Fandorin in English 1-10

Renier muttered:

‘So that’s why the captain keeps interrogating me about the Windsor saloon …’

M. Truffo translated as usual for his spouse, while the Russian took possession of the clipping and scrutinized it closely.

‘That bit about the Indian fanatics is absolute nonsense,’ declared Sweetchild. ‘I made my opinion on that clear from the very beginning. In the first place, there is no bloodthirsty sect of followers of Shiva. And in the second place, everyone knows that the statuette was recovered. Would a religious fanatic be likely to throw it into the Seine?’

‘Yes, the business of the golden Shiva is a genuine riddle,’ said Miss Stamp with a nod. ‘They wrote that it was the jewel of Lord Littleby’s collection. Is that correct, professor?’

The Indologist shrugged condescendingly.

‘What can I say, madam? Lord Littleby only started collecting relatively recently, about twenty years ago. In such a short period it is difficult to assemble a truly outstanding collection.

They do say that the deceased did rather well out of the suppression of the Sepoy Rebellion of 1857. The notorious Shiva, for instance, was “presented” to the lord by a certain maharajah who was threatened with court martial for intriguing with the insurgents. Littleby served for many years in the Indian military prosecutor’s office, you know. Undoubtedly his collection includes quite a few valuable items, but the selection is rather haphazard.’

‘But do tell me, at last, why this lord of yours was killed!’

Renate demanded. ‘Look, M. Aono doesn’t know anything about it either, do you?’ she asked, appealing for support to the Japanese, who was standing slightly apart from the others.

The Japanese smiled with just his lips and bowed, and the Russian mimed applause:

‘Bravo, Mme Kleber. You have quite c-correctly identified the most important question here. I have been following this case in the press. And in my opinion the reason for the c-crime is more important than anything else. That is where the key to the riddle lies. Precisely in the question “why?”. What was the purpose for which ten people were killed?’

‘Ah, but that is very simple!’ said Miss Stamp with a shrug. ‘The plan was to steal everything that was most valuable from the collection. But the thief lost his head when he came face to face with the owner. After all, it had been assumed that his Lordship was not at home. It must be one thing to inject someone with a syringe and quite another to smash a man’s head open. But then, I wouldn’t know, I have never tried it.’ She twitched her shoulders. ‘The villain’s nerves gave out and he left the job half finished. But as for the abandoned Shiva …’ Miss Stamp pondered. ‘Perhaps that is the heavy object with which poor Littleby’s brains were beaten out. It is quite possible that a criminal also has normal human feelings and he found it repugnant or even simply frightening to hold the bloody murder weapon in his hand. So he walked as far as the embankment and threw it in the Seine.’

‘Concerning the murder weapon that seems very probable,’ the diplomat agreed. ‘I th-think the same.’

The old maid flushed brightly with pleasure and was clearly embarrassed when she caught Renate’s mocking glance.

‘You are saying quite outrageous things,’ the doctor’s wife rebuked Clarissa Stamp. ‘Shouldn’t we find a more suitable subject for table talk?’

But the colourless creature’s appeal fell on deaf ears.

‘In my opinion the greatest mystery here is the death of the servants!’ said the lanky Indologist, keen to contribute to the analysis of the crime. ‘How did they come to allow themselves to be injected with such abominable muck? Not at pistol-point, surely! After all, two of them were guards, and they were both carrying revolvers in holsters on their belts. That’s where the mystery lies.’

‘I have a hypothesis of my own,’ Renier announced with a solemn expression. ‘And I am prepared to defend it against any objections. The crime on the rue de Grenelle was committed by a person who possesses exceptional mesmeric powers. The servants were in a state of mesmeric trance, that is the only possible explanation! Animal magnetism is a terrifying force. An experienced manipulator can do whatever he chooses with you. Yes, yes, madam,’ the lieutenant said, turning towards Mrs Truffo, who had twisted her face into a doubtful grimace, ‘absolutely anything at all.’

‘Not if he is dealing with a lady,’ she replied austerely.

Tired of playing the role of interpreter, Dr Truffo wiped the sweat from his gleaming forehead with his handkerchief and rushed to the defence of the scientific worldview.

‘I am afraid I must disagree with you,’ he started jabbering in French, with a rather strong accent. ‘Mr Mesmer’s teaching has been exposed as having no scientific basis. The power of mesmerism or, as it is now known, hypnotism, has been greatly exaggerated. The Honourable Mr James Braid has proved conclusively that only psychologically suggestible individuals are subject to hypnotic influence, and then only if they have complete trust in the hypnotist and have agreed to allow themselves to be hypnotized.’

‘It is quite obvious, my dear doctor, that you have not travelled in the East!’ said Renier, flashing his white teeth in a smile. ‘At any Indian bazaar the fakir will show you miracles of mesmeric art that would make the most hardened sceptic gape in wonder. But those are merely tricks they use to show off!

Once in Kandahar I observed the public punishment of a thief. Under Muslim law theft is punished by the amputation of the right hand, a procedure so intensely painful that those subjected to it frequently die from the shock. On this occasion the accused was a mere child, but since he had been caught for the second time, there was nothing else the judge could do, he had to sentence the thief to the penalty prescribed under shariah law.

The judge, however, was a merciful man and he sent for a dervish who was well known for his miraculous powers. The dervish took the convicted prisoner’s head in his hands, looked into his eyes and whispered something - and the boy became calm and stopped trembling. A strange smile appeared on his face, and did not leave it even when the executioner’s axe severed his arm up to the very elbow! And I saw all this with my own eyes, I swear to you.’

Renate grew angry:

‘Ugh, how horrible! You and your Orient, Charles. I am beginning to feel faint!’

‘Forgive me, Mme Kleber,’ said the lieutenant, taking fright. ‘I only wished to demonstrate that in comparison with this a few injections are mere child’s play.’

‘Once again, I am afraid that I cannot agree with you …’

The stubborn doctor was preparing to defend his point of view, but just at that moment the door of the saloon swung open and in came either a rentier or a policeman - in short, M. Gauche.

Everybody turned towards him in consternation, as if they had been caught out in some action that was not entirely decent.

Gauche ran a keen gaze over their faces and spotted the ill starred clipping in the hands of the diplomat. His face darkened.

‘So that’s where it is … I was afraid of that.’

Renate went over to this grandpa with a grey moustache, looked his massive figure over mistrustfully from head to toe and blurted out:

‘M. Gauche, are you really a policeman?’

‘The same C-Commissioner Gauche who was leading the investigation into the “Crime of the Century”?’ asked Fandorin (yes, that was the Russian diplomat’s name, Renate recalled). ‘In that case how are we to account for your masquerade and in general for your ppresence here on board?’

Gauche breathed hard for a few moments, raised his eyebrows, lowered them again and reached for his pipe. He was obviously racking his brains in an effort to decide what he should do.

‘Please sit down, ladies and gentlemen,’ said Gauche in an unfamiliar, imposing bass and turned the key to lock the door behind him. ‘Since this is the way things have turned out, I shall have to be frank with you. Be seated, be seated or else somebody’s legs might just give way under them.’

‘What kind of joke is this, M. Gauche?’ the lieutenant asked in annoyance. ‘By what right do you presume to command here, and in the presence of the captain’s first mate?’

‘That, my young man, is something the captain himself will explain to you,’ Gauche replied with a hostile sideways glance at Renier. ‘He knows what is going on here.’

Renier dropped the matter and took his place at the table, following the others’ example.

The verbose, good-humoured grumbler for whom Renate had taken the Parisian rentier was behaving rather differently now. A certain dignity had appeared in the broad set of his shoulders, his gestures had become imperious, his eyes had acquired a new, harder gleam. The mere fact that he could maintain a prolonged pause with such calm confidence said a great deal. The strange rentier’s piercing gaze paused in turn on each person present in the room and Renate saw some of them flinch under its weight. To be honest, even she was a little disturbed by it, but then she immediately felt ashamed of herself and tossed her head nonchalantly: he may be a police commissioner, but what of that? He was still an obese, short winded old duffer and nothing more.

‘Please do not keep us guessing any longer, M. Gauche,’ she said sarcastically. ‘Excitement is dangerous for me.’

‘There is probably only one person here who has cause for excitement,’ Gauche replied mysteriously. ‘But I shall come back to that. First, allow me to introduce myself to the honourable company once again. Yes, my name is Gustave Gauche, but I am not a rentier, alas I have no investments from which to draw income. I am, ladies and gentlemen, a commissioner in the criminal police of the city of Paris and I work in the department which deals with particularly serious and complicated crimes.

The post I hold is entitled Investigator for Especially Important Cases.’ The commissioner pronounced the title with distinct emphasis.

The deadly silence in the saloon was broken only by the hasty whispering of Dr Truffo.

‘What a scandal!’ squeaked the doctor’s wife.

‘I was obliged to embark on this voyage, and to travel incognito because …’ Gauche began flapping his cheeks in and out energetically in an effort to revive his half-extinguished pipe.

‘… because the Paris police have serious grounds for believing that the person who committed the crime on the rue de Grenelle is on board the Leviathan.’

‘Ah!’ The sigh rustled quietly round the saloon.

‘I presume that you have already discussed the case, which is a mysterious one in many respects.’ The commissioner jerked his double chin in the direction of the newspaper clipping, which was still in Fandorin’s hands. ‘And that is not all, mesdames et messieurs. I know for a fact that the murderer is travelling first class …’ (another collective sigh) ‘… and, moreover, happens to be present in this saloon at this very moment,’ Gauche concluded.

Then he seated himself in a satin-upholstered armchair by the window and folded his arms expectantly just below his silver watch chain.

‘Impossible!’ cried Renate, clutching involuntarily at her belly.

Lieutenant Renier leapt to his feet.

The ginger baronet began chortling and applauding demonstratively.

Professor Sweetchild gulped convulsively and removed his glasses.

Clarissa Stamp froze with her fingers pressed against the agate brooch on her soft collar.

Not a single muscle twitched in the face of the Japanese, but the polite smile instantly disappeared.

The doctor grabbed his wife by the elbow forgetting to translate the most important thing of all, but to judge from the frightened expression in her staring eyes, Mrs Truffo had guessed for herself.

The Russian diplomat asked quietly:

“What reasons do you have for this assertion?’

‘My presence here,’ the commissioner replied imperturbably, ‘is explanation enough. There are other considerations, but there is no need for you to know about them … Well then’ there was a clear note of disappointment in the policeman’s voice - ‘I see that no one is about to swoon and cry out: “Arrest me, I killed them!” But of course, I was not really counting on that. So listen to me.’ He raised a stubby finger in warning. ‘None of the other passengers must be told about this.

And it is not in your interests to tell them - the rumour would spread instantly and people would start treating you like lepers.

Do not attempt to transfer to a different saloon - that will merely increase my suspicion. And you will not be able to do it; I have an arrangement with the captain.’

Renate began babbling in a trembling voice.

‘Darling M. Gauche, can you not at least spare me this nightmare?

I am afraid to sit at the same table as a murderer. What if he sprinkles poison in my food? I shan’t be able to swallow a single morsel now. You know it’s dangerous for me to be worried.

I won’t tell anyone, anyone at all, honestly!’

‘My regrets, Mme Kleber,’ the sleuth replied coolly, ‘but there can be no exceptions. I have grounds to suspect every person here, and not least of all you.’

Renate threw herself against the back of her chair with a weak moan and Lieutenant Renier stamped his foot angrily.

‘You take too many liberties, monsieur … Investigator for Especially Important Cases! I shall report everything to Captain Cliff immediately.’

‘Go right ahead,’ said Gauche indifferently. ‘But not just at this moment, a bit later. I haven’t quite finished my little speech.

So, as yet I do not know for certain which of you is my client, but I am close, very close, to my goal.’

Renate expected these words to be followed by an eloquent glance and she strained her entire body forward in anticipation, but no, the policeman was looking at his stupid pipe. He was probably lying and didn’t have his eye on anyone in particular.

‘You suspect a woman, it’s obvious!’ exclaimed Miss Stamp with a nervous flutter of her hands. ‘Otherwise why would you be carrying around a newspaper article about some Marie Sanfon? Who is this Marie Sanfon? And anyway, it doesn’t matter who she is. It’s plain stupid to suspect a woman! How could a woman ever be capable of such brutality!’

Mrs Truffo rose abruptly to her feet, ready to rally to the banner of female solidarity.

‘We shall speak of Mile Sanfon on some other occasion,’ the detective replied, looking Clarissa Stamp up and down. ‘I have plenty of these little articles and each of them contains its own version of events.’ He opened his file and rustled the newspaper clippings. There must have been several dozen of them. ‘Very well, mesdames et messieurs, I ask you please not to interrupt me any more!’ The policeman’s voice had turned to iron. ‘Yes, there is a dangerous criminal among us. Possibly a psychopath.’

(Renate noticed the professor quietly shift his chair away from Sir Reginald.) ‘Therefore I ask you all to be careful. If you notice something out of the ordinary, even the very slightest thing, come to me immediately. And it would be best, of course, if the murderer were to make a full and frank confession. There is no escape from here in any case. That is all I have to say.’

Mrs Truffo put her hand up like a pupil in school.

‘In fact I have seen something extraordinary only yesterday! A charcoal-black face, it was definitely not human, looked in at me from outside while I was in our cabin! I was so scared!’ She turned to her other half and jabbed him with her elbow: ‘I told you, but you paid no attention!’

‘Oh,’ said Renate with a start, ‘and yesterday a mirror in a genuine tortoiseshell frame disappeared from my toiletry set.’

Monsieur the Lunatic apparently also had something to report, but before he had a chance the commissioner slammed his file shut.

‘Do not try to make a fool of me! I am an old bloodhound.

You won’t throw Gustave Gauche off the scent. If necessary I shall have every one of you put ashore and we will deal with each of you separately. Ten people have been killed, this is not a joke. Think, mesdames et messieurs, think!’

He left the saloon, slamming the door loudly behind him.

‘Gentlemen, I am not feeling well,’ Renate declared in a weak voice. ‘I shall go to my cabin.’

‘I shall accompany you, Mme Kleber,’ said Charles Renier, immediately leaping to her side. ‘This is simply intolerable! Such incredible insolence!’

Renate pushed him away.

‘No thank you. I shall manage quite well on my own.’

She walked unsteadily across the room and leaned against the wall by the door for a moment. In the corridor, which was empty, her stride quickened. Renate opened her cabin and went inside, took a travelling bag out from under the bed and thrust a trembling hand in under its silk lining. Her face was pale but determined. In an instant her fingers had located a small metal box.

Inside the box, glittering with cold glass and steel, lay a syringe.

Clarissa Stamp

Things had begun to go wrong first thing in the morning, when Clarissa quite distinctly spotted two new wrinkles in the mirror - two fine, barely visible lines running from the corners of her eyes to her temples. It was all the sun’s fault. It was so bright here that no parasol or hat could save you. Clarissa spent a long time inspecting herself in that pitiless polished surface and stretching her skin with her fingers, hoping it might be the way she’d slept and it would smooth out. Just as she finished her inspection, she turned her neck and spotted a grey hair behind her ear. That really made her feel glum. Might that perhaps be the sun’s fault too? Did hairs fade? Oh no, Miss Stamp, no point in deceiving yourself. As the poet said:

November’s chill breath trimmed her braids with silver,

Whispering that youth and love were lost forever.

She took greater pains than usual with her appearance. That grey hair was mercilessly plucked out. It was stupid, of course.

Wasn’t it John Donne who said the secret of female happiness was knowing when to make the transition from one age to the next, and there were three ages of woman: daughter, wife and mother? But how could she progress from the second state to the third, when she had never been married?

The best cure for thoughts like that was a walk in the fresh air, and Clarissa set out to take a turn round the deck.

Huge as Leviathan was, it had long since been measured out in her leisurely, even paces - at least the upper deck, which was intended for the first-class passengers. The distance round the perimeter was 355 paces. Seven and a half minutes, if she didn’t pause to admire the sea or chat with casual acquaintances.

At this early hour there were none of her acquaintances on deck, and Clarissa completed her promenade along the starboard side of the ship unhindered, all the way to the stern. The ship was ploughing a smooth path through the brownish surface of the Red Sea and a lazy grey furrow extended from its powerful propeller right out to the horizon. Oh, but it was hot!

Clarissa looked enviously at the sailors polishing up the copper fittings one level below. Lucky beasts, in nothing but their linen trousers - no bodice, no bloomers, no stockings with tight garters, no long dress. You couldn’t help envying that outrageous Mr Aono, swanning about the ship in his Japanese dressing gown, and no one in the least bit surprised because he was an Oriental.

She imagined herself lying in a canvas deckchair with absolutely nothing on. No, she could be in a light tunic, like a woman in Ancient Greece. And it was perfectly normal. In a hundred years or so, when the human race finally rid itself of prejudice, it would be absolutely natural.

There was Mr Fandorin riding towards her with a squeak of rubber tyres on his American tricycle. They did say that kind of exercise was excellent for developing the elasticity of the muscles and strengthening the heart. The diplomat was dressed in a light sports outfit: check pantaloons, gutta-percha shoes with gaiters, a short jacket and a white shirt with the collar unbuttoned.

His bronze-tanned face lit up in a friendly smile of greet ing. Mr Fandorin politely raised his cork helmet and went rustling by. He did not stop.

Clarissa sighed. The idea of a stroll had been a failure, all she had succeeded in doing was to soak her underwear with perspiration. She had to go back to her cabin and change.

Breakfast had been spoiled for Clarissa by that poseuse Mme Kleber. What an incredible ability to transform her own weakness into a means of exploiting others! At the precise moment when the coffee in Clarissa’s cup had cooled to the required temperature, that unbearable Swiss woman had complained that she felt stifled and asked for someone to loosen the bodice of her dress. Clarissa usually pretended not to hear Renate Kleber’s whinges and some male volunteer was always found, but a man was clearly not suitable for such a delicate task, and as luck would have it Mrs Truffo was not there - she was helping her husband attend to some lady who had fallen ill. Apparently the tedious creature had previously worked as a nurse. What remarkable social climbing, straight up to the wife of the senior doctor and dining in first class! And she tried to act like a real British lady, but overdid it rather.

Anyway, Clarissa had been forced to fiddle with Mme Kleber’s lacing, and in the meantime her coffee had gone completely cold. It was a trivial matter, of course, but it was that Kleber woman to an absolute T.

After breakfast she went out for a walk, did ten circuits and began feeling tired. Taking advantage of the fact that there was no one nearby she peeped cautiously in at the window of cabin No. 18. Mr Fandorin was sitting at the secretaire, wearing a white shirt with red, white and blue braces, a cigar clenched in the corner of his mouth. He was tapping terribly loudly with his fingers on a bizarre black apparatus made of iron, with a round roller and a large number of keys. Clarissa was so intrigued that she let her guard down and was caught red-handed. The diplomat jumped to his feet, bowed, threw on his jacket and came across to the open window.

‘It’s a Remington t-typewriter,’ he explained. ‘The very latest model, only just on sale. A most c-convenient device, Miss Stamp, and quite light. Two porters can carry it with no difficulty.

Quite indispensable on a journey. You see, i am p-practising my stenography by copying out a piece of Hobbes.’

Still red with embarrassment, Clarissa nodded slightly and walked away, then sat down under a striped awning close by.

There was a fresh breeze blowing. She opened La Chartreuse de Panne and began reading about the selfless love of the beautiful but ageing duchess Sanseverina for the youthful Fabrice del Dongo. Moved to shed a sentimental tear, she wiped it away with her handkerchief, and as if by design, at that very moment, Mr Fandorin emerged onto the deck, wearing a white suit with a broad-brimmed panama hat and carrying a cane. He looked exceptionally handsome.

Clarissa called to him. He approached, bowed and sat down beside her. Glancing at the cover of her book, he said: ‘I am willing to b-bet that you skipped the description of the Battle of Waterloo. A pity - it is the finest passage in the whole of Stendhal. I have never read a more accurate description of war.’

