The Death of Achilles

SEVEN

In which everyone mourns and Fandorin wastes his time

From early on Sunday morning, the incessant pealing drifted across a tranquil sky, bleached almost white by brilliant sunlight. The day seemed to have turned out fine, and the golden onion domes of the innumerable churches shone so brightly that it made you blink to look at them. But the heart of this city sprawling across the low hills was filled with a chill anguish, and there was a doleful and despondent cadence to the constant droning of those far-famed bells — today the grieving people of Moscow were praying for the eternal repose of the recently departed servant of God, Mikhail.

The deceased had lived for a long time in St. Petersburg and only made brief, flying visits to Russia’s ancient capital, and yet Moscow had loved him more intensely than had cold, bureaucratic Peter, loved him with a devoted, womanly love, without sparing too much thought for the true virtues of its idol — it was enough that he was dashingly handsome and famed for his victories. And above all Sobolev was beloved of Muscovites because in him they sensed a genuine Russian soul, untainted by foreign arrogance and duplicity. This was the reason why lithographs of the bushy-bearded White General wielding his keen-edged saber hung in almost every house in Moscow, whether the inhabitants were minor functionaries, merchants, or bourgeois.

The city had not manifested such great grief even in March of the previous year, when the requiem was held for the treacherously slain emperor Alexander the Liberator, after which people had worn mourning for a whole year, without dressing up smartly, or organizing any festivities, or styling their hair or staging any comedies in the theaters.

Long before the funeral procession set out across the center of the city to Krasnye Vorota, where the requiem was due to be celebrated in the Church of the Three Hierarchs, the pavements, windows, balconies, and even roofs along Theater Lane, Lubyanka Street, and Myasnitskaya Street were thronged with hordes of spectators. Little boys perched in trees, and the most audacious of them even clung to drainpipes. The forces of the city garrison and cadets from the Alexander and Junker colleges were drawn up in ranks that lined the entire route to be traveled by the hearse. The funeral train — fifteen carriages decorated all over with flags, St. George crosses, and oak leaves — was already waiting at the Ryazan Station. Since St. Petersburg had chosen not to bid farewell to the hero, it was Mother Russia herself who would say the final good-bye, and her heart lay midway between Moscow and Ryazan, where the White General would finally be laid to rest in the village of Spasskoe in the district of Ranenburg.

The procession extended for a good verst. There were more than twenty velvet cushions bearing the orders and decorations of the deceased, with the Star of St. George, first class, carried by the commander of the St. Petersburg military district, General of Infantry Ganetsky. And the wreaths, all those wreaths! A huge one from the traders of Okhotny Ryad, and from the English Club, and the Moscow Bourgeois Council, and the Cavaliers of St. George — far too many to list them all. The hearse — a gun carriage covered with crimson velvet and surmounted by a canopy of gold — was preceded by heralds on horseback bearing inverted torches and the masters of ceremonies — the governor-general of Moscow and war minister. The coffin was followed by a solitary rider on a black Arabian steed — the brother and personal representative of the sovereign, Grand Duke Kirill Alexandrovich. Behind him came Sobolev’s famous snow-white Akhaltekin, draped with a black blanket of mourning, with adjutants leading him by the bridle. Then came the guard of honor, marching in slow time, carrying yet more wreaths, more modest in size, and the most important guests, walking along with their heads uncovered — high officials, generals, members of the Municipal Duma, financial magnates. It was a magnificent, quite incomparable spectacle.

Then, as though suddenly ashamed of its misplaced brightness, the June sunshine hid itself behind dark clouds. The day turned gray, and when the procession reached Krasnye Vorota, where a hundred thousand mourners stood sobbing and crossing themselves, a fine, miserable drizzle began to fall. Nature was finally in harmony with the mood of human society.

Fandorin squeezed his way through the dense crowd, trying to find the chief of police. He had gone to the general’s home on Tverskoi Boulevard shortly after seven, when it was barely light, but he had come too late — they told him that His Excellency had already left for the hotel Dusseaux. This was serious business, a special day, and a great responsibility. And everything depended on Evgeny Osipovich.

Then a string of misfortunes had followed. At the door of the hotel Dusseaux, a captain of gendarmes informed Erast Petrovich that the general “was here just this minute and went galloping off to the department.” But Karachentsev was not at the department on Malaya Nikitskaya Street, either — he had dashed away to restore order in front of the church, where people were in danger of being crushed.

Of course, Erast Petrovich’s urgent little matter of vital importance could have been decided by the governor-general. There was no need to search for him — there he was, clearly visible from all sides, at the very head of the procession, perched on his dappled-gray horse with a seat as firm as a bronze Cavalry Guard. No point in trying to get anywhere near him.

In the Church of the Three Hierarchs, which Fandorin was only able to enter thanks to the timely appearance of the prince’s secretary, things were no better. By applying the science of the ‘stealthy ones,’ Erast Petrovich was able to squeeze his way through almost to the very coffin, but there the backs closed together in a sheer, impenetrable wall. Vladimir Andreevich Dolgorukoi, with a solemn face and pomaded hair, his bulging eyes moist with old man’s tears, was standing nearby with the Grand Duke and the Duke of Liechtenburg. It was absolutely impossible to talk with him, and even if it had been possible, at that moment it was unlikely that he would have appreciated the urgency of the matter.

