The Death of Achilles

TEN

In which the governor-general takes coffee with a roll

The sergeant major on duty at the door of the Moscow Province Department of TEN Gendarmes (20 Malaya Nikitskaya Street) cast a curious glance, but without any particular surprise in it, at the strange threesome clambering out of the cab — serving duty at a post like that, you saw all sorts of things. The first to climb down, stumbling on the footboard, was a black-bearded Tartar with his hands tied behind his back. Behind him, pushing the prisoner in the back, came some slanty-eyed devil in a tattered beshmet and a white turban, holding a very expensive-looking leather briefcase. And finally a ragged old man leapt down from the coachbox far too easily for someone of his age. On taking a closer look, the sergeant major saw that the old man had a revolver in his hand, and it wasn’t a turban on the slanty-eyed devil’s head after all, but a towel that was stained in places with blood. That was clear enough, then — they were undercover agents back from an operation.

“Is Evgeny Osipovich in?” the old man asked in a young gentleman’s voice, and the gendarme, a seasoned campaigner, asked no questions but simply saluted.

“Yes, sir, he arrived half an hour ago.”

“C-call the duty officer, will you, b-brother,” said the man in disguise, stammering slightly. “Let him book our prisoner. And over there,” he said gloomily, pointing to the carriage, in which they had left a very large bundle, “over there we have a dead man. They can take him to the ice room for the time being. It is Grushin, the retired detective-inspector.”

“Why, Your Honor, I remember Xavier Feofilaktovich very well, we even served together for a few years.” The sergeant major removed his cap and crossed himself.

Erast Petrovich walked quickly through the wide vestibule. Masa could hardly keep up with him, swinging the bulging briefcase with its leather belly packed so tightly with banknotes that it was almost bursting. At such an early hour, the department was rather empty — it was not, in any case, the kind of place that was ever crowded with visitors. From the far end of the corridor, where the plaque on the door read officers’ gymnastics hall, came the sound of shouting and the clash of metal on metal. Fandorin shook his head skeptically: Of course, knowing how to fence was essential for an officer of the gendarmes. But with whom, he wondered. With the bomb-throwers? It was an obsolete skill. They would do better to study jujitsu or even, in a pinch, English boxing. Outside the entrance to the reception room of the chief of police, he said to Masa: “Sit here until you’re called. Guard the briefcase. Does your head hurt?”

“I have a strong head,” the Japanese replied proudly.

“And thank God for that. Remember now, don’t move from this spot.”

Masa puffed out his cheeks in offense, evidently regarding this last instruction as superfluous. Behind the tall double door Fandorin found the reception room, from where, according to the posted signs, one could either go straight on, into the office of the chief of police, or to the right, into the secret section. In fact Evgeny Osipovich Karachentsev had his own chancelry, on Tverskoi Boulevard, but His Excellency preferred the office on Malaya Nikitskaya Street — it was closer to the secret springs of the machinery of state.

“Where are you going?” asked the duty adjutant, rising to meet the ragged tramp.

“Collegiate Assessor Fandorin, deputy for special assignments to the governor- general. On urgent business.”

The adjutant nodded and dashed off to announce him. Thirty seconds later, Karachentsev himself came out into the reception room. At the sight of the poor tramp he froze on the spot.

“Erast Petrovich, is that you? What an incredible transformation! What has happened?”

“A great deal.”

Fandorin went into the office and closed the door behind him. The adjutant glanced curiously after the unusual visitor as he went in. He stood up and looked out into the corridor. There was nobody there, except for some Kirghiz sitting opposite the door. Then the officer tiptoed up to his superior’s door and put his ear against it. He could hear the even intonation of the collegiate assessor’s voice, interrupted every now and then by the general’s deep-voiced exclamations. Unfortunately, those were the only words that he was able to make out.

The exchange sounded like this:

“What briefcase?”

“…”

“But how could you do that?”

“…”

“And what did he say?”

“…”

“To Khitrovka?”

At this point, the door from the corridor opened and the adjutant barely had time to recoil, pretending that he had just been about to knock at the general’s door, and turn around in annoyance at the intrusion. An unfamiliar officer with a briefcase under his arm threw up his open hand reassuringly and pointed to the side door, which led into the secret section, as much as to say, Don’t trouble yourself, I’m going that way. He strode quickly across the spacious room and vanished. The adjutant placed his ear back against the door.

“Appalling!” Karachentsev exclaimed excitedly. Then a moment later he gasped: “Khurtinsky! That’s incredible!”

