Fandorin in English 1-10

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.

Erast Petrovich swung round and exclaimed: ‘B-But . . . What’s wrong!’

The door slammed, even louder than the last time, when it slammed in Senka’s face. He heard the sound of muffled weeping behind it.

‘Open up!’ the engineer shouted, and almost tried to push the door open, but then he pulled his hands away as if it was red-hot iron. ‘I don’t wish to f-force my attentions on you, b-but . . . I don’t understand! Listen ...’ and then he added in a low voice: ‘Oh God, I c-can’t even address her by name! Tell me what it is that I d-did wrong!’

The bolt clanged shut implacably.

Senka watched and he could barely believe his eyes. There was a God, after all! This was it, a genuine Miracle of the Prayer that was Heard!

So how do you like that bitter taste, Mr Handsome?

‘Erast Petrovich,’ Senka asked in a very sympathetic voice, ‘why don’t we switch the transmission to reverse?’

‘Go t-to hell!’ roared the engineer, who had misplaced his habitual courtesy.

But Senka wasn’t offended at all.

HOW SENKA WAS A LITTLE KIKE

In the morning he was shaken awake by Masa, who was dirty and smelled of sweat, and his eyes were red, as if he’d been loading bricks all night instead of sleeping.

‘What’s this, Sensei?’ Senka asked in surprise. ‘Just back from a date, are you? Were you with Fedora Nikitishna, or have you got someone new?’

It seemed like a perfectly normal question, quite flattering to a man’s vanity, but for some reason the Japanese was very angry.

‘I was whe’ I had to be! Get up, razybones, it’ midday orready!’

And he even waved his fist at Senka, the heathen. And him the one so fond of preaching politeness!

After that things went from bad to worse. The sleepy young man was sat on a chair and his face was lathered with soap.

‘Hey, hey!’ Senka yelled when he saw a razor in his sensei’s hand. ‘Leave me alone! I’m growing a beard!’

‘Masta’s ordas,’ Masa replied curtly. With his left hand he grabbed the poor orphan by the shoulder so that he couldn’t wriggle and then with his right hand he shaved off all fifty-four of his beard hairs, and his moustache into the bargain.

Senka was afraid of getting cut, so he didn’t budge. As the Japanese scraped away the final traces of his nascent male adornments, he muttered: ‘Ver’ just. “Some have orr fun and othas break their backs”.’ Senka didn’t understand what he was talking about, or what he meant about backs, but he didn’t bother to ask. In fact, he decided that for this outrageous attack he was never going to talk to the slanty-eyed pagan again. He was going to declare a boycott, like in the English parliament.

But the mockery of Senka’s dignity had only just begun. After the shave, he was ushered into Erast Petrovich’s study. The engineer wasn’t there. Instead, there was an old Yid in a skullcap and long coat sitting in front of the pier glass, admiring the big nose in the middle of his face and combing out his eyebrows, which were bushy enough already.

‘Have you shaved him?’ the old man asked in Mr Nameless’s voice. ‘Excellent. I’m almost f-finished. Sit here, Senya.’

Erast Petrovich was unrecognisable in this get-up. Even the skin on his hands and neck was wrinkled and yellow, with dark spots like old men had. Senka was so delighted, he even forgot about his boycott and grabbed hold of the sensei’s arm.

‘Oh, fantastic! Make me into a gypsy, will you?’

‘We don’t need any g-gypsies today,’ said the engineer, standing behind Senka’s back and rubbing some oil into his hair – it made it stick to his head so that he looked lop eared.

‘Let’s add a f-few freckles,’ Erast Petrovich said to the Japanese.

Masa handed his master a little jar. A few smooth strokes of the hand, and Senka’s mug was freckly all over.

‘The n-number fourteen wig.’

Masa handed over something that looked like a red bundle of fibres for scrubbing yourself in the bathhouse, but on Senka’s head it turned into a tangled mop of ginger hair that hung down over his temples in two matted bunches. Then the engineer tickled Senka’s eyebrows and eyelashes with a little brush, and they turned ginger too.

‘What shall we d-do with the Slavic n-nose?’ Mr Nameless asked himself thoughtfully. ‘Add a hump? Yes, I think s-so.’

He stuck a lump of sticky wax on the bridge of Senka’s nose, gave it a lick of flesh colour and sprinkled it with freckles. The resulting conk was a work of real beauty.

‘What’s all this for?’ Senka asked merrily, admiring himself in the mirror.

‘You’re going to b-be the Jewish boy Motya,’ Erast Petrovich replied, clapping a skullcap like his own on Senka’s head. ‘Masa will g-give you the appropriate costume.’

‘I’m not going to be no kike!’ Senka protested indignantly, suddenly realising that the ginger bunches were Jewish side locks. ‘I don’t wishto.’

‘Why not?’

‘I don’t like them! I hate their ugly hook-nosed mugs! Faces, I mean!’

‘What kind of f-faces do you like?’ the engineer asked him. ‘With snub n-noses? If someone’s Russian, do you adore him straight away j-just for that?’

‘Well, that depends what he’s like, of course.’

‘That’s right,’ Erast Petrovich said approvingly, wiping his hands. ‘One should be ch-choosy about whom one loves. And even m-more so about whom one hates. In any case, one shouldn’t l-love or hate someone for the shape of his n-nose. But that’s enough d-discussion. In an hour we have a m-meeting with Mr Ghoul, the most dangerous b-bandit in Moscow.’

That gave Senka the shakes, and he forgot all about Yids.

‘But I reckon the Prince is more frightening than the Ghoul,’ he said casually, with a slight yawn.

That was what it said to do in the book on society life: ‘If the subject of conversation has stung you to the quick, you should not betray your agitation. Pass some neutral remark on the matter in a casual voice, to show the other person that you have not lost your composure. Even a yawn is permissible but, naturally, only a very modest one, and the mouth must be covered with the hand.’

‘That depends on how you l-look at it,’ the engineer retorted. ‘The Prince, of course, spills far more b-blood, but the most dangerous criminal is always the one to whom the f-future belongs. And the future of criminal Moscow undoubtedly d-does not belong to the hold-up men, it belongs to the m-milkers. The arithmetic p-proves it. The Ghoul’s b-business undertaking is less dangerous, because it is less irritating to the authorities, it is actually p-profitable for some representatives of authority. And the milkers make m-more profit anyway.’

‘What do you mean? The Prince lifts three thousand a time, and the Ghoul only collects a rouble a day from the shops.’

Masa brought the clothes: down-at-heel shoes, patched trousers, a tattered little jacket. Senka wrinkled up his face in disgust and started putting them on.

‘A rouble a d-day,’ Mr Nameless agreed. ‘But f-from every shop, and every day. And the Ghoul has about t-two hundred of these sheep that he shears. How m-much does that make in a month? Twice as m-much as the loot the Prince takes from an average j-job.’

‘But the Prince doesn’t lift loot just once a month,’ Senka persisted.

‘How many t-times, then? Twice? Three times at the m-most? But then the Ghoul doesn’t just take a rouble off everyone. For instance, he’s d-decided to take no less than twenty th-thousand off the people we’re g-going to see now.’

Senka gasped.

‘What kind of people are they, if you can take that much money off them?’

‘Jews,’ Erast Petrovich replied, stuffing something into a sack. ‘A long time ago n-now they built a synagogue not far from Khitrovka. When the present g-governor general was appointed to Moscow nine years ago, he f-forbade them to consecrate the synagogue and d-drove most of the Hebrews out of the old c-capital. But the Jewish c-community has recovered its strength again, its n-numbers have increased, and it is trying to open its house of p-prayer. Permission has been obtained f-from the authorities, but now the Jews have run into p-problems with the bandits. The Ghoul is threatening to b-burn down the building that was erected at the c-cost of immense sacrifice. He is demanding a p-pay-off from the community.’

‘What a lousy snake!’ Senka exclaimed indignantly. ‘If you’re a good Orthodox Christian and you don’t want their Yiddish chapel anywhere near you, then just burn it down, but don’t take their pieces of silver, right?’

Erast Petrovich didn’t answer the question, he just sighed. Then Senka thought for a moment and asked: ‘So why don’t these Jews complain to the police, then?’

‘The police are d-demanding even more money for protection against the b-bandits,’ Mr Nameless explained. ‘And so the m-members of the board of t-trustees have decided to reach an agreement with the Ghoul, and for that they have appointed special representatives. You and I, Senya, I mean M-Motya, are those special representatives.’

‘What do I have to do?’ Senka asked as they were walking down Spaso-Glinishshchevsky Lane. He didn’t like this fancy-dress party nearly as much as the first one, when he was a beggar. It wasn’t too bad in the cab, but since they’d got out they’d been called ‘filthy Yids’ twice, and one tattered ragamuffin had flung a dead mouse at them. He would have boxed his ears, to teach him not to go annoying people for no good reason, but he had to put up with it for the sake of the important job they were on.

‘What d-do you have to do?’ Mr Nameless echoed as he exchanged bows with the synagogue’s caretaker. ‘Keep quiet and l-leave your mouth hanging wide open. Do you know how to d-drool?’

Senka showed him.

‘Oh, well done.’

They went into a house beside the Jewish chapel. Two nervous gents in frock coats and skullcaps, but without side locks, were waiting in a clean room with decent furniture. One was grey, the other had black hair.

Only it didn’t look like they’d been waiting for Erast Petrovich and Senka. The grey-haired one waved his hand at them and said something angrily in a language that wasn’t Russian, but the meaning was clear enough: Clear off out of it, I’ve no time for you right now.

‘It is I, Erast Petrovich N-Nameless,’ the engineer said, and the two men (they had to be those ‘trusties’) were terribly surprised.

The black-haired one raised a finger: ‘I told you he was a Jew. The name’s Jewish too, it’s a distorted form of “Nahimles”.’

The grey-haired one gulped, and his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. He looked at the engineer in alarm and asked: ‘Are you sure you can manage this, Mr Nameless? Perhaps it would be better to pay this bandit? To avoid worse. We don’t want any trouble.’

‘There won’t be any t-trouble,’ Erast Petrovich assured him, sticking his sack under a table. ‘But it’s t-two o’clock already. The Ghoul will be here soon.’

At that very moment someone wailed from outside the door: ‘Oi, he’s coming, he’s coming!’

Senka looked out of the window. The Ghoul was strolling casually up the street from the direction of Khitrovka, puffing on a papyrosa and glancing around with an evil smile on his face.

‘He’s come alone, without his d-deck,’ Mr Nameless remarked calmly. ‘He’s confident. And he doesn’t want to sh-share with his own men, the haul’s too b-big.’

‘Please, after you, Mr Rosenfeld,’ said the black-haired man, pointing to a curtain that closed off a corner of the room where there were sofas (an ‘alcove’ it was called). ‘No, I insist, after you.’

The trustees hid behind the curtain. The grey-haired one just had time to whisper: ‘Ah, Mr Nameless, Mr Nameless, we put our trust in you, please don’t lead us to ruin!’

The Ghoul pushed the door open without knocking and walked in, squinting after the bright daylight of the street. He said to Erast Petrovich: ‘Right, you mangy kikes, have you got the crunch? You’re the one who’s going to cough up, are you, Grandad?’

‘In the first place, good afternoon, young man,’ Mr Nameless intoned in a trembling voice. ‘In the second place, you can stop eyeing the room like that – there isn’t any money here. In the third place, have a seat at the table and we’ll talk to you like a reasonable man.’

The Ghoul lashed out with his boot at the chair offered to him, and it flew off into the corner with a crash.

‘Spieling and dealing?’ he hissed, narrowing his watery eyes. ‘We’ve done all that. The Ghoul’s word is solid as cast iron. Tomorrow you’ll be baking your matzos on charred embers. Well, what’s left of the synagogue. And to make sure your brothers get the idea, I’ll carve you up a bit too, you old goat.’

He pulled a hunting knife out of the top of his boot and edged towards Erast Petrovich.

The engineer stayed put. ‘Ai, Mr Extortioner, don’t waste my time on all this nonsense. The life left to me is no longer than a piglet’s tail, cursed be that unclean creature.’ And he spat fastidiously off to one side.

‘You’ve hit the bull’s-eye there, Grandad,’ said the Ghoul, grabbing the engineer by his false beard and raising the tip of the knife to his face. ‘For a start I’ll gouge your eyes out. Then I’ll straighten up your nose. What do you want a great big hook like that for? And then I’ll snuff you and your stinking little brat.’

Mr Nameless looked at this terrible man quite calmly, but Senka’s jaw dropped in horror. So much for the fun of the fancy-dress ball!

‘Stop frightening Motya, he’s meshuggah anyway,’ said Erast Petrovich. ‘And put that metal stick away. It’s easy to see you don’t know Jews very well, Mr Bandit. They’re very cunning people! Haven’t you noticed who they sent out to meet you? Do you see here the chairman of the board of trustees, Rosenfeld, or Rabbi Belyakovich, or perhaps Merchant of the First Guild Shendiba? No, you see the old, sick Naum Rubinchik and the schlemazel Motya, a pair that no one in the world cares about. Even I don’t care about myself, I’ve had this life of yours right up to here.’ He ran the edge of his hand across his throat. ‘And if you “snuff” Motya here, that will be only a great relief to his poor parents. They’ll say: “Thank you very much, Mr Ghoul”. So let’s stop all this trying to frighten each other and have a talk, like reasonable people. You know what they say in the Russian village? In the Russian village they say: You have the merchandise, we have the merchant, let’s swap. Mr Ghoul, you’re a young man, you want money, and the Jews want you to leave them in peace. Am I right?’

‘I suppose.’ The Ghoul lowered the hand holding the knife. ‘Only you let slip as there was no crunch.’

‘No money ...’ Old Rubinchik’s eyes glinted and he paused for a moment. ‘But there is silver, an awful lot of silver. Does an awful lot of silver suit you?’

The Ghoul put the knife back in his boot and cracked his knuckles.

‘Cut the horse shit! Talk turkey! What silver?’

‘Have you heard word of the underground treasure? I see from the gleam in your little eyes that you have. That treasure was buried by Jews when they came to Russia from Poland during the time of Queen Catherine, may God forgive her her sins for not oppressing our people. They don’t make such fine, pure silver any more now. Just listen to the way it jingles.’ He took a handful of silver scales out of his pocket – the same kind of old kopecks that Senka had (or maybe they just looked the same – how could you tell?) and clinked them under the milker’s nose for a moment or two. ‘For more than a hundred years the silver just lay there quietly all on its own. Sometimes the Jews took a little bit, if they really needed it. But now we can’t get to it. Some potz in Khitrovka found our treasure.’

‘Yeah, I heard that yarn,’ the Ghoul said with a nod. ‘So it’s true. Was it you lot who shivved the pen-pusher and his family, then? Good going. And they say Jews wouldn’t swat a fly.’

‘Ai, I implore you!’ Rubinchik said angrily. ‘A plague on your tongue for saying such vile things! The last thing we need is for that to be blamed on the Jews. Maybe it was you who killed the poor potz, how should I know? Or the Prince? You know who the Prince is? Oh, he’s a terrible bandit. No offence meant, but he’s even more terrible than you.’

‘Watch it now!’ the Ghoul said, swinging his hand back to hit him. ‘You ain’t seen any real terror from me yet!’

‘And I don’t need to. I believe you anyway,’ said the old man, holding the palm of his hand in front of him. ‘But that’s not the point. The point is that the Prince has found out about the treasure and he’s searching for it day and night. Now we’re afraid to go near it.’

‘Oh, the Prince, the Prince,’ the Ghoul muttered, baring his yellow teeth. ‘All right, Grandad, keep talking.’

‘What else is there to discuss? This is our business proposition. We show you the place, you and your boys carry out the silver, and then we share it honestly: half for us and half for you. And believe me, young man, that will be a lot more than twenty thousand roubles, an awful lot more.’

The Ghoul didn’t think for long. ‘Good enough. I’ll take it all out myself, I don’t need any help. You just show me the place.’

‘Do you have a watch?’ Naum Rubinchik asked, staring sceptically at the gold chain dangling from the Ghoul’s pocket. ‘Is it a good watch? Does it keep good time? You have to be in Yeroshenko’s basement, right at the far end, where the brick bollards are, tonight. At exactly three o’clock. Poor little dumb Motya here will meet you and show you where to go.’ Senka winced under the keen, venomous stare that the Ghoul fixed on him and let a string of saliva dribble off his drooping lip. ‘And one last thing I wanted to say to you, just so you remember,’ the old Jew went on in a soulful voice, cautiously taking the milker by the sleeve. ‘When you see the treasure and you take it away to a good safe place, you will ask yourself: “Why should I give half to those stupid Jews? What can they do to me? I’d better keep it all for myself and just laugh at them”.’

The Ghoul swung his head this way and that to see whether there was an icon in the corner of the room. When he couldn’t find one he swore his oath dry, without it:

‘May the lightning burn me! May I be stuck in jail forever! May I wither up and waste away! If people treat me right, I treat them right. By Christ the Lord!’

The old grandad listened to all that, nodded his head then asked out of the blue: ‘Did you know Alexander the Blessed?’

‘Who?’ the Ghoul asked, gaping at him.

‘Tsar Alexander. The great-grand-uncle of His Highness the Emperor. Did you know Alexander the Blessed? I ask you. I can see from your face that you did not know this great man. But I saw him, almost as close as I see you now. Not that Alexander the Blessed and I were really acquainted, good God, no. And he didn’t see me, because he was lying dead in his coffin. They were taking him to St Petersburg from the town of Taganrog.’

‘So what are you spouting all this for, Grandad?’ the ghoul asked, wrinkling up his forehead. ‘What’s your tsar in a coffin mean to me?’

The old man raised a single cautionary yellow finger. ‘This, Monsieur Voleur: if you deceive us, they’ll carry you off in a coffin too, and Naum Rubinchik will come to look at you. That’s all, I’m tired. Off you go now. Motya will show you the way.’

He stepped back, sat down in a chair and lowered his head on to his chest. A second later there was the sound of thin, plaintive snoring.

‘A tough old grandad,’ the Ghoul said, winking at Senka. ‘You make sure you’re where you were told to be tonight, Carrot-head. Pull a fast one on me and I’ll wrap your tongue round your neck.’

He turned round softly, like a cat, and walked out of the house.

The moment the door slammed shut, the two Jews jumped out from behind the curtain.

They both started jabbering away at once. ‘What have you told him? What silver? Why did you make all that up? Where are we going to get so many old coins from now? It’s a total catastrophe!’

Erast Petrovich arose immediately from his slumbers, but instead of interrupting the clamouring trustees, he got on with his own business: he took off the skullcap and the grey wig, peeled off his beard, took a little glass bottle out of the sack, soaked a piece of cotton wool and started rubbing it over his skin. The liver spots and flabbiness disappeared as if by magic.

When there was a pause in the clamour, he said briefly: ‘No, I didn’t m-make it all up. The treasure really d-does exist.’

The trustees stared at him, wondering if he was joking or not. But from Mr Nameless’s face it was quite clear that he wasn’t.

‘But . . .’ the black-haired one said to him cautiously, as if he was talking to a madman, ‘ . . . but do you realise that this bandit will trick you? He’ll take all the treasure and not give you anything?’

‘Of course he’ll t-try to trick me,’ the engineer said with a nod as he removed his long coat, faded plush trousers and galoshes. ‘And then what Naum Rubinchik p-prophesied will come to pass. They’ll carry the Ghoul off in his c-coffin. Only not to St Petersburg. To a common g-grave in the Bozhedomka cemetery.’

‘Why have you taken your clothes off?’ the grey-haired man asked in alarm. ‘You’re not going to walk down the street like that, are you?’

‘Apologies for my state of undress, g-gentlemen, but I have very little time. This young man and I have to m-make our next visit.’ Erast Petrovich turned towards Senka. ‘Senya, don’t just st-stand there like a monument to Pushkin l-lost in thought, get undressed. Good d-day to you, gentlemen.’

The trustees exchanged glances, and the one who was older said: ‘Well then, we will trust you. Now we have no other choice.’

They both bowed and left, and the engineer turned to the sack and took out a long Caucasian kaftan with rows of little slots for bullets, a pair of soft leather shoes, a tall astrakhan hat and a belt with a knife. In a jiffy Mr Nameless was transformed into a visitor from the Caucasus. Senka watched wide eyed as he covered his neat and tidy moustache with a different one as black as tar and glued on a beard that was in the same bandit colour.

‘You look just like Imam Shamil!’ Senka exclaimed in delight. ‘I saw him in a picture in a book!’

