The Death of Achilles

FOUR

In which the usefulness of architectural extravagance is demonstrated

The suites in the hotel Anglia were a match for the respectable Dusseaux in the FOUR magnificence of their appointments, while in terms of architectural fantasy they actually surpassed it, although the presence of a somewhat dubious, or at least frivolous, quality might possibly be detected in the sumptuous gilded ceilings and marble volutes. On the other hand, however, the entrance was radiant with bright electric light; one could ride up to the top three floors in an elevator, and from time to time the foyer resounded with the shrill jangling of that fashionable marvel of technology, the telephone.

After taking a stroll around the grand foyer with its mirrors and morocco-leather divans, Erast Petrovich halted in front of the board with the names of the guests. The people who stayed here were a more varied bunch than at the Dusseaux: foreign businessmen, stockbrokers, actors from fashionable theaters. However, there was no songstress named Wanda to be found on the list.

Fandorin cast a keen eye over the hotel staff darting back and forth between the reception desk and the elevator and selected one particularly brisk and efficient waiter with mobile features suggestive of intelligence.

“Tell me, does Miss Wanda n-no longer reside here?” the collegiate assessor asked, feigning slight embarrassment.

“While certainly the lady does,” the fellow responded eagerly and, following the handsome gentleman’s gaze, he pointed to the board. “Right there, sir: Miss Helga Ivanovna Tolle, that’s the lady in question. Uses the name Wanda because it sounds better. She lives in the annex. You just go out through that door there, sir, into the yard. Miss Wanda has a suite there with a separate entrance. Only the lady’s not usually in at this time, sir.” The waiter was about to slip away, but Erast Petrovich rustled a banknote in his pocket, and the good fellow suddenly froze as if he were rooted to the spot.

“Is there some little errand you’d like done, sir?” he asked, giving the young gentleman a look of affectionate devotion.

“When does she get back?”

“It varies, sir. The lady sings at the Alpine Rose. Every day but Mondays. I’ll tell you what, sir — you take a seat for a while in the buffet, have a drink of tea or whatever, and I’ll make sure to let you know when the mam’selle shows up.”

“And what is she like?” asked Erast Petrovich, twirling his fingers vaguely in the air. “To look at? Is she really so very pretty?”

“The picture of beauty, sir,” said the waiter, smacking his plump red lips. “Highly respected in these parts. Pays three hundred rubles a month for her suite and very generous with tips, sir.”

At this point he paused with practiced psychological precision and Fandorin slowly took out two one-ruble notes — but then thrust them into his breast pocket with a distracted air.

“Miss Wanda doesn’t receive just anybody in her rooms; she’s very strict about that, sir,” the waiter declared significantly, his gaze boring into the gentleman’s frock coat. “But I can announce you, seeing as I am in her special confidence.”

“Take that, then,” said Erast Petrovich, holding out one of the notes. “You’ll g- get the other when Mademoiselle Wanda comes back. Meanwhile, I’ll go and read a newspaper. Where did you say your buffet was? ”

On 25 june 1882 the Moscow Gazette wrote as follows:

A Telegram from Singapore

The renowned explorer N. N. Miklukha-Maklai intends to return to Russia on the clipper ‘Marksman’. Mr. Miklukha-Maklai’s health has been seriously undermined; he is extremely thin and suffering from constant fevers and chronic neuralgia. For the most part his state of mind is also morose. The traveler informed our correspondent that he is sick and tired of wandering and dreams of reaching his native shores as soon as possible.

Erast Petrovich shook his head, vividly picturing to himself the emaciated, twitching face of the martyr of ethnography. He turned over the page.

The Blasphemy of American Advertising An inscription in letters half the height of a man recently appeared above Broadway, the main street of New York — “the president is certain to die.” Dumbfounded passersby halted, transfixed, and only then were they able to read what was written below in smaller letters: “… in our treacherous climate if he does not wear warm woolen underwear from Garland and Co.” A representative of the White House has taken the firm to court for exploiting the presidential title for base commercial ends.

