The Winter Queen

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

which narrates events that transpired on the twenty-fifth of June

THE LUSH SUNSHINE OF SUMMER PAINTED golden squares on the floor of the operations hall of the Central Post Office in St. Petersburg. As evening drew near, one of them, elongated by this time into an irregular oblong, reached the poste restante window and instantly warmed the counter. The atmosphere became stifling and soporific. A fly droned drowsily, and the attendant sitting at the window was overcome by sudden fatigue—thank goodness his stream of customers was gradually drying up at last. Another half hour and the doors of the post office would be closed; then all he would have to do was hand in his register and he could go home. The attendant—but let us give him his own name, he was Kondratii Kondratievich Shtukin, who in seventeen years of service in the postal department had risen from simple postman to the glorious heights of a formal state rank—Kondratii Shtukin handed over a package from Revel to an elderly Finnish woman with the amusing name of Pyrvu and looked to see whether the Englishman was still sitting there.

The Englishman was still sitting there—he had not gone away. There was an obstinate nation for you now. The Englishman had appeared early in the morning, when the post office had barely even opened, and having seated himself beside the partition with his newspaper, had sat there the whole day long, without eating or drinking or even, begging your pardon, leaving his post to do the necessary. As if he were rooted to the spot. Clearly someone must have made an appointment to meet him and failed to keep it. That happens often enough around here, but for a Briton it would be incomprehensible. They’re such a disciplined people, so punctual. Whenever anyone, especially anyone of a foreign appearance, approached the window, the Englishman would draw himself up in eager anticipation and even shift his blue spectacles to the very tip of his nose. But so far none of them had been the one he was expecting. A Russian, now, would have given way to indignation long ago, thrown his hands up in the air, and begun complaining loudly to everyone in earshot; but this fellow just stuck his nose into his Times and carried on sitting there.

Or perhaps the fellow had nowhere to go. Came here straight from the railway station—look at that checked traveling suit he had on, and the traveling bag—thinking he would be met, but he hadn’t been. What else could he do? When he came back from lunch, Kondratii Shtukin had taken pity on the son of Albion and sent the doorman Trifon across to ask whether there was anything he needed, but the gentleman in checks had only shaken his head irritably and handed Trifon twenty kopecks, as much as to say: leave me alone. Well, have it your own way.

A little shrimp of a man who had the look of a cabdriver appeared at the window and pushed across a crumpled passport.

“Take a look, would you, dear chap. See if there’s anything for Nikola Mitrofanich Krug.”

“Where are you expecting it from?” Kondratii Shtukin asked strictly, taking the passport.

The reply was unexpected. “From England, from London.”

The remarkable thing was that a letter from London was found—only not under the Russian letter K, but the Latin letter C. Look at that now, “Mr. Nicholas M. Croog,” if you don’t mind! The things you do see at the poste restante counter!

“But is that definitely you?” Shtukin asked, more out of curiosity than suspicion.

“Not a doubt about it,” the cabdriver replied rather rudely, thrusting his clawlike hand in through the window and snatching up the yellow envelope with the ‘urgent’ stamp.

Kondratii Shtukin handed him the register. “Are you able to sign for it?”

“As well as anyone else.” And the boor entered some kind of scrawl in the ‘received’ column.

Shtukin followed the departure of this unpleasant customer with a wrathful eye, then cast his now customary sideways glance at the Englishman, but he had disappeared. He must have finally despaired of his appointment.

ERAST FANDORIN WAITED OUTSIDE for the cabdriver with a sinking heart. So that was ‘Nicholas Croog’! The further he pursued it, the more confusing this whole business became. But the most important thing was that his six-day tactical forced march across Europe had not been in vain! He had overtaken the letter and intercepted it. Now he would have something of substance to present to his chief. But he must not let this Krug get away from him!

