Fandorin 1-10

Fandorin blushed and said:

‘We n-needed to establish the cause of death medically. It is routine.’

The young lady nodded, and the hope faded from her face.

‘And what was the cause?’ enquired Shirota.

Embarrassed, Erast Petrovich coughed into his hand and repeated the medical abracadabra that had stuck in his mind.

‘Prolapse of the biscuspid valve.’

The clerk nodded respectfully, but Sophia Diogenovna started crying quietly and inconsolably, as if this news had finally laid her low.

‘And what am I to do now, Mr Vice-Consul?’ she asked, her voice breaking. ‘I feel afraid here. What if Semushi suddenly shows up, for the money? Is there any way I can spend the night at your office? I could manage somehow on the chairs, no?’

‘Very well, let’s go. We’ll think of something.’

‘I’ll just collect my things.’

The young lady ran out of the room.

Silence fell. The only sound was the doctor whistling as he worked. Then something clattered on the floor and Twigs swore: ‘Damned crown!’, from which Fandorin speculated that the Anglo-Saxon had dropped the top of the braincase.

Erast Petrovich suddenly felt unwell and, in order not to hear anything else nasty, he started a conversation – he asked why Shirota had called the doctor ‘a sincere man’.

The clerk was pleased at the question – he too seemed to find the silence oppressive, and he started telling the story with relish.

‘It is a very beautiful story, they even wanted to write a kabuki theatre play about it. It happened five years ago, when Twigs-sensei was still in mourning for his esteemed wife and his esteemed daughters were little girls. While playing the card game of bridge at the United Club, the sensei quarrelled with a certain bad man, a doerist. The doerist had arrived in Yokohama recently and started beating everyone at cards, and if anyone took offence, he challenged them to fight. He had already shot one man dead and seriously wounded another two. Nothing happened to the doerist for this, because it was a duel.’

‘Aha, a duellist!’ Fandorin exclaimed, after puzzling over the occasional alternating l’s and r’s in Shirota’s speech, which was absolutely correct in every other way.

‘Yes, yes, a doerist,’ Shirota repeated. ‘And so this bad man challenged the sensei to fight with guns. The doctor was in a dreadful situation. He did not know how to shoot at all, and the doerist would certainly have killed him, and his daughters would have been left orphans. But if the sensei refused to fight a duel, everyone would have turned their backs on him, and his daughters would have been ashamed of their father. But he did not want his daughters to feel ashamed. And then Mr Twigs said that he accepted the challenge, but he needed a delay of five days in order to prepare himself for death as befits a gentleman and a Christian. And he also demanded that the seconds must name the very longest distance that was permitted by the doering code – a full thirty paces. The doerist agreed contemptuously, but demanded in return that there must be no limit to the number of shots and the duel must continue until there was “a result”. He said he would not allow a duel of honour to be turned into a comedy. For five days the sensei saw no one. But at the appointed hour on the appointed day he came to the site of the duel. People who were there say he was a little pale, but very intense. The opponents were set thirty paces away from each other. The doctor removed his frock coat, and put cotton wool in his ears. And when the second waved the handkerchief, he raised his pistol, took careful aim and shot the doerist right in the centre of the forehead!’

‘That’s incredible!’ Erast Petrovich exclaimed. ‘What a stroke of luck! The Almighty certainly took mercy on Twigs!’

‘That was what everyone in the Settlement thought. But what had happened soon came to light. The manager of the shooting club revealed that Mr Twigs had spent all five days in the firing range. Instead of praying and writing a will, he learned how to fire a duelling pistol, at the precise distance of thirty paces. The sensei became a little deaf, but he learned to hit the centre of the target and never miss. And why not, he had fired thousands of rounds! Anyone in his place would have achieved the same result.’

‘Oh, well done!’

‘Some said what you say, but others were outraged and abused the doctor, saying it was not “fair play”. One young pup, a lieutenant in the French marines, got drunk and started mocking the doctor in public for cowardice. The sensei heaved a sigh and said: “You are very young and do not yet understand what responsibility is. But if you consider me a coward, I am willing to fight a duel with you on the same terms” – and as he spoke, he looked straight at the centre of the young pup’s forehead, so intently that the Frenchman sobered up completely and apologised. That is the kind of man that Dr Twigs is,’ Shirota concluded admiringly. ‘A sincere man!’

‘Like Pushkin and Field Marshal Saigo?’ Erast Petrovich asked, and couldn’t help smiling.

The clerk nodded solemnly.

It must be admitted that when the doctor emerged from the bedroom, even Fandorin saw him with different eyes. He noticed certain features of Twigs’ appearance that were not apparent at a casual glance: the firm line of the chin, the resolute, massive forehead. A very interesting specimen.

‘All patched and sewn up, looking fine,’ the doctor announced. ‘That will be a guinea and two shillings, Mr Fandorin. And another six pence for a place in the morgue. Ice is expensive in Yokohama.’

When Shirota left to fetch a cart to transport the body, Twigs took hold of one of Erast Petrovich’s buttons with his finger and thumb and said with a mysterious air:

‘I was just thinking about that thumbprint and the little red spot… Tell me, Mr Vice-Consul, have you ever heard of the art of dim-mak?’

‘I b-beg your pardon?’

‘You have not,’ the doctor concluded. ‘And that is not surprising. Not much is known about dim-mak. Possibly it is all a load of cock and bull…’

‘But what is “dim-mak”?’

‘The Chinese art of deferred killing.’

Erast Petrovich shuddered and looked hard at Twigs to see whether he was joking.

‘What does that mean?’

‘I don’t know the details, but I have read that there are people who can kill and heal with a single touch. Supposedly they are able to concentrate a certain energy into some kind of ray and affect certain points of the body with it. You have heard of acupuncture?’

‘Yes, I have.’

‘Dim-mak would seem to operate with the same anatomical principles, but instead of a needle, it uses a simple touch. I have read that those who have mastered this mysterious art can cause a fit of sharp pain or, on the contrary, render a man completely insensitive to pain, or temporarily paralyse him, or put him to sleep, or kill him… And moreover, not necessarily at the moment of contact, but after a delay.’

‘I don’t understand what you’re talking about!’ exclaimed Fandorin, who was listening to the doctor with increasing bewilderment.

‘I don’t understand it myself. It sounds like a fairy tale… But I recalled a story I once read, about a master of dim-mak who struck himself on a certain point and fell down dead. He wasn’t breathing and his heart wasn’t beating. His enemies threw him to the dogs to be eaten, but after a while he woke up alive and well. And there’s another story I’ve read, about a certain Chinese ruler who was kissed on the foot by a beggar. Some time later a pink spot appeared at the sight of the kiss, and a few hours after that, the king suddenly fell down dead… Damn it!’ the doctor exclaimed in embarrassment. ‘I’m getting like those blockheaded journalists who make up all sorts of wild tales about the East. It’s just that while I was sewing our friend up, I kept thinking about the mark on his neck, so I remembered…’

It was hard to imagine that a staid, sedate individual like Dr Twigs could have decided to play a hoax on anyone, but it was also hard for a convinced rationalist, such as Erast Petrovich considered himself to be, to believe in deferred killing.

‘Mm, yes,’ the titular counsellor said eventually. ‘In the East, of course, there are many phenomena still unstudied by European science…’

And on that polite comment the mystical conversation came to an end.

They said goodbye to Twigs in the street. The doctor got into a riksha, raised his hat and rode away. Two locals laid the poor captain’s body, wrapped in a sheet, on a cart.

Erast Petrovich, Shirota and the sobbing Sophia Diogenovna set out on foot to the consulate, because Fandorin refused once again to ‘use human beings as horses’, and the clerk and the young lady also did not wish to ride in style, since the titular counsellor was travelling on his own two feet.

At the very first street lamp, there was a surprise waiting for the vice-consul.

The chubby-faced Yakuza, whom Erast Petrovich had already completely forgotten, loomed up out of the darkness.

He froze in a low bow, with his arms pressed to his sides,. Then he straightened up and fixed his benefactor with a severe, unblinking gaze.

‘I hopped as far as the river,’ Shirota translated, gazing at the bandit with obvious approval. ‘What other orders will there be, Master?’

‘How sick I am of him!’ Fandorin complained. ‘Now I wish that they had put that brand on his forehead! Listen, Shirota, am I never going to get rid of him now?’

The clerk looked carefully into the stubborn fellow’s eyes.

‘He is a man of his word. The only way is to tell him to put an end to his own life.’

‘Lord above! All right. At least get him to tell me what his n-name is.’

Shirota translated the reply from the former soldier of the Chobei-gumi gang:

‘His name is Masahiro Sibata, but you can call him simply Masa.’

Erast Petrovich glanced round at a squeak of wheels and doffed his top hat – it was the carters pushing along the cart on which the ‘perfectly healthy corpse’ had set off to the morgue after the doctor. Lying at its head were a pair of low boots and neatly folded clothing.

Vain fuss all around,

only he is at repose,

who has joined Buddha

SPARKS OF LIGHT ON A KATANA BLADE

‘Three samurai? Swords wrapped in rags. They called Okubo “a dog”? This could be very, very serious!’ Doronin said anxiously. ‘Everything about it is suspicious, and especially the fact that they used the launch. It’s the best way of getting right into the heart of the city, bypassing the road posts and the toll gates.’

Erast Petrovich had caught Vsevolod Vitalievich at home, in the left wing of the consulate. Doronin had already returned from the opening of the charitable establishment and the supper that had followed it, and he was getting changed for the Bachelors’ Ball. The consul’s gold-embroidered uniform was hanging over a chair and a plump Japanese maid was helping him into his dinner jacket.

Fandorin was very much taken by his superior’s apartment: with its furnishings of light rattan, it was very successful in combining Russianness with Japanese exoticism. For instance, on a small table in the corner there was a gleaming, fat-sided samovar, and through the glass doors of a cupboard, carafes of various colours could be seen, containing liqueurs and flavoured vodkas, but the pictures and scrolls on the walls were exclusively local in origin, and the place of honour was occupied by a stand with two samurai swords, while through an open door there was a view of an entirely Japanese room – that is, with no furniture at all and straw flooring.

The hazy circumstances of Blagolepov’s death interested Vsevolod Vitalievich far less than his three nocturnal passengers. This reaction actually seemed rather extreme to Fandorin at first, but Doronin explained the reason for his alarm.

‘It is no secret that the minister has many enemies, especially among the southern samurai. In Japan attempts at political assassinations are almost as frequent as in Russia. At home, of course, the dignitaries are killed by revolutionaries, and here by reactionaries, but that makes little difference to the case – society and the state suffer equally serious damage from leftist zealots as from rightist ones. Okubo is a key figure in Japanese politics. If the fanatics can get to him, the entire direction, the entire orientation, of the empire will change, in a way that is highly dangerous for Russia. You see, Fandorin, Minister Okubo is a protagonist of evolution, the gradual development of the internal forces of the country under strict governmental control. He is an animal trainer who cracks his whip and does not allow the tiger to break out of its cage. The tiger is the ancestral, deep-rooted militancy of the aristocracy here, and the cage is the Japanese archipelago. What was it that tore the notorious triumvirate of the three Japanese Corsicans apart? The question of war. The mighty party that was led by our Shirota’s favourite hero, Marshal Saigo, wanted to conquer Korea immediately. The reason why Okubo gained the upper hand over all his opponents at that time was that he is cleverer and more cunning. But if he is killed, power will inevitably go to those who support rapid development based on expansion, the poets of the great Japanese Empire of Yamato. Although, God knows, there are already too many empires in the world – any minute now they will all start wrangling with each other and sinking their steel talons into each other’s fur…’

‘Wait,’ Fandorin said with a frown, holding open the leather-bound notebook intended for collecting information about Japan, but not yet writing anything in it. ‘What does that matter to Russia? If Japan does attack Korea, then what do we care?’

‘Tut-tut-tut, such puerile talk, and from a diplomat,’ the consul said reproachfully, and clicked his tongue. ‘Learn to think in terms of state policy, strategically. You and I have been an empire for a long time now, and everything that happens on the globe matters to empires, my dear. Especially in Korea. For the Japanese, the Korean Peninsula will be no more than a bridge to China and Manchuria, and we have had our own sights on those for a very long time. Have you never heard of the project to create Yellow Russia?’

‘I have, but I don’t like the idea. For goodness’ sake, Vsevolod Vitalievich, God grant us the grace to solve our own internal problems.’

‘He doesn’t like it!’ the consul chuckled. ‘Are you in the tsar’s service? Are you paid a salary? Then be so good as to do your job, and let those who have been entrusted with responsibility do the thinking and give the orders.’

‘But how is it possible not t-to think? You yourself do not greatly resemble a person who follows orders without thinking!’

Doronin’s face hardened.

‘You are right about that. Naturally, I think, I have my own judgement, and as far as I can I try to bring it to the attention my superiors. Although, of course, sometimes, I’d like… But then, that does not concern you,’ said the consul, suddenly growing angry and jerking his hand so that his cufflink fell to the floor.

The servant girl kneeled down, picked up the little circle of gold, took the consul’s arm and set his cuff to rights.

‘Domo, domo,’ Vsevolod Vitalievich thanked her, and the girl smiled, revealing crooked teeth that spoiled her pretty little face rather badly.

‘You should have a word with her, to get her to smile without parting her lips,’ Fandorin remarked in a low voice, unable to restrain his response.

‘The Japanese have different ideas about female beauty. We value large eyes, they value small ones. We value the shape of the teeth, they value only the colour. Irregularity of the teeth is a sign of sensuality, regarded as highly erotic. Like protruding ears. And the legs of Japanese beauties are best not mentioned at all. The habit of squatting on their haunches has made most women here bandy-legged and pigeon-toed. But there are gratifying exceptions,’ Doronin suddenly added in a completely different, affectionate tone of voice, looking over Erast Petrovich’s shoulder.

Fandorin glanced round.

A woman in an elegant white-and-grey kimono was standing in the doorway of the Japanese room. She was holding a tray with two cups on it. Fandorin thought her white-skinned, smiling face seemed exceptionally lovely.

The woman walked into the drawing room, stepping soundlessly on small feet in white socks, and offered the guest tea.

‘And this is my Obayasi, who loves me according to a signed contract.’

Erast Petrovich had the impression that the deliberate crudeness of these words was the result of embarrassment – Vsevolod Vitalievich was gazing at his concubine with an expression that was gentle, even sentimental.

The young man bowed respectfully, even clicking his heels, as if in compensation for Doronin’s harshness. The consul spoke several phrases in Japanese and added:

‘Don’t be concerned, she doesn’t know any Russian at all. I don’t teach her.’

‘But why not?’

‘What for?’ Doronin asked with a slight frown. ‘So that after me she can sign a marriage contract with some sailor? Our bold seafarers think very highly of a “little madam” if she can chat even a little in Russian.’

‘Isn’t that all the same to you?’ the titular counsellor remarked rather drily. ‘She will have to live somehow, even after your love by contract expires.’

Vsevolod Vitalievich flared up:

‘I shall make provisions for her. You shouldn’t imagine that I’m some kind of absolute monster! I understand your gibe, I deserved it, I shouldn’t have been so flippant. If you wish to know, I respect and love this lady. And she returns my feelings, independent of any contracts, yes indeed, sir!’

‘Then you should get married properly. What is there to stop you?’

The flames that had blazed up in Doronin’s eyes went out.

‘You are pleased to joke. Conclude a legal marriage with a Japanese concubine? They would throw me out of the service, for damaging the reputation of Russian diplomats. And then what? Would you have me take her to Russia? She would pine away there, with our weather and our customs. People there would stare at her as if she were some kind of monkey. Stay here? I should be expelled from civilised European society. No, the fiery steed and trembling doe cannot be yoked… But everything is excellent as it is. Obayasi does not demand or expect anything more from me.’

Vsevolod Vitalievich turned slightly red, because the conversation was encroaching farther and farther into territory that was strictly private. But in his resentment at the consul’s treatment of Obayasi, Fandorin was not satisfied with that.

‘But what if there’s a child?’ he exclaimed. ‘Will you “make provisions” for him too? In other words, pay them off?’

‘I can’t have a child,’ Doronin said with a grin. ‘I mention it without the slightest embarrassment, because it has nothing to do with sexual impotence. On the contrary.’ His bilious smile widened even further. ‘In my young days, I was very keen on the ladies, and I ended up with a nasty disease. I was pretty much cured, but the likelihood of having any progeny is almost zero – such is the verdict of medicine. That, basically, is why I have never concluded a legal marriage with any modest maiden of the homemade variety. I did not wish to disappoint the maternal instinct.’

Obayasi obviously sensed that the conversation was taking an unpleasant turn. She bowed once again and walked out as soundlessly as she had come in. She left the tray with the tea on the table.

‘Well, enough of that,’ the consul interrupted himself. ‘You and I are behaving far too much like Russians… Intimate talk like that requires either long friendship or a substantial amount of drink, and we are barely acquainted and completely sober. And therefore, we had better get back to business.’

Assuming an emphatically businesslike air, Vsevolod Vitalievich started bending his fingers down one by one.

‘First, we have to tell Lieutenant Captain Bukhartsev about everything – I have already mentioned him to you. Secondly, write a report to His Excellency. Thirdly, if Okubo arrives at the ball, warn him about the danger…’

‘I still d-don’t understand, though… Even if Blagolepov did not imagine the suspicious things that his passengers said in his opium dream, what need is there to get so worked up? They have only cold steel. If they had revolvers or carbines, they would hardly be likely to lug their medieval swords around with them. Can such individuals really represent a danger to the most powerful politician in Japan?’

‘Ah, Erast Petrovich, do you really think the Satsumans are unacquainted with firearms or were unable to obtain the money for a couple of revolvers? Why, one night journey on the launch must cost more than a used Smith and Wesson. This is a different issue. In Japan it is considered unseemly to kill an enemy with a bullet – for them, that is cowardice. A sworn enemy, and especially one as eminent as Okubo, has to be cut down with a sword or, at the very least, stabbed with a dagger. And furthermore, you cannot even imagine how effective the takana, the Japanese sword, is in the hands of a genuine master. Europeans have never even dreamed of the like.’

The consul picked up one of the swords from the stand – the one that was somewhat longer – and flourished it carefully in his left hand, without drawing it from the scabbard.

‘Naturally, I do not know how to fence with a katana – that has to be studied from childhood. And it is preferable to study the Japanese way – that is, to devote your entire life to the subject that you are studying. But I take lessons in battojiutsu from a certain old man.’

‘Lessons in what?’

‘Battojiutsu is the art of drawing the sword from the scabbard.’

Erast Petrovich could not help laughing.

‘Merely drawing it? Is that like the true duellists of Charles the Ninth’s time? Shake the sword smartly, so that the scabbard flies off by itself?’

‘It’s not a matter of a smart shake. Do you handle a revolver well?’

‘Not too badly.’

‘And, of course, you are convinced that, with a revolver, you will have no trouble in disposing of an adversary who is armed with nothing but a sword?’

‘Naturally.’

‘Good,’ Vsevolod Vitalievich purred, and took a revolver out of a drawer. ‘Are you familiar with this device? It’s a Colt.’

‘Of course I am. But I have something better.’

Fandorin thrust his hand in under the tail of his frock coat and took a small, flat revolver out of a secret holster. It was hidden so cleverly that the guards at the ‘Rakuen’ had failed to discover it.

‘This is a Herstal Agent, seven chambers. They are p-produced to order.’

‘A lovely trinket. Now put it back. Good. And now can you take it out very, very quickly?’

Erast Petrovich threw out the hand holding the revolver with lightning speed, aiming directly at his superior’s forehead.

‘Superb! I suggest a little game. On the command of “three!” you will take out your Herstal, and I shall take out my katana, and we’ll see who wins.’

The titular counsellor smiled condescendingly, put the revolver back in the holster and folded his arms in order to give his rival a head start, but Doronin out-swanked him by raising his right hand above his head.