Furious in his helplessness, Fandorin listened to the touching sermon by the Reverend Amvrosii, who was expounding the inscrutability of the ways of the Lord. A pale and agitated young cadet declaimed a long verse epitaph in a ringing voice, concluding with the words:

And did not he our foemen proud Inspire with dread and trepidation? Though his remains lie in the ground, His spirit lives, our inspiration. Not for the first time, or even the second, everybody there shed a tear, shuffling their feet and reaching for their handkerchiefs. The ceremony proceeded with a lack of haste that befitted the occasion.

And meanwhile precious time was slipping away.

The previous night Fandorin had been informed of circumstances that cast an entirely new light on the case. His nighttime visitor, whom his servant, unaccustomed to the European canon of beauty, had considered old and ugly, while his romantically inclined master had thought her intriguing and quite lovely, had proved to be a teacher at the girls’ secondary school in Minsk, Ekaterina Alexandrovna Golovina. Despite her frail frame and clearly agitated emotional state, Ekaterina Alexandrovna had expressed herself with a resoluteness and directness most untypical of secondary-school teachers — either it was her natural manner, or grief had hardened her.

“Mr. Fandorin,” she began, enunciating every syllable with deliberate clarity, “I should explain to you immediately the nature of the relationship that bound me to the, the… deceased.” It was almost impossible for her to get the word out. A line of suffering creased her high, clear forehead, but her voice did not tremble. A Spartan woman, thought Erast Petrovich, a genuine Spartan. “Otherwise you will not understand why I know what no one else does, not even Mikhail Dmitrievich’s closest aides. Michel and I loved each other.” Miss Golovina looked inquiringly at Fandorin and, evidently unsatisfied by the politely attentive expression on his face, felt it necessary to clarify the point. “I was his lover.”

Ekaterina Alexandrovna pressed her clenched fists to her breast, and at that moment Fandorin thought once again that she resembled Wanda; when she was speaking about her free love, there was that same expression of defiance and expectation of being insulted. The collegiate assessor continued looking at the young lady in exactly the same way — politely and without the slightest hint of condemnation. She sighed and explained to the dolt one more time: “We lived as man and wife, you understand? And so he was more open with me than with others.”

“I understand that, madam, please do go on,” said Erast Petrovich, opening his mouth for the first time.

“But surely you know that Michel had a lawful wife,” said Ekaterina Alexandrovna, still feeling the need to elaborate, making it clear from her entire bearing that she wished to avoid leaving anything unsaid and was not in the least ashamed of her status.

“I know, the Princess Titova by birth. However, she and Mikhail Dmitrievich separated a long time ago, and she has not even come for the funeral. Tell me about the briefcase.”

“Yes, yes,” said Golovina, suddenly confused. “But let me start at the beginning. Because first I must explain. A month ago, Michel and I had a quarrel…” She blushed. “In fact, we parted and did not see each other again. He left for maneuvers, then came back to Minsk for a day and then immediately—”

“I am aware of Mikhail Dmitrievich’s movements over the last month,” Fandorin said politely but firmly, redirecting his visitor to the main theme.

She hesitated, then suddenly said very clearly: “But are you aware, sir, that in May Michel cashed in all his shares and securities, drew all the money out of his accounts, mortgaged his Ryazan estate, and also took a large loan from a bank?”

“What for?” asked Erast Petrovich, frowning.

Ekaterina Alexandrovna lowered her gaze.

“That I do not know. He had some secret business that was very important to him, which he did not wish to tell me about. I was angry, we quarreled… I never shared Michel’s political views — Russia for the Russians, a united Slavdom, our own non-European path, and similar preposterous nonsense. Our final and conclusive quarrel was also caused in part by this. But there was something else. I sensed that I was no longer at the center of his life. There was something new in it, more important than me…” She blushed. “Or perhaps, not something, but someone… Well, that is all immaterial. The truly important thing is something else.” Golovina lowered her voice. “All the money was in a briefcase that Michel bought in Paris during his tour in February. Brown leather, with two silver locks with little keys.”

Fandorin half-closed his eyes as he tried to remember if there had been a briefcase like that among the dead man’s things during the search of suite 47. No, definitely not.

“He told me he would need the money for a trip to Moscow and St. Petersburg,” the teacher continued. “The trip was due to take place at the end of June, immediately after the maneuvers were over. You did not find the briefcase among his things, did you?”

Erast Petrovich shook his head.

“And Gukmasov says that the briefcase disappeared. Michel never let go of it, and in the hotel room he locked it in the safe — Gukmasov saw him do it. But then afterward, after… when Prokhor Akhrameevich opened the safe, there was nothing in it except a few papers; the briefcase wasn’t there. Gukmasov didn’t make anything of it, because he was in a state of shock, and anyway he had no idea what a huge sum the briefcase contained.”

“What was th-the sum?”

“To the best of my knowledge, more than a million rubles,” Ekaterina Alexandrovna said quietly.

Erast Petrovich whistled in surprise, for which he immediately apologized. This was decidedly ominous news. Secret business? What sort of secret business could an adjutant general, general of infantry, and corps commander have? And what kind of papers had been lying in the safe? When Fandorin looked into the safe in the presence of the chief of police, it was completely empty. Why had Gukmasov felt it necessary to conceal the papers from the police? This was very serious. And, most important of all, the sum was huge, quite incredibly huge. What could Sobolev have needed it for? And the key question — where had it gone?

