The Winter Queen

CHAPTER ELEVEN

which tells the story of a very long night

ON THE ISLE OF DOGS, IN THE MAZE OF NARROW streets behind Millwall Docks, night falls rapidly. Before you can so much as glance over your shoulder the twilight has thickened from gray to brown and one in every two or three of the sparse streetlamps is already glowing. It is dirty and dismal, the Thames ladens the air with damp, the rubbish dumps adding the scent of putrid decay. The streets are deserted, with the only life—both disreputable and dangerous—teeming around the shady pubs and cheap furnished lodgings.

The rooms in the Ferry Road guesthouse are home to decommissioned sailors, petty swindlers, and aging port trollops. Pay sixpence a day and a separate room with a bed is yours to do with as you will—no one will stick his nose into your business—but a condition of the agreement is that for damaging the furniture, brawling, or yelling in the night your host, Fat Hugh, will fine you a shilling, and if anyone refuses to pay up, he will throw him out on his ear.

From morning to night Fat Hugh is at his post behind the counter, by the door, strategically positioned so that he can see anyone either arriving or leaving or bringing anything in or, on the contrary, attempting to take anything out. The clientele here is a mixed bunch, and you never know what they might be getting up to.

Take, for instance, that French artist with the shaggy red hair who has just gone scurrying past his landlord and into the corner room. The frog eater has money, all right—he paid for a week in advance with no arguments. He doesn’t drink, just sits there locked in his room, and this is the first time he’s been out at all. So, naturally, Hugh took the opportunity to glance into his room, and what do you think he found? Him an artist, but never a sign of any paints or canvases in the place! Maybe he’s some murderer or other, who knows—otherwise why would he be hiding his eyes behind those dark glasses? And maybe the constable ought to be told—the money’s been paid in advance anyway…

Meanwhile, the redheaded artist, unaware of the dangerous line taken by Fat Hugh’s train of thought, locked his door and began behaving in a manner that was indeed more than simply suspicious. First of all, he pulled the curtains tightly closed. Then he placed his purchases—a loaf of bread, cheese, and a bottle of porter—on the table, pulled a revolver out of his belt, and hid it under his pillow. But the disarming of this peculiar Frenchman was not complete at that. From the top of his boot he extracted a derringer—a small, single-shot pistol such as is usually employed by ladies and political assassins—and set this toylike firearm beside the bottle of porter. From his sleeve the lodger withdrew a short, narrow stiletto that he stuck into the loaf of bread. Only after all this did he light the candle, remove his blue spectacles, and rub his eyes with a weary hand. Finally, after a glance around at the window to make sure that the curtains were not parting, he lifted the red-haired wig off his head and was revealed as none other than Erast Petrovich Fandorin.

The meal was over and done with in five minutes—the titular counselor and fugitive assassin clearly had more important matters to attend to. Brushing the crumbs from the table, Erast Fandorin wiped his hands on his long bohemian blouse, went over to the tattered armchair standing in the corner, fumbled under its upholstery, and took out a small blue attaché case. Fandorin was impatient to continue the work with which he had been occupied all day and which had already led him to an extremely important discovery.

FOLLOWING THE TRAGIC EVENTS of the previous night Erast Fandorin had been obliged in spite of everything to pay a brief visit to his hotel in order to pick up at least his money and his passport. Now let his good friend Hippolyte—that villainous Judas—and his henchmen search the railway stations and seaports in vain for ‘Erasmus von Dorn.’ Who would pay any attention to a poor French artist who had taken up residence in the very foulest sink of the London slums? And though Fandorin may have been obliged to take his life in his hands and run the risk of going out to the post office, there had been a very good reason for that.

But what should he make of Zurov? His part in the story was not entirely clear, but it was certainly unseemly at the very least. His Excellency was not simple, not simple at all. The gallant hussar and open-hearted soul performed the most devious of maneuvers. How cleverly he had passed on that address, how well he had worked it all out! In a word, a true game master! He knew that the stupid gudgeon would take the bait and swallow the hook as well. But no, His Excellency had used some other allegory, something about a moth. The moth had flown into the flame all right, flown in exactly as expected. And it had almost burned its wings. Serve the fool right. After all, it was clear enough that Bezhetskaya and Hippolyte had some interest in common. Only a romantic blockhead such as a certain titular counselor (who had, in fact, been promoted to that rank over the heads of other, more worthy individuals) could have seriously believed in a fatal passion in the Castilian style! And he had even tried to fill Ivan Franzevich Brilling’s head with all that nonsense. For shame! Ha-ha! How beautifully Count Hippolyte Zurov had expressed it: “I love her and I fear her, the witch. I’ll strangle her with my own hands.” No doubt he had enjoyed toying with the babe in arms! And how exquisitely he had pulled it off, every bit as good as the first time, with the duel. His moves had been calculated simply and unerringly: take up a position at the Winter Queen Hotel and wait there calmly until the stupid moth Erasmus came flying to the candle. This was not Moscow—there was no detective police, no gendarmes. Erast Fandorin could be taken with the greatest of ease. And all the clues securely buried. Might not Zurov perhaps be that Franz whom the butler had mentioned? Ugh, these hideous conspirators! But which one of them was the leader—Zurov or Bezhetskaya? It seemed more likely, after all, that she was…Erast Fandorin shivered as he recalled the events of the previous night and the plaintive shriek with which Amalia had collapsed when she was shot. Perhaps she had been wounded and not killed? But the dismal chill that enveloped his heart told him that she was dead, the beautiful queen was dead, and Fandorin would have to live with that terrible burden to the end of his days.