He gave the command:

‘One… two… three!’

It was impossible to folow the movement that the consul made. All Erast Petrovich saw was a glittering arc that was transformed into a blade, which froze into immobility before the young man could even raise the hand holding the revolver.

‘Astounding!’ he exclaimed. ‘But it’s not enough just to draw the sword, you have to cover the distance of one and a half sazhens between us. In that time I would have already taken aim and fired.’

‘You’re right. But I did warn you that I have only learned to draw the sword. I assure you that my teacher of swordsmanship would have sliced you in half before you pulled the trigger.’

Erast Petrovich did not try to argue – the trick had impressed him.

‘And have you heard anything about the art of deferred killing?’ he asked cautiously. ‘I think it is called dim-mak.’

He told the consul what he had heard from Dr Twigs.

‘I’ve never heard of anything of the sort,’ Doronin said with a shrug, admiring the flashes of light on the sword blade. ‘I think it’s a tall tale of the same genre as the fantastic stories about the ninja.’

‘About whom?’

‘During the Middle Ages there were clans of spies and hired assassins, they were called ninja. The Japanese simply love blathering all sorts of nonsense with a mystical air to it.’

‘But if we accept that this Chinese dim-mak actually does exist,’ Fandorin continued, pursuing his line of thought, ‘could the Satsuma samurai know the art?’

‘The devil only knows. From a theoretical point of view, it’s possible. Satsuma is a land of seagoers, ships from there go all over South-East Asia. And in addition, it’s a mere stone’s throw away from the Ryukyu islands, where the art of killing with bare hands has flourished since ancient times… All the more important, then, that we take measures. If Blagolepov’s three passengers are not ordinary crazies, but masters of secret skills, the danger is even more serious. Somehow this threesome don’t seem like loony fanatics. They sailed across the bay to Tokyo for some reason, and they took precautions – we must assume that they deliberately hired a foreigner in the belief that he would not understand their dialect and would not be conversant with Japanese affairs. They paid him generously and gave him an advance against the next journey. Serious gentlemen. You believe that they killed Blagolepov because he was talking too much and planned to go to the police?’

‘No. It was some old man who killed him. More likely than not, he has nothing to do with all this. But even so, I can’t get the captain’s strange death out of my mind…’

Vsevolod Vitalievich narrowed his eyes, blew a speck of dust off his sword and said thoughtfully:

‘Strange or not, perhaps the old opium addict simply croaked on his own – but it gives us an excellent pretext to set up our own investigation. Why, of course! A Russian subject has expired in suspicious circumstances. In such cases, under the status of the Settlement, the representative of the injured party – that is, the Consul of the Russian Empire – has the right to conduct an independent investigation. You, Fandorin, have served in the police and had dealings with the Third Section, so you hold all the aces. Try to pick up the trail of the passengers from that night. Not yourself, of course.’ Doronin smiled. ‘Why put your own life in danger? As the vice-consul, you will merely head up the investigation, but the practical work will be carried out by the municipal police – they are not accountable to the Japanese authorities. I’ll send an appropriate letter to Sergeant Lockston. But we’ll warn the minister today. That’s all, Fandorin. It’s after ten, time to go and see Don Tsurumaki. Do you have a dinner jacket?’

The titular counsellor nodded absentmindedly – his thoughts were occupied with the forthcoming investigation.

‘No doubt in mothballs and unironed?’

‘Unironed, but with no m-mothballs – I wore it on the ship.’

‘Excellent, I’ll tell Natsuko to iron it immediately.’

The consul said something to the maid in Japanese, but Fandorin said:

‘Thank you. I already have my own servant.’

‘Good gracious! When did you manage to arrange that?’ Doronin asked, staggered. ‘Shirota wasn’t planning to send you any candidates until tomorrow.’

‘It just happened,’ Erast Petrovich replied evasively.

‘Well, well. Honest and keen, I trust?’

‘Oh yes, very keen,’ the younger man replied with a nod, avoiding the first epithet. ‘And one other thing. I brought some new equipment with me in my luggage – a Remington typewriter with interchangeable Russian and Latin typefaces.’

‘Yes, yes, I saw the advertisement in the Japan Daily Herald. It really is a very fine device. How is it they describe it?’

‘A most convenient item for printing official documents,’ Fandorin replied enthusiastically. ‘It occupies only one corner of a room and weighs a little over four p-poods. I tried it on the ship. The result is magnificent! But…’ He lowered his eyes with a guilty expression. ‘… we need an operator.’

‘Where can we get one? And there is no provision for that position on the consulate staff.’

‘I could teach Miss Blagolepova. And I would pay her salary out of my own pocket. After all, she would make my work considerably easier.’

The consul gave his assistant a searching look and whistled.

‘You are an impetuous man, Fandorin. Barely even ashore yet, and you have already got mixed up in some nasty business, found a servant for yourself and taken care of your comforts of the heart. Apparently you will not be requiring an indigenous concubine.’

‘That’s not it at all!’ the titular counsellor protested indignantly. ‘It is simply that Sophia Diogenovna has nowhere to go. She has been left without any means of subsistence, after all… and an operator really would b-be of use to me.’

‘So much so that you are prepared to support that operator yourself? Are you so very rich, then?’

Erast Petrovich replied with dignity:

‘I won a considerable sum at dice today.’

‘What an interesting colleague I do have,’ the consul murmured, slipping the glittering sword blade back into the scabbard with a rakish whistle.

Like life’s white hoarfrost

on death’s winter windowpane,

the glints on the blade.

THE ERMINE’S GLASSY STARE

The dinner jacket had been ironed painstakingly but clumsily and it was somewhat puckered. However, the new servant had polished up the patent leather shoes until they glittered like crystal and the black top hat also gleamed brightly. And Doronin presented his assistant with a white carnation for a buttonhole. In short, when Erast Petrovich took a look at himself in the mirror, he was satisfied.

They set out in the following order: Vsevolod Doronin and Miss Obayasi at the front in a kuruma, followed by Fandorin on his tricycle.

Despite the late hour, the Bund promenade was still lively, and the eyes of people out for a stroll were drawn to the impressive sight of the cyclist riding by – the men gazed hostilely, the ladies with interest.

‘You are creating a furore!’ Doronin shouted jovially.

But Fandorin was thinking that Obayasi in her elegant grey and white kimono looked far more exquisite than the fashionable European ladies in their impossible hats and frilly dresses with bustles at the waist.

They rode across a bridge and up a low hill, and then Fandorin’s eyes were greeted by a truly amazing sight, a picture illuminated by the moon: prim-looking villas, cast-iron railings with monograms, hedges – in short, an absolutely British town, that had been miraculously transported ten thousand miles from the Greenwich meridian.

‘That is Bluff,’ said the consul, pointing proudly. ‘All the best society lives here. A genuine piece of Europe! Can you believe that ten years ago this was a wasteland? Just look at those lawns! And they say they have to be mown for three hundred years.’

Taking advantage of the fact that the road had widened, Erast Petrovich drew level with the kuruma and said in a low voice:

‘You said this was a bachelor ball…’

‘You mean Obasi? “Bachelor” has never meant “without women”, merely “without wives”. The European wives are too haughty and boring, they’ll spoil any celebration. Concubines are a different matter. That’s where Don Tsurumaki is so clever, he knows how to take the best from the East and the West. From the former, an aversion to hypocrisy; from the latter, the achievements of progress. You’ll see for yourself soon. Don is a Japanese of the new generation: that is what they call them, “the new Japanese”. They are today’s masters of life. Some come from the samurai, some from the merchants, but there are some like our own Russian self-made men of common origin, who have suddenly become millionaires. The man we are going to visit was once known by the plebeian name of Jiro, which means simply “second son”, and he had no surname at all, because in the old Japan commoners were not expected to have one. He took his surname recently, from the name of his native village. And to make it sound more impressive, he added the hieroglyph “don”, meaning “cloud”,’ and became Donjiro, but after a while somehow the ending was forgotten and only Don-san was left, that is “Mr Cloud”. And he really is like a cloud. Tumultuous, expansive, thunderous. The most un-Japanese of all Japanese. A kind of jolly bandit. You know, the kind who make good friends and dangerous enemies. Fortunately, he and I are friends.’

The two rikshas pulling the carriage stopped at a pair of tall open-work gates, beyond which the new arrivals could see a lawn illuminated by torches and, a little farther away, a large two-storey house with its windows glowing cheerfully, hung with coloured lanterns. A slowly moving procession of carriages and local kurumas stretched along the avenue leading to the house – the guests were getting out at the steps of the front porch.

‘Tsurumaki is a village to the west of Yokohama,’ Doronin continued, keeping one hand on the handlebars of Fandorin’s tricycle, because Erast Petrovich was scribbling in a notepad and occasionally pressing his foot down on the pedal. ‘Our former Jiro grew rich from construction contracts under the previous regime of the Shogun. Construction contracts have always been a shady and risky business, at all times and in all countries. The workers are a wild bunch. Keeping them under control requires strength and cunning. Don set up his own brigade of overseers, excellently trained and well armed, all the work was done on schedule and the clients were not concerned about the means used to achieve this result. When civil war broke out between the supporters of the Shogun and the supporters of the Mikado, he immediately realised which way the wind was blowing and joined the revolutionaries. He organised his supervisors and workers into fighting units – they were called “Black Jackets”, from the colour of their work clothes. He fought a war for a couple of weeks, and he has been reaping the rewards ever since. Now he is a politician, and an entrepreneur, and a philanthropist. Mr Cloud has opened the country’s first English school and a technical college, and even built a model prison – clearly in memory of his own past, which is itself enveloped in thick clouds. Without Don, our settlement would simply wither away. Half of the clubs and drinking establishments belong to him, the useful contacts with government officials, the profitable supply contracts – everything passes through him. The governors of the four surrounding prefectures come to him for advice, and even some ministers do the same…’ At this point Doronin stop in mid-phrase and jerked his chin cautiously to one side. ‘Incidentally, there is an individual far more influential than Don. The senior foreign adviser of an imperial government, and the main enemy of Russian interests. The Right Honourable Algernon Bullcox in person.’

As Bullcox and his companion came closer, he cast a casual glance at the waiting guests and led his companion up to the steps. He was a most colourful gentleman: exuberant, fiery-red hair, sideburns covering half his face, a keen (indeed, predatory) glance and a white sabre scar on his cheek.

‘What is so honourable about him, this Bullcox?’ Fandorin asked in surprise.

Doronin chuckled.

‘Nothing. I was referring to his title. Bullcox is a “Right Honourable”, the youngest son of the Duke of Bradfordshire. One of those young, ambitious climbers that they call “the hope of the empire”. He had a brilliant career in India. Now he is trying to conquer the Far East. And I am afraid that he will conquer it.’ Doronin sighed. ‘There is simply no comparison between our strength and the strength of the British – in both naval and diplomatic terms…’

Catching the eye of the Right Honourable, the consul bowed coolly. The Briton inclined his head slightly and turned away.

‘We still greet each other, as yet,’ Doronin remarked. ‘But if, God forbid, war should break out, we can expect anything at all from him. He is one of that breed who do not play by the rules and never accept that any goal is unachievable…’

The consul went on to say something else about pernicious Albion, but at that precise moment something strange happened to Erast Petrovich – he could hear his superior’s voice, he even nodded in reply, but he completely stopped understanding the meaning of the words. And the reason for this inexplicable phenomenon was trivial, even paltry. Algernon Bullcox’s female companion, to whom Fandorin had so far paid no attention, suddenly turned round.

Absolutely nothing else at all happened. She simply looked round, and that was all. But in that second the titular counsellor’s ears were filled with the chiming of silvery bells, his mind lost the ability to distinguish words and something altogether incredible happened to his vision: the surrounding world shrank to a small circle, leaving the periphery shrouded in darkness – but that circle was so distinct and so bright that every detail included in it seemed positively radiant. And the unknown lady’s face was caught in this magical circle – or perhaps everything happened the other way round: the light radiating from that face was too bright, and that was why everything around went dark.

With an effort of will, Erast Petrovich tore himself away from the astounding sight for a moment to look at the consul – could he really not see it? But Vsevolod Vitalievich was moving his lips as if nothing had happened, producing inarticulate sounds, and apparently had not noticed anything out of the ordinary. So it’s an optical illusion, whispered Fandorin’s reason, which was accustomed to interpreting all phenomena from a rational viewpoint.

Never before had the sight of a woman, even the most beautiful, had such an effect on Erast Petrovich. He fluttered his eyelashes, squeezed his eyes shut and opened them again – and, thank the Lord, the enchantment disappeared. The titular counsellor saw before him a young Japanese woman – a rare beauty, but no mirage, a living woman of flesh and blood. She was tall for a native woman, with a supple neck and exposed white shoulders. A nose with a slight crook in it, an unusual form to the elongated eyes stretching out towards the temples, a small mouth with plump lips. The beauty smiled in response to some remark from her beau, revealing her teeth – fortunately they were perfectly even. The only thing that might have been regarded as a defect from the viewpoint of the European canon were the charming, but distinctly protruding ears, nonchalantly exposed to view by the tall hairstyle. However, this regrettable prank of nature did nothing at all to spoil the overall impression. Fandorin recalled that Doronin had said protruding ears were considered a sign of sensuality in Japan.

But even so, the most striking thing about the woman was not the features of her face, but the vivacity that filled them and the grace of her movements. This became clear after the single second for which the Japanese woman had paused to allow the vice-consul to examine her so thoroughly, when she flung the end of her necklet back over her shoulder. This impetuous, fleeting gesture caused the glowing circle to reappear – although not quite as dramatically as the first time. The head of an ermine came to rest against the beauty’s back.

Erast Petrovich started recovering his wits and even thought abstractedly that she was not so much beautiful as exotic. Indeed, she herself was rather like a predatory beast with precious fur – an ermine or a sable.

The lady carried on looking in Fandorin’s direction – not, unfortunately, at his fine manly figure, but at his tricycle, which was a strange sight among the carriages and kurumas. Then she turned away, and Erast Petrovich felt a twinge in his heart, as if he had suffered some painful loss.

He looked at that white neck, the black curls on the back of that head, those ears protruding like two petals, and suddenly remembered something he had read somewhere: ‘A true beauty is a beauty from all sides and all angles, no matter what point you observe her from’. A clasp in the form of an archer’s bow glinted in the stranger’s hair.

‘E-er, why, you’re not listening to me,’ said the consul, touching the young man’s sleeve. ‘Lost in admiration of Miss O-Yumi, are you? No point in that.’

‘Who is sh-she?’

Erast Petrovich tried very hard to make the question sound casual, but clearly did not succeed very well.

‘A courtesan. A “Dame aux Camelias”, but of the very highest class. O-Yumi began in the local brothel “Number Nine”,’ where she was wildly successful. She has excellent English, but can also make herself understood in German and Italian. She herself chooses who to be with. Do you see that clasp in her hair, shaped like a bow? “Yumi” means a bow. No doubt it is a hint at Cupid. At present she is kept by Bullcox, and has been for quite a long time. Don’t gape at her, my dear boy. This bird of paradise flies too high for the likes of you and me. Bullcox is not only a handsome devil, he is rich too. Respectable ladies consider him a most interesting man, an attitude encouraged in no small measure by his reputation as a terrible hellraiser.’

Fandorin shrugged one shoulder.

‘I was only looking at her out of curiosity. And I am not attracted to venal women. In general, I cannot even imagine how it is possible to b-be’ – [here the titular counsellor’s cheeks turned pink -] ‘with a tainted woman who has belonged to God knows who.’

‘Oh, how young and – pardon me – foolish you are,’ Doronin said with a thoughtful smile. ‘Firstly, a woman like that cannot belong to anyone. Everyone belongs to her. And secondly, my young friend, women are not tainted by love, they merely acquire radiance. But in any case, your sniffing should be categorised as “sour grapes”.’

Their turn came to walk up on to the porch where the host was receiving his guests. Erast Petrovich gave his tricycle into the care of a valet and walked up the steps. Doronin led his concubine by the arm. For a brief moment she was beside the ‘tainted woman’, and Fandorin was astounded at how different these two Japanese women were: one endearing, meek and serene, while the other had an aura of glorious danger.

O-Yumi was just offering the host her hand for a kiss. He leaned down, so that his face was completely hidden, leaving in view just a fleshy nape and a red Turkish fez with a dangling tassel.

The ermine necklet slid down a long elbow glove and the Japanese beauty tossed it back over her shoulder again. Fandorin caught a momentary glimpse of a delicate profile and the moist gleam of eyes under trembling lashes.

Then the courtesan turned away, but the beady glass eyes of the furry ermine continued to observe the vice-consul.

Either it will bite,

Or tickle you with its fur,

The nimble ermine.

THE SILVER SLIPPER

The courtesan laughed as she said something to him, and the ‘new Japanese’ straightened up.

Fandorin saw a ruddy face, overgrown almost right up to the eyebrows with a thick black beard, a pair of exceptionally lively eyes and a lush mouth. Don Tsuramaki grinned, exposing remarkably firm teeth, and gave Bullcox a friendly slap on the shoulder.

Doronin was right: there was almost nothing Japanese in their host’s manner and appearance – except for the slant of his eyes and his low stature.

A huge, thick cigar was smoking in his short-fingered hand, his large stomach was tightly bound in with a scarlet silk waistcoat, and an immense black pearl glinted on his tie.

‘O-oh, my Russian friend!!’ Don exclaimed in a booming voice. ‘Welcome to an old bachelor’s den! The incomparable Obayasi-san, yoku ira-syshaimashita!’ ^[vi]

And this must be the assistant you have been waiting for so impatiently. What a fine young man! I’m afraid he will change my girls’ minds about being re-educated!’

A hot palm squeezed the titular counsellor’s hand tightly, and that was the end of the introduction: Tsurumaki gave a howl of joy and dashed over to embrace some American captain.

An interesting specimen, thought Erast Petrovich, looking around. A genuine dynamo electric machine.

An orchestra was playing in the hall, compensating for the dubious quality of its performance with bravura crashing and rumbling.

‘Our volunteer fire brigade,’ Vsevolod Vitalievich remarked. ‘They’re rather poor musicians, but there aren’t any others in the city.’

The guests chattered cheerfully, standing in little groups, strolling about on the open terrace, helping themselves to refreshments from the long tables. Fandorin was surprised by the number of meat dishes – all sorts of ham, gammon, sausage, roast beef and quails.

Doronin explained.

‘Until recent times the Japanese were vegetarians. They regard eating meat as a sign of enlightenment and progress, in the same way as our aristocrats regard drinking koumiss and chewing on sprouted grain.’

Most of the male guests were Europeans and Americans, but the majority of the women were Japanese. Some, like Obayasi, were wearing kimonos and others, like O-Yumi, had dressed up in the Western style.

An entire flower garden of beauties had gathered round a thin, fidgety gentleman who was showing them some pictures. He was Japanese, but dressed more meticulously than any dandy on London’s Bond Street: a sparkling waistcoat, a gleaming brilliantined parting, a violet in his buttonhole.

‘Prince Onokoji,’ the consul whispered to Fandorin. ‘The local arbiter of fashion. Also a product of progress, in a sense. There were no princes like that in Japan before.’

‘And this, ladies, is a Madras cap from Bonnard,’ Fandorin heard the prince say in an effeminate voice, burring his r’s in the Parisian fashion, even though he was speaking English. ‘The very latest collection. Note the frills and especially the bow. Seemingly so simple, but what elegance!’

Vsevolod Vitalievich shook his head.

‘And he is descended from the daimyo, the ruling princes! The next province belonged entirely to his father. But now the appanage principalities have been abolished and the former daimyo have become state pensioners. Some, like this fop, have taken to their new status eagerly. No cares, no need to support a pack of samurai, live to please yourself, pluck the blossoms of pleasure and delight. Onokoji, of course, ruined himself instantly, but he is fed and kept by our generous Mr Cloud – in gratitude for the patronage that the prince’s daddy extended to the bandit.’

