Murder on the Leviathan

Reginald Milford-Stokes

… then suddenly her face was transformed beyond all recognition, as though someone had waved a magic wand and the weak, helpless little lamb crushed by a cruel fate was instantly changed into a ravening she-wolf She straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin, her eyes suddenly ablaze and her nostrils flaring as if the woman before us had turned into a deadly predator - no, not a she-wolf one of the big cats, a panther or lioness who has scented fresh blood. I recoiled, I could not help it. My protection was certainly no longer required here!

The transformed Mme Kleber cast Fandorin a glance of searing hatred that pierced even that imperturbable gentleman’s defences. He shuddered.

I could sympathize entirely with this strange woman’s feelings. My own attitude to the contemptible Russian has also changed completely.

He is a terrible man, a dangerous lunatic with a fantastic, monstrously depraved imagination. How could I ever have respected and trusted him? I can hardly even believe it now!

I simply do not know how to tell you this, my sweet Emily. My hand is trembling with indignation as it holds the pen. At first I intended to conceal it from you, but I have decided to tell you after all. Otherwise it will be hard for you to understand the reason for the metamorphosis in my feelings towards Fandorin.

Yesterday night, after all the shocks and upheavals that I have described above, Fandorin and I had an extremely strange conversation that left me feeling both perplexed and furious. The Russian approached me and thanked me for saving the ship, and then, positively oozing sympathy and stammering over every word, he began talking the most unimaginable, monstrous drivel. What he said was literally this I remember it word for word: ‘I know of your grief Sir Reginald.

Commissioner Gauche told me everything a long time ago. Of course, it was none of my business, and I have thought long and hard before deciding to speak to you about it, but when I see how greatly you are suffering, I cannot remain indifferent. The only reason I dare to say all this is that I have suffered a similar grievous loss, and my reason was also undermined by the shock. I have managed to preserve my reason, and even hone its edge to greater sharpness, but the price I had to pay for survival was a large piece of my heart. But believe me, in your situation there is no other way. Do not hide from the truth, no matter how terrible it might be, and do not seek refuge in illusion. Above all, do not blame yourself. It is not your fault that the horses bolted, or that your pregnant wife was thrown out of the carriage and killed. This is a trial, a test ordained for you by fate. I cannot understand what need there could possibly be to subject a man to such cruelty, but one thing I do know: if you do not pass this test, it means the end, the death of your very soul.’

At first I simply could not understand what the scoundrel was getting at. Then I realized. Fie imagined that you, my precious Emily, were dead! That you were the pregnant lady who was thrown from a carriage and killed. If I had not been so outraged, I should have laughed in the crazy diplomat’s face. How dare he say such a thing, when I know that you are waiting therefor me beneath the azure skies of the islands of paradise! Every hour brings me closer to you, my darling Emily. And now there is nobody and nothing that can stop me.

Only - it is very strange - I cannot for the life of me remember how you came to be in Tahiti, alone without me. There certainly must have been some important reason for it. No matter. When we meet, my dear friend, you will explain everything to me.

But let me return to my story.

Mme Kleber straightened up, suddenly seeming taller (it is amazing how much the impression of height depends on posture and the set of the head), and began speaking, for the most part addressing Fandorin: ‘All these stories you have hatched up here are absolute nonsense.

There is not a single piece of proof or hard evidence. Nothing but assumptions and unfounded speculation. Yes, my real name is Mane Sanfon, but no court in the world has ever been able to charge me with any crime. Yes, my enemies have often slandered me and intrigued against me, but I am strong. Marie Sanfon’s nerve is not so easily broken. I am guilty of only one thing - that I loved a criminal and a madman to distraction. Charles and I were secretly married, and it is his child that I am carrying under my heart. It was Charles who insisted on keeping our marriage secret. If this misdemeanour is a crime, then I am willing to face a judge and jury, but you may be sure, mister home-grown detective, that an experienced lawyer will scatter your chimerical accusations like smoke. What charges can you actually bring against me? That in my youth I lived in a convent with the Grey Sisters and eased the suffering of the poor? Yes, I used to give myself injections, but what of that? The moral suffering caused by a life of secrecy and a difficult pregnancy led me to become addicted to morphine, but now I have found the strength to break free of that pernicious habit. My secret but entirely legitimate husband insisted that I should embark on this voyage under an assumed name. That was how the mythical Swiss banker Kleber came to be invented. The deception caused me suffering, but how could I refuse the man I loved?

I had absolutely no idea about his other life and his fatal passion, or his insane plans!