‘Not Shamil, but K-Kazbek. And I’m not an imam, I’m a warrior c-come down from the mountains to conquer the c-city of the infidels,’ Erast Petrovich answered as he changed his grey eyebrows for black ones. ‘Are you undressed yet? No, no, c-completely.’

‘Who are we going to visit now?’ asked Senka, hugging himself –it felt pretty chilly standing around in the buff.

‘His Excellency, your f-former patron. Put this on.’

‘What Excell . . .’ Senka didn’t finish what he was saying, he gagged and froze, holding the silky, flimsy something that the engineer had taken out of his sack. ‘The Prince? Are you crazy? Erast Petrovich, he’ll do me in! He won’t listen to anything! He’ll drop me the moment he sees me! He’s a wild man!’

‘No, n-not that way.’ Mr Nameless turned the short silk and lace underpants round. ‘First the d-drawers, then the stockings and s-suspenders.’

‘Women’s underwear?’ said Senka, eyeing the clothes. ‘What do I want that for?’

The engineer took a dress and a pair of tall lace-up boots out of the sack.

‘You mean you want to dress me up like a bint? I’d rather die first!’

Mr Nameless and Masa had had it all worked out from the start, Senka realised. That was why they’d scraped his face with that razor. Well, sod that! Just how long could they go on mocking a poor orphan?

‘I won’t put it on, no way!’ he declared stubbornly.

‘It’s up t-to you,’ Erast Petrovich said with a shrug. ‘But if the Prince recognises you then he’ll d-drop you, as you p-put it, no doubt about it.’

Senka gulped. ‘But can’t you get by without me?’

‘I can,’ said the engineer. ‘Although it will m-make my job more difficult. But the real p-point is that you’ll be ashamed afterwards.’

Senka sniffed for a bit, then he pulled on the slippery girl’s pants, the fishnet stockings and the red dress. Erast Petrovich put a light-coloured wig with dangling curls on his victim’s head, wiped all the Jewish freckles off his face and blackened his eyebrows.

‘Come on, p-push those lips out for me.’

And he smeared Senka’s mouth with a thick layer of sweet-smelling lipstick. Then he held out a little mirror. ‘Take a l-look at yourself now. A real b-beauty.’

Senka didn’t look, he turned his face away.

HOW SENKA WAS A MAMSELLE

‘Whoah, whoah, you pests,’ the driver barked at his blacks, and the beautiful horses stopped dead on the spot. The lead horse curved his elegant neck, squinted at the driver with a wild eye and stamped his metal-shod hoof on the cobblestones, sending sparks flying.

That was how they drove up to the ‘Kazan’ lodging house, in grand style. The Bosun selling his whistles and the small fry jostling around him turned to look at the classy landau (three roubles an hour!) and stared at the Abrek, or Caucasian warrior, and his female companion.

‘Wait here!’ the Abrek told the driver, tossing him a glittering gold imperial.

He jumped down without stepping on the footboard, took hold of Senka the mamselle by the sides and set him down lightly on the ground, then made straight for the gates. He didn’t even say the magic word ‘sufoeno’ that Senka had taught him, just declared portentously:

‘I am Kazbek.’

And the Bosun accepted that, he didn’t blow his whistle, just narrowed his eyes a bit and nodded to this handsome Southerner, as if to say: Go on in. He gave Senka a fleeting glance, too, but didn’t really take any notice of him – and the tight knot in Senka’s belly loosened up.

‘More g-gracefully,’ Erast Petrovich said in his normal voice in the courtyard. ‘Don’t wave your arms about. Move with your hips, n-not your shoulders. Like that, that’s g-good.’

When he knocked, the door opened slightly and a young lad Senka didn’t know stuck his nose out. The new sixer, Senka guessed, and – would you believe it? – he felt something like a pin pricking at his heart. Could it be jealousy?

Senka didn’t like the look of the lad at all. He had a flat face and yellow eyes, like a cat.

‘What you want?’ the lad asked.

Mr Nameless said the same thing to him: ‘I am Kazbek. Tell the Prince.’

‘What Kazbek?’ the sixer asked with a sniff, and his nose was immediately grabbed between two fingers of iron.

The Caucasian warrior swore in a guttural voice, smacked the flat-faced lad’s head against the doorpost and gave him a push. The lad collapsed on the floor.

Then Kazbek stepped inside, strode over the boy on the floor and set off determinedly along the corridor. Senka hurried after him, gasping. Looking round, he saw the sixer holding his forehead and batting his eyelids in a daze.

Oh Lord, Lord, now what was going to happen?

In the big room Maybe and Surely were playing cards, as usual. Lardy wasn’t there, but Deadeye was lying on the bed with his boots up on the metal bars, cleaning his fingernails with a little knife.

The Caucasian made straight for him. ‘Are you the Jack? Take me to the Prince, I want to talk. I am Kazbek.’

The twins stopped slapping their cards down on the table. One of them (Senka had never learned to tell which was which) winked at the young lady, the other gaped stupidly at the silver dagger hanging from the visitor’s belt.

‘Kazbek is above me. Alone up on high,’ Deadeye said with a serene smile, and bounced up to his feet. ‘Let’s go, now that you’re here.’

He didn’t ask any questions, just led them through. Oh, this didn’t look good at all.

The Prince was sitting at the table, looking terrible, all puffy – he must have drunk a lot. He wasn’t very much like the handsome fellow Senka had seen that first time (only a month ago!). His fine satin shirt was all crumpled and greasy, his curly hair was tangled and his face hadn’t been shaved. As well as empty bottles and the usual jar of pickled cucumbers, there was a golden candlestick on the table, with no candles in it.

Senka’s enemy looked up at the newcomers with bleary eyes. He asked the Caucasian: ‘Who are you? And what do you want?’

‘I am Kazbek.’

‘Who?’

‘He must be the one who arrived from the Caucasus not long since with twenty horsemen,’ Deadeye said in a low voice, leaning against the wall and folding his arms. ‘I told you about him. They showed up three months ago. Put the bite on the Maryina Roshcha bandits, took over all the girls and the paraffin shops.’

The Caucasian warrior chuckled, or rather, he twitched the corner of his mouth.

‘You Russians came to our mountains and you do not leave. And I have come to you and I shall not leave soon either. We shall be neighbours, Prince. Neighbours can get along – or not. They can talk with their knives, we know how to do that. Or they can be kunaks –blood brothers, you call it. Choose which you like.’

‘It’s all the same bollocks to me,’ the Prince replied languidly. He downed a glass of vodka, but didn’t take a cucumber to follow it. ‘Live any way you like, as long as you don’t get under my feet, and if you annoy me, we can get the knives out.’

Deadeye warned him in a low voice: ‘Prince, you can’t deal with them like that. He’s come alone, but we can be certain the others are hiding somewhere not so far away. He only has to whistle and there’ll be daggers everywhere.’

‘Let them bring on the daggers,’ the Prince hissed. ‘We’ll see who comes off best. All right, Deadeye, don’t be so gutless’ – and he laughed. ‘What are you glowering at, Kazbek? I’m laughing. The Prince is a jolly man. Right then, kunaks it is. Let’s shake on it.’

He stood up and held out his hand. That made Senka feel a bit better – he’d been preparing his soul to join the holy saints in heaven.

But the Abrek didn’t want to shake hands.

‘In our mountains just squeezing fingers is not enough. You have to prove yourself. One kunak must give the other the thing most precious to him.’

‘Yeah?’ The Prince swung his arm out from the shoulder. ‘Well, ask for anything you like. The Prince’s heart is as open as a Khitrovka mamselle. Look at this candlestick here, it’s pure gold. I took it off this merchant just the other day. Like me to give it to you.’

Kazbek shook his head in the shaggy astrakhan hat.

‘Then what do you want? Tell me.’

‘I want Death,’ the Caucasian said in a low, passionate voice.

‘Whose death?’ the Prince asked, startled.

‘Your Death. They say that is the most precious thing you have.

Give me that. Then we shall be kunaks to the grave.’

Senka was the first to catch on. Well, that was it now, for sure. Now there’d be fountains of blood, and some of it Senka’s: dear old mum, welcome your poor son Senya into heaven with the angels.

Deadeye caught on too. He stayed where he was, but the fingers of his right hand slipped quietly into his left sleeve. And inside that sleeve there were little knives on a leather cuff. He had only to fling a couple, and that would be the end of the visitors.

The Prince was the last to twig. He opened his mouth wide and tore open his collar so they could see the veins on his neck, but the shout couldn’t force its way out – his fury strangled it in his throat.

Kazbek went on as if nothing had happened. ‘Give me your woman, Prince. I want her. And for you, see, I have brought the best of my mamselles. As slim and supple as a mountain goat. Take her. I give her to you.’

And he pushed Senka out into the middle of the room.

‘A-a-agh!’ Senka squealed. ‘Mum!’

But his whimper was drowned by the Prince’s loud roar: ‘I’ll rip your throat out! With my teeth! You carrion!’

He picked up the big two-pronged fork for getting cucumbers out of the jar and was about to throw himself on the Abrek, but suddenly out of nowhere a small black revolver glinted in the Caucasian’s hand.

‘You – hands on your shoulders!’ Kazbek said to the Jack. He didn’t say a word to the Prince, but his eyes were blazing.

Deadeye raised one eyebrow as he contemplated the black hole of the gun barrel. He showed the Caucasian his empty hands and put them up. The Prince swore obscenely and flung the fork down on the floor. He didn’t look at the gun, he stared into the eyes of the man who had insulted him and chewed on his lips in a fury – a trickle of red blood ran down his chin.

‘I’ll kill you anyway!’ he shouted hoarsely. ‘I’ll get you, even in Maryina Roshcha. I’ll rip your guts out for this, and make sausages with them!’

Kazbek clicked his tongue. ‘You Russians are like women. A man does not shout, he talks quietly.’

‘So she’s been with you too, with you!’ the Prince shouted, not listening to a word. He wiped away an angry tear and grated his teeth. ‘The whore, the bitch, I’ve no more patience for her!’

‘I came to you like a man, honestly,’ said the Abrek, knitting his black brows, and his blue eyes glinted with a cold flame. ‘I could have stolen her, but Kazbek is not a thief. I ask you like a friend: give her to me. If you do not give her, I shall take her like an enemy. Only think first. I do not take her for nothing.’

He pointed to Senka cringing in the middle of the room.

The Prince gave poor innocent Senka a shove that sent him flying against the wall and sliding down on to the floor:

‘I don’t want your painted whore!’

Senka had hurt his shoulder and he was terrified, but those words that were meant to be insulting were sweet music to his ears. The Prince didn’t want him, Jesus be praised!

‘I throw the mamselle into the bargain, so you will not be left without a woman.’ The Abrek laughed. ‘But the most precious thing I have, the thing I will give you, is silver, much silver. You have never had so much ...’

‘I’ll ram that silver down your throat, you filthy swine!’ the Prince retorted. And he ranted for a long time, shouting incoherent threats and obscenities.

‘How much is “much”, my dear fellow?’ Deadeye asked when the Prince finally choked on his hatred and fell silent.

‘It will take more than one wagon to carry it away. I know you have been searching for this silver for a long time, but I have found it. For Death, I will give it to you.’

The Prince was about to start bawling again, but Deadeye raised one finger: Ssssh, not a word.

‘Do you mean the Yerokha pen-pusher’s treasure?’ the Jack asked in a grovelling voice. ‘So you’ve found it? Oh, most artful son of the Caucasus.’

‘Yes, now the treasure is mine. But if you wish, it will be yours.’

The Prince tossed his head like a bull driving away horseflies. ‘I won’t give you Death! Not for all your silver and gold, I won’t! She’ll never be yours, you dog!’

‘She is mine already,’ the Caucasian said, stroking his beard with his free hand. ‘As you wish, Prince. I came here honestly, and you have called me “dog”. I know already that in Moscow you can curse in many different ways, but “dog” is answered with the knife. We shall fight. I have more guards than you, and every one is a mountain eagle.’

Kazbek started backing towards the door, holding his revolver at the ready. Senka jumped up and pressed himself against his master.

‘Where are you going, you snake?’ the Prince roared. ‘You’ll never get out of here alive! Go on, fire! My wolves will finish you off!’

One of the twins stuck his head in the door. ‘What did you shout for, Prince? Were you calling us?’

Without taking his eyes off the Prince and Deadeye for a single moment, the Abrek grabbed Maybe or Surely just below the chin with his left hand, held him like that for a couple of seconds and let go. The young man collapsed in a heap and tumbled over on to his side.

‘Wait, dear fellow!’ said Deadeye. ‘Don’t go. Prince, this man came to you in peace, as a friend. What difference does one woman more or less make? What will the lads say?’ Then he started talking in poetry again. ‘Dear heart, Prince, do not ponder, I know of a certain wonder.’

Ah-ha, thought Senka, I know that poem too. That’s what the Swan Queen told Prince Gvidon: Don’t go getting in a lather, I’ll fix you up in fine fashion.

But the Khitrovka Prince apparently hadn’t read that fairy tale, he just looked blankly at Deadeye. The Jack winked back – Senka could see that very clearly from the side.

‘Treasure, you say?’ the Prince muttered. ‘All right. For the pen-pusher’s treasure, I’ll swap. But the silver up front.’

‘On your luck?’ Kazbek asked. ‘As a thief?’

‘On my luck as a thief,’ the Prince confirmed, and ran his thumb across his throat, the way you were supposed to when you swore an oath. But Senka spotted another bit of cunning: the Prince held his left hand behind his back, and he had the thumb between his fingers –that meant his word as a thief wasn’t worth a bent kopeck. He’d have to tell Kazbek – that is, Erast Petrovich – about this villainous trick.

‘Good.’ The Abrek nodded and put his weapon away. ‘Come to the Yeroshenko basement tonight, to the hall that is a dead end. Just the two of you come, no more. At exactly a quarter past three. If you come earlier or later, there is no deal.’

‘We’ll come alone, but won’t your wolves take their knives to us?’ asked the Prince, narrowing his eyes.

‘Why go to the basement for that?’ Kazbek asked with a shrug. ‘If we wanted, we could slice you into kebabs anyway. I need faithful kunaks in Moscow, friends I can trust . . . You will be met in the basement and taken to the right place. When you see who meets you, you will understand: Kazbek could have given you nothing and just taken it for free.’

The Prince opened his mouth to say something (to judge from his fierce grin, it was something angry), but Deadeye put a hand on his shoulder.

‘We’ll be there at quarter past three in the morning, dear fellow. On my luck as a thief.’

The Jack swore without any tricks, both of his hands were out in the open.

‘So you’re not taking the mamselle?’ the Caucasian asked from the doorway.

Senka turned cold. Ai, Erast Petrovich, why are you trying to destroy me? Holy Saint Nicholas and the Virgin Intercessor, save me!

But the Prince, may God lop a thousand years off his torments in hell, just cleared his throat and spat on the floor.

Senka was saved.

HOW SENKA WAS A PEACHER

Outside, once they’d got into the landau and driven off, Senka heaved a bitter sigh and said:

‘Thank you, Erast Petrovich, for taking such good care of me. That’s the way you treat a true friend, is it? What if the Prince had said “give me your mamselle”? Were you really going to hand me over to be tortured to death?’

‘Turn the corner and stop!’ the ungrateful engineer ordered the driver in his Caucasian voice. He answered the reproach when they got out of the carriage.

‘For the P-Prince only one woman exists. He won’t even l-look at any other. I needed you to look f-frightened, Senya – to make our little interlude m-more convincing. And you m-managed it very well.’

And then Senka realised that when Erast Petrovich was wearing fancy dress – as an old Yid or a wild mountain warrior – he didn’t stammer at all. That was amazing. And Senka remembered that the engineer had done the whole job on his own, without any help from his partner. He felt ashamed then, most of all for being such a coward and calling on the Virgin Mary and St Nicholas for help. But then, what was there to be ashamed of in that? He was a real person, wasn’t he, not some kind of stone idol like Mr Nameless. Erast Petrovich didn’t need to pray, Masa-sensei had told Senka that.

They walked along Pokrovka Street, past the Church of the Trinity in the Mud and the magnificent Church of the Assumption.

‘Don’t you ever pray to God, then?’ Senka asked. ‘Is that because you’re not afraid of anything at all?’

‘Why do you think I’m n-not afraid?’ Erast Petrovich asked in surprise. ‘I am afraid. Only p-people completely without imagination have no f-fear. And since I am afraid, I p-pray sometimes.’

‘You’re lying!’

The engineer sighed. ‘It would be b-better to say “I don’t believe you”, and best of all n-never to say such things unless it is absolutely n-necessary, because . . .’ He gestured vaguely with his hand.

‘... because you could collect a slap across the face,’ Senka guessed.

‘And for th-that reason too. And the p-prayer I say, Senya, is one I was t-taught by an old priest: “Spare me, Lord, from a slow, p-painful, humiliating death”. That is the entire prayer.’

Senka thought about it. The bit about a slow death was clear enough – who wanted to spend ten years just lying paralysed or withering away? The painful part was obvious too.

‘But what’s a humiliating death? Is that when someone dies and everyone spits on him and kicks him?’

‘No. Christ was b-beaten and humiliated too, but there was nothing shameful about his d-death, was there? All my life I’ve b-been afraid of something else. I’m afraid of d-dying in a way that people will f-find amusing. People don’t remember anything else about you after th-that. For example, the French p-president Faure will not be remembered for c-conquering the island of Madagascar and concluding an alliance with Russia, but for the f-fact that His Excellency expired on t-top of his lover. All that is left of the former l-leader of the nation is a d-dirty joke: “The president died in the p-performance of his duties – in every s-sense”. Even on his gravestone the p-poor fellow is shown embracing the b-banner of the republic. People walking by g-giggle and titter – that is the f-fate that I fear.’

‘That sort of cock-up couldn’t happen to you,’ Senka reassured the engineer. ‘You’re in sound health.’

‘If not that k-kind, then some other. Fate loves to j-jest with those who are too concerned for their own d-dignity.’ Erast Petrovich laughed. ‘For instance, you remember the way the t-two of us were sitting in the water closet, and the G-Ghoul heard a noise and p-pulled out his revolver?’

‘How could I forget that? It still gives me the shakes.’

‘Well then, if the Ghoul had started f-firing through the door, he would have left us b-both draped across the toilet bowl. What a beautiful d-death that would have been.’

Senka imagined himself and Erast Petrovich lying on top of each other across the china potty, with their blood flowing straight into the sewage pipe.

‘Not exactly beautiful, I’d say.’

‘Indeed. I wouldn’t want to d-die like that. A stupid weakness, I realise that, b-but I simply can’t help myself.’

Mr Nameless gave a guilty smile and suddenly stopped dead –right on the corner of Kolpachny Lane.

‘Now, Senya, this is where our ways p-part. I have to drop into the post office and s-send off a certain important letter. F-from here on you will act without me.’

‘How’s that?’ Senka asked warily. What torment had the sly Erast Petrovich got in store for him now?

‘You will g-go to the police station and deliver a l-letter to Superintendent Solntsev.’

‘Is that all?’ Senka asked suspiciously, screwing up his eyes.

‘That’s all.’

That was all right, delivering a letter was no big deal.

‘I’ll take off the tart’s rags and wash the paint off my mug,’ Senka growled. ‘I feel a right nelly.’

‘I feel embarrassed in front of people,’ the pernickety engineer corrected him. ‘There’s no t-time to get changed. Stay as you are. It will be s-safer that way.’

Senka felt a black cat scrape its claws across his heart. Safer? What exactly did that mean?

But Mr Nameless only made the vicious beast scrape away even harder.

‘You’re a b-bright young man,’ he said. ‘Act according to the s-situation.’

He took two envelopes out of his pocket, gave one to Senka and kept the other.

Senka scratched at his chest to stop that cat scraping so hard, but his hand ran into something soft – it was the cotton wool Erast Petrovich had stuffed under the dress to give it a woman’s curves.

‘Why don’t I run to the post office, and you go to the superintendent?’ Senka suggested without really feeling very hopeful.

‘I can’t show my f-face at the police station. Hold on t-to the letter. You have to g-give it to Colonel Solntsev in person.’

There was no address on the envelope, and it wasn’t even glued shut.

‘That is so you will n-not have to waste any time b-buying a new one,’ Mr Nameless explained. ‘You’ll read it anyway.’

There was no way you could hide anything from him, the sly serpent.

Before Senka had even walked on a hundred steps alone, someone ran up from behind and started pawing his cotton-wool tits.

‘Oh, soft and springy, we could have some sweet fun,’ a fervent voice whispered in his ear.

He turned his head and saw an ugly mug that hadn’t been shaved and smelled of stale vodka and onions.

So this was what it was like for a girl to walk round Khitrovka on her own.