It was, of course, entirely possible that the end was already near. Zurov knew who had killed her: he had seen Fandorin. The hunt must already be on right across London, right across England, even. But why had Zurov let him go last night? Why had he allowed him to escape? Had he been frightened off by the pistol in Fandorin’s hand? It was a riddle…

There was, however, another, even more puzzling riddle—the contents of the attaché case. For a long time Fandorin had been quite unable to make any sense of the mysterious list. His check had revealed that the number of entries on the sheets of paper was exactly the same as the number of letters and all of the information matched, except that in addition to the date indicated in each letter, Bezhetskaya had also entered the date of its receipt.

There were forty-five entries in all. The very earliest of them was dated the first of June, and the three latest had made their appearance even as Erast Fandorin watched. The ordinal numbers in the letters were all different; the lowest was 47F (the Kingdom of Belgium, director of a governmental department, received on the fifteenth of June) and the highest was 2347F (Italy, a lieutenant of dragoons, received on the ninth of June). The letters had been dispatched from a total of nine countries, of which the most frequently occurring were England and France. Russia only appeared once in the sequence. (N°994F, a full state counselor, received on the twenty-sixth of June, with a St. Petersburg stamp from the seventh of June on the envelope. Ooph, he mustn’t confuse the calendars! The seventh of June would be the nineteenth in the European style. That meant it had taken just a week to arrive.) For the most part, the positions and ranks mentioned were high—generals, senior officers, one admiral, one senator, even one Portuguese government minister—but there were also small fry, such as the lieutenant from Italy, a court investigator from France, and a captain of the Austro-Hungarian border guards.

Taking everything together, Bezhetskaya appeared to be some kind of intermediary, a transmission link or living post box whose duties involved registering incoming information and then forwarding it—evidently to Mr. Nicholas Croog in St. Petersburg. It was reasonable to assume that the lists were forwarded once a month. It was also clear that some other individual had played the role of Miss Olsen before Bezhetskaya, a fact the hotel porter had not suspected.

At that point the obvious came to an end and an urgent need arose to apply the deductive method. If only the chief were here, he would have instantly listed all the possible scenarios and everything would have been neatly sorted into its right place. But he was far away, and the unavoidable conclusion was that Brilling had been right, a thousand times right. There obviously existed a widely ramified secret organization with members in many countries—that was one. Queen Victoria and Disraeli had nothing to do with the case (otherwise why send the reports to St. Petersburg?)—that was two. Erast Fandorin had made a fool of himself with his English spies; this affair very definitely smacked of nihilists—that was three. And all the threads led nowhere else but back to Russia, which possessed the most fearsome and ruthless nihilists of all—that was four. And they included that treacherous werewolf Zurov.

His chief may have been right, but even so Fandorin had not squandered his travel expenses in vain. Even in his worst nightmares Ivan Brilling could hardly have imagined the true might of the multiheaded hydra with which he was doing battle. These were no students and hysterical young ladies with little bombs and pistols. This was an entire secret order involving ministers of state, generals, court investigators, and even a full state counselor from St. Petersburg!

That was when Erast Fandorin was struck by a sudden insight (by this time it was already after noon). A full state counselor—and a nihilist? It simply didn’t make sense. The head of the imperial guard in Brazil was not really a problem. Erast Fandorin had never been to Brazil and he had no idea of the local mores—but his imagination absolutely refused to picture a Russian state general holding a bomb in his hand. Fandorin was acquainted quite closely with one full state counselor, Feodor Trifonovich Sevriugin, the director of the provincial gymnasium he had attended for almost seven years. Could he possibly be a terrorist? Nonsense!

Then suddenly Erast Fandorin’s heart was wrung with pity. These were no terrorists; these were all decent and respectable individuals! These were the victims of terror! Nihilists from various countries, each of them concealed behind a coded number, were reporting to central revolutionary HQ about the terrorist acts they had committed!

And yet, he could not actually recall any ministers being killed in Portugal in June—all the newspapers would most certainly have reported it…Which meant that they must be prospective victims—that was it! The ‘numbers’ were requesting permission from HQ to commit acts of terror. And no names were given in order to maintain secrecy.

Now everything fell into place; now everything was clear. Ivan Brilling had said something about a thread connecting Akhtyrtsev to some dacha outside Moscow, but Fandorin, all fired up with his own fantastic ravings about spies, had not bothered to listen.

But stop. What did they want with a lieutenant of dragoons? He really was very small fry. Very simple, was Erast Fandorin’s immediate reply to his own question. The unknown Italian obviously must have got under their feet somehow. In the same way that a youthful collegiate regular istrar from the Moscow detective police had once got under the feet of a certain white-eyed killer.

