asphalt surface up to thirty-five! Perhaps even forty! Just imagine!’

Senka was infected by the engineer’s excitement. He sniffed at the seat, and it smelled of leather and kerosene. Very tasty!

‘And how do you ride on this carpet?’

‘Sit here. That’s it,’ said Erast Petrovich, delighted to explain, and Senka started swaying blissfully on the springy seat. ‘You’ll start moving in just a moment. It’s quite delightful, there’s nothing to compare it with. Only be careful, don’t rush. Put your right foot on the clutch pedal. Press it as far as it will go. Good. This is the ignition switch. Turn it. Do you hear that? The spark has ignited the fuel liquid. You open the valves with these levers. Well done. Now pull on the handbrake, to free the wheels. Engage the transmission –that’s this lever. Now slowly lift your foot off the clutch and at the same time pull the choke, which ...’

Senka took hold of the little metal stick that had the strange name ‘choke’ and pulled it towards himself. The self-propelled carriage suddenly darted forward.

‘A-a-agh!’ Senka yelled in terror and delight.

He got a sudden sinking feeling in his stomach, as if he was racing down an icy slide in a sleigh. The three-wheeler went shooting out through the gates of the shed, the wall of the house came towards it at high speed, and the next moment Senka’s chest crashed into the steering wheel. There was a loud clang and a jangle of broken glass, and the flight came to an end.

There were red bricks right in front of Senka’s face, with a green caterpillar crawling across them. His ears were ringing and his chest hurt, but no bones seemed to be broken.

Senka heard leisurely footsteps approaching from behind. He saw that the glass was broken on one dial and it had completely come away from another, and he pulled his head down into his chest: Beat me, Erast Petrovich, beat me within an inch of my life – even that’s too good for a bonehead like me.

‘. . . which regulates the flow of fuel, and so it should be pulled very gently’, said Mr Nameless, continuing with his explanation as if he had not even been interrupted. ‘You pulled it too hard, Senya.’

Senka hung his head and got out. When he saw the flattened lamp, which had been so smart and shiny only a few moments ago, he sobbed out loud. What a disaster.

‘Never mind,’ the engineer reassured him, squatting down on his haunches. ‘In automobilism breakages are an everyday event. We’ll fix everything this very moment. Be so kind, Senya, as to bring me the box of tools. Will you help me? It’s quite easy to remove a dashboard with two people. If you only knew how badly I need an assistant.’

‘What about the sensei?’ asked Senka, stopping just as he was about to dash over to the shed. ‘Doesn’t he help you?’

‘Masa is a conservative and a staunch opponent of progress,’ Erast Petrovich said with a sigh as he pulled on a pair of leather gloves.

Well, that was true enough. The engineer and Masa had been rowing over progress almost every day.

If Erast Petrovich had just read an article in the morning newspaper – say, about the opening of a railway line to the region beyond Lake Baikal – and he said: Look at this splendid news for the population of Siberia. They used to spend an entire month on the journey from Irkutsk to Chita, but now it only takes a day. They’ve been given a present of an entire month! There you are, use the time for whatever you like! That is the true meaning of progress – reducing the unnecessary waste of time and effort! Then the Japanese would say to him: They haven’t been given a month of life, the time’s been taken away from them. The people in this Irkutsk of yours never used to leave home except on important business, but now they’ll start spreading out across the face of the earth. That would be fine, if they did it thoughtfully, measuring out the earth with their steps, scrambling up the mountains and swimming across the rivers. But they’ll sit down on a comfortable seat and sniff a couple of times, and that’ll be all there is to their journey. Before, when a man went travelling, he understood that life itself is a journey, but now he’ll think that life is a soft seat in a railway carriage. People used to be strong and sinewy, but soon now they’ll all be weak and fat. Fat –that’s what this progress of yours is.

Then Mr Nameless would get angry. You’re distorting things, he’d say. Fat? So let there be fat, excellent! And by the way, fat is the most valuable substance in the human body, a reserve of energy and strength for times of stress. We just need to avoid accumulating fat in certain areas of the social organism, it should be distributed equally, that’s the reason why social progress or ‘social evolution’ exists.

But Masa didn’t give up. Fat, he said, is a bodily substance, and the essence of a man is spiritual – the soul. Progress will lead to the soul being smothered in fat.

No, Erast Petrovich objected. Why despise the body? It is life, and the soul, if it exists at all, belongs to eternity – that is, to death. It’s no accident that the Slavonic word for life, ‘zhivot’, means ‘stomach’ in Russian. And by the way, you Japanese also happen to locate the soul in the stomach, in the ‘hara’.

Or there was this other time when Erast Petrovich and the sensei started arguing about whether progress changed values or not.

Mr Nameless said that they did change – they moved to a higher level, primarily because a man started to value himself, his time and his effort more highly, but Masa didn’t agree. He said it was just the opposite: nowadays hardly anything depended on the individual human being and his efforts, and so all values were in decline. When progress does half your work for you, you can live your whole life without your soul ever waking up and without understanding anything about true values.

Senka listened, but he couldn’t decide whose side he was on. On the one hand, Erast Petrovich seemed to be right. Just look at all the progress there was in Moscow: electric trams would start running soon, and they’d put up bright street lamps all over the place, and there was the cinematograph too. Values were getting higher and higher every day. Eggs at the market used to cost two kopecks for ten, and now they cost three. The cabbies used to take half a rouble to drive from Sukharevka to Zamosvorechie, but now they wanted at least seventy or eighty kopecks for the pleasure. Or just look at the price of papyroses.

Only, it wasn’t that simple. Progress did bring some good of its own. Look at the difference between a shoe made by hand and one from a factory. Of course, the first kind worked out dearer, that’s why there were hardly any of them left.

But Senka soon realised that Erast Petrovich didn’t understand a thing about values.

They were giving the ‘Flying Carpet’ a test run on Mytnaya Street. They went round a corner at speed – Erast Petrovich was turning the wheel and Senka was honking the horn – and there was a herd of cows. What did a horn mean to those dumb beasts? So they crashed into the one at the back at full pelt.

It didn’t even have time to moo, just flipped over with its hooves in the air, and lay there dead.

Senka felt sorry for the front of the car, not the cow. They’d only just put on a new lamp to replace the one that was smashed against the wall. And a lamp was fifty roubles, that was no joke.

While Senka groaned and gathered up the broken glass, the engineer counted out his recompense to the cowherd for his cow. And how much do you think he gave the man? A hundred roubles! Whoever heard of such a thing? For an old brown cow that wouldn’t fetch more than thirty on market day!

And that wasn’t the half of it. As soon as that shameless rogue of a cowherd had stuck the hundred note in his cap, the cow got up and walked off, none the worse for wear, its udders wobbling to and fro.

Naturally, Senka took the cowherd by the sleeve and told him to cough up the money.

‘In the first place, not “cough up”, but “please return”. And in the second place, there’s no need. Consider it a payment for moral injury.’

So whose moral injury was that? The cow’s?

This incident had important consequences, and the important consequences led to epoch-making results.

Senka was responsible for the consequences, and Erast Petrovich was responsible for the results.

That same day Senka sketched a metal bracket on a piece of paper. It was meant to be attached in front of the lamp, so that cows, goats or dogs could be knocked down without any damage to the automobile. And after supper he subjected Mr Nameless and the Japanese to an interrogation about what prices they paid for things and how much money they paid various people. He was flabbergasted by what they said. Erast Petrovich might be an American engineer, but when it came to simple business matters, he was the biggest fool you could imagine. He paid way over the odds for everything, just gave whatever he was asked, never bothered to bargain. He’d taken the apartment in Asheulov Lane for three hundred a month! And the sensei was no better. Apart from his Way and the women he simply didn’t have a clue. Some valet he was.

Senka taught the scatterbrained pair a bit of sound sense about the value of things, and the ‘experts’ listened open mouthed.

The engineer looked at Senka and shook his head respectfully. ‘You’re a remarkable young man, Senya,’ Erast Petrovich said solemnly. ‘You have so many talents. Your idea for a shock-absorbing bracket on the automobile is excellent. The accessory should be patented and named in your honour – say “Spidorov’s damper”. Or the “antishocker”, or “bumper”, from the English “bump”. You are a born inventor. That is one. And your economic skill is quite astounding too. If you will agree to be my treasurer, I shall gladly entrust you with the management of all my expenditure. You are a born financial manager. That is two. And I am also struck by your technical savvy. You ventilate the carburettor so skilfully, you change a wheel so quickly! I tell you what, Semyon Spidorov: I offer you the position of mechanic until I depart for Paris. And that is three. Take your time before you answer, think it over.’

It’s a fact well known that when good luck comes, it doesn’t come in dribs and drabs. The sky’s pitch black, there’s not a single star to be seen, and you could just howl at the misery of it. But then, when the stars do come out, they fill the entire vault of heaven.

Who was Speedy Senka only a little while ago? No one, a dung beetle. But now he was everything: Death’s lover (yes, that did happen, it wasn’t a dream), and a rich man, and an inventor, and a treasurer, and a mechanic. What a career he’d fallen into now – a much plummier position than a lowly sixer in the Prince’s deck.

*

Senka really had his hands full now. He never even thought about how he ought to go and see Tashka, and how afraid he was, except in the evenings, just before he went to sleep. During the day he didn’t have the time.

The three-wheeler had to be cleaned and tuned, didn’t it?

He had to go round the shops and buy everything, didn’t he?

He had to keep an eye on the cleaner, the yard-keeper, the cook (he’d hired an old woman to cook proper human food, they couldn’t keep eating nothing but raw stuff) – didn’t he?

With Senka managing everything, the sensei turned into a total idler. He’d spend the best part of an hour on his knees with his eyes closed (that was a way the Japanese had of praying). Or else he’d disappear off somewhere with Erast Petrovich. Or else he had an assignation. Or else he would suddenly decide to teach Senka Japanese gymnastics.

And then Senka was supposed to drop all his important business and go running round the yard with him, almost naked, go climbing up a drainpipe and wave his arms and legs around.

Maybe this was all nice and useful, very good for his health, or for defending himself against bad people, but, for starters, he didn’t have the time, and what was worse, his bones ached so badly afterwards that he couldn’t even straighten up.

Back in Khitrovka there was this old grandfather who used to be an orderly in an asylum. When he talked about the people in there, with all their quirks and whimsies, it was absolutely fascinating. Well now, Senka sometimes felt a bit like that orderly. As if he was living with madmen. They looked like normal enough people, with all their wits about them, but sometimes you could just see the place was a loony bin.

Take Mr Nameless himself, for instance, Erast Petrovich. He wasn’t Japanese, was he, he looked like a normal person, but he had these foreign habits. When he was in his study, fiddling with the drawings or writing something, that seemed clear enough. But one time Senka glanced over his shoulder, out of curiosity, just to see what he was drawing, and he gasped out loud: the engineer wasn’t writing with a pen, he was holding a wooden brush, the kind you use for spreading glue, and he wasn’t drawing letters, but some strange-looking kind of squiggles that didn’t mean a thing to Senka.

