The Coronation

9 May

The ceremonial procession had already passed the Triumphal Gates when I jumped out of my hired carriage, panting hard and streaming with sweat, and started working away brusquely with my elbows to force my way through the dense crowd lining both sides of Bolshaya Tverskaya-Yamskaya Street.

There were cordons of troops along the edge of the roadway and I squeezed my way through as close as possible to an officer, attempting as I went to extract from my pocket the decorative cardboard ticket that gave me the right to take part in the procession. But that proved to be far from simple, for in the crush it was not possible for me to straighten out my elbows. I realised that I would have to wait until the sovereign passed by and then slip through into the tail of the column.

There was a festive, radiant sun in the sky – for the first time after so many overcast days. The air was filled with the pealing of bells and shouts of ‘Hoorah!’

The emperor was making his ceremonial entry into the old capital, following the route from the suburban Petrovsky Palace to the Kremlin.

There were twelve horse gendarmes riding huge stallions at the front of the procession, and a mocking voice behind my back said rather loudly: ‘C’est symbolique, n’est-ce pas?¹ It’s easy enough to see who’s in charge in Russia.’

I looked round and saw two students gazing in disgust at the parade through the spectacles on their smug faces.

Behind the gendarmes came the Cossacks of the the imperial escort, swaying in their saddles, with the silver embroidery of their crimson Circassian coats glittering in the sun.

‘And they’ve got their whips too,’ the same voice remarked.

Then the Don Cossacks rode past in a rather untidy square, followed by a deputation from the Asiatic subjects of the empire, dressed in their colourful costumes, riding without any formation whatever, with carpets for saddles on their slimlegged, prancing steeds. I recognised the Emir of Bukhara and the Khan of Khiva, both wearing medals and gold general’s epaulettes, which looked strange on their Central Asian robes.

I still had a long time to wait. A long procession of representatives of the nobility passed by in their full-dress uniforms, and behind them came Head of the Bedchamber Bulkin, who was leading the court servants: footmen, blackamoors in turbans, Cossacks of the bedchamber. Then at last the people on the balconies decorated with flags and garlands began cheering, waving their hands and scarves, and the spectators pressed forward, stretching the cables taut, and I guessed that the central core of the column was approaching.

His Majesty was riding alone, looking most impressive in his Semyonovsky regimental uniform. His graceful snow-white mare Norma twitched her slim ears sensitively and squinted to one side and the other with her moist black eyes, but her ceremonial stride never faltered. The tsar’s face was motionless, frozen in a fixed smile. His white-gloved right hand was suspended beside his temple in a martial salute while his left hand toyed gently with the gilded bridle.

I waited for the grand dukes to pass by, and also the open landaus with Their Majesties the dowager and reigning empresses, and then showed my pass to the cordon and ran hastily across the open space.

Finding myself in the column of senators walking on foot, I made my way into the very centre, as far away as possible from the public gaze, and then started zigzagging my way forward, muttering my apologies as I slipped through. The important gentlemen, many of whom I knew by sight, glanced in bewilderment at this ignorant fellow in the green livery of the house of the Georgieviches, but I had no time to be concerned about the proprieties. The letter from Doctor Lind was burning my chest.

I caught a glimpse of Colonel Karnovich sitting on the monkey board of the empress-mother’s carriage. He was dressed as a footman of the chamber, with a tunic and a powdered wig, but was still wearing his eternal blue-tinted spectacles. At that moment however the head of the tsar’s bodyguard could not be of any help to me. I needed urgently to talk with Georgii Alexandrovich, although even he would not be able to resolve the problem that had arisen. The tsar himself was required for that. And, even worse, the tsarina.

Following the previous day’s embarrassing failure, Colonel Karnovich had received a vociferous dressing-down from Georgii Alexandrovich for preparing his agents poorly. I got my share too, from both of them, for not getting a good look at anything and not even detaining the newspaper boy. Fandorin was not present at this distressing scene. As Somov later informed me, the state counsellor and his Japanese had gone off somewhere even before I left for the meeting with Doctor Lind’s people, and they had not been seen since.

Their absence worried me greatly. Several times in the course of the evening and once long after midnight I went outside and looked at their windows. There was no light.

In the morning I was woken by a sharp, nervous knocking. I thought it must be Somov and opened the door in my nightcap and dressing gown. Imagine my embarrassment when I saw Her Highness standing there!

Xenia Georgievna looked pale, and the shadows under her eyes suggested that she had not gone to bed at all.

‘He’s not here,’ she gabbled. ‘Afanasii, he wasn’t here last night!’

‘Who, Your Highness?’ I asked in fright, pulling off my nightcap and bending my legs slightly, so that the hem of the dressing gown touched the floor and concealed my bare ankles.

‘What do you mean? Erast Petrovich! Do you perhaps know where he is?’

‘I have no idea,’ I replied, and my heart sank because I did not like the expression on Her Highness’s face at all.

Fandorin and his servant made their appearance after breakfast, when the grand dukes had already left for the Petrovsky Palace for the preparations for the ceremonial entry into the city. The house was full of police agents because a further message from the kidnappers was expected. I myself stayed as close as possible to the telephone and kept sending Somov out to the entrance to see if another note had been left. In fact, that was quite unnecessary, since Colonel Lasovsky had sleuths on duty in the bushes all the way along the avenue leading to the house. This time no one would be able to climb over the fence and approach the Hermitage unnoticed.

‘Did you see the child?’ Fandorin asked instead of greeting me. ‘Is he alive?’

I told him the bare bones of what had happened the previous day, anticipating another helping of reproaches for letting the newspaper boy get away.

In order to forestall any reprimands, I said: ‘I know I am at fault. I ought to have grabbed that little scoundrel by the scruff of his neck and not gone chasing after the carriage.’

‘The most important thing is that you got a good look at the boy and that he is unharmed,’ said Fandorin.

I could have stomached his reproaches, because they were well deserved, but I found such condescension objectionable.

‘But now the only clue has been lost!’ I exclaimed angrily, letting him see that I had no need of his false magnanimity.

‘What clue?’ he asked with a mild gesture of the hand. ‘A perfectly ordinary mop-headed little scamp, eleven and a half years old. Your Senka Kovalchuk doesn’t know a thing, and there’s noway he could have. Justwho do you think Doctor Lind is?’

My jaw must have dropped, because before I began to speak I felt my lips slap together in a most foolish fashion.

‘Se-Senka? K-Kovalchuk?’ I repeated, suddenly developing a stammer. ‘You mean you have found him? But how?’

‘Nothing to it. I got a good look at him when he dived into your g-gig.’

‘A good look?’ I echoed and felt furious with myself for talking like a parrot. ‘How could you get a look at anything, when you weren’t even there?’

‘How do you mean, I wasn’t there?’ Fandorin protested with a dignified air. He knitted his brows together and suddenly boomed in a deep voice that seemed incredibly familiar: “Come on, servant of God, get a move on!” Didn’t you recognise me? I was there beside you all the time, Ziukin.’

The priest, the priest in the rattletrap with the tarpaulin cover!

I took myself in hand and gave vent to my righteous indignation.

‘So you were there beside us, but you didn’t follow us!’

