The State Counsellor

CHAPTER 7 in which the investigation is right back where it started

Erast Petrovich had intended to make a start on the search the very first thing on Tuesday morning, but he failed to make an early start, because his female guest once again spent the night at the outhouse on Malaya Nikitskaya Street.

Esfir turned up without any warning, after midnight, when the State Counsellor was walking around his study, counting his beads. His visitor had a determined air, and she didn't waste any time on conversation - right there in the hallway, without even taking off her sable cloak, she put her arms around Erast Petro-vich's neck and gave him a tight hug; and naturally it was quite some time before he was able to concentrate on his deductions again.

In fact, he only managed to get back to work in the morning, when Esfir was still asleep. Fandorin slipped quietly out of bed, sat in an armchair and tried to restore the broken thread of his thought. The results were not very good. His beloved jade beads, which disciplined the workings of his mind with their rigorous, crisp clicking, had been left behind in the study; and walking to and fro, so that the movement of his muscles would stimulate the activity of his brain, was too risky - the slightest sound would wake Esfir. And he could hear Masa snuffling behind the door -the servant was waiting patiently for the moment when he and his master could do their gymnastic exercises.

Difficult circumstances are no hindrance to the superior man in contemplating higher things, the State Counsellor reminded himself, recalling a maxim from the great sage of the Orient. As if she had overheard the phrase 'difficult circumstances', Esfir stuck her bare arm out from under the blanket and ran her hand over the pillow beside her. Finding nobody there, she moaned pitifully, but still unawares, without waking up. Even so, he had to think quickly.

Diana, Fandorin decided - he should start with her. The other lines of enquiry were already taken in any case.

The mysterious female collaborator had links to the Office of Gendarmes and the Okhranka, and the revolutionaries. Very probably she was a traitor to them all. An entirely amoral individual and, moreover, judging from Sverchinsky and Burlyaev's behaviour, not only in a political sense. But then, it seemed, did it not, that in revolutionary circles the view taken of relations between the sexes was more liberal than the general view in society?

Erast Petrovich cast a glance of vague misgiving at the sleeping beauty. The scarlet lips moved, shaping soundless words, the long black eyelashes trembled, the two moist embers framed between them flared up brightly and were not extinguished again. Esfir opened her eyes wide, saw Fandorin and smiled.

'What are you doing?' she asked in a voice hoarse from sleep. 'Come here.'

'I'd like t-to ask you ...' he began, then hesitated and broke off in embarrassment.

Was it fitting to exploit personal relationships to gather information for his investigation?

Ask.' She yawned, sat up on the bed and stretched sweetly, so that the blanket slipped down and Erast Petrovich had to make a serious effort not to be distracted.

He resolved his moral dilemma as follows.

Of course he should not ask about Diana. Even less should he ask about the revolutionary groups - in any case, Esfir was hardly likely to be involved in any serious anti-government activity. But it was permissible for him to extract information of a quite general, one might say sociological, nature.

'Tell me, Esfir, is it t-true that the women in revolutionary circles take... an absolutely free view of amorous relationships?'

She burst into laughter, pulling her knees up to her chin and clasping them in her arms. 'I knew it! How predictable and bourgeois you are after all. If a woman hasn't acted out the proper performance of unavailability for you, you're ready to suspect she is debauched and promiscuous. "Oh, sir, I am not that kind of girl! Phoo, how disgusting! No, no, no, only after the wedding!'" she mocked in a repulsive, lisping voice. "That's how you want us to behave. But of course - the laws of capitalism apply, don't they? If you wish to sell your commodity for a good price, first you have to make it desirable, set the buyer's mouth watering. But I am not a commodity, Your Honour. And you are not a buyer.' Esfir's eyes blazed with righteous indignation and her slim hand sliced through the air menacingly. 'We women of the new age are not ashamed of our nature and we choose for ourselves who to love. There's one girl in our circle. The men all run a mile from her, because the poor thing is so terribly ugly -a real fright, an absolute nightmare. But for her intelligence she gets far more respect than all the great beauties. She says that free love is not lustful sin but the union of two equal beings -naturally, a temporary union, because it is the nature of feelings to be inconstant; you can't incarcerate them for life. And you don't need to be afraid that I'll try to drag you to the altar. I shall drop you soon anyway. You're not my type at all, and in general you're absolutely awful! I want to gorge myself until I've had enough and I'm finally disillusioned with you. Well, what are you gaping at? Come here immediately!'

Masa must have been listening at the door, because at that very moment it opened a little and a round head with narrow eyes was thrust into the room through the crack.

'Goo' morin',' the head said with a joyful, beaming smile.

'Go to hell with your gymnastics!' Esfir exclaimed resolutely, flinging a well-aimed pillow at the head; but Masa bore the blow without flinching.

'Letter from impotan' gen'man,' he declared, holding up a long white envelope.

'Impotan' gen'man' was what the Japanese called the Governor General, so the reason for his intrusion had to be accepted as legitimate. Erast Petrovich opened the envelope and took out a card bearing a gold crest.

Most of the text was printed; only the name and the note at the bottom were written in His Excellency's regular, old-fashioned hand.

My dear Erast Petrovich

On the occasion of Butter Week and the forthcoming festival of Shrovetide, I request your company for pancakes.

The cordial supper in an intimate circle will commence at midnight. Gentlemen invited are requested not to trouble themselves by wearing uniform. Ladies are free to choose a dress at their own discretion.

Vladimir Dolgorukoi

Erast Petrovich you must come. You can tell me how our business is going.

And do bring your new flame -it is an unofficial supper and as an old man I am curious to see her.

'What is it?' Esfir asked, disgruntled, '-a summons from the terrible Tsar? Tie a dog's head to your saddle and ride off to work - severing heads?'