‘Charles told me that it was not appropriate for the captain’s first mate to take his wife with him on a cruise, but he was concerned for the health of our dear child and could not bear to be parted from me.

He said it would be best if I sailed under a false name. What kind of crime is that, I ask you?

I could see that Charles was not himself that he was in the grip of strange passions that I did not understand, but never in my worst nightmare could I have dreamed that he committed that terrible crime on the rue de Grenelle! And I had no idea that he was the son of an Indian rajah. It comes as a shock to me that my child will be one quarter Indian. The poor little mite, with a madman for a father. I have no doubt at all that Charles has been completely out of his mind for the last few days. How could anyone sane attempt to sink a ship? It is obviously the act of a sick mind. Of course I knew nothing at all about that insane plan.’

At this point Fandorin interrupted her and asked with a hideous little grin: ‘And what about your cloak that was packed so thoughtfully in the travelling bag?’

Mme Kleber - Miss Sanfon - that is, Mme Renier … Or Mme Bagdassar? I do not know what I ought to call her. Very well, let her remain Mme Kleber, since that is what I am used to. Mme Kleber replied to her inquisitor with great dignity: ‘My husband evidently packed everything ready for our escape and was intending to wake me at the last minute.’

But Fandorin was unrelenting. ‘But you were not asleep,’ he said, with a haughty expression on his face. ‘We saw you when we were walking along the corridor. You were fully clothed and even had a shawl on your shoulders.’

I could not sleep because I felt strangely alarmed,’ replied Mme Kleber. I must have felt in my heart that something was wrong …

I was shivering and I felt cold, so I put on my shawl. Is that a crime?’

I was glad to see that the amateur prosecutor was stumped. The accused continued with calm self-assurance: ‘The idea that I supposedly tortured that other madman, M. Gauche, is absolutely incredible.

I told you the truth. The old blockhead went insane with greed and he threatened to kill me. I have no idea how I managed to hit the target with all four bullets. But it is pure coincidence. Providence itself must have guided my hand. No, sir, you cannot make anything of that either!’

Fandorin’s smug self-assurance had been shattered. I beg your pardon!’ he cried excitedly. ‘But we found the shawl! You hid it under the carpet!’

‘Yet another unfounded assertion!’ retorted Mme Kleber. ‘Of course the shawl was hidden by Gauche, who had taken it from my poor husband. And despite all your vile insinuations, I am grateful to you, sir, for returning my property.’

And so saying, she calmly stood up, walked over to the table and took the shawl.

I am the legitimate wife of the legitimate heir of the Emerald Rajah,’ declared this astonishing woman. I have a marriage certificate.

I am carrying Bagdassar’s grandson in my womb. It is true that my deceased husband committed a number of serious crimes, but what has that to do with me and our inheritance?’

Miss Stamp jumped to her feet and tried to grab the shawl from Mme Kleber.

‘The lands and property of the rajah of Brahmapur were confiscated by the British government,’ my fellow countrywoman declared resolutely.

‘That means the treasure belongs to Her Majesty Queen Victoria!’

- and there was no denying that she was right.

‘Just a moment!’ our good Dr Truffo put in. ‘Although I am Italian by birth I am a citizen of France and I represent her interests here. The rajah’s treasure was the personal property of his family and did not belong to the principality of Brahmapur, which means its confiscation was illegal! Charles Renier became a French citizen of his own free will. He committed a most heinous crime on the territory of his adopted country. Under the laws of the French Republic the punishment for such crimes, especially when committed, out of purely venal motives, includes the expropriation of the criminal’s property by the state. Give back the shawl, madam! It belongs to France.’ And he also took a defiant grip on the edge of the shawl.

The situation was a stalemate, and the crafty Fandorin took advantage of it. With the Byzantine cunning typical of his nation, he said loudly: ‘This is a serious dispute that requires arbitration. Permit me, as the representative of a neutral power, to take temporary possession of the shawl, so that you do not tear it to pieces. I shall place it over here, a little distance away from the contending parties.’

And so saying, he took the shawl and carried it across to the side table on the leeward side of the salon, where the windows were closed.

You will see later, my beloved Emily, why I mention these details.

Thus the bone of contention, the shawl, was lying there on the side table, a bright triangle of shimmering colour sparkling with gold. Fandorin was standing with his back to the shawl in the pose of a guard of honour. The rest of us were bunched together at the dining table. Add to this the rustling of the curtains on the windward side of the room, the dim light of an overcast afternoon and the irregular swaying of the floor beneath our feet, and the stage was set for the final scene.