Or else he might start striding across the room, clicking his green beads, and he could carry on striding about like that for ever.

And then he might sit down facing the wall and stare at a single spot. Once Senka tried to see what was there on the wall. He couldn’t see anything, nothing at all, not even a bedbug or some other little mite, and when he tried to ask what it was that Erast Petrovich found so interesting, Masa, who happened to be close by, grabbed him by the scruff of his neck, dragged him out of the study and said: ‘When master contemprate, reave him arone.’ But then, what was he contemplating, if there was nothing there?

Apart from all the work involved in preparing the ‘Flying Carpet’ for its long-distance run, Mr Nameless had other mysterious business to deal with, something Senka wasn’t let in on. Erast Petrovich disappeared almost every evening at nine o’clock and didn’t come back until late, or sometimes he went missing until the next morning. When this happened, Senka was tormented with dark visions. Once he even took the engineer’s undershirt out of the laundry pile and sniffed to see whether it smelled of Death (that heady, minty smell that you could never confuse with anything else). It didn’t seem to.

Sometimes the master went out in the afternoon as well, but Senka didn’t know the reason for his absence.

Once, when Erast Petrovich took longer than usual straightening his collar and combing his hair in the mirror before he went out, Senka suffered an overwhelming fit of jealousy. He just couldn’t stop himself, he slipped out of the house as if he was going shopping, then out in the street he fell in behind the engineer and followed him, to see if he was going to meet a certain immoral individual.

He was indeed going to meet someone but, thank God, not the person on Senka’s mind.

Mr Nameless went into the Rivoli cafeґ, sat down at a table and started reading the newspapers – Senka could see everything through the glass windows. After a while, Senka realised he wasn’t the only person interested in Erast Petrovich. There was a young lady standing not far away, in front of a fashionable shop window, and she was looking in the same direction as Senka. First he heard a quiet tinkling sound, but he couldn’t understand where it was coming from. Then he noticed that the girl had little bells sewn to her cuffs, and a necklace in the form of a snake; in fact it looked like it was alive. Clear enough, she was one of those decadents, lots of them had appeared in Moscow just recently.

At first Senka thought the young lady was waiting for someone, and he enjoyed taking a look at the lovely brunette, the way you do. But then she gave her head a shake, walked across the street and marched into the cafeґ.

Erast Petrovich put down his newspaper, stood up to greet her and offered her a seat. They exchanged a couple of words, and the engineer started reading out loud from the newspaper.

Just what kind of halfwit was he?

Senka didn’t watch any more after that, because he felt calm now. Why get himself all worked up if Mr Nameless was so blind? He’d seen Death, he’d spoken to her, gazed into her shimmering eyes, and here he was chasing after some little street cat.

No, this particular individual was beyond Senka’s comprehension.

Take the move, for instance.

It was two days before Senka observed the rendezvous at the Rivoli Cafeґ. All at once – completely out of the blue – Mr Nameless decided to move out of Asheulov Lane. Mr Nameless said they had to. They moved across to Sukharevka, into an officer’s apartment in the Spassky Barracks. No one explained to Senka why they had to go, what it was all for. They’d only just started settling in properly: he’d put up all those shelves in the study, hired floor-polishers to wax up the parquet so that it shone, half a carcass of veal had been ordered from the butcher – and suddenly this. And the rooms were paid for two months in advance – that was six hundred roubles down the drain!

They packed in a great hurry, threw everything higgledy-piggledy into two cabs and left.

The new apartment was pretty good too, with a separate entrance, only it was a little while before they could find a place for the three-wheeler. Senka spent two days cajoling the janitor Mikheich, drank four samovars of tea with him, gave him six roubles and then another three and a half before he got the key to the stable (there weren’t any horses there anyway, because the regiment had gone off to conquer China).

While Senka was trying to persuade the janitor, Masa-sensei persuaded the janitor’s wife – and more speedily too. So all in all, they settled in quite well, they couldn’t complain: they had a roof over their heads, the ‘Flying Carpet’ was in a warm, dry place, they had Mikheich’s respect, and pies and stewed fruit from his wife almost every single day.

On the last day of this peaceful life, before everything was sent spinning head over heels again, Senka received visitors at his new residence: his little brother Vanka and Judge Kuvshinnikov. As soon as they moved out of Asheulov Lane, Senka had sent a letter by the municipal post, saying that he was now living at such and such an address and would regard it as an honour to see his dear brother Ivan Trifonovich, please accept, etc., etc. The judge had replied by letter too: Thank you, we shall definitely come soon.

And he kept his word and came to visit.

At first he looked around suspiciously, wondering whether the place was some kind of thieves’ den. When Masa appeared in the hallway wearing nothing but his white underpants for renzu, the judge frowned and put his hand on Vanka’s shoulder. The youngster gaped wide eyed at the Oriental too, and when Masa slapped himself on the stomach and bowed, he gave a squeal of fright.

Things were looking bad. The judge had already turned towards the door, in order to leave (just to be on the safe side, he hadn’t let the cabby go), but then, fortunately, Erast Petrovich came out of his study, and one look at this respectable man in a velvet house jacket, holding a book in his hand, was enough to allay Kuvshinnikov’s fears. It was quite clear that a gentleman like that would never live in a den of thieves.

They introduced themselves to each other in the most respectable manner possible. Erast Petrovich called Senka his assistant and invited the judge into his study to smoke Cuban cigars. Senka never found out what they talked about in there, because he took Vanka to the stable to show him the automobile, and then drove his little brother round the yard. He moved all the levers and operated the crafty choke all on his own, and he turned the wheel himself too, while Vanka just hooted the horn and roared with delight.

They drove around like that for a long time and used up half a bucket of kerosene, but that was all right, no one would mind. Then the judge came out, to take Vanka home. He shook hands when he said goodbye to Senka and even gave him a cheery wink.

The judge and his brother drove away.

And in the evening, before he got into bed, Senka looked in the mirror to see whether he had any more hairs in his beard, and he discovered four new ones, three on the right cheek and one on the left. That made thirty-seven altogether, not counting the ones in his moustache.

He thought about going to see Tashka in his usual way and listened closely to see whether his heart would skip a beat.

It didn’t.

He told himself to remember the Prince, and how he’d legged it out of that basement.

So he’d legged it to get away from the Prince – was he going to spend the rest of his life trembling with fear?

For more than a week he’d been afraid even to think of showing his face back in Khitrovka, but now, suddenly, he felt the time was right, he could go.

HOW SENKA CRIED

He made his way to Khokhlovsky Lane through the yards and back alleys – from Pokrovka Street, by way of Kolpachny Lane. It was a good night for it, with no moon, a fine drizzle and a light mist in the air. You could see damn all just five steps in front of your face. And to make himself less obvious, Senka had put on a black shirt under his short black jacket, and even smeared soot on his face. When he darted out of a gateway on to an alley right at the spot where two Khitrovkans were warming themselves up with wine beside a little bonfire, they gasped and crossed themselves at the sight of the black man. They didn’t shout or scream, though –they were too far gone already. Or maybe they just thought they were seeing things.

Senka swung his noggin (his head, that is) left and right as he reconnoitred. He didn’t spot anything suspicious. There was a dim glow in the windows of the buildings, someone singing, and he could hear loud swearing in the Hard Labour. Just another night in Khitrovka, then. He even felt ashamed for being so lily livered or –in cultured terms – so faint of heart.

He threw caution to the wind and turned straight into the courtyard where Tashka’s door was. He had a bundle of presents for her under his arm: a brand new grammar school uniform for her new career, a tennis ball for the puppy Pomposhka and a bottle of ‘Double Strength’ for her mother (she could drink herself to death, die happy and set her daughter free).

There were flowers in the only window and there was no light on. That was a good sign. If Tashka had a client, the paraffin lamp with the red shade would have been lit on the locker by the bed, and that would have turned the curtain red too. That meant keep your nose out, girl at work. But it was dark, so she must have finished working and gone to bed.

Senka tapped on the window with his finger and called to her: ‘Tashka, it’s me, Speedy.’

Not a sound.

He called again, but not at the top of his voice – he was still afraid in case anyone else heard him.

They must be out cold. Not even the poodle made a sound, he hadn’t scented a visitor. They’d probably had a hard day of it.

Senka scratched his head. What could he do? He didn’t want to switch the transmission into reverse at this stage . . .

Suddenly he noticed the door was slightly ajar.

He was so delighted, he didn’t even wonder why Tashka’s latch wasn’t closed in the middle of the night, as if she lived somewhere else, not in Khitrovka.

He darted inside, locked the door and called to her:

‘Tash, wake up! It’s me!’

Still not a sound.

Had they gone out then? But where could they go at this time?

Then it struck him, like a lightning bolt.

They’d moved out! Something had happened to Tashka, and they’d left the apertiment. (Senka knew now that the right word was ‘apartment’, only that was for proper lodgings, with proper curtains and furniture, but Tashka’s place was an apertiment all right, no doubt about that.)

Only she couldn’t have just moved out without leaving any message for her mate.

Senka felt for the lamp in the darkness, then reached into his pocket, got his matches and lit it.

Tashka hadn’t gone anywhere.

She was lying there, tied to the bed. Half her face was covered with a patch of sticking plaster. Her eyes were absolutely still, glaring angrily up at the ceiling, and her shirt was all torn and covered in brown blotches.

He shuddered and started untying her quickly, but Tashka was stiff and cold. Like a veal carcass in a butcher’s cellar.

He sat down on the floor, pressed his forehead against Tashka’s stiff side and burst into tears. It wasn’t grief or even the fright, he just started crying because that was what his heart told him to do. His mind was blank. He sobbed, wiping his snot on his sleeve, whimpering now and then.

He cried until he couldn’t cry any more – it went on for a long time. But that wasn’t the worst of it – it was when all his tears were all cried out that Senka started feeling really bad.

He lifted his head and saw Tashka’s hand there, really close, tied to the frame of the bed. The fingers on the hand were sticking out in all directions, like the twigs on an old broom, not like they did on living people, and that was more than Senka could bear. He started backing away from those twisted fingers, but his heel hit something soft and he turned round.

Tashka’s mum was lying by the wall on her thin mattress. Her eyes were closed, but her mouth was open, and there was dried blood on her chin.

He had the odd thought that he’d never seen her anywhere else but on that tattered mattress. Of course, she’d always been drunk before, and now she was dead. She lived on rags, and she’d died on rags.

But it wasn’t really Senka who thought that, someone else seemed to think it for him. This someone had appeared before, and he didn’t want to cry. He whispered: ‘It will be a sin against God if the beast who did this to Tashka is left alive. Just wait, you bloody snake, Erast Petrovich will see you get justice for this.’

That was what the second Senka said after the first Senka had finished crying. And he was right.

As he was leaving, Senka noticed a small ball of white wool right beside the door. When he leaned down, he saw it was the dead puppy Pomponius, and then it turned out that the first Senka hadn’t cried all his tears out yet, not by a long way. He still had enough to last all the way back to the Spassky Barracks.