'Not at all,' Fandorin replied. 'It's an invitation to pancakes at the Governor General's residence. Listen.'

He read it out loud, naturally omitting the handwritten note. Fandorin was not at all surprised by how well informed the prince was concerning the private lives of his aides - all the years they had worked together had accustomed him to that.

'You know, we could g-go together if you like,' he said, absolutely certain that the only way Esfir would go to the Governor General's residence for pancakes was wearing shackles and under armed escort.

'What does "an intimate circle" mean?' she asked, wrinkling up her nose squeamishly. 'Is it just the sultan and his viziers and the especially trustworthy eunuchs?'

'Shrovetide pancakes at the prince's house are a tradition,' Fandorin explained. 'It has been going on for more than twenty years. 'An intimate circle" means seventy or eighty close officials and honoured citizens with their wives. They spend the whole night sitting there eating, drinking and dancing. Nothing interesting about it. I always leave early.'

And can I really wear any dress I like?' Esfir asked pensively, not looking at Erast Petrovich, but gazing off somewhere into space.

Having taking his leave of Esfir until the evening, Fandorin tried several times to call the telephone number that Lieutenant Colonel Burlyaev had given to the operator two days before, but there was no reply, and Erast Petrovich began wondering if perhaps he ought to take advantage of the female agent's absence to carry out a secret search of the townhouse on Arbat Street.

He gathered together the necessary assortment of tools and then telephoned again, just to make certain, and the earpiece suddenly responded in the American manner, with a long, drawling whisper: 'Hel-lo?'

Against all his expectations, Diana failed to recall that the State Counsellor had been declared persona non grata and immediately agreed to a meeting.

Nor was Fandorin obliged on this occasion to wait in front of a locked door. After ringing the bell, he pushed on the brass handle and, to his surprise, the door yielded - apparently it had been unlocked in advance.

Erast Petrovich followed the familiar route up the steps into the mezzanine, knocked on the door of the study and entered without waiting for an answer.

Just like the previous time, the thin curtains were tightly drawn and the woman on the divan was wearing a hat with a veil.

The State Counsellor bowed and was about to sit in an armchair, but the woman beckoned him.

'Over here. It's hard to whisper right across the room.'

'Do you not find all these precautions excessive?' Fandorin could not resist asking the question, although he knew it was not a good idea to annoy his hostess. 'It would be quite enough for me not to be able to see your face.'

'No-o,' Diana murmured. 'My sound is a rustle, a whisper, a hiss. My element is shade, darkness, silence. Sit down, sir. We shall make quiet conversation and in the pauses listen to the stillness.'

'As you wish.'

Erast Petrovich seated himself side on to the lady, some slight distance away from her, and tried to make out at least some features of her face through the veil. Alas, the room was too dark for that.

'Are you aware that in progressive young people's circles you are now regarded as an intriguing individual?' the collaborator asked derisively. 'Your intervention in darling Pyotr Ivanovich's operation the day before yesterday has split my revolutionary friends into two camps. Some see you as a state official of a new type, the first herald of forthcoming liberal changes. While others...'

'What d-do the others say?'

'The others say that you should be eliminated, because you are more cunning and dangerous than the stupid sleuths from the Okhranka. But don't be alarmed.' Diana touched Erast Petrovich gendy on the shoulder. 'You have an intercessor -Firochka Litvinova - and after that evening she has the reputation of a true heroine. Ah, handsome men can always find women to intercede for them.'

There was the sound of muffled, almost soundless laughter, which produced a distinctly unpleasant impression on the State Counsellor.

'Is it true what our people say - that Larionov was executed by the CG?' Diana asked, inclining her head inquisitively. 'It had been rumoured that he was an agent provocateur. In any case, our people no longer mention his name. A taboo - the kind that primitive savages have. Was he really a collaborator?'

Erast did not answer, because something else had occurred to him. Now it was clear why Esfir had never mentioned the deceased engineer.

'Tell me, my lady, do you know a female individual who goes by the alias Needle?'

'Needle? I've never heard it before. What is she like?'

Fandorin repeated what he had heard from Rahmet-Gvidon. 'She looks about thirty. Thin. Tall. Plain ... I think that's all.'

'Well, we have plenty like that. I might know her by name, but in conspiratorial circles she is known by her alias. My connections are extensive, Monsieur Fandorin, but not deep; they do not reach into the depths of the underground. Who told you about this Needle?'

Again he did not answer. It was time to approach the most important question.

'You are an unusual woman, Diana,' Erast Petrovich began with affected enthusiasm. 'At our last m-meeting you made a quite indelible impression on me, and I have been thinking about you ever since. I think this is the first time I have met a genuine femme fatale who can make respectable grown men lose their heads and neglect their duty'

'Go on, go on,' whispered the woman with no face and no voice. 'It's a pleasure to listen to such words.'

'I can see that you have driven Burlyaev and Sverchinsky completely insane, and they are very sober and serious gentlemen. They are consumed with burning jealousy for each other. And I am sure that on both sides their suspicions are not unfounded. How elegantly you toy with these two men, who are feared by the whole of Moscow! You are a bold woman. Others only speak of free love, but you preach it with your entire life.'

She laughed in gratification, throwing her head back. 'There is no such thing as love. There is only the human being, living alone and dying alone. There is nothing and nobody who can share that solitude. And it is not possible for anyone to merge completely into anyone else's life. But you can play at someone else's life, taste it. You are an intelligent man, Mr Fandorin, I can be entirely frank with you. You see, by vocation I am an actress. I should be glittering on the stage in the finest theatres, rousing my public to tears and laughter, but... the circumstances of life have prevented me from using my talent for its true purpose.'