Strangely enough, Clarissa was indeed reading La Chartreuse de Parme for the second time and both times she had simply leafed through the battle scene.

‘How could you tell?’ she asked curiously. ‘Are you a clairvoyant?’

‘Women always miss out the battle episodes,’ said Fandorin with a shrug. ‘At least women of your temperament.’

‘And just what is my temperament?’ Clarissa asked in a wheedling voice, feeling that she cut a poor figure as a coquette.

‘An inclination to view yourself sceptically and the world around you romantically.’ He looked at her, his head inclined slightly to one side. ‘And specifically concerning yourself I can say that recently there has been some kind of sudden change for the b-better in your life and that you have suffered some k-kind of shock.’

Clarissa started and glanced at her companion in frank alarm.

‘Don’t be frightened,’ the astonishing diplomat reassured her.

‘I know absolutely nothing about you. It is simply that I have developed my powers of observation and analysis with the help of special exercises. Usually a single insignificant detail is enough for me to recreate the entire p-picture. Show me a charming button like that (he pointed delicately to a large, ornamental pink button on her jacket) and I will tell you immediately who lost it - a very big pig or a very small elephant.’

Clarissa smiled and asked:

‘And can you see right through absolutely everybody?’

‘Not right through, but I do see a lot. For instance, what can you tell me about that gentleman over there?’

Fandorin pointed to a thickset man with a large moustache observing the shoreline through a pair of binoculars.

‘That’s Mr Babble, he’s …’

‘Stop there!’ said Fandorin, interrupting her. ‘I’ll try to guess myself.’

He looked at Mr Babble for about 30 seconds, then said: ‘He is travelling to the East for the first time. He married recently. A factory owner. Business is not going well, there is a whiff of imminent bankruptcy about this gentleman. He spends almost all his time in the billiard room, but he plays badly.’

Clarissa had always prided herself on being observant and she began inspecting Mr Babble, the Manchester industrialist, more closely.

A factory owner? Well, that was possible to guess. If he was travelling first class, he must be rich. It was clear from his face that he was no aristocrat. And he didn’t look like a businessman either, in that baggy frock coat, and his features lacked animation.

All right then.

Recently married? Well, that was simple enough - the ring on his third finger gleamed so brightly it was obvious straightaway that it was brand new.

Plays billiards a lot? Why was that? Aha, his jacket was smeared all over with chalk.

‘What makes you think that Mr Babble is travelling to the East for the first time?’ she asked. ‘Why is there a whiff of bankruptcy about him? And what is the basis for your assertion that he is a poor billiards player? Perhaps you have been there and seen him play?’

‘No, I have not been in the b-billiard room, because I cannot stand pastimes that involve gambling, and I have never laid eyes on this gentleman before,’ Fandorin replied. ‘It is evident that he is travelling this way for the first time from the stubborn persistence with which he is studying the empty shoreline. Otherwise Mr Babble would be aware that he will not see anything of interest on that side until we reach the Strait of Mandeb. That is one. This gentleman’s business affairs must be going very badly, otherwise he would never have embarked on such a long journey, especially so soon after his wedding. A badger like that might leave his set if the end of the world is nigh, but certainly not before. That is two.’

‘What if he is taking a honeymoon voyage together with his wife?’ asked Clarissa, knowing that Mr Babble was travelling alone.

‘And lingering forlornly on the deck like that, and loitering in the billiard room? And he plays quite incredibly badly - his jacket is all white at the front. Only absolutely hopeless players scrape their bellies along the edge of the table like that. That is three.’

‘Oh, all right, but what will you say about that lady over there?’

Clarissa, now completely engrossed in the game, pointed to Mrs Blackpool, who was proceeding majestically along the deck, arm in arm with her female companion.

Fandorin scanned the estimable lady in question with a disinterested glance.

‘With this one everything is written in the face. She is on her way back from England to join her husband. She has been to visit their grown-up children. Her husband is a military man. A colonel.’

Mr Blackpool was indeed a colonel in command of a garrison in some city or other in northern India. This was simply too much.

‘Explain!’ Clarissa demanded.

‘Ladies of that kind do not travel to India on their own bbusiness, only to their husbands’ place of service. She is not of the right age to have embarked on a journey like this for the first time - so she must be going back somewhere. Why could she have travelled to England? Only in order to see her children. I am assuming that her parents have already passed away. It is clear from her determined and domineering expression that she is a woman used to command. That is the look of the first lady of a garrison or a regiment. They are usually regarded as a level of command senior to the commanding officer himself. Perhaps you would like to know why she must be a colonel’s wife? Well, because if she were a general’s wife she would be travelling first class, and this lady, as you can see, has a silver badge. But let us not waste any more time on trifles.’ Fandorin leaned closer and whispered: ‘Let me tell you about that orang-utan over there. A curious specimen.’

The monkey-like gentleman who had halted beside Mr Babble was M. Boileau, the former Windsor habitue who had left the ill-fated saloon and so slipped through Commissioner Gauche’s net.

Speaking in a low voice directly into Clarissa’s ear, the diplomat told her:

‘The man you see here is a criminal and a villain. Most probably a dealer in opium. He lives in Hong Kong and is married to a Chinese woman.’

Clarissa burst into laughter.

“Well, you’re really wide of the mark this time! That is M. Boileau from Lyon, a philanthropist and the father of eleven completely French children. And he deals in tea, not opium.’

‘I rather think not,’ Fandorin replied calmly. ‘Look closely, his cuff has bent up and you can see the blue circle of a tattoo on his wrist. I have seen one like that before in a book about China. It is the mark of one of the Hong Kong triads, secret criminal societies. Any European who becomes a member of a triad must be a master criminal operating on a truly grand scale.

And of course, he has to marry a Chinese woman. A single look at the face of this “philanthropist” should make everything clear to you.’

Clarissa didn’t know whether to believe him or not, but Fandorin continued with a serious expression:

‘And that is by no means all, Miss Stamp. I can tell a lot about a person even if I am b-blindfolded - from the sounds that he makes and his smell. Why not test me for yourself?’

And so saying he untied his white satin necktie and handed it to Clarissa.

She fingered the fabric - it was dense and non-transparent and then blindfolded the diplomat with it. As though by accident she touched his cheek - it was smooth and hot.

The ideal candidate soon put in an appearance from the direction of the stern - the well-known suffragette, Lady Campbell, making her way to India in order to collect signatures for her petition for married women to be given the vote. Mannish and massive, with cropped hair, she lumbered along the deck like a carthorse. He would never guess that this was a lady and not a boatswain.

‘Right, who is this coming our way?’ Clarissa asked, choking in anticipatory laughter.

Alas, her merriment was short-lived.

Fandorin wrinkled up his brow and began tossing out staccato phrases:

‘A skirt hem rustling. A woman. A heavy stride. A strong c-character. Elderly. Plain. Smokes tobacco. Short-cropped hair.’

‘Why does she have short-cropped hair?’ Clarissa squealed, covering her eyes and listening carefully to the suffragette’s elephantine footfall. Flow, how did he do it?

‘If a woman smokes, she must have bobbed hair and be progressive in her views,’ Fandorin declared in a firm voice. ‘And this one also despises fashion and wears a kind of shapeless robe, bright green with a scarlet belt.’

Clarissa was dumbstruck. This was quite incredible! She took her hands away from her eyes in superstitious terror and saw that Fandorin had already removed the necktie and even retied it in an elegant knot. The diplomat’s blue eyes were sparkling in merriment.

All this was very pleasant, but the conversation had ended badly. When she stopped laughing, Clarissa very delicately broached the subject of the Crimean War and what a tragedy it had been for both Europe and Russia. She touched cautiously on her own memories of the time, making them somewhat more infantile than they were in reality. She was anticipating reciprocal confidences, and hoping to learn exactly how old Fandorin really was. Her worst fears were confirmed: ‘I was still not b-born then,’ he confessed, artlessly clipping Clarissa’s wings.

After that everything had gone from bad to worse. Clarissa had tried to turn the conversation to painting, but she got everything so mixed up that she couldn’t even explain properly why the Pre-Raphaelites had called themselves Pre-Raphaelites. He must have thought her an absolute idiot. Ah, but what difference did it make now?

As she was making her way back to her cabin, feeling sad, something terrifying happened.

She saw a gigantic black shadow quivering in a dark corner of the corridor. Clutching at her heart, Clarissa let out an immodest squeal and made a dash for her own door. Once she was in her cabin it was a long time before she could calm her wildly beating heart. What was that thing? Neither man nor beast.

Some concretion of evil, destructive energy. Her guilty conscience.

The phantom of her Paris nightmare.

No more, she told herself, she had put all that behind her. It was nothing. It was delirium, a delusion, no more. She had sworn that she would not torment herself with remorse. This was a new life, bright and happy - ‘And may your mansion be illumined by the lamp of bliss.’

To soothe her nerves, she put on her most expensive day dress, the one she had not even tried yet (white Chinese silk with a pale-green bow at the back of the waist) and put her emerald necklace round her neck. She admired the gleam of the stones.

Very well, so she wasn’t young. Or beautiful either. But she was far from stupid and she had money. And that was far better than being an ugly, ageing fool without a penny to her name.

Clarissa entered the saloon at precisely two o’clock, but the entire company was already assembled. Strangely enough, rather than fragmenting the Windsor contingent, the commissioner’s astounding announcement of the previous day had brought them closer together. A common secret that cannot be shared with anyone else binds people to each other more tightly than a common cause or a common interest. Clarissa noticed that her fellow diners now gathered around the table in advance of the times set for breakfast, lunch, five o’clock tea and dinner, and lingered on afterwards, something that had hardly ever happened before. Even the captain’s first mate, who was only indirectly involved in this whole affair, spent a lot of time sitting on in the Windsor saloon with the others rather than hurrying off about his official business (but then, of course, the lieutenant might possibly be acting on the captain’s orders). It was as though all the Windsorites had joined some elite club that was closed to the uninitiated. Several times Clarissa caught swift, stealthy glances cast in her direction. Glances that could mean one of two things: ‘Are you the murderer?’ or ‘Have you guessed that I am the murderer?’ Every time it happened she felt a sweet trembling sensation welling up from somewhere deep inside, a pungent cocktail of fear and excitement. The image of the rue de Grenelle rose up clearly before her eyes, the way it looked in the evening: beguilingly quiet and deserted, with the bare branches of the black chestnut trees swaying against the sky. God forbid that the commissioner should somehow find out about the Ambassador Hotel. The very thought of it terrified Clarissa, and she cast a furtive glance in the policeman’s direction.

Gauche presided at the table like the high priest of a secret sect. They were all constantly aware of his presence and followed the expression on his face out of the corners of their eyes, but Gauche appeared not to notice that at all. He assumed the role of a genial philosopher happy to relate his ‘little stories’, while the others listened tensely.

By unspoken agreement, that was only discussed in the saloon and only in the commissioner’s presence. If two Windsorites chanced to meet somewhere in neutral territory - in the music salon, on the deck, in the reading hall - they did not discuss that under any circumstances. And not even in the saloon did they return to the tantalizing subject on every occasion. It usually happened spontaneously, following some entirely unrelated remark.

Today at breakfast, for instance, a general conversation had completely failed to materialize, but now as Clarissa took her seat the discussion was in full swing. She began studying the menu with a bored expression on her face, as though she had forgotten what she had ordered for lunch, but she could already feel that familiar tingle of excitement.

‘The thing that bothers me about the crime,’ Dr Truffo was saying, ‘is the blatant senselessness of it all. Apparently all those people were killed for absolutely nothing. The golden Shiva ended up in the Seine, and the killer was left empty-handed.’

Fandorin rarely participated in these discussions, preferring to remain silent most of the time, but for once even he felt compelled to express an opinion:

‘That is not quite true. The p-perpetrator was left with the shawl.’

‘What shawl?’ asked the doctor, confused.

‘The painted Indian shawl. In which, if we are to believe the newspapers, the killer wrapped the stolen Shiva.’

This joke was greeted with rather nervous laughter.

The doctor spread his hands expressively.

‘But a mere shawl …’

Sweetchild gave a sudden start and lifted his spectacles off his nose, a gesture of his which indicated intense agitation.

‘No, don’t laugh! I made inquiries as to exactly which shawl was stolen. And it is, gentlemen, an extremely unusual piece of material, with a story of its own. Have you ever heard of the Emerald Rajah?’

‘Wasn’t he some kind of legendary Indian nabob?’ asked Clarissa.

‘Not legendary, but quite real, madam. It was the name given to Bagdassar, the ruler of the principality of Brahmapur. The principality is located in a large, fertile valley, surrounded on all sides by mountains. The rajahs trace their line of descent from the great Babur and are adherents of Islam, but that did not prevent them from reigning in peace for three hundred years over a little country in which the majority of the population are Hindus. Despite the difference in religion between the ruling caste and their subjects, the principality never suffered a single rebellion or feud, the rajahs prospered and grew rich and by Bagdassar’s time the house of Brahmapur was regarded as the wealthiest in the whole of India after the Nizams of Hyderabad, whose wealth, as you are no doubt aware, eclipses that of every monarch in the world, including Queen Victoria and the Russian emperor Alexander.’

‘The greatness of our queen does not consist in the extent of her personal fortune, but in the prosperity of her subjects,’

Clarissa remarked primly, stung by the professor’s remark.

‘Undoubtedly,’ agreed Sweetchild, who was already in full spate and not to be halted. ‘However, the wealth of the rajahs of Brahmapur was of a very special kind. They did not hoard gold, they did not stuff trunks to overflowing with silver, they did not build palaces of pink marble. No, for three hundred years these rulers knew only one passion - precious stones. Do you know what the Brahmapur Standard is?’

‘Isn’t it a style of faceting diamonds?’ Dr Truffo asked uncertainly.

‘The Brahmapur Standard is a jewellers’ term which refers to a diamond, sapphire, ruby or emerald that is faceted in a particular manner and is the size of a walnut, which corresponds to one hundred and sixty tandools, in other words eighty carats in weight.’

‘But that is a very large size,’ Renier exclaimed in amazement.

‘Stones as large as that are very rare. If my memory does not deceive me, even the Regent diamond, the glory of the French state jewels, is not very much larger.’

‘No, Lieutenant, the Pitt diamond, also known as the Regent, is almost twice as large,’ the professor corrected him with an air of authority, ‘but eighty carats is still a considerable size, especially if one is dealing with stones of the first water. But can you believe, ladies and gentlemen, that Bagdasssar had five hundred and twelve such stones, and all of absolutely irreproachable quality!’

‘That’s impossible!’ exclaimed Sir Reginald.

Fandorin asked:

‘Why exactly five hundred and t-twelve?’

‘Because of the sacred number eight,’ Sweetchild gladly explained. ‘Five hundred and twelve is eight times eight times eight, that is eight to the power of three, or eight cubed, the so-called “ideal number”. There is here, undoubtedly, some influence from Buddhism, in which the number eight is regarded with particular reverence. In the north-eastern part of India, where Brahmapur lies, religions are intertwined in the most bizarre fashion imaginable. But the most interesting thing of all is where this treasure was kept and how.’

‘And where was it kept?’ Renate Kleber inquired curiously.

‘In a simple clay casket without any adornment whatever. In 1852 I visited Brahmapur as a young archaeologist and met the Rajah Bagdassar. An ancient temple had been discovered in the jungle on the territory of the principality, and the rajah invited me to assess the significance of the find. I carried out the necessary research, and what do you think I discovered? The temple turned out to have been built in the time of King Chandragupta, when …’

‘Stop-stop-stop!’ the commissioner interrupted. ‘You can tell us about archaeology some other time. Let’s get back to the rajah.’

‘Ah yes indeed,’ said the professor, fluttering his eyelashes.

‘That really would be best. Well then, the rajah was pleased with me and as a token of his favour he showed me his legendary casket. Oh, I shall never forget that sight!’ Sweetchild narrowed his eyes as he continued: ‘Imagine a dark dungeon with only a single torch burning in a bronze bracket beside the door.

The rajah and I were alone, his retainers remained outside the massive door, which was protected by a dozen guards. I got no clear impression of the interior of this treasure house, for my eyes had no time to adjust to the semi-darkness. I only heard the clanging of locks as his Highness opened them. Then Bagdassar turned to me and in his hands I saw a cube that was the colour of earth and appeared to be very heavy. It was the size of …’

Sweetchild opened his eyes and looked around. Everyone was sitting and listening with bated breath, and Renate Kleber had even parted her lips like a child. ‘Oh, I don’t know. I suppose about the size of Miss Stamp’s hat, if one were to place that piece of headgear in a square box.’ As though on command, everyone turned and began staring curiously at the diminutive Tyrolean hat decorated with a pheasant’s feather. Clarissa endured this public scrutiny with a dignified smile, in the manner she had been taught as a child. ‘This cube resembled most of all one of the ordinary clay bricks that they use for building in those parts. His Highness later explained to me that the coarse, dull uniformity of the clay surface made a far better foil than gold or ivory for the magnificent glimmering light of the stones. Indeed, I was able to see that for myself when Bagdassar slowly raised a hand studded with rings to the lid of the casket, then opened it with a rapid movement and … I was blinded, ladies and gentlemen!’ The professor’s voice quavered.

‘It … it is impossible to express it in words! Picture to yourselves a mysterious, multicoloured, lambent radiance spilling out of that dark cube and painting the gloomy vaults of that dungeon with shimmering patches of rainbow-coloured light.

The round stones were arranged in eight layers, and in each layer there were sixty-four faceted sources of quite unbearable brilliance. And the effect was certainly enhanced by the flickering flame of the solitary torch. I can still see Rajah Bagdassar’s face bathed from below in that magical light …’

The professor closed his eyes again and fell silent.

‘And how much, for instance, are these glass baubles worth?’ the commissioner’s rasping voice enquired.

‘Yes indeed, how much?’ Mme Kleber repeated enthusiastically. ‘Say, in your English pounds?’

Clarissa heard Mrs Truffo whisper rather loudly to her husband: ‘She’s so vulgar!’ But even so she pushed her mousy curls back off her ear in order not to miss a single word.

‘You know,’ Sweetchild said with a genial smile, ‘I have often wondered about that. It’s not an easy question to answer, since the value of precious stones fluctuates according to the market, but as things stand today …’

‘Yes, please, as things stand today, not in the time of King Chandragupta,’ Gauche put in gruffly.

‘Hmm … I don’t know exactly how many diamonds, how many sapphires and how many rubies the rajah had. But I do know that he valued emeralds most of all, which was how he acquired his popular name. In the course of his reign seven emeralds were acquired from Brazil and four from the Urals, and for each of them Bagdassar gave one diamond and some additional payment. You see, each of his ancestors had a favourite stone that he preferred to all others and tried to acquire in greater numbers. The magical number of five hundred and twelve stones had already been reached in the time of Bagdassar’s grandfather, and since then the ruler’s primary goal had been not to increase the number of stones but to improve their quality. Stones which fell even slightly short of perfection, or which the present ruler did not favour for some reason, were sold - hence the fame of the Brahmapur Standard, which gradually spread around the world.

Their place in the casket was taken by other, more valuable stones. Bagdassar’s ancestors carried their obsession with the Brahmapur Standard to quite insane lengths! One of them purchased a yellow sapphire weighing three hundred tandools from the Persian Shah Abbas the Great, paying ten caravans of ivory for this marvel, but the stone was larger than the standard size and the rajah had his jewellers cut away all the excess!’

‘That is terrible, of course,’ said the commissioner, ‘but let us get back to the question of the stones’ value.’

This time, however, it proved less easy to direct the flow of the Indologist’s speech into the required channel.