At first Senka was just going to frighten the randy villain, tell him he would complain to Brawn, the biggest pimp in Khitrovka, about this cheek, but the unwelcome admirer went on to lick the false mamselle on the neck, and Senka’s patience snapped.

Following the rules of Japanese fighting art, first he breathed out all the air in his lungs (to shift the root of his strength from his chest to his belly), then he smashed his heel into his admirer’s shin and then, when the admirer gasped and opened his filthy great mitts, Senka swung round rapidly, jabbed his finger into the top of his belly and winded him.

The lascivious wooer squatted down on his haunches and clutched at his belly. His face turned serious and thoughtful. That’s right, you think about how you ought to behave with the girls.

Senka turned into a quiet passageway and unfolded the letter.

’Dear Innokentii Romanovich,I have learned from a reliable source that you have learned from a reliable source that I am in Moscow. Although we have never had any great affection for each other, I hopenonetheless that the orgy of atrocious crimes in the area entrusted to your care concerns you, as a servant of the law, noless than it does me, a man who left behind his former service and the cares of Moscow a long time ago. And therefore, I wish to put a business proposition to you.Tonight I shall bring together at a certain convenient location the leaders of the two most dangerous gangs in Moscow, the Prince and the Ghoul, and you and I shall arrest them. Then a ture of that place will not allow you to bring a large number of men – you will have to make do with one deputy, so choose your most experienced police officer. I am sure that the three of us will be enough to carry out the arrest of the Prince and the Ghoul.The person who will deliver this letter to you knows nothing about this business. Sheis an ordinary street girl, a simple soul who has undertaken to perform this errand for me for a small payment, so do not waste your time questioning her.I shall call for you at twenty minutes past three in the morning. Being an intelligent and ambitious man, you will no doubt realise that it would not be a good idea to report my proposal to your superiors. The greatest possible reward you would receive is the benevolent disposition of the municipal authorities. However, I am not a criminal, and I am not wanted by the police, so you will earn notitles or medals by informing on me. Youwill reap far greater dividends if you agree to take part in the undertaking that I propose. Fandorin.’

Senka knew what ‘dividends’ were (that was when they paid you money for nothing), but he didn’t understand that last word. It must mean ‘adieu’, or ‘please accept, etc.’, or ‘I remain yours truly’ –basically, what people wrote to give a letter a beautiful ending. ‘Fandorin’ had a fine ring to it. He’d have to remember it in future.

He licked the envelope and glued it shut, and a couple of minutes later he was walking into the courtyard of the Third Myasnitsky police station. Curse and damn the lousy place. Invented for tormenting people and trampling on lives that were miserable enough already.

There were several cab drivers standing at the gates, holding their caps in their hands. These violators of the laws of the road had come to ransom the numbers that had been taken off their cabs. That cost about seven roubles a time, and even then you really had to grovel.

Inside the yard there was a jostling circle of men wearing loose shirts with belts. They looked like a team of Ukrainian carpenters who had come to Moscow to earn money. The foreman, with a long, droopy moustache, was walking round the circle, holding out his cap, and the others were reluctantly dropping silver and copper coins into it. Clear enough – they’d been working for the builder without the right piece of paper, and now the coppers were tapping them for half their money. It happened all the time.

They said that sort of thing never used to happen here under the old superintendent, but it’s the priest who sets the tone of the parish.

The moment Senka pushed open the oilcloth-covered door and stepped into the dark, filthy corridor, a bumptious fat-faced copper with stripes on his arm grabbed him by the hem of his skirt.

‘Well, look at you,’ he said. Then he winked and pinched Senka on the side so hard that Senka could have torn his hands off. ‘Why haven’t I seen you around before? Come to get your yellow ticket amended? I do that. Let’s go.’

He grabbed Senka by the elbow and started dragging him off. Senka knew he was lying about that ticket – all he wanted was to use a girl for free.

‘I’ve come to see the superintendent,’ Senka said in a stern squeak. ‘I’ve got a letter for him, it’s important.’

The copper took his hands off. ‘Go straight on,’ he said, ‘and then right. That’s where His Honour sits.’

Senka went where he’d been told. Past the hen coop, full of tramps who had been picked up, past the locked cells with the thieves and criminals (the darlings were singing that song about a black raven – lovely it was, a real treat). Then the corridor turned a bit cleaner and brighter and it led Senka to a tall, leather-bound door with a brass plate on it that said: ‘Superintendent: Colonel I. R. Solntsev’.

Senka’s polite knock was answered by a stern voice on the other side of the door.

‘Yes?’

Senka went in. He said hello in a squeaky voice and held out the letter. ‘I was asked to deliver this to you in person.’

He tried to clear off straightaway, but the superintendent growled quietly: ‘Where do you think you’re going?’

The fearsome colonel was sitting at his desk eating an apple, cutting slices off it with a narrow-bladed knife. He wiped the blade on a napkin, then pressed a knob somewhere, and the blade disappeared with a metallic click.

Solntsev didn’t open the envelope straight off; instead he examined his visitor carefully, and his eyes lingered for a long time on her false bosom. (Ah, Mr Nameless had overdone it there, stuffed in way too much cotton wool!)

‘Who are you? A streetwalker? Your name?’

‘S-Sanka,’ Senka lisped. ‘Alexandra Alexandrova.’

‘What’s this letter about? Who’s it from?’

Solntsev fingered the envelope suspiciously and help it up against the light. What should Senka say?

‘A client gave me it . . . Give it to the colonel, he told me, hand it to him in person.’

‘Hmm, intrigues of the court of Burgundy,’ the superintendent muttered, opening the envelope. ‘Stay here, Alexandrova. Wait.’

He ran his eye over the letter quickly, jerked upright, unfastened the hook of his stiff collar, ran his tongue over his lips and started reading again, taking his time now, as if he was trying to make something out between the lines.

He took so long, Senka got bored. Luckily, there were photographs hanging on the walls and newspaper cuttings in frames behind glass.

The most interesting thing there was a picture from a magazine. Solntsev standing there, a bit younger than he was now, with his hands perched smartly on his hips, and a wooden coffin beside him on the floor. The man in it had a moustache and a black hole in his forehead. The caption underneath read: ‘Young district inspector puts an end to the criminal career of Loberetsky the Apache’.

Under that was an article with the enormous headline: ‘Gang of counterfeiters arrested. Three cheers for the police!’

A photograph without any caption: Solntsev shaking hands with the governor general. His Highness Simeon Alexandrovich was skinny and incredibly tall, with his chin stuck up in the air, and the superintendent was bowing, knees bent, with a smarmy great smile pasted right across his mug (that is, his face).

Another article, not so very old, it wasn’t yellow yet: ‘The youngest precinct superintendent in Moscow’, from the Moscow Municipal Police Gazette. Senka read the beginning: ‘The brilliant operation that resulted in the arrest of a band of robbers in Khamovniki, who were given away by one of the members of that criminal association, has drawn attention once again to the talent of Colonel Solntsev and secured him not only a priority promotion, but an appointment to one of the most difficult and high-profile precincts in the old capital, Khitrovka . . .’

He couldn’t read any more because the superintendent interrupted. ‘Well now. A most interesting message.’

He wasn’t looking at the letter as he said that, but at Senka, and looking at him in a nasty sort of way, as if he was going to take him apart, unscrew all his nuts and bolts and peer at what was inside.

‘Who do you belong to, Alexandrova? Who’s your pimp?’

‘I don’t belong to anyone, I work for myself,’ Senka answered after a moment’s hesitation. What if he named some pimp, even Brawn, and the superintendent took it into his head to check? Have you got a mamselle by that name, Brawn? That would be a real disaster.

‘You used to work for yourself,’ the superintendent said with an evil smile. ‘But not any more you don’t. From this day on you’re going to peach for me. I can tell just by looking at you that you’re a quick-witted girl, you’ve got sharp eyes. And good-looking too, buxom. Your voice is disgusting, that’s true, but then you won’t be singing at the Bolshoi.’

He laughed. So the rotten snake had decided to recruit Senka as a peacher! That was what they called mamselles who squealed on their own kind. If the bandits found out, there was only one pay-off for that – they’d rip the peacher’s guts out.

If a streetwalker was found with her belly ripped open, everyone knew what it was for. But just you try and find out who’d done it! Even so, there were plenty of little mamselles who peached. And not just for the fun of it, of course not. When the coppers started turning the screws, there was no way to wriggle out.

Now, it made no odds to Senka if they recruited him as a peacher, but any self-respecting mamselle had to kick up a bit.

‘I’m an honest girl,’ he said proudly. ‘Not one of those whores who squeal on their own kind to you coppers. Find yourself a squealer somewhere else.’

‘Wha-at?’ the superintendent bellowed in such a terrifying voice that Senka froze. ‘Who are you calling “coppers”, you little slut? Right, Alexandrova, for that, I’m going to fine you. Three days to pay, and do you know what happens after that?’

Senka shook his head in fright – and this time he wasn’t pretending.

But Solntsev stopped yelling and switched to gentle persuasion: ‘Let me explain. If you don’t pay your fine for insulting me in three days, I’ll lock you in a cell for the night. Do you know who I’ve got in there? Criminals who are sick. They’ve got consumption and syphilis. According to the latest “humane” decree, we have to keep them separate from other prisoners. But they’ll spend the night playing with you, my girl, and then we’ll see which one takes a shine to you first – the frenchies or consumption.’

The time had come for Senka to set his girlish pride aside. ‘How can I pay?’ he said in a weepy voice. ‘I’m a poor girl.’

The superintendent chuckled: ‘Which is it, poor or honest?

Senka rubbed his eyes with his sleeve – like he was wiping his tears away. He sniffed pitifully as if to say: I’m all yours, do whatever you want with me.

‘Right, then,’ said Solntsev in a brisk, businesslike tone. ‘Did you sleep with the man who gave you the letter?’

‘Well ...’ Senka said warily, not knowing what was the best answer.

The copper shook his head. ‘My, my, our squeamish friend really has gone down in the world. In the old days he would never have got mixed up with a street girl. He must have seen something in you.’ The superintendent came out from behind the desk and took hold of Senka’s chin with his finger and thumb. ‘Lively eyes, with sparks of mischief in them. Hmm . . . Where did it happen? How?’

‘At my apertiment,’ Senka lied. ‘He’s a very hot-blooded gent, a real goer.’

‘Yes, he’s a well-known ladies’ man. Listen, Alexandrova, I’ll tell you how you can pay your fine. Tell this man that you’ve fallen madly in love with him, or something else of the sort, but make sure that you stay with him. If he’s seen something in you, then he won’t throw you out. He’s a gentleman.’

‘But where can I find him?’ Senka wailed.

‘I’ll tell you that tomorrow. Hand over your yellow ticket. I’ll keep it here for the time being. Better safe than sorry.’

Oh no! Senka started batting his eyelids, he didn’t know what to say.

‘What, you mean you don’t have one?’ Solntsev gave a wolfish grin. ‘Trading without a ticket? Shame on you! And too proud to peach. Hey!’ he yelled, turning towards the door. ‘Ogryzkov!’

A constable came in, stood to attention and glared wide eyed at his superior.

‘Escort this girl home, wherever she says. Confiscate her residence permit and bring it to me. So you won’t be able to do a runner, Alexandrova.’

He patted Senka on the cheek. ‘Now that I look a bit closer, I reckon there really is something to you. Fandorin knows a good thing when he sees it.’ He lowered his hand and felt Senka’s backside. ‘A bit scraggy in the basement, but I’ve got nothing against a skinny bum. I’ll have to give you a try, Alexandrova. If you manage to avoid the frenchies, that is.’

And he laughed, the filthy old goat.

How could Death have billed and cooed with this reptile? Senka would rather hang himself.

And suddenly he felt sorry for women, the poor creatures. What was it like for them living in a world where all the men were filthy swines?

And what did ‘fandorin’ mean, anyway?

HOW SENKA TOOK AN EXAM

Senka dealt with the goggle-eyed cooper easily enough. He told him he lived in Vshivaya Gorka by the Yauza, and as soon as they were in the lanes leading to the river, he hitched up his skirt and darted off into an alleyway. Of course, the constable started blowing on his whistle and swearing, but there was nothing he could do. The new peacher had vanished into thin air. Now Ogryzkov was in for a fine from the superintendent, as sure as eggs is eggs.

All the way home Senka racked his brains, trying to think what it was he’d seen or heard in the basement that had let Erast Petrovich and Masa guess who the killer was straight off like that.

He worked his brains as hard as he could, fair wore them out with wild gymnastics, but he still couldn’t make two and two equal four.

Then he tried applying deduction to something else. What plan had the brainy Mr Nameless come up with? It was terrifying just to think what a tangled knot he’d tied. What if it all went wrong? Who’d be the one to suffer for it? What if it was a certain young man who was fed up with being a plaything in the hands of the Bird of Fortune? That crazy creature could flap its wings and shower a poor, wretched orphan with its most precious gifts – love and riches, and hope – then suddenly turn tail-on and do its dirt on the lucky devil’s coiffure, take back all its gifts and try to filch its victim’s life into the bargain.

Senka had bad thoughts about the engineer and the slick way he had with other people’s property. Not a word of thanks for Senka’s unbelievable generosity and self-sacrifice. No, you’d never hear anything like that from him. He acted liked it all belonged to him. Invited the rats to dine at someone else’s table. Come on, dear guests, take as much as you fancy. And as for that someone else having his own idea, about that treasure, and even dreams, well a smarmy gent like Erast Petrovich obviously couldn’t give a rotten damn about that.

Because he felt so resentful, Senka was cool with the engineer. He told him all about delivering the letter and the conversation with the superintendent, but he expressed his insulted dignity by looking off to one side and curling up his bottom lip.

However, Erast Petrovich failed to notice this demonstration of feeling. He listened carefully to the story of how Senka was questioned and recruited. He seemed pleased with everything, and even said ‘well done’. That was too much for Senka, and he started hinting at the treasure, saying what a lot of smart-arses there were in the world who liked to make free with wealth that wasn’t theirs, but belonged to someone else. But that hint wasn’t taken either, he failed to stir the engineer’s conscience. Mr Nameless just patted Senka on the head and said: ‘Don’t be g-greedy.’ And then he said in a cheerful voice: ‘Tonight I conclude all my b-business in Moscow, there is no m-more time left. Tomorrow at midday is the start of the d-drive to Paris. I hope the F-Flying Carpet is in good order?’

Senka felt his heart sink. That was right, tomorrow was the twenty-third! What with all these harum-scarum adventures, he’d completely forgotten about it!

So, whatever happened, it was the end of everything. Three cheers for the cunning Mr Nameless! He’d got what he wanted from his mechanic (and for nothing, if you didn’t count the grub) – his automobile was looking real handsome, it was fine tuned and polished till it shone – but that wasn’t even the half of it. The worst thing was that he’d twisted a poor orphan round his little finger, robbed him blind, nearly got the orphan’s throat cut, and now he was going driving off to Paris like some fairy-tale prince. And it was Senka’s destiny to be left sitting all on his lonesome beside his broken tub. If he was even still alive tomorrow, that was ...

Senka’s lips started trembling, and the corners of his mouth crept down even lower than when he was just acting out insulted pride.

But the heartless Erast Petrovich said: ‘Wipe that l-lipstick off your mouth, it looks d-disgusting.’

As if Senka had put the lipstick on himself, just for a laugh!

He went off to get changed, stamping his feet angrily.

While Senka was gone he heard the telephone ring in the study, and when he went back a minute later – to tell Erast Petrovich a few home truths, straight out, no more pussyfooting around – the engineer wasn’t there.

Masa was off wandering somewhere too. Meanwhile the day was slipping unstoppably towards evening, and the darker it got outside, the gloomier Senka felt. What on earth would happen tonight?

To distract himself from his dark thoughts, Senka went out to the shed to polish the automobile, which was already shining brighter than the domes in the Kremlin. He wasn’t feeling angry now, just depressed.

Well, Erast Petrovich, as they say, may God grant you good luck and the record you’re dreaming of. Your three-wheeler is all set up in the finest possible fashion, don’t you worry on that score. You’ll remember your mechanic Semyon Spidorov with a grateful word more than once on the way. Maybe some day you’ll be smitten by a pang of conscience. Or at least a pang of regret. Though that’s hardly likely – who are we compared to you?

Just then there was a faint squeak from the louvres (they were kind of like cracks) in the engine cooler, and Senka froze. Was he hearing things? No, there it was again! But what could it be?’

He shone his torch into the engine. A little mouse had climbed inside!

Hadn’t he told Erast Petrovich the gaps should be smaller? It would be better if there were thirty-six of them, not twenty-four!

And now look! What if that little varmint gnawed through the fuel hose? What a shambles that would be!

While he took off the hood, drove the mouse away, disconnected the hose and connected it again (undamaged, thank God), night fell and Senka didn’t even notice. He went back into the house just as the clock struck twelve. The dirge echoed through the apartment and Senka suddenly found it hard to breathe. He felt so afraid and so homeless he could have howled like a stray dog.

Luckily Mr Nameless showed up soon after. Looking quite different from the way he was earlier on: not cheerful and contented now, but gloomy, even angry.

‘Why aren’t you ready? Have you f-forgotten you’re supposed to be playing Motya? P-Put on the wig, the skullcap and all the rest. I won’t m-make you up much, it’s dark in the b-basement. I’ll just g-glue on the nose.’

‘But it’s too early. We don’t have to be there till three,’ Senka said in a dismal voice.

Another urgent m-matter has come up and I have to d-deal with it. Let’s go on the M-Magic Carpet. It will be a f-final test before the race.’

Well, how about that? Senka had buffed it and polished it, and now all that work was all down the drain. Though one more trial run couldn’t do any harm ...

Senka put on his kike costume without any more fuss. It was better than being a mamselle.

Erast Petrovich put on a beautiful motoring suit: shiny leather, with squeaky yellow spats. What a lovely sight!

The engineer put his little revolver (it was called a ‘Herstal’, made to special order in the foreign city of Liиge) in the pocket behind his back, and Senka’s heart skipped a beat. Would they live to see the start? God only knew.

‘You t-take the wheel,’ Mr Nameless ordered. ‘Show me what you c-can do.’

Senka put on a pair of goggles and squeezed his ears into his oversized skullcap so it wouldn’t fly off. At least he’d get a ride before it all ended!

‘To Samotechny B-Boulevard.’

They drove like the wind and were there in five minutes. Erast Petrovich got out at a small wooden house and rang the bell. Someone opened the door.

Of course, Senka couldn’t control his curiosity – he went to take a look at the copper plate hanging on the door. ‘F. F. Weltman, Pathological Anatomist, Dr of Medicine’. God only knew what a ‘pathological anatomist’ was, but ‘Dr’ meant ‘doctor’. Was someone ill, then? Not Masa, surely, Senka thought in alarm. Then he heard steps on the other side of the door and ran back to the machine.

The doctor was a puny little man, dishevelled and untidy, and he blinked all the time. He stared at Senka in fright and replied to his polite ‘good health to you’ with a shy nod.

‘Who’s this?’ Senka asked in a whisper when the titch climbed in.

‘Never m-mind,’ Erast Petrovich replied gloomily. ‘He’s someone from a completely d-different story, who has nothing to do with our j-job today. We’re going to Rozhdestvensky Boulevard. At the d-double!’

Well, once the motor starting roaring, there was no more conversation to be had.

The engineer told him to stop at the corner of a dark lane. ‘Stay in the c-car and don’t leave it.’

That went without saying. Everyone knew the kind of people who were out at that time of night. Before you could even blink, they’d have a nut or bolt unscrewed, for a fishing weight, or just out of plain mischief.

Senka put a spanner on the seat beside him – just let them try anything on.

He asked the doctor: ‘Is someone ill? Are you going to treat them?’

The doctor didn’t answer, but Mr Nameless said: ‘Yes. S-Surgical intervention is required.’

The pair of them walked over to a house with lit-up windows. They knocked and went in, and Senka was left on his tod.

He waited for a long time. Maybe a whole hour. First he sat there, worrying about seeing the Ghoul in Yeroshenko’s basement. Then he just felt bored. And towards the end he started fretting that they’d be late. A couple of times he thought he heard some kind of creaking noise in the house. God only knew what they were getting up to.

Erast Petrovich finally came out – alone and without his leather cap. When he came closer, Senka saw that Mr Nameless was not looking as neat and tidy as before: his jacket was torn at the shoulder and there was a scratch on his forehead. He licked his right hand –the knuckles were oozing blood!

‘What happened?’ Senka asked, alarmed. ‘And where’s the doc? Is he staying with the patient?’

‘Let’s g-go,’ the engineer barked. ‘Show me your skill. Here’s an exam f-for you: if you can get us to Khitrovka in t-ten minutes, I’ll take you on the run as m-my assistant.’

