Fandorin 1-10

'And now?' asked Alexander, leaning forward slightly.

The chancellor looked quizzically at Varya and Fandorin.

Mizinov caught the meaning of his glance and said: 'Your Majesty, I understand what Mikhail Alexandrovich has in mind. I had come to the same conclusion, and I did not bring Titular Counsellor Fandorin with me by chance. But I think we could perhaps allow Miss Suvorova to leave now.'

Varya snorted indignantly. Apparently she was not trusted here. How humiliating to be put out of the room - and just at the most interesting point!

'Please p-pardon my impertinence,' said Fandorin, opening his mouth for the first time in the entire audience, 'but that is not reasonable.'

'What precisely is not?' asked the emperor, knitting his gingerish brows.

'One should not trust an employee only halfway, Your M-Majesty. It creates unnecessary resentment and is harmful to the cause. Varvara Andreevna knows so much already that she will q-quite easily guess the rest.'

'You are right,' the tsar conceded. 'Go on, Prince.'

'We must exploit this business to shame Britain in front of the entire world. Sabotage, murder, a conspiracy with one of the combatants in contravention of declared neutrality - it is entirely unprecedented. To be quite honest, I am astounded at Beaconsfield's rashness. What if we had captured McLaughlin and he had testified? What a scandal! What a nightmare! I mean for England, of course. She would have had to withdraw her navy squadron and justify her actions to the whole of Europe, and she would still have been licking her wounds for a long time after that. In any case, the Court of St James would have been obliged to throw in its hand on the eastern conflict; and without London the ardour of our Austro-Hungarian friends would have cooled immediately. Then we would have been able to exploit the fruits of victory to the full and—'

'Dreams’ said Alexander, interrupting the old man rather sharply. 'We do not have McLaughlin. The question is: What are we to do now?'

'Get him,' Korchakov replied imperturbably.

'But how?'

'I don't know, Your Majesty; I am not the head of the Third Section.' The chancellor fell silent, folding his hands complacently across his skinny belly.

'We are certain of the Englishman's guilt and we have circumstantial evidence, but no solid proof,' said Mizinov, picking up where the chancellor had left off. 'That means we shall have to obtain it . . . or create it. Hmm . . .'

'Explain your meaning,' the tsar pressed him, 'and do not mumble, Mizinov; speak straight out: we are not playing forfeits.'

'Yes, Your Majesty. McLaughlin is now either in Constantinople or, most likely, making his way to England, since his mission has been accomplished. In Constantinople we have an entire network of secret agents, and kidnapping the scoundrel will not be too difficult. In England it is a harder proposition, but with sensible organisation . . .'

'I do not wish to hear this!' Alexander exclaimed. 'What sort of abominations are you talking?'

'Sire, you did order me not to mumble,' said the general with a shrug.

'Bringing McLaughlin back in a sack wouldn't be such a bad thing,' the chancellor mused, 'but it's too bothersome and unreliable. We could find ourselves caught up in a scandal. Yes, that kind of thing is fine in Constantinople, but in London I would not recommend it.'

'Very well,' said Mizinov with a vehement shake of his head. 'If McLaughlin is found in London, we shall not touch him. But we will stir up a scandal in the English press about the British correspondent's inappropriate behaviour. The English public will not approve of McLaughlin's exploits, because they do not fit their much-vaunted idea of "fair play".'

Korchakov was pleased: 'Now that's more to the point. In order to tie Beaconsfield's and Derby's hands, a good scandal in the newspapers is all we need.'

While this conversation was going on, Varya had been imperceptibly edging closer to Erast Petrovich until now she finally found herself right beside the titular counsellor.

'Who is this Derby?' she asked in a whisper.

'The foreign secretary,' Fandorin hissed, scarcely even moving his lips.

Mizinov glanced round at the whisperers and knitted his brows in a threatening frown.

'This McLaughlin of yours is clearly an old hand, with no particular prejudices or sentiments,' said the chancellor, continuing with his deliberations. 'If he is found in London, then before there is any scandal, we could have a confidential little talk with him - present him with the evidence, threaten him with exposure . . . After all, if there is a scandal, he is finished. I know how the British are about such things; no one in society will ever offer him their hand again, even if he is hung with medals from head to foot. Then again, two murders is no laughing matter. There is the prospect of criminal proceedings. He is an intelligent man. If we also offer him a good sum of money and present him with an estate somewhere beyond the Volga ... he might give us the information we need, and Shuvalov could use it to put pressure on Lord Derby. If he threatened to expose them, the British cabinet would suddenly become as meek as lambs . . . What do you think, General - would a combination of threats and bribery work on McLaughlin?'

'They would be bound to,' the general promised confidently. 'I have also considered this option, which is why I brought Erast Fandorin with me. I did not dare appoint a man to such a delicate mission without Your Majesty's approval. There is far too much at stake. Fandorin is resourceful and determined, he has an original mind and, most importantly of all, he has already worked on one highly complex secret mission in London and managed it quite brilliantly. He knows the language. He knows McLaughlin personally. If necessary he will kidnap him. If that is not possible he will come to terms with him. If he cannot come to terms, then he will assist Shuvalov to arrange a fine scandal. He can even testify against McLaughlin as a direct eyewitness. He possesses exceptional powers of persuasion.'

'And who's Shuvalov?' Varya whispered.

'Our ambassador,' the titular counsellor replied absent-mindedly, with his mind on something else. He did not really seem to be following what the general was saying.

'Well, Fandorin, can you manage that?' the emperor asked. 'Will you go to London?'

'Yes, I will go, Your Majesty,' said Erast Petrovich. 'Certainly I will go . . .'

The autocrat eyed him keenly, having caught the echo of something left unsaid; but Fandorin did not add anything else.

'Well then, Mizinov, act along both lines,' said Alexander, summing up. 'Look for him in Constantinople and in London. Only do not waste any time; we have very little left.'

When they came out into the aide-de-camp's room, Varya asked the general: 'But what if McLaughlin can't be found at all?'

'You can rely on my instinct, my dear,' the general sighed. 'We shall definitely be seeing that gentleman again.'

Chapter Twelve

IN WHICH EVENTS TAKE AN UNEXPECTED TURN

The St Petersburg Gazette

8 (20) January 1878

Turks Sue For Peace!

After the capitulation of Vessel-pasha, the capture of Philippopol and the surrender of ancient Adrianople, which yesterday flung its gates open to admit the Cossacks of the White General, the outcome of the war has finally been settled, and this morning a train carrying the Turkish truce envoys arrived at the positions of our valiant forces. The train was detained at Adrianople and the pashas were transferred from there to the headquarters of the commander-in-chief, currently quartered in the village of Germanly. When the head of the Turkish delegation, 76-year-old Namyk-pasha, learned the provisional terms of the peace settlement, he exclaimed in despair: 'Votre armee est victorieuse, votre ambition est satisfaite et la Turkie est detruite!'

Well now, say we, that is no more than Turkey deserves.

They hadn't said goodbye properly. Sobolev had collected Varya from the porch of the 'field palace', enveloped her in his magnetic aura of success and glory and whisked her away to his headquarters to celebrate the victory. She had barely even had time to nod to Erast Petrovich, and in the morning he was not in the camp. His orderly Trifon said: 'His Honour has gone away. Call back in a month.'

But a month had passed, and the titular counsellor had still not returned. Evidently it was not proving so easy to find McLaughlin in England.

It was not that Varya actually missed him - on the contrary: once they decamped from Plevna, life had become quite fascinating. Every day there were moves to new places, new cities, stupendous mountain landscapes and endless celebrations of almost daily military victories. The commander-in-chief's headquarters first moved to Kazanlyk, beyond the Balkan range, and then still further south, to Germanly. Here there was no winter at all. The trees were all green and the only snow to be seen was on the summits of the distant mountains.

With Fandorin gone there was nothing that Varya had to do. She was still, however, officially attached to the headquarters staff and she received her salary punctually for December and January, plus travelling expenses, plus a bonus for Christmas. She had accumulated quite a tidy sum, but she had nothing to spend it on. Once in Sophia she had wanted to buy a charming copper lamp (it was exactly like Aladdin's), but Paladin and Gridnev had not allowed her. In fact, they had almost come to blows over who would present Varya with the trinket, and she had been obliged to give way.

Concerning Gridnev: the eighteen-year-old ensign had been attached to Varya by Sobolev. The hero of Plevna and Sheinov was kept busy day and night with army affairs, but he had not forgotten about Varya. Whenever he could find a free moment to visit headquarters, he always called in to see her, sent her gigantic bouquets of flowers and invited her to celebrations (they saw in the New Year twice, according to the Western calendar and the Russian calendar). But this was still not enough for the tenacious Michel, so he had placed one of his orderlies at Varya's disposal - 'for assistance on the road and protection'. At first the ensign had sulked and glared hostilely at his superior in a skirt, but quite soon he had grown tame, and even seemed to have developed certain romantic feelings for her. It was funny of course, but flattering. Gridnev was not handsome - that strategist Sobolev would not have sent anyone handsome - but he was as lovable and eager to please as a puppy. In his company twenty-two-year-old Varya felt like a very grown-up and worldly-wise woman.

She was in a rather strange position now. At headquarters they apparently assumed that she was Sobolev's mistress, but since everyone regarded the White General with indulgent adoration, no one condemned her for it. On the contrary, some small portion of Sobolev's halo seemed to extend to her as well. Many of the officers would probably have been quite indignant if they had discovered that she dared to refuse to enter into intimate relations with the glorious Russian Achilles and was remaining faithful to some lowly cryptographer.

To be honest, things were not going all that well with Petya. No, he didn't get jealous and he didn't make scenes, but since his failed suicide Varya found it hard to be with him. In the first place, she hardly ever saw him - Petya was atoning for his guilt with work, since it was impossible to atone for it with blood in the cryptography section. He worked two consecutive shifts each day, slept at his post on a folding bed, no longer visited the journalists in their club and took no part in the general junketing. She had been obliged to celebrate Christmas and Epiphany without him. At the sight of Varya his face lit up with a gentle, quiet joy; and he spoke to her as if she were an icon of the Virgin of Vladimir: she was the light of his life, and his only hope, and without her he would never have survived.

She felt terribly sorry for him. Only more and more often now she found herself pondering the troublesome question of whether it was possible to marry out of pity, and the answer was always that it wasn't. But it was even more unthinkable to say: 'You know, Petya, I've changed my mind and decided not to be your wife.' It would be just like putting down a wounded animal. She was caught in a cleft stick.

A substantial gathering still convened as before in the press club as it migrated from place to place, but it was not as boisterous as in Zurov's unforgettable time. They gambled with restraint, for small stakes, and the chess sessions had ceased with McLaughlin's disappearance. The journalists did not mention the Irishman, at least in the company of Russians, but the two other British correspondents had been made the object of a demonstrative boycott and stopped coming to the club altogether.

Of course, there had been drinking sprees and scandals. Twice matters had almost reached the point of bloodshed, and both times, alas, because of Varya.

The first time, when they were still at Kazanlyk, a newly arrived adjutant who had not fully grasped Varya's status made an unfortunate attempt to joke by calling her 'the Duchess of Marlborough' with the obvious implication that Marlborough himself was Sobolev. Paladin demanded an apology from the insolent fellow, who proved stubborn in his drunken stupor, and they had stepped out to fight a duel with pistols. Varya was not in the marquee at the time, or else she would, of course, have put a stop to this idiotic conflict straight away. Fortunately no harm was done: the adjutant shot wide and when Paladin fired in reply he shot the adjutant's forage cap neatly off his head, after which the offending party sobered up and admitted his error.

On the other occasion it was the Frenchman who was challenged, and once again for a joke, only this time it was quite a funny one - at least Varya thought so. It happened after the youthful Gridnev had begun to accompany her everywhere. Paladin rashly remarked aloud that 'Mademoiselle Barbara' was like the Empress Anna Ioannovna with her famous statue of a little black boy, and the cornet, uncowed by the correspondent's fearsome reputation, demanded immediate satisfaction from him. Since the scene took place in Varya's presence, no shots were ever fired. She ordered Gridnev to be silent and Paladin to take back what he had said. The correspondent immediately relented, acknowledging that the comparison had been an unhappy one and that 'monsieur sous-lieutenant' bore a closer resemblance to Hercules capturing the hind of Arcadia. On that basis they had made up.

At times it seemed to Varya that Paladin was casting glances at her for which there could be only one possible interpretation, and yet outwardly the Frenchman behaved like a genuine Bayard. Like the other journalists, he would spend days at a time away at the front line and they saw each other less often than in the camp near Plevna,- but one day the two of them had a private conversation that Varya subsequently recalled to mind and noted down word for word in her diary (after Erast Petrovich's departure she had felt the urge to write a diary, no doubt for lack of anything to occupy her time).

They were sitting in a roadside korchma in a mountain pass, warming themselves at the fire and drinking hot wine, and after the frost the journalist seemed to get a little tipsy.

'Ah, Mademoiselle Barbara, if only I were not who I am,' Paladin said with a bitter laugh, unaware that he was repeating Varya's beloved Pierre Bezukhov almost word for word. 'If only my circumstances were different, if my character were different, and my fate . . .' He looked at Varya in a way that made her heart leap in her breast as if it were skipping a rope. 'Then I would certainly vie in the lists with the brilliant Michel. Tell me, would I have at least some small chance against him?'

'Of course you would,' Varya answered honestly and then realised that her words sounded as if she were inviting him to flirt. 'By which I mean, Charles, that you would have the same chance as Mikhail Dmitrievich - no more and no less. That is, no chance at all. Almost.'

She had added that 'almost'. Oh that hateful, ineradicable womanly weakness!

Since Paladin seemed more relaxed than he had ever been, Varya asked him the question that had been on her mind for a long time: 'Charles, do you have a family?'

'What really interests you, I suppose, is whether I have a wife?' the journalist said with a smile.

Varya was embarrassed: 'Well, not only that. Parents, brothers, sisters . . .'

But actually, why be hypocritical! she reproached herself. It was a perfectly normal question. She continued resolutely: 'I would like to know if you have a wife as well, of course. Sobolev, for instance, does not hide the fact that he is married.'

'Alas, Mademoiselle Barbara, no wife; no fiancee. I have never had one or the other. I lead the wrong kind of life. There have been a few affairs, of course -1 tell you that quite openly, because you are a modern woman free of foolish affectation.' (Varya smiled, flattered.) 'As for a family . . . only a father, whom I love dearly and miss greatly. He is in France at present. Some day I will tell you about him. After the war, perhaps? C'est toute une histoire.'

So it had turned out that he was not indifferent, but did not wish to set himself up as a rival to Sobolev. Out of pride, no doubt.

This circumstance, however, had not prevented the Frenchman from remaining on friendly terms with Michel. Most of the time when Paladin disappeared he was with the White General's unit, since Michel was always in the very vanguard of the advancing army, where there were good pickings for the correspondents.

At midday on the 8th of January Sobolev sent a captured carriage and a Cossack escort for Varya - he had invited her to visit the newly conquered city of Adrianople. There was an armful of hothouse roses lying on the soft leather seat. Mitya Gridnev became very upset, because he tore his brand-new gloves as he was gathering the flowers into a bouquet. Varya tried to console him as they rode along and mischievously promised to give him her own gloves (the ensign had small hands, almost like a girl's). Mitya frowned, knitting his white eyebrows, sniffed in offence and sulked for about half an hour, fluttering his long, fine eyelashes. Those eyelashes were perhaps the only point of his appearance in which nature had been kind to him, thought Varya. Just like Erast Petrovich's, only lighter. Her thoughts moved on in a perfectly natural manner to Fandorin and she wondered where his wanderings had taken him. If only he would come back soon! When he was there things were . . . Calmer? More interesting? She couldn't quite put her finger on the right word, but she definitely felt better when he was there.

It was already getting dark when they arrived. The town was quiet, with not a soul out on the streets, only the echoing clip-clop of horses' hooves as mounted patrols rode by, and the rumbling of artillery being moved up along the highway.

The temporary headquarters was located in the railway-station building. Varya heard the bravura strains of music from a distance: a brass band playing the anthem 'Rejoice'. All the windows in the new, European-style station building were lit up, and in the square in front of it there were bonfires burning and field-kitchens with their chimneys smoking efficiently. What surprised Varya most of all was the perfectly ordinary passenger train standing at the platform: neat little carriages and a gently panting locomotive - as if there were no war going on at all.

In the waiting room they were celebrating, of course.

A number of tables of various sizes had been hastily pushed together and the officers were sitting round them, banqueting on simple fare augmented by a substantial number of bottles. Just as Varya and Gridnev entered, they all roared out 'Hurrah', raised their tankards and turned towards the table at which their commander was sitting. The general's famous white tunic contrasted sharply with the black army and grey Cossack uniforms. Sitting with Sobolev at the table of honour were the senior officers (the only one Varya recognised was Perepyolkin) and Paladin. They all had red, jolly faces - they must have been celebrating for some time already.

'Varvara Andreevna,' Achilles shouted, jumping to his feet. 'I am so glad that you decided to come! "Hurrah", gentlemen, in honour of our only lady!'

Everybody stood up and roared so deafeningly that Varya was frightened. She had never been greeted in such an energetic manner before. Perhaps she ought not to have accepted the invitation after all? She recalled the good advice given by Baroness Vreiskaya, the head of the field infirmary (with whose employees Varya was quartered), to her female wards: 'Mesdames, keep well away from men when they are excited by battle or, even worse, by victory. It rouses an atavistic savagery in them, and any man, even an alumnus of the Corps of Pages, is temporarily transformed into a barbarian. Leave them in their male company to cool off, and afterwards they will return to civilised manners and become manageable once again.'

In fact, apart from the exaggerated gallantry and excessively loud voices, Varya noticed nothing particularly wild about her neighbours at table. They seated her in the place of honour, on Sobolev's right. Paladin was on his left.

After she had drunk some champagne and calmed down a little, she asked: 'Tell me, Michel, what is that train doing here? I can't remember the last time I saw a locomotive standing on the tracks and not lying at the bottom of an embankment.'

'So you haven't heard!' exclaimed a young colonel sitting at the side of the table. 'The war's over! The truce envoys arrived from Constantinople today! By railway, just like in peacetime!'

'And just how many of these envoys are there?' Varya asked in surprise. 'A whole trainload?'

'No, Varya,' Sobolev explained. 'There are only two envoys; but after the fall of Adrianople the Turks were afraid to waste any more time, so they simply hitched their staff carriage on to an ordinary train. Only without any passengers, of course.'

'Then where are the envoys now?'

'I sent them off to the grand duke in carriages. There's a break in the track further up.'

'Oh, it's ages since I had a ride in a train,' she sighed dreamily. 'Lie back on your soft seat, open a book, drink some hot tea . . . The telegraph posts flicking past the window, the wheels hammering . . .'

'I would take you for a ride,' said Sobolev, 'but unfortunately the route is rather limited. The only place you can go to from here is Constantinople.'

'Gentlemen, gentlemen!' exclaimed Paladin in his French accent. 'An excellent idea! La guerre est en fait finie, the Turks are not shooting any more! And anyway, the train is flying the Turkish flag! Why don't we take a ride to San Stefano and back? Aller et retour, eh Michel?' He changed completely into French as his enthusiasm mounted ever higher. 'Madamoiselle Barbara will ride in a first-class carriage, I shall write a splendid article about it, and someone from headquarters staff will ride along with us and take a look at the Turks' rear lines. My God, Michel, it will all go off without a hitch! They'll never suspect a thing! And even if they do, they won't dare fire a single shot -you've got their envoys! And then, Michel, from San Stefano it's only a stone's throw to the bright lights of Constantinople! The Turkish viziers have their country villas at San Stefano! Ah, what an opportunity!'

'Irresponsible adventurism,' snapped Lieutenant-Colonel Perepyolkin. 'I trust, Mikhail Dmitrievich, that you will have the good sense not to be tempted.'