'Which circumstances?' Erast Petrovich enquired cautiously.

'Do you mean your noble origins? I have heard that you come from good society.'

'Yes, something of the kind,' Diana replied after a pause. 'But I have no regrets. Playing at life is far more interesting than playing on the stage. With stupid young people who have crammed their heads full of pernicious literature, I play one part; with Burlyaev I play another, and with Sverchinsky I play a different one again... I am more fortunate than many people, Mr Fandorin. I am never bored.'

'I understand the difference between the roles of a nihilist and a collaborator, but do you really have to behave differently with the gendarme colonel Sverchinsky and the gendarme lieutenant colonel Burlyaev?'

'Oho, you obviously understand nothing at all about the theatre.' She fluttered her hands rapturously. 'The two roles are quite different. Shall I tell you how to be successful with men? Do you think beauty is required? By no means! How can I be beautiful if you cannot even see my face? It is all very simple. You have to understand what a man is like and play a contrasting part. It is like electricity: opposite charges attract. Take Pyotr Ivanovich, now. He is a strong, coarse individual, inclined to direct action and force. With him I am weak, feminine, vulnerable. Add to that professional interest, a whiff of the mystery to which men are so partial - and poor Burlyaev becomes soft putty in my hands.'

Erast Petrovich sensed that he was very close to the goal - he must not make a false step now.

And Sverchinsky?'

'Oh, he is entirely different. Cunning, cautious, suspicious. With him I am open-hearted, carefree, a little crude. I have already mentioned professional interest and mystery - those are essential components. Would you believe that last week Stanislav Filippovich went down on his knees in front of me and begged me to tell him if I was intimately involved with Burlyaev? I threw him out and told him not to show his face until he was summoned. Not bad for a "collaborator", ah? The top gendarme in the entire province, and I have him dancing like a performing poodle!'

So there he had his first result: Sverchinsky had not been here since last week, and so Diana could not have received any information about Khrapov's arrival from him.

'Brilliant!' the State Counsellor said approvingly. 'So the unfortunate Stanislav Filippovich has b-been in exile for an entire week? Poor fellow! No wonder he's so furious. The field was left open for the Department of Security'

'Oh no!' the femme fatale gasped, quite overcome by her own quiet laughter. 'That's the whole point! I gave Burlyaev his marching orders for a week too! - so that he would think I had chosen Sverchinsky over him!'

Erast Petrovich knitted his brows and asked: 'And in actual fact?'

'In actual fact...' The collaborator leaned closer and whispered confidentially 'In actual fact I had the usual woman's troubles and was in any case obliged to take a break from both my lovers!*

The State Counsellor involuntarily started back, and Diana broke into an even more intense fit of merriment, hissing and whistling in delight at the effect she had produced.

'You are a very sensitive and proper gentleman, you adhere to strict rules, and therefore I try to intrigue you with my cynicism and violations of the conventions,' the frustrated actress blithely confessed. 'However, I am not doing it for any practical purpose, but solely out of my love of art. My woman's problems are over now, but you, Monsieur Fandorin, have no reason to hope for anything. There is no point in your trilling like a nightingale and showering me with compliments. You are simply not my type at all.'

Erast Petrovich got up off the divan, overwhelmed by horror, hurt feelings and disappointment.

The initial feeling was horror: how could this nightmarish creature have imagined that he was attempting to win her favours!

The hurt feelings came with the recollection that this was the second time today a woman had told him he was not her type.

But the strongest feeling, of course, was disappointment: Diana could not have been the channel through which the leak had occurred.

'I assure you, madam, that you are completely m-mistaken as far as I am concerned,' the State Counsellor said coolly and walked towards the door, to the accompaniment of rustling, muffled laughter.

Shortly after four Fandorin drove on to Bolshoi Gnezdikovksy Lane in a morose and depressed state of mind.

The only promising theory left for him to explore had collapsed in a totally ignominious fashion and now nothing remained for him but to play the pitiful role of a sponger. The State Counsellor was not accustomed to feeding on crumbs from others' tables and the anticipation of humiliation had put him in a foul mood; but nonetheless it was absolutely essential for him to obtain some information about the progress of the investigation, for that night he would have to report to the Governor General.

The Department of Security seemed to have been depopulated. There was not a single agent in the duty room on the ground floor - only a police sergeant and a clerk.

Zubtsov was languishing in the reception room upstairs. He was quite delighted to see Erast Petrovich: 'Mr State Counsellor! Do you have anything?'

Fandorin shook his head glumly.

'We haven't come up with anything either,' the young man sighed, casting a despondent sideways glance at the telephone. 'Would you believe it, we've been sitting here all day, glued to the spot, waiting for some word from Gvidon - Mr Pozharsky and myself

'He's here?' Erast Petrovich asked in surprise.

'Yes, and he's very calm. I'd go so far as to say he's quite placid - sitting in Pyotr Ivanovich s office reading magazines. The Lieutenant Colonel has gone to the student hostel on Dmitrovka Street to interrogate suspects. Evstratii Pavlovich has taken his wild men and, in his own words, they've "gone off gathering mushrooms and berries". Sverchinsky went to make the rounds of all the turnpikes this morning and for some reason feels it necessary to telephone from every one of them. I don't even inform the prince any more. This evening the indefatigable Stanislav Filippovich is going to check in person on his men's work at the railway stations, and he intends to spend the night at the Nikolaevsky - how's that for professional zeal!' Zubtsov smirked ironically. 'Showing the new boss how energetic he is. Only the prince is no fool; you can't deceive him with sham diligence.'

Recalling the threats that Sverchinsky had made against their visitor from the capital only the day before, Erast Petrovich shook his head: it was quite possible that diligence had nothing at all to do with the matter and the artful gendarme officer had something quite different in mind.

