The Death of Achilles (2 page)

“This is our guest from foreign parts,” said the governor, addressing the two important-looking gentlemen, a military man and a civilian, who were already seated in armchairs beside the immense desk. “My new deputy for special assignments, Collegiate Assessor Fandorin. Appointed to me from St. Petersburg, and formerly employed in our embassy at the far end of the world, in the Japanese empire. Allow me to introduce you, my dear fellow,” said the prince, addressing Fandorin. “Moscow’s chief of police, Evgeny Osipovich Karachentsev. A bulwark of law and order.” He indicated a redheaded general of the royal retinue whose slightly slanting brown eyes held an expression that was both calm and keen. “And this is my Petrusha — Pyotr Parmyonovich Khurtinsky to you — a court counselor and head of the secret section of the governor- general’s chancelry. When anything happens in Moscow, Petrusha hears about it immediately and reports to me.”

A portly gentleman of about forty, his hair combed across the elongated form of his head with exquisite precision, plump jowls propped up on a starched collar, and drowsy eyelids half-closed, nodded sedately.

“I specially requested you to come on Friday, my dear fellow,” the governor declared cordially. “At eleven o’clock on Fridays it is my custom to discuss various matters of a secret and sensitive nature. At this very moment we are about to touch on the delicate question of where to obtain the money to complete the murals in the cathedral. God’s work, and a cross I have borne for many years.” He crossed himself piously. “Malicious intrigue is rife among the artists, and there’s no lack of pilfering, either. We will consider how to squeeze a million rubles out of Moscow’s fat moneybags for a holy cause. Well, my secret gentlemen, there used to be two of you, and now there will be three. My blessings on this union, as they say. Mr. Fandorin, you have been assigned to me especially for secret matters, have you not? Your references are quite excellent, especially considering your age. You are clearly quite a man of some experience.”

He glanced searchingly into the newcomer’s eyes, but Fandorin withstood his glance without appearing particularly perturbed.

“I do remember you, you know,” Dolgorukoi continued, transformed once again into a benign uncle. “Of course I do, I was at your wedding. I remember everything, yes… You’ve matured, changed a great deal. Well, I’m not getting any younger, either. Sit down, my dear fellow, sit down; I’m not one for the formalities.”

As though inadvertently he drew the newcomer’s service record closer to him — he had remembered the surname, but the first name and patronymic had slipped his mind, and the highly experienced Vladimir Andreevich knew that in such matters even the slightest faux pas was quite impermissible. Any man was likely to take it amiss if his name were remembered incorrectly, and there was absolutely no point in offending his subordinates unnecessarily.

Erast Petrovich — that was what they called this young Adonis. Glancing at his open service record, the prince frowned, because something was definitely not right. The record had a whiff of danger about it. The governor-general had already looked through his new associate’s personal file several times, but things had not become any clearer as a result.

Fandorin’s file really did read most enigmatically. Well, now, twenty-six years of age, Orthodox Christian by confession, hereditary nobleman, and native of Moscow. So far, so good. On finishing his secondary school studies, at his own request appointed by decree of the Moscow police to the rank of collegiate registrar and given a position as a clerk in the Criminal Investigation Department. That was clear enough, too. But then followed a series of absolute marvels. What was this, for instance, only two months later:

For outstanding devotion to duty and superlative service graciously promoted by His Majesty to the rank of titular counselor without regard to seniority and attached to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs’?

And, further on, in the awards section, something even more outlandish:

Order of St. Vladimir, fourth class, for the Azazel case (secret archive of the Special Gendarmes Corps
)

 

Order of St. Stanislav, third class, for the ‘Turkish Gambit’ case (secret archive of the Ministry of War
)

 

Order of St. Anne for the ‘Diamond Chariot’ case (secret archive of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs
).

Nothing but one secret after another!

Erast Petrovich cast a tactful but acute glance at his superior and formed his first impression in a moment. On the whole it was a positive one. The prince was old, but not doddering, and there was still something of the actor about him. Nor did the struggle that was reflected on His Excellency’s face as he looked through the service record escape the collegiate assessor’s attention. Fandorin sighed sympathetically, for although he had not read his own personal file, he could more or less imagine what might be written in it.

