The Death of Achilles

ONE

In which the links of coincidence are forged into the chain of fate

The morning train from St. Petersburg, still enveloped in the swirling smoke from its locomotive, had scarcely slowed to a halt at the platform of Nikolaevsky Station, and the conductors had only just unfolded the short flights of steps and tipped their peaked caps in salute, when a young man attired in quite remarkable style leapt out of one of the first-class carriages. He seemed to have sprung straight out of some picture in a Parisian magazine devoted to the glories of the 1882 summer-season fashion: a light suit of sandy-colored wild silk, a wide- brimmed hat of Italian straw, shoes with pointed toes, white spats with silver press-studs, and in his hand an elegant walking cane with a knob that was also silver. However, it was not so much the passenger’s foppish attire that attracted attention as his physique, which was quite imposing, one might almost say spectacular. The young man was tall, with a trim figure and wide shoulders. He regarded the world through clear blue eyes, and his slim mustache with curled ends sat quite extraordinarily well with his regular features, which included one distinctive peculiarity — the neatly combed black hair shaded intriguingly into silver-gray at the temples.

The porters made short work of unloading the young man’s luggage, which is itself worthy of special mention. In addition to suitcases and traveling bags, they carried out onto the platform a folding tricycle, a set of gymnastic weights, and bundles of books in various languages. Last of all there emerged from the carriage a short, bandy-legged oriental gentleman with a compact physique and an extremely solemn face and fat cheeks. He was dressed in green livery, combined discordantly with wooden sandals and a gaudy paper fan hanging around his neck on a silk string. This squat individual was clutching a quadrangular lacquered box in which was growing a tiny pine tree, looking for all the world as though it had been transported to the Moscow railway station from the kingdom of Lilliput.

Running his eye over the distinctly uninspiring structures of the railway terminus with a curious air of excitement, the young man inhaled the sooty station air and whispered: “My God, six long years.” However, he was not permitted to indulge his reverie for long. The passengers from the St. Petersburg train were already being waylaid by cabbies, most of whom were attached to Moscow’s various hotels. Battle was joined for the handsome dark-haired gentleman, who appeared to be a most desirable client, by knights of the road from the four hotels regarded as the most chic in Russia’s old capital — the Metropole, the Loskutnaya, the Dresden, and the Dusseaux.

“Come stay at the Metropole, sir!” the first cabbie exclaimed. “An absolutely modern hotel in the genuine European style! And the suite has a special box room for your Chinee here!”

“He is not Chinese, but J-Japanese,” the young man explained, incidentally revealing that he spoke with a slight stammer. “And I would prefer him to lodge with me.”

“Then Your Honor should come to us at the Loskutnaya,” said the next cabbie, shouldering his competitor aside. “If you take a suite for five rubles or more, we drive you for free. I’ll get you there quick as a wink!”

“I stayed in the Loskutnaya once,” the young man declared. “It’s a good hotel.”

“What would you want with that old antheap, Your Honor,” said a third cabbie, joining the fray. “Our Dresden’s a perfect haven of peace and quiet, so elegant, too — and the windows look out on Tverskaya Street, straight at His Excellency the governor’s house.”

The passenger pricked up his ears at that.

“Indeed? That is most convenient. You see, it just happens that I shall be working for His Excellency. I think perhaps—”

“Hey there, Your Honor!” shouted the last of the cabbies, a young dandy in a crimson waistcoat, with hair parted and brilliantined so painstakingly that it gleamed like a mirror. “All the best writers have stayed at the Dusseaux — Dostoevsky, and Count Tolstoy, even Mr. Krestovsky himself.”

This psychologist of the hotel trade had spotted the bundles of books and chosen his subterfuge well. The handsome, dark-haired young man gasped.

“Even Count Tolstoy?”

“Why, of course, His Excellency comes straight around to us first thing, the moment he reaches Moscow.” The crimson cabbie had already picked up two suitcases. He barked briskly at the Japanese: “You carry, walky-walky, follow me!”

“Very well, then, the Dusseaux it shall be,” said the young man with a shrug, unaware that this decision would become the first link in the fatal chain of subsequent events.

“Ah, Masa, how Moscow has changed,” the handsome passenger repeated again and again in Japanese, as he constantly twisted around on the leather seat of the droshky. “I can barely recognize it. The road is completely paved with cobblestones, not like Tokyo. And how many clean people there are! Look, there’s a horse-drawn tram; it follows a fixed route. Why, and there’s a lady upstairs, in the imperial! They never used to allow ladies upstairs. Out of a sense of decency.”