‘No one will dare to take from the rajah’s grandson what is his by right!’ Mme Kleber declared, with her hands set on her hips. I am a Belgian subject and the court hearing will take place in Brussels. All I need to do for the jury to decide in my favour is to promise that a quarter of the inheritance will be donated to charitable work in Belgium … A quarter of the inheritance is eleven billion Belgian francs, five times the annual income of the entire kingdom of Belgium!’

Miss Stamp laughed in her face: ‘You underestimate Britannia, my dear. Do you really think that your pitiful Belgium will be allowed to decide the fate of fifty million pounds? With that money we shall build hundreds of mighty battleships and triple the size of our fleet, which is already the greatest in the world. We shall bring order to the entire planet!’

Miss Stamp is an intelligent woman. Indeed, civilization could only benefit if our treasury were enriched by such a fantastic sum. Britain is the most progressive and free country in the world. All the peoples of the earth would benefit if their lives were arranged after the British example.

But Dr Truffo was of a different opinion entirely. ‘This sum of one and a half billion French francs will not only finance France’s recovery from the tragic consequences of the war with Germany, it will allow her to create the most modern and well-equipped army in the whole of Europe. You English have never been Europeans. You are islanders!

You do not share in the interests of Europe. M. de Perier, who until recently was the captain’s second mate and is now in temporary command of the Leviathan, will not allow the shawl to go to the English. I shall bring M. de Perier here immediately, and he will place the shawl in the captain’s safe!’

Then everyone began talking at once, all trying to shout each other down. The doctor became so belligerent that he even dared to push me in the chest, and Mme Kleber kicked Miss Stamp on the ankle.

Then Fandorin took a plate from the table and smashed it on the floor with a loud crash. As everyone gazed at him in amazement, the cunning Byzantine said: ‘We shall not solve our problem in this way.

You are getting too heated, ladies and gentlemen. Why don’t we let a bit of fresh air into the salon - it has become rather stuffy in here.’

He went over to the windows on the leeward side and began opening them one by one. When Fandorin opened the window above the side table on which the shawl was lying, something startling happened: the draught immediately snatched at the featherlight material, which trembled and fluttered and suddenly flew up into the air. Everyone gasped in horror as the silk triangle went flying away across the deck, swayed twice above the handrails - as if it were waving goodbye to us and sailed off into the distance, gradually sinking lower and lower. We all stood there dumbfounded, following its leisurely flight until it ended somewhere among the lazy white-capped waves.

‘How very clumsy I am,’ said Fandorin, breaking the deadly silence. ‘All that money lost at sea! Now neither Britain nor France will be able to impose its will on the world. What a terrible misfortune for civilization. And it was half a billion roubles. Enough for Russia to repay its entire foreign debt.’

That was when things really started hotting up.

With a war cry halfway between a whistle and a hiss that made my skin crawl, Mme Kleber grabbed a fruit knife from the table and made a mad dash at the Russian. The sudden attack caught him by surprise.

The blunt silver blade swung through the air and stabbed Fandorin just below his collarbone, but I do not think it went very deep. The diplomat’s white shirt was stained red with blood. My first thought was: God does exist, and he punishes scoundrels. As he staggered backwards, the villainous Byzantine dodged to one side, but the enraged Fury was not satisfied with the damage she had inflicted, and taking a firmer grip on the handle, she raised her hand to strike again.

And then our Japanese colleague, who had so far taken no part in the discussion and remained almost unnoticed, astonished us all. With a piercing cry like the call of an eagle, he leapt up almost as high as the ceiling and struck Mme Kleber on the wrist with the toe of his shoe.

Not even in the Italian circus have I ever seen a trick to match that!

The fruit knife went flying into the air, the Japanese landed in a squatting position and Mme Kleber staggered backwards with her face contorted, clutching her injured wrist.

But still she would not abandon her bloodthirsty intent! When she felt her back strike the grandfather clock (I have already written to you about that monster), she suddenly bent down and lifted up the hem of her dress. I was already dazed by the speed of events, but this was too much. I caught a glimpse (forgive me, my sweet Emily, for mentioning this) of a slim ankle clad in a silk stocking and the frills of a pair of pink pantaloons, and a second later when Mme Kleber straightened up a pistol had appeared out of nowhere in her left hand. It was very small and double-barrelled, finished with mother-of-pearl.