'So there's nothing from Gvidon?'

'Nothing,' Zubtsov sighed. 'Ten minutes ago some man called, but unfortunately I happened to be in the office with the prince. I left the clerk by the telephone. Now I can't get that call out of my mind.'

'Well, send someone to the t-telephone exchange,' Erast Petrovich advised him. 'Get them to identify the number from which the call was made. It's perfectly feasible technically, I've checked. May I go in?' he asked, blushing slighdy as he indicated the door of the office.

'Why do you even need to ask?' Zubtsov exclaimed in surprise. 'Of course, go in. I think I really shall send someone to the telephone exchange. We'll find out the address from the number and make cautious enquiries about who the phone belongs to.'

Fandorin knocked and entered the office of the head of the Department of Security.

Pozharsky was sitting beside the lamp in an extremely snug-looking pose, with his feet pulled up on to his leather armchair. In his hand the deputy director of police, aide-de-camp and rising star was holding an open copy of the popular new magazine The Journal of Foreign Literature.

'Erast Petrovich!' Gleb Georgievich exclaimed enthusiastically. 'How delightful of you to call in. Please, have a seat.' He put the magazine down and smiled disarmingly.

'Are you angry with me for edging you out of the case? I understand; in your place I would be annoyed too. But it's the Emperor's own order; I am not at liberty to change anything. I only regret that I have been deprived of any access to your analytical talent, about which I have heard so much. I did not dare give you an assignment, since I am not your superior. I must admit, however, that I very much hope you will meet with success in your independent line of inquiry. Well then, do you have a result?'

'What result could I possibly have, when you hold absolutely all the threads in your hands?' Fandorin asked with a shrug of feigned indifference. 'But I believe you have nothing here either?'

The prince declared confidently: 'They're checking Gvidon. That's very good. He has already begun to hate his former comrades - because he has betrayed them. And now he will develop an absolutely passionate hatred for them. I know human nature. Especially the nature of betrayal -I am obliged to understand that by virtue of my profession.'

'Tell me then, is the psychology of betrayal always the same?' the State Counsellor asked, intrigued by the subject despite himself.

'By no means; it is infinitely varied. There is betrayal out of fear, betrayal out of resentment, out of love, out of ambition and a host of different causes, up to and including betrayal out of gratitude.'

'Out of g-gratitude?'

'Yes indeed. Permit me to relate to you a certain incident from my professional experience.' Pozharsky took a slim papyrosa out of his cigarette case, lit it and savoured the smoke as he drew it in. 'One of my finest agents was a sweet, pure, unselfish old woman - the very kindest of creatures. She doted on her only son, but in his youthful foolishness the boy got mixed up in a business that smacked of hard labour. She came to me, begging and weeping, told me the entire story of her life. I was younger myself then, and more soft-hearted than I am now - anyway, I took pity on her. Just between the two of us, I even went so far as to commit an official crime: I removed certain documents from the case file. To cut the story short, the boy was released; he got off with a fatherly caution, which, to be quite honest, made not the slightest impression on him. He became involved with revolutionaries again and plunged into a life of dissipation. But then what do you think happened? Inspired by her undying gratitude to me, his mother began diligently providing me with highly valuable information. Her son's comrades had known her for a long time as a hospitable hostess, they felt quite uninhibited by the innocuous old woman's presence and spoke quite openly in her company. She used to make notes of everything on scraps of paper and bring them to me. There was even one report that was written on the back of a recipe. Truly a case of, Do good and ye shall have your reward.'

Erast Petrovich listened to this edifying homily with mounting irritation and then could not help asking: 'Gleb Georgievich, isn't that repugnant? - encouraging a mother to inform on her own son?'

Pozharsky paused before he replied, and when he did, his tone had changed - it was no longer jocular, but serious and rather tired.

Mr Fandorin, you give the impression of being an intelligent, mature individual. Are you really like that pink-cheeked boy-officer who was here yesterday? Do you really not understand that we have no time now for goody-goody sentiment? Do you not see that there is a genuine war going on?'

'I do see. Of course I do,' the State Counsellor said passionately. 'But even in war there are rules. And in war people are usually hanged for employing traitors to spy for them.'

"This is not the kind of war in which any rules apply,' the prince countered with equal conviction. 'It is not two European powers who are fighting here. No, Erast Petrovich, this is the savage, primordial war of order with chaos, the West with the East, Christian chivalry with Mamai's horde. In this war no peace envoys are despatched, no conventions are signed, no one is released on his word of honour. This is a war fought with all the relentless cruelty of Asiatic science; molten lead is poured down men's throats and they are flayed alive, innocents are slaughtered. Did you hear about our agent Shverubovich getting sulphuric acid thrown in his face? Or the murder of General von Heinkel? They blew up the entire house, in which, apart from the General himself - who, as it happens, was a fine blackguard -there happened to be his wife, three children and servants. The only survivor was the youngest daughter; she was thrown from the balcony by the blast. Her back was broken and her leg was crushed, so that it had to be amputated. How do like that for a war?'

And you, the custodian of society, are prepared to wage war on those kind of term' - to reply with the same methods?' asked Fandorin, stunned.

'What would you have me do - capitulate? Let the frenzied mobs burn houses and toss the best people of Russia on their pitchforks? Let our home-grown Robespierres inundate our cities with blood? Let our Empire become a bogeyman for the rest of humanity and be thrown back three hundred years? Erast Petrovich, I am no lover of high-flown sentiment, but let me tell you that we are only a narrow cordon, holding back the mindless, malevolent elements. Once they break through the cordon, nothing will stop them. There is no one standing behind us. Only ladies in hats, old grannies in mob-caps, young Turgenevian ladies and children in sailor suits - the little, decent world that sprang up in the wild Scythian steppes less than a hundred years ago thanks to the idealism of Emperor Alexander the Blessed.'