What should he do? He was simply sitting things out here while the threat of death hung over so many honorable people! Fandorin felt especially sorry for the unknown general in St. Petersburg. No doubt he was a worthy man, already middle-aged and distinguished, with little children…And it appeared that these Carbonari* sent out their villainous communiqués every month. No wonder there was blood flowing right across Europe every day! And the threads led back nowhere else but to St. Petersburg. Erast Fandorin recalled the words once spoken by his chief: “The very fate of Russia is at stake.” Ah, Ivan Brilling, ah, Mr. State Counselor, not just the fate of Russia—the fate of the entire civilized world!

He could inform the clerk Pyzhov secretly, so that the traitor in the embassy would not sniff anything out. But how? The traitor could be anyone at all, and it was dangerous for Fandorin to show his face near the embassy, even in the guise of a redheaded Frenchman in an artist’s blouse…He would have to take a risk, send a letter by municipal post to provincial secretary Pyzhov and mark it ‘to be delivered personally.’ Nothing superfluous, just his address and greetings from Ivan Franzevich Brilling. He was a clever man; he would understand everything. And they said the municipal post here delivered a letter to its addressee in little more than two hours…

And that was what Fandorin had done, so that when evening came it found him waiting to see if there would be a cautious knock at the door.

There was no knock, however. Everything turned out quite differently.

LATER, WHEN IT WAS ALREADY AFTER MIDNIGHT, Erast Fandorin was sitting in the tattered armchair in which the attaché case was concealed. On the table the candle had almost burned itself out, in the corners of the room a hostile gloom had gathered and thickened, and outside the window an approaching storm occasionally rumbled alarmingly. The very air seemed oppressive and stifling, as if some invisible, corpulent individual had sat down on his chest and would not let him get his breath. Fandorin teetered uncertainly on the ill-defined boundary between wakefulness and sleep. Important thoughts of practical matters would suddenly become bogged down in irrelevant drivel, and then the young man would rouse himself and shake his head in order to avoid being sucked down into the whirlpool of sleep.

During one of these lucid intervals something very peculiar happened. First there was a strange, shrill squeak. Then Erast Fandorin could scarcely believe his own eyes as he saw the key protruding from the keyhole begin to turn of its own accord. The door creaked sickeningly as it swung open into the room, and a bizarre vision appeared in the doorway: a puny little gentleman of indeterminate age with a round, clean-shaven face and narrow eyes nestling in beds of fine, radiating wrinkles.

Fandorin shuddered and grabbed the revolver from the table, but the vision smiled sweetly, nodded contentedly, and cooed in extremely pleasant, honeyed tenor tones, “Well, here I am, my dear lad. Porfirii Pyzhov, son of Martin, servant of God, and provincial secretary, come flying to you the very moment you chose to beckon. Like the wind at the summons of Aeolus.”

“How did you open the door?” Erast Fandorin whispered in fright. “I distinctly remember turning the key twice.”

“With this—a magnetic picklock,” the long-awaited visitor readily explained, displaying some kind of elongated little bar, which, however, immediately disappeared back into his pocket. “An extremely handy little item. I borrowed it from a certain local thief. In my line of business I am obliged to maintain relations with the most dreadful types, denizens of the very darkest depths of society. The most absolute miserables, I assure you. Such types as Monsieur Hugo never even saw in his dreams. But they, too, are human souls and it is possible to find ways to approach them. In fact, I am very fond of the scum and I even collect them a little. As the poet put it: each amuses himself as he may, but all shall be brought low by death alone. Or as the Teut would have it Jedes Tierchen hat sein Pläsierchen—every little beastling has its own plaything.”

It was quite evident that this strange man possessed the ability to rattle off nonsense on any subject whatsoever without the slightest difficulty, but his keen eyes were wasting no time. They had already thoroughly ransacked both Erast Fandorin’s person and the furnishings of his squalid chamber.

“I am Erast Petrovich Fandorin. From Mr. Brilling. On extremely important business,” said the young man, although the first and second facts had been stated in his letter, and Pyzhov himself must undoubtedly have guessed the third. “Only he did not give me any password. Probably he forgot.”

Erast Fandorin looked anxiously at Pyzhov, on whom his salvation now depended, but the little man merely threw up his short-fingered hands.

“There is no need of any password. Sheer nonsense and games for children. Can a Russian fail to know another Russian? It is enough for me to gaze into your bright eyes”—Porfirii Pyzhov moved close up against Fandorin—“and I see everything as clearly as if it were laid out before me. A youth pure hearted and bold, filled with noble aspirations and patriotic devotion to his fatherland. Why, of course—in our department we have no other kind.”

Fandorin frowned. It seemed to him that Provincial Secretary Pyzhov was playing the fool, taking him for some idiot child. And therefore Erast Fandorin related his story briefly and dryly, without any emotions. It transpired that Porfirii Pyzhov was capable of more than mere tongue wagging. He could also be an extremely attentive listener—in fact he had a positive talent for it. Pyzhov sat down on the edge of the bed, folded his hands across his belly, squeezed the narrow slits of his eyes even tighter—and it was as if he had disappeared. That is, he was quite literally all attention. Not once did Pyzhov interrupt, not once did he even stir. However, at times, at the key moments of the narrative, a subtle spark glimmered beneath his hooded eyelids.

Erast Fandorin did not divulge his hypothesis concerning the letters—that he saved for Ivan Brilling—and in conclusion he said, “And so, Mr. Pyzhov, you see before you a fugitive and involuntary homicide. I urgently need to get across to the Continent. I need to get to Moscow, to see Mr. Brilling.”