I do not dare repeat to you word for word exactly what this creature said to Fandorin - in any case you probably do not know the meaning of such expressions. The general sense of her speech, which was most forceful and expressive, was that the ‘rotten pervert’ (I employ euphemisms, for Mme Kleber expressed herself rather more crudely) would pay for his lousy trick with his life. ‘But first I shall neutralize this venomous yellow snake!’ cried the mother-to-be: she took a step forward and fired at Mr Aono, who fell on his back with a dull groan.

Mme Kleber took another step and pointed her pistol straight at Fandorin’s face. I really do never miss,’ she hissed. ‘And I’m going to put a bullet right between those pretty blue eyes of yours.’

The Russian stood there, pressing his hand to the red patch spreading across his shirt. He was not exactly quaking with fear, but he was pale all right.

The ship heeled over harder than usual - a large wave had struck it amidships - and I saw that ugly monstrosity, Big Ben, lean further and further over, and then … it collapsed right onto Mme Kleber!

There was a dull thud as the hard wood struck the back of her head and the irrepressible woman collapsed flat on her face, pinned down by the heavy oak tower.

Everyone dashed across to Mr Aono, who was still lying on the floor with a bullet in his chest. The wounded man was conscious and kept trying to get up, but Dr Truffo squatted down beside him and pressed on his shoulders to make him lie back. The doctor cut open his clothes to examine the entry wound and frowned.

‘It is nothing,’ the Japanese said in a low voice through clenched teeth. ‘The lung is barely grazed.’

‘And the bullet,’ Truffo asked in alarm. ‘Can you feel it, my dear colleague? Where is it?’

‘I think the bullet is stuck in the right shoulder blade,’ replied Mr Aono, adding with astonishing composure, ‘The lower left quadrant. You will have to section the bone from the back. That is very difficult. Please forgive me for causing you such inconvenience.’

Then Fandorin said something very mysterious. He leaned over the wounded man and said in a quiet voice: ‘Well now, Aono-san, your dream has come true - now you are my onjin. I am afraid the free Japanese lessons will have to be cancelled.’

Mr Aono, however, seemed to understand this gibberish perfectly well and he even managed a feeble smile.

When the Japanese gentleman had been bandaged up and carried away on a stretcher by sailors, the doctor turned his attention to Mme Kleber.

We were jolly surprised to discover that the solid oak had not smashed her skull, but only given her a substantial bump on the head. We pulled the stunned criminal out from under London’s finest sight and moved her to an armchair.

‘I’m afraid the baby will not survive the shock,’ sighed Mrs Truffo.

‘The poor little thing is not to blame for his mother’s sins.’

‘The baby will be all right,’ her husband assured her. ‘This …

lady possesses such tremendous vitality that she will certainly have a healthy child, with an easy birth at full term.’

Fandorin added, with a cynicism that I found offensive: ‘There is reason to hope that the birth will take place in a prison hospital.’

‘It is terrible to think what will be born from that womb,’ Miss Stamp said, with a shudder.

‘In any case, the pregnancy will save her from the guillotine,’

remarked the doctor.

‘Or from the gallows,’ laughed Miss Stamp, reminding us of the bitter wrangling between Commissioner Gauche and Inspector Jackson.

‘The

most serious threat she faces is a short prison sentence for the attempted murder of Mr Aono,’ Fandorin remarked with a sour face.

‘And extenuating circumstances will be found for that: temporary insanity, shock, the pregnancy. As she herself demonstrated quite brilliantly, it will be quite impossible to prove anything else. I assure you, Marie Sanfon will be at liberty again very soon.’

It is strange, but none of us mentioned the shawl, as if it had never even existed, as if the scrap of silk that had carried off into oblivion a hundred British battleships and the French revanche had also taken with it the feverish stupor that had shrouded our minds and souls. ooks Fandorin stopped beside his fallen Big Ben, which was now fit for nothing but the rubbish tip: the glass was broken, the mechanism was smashed and the oak panel was cracked from top to bottom.

‘A magnificent clock,’ said the Russian, confirming yet again the well-known fact that the Slavs have no artistic taste whatever. I shall certainly have it repaired and take it with me.’

The Leviathan gave a mighty hoot on its whistle, no doubt in greeting to some passing vessel, and I began thinking that very soon, in just two or three weeks, I shall arrive in Tahiti and we shall meet again, my adored little wife. Everything else is mere mist and vapour, an insubstantial fantasy.

We shall be together and we shall be happy in our island paradise, where the sun always shines.

In anticipation of that joyful day,

I remain your tenderly loving

Reginald Milford-Stokes.

The End.