The Death of Achilles

TWELVE

In which a trap is sprung

The first thing that Fandorin saw on opening his eyes was the rectangle of the window, filled with the pink glow of sunset.

Masa was sitting on the floor by the bed, wearing his black formal kimono, with his hands resting ceremonially on his knees and a fresh bandage on his head. His face was set in an austere expression.

“Why are you all dressed up like that?” Erast Petrovich asked curiously.

“You said, master, that you are disgraced and that you have no more ideas.”

“Well, what of it?”

“I have a good idea. I have thought everything over and can propose a worthy way out of the distressing situation in which we both find ourselves. To my numerous misdeeds I have added yet another — I have broken the European rule of etiquette that forbids allowing a woman into the bathroom. That I do not understand this strange custom is no justification. I have memorized twenty-six whole pages from the dictionary — from the short word ab-ster-use, which means ‘difficult to conceive of or apprehend’ to the long word aff-fran-chis-e- ment, which means ‘release from servitude or an obligation,’ but even this severe trial has not lifted the weight from my heart. And as for you, master, you yourself told me that your life was over. Then let us leave this life together, master. I have prepared everything — even the brush and the ink for the death poem.”

Fandorin stretched, savoring the languorous aching in his joints.

“Forget that, Masa,” he said. “I have a better idea. What is it that smells so delicious?”

“I bought fresh bagels, the finest thing there is in Russia after a woman,” his servant replied sadly. “The sour cabbage soup that everyone here eats is absolutely terrible, but bagels are an excellent invention. I wish to offer my hara solace one last time, before I slice it in half with my dagger.”

“I’ll slice you in half,” the collegiate assessor threatened him. “Give me one of those bagels; I’m dying of hunger. Let’s have a bite and get down to work.”

“Mr. Klonov from number nineteen?” echoed the koelner (that was what the senior floor staff in the Metropole were called, after the German fashion). “Why, of course, we remember him very well. Such a gentleman, a merchant he was. Would you happen to be a friend of his then, sir?”

That evening’s idyllic sunset had beaten a rapid retreat, ousted by a cold wind and rapidly gathering gloom. The sky had turned bleak and loosed a fine scattering of raindrops that threatened to develop into a serious downpour by nighttime. In view of the weather, Fandorin had dressed to withstand the elements: a cap with an oilcloth peak, a waterproof Swedish jacket of fine kidskin, rubber galoshes. His appearance was extravagantly foreign, which obviously must have been the reason for the koelner’s unexpected comment. Might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb, the collegiate assessor decided — after all, he was a fugitive arrestee. He leaned across the counter and whispered: “I don’t know him at all, dear fellow. I am C-Captain Pevtsov of the Gendarmes Corps, and this is an extremely important matter, top secret.”

“I understand,” the koelner replied, also in a whisper. “One moment and I’ll find everything for you.”

He began rustling through the register.

“Here it is, sir. Merchant of the first guild Nikolai Nikolaevich Klonov. Checked in on the morning of the twenty-second, arrived from Ryazan. The gentleman checked out on Thursday night.”

“What!” cried Fandorin. “Actually during the night of the twenty-fourth to the twenty-fifth?”

“Yes, sir. I was not present myself, but here is the entry — please look for yourself. The account was settled in full at half past four in the morning, during the night shift, sir.”

Erast Petrovich’s heart thrilled to that overwhelming passion known only to the inveterate hunter. He inquired with feigned casualness: “And what does he look like, this Klonov?”

“A well set-up sort of gentleman, respectable. In a word — a merchant of the first guild.”

“You mean a long beard, a big belly? Describe his appearance. Does he have any distinctive features?”

“No, no beard sir, and he’s not a fat man. Not your average old-style merchant, more one of your modern businessmen. Dresses European-style. And his appearance…” The koelner pondered for a moment. “An ordinary appearance. Blond hair. No distinctive features… Except for his eyes. They were very pale, the kind that Finns sometimes have.”

Fandorin slapped his hand down on the counter like a predator pouncing. Bull’s- eye! Here was the central character of the plot. Checked in on Tuesday, two days before Sobolev’s arrival, and checked out at the very hour when the officers were carrying the dead general into the plundered suite 47. He was getting warm now, very warm!

“You say he was a respectable-looking man? I suppose people came to see him, business partners?”

“Not a one, sir. Only messengers with telegrams a couple of times. It was plain to see the man didn’t come to Moscow on business, more likely to enjoy himself.”

“What made it so plain?”

The koelner smiled conspiratorially and spoke into Fandorin’s ear.

“The moment the gentleman arrived, he started inquiring about the ladies. Wanted to know what little lovelies Moscow had with a bit of extra style. She had to be blond and slim, with a narrow waist. He was a gentleman of great refinement.”