The same s-scene as with the Siniukhins and the Samshitovs,’ Mr Nameless said sombrely as he covered Tashka’s face with a white handkerchief. ‘Masa, your opinion c-concerning the sequence of events?’

The sensei pointed to the door.

‘He smash in door with a singur brow. Walk in. When dog jump at him, he kirr it with his foot, rike this.’ Masa stamped, as if he was driving his heel into the floor. ‘Then he jump over here.’ The Japanese took two long strides across to Tashka’s motionless mum. ‘She was sreeping. He hi’ her on tempur. Kirred her outrigh’. Then he grab the girr, tie her to bed and torture her.’

‘He did what?’ Senka asked, wincing in pain.

‘He t-tortured her,’ said Erast Petrovich. ‘The same way he t-tortured Siniukhin and Samshitov. Look at her fingers. The m-murderer broke them one at a time. And notice the hair!’

‘What about her hair?’ Senka asked dull-wittedly.

The engineer moved the handkerchief aside. Erast Petrovich’s voice sounded cold and indifferent, as if had been chilled by frost.

‘There is b-blood here, on the side of the head. And here. And here. And there are t-tufts of hair on the floor. Some with scraps of skin. He t-tore her hair out.’

‘What for? What had she done to him?’

It wasn’t right, it was shameful for them to be talking so stiff, as if she was a stranger, but looking at Mr Nameless, Senka could see he was working; only his brain was engaged now, feelings were for later. And anyway, Senka didn’t have any more strength for crying, all his feelings had drained out of him with his tears.

‘She could have picked up a client who was a lunatic,’ he said, replacing the handkerchief so he wouldn’t turn all weepy again. ‘That happens sometimes in Khitrovka. A mamselle brings back someone who looks normal, but he’s a real monster.’

The engineer nodded, as if he was approving Senka’s efforts at deduction.

‘The sadistic client theory c-could have been taken as the primary one, if not for the s-similarities between this crime and the two that preceded it. The extermination of every l-living thing. That is one. The use of torture. That is t-two. The same district. That is three. And in addition ...’ He pulled the shirt up off Tashka’s bare legs and took a magnifying glass out of his pocket. Senka turned away quickly and started coughing to get rid of the lump in his throat. ‘Mmm, yes. No s-signs of rape or sexual violence. The killer’s interest in his v-victim was not sensual in nature. Let us t-take a look at the lips . . .’

Masa walked over, but Senka didn’t look.

There was a quiet rasping sound – that must have been Erast Petrovich tearing the plaster off Tashka’s mouth.

‘Yes, just as I thought. The plaster was pulled off and stuck back on several times. The torturer kept asking about something over and over again, but the girl didn’t answer.’

Senka didn’t think it was very likely that Tashka didn’t answer a fiend like this. She would have answered him all right, loud and shrill, with her choicest words. But here on Khokhlovsky Lane, no matter how loud you yelled and what filthy words you used, no one would come, no one would rescue you.

‘Now this is interesting. Masa, l-look at her teeth.’

‘Goo’ for her,’ the sensei said, with an approving click of his tongue. ‘She bi’ his finger.’

‘Ah, what a shame we d-don’t have a laboratory.’ The engineer sighed. ‘We could take a particle of the criminal’s b-blood for analysis. The Moscow police have p-probably never heard of the Landsteiner method . . . But even so, we have to d-draw the investigator’s attention to this l-little detail somehow ...’

Masa and Mr Nameless leaned down over Tashka, and Senka started striding round the room, just to give himself something to do. There were three white daffodils in the window. Did that mean ‘I love you’ in the language of flowers? Or maybe it was ‘you can all go to hell, you bastards’? No one would translate it for him now ...

‘Ah,’ said Senka, reproaching himself out loud. ‘I should have come earlier, before dark. I was being too careful, so I got here too late.’

Erast Petrovich glanced round briefly. ‘Before dark? The murder was committed at least two days ago, most probably three. So you were a lot later than you think, Senya.’

That was true enough. The daffodils in the window were all wilted.

But this was Khitrovka, so no one had noticed anything. If anyone died, they just lay there till the neighbours caught the smell of rotting flesh.

‘If it’s not a loony, what did he want from Tashka?’ Senka asked, looking at the dead flowers. ‘What could he get from her?’

‘No “what”, b-but “who”,’ the engineer replied, as if he was surprised at the question. ‘You, Senya. This stubborn gentleman wants you very b-badly. And you know why.’

‘That’s a disaster!’ Senka exclaimed, throwing his hands up in the air. ‘I told Tashka about you and Mr Masa. And I told her you live on Asheulov Lane too. If this killer’s so stubborn, he’ll find out where we moved to, for sure. He’ll find the cabbies who moved the things and intelligate them! We’ve got clear out!’

‘Not “intelligate”, b-but “interrogate”,’ the engineer said strictly, pulling on a pair of thin rubber gloves. ‘And we’re n-not going to run anywhere. For two reasons. We are not afraid of this f-friend of yours, let him come – it will m-make things easier for us. That is one. And then, your low opinion of Mademoiselle T-Tashka is an insult to her. She did not give you away, she d-did not tell her killer a thing. That is t-two.’

‘How do you know she didn’t give me away?’

‘Do not f-forget that I had the honour of being acquainted with this exceptional individual. She was a true c-comrade to you, a “good mate”. And apart from that, if she had t-told him, the plaster would have been removed from her m-mouth. It was not, which means that she remained s-silent to the very end.’

And that must have been when the time for deduction came to an end, because Mr Nameless’s intent, matter-of-fact expression disappeared, and his face was suddenly immensely sad.

‘I feel s-sorry for the girl,’ Erast Petrovich said, and put his hand on Senka’s shoulder.

The shoulder instantly started trembling, all on its own, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

Masa picked the puppy up off the floor and set it down carefully on the windowsill, near the daffodils.

‘I feer sorry for brave puppy too. In next rife he wirr be born samurai.’

But the unsentimental engineer told him to put Pomponius back on the floor ‘in order not to confuse the already rather muddled picture of the crime for the investigator’.

HOW SENKA USED DEDUCTION

Senka and Masa sat in the study, keeping shtum as they watched Erast Petrovich striding round the room and rattling his beads. Senka already knew he mustn’t say anything, just wait patiently for whatever came next.

Once the engineer had stopped in the middle of the room, he put the green beads away in his pocket and clapped his hands twice in rapid succession, as though he was suddenly feeling incredibly happy about something.

Even so, the sensei put a finger to his lips: Sit still and stay quiet, it’s not over yet.

But soon after that Mr Nameless stopped treading the carpet down, sat in an armchair and spoke thoughtfully, as if he was talking to himself: ‘So. Three cruel m-murders have been committed: the first and the third were in Khitrovka, the s-second was five minutes’ walk from Khitrovka, but still in the area under the j-jurisdiction of the Third Myasnitsky police station. In all, the c-criminal has taken the lives of eight people – two m-men, three women and three children – and, for some reason, a p-parrot and a dog too. In each case one of the victims was t-tortured cruelly before he or she d-died, in an attempt to extort certain information required by the k-killer. There are no clues and n-no witnesses. Such, in brief, are the terms of the p-problem facing us. We know the required result –find the m-monster and deliver him into the arms of justice.’

‘An’ if not arive, then deriver him to justice dead,’ Masa added quickly.

‘If the criminal should offer resistance when an arrest is attempted, then, after having exhausted all the legally permitted measures of self-defence’ – at this point the engineer raised one finger in the air and gave his valet a significant glance – ‘it might not prove possible to circumvent the outcome that you mention.’

‘I’d like to find the rat and smash his rotten bonce in,’ said Senka, putting in his two kopecks’ worth.

‘Not “b-bonce”, but “head”. But whatever you call it, first we have to track him down.’ Erast ran his eyes over the other members of the meeting there assembled. ‘Are there any questions before we move on to d-deduction and practical measures?’

Senka didn’t know what to ask, but the Japanese scratched his stiff brush of hair and drawled thoughtfully: ‘Sa-a. Masta, why “kirrer”, not “kirrers”?’

Erast Petrovich nodded to acknowledge the relevance of the question.

‘You gave a very c-convincing rendering of the criminal’s actions at Khokhlovsky L-Lane. Why would he n-need an accomplice?’

‘That no argumen’,’ Masa snapped.

‘I agree. I ought t-to have asked: Why would the killer need an accomplice, if so f-far he has managed p-perfectly well on his own? In the b-basement Senya was attacked by one person. That is one.’ Mr Nameless took out his beads and clacked one of them against another. ‘The k-killings at the jewellery shop were also committed by a single individual, as the p-police have established. That is two.’ He clacked another bead. ‘And finally, at Yeroshenko’s d-dosshouse the killer also managed p-perfectly well without anybody else’s help. As you recall, Senya told us Siniukhin spoke of one m-murderer, “he”. Isn’t that right, Semyon?’

‘Yes,’ said Senka, remembering. ‘And Siniukhin called him a “beast” as well.’

He felt a bit ashamed for not telling Erast Petrovich the whole truth back then – he’d kept quiet about the treasure.

It was as if the engineer was listening to Senka’s conscience reproaching him.

‘So now, if you have no m-more questions, let us move on to the most important s-subject – drawing up a plan of measures to f-find the criminal. And the k-key word here is – treasure.’

Senka shuddered and started blinking rapidly, but the sensei wasn’t at all surprised, he even nodded his head.

‘Yes, yes, tresia.’

‘The criminal’s b-behaviour and all the atrocities he has c-committed cease to appear meaningless if we st-string them on that thread.’ Mr Nameless looked intently at his beads. ‘The logical sequence that emerges here is as f-follows. The pen-pusher from the Yerokha b-basements found some treasure. [Clack number one.] The future m-murderer found out about it. [Clack number two.] He tried to d-drag the secret out of Siniukhin, but he f-failed. [Clack number three.] But before he d-died, the pen-pusher revealed the secret of the t-treasure to our Senya. [Clack number four – this time Senka squirmed, and if the burning feeling in his cheeks was anything to go by, he must have blushed too, but Erast Petrovich didn’t look at him, he carried on as if Senka knew all this anyway.] To c-continue. In some unknown manner, the k-killer figured out that Senya knew where the treasure was. [Clack number five.] That is, we d-don’t know how the criminal f-found this out, but we do know from where. The t-trail that our treasure hunter followed to Senya started f-from the jeweller’s shop. [Clack number six.] I believe Samshitov told the k-killer about you and where you could be found – which is c-confirmed by a certain visit paid to Madam Borisenko’s b-boarding house. [Clack number seven.]’

Senka started blinking again: What visit was that, then? The engineer and the Japanese exchanged glances, and Erast Petrovich said: ‘Yes, Senya, yes. The only thing that s-saved you was that you left that evening without l-leaving an address, and a few hours later we b-brought you here. The next day Madam B-Borisenko informed Masa that someone had been in your room d-during the night. He forced the door, didn’t t-touch anything and left. We didn’t tell you about it, b-because you were thoroughly f-frightened already.’

