Fandorin in English 1-10

‘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.’

‘Such as me, for instance?’

‘Such as you, for instance.’

The consul knitted his brows together and paused for a moment.

‘Very well, the first conclusion is clear. Go on.’

‘The hunchback undoubtedly knows that he is being followed and under no circumstances will he contact the Satsumans. That is two. Therefore, we shall have to force the hunchback to act. That is three. However, in order to make sure there are no more leaks, the operation will have to be conducted without the knowledge of the municipal and Japanese police. That is four. And that is all.’

Having thought over what had been said, Doronin shook his head sceptically.

‘Well, so that’s the way of it. But what does “force him to act” mean? How do you envisage that?’

‘Semushi has to escape from surveillance. Then he will definitely go dashing to find his accomplices. And he will lead me to them. But to carry out this operation, I need approval to take independent action.’

‘What action, precisely?’

‘I don’t know yet,’ the titular counsellor replied dispassionately. ‘Whatever action is n-necessary.’

‘You don’t want to tell me,’ Doronin guessed. ‘Well, that’s right. Otherwise, if your operation fails, you’ll note me down as a spy.’ He drummed his fingers on the windowpane. ‘You know what, Erast Petrovich? In order not to compromise the experiment, I shall not write to the ambassador about your conclusions. And as for the authority to act, consider that you have been granted it by your immediate superior. Act as you think necessary. But just one thing…’ The consul hesitated momentarily. ‘Perhaps you would agree to take me, not as your confidant, but as your agent? It will be hard for you, on your own, with no help. Of course, I am no ninja, but I could carry out some simple assignment.’

Fandorin looked Vsevolod Vitalievich up and down and politely refused.

‘Thank you. The embassy secretary, Shirota, will be enough for me. Although… no. I think perhaps I need to speak with him first…’

The titular counsellor hesitated – he remembered that the Japanese had been behaving strangely recently, blenching and blushing for no reason, giving Fandorin sideways glances; the secretary’s attitude to the vice-consul, initially exceedingly friendly, had clearly undergone a change.

Erast Petrovich decided to find out what the matter was without delay.

He went to the administrative office, where the spinster Blagolepova was hammering away deafeningly on the keys of the Remington. When she saw Fandorin, she blushed, adjusted her collar with a swift gesture and started hammering even more briskly.

‘I need to have a word with you,’ the titular counsellor said in a quiet voice, leaning across Shirota’s desk.

Shirota jerked in his seat and turned pale.

‘Yes, and I with you. It is high time.’

Erast Petrovich was surprised. He enquired cautiously:

‘You wished to speak to me? About what?’

‘No, you first.’ The secretary got to his feet and buttoned up his frock coat determinedly. ‘Where would you like it to be?’

To the accompaniment of the Remington’s hysterical clattering, they walked out into the garden. The rain had stopped, glassy drops were falling from the branches and birds were singing overhead.

‘Tell me, Shirota, you have linked your life with Russia. May I ask why?’

The secretary listened to the question and narrowed his eyes tensely. He answered crisply, in military style, as if he had prepared his answer in advance.

‘Mr Vice-Consul, I chose to link my life with your country, because Japan needs Russia very much. The East and the West are too different, they cannot join with each other without an intermediary. Once, in ancient times, Korea served as a bridge between Japan and great China. Now, in order to join harmoniously with great Europe, we need Russia. With the assistance of your country, which combines within itself both the East and the West, my homeland will flourish and join the ranks of the great powers of the world. Not now, of course, but in twenty or thirty years’ time. That is why I work in the Russian consulate…’

Erast Petrovich cleared his throat with an embarrassed air – he had not been expecting such a clear-cut response, and the idea that a backward oriental country could transform itself into a great power in thirty years was simply laughable. However, there was no point in offending the Japanese.

‘I see,’ Fandorin said slowly, feeling that he had not really achieved his goal.

‘You also have a very beautiful literature,’ the secretary added, and bowed, as if to indicate that he had nothing more to add.

There was a pause. The titular counsellor wondered whether he ought to ask straight out: ‘Why do you keep looking daggers at me?’ But from the viewpoint of Japanese etiquette, that would probably be appallingly impolite.

Shirota broke the silence first.

‘Is that what the vice-consul wished to speak to me about?’

There was a note of surprise in his voice.

‘Well, actually, y-yes… But what did you wish to speak to me about?’

The secretary’s face turned from white to crimson. He gulped and then cleared his throat.

‘About the captain’s daughter.’ Seeing the amazement in the other man’s eyes, he explained: ‘About Sophia Diogenovna.’

‘What has happened?’

‘Mr Vice-Consul, do you… do you ruv her?’

Because the Japanese had mispronounced the ‘l’ in the crucial word, and even more because the very supposition was so unthinkable, Erast Petrovich did not immediately understand the meaning of the question.

The evening before, on returning home from the police station, the young man had discovered a powerfully scented envelope with nothing written on it on the small table in his bedroom. When he opened it, he found a pink sheet of paper. Traced out on it, in a painstaking hand with flourishes and squiggles, were four lines of verse:

My poor heart can bear this no more

Oh, come quickly to help me now!

And if you do not come, you know

I shall lose my life for you.

Bemused, Fandorin had gone to consult Masa. He showed him the envelope, and his servant ran through a brief pantomime: a long plait, large round eyes, two spheres in front of his chest. ‘The spinster Blagolepova,’ Erast Petrovich guessed. And then he immediately remembered that she had promised to write out her favourite stanza of love poetry from her album, a piece composed by the conductor from the St Pafnutii. He stuck the sheet of paper into the first book that came to hand and forgot all about it.

But now it seemed there was a serious emotional drama being played out.

‘If you love Miss Blagolepova, if your in-ten-tions are hon-our-ab-le, I will stand aside… I understand, you are her com-pat-ri-ot, you are handsome and rich, and what can I offer her?’ Shirota was terribly nervous, he pronounced the more difficult words with especial care and avoided looking in Fandorin’s eyes, lowering his head right down on to his chest. ‘But if…’ His voice started to tremble. ‘But if you intend to exploit the de-fence-less-ness of a solitary young woman… Do you wish to?’

‘Do I wish to what?’ asked the titular counsellor, unable to follow the thread of the conversation – he found deductive reasoning far easier than talk on intimate matters.

‘Exploit the de-fence-less-ness of a solitary young woman.’

‘No, I do not.’

‘Not at all, at all? Only honestly!’

Erast Petrovich pondered, to make sure the reply would be quite honest. He recalled the spinster Blagolepova’s thick plait, her cow’s eyes, the verse from her album.

‘Not at all.’

‘So, your in-ten-tions are hon-our-ab-le,’ said the poor secretary, and he became even gloomier. ‘You will make Sophia Diogenovna a pro-po-sal?’

‘Why on earth should I?’ said Fandorin, starting to get angry. ‘I have no interest in her at all!’

Shirota raised a brighter face for a moment, but immediately narrowed his eyes suspiciously.

‘And you did not go to the Rakuen and risk your life there, and you do not now pay her salary out of your own pocket because you love her?’

Erast Petrovich suddenly felt sorry for him.

‘The idea never even entered my head,’ the vice-consul said in a gentle voice. ‘I assure you. I do not find anything at all about Miss Blagolepova attractive…’ He stopped short, not wishing to hurt the lovelorn secretary’s feelings. ‘No, that is… she is, of course, very p-pretty and, so to speak…’

‘She is the finest girl in the world!’ Shirota exclaimed sternly, interrupting the vice-consul. ‘She… she is a captain’s daughter! Like Masha Mironova from Pushkin’s Captain’s Daughter! But if you do not love Sophia Diogenovna, why have you done so much for her?’

‘Well, how could I not do it? You said it yourself: solitary, defenceless, in a foreign country…’

Shirota sighed and declared solemnly:

‘I love Miss Blagolepova.’

‘I had g-guessed as much.’

The Japanese suddenly bowed solemnly – not in the European manner, with just the chin, but from the waist. And he didn’t straighten up immediately, only after five seconds had passed.

Now he looked straight into Fandorin’s face, and there were tears glistening in his eyes. In his agitation, all his ‘l’s’ became ‘r’s’ again.

‘You are a nobur man, Mr Vice-Consur. I am your eternar debtor.’

Soon half of Japan will be my eternal debtors, Erast Petrovich thought ironically, not wishing to admit to himself that he was touched.

‘There is onry one bitter thing.’ Shirota sighed. ‘I sharr never be abur to repay your nobirity.’

‘Oh, yes you will,’ said the titular counsellor, taking him by the elbow. ‘Let’s go to my rooms. That damned p-plum rain has started falling again.’

Raise no umbrella

When the sky is scattering

Its springtime plum rain

SIRIUS

The night smelled of tar and green slime – that was from the dirty River Yosidagawa splashing near by, squeezed in between the godaunsand the cargo wharves. Erast Petrovich’s valet was sitting at the agreed spot, under the wooden bridge, pondering the vicissitudes of fate and waiting. When Semushi appeared, the master would howl like a dog – Masa had taught him how. In fact they had spent a whole hour on a renshu duet, until the neighbours came to the consulate and said they would complain about the Russians to the police if they didn’t stop torturing that poor dog. They had been forced to abandon the renshu rehearsal, but the master could already do it quite well.

There were lots of dogs in Yokohama, and they often howled at night, so neither Semushi nor the police agents would be suspicious. The main concern was something else – not to confuse the sound with a genuine dog. But Masa hoped he wouldn’t get confused. It would be shameful for a vassal not to be able to tell his master’s noble voice from the howl of some mongrel.

Masa had to sit under the bridge very quietly, without moving at all, but he could do that. In his former life, when he was still an apprentice in the honourable Chobei-gumi gang, he had sat and waited on watch duty or in an ambush many, many times. It wasn’t boring at all, because an intelligent man could always find something to think about.

It was absolutely out of the question to make any noise or move about, because there was a police agent, disguised as a beggar, hanging about on the wooden bridge right over his head. When someone out late walked by, the agent started intoning sutras through his nose, and very naturally too – a couple of times a copper coin even jangled against the planking. Masa wondered whether the agent handed in the alms to his boss afterwards or not. And if he did, whether the coppers went into the imperial treasury.

There were detectives stationed all the way along the road leading from the Rakuen to Semushi’s home: one agent at every crossroads. Some were hiding in gateways, some in the ditch. The senior agent, the most experienced, prowled along after Semushi. He was shrouded in a grey cloak, he had soundless felt sandals on his feet, and he could hide so quickly that no matter how many times you looked round, you would never spot anyone behind you.

Hanging back about fifty paces behind the senior agent were another three – just in case something unforeseen happened. Then the senior agent would give them a quick flash from the lamp under his cloak, and they would run up to him.

That was how strictly they were following Semushi, there was no way he could get away from the police agents. But the master and Masa had thought and thought and come up with a plan. As soon as the Vice-Consul of the Russian Empire started howling in the distance, Masa had to…

But just at that moment Masa heard a wail that he recognised immediately. Erast Petrovich howled quite authentically, but even so, not like one of Yokohama’s stray mutts – there was something thoroughbred about that melancholy sound, as if it were being made by a bloodhound or, at the very least, a basset.

It was time to move from thought to action.

Masa strolled silently under the planks until he was behind the ‘beggar’s’ back. He took three small steps on tiptoe, and when the agent turned round at the rustling sound, he leapt forward and smacked him gently below the ear with the edge of his hand. The ‘beggar’ gave a quiet sob and tumbled over on to his side. A whole heap of coppers spilled out of his cup.

Masa took the coins for himself – so that everything would look right and, in general, they would come in handy. His Imperial Highness could manage without them somehow.

He squatted down beside the unconscious man in the shadow of the parapet and started watching.

There was a fine drizzle falling, but the corner from which Semushi ought to appear was lit up by two street lamps. The hunchback would walk across the little bridge over the canal, then cut across a plot of wasteland to the bridge over the Yosidagawa. So he would have the junction of the river and the canal on his right, one bridge ahead of him, another behind him, and nothing on his left but the dark wasteland – and that was the whole point of the plan.

There was the squat, lumpish figure. The hunchback moved with a heavy, plodding walk, waddling slightly from side to side.

It probably wasn’t easy lugging a hump around all the time, thought Masa. And how easy could it be to live with a deformity like that? When he was little, the other boys must have teased him. When he grew a bit, the girls all turned their noses up. That was why Semushi had turned out so villainous and spiteful. Or maybe it wasn’t because of that at all. On the street where Masa grew up, there had been a hunchback, a street sweeper. Even more hunched and crooked than this one, he could barely hobble along. But he was kind, everyone liked him. And they used to say: He’s so good because the Buddha gave him a hump. It wasn’t the hump that mattered, but what kind of kokoro a man had. If the kokoro was right, a hump would only make you better, but if it was rotten, you would hate the whole wide world.

Meanwhile, the owner of a vicious kokoro had crossed the little bridge.

Erast Petrovich’s servant told himself: ‘Now the master will pull the string’ – and at that very moment there was a loud crash. Suddenly, out of the blue, a cart that was standing on the little bridge had lurched over sideways – its axle must have snapped. The large barrel standing on the cart smashed down on to the ground and burst open, releasing a stream of black tar that flooded the planking surface – no one could walk or drive across now…

Semushi swung round when he heard the crash and put his hand inside his jacket, but he saw that nothing dangerous had happened. There wasn’t a single soul to be seen. The cart driver must have left his goods close to the market yesterday and settled down in some nearby eating-house where he could get a meal and a bed for the night. But his kuruma was old and decrepit, ready to break down at any moment.

The hunchback stood still for a minute or so, turning his head in all directions. Finally he was satisfied and walked on.

A grey shadow appeared on the far side of the bridge – Masa could see it. It stepped into the black puddle and stuck there.

Of course it did! Masa had bought the tar himself. He had chosen the very lousiest kind, as runny as possible and so sticky you could never get out of it.

There was a gleam of light – that had to be the agent signalling to the others. Three more shadows appeared. They started rushing about on the bank, not knowing what to do. One decided to risk it after all and got stuck fast too.

Then Semushi looked round, enjoyed the sight for a moment, shrugged and went on his way. What was it to him? He knew there were probably agents up ahead as well.

When the hunchback reached the river, Masa growled and dashed out to meet him. He was holding a wakizashi, a short sword, and brandishing it wildly – it was a treat to see the way the blade glinted in the light of the street lamp.

‘For the Chobei-gumi!!’ Masa shouted out, but not too loudly: so that Semushi could hear, but the stuck policemen couldn’t. ‘Do you recognise me, Hunchback? You’re done for now!’

He deliberately leapt out sooner than he should have done if he really wanted to kill the rotten snake.

Semushi had time to recoil and pull out his revolver, that vile weapon of cowards. But Masa wasn’t afraid of the revolver – he knew that the senior police agent, a man with very deft hands, had filed down the hammer the day before yesterday.

The hunchback clicked once, and twice, but didn’t bother to click a third time, he spun round and took to his heels. At first he ran back towards the little bridge. Then he realised he’d get stuck in the tar and the police agents wouldn’t save him. He turned sharply to the right, which was the way he was supposed to go.

Masa caught up with him and, to give him a real scare, slashed him on the arm, just above the elbow, with the very tip of the blade. The hunchback yelped and made up his mind – he set off across the wasteland, into the darkness. The wasteland was large, it stretched all the way to Tobemura, where they executed criminals and afterwards displayed their severed heads on poles. Previously, when he was still Badger, Masa had been certain that sooner or later he would end up in Tobemura too, goggling down at people with his dead eyes, frightening them. That wasn’t very likely now, though. The top of a pole was no place for the head of Sibata Masahiro, liege vassal of Mr Fandorin.

He sliced the sword through the air just behind the back of Semushi’s head a couple of times, then stumbled and sprawled full length on the ground. He deliberately cursed, as if he had hurt his leg badly. And now he ran more slowly, limping along.

He shouted:

‘Stop! Stop, you coward! You won’t get away anyway!’

But by now the hunchback should have realised that he would get away – not only from the unlucky avenger, but also from the agents of the Yokohama police. That was why this place had been chosen: on the wasteland you could see anyone running after you from a long way away.

Masa gave a final, helpless shout:

‘It doesn’t matter, I’ll finish you the next time.’

And then he stopped.

The wasteland was long, but Semushi couldn’t get off it, because the river was on his right and the canal was on his left. Right at the far end, by the bridge to Tobemura, Shirota-san was waiting in the bushes. He was an educated man, of course, but he had no experience in matters like this. He had to be helped.

Brushing away his sweat with one hand, Masa ran towards the bank of the Yosidagawa, where there was a boat waiting. A few thrusts of the pole, and he’d be on the other side. If he ran as fast his legs could carry him, he would be just in time – this way was shorter than going across the wasteland. And if he was a bit late – that was why Shirota-san was there. He could show Masa which way Semushi had turned.

The bow of the boat sliced through the black, oily water. Masa pushed the pole against the spongy bottom, repeating to himself:

‘Ii-ja-nai-ka! Ii-ja-nai-ka!’

Fandorin’s valet was in a very cheerful mood. His master’s head was pure gold. He should join the Yakuza – he could make a great career.

Ah, how funny the policemen had looked, floundering in the tar!

The rain came to an end and the stars emerged, scattered across the sky like diamonds, growing brighter and brighter with every minute.

Erast Petrovich walked home slowly, because he was not looking down at his feet, but up, admiring the heavenly illuminations. One particular star right over by the horizon, at the very edge of the sky, was shining especially beautifully. It had a bluish, sad kind of light. The titular counsellor’s knowledge concerning the heavenly bodies and constellations was scant: he could recognise only the two bears, Great and Small, and so the name of the spark of blue light was a mystery to him. Fandorin decided it could be called Sirius.

The vice-consul was in an equable and tranquil mood. What was done was done, he could not change anything now. The head of the inquiry had quite unceremoniously, with deliberate intent, affronted the Law: he had impeded the police in the performance of their duty and conspired in the escape of a man suspected of a serious crime against the state. If Semushi got away from Masa and Shirota, the only thing left for him to do would be to confess, and that would be followed by resignation in disgrace and, probably, a trial.

Once inside his deserted apartment, Erast Petrovich took off his frock coat and trousers and sat down in the drawing room in just his shirt. He didn’t turn the light on. After a little while he suddenly snapped his fingers, as if a good idea had just occurred to him, but the result of this enlightenment was strange: Fandorin simply put on his hairnet and hid his upper lip under a moustache cover, after first curling up the sides of his moustache with little tongs. God only knows why the young man did all this – he was clearly not preparing to go to bed, he didn’t even go into the bedroom.

For about half an hour the titular counsellor sat in the armchair without a single thought in his head, twirling an unlit cigar in his fingers. Then someone rang the doorbell.

Erast Petrovich nodded, as if that was exactly what he had been expecting. But he didn’t pull on his trousers; on the contrary, he took off his shirt.

The bell trilled again, louder this time. Without hurrying, the vice-consul slipped his arms into the sleeves of a silk dressing gown and tied the tasselled belt. He stood in front of the mirror and imitated a yawn. And only after that did he light the kerosene lamp and walk towards the hallway.

‘Asagawa, is that you?’ he asked in a sleepy voice when he saw the inspector outside the door. ‘What’s happened? I gave my servant leave, so I… Why are you j-just standing there?’

But the Japanese did not come in. He bowed abruptly and said in an unsteady voice:

‘There can be no forgiveness for me… My men have let Semushi get away. I… I have nothing to say to excuse myself.’

The light of the lamp fell on Asagawa’s miserable face. A lost face, thought Erast Petrovich, and he felt sorry for the inspector, for whom losing face before a foreigner must have been double torment. However, the situation required severity, otherwise Fandorin would have to launch into explanations and be forced to lie.

