He Lover of Death (23 page)

On the ground by the door there was a rough outline of a human figure, not a very good likeness, and beside it there was a dark patch. Blood, Senka guessed, and shuddered.

‘The criminal tied up Ashot Ashotovich Samshitov, fifty-two years of age, and sat him in this chair. As you can see, there’s blood everywhere: on the headrest, the arms, the floor. And both veinous and arterial, different oscillatory fluctuations . . . I’m sorry, Erast Petrovich, I’m not being very clear, I don’t know medical terminology very well,’ the official said, embarrassed. ‘You were always at me, trying to get me to study a bit, but the new bosses didn’t require it, so I never got round—’

‘Never mind that,’ Erast Petrovich interrupted. ‘I understand: Samshitov was t-tortured before he died. Was a knife used?’

‘Probably, or else they stabbed him with a pointed object.’

‘And the eyes?’

‘What about the eyes?’

‘Were the b-bodies’ eyes put out?’

‘Ah, you’re thinking of the Khitrovka murders ...’ Sergei Nikiforovich shook his head. ‘No, the eyes weren’t put out, and the overall picture of the crime is rather different, too. So it has been decided to make this a separate case from the Khitrovka Blinder murders.’

The Khitrovka B-blinder?’ said Erast Petrovich, wincing. ‘What a stupid name! I thought only newspapermen used it.’

‘It was thought up by the superintendent of the Third Myasnitsky Precinct, Colonel Solntsev. The reporters pounced on it, although, of course, from a grammatical—’

‘All right, to hell with the g-grammar,’ said Erast Petrovich, walking round the room. ‘Shall we go upstairs?’

‘No point. It’s quite clear that the killer didn’t go up there.’

‘Killer? Not killers? Has it been established that there was only one c-criminal?’

‘Apparently so. The neighbours testified that Samshitov never served more than one customer at a time, he only let one in the shop then locked the door after them immediately. He was very afraid of being robbed, Khitrovka’s not far off, after all.’

‘Signs of robbery?’

‘None. Nothing’s been taken, even in the shop. There are a few trinkets lying in the shop window there, but they’re not worth very much. I told you, everything happened in this room.’

Erast Petrovich shook his head and walked through into the shop. The official and Masa followed him. And Senka too – so as not to be left alone in a room splattered with blood.

‘And what’s this?’ asked Erast Petrovich, pointing to the birdcage.

The parrot Levonchik was lying in it with his head thrown back.

Sergei Nikiforovich shrugged. ‘Parrots are nervous birds, sensitive to loud sounds. And there must have been plenty of screaming and groaning . . . His heart gave out. Or perhaps he was left unfed too long.’

‘The cage d-door’s open. Yes and . . . Aha, t-take a look, Masa.’ Erast Petrovich picked up the little body and handed it to Masa.

The Japanese clicked his tongue: ‘They wrung it’ neck. Murda.’

‘Yes, it’s a pity the coroner didn’t examine it,’ the policeman chuckled, evidently thinking that the Oriental was joking, but Senka knew that for his sensei a soul was a soul, whether it was a man’s or a bird’s.

‘How low the p-professionalism of the Moscow d-detective police has sunk,’ Erast Petrovich intoned sadly. Ten years ago such c-carelessness would have been unimaginable.’

‘Don’t I know it.’ Sergei Nikiforovich sighed even more bitterly. ‘Things aren’t what they were in your day. You know, I get no satisfaction from the work at all. All they want are results, convictions, they’re not interested in proving anything. The triumph of justice doesn’t even come into it. Our bosses have different concerns. By the way’, he said, lowering his voice, ‘I didn’t mention it on the telephone . . . Your presence in Moscow is no secret. I happened by chance to see a secret instruction on the desk of the chief of police: your place of residence is to be determined and you’re to be put under secret observation. Someone’s recognised you and reported you.’

Erast Petrovich was not in the slightest upset by this news; in fact, he seemed rather flattered: ‘It’s not surprising, m-many people in Moscow know me. And clearly, they haven’t f-forgotten me. Thank you, Subbotin. I know the risks you’ve taken, and I appreciate it. G-goodbye.’