Thank God, things have not reached that state here and are never likely to, the collegiate assessor thought with some satisfaction. After all, His Majesty the Emperor is more than some mere president.

As a man with a certain interest in belles lettres, he was naturally drawn to the following headline:

Literary Talks

A large number of listeners were attracted to the spacious hall at the home of Princess Trubetskaya for a talk on contemporary literature given by Professor I. N. Pavlov, which was devoted to an analysis of the recent works of Ivan Turgenev. With the help of illustrative examples, Mr. Pavlov demonstrated the depths to which this great talent has sunk in the pursuit of a tendentious and spurious reality. The next reading will be devoted to analyzing the works of Shchedrin as the leading representative of the crudest and most fallacious form of realism.

Fandorin was dismayed to read that. Among the Russian diplomats in Japan it was considered good tone to praise Turgenev and Shchedrin. How very far he had fallen behind the literary scene in Russia during his absence of almost six years! But what was new in the field of technology?

Tunnel Under the English Channel

The length of the railway tunnel under the English Channel is already approaching 1,200 meters. The engineer Brunton is excavating the galleries with a ram-drill powered by compressed air. According to the plans, the total length of the underground passage should be a little over thirty versts. The initial design envisaged that the English and French digs would link up after five years, but skeptics claim that the labor-intensive work of facing the walls and laying the rails will delay the opening of the line until at least 1890…

With his keen sensitivity to progress, Fandorin found the digging of the Anglo- French tunnel quite fascinating, but something prevented him from reading this interesting article to the end. A certain gentleman in a gray two-piece suit, whom Fandorin had only recently spotted beside the head porter in the vestibule, had now been hovering around the buffet counter for several minutes. The isolated words that reached the collegiate assessor’s ears (and his hearing was quite excellent) seemed to Fandorin so curious that he immediately stopped reading, although he continued to hold the newspaper in front of his face.

“Don’t you try putting one over on me,” the gray-suited gentleman pressed the man behind the counter. “Were you on duty last night or not?”

“I was asleep, Yer Onner,” droned the man, a fat-faced, rosy-cheeked hulk with a greasy beard combed to both sides. “The only one here from the night shift is Senka.” He jerked his beard in the direction of a boy serving cakes and tea.

The man in gray beckoned Senka to him. A police sleuth, Erast Petrovich thought with absolute certainty and without any great surprise. So our chief of police Evgeny Osipovich was feeling jealous — he didn’t want all the laurels to go to the governor’s deputy for special assignments.

“Now tell me, Senka,” the inquisitive gentleman said ingratiatingly, “was there a general and some officers at Mam’selle Wanda’s place last night?”

Senka twitched his nose, fluttered his white eyelashes, and asked: “Lasnigh’? A gen’ral?”

“Yes, yes, a gen’ral,” said the sleuth, nodding.

“ ‘Ere?” asked the boy, wrinkling up his forehead.

“Yes here, here, where else?”

“But does gen’rals drive out at nigh’?” Senka inquired suspiciously.

“And why wouldn’t they?”

The boy replied with deep conviction: “Nah, gen’rals sleeps at nigh’. Tha’s what gen’rals does.”

“You just watch it, you… little idiot!” the man in gray exclaimed furiously. “Or I’ll take you down to the station and soon have you singing a different tune.”

“I’m an orphan, mister,” Senka responded swiftly, and his foolish eyes were instantly flooded with tears. “You can’t take me down the station, it gives me the fainting fits.”

“Are you all in this plot together, or what?” the police agent snapped viciously and stormed out, slamming the door loudly behind him.

“A serious gent’man,” said Senka, looking at the door.

“Yesterday’s were more serious,” the counterman whispered and smacked the lad on the back of his close-cropped head. “The sort of gentlemen who’d rip your head off without any police or anything. You take care, Senka, keep your mouth shut. Anyway, they probably slipped you something, didn’t they?”