“Why, master?” asked Masa, whose full name was Masahiro Sibata.

“Why, naturally, so that no one on the lower level can peep while a lady is climbing the steps.”

“European foolishness and barbarism,” said the servant with a shrug. “And I have something to say to you, master. As soon as we arrive at the inn, we need to summon a courtesan for you straight away, and she must be first-class, too. Third-class will do for me. The women are good here. Tall and fat. Much better than Japanese women.”

“Will you stop your nonsense!” the young man said angrily. “It’s revolting.”

The Japanese shook his head disapprovingly.

“How long can you carry on pining for Midori-san? Sighing over a woman you will never see again is pointless.”

Nonetheless, his master did sigh again, and then yet again, after which, clearly seeking distraction from his melancholy thoughts, he turned to the cabbie (they were driving past the Strastnoi Monastery at the time) and asked: “Whose statue is that they’ve put up on the boulevard? Not Lord Byron, surely?”

“It’s Pushkin, Alexander Sergeevich Pushkin,” the driver said reproachfully, turning around as he spoke. The young man blushed and began jabbering away to his short, slanty-eyed companion again in that strange foreign language. The only word the cabbie could make out was “Pusikin,” repeated three times.

The hotel Dusseaux was maintained after the manner of the very finest Parisian hotels — with a liveried doorman at the main entrance, a spacious vestibule with azaleas and magnolias growing in tubs, and its own restaurant. The passenger from the St. Petersburg train took a good six-ruble suite with windows overlooking Theater Lane, signed the register as Collegiate Assessor Erast Petrovich Fandorin, and walked over inquisitively to the large blackboard on which the names of the hotel’s guests were written in chalk, in the European fashion.

At the top, written in large letters complete with hooks and scrolls, was the date: Friday, 25 June — vendredi 7 juillet. A little lower, in the most prominent position, was the calligraphic inscription: Adjutant General and General of Infantry M. D. Sobolev — No. 47. “I don’t believe it!” the collegiate assessor exclaimed. “What a piece of luck!” Turning back to the reception clerk, he inquired: “Is His Excellency in at present? He is an old acquaintance of mine!”

“Yes he is indeed, sir,” the clerk said with a bow. “His Excellency only arrived yesterday. With his retinue. They took an entire corner section; everything beyond that door over there is theirs. But he is still sleeping, and we have been instructed not to disturb him, sir.”

“Michel? At half past eight in the morning?” Fandorin exclaimed in amazement. “That’s not like him. But then, I suppose people change. Be so good as to inform the general that I am in suite number twenty — he is certain to want to see me.”

The young man turned to go, but at that very moment there occurred the coincidence that was destined to become the second link in fate’s cunningly woven design. The door leading into the corridor occupied by the honored guest suddenly opened a little and out glanced a Cossack officer with dark eyebrows, a long forelock, an aquiline nose, and hollow cheeks blue with unshaven stubble.

“Hey, my man!” he bellowed, shaking a sheet of paper impatiently. “Have this telegram sent to the telegraph office for dispatch. Look lively, now!”

“Gukmasov, is that you?” said Erast Petrovich, spreading his arms wide in joyful greeting. “After all these years! Still playing Patroclus to our Achilles? And already a captain! Congratulations!”

This effusive declaration, however, made no impression at all on the Cossack officer, or if it did, it was an unfavorable one. The captain surveyed the young dandy with a withering glance from his gypsy-black eyes and slammed the door shut without saying another word. Fandorin was left frozen to the spot with his arms flung out to both sides in a ridiculous posture — as if he had been about to launch into a dance but had changed his mind.

“Yes, indeed,” he muttered, embarrassed. “Everything really has changed. Not only the city, but the people as well.”

“Will you be ordering breakfast in your suite, sir?” the reception clerk asked, pretending not to have noticed the collegiate assessor’s discomfiture.

“No, I won’t,” the guest replied. “Have them bring up a pail of ice from the cellar instead. In fact, make it t-two pails.”

Once in his spacious and luxuriously appointed suite, the new guest began behaving in a most unusual manner. He stripped naked, stood on his hands, and pushed himself up from the floor ten times with his legs scarcely even touching the wall. The Japanese servant was not surprised in the least by his master’s strange behavior. Taking the two pails of chipped ice from the floor attendant, the oriental carefully tipped the rough gray cubes into the bath, added some cold water from the bronze tap, and began waiting for the collegiate assessor to complete his bizarre gymnastics routine.