‘The question of value can wait for a moment,’ he said, peremptorily dismissing the detective’s request. ‘Is that really so important? When one considers a noble stone of such size and quality, the first thing that comes to mind is not money but the magical properties that have been attributed to it since ancient times. The diamond, for instance, is considered a symbol of purity. Our ancestors used to test their wives’ fidelity by placing a diamond under their sleeping spouse’s pillow. If she was faithful, then she would immediately turn to her husband and embrace him without waking. If she was unfaithful, she would toss and turn and attempt to throw the diamond onto the floor. And the diamond is also reputed to guarantee its owner’s invincibility. The ancient Arabs used to believe that in battle the general who owned the larger diamond would be victorious.’

‘Ancient Arab mistaken,’ said Gintaro Aono, interrupting the inspired speaker in full flow.

Everyone stared in astonishment at the Japanese, who very rarely joined in the general conversation and never interrupted anyone. The Oriental continued hastily in that odd accent of his: ‘In the Academy of St Cyr we were taught that the Duke of Burgundy, Charles the Bold, specially took the huge Sancy diamond with him into battle against the Swiss, but it did not save him from defeat.’

Clarissa felt sorry for the poor devil for making a rare attempt to show off his knowledge at such an inopportune moment.

The Japanese gentleman’s remark was greeted with deadly silence, and Aono blushed in painful embarrassment.

‘Yes indeed, Charles the Bold …’ the professor said with a sharp nod of dissatisfaction and concluded without his former ardour. ‘The sapphire symbolizes devotion and constancy, the emerald confers improved sharpness of vision and foresight, the ruby protects against illness and the evil eye … But you were asking about the value of Bagdassar’s treasures?’

‘I realize that it must be an incredibly huge sum, but could you at least give us an approximate idea of how many zeros there are in it?’ Mme Kleber enunciated clearly, as if she were addressing a dull-witted pupil, demonstrating yet again that once a banker’s wife, always a banker’s wife.

Clarissa would have enjoyed listening to more on the subject of the magical properties of precious stones and would have preferred to avoid talk of money. Apart from anything else, it was so vulgar.

“Very well then, let me just tot it up.’ Sweetchild took a pencil out of his pocket and poised himself to write on a paper napkin. ‘Formerly the diamond was considered the most expensive stone, but since the discovery of the South African mines it has fallen significantly in value. Large sapphires are found more often than other precious stones, and so on average they are only worth a quarter as much as diamonds, but that does not apply to yellow and star sapphires, and they made up the majority of Bagdassar’s collection. Pure rubies and emeralds of great size are also rare and have a higher value than diamonds of the same weight … Very well, for simplicity’s sake, let us assume that all five hundred and twelve stones are diamonds, and all of the same value. Each of them, as I have already said, weighing eighty carats. According to Tavernier’s formula, which is used by jewellers all over the world, the value of a single stone is calculated by taking the market value of a one carat diamond and multiplying it by the square of the number of carats in the stone concerned. That would give us … A one carat diamond costs about fifteen pounds on the Antwerp exchange. Eighty squared is six thousand four hundred. Multiply by fifteen … Mmm … Ninety-six thousand pounds sterling - so that is the value of an average stone from the Brahmapur casket … Multiply by five hundred and twelve … About fifty million pounds sterling. And in actual fact even more, because as I have already explained, coloured stones of such a great size are more valuable than diamonds,’

Sweetchild concluded triumphantly.

‘Fifty million pounds? As much as that?’ Renier asked in a voice suddenly hoarse. ‘But that’s one and a half billion francs!’

Clarissa caught her breath, all thoughts of the romantic properties of precious stones driven out of her head by astonishment at this astronomical figure.

‘Fifty million! But that’s half the annual budget of the entire British Empire!’ she gasped.

‘That’s three Suez Canals!’ mumbled the redheaded Milford Stokes. ‘Or even more!’

The commissioner also took a napkin and became absorbed in some calculations of his own.

‘It is my salary for three hundred thousand years,’ he announced in dismay. ‘Are you not exaggerating, professor? The idea of some petty native princeling possessing such immense wealth!’

Sweetchild replied as proudly as if all the treasure of India belonged to him personally:

‘Why, that’s nothing! The jewels of the Nizam of Hyderabad are estimated to be worth three hundred million, but of course you couldn’t get them all into one little casket. In terms of compactness, certainly, Bagdassar’s treasure had no equal.’

Fandorin touched the Indologist’s sleeve discreetly: ‘Nonetheless, I p-presume that this sum is rather abstract in nature. Surely no one would be able to sell such a huge number of gigantic pprecious stones all at once? It would bring down the market price.’

‘You are mistaken to think so, monsieur diplomat,’ the scholar replied with animation. ‘The prestige of the Brahmapur Standard is so great that there would be no shortage of buyers.

I am certain that at least half of the stones would not even leave India - they would be bought by the local princes, in the first instance by the Nizam whom I have already mentioned. The remaining stones would be fought over by the banking houses of Europe and America, and the monarchs of Europe would not let slip the chance to add the masterpieces of Brahmapur to their treasuries. If he had wished, Bagdassar could have sold the contents of his casket in a matter of weeks.’

‘You keep referring to this man in the p-past tense,’ remarked Fandorin. ‘Is he dead? And if so, what happened to the casket?’

‘Alas, that is something that nobody knows. Bagdassar’s own end was tragic. During the Sepoy Mutiny the rajah was incautious enough to enter into secret dealings with the rebels, and the viceroy declared Brahmapur enemy territory. There was malicious talk of Britannia simply wishing to lay its hands on Bagdassar’s treasure, but of course it was untrue. That is not the way we English go about things.’

‘Oh, yes,’ nodded Renier with a dark smile, exchanging glances with the commissioner.

Clarissa stole a cautious glance at Fandorin - surely he could not also be infected with the bacillus of Anglophobia? The Russian diplomat, however, was sitting there with an air of perfect equanimity.

‘A squadron of dragoons was dispatched to Bagdassar’s palace.

The rajah attempted to escape by fleeing to Afghanistan, but the cavalry overtook him at the Ganges crossing. Bagdassar considered it beneath his dignity to submit to arrest and he took poison. The casket was not found on him; in fact, there was nothing but a small bundle containing a note in English. In the note, which was addressed to the British authorities, the rajah swore that he was innocent and requested them to forward the bundle to his only son. The boy was studying in a private boarding school somewhere in Europe - it’s the done thing among Indian grandees of the new breed. I should mention that Bagdassar was no stranger to the spirit of civilization, he visited London and Paris several times. He even married a French woman.’

‘Oh, how unusual!’ Clarissa exclaimed. ‘To be an Indian rajah’s wife! What became of her?’

‘Never mind the blasted wife, tell us about the bundle,’ the commissioner said impatiently. ‘What was in it?’

‘Absolutely nothing of any interest,’ said the professor with a regretful shrug of his shoulders. ‘A volume of the Koran. But the casket disappeared without trace, although they looked for it everywhere.’

‘And was it a perfectly ordinary Koran?’ asked Fandorin.

‘It could hardly have been more ordinary: printed by a press in Bombay, with devout comments in the deceased’s own hand in the margins. The squadron commander decided that the Koran could be forwarded as requested, and for himself he took only the shawl in which it was wrapped as a souvenir of the expedition. The shawl was later acquired by Lord Littleby for his collection of Indian paintings on silk.’

To clarify the point the commissioner asked:

‘So that is the same shawl in which the murderer wrapped the Shiva?’

‘The very same. It is genuinely unusual. Made of the very finest silk, almost weightless. The painting is rather trivial - an image of the bird of paradise, the sweet-voiced Kalavinka, but it possesses two unique features which I have never encountered in any other Indian shawl. Firstly, where Kalavinka’s eye should be there is a hole, the edges of which have been sewn up with minute care with brocade thread. Secondly, the shawl itself is an interesting shape - not rectangular, but tapering. A sort of irregular triangle, with two crooked sides and one absolutely straight.’

‘Is the shawl of any g-great value?’ asked Fandorin.

‘All this talk about the shawl is boring,’ complained Mme Kleber, sticking out her lower lip capriciously. ‘Tell us more about the jewels! They ought to have searched a bit more thoroughly.’

Sweetchild laughed.

‘Oh, madam, you cannot even imagine how thoroughly the new rajah searched for them. He was one of the local zamindars who had rendered us invaluable service during the Sepoy War and received the throne of Brahmapur as a reward. But greed unhinged the poor man’s mind. Some wit whispered to him that Bagdassar had hidden the casket in the wall of one of the buildings.

And since in size and appearance the casket looked exactly like an ordinary clay brick, the new rajah ordered all buildings constructed of that material to be taken apart. The houses were demolished one after another and each brick was smashed under the personal supervision of the new ruler. Bearing in mind that in Brahmapur ninety per cent of all structures are built of clay bricks, in a few months a flourishing city was transformed into a heap of rubble. The insane rajah was poisoned by his own retainers, who feared a popular revolt even more fierce than the Sepoy Mutiny.’

‘Serve him right, the Judas,’ Renier declared with feeling.

‘Nothing is more abominable than treachery.’

Fandorin patiently repeated his question:

‘But nonetheless, professor, is the shawl of any g-great value?’

‘I think not. It is more of a rarity, a curiosity.’

‘But why are things always b-being wrapped in the shawl first the Koran, and then the Shiva? Could this piece of silk perhaps have some ritual significance?’

‘I’ve never heard of anything of the sort. It is simply a coincidence.’

Commissioner Gauche got to his feet with a grunt and straightened his numbed shoulders.

‘Mmm, yes, an entertaining story, but unfortunately it has nothing to contribute to our investigation. The murderer is unlikely to be keeping this piece of cloth as a sentimental souvenir.

It would be handy if he was, though,’ he mused. ‘One of you, my dear suspects, simply takes out a silk shawl with a picture of the bird of paradise - out of sheer absent-mindedness - and blows his, or her, nose into it. Old papa Gauche would know what to do then all right.’

The detective laughed, clearly in the belief that his joke was very witty. Clarissa gave the coarse lout a disapproving look.

Catching her glance, the commissioner narrowed his eyes.

‘By the way, Mile Stamp, about your wonderful hat. A very stylish item, the latest Parisian chic. Is it long since your last visit to Paris?’

Clarissa braced herself and replied in an icy tone:

The fifth day of the fourth month

In sight of the Eritrean coast

Below - the green stripe of the sea,

Between - the yellow stripe of sand,

Above - the blue stripe of the sky.

Such are the colours

Of Africa’s flag.

This trivial pentastich is the fruit my one-hour-and-a half-long efforts to attain a state of inner harmony that confounded harmony that has stubbornly refused

to be restored.

I have been sitting alone on the stern, watching the dreary coastline of Africa and feeling my infinite isolation more acutely than ever. I can at least be thankful that the noble habit of keeping a diary was instilled in me from childhood. Seven years ago as I set out to study in the remote country of Furansu, I dreamed in secret that one day the diary of my travels would be published as a book and bring fame to me and the entire clan of Aono. But alas, my intellect is too imperfect and my feelings are far too ordinary for these pitiful pages ever to rival the great diaristic literature of former times.

And yet if not for these daily entries I should certainly have gone insane long ago.

Even here, on board a ship travelling to east Asia, there are only two representatives of the yellow race - myself and a Chinese eunuch, a court official of the eleventh rank who has travelled to Paris to obtain the latest perfumes and cosmetic products for the Empress Dowager Tz’u Hsi. For the sake of economy he is travelling second class, of which he is greatly ashamed, and our conversation was broken off the moment it emerged that I am travelling first class. What a disgrace for China! In the court official’s place I should certainly have died of humiliation, for on this European vessel each of us is the representative of a great Asian power. I understand Courtier Chan’s state of mind, but it is nonetheless a pity that he feels too ashamed even to leave his cramped cabin - there are things that we could have talked about. That is, although we could not talk about them, we could communicate with the aid of ink, brush and paper, for while we speak different languages, we use the same hieroglyphs.

Never mind, I tell myself, hold on. The difficulties remaining are mere trifles. In a month or so you will see the lights of Nagasaki, and from there it is a mere stone’s throw to your home town of Kagoshima.

And what do I care that my return promises me only humiliation and disgrace, that I shall be a laughing stock to all my friends! For I shall be home once again and, after all, no one will dare to express his contempt for me openly, since everyone knows that I was carrying out my father’s will, and that orders are not a matter for discussion. I have done what I had to do, what my duty obliged me to do. My life may be ruined, but if that is what the welfare of Japan requires … Enough, no more of that!

And yet who could have imagined that the return to my homeland, the final stage of my seven year ordeal, would prove so hard? In France at least I could take my food alone, I could delight in taking solitary walks and communing with nature. But here on the ship I feel like a grain of rice that has fallen by accident into a bowl of noodles. Seven years of life among the red-haired barbarians have failed to inure me to some of their disgusting habits. When I see the fastidious Kleber-san cut a bloody beefsteak with her knife and then lick her red-stained lips with her pink tongue it turns my stomach. And these English washbasins in which you have to plug the drain and wash your face in contaminated water! And those appalling clothes, the invention of some perverted mind! They make you feel like a carp wrapped in greased paper that is being roasted over hot coals.

Most of all, I hate the starched collars that leave a red rash on your chin and the leather shoes, a genuine instrument of torture. Exploiting my position as an ‘oriental savage’ I take the liberty of strolling around the deck in a light yukata, while my unfortunate dining companions stew in their clothes from morning till night. My sensitive nostrils suffer greatly from the smell of European sweat, so harsh, greasy and fleshy. Equally terrible is the round-eyes’ habit of blowing their noses into handkerchiefs and then putting them back into their pockets, together with the mucus, then taking them out and blowing their noses into them again. They will simply not believe it at home, they will think I have made it all up. But then seven years is a long time. Perhaps by now our ladies are also wearing those ridiculous bustles on their hindquarters and tottering along on high heels.

It would be interesting to see how Kyoko-san looks in a costume like that. After all, she is quite grown up 13 years old already. In another year or two now they will marry us. Or perhaps it will happen even sooner. Oh to be home soon!

Today I found it especially difficult to attain inner harmony because:

1. I discovered that my finest instrument, capable of easily cutting through the very thickest muscle, has been stolen from my travelling bag. What does this strange theft mean?

2. At lunch I once again found myself in a position of humiliation - far worse than the incident with Charles the Bold (see my entry for yesterday).

Fandorin-san, who continues as before to be very curious concerning Japan, began questioning me about bushido and samurai traditions. The conversation moved on to my family and my ancestors. Since I had introduced myself as an officer, the Russian began to question me about the weapons, uniforms and service regulations of the Imperial Army. It was terrible! When it emerged that I had never even heard of the Berdan rifle, Fandorin-san looked at me very strangely. He must have thought the Japanese army is staffed with absolute ignoramuses. In my shame I completely forgot my manners and ran out of the saloon, which of course only rendered the incident even more embarrassing.

It was a long time before I was able to settle my nerves. First I went up onto the boat deck, which is deserted because the sun is at its fiercest there. I stripped to my loincloth and for half an hour practised the kicking technique of mawashi-geri. When I had reached the right condition and the sun began to look pink, I seated myself in the zazen pose and attempted to meditate for 40 minutes. And only after that did I dress myself and go to the stern to compose a tanka.

All of these exercises were helpful. Now I know how to save face. At dinner I shall tell Fandorin-san that we are forbidden to talk to strangers about the Imperial Army and that I ran out of the saloon in such haste because I am suffering from terrible diarrhoea.

I think that will sound convincing and in the eyes of my neighbours at table I shall not appear to be an ill-mannered savage.

The evening of the same day

So much for harmony! Something quite catastrophic has happened. My hands are trembling in shame, but I must immediately note down all the details. It will help me to concentrate and take the correct decision.

To begin with only the facts, conclusions later.

And so.

Dinner in the Windsor saloon began as usual at eight o’clock. Although during the afternoon I had ordered red beet salad, the waiter brought me bloody, half-raw beef. Apparently he thought I had said ‘red beef. I prodded the slaughtered animal’s flesh, still oozing blood, and observed with secret envy the captain’s first mate, who was eating a most appetizing vegetable stew with lean chicken.

What else happened?

Nothing out of the ordinary. Kleber-san, as always, was complaining of a migraine but eating with a voracious appetite. She looks the very picture of health, a classic example of an easy pregnancy. I am sure that when her time comes the child will pop out of her like a cork from sparkling French wine.

There was talk of the heat, of tomorrow’s arrival in Aden, of precious stones. Fandorin-san and I discussed the relative advantages of Japanese and English gymnastics. I found myself in a position to be condescending, since in this sphere the superiority of the East over the West is self-evident. The difference, of course, is that for them physical exercise is sport, a game, but for us it is the path to spiritual self improvement. It is spiritual improvement that is important. Physical perfection is of no importance; it is automatically dragged along behind, as the carriages follow a steam locomotive. I should mention that the Russian is very interested in sport and has even heard something of the martial arts schools of Japan and China. This morning I was meditating on the boat deck earlier than usual and I saw Fandorin-san there. We merely bowed to each other and did not enter into conversation, because each of us was occupied with his own business: I was bathing my soul in the light of the new day, while he, dressed in gymnast’s tights, was performing squats and press ups on each arm in turn and lifting weights which appeared to be very heavy.

Our common interest in gymnastics rendered our evening conversation unforced and I felt more relaxed than usual. I told the Russian about ju-jitsu.

He listened with unflagging interest.

At about half past eight (I did not notice the precise time) Kleber-san, having drunk her tea and eaten two cakes, complained of feeling dizzy. I told her that this happens to pregnant women when they eat too much. For some reason she evidently took offence at my words and I realized that my comment was out of place. How many times have I sworn not to speak out of turn. After all, I was taught by wise teachers: when you find yourself in strange company, sit, listen, smile pleasantly and from time to time nod your head - you will acquire the reputation of a well-bred individual and at the very least you will not say anything stupid. It is not the place of an ‘officer’ to be giving medical advice!

Renier-san immediately leapt to his feet and volunteered to accompany the lady to her cabin. He is in general a most considerate man, and especially with Kleber-san. He is the only one who is not yet sick of her interminable caprices. He stands up for the honour of his uniform, and I applaud him for it.

When they left, the men moved to the armchairs and began smoking. The Italian ship’s doctor and his English wife went to visit a patient and I attempted to din it into the waiter’s head that they should not put either bacon or ham in my omelette for breakfast.

After so many days they should have grown used to the idea by now.

Perhaps about two minutes later we suddenly heard a woman’s high-pitched scream.

Firstly, I did not immediately realize that it was Kleber-san screaming. Secondly, I did not understand that her blood-curdling scream of ‘Oscure! Oscure!’ meant ‘Au secours! Au secours!’ But that does not excuse my behaviour. I behaved disgracefully, quite disgracefully. I am unworthy of the title of samurai!

But everything in order.

The first to reach the door was Fandorin-san, followed by the commissioner of police, then Milford-Stokes-san and Sweetchild-san, and I was still glued to the spot. They have all decided, of course, that the Japanese army is staffed by pitiful cowards. In actual fact, I simply did not understand immediately what was happening.

When I did understand it was too late - I was the last to come running up to the scene of the incident, even behind Stamp-san.

Kleber-san’s cabin is very close to the saloon, the fifth door on the right along the corridor. Peering over the shoulders of those who had reached the spot before me I saw a quite incredible sight. The door of the cabin was wide open. Kleber-san was lying on the floor and moaning pitifully, with some immense, heavy, shiny black mass slumped across her. I did not immediately realize that it was a negro of immense stature. He was wearing white canvas trousers. The handle of a sailor’s dirk was protruding from the back of his neck. From the position of his body I knew immediately that the negro was dead.

A blow like that, struck to the base of the skull, requires great strength and precision, but it kills instantly and surely.

Kleber-san was floundering in a vain effort to wriggle out from under the heavy carcass that had pinned her down. Lieutenant Renier was bustling about beside her. His face was whiter than the collar of his shirt. The dirk scabbard hanging at his side was empty. The lieutenant was completely flustered, torn between dragging this unsavoury deadweight off the pregnant woman, and turning to us and launching into an incoherent explanation to the commissioner of what had happened.