Erast Petrovich moved off to one side to jot down in his notepad this useful information about progressive meat-eating and the daimyoreceiving pensions. At the same time he tried to dash off a quick sketch of O-Yumi’s profile: the curve of the neck, the nose with the smooth crook, the quick glance from under lowered eyelids. But it didn’t look like her – there was something missing.

‘Ah, there’s the man we need,’ said the consul, beckoning Fandorin.

Two men were talking in the corner, beside a column: the Right Honourable Bullcox, whom Fandorin already knew, and another gentleman, whose monocle and gaunt physique suggested that he might also be English. The conversation did not appear to be a friendly one; Bullcox was laughing hostilely and the other man was curling his thin lips angrily. The ‘Dame aux Camelias’ was not with them.

‘That is Captain Bukhartsev,’ said Lieutenant Vsevolod Vitalievich, leading his assistant across the hall. ‘He’s sparring with our British foe.’

Erast Petrovich looked more closely at the maritime agent, but still could not discover any indications of Russianness in this gentleman. The representatives of two rival empires were as alike as brothers. If one had to choose, then Bullcox could more easily be taken for a Slav, with his exuberant locks and open, energetic features.

No four-way conversation ensued, however. With a curt nod to Fandorin, who had been introduced to him by the consul, the Englishman announced that a lady was waiting for him and walked away, leaving the Russians to each other. Fandorin did not like the lieutenant captain’s handshake – what strange sort of manner was that, to offer just the tips of the fingers? Mstislav Nikolaevich (the maritime agent’s first name and patronymic) clearly wished to distance himself immediately and demonstrate that he was the most important one there.

‘Abominable little Englishman,’ Bukhartsev hissed through his teeth, watching Bullcox walk away through narrowed eyes. ‘How dare he! “You should not forget that Russia ceased to be a great power twenty years ago!” How do you like that? I told him: “We have just defeated the Ottoman Empire, and you can’t even deal with the pitiful Afghans!”’

‘A fine riposte,’ Vsevolod Vitalievich said approvingly. ‘What did he say to that?’

‘He tried to preach at me. “You are a civilised man. Surely it is clear that the world will only gain if it learns to live the British way?”.’

This assertion set Fandorin thinking. What if the Englishman was right? If one had to choose how the world should live – the British way or the Russian way… But at that point Erast Petrovich pulled himself up short. Firstly, for being unpatriotic, and, secondly, for posing the question incorrectly. First one had to decide whether it would be a good thing for the whole world to live according to a single model, no matter how absolutely wonderful it might be.

He pondered this complex question, at the same time listening to Doronin telling the agent in a low voice abut Captain Blagolepov’s sinister passengers.

‘Nonsense,’ said Bukhartsev with a frown, but after a moment’s thought, he said brightly, ‘Although, go ahead. At least we’ll demonstrate to the minister how greatly Russia is concerned for his safety. Let him remember we are his real friends, not the English.’

Just then their host, visible from a distance owing to his remarkable fez, went dashing towards the doors, where some kind of commotion was developing: some guests moved forward and others respectfully backed away, and a Japanese in a modest grey frock coat walked slowly into the hall. He halted in the doorway and greeted the assembled company with an elegant bow. His intelligent, narrow face, adorned with a drooping moustache, lit up in a pleasant smile.

‘Ah, and here is our Bonaparte, speak of the devil,’ the consul said to Fandorin. ‘Let’s move a bit closer.’

The minister’s retinue jostled behind him. In contrast with the great man himself, they were decked out in sumptuous uniforms. It occurred to Erast Petrovich that perhaps Okubo really was imitating the Corsican: he had also liked to surround himself with gold-feathered peacocks, while he went about in a grey frock coat and frayed three-cornered hat. This was the grand chic of genuine, self-assured power.

‘Well hello, you old bandit. Hello, you slanty-eyed Danton,’ said the minister, shaking his host’s hand with a jolly laugh.

‘And hello to you, Your Equally Slanty-Eyed Excellency,’ Tsurumaki responded in the same tone.

Erast Petrovich was rather shaken, both by the epithet and the familiarity. He glanced involuntarily at the consul, who whispered out of the corner of his mouth:

‘They’re old comrades-in-arms, from before the revolution. And that “slanty-eyed” business is just play-acting for the Europeans – it’s no accident that they’re speaking English.’

‘Why “Danton”, though?’ Fandorin asked.

But Doronin did not need to answer – Tsurumaki did that for him.

‘Take care, Your Excellency, if you cling to power so tightly, Dantons and Robespierres will be lining up against you. All the civilised countries have a constitution and a parliament, but what do we have in Japan? An absolute monarchy is a brake on progress, and you can’t understand that!’

Although Don smiled, it was clear that the only jocular thing about his words was the tone in which they were spoken.

‘It’s too soon for you Asiatics to have a parliament,’ the minister disagreed in a serious voice. ‘First educate yourselves, and then we’ll see.’

‘Now do you understand why Russia likes Okubo so much?’ asked Vsevolod Vitalievich, unable to resist the urge to seditious irony, although he spoke cautiously, directly into Fandorin’s ear.

Bukhartsev, who had not heard this freethinking remark, said briskly:

‘We won’t be able to get to the minister now. But never mind, I can see the person we need.’ He pointed to a military officer who was standing apart from the other members of the retinue. ‘That is the vice-intendant of police, Kinsuke Suga. Although he is only the vice-intendant, everyone knows Suga is the true head of the imperial police. His superior is a purely decorative figure, a member of the Kyoto aristocracy.’

Bukhartsev squeezed through the crush, gestured to the policeman, and a moment later all four of them were in a quiet corner together, away from the crowd.

Having quickly disposed of the social formalities, the lieutenant captain got down to business. He was a sensible man after all – he stated the essence of the matter clearly, succinctly and yet comprehensively.

Suga listened, knitting his thick eyebrows together. He touched his curled moustache a couple of times and ran his hand nervously over his short-cropped brush of hair. Erast Petrovich had not yet learned to tell the age of locals, but to look at, the vice-intendant seemed about forty-five. The titular counsellor did not push himself forward, he stood behind the maritime agent and the consul, but the policeman addressed his response to him.

‘Mr Vice-Consul, have you not confused anything here? The launch definitely went to Susaki that night, not to any other mooring?’

‘I could not have confused that even if I wished to. I don’t know Tokyo at all, I’m haven’t even been there yet.’

‘Thank you, you have gathered very important information,’ said Suga, still addressing Fandorin directly, which caused a grimace of dissatisfaction to flit across the lieutenant captain’s face. ‘You know, gentlemen, that the steamship ‘Kasuga-maru’, the first modern ship that we have built without foreign help, is moored at Susaki. Last night His Excellency was there – at a banquet to mark the launching of the steamship. The Satsumans found out about that somehow and probably intended to lie in wait for the minister on his way back. Everyone knows that His Excellency moves about without any guards at any time of the day or night. If the officers of the ship, having taken a drink or two, had not got the idea of unharnessing the horses and pulling the carriage by hand, the assassins would certainly have carried out their criminal plan. You say that they ordered the launch again for the end of this night?’

‘Yes, that is c-correct.’

‘That means they know that today His Excellency will go back from here in the small hours. They could easily land at some mooring in Simbasi or Tsukiji, steal through the dark streets and set up an ambush at the minister’s residence in Kasumigaseki. Gentlemen, you are doing our country a truly invaluable service! Come with me, I will take you to His Excellency.’

Suga whispered in the minister’s ear and led him out of the respectful circle of guests towards the Russian diplomats

‘Tomorrow all the local newspapers will write about this,’ Bukhartsev said with a self-satisfied smile. ‘It could even get into the Times, but not on the front page, of course: “The Strong Man of Japan Conspires with the Russian”.’

The report on the situation was run through for a third time, this time in Japanese. Erast Petrovich caught a few familiar words: ‘Fandorin’, ‘Rosia’, ‘katana’, ‘Susaki’, ‘Kasuga-maru’ – and the endlessly repeated ‘satsumajin’ probably meant ‘Satsumans’. The vice-intendant of police spoke forcefully and bowed frequently, but not subserviently, more as if he were nudging his phrases forward with his shoulders.

An expression of annoyance appeared on the minister’s tired face and he replied sharply. Suga bowed again, even more insistently.

‘What’s happening?’ Bukhartsev asked in a low voice – he obviously did not know Japanese.

‘He refuses to accept a guard, but Suga is insisting,’ Doronin translated quietly, then cleared his throat and said in English: ‘Your Excellency, permit me to remark that you are behaving childishly. After all, in the final analysis, it is not a matter of your life, but of the future of the country that His Majesty the Emperor has entrusted to your management. And in any case, the guard is a temporary measure. I am sure that your police will make every effort to find the conspirators quickly. And for my part, as a consul, I will set up an investigative group in Yokohama – no, no, naturally not in connection with the anticipated attempt on Your Excellency’s life (that would be interference in internal affairs), but in connection with the suspicious circumstances surrounding the demise of a Russian subject.’

‘And I shall assign my most capable men to assist the investigative group, which will give you the support of the Japanese authorities,’ put in Suga, also speaking English. ‘I swear, Your Excellency, that the police guard will not bother you for long. The miscreants will be seized within a few days.’

‘All right,’ Okubo agreed reluctantly. ‘I will tolerate it for three days.’

‘Three days might not be enough,’ Fandorin suddenly declared from behind the backs of the state officials. ‘A week.’

Bukhartsev glanced round in horror at the violator of etiquette. Suga and Doronin also froze, evidently afraid that the minister would explode and tell them to go to hell and take their guard with them.

But Okubo looked intently at Erast Petrovich and said:

‘Are you the man who has been assigned to lead the investigation? Very well, I give you one week. But not a single day longer. I cannot allow some cranks to limit my freedom of movement. And now, gentlemen, please excuse me, I have to talk to the British consul.’

He nodded and moved away.

‘He did that deliberately,’ Bukhartsev said in Russian with a sour face. ‘To restore the balance. There won’t be any article in the Times.’

But his voice was drowned out by Suga.

‘Well done, Mr Fandorin! I would never have dared talk to His Excellency in that tone of voice. A whole week – that is wonderful! It means the minister has fully understood the seriousness of the threat. He would never have accepted bodyguards before. He believes in fate. He often repeats: “If I am still needed by my country, nothing will happen to me. And if I am no longer needed, then it is my destiny”.’

‘How shall we organise the investigation, General?’ Bukhartsev enquired briskly. ‘Which of your deputies will you attach to the consular group?’

The vice-intendant, however, addressed Fandorin, not the maritime agent.

‘Your superior told me that you have worked in the police. That is very good. I will not give you a bureaucrat from the administration, but one of my inspectors – naturally, one who speaks English and knows Yokohama well. But I must warn you: the Japanese police are not much like the other police forces of the world. Our people are efficient, but they lack initiative – after all, not so long ago, they were all samurai, and a samurai was taught from the cradle not to think, but to obey. Many cling too tightly to the old traditions and simply cannot get used to firearms. They shoot incredibly badly. But never mind, my material may be in a rough state, but it is gold, pure 24 carat gold.’ Suga spoke quickly and energetically, emphasising his words by waving his fist. ‘Yes, my samurai have a long way to go to match the British constables and the French agents as far as police training is concerned, but they do not take bribes, they are diligent and willing to learn. Give us time, and we will create the finest police force in the world!’

Fandorin liked these passionate words, and the vice-intendant himself, very much. If only, he thought, our police force was run by enthusiasts like this, instead of stuffy gentlemen from the Department of Police. He was particularly struck by the fact that the police did not take bribes. Was that possible, or did the Japanese general have his head in the clouds?

Discussion of the details of future collaboration was interrupted by an unexpected event.

‘Ee-ee-ee-ee!’ a bevy of female voices squealed with such reckless enthusiasm that the men abandoned their conversation and looked round in amazement.

Don Tsurumaki was dashing across the hall.

‘Surprise!’ he shouted, pointing with a laugh to the curtain that covered one of the walls. That was where the squeal had come from.

The conductor waved his baton dashingly, the firemen rendered a thunderous, rollicking little motif, and the curtain parted to reveal a line of girls in gauzy skirts. They were Japanese, but they were under the command of a redheaded, long-limbed Frenchwoman.

‘Mes poules, allez-op!’ she shouted, and the girls in the line all hoisted their skirts and kicked one leg up into the air.

‘A cancan!’ the guests murmured. ‘A genuine cancan!’

The dancers did not kick their legs up so very high, and the limbs themselves were perhaps rather short, but nonetheless the audience was absolutely delighted. The famous Parisian attraction must have been quite a curiosity in Japan – the surprise was an obvious success.

Erast Petrovich saw Obayasi gazing spellbound at the cancan – she turned pink and put her hand over her mouth. The other ladies were also staring wide-eyed at the stage.

The titular counsellor looked round for O-Yumi.

She was standing with her Briton, beating out the furious rhythm with her fan and moving her finely modelled head slightly as she followed the dancers’ movements. Suddenly O-Yumi did something odd that probably no one but Fandorin could have seen – they were all so engrossed in the cancan. She lifted up the hem of her dress and kicked up her leg in its silk stocking – very high, above her head, far higher than the dancers. It was a long, shapely leg, and the movement was so sudden that the silver slipper slipped off her foot. After performing a glittering somersault in the air, this ephemeral object started falling and was caught deftly by Bullcox. The Englishman and his lady friend laughed, then the Right Honourable went down on one knee, took hold of the foot without a slipper, held the slim ankle slightly longer than was necessary and put the slipper back in its place.

Erast Petrovich felt a sharp, painful sensation and turned his eyes away.

With a true beauty,

Her simple silver slippers

Can also fly high

THE FIRST RAY OF SUNLIGHT

Late in the night, closer to the end of that interminable day, Erast Petrovich was sitting in the office of the head of the municipal police. They were waiting for the third member of the investigative group, the Japanese inspector.

In the not so distant past, Sergeant Walter Lockston had served as a guardian of the law in some cattle town in the Wild West of America, and he had retained all the manners of that uncivilised place. The sergeant sat there with his feet up on the table, swaying on his chair; his uniform cap was pushed forward almost as far as his nose, like a cowboy hat, he had a dead cigar protruding from the corner of his mouth and two massive revolvers hanging on his belt.

The policeman never stopped talking for a moment, cracking jokes and doing everything possible to demonstrate that he was a regular down-to-earth fellow, but Fandorin became more and more convinced that Lockston was not as simple as he was pretending to be.

‘The career I’ve had, you wouldn’t believe it,’ he said, stretching out his vowels mercilessly. ‘Normal people get promoted from sergeants to marshals, but with me it’s all backwards. In that dump that had five thousand cows to five hundred people, where the crime of the century was the theft of sixty-five dollars from the local post office, I was called a marshal. And here in Yokohama, where there are almost ten thousand people, not counting the danged hordes of slanty-eyed locals, I’m only a sergeant. And at the same time, my assistant’s a lieutenant. Ain’t that a hoot! That’s the way it’s set up. A sergeant, eh? When I write letters home, I have to lie, I sign them “Captain Lockston”. That’s what I should rightfully be, a captain. This sergeant business is some European contrivance of yours. So tell me, Rusty, do you have sergeants in Russia?’

‘No,’ replied Erast Petrovich, who had already resigned himself to that appalling ‘Rusty’, which was the result, on the one hand, of Lockston’s inability to pronounce the name ‘Erast’ and, on the other, of the grey hair on the titular counsellor’s temples. The only thing that irritated him was the stubbornness with which the office’s incumbent avoided talking about the matter at hand. ‘We don’t have sergeants in the police. Walter, I asked you what you know about that establishment, the “Rakuen”?’

Lockston took the cigar out of his mouth and spat brown saliva into the wastepaper basket. He looked at the Russian with his watery, slightly bulging eyes and seemed to realise that this man would not give up that easily. He screwed up his copper-red face into a wince and said reluctantly:

‘You see, Rusty, the Rakuen is on the other side of the river, and that’s not the Settlement. That’s to say, legally speaking it’s our territory, but white folks don’t live there, only yellowbellies. So we don’t usually stick our noses in there. Sometimes the Jappos stab each other to death, it happens all the time. But until they touch the white folk, I do nothing. That’s something like an unspoken agreement that we have.’

‘But in this case there is a suspicion that a Russian subject has been killed.’

‘So you told me,’ Lockston said with a nod. ‘And you know what I have to say to that? Bullshit, drivel. If your Mr B. kicked the bucket because some drunk happened to catch him on the neck with a finger, the old man must have been on his last legs already. What damned kind of murder is that? Let me tell you what a real murder looks like. This one time at Buffalo Creek…’

‘But what if Blagolepov was murdered?’ the embassy official interrupted after he had listened to several harrowing stories from the criminal history of the cowboy town.

‘Well then…’ The sergeant screwed his eyes up fiercely. ‘Then the slanty-eyes will answer to me for it. If it really is one of their lousy oriental tricks, they’ll regret they ever did the dirt on my territory. The year before last at the Ogon-basi bridge (and that, note, is already outside the bounds of the Settlement) they stabbed a French officer-boy. From behind, sneaky-like. This psychopath, an ex-samurai, turned nasty because his kind had been forbidden to carry swords. Whatever happens here, for them the whites are always to blame. So I called out all my lads and caught the son of a bitch, he hadn’t even washed the blood off his sword yet. How he begged me to let him slice his belly open! Well, screw him. I dragged him round the native quarter on a rope, to let the yellowbellies get a good look, and afterwards I strung him up with the same rope, no messing. Of course, the Jappos made a big scandal of it. Said they ought to have tried the psycho themselves and chopped his head off, the way they do things round here. I don’t think so. I prefer to pay my own debts. And if I come to believe that your compatriot didn’t kick the bucket on his own, but some Jap gave him a hand…’ Lockston didn’t finish what he was saying: he simply slammed his fist down eloquently on the desk.

‘Do you know the inspector who has been assigned to us from the Japanese police? The g-gentleman is called Goemon Asagawa.’

Erast Petrovich deliberately spoke about the Japanese with emphatic correctness, making it clear that he did not like the sergeant’s choice of words. The American seemed to take the hint.

‘I know him. He’s in charge of the station on Wagon Street, that’s in the Native Town. Of all the yellow… Of all the Japanese, Go is the smartest. We’ve worked together a couple of times already, on mixed cases when the mischief-makers were whites and yell… I mean natives. He’s a really young guy, only thirty, but experienced. He’s been in the police about fifteen years.’

‘How is that possible?’ Fandorin asked in surprise.

‘Well, he’s a hereditary yoriki.’

‘Who?’

‘A yoriki, it’s like a precinct cop. Under the old regime, the shoguns, the usual thing was for every trade, even every job, to pass from father to son. For instance, if your father was a water-carrier, then you’re going to spend your entire life carting around barrels of water. If your old man was the deputy head of the fire brigade, then you’ll be the deputy head too. That was why everything here fell apart on them – there was no point in straining yourself, you couldn’t jump any higher than your dear old dad anyway. And Go’s from a family of yoriki. When his father was killed by a robber, the lad was only thirteen. But order is order: he hung two swords on his belt, picked up a truncheon and went to work. He told me that the first year he carried the long sword under his arm so that it wouldn’t drag along the ground.’

‘But can a b-boy really maintain order in an entire neighbourhood?’

‘He can here, because the Jappos… the Japanese don’t look at the man so much, they look at the position and the rank. And then, they respect the police here – they’re all samurai to a man. And then, Rusty, bear in mind that guys who were born into yoriki families have been taught the whole body of police science since they were little kids: how to catch a thief, how to disarm robbers and tie them up, and they can handle a truncheon in a fight like our cops have never even dreamed of. I think Go could do plenty when he was thirteen.’

Erast Petrovich listened with great interest.

‘And how is their police organised now?’