Senka pulled on the throttle even harder than that first time. The automobile shot forward and tore into the night, swaying on its steel springs.

The engineer’s assistant! To Paris! With Erast Petrovich!

Oh Lord, don’t let the motor stall or overheat! Don’t let a tyre crack on a big cobble! Don’t let the transmission come uncoupled! You can do everything, Lord!

At the corner of Myasnitskaya Street the motor sneezed and died. A blockage!

Senka was choking on his tears as he blew off the carburettor, and that took two minutes at least. That stroke of bad luck meant he didn’t make it in time.

‘Stop,’ said the engineer at the intersection of the boulevard and Pokrovka Street. He looked at his Breguet watch. ‘Twelve m-minutes and ten seconds.’

Senka hung his head in shame and sobbed, wiping away the snot with his ginger sidelocks. Ah, Fortune, what a low, mean bitch you are.

‘An excellent result,’ said Erast Petrovich. ‘And the c-carburettor was cleaned in record time. Congratulations. I was j-joking about the ten minutes, of course. I hope you will n-not refuse to accompany me to Paris as my assistant? You know yourself that Masa is n-not suited to play that p-particular role. He will ride behind us in a carriage, c-carrying the spare wheels and other parts.’

Unable to believe his luck, Senka babbled: ‘And the three of us will go? All the way to Paris?’

Mr Nameless thought for a moment. ‘Well, you s-see, Senya,’ he said, ‘probably one other individual will g-go with us.’ Then he paused and added quietly, rather uncertainly, ‘Perhaps even t-two ...’

Well, we know who one of them is, don’t we now, Senka thought with a scowl. After all the fun and games Erast Petrovich had lined up for tonight, there’d be no way Death could stay in Moscow. But who could the other one be? Surely the sensei hadn’t decided to steal Fedora Nikitishna away from her husband?

Suddenly Senka felt sorry for the poor doorman Mikheich – how would he manage without his boiled fruit and his pies and Fedora’s sweet caresses? But he felt even sorrier for himself. It would be worse than the torments of hell to watch the engineer and Death settling into their love on the way to Paris. And it would be the last straw if that meant the record was never set!

Mr Nameless interrupted Senka’s musings when his Breguet jangled again.

‘Ten m-minutes to three. Time to b-begin the operation. I’m going to g-get the superintendent. I’ll leave the auto at the station –it will be s-safer there. And I’ll make sure that Solntsev only b-brings one assistant. And off you go, Senka, to Yeroshenko’s d-dosshouse, to the rendezvous. Lead the Ghoul through the underground p-passage, and don’t forget that you’re an idiot. Don’t say anything articulate, just b-bleat. There’ll be a critical moment when the P-Prince and Deadeye appear. If it looks as though things may t-turn nasty, the boy Motya can recover the g-gift of speech. Just say: “Silver – over there” and p-point. That will keep them busy at l-least until I arrive.’ The engineer pondered something for a moment and muttered under his breath. ‘It’s not g-good that I’ve been left without my Herstal, and there’s no t-time to get hold of another revolver ...’

‘But how can you go in there with those wolves with no pistol?’ Senka gasped. ‘You put it in your pocket, I saw you! Did you drop it somewhere, or what?’

‘That’s exactly what I d-did, dropped it . . . Never mind, we’ll m-manage without a revolver. The plan of operations d-does not require any shooting.’ Erast Petrovich smiled jauntily and flicked Senka’s false nose with his finger. ‘And n-now, my Jew, it’s up to you.’

HOW SENKA TRIED TO KEEP UP

Agh, he was so sick of this damned Yerokha – this rotten musty cellar smell, this pitch-black darkness, those muffled sounds coming from behind the doors of the ‘apertiments’ – even in the dead of night the people living underground were still squabbling, or fighting, or singing in their ugly voices, or crying. But as he went farther and farther along the damp corridors, into the bowels of the Yerokha, it got quieter and quieter, as if the earth itself had swallowed up all the sounds of human living, or existence, to use the scholarly term. And then the memories came flooding back, a hundred times worse than the stench of the basement and the raucous drunken bawling.

This was where the unknown killer had attacked Senka from behind, pulling his hair and almost breaking his neck – Senka’s hand reached up of its own accord to make the sign of the cross.

The Siniukhin family had lived behind that door there – he suddenly thought he could see them staring out of the darkness with their crimson holes of eyes. Brrrr . . .

Two more turns, and there was the hall with the columns, curse the godforsaken place. This was where all the trouble started.

This was the spot where Prokha had lain dead on the ground. Now he’d step out of the darkness, with his fingers spread wide, ready to grab. Ah-a-ah, he’d say, Speedy, you scum, I’ve been waiting for you for ages. It was your fault I met my death.

Senka dashed on quick to get as far away as he could from that bad place, glancing behind him – just to be on the safe side – and ready to cross himself if he saw a phantasmagoria.

He should have looked where he was going instead.

He ran straight into something, only it wasn’t a column, because the supports holding up the ceiling were hard, made of bricks, and this thing he’d run into was springy and it grabbed Senka round the throat with its hands. Then it hissed: ‘Here at last, are you? Now, where’s this Yiddish treasure of yours?’

The Ghoul! He was here already, waiting in the darkness!

Senka bleated in fright.

‘Ah, yes, you’re dumb, aren’t you?’ The terrifying man breathed the words right into Senka’s face then let go of his throat. ‘Come on then, show me the way.’

He really had come alone! He didn’t want to share the riches with his comrades. Now that was real greed for you.

Senka bleated and gurgled a bit more, then led the milker to the corner behind the last column. He pulled out the stones, slipped through the hole and waved his hand: Follow me!

He walked as slowly as he could, even though the Ghoul had lit a lamp and he could have got to the treasure in five minutes. But what was the hurry? He’d only have to spend fifteen minutes billing and cooing with this villainous malefactor, until Death brought her own monsters, the Prince and Deadeye. And then . . . but it was better not to think about what would happen then.

Despite all Senka’s efforts to go slow and put the moment off, the passage finally led them to that exit lined with white stone. Another three steps, and they were at the secret chamber.

‘Gu, gu,’ said Senka, pointing to a heap of silver billets.

The Ghoul shoved him aside and went rushing forward. He darted this way and that across the cellar, holding the lamp up high. Shadows leapt across the walls and vaulted ceiling. The milker stopped by the door blocked with a heap of broken bricks and stones.

This way, is it?’

Senka was still skulking by the way in. He even wondered whether he ought to turn back, leg it and see what happened. But what was the point? He’d probably just run into the Prince.

‘Where’s the treasure?’ the monster asked, stepping right up close to Senka. ‘Eh? Treasure? Understand? Where’s the silver?’

‘Bu, bu,’ the boy Motya replied, shaking his head and waving his arms. To gain time, he said a whole speech like he was talking in tongues: ‘Ulyulyu, ga-ga khryaps, ardi-burdi gulyumba, surdikgurdik ogo! Ashma li bunugu? Karmanda! Shikos-vikos shimpopo, duru-buru goplyalya . . .’

The Ghoul listened to this gibberish then grabbed the halfwit by the shoulders and shook him. ‘Where’s the silver?’ he yelled. ‘There’s nothing here but trash and scrap iron! Have you pulled a fast one? I’ll slice off your ringlets and carve you into little pieces!’

Senka’s head bobbed back and forth and he didn’t like it one little bit. Just imagine – Senka being so impatient for the Prince to arrive! Where had they all got to, had they fallen asleep in that passage?

Maybe he should reveal the secret of the rods to the Ghoul? Erast Petrovich had said: ‘If things look like turning nasty, the boy Motya can recover the gift of speech.’ How much nastier could things get? Senka’s eyes were almost falling out of his head!

Senka opened his mouth to say something meaningful instead of goobledegook, but suddenly the Ghoul stopped shaking him, jerked his hands away and pricked up his ears. He must have heard something.

Soon Senka heard it too: footsteps and voices.

The milker kicked his lamp, which fell over and went out. Suddenly it was very dark.

But not for long.

‘. . . don’t you say anything?’ a muffled voice said from inside the narrow entrance, and then a bright, narrow ray of light came snaking out, fumbling its way across the vaults and along the walls. The Ghoul and Senka froze, but the light didn’t pick them out straight away.

Three people came in. The first, wearing a long frock coat, was holding an electric torch in his hand. The second was a woman. It was the third one, the last to set foot in the chamber, who was doing the talking.

‘Fine, don’t say anything, then,’ the Prince said bitterly. ‘You swap me for a black-face and you’ve got nothing to say? You’re a shameless bitch, that’s what you are, not Death.’

A match scraped as one of the new arrivals lit a kerosene lamp.

The chamber was suddenly bright.

‘Oo-la-la!’ the Jack exclaimed under his breath. He quickly put the lamp down on the floor, turned off the torch and put it in his pocket. ‘Well, fancy seeing you here!’

‘Ghoul!’ the Prince yelled. ‘Is that you?’

The milker didn’t say a word. He just whispered in Senka’s ear: ‘Well, you Yids really are cunning bastards. Get ready to die, you little shit.’

But the Prince seemed to think he was the one who’d been ambushed. He turned to Death: ‘Have you sold me out to this scum, you little slag?’

He raised his fist to hit her, and he was wearing a knuckleduster too. Death didn’t flinch or back away, she just smiled, but Senka howled in terror. A fine operation this was! Now they’d do them both in!

‘Wait, Prince!’ called Deadeye, turning his head this way and that. ‘It’s not an ambush. He’s here alone, the kid doesn’t count.’

The Jack set off across the cellar with his springy stride, muttering: ‘There’s something wrong here, something wrong. And there’s no silver . . .’

Suddenly he turned towards the milker. ‘Monsieur Ghoul, you are not here on our account, are you? Otherwise, you would not have come alone, right?’

‘Stands to reason,’ the Ghoul answered warily, letting go of Senka and sticking both hands in his pockets. Oh Lord, now he was going to start shooting through his pants!

‘Then why?’ Deadeye asked with a glint of his specs. ‘Could it perhaps be on account of a certain treasure?’

The Ghoul’s eyes shifted rapidly to and fro, from one enemy to the other. ‘So?’

‘“So?” – I’ll take that as a yes. And who tipped you off?’ Deadeye stopped talking and signalled to the Prince not to do anything yet. ‘Not a Caucasian gentleman by the name of Kazbek, by any chance?’

‘No,’ said the Ghoul, knitting his sparse eyebrows. ‘An old Yid gave me the nod. And he gave me a guide, this little kike here.’

Deadeye snapped his fingers and rubbed his forehead. ‘Right, right. So what does this strange coincidence signify? A chasm opened wide, replete with stars ...’

‘What are you playing at?’ the Prince yelled, dashing at Death, but he lowered the hand with the knuckleduster. ‘What did you bring us here for?’

‘Just a moment, stop babbling,’ the Jack said, pulling him up short again. ‘She won’t tell you anything.’ He nodded in Senka’s direction. ‘Why don’t we sound out our little betrayer of Christ first?’

The betrayer sunk his head into his chest, wondering whether he ought to shout out about the treasure now or wait a bit longer.

The Ghoul twitched his chin. ‘He’s a loony, all he does is bleat. And when he starts flapping his tongue, you can’t understand a thing.’

‘He doesn’t look like a total loony,’ said Deadeye sauntering towards Senka. ‘Come on now, little gentleman of Jerusalem, talk to me, and I’ll listen.’

Senka started back from the crazy maniac. That made the Jack laugh.

‘Where to in such great haste, young Yiddish maid?’

He was right, there was nowhere to go. After just three steps Senka’s back hit the wall.

Deadeye took out his torch, shone it into Senka’s face and laughed. ‘The hair appears to be false,’ he said, and jerked the wig off Senka’s head. The red side locks and the skullcap slid over to one side. ‘Prince, look who we have here. Oh, how many wonderful discoveries—’

‘You whore!’ howled the Prince. ‘So you and your snot-nosed little lover-boy set the whole thing up! Right, Speedy, you tapeworm, this time you’re really done for!’

Now was just the right time, Senka realised. If things turned any nastier than this, he wouldn’t get another chance.

‘Don’t kill me!’ he shouted as loud as he could. ‘You’ll never find the treasure without me!’

The Jack grabbed the Prince by the shoulders. ‘Wait, we’re in no rush!’

But the Ghoul went flying at Senka instead. ‘So you’re in disguise?’ he yelled, and thumped Senka on the ear with his fist.

It was a good thing the crooked wig cushioned the blow, or it would have knocked the life clean out of Senka.

But it still sent him flying anyway. So before they could carry on beating him, he pointed to the nearest heap and shouted: ‘That’s it, there, the silver! Look!’

The milker followed the direction of the finger. He picked up one of the rods and twirled it in his hands. Then Deadeye walked over, picked up another rod and scraped it with his knife. There was a dull white gleam, and the Ghoul gasped: ‘Silver! Well, I’ll be damned, it’s silver!’

He took out his pen and tried another rod, then another, and another. ‘Why, there must be a ton of the stuff in here!’

The Prince and Deadeye forgot all about Senka and also started grabbing too, setting the metal rods clattering.

Senka crept slowly along the wall, moving closer and closer to Death. He whispered: ‘Let’s clear out of here!’

She whispered back: ‘We can’t.’

‘You what? Any moment now they’ll come to their senses and finish me off!’

But Death wouldn’t listen: ‘Erast Petrovich said not to.’

Senka wondered whether maybe he ought to leave her there, seeing as she was so stubborn. Maybe he would have done too (though that’s not very likely) only just then, speak of the devil, who should arrive but Mr Nameless!

They must have been creeping through the passage on tiptoe, because no one had heard them coming.

Three people stepped into the chamber, one after another: Erast Petrovich, Superintendent Solntsev and Boxman. The engineer was holding a torch (which, as it happens, he put out straight away – it was light enough already); the superintendent was holding a revolver in each hand, and Boxman just held up his massive great fists.

‘Reach for the sky!’ the superintendent cried in dashing style. ‘Or I’ll drop you where you stand!’

Mr Nameless stood on his left, and the constable on his right.

The two bandits and the milker froze. The Ghoul was the first to drop his silver rod. He turned round slowly and raised his hands. The Prince and Deadeye followed.

‘That’s my boys!’ Solntsev exclaimed cheerfully. ‘All my sweethearts are here! All my little darlings! And you too, mademoiselle! What are you doing in a place like this! I warned you to be a bit choosier with your acquaintances! Now you have only yourself to blame!’ He glanced quickly at Erast Petrovich and Boxman. ‘Get your revolvers out, what do you think you’re doing? With this treacherous lot, you never know what might happen.’

‘I don’t have a f-firearm on my person today,’ the engineer replied calmly. ‘It will not be n-necessary.’

The constable boomed: ‘And I don’t need one. I’ll lay them out with my fists if need be.’

The superintendent was nobody’s fool, thought Senka. He’d chosen the right man for his assistant.

‘Madam, and you, S-Senya, stand behind me,’ Erast Petrovich said in a voice that couldn’t be argued with.

But it didn’t cross Senka’s mind to object – he ran behind the engineer in a trice and stood right beside the way out. Even headstrong Death didn’t dare argue and she stood beside him.

‘Innokentii Romanovich, p-permit me to address everyone b-briefly,’ Mr Nameless said to the superintendent. ‘I have to explain the t-true significance of this gathering to all p-present here.’

‘The true significance?’ Solntsev exclaimed in surprise. ‘But that’s obvious – the arrest of these villains. The only thing I’d like to know is how you managed to lure them all in here. And who is that picturesque character?’

Those last words were aimed at Senka, who stepped back into the mouth of the passage, just in case.

‘That is m-my assistant,’ Erast Petrovich explained, ‘but my address will not be c-concerned with that.’ He cleared his throat and spoke more loudly, so everyone could hear. ‘Gentlemen, I have very little t-time. I have gathered you here in order to p-put an end to everything at once. Tomorrow – or, rather, t-today –I am departing from the c-city of Moscow, and I must conclude all my b-business here tonight.’

The superintendent interrupted him anxiously. ‘Departing? But on the way here you told me we would wipe out all these lowlifes together, and that would open up tremendous prospects for me . . .’

‘There are s-some things that I find more interesting than your c-career,’ the engineer snapped. ‘Sport, for instance.’

‘What damned sport?’

The superintendent was so surprised that he shifted his gaze from the prisoners to Erast Petrovich. Deadeye didn’t miss a beat, he slipped his hand into his sleeve, but Boxman bounded forward and raised his huge fist. ‘I’ll clobber you!’

The Jack instantly held up his empty palms.

‘Interrupt m-me once again, and I’ll t-take away your Colts!’ Mr Nameless shouted angrily at the superintendent. ‘In your hands they’re not much use in any case!’

Solntsev just nodded: All right, all right, I’ll hold my tongue.

Now that he’d shown everyone who was cock of the walk (at least, that was how Senka interpreted the engineer’s behaviour), Erast Petrovich addressed the arrested men: ‘And so, gentlemen, I d-decided to gather you here for two reasons. The first is that you were all suspects in the c-case of the Khitrovka murders. I already know who the true culprit is, but n-nonetheless I shall explain briefly how each of you attracted my s-suspicion. The Prince knew of the existence of the t-treasure, that is one. He was s-searching for it, that is two. In addition, in recent m-months he has been transformed from an ordinary hold-up artist into a ruthless k-killer, that is three. You, Mr D-Deadeye, also knew about the treasure, that is one. You are m-monstrously cruel, that is two. And finally, you are p-playing a double game behind your patron’s b-back: you despise him, steal from his t-table and sleep in his bed. That is three.’

‘What?’ the Prince roared, turning towards his adjutant. ‘What’s that he said about my bed?’

The Jack smirked, but it was a look that gave Senka goose pimples all over.

But meanwhile Mr Nameless had already turned to the Ghoul: ‘As f-for you, Mr Milker, you have been obsessed b-by the Prince’s rapid ascent. As a vulture who preys on the spoils of others’ efforts, you are always attempting to g-grab a chunk of your rival’s good f-fortune: loot, g-glory, a woman. That is one. You do not stop short at m-murder, but you only resort to this extreme measure after having t-taken all possible precautions. Like the Khitrovka Treasure Hunter, who is d-distinguished by his positively maniacal c-caution. That is two . . .’

‘A woman?’ the Prince interrupted – he was listening intently to the case for the prosecution. ‘What woman? Death, is that who he means? Don’t tell me the Ghoul got his dirty paws on you as well?’

Senka looked at Death and saw she was as pale as death (no, better to say ‘pale as a sheet’, or ‘white as snow’, or else it will be confusing). But she just laughed.

‘Yes, he did, and your friend Deadeye too. You’re all as good as each other – spiders!’

The Prince swung round and launched a punch at the side of the Jack’s head, but Deadeye seemed to be expecting it – he leapt back nimbly and pulled a knife out of his sleeve. The Ghoul dug one hand into his pocket too.

‘Stop that!’ the superintendent yelled. ‘Or you’ll go down where you stand! All three of you!’

They froze, staring daggers at each other. Deadeye didn’t put the knife away, the Ghoul didn’t take his hand out of his pocket, and the steel knuckleduster glinted on the Prince’s clenched fist.

‘Put your weapons away immediately,’ the engineer told them all. ‘That includes you t-too, Innokentii Romanovich. You m-might shoot by accident. And in any case, this is n-not cowboys and Indians, or c-cops and robbers, but a different g-game altogether, in which all of you are all equal.’

‘Wha-at?’ the superintendent gasped.

‘Oh yes. You were also one of my suspects. Would you l-like to know my reasons? Very well, I’ll proceed. You are as ruthless and c-cruel as the other guests here. And you will stoop to any base v-villainy, even murder, to further your own ambition. This is q-quite evident from your entire service record, which is very well kn-known to me. It is to your advantage for the n-new ripper from Khitrovka to become the latest s-sensation in Moscow. It is therefore no accident that you are s-so hospitable to the n-newspaper reporters. First create a bogeyman to set the p-public trembling with fear, then heroically defeat your own c-creation – that is your method. That is exactly how you acted a year ago in the c-case of the famous “Khamovniki Gang” – you c-controlled the gang yourself, through your agent.’

‘Nonsense! Wild conjecture!’ the superintendent cried. ‘You have no proof! You weren’t even in Moscow at the time!’

‘But do not f-forget that I have many old friends in M-Moscow, including many among the police. Not all of them are as b-blind as your superiors. But that has n-nothing to do with the matter at hand. I only wish to say that p-provocation and entrapment with a b-bloody outcome are nothing new to you. You are calculating and c-cold blooded. And therefore I do not b-believe in your wild, uncontrollable passion for the Prince’s l-lady love – you only need the lady as a s-source of information.’