The prince broke off his impassioned speech, clearly embarrassed by his own outburst, and suddenly changed the subject. 'And by the way, concerning methods... Tell me, my dear Erast Petrovich, why did you plant a hermaphrodite in my bed?'

Fandorin assumed he must have misheard.

'I beg your pardon?'

'Nothing really important, just a charming joke. Yesterday evening, after taking supper in the restaurant, I went back to my room. When I enter it - good Lord, what a surprise! Lying there in my bed is a lovely lady, entirely undressed; I can see her delightful breasts above the top of the blanket. I try to show her out - she does not wish to get up. And a moment later there is a mass invasion: a police officer, constables and the porter shouting in a phoney voice: "This is a respectable establishment!" I can even see a reporter trying to slip in from the corridor, with a photographer in tow. And then things get even more interesting. My visitor jumps up out of bed, and, my sainted fathers, I've never seen the like before in all my life! A complete double set of sexual characteristics. Apparently an individual well known around Moscow, a certain gentleman - or a certain lady - who goes by the name of Coco. Very popular among those gourmands who prefer exotic amusements. An excellent idea, Erast Petrovich, bravo. I never expected it of you. Showing me up in an absurd and indecent light is the best possible way to regain control over the investigation. The sovereign will not tolerate lascivious behaviour from the servants of the throne. Goodbye to my aide-de-camp's monogram and farewell to my career.' Gleb Georgievich assumed an expression of exaggerated admiration. A most excellent plan, but I wasn't born yesterday, after all. When necessary I am more than capable of employing tricks of that kind myself, as you have had occasion to see in the case of Rahmet-Gvidon. Life, my dearest Erast Petrovich, has taught me to be cautious. When I leave my room, I always place an invisible mark on the door, and the servants are strictly forbidden to enter in my absence. When I looked at the door, I saw that the hair I left had been broken! The rooms on each side were occupied by my men -I brought them from St Petersburg. So I called them, and I was not alone when I entered the room -they were with me. When your police inspector saw these serious people with revolvers at the ready, he was confused and embarrassed. He grabbed the outlandish creature by the hair and dragged it out of the room, taking the newspaper men away with him as well; but never mind, the porter, a certain Teplugov, was still there and he was absolutely frank with me. He explained who this Coco was, and he told me how the gentlemen from the police had told him to be ready. Just see what enterprising action you have proved capable of, and yet you condemn my methods.'

'I knew nothing about this!' Erast Petrovich exclaimed indig-nandy, and immediately blushed - he had remembered Sverchinsky muttering something about Coco the day before. So that was what Stanislav Filippovich had had in mind when he was planning to make the official from St Petersburg a general laughing stock.

'I can see you didn't know,' Pozharsky said, nodding. 'Naturally, it's not the way you behave. I just wanted to make sure. In actual fact the responsibility for this trick with Coco lies, of course, with the highly experienced Colonel Sverchinsky. I came to that conclusion this morning, when Sverchinsky started calling me every hour. He was checking to see if I had guessed. Of course it was him, it couldn't be anyone else. Burlyaev lacks the imagination for tricks like that.'

Just at that moment there was a tramping of numerous feet outside the door, and Burlyaev himself - speak of the devil! -came bursting in.

'Disaster, gentlemen,' he gasped. 'I've just been informed that there's been a hold-up - the carriage of the state financial instruments depository. There are dead and wounded. They stole six-hundred-thousand roubles! And they left their sign: CG.'

Dejected confusion - that was the predominant mood at the extraordinary meeting of the leaders of the Office of Gendarmes and the Department of Security that dragged on late into the evening.

Occupying the chair at this doleful council was the Deputy Director of the Police Department, Prince Pozharsky - tousle-haired, pale-faced and angry.

'How wonderfully well you do things here in Moscow,' the man from the capital repeated yet again. 'Every day you despatch state funds for transfer to the most remote regions of the Empire, but you don't even have even any official instructions for the transportation of such immense sums! Who has ever heard of security guards going dashing after some bomber and leaving the money almost completely unprotected? All right, gentlemen, there's no point in repeating myself,' said Pozharksy, gesturing despairingly. 'We have all visited the scene of the crime and seen everything. Let us draw the sad conclusions. Six hundred thousand roubles have migrated to the revolutionary treasury which, by dint of great effort, I had only just emptied. It is terrible to think of all the atrocities the nihilists will commit with that money... We have three men dead and two wounded, but during the shooting in Somovsky Cul-de-Sac only one man was wounded, and then only slightly. How was it possible not to guess that the shooting was started as a deliberate diversion, while the main action was taking place at the carriage?' the prince asked, growing furious now. 'And again that insolent challenge - the CG's calling card! What a blow to the prestige of the authorities! We underestimated the size of the Combat Group and its daring! There are not four men at all, but at least ten. I shall demand reinforcements from St Petersburg and special powers. And what wonderful execution! They had absolutely precise information about the route of the carriage and the guards! They struck quickly, confidently, mercilessly. They left no witnesses. Another example for our discussion of methods.' Gleb Georgievich glanced at Fandorin, who was sitting in the far corner of Burlyaev's office. 'True, one man -the driver Kulikov - did manage to get away alive. We know from him that the core group consisted of two men. Going by his description, one of them is our beloved Mr Green. The other was called Ace. Now, that seems like a clue! Ah, but no! The body of a man with a fractured skull was discovered at the India Inn. He was dressed exactly like Ace, and Kulikov identified him. Ace is a rather common alias in criminal circles; it signifies "a dare-devil, successful bandit". But most likely this was the legendary St Petersburg hold-up specialist Tikhon Bogoyavlensky. He is rumoured to have had connections with the nihilists. As you are aware, the body has been sent to the capital for identification. But what's the point! Mr Green has snapped that thread in any case. Most convenient, no need to share the money either ...' The prince hooked his fingers together and cracked his knuckles. 'But the robbery is by no means the worst of our troubles. There is an even more distressing development.'