‘What on earth for?’ The gaze of his blue eyeswas so cool that I suspected he was mocking me. ‘I had s-seen quite enough. The boy had the Moscow Pilgrim newspaper in his bag. That is one. The printer’s ink had eaten deep into his fingers, so he really was a newspaper boy who handled hundreds of copies every day. That is two . . .’

‘But there are plenty of boys who sell the Pilgrim,’ I exclaimed in frustration. ‘I’ve heard that almost a hundred thousand copies of that yellow rag are sold in Moscow every day!’

‘The boy also had six fingers on his left hand – did you not notice that? And that is three,’ Fandorin concluded serenely. ‘Yesterday evening Masa and I went round all the ten depots where Moscow Pilgrim news boys collect their wares and we had no difficulty in establishing the identity of the individual who interests us. We had to search for a while before we found him, it is true, and when we found him we had to run a bit too, but it is quite hard to run away from Masa and me, especially for such a young individual.’

So simple. Lord, it was so simple – that was the the first thought that came into my head. In fact, all I needed to have done was look more closely at the kidnappers’ messenger.

‘What did he tell you?’ I asked impatiently.

‘Nothing of any interest,’ Fandorin replied, suppressing a yawn. ‘A perfectly ordinary little Senka. He sells newspapers to earn his own daily bread and his alcoholic mother’s vodka. Has no contacts with the criminal world. Yesterday he was hired by a certain “mister” who promised him three roubles and explained what he had to do. And he threatened to rip the boy’s belly open if he got anything confused. Senka says he was a serious mister, the kind who really would rip you open.’

‘And what else did he say about this “mister”?’ ‘I asked with a sinking heart. ‘What he looked like? How he was dressed?’

‘Ordnery,’ Fandorin said with a gloomy sigh. ‘You see, Ziukin, our young friend has a very limited vocabulary. His answers to every question are “Ordnery” and “Who knows?” The only distinctive f-feature of his employer that we have established is that he has a “bold face”. But I am afraid that will not be ofmuch help to us . . . All right, I’ll go and get a bit of rest. Wake mewhen the message from Lind arrives.’

And the unpleasant man went to his room.

I, however, still could not bring myself to move far away from the telephone apparatus standing in the hallway. I paced up and down, trying to maintain a dour, pensive air, but the servants were already casting glances of frank bewilderment in my direction. Then I stood at the window and pretended to be observing Lord Banville and Mr Carr, both dressed in white trousers and check caps, as they played croquet.

Properly speaking, they were not actually playing, merely strolling around the croquet pitch with sour expressions on their faces, while His Lordship spoke incessantly about something or other, seeming to become more and more angry. Finally he stopped, turned towards his companion and flew into a genuine fury – he waved his hands and started shouting so loudly that even I could hear him through the glass. I had never seen English lords behave in such a manner before. Mr Carr listened with a bored expression on his face, sniffing at his dyed carnation. Freyby was standing a short distance away, smoking his pipe without looking at his gentlemen at all. The butler had two wooden mallets with long handles tucked under his arm.

Suddenly Lord Banville shouted something especially loudly and gave Mr Carr a resounding slap which knocked the gentleman’s cap off his head. I froze in horror, afraid that the Britons would start up their barbarous ‘boxing’ right there on the lawn, but Mr Carr only threw his flower down at Banville’s feet and walked away.

His Lordship stood there for no more than a few moments, and then dashed after the friend of his heart. He overtook him and grabbed him by the arm, but Mr Carr tore himself free. Then Lord Banville went down on his knees and waddled after the man he had struck in that unflattering position. Freyby followed them with the mallets, yawning.

I didn’t understand what had happened and, to be quite honest, I was not interested in their English passions. And in any case I had just had a good idea that would free me from my enslavement to the telephone. I sent for the senior police agent and asked him to take my place in the hallway and send to the conservatory for me immediately there was a call from the kidnappers.

I believe that when I described the Hermitage I forgot to mention the most delightful space in this old palace – a glass-roofed winter garden with tall windows overlooking the Moscow river.

I chose this secluded spot, so conducive to intimate conversation, in order to deal with a matter that had been tormenting me for three days. I had to overcome my accursed shyness and finally tell poor Mademoiselle Declique that it was high time for her to stop suffering, that she had not done anything for which she deserved to be punished. How on earth could she have known that there was another carriage hidden behind the bushes? Not even the cunning Fandorin, who knewabout Doctor Lind, had guessed that.

I ordered Lipps to lay a table in the conservatory and sent to Mademoiselle to ask whether she would care to take tea with me. (In St Petersburg the two of us often often used to sit for a while over a cup or two of good Buryatian oolong.) I had selected a lovely little corner, completely cut off from the rest of the conservatory by luxuriant bushes of magnolia. I waited for the governess, feeling very nervous as I tried to choose the right words – quite unambiguous and yet at the same time not too intrusive.

However, when Mademoiselle arrived, looking sad in a severe, dark grey dress with a shawl across her shoulders, I could not bring myself to address the ticklish subject immediately.

‘It’s funny,’ I said, ‘there’s a garden in here and a garden out there.’

I meant that we were sitting in the winter garden, and there was a garden outside the window too, only a natural one.

‘Yes,’ she replied, lowering her head and stirring her tea with a spoon.

‘You shouldn’t . . .’ I blurted out, but then she lifted her head and glanced at me with her luminous eyes, and I finished in a way I had not intended ‘. . . dress so warmly. Today is a genuine summer day, even rather hot.’

The light in her eyes went out.

‘I don’t feel hot,’ Mademoiselle said quietly and then neither of us spoke any more.

It was this silence that allowed it all to happen.

There was the sound of footsteps in the conservatory and we heard Xenia Georgievna’s voice: ‘Yes, yes, Erast Petrovich, this is just the right spot. No one will disturb us here.’

I was about to push my chair back and get up, but Mademoiselle Declique suddenly squeezed my wrist in her fingers, and I froze in surprise, because in all the time we had known each other this was the first time she had touched me in that way. By the time I recovered my wits it was already too late to speak up – things had gone too far between Her Highness and Fandorin.

‘What do you want to tell me?’ he asked quietly and – so I thought – cautiously.

‘Just one thing . . .’ Xenia Georgievna replied in a whisper, but she did not add anything else – the only sound was a rustle of material and a very faint squeak.

Concerned, I parted the thick bushes and was absolutely astounded: Her Highness was standing on tiptoe (it was her shoes that had squeaked, I realised) with both of her arms round Fandorin’s neck, pressing her lips against his. The detective adviser’s hand was held out helplessly to one side; the fingers clenched and unclenched and then suddenly, as if they had finally come to some decision, flew up and began stroking the delicate nape of Xenia Georgievna’s neck with its fluffy strands of light hair.

I heard the sound of rapid breathing right beside my ear – it was Mademoiselle, who had also parted the bushes and was watching the kissing couple. I was astounded by the strange expression on her face, her eyebrows seemingly raised in a kind of merry amazement, a half-smile trembling on her lips. The doubly scandalous nature of the situation – the kiss itself and my inadvertent spying – brought me out in a cold sweat. But my accomplice apparently felt no awkwardness at all.

The kissing went on for a very, very long time. I had never imagined that it was possible to kiss for so long without any pause for breath. But I did not actually look at my watch, and perhaps the wait seemed so interminable to me because of the sheer nightmarishness of the situation.