Pyzhov chewed on his lips and waited to see whether anything else would be said, then he asked in quiet voice, “And what of the attache case? Why not forward it with the diplomatic post? That would be more reliable. One never knows…From what you have told me, these gentlemen are serious individuals. They will be searching for you in Europe as well. Of course I shall get you across the Channel, my sweet angel. That is no great business. Provided you disdain not the fisherman’s frail bark, you shall sail tomorrow, and God speed! Riding the howling gale beneath your billowing sails.”

All of his winds seem to be gales, thought Erast Fandorin, who in all honesty desperately did not wish to part with the attache case which it had cost him so dear to obtain. Porfirii Pyzhov, however, continued as if he had not noticed the young man’s hesitation.

“I do not interfere in other people’s business, for I am an unassuming and incurious individual. However, I can see there are many things you are not telling me. And quite right, my peachy darling; the word is silver, but silence is golden. Ivan Franzevich Brilling is a high-flying bird, a haughty eagle, one might say, among starlings, who would not entrust important business to just anyone. Is that not so?”

“In what sense?”

“Why, regarding the attaché case. I would daub it with sealing wax on every side, give it to one of the more keen-witted couriers—and it would be wafted across to Moscow in an instant, as on a three-horse sleigh with bells a-jingling. And for my part I would dispatch a coded telegram: accept, O ruler of the heavenly realms, this priceless gift.”

God knows, Erast Fandorin did not crave honors. He did not desire decorations or even fame. He would have surrendered the attaché case to Pyzhov for the good of the cause, for, after all, a courier really would be more reliable. But in his imagination he had already rehearsed so many times the triumphant return to his chief, with the spectacular presentation of the precious attaché case and the thrilling account of all the adventures that had befallen him…and now was none of this to be?

Cravenly putting his own interest first, Fandorin said austerely, “The attaché case is concealed in a secure hiding place. And I shall deliver it myself. I answer for it with my life. Please do not take offense, Mr. Pyzhov.”

“Why, of course not, of course not.” Pyzhov made no attempt to insist. “Just as you wish. It will be less trouble for me. The devil take other people’s secrets—I have quite enough of my own. If it is in a secure place, so be it.” He got to his feet and ran his gaze over the bare walls of the tiny room. “You take a rest for the time being, my young friend. Youth needs sleep. I am an old man, and I have insomnia in any case, so in the meanwhile I shall issue instructions concerning the boat. Tomorrow—actually it is already today—I shall be here at very first light. I shall deliver you to the shore of the sea, embrace and kiss you in farewell and make the sign of the cross over you. And I shall remain here, an orphan abandoned in an alien land. Oh, it frets poor Ivan’s heart to be stuck in foreign parts.”

At this point even Porfirii Pyzhov clearly realized that he had poured on the syrup a little too thickly, and he spread his arms in acknowledgment of his guilt.

“I repent—my tongue has run away with me. But, you know, I have missed living Russian speech so badly. I do so yearn for elegant turns of phrase. Our embassy know-it-alls express themselves most of the time in French, and I have no one with whom I can share the inmost stirrings of my soul.”

The thunder rumbled again, this time more seriously, and it appeared to have started raining. Pyzhov was suddenly all business, and he began preparing to depart.

“I must be going. Ai-ai-ai, how passionately the inclement elements do rage.”

In the doorway he turned around to caress Fandorin with a farewell glance and then with a low bow he melted away into the gloom of the corridor.

Erast Fandorin locked and bolted the door and hunched his shoulders in a chill shiver as a peal of thunder reverberated above the very roof.

IT WAS DARK AND EERIE in the wretched little room, with its solitary window that overlooked the naked stone yard without a single blade of grass. Outside, the weather was foul, windy and rainy, but the moon was slewing through the tattered clouds strewn across the black and gray sky. A ray of yellow light falling through the crack between the curtains cut the squalid lodging in half, slashing through it as far as the bed, where Fandorin, beset by nightmares, tossed in a cold sweat. He was fully dressed, including his boots, and he was still armed, except that the revolver was once again under his pillow.

Overburdened by the guilt of the murder, poor Erast Fandorin’s conscience visited upon him a strange vision. Dead Amalia was leaning over his bed. Her eyes were half closed, a drop of blood trickled from beneath her eyelid, and in her bare hand she held a black rose.

“What did I do to you?” The dead woman groaned piteously. “I was young and beautiful. I was unhappy and lonely. They snared me in their web—they deceived and depraved me. The only man I loved betrayed me. You have committed a terrible sin, Erast. You have killed beauty, and beauty is a miracle from God. You have trampled underfoot a miracle from God. And why, what for?”

The drop of blood fell from her cheek straight onto Erast Fandorin’s forehead. He started at the cold sensation and opened his eyes. He saw that Amalia was not there, thank God. It was all a dream, nothing but a dream. But then another icy drop fell on his forehead.

What was it? Erast Fandorin wondered, shuddering in horror and finally waking up completely. He heard the howling of the wind, the drumming of the rain, the hollow rumbling of the thunder. But what were these drops? It was nothing supernatural, however—the ceiling was leaking. Be still, foolish heart, be calm.

Then came the low but distinct whispering from behind the door: “Why, what for?”