The room was completely silent, for those present could not imagine any misfortune worse than the robbery.

'You know that Titular Counsellor Zubtsov found out who owns the telephone from which some man called shortly before the attack on the carriage. It is in an apartment belonging to the well-known barrister Zimin, on Myasnitskaya Street. Since Zimin is presently involved in a trial in Warsaw - all the newspapers are writing about it -I sent my agents to make discreet enquiries about the gentleman who was too shy to speak with Sergei Vitalievich. The agents saw that there was no light on in the apartment, they opened the door and inside they discovered a body ...'

The new silence that followed was broken by Erast Petrovich, who asked in a quiet voice: 'Could it have been Gvidon?'

'How did you know?' Pozharsky asked, swinging round towards him. 'You couldn't possibly know that!'

'It's very simple,' Fandorin said with a shrug. 'You said that something even more distressing than the theft of six hundred thousand roubles had happened. We all know that in this investigation you had staked your greatest hopes on the agent Gvidon. Nobody else's murder could possibly have upset you so badly'

The deputy director of police exclaimed irritably:

'Bravo, bravo, Mr State Counsellor. Where were you earlier with your famous deduction? Yes, it was Gvidon. There were clear indications of suicide; he was clutching a dagger bearing the letters CG in his hand, and the stab wound in his heart had been made by the same blade. Apparently I was mistaken in my assessment of this individual's psychological constitution.'

It was evident that Gleb Georgievich found self-castigation difficult, and Fandorin appreciated how much this gesture must have cost him.

'You were not so very mistaken,' he said. 'Obviously Gvidon was about to betray his comrades and he even phoned the Department, but at the last moment his conscience awoke. It happens sometimes, even with traitors.'

Pozharsky realised that Fandorin was referring him back to their recent conversation and he smiled briefly; but then his face immediately darkened and he turned in annoyance to Lieutenant Colonel Burlyaev.

'Where has that Mylnikov of yours got to? He's our last hope now. Ace is dead, Gvidon is dead. The unidentified man found behind the church wall in Somovsky Cul-de-Sac is dead too, but if we can establish his identity, it might be the start of a new trail.'

'Evstratii Pavlovich has set all the local constables on it,' Burlyaev boomed, 'and his agents are checking the dead man's photograph against all our card files. If he's from Moscow, we're sure to identify him.'

'Allow me to draw your attention to one more thing, Erast Petrovich - in continuation of our discussion,' Pozharsky said, glancing at the State Counsellor. 'The unidentified man had only been wounded in the neck, not fatally However, his accomplices didn't take him with them; they finished him off with a shot to the temple. That is the way they do things!'

'Or perhaps the wounded man shot himself in order not to be a burden to his comrades?' Fandorin responded.

Gleb Georgievich's only response to such misplaced idealism was to roll his eyes up and back, but Colonel Sverchinsky rose halfway out of his seat and asked: 'Mr Deputy Director, will you order me to head the effort to identify the man? I can line up all the yard-keepers in Moscow. We'll need more men than Mylnikov and his agents for this.'

Several times that evening when Stanislav Filippovich had tried to make useful suggestions, the prince had stubbornly refused to take any notice of him. But this time Pozharsky seemed to explode.

'Why don't you keep quiet!' he shouted. 'Your department is responsible for order in the city! Fine order! What was it you were planning to deal with today? The railway stations? Then go, and keep your eyes open! The bandits are bound to try to ship their loot out of the city, most likely to Petersburg, in order to replenish the party funds. Take care, Sverchinsky; if you bungle this too, I'll see that you pay for everything at once! Go!'

The Colonel, deadly pale, gave Pozharsky a long glance and walked towards the door in silence. His adjutant, Lieutenant Smolyaninov, dashed after him.

Mylnikov came dashing towards them from the reception, looking delighted. 'We've done it!' he shouted from the doorway. 'Identified him! He was on record from last year! He's in the card file. Arsenii Nikolaevich Zimin, the barrister's son! A private house on Myasnitskaya Street!'

In the sudden silence that followed, the puzzled Evstratii Pavlovich's fitful breathing was clearly audible.

Fandorin turned away from Pozharsky, afraid that the prince might read the gloating in his eyes. It was not exacdy gloating, but the State Counsellor did experience a certain involuntary sense of satisfaction, of which he immediately felt ashamed.

'Well now,' Pozharsky said in a flat, expressionless voice. 'So this move has led us into a dead end too. Let us congratulate each other, gentlemen. We are right back where we started.'

When he returned home, Erast Petrovich had barely changed his frock coat for a white tie and tails before it was time to go to collect Esfir from the banker Litvinov's house on Tryokhsvyatskaya Street, a building famous throughout Moscow.

This pompous marble palazzo, built only a few years earlier, seemed to have been transported to the quiet, sedate little street directly from Venice, instandy overshadowing the old nobles' mansions with their peeling columns and identical triangular roofs. Even now, in the hour before midnight, the buildings beside it were lost in darkness, but the handsome house was all aglow, glimmering like some fairy-tale palace of ice: the magnificent pediment in the very latest American fashion was illuminated by electric lights.