Eremei Perepyolkin was so annoying, such a dry stick. In fact, during the last few months Varya had developed quite an active dislike for the man, even though she accepted on trust the superlative administrative abilities of Sobolev's head of staff. If only he wouldn't be so zealous about everything! It was less than six months since he had leapfrogged from captain to lieutenant-colonel, and picked up a George Medal, not to mention a Sword of St Anne for being wounded in action - all thanks to Michel. And still he glared at Varya as if he thought she'd stolen something that was his by right. But she could understand him: he was simply jealous,- he wanted Achilles to belong to him and nobody else. Perhaps Eremei Ionovich was tainted with Kazanzaki's old sin? One day she had even tried hinting at it when she was talking to Sobolev, but the idea had made him laugh so hard that he almost choked.

This time, however, the repugnant Perepyolkin was absolutely right. Varya thought Charles's 'excellent idea' was absolute lunacy. But the carousing officers were all fully in favour of the project: one Cossack colonel even slapped the Frenchman on the back and called him a 'crazy fool'. Sobolev smiled, but he didn't say anything.

'Let me go, Mikhail Dmitrievich,' a dashing cavalry general suggested (Varya seemed to remember that his name was Strukov). 'I'll fill up the carriages with my Cossack lads and we'll ride down the line like the wind. Who knows, we might even capture ourselves another pasha or two. We still have the right, don't we? We haven't received any orders to cease military operations yet.'

Sobolev glanced at Varya and she noticed an unusual glint in his eyes.

'Oh no, Strukov. Adrianople was enough for you.' Achilles smiled rapaciously and raised his voice. 'Gentlemen, listen to my orders!' The room fell silent immediately. 'I am transferring my field headquarters to San Stefano. The third battalion of chasseurs is to board the train. I want every last one of them in those carriages, even if they have to squeeze in like sardines. I will travel in the staff carriage. The train will then immediately return to Adrianople for reinforcements and go backwards and forwards continuously. By midday tomorrow I shall have an entire regiment. You, Strukov, are to arrive with your cavalry no later than tomorrow evening. In the meantime one battalion will be all I need. According to reconnaissance reports, there are no battleworthy Turkish forces ahead of us - only the sultan's guards in Constantinople itself, and they are busy guarding Abdul-Hamid.'

'It is not the Turks that we need to be afraid of. Your Excellency,' Perepyolkin said in his squeaky voice. 'We may assume that the Turks will not touch you, they've run out of steam. But the commander-in-chief will not be pleased at all.'

'Ah, but that's not quite true, Eremci Ionovich,' said Sobolev, squinting cunningly. 'Everybody knows what a madcap yours truly Ali-pasha is, and we can use that as an excuse for all sorts of things. You know, it might prove very handy indeed for His Imperial Highness if news that one of the suburbs of Constantinople has been captured were to arrive just as the negotiations are in full swing. They might rebuke me in public, but they'll thank me in private. It wouldn't be the first time by any means. And kindly be so good as not to discuss matters when an order has already been issued.'

'Absolument!' declared Paladin, shaking his head in admiration. 'Un tour de genie, Michel! My idea wasn't the best after all. This article is going to be even better than I thought.'

Sobolev got to his feet and offered Varya his arm with a grand gesture. 'What would you say to a glimpse of the lights of Constantinople, Varvara Andreevna?'

The train hurtled on through the darkness so fast that Varya could scarcely manage to read the names of the stations: Babaeski, Luleburgaz, Chorlu. They were ordinary railway stations, just like stations somewhere in Tambov province, only they were white instead of yellow. Flickering lights, the elegant silhouettes of cypress trees and once, through the iron lacework of a bridge, a glimpse of a moonlit swathe of river water. The carriage was comfortable, with plush-covered divans and a large mahogany table. The escort and Sobolev's white mare Gulnora were riding in the accompanying retinue's compartment. Every now and again Varya heard the sound of neighing from Gulnora, who still hadn't settled down after the anxious process of boarding. The company riding in the main compartment consisted of the general, Varya, Paladin and several others, including Mitya Gridnev, who was sleeping peacefully in the corner. A group of officers were smoking and crowding round Percpyolkin as he marked off the train's progress on a map, the correspondent was writing something in his notepad, and Varya and Sobolev were standing apart from everyone else by the window, making awkward conversation.

'. . . I thought it was love,' Michel confessed in a soft voice, seeming to stare out into the darkness through the window; but Varya knew that he was looking at her reflection in the glass. 'But I won't try to lie to you. I never actually thought about love. My true passion is my ambition, and everything else comes second. That's just the way I am. But ambition is no sin if it is directed to an exalted goal. I believe in my star and my fate, Varvara Andreevna. My star shines brightly, and my fate is special. I feel it in my heart. When I was still a young cadet . . .'

'You were telling me about your wife,' said Varya, gently guiding him back to the more interesting subject.

'Ah, yes. I married out of ambition, I admit it. I made a mistake. Ambition may be a good reason to face a hail of bullets, but not to get married - not under any circumstances. How did it all happen? I came back from Turkestan to the first glimmerings of fame and glory, but I was still a parvenu, an upstart, a jumped-up peasant. My grandfather served his way up all the way from the lower ranks. And suddenly, there was Princess Titova, with a line going all the way back to Rurik. I could move straight from the garrison into high society. How could I not be tempted?'

Sobolev spoke jerkily, in a bitter voice, and he seemed sincere. Varya valued sincerity; and, of course, she had guessed where all this was leading. She could have put a stop to it in good time, turned the conversation in another direction, but she wasn't strong enough. Who would have been?

'But very soon I realised that high society was no place for the likes of me. The climate there doesn't suit my complexion. I was away on campaigns and she was back in St Petersburg. And that was our life. When the war's over, I'll demand a divorce. I can afford to, I've earned it. And no one will rebuke me - after all, I am a hero.' Sobolev grinned cunningly. 'So what do you say, Varya?'

'About what?' she asked with an innocent expression. It was her abominably flirtatious character leading her on again. She knew this declaration was not what she really wanted - it could only cause complications; but it still felt wonderful.

'Should I get divorced or not?'

'That's for you to decide.' This was the moment: now he would say those words.

Sobolev sighed heavily and plunged head first into the whirlpool.

‘I have been keeping an eye on you for a long time. You are intelligent, sincere, bold, strong-willed. Just the kind of companion I need. With you I would be even stronger. And you would never regret it, I swear . . . And so, Varvara Andreevna, you may consider this an official . . .'

'Your Excellency!' shouted Perepyolkin (Damn him, why can't he just disappear!). 'San Stefano! Shall we disembark?'

The operation went off without a single hitch. They disarmed the dumbfounded guards at the station (no more than a joke - six sleepy soldiers) and spread out through the little town in platoons.

Sobolev waited at the station while the sparse shooting continued in the streets. It was all over in half an hour. Their only casualty was one soldier wounded, and he had apparently been winged by mistake by their own men.

The general made a cursory inspection of the centre of the town with its gas street lamps. Further on there was a dark labyrinth of crooked little alleys - it made no sense to go poking his nose in there. For his residence and defensive stronghold (in the case of any unpleasantness) Sobolev chose the local branch of the Osman-Osman Bank. One company of men was stationed in the bank and immediately outside it, another was left at the station and a third was divided into teams to patrol the surrounding streets. The train immediately set off again to bring reinforcements.

They were unable to inform the commander-in-chief's headquarters by telegram that San Stefano had been taken, because the line was dead. Obviously the Turks' doing.

'The second battalion will be here by midday at the latest,' said Sobolev. 'Nothing very interesting is likely to happen in the meantime. We can admire the lights of Constantinople and pass the time in pleasant conversation.'

The temporary staff office was established on the second floor, in the director's office - firstly, because from the windows you really could see the lights of the Turkish capital twinkling in the distance,- and secondly, because there was a steel door in the office that led directly into the bank's strongroom. There were little sacks with wax seals lying in neat rows on the strongroom's cast-iron shelves. Paladin read the Arabic script and said that each bag contained a hundred thousand lire.

'And they say Turkey's bankrupt,' said Mitya in amazement. 'There are millions here!'

'That's why we're going to be based in this office,' Sobolev said firmly. 'To keep it all safe. I've been accused once of making off with the khan's treasury. Never again.'

The door to the strongroom was left half-open, and everyone forgot about the millions of lire. They brought a telegraph apparatus from the station to the waiting room and ran a wire straight out across the square. Every fifteen minutes Varya tried to contact at least Adrianople, but the apparatus gave no signs of life.

A deputation arrived from the local merchants and clergy to ask them not to loot homes or destroy mosques but specify the sum of a contribution instead, perhaps fifty thousand - the poor citizens of San Stefano would not be able to raise any more than that. However, when the head of the delegation, a fat, hooknosed Turk in a tail coat and fez, realised that he was facing the legendary Ak-pasha himself, the sum of the proposed contribution immediately doubled.

Sobolev assured the natives that he was not empowered to levy any contribution. The hook-nosed gentleman shot a sideways glance at the half-open door of the strongroom and rolled his eyes respectfully.

'I understand, effendi. For such a great man a hundred thousand is a mere trifle.'

News travelled quickly in these parts. No more than two hours after San Stefano's petitioners had left, a deputation of Greek traders arrived to see Ak-pasha from Constantinople itself. They did not offer any contributions, but they had brought sweets and wine 'for the brave Christian warriors'. They said that there were many Orthodox Christians in the city, asked the Russians not to fire their cannons, and if they really had to fire, then not at the Pera quarter, where there were shops and warehouses full of goods, but at the Galata quarter, or - even better - the Armenian and European quarters. When they tried to present Sobolev with a golden sword set with precious stones, they were shown out and apparently left feeling reassured.

'Constantinople!' said Sobolev, his voice trembling with feeling as he gazed out through the window at the glittering lights of the great city. 'The eternal, unattainable dream of the Russian tsars. The very roots of our faith and civilisation are here. This is the key to the whole of the Mediterranean. So close! Just reach out and grasp it. Are we really going to go away empty-handed again?'

'Impossible, Your Excellency!' Gridnev exclaimed. 'His Majesty will never allow it!'

'Ah, Mitya. You can be sure that the big brains in the rear, the Korchakovs and the Gnatievs, are already horse-trading and fawning to the English. They won't have the courage to take what belongs to Russia by ancient right. In 'twenty-nine Dibich stopped at Adrianople, and now we've got as far as San Stefano. So near and yet so far. I see a great and powerful Russia uniting the Slavs from Arkhangelsk to Constantinople and from Trieste to Vladivostok! Only then will the Romanovs fulfil their historical destiny and finally be able to leave these eternal wars behind them and devote themselves to the improvement of their own long-suffering dominion. But if we pull back, then our sons and grandsons will once again spill their own blood and the blood of others along the road to the walls of Constantinople. Such is the cross the Russian people must bear!'

‘I can just picture what is going on in Constantinople now,' Paladin said absent-mindedly, also gazing out of the window. 'Ak-pasha in San Stefano! There is panic in the palace, the harem is being evacuated, the eunuchs are running around with their fat backsides wobbling. I wonder if Abdul-Hamid has already crossed to the Asiatic side yet? And it will not even occur to anyone, Michel, that you have come here with only a single battalion. If this were a game of poker, it would make a fine bluff, with the opponent absolutely guaranteed to throw in his hand and pass.'

'This is getting worse and worse,' Perepyolkin cried in alarm. 'Mikhail Dmitrievich, Your Excellency, don't listen to him! It would be the end of you! You've already put your head in the wolf's mouth! Forget about Abdul-Hamid!'

Sobolev and the correspondent looked each other in the eye.

'What have I got to lose?' said the general, crunching the knuckles of his fist. 'If the sultan's guard doesn't panic and opens fire, I'll just pull back, that's all. Tell me, Charles, is the sultan's guard very strong?'

'The guard is a fine force, but Abdul-Hamid will never let it leave his side.'

'That means they won't pursue us. We could enter the city in a column, flags flying and drums beating; I'd be riding at the front on Gulnora,' said Sobolev, warming to his theme as he strode round the room. 'Before it gets light, so they can't see how few of us there are. And then to the palace. Without a single shot being fired! Would they bring me out the keys of Constantinople?'

'Of course they would!' Paladin exclaimed passionately. 'And that would be total capitulation!'

'Face the English with a fait accompli!' said the general, sawing the air with his hand; 'Before they know what's happening, the city is already in Russian hands and the Turks have surrendered. And if anything goes wrong, I might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb. No one authorised me to take San Stefano either!'

'It would be an absolutely glorious finale! And to think that I would be an eyewitness to it!' the journalist said excitedly.

'Not a witness - one of the actors,' said Sobolev, slapping him on the shoulder.

'I won't let you out!' said Perepyolkin, blocking the doorway. He looked absolutely desperate, with his brown eyes goggling insanely and his forehead covered in beads of sweat. 'As the chief of staff I protest! Think, Your Excellency! You are a general of His Imperial Highness's retinue, not some wild Bashi-Bashouk! I implore you!'

'Out of the way, Perepyolkin, I'm sick of you!' the fearsome Olympian shouted at the rationalist pygmy. 'When Osman-pasha tried to break out of Plevna, you implored me then not to act without orders too. You went down on your knees! But who was right that time! You'll see: I shall have the keys to Constantinople!'

'How marvellous!' exclaimed Mitya. 'Isn't it wonderful, Varvara Andreevna?'

Varya said nothing, because she was not sure whether it was wonderful or not. Sobolev's impetuous derring-do had set her head spinning; and there was the little question of what she was supposed to do. Was she to march to the sound of drums with the chasseurs, holding Gulnora's reins?

'Gridnev, I'm leaving you my escort; you'll guard the bank, or the locals will loot it and then blame Sobolev,' said the general.

'But Your Excellency! Mikhail Dmitrievich!' the ensign howled. 'I want to go to Constantinople too!'

'And then who would protect Varvara Andreevna?' Paladin asked reproachfully, burring his r's.

Sobolev took a gold watch out of his pocket and the lid rang as he flicked it open.

'Half past five. In two hours or two and a half it will start to get light. Hey there, Gukmasov!'

'Yes, Your Excellency,' said the handsome cornet as he dashed into the office.

'Assemble the companies! Fall in the battalion in marching order! Banners and drums to the fore! Let's march in style! Saddle up Gulnora! Look lively! We depart at six hundred hours!' The orderly dashed out.

Sobolev stretched sweetly and said: 'Well now, Varvara Andreevna, I shall either be a greater hero than Bonaparte, or finally lose my foolish head at last.'

'You won't lose it,' she replied, gazing at the general in sincere admiration - he looked so wonderfully fine just at the moment: the Russian Achilles.

'Touch wood,' said Sobolev superstitiously, reaching for the table.

'It's not too late to change your mind!' Perepyolkin piped up. 'With your permission, Mikhail Dmitrievich, I can call Gukmasov back!'

He took a step towards the door, but just at that very moment . . .

At that moment there was a loud clattering of numerous pairs of boots on the staircase, the door swung open and two men entered the room: Lavrenty Arkadievich Mizinov and Fandorin.

'Erast Petrovich!' Varya squealed and almost flung herself on his neck, but she stopped herself just in time.

Mizinov rumbled: 'Aha, here he is! Excellent!'

'Your Excellency!' Sobelev said with a frown, spotting the gendarmes in blue uniforms behind the first two men. 'Why are you here? Of course, I am guilty of acting on my own initiative, but arresting me is really going rather too far.'

'Arrest you?' Mizinov was amazed. 'What on earth for? We barely managed to get through to you on handcars with half a company of gendarmes. The telegraph isn't working and the railway line has been cut.

We came under fire three times and lost seven men. I've got a bullet hole here in my greatcoat.' He showed Sobolev his sleeve.

Erast Petrovich stepped forward. He hadn't changed at all while he had been away, but he looked a real dandy in his civilian clothes: a top hat, a cloak with a pelerine, a starched collar.

'Hello, Varvara Andreevna,' the titular counsellor said cordially. 'How well your hair has grown. I think perhaps it is better like that.'

He bowed briefly to Sobolev.

'My congratulations on the diamond-studded sword, Your Excellency. That is a great honour.'

He nodded quickly to Perepyolkin and finally turned towards the French correspondent.

'Salaam aleichem, Anwar-effendi.'

Chapter Thirteen

IN WHICH FANDORIN MAKES A LONG SPEECH

Die Wiener Zeitung (Vienna) 21 (9) January 1878

. . . the balance of power between the combatants in the final stage of the war is such that we can no longer disregard the danger of pan-Slavic expansion, which threatens the southern borders of the dual monarchy. Tsar Alexander and his satellites of Roumania, Serbia and Montenegro have amassed a concentrated force of 700 thousand men, equipped with one and a half thousand cannon. Against whom is it directed? One might well ask. Against a demoralised Turkish army, which even according to the most optimistic estimates can at present number no more than 120 thousand hungry, frightened soldiers?

This is no joke, gentlemen. One would have to be an ostrich with one's head buried in the sand not to see the danger hanging over the whole of enlightened Europe. To procrastinate is to perish. If we simply sit back and do nothing, watching the Scythian hordes . . .

Fandorin threw his cloak back off his shoulder and the burnished steel of a small, handsome revolver glinted dully in his right hand. The very same instant Mizinov clicked his fingers and two gendarmes entered the room and trained their carbines on the correspondent.

'What sort of tomfoolery is this?' barked Sobolev.

'What's all this '''salaam-aleichem" and "effendi" nonsense?'

Varya glanced round at Charles. He was standing by the wall with his arms crossed on his chest, watching the titular counsellor with a wary, sarcastic smile.

'Erast Petrovich!' Varya babbled. 'Surely you went to get McLaughlin!'

'Varvara Andreevna, I went to England, but not for McLaughlin. It was quite c-clear to me that he was not and could not be there.'

'But you did not say a word when His Majesty . . .' Varya bit her tongue before she could blurt out a state secret.

'My arguments would have been m-mere speculation. And I had to go to Europe in any case.'

'And what did you discover there?'

'As was to be expected, the machinations of the British cabinet have nothing to do with the case. That is one. Yes, they do not like us in London. Yes, they are preparing for a great war. But murdering messengers and organising sabotage - that would not do at all. It would contradict the British sense of fair play. And Count Shuvalov told me the same thing.

'I visited the offices of the Daily Post and was convinced of McLaughlin's absolute innocence. That is t-two. His friends and colleagues describe Seamus as a straightforward and forthright man who is hostile to British policy and who may, indeed, have connections with the Irish nationalist movement. There is absolutely no way he could be represented as an agent of the perfidious Disraeli.

'On the return journey, since it lay on my route, I stopped off in Paris, where I was delayed for some time. I called into the offices of the Revue Parisienne . . .'

Paladin made a slight movement and the gendarmes raised their carbines to their shoulders, ready to shoot. The journalist shook his head emphatically and put his hands back under the tails of his riding coat.

'And there it became clear,' Erast Petrovich continued, as though nothing had happened, 'that the illustrious Charles Paladin had never been seen in the offices of his own publication. That is three. He sent in his brilliant articles, essays and sketches by post or telegraph.'

'Well, what of it?' Sobolev objected in exasperation. 'Charles is no mincing socialite; he is a man of adventure.'

'And to an even greater d-degree than Your Excellency supposes. I rummaged through the files of the Revue Parisienne and some very curious coincidences came to light. Monsieur Paladin's first published articles were submitted from Bulgaria ten years ago, at the very time when the Danubian Vilajet was governed by Midhat-pasha, whose secretary was the young official Anwar. In 1868 Paladin submits a number of brilliant articles on the mores of the sultan's court from Constantinople. This is during Midhat-pasha's first period of ascendancy, when he is invited to the capital to lead the Council of State. A year later the reformer is despatched into honourable exile, to distant Mesopotamia and, as though bewitched, the fluent pen of the talented journalist also moves from Constantinople to Baghdad. For three years (the precise period for which Midhat-pasha governed Iraq) Paladin writes about excavations of Assyrian cities, Arab sheikhs and the Suez Canal'

'You're fixing the odds here!' Sobolev interrupted angrily. 'Charles travelled all over the Near East. He also wrote from other places that you do not mention, because they do not fit your hypothesis. In 'seventy-three, for instance, he was in Khiva with me. We survived raging thirst and searing heat together. And there was no Midhat there, Mister Investigator!'