The cabby hired by Fandorin for the entire day was dawdling away the time beside a stone post. He was feeling dazed by the imposed idleness and tormented by the thought that he had asked the strange gentleman for only five rubles—for this kind of excruciating torture he should have demanded six. When his fare finally reappeared, the cabby drew himself up straight and tightened his reins, but Erast Fandorin did not even glance in his direction.

The mark appeared. He walked down the steps, donned a blue peaked cap, and set off toward a carriage standing nearby. Fandorin unhurriedly set off in pursuit. The mark halted by the carriage, doffed his cap, and bowed, then held out the yellow envelope. A man’s hand in a white glove emerged from the window and took the envelope.

Fandorin increased his pace in an attempt to catch a glimpse of the unknown man’s face. He succeeded.

Sitting in the carriage and inspecting the wax seals against the light was a ginger-haired gentleman with piercing green eyes and a pale face with a profuse scattering of freckles. Fandorin recognized him immediately: but of course—Mr. Gerald Cunningham as large as life, the brilliant pedagogue, friend of orphans, and right-hand man of Lady Astair.

The cabby’s sufferings proved to have been all in vain. It would not be difficult to ascertain Mr. Cunningham’s address. In the meantime there was more urgent business that required attention.

Kondratii Shtukin was in for a surprise: the Englishman came back, and now he was in a terrible hurry. He ran over to the telegram reception counter, stuck his head right in through the window, and began dictating something very urgent to Mikhal Nikolaich. And Mikhal Nikolaich began fussing and bustling about and hurrying, which was really not like him at all.

Shtukin was stung by curiosity. He got to his feet—fortunately there were no customers waiting—and as if he were simply taking a stroll, he set out in the direction of the telegraph apparatus at the far side of the hall. Halting beside Mikhal Nikolaich, who was working away intently with his key, he bent over a little and read the hastily scribbled message:

To the Criminal Investigation Division, Moscow Police, State Counselor

Mr. Brilling.

I have returned. Please contact me urgently. I await your reply by the apparatus.

Fandorin

So that was it—now he understood. Shtukin glanced at the ‘Englishman’ with different eyes. A detective, are we? Hunting down bandits? Well, well.

The agent strode agitatedly around the hall for about ten minutes, no longer, before Mikhal Nikolaich, who had remained by the apparatus, gestured to him and held out the ribbon with the return telegram.

Kondratii Kondratievich Shtukin was on the spot in a flash and he read the message on the ribbon.

TO MR FANDORIN STOP

MR BRILLING IS IN SPB STOP

ADDRESS KATENINSKAYA ST STOP

SIVERS HOUSE STOP

DUTY OFFICER LOMEIKO

For some reason this reply delighted the gentleman in checks quite remarkably. He even clapped his hands and inquired of Shtukin, who was observing him with interest, “Where is Kateninskaya Street? Is it far?”

“Not at all,” Kondratii Shtukin replied courteously. “It’s very handy from here. Take the public coach, get out at the corner of Nevsky Prospect and Liteiny Prospect, and then…”

“Never mind, I have a cab,” the agent interrupted, and with a flourish of his traveling bag, he set off for the door at a run.

ERAST FANDORIN LIKED THE LOOK of Kateninskaya Street. It looked, in fact, exactly like the most respectable streets of Berlin or Vienna: asphalt, brand-new electric streetlamps, and substantial houses of several stories. In a word—Europe.

Sivers House with the stone knights on the pediment and the en-tranceway brightly illuminated, even though the evening was still light, was especially fine. But then, where else would a man like Ivan Franzevich Brilling live? It was quite impossible to imagine him residing in some dilapidated old mansion with a dusty yard and an orchard of apple trees.

The obliging doorkeeper reassured Erast Fandorin by informing him that Mr. Brilling was home. “Got in just five minutes ago, sir.”

Today everything was going right for Fandorin; today he could do nothing wrong.

Taking the steps two at a time, he flew up to the second floor and rang the electric bell that was polished to a golden gleam.