‘What, this one too?’ the Prince groaned in a voice filled with such pain and torment that Senka actually felt sorry for him. ‘You’re the greatest whore on God’s earth! You’ve lifted your skirts for all of them, even a lousy copper would do!’

But Death just laughed – a low, rustling laugh that was almost soundless.

‘Madam,’ Erast Petrovich said, glancing at her briefly, ‘I d-demand that you withdraw immediately. Senya, t-take her away!’

The smart engineer had chosen the right moment all right – after he’d stirred them all up like that, they couldn’t care less about Death now, let alone little Senka.

And little Senka didn’t have to be asked twice. He took hold of Death’s hand and pulled her towards the mouth of the passage. Mr Nameless’s meet was going to end badly, no doubting that. It would be interesting to watch it to the end, of course, only through opera glasses, from a seat in the top circle. But as for being on stage when they started bumping everyone off – thanks for the offer, but maybe some other time.

Death took two small steps, no more, and then she refused to budge and Senka couldn’t shift her. And when he took hold of her sides and tried to pull her, she dug her elbow hard into the pit of his stomach, and it really hurt.

Senka grabbed hold of his belly and started gasping for air, but he carried on peeping out from behind her shoulder, trying to keep up with the action. It was interesting, after all. He saw the superintendent back away to the wall and point one revolver at Erast Petrovich and keep the other trained on the bandits.

‘So it’s a trap?’ he exclaimed, just as flustered as Senka. ‘You picked the wrong man, Fandorin. I’ve got twelve bullets in these cylinders. Enough for everyone! Boxman, come over here!’

The constable walked over to his superior and stood behind him, his eyes glinting menacingly under his grey brows.

‘This is not just one t-trap, Innokentii Romanovich, but two,’ Mr Nameless explained calmly after the superintendent called him that strange word again. ‘As I said, I wish to c-conclude all my business in Moscow tonight. I only stated the b-basis for my suspicions so that you would have the f-full picture. The culprit is here, and he will receive the p-punishment he deserves. I invited the rest of you here for a d-different purpose: to f-free a certain lady from dangerous liaisons and even m-more dangerous delusions. She is a quite exceptional lady, g-gentlemen. She has suffered a great deal and d-deserves compassion. And by the way, in c-calling you all spiders, she has suggested an excellent name for this operation. A most p-precise image. You are spiders, and while f-four of you belong to the species of c-common spider, the fifth is a g-genuine tarantula. So, welcome to Operation Spiders in a Jar. The n-narrow confines of this treasure chamber render the title even m-more fitting.’

The engineer paused, as if inviting the others to appreciate his wit.

‘The fifth?’ asked Solntsev. ‘Where do you see a fifth?’

‘Right behind you.’

The superintendent swung round in fright and stared at Boxman, who glared down at his superior from his great height.

‘Constable Boxman is my g-guest of honour here today,’ said Erast Petrovich. ‘A spider of t-truly rare dimensions.’

Boxman barked so loudly, he brought the dust sprinkling down from the ceiling.

‘Your Honour must have lost his mind! Why, I—’

‘No, B-Boxman,’ the engineer retorted sharply. It wasn’t very loud, but the constable stopped talking. ‘You’re the one who has l-lost his mind in his old age. But we’ll t-talk about the reason for your mental derangement later. First let us d-deal with the essence of the matter. You were the prime suspect from the very b-beginning, in spite of all your c-caution. Let me explain why. The vicious m-murders in Khitrovka started about two months ago. A d-drunken reveller was killed and robbed, and then a reporter intending to write an article about the s-slums. Nothing unusual for Khitrovka, if n-not for one certain detail: their eyes were g-gouged out. Then the m-murderer gouged out the eyes of everyone in the Siniukhin family, in exactly the s-same way. There are two circumstances of n-note here. Firstly, it is impossible to imagine any of these exceptional c-crimes occurring on your beat without you f-finding out who committed them. You are the true master of Khitrovka! Superintendents come and g-go, the top dogs in the criminal underworld change, b-but Boxman is eternal. He has eyes and ears everywhere, every d-door is open to him, he knows the s-secrets of the police and the Council. More murders took p-place and the entire city started t-talking about them, but the ubiquitous Boxman d-didn’t know a thing. From this I concluded that you were c-connected with the mysterious Treasure Hunter, and m-must be his accomplice. My suspicions were corroborated by the fact that in s-subsequent murders the victims’ eyes were not put out. I recalled t-telling you that the theory of images being retained on the retina after death had been d-disproved by science . . . But I was still n-not certain that you were the killer and not s-simply an accomplice. Until yesterday n-night, that is, when you killed a young m-man, one of your informers. That was when I finally excluded all the other spiders f-from my list of suspects and focused on you . . .’

‘And how exactly, if I might enquire, did I give myself away?’ Boxman asked, looking at the engineer curiously. Senka couldn’t see a trace of fear or even alarm in the constable’s face.

But then he had to turn his head to look at the superintendent: Are you admitting it, Boxman?’ Solntsev exclaimed in fright, recoiling from his subordinate. ‘But he hasn’t proved anything yet!’

‘He will,’ Boxman said with a good-natured wave, still looking at Mr Nameless. ‘There’s no wriggling out of it with him. And you keep your mouth shut, Your Honour. This has nothing to do with you.’

Solntsev opened his mouth, but he didn’t make a peep. That was what the books called ‘to be struck dumb’.

‘You want t-to know how you gave yourself away?’ Erast Petrovich asked with a smirk. ‘Why, it’s very s-simple. There is only one way to twist someone’s n-neck through a hundred and eighty degrees in a s-single moment, so fast that he doesn’t even have time to m-make a sound: take a firm grasp of the c-crown of the head and turn it sharply, b-breaking the vertebrae and tearing the m-muscles. This requires truly phenomenal physical strength – a strength th-that you alone, of all the suspects, possess. Neither the Prince, nor Deadeye, n-nor the superintendent could have done that. There are not many people in the world c-capable of such a feat. And that’s all there is t-to it. The Khitrovka m-murders are not a very complex case. If I had not been involved in another investigation at the s-same time, I would have got to you m-much sooner . . .’

‘Well, no one’s perfect,’ Boxman said with a shrug. ‘I thought I was being so careful, but I slipped up there. I should have smashed Prokha’s head in.’

‘Indeed,’ Mr Nameless agreed. ‘But that would n-not have saved you from participating in Operation Spiders in a J-Jar. The outcome would still have b-been the same in any case.’

As he peeped over Death’s shoulder, Senka tried to figure out what that outcome was. What was going to happen when the talking stopped? The bandits had already lowered their hands on the sly, and the superintendent’s lips were trembling. If he started blasting away with those revolvers, that would be a fine outcome for everyone.

But the engineer carried on talking to the constable as if he was sitting by the samovar in a tea-house. ‘I c-can understand everything,’ said Erast Petrovich. ‘You didn’t want to l-leave any witnesses, you didn’t even take p-pity on a three-year-old child. But why kill the d-dog and the parrot? That is more than mere c-caution, it is insanity.’

‘Oh no, Your Honour,’ said Boxman, stroking his drooping moustache. ‘That bird could talk. When I went in, the Armenian woman said to me: “Good day, Constable.” And the parrot piped up: “Good day, Constable!” too. What if it had said that in front of the investigator? And that puppy at the mamselle’s place was altogether too fond of sniffing at things. I read in the Police Gazette how a dog attacked the man who killed its master, and that put him under suspicion. You can read a lot of useful things in the newspapers.

Only you can’t read the most important things.’ He sighed wistfully. ‘Like how you can suddenly feel like a young man again, when you’re the wrong side of fifty . . .’

‘You mean there’s no f-fool like an old fool?’ Erast Petrovich asked with an understanding nod. ‘No, they don’t write m-much about that in the newspapers. You should have read p-poetry, Boxman, or gone to the opera: “Love humbles every age of m-man” and all that. I heard you t-telling Mademoiselle Death about “a st-strong man with immense wealth”. Were you thinking of yourself? In t-twenty years of ruling Khitrovka, you must have s-saved up quite a lot, enough for your old age. For your old age, yes, b-but hardly enough for a Swan Queen. In any c-case, that was what you thought. And your impossible d-dream drove you into a frenzy, you c-craved for that “immense wealth”. You started killing f-for money, something you had never d-done before, and when you heard about the underground treasure t-trove, you lost your m-mind completely . . .’

‘That’s love for you, Your Honour.’ Boxman sighed. ‘It asks no questions. Turns some into angels and others into devils. And I’d play the part of Satan himself to make her mine . . .’

‘You scoundrel!’ the superintendent exclaimed furiously. ‘You arrogant brute! Talking about love! Carrying on like this, behind my back! You’ll be doing hard labour!’

Boxman said sternly: ‘Shut up, you little shrimp! Haven’t you realised what Erast Petrovich is driving at?’

The superintendent choked. ‘Shrimp?’ Then he changed tack. ‘Driving at? What do you mean by that?’

‘Erast Petrovich has fallen for Death too, head over heels,’ Boxman explained as if he was talking to a simpleton. ‘And he’s decided that only one man’s going to leave this place alive, and that’s him. His Honour’s decided right, too, because he’s a clever man. I agree with him. There’ll be five dead men left in here, and only one will get out, with these incredible riches. And he’ll get Death too. Only we still have to see who it’s going to be.’

As Senka listened he thought: He’s right, the snake, he’s right! That’s why Mr Nameless rounded them all up here, to rid the earth of these monsters. And to free a certain person who wasn’t supposed to hear all this –just look at the way her chest’s heaving now.

He touched Death on the shoulder: Come on, let’s clear off while the going’s good.

But then things began moving so fast, it set Senka’s head spinning.

At the words ‘who it’s going to be’, Boxman hit the superintendent on the wrists with his fists and the revolvers went clattering to the stone floor.

In a single moment Deadeye pulled a knife out of his sleeve, the Ghoul and the Prince pulled out their revolvers, and the constable bent down and picked up one of the revolvers Solntsev had dropped – and trained the barrel on Erast Petrovich.

HOW SENKA TRIED TO KEEP UP (continued)

Senka squeezed his eyes shut and put his hands over his ears, so he wouldn’t be deafened by the thunderous roar that was coming. He waited about five seconds, but no shots came. Then he opened his eyes.

The picture he saw was like something out of a fairy tale about an enchanted kingdom, where everyone has suddenly fallen asleep and frozen on the spot, just as they were.

The Prince was aiming his revolver at Deadeye, who had his hand raised, holding a throwing knife; the superintendent had picked up one of his Colts and was aiming it at the Ghoul, and the Ghoul was aiming his gun at the superintendent. Boxman had Mr Nameless in his sights, and the engineer was the only one unarmed – he was just standing there with his arms calmly folded. No one was moving, so the whole lot of them looked like a photograph – as well as an enchanted kingdom.

‘Now how could you set out for such a serious rendezvous without a pistol, Your Honour?’ Boxman asked, shaking his head as if he was commiserating with the engineer. ‘You’re so proud. But in the Scriptures it says the proud shall be put to shame. What are you going to do?’

‘Proud, b-but not stupid, as you ought t-to know, Boxman. If I came without a weapon, it m-means there was good reason for it.’ Erast Petrovich raised his voice. ‘Gentlemen, stop trying to f-frighten each other! Operation Spiders in a Jar is p-proceeding according to plan and now entering its f-final stage. But first, I must explain s-something important. Are you aware that you are m-members of a certain club? A club that ought to be c-called “The Lovers of Death”. Were you not astounded that the most b-beautiful, the most miraculous of women d-demonstrated such benevolent condescension to your . . . dubious virtues, to p-put it politely?’

At these words the Prince, the Ghoul, Deadeye and even the superintendent turned towards the speaker, and Death shuddered.

Mr Nameless nodded. ‘I see that you were. You were q-quite right, Boxman, when you claimed that if you are the only one to g-get out of here alive, Death will b-be yours. That is undoubtedly what will occur. She herself will s-summon you into her embraces, b-because she recognises you as a g-genuine evildoer. After all, gentlemen, in his own way each of you is a genuine m-monster. Do not take that as a t-term of abuse, it is merely a statement of f-fact. After all the misfortunes she s-suffered, the poor young l-lady whom you know so well imagined that her caresses really were f-fatal for men. And therefore she d-drives away all those whom she does n-not think deserving of death and welcomes only the l-lowest dregs, whose vile, stinking breath p-poisons the very air of God’s world. Mademoiselle Death conceived the g-goal of using her body to reduce the amount of evil in th-the world. A tragic and s-senseless undertaking. She cannot possibly t-take on all the evil in the world, and it was not worth s-soiling herself for the sake of a few spiders. I shall be glad to render her this s-small service. Or rather, you will render it, b-by devouring each other.’

Just at that moment Death whispered something. Senka pricked up his ears, but he couldn’t make out the words. Except for one: ‘late’. What did that mean?

So that was why she’d thrown Erast Petrovich out on his ear! She was afraid her love would cost him his life!

And she didn’t give me the push because I’m just a kid to her, either, Senka told himself, straightening up his shoulders.

Mr Nameless had come up with a smart plan, no denying that. Do away with all of the stinking reptiles at the same time. Only how was he going to handle them without a weapon?

The engineer continued as if he had heard Senka’s question: ‘Gentlemen and spiders, p-please put your pocket cannons away. I c-came here without a firearm because we can’t shoot in this b-basement in any case. I had time to make a close study of the v-vaults, they are in very bad repair, held up by n-nothing but a wish and a promise. One shot or, indeed, a l-loud shout will be enough to bring the Holy T-Trinity down on top of us.’

‘The Holy Trinity?’ Solntsev echoed nervously.

‘Not the Father, the S-Son and the Holy Ghost,’ Erast Petrovich said with a smile, ‘but the Ch-Church of the Holy Trinity in Serebryanniki. At this m-moment we are precisely below its f-foundations, I checked a historical map of Moscow. The b-buildings of the State Mint used to stand here.’

‘He’s lying through his teeth,’ said the Ghoul, shaking his head. ‘The Trinity can’t collapse, it’s made of stone.’

Instead of answering, the engineer clapped his hands loudly. The heap of earth and rubble blocking the doorway shook, and small stones showered down from the top of it.

‘A-agh!’ gasped Senka, choking on his own cry, and put his hand over his mouth.

But the others didn’t hear him – they were all gazing around wildly and gasping in fright. The superintendent even covered his head with his hands.

Death looked round at Senka for the first time since she had dug her elbow into him. She touched his forehead gently with her finger and whispered: ‘Don’t be afraid, everything will be all right.’

He was going to say: ‘There’s no one afraid here’, but she turned away again before he could.

Erast Petrovich waited for the spiders to stop twitching and said in a loud, commanding voice: ‘Before you d-determine which of you will leave here alive, I s-suggest you tip your bullets out on the f-floor. One accidental shot, and there will be n-no victors.’

‘A sound idea,’ said Boxman, the first to respond.

Deadeye agreed. ‘A bullet has no brains, that goes without saying.’

Well, of course! Those two didn’t need revolvers, Deadeye probably didn’t even have one.

The Prince narrowed his eyes in fury and hissed:

‘I’ll bite your rotten throats out!’ He threw open the cylinder of his revolver and tipped out the bullets.

The Ghoul hesitated for a moment, but a few more stones tumbled down off the top of the heap, and that convinced him.

The superintendent really didn’t want to part with his Colt. He glanced desperately at the way out, wondering whether he could leg it, but Erast Petrovich was blocking the way.

‘Come now, Your Honour,’ said Boxman, aiming his revolver at his superior’s forehead. ‘Do as you’re told!’

The superintendent tried to open the cylinder, but his hands were shaking. So he just flung the revolver away – it clanged against the floor, spun round a few times then stopped.

Boxman was the last to get rid of his bullets. ‘That’s better,’ he grunted, rolling up his sleeves. ‘Those popguns are nothing but trouble. Right, then, let’s get down to it and see who comes off best. Only keep it quiet! The first one to yell is the first to die!’

The Prince took his knuckleduster from his pocket. Deadeye backed away into the wall and shook his wrist, and a bright blade glinted between his fingers like a silvery fish. The Ghoul bent down, picked a silver rod up off a pile and swung it a couple of times. It whistled through the air. Even the superintendent wasn’t going to be left out. He ran into a corner, clicked something, and a narrow strip of steel leapt from his fist – the same knife he’d used to peel his apple at the station.

The engineer simply walked forward, taking springy steps with his legs slightly bent. Good for Erast Petrovich, the brainbox, he’d twisted them round his little finger. Now he’d start thrashing away with those arms and legs, Japanese-style.

Senka touched Death on the shoulder, as if to say: Watch what happens now! But she said: ‘Ah, how well it’s all turning out, it’s like the answer to a prayer. Let go of me, Senka.’

She turned round, kissed him quickly on the side of the head and ran out into the middle of the chamber. ‘And here I am, Death! Speak of the devil!’

She bent down and picked up the pistol the superintendent had thrown away, held it in both hands and cocked the hammer. ‘Thank you, Erast Pretrovich,’ she said to the stupefied engineer. ‘This was a very good idea. You can go now, you’re not needed here any more. Take Senya with you, and make haste. And you, my sweet little lovers,’ she said, turning towards the others, ‘will stay here with me.’

The Prince growled and darted towards her, but Death pointed the pistol at the ceiling. ‘Stop! I’ll fire! Or do you think I’m afraid to?’

Even the bold Prince backed away at that, her shout was so convincing.

‘Don’t d-do this!’ said Mr Nameless, recovering his senses. ‘Please, l-leave, you will only spoil everything.’

She tossed her head and her big eyes flashed. ‘Oh no! How could I leave, when God has shown me such kindness? I was always afraid that I would end up lying lifeless in my coffin and everyone would come and look. Now no one will see me dead, and there’ll be no need to bury me. The kind earth will shelter me.’

Senka saw Boxman edge over to the Ghoul and the Prince and whisper something to them. But Erast Petrovich wasn’t looking at them, only at Death.

‘There’s no reason for you to die!’ he shouted. ‘Just because you’ve convinced yourself that—’

‘Now!’ Boxman gasped, and all three of them – Boxman, the Prince and the Ghoul – flung themselves on the engineer.

The constable crashed into Erast Petrovich with all the weight of his massive carcass, pinned him against the wall, grabbed hold of his wrists and pulled the engineer’s arms out as if he was on a cross.

‘Get his legs!’ Boxman wheezed. ‘He’s a great kicker!’

The Prince and the Ghoul squatted down on their haunches and grabbed hold of Mr Nameless’s legs. He twitched like a fish on a hook, but he couldn’t break free.

‘Let him go!’ Death shrieked, and pointed the revolver, but she didn’t fire.

‘Hey, you, Four-eyes, take that gun off her!’ the constable ordered.

Deadeye moved directly towards Death, reciting in a cajoling voice: ‘Return to me, I beg you, cruel one, a youthful lover’s sacred pledge.’

She turned towards the Jack. ‘Don’t come any closer. Or I’ll kill you.’

But the slender hands clutching the revolver were shaking.

‘Shoot him! Don’t b-be afraid!’ Erast Petrovich shouted desperately, struggling to break loose.

But Boxman’s mighty hands held him in a vice-like grip, and the Ghoul and the Prince still kept hold of their prisoner.

‘Stop, you damned blockhead!’ the superintendent howled. ‘She’ll fire! You’ll get us all killed!’

The Jack’s thin lips stretched out into a smile. ‘Blockhead yourself! Mademoiselle won’t fire, she’s too concerned for the handsome man with the dark hair. That, my dear copper, is called love.’

He suddenly took two long, rapid strides, grabbed the Colt out of Death’s hands and flung it as far away as he could, to the entrance of the passage, then said calmly: ‘And now you can finish off Mr Know-all.’

‘What with, our teeth?’ hissed Boxman, crimson from the strain. ‘He’s a strong devil, we can barely hold him.’

‘Well then,’ Deadeye sighed, ‘it is the duty of the intelligentsia to help the people. Now, servant of law and order, move aside a little, if you please.’

The constable shifted over as far as he could and the Jack raised his knife, preparing to throw. Now the steel lightning would flash and that would be end of the American engineer Erast Petrovich Nameless.

The Colt was lying on the floor only two steps away from the passage, its burnished steel glittering as if it was winking at Senka: Well, Speedy, how about it?

Ah, to hell with it, he could only die once, it had to happen some time!

Senka dashed to the revolver, grabbed it and yelled: ‘Stop, Deadeye! I’ll take your life!’

Deadeye swung round and his sparse eyebrows inched up in surprise.

‘Bah, the seventh coming. That Speedy again. Why have you come back, you stupid little goose?’