And then again: “Why, what for?”

It’s my bad conscience, Fandorin told himself. My bad conscience is giving me hallucinations. But this commonsensical, rational thought failed to dispel the hideous, viscous terror that was oozing in at every pore of his body.

Everything seemed quiet. A flash of lightning lit up the naked gray walls, and then it was dark again.

A minute later he heard a quiet knocking at the window. Tap-tap. Then again: tap-tap-tap.

Steady now! It’s nothing but the wind. A tree. A branch scraping the window. A perfectly ordinary occurrence.

Tap-tap. Tap-tap-tap.

A tree? What tree? Fandorin suddenly jerked upright. There was no tree outside the window! There was nothing but an empty yard. My God, what was it?

The strip of yellow between the curtains faded and turned to gray—the moon must have gone behind a cloud—and an instant later something dark, mysterious, and terrifying loomed into sight.

He could endure anything but lying there, feeling the hairs rising on the nape of his neck. Anything but feeling himself losing his mind.

Erast Fandorin stood up and set off toward the window on legs that scarcely obeyed him, keeping his eyes fixed on that terrible patch of darkness. At the very moment when he jerked back the curtains, the sky was lit up by a flash of lightning and there outside the windowpane, right in front of him, Fandorin saw a deadly pale face with black pits for eyes. A hand glimmering with unearthly light slid slowly across the glass, its fingers extended in bright rays. Erast Fandorin acted stupidly, like a little child—he sobbed convulsively and staggered backward, then dashed back to the bed, collapsed on it facedown, and covered his head with his hands.

He had to wake up! Wake up as soon as possible! Our Father, Who art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy name, Thy kingdom come, Thy—

The tapping at the window stopped. He lifted his face out of the pillow and squinted cautiously in the direction of the window but saw nothing terrible—just the night and the rain and the rapid flashes of lightning. It was his imagination. Definitely his imagination.

Fortunately Erast Fandorin managed to recall the teachings of the Indian Brahmin Chandra Johnson, who taught the science of correct breathing and correct living. The book of wisdom read:

Correct breathing is the basis of correct living. It will support you in the difficult moments of life, and through it you will attain salvation, tranquillity, and enlightenment. Breathing in the vital force of prana, do not hasten to breathe it out again, but hold it a while in your lungs. The longer and more regular your breath is, the more vital force there is within you. That man has achieved enlightenment who, after breathing in prana in the evening, does not breathe it out again until the dawn light.

Well, Erast Fandorin still had a long way to go to reach enlightenment, but thanks to his regular morning exercises he had already learned to hold his breath for up to a hundred seconds, and to this sure remedy he resorted now. He filled his chest with air and became still. He was “transformed into wood, stone, grass.” It worked—the pounding of his heart steadied a little, the terror receded. At the count of a hundred Fandorin released his breath noisily, soothed and reassured by the victory of the enlightened spirit over superstition.

And then he heard a sound that set his teeth chattering loudly. Someone was scratching at the door.

“Let me in,” a voice whispered. “Look at me. I’m cold. Let me in…”

This is just too much, thought Fandorin indignantly, summoning his final remnants of pride. I’m going to open the door and wake up. Or…or I shall see that this is no dream.

In two bounds he was at the door, pulled back the bolt, and heaved the door toward himself.

Amalia was standing in the doorway. She was wearing a white lace peignoir like the last time, but her hair was wet and tangled from the rain and a bloody patch had spread across her breast. The most terrifying thing of all was the unearthly glimmering of her face, with its motionless, lifeless eyes. A white hand trailing sparks of light reached out toward Erast Fandorin’s face and touched his cheek in exactly the same way as the day before, but this time the fingers radiated such an icy chill that the unfortunate Fandorin staggered backward, his mind reeling into madness.

“Where is the attaché case?” the specter asked in a hissing whisper. “Where is my attaché case? I sold my soul for it.”

“I won’t give it to you!” Erast Fandorin cried out through parched lips. He staggered backward to the armchair in the depths of which the purloined attaché case lay concealed, plumped down heavily on the seat, and put his arms around the chair for safety’s sake.

The ghost went over to the table. She struck a match, lit the candle, and suddenly shouted loudly in English, “Your turn now! He’s all yours!”

Two men burst into the room: the tall Morbid with his head almost brushing the ceiling, and someone else small and sprightly.

His mind now totally befogged, Fandorin did not even stir a muscle when the butler set a knife to his throat and the other man frisked him, discovering the derringer in the top of his boot.

“Look for the revolver,” Morbid ordered in English, and the sprightly little fellow made no mistake, instantly discovering the Colt hidden under the pillow.

All this time Amalia was standing by the window, wiping her face and hands with a handkerchief.

“Is that all?” she asked impatiently. “What foul muck this phosphorous is. And the entire masquerade was a total waste of time. He lacked the brains even to hide the case properly. John, look in the armchair.”

She did not look at Fandorin, as if he had suddenly been transformed into an inanimate object.

Morbid easily tugged Fandorin out of the armchair, keeping the blade of the knife pressed to his throat the whole time, and the sprightly fellow thrust his hand into the seat and pulled out the blue attache case.

“Give it here.” Bezhetskaya went over to the table and checked the contents of the case. “It’s all there. He didn’t have time to send anything on. Thank God. Franz, bring my cape. I’m chilled through.”