The adjutant flattened himself out across the door, hoping to make out at least something of the collegiate assessor’s story, but then, as ill luck would have it, a courier came in with an urgent letter that he had to accept and sign for.

Two minutes later the general emerged from his office, flushed and excited. However, to judge from the gleam in the general’s eyes, the news did not appear to be all bad. Karachentsev was followed out by the mysterious functionary.

“First we need to deal with the briefcase, and then we can deal with the treacherous court counselor,” said the chief of police, rubbing his hands together. “Where is this Japanese of yours?”

“Waiting in the corridor.”

The adjutant glanced out from behind the door and saw the general and the functionary stop in front of the ragged Kirghiz, who stood up and bowed ceremonially, with his arms at his sides.

The collegiate assessor asked him anxiously about something in an incomprehensible language.

The oriental bowed again and gave a reassuring answer. The functionary raised his voice, clearly indignant about something.

The narrow-eyed face expressed confusion. The oriental seemed to be trying to justify his actions.

The general turned his head from one of them to the other. He puckered his ginger eyebrows in concern.

Clasping his hands to his forehead, the collegiate assessor turned toward the adjutant.

“Did an officer with a briefcase enter the reception?”

“Yes, sir. He went through into the secret section.”

Acting with extreme rudeness, the functionary pushed aside first the chief of police and then the adjutant, and dashed out the side door of the reception room. The others followed him. Behind the door with the plaque was a narrow corridor with windows looking out onto the yard. One of the windows was slightly open. The collegiate assessor leaned out over the windowsill.

“Boot prints in the ground! He jumped down!” The emotional functionary groaned and smashed his fist against the frame in rage. The blow was so strong that all the glass showered out into the yard with a mournful jangle.

“Erast Petrovich, what has happened?” the general asked in alarm.

“I don’t understand it at all,” said Fandorin, raising his arms in dismay. “Masa says that an officer came up to him in the corridor, gave him my name, handed him an envelope with a seal, took the briefcase, and supposedly brought it to me. And there really was an officer, only he jumped out of this very window with the briefcase. It’s like some terrible nightmare!”

“The envelope — where’s the envelope?” asked Karachentsev.

The functionary roused himself and started jabbering away in some oriental tongue again. The negligent oriental, now betraying signs of exceptional concern, took an official envelope out of his beshmet and handed it to the general. Karachentsev glanced at the seal and the address.

“Hmm.”

To the Moscow Province Department of Gendarmes. From the Department for the Maintenance of Order and Public Security of the Office of the Governor-General of St. Petersburg.

He opened the envelope and began reading:

Secret. To the chief of police of Moscow. On the basis of article 16 of the decree approved by the emperor concerning measures for the maintenance of state security and public order, and by agreement with the governor-general of St. Petersburg, the midwife Maria Ivanovna Ivanova is forbidden to reside in St. Petersburg or Moscow, due to her political unreliability, concerning which matter I have the honor of informing Your Excellency. Captain Shipov, for the Head of Section.

“What nonsense was this?”

The general turned the piece of paper this way and that.

“An ordinary circular letter! What has this to do with the briefcase?”

“Surely it’s s-simple enough,” the collegiate assessor in tramp’s clothes said wearily, so upset that he had even begun to stammer. “Someone cunningly exploited the fact that Masa does not understand Russian and has infinite respect for military uniforms, especially if they include a sword.”

“Ask him what the officer looked like,” the general instructed.

After listening to a few words of the oriental’s incoherent speech, the young functionary merely waved his hand despairingly.

“He says, yellow hair, watery eyes… We all l-look alike to him.”

He turned to the adjutant: “Did you get a good look at this m-man?”

“Afraid not,” the adjutant replied, spreading his hands in apology and coloring slightly. “I didn’t pay close attention. Blond. Above-average height. Standard gendarme uniform. Captain’s shoulder straps.”

“Are you telling me you weren’t taught observation and description?” the functionary inquired angrily. “From this desk to that door is no more than ten paces!”

The adjutant said nothing and blushed an even deeper red.

“A catastrophe, Your Excellency,” the man in disguise stated. “The million rubles have disappeared! But how did it happen? It’s like some kind of black magic. What are we to do now?”

“Nonsense,” said Karachentsev dismissively. “The million rubles is not the point, is it? They’ll find it; it won’t all disappear. There are more important things to be dealt with. We need to pay our dear friend Pyotr Parmyonovich Khurtinsky a little visit. Oh, what a character!” said Karachentsev with a grim smile. “He’ll soon clear up all our questions. Well, well, how interestingly everything has turned out. Yes, indeed, this will mean the end of our old beau Dolgorukoi as well. He warmed the viper at his breast, and very lovingly, too!”