Ivan Brilling opened the door himself. He had not yet had time to change and had only removed his frock coat. The bright enamel colors of a brand-new Cross of St. Vladimir glittered where it hung below his starched collar.

“Chief, it’s me,” Fandorin announced gleefully, savoring the effect produced by his words.

The effect certainly did exceed all expectations.

Ivan Franzevich Brilling stood there dumbfounded and waved his hands about as if he were trying to say: Holy Spirit preserve us! Get thee behind me, Satan!

Erast Fandorin laughed.

“Well, weren’t you expecting to see me?”

“Fandorin! Where have you sprung from? I’d given up hope of ever seeing you alive again.”

“But why?” the returned traveler inquired, not without a trace of coquettishness.

“Why naturally! You disappeared without trace. The last time you were seen was in Paris on the twenty-sixth. You never arrived in London. I asked Pyzhov and he told me you had disappeared without trace—the police were looking for you!”

“I sent you a detailed letter from London to the address of the Moscow detective office. All about Pyzhov and everything else. I expect it will arrive today or tomorrow. I didn’t know that you were in St. Petersburg.”

His chief frowned anxiously.

“You look quite awful. Have you fallen ill?”

“To be perfectly honest, I am desperately hungry. I spent the whole day on guard duty at the post office and I haven’t had a single bite.”

“Guard duty at the post office? No, no, don’t tell me about it. I’ll tell you what we’ll do. First of all I will give you some tea and pastries. My Semyon, the scoundrel, has been drinking heavily for the last two days, so I’m keeping house for myself. I mostly live on sweetmeats and fancy cakes from Filippov’s. You do like sweet things, don’t you?”

“Very much,” Erast Fandorin confirmed enthusiastically.

“So do I. It’s a relic of my orphan childhood. You don’t object if we eat in the kitchen, bachelor fashion?”

As they walked down the corridor Fandorin had time to observe that Brilling’s flat, although it was not very large, was furnished in a most practical and precise fashion—everything that was necessary but nothing superfluous. Fandorin’s interest was particularly attracted by a lacquered box with two black metal horns or tubes hanging on the wall.

“That is a genuine miracle of modern science,” Ivan Franzevich explained. “It is called Bell’s apparatus. It has only just arrived from America, from an agent of ours. There is an inventor of genius there, a certain Mr. Bell, thanks to whom it is now possible to conduct a conversation at a considerable distance, even a distance of several versts.* The sound is transmitted along wires like telegraph wires. This is an experimental model—the apparatus is not yet in production. In the whole of Europe there are only two lines: one has been laid from my apartment to the secretariat of the head of the Third Section; the other has been installed in Berlin between the Kaiser’s study and Bismarck’s chancellery. So we are keeping well abreast of progress.”

“Magnificent!” Erast Fandorin exclaimed in admiration. “How is it? Can you hear clearly?”

“Not very, but you can make it out. Sometimes there is a loud crackling in the tube…Would you be happy with orangeade instead of tea? I somehow can’t quite get the hang of the samovar.”

“I should say so,” Erast Fandorin reassured his chief, and like a good sorcerer Brilling set a bottle of orangeade on the table before him, together with a large dish covered with eclairs, cream puffs, light, fluffy marzipans, and flaky almond cones. “Tuck in,” said Ivan Brilling, “and in the meantime I will bring you up to date on our business. Afterward it will be your turn for confession.”

Fandorin nodded, his mouth stuffed full and his chin lightly dusted with fine powdered sugar.

“So,” his chief began, “as far as I recall, you set out for St. Petersburg to collect the dipomatic post on the twenty-seventh of May. Immediately after that, events took an interesting turn here and I regretted having let you go—we needed every last man. I discovered through agents in the field that some time ago a small but extremely active cell of radical revolutionaries, absolute madmen, had been established in Moscow. Whereas ordinary terrorists set themselves the goal of exterminating those who ‘stain their hands with blood,’ meaning the highest officials of the state, these people had decided to attack ‘the exultant crowd of idle boasters.’ ”

“Who?” asked Fandorin, puzzled and himself absorbed in attacking a most delicate eclair.