The vice-consul counted to twenty in his head and then, without saying a word, he slammed the door in the Japanese policeman’s face.

Now he could go into the bedroom. There wouldn’t be any news from Masa and Shirota before morning. It would be good to get a little sleep at least – tomorrow would probably be a hard day.

But his agitation had not completely subsided. Sensing that he wouldn’t be able to get to sleep straight away, Fandorin took the second volume of Goncharov’s The Frigate Pallada from the drawing room: it was the best possible bedtime reading.

The gas burner in the bedroom hissed, but did not ignite. Erast Petrovich was not surprised – gas lighting had reached Yokohama only recently, and the way it functioned was far from ideal. For occasions like this there was a candlestick beside the bed.

The young man found his way through the pitch darkness to the little table and felt for the matches.

The room was illuminated by a gentle, flickering light.

Fandorin dropped his dressing gown on the floor, turned round and cried out.

Lying there in the bed, with her elbow propped on the pillow, watching him with a still, shimmering gaze, was O-Yumi. Her dress, bodice and silk stockings were hanging over the footboard of the bed. The blanket had slipped down to expose her blindingly white shoulder.

The vision sat up, so that the blanket slipped down to her waist, a supple hand reached out for the candelabra and carried it to her lips – and once again it was dark.

Erast Petrovich almost groaned – he felt such piercing pain at the disappearance of the lovely apparition.

He cautiously reached out with one hand, afraid of discovering nothing but emptiness in the darkness. But what his fingers touched was hot, smooth, alive.

A husky voice said:

‘I thought you were never going to come in…’

The sheet rustled and gentle but surprisingly strong hands embraced Fandorin round the neck and pulled him forward…

The scent of skin and hair set the pulse pounding in Fandorin’s temples.

‘Where did you…’ he whispered breathlessly, but didn’t finish – hot lips covered his mouth.

Not another word was spoken in the bedroom. In the world into which the titular counsellor had been drawn by those gentle hands and fragrant lips, there were no words, there could not be any, they would only have confused and disrupted the enchantment.

After his recent adventure in Calcutta, which had led to his missing the steamship, Erast Petrovich regarded himself as an experienced man of the world, but in O-Yumi’s embrace he did not feel like a man, but some incredible musical instrument – sometimes a seductive flute, sometimes a divine violin or a sweet reed pipe, and the virtuoso magical musician played on all of them, mingling heavenly harmony with earthly algebra.

In the brief intermissions the intoxicated vice-consul attempted to babble something, but the only reply was kisses, the touch of tender fingertips and quiet laughter.

When grey streaks of dawn started filtering in through the window, Fandorin made an incredible effort of will and surfaced from the hypnotic haze. He had enough strength for only a single question – the most important one of all, nothing else had any meaning. He put his hands on her temples and held her so that those huge eyes filled with mysterious light were very close.

‘Will you stay with me?’

She shook her head.

‘But… but you will come again?’

O-Yumi also put her hands on his temples, made a light circular movement and pressed gently, and Fandorin instantly fell asleep without realising it. He simply fell into a deep sleep and didn’t even feel her hands gently supporting his head as they laid it on the pillow.

At that moment Erast Petrovich was already dreaming. In his dream he was rushing straight up to the sky in a blue chariot that glittered with an icy sheen, rushing higher and higher. His road led to a star that was drawing the diamond chariot towards it with its transparent rays. Little gold stars went rushing past, wafting fresh, icy breezes into his face. Erast Petrovich felt very good, and the only thing he remembered was that he mustn’t look back, no matter what – or he would fall and be dashed to pieces.

But he didn’t look back. He rushed onwards and upwards, towards the star. The star called Sirius.

It shines, unaware

Even of its own true name.

The star Sirius

HORSE DUNG

Fandorin was woken by someone patting him gently but insistently on the cheek.

‘O-Yumi,’ he whispered, and saw before him a face with slanting eyes, but, alas, it was not the sorceress of the night, but the secretary Shirota.

‘I beg your pardon,’ said the secretary, ‘but you simply would not wake up, and I was starting to feel alarmed…’

The titular counsellor sat up in bed and looked around. The bedroom was illumined by the slanting rays of the early sun. There no O-Yumi, nor any sign at all of her recent presence.

‘Mr Vice-Consul, I am ready to make my report,’ Shirota began, holding a sheet of paper at the ready.

‘Yes, yes, of course,’ Fandorin muttered, glancing under the blanket.

The bedsheet was crumpled, but that didn’t mean anything. Maybe there was something left – a long hair, a crumb of powder, a scarlet trace of lipstick?

Not a thing.

Had it all been a dream?

‘Following your instructions, I concealed myself in the bushes beside the fork at which the two roads separate. At forty-three minutes past two a running man appeared from the direction of the wasteland…’

‘Sniff that!’ Fandorin interrupted, burying his nose in the pillow. ‘What is that scent?’

The secretary took the pillow and conscientiously drew air in through his nose.

‘That is the aroma of ayameh. What is that in Russian, now… iris.’

The titular counsellor’s face lit up in a happy smile.

It wasn’t a dream!

She had been here! It was the aroma of her perfume!

‘Iris is the main aroma of the present season,’ Shirota explained. ‘Women scent themselves with it and they steep the laundry in it at the washhouses. In April the aroma of the season was wistaria, in June it will be azalea.’

The smile slid off Erast Petrovich’s face.

‘May I continue?’ the Japanese asked, handing back the pillow.

And he continued his report. A minute later Fandorin had completely stopped thinking about the scent of irises and his nocturnal apparition.

The paddy fields shone unbearably brightly in the sunlight, as if the entire valley had been transformed into one immense cracked mirror. The dark cracks in the effulgent surface were the boundaries that divided the plots into little rectangles, and in each rectangle there was a figure in a broad straw hat, pottering through the water, bent double. The peasants were weeding the rice fields.

At the centre of the fields there was a small, wooded hill, crowned by a red roof with its edges curled upwards. Erast Petrovich already knew that it was an abandoned Shinto shrine.

‘The peasants don’t go there any more,’ said Shirota. ‘It’s haunted. Last year they found a dead tramp by the door. Semushi was right to choose a place like this to hide. It’s a very fine refuge for a bad man. And it has a clear view of all the approaches.’

‘And what will happen to the shrine now?’

‘Either they will burn it down and build a new one, or they will perform a ceremony of purification. The village elder and the kannusi, the priest, have not decided yet.’

A narrow embankment no more than five paces wide ran through the fields to the shrine. Erast Petrovich examined the path to the hill carefully, then the moss-covered steps leading up to the strange red wooden gateway: just two verticals and a crosspiece, an empty gateway with no gates and no fence. A gateway that did not separate anything from anything.

‘That is the torii,’ the secretary explained. ‘The gate to the Other World.’

Well, that made sense, if it led to the Other World.

The titular counsellor had an excellent pair of binoculars with twelve-fold magnification, a souvenir of the siege of Plevna.

‘I can’t see Masa,’ said Fandorin. ‘Where is he?’

‘You are looking in the wrong direction. Your servant is over there, in the communal plot. Farther left, farther left.’

The vice-consul and his assistant were lying in the thick grass at the edge of a rice field. Erast Petrovich caught Masa in the twin circles. He was no different from the peasants: entirely naked, apart from a loincloth, with a fan hanging behind his back. Except perhaps that his sides were rounder than those of the other workers.

The round-sided peasant straightened up, fanned himself and looked round towards the village. It was definitely him: fat cheeks and half-closed eyes. He looked close enough for Fandorin to flick him on the nose.

‘He has been here since the morning. He took a job as a field-hand for ten sen. We agreed that if he noticed anything special, he would hang the fan behind his back. See, the fan is behind his back. He has spotted something!’

Fandorin focused his binoculars on the hill again and started slowly examining the hunchback’s hiding place, square by square.

‘Did he come straight here from Yokohama? He d-didn’t stop off anywhere along the way?’

‘He came straight here.’

What was that white patch there, among the branches?

Erast Petrovich turned the little wheel and gave a quiet whistle. There was a man sitting in a tree. The hunchback? What was he doing up there?

But last night Semushi had been wearing a dark brown kimono, not a white one.

The man sitting in the tree turned his head. Fandorin still couldn’t make out the face, but the shaved nape glinted.

No, it wasn’t Semushi! His hair was cut in a short, stiff brush.

Fandorin moved the binoculars on. Suddenly something glinted in the undergrowth. Then again, and again.

Just adjust the focus slightly.

Oho!

A man wearing a kimono with its hem turned up was standing on an open patch of ground. He was absolutely motionless. Beside him was bamboo pole stuck into the earth.

Suddenly the man moved. His legs and trunk didn’t stir, but his sword scattered sparks of sunlight and severed bamboo rings flew off the pole: one, two, three, four. What incredible skill!

Then the miraculous swordsman swung round to face the opposite direction – apparently there was another pole there. But Erast Petrovich was not watching the sword blade any longer, he was looking at the left sleeve of the kimono. It was either twisted or tucked up.

‘Why did you strike the ground with your fist? What did you see?’ Shirota whispered eagerly in his ear.

Fandorin handed him the binoculars and pointed him in the right direction.

‘Kataudeh!’ the secretary exclaimed. ‘The man with the withered arm!’ So the others must be there!’

The vice-consul wasn’t listening, he was scribbling something rapidly in his notebook. He tore the page out and started writing on another one.

‘Right now, Shirota. Go to the Settlement as fast you can. Give this to Sergeant Lockston. Tell him the d-details yourself. The second note is for Inspector Asagawa.’

‘Also as fast as I can, right?’

‘No, on the contrary. You must walk slowly from Lockston to the Japanese police station. You can even drink tea along the way.’

Shirota gaped at the titular counsellor in amazement. Then he seemed to get the idea and he nodded.

The sergeant arrived with his entire army of six constables armed with carbines.

Erast Petrovich was waiting for the reinforcements on the approach to the village. He praised them for getting there so quickly and briefly explained the disposition of forces.

‘What, aren’t we going to rush them?’ Lockston asked, disappointed. ‘My guys are just spoiling for a scrap.’

‘N-no scrap. We’re two miles from the Settlement, beyond the consular jurisdiction.’

‘Damn the jurisdiction, Rusty! Don’t forget: these three degenerates killed a white man! Maybe not in person, but they’re all in the same gang.’

‘Walter, we have to respect the laws of the country in which we find ourselves.’

The sergeant turned sulky.

‘Then why the hell did you write: “as quickly as possible and bring long-range weapons”?’

‘Your men are needed to put a cordon round the area. Set them out round the edge of the fields, in secret. Get your constables to lie on the ground and cover themselves with straw, with a distance of two to three hundred paces between them. If the criminals try to leave through the water, fire warning shots, drive them back on to the hill.’

‘And who’s going to nab the bandits?’

‘The Japanese police.’

Lockston narrowed his eyes.

‘Why didn’t you just call the Japs? What do you need the municipals for?’

The titular counsellor didn’t answer and the sergeant nodded knowingly.

‘To make sure, right? You don’t trust the yellow-bellies. You’re afraid they’ll let them get away. Maybe even deliberately, right?’

This question went unanswered too.

‘I’m going to wait for Asagawa in the village. You’re responsible for the other three sides of the square,’ said Fandorin.

He had to wait for a long time – obviously, before Shirota visited the Japanese police station, he had not only drunk tea, but dined as well.

When the sun reached its zenith, the workers started moving back to their houses to rest before their afternoon labours. Masa came back with them.

He explained with gestures that all three samurai were there, and the hunchback was with them. They were keeping a sharp lookout in all directions. They couldn’t be taken by surprise.

Erast Petrovich left his valet to keep an eye on the only path that led to the shrine, while he set out to the other side of the village, to meet the Japanese police.

Three hours later a dark spot appeared on the road. Fandorin raised the binoculars to his eyes and gasped. An entire military column was approaching in marching formation from the direction of Yokohama. Bayonets glittered and officers swayed in their saddles in the cloud of dust.

The titular counsellor dashed forward to meet the troops, waving his arms at them from a distance to get them to stop. God forbid that the men on the hill should notice this bristling centipede!

Riding at the front was the vice-intendant of police himself, Kinsuke Suga. Catching sight of Fandorin’s gesticulations, he raised his hand and the column halted.

Erast Petrovich did not like the look of the Japanese soldiers: short and skinny, with no moustaches, uniforms that hung on them like sacks, and they had no bearing at all. He remembered Vsevolod Vitalievich telling him that military conscription had been introduced here only very recently and peasants didn’t want to serve in the army. Of course not! For three hundred years commoners had been forbidden to carry arms, the samurai chopped their heads off for that. And the result was a nation that consisted of an immense herd of peasant sheep and packs of samurai sheepdogs.

‘Your Excellency, why didn’t you bring the artillery too?’ Fandorin exclaimed angrily as he raced up to the top man.

Suga chuckled contentedly and twirled his moustache.

‘If it’s needed, we will. Bravo, Mr Fandorin! How on earth did you manage to track down these wolves? You’re a genuine hero!’

‘I asked the inspector for ten capable agents. Why have you brought an entire regiment of soldiers?’

‘It’s a battalion,’ said Suga, flinging one leg across the saddle and jumping down. His orderly took the reins immediately. ‘As soon as I got Asagawa’s telegram, I telegraphed the barracks of the Twelfth Infantry Battalion, it’s stationed only a mile from here. And I dashed here by train. The railway is a fine invention too!’

The vice-intendant positively radiated energy and enthusiasm. He gave a command in Japanese and the word passed along the line ‘Chutaicyo, Chutaicyo, Chutaicyo!’ ^[vii]

Three officers came running towards the head of the column, holding their swords down at their sides.

‘We shall need the army for setting an external cordon,’ Suga explained. ‘Not one of the villains must slip away. You needn’t have been so worried, Fandorin, I wasn’t going to bring the soldiers any closer. The company commanders will now form the men up into a chain and locate them round the large square. They won’t see that from the hill.’

The shoddy-looking soldiers moved with remarkable nimbleness and coordination. Not soaring eagles, of course, but they are rather well drilled, thought Fandorin, correcting his first impression.

In about a minute the battalion had reformed into three very long ranks. One of them stayed where it was, the other two performed a half-about-face and marched off to the left and the right.

Only now could Fandorin see that there was a group of police standing at the end of the column – about fifteen of them, including Asagawa, but the Yokohama inspector was behaving modestly, not like a commander at all. Most of the policemen were middle-aged, severe-looking individuals, the kind that we in Russia call old campaigners. Shirota was there with them – judging from the green colour of his face, he could barely stay on his feet. That was only natural: a sleepless night, nervous stress and the long dash all the way to Yokohama and back again.

‘The finest fighters in our police,’ Suga said proudly, indicating the men. ‘Soon you’ll see them in action.’

He turned to one of his deputies and started speaking Japanese.

The embassy secretary started, recalling his official duties, and walked up to the titular counsellor.

‘The adjutant is reporting that they have already spoken to the village elder. The peasants will work as usual, without giving away our presence in any way. They’re going to hold a meeting now. There is a very convenient place.’

The ‘very convenient place’ proved to be the communal stables, permeated with the stench of dung and horse sweat. But the broad chinks in the wall provided an excellent view of the field and the hill.

The vice-intendant sat on a folding stool, the other police officers stood in a half-circle and the operational staff set about planning the operation. Suga did most of the talking. Confident, brisk, smiling – he was clearly in his element.

‘… His Excellency objects to the commissar, Mr Iwaoka, that there is no point in waiting for night to come,’ Fandorin’s interpreter babbled in his ear. ‘The weather is expected to be clear, there will be a full moon and the fields will be like a mirror, with every shadow visible from afar. Better during the day. We can creep up to the hill disguised as peasants weeding the fields.’

The police officers droned approvingly in agreement. Suga spoke again.

‘His Excellency says that there will be two assault groups, each of two men. Any more will look suspicious. The other members of the operation must remain at a distance from the hill and wait for the signal. After the signal they will run straight through the water without worrying about disguise. The important thing here is speed.’

This time everyone started droning at once, and very ardently, and Inspector Asagawa, who had not opened his mouth until this moment, stepped forward and started bowing like a clockwork doll, repeating over and over: ‘Kakka, tanomimas nodeh! Kakka, tanomimas nodeh!’

‘Everybody wants to be in an assault group,’ Shirota explained. ‘Mr Asagawa is requesting permission to atone for his guilt. He says that otherwise it be very difficult for him to live in this world.’

The vice-intendant raised his hand and silence fell immediately.

‘I wish to ask the Russian vice-consul’s opinion,’ Suga said to Fandorin in English. ‘What do you think of my plan? This is our joint operation. An operation of two “vices”.’

He smiled. Now everyone was looking at Fandorin.

‘To be quite honest, I’m surprised,’ the titular counsellor said slowly. ‘Assault g-groups, an infantry cordon – this is all very fine. But where are the measures to take the conspirators alive? After all, their contacts are really more important to us than they are.’

Shirota translated what had been said – evidently not all the policemen knew English.

The Japanese glanced at each other strangely, one even snickered, as if the gaijin had said something stupid.

The vice-intendant sighed. ‘We shall, of course, try to capture the criminals, but we are not likely to succeed. Men of this kind are almost never taken alive.’

Fandorin did not like this response, and his suspicions stirred again more strongly than ever.

‘Then I tell you what,’ he declared. ‘I must be in one of the assault groups. In that case I give you my guarantee that you will receive at least one of the c-conspirators alive and not dead.’

‘May I enquire how you intend to do this?’

The vice-consul replied evasively:

‘When I was a prisoner of the Turks, they taught me a certain trick, but I had better not tell you about it in advance, you will see for yourselves.’

His words produced a strange impression on the Japanese. The policemen started whispering and Suga asked doubtfully:

‘You were a prisoner?’

‘Yes, I was. During the recent Balkan campaign.’

The commissar with the grey moustache gazed at Erast Petrovich with clear contempt, and the way the others were looking could certainly not have been called flattering.

The vice-intendant walked over and magnanimously slapped Fandorin on the shoulder.

‘Never mind, all sorts of things happen in war. During the expedition to Formosa, Guards Lieutenant Tatibana, a most courageous officer, was also taken prisoner. He was badly wounded and unconscious, and the Chinese took him away in a hospital cart. Of course, when he came round, he strangled himself with a bandage. But there isn’t always a bandage.’

Then he repeated the same thing in Japanese for the others (Erast Petrovich made out the name ‘Tatibana’) and Shirota explained quietly:

‘In Japan it is believed that a samurai should never be taken prisoner. An absurd idea, of course. A prejudice,’ the secretary added hastily.

The titular counsellor became furious. Raising his voice, he repeated stubbornly:

‘I must be in the assault group. I insist on it. P-permit me to remind you that without me and my deputies, there would not even be any operation.’

A discussion started among the Japanese, and Fandorin was clearly the subject of it, but his interpreter expounded the essence of the argument briefly and rather apologetically.

‘It… Generally speaking… The gentlemen of the police are discussing the colour of your skin, your height, the size of your nose…’

‘May I ask you to undress to the waist?’ Suga suddenly asked, turning towards the titular counsellor.

And, to set an example, he removed his tunic and shirt first. The vice-intendant’s body was firm and compact, and although his stomach was large, it was not at all flabby. But it was not the details of the general’s anatomy which caught Erast Petrovich’s attention, but the old gold cross dangling on the convex, hairless chest. Catching Fandorin’s glance, Suga explained.

‘Three hundred years ago our family were Christians. Then, when European missionaries were expelled from the country and their faith was forbidden, my forebears renounced the alien religion, but kept the cross as a relic. It was worn by my great-great-great-grandmother, Donna Maria Suga, who preferred death to renunciation. In her memory, I have also accepted Christianity – it is not forbidden to anyone any longer. Are you undressed? Right, now look at me and at yourself.’