“Prof. Semyonich, by Christ the Lord,” the boy jabbered, blinking rapidly. “I can swear on a sacred holy icon! All they give me was fifteen kopecks, and I took that to the chapel and lit a candle for the peace of my mother’s soul…”

“What d’you mean, fifteen kopecks! Don’t give me any of your lies. Took it to the chapel!” The man raised his hand to strike Senka, but the boy dodged away nimbly, picked up his tray, and dashed off to answer a summons from a customer.

Erast Petrovich set aside his Moscow Gazette and went up to the counter.

“Was that man from the police?” he asked with an air of extreme displeasure. “I haven’t come here just to d-drink tea, my dear fellow, I am waiting for Miss Wanda. Why are the police interested in her?”

The counterman looked him up and down and asked cautiously: “You mean to say you’ve got an appointment, sir?”

“I should say I have an appointment! Didn’t I tell you I was waiting?” The young man’s blue eyes expressed extreme concern. “But I don’t want anything to do with the police. Mademoiselle Wanda was recommended to me as a respectable girl, and now I find the p-police here! It’s a good thing I’m wearing a frock coat and not my uniform.”

“Don’t worry, Yer Onner,” the counterman reassured the nervous customer. “The young lady’s not some cheap bar girl; it’s all top-class service with her. There’s others come in their uniform and don’t count it no shame.”

“In uniform?” The young man couldn’t believe it. “What, even officers?”

The counterman and young Senka, who had reappeared, exchanged glances and laughed.

“Aim a bit higher,” the boy chortled. “Even gen’rals comes visiting. And the manner of their visiting is a sight to see. Arrives on their own two feet, they does, then afterward they ‘as to be carried out. That’s the kind of gay mam’selle she is!”

Prof. Semyonich gave the joker a clout on the ear.

“Don’t go talking nonsense, Senka. I told you to keep your mouth shut.”

Erast Petrovich frowned squeamishly and went back to his table, but he did not feel like reading about the tunnel any longer. He was far too impatient to have a talk with Mademoiselle Helga Ivanovna Tolle.

The collegiate assessor’s wait was mercifully brief. After about five minutes the waiter he had spoken to came darting into the buffet and bent down and whispered in his ear: “The lady’s arrived. How shall I announce you?”

Fandorin took a calling card out of his tortoiseshell wallet and after a moment’s thought wrote several words on it with a little silver pencil.

“There, g-give her that.”

The waiter carried out his commission and was back in a trice to announce: “She asks you to come. Kindly follow me. I’ll show you through.”

Outside it was already getting dark. Erast Petrovich examined the annex, of which Miss Wanda occupied the entire ground floor. It was clear enough why this lady required a separate entrance — her visitors evidently preferred matters to remain discreet. Protruding above the tall ground-floor windows was a first-floor balcony, perched on the shoulders of an entire brood of caryatids. Generally speaking, the amount of molding on the facade was clearly excessive, in keeping with the bad taste of the 1860s, which all the signs indicated was when this frivolous building had been erected.

The waiter rang the electric bell and, having received his ruble, withdrew with a bow, striving so diligently to display absolute tact and understanding that he actually tiptoed all the way back across the yard.

The door opened and Fandorin saw before him a slim, slight woman with high- combed, ash-blond hair and huge, tantalizing green eyes — although at that moment he read caution rather than mockery in the gaze of their owner.

“Come in, mysterious visitor,” the woman said in a low, resonant voice for which the most fitting epithet would have to be the poetic term ‘bewitching’. Despite the tenant’s German name, Fandorin did not catch even the slightest trace of an accent in her speech.

The suite occupied by Mademoiselle Wanda consisted of a hallway and a spacious drawing room, which apparently also served as a boudoir.