The State Counsellor had heard about the great wealth of the banker Litvinov, who was one of Russia's most generous benefactors of charity, a patron of Russian artists and zealous donor to the Church, a man whose recent conversion to Christianity had been more than compensated for by his fervent piety. But even so, in Moscow high society the millionaire was regarded with condescending irony. They told a joke about how when Litvinov was awarded a decoration for his assistance to orphans, a star that conferred the status of a noble of the fourth rank, he supposedly began saying to people: 'Please, why struggle to get your tongue round 'Avessalom Efraimovich". Just call me "Your Excellency".' Litvinov was accepted in all the best houses of Moscow, but at the same time it was sometimes whispered to the other guests, as if in justification, that 'a baptised Jew is a thief forgiven'.

However, on entering the spacious Carrara marble vestibule, decorated with crystal chandeliers, vast mirrors and monumental canvases showing scenes from Russian history, Erast Petrovich was struck by the thought that if Avessalom Efraimovich's financial affairs continued in the same successful vein, the tide of baron was a certainty, and then the ironic whispers would stop, because people who are not simply rich, but super-rich, and also tided, have no nationality.

Despite the late hour, the imperious manservant was dressed in a gold-embroidered camisole and was even wearing a powdered wig. Once Fandorin gave his name, there was no further need to explain the purpose of his visit.

'One moment, sir,' the valet said, bowing ceremoniously, with an air that suggested he had previously served in the palace of some grand prince, if not somewhere even grander. 'The young lady will be down straight away. Perhaps Your Honour would care to wait in the sitting room?'

Erast Petrovich did not care to do so, and the servant hurried up the gleaming, snow-white staircase, while somehow managing to maintain his majestic composure, to the first floor. A minute later a small, nimble gentleman with an extremely expressive face and a neat lick of hair across his balding head came tumbling down in the opposite direction like a rubber ball.

'My God, I'm so terribly, terribly pleased to meet you,' he began when he was only halfway down the stairs. 'I've heard a lot about you, and all of it most flattering. I am extremely glad that Firochka has such reputable acquaintances, you know, it was always those long-haired types in dirty boots with coarse voices ... That's because she was still young, of course. I knew it would pass. Well, actually, I am Litvinov, and you, Mr Fandorin, have no need to introduce yourself; you are a very well-known individual.'

Erast Petrovich was somewhat surprised to see the banker wearing a frock coat and his star in his own home - he was probably going out somewhere too. But certainly not to Dolgorukoi's for pancakes, for that Avessalom Efraimovich would have to wait until his baronial title arrived.

'Such an honour, such an honour for Firochka to be going to an intimate supper at His Excellency's home. I'm very, very glad.' The banker was now very close to his visitor and he extended a white, puffy hand. 'I am exceedingly glad to make your acquaintance. We are at home on Thursdays and would be truly delighted to see you. But never mind our at-homes, simply come at any time that is convenient. My wife and I are doing everything to encourage this acquaintance of our Firochka's.'

The ingenuousness of this final phrase left the State Counsellor feeling somewhat uneasy. He felt even more embarrassed on noticing that the door leading to the inner chambers on the ground floor was ajar and someone was studying him attentively from behind it.

But Esfir was already walking down the stairs, and the way she was dressed immediately made Fandorin forget both the ambiguity of his position and the mysterious spy.

'Papa, why have you pinned on that trinket of yours again!' she exclaimed menacingly. 'Take it off immediately, or he'll think you sleep with it on. I suppose you've already invited him to the at-homes? Don't even think of coming, Erast. That would be just like you. A-ha' - Esfir had noticed the half-open door -'Mama's peeping. Don't waste your time; I'm not going to marry him!'

It was instantly clear who ruled the roost in these marble halls. The door immediately closed, startled Papa instantly covered his star with his hand and, speaking in a timid voice, asked the question that was also occupying Erast Petrovich: 'Firochka are you sure you can go to His Excellency's gathering dressed like that?'

Mademoiselle Litvinova had covered her short black hair with a gold net, which made it look as if her head was encased in a gleaming helmet; her scarlet tunic, cut in the loose Greek style, narrowed at the waist, where it was belted with a broad brocade girdle, below which it expanded into spacious folds; but the most striking element was the gash that extended down almost as far as her waist - not so much because it was so deep, as because it clearly indicated the absence of any brassiere or corset.

'The invitation said: "Ladies are free to choose a dress at their own discretion,'" said Esfir, glancing at Fandorin in alarm. 'Why - doesn't it suit me, then?'

'It suits you very well,' he replied in the voice of a doomed man, pondering the effect it would produce.

The effect exceeded Erast Petrovich's very worst apprehensions.

The gentlemen came to the Governor General's house for pancakes without their official decorations, but nonetheless in white tie and tails; all the ladies came in dresses in the semi-official bluish-white range. Against this copperplate-engraving background Esfir's outfit blazed like a scarlet rose on the dirty March snow. Another comparison also occurred to Fandorin: a flamingo that had flown into a chicken hutch by mistake.

Since the supper was an informal one, His Excellency had not yet joined his guests, allowing them an opportunity to mingle freely; but the furore created by State Counsellor Fandorin's escort was so great that it was quite impossible to maintain the light conversation customary in such circumstances - there was a hint of scandal in the air, or at least of a savoury incident that would be the talk of Moscow the following day.

The women surveyed the crop-haired damsel's outfit, cut in the latest shameless style that still provoked outrage even in Paris, with their lips pursed fastidiously and a greedy gleam in their eyes. The men, however, as yet uninformed of the approaching revolution in the world of ladies' fashion, stared openly, mesmerised by the free swaying of those two hemispheres barely covered by the extremely fine material. This sight was far more impressive than the accustomed nakedness of ladies' shoulders and backs.

