The Death of Achilles

THREE

In which Fandorin plays heads or tails

However, Erast Fandorin did not manage to reach the hotel Anglia in five minutes. Waiting for him in the corridor outside the fateful suite 47 was a sullen- faced Gukmasov.

“Be so good as to step into my room for a couple of words,” he said to Fandorin and, taking a firm grasp of the young man’s elbow, he drew him into the suite next door to the general’s.

The suite was exactly like the one that Fandorin himself was occupying. There was already a large group of men in it, scattered about on the divan and the chairs. Erast Petrovich glanced at their faces and recognized the officers from the dead man’s retinue whom he had seen only recently in the drawing room next door. The collegiate assessor greeted the assembled company with a slight bow, but no one made any response, and there was evident animosity in the gazes that they turned toward him. Fandorin crossed his arms on his chest and leaned against the doorpost, and the expression on his face changed from polite greeting to cold hostility.

“Gentlemen!” Captain Gukmasov announced in a severe, almost ceremonial voice. “Allow me to introduce Erast Petrovich Fandorin, with whom I have the honor of being acquainted from the time of the Turkish War. He is now working for the governor-general of Moscow.”

Again, not even a single officer so much as inclined his head in greeting. Erast Petrovich refrained from repeating his own greeting to them and waited to see what would happen next. Gukmasov turned to him and said: “And these, Mr. Fandorin, are my colleagues. Senior Adjutant Lieutenant Colonel Baranov, Adjutant Lieutenant Prince Erdeli, Adjutant Staff Captain Prince Abadziev, Orderly Captain Ushakov, Orderly Cornet Baron Eichgolz, Orderly Cornet Gall, Orderly Lieutenant Markov.”

“I won’t remember them all,” responded Erast Petrovich.

“That will not be necessary,” snapped Gukmasov. “I have introduced all these gentlemen to you because you owe us an explanation.”

“Owe you?” Fandorin echoed derisively. “Oh, come now!”

“Yes indeed, sir. Be so good as to explain in front of everyone here the reason for the insulting interrogation to which you subjected me in the presence of the chief of police.”

The captain’s voice was menacing, but the collegiate assessor remained unperturbed and his constant slight stammer had suddenly disappeared.

“The reason for my questions, Captain, is that the death of Mikhail Dmitrievich Sobolev is a matter of state importance, indeed it is an event of historical significance. That is one.” Fandorin smiled reproachfully. “But you, Prokhor Akhrameevich, have been trying to make fools of us, and very clumsily, too. That is two. I have instructions from Prince Dolgorukoi to get to the bottom of this matter. That is three. And you may be certain that I shall get to the bottom of it; you know me. That is four. Or are you going to tell me the truth after all?”

A Caucasian prince in a white Circassian coat with silver cartridge belts — if only Fandorin could remember which of the two Caucasians he was — leapt up off the divan.

“One-two-three-four! Gentlemen! This sleuth, this lousy civilian, is jeering at us! Prosha, I swear on my mother that I’ll—”

“Sit down, Erdeli!” Gukmasov barked, and the Caucasian immediately did so, twitching his chin nervously.

“I certainly do know you, Erast Petrovich. I know you and I respect you.” The captain’s expression was grave and cheerless. “Mikhail Dmitrievich respected you, too. If his memory is dear to you, do not interfere in this matter. You will only make things worse.”

Fandorin replied no less sincerely and seriously: “If it were merely a matter of myself and my own idle curiosity, then I should certainly accede to your request. But I am sorry, in this case I cannot — it is a matter of duty.”

Gukmasov cracked the knuckles of the fingers that he had linked together behind his back and began walking around the room, jingling his spurs. He halted in front of the collegiate assessor.

“Well, now, I cannot accept that, either. I cannot allow you to continue with your investigation. Let the police try — but not you, never. This is the wrong case for you to apply your talents to, Mr. Fandorin. Be informed that I shall stop you by any means possible, regardless of the past.”

“Which means, for example, Prokhor Akhrameevich?” Erast Petrovich inquired.

“I’ll give you some means!” Lieutenant Erdeli interjected yet again, jumping to his feet. “You, sir, have insulted the honor of the officers of the Fourth Army Corps, and I challenge you to a duel! Pistols, here, this very minute. To the death, handkerchief terms!”

“As far as I recall the rules of dueling,” Fandorin said dryly, “the terms of combat are set by the party who is challenged. So be it; I will play this stupid game with you — but later, when I have concluded my investigation. You may send your seconds to me. I am staying in suite number twenty. Good-bye, gentlemen.”

He was about to turn around and leave, but Erdeli bounded over with a cry of “Then I’ll make you fight!” and attempted to slap him across the face. With amazing agility, Erast Petrovich seized the hand that had been raised to strike and squeezed the prince’s wrist between his finger and thumb — apparently not very hard, but the lieutenant’s face contorted in pain.