Erast Petrovich frowned. This was a strange turn of events. ‘Captain Pevtsov’ ought not to be interested in blondes.

“Did he speak about this with you?”

“Not at all, sir. Timofei Spiridonovich told me about it. He used to work as koelner in this very spot.” He sighed with affected sorrow. “Timofei Spiridonovich passed on last Saturday, Lord bless his soul. The mass is tomorrow.”

“And how did he pass on?” asked Fandorin, leaning forward. “In what way?”

“In a very ordinary way. He was on his way home in the evening and he slipped and banged the back of his head against a stone. Not far from here, walking through one of the courtyards. Gone, just like that. But we’re all of us in God’s hands.” The koelner crossed himself. “I used to be his assistant. But now I’ve been promoted. Eh, poor old Timofei Spiridonovich.”

“So Klonov spoke with him about the ladies?” asked the collegiate assessor, with the acute intuition that the veil was about to fall away from his eyes at any moment, revealing the full picture of what had happened in its clear and logical completeness. “And did Timofei Spiridonovich not tell you any more details?”

“Why, of course; the deceased was a great man for talking. He said he’d described all the high-class blondes in Moscow for number nineteen — that’s the way we refer to the guests between ourselves, sir, by their numbers — and number nineteen was interested most of all in Mam’selle Wanda from the Alpine Rose.”

Erast Petrovich closed his eyes for an instant. The thread had led him along a tangled path, but now its end was in sight.

“YOU?”

Wanda stood in her doorway, wrapping herself in a lace shawl and gazing in fright at the collegiate assessor, whose wet kidskin jacket reflected the light of the lamp and seemed to be enveloped in a glowing halo. Behind the late-night caller’s back the rain hissed down in a shifting wall of glass, and beyond that the darkness was impenetrable. Rivulets of water ran off the jacket onto the floor.

“Come in, Mr. Fandorin, you’re soaked through.”

“It is most amazing,” said Erast Petrovich, “that you, mademoiselle, are still alive.”

“Thanks to you,” said the songstress, with a shrug of her slim shoulders. “I can still see that knife creeping closer and closer to my throat… I can’t sleep at night. And I can’t sing.”

“I wasn’t thinking of Herr Knabe at all, but of Klonov,” said Fandorin, staring keenly into those huge green eyes. “Tell me about this interesting gentleman.”

Wanda was either genuinely surprised or playacting.

“Klonov? Nikolai Klonov? What has he got to do with this?”

“That is what we are going to try to discover.”

They went into the drawing room and sat down. The only light came from a table lamp covered with a green shawl, which gave the whole room the appearance of some mysterious underwater world. The kingdom of the enchantress of the sea, thought Erast Petrovich, and then immediately banished all inappropriate thoughts from his mind.

“Tell me about Merchant of the First Guild Klonov.”

Wanda took his wet jacket and put it on the floor, without appearing at all concerned about damaging the deep Persian carpet.

“He is very attractive,” she said in a dreamy tone of voice, and Erast Petrovich felt something akin to a prick of envy, to which, of course, he had no right whatsoever. “Calm, confident. A good man, one of the best kind of men, the kind that you rarely meet. At least I almost never come across them. Like you, in some ways.” She smiled gently and Fandorin felt strangely perturbed — she was bewitching. “But I don’t understand why you are so interested in him.”

“This man is not who he says he is. He is not a merchant at all.”

Wanda half-turned away and her gaze went blank.

“That doesn’t surprise me. But I have grown used to the fact that everyone has his own secrets. I try not to interfere in other people’s business.”

“You are a very perceptive woman, mademoiselle, otherwise you would hardly be so successful in your… profession,” Erast Petrovich was embarrassed, realizing he hadn’t chosen the happiest way to express himself. “Are you quite sure that you never sensed any danger emanating from this m-man?”

The songstress swung around to face him.

“Yes, yes, I did. Sometimes. But how do you know?”

“I have substantial grounds for believing that Klonov is an extremely dangerous man,” said Fandorin, and then continued without the slightest transition. “Tell me, was it he who brought you and Sobolev together?”

“No, not at all,” Wanda replied just as quickly. Perhaps a little too quickly.

She also seemed to sense this and felt it necessary to elaborate on her answer.

“At least, he is in no way involved in the general’s death, I swear to you! Everything happened just as I told you.”

Now she was telling the truth — or believed that she was telling the truth. All the signs — the modulation of the voice, the gestures, the movements of the facial muscles — were precisely as they should be. But then, perhaps the world had lost an exceptional actress in Miss Tolle?

Erast Petrovich changed tactics. The masters of detective psychology teach us that if one suspects a person under interrogation of not being entirely frank, but merely pretending to be so, he or she should be peppered with a hail of rapid, unexpected questions that require an unambiguous answer.