He stood beside Fandorin, shoulder to shoulder, and the reason why they had had to get undressed became clear.

Not only was the vice-consul an entire head taller than the other man, his skin also gleamed with a whiteness that was quite clearly not Japanese.

‘The peasants are almost naked,’ said Suga. ‘You will tower over the field and sparkle like snowy Mount Fuji.’

‘But even so,’ the titular counsellor declared firmly, ‘I must be in the assault g-group.’

They gave up trying to persuade him after that. The policemen grouped around their commander, talking in low voices. Then the one with the grey moustache shouted loudly: ‘Kuso! Umano kuso!’

The vice-intendant laughed and slapped him on the shoulder.

‘What did he s-say?’

Shirota shrugged.

‘Commissar Iwaoka said: “Dung. Horse dung”.’

‘Did he mean me?’ Erast Perovich asked furiously. ‘Tell him that in that c-case he…’

‘No, no, how could you think that!’ the secretary interrupted him, while still listening to the conversation. ‘This is something else… Inspector Asagawa is asking what to do about your height. Peasants are never such ranky beanpours. Did I get that right?’

‘Yes, yes.’

Fandorin watched Commissar Iwaoka’s actions suspiciously. The commissar moved out of the group, removed his white glove and scooped up a handful of dung.

‘Mr Sasaki from the serious crimes group says you are a genuine kirin, but that is all right, because the peasants never straighten up.’

‘Who am I?’

‘A kirin – it’s a mythical animal. Like a giraffe.’

‘Aah…’

The man with the grey moustache walked up, bowed briefly and slapped the lump of dung straight on to the Russian diplomat’s chest. The vice-consul was stupefied.

‘There,’ Shirota translated. ‘Now you no longer look like the snowy peak of Mount Fuji.’

Commissar Iwaoka smeared the foul-smelling, yellow-brown muck across Erast Petrovich’s stomach.

Fandorin grimaced, but he endured it.

The true noble man

Is so pure that even dung

Cannot besmirch him

TIGER ON THE LOOSE

It turned out to be possible to get used to a foul smell. The stench of the dung stopped tormenting the titular counsellor’s nose quite soon. The flies were far worse. Attracted by the appetising aroma, they flew to congregate on poor Fandorin from all over the Japanese archipelago or, at the very least, from all over the prefecture of Kanagawa. At first he tried to drive them away, then he gave up, because a peasant flapping his hands about might attract attention. He gritted his teeth and endured the nauseating tickling of the multitude of little green brutes busily crawling over his back and chest and face.

The doubled-over diplomat moved along slowly, up to his knees in water, pulling up some kind of vegetation. No one had bothered to explain to him what the weeds looked like, so he was very probably disposing of shoots of rice, but that was the last thing the sweat-drenched vice-consul was worried about. He hated rice, and flooded-field farming, and his own stubbornness, which had secured him a place in an assault group.

The other member of his group was the instigator of the anointment with dung, Iwaoka of the grey moustache. Although, in fact, the commissar no longer had his dashingly curled moustache – he had shaved it off before the operation began, in order to look more like a peasant. Erast Petrovich had managed to save his own moustache, but he had moistened it and let it dangle at the corners of his mouth like two small icicles. This was the only consolation now left to the titular counsellor – in every other respect Iwaoka had come off far more comfortably.

First, the flies took absolutely no interest in him at all – smelly Erast Petrovich was quite enough for them. Secondly, the commissar moved through the champing mud without any visible effort, and the weeding seemed to be no problem to him – every now and then he stopped and rested, waiting for his lagging partner. But Fandorin’s envy was provoked most powerfully of all by the large white fan with which the prudent Japanese had armed himself. The titular counsellor would have paid any price now, simply to be able to waft the air on to his face and blow off the accursed flies.

His straw hat, lowered almost all the way down to his chin, had two holes in it so that he could observe the shrine without raising his head. The two ‘peasants’ had covered the two hundred paces separating the hill from the edge of the field in about an hour and a half. Now they were trampling mud about thirty feet from dry land, but they mustn’t go any closer, in order not to alarm the lookout. He already had his eyes fixed on them as it was. They turned this way and that to let him see that they were men of peace, harmless, there was nowhere they could be hiding any weapons.

The support group, consisting of six policemen minus uniforms, was keeping its distance. There was another support group at work on the other side; it couldn’t be seen from here.

The vice-intendant was still nowhere to be seen, and Fandorin started feeling concerned about whether he would be able to straighten up when the time for action finally arrived. He cautiously kneaded his waist with one hand, and it responded with an intense ache.

Suddenly, without raising his head, Iwaoka hissed quietly.

It had started!

Two people were walking along the path to the shrine: striding along solemnly in front was the Shinto priest or kannusi, in black robes and a hood, and trotting behind him came the female servant of the shrine, or miko, in a white kimono and loose scarlet trousers, with long straight hair hanging down at both sides of her face. She stumbled, dropping some kind of bowl, and squatted down gracefully. Then she ran to catch up with the priest, wiggling her hips awkwardly like a young girl. Fandorin couldn’t help smiling. Well done, Asagawa, what fine acting!

In front of the steps, the kannusi halted, lowered a small twig broom into the bowl and started waving it in all directions, singing something at the same time – Suga had begun the ritual of purification. The vice-intendant’s moustache was now dangling downwards, like Fandorin’s, and a long, thin grey beard had been glued to His Excellency’s chin.

The commissar whispered:

‘Go!’

The sentry was surely watching the unexpected visitors, he wouldn’t be interested in the peasants now.

Erast Petrovich started moving towards the hill, trying not to splash through the water. Fifteen seconds later they were both in the bamboo thickets. There was liquid mud flowing down over the titular counsellor’s ankles.

Iwaoka went up the slope first. He took a few silent steps, stopped to listen, then waved to his partner to say: Come on, it’s all right.

And so Fandorin climbed to the top of the hill, staring at the commissar’s broad, muscular back.

They lay down under a bush and started looking around.

Iwaoka had picked the ideal spot. From here they could see the shrine, and the stone steps with the two figures – one black, one red and white – slowly climbing up them. On every step Suga stopped and waved his twig broom about. His nasal chant was slowly getting closer.

Up at the top, Semushi was waiting in the sacred gateway. He was wearing just a loincloth – in order to demonstrate his deformity, one must assume – and bowing abjectly right down to the ground.

He’s pretending to be a cripple who has found refuge in the abandoned shrine, Fandorin guessed. He wants to make the priest feel sorry for him.

But what about the others?

There they were, the cunning devils.

The Satsumans had hidden behind the shrine – Suga and Asagawa couldn’t see that, but from here in the bushes they had a very good view.

Three men in light kimonos were standing, pressing themselves up against the wall, about a dozen paces away from the commissar and the titular counsellor. One, with his withered left arm strapped to his side, was peeping cautiously round the corner, the two others kept their eyes fixed on him.

All three of them had swords, Fandorin noted. They had obtained new ones from somewhere, but he couldn’t see any firearms.

The man with the withered arm looked as if he was well past forty – there were traces of grey in the plait glued to the crown of his head. The other two were young, mere youths.

Then the ‘priest’ noticed the tramp. He stopped chanting his incantations, shouted something angrily and started walking quickly up the steps. The miko hurried after him.

The hunchback flopped down on to his knees and pressed his forehead against the ground. Excellent – it would be easier to grab him.

The commissar seemed to think the same. He touched Fandorin on the shoulder: Time to go!

Erast Petrovich stuck his hand into his loincloth and pulled out a thin rope from round his waist. He rapidly wound it round his hand and his elbow, leaving a large loop dangling.

Iwaoka nodded sagely and demonstrated with his fingers: the one with the withered arm is yours, the other two are mine. That was rational. If they were going to take someone alive, of course it ought to be the leader.

‘But where’s your weapon?’ Fandorin asked, also in gestures.

The commissar didn’t understand at first. Then he smiled briefly and held out the fan, which turned out not to be made of paper or cardboard, but steel, with sharply honed edges.

‘Wait, I go first,’ Iwaoka ordered.

He moved soundlessly along the bushes, circling round behind the Satsumans.

Now he was right behind them: an intent expression on his face, his knees slightly bent, his feet stepping silently across the ground.

The samurai didn’t see him or hear him – the two young ones were looking at the back of their leader’s head, and he was following what was happening on the steps.

Suga was acting for all he was worth: yelling, waving his arms about, even striking the ‘tramp’ on the back of the neck with his twig broom a couple of times. The miko stood slightly to one side of the hunchback, with her eyes lowered modestly.

Erast Petrovich got up and started swaying his lasso back and forth.

One more second and it would start.

Iwaoka would drop one and get to grips with another. When they heard a noise, Suga and Asagawa would grab the hunchback. The titular counsellor’s job was to throw the lasso accurately and pull it good and tight. Not such a difficult trick if you had the knack, and Erast Petrovich certainly did. He had done a lot of practising in his Turkish prison, to combat the boredom and inactivity. It would all work out very neatly.

He didn’t understand how it happened: either Iwaoka wasn’t careful enough, or the Satsuman turned round by chance, but it didn’t work out neatly at all.

The last samurai, the youngest, looked round when the commissar was only five steps away. The young man’s reactions were simply astounding.

Before he had even finished turning his head, he squealed and jerked his blade out of the scabbard. The other two leapt away from the wall as if they had been flung out by a spring and also drew their weapons.

A sword glinted above Iwaoka’s head and clanged against the fan held up to block it, sending sparks flying. The commissar turned his wrist slightly, opened his strange weapon wider and sliced at the air, almost playfully, but the steel edge caught the Satsuman across the throat. Blood spurted out and the first opponent had been disposed of. He slumped to the ground, grabbing at his throat with his hands, and soon fell silent.

The second one flew at Iwaoka like a whirlwind, but the old wolf easily dodged the blow. With a deceptively casual movement, he flicked the fan across the samurai’s wrist and the sword fell out of the severed hand. The samurai leaned down and picked the katana up with his other hand, but the commissar struck again, and the samurai tumbled to the ground with his head split open.

All this took about three seconds. Fandorin still hadn’t had a chance to throw his lasso. He stood there, whirling it above his head in whistling circles, but the man with the withered arm moved so fast that he couldn’t choose the moment for the throw.

The steel blade clashed with the steel fan, and the fearsome opponents leapt back and circled round each other, ready to pounce again.

When the man with the withered arm slowed down, Erast Petrovich seized the moment and threw his lasso. It went whistling through the air – but the Satsuman leapt forward, knocked the fan aside, swung round his axis and slashed at Iwaoka’s legs.

Something appalling happened: the commissar’s feet stayed where they were, but his severed ankles slipped off them and stuck in the ground. The old campaigner swayed, but before he fell, the sword blade sliced him in half – from his right shoulder to his left hip. The body settled into a formless heap.

Celebrating his victory, the man with the withered arm froze on the spot for a mere second, but that was enough for Fandorin to make another throw. This one was faultlessly precise and the broad noose encircled the samurai’s shoulders. Erast Petrovich allowed it to slip down to his elbows and tugged it towards him, forcing the Satsuman to spin round his own axis again. In just a few moments, the prisoner had been bound securely and laid out on the ground. Snarling furiously and baring his teeth, he writhed and twisted, even trying to reach the rope with his teeth, but there was nothing he could do.

Suga and Asagawa dragged over the hunchback with his wrists tied to his ankles, so that he could neither walk nor stand – when they let go of him, he tumbled over on to his side. There was a wooden gag protruding from his mouth, with laces that were tied at the back of his head.

The vice-intendant walked over to the commissar’s mutilated body and heaved a deep sigh, but that was as far as the expression of grief went.

When the general turned towards Fandorin, he was smiling.

‘We forgot about the signal,’ he said cheerfully, holding up his whistle. ‘Never mind, we managed without any back-up. We’ve taken the main two villains alive. That’s incredibly good luck.’

He stood in front of the man with the withered arm, who had stopped thrashing about on the ground and was lying there quite still, pale-faced, with his eyes squeezed tight shut.

Suga said something harsh and kicked the prone man contemptuously, then grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and stood him on his feet.

The samurai opened his eyes. Never before had Fandorin seen such sheer animal fury in a human stare.

‘An excellent technique,’ said Suga, fingering the noose of the lasso. ‘We’ll have to add it to our repertoire. Now I understand how the Turks managed to take you prisoner.’

The titular counsellor made no comment – his didn’t want to disappoint the Japanese police chief. In actual fact he had been captured with a brigade of Serbian volunteers who had been cut off from their own lines and used up all their cartridges. According to the samurai code, apparently they should have choked themselves with their own shoulder belts…

‘What is that for?’ Erast Petrovich asked, pointing to the gag in the hunchback’s mouth.

‘So that he won’t take it into his head…’

Suga never finished what he was saying. With a hoarse growl, the man with the withered arm pushed the general aside with his knee, lunged forward into a run and smashed his forehead into the corner of the shrine at full speed.

There was a sickening crunch and the bound man collapsed face down. A red puddle started spreading rapidly beneath him.

Suga bent down over the samurai, felt the pulse in the man’s neck and waved his hand hopelessly.

‘The hami is needed to prevent the prisoner from biting off his own tongue,’ Asagawa concluded for his superior. ‘It is not enough simply to take enemies like this alive. You have to prevent them dying afterwards as well.’

Fandorin said nothing, he was stunned. He felt guilty – and not just because he had not bound an important prisoner securely enough. He was feeling even more ashamed of something else.

‘There’s something I have to tell you, Inspector,’ he said, blushing as he led Asagawa aside.

The vice-intendant was left beside the remaining prisoner: he checked to make sure the ropes were pulled tight. Once he was convinced that everything was in order, he went to inspect the shrine.

In the meantime Fandorin, stammering more than usual, confessed his perfidious deceit to the inspector. He told him about the tar, and about his suspicions concerning the Japanese police.

‘I know I have c-caused you a great deal of unpleasantness and damaged your reputation with your s-superiors. I ask you to forgive me and bear no grudge…’

Asagawa heard him out with a stony face; only the slight trembling of his lips betrayed his agitation. Erast Petrovich was prepared for a sharp, well-deserved rebuff, but the inspector surprised him.

‘You could have never admitted anything,’ he said in a quiet voice. ‘I would never have known the truth, and you would have remained an impeccable hero. But your confession required even greater courage. Your apology is accepted.’

He bowed ceremoniously. Fandorin replied with a precisely similar bow.

Suga came out of the shrine, holding three bundles in his hands.

‘This is all there is,’ he said. ‘The search specialists will take a more thorough look later. Maybe they’ll find some kind of hiding place. I’d like to know who helped these villains, who supplied them with new swords. Oh, I have plenty to talk about with Mr Semushi! I’ll question him myself,’ said the vice-intendant, with a smile so ferocious it made Erast Petrovich wonder whether the interrogation would be conducted in accordance with civilised norms. ‘Everyone is in line for decorations. A high order for you, Fandorinsan. Perhaps even… Miro!’ the general exclaimed suddenly, pointing to Semushi. ‘Hami!’

The titular counsellor saw that the wooden gag was no longer protruding from between the hunchback’s teeth, but dangling on its laces. Inspector Agasawa dashed towards the prisoner, but too late – Semushi opened his mouth wide and clenched his jaws shut with a snarl. A dense red torrent gushed out of his mouth on to his bare chest.

There was a blood-curdling roar that faded into spasmodic gurgling. Suga and Asagawa prised open the suicide’s teeth and stuffed a rag into his mouth, but it was clear that the bleeding could not be stopped. Five minutes later Semushi stopped groaning and went quiet.

Asagawa was a pitiful sight. He bowed to his superior and to Fandorin, insisting that he had no idea how the prisoner could have chewed through the lace – it had evidently not been strong enough and he, Asagawa, was to blame for not checking it properly.

The general listened to all this and waved his hand dismissively. His voice sounded reassuring. Fandorin made out the familiar word ‘akunin’.

‘I was saying that it’s not possible to take a genuine villain alive, no matter how hard you try,’ said Suga, translating his own words. ‘When a man has a strong hara, there’s nothing you can do with him. But the mission is a success in any case. The minister will be delighted, he’s sick to death of sitting under lock and key. The great man has been saved, for which Japan will be grateful to Russia and to you personally, Mr Vice-Consul.’

That evening Erast Petrovich betrayed his principles and rode home in a kuruma pulled by three rikshas. After all his emotional and physical tribulations, the titular counsellor was absolutely worn out. He couldn’t tell what had undermined his strength more -the bloody spectacle of the two suicides or the hour and a half spent weeding, but the moment he got into the kuruma, he fell asleep, muttering:

‘I’m going to sleep all night, all day and all night again…’

The conveyance in which the triumphant victors rode back to the consulate presented a truly unusual sight: snoring away in the middle was the secretary Shirota, wearing a morning coat and a string tie; this respectable-looking gentleman was flanked by two semi-naked peasants, sleeping soundly with their heads resting on his shoulders, and one of them was caked all over in dried dung.

Alas, however, Erast Petrovich was not given a chance to sleep all night, all day and all night again.

At eleven in the morning, when he was sleeping like a log, the vice-consul was shaken awake by his immediate superior.

Pale and trembling, Vsevolod Vitalievich splashed cold water over Fandorin, drank the liquid remaining in the mug and read out the express message that had just arrived from the embassy:

‘Early this morning Okubo was killed on the way to the imperial palace. Six unidentified men drew concealed swords, killed the postillion, hacked at the horse’s legs and stabbed the minister to death when he jumped out of the carriage. The minister had no guards. As yet nothing is known about the killers, but eyewitnesses claim that they addressed each other in the Satsuma dialect. Please report to the embassy immediately with Vice-Consul Fandorin.’

‘How is that possible?’ the titular counsellor exclaimed. ‘The conspirators were wiped out!’

‘It is now clear that the group you have been hunting only existed in order to divert the authorities’ energy and attention. Or else the man with the withered arm and his group were given a secondary role once they had attracted the attention of the police. The main group was waiting patiently for its chance. The moment Okubo broke his cover and was left without any protection, the killers struck. Ah, Fandorin, I fear this is an irredeemable blow. And the worst disaster is still to come. The consequences for Russia will be lamentable. There is no one to tame the beast, the cage is empty, the Japanese tiger will break free.’

The zoo is empty,

All the visitors have fled.

Tiger on the loose

THE SCENT OF IRISES

Six morose-looking gentlemen were sitting in the office of the Russian ambassador: five in black frock coats and one in naval uniform, also black. The frivolous May sun was shining outside the windows of the building, but its rays were blocked out by thick curtains, and the room was as gloomy as the general mood.

The nominal chairman of the meeting was the ambassador himself, Full State Counsellor Kirill Vasilievich Korf, but His Excellency hardly even opened his mouth, maintaining a significant silence and merely nodding gravely when Bukhartsev, sitting on his right, had the floor. The seats on the left of the plenipotentiary representative of the Russian Empire were occupied by another two diplomatic colleagues, the first secretary and a youthful attachй, but they did not participate in the conversation, and in introducing themselves, they had murmured their names so quietly that Erast Petrovich could not make them out.

The consul and vice-consul were seated on the other side of the long table, which gave the impression, if not of direct confrontation, then at least of a certain opposition between Tokyoites and Yokohamans.

First they discussed the details of the assassination: the attackers had revolvers, but they fired only into the air, to cause fright and confusion; the unfortunate Okubo had tried to protect himself from the sword blades with his bare hands, so his forearms were covered in slashes; the fatal blow had split the brilliant minister’s head in half; from the scene of the killing, the conspirators had gone straight to the police to surrender and had submitted a written statement, in which the dictator was declared a usurper and enemy of the nation; all six were former samurai from Satsuma, their victim’s home region.