A few moments later Fandorin, flushed from his exertions, walked into the bathroom and resolutely immersed himself in the fearsome font of ice.

“Masa, get my dress uniform. And decorations. In the little velvet boxes. I shall go and introduce myself to the prince.”

He spoke curtly, through clenched teeth. His manner of bathing evidently required a significant effort of will.

“To the emperor’s vice regent, your new master?” Masa inquired respectfully. “Then I shall get your sword as well. You must have your sword. There was no need to stand on ceremony with the Russian ambassador in Tokyo, whom you served before. But the governor of such a big stone city is a quite different matter. Do not even try to argue.”

He disappeared and soon returned with a state functionary’s ceremonial sword, carrying it reverentially in his outstretched hands.

Evidently realizing that it was indeed pointless to argue, Erast Petrovich merely sighed.

“Now, how about that courtesan, master?” Masa inquired, gazing in concern at Erast Petrovich’s face, which was blue from cold. “Your health comes first.”

“Go to hell.” Fandorin stood up, with his teeth chattering. “A t-towel and my clothes.”

“come in, dear fellow, come in. We’ve been waiting for you. The membership of the secret sanhedrin, so to speak, is now complete, heh-heh.”

These were the words with which Mother Moscow’s all-powerful master, Prince Vladimir Andreevich Dolgorukoi, greeted the smartly decked-out collegiate assessor.

“Well, don’t just stand there in the doorway! Come and sit down over here, in the armchair. And there was no need to get decked out in that uniform and bring your sword along as well. When you come to see me you can dress simply, in a frock coat.”

During the six years that Erast Petrovich had spent on his foreign travels, the old governor-general’s health had seriously declined. His chestnut curls (quite evidently of artificial origin) stubbornly refused to agree terms with a face furrowed by deep wrinkles, his drooping mustache and luxuriant sideburns were suspiciously free of gray hairs, and his excessively upright, youthful bearing prompted thoughts of a corset. The prince had governed Russia’s old capital for a decade and a half with a grip that was gentle but firm.

“This is our guest from foreign parts,” said the governor, addressing the two important-looking gentlemen, a military man and a civilian, who were already seated in armchairs beside the immense desk. “My new deputy for special assignments, Collegiate Assessor Fandorin. Appointed to me from St. Petersburg, and formerly employed in our embassy at the far end of the world, in the Japanese empire. Allow me to introduce you, my dear fellow,” said the prince, addressing Fandorin. “Moscow’s chief of police, Evgeny Osipovich Karachentsev. A bulwark of law and order.” He indicated a redheaded general of the royal retinue whose slightly slanting brown eyes held an expression that was both calm and keen. “And this is my Petrusha — Pyotr Parmyonovich Khurtinsky to you — a court counselor and head of the secret section of the governor- general’s chancelry. When anything happens in Moscow, Petrusha hears about it immediately and reports to me.”

A portly gentleman of about forty, his hair combed across the elongated form of his head with exquisite precision, plump jowls propped up on a starched collar, and drowsy eyelids half-closed, nodded sedately.

“I specially requested you to come on Friday, my dear fellow,” the governor declared cordially. “At eleven o’clock on Fridays it is my custom to discuss various matters of a secret and sensitive nature. At this very moment we are about to touch on the delicate question of where to obtain the money to complete the murals in the cathedral. God’s work, and a cross I have borne for many years.” He crossed himself piously. “Malicious intrigue is rife among the artists, and there’s no lack of pilfering, either. We will consider how to squeeze a million rubles out of Moscow’s fat moneybags for a holy cause. Well, my secret gentlemen, there used to be two of you, and now there will be three. My blessings on this union, as they say. Mr. Fandorin, you have been assigned to me especially for secret matters, have you not? Your references are quite excellent, especially considering your age. You are clearly quite a man of some experience.”

He glanced searchingly into the newcomer’s eyes, but Fandorin withstood his glance without appearing particularly perturbed.

“I do remember you, you know,” Dolgorukoi continued, transformed once again into a benign uncle. “Of course I do, I was at your wedding. I remember everything, yes… You’ve matured, changed a great deal. Well, I’m not getting any younger, either. Sit down, my dear fellow, sit down; I’m not one for the formalities.”