“You know, the poem by Nekrasov:”

For the exultant crowd of idle boasters,

Who stain their hands with others’ crimson blood,

Lead me into the camp of love’s promoters,

Who perish for the greater cause of good.

“Well then, our ‘perishers for the cause of greater good’ have demarcated their areas of responsibility. The leading organization has been allocated those who ‘stain their hands’—the ministers, governors, and generals. And our Moscow faction has decided to deal with ‘those who exult,’ those same individuals who are also ‘bloated and gorged.’ As we managed to learn through an agent who infiltrated the group, the faction has taken the name Azazel—as a token of their daredevil opposition to the will of God. A whole series of murders was planned among the gilded youth, the ‘parasites’ and the ‘high livers.’ Bezhetskaya was also a member of Azazel; from what we know she must be the emissary of an international anarchist organization. The suicide—effectively the murder—of Pyotr Kokorin, which she organized, was Azazel’s first operation. But I suppose you will be telling me all about Bezhetskaya. The next victim was Akhtyrtsev, who was of even greater interest to the conspirators because he was the grandson of the chancellor Prince Korchakov. You see, my young friend, the terrorists’ plan was insane but at the same time devilishly cunning. They calculated that it is far easier to reach the offspring of important people than those people themselves, but that the blow struck against the hierarchy of the state is no less powerful. Prince Korchakov, by the way, is so crushed by the death of his grandson that he has almost given up working and is seriously contemplating retirement. And he is an extremely distinguished man, who has been responsible in many respects for shaping modern Russia.”

“What dark villainy!” Erast Fandorin cried in outrage, even setting aside an unfinished marzipan.

“But when I discovered that Azazel’s ultimate goal was the assassination of the tsarevich—”

“It can’t be true!”

“I’m afraid it is. Well then, when that was discovered, I was ordered to take decisive action. I was obliged to comply, although I would have preferred to piece together the whole picture first, but you understand, with the life of His Imperial Highness himself at risk…We carried out an operation, but it didn’t go entirely smoothly. On the first of June the terrorists were planning to hold a gathering at the dacha in Kuzminki. You remember, I told you about that? At that time, of course, you were keen to pursue your own ideas. How did it go, by the way? Did you come up with anything?”

Erast Fandorin began lowing with his mouth full and swallowed an unchewed piece of a cream cone, but Brilling relented. “All right, all right, later. Eat. And so, we surrounded the dacha. I could use only my own agents from St. Petersburg, without involving the Moscow gendarmerie and police—at all costs I had to avoid publicity.” Ivan Brilling sighed angrily. “That was my fault. I was overcautious. Basically, because we didn’t have enough men, we failed to spread our net widely enough. There was an exchange of fire. Two agents were wounded and one was killed. I’ll never forgive myself…We didn’t manage to take anyone alive—all we got were four corpses. The description of one of them was rather like your white-eyed fellow. Although he didn’t have any eyes left as such. He blew half his skull away with his last bullet. In the basement we found a laboratory for producing infernal devices and some papers—but, as I said, there is a great deal about the plans and connections of Azazel that remains a mystery. An unsolvable one, I’m afraid…Even so the emperor, the chancellor, and the head of the corps of gendarmes were very pleased with our operation. I told General Mizinov about you. Of course, you weren’t in at the finish, but you helped us a great deal in the course of the investigation. If you have no objection, we can carry on working together in future. I take your fate into my own hands…Are you feeling stronger now? Right, now you tell me everything. What happened over in London? Did you manage to pick up Bezhetskaya’s trail? What’s all this hellish business with Pyzhov? Is he dead? All in the right order, starting at the beginning. Don’t leave anything out.”