Fandorin was astounded.

‘They surrendered? They didn’t try to kill themselves?’

‘There’s no point now,’ the consul explained. ‘They’ve done their job. There will be a trial, they will make beautiful speeches, the public will regard them as heroes. Plays will be written about them, and prints will be made. And then, of course, they’ll chop their heads off, but they have secured themselves an honourable place in Japanese history.’

After that they moved on to the main item on the agenda – discussing the political situation and forecasting imminent changes. Two of the men – the consul and the maritime agent – argued, the others listened.

‘Japan will now inevitably be transformed from our ally into our rival and, with time, our sworn enemy,’ Vsevolod Vitalievich prophesied morosely. ‘Such, I fear, is the law of political physics. Under Okubo, an advocate of strict control over all aspects of social life, Japan was developing along the Russian path; a firm vertical structure of power, state management of the basic industrial sectors, no democratic games. But now the hour of the English party has been ushered in. The country will turn on to the British path – with a parliament and political parties, with the development of private capital on a large scale. And what is the British model of development, gentlemen? It is outward extension and expansion, a gaseous state, that is, the urge to fill all available space: a weak Korea, a decrepit China. That is the ground on which we will meet the Japanese tiger.’

Lieutenant Captain Bukhartsev was not alarmed in the least by the prospect that the Yokohama consul had outlined.

‘What tiger are you talking about, sir? This is quite absurd. It’s no tiger, it’s a pussy cat, and a scabby, mangy one at that. Japan’s annual budget is only a tenth of Russia’s. And what can I say about their military forces? The Mikado’s peacetime army is thirty-five thousand men. The Tsar’s is almost a million. And what kind of soldiers do the Japanese have? They barely come up to the chests of our brave lads. And their navy! In the line of duty, I visited a battleship they bought recently in England. I could have laughed till I cried! Tiny little Lilliputs, crawling all over Gulliver. How do they intend to manage the turret mechanism for twelve-inch guns? Are five of them going to jump up and hang on the wheel? And as for Korea and China, oh, come now, Vsevolod Vitalievich! With God’s help, the Japanese might just liberate the island of Hokkaido!’

The ambassador liked what Bukhartsev had said – he smiled and started nodding. But out of the blue Doronin asked:

‘Tell me, Mstislav Nikolaievich, whose homes are cleaner – the Russian peasants’, or the Japanese peasants’?’

‘What has that go to do with the point?’

‘The Japanese say: “If the homes are clean, the government is respected and stable”. Our homes, my dear compatriots, are not clean – in fact, they are very unclean. Filth, drunkenness and, at the slightest provocation, the red cock crows under the landowner’s roof. We, my dear sirs, have bombers. Opposition is considered bon ton among our educated young people, but for the Japanese it is patriotism and respect for the authorities. And as for the difference in physique, that can be compensated for in time. We say: Healthy in body, healthy in mind. The Japanese are convinced of the opposite. And you know, I agree with them on that. Four-fifths of our population are illiterate, but they have passed a law on universal education. Soon every child here will go to school. Patriotism, a healthy mind and education – that is the recipe for the feed that will allow this “mangy pussy cat” to grow into a tiger very quickly indeed. And, in addition, do not forget the most important treasure that the Japanese possess, one that is, unfortunately, very rare in our parts. It is called “dignity”.’

The ambassador was surprised.

‘I beg your pardon, how do you mean that?’

‘In the most direct sense possible, Your Excellency. Japan is a country of politeness. Every individual, even the very poorest, conducts himself with dignity. A Japanese fears nothing so much as to forfeit the respect of those around him. Yes, today this is a poor, backward country, but it stands on a firm foundation, and therefore it will realise its aspirations. And that will happen far more quickly than we think.’

Bukhartsev did not continue the sparring – he merely glanced at the ambassador with a smile and spread his hands eloquently.

And then His Excellency finally pronounced his own weighty word.

‘Vsevolod Vitalievich, I value you as a fine connoisseur of Japan, but I also know that you are an enthusiast. Staying too long in one place has its negative aspects: one starts viewing the situation through the eyes of the locals. This is sometimes useful, but don’t get carried away, don’t get carried away. The late Okubo used to say that he would not be killed as long as his country needed him. I understand fatalism of that sort, I take the same view of things and consider that, since Okubu is no longer with us, he had exhausted his usefulness. Naturally, you are right when you say that Japan’s political course will change now. But Mstislav Nikolaevich is also right: this Asiatic country does not have and cannot have the potential of a great power. It will possibly become a more influential and active force in the Far Eastern zone, but never a potential player. That is what I intend to state in my report to His Excellency the Chancellor. And henceforth the main question will be formulated in this way: Which tune will Japan dance to? – the Russian or the English?’ The baron sighed heavily. ‘I fear we shall find this rivalry hard going. The Britons have a stronger hand to play. And apart from that, we are still committing unforgivable blunders.’ His Excellency’s voice, which had so far been neutral and measured, took on a strict, even severe tone. ‘Take this business of hunting the false assassins. The entire diplomatic corps is abuzz with whispers that Okubo was killed because of a Russian plot. Supposedly we deliberately handed the police a few ragamuffins, leaving the real killers free to plot and strike unhindered. Today at lawn tennis the German ambassador remarked with a subtle smile: “Had Okubo ceased to be useful?” I was dumbfounded. I said: “Your Excellency, where could you have got such information?” It turned out that Bullcox had already found time to visit him. Oh, that Bullcox! It’s not enough for him that Britain has been relieved of its main political opponent, Bullcox wants to cast suspicion on Russia as well. And you gentlemen from Yokohama unwittingly assist his machinations!’

By the end of his speech, the ambassador was thoroughly annoyed and, although he had been addressing the ‘gentlemen from Yokohama’, he had not looked at the consul, but at Erast Petrovich, and his gaze was anything but benign.

‘It is as I reported to Your Excellency. On the one hand – connivance, and on the other – irresponsible adventurism.’

The two parties – the conniving (that is, Vsevolod Vitalievich) and the irresponsibly adventurist (that is, Fandorin) – exchanged surreptitious glances. Things were taking a very nasty turn.

The baron chewed on his dry Ostsee lips, raised his watery eyes to the ceiling and frowned. However, no lightning bolt ensued, things went no farther than a roll of thunder.

‘Well then, you gentlemen from Yokohama, from now on, please stick to your immediate consular duties. There will be plenty of work for you, Fandorin: arranging supplies for ships, repairing ships, assisting sailors and traders, summarising commercial data. But do not stick your nose into political and strategic matters, they are beyond you. We have a military man, a specialist, for that.’

Well, it could have been worse.

They drove from the diplomatic quarter with the beautiful name of the Tiger Gates to the Shimbashi Station in the ambassador’s carriage – His Excellency was a tactful individual and he possessed the major administrative talent of being able to give a subordinate a dressing-down without causing personal offence. The carriage with the gilded coat of arms on the door was intended to sweeten the bitter pill that the baron forced the Yokohamans to swallow.

To Erast Petrovich, the city of Tokyo seemed remarkably like his own native Moscow. That is to say, naturally, the architecture was quite different, but the alternating hovels and palaces, narrow streets and waste lots were entirely Muscovite, and the fashionable Ginja Street, with its neat brick houses, was precisely like prim Tverskaya Street, pretending as hard as it could to be Nevsky Prospect.

The titular counsellor kept looking out of the window, contemplating the melange of Japanese and Western clothes, hairstyles and carriages. But Doronin gazed wearily at the velvet wall, and the consul’s conversation was dismal.

‘Russia’s own leaders are its ruin. What can be done so that the people who rule are those who have the talent and vocation for it, not those with ambition and connections? And our other misfortune, Fandorin, is that Mother Russia has her face turned to the West, and her back to the East. And furthermore, we have our nose stuck up the West’s backside, because the West couldn’t give a damn for us. But we expose our defenceless derriиre to the East, and sooner or later the Japanese will sink their sharp teeth into our flabby buttocks.’

‘But what is to be done?’ asked Erast Petrovich, watching a double-decker omnibus drive past, harnessed to four stunted little horses. ‘Turn away from the West to the East? That is hardly possible.’

‘Our eagle is double-headed, so that one head can look to the West, and the other to the East. We need to have two capitals. And the second one should not be Moscow, but Vladivostok.’

‘But I’ve read that Vladivostok is an appalling dump, a mere village!’

‘What of it? St Petersburg wasn’t even a village when Peter stretched out his hand and said: “It is nature’s command that we break a window through to Europe here”. And in this case even the name suits: Vladivostok – Rule the East!’

Since conversation had touched on such a serious topic, Fandorin stopped gazing idly out of the window and turned towards the consul.

‘Vsevolod Vitalievich, why should I rule other people’s lands if I can’t even set my own to rights?’

Doronin smiled ironically.

‘You’re right, a thousand times right. No conquest can be secure if our own home is tottering. But that doesn’t apply only to Russia. Her Imperial Majesty Queen Victoria’s house also stands on shaky foundations. The Earth will not belong to either us or the Britons. Because we set about conquering it in the wrong way – by force. And force, Fandorin, is the weakest and least permanent of instruments. Those defeated by it will submit, of course, but they will simply wait for the moment to come when they can free themselves. None of the European conquests in Africa and Asia will last long. In fifty or a hundred years, at most, there will be no colonies left. And the Japanese tiger won’t come to anything either – they’re learning from the wrong teachers.’

‘And from whom should they learn?’

‘The Chinese. No, not the empress Tzu Hsi, of course, but the Chinese people’s thorough and deliberate approach. The inhabitants of the Celestial Empire will not budge until they have put their own house in order, and that’s a long job, about two hundred years. But then afterwards, when the Chinese started feeling cramped, they’ll show the world what genuine conquest is. They won’t rattle their weapons and send expeditionary forces abroad. Oh no! They’ll show the other countries that living the Chinese way is better and more rational. And gradually everyone will become Chinese, although it may take several generations.’

‘But I think the Americans will conquer the whole world,’ said Erast Petrovich. ‘And it will happen within the next hundred years. What makes the Americans strong? The fact that they accept everyone into their country. Anyone who wants to b-be American can be, even if he used to be an Irishman, a Jew or a Russian. There’ll be a United States of the Earth, you’ll see.’

‘Unlikely. The Americans, of course, behave more intelligently than the European monarchies, but they lack patience. Their roots are Western too, and in the West they place too much importance on time. But in fact, time does not even exist, there is no “tomorrow”, only an eternal “now”. The unification of the world is a slow business, but then, what’s all the hurry? There won’t be any United States of the Earth, there’ll be one Celestial Empire, and then the hour of universal harmony will arrive. Thank God that you and I shall never see that heaven on earth.’

And on that melancholy note the conversation about the future of mankind broke off – the carriage had stopped at the station.

The following morning Vice-Consul Fandorin took up his routine work: compiling a register of Russian ships due to arrive in the port of Yokohama in June and July 1878.

Erast Petrovich scribbled the heading of this boring document in slapdash style (the spinster Blagolepova would type it out again later anyway), but that was as far as the work got. The window of the small office located on the first floor presented a glorious view of the consulate garden, the lively Bund and the harbour roadstead. The titular counsellor was in a sour mood, and his thoughts drifted aimlessly. Propping one cheek on his fist, he started watching the people walking by and the carriages driving along the promenade.

And he saw a sight worth seeing.

Algernon Bullcox’s lacquered carriage drove past, moving in the direction of the Bluff. Russia’s perfidious enemy and his concubine were perched beside each other on the leather seat like two turtle doves. And, moreover, O-Yumi was holding the Englishman’s arm and whispering something in his ear and the Right Honourable was smiling unctuously.

The immoral kept woman did not even glance in the direction of the Russian consulate.

Despite the distance, with his sharp eyes Erast Petrovich could make out a small lock of hair fluttering behind her ear, and then the wind brought the scent of irises from the garden…

The pencil crunched in his strong hand, snapped in half.

What was she whispering to him, why were they laughing? And at whom? Could it be at him?

Life is cruel, essentially meaningless and infinitely humiliating, Erast Petrovich thought morosely, glancing at the sheet of paper waiting for the register of shipping. All of life’s charms, delights and enticements existed only in order to melt a man’s heart, to get him to roll over on to his back, waving all four paws trustingly in the air and exposing his defenceless underbelly. And life wouldn’t miss her chance – she’d strike a blow that would send you scuttling away howling, with your tail tucked between your legs.

So what was the conclusion?

It was this: never give way to tender feelings, always remain on your guard, with all weapons at the ready. If you see the finger of fate beckoning, then bite the damn thing off, and the entire hand too, if you can manage it.

With a serious effort of will, the vice-consul forced himself to concentrate on tonnages, itineraries and captains’ names.

The empty columns gradually filled up. The Big Ben grandfather clock ticked quietly in the corner.

And at six o’clock in the evening, at the end of the office day, Erast Fandorin, feeling weary and gloomy, went downstairs to his apartment to eat the dinner that Masa had prepared.

None of it ever happened, Erast Petrovich told himself, chewing in disgust on the gooey rice that stuck to his teeth. There never was any lasso clutched in his hand, or any hot pulsing of blood, or any scent of irises. Especially the scent of irises. It was all a monstrous delusion that had nothing at all to do with real life. What did exist was clear, simple, necessary work. And there was also breakfast, lunch and dinner. There was sunrise and sunset. Rule, routine and procedure – and no chaos. Chaos had disappeared, it would not come back again. And thank God for that.

At that point the door creaked behind the titular counsellor’s back and he heard someone clear their throat delicately. Without turning round, without even knowing who it was, simply from what he could feel inside, Fandorin guessed that it was chaos – it had come back again.

Chaos took the form of Inspector Asagawa. He was standing in the doorway of the dining room, holding his hat in his hand, and his face was firmly set in an expression of determination.

‘Hello, Inspector. Is there something…’

The Japanese suddenly toppled to the floor. He pressed the palms of his hands against the carpet and started beating his head against it.

Erast Petrovich snatched off his napkin and jumped to his feet.

‘What is all this?’

‘You were right not to trust me,’ Asagawa blurted out without raising his head. ‘I am to blame for everything. It is my fault that the minister was killed.’

Despite the contrite pose, the words were spoken clearly and precisely, without the ponderous formulae of politeness typical of the inspector’s usual conversation.

‘What’s that? Drop all this Japanese c-ceremonial, will you! Get up!’

Asagawa did not get to his feet, but he did at least straighten his back and put his hands on his knees. His eyes – Fandorin could see them very clearly now – were glowing with a steady, furious light.

‘At first I was insulted. I thought: How dare he suspect the Japanese police! The leak must have happened on their side, on the side of the foreigners, because we have order, and they do not. But today, when the catastrophe occurred, my eyes were suddenly opened. I told myself: Sergeant Lockston and the Russian vice-consul could have let something slip to the wrong person, about the witness to the murder, about the ambush at the godaun, about the fingerprints, but how could they have known when exactly the guards were dismissed and where the minister would go in the morning?’

‘Go on, go on!’ Fandorin pressed him.

‘You and I were looking for three samurai. But the conspirators had planned their attack thoroughly. There was another group of six assassins. And perhaps there were others, in reserve. Why not? The minister had plenty of enemies. The important thing here is this: all these fanatics, no matter how many of them there were, were controlled from one centre and their actions were coordinated. Someone provided them with extremely precise information. The moment the minister acquired guards, the killers went into hiding. And as soon as His Excellency left his residence without any protection, they struck immediately. What does this mean?’

‘That the conspirators received information from Okubo’s inner circle.’

‘Precisely! From someone who was closer to him than you or I! And as soon as I realised this, everything fell into place. Do you remember the tongue?’

‘Which tongue?’

‘The one that was bitten off! I could not get it out of my mind. I remember that I checked the hami and the lace was perfectly all right. Semushi could not have bitten through it, and it could not have come loose – my knots do not come untied… This morning I went to the stockroom, where they keep the clues and material evidence relating to the case of the man with the withered arm and his gang: weapons, clothes, equipment used – everything we are trying to use in order to establish their identities and get a lead on their contacts. I examined the hami very closely. Here it is, look’

The inspector took a wooden gag-bit with dangling tapes out of his pocket.

‘The cord has been cut!’ Fandorin exclaimed. ‘But how could that have happened?’

‘Remember the way it was,’ said Asagawa, finally getting to his feet and standing beside the vice-consul. ‘I walked over to you and we stood there, talking. You asked me to forgive you. But he stayed beside the hunchback, pretending to check how well his binds were tied. Remember?’

‘Suga!’ the titular counsellor whispered. ‘Impossible! But he was with us, he risked his life! He planned the operation and implemented it brilliantly!’

The Japanese laughed bitterly.

‘Naturally. He wanted to be on the spot, to make sure that none of the conspirators fell into our hands alive. Remember how Suga came out of the shrine and pointed at the hunchback and shouted: “Hami!”? That was because Semushi was taking too long, he couldn’t bring himself to do it…’

‘An assumption, n-nothing more,’ the titular counsellor said with a shake of his head.

‘And is this also an assumption?’ asked Asagawa, holding up the severed cord. ‘Only Suga could have done that. Wait, Fandorin-san, I still haven’t finished what I want to say. Even when I found this terrible, incontrovertible proof, I still couldn’t believe that the vice-intendant of police was capable of such a crime. It’s absolutely beyond belief! And I went to Tokyo, to the Department of Police.’

‘What f-for?’

‘The head of the secretariat is an old friend of my father’s, also an old yoriki… I went to him and said I had forgotten to keep a copy of one of the reports that I had sent to the vice-intendant.’

Fandorin pricked up his ears.

‘What reports?’

‘After every conversation and meeting that we had, I had to report to Suga immediately, by special courier. Those were my instructions, and I followed them meticulously. I sent eight reports in all. But when the head of the secretariat gave me the file containing my reports, I found only five of them in it. Three were missing: the one about your servant having seen the presumed killer; the one about the ambush at the godaun; and the one about the municipal police holding the fingerprints of the mysterious shinobi…’

The inspector seemed to have said everything he wanted to say. For a while the room was silent while Fandorin thought very hard and Asagawa waited to see what the result of this thinking would be.

The result was a question that the titular counsellor asked, gazing straight into Asagawa’s eyes.

‘Why did you come to me and not the intendant of police?’

Asagawa was evidently expecting this and had prepared his answer in advance.

‘The intendant of police is a vacuous individual, they only keep him in that position because of his high-sounding title. And in addition…’ – the Japanese lowered his eyes, it was obviously hard for him to say something like this to a foreigner – ‘… how can I know who else was in the conspiracy? Even in the police secretariat there are some who say that the Satsumans are guilty of crimes against the state, of course, but even so they are heroes. Some even whisper that Okubo got what he deserved. That is the first reason why I decided to turn to you…’

‘And what is the second?’

‘Yesterday you asked me to forgive you, although you did not have to. You are a sincere man.’

For a moment the titular counsellor could not understand what sincerity had to do with this, but then he decided it must be a failure of translation. No doubt the English phrase ‘sincere man’, as used by Asagawa, or its Russian equivalent, ‘iskrennii chelovek’, as used by the secretary Shirota to express his respect for Pushkin, Martial Saigo and Dr Twigs, did not adequately convey the essential quality that the Japanese valued so highly. Perhaps it should be ‘unaffected’ or ‘genuine’? He would have to ask Vsevolod Vitalievich about this…

‘But I still do not understand why you have come to me with this,’ said Erast Petrovich. ‘What can you change now? Mr Okubo is dead. His opponents have the upper hand, and now they will determine the policies of your state.’