As though inadvertently he drew the newcomer’s service record closer to him — he had remembered the surname, but the first name and patronymic had slipped his mind, and the highly experienced Vladimir Andreevich knew that in such matters even the slightest faux pas was quite impermissible. Any man was likely to take it amiss if his name were remembered incorrectly, and there was absolutely no point in offending his subordinates unnecessarily.

Erast Petrovich — that was what they called this young Adonis. Glancing at his open service record, the prince frowned, because something was definitely not right. The record had a whiff of danger about it. The governor-general had already looked through his new associate’s personal file several times, but things had not become any clearer as a result.

Fandorin’s file really did read most enigmatically. Well, now, twenty-six years of age, Orthodox Christian by confession, hereditary nobleman, and native of Moscow. So far, so good. On finishing his secondary school studies, at his own request appointed by decree of the Moscow police to the rank of collegiate registrar and given a position as a clerk in the Criminal Investigation Department. That was clear enough, too. But then followed a series of absolute marvels. What was this, for instance, only two months later:

For outstanding devotion to duty and superlative service graciously promoted by His Majesty to the rank of titular counselor without regard to seniority and attached to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs’?

And, further on, in the awards section, something even more outlandish:

Order of St. Vladimir, fourth class, for the Azazel case (secret archive of the Special Gendarmes Corps)

Order of St. Stanislav, third class, for the ‘Turkish Gambit’ case (secret archive of the Ministry of War)

Order of St. Anne for the ‘Diamond Chariot’ case (secret archive of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs).

Nothing but one secret after another!

Erast Petrovich cast a tactful but acute glance at his superior and formed his first impression in a moment. On the whole it was a positive one. The prince was old, but not doddering, and there was still something of the actor about him. Nor did the struggle that was reflected on His Excellency’s face as he looked through the service record escape the collegiate assessor’s attention. Fandorin sighed sympathetically, for although he had not read his own personal file, he could more or less imagine what might be written in it.

Erast Petrovich also took advantage of the pause in the conversation to glance at the two functionaries whose duty it was to know all Moscow’s secrets. Khurtinsky squinted at him cordially, smiling with only his lips in an apparently friendly manner, and yet somehow smiling not at Fandorin, but at daydreams of his own. Erast Petrovich did not return the court counselor’s smile; he was only too familiar with people of this kind and disliked them intensely. However, he quite liked the look of the chief of police and smiled briefly at the general, although without the slightest hint of servility. The general nodded courteously, and yet the glance he cast at the young man seemed strangely tinged with pity. Erast Petrovich did not allow this to bother him — everything would be made clear in good time — and he turned back to the prince, who was also participating in this silent ritual of mutual inspection, conducted circumspectly within the bounds of due propriety.

One especially deep wrinkle had appeared on the prince’s brow in testimony to his state of extreme preoccupation. The main thought in His Excellency’s mind at that precise moment was: Could you possibly have been sent by the plotters, my pretty young fellow? To undermine my position, perhaps? It looks very much like it. I have enough trouble already with Karachentsev.

The police chief’s pitying glance, however, resulted from considerations of an entirely different nature. Lying in Evgeny Osipovich’s pocket was a letter from his direct superior, the director of the Department of State Police, Vyacheslav Konstantinovich Plevako. Karachentsev’s old friend and mentor had written in a private capacity to tell him that Fan-dorin was a sound individual of proven merit who had formerly enjoyed the confidence of the late monarch, and in particular of the chief of gendarmes, but during his years of foreign service he had lost touch with high-level politics and had now been dispatched to Moscow because no use could be found for him in St. Petersburg. At first glance Evgeny Osipovich had taken quite a liking to the young man, with that piercing gaze and dignified bearing of his. The poor fellow was unaware that the supreme authorities had washed their hands of him and that he meant no more to them than an old galosh destined for the rubbish heap. Such were General Karachentsev’s thoughts.

As for Pyotr Parmyonovich Khurtinsky — God only knew what he might be thinking. That enigmatic individual’s thoughts followed far too devious a course.

This dumb show was ended by the appearance of a new character, who emerged silently from the depths of the governor’s inner apartments. He was a tall, emaciated old man in threadbare livery with a shiny, bald cranium and sleek, neatly combed sideburns. The old man was carrying a silver tray with several small bottles and glasses.