It occurred to Erast Petrovich that in view of his hostess’s profession this was entirely natural, and he felt embarrassed at the thought, for Miss Wanda did not resemble a woman of easy virtue. She showed her visitor into the room, sat down in a soft Turkish armchair, crossed one leg over the other, and stared in anticipation at the young man, who had halted motionless in the doorway. The electric lighting gave Fandorin an opportunity to examine Wanda and her accommodations more closely.

She was not a classic beauty — that was the first thing that Erast Petrovich noted. A little too snub-nosed, he thought, and her mouth was a little too wide, and her cheekbones protruded more noticeably than was permitted by the classical canon. But none of these imperfections weakened the overall impression of quite uncommon loveliness — on the contrary, in some strange manner they actually reinforced it. He felt as if he could simply go on and on looking at that face — there was so much life and feeling in it, as well as that magical quality known as femininity, which defies description in words, but is unerringly discerned by any man. Well, then, if Mademoiselle Wanda was so popular in Moscow, it meant that Muscovite taste was not so very bad, reasoned Erast Petrovich, and he regretfully tore himself away from the contemplation of the amazing face to look carefully around the room. An absolutely Parisian interior in a color range from claret to mauve, with a deep carpet, comfortable and expensive furniture, numerous table and floor lamps with colorful shades, Chinese figurines, and, on the wall — the very latest chic — Japanese prints of geishas and Kabuki-theater actors. In the far corner there was an alcove behind two columns, but a sense of delicacy obliged Fandorin to avert his gaze from that direction.

“What is ‘everything’?” asked his hostess, breaking a silence that had clearly lasted too long, and Erast Petrovich shivered at the almost physical sensation of that magical voice setting the secret, rarely touched strings of his heart quivering.

The collegiate assessor’s face expressed polite incomprehension, and Wanda declared impatiently: “Mr. Fandorin, on your card it says ‘I know everything’. What is ‘everything’? And who are you, as a matter of fact?”

“Deputy for special assignments to Governor-General Prince Dolgorukoi,” Erast Petrovich replied calmly. “Assigned to investigate the circumstances of the demise of Adjutant General Sobolev.”

Seeing his hostess’s slim eyebrows shoot up, Fandorin remarked: “Do not pretend, mademoiselle, that you did not know about the general’s death. As for the note on my card, that was written to deceive you. I know far from everything, but I do know the most important thing. Mikhail Dmitrievich Sobolev died in this room at about one o’clock this morning.”

Wanda shuddered and put her thin hands to her throat, as though she suddenly felt cold, but she said nothing. Erast Petrovich nodded in satisfaction and continued: “You have not given anyone away, mademoiselle, or broken the word that you gave. The officers themselves are to blame — they covered their tracks far too clumsily. I shall b-be frank with you in the hope of receiving equal frankness in return. I am in possession of the following information.” He closed his eyes in order not to be distracted by the subtle pattern of white and pink tones that had appeared on the woman’s agitated face. “From the Dusseaux restaurant you came directly here with Sobolev and his retinue. It was then shortly before midnight. An hour later the general was already dead. The officers carried him out of here, pretending that he was drunk, and took him back to the hotel. If you will complete the picture of what happened, I will try to spare you interrogation at the police station. And, by the way, the police have already been here — the hotel staff will probably tell you about it. So let me assure you that it would be much better to make your explanations to me.”

The collegiate assessor paused, calculating that more than enough had already been said. Wanda rose abruptly to her feet, took a Persian shawl from the back of a chair, and threw it across her shoulders, although the evening was warm, almost hot. She walked around the room twice, glancing from time to time at the expectant functionary. Finally she stopped, facing him.

“Well, at least you don’t look like a policeman. Have a seat. This story might take some time.”

She indicated a plump divan covered with embroidered cushions, but Erast Petrovich preferred to take a seat on a chair. An intelligent woman, he decided. Strong. Coolheaded. She won’t tell me the whole truth, but she won’t lie to me, either.