Esfir did not appear to be even slightly embarrassed by the general attention and she examined the people around her with even franker curiosity.

'Who's that?' she asked the State Counsellor in a loud whisper. 'And that buxom one over there - who's she?'

At one point she exclaimed in a loud, clear voice: 'Oh good Lord, what a freak show!'

At first Erast Petrovich bore it manfully. He exchanged polite bows with his acquaintances, pretending not to notice the aim of those numerous glances, some with the naked eye, some assisted by lorgnettes. However, when Frol Grigorievich Vedishchev approached the State Counsellor and whispered: 'He wants to see you,' Fandorin excused himself to Esfir on grounds of urgent business and went dashing off with shameful haste to the inner apartments of the gubernatorial residence, abandoning his companion to the whim of fate. Just as he reached the doors, a pang of conscience made him look back.

Esfir did not seem lost at all, and she was not gazing after the deserter. She was standing facing a bevy of ladies, examining them with calm interest, and the ladies were trying as hard as they could to pretend that they were absorbed in casual conversation. Apparently there was no need to feel concerned for Mademoiselle Litvinova.

Dolgorukoi listened to the report from his Deputy for Special Assignments with undisguised satisfaction, although for the sake of appearances he gasped at the theft of state funds, even though they had, in fact, been destined for despatch to Turkestan.

'They're not having it all their own way,' said Vladimir Andreevich. 'Oh, fine smart fellows they found to put the blame on Dolgorukoi. Now, they can sort it out. So, the smug gentleman from the capital has run straight into a brick wall? Serves him right, serves him right.'

Vedishchev finished attaching the prince's stiff starched collar and cautiously sprinkled His Excellency's wrinkled neck with talc, so that it wouldn't get chafed.

'Frolushka, fix this bit.' The Governor General stood in front of the mirror, turned his head this way and that, and pointed to his crookedly poised chestnut wig. 'Of course, Erast Petrovich, they will never forgive me for Khrapov. I have received a very cold letter from His Majesty, so some day soon I'll be asked to vacate the premises. But I really would like to make that camarilla eat dirt before I go. Stick the solved case under their noses: There, eat that and remember Dolgorukoi. Eh, Erast Petrovich?'

The State Counsellor sighed. 'I can't promise, Vladimir Andreevich. My hands are tied. But I will t-try.'

'Yes, I understand

The prince started towards the doors leading into the hall. 'How are my guests? Are they all here?'

The doors opened as if of their own accord. Dolgorukoi halted on the threshold, to give the assembled public time to notice their host's entrance and prepare themselves accordingly.

The prince glanced round the hall and started in surprise: 'Who's that there in scarlet? The only one standing with her back to me?'

'That is my friend, Esfir Avessalomovna Litvinova,' the State Counsellor replied mournfully. 'You did ask..’

Dolgorukoi screwed up his long-sighted eyes and chewed on his lips.

'Frol, my old darling, dash to the banquet hall and change round the cards on the table. Seat the Governor and his wife further away and move Erast Petrovich and his lady friend so that they are on my right.'

'What's that you say - in the kisser?' the Governor General asked incredulously, and suddenly began blinking very fast - he had just noticed the edges of the gash in his neighbour's dress moving apart.

The upper end of the table, where the most eminent of the tided guests were sitting, suddenly went very quiet at the sound of that appalling word.

'Why yes, in the kisser,' Esfir repeated loudly for the deaf old man. 'The director of the school told me: "With that kind of behaviour, Litvinova, I wouldn't keep you here for a whole mountain of Yiddish pieces of silver." So I smacked him in the kisser. What would you have done in my place?'

'Well yes, there really was no other option,' Dolgorukoi admitted and asked curioiusly, 'And what did he do?'

'Nothing. He expelled me in disgrace, and I completed my studies at home.'

Esfir, who was seated between the prince and Erast Petrovich, was managing to do justice to the celebrated pancakes and conduct a lively conversation with the ruler of Moscow at the same time.

There were, in fact, only two people taking part in the conversation: His Excellency and his extravagant guest. No one else within hearing opened their mouth, and the unfortunate State Counsellor had completely turned to stone.

Female sensuality, the workers' question, the harmfulness of underwear, the pale of settlement - these were only some of the subjects that Mademoiselle Litvinova found time to touch on during the first three servings. When she left the table, making sure to inform everyone where she was going, Vladimir Andreevich whispered to Fandorin in absolute delight: 'Elle est ravissante, votre élue.' And when Esfir came back, she turned to Erast Petrovich to express her approval of the prince: 'Such a nice old man. Why do our people talk so badly about him?'

During the sixth serving of pancakes, after the sturgeon, sterlet pate and caviar had been replaced by fruit and various types of honey and jam, the duty adjutant appeared at the far end of the banqueting hall. With his aiguillettes jingling, he ran the entire length of the chamber on tiptoe, and his sprint did not pass unnoticed. From the officer's despairing expression it was clear that something quite out of the ordinary had happened. The guests turned round to watch the messenger as he ran past, and only the Governor General, whispering something in Esfir Avessalomovna's ear, remained unaware.

'That tickles,' she said, pulling away from his flurry dyed moustache, and stared curiously at the adjutant.

'Your Excellency, an emergency,' the captain reported, breathing heavily.

He tried to speak quiedy, but in the silence that had descended his words carried a long way.

'Eh? What's that?' asked Dolgorukoi, with a smile still on his face. 'What sort of emergency?'

'We've only just heard. There was an attack on the acting head of the Provincial Office of Gendarmes, Sverchinsky, at the Nikolaevsky Station. The Colonel was killed. His adjutant has been wounded. The attackers escaped. All trains to St Petersburg have been halted.'