Peering into the collegiate assessor’s preoccupied face, Ekaterina Alexandrovna spoke quickly and passionately.

“He was murdered, I know it. Because of that accursed million rubles. And then somehow they faked a death from natural causes. Michel was strong, a true warrior, his heart would have withstood a hundred years of battles and turmoil — it was made for turmoil.”

“Yes,” said Erast Petrovich, with a sympathetic nod. “That is what everybody says.”

“That is why I did not insist on marriage,” said Golovina, without listening to him. Bright pink now from the turbulence of her emotions, she continued: “I felt that I had no right, that his mission in life was different, that he could not belong just to one woman, and I didn’t want the leftover crumbs… My God, what am I saying! Forgive me.” She put her hand over her eyes and after that spoke more slowly, with an effort. “When the telegram from Gukmasov arrived yesterday, I dashed to the railway station immediately. Even then I didn’t believe in this ‘paralysis of the heart,’ and when I learned that the briefcase had disappeared… He was murdered, there can be no doubt about it.” She suddenly seized hold of Fandorin’s arm, and he was amazed at how much strength there was in her slim fingers. “Find the murderer! Prokhor Akhrameevich says that you are an analytical genius, that you can do anything. Do it! He couldn’t have died of heart failure! You didn’t know that man as I did!”

At this point she finally began weeping bitterly, thrusting her face against the collegiate assessor’s chest like a child. As he awkwardly embraced the young woman around the shoulders, Erast Petrovich remembered how only recently he had embraced Wanda, in quite different circumstances. Identically frail, defenseless shoulders, an identical scent from the hair. It seemed clear now why the general had been attracted to the songstress — she must have reminded the general of his love in Minsk.

“Naturally, I didn’t know him as you did,” Fandorin said gently. “But I did know Mikhail Dmitrievich well enough to doubt that his death was natural. A man of that kind does not die a natural death.”

Erast Petrovich seated the young woman, still shuddering and sobbing, in an armchair and he himself began walking around the room. Suddenly he clapped his hands loudly eight times. Ekaterina Alexandrovna started and stared at the young man through eyes gleaming with tears.

“Pay no attention,” Fandorin hastened to reassure her. “It is an oriental exercise to aid concentration. Very helpful in setting aside what is merely incidental and focusing on the fundamental. Let’s go.”

He strode resolutely out into the corridor and Golovina, dumbfounded by the suddenness of it, dashed after him. As he went, Erast Petrovich spoke rapidly to Masa, who was waiting behind the door.

“Get the travel bag with the tools and catch up with us.”

Thirty seconds later, as Fandorin and his companion were still descending the staircase, the Japanese was already at their heels, walking with small, quick steps and panting at his master’s back. In one hand the servant was holding the travel bag in which all the tools required for an investigation were kept — numerous items that the detective found useful and even vital.

In the lobby Erast Petrovich called the night porter over and told him to open suite 47.

“That’s quite impossible,” the porter said with a shrug. “The gentlemen gendarmes put up a seal and confiscated the key.” He lowered his voice: “The dead man’s in there, God rest his soul. They’ll come to get him at dawn. The funeral’s in the morning.”

“A seal? Well, at least they didn’t leave a guard of honor,” muttered Fandorin. “That would have been really silly — a guard of honor in a bedroom. All right, I’ll open it myself. Follow me — you can light the candles.”

The collegiate assessor walked into the ‘Sobolev’ corridor and tore the wax seal from the door with an intrepid hand. He took a bundle of picks out of the travel bag and a minute later he was inside the suite.

The porter lit the candles, glancing warily out of the corner of his eye at the closed door of the bedroom and crossing himself with small, rapid movements. Ekaterina Alexandrovna also looked at the white rectangle behind which the embalmed body lay. Her gaze froze, spellbound, and her lips moved soundlessly, but Fandorin had no time for the teacher and her sufferings just at the moment — he was working. He dealt with the second seal just as unceremoniously, and the pick was not required — the bedroom door was not locked.

“Well, don’t just stand there!” said Erast Petrovich, with an impatient glance at his servant. “Bring the candles in.”

And he stepped into the kingdom of death.

The coffin was closed, thank goodness — otherwise he would probably have had to attend to the young woman instead of getting on with the job at hand. There was an open prayer book lying at the head of the bed, with a thick church candle guttering beside it.

“Madam,” Fandorin called, turning back toward the drawing room. “I ask you please not to come in here. You will only be in the way.” He added to Masa in Japanese, “The flashlight, quick!”

Once equipped with the English electric flashlight, he moved straight to the safe. Shining the flashlight on the keyhole, he said brusquely over his shoulder: “Magnifying glass number four.”

Well, well. They’d certainly given the door a good groping — just look at all those fingerprints! The year before last, in Japan, with the help of a certain Professor Garding, Erast Petrovich had been successful in solving a mysterious double murder in the English settlement after taking fingerprints at the scene of the crime. The new method had created a genuine furor, but it would be years before a dactyloscopic laboratory and card index could be set up in Russia. Ah, such a pity — these were such clear prints, and right beside the keyhole. All right, then, what would we find inside?

“Magnifying glass number six.”

Under strong magnification, fresh scratches were clearly visible — indicating that the safe was probably opened with a pick instead of the key. In addition, strangely enough, there were traces of some white substance left in the lock. Fandorin took a pinch of it with a pair of miniature forceps. On inspection, it appeared to be wax. Curious.