“Time to take your constipation remedy, Excellency,” the servant announced grumpily. “Otherwise, you’ll be complaining afterward that Frol didn’t make you take it. Have you forgotten the terrible way you were moaning and groaning yesterday? Well, then. Come on now, open wide.”

The very same kind of tyrant as my Masa, thought Fandorin, although he could hardly look more different. What do we do to deserve such affliction?

“Yes, yes, Frolushka,” said the prince, capitulating immediately. “I’ll take it, I’ll take it. Erast Petrovich, this is my valet, Frol Grigorich Vedishchev. He has looked after me since I was a baby. Now, how about you, gentlemen? Would you care to try it? A most splendid herbal infusion. It tastes horrible, but it is supremely effective against indigestion and stimulates the functioning of the intestines quite superbly. Frol, pour them some.”

Karachentsev and Fandorin refused the herbal mixture point-blank, but Khurtinsky drank it and even declared that it tasted rather pleasant in an odd sort of way.

To follow, Frol gave the prince a decoction of sweet fruit liqueur and a slice of bread and butter (he did not offer these to Khurtinsky) and wiped His Excellency’s lips with a cambric napkin.

“Well now, Erast Petrovich, what special assignments am I to occupy you with? I really can’t think,” said Dolgorukoi, shrugging and raising his greasy hands. “As you can see, I already have enough advisers on secret matters. But never mind, don’t you fret. Settle in, get to know your way around.”

He gestured vaguely, thinking to himself: And meanwhile we’ll see what sort of chap you are.

At this point the antediluvian clock with the bas-relief chimed sonorously eleven times and the third and final link was added to the fatal chain of coincidences.

The door that led into the reception room swung open without any knock, the contorted features of a secretary appeared abruptly in the gap, and the atmosphere in the study was galvanized by the invisible but unmistakable charge of a Catastrophe.

“Disaster, Your Excellency!” the secretary declared in a trembling voice. “General Sobolev is dead! His personal orderly, Captain Gukmasov, is here.”

This news affected the individuals present in different ways, each in accordance with his own temperament. The governor-general waved his hand at the grief- stricken messenger, as if to say: Away with you, I refuse to believe it — and then crossed himself with that same hand. The head of the secret department momentarily opened his eyes as wide as they would go and then rapidly lowered his eyelids again. The redheaded chief of police leapt to his feet, and the young collegiate assessor’s face reflected two feelings in succession: initial extreme agitation, followed immediately by an expression of deep thought, which he retained throughout the scene that followed.

“Send in the captain, will you, Innokenty,” Dolgorukoi ordered his secretary in a low voice. “What a terrible thing to happen!”

The same valiant officer who the day before, at the hotel, had declined to throw himself into Erast Petrovich’s embrace entered the room with a precisely measured stride, jingling his spurs. He was clean-shaven now, and wearing his Life-Cossack dress uniform with an entire icon-screen of crosses and medals pinned to it.

“Your Excellency, senior orderly to Adjutant General Mikhail Dmitrievich Sobolev, Captain Gukmasov!” the officer introduced himself. “Woeful news…” He controlled himself with an effort, twitched his black bandit’s mustache, and continued. “The commander of the Fourth Army Corps arrived yesterday from Minsk en route to his estate in Ryazan and put up at the hotel Dusseaux. This morning Mikhail Dmitrievich was very late leaving his room. We became concerned and began knocking, but he did not answer. Then we ventured to enter, and he…” The captain made one more titanic effort and finally managed to complete his report without allowing his voice to tremble. “The general was sitting in an armchair. Dead. We called a doctor. He said that there was nothing to be done. The body was already cold.”

“Ay, ay, ay,” said the governor, propping his cheek on his palm. “How could it happen? Mikhail Dmitrievich was so young. Not even forty yet, I suppose?”

“He was thirty-eight, not yet thirty-nine,” Gukmasov replied in the same strained voice on the verge of breaking, and began blinking rapidly.

“But what was the cause of death?” asked Karachentsev, frowning. “The general was not unwell, was he?”

“Not in the least. He was perfectly hale and hearty, in excellent spirits. The doctor suspects a stroke or a heart attack.”