He shook the man in specs by the hand, and Subbotin muttered in embarrassment: ‘Oh, it’s nothing. But you should be careful anyway . . . Who knows what they’ve got in mind. His Highness is very vindictive.’

Senka didn’t understand who ‘they’ were – or ‘His Highness’, for that matter.

From the yard behind Samshitov’s shop they walked along a side street to Lubyanka Passage, and then turned into the public garden.

At the very first bench Erast Petrovich gestured, inviting Senka to take a seat. They sat down, Senka in the middle, the other two on either side. A prisoner and his guards.

‘Well now, M-Mr Schopenhauer,’ said Erast Petrovich, turning towards him. ‘Shall we talk?’

‘What’s it to do with me?’ Senka grumbled, knowing this wasn’t going to be pleasant. ‘I don’t know nothing.’

‘Deduction t-tells me differently.’

‘Who does?’ Senka said, cheering up. ‘I’ve never laid eyes on this Deduction of yours. She’s a liar, a rotten bitch!’

Erast Petrovich twitched the corner of his mouth. ‘This lady, Spidorov (I think I’d b-better address you like that now), never lies. You remember the seventeenth-century silver k-kopeck I found in Siniukhin’s pocket after he was killed? Of course you remember it –you ignored it so very p-pointedly. Where would a poor pen-pusher come by a numismatic c-curiosity like that? That is one. Let us continue. At the m-murder scene you deliberately kept turning away and even closing your eyes, although, as Masa has observed, you are c-certainly not short of curiosity. And neither did you d-display the astonishment and horror that are natural at such a sight. You must admit this is strange. That is t-two. To proceed. On that day, there was silver in your p-pocket as well as Siniukhin’s, and it was jangling rather loudly. To judge from the sound, the c-coins were small, of a size no longer m-minted in our day. And in your hand you were carrying a rod of p-pure silver, which is entirely out of the ordinary. Where would a Khitrovka g-guttersnipe like you get a small fortune in silver? That is three.’

‘Calling me names, now, are you? Swearing at a poor orphan?’ Senka asked in a surly tone of voice. ‘You ought to be ashamed of yourself, mister, a decent gent like you.’

Masa dug an elbow into his side. ‘When Masta say “that one, that two, that three”, keep quiet. You frighten away deduction.’

Senka looked round – there wasn’t a lady in sight. Who was there to frighten away? But to be safe he held his tongue. So far the sensei had only given him a gentle poke with his elbow, but he could easily belt him a lot harder than that.

Erast Petrovich went on as if he had never been interrupted. ‘Although I was not intending to investigate this c-crime, because I am involved in a completely d-different case, your behaviour intrigued me so much that I instructed Masa to look after you. However, the latest b-brutal murder, of which I was informed last night by an old c-colleague of mine, has changed my plans. I have to intervene in this business, because the authorities are clearly not capable of f-finding the killer. The investigating officers cannot even see that these c-crimes are links in a single chain. Why do I think so, you are about to ask?’ Senka wasn’t about to ask anything of the kind, but he didn’t try to argue with the stern gent. ‘Well, you see, from M-Maroseika Street to Khitrovka, where the Siniukhins were killed, is only a five-minute walk. These atrocities possess two f-fundamentally similar features that are encountered far too rarely for this to b-be regarded as pure coincidence. The killer is clearly p-pursuing some scheme far too grandiose for him to be d-distracted by mere details such as people or cheap m-medallions in the window of a jeweller’s shop. That is one. And another noteworthy f-feature is the diabolical caution that drives the criminal to l-leave no witnesses, not a single living creature, not even one as harmless as a three-year old infant or a b-bird. That is two. Right, and n-now for you, Spidorov: I am absolutely convinced that you know a great d-deal and can be of help to me.’

Senka had been certain he was going to hear more about the murderer, and was jolted by this abrupt conclusion. Squirming under the keen gaze of those blue eyes, he shouted: ‘So they topped that jeweller, what’s that got to do with me?’

Masa poked him with his elbow again, harder this time. ‘Have you forgotten about the snot-nosed kid? The one who earned a rouble following you? He saw you take the silver sticks into that shop.’