'And from where did he travel to Central Asia?' Fandorin asked the general.

'From Iran, I think.'

'I believe it was not from Iran, but from Mesopotamia. In late 1873 the newspaper publishes his lyrical sketches about Greece. Why Greece all of a sudden? Why, because at that time our Anwar-effendi's patron was moved to Salonika. By the way, Varvara Andreevna, do you recall the marvellous feuilleton about the old boots?'

Varya nodded, gazing at Fandorin as if she were spellbound. What he was saying was so obviously absurd, but how confidently, how elegantly and masterfully he said it! And he had completely stopped stammering.

'It mentioned a shipwreck that took place in the Gulf of Therma in November 1873. The city of Salonika happens to lie on the shore of the gulf. From the same article I learned that in 1867 the author had been in Sophia, and in 1871 in Mesopotamia, for that was precisely when the Arab nomads slaughtered Sir Andrew Wayard's British archaeological expedition. It was after "Old Boots" that I first began to suspect Monsieur Paladin seriously, but he threw me off the track more than once with his cunning manoeuvres . . . And now . . .' - Fandorin put his revolver away and turned towards Mizinov - 'let us summarise the damage inflicted on us by the activities of Mister Anwar. Monsieur Paladin joined the war correspondents' corps in late June last year. At that time our armies were advancing victoriously. The barrier of the Danube had been surmounted, the Turkish army was demoralised, the road lay open to Sophia, and from there to Constantinople. General Gurko's forces had already taken the Shipka Pass, the key to the Great Balkan Range. We had, in effect, already won the war. But what happens after that? Due to a fatal confusion in the coding of a message, our army occupies the irrelevant city of Nikopol and meanwhile Osman-pasha's army corps enters the empty Plevna unhindered, completely cutting off our advance. Let us recall the circumstances of that mysterious story. Cryptographer Yablokov commits a serious offence by leaving a secret message unattended on his table. Why did Yablokov do this? Because he was overwhelmed by news of the unexpected arrival of his fiancee, Miss Suvorova.'

Everyone looked at Varya, making her feel as though she were an item of material evidence.

'But who informed Yablokov of his fiancee's arrival? The journalist Paladin. When the cryptographer went dashing away, insane with joy, all that had to be done was to rewrite the coded message, replacing the word "Plevna" with the word "Nikopol". Our military code is not exactly complicated, to put it mildly. Paladin knew about the Russian army's forthcoming manoeuvre, because he was there when I told you, Mikhail Dmitrievich, about Osman-pasha. Do you recall the first time we met?'

Sobolev nodded morosely.

'Well then, to continue: let us recall the story of the mythical Ali-bei, whom Paladin supposedly interviewed. That "interview" cost us two thousand dead, and left the Russian army bogged down at Plevna with no end in sight. It was a risky trick: Anwar inevitably attracted suspicion to himself; but he had no alternative. If it came to it, the Russians could have simply left a covering force to contain Osman and pushed their main forces further south. However, the failure of the first assault created an exaggerated idea of the danger of Plevna in the mind of our command, and the full might of the army was turned against a little Bulgarian town.'

'Wait, Erast Petrovich; Ali-bei really did exist after all!' Varya exclaimed. 'Our scouts saw him in Plevna!'

'We shall come back to that a little later. But for now let us recall the circumstances of the second battle of Plevna, the blame for which we laid on the treacherous Roumanian colonel Lukan, who had apparently betrayed our plan of battle to the Turks. You were right, Lavrenty Arkadievich, the "J" in Lukan's notebook does stand for "journalist", only not McLaughlin, but Paladin. He was able to recruit the Roumanian dandy with no great difficulty - his gambling debts and inordinate vanity made the colonel easy prey; and in Bucharest Paladin cunningly exploited Miss Suvorova in order to rid himself of an agent who was no longer useful and had actually begun to be dangerous. In addition, I assume, Anwar needed to meet with Osman-pasha. Banishment from the army - purely temporary, and with his rehabilitation planned beforehand - gave him the opportunity. The French correspondent was absent for a month. And it was precisely during that period that our intelligence service reported that the Turkish commander had a mysterious adviser called Ali-bei. This same Ali-bei deliberately made fleeting appearances in crowded public places, sporting his conspicuous beard. You must have had a great laugh at our expense, Mister Spy.'

Paladin did not respond. He was watching the titular counsellor carefully, as if he were waiting for something.

'Ali-bei's appearance in Plevna was necessary in order to clear the journalist Paladin of the suspicion caused by that ill-starred interview. I have no doubt, indeed, that Anwar used that month to great advantage to himself: no doubt he reached agreement with Osman-pasha on joint plans of action for the future and acquired some reliable contacts. After all, our counter-intelligence operations did not prevent correspondents from having their own informants in the besieged town. If he wished, Anwar-effendi could even have visited Constantinople for a few days, since Plevna was still not cut off from the lines of communication. It would have been very simple - once he reached Sophia, he could have got into a train and the next day he would have been in Istanbul.

'The third assault was especially dangerous for Osman-pasha, above all because of Mikhail Dmitrievich's surprise attack. But luck was with Anwar and not with us. We were confounded by a fatal coincidence: on his way to headquarters Zurov galloped past the correspondents and shouted out to them that you were in Plevna. Naturally Anwar realised the significance of this statement perfectly well, and also the reason why Zurov had been despatched to command headquarters. Somehow he had to gain time, give Osman-pasha a chance to regroup and dislodge Mikhail Dmitrievich and his small detachment from Plevna before reinforcements arrived. And yet again Anwar took a risk and improvised. Boldly, brilliantly, creatively. And, as always, mercilessly.

'When the journalists heard about the successful incursion on the southern flank they all went dashing to their telegraph apparatuses, but Anwar set off in pursuit of Zurov and Kazanzaki. On his famous mount Yataghan he overhauled them with no difficulty and once they reached a deserted spot, he shot them both. Evidently, when he attacked he was galloping along between Zurov and Kazanzaki, with the captain on his right and the gendarme on his left. Anwar shoots the hussar in the left temple, at point-blank range, and a moment later despatches a bullet into the forehead of the lieutenant-colonel, who has turned towards him at the sound of the shot. The whole thing took no more than a second. There were troops moving all around, but the horsemen were riding along a depression,- no one could see them and the shots could hardly have attracted attention in the middle of an artillery bombardment. The killer left Zurov's body lying where it was, but thrust the gendarme's dagger into its shoulder. In other words, first he shot him, and then he stabbed him when he was already dead, and not, as we initially believed, the other way round. Anwar's intent is clear: to cast suspicion on Kazanzaki. For the same reason he moved the lieutenant-colonel's body to the nearest bushes and staged the suicide.'

'But what about the letter?' Varya reminded him. 'From that - what was his name? - Shalunishka?'

'A magnificent ploy,' Fandorin acknowledged. 'Turkish intelligence had evidently been aware of Kazanzaki's unnatural inclinations since his old days in Tiflis. I presume that Anwar-effendi kept an eye on the lieutenant-colonel, bearing in mind the possibility of resorting to blackmail at some time in the future. When events took an unexpected turn, he used the information to good effect to throw us off the scent. Anwar simply took a blank sheet of paper and dashed off a caricature of a letter from a homosexual lover. But he rather overdid it, and even at the time I thought the letter seemed suspicious. In the first place, it is hard to believe that a Georgian prince could write such abominable Russian - he ought at least to have received a grammar-school education. And in the second place, perhaps you recall my asking Lavrenty Arkadievich about the envelope and learning that the letter had been lying in the dead man's pocket unprotected? But in that case, how could it have remained so clean and crisp when Kazanzaki must have been carrying it around with him for an entire year?'

'This is all very fine,' Mizinov said impatiently, 'and this is the second time in the last twenty-four hours that you have expounded your ideas on this matter to me, but I ask you once again: Why were you so secretive? Why did you not share your doubts earlier?'

'If one rejects one explanation, one must propose another, and I simply could not make all the pieces fit together,' replied Erast Petrovich. 'My opponent employed far too wide a range of devices. I am ashamed to admit it, but for a while my main suspect was Mister Perepyolkin.'

'Eremei?' Sobolev exclaimed in astonishment, throwing his hands up in disbelief. 'Come now, gentlemen, this is sheer paranoia.'

Perepyolkin himself blinked several times and nervously unbuttoned his tight collar.

'Yes, it is stupid,' Fandorin agreed, 'but whichever way we went, we kept tripping over the lieutenant-colonel. Even the way he made his first appearance seemed rather suspicious - the miraculous liberation from captivity, the failed shot at point-blank range. The Bashi-Bazouks usually shoot better than that. And then the business with the coded message - it was Perepyolkin who delivered the telegram with the order to attack Nikopol to General Kriedener. And who was it that egged on the credulous journalist Paladin to sneak into Plevna under the very noses of the Turks? And the mysterious letter "J". Thanks to Zurov's easy wit, everyone had begun to call Eremei Ionovich "Jerome". That is on the one hand. On the other hand, you must admit that Anwar-effendi's cover was ideal. I could construct any number of logical hypotheses, but the moment I looked at Charles Paladin, all my arguments crumbled to dust. Just take a look at this man.' Fandorin pointed to the journalist. Everybody looked at Paladin, who bowed with exaggerated humility. 'How is it possible to believe that this charming, witty, thoroughly European gentleman and the perfidious, cruel head of the Turkish secret service are one and the same person?'

'Never, not for the world!' declared Sobolev. 'And even now I don't believe it!'

Erast Petrovich nodded in satisfaction. 'And now for the business with McLaughlin and the failed breakout. In this case everything was very simple, with no risk. It was not difficult to interest the gullible Seamus in a piece of "sensational" news. No doubt the informer he concealed from us, and of whom he was so proud, was working for you, Effendi.'

Varya shuddered at hearing that form of address used to Charles. No, there must be something wrong here. What kind of 'effendi' was he!

'The way you exploited McLaughlin's trusting nature, as well as his vanity, was very clever. How envious he was of the brilliant Charles Paladin, how he dreamed of outshining him! So far he had only managed to beat him at chess, and then not every time; but now he had this fantastic stroke of luck! Exclusive information from most reliable sources! And what incredible information it was! For information like that any reporter would sell his very soul to the devil. If McLaughlin had not happened to meet Varvara Andreevna on his way and blurt out his secret to her . . . Osman would have swept aside the corps of grenadiers, broken out of the blockade and fallen back to Shipka. And then the situation on the front would have been stalemate.'

'But if McLaughlin is not a spy, what has become of him?' asked Varya.

'Do you recall Ganetsky's story of how the Bashi-Bazouks attacked his command headquarters and the ageing general barely managed to escape with his life? I think it was not Ganetsky that the saboteurs wanted, but McLaughlin. He had to be eliminated, and he disappeared. Without trace. Very probably the deceived and much-maligned Irishman is lying somewhere at the bottom of the River Vid with a stone round his neck. Or possibly the Bashi-Bazouks, following their usual charming custom, hacked him to pieces.'

Varya shuddered, recalling how the round-faced correspondent had wolfed down her jam pies during their final meeting. When he had only an hour or two left to live . . .

'Did you not feel sorry for poor McLaughlin?' Fandorin inquired, but Paladin (or was he really Anwar-effendi after all?) merely invited him to continue with an elegant gesture and concealed his hands behind his back again.

Varya remembered that, according to the science of psychology, hands concealed behind the back indicate secretiveness and a reluctance to speak the truth. Was it really possible? She moved closer to the journalist, gazing inquisitively into his face in an attempt to discover something alien and fearsome in those familiar features. The face was the same as ever, except perhaps a little paler. Paladin did not look at Varya.

'The attempted breakout failed, but you emerged unscathed yet again. I rushed back to the theatre of military action from Paris as fast as I could. I already knew for certain who you were, and I realised just how dangerous you are.'

'You could have sent a telegram,' Mizinov growled.

'Saying what, Your Excellency? "The journalist Paladin is Anwar-effendi" ? You would have thought that Fandorin had lost his mind. Remember how long it took me to present my proof to you - you flatly refused to abandon the idea of British machinations. And General Sobolev, as you can see, is still not convinced, even after my rather extensive explanation.'

Sobolev shook his head stubbornly. 'We'll hear you out, Fandorin, and then we'll give Charles his chance to speak. A court hearing cannot consist of nothing but the prosecutor's address.'

'Merci, Michel,' said Paladin with a smile, and proceeded to speak in a mixture of French and Russian. 'Comme dit Vautre, a friend in need is a friend indeed. One question for Monsieur le Procureur: When were your doubts finally laid to rest? Pray satisfy my curiosity.'

'In Paris, at the Revue offices,' said Fandorin. 'You committed one act of serious carelessness. When McLaughlin introduced you on the occasion of our first encounter, he pronounced your name as Charles Paladin-Devray. But when I began looking through your early articles, where you signed yourself by your full nom de plume - Paladin d'Hevrais - I immediately recalled that according to some sources our primary enemy Anwar-effendi was born in the small Bosnian town of Hef-Rai's. Paladin d'Hevrais: the "Champion of Hef-Rai's". You must agree that as a pseudonym it is far too transparent. It is not good to be so ostentatious and underestimate one's opponents so badly! No doubt when you began your journalistic career you still had no idea that your mask as a journalist would be required for activities of a rather different nature. I am sure that you began writing for a Parisian newspaper out of entirely innocent considerations: in order to find an outlet for your exceptional literary talent while at the same time stimulating European interest in the problems of the Turkish Empire and especially in the figure of the great reformer Midhat-pasha. In fact, you were rather successful in those aims. The name of the wise Midhat appears at least fifty times in your published articles. You were effectively responsible for making the pasha a popular and respected personality throughout the whole of Europe, and especially in France, where he happens to be at the present moment.'

Varya started, recalling how Paladin had spoken of the father he loved so dearly, who lived in France. Could it really all be true then? She glanced at the journalist in horror. He was still as calm as ever, but Varya thought his smile seemed rather forced.

'And by the way,' the titular counsellor continued, ‘I do not believe that you betrayed Midhat-pasha. That was some kind of subtle ploy. Now that Turkey has been defeated, he will return, crowned with the laurels of a martyr, and take up the reins of government once again. From Europe's point of view, he is an absolutely ideal figure. In Paris they positively idolise him.' Fandorin touched a hand to his temple, and Varya suddenly noticed how pale and tired he looked. ‘I was in a great hurry to get back, but the three hundred vyersts from Sophia to Germanly took me longer than the fifteen hundred vyersts from Paris to Sophia. The roads in the rear defy all description. Thank God Lavrenty Arkadie-vich and I arrived in time. As soon as General Strukov informed me that His Excellency had set out for San Stefano accompanied by the journalist Paladin, I realised that that this was Anwar-effendi's final, deadly move. It was no accident that the telegraph wires were cut. I was very much afraid, Mikhail Dmitrievich, that this man would exploit your valiant spirit and ambition to persuade you to enter Constantinople.'

'And what exactly was it that made you so afraid, Mister Prosecutor?' Sobolev inquired ironically. 'What matter if Russian soldiers had entered the Turkish capital?'

'What matter?' Mizinov exclaimed apoplectically. 'Are you out of your mind? It would have been the end of everything!'

'What "everything"?' the bold Achilles asked with a shrug, but Varya spotted a glint of alarm in his eyes.

'Our army, our conquests, Russia!' the chief of gendarmes thundered. 'Our ambassador in England, Count Shuvalov, has forwarded a coded message. He has seen a secret memorandum of the Court of St James with his own eyes. Under the terms of a secret agreement between the British and Austro-Hungarian empires, if even a single Russian soldier should appear in Constantinople, Admiral Hornby's squadron of ironclads will immediately open fire and the Austro-Hungarian army will cross the Serbian and Russian borders. You see the difficulty, Mikhail Dmitrievich? In that case we would have suffered a rout far more terrible than the Crimea. The country is exhausted by the epic struggle at Plevna; we have no fleet in the Black Sea; the treasury is empty. It would have been a total and utter disaster.'

Sobolev could think of nothing to say.

'But Your Excellency had the wisdom and forbearance not to proceed beyond San Stefano,' Fandorin said deferentially. 'Lavrenty Arkadievich and I need not have been in quite such a great hurry.'

Varya saw the White General's face turn red. Sobolev cleared his throat and nodded with a serious air as he surveyed the marble floor.

And then who should squeeze in through the door at that very moment but the cornet Gukmasov. He peered hostilely at the blue uniforms and barked: 'By your leave I beg to report, Your Excellency!'

Varya suddenly felt sorry for poor Achilles and she looked away, but that oaf carried on and reported sten-toriously: 'Six o'clock precisely! According to orders the battalion is drawn up and Gulnora is saddled and ready! We are only waiting for Your Excellency in order to advance on the gates of Constantinople!'

'Stop there, you blockhead!' mumbled the crimson-faced hero. 'To hell with the damned gates . . .'

Gukmasov backed disconcertedly out of the door. It had barely closed behind him when something unexpected happened.

'Et maintenant, mesdames et messieurs, la parole est a la defence,' Paladin declared in a loud voice. He pulled his right hand out from behind his back. It was holding a pistol. Twice the pistol belched thunder and lightning.

Varya saw the uniform jackets of both gendarmes torn open on the left side of the chest, as though by some mutual agreement. Their carbines clattered to the floor, and the gendarmes collapsed with hardly a sound.

Varya's ears were ringing from the shots. She had no time to cry out or feel frightened before Paladin had reached out his left hand, grasped her tightly by the elbow and pulled her towards him, protecting himself with her like a shield.

Gogol's play The Government inspector, the tableau without words, Varya thought stupidly as she saw a strapping gendarme appear in the doorway and freeze motionless. Erast Petrovich and Mizinov were holding their revolvers out in front of them. The general's expression was angry, the titular counsellor's sad. Sobolev was frozen with his arms spread wide in astonishment. Mitya Gridnev's jaw dropped and his wonderful eyelashes fluttered. Perepyolkin forgot to lower the hand he had raised to rebutton his collar.

'Charles, you must be insane!' shouted Sobolev, taking a step forward, 'hiding behind a lady!'

'But Monsieur Fandorin has proved that I am a Turk,' Paladin replied sarcastically, and Varya could feel his hot breath on the back of her head. 'And in Turkey no one stands on ceremony with ladies.'

'Ooh-ooh-ooh!' Mitya howled; then he lowered his head like a calf and rushed forward.

Paladin's pistol thundered once again and the young lieutenant fell face down with a grunt.

Everyone froze again.

Paladin was pulling Varya now - backwards and off to one side.

'If anyone moves, I'll kill them,' he warned them all in a soft voice.

The wall behind Varya seemed to part, and suddenly she and Paladin were in a different room. Oh, yes, the strongroom!

Paladin slammed the steel door shut and slid the bolt home.

The two of them were alone.

Chapter Fourteen

IN WHICH RUSSIA IS DECRIED AND THE LANGUAGE OF DANTE IS HEARD

The Government Herald (St Petersburg) 9 (21) January 1878

. . . provokes gloomy reflections. Here are the essential points from a speech given by Minister of Finance, State Secretary M. H. Reitern, last Thursday at a conference of the All-Russian Banking Union: 'In 1874 for the first time in many years we achieved a positive balance of payments, with revenue exceeding expenditure,' said the minister. 'The balance of the budget for 1876 had been calculated by the State Treasury at a net surplus of 40 million roubles. However, the cost to the treasury of somewhat less than a year of military action had been one billion, twenty million roubles, and there were no resources left to fund continued hostilities. Due to the cut-back of expenditure on civil construction projects in 1877, not a single vyerst of railway line had been laid anywhere in the territory of the Empire. The sum total of the state's domestic and foreign debts had risen to an unprecedented level, amounting to . . .'