“You scoundr-rel!” the Caucasian shrieked in a high falsetto, flinging out his left hand. Fandorin pushed the overeager prince away and said fastidiously: “Don’t trouble yourself any further. We shall regard the blow as having been struck. I challenge you and I shall make you pay for the insult with your blood.”

“Ah, excellent,” said the phlegmatic staff officer whom Gukmasov had introduced as Lieutenant Colonel Baranov. It was the first time he had opened his mouth. “Name your terms, Erdeli.” Rubbing his wrist, the lieutenant hissed malevolently: “We fight now. Pistols. Handkerchief terms.”

“What does that mean — handkerchief terms?” Fandorin inquired curiously. “I’ve heard about this custom, but I must confess that I’m unfamiliar with the details.”

“It’s very simple,” the lieutenant colonel told him politely. “The opponents take hold of the opposite corners of an ordinary handkerchief with their free hands. Here, you can take mine if you like; it is clean.” Baranov took a large red-and- white-checked handkerchief out of his pocket. “They take their pistols. Gukmasov, where are your Lepages?”

The captain picked up a long case that had obviously been lying on the table in readiness and opened the lid. The long barrels with inlaid decorations glinted in the light.

“The opponents draw lots to select a pistol,” Baranov continued, smiling amicably. “They take aim — although what need is there at that distance? On the command, they fire. That is really all there is to it.”

“Draw lots?” Fandorin inquired. “You mean to say that one pistol is loaded and the other is not?”

“Naturally,” said the lieutenant colonel with a nod. “That is the whole point. Otherwise it would not be a duel but a double suicide.”

“Well, then,” said the collegiate assessor with a shrug. “I feel genuinely sorry for the lieutenant. I have never once lost at drawing lots.”

“All things are in God’s hands, and it is a bad omen to talk like that; it will bring you bad luck,” Baranov admonished him.

He seems to be the one in charge here, not Gukmasov, thought Erast Petrovich.

“You need a second,” said the morose Cossack captain. “If you wish, as an old acquaintance, I can offer my services. And you need not doubt that the lots will be drawn honestly.”

“Indeed I do not doubt it, Prokhor Akhrameevich. But as far as a second is concerned, you will not do. If I should be unlucky, it will appear too much like murder.”

Baranov nodded.

“He is quite right. How pleasant it is to deal with a man of intelligence. And you are also right, Prokhor, he is dangerous. What do you propose, Mr. Fandorin?”

“Will a Japanese citizen suit you as my second? You see, I only arrived in Moscow today and have had no time to make any acquaintances.”

The collegiate assessor spread his arms in a gesture of apology.

“A Papuan savage will do,” exclaimed Erdeli. “Only let’s get on with it!”

“Will there be a doctor?” asked Erast Petrovich.

“A doctor will not be required,” sighed the lieutenant colonel. “At that distance any shot is fatal.”

“Very well. I was not actually concerned for myself, but for the prince.”

Erdeli uttered some indignant exclamation in Georgian and withdrew into the far corner of the room.

Erast Petrovich expounded the essence of the matter in a short note written in bizarre characters running from the top to the bottom of the page and from right to left, and asked for the note to be taken to suite 20.

Masa was not quick to come — fifteen minutes passed before he arrived. The officers had begun to feel nervous and appeared to suspect the collegiate assessor of not playing by the rules.

The appearance of the offended party’s second created a considerable impression. Masa was a great enthusiast of duels, and for the sake of this one he had decked himself out in his formal kimono with tall starched shoulders, put on white socks, and girded himself with his finest belt, decorated with a pattern of bamboo shoots.

“What kind of gaudy parrot is this?” Erdeli asked with impolite astonishment. “But who gives a damn, anyway? Let’s get down to business!”

Masa bowed ceremonially to the assembled company and held out that accursed official sword at arm’s length to his master.

“Here is your sword, my lord.”

“How sick I am of you and your sword,” sighed Erast Petrovich. “I’m fighting a duel with pistols. With that gentleman there.”

“Pistols again?” Masa asked disappointedly. “What a barbaric custom. And who are you going to kill? That hairy man? He looks just like a monkey.”

The witnesses to the duel stood along the walls, and Gukmasov, having turned away and juggled with the pistols for a moment, offered the opponents a choice. Erast Petrovich waited as Erdeli crossed himself and took a pistol, then casually picked up the second pistol with his finger and thumb.

Following the captain’s instructions, the duelists took hold of the corners of the handkerchief and moved as far away as possible from each other, which even with fully outstretched arms was a distance of no more than three paces. The prince raised his pistol to shoulder level and aimed directly at his opponent’s forehead. Fandorin held his weapon by his hip and did not aim at all, since at that distance it was entirely unnecessary.