‘On the English model. There are out-of-work samurai everywhere you look now, so there’s no shortage of volunteers. If you’re interested in the details, ask Go – here he comes.’

Fandorin looked out of the window at the well-lit square and saw a tall Japanese in a black uniform jacket and white trousers, with a sword hanging at his side. He was walking towards the station, swinging his right arm in military style.

‘You see he has a revolver on his belt,’ said Lockston, pointing. ‘That’s unusual for a native. They prefer to use a stick or, at a pinch, a sword.’

Inspector Asagawa was taciturn and calm, with a still face and quick eyes that were surely highly observant. The titular counsellor liked him. The Japanese began by ceremoniously but quite decisively putting the noisy sergeant in his place.

‘I am glad to see you too, Mr Lockston. Only please, if it is not too difficult for you, call me Goemon and not Go, although we Japanese feel more comfortable when we are addressed by our surnames. No thank you, I won’t have any coffee. Concerning my health and so forth, with your permission, we can talk later about that. My superiors have informed me that I come under the command of the vice-consul. What are your orders, Mr Fandorin?’

In this way the conversation was immediately set on business lines.

Erast Petrovich briefly described their goal.

‘Gentlemen, we have to find three samurai from Satsuma whom the Russian subject Captain Blagolepov carried on his launch last night. We have to ascertain if these men were involved in his sudden death.’

Fandorin didn’t say anything about the political background to the investigation. Asagawa understood and apparently approved – at least, he nodded.

‘Well, and how are we going to find them and ascertain that?’ asked Lockston.

‘These men hired the captain to take them to Tokyo again before dawn today, they even p-paid him an advance. So our first action will be as follows: we will go to the spot where the launch is moored and see if the Satsumans show up at the agreed time or not. If they do not, it means they know that the captain is dead. That will serve to strengthen the suspicion that they are involved in his death. That is one.’

‘What’s the point?’ the sergeant asked with a shrug. ‘So it will strengthen the suspicion. But where do we look for those three, that’s the catch.’

‘The daughter of the deceased told me that most of her father’s clients were supplied by the owner of the Rakuen. I assume that these three also made their arrangements with the owner of the launch and not with the captain. I can’t be completely certain of that, but let us not forget that the suspicious blow to his neck was inflicted inside the Rakuen. Which brings me to the second stage of this investigation: if the Satsumans do not show up, we shall turn our attention to Mr Semushi.’

Lockston chewed on his cigar, thinking over what Fandorin had said, but the Japanese was already on his feet.

‘In my humble judgement, your plan is very good,’ he said briefly. ‘I shall take ten experienced police officers. We shall surround the mooring and wait.’

‘And I’ll take six of the lads, the entire night shift,’ said the sergeant, also getting up.

Erast Petrovich summed up the situation.

‘So, if the Satsumans come, they are no longer under suspicion of the captain’s death. We hand them over to the Japanese police, who can deal with finding out who they are and what their intentions were. If the Satsumans do not come, the investigation remains within the competence of the consulate and the m-municipal police…’

‘And make no mistake, we’ll find those sons of bitches, wherever they are,’ the American put in. ‘We’ll go straight from the mooring to the hunchbacked Jappo’s place and shake the very soul out of him.’

Fandorin couldn’t help it, he shuddered at that ‘Jappo’ and was about to rebuke the sergeant for his intemperate speech, but it turned out that Inspector Asagawa had no intention of letting his nation be insulted.

‘The Japanese soul, Mr Lockston, is hidden deeper than it is in white people. It is not so easy to shake out, especially with a man like Semushi. He is an akunin, of course, but by no means a weakling.’

‘Who is he?’ Fandorin asked, knitting his brows together at the sound of an unfamiliar word.

‘An akunin is like an evil man or a villain,’ Asagawa tried to explain. ‘But not entirely… I don’t think the English language has a precise translation for it. An akunin is an evil man, but he is not petty, he is a strong man. He has his own rules, which he defines for himself. They do not conform to the prescriptions of the law, but an akunin will sacrifice his life for the sake of his rules, and so he inspires respect as well as hate.’

‘There is no word for that in Russian either,’ Fandorin admitted after a moment’s thought. ‘But g-go on.’

‘Semushi undoubtedly breaks the law. He is a cruel and cunning bandit. But he is not a coward, otherwise he could not hold on to his position. I have been working my way towards him for a long time. I have arrested him twice: for smuggling and on suspicion of murder. But Semushi is one of a new breed. He does not act like the bandits of former times. And most importantly of all, he has protectors in high places…’

Asagawa hesitated and stopped, as if realising that he had said too much.

He doesn’t want to hang out his dirty laundry in front of foreigners, Fandorin guessed, and decided to leave any questions for later, when he got to know the inspector better

‘Know what I have to say to you guys?’ said Lockston, narrowing his eyes sceptically. ‘We’re not going to get anywhere. We won’t prove the old dope-smoker was bumped off. With just a finger. It’s not possible.’

‘And is it possible for the touch of a finger to leave a burn mark on the neck, through a celluloid collar?’ Fandorin countered. ‘All right, it’s too early to argue about that. Let’s go to the mooring and wait for the samurai. If they don’t come, we’ll work on the owner of the Rakuen. But Mr Asagawa is right – we can’t go at this like a bull at a gate. Tell me, Inspector, do you have agents in civilian dress… that is, I mean, not in uniforms, but in kimonos?’

The Japanese smiled gently.

‘The kimono is formal wear. But I understand your question, Mr Vice-Consul. I have very good agents – in Japanese clothing and in European frock coats. We will put Semushi under secret surveillance.’

‘And from what my servant can tell me, I shall compose a verbal p-portrait of the man who touched Blagolepov’s neck. But let us not get ahead of ourselves. Perhaps the Satsumans will show up after all?’

The deceased Captain Blagolepov’s launch was tied up among fishing boats at a berth a long way from the Settlement.

The ambush was already in place two hours before the dawn. The Japanese police were ensconced under the decking of the jetty, on the launch itself and on the boats beside it. Lockston and his constables were posted on the shore, in a warehouse.

It was very dark and very quiet;, the only sound was the breathing of the bay, and every now and then the moon peeped out for a short while from behind the clouds. Erast Petrovich had found the prospect of sitting in the warehouse with the white policeman uninteresting. He wanted to be with Asagawa and his men in the immediate vicinity of the launch. The titular counsellor and four of the Japanese policemen had taken up a post under the pier, up to their knees in water. After a quarter of an hour Fandorin started feeling cold, and half an hour after that his teeth were chattering wildly, but he had to put up with it in order not to disgrace himself in front of the locals.

When there was moonlight filtering through between the boards of the pier, the young man examined his silent companions. Not one of them had a firearm, or even cold steel – only long staffs. But during the fight at the Rakuen, Erast Petrovich had seen how effective this weapon was in the hands of a master, so he contemplated the Japanese men’s unimpressive equipment with respect.

What surprised the titular counsellor most of all was that four of the ten men brought by Asagawa were wearing spectacles. It was absolutely impossible to imagine a Russian constable in glasses – the very idea was enough to make a cat laugh. But for the Japanese officers it seemed to be in the accepted order of things. Unable to quell his curiosity, Fandorin quietly asked the inspector what was the reason for this phenomenon – was it perhaps a national disposition to short-sightedness?

The inspector replied seriously and comprehensively. He explained that from the day they were born men of the samurai class had a predilection for reading and self-education. And the pursuit of book-learning was particularly well developed in the police – which was good for the job, but bad for the eyesight. Nonetheless, this activity was enthusiastically encouraged by the high command, for now, in these times of progress, the representatives of authority should be educated individuals – otherwise the public would lose all respect for them, and contempt for the representatives of authority was detrimental to society.

So there was Erast Petrovich with his teeth chattering, up to his knees in water, pondering the terrible mistake that the government of his homeland had made by not involving the landed gentry in socially useful activity following the liberation of the peasantry. If only at that point they had disbanded the appalling Russian police – illiterate, corrupt through and through – and started taking young men from the nobility as police constables in the cities and rural districts. What a wonderful idea – a police force that is more educated and more high-minded that its fellow citizens, a police force that is a model for emulation! Russia had so many starry-eyed idlers with a grammar-school education! And now they were living totally useless lives, or else youthful idealism and the energy of unspent passion drove them to join the revolutionaries. What a loss for the state and society!

When he hit his forehead against a rough beam of timber, Erast Petrovich realised that his mind had slipped imperceptibly into the drowsy realm of daydreams. Noble police constables – what an absurd fantasy!

He shook his head to drive sleep away and took his watch out of his pocket. Three minutes after four. The gloom was starting to brighten.

And when the first, hesitant ray of sunlight stretched out across the dark-blue waters of the bay, it finally became clear that the Satsumans would not come.

It seemed like the end,

No hope left. But suddenly -

The first ray of sun.

A MAMUSI’S HEART

While his master was sleeping, Masa managed to do many important jobs. A thoughtful, responsible approach was what was required here – after all, it’s not every day that a man starts a new life.

Masa did not know much about gaijins, and he knew almost nothing at all about his master, and, naturally, that made him feel a bit timid – he didn’t want to make a mess of things, but his spirit was filled with the zeal of devotion, and that was the most important thing.

Shirota-san had explained Masa’s duties to him the day before: do the housekeeping, buy provisions, prepare food, clean clothes – in short, do everything to meet his master’s every need. Masa had been given twenty yen to cover outgoings and also his salary for a month in advance.

The salary was generous, and he spent it as befitted a devoted retainer, that is, on acquiring an appearance worthy of his position.

The Yakuza known as Badger had died with the Chobei-gumi gang. Now the same body was inhabited by a man called Sibata-san – no, better ‘Mister Masa’ – who had to live up to his calling.

The first thing Masa did was pay a visit to the barber and have his lacquered pigtail shaved off. Of course, the result was not very beautiful to see: white on top and black at the sides, like an old gaijin’s bald patch. But Masa’s hair grew with remarkable speed: in two days the back of his head would be covered with stubble and in a month he would have a wonderful stiff brush. It would be clear straight away that the owner of a head like that was a modern individual, a man of European culture. Like in that song everyone was singing in Tokyo:

Tap a lacquer-pigtailed head

For full elucidation.

Hear the dull and obtuse thud

Of musty, crass stagnation.

Tap a trim and tidy head

For full elucidation.

Hear the clear, progressive note

Of bright illumination.

Masa knocked on the freshly trimmed crown of his own head and was pleased with the sound. And while his hair was growing, he could wear a hat – he bought a fine felt bowler, only very slightly frayed, for just thirty sen in a second-hand clothes shop.

He bought his outfit in the same place: jacket, shirt-front and cuffs, check trousers. He tried on a heap of shoes, boots and half-boots, but decided to wait for a while with the gaijin footwear – it was very stupid and uncomfortable, and took such a long time to put on and take off. He kept his wooden geta.

Having transformed himself into a genuine foreigner, he visited one of his former girlfriends, who had taken a job with the family of an American missionary: first, to show off his newly acquired chic and, secondly, to ask about the habits and customs of gaijins. He obtained a great deal of surprising and very useful information, although not without some difficulty, because the brainless girl pestered him with her amorous advances and slobbered all over him. But he had come on serious business, after all, not just to fool about.

Now Masa felt sufficiently prepared to set to work.

It was a real stroke of luck that his master didn’t come back until dawn and slept almost until midday – there was enough time to prepare everything properly.

Masa put together an elegant breakfast: he brewed some wonderful barley tea, then took a wooden plate and set out on it pieces of sea centipede, yellow sea-urchin caviar and transparent slices of squid; he arranged the marinated plums and salted radish beautifully; he boiled the most expensive rice and sprinkled it with crushed seaweed; and he could feel especially proud of the absolutely fresh, snow-white tofu and fragrant tender-brown natto paste of fermented soybeans. The tray was decorated according to the season with small yellow chrysanthemums.

He carried this beautiful display into the bedroom, where he sat down on the floor without making a sound and started waiting for his master to wake up at last. But his master didn’t open his eyes; he was breathing calmly and quietly, and the only movement was the trembling of his long eyelashes.

Ai, this was not good! The rice would get cold! The tea would stand for too long!

Masa thought and thought about what to do, and a brilliant idea occurred to him.

He filled his lungs right up with air and gave a great sneeze.

A-tishoo!

His master jerked upright on the bed, opened his strange-coloured eyes and gazed in amazement at his seated retainer.

Masa bowed low, begged forgiveness for the noise he had made and held out one hand spattered with saliva, as if to say: It couldn’t be helped, an impulse of nature.

And then straight away, with a broad smile, immediately held out to his master the magnificent earthenware chamber pot that he had bought for ninety sen. Masa had learned from his former girlfriend that foreigners put this object under the bed for the night and did their gaijin business in it.

But his master did not seem pleased to see the chamber pot and waved his hand, as if to say: Take it away, take it away. Evidently Masa should have bought the white one, not the pink one with beautiful flowers.

Then Masa helped his master get washed, examining his white skin and firm muscles as he did so. He wanted very much to take a look at how a gaijin’s male parts were arranged, but for some reason the master sent his faithful servant out of the room before he washed the lower part of his body,

The breakfast was a magnificent success.

Of course, he had to spend some time teaching his master to use the chopsticks, but gaijins had nimble fingers. That was because they were descended from monkeys – they admitted that themselves, and they weren’t ashamed of it at all.

Masa’s master delighted him with his excellent appetite, and he had an interesting way of swallowing his food. First he bit off a small piece of centipede, then he wrinkled his face right up (no doubt in delight) and finished it off very quickly, washing it down greedily with barley tea. He gagged on the tea and started coughing, his mouth opened wide and his eyes gaped. That was like the Koreans – they belched when they wanted to show how delicious something was. Masa made a mental note that he must prepare twice as much next time.

After breakfast there was a language lesson. Shirota-san had said that the master wanted to learn Japanese – not like the other foreigners, who forced their servants to learn their language.

The lesson went like this.

The master pointed at various parts of his face and Masa told him their Japanese names: eye – meh, forehead – hitai, mouth – kuti, eyebrow – mayu. His pupil wrote these down in a notebook and repeated them diligently. His pronunciation was funny, but of course Masa didn’t permit himself even a tiny little smile.

The master drew a human face on a separate page and indicated its various parts with little arrows. That was clear enough. But then he started asking about something that Masa didn’t understand.

He could make out some words: ‘Rakuen’ and satsumajin – but what they referred to remained a mystery. His master pretended to be sitting there with his eyes closed, then he jumped up, staggered, waved one arm about and prodded Masa in the neck, then pointed to the face he had drawn and said, as if he was asking a question:

‘Meh? Kuti?’

Eventually, having reduced Masa to a state of complete bewilderment, he sighed, ruffled up his hair and sat down.

And then the most unusual part began.

The master ordered Masa to stand facing him, held out his clenched fists and started gesturing, as if he was inviting Masa to kick him.

Masa was horrified and for a long time he refused: how could he possibly kick his onjin? But then he remembered an interesting detail about the gaijins’ intimate life, something that his former girlfriend had told him. She had spied on what the missionary and his wife did when they were in the bedroom and seen her mistress, wearing nothing but a black bodice (apart from her riding boots), beating the sensei with a whip on his bare o-siri, and him asking her to hit him again and again.

That must be how the gaijins did things, Masa guessed. He bowed respectfully and struck his master in the chest with his foot, not very hard – right between absurdly extended fists.

The master fell over on to his back, but jumped up straight away. He clearly liked it and asked Masa to do it again.

This time he started springing about and following Masa’s every movement closely, so Masa couldn’t hit him straight away. The secret of ju-jitsu, or ‘the art of soft combat’, is to follow your opponent’s breathing. Everyone knows that strength enters into you with the air, and it leaves you with the air too; breathing in and out is the alternation of strength and weakness, fullness and emptiness. So Masa waited until his in-breath coincided with his master’s out-breath and repeated the attack.

His master fell down again, and this time he was really pleased. Gaijins truly were different from normal people, after all.

Having received what he wanted, the master put on a beautiful uniform and went to the central part of the building, to serve the Russian emperor. Masa did a bit of tidying and took up a position at the window, with a view of the garden and the opposite wing, where the consul lived (how could servants work for a man with such a shameful name?).

In the morning Masa’s eye had been caught by the consul’s maid, a girl by the name of Natsuko. His instinct told him it would be worthwhile spending a bit of time on her – it could lead to something.

He could see the girl doing the cleaning, moving from room to room, but she didn’t look out of the window.

Masa opened the curtains a bit wider, put a mirror on the windowsill and started pretending to shave – exactly the way his master did. Masa’s cheeks were round and remarkably smooth, no beard grew on them, the Buddha be praised, but why shouldn’t he lather them up with fragrant foam?

Working away gravely with the brush, Masa moved the mirror about a bit, trying to direct a spot of sunlight into Natsuko’s eyes.

He had to break off for a while, because Shirota-san and the dead captain’s yellow-haired daughter came out into the garden. They sat down on a bench under a young gingko tree and the interpreter began reading something out loud from a book, waving his hand about at the same time. Every now and then he cast a sideways glance at the young lady, but she sat with her eyes lowered and didn’t look at him at all. Such a learned man, but he had no idea how to court women, Masa thought, feeling sorry for Shirota-san. He ought to turn away from her completely and be casual, uttering only an occasional word. Then she wouldn’t turn her nose up, she’d start worrying that perhaps she wasn’t attractive enough.

They sat there for about a quarter of an hour, and when they left they forgot the book, leaving it on the bench. It was lying there with the front cover facing upwards. Standing up on tiptoe, Masa was able to make out the cover – it showed a gaijin with frizzy hair and curly hair on his cheeks at both sides, exactly like the orang-utan Masa had seen in the Asakusa park last week. There were lots of curiosities on show there: a performance by a master of passing wind, and a woman who smoked with her navel, and a spider-man with an old man’s head and the body of a five-year-old child.

He started fiddling with the mirror again, turned it this way and that, and eventually, after about half an hour, he was successful. Natsuko started showing interest in the ray of light that kept getting in her eyes. She turned her head right and left, glanced out of the window and saw the vice-consul’s servant. By that time, of course, Masa had already set the mirror on the windowsill and was making wild eyes as he waved a sharp razor about in front of his face.

The girl froze with her mouth open – he saw that very clearly out of the corner of his eye. He knitted his eyebrows together, because women appreciate sternness in a man; he pushed his cheek out with his tongue, as his master had done earlier, and turned sideways on to Natsuko, so she wouldn’t feel shy about examining her new neighbour more closely.

In about an hour’s time he should go out into the garden. As if he needed to clean his master’s sword (the narrow one in a beautiful scabbard with a gilded hilt). He could be sure Natsuko would also find herself something to do out there.

The maid stared at him for about a minute and then disappeared.

Masa stuck his head out of the window: it was important to understand why she had gone away – whether her mistress had called her or he had failed to make a strong enough impression.

There was a faint rustling sound behind him.

Erast Petrovich’s valet tried to turn round, but he was suddenly overcome by an irresistible urge to sleep. Masa yawned, stretched and slid down on to the floor. He started snoring.

Roused from sleep by a deafening sound of uncertain origin, Erast Petrovich jerked upright on the bed and for a brief moment felt frightened: there was an outlandish Oriental sitting on the floor, dressed in check trousers, a white shirt-front and a black bowler hat. The Oriental was watching the titular counsellor intently, and when he saw that Erast Petrovich had woken up, he swayed forward, like a bobbling Chinese doll.

And then Fandorin recognised his new servant. What was his name? Ah, yes, Masa.

The breakfast prepared by this native Sancho Panza was a nightmare. How could they eat that slimy, smelly, cold stuff? And raw fish! And gooey rice that stuck to the roof of your mouth! And it was better not even to think about what that sticky diarrhoea-coloured glue was made of. Not wishing to offend the Japanese, Fandorin quickly swallowed all this poison and washed it down with tea, but the tea seemed to have been brewed out of fish scales.