Paladin released his grip on Varvara, and she darted away from him in horror. She heard the muted sound of voices behind the massive door.

'Name your terms, Anwar!' It was Erast Petrovich.

'No terms!' (That was Mizinov.) 'Open the door immediately or I'll have it blown open with dynamite!'

'Save your orders for the gendarme corps!' (That was Sobolev.) 'Use dynamite and she'll be killed!'

'Gentlemen,' shouted Paladin - who was not really Paladin at all - in French. 'This is hardly polite! You are preventing me from discussing the situation with the lady!'

'Charles! Or whatever your name is!' Sobolev roared in a booming general's bass. 'If a single hair of Varvara Andreevna's head is harmed, I'll have you strung up without benefit of trial!'

'One more word and I'll shoot her first then myself!' Paladin declared, raising his voice dramatically, then suddenly winked at Varya, as though he had cracked a slightly improper but terribly funny joke.

There was silence behind the door.

'Do not look at me like that, as though I have suddenly sprouted horns and grown fangs, Mademoiselle Barbara,' Paladin said in a low voice, speaking normally now. 'Of course I am not going to kill you and I would not wish to place your life in danger for the world.'

'Indeed?' she asked acidly. 'Then what is the point of this farce? Why did you kill three entirely innocent people? What are you hoping to achieve?'

Anwar-effendi (it was time to forget Paladin) took out his watch. 'Five minutes past six. I needed "this farce" in order to gain time. And by the way, you need not be concerned about the junior lieutenant. Knowing your fondness for him I merely put a hole in his thigh -nothing too serious. Afterwards he will boast of his war wound. And as for the gendarmes, that is the nature of their job.'

Varya asked warily: 'To gain time? What for?'

'Well, Mademoiselle Barbara, according to the plan, a regiment of Anatolian infantry is due to enter San Stefano in one hour and twenty-five minutes - that is, at half past seven. They are one of the finest units in the entire Turkish guards. The assumption was that by then Sobolev's detachment would already have reached the outskirts of Istanbul, come under fire from the English fleet and pulled back. The riflemen would have struck the Russians from the rear as they withdrew in disorder. An elegant plan and everything was going without a hitch until the very last minute.'

'What plan do you mean?'

'As I said, it was an elegant one. First gently prompt Michel to start thinking about that temptingly abandoned passenger train. You were very helpful to me in that, for which I thank you. "Open a book and drink some hot tea" - that was magnificent. After that it was simple - the vaulting ambition of our peerless Achilles, his indomitable mettle and belief in his star would have carried things to their conclusion. Oh, Sobolev would not have been killed. I would not have allowed that. In the first place, I am genuinely obligated to him, and in the second place, the capture of the great Ak-pasha would have made a spectacular start to the second stage of the Balkan war.' Anwar sighed. 'It is a shame the plan miscarried. Your youthful old man is to be congratulated. As the Eastern sages say, it is karma.'

'What is it that they say?' Varya asked in astonishment.

'There now, you see, Mademoiselle Barbara, you are an educated, cultured young lady, but there are elementary things that you do not know,' her bizarre companion said reproachfully. 'Karma is one of the fundamental concepts of Hindu and Buddhist philosophy -something akin to the Christian Providence, but far more interesting. After all, the East is far more ancient, wise and complex. My country Turkey happens to be situated precisely at the crossroads of the East and the West; it is a country that could have a great future.'

'No more lectures, if you please,' said Varya, cutting short his deliberations. 'What do you intend to do?'

'Why, what can I do?' Anwar asked in astonishment. 'Naturally, I shall wait until half past seven. The original plan has failed, but the Anatolian infantry will arrive nonetheless. There will be a battle. If our guardsmen prevail - and they have the advantage of numbers, and the training, and the factor of surprise - then I am saved. However, if Sobolev's men hold out . . . But let us not attempt to guess the future. By the way,' he said, looking Varya in the eye earnestly, 'I know how determined you can be, but do not imagine you can warn your friends about the attack. The moment you open your mouth to shout, I shall be obliged to stop it with a gag. And I will do it, despite the sincere respect and sympathy that I feel for you.'

So saying, he unfastened his necktie, rolled it into a tight ball and put it in his pocket.

'A gag for a lady?' Varya laughed. 'I liked you much better as a Frenchman.'

'I assure you that a French spy would behave in exactly the same way if so much depended on his actions. I am used to taking no thought for my own life; I have gambled it so many times for the sake of the cause. And that gives me the right to take no thought for the lives of others. In this game, Mademoiselle Barbara, the rules are the same for all. It is a cruel game, but then life is a cruel business. Do you imagine I felt no pity for the brave-hearted Zurov or the good-hearted McLaughlin? Why, of course I did, but there are higher values than personal sentiment.'

'And exactly what values might those be?' Varya exclaimed. 'Pray explain to me, Monsieur Intrigant, what exalted ideas can justify killing a man who regards you as his friend?'

'An excellent subject for discussion,' said Anwar, moving up a chair. 'Please, take a seat, Mademoiselle Barbara; we need some way to while away the time. And do not scowl at me in that manner. I am no ogre,-1 am merely an enemy of your country. I do not wish you to regard me as the heartless monster depicted by the preternaturally perceptive Monsieur Fandorin. He was the one who should have been neutralised in good time . . . Yes, I am a killer. But then all of us here are killers - your Fandorin, and the deceased Zurov, and Mizinov. But Sobolev is a super-killer; he is simply swimming in blood. In these men's games of ours there are only two possible roles: the killer and the victim. Do not cherish any illusions, mademoiselle; we all live in the jungle. Try to regard me without prejudice: forget that you are Russian and I am a Turk. I am a man who has chosen a very difficult path in life. And, moreover, a man to whom you are not indifferent. I am even a little in love with you myself.'

Varya frowned, stung by the words 'a little'.

'I am most exceedingly grateful.'

'There now, I have expressed myself clumsily,' said Anwar with a shrug. 'I cannot possibly allow myself to fall in love in earnest; it would be an unforgivable and dangerous indulgence. Let us not talk of that. Let me rather answer your question. It is distressing to deceive or kill a friend, but that is a price which must sometimes be paid. I have had to do things . . .' He twitched the corner of his mouth nervously. 'However, if one commits oneself absolutely to a great idea, one is obliged to sacrifice one's personal attachments. One hardly needs to go far to seek examples! I have no doubt that, as a progressive young woman, you are inclined to view revolutionary ideas sympathetically. Am I not right? I have noticed that in your Russia the revolutionaries have already started shooting occasionally. But soon a genuine clandestine war will begin - you may take the word of a professional on that. Idealistic young men and women will start blowing up palaces, trains and carriages. And inevitably, in addition to the reactionary minister or the villainous governor, they will contain innocent people - relatives, assistants, servants. But that is all right if it is for the sake of the idea. Give them time and your idealists will worm their way into positions of trust, and spy, and deceive, and kill apostates - and all for the sake of an idea.'

'And just what is your idea?' Varya asked sharply.

'I will tell you, by all means.' Anwar leaned his elbow against the shelves full of bags of money. 'I see salvation not in revolution, but in evolution. But evolution needs to be set on the right path; it has to be given a helping hand. This nineteenth century of ours is a decisive period for the fate of humanity - of that I am profoundly convinced. The forces of reason and tolerance must be helped to prevail, otherwise serious and needless convulsions await the Earth in the very near future.'

'And where do reason and tolerance dwell? In the realms of your Abdul-Hamid?'

'No, of course not. I am thinking of those countries where a man learns to respect himself and others a little - not to bludgeon others into agreement, but to convince them through argument, to support the weak and tolerate those who think differently from him. Ah what promising processes are in train in Western Europe and the United States of North America! Naturally, I do not idealise them - far from it. They have a lot of filth of their own, many crimes and a lot of stupidity. But they are heading in the right general direction. The world has to follow the same course, otherwise mankind will founder, sink into an abyss of chaos and tyranny. As yet the bright spot on the map of the world is still very small - though it is expanding rapidly. But it needs to be protected against the onslaught of darkness and ignorance. A grandiose game of chess is being played out, and I am playing for the white pieces.'

'And I suppose Russia is playing for the black?'

'Yes. Today your immensely powerful state constitutes the main danger to civilisation - with its vast expanses, its multitudinous, ignorant population, its cumbersome and aggressive state apparatus. I have taken a keen interest in Russia for a long time; I learned the language, I travelled a lot, I read historical works. I studied your state apparatus, became acquainted with your leaders. Try listening to our own darling Michel, with his aspirations to be the new Bonaparte! The mission of the Russian people is to take Constantinople and unite the Slavs? To what end? So that the Romanovs might once again impose their will on Europe? A nightmarish prospect indeed! It is not pleasant for you to hear this, Mademoiselle Barbara, but lurking within Russia is a terrible threat to civilisation. There are savage, destructive forces fermenting within her, forces which will break out sooner or later, and then the world will be in a bad way. It is an unstable, absurd country that has absorbed all the worst features of the West and the East. Russia has to be put back in its place; its reach has to be shortened. It will be good for you, and it will give Europe a chance to carry on developing in the right direction. You know, Mademoiselle Barbara' - Anwar's voice trembled unexpectedly - 'I love my poor unfortunate Turkey very much. It is a country of great missed opportunities. But I am prepared deliberately to sacrifice the Ottoman state in order to deflect the Russian threat to mankind. To put it in chess terms, do you know the meaning of the term "gambit" ? No? In Italian gambetto means a "a trip", as in "to trip someone up" - dare il gambetto. A gambit is an opening in a game of chess in which a piece is sacrificed to the opponent in order to obtain a strategic advantage. I myself devised the sequence of play in this particular game and I opened by offering Russia fat, appetising, weak Turkey. The Ottoman Empire will perish, but Tsar Alexander will not win the game. Indeed, the war has gone so well that all may not yet be lost for Turkey. She still has Midhat-pasha. He is a quite remarkable man, Mademoiselle Barbara. I deliberately left him out of the action for a while, but now I shall reintroduce him . . . provided, of course, that I am allowed the chance. Midhat-pasha will return to Istanbul unsullied and take power into his own hands. Perhaps then even Turkey will move from the zone of darkness into the zone of light.'

Mizinov's voice spoke from behind the door: 'Mr Anwar, what is the point of dragging this business out? This is mere cowardice! Come out and I promise you the status of a prisoner of war.'

'And the gallows for Kazanzaki and Zurov?' whispered Anwar.

Varya filled her lungs with air, but the Turk was on the alert - he took the gag out of his pocket and shook his head expressively. Then he shouted: 'I shall need to think about that, Monsieur General! I'll give you my answer at half past seven.'

After that he said nothing for a long time, striding agitatedly around the vault and looking at his watch several times.

'If only I could get out of here!' this strange man eventually murmured, striking a cast-iron shelf with his fist. 'Without me Abdul-Hamid will devour the noble Midhat!'

He glanced apologetically at Varya with his clear blue eyes and explained: 'Forgive me, Mademoiselle Barbara, my nerves are under strain. My life is of some considerable consequence in this game. My life is also a chess piece, but I value it more highly than the Ottoman Empire itself. We might say that the empire is a bishop, while I am a queen. Though for the sake of victory even a queen may be sacrificed ... In any case, I have not yet lost the game, and a tie is guaranteed!' he laughed excitedly. 'I managed to delay your army at Plevna for much longer than I had hoped. You have squandered your forces and wasted precious time. England has had time to prepare herself for the confrontation, Austria has recovered its courage. Even if there is no second stage of the war, Russia will still be left on the sidelines. It took her twenty years to recover from the Crimean campaign, and she will be licking her wounds for another twenty after this war. And that is now, at the end of the nineteenth century, when every year is so important. In twenty years Europe will move on far ahead. Henceforth Russia is destined to play the role of a second-class power. She will be devoured by the canker of corruption and nihilism; she will no longer pose a threat to progress.'

At this point Varya's patience gave out. 'Just who are you to judge who is the bringer of good to civilisation and who is the bringer of destruction? You studied the state apparatus, became acquainted with the leaders! And have you made the acquaintance of Count Tolstoy and Fyodor Dostoevsky? Have you read Russian literature? I suppose you had no time for that? Two times two is always four and three times three is always nine, isn't it? And two parallel lines never intersect? In your Euclid they don't intersect, but for our Lobachevsky they have!'

'I do not follow your logic,' Anwar said with a shrug. 'But of course I have read Russian literature. It is good literature, no worse than English or French. But literature is a toy, - in a normal country it cannot have any great importance. I am myself something of a literary man, in a sense. But one must do something serious, and not just compose sentimental fairy tales. Look at Switzerland. It has no great literature, but life there is incomparably more dignified than in your Russia. I spent almost my entire childhood and adolescence in Switzerland, so you may take my word for it that—'

Before he could finish, there was a crackle of gunfire in the distance.

‘It has begun! They have attacked ahead of time!' Anwar pressed his ear against the door with his eyes glittering feverishly. 'Curses! It is just my bad luck that this infernal vault does not have a single window!'

Varya struggled in vain to calm her pounding heart. The thunderous noise of shooting was drawing nearer. She could hear Sobolev giving some command or other, but she couldn't make out the words. From somewhere there came a cry of 'Allah!' and a rapid volley of shots.

Anwar murmured as he spun the chamber of his revolver. ‘I could try to break out, but I have only three bullets left . . . How I detest inaction!' He started at the sudden sound of shots inside the building.

'If our men win, I shall send you to Adrianople,' Anwar said rapidly. 'Clearly, the war will end now. There will be no second stage. That is unfortunate. Not everything turns out the way you plan it. Perhaps you and I will meet again. At this moment, of course, you hate me, but time will pass and you will realise that I was right.'

‘I feel no hatred for you,' said Varya, 'but I do bitterly regret that such a talented man as you is engaged in such despicable goings-on. I remember Mizinov relating the story of your life . . .'

'Indeed?' Anwar put in absent-mindedly, still listening to the shooting.

'Yes. All those intrigues and all those people who died! Was that Circassian who sang an aria before his execution not a friend of yours? Did you sacrifice him as well?'

‘I do not care to recall that story’ he said severely. 'Do you know who I am? I am the midwife: I help the child to enter the world, and my arms are covered up to the elbows in blood and mucus . . .'

A volley of shots rang out very close by.

'I am going to open the door now and help my own side. You stay in here and for God's sake do not stick your head out. It will all be over soon.'

He pulled back the bolt and suddenly froze - there was no more shooting in the bank. There was a voice saying something, but it was not clear whether it was speaking Russian or Turkish. Varya held her breath.

‘I’ll rip your ugly face off! Sitting it out in the corner, you blankety-blank-blank,' a sergeant-major's deep bass roared, and the sweet sounds of her native speech set her heart singing.

They had held out! They had beaten them off!

The sound of shooting was moving further and further away, and there was a quite distinct, long-drawn-out cry of 'Hoorah!'

Anwar stood there with his eyes closed. His expression was calm and sad. When the firing stopped completely, he opened the door a little.

'It is over, mademoiselle. Your captivity is at an end. Go now.'

'What about you?' whispered Varya.

'The queen has been sacrificed without any particular gain. Regrettable. But everything else remains unchanged. Go, and I wish you happiness.'

'No!' she cried, dodging away from his hands. 'I will not leave you here. Give yourself up and I will testify on your behalf at the trial.'

'So that they can stitch up my throat and then hang me anyway?' laughed Anwar. 'Thank you kindly, but no. There are two things I detest more than anything else on earth: humiliation and capitulation. Farewell, I need to be alone for a moment.'

He managed to grab hold of Varya's sleeve and with a gentle push he sent her out through the doorway. The massive slab of steel immediately slammed shut.

Varya found herself facing a pale Fandorin. General Mizinov was standing by a shattered window and yelling at the gendarmes who were sweeping up the shards of glass. It was already light outside.

'Where is Michel?' Varya asked in fright. 'Is he dead? Wounded?'

'Alive and well,' replied Erast Petrovich, looking her over closely. 'He is in his natural element - pursuing the enemy. But poor Perepyolkin has been wounded again - a yataghan took off half of his ear. He will obviously be awarded another medal. And have no fear for Ensign Gridnev: he is alive too.'

'I know,' she said, and Fandorin's eyes narrowed slightly.

Mizinov came over to them and complained: 'Another hole in my greatcoat. What a day. So he let you out? Excellent! Now we can use the dynamite.' He approached the door of the strongroom cautiously and ran his hand over the steel surface. 'I'd say two charges ought to be just enough to do it. Or perhaps that's too much? It would be good to take the villain alive.'

A carefree and highly melodic whistling suddenly started up behind the door.

'And now he's whistling!' Mizinov exclaimed indignantly. 'Some nerve, eh? Well, I'll soon whistle you out of there! Novgorodtsev! Send the sappers' platoon for some dynamite!'

'No d-dynamite will be necessary,' Erast Petrovich said in a soft voice as he listened carefully to the whistling.

'You have started stammering again’ Varya told him. 'Does that mean everything is all over?'

Sobolev strode into the room with a loud clattering of boots, his white greatcoat with the scarlet cuffs hanging open.

'They have fallen back!' he announced in a voice hoarse after the battle. 'Our losses are appalling, but never mind, there should be a troop train here soon. Who's whistling that tune so marvellously? It's Lucia di Lammermoor-, I adore it!' And the general began singing along in his pleasant, husky baritone.

Del ciel clemente un riso

la vita a noi sara!

He sang the final stanza with feeling and at the very moment he reached the end there was the sound of a shot from behind the door.

Epilogue

Moscow Provincial Gazette

19 February (3 March) 1878

Peace is Signed!

Today, on the joyous anniversary of His Imperial Majesty's magnanimous act of charity to the peasantry 17 years ago, a joyous new page has been written in the annals of the glorious reign of the Tsar-Liberator. In San Stefano Russian and Turkish plenipotentiaries have signed a peace bringing to a conclusion the glorious war for the liberation of the Christian nations from Turkish overlordship. The terms of the treaty grant Roumania and Serbia complete independence, establish an extensive Principality of Bulgaria and grant Russia the sum of one billion, four hundred and ten million roubles in reparation for her war costs, the greater part of this sum to be paid in territorial concessions, including Bessarabia and Dobrudja, as well Ardagan, Kars, Batoumi, Bajazet . . .

'You see, a peace has been signed, and a very good one - despite your gloomy predictions, Mister Pessimist,' said Varya, failing yet again to find the words she really wanted to say.

The titular counsellor had already said goodbye to yesterday's suspect and today's free man, Petya, who had got into the carriage to settle into a compartment and lay out their things. In honour of the victorious conclusion of the war Pyotr Yablokov had been granted a complete pardon and even a medal for diligent service.

They could have left two weeks earlier, but although Petya had tried to hurry her, Varya had kept putting it off, as if she were waiting for something that she couldn't explain.

It was a shame that her parting with Sobolev had not gone well; in fact Sobolev had taken offence. Bother him anyway. A hero like that would find someone to console him soon enough.

And now the day had arrived when she had to say goodbye to Erast Petrovich. Varya's nerves had been on edge since early that morning, she'd thrown a fit of hysterics because of some lost brooch and blamed Petya for it, then burst into tears.

Fandorin was staying on in San Stefano - the diplomatic hustle and bustle was by no means all over simply because the peace had been signed. He had come straight to the station from some reception, in a tailcoat, top hat and white silk tie. He gave Varya a bunch of Parma violets, sighed a little and shifted from one foot to the other, but his sparkling eloquence had deserted him today.

'The peace is f-far too good,' he replied. 'Europe will not recognise it. Anwar executed his gambit p-per-fectly, and I lost the game. They have given me a medal, but they ought to have put me on trial.'

'How unfair you are to yourself. Terribly unfair!' Varya exclaimed passionately, afraid that her tears would start to flow. 'Why are you always so hard on yourself? If not for you, I don't know what would have become of us all . . .'

'Lavrenty Arkadievich told me much the same thing’ said Fandorin with a smile. 'And he p-promised me any reward in his power.'

Varya was delighted. 'Really? Well, that is wonderful! And what did you wish for?'