“One, two, three!” the captain counted quickly and stepped back.

The hammer of the prince’s pistol gave a dry click, but Fandorin’s weapon belched out a vicious tongue of flame. The lieutenant fell and began rolling around on the carpet, clutching at his right hand, which had been shot through, and swearing desperate obscenities.

When his howling had subsided to dull groans, Erast Petrovich chided him: “You will never again be able to slap anyone’s face with that hand.”

There was a clamor in the corridor, where people were shouting. Gukmasov opened the door slightly and told someone that there had been an unfortunate accident — Lieutenant Erdeli had been unloading a pistol and had shot himself in the hand. The wounded man was sent to be bandaged up by Professor Welling, who fortunately had not yet left to collect his embalming equipment, and then everyone returned to Guk-masov’s suite.

“Now what?” asked Fandorin. “Are you satisfied?”

Gukmasov shook his head.

“Now you will fight a duel with me. On the same terms.”

“And then?”

“And then — if you’re lucky again — with everyone else in turn. Until you are killed. Erast Petrovich, spare me and my comrades this ordeal.” The captain looked almost imploringly into the young man’s eyes. “Give us your word of honor that you will not take part in the investigation, and we shall part friends.”

“I should count it an honor to be your friend, but what you demand is impossible,” Fandorin declared sadly.

Masa whispered in his ear: “Master, I do not understand what this man with the red mustache is saying to you, but I sense danger. Would it not be wiser to attack first and kill all these samurai while they are still unprepared? I have your little pistol in my sleeve, and those brass knuckles that I bought for myself in Paris. I would really like to try them out.”

“Masa, forget these bandit habits of yours,” Erast Petrovich told his servant. “I am going to fight these gentlemen honestly, one by one.”

“Ah, then that will take a long time,” the Japanese said, drawing out the words. He moved away to the wall and sat down on the floor.

“Gentlemen,” said Fandorin, attempting to make the officers see reason, “believe me, you will achieve nothing. You will simply be wasting your time.”

“Enough idle talk,” Gukmasov interrupted him. “Does your Japanese know how to load dueling pistols? No? Then you load them, Eich-golz.”

Once again the opponents took their pistols and stretched the handkerchief out between them. The captain was morose and determined, but if anything Fandorin seemed rather embarrassed. On the command (Baranov was counting this time), Gukmasov’s pistol misfired with a dry click, but Erast Petrovich did not fire at all. The captain, deadly pale now, hissed through his teeth: “Shoot, Fandorin, and be damned. And you, gentlemen, decide who is next. And barricade the door so that no one can get in! Don’t let him out of here alive.”

“You refuse to listen to me, and that is a mistake,” said the collegiate assessor, waving his loaded pistol in the air. “I told you that you will achieve nothing by drawing lots. I possess a rare gift, gentlemen — I am uncannily lucky at games of chance. An inexplicable phenomenon. I resigned myself to it a long time ago. Evidently it is all due to the fact that my dear departed father was unlucky to an equally exceptional degree. I always win at every kind of game, which is why I cannot stand them.” He ran his clear-eyed gaze over the officers’ sullen faces. “You don’t believe me? Do you see this imperial?” Erast Petrovich took a gold coin out of his pocket and handed it to Eichgolz. “Toss it and I will guess, heads or tails.”

After glancing around at Gukmasov and Baranov, the baron, a young officer with the first vague intimations of a mustache, shrugged and tossed the coin.

It was still spinning in the air when Fandorin said: “I don’t know… Let’s say, heads.”

“Heads,” Eichgolz confirmed, and tossed it again.

“Heads again,” the collegiate assessor declared in a bored voice.

“Heads!” exclaimed the baron. “Good Lord, gentlemen, just look at that!”

“Right, Mitya, again,” Gukmasov told him.

“Tails,” said Erast Petrovich, looking away.

A deadly silence filled the room. Fandorin did not even glance at the baron’s outstretched palm.

“I told you. Masa, ikoo. Owari da.* Good-bye, gentlemen.”

The officers watched in superstitious terror as the functionary and his Japanese servant walked to the door.

As they were leaving, the pale-faced Gukmasov appealed to Erast Petrovich: “Fandorin, promise me that you will not employ your talent as a detective to the detriment of the fatherland. The honor of Russia is hanging by a thread.”

Erast Petrovich paused before answering.

“I promise, Gukmasov, that I will do nothing against my own honor, and that, I think, is sufficient.”

The collegiate assessor walked out of the suite, but before following him Masa turned in the doorway and bowed ceremonially, from the waist.

“Let’s go, Masa. It’s over.”