“Is that where he was sitting?” asked a thin, tense voice behind him.

Erast Petrovich swung around in annoyance. Ekaterina Alexan-drovna was standing in the doorway, clutching her elbows in her hands as if she felt cold. The young lady was not looking at the coffin; she was even making an effort to avert her eyes from it by gazing at the chair in which Sobolev had supposedly died. There is no need for her to know where it really happened, Fandorin thought.

“I asked you not to come in here!” he shouted sternly at the teacher, because in these situations sternness is more effective than sympathy. Let the dead hero’s lover remember why they had come here in the middle of the night. Remember and take herself in hand. Golovina turned away without speaking and walked out into the drawing room.

“Sit down!” Fandorin said loudly. “This could take some time.”

The thorough examination of the suite took more than two hours. The porter, whose fear of the coffin had now subsided, found himself a comfortable perch in the corner and fell into a quiet doze. Masa followed his master around like a shadow, humming a little tune and from time to time handing him the tools he required. Ekaterina Alexandrovna did not appear in the bedroom again. Fandorin glanced out once and saw her sitting at the table, with her forehead resting on her crossed arms. As if sensing Erast Petrovich’s gaze, she sat up abruptly and turned the searing glance of her immense eyes on him, but she did not ask any questions.

Not until it was already dawn, and the flashlight was no longer needed, did Fandorin find the clue. The faint print of the sole of a shoe was barely visible on the sill of the far left window — a narrow print, as if it had been left by a woman, although the shoe was quite clearly a man’s. Through the magnifying glass it was even possible to make out a very faint pattern of crosses and stars. Erast Petrovich raised his head. The small upper pane of the window was open. If not for the footprint, he would have thought nothing of it — the opening was far too narrow as a means of entry.

“Hey, my good man, come on now, wake up,” he called to the drowsy porter. “Has the suite been cleaned?”

“Not a bit,” the man replied, rubbing his eyes. “How could it be? You can see for yourself, sir.” And he nodded his head at the coffin.

“And have the windows been opened?”

“I wouldn’t know. But it’s not very likely. They don’t open the windows in dead men’s rooms.”

Erast Petrovich examined the two other windows, but failed to discover anything else worthy of note.

At half past four, when the makeup artist and his assistants arrived to prepare Achilles for the final journey in his chariot, the search had to be terminated.

The collegiate assessor let the porter go and said good-bye to Ekaterina Alexandrovna, still without having told her anything. She shook his hand firmly, looked inquiringly into his eyes, and managed to avoid any superfluous words. He was right — she was a true Spartan.

Erast Petrovich was impatient to be left alone, in order to consider the results of the search and work out a plan of action. Despite a sleepless night, he didn’t feel at all drowsy or even slightly tired. When he got back to his room, he began his analysis.

At first sight, the nighttime search of suite 47 did not appear to have yielded a great deal, and yet the picture that emerged seemed clear enough.

In all honesty, the claim that the people’s hero had been killed for money had initially appeared improbable, or even preposterous, to Erast Petrovich. But, after all, someone had climbed in through the window, opened the safe, and made off with the briefcase. And it had had nothing to do with politics. The thief hadn’t taken the papers kept in the safe, although these were so important that Gukmasov had felt it necessary to extract them before the authorities arrived. So surely the burglar had only been interested in the briefcase?

There was one thing worth noting — the thief had known that Sobolev was not in the suite that night, and that he would not return suddenly. The safe had been opened with considerable care and no haste. But the most significant thing of all was that it hadn’t been left wide open, but carefully closed again, which certainly required a great deal more time and skill than opening it. Why had the additional risk been necessary, if the loss of the briefcase would be discovered by the hotel guest in any case? And why bother to climb out through the small window aperture when the large window could have been used? Conclusions?

Fandorin stood up and started walking around the room.

The thief knew that Sobolev wouldn’t be coming back to his suite. At least not alive. That was one.

He also knew that no one apart from the general would miss the briefcase, since only Sobolev himself knew about the million rubles. That was two.

All of the above indicated that the criminal was quite incredibly well-informed. That was three.

And naturally, four: The thief absolutely must be found. If only because he might be a murderer as well as a thief. A million rubles was a very serious incentive.

It was all very well to say that he must be found. But how?

Erast Petrovich sat down at the table and pulled a packet of writing paper toward him.

“The brush and the inkwell?” asked Masa, dashing over to the collegiate assessor from his position by the wall, where he had been standing motionless, even snuffling less loudly than usual in order not to prevent his master from comprehending the meaning of the Great Spiral, onto which all existent causes and consequences are threaded, from the very great to the extremely small. Fandorin nodded, continuing his deliberations.

Time was precious. Last night someone had made himself a million rubles richer. The thief and his loot could be far away by now. But if he were clever — and everything indicated that he was a wily individual — then he was avoiding any sudden moves and laying low.

Who would know professional safecrackers? His Excellency Evgeny Osipovich Karachentsev. Should Erast Petrovich pay him a visit? But the general was no doubt sleeping, restoring his strength for the arduous day ahead. And, in addition, he didn’t keep his card index of criminals at home. And there would be no one at the Criminal Investigation Department at such an early hour. Should Fandorin wait until it opened?

Oh, but did they even have a card index? Previously, when Fandorin himself had worked in the department, there were no such sophisticated arrangements in place. No, there was no point in waiting until morning.