'For a posting somewhere on the far side of the world, as far away as possible from all this.' He waved his hand vaguely through the air.

'What nonsense! What did Mizinov say?'

'He was furious. But a promise is a promise. When the negotiations are c-completed I shall travel from Constantinople to Port Said, and from there by steamship to Japan. I have been appointed second secretary at the embassy in Tokyo. There is nowhere further away than that.'

'To Japan . . .' The tears broke through after all, and Varya furiously wiped them away with her glove.

The bell rang and the locomotive sounded its whistle. Petya stuck his head out of the window of the carriage.

'Varya, it's time. We're leaving.'

Erast Petrovich hesitated and lowered his eyes. 'G-goodbye, Varvara Andreevna. I was very glad . . .' He did not finish the phrase.

Varya clutched hold of his hand impetuously and began blinking rapidly, shaking the teardrops off her eyelashes.

'Erast . . .' she began in sudden haste, but the words stuck in her throat and would not come out.

Fandorin jerked his chin and said nothing.

The wheels clanked and the carriage swayed.

'Varya, they'll take me away without you!' Petya shouted despairingly. 'Quick!'

She glanced round, hesitated for just one more second and leapt on to the step as it glided along the edge of the platform.

'. . . first of all a hot bath. Then Filippov's bakery and some of that apricot pastille you're so fond of. And then the bookshop for all the new publications, and then the university. Can you imagine all the questions everyone will ask, all the . . .'

Varya stood at the window, nodding in time to Petya's contented babbling. She wanted to keep the black figure left behind on the platform in sight for as long as possible, but the figure was acting strangely, blurring like that ... Or could there perhaps be something wrong with her eyes?

The Times (London) 10 March (26 February) 1878

Her Majesty's Government Says 'No'

Today Lord Derby announced that the British government, supported by the governments of the majority of European states, categorically refuses to recognise the exorbitant peace terms imposed on Turkey by the rapacious appetites of Tsar Alexander. The Treaty of San Stefano is contrary to the interests of European security and must be reviewed at a special congress in which all the great powers will take part.

MURDER ON THE LEVIATHAN

by

BORIS AKUNIN

Translated by Andrew Bromfield

Weidenfeld & Nicolson

From Commissioner Gauche’s black file

Record of an examination of the scene of the crime carried out on the evening of 15 March 1898 in the mansion of Lord Littleby on the rue de Crenelle (7th arrondissement of the city of Paris) [A brief extract]

… For reasons unknown all the household staff were gathered in the pantry, which is located on the ground floor of the mansion to the left of the entrance hall (room 3 on diagram 1). The precise locations of the bodies are indicated on diagram 4, in which:

No. 1 is the body of the butler, Etienne Delarue, age 48 years

No. 2 is the body of the housekeeper, Laura Bernard, age 54 years

No. 3 is the body of the master’s manservant, Marcel Prout, age 28 years

No. 4 is the body of the butler’s son, Luc Delarue, age 11 years

No. 5 is the body of the maid, Arlette Foche, age 19 years

No. 6 is the body of the housekeeper’s granddaughter, Anne Marie Bernard, age 6 years

No. 7 is the position of the security guard Jean Lesage, age 42 years, who died in the St-Lazare hospital on the morning of 16 March without regaining consciousness

No. 8 is the body of the security guard Patrick Trois-Bras, age 29 years

No. 9 is the body of the porter, Jean Carpentier, age 40 years.

The bodies shown as Nos. 1-6 are in sitting positions around the large kitchen table. Nos. 1-3 are frozen with their heads lowered onto their crossed arms, No. 4 is resting his cheek on his hands, No. 5 is reclining against the back of the chair and No. 6 is in a kneeling position beside No. 2. The faces of Nos. 1-6 are calm, without any indication whatever of fear or suffering. On the other hand, Nos. 7-9, as the diagram shows, are lying at a distance from the table and No. 7 is holding a whistle in his hand. However, none of the neighbours heard the sound of a whistle yesterday evening. The faces of No. 8 and No. 9 are set in expressions of horror, or at the very least of extreme consternation (photographs will be provided tomorrow morning).

There are no signs of a struggle. A rapid examination also failed to reveal any sign of injury to the bodies. The cause of death cannot be determined without a post-mortem. From the degree of rigor mortis the forensic medical specialist Maitre Bernhem determined that death occurred at various times between ten o’clock in the evening (No. 6) and six o’clock in the morning, while No. 7, as stated above, died later in hospital.

Anticipating the results of the medical examination, I venture to surmise that all of the victims were exposed to a potent and fast acting poison inducing a narcotic effect, and the time at which their hearts stopped beating depended either on the dose of poison received or the physical strength of each of the victims.

The front door of the mansion was closed but not locked.

However, the window of the conservatory (item 8 on diagram 1) bears clear indications of a forced entry: the glass is broken and on the narrow strip of loose cultivated soil below it there is the indistinct imprint of a man’s shoe with a sole 26 centimetres in length, a pointed toe and a steel-shod heel (photographs will be provided). The felon probably gained entry to the house via the garden only after the servants had been poisoned and sank into slumber, otherwise they would certainly have heard the sound of breaking glass. It remains unclear, however, why, after the servants had been rendered harmless, the perpetrator found it necessary to enter the house through the garden, when he could quite easily have walked through into the house from the pantry. In any event, the perpetrator made his way from the conservatory up to the second floor, where Lord Littleby’s personal apartments are located (see diagram 2). As the diagram shows, the left-hand section of the second floor consists of only two rooms: a hall, which houses a collection of Indian curios, and the master’s bedroom, which communicates directly with the hall. Lord Littleby’s body is indicated on diagram 2 as No. 10 (see also the outline drawing). His Lordship was dressed in a smoking jacket and woollen pantaloons and his right foot was heavily bandaged. An initial examination of the body indicates that death occurred as a result of an extraordinarily powerful blow to the parietal region of the skull with a heavy, oblong shaped object. The blow was inflicted from the front. The carpet is spattered with blood and brain tissue to a distance of several metres from the body. Likewise spattered with blood is a broken glass display case which, according to its nameplate, previously contained a statuette of the Indian god Shiva (the inscription on the nameplate reads: ‘Bangalore, 2nd half XVIII century, gold’).

The missing sculpture was displayed against a background of painted Indian shawls, one of which is also missing.

From the report by Dr Bemhem on the results of pathological and anatomical examination of the bodies removed from the rue de Grenelle … however, whereas the cause of Lord Littleby’s death (body No. 10) is clear and the only aspect which may be regarded as unusual is the force of the blow, which shattered the cranium into seven fragments, in the case of Nos. 1-9 the picture was less obvious, requiring not only a post-mortem but in addition chemical analyses and laboratory investigation. The task was simplified to some extent by the fact that J. Lesage (No. 7) was still alive when he was initially examined and certain typical indications (pinhole pupils, suppressed breathing, cold clammy skin, rubefaction of the lips and the ear lobes) indicated a presumptive diagnosis of morphine poisoning. Unfortunately,

during the initial examination at the scene of the crime we had proceeded on the apparently obvious assumption that the poison had been ingested orally, and therefore only the victims’ oral cavities and glottises were subjected to detailed scrutiny. Since no pathological indications were discovered, the forensic examination was unable to provide any conclusive answers. It was only during examination in the morgue that each of the nine deceased was discovered to possess a barely visible injection puncture on the inner flexion of the left elbow.

Although it lies outside my sphere of competence, I can venture with reasonable certainty the hypothesis that the injections were administered by a person with considerable experience in such procedures: 1) the injections were administered with great skill and precision, not one of the subjects bore any visible signs of haematoma; 2) since the normal interval before narcotic coma ensues is three minutes, all nine injections must have been administered within that period of time. Either there were several operatives involved (which is unlikely), or a single operative possessing truly remarkable skill - even if we are to assume that he had prepared a loaded syringe for each victim in advance.

Indeed, it is hard to imagine that a person in full possession of his faculties would offer his arm for an injection if he had just witnessed someone else lose consciousness as a result of the procedure. Admittedly, my assistant Maitre Jolie believes that all of these people could have been in a state of hypnotic trance, but in all my years in this line of work I have never encountered anything of the sort. Let me also draw the commissioner’s attention to the fact that Nos. 7-9 were lying on the floor in poses clearly expressive of panic. I assume that these three were the last to receive the injection (or that they offered greater resistance to the narcotic) and that before they lost consciousness they realized that something suspicious was happening to their companions. Laboratory analysis has demonstrated that each of the victims received a dose of morphine approximately three times in excess of the lethal threshold. Judging from the condition of the body of the little girl (No. 6), who must have been the first to die, the injections were administered between nine and ten o’clock on the evening of 15 March.

TEN LIVES FOR A GOLDEN IDOL!

Nightmare crime in fashionable district

Today, 16 March, all of Paris is talking of nothing but the spine-chilling crime which has shattered the decorous tranquillity of the aristocratic rue de Grenelle. The Revue parisienne‘ 5 correspondent was quick to arrive at the scene of the crime and is prepared to satisfy the legitimate curiosity of our readers.

And so, this morning as usual, shortly after seven o’clock, postman Jacques Le Chien rang the doorbell of the elegant two storey mansion belonging to the well-known British collector Lord Littleby. M. Le Chien was surprised when the porter Carpentier, who always took in the post for his Lordship in person, failed to open up, and noticing that the entrance door was slightly ajar, he stepped into the hallway. A few moments later the 70-year old veteran of the postal service ran back out onto the street, howling wildly. Upon being summoned to the house, the police discovered a scene from the kingdom of Hades - seven servants and two children (the 11year-old son of the butler and the six-year-old granddaughter of the housekeeper) lay in the embrace of eternal slumber. The police ascended the stairs to the second floor and there they discovered the master of the house, Lord Littleby, lying in a pool of blood, murdered in the very repository which housed his celebrated collection of oriental rarities. The 55-year-old Englishman was well known in the highest social circles of our capital. Despite his reputation as an eccentric and unsociable individual, archaeological scholars and orientalists respected Lord Littleby as a genuine connoisseur of Indian history and culture. Repeated attempts by the directors of the Louvre to purchase items from the lord’s diverse collection had been disdainfully rejected. The deceased prized especially highly a golden statuette of Shiva, the value of which is estimated by competent experts to be at least half a million francs. A deeply mistrustful man, Lord Littleby was very much afraid of thieves, and two armed guards were on duty in the repository by day and night.

It is not clear why the guards left their post and went down to the ground floor. Nor is it clear what mysterious power the malefactor was able to employ in order to subjugate all of the in habitants of the house to his will without the slightest resistance (the police suspect that use was made of some quick-acting poison). It is clear, however, that he did not expect to find the master of the house himself at home, and his fiendish calculations were evidently thwarted. No doubt we should see in this the explanation for the bestial ferocity with which the venerable collector was slain. The murderer apparently fled the scene of the crime in panic, taking only the statuette and one of the painted shawls displayed in the same case. The shawl was evidently required to wrap the golden Shiva - otherwise the bright lustre of the sculpture might have attracted the attention of some late-night passer-by. Other valuables (of which the collection contains a goodly number) remained untouched. Your correspondent has ascertained that Lord Littleby was at home yesterday by chance, through a fatal confluence of circumstances. He had been due to depart that evening in order to take the waters, but a sudden attack of gout resulted in his trip being postponed - and condemned him to death.

The immense blasphemy and cynicism of the murders on the rue de Grenelle defy the im agination. What contempt for human life! What monstrous cruelty! And for what? For a golden idol which it is now impossible to sell! If melted down the Shiva will be transformed into an ordinary two kilogram ingot of gold. A mere 200 grams of yellow metal, such is the value placed by the criminal on each of the ten souls who have perished. Well may we exclaim after Cicero: O temporal O mores!

There is, however, reason to believe that this supremely heinous crime will not go unpunished. That most experienced of detectives at the Paris prefecture, M. Gustave Gauche, to whom the investigation has been entrusted, has confidentially informed your correspondent that the police are in possession of a certain important piece of evidence. The commissioner is absolutely certain that retribution will be swift. When asked whether the crime was committed by a member of the professional fraternity of thieves, M. Gauche smiled slyly into his grey moustaches and enigmatically replied: ‘Oh no, young man, the thread here leads into good society.’ Your humble servant was unable to extract so much as another word from him.

J. du Roi

L

WHAT A CATCH!

The golden Shiva is found! Was the ‘Crime of the Century’ on the rue de Grenelle the work of a madman?

Yesterday, 17 March, between five o’clock and six o’clock in the afternoon, 13-year-old Pierre B. was fishing by the Pont des Invalides when his hook became snagged so firmly at the bottom of the river that he was obliged to wade into the cold water. (I’m not so stupid as to just throw away a genuine English hook!’ the young fisherman told our reporter.) Pierre’s valour was richly rewarded: the hook had not caught on some common tree root but on a weighty object half buried in the silt. Once extracted from the water the object shone with an unearthly splendour, blinding the eyes of the astonished fisherman. Pierre’s father, a retired sergeant and veteran of the Battle of Sedan, guessed that it must be the famous golden Shiva for which ten people had been killed only two days earlier, and he handed in the find at the prefecture.

What are we to make of this? For some reason a criminal who did not baulk at the cold-blooded and deliberate murder of so many people has chosen not to profit from the spoils of his monstrous initiative! Police investigators and public alike have been left guessing in the dark. The public appears inclined to believe that belated pangs of conscience must have led the murderer, aghast at the horror of his awful deed, to cast the golden idol into the river. Many go so far as to surmise that the miserable wretch also drowned himself somewhere close at hand. The police, however, are less romantically inclined and they discern clear indications of insanity in the inconsistency of the criminal’s actions.

Shall we ever learn the true background to this nightmarish and unfathomable case?

A bevy of Parisian beauties

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PART ONE

Port Said to Aden

Commissioner Gauche

At Port Said a new passenger had boarded the Leviathan, occupying stateroom No. 18, the last first-class cabin still vacant, and Gustave Gauche’s humour had immediately improved. This newcomer looked highly promising: that self-assured and unhurried way of carrying himself, that inscrutable expression on the handsome face which at first glance appeared altogether young, until the subject removed his bowler hat, unexpectedly revealing hair greying at the temples. A curious specimen, the commissioner decided. It was clear straight away that he had character and what they call a past. All in all, definitely a potential client for papa Gauche.

The passenger walked up the gangway swinging his holdall while the porters sweated as they struggled under the weight of his ample baggage: expensive squeaky suitcases, high-class pigskin travelling bags, voluminous bundles of books and even a folding tricycle (one large wheel, two small ones and a bundle of gleaming metal tubes). Bringing up the rear came two poor devils lugging an imposing set of gymnastic weights.

Gauche’s heart, the heart of an old sleuth (as the commissioner himself was fond of testifying), had thrilled to the lure of the hunt when this newcomer proved to have no golden badge - neither on the silk lapel of his dandified summer coat, nor on his jacket, nor on his watch chain. Warmer now, very warm, thought Gauche as he vigilantly scrutinized the fop from beneath his bushy brows and puffed on his favourite clay pipe. But of course, why had he, old dunderhead that he was, assumed that the murderer would definitely board the steamship at Southampton? The crime was committed on 15 March and today was already 1 April. It would have been perfectly easy to reach Port Said while the Leviathan was rounding the western contour of Europe. And there you had it, everything fitted: clearly the right kind of character for a client, plus a first-class ticket, plus the most important thing - no golden whale.

For some time now Gauche’s dreams had been haunted by that accursed badge with the acronym for the steamship company of the Jasper-Artaud Partnership, and without exception his dreams had been uncommonly bad ones. Take the most recent case, for instance.

The commissioner was out boating with Mme Gauche in the Bois de Boulogne. The sun was shining high in the sky and the birds were twittering in the trees. Suddenly a gigantic golden face with inanely goggling eyes loomed up over the treetops, opened cavernous jaws that could have accommodated the Arc de Triomphe with ease, and began sucking in the pond. Gauche broke into a sweat and laid into the oars. Meanwhile it transpired that events were not taking place in the park at all, but in the middle of a boundless ocean. The oars buckled like straws, Mme Gauche was jabbing him painfully in the back with her umbrella, and an immense gleaming carcass blotted out the entire horizon. When it spouted a fountain that eclipsed half the sky, the commissioner woke up and began fumbling around on his bedside table with trembling fingers - where were his pipe and those matches?

Gauche had first laid eyes on the golden whale on the rue de Grenelle when he was examining Lord Littleby’s mortal remains. The Englishman lay there with his open mouth frozen in a soundless scream - his false teeth had come halfway out and his forehead was crowned by a bloody souffle. Gauche squatted down on his haunches: he thought he had spotted a glint of gold between the corpse’s fingers. Taking a closer look, he chortled in delight. Here was a stroke of uncommonly good luck, the kind that only occurred in crime novels. The helpful corpse had literally handed the investigation an important clue and not even on a plate, but on the palm of its hand. There you are, Gustave, take that. Now may you die of shame if you dare let the person who smashed my head open get away, you old blockhead!

The golden emblem (at first, of course, Gauche had not known that it was an emblem, he had thought it was a bracelet charm or a monogrammed hairpin) could only have belonged to the murderer. But naturally, just to be sure, the commissioner had shown the whale to the junior manservant (what a lucky lad he was - 15 March was his day off and that had saved his life!), but the manservant had never seen his Lordship with the trinket before.

After that the entire ponderous mechanism of the police system had whirred into action, flywheels twirling and pinions spinning, as the minister and the prefect threw their very finest forces into solving the ‘Crime of the Century’. By the evening of the following day Gauche already knew that the three letters on the golden whale were not the initials of some high liver hopelessly mired in debt, but the insignia of a newly established Franco-British shipping consortium. The whale proved to be the emblem of the miracle-ship Leviathan, newly launched from the slipway at Bristol and currently being readied for its maiden voyage to India.

The newspapers had been trumpeting the praises of the gigantic steamship for more than a month. Now it transpired that on the eve of the Leviathan’s first sailing the London Mint had produced gold and silver commemorative badges: gold for the first-class passengers and senior officers of the ship, silver for second-class passengers and subalterns. Aboard this luxurious vessel, where the achievements of modern science were combined with an unprecedented degree of comfort, no provision at all was made for third class. The company guaranteed travellers a comprehensive service, making it unnecessary to take any servants along on the voyage. ‘The shipping line’s attentive valets and tactful maids are on hand to ensure that you feel entirely at home on the Leviathan,’ promised the advertisement printed in newspapers right across Europe. Those fortunate individuals who had booked a cabin for the first cruise from Southampton to Calcutta received a gold or silver whale with their ticket, according to their class - and a ticket could be booked in any major European port from London to Constantinople.

Very well then, the emblem of the Leviathan was not as good as the initials of its owner, but this only complicated the problem slightly, the commissioner had reasoned. There was a strictly limited number of gold badges. All he had to do was to wait until 19 March (that was the day appointed for the triumphant first sailing), go to Southampton, board the steamer and look to see which of the first-class passengers had no golden whale. Or else (which was more likely), which of the passengers who had laid out the money to buy a ticket failed to turn up for boarding. He would be papa Gauche’s client. Simple as potato soup.

Gauche thoroughly disliked travelling, but this time he couldn’t resist. He badly wanted to solve the ‘Crime of the Century’ himself. Who could tell, they might just give him a division at long last. He only had three years left to retirement.

A third-class pension was one thing, but a second-class pension was a different matter altogether. The difference was 1500 francs a year, and that kind of money didn’t exactly grow on trees.

In any case, he had put himself forward. He thought he would just nip across to Southampton and then, at worst, sail as far as Le Havre (the first stop) where there would be gendarmes and reporters lined up on the quayside. A tall headline in the Revue parisienne: ‘ “Crime of the Century” solved: our police rise to the occasion.’ Or better still: ‘Old sleuth Gauche pulls it off!’

Ha! The first unpleasant surprise had been waiting for the commissioner at the shipping line office in Southampton, where he discovered that the infernally huge steamship had 100 first class cabins and ten senior officers. The tickets had all been sold.