Senka propped his chin on his fist, as if he was feeling thoughtful, but it was really to stop his teeth chattering. Holy Mother of God, he’d be lying tied to a bed now, like Tashka, if he’d stayed there that night and decided he ought to sleep on things.

‘When you disappeared, the k-killer lost the trail for a few d-days. But then you showed up in Khitrovka, and the c-criminal knew about it straight away, perhaps by chance, perhaps in s-some other way, I don’t know which. Somehow he f-found out that you had gone into Yeroshenko’s d-dosshouse, and he ambushed you n-near the exit. Your carelessness almost c-cost you your l-life. [Clack number eight.]’

‘Never mind, I’m not that easy to catch,’ Senka said, trying to blow his own trumpet. ‘He tried to take my life but I’m slippery, I wriggled out of his grip, and I gave him a good whack with my stick. He won’t forget that in a hurry.’

‘If he had wanted to k-kill you, he would have done. Straight away,’ said the engineer, pouring cold water on Senka’s bravado. ‘He’s very g-good at it, with a knife or with his b-bare hands. No, Senya, he needs you alive. He would have f-forced you to reveal the whereabouts of the treasure, and then k-killed you.’

When he heard that, Senka propped his chin up again, this time with both fists.

‘When the k-killer lost your trail after the murder of the jeweller, he decided to try a d-different approach. Many p-people in Khitrovka knew about your f-friendship with Mademoiselle Tashka. Your admirer knew about it t-too. [Clack number nine.] At first he clearly attempted to extract information f-from her without resorting to extreme m-measures. That was what she whispered about when she walked p-past you – she was trying to warn you of the d-danger. The criminal obviously paid her another visit after the unsuccessful attack in the b-basement. It was no accident that Tashka put three white d-daffodils in the window. If I recall correctly, in the language of f-flowers, that is an alarm signal – “run, run, run”.’

Yes, that was right, Senka remembered. Tashka had told him about white daffodils, and how when a signal was repeated, that made the message twice or three times as strong, like an exclamation mark.

‘‘Eventually’ the engineer said, looking at his beads, but not clacking them any more, ‘the f-fiend decided to take a more serious l-line with the girl.’

‘And still she didn’t give me away ...’ Senka couldn’t help himself, he sobbed. ‘Damn that rotten treasure. It would have been better if Tashka told him I’d promised to come and see her. Maybe then he wouldn’t have touched her. And I’d have given him everything, the lousy rat could go choke on the silver! It’s the Prince, isn’t it? Or Deadeye?’ he asked, brushing his tears away with his sleeve. ‘You’ve probably deduced it all, haven’t you?’

‘No,’ said Mr Nameless, disappointing Senka’s hopes. ‘I have insufficient d-data. The deceased pen-pusher was too f-fond of his drink, and apparently he couldn’t k-keep his mouth shut. If they knew about the t-treasure in the Prince’s gang, others could have heard about it too.’

And then there was silence, as Senka struggled with all his might to control his body’s reactions: teeth that wanted to chatter, knees that wanted to knock and tears that wanted to flow. For no clear reason, Erast Petrovich started messing up a piece of paper in that stupid way he had. He dipped his brush in the inkwell and scrawled a fancy squiggle. Masa watched the brush carefully. He shook his head and said:

‘Not goo’.’

‘I can s-see that,’ the engineer murmured, and scribbled it again. ‘How about that?’

‘Betta.’

Honest to God, they were just like little kids! All this important business to deal with, and look what they were doing!

‘What are you mucking about like that for?’ Senka asked, unable to stop himself. ‘Aren’t we going to do anything?’

‘Not “m-mucking about”, but “wasting time”. That is one.’ Erast Petrovich leaned his head to one side, admiring his scribbles. ‘I am not wasting t-time, I am focusing my thoughts with the help of c-calligraphy. That is two. The f-flawlessly written hieroglyph for “justice” has allowed me to m-make the transition from d-deduction to projection. That is three.’

Senka thought for a moment and said: ‘Eh?’

Mr Nameless sighed. ‘If there is s-something that you didn’t understand or d-didn’t hear, you should say: “I beg your pardon?” In this case, p-projection signifies the extension of analytical c-conclusions into the practical phase. So, thanks to Mademoiselle Tashka’s f-firm resolve, the killer has been left with n-nothing. He does not know where to find you or how to l-look for you. This is good in some ways and b-bad in others.’

‘What’s bad about it?’

‘The c-criminal (I suggest that for the time b-being we call him the Treasure Hunter) cannot d-do anything, so he will not show his hand and g-give himself away.’ Erast Petrovich gave Senka a calculating look. ‘Of c-course, we could try catching him with live b-bait, that is deliberately offer you to him, but this gentleman is t-too brutal by half. It could be a risky f-fishing expedition.’

Senka didn’t try to argue with that. He’d seen people fishing with live bait – a blay or some other little fish: the pike snapped up the bait first and sank its teeth into its backbone, before it got hauled out to answer for its crimes.

‘Isn’t there any way we can catch him without live bait?’ he asked cautiously.

‘There is way,’ said the sensei. ‘Not rive bait, but dead person. Is that it, Masta? Have I guess’ righ’?’

Erast Petrovich frowned. ‘Yes. But how many t-times do I have to tell you not to pun. You still haven’t m-mastered the Russian language well enough for that.’

Senka wrinkled up his forehead. It seemed like he was the only fool among wise men here.

‘What dead person?’

‘Masa is thinking of the l-lady who goes by the name of Death,’ the engineer explained. ‘In s-some way that we d-do not yet understand, all the atrocities that have taken place in Khitrovka over the l-last month are c-connected with that individual. And so are all the m-major characters involved: the Prince, and Deadeye, and other luminaries of the undergound b-business world, and the excessively spry s-superintendent, and even the Treasure Hunter’s m-main target.’

That means me, Senka guessed.

‘You want to use Death to catch him? You think she’s in league with this lowlife?’ he asked doubtfully.

‘No, I d-don’t think that. And what is m-more, she has agreed to help me.’

Well, that was news for him! So when Senka climbed back out through the window, completely disillusioned with people, the two of them had come to some sort of deal, had they? Or rather, he’d talked her round, Senka thought bitterly, and he just couldn’t help himself, he asked all casual, like: ‘So you gave it to her, did you? Didn’t take much persuading, I suppose?’

His voice trembled, the Judas.

The engineer gave Senka a light flick on the forehead. ‘Such questions are n-not asked, Senya, and they are certainly not answered. That is one. Women are not to be spoken about in that t-tone. That is two. But s-since all of us, including her, will be working together in a common c-cause, in order to avoid any ambiguity, I shall answer: I d-did not “give it to” that lady and I did not even t-try. That is three.’

Should Senka believe him or not? Maybe he should ask him to swear in the name of God.

He gave Mr Nameless a keen look and decided a man like that wouldn’t lie. His heart suddenly felt lighter. ‘But how can Death help us?’ he asked, switching to a brisk, practical tone. ‘If she knew anything about this Treasure Hunter, she’d have told us. She don’t approve of that savagery like that.’

Masa grunted suggestively, as if to say: Get ready, now I’m going to tell you the most important part. Senka turned towards the Japanese, but he said something Senka couldn’t make out at all: ‘Taifu-no meh.’

But the engineer understood. ‘Exactly. A v-very precise metaphor. The eye of the t-typhoon. Do you know what that is, S-Senya?’ He waited for Senka to shake his head and started to explain. ‘A typhoon is a t-terrible kind of hurricane that races across s-sea and land, spreading destruction and t-terror. But at the very centre of this st-storm there is a spot of serene t-tranquillity. Within the eye of the typhoon, all is p-peace, but without this static centre, there would be n-no raging whirlwind. Death is not a criminal, she d-does not kill anyone – she just sits by the window and embroiders f-fantastical designs on cloth. But the m-most ruthless villains in this city of more than a million p-people swarm round her, like b-bees round their queen.’

‘Also goo’ imaj,’ Masa said approvingly. ‘But mine betta.’

‘Well, m-more romantic, certainly. During the last few days I have p-paid several visits to the house on the Yauza B-Boulevard and had an opportunity to g-get to know this lady better.’

Ah, have you now? Senka was scowling again. ‘Well, Erast Petrovich, you sly dog, you find time to get everywhere, don’t you? What does “get to know her better” mean?’

‘The last t-time we met,’ Mr Nameless went on, obviously not noticing how badly Senka was suffering, ‘she said she c-could tell she was being f-followed, but she d-didn’t understand who was following her. When I went out on to the b-boulevard, out of the corner of my eye I also spotted a shadow lurking round the c-corner of a house. This is encouraging. Mademoiselle Death is n-now our only chance. By killing Tashka, Mr Treasure Hunter snapped the thread l-leading to you with his own hands. And now, like the old couple in The Golden Fish, he is left with a broken tub . . .’

‘Eh? Sorry, I mean, I beg your pardon? What tub’s that?’ asked Senka, who had been listening with bated breath.

All of a sudden Erast Petrovich turned angry: ‘I told you to b-buy a volume of Pushkin’s works and read the f-fairy tales at least!’

‘I did buy one,’ Senka said resentfully. ‘There were lots of different Pushkins. I picked this one.’

And to prove what he was saying, he took out of his pocket the small book that he’d bought two days earlier at a flea market. It was an interesting book, it even had pictures.

‘“The Forbidden Pushkin. Verses and p-poems previously circulated in manuscript”,’ said the engineer, reading out the title. He frowned and started leafing through the pages.

‘And I read the fairy tales too,’ said Senka, even more offended by this lack of trust. ‘About the archangel and the Virgin Mary, and about Tsar Nikita and his forty daughters. Don’t you believe me? I can tell you the stories if you like.’

‘No n-need,’ Erast Petrovich said brusquely, slamming the book shut. ‘What a scoundrel.’

‘Pushkin?’ Senka asked in surprise.

‘No, not Pushkin, the p-publisher. One should never publish what an author d-did not intend for publication. Who knows where it will end? Mark m-my words: soon our gentleman of the publishing t-trade will start publishing intimate c-correspondence!’ The engineer flung the book on to the table angrily. ‘And b-by the way, correspondence is the very subject that I wanted to t-talk to you about, Senya. Since Death is being f-followed, I can’t show myself at her p-place any more. And it is not really f-feasible to keep the house under c-constant observation – any stranger would be sp-spotted straight away. So we shall have to c-communicate from a distance.’

‘How do you mean, from a distance?’

‘Well, by epistolary m-means.’

‘You mean we’re going to set up an ambush, with pistols?’ Senka asked. He liked the idea. ‘Can I have a pistol too?’

Erast Petrovich stared at him absent-mindedly. ‘What have p-pistols got to do with it? We are going to write l-letters to each other. I can’t visit Death any more. Masa can’t go – he’s too c-conspicuous. And it wouldn’t be a g-good idea for Senka Spidorov to show up there, would it?’

‘I’d say not.’