“So it was all a show?” Fandorin asked in a quavering voice as his courage began to return. “Bravo. You are a magnificent actress. I am glad that my bullet missed you. Such a great talent would have been lost—”

“Don’t forget the gag,” Amalia said to the butler. Tossing the cape brought by Franz across her shoulders, she left the room without so much as a final glance at the disgraced Erast Fandorin.

The sprightly little fellow—so it was him who had been watching the hotel, not Zurov at all—took a ball of fine string out of his pocket and bound the captive’s arms tightly against his sides. Then he grabbed Fandorin’s nose between his forefinger and thumb, and when the young man opened his mouth, he thrust a rubber pear into it.

“All in order,” Franz declared with a slight German accent, pleased with the result of his handiwork. “I’ll bring the sack.”

He darted out into the corridor and quickly returned. The last thing that Erast Fandorin saw before the coarse sack was pulled over his shoulders and right down to his knees was the stony, totally impassive face of John Morbid. But though it was, of course, a pity that it was this face of all faces the world should choose to show Erast Fandorin in farewell, and not the visage that had enchanted him so, nonetheless the dusty darkness of the sack proved even worse.

“Let me tie a bit more string ‘round the outside,” Fandorin heard Franz say. “We don’t have far to go, but it’ll be safer that way.”

“Where’s he going to go?” Morbid’s bass replied. “The moment he twitches I’ll stab him in the belly.”

“We’ll tie him a bit tighter in any case,” Franz sang. He bound the string around the sack so tightly that it became hard for Erast Fandorin to breathe.

“Get moving!” said Morbid, prodding the captive. Fandorin set off like a blind man, not really understanding why they could not simply slit his throat there in the room.

He stumbled twice, and almost fell in the doorway of the guesthouse, but John’s massive ham of a hand caught him by the shoulder in time.

He could smell rain and hear horses snorting gently.

“You two, as soon as you’ve dealt with him, come back here and tidy everything up,” he heard Bezhetskaya say. “We are going back to the house.”

“Don’t you worry, ma’am,” the butler rumbled. “You’ve done your job—now we’ll do ours.”

Oh, how Erast Fandorin longed to say something remarkable to Amalia in parting, something really exceptional, so that she would not remember him as a stupid, frightened little boy but as a valiant warrior who fell in an unequal struggle with a whole army of nihilists. But the accursed rubber pear deprived him of even that final satisfaction.

And then, just when it seemed that fate could torment him no more after what he had already endured, the poor youth was struck yet another shattering blow.

“My darling Amalia Kazimirovna,” said a familiar light tenor voice in Russian. “Will you not permit an old man to take a spin in your carriage with you? We could chat about this and that, and I should be a bit drier. As you can see, I am absolutely drenched. Your servant can take the droshky and drive behind us. You don’t object, do you, my sweetheart?”

“Get in,” Bezhetskaya replied dryly. “But remember, Pyzhov, I am no darling of yours, let alone your sweetheart.”

Erast Fandorin lowed mutely, for with the rubber pear in his mouth it was quite impossible to burst out sobbing. The entire world had taken up arms against the poor youth. Where could he draw the strength required to overcome the odds in this battle with an entire host of villains? He was surrounded by noxious traitors, venomous vipers (pah, now he had been infected by Porfirii Pyzhov’s odious verbiage!). Bezhetskaya and her cutthroats, and Zurov, and even Pyzhov, that fickle fair-weather friend—they were all his enemies. At that moment Erast Fandorin did not even wish to go on living, so overwhelmed was he by disgust and weariness.

But as things stood, no one seemed very keen to persuade him to go on living. In fact, his escorts appeared to have something quite different in mind. Strong hands hoisted the captive up and set him down on a seat. The heavyweight Morbid clambered up and sat on his left, the lightweight Franz sat on his right and cracked his whip, and Erast Fandorin was thrown backward.

“Where to?” asked the butler.

“We were told to go to pier six. It’s deeper there and the current’s stronger, too. What do you think?”

“It makes no difference to me. Number six will do as well as any.”

And so Erast Fandorin’s imminent fate was spelled out for him quite clearly. They would take him to some solitary quayside, tie a rock to him, and dispatch him to the bottom of the Thames, to rot among the rusty anchor chains and bottle shards. Titular Counselor Fandorin would disappear without trace, for it would transpire that after the military agent in Paris, he had not been seen by a single living soul. Ivan Brilling would realize that his protege must have missed his footing somewhere, but he would never learn the truth. And in Moscow and Peter they would still be unaware of the viper that lurked in the bosom of their secret service. If only he could be unmasked.

Well, and perhaps he still could.

Even bound and stuffed into a long, dusty sack, Erast Fandorin was feeling incomparably better than twenty minutes earlier, when the phosphorescent specter was glaring in at his window and his reason was paralyzed by fear.

For in matter of fact there was indeed a chance of salvation for him. Franz was adroit, but he had not guessed to feel Fandorin’s right sleeve. In that sleeve lay the stiletto, and in the stiletto lay hope. If only he could contrive somehow to reach the handle with his fingers…Oh, that’s not so simple when your hand is tied to your hip. How long would it take them to reach this pier six? Would he have time?