The attempt to compose a verbal portrait of the suspicious old man from the Rakuen ended in failure – it couldn’t be done without an interpreter, and the titular counsellor had not yet decided whether it was appropriate to let Shirota know all the details of the investigation.

But on the other hand, the introductory lesson on Japanese pugilism was a tremendous success. English boxing proved to be quite powerless against it. Masa moved with incredible speed and he struck with strength and precision. How right it was to fight with the legs instead of the arms! The lower limbs were so much stronger and longer! This was a skill well worth learning.

Then Erast Petrovich put on his uniform with the red cuffs and went to the consular premises to present himself to his superior with all due ceremony – for after all, this was his first day in his new position.

Doronin was sitting in his office, dressed in a frivolous shantung two-piece suit, and he gestured at the uniform as if it were a piece of silly nonsense.

‘Tell me, quickly!’ he exclaimed. ‘I know you got back early in the morning, and I’ve been waiting impatiently for you to wake up. Naturally, I understand that you came back empty-handed, otherwise you would have come to report straight away, but I want to know all the details.’

Fandorin briefly expounded the meagre results of the investigation’s first operation and announced that he was ready to perform his routine duties, since he had nothing else to deal with for the time being – until information was received from the Japanese agents who were following the hunchback.

The consul pondered that for a moment.

‘So, what do we have? The instigators didn’t show up, thereby only deepening our suspicions. The Japanese police are searching for three men who speak the Satsuma dialect and have swords. And the hilt of one man’s sword, the one who has a withered arm, is covered with glasspaper (if the captain didn’t imagine it). At the same time your group has focused its attention on the owner of the Rakuen and the mysterious old man whom your servant saw near Blagolepov. We’ll get a verbal portrait – I’ll have a word with Masa myself. I tell you what, Fandorin. Forget your vice-consular duties for the present, Shirota will manage on his own. You need to study the Settlement and its surroundings as soon as possible. It will make your detective work easier. Let’s take a pedestrian excursion around Yokohama. Only get changed first.’

‘With great pleasure,’ Erast Petrovich said, and bowed. ‘But first, if you will p-permit me, I shall take a quarter of an hour to show Miss Blagolepova the principles of the typewriter.’

‘Very well. I shall call for you at your quarters in half an hour.’

In the corridor he met Sophia Diogenovna – she seemed to have been waiting for the young man. When she saw him, she blushed and pressed the book she was holding tight against her chest.

‘There, I left it behind in the garden,’ she whispered, as if she were making excuses for something. ‘Kanji Mitsuovich, Mr Shirota, gave me it to read…’

‘Do you like Pushkin?’ asked Fandorin, glancing at the cover and wondering whether he ought to offer the young spinster his condolences on the occasion of her father’s demise once again, or whether enough had been said already. He decided it would be better not to – she might burst into floods of tears again.

‘He writes quite well, but it’s very long-winded,’ Sophia Diogenovna replied. ‘We were reading Tatyana’s letter to the object of her passion. Some girls are really so daring. I would never have dared… but I really love poetry. Before Papa took to smoking, sailor gentlemen often used to visit us, they wrote things in my album. One conductor from the St Pafnutii composed very soulful poems.’

‘And what did you like best?’ Erast Petrovich asked absentmindedly.

The young lady lowered her eyes and whispered:

‘I can’t recite it… I’m too embarrassed. I’ll write it out for you and send it later, all right?’

At this point ‘Kanjii Mitsuovich’ glanced out of the door leading to the office. He gave the vice-consul a strange look, bowed politely and announced that the writing machine had been unpacked and installed.

The titular counsellor led the new operator off to introduce her to this great achievement of progress.

Half an hour later, exhausted by his pupil’s inept diligence, Erast Petrovich went to get changed for the proposed excursion. He took his boots off in the entrance hall and unbuttoned his short undercoat and shirt, in order not to delay Vsevolod Vitalievich, who was due to appear at any minute.

‘Masa!’ the titular counsellor called as he walked into the bedroom. He spotted his servant immediately. He was sleeping peacefully on the floor under the open window, and hovering over him was a little old Japanese man in worker’s clothes: grey jacket, narrow cotton trousers, straw sandals over black stockings.

‘What’s g-going on here? And who are you, anyway?’ Fandorin began, but broke off, first because he realised that the native man was hardly likely to understand English and, secondly, because he was astounded by the little old man’s behaviour.

The old man smiled imperturbably, transforming his face into a radiant mass of wrinkles, slipped his hands into his broad sleeves and bowed – he was wearing a close-fitting cap on his head.

‘What’s wrong with Masa?’ Fandorin asked, unable to resist uttering further pointless words. He dashed across to his sweetly snuffling valet and leaned down over him – Masa really was asleep.

What kind of nonsense was this!

‘Hey, wait!’ the titular counsellor shouted to the old man, who was ambling towards the door.

When the little old man didn’t stop, the vice-consul overtook him in two bounds and grabbed him by the shoulder. Or rather, he tried to. Without even turning round, the Japanese swayed imperceptibly to one side, and the vice-consul’s figures clutched at empty air.

‘Dear man, I d-demand an explanation,’ said Erast Petrovich, growing angry. ‘Who are you? And what are you doing here?’

His tone of voice, and the situation in general, should have rendered these questions comprehensible without any translation.

Realising that he would not be allowed to leave, the old man turned to face the vice-consul. He wasn’t smiling any more. The black eyes, glittering like two blazing coals, observed Fandorin calmly and attentively, as if they were deciding some complicated but not particularly important problem. This cool gaze finally drove Fandorin into a fury.

This Oriental was damned suspicious! He had clearly sneaked into the building with some criminal intent!

The titular counsellor reached out his hand to grab the thief (or, perhaps, spy) by the collar. This time the old man didn’t dodge; without taking his hands out of his sleeves, he simply struck Fandorin on the wrist with his elbow.

The blow was extremely light, almost insubstantial, but the titular counsellor’s arm went completely numb and dangled uselessly at his side – the elbow must have hit some kind of nerve centre.

‘Why, damn you!’ Erast Petrovich exclaimed.

He delivered a superb left hook, which should have flattened the obnoxious old man against the wall, but his fist merely described a powerful arc through the empty air. The inertia spun Fandorin round his own axis and left him standing with his back to the Japanese.

The villainous intruder immediately took advantage of this and struck him on the neck with his other elbow, again very lightly, but the young man’s knees buckled. He collapsed flat on his back and was horrified to feel that he couldn’t move any part of his body.

It was like a nightmare!

The most terrifying thing of all was the searing, blazing gaze of the old man’s eyes; it seemed to penetrate into the prostrate vice-consul’s very brain.

The old man leaned down, and that was when the most incredible thing of all happened.

He finally took his hands out of his sleeves.

In his right hand he was clutching a greyish-brown snake with small, beady, glittering eyes. Gripped tight by the neck, it was straining its jaws open.

The prone man groaned – that was all he had the strength for.

The snake slithered smoothly out of the sleeve and fell on to Fandorin’s chest in a springy coil. He felt its touch on his skin, at the spot where his collar was unbuttoned – a cold, rough sensation.

The diamond-shaped head swayed very close, only a few inches away from his face. Erast Petrovich heard the quiet, fitful hissing, he saw the sharp little fangs, the forked tongue, but he couldn’t even stir a finger. Ice-cold sweat trickled down off his forehead.

He heard a strange clicking sound – it was made by the old man, who seemed to be urging the reptile to hurry.

The jaws swayed towards Fandorin’s throat and he squeezed his eyes shut, with the thought that nothing could possibly be more terrible than this horror. Even death would be a blessed release.

Erast Petrovich opened his eyes again – and didn’t see the snake.

But it had been here, he had felt its movements.

The reptile had apparently decided to settle down more comfortably on his chest – it curled up into a ball and its tail crept in under his shirt and slithered ticklishly across his ribs.

With a struggle, Fandorin focused his eyes on the old man – he was still gazing directly at his paralysed victim, but something in his eyes had changed. Now, if anything, they were filled with surprise. Or was it curiosity?

‘Erast Petrovich!’ a voice called from somewhere far away. ‘Fandorin! Is it all right if I come in?’

What happened after that took less than a second.

In two absolutely silent leaps the old Japanese was by the window; he jumped up, somersaulted in the air, propping one hand against the windowsill as he flew over it, and disappeared.

And then Vsevolod Vitalievich appeared in the doorway – in a panama hat and carrying a cane, ready for their pedestrian excursion.

A prickling sensation ran across Fandorin’s neck, and he discovered that he could turn his head.

He turned it, but he couldn’t see the old man any more – just the curtain swaying at the window.

‘Now, what’s this I see? An adder!’ Doronin shouted. ‘Don’t move!’

The startled snake darted off Erast Petrovich’s chest and made for the corner of the room.

The consul dashed after it and started beating it with his cane – so furiously that the stick broke in half at the third blow.

The titular counsellor raised the back of his head off the carpet – the paralysis seemed to be gradually passing off.

‘Am I asleep?’ he babbled, barely able to control his tongue. ‘I dreamed I saw a snake…’

‘It was no dream,’ said Doronin, wrapping his handkerchief round his fingers and squeamishly lifting the reptile up by its tail.

He examined it, shifting his spectacles down to the end of his nose, then carried it to the window and threw it out. He cast a disapproving glance at Masa and heaved a sigh.

Then he took a chair, sat down facing his feebly stirring assistant and fixed him with a severe stare.

‘Now then, my dear,’ the consul began sternly. ‘Let’s have no nonsense, everything out in the open. What an angel he made himself out to be yesterday! Doesn’t go to brothels, has never even heard of opium addicts…’ Doronin drew a deep breath in through his nose. ‘Not a whiff of opium here, though. So you prefer injections? Do you know what they call what has happened to you? Narcotic swoon. Don’t shake your head, I wasn’t born yesterday! Shirota told me about your heroics yesterday in the gambling den. A fine servant you’ve picked up for yourself! Did he procure the drug for you! Of course, who else! He took some himself, and obliged his master at the same time. Tell me one thing, Fandorin. Only honestly now! How long have you been addicted to drugs?’

Erast Fandorin groaned and shook his head.

‘I believe you. You’re still so young, don’t destroy yourself! I warned you: the drug is deadly dangerous if you’re not capable of keeping yourself in hand. You were very nearly killed just now – by an absurd coincidence! A mamusi crept into the room while both of you were in a narcotic trance – that is, in a completely helpless state!’

‘Who?’ the titular counsellor asked in a weak voice. ‘Who c-crept in?’

‘A mamusi. A Japanese adder. It’s a gentle-sounding name, but in May, after the winter hibernation, mamusis are extremely dangerous. If one bites you on the arm or leg, that’s not too bad, but a bite on the neck is certain death. Sometimes mamusis swim into the Settlement along the canals from the paddy fields and they get into courtyards, or even houses. Last year one of those reptiles bit the son of a Belgian businessman and they couldn’t save him. Well, why don’t you say something?’

Erast Petrovich didn’t say anything, because he didn’t have the strength for any explanations. And what could he have said? That there was an old man in the room, with eyes like blazing coals, and then he just flew out of the window? That would only have reinforced the consul’s certainty that his assistant was an inveterate drug addict who suffered from hallucinations. Better postpone the fantastic story until later, when his head stopped spinning and his speech was articulate again.

And in all honesty, the young man himself was no longer absolutely sure that it had all been real. Did things like that actually happen?

‘But I didn’t imagine the little old man with the snake in his sleeve who can jump so high. And I have reliable p-proof of that. I’ll present it to you a little later,’ Fandorin concluded, and glanced round at his listeners: Sergeant Lockston, Inspector Asagawa and Dr Twigs.

The titular counsellor had spent the entire previous day flat on his back, slowly recovering, and his strength had been completely restored only after ten hours of deep sleep.

And now here, in the police station, he was telling the members of the investigative group the incredible story of what had happened to him.

Asagawa asked:

‘Mr Vice-Consul, are you quite certain that it was the same old man who struck the captain in the Rakuen?’

‘Yes. Masa didn’t see him in the bedroom, but when, with the help of an interpreter, I asked him to describe the man from the Rakuen, the descriptions matched: height, age and even that special, piercing gaze. It’s him, no doubt about it. After having made this interesting g-gentleman’s acquaintance, I am quite prepared to believe that he inflicted a fatal injury on Blagolepov with a single touch. “Dim-mak”, I think it’s called – isn’t that right, Doctor?’

‘But why did he want to kill you?’ asked Twigs.

‘Not me. Masa. The old conjuror had somehow found out that the investigation had a witness who could identify the killer. The plan, obviously, was to put my valet to sleep and set the mamusi on him, so that it would look like an unfortunate accident – especially since the same thing had already happened in the Settlement before. My sudden appearance prevented the plan from being carried through. The visitor was obliged to deal with me, and he did it so deftly that I was unable to offer the slightest resistance. I can’t understand why I’m still alive… there’s a whole host of questions – enough to set my head spinning. But the most important one is: how did the old man know that there was a witness?’

The sergeant, who had not uttered a single word so far, but merely sucked on his cigar, declared:

‘We’re talking too much. In front of outsiders, too. For instance, what’s this Englishman doing here?’

‘Mr Twigs, did you bring it?’ Fandorin asked the doctor instead of answering the sergeant’s question.

The doctor nodded and took some long, flat object, wrapped in a piece of cloth, out of his briefcase.

‘Here, I kept it. And I sacrificed my own starched collar, so the dead man wouldn’t have to lie in the grave with a bare neck,’ said Twigs as he unwrapped a celluloid collar.

‘Can you c-compare the prints?’ asked the titular counsellor, unwrapping a little bundle of his own and taking out a mirror. ‘It was lying on the windowsill. My m-mysterious guest touched the surface with his hand as he turned his somersault.’

‘What kind of nonsense is this?’ muttered Lockston, watching as Twigs examined the impressions through a magnifying glass.

‘The thumb is the same!’ the doctor announced triumphantly. ‘This print is exactly like the one on the celluloid collar. The delta pattern, the whorl, the forks – it all matches!’

‘What’s this? What’s this?’ Asagawa asked quickly, moving closer. ‘Some innovation in police science?’

Twigs was delighted to explain.

‘It’s only a hypothesis as yet, but a well-tested one. My colleague Dr Folds from the Tsukiji Hospital describes it in a learned article. You see, gentlemen, the patterns on the cushions of our fingers and thumbs are absolutely unique. You can meet two people who are as alike as two peas, but it’s impossible to find two perfectly identical fingerprints. They already knew this in medieval China. Instead of signing a contract, workers applied their thumbprint – the impression cannot be forged…’

The sergeant and the inspector listened open-mouthed as the doctor went into greater historical and anatomical detail.

‘What a great thing progress is!’ exclaimed Asagawa, who was normally so restrained. ‘There are no mysteries that it cannot solve!’

Fandorin sighed.

‘Yes there are. How do we explain, from the viewpoint of science, what our sp-sprightly old man can do? Delayed killing, induced lethargy, temporary paralysis, an adder in his sleeve… Mystery upon mystery!’

‘Shinobi,’ said the inspector.

The doctor nodded:

‘I thought of them too, when I heard about the mamusi in his sleeve.’

So much wisdom there,

And so many mysteries -

A mamusi’s heart

SNOW AT THE NEW YEAR

‘That’s a classic trick of theirs. If I remember correctly, it’s called mamusi-gama, “the snake sickle”, isn’t it?’ Twigs asked the Japanese inspector. ‘Tell the vice-consul about it.’

Asagawa replied respectfully.

‘You’d better tell it, Sensei. I’m sure you are far better read on this matter and also, to my shame, know the history of my country better.’

‘Just what are these shinobi?’ Lockston exclaimed impatiently.

‘The “Stealthy Ones”,’ the doctor explained, finally grasping the helm of the conversation firmly. ‘A caste of spies and hired killers – the most skilful in the entire history of the world. The Japanese love to pursue any skill to perfection, so they attain the very highest levels both in what is good and what is bad. These semi-mythical knights of the cloak and dagger are also known as rappa, suppa or ninja.’

‘Ninja?’ the titular counsellor repeated, remembering that he had already heard that word from Doronin. ‘Go on, Doctor, go on!’

‘The things they write about the ninja are miraculous. Supposedly, they could transform themselves into frogs, birds and snakes, fly through the sky, jump from high walls, run across water and so on, and so forth. Of course, most of this is fairy tales, some of them invented by the shinobi themselves, but some things are true. I have taken an interest in their history and read dissertations written by famous masters of ninjutsu, “the secret art”, and I can confirm that they could jump from a sheer wall twenty yards high; with the help of special devices, they could walk through bogs; they crossed moats and rivers by walking across the bottom and did all sorts of other genuinely fantastic things. This caste had its own morality, a quite monstrous one from the viewpoint of the rest of humanity. They elevated cruelty, treachery and deceit to the rank of supreme virtues. There was even a saying: “as cunning as ninja”. They earned their living by taking commissions for murder. It cost an immense amount of money, but the ninja could be relied on. Once they took a commission, they never deviated from it, even if it cost them their lives. And they always achieved their goal. The shinobi code encouraged treachery, but never in relation to the client, and everyone knew that.

‘They lived in isolated communities and they prepared for their future trade from the cradle. I’ll tell you a story that will help you to understand how the young shinobi were raised.

‘A certain famous ninja had powerful enemies, who managed to kill him and cut off his head, but they weren’t absolutely certain that he was the right man. They showed their trophy to the man’s eight-year-old son and asked: “Do you recognise him?” The boy didn’t shed a single tear, because that would have shamed the memory of his father, but the answer was clear from his face in any case. The little ninja buried the head with full honours and then, overcome by his loss, slit his stomach open and died, without a single groan, like a true hero. The enemies went back home, reassured, but the head they had shown the boy actually belonged to a man he did not know, whom they had killed in error.’

‘What self-control! What heroism!’ exclaimed Erast Petrovich, astounded. ‘So much for the Spartan boy and his fox cub!’

The doctor smiled contentedly.

‘You liked the story? Then I’ll tell you another one. It’s also about self-sacrifice, but from a quite different angle. This particular plot could not very well have been used by European novelists like Sir Walter Scott or Monsieur Dumas. Do you know how the great sixteenth-century general Uesugi was killed? Then listen.

‘Uesugi knew they were trying to kill him, and he had taken precautions that prevented any killer from getting anywhere near him, but even so, the ninja accepted the commission. The task was entrusted to a dwarf – dwarf ninja were prized especially highly, they were deliberately raised using special clay jugs. This man was called Jinnai, and he was less than three feet tall. He had been trained since his childhood to act in very narrow and restricted spaces.

‘The killer entered the castle by way of a crevice that only a cat could have got through, but not even a mouse could have squeezed through into the prince’s chambers, so Jinnai was obliged to wait for a very long time. Do you know what place he chose to wait in? One that the general was bound to visit sooner or later. When the prince was away from the castle and the guards relaxed their vigilance somewhat, Jinnai slipped through to His Excellency’s latrine, jumped down into the cesspit and hid himself up to the throat in the appetising slurry. He stayed there for several days, until his victim returned. Eventually Uesugi went to relieve himself. As always, he was accompanied by his bodyguards, who walked in front of him, behind him and on both sides. They examined the privy and even glanced into the hole, but Jinnai ducked his head down under the surface. And then he screwed some canes of bamboo together to make a spear and thrust it straight into the great man’s anus. Uesugi gave a bloodcurdling howl and died. The samurai who came running in never realised what had happened to him. The most amazing thing is that the dwarf remained alive. While all the commotion was going on above him, he sat there hunched up, breathing through a tube, and the next day made his way out of the castle and informed his jonin that he had completed his task…’

‘Who d-did he inform?’