‘So the only thing we can d-do is write letters. This is what we agreed. She will go to St N-Nikolai’s church every day, for mass. You will sit on the p-porch, disguised as a b-beggar. Mademoiselle Death will give you her letters when she g-gives you alms. I am almost c-certain that the Treasure Hunter will show his hand. He has p-probably heard about the way you c-cuckolded the Prince.’

‘Who, me?’ Senka gasped in horror.

‘Why, yes. The whole of Khitrovka is t-talking about it. It even g-got into the police agents’ reports, an acquaintance of mine in the d-detective force showed me it: “The wanted b-bandit Dron Veselov (known as ‘the Prince’) is threatening to find and k-kill his lady friend’s lover, the juvenile Speedy, whose whereabouts and real n-name are unknown.” So, as far as they are all concerned, Senya –you are Death’s lover.’

HOW SENKA READ OTHER PEOPLE’S LETTERS

There was a big mirror in Erast Petrovich’s study. Well, not when they got there, but the engineer had a pier-glass set on top of the desk, and then he laid out all sorts of little bottles and jars and boxes in front of it, so it looked just like a hairdressing salon. In fact there were wigs there too, in every possible degree of hairiness and colour. When Senka asked what Mr Nameless needed all this for, he answered mysteriously that the fancy-dress ball season was about to begin.

At first Senka thought he was joking. But Senka was the first to make use of the facilities.

The day after the deduction and projection, Erast Petrovich sat Senka down in front of the mirror and started mocking the poor orphan something terrible. First he rubbed some nasty kind of muck into his hair, and that ruined the coiffure Senka had paid three roubles for. His hair was a nice golden colour, but that rotten grease turned it into a sticky, mousy-grey tangle.

Masa was watching this cruel abuse. He clicked his tongue in approval and said: ‘He need rice.’

‘You don’t need to t-tell me that,’ the engineer replied, concentrating on what he was doing. He took a pinch of something out of a little box and rubbed some little grains or pellets into the back of Senka’s neck.

‘What’s that?’

‘Dried lice. Fauna that every b-beggar has to have. Don’t worry, we’ll wash your hair with p-paraffin afterwards.’

Senka’s jaw dropped open and the dastardly Mr Nameless immediately took advantage of this to paint his golden crown a rotten colour, then stuck some thingamajig wrapped in gauze into Senka’s open mouth and arranged it between his gum and his cheek. It twisted Senka’s entire mug – his face, that is – over to one side. Meanwhile Erast Petrovich was already rubbing his victim’s forehead, nose and neck with oil that turned his skin a muddy colour, with wide-open pores.

‘The ears,’ the sensei suggested.

‘Won’t that b-be too much?’ the engineer asked doubtfully, but he rubbed his little stick inside Senka’s ears anyway.

That tickles!’

‘Yes, I think it really is b-better with suppurating ears,’ Erast Petrovich said thoughtfully. ‘Now, let us m-move on to the wardrobe.’

He took some tattered rags out of the cupboard, far tattier than anything Senka had ever worn in his life, even during the very worst times with Uncle Zot.

Senka looked at himself in the triple mirror and twirled this way and that. No doubt about it, he certainly made a fine beggar. And the important thing was, no one would ever recognise him. One thing was still niggling him, though.

‘The beggars have all the places divvied up between themselves,’ he started explaining to Erast Petrovich. ‘You have to deal with their head man. If I just turn up on the porch out of nowhere, they’ll send me packing, and they’ll give me a good thrashing too.’

‘If they try to d-drive you away, chew on this,’ said the engineer, handing him a smooth little ball. ‘It’s ordinary children’s s-soap, strawberry flavoured. A simple trick, but effective, I b-borrowed it from a certain remarkable t-trickster. Only when the foam starts p-pouring out of your mouth, don’t f-forget to roll your eyes up.’

But Senka still had his worries. He walked to the church of St Nicholas the Wonder-Worker on Podkopaevsky Lane, sat down on the very edge of the porch and rolled his eyes right up under his forehead straight off, just to be on the safe side. The hysterical old grandma and noseless old grandad who were begging near by started grumbling and grousing. Clear out, they said, we don’t know you, the takings is poor enough already, wait till Boxman comes, he’ll soon show you what’s what – and all sorts of other stuff like that.

But when Boxman did come and the beggars snitched on the new boy to him, Senka started forcing foam out through his lips and shaking his shoulders and whining in a thin little voice. Boxman looked at him, then looked again and said: ‘Can’t you bastards see he’s a genuine epileptical? Leave him alone, let him eat, and I won’t take any remunerations from you for him.’ That was Boxman for you – always fair. That was why he’d lasted twenty years in Khitrovka.

So the beggars stopped pestering Senka. He relaxed a bit, rolled his eyes back down from under his forehead and started flashing them this way and that. People really didn’t give very much, mostly kopecks and half-kopecks. Once Mikheika the Night-Owl walked past and out of sheer boredom (and to check how good his disguise was as well), Senka grabbed him by the flap of his coat and started whining: Give a poor cripple a coin or two. Night-Owl didn’t give him anything, and he called him foul names, but he didn’t recognise him. After that Senka stopped worrying altogether.

When the bells rang for mass and the women started walking into the church, Death appeared round the corner of Podkolokolny Street. She was dressed plainly, in a white shawl and a grey dress, but even so she lit up the lane like the sun peeping out from behind a cloud.

She glanced at all the beggars, but her eyes didn’t linger on Senka. Then she walked in the door.

Oh-oh, he thought. Has Erast Petrovich overdone it? How would Death know who to give the note to?

So when the worshippers started coming out after the service, Senka deliberately started whining through his nose and stammering – so that Death would realise who he was hinting at: ‘Good k-kind people! Don’t be angry with a c-crippled orphan for b-begging! Help m-me if you can! I’m not from these p-parts, I don’t kn-know anyone round here. Give me a c-crust of bread and a c-coin or two!’

She looked a bit more closely at Senka and started tittering. So she’d guessed all right. She put a coin in every beggar’s hand, and gave Senka a five-kopeck piece too, and a folded piece of paper to go with it.

Then she went off, covering her mouth with the edge of her shawl, because she found Senka’s disguise so amusing.

As soon as he’d hobbled his way out of Khitrovka, Senka squatted down by an advertisement column, unfolded the sheet of paper and started reading it. Death’s handwriting was regular and easy to read, even though the letters were really tiny:

‘Hello, Erast Petrovich. I’ve done everything you told me to. I hung the petal round my neck and he noticed it straight away. [What petal’s that, then, thought Senka, scratching his head. And who’s ‘he’? Never mind. Maybe that’ll get cleared up later.] He pulled a face and said you’re barmy. Hanging that rubbish round your neck and not wearing the presents I give you. He tried to find out if it was a present from someone. As we agreed I said it was from Speedy Senka. He started shouting. That snot-nosed little pup he said. When I get my handson him I’ll tear him apart. [So it was the Prince she meant! The crumpled piece of paper trembled in Senka’s hands. What was she up to? Why was she setting him up like that? Did she want to make sure the Prince did him in? He didn’t know anything about any petal! He’d never even seen it, let alone given it to her! After that he skimmed the lines more quickly.] It’s hard being with him. He’s drunk and gloomy all the time and keeps making threats. He’s very jealous of me. It’s a good thing he only knows about Speedy. [Oh, yeah, what could be better, thought Senka, cringing pitifully.] If he found out about the others blood would be spilled. I’ve tried asking him in all sorts of ways. He denies everything. He says I don’t know anything about who’s doing these shameless things, I only wish I did. When I find out I’ll tell you if you’re so interested. But I can’t work out if he’s telling the truth because he’s not the same man he was before. He’s more like a wild beast than a man. He’s always snarling and baring his teeth. And I wanted to say something about our last conversation too. Don’t reproach me for being immoral, Erast Petrovich. Some things are written into people when they are born and they are not free to change them. What is written from above can only be used for evil or for good. Do not talk to me like that again and do not write about this because there is no point.Death’

What was it she didn’t want him to talk or write about, then? It had to be her indecent goings-on with the superintendent and those other scoundrels.

Senka folded the note back into a little square, the way it was before, and took it to Erast Petrovich. He was dying to ask the clever Mr Nameless a couple of questions about why he’d decided to make the Prince even more furious with a poor orphan. What need was there for that? And what was this ‘petal’ that Senka was supposed to have given Death?

Only if he asked, he’d let slip that he’d stuck his nose in the letter.

But that came out anyway.

The engineer glanced at the piece of paper and shook his head reproachfully straight off:

‘That’s not g-good, Senya. Why did you read it? The l-letter’s not to you, is it?’

Senka tried to deny it. ‘I didn’t read nothing,’ he said. ‘What do I care what’s in it?’

‘Oh c-come now,’ said Erast Petrovich, running his finger along the folds. ‘Unfolded and folded b-back again. And what’s this stuck to it? Could it be a l-louse? I doubt that b-belongs to Mademoiselle Death.’

How could you hide anything from someone like that?

The next day Senka was given a letter from Mr Nameless, but it wasn’t just a sheet of paper – it was in an envelope.

‘Since you’re so c-curious,’ the engineer declared, ‘I am sealing my m-missive. Don’t t-try to lick it open. This is a patent American g-glue; once stuck, it stays stuck.’

He smeared the stuff on the envelope with a brush, then pressed the letter under a paperweight.

Senka was simply amazed: it was true what they said – even the wise were fools sometimes. The minute he was outside the door, he tore the little envelope open and threw it away. They sold five-kopeck envelopes like that, for love letters, at every kiosk. What was to stop him buying a new one and sealing it without any fancy glue? It didn’t say on the envelope who the letter was for in any case . . .

To read or not to read – the question never even crossed Senka’s mind. Of course he was going to read it! After all, it was his fate that was being decided!

The note was written on thin paper, and Erast Petrovich’s handwriting was beautiful, with fine fancy flourishes.

‘Hello, DearD.Please permit me to call you that – I cannot stand your nickname, and you will not tell me what you are really called. Forgive me, but I cannot believe that you have forgotten it. However, just as you please.Let me get to the point.Things are clear with the first individual. Now do the same with the second one, only lead him on to the subject indirectly. As far as I am able to judge, this individual is somewhat cleverer than the Prince. It is enough for him simply to see the object. And then, if he asks, tell him about SS, as we agreed.[Who’s this SS, then? Senka rubbed his soot-smeared forehead, and a couple of dried lice fell out of his hair. Hey, Speedy Senka, that’s who it was! What were they plotting to do with him?] Forgive me for returning to a subject that you find disagreeable, but I cannot bear the thought of your subjecting yourself to defilement and torment – yes, indeed, I am certain that it is torment for you – in the name of ideas that I cannot comprehend and which are certainly false. Why do you punish yourself so harshly, why do you immerse your body in the mire? It has done nothing to offend you. The human body is a temple, and a temple should be keptpure. Some may counter: A temple, is it? It’s just a house like anyother: bricks and mortar. The important thing is not to besmirch the soul, but the body is not important, God doesnot live in the flesh, but in the soul. Ah, but the divine mystery will never be accomplished in a temple that is defiled and desecrated. And when you say that everything is written into people at their birth, you are mistaken. Life is not a book in which one can only move a long the lines that someone else has written. Life is a plain traversed by countless roads, and one is always free to choose whether to turn to the right or to the left. And then there will be a new plain and a new choice. Everyone walks across this plain, choosing his or her own route and direction – some travel towards the sunset, towards darkness, others travel towards dawn and the source of light. And it is never too late, even in the very final moment of life, to turn in a direction completely opposite to the one in which you have been moving for so many years. Turns of this kind are not so very rare: a man may have walked all his life towards the darkness of night, but at the last he suddenly turns his face towards the dawn, and his face and the entire plainare illuminated by a different light, the glow of morning. And of course, there verse happens too. My explanation is confused and unclear, but some how I suspect you will understand me.E.N.’