The nearer his chief’s story had drawn to its end, the brighter the envy had glowed in Erast Fandorin’s eyes, and his own adventures, which he had been so proud of only recently, seemed to pale and fade in significance. An attempt on the life of the tsarevich! An exchange of fire! An infernal device! Fate had mocked Fandorin cruelly—tempted him with glory and led him off the main highway onto a miserable country track…

However, he gave Ivan Brilling a detailed account of his epic quest—except that he related the circumstances under which he had been deprived of the blue attaché case rather vaguely and even blushed a little, a fact that apparently did not escape the attention of Brilling, who listened to the narrative in gloomy silence. When he reached the denouement, Erast Fandorin took heart again and he brightened up, unable to resist the temptation of dramatic effect.

“And I did see the man!” he exclaimed when he came to the scene outside the St. Petersburg post office. “I know who holds in his hands the contents of the attaché case and all the threads of the organization! Azazel is still alive, Ivan Franzevich, but it is in our hands!”

“Tell me then, devil take it!” his chief exclaimed. “Enough of this puerile posturing! Who is this man? Where is he?”

“Here, in St. Petersburg,” said Fandorin, savoring his revenge. “A certain Gerald Cunningham, senior assistant to Lady Astair, whom I have more than once drawn to your attention.” At this point Erast Fandorin cleared his throat tactfully. “So the business with Kokorin’s will is explained. And now it is clear why Bezhetskaya directed her admirers to the Astair Houses. And note how cunningly that red-haired gentleman chose his lair. What a cover, eh? Orphans, branches all over the world, an altruistic patroness to whom all doors are open. All very clever, you must admit.”

“Cunningham?” Fandorin’s chief queried. “Gerald Cunningham? But I know the gentleman very well. We are members of the same club.” He spread his arms in amazement. “An extremely industrious gentleman, but I find it impossible to imagine him being involved with nihilists and assassinating full state counselors.”

“But he didn’t kill them, he didn’t!” exclaimed Erast Fandorin. “I thought at first that the lists contained the names of victims. I told you that in order to convey my train of thought. When you’re in a rush you can’t work everything out at once. But afterward, while I was jolting all the way across Europe in the train, it suddenly struck me! If it was a list of future victims, then why were the dates entered in it? Dates that were already past! That doesn’t fit! No, Mr. Brilling, we have something else here!”

Fandorin even leapt to his feet, his thoughts agitated him so powerfully.

“Something else? But what?” asked Brilling, screwing up his bright eyes.

“I think it is a list of members of a powerful international organization. And your Moscow terrorists are only a small link, the very tiniest.” At the expression that these words brought to his chief’s face, Erast Fandorin felt himself beginning to gloat—and was immediately ashamed of such an unworthy feeling. “The central figure in the organization, the main purpose of which remains as yet unknown to us, is Gerald Cunningham. You and I have both seen him—he is a most exceptional gentleman. ‘Miss Olsen,’ whose role has been played by Amalia Bezhetskaya since June, is the organization’s registration center, something like the personnel department. It receives information from all over the world concerning changes in the status of members of the society. Regularly, once a month, ‘Miss Olsen’ forwards the new information to Cunningham, who has been based in St. Petersburg since last year. I told you that Bezhetskaya has a secret safe in her bedroom. She probably keeps a full list of the members of this Azazel in it—it does seem as if that actually is the organization’s name. Or else it’s their password, something rather like an incantation. I have heard the word spoken twice, and on both occasions it was when a murder was about to be committed. In general it is rather like a Masonic society, except that it is not clear why the fallen angel is involved. But it seems to be on a bigger scale than the Masons. Just imagine—forty-five letters in one month! And the people involved—a senator, a minister, generals!”

Erast Fandorin’s chief gazed patiently at the young man, for the latter had clearly not yet concluded his narrative. He had wrinkled up his forehead and was thinking intensely about something.

“Mr. Brilling, I was just thinking about Cunningham…He is a British subject, after all, so I suppose we couldn’t simply turn up and search his house?”

“I suppose not,” Fandorin’s chief agreed. “Go on.”