“I met the great hero yesterday, in the restaurant at the Dusseaux,” Wanda said, taking a small brocade pouffe and sitting beside Fandorin, positioning herself, in fact, so close to him that she was looking up into his face from below. In this foreshortened perspective she appeared alluringly helpless, like some oriental slave girl at the feet of a pasha. Erast Petrovich shifted uncomfortably on his chair, but to move away would have been ridiculous.

“A handsome man. Of course, I had heard a lot about him, but I never suspected that he was so very good-looking. Especially his cornflower-blue eyes.” Wanda pensively ran one hand across her brow, as if she were driving away the memory. “I sang for him. He invited me to sit at his table. I don’t know what you have been told about me, but I am sure most of it is lies. I am no hypocrite; I am a free, modern woman, and I decide for myself who to love.” She glanced defiantly at Fandorin and he saw that now she was talking without pretense or affectation. “If I take a liking to a man and decide that he must be mine, I don’t drag him to the altar, the way your ‘respectable’ women do. No, I am not ‘respectable’ — in the sense that I do not accept your definition of respectability.”

This is no slave girl, there is no defenselessness here, Erast Petrovich thought in astonishment, looking down at those sparkling emerald-green eyes; she is more like the queen of the Amazons. He could easily imagine her driving men insane with these impetuous transitions from arrogant defiance to submissiveness and back again.

“Could you please stick more c-closely to the subject,” Fandorin said dryly out loud, trying hard not to give way to inappropriate feelings.

“I could hardly be closer,” the Amazon queen teased him. “It is not you who buy me, it is I who take you, and I make you pay me for it! How many of your ‘respectable’ women would be only too happy to be unfaithful to their husbands with the White General in secret, skulking like thieves? But I am free and I have no need to hide. Yes, I found Sobolev attractive,” she said, suddenly changing her tone of voice again, from challenging to cunning. “Yes, why should I pretend I was not flattered by the idea of adding such a big, bright specimen to my butterfly collection? And after that…” Wanda twitched her shoulder. “It was the usual thing. We came here, drank some wine. But what occurred then, I don’t remember very well. My head was spinning. Before I knew what was going on, we were over there, in the alcove.” She laughed hoarsely, but almost immediately her laughter broke off and the light in her eyes faded. “After that it was horrible, I don’t want to remember it. Don’t make me tell you the physiological details, all right? You wouldn’t wish that on anyone — a lover in the very height of his passion suddenly stopping like that and falling on you like a deadweight…”

Wanda sobbed and angrily wiped away a tear.

Erast Petrovich followed her expression and intonation carefully. She appeared to be telling the truth. After an appropriate pause, Fandorin asked, “Did your meeting with the general take place by chance?”

“Yes. That is, of course, not entirely. I heard that the White General was staying at the Dusseaux. I was curious to take a look at him.”

“And did Mikhail Dmitrievich drink a lot of wine here with you?”

“Not at all. Half a bottle of Chateau d’Yquem.”

Erast Petrovich was surprised.

“Did he bring the wine with him?”

“No, what makes you think that?”

“Well, you see, mademoiselle, I knew the deceased quite well. Chateau d’Yquem was his favorite wine. How could you have known that?”

Wanda fluttered her slim fingers vaguely.

“I didn’t know it at all. But I am also fond of Chateau d’Yquem. It would seem that the general and I had many things in common. What a pity that the acquaintance proved to be so brief.” She laughed bitterly and cast a seemingly casual glance at the clock on the mantelpiece.

The movement was not lost on Fandorin and he deliberately paused for a moment before continuing with the interrogation.

“Well, what happened next is clear. You were frightened. You probably screamed. The officers came running in, they t-tried to revive Sobolev. Did they call a doctor?”

“No, it was obvious that he was dead. The officers almost tore me to pieces.” She laughed again, this time in anger rather than bitterness. “One of them, in a Circassian coat, was especially furious. He kept repeating that it was a disgrace, a threat to the entire cause, shouting about death in a cheap whore’s bed.” Wanda smiled disagreeably, revealing her white, perfectly even teeth. “And there was a Cossack captain who threatened me, too. First he sobbed a bit, then he said he would kill me if I said anything and offered me money. I took his money, by the way. And I took his threats seriously, too. You never know; I might go down in history as some kind of new Delilah. What do you think, Monsieur Fandorin, will they write about me in school textbooks?”