Meanwhile, Masa rapidly ground up a stick of dry ink in a square lacquered bowl, added a few drops of water, dipped a brush in the ink, and handed it respectfully to Fandorin, posting himself directly behind his master, in order not to distract him from his calligraphic exercise.

Erast Petrovich slowly raised the brush and paused for a second, then painstakingly traced out on the paper the hieroglyph for ‘patience,’ trying to think of only one thing — making the form of the character ideal. The result was absolutely awful: crude lines, disharmonious elements, a blot on one side. The crumpled sheet of paper went flying to the floor. It was followed by a second, a third, a fourth. The brush moved ever faster, with ever greater assurance. The eighteenth attempt produced an absolutely irreproachable result.

“There, keep it,” said Fandorin, handing the masterpiece to Masa.

The servant admired it, smacked his lips in approval, and put it away in a special folder of rice paper.

Now Erast Petrovich knew what to do, and the simple and correct decision brought peace to his heart. Correct decisions are always simple. Has it not been said that the noble man does not embark on unfamiliar business until he has acquired wisdom from a teacher?

“Get ready, Masa,” said Fandorin. “We’re going to visit my old teacher.”

If there was anyone who might prove even more useful than a card index, it was Xavier Feofilaktovich Grushin, a former detective-inspector at the Criminal Investigation Department. The youthful Erast Petrovich had begun his career as a detective under his tolerant, fatherly tutelage, and although the term of their service together had not been a long one, he had learned a great deal from it. Grushin was old now, long since retired, but he knew all there was to know about the criminal underworld of Moscow, having studied it inside and out in his many years of service. There had been occasions when the twenty-year-old Fandorin had walked with him through the Khitrovka slum district or, say, along Grachyovka Street, a favorite bandits’ haunt, and he had been amazed to see how the grim-faced ruffians, nightmarish ragamuffins, and pomaded fops with shifty eyes would come up to the inspector, and every one of them would doff his hat, bow, and greet him. Xavier Feofilaktovich would whisper for a while with one of them, give another an amiable smack on the ear, and shake hands with a third. And immediately, after moving on a little, he would explain to his novice clerk: “That’s Tishka Siroi, a railway specialist — he works the stations, snatches suitcases out of cabs on the move. And that’s Gulya, a first-class swapper.” — “A swapper?” Erast Petrovich would inquire timidly, glancing around at the respectable-looking gentleman with his bowler hat and cane. “Why, yes, he trades in gold. He’s very clever at switching a genuine ring for a fake. Shows them a gold ring and slips them a gilded copper one. A respectable trade; requires great skill.” Grushin would stop beside some ‘players’ — rogues who use three thimbles to empty people’s pockets — then point and say: “See that, young man? Styopka just put the little ball of bread under the left thimble. But don’t you believe your eyes — the ball’s glued to his fingernail, so it can never stay under the thimble.”

“Then why don’t we arrest them, the swindlers!” Fandorin would exclaim passionately, but Grushin would only chuckle: “Everyone has to live somehow, my dear fellow. The only thing I ask of them is to have a conscience and never take the last shirt off a man’s back.”

The inspector was held in especially high regard among the criminals of Moscow — for his fairness, for the fact that he allowed birds of every feather to earn their living, and especially for his lack of cupidity. Unlike other police officers, Xavier Feofilaktovich did not take bribes, and therefore he never earned enough to buy himself a stone mansion, and when he retired he had settled in a modest house with a vegetable garden in the Zamoskvorechie district. While working in the diplomatic service in distant Japan, Erast Petrovich had from time to time received news from his old boss, and when he was transferred to Moscow he had decided that he must pay Grushin a visit as soon as he had settled in a little. But now it seemed that he would have to pay that visit right away.

As their cab rumbled across the Moskvoretsky Bridge, bathed in the first, uncertain rays of morning sunlight, Masa asked in concern: “Master, is Grushm- sensei simply a sensei or an onshi?” And he explained his doubts, with a disapproving shake of his head: “For a respectful visit to a sensei it is still too early, and for a highly respectful visit to an onshi it is even more so.”

A sensei is simply a teacher, but an onshi is something immeasurably greater: a teacher to whom one feels profound and sincere gratitude.

“I would say he is an onshi,” said Erast Petrovich, glancing at the broad red band of dawn that extended halfway across the sky, and confessed carelessly. “It is a little early, certainly. But then Grushin probably has insomnia anyway.”

Xavier Feofilaktovich was indeed not asleep. He was sitting at the window of the house, which, although it was little, was nonetheless his own, located in the labyrinth of narrow lanes between Greater Ordynka Street and Lesser Ordynka Street, and indulging in meditations on the peculiar properties of sleep. The fact that as a man grows older he sleeps less than in his youth seemed right and proper — what was the point of wasting the time when you would catch up on your sleep forever soon enough? But on the other hand, when you were young, you had so much more use for the time. Sometimes you would be dashing around from dawn till dusk, driving yourself to exhaustion, and if you only had just another hour or two, you could get everything done, but then you had to sacrifice eight hours to the pillow. The feeling of regret was sometimes so keen — but what could you do about it? Nature would claim what was hers by right. And now you dozed for an hour or two in the evening in the little front garden, and then you might go all night without sleeping a wink, but you had nothing to occupy yourself with. Times had changed; things were done differently now. The old dray horse had been retired to live out his life in a warm stall. And thank goodness for that, of course; it would be a sin to complain. But it was boring. His wife, may she rest easy in the ground, had passed away more than two years before. His only daughter, Sashenka, had upped and married a loud windbag of a midshipman and taken off with her husband to the other end of the world, to the city of Vladivostok. Of course, his cook, Nastasya, would prepare his meals and wash his clothes, but sometimes he felt like talking, too. And what could he talk about with an empty-headed woman like that? The price of kerosene and sunflower seeds?