“And before you can obtain sanction, he will hide the envelope so securely that we won’t find anything and won’t be able to prove a thing. We still don’t know what connections he has in high places and who will intercede for him. Special caution would seem to be recommended here. It would be best first to get a grip on his Russian operation and haul in the chain link by link, wouldn’t it?”

“And how can we do that?” Brilling asked with lively interest. “By means of secret surveillance? Logical.”

“We could use surveillance, but I think there is a more certain method.”

Ivan Brilling thought for a moment and then shrugged, as if surrendering.

Flattered, Fandorin dropped a tactful hint. “What about the full state counselor who was created on the seventh of June?”

“Check the emperor’s decrees on new titles?” Brilling slapped a hand against his forehead. “Say, for the first ten days of June? Bravo, Fandorin, bravo!”

“Of course, chief. Not even for the first ten days, just from Monday to Saturday, from the third to the eighth. The new general would hardly be likely to delay the happy announcement any longer than that. Just how many new full state counselors appear in the empire in the course of a week?”

“Two or three perhaps, if there happens to be a bumper crop. I have never actually inquired.”

“Well then, we put all of them under observation, check their statements of service, their circles of acquaintances, and so forth. We’ll winkle out our Azazalean in no time at all.”

“Right, now tell me, has all the information you gathered been forwarded by post to the Moscow Criminal Investigation Division?” Brilling asked, following his usual habit of skipping without warning from one subject to another.

“Yes, chief. The letter will arrive either today or tomorrow. Why—do you suspect someone in the ranks of the Moscow police? In order to emphasize its importance I wrote on the envelope: “To be delivered to His Honor State Counselor Brilling in person, or in his absence to His Excellency the Chief of Police.” So no one will dare to open it. And if he reads it, the chief of police will certainly contact you.”

“That’s logical,” Ivan Brilling said approvingly, and then fell silent for a long while, staring at the wall while his expression became gloomier and gloomier.

Erast Fandorin sat there with bated breath, knowing that his chief was weighing up all that he had heard and would now tell him what he had decided. To judge from his expression it was a difficult decision.

Brilling gave a loud sigh, followed by an oddly bitter laugh. “Very well, Fandorin. I’ll take all the responsibility on myself. There are certain ailments that can only be cured by surgery. That is what we will do. This is a matter of great importance, of state importance, and in such cases I have the right to dispense with the formalities. We will take Cunningham. And immediately, in order to catch him red-handed with the envelope. Do you believe the message is in code?”

“Undoubtedly. The information is too important. And after all it was sent by ordinary post, even though it was for urgent delivery. It could have fallen into the wrong hands or been lost. No, Mr. Brilling, these people do not like to take unnecessary risks.”

“All the more reason, then. That means Cunningham decodes it, reads it, and writes it out again for his card index. He must have a card index! I am afraid that in her accompanying letter Bezhetskaya may have informed him of your adventures, and Cunningham is a clever man. He will realize in an instant that you might have sent a report to Russia. No, he has to be taken now, without delay! And it would be interesting to read that accompanying letter. The business with Pyzhov bothers me. What if he is not the only one they suborned? We will talk things over with the English embassy later. They’ll be thankful to us. You do claim that the list included subjects of Queen Victoria?”

“Yes, almost a dozen of them,” Erast Fandorin said with a nod, gazing at his chief adoringly. “Of course, taking Cunningham now is the very best thing to do, but…what if we get there and we don’t find anything? I would never forgive myself if because of me you had…that is, I am prepared in all instances…”

“Don’t talk nonsense,” said Brilling, twitching his jaw in irritation. “Do you really think that if things turn out badly I would hide behind a boy? I have faith in you, Fandorin. And that is enough.”

“Thank you,” said Erast Fandorin in a quiet voice.

Ivan Brilling bowed sarcastically.

“No need for gratitude. Right then, enough of these idle compliments. Let’s get to work. I know Cunningham’s address. He lives on Aptekarsky Island, in the wing of the St. Petersburg Astair House. Do you have a gun?”