Eventually they released their hold on each other, and I finally saw the radiant glow in Her Highness’s eyes and the perplexed expression, so unlike his usual one, on the face of her seducer. Then Xenia Georgievna took Fandorin by the hand in a most determined fashion and led him away.

‘What do you think; where is she taking him?’ I asked in a whisper, avoiding looking at Mademoiselle.

There was strange sound rather like giggling. I glanced at the governess in surprise, but she looked perfectly serious.

‘Thank you for the tea, Afanasii Stepanovich,’ Mademoiselle said with a demure little bow and left me there alone.

I tried to gather my thoughts. What should I do? The honour of the imperial house was under threat – God only knew what this infatuation might lead to if someone did not intervene in time. Perhaps I should inform Georgii Alexandrovich? But to burden him with this additional problem seemed quite impossible. I had to think of something myself.

However, I was prevented from concentrating effectively on this most important matter by entirely extraneous questions.

Why had Mademoiselle taken hold of my wrist? I could still feel the dry heat of her hand.

And what was the meaning of that giggling – if, of course, I had not imagined it?

The windowpanes sudden quivered from a plangent blowand I heard a mighty rumbling – it was the cannon firing from the Kremlin towers to announce the commencement of the procession. And that meant itwas noon already. And almost that very same moment Iwas called to the hallway. The postman had delivered the daily correspondence, and among the usual envelopes containing all sorts of invitations, notifications and charity appeals, one envelope without a stamp had been discovered.

We assembled round this rectangle of white paper lying in the centre of the small table under the mirror: myself, two police agents and Fandorin – looking unusually ruddy and with his collar distinctly lopsided.

While he questioned the postman about which route he had followed and whether he might have left his bag anywhere, I opened the envelope with trembling fingers and took out, together with a sheet of paper folded into four, a lock of soft, golden hair.

‘Oh Lord,’ I exclaimed involuntarily, because there could be no doubt at all that the hair belonged to Mikhail Georgievich.

Fandorin left the frightened postman and joined me. We read the message together.

Gentlemen, you have violated the terms of our arrangement. Your intermediary attempted to reclaim the goods by force without having made the payment agreed. As a first warning I am sending you a strand of the prince’s hair. Following the next breach of faith on your side, you will receive one of his fingers.

The gentleman with the doggy sideburns can no longer be trusted. I refuse to deal with him. Today the prince’s governess, whom I saw in the park, must come to the meeting. So that the lady will not be encumbered with the burden of a heavy suitcase, this time please be so good as to make the next payment to me in the form of the sapphire bow collar made by the court jeweller of the Tsarina Elisaveta – in the opinion of my specialist this bauble is worth precisely a million roubles, or perhaps slightly more, but you will not cavil at petty trifles, surely?

Beginning from six o’clock this evening the governess, completely alone, must stroll along the Arbat and the streets around it, following any route that she wishes, but choosing the places that are less crowded. She will be approached.

Yours sincerely,

Doctor Lind

‘I am afraid that this is impossible,’ was the first thing I said.

‘B-but why?’ Fandorin asked.

‘The inventory of the crown jewels lists the neckband in the coffret² of the ruling empress.’

‘And what of that?’

I simply sighed. How was he to know that for Her Majesty, so jealously protective of her somewhat ethereal status, the crown jewels held a special, rather morbid importance?

According to established ceremonial, the dowager empress was obliged to pass on the coffret to her successor immediately upon the new tsarina’s accession to the throne. However, Maria Feodorovna, being a connoisseur of the beautiful as well as a capricious and wilful individual – and also let us be quite frank, not overfond of her daughter-in-law – had not wished to be parted from the jewels and had forbidden her crowned son to pester her with conversations on the subject.

A painful situation had resulted in which His Majesty, being on the one hand a dutiful son and, on the other, a loving husband, found himself, as they say, caught between the devil and the deep blue sea, and did not know what to do. The confrontation had continued for many months and had only been ended very recently by an unexpectedly decisive move on the part of the young empress. When, following numerous hints and even direct demands, Maria Feodorovna sent her only a small part of the jewels, mostly emeralds, which she did not like, Alexandra Feodorovna announced to her husband that she regarded the wearing of jewellery as in bad taste and henceforth she would not wear any diamonds, sapphires, pearls, gold and other vain ornaments at any ceremonial occasions. And she referred to the Scriptures, where it is said: ‘A good name is better than great riches, and a good reputation is better than silver and gold.’ After this threat the empress-mother was obliged to part with her jewels after all and, as far as I was aware, Alexandra Feodorovna had brought the entire contents of the coffret to Moscow so that she could appear in all her splendour at the numerous balls, receptions and ceremonies.

I had to reach Georgii Alexandrovich urgently.

I had to delay a little while before running from Maria Feodorovna’s landau to the mounted group of grand dukes, for the procession had just entered the Triumphal Square and my manoeuvre would have been blatantly obvious. My watch already showed half past one. Time was running out.

A convenient opportunity presented itself when rockets went soaring up into the sky from the roof of a large building on the corner of Tverskaya Street, leaving trails of coloured smoke behind them. As if by command, the assembled members of the public jerked up their heads and started buzzing in rapturous delight, and I quickly cut across the open space and hid among the horses. In accordance with ceremonial, each of the horses on which Their Highnesses were sitting was being led by the bridle by one of the companions of the court. I saw Pavel Georgievich, wearing a weary, anxious expression on his bluish-green face; Endlung, sprightly and rosy-cheeked, was striding out beside him.

‘Afanasii,’ His Highness called to me in a pitiful voice. ‘I can’t go on. Get me some pickle water. I swear to God, I’m going to be sick . . .’

‘Hold on, Your Highness,’ I said. ‘The Kremlin is coming up soon.’

And I carried on squeezing my way through. A dignified gentleman squinted sideways at me in bewilderment. To judge from the red welts on his cuffs and the buttons with hunting horns on them, he must have been a master of hounds, but so many of those had appeared during the new reign that it was impossible to remember them all.

His Majesty’s three uncles made up the front row of the procession of grand dukes. I worked my way through to Georgii Alexandrovich’s sorrel Turkmen, took hold of its bridle (so that there were now two of us leading it – myself and the stall-master Count Anton Apollonovich Opraksin) and passed the note from Lind to His Highness without speaking.

When he saw the lock of hair, Georgii Alexandrovich’s face changed. He quickly ran his eye over the lines of writing, touched his spurs to the lean, muscular sides of his mount and began slowly overhauling the solitary figure of the sovereign. The count let go of the bridle in horror. And so did I.

There could be no doubt at all that a genuine storm would blow up in international politics. It was a certainty that today the coded telegrams would go flying to foreign courts and delegations: Admiral-General Georgii Alexandrovich demonstrates his special relationship with the tsar, and from now on can probably be regarded as the most influential individual in the Russian empire. So be it. There were more important things to deal with.

With his hands held proudly on his hips exactly like his nephew, His Highness approached the sovereign unhurriedly and rode on beside him, just half a length behind; the admiral-general’s portly figure made a far more majestic sight than the autocrat’s thin silhouette. From the twitching of His Highness’s magnificent moustache, I guessed that Georgii Alexandrovich was telling the emperor about the letter, without even turning his head. The tsar’s head quite clearly jerked to one side. Then his moustache, less magnificent than Georgii Alexandrovich’s, twitched in exactly the sameway, and the grand duke began gradually falling back, until he was level with his brothers again.