‘Hey, kid!’ shouted the superintendent, pressing himself back against the wall. ‘Don’t even think about it! You don’t know! You can’t shoot in here! The whole place will collapse. We’ll be buried alive.’

‘L-Landslide!’ Erast Petrovich suddenly shouted out at the top of his voice.

Instantly there was a low rumble and the heap of earth and stone blocking off the doorway shuddered and collapsed. The superintendent screamed desperately as a solid, stocky figure dressed in black forced its way out through the rubble. It came tumbling out into the middle of the chamber like a rubber ball, and threw itself at the Jack, screeching like a warrior.

Masa!

Now that was a real miracle!

Erast Petrovich immediately took advantage of his enemies’ confusion: the Prince went flying off in one direction, the Ghoul in the other. But the engineer still couldn’t break the grip of Boxman’s huge hands and, after a brief struggle, they collapsed on the floor, with the constable on top, pinning Mr Nameless down and still holding on tight to his wrists. The Ghoul and the Prince didn’t help Boxman this time – the two bandits’ hate was too strong. They grabbed each other and started rolling across the floor.

Deadeye flung a knife at Masa, but the Japanese squatted down in good time, and he dodged the second and third knives just as easily. But the Jack didn’t stop once he had exhausted the arsenal in his sleeve. He threw back the skirt of his long frock coat, and Senka saw a wooden cane attached to the belt of his trousers.

Senka remembered what Deadeye had in that cane – a big, long pen that was called a ‘foil’. And he hadn’t forgotten how smartly the Jack handled that terrible shiv either.

Deadeye put his left hand behind his back, moved one foot out in front and started edging forward, tracing out glittering circles with his whistling blade. Masa backed away. What else could he do, with only his bare hands!

‘I’ll fire! I’ll fire right now!’ Senka shouted, but no one even looked round.

So there he was, standing like a fool with a loaded revolver, and no one giving a rotten damn about him; everybody was too busy with their own business: Boxman was sitting on the engineer and trying to butt him in the face with his forehead; the Prince and the Ghoul were growling and screeching like two crazy dogs; Deadeye was driving Masa into a corner; Death was trying to drag the constable off Erast Petrovich (but what could she do against a great brute like that?); the superintendent was gazing around like a loony and holding his flick-knife out in front of him.

‘Don’t just stand there, yerbleedinonner!’ Boxman wheezed. ‘Can’t you see I can’t hold him? Stick him! We’ll settle things between us afterwards!

The villainous superintendent – and him supposed to be a servant of law and order! – went running across to stab the man on the floor. He threw Death aside and raised his hand, but she grabbed hold of his arm.

‘Look at me, you lousy bastards,’ Senka shouted in a tearful voice, waving the Colt. ‘I’m going to fire now and bury the damn lot of you!’

Solntsev shifted the knife to his left hand and stuck the blade in Death without even a sideways glance. She sat down on the floor with a look of sudden surprise on her face. In fact, her elegant eyebrows rose up in a strange expression of joy. She carefully put her hands over her wound, and Senka was horrified to see blood streaming out between her fingers.

‘Move over, damn you!’ the superintendent gasped, going down on his knees. ‘I’ll stick him in the neck!’

Senka stopped worrying about the Holy Trinity crushing everyone. Let it, if this was the way things were. He held the revolver out in front of him and pulled the trigger without even taking aim.

He was deafened straight off, didn’t even hear the shot properly, his ears were suddenly blocked, and that was all. A tongue of flame leapt out of the barrel, the superintendent’s head jerked to one side in dashing style, as if he was pointing out some direction, and his body instantly followed instructions by falling that way.

After that the end came very quickly, in a terrible, hollow silence.

The ceiling was all right, it didn’t collapse, it just dropped a scattering of dust and that was all. But Erast Petrovich managed to pull his left hand out from under Boxman, who had glanced round at the thunderous roar. The engineer made use of this hand by squeezing it into a fist and delivering a short, sharp blow to Boxman’s chin. The constable snorted and flopped over on his side like a bull at the slaughterhouse.

Senka turned in the other direction to shoot Deadeye as well, before he could jab that foil of his through Masa. But Senka’s help wasn’t needed. After driving the sensei into a corner, the Jack sprang forward, the arm with the foil uncoiled like a spring, and by rights he should have pinned the Japanese to the wall, but the blade just clattered against the stone as Masa skipped to the left and flicked his wrist. Something small and shiny flew out of his hand and Deadeye suddenly swayed like a floppy stuffed doll. He reached up feebly for his throat, but his hand never reached it. The Jack’s arms dropped limply, his knees buckled and he collapsed flat on his back. His head tipped backwards and Senka saw a steel star with sharp edges that had bitten deep into Deadeye’s throat. There was dark blood bubbling out around it, but Deadeye just lay there quietly, twitching his legs.

The Prince and the Ghoul had stopped rolling around and creating a ruckus too. Senka looked at them and saw that the back of the Ghoul’s head was all smashed in, it was covered in dark dents and bruises from the knuckleduster. And the smashed head was lying just where the Prince’s throat was supposed to be. The eyes of the man who had hated Senka so much were staring rigidly up at the ceiling. Would you believe it – all those times he’d threatened to rip someone’s throat out with his teeth, and someone had ripped his out for him. The Ghoul had drunk his fill of the Prince’s blood. The two spiders had devoured each other . . .

Senka thought about all this, so he wouldn’t have to think about Death. He didn’t even want to look in her direction.

When he did finally glance round, she was sitting propped up against the wall. Her eyes were closed and her face was white and stiff. Senka turned away again quickly.

The resounding silence gradually receded. Senka could hear Boxman hiccuping and Masa grunting as he pulled his magic star out of the Jack’s throat.

‘The ceiling didn’t collapse,’ Senka told the engineer in a trembling voice.

‘Why should it c-collapse?’ Erast Petrovich asked hoarsely, climbing out from under the constable’s heavy carcass. ‘The stonework here will st-stand for another thousand years. Oof, he must weigh three hundred p-pounds at least . . . Don’t just stand there, S-Senya! Help the l-lady up.’

So Mr Nameless hadn’t seen the superintendent stick his knife in her.

‘Won’t he come round?’ Senka asked, and pointed at the hiccuping Boxman – not because he was worried, just playing for time. He could pretend to himself that Death was just sitting there against the wall: she wasn’t dead, just sleeping, or maybe she’d fainted.

‘No, he won’t come round. That blow was “the talon of the dragon”, it’s fatal.’

Then Erast Petrovich got up, went over to the seated damsel and held out his hand to her.

Senka sobbed and got ready for the engineer to yell.

But Death wasn’t dead at all. She suddenly went and opened those big glowing eyes, looked up at Erast Petrovich and smiled.

‘What . . . what’s wrong?’ he asked, frightened.

He went down on his haunches, moved her fingers away and then – Senka had guessed right – he yelled.

‘Why did you do it, why?’ Mr Nameless muttered as he ripped open her dress and slip. ‘I had everything worked out! Masa dismantled the heap of rubble in advance and he was hiding in there, just waiting for the signal! Oh, Lord!’ he groaned when he saw the black cut below her left breast.

‘I know you would have managed without me,’ Death whispered. ‘You’re strong . . .’

‘Then why, why?’ he asked in a choking voice.

‘So that you can live. You can’t be with me . . . Now you’re immortal, nothing can touch you. I’m your Death, and I have died . . .’

And she closed her eyes.

Erast Petrovich yelled again, even louder than the last time, and Senka started blubbing.

But she wasn’t dead yet. No wonder they used to call her Lively before she was Death, people didn’t get their monikers for nothing.

She lived for a long time after that. Maybe even a whole hour. She breathed, she even smiled softly once, but she didn’t talk and she didn’t open her eyes. And then she stopped breathing.

She’s really beautiful, thought Senka. And in the coffin, if they wash the dust and dirt off her face and pack flowers round her (orange blossom was what was needed, it meant ‘purity’, and a sprig of yew, for ‘eternal love’) she’ll look a real treat. Her father and mother will collect her, because that’s their right, and they’ll bury her in the damp ground, and put up a big white stone cross over her, and carve what she used to be called on it, and underneath they’ll write: ‘Here lies Death’.

HOW SENKA READ THE NEWSPAPER

Once they set off, they tore along the high road for fourteen hours without a break, although they hadn’t agreed to do that in advance. They covered almost three hundred versts and only topped up the fuel tank with the can twice. And all that way not a single word was spoken between the driver and his assistant. Senka did what he was supposed to do: tooted the horn, waved the flag, hung out through the door on steep turns, watched to make sure the wheels didn’t come loose. The assistant was supposed to follow the route on a map too, but Senka didn’t manage that very well. The moment he put his head down, his nose started running, salty water started dripping from his eyes and he got a lump in his throat. He couldn’t see the map for his tears, it was just a mass of coloured blotches. But when he looked ahead, into the distance, and let the wind blow his hair about, it was all right, his eyes and his cheeks soon dried out then.

He couldn’t tell whether Mr Nameless was crying or not, because he could hardly even see the driver’s face under his protective goggles. The engineer’s lips were clamped firmly shut all the time, but Senka thought the corner of his mouth was trembling.

But straight after Vyazma the solid-cast tyre on the front wheel split. There was nothing for it, they had to push the three-wheeler back to the town – they couldn’t ride on two tyres, could they, it wasn’t a bicycle.

The spare tyres and all the other parts were travelling in a horse-drawn carriage with Masa and his female companion, and the carriage had already fallen a long way behind the Flying Carpet. They’d be lucky if it trundled its way to Vyazma by tomorrow evening. So, like it or not, they had to stop over for a night and a day. That was all settled without words too. The sportsmen didn’t feel like taking supper and they went to their rooms to sleep.

In the morning Senka walked out of the hotel and shooed away the local kids hanging around the auto without answering any of their stupid questions – he wasn’t in the mood for that. Then he set off to the railway station to get a Moscow newspaper.

Right, then, had they printed it or not? He opened the Gazette straight off at page five, where they wrote about theatre and sport.

They’d printed it all right – they had to, didn’t they?

They’re off!

Despite the wind and rain, yesterday at noon devotees of automobile sport, that new religion which is still such an exotic novelty in the wide expanses of Russia, gathered at Triumfalnaya Square for the start of a long-distance drive to Paris. We have written about this event previously and intend to provide continuing comment by means of the telegraph. The spectators saw off the driver, Mr Nameless, and his youthful assistant with enthusiastic applause. The two sportsmen, who seemed quite emotional and preoccupied, avoided any contact with members of the press. Our wish for them is not the sailor’s traditional ‘seven feet under the keel’ (the potholes in the wide expanses of Russia are quite deep enough already), but rather, as the automobilists say, ‘firm tyres and a steady spark’.

Senka read the brief article about ten times and he even read the part about the ‘youthful assistant’ out loud.

After he’d already folded the Gazette neatly, he suddenly spotted a large headline on the front page.

WHEN THIEVES FALL OUT

The bloody drama in Khitrovka

We are now able to report certain details of yesterday’s events, which have been the subject of so much rumour and speculation.

On the night of 23rd September, a full-scale battle took place in the infamous Khitrovka slums between the forces of the law and local bandits. The police put an end to the criminal ‘careers’ of the rival leaders of Moscow’s two most dangerous gangs, the Prince and the Ghoul, who both preferred death to arrest. Also killed was an escaped convict, a former student by the name of Kuzminsky, who had figured on wanted lists throughout Russia for a long time.

Unfortunately, there were also casualties among the defenders of public order. The superintendent of the Third Myasnitsky Precinct, Colonel Solntsev, and Senior Constable Boxman died heroically while fighting to defend the citizens of Moscow. The former was still young and had shown great promise, the latter had only two years to go until he drew a well-earned pension. Eternal glory to the heroes.

The high police-master’s adjutant refused to give the press any further information, adding only that that a certain female individual killed in the shooting was the Prince’s lover (or ‘moll’ in the criminal jargon).

However, our correspondent has succeeded in establishing an interesting circumstance that is directly related to the Khitrovka tragedy.

See p. 3, the article ‘A noble deed’ in the ‘Events’ section

Why, the rotten lousy coppers! Senka thought indignantly. Lying and twisting everything like that! There wasn’t a word about Erast Petrovich or Masa, even though Mr Nameless had left an envelope for the top police chief at the station, with everything described just the way it had been.

Some heroes, he thought. He ought to write a letter to the editor, that’s what he ought to do. Let people know the truth. These newspapermen were all damned liars, anyway. They printed any old rubbish without bothering to check it!

Still fuming, Senka opened page three.

So what was this deed, then?

Aha, there it was.

A noble deed

According to information we have received from a confidential source the battle between the police and bandits in Khitrovka (see p. 1, the article ‘When thieves fall out’) resulted from an ambush arranged by the police of the Third Myasnitsky Precinct in a secret underground hiding place where old treasure of immense value was stored.

The day before yesterday the Justice of the Peace of the Tyoply Stan District of Moscow Province received a letter written on the instructions of the minor S. Spidorov, who had discovered a fabulous treasure of immense value in the subterranean depths of Khitrovka. Instead of simply appropriating these riches, as the majority of Muscovites would no doubt have done, the noble youth chose to entrust his discovery to the care of the municipal authorities. The where abouts of the treasure became known to bandits, and the police, having learned about this through their network of secret informers, proceeded to plan the bold operation which is the talk of the whole city today.

On behalf of the inhabitants of the old capital, we congratulate Mr Spidorov on the reward that is now due to him. And we may congratulate ourselves on the emergence of a wonderful new generation, to whom we can entrust the fate of the new-born twentieth century with no qualms or doubts.

The Diamond Chariot

The tenth book in the Erast Fandorin series, 2011

Translated by Andrew Bromfield

BOOK 1

DRAGONFLY-CATCHER

Russia, 1905

KAMI-NO-KU

The first syllable, which has a certain connection with the East

On the very day when the appalling rout and destruction of the Russian fleet near the island of Tsushima was approaching its end and the first vague and alarming rumours of this bloody Japanese triumph were sweeping across Europe – on that very day, Staff Captain Vasilii Alexandrovich Rybnikov, who lived on a small street with no name in the St Petersburg district of Peski, received the following telegram from Irkutsk: ‘Dispatch sheets immediately watch over patient pay expenses’.

Thereupon Staff Captain Rybnikov informed the landlady of his apartment that business would take him to St Petersburg for a day or two and she should not, therefore, be alarmed by his absence. Then he dressed, left the house and never went back there again.

Initially Vasilii Alexandrovich’s day proceeded entirely as usual – that is, in a bustle of ceaseless activity. After first riding to the centre of the city in a horse cab, he continued his peregrinations exclusively on foot and, despite his limp (the staff captain dragged one foot quite noticeably), he managed to visit an incredible number of places.

He started with the Major General Commandant’s Office, where he sought out a clerk from the transport accounts section and returned with a solemn air one rouble, borrowed from the clerk two days previously. Then he called into the Cossack Forces Directorate on Simeonovskaya Square, to enquire about a petition he had submitted two months ago, which had got bogged down in red tape. From there he moved on to the Military Department of Railways – he had been trying for a long time to obtain a position as an archivist in the drafting office there. On that day his small, fidgety figure was also seen in the Office of the Inspector General of Artillery on Zakharievskaya Street, and the Office of Repairs on Morskaya Street, and even at the Committee for the Wounded on Kirochnaya Street (Rybnikov had been attempting without any success to obtain an official note concerning a concussion suffered at Luoyang).

The agile army man managed to show his face everywhere. Clerks in offices nodded offhandedly to their old acquaintance and quickly turned away, immersing themselves, with an emphatically preoccupied air, in their documents and conversations about work. They knew from experience that once the staff captain latched on to someone, he could worry the life out of them.

Vasilii Alexandrovich turned his short-cropped head this way and that for a while, sniffing with his plum-shaped nose as he selected his victim. Having chosen, he seated himself unceremoniously right there on the victim’s desk and started swaying one foot in a shabby boot, waving his arms around and spouting all sorts of drivel: about the imminent victory over the Japanese macaques, his own heroic war exploits, the high cost of living in the capital. They couldn’t just tell him to go to hell – after all, he was an officer, and he’d been wounded at Mukden. They poured Rybnikov tea, regaled him with papiroses, answered his gormless questions and dispatched him with all possible haste to some other section, where the whole business was repeated all over again.

Between two and three o’clock in the afternoon, the staff captain, who had called into the office of the St Petersburg Arsenal on a procurement matter, suddenly glanced at his wristwatch with the mirror-bright glass (everyone had heard the story of this chronometer at least a thousand times – it had supposedly been presented to him by a captured Japanese marquis) and became terribly agitated. Blinking his yellowish-brown eyes at the two shipping clerks, who by now were completely exhausted by his gabbling, he told them:

‘Well, that was a great chat. I’m sorry, but I have to leave you now. Entre nous, an assignation with a lovely lady. The fever-heat of passion and all that. As the Jappos say, strike while the iron’s hot.’

He gave a brief snort of laughter and took his leave.

‘What a character,’ said the first shipping clerk, a young warrant officer. ‘But even he’s managed to find himself some woman or other.’

‘He’s lying, just talking big,’ the second clerk said reassuringly – he held the same rank, but was much older. ‘Who could ever be seduced by an old Marlborough like that?’

The worldly-wise shipping clerk was right. In the apartment on Nadezhdinskaya Square, to which Rybnikov made his way via a long, roundabout route through connecting courtyards, the staff captain was not met by a lovely lady, but a young man in a speckled jacket.

‘What on earth took you so long?’ the young man exclaimed nervously when he opened the door at the prearranged knock (twice, then three times, then a pause and twice again). ‘You’re Rybnikov, right? I’ve been waiting forty minutes for you!’

‘I had to weave around a bit. Thought I saw something…’ replied Vasilii Alexandrovich, sauntering round the tiny apartment and even looking into the toilet and outside the back door. ‘Did you bring it? Let me have it.’

‘Here, from Paris. You know, I was ordered not to come straight to Petersburg, but go via Moscow, so that…’

‘I know,’ the staff captain interrupted before he could finish, taking the two envelopes – one quite thick, the other very slim.

‘Crossing the border was really easy, incredibly easy, in fact. They didn’t even glance at my suitcase, never mind tap it for secret compartments. But the reception I got in Moscow was strange. That Thrush person wasn’t exactly polite,’ declared the speckled young man, who obviously wanted very much to have a chat. ‘After all, I am risking my own head, and I have a right to expect…’

‘Goodbye,’ Vasilii Alexandrovich interrupted him again after examining both envelopes and even feeling along their seams with his fingers. ‘Don’t leave straight after me. Stay here for at least an hour, then you can go.’

Stepping out of the entrance, the staff captain turned his head left and right, lit up a papirosa and set off along the street with his usual gait – jerky, yet surprisingly brisk. An electric tram went rattling past. Rybnikov suddenly stepped off the pavement into the road, broke into a run and leapt nimbly up on to the platform.

‘Now then, sir,’ the conductor said with a reproachful shake of his head. ‘Only the young shavers do that sort of thing. What if you’d come a cropper there? With that gammy leg of yours.’

‘Never mind,’ Rybnikov replied brightly. ‘What’s that the Russian soldiers say? A chestful of medals or your head in the bushes. And if I get killed, that’s all right. I’m an orphan, there’s no one to cry over me… No thanks, friend, I just hopped on for a minute,’ he continued, waving aside the ticket, and a minute later he jumped down on to the road in the same boyish fashion.

He dodged a horse cab, darted in front of the radiator of an automobile that started bellowing hysterically with its horn, and limped nimbly into a side street.

It was completely deserted there – no carriages, no pedestrians. The staff captain opened both envelopes. He glanced briefly into the thick one, saw the respectful form of address and regular rows of neatly inscribed hieroglyphs and put off reading it all until later – he slipped it into his pocket. But the second letter, written in a hasty cursive hand, engrossed Rybnikov’s attention completely.

The letter said this:

My dear son! I am pleased with you, but now the time has come to strike a decisive blow – this time not at the Russian rear line, and not even at the Russian army, but at Russia itself. Our forces have accomplished all that they can, but they are bled dry and the might of our industry is waning. Alas, Time is not on our side. Your task is to ensure that Time will no longer be an ally of the Russians. The tsar’s throne must be made to totter beneath him. Our friend Colonel A. has completed his preparatory work. Your task is to deliver the shipment, which he has dispatched to Moscow, to the consignee, whom you already know. Tell him to hurry. We cannot hold out for longer than three or four months.

One more thing. We badly need an act of sabotage on the main railway line. Any interruption in supplies to Linevich’s army will help stave off imminent disaster. You wrote that you had been thinking about this and you had some ideas. Put them into action, the time has come.