Asagawa was terribly surprised.

‘How can you ask: “What can you change?” I know nothing about politics, that is not my business, I am a policeman. A policeman is a man who is needed to prevent evil-doing from going unpunished. Desertion of duty, conspiracy and murder are serious crimes. Suga must pay for them. If I cannot punish him, then I am not a policeman. That, as you like to say, is one. And now, two: Suga has insulted me very seriously – he has made me look like a stupid kitten, trying to pounce on a ribbon tied to a string. A sincere man does not allow anyone to treat him like that. And so, if Suga’s crime goes unpunished, I am, firstly, not a policeman and, secondly, not a sincere man. Then who am I, if I may be allowed to ask?’

No, a ‘sincere man’ is what we call a ‘man of honour’, the titular counsellor guessed.

‘Do you want to kill him, then?’

Asagawa nodded.

‘Yes, very much. But I will not kill him. Because I am a policeman. Policemen do not kill criminals, they expose them and hand them over to the system of justice.’

‘Well said indeed. But how can it be done?’

‘I do not know. And that is the third reason why I have come to you. We Japanese are predictable, we always act according to the rules. This is both our strength and our weakness. I am a hereditary yoriki, which makes me doubly Japanese. From when I was very little, my father used to say to me: “Act in accordance with the law, and everything else is not your concern”. And that is how I have lived until now, I do not know how to live otherwise. You are made differently – that much is clear from the story of the hunchback’s escape. Your brain is not shackled by rules.’

That should probably not be taken as a compliment, especially coming from a Japanese, Erast Petrovich thought. But the inspector was certainly right about one thing: you should never allow anyone to make you look a fool, and that was exactly how the wily Suga had behaved with the leader of the consular investigation. A kitten, with a ribbon dangling in front of it on a string?

‘Well, we’ll see about that,’ Fandorin murmured in Russian.

‘I already know you well enough,’ Asagawa went on. ‘You will start thinking about the vice-intendant and you will definitely think of something. When you do – let me know. Only do not come to my station yourself. It is quite possible that one of my men…’ He heaved a sigh, without finishing the phrase. ‘Let us communicate with notes. If we need to meet, then in some quiet place, with no witnesses. For instance, in a hotel or a park. Is it a deal?’

The American phrase ‘Is it a deal’, combined with an outstretched hand, was not Asagawa’s style at all. He must have picked that up from Lockston, the titular counsellor surmised as he sealed the agreement with a handshake.

The inspector gave a low bow, swung round and disappeared through the door without saying another word.

It turned out that the Japanese had studied his Russian associate rather well. Erast Petrovich did indeed immediately start thinking about the vice-intendant of police, who had deliberately and cunningly brought about the death of a great man whom it was his professional duty to protect against his numerous enemies.

Fandorin did not think about how to expose the faithless traitor yet. First of all he had to understand what this individual who went by the name of Suga Kinsukeh was like. The best way to do this was to reconstruct the sequence of his actions, for surely it was actions that defined a personality most vividly and accurately of all.

And so, in order.

Suga had taken part in a conspiracy against the minister, and perhaps even led that conspiracy. The threads from the groups hunting the dictator all led back to him. On the evening of 8 May at Don Tsurumaki’s ball, the vice-intendant learns that the group led by the man with the withered arm has been discovered. He cannot conceal the alarming news from his superior – the deceit would certainly have been discovered. Instead, Suga acts paradoxically: he takes the initiative and tries to get Okubo to accept extremely tight security measures, and the general supervision of the investigation is quite naturally assigned to Suga, and not any other police official. Suga takes advantage of this to order the Yokohama precinct chief Asagawa to report in detail on all the investigative group’s plans – this also appears entirely natural. The vice-intendant tries with consistent obstinacy to protect his associates in the conspiracy from arrest, even taking risks for them. On 9 May he informs No-Face, the master of secret skills, about the evidence that the investigative group is holding. On 10 May he warns the man with the withered arm about the ambush. The situation is completely under control. He only has to hold on for a few more days, until the impatient Okubo rebels and sends his guards and the consular investigation and even the solicitous Suga to hell. Then the conspirators will be able to strike, following their carefully prepared plan, baiting the minister from all sides, like a bear.

Then, however, something unforeseen comes along – in the person of Titular Counsellor Fandorin. On 13 May the man with the withered arm and his group, together with their messenger, the hunchback, are caught in a trap. How does Suga act? Once again, in the face of danger, he seeks to ride the very crest of the wave, by taking personal command of the operation to seize this band of killers, so that not one of the dangerous witnesses will be taken prisoner. Suga’s greatest tour de force is the way in which he reverses the course of the game when it has already been half lost, by using the death of one group of assassins to lure the dictator within reach of the swords of another! A brilliant chess move, worthy of a grandmaster.

And what follows from all this?

That this is a brave and resolute man, with a quick, keen mind. And as far as his goals are concerned, he has probably acted out of conviction, confident that he was in the right.

What else could be added to this from Fandorin’s personal contact with the man? Exceptional administrative talent. And charm.

A positively ideal individual, Fandorin thought with a chuckle. If not for two small points: calculated cruelty and disloyalty. No matter how strongly you might believe that your ideas were right, to stab someone in the back after he had put his trust in you was simply vile.

Having composed a psychological portrait of the akunin, Erast Petrovich moved on to the next phase of his deliberations: how to expose such an enterprising and artful gentleman, who also effectively controlled the entire Japanese police force…

The severed cord of the wooden gag could only serve as proof for Asagawa and Fandorin. What was their testimony worth against the word of General Suga?

The reports that had disappeared from the case file? Also useless. Perhaps they had never been in the file at all? And even if they had, and some trace had been left in an office register somewhere, then how in hell’s name could they prove who had removed them?

Erast Petrovich pondered until midnight, sitting in an armchair and gazing at the red glow of his cigar. But precisely at midnight his servant came into the dark drawing room and handed him a note that had been delivered by the express municipal post.

The message on the sheet of paper was written in large letters in English: ‘Grand Hotel, Room 16. Now!’

Apparently Asagawa had not been wasting his time either. What could he have thought of? Had he found out something?

Fandorin was about to set out to the rendezvous immediately, but an unexpected obstacle arose in the person of Masa.

The Japanese valet was not going to let his master go out alone in the middle of the night. He stuck that idiotic bowler on his head and his umbrella under his arm, and the stubborn line of his jutting chin made it quite clear that he was going to stick close.

Explaining things to him without a common language was difficult, and Fandorin begrudged the time – after all, the note said ‘Now!’ And he couldn’t take this scarecrow with him to the hotel, either. Erast Petrovich was intending to slip into the hotel unnoticed, but with his wooden clogs Masa clattered like an entire squadron of soldiers.

Fandorin was obliged to employ cunning.

He pretended that he had changed his mind about going out. He took off his top hat and cloak and went back into his rooms. He even washed for the night.

But when Masa bowed and withdrew, the titular counsellor climbed on to the windowsill and jumped down into the garden. In the darkness he banged his knee and swore. How absurd to be harassed like this by his own servant!

The Grand Hotel was only a stone’s throw away.

Erast Petrovich walked along the deserted promenade and glanced into the foyer.

Luckily for him, the receptionist was dozing behind his counter.

A few silent steps and the nocturnal visitor was already on the stairs.

He ran up to the first floor.

Aha, there was room number 16. The key was sticking out of the lock – very thoughtful, he could enter without knocking, which could easily have attracted the unwelcome attention of some sleepless guest.

Fandorin half-opened the door and slipped inside.

There was a figure silhouetted against the window – but not Asagawa’s, it was much slimmer than that.

The figure darted towards the dumbstruck vice-consul, moving like a cat.

Long slim fingers clasped his face.

‘I have to be with you!’ sang that unforgettable, slightly husky voice.

The titular counsellor’s nostrils caught a tantalising whiff of the magical aroma of irises.

Sad thoughts fill the mind,

Pain fills the heart, and then comes

That sweet iris scent

LOVE’S CALL

Don’t give in, don’t give in! his mind signalled desperately to his crazily beating heart. But in defiance of reason, his arms embraced the lithe body of the one who had put the poor vice-consul’s soul through such torment.

O-Yumi tore at his collar – the buttons scattered on to the carpet. Covering his exposed neck with rapid kisses and gasping impatiently in her passion, she tugged Fandorin’s frock coat off his shoulders.

And then something happened that should have been called a genuine triumph of reason over unbridled, elemental passion.

Gathering all his willpower (a quality with which he was well endowed), the titular counsellor took hold of O-Yumi’s wrists and moved them away from him – gently, but uncompromisingly.

There were two reasons for this, both of them weighty.

Erast Petrovich hastily formulated the first of them in this way: What does she take me for, a boy? She disappears when she pleases, whistles for me when she pleases, and I come running? For all its vagueness, this reason was extremely important. In the skirmish between two worlds that is called ‘love’, there is always monarch and subject, victor and vanquished. And that was the crucial question being decided at that very moment.

The second reason lay outside love’s domain. There was a whiff of mystery here, and a very disturbing kind of mystery at that.

‘How did you find out that Asagawa and I had agreed to communicate by notes?’ Erast Petrovich asked sternly, trying to make out the expression on her face in the darkness. ‘And so quickly too. Have you been following us? Eavesdropping on us? Exactly what is your part in this whole business?’

She looked up at him without speaking or moving or trying to free herself, but the touch of her skin scorched the young man’s fingers. He suddenly recalled a definition from the grammar school physics textbook: ‘The electricity contained in a body gives that body a special property, the ability to attract another body…’

Fandorin shook his head and said firmly:

‘Last time you slipped away without explaining anything to me. But today you will have to answer my qu-questions. Speak, will you!’

And O-Yumi did speak.

‘Who is Asagawa?’ she asked, tearing her wrists free of his grasp – the electric circuit was broken. ‘Did you think someone else sent you the note? And you came straight away? All this time I have been thinking of nothing but him, and he… What a fool I am!’

He wanted to hold her back, but he could not. She ducked, slipped under his arm and dashed out into the corridor. The door slammed in Erast Petrovich’s face. He grabbed hold of the handle, but the key had already turned in the lock.

‘Wait!’ the titular counsellor called out in horror. ‘Don’t go!’

Catch her, stop her, apologise.

But no – he heard subdued sobbing in the corridor, and then the sound of light footsteps moving rapidly away.

His reason cringed and shrank, cowering back into the farthest corner of his mind. The only feelings in Fandorin’s heart now were passion, horror and despair. The most powerful of all was the feeling of irreparable loss. And what a loss! As if he had lost everything in the world and had nobody to blame for it but himself.

‘Damn! Damn! Damn!’ the miserable vice-consul exclaimed through clenched teeth, and he slammed his fist into the doorpost.

Curses on his police training! A woman of reckless passion, who lived by her heart – the most precious woman in the whole world – had thrown herself into his embraces. She must have taken great risks to do it, perhaps she could even have risked her life. And he had interrogated her: ‘Have you been following?’ – ‘Have you been eavesdropping?’ – ‘What’s your part in all this?’

Oh, God, how horrible, how shameful!

A groan burst from the titular counsellor’s chest. He staggered across to the bed (the very same bed on which heavenly bliss could have been his!) and collapsed on it face down.

For a while Erast Petrovich lay there without moving, but trembling all over. If he could have sobbed, then he certainly would have, but Fandorin had been denied that kind of emotional release for ever.

It had been a long time, a very long time, since he had felt such intense agitation – and it seemed so completely out of proportion with what had happened. As if his soul, fettered for so long by a shell of ice, had suddenly started aching as it revived, oozing thawing blood.

‘What is this? What is happening to me?’ he kept repeating at first – but his thoughts were about her, not himself.

When his numbed brain started recovering slightly, the next question, far more urgent, arose of its own accord.

‘What do I do now?’

Erast Petrovich jerked upright on the bed. The trembling had passed off, his heart was beating rapidly, but steadily.

What should he do? Find her. Immediately. Come what may.

Anything else would mean brain fever, heart failure, the death of his very soul.

The titular counsellor dashed to the locked door, ran his hands over it rapidly and forced his shoulder against it.

Although the door was solid, it could probably be broken out. But then there would be a crash and the hotel staff would come running. He pictured the headline in bold type in the next day’s Japan Gazette: RUSSIAN VICE-CONSUL FOUND DEBAUCHING IN GRAND HOTEL.

Erast Petrovich glanced out of the window. The first floor was high up, and in the darkness he couldn’t see where he was jumping. What if there was a heap of stones, or a rake forgotten by some gardener?

These misgivings, however, did not deter the crazed titular counsellor. Deciding that it was obviously his fate for the day to climb over windowsills and jump out into the night, he dangled by his hands from the window and then opened his fingers.

His was lucky with his landing – he came down on a lawn. He brushed off his soiled knees and looked around.

It was an enclosed garden, surrounded on all sides by a high fence. But a little thing like that did not bother Fandorin. He took a run up, grabbed hold of the top of the fence, pulled himself up nimbly and sat there.

He tried to jump down into the side street, but couldn’t. His coat-tail had snagged on a nail. He tugged and tugged, but it was no good. It was fine, strong fabric – the coat had been made in Paris.

‘RUSSIAN VICE-CONSUL STUCK ON TOP OF FENCE,’ Erast Petrovich muttered to himself. He tugged harder, and the frock coat tore with a sharp crack.

Oops-a-daisy!

In ten paces Fandorin was on the Bund, which was brightly lit by street lamps, even though it was deserted.

He had to call back home.

In order to find Bullcox’s address – that was one. And to collect his means of transport – that was two. It would take too long to walk there, and even if he compromised his principles, there was no way he could take a kuruma – he didn’t want any witnesses to this business.

Thank God, he managed to avoid the most serious obstacle, by the name of ‘Masa’: there was no light in the window of the small room where the meddlesome valet had his lodgings. He was asleep, the bandit.

The vice-consul tiptoed into the hallway and listened.

No, Masa wasn’t asleep. There were strange sounds coming from his room – either sobs or muffled groans.

Alarmed, Fandorin crept over to the Japanese-style sliding door. Masa did not care for European comfort and he had arranged his dwelling to suit his own taste: he had covered the floor with straw mats, removed the bed and bedside locker and hung bright-coloured pictures of ferocious bandits and elephantine sumo wrestlers on the walls.

On closer investigation, the sounds coming through the open door proved to be entirely unambiguous, and in addition, the titular counsellor discovered two pairs of sandals on the floor: one larger pair and one smaller pair.

That made the vice-consul feel even more bitter. He heaved a sigh and consoled himself: Well, let him. At least he won’t latch on to me.

Lying on the small table in the drawing room was a useful brochure entitled ‘Alphabetical List of Yokohama Residents for the Year 1878’. By the light of a match, it took Erast Petrovich only a moment to locate the address of ‘His Right Honourable A.-F.-C. Bullcox, Senior Adviser to the Imperial Government’ – 129, The Bluff. And there was a plan of the Settlement on the table too. House number 129 was located at the very edge of the fashionable district, at the foot of Hara Hill. Erast Petrovich lit another match and ran a pencil along the route from the consulate to his destination. He whispered, committing it to memory:

‘Across Yatobashi Bridge, past the customs post, past Yatozaka Street on the right, through the Hatacho Qu-quarter, then take the second turn to the left…’

He put on the broad-brimmed hat he had worn for taking turns around the deck during the evenings of his long voyage. And he swathed himself in a black cloak.

His carried his means of transport – the tricycle – out on to the porch very carefully, but even so, at the very last moment he caught the large wheel on the door handle. The doorbell trilled treacherously, but there was no catching Fandorin now.

He pulled the hat down over his eyes, leapt up on to the saddle at a run and started pressing hard on the pedals.

The moon was shining brightly in the sky – as round and buttery as the lucky lover Masa’s face.

On the promenade the titular counsellor encountered only two living souls: a French sailor wrapped in the arms of a Japanese tart. The sailor opened his mouth and pushed his beret with a pom-pom to the back of his head: the Japanese girl squealed.

And with good reason. Someone black, in a flapping cloak, came hurtling at the couple out of the darkness, then went rustling by on rubber tyres and instantly dissolved into the gloom.

At night the Bluff, with its Gothic bell towers, dignified villas and neatly manicured lawns, seemed unreal, like some enchanted little town that had been spirited away from Old Mother Europe at the behest of some capricious wizard and dumped somewhere at the very end of the world.

Here there were no tipsy sailors or women of easy virtue, everything was sleeping, and the only sound was the gentle pealing of the chimes in the clock tower.

The titular counsellor burst into this Victorian paradise in a monstrously indecent fashion. His ‘Royal Crescent’ tricycle startled a pack of homeless dogs sleeping peacefully on the bridge. In the first second or so they scattered, squealing, but, emboldened by seeing the monster of the night fleeing from them, they set off in pursuit, barking loudly.

And there was nothing that could be done about it.

Erast Petrovich waved his arm at them and even kicked one of them with the toe of his low boot, but the dratted curs simply wouldn’t leave him alone – they chased after the vice-consul, sticking to his heels and barking even more loudly.

He pressed harder on the pedals, which was not easy, because the street ran uphill, but Fandorin had muscles of steel and, after another couple of minutes in pursuit, the dogs started falling behind.

The young man arrived at house number 129 soaked in sweat. However, he was not feeling tired at all – he cared nothing for any trials or tribulations now.

The right honourable patron of the most precious woman in all the world resided in a two-storey mansion of red brick, constructed in accordance with the canons of the glorious Georgian style. Despite the late hour, the house was not sleeping – the windows were bright both downstairs and upstairs.

As he studied the local terrain, Erast Petrovich was surprised to realise that he had been here before. Nearby he could see tall railings with fancy lacework gates and, beyond them, a familiar white palazzo with columns – Don Tsurumaki’s estate, where Erast Petrovich had seen O-Yumi for the first time.

Bullcox’s domain was both smaller and less grandiose than his neighbour’s – and that was very opportune: to scale the ten-foot-high railings of the nouveau-riche Japanese magnate’s estate would have required a ladder, while hopping over the Englishman’s wooden fence was no problem at all.

Without pausing long for thought, Erast Petrovich hopped over. But he had barely even taken a few steps before he saw three swift shadows hurtling towards him across the lawn – they were huge, silent mastiffs, with eyes that glinted an ominous phosphorus-green in the moonlight.

He was obliged to beat a rapid retreat to the fence, and he only just made it in time.

Perched on the narrow top with his feet pulled up, gazing at those gaping jaws, the titular counsellor instantly conceived the appropriate headline for this scene: HAPLESS LOVER CHASED BY MASTIFFS.

What a disgrace, what puerile tomfoolery, the vice-consul told himself, but he didn’t come to his senses, he merely bit his lip – he was so furious at his own helplessness.

O-Yumi was so very close, behind one of those windows, but what could he do about these damned dogs?

The titular counsellor was fond of dogs, he respected them, but right now he could have shot these accursed English brutes with his trusty Herstal, without the slightest compunction. Ah, why had progress not yet invented silent gunpowder?

The mastiffs didn’t budge from the spot. They gazed upwards, scraping their clawed feet on the wooden boards. They didn’t actually bark – these aristocratic canines had been well trained – but they growled.

Erast Petrovich suddenly heard rollicking plebeian barking from the end of the street. Looking round, he saw his recent acquaintances – the homeless dogs from the Yatobashi Bridge. Surely they couldn’t have followed my scent, he thought to himself, but then he saw that the mongrels were chasing after a running man.

The man was waving his arm about – there was a pitiful yelp. He swung his arm in the other direction – another yelp, and the pack dropped back.