Since I was so close, I could hear Kirill Alexandrovich hiss furiously: ‘Tu es fou, Georgie, ou quoi?’³

I do not know if the people of Moscow noticed that when the procession entered Tverskaya Street the column began moving significantly more quickly, but in any case twenty minutes later the sovereign rode in through the Spassky Gate of the Kremlin and a quarter of an hour after that closed carriages drove away one after another from the porch of the Large Kremlin Palace. The individuals who were privy to the secret were hurrying to the Hermitage for an emergency meeting.

This time the visitors included our sovereign lady, whose decision would determine the outcome of the whole affair.

Since I had to arrange in haste for light hors d’œuvres, coffee, seltzer water and orangeade for Her Majesty (nothing so inflames the thirst and the appetite as a prolonged ceremonial procession), I missed the beginning of the discussion and had to reconstruct its course in retrospect, from what I heard the participants say.

For example, the delicate explanation to the tsarina concerning the sapphire neckband took place in my absence. When I came in, I found Her Majesty in an angry mood but already reconciled to the inevitable.

‘However, His Anointed Majesty has promised to me that this thing will quite definitely be returned to me entire and undamaged,’ our sovereign lady was saying to High Police Master Lasovsky just as I entered with the tray.

From these words, and also from the fact that Colonel Karnovich was sitting there with a rather sulky air, I concluded that following the previous day’s failure control of the operation had been transferred to the Moscow police. Fandorin was also here – I assumed in his capacity as an adviser.

Her Majesty had not had time to change, and she was still wearing her ceremonial dress of white brocade studded all over over with precious stones, and a heavy diamond necklace. The grand dukes had had no time to remove the stars of their various decorations, the watered silk ribbons of their medals and their chains of St Andrew, and all this iridescent shimmering made the room seem like a closet where the New Year’s tree decorations are kept.

‘Your Majesty,’ Lasovsky declared, ‘Iwarrant on my own head that the sapphires will remain perfectly safe, we will rescue Mikhail Georgievich, andwe will nab the entire gang.’ Herubbed his hands together eagerly and Alexandra Feodorovna wrinkled up her nose at this rather vulgar gesture. ‘Everything will go absolutely perfectly, because this time that villain Lind has laid the trap for himself. Allow me to explain – I have drawn up a plan.’

He moved aside all the glasses and cups that I had arranged so carefully, grabbed a starched napkin and set it down at the centre of the table.

‘This is Arbat Street and the area around it, the Second Prechistensky District. The governess will get out of her carriage here, at Maly Afanasievsky Lane, hesitate for a while as if uncertain which way to go, then turn in here, on to Bolshoi Afanasievsky Lane, from there on to Sivtsev Vrazhek Lane, and then . . .’

He carried on listing the turns for a quite a long time, checking them against a sheet of paper. Everyone listened attentively, although Her Majesty, if the disdainful set of her mouth was anything to go by, was thinking more about the odour of sweat that was clearly emanating from the overheated chief of police.

‘I have already calculated that she will pass twelve blocks in all, on which there are two hundred and thirty houses.’ Lasovky looked round triumphantly at the sovereign and rapped out: ‘And in every one of those houses there will be one of my men. In every one! My assistants are arranging it at this very moment. And so, although the governess’s route will appear random, she will actually be in our field of vision all the time, but the villains will never realise it, since the detectives, agents and constables in plain clothes will be located inside the residents’ houses and apartments. If she walks the entire route and no one approaches her, she will go round a second time, and then a third – as many times as necessary.’

‘Rather smart, isn’t it?’ Simeon Alexandrovich asked smugly, very proud of his chief of police.

‘P-permit me to ask, Colonel,’ Fandorin suddenly put in. ‘Are you certain that Mademoiselle Declique, who has never been to Moscow before, will not be confused by your complicated route?’

Lasovsky frowned, knitting his brows.

‘I shall personally lock myself away in a room with her and make her learn off all the corners and turns by heart. We shall have an entire hour to do it.’

Fandorin seemed to be satisfied with this answer and he did not ask any more questions.

‘We have to send for the neckband,’ the sovereign said with a sigh. ‘And may God be with us.’

At half past four, as Mademoiselle, pale-faced and with clear bite marks on her lips, was on her way to the carriage, where two gendarmes officers in civilian clothes were waiting for her, Fandorin approached her in the corridor. I happened to be nearby and I heard every word.

‘There is only one thing required of you, My Lady,’ he said in a very serious voice. ‘Do not put the life of the boy at risk. Be observant, that is your onlyweapon. I do not knowwhat scheme Lind has in m-mind this time, but be guided by your own understanding, listen to no one and trust no one. The police are less interested in the life of your pupil than in avoiding publicity. And one more thing . . .’ He looked her straight in the eye and said what I had tried to say so recently, but had not known how. ‘Do not blame yourself for what happened. If you had not left the boy alone, your presence would still not have made any difference. Therewould only have been another unnecessary casualty, because Doctor Lind does not leave witnesses.’

Mademoiselle fluttered her eyelashes rapidly, and I thought I saw a teardrop fall from them.

‘Merci, monsieur, merci. J’avais besoin de l’entendre.’⁴

She put her hand on Fandorin’s wrist – exactly as she had done so recently with mine – and squeezed it. He squeezed her elbow in a highly familiar manner, nodded and walked rapidly away in the direction of his room, as if he were in a great hurry to get somewhere.

I shall jump ahead of my story at this point – why will become clear later – and tell you what came of the Moscow police’s operation.

Colonel Lasovsky’s plan was not bad at all, and no doubt it would have been crowned with success if Lind had complied with the conditions that he himself had set for the meeting. But that, unfortunately, is precisely what the guileful doctor did not do.

And so the governess was driven to Arbat Street. She had a velvet reticule holding the priceless treasure in her hands, and there were two gendarmes with her: one sitting opposite her, the other on the coach box.

Immediately after Krymsky Most Street, when the carriage turned into another street which, if I am not mistaken, is called Ostozhenka Street, Mademoiselle suddenly stood up, turned round to look after a carriage that had driven past in the opposite direction and shouted in a piercing voice: ‘Mika! Mika!’

The officers also looked round, just in time to glimpse a little blue sailor’s cap between the swaying curtains of a rear window.

They had no time to turn their carriage – just as I did not the day before, but fortunately therewas a cab driving towards them.

The gendarmes told Mademoiselle to stay in the carriage, threw the cabby off his own rig and set off in pursuit of the carriage that had driven away with Mikhail Georgievich.

They were unable to catch it, however, because the cab horse was no match for a fine four-in-hand. Meanwhile, as Mademoiselle Declique squirmed in confusion on her seat, a gentleman wearing a beard and moustache approached her, politely doffed hisOffice of Mines peaked cap and addressed her in broken French: ‘The terms have been met – you have seen the prince. And now, if you don’t mind, the payment.’

What could Mademoiselle do? Especially since therewere two other men, whom she described as looking far less gallant than the polite gentleman, strolling about not very far away.

She gave them the reticule and tried to follow Fandorin’s instructions by memorising the three men’s appearances.