‘His jonin, that’s the general of the clan, the strategist. He accepted commissions, decided which of his chyunins, or officers, should be charged with planning an operation, while the actual killing and spying were done by the genins, or soldiers. Every genin strove to achieve perfection in some narrow sphere in which he had no equals. For instance, in soundless walking, shinobi-aruki; or in intonjutsu – moving without making a sound or casting a shadow; or in fukumi-bari – poison-spitting.’

‘Eh?’ said Lockston, pricking up his ears. ‘In what?’

‘The ninja put a hollow bamboo pipe in his mouth, with several needles smeared with poison lying in it. A master of fukumi-bari could spit them out in a volley to quite a significant distance, ten or fifteen paces. The art of changing one’s appearance rapidly was particularly prized by the shinobi. They write that when the famous Yaemon Yamada ran through a crowd, eyewitnesses later described six different men, each with his own distinguishing features. A shinobi tried not to show other people his real face in any case – it was reserved for fellow clan-members. They could change their appearance by acquiring wrinkles or losing them, changing their manner of walking, the form of their nose and mouth, even their height. If a ninja was caught in a hopeless situation and was in danger of being captured, he killed himself, but first he always mutilated his face – his enemies must not see it, even after his death. There was a renowned shinobi who was known as Sarutobi, or Monkey Jump, a name he was given because he could leap like a monkey: he slept on the branches of trees, simply leapt over spears that were aimed at him and so forth. One day, when he jumped down off the wall of the Shogun’s castle, where he had been sent to spy, Sarutobi landed in a trap and the guards came rushing towards him, brandishing their swords. Then the ninja cut off his foot, tied a tourniquet round his leg in an instant and started jumping on his other leg. But when he realised he wouldn’t get away, he turned towards his pursuers, reviled them in the foulest possible language and pierced his own throat with his sword: but first, as it says in the chronicle, “he cut off his face”.’

‘What does that mean, “cut off his face”?’ asked Fandorin.

‘It’s not clear exactly. It must be a figurative expression that means “slashed”, “mutilated”, “rendered unrecognisable”.’

‘And what was it you s-said about a snake? Mamusi-gama, wasn’t it?’

‘Yes, the “Stealthy Ones” were famous for making very skilful use of animals to achieve their goals: messenger pigeons, hunting hawks, even spiders, frogs and snakes. That is the origin of the legend about them being able to transform themselves into any kind of animal. Shinobi very often used to carry adders about with them, and the snakes never bit them. A snake could come in useful for preparing a potion – the ninja would squeeze a few drops of venom out of it; or for releasing into an enemy’s bed; or even just as a deterrent. A “sickle-snake” was when a mamusi was tied to the handle of a sickle. By waving this exotic weapon about, a ninja could reduce a whole crowd of people to panic and then exploit the stampede to make his escape.’

‘It fits! It all fits!’ Erast Petrovich said excitedly, jumping to his feet. ‘The captain was killed by a ninja using his secret art. And I saw that man yesterday! Now we know who to look for! An old shinobi with links to the Satsuman samurai.’

The doctor and the inspector exchanged glances. Twigs had a slightly confused air, and the Japanese shook his head, as if in gentle reproof.

‘Mr Twigs has given us a very interesting lecture,’ Asagawa said slowly, ‘but he forgot to mention one important detail… There have not been any devious shinobi for three hundred years.’

‘It’s true,’ the doctor confirmed in a guilty voice. ‘I probably should have warned you about that at the very beginning, in order not to lead you astray.’

‘Where did they g-go to?’

There was a note of genuine disappointment in the titular counsellor’s voice.

‘Apparently I shall have to carry my “lecture”, as the inspector called it, right through to the end,’ said the doctor, setting his hands on his chest as if asking for Asagawa’s forgiveness. ‘Three hundred years ago the “Stealthy Ones” lived in two valleys divided off from each other by a mountain range. The major clan occupied the Iga valley, hence their name: iga-ninja. Fifty-three families of hereditary spies ruled this small province, surrounded on all sides by sheer cliffs. The “Stealthy Ones” had something like a republic, governed by an elected jonin. The final ruler was called Momochi Tamba, and legends circulated about him even during his lifetime. The emperor granted him an honorary crest with seven moons and an arrow. The chronicle tells of how a wicked sorceress put a curse on Kyoto in a fit of fury: seven moons lit up in the sky above the emperor’s capital, and all the people in the city trembled in terror at this unprecedented disaster. The emperor called on Tamba to help. He took one look at the sky, raised his bow and unerringly dispatched an arrow into the moon that was the sorceress’s disguise. The villainous woman was killed, and the evil apparition was dispelled. God only knows what actually happened, but the very fact that stories like that circulated about Tamba indicates that his reputation must have been truly legendary. But, to his own cost, the mighty jonin quarrelled with an even more powerful man, the great dictator Nobunaga. And this is no fairy tale, it’s history.

‘Three times Nobunaga sent armies to wage war on the province of Iga. The first two times the small number of ninja defeated the samurai. They attacked the punitive expedition’s camp at night, starting fires and sowing panic; they wiped out the finest commanders; they changed into the enemy’s uniform and provoked bloody clashes between different units of the invading army. Thousands of warriors lay down their lives in the mountain gorges and passes…

‘Eventually Nobunaga’s patience gave out. In the Ninth Year of Celestial Justice, that is, in the year 1581 of the Christian calendar, the dictator came to Iga with an immense army, several times larger than the population of the valley. The samurai exterminated all living creatures along their way: not just women and children, but domestic cattle, wild mountain animals, even lizards, mice and snakes – they were afraid that they were transformed shinobi. Worst of all was the fact that the invaders were assisted by the ninja from the neighbouring province of Koga, the koga-ninja. They it was who ensured Nobunaga’s victory, since they knew all the cunning tricks and stratagems of the “Stealthy Ones”.

‘Momochi Tamba and the remnants of his army made their stand in an old shrine on the mountain of Hijiama. They fought until they were all killed by arrows and fire. The last of the “Stealthy Ones” slit their own throats, after first “cutting off” their faces.

‘The death of Tamba and his men basically put an end the history of the shinobi. The koga-ninja were rewarded with the rank of samurai and henceforth served as guards at the Shogun’s palace. Wars came to an end, there was peace in the country for two hundred and fifty years and there was no demand for the skills of the shinobi. In their rich, idle new service, the former magicians of secret skills lost all their abilities in just a few generations. During the final period of the shogunate, before the revolution, the descendants of the “Stealthy Ones” guarded the women’s quarters. They grew fat and lazy. And the most important event in their lives now was a snowfall.’

‘What?’ asked Erast Petrovich, thinking that he must have misheard.

‘That’s right.’ The doctor laughed. ‘A perfectly ordinary snowfall which, by the way, doesn’t happen every year in Tokyo. If snow fell on New Year’s Day, they held a traditional amusement at the palace: the female servants divided up into two armies and pelted each other with snowballs. Two teams squealing in excitement – one in white kimonos, the other in red – went to battle to amuse the Shogun and his courtiers. In the middle, keeping the two armies apart, stood a line of ninja, dressed in black uniforms. Naturally, most of the snowballs hit their faces, now rendered quite obtuse by centuries of idleness, and everyone watching rolled about in laughter. Such was the inglorious end of the sect of appalling assassins.’

One more page turning,

A new chapter in the book.

Snow at the New Year

A WHITE HORSE IN A LATHER

Fandorin, however, was not convinced by this story.

‘I’m used to putting my trust in the facts. And they testify that the shinobi have not disappeared. One of your idle, bloated guards managed to carry the secrets of this terrible trade down through the centuries.’

‘Impossible,’ said Asagawa, shaking his head. ‘When they became palace guards, the shinobi were granted the title of samurai, which means they undertook to live according to the laws of bushido, the knight’s code of honour. They didn’t become stupid, they simply rejected the villainous arsenal of their ancestors – treachery, deceit, underhand murder. None of the Shogun’s vassals would have secretly preserved such shameful skills and passed them on to his children. I respectfully advise you to abandon this theory, Mr Vice-Consul.’

‘Well, and what if it isn’t a descendant of the medieval ninja?’ the doctor exclaimed. ‘What if it’s someone who taught himself? After all, there are treatises with detailed descriptions of the ninja’s methods, their instruments, their secret potions! I myself have read the Tale of the Mysteries of the Stealthy Ones, written in the seventeenth century by a certain Kionobu from a renowned shinobi family. And after that there was the twenty-two-volume work Ten Thousand Rivers Flow into the Sea, compiled by Fujibayashi Samuji-Yasutake, a scion of yet another family respected among the ninja. We can assume that there are other, even more detailed manuscripts not known to the general public. It would have been quite possible to resurrect the lost art using these instructions!’

The inspector did not answer, but the expression on his face made it quite clear that he did not believe in the probability of anything of the kind. Moreover, it seemed to Fandorin that Asagawa was not much interested in discussing the shinobi in any case. Or was that just Japanese reserve?

‘So,’ said Erast Petrovich, casting a keen glance at the inspector as he started his provisional summing-up. ‘So far we have very little to go on. We know what Captain Blagolepov’s presumed killer looks like. That is one. But if this man does possess the skills of the shinobi, then he can certainly alter his appearance. We have two identical thumbprints. That is two. But we do not know if we can rely on this method of identification. That leaves the third lead: the owner of the Rakuen. Tell me, Agasawa-san, has your investigation turned anything up yet?’

‘Yes,’ the Japanese replied imperturbably. ‘If you have finished analysing your theory, with your permission I shall report on the results of our efforts.’

‘B-by all means.’

‘Last night, at sixteen minutes past two, Semushi left the Rakuen via a secret door that my agents had discovered earlier. As he walked along the street he behaved very cautiously, but our men are experienced and the hunchback did not realise he was being followed. He went to the godaun of the Sakuraya Company in the Fukushima quarter.’

‘What is a g-godaun?’

‘A warehouse, a goods depot,’ Lockston explained quickly. ‘Go on, go on! What did he do there, in the godaun? How long did he stay there?’

Without hurrying, Asagawa took out a small scroll completely covered with hieroglyphs and ran his finger down the vertical lines.

‘Semushi spent fourteen minutes in the godaun. Our agents do not know what he did there. When he came out, one of my men followed him, the other stayed behind.’

‘That’s right,’ Fandorin said with a nod and immediately felt embarrassed – the inspector clearly knew his business and had no need of the vice-consul’s approval.

‘Seven minutes after that,’ Asagawa continued in the same even voice, ‘three men came out of the godaun. It is not known if they were Satsumans, since they did not speak to each other, but one was holding his left arm against his side. The agent is not entirely certain, but he got the impression that the arm was twisted.’

‘The man with the withered arm!’ the sergeant gasped. ‘Why didn’t you say anything earlier, Go?’

‘My name is Goemon,’ the Japanese corrected the American – apparently he was more protective of his name than Fandorin. But he left the question unanswered. ‘The agent entered the godaun and carried out a search, trying not to disturb anything. He found three finely made katanas. One katana had an unusual hilt, covered with glasspaper…’

At this point all three listeners started talking at once.

‘It’s them! It’s them!’ said Twigs, throwing his hands up in the air.

‘Damnation!’ said Lockston, flinging his cigar away. ‘Damn you to hell, you tight-lipped whore.’

Fandorin expressed the same idea, only more articulately:

‘And you only tell us this now? After we’ve spent the best part of an hour discussing events that happened in the sixteenth century?’

‘You are in charge, I am your subordinate,’ Asagawa said coolly. ‘We Japanese are accustomed to discipline and subordination. The senior speaks first, then the junior.’

‘Did you hear the tone that was spoken in, Rusty?’ the sergeant asked, with a sideways glance at Fandorin. ‘That’s the reason I don’t like them. The words are polite, but the only thing on their minds is how to make you look like a dumb cluck.’

Still looking only at the titular counsellor, the Japanese remarked:

‘To work together, it is not necessary to like each other.’

Erast Petrovich did not like it any more than Lockston when he was ‘made to look like a dumb cluck’, and so he asked very coolly:

‘I assume, Inspector, that these are all the facts of which you wish to inform us?’

‘There are no more facts. But there are hypotheses. If these are of any value to you, with your permission…’

‘Out with it, d-damn you. Speak, don’t d-drag things out!’ Fandorin finally exploded, but immediately regretted his outburst – the lips of the intolerable Japanese trembled in a faint sneer, as if to say: I knew you were the same kind, only pretending to be well bred.

‘I am speaking. I am not dragging things out.’ A polite inclination of the head. ‘The three unknown men left the godaun unarmed. In my humble opinion, this means two things. Firstly, they intend to come back. Secondly, somehow they know that Minister Okubo is now well guarded, and they have abandoned their plan. Or have decided to wait. The minister’s impatience and his dislike of bodyguards are well known.’

‘The godaun, of c-course, is under observation?’

‘Very strict and precise observation. Top specialists have been sent from Tokyo to assist me. As soon as the Satsumans show up, I shall be informed immediately, and we will be able to arrest them. Naturally, with the vice-consul’s sanction.’

The final phrase was pronounced in such an emphatically polite tone that Fandorin gritted his teeth – the odour of derision was so strong.

‘Thank you. But you seem to have d-decided everything without me.’

‘Decided – yes. However, it would be impolite to make an arrest without you. And also without you, of course, Mr Sergeant.’ Another derisively polite little bow.

‘Sure thing,’ said Lockston, with a fierce grin. ‘That’s all we need, for the local police to start treating the Settlement like its own territory. But what I have to tell you guys is this. Your plan is shit. We need to get down to that godaun as quickly as possible, set up an ambush and nab these perpetrators on their way in. While they’re still unarmed and haven’t got to their swords yet.’

‘With all due respect for your point of view, Mr Lockston, these men cannot be “nabbed while they’re still unarmed and haven’t got to their swords yet”.’

‘And why so?’

‘Because Japan isn’t America. We need to have proof of a crime. There is no evidence against the Satsumans. We have to arrest them with their weapons in their hands.’

‘Agasawa-san is right,’ Fandorin was obliged to admit.

‘You’re a new man here, Rusty, you don’t understand! If these three are experienced hitokiri, that is, cut-throats, they’ll slice up a whole heap of folks like cabbage!’

‘Or else, which is even more likely, they’ll kill themselves and the investigation will run into a dead end,’ the doctor put in. ‘They’re samurai! No, Inspector, your plan is definitely no good!’

Agasawa let them fume on for a little longer, then said:

‘Neither of these two things will happen. If you gentlemen would care to relocate to my station, I could show you how we intend to carry out the operation. And what’s more, it’s only a five-minute walk from the station to the Fukushima quarter.’

The Japanese police station, or keisatsu-syho, was not much like Sergeant Lockston’s office. The municipal bulwark of law enforcement made a formidable impression: a massive door with a bronze sign-plate, brick walls, iron roof, steel bars on the windows of the prison cell – all in all, a true bulwark, and that said it all. But Asagawa’s offices were located in a low house with walls of wooden planks and a tiled roof – it looked very much like a large shed or drying barn. True, there was a sentry on duty at the entrance, wearing a neat little uniform and polished boots, but this Japanese constable was quite tiny and he also had spectacles. Lockston snickered as he walked past him.

Inside the shed was very strange altogether.

The municipal policemen paraded solemnly, even sleepily, along the corridor, but here everyone dashed about like mice; they bowed rapidly on the move and greeted their superior abruptly. Doors were constantly opening and closing. Erast Petrovich glanced into one of them and saw a row of tables with a little clerk sitting at each one, all of them rapidly running brushes over pieces of paper.

‘The records department,’ Asagawa explained. ‘We regard it as the most important part of police work. When the authorities know who lives where and what he does, there are fewer crimes.’

A loud clattering sound could be heard from the other side of the corridor, as if an entire swarm of mischievous little urchins were wildly hammering sticks against the boards. Erast Petrovich walked across and took advantage of his height to look in through the little window above the door.

About twenty men in black padded uniforms and wire masks were bludgeoning each other as hard as they could with bamboo sticks.

‘Swordsmanship classes. Obligatory for all. But we’re not going there. We’re going to the shooting gallery.’

The inspector turned a corner and led his guests out into a courtyard that Fandorin found quite astonishing, it was so clean and well tended. The tiny little pond with its covering of duckweed and bright red carp tracing out majestic circles in the water was especially fine.

‘My deputy’s favourite pastime,’ Asagawa murmured, apparently slightly embarrassed. ‘He has a particular fondness for stone gardens… That’s all right, I don’t forbid it.’

Fandorin looked round, expecting to see sculptures of some kind, but he didn’t see any plants carved out of stone – nothing but fine gravel with several crude boulders lying on it, arranged without any sense of symmetry.

‘As I understand it, this is an allegory of the struggle between order and chaos,’ said the doctor, nodding with the air of a connoisseur. ‘Quite good, though perhaps a little unsubtle.’

The titular counsellor and the sergeant exchanged glances. The former with a baffled frown, the latter with a smirk.

They walked underground, into a long cellar illuminated by oil lamps. Targets and boxes of empty shell cases indicated that this was the firing range. Fandorin’s attention was drawn to three straw figures the height of a man. They were dressed in kimonos, with bamboo swords in their hands.

‘I most humbly request the respected vice-consul to listen to my plan,’ said Asagawa. He turned up the wicks in the lamps and the basement became lighter. ‘At my request, Vice-Intendant Suga has sent me two men who are good shots with a revolver. I tested them on these models, neither of them ever miss. We will allow the Satsumans to enter the godaun. Then we will arrive to arrest them. Only four men. One will pretend to be an officer, the other three ordinary patrolmen. If there were more, the Satsumans really might commit suicide, but in this case they will decide that they can easily deal with such a small group. They will take out their swords, and then the “officer” will drop to the floor – he has already played his part. The three “patrolmen” (they are the two men from Tokyo and myself) take their revolvers out from under their cloaks and open fire. We will fire at their arms. In that way, firstly, we will take the miscreants armed and, secondly, ensure that they cannot escape justice.’

The American nudged Erast Petrovich in the side with his elbow.

‘Hear that, Rusty? They’re going to fire at the arms. It’s not all that easy, Mr Go. Everyone knows what kind of marksmen the Japanese make! Maybe the plan’s OK, but you’re not the ones who should go.’

‘Who, then, if you will permit me to ask? And permit me to remind you that my name is Goemon.’

‘OK, OK, so it’s Gouemon. Who’s going to go and aerate those yellow-… those Satsumans? In the first place, of course, me. Tell me, Rusty, are you a good shot?’

‘Fairly good,’ Erast Petrovich replied modestly – he could plant all bullets in the cylinder on top of each other. ‘Naturally, from a long-barrelled weapon and with a firm support.’

‘Excellent. And we know all about you, Doc – you shoot the way you handle a scalpel. Of course, you’re an outsider and you’re not obliged to perform in our show, but if you’re not afraid.’

‘No, no,’ said Twigs, brightening up. ‘You know, I’m not at all afraid of shooting now. Hitting the target is much easier than sewing up a muscle neatly or putting in stitches.’

‘Attaboy, Lance! There you have your three “patrolmen”, Go. I’ll dress Rusty and Lens up in uniforms and we’ll be like three thick-headed municipal policemen. OK, so we’ll take you as the fourth – supposedly as our interpreter. You can make idle chat with us and then drop to the ground, and we’ll do the rest. Right, guys?’

‘Of course!’ the doctor exclaimed enthusiastically, very pleased at the prospect of being included.

Erast Petrovich thought how once a man had held a gun in his hand, even a man of the most peaceable of professions, he could never forget that sensation. And he would be eager to feel it again.

‘Pardon me for being so meticulous, but may I see how well you shoot, gentlemen?’ Asagawa asked. ‘I would not dare, of course, to doubt your word, but this is such an important operation and I am responsible for it, both to the vice-intendant and the minister himself.’

Twigs rubbed his hands together.

‘Well, as for me, I’ll be glad to show you. Will you be so good as to loan me one of your remarkable Colts, sir?’