Masa, it was Fandorin’s faithful vassal, Masa! He had a wooden club in his hand, with another, identical, one attached to it by a chain. Fandorin already knew that this unprepossessing but effective weapon was called a nunchaku, and Masa could handle it very well.

The valet ran up and bowed to his master sitting on the fence.

‘How did you find me?’ Erast Petrovich asked, and tried to say the same thing in Japanese: Do-o… vatasi… sagasu?

His Japanese lessons had not been a waste of time – Masa understood! He took a sheet of paper, folded into four, out of his pocket, and opened it out.

Ah yes, the plan of the Settlement, with a pencil line leading from the consulate to house number 129.

‘This is not work. Sigoto iie. Go, go,’ said the titular counsellor, waving his hand at Masa. ‘There’s no danger, do you understand? Kiken – iie. Wakaru?’

‘Wakarimas,’ the servant said with a bow. ‘Mochiron wakarimas. O-Yumisan.’

Erast Petrovich was so surprised that he swayed and almost went crashing down off the fence – on the wrong side. Somehow he recovered his balance. Oh, servants, servants! It was an old truism that they knew more far more about their masters than the masters suspected. But how? Where from?

‘How d-do you know? Do-o wakaru?’

The Japanese folded his short-fingered hands together and pressed them to his cheek – as if he were sleeping. He murmured:

‘O-Yumi, O-Yumi… Darring…’

Darring?

Had he really been repeating her name in his sleep?

The titular counsellor lowered his head, sorely oppressed by a feeling of humiliation. But Masa jumped up and glanced over the fence. Having ascertained the reason for the vice-consul’s strange position, he started turning his head left and right.

‘Hai,’ he said. ‘Shosho o-machi kudasai.’

He ran over to the pack of dogs that was barking feebly at the fence of the next house. He picked up one canine, turned it over, sniffed it and tossed it away. He did the same with another. But he kept hold of the third one, tucked it under his arm and walked back to his master. The mongrels bore this high-handed treatment in silence – they clearly respected strength: only the captive whined pitifully.

‘What do you want the dog for?’

Masa somehow managed to climb up on to the fence – about ten paces away from Fandorin – without releasing his live booty.

He swung his legs over, jumped down and dashed for the gate as fast as his legs would carry him. The mastiffs darted after the little titch, ready to tear him to pieces. But the nimble-footed valet opened the latch and flung the mongrel on the ground. It bolted out into the street with a squeal, and then a genuine miracle took place – instead of mauling the stranger, the guard dogs bolted after the mongrel.

It shot away from them, working its little legs furiously. The mastiffs ran after it in a pack, with their heads in line.

Ah, it’s a bitch in heat, Fandorin realised. Well done, Masa, brilliant!

The pack also set off at a rush after the terrifying suitors, but maintained a respectful distance. Five seconds later there wasn’t a single quadruped left in the street.

Masa walked out through the gate and bowed ceremoniously, gesturing to invite Erast Petrovich through on to the lawn. The vice-consul tossed his cloak into his servant’s arms, handed him the hat and went in – not over the fence, but in the conventional manner – through the gate.

In the distance he could hear the loud barking and lingering lovesick howls of the local canine community.

All things forgotten,

Careering along pell-mell,

Answering love’s call

THE GARDEN GATE

Erast Petrovich ran across the broad lawn, brightly illuminated by the moonlight. He walked round the house – if he was going to climb in through a window, it would be best to do it at the back, so that he would not be seen by some chance passer-by.

Behind the house he found a garden wrapped in dense shade – just what he needed.

Going up on tiptoe, the adventurer glanced into the first window after the corner. He saw a spacious room – a dining room or drawing room. A white tablecloth, candles burning out, the remains of a supper served for two.

His heart suddenly ached.

So, she dined with one and set out for a tryst with another? Or, even better, she returned from her dramatic rendezvous and calmly sat down to a meal with her ginger-haired patron? Women truly were mysterious creatures. After two more windows, the next room began – the study.

The windows here were slightly open and Fandorin could hear a man’s voice speaking, so he acted with caution and first listened to ascertain where the speaker was.

‘… will be reprimanded, but his superior will bear the greater part of the guilt – he will be obliged to resign in disgrace…’ said the voice in the study.

The words were spoken in English, but with a distinct Japanese accent, so it was not Bullcox.

However, the senior adviser was also there.

‘And our friend will occupy the vacancy?’ he asked.

Two men, Fandorin decided. The Japanese is sitting in the far right corner, and Bullcox is in the centre, with his back to the window.

The titular counsellor lifted himself up slowly, inch by inch, and examined the interior of the room.

Shelves of books, a desk, a fireplace with no fire.

The important thing was that O-Yumi was not here. Two men. He could see his rival’s fiery locks sticking up from behind the back of one armchair. The other armchair was occupied by a dandy with a gleaming parting in his hair and a pearl glowing in his silk tie. The minuscule man crossed one leg elegantly over the other and swayed his lacquered shoe.

‘Not this very moment,’ he said with a restrained smile. ‘In a week’s time.’

Ah, I know you, my good sir, thought Erast Petrovich, narrowing his eyes. I saw you at the ball. Prince… What was it that Doronin called you?

‘Well now, Onokoji, that is very Japanese,’ the Right Honourable said with a chuckle. ‘To reprimand someone, and reward him a week later with promotion.’

Yes, yes, Fandorin remembered, he’s Prince Onokoji, the former daimyo – ruler of an appanage principality – now a high society lion and arbiter of fashion.

‘This, my dear Algernon, is not a reward, he is merely occupying a position that has fallen vacant. But he will receive a reward, for doing the job so neatly. He will be given the suburban estate of Takarazaka. Ah, what plum trees there are there! What ponds!’

‘Yes, it’s a glorious spot. A hundred thousand, probably.’

‘At least two hundred, I assure you!’

Erast Petrovich did not look in the window – he was not interested. He tried to think where O-Yumi might be.

On the ground floor there were another two windows that were dark, but Bullcox was hardly likely to have accommodated his mistress next to his study. So where were her chambers, then? At the front of the house? Or on the first floor?

‘All right, then,’ he heard the Briton say. ‘But what about Prince Arisugawa’s letter? Have you been able to get hold of a copy?’

‘My man is greedy, but we simply can’t manage without him.’

‘Listen, I believe I gave you five hundred pounds!’

‘But I need a thousand.’

The vice-consul frowned. Vsevolod Vitalievich had said that the prince lived on Don Tsurumaki’s charity, but apparently he felt quite free to earn some subsidiary income. And Bullcox was a fine one, too – paying for court rumours and stolen letters. But then, that was his job as a spy.

No, the Englishman would probably not accommodate his native mistress on the front faзade of the house – after all, he was an official dignitary. So her window was probably on the back wall…

The wrangling in the study continued.

‘Onokoji, I’m not a milch cow.’

‘And in addition, for the same sum, you could have a little list from Her Majesty’s diary,’ the prince said ingratiatingly. ‘One of the ladies-in-waiting is my cousin, and she owes me many favours.’

Bullcox snorted.

‘Worthless. Some womanish nonsense or other.’

‘Very far indeed from nonsense. Her Majesty is in the habit of noting down her conversations with His Majesty…’

There’s no point in my listening to all these abominations, Fandorin told himself. I’m not a spy, thank God. But if some servant or other sees me, I’ll cut an even finer figure than these two: ‘RUSSIAN VICE-CONSUL CAUGHT EAVESDROPPING’.

He stole along the wall to a drainpipe and tugged on it cautiously, to see whether it was firm. The titular counsellor already had some experience in climbing drainpipes from his previous, non-diplomatic life.

His foot was already poised on the lower rim of brick, but his reason still attempted to resist. You are behaving like a madman, like a thoroughly contemptible, irresponsible individual, his reason told him. Come to your senses! Get a grip on yourself!

‘It’s true,’ Erast Petrovich replied abjectly, ‘I have gone completely gaga.’ But his contrition did not make him abandon his insane plan, it did not even slow down his movements.

The diplomat scrambled up nimbly to the first floor, propped one foot on a ledge and reached out for the nearest window. He clutched at the frame with his fingers and crept closer, taking tiny little steps. His frock coat was probably covered in dust, but that did not concern Fandorin just at the moment.

He had a far worse problem – the dark window refused to open. It was latched shut, and it was impossible for him to reach the small upper section.

Break it? He couldn’t, it would bring the entire household running…

The diamond on the titular counsellor’s finger – a farewell gift from the lady responsible for his missing the steamship from Calcutta – glinted cunningly.

If Erast Petrovich had only been in a normal, balanced state of mind, he would undoubtedly have felt ashamed of the very idea – how could he use a present from one woman to help him reach another! But his fevered brain whispered to him that diamond cuts glass. And the young man promised his conscience that he would take the ring off and never put it back on again for as long as he lived.

Fandorin did not know exactly how diamond was used for cutting. He took a firm grip on the ring and scored a decisive line. There was disgusting scraping sound, and a scratch appeared on the glass.

The titular counsellor pursed his lips stubbornly and prepared to apply greater strength.

He pressed as hard as he could – and the window frame suddenly yielded.

For just a moment Erast Petrovich imagined that this was the result of his efforts, but O-Yumi was standing in the dark rectangle that had opened up in front of him. She looked at the vice-consul with laughing eyes that reflected two tiny little moons.

‘You have overcome all the obstacles and deserve a little help,’ she whispered. ‘Only, for God’s sake, don’t fall off. That would be stupid now.’ And in an absolutely unromantic but extremely practical manner, she grabbed hold of his collar.

‘I came to tell you that I have also been thinking about you for the last two days,’ said Fandorin.

The idiotic English language has no intimate form of the second person pronoun, it’s always just ‘you’, whatever the relationship might be, but he decided that from this moment on they were on intimate terms.

‘Is that all you came for?’ she asked with a smile, holding him by the shoulders.

‘Yes.’

‘Good. I believe you. You can go back now.’

Erast Petrovich did not feel like going back.

He thought for a moment and said:

‘Let me in.’

O-Yumi glanced behind her.

‘For one minute. No longer.’

Fandorin didn’t try to argue.

He clambered over the windowsill (how many times had he already done that tonight?) and reached his arms out for her, but O-Yumi backed away.

‘Oh no. Or a minute won’t be long enough.’

The vice-consul hid his hands behind his back, but he declared:

‘I want to take you with me!’

She shook her head and her smile faded away.

‘Why? Do you love him?’ he asked in a trembling voice.

‘Not any more.’

‘Th-then why?’

She glanced behind her again – apparently at the door. Erast Petrovich himself had not looked round even once, he hadn’t even noticed what room this was – a boudoir or a dressing room. To tear his gaze away from O-Yumi’s face for even a second seemed blasphemous to him.

‘Go quickly. Please,’ she said nervously. ‘If he sees you here, he’ll kill you.’

Fandorin shrugged one shoulder nonchalantly.

‘He won’t kill me. Europeans don’t do that. He’ll challenge me to a d-duel.’

Then she started pushing him towards the window with her fists.

‘He won’t challenge you. You don’t know this man. He will definitely kill you. If not today, then tomorrow or the next day. And not with his own hands.’

‘Let him,’ Fandorin murmured, not listening, and tried to pull her towards him. ‘I’m not afraid of him.’

‘… But before that he’ll kill me. It will be easy for him to do that – like swatting a moth. Go. I’ll come to you. As soon as I can…’

But he didn’t let her out of his arms. He pressed his lips against her little mouth and started trembling, only coming to his senses when she whispered:

‘Do you want me to be killed?’

He staggered back, gritted his teeth and jumped up on to the windowsill. He would probably have jumped down just as lightly, but O-Yumi suddenly called out:

‘No, wait!’ – and she held out her arms.

They dashed to each other as precipitately and inexorably as two trains that a fatal chance has set on the same line, hurtling towards each other. What follows is obvious enough: a shattering impact, billows of smoke and flashes of flame, everything thrown head over heels and topsy-turvy, and God only knows who will be left alive in this bacchanalian orgy of fire.

The lovers clung tightly to each other. Their fingers did not caress, they tore, their mouths did not kiss, they bit.

They fell on the floor, and this time there was no heavenly music, no art – only growling, the sound of clothes tearing, the taste of blood on lips.

Suddenly a small but strong hand pressed against Fandorin’s chest and pushed him away.

A whisper right in his ear.

‘Run!’

He raised his head and glanced at the door with misty eyes. He heard footsteps and absentminded whistling. Someone was coming, moving up from below – no doubt climbing the stairs.

‘No!’ groaned Erast Petrovich. ‘Let him come! I don’t care!’

But she was no longer there beside him – she was standing up, rapidly straightening her dishevelled nightgown.

She said:

‘You’ll get me killed!’

He tumbled over the windowsill, not in the least concerned about how he would fall, although, incredibly enough, he made a better landing than he had earlier on, at the Grand Hotel, and didn’t hurt himself at all.

His frock coat then came flying out of the window after him, followed by his left shoe – the titular counsellor hadn’t even noticed when he lost it.

He buttoned himself up somehow or other and tucked in his shirt, listening to hear what was happening now up above him.

But there was a loud slam as someone closed the window; after that there were no more sounds.

Erast Petrovich walked round the side of the house and started off across the lawn in the reverse direction – Masa was waiting there, outside the open gate. The vice-consul took only ten steps and then froze as three long, low shadows came tearing in from the street.

The mastiffs!

They had either concluded their male business or, like the ill-fated titular counsellor, withdrawn disappointed, but either way the dogs were back, and they had cut off his only line of retreat.

Fandorin swung round and dashed back into the garden, hurtling along, unable to make out the path, with branches lashing at his face.

The damned dogs were running a lot faster, and their snuffling was getting closer and closer.

The garden came to an end, and there was a fence of iron ahead. Too high to scramble over. And there was nothing to get a grip on.

Erast Petrovich swung round and thrust one hand into the holster behind his back to take out his Herstal, but he couldn’t fire – it would rouse the entire house.

The first mastiff growled, preparing to spring.

‘RUSSIAN VICE-CONSUL TORN TO PIECES’ – the headline flashed through the doomed man’s mind. He put his hands over his face and throat, and instinctively pushed his back against the fence. Suddenly there was a strange metallic clang, the fence gave way, and the titular counsellor fell, sprawling flat on his back.

When evening time comes,

In the mystical silence

The garden gate creaks

THE SCIENCE OF JOJUTSU

Still not understanding what had happened, Erast Petrovich rose to a squatting position, ready for the hopeless skirmish with three bloodthirsty monsters, but the amazing fence (no, gate!) slammed shut with a squeak of springs.

On the other side a heavy carcass slammed into the iron bars at full pelt. He heard an angry yelp and snarling. Three pairs of furiously glinting eyes gazed at their inaccessible prey.

‘Not your day, folks!’ shouted the titular counsellor, whose English speech had clearly been vulgarised somewhat by associating with Sergeant Lockston.

He drew in a deep breath, filling his lungs with air, and breathed out again, trying to calm his heartbeat. He looked around: who had opened the gate that saved him?

There was not a soul to be seen.

He saw Don Tsurumaki’s palace in the distance and, much closer, a pond overgrown with water lilies, glinting in the moonlight – it was inexpressibly beautiful, with a tiny island, little toy bridges and spiky rushes growing along its banks. He could hear the melancholy croaking of frogs from that direction. The black surface seemed to be embroidered with silver threads – the reflections of the stars.

The vice-consul thought that the dark pavilion by the water’s edge looked particularly fine, with the edges of its roof turned up like wings, as if it were preparing to take flight. A weather vane in the form of a fantastic bird crowned a weightless tower.

Erast Petrovich set off along the bank of the pond, gazing around. He was still stupefied. What kind of miracles were these? Someone must have opened the gate, and then closed it. Someone had rescued the nocturnal adventurer from certain death.

Not until the pavilion and the pond had been left behind did Fandorin think to look at the palace.

An elegant building, constructed in the style of the mansions on the Champs Йlysйes, with a terrace that faced in the direction of the little lake, and on the first floor someone standing behind the elegant balustrade was waving to the uninvited visitor – someone in a long robe and a fez with a tassel.

Erast Petrovich recognised him from the fez: it was the owner of the estate in person. Seeing that he had finally been spotted, Don Tsurumaki gestured invitingly in welcome.

There was nothing to be done. Fandorin could hardly take to his heels. Cursing under his breath, the titular counsellor bowed politely and set off towards the steps of the porch. His supple mind started functioning again, trying to invent some at least vaguely credible explanation for his scandalous behaviour.

‘Welcome, young assistant of my friend Doronin!’ a rich male voice said above his head. ‘The door is open. Come in and join me up here!’

‘Th-thank you,’ Fandorin replied drearily.

Erast Petrovich walked through the dark hallway, where the orchestra had thundered and skirts had been lifted above kicking legs in the cancan during the Bachelors’ Ball, and then up the stairs, as if he were mounting the scaffold.

What should he do? Repent? Lie? What good would it do if he did lie? The Russian vice-consul, fleeing from the British agent’s garden. The situation was quite unambiguous: one spy spying on another…

But Fandorin had still not realised just how wretched his situation really was.

Walking out on to the stone terrace, he saw a table laid with a magnificent spread of various kinds of ham, salami, fruits, cakes and sweets, as well as an array of sweet liqueurs; candles protruded from candelabra, but they had not been lit – evidently because of the bright moon. But the table was not the problem – there was a powerful telescope on an iron stand beside the balustrade, and its seeing eye was not pointed up at the heavens, but towards Bullcox’s house!

Had Don Tsurumaki seen or hadn’t he? Erast Petrovich froze on the spot when the thought hit him. But no, the real point was: What exactly had he seen – just a man running away through the garden or…

‘Well, don’t just stand there!’ said the Don, puffing on his black briar pipe as he moved towards Fandorin. ‘Would you like something to eat? I love eating alone at night. With no forks and no chopsticks – with just my bare hands.’ He held up his palms, gleaming with grease and smeared with chocolate. ‘Sheer piggishness, of course, but so help me, it’s my favourite time of the day. I regale my soul with the sight of the stars and my body with all sorts of delicacies. Take a quail, they were still soaring over the meadow this morning. And there are oysters, absolutely fresh. Would you like some?’

The fat man spoke with such mouth-watering enthusiasm that Erast immediately realised just how hungry he was, and wanted the quail and the oysters. But he had to find out a few things first.

Since his host was in no hurry to interrogate him, the vice-consul decided to seize the initiative.

‘Tell me, why do you need a gate leading into the next garden?’ he asked, feverishly trying to think of how to approach the most important question.

‘Algernon and I are friends…’ (the name came out as ‘Arudzenon’ on his Japanese lips) ‘… we pay each other neighbourly calls, with no formalities. It’s more convenient to go through the garden than round by the street.’

And it’s also more convenient for your lodger to sell his secrets, the vice-consul thought, but, naturally, he didn’t tell tales on Prince Onokoji. Fandorin recalled that, unlike the other guests, Bullcox and his consort had arrived at the Bachelors’ Ball on foot, and they had appeared from somewhere off to one side, not from the direction of the front gates. So they must have used that gate…

‘But… but how did you open it?’ Erast Petrovich asked, still avoiding the most important point.

The Don became excited.

‘O-oh, I have everything here running on electric power. I’m a great admirer of that remarkable invention! Here, look.’

He took the vice-consul by the elbow and half-led, half-dragged him to a kind of lectern standing beside the telescope. Erast Petrovich saw a bundle of wires running down to the floor and disappearing into a covered channel. On the lectern itself there were several rows of small, gleaming switches. Tsurumaki clicked one of them and the palace came to life, with yellowish-white light streaming out of all its windows. He clicked the switch again, and the house went dark.

‘And this here is our gate. Look through the telescope, the telescope.’