Well, she memorised them and later described them in the greatest possible detail, but what good would that do? There was no reason to think that Doctor Lind was short of men.

I did not learn about the failure of the operation conceived by the high police master until later, because I was not at the Hermitage that evening. When Mademoiselle returned, never having reached the cunning trap set around Arbat Street, I had already left the Neskuchny Park.

After I had seen the governess off on her way to the risky undertaking in which she was obliged to participate because I had behaved stupidly and bungled my own assignment, I found the inactivity simply too painful. I paced backwards and forwards in my room, thinking what a monster Fandorin was. That guttapercha gentleman ought not to be allowed anywhere near young girls and respectable women. How shamelessly he had turned Her Highness’s head! How craftily he had won the good favour of Mademoiselle Declique! And after all, what for? What could this slick seducer and experienced man of the world want with a modest governess who was no great beauty and no grande dame? Why would he talk to her in that velvety voice and squeeze her elbow so tenderly? Oh this specimen never did anything without a reason.

At this point my thoughts suddenly turned in a completely unexpected direction. I remembered that Simeon Alexandrovich, who had known Fandorin in his previous life, had called him ‘an adventurer of the very worst sort’ from whom you could expect absolutely anything at all. I had formed the very same impression.

The suspicions came crowding into my mind one after another, and I attempted to make sense of them by setting them out in order, in Fandorin’s own manner.

First. After a little reflection, the story about the finding of the newspaper boy appeared suspicious. If one supposed that Fandorin really had displayed quite uncommon resourcefulness and sought out the little rogue, then why would he have let him go? What if the boy had kept something back or quite simply lied, and then gone running to report to Lind?

Second. Why had Fandorin tried to dissuade Mademoiselle from following the instructions of the police and recommended her to act as she thought best? A fine adviser Lasovsky had, no two ways about it!

Third. If he found the high police master’s plan so disagreeable, then why had he not said so at the meeting?

Fourth. Where was he off to in such a hurry after he said goodbye to Mademoiselle Declique? What kind of urgent business could he suddenly have when the operation was being conducted without his involvement? Yet another trick like yesterday’s?

And fifth, and most importantly. Had he told me the truth about his relations with Lind? I could not be certain about that either.

It was this last thought, coupled with my feeling of guilt for the risk to which Mademoiselle had been exposed thanks to my good offices, that drove me to commit an act the like of which I had never committed before in my life. I could never even have imagined that I was capable of anything of the sort.

I walked up to the door of Fandorin’s room, looked around and put my eye to the keyhole. Peeping through it proved to be extremely uncomfortable – my back soon turned numb and my bent knees began to ache. But what was going on in the room rendered such minor discomforts entirely irrelevant. They were both there – the master and the servant. Fandorin was sitting in front of the mirror, naked to the waist and performing some incomprehensible manipulations with his face. It looked to me as if he was putting on make-up, just as Mr Carr did every morning, with his door open and without the slightest sign of embarrassment in front of the servants. Masa did not fall within my limited range of vision, but I could hear him snuffling somewhere in the immediate vicinity of the door.

Fandorin reached out his hand, pulled a crimson silk Russian shirt over his head and then stood up so that I could not see him any longer, but I did hear squeaking and tramping sounds, as if someone were pulling on a pair of blacked boots.

What was this masquerade in aid of? What shady business was afoot here?

I was so completely absorbed that I let my guard down and almost banged my head against the door when I heard a gentle cough behind my back.

Somov! Ah, this was not good.

My assistant was gazing at me in utter amazement. Things were doubly bad because that morning I had put a flea in his ear for his lack of discretion – as I walked along the corridor before breakfast I had caught him coming out of Mademoiselle Declique’s room, where he had absolutely no business to be. In reply to my stern question, Somov had blushed and admitted that in the mornings he studied French on his own, and he had asked the governess to explain a particularly difficult point of grammar. I told him that although I encouraged the study of foreign languages by the staff, Mademoiselle Declique had after all been hired to teach His Highness and not the servants. It seemed to me that Somov resented my remarks, but of course he did not dare to answer me back. And now this embarrassing blunder!

‘The door handles and keyholes have not been polished as well as they might,’ I said, concealing my embarrassment. ‘Here, take a look for yourself.’

I squatted down, breathed on the brass handle and, thank God, fingerprints appeared on its misty surface.

‘But a guest only has to take hold of the handle once, and a mark will be left. Afanasii Stepanovich, no one will ever spot trifles like that!’

‘In our work, Kornei Selifanovich, there are no trifles. And that is something you ought to get clear before you try to master French,’ I said with a severity that was perhaps inordinate but justified by the circumstances. ‘Be so good as to go round all the doors and check. Begin with the upper floors.’

When he had left, I put my eye to the keyhole again, but the room was quiet and deserted, and the only movement was the curtain swaying at the open window.

I took a master key that fitted all the doors in the house out of my pocket, went inside and ran across to the window.

I was just in time to see two figures dive into the bushes: one was tall, wearing a black pea jacket and a peaked cap, the other was a squat figure in a blue robe, with a long plait and a bowler hat. That was exactly how Masa had looked when he was playing the part of the Chinese pedlar on the day we first met. ‘Strollers’ like that had spread all over St Petersburg in the last few years, and apparently all over Moscow too.

I did not have any time to think.

I clambered determinedly over the window sill, jumped down onto the ground, hunched over and ran after them.

It was easy enough to determine the direction in which the disguised men were running from the shaking of the bushes. I tried hard not to fall behind, but I avoided getting too close to them, in order not to give myself away.

With an agility that I found impressive, Fandorin and Masa scaled the railings and jumped down on the other side. My attempt to overcome this barrier, a sazhen and a half in height, went less smoothly. I fell off twice, and when I finally did find myself on the top I did not dare jump for fear of breaking my leg or spraining my ankle, and I carefully slid down the thick railings, catching the coat-tail of my livery and lacerating the entire flap, and also getting dirt on my culottes and white stockings. (It later became clear that if we had gone along the main avenue instead of through the garden, we would have run into Mademoiselle Declique on her way back from her unexpectedly brief expedition.)

Fortunately Fandorin and Masa had not got very far. They were standing arguing with a cabby who apparently was very reluctant to let such a suspicious-looking pair into his vehicle. Eventually they got in and drove off.

I glanced to the left and then to the right. Therewere no more cabs to be seen. The Kaluga Highway is just that, not really a street, more like a country high road, and cabbies are a rare commodity there. But once again my experience as a footman came in useful. I set off trotting smoothly at an easy pace, keeping close to the railings of the park, since the cab was not moving very fast. I did not come across a cab until I reached the Golitsyn Hospital, when I was beginning to get out of breath. Puffing and panting, I slumped on to the seat and told him to follow the other cab, offering to pay him twice the usual rate.

The driver looked respectfully at my green livery with braid trimmings and the gold epaulette with aiguillettes (in order to get into the ceremonial parade, I had decked myself out in my dress uniform, and afterwards there had been no time to change back – thank goodness that at least the three-cornered hat with the plumage had been left at home) and called me ‘Your Excellency’.

At Kaluga Square we took a turn to the left, came out on the embankment just before the bridge and then we did not make any more turns for a long time. Thank God, the passengers in the carriage in front did not turn round even once – my green and gold outfitmust have been clearly visible from a long distance away.