The sergeant handed him a revolver. The doctor took off his frock coat, exposing his waistcoat. He wiggled the fingers of his right handle slightly, grasped the handle of the gun, took careful aim and his first shot broke one of the straw figure’s wrists – the bamboo sword fell to the floor.

‘Bravo, Lance!’

Twigs gagged at the powerful slap on his back. But the inspector shook his head.

‘Sensei, with all due respect… The bandits will not stand and wait while you take aim. This is not a European duel with pistols. You have to fire very, very quickly, and also take into account that your opponent will be moving at that moment.’

The Japanese pressed some kind of lever with his foot and the figures started rotating on their wooden base, like a carousel.

Lancelot Twigs batted his eyelids and lowered the revolver.

‘No… I never learned to do that… I can’t.’

‘Let me try!’

The sergeant moved the doctor aside. He stood with his feet wide apart, squatted down slightly, grabbed his Colt out of the holster and fired off four shots one after the other. One of the straw figures flopped off the stand and clumps of straw went flying in all directions.

Asagawa walked over and bent down.

‘Four holes, two in the chest, two in the stomach.’

‘What did you expect! Walter Lockston never misses.’

‘It won’t do,’ said the Japanese, straightening up. ‘We need them alive. We have to fire at their arms.’

‘Aha, you try it! It’s not as easy as it sounds!’

‘I’ll try it now. Would you mind spinning the turntable? Only, as fast as possible, please. And you, Mr Vice-Consul, give the command.’

The sergeant set the figures whirling so fast that they were just a blur.

Asagawa stood there, holding his hand in his pocket.

‘Fire!’ shouted Fandorin, and before he had even finished pronouncing this short word, the first shot rang out.

The inspector fired without taking aim, from the hip. Both figures stayed where they were.

‘Aha!’ Lockston howled triumphantly. ‘Missed!’

He stopped swaying the lever with his foot, the figures slowed down, and it became clear that the hand in which one of them was holding its sword had twisted slightly.

The doctor walked over and bent down.

‘Right in the tendon. With a wound like that, a man couldn’t even hold a pencil.’

The sergeant’s jaw dropped.

‘Damnation, Go! Where in hell did you learn to do that?’

‘Yes, indeed,’ Fandorin put in. ‘I’ve never seen anything like it, not even in the Italian circus, when the bullet maestro shot a nut off his own daughter’s head.’

Asagawa lowered his eyes modestly.

‘You could call it the “Japanese circus”,’ he said. ‘All I have done is combine two of our ancient arts: battojutsu and inu-omono. The first is…’

‘I know, I know!’ Erast Petrovich interrupted excitedly. ‘It’s the art of drawing a sword from its scabbard at lightning speed. It can be learned! But what is inu-omono?’

‘The art of shooting at running dogs from a bow,’ the miracle marksman replied, and the titular counsellor’s enthusiasm wilted – this was too high a price to pay for miraculous marksmanship.

‘Tell me, Asagawa-san,’ said Fandorin, ‘are you sure that your other two men fire as well as that?’

‘Far better. That is why my target is the man with the withered arm, one well-placed bullet will be enough for him. But no doubt Mr Vice-Consul also wishes to demonstrate his skill. I’ll just order the targets’ arms to be reattached.’

Erast Petrovich merely sighed.

‘Th-thank you. But I can see the Japanese police will conduct this operation in excellent fashion without involving us.’

However, there was no operation; once again the net that had been cast remained without a catch. The Satsumans did not return to the godaun, either in the daytime, the evening twilight or the darkness of night.

When the surrounding hills turned pink in the rays of the rising sun, Fandorin told the downcast inspector:

‘They won’t come now.’

‘But it can’t be! A samurai would never abandon his katana!’

By the end of the night there was almost nothing left of the inspector’s derisive confidence. He turned paler and paler and the corners of his mouth twitched nervously – it was clear that he was struggling to maintain the remnants of his self-control.

After the mockery of the previous day, Fandorin did not feel the slightest sympathy for the Japanese.

‘You shouldn’t have relied so much on your own efforts,’ he remarked vengefully. ‘The Satsumans spotted your men following them. No doubt samurai do value their swords highly, but they value their own skins even more. I’m going to bed.’

Asagawa flinched in pain.

‘But I’ll stay and wait,’ he forced out through clenched teeth, without any more phrases such as ‘with your permission’ or ‘if Mr Vice-Consul will be so kind as to allow me’.

‘As you wish.’

Erast Petrovich said goodbye to Lockston and the doctor and set off home.

The deserted promenade was shrouded in gentle, transparent mist, but the titular counsellor was not looking at the smart faзades of the buildings, or the damply gleaming road – his gaze was riveted to that miracle not of human making that is called ‘sunrise over the sea’. As the young man walked along he thought that if everybody started their day by observing God’s world filling up with life, light and beauty, then squalor and villainy would disappear from the world – there would be no place for them in a soul bathed in the light of dawn.

It should be said that, owing to the course that Erast Petrovich’s life had taken, he was capable of abandoning himself to such beautiful reveries only when he was alone, and even then only for a very short time – his relentless reason immediately arranged everything in due order. ‘It’s quite possible that contemplating the sunrise over the sea would indeed reduce the incidence of crime during the first half of the day, only to increase it during the second half,’ the titular counsellor told himself. ‘Man is inclined to feel ashamed of his moments of sentimentality and starry-eyed idealism. Of course, for the sake of equilibrium, one could oblige the entire population of the earth to admire the sunset as well – another very fine sight. Only then it’s frightening to think how the overcast days would turn out…’

Fandorin heaved a sigh and turned away from the picture created by God to the landscape created by people. In this pure, dew-drenched hour the latter also looked rather fine, although by no means as perfect: there was an exhausted sailor sleeping under a street lamp with his cheek resting on his open palm, and on the corner an overly diligent yard keeper was scraping away with his broom.

Suddenly he dropped his implement and looked round, and at that very second Fandorin heard a rapidly approaching clatter and a woman screaming. A light two-wheeled gig came tearing wildly round the corner of the promenade. It almost overturned as one wheel lifted off the road, but somehow it righted itself again – the horse swerved just before the parapet, but it slowed its wild career only for a split second. Shaking its head with a despairing whinny and shedding thick flakes of lather, it set off at a crazy gallop along the seafront, rapidly approaching Fandorin.

There was a woman in the gig, holding on to the seat with both hands and screaming piercingly, her tangled hair fluttering in the wind – her hat must have flown off much earlier. Everything was clear – the horse had taken fright at something and bolted, and the lady had not been able to keep hold of the reins.

Erast Petrovich did not analyse the situation, he did not try to guess all the possible consequences in advance, he simply leapt off the pavement and started running in the same direction as the careering gig – as fast as it is possible to run when running backwards all the time.

The horse had a beautiful white coat, but it was craggy and low in the withers. The titular counsellor had already seen horses like this here in Yokohama. Vsevolod Vitalievich had said that it was a native Japanese breed, known for its petulant character, poorly suited to working in harness.

Fandorin had never stopped a bolting horse before but once, during the recent war, he had seen a Cossack manage it very deftly indeed and, with his usual intellectual curiosity, he had asked how it was done. ‘The important thing, squire, is that you keep your hands off the bridle,’ the young soldier had confided. ‘They don’t like that when they’ve got their dander up. You jump on her neck and bend her head down to the ground. And don’t yell and swear at her, shout something sweet and soothing: “There, my little darling, my little sweetheart”. She’ll see sense then. And if it’s a stallion, you can call him “little brother” and “fine fellah”.’

When the crazed animal drew level with him as he ran, Erast Petrovich put theory into practice. He jumped and clung to the sweaty, slippery neck, and immediately realised he did not know whether this was a stallion or a mare – there hadn’t been time to look. So to be on the safe side, he shouted out ‘sweetheart’ and ‘fine fellah’ and ‘little brother’ and ‘darling’.

At first it did no good. Perhaps he needed to do his coaxing in Japanese, or the horse didn’t like the weight on its neck, but the representative of the petulant breed snorted, shook its head and snapped at the titular counsellor’s shoulder with its teeth. When it missed, it started slowing its wild pace a little.

After another two hundred strides or so, the wild gallop finally came to an end. The horse stood there, trembling all over, with clumps of soapy lather slithering down its back and rump. Fandorin released his grip and got to his feet, staggering a little. The first thing he did was clarify the point that had occupied his mind throughout the brief period when he was playing the part of a carriage shaft.

‘Aha, so it’s a d-darling,’ Erast Petrovich muttered, and then he glanced at the lady he had rescued.

It was the Right Honourable Algernon Bullcox’s kept woman, she of the magical radiance, O-Yumi. Her hairstyle was destroyed and there was a long strand hanging down over her forehead, her dress was torn and he could see her white shoulder with a scarlet scratch on it. But even in this condition the owner of the unforgettable silver slipper was so lovely that the titular counsellor froze on the spot and fluttered his long eyelashes in bewilderment. It isn’t any kind of radiance, he thought. It’s blinding beauty. That’s why they call it that, because it’s as if it blinds you…

The thought also occurred to him that dishevelment was almost certainly not as becoming to him as it was to her. One sleeve of the titular counsellor’s frock coat had been completely torn off and was dangling at his elbow, the other sleeve had been chewed on by the mare, his trousers and shoes were black with grime and, most horrible of all, of course, was the acrid smell of horse sweat with which Erast Petrovich was impregnated from head to foot.

‘Are you unhurt, madam?’ he asked in English, backing away a little in order not to insult her sense of smell. ‘There is b-blood on your shoulder…’

She glanced at the scrape and lowered the edge of the dress even further, revealing the hollow under her collarbone, and Fandorin swallowed the end of his phrase.

‘Ah, I did that myself. I caught myself with the handle of the whip,’ the Japanese woman replied, and brushed away the bright coral-coloured drop carelessly with her finger.

The courtesan’s voice was surprisingly low and husky – unattractive by European standards – but there was something in its timbre that made Fandorin lower his eyes for a moment.

Taking a grip on himself, he looked into her face again and saw that she was smiling – she seemed to find his embarrassment amusing.

‘I see you were not very badly frightened,’ Erast Petrovich said slowly.

‘I was, very. But I have had time to calm down. You embraced my Naomi so ardently.’ Sparks of cunning glinted in her eyes. ‘Ah, you are a real hero! And if I, for my part, were a real Japanese woman, I should spend the rest of my days repaying my debt of gratitude. But I have learned many useful things from you foreigners. For instance, that it is possible simply to say “thank you, sir” and the debt is paid. Thank you, sir. I am most grateful to you.’

She half-rose off her seat and performed a graceful curtsy.

‘Don’t mention it,’ said Fandorin. As he inclined his head, he saw that damned dangling sleeve and pulled it right off quickly. He wanted very much to hear the sound of her voice again and asked: ‘Did you go out for a drive this early in the day? It is not five o’clock yet.’

‘I drive to the headland every morning to watch the sun rising over the sea. It is the finest sight in all the world,’ O-Yumi replied, pushing a lock of hair behind her little protruding ear, which was bright pink from the light shining through it.

Erast Petrovich looked at her in amazement – it was as if she had read his recent thoughts.

‘And do you always rise so early?’

‘No, I go to bed so late,’ the amazing woman said, laughing. Unlike her voice, her laughter was not husky at all, but clear and vibrant.

And now Fandorin wanted her to laugh some more. But he didn’t know how to make it happen. Perhaps say something humorous about the horse?

The titular counsellor absentmindedly patted the mare on the rump. It gave him a sideways glance from an inflamed eye and whinnied pitifully.

‘I’m terribly upset about my hat.’ O-Yumi sighed as she carried on tidying up her hair. ‘It was so beautiful! It blew off, and now I’ll never find it. That’s the price of patriotism for you. My friend warned me that a Japanese horse would never walk well in harness, but I decided to prove he was wrong.’

She meant Bullcox, Erast Petrovich guessed.

‘She won’t bolt now. She just needs to be led by the reins for a while… If you will p-permit me…’

He took the mare by the bridle and led her slowly along the promenade. Fandorin wanted very badly to glance back, but he kept himself in hand. After all, he was no young boy, to go gaping at beautiful women.

The silence dragged on. Erast Petrovich, we know, was being firm with himself, but why did she not say anything? Did women who have just been rescued from mortal danger really remain silent, especially in the presence of their rescuer?

A minute went by, then a second, and a third. The silence ceased to be a pause in the conversation and began acquiring some special meaning of its own. It is a well-known fact, at least in belles-lettres, that when a woman and a man who barely know each other do not speak for a long time, it brings them closer than any conversation.

Eventually the titular counsellor gave way and pulled the bridle very slightly towards himself, and when the mare shook its head in his direction, he half-turned, squinting at the Japanese woman out of the corner of his eye.

Apparently the thought of staring at his back had never even entered her head! She had turned away and opened a little mirror, and was busy with her face – she had even brushed her hair and pinned it up already, and powdered her little nose. So much for a significant silence!

Furious at his own stupidity, Fandorin handed the reins to O-Yumi and said firmly:

‘There, my lady. The horse is completely calm now. You can drive on, only take it gently and don’t let go of the reins.’

He raised the hat that had somehow miraculously remained on his head and was about to bow, but hesitated, wondering whether it was polite to leave without introducing himself. On the other hand, would that not be too much – to pay this dissolute woman the same courtesy as a society lady?

Courtesy won the day

‘P-pardon me, I forgot to introduce myself. I…’

She stopped him with a wave of her hand.

‘Don’t bother. The name will tell me very little. And I shall see what is important without any name.’

She gave him a long, intent stare and her tender lips started moving soundlessly.

‘And what do you see?’ Fandorin asked, unable to repress a smile.

‘Not very much as yet. You are loved by luck and by things, but not by destiny. You have lived twenty-two years in the world, but in fact you are older than that. And that is not surprising. You have often been within an inch of death and you have lost half of your heart, and that ages people rapidly… Well, then. Once again, thank you, sir. And goodbye.’

When he heard her mention half of his heart, Erast Petrovich shuddered. But the lady shook the reins with a piercing yell of ‘Yoshi, ikoo!’ and set the mare off at a spanking trot, despite his warning.

The horse called Naomi ran obediently, twitching its white pointed ears in a regular rhythm. Its hoofs beat out a jolly, silvery tattoo on the road.

And at journey’s end

You remember a white horse

Dashing through the mist

THE FINAL SMILE

That day he saw her again. Nothing surprising in that – Yokohama was a small town.

Erast Petrovich was making his way back to the consulate along Main Street in the evening, after a meeting with the sergeant and the inspector, and he saw the flame-haired Bullcox and his concubine drive by in a brougham. The Englishman was dressed in something crimson (Fandorin hardly even glanced at him); his companion was wearing a black, figure-hugging dress and a hat with an ostrich feather and a gauzy veil that did not conceal her face, but seemed merely to envelop her features in a light haze.

The titular counsellor bowed slightly, trying to make the movement express nothing but quite ordinary courtesy. O-Yumi did not respond to the bow, but she gave him a long, strange look, and Erast Fandorin tried to penetrate its meaning for a long time afterwards. Seeking something, slightly uneasy? Yes, that was probably it: she seemed to be trying to make out something concealed in his face, simultaneously hoping and fearing to find it.

With some effort, he forced himself to put this nonsense out of his mind and redirect his thoughts to important matters.

They next time they met was the next day, in the afternoon. Lieutenant Captain Bukhartsev had come from Tokyo to find out how the investigation was progressing. Unlike in the first meeting, the maritime agent behaved like a perfect angel. His attitude to the titular counsellor had changed completely – his manner was polite, he spoke little and listened attentively.

They learned nothing new from him, only that Minister Okubo was being guarded night and day, he hardly ever left his residence, and was in a terrible rage as a result. He might not hold out for the promised week.

Erast Petrovich briefly outlined the state of affairs to his compatriot. The Satsumans had disappeared without trace. The watch being kept on the hunchback had been intensified, since it had now been established for certain that he was in league with the conspirators, but so far the secret surveillance had not yielded anything useful. The owner of the Rakuen spent all his time at his gambling den; in the early morning he went home to sleep, then came back to the den. And there were no leads.

Fandorin also showed Bukhartsev the items of evidence they had collected – they were displayed on the sergeant’s desk especially for the occasion: the three swords, the celluloid collar and the mirror.

The lieutenant captain examined the last two items though a magnifying glass, then examined the fleshy pad of his own thumb for a long time through the same magnifying glass, shrugged and said: ‘Twaddle.’

As the vice-consul was showing the maritime agent to his carriage, he held forth on the importance of the job Fandorin had been given.

‘… We can either increase the effectiveness of our influence to unprecedented heights – that is, if you manage to catch the killers – or undermine our reputation and provoke the displeasure of the all-powerful minister, who will not forgive us for putting him in a cage,’ Mstislav Nikolaevich pontificated confidentially in a hushed voice.

The titular counsellor listened with a slight frown – first, because he knew all this already in any case, and, secondly, because he was irritated by the familiar way in which the embassy popinjay had set one hand on his shoulder.

Bukhartsev suddenly broke off in mid-word and whistled.

‘What a pretty little monkey!’

Fandorin looked round.

For a moment he didn’t recognise her, because this time she had a tall, complicated hairstyle and was dressed in the Japanese manner, in a white kimono with blue irises, and holding a little light-blue parasol. Erast Petrovich had seen beauties like that in ukiyo-e prints, but after spending several days in Japan, he had decided that the elegant, charming female figures of the ukiyo-e were a mere fabrication, like all the other fantasies of European ‘japonisme’, but O-Yumi was every bit as lovely as the beauties immortalised by the Japanese artist Utamaro, whose works were now sold in the saloons of Paris for substantial amounts of money. She floated by, with a sideways glance at Erast Petrovich and his companion. Fandorin bowed, Bukhartsev gallantly raised one hand to the peak of his cap.

‘Oh, the neck, the neck!’ the maritime agent moaned. ‘I adore those collars of theirs. More provocative in their own way than our low necklines.’

The high collar of the kimono was lowered at the back. Erast Petrovich was unable to tear his eyes away from the delicate curls on the back of the head and the vulnerable hollow in the neck, and especially from the ears that protruded in such a touchingly childish fashion. She must still be a real child in terms of years, he suddenly thought. Her mocking wit is no more than a mask, a defence against the coarse and cruel world in which she has spent her life. Like the thorns on a rose bush.

He took his leave of Bukhartsev absentmindedly, barely even turning his head towards him – he was still watching that slim figure walking away, floating across the square.

Suddenly O-Yumi stopped, as if she had sensed his gaze.

She turned round and walked back.

Realising that she was not simply walking back, but coming towards him, Fandorin took a few steps towards her.

‘Be wary of that man,’ O-Yumi said rapidly, swaying her chin to indicate the direction in which the lieutenant captain had driven off. ‘I don’t know who he is, but I can see he is pretending to be your friend, while he really wishes you harm. He has written a report denouncing you today, or he will write one.’

When she finished speaking, she tried to walk away, but Erast Petrovich blocked her path. Two bearded, emaciated faces observed this scene curiously through the barred windows of the police station. The constable on duty at the door also looked on with a grin.

‘You’re very fond of making a dramatic exit, but this time I demand an answer. What is this nonsense about a report? Who told you about it?’

‘His face. Or rather, a wrinkle in the corner of his left eye, in combination with the line and colour of his lips.’ O-Yumi smiled gently. ‘Don’t look at me like that. I am not joking or playing games with you. In Japan we have the ancient art of ninso, which allows us to read a person’s face like an open book. Very few people possess this skill, but there have been masters of ninso in our family for the last two hundred years.’

Before he came to Japan, of course, the titular counsellor would have laughed at hearing a tall tale like this, but now he knew that in this country there really were countless numbers of the most incredible ‘arts’, and so he didn’t laugh, but merely asked:

‘Reading a face like a book? Something like physiognomics?’