Well, that wasn’t a very interesting letter. A grand idea that was, to go smearing someone with all sorts of rotten muck and sending him halfway across the city, all for the sake of a bit of philosophical jabbering.

He spent five kopecks on a new envelope and hurried on to St Nicholas.

Death’s shawl wasn’t white today, it was maroon, and it set her face aglow with flickering glimmers of heat. As she walked by into the church, she scorched Senka with a glance that made him squirm on his knees. He remembered (God forgive him – this was not the time or the place) the way she had kissed him and hugged him.

When she came back out, her eyes still had that same mischievous glint in them. As she leaned down to give him alms and take the letter, she whispered: ‘Hello there, little lover. I’ll reply tomorrow.’

He walked back to Spasskaya Street, reeling.

Little lover indeed!

But there wasn’t any reply from Death the next day. She was nowhere to be seen. Senka spent the whole day on his knees until it was almost dark. He collected two roubles from his begging, but what a waste of time! Even Boxman, when he came round on his beat for the tenth, maybe fifteenth, time, told him: ‘You’re getting a bit greedy with the begging today, lad. Don’t you go overdoing it.’

Senka left after that.

On the fourth day, which was Sunday, Erast Petrovich sent him out again. The engineer didn’t seem surprised there was no reply to the last letter, he just seemed saddened.

As he sent Senka off to Podkopaevsky Lane, he said: ‘If she doesn’t come today, we’ll have to abandon the correspondence and think of something else.’

But she did come.

She didn’t even glance at Senka, though. As she gave him the money, she looked away, and her eyes were furious. Senka saw a silver scale on a chain round her neck – exactly like the ones from the treasure trove. He hadn’t seen Death wear anything like that before.

This time, instead of a piece of paper, Senka was left holding a silk handkerchief.

He walked across to a quiet spot and unfolded it. The note was inside. Senka started reading, taking great care to make sure nothing fell out of his hair and the folds in the paper didn’t get twisted.

‘Hello, Erast Petrovich.Ihaven’t found out anything from him, in fact I haven’t even tried asking him. He spotted my new trinket soon enough with those blank peepers of his, but he didn’t ask any questions. He muttered a poem to himself, that’s a habit he has. I remembered it word for word. We traded in damask steel silver and gold and nowitistimetotravel our road. I don’t what it means. Perhaps you will understand. [That’s Pushkin, Alexander Sergeevich, and what’s so hard to understand, Senka thought condescendingly. He’d read The Tale of Tsar Saltan only the day before. And he knew who she was talking about too, it was Deadeye. He just loved spouting poetry.] And don’t you dare write to me again about the body or our correspondence is over. I wanted to break it off anyway. I didn’t go yesterday because I was angry with you. But today when he left I had a vision. I was lying in the middle of the plain you wrote about and I couldn’t get up. I lay there for along time, not just a day or two. And the grass and all sorts of flowers were growing up through me. I could feel them inside me– it wasn’t a bad feeling, it felt very good as they pushed through me towards the sun. And then it wasn’t me lying on the plain, I was the plain. Later I tried my best to embroider my vision onto a hand kerchief. Take it as a present.Death’

Senka hadn’t taken a proper look at the handkerchief at first, but now he could see there really was something sewn on it: up at the top was the sun, and down below there was a girl, lying there naked, with all sorts of flowers and grass growing through her. Senka didn’t like this weird malarkey (or allegory, that was the cultured word for it) at all.

Unlike Senka, Erast Petrovich looked at the handkerchief first, and then opened up the letter. He looked at it and said: ‘Oh, Senya, S-Senya, what am I to d-do with you? You’ve been p-prying again.’

Senka fluttered his eyelids to bring out the tears. ‘Why are you always getting at me? You ought to be ashamed. Here I am slaving away, not a thought for myself. Serving faithfully . . .’

The engineer just waved his hand, as if to say: Go away, don’t bother me, damn you.

And the letter Erast Petrovich sent back to Death said this.

‘Dear D.I implore you, do not sniff any more of that beastly stuff. I have tried narcotics ononly one occasion, and that almost cost me my life. I will tell you the story some time. But it is not even a matter of the danger lurking within this stupefying poison. It is only needed by people who donot understand if they are really living in this world or just pretending. But you arealive and real. You do not need narcotics. Forgive me for preaching another sermon. It is not my usual manner at all, but such is the terrible effect that you have on me.If the other two individuals notice the object, do not tell them about SS[Well, thanks be for small mercies, Senka thought], but aboutacertain new admirer, aman with greying temples and a stammer. This is best for the job at hand.Yours, E.N.’

This time Death didn’t arrive angry, like the day before, she was in a jolly mood. As she bent down to take the letter, instead of five kopecks she handed him something big, round and smooth and whispered: ‘Here’s something sweet for you.’

When he looked, it was a chocolate medal! What did she take him for, a little kid?

On the last day of Senka’s begging career, which was the sixth, Death dropped a handkerchief as she walked by. As she bent down to pick it up, she whispered: ‘Someone’s following me. On the corner.’ She walked on into the church, leaving the letter on the ground beside Senka. He crawled over and pinned it down with his knee, then squinted at the corner Death had pointed to.

His heart started fluttering.

Prokha was standing at the turn-off from Podkolokolny Lane, leaning against a drainpipe with one elbow, chewing away. His eyes were riveted to the church door. Thank God, he wasn’t eying up the beggars.

Ah-ha, so that’s what’s going on!

The deductions started flitting through Senka’s head so fast, he could hardly keep up. That day when he was taking the silver rods to the jeweller, who was it he met right there on Maroseika Street? Prokha. That was one.

And then, on Trubnaya Square, near the boarding house, who was hanging around? That time the constable came running over? Prokha again. That was two.

Who knew about Senka’s friendship with Tashka? Prokha yet again. That was three.

And Prokha was spying on Death! That was four.

So that meant he was to blame for everything, the rotten slug! He’d done in the jeweller, and Tashka too! Not with his own hands, of course. He was stooging for someone, probably the Prince.

Now what was he going to do? What was the projection that followed from this deduction?

It was very simple. Prokha was following Death, so he would follow Prokha. See who he went to report to and pass on his communiquй.

When Death came out of the church, she deliberately turned away and didn’t even give out any alms – she floated by like a swan, but she brushed Senka with the hem of her dress. That was no accident. She was telling him to look sharp and keep his eyes peeled.

He counted to twenty and then hobbled after her, limping with both legs at once. Prokha was walking a little bit ahead, not looking back – he obviously didn’t think anyone could be tailing him.

They reached the Yauza Boulevard, moving like a flight of storks: Death up at the front in the middle, then Prokha lagging a little bit behind her on the left, and Senka another fifteen paces back on the right.

Prokha loitered outside the door of the house for a bit and started scratching his head. It looked like he didn’t know what to do next, hang about or go away. Senka made himself comfy around the corner and waited.

Then Prokha tossed his bonce back (all right, all right, his head), stuck his hands in his pockets, spun round on his heels and set off back at a smart pace. To report to the Prince, Senka figured. Or maybe not the Prince, but someone else.

When Prokha trudged past, Senka turned his back and held his hands down to the baggy front of his pants, as if he was having a pee. Then he set off after his former friend.

Prokha kicked an apple core with the toe of his boot, whistled a smart trill at a flock of pigeons pecking on horse dung (they flapped their wings and fluttered up in the air) and then turned into a courtyard that was just a shortcut back onto Khitrovka Square.

Senka followed him.

The moment he came out of the passageway into the damp, dark yard, someone grabbed him by the shoulder, jerked him hard and swung him round.

Prokha! The pointy-faced bastard had twigged he was being followed.

‘Why are you sticking to me, rags and tatters?’ he hissed. ‘What do you want?’

He shook Senka so hard by the collar that Senka’s head bobbled up and down and the thingamajig that made his mug look so twisted came out of his cheek, so he had to spit the fancy dress trick out.

‘You!’ Prokha gasped, and his nostrils flared. ‘Speedy? You’re just the one I need!’

And he grabbed Senka’s collar with his second hand too – no way he could get out of that. Prokha had a real strong grip. Senka knew he was no match for him when it came to strength and agility. He was the nimblest lad in all Khitrovka. If Senka tried to scrap, Prokha would batter him. If he tried to run, Prokha would catch him.

‘Right, you’re coming with me.’ Prokha chuckled. ‘Now don’t make a peep or there’ll be blood?’

‘Where to?’ Senka asked. He hadn’t recovered yet from the debacle of his carefully planned projection. ‘What did you grab me like that for? Let go!’

Prokhka lashed him across the ankle with the toe of his boot. It hurt.

‘Come on, come on. A nice man I know wants to have a little chat with you.’

If they’d scrapped the proper Khitrovka way, with fists, or even belts, Prokha would have given him a good drubbing double quick. But Senka hadn’t completely wasted his time studying those Japanese fisticuffs now, had he?

When Masa-sensei realised Senka would never make a real fighter – he was too lazy and afraid of pain – he’d told him: Senkakun, I won’t teach you men’s fighting, I’ll teach you women’s fighting. This is a lesson for a woman to follow if some ruffian grabs her by the collar and tries to dishonour her. It all came back to Senka in his hour of need.

‘As simpur as boired turnip,’ the sensei had said.

The idea was to hit the shameless lout with the edge of your left hand, right on the tip of the nose, and as soon as he jerked his head back, smash the knuckles of your right hand into his Adam’s apple. Senka must have flailed at the air like that a thousand times. One-two, left-right, nose-throat, nose-throat, one-two, one-two.

So he did that old one-two now; half a second was all it took.

And as they wrote in the books, the result exceeded all his expectations.

The blow to Prokha’s nose wasn’t very strong, barely glanced it in fact, but his head jerked back and blood spurted out of his nostrils. And when Senka landed the ‘two’ right on the spot of the exposed throat, Prokha grunted and went down.

He sat down on the ground, holding his throat with one hand and squeezing his nose shut with the other, his mouth fell open and his eyes started rolling around. And there was blood, blood everywhere!

Senka felt frightened – had he hit him hard enough to kill him then?

He squatted down on his haunches:

‘Hey, Prokha, what’s up, not dying, are you?’

He shook him a bit.