Fandorin pressed his eye to the end of the tube and saw the metal railings very close up, only an arm’s length away, with three canine silhouettes beyond them. A green spark glinted once again in a bulging eye. What patient brutes they were.

‘One, two!’ the Don exclaimed, and the gate swung open with a lively jerk, as if it were alive. One of the dogs bounded forward.

‘Three, four!’

The gate slammed shut again just as quickly, and the mastiff was flung back into the garden. And serve the son of a bitch right!

Pretending to adjust the focus, Erast Petrovich raised the aim of the telescope slightly. First the wall of the house appeared in the circle of vision, and then the drainpipe, and then the window – and all very close indeed.

‘That’s enough, enough!’ said the lover of electricity, tugging impatiently on his sleeve. ‘Now I’ll show you something that will really make you gasp. Nobody has seen it yet, I’m saving it for a big social event… The pond, watch the pond!’

Click! An emerald glow appeared above the black, shimmering patch of water as the tiny island was flooded with light from electric lamps, and the tiny stone pagoda standing on it was also lit up – but pink, not green.

‘European science!’ the millionaire exclaimed, with his eyes glittering. ‘The wires are laid along the bottom, in a special telegraph cable. And the bulbs have coloured glass, that’s the whole trick. How do you like that?’

‘Astounding!’ Fandorin exclaimed with genuine delight. ‘You’re a genuine inventor.’

‘Oh no, I’m not an inventor. Making discoveries is what you gaijins are good at. The Japanese are not inventors, our element is Order, but pioneers are always children of Chaos. But we are really clever at finding good uses for others’ inventions, and you can never keep up with us there. Give us time, Mr Fandorin: we’ll learn all your tricks, and then we’ll show you how clumsily you have used them.’

The Don laughed, and the titular counsellor thought: It doesn’t look to me as if your element is Order.

‘Are you interested in astronomy?’ Erast Petrovich enquired, clearing his throat and nodding at the telescope.

Tsurumaki understood the hidden meaning of the question quite clearly. His laughter rumbled even more freely and his fat cheeks crept upwards, transforming his jolly, sparkling eyes into two narrow slits.

‘Yes, astronomy too. But sometimes there are very curious things to be seen on the ground as well!’

He slapped his visitor on the shoulder in familiar fashion, choked on tobacco smoke and doubled over in laughter.

Erast Petrovich flushed bright red – he had seen it, he had seen everything! But what could Fandorin say now?

‘Bravo, Fandorin-san, bravo!’ said the joker, brushing away his tears. ‘Here’s my hand!’

The vice-consul shook the proffered hand very feebly and asked morosely:

‘What are you so pleased about?’

‘The fact that good old Algernon is a… what’s the English word, now… a cuckord!’

Erast Petrovich did not immediately realise that the word intended was ‘cuckold’. He asked with emphatic coolness, in order to bring the conversation back within the bounds of propriety:

‘But you said he was your f-friend.’

‘Of course he is! As far as a native princeling can be a white sahib’s friend.’ The Don’s sanguine features dissolved into a smile that was no longer jolly, but frankly spiteful. ‘Do you really not know, my dear Fandorin-san, that one of the greatest of pleasures is the feeling of secret superiority over someone who thinks he is superior to you? You have given me a wonderful present. Now every time I look at Bullcox’s snobbish features, I shall remember your magnificent leap from the window and the clothes flying through the air, and inside I shall be roaring with laughter. Thank you very, very much for that!’

He tried to shake hands again, but this time the dumbfounded vice-consul hid his hand behind his back.

‘Are you offended? You shouldn’t be. I have a proposal for you, a secret Japano-Russian alliance, directed against British imperialism.’ The Don winked. ‘And I am offering you an excellent base for undermining English influence. You see the little pavilion by the water? A fine, secluded spot. I shall give you a key to the gates, and you will be able to get in at any time of the day or night. And I shall present the lovely O-Yumi with a key to the gate in the garden. Make yourselves at home. Feast on love. Only one condition: don’t turn out the lamp and don’t close the curtains on this side. Consider that the rental charge for the premises… Oh, just look at his eyes flash! Oh! I’m joking, I’m joking!’

He burst into laughter again, but to Erast Petrovich these playful jokes about the exalted and fateful power that had bound him and O-Yumi together seemed like unforgivable blasphemy.

‘I will ask you never to speak about this l-lady and my relationship with her in that tone again…’ he began furiously, in a hissing whisper.

‘You’re in love!’ Tsurumaki interrupted with a laugh. ‘Head over heels! Oh, you unfortunate victim of jojutsu!’

It is quite impossible to be seriously angry with a man who abandons himself to such good-natured merriment.

‘What has jujitsu got to do with it?’ Erast Petrovich asked in amazement, thinking that Tsurumaki meant the Japanese fighting art that he was studying with his valet.

‘Not JUjitsu, but jOjutsu! The art of amorous passion. An art of which top-flight courtesans have complete mastery.’ The bon vivant’s gaze turned thoughtful. ‘I too was once snared in the nets of a mistress of jojutsu. Not for long, only a month and a half. Her love cost me thirty thousand yen – all that I had in those days. Afterwards I had to start my business all over again, but I don’t regret it – it is one of the best memories of my life!’

‘You’re mistaken, my dear fellow,’ said Fandorin, smiling condescendingly. ‘Your jojutsu has nothing to do with it. I have not paid for love.’

‘It is not always paid for with money,’ said the Don, scratching his beard and raising his thick eyebrows in surprise. ‘O-Yumi not using jojutsu? That would be strange. Let’s check. Of course, I don’t know all the subtle points of this intricate art, but I remember a few things that I experienced for myself. The initial stage is called “soyokadzeh”. How can I translate that, now… “The breath of wind” – that’s pretty close. The goal is to attract the attention of the chosen target. To do this the mistress of the art gives the man a chance to show himself in the best possible light. It’s a well-known fact that a man loves those who he believes should admire him more than anyone else. If a man prides himself on his perspicacity, the courtesan will arrange things so that he appears before her in all his intellectual brilliance. If he is brave, she will give him a chance to show that he is a genuine hero. Fake bandits can be hired, so that the target can defend a beautiful stranger against them. Or he might suddenly see a beautiful woman fall into the water from a capsized boat. The most audacious courtesans will even risk being maimed by conspiring with a riksha or a coach driver. Imagine a carriage that has run out of control, and a delightful woman sitting in it, screaming pitifully. How can you possibly not go dashing to assist her? At the first stage of jojutsu it is very important, firstly, for the target to feel that he is a protector and, secondly, for him to be inspired with lust for the huntress, not merely compassion. To achieve that she is certain to expose, as if by accident, the most seductive part of her body: a shoulder, a foot, a breast, it varies from one individual to another.’

At first Fandorin listened to this story with a scornful smile. Then, when he heard the words about a carriage running out of control, he shuddered. But he immediately told himself: No, no, it’s impossible, it’s just coincidence. But what about the torn dress, and the alabaster shoulder with the scarlet scratch? a satanic little voice whispered.

Nonsense, the titular counsellor thought with a shake of his head. It really was absurd.

‘And what does the second stage consist of?’ he enquired ironically.

Tsurumaki took a bite out of a large, luscious red apple and continued with his mouth full.

‘It’s called “Two on an Island”. A very subtle moment. The point is to maintain distance, while demonstrating that there is some special kind of connection between the courtesan and the target – they are bound together by the invisible threads of fate. For this purpose all means are good: the mistress of the art sets spies on the target, gathers information about him, and then many of the ladies also have a good command of ninso – that’s like your physiognomics, only far, far more subtle.’

The vice-consul turned cold, but the jolly narrator crunched on his apple and implacably drove needle after needle into his poor suffering heart.

‘I think they call the third stage “The Scent of a Peach”. The target has to be allowed to inhale the seductive aroma of the fruit, but the fruit is still hanging high up on the branch and no one knows whose hands it will fall into. This is to show that the creature provoking his desire is a living, passionate woman, not some incorporeal angel, and she will have to be fought for. At this stage a rival is certain to appear, and a serious one at that.’

How she rode past the consulate with Bullcox, leaning her head on his shoulder! Erast Petrovich recalled. And she didn’t even glance in my direction, although I was sitting right there in the window…

Oh no, no, no!

The Don squinted up at the moon.

‘How does it continue now? Ah yes, but of course! The “Typhoon” stage. Immediately after the despair (“alas and alack, she will never be mine!”), the courtesan arranges a lover’s tryst, completely without any warning. Absolutely breathtaking, employing all the secret arts of the bedroom, but not too long. The target must get the real taste of pleasure, but not be sated. After that comes the “Ayatsuri” stage. Separation resulting from insuperable difficulties of some kind. Ayatsuri is the way a puppet master controls a puppet in the theatre. Have you ever been to a bunraku performance? You must go, you have nothing like it in Europe. Our puppets are just like real people, and…’

‘Stop!’ Fandorin cried out, feeling that he could not take any more. ‘For God’s sake, stop t-talking!’

Crushed, Erast Petrovich brushed a drop of icy sweat off his forehead and forced himself to speak.

‘I see now that you are right… And I… I am grateful to you. If not for you I really would have lost my reason completely… In fact, I have already… But no more, I will not be a puppet in her hands any longer!’

‘Ah, you are wrong there,’ Tsurumaki said disapprovingly. ‘You still have the very best stage to come: “The Bow String”. In your case the title is doubly piquant,’ he said with a smile. ‘“Bow” in Japanese is yumi.’

‘I know,’ Fandorin said with a nod, looking off to one side. A plan was gradually taking shape in the demoralised vice-consul’s head.

‘This is the stage of total happiness, when both soul and body attain the very summit of bliss and reverberate with delight, like a taut bowstring. In order to highlight the sweetness even more, the mistress of the art adds just a little bitterness – you will certainly never know…’

‘I tell you what,’ Erast Petrovich interrupted, staring sombrely into the eyes of the man who had saved him from insanity, but broken his heart. ‘That’s enough about jojutsu. I’m not interested in that. Give me your key, I’ll take it from you for one day. And give… give her the other key, from the gate in the garden. Tell her that I shall be waiting for her in the pavilion, starting from midnight. But not a word about this conversation of ours. Do you promise?’

‘You won’t kill her, will you?’ the Don asked cautiously. ‘I mean, it doesn’t really matter to me, but I wouldn’t like it to be on my estate… And then Algernon would resent it. And he’s not the kind of man I’d like to quarrel with…’

‘I won’t do her any harm. On m-my word of honour.’

It took Fandorin an agonisingly long time to walk to the gates. Every step cost him an effort.

‘Ah, jojutsu?’ he whispered. ‘So they call it jojutsu, do they?’

A host of students,

But such scanty progress made

In passion’s science

A ONE-HANDED CLAP

The day that arrived after this insane night was like nothing on earth. In defiance of the laws of nature, it did not move from morning to evening at a uniform rate, but in jerks and bounds. The hands of the clock either stuck fast or leapt over several divisions all at once. However, when the mechanism began striking either eleven or twelve, Erast Petrovich seemed to start thinking seriously and continuously for the first time; one mood was displaced by another, several times his thoughts completely reversed their direction, and tiresome old Big Ben carried on chiming ‘bong-bong-bong’ and simply would not shut up.

The vice-consul did not show his face in the consular office – he was afraid he would not be able to maintain a conversation with his colleagues. He didn’t eat, he didn’t drink, and he didn’t lie down or sit down even for a minute, he just strode round and round his room. Sometimes he would start talking to himself in a furious whisper, then he would fall silent again. On several occasions his alarmed valet peeped through the crack of the door and sighed loudly, rattling the tray with his master’s cold breakfast, but Fandorin neither saw nor heard anything.

To go or not to go, that was the question that the young man was simply unable to answer.

Or, to be more precise, the decision was taken repeatedly, and in the most definitive terms, but then time was affected by the aforementioned paradox, the hands of Big Ben froze and the torment began all over again.

When he had moved a little beyond his initial numbness and entered a state not entirely dissimilar to normality, Erast Petrovich naturally told himself that he would not go to any pavilion. This was the only dignified way out of the horrifyingly undignified situation into which the vice-consul of the Russian Empire had been drawn by the inopportune awakening of his heart. He had to amputate this whole shameful business with a firm hand, and wait until the blood stopped flowing and the severed nerves stopped smarting. In time the wound would certainly heal over, and the lesson would have been learned for the rest of his life. Why create melodramatic scenes, with accusations and hands upraised to the heavens? He had played the fool’s part long enough, it was shameful enough to remember, even without that…

He was going to send the key back to the Don immediately.

He didn’t send it.

He was prevented by an upsurge of rage, rage of the most corrosive sort – that is, not fiery but icy rage, which does not set the hands trembling, but clenches them into fists, the sort of rage that sets the pulse beating slowly and loudly and paints the face with a deadly pallor.

How had he, an intelligent and dispassionate individual, who had passed honourably through numerous trials, allowed himself to be treated like this? And even more importantly, by whom? A venal woman, a calculating intriguer! He had behaved like a pitiful young pup, like a character out of some vulgar harlequinade! He gritted his teeth, recalling how his coat-tail had snagged on a nail, how he had pressed on the pedals to escape from the pack of homeless mongrels…

No, he would go, he had to go! Let her see what he, Fandorin, was really like. Not a pitiful, besotted boy, but a firm, calm man who had seen through her satanic game and stepped disdainfully over the trap that had been set for him.

Dress elegantly, but simply: a black frock coat, a white shirt with a turndown collar – no starch, no neckties. A cloak? He thought yes. And a cane, that was indispensable.

He dressed up, stood in front of the mirror, deliberately ruffled his hair so that a casual lock dangled down across his forehead – and suddenly flushed, as if he had seen himself from the outside.

My God! The harlequinade wasn’t over yet, it was still going on!

His fury suddenly receded, his convulsively clenched fingers unfolded. His heart was suddenly desolate and dreary.

Erast Petrovich dropped the cloak on the floor, flung away the cane and leaned wearily against the wall.

What sort of sickness was love? he wondered. Who was it that tortured a man with it, and for what? That is, it was perfectly possible that for other people it was essential and even beneficial, but this potion was clearly counter-indicated for a certain titular counsellor. Love would bring him nothing but grief and disenchantment, or even, as in the present case, humiliation. Such, apparently, was his fate.

He shouldn’t go anywhere. What did he want with this alien woman anyway, why did he need her remorse, or fright or annoyance? Would that really make his heart easier?

Time immediately stopped playing its idiotic tricks, the clock started ticking regularly and calmly. That alone was enough to indicate that the correct decision had been taken.

Erast Petrovich spent the rest of the day reading The Diary of Sea Captain Golovin Concerning His Adventures as a Prisoner of the Japanese in 1811, 1812 and 1813, but shortly before midnight he suddenly put the book down and set out for Don Tsurumaki’s estate without any preparations at all, apart from putting on a peaked cap.

Masa did not try to stop his master and did not ask any questions. He watched as the figure on the tricycle rode away at a leisurely pace, stuck his nunchaku into the waistband of his trousers, hung the little bag containing his wooden geta round his neck and trotted off in the direction of the Bluff.

The huge cast-iron gates opened remarkably easily and almost soundlessly. As he walked towards the pond along the moonlit path, Erast Petrovich squinted in the direction of the house. He saw the telescope pointing up at the sky and a thickset figure in a dressing gown standing with his face glued to the eyepiece. Apparently today Don Tsurumaki was not interested in earthly spectacles, he was admiring the sky. And the stars really were larger and brighter than Fandorin had seen them since his grammar-school days, when he loved to sit in the planetarium and dream of flights to the moon or Mars. How strange to think that that was only four years ago!

The titular counsellor was certain that he would be the first to arrive at the pavilion and would be sitting there alone in the darkness for a long time, since, no doubt, the sordid science of jojutsu required the enamoured fool to suffer the torments of anticipation. However, the moment he opened the door of the pavilion, Erast Petrovich caught the familiar scent of irises, at which his heart first tried to beat faster, but then submitted to the dictates of reason and reverted to its former rhythm.

So O-Yumi had come first. Well, so much the better.

It was quite light in the tiny hallway – the moonlight filtered in through the cracks of the wooden shutters. Fandorin saw paper partitions and two wooden sandals on the floorboards beside the straw mats on the raised platform. Ah yes, the Japanese custom required footwear to be removed before stepping on to the straw mats.

But Erast Petrovich had no intention of removing his footwear. He crossed his arms and deliberately cleared his throat, although, of course, the ‘mistress of the art’ had already heard that the ‘target’ had arrived.

The paper partitions slid apart. Standing behind them, holding the two screens, was O-Yumi – with the wide sleeves of a kimono hanging from her arms, which made the woman look like a butterfly. Dramatic, Fandorin thought to himself with a sneer.

He couldn’t see the courtesan’s face, only her silhouette against a silvery, shimmering background.

‘Come in quickly!’ the low, husky voice called to him. ‘It’s so wonderful in here! Look, I’ve opened the window, there’s the pond and the moon. That bandit Tsurumaki knows a thing or two about beauty.’

But Erast Petrovich didn’t move.

‘What are you doing?’ she said, taking a step towards him. ‘Come!’

Her fingers reached out for his face, but they were intercepted by a firm hand in a tight-fitting glove.

Now he could see her face – unbearably beautiful, even now, when he knew everything.

No, not everything.

And Fandorin asked the question for which he had come here.

‘Why?’ he demanded in a severe voice. ‘What do you want from me?’

Of course, a true professional would not have done that. He would have realised that he didn’t have a clue about anything, that he was still playing the part of a halfwit and a simpleton, and little by little he would have figured out the secret of this latter-day Circe who transformed men into swine. And at the same time he would have paid her back in the same coin.

Erast Petrovich regarded himself as quite a good professional, but to dissemble with a dissembler was disgusting, and it probably wouldn’t have worked anyway – his rebellious heart was beating faster than it should in any case.

‘I am not as rich and certainly not as influential as your patron. I do not possess any important secrets. Tell me, what did you want from me?’

O-Yumi listened to him in silence, without trying to free herself. He was standing on the wooden floor, she on the straw mats, so that their faces were almost on the same level, separated by only a few inches, but it seemed to Fandorin that he could never understand the expression of those long eyes that glittered so moistly.

‘Who knows the answer to that question?’ she asked in a quiet voice. ‘Why did I need you, and you me? You simply feel that it cannot be otherwise, and nothing else matters.’

It was not so much the words that were spoken, but the tone in which they were spoken, which set Fandorin’s fingers trembling. O-Yumi freed one hand, reached out to his face and stroked his cheek gently.

‘Don’t ask any questions… And don’t try to understand – it can’t be done anyway. Listen to your heart, it will not deceive you…’

It will deceive me! Oh yes it will! – the titular counsellor wanted to cry out the words, but he was incautious enough to catch O-Yumi’s eye, and after that he couldn’t look away again.

‘Is that what your art prescribes?’ Fandorin asked in a trembling voice, when her hand slid lower, slipping behind his collar and sliding gently across his neck.

‘What art? What are you talking about?’

Her voice had become even lower and huskier. She seemed not to be paying any attention to the meaning of what he said, or to understand very well what she was saying herself.

‘Jojutsu!’ – Erast Petrovich shouted out the abhorrent word. ‘I know everything! You pretend to be in love, but all the time you are using jojutsu!’

There, the accusation had been uttered, now her expression would change and the enchantment would be dispelled!

‘Why don’t you say anything. It’s t-true, isn’t it?’

It was incredible, but she didn’t look even slightly disconcerted.

‘What is true?’ O-Yumi murmured in the same sleepy voice, still stroking his skin. ‘No, it’s not true, I’m not pretending… Yes, it is true – I love you according to the laws of jojutsu.’

The vice-consul recoiled.