“Sit still,” said Morbid, poking his elbow into the side of the captive, who was wriggling about (no doubt from fear).

“Indeed, my friend, twist and turn as you may, it changes nothing,” Franz remarked philosophically.

The man in the sack carried on twitching for about a minute before eventually emitting a brief, muffled hoot and falling quiet, evidently finally reconciled to his fate (before it yielded and slid out, the accursed stiletto had dealt him a painful cut on the wrist).

“Here we are,” John announced and got to his feet, peering about in all directions. “Nobody here.”

“And who would there be, out in the rain, in the middle of the night?” asked Franz with a shrug of his shoulders. “Come on, will you—get a move on. We’ve still got to get back.”

“Take his legs.”

They picked up the bundle bound around with string and carried it to a rough wooden pier for rowboats that thrust over the black water like an arrow.

Erast Fandorin heard the squeak of planks underfoot and the splashing of the river. Deliverance was near. The moment the waters of the Thames closed over his head he would slash the blade across his bonds, slice open the sack, and rise quietly to the surface under the pier. There he would bide his time until these two were gone, and then his nightmare would be over—salvation, life, freedom! It all seemed so plain and easy that an inner voice suddenly whispered to Fandorin: Erast, things never happen like that in real life. Fate is sure to play some dirty trick and upset your entire marvelous plan.

Alas, the inner voice was an omen of the disaster it predicted, for the dirty trick put in an appearance without further delay—and it came not from the direction of the nightmarish Mr. Morbid, but on the initiative of the genial Franz.

“Wait a moment, John,” Franz said when they halted at the edge of the pier and set their burden down on the rough boards. “This won’t do—throwing a living man into the water like some kitten. Would you like to be in his place?”

“No,” replied John.

“Well, then,” said Franz, delighted. “You see what I mean. Choking on that filthy rotten swill—brrrr! I wouldn’t wish that on anyone. Let’s do right by him: slit his throat first so he won’t suffer. One quick swipe, and it’s all over, eh?”

Such philanthropic sentimentality made Erast Fandorin feel quite ill, but dear, wonderful Mr. Morbid muttered discontentedly, “Oh, no, I’ll get my knife all bloody. And splatter blood on my sleeve. This young puppy’s caused enough trouble already. Never mind—he’ll croak anyway. If you’re so kindhearted, you strangle him with a piece of string—that’s your speciality—and meanwhile I’ll go and look for a lump of iron or something of the sort.”

His heavy footsteps receded, leaving Fandorin alone with the humanitarian Franz.

“I shouldn’t have tied any string ‘round the outside of the sack,” the latter mused thoughtfully. “I used it all up.”

Erast Fandorin lowed in approval—never mind, don’t worry about it, I’ll manage somehow.

“Eh, poor soul,” sighed Franz. “Listen to him groan. It fair breaks your heart. Okay, my lad, don’t you be frightened. Uncle Franz won’t begrudge you his belt.”

There was the sound of approaching steps.

“There you are, a piece of rail, the very thing,” boomed the butler. “Stick it in under the string. He won’t surface for a month at least.”

“Wait a moment. I’ll just slip this noose ‘round his neck.”

“Ah, to hell with all your mollycoddling! Time’s wasting—it’ll be dawn soon!”

“I’m sorry, son,” Franz said sympathetically. “Obviously that’s the way it’s meant to be. Das host du dir selbst verdanken.*”

They picked Erast Fandorin up again and began swinging him backward and forward.

“Azazel!” Franz cried out in a solemn, formal voice, and a second later the swaddled body plunged with a splash into the putrid water.

Fandorin felt neither the cold nor the oily weight of the water pressing down on him as he hacked through the soaking string with the stiletto. The most awkward part was freeing his right hand, but once it was loose, the job went swimmingly: one stroke and his left hand began assisting his right; another, and the sack was slashed from top to bottom; a third, and the heavy length of rail went plunging into the soft silt.

Now he just had to make certain not to surface too soon. Erast Fandorin pushed off with his legs, thrust his hands out in front of him, and groped about with them in the turbid water. Somewhere here, very close, there ought to be the supports that held up the pier. There—his fingers had come into contact with slippery, weed-covered timber. Quietly now, without hurrying, up along the pillar so there would be no splash, not a sound.

Under the wooden decking of the pier it was pitch-dark. Suddenly a round white blob was thrust up from the black, watery depths. Within this white circle a smaller dark one immediately took shape as Titular Counselor Fandorin greedily gulped in the air above the river. It smelled of decay and kerosene. It had the magical smell of life.

Meanwhile, up above on the pier, a leisurely conversation was in progress. Concealed below, Erast Fandorin could hear every word. He had sometimes reduced himself to sentimental tears by imagining the words with which friends and enemies would remember him, the hero who met an untimely end, by rehearsing the speeches that would be pronounced over the gaping pit of his grave. One might say that his entire youth had been spent in dreams of this kind. Imagine, then, the young man’s indignation when he heard what trivia formed the subject of the prattle between those who believed themselves his murderers! Not a word about the man over whose head the somber waters had only just closed! A man with a mind and a heart, with a noble soul and exalted aspirations!

“Oh,” sighed Franz, “I’ll pay for this little stroll with an attack of rheumatism. Feel how damp the air is. Well, what are we standing here for? Let’s go, eh?”