Fandorin-san was the only one who remained calm and composed. Without any visible effort he lifted up the heavy corpse and dragged it off to one side (I remembered his exercises with the weights), helped Kleber-san into an armchair and gave her some water. Then I came to my senses and checked swiftly to make sure that she had no wounds or bruises. There did not seem to be any. Whether there is any internal damage will become clear later. Everyone was so agitated that they were not surprised when I examined her. White people are convinced that all Orientals are part-shaman and know the art of healing. Kleber-san’s pulse was 95, which is perfectly understandable.

Interrupting each other as they spoke, Renier-san and Kleber-san told us the following story.

The lieutenant:

He saw Kleber-san to her cabin, wished her a pleasant evening and took his leave. However, he had scarcely taken two steps away from her door when he heard her desperate scream.

Kleber-san:

She went into her cabin, switched on the electric light and saw a gigantic black man standing by her dressing table with her coral beads in his hands (I actually saw these beads on the floor afterwards).

The negro threw himself on her without speaking, tossed her to the floor and grabbed hold of her throat with his massive hands. She screamed.

The lieutenant:

He burst into the cabin, saw the appalling (he said ‘fantastic’) scene and for a moment was at a loss. He grabbed the negro by the shoulders, but was unable to shift the giant by even an inch. Then he kicked him in the head, but again without the slightest effect. It was only then, fearing for the life of Kleber-san and her child, that he grabbed his dirk out of its sheath and struck a single blow.

It occurred to me that the lieutenant must have spent a turbulent youth in taverns and bordellos, where skill in handling a knife determines who will sober up the following morning and who will be carried off to the cemetery.

Captain Cliff and Dr Truffo came running up. The cabin became crowded. No one could understand how the African had come to be on board the Leviathan. Fandorin-san carefully inspected a tattoo covering the dead man’s chest and said that he had come across one like it before. Apparently, during the recent Balkan conflict he was held prisoner by the Turks, and there he saw black slaves with precisely the same zigzag lines surrounding the nipples in concentric circles. They are the ritual markings of the Ndanga tribe, recently discovered by Arab slave traders in the very heart of Equatorial Africa. Ndanga men are in great demand at markets throughout the East.

It seemed to me that Fandorin-san said all of this with a rather strange expression on his face, as though he were perplexed by something. However, I could be mistaken, since the facial expressions of Europeans are freakish and do not correspond at all to ours.

Commissioner Gauche listened to the diplomat carefully. He said that there were two questions that interested him as a representative of the law: how the negro had managed to get on board and why he had attacked Mme Kleber.

Then it emerged that things had begun disappearing in a mysterious fashion from the cabins of several of the people present. I remembered the item that had disappeared from my cabin, but naturally I said nothing. It was also established that people had seen a massive black shadow (Miss Stamp) or a black face peeping in at their windows (Mrs Truffo). It is clear now that these were not hallucinations and not the fruit of morbid imaginings.

Everyone threw themselves on the captain. Apparently, the passengers had been in mortal danger all the time they had been on board and the ship’s command had not even been aware of it. Cliff-san was scarlet with shame. And it must be admitted that a terrible blow has been struck at his prestige. I tactfully turned away so that he would suffer less from his loss of face.

Then the captain asked all the witnesses to the incident to move into the Windsor saloon and addressed us with a speech of great power and dignity. Above all he apologized for what had happened.

He asked us not to tell anyone about this ‘regrettable occurrence’, since it might cause mass psychosis on board the ship. He promised that his sailors would immediately comb all the holds, the ‘tween-decks space, the wine cellar, the store rooms and even the coal holes. He gave us his guarantee that there would not be any more black burglars on board his ship.

The captain is a good man, a genuine old sea dog.

He speaks awkwardly, in short, clipped phrases, but it is clear that he is strong in spirit and he takes his job with serious enthusiasm. I once heard Truffosensei telling the commissioner that Captain Cliff is a widower and he dotes on his only daughter, who is being educated in a boarding school somewhere. I find that very touching.

I seem to be recovering my composure gradually.

The lines of writing are more even now and my

hand is no longer shaking. I can go on to the most unpalatable moment in all of this.

During my superficial examination of Kleber-san I noticed that she had no bruising. There were also several other observations which ought to be shared with the captain and the commissioner. But I wished above all to reassure a pregnant woman who was struggling to recover her wits after a shock, who seemed intent, in fact, on plunging into hysterics.

I said to her in a most soothing tone of voice:

‘Perhaps this black man had no intention of killing you, madam. You entered so unexpectedly and switched on the light and he was simply frightened. After all, he …’

Kleber-san interrupted before I could finish.

‘He was frightened?’ she hissed with sudden venom. ‘Or perhaps it was you who was frightened, my dear Oriental monsieur? Do you think I didn’t notice your nasty little yellow face peeping out from behind other people’s backs?’

No one has ever insulted me so outrageously. The worst thing of all was that I could not pretend these were the foolish words of a silly hysterical woman and shield myself from them with a smile of disdain.

Kleber-san’s thrust had found my most vulnerable spot!

There was nothing I could say in reply, I was badly hurt, and the grimace on her tear-stained face when she looked at me was humiliating. If at that moment I could have fallen through the floor into the famous Christian hell, I would certainly have pressed the lever of the trapdoor myself. Worst of all, my sight was veiled by the red mist of rage, and that is the condition which I fear most. It is in this state of frenzy that a samurai commits those deeds that are disastrous for his karma. Then afterwards he must spend the rest of his life seeking to expiate the guilt of that single moment of lost self-control. He can do things for which even seppuku will not be sufficient atonement.

I left the saloon, afraid that I would not be able to restrain myself and would do something terrible to a pregnant woman. I am not sure that I could have controlled myself if a man had said something like that to me.

I locked myself in my cabin and took out the sack of Egyptian gourds that I had bought at the bazaar in Port Said. They are small, about the size of a human head, and very hard. I bought 50 of them.

In order to disperse the scarlet mist in front of my eyes, I set about improving my straight chop with the edge of the hand. Because of my extreme agitation I delivered the blow poorly: instead of two equal halves, the gourds split into seven or eight pieces.

It is hard.

Gintaro Aono

The seventh day of the fourth month In Aden

The Russian diplomat is a man of profound, almost Japanese intellect. Fandorin-san possesses the most un-European ability to see a phenomenon in all its fullness, without losing his way in the maze of petty details and technicalities. The Europeans are unsurpassed masters of everything that concerns doing, they have superlative understanding of how. But true wisdom belongs to us Orientals, since we understand why. For the hairy ones the fact of movement is more important than the final goal, but we never lower our gaze from the lodestar twinkling in the distance, and therefore we often neglect to pay due attention to what lies closer at hand. This is why time and again the white peoples are the victors in petty skirmishes, but the yellow race maintains its unshakeable equanimity in the certain knowledge that such trivial matters are unworthy of serious attention. In all that is truly important, in the genuinely essential matters, victory will be ours.

Our emperor has embarked on a great experiment: to combine the wisdom of the East with the intellect of the West. Yet while we Japanese strive meekly to master the European lesson of routine daily conquest, we do not lose sight of the ultimate end of human life - death and the higher form of existence that follows it. The red-hairs are too individualistic, their precious ego obscures their vision, distorting their picture of the world around them and making it impossible for them to see a problem from different points of view. The soul of the European is fastened tight to his body with rivets of steel, it cannot soar aloft.

But if Fandorin-san is capable of illumination, he owes it to the semi-Asiatic character of his homeland.

In many ways Russia is like Japan: the same reaching out of the East for the West. Except that, unlike us, the Russians forget about the star by which the ship maintains its heading and spend too much time gazing idly around them. To emphasize one’s individual T or to dissolve it in the might of the collective ‘we’ - therein lies the antithesis between Europe and Asia. I believe the chances are good that Russia will turn off the first road onto the second.

However, I have become carried away by my philosophizing. I must move on to Fandorin-san and the clarity of mind which he has demonstrated.

I shall describe events as they happened.

The Leviathan arrived in Aden before dawn. Concerning this port my guidebook says the following: The port of Aden, this Gibraltar of the East, serves England as her link with the East Indies. Here steamships take on coal and replenish their reserves of fresh water. Aden’s importance has increased immeasurably since the opening of the Suez Canal. The town itself, however, is not large. It has extensive dockside warehouses and shipyards, a number of trading stations, shipping offices and hotels. The streets are laid out in a distinctively regular pattern. The dryness of the local soil is compensated for by 30 ancient reservoirs which collect the rainwater that runs down from the mountains. Aden has a population of 34,000, consisting primarily of Indian Moslems.

For the time being I must be content with this scanty description, since the gangway has not been lowered and no one is being allowed ashore. The alleged reason is quarantine for medical reasons, but we vassals of the principality of Windsor know the true reason for the turmoil and confusion: sailors and police from ashore are combing the gigantic vessel from stem to stern in search of negroes.

After breakfast we stayed on in the saloon to wait for the results of the manhunt. It was then that an important conversation took place between the commissioner and the Russian diplomat in the presence of our entire company (even for me it has already become ‘ours’).

At first people spoke about the death of the negro, then as usual the conversation turned to the murders in Paris. Although I took no part in the discussion on that topic, I listened very attentively, and at first it seemed to me that they were trying yet again to catch a green monkey in a thicket of bamboo or a black cat in a dark room.

Stamp-san said: ‘So, we have nothing but riddles. We don’t know how the black man managed to get on board and we don’t know why he wanted to kill Mme Kleber. It’s just like the rue de Grenelle. More mystery.’

But then Fandorin-san said: ‘There’s no mystery there at all. It’s true that we still haven’t cleared up the business with the negro, but I think we have a fairly clear picture of what happened on the rue de Grenelle.’

Everyone stared at him in bewilderment and the commissioner smiled scornfully: ‘Is that so? Well then, out with it, this should be interesting.’

Fandorin-san: ‘I think what happened was this. That evening someone arrived at the door of the mansion on the rue de Grenelle …’

The commissioner (in mock admiration): ‘Oh, bravo! A brilliant deduction!’

Someone laughed, but most of us continued listening attentively, for the diplomat is not a man to indulge in idle talk.

Fandorin-san (continuing imperturbably):

‘… someone whose appearance completely failed to arouse the servants’ suspicion. It was a physician, possibly wearing a white coat and certainly carrying a doctor’s bag. This unexpected visitor requested everyone in the house to gather immediately in one room, because the municipal authorities had instructed that all Parisians were to receive a prophylactic vaccination.’

The commissioner (starting to get angry): ‘What idiotic fantasy is this? What vaccination? Why should the servants take the word of a total stranger?’

Fandorin (sharply): ‘If you do not take care, M. Gauche, you may find yourself demoted from Investigator for Especially Important Cases to Investigator for Rather Unimportant Cases. You do not take sufficient care in studying your own materials, and that is unforgivable. Take another look at the article from Le Sou that mentions Lord Littleby’s connection with the international adventuress Marie Sanfon.’

The detective rummaged in his black file, took out the article in question and glanced through it.

The commissioner (with a shrug): ‘Well, what of it?’

Fandorin (pointing): ‘Down here at the bottom.

Do you see the headline of the next article: “Cholera epidemic on the wane”? And what it says about “the vigorous prophylactic measures taken by the physicians of Paris”?’

Truffo-sensei: ‘Why, yes indeed, gentlemen, Paris has been plagued by outbreaks of cholera all winter. They even set up a medical checkpoint in the Louvre for the boats arriving from Calais.’

Fandorin-san: ‘That is why the sudden appearance of a physician did not make the servants suspicious.

No doubt their visitor acted confidently and spoke very convincingly. He could have told them it was getting late and he still had several more houses to visit, or something of the kind. The servants evidently decided not to bother the master of the house, since he was suffering from an attack of gout, but of course they called the security guards from the second floor. And it only takes a moment to give an injection.’

I was delighted by the diplomat’s perspicacity and the ease with which he had solved this difficult riddle.

His words even set Commissioner Gauche thinking.

‘Very well then,’ he said reluctantly. ‘But how do you explain the fact that after poisoning the servants this medic of yours didn’t simply walk up the stairs to the second floor, but went outside, climbed over the fence and broke in through a window in the conservatory?’

Fandorin-san: I’ve been thinking about that. Did it not occur to you that two culprits might have been involved? One dealt with the servants, while the other broke in through the window?’

The commissioner (triumphantly): ‘Indeed it did occur to me, my dear monsieur clever clogs, it most certainly did. That is precisely the assumption that the murderer wanted us to make. It’s perfectly obvious that he was simply trying to confuse the trail!

After he poisoned the servants, he left the pantry and went upstairs, where he ran into the master of the house. Very probably the thief simply smashed in the glass of the display case because he thought there was no one else in the house. When his Lordship came out of his bedroom to see what all the noise was about, he was murdered. Following this unexpected encounter the culprit beat a hasty retreat, not through the door, but through the window of the conservatory. Why? In order to pull the wool over our eyes and make it seem like there were two of them. You fell for his little trick hook, line and sinker. But old papa Gauche is not so easily taken in.’

The commissioner’s words were greeted with general approval. Renier-san even said: ‘Damn it, Commissioner, but you’re a dangerous man!’ (This is a common turn of speech in various European languages. It should not be taken literally. The lieutenant meant to say that Gauche-san is a very clever and experienced detective.)

Fandorin-san waited for a while and asked: ‘Then you made a thorough study of the footprints and came to the conclusion that this person jumped down from the window and did not climb up on to the window sill?’

The commissioner did not answer that, but he gave the Russian a rather angry look.

At this point Stamp-san made a comment that turned the conversation in a new direction.

‘One culprit, two culprits - but I still don’t understand the most important thing: what was it all done for?’ she said. ‘Clearly not for the Shiva. But what then? And not for the sake of the scarf either, no matter how remarkable and legendary it may be!’

Fandorin-san replied to this in a matter-of-fact voice, as if he were saying something perfectly obvious: ‘But of course it was precisely for the sake of the scarf, mademoiselle. The Shiva was only taken in order to divert attention and then thrown into the Seine from the nearest bridge because it was no longer needed.’

The commissioner observed: ‘For Russian boyars (I have forgotten what this word means, I shall have to look it up in the dictionary) half a million francs may perhaps be a mere trifle, but most people think differently. Two kilograms of pure gold was “no longer needed”! You really are getting carried away, monsieur diplomat.’

Fandorin-san: ‘Oh come now, Commissioner, what is half a million francs compared with the treasure of Bagdassar?’

‘Gentlemen, enough of this quarrelling!’ the odious Mme Kleber exclaimed capriciously. ‘I was almost killed, and here you are still harping on the same old tune. Commissioner, while you were so busy tinkering with an old crime, you very nearly had a new one on your hands!’

That woman simply cannot bear it when she is not the centre of attention. After what happened yesterday I try not to look at her - I have a strong urge to jab my finger into the blue vein pulsating on her white neck. One jab would be quite enough to dispatch the loathsome creature. But of course that is one of those evil thoughts that a man must drive out of his head by an effort of will. By confiding my evil thoughts to this diary I have managed to diminish the violence of my hatred a little.

The commissioner put Mme Kleber in her place.

‘Please be quiet, madam,’ he said sternly. ‘Let us hear what other fantasies our diplomat has concocted.’

Fandorin-san: ‘This entire story only makes sense if the stolen shawl is especially valuable in some way. That is one. According to what the professor told us, in itself the shawl is of no great value, so it is not a matter of the piece of silk, but of some other thing connected with it. That is two. As you already know, the shawl is connected with the final will and testament of the Rajah Bagdassar, the last owner of the Brahmapur treasure. That is three. Tell me, professor, was the rajah a zealous servant of the Prophet?’

Sweetchild-sensei (after a moment’s thought): ‘I can’t say exactly … He didn’t build mosques, and he never mentioned the name of Allah in my company. The rajah liked to dress in European clothes, he smoked Cuban cigars and read French novels … Ah yes, he drank cognac after lunch! So he obviously didn’t take religious prohibitions too seriously.’

Fandorin-san: ‘Then that makes four: although he is not overly devout, Bagdassar makes his son a final gift of a Koran, which for some reason is wrapped in a shawl. I suggest that the shawl was the most important part of this legacy. The Koran was included for the sake of appearances … Or possibly the notes made in the margins in Bagdassar’s own hand contained instructions on how to find the treasure with the help of the shawl.’

Sweetchild-sensei: ‘But why did it have to be with the help of the shawl? The rajah could have conveyed his secret in the marginalia!’

Fandorin-san: ‘He could have, but he chose not to. Why? Allow me to refer you to my argument number one: if the shawl were not immensely valuable in some way, it is unlikely that ten people would have been murdered for it. The shawl is the key to five hundred million francs or, if you prefer, fifty million pounds, which is approximately the same. I believe that is the greatest hidden treasure there has ever been in the whole of human history. And by the way, Commissioner, I must warn you that if you are not mistaken and the murderer really is on board the Leviathan, more people could be killed. Indeed, the closer you come to your goal, the more likely it becomes. The stakes are too high and too great a price has already been paid for the key to the mystery.’

These words were followed by deadly silence.

Fandorin-san’s logic seemed irrefutable, and I believe all of us felt shivers run up and down our spines. All of us except one.

The first to recover his composure was the commissioner.

He gave a nervous laugh and said: ‘My, what a lively imagination you do have, M. Fandorin. But as far as danger is concerned, you are right. Only you, gentlemen, have no need to quake in your boots. This danger threatens no one but old man Gauche, and he knows it very well. It comes with my profession. But I’m well prepared for it!’ And he glanced round us all menacingly, as if he were challenging us to single combat.

The fat old man is ridiculous. Of everyone there the only person whom he might be able to best is the pregnant Mme Kleber. In my mind’s eye I glimpsed a tempting picture: the red-faced commissioner had flung the young witch to the floor and was strangling her with his hairy sausage-fingers, and Mme Kleber was expiring with her eyes popping out of her head and her malicious tongue dangling out of her mouth.

‘Darling, I’m scared!’ I heard the doctor’s wife whisper in a thin, squeaky voice as she turned to her husband, who patted her shoulder reassuringly.

The redheaded freak M.-S.-san (his name is too long for me to write it in full) raised an interesting question: ‘Professor, can you describe the shawl in more detail? We know the bird has a hole where its eye should be, and it’s a triangle. But is there anything else remarkable about it?’

I should note that this strange gentleman takes part in the general conversation almost as rarely as I do. But, like the author of these lines, if he does say something then it is always off the point, and so the unexpected appropriateness of his question was all the more remarkable.

Sweetchild-sensei: ‘As far as I recall, apart from the hole and the unique shape there is nothing special about the shawl. It is about the size of a small fan, but it can easily be hidden in a thimble. Such remarkably fine fabric is quite common in Brahmapur.’

‘Then the key must lie in the eye of the bird and the triangular shape,’ Fandorin-san concluded with exquisite assurance.

He was truly magnificent.

The more I ponder on his triumph and the whole story in general, the more strongly I feel the unworthy temptation to demonstrate to all of them that Gintaro Aono is also no fool. 1 also could reveal things that would amaze them. For instance, I could tell Commissioner Gauche certain curious details of yesterday’s incident involving the black-skinned savage. Even the wise Fandorin-san has admitted that the matter is not entirely clear to him as yet.

What if the ‘wild Japanese’ were suddenly to solve the riddle that is puzzling him? That could be interesting!

Yesterday’s insults unsettled me and I lost my composure for a while. Afterwards, when I had calmed down, I began comparing facts and weighing the situation up, and I have constructed an entire logical argument wliich 1 intend to put to the policeman.

Let him work out the rest for himself. This is what I shall tell the commissioner.

First I shall remind him of how Mme Kleber humiliated me. It was a highly insulting remark, made in public. And it was made at the precise moment when I was about to reveal what I had observed. Did Mme Kleber not perhaps wish to shut me up? This surely appears suspicious, monsieur Commissioner?