And she laughed again, this time with a clear note of defiance.

“Hardly,” Erast Petrovich said pensively.

The overall picture was clear now. And so was the reason for the obstinacy with which the officers had tried to protect their secret. A national hero could not die like that. It was so improper. Not Russian, somehow. The French would probably have forgiven their idol, but here in Russia it would be regarded as a national disgrace.

Well, then, Miss Wanda had nothing to worry about. It was up to the governor, of course, to decide her fate, but Fandorin was willing to guarantee that the authorities would not discommode the free-spirited songstress by opening an official investigation.

It might have seemed that the case could be regarded as closed, but Erast Petrovich was an inquisitive man and there was one small circumstance that was still nagging at him. Wanda had already glanced surreptitiously at the clock several times, and the collegiate assessor thought that he could sense a mounting anxiety in those fleeting glances. Meanwhile the hand on the clock was gradually approaching the hour — in five minutes it would be exactly ten. Could Miss Wanda perhaps be expecting a visitor at ten o’clock? Could this circumstance be the reason for her being so frank and forthcoming? Fandorin hesitated. On the one hand, it would be interesting to discover whom his hostess was expecting at such a late hour. On the other hand, Erast Petrovich had been taught from an early age not to impose on ladies. In a situation like this, a cultured man said his farewells and left, especially when he had already obtained what he came for. What should he do?

His hesitation was resolved by the following commonsense consideration: If he were to linger until ten and wait for the visitor to arrive, then he would probably see him, but unfortunately in Erast Petrovich’s presence no conversation would take place — and he wanted very much to hear what that conversation would be about.

Therefore Erast Petrovich got to his feet, thanked his hostess for her frankness, and took his leave, which was clearly a great relief to Mademoiselle Wanda. However, once outside the door of the annex, Fandorin did not set out across the yard. He halted as if he were brushing a speck of dirt off his shoulder and looked around at the windows to see if Wanda was watching. She was not. Which was only natural — any normal woman who has just been left by one guest and is expecting another will dash to the mirror, not the window.

Erast Petrovich also surveyed the brightly lit windows of the hotel’s suites, just to be on the safe side, then set his foot on the low protruding border of the wall, nimbly levered himself against the slanting surface of the windowsill, pulled himself up, and a moment later he was above the window of Wanda’s bedroom- cum-drawing room, half-lying on a horizontal projection that crowned its upper border. The young man arranged himself on his side on the narrow cornice, with his foot braced against the chest of one caryatid and his hand grasping the sturdy neck of another. He squirmed to and fro for a moment and froze — that is, applying the science of the Japanese ninjas, or ‘stealthy ones,’ he turned to stone, water, grass. Dissolved into the landscape. From a strategic point of view, the position was ideal: Fandorin could not be seen from the yard — it was too dark, and the shadow of the balcony provided additional cover — and he was even less visible from the room. But he himself could see the entire yard and through the window left open in the summer warmth he could hear any conversation in the drawing room. Given the desire and a certain degree of double-jointed elasticity, it was even possible for him to hang down and glance in through the gap between the curtains.

There was one drawback — the uncomfortable nature of the position. No normal man would have held on for long in such a contorted pose, especially on a stone support only four inches wide. But the supreme degree of mastery in the ancient art of the ‘stealthy ones’ does not consist in the ability to kill the enemy with bare hands or to jump down from a high fortress wall — oh, no. The highest achievement for a ninja is to master the great art of immobility. Only an exceptional master can stand for six or eight hours without moving a single muscle. Erast Petrovich had not become an exceptional master, for he was too old when he took up the study of this noble and terrible art, but in the present case he could take comfort in the fact that his fusion with the landscape was unlikely to last long. The secret of any difficult undertaking is simple: One must regard the difficulty not as an evil, but as a blessing. After all, the noble man finds his greatest pleasure in overcoming the imperfections of his nature. That was what one should think about when the imperfections were particularly distressing — for instance, when a sharp stone corner was jabbing fiercely into one’s side.