“It’s too soon.”

“Listen, what with all this running about I didn’t get any supper. What do you think—will they give us something to eat or think up some other job for us to do?”

“That’s not for us to worry our heads about. We’ll do whatever they tell us.”

“If I could just grab a nice piece of cold veal on the way. My stomach’s rumbling…Are we really going to uproot ourselves from the old familiar homestead? I’ve just settled in, got used to the place. What for? Everything worked out all right in the end.”

“She knows what for. If she’s given the order, there’s a reason.”

“That’s true enough. She doesn’t make mistakes. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for her—I’d even shop my own dear old dad. That is, if I had one, of course. No mother would ever have done as much for us as she has.”

“That goes without saying…Right, that’s it. Let’s go.”

Erast Fandorin waited until the footsteps died away in the distance, counted to three hundred just to make sure, and only then began moving toward the shoreline.

When, after falling back several times, he finally hauled himself out with a great struggle onto the low but almost vertical parapet of the waterfront, the darkness was already beginning to melt away before the advancing dawn. The man who had failed to drown shuddered and shivered, his teeth chattered, and then he was seized by the hiccups as well. He must clearly have swallowed a lot of the putrid river water. But it was still wonderful to be alive. Erast Fandorin cast a loving glance across the wide expanse of the river (on the far side there were lights shining sweetly); smiled affectionately at the sheer solidity of a low, squat warehouse; gave his approval to the regular swaying of the tugboats and harbor launches lined up along the quayside. A blissful smile lit up the wet face of this man risen from the dead with a smear of fuel oil on his forehead. He stretched sweetly, and then froze motionless in that absurd pose—a low, agile silhouette had detached itself nimbly from the corner of the warehouse and begun scurrying toward him.

“What vile brutes they are, what villainous knaves,” the silhouette lamented in a thin voice clearly audible from a distance as it came toward him. “They can never be trusted to do anything—you always have to keep an eye on them. Where would you all be without Pyzhov, tell me that! You’d be as helpless as blind little kittens—you’d be done for.”

Fandorin dashed forward, overwhelmed by righteous fury. The traitor appeared to imagine that his Satanic apostasy had remained undiscovered.

However, a glimpse of the malevolent gleam of metal in the provincial secretary’s hand made Erast Fandorin first halt and then begin backing away.

“That’s a wise decision, my sweet strawberry,” Pyzhov said approvingly, and Fandorin saw what a catlike spring there was in his step. “You’re a sensible lad—I saw that straightaway. Do you know what it is I have here?” He waved his weapon in the air, and Fandorin saw a twin-barreled pistol of unusually large caliber. “A terrible thing. In the local criminal argot it is known as a smasher. Here, if you would care to take a look, is where you load the two little explosive bullets—the very ones forbidden by the St. Petersburg Convention of 1868. But criminals are genuine villains, my little Erast. What do they care for some philanthropic convention? And the bullet is explosive. Once it strikes the flesh, it unfolds its petals like a flower. It reduces flesh and bone to a bloody mush. So just you take it easy, my little darling, don’t go getting twitchy. If I’m startled I might just fire, then afterward I wouldn’t be able to live with what I’d done, I’d feel so guilty. It really is excruciatingly painful if it hits you in the belly or anywhere else around that area.”

Still hiccuping—no longer from the cold but from fear—Fandorin yelled out, “Judas Iscariot! You sold your homeland for thirty pieces of silver!” And he backed further away from the menacing muzzle of the gun.

“In the words of the immortal Derzhavin, inconstancy is the lot of mortal kind. And you do me a grave injustice, my little friend. I was not enticed by thirty shekels but by a far more substantial sum, transferred in the most immaculate manner to a Swiss bank—for my old age, to ensure that I do not die in the gutter. And what did you think you were doing, you little fool? Who did you think you were yelping and yapping at? Shooting at stone is merely a waste of arrows. This is a truly mighty structure, the pyramid of Cheops. You cannot butt it down with your forehead.”

In the meantime Erast Fandorin had shuffled back to the edge of the quayside and been obliged to halt on feeling the low curb press against the back of his heels. All appearances indicated that this was exactly what Pyzhov had been trying to achieve.

“That’s very good now—that’s quite splendid,” he intoned melliflu-ously, halting ten paces away from his victim. “It wouldn’t have been easy for me to drag such a well-nourished youth to the water afterward. Don’t you be alarmed, my rubicund little fellow, Pyzhov knows what he’s about. Bang—and it’s all over. No more red little face, just gooey red mush. Even if they fish you out they won’t identify you. And your soul will soar straight up to the angels. It hasn’t had a chance to sin yet, it’s such a young soul.”

With these words he raised his weapon, screwed up his left eye, and smiled in sweet anticipation. He was in no hurry to fire; he was clearly savoring the moment. Fandorin cast a despairing glance at the deserted shoreline illuminated by the bleary light of dawn. There was no one, not a single soul. This time it really was the end. He thought he saw something stirring over by the warehouse, but he had no time to make it out—a shot thundered out, appallingly loud, louder than the loudest of thunder. Erast Fandorin swayed backward, then with a bloodcurdling howl he plunged down into the river out of which he had clambered with such great difficulty only a few minutes earlier.