‘Yes, only much broader and more detailed. A ninso master can interpret the shape of the head, and the form of the body, and the manner of walking and the voice – in short, everything that a person tells the outside world about himself. We can distinguish a hundred and forty-four different gradations of colour on the skin, two hundred and twelve types of wrinkles, thirty-two smells and much, much more. I am far from complete mastery of the skills that my father possesses, but I can precisely determine a man’s age, thoughts, his recent past and immediate future…’

When he heard about the future, Fandorin realised that he was being toyed with after all. What a credulous fool he was!

‘Well, and what have I been doing today? No, better still, tell me what I have been thinking about,’ he said with an ironic smile.

‘In the morning you had a headache, here.’ Her light fingers touched Fandorin’s temple, and he started – either in surprise (she was right about the headache), or simply at her touch. ‘You were prey to sad thoughts. That often happens to you in the morning. You were thinking about a woman who no longer exists. And you were also thinking about another woman, who is alive. You were imagining all sorts of scenes that made you feel heated.’

Erast Petrovich blushed bright red and the sorceress smiled cunningly, but did not elaborate on the subject.

‘This is not magic,’ she said in a more serious voice. ‘Merely the fruit of centuries of research pursued by highly observant individuals, intent on their craft. The right half of the face is you, the left half is people connected with you. For instance, if I see a little inshoku-coloured pimple on the right temple, I know that this person is in love. But if I see the same pimple on the left temple, then someone is in love with them.’

‘No, you are mocking me after all!’

O-Yumi shook her head.

‘The recent past can be determined from the lower eyelids. The immediate future from the upper eyelids. May I?’

The white fingers touched his face again. They ran over his eyebrows and tickled his eyelashes. Fandorin felt himself starting to feel drowsy.

Suddenly O-Yumi recoiled, her eyes gazing at him in horror.

‘What… what’s wrong?’ he asked hoarsely – his throat had suddenly gone dry.

‘Today you will kill a man!’ she whispered in fright, then turned and ran off across the square.

He almost went dashing after her, but took a grip on himself just in time. Not only did he not run, he turned away and took a slim manila out of his cigar case. He succeeded in lighting it only with his fourth match.

The titular counsellor was trembling – no doubt in fury.

‘Jug-eared m-minx!’ he hissed through his teeth. ‘And I’m a fine one, listening wide-eyed like that!’

But what point was there in trying to deceive himself? She was an astounding woman! Or perhaps it wasn’t just her? The thought was electrifying. There is some strange connection between us. He was astonished by the idea, but he didn’t carry it through to the end, he didn’t have time, for at that moment something happened that shook all thoughts about mysterious beauties out of the young man’s head.

First there was a sound of breaking glass, then someone bellowed despairingly:

‘Stop! Stop the bloody ape!’

Recognising Lockston’s voice, Fandorin went dashing back to the station. He ran along the corridor, burst into the sergeant’s office and saw the sergeant swearing furiously as he tried to climb out of the window, but rather awkwardly – the sharp splinters of glass were getting in his way. There was an acrid smell of burning in the room, and smoke swirling just below the ceiling.

‘What happened?’

‘That there… son of a bitch… the lousy snake!’ Lockston yelled, pointing with his finger.

Fandorin saw a man in a short kimono and a straw hat, running fast in the direction of the promenade.

‘The evidence!’ the sergeant gasped, and smashed his great fist into the window frame. The frame went flying out into the street.

The American jumped out after it.

At the word ‘evidence’, Erast Petrovich turned to look at the desk, where the swords, the collar and the mirror had been lying only ten minutes earlier. The cloth covering of the desk was smouldering and some papers on it were still blazing. The swords were still there, but the celluloid collar had curled up into a charred tube, and the molten surface of the mirror was slowly spreading out, its surface trembling slightly.

But there was no time to contemplate this scene of destruction. The titular counsellor vaulted over the windowsill and overtook the bison-like sergeant in a few rapid bounds. He shouted:

‘What caused the fire?’

‘He’ll get away!’ Lockston growled instead of answering. ‘Let’s cut through the Star.’

The fugitive had already disappeared round a corner.

‘He came in! Into my office! He bowed!’ Lockston yelled, bursting in through the back door of the Star saloon. ‘Then suddenly there was this egg! He smashed it on the table! Smoke and flames!’

‘What do you mean, an egg?’ Fandorin yelled back.

‘I don’t know! There was a pillar of flame! And he threw himself backwards out the window! Damned ape!’

That explained the part about the ape, but Fandorin still didn’t understand about the fiery egg. The pursuers dashed though the dark little saloon and out on to the sun-drenched Bund. They glimpsed the straw hat about twenty strides ahead, manoeuvring between the passers-by with incredible agility. The ‘ape’ was rapidly pulling away from the pursuit.

‘It’s him!’ Erast Petrovich gasped, peering at the low, skinny figure. ‘I’m sure it’s him!’

A constable on duty outside a money-changing shop was cradling a short rifle in the crook of his arm.

‘What are you gawping at?’ Lockston barked. ‘Catch him!’

The constable shot off so eagerly that he overtook his boss and the vice-consul, but even he couldn’t overhaul the criminal.

The running man swerved off the promenade into an empty alley and leapt across the little bridge over the canal in a single bound. A respectable clientele was sitting under the striped awning of Le Cafй Parisien there. A long lanky figure jumped up from one of the tables – Lancelot Twigs.

‘Gentlemen, what’s the matter?’

Lockston just waved a hand at him. The doctor dashed after the members of the investigative group, shouting:

‘But what’s happened? Who are you chasing?’

The fugitive had built up a lead of a good fifty paces, and the distance was increasing. He raced along the opposite side of the canal without looking back even once.

‘He’ll get away!’ the constable groaned. ‘That’s the native town, a genuine maze!’

He snatched a revolver out of its holster, but didn’t fire – it was a bit too far for a Colt.

‘Give me that!’

The police chief tore the carbine out of the constable’s hands, set his cheek against the butt, swung the barrel into line with the nimble fugitive and fired.

The straw hat went flying in one direction and its owner in the other. He fell, rolled over several times and stayed lying there with his arms flung out.

The people in the cafй started clamouring and jumping up off their chairs.

‘Right then. Phew!’ said Lockston, wiping the sweat off his face with his sleeve. ‘You’re witnesses, gentlemen. If I hadn’t fired, the criminal would have got away.’

‘An excellent shot!’ Twigs exclaimed with the air of a connoisseur.

They walked across the bridge without hurrying: the victorious sergeant with his smoking carbine at the front, followed by Fandorin and the doctor, and then the constable, with the idle public at a respectful distance.

‘If you’ve k-killed him outright, we’ll have no leads,’ Erast Petrovich said anxiously. ‘And we don’t have the fingerprints any more.’

The American shrugged.

‘What do we need them for, if we have the one who made them? I was aiming for his back. Maybe he’s alive?’

This suggestion was immediately confirmed, and in a most unexpected manner.

The man on the ground jumped to his feet as if nothing had happened and darted off along the canal at the same fast pace as before.

The public gasped. Lockston started blinking.

‘Damn me! Ain’t he a lively one!’

He raised the carbine again, but it wasn’t a new-fangled Winchester, only a single-shot Italian Vetterli. The sergeant threw the useless weapon to the constable with a curse and pulled out a Colt.

‘Here, let me!’ the doctor said eagerly. ‘You won’t hit him!’ He almost grabbed the revolver out of Lockston’s hands, then stood in the picturesque pose of a man fighting a duel and closed one eye. A shot rang out.

The fugitive fell again, this time face down.

Some people in the crowd applauded. Lockston stood there scratching his chin while his subordinate reloaded the carbine. Fandorin was the only one who ran forward.

‘Don’t be in such a hurry!’ Twigs called to stop him, and explained coolly: ‘He’s not going anywhere now. I broke his spine at the waist. Cruel, of course, but if he’s a student of those shinobi, the only way to take him alive is to paralyse him. Take your Colt, Walter. And thank the gods that at this time of the day I always take tea at the Parisien. Otherwise there’s no way…’

‘Look!’ Fandorin exclaimed.

The fallen man got up on all fours, then stood up, shook himself like a wet dog and dashed on, leaping along with huge steps.

This time no one gasped or yelled – everyone gaped in silent bewilderment.

Lockston opened fire with his revolver, but kept missing, and the doctor grabbed at his arm, trying to get him to hand over the weapon again – they had both forgotten about the second revolver on the sergeant’s belt.

Erast Petrovich quickly estimated the distance (about seventy paces, and the grey hovels of the native town were no more than a hundred away) and turned to the constable.

‘Have you loaded it? Give it to me.’

He took aim according to all the rules of marksmanship. He held his breath and aligned the sight. He made only a slight adjustment for movement – the shot was almost straight in line with the running man. One bullet, he mustn’t miss.

The enchanted fugitive’s legs were twinkling rapidly. No higher than the knees, or you might kill him, the titular counsellor told the bullet, and pressed the trigger.

Got him! The figure in the kimono fell for the third time. Only this time the pursuers didn’t stand still, they dashed forward as fast as they could.

They could see the wounded man moving, trying to get up. Then he did get up and hopped on one leg, but lost his balance and collapsed. He crept towards the water, leaving a trail of blood.

The most incredible thing of all was that he still didn’t look round even once.

When they were only about twenty paces away from the wounded man, he stopped crawling – clearly he had realised that he wouldn’t get away. He made a rapid movement – and a narrow blade glinted in the sun.

‘Quick! He’s going to cut his throat!’ the doctor shouted.

But that wasn’t what the shinobi did. He ran the blade rapidly round his face, as if he wanted to set it in an oval frame. Then he grabbed at his chin with his left hand, tugged with a dull growl – and a limp rag went flying through the air, landing at Erast Petrovich’s feet. Fandorin almost stumbled when he realised what it was – the skin of a face, trimmed and torn off; red on one side, with the other side looking like mandarin peel.

And then the man finally turned round.

In his short life, Erast Petrovich had seen many terrible things; some visions from his past still woke him at night in a cold sweat. But nothing on earth could have been more nightmarish than that crimson mask with its white circles of eyes and the grinning teeth.

‘Kongojyo!’ the lipless mouth said quietly but distinctly, opening wider and wider.

The hand with the bloody knife crept slowly up to the throat.

Only then did Fandorin think to squeeze his eyes shut. And he stood like that until the fit of nausea and dizziness passed off.

‘So that’s what “cutting off your face” means!’ he heard Dr Twigs say in an excited voice. ‘He really did cut it off, it’s not a figure of speech at all!’

Lockston reacted the most calmly of all. He leaned down over the body, which -God be praised – was lying on its stomach. Two holes in the kimono, one slightly higher, one slightly lower, exposed a glint of metal. The sergeant ripped the material apart with his finger and whistled.

‘So that’s what his magic is made of!’

Under his kimono, the dead man was wearing thin tempered-steel armour.

While Lockston explained to the doctor what had happened at the station, Fandorin stood to one side and tried in vain to still the frantic beating of his heart.

His heart was not racing because of the running, or the shooting, or even the ghastly sight of that severed face. The vice-consul had simply recalled the words that a husky woman’s voice had spoken a few minutes earlier: ‘Today you will kill a man’.

‘So Mr Fandorin was right after all,’ the doctor said with a shrug. ‘It really was an absolutely genuine ninja. I don’t know where and how he learned the secrets of their trade, but there’s no doubt about it. The steel plate that saved him from the first two bullets is called a ninja-muneate. The fire egg is a torinoko, an empty shell into which the shinobi introduce a combustible mixture through a small hole. And did you see the way he grinned before he died? I’ve come across a strange term in books about the ninja – the Final Smile – but the books didn’t explain what it was. Well now, not a very appetising sight!’

How fiercely I yearn

To smile with a carefree heart

At least at the last

EARLY PLUM RAIN

Doronin stood at the window, watching the rivulets run down the glass. ‘Baiu, plum rain,’ he said absentmindedly. ‘Somewhat early, it usually starts at the end of May.’

The vice-consul did not pursue the conversation about natural phenomena and silence set in again.

Vsevolod Vitalievich was trying to make sense of his assistant’s report. The assistant was waiting, not interrupting the thought process.

‘I tell you what,’ the consul said eventually, turning round. ‘Before I sit down to write a report for His Excellency, let’s run thought the sequence of facts once more. I state the facts and you tell me if each point is correct or not. All right?’

‘All right.’

‘Excellent. Let’s get started. Once upon a time there was a certain party who possessed almost magical abilities. Let us call him No-Face.’ (Erast Fandorin shuddered as he recalled the ‘final smile’ of the man who had killed himself earlier in the day.) ‘Employing his inscrutable art, No-Face killed Captain Blagolepov – and so adroitly that it would have remained a dark secret, if not for a certain excessively pernickety vice-consul. A fact?’

‘An assumption.’

‘Which I would nonetheless include among the facts, in view of subsequent events. Namely: the attempt to kill your Masa, the witness to the killing. An attempt committed in a manner no less, if not even more, exotic than the murder. As you policemen say, the criminal’s signatures match. A fact?’

‘Arguably.’

‘The criminal did not succeed in eliminating Masa – that damned vice-consul interfered once again. So now, instead of one witness, there were two.’

‘Why didn’t he kill me? I was completely helpless. Even if the snake didn’t bite me, he could probably have finished me off in a thousand other ways.’

Doronin pressed his hand against his chest modestly.

‘My friend, you are forgetting that just at that moment your humble servant appeared on the scene. The murder of the consul of a great power would be a serious international scandal. There has been nothing of the kind since Griboedov’s time. On that occasion, as a sign of his contrition, the Shah of Persia presented the Tsar of Russia with the finest diamond in his crown, which weighed nine hundred carats. What do you think,’ Vsevolod Vitalievich asked brightly, ‘how many carats would they value me at? Of course, I’m not an ambassador, only a consul, but I have more diplomatic experience that Griboedov did. And precious stones are cheaper nowadays… All right, joking aside, the fact is that No-Face did not dare to kill me or did not want to. As you have already had occasion to realise, in Japan even the bandits are patriots of their homeland.’

Erast Petrovich was not entirely convinced by this line of reasoning, but he did not object.

‘And by the way, I do not hear any words of gratitude for saving your life,’ said the consul, pretending his feelings were hurt.

‘Thank you.’

‘Don’t mention it. Let’s move on. After the unsuccessful bit of theatre with the “creeping thing”, No-Face somehow finds out that the investigation has another strange, incredible piece of evidence – the prints of his thumb. Unlike Bukhartsev and – yes, I admit it – your humble servant, No-Face took this circumstance very seriously. And I can guess why. You drew up a verbal portrait of the man whom Masa saw at the Rakuen, did you not?’

‘Yes.’

‘Does it match the description of your uninvited guest?’

‘Marginally. Only as far as the height is concerned – little over four foot six inches – and the slender build. However, in Japan that kind of physique is not unusual. As for all the rest… At the gambling den, Masa saw a doddery old man with a stoop, a trembling head and pigmentation spots on his face. But my old m-man was quite fresh and sprightly. I wouldn’t put his age at more than sixty.’

‘There now,’ said the consul, raising one finger. ‘The ninja were known to be masters at changing their appearance. But if Mr Folds’s theory is correct, it is impossible to change the prints of your fingers. The similarity of the prints on the collar and the mirror confirms that. But in any case, No-Face decided on a desperately audacious move – to destroy the evidence right there in the office of the chief of police. He tried to get away, but failed. It is curious that before he died he said: “Kongojyo”.’

‘Did I remember it correctly?’

‘Yes, “Kongojyo” means “Diamond Chariot”.’

‘What?’ the titular counsellor asked in amazement. ‘In what sense?’

‘This is not the time to launch into a detailed lecture on Buddhism, so I’ll give you a brief, simplified explanation. Buddhism has two main branches, the so-called Vehicles, or Chariots. Everyone who desires liberation and light can choose which of them to board. The Lesser Chariot speeds along the road leading to the salvation of only your own soul. The Greater Chariot is for those who wish to save all of mankind. The devotee of the Lesser Road strives to attain the status of an arhat, an absolutely free being. The devotee of the Greater Road can become a bodhisattva – an ideal being, who is filled with compassion for the whole of creation, but does not wish to achieve Liberation while all others are in bondage.’

‘I like the b-bodhisattvas best,’ Erast Petrovich remarked.

‘That is because they are closer to the Christian idea of self-sacrifice. I am a misanthropist and should prefer to become an arhat. I’m only afraid that I’m rather lacking in righteousness.’

‘And what is the Diamond Chariot?’

‘It is an entirely distinct branch of Buddhism, extremely complex and abounding in mysteries. The uninitiated know very little about it. According to this teaching, a man can attain Enlightenment and become a Buddha while still alive, but this requires a special firmness of faith. That is why the chariot is called diamond – there is nothing in nature harder than diamond.’

‘I don’t understand anything at all,’ Fandorin said after a moment’s thought. ‘How is it possible to become a Buddha and attain enlightenment, if you commit murders and other abominations?’

‘Well, let’s assume that’s no great problem. How many vile tricks do our holy sermonisers play on us, all in the name of Christ and the salvation of our souls? It’s not a matter of the teaching. I know monks of the Singon sect who profess the path of the Diamond Chariot. They work away, enlightening themselves without interfering with anyone. They don’t let anyone else into their business, but they don’t take any interest in anyone else’s. And they are not fanatical in the least. It is hard to imagine any of them cutting off his face with a howl of “Kongojyo!”. And, above all, I have never heard of this formula having any magical significance… You see, in Japanese Buddhism, it is believed that certain sutras or verbal formulas possess magical power. There is the sacred invocation “Namu Amida Butsu”, there is the Lotus Sutra, “Namu-myoho-rengekyo”. The monks repeat them thousands of times, believing that this advances them along the Path of the Buddha. Probably there is some fanatical sect that uses “Kongojyo” as an exclamation…’ Vsevolod Vitalievich spread his hands and shrugged. ‘Unfortunately, there is no way for a European to get to the bottom of these matters. We’d better get back to No-Face before we lose our way in the thickets of Buddhism. Let us check the sequence of events. Question: Why was Blagolepov killed? Answer: Because he was blabbing to all and sundry about his passengers from the night before. There doesn’t seem to have been any other reason to set a master of such subtle killing techniques on such a worthless little man. Correct?’

‘Correct.’

‘No-Face is a ninja, and history tells us that they are hired for money. It’s an entirely different question where a ninja could appear from in 1878 – perhaps now we shall never find out. But since a man has appeared who has decided to live and die according to the laws of this sect, then his mode of life must also have been the same. In other words, he was a mercenary. Question: Who hired him? Answer: We don’t know. Question: Why was he hired?’

‘To shield and guard three samurai from Satsuma?’ Fandorin suggested.

‘Most probably. Hiring a master like that must cost a great deal of money. Where would former samurai get that from? So there are serious players in the wings of this game, able to place stakes large enough to break the bank. We know who the bank is – it’s Minister Okubo. I shall write all this down in my report to the ambassador. I shall add that the owner of a gambling den is the leader, messenger or intermediary of the Satsuman killers. The Japanese police have him under observation and at the present time that is our only lead. What do you say, Fandorin. Have I missed anything in my analysis of the situation?’

‘Your analysis is perfectly good,’ the titular counsellor declared.

‘Merci.’ The consul raised his dark glasses and rubbed his eyes wearily. ‘However, my superiors appreciate me less for my analytical competence than for my ability to propose solutions. What shall I write in the summary of my report?’

‘Conclusions,’ said Fandorin, also walking over to the window to look at the leaves of the acacias swaying in the rain. ‘Four in number. The conspirators have an agent in police circles. That is one.’

Doronin shuddered.

‘How do you deduce that?’

‘From the facts. First the killer discovered that I had a witness to Blagolepov’s murder. Then someone warned the samurai about the ambush at the g-godaun. And finally the ninja knew about the thumbprints and where they were being kept. There can only be one conclusion: someone from my group, or someone who receives information about the course of the investigation, is connected with the conspirators.’