Murder on the Leviathan

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.’