Erast Petrovich also took advantage of the pause in the conversation to glance at the two functionaries whose duty it was to know all Moscow’s secrets. Khurtinsky squinted at him cordially, smiling with only his lips in an apparently friendly manner, and yet somehow smiling not at Fandorin, but at daydreams of his own. Erast Petrovich did not return the court counselor’s smile; he was only too familiar with people of this kind and disliked them intensely. However, he quite liked the look of the chief of police and smiled briefly at the general, although without the slightest hint of servility. The general nodded courteously, and yet the glance he cast at the young man seemed strangely tinged with pity. Erast Petrovich did not allow this to bother him — everything would be made clear in good time — and he turned back to the prince, who was also participating in this silent ritual of mutual inspection, conducted circumspectly within the bounds of due propriety.

One especially deep wrinkle had appeared on the prince’s brow in testimony to his state of extreme preoccupation. The main thought in His Excellency’s mind at that precise moment was: Could you possibly have been sent by the plotters, my pretty young fellow? To undermine my position, perhaps? It looks very much like it. I have enough trouble already with Karachentsev.

The police chief’s pitying glance, however, resulted from considerations of an entirely different nature. Lying in Evgeny Osipovich’s pocket was a letter from his direct superior, the director of the Department of State Police, Vyacheslav Konstantinovich Plevako. Karachentsev’s old friend and mentor had written in a private capacity to tell him that Fan-dorin was a sound individual of proven merit who had formerly enjoyed the confidence of the late monarch, and in particular of the chief of gendarmes, but during his years of foreign service he had lost touch with high-level politics and had now been dispatched to Moscow because no use could be found for him in St. Petersburg. At first glance Evgeny Osipovich had taken quite a liking to the young man, with that piercing gaze and dignified bearing of his. The poor fellow was unaware that the supreme authorities had washed their hands of him and that he meant no more to them than an old galosh destined for the rubbish heap. Such were General Karachentsev’s thoughts.

As for Pyotr Parmyonovich Khurtinsky — God only knew what he might be thinking. That enigmatic individual’s thoughts followed far too devious a course.

This dumb show was ended by the appearance of a new character, who emerged silently from the depths of the governor’s inner apartments. He was a tall, emaciated old man in threadbare livery with a shiny, bald cranium and sleek, neatly combed sideburns. The old man was carrying a silver tray with several small bottles and glasses.

“Time to take your constipation remedy, Excellency,” the servant announced grumpily. “Otherwise, you’ll be complaining afterward that Frol didn’t make you take it. Have you forgotten the terrible way you were moaning and groaning yesterday? Well, then. Come on now, open wide.”

The very same kind of tyrant as my Masa, thought Fandorin, although he could hardly look more different. What do we do to deserve such affliction?

“Yes, yes, Frolushka,” said the prince, capitulating immediately. “I’ll take it, I’ll take it. Erast Petrovich, this is my valet, Frol Grigorich Vedishchev. He has looked after me since I was a baby. Now, how about you, gentlemen? Would you care to try it? A most splendid herbal infusion. It tastes horrible, but it is supremely effective against indigestion and stimulates the functioning of the intestines quite superbly. Frol, pour them some.”

Karachentsev and Fandorin refused the herbal mixture point-blank, but Khurtinsky drank it and even declared that it tasted rather pleasant in an odd sort of way.

To follow, Frol gave the prince a decoction of sweet fruit liqueur and a slice of bread and butter (he did not offer these to Khurtinsky) and wiped His Excellency’s lips with a cambric napkin.

“Well now, Erast Petrovich, what special assignments am I to occupy you with? I really can’t think,” said Dolgorukoi, shrugging and raising his greasy hands. “As you can see, I already have enough advisers on secret matters. But never mind, don’t you fret. Settle in, get to know your way around.”

He gestured vaguely, thinking to himself: And meanwhile we’ll see what sort of chap you are.

At this point the antediluvian clock with the bas-relief chimed sonorously eleven times and the third and final link was added to the fatal chain of coincidences.

The door that led into the reception room swung open without any knock, the contorted features of a secretary appeared abruptly in the gap, and the atmosphere in the study was galvanized by the invisible but unmistakable charge of a Catastrophe.