“Did Klonov know about Knabe?”

“Yes, but what—”

“Did he mention the briefcase?”

“What briefcase?”

“Did he mention Khurtinsky?”

“Who’s that?”

“Does he carry a weapon?”

“I think so. But surely that is not illeg—”

“Are you going to meet him again?”

“Yes. That is…”

Wanda turned pale and bit her lip. Erast Petrovich realized that from now on she would lie to him, and before she could start he began speaking quite differently, in an extremely serious voice, sincerely and from the heart.

“You have to tell me where he is. If I am mistaken and he is not the man I take him for, it is best for him to clear himself of suspicion now. If I am not mistaken, he is a terrible man, not at all what you imagine him to be. And as far as I can follow his logic, he will not leave you alive; it would be against his rules. I am astounded you are not lying on a slab in the mortuary at Tverskaya Street police station by now. Well, then, how can I find him, your Mr. Klonov?”

She didn’t answer.

“Tell me,” said Fandorin, taking her by the hand. The hand was cold, but the pulse was pattering rapidly. “I have saved you once already and I intend to do so again. I swear to you, if he is not a murderer, I shall not touch him.”

Wanda gazed at the young man through dilated pupils. There was a struggle taking place inside the young woman, and Fandorin didn’t know how to tilt the scales in his favor. While he was feverishly trying to think of something, Wanda’s gaze hardened — the scales had been tipped by some thought that remained unknown to Erast Petrovich.

“I don’t know where he is,” the songstress stated definitively.

Fandorin slowly stood up and left without saying another word. What was the point?

The important thing was that she was going to see Klonov-Pevtsov again. In order to locate his target, all that was needed was to arrange for her to be shadowed competently. The collegiate assessor stopped dead in the middle of Petrovka Street, paying no attention to the rain — in any case, the downpour was no longer as torrential as before.

How could he arrange any damned thing at all? He was under arrest and supposed to be sitting quietly in his hotel. He would have no assistants, and on his own it was impossible to carry out proper surveillance — that would require at least five or six experienced agents.

To force his thoughts out of their well-worn rut, Fandorin clapped his hands rapidly and loudly eight times. Passersby hidden under their umbrellas shied away from this madman, but a smile of satisfaction appeared on the collegiate assessor’s lips. An original idea had occurred to him.

On entering the spacious lobby of the Dusseaux, Erast Petrovich immediately turned to the desk.

“My dear man,” he addressed the porter in a haughty voice, “connect me to the suites in the Anglia on Petrovka Street, and step aside, will you — this is a confidential conversation.”

The porter, who was by now well used to the mysterious behavior of the important functionary from number 20, bowed, ran his finger down the list of telephone subscribers hanging on the wall, found the one required, and lifted the earpiece of the telephone.

“The Anglia, Mr. Fandorin,” he said, handing the earpiece to the collegiate assessor.

Someone hissed: “Who is calling?”

Erast Petrovich looked expectantly at the porter, and he tactfully moved away into the farthest corner of the vestibule.

Only then did Fandorin set his lips close to the mouthpiece and say: “Be so good as to ask Miss Wanda to come to the telephone. Tell her Mr. Klonov wishes to speak with her urgently. Yes, yes, Klonov!”

The young man’s heart was pounding rapidly. The idea that had occurred to him was new and daringly simple. For all its convenience, communication by telephone, which was rapidly gaining in popularity among the inhabitants of Moscow, was technically far from perfect. It was almost always possible to make out the sense of what was said, but the membrane did not convey the timber and nuances of the voice. In the best case — which was not every time — one could hear if it was a man’s voice or a woman’s, but no more than that. The newspapers wrote that the great inventor Mr. Bell was developing a new model that would transmit sound much more precisely. However, as the wise Chinese saying has it, even imperfections have their charm. Erast Petrovich had not actually heard of anyone pretending to be someone else in a telephone conversation. But why should he not try it?

The voice in the earpiece was squeaky, interrupted by crackling, not at all like Wanda’s contralto.

“Kolya, is that you? How delighted I am that you decided to telephone me!”

Kolya? Delighted? Hmm!

Wanda shouted through the telephone, running the syllables together.

“Kolya, you’re in some kind of danger. A man has just been here looking for you.”

“Who?” asked Fandorin and froze in expectation — now she would give him away.

But Wanda answered as if it were not that important.

“Some detective. He is very shrewd and clever. Kolya, he says terrible things about you!”

“Rubbish,” Erast Petrovich responded curtly, thinking that this femme fatale seemed to be head over heels in love with her gendarme captain of the first guild.

“Really? Oh, I just knew it! But even so I was terribly upset! Kolya, why are you telephoning? Has something changed?”

He said nothing, feverishly trying to think of what to say.

