Erast Fandorin 04 - The Death of Achilles Page 6

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Silence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

  * * *

  FIVE

  In which Moscow is cast in the role of a jungle

  “And my p-proposals come down to the following,” said Fandorin, summing up his report. “Immediately place the German citizen Hans-Georg Knabe under secret observation and determine his range of contacts.”

  “Evgeny Osipovich, would it not be best to arrest the blackguard?” asked the governor-general, knitting his dyed eyebrows in an angry frown.

  “It is not possible to arrest him without any evidence,” the chief of police replied. “And it’s pointless; he’s an old hand. I’d rather bring in this Wanda, Your Excellency, and put her under serious pressure. You never know, it might turn up a few leads.”

  The fourth participant in the secret conference, Pyotr Parmyonovich Khurtinsky, remained silent.

  They had been in conference for a long time already, since first thing that morning. Erast Petrovich had reported on the events of the previous evening and how he had followed the mysterious visitor, who had proved to be the German businessman Hans-Georg Knabe, the Moscow representative of the Berlin banking firm Kerbel und Schmidt, with a residence on Karyetny Ryad. When the collegiate assessor related the sinister conversation between Knabe and Wanda, his report had to be interrupted briefly, because Prince Dolgorukoi became extremely agitated and began shouting and waving his fists in the air.

  “Ah, the villains, ah, the blackguards! Were they the ones who murdered the noble knight of the Russian land? What heinous treachery! An international scandal! Oh, the Germans will pay for this!”

  “That will do, Your Excellency,” the head of the secret section, Khurtinsky, murmured reassuringly. “This is too dubious a hypothesis. Poison the White General! Nonsense! I can’t believe the Germans would take such a risk. They are a civilized nation, not treacherous Persian conspirators!”

  “Civilized?” exclaimed General Karachentsev, baring his teeth in a snarl. “I have here the articles from today’s British and German newspapers, sent to me by the Russian Telegraph Agency. As we know, Mikhail Dmitrievich was no great lover of either of these two countries, and he made no secret of his views. But compare the tone! With your permission, Your Excellency?” The chief of police set his pince-nez on his nose and took a sheet of paper out of a file.

  The English Standard writes:

  Sobolev’s compatriots will find him hard to replace. His mere appearance on a white horse ahead of the firing line was enough to inspire in his soldiers an enthusiasm such as even the veterans of Napoleon hardly ever displayed. The death of such a man during the present critical period is an irreparable loss for Russia. He was an enemy of England, but in this country his exploits were followed with scarcely less interest than in his homeland.

  “Indeed, frankly and nobly put,” said the prince approvingly.

  “Precisely. And now I will read you an articl
e from Saturday’s Bbrsen Kurier.” Karachentsev picked up another sheet of paper. “Mm… Well, this piece will do:”

  The Russian bear is no longer dangerous. Let the pan-Slavists weep over the grave of Sobolev. But as for us Germans, we must honestly admit that we are glad of the death of a formidable enemy. We do not experience any feelings of regret. The only man in Russia who was genuinely able to act upon his word is dead.

  “And so on in the same vein. How’s that for civilization, eh?”

  The governor was outraged.

  “Shameless impudence! Of course, the anti-German feelings of the deceased are well known. We can all remember the genuine furor caused by his speech in Paris on the Slav question — it almost caused a serious falling-out between the emperor and the kaiser. “The road to Constantinople lies through Berlin and Vienna!” Strongly put, with no diplomatic niceties. But to stoop to murder! Why, it’s quite unheard-of! I shall inform His Majesty immediately! Even without Sobolev we’ll give those sausage-eaters a dose of medicine that will—”

  “Your Excellency,” said Evgeny Osipovich, gently interrupting the fuming governor. “Should we not first listen to the rest of what Mr. Fan-dorin has to say?”

  After that they had heard Erast Petrovich out without interruption, although his culminating proposal to limit themselves to placing Knabe under observation was clearly a disappointment to his listeners, as the remarks adduced above testify. To the chief of police Fandorin said: “To arrest Wanda would cause a scandal. By doing that we would dishonor the m-memory of the deceased and would be unlikely to achieve anything. We would only frighten Herr Knabe off. And in any case, I got the distinct impression from their conversation that Mademoiselle Wanda did not kill Sobolev. After all, Professor Welling’s autopsy did not reveal any traces of poison.”

  “Precisely,” Pyotr Parmyonovich Khurtinsky said emphatically, addressing himself exclusively to Prince Dolgorukoi. “An entirely ordinary paralysis of the heart, Your Excellency. Most regrettable, but these things happen. Even in the very prime of life, as in the deceased’s case. I wonder whether the collegiate assessor might not have misheard. Or even — who knows — fantasized a little? After all, he himself admitted that German is not exactly his forte.”

  Erast Petrovich gave the speaker a particularly keen look, but said nothing in reply. However, the redheaded gendarme jumped in.

  “What do you mean, fantasized! Sobolev was in the very best of health! He hunted bears with a forked pole and bathed in a hole in the ice on the river! Are you trying to say that he lived through a hail of fire at Plevna and in the desert of Turkestan, but he couldn’t survive a bit of lovemaking? Rubbish! You should stick to gathering the city’s gossip, Mr. Khurtinsky, and not meddle in matters of espionage.”

  Fandorin was surprised by this open confrontation, but the governor was apparently well used to such scenes. He raised a conciliatory hand.