“Disaster, Your Excellency!” the secretary declared in a trembling voice. “General Sobolev is dead! His personal orderly, Captain Gukmasov, is here.”

This news affected the individuals present in different ways, each in accordance with his own temperament. The governor-general waved his hand at the grief- stricken messenger, as if to say: Away with you, I refuse to believe it — and then crossed himself with that same hand. The head of the secret department momentarily opened his eyes as wide as they would go and then rapidly lowered his eyelids again. The redheaded chief of police leapt to his feet, and the young collegiate assessor’s face reflected two feelings in succession: initial extreme agitation, followed immediately by an expression of deep thought, which he retained throughout the scene that followed.

“Send in the captain, will you, Innokenty,” Dolgorukoi ordered his secretary in a low voice. “What a terrible thing to happen!”

The same valiant officer who the day before, at the hotel, had declined to throw himself into Erast Petrovich’s embrace entered the room with a precisely measured stride, jingling his spurs. He was clean-shaven now, and wearing his Life-Cossack dress uniform with an entire icon-screen of crosses and medals pinned to it.

“Your Excellency, senior orderly to Adjutant General Mikhail Dmitrievich Sobolev, Captain Gukmasov!” the officer introduced himself. “Woeful news…” He controlled himself with an effort, twitched his black bandit’s mustache, and continued. “The commander of the Fourth Army Corps arrived yesterday from Minsk en route to his estate in Ryazan and put up at the hotel Dusseaux. This morning Mikhail Dmitrievich was very late leaving his room. We became concerned and began knocking, but he did not answer. Then we ventured to enter, and he…” The captain made one more titanic effort and finally managed to complete his report without allowing his voice to tremble. “The general was sitting in an armchair. Dead. We called a doctor. He said that there was nothing to be done. The body was already cold.”

“Ay, ay, ay,” said the governor, propping his cheek on his palm. “How could it happen? Mikhail Dmitrievich was so young. Not even forty yet, I suppose?”

“He was thirty-eight, not yet thirty-nine,” Gukmasov replied in the same strained voice on the verge of breaking, and began blinking rapidly.

“But what was the cause of death?” asked Karachentsev, frowning. “The general was not unwell, was he?”

“Not in the least. He was perfectly hale and hearty, in excellent spirits. The doctor suspects a stroke or a heart attack.”

“Very well. You may go now, go,” said the prince, dismissing the orderly. He was shaken by the news. “I’ll see to everything and inform His Majesty. Go.” But when the door closed behind the captain, he sighed mournfully. “Ah, gentlemen, now there’ll be a fine to-do. This is a serious business — a man like that, loved and admired by all of Russia. And not only Russia — the whole of Europe knows the White General… and I was planning to call on him today… Petrusha, you send a telegram to His Highness the Emperor; you can work out what needs to be said for yourself. No, show it to me first. And afterward make arrangements for the period of mourning, the funeral and… well, you know all about that. And you, Evgeny Osipovich, maintain order for me. The moment the word spreads, everyone in Moscow will go rushing to the Dusseaux. So make sure that no one gets crushed in the excitement. I know the people of Moscow. You must maintain discipline and decorum.”

The chief of police nodded and picked up a folder from an armchair.

“Permission to leave, Your Excellency?”

“Off you go. Oho, what an uproar there’ll be now, what an uproar,” said the prince, then he started, struck by a sudden thought. “But it is likely, is it not, gentlemen, that His Majesty himself will come? He is certain to come. After all, this is not just anybody, it is the hero of Plevna and Turkestan who has surrendered his soul to God. A knight without fear or reproach, deservingly dubbed the Russian Achilles for his valor. We must prepare the Kremlin Palace. I shall deal with that myself.”

Khurtinsky and Karachentsev started toward the door, intent on carrying out their instructions, but the collegiate assessor remained seated in his armchair as though nothing had happened, regarding the prince with a strange air of bafflement.

“Ah, yes, Erast Petrovich, my dear fellow,” said Dolgorukoi, suddenly remembering the newcomer. “As you can see, I have no time for you just now. You can get your bearings in the meantime. Yes, and stay close at hand. I may have instructions for you. There will be plenty of work for everyone. Oh, what a terrible calamity.”