“Yes, in London I bought a Smith and Wesson. It’s in my travel bag.”

“Show me.”

Fandorin quickly brought in from the hallway the heavy revolver that he liked so much for its weight and solidity.

“Rubbish!” his chief said peremptorily, after weighing the gun on his palm. “This is for American cowboys and their drunken shoot-outs in the saloon. It’s no use to a serious agent. I’m taking it away from you, and I’ll give you something better in exchange.”

He left the room for a short while and came back with a small, flat revolver, which fitted almost completely into the palm of his hand.

“There you are, a seven-round Belgian Herstal. It’s a new model, a special order. You wear it behind your back in a little holster under your coat. Quite indispensable in our line of work. It’s light and it doesn’t shoot very far or very accurately, but it’s self-cocking, and that guarantees a rapid shot. After all, we don’t need to hit a squirrel in the eye, do we? And the agent who stays alive is usually the one who fires first and more than once. Instead of a hammer to cock, there is a safety catch—this little button here. It’s rather stiff, to avoid accidental firing. Click it like that and then fire off all seven rounds if you like. Is that clear?”

“Yes,” said Erast Fandorin, gazing in fascination at the handsome toy.

“You can admire it later—there’s no time just now,” said Brilling, pushing him in the direction of the door.

“Are we both going to arrest him together?” Fandorin asked excitedly.

“Don’t talk nonsense.”

Ivan Brilling stopped beside the Bell’s apparatus, took hold of a horn-shaped tube and pressed it to his ear, then cranked some kind of lever. The apparatus grunted and something inside it clanged. Brilling set his ear to the other horn protruding from the lacquered box, and the horn gave out a squeaky sound. Fandorin thought he could just make out a faint, funny little voice pronouncing the words ‘duty adjutant’ and then ‘chancellery.’

“Is that you, Novgorodtsev,” Brilling bellowed into the tube. “Is His Excellency in his office? No? I can’t hear! No, no, don’t worry. Don’t worry, I say!” He drew as much air as he could into his lungs and began shouting even louder. “An urgent detachment for an arrest! Send them immediately to Aptekarsky Island. Ap-te-kar-sky! Yes! The wing of the Astair House! As-tair House! It doesn’t matter what it means—they’ll find it. And have a search group sent out! What? Yes, I will, in person. And hurry, Major, hurry.”

He returned the tube to its resting place and wiped his forehead.

“I hope that Mr. Bell will improve his design, or soon all my neighbors will know everything about the Third Section’s secret operations.”

Erast Fandorin was still entranced by the sorcery that had just been worked before his eyes. “Why, it’s like something from The Thousand and One Nightsl A genuine miracle! And there are still people who condemn progress!”

“We can talk about progress on our way. Unfortunately I have already dismissed my carriage, so we will have to look for a cab. Will you put down that damned travel bag! Come on, quick march!”

THE CONVERSATION ABOUT PROGRESS, however, never took place, for they rode to Aptekarsky Island in total silence. Erast Fandorin was trembling with excitement, and he made several attempts to draw his chief into conversation, but all in vain. Brilling was in a foul mood. He was clearly taking a great risk after all in launching an operation on his own authority.

The pale northern evening glimmered above the watery expanse of the Neva. It occurred to Fandorin that the bright summer night was most opportune. He would not be getting any sleep today in any case. And last night in the train he had not slept a wink either, he had been so worried that he might miss the envelope…The driver urged on his chestnut filly, earning his promised ruble honestly, and they reached their destination quickly.

The St. Petersburg Astair House, a beautiful yellow building that had previously belonged to the army engineers’ corps, was smaller in size than its Moscow equivalent, but it was drowning in greenery. It was a heavenly spot, surrounded by gardens and rich dachas.

“Ah, what will happen to the children?” Fandorin sighed.

“Nothing will happen to them,” Ivan Brilling replied aggressively. “Her ladyship will appoint another director and that will be the end of the matter.”