  “Gentlemen, gentlemen, do not argue. My head is spinning already. So many things to do after this death. Telegrams, condolences, deputations, they’ve covered the whole of Theater Lane with wreaths — you can’t get through on foot or by carriage. There are important individuals coming to the funeral; they have to be met and accommodated. This evening the war minister and the head of the General Staff will arrive. Tomorrow Grand Duke Kirill Alexandrovich will arrive and go directly to the funeral. And today I have to call on the Duke of Liecht-enburg. He and his wife happened by chance to be in Moscow. His wife, the Countess Mirabeau, is the sister of the deceased, and I must go and offer them my condolences. I have already sent notice to them. You come with me, Erast Petrovich, my dear fellow; you can go over everything with me once again in the carriage. We’ll consider together what best to do. And you, Evgeny Osipovich, please arrange to have both of them followed for the time being: this German and the girl. It would be good to intercept that little report that Knabe mentioned. I’ll tell you what. Let him write the report for his spymasters and then catch him red-handed with the evidence. And as soon as you have issued instructions for the surveillance, come straight back here to me, if you please. When Erast Petrovich and I get back, we’ll make a final decision. We can’t afford to make a mess of things. This business has the whiff of war about it.”

  The general clicked his heels and went out, and Khurtinsky immediately darted across to the governor’s desk.

  “Urgent papers, Your Excellency,” he said, bending right down to the prince’s ear.

  “Are they so very urgent?” the governor growled. “You heard me, Petrusha, I’m in a hurry; the duke’s waiting.”

  The court counselor set his open hand against the decoration on his starched breast.

  “They must be dealt with immediately, Vladimir Andreevich. Look here — this is an estimate for completing the painting of the cathedral. I suggest awarding the commission to Mr. Gegechkori, a most excellent painter and a man with a very sound way of thinking. The amount he is asking is certainly not small, but then he will do the work on time — he is a man of his word. All that’s required is your signature here, and you can consider the matter completed.”

  Pyotr Parmyonovich deftly set a sheet of paper in front of the governor and drew a second one out of his folder.

  “And this, Vladimir Andreevich, is a plan for the excavation of an underground metropolitan railway, following the example of London. The contractor is Commercial Counselor Zykov. A great undertaking. I had the honor of reporting to you about it.”

  “I remember,” Dolgorukoi growled. “So now they’ve dreamed up some city railway or other. How much money does it require?”

  “A mere pittance. Zykov is asking only half a million for the surveying work. I’ve looked at the estimate and it’s perfectly sound.”

  “ Only,” sighed the prince. “When did you get so rich, Petka, that half a million became a mere pittance?” Then, noticing Fandorin’s amazement at observing him dealing in such a familiar fashion with the head of his secret section, he explained. “Pyotr Parmyonovich and I talk like close relatives. But, you know, he was raised in my house. My deceased cook’s little son. If only Parmyon, God rest his soul, could hear how casually you dispose of millions, Petrusha!”

  Khurtinsky gave Erast Petrovich an angry sideways glance, evidently displeased at this reminder of his plebeian origins.

  “And this concerns the prices for gas. I’ve drawn up a memorandum, Vladimir Andreevich. It would be good to reduce the tariff in order to make street lighting cheaper. To three rubles per thousand cubic feet. They’re taking too much as things are now.”

  “All right, give me your papers; I’ll read them in the carriage and sign them,” said Dolgorukoi, getting to his feet. “It’s time to get going. It’s bad form to keep important people waiting. Let’s go, Erast Petrovich; we can discuss things along the way.”

  In the corridor, Fandorin inquired with great politeness: “But tell me, Your Excellency, will the emperor himself not be coming? After all, it is Sobolev who has died, not just anybody.”

  Dolgorukoi squinted at the collegiate assessor and declared emphatically: “He did not consider it possible. He has sent his brother, Kirill Alexandrovich. But why is not for us to know.”

  Fandorin merely bowed without speaking.

  They were not able to discuss things along the way. When they were already seated in the carriage — the governor on soft cushions and Erast Petrovich facing him on a leather-upholstered bench — the door suddenly swung open and the prince’s valet, Frol Vedishchev, clambered in, panting and gasping. He seated himself unceremoniously beside the prince and shouted to the driver: “Let’s go, Misha, let’s go!”

  Then, without paying the slightest attention to Erast Petrovich, he swung around to face Dolgorukoi.

  “Vladimir Andreevich, I’m going with you,” he declared in a tone that brooked no objections.

  “Frolushka,” the prince said meekly. “I’ve taken my medicine, and now please don’t interfere; I have important things to talk over wit
h Mr. Fandorin.”

  “Never mind, your talk can wait,” the tyrant declared with an angry wave of his hand. “What were those papers that Petka slipped you?”

  “Here they are, Frol,” said Vladimir Andreevich, opening his folder. “A commission for the artist Gegechkori to complete the murals in the cathedral. The estimate has been drawn up, see? And this is a contract for the merchant Zykov. We ‘re going to dig a railway underneath Moscow, so that people can get around more quickly. And there’s this — about reducing the prices for gas.”

  Vedishchev glanced into the papers and announced determinedly: “You mustn’t give the cathedral to this Gegechkori; he’s a well-known swindler. Better give it to one of our own artists, from Moscow. They have to make a living, too. It will be cheaper and every bit as beautiful. Where are we going to get the money from? There isn’t any money. Gegechkori promised your Petka that he would decorate his dacha in Al-abino, that’s why Petka’s taking so much trouble on his behalf.”

  “So you think we shouldn’t give the commission to Gegechkori,” Dolgorukoi asked pensively, and put the paper on the bottom of the pile.