The Death of Achilles

THE FINAL CHAPTER

In which everything could not possibly work out better

The station bell rang for the second time and the Ericsson locomotive began panting out smoke impatiently, eager to dart off and away along the gleaming rails in pursuit of the sun. The Moscow-Warsaw-Berlin-Paris transcontinental express was preparing to depart.

The sullen young man sitting in one of the first-class sleeping compartments (bronze, velvet, mahogany) was wearing a badly stained cream-colored jacket torn at the elbows. He gazed blankly out the window, chewing on a cigar and occasionally puffing out smoke, but without any trace of the enthusiasm displayed by the locomotive.

Twenty-six years old, and my life is over, the departing passenger thought. When I returned to Moscow only four days ago, I was so full of hope and energy. And now I’m obliged to forsake my native city, never to return. Dishonored, victimized, forced to abandon my career, to betray my duty and my fatherland. But no, no, I have betrayed nothing, it is my fatherland that has betrayed its faithful servant! These wonderful reasons of state that first transform an honest worker into an inconsequential cog in the wheel and then decide to eliminate him altogether! You should read Confucius, you fine gentlemen who watch over the throne. Where it says that the noble man can never be anyone else’s tool.

What now? They will slander me, declare me a thief, a wanted man throughout the whole of Europe.

But no, of course, they won’t declare me a thief — they will prefer to keep silent about the briefcase.

And they won’t pursue me openly — publicity is not in their interest.

But they will hunt for me, and sooner or later they will find me and kill me. It will not be too difficult to find a traveler accompanied by a Japanese servant. But what can I do with Masa? He won’t survive in Europe alone.

And where is he, by the way?

Erast Fandorin took out his Breguet watch. There were two minutes left until the train was due to leave.

They had arrived at the station in good time and the collegiate assessor (or, rather, former collegiate assessor) had been able to dispatch a package of some kind to the Anglia, addressed to a Miss Tolle, but at a quarter to eight, when they were already sitting in the compartment, Masa had rebelled, declaring that he was hungry and had absolutely no intention of eating the chicken eggs, loathsome cow’s butter, and raw pig meat smelling of smoke that they served in the restaurant car, and he had set out in search of hot bagels.

The bell sounded for a third time and the locomotive gave a cheerful, exuberant hoot of its whistle.

That oversized baby had better not have strayed too far. Fandorin stuck his head out the window, concerned.

There he was, tearing along the platform, clutching a prodigious paper bag. He had two white bandages in different places on his head: The bump at the back was still there and now he had a bad bruise on his temple as well.

But who was that with him?

Erast Petrovich shaded his eyes against the sun with his hand. A tall, thin man with luxuriant sideburns, wearing livery.

Frol Grigorich Vedishchev, Prince Dolgorukoi’s personal valet! What was he doing here? Ah, how very inopportune!

Vedishchev spotted him and waved: “Mr. Fandorin, Your Honor! I’ve come to fetch you!”

Erast Petrovich started back from the window, but immediately felt ashamed. It was stupid. And senseless. And he ought to find out what was behind this incredible coincidence.

He went out onto the platform, holding the briefcase under his arm.

“Oof, I was only just in time…”

Vedishchev puffed and panted, mopping at his bald patch with a loudly colored handkerchief.

“Let’s go, sir, His Excellency is waiting.”

“But how did you find me?”

The young man glanced around as the carriage slowly started to move.

Let it go. What point was there in trying to escape by railway if the authorities already knew which way he was going? They would send a telegram and have him arrested at the next station.

He would have to find some other way to get out of Moscow.

“I can’t go to His Excellency, Frol Grigorich; my circumstances now are such that I am obliged to resign the state service. I… I have to leave as soon as possible. But I will send the prince a letter explaining everything.”

Yes, yes! He could write to Dolgorukoi and tell him everything. Then at least someone would know the full background to this appalling and sordid story.

“Why waste the paper?” Vedishchev asked with a good-natured shrug. “His Excellency is perfectly well aware of your circumstances. Let’s go, you can tell him all the details yourself. All about that murderer, may he rot in hell, and how that Judas of a police chief deceived you.”

Erast Petrovich choked.

“But… but, how on earth? How do you know everything?”

“We have our ways and means,” the valet replied vaguely. “We learned about today’s business in good time. I even sent one of my men along to see what would happen. Didn’t you spot him there? Wearing a cap and pretending to be drunk. In fact he’s an extremely sober individual, never touches a drop, not even after Lent. That’s why I use him. He was the one who told me you ordered the cab to go to the Bryansk Station. Oh, the effort it cost me to get to you in time! And I’d never have found you without the Providence of God — I just happened to spot your Japanese servant here in the buffet. Could you see me running along all these carriages? I’m not a fit young man like you, sir.”

“But is His Excellency aware that this is a matter of… exceptional delicacy?”

“There’s no delicacy involved here; it’s a simple matter, one for the police,” Vedishchev snapped. “You arranged with the chief of police to arrest a suspicious character, a swindler who was passing himself off as a merchant from Ryazan. A highly respectable gentleman, they say, the genuine Klonov — seven poods, he weighs. That addle-headed Karachentsev got the time confused and you had to risk your life. It’s a pity you didn’t manage to take the scoundrel alive. Now we’ll never know what his intentions were. But at least you’re safe and unharmed, dear fellow. His Excellency described the entire business in a letter to St. Petersburg, to the sovereign himself. It’s clear enough what’s going to happen: They’ll throw the chief of police out on his ear, appoint a new one, and there’ll be a decoration for Your Honor. It’s all very simple.”

“Very s-simple?” Erast Petrovich asked, staring curiously into the old man’s colorless eyes.

“Couldn’t be simpler. Or was there something else?”

“No, there wasn’t anything else,” Fandorin replied after a moment’s thought.

“There, you see? Oh, just look at that briefcase you have there. A really fine piece of work. Foreign, I suppose.”

“It’s not my briefcase,” declared the collegiate assessor (no longer former, but quite current once again). “I’m going to send it to the Municipal Duma. It’s a large contribution from an anonymous benefactor, for the completion of the cathedral.”

“Quite large, is it?” the valet asked, with a keen glance at the young man.

“Almost a million rubles.”

Vedishchev nodded approvingly.

“That’s certainly good news for Vladimir Andreevich. We’ll finally get that cathedral off our hands, damn the thing; it’s swallowed more than enough money from the city’s coffers.” He began crossing himself fervently. “Oh, there are still generous people left in Russia, God grant them good health, and when they die may they rest in peace.”

But halfway through crossing himself, Frol Grigorich suddenly remembered something and threw his arms up in the air.

“Let’s go, Erast Petrovich, let’s go, dear fellow. His Excellency said he won’t sit down to his breakfast if you’re not there. And he has a regime to follow — he must take his porridge at half past eight. The governor’s carriage is waiting out on the square; we’ll be there as quick as a flash. Don’t you worry about your oriental here. I’ll take him with me; I haven’t had any breakfast yet, either. I’ve got a potful of yesterday’s cabbage soup with chitterlings — really good. And we’ll throw these bagels away — it’s not good to stuff yourself full of dough. Just swells up the stomach.”

Fandorin looked pityingly at Masa, who was flaring his nostrils and sniffing blissfully at the aroma coming from his paper bag. The poor fellow was in for a terrible ordeal.

THE END