To continue. Why does she pretend to be weak, when she is as fit as a sumo wrestler? You will say this is an irrelevant detail. But I shall tell you, monsieur detective, that a person who is constantly pretending must be hiding something. Take me, for instance. (Ha ha. Of course, I shall not say that.) Then I shall point out to the commissioner that European women have very delicate white skin.

Why did the negro’s powerful fingers not leave even the slightest mark on it? Is that not strange?

And finally, when the commissioner decides I have nothing to offer him but the vindictive speculations of an oriental mind bent on vengeance, I shall tell him the most important thing, which will immediately make our detective sit up and take notice.

‘M. Gauche,’ I shall say to him with a polite smile, ‘I do not possess your brilliant mind and i am not attempting, hopeless ignoramus that I am, to interfere in your investigation, but I regard it as my duty to draw your attention to a certain circumstance.

You yourself say that the murderer from the rue de Grenelle is one of us. M. Fandorin has expounded a convincing account of how Lord Littleby’s servants were killed. Vaccinating them against cholera was a brilliant subterfuge. It tells us that the murderer knows how to use a syringe. But what if the person who came to the mansion on the rue de Grenelle were not a male doctor, but a woman, a nurse? She would have aroused even less apprehension than a man, would she not? Surely you agree? Then let me advise you to take a casual glance at Mme Kleber’s arms when she is sitting with her viper’s head propped on her hand and her wide sleeve slips down to the elbow. You will observe some barely visible points on the inner flexure, as I have observed them. They are needle marks, monsieur Commissioner.

Ask Dr Truffo if he is giving Mme Kleber any injections and the venerable physician will tell you what he has already told me today: no, he is not, for he is opposed in principle to the intravenous injection of medication. And then, oh wise Gauche sensei, you will add two and two, and you will have something for your grey head to puzzle over.’ That is what I shall tell the commissioner, and he will take Mme Kleber more seriously.

A European knight would say that I had behaved villainously, but that would merely demonstrate his own limitations. That is precisely why there are no knights left in Europe, but the samurai are still with us. Our lord and emperor may have set the different estates on one level and forbidden us to wear two swords in our belts, but that does not mean the calling of a samurai has been abolished, quite the opposite. The entire Japanese nation has been elevated to the estate of the samurai in order to prevent us from boasting to each other of our noble origins.

We all stand together against the rest of the world.

Oh, you noble European knight (who has never existed except in novels)! In fighting with men, use the weapons of a man, but in fighting with women, use the weapons of a woman. That is the samurai code of honour, and there is nothing villainous in it, for women know how to fight every bit as well as men. What contradicts the honour of the samurai is to employ the weapons of a man against a woman or the weapons of a woman against a man. I would never sink as low as that.

I am still uncertain whether the manoeuvre I am contemplating is worthwhile, but my state of mind is incomparably better than it was yesterday. So much so that I have even managed to compose a decent haiku without any difficulty:

The moonlight glinting

Bright upon the steely blade,

A cold spark of ice.

Clarissa Stamp

Clarissa glanced around with a bored look on her face to see if anyone was watching and only then peeped cautiously round the corner of the deck-house.

The Japanese was sitting alone on the quarterdeck with his legs folded up underneath him. His head was thrown right back and she could see the whites of his eyes glinting horribly between the half-closed lids. The expression on his face was absolutely impassive, inhumanly dispassionate.

Br-r-r! Clarissa shuddered. What a strange specimen this Mr Aono was. Here on the boat deck, located just one level above the first-class cabins, there was no one taking the air, just a gaggle of young girls skipping with a rope and two nursery maids exhausted by the heat who had taken refuge in the shade of a snow-white launch. Who but children and a crazy Oriental would be out in such scorching heat? The only structures higher than the boat deck were the control room, the captain’s bridge and, of course, the funnels, masts and sails. The white canvas sheets were swollen taut by a following wind and Leviathan was making straight for the liquid-silver line of the horizon, puffing smoke into the sky as it went, while all around the Indian Ocean lay spread out like a slightly crumpled tablecloth with shimmering patches of bright bottle-green. From up here she could see that the Earth really was round: the rim of the horizon was clearly lower than the Leviathan, and the ship seemed to be running downhill towards it.

But Clarissa had not drenched herself in perspiration for the sake of the sea view. She wanted to see what Mr Aono was up to. Where did he disappear to with such unfailing regularity after breakfast?

And she had been right to be curious. Look at him now, the very image of the inscrutable Oriental! A man with such a motionless, pitiless mask for a face was capable of absolutely anything. The members of the yellow races were certainly not like us, and it was not simply a matter of the shape of their eyes.

They looked very much like people on the outside, but on the inside they were a different species altogether. After all, wolves looked like dogs, didn’t they, but their nature was quite different.

Of course, the yellow-skinned races had a moral code of their own, but it was so alien to Christianity that no normal person could possibly understand it. It would be better if they didn’t wear European clothes or know how to use cutlery - that created a dangerous illusion of civilization, when there were things that we couldn’t possibly imagine going on under that slickly parted black hair and yellow forehead.

The Japanese stirred almost imperceptibly and blinked, and Clarissa hastily ducked back out of sight. Of course, she was behaving like an absolute fool, but she couldn’t just do nothing!

This nightmare couldn’t be allowed to go on and on for ever.

The commissioner had to be nudged in the right direction, otherwise there was no way of knowing how everything might end. Despite the heat, she felt a chilly tremor run through her.

There was obviously something mysterious about Mr Aono’s character and the way he behaved. Like the mystery of the crime on the rue de Grenelle. It was strange that Gauche had still not realized that all the signs pointed to the Japanese as the main suspect.

What kind of officer was he, and how could he have graduated from St Cyr if he knew nothing about horses? One day, acting purely out of humanitarian motives, Clarissa had decided to involve the Oriental in the general conversation and started talking about a subject that should have been of interest to a military man - training and racing horses, the merits and shortcomings of the Norfolk trotter. He was no officer! When she asked him: ‘Have you ever taken part in a steeplechase?’ he replied that officers of the imperial army were absolutely for bidden to become involved in politics. He simply had no idea what a steeplechase was! Of course, who could tell what kind of officers they had in Japan - perhaps they rode around on sticks of bamboo - but how could an alumnus of St Cyr possibly be so ignorant? No, it was quite out of the question.

She had to bring this to Gauche’s attention. Or perhaps she ought to wait and see if she could discover something else suspicious?

And what about that incident yesterday? Clarissa had taken a stroll along the corridor past Mr Aono’s cabin after she heard some extremely strange noises. There was a dry crunching sound coming from inside the cabin, as if someone were smashing furniture with precisely regular blows. Clarissa had screwed up her courage and knocked.

The door had opened with a jerk and the Japanese appeared in the doorway - entirely naked except for a loincloth! His swarthy body was gleaming with sweat, his eyes were swollen with blood.

When he saw Clarissa standing there, he hissed through his teeth:

‘Chikusho!’

The question that she had prepared in advance (‘Mr Aono, do you by any chance happen to have with you some of those marvellous Japanese prints I’ve heard so much about?’) flew right out of her head, and Clarissa froze in stupefaction. Now he would drag her into the cabin and throw himself on her! And afterwards he would chop her into pieces and throw her into the sea. Nothing could be simpler. And that would be the end of Miss Clarissa Stamp, the well-brought-up English lady, who might not have been very happy but had still expected so much from her life.

Clarissa mumbled that she had got the wrong door. Aono stared at her without speaking. He gave off a sour smell.

Probably she ought to have a word with the commissioner after all.

Before afternoon tea she ambushed the detective outside the doors of the Windsor saloon and began sharing her ideas with him, but the way the boorish lout listened was very odd: he kept darting sharp, mocking glances at her, as though he were listening to a confession of some dark misdeed that she had committed.

At one point he muttered into his moustache:

‘Ah, how eager you all are to tell tales on each other.’

When she had finished, he suddenly asked out of the blue: ‘And how are mama and papa keeping?’

‘Whose, Mr Aono’s?’ Clarissa asked in amazement.

‘No, mademoiselle, yours.’

‘I was orphaned as a child,’ she replied, glancing at the policeman in alarm. Good God, this was no ship, it was a floating lunatic asylum.

‘That’s what I needed to establish,’ said Gauche with a nod of satisfaction, then the boor began humming a song that Clarissa didn’t know and walked into the saloon ahead of her, which was incredibly rude.

That conversation had left a bad taste in her mouth. For all their much-vaunted gallantry, the French were not gentlemen.

Of course, they could dazzle you and turn your head, make some dramatic gesture like sending a hundred red roses to your hotel room (Clarissa winced as she thought of that), but they were not to be trusted. Although the English gentleman might appear somewhat insipid by comparison, he knew the meaning of the words ‘duty’ and ‘decency’. But if a Frenchman wormed his way into your trust, he was certain to betray it.

These generalizations, however, had no direct relevance to Commissioner Gauche. And moreover, the reason for his bizarre behaviour was revealed at the dinner table, and in a most alarming manner.

Over dessert the detective, who had so far preserved a most untypical silence that had set everyone’s nerves on edge, suddenly stared hard at Clarissa and said:

‘Yes, by the way, Mile Stamp’ (although she had not said anything), ‘you were asking me recently about Marie Sanfon.

You know, the little lady who was supposedly seen with Lord Littleby shortly before he died.’

Clarissa started in surprise and everyone else fell silent and began staring curiously at the commissioner, recognizing that special tone of voice in which he began his leisurely ‘little stories’.

‘I promised to tell you something about this individual later.

And now the time has come,’ Gauche continued, with his eyes still fixed on Clarissa, and the longer he looked the less she liked it. ‘It will be a rather long story, but you won’t be bored, because it concerns a quite extraordinary woman. And in any case, we are in no hurry. Here we all are sitting comfortably, eating our cheese and drinking our orangeade. But if anyone does have business to attend to, do leave by all means. Papa Gauche won’t be offended.’

No one moved.

‘Then shall I tell you about Marie Sanfon?’ the commissioner asked with feigned bonhomie.

‘Oh yes! You must!’ they all cried.

Only Clarissa said nothing, aware that this topic had been broached for a reason and it was intended exclusively for her ears. Gauche did not even attempt to disguise the fact.

He smacked his lips in anticipation and took out his pipe without bothering to ask permission from the ladies.

‘Then let me start at the beginning. Once upon a time, in the Belgian town of Bruges there lived a little girl by the name of Marie. The little girl’s parents were honest, respectable citizens, who went to church, and they doted on their little golden-haired darling. When Marie was five years old, her parents presented her with a little brother, the future heir to the Sanfon and Sanfon brewery, and the happy family began living even more happily, until suddenly disaster struck. The infant boy, who was barely a month old, fell out of a window and was killed. The parents were not at home at the time, they had left the children alone with their nanny. But the nanny had gone out for half an hour to see her sweetheart, a fireman, and during her brief absence a stranger in a black cloak and black hat burst into the house. Little Marie managed to hide under the bed, but the man in black grabbed her little brother out of his cradle and threw him out of the window. Then he simply vanished without trace.’

‘Why are you telling us such terrible things?’ Mme Kleber exclaimed, clutching at her belly.

‘Why, I have hardly even begun,’ said Gauche, gesturing with his pipe. ‘The best - or the worst - is yet to come. After her miraculous escape, little Marie told mama and papa about the “black man”. They turned the entire district upside down searching for him, and in the heat of the moment they even arrested the local rabbi, since he naturally always wore black.

But there was one strange detail that kept nagging at M. Sanfon: why had the criminal moved a stool over to the window?’

‘Oh, God!’ Clarissa gasped, clutching at her heart. ‘Surely not!’

‘You are quite remarkably perceptive, Mile Stamp,’ the commissioner said with a laugh. ‘Yes, it was little Marie who had thrown her own baby brother out of the window.’

‘How terrible!’ Mrs Truffo felt it necessary to interject. ‘But why?’

‘The girl did not like the way everyone was paying so much attention to the baby, while they had forgotten all about her.

She thought that if she got rid of her brother, then she would be mama and papa’s favourite again,’ Gauche explained calmly.

But that was the first and the last time Marie Sanfon ever left a clue and was found out. The sweet child had not yet learned to cover her tracks.’

‘And what did they do with the infant criminal?’ asked Lieutenant Renier, clearly shaken by what he had heard. ‘They couldn’t try her for murder, surely?’

‘No, they didn’t try her.’ The commissioner smiled craftily at Clarissa. ‘The shock, however, was too much for her mother, who lost her mind and was committed to an asylum. M. Sanfon could no longer bear the sight of the little daughter who was the cause of his family’s calamitous misfortune, so he placed her with a convent of the Grey Sisters of St Vincent, and the girl was brought up there. She was best at everything, in her studies and in her charity work. But most of all, they say, she liked to read books. The novice nun was just seventeen years old when a disgraceful scandal occurred at the convent.’ Gauche glanced into his file and nodded. ‘I have the date here. The seventeenth of July 1866. The Archbishop of Brussels himself was staying with the Grey Sisters when the venerable prelate’s ring, with a massive amethyst, disappeared from his bedroom. It had supposedly belonged to St Louis himself. The previous evening the monseigneur had summoned the two best pupils, our Marie and a girl from Aries, to his chambers for a talk. Suspicion naturally fell on the two girls. The mother superior organized a search and the ring’s velvet case was discovered under the mattress of the girl from Aries. The thief lapsed into a stupor and would not answer any questions, so she was escorted to the punishment cell. When the police arrived an hour later, they were unable to question the criminal - she had strangled herself with the belt of her habit.’

‘I’ve guessed it, the whole thing was staged by that abominable Marie Sanfon!’ Milford-Stokes exclaimed. ‘A nasty story, very nasty!’

‘Nobody knows for certain, but the ring was never found,’ the commissioner said with a shrug. ‘Two days later Marie came to the mother superior in tears and said everyone was giving her strange looks and begged to be released from the convent. The mother superior’s feelings for her former favourite had also cooled somewhat, and she made no effort to dissuade her.’

‘They should have searched the little pigeon at the gates,’ said Dr Truffo with a regretful sigh. ‘You can be sure they would have found the amethyst somewhere under her skirt.’

When he translated what he had said to his wife, she jabbed him with her elbow, evidently regarding his remark as somehow indecent.

‘Either they didn’t search her or they searched her and found nothing, I don’t know which. In any case, after she left the convent, Marie chose to go to Antwerp, which, as you are aware, is regarded as the world capital of precious stones. The former nun suddenly grew rich and ever since she has lived in the grand style. Sometimes, just occasionally, she has been left without a sou to her name, but not for long. With her sharp mind and brilliant skill as an actress, combined with a total lack of moral scruple’ - at this point the commissioner raised his voice and then paused - ‘she has always been able to obtain the means required for a life of luxury. The police of Belgium, France, England, the United States, Brazil, Italy and a dozen other countries have detained Marie Sanfon on numerous occasions, on suspicion of all sorts of offences, but no charges have ever been brought against her. Always it turns out that either no crime has actually been committed or there is simply not enough evidence. If you like, I could tell you about a couple of episodes from her distinguished record. Are you not feeling bored yet, Mile Stamp?’

Clarissa did not reply, she felt it was beneath her dignity. But in her heart she felt alarmed.

‘Eighteen seventy,’ Gauche declared, after another glance into his file. ‘The small but prosperous town of Fettburg in German-speaking Switzerland. The chocolate and ham industries. Eight and a half thousand pigs to four thousand inhabitants. A land of rich, fat idiots - I beg your pardon, Mme Kleber, I did not mean to insult your homeland,’ said the policeman, suddenly realizing what he had said.

‘Never mind,’ said Mme Kleber with a careless shrug. ‘I come from French-speaking Switzerland. And anyway, the area around Fettburg really is full of simpletons. I believe I have heard this story, it is very funny. But never mind, carry on.’

‘Some might think it funny,’ Gauche sighed reproachfully, and suddenly he winked at Clarissa, which was going too far altogether. ‘One day the honest burghers of the town were thrown into a state of indescribable excitement when a certain peasant by the name of Mobius, who was known in Fettburg as no an idler and a numskull, boasted that he had sold his land, a narrow strip of stony desert, to a certain grand lady who styled herself the Comtesse de Sanfon. This damn fool of a countess had shelled out three thousand francs for thirty acres of barren land on which not even thistles could grow. But there were people smarter than Mobius on the town council, and they thought his story sounded suspicious. What would a countess want with thirty acres of sand and rock? There was something fishy going on. So they dispatched the very smartest of the town’s citizens to Zurich to find out what was what, and he discovered that the Comtesse de Sanfon was well known there as woman who knew how to enjoy life on a grand scale. Even more interestingly, she often appeared in public in the company of Mr Goldsilber, the director of the state railway company. The director and the countess were rumoured to be romantically involved. Then, of course, the good burgers guessed what was going on. The little town of Fettburg had been dreaming for a long time of having its own railway line, which would make it cheaper to export its chocolate and ham. The wasteland acquired by the countess just happened to run from the nearest railway station to the forest where the communal land began.

Suddenly everything was clear to the city fathers: having learned from her lover about plans to build a railway line, the countess had bought the key plot of land, intending to turn a handsome profit. An outrageously bold plan began to take shape in the good burghers’ heads. They dispatched a deputation to the countess, which attempted to persuade her Excellency to sell the land to the noble town of Fettburg. The beautiful lady was obstinate at first, claiming that she knew nothing about any branch railway line, but when the burghomaster hinted subtly that the affair smacked of a conspiracy between her Excellency and his Excellency the Director of State Railways, and that was a matter which fell within the competence of the courts, the woman’s nerve finally gave way and she agreed. The wasteland was divided into thirty lots of one acre each and auctioned off to the citizens of the town. The Fettburgers almost came to blows over it and the price for some lots rose as high as fifteen thousand francs. Altogether the countess received …’ The commissioner ran his finger along a line of print. ‘A little less than two hundred and eighty thousand francs.’

Mme Kleber laughed out loud and gestured to Gauche as if to say: I’m saying nothing, go on, go on.

‘Weeks went by, then months, and still the construction work had not started. The citizens of the town sent an inquiry to the government and received a reply that no branch line to Fettburg was planned for the next fifteen years … They went to the police and explained what had happened and said that it was daylight robbery. The police listened to the victims’ story with sympathy, but there was nothing they could do to help: Mlle Sanfon had said that she knew nothing about any railway line and she had not wanted to sell the land. The sales were properly registered, it was all perfectly legal. As for calling herself a countess, that was not a very nice thing to do, but unfortunately it was not a criminal offence.’

‘Very clever!’ laughed Renier. ‘It really was all perfectly legal’

‘But that’s nothing,’ said the commissioner, leafing further through his papers. ‘I have another story here that is absolutely fantastic. The action is set in the Wild West of America, in 1873.

Miss Cleopatra Frankenstein, the world-famous necromancer and Grand Dragoness of the Maltese Lodge, whose name in her passport is Marie Sanfon, arrives in the goldfields of California.

She informs the prospectors that she has been guided to this savage spot by the voice of Zarathustra, who has ordered his faithful handmaiden to carry out a great experiment in the town of Golden Nugget. Apparently, at that precise longitude and latitude the cosmic energy was focused in such a way that on a starry night, with the help of a few cabbalistic formulas, it was possible to resurrect someone who had already crossed the great divide between the kingdom of the living and the kingdom of the dead. And Cleopatra intended to perform this miracle that very night, in public and entirely without charge, because she was no circus conjurer but the medium of the supreme spheres.

And what do you think?’ Gauche asked, pausing for effect.

‘Before the eyes of five hundred bearded onlookers, the Dragoness worked her magic over the burial mound of Red Coyote, the legendary Indian chief who had died a hundred years earlier, and suddenly the earth began to stir - it gaped asunder, you might say - and an Indian brave in a feather headdress emerged from the mound, complete with a tomahawk and painted face. The onlookers trembled and Cleopatra, in the grip of her mystical trance, screeched: “I feel the power of the cosmos in me! Where is the town cemetery? I will bring everyone in it back to life.” It says in this article,’ the policeman explained, ‘that the cemetery in Golden Nugget was vast, because in the goldfields someone was dispatched to the next world every day of the week. Apparently, the headstones outnumbered the town’s living inhabitants.