The river divided into two. Our route lay along the the narrower of the two channels. On the left I could see the Kremlin towers and eagles between the buildings, and still we kept on driving, further and further, so that I no longer knew what part of Moscow we had reached.

At long last we made another turn and rumbled across a short cobblestoned bridge, then across a longwooden one, then across a third, which bore a plaque: ‘Small Yauza Bridge’.

The houses became poorer and the streets dirtier. And the longer we drove along that atrocious, rutted embankment, the more wretched the buildings became, so that I could not think of any other word to describe them except slums.

The driver suddenly halted his horse.

‘You do what you like, guv’nor, but I’m not going into Khitrovka. They’ll rob me. Take me horse and give me a good battering into the bargain, if not worse. Everyone knows what the place is like, and evening’s coming on.’

And indeed dusk was already falling – how had I failed to notice that?

Realising that it was pointless to argue, I got out of the cab immediately and handed the driver three roubles.

‘Oh no!’ he said, grabbing me by the sleeve. ‘You just look how far we’ve rode, and you promised me double, Your Excellency!’

Fandorin’s carriage disappeared round the corner. In order not to fall behind, I tossed the insolent fellow another two roubles and ran in pursuit.

The people I encountered on the street were unsavoury in the extreme. To put it more simply, they were riff-raff, the same sort as we have on the Ligovka in St Petersburg only probably even worse. What I found particularly unpleasant was that every last one of them was staring at me.

Someone shouted after me familiarly: ‘Hey, you dandy drake, what have you lost around here?’

I pretended not to hear.

The cab was not there round the corner – there was nothing but an empty, crooked little street, crooked street lamps with broken glass covers and half-ruined little houses.

I dashed to the next turn and then jerked back sharply, because right there, only about fifteen paces away, the men I was looking for were getting out of their carriage.

I cautiously peeped round the corner and saw a crowd of repulsive ragamuffins gather round the new arrivals from all sides, gaping curiously at the cabby, from which it was possible to conclude that the appearance of a cab in Khitrovka was a rather extraordinary event.

‘Well, what about a rouble and a half, then?’ the driverwhined plaintively, addressing the disguised state counsellor.

Fandorin swayed back on his heels, keeping his hands in his pockets, baring his teeth in a fierce grin with a glint of gold caps, which had appeared in his mouth out of nowhere, and spat neatly on the driver’s boot. Then he asked mockingly: ‘What about a kick and a poke?’

The idle onlookers chortled.

Oh, what a fine state counsellor this was!

The cabby pulled his head down into his shoulders, lashed his horse and drove off, accompanied by whistling, hallooing and shouts of an obscene nature.

Without even glancing at each other, Fandorin and the Japanese walked off in different directions. Masa ducked into a gateway and seemed to dissolve into the gathering gloom, while Erast Petrovich set off along the very middle of the street. After hesitating for a while, I followed the latter.

It was incredible how much his walk had changed. Hewaddled along as if he were on invisible springs, with his hands in his pockets and his shoulders hunched over. He spat zestfully twice to once side and kicked an empty tin can with his boot. A crudely painted wench in a bright-coloured dress came walking towards him, wiggling her hips. Fandorin deftly extracted one hand from his pocket and pinched her on the side. Strangely enough, this style of courtship seemed very much to the lady’s liking – she squealed, broke into peals of laughter and shouted such a pithy phrase after her admirer that I almost stumbled over my own feet. If only Xenia Georgievna could have seen how little this gentleman cared for her tender feelings!

He turned into a dark narrowalleyway – no more than a chink between two buildings. I went in after him, but before I had even taken ten steps I was grabbed by the shoulders from both sides. A whiff of something rotten and sour blew into my face and a young, nasal voice drawled: ‘Ea-sy now, Mister, ea-sy.’

There were two figures that I could only vaguely make out in the twilight, one standing on my left and one on my right. Right in front of my eyes an icy spark glinted on a strip of steel, and I felt the strange sensation of my knees turning soft, as if they might suddenly bend in the wrong direction, in defiance of all the laws of anatomy.

‘Lookee ’ere,’ hissed a different voice, a bit older and hoarser. ‘A wallet.’

The pocket in which my porte-monnaie was lying suddenly felt suspiciously light, but I realised it would be best not to protest. In any case, the noise might bring Fandorin, and my surveillance of him would be exposed.

‘Take it quickly and leave me in peace,’ I declared quite firmly, but then gagged on my words because a fist came hurtling out of the gloom and struck me on the base of the nose, so that I was immediately blinded, and something hot ran down my chin.

‘Well, isn’t he the feisty one?’ I heard someone say as if he was speaking through a pane of glass. ‘And the skins, look at the skins, with gold trimmints.’

Someone’s hands grabbed hold roughly of my shirt and pulled it out from under my belt.

‘You did wrong to bloody his snout, Seka. That shirt of his is pure cambric, and now look, the whole front’s spattered something rotten. And his pants are good too.’

It was only then I realised that these criminals intended to strip me naked.

‘Them’s women’s pants, but the cloth’s right enough,’ the other voice said and someone tugged at the edge of my culottes. ‘They’ll do Manka for pantaloons. Get ’em off, Mister, get ’em off.’

My eyes had grown accustomed to the dull light, and now I could make out my robbers better.

It would have been better if I hadn’t – the sight was nightmarish. Half the face of one of them was swollen up and covered by a bruise of monstrous proportions, the other was wheezing through a damp, sticky collapsed nose.

‘Take the livery, but I won’t give you the breeches and the shoes,’ I said, for the very idea that I, the butler of the Green Court, might go wandering around Moscow in the nude, was inconceivable.

‘If you don’t get ’em off, we’ll pull ’em off yer corpse,’ the hoarse one threatened and pulled a razor out from behind his back – a perfectly ordinary razor, the same kind that I shave with, except that this one was covered in rust and badly notched.

I began unbuttoning my shirt with trembling fingers, cursing my own folly. How could I have got into such a loathsome mess? I had let Fandorin get away, but that was the least of my worries now – I would be lucky to get out of there alive.

Another shadow appeared behind the backs of the Khitrovka savages and I heard a lazy, sing-song voice say: ‘And what’s this little comedy we ’ave ’ere, then? Right, shrimp, scarper, and quick.’

Erast Petrovich! Butwhere had he come from? He hadwalked away!

‘You what? You what?’ the young robber shrieked, but his voice sounded nervous to me. ‘This here’s our sheep, mine and Tura’s. You live your life, toff, and let honest dogs live too. There’s no law says you can take a sheep off us dogs.’

‘I’ll give you a law,’ Fandorin hissed, and put his hand inside his jacket.

The robbers instantly pushed me away and took to their heels. But they took with them the livery and my wallet – with forty-five roubles and small change inside it.

I did not know if I could consider myself saved or, on the contrary, I had simply fallen out of the frying pan into the fire, as they say. That wolfish grin distorting Fandorin’s smooth features could hardly bode me any good, and I watched in horror as his hand drew something out of his inside pocket.

‘Here, take that.’

It was not a knife or a pistol, merely a handkerchief.

‘What am I going to do with you, Ziukin?’ Erast Petrovich asked in his normal voice and the appalling grimacewas replaced by a crooked smile which, to my mind, was equally repulsive. ‘Of course, I spotted you back at Neskuchny Park, but I didn’t expect you to stay in Khitrovka – I thought you would take fright and retreat. However, I see you are not a man who frightens easily.’