“Are we not going to meet tomorrow-morrow?” An echo had appeared on the line, and Fandorin plugged his other ear with his finger, because it had become difficult to follow Wanda’s rapid speech. “But you promised you wouldn’t go away without saying good-bye-ood-bye! Kolya, why don’t you say something? Is the meeting canceled?”

“No.” Taking his courage in his hands, he chanced a rather longer phrase. “I only wanted to check that you remembered everything correctly.”

“What? Check what?”

Evidently Wanda couldn’t hear very well, either, but that was actually rather helpful.

“Whether you remember everything!” Fandorin shouted.

“Yes, yes, of course! The Trinity Inn at six, number seven, from the yard, knock twice, then three times, then twice again. Maybe instead of six we could make it a bit later? I haven’t got up that early in a hundred years.”

“All right,” said the emboldened collegiate assessor, mentally repeating: six, number seven, from the yard, two-three-two. “At seven. But no later. I’ve got business to deal with.”

“All right, at seven,” shouted Wanda. The echo and the crackling had suddenly disappeared and her voice came through so clearly that it was almost recognizable. It sounded so happy that Fandorin suddenly felt ashamed.

“I’m hanging up,” he said.

“Where are you telephoning from? Where are you?”

Erast Petrovich thrust the earpiece into its cradle and twirled the handle. Deception by telephone was quite exceptionally simple. He must remember that in the future, in order not to be caught out himself. Perhaps he ought to invent a separate password for every person he spoke to? Well, not for everyone, of course, but for police agents, say, or simply for confidential occasions.

But he had no time to think about that now.

He could forget about his house arrest. Now he had something to offer his superiors. At six o’clock the next morning the elusive, almost incorporeal Klonov-Pevtsov would be at a place called the Trinity Inn. God only knew where it was, but in any case Fandorin wouldn’t be able to manage without Karachentsev. This was an arrest that required thorough planning, everything done by the book. Their cunning opponent must not be allowed to get away.

The house of the chief of police on Tverskoi Boulevard was one of the most elegant sights of Russia’s ancient capital. With a facade overlooking the respectable boulevard where in fine weather the very finest of Moscow society performed its elegant perambulations, the two-story house painted municipal yellow seemed to be watching over and, in a certain sense, blessing the decent, honest folk in their refined and tranquil recreation. Stroll on, my cultured ladies and gentlemen, along this narrow European promenade, breathe in the aroma of lime-tree blossoms, and do not concern yourselves with the snuffling and snorting of this immense semi-Asiatic city, populated for the most part by people who possess neither education nor culture — authority is close at hand, here it stands, on guard over civilization and order; authority never sleeps.

Erast Petrovich was granted an opportunity to ascertain the veracity of this claim when he rang at the door of the famous mansion shortly before midnight. The door was opened not by a footman but by a gendarme with a sword and a revolver, who listened austerely to what the nocturnal visitor had to say, but uttered not a single word in reply and left him standing there on the doorstep — after summoning the duty adjutant with an electric bell. Fortunately, the adjutant proved to be a familiar face — Captain Sverchinsky. He had no difficulty in recognizing the foreign-looking gentleman as the ragged beggar who had caused such a commotion in the department that morning, and was instantly politeness itself. It emerged that Karachentsev was taking his usual stroll along the boulevard before retiring for the night; he was fond of his bedtime walk and never missed it in any weather, not even if it was raining.

Erast Petrovich went out onto the boulevard and walked in the direction of the bronze statue of Pushkin, and there, strolling toward him at a leisurely pace, he did indeed see a familiar figure in a long cavalry greatcoat with the hood pulled forward over his forehead. The instant the collegiate assessor began to dash toward the general, two silent shadows appeared out of nowhere at his sides, as if they had sprung up out of the ground, and two equally determined silhouettes appeared behind the police chief’s back. Erast Petrovich shook his head: So much for the illusory solitude of a high state official in the age of political terrorism. Not a single step without guards. Good God, what was Russia coming to?

The shadows had already taken Collegiate Assessor Fandorin by the arms — gently but firmly.

“Erast Petrovich, I was just thinking about you!” Karachentsev declared happily and then shouted at the agents: “Shoo, shoo! Would you believe it, out stretching my legs and thinking about you. Couldn’t sit still under house arrest, eh?”

“I’m afraid n-not, Your Excellency. Let us go inside, Evgeny Osipovich, there is no time to waste.”

Asking no questions, the chief of police immediately turned toward the house. He walked with broad strides, every now and then glancing sideways at his companion.

They went through into a spacious oval office, and sat down facing each other at a long table covered with green baize. Karachentsev shouted: “Sverchinsky, stand outside the door! I might be needing you!”