Prokha wheezed: ‘Don’t hit me . . . Don’t hit me any more! Aah, aah, aah!’ He was struggling to catch his breath, but he couldn’t.

Before Prokha could come to his senses, Senka turned the screws hard: ‘Tell me who you’re stooging for, you bastard! Or I’ll give you a smack round the ears that’ll knock your peepers out! Well? It’s the Prince, isn’t it?’

He swung both of his fists back (that was another one of those simple moves – thumping a villain just below both ears at once).

‘No, it’s not the Prince ...’ Prokha fingered his bloody nose. ‘You broke it... You broke the bone . . . Oo-oo-oo!’

‘Who, then? You tell me!’

And Senka thumped him with his fist, smack in the middle of the forehead. It wasn’t a move the sensei had taught him, it just happened all by itself. Senka bruised all his fingers but it had the right effect.

‘No, it’s someone else, more frightening than the Prince, he is,’ Prokha sobbed, shielding himself with his hands.

‘More frightening than the Prince?’ Senka asked, and his voice shook. ‘Who is he?’

‘I don’t know. He’s got a big black beard down to his belly. And black shiny eyes too. I’m afraid of him.’

‘But who is he? Where’s he from?’ Senka was feeling really frightened now. A beard right down to his belly and black eyes. That wasterrifying!

Prokha squeezed his nose with his finger and thumb to stop the blood pouring out. He said: ‘I don’d dow where he’s frop, bud if you wand a look, I’ll show you. I’b beetink hib sood. Id the Yerokha basebedt...’

The Yerokha basement again. That damn place. Where the Siniukhins got their throats cut and Senka almost lost his own life.

‘What’s the meeting for?’ Senka asked, still undecided what to do. ‘Are you going to report back about following Death?’

‘That’s right.’

And what does your man with the beard want with her?’

Prokha shrugged and sniffed. His nose had stopped bleeding. That’s none of my business. Well, am I taking you or not?’

‘Yes,’ Senka decided. ‘And you watch out, or I’ll beat you to death with my bare fists. This magician I know taught me how.’

‘He must be quite some teacher, you can thrash anyone you want to now,’ said Prokha, the little brown nose. ‘Don’t you worry about me, Speedy, I’ll do whatever you say. I’m not tired of living yet.’

They walked to the Tatar Tavern, where the way into the Yerokha was. Senka thumped his prisoner in the side a couple of times to keep him frightened and said: ‘Just you try to bolt, and see what happens.’ To tell the truth, Senka was afraid himself – what if Prokha swung round and socked him in the breadbasket? But he needn’t have worried. His new Japanese tricks had made Prokha kowtow something rotten.

‘Nearly there, nearly there,’ Prokha said. ‘Now you’ll see for yourself what kind of man he is. I didn’t want to stooge for him, he puts the fear of God up me. If you could only help me get free of this butcher, Speedy, I’d be really grateful.’

In the basement they made one turn, then another. So now they were no distance at all from the hall with the entrance to the treasure chamber. And the corridor where Senka almost lost his life was pretty close too. Senka remembered that powerful hand tugging his hair and threatening to break his neck and he started trembling all over and stopped dead in his tracks. He’d set out in fine form to unravel the whole case, but his bravado was almost all gone now. Sorry, Erast Petrovich and Masa-san, everyone has his limits.

‘I’m not going any farther . . . You go and meet him . . . You can tell me all about it afterwards.’

‘Ah, come on,’ said Prokha, tugging at his sleeve. ‘We’re almost there. There’s this little cubbyhole, you can hide in there.’

But no way would Senka go any farther. ‘You go without me.’

He tried to turn back, but Prokha held him tight and wouldn’t let go.

Then he flung his arms round Senka’s shoulders and yelled:

‘Here he is, it’s Speedy! I’ve caught him! Run quick!’

The bastard had a tight grip. There was no way Senka could thump him or break free.

And then came the clatter of footsteps in the dark – heavy feet, moving fast.

The sensei had taught him: If a bad man grabs you round the shoulders, don’t try to be clever, just plant your knee in his privates, and if he’s standing so as you can’t swing your knee or reach him with it, then lean as far back as you can and smash your forehead into his nose.

He butted as hard as he could. Once, twice. Like a ram butting a wall.

Prokha yelled (his nose was already broken anyway) and covered his ugly mug with his hands. Senka took off like a shot. And he didn’t have a second to spare – someone managed to grab his collar from behind. The tattered old cloth gave, the rotten threads snapped, and Senka shot off into the darkness, leaving a piece of coarse shirt behind for Prokha’s friend.

He just dashed off without thinking, anything to get away. But when the sound of tramping boots fell behind a bit, it suddenly struck him: where was he running to? The hall with the brick columns was ahead of him now, and after that it was a dead end! Both ways out were cut off – the main one and the Tatar Tavern!

They’d catch him now, trap him in a corner, and that would be the end!

He had only one hope left.

When he reached the hall, Senka made a dash for that special spot. He dragged the two bottom stones out of the entrance to the passage, crept into the gap on his belly, then froze. And he opened his mouth as wide as he could, to keep his breathing quiet.

An echo came drifting under the low vaults as two men ran into the hall – one was heavy and loud, the other was a lot lighter.

‘He can’t go any farther!’ Prokha’s panting voice said. ‘He’s here, the louse. I’ll go along the right wall, you go along the left. We’ll catch him now for sure.’

Senka propped himself up on his elbows to wriggle farther in, but his first movement made the brick dust under his belly rustle. He had to stop, or he’d give himself away, and the treasure too. He had to lie there quietly and pray to God they wouldn’t notice the hole down by the floor. But if they had a lamp with them, then Speedy Senka’s number was up.

Only, to judge from that dry scraping sound he kept hearing, Senka’s pursuers didn’t have any kind of light but matches.

The steps kept getting closer and closer, until they were really close.

Prokha, that was the way he walked.

Suddenly there was a clatter and someone barked out a curse almost right above the spot where Senka was lying.

‘It’s all right, I hit my foot against a stone. It’s fallen out of the wall.’

Any moment now, right now, Prokha was going to bend down and see the hole and the bottoms of two shoes sticking out. Senka got ready to jump up on all fours and dart off along the passage. He couldn’t run very far, but it would put the end off for a while.

But the danger passed. Prokha didn’t spot his hiding place. The darkness had saved Senka, or maybe the Lord God had taken pity on the poor orphan: Ah, sod it, He’d thought, you can live a bit longer, I’ve got plenty of time to collect you.

He heard Prokha’s voice from the far end of the hall: ‘He must have squeezed up against the wall in the corridor, and we ran past him. He’s crafty, that Speedy. Never mind, I’ll find him anyway, don’t you ha ...’

Prokha gagged and didn’t finish what he was saying. And the person he was talking to didn’t say anything either. There was a clatter of footsteps moving away. Then it went quiet.

Senka was so frightened he just lay there for a while without moving a muscle. He wondered whether he ought to crawl farther into the passage – he could pay a visit to the treasure chamber and pick up a couple of rods.

But he didn’t.

For starters, he didn’t have any light. And apart from that, the thought of staying there any longer made him feel nervous. Maybe he ought to just leg it while the going was good? What if they’d gone to get lanterns? They’d spot the passage straight off then. And his own stupidity would be the end of him.

He scrabbled out backwards, moving like a crayfish. Everything seemed quiet.

Then he got to his feet, took off his battered old boots and set off towards the corridor on tiptoe, not making a sound. Every now and then he stopped and strained his ears to pick up any rustling or breathing from behind the columns.

Suddenly something crunched under his foot. Senka squatted down in fright. What was it?

He fumbled about and found a box of matches. Had those two dropped them, or was it someone else? No matter, they’d come in handy.

He took another two steps and spotted some kind of low heap on his right. Either a pile of rags, or someone lying there.

He struck a match and bent down.

And he saw Prokha. Lying on his back with his mug pointing up. But then he took a closer look and gasped. Prokha’s mug was staring up, but he was lying on his belly, not his back. A man’s neck couldn’t twist round back to front like that – not if he was alive, it couldn’t!

So they were Prokha’s matches – and only then did Senka cross himself like you were supposed to and start backing away. And the damn match burned his fingers too. So that was why Prokha gagged like that. Someone had wrung his neck – literally – and double quick. And that was just too much for Prokha, he’d kicked the bucket.

Senka wasn’t really sorry for him, he could go to hell. But what kind of monster was it that could do things like that to people?

And then Senka had another idea. Without Prokha there was no way to find this killer now. A beard right down to the belly was the kind of thing you couldn’t miss, of course, only Prokha was lying through his teeth (wasn’t he?), God rest his rotten soul. He was lying, sure as eggs is eggs.

After all his deduction and projection Senka had been left with nothing but a broken tub, like the greedy old woman in the fairy tale (Senka had read it, but he didn’t like it, the one about Tsar Nikita was better). He could have just told Erast Petrovich about seeing Prokha, couldn’t he? But he’d wanted to shine, and look how bright he was shining now. This time he was the one who’d snapped off the guiding thread.

*

Senka was so upset, he almost forgot to read Death’s letter. But he remembered by the time he got to Spasskaya Street.

‘Hello, Erast Petrovich. Yesterday evening the superintendent was here. He asked about the silver coin himself. Anew rival is it, he said. I won’t stand for it. Who is he? I did as you told me and said it was a rich man with pockets full of silver. Very handsome but not young with greying temples. Is aid he had as light stammer too. After that the superintendent forgot all about the gold and just kept asking about you. He asked if your eyes were blue. I said yes. He asked if you were tall. I said yes. He asked if you had a little scar on your temple. I said I thought you did. Then he started shaking he was so furious. He asked where you lived and all sorts of other things. I promised to find out and tell him everything. So now the two of us have tied a tight knot and I don’t know how to untie it. It’s time we met and talked things over. You can’t put everything in a letter. Come tonight and bring Senka with you. He knows all the back alleys in Khitrovka. He’ll get you away if anything happens. And I wanted to tell you I don’t let any of them near me, even though the super intendent made threats and swore at me yesterday. But now he wants you more than he wants me. I threatened not to ask you about anything and he left me alone. And I want to tell you I won’t let any of these bloodsuckers near me again because I can’t bear it any longer. Theres only so much anyone can take. Come tonight. I’m waiting.Death’

Senka was in a real tizzy. Tonight, he was going to see her again tonight!

HOW SENKA GLOATED

The engineer and Masa listened to his story without saying a word. They didn’t curse him, they didn’t call him a fool, but Senka wasn’t shown any sympathy either. He didn’t hear anything like ‘Oh, you poor lad, how awful for you!’ or even ‘Ah, that’s really terrible’, not from the likes of them. Even though he tried real hard to impress them.

But then, he only had himself to blame, didn’t he?

‘I’m sorry, Erast Petrovich, forgive me, and you too, Mr Masa,’ Senka said honestly at the end. ‘It was a real stroke of luck, and I bungled the whole thing. We’ll never find that villain now.’

He hung his head repentantly, but he peeped out from under his eyebrows to see whether they were really angry or not.