I did not know what to say to that, so I said nothing.

‘I ought to leave you here wandering around naked. It would be a lesson to you. Explain to me, Ziukin, what on earth made you come traipsing after us?’

The fact that he was no longer speaking like a bandit but in his usual gentleman’s voice made me feel a bit calmer.

‘What you told me about the boy was not convincing,’ I replied. I took out my own handkerchief, threw my head back and squeezed my bloodied nose. ‘I decided to check on you.’

Fandorin grinned.

‘Bravo, Ziukin, b-bravo. I had not expected such perspicacity from you. You are quite right. Senka Kovalchuk told me everything he knew, and he’s an observant boy – it’s part of his p-profession. And he’s bright – he realised that I wouldn’t let him go otherwise.’

‘And he told you how to find the “bold face” who hired him?’

‘Not exactly, for that of course is something that our young acquaintance does not know, but he gave an exhaustive description of his employer. Judge for yourself: a bold face, slit eyes, clean-shaven, thick lips, a “general’s” cap with a lacquer peak, a red silk shirt, boots with a loud squeak and lacquer galoshes . . .’

I looked at Fandorin’s own attire and exclaimed: ‘That’s amazing, you’re dressed in exactly the sameway. There are plenty of young fellows like that around in Moscow.’

‘By no means,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘You certainly won’t see them around Moscow very often, but in Khitrovka you can meet them, although not in such v-very large numbers. It’s not just a matter of clothes, this is the supreme Khitrovka chic – the red silk and the lacquer galoshes. Only the toffs, that is bandits at the very top of the hierarchy, can presume to wear this outfit. To make it easier for you to understand, Ziukin, to them it is something like a gentleman-in-waiting’s uniform. Did you see the way those d-dogs scarpered at the sight of me?’

‘Scarpered’, ‘dogs’ – what sort of way is that to talk? I could see that there was very little of the state counsellor left in Fandorin. This man rather reminded me of cheap gilded tableware from which the upper layer has peeled away, exposing the vulgar tin.

‘What “dogs” do you mean?’ I asked, to make it clear that I would not agree to converse in criminal argot.

‘“Dogs”, Ziukin, are petty thieves and ruffians. For them, toffs like me are b-big bosses. But you interrupted me before I could tell you the bold face’s most important characteristic.’ He paused and then, with a pompous air, as if he were saying something very important, he said: ‘All the time he was talking to Senka – and he spoke to him for at least half an hour – this individual never took his right hand out of his pocket and kept jingling his small change.’

‘You believe that this habit is enough for you to find him?’

‘No,’ Fandorin sighed. ‘I believe something quite different. But anyway it will soon become clear whether my assumption is correct or not. Masa has to establish that. And if I am right, we intend to look for Mr Bold Face while Doctor Lind is playing cat and mouse with the police.’

‘And where is Mr Masa?’

Erast Petrovich waved his hand vaguely.

‘Not far from here, in a basement, a secret Chinese opium den. It moved from Sukharevka to Khitrovka after a police raid the year before last. Those people know all sorts of things.’

‘You mean that Mr Masa can speak Chinese?’

‘A little. There are many Chinese in his home town of Yokahama.’

Just then we heard an intricate bandit-style whistle from around the corner and I cringed.

‘There he is now,’ Fandorin said with a satisfied nod. He folded his fingers together in some special manner and whistled in exactly the same way, only even more piercingly – it actually left me deaf in one ear.

We walked on along the narrow side street and very soon met the Japanese. He was not at all surprised to see me and merely bowed ceremonially. I nodded, feeling extremely stupid without my livery and with blood spattered on my shirt.

They babbled away to each other in some incomprehensible language – I don’t know whether it was Japanese or Chinese – and all I could make out was the constant repetition of the word stump, which failed to make anything clearer to me.

‘I was right,’ Fandorin eventually condescended to explain. ‘It really is Stump – he has lost one hand and is in the habit of holding the stump in his pocket. He is a very serious bandit, the head of one of the new and most dangerous gangs in Khitrovka. The Chinese say their hideout is on Podkopaevka Street, in an old wine warehouse. It won’t be easy to get in there – they post sentries as if it was an army barracks, and they have even introduced a “scrip”, that is a password . . . That’s all very well, but what am I going to do with you, Ziukin? You’ve made yourself a real problem now. I can’t let you go wandering round Khitrovka on your own. You never know, you could get your throat cut.’

I was greatly piqued by these words and was on the point of saying that I would manage very well without anyone else looking after me – although, I must admit, I did not find the thought of a solitary stroll through the Khitrovka evening very attractive – when he asked: ‘Tell me, Ziukin, are you a physically robust man?’

I straightened my shoulders and replied with dignity: ‘I have served at court as a footman and postilion and on excursions. I do French gymnastics every morning.’

‘All right then, we’ll s-see,’ said Fandorin, with an insulting note of doubt in his voice. ‘You’ll come with us. Only on one condition: don’t take any action on your own; you must obey Masa and myself unquestioningly. Do you give me your word?’

What else could I do? Go back with nothing, as they say, for all my pains? And would I be able to get out of this cursed place on my own? And then it would be verymuch to the point to find this Stump. What if Fandorin was right, and the police operation on Arbat Street failed to produce any results?

I nodded.

‘Only your appearance isn’t really suitable for Khitrovka, Ziukin. You could compromise Masa and myself. Who can we turn you into? Well, at least a servant from a good house who has taken to drink.’

And, so saying, Fandorin leaned down, scooped up a handful of dust and poured it on the crown of my head, then wiped his dirty hand on my shirt, which was already stained with red blotches.

‘Ye-es,’ he drawled in satisfaction. ‘That’s a bit better.’

He squatted down and tore the gold buckles off my shoes, then suddenly took hold of my culottes and jerked hard, so that the seam at the back split and parted.

‘What are you doing?’ I cried in panic, jumping back.

‘Well, how’s that, Masa?’ the crazed state counsellor asked the Japanese, who inclined his head, looked me over and remarked: ‘Stockings white.’

‘Quite right. You will have to t-take them off. And you are far too clean-shaven, that is not comme il faut around here. Come on . . .’

He stepped towards me and, before I could even protest, he had smeared dust from the crown of my head right across my face.

I gave up. I took off my white silk stockings and put them in my pocket.

‘All right, that will do in the dark,’ Fandorin said condescendingly, but his valet actually favoured me with praise: ‘Ver’ good. Ver’ beeutfuw.’

‘Now where? To this Stump?’ I asked, burning with desire to get down to business.

‘Not so f-fast, Ziukin. We have to wait for night. Meanwhile, let me tell you what is known about Stump. He has the reputation of a mysterious individual with a big future among the criminals of Moscow. Rather like Bonaparte during the Directoire period. Even the King himself is rather afraid of him, although no state of war has been declared between the two of them. The one-armed bandit’s gang is small but select – everyone pulls their weight. Nothing but toffs, all well tried and tested. My man in the criminal investigation department, a highly authoritative professional, believes that the future of the Russian criminal world belongs to leaders like Stump. There are no drinking binges or fights in his gang. They won’t touch any small-time business. They plan their raids and robberies thoroughly and execute them cleanly. The police do not have a single informer among Stump’s men. And this gang’s hideaway, as I have already had the honour of informing you, is guarded with great care, military fashion.’