When the leather-bound door silently closed, Karachentsev asked impatiently: “Well, what is it? Have you picked up the trail?”

“Better,” Fandorin informed him. “I have found the criminal. In person. M-may I smoke?”

The collegiate assessor puffed on a cigar as he related the results of his investigations.

Karachentsev’s frown grew deeper and deeper. Having heard the story out, he scratched his high forehead anxiously and tossed back a stray lock of ginger hair.

“And what do you make of this enigma?”

Erast Petrovich shook a long tip of ash off his cigar.

“Sobolev was planning some bold political initiative. Possibly an eighteenth- century-style coup. What the Germans call a putsch. You know yourself how popular Mikhail Dmitrievich was with the army and the people. Respect for our supreme authority has never been so low… But I don’t need to tell you that; you have the entire Department of Gendarmes working for you, gathering rumors.”

The chief of police nodded.

“I know nothing of any conspiracy as such,” said Fandorin. “Either Sobolev saw himself in the role of Napoleon or — which is more likely — he intended to place one of the emperor’s relatives on the throne. I do not know, and I do not wish to guess. In any case, for our purposes, it is not important.”

At that Karachentsev merely jerked his head and unbuttoned his gold- embroidered collar. Beads of sweat stood out above the bridge of the police chief’s nose.

“In any case, our Achilles was planning something really serious,” the collegiate assessor continued, as if he had noticed nothing, and blew an elegant stream of smoke, a sheer delight to behold, up toward the ceiling. “However, Sobolev had certain secret, powerful opponents who were informed about his plans. Klonov, alias Pevtsov, is their man. The anti-Sobolev party decided to use him to get rid of the self-appointed Bonaparte, but quietly, with no fuss, imitating a natural death. And it was done. The executioner was assisted by our f-friend Khurtinsky, who had links with the anti-Sobolev party; indeed all the signs indicate that he represented their interests in Moscow.”

“Not so fast, Erast Petrovich,” the chief of police implored him. “My head is spinning. What party? Where? Right here, in the Ministry of Internal Affairs?”

Fandorin shrugged.

“Very possibly. In any case, your boss Count Tolstov has to be involved. Remember the letter in justification of Khurtinsky, and the telegram shielding Pevtsov. Khurtinsky made a real mess of the job. The court counselor was too greedy — he was tempted by Sobolev’s million rubles and decided that he could combine business with pleasure. But the central figure in this entire story is undoubtedly the blond man with the pale eyes.”

At this point Erast Petrovich started, struck by a new idea.

“Wait now… Perhaps everything is even more complicated than that! Why, of course!”

Fandorin leapt to his feet and began walking rapidly from one corner of the study to the other — Karachentsev merely watched him striding to and fro, afraid to interrupt the flow of the sagacious functionary’s thoughts.

“The minister of the interior couldn’t have organized the murder of Adjutant General Sobolev, no matter what he was planning. That’s sheer nonsense!” Erast Petrovich was so excited that he had even stopped stammering. “Our Klonov is very probably not the Captain Pevtsov about whom Count Tolstov writes. Probably there is no genuine Pevtsov. This business smacks of a cunning intrigue, planned in such a way that if things were to go wrong, all the blame could be shifted onto your department!” the collegiate assessor fantasized wildly. “Yes, that’s it, that’s it.”

He clapped his hands rapidly several times and the general, who was listening intently, almost leapt into the air.

“Let us assume that the minister knows about Sobolev’s conspiracy and arranges to have the general followed in secret. That is one. Someone else also knows about the conspiracy and wants Sobolev killed. That is two. Unlike the minister, this other person, or more probably, these other people, whom we shall call the counterconspirators, are not bound by the law and are pursuing their own goals.”

“What goals?” the chief of police asked in a weak voice, totally confused.

“Probably power,” Fandorin replied casually. “What other goals can there be when intrigue unfolds at such a high level? The counter-conspirators had at their disposal an exceptionally inventive and enterprising agent, who is known to us as Klonov. There is no doubt that he is certainly no merchant. He is an exceptional man with quite incredible abilities. Invisible, elusive, invulnerable. Omnipresent — he has always appeared everywhere ahead of the two of us and struck the first blow. Even though we ourselves acted rapidly, he has always left us looking like fools.”

“But what if he really is an officer of the gendarmes acting with the sanction of the minister?” asked Karachentsev. “What if the elimination of Sobolev was sanctioned from the very top? I beg your pardon, Erast Petrovich, but you and I are professionals, and we know perfectly well that the protection of state secrets sometimes involves resorting to unorthodox methods.”