I know that what I ask of you is almost impossible. But were you not taught: ‘The almost impossible is possible’?

Your mother asked me to tell you she is praying for you.

After he had read the letter, Rybnikov’s high-cheekboned face betrayed no sign of emotion. He struck a match, lit the sheet of paper and the envelope, dropped them on the ground and pulverised the ashes with his heel. He walked on.

The second missive was from Colonel Akashi, a military agent in Europe, and consisted almost entirely of numbers and dates. The staff captain ran his eyes over it and didn’t bother to read it again – Vasilii Alexandrovich had an exceptionally good memory.

He lit another match and, while the paper was burning, glanced at his watch, lifting it almost right up to his nose.

There was an unpleasant surprise waiting for Rybnikov. The mirror-bright glass of the Japanese chronometer reflected the image of a man in a bowler hat with a walking cane. This gentleman was squatting down, inspecting something on the pavement, at the very spot where one minute earlier the staff captain had burned the letter from his father.

The letter didn’t matter at all, it had been completely incinerated. What alarmed Vasilii Alexandrovich was something else. This wasn’t the first time he had glanced into his cunning little piece of glass, and he hadn’t seen anyone behind him before. Where had the man in the bowler hat come from? That was what concerned him.

Rybnikov walked on as if nothing had happened, glancing at his watch more frequently than before. However, once again there was no one behind him. The staff captain’s black eyebrows arched up uneasily. The curious gentleman’s disappearance concerned him even more than his sudden appearance.

Yawning, Rybnikov turned into a gated passage that led him into a deserted stone courtyard. He cast a glance at the windows (they were dead, untenanted) and then suddenly, no longer limping, he ran across to the wall separating this yard from the next one. The barrier was immensely high, but Vasilii Alexandrovich demonstrated quite fantastic springiness – vaulting almost seven feet into the air, he grabbed hold of the edge and pulled himself up. He could have jumped across the wall with no effort, but the staff captain contented himself with glancing over the top.

The next yard was residential. A skinny little girl was hopping over chalk marks scrawled across the asphalt. Another, even smaller, was standing nearby, watching.

Rybnikov did not climb over. He jumped down, ran back to the passage, unbuttoned his fly and started urinating.

He was surprised in this intimate act by the man with the bowler hat and cane, who came jogging into the passage.

The man stopped dead, frozen to the spot.

Vasilii Alexandrovich was embarrassed.

‘Beg your pardon, I was desperate,’ he said, shaking himself off and gesticulating at the same time with his free hand. ‘It’s all our swinish Russian ignorance, not enough public latrines. They say there are toilets on every corner in Japan. That’s why we can’t beat the damn monkeys.’

The expression on the hasty gentleman’s face was wary but, seeing the staff captain smile, he also extended his lips slightly beneath his thick moustache.

‘Take your samurai now, how does he fight?’ said Rybnikov, continuing with his buffoonery, buttoning up his trousers and moving closer. ‘Our soldier boys will fill the trench right up to the top with shit, but your samurai, that slanty-eyed freak, he stuffs himself full of rice, so he’s got natural constipation. That way he can go a week without a crap. But then, when he’s posted back to the rear, he’s stuck on the crapper for two whole days.’

Delighted at his own wittiness, the staff captain broke into shrill laughter and, as if he was inviting the other man to share his merriment, prodded him lightly in the side with one finger.

The man with the moustache didn’t laugh; instead he gave a strange kind of hiccup, clutched the left side of his chest and sat down on the ground.

‘Oh, mother,’ he said in a surprisingly thin little voice. And then again, quietly, ‘Oh, mother…’

‘What’s wrong?’ Rybnikov asked in sudden alarm, looking around. ‘Heart spasm, is it? Oi-oi, that’s really terrible! I’ll be straight back. With a doctor! In just a jiffy!’

He ran out into the side street but, once there, decided not to hurry after all.

The staff captain’s face assumed an intent expression. He swayed to and fro on his heels, thinking something through or trying to reach a decision, and turned back towards Nadezhdinskaya Street.

The second syllable, in which two earthly vales terminate abruptly

Evstratii Pavlovich Mylnikov, head of the surveillance service at the Department of Police, sketched a hammer and sickle inside a roundel, drew a bee on each side of it, a peaked cap above and a Latin motto below, on a ribbon: ‘Zeal and Service’. He tilted his balding head sideways and admired his own handiwork.

He had composed the crest of the House of Mylnikov himself, investing it with profound meaning. As if to say: I’m not trying to sneak into the aristocracy, I’m not ashamed of my common origins: my father was a simple blacksmith (the hammer), my grandfather was a son of the soil (the sickle), but thanks to zeal (the bees) in the sovereign’s service (the cap), I have risen high in accordance with my deserts.

Evstratii Mylnikov had been awarded the rights and privileges of the hereditary nobility the previous year, along with an Order of Vladimir, Third Class, but the College of Arms was still smothering the approval of the crest in red tape, still nitpicking. It had approved the hammer and sickle, and the bees, but baulked at the peaked cap – supposedly it looked too much like the coronet that was reserved for titled individuals.

In recent times Mylnikov had got into the habit, when he was in a thoughtful mood, of drawing this emblem so dear to his heart on a piece of paper. At first he couldn’t get the bees right at all, but in time Evstratii Pavlovich got the hang of it so well that they were a real delight to look at. And now here he was again, diligently shading in the stripes on the toilers’ abdomens, glancing every now and again at the pile of papers lying to the left of his elbow. The document that had plunged the court counsellor into a brown study was titled: ‘Log of the surveillance of honorary citizen Andron Semyonov Komarovsky (alias ‘Twitchy’) in the city of St Petersburg on 15 May 1905’. The individual who called himself Komarovsky (there were compelling reasons to believe that his passport was false) had been handed on from the Moscow Department for the Defence of Public Security and Order (the Moscow Okhrana) ‘with a view to establishing contact and communications’.

And now this.

The mark was taken over from an agent of the Moscow Flying Squad at 7.25 at the railway station. The accompanying agent (Detective Gnatiuk) stated that on the way Twitchy had not spoken with anyone and had only left his compartment to answer calls of nature.

Having taken over the mark, we followed him in two cabs to the Bunting Building on Nadezhdinskaya Street, where Twitchy walked up to the fourth floor, to apartment No. 7, from which he never emerged again. Apartment No. 7 is rented by a certain Zwilling, a resident of Helsingfors, who only appears here very rarely (according to the yard keeper the last time was at the beginning of winter).

At 12.38 the mark summoned the yard keeper with the bell. Agent Maximenko went up to him, disguised as the yard keeper. Twitchy gave him a rouble and told him to buy bread, salami and two bottles of beer. There was apparently no one in the flat apart from him.

When he brought the order, Maximenko was given the change (17 kop.) as a tip. He observed that the mark was extremely nervous. As if he was waiting for someone or something.

At 3.15 an army officer who has been given the code name ‘Kalmyk’ appeared. (A staff captain with the collar tabs of the Supply Department, a limp on his right leg, short, high cheekbones, black hair.)

He went up to apartment No. 7, but came down 4 minutes later and set off in the direction of Basseinaya Street. Agent Maximenko was dispatched to follow him.

Twitchy did not emerge from the entrance of the building. At 3.31 he walked over to the window and stood there, looking into the yard, then walked away.

At this moment Maximenko has still not returned.

I am presently (8 o’clock in the evening) handing over the surveillance detail to Senior Agent Goltz.

Sen. Agent Smurov

Short and clear, apparently.

Short enough, certainly, but damn all about it was clear.

An hour and a half ago Evstratii Pavlovich, having only just received the report cited above, also received a phone call from the police station on Basseinaya Street. He was informed that a man had been found dead in the courtyard of a building on Mitavsky Lane, with documents that identified him as Flying Squad agent Vasilii Maximenko. In less than ten minutes the court counsellor himself had arrived at the scene of the incident and ascertained that it really was Maximenko. There were absolutely no signs of violent death, nor any traces of a struggle or of any disorder in the agent’s clothing. The highly experienced medical expert, Karl Stepanovich, had said immediately that all the signs indicated heart failure.

Well, of course, Mylnikov was upset for a while, he even shed a tear for the old comrade with whom he had served shoulder to shoulder for ten years – the number of scrapes they’d been through together! And, as a matter of fact, Vasilii had even been involved in the winning of the Order of Vladimir that had led to the genesis of a new noble line.

In May the previous year, a secret message had been received from the consul in Hong Kong, saying that four Japanese disguised as businessmen were making their way towards the Suez Canal – that is, to the city of Aden. Only they were not businessmen at all, but naval officers: two minelayers and two divers. They intended to place underwater bombs along the route of cruisers from the Black Sea Squadron that had been dispatched to the Far East.

Evstratii Pavlovich had taken six of his best agents, all of them genuine wolfhounds (including the now-deceased Maximenko), skipped across to Aden and there, in the bazaar, disguised as sailors on a spree, they had started a knife fight: they carved the Jappos to shreds and dumped their luggage in the bay. The cruisers had got through without a single hitch. True, those lousy macaques had smashed them to pieces afterwards anyway but, like they say, that wasn’t down to us, was it?

This was the kind of colleague the state counsellor had lost. And not even in some rollicking adventure, but from a heart attack.

After giving instructions concerning the mortal remains, Mylnikov went back to his office on Fontanka Street and reread the report about Twitchy, and something started bothering him. He dispatched Lenka Zyablikov, a very bright young lad, to Nadezhdinskaya Street, to check Apartment No. 7.

And then what came up? Well, the old wolfhound’s nose hadn’t led him astray.

Zyablikov had phoned just ten minutes ago, talked about this and that, said how he’d dressed up as a plumber, and started ringing and knocking at No. 7 – no answer. Then he opened the door with a picklock.

Twitchy was dangling in a noose, by the window, from the curtain rail. All the signs indicated suicide: no bruises or abrasions, paper and a pencil on a chair, as if the man had been going to write a farewell note, but changed his mind.

Evstratii Pavlovich had listened to the agent’s agitated jabbering and ordered him to wait for the group of experts to arrive, then sat down at the desk and started drawing the crest – to clear his mind and, even more importantly, to calm his nerves.

Just recently the court counsellor’s nerves hadn’t been worth a rotten damn. The medical diagnosis read: ‘General neurasthenia resulting from excessive fatigue; enlargement of the pericardium; congestion of the lungs and partial damage to the spinal cord that might pose the threat of paralysis’. Paralysis! You had to pay for everything in this life, and the price was usually much higher than you expected.

So here he was, a hereditary nobleman, the head of a supremely important section in the Department of Police, with an annual salary of six thousand roubles – and never mind the salary, he had a budget of thirty thousand to use entirely at his own discretion, every functionary’s dream. But without his health, what good was all the gold in the world to him now? Evstratii Pavlovich was tormented by insomnia every night, and if he ever did fall asleep, that was even worse: bad dreams, ghoulish visions, with the devil’s work in them. He woke in a cold sweat, with his teeth chattering wildly. He kept thinking he could see something stirring repulsively in the corners and hear someone chuckling indistinctly, but derisively, or that ‘someone’ might suddenly start howling. In his sixth decade Mylnikov, the scourge of terrorists and foreign spies, had started sleeping with a lighted icon lamp. For the sanctity of it, and to keep away the darkness in the nooks and crannies. All those steep hills had nigh on knackered the old horse…

The previous year he had applied to retire – and why not, he had a bit of money put by, and a little homestead bought, in a fine area for mushrooms, out on the Gulf of Finland. And then this war happened. The head of the Special Section, the director of the Department and the minister himself had implored him: Don’t betray us, Evstratii Pavlovich, don’t abandon us in dangerous times like these. You can’t refuse!

The court counsellor forced himself to focus his thoughts on more pressing matters. He tugged on his long Zaporozhian Cossack moustache, then drew two circles on the paper, a wavy line between them and a question mark up above.

Two little facts, each on its own more or less clear.

So, Maximenko had died, his overworked heart had given out under the stresses and strains of the service. It happened.

Honorary citizen Komarovsky, whoever the hell he was (the Moscow lads had picked up his trail the day before yesterday at a secret Socialist Revolutionary meeting place), had hanged himself. That happened with some neurasthenic revolutionaries too.

But for two existences that were to some degree interconnected, two, so to speak, intersecting earthly vales, both to be broken off abruptly and simultaneously? That was too queer by half. Evstratii Pavlovich had only the vaguest idea of what an earthly vale was, but he liked the sound of the words – he had often imagined himself wandering through life as just such a vale, narrow and tortuous, squeezed in between bleak, rocky cliffs.

Who was this Kalmyk? Why did he go to see Twitchy – on business or, perhaps, by mistake (he was only there for four minutes)? And what took Maximenko into a dead-end courtyard?

Oh, Mylnikov didn’t like this Kalmyk at all. He was more like the Angel of Death than a plain staff captain (the court counsellor crossed himself at the thought); he left one man, and he promptly hanged himself; another man followed the Kalmyk, and he died a dog’s death in a filthy passageway.

Mylnikov tried to draw a slant-eyed Kalmyk face beside the crest, but the likeness turned out poorly – he didn’t have the knack of it.

Ah, Kalmyk-Kalmyk, where are you now?

And Staff Captain Rybnikov, so accurately nicknamed by the agents (his face really was rather Kalmykish), was spending the evening of this troublesome day hurrying and scurrying more intensely than ever.

After the incident on Mitavsky Lane, he dropped into a telegraph office and sent off two messages: one was local, to the Kolpino railway station, the other was long-distance, to Irkutsk, and he quarrelled with the telegraph clerk over the rate – he was outraged that they took ten kopecks a word for telegrams to Irkutsk. The clerk explained that telegraphic communications to the Asiatic part of the empire were charged at a double rate, and he even showed Rybnikov the price list, but the staff captain simply wouldn’t listen.

‘What do you mean, it’s Asia?’ he howled, gazing around plaintively. ‘Gentlemen, did you hear what he said about Irkutsk? Why, it’s a magnificent city, Europe, the genuine article! Oh, yes! You haven’t been there, so don’t you talk, but I served three unforgettable years there! What do you make of this, gents? It’s daylight robbery!’

After raising a ruckus, Vasilii Alexandrovich moved to the queue for the international window and sent a telegram to Paris, at the urgent rate, that is to say, all of thirty kopecks for a word, but he behaved quietly here, without waxing indignant.

After that the irrepressible staff captain hobbled off to the Nicholas station, where he arrived just in time for the departure of the nine o’clock express.

He tried to buy a second-class ticket, but the ticket office didn’t have any.

‘Sorry, it’s not my fault,’ Rybnikov informed the queue with obvious satisfaction. ‘I’ll have to travel in third, even though I am an officer. Government business, I’ve no right not to go. Here’s six roubles. My ticket, please.’

‘There’s no more places in third class,’ the booking clerk replied. ‘There are places in first, for fifteen roubles.’

‘How much?’ Vasilii Alexandrovich gasped. ‘My father’s not called Rothschild, you know! If you’re really interested, I happen to be an orphan!’

They started explaining to him that there weren’t enough places, that the number of passenger trains to Moscow had been reduced because of the military traffic. And even that one ticket in first class had only become free by sheer chance, just two minutes ago. A lady had wanted to travel in a compartment alone, but this was forbidden by decree of the director of the line, and the passenger had been forced to return the extra ticket.

‘Well, are you taking it or not?’ the booking clerk asked impatiently.

Cursing plaintively, the staff captain bought the hugely expensive ticket, but he demanded ‘a paper with a seal’ stating that there hadn’t been any cheaper tickets available. They barely managed to get rid of him by sending him off to the duty station supervisor for a ‘paper’, but the staff captain didn’t go to him, instead he called into the left luggage office.

There he retrieved a cheap-looking suitcase and a long, narrow tube, the kind used for carrying blueprints.

And then it was already time to go to the platform, because they were ringing the first bell.

The third syllable, in which Vasilii Alexandrovich visits the WC

There was a lady passenger sitting in the first-class compartment – presumably the one who had been prevented from travelling in solitude by the rules of the railway.

The staff captain greeted her glumly, evidently still smarting over his fifteen roubles. He hardly even glanced at his travelling companion, although the lady was good-looking – in fact more than merely good-looking, she was quite exceptionally attractive: a delicate watercolour face, huge moist eyes behind a misty veil, an elegant travelling suit in a mother-of-pearl hue.

The lovely stranger took no interest in Rybnikov either. In reply to his ‘hello’ she nodded coldly, cast a single brief glance over her companion’s common features, his baggy uniform tunic and gingerish scuffed boots and turned away towards the window.

The second bell pealed out.

The female passenger’s delicately defined nostrils started fluttering. Her lips whispered:

‘Ah, get a move on, do!’ but the exclamation was clearly not addressed to her companion in the compartment.

Newspaper boys dashed, gabbling, along the corridor – one from the respectable Evening Russia, the other from the sleazy Russian Assembly. They were both howling at the tops of their voices, trying to out-yell each other.

‘Woeful news of the drama in the Sea of Japan!’ called the first one, straining his lungs to bursting point. ‘Russian fleet burned and sunk!’

The second one yelled: ‘Famous “Moscow Daredevils” gang strikes in Petersburg! High society lady undressed!’

‘First lists of the dead. Numerous names dear to all hearts! The whole country will be weeping!’

‘Countess N. put out of a carriage in the costume of Eve! The bandits knew she had jewels hidden under her dress!’

The staff captain bought Evening Russia with its huge black border of mourning and the lady bought Russian Assembly, but before they could start reading, the door burst open, and in charged a huge bouquet of roses that wouldn’t fit through the frame, immediately filling the compartment with unctuous fragrance.

Protruding above the rosebuds was a handsome man’s face with a well-groomed imperial and a curled moustache. A diamond pin glinted and sparkled on his necktie.

‘Anddd who is thissss!’ the new arrival exclaimed, eyeing Rybnikov intently, and his black eyebrows slid upwards menacingly, but after only a second the handsome fellow had had his fill of observing the staff captain’s unprepossessing appearance and lost all interest in him, after which he did not deign to notice him again.

‘Lycia!’ he exclaimed, falling to his knees and throwing the bouquet at the lady’s feet. ‘I love only you, with all my heart and soul! Forgive me, I implore you! You know my temperament! I am a man of sudden enthusiasms, I am an artiste.’

It was easy to see that he was an artiste. The owner of the imperial was not at all embarrassed by his audience – in addition to the staff captain glancing out from behind his Evening Russia, this interesting scene was also being observed by spectators in the corridor, attracted by the mind-numbing scent of the roses and the sonorous lamentations.

Nor did the lovely lady’s nerve fail her in front of an audience.

‘It’s over, Astralov!’ she declared wrathfully, throwing back her veil to reveal her glittering eyes. ‘And don’t you dare show up in Moscow!’ She waved aside the hands extended in supplication. ‘No, no, I won’t even listen!’

Then the penitent did something rather strange: without rising from his knees, he folded his hands together on his chest and started singing in a deep, truly magical baritone:

‘Una furtive lacrima negli occhi suoi spunto…’

The lady turned pale and put her hands over her ears, but the divine voice filled the entire compartment and flowed far beyond – the entire carriage fell silent, listening.

Donizetti’s entrancing melody was cut short by the particularly long and insistent trilling of the third bell.

The conductor glanced in at the door:

‘All those seeing off passengers please alight immediately, we are departing. Sir, it’s time!’ he said, touching the singer’s elbow.

The singer dashed over to Rybnikov:

‘Let me have the ticket! I’ll give you a hundred roubles! This is a drama of a broken heart! Five hundred!’

‘Don’t you dare let him have the ticket!’ the lady shouted.

‘I can’t do it,’ the staff captain replied firmly to the artiste. ‘I would gladly, but it’s urgent government business.’

The conductor dragged Astralov, in floods of tears, out into the corridor.

The train set off. There was a despairing shout from the platform:

‘Lycia! I’ll do away with myself! Forgive me!’

‘Never!’ the flushed lady passenger shouted, and flung the magnificent bouquet out of the window, showering the little table with scarlet petals.

She fell back limply on to the seat, covered her face with her fingers and burst into sobs.

‘You are a noble man,’ she said through her sobbing. ‘You refused his money! I’m so grateful to you! I would have jumped out of the window, I swear I would!’

Rybnikov muttered:

‘Five hundred roubles is huge money. I don’t earn a third of that, not even with mess and travelling allowances. But I’ve got my job to do. The top brass won’t excuse lateness…’

‘Five hundred roubles he offered, the buffoon!’ the lady exclaimed, not listening to him. ‘Preening his feathers for his audience! But he’s really so mean, such an economiser!’ She pronounced the final word with boundless contempt and even stopped sobbing, then added: ‘Refuses to live according to his means.’