All 132 of them. And a gold badge had been issued with each and every one. A total of 142 suspects, if you please! But then only one of them would have no badge, Gauche had reassured himself.

On the morning of 19 March the commissioner, wrapped up against the damp wind in a warm woolly muffler, had been standing close to the gangway beside the captain, Mr Josiah Cliff, and the first lieutenant, M. Charles Renier. They were greeting the passengers. The brass band played English and French marching tunes by turns, the crowd on the pier generated an excited hubbub and Gauche puffed away in a rising fury, biting down hard on his entirely blameless pipe. For alas, due to the cold weather all of the passengers were wearing raincoats, overcoats, greatcoats or capotes. Now just try figuring out who has a badge and who doesn’t! That was unpleasant surprise number two.

Everyone who was due to board the steamship in Southampton had arrived, indicating that the criminal must have shown up for the sailing despite having lost the badge. Evidently he must think that policemen were total idiots. Or was he hoping to lose himself in such an immense crowd? Or perhaps he simply had no option?

In any case, one thing was clear: Gauche would have to go along as far as Le Havre. He had been allocated the cabin reserved for honoured guests of the shipping line.

Immediately after the ship had sailed a banquet was held in the first-class grand saloon, an event of-which the commissioner had especially high hopes since the invitations bore the instruction: ‘Admission on presentation of a gold badge or first-class ticket’. Why on earth would anyone bother to carry around a ticket, when it was so much simpler to pin on your little gold leviathan?

At the banquet Gauche let his imagination run wild as he mentally frisked everyone present. He was even obliged to stick his nose into some ladies’ decolletes to check whether they had anything dangling in there on a gold chain, perhaps a whale, perhaps simply a pendant. He had to check, surely?

Everyone was drinking champagne, nibbling on various savoury delicacies from silver trays and dancing, but Gauche was hard at work, eliminating from his list those who had their badge in place. It was the men who caused him the greatest problems. Many of the swines had attached the whale to their watch chains or even stuck it in their waistcoat pockets, and the commissioner was obliged to inquire after the exact time on eleven occasions.

Surprise number three: all of the officers had their badges in place, but there were actually four passengers wearing no emblem, including two of the female sex! The blow that had cracked open Lord Littleby’s skull like a nutshell was so powerful it could surely only have been struck by a man, and a man of exceptional strength at that. On the other hand, as a highly experienced specialist in criminal matters, the commissioner was well aware that in a fit of passion or hysterical excitement even the weakest of little ladies was capable of performing genuine miracles. He had no need to look far for examples.

Why, only last year a milliner from Neuilly, a frail little chit of a thing, had taken her unfaithful lover, a well-nourished rentier twice as fat and half as tall again as herself and thrown him out of a fourth-floor window. So it would not do at all to eliminate women who happened to have no badge from the list of suspects.

Although who had ever heard of a woman, especially from good society, mastering the knack of giving injections like that?

What with one thing and another, the investigation on board the Leviathan threatened to drag on, and so the commissioner had set about dealing with things in his customary thorough fashion. Captain Josiah Cliff was the only officer of the steamship who had been made privy to the secret investigation, and he had instructions from the management of the shipping company to afford the French guardian of the law every possible assistance. Gauche exploited this privilege quite unceremoniously by demanding that all the individuals of interest to him be assigned to the same saloon.

It should be explained at this point that out of considerations of privacy and comfort (after all, the ship’s advertisement had boasted: ‘On board you will discover the atmosphere of a fine old English country estate’) those individuals travelling first class LEVIATHAN were not expected to take their meals in the vast dining hall together with the 600 bearers of democratic silver whales, but were assigned to their own comfortable ‘saloons’, each of which bore its own aristocratic title and in appearance resembled a high-society hotel, with crystal candelabra, fumed oak and mahogany, velvet-upholstered chairs, gleaming table silver, prim waiters and officious stewards. For his own purposes Commissioner Gauche had singled out the Windsor saloon. Located on the upper deck in the bow section, it had three walls of continuous windows affording a magnificent view, so that even when the day was overcast there was no need to switch on the lights. The velvet upholstery here was a fine shade of golden brown and the linen table napkins were adorned with the Windsor coat of arms.

Standing around the oval table with its legs bolted to the floor (a precaution against any likelihood of severe pitching and rolling) there were ten chairs, with their tall backs carved in designs incorporating a motley assortment of gothic knick-knacks. The commissioner liked the idea of everyone sitting around the same table and he had ordered the steward not to set out the name plates at random but with strategic intent: he had seated the four passengers without badges directly opposite himself so that he could keep a close eye on those particular pigeons. It had not proved possible to seat the captain himself at the head of the table, as Gauche had planned. Mr Josiah Cliff did not wish (as he himself had expressed it) ‘to have any part in this charade’, and had chosen to base himself in the York saloon where the new Viceroy of India was taking his meals with his wife and two generals of the Indian army. York was located in the prestigious stern, as far removed as possible from plague-stricken Windsor, where the head of the table was taken by first mate Charles Renier. The commissioner had taken an instant dislike to Renier, with that face bronzed by the sun and the wind, that honeyed way of speaking, that head of dark hair gleaming with brilliantine, that dyed moustache with its two spruce little curls.

A buffoon, not a sailor.

In the course of the twelve days that had elapsed since they sailed, the commissioner had subjected his saloon-mates to close scrutiny, absorbed the rudiments of society manners (that is, he had learned not to smoke during a meal and not to mop up his gravy with a crust of bread), more or less mastered the complex geography of this floating city and grown accustomed to the ship’s pitching, but he had still made no progress towards his goal.

The situation was now as follows:

Initially his list of suspects had been headed by Sir Reginald Milford-Stokes, an emaciated, ginger-haired gentleman with tousled sideburns. He looked about twenty-eight or thirty years old and behaved oddly, either gazing vaguely into the distance with those wide green eyes of his and not responding to questions, or suddenly becoming animated and prattling on about the island of Tahiti, coral reefs, emerald lagoons and huts with roofs made of palm leaves. Clearly some kind of mental case. Why else would a baronet, the scion of a wealthy family, go travelling to some God-forsaken Oceania at the other end of the world? What did he think he would find there? And note, too, that this blasted aristocrat had twice ignored a question about his missing badge. He stared straight through the commissioner, and when he did happen to glance at him he seemed to be scrutinizing some insignificant insect. A rotten snob. Back in Le Havre (where they had stood for four hours) Gauche had made a dash to the telegraph and sent off an inquiry about Milford-Stokes to Scotland Yard: who was he, did he have any record of violent behaviour, had he ever dabbled in the study of medicine? The reply that had arrived just before they sailed contained nothing of great interest, but it had explained away the strange mannerisms. Even so, he did not have a golden whale, which meant it was still too early for Gauche to remove the ginger gentleman from his list of potential clients.

The second suspect was M. Gintaro Aono, a ‘Japanese nobleman’ (or so it said in the register of passengers). He was a typical Oriental, short and skinny. He could be almost any age, with LEVIATHAN that thin moustache and those narrow, piercing eyes. He remained silent most of the time at table. When asked what he did, he mumbled in embarrassment: ‘An officer of the Imperial Army.’ When asked about his badge he became even more embarrassed, cast a glance of searing hatred at the commissioner, excused himself and left the room, without even finishing his soup. Decidedly suspicious! An absolute savage.

He fanned himself in the saloon with a bright-coloured paper contraption, like some pederast from one of those dens of dubious delight behind the rue de Rivoli, and he strolled about the deck in his wooden slippers and cotton robe without any trousers at all. Of course, Gustave Gauche was all in favour of liberty, equality and fraternity, but a popinjay like that really ought not to have been allowed into first class.

And then there were the women.

Mme Renate Kleber. Young, barely twenty perhaps. The wife of an employee of a Swiss bank, travelling to join her husband in Calcutta. She could hardly be described as a beauty, with that pointy nose, but she was lively and talkative. She had informed him she was pregnant the very moment they were introduced.

All her thoughts and feelings were governed by this single circumstance.

A sweet and ingenuous woman, but absolutely insupportable. In twelve days she had succeeded in boring the commissioner to death by chattering about her precious health, embroidering nightcaps and other such nonsense. Nothing but a belly on legs, although she was not very far along yet and the belly was only just beginning to show. Gauche, naturally, had chosen his moment and asked where her emblem was. The Swiss lady had blinked her bright little eyes and complained that she was always losing things. Which seemed very likely to be true. For Renate Kleber the commissioner felt a mixture of irritation and protectiveness, but he did not take her seriously as a client.

When it came to the second lady, Miss Clarissa Stamp, the worldly-wise detective felt a far keener interest. There was something about her that seemed not quite right. She appeared to be a typical Englishwoman, nothing out of the ordinary. No longer young, with dull, colourless hair and rather sedate manners, but just occasionally those watery eyes would give a flash of devilment.

He’d seen her type before. What was it the English said about still waters? There were a few other little details worthy of note. Mere trifles really, no one else would have paid any attention to that kind of thing, but nothing escaped Gauche, the sly old dog. Miss Stamp’s dresses and her wardrobe in general were expensive and brand new, everything in the latest Parisian style.

Her handbag was genuine tortoiseshell (he’d seen one like it in a shop window on the Champs-Elysees - three hundred and fifty francs), but the notebook she took out of it was old and made of cheap writing paper. On one occasion she had sat on the deck wearing a shawl (it was windy at the time), and it was exactly like one that Mine Gauche had, made of dog’s hair. Warm, but not at all the thing for an English lady. And it was curious that absolutely all of Clarissa Stamp’s new things were expensive but her old things were shoddy and of the very poorest quality. This was a clear discrepancy. One day just before five o’clock tea Gauche had asked her: ‘Why is it, my dear lady, that you never put on your golden whale? Do you not like it? It seems to me a very stylish trinket.’ And what was her response? She had blushed an even deeper colour than the ‘Japanese nobleman’ and said that she had worn it already but he simply hadn’t noticed. It was a lie.

Gauche would have noticed all right. The commissioner had a certain subtle ploy in mind, but he would have to choose exactly the right psychological moment. Then he would see how she would react, this Clarissa.

Since there were ten places at the table and he only had four passengers without their emblems, Gauche had decided to make up the numbers with other specimens who were also noteworthy in their own way, even though they had badges. It would widen his field of inquiry: the places were there in any case.

First of all he had demanded that the captain assign the ship’s chief physician, M. Truffo, to Windsor. Josiah Cliff had muttered a little but eventually he had given way. The reason for Gauche’s interest in the physician was clear enough - skilled in the art of giving injections, he was the only medic on board the Leviathan whose status entitled him to a golden whale. The doctor turned out to be a rather short, plump Italian with an olive complexion, a tall forehead and a bald patch with a few sparse strands of hair combed backwards across it. It was simply impossible to imagine this comical specimen in the role of a ruthless killer. In addition to the doctor, another place had to be allocated to his wife. Having married only two weeks previously, the physician had decided to combine duty and pleasure by making this voyage his honeymoon. The chair occupied by the new Mme Truffo was completely wasted. The dreary, unsmiling Englishwoman who had found favour with the shipboard Aesculapius appeared twice as old as her twenty years and inspired in Gauche a deadly ennui - as, indeed, did the majority of her female compatriots. He immediately dubbed her ‘the sheep’ for her white eyelashes and bleating voice. As it happened, she rarely opened her mouth, since she did not know French and for the most part conversations in the saloon were, thank God, conducted in that most noble of tongues. Mme Truffo had no badge of any kind, but that was only natural, since she was neither an officer nor a paying passenger.

The commissioner had also spotted in the register of passengers a certain specialist in Indian archaeology, Anthony F. Sweetchild by name, and decided that an Indologist might just come in handy. After all, the deceased Lord Littleby had also been something of the kind. Mr Sweetchild, a lanky beanpole with round-rimmed spectacles and a goatee, had himself struck up a conversation about India at the very first dinner. After the meal Gauche had taken the professor aside and cautiously steered the conversation round to the subject of Lord Littleby’s collection. The Indian specialist had contemptuously dismissed his late lordship as a dilettante and his collection as a ‘cabinet of curiosities’ assembled without any scholarly framework. He claimed that the only item of genuine value in it was the golden Shiva and said it was a good thing the Shiva had turned up on its own, because everybody knew the French police were good for nothing but taking bribes. This grossly unjust remark set Gauche coughing furiously, but Sweetchild merely advised him to smoke less. The scholar went on to remark condescendingly that Littleby had, admittedly, acquired a fairly decent collection of decorative fabrics and shawls, which happened to include some extremely curious items, but that really had more to do with the native applied arts and crafts of India. The sixteenth-century sandalwood chest from Lahore with carvings on a theme from the Mahabharata was not too bad either and then he had launched into a rigmarole that soon had the commissioner nodding off.

Gauche had selected his final saloon-mate by eye, as they say.

Quite literally so. The commissioner had only recently finished reading a most diverting volume translated from the Italian.

Cesare Lombroso, a professor of forensic medicine from the Italian city of Turin, had developed an entire theory of criminalistics according to which congenital criminals were not responsible for their antisocial behaviour. In accordance with Dr Darwin’s theory of evolution, mankind passed through a series of distinct stages in its development, gradually approaching perfection. But a criminal was an evolutionary reject, a random throwback to a previous stage. It was therefore a very simple matter to identify the potential robber or murderer: he resembled the monkey from which we were all descended. The

commissioner had pondered long and hard about what he had read. On the one hand, by no means every one of the motley crew of robbers and murderers with whom he had dealt in the course of thirty years of police work had resembled gorillas, some of them had been such sweet little angels that a single glance at them brought a tender tear to the eye. On the other hand, there had been plenty of anthropoid types too. And as a convinced anticlerical, old Gauche did not believe in Adam and Eve. Darwin’s theory appeared rather more sound to him. And then he had come across a certain individual among the first-class passengers, a type who might have sat for a picture entitled ‘The Typical Killer’: low forehead, prominent ridges above little eyes, flat nose and crooked chin. And so the commissioner had requested that this Etienne Boileau, a tea trader, be assigned to the Windsor saloon. He had turned out to be an absolutely charming fellow - a ready wit, father of eleven children and confirmed philanthropist.

It had looked as though papa Gauche’s voyage was unlikely to terminate even in Port Said, the next port of call after Le Havre. The investigation was dragging on. And, moreover, the keen intuition developed by the commissioner over the years was already hinting to him that he had drawn a blank and there was no serious candidate among the company he had assembled.

He was beginning to glimpse the sickening prospect of cruising the entire confounded length of the route to Port Said and Aden and Bombay and Calcutta - and then hanging himself in Calcutta on the first palm tree. He couldn’t go running back to Paris with his tail between his legs! His colleagues would make him a laughing stock, his bosses would start carping about the small matter of a first-class voyage at the treasury’s expense. They might even kick him out on an early pension …

At Port Said, since the voyage was turning out to be a long one, with an aching heart Gauche bankrupted himself by buying some more shirts, stocked up on Egyptian tobacco and, for lack of anything else to fill his time, spent two francs on a cab ride along the famous waterfront. In fact, there was nothing exceptional about it. An enormous lighthouse, a couple of piers as long as your arm. The town itself produced a strange impression, neither Asia nor Europe. Take a look at the residence of the governor-general of the Suez Canal and it seemed like Europe. The streets in the centre were crowded with European faces, there were ladies strolling about with white parasols and wealthy gentlemen in panama hats and straw boaters plodding along, paunches to the fore. But once the carriage turned into the native quarter a fetid stench filled the air and everywhere there were flies, rotting refuse and grubby little Arab urchins pestering people for small change. Why did these rich idlers bother to go travelling? It was the same everywhere: some grew fat from gorging on delicacies while others had their bellies swollen by hunger.

Exhausted by these pessimistic observations and the heat, the commissioner had returned to the ship feeling dejected. But then he had a stroke of luck - a new client, and he looked like a promising one.

The commissioner paid the captain a visit and made inquiries.

So, his name was Erast P. Fandorin and he was a Russian subject.

For some reason this Russian subject had not given his age.

A diplomat by profession, he had arrived from Constantinople, was travelling to Calcutta and going on from there to Japan to take up his post. From Constantinople? Aha! He must have been involved in the peace negotiations that had concluded the recent Russo-Turkish War. Gauche punctiliously copied all the details onto a sheet of paper and stowed it away in the special calico bound file where he kept all the materials on the case. He was never parted from his file. He leafed through it and reread the reports and newspaper clippings, and in pensive moments he drew little fishes and houses in the margins of the papers. It was the secret dream of his heart breaking through to the surface.

The dream of how he would become a divisional commissioner, earn a decent pension, buy a nice little house somewhere in Normandy and live out his days there with Mme Gauche. The retired Paris flic would go fishing and press his own cider. What was wrong with that? Ah, if only he had a little bit of capital to add to his pension - he needed twenty thousand at least …

He was obliged to make another visit to the port - luckily the ship was delayed as it waited for its turn to enter the Suez Canal - and dash off a brief telegram to the prefecture, asking whether the Russian diplomat Erast P. Fandorin was known in Paris and whether he had entered the territory of the Republic of France at any time in the recent past.

The reply arrived quickly, after only two and a half hours. It turned out that the chap had crossed French territory not once, but twice. The first time in the summer of 1876 (well, we can let that go) and the second time in December 1877, just three months earlier. His arrival from London had been recorded at the passport and customs control point in Pas-de-Calais. It was not known how much time he had spent in France. He could quite possibly still have been in Paris on 15 March. He could even have dropped round to the rue de Grenelle with a syringe in his hand - stranger things had happened.

It now seemed he would have to free one of the places at the table. The best thing, of course, would be to get rid of the doctor’s wife, but he could hardly encroach on the sacred institution of marriage. After some thought, Gauche decided to pack the tea trader off to a different saloon, since the theoretical hopes he had inspired had proved to be unfounded and he was the least promising of all the candidates. The steward could reassign him, tell him there was a place with more important gentlemen or prettier ladies. After all, that was what stewards were for, to arrange such things.

The appearance of a new personality in the saloon caused a minor sensation. In the course of the journey they had all become thoroughly bored with each other, and now here was a fresh gentleman, and such a superior individual at that.

Nobody bothered to inquire after poor M. Boileau, that representative of a previous stage of evolution. The commissioner noted that the person who evinced the liveliest reaction was Miss Clarissa Stamp, the old maid, who started babbling about artists, the theatre and literature. Gauche himself was fond of passing his leisure hours in an armchair with a good book, preferring Victor Hugo to all other authors. Hugo was at once so true to life and high-minded, he could always bring a tear to the eye. Besides, he was marvellous for dozing over. But, of course, Gauche had never even heard of these Russian writers with those hissing sibilants in their names, so he was unable to join in the conversation. Anyway, the old English trout was wasting her time, M. Fandorine was far too young for her.

Renate Kleber was not slow off the mark either. She made an attempt to press the new arrival into service as one of her minions, whom she bullied mercilessly into bringing her shawl or her parasol or a glass of water. Five minutes after dinner began Mme Kleber had already initiated the Russian into the detailed history of her delicate condition, complained of a migraine and asked him to fetch Dr Truffo, who for some reason was late that day. However, the diplomat seemed to have realized immediately whom he was dealing with and politely objected that he did not know the doctor by sight. The ever-obliging Lieutenant Renier, the pregnant banker’s wife’s most devoted nursemaid, had volunteered and gone racing off to perform the errand.

The initial impression made by Erast Fandorin was that he was taciturn, reserved and polite. But he was a bit too spruce and trim for Gauche’s taste: that starched collar sticking up like alabaster, that jewelled pin in the necktie, that red carnation (oh, very suave!) in the buttonhole, that perfectly smooth parting with not a single hair out of place, those carefully manicured nails, that narrow black moustache that seemed to be drawn on with charcoal.