When the prospectors imagined what would happen if all those troublemakers, drunks and gallows birds suddenly rose from their graves, panic set in. The situation was saved by the Justice of the Peace, who stepped forward and asked politely whether the Dragoness would agree to halt her great experiment if the town’s inhabitants gave her a saddlebag full of gold dust as a modest donation towards the requirements of occult science.’

‘Well, did she agree?’ chuckled the lieutenant.

‘Yes, for two bagfuls.’

‘And what became of the Indian chief?’ asked Fandorin with a smile. He had a quite wonderful smile, except that it was too boyish, thought Clarissa. As they said in Suffolk: a grand pie, but not for your mouth.

‘Cleopatra Frankenstein took the Indian chief with her,’ Gauche replied with a serious expression. ‘For purposes of scientific research. They say he got his throat cut during a drunken brawl in a Denver bordello.’

‘This Marie Sanfon really is a very interesting character,’ mused Fandorin. ‘Tell us more about her. It’s a long way from all these clever frauds to cold-blooded mass murder.’

‘Oh, please, that’s more than enough,’ protested Mrs Truffo, turning to her husband. ‘My darling, it must be awfully tiresome for you to translate all this nonsense.’

‘You are not obliged to stay, madam,” said Commissioner Gauche, offended by the word ‘nonsense’.

Mrs Truffo batted her eyelids indignantly, but she had no intention of leaving.

‘M. le cosaque is right,’ Gauche acknowledged. ‘Let me try to dig out a more vicious example.’

Mme Kleber laughed and cast a glance at Fandorin and, nervous as she was, even Clarissa was unable to restrain a smile - the diplomat was so very unlike a wild son of the steppe.

‘Here we are, listen to this story about the black baby. It’s a recent case, from the year before last, and we have a detailed report of the outcome.’ The detective glanced through several sheets of paper clipped together, evidently to refresh his memory of the event. He chuckled. ‘This is something of a masterpiece. I have all sorts of things in my little file, ladies and gentlemen.’ He stroked the black calico binding lovingly with the stumpy fingers of his plebeian hand. ‘Papa Gauche made thorough preparations for his journey, he didn’t forget a single piece of paper that might come in useful. The embarrassing events I am about to relate to you never reached the newspapers, and what I have here is the police report. All right. In a certain German principality (I won’t say which, because this is a delicate matter), a family of great note was expecting an addition to its number. It was a long and difficult birth. The receiving physician was a certain highly respected Dr Vogel. Eventually the bedroom was filled with the sound of an infant’s squalling. The grand duchess lost consciousness for several minutes because she had suffered so much, and then she opened her eyes and said to the doctor: “Ah, Herr Professor, show me my little child.” With an expression of extreme embarrassment, Dr Vogel handed her Highness the charming baby that was bawling so loudly. Its skin was a light coffee colour. When the grand duchess fainted again, the doctor glanced out of the door and beckoned with his finger to the grand duke, which, of course, was a gross violation of court etiquette.’

It was obvious that the commissioner was taking great pleasure in telling this story to the prim and proper Windsorites. A police report was unlikely to contain such details - Gauche was clearly allowing himself to fantasise at will. He lisped when he spoke the countess’s part and deliberately selected words that sounded pompous: he obviously thought that made the story sound funnier. Clarissa did not consider herself an aristocrat, but even she winced at the bad taste of his scoffing at royalty. Sir Reginald, a baronet and the scion of an ancient line, also knitted his brows in a scowl, but this reaction only seemed to inspire the commissioner to greater efforts.

‘His highness, however, did not take offence at his physician in ordinary, because this was a moment of tremendous pathos.

Positively overwhelmed by a rising tide of paternal and conjugal feelings, he went dashing into the bedroom … You can imagine for yourselves the scene that followed: the crowned monarch swearing like a trooper, the grand duchess sobbing and making excuses and swooning by turns, the little negro child bawling his lungs out and the court physician frozen in reverential horror. Eventually his Llighness got a grip on himself and decided to postpone the investigation into her Highness’s behaviour until later. In the meantime the business had to be hushed up. But how? Flush the child down the toilet?’ Gauche put his hand over his mouth, acting the buffoon. ‘I beg your pardon, ladies, it just slipped out. It was impossible to get rid of the child - the entire principality had been eagerly awaiting his birth. In any case, it would have been a sin. If he called his advisers together they might let the cat out of the bag. What was he going to do? And then Dr Vogel coughed deferentially into his hand and suggested a way of saving the situation. He said that he knew a lady by the name of Fraulein von Sanfon who could work miracles and even pluck the phoenix from the sky for the prince if he needed it, let alone find him a newborn white baby. The fraulein knew how to keep her mouth shut, and being a very noble individual she would, of course, not take any money for her services, but she did have a great fondness for old jewels … Anyway, within no more than a couple of hours a line bouncing baby boy, whiter than a little suckling piglet, even with white hair, was reposing on the satin sheets of the cradle and the poor little negro child was taken from the palace. They told her Highness that the innocent child would be transported to southern climes and placed with a good family for upbringing. And so everything was settled as well as could possibly be managed. The grateful duke gave the doctor a monogrammed diamond snuffbox for Fraulein von Sanfon, tope ther with a note of gratitude and an oral request to depart the principality and never return. Which the considerate maiden immediately did.’ Gauche chuckled, unable to restrain himself.

‘The next morning, after a row that had lasted all night, the grand duke finally decided to take a closer look at his new son and heir. He squeamishly lifted the boy out of the cradle and turned him this way and that, and suddenly on his pink little backside - begging your pardon - he saw a birthmark shaped like a heart. His Highness had one exactly like it on his own hindquarters, and so did his grandfather, and so on to the seventh generation. Totally bemused, the duke sent for his physician in ordinary, but Dr Vogel had set out from the castle for parts unknown the previous night, leaving behind his wife and eight children.’ Gauche burst into hoarse laughter, then began coughing and waving his hands in the air. Someone else chuckled uncertainly and Mme Kleber put her hand over her mouth.

‘The investigation that followed soon established that the court doctor had been behaving strangely for some time and had even been seen in the gambling houses of neighbouring Baden, in the company, moreover, of a certain jolly young woman whose description closely matched that of Fraulein von Sanfon.’ The detective put on a more serious expression.

The doctor was found two days later in a hospital in Strasbourg. Dead. He’d taken a fatal dose of laudanum and left a note: “I alone am to blame for everything.” A clear case of suicide. The identity of the true culprit was obvious, but how could you prove it? As for the snuffbox, it was a gift from the grand duke, and there was a note to go with it. It would not have been worth their Highnesses’ while to take the case to court. The greatest mystery, of course, was how they managed to swap the newborn prince for the little negro baby, and where they could have found a chocolate-coloured child in a country of people with blue eyes and blond hair. But then, according to some sources, shortly before the incident described, Marie Sanfon had had a Senegalese maid in her service …’

‘Tell me, Commissioner,’ Fandorin said when the laughter stopped (four people were laughing: Lieutenant Renier, Dr Truffo, Professor Sweetchild and Mme Kleber), ‘is Marie Sanfon so remarkably good-looking that she can turn any man’s head?’

‘No, she is nothing of the kind. It says everywhere that her appearance is perfectly ordinary, with absolutely no distinctive features.’ Gauche cast a lingering, impudent glance in Clarissa’s direction. ‘She changes the colour of her hair, her behaviour, her accent and the way she dresses with the greatest of ease. But evidently there must be something exceptional about this woman. In my line of work I’ve seen all sorts of things. The most devastating heartbreakers are not usually great beauties. If you saw them in a photograph you would never pick them out, but when you meet them you can feel your skin creep. It’s not a straight nose and long eyelashes that a man goes for, it’s a certain special smell.’

‘Oh, Commissioner,’ Clarissa objected at this vulgar comment.

‘There are ladies present.’

‘There are certainly suspects present,’ Gauche parried calmly.

‘And you are one of them. How do I know that Mile Sanfon is not sitting at this very table?’

He fixed his eyes on Clarissa’s face. This was getting more and more like a bad dream. She could hardly catch her breath.

‘If I have c-calculated correctly, then this person should be twenty-nine now?’

Fandorin’s calm, almost indifferent question roused Clarissa to take a grip on herself, and casting female vanity aside, she cried out:

‘There is no point in staring at me like that, monsieur detective!

You are obviously paying me a compliment that I do not deserve. I am almost ten years older than your adventuress! And the other ladies present are hardly suited to the role of Mile Sanfon. Mme Kleber is too young and Mrs Truffo, as you know, does not speak French!’

‘For a woman of Marie Sanfon’s skill it is a very simple trick to add or subtract ten years from her age,’ Gauche replied slowly, staring at Clarissa as intently as ever. ‘Especially if the prize is so great and failure smacks of the guillotine. So have you really never been to Paris, Mile Stamp? Somewhere in the region of the rue de Grenelle, perhaps?’

Clarissa turned deathly pale.

‘At this point I feel obliged to intervene as a representative of the Jasper-Artaud Partnership,’ Renier interrupted irritably.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, I can assure you there is absolutely no way that any swindlers and crooks with an international reputation could have joined our cruise. The company guarantees that there are no card-sharps or loose women on board the Leviathan, let alone adventuresses known to the police. You can understand why. The maiden voyage is a very great responsibility.

A scandal is the very last thing that we need. Captain Cliff and I personally checked and rechecked the passenger lists, and whenever necessary we made inquiries. Including some to the French police, monsieur Commissioner. The captain and I are prepared to vouch for everyone present here. We do not wish to prevent you from carrying out your professional duty, M. Gauche, but you are simply wasting your time. And the French taxpayers’ money.’

‘Well now,’ growled Gauche, ‘time will tell.’

Following which, to everyone’s relief, Mrs Truffo struck up a conversation about the weather.

Reginald Milford-Stokes

10 April 18 j8

22 hours 31 minutes

In the Arabian Sea

17 06 28 N 59 48 14 E

My passionately beloved Emily,

This infernal ark is controlled by the forces of evil, I can sense it in every fibre of my tormented soul. Although I am not sure that a criminal such as I can have a soul. Writing that has set me thinking. I remember that I have committed a crime, a terrible crime which can never ever be forgiven, but the strange thing is, I have completely forgotten what it was that I did. And I very much do not want to remember.

At night, in my dreams, I remember it very well - otherwise how can I explain why I wake up in such an appalling state every morning?

How I long for our separation to be over! I feel that if it lasts for even a little longer, I shall lose my mind. I sit in the cabin and stare at the minute hand of the chronometer, but it doesn’t move. Outside on the deck I heard someone say, ‘It’s the tenth of April today,’ and I couldn’t grasp how it could possibly be April and why it had to be the tenth. I unlocked the trunk and saw that the letter I wrote to you yesterday was dated 9 April and the one from the day before yesterday was dated the eighth. So it’s right. It is April. The tenth.

For several days now I have been keeping a close eye on Professor Sweetchild (if he really is a professor). He is a very popular man with our group in Windsor, an inveterate old windbag who loves to flaunt his knowledge of history and oriental matters. Every day he comes up with new, fantastic stories of hidden treasure, each more improbable than the last. And he has nasty, shifty, piggy little eyes. Sometimes there is an insane gleam in them. If only you could hear how volupturous his voice sounds when he talks about precious stones. He has a positive mania for diamonds and emeralds.

Today at breakfast Dr Truffo suddenly stood up, clapped his hands loudly and announced in a solemn voice that it was Mrs Truffo’s birthday. Everybody oohed and aahed and began congratulating her, and the doctor himself publicly presented his plain-faced spouse with a gift for the occasion, a pair of topaz earrings in exceptionally bad taste.

What terrible vulgarity, to make a spectacle of giving a present to one’s own wife! Mrs Truffo, however, did not seem to think so. She became unusually lively and appeared perfectly happy, and her dismal features turned the colour of grated carrot. The lieutenant said: ‘Oh, madam, if we had known about this happy event in advance, we would certainly have prepared some surprise for you. You have only your own modesty to blame.’ The empty-headed woman turned an even more luminous shade and muttered bashfully: ‘Would you really like to make me happy?’ The response was a general lazy mumble of goodwill. ‘Well then,’ she said, ‘let’s play my favourite game of lotto. In our family we always used to take out the cards and the bag of counters on Sundays and church holidays. It’s such wonderful fun! Gentlemen, it will really make me very happy if you will play!’ It was the first time I had heard the doctor’s wife speak at such great length. For an instant I thought she was making fun of us, but no, Mrs Truffo was entirely serious.

There was nothing to be done. Only Renier managed to slip out, supposedly because it was time for him to go on watch. The churlish commissioner also attempted to cite some urgent business or other as an excuse, but everyone stared at him so reproachfully that he gave in with a bad grace and stayed.

Mr Truffo went to fetch the equipment for this idiotic game and the torment began. Everyone dejectedly set out their cards, glancing longingly at the sunlit deck. The windows of the saloon were wide open, but we sat there playing out a scene from the nursery. We set up a prize fund to which everyone contributed a guinea - ‘to make things more interesting’, as the elated birthday girl said. Our leading lady should have had the best chance of winning, since she was the only one who was watching eagerly as the numbers were drawn. I had the impression that the commissioner would have liked to win the jackpot too, but he had difficulty understanding the childish little jingles that Mrs Truffo kept spouting (for her sake, on this occasion we spoke English).

The pitiful topaz earrings, which are worth ten pounds at the most, prompted Sweetchild to mount his high horse again. ‘An excellent present, sir!’ he declared to the doctor, who beamed in delight, but then Sweetchild spoiled everything with what he said next. ‘Of course, topazes are cheap nowadays, but who knows, perhaps their price will shoot up in a hundred years or so. Precious stones are so unpredictable!

They are a genuine miracle of nature, unlike those boring metals gold and silver. Metal has no soul or form, it can be melted down, while each stone has a unique personality. But it is not just anyone who can find them, only those who stop at nothing and are willing to follow their magical radiance to the ends of the earth, or even beyond if necessary.’ These bombastic sentiments were accompanied by Mrs Truffo calling out the numbers on the counters in her squeaky voice.

While Sweetchild was declaiming: I shall tell you the legend of the great and mighty conqueror Mahmud Gaznevi, who was bewitched by the brilliant lustre of diamonds and put half of India to fire and the sword in his search for these magical crystals,’ Mrs Truffo said: ‘Eleven, gentlemen. Drumsticks!’ And so it went on.

But I shall tell you Sweetchild’s legend of Mahmud Gaznevi anyway. It will give you a better understanding of this storyteller. I can even attempt to convey his distinctive manner of speech.

Tn the year (I don’t remember which) of our Lord Jesus Christ, which according to the Moslem chronology was (and of course I don’t remember that), the mighty Gaznevi learned that in Sumnat on the peninsula of Guzzarat (I think that was it) there was a holy shrine which contained an immense idol that was worshipped by hundreds of thousands of people. The idol jealously guarded the borders of that land against foreign invasions and anyone who stepped across those borders with a sword in his hand was doomed. This shrine belonged to a powerful Brahmin community, the richest in the whole of India. And these Brahmins of Sumnat also possessed an immense number of precious stones. But unafraid of the power of the idol, the intrepid conqueror gathered his forces together and launched his campaign.

Mahmud hewed off fifty thousand heads, reduced fifty fortresses to ruins and finally burst into the Sumnat shrine. His soldiers defiled the holv site and ransacked it from top to bottom, but they could not find the treasure. Then Gaznevi himself approached the idol, swung his great mace and smote its copper head. The Brahmins fell to the floor before their conqueror and offered him a million pieces of silver if only he would not touch their god. Mahmud laughed and smote the idol again. It cracked. The Brahmins began wailing more loudly than ever and promised this terrible ruler ten million pieces of gold. But the heavy mace was raised once again and it struck for a third time. The idol split in half and the diamonds and precious stones that had been concealed within it spilled out onto the floor in a gleaming torrent. The value of that treasure was beyond all calculation.’

At this point Mr Fandorin announced with a slightly embarrassed expression that he had a full card. Everyone except Mrs Truffo was absolutely delighted and was on the point of leaving when she begged us so insistently to play another round that we had to stay. It started up again: ‘Thirty-nine - pig and swine! Twenty-seven - I’m in heaven!’ and more drivel of the same kind.

But now Mr Fandorin began speaking and he. told us another story in his gentle, rather ironic manner. It was an Arab fairy tale that he had read in an old book, and here is the fable as I remember it.

‘Once upon a time three Maghrib merchants set out into the depths of the Great Desert, for they had learned that far, far away among the shifting sands, where the caravans do not go, there was a great treasure, the equal of which mortal eyes had never seen. The merchants walked for forty days, tormented by great heat and weariness, until they had only one camel each left - the others had all collapsed and died. Suddenly they saw a tall mountain ahead of them, and when they grew close to it they could not believe their eyes: the entire mountain consisted of silver ingots. The merchants gave thanks to Allah, and one of them stuffed a sack full of silver and set off back the way they had come. But the others said: “We shall go further.”

They walked for another forty days, until their faces were blackened by the sun, and their eyes became red and inflamed. Then another mountain appeared ahead of them, this time of gold. The second merchant exclaimed: “Not in vain have we borne so many sufferings!

Glory be to the Most High!” He stuffed a sack full of gold and asked his comrade: “Why are you just standing there?” The third merchant replied: “How much gold can you carry away on one camel?” The second said: “Enough to make me the richest man in our city.” “That is not enough for me,” said the third, “I shall go further and find a mountain of diamonds. And when I return home, I shall be the richest man in the entire world.” He walked on, and his journey lasted another forty days. His camel lay down and rose no more, but the merchant did not stop, for he was stubborn and he believed in the mountain of diamonds, and everyone knows that a single handful of diamonds is more valuable than a mountain of silver or a hill of gold.

Then the third merchant beheld a wondrous sight ahead of him: a man standing there doubled over in the middle of the desert, bearing a throne made of diamonds on his shoulders, and squatting on the throne was a monster with a black face and burning eyes. “Joyous greetings to you, O worthy traveller,” croaked the crooked man. “Allow me to introduce the demon of avarice, Marduf. Now you will bear him on your shoulders until another as avaricious as you and I comes to take your place.

The story was broken off at that point, because once again Mr Fandorin had a full card, so our hostess failed to win the second jackpot too. Five seconds later Mrs Truffo was the only person left at the table - everyone else had disappeared in a flash.

I keep thinking about Mr Fandorin’s story. It is not as simple as it seems.

That third merchant is Sweetchild. Yes, when I heard the end of the story, I suddenly realized that he is a dangerous madman! There is an uncontrollable passion raging in his soul, and if anyone should know what that means, it is me. I have been gliding around after him like an invisible shadow ever since we left Aden.

I have already told you, my precious Emily, that I spent the time we were moored there very profitably. I’m sure you must have thought I meant I had bought a new navigational instrument to replace the one that was stolen. Yes, I do have a new sextant now and I am checking the ship’s course regularly once again, but what I meant was some fixing quite different. I was simply afraid to commit my secret to paper.

What if someone were to read it? After all, I am surrounded by enemies on every side. But I have a resourceful mind, and I have invented a fine stratagem: starting from today I am writing in milk. To the eye of a stranger it will seem like a clean sheet of paper, quite uninteresting, but my quick-witted Emily will warm the sheets on the lampshade to make the writing appear! What a spiffing wheeze, eh?

Well then, about Aden. While I was still on the steamer, before they let us go ashore, I noticed that Sweetchild was nervous, and more than simply nervous, he was positively jumping up and down in excitement.

It began soon after Fandorin announced that the shawl stolen from Lord Littleby was the key to the mythical treasure of the Emerald Rajah. The professor became terribly agitated, started muttering to himself and kept repeating: ‘Ah, 1 must get ashore soon.’ But what for, that was the question!