Collegiate Assessor Fandorin started.

“Yes, yes, let’s go to see Khurtinsky. And let’s hope that we’re not too late.”

“We’ll have to go to the prince first,” sighed the chief of police. “We can do nothing without his sanction. Never mind; I shall enjoy watching the old fox squirm. Curtains, Your Excellency, you can’t wriggle out of it this time. Sverchinsky!” The general glanced at the adjutant. “My carriage, and look lively about it. And a droshky with an arrest detail to follow me to the governor- general’s house. In plainclothes. Three will do, I think. We should manage without any gunplay in this instance.” And he gave another carnivorous smile.

The adjutant ran off quickly to carry out the order, and five minutes later a carriage harnessed to a foursome went dashing off at full speed along the cobblestoned road, followed by a droshky swaying gently on its springs, carrying three agents in civilian clothes.

Having watched the brief procession depart from the window, the adjutant picked up the earpiece of the telephone and wound the handle. He gave a number. Glancing at the door, he asked in a low voice: “Mr. Vedishchev, is that you? This is Sverchinsky.”

They had to wait in the reception room for an audience. The governor’s secretary, after apologizing extremely politely to the chief of police, nonetheless declared firmly that His Excellency was very busy, had said that no one was to be admitted, and even ordered that no one was to be announced. Karachentsev glanced at Erast Petrovich with an ironical grin, as if to say, “Let the old man put up one last show of strength.” At last — at least a quarter of an hour must have gone by — there was the sound of a bell ringing behind the monumental gilded door.

“Now, Your Excellency, I shall announce you,” said the secretary, getting up from behind his desk.

When they entered the study, it became clear what significant matters had been occupying Prince Dolgorukoi’s attention — he had been eating breakfast. Breakfast as such was already over, and the impatient visitors were admitted in time for the very last stage of the meal: Vladimir An-dreevich had started on his coffee, sitting there neatly bibbed with a soft linen napkin, and dunking a bun from Filippov’s bakery in his cup. He appeared complacent in the extreme.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” the prince said with a warm smile and swallowed a piece of bun. “Please don’t think badly of me for keeping you waiting. My Frol is so strict, and he says I must not be distracted when I am eating. Can I offer you some coffee? The buns are quite excellent; they simply melt in your mouth.”

At this point the governor looked a little more closely at the general’s companion and began blinking in surprise. On the way to Tverskaya Street, Erast Petrovich had pulled off his gray beard and wig, but there had been no chance to change out of his rags, so his appearance really was quite unusual.

Vladimir Andreevich shook his head disapprovingly and coughed.

“Erast Petrovich, of course I did tell you that you needn’t wear your uniform to visit me, but, my dear fellow, this is really going too far. Have you lost all your money at cards, is that it?” There was an unaccustomed severity in the prince’s voice. “Certainly, I am a man without prejudices, but even so, I would ask you in future not to come here in such a state. It simply won’t do.”

He shook his head reproachfully and began munching on his bun again, but the chief of police and the collegiate assessor had such strange expressions on their faces that Dolgorukoi stopped chewing and asked in bewilderment, “What on earth has happened, gentlemen? Is there a fire somewhere?”

“Worse, Your Excellency. Much worse,” Karachentsev said with voluptuous emphasis and sat down in an armchair without waiting to be invited. Fandorin remained standing. “Your head of the secret chancelry is a thief, a criminal, and the protector of all the criminals in Moscow’s underworld. Collegiate Assessor Fandorin has proof of it. Most embarrassing, Your Excellency, most embarrassing. I really have no idea how we are going to deal with this.” He paused briefly to let the old man grasp what he had said and continued ingratiatingly. “I have had the honor on numerous occasions of reporting to Your Excellency concerning the unseemly behavior of Mr. Khurtinsky, but you paid no attention to me. However, it naturally never even occurred to me that his activities might be criminal to such an appalling degree.”

The governor-general listened to this short but impressive speech with his mouth half-open. Erast Petrovich expected an exclamation, a cry of indignation, questions concerning the proofs, but the prince’s composure was not shaken in the least. While the chief of police maintained an expectant silence, the prince thoughtfully finished chewing his piece of bun and took a sip of coffee. Then he sighed reproachfully.