But Grushin could still have made himself useful; oh, yes, very useful indeed. His strength was not completely exhausted yet, and his brain, thank God, still hadn’t begun to rust away. You don’t know your job, mister chief of police. Just how many villains had you caught with those idiotic Bertillonages of yours? People were afraid to walk around the streets of Moscow now — the footpads would have your billfold off you in an instant, and in the evenings you were as likely as not to get knocked on the head with a cosh.

His mental wrangles with his former bosses usually left Xavier Feofilaktovich in a state of depression. The retired inspector was honest with himself: The service would get by without him somehow or other, but life without the service was unbearably tedious for him. Ah, sometimes you would go out on an investigation in the morning and everything inside you was trembling like a spring wound up as tight as it would go. After your coffee and your first pipe your head was clear and your thoughts laid out the entire line of action without any effort. And now he could see that that had been happiness, that had been living. Lord, you would think I’d lived long enough already and seen more than enough in my time, but if only I could live a bit longer, sighed Grushin, glancing in disapproval at the sun peeping out from behind the roofs. The long, empty day would soon begin.

And the Lord heard him. Xavier Feofilaktovich squinted at the un-paved road with his long-sighted eyes — he thought he could see a carriage raising dust over in the direction of Pyatnitskaya Street. There were two riders: one wearing a tie, the other low and squat, wearing something green. Who could this be so early in the morning?

After the obligatory embraces, kisses, and questions, to which Grushin answered at great length, and Fandorin with great brevity, they got down to business. Erast Petrovich did not go into the details of the story, and in particular he did not mention Sobolev, but merely outlined the terms of the problem.

A safe had been cleaned out in a certain hotel. The signature was as follows: The lock had been picked rather sloppily — to judge from the scratches, the thief had fiddled with it for quite a while. A distinctive feature was that there were traces of wax inside the keyhole. The criminal possessed an exceptionally slender frame — he had climbed in through a small window opening only seven inches by fourteen. He was wearing boots or shoes with a pattern of crosses and stars on the sole, with a foot approximately nine inches long and a little less than three wide. Before Fandorin could even finish listing the terms of the problem, Xavier Feofilaktovich suddenly interrupted the young man.

“Boots.”

The collegiate assessor cast a startled sideways glance at Masa dozing in the corner. Had they perhaps wasted their time in coming here? Was the old onshi already in his dotage?

“What?”

“Boots,” the inspector repeated. “Not shoes. Box-calf boots, shined as bright as a mirror. He never wears anything else.”

Fandorin’s heart stood still. Cautiously, as if he were afraid of alarming Grushin, he asked: “Do you mean you know the thief?”

“I know him very well,” said Grushin, with a smile of satisfaction covering his entire soft, wrinkled face, which had far more skin than the skull required. “It’s Little Misha, can’t be anyone else. Only it’s strange that he fumbled with the safe for such a long time; opening a hotel safe is as simple as falling off a log for him. Misha is the only safecracker who climbs in through the small window, and his picks are always lubricated with wax — his ears are very sensitive and he can’t bear the sound of squeaking.”

“Little Misha? Who’s th-that?”

“Why, everybody knows him,” said Xavier Feofilaktovich, untying his tobacco pouch and taking his time to fill his pipe. “The king of Moscow’s ‘businessmen’. A first-rate safecracker, and not squeamish about getting his hands bloody, either. He’s also a lady’s man, a fence, and the leader of a gang. A master of a wide range of trades, a criminal Benvenuto Cellini. Very short — only two arshins and two vershoks. Puny, but he dresses in style. Cunning, resourceful, vicious, and cruel. An individual of considerable repute in Khitrovka.”

“So well known and still not doing hard labor?” Fandorin asked in surprise.

The inspector chortled and sucked on his pipe in delight — the first puff in the morning is always the sweetest.

“Just you try to put him away. I couldn’t manage it, and I doubt whether the present crowd will, either. The villain has his own men in the force — that’s for certain. The number of times I tried to nail him. I never even came close!” Grushin waved his hand dismissively. “He escapes from every raid. They tip him off, those well-wishers of his. And people are afraid of Misha. Oh, they’re really afraid! His gang are all cutthroats and murderers. They have plenty of respect for me over in Khitrovka, but you couldn’t rip a single word about Little Misha out of them with pliers. And they knew I wasn’t going to try ripping it out with pliers; the worst I’d do is punch someone in the teeth. But afterward Misha would pick them to pieces with red-hot pincers, never mind pliers. There was one time, four years ago, when I managed to get really close to him. I was using one of his working girls; she was a good girl really, not a completely hopeless case yet. Then, just before the job when I was supposed to pick Misha up in their bandits’ hideaway, someone dumped a sack right in front of the department. Inside it was my informer — sawn up into joints, twelve of them. Eh, Erast Petrovich, the things I could tell you about his tricks, but if I understand right, you don’t have the time for that. Otherwise you wouldn’t have come around at half past five in the morning.”