‘Aha! You admit it!’

‘What is bad about that? Do I take money or presents from you? Do I want something from you? I love as I know how to love. I love as I have been taught. And you can be sure that I have been taught well. Jojutsu is the best of all the arts of love. I know, because I have studied the Indian school, and the Chinese school. I will not even speak of the European school – that barbarous nonsense. But even the Chinese and the Indians understand almost nothing about love, they pay too much attention to the flesh…’

As she spoke, her rapid, light fingers did their work – unbuttoning, stroking, sometimes sinking their nails into the body of the enchanted titular counsellor.

‘More jojutsu, is it?’ he murmured, hardly even resisting any more. ‘What do you call it when the victim has rebelled and you have to subdue him once again? Something picturesque – “Plum Blossom Rain”, “Rampant Tiger”?’

O-Yumi laughed quietly.

‘No, it’s called “Fight Fire with Fire”. The best way to extinguish a powerful flame is with a conflagration. You’ll see, you’ll like it.’

Erast Petrovich at least had no doubt that she was right about that.

A long time later, after both fires had fused together and consumed each other, they lay on the terrace, watching the shimmering surface of the pool. The conversation sprang up and then broke off again, because it was equally good to speak and to remain silent.

‘There’s one thing I forgot to ask Don,’ said Erast Petrovich, lighting up a cigar. ‘How does a course of jojutsu end? In Europe the lovers live happily ever after. It’s not the same here, I suppose?’

‘It isn’t.’ She rose slightly, propping herself up on one elbow. ‘A correctly constructed love does not end with death, but with a subtle finale, so that both parties are left with beautiful memories. We do not allow the feeling to die, we cut it, like a flower. This is slightly painful, but afterwards there is no resentment or bitterness left behind. I like you so much! For you I will think up something especially beautiful, you’ll see.’

‘Thank you with all my heart, but please don’t. What’s the hurry?’ said Erast Petrovich, pulling her towards him. ‘The wise old Don told me something very interesting about the stage that is called “The Bow String”.’

‘Yes, I suppose it is time…’ she replied in a voice trembling with passion, and took his hand between the palms of her own hands. ‘Lesson one. I am the bowstring, you are the shaft of the bow, our love is an arrow that we must shoot straight into the centre of the moon… Look at the moon, not at me. When we fire, it will fall and shatter into a thousand fragments…’

And Fandorin started looking up into the sky, where the lamp of night was shining serenely – the poor wretch was quite unaware of the fate in store for it.

Throughout the next week Erast Petrovich seemed to exist in two worlds with no connection between them – the world of the sun and the world of the moon. The former was hot, but insipid, almost spectral, since the titular counsellor constantly felt that he wanted to sleep. It was only as evening advanced and the shadows first lengthened and then disappeared altogether that Fandorin started to wake up: first the body, reaching out achingly for the night, and then the mind. The enervated, dreamy state seemed to disappear without trace and somewhere inside him a sweet chiming began, gradually growing stronger, and by the moment when the moon finally rolled out onto the sky, the lovesick titular counsellor was completely ready to immerse himself in the real world of the night.

In this world everything was beautiful from the very beginning: the whispering flight of the tricycle along the deserted promenade, the metallic grating of the key in the lock of the gates and the rustling of the gravel on the path leading to the pavilion. And then came the most painful and most poignant part of all – would she come or not? Twice O-Yumi did not appear – she had warned him that this was possible, she might not be able to slip out of the house. He sat on the terrace, smoking a cigar, watching the water and listening to the silence. And then the sun peeped out from behind the tops of the trees, and it was time to go back. The titular counsellor walked back to the gates with his head lowered, but the bitterness of the tryst that never happened held a charm all of its own – it meant that the next meeting would be doubly sweet.

But if Fandorin’s sharp hearing caught the squeak of the garden gate, and the sound of light footsteps, the world changed instantly. The stars blazed more brightly, but the moon shrank, already aware that it was to fall to earth again and again, shattering into sparkling dust.

There were no words for what happened in those night hours, there could not be any – at least not in any of the languages known to Erast Petrovich. And it was not simply that European speech either falls silent or lapses into crudity when it has to talk of the merging of two bodies. No, this was something different.

When they made love to each other – either greedily and simply, or subtly and unhurriedly – Fandorin’s entire being was possessed by the acute awareness, quite inexpressible in words, that death exists. From his early childhood he had always known that the life of the body was impossible without the life of the soul – this was what faith taught, it was written in a multitude of beautiful books. But now, in the twenty-third year of his life, under a moon that was falling from the sky, it was suddenly revealed to him that the opposite is also true – the soul will not live on without the body. There will not be any resurrection, or angels, or long-awaited encounter with God – there will be something quite different, or perhaps there will not be anything at all, because the soul does not exist without the body, just as light does not exist without darkness, just as the clapping of one hand does not exist. If the body dies, the soul will die too, and death is absolute and final. He felt this with every particle of his flesh, and it made him terribly afraid, but at the same time somehow very calm.

That was how they loved each other, and there was nothing to add to this.

Heat that knows no cold,

Happiness that knows no grief -

A one-handed clap

A SPRAY OF ACACIA

On one occasion O-Yumi left earlier than usual, when there was no moon any longer, but there was still a long time left until dawn. She didn’t give any explanations – she never explained anything anyway: she just said ‘It’s time for me to go’, dressed quickly, ran her finger down his neck in farewell and slipped out into the night.

Erast Petrovich walked towards the gates along the white path that glowed faintly in the gloom, along the edge of the pond and then across the lawn. As he was walking past the house, he looked up, as he usually did, to see whether his host was on the terrace. Yes, there was the stargazer’s corpulent figure rising up above the balustrade. The Don politely doffed his fez, Fandorin bowed equally politely and went on his way. In the last few days this silent exchange of greetings had become something like a ritual. The jovial man with the beard had proved more tactful than could have been expected after that first conversation. The Japanese must have delicacy in their blood, thought the titular counsellor, who was in that state of relaxed bliss when one wants to love the entire world and see only the good in people.

Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, he noticed something strange, an odd, momentary glimmer that should not have been there in a moonless world. Intrigued, Fandorin glanced round at the dark windows of the house and quite clearly saw a spot of light flash across one of the windowpanes, between the curtains, which were not fully closed, and then disappear.

Erast Petrovich stopped. That stealthy ray was very much like the light of a dark lantern, the kind used by window men, housebreakers and other professionals of a similar ilk. There were housebreakers in Russia and in Europe, why should there not be housebreakers in Japan?

Or was it simply one of the servants who didn’t want to switch on the electricity, in order not to disturb his master’s nocturnal solitude?

The servants at the estate were trained to such a supreme level of competence that they were not even visible, and everything needful seemed to do itself. When Fandorin arrived at his beloved pavilion, everything had always been tidied, there were hors d’oeuvres and fresh candles on the low table, and a vase with an intricately arranged bouquet – different every time – standing in the shadowy niche. When he walked back to the gates at dawn, the titular counsellor saw that the pathways had been thoroughly swept, and the grass of the English lawn was freshly trimmed, although he had not heard a single sound from a broom or garden shears. Only once did he actually see one of the servants. On his way out, he realised that he had dropped his key somewhere. He stood there at the locked gates, rifling through his pockets, and was about to go back to the pavilion, when suddenly a figure in a black jacket and black trousers emerged silently from the pink-coloured mist, bowed, handed him the lost key and immediately dissolved into the haze – Fandorin didn’t even have time to thank him.

Well, if it’s a servant, I’ll just go on my way, the titular counsellor reasoned. But what if it is a thief after all or, even worse, a killer? To save his host from a fiendish criminal plot would be the best possible way to repay him for his hospitality.

He looked all around – naturally, there was not a soul in sight.

He walked over quickly to the window and reviewed the situation. The wall was faced with slabs of undressed, rough-textured granite. Erast Petrovich braced the toe of his shoe in a small hollow, grasped the protruding windowsill with one hand, pulled himself up nimbly and pressed his face to the glass – at the point where the curtains were not drawn close together.

At first he saw absolutely nothing at all – the room was pitch dark. But after about half a minute a trembling circle of light appeared in the far corner and started creeping slowly along the wall, first picking out a shelf with the golden spines of books, then the frame of a portrait, then a map. This was obviously a study or a library.

Erast Petrovich could not make out the person holding the lantern, but since it was obvious that no servant would behave in such a suspicious manner, the vice-consul readied himself for more decisive action. He pressed cautiously on the left frame of the window – it was locked. But when he pressed the right frame, it yielded slightly. Excellent! Possibly this was the very route the uninvited visitor had used to gain access, or perhaps the window had been left half open to air the room, but that was not important now. The important thing was that this nightbird could be nabbed.

If only the window frame didn’t creak.

Fandorin started opening the frame slowly, a quarter of an inch at a time, keeping his eyes fixed on the wandering beam of light.

It suddenly stopped, pointing at one of the shelves, which did not look remarkable in any way. There was a gentle thud and the beam stopped trembling.

He had put the lantern down on the floor, the titular counsellor guessed.

Someone standing on all fours appeared or, rather, crept into the circle of light. Narrow shoulders, gleaming black hair, the white stripe of a starched collar. A European?

The titular counsellor pulled himself up higher, so that he could put one knee on the windowsill. Just a little more, and the crack would be wide enough to get through.

But then the damned window frame did creak after all.

The light instantly went out. Abandoning caution, Fandorin pushed the window open and jumped down on to the floor, but could not move any farther than that, since he couldn’t see a thing. He held out his hand with the Herstal in it and strained his ears, listening in case his adversary was creeping up on him.

The man might be invisible now, but he was a mystery no longer. In the brief moment before the lantern went out, the hunched-over individual had looked round, and Erast Petrovich had clearly made out a brilliantined parting, a thin face with a hooked nose, and even a white flower in a buttonhole.

His Excellency Prince Onokoji, the high society spy, in person.

The titular counsellor’s precautions were apparently unnecessary. The Japanese dandy had no intention of attacking him. In fact, to judge from the absolute silence that filled the study, the prince’s trail was already cold. But that was not important now.

Fandorin put his revolver back in its holster and went to find the stairway to the first floor.

Tsurumaki listened to what the vice-consul told him and scratched the bridge of his nose. The grimace that he made suggested that the news was perplexing rather than surprising. He cursed in Japanese and started complaining:

‘Oh, these aristocrats… he lives under my roof, occupies an entire wing, I pay him a pension of five thousand a month, and it’s still not enough. And I know, I know that he deals in secrets and rumours on the side. I use him myself sometimes, for a separate fee. But this is just too much. Our little prince must be completely mired in debt. Ah!’ The fat man sighed mournfully. ‘If his late father were not my onjin, I’d tell him to go to hell. He’s trying to get to my safe.’

Erast Petrovich was astounded by such a phlegmatic response.

‘I truly admire the Japanese attitude to a debt of gratitude, but it seems to m-me that everything has its limits.’

‘Never mind,’ said the Don, with a flourish of his briar pipe. ‘He can’t open the safe in any case. He needs the key for that, and the key is here, I always keep it with me.’

He pulled a little chain up from behind his shirt collar. There was a little gold rose with a thorny stem hanging on it.

‘A beautiful trinket, eh? You hold the bud, put it in, the thorns slip into the slots… There you have it, the “Open sesame” to my magical Aladdin’s cave.’

Tsurumaki kissed the little key and put it away again.

‘Don’t they scratch?’ asked Fandorin. ‘I mean the thorns.’

‘Of course they scratch, and quite painfully too. But it’s the kind of pain that only makes life seem sweeter,’ the millionaire said with a wink. ‘It reminds me of the glittering little stones and the gold ingots. I can bear it.’

‘You keep gold and precious stones at home? But why? There are b-bank vaults for that.’

‘I know. I have a bank of my own. With strong, armour-plated vaults. But we blood-sucking spiders prefer to keep our booty in our own web. All the best to you, Fandorin-san. Thank you for the curious information.’

The titular counsellor took his leave, feeling rather piqued: he had wanted to be a rescuer, and instead he had ended up as an informer. But he went outside, looked in the direction of the pavilion hovering over the smooth black surface of the pond, and felt such a keen, overwhelming rush of happiness that his paltry disappointment was instantly forgotten.

However, the ‘taut bowstring’ reverberated not only in bliss, and not all the arrows that it fired went darting up into the starry sky. A certain poignantly distressful note, some kind of poisoned needle, blighted Erast Petrovich’s happiness. At night he had no time for suffering, because love lives only in the here and now, but when he was far from O-Yumi, in his solitude, Fandorin thought of only one thing.

At their first lover’s tryst, as he kissed O-Yumi on her delightfully protruding little ear, he had suddenly caught a very faint whiff of tobacco smoke – English pipe tobacco. He had pulled away, about to ask the question – but he didn’t ask it. What for? So that she would lie? So that she would answer: ‘No, no, it’s all over between him and me’? Or so that she would tell the truth and make it impossible for them to carry on meeting?

Afterwards he had been tormented by his own cowardice. During the day he prepared an entire speech, made ready to tell her that things couldn’t go on like this, that it was stupid, cruel, unnatural and, in the final analysis, humiliating! She had to leave Bullcox once and for all. He tried a couple of times to start this conversation, but she simply repeated: ‘You don’t understand. Don’t ask me about anything. I can’t tell you the truth, and I don’t want to lie.’ And then she set her hands and lips to work, and he surrendered, and forgot everything else in the world, only to suffer the same resentment and jealousy the next day.

Consul Doronin could undoubtedly see that something out of the ordinary was happening to his assistant, but he didn’t ask any questions. Poor Vsevolod Vitalievich was certain that Fandorin was conducting the investigation at night, and he kept his word, he didn’t interfere. Sometimes the titular counsellor’s conscience bothered him because of this, but it bothered him far less than the smell of English tobacco.

On the sixth night (which was also the second one spent in the pavilion without his beloved) the vice-consul’s suffering reached its highest point. Strictly forbidding himself to think about the reason why O-Yumi had not been able to come this time, Erast Petrovich called on logic to help: if there is a difficult problem, a solution has to be found – what could possibly be easier for a devotee of analytical theory?

And what was the result? A solution was found immediately, and it was so simple, so obvious, that Fandorin was amazed at his own blindness.

He waited for the evening, arrived at the pavilion earlier than usual and, as soon as he heard O-Yumi’s footsteps approaching, he ran out to meet her.

‘What a b-blockhead I am!’ Erast Petrovich declared, taking hold of her hand. ‘You don’t have to be afraid of Bullcox. We’ll get married. You’ll be the wife of a Russian subject, and that man won’t be able to do anything to you!’

The offer of his heart and his hand was greeted in a most surprising fashion.

O-Yumi burst into laughter, as if she had heard a not very clever but terribly funny joke. She kissed the titular counsellor on the nose.

‘Don’t be silly. We can’t be husband and wife.’

‘But why n-not? Because I’m a diplomat? Then I’ll resign! Because you’re afraid of Bullcox? I’ll challenge him to a duel and kill him! Or, if… if you feel sorry for him, we’ll just go away from here!’

‘That’s not the problem,’ she said patiently, as if she were talking to a child. ‘That’s not it at all.’

‘Then what is?’

‘Look at that left eyebrow of yours. It runs in a semicircle, like that… And higher up, right here, there’s the start of a little wrinkle. You can’t see it yet, but it will show through in five years or so.’

‘What has a wrinkle got to do with anything?’ asked Erast Petrovich, melting at her touch.

‘It tells me that you will be loved by very many women, and I probably wouldn’t like that… And then this slightly lowered corner of the mouth, it testifies that you will not get married again before the age of sixty.’

‘Don’t make fun of me, I’m really serious! We’ll get married and go away. Would you like to go to America? Or New Zealand? Lockston has been there, he says it’s the most beautiful place on earth.’

‘I’m serious too,’ said O-Yumi, taking his hand and running it over her temple. ‘Can you feel where the vein is? A soon and a quarter from the edge of the eye. That means I shall never marry. And then I have a mole, here…’

She parted the edges of her kimono to expose her breasts.

‘Yes, I know. And what does that signify, according to the science of ninso?’ Fandorin asked and, unable to resist, he leaned down and kissed the mole under her collarbone.

‘I can’t tell you that. But please, don’t talk to me again about marriage, or about Algie.’

There was no smile in her eyes any more – a stark, sad shadow flitted though them.

Erast Petrovich could not tell what hurt the most: that name ‘Algie’, the firmness of the refusal, or the absolutely ludicrous nature of the reasons cited.

‘She has turned me into a halfwitted infant…’ – the thought flashed briefly through Fandorin’s mind. He remembered how Doronin had recently said to him: ‘What’s happening to you, my dear boy? You grow fresher and younger before my very eyes. When you arrived, you looked about thirty, but now you look your real age of twenty-two, even with those grey temples. The Japanese climate and dangerous adventures clearly agree with you.’

Speaking quickly, almost babbling in order not to give himself time to come to his senses, he blurted out:

‘If that is how things are, we shan’t meet any more. Not until you leave him.’

He said it – and bit his lip, so that he couldn’t take back what he had said straight away.

She looked into his eyes without speaking. Realising that he wouldn’t hear anything else, she dropped her head. She pulled the lowered kimono back up on to her shoulders and slowly walked out of the pavilion.

Fandorin did not stop her, he did not call out, he did not even watch her go.

He was brought round by a pain in the palms of his hands. He raised his hands to his eyes and stared in bewilderment at the drops of blood, not realising straight away that the marks were made by his fingernails.

‘So that’s all,’ the titular counsellor told himself. ‘Better this than become a complete nobody. Farewell, my golden dreams.’

He jinxed himself: there really were no more dreams, because there was no sleep. On arriving home, Erast Petrovich undressed and got into bed, but he couldn’t fall asleep. He lay on his side, looking at the wall. He could hardly even see it at first – just a vague greyness in the gloom; and then, as dawn approached, the wall started turning white and faint blotches appeared on it; and then they condensed into rosebuds; and then, after everything else, the sun glanced in at the window, kindling the gilded lines of the painted roses into life.

He had to get up.

Erast Petrovich decided to live as if everything in the world was arranged serenely and meaningfully – it was the only way he could counter the chaos swirling in his soul. He performed his daily weights exercises and respiratory gymnastics, then learned from Masa how to kick a spool of thread off the pillar of the bed, bruising his foot quite painfully in the process.

The physical exercise and the pain were both helpful, they made it easier to focus his will. Fandorin felt that he was on the right path.

He changed into a stripy tricot and set off on his usual morning run – to the park, then twenty circuits along the alley around the cricket field.

His neighbours on the Bund, mostly Anglo-Saxons and Americans, were already accustomed to the Russian vice-consul’s whims, and on seeing the striped figure swinging its elbows rhythmically, they merely raised their hats in greeting. Erast Petrovich nodded and ran on, focusing on counting his out-breaths. Today he found it harder to run than usual, his breathing simply refused to settle into an even rhythm. Clenching his teeth stubbornly, the titular counsellor speeded up.

… Eight, nine, three hundred and twenty; one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, three hundred and thirty; one, two, three, four…

Despite the early hour, there was already activity on the cricket pitch: the Athletics Club team was preparing for the Japan Cup competition – the sportsmen were taking turns to throw the ball at the stumps and then dash as quickly as they could to the other end of the wicket.

Fandorin did not get round the pitch. Halfway through his first circuit someone called his name.

There in the thick bushes was Inspector Asagawa, looking pale and drawn, with his eyes blazing feverishly – looking, in fact, very much like Erast Petrovich.

The vice-consul glanced around to see whether anyone was watching.

Apparently not. The players were engrossed in their training, and there was no one else in the park. The titular counsellor ducked into the acacia thickets.