“But then why was it necessary to steal the briefcase, especially from the Department of Gendarmes?” Fandorin asked with a shrug. “The briefcase was already in the Department of Gendarmes, and you would have forwarded it to St. Petersburg by the appropriate channels, to Count Tolstov himself. No, the ministry has nothing to do with this business. And then killing a national hero — that’s not quite as simple as strangling some General Pichegru in his prison cell. How could they raise their hand against Mikhail Dmitrievich Sobolev? Without benefit of trial and due process? No, Evgeny Osipovich, even with all the imperfections of our state authorities, that would be going too far. I can’t believe it.”

“Yes, you’re right,” Karachentsev admitted.

“And then the facility with which Klonov commits his murders does not look much like state service.”

The chief of police raised his hand.

“Hang on now, don’t get carried away. What murders exactly? We still don’t know whether Sobolev was killed or died of natural causes. The conclusion of the autopsy was that he died.”

“No, he was killed,” retorted Erast Petrovich. “Although it is not clear how the traces of the crime were concealed. If we had known at the time what we know now, we might possibly have instructed Professor Welling to conduct a more exhaustive investigation. He was, after all, convinced beforehand that death had occurred due to natural causes, and initial assumptions always determine a great deal. And then…” The collegiate assessor halted, facing the general. “It didn’t stop with Sobolev’s death. Klonov has blocked off every possible trail. I’m sure that Knabe’s mysterious death is his work. Judge for yourself — why would the Germans kill an officer of their own general staff, even if they were seriously alarmed? That’s not the way things are done in civilized countries. If worst came to worst, they would have forced him to shoot himself. But stab him in the side with a butcher’s knife? Incredible! For Klonov, however, the death would have been most timely — you and I were quite convinced that the case had been solved. If the briefcase with the million rubles had not turned up, we should have closed the investigation. The sudden death of the koelner from the hotel Metropole is also extremely suspicious. Clearly, the only mistake that the unfortunate Timofei Spiridonovich made was to help Klonov locate the agent he needed, Wanda. Ah, Evgeny Osipovich, everything looks suspicious to me now!” exclaimed Fandorin. “Even the way Little Misha died. Even Khurtinsky’s suicide!”

“That’s taking things too far,” said the police chief, pulling a wry face. “What about the suicide note?”

“Can you put your hand on your heart and tell me that Pyotr Par-tnyonovich would have laid hands on himself if he were threatened with exposure? Was he such a great man of honor then?”

“Yes indeed, it is hardly likely.” Now it was Karachentsev who leapt to his feet and began striding along the wall. “He would be more likely to try to escape. Judging from the documents that we discovered in his safe, the dead man had an account in a bank in Zurich. And if he didn’t manage to escape, he would have begged for mercy and tried to bribe the judges. I know his kind — very concerned for their own skin. And Khurtinsky would most likely have got hard labor rather than the gallows. But even so, the note is written in his hand, there is no doubt about that.”

“What frightens me most of all is that in every case either no suspicion of murder arises at all or, as in the case of Knabe or Little Misha, it is laid very firmly at someone else’s door — in the first case, German agents, and in the second, Fiska. That is a sign of supreme professionalism,” said Erast Petrovich, hooding his eyes. “There is just one thing I can’t make any sense of — why he would have left Wanda alive… By the way, Evgeny Osipovich, we need to send a detail for her immediately and get her out of the Anglia. What if the real Klonov should telephone her? Or even worse, decide to correct his incomprehensible oversight?”

“Sverchinsky!” the general shouted and left the reception room to issue instructions.

When he returned, the collegiate assessor was standing in front of a map of the city that was hanging on the wall and running his finger across it.

“This Trinity Inn — where is it?” he asked.

“The Trinity Inn is a block of apartments on Pokrovka Street, not far from Holy Trinity Church. Here it is,” said the general, pointing. “Khokhlovsky Lane. At one time there actually was a monastery inn there, but now it’s a labyrinth of annexes and extensions, semi-slums. The apartments are usually just called the Trinity. Not a salubrious area, only a stone’s throw from the Khitrovka slums. But the people who live in the Trinity are not entirely lost souls — actresses, milliners, ruined businessmen. Tenants don’t stay there for long: They either scramble their way back up into society or fall even lower, into the Khitrovka abyss.”

As he gave this lengthy answer to a simple question, Karachentsev was thinking about something else, and it was clear that he was having difficulty reaching a decision. When the chief of police finished speaking, there was a pause. Erast Petrovich realized that the conversation was entering its most crucial phase.