I decided to find out.

Pulling my black hat with the wide brim well down over my eyes, I set off to follow Sweetchild. Everything could not have gone better at first: he didn’t glance round once and I had no trouble in trailing him to the square located behind the little custom house. But there I was in for an unpleasant surprise. Sweetchild called one of the local cabbies and drove off with him. His barouche was moving rather slowly, but I coidd not go running after it, that would have been unseemly. Of course, there were other barouches on the square, I could easily have got into any of them, but you know, my dearest, how heartily I detest open carriages. They are the devil’s own invention and only reckless fools ride in them. Some people (I have seen it with my own eyes more than once) even take their wives and innocent children with them.

How long can it be before disaster strikes? The two-wheelers which are so popular at home in Britain are especially dangerous. Someone once told me (I can’t recall who it was fust at the moment) that a certain young man from a very decent family, with a good position in society, was rash enough to take his young wife for a ride in one of those two wheelers when she was eight months pregnant. It ended badly, of course: the mad fool lost control of the horses, they bolted and the carriage overturned. The young man was all right, but his wife went into premature labour. They were unable to save her or the child. And all because of his thoughtlessness. They could have gone for a walk, or taken a ride in a boat. If it comes to that, one can take a ride on a train, in a separate carriage. In Venice they take rides in gondolas. We were there, do you remember? Do you recall how the water lapped at the steps of the hotel?

I am finding it hard to concentrate, I am constantly digressing. And so, Sweetchild rode off in a carriage, and I was left standing beside the custom house. But do you think I lost my head? Not a bit of it. I thought of something that calmed my nerves almost instantly. While I was waiting for Sweetchild, I went into a sailors’ shop and bought a new sextant, even better than the old one, and a splendid navigational almanac with astronomical formulae. Now I can calculate the ship’s position much faster and more precisely. See what a cunning customer I am!

I waited for six hours and 38 minutes. I sat on a rock and looked at the sea, thinking about you.

When Sweetchild returned, I pretended to be dozing and he slipped past me, certain that I had not seen him.

The moment he disappeared round the corner of the custom house, I dashed across to his cabby. For sixpence the Bengali told me where our dear professor had been. You must admit, my sweet Emily, that I handled this business most adroitly.

The information I received only served to corroborate my initial suspicions. Sweetchild had asked to be taken from the port directly to the telegraph office. He spent half an hour there, and then went back to the post office building another four times. The cabby said: ‘Sahib very very worried. Run backwards and forwards. Sometimes say: take me to bazaar, then tap me on back: take me back, post office, quick-quick.’

It seems quite clear that Sweetchild first sent off an urgent message to someone and then waited impatiently for an answer. The Bengali said that the last time he came out of the post office he was ‘not like himself, he wave paper’ and told the cabby to drive him back to the ship. The reply must have arrived.

I do not know what was in it, but it is perfectly clear that the professor, or whoever he really is, has accomplices.

That was two days ago. Since then Sweetchild has been a changed man. As I have already told you, he speaks of nothing but precious stones all the time, and sometimes he suddenly sits down on the deck and starts drawing something, either on his cuff or his handkerchief.

This evening there was a ball in the grand saloon. I have already described this majestic hall, which appears to have been transported here from Versailles or Buckingham Palace. There is gilt everywhere and the walls are covered from top to bottom with mirrors. The crystal electric chandeliers tinkle melodically in time to the gentle rolling of the ship. The orchestra (a perfectly decent one, by the way) mostly played Viennese waltzes and, as you know, I regard that dance as indecent, so I stood in the corner, keeping an eye on Sweetchild. He was enjoying himself greatly, inviting one lady after another to dance, skipping about like a goat and trampling on their feet outrageously, but that did not worry him in the least. I was even distracted a little, recalling how we once used to dance and how elegant your arm looked in its white glove as it lay on my shoulder. Suddenly I saw Sweetchild stumble and-almost drop his partner, then without even bothering to apologize, he fairly raced across to the tables with the hors d’oeuvres, leaving his partner standing bewildered in the centre of the hall. I must admit that this sudden attack of uncontrollable hunger struck me as rather strange too.

Sweetchild, however, did not even glance at the dishes of pies, cheese and fruit. He grabbed a paper napkin out of a silver napkin holder, hunched over the table and began furiously scribbling something on it. He has become completely obsessed, and obviously no longer feels it necessary to conceal his secret even in a crowded room!

Consumed with curiosity, I began strolling casually in his direction.

But Sweetchild had already straightened up and folded the napkin into four, evidently intending to put it in his pocket. Unfortunately, I was too late to glance at it over his shoulder. I stamped my foot furiously and was about to turn back when I noticed Mr Fandorin coming over to the table with two glasses of champagne. He handed one to Sweetchild and kept the other for himself. I heard the Russian say: ‘Ah, my dear Professor, how terribly absent-minded you are! You have just put a dirty napkin in your pocket.’ Sweetchild was embarrassed, he took the napkin out, crumpled it into a ball and threw it under the table. I immediately joined them and deliberately struck up a conversation about fashion, knowing that the Indologist would soon get bored and leave. Which is exactly what happened.

No sooner had he made his apologies and left us alone than Fandorin whispered to me conspiratorially: ‘Well, Sir Reginald, which of us is going to crawl under the table?’ I realized that the diplomat was as suspicious of the professor’s behaviour as I was. We understood each other completely in an instant. ‘Yes, it is not exactly convenient,’ I agreed. Mr Fandorin glanced around and then suggested: ‘Let us do this thing fairly and honestly. If one of us can invent a decent pretext, the other will crawl after the napkin.’ I nodded and started thinking, but nothing appropriate came to mind. ‘Eureka!’

whispered Fandorin, and with a movement so swift that I could barely see it, he unfastened one of my cufflinks. It fell on the floor and the diplomat pushed it under the table with the toe of his shoe. ‘Sir Reginald,’ he said loudly enough for people standing nearby to hear, I believe you have dropped a cufflink.’

An agreement is an agreement. I squatted down and glanced under the table. The napkin was lying quite close, but the dratted cufflink had skidded right across to the wall, and the table was rather broad.

Imagine the scene. Your husband crawling under the table on all fours, presenting the crowded hall with a view that was far from edifying. On my way back I ran into a rather embarrassing situation.

When I stuck my head out from under the table, I saw two young ladies directly in front of me, engaged in lively conversation with Mr Fandorin. When they spotted my red head at the level of their knees, the ladies squealed in fright, but my perfidious companion merely said calmly: ‘Allow me to introduce Baronet Milford-Stokes.’ The ladies gave me a distinctly chilly look and left without saying a word. I leapt to my feet, absolutely bursting with fury and exclaimed: ‘Sir, you deliberately stopped them so that you could make fun of me!’ Fandorin replied with an innocent expression: i did stop them deliberately, but not at all in order to make fun of you. It simply occurred to me that their wide skirts would conceal your daring raid from the eyes of the hall. But where is your booty?’

My hands trembled in impatience as I unfolded the napkin, reveal ing a strange sight. I am drawing it from memory: V/\U\C€ [[[

What are these geometrical figures? What does the zigzag line mean? And why are there three exclamation marks?

I cast a stealthy glance at Fandorin. He tugged at his ear lobe and muttered something that I didn’t catch. I expect it was in Russian.

‘What do you make of it?’ I asked. ‘Let’s wait for a while,’ the diplomat replied with a mysterious expression. ‘He’s getting close.’

Who is getting close? Sweetchild? Close to what? And is it a good thing that he is getting close?

I had no chance to ask these questions, because just at that moment there was a commotion in the hall and everyone started applauding.

Then M. Driet, the captain’s social officer, began shouting deafeningly through a megaphone: ‘Ladies and gentlemen, the grand prize in our lottery goes to cabin number eighteen!’ I had been so absorbed in the operation with the mysterious napkin that I had paid absolutely no attention to what was going on in the hall. It turned out that they had stopped dancing and set up the draw for the charity raffle ‘In Aid of fallen Women’ (I wrote to you about this idiotic undertaking in my letter of 3 April). You are well aware of how I feel about charity and fallen women, so I shall refrain from further comment.

The announcement had a strange effect on my companion - he frowned and ducked, pulling his head down below his shoulders. I was surprised for a moment, until I remembered that No. 18 is Mr Eandorin’s cabin. Just imagine that, he was the lucky winner again!

‘This is becoming intolerable,’ our favourite of fortune mumbled, stammering more than usual. I think I shall take a walk,’ and he started backing away towards the door, but Mrs Kleber called out in her clear voice: ‘That’s Mr Fandorin from our saloon! There he is, gentlemen! In the white dinner jacket with the red carnation! Mr Fandorin, where are you going, you’ve won the grand prize!’

Everyone turned to look at the diplomat and began applauding more loudly than ever as four stewards carried the grand prize into the hall: an exceptionally ugly grandfather clock modelled after Big Ben. It was an absolutely appalling construction of carved oak - one and a half times the height of a man, and it must have weighed at least four stone. I thought I caught a glimpse of something like horror in Mr Fandorin’s eyes. I must say I cannot blame him.

After that it was impossible to carry on talking, so I came back here to write this letter.

I have the feeling something terrible is about to happen, the noose is tightening around me. But you pursue me in vain, gentlemen, I am ready for you!

However, the hour is already late and it is time to take a reading of our position.

Goodbye, my dear, sweet, infinitely adored Emily.

Your loving

Reginald Milford-Stokes.

Renate Kleber

Renate lay in wait for Watchdog (that was what she had christened Gauche once she discovered what the old fogy was really like) outside his cabin. It was clear from the commissioner’s crumpled features and tousled grey hair that he had only just risen from his slumbers - he must have collapsed into bed immediately after lunch and carried on snoozing until the evening.

Renate deftly grabbed hold of the detective’s sleeve, lifted herself up on tiptoe and blurted out:

‘Wait till you hear what I have to tell you!’

Watchdog gave her a searching look, crossed his arms and said in an unpleasant voice:

‘I shall be very interested to hear it. I’ve been meaning to have a word with you for some time, madam.’

Renate found his tone of voice slightly alarming, but she decided it didn’t really mean anything - Watchdog must be suffering from indigestion, or perhaps he’d been having a bad dream.

I’ve done your job for you,’ Renate boasted, glancing around to make sure no one was listening. ‘Let’s go into your cabin, we won’t be interrupted in there.’

Watchdog’s abode was maintained in perfect order. The familiar black file reposed impressively in the centre of the desk with a neat pile of paper and several precisely pointed pencils lying beside it. Renate surveyed the room curiously, turning her head this way and that, noting the shoe brush and tin of wax polish and the shirt collars hung up to dry on a piece of string.

The moustache man was obviously rather stingy, he polished his own shoes and did a bit of laundry to avoid having to give the servants any tips.

‘Right then, out with it, what have you got for me?’ Watchdog growled irritably, clearly displeased by Renate’s inquisitiveness.

‘I know who the criminal is,’ she announced proudly.

This news failed to produce the anticipated effect on the detective. He sighed and asked:

‘Who is it?’

‘Need you ask? It’s so obvious a blind man could see it,’

Renate said with an agitated flutter of her hands as she seated herself in an armchair. ‘All the newspapers said that the murder was committed by a loony. No normal person could possibly do anything so insane, could they? And now just think about the people we have sitting round our table. It’s a choice bunch of course, perfectly matching blooms, bores and freaks every last one of them, but there’s only one loony.’

‘Are you hinting at the baronet?’ asked Watchdog.

‘Now you’ve got it at last!’ said Renate with a pitying nod.

‘Why, it’s as clear as day. Have you seen his eyes when he looks at me? He’s a wild beast, a monster! I’m afraid to walk down the corridors. Yesterday I ran into him on the stairs when there wasn’t a soul around. It gave me such a twinge here inside!’

She put one hand over her belly. ‘I’ve been watching him for a long time. At night he keeps the light on in his cabin and the curtains are tightly closed. But yesterday they were open just a tiny little crack, so I peeped in. He was standing there in the middle of the cabin waving his arms about and making ghastly faces and wagging his finger at somebody. It was so frightening!

Later on, in the middle of the night, my migraine started up again, so I went out for a breath of fresh air, and there I saw the loony standing on the forecastle looking up at the moon through some kind of metal contraption. That was when it dawned on me. He’s one of those maniacs whose bloodlust rises at full moon. I’ve read about them! Why are you looking at me as if I were some kind of idiot? Have you taken a look at the calendar recently?’ Renate produced a pocket calendar from her purse with a triumphant air. ‘Look at this, I’ve checked it.

On the fifteenth of March, when ten people were killed on the rue de Grenelle, it was a full moon. See, it’s written here in black and white: pleine lune.’

Watchdog looked all right, but he didn’t seem very interested.

‘Why are you goggling at it like a dozy owl?’ Renate asked angrily- ‘Don’t you understand that today is a full moon too?

While you’re sitting around doing nothing, he’ll go crazy again and brain somebody else. And I know who it will be - me. He hates me.’ Her voice trembled hysterically. ‘Everyone on this loathsome steamer wants to kill me! That African attacked me, and that Oriental of ours keeps glaring and grinding his teeth at me and now it’s this crazy baronet!’

Watchdog carried on gazing at her with his dull, unblinking eyes, and Renate waved her hand in front of his nose. Coo-ee! M. Gauche! Not fallen asleep have you, by any chance?’

The old grandpa grabbed her wrist in a firm grip. He moved her hand aside and said sternly:

‘I’ll tell you what, my dear. You stop playing the fool. I’ll deal with our redheaded baronet, but I want you to tell me about your syringe. And no fairy tales, I want the truth!’ He growled so fiercely that she shrank back in alarm.

At supper she sat there staring down into her plate. She always ate with such an excellent appetite, but today she had hardly even touched her sauteed eels. Her eyes were red and swollen and every now and then her lips gave a slight tremor.

But Watchdog was in a genial, even magnanimous mood. He looked at Renate frequently with some severity, but his glance was fatherly rather than hostile. Commissioner Gauche was not as formidable as he would like to appear.

A very impressive piece,’ he said with an envious glance at the Big Ben clock standing in the corner of the saloon. ‘Some People have all the luck.’

The monumental prize was too big to fit in Fandorin’s cabin ana so it had been installed temporarily in Windsor. The oak tower continually ticked, jangled and wheezed deafeningly, and on the hour it boomed out a chime that caught everyone by surprise and made them gasp. At breakfast, when Big Ben informed everyone (with a ten minute delay) that it was nine o’clock, the doctor’s wife had almost swallowed a teaspoon.

And in addition to all of this, the base of the tower was obviously a bit too narrow and every strong wave set it swaying menacingly. Now, for instance, when the wind had freshened and the white curtains at the windows had begun fluttering in surrender, Big Ben’s squeaking had become positively alarming.

The Russian seemed to take the commissioner’s genuine admiration for irony and began making apologetic excuses.

‘I t-told them to give the clock to fallen women too, but M. Driet was adamant. I swear by Christ, Allah and Buddha that when we g-get to Calcutta I shall leave this monster on the steamer. I won’t allow anyone to foist this nightmare on me!’

He squinted anxiously at Lieutenant Renier, who remained diplomatically silent. Then the diplomat turned to Renate for sympathy, but all she gave him in reply was a stern, sullen glance. In the first place, she was in a terribly bad mood, and in the second, Fandorin had been out of favour with her for some time.

There was a story to that.

It all started when Renate noticed that the sickly Mrs Truffo positively blossomed whenever she was near the darling little diplomat. And Mr Fandorin himself seemed to belong to that common variety of handsome males who manage to discover something fascinating in every dull woman they meet and never neglect a single one. In principle, Renate regarded this subspecies of men with respect and actually found them quite attractive. It would be terribly interesting to know what precious ore the blue-eyed, brown-haired Russian had managed to unearth in the dismal doctor’s wife. There certainly could be no doubt that he felt a distinct interest in her.

A few days earlier Renate had witnessed an amusing little scene played out by those two actors: Mrs Truffo (in the role of female vamp) and Mr Fandorin (in the role of perfidious seducer). The audience had consisted of one young lady (quite exceptionally attractive, despite being in a certain delicate condition) concealed behind the tall back of a deckchair and following the action in her make-up mirror. The scene of the action was set at the stern of the ship. The time was a romantic sunset.

The play was performed in English.

The doctor’s wife had executed her lumbering approach to the diplomat with all the elephantine grace of a typical British seduction (both dramatis personae were standing at the rail, in profile towards the aforesaid deckchair). Mrs Truffo began, as was proper, with the weather:

‘The sun is so very bright in these southern latitudes!’ she bleated with passionate feeling.

‘Oh yes,’ replied Fandorin. ‘In Russia at this time of the year the snow has still not melted, and here the temperature is already thirty-five degrees Celsius, and that is in the shade. In the sunlight it is even hotter.’

Now that the preliminaries had been successfully concluded, Mrs Goatface felt that she could legitimately broach a more intimate subject.

‘i simply don’t know what to do!’ she began in a modest tone appropriate to her theme. ‘I have such white skin! This intolerable sun will spoil my complexion or even, God forbid, give me freckles.’

‘The problem off-freckles is one that worries me as well,’ the Russian replied in all seriousness. ‘But I was prudent and brought along a lotion made with extract of Turkish camomile.

Look, my suntan is even and there are no freckles at all.’

The cunning serpent temptingly presented his cute little face to the respectable married woman.

Mrs Truffo’s voice trembled in treacherous betrayal.

Indeed, not a single freckle … And your eyebrows and eyelashes are barely bleached. You have a wonderful epithelium, Mr Fandorin, quite wonderful!’

Now he’ll kiss her, Renate predicted, seeing that the distance separating the diplomat’s epithelium from the flushed features °i the doctor’s wife was a mere five centimetres.

But her prediction was mistaken.

Fandorin stepped back and said:

‘Epithelium? Are you familiar with the science of physiology?’

‘A little,’ Mrs Truffo replied modestly. ‘Even before I was married I had some involvement with medicine.’

‘Indeed? How interesting! You really must t-tell me about it!’

Unfortunately Renate had not been able to follow the performance all the way to its conclusion - a woman she knew had sat down beside her and she had been obliged to abandon her surveillance.

However, this clumsy assault by the doctor’s foolish wife had piqued Renate’s own vanity. Why should she not try her own charms on this tasty-looking Russian bear cub? Purely out of sporting interest, naturally, and in order to maintain the skills without which no self-respecting woman could get by. Renate had no interest in the thrill of romance. In fact, in her present condition the only feeling that men aroused in her was nausea.

In order to while away the time (Renate’s phrase was ‘to speed up the voyage’) she worked out a simple plan. Small scale naval manoeuvres, code name Bear Hunt. In fact, of course, men were actually more like the family of canines.

Everybody knew that they were primitive creatures who could be divided into three main types: jackals, sheepdogs and gay dogs. There was a different approach for each type.

The jackal fed on carrion - that is, he preferred easy prey.

Men of that kind went for availability.

And so the very next time they were alone together, Renate complained to Fandorin about M. Kleber, the tedious banker whose head was full of nothing but figures, the bore who had no time for his young wife. Any halfwit would have realized that here was a woman literally pining away from the tedium of her empty life, ready to swallow any hook, even without bait.

It didn’t work, and she had to waste a lot of time parrying inquisitive questions about the bank where her husband worked.

Very well, so next Renate had set her trap for a sheepdog.

This category of men loved weak, helpless women. All they really wanted was to be allowed to rescue and protect you. A fine subspecies, very useful to have around. The main thing here was not to overdo the physical weakness - men were afraid of sick women.

Renate had swooned a couple of times from the heat, slumping gracefully against the ironclad shoulder of her knight and protector. Once she had been unable to open the door of her cabin because the key had got stuck. On the evening of the ball she had asked Fandorin to protect her from a tipsy (and entirely harmless) major of dragoons.