It was possible to tell a great deal about a man from his moustache. If it was like Gauche’s, a walrus moustache drooping at the corners of his mouth, it meant the man was a down-to-earth fellow who knew his own worth, not some featherbrain who was easily taken in. If it was curled up at the ends, especially into points, he was a lady’s man and bon vivant. If it merged into his sideburns, he was a man of ambition with dreams of becoming a general, senator or banker. And when it was like M. Fandorine’s, it meant he entertained romantic notions about himself.

What else could he say about the Russian? He spoke decent enough French, even though he stammered. There was still no sign of his badge. The diplomat showed most interest in the Japanese, asking him all sorts of tiresome questions about Japan, but the samurai answered guardedly, as if anticipating some kind of trick. The point was that the new passenger had not explained to the company where he was going and why, he had simply given his name and said that he was Russian. The commissioner, though, could understand the Russian’s inquisitiveness, since he knew he was going to live in Japan. Gauche pictured to himself a country in which every single person was the same as M. Aono, everybody lived in dolls’ houses with bowed roofs and disembowelled themselves at the slightest provocation.

No indeed, the Russian was not to be envied.

After dinner, when Fandorin took a seat to one side in order to smoke a cigar, the commissioner settled into the next armchair and began puffing away at his pipe. Gauche had previously introduced himself to his new acquaintance as a Parisian rentier who was making the journey to the East out of curiosity (that was the cover he was using). But now he turned the conversation to the matter at hand, approaching it obliquely and with due caution. Fiddling with the golden whale on his lapel (the very same one retrieved from the rue de Grenelle) he said with a casual air, as though he were simply striking up a conversation: ‘A beautiful little bauble. Don’t you agree?’

The Russian glanced sideways at his lapel but said nothing.

‘Pure gold. So stylish!’ said Gauche admiringly.

Another pregnant silence followed, but a perfectly civil one.

The man was simply waiting to see what would come next. His blue eyes were alert. The diplomat had clear skin, as smooth as a peach, with a bloom on the cheeks like a young girl’s. But he was no mama’s boy, that much was obvious straight away.

The commissioner decided to try a different tack.

‘Do you travel much?’

A non-committal shrug.

‘I believe you’re in the diplomatic line?’

Fandorin inclined his head politely in assent, extracted a long cigar from his pocket and cut off the tip with a little silver knife.

‘And have you ever been in France?’

Again an affirmative nod of the head. Monsieur le russe is no great shakes as a conversationalist, thought Gauche, but he had no intention of backing down.

‘More than anything I love Paris in the early spring, in March,’ the detective mused out loud. ‘The very best time of the year!’

He cast a keen glance at the other man, wondering what he would say.

Fandorin nodded twice, though it wasn’t clear whether he was simply acknowledging the remark or agreeing with it.

Beginning to feel irritated, Gauche knitted his brows in an antagonistic scowl.

‘So you don’t like your badge then?’

His pipe sputtered and went out.

The Russian gave a short sigh, put his hand into his waistcoat pocket, extracted a golden whale between his finger and thumb and finally condescended to open his mouth.

‘I observe, monsieur, that you are interested in my b-badge? Here it is, if you please. I do not wear it because I do not wish to resemble a caretaker with a name tag, not even a golden one. That is one. You yourself do not much resemble a rentier, M. Gauche - your eyes are too probing. And why would a Parisian rentier lug a civil service file around with him? That is two. Since you are aware of my professional orientation, you would appear to have access to the ship’s documents. I assume therefore that you are a detective. That is three. Which brings us to number four. If there is something you need to find out from me, please do not beat about the bush, ask directly.’

Just try having a nice little chat with someone like that!

Gauche had to wriggle out of it somehow. He whispered confidentially to the excessively perspicacious diplomat that he was the ship’s house detective, whose job it was to see to the passengers’ safety, but secretly and with the greatest possible delicacy in order to avoid offending the refined sensibilities of his public. It was not clear whether Fandorin believed him, but at least he did not ask any questions.

Every cloud has a silver lining. The commissioner now had, if not an intellectual ally, then at least an interlocutor, and one who possessed remarkable powers of observation as well as quite exceptional knowledge on matters of criminology.

They often sat together on the deck, glancing now and then at the gently sloping bank of the canal as they smoked (Gauche his pipe, the Russian his cigar) and discussed various intriguing subjects, such as the very latest methods for the identification and conviction of criminals.

‘The Paris police conducts its work in accordance with the very latest advances in scientific method,’ Gauche once boasted. ‘The prefecture there has a special identification unit headed by a young genius, Alphonse Bertillon. He has developed a complete system for classifying and recording criminal elements.’

‘I met with Dr Bertillon during my last visit to Paris,’ Fandorin said unexpectedly. ‘He told me about his anthropometric method. Bertillonage is a clever theory, very clever. Have you already begun to apply it in practice? What have the results been like?’

‘There haven’t been any yet,’ the commissioner said with a shrug. ‘First one has to apply bertillonage to all the recidivists, and that will take years. It’s bedlam in Alphonse’s department: they bring in the prisoners in shackles, measure them up from every angle like horses at a fair, and jot down the data on little cards. But then pretty soon it will make police work as easy as falling off a log. Let’s say you find the print of a left hand at the scene of a burglary. You measure it and go to the card index.

Aha, middle finger eighty-nine millimetres long, look in section No. 3. And there you find records of seventeen burglars with a finger of the right length. After that, the whole thing is as easy as pie: check where each of them was on the day of the robbery and nab the one who has no alibi.

‘You mean criminals are divided up into categories according to the length of the middle finger?’ the Russian asked with lively interest.

Gauche chuckled condescendingly into his moustache.

‘There is a whole system involved, my young friend. Bertillon divides all people into three groups, according to the length of the skull. Each of these three groups is divided into three subgroups, according to the width of the skull. That makes nine subgroups in all. Each subgroup is in turn divided into three sections, according to the size of the middle finger of the left hand. Twenty-seven sections. But that’s not all. There are three divisions in each section, according to the size of the right ear. So how many divisions does that make? That’s right, eighty-one.

Subsequent classification takes into account the height, the length of the arms, the height when seated, the size of the foot and the length of the elbow joint. A total of eighteen thousand six hundred and eighty-three categories! A criminal who has undergone full bertillonage and been included in our card index will never be able to escape justice again. They used to have it so easy -just give a false name when you’re arrested and you could avoid any responsibility for anything you did before.’

‘That is remarkable,’ the diplomat mused. ‘However, bertillonage does not offer much help with the solution of a particular crime if an individual has not been arrested before.’

Gauche spread his arms helplessly.

‘Well, that is a problem that science cannot solve. As long as there are criminals, people will not be able to manage without us professional sleuths.’

‘Have you ever heard of fingerprints?’ Fandorin asked, presenting to the commissioner a narrow but extremely firm hand with polished nails and a diamond ring.

Glancing enviously at the ring (a commissioner’s annual salary at the very least), Gauche laughed.

‘Is that some kind of gypsy palm reading?’

‘Not at all. It has been known since ancient times that the raised pattern of papillary lines on the tips of the fingers is unique to every individual. In China coolies seal their contracts of hire with the imprint of their thumb dipped in ink.’

‘Well now, if only every murderer were so obliging as to dip his thumb into ink and leave an imprint at the scene of the crime …’ The commissioner laughed good-naturedly.

The diplomat, however, was not in the mood for joking.

‘Monsieur ship’s detective, allow me to inform you that modern science has established with certainty that an imprint is left when a finger comes into contact with any dry, firm surface. If a criminal has so much as touched a door in passing, or the murder weapon, or a window pane, he has left a trace which allows the p-perpetrator to be identified and unmasked.’

Gauche was about to retort ironically that there were twenty thousand criminals in France, that between them they had two hundred thousand fingers and thumbs and you would go blind staring at all of them through your magnifying glass, but he hesitated, recalling the shattered display case in the mansion on the rue de Grenelle. There had been fingerprints left all over the broken glass. But it had never entered anyone’s head to copy them and the shards had been thrown out with the garbage.

My, what an amazing thing progress was! Just think what it meant. All crimes were committed with hands, were they not?

And now it seemed that hands could snitch every bit as well as paid informants. Just imagine, if you were to copy the fingers of every bandit and petty thief, they wouldn’t dare turn those filthy hands of theirs to any more dirty work. It would be the end of crime itself.

The very prospect was enough to set a man’s head spinning.

Reginald Milford-Stokes

2 April 1878

18 hours, 34V2 minutes, Greenwich time

My precious Emily,

Today we entered the Suez Canal. In yesterday’s letter I described the history and topography of Port Said to you in detail, and now I simply cannot resist the temptation of relating to you certain curious and instructive facts concerning the Great Canal, this truly colossal monument to human endeavour, which next year celebrates its tenth anniversary.

Are you aware, my adorable little wife, that the present canal is actually the fourth to have existed and that the first was excavated as long ago as the fourteenth century Before Christ, during the reign of the great Pharaoh Rameses? When Egypt fell into decline the desert winds choked up the channel with sand, but under the Persian king Darius, five hundred years Before Christ, slaves dug out another canal at the cost of 120,000 human lives. Herodotus tells us that the voyage along it took four days and that two triremes travelling in opposite directions could easily pass each other without their oars touching.

Several ships from Cleopatra’s shattered fleet fled to the Red Sea by this route and so escaped the fearful wrath of the vengeful Octavian Caesar.

Following the fall of the Roman Empire, time again separated the Atlantic and Indian Oceans with a barrier of shifting sand one hundred miles wide, but no sooner was a powerful state established in these barren lands by the followers of the Prophet Mohammed than people took up their mattocks and pickaxes once again. As I sail through these dead salt-meadows and endless sand-dunes, I marvel unceasingly at the stubborn courage and ant-like diligence of humankind in waging its never-ending struggle, doomed to inevitable defeat, against all-powerful Chronos. Vessels laden with grain plied the Arabian canal for two hundred years, and then the earth erased this pitiful wrinkle from its forehead and the desert was plunged into sleep for a thousand years.

Regrettably the father of the new Suez was not a Briton, but the Frenchman Lesseps, a representative of a nation which, my darling Emily, I quite justifiably hold in the most profound contempt. This crafty diplomat persuaded the Egyptian governor to issue a firman for the establishment of The Universal Company of the Suez Maritime Canal. The Company was granted a 99-year lease on the future waterway, and the Egyptian government was allotted only 13 per cent of the net revenue. And these villainous French dare to label us British pillagers of the backward peoples! At least we win our privileges with the sword, not by striking grubby bargains with greedy local bureaucrats.

Every day 1600 camels delivered drinking water to the workers digging the Great Canal, but still the poor devils died in their thousands from thirst, intense heat and infectious diseases. Our Leviathan 15 sailing over corpses, and I seem to see the yellow teeth offleshless, eyeless skulls grinning out at me from beneath the sand. It took ten years and 15 million pounds sterling to complete this gargantuan work of construction. But now a ship can sail from England to India in almost half the time it used to take. A mere 25 days or so and you arrive in Bombay. It is quite incredible! And the scale of it! The canal is more than 100 feet deep, so that even our gigantic ark can sail fearlessly here, with no risk of running aground.

Today at lunch I was overcome by a quite irresistible fit of laughter.

I choked on a crust of bread, began coughing and simply could not calm myself. The pathetic coxcomb Renier (I wrote to you about him, he is the Leviathans first lieutenant) inquired with feigned interest what was the cause of my merriment and I was seized by an even stronger paroxysm, for I certainly could not tell him about the thought that had set me laughing: that the French had built the canal, but the fruits had fallen to us, the English. Three years ago Her Majesty’s government bought a controlling block of shares from the Egyptian khedive, and now we British are the masters of Suez. And incidentally, a single share in the canal, which was once sold for fifteen pounds, is now worth three thousand! How’s that! How could I help but laugh?

But I fear I must have wearied you with these boring details. Do not blame me, my dear Emily, for I have no other recreation apart from writing long letters. While I am scraping my pen across the vellum paper, it is as though you are here beside me and I am making leisurely conversation with you. You know, thanks to the hot climate here I am feeling very much better. I no longer remember the terrible dreams that haunt me in the night. But they have not gone away. In the morning when I wake up, the pillowcase is still soaked with tears and sometimes gnawed to shreds.

But that is all nonsense. Every new day and every mile of the journey bring me closer to a new life. There, under the soothing sun of the Equator, this dreadful separation that is tearing my very soul apart will finally come to an end. How I wish it could be soon! How impatient I am to see your tender, radiant glance once again, my dear friend.

What else can I entertain you with? Perhaps at least with a description of our Leviathan, a more than worthy theme. In my earlier letters I have written too much about my own feelings and dreams and I have still not presented you with a full picture of this great triumph of British engineering.

The Leviathan is the largest passenger ship in the history of the world, with the single exception of the colossal Great Eastern, which has been furrowing the waters of the Atlantic Ocean for the last 20 years. When Jules Verne described the Great Eastern in his book The Floating City, he had not seen our Leviathan - otherwise he would have renamed the old G.E. ‘the floating village’. That vessel now does nothing but lay telegraph cables on the ocean floor, but Leviathan can transport 1000 people and in addition 10,000 tons of cargo. This fire breathing monster is more than 600 hundred feet long and 80 feet across at its widest. Do you know, my dear Emily, how a ship is built? First they lay it out in the moulding loft, that is to say, they make a full-scale drawing of the vessel directly onto the smoothly planed floor of a special building. The drawing of the Leviathan was so huge that they had to build a shed the size of Buckingham Palace!

This miracle of a ship has two steam engines, two powerful paddle wheels on its sides and in addition a gigantic propeller on its stern. Its six masts, fitted with a full set of rigging, tower up to the very sky and with a fair wind and engines running full speed ahead the ship can make 16 knots! All the very latest advances in shipbuilding have been used in the vessel. These include a double metal hull, which ensures its safety even if it should strike a rock; special side keels which reduce pitching and rolling; electric lighting throughout; waterproof compartments; immense coolers for the spent steam - it is impossible to list everything. The entire experience of centuries of effort by the indefatigably inventive human mind has been concentrated in this proud vessel cleaving fearlessly through the ocean waves. Yesterday, following my old habit, I opened the Holy Scriptures at the first page that came to hand and I was astonished when my eyes fell upon the lines about Leviathan, the fearsome monster of the deep from the Book of Job. I began trembling at the sudden realization that this was no description of a sea serpent, as the ancients believed it to be, nor of a sperm whale, as our modern-day rationalists claim - no, the biblical text clearly refers to the very same Leviathan that has undertaken to deliver me out of darkness and terror into happiness and light. Judge for yourself: ‘He maketh the deep to boil like a pot: he maketh the sea like a pot of ointment. He maketh a path to shine after him: one would think the deep to be hoary. Upon earth there is not his like, who is made without fear. He beholdeth all high things: he is a king over all the children of pride.’

The pot - that is the steam boiler; the pot of ointment - that is the fuel oil; the shining path - that is the wake at the stern. It is all so obvious!

And I felt afraid, my darling Emily. For these lines contain a terrible warning, either to me personally or to the passengers on the Leviathan, or to the whole of mankind. From the biblical point of view pride is surely a bad thing? And if man with his technological playthings ‘beholdeth all high things’, is this not fraught with some catastrophic consequences? Have we not become too proud of the keenness of our intellect and the skill of our hands? Where is this king of pride taking us? What lies in store for us?

And so I opened my prayer book to pray - the first time for a long, long time. And there I read: ‘It is in their thoughts that their houses are eternal and their dwellings are from generation to generation, and they call their lands after their own names. But man shall not abide in honour; he shall be likened unto the beasts who die. This path of theirs is their folly, though those that come after them do commend their opinion.’

But when, in a paroxysm of mystical feeling, I opened the Book once again with a trembling hand, my feverish gaze fell on the boring passage in Numbers where the sacrifices made by the tribes of the Israelites are itemized with a bookkeeper’s tedious precision. And I calmed down, rang my silver bell and told the steward to bring me some hot chocolate.

The level of comfort prevailing in the section of the ship assigned to the respectable public is absolutely staggering. In this respect the Leviathan is truly without equal. The times are gone when people travelling to India or China were cooped up in dark, cramped little cubbyholes and piled one on top of another. You know, my dearest wife, how keenly I suffer from claustrophobia, but on board the Leviathan I feel as though I were in the wide open spaces of the Thames Embankment. Here there is everything required to combat boredom: a dance hall, a musical salon for concerts of classical music, even a rather decent library. The decor in a first-class cabin is in no way inferior to a room in the finest London hotel, and the ship has two hundred such cabins. In addition there are 230 second-class cabins with 600 berths (I have not looked into them - I cannot endure the sight of squallor) and they say there are also capacious cargo holds. The Leviathan 5 service personnel alone, not counting sailors and officers, numbers more than 200 stewards, chefs, valets, musicians, chambermaids.

Just imagine, I do not regret in the least not bringing Jeremy with me. The idle loafer was always sticking his nose into matters that did not concern him, and here at precisely 11 o’clock the maid comes and cleans the room and carries out any other errands I may have for her. This is both rational and convenient. If I wish I can ring for a valet and have him help me dress, but I regard that as excessive - I dress and undress myself. It is most strictly forbidden for any servant to enter the cabin in my absence, and on leaving it I set a hair across the crack of the door. I am afraid of spies. Believe me, my sweet Emily, this is not a ship, but a veritable city, and it has its share of low riff-raff.

For the most part my information concerning the ship has been garnered from the explanations of Lieutenant Renier, who is a great patriot of his own vessel. He is, however, not a very likeable individual and the object of serious suspicion on my part. He tries his hardest to play the gentleman, but I am not so easily duped. I have a keen nose for bad breeding. Wishing to produce a good impression, this fellow invited me to visit his cabin. I did call in, but less out of curiosity than from a desire to assess the seriousness of the threat that might be posed by this swarthy gentleman (concerning his appearance, see my letter of 20 March). The meagreness of the decor was rendered even more glaringly obvious by his tasteless attempts at bon ton (Chinese vases, Indian incense burners, a dreadful seascape on the wall, and so forth). Standing on the table among the maps and navigational instruments was a large photographic ponrait of a woman dressed in black, with an inscription in French: ‘Seven feet under the keel, my darling!

Francoise B.’ I enquired whether it was his wife. It turned out to be his mother. Touching, but it does not allay my suspicions. I am as determined as ever to take independent readings of our course every three hours, even though it means that I have to get up twice during the night. Of course, while we are sailing through the Suez Canal this might seem a little excessive, but I do not wish to lose my proficiency in handling the sextant.

I have more than enough time at my disposal and apart from the writing of letters my leisure hours are filled by observing the Vanity Fair which surrounds me on all sides. Among this gallery of human types there are some who are most amusing. I have already written to you about the others, but yesterday a new face appeared in our salon.

He is Russian - can you imagine that? His name is Erast Fandorin.

You are aware, Emily, of my feelings regarding Russia, that misshapen excrescence that has extended over half of Europe and a third of Asia.

Russia seeks to disseminate its own parody of the Christian religion and its own barbarous customs throughout the entire world, and Albion stands as the only barrier in the path of these new Huns. If not for the resolute position adopted by Her Majesty’s government in the current eastern crisis, Tsar Alexander would have raked in the Balkans with his bear’s claws, and …

But I have already written to you about that and I do not wish to repeat myself. And in any case, thinking about politics has rather a bad effect on my nerves. It is now four minutes to eight. As I have already informed you, life on the Leviathan is conducted according to British time as far as Aden, so that it is already dark here at eight o’clock. I shall go and take readings of the longitude and latitude, then take dinner and continue with my letter.

16 minutes after ten

I see that I did not finish writing about Mr Fandorin. I do believe that I like him, despite his nationality. Good manners, reticent, knows how to listen. He must be a member of that estate referred to in Russia by the Italian word intelligenzia, which I believe denotes the educated European class. You must admit, dear Emily, that a society in which the European class is separated off into a distinct stratum of the population and abo referred to by a foreign word can hardly be ranked among the civilized nations. I can imagine what a gulf separates a civilized human being like Mr Fandorin from some bearded Kossack or muzhik, who make up 90 per cent of the population of that Tartarian-Byzantine empire. On the other hand, a distance of such magnitude must elevate and ennoble an educated and thinking man to an exceptional degree, a point that I shall have to ponder at greater length.