‘Your opinion, Masa?’ Erast Petrovich asked after listening to the story.

The sensei closed his narrow slits of eyes, kind of buried them in folds of skin, and just sat there for two or three minutes. Mr Nameless didn’t say anything either, he waited for an answer.

At last the Japanese spoke: ‘Senka-kun did werr. Orr crear now.’

The engineer nodded in satisfaction. ‘That is what I think t-too. You have nothing to apologise for, Senya. Thanks to your actions we n-now know who the killer is.’

‘How’s that?’ asked Senka, bouncing up and down on his chair. ‘Who is it?’

But Mr Nameless didn’t answer the question, he changed tack.

‘In fact, as far as d-deduction is concerned, the task was not really very c-complicated from the outset. Any investigator with even the s-slightest experience would solve it easily if he p-possessed your evidence. However, an investigator is only interested in the l-law, while my interest in this case extends beyond that.’

‘Yes,’ Masa agreed. ‘Raw ress than justice.’

‘Justice and mercy,’ Erast Petrovich corrected him.

The two of them seemed to understand each other very well, but Senka didn’t have a clue what they were talking about.

‘But who’s the killer?’ he asked eagerly. ‘And what put you on to him?’

‘Something you t-told us,’ the engineer said absent-mindedly, obviously thinking about something else. ‘Try exercising your b-brains, it helps develop the personality ...’ And then he muttered some kind of gibberish. ‘Yes, undoubtedly justice and m-mercy are more important. Thank God I am now a private individual and d-do not have to act according to the letter of the law. But time, I have so little t-time . . . and there is his maniacal c-caution, we must not frighten him off . . . One single b-blow to finish it. At a single stroke laying s-seven low, like in the folk tales . . . Eureka!’ Erast Petrovich exclaimed and slapped his hand down on the table so loudly that Senka shuddered on his chair. ‘We have a plan of operations! It’s d-decided: justice and mercy.’

‘Operation wirr be corred that?’ the sensei asked. ‘Justice and mercy? A fine name.’

‘No,’ Mr Nameless said cheerfully as he got up. ‘I’ll think of a m-more interesting name.’

‘What operation’s that?’ Senka asked plaintively, pulling a sour face. ‘You said it was thanks to me you solved the whole thing, but you don’t explain anything.’

‘When we g-go to the Yauza Boulevard tonight, you’ll l-learn all about it there.’

They set off.

Death opened the door as soon as they knocked – had she been waiting in the hallway? She said nothing, just looked at Mr Nameless hungrily, without even blinking, as if her eyes had been blindfolded just a moment earlier, or she’d been sitting in the dark for a long time, or maybe she’d just recovered her sight after being blind. That was the way she looked at him. She didn’t even glance at Senka, never mind saying ‘Hello, Senya’ or ‘How are you?’ Then again, she didn’t answer Erast Petrovich when he said, ‘Good evening, madam,’ either. She even frowned slightly, as if those weren’t the words she’d been expecting.

They went into the room and sat down. They were supposed to be there to talk business, but something wasn’t right, it was like they were talking about the wrong thing. Death didn’t say much anyway, she looked at Erast Petrovich all the time, and he mostly looked down at the tablecloth. Sometimes he looked up at Death and then lowered his eyes again quickly. He stammered more than usual, as if he was embarrassed, or maybe he wasn’t, you could never tell with him.

Them playing this game of peep for two made Senka feel anxious, he only half listened to what Mr Nameless was saying and all sorts of nonsense kept crowding into his head. To keep it speedy, what the engineer told them, his plan of action, as he called it, was this: they had to round all the suspects up at a certain spot, where the criminal would show his hand and give himself away. Senka stared at Erast Petrovich, as if to say: How come, didn’t you say you’d figured out who the killer is? But the engineer flashed his eyes at Senka to tell him to keep quiet. So Senka kept shtum.

And when Erast Petrovich said: ‘Unfortunately I c-cannot manage this business without you, m-madam, or you, Senya. I have no other assistants,’ Death still didn’t look at Senka. That really hurt, he was very upset by that. In fact he was so upset, he wasn’t even scared when the engineer starting going on about how dangerous the job they were going to do was.

Death wasn’t scared either. She shook her head impatiently.

‘Enough. Tell us about the job.’

Senka rose to the occasion too: ‘Who cares about that, death comes to everyone sooner or later.’

He tossed his head smartly and tried to catch her eye. And then he realised what he’d said could be taken two ways. About death, or about Death.

‘All right.’ Erast Petrovich sighed. ‘Then let’s d-decide who’s going to hold which end of the n-net. You, madam, will b-bring the Prince and Deadeye to the spot. Senya will bring the Ghoul. And I will b-bring Superintendent Solntsev.’

‘Why bring him?’ Senka asked in surprise.

‘Because he’s under suspicion. All the c-crimes have been committed in his p-precinct. That is one. Solntsev is a cruel, g-greedy and absolutely immoral individual. That is t-two. And m-most importantly ...’ The engineer stared down at the tablecloth again. ‘... he is also involved with you, madam. That is three.’

Death’s cheek twitched as if she was in pain.

‘You’re talking nonsense again,’ she said bitterly. ‘Why don’t you tell me how to lure the Prince and Deadeye out? They’re both leery old wolves, they won’t just walk into a trap.’

‘And what about me?’ Senka piped up when he realised he’d have to handle the Ghoul all on his own. ‘He won’t even listen to me! Do you know what he’s like? Him and his gang’ll just grab me by the legs and tear me in half! What am I to him? A snot-nosed little kid! He won’t come anywhere with me!’

‘Yes he will, and he’ll c-come running, I’ll see to that,’ Mr Nameless told Senka, but he was looking at Death as he said it. ‘And you two won’t have to l-lure anybody out. Just meet them and show them t-to the appointed spot.’

‘What spot’s that?’ Death asked.

And then at last the engineer turned to Senka, and even put a hand on his shoulder.

‘Only one p-person knows that place. Well, Ali Baba, will you g-give up the secret of your cave?’

If Erast Petrovich hadn’t called him names like that in front of Death, maybe Senka wouldn’t have told him. Only what point was there in hanging on to the silver when maybe his life was at stake? And then Death turned her huge eyes towards him and raised her eyebrows just a bit, as if she was surprised by his hesitation . . . That decided it.

‘Agh!’ he said with a sweep of his hand. ‘I’ll show you, of course I will. Speedy Senka’s no miser!’

But once he’d said it, he suddenly felt sorry: not for all those thousands and thousands of roubles, but for his dream. After all, what were riches, anyway? Not the chance to stuff your belly every day, not a hundred pairs of patent leather shoes, not even your own automobile with a motor as strong as twenty horses. Riches were a dream of heaven on earth, when you got whatever you wished for.

That was horseshit too, of course. No matter how many millions he could offer Death, she still wouldn’t look at him the same way she looked at Erast Petrovich ...

No one was amazed and delighted by Senka’s insane generosity, no one clapped their hands. They didn’t even say ‘thank you’. Death just nodded and turned away, as if it couldn’t have been any other way. And Mr Nameless stood up. ‘Let’s g-go, then,’ he said, ‘without wasting any more time. Lead on, Senka, show us the way.’

*

There was no dead body in the underground hall where only a few hours earlier Prokha had tried to hand his old friend over to certain death and lost his own life instead. The basement-dwellers had dragged it away, for sure: they’d taken off the clothes and shoes and flung the naked corpse out in the street, that was the way of Khitrovka.

Senka didn’t feel afraid with Erast Petrovich and Death there. He held up the paraffin lamp and showed them how to take out the stones.

‘It’s a tight squeeze here, but it’s all right after that. You just keep going to the end.’

The engineer glanced into the hole, rubbed his fingers on one of the blocks and said: ‘Old stonework, a l-lot older than the building of the d-dosshouse. This part of Moscow is like a c-cake with many layers: new f-foundations were laid on top of the old ones, and then n-new ones on top of those. They’ve been b-building here for almost a thousand years.’

‘Are we going in, then?’ asked Senka, who couldn’t wait to show off his treasure.

‘There’s no n-need,’ answered Mr Nameless. ‘We can admire the sight t-tomorrow night. And so,’ he said, turning to Death, ‘be here, in this hall, at p-precisely a quarter past three in the m-morning. The Prince and Deadeye will come. When they see you, they will be s-surprised and start asking questions. No explanations. Show them the p-passage without saying anything, the stones will already be m-moved aside. Then s-simply lead them through, that’s all you have to do. I’ll be here soon after that, and that will be the b-beginning of Operation . . . I haven’t thought of a n-name for it yet. The main thing is, k-keep calm and don’t be afraid.’

Death kept her eyes fixed on the engineer all the time. Fair do’s, even in the flickering light of the paraffin lamp he was a handsome devil.

‘I’m not afraid,’ she said in a slightly hoarse voice. ‘And I’ll do everything you say. And now let’s go.’

‘Where t-to?’

She smiled bitterly and teased him: ‘No explanations, keep calm and don’t be afraid of anything.’

And she walked out of the hall without saying another word. Erast Petrovich gave Senka a confused look and dashed after her. So did Senka, but he grabbed the lamp first. Now what idea had she got into her head?

On the porch of the house, right in front of the door, Death turned round. Her face wasn’t mocking now, like it had been in the basement, it seemed to be distorted by suffering, but still unbearably beautiful at the same time.

‘Forgive me, Erast Petrovich. I can’t hold out any longer. Perhaps God will take pity on me and work a miracle . . . I don’t know . . . But what you wrote was true. I am Death, but I am alive. It may be wrong, but I can’t carry on like this. Give me your hand.’

Mr Nameless didn’t say a thing, he seemed overcome by shyness as she took him by the hand and pulled him towards her. He walked up one step, then another.

Senka went up after him. Something was about to happen here!

But Death hissed at him: ‘Will you go away, for God’s sake! You just can’t leave me alone, can you?’

And she slammed the door right in his face – bang! Senka was struck dumb by the cruel injustice of it all. From behind the door he heard a strange sound, a kind of knocking, then a rustling, and something like sobbing, or maybe groaning. No words were spoken – he would have heard, because he had his ear pressed to the keyhole.

But when he realised what was going on in there, the tears started streaming from his eyes.

Senka banged the lamp down on the pavement, squatted on his haunches and put his hands over his ears. He squeezed his eyes tight shut too, so as not to hear or see this lousy rotten world, this bitch of a life in which some got everything and others got damn all. And God didn’t exist, because if he could allow someone to be mocked as cruelly as this, the world would be better off without him.

But his woeful blaspheming didn’t last very long, no more than a minute, in fact.

The door swung open, and Erast Petrovich came flying out on to the porch as if he’d been pushed from behind.

The engineer’s tie knot had been pulled askew, the buttons on his shirt were open, and Mr Nameless’s expression was hard to describe, because Senka had never seen anything like it on that self-possessed face before, he’d never even suspected that anything of the kind was possible: the eyelashes were fluttering in bewilderment, there was a strand of black hair hanging down over the eyes, and the mouth was gaping wide in total amazement.