Intrigued by the logical introduction inherent in this statement, Vasilii Alexandrovich asked:

‘Begging your pardon, but I don’t quite understand. Is he thrifty or does he lives beyond his means?’

‘His means are huge, but he lives too far within them!’ his travelling companion explained, no longer crying, but anxiously examining her slightly reddened nose in a little mirror. She dabbed at it with a powder puff and adjusted a lock of golden hair beside her forehead. ‘Last year he earned almost a hundred thousand, but he barely spent even half of it. He puts it all away “for a rainy day”!’

At this point she finally calmed down completely, turned her gaze on her companion and introduced herself punctiliously.

‘Glyceria Romanovna Lidina.’

The staff captain told her his name too.

‘Pleased to meet you,’ the lady told him with a smile. ‘I must explain, since you have witnessed this monstrous spectacle. Georges simply adores histrionic scenes, especially in front of an audience!’

‘Is he really an artiste, then?’

Glyceria Romanovna fluttered her almost inch-long eyelashes incredulously.

‘What? You don’t know Astralov? The tenor Astralov. His name is on all the show bills!’

‘I’m not much for theatres,’ Rybnikov replied with an indifferent shrug. ‘I don’t have any time to go strutting about at operas, you know. And it’s beyond my pocket, anyway. My pay’s miserly, they’re delaying the pension, and life in Petersburg is too pricey by half. The cabbies take seventy kopecks for every piddling little ride…’

Lidina was not listening, she wasn’t even looking at him any more.

‘We’ve been married for two years!’ she said, as if she were not addressing her prosaic companion, but a more worthy audience, which was listening to her with sympathetic attention. ‘Ah, I was so in love! But now I realise it was the voice I loved, not him. What a voice he has! He only has to start singing and I melt, he can wrap me round his little finger. And he knows it, the scoundrel! Did you see the way he started singing just now, the cheap manipulator? Thank goodness the bell interrupted him, my head was already starting to spin!’

‘A handsome gentleman,’ the staff captain acknowledged, trying to suppress a yawn. ‘Probably gets his fair share of crumpet. Is that what the drama’s all about?’

‘They told me about him!’ Glyceria Romanovna exclaimed with her eyes flashing. ‘There are always plenty of “well-wishers” in the world of theatre. But I didn’t believe them. And then I saw it with my own eyes! And where? In my own drawing room! And who with? That old floozy Koturnova! I’ll never set foot in that desecrated apartment again! Or in Petersburg either!’

‘So you’re moving to Moscow, then?’ the staff captain summed up. It was clear from his tone of voice that he was impatient to put an end to this trivial conversation and settle into his newspaper.

‘Yes, we have another apartment in Moscow, on Ostozhenka Street. Georges sometimes takes an engagement for the winter at the Bolshoi.’

At this, Rybnikov finally concealed himself behind Evening Russia and the lady was obliged to fall silent. She nervously picked up the Russian Assembly, ran her eyes over the article on the front page and tossed it aside, muttering:

‘My God, how vulgar! Completely undressed, in the road! Could she really have been stripped totally and completely naked? Who is this Countess N.? Vika Olsufieva? Nelly Vorontsova? Ah, it doesn’t matter anyway.’

Outside the windowpane, dachas, copses of trees and dreary vegetable patches drifted by. The staff captain rustled his newspaper, enthralled.

Lidina sighed, then sighed again. She found the silence oppressive.

‘What’s that you find so fascinating to read?’ she eventually asked, unable to restrain herself.

‘Well, you see, it’s the list of officers who gave their lives for the tsar and the fatherland in the sea battle beside the island of Tsushima. It came through the European telegraph agencies, from Japanese sources. The scrolls of mourning, so to speak. They say they’re going to continue it in forthcoming issues. I’m looking to see if any of my comrades-in-arms are there.’ And Vasilii Alexandrovich started reading out loud, with expression, savouring the words. ‘On the battleship Prince Kutuzov-Smolensky: junior flagman, Rear Admiral Leontiev; commander of the vessel, Commodore Endlung; paymaster of the squadron, State Counsellor Ziukin; chief officer, Captain Second Rank von Schwalbe…’

‘Oh, stop!’ said Glyceria Romanovna, fluttering her little hand. ‘I don’t want to hear it! When is this terrible war ever going to end!’

‘Soon. The insidious enemy will be crushed by the Christian host,’ Rybnikov promised, setting the newspaper aside to take out a little book, in which he immersed himself with even greater concentration.

The lady screwed her eyes up short-sightedly, trying to make out the title, but the book was bound in brown paper.

The train’s brakes screeched and it came to a halt.

‘Kolpino?’ Lidina asked in surprise. ‘Strange, the express never stops here.’

Rybnikov stuck his head out of the window and called to the duty supervisor.

‘Why are we waiting?’

‘We have to let a special get past, Officer, it’s got urgent military freight.’

While her companion was distracted, Glyceria Romanovna seized the chance to satisfy her curiosity. She quickly opened the book’s cover, held her pretty lorgnette on a gold chain up to her eyes and puckered up her face. The book that the staff captain had been reading so intently was called TUNNELS AND BRIDGES: A concise guide for railway employees.

A telegraph clerk clutching a paper ribbon in his hand ran up to the station supervisor, who read the message, shrugged and waved his little flag.

‘What is it?’ asked Rybnikov.

‘Don’t know if they’re coming or going. Orders to dispatch you and not wait for the special.’

The train set off.

‘I suppose you must be a military engineer?’ Glyceria Romanovna enquired.

‘What makes you think that?’

Lidina felt embarrassed to admit that she had peeped at the title of the book, but she found a way out – she pointed to the leather tube.

‘That thing. It’s for drawings, isn’t it?’

‘Ah, yes.’ Vasilii Alexandrovich lowered his voice. ‘Secret documents. I’m delivering them to Moscow.’

‘And I thought you were on leave. Visiting your family, or your parents, perhaps.’

‘I’m not married. Where would I get the earnings to set up a family? I’m dog poor. And I haven’t got any parents, I’m an orphan. And in the regiment they used to taunt me for a Tatar because of my squinty eyes.’

After the stop at Kolpino the staff captain brightened up somewhat and became more talkative, and his broad cheekbones even turned slightly pink.

Suddenly he glanced at his watch and stood up.

‘Pardon, I’ll just go out for a smoke.’

‘Smoke here, I’m used to it,’ Glyceria Romanovna told him graciously. ‘Georges smokes cigars. That is, he used to.’

Vasilii Alexandrovich smiled in embarrassment.

‘I’m sorry. When I said a smoke, I was being tactful. I don’t smoke, an unnecessary expense. I’m actually going to the WC, on a call of nature.’

The lady turned away with a dignified air.

The staff captain took the tube with him. Catching his female companion’s indignant glance, he explained in an apologetic voice:

‘I’m not allowed to let it out of my hands.’

Glyceria Romanovna watched him go and murmured:

‘He really is quite unpleasant.’ And she started looking out of the window.

But the staff captain walked quickly through second class and third class to the carriage at the tail of the train and glanced out on to the brake platform.

There was an insistent, lingering blast on a whistle from behind.

The conductor-in-chief and a gendarme sentry were standing on the platform.

‘What the hell!’ said the conductor. ‘That can’t be the special. They telegraphed to say it was cancelled!’

The long train was following them no more than half a verst away, drawn by two locomotives, puffing out black smoke. A long tail of flat wagons cased in tarpaulin stretched out behind it.

The hour was already late, after ten, but the twilight had barely begun to thicken – the season of white nights was approaching.

The gendarme looked round at the staff captain and saluted.

‘Begging your pardon, Your Honour, but please be so good as to close the door. Instructions strictly forbid it.’

‘Quite right, old fellow,’ Rybnikov said approvingly. ‘Vigilance, and all the rest of it. I just wanted to have a smoke, actually. Well, I’ll just do it in the corridor here. Or in the WC.’

And he went into the toilet, which in third class was cramped and not very clean.

After locking himself in, Vasilii Alexandrovich stuck his head out of the window.

The train was just moving on to an antediluvian bridge, built in the old Count Kleinmichel style, which spanned a narrow little river.

Rybnikov stood on the flush lever and a hole opened up in the bottom of the toilet. Through it he could clearly see the sleepers flickering past.

The staff captain pressed some invisible little button on the tube and stuffed the narrow leather case into the hole – the diameter matched precisely, so he had to employ a certain amount of force.

When the tube had disappeared through the hole, Vasilii Alexandrovich quickly moistened his hands under the tap and walked out into the vestibule of the carriage, shaking the water from his fingers.

A minute later, he was already walking back into his own compartment.

Lidina looked at him severely – she still had not forgiven him for that ‘call of nature’ – and was about to turn away, when she suddenly exclaimed:

‘Your secret case! You must have forgotten it in the toilet!’

An expression of annoyance appeared on Rybnikov’s face, but before he could answer Glyceria Romanovna there was a terrifying crash and the carriage lurched and swayed.

The staff captain dashed to the window. There were heads protruding from the other windows too, all of them looking back along the line.

At that point the line curved round in a small arc and they had a clear view of the tracks, the river they had just crossed and the bridge.

Or rather, what was left of it.

The bridge had collapsed at its precise centre, and at the precise moment when the line of heavy military flat wagons was crossing it.

The catastrophe was an appalling sight: a column of water and steam, splashed up into the air as the locomotives crashed down into the water, upended flat wagons with massive steel structures tumbling off them and – most terrible of all – a hail of tiny human figures showering downwards.

Glyceria Romanovna huddled against Rybnikov’s shoulder and started squealing piercingly. Other passengers were screaming too.

The tail-end carriage of the special, probably reserved for officers, teetered on the very edge of the break. Someone seemed to jump out of the window just in time, but then the bridge support buckled and the carriage went plunging downwards too, into the heap of twisted and tangled metal protruding from the water.

‘My God, my God!’ Lidina started screaming hysterically. ‘Why are you just looking? We have to do something!’

She dashed out into the corridor. Vasilii Alexandrovich hesitated for only a second before following her.

‘Stop the train!’ the small lady gabbled hysterically, throwing herself on the conductor-in-chief, who was running towards the leading carriage. ‘There are wounded men there! They’re drowning! We have to save them!’

She grabbed him by the sleeve so tenaciously that the railwayman had no choice but to stop.

‘What do you mean, save them? Save who? In that shambles!’ Pale as death, the captain of the train crew tied to pull himself free. ‘What can we do? We have to get to a station, to report this.’

Glyceria Romanovna refused to listen and pounded him on the chest with her little fist.

‘They’re dying, and we just leave them? Stop! I demand it!’ she squealed. ‘Press that emergency brake of yours, or whatever you call it!’

Hearing her howling, a dark-complexioned man with a little waxed moustache put his head out of the next compartment. Seeing the captain of the train hesitate, he shouted menacingly:

‘Don’t you dare stop! I’ve got urgent business in Moscow!’

Rybnikov took Lidina gently by the elbow and started speaking soothingly:

‘Really and truly, madam. Of course, it’s a terrible disaster, but the only thing we can do to help is telegraph as soon as possible from the next…’

‘Ah, to hell with all of you!’ shouted Glyceria Romanovna.

She darted to the emergency handle and pulled it.

Everyone in the train went tumbling head over heels to the floor. The train gave a hop and started screeching sickeningly along the rails. There were howls and screams on every side – the passengers thought their train had crashed.

The first to recover his senses was the man with the dark complexion, who had not fallen, but only banged his head against the lintel of the door.

With a cry of ‘You rrrotten bitch, I’ll kill you!’ he threw himself on the hysterical woman, who had been stunned by her fall, and grabbed her by the throat.

The small flames that glinted briefly in Vasilii Alexandrovich’s eyes suggested that he might possibly have shared the swarthy gentleman’s bloody intentions to some extent. However, there was more than just fury in the glance that the staff captain cast at Glyceria Romanovna as she was being strangled – there was also something like stupefaction.

Rybnikov sighed, grabbed the intemperate dark-haired man by the collar and tossed him aside.

The fourth syllable, in which a hired gun sets out on the hunt

The phone rang at half past one in the morning. Before he even lifted the receiver to answer, Erast Petrovich Fandorin gestured to his valet to hand him his clothes. A telephone call at this hour of the night could only be from the Department, and it had to be about some emergency or other.

As he listened to the voice rumbling agitatedly in the earpiece, Fandorin knitted his black eyebrows tighter and tighter together. He switched hands, so that Masa could slip his arm into the sleeve of a starched shirt. He shook his head at the shoes – the valet understood and brought his boots.

Erast Petrovich did not ask the person on the phone a single question, he simply said:

‘Very well, Leontii Karlovich, I’ll be there straight away.’

Once he was dressed, he stopped for a moment in front of the mirror. He combed his black hair threaded with grey (the kind they call ‘salt-and-pepper’), ran a special little brush over his entirely white temples and his neat moustache, in which there was still not a single silver hair. He frowned after running his hand across his cheek, but there was no time to shave.

He walked out of the apartment.

The Japanese was already sitting in the automobile, holding a travelling bag in his hand.

The most valuable quality of Fandorin’s valet was not that he did everything quickly and precisely, but that he knew how to manage without unnecessary talk. From the choice of footwear, Masa had guessed there was a long journey in prospect, so he had equipped himself accordingly.

With its mighty twenty-horsepower engine roaring, the twin-cylinder Oldsmobile surged down Sadovaya Street, where Fandorin was lodging, and a minute later it was already gliding across the Chernyshevsky Bridge. A feeble drizzle was trickling down from the grey, unconvincing night sky, and glinting on the road. The remarkable ‘Hercules’ brand non-splash tyres glided over the black asphalt.

Two minutes later the automobile braked to a halt at house number 7 on Kolomenskaya Street, where the offices of the St Petersburg Railway Gendarmerie and Police were located.

Fandorin set off up the steps at a run, with a nod to the sentry, who saluted him. But his valet remained sitting in the Oldsmobile, and even demonstratively turned his back.

From the very beginning of the armed conflict between the two empires, Masa – who was Japanese by birth, but a Russian citizen according to his passport – had declared that he would remain neutral, and he had stuck scrupulously to this rule. He had not delighted in the heroic feats of the defenders of Port Arthur, nor had he rejoiced at the victories of Japanese armies. But most importantly of all, as a matter of principle, he had not stepped across the threshold of any military institutions, which at times had caused both him and his master considerable inconvenience.

The valet’s moral sufferings were exacerbated still further by the fact that, following several arrests on suspicion of espionage, he had been obliged to disguise his nationality. Fandorin had procured a temporary passport for his servant in the name of a Chinese gentleman, so that now, whenever Masa left the house, he was obliged to put on a wig with a long pigtail. According to the document, he bore the impossible name of ‘Lianchan Shankhoevich Chaiunevin’. As a consequence of all these ordeals, the valet had lost his appetite and grown lean, and had even given up breaking the hearts of housemaids and seamstresses, with whom he had enjoyed vertiginous success during the pre-war period.

These were hard times, not only for the false Lianchan Shankhoevich, but also for his master.

When Japanese destroyers attacked the Port Arthur squadron without warning, Fandorin was on the other side of the world, in the Dutch West Indies, where he was conducting absolutely fascinating research in the area of underwater navigation.

At first Erast Fandorin had wanted nothing to do with a war between two countries that were both close to his heart, but as the advantage swung more and more towards Japan, Fandorin gradually lost interest in the durability of aluminium, and even in the search for the galleon San Felipe, which had gone down with its load of gold in the year ad 1708 seven miles south-south-east of the island of Aruba. On the very day when Fandorin’s submarine finally scraped its aluminium belly across the stump of the Spanish mainmast protruding from the sea bottom, news came of the loss of the battleship Petropavlosk, together with Commander-in-Chief Admiral Makarov and the entire crew.

The next morning Fandorin set out for his homeland, leaving his associates to deal with raising the gold bars to the surface.

On arriving in St Petersburg, he contacted an old colleague from his time in the Third Section, who now occupied a highly responsible post, and offered his services: Erast Petrovich knew that Russia had catastrophically few specialists on Japan, and he had spent several years living in the Land of the Rising Sun.

The old acquaintance was quite delighted by Fandorin’s visit. He said, however, that he would like to make use of Erast Petrovich in a different capacity.

‘Of course, there aren’t enough experts on Japan, or on many other subjects,’ said the general, blinking rapidly with eyes red from lack of sleep, ‘but there is a far worse rent in our garments, which leaves us exposed, pardon me for saying so, at the most intimate spot. If you only knew, my dear fellow, what a calamitous state our counter-espionage system is in! Things have more or less come together in the army in the field, but in the rear, the confusion is appalling, monstrous. Japanese agents are everywhere, they act with brazen impudence and resourcefulness, and we don’t know how to catch them. We have no experience. We’re used to civilised spies, the European kind, who do their work under cover of an embassy or foreign companies. But the Orientals break all the rules. I’ll tell you what worries me most,’ said the important man, lowering his voice. ‘Our railways. When the war’s happening tens of thousands of versts away from the factories and the conscription centres, victory and defeat depend on the railways, the primary circulatory system of the organism of the state. The entire empire has just one artery from Peter to Arthur. Atrophied, with a feeble pulse, prone to thrombosis and – worst of all – almost completely unprotected. Erast Petrovich, dear fellow, there are two things that I dread in this situation: Japanese sabotage and Russian slovenliness. You have more than enough experience of intelligence work, thank God. And then, they told me that in America you qualified as an engineer. Why not get back in harness, eh? On any terms you like. If you want, we’ll reinstate you in government service; if you want, you can be a freelance, a hired gun. Help us out, will you, put your shoulder to the wheel.’

And so Fandorin found himself engaged at the capital’s Department of Railway Gendarmerie and Police in the capacity of a ‘hired gun’ – that is, a consultant receiving no salary, but endowed with extremely far-reaching powers. The goal set for the consultant was as follows: to develop a security system for the railways, test it in the zone under his jurisdiction and then pass it on to be used by all the Railway Gendarmerie departments of the empire.

It was hectic work, not very much like Erast Fandorin’s preceding activities, but fascinating in its own way. The Department’s jurisdiction extended to two thousand versts of railway lines, hundreds of stations and terminuses, bridges, railway line reservations, depots and workshops – and all this had to be protected against possible attack by the enemy. While the provincial department of gendarmes had several dozen employees, the railway department had more than a thousand. The scale and the responsibility were beyond all comparison. In addition, the duty regulations for the railways’ gendarmes exempted them from performing the functions of a political police, and for Fandorin that was very important: he was not fond of revolutionaries, but he regarded with even greater revulsion the methods by which the Okhrana and the Special Section of the Department of Police endeavoured to eradicate the nihilist contagion. In this sense, Erast Petrovich regarded working for the Railway Gendarmerie Department as ‘clean work’.

Fandorin did not know much about railways, but he could not be classed as a total dilettante. He was, after all, a qualified engineer in the area of self-propelled machines, and twenty years earlier, while investigating a rather complicated case, he had worked on a railway line for a while in the guise of a trainee.

During the year just past, the ‘hired gun’ had achieved a great deal. Gendarme sentries had been established on all trains, including passenger trains; a special regime had been introduced for guarding bridges, tunnels, crossings and points, flying brigades on handcars had been created, and so on and so forth. The innovations introduced in the St Petersburg department were quickly adapted in the other provinces and so far (fingers firmly crossed) there had not been a single major accident, not a single act of sabotage.

Although Fandorin’s official position was a strange one, they had grown accustomed to Erast Petrovich in the Department and regarded him with great respect, referring to him as ‘Mr Engineer’. His superior, Lieutenant General von Kassel, had grown used to relying on his consultant in all matters and never took any decisions without his advice.

And now Leontii Karlovich Kassel was waiting for his assistant in the doorway of his office.

Catching sight of the engineer’s tall, dashing figure at the end of the corridor, he went rushing towards it.

‘Of all things, the Tezoimenitsky Bridge!’ the general shouted before he was even close. ‘We wrote to the minister and warned him the bridge was dilapidated and unsafe! And now he rebukes me and threatens me: says that if this turns out to be Japanese sabotage – I’ll stand trial for it. How in hell can it be sabotage? The Tezoimenitsky Bridge hasn’t been repaired since 1850! And here’s the result for you: it couldn’t bear the weight of a military transport carrying heavy artillery. The ordnance is ruined. There are large numbers of dead. And worst of all, the line to Moscow has been disrupted!’

‘A good thing it happened here, and not beyond Samara,’ said Erast Petrovich, following von Kassel into the office and closing the door. ‘Here we can send trains by an alternative route along the Novgorod line. But is it certain the bridge collapsed and this is not sabotage?’