I liked the elegant way in which Mr Fandorin (by the way, it seems he is a diplomat, which explains a great deal) put down that intolerable yokel Gauche, who claims to be a rentier, although it is clear from a mile away that the fellow is involved in some grubby little business or other. I should not be surprised if he is on his way to the East to purchase opium and exotic dancers for Parisian dens of vice. [The last phrase has been scratched out.] I know, my darling Emily, that you are a real lady and will not attempt to read what has been crossed out here. I got a little carried away and wrote something unworthy for your chaste eyes to read.

And so, back to today’s dinner. The French bourgeois, who just recently has grown bold and become quite terribly talkative, began discoursing with a self-satisfied air on the advantages of age over youth. I am older than anyone else here,’ he said condescendingly, a la Socrates. ‘Grey-haired, bloated and decidedly not good-looking, but you needn’t go thinking, ladies and gentlemen, that papa Gauche would agree to change places with you. When I see the arrogance of youth, flaunting its beauty and strength, its health, in the face of age, I do not feel envious in the least. Why, I think, that’s no great trick, I was like that myself once. But you, my fine fellow, still do not know if you will live to my 62 years. I am twice as happy as you are at 30, because I have been fortunate enough to live in this world for twice as long.’ And he sipped at his wine, very proud of the originality of his thought and his seemingly unimpeachable logic. Then Mr Fandorin, who had so far not said a word, suddenly remarked with a very serious air: ‘That is undoubtedly the case, M. Gauche, if one takes the oriental viewpoint on life, as existence at a single point of reality in an eternal present. But there is also another way of reasoning which regards a man’s life as a unified work which can only be judged when the final page has been read. Moreover, this work may be as long as a tetralogy or as short as a novella. And yet who would undertake to assert that a fat, vulgar novel is necessarily of greater value than a short, beautiful poem?’ The funniest thing of all was that our rentier, who is indeed both fat and vulgar, did not even understand the reference to himself. Even when Miss Stamp (by no means stupid, but a strange creature) giggled and I gave a rather loud snort, the Frenchie failed to catch on and stuck with his own opinion, for which all credit to him.

It is true, however, that in the conversation that followed over dessert, M. Gauche demonstrated a degree of common sense that quite amazed me. There are, after all, certain advantages in not having a regular education: a mind unfettered by authorities is sometimes capable of making interesting and accurate observations.

Judge for yourself. The amoeba-like Mrs Truffo, the wife of our muttonhead of a doctor, started up again with her mindless prattle about the joy and delight Mme Kleber will bring to her banker with her ‘tiny tot’ and ‘little angel’. Since Mrs Truffo does not speak French, the task of translating her sickly sentiments on the subject of family happiness being inconceivable without ‘baby babble’, fell to her unfortunate husband. Gauche huffed and puffed and then suddenly declared: ‘I cannot agree with you, madam. A genuinely happy married couple have no need whatsoever of children, for husband and wife are perfectly sufficient for each other. Man and woman are like two uneven surfaces, each with bumps and indentations. If the surfaces do not fit tightly against each other, then glue is required, otherwise the structure - in other words the family - cannot be preserved. Children are that selfsame glue. If, however, the surfaces form a perfect fit, bump to indentation, then no glue is required. Take me and my Blanche, if you like. Thirty-three years we’ve lived in perfect harmony. Why would we want children? Life is splendid without them.’ I am sure you can imagine, dear Emily, the tidal wave of righteous indignation that came crashing down on the head of this subverter of eternal values. The most zealous accuser of all was Mme Kleber, who is carrying the little Swiss in her womb. The sight of her neat little belly so carefully exhibited at every opportunity sets me writhing. I can just see the miniature banker nestled inside with his curly moustache and puffy little cheeks. In time the Klebers will no doubt produce an entire battalion of Swiss Guards.

I must confess to you, my tenderly adored Emily, that the sight of pregnant women makes me feel sick. They are repulsive! That inane bovine smile, that disgusting manner of constantly listening to their own entrails. I try to keep as far away from Mme Kleber as possible.

Swear to me, my darling, that we shall never have children. The fat bourgeois is right a thousand times over! Why do we need children when we are already boundlessly happy without them? All we need to do is survive this forced separation.

But it is already two minutes to 11. Time to take a reading.

Damnation! I have turned the whole cabin upside down. My sextant has disappeared. This is no delusion! It was lying in the trunk together with the chronometer and the compass, and now it is not there! I am afraid, Emily! O, I had a premonition of this. My worst suspicions have been confirmed!

Why? What have I done? They are prepared to commit any vileness in order to prevent our reunion! How can I check now that the ship is following the right course? It is that Renier, I know! I caught the expression in his eyes when he saw me handling the sextant on deck last night! The scoundrel!

I shall go to the captain and demand retribution. But what if they are in

it together? My God, my God, have pity

On Me.

I had to pause for a while. I was so agitated that I was obliged to take the drops prescribed for me by Drjenkinson. And I did as he told me, and started thinking of pleasant things. Of how you and I will sit on a white veranda and gaze into the distance, trying to guess where the sea ends and the sky begins. You will smile and say: ‘Darling Reggie, here we are together at last.’ Then we will get into a cabriolet and go for a drive along the seashore.

Lord, what nonsense is this! What cabriolet?

I am a monster, and there can be no forgiveness for me.

Renate Kleber

She woke up in an excellent mood, smiled affably at the spot of sunlight that crept onto her round cheek where it was creased by the pillow, and listened to her belly. The baby was quiet, but she felt terribly hungry. There were still 50 minutes left until breakfast, but Renate had no lack of patience and she simply did not know the meaning of boredom. In the morning sleep released her as swiftly as it embraced her in the evening, when she simply sandwiched her hands together and laid her head on them, and a second later she was immersed in sweet dreams.

As Renate performed her morning toilet she purred a frivolous little song about poor Georgette who fell in love with a chimney sweep. She wiped her fresh little face with an infusion of lavender and then styled her hair quickly and deftly, fluffing up the fringe over her forehead, drawing her thick chestnut tresses into a smooth bun and arranging two long ringlets over her temples. The effect was precisely what was required demure and sweet. She glanced out of the porthole. Still the same view: the regular border of the canal, the yellow sand, the white mud-daub houses of a wretched little hamlet. It was going to be hot. That meant the white lace dress, the straw hat with the red ribbon, and she mustn’t forget her parasol - a stroll after breakfast was de rigueur. Only she couldn’t be bothered to drag her parasol around with her. Never mind, someone would fetch it.

Renate twirled in front of the mirror with evident satisfaction, stood sideways and pulled her dress tight over her belly. Although to tell the truth, there was not much to look at as yet.

Asserting her rights as a pregnant woman, Renate arrived ahead of time for breakfast - the waiters were still laying the table. She immediately ordered them to bring her orange juice, tea, croissants with butter and everything else. By the time the first of her table-mates arrived - it was the fat M. Gauche, another early bird - the mother-to-be had already dealt with three croissants and was preparing to set about a mushroom omelette. The breakfast served on the Leviathan was not some trifling Continental affair, but the genuine full English variety: with roast beef, exquisite egg dishes, blood pudding and porridge.

The French part of the consortium provided nothing but the croissants. At lunch and dinner, however, the menu was dominated by French cuisine. Well, one could hardly serve kidneys and beans in the Windsor saloon!

The first mate appeared, as always, at precisely nine o’clock.

He enquired solicitously as to how Mme Kleber was feeling.

Renate lied and said she had slept badly and felt absolutely shattered, and it was all because the porthole didn’t open properly and it was too stuffy in the cabin. Alarmed, Lieutenant Renier promised that he would make inquiries in person and have the fault rectified. He did not eat eggs or roast beef - he was a devotee of some peculiar diet, sustaining himself largely on fresh greens. Renate pitied him for that.

Gradually the others also put in an appearance. The conversation over breakfast was usually listless. Those who were a bit older had not yet recovered from a wretched night, while the young people were still not fully awake. It was rather amusing to observe the bitchy Clarissa Stamp attempting to coax a response out of the stammering Russian diplomat. Renate shook her head in disbelief: how could she make such a fool of herself?

After all, my dear, he could be your son, despite those impressive streaks of grey. Surely this handsome boy was too tough a morsel for this ageing, simpering creature?

The very last to arrive was the Ginger Lunatic (Renate’s private name for the English baronet). Tousled hair sticking out in all directions, red eyes, a twitch at the corner of his mouth - he was a quite appalling mess. But Mme Kleber was not in the least bit afraid of him, and given the chance she never missed the opportunity to have a bit of fun at his expense. This time she passed the milk jug to the Lunatic with a warm, guileless smile. As she had anticipated, Milford-Stokes (what a silly name!) squeamishly moved his cup aside. Renate knew from experience that now he would not even touch the milk jug, and he would drink his coffee black.

“Why do you start back like that, sir?’ she babbled in a quavering voice. ‘Don’t be afraid, pregnancy is not infectious.’ Then she concluded, no longer quavering: ‘At least not for men.’

The Lunatic cast her a glance of withering scorn that shattered against the serenely radiant glance opposed to it. Lieutenant Renier concealed a smile behind his hand, the rentier chuckled. Even the Japanese raised a smile at Renate’s prank.

Of course, this M. Aono was always smiling, even when there was absolutely no reason for it. Perhaps for the Japanese a smile was not an expression of merriment at all, but indicated something quite different. Boredom, perhaps, or repugnance.

When he had finished smiling, M. Aono disgusted his neighbours at table by playing his usual trick: he took a paper napkin out of his pocket, blew his nose into it loudly, crumpled it up and deposited it neatly on the edge of his dirty plate. A fine ikebana arrangement for them to contemplate. Renate had read about ikebana in one of Pierre Loti’s novels and the aura of the word had stuck in her memory. It was an interesting idea - composing bouquets of flowers not simply to look nice, but with a philosophical meaning. She would have to try it some time.

‘What flowers do you like?’ she asked Dr Truffo.

He translated the question to his English jade, then replied: ‘Pansies.’

Then he translated his reply into English as well.

“I just adore flowers!’ exclaimed Miss Stamp (what an impossible ingenue!). ‘But only live ones. I love to walk across a flowering meadow! My heart simply breaks when I see poor cut flowers wither and drop their petals! That’s why I never allow anyone to give me bouquets.’ And she cast a languid glance at the handsome young Russian.

What a shame, otherwise absolutely everyone would be tossing bouquets at you, thought Renate, but aloud she said: ‘I believe that flowers are the crowning glories of God’s creation and I think trampling a flowering meadow is a crime.’

‘In the parks of Paris it is indeed considered a crime,’ M. Gauche pronounced solemnly. ‘The penalty is ten francs. And if the ladies will permit an old boor to light up his pipe, I will tell you an amusing little story on the subject.’

‘O, ladies, pray do indulge us!’ cried the owlish Indologist Sweetchild, wagging his beard a la Disraeli. ‘M. Gauche is such a wonderful raconteur!’

Everyone turned to look at the pregnant Renate, on whom the decision depended, and she rubbed her temple as a hint. Of course, she did not have the slightest trace of a headache - she was simply savouring the sweetness of the moment. However, she too was curious to hear this ‘little story’, and so she nodded her head with a pained expression and said:

‘Very well, smoke. But then someone must fan me.’

Since bitchy Clarissa, the owner of a luxurious ostrich-feather fan, pretended this remark did not apply to her, the Japanese had to fill the breach. Gintaro Aono seated himself beside Renate and set to work, flapping his bright fan with the butterfly design in front of the long-suffering woman’s nose so zealously that the bright kaleidoscope rapidly make her feel genuinely giddy. The Japanese received a reprimand for his excessive fervour.

Meanwhile the rentier drew on his pipe with relish, puffed out a cloud of aromatic smoke and embarked on his story: ‘Believe it or not as you wish, but this is a true story. There was once a gardener who worked in the Luxembourg Gardens, little papa Picard. For forty years he had watered the flowers and pruned the shrubs, and now he had only three years to go until he retired and drew his pension. Then one morning, when little papa Picard went out with his watering can, he saw a swell dolled up in a white shirt and tails sprawling in the tulip bed. He was stretched out full length, basking in the morning sunshine, obviously straight from his nocturnal revels - after carousing until dawn, he had dozed off on the way home.’

Gauche screwed up his eyes and surveyed his audience with a sly glance. ‘Picard, of course, was furious - his tulips were crushed - and he said: “Get up, monsieur, in our park lying in the flower beds is not allowed! We fine people for it, ten francs.”

The reveller opened one eye and took a gold coin out of his pocket. “There you are, old man,” he said, “now leave me in peace. I haven’t had such a wonderful rest in ages.” Well, the gardener took the coin, but he did not go away. “You have paid the fine, but I have no right to leave you here, monsieur. Be so good as to get up.” At this the gentleman in the tails opened both eyes, but he seemed in no haste to rise. “How much do I have to pay you to get out of my sun? I’ll pay any amount you like if you’ll just stop pestering me and let me doze for an hour.”

Old papa Picard scratched his head and moved his lips while he figured something out. “Well then, sir,” he said eventually, “if you wish to purchase an hour’s rest lying in a flower bed in the Luxembourg Gardens, it will cost you eighty-four thousand francs and not a single sou less.” ‘ Gauche chuckled merrily into his grey moustache and shook his head, as if in admiration of the gardener’s impudence. ‘ “And not a single sou less,” he said, so there! And let me tell you that this tipsy gentleman was no ordinary man, but the banker Laffitte himself, the richest man in the whole of Paris. Laffitte was not in the habit of making idle promises: he had said “any amount” and now he was stuck with it. As a banker it would have been shameful for him to back down and break his word. Of course, he didn’t want to give away that kind of money to the first impudent rogue he met for a mere how-d’ye-do. But what could he do about it?’

Gauche shrugged, mimicking a state of total perplexity. ‘Then suddenly Laffitte ups and says: “Right, you old scoundrel, you’ll get your eighty-four thousand, but only on one condition. You prove to me that lying for an hour in your rotten flower bed is really worth the money. And if you can’t prove it, I’ll get up this very moment and give your sides a good drubbing with my cane, and that act of petty hooliganism will cost me a forty franc administrative fine.” ‘ Crazy Milford-Stokes laughed loudly and ruffled up his ginger mane in approval, but Gauche raised a yellow-stained finger, as if to say: don’t be so hasty with your laughter, it’s not the end yet. ‘And what do you think happened, ladies and gentlemen? Old papa Picard, not put out in the slightest, began drawing up the balance: “In half an hour, at precisely eight o’clock, monsieur le directeur of the park will arrive, see you in the flower bed and start yelling at me to get you out of there. I shall not be able to do that, because you will have paid for a full hour, not half an hour. I shall get into an argument with monsieur le directeur, and he will kick me out of my job with no pension and no severance pay. I still have three years to go before I retire and take the pension due to me, which is set at one thousand two hundred francs a year. I intend to live at my ease for twenty years, so altogether that makes twenty-four thousand francs already. Now for the matter of accommodation.

They will throw me and my lady wife out of our municipal apartment. And then the question is - where are we going to live? We shall have to buy a house. Any modest little house somewhere in the Loire region will run to twenty thousand at least. Now, sir, consider my reputation. Forty years I’ve slaved away loyally in this park and anyone will tell you that old papa Picard is an honest man. Then suddenly an incident like this brings shame on my old grey head. This is bribery, this is graft! I think a thousand francs for each year of irreproachable service would hardly be too much by way of moral compensation. So altogether it comes out at exactly eighty-four thousand.” Laffitte laughed, stretched himself out a bit more comfortably in the flower bed and closed his eyes again. “Come back in an hour, you old monkey,” he said, “and you’ll be paid.” And that is my wonderful little story, ladies and gentlemen.’

‘So a year of faultless conduct went for a thousand f-francs?’ the Russian diplomat said with a laugh. ‘Not so very expensive. Evidently with a discount for wholesale.’

The company began a lively discussion of the story, expressing the most contradictory opinions, but Renate Kleber gazed curiously at M. Gauche as he opened his black file with a self satisfied air and began rustling his papers. He was an intriguing specimen, this old grandpa, no doubt about it. And what secrets was he keeping in there? Why was he shielding the file with his elbow?

That question had been nagging at Renate for a long time.

Once or twice she had tried to exploit her position as a motherto-be by glancing over Gauche’s shoulder as he conjured with that precious file of his, but the mustachioed boor had rather impudently slammed the file shut in the lady’s face and even wagged his finger at her, as much as to say: now that’s not allowed.

Today, however, something rather remarkable happened.

When M. Gauche, as usual, rose from the table ahead of the others, a sheet of paper slid silently out of his mysterious file and glided gently to the floor. Engrossed in some gloomy thoughts of his own, the rentier failed to notice anything and left the saloon. The door had scarcely closed behind him before Renate adroitly raised her body, with its slightly thickened waist, out of her chair. But she was not the only one to have been so observant. The well-brought-up Miss Stamp (such a nimble creature!) was the first to reach the scrap of paper.

‘Ah, I think Mr Gauche has dropped something!’ she exclaimed, deftly grabbing up the scrap and fastening her beady eyes on it. ‘I’ll catch up with him and return it.’

But Mme Kleber was already clutching the edge of the paper in tenacious fingers and had no intention of letting go.

‘What is it?’ she asked. ‘A newspaper clipping? How interesting!’

The next moment everyone in the room had gathered around the two ladies, except for the Japanese blockhead, who was still pumping the air with his fan, and Mrs Truffo, who observed this flagrant invasion of privacy with a reproachful expression on her face.

The clipping read as follows:

‘THE CRIME OF THE CENTURY’: A NEW ANGLE?

The fiendish murder of ten people that took place the day before yesterday on the rue de Grenelle continues to exercise the imagination of Parisians. Of the possible explanations proposed thus far the two most prevalent are a maniacal doctor and a fanatical sect of bloodthirsty Hindu devotees of the god Shiva.

However, in the course of conducting our own independent investigation, we at Le Soir have uncovered a circumstance which could possibly open up a new angle on the case. It would appear that in recent weeks the late Lord Littleby was seen at least twice in the company of the international adventuress Marie Sanfon, well known to the police forces of many countries. The Baron de ML, a close friend of the murdered man, has informed us that his Lordship was infatuated with a certain lady, and on the evening of the fifteenth of March he had intended to set out for Spa for some kind of romantic rendezvous.

Could this rendezvous, which was prevented by the most untimely attack of gout suffered by the unfortunate collector, possibly have been arranged with Mile Sanfon? The editors would not make so bold as to propose our own version of events, but we regard it as our duty to draw the attention of Commissioner Gauche to this noteworthy circumstance. You may expect further reports from us on this subject.

Cholera epidemic on the wane

The municipal health authorities inform us that the foci of the cholera infection which they have been combating energetically since the summer have finally been isolated. The vigorous prophylactic measures taken by the physicians of Paris have yielded positive results and we may now hope that the epidemic of this dangerous disease, which began in July, is beg

‘What could that be about?’ Renate asked, wrinkling up her brow in puzzlement. ‘Something about a murder, and cholera or something of the kind.’

‘Well the cholera obviously has nothing to do with the matter,’ said Professor Sweetchild. ‘It’s simply the way the page has been cut. The important thing, of course, is the murder on the rue de Grenelle. Surely you must have heard about it? A sensational case, the newspapers were all full of it.’

‘I do not read the newspapers,’ Mme Kleber replied with dignity. ‘In my condition it places too much strain on the nerves. And in any case I have no desire to learn about all sorts of unpleasant goings-on.’

‘Commissioner Gauche?’ said Lieutenant Renier, peering at the clipping and running his eyes over the article once again.

‘Could that be our own M. Gauche?’

Miss Stamp gasped:

‘Oh, it couldn’t be!’

At this point even the doctor’s wife joined them. This was a genuine sensation and everyone started talking at once: ‘The police, the French police are involved in this!’ Sir Reginald exclaimed excitedly.