“Naturally, this is an extremely risky step to take, Evgeny Osipovich,” the collegiate assessor said quietly. “If my suppositions are mistaken, you could ruin your career, and you are an ambitious man. But I have come to you, and not to Prince Dolgorukoi, because he would definitely not wish to take the risk. He is too cautious — that is the effect of his age. On the other hand, his position is also less delicate than yours. In any case, the ministry has plotted and intrigued behind your back and — pardon my bluntness — assigned you the role of a dummy hand in the game. Count Tolstov did not think it possible to initiate you, the head of the Moscow police, into the details of the Sobolev case, and yet he trusted Khurtinsky, a dishonorable individual and a criminal to boot. Someone more cunning than the minister has conducted a successful operation of his own here. You were not involved in all these events, but in the final analysis responsibility will be laid at your door. I am afraid that it will be you who foots the bill for damaged goods. And the most annoying thing of all is that you will still not find out who it was that damaged them and why. In order to understand the true meaning of this intrigue, you have to catch Klonov. Then you will be holding an ace.”

“And if he is a state agent, after all, then I shall find myself rapidly shunted into retirement. In the best case, that is,” Karachentsev objected gloomily.

“Evgeny Osipovich, it is hardly likely in any case that you will be able to hush the matter up, and it would be a sin — not even so much because of Sobolev as because of one terrible question: What mysterious p-power is toying with the fate of Russia? By what right? And what ideas will this power come up with tomorrow?”

“Are you hinting at the Masons?” the general asked in amazement. “Count Tolstov is a member of a lodge, certainly, and so is Vyacheslav Konstantinovich Plevako, the director of the Department of Police. Half the movers and shakers in St. Petersburg are Masons. But they have no use for political murder; they can twist anyone they like into a ram’s horn by using the law.”

“I don’t mean the Masons,” said Fandorin, wrinkling his smooth forehead in annoyance. “Everybody knows about them. What we have here is an absolutely genuine conspiracy, not the operetta kind. And if we are successful, Your Excellency, you could discover the key to an Aladdin’s cave that would take your breath away.”

Evgeny Osipovich shuffled his ginger eyebrows in agitation. It was an enticing prospect, very enticing. And he could show that Judas, Vyacheslav Konstantinovich (his so-called comrade), and even Count Tolstov a thing or two. Don’t trifle with Karachentsev; don’t go trying to make a fool out of him. You’ve overplayed your hand, gentlemen, now look what a mess you’re in! Secret surveillance of a conspirator is all well and good — in a case like this, discretion was required. But to allow a national hero to be killed under the very noses of your agents — that is scandalous. You St. Petersburg know-it-alls have botched the job! And now you’re probably quaking in your armchairs, tearing your hair out. And here comes Evgeny Osipovich offering you the cunning rogue on a plate: Here’s your villain, take him! Hmm, or perhaps he should be offered up on a plate to someone a little higher? Oh, this was truly momentous business!

In his mind’s eye, the chief of police pictured prospects of such transcendental glory that they took his breath away. But at the same time he had a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. He was afraid.

“Very well,” Karachentsev said tentatively. “Let us say we have arrested Klonov. But he just clams up and won’t say a word. Belying on his patrons to protect him. Then what are we going to do?”

“A perfectly reasonable way to state the matter,” said the collegiate assessor with a nod, betraying no sign of his delight that the conversation had moved on from the theoretical stage to the practical. “I have been thinking about that, too. To take Klonov will be very difficult, and to make him talk will be a hundred times harder. Therefore I have a proposal.”

Evgeny Osipovich pricked up his ears at that, knowing from experience that this bright young man would not propose anything stupid and would take on the most difficult tasks himself.

“Your people will blockade the Trinity from all sides so that the cockroach cannot slip out,” said Fandorin, prodding passionately at the map.

“A cordon here, and one here, and here. Close off all the open courtyards throughout the entire district — fortunately it will be early in the morning and most people will still be asleep. Around the Trinity itself just a few of your best agents, three or four men, no more. They must act with extreme caution, and be well disguised in order not to frighten him off, God forbid. Their job is to wait for my signal. I shall go into Klonov’s room alone and play a game of confessions with him. He will not kill me straight away, because he will want to discover how much I know, where I came from, and what my interest is in all this. He and I will perform an elegant pas de deux: I shall part the curtain slightly for him, he will tell me a few frank truths; then I shall have another turn, and then so will he, quite certain that he can eliminate me at any moment. This way Klonov will be more talkative than if we arrest him. And I do not see any other way.”

“But think of the risk,” said Karachentsev. “If you’re right and he is such a virtuoso in the art of murder, then, God forbid…”

Erast Petrovich shrugged his shoulders flippantly.

“As Confucius said, the noble man must bear responsibility for his own errors.”

“Well, then, God be with you. This is serious business. They’ll either give you a medal or take your head off.” The police chief’s voice trembled with feeling. He shook Fandorin’s hand firmly. “Go to your hotel, Erast Petrovich, and catch up on your sleep as well as you can. Don’t be concerned about anything, I shall organize the operation in person and make sure everything is done absolutely right. When you go to the Trinity in the morning, you will see for yourself how good my lads’ disguises are.”