“It is really most unfortunate, Evgeny Osipovich, that it never occurred to you. You are, after all, the head of the Moscow police, our pillar of law and order. I am no gendarme, and I am encumbered with rather more important matters than you are; I have to bear the entire arduous business of municipal government on my shoulders. And I have long had my suspicions concerning Petrusha Khurtinsky.”

“Indeed?” the chief of police asked sarcastically. “Since when would that be?”

“Oh, for quite a long time,” the prince drawled. “Yes, I lost my liking for Petrusha a long time ago. Just three months ago I wrote to inform your minister, Count Tolstov, that according to information in my possession, Court Counselor Khurtinsky was not merely a bribe-taker, but also a thief and general miscreant.” The prince rustled the papers on his desk. “There was a copy here somewhere, of my letter, that is… ah, there it is.” He picked up a sheet of paper and waved it in the air. “And there was a reply from the count. Where could it be? Aha.” He picked up another sheet, a monogrammed one. “Shall I read it to you? The minister reassured me absolutely that I had no need to feel concerned about Khurtinsky.”

The governor put on his pince-nez.

“Listen to this.”

As to any doubts that Your Excellency may happen to entertain concerning the activities of Court Counselor Khurtinsky, I hasten to assure you that while this functionary may on occasion behave in a way that is hard to explain, this is by no means out of any criminal intent, but only in the execution of a secret state mission of immense importance, which is known both to me and to His Imperial Majesty. Allow me, therefore, to reassure you, my dearest Vladimir Andreevich, and in particular to mention that the mission that Khurtinsky is carrying out is in no wise directed against…

“M-m, well, that has nothing to do with the matter. All in all, gentlemen, as you can see for yourselves — if anyone is at fault here, then it is certainly not Dolgorukoi, but rather your department, Evgeny Osipovich. What grounds could I possibly have for not trusting the Ministry of Internal Affairs?”

The shock was too much for the police chief’s self-control and he stood up abruptly and reached out for the letter, which was rather stupid, since in such a serious matter any subterfuge on the prince’s part was entirely out of the question — it was too easy to verify. Dolgorukoi complacently handed the sheet of paper to the ginger-haired general.

“Yes,” muttered Karachentsev. “That is Dmitry Andreevich’s signature. Not the slightest doubt about it.”

The prince inquired solicitously: “Did your superiors really not consider it necessary to inform you? Tut-tut, that was very bad of them. So it would appear that you do not know what kind of secret mission Khurtinsky was carrying out?”

Karachentsev said nothing, absolutely stunned.

Meanwhile, Fandorin was pondering an intriguing circumstance — — how had it come about that the prince had three-month-old correspondence to hand among his current paperwork? However, what the collegiate assessor said out loud was: “I am also not aware of the nature of Mr. Khurtinsky’s secret activity; however, on this occasion he has clearly overstepped its limits. His connection with bandits in Khitrovka is indubitable and cannot be justified by any interests of state. And most important of all: Khurtinsky is clearly implicated in the death of General Sobolev.”

Then Fandorin summarized, point by point, the story of the stolen million rubles. The governor listened very attentively. At the end he said decisively: “A scoundrel, a palpable scoundrel. He must be arrested and questioned.”

“That is why we c-came to you, Vladimir Andreevich.”

Speaking in a completely different tone now — bright and respectful — the chief of police inquired: “Will you permit me to do that, Your Excellency?”

“Of course, my dear fellow,” said Dolgorukoi with a nod. “Let that villain answer for everything.”

They walked quickly down the long corridors, the officers in plainclothes clattering along in step behind them. Erast Petrovich did not utter a word and tried not to look at Karachentsev — he understood how excruciatingly he was suffering after this debacle. And it was even more unpleasant and alarming that apparently there were certain secret matters that the top brass preferred not to entrust to Moscow’s chief of police, but to his eternal rival, the head of the secret section of the governor’s chancelry.

They went up to the second floor, where the offices were located. Erast Petrovich asked the attendant on duty at the door if Mr. Khurtinsky was in. It turned out that he had been in his office since early that morning.

Karachentsev took heart and doubled his pace, hurtling along the corridor like a cannonball, spurs jingling and aiguillettes clattering.

The reception room of the head of the secret section was overflowing with visitors.

“Is he in?” the general asked the secretary abruptly.

“Yes, he is, Your Excellency, but he asked not to be disturbed. Shall I announce you?”

The chief of police brushed him aside. He glanced at Fandorin, smiled into his thick mustache, and opened the door.

At first sight, Erast Petrovich thought that Pyotr Parmyonovich Khurtinsky was standing on the windowsill and looking out the window. But a moment later he saw quite clearly that he was not standing, but hanging.