And Xavier Feofilaktovich screwed up his eyes cunningly, proud of his perspicacity.

“I need Little Misha very badly,” Fandorin said with a frown. “Although it seems improbable, he must be connected in some way. However, I have no right… But I do assure you it is a matter of state importance and also of great urgency. Why don’t we go right now and pick up this Benvenuto Cellini of yours, eh?”

Grushin shrugged and spread his arms wide.

“That’s a tall order. I know every nook and cranny of Khitrovka, but I’ve no idea where Little Misha spends the night. It would take a mass raid. And it would have to come straight from the very top, not through any inspectors or captains — they’d tip him off. Cordon off the whole of Khitrovka, and do everything right, without rushing it. And then, if we don’t get Misha himself, we might at least pick up someone from his gang or one of his girls. But that would require about five hundred constables, no less. And they mustn’t be told what it’s all about until the last minute. That’s absolutely essential.”

And so since early that morning Erast Petrovich had been roaming around a city in the grip of mourning, dashing back and forth between Tverskoi Boulevard and Krasnye Vorota, trying to find the topmost brass in town. The precious time was slipping away! With a fabulous haul like that, Little Misha could already have made a dash for the jolly haunts of Odessa, or Rostov, or Warsaw. It was a big empire, with plenty of room for a high-spirited fellow to cut loose. Since the night before last Misha had been sitting on a pile of loot the likes of which he could never have imagined, even in his dreams. The logical thing for him to do would be to wait for a little while and see whether there would be any uproar or not. Misha was an old hand, so he was bound to understand all this. But with money like that his bandit’s heart would be smarting. He wouldn’t be able to hold out for long — he’d make a run for it. If he hadn’t slipped away already. Ah, what a nuisance this funeral was…

Once, as Grand Duke Kirill Alexandrovich stepped toward the coffin and respectful silence filled the church, Fandorin caught Prince Dolgorukoi glancing at him and began nodding desperately to attract His Excellency’s attention, but the governor-general merely replied by nodding in the same way, sighing heavily and raising his mournful eyes to the flaming candles in the chandelier. However, the collegiate assessor’s gesticulations were noticed by His Highness the Duke of Liechtenburg, who seemed rather embarrassed to find himself surrounded by all this gilded Byzantine finery, and was crossing himself the wrong way, from left to right, not like everybody else, and generally looking as though he felt very much out of place. Raising one eyebrow slightly, Evgeny Maximilianovich fixed his gaze on this functionary who was making such strange signs, and after a moment’s thought he tapped Khurtinsky on the shoulder with his finger — the court counselor’s disguised bald spot was just peeping out from behind the governor’s epaulette. Pyotr Parmyonovich proved quicker on the uptake than his superior: He realized instantly that something out of the ordinary must have happened and jerked his chin in the direction of the side exit — as if to say, go over there and we’ll have a talk.

Erast Petrovich began slipping through the dense crowd once again, but in a different direction, not toward the center, but at a slant, so that now his progress was quicker. And all the while, as the collegiate assessor was forcing his way through the mourners, the deep, manly voice of the Grand Duke resounded under the vaults of the church, and everybody listened with rapt attention. It was not merely that Kirill Alexandrovich was the sovereign’s own well-loved brother. Many of those present at the requiem knew perfectly well that this stately, handsome general with the slightly predatory, hawkish face did more than merely command the Guards; he could in fact be called the true ruler of the empire, for he was also in charge of the War Ministry and the Department of Police and, even more significantly, of the Special Gendarmes Corps. And most important of all, it was said that the tsar never made a single decision of even the slightest importance without first discussing it with his brother. As he worked his way toward the entrance, Erast Petrovich listened to the Grand Duke’s speech and thought that nature had played a mean trick on Russia: If only one brother had been born two years sooner and the other two years later, the autocratic ruler of Russia would not have been the prevaricating, inert, morose Alexander, but the intelligent, farsighted, and decisive Kirill! Ah, how different torpid Russian life would have been then! And what a glittering role the great power would have played on the international stage! But it was pointless to rage in vain at nature and, if one chose to vent one’s rage after all, then it should not be at Mother Nature, but at Providence, who never decided any matter without a higher reason, and if the empire were not destined to rise from its slumber at the command of a new Peter the Great, then it must be that the Lord did not wish it. He had some other, unknown fate in mind for the Third Rome. At least let it be a joyful and bright one. And with this thought Erast Petrovich crossed himself, which he did extremely rarely, but the movement failed to attract anybody’s attention, for the people around him were all repeatedly making the sign of the cross over themselves. Could they perhaps be having similar thoughts?

Kirill’s speech was splendid, filled with a noble, vital energy:

“… There are many who complain that this valiant hero, the hope of the Russian land, has left us in such a sudden and — why not face the truth? — absurd fashion. The man who was dubbed Achilles for his legendary good fortune in battle, which saved him many times from imminent doom, did not fall on the field of battle; instead of a soldier’s death, he died the quiet death of a civilian. But is that really so?” The voice assumed the ringing tone of antique bronze. “Sobolev’s heart burst because it had been exhausted by years of service to the fatherland, weakened by numerous wounds received in battles against our enemies. Achilles should not have been his name, oh, no! Well protected by the waters of the Styx, Achilles was invulnerable to arrows and sword; until the very last day of his life he did not spill a single drop of his own blood. But Mikhail Dmitrievich bore on his body the traces of fourteen wounds, each of which invisibly advanced the hour of his death. No, Sobolev should not have been compared with the fortunate Achilles, but rather with the noble Hector — a mere mortal who risked his own life just as his soldiers did!”