The Russian had lent her his shoulder, opened the door and sent the dragoon packing, but the louse had not betrayed the slightest sign of amorous interest.

Could he really be a gay dog, Renate wondered. You certainly wouldn’t think so to look at him. This third type of man was the least complicated, entirely devoid of imagination. Only a coarsely sensual stimulus, such as a chance glimpse of an ankle, had any effect on them. On the other hand, many great men and even cultural luminaries had belonged to precisely this category, so it was certainly worth a try.

With gay dogs the approach was elementary. Renate asked the diplomat to come and see her at precisely midday, so that she could show him her watercolours (which were non-existent).

At one minute to 12 the huntress was already standing in front of her mirror, dressed only in her bodice and pantaloons.

When there was a knock at the door she called out: Come in, come in. I’ve been waiting for you!’

Fandorin stepped inside and froze in the doorway. Without turning round, Renate wiggled her bottom at him and displayed her naked back to its best advantage. The wise beauties of the eighteenth century had discovered that it was not a dress open down to the navel that produced the strongest effect on men, °ut an open neck and a bare back. Obviously the sight of a detenceless spine roused the predatory instinct in the human male.

The diplomat seemed to have been affected. He stood there looking, without turning away. Pleased with the effect, Renate said capriciously:

‘What are you doing over there, Jenny? Come here and help me on with my dress. I’m expecting a very important guest any minute.’

How would any normal man have behaved in this situation?

The more audacious kind would have come up behind her without saying a word and kissed the soft curls on the back of her neck.

The average, fair-to-middling kind would have handed her the dress and giggled bashfully.

At that point Renate would have decided the hunt had been successfully completed. She would have pretended to be embarrassed, thrown the insolent lout out and lost all further interest in him. But Fandorin’s response was unusual.

‘It’s not Jenny,’ he said in a repulsively calm voice. ‘It is I, Erast Fandorin. I shall wait outside while you g-get dressed.’

He was either one of a rare, seduction-proof variety or a secret pervert. If it was the latter, the Englishwomen were simply wasting their time and effort. But Renate’s keen eye had not detected any of the characteristic signs of perversion. Apart, that was, from a strange predilection for secluded conversation with Watchdog.

But this was all trivial nonsense. She had more serious reasons for being upset.

At the very moment when Renate finally decided to plunge her fork into the cold sautee, the doors crashed open and the bespectacled professor burst into the dining room. He always looked a little crazy - either his jacket was buttoned crookedly or his shoelaces were undone - but today he looked a real fright: his beard was dishevelled, his tie had slipped over to one side, his eyes were bulging out of his head and there was one of his braces dangling from under the flap of his jacket. Obviously something quite extraordinary must have happened. Renate instantly forgot her own troubles and stared “curiously at the learned scarecrow.

Sweetchild spread his arms like a ballet dancer and shouted: ‘Eureka, gentlemen! The mystery of the Emerald Rajah is solved!’

‘Oh no,’ groaned Mrs Truffo. ‘Not again!’

‘Now I can see how it all fits together,’ said the professor, launching abruptly into an incoherent explanation. ‘After all, I was in the place, why didn’t I think of it before? I kept thinking about it, going round and round in circles, but it just didn’t add up. In Aden I received a telegram from an acquaintance of mine in the French Ministry of the Interior and he confirmed my suspicions, but I still couldn’t make any sense of the eye, and I couldn’t work out who it could be. That is, I more or less know who, but how? How was it done? And now it has suddenly dawned on me!’ He ran over to the window. A curtain fluttering in the wind enveloped him like a white shroud, and the professor impatiently pushed it aside. ‘I was standing at the window of my cabin knotting my tie and I saw the waves, crest after crest all the way to the horizon. And then suddenly it hit me! Everything fell into place - about the shawl, and about the son! It’s a piece of simple clerical work. Dig around in the registers at the Ecole Maritime and you’ll find him!’

‘I don’t understand a word,’ growled Watchdog. ‘You’re raving. What’s this about some school or other?’

‘Oh no, this is very, very interesting,’ exclaimed Renate. “I simply adore trying to solve mysteries. But my dear professor, this will never do. Sit down at the table, have some wine, catch your breath and tell us everything from the beginning, calmly and clearly. After all, you have such a wonderful way with a story. But first someone must bring me my shawl, so that I don’t catch a chill from this draught.’

Let me close the windows on the windward side, and the draught will stop immediately,’ Sweetchild suggested. ‘You are right, madam, I should tell you the whole thing starting from the beginning.

‘No, don’t close the windows, it will be too stuffy. Well, gentlemen?’ Renate inquired capriciously. ‘Who will fetch my shawl from my cabin? Here is the key! Monsieur baronet?’

Of course, the Ginger Lunatic did not stir, but Renier jumped to his feet.

‘Professor, I implore you, do not start without me!’ he said. ‘I shall be back in a moment.’

‘And I’ll go and get my knitting,’ sighed the doctor’s wife.

She got back first and began deftly clacking away with her needles. She waved her hand at her husband to tell him there was no need to translate.

Meanwhile Sweetchild was readying himself for his moment of triumph. Having taken Renate’s advice to heart, he seemed determined to expound his discoveries as spectacularly as possible.

There was absolute silence at the table, with everyone watching the speaker and following every movement he made.

Sweetchild took a sip of red wine and began walking backwards and forwards across the room. Then he halted, picturesquely posed in profile to his audience, and began:

‘I have already told you about that unforgettable day when Rajah Bagdassar invited me into his palace in Brahmapur. It was a quarter of a century ago, but I remember everything quite clearly, down to the smallest detail. The first thing that struck me was the appearance of the palace. Knowing that Bagdassar was one of the richest men in the world, I had been expecting to see oriental luxury on a grand scale. But there was nothing of the kind. The palace buildings were rather modest, without any ornamental refinements. And the thought came to me that the passion for precious stones that was hereditary in this family, handed down from father to son, must have displaced every other vainglorious ambition. Why spend money on walls of marble if you could buy another sapphire or diamond? The Brahmapur palace was squat and plain, essentially the same kind of clay casket as that in which that indescribable distillation of magical luminescence was kept. No marble and alabaster could ever have rivalled the blinding radiance of those stones.’

The professor took another sip of wine and adopted a thoughtful pose.

Renier arrived, puffing and panting, respectfully laid Renate’s shawl across her shoulders and remained standing beside her.

‘What was that about marble and alabaster?’ he asked in a whisper.

‘It’s about the Brahmapur palace, let me listen,’ said Renate with an impatient jerk of her chin.

‘The interior decor of the palace was also very simple,’ Sweetchild continued. ‘Over the centuries the halls and rooms had changed their appearance many times, and the only part of the palace that seemed interesting to me from a historical point of view was the upper level, consisting of four halls, each of which faced one of the points of the compass. At one time the halls had been open galleries, but during the last century they were glassed in. At the same time the walls were decorated with quite fascinating frescos depicting the mountains that surround the valley on all sides. The landscape is reproduced with astonishing realism, so that the mountains seem to be reflected in a mirror.

From the philosophical point of view, this mirror imaging must surely represent the duality of existence and …’

Somewhere nearby a ship’s bell began clanging loudly. They heard people shouting and a woman screaming.

‘My God, it’s the fire alarm!’ shouted the lieutenant, dashing for the door. ‘That’s all we needed!’

They all dashed after him in a tight bunch.

‘What’s happening?’ the startled Mrs Truffo inquired in English. ‘Have we been boarded by pirates?’

Renate sat there for a moment with her mouth open, then let out a blood-curdling squeal. She grabbed the tail of the commissioner’s coat and stopped him running out after the others.

Monsieur Gauche, don’t leave me!’ she begged him. ‘I know what a fire on board ship means, I’ve read about it! Now everyone will dash to the lifeboats and people will be crushed to death, and I’m a weak pregnant woman, I’ll just be swept aside! Promise you will look after me!

‘What’s that about lifeboats?’ the old grandpa mumbled anxiously. ‘What kind of nonsense is that! I’ve been told the fire-fighting arrangements on the Leviathan are exemplary. Why, the ship even has its own fire officer. Stop shaking will you, everything will be all right.’ He tried to free himself, but Renate was clutching his coat-tail in a grip of iron. Her teeth were chattering loudly.

‘Let go of me, little girl,’ Watchdog said in a soothing voice. ‘I won’t go anywhere. I’ll just take a look at the deck through the window.’

But no, Renate’s fingers didn’t release their grip.

The commissioner was proved right. After two or three minutes there was the sound of leisurely footsteps and loud voices in the corridor and one by one the Windsorites began to return.

They had still not recovered from their shock, so they were laughing a lot and talking more loudly than usual.

The first to come in were Clarissa Stamp, the Truffos and Renier, whose face was flushed.

‘It was nothing at all,’ the lieutenant announced. ‘Someone threw a burning cigar into a litter bin with an old newspaper in it. The fire spread to a door curtain, but the sailors were alert and they put the flames out in a moment … But I see that you were all prepared for a shipwreck,’ he said with a laugh, glancing significantly at Clarissa.

She was clutching her purse and a bottle of orangeade.

‘Well, orangeade, in order not to die of thirst in the middle of the ocean,’ Renier guessed. ‘But what is the purse for? You wouldn’t have much use for it in the lifeboat.’

Renate giggled hysterically and Miss Old Maid, embarrassed, put the bottle back on the table. The Truffos were also well equipped: the doctor had managed to grab his bag of medical instruments and his wife was clutching a blanket against her breast.

‘This is the Indian Ocean, madam, you would hardly have frozen to death,’ Renier said with a serious expression, and the stupid goat nodded her head imbecilically.

The Japanese appeared holding a pathetic, bright-coloured bundle … what could he have in there, a travelling hara-kiri kit?

The Lunatic came in looking dishevelled, clutching a small box, the kind normally used for holding writing instruments.

‘Who were you planning to write to, Mr Milford-Stokes? Ah, I understand! When Miss Stamp had drunk her orangeade, we could have stuck a letter in the bottle and sent it floating off across the ocean waves,’ suggested the lieutenant, who was obviously acting so jovially out of a sense of relief.

Now everyone was there except the professor and the diplomat.

‘M. Sweetchild is no doubt packing his scholarly works, and monsieur le russe is putting on the samovar for a final cup of tea,’ said Renate, infected by the lieutenant’s jolly mood.

And there was the Russian, speak of the devil. He stood by the door, with his handsome face as dark as a storm cloud.

‘Well, M. Fandorin, have you decided to take your prize with you in the boat?’ Renate inquired provocatively.

Everyone roared with laughter, but the Russian (even though it was rather witty) failed to appreciate the joke.

‘Commissioner Gauche,’ he said quietly. ‘Would you be so kind as to step out into the corridor. As quickly as you can.’

It was strange, but when he spoke these words the diplomat did not stammer once. Perhaps the nervous shock had cured him? Such things did happen.

Renate was on the point of joking about that too, but she bit her tongue. That would probably have been going too far.

‘What’s all the hurry?’ Watchdog asked gruffly. ‘Another teller of tales. Later, young man, later. First I want to hear the rest of what the professor has to say. Where has he got to?’

Fandorin looked at the commissioner expectantly, but when he realized that the old man was feeling obstinate and had no intention of going out into the corridor, he shrugged and said: ‘The professor will not be joining us.’

Gauche scowled.

‘And why would that be?’

‘What do you mean, he won’t be joining us?’ Renate put in.

‘He stopped just when it was getting interesting! That’s not fair!’

‘Professor Sweetchild has just been murdered,’ the diplomat announced coolly.

‘What’s that?’ Watchdog roared. ‘Murdered? What do you mean, murdered?’

‘I believe it was done with a surgical scalpel,’ the Russian replied with remarkable composure. ‘His throat was cut very precisely.’

Commissioner Gauche

‘Are they ever going to let us go ashore?’ Mme Kleber asked plaintively. ‘Everyone else is out strolling round Bombay, and we’re just sitting here doing nothing …’

The curtains were pulled across the windows to keep out the searing rays of the sun that scorched the deck and made the air sticky and suffocating. But although it was hot and stuffy in the Windsor saloon, everyone sat there patiently, waiting for the truth to be revealed.

Gauche took out his watch - a presentation piece with a profile portrait of Napoleon III - and replied vaguely: ‘Soon, ladies and gentlemen. I’ll let you out soon. But not all of you.’

At least he knew what he was waiting for: Inspector Jackson and his men were conducting a search. The murder weapon itself was probably lying at the bottom of the ocean, but some clues might have been left. They must have been left. Of course, there was plenty of circumstantial evidence anyway, but hard evidence always made a case look more respectable. It was about time Jackson put in an appearance …

The Leviathan had reached Bombay at dawn. Since the evening of the previous day all the Windsorites had been confined to their cabins under house arrest, and immediately the ship arrived in port Gauche had contacted the authorities, informed them of his own conclusions and requested their assistance.

They had sent Jackson and a team of constables. Come on, Jackson, get a move on, thought Gauche, wishing the inspector would stop dragging his feet. After a sleepless night the commissioner’s head felt as heavy as lead and his liver had started playing up, but despite everything he was feeling rather pleased with himself. He had finally unravelled the knots in the tangled thread, and now he could see where it led.

At half past eight, after finalizing his arrangements with the local police and spending some time at the telegraph office, Gauche had ordered the detainees to be assembled in the Windsor saloon - it would be more convenient for the search. He hadn’t even made an exception for Renate, who had been sitting beside him at the time of the murder and could not possibly have cut the professor’s throat. The commissioner had been watching over his prisoners for more than three hours now, occupying a strategic position in the deep armchair opposite his client, and there were two armed policemen standing outside the door of the saloon, where they could not be seen from inside.

The detainees were all too sweaty and nervous to make conversation. Renier dropped in from time to time, nodded sympathetically to Renate and went off again about his business.

The captain looked in twice, but he didn’t say anything, just gave the commissioner a savage glance - as if this whole mess was papa Gauche’s fault!

The professor’s deserted chair was like the gap left by a missing tooth. The Indologist himself was lying ashore, in the chilly vaults of the Bombay municipal morgue. The thought of the dark shadows and the blocks of ice almost made Gauche envy the dead man. Lying there, with all his troubles behind him, with no sweat-drenched collar cutting into his neck …

The commissioner looked at Dr Truffo, who did not seem very comfortable either: the sweat was streaming down his olive-skinned face and his English Fury kept whispering in his ear.

‘Why are you looking at me like that, monsieur!’ Truffo exploded when he caught the policeman’s glance. ‘Why do you keep staring at me? It’s absolutely outrageous! What right do you have? I’ve been a respectable medical practitioner for fifteen years …’ he almost sobbed. ‘What difference does it make if a scalpel was used? Anyone could have done it!’

‘Was it really done with a scalpel?’ Mile Stamp asked timidly.

It was the first time anyone in the saloon had mentioned what had happened.

‘Yes, only a very good quality scalpel produces such a clean incision,’ Truffo replied angrily. ‘I inspected the body. Someone obviously grabbed Sweetchild from behind, put one hand over his mouth and slit his throat with the other. The wall of the corridor is splattered with blood, just above the height of a man.

That’s because his head was pulled back …’

‘No great strength would have been required, then?’ asked the Russian. ‘The element of surprise would have b-been enough?’

The doctor gave a despondent shrug.

‘I don’t know, monsieur. I’ve never tried it.’

Aha, at last! The door half-opened and the inspector’s bony features appeared in the gap. The inspector beckoned to the commissioner, who grunted with the effort of hoisting himself out of the armchair.

There was a pleasant surprise waiting for the commissioner in the corridor. Everything had worked out quite splendidly! A thorough job, efficient and elegant. Solid enough to bring the jury in straight away, no lawyer would ever demolish evidence like that. Good old papa Gauche, he could still give any young whippersnapper a hundred points’ start. And well done Jackson for his hard work!

The four of them went back into the saloon together: the captain, Renier and Jackson, with Gauche bringing up the rear.

At this stage he was feeling so pleased with himself that he even started humming a little tune. And his liver had stopped bothering him.

‘Well, ladies and gentlemen, this is it,’ Gauche announced cheerfully, walking out into the very centre of the saloon. He put his hands behind his back and swayed on his heels. It was a pleasant feeling to know you were a figure of some importance, even, in your own way, a ruler of destinies. The road had been long and hard, but he had reached the end at last. Now for the most enjoyable part.

‘Papa Gauche has certainly had to rack his old brains, but an old hunting dog will always sniff out the fox’s den, no matter how confused the trail might be. By murdering Professor Sweetchild our criminal has finally given himself away. It was an act of despair. I believe that under questioning the murderer will tell me all about the Indian shawl and many other things as well.

Incidentally, I should like to thank our Russian diplomat who, without even knowing it, helped to set me on the right track with several of his comments and questions.’

In his moment of triumph Gauche could afford to be magnanimous. He nodded condescendingly to Fandorin, who bowed his head without speaking. What a pain these aristocrats were, with all their airs and graces, always so arrogant, you could never get a civil word out of them.

‘I shall not be travelling with you any further. Thanks for the company, as they say, but all things in moderation. The murderer will also be going ashore: I shall hand him over to Inspector Jackson in a moment, here on board the ship.’

Everyone in the saloon looked warily at the morose, skinny Englishman standing there with his hands in his pockets.

‘I am very glad this nightmare is over,’ said Captain Cliff. ‘I realize you have had to put up with a lot of unpleasantness, but it has all been sorted out now. The head steward will find you places in different saloons if you wish. I hope that the remainder of your cruise on board the Leviathan will help you to forget this sad business.’

‘Hardly,’ said Mine Kleber, answering for all of them. ‘This whole experience has been far too upsetting for all of us! But please don’t keep us in suspense, monsieur Commissioner, tell us quickly who the murderer is.’

The captain was about to add something to what he had said, but Gauche raised his hand to stop him. This time he had earned the right to a solo performance.

‘I must confess that at first my list of suspects included every single one of you. The process of elimination was long and difficult, but now I can reveal the most crucial point: beside Lord Littleby’s body we discovered one of the Leviathans gold emblems - this one here.’ He tapped the badge on his own lapel.

‘This little trinket belongs to the murderer. As you know, a gold badge could only have been worn by a senior officer of the ship or a first-class passenger. The officers were immediately eliminated from the list of suspects, because they all had their badges in place and no one had requested the shipping line to issue a new emblem to replace one that had been lost. But among the passengers there were four individuals who were not wearing a badge. Mile Stamp, Mme Kleber, M. Milford-Stokes and M. Aono. I have kept this quartet under particularly close observation.

Dr Truffo found himself here because he is a doctor, Mrs Truffo because husband and wife must not be set asunder, and our Russian diplomat because of his snobbish disinclination to appear like a caretaker.’

The commissioner lit his pipe and started pacing around the salon.

‘I have erred, I confess. At the very beginning I suspected monsieur le baronet, but I received timely information concerning his … circumstances, and selected a different target.

You, madam!’ Gauche swung round to face Miss Stamp.

‘As I observed,’ she replied coldly. ‘But I really cannot see what made me appear so suspicious.’

‘Oh, come now!’ said Gauche, surprised. ‘In the first place, everything about you indicates that you suddenly became rich only very recently. That in itself is already highly suspicious. In the second place, you lied about never having been in Paris, even though the words Hotel Ambassadeur are written on your fan in letters of gold. Of course, you stopped carrying the fan, but old Gauche has sharp eyes. I spotted that trinket of yours straight away. It is the sort of thing that expensive hotels give to their guests as mementoes of their stay. The Ambassador happens to stand on the rue de Grenelle, only five minutes’ walk from the scene of the crime. It is a luxurious hotel, very large, and all sorts of people stay in it, so why is the mademoiselle being so secretive, I asked myself. There is something not right here. And I found I couldn’t get the idea of Marie Sanfon out of my head …’ The commissioner smiled disarmingly at Clarissa Stamp. ‘Well, I was casting around in the dark for a while, but eventually I hit upon the right trail, so I offer my apologies, mademoiselle.’