“You are just like Vasilisa the Wise in the fairy tale, Your Excellency,” the collegiate assessor laughed, displaying his white teeth: “ “Sleep, Ivanushka, morning is wiser than evening.” Well, I really am a little tired, and tomorrow is an important day. I shall be at the Trinity at precisely six o’clock. The signal at which your men should come to my assistance is a whistle. Until there is a whistle they must not interfere, no matter what. And if something happens — do not let him get away. That is a p-personal request, Evgeny Osipovich.”

“Don’t worry,” the general said seriously, still holding the young man by the hand. “The whole thing will come off like clockwork. I’ll detail my most valued agents, and more than enough of them. But take care and don’t go doing anything rash, you daredevil.”

Erast Petrovich had long ago trained himself to wake at the time that he had determined the day before. At precisely five o’clock he opened his eyes and smiled, because the very edge of the sun was just appearing over the windowsill and it looked as if someone bald and round-headed were peeping in at the window.

As he shaved, Fandorin whistled an aria from The Love Potion and even took a certain pleasure in admiring his own remarkably handsome face in the mirror. A samurai is not supposed to take breakfast before battle, and so instead of his morning coffee the collegiate assessor worked with his weights for a while and prepared his equipment thoroughly and unhurriedly. He armed himself to the very fullest extent of his arsenal, for he was facing a serious opponent.

Masa helped his master equip himself, demonstrating an increasingly obvious concern. Eventually he could hold back no longer.

“Master, your face is the one you have when death is very near.”

“But you know that a genuine samurai must wake every day fully prepared to die,” Erast Petrovich joked as he put on his jacket of light-colored wild silk.

“In Japan you always took me with you,” his servant complained. “I know that I have already failed you twice, but it will not happen again. I swear — if it does may I be born a jellyfish in the next life! Take me with you, master. I beg you.”

Fandorin gave him an affectionate flick on his little nose.

“This time there will be nothing you can do to help me. I must be alone. But in any case, I am not really alone; I have an entire army of policemen with me. It is my enemy who is all alone.”

“Is he dangerous?”

“Very. The same one who tricked you into giving him the briefcase.”

Masa snorted, knitted his sparse eyebrows, and said no more.

Erast Petrovich decided to make his way on foot. Ah, how lovely Moscow was after the rain! The freshness of the air, the pink haze of daybreak, the quietness. If he had to die, then let it be on just such a heavenly morning, the collegiate assessor thought, and immediately rebuked himself for his predisposition to melodrama. Walking at a comfortable stroll and whistling as he went, he came out onto Lubyanskaya Square, where the cabbies were watering their horses at the fountain. He turned onto Solyanka Street and blissfully inhaled the aroma of fresh bread wafting from the open windows of a bakery in a semi-basement.

And now here was his corner. The houses here were a bit poorer, the pavement a bit narrower, and on the final approach to the Trinity, the landscape shed its final remaining elements of picturesqueness: There were puddles in the roadway, rickety, lopsided fences, flaking painted walls. Erast Petrovich was very pleased that for all his keen powers of observation, he had been unable to spot the police cordon.

At the entrance to the yard he looked at his watch — five minutes to six. Exactly on time. Wooden gates with a crooked sign hanging on them: trinity inn. A jumble of single-story buildings, every room with a separate entrance. There was number one, number two, three, four, five, six. Number seven ought to be around the corner, on the left.

If only Klonov didn’t start shooting straight off, before he was drawn into conversation. He needed to prepare some phrase that would disconcert him. For instance: “Greetings from Mademoiselle Wanda.” Or something a bit more complicated than that: “Are you aware that Sobolev is actually still alive?” The essential thing was not to lose the initiative. And then to follow his intuition. He could feel his trusty Herstal weighing down his pocket.

Erast Petrovich turned in resolutely at the gates. A yardkeeper in a dirty apron was lazily dragging a broom through a puddle. He glanced at the elegant gentleman out of the corner of his eye and Erast Petrovich winked at him discreetly. A most convincing yardkeeper, no doubt about it. There was another agent sitting over by the gates, pretending to be drunk: snoring, with his cap tipped down over his face. That was pretty good, too. Fandorin glanced over his shoulder and saw a fat-bellied woman in a shapeless coat, trudging along the street with a brightly patterned shawl pulled right down over her eyes. That was going a bit too far, the collegiate assessor thought, with a shake of his head. It almost bordered on the farcical.

Apartment seven was indeed the first one around the corner, in the inner yard. Two steps leading up to a low porch and ‘No. 7’ written on the door in white oil paint.

Erast Petrovich halted and took a deep breath, filling his lungs completely with air, then breathed it out in short, even jerks.

He raised his hand and knocked gently.

Twice, three times, then twice again.