“Very well. You may go now, go,” said the prince, dismissing the orderly. He was shaken by the news. “I’ll see to everything and inform His Majesty. Go.” But when the door closed behind the captain, he sighed mournfully. “Ah, gentlemen, now there’ll be a fine to-do. This is a serious business — a man like that, loved and admired by all of Russia. And not only Russia — the whole of Europe knows the White General… and I was planning to call on him today… Petrusha, you send a telegram to His Highness the Emperor; you can work out what needs to be said for yourself. No, show it to me first. And afterward make arrangements for the period of mourning, the funeral and… well, you know all about that. And you, Evgeny Osipovich, maintain order for me. The moment the word spreads, everyone in Moscow will go rushing to the Dusseaux. So make sure that no one gets crushed in the excitement. I know the people of Moscow. You must maintain discipline and decorum.”

The chief of police nodded and picked up a folder from an armchair.

“Permission to leave, Your Excellency?”

“Off you go. Oho, what an uproar there’ll be now, what an uproar,” said the prince, then he started, struck by a sudden thought. “But it is likely, is it not, gentlemen, that His Majesty himself will come? He is certain to come. After all, this is not just anybody, it is the hero of Plevna and Turkestan who has surrendered his soul to God. A knight without fear or reproach, deservingly dubbed the Russian Achilles for his valor. We must prepare the Kremlin Palace. I shall deal with that myself.”

Khurtinsky and Karachentsev started toward the door, intent on carrying out their instructions, but the collegiate assessor remained seated in his armchair as though nothing had happened, regarding the prince with a strange air of bafflement.

“Ah, yes, Erast Petrovich, my dear fellow,” said Dolgorukoi, suddenly remembering the newcomer. “As you can see, I have no time for you just now. You can get your bearings in the meantime. Yes, and stay close at hand. I may have instructions for you. There will be plenty of work for everyone. Oh, what a terrible calamity.”

“But Your Excellency, surely there will be an investigation?” Fan-dorin asked unexpectedly. “Such an important individual. And a strange death. It ought to be looked into.”

“Come now, what investigation?” the prince replied with a frown of annoyance. “I told you, His Majesty will be coming.”

“Nonetheless, I have grounds to suppose that foul play is involved,” the collegiate assessor declared with astounding equanimity.

His calm words produced the impression of an exploding grenade.

“What kind of absurd fantasy is that?” cried Karachentsev, instantly abandoning the slightest shred of sympathy for this young fellow.

“Grounds?” Khurtinsky snapped derisively. “What grounds could you possibly have? How could you possibly know anything at all?”

Without even glancing at the court counselor, Erast Petrovich continued to address the governor.

“By your leave, Your Excellency. I happen by chance to be staying at the Dusseaux. That is one. I knew Mikhail Dmitrievich for a very long time. He always rises at dawn, and it is quite impossible to imagine that the general would remain in bed until such a late hour. His retinue would have become alarmed at six in the morning. That is two. And I saw Captain Gukmasov, whom I also know very well, at half past eight. He was unshaven. That is three.”

Here Fandorin paused significantly, as though the final point were of particular consequence.

“Unshaven? Well, what of it?” the chief of police asked, puzzled.

“The point, Your Excellency, is that never, under any circumstances whatever, could Gukmasov be unshaven at half past eight in the morning. I went through the B-Balkan campaign with that man. He is punctilious to the point of pedantry, and he never left his tent without having shaved, not even if there was no water and he had to melt snow. I suspect that Gukmasov already knew his superior was dead first thing in the morning. If he knew, then why did he keep silent for so long? That is four. This business needs to be investigated. Especially if His M- Majesty is going to be here.”

This final consideration seemed to impress the governor more powerfully than any other.

“What can I say; Erast Petrovich is right,” said the prince, rising to his feet. “This is a matter of state importance. I hereby initiate a secret investigation into the circumstances of the demise of Adjutant General Sobolev. And, clearly, there will also have to be an autopsy. But take care, Evgeny Osipovich, tread carefully, no publicity. There will be rumors enough as it is. Petrusha, you will gather the rumors and report to me personally. The investigation will be led, naturally, by Evgeny Osipovich. Oh, yes, and don’t forget to give instructions to embalm the body. A lot of people will want to say good-bye to their hero, and it is a hot summer. God forbid he should start to smell. And as for you, Erast Petrovich, since the hand of fate has already placed you in the Dusseaux, and since you knew the deceased so well, try to get to the bottom of this business in your own way, acting in a personal capacity, so to speak. It is fortunate that you are not yet known in Moscow. You are, after all, my deputy for special assignments — and what assignment could possibly be more special than this?”