The wing of the Astair House proved to be an imposing Catherine-style mansion overlooking an agreeable, tree-shaded street. Erast Fandorin saw an elm tree charred black by lightning reaching out its dead branches toward the lighted windows of the tall second story. The house was quiet.

“Splendid, the gendarmes have not yet arrived,” said the chief. “We won’t wait for them—the most important thing for us is not to put Cunningham on his guard. And to be prepared for all sorts of surprises.”

Erast Fandorin thrust his hand under the back flap of his jacket and felt the reassuring chill of his Herstal. He felt his chest tighten, not out of fear—for with Ivan Franzevich Brilling there was nothing to fear—but out of impatience. Now at last everything would finally be settled!

Brilling shook the little brass bell vigorously, producing a melodious trill. A red-haired head glanced out of an open window on the second floor.

“Open up, Cunningham,” Fandorin’s chief said in a loud voice. “I have an urgent matter to discuss with you.”

“Is that you, Brilling?” the Englishman asked in surprise. “What’s the matter?”

“An emergency at the club. I must warn you about it.”

“Just a moment, I’ll come down. It’s my manservant’s day off.” And the head disappeared.

“Aha,” whispered Fandorin. “He got rid of his servant deliberately. He’s probably sitting there with the papers!”

Brilling nervously rapped on the door with his knuckles. Cunningham seemed to be taking his time.

“Will he not make a run for it?” Erast Fandorin asked in panic.

“Through the rear door, eh? Perhaps I should run ‘round the house and stand on that side?”

Just then, however, they heard the sound of steps from inside and the door opened.

Cunningham stood in the doorway in a long dressing gown. His piercing green eyes rested for a moment on Fandorin’s face, and his eyelids trembled almost imperceptibly. He had recognized him!

“What’s happening?” the Englishman asked guardedly in his own language.

“Let’s go into the study,” Brilling answered in Russian. “It’s very important.”

Cunningham hesitated for a second, then gestured for them to follow him.

After climbing an oak staircase, the host and his uninvited guests found themselves in a room that was furnished richly but clearly not for leisure. The walls were covered from end to end with shelves holding books and some kind of files. Over by the window, beside an immense writing desk of Karelian birch, there was a rack holding drawers, each of which was adorned with a gold label.

However, Erast Fandorin’s interest was not drawn to the drawers (Cunningham would not store secret documents in open view), but by the papers lying on the desk, where they had been hastily covered by a fresh copy of the Stock Exchange Gazette.

Ivan Brilling was evidently thinking along the same lines. He crossed the study and positioned himself beside the desk, standing with his back to the open window with the low sill. The evening breeze gently ruffled the lace curtain.

Grasping the significance of his chief’s maneuver, Fandorin remained standing by the door. Now there was nowhere for Cunningham to go.

The Englishman seemed to suspect that something was wrong.

“You are behaving rather oddly, Brilling,” he said in faultless Russian. “And why is this person here? I’ve seen him before—he’s a policeman.”

Ivan Franzevich Brilling glared sullenly at Cunningham, keeping his hands in the pockets of his wide frock coat.

“Yes, he is a policeman. And in a minute or two there will be a lot of policemen here, and so I have no time for explanations.”

The young detective saw his chief’s right hand come darting out of his pocket holding Fandorin’s Smith & Wesson, but he had no time to register surprise. He pulled out his own gun. Things were beginning to move now!

“Don’t!” the Englishman cried out, throwing his hands up in the air, and that very instant there was a thunderous shot.

Cunningham was thrown over backward. Erast Fandorin gazed in amazement at the green eyes staring as if they were still alive and the neat dark hole in the middle of the forehead.

“My God, chief, why?”

He turned toward the window. The black mouth of the barrel was staring straight at him.

“You killed him,” Brilling stated in a strange, unnatural voice. “You’re too good a detective. And, therefore, my young friend, I shall be obliged to kill you, which I sincerely regret.”