During the second minute of this delectable pleasure, the back door of the hotel Anglia opened and the silhouette of a man appeared — thickset, moving confidently and rapidly. Fandorin caught only a glimpse of the face, just as the man entered the rectangle of light falling from the window in front of the door. It was an ordinary face, with no distinctive features: oval, with close-set eyes, light- colored hair, slightly protruding brow ridges, a mustache curled in the Prussian manner, an average nose, a dimple in the square chin. The stranger entered Wanda’s residence without knocking, which was interesting in itself. Erast Petrovich strained his ears to catch every sound. Voices began speaking in the room almost immediately, and it became clear that hearing alone would not be enough — he would also have to call on his knowledge of German, for the conversation was conducted in the language of Schiller and Goethe. In his time as a grammar school boy, Fandorin had not greatly excelled in this art, and so the main focus in the overcoming of his own imperfections shifted quite naturally from the discomfort of his posture to intellectual effort. However, it is an ill wind… The sharp stone corner was miraculously forgotten.

“You serve me badly, Fraulein Tolle,” a harsh baritone declared. “Of course, it is good that you came to your senses and did as you were ordered. But why did you have to be so obstinate and cause me such pointless nervous aggravation? I am not a machine, after all; I am a living human being.”

“Oh, really?” Wanda’s voice replied derisively.

“Really, just imagine. You carried out your assignment after all — and quite superbly. But why did I have to learn about it from a journalist I know, and not from you? Are you deliberately trying to anger me? I wouldn’t advise it!” The baritone acquired a steely ring. “Have you forgotten what I can do to you?”

Wanda’s voice replied wearily: “No, I remember, Herr Knabe, I remember.”

At this point Erast Petrovich cautiously leaned down and glanced into the room, but the mysterious Herr Knabe was standing with his back to the window. He took off his bowler hat, revealing a couple of minor details: smoothly combed hair (a third-degree blond with a slight reddish tinge, Fandorin ascertained, applying the special police terminology) and a thick red neck (which appeared to be at least size six).

“All right, all right, I forgive you. Come on, don’t sulk.”

The visitor patted his hostess’s cheek with his short-fingered hand and kissed her below the ear. Wanda’s face was in the light and Erast Petrovich saw her subtle features contort in a grimace of revulsion.

Unfortunately, he was obliged to curtail his visual observation — one moment longer, and Fandorin would have gone crashing to the ground, which under the circumstances would have been most unfortunate.

“Tell me all about it.” The man’s voice had assumed an ingratiating tone. “How did you do it? Did you use the substance that I gave you? Yes or no?”

Silence.

“Obviously not. The autopsy didn’t reveal any traces of poison — I know that. Who would have thought that things would go as far as an autopsy? Well, then, what actually did happen? Or were we lucky and he simply died on his own? Then that was surely the hand of Providence. God protects our Germany.” The baritone quavered in agitation. “Why do you not say anything?”

Wanda said in a low, dull voice: “Go away. I can’t see you today.”

“More feminine whimsy. How sick I am of it! All right, all right, don’t glare at me like that. A great deed has been accomplished, and that is the main thing. Well done, Fraulein Tolle; I’m leaving. But tomorrow you will tell me everything. I shall need it for my report.”

There was the sound of a prolonged kiss and Erast Petrovich winced, recalling the look of revulsion on Wanda’s face. The door slammed.

Herr Knabe whistled as he cut across the yard and disappeared.

Fandorin dropped to the ground without a sound and stretched in relief, straightening his numbed limbs, before he set off in pursuit of Wanda’s acquaintance. This case was acquiring an entirely new complexion.