This all sounded most discouraging.

‘But how are we going to reach him, if he is so cautious?’

‘Over the rooftops,’ said Fandorin, gesturing for me to follow him.

We made our way through dark, dismal, foul-smelling courtyards for a while, until eventually Fandorin stopped beside a blank windowless wall that was indistinguishable from the others beside it. He took hold of a drainpipe, shook it hard and listened to the rattling of the tin plate.

‘It will hold,’ he muttered as if he were talking to himself, and then suddenly, without the slightest apparent effort, he started climbing up the flimsy structure.

Masa thrust his bowler further down onto his head and climbed after him, looking like a fairground bear who has been taught to scramble up a pole to get a sugarloaf.

As the common people say, in for a kopeck, in for a rouble. I spat on my hands the way our kitchen servant Siavkin doeswhen he is chopping firewood, crossed myself and took hold of an iron bracket. Right, one foot on the step in the wall, now the other – hup! Reach up to that hoop, now get my other arm over that ledge . . .

In order not to feel afraid, I started adding up my financial losses over the last fewdays. The day before before I had lost fifty roubles on the bet with Masa, today I had spent two and a half roubles on a cab in the morning and five in the evening, making seven and a half in all, and then the Khitrovka ‘dogs’ had gone off with my porte-monnaie and forty-five roubles. Then add to that my ruined clothes – they might only be my official uniform, but even so it was upsetting.

At this point I accidentally looked down and immediately forgot all about my losses because the ground was a lot further away than I had thought. The wall had not seemed all that high from below, only three storeys, but looking down made my heart skip a beat.

Fandorin and Masa had clambered onto the roof a long time ago, but I was still creeping up the drainpipe, trying not to look down any more.

When I reached the overhang of the roof, I suddenly realised that there was absolutely no way I could climb over it – all my strength had gone into the climb. I hung there, with my arms round the drainpipe, for about five minutes, until a round head in a bowler hat appeared against the background of the purple sky. Masa took hold of my collar and dragged me up onto the roof in a jiffy.

‘Thank you,’ I said, gulping in the air.

‘No need gwatitude,’ he said, and bowed although he was on all fours.

We crawled over to the other side of the roof, where Fandorin was spreadeagled on his belly. I settled down beside him, impatient to find out what he was watching for.

The first thing I saw was the crimson stripe of the fading sunset, pierced by the numerous black needles of bell towers. Fandorin, however, was not admiring the sky, but examining a lopsided old building with boarded-up windows located on the opposite side of the street. I could see that once, a long, long time ago, it had been a fine strong building, but it had been neglected, fallen into disrepair and begun to sag – it would be easier to demolish than renovate.

‘Back at the beginning of the century this used to be a warehouse that belonged to the Mobius brothers, the wine merchants,’ Erast Petrovich began explaining in a whisper, and I noticed that when he whispered the stammer disappeared completely from his speech. ‘The basement consists of wine cellars that go very deep. They say that they used to hold up to a thousand barrels of wine. In 1812 the French poured away what they didn’t drink and supposedly a stream of wine ran down the Yauza. The building is burnt out from the inside and the roof has collapsed, but the cellars have survived. That is where Stump has his residence. Do you see that fine young fellow?’

On looking more closely, I observed a ramp sloping down from the road to a pair of gates set well below the level of the street. There was a young fellow wearing a peaked cap just like Fandorin’s, standing with his back to the gates and eating sunflower seeds, spitting out the husks.

‘A sentry?’ I guessed.

‘Yes. We’ll wait for a while.’

I do not know how long the wait lasted, because my chronometer was still in my livery (something else to add to the list of losses: a silver Breguet awarded for honourable service – I regretted that most of all) but it was not just one hour or two, but more – I was already dozing off.

Suddenly I sensed that Fandorin’s entire body had gone tense, and my sleepiness disappeared as if by magic.

I could hear muffled voices from below.

‘Awl,’ said one.

‘Husk,’ replied the other. ‘Come on through. Got a message?’

I did not hear the answer to this incomprehensible question. A door in the gates opened and then closed, and everythingwent quiet again. The sentry lit up a hand-rolled cigarette and the lacquer peak of his cap glinted dully in the moonlight.

‘Right, I’m off,’ Fandorin whispered. ‘Wait here. If I wave, come down.’

Ten minutes later a slim figure approached the building, walking in a loose, slovenly manner. With a glance back over its shoulder, it loped springily down to the sentry.

‘Wotcher, Moscow. Guarding the wall?’

It was Fandorin of course, but for some reason his speech had acquired a distinct Polish accent.

‘Shove off back to where you came from,’ the sentry replied hostilely. ‘Or shall I tickle your belly with a pen?’

‘Why use a pen?’ Fandorin laughed. ‘That’s what an awl’s for. An awl, get it?’

‘Why didn’t you say so before?’ the sentry growled, taking his hand out of his pocket. ‘Husk. So who would you be then, a Polack? One of thatWarsaw mob, are you?’

‘That’s right. I need to see Stump.’

‘He’s not here. And he said as he wouldn’t be back today. Expect him tomorrow, he said, by nightfall.’ The bandit lowered his voice, but in the silence I could still hear what he said, and asked curiously, ‘They say as the narks done for your top man?’

‘That’s right,’ Fandorin sighed. ‘Blizna, and three other guys. So where’s Stump, then? I’ve got some business to talk over with him.’

‘He don’t report to me. You know the way the music plays nowadays, Polack. He’s on the prowl somewhere – ain’t shown his face since early morning. But he’ll be here tomorrow, for sure. And he’s put out the word for all the lads to come to a meet . . . Many of yourWarsaw mob left?’

‘Just three,’ Fandorin said with a wave of his hand. ‘Vatsek One-Eye’s in charge now. How many of yours?’

‘Counting Stump, seven. What’s this bazaar tomorrow, d’you know?’

‘Na-ah, they don’t tell us anything, treat us like mongrels . . . What’s your handle, Moscow?’

‘Code. And who are you?’

‘Striy. Shake?’

They shook hands and Fandorin glanced around and said: ‘Vatsek was spieling about some doktur or other. Did you hear anything?’

‘No, there wasn’t no yak about no doktur. Stump was talking about some big man. I asked him what sort of man it was. But you can’t get nothing out of him. No, he didn’t spiel about no doktur. What doktur’s that?’

‘Devil knows. Vatsek’s got a tight mouth too. So Stump’s not here?’

‘I told you, tomorrow, by nightfall. Come on in and have a banter with us. Only you know, Striy, our den’s not like the others – you won’t get no wine.’

‘How about a bit of hearts are trumps?’

‘Not done around here. For cards Stump’ll smash your neb in with his apple without thinking twice. Heard about the apple, have you?’

‘Who hasn’t heard about it. No, I won’t come in. It’s more fun round at our place. I’ll call round tomorrow. By nightfall, you say?’

And just then there was the sound of a clock striking the hour from the German church, a vague dark outline in the distance. I counted twelve strokes.

¹Symbolic, isn’t it?

²Casket.

³Are you mad, Georgie, or what?

⁴Thank you, sir, thank you. I needed to hear that.