Erast Petrovich did not hear the ending of this powerful and emotional speech, because just at that point he finally reached his goal — the side door, where the head of the secret section of the governor’s chancelry was already waiting for him.

“Well, then, what’s going on?” the court counselor asked, twitching the skin of his tall, pale forehead and then pulling Fandorin out after him into the yard, farther away from prying ears.

Erast expounded the essence of the matter with his invariable mathematical clarity and brevity, concluding with the following words: “We need to carry out a mass raid immediately, tonight at the very latest. That is six.”

Khurtinsky listened tensely, gasped twice, and near the end of Fandorin’s account even loosened his tight collar.

“You have killed me, Erast Petrovich, simply killed me,” he said. “This is worse than the spy scandal. If the hero of Plevna was murdered for filthy lucre, we are disgraced before the entire world. Although a million rubles is not exactly a miserly sum.” Pyotr Parmyonovich began cracking his knuckles, trying to think. “Lord, what is to be done, what is to be done… There’s no point in pestering Vladimir Andreevich — the governor-general is in no condition for this today. And Karachentsev won’t be any help, either — he hasn’t got a single constable to spare at the moment. We can expect public unrest this evening in connection with the sad event, and so many important individuals have come — every one of them has to be guarded and protected from terrorists and bombers. No, my dear sir, nothing can be done about a raid tonight; don’t even think of it.”

“Then we’ll lose him,” Fandorin almost groaned. “He’ll get away.”

“Most likely he already has,” Khurtinsky sighed gloomily.

“If he has, then the tracks are still fresh. We might just be able to p-pick up some little thread.”

Pyotr Parmyonovich took the collegiate assessor by the elbow in an extremely tactful manner.

“You are quite right. It would be criminal to waste any more time. I am no novice when it comes to the secrets of Moscow. I also know Little Misha, and I have been trying to get close to him for ages, but he’s crafty, the rogue. And let me tell you something, my dear Erast Petrovich.” The court counselor’s voice assumed an affectionate and confidential tone; the eyes that were always hooded opened to their full extent and proved to be intelligent and piercing. “To be quite honest, I did not take a liking to you at first. Not at all. A windbag, I thought, an aristocratic snob. A scavenger hovering over prey won by others’ sweat and blood. But Khurtinsky is always willing to admit when he is wrong. I was mistaken about you — the events of the last two days have demonstrated that most eloquently. I see that you are a man of great intelligence and experience, and a first-rate detective.”

Fandorin bowed slightly, waiting to see what would follow.

“And so I have a little proposal for you. That is, of course, if you don’t find it too frightening.” Pyotr Parmyonovich moved close and began whispering. “To prevent this evening being entirely wasted, why don’t you take a stroll around the thieves’ dens of Khitrovka and do a bit of reconnaissance? I know that you’re an unsurpassed master of disguise, so to pass yourself off as one of the locals should be no problem at all for you. I am in possession of certain information, and I can tell you where you are most likely to pick up Misha’s trail. And I will provide you with guides, some of my very finest agents. Well, I hope you’re not too squeamish for this kind of work? Or perhaps too afraid?”

“I am neither squeamish nor afraid,” replied Erast Petrovich, who actually thought that the court counselor’s ‘little proposal’ made rather good sense. Indeed, if a police operation was impossible, why not have a go himself?

“And if you should pick up a thread,” Khurtinsky continued, “it would be possible to launch a raid at dawn. Just give me the word. I won’t be able to get you five hundred constables, of course, but that many wouldn’t be needed. We must, after all, assume that by then you will have narrowed the scope of the search, must we not? Just send word to me through one of my men and I’ll see to the rest myself. And we shall manage perfectly well without His Excellency Evgeny Osipovich Karachentsev.”

Erast Petrovich frowned, detecting in these last words an echo of the high-level intrigues of Moscow politics, which were best forgotten at this moment.

“Th-thank you for your offer of assistance, but your men will not be required,” he said. “I am used to managing on my own, and I have a very able assistant.”

“That Japanese of yours?” asked Khurtinsky, surprising Fandorin with how well- informed he was. But then, what was there to be surprised at? That was the man’s job, to know everything about everybody.

“Yes. He will be quite sufficient help for me. There is only one other thing I need from you: Tell me where to look for Little Misha.”

The court counselor crossed himself piously in response to the tolling of a bell high above them.

“There is a certain terrible place in Khitrovka. An inn by the name of Hard Labor. During the day it is merely a revolting drinking parlor, but as night approaches the ‘businessmen’ — that is what bandits are called in Moscow — gather there. Little Misha often drops in, too. If he is not there, one of his cutthroats is certain to turn up. And also watch out for the landlord, a truly desperate rogue.”

Khurtinsky shook his head disapprovingly.

“It is a mistake not to take my agents. That place is dangerous. This isn’t the Mysteries of Paris; it’s the Khitrovka slums. One slash of a knife and a man is never heard of again. At least let one of my men take you to the Hard Labor and stand guard outside. Honestly, don’t be stubborn.”

“Thank you kindly, but I’ll manage somehow myself,” Fandorin replied confidently.