Senka realised there was no point denying it, so he changed tack from market-trader barking to snivelling: ‘What is it you want? Why don’t you ask properly . . . You’re just trying to frighten me, beating me in the ribs ...’

‘Stop that p-poor-mouthing,’ said Erast Petrovich. ‘Masa describes you in a most flattering f-fashion. He says that you’re not hard hearted, that you have an inquisitive m-mind and – a most v-valuable human quality – you strive towards self-improvement. Previously, before this latest c-crime, Masa simply asked you if you had d-decided to share your secret with us. He was certain that s-sooner or later he would earn your trust and you would want to unburden your heart to him. Now we c-can’t wait any longer. No more t-tact or delicacy – I demand that you answer two questions. The first is: what is the murderer l-looking for? And the second is: what do you know about this p-person?’

Masa nodded:
come on, don’t be a coward, tell us.

Well, Senka told them everything, just like at confession. About the bandit deck, and about Deadeye, and about Death, and how the Prince wanted to finish him off, out of jealousy, like.

Well, he didn’t tell them
everything,
that goes without saying. He was cagey about the treasure hoard: there was supposed to be something of the kind, but whether it was true or not, Senka didn’t know. Well, when people went to confession, they didn’t tell the whole truth either, did they?

‘So, according to what you say, Spidorov, it seems this P-Prince and his jack killed Siniukhin in an attempt to extort the secret of the t-treasure from him?’ Erast Petrovich asked after listening to Senka’s rather incoherent story. ‘And the Prince p-paid a visit to the antiquary in order to find out your address?’

‘It stands to reason. Prokha squealed to him, the rat. He saw me near the shop, I told you! That’s why nothing was robbed, the Prince couldn’t give a damn for cheap baubles. He wants to get to me.’

‘But are you sure the Prince is only l-looking for you out of jealousy?’ Erast Petrovich wrinkled up his smooth forehead as if there was something he didn’t quite understand. ‘Maybe he wants you b-because of the treasure?’

Senka got this sudden aching feeling in his gut: he’d guessed, the wily gent had guessed the whole thing! And now he’d start pestering Senka: You tell me where those silver sticks are hidden.

Just to gain time, Senka started babbling: ‘He’s so jealous, it’s something awful! It’s that Deadeye he should be chasing! He’s always hanging around Death too. He gives her cocaine, and you know what she gives him. But it’s not really ’cause she’s a floozy. How can you blame her – when they’re on the candy cane, they can’t control themselves. It’s a real weakness with them ...’

‘In the old days, I b-believe there was a mint in the Yauza District, where they minted silver c-coins,’ Erast Petrovich declared thoughtfully when Senka paused for breath. ‘All right, I’m not interested in the t-treasure right now. Tell me, Spidorov, c-can you introduce me to this intriguing individual who has d-driven the underworld
beau monde
insane. You say they c-call her Death? What a d-decadent name.’

Senka’s heart suddenly felt lighter.

‘I can introduce you. But what’s going to happen to me, eh? You won’t give me away to the Prince, will you?’

HOW SENKA SAW A SCENE
FROM BOCCACCIO

Erast Petrovich, righteous man that he was, didn’t abandon the poor orphan to the mercy of fate. In fact, he told him to collect his things and took him off to his own apartment, the one on Asheulov Lane, where Senka had the unfortunate idea (or perhaps it wasn’t unfortunate at all, but the very opposite – how could you tell?) of nicking that bundle from the ‘Chinee’.

It was a queer sort of apartment, not like what normal people had.

In one room there wasn’t any furniture at all, just stripy mattresses on the floor and that was all. That was where Masa and his master did their
renzu,
Japanese gymnastics. Just watching it was frightening. The way they flailed away with their arms and legs, it was a miracle they didn’t kill each other. Masa tried to get Senka to join in and scrap with them, but he got scared and ran off into the kitchen.

The kitchen was interesting too. Masa was in charge there. There was no stove, and no barrels of pickled cabbage or cucumbers. But in one corner there was this big cupboard called a ‘refrigerator’, which was always as cold as an ice cellar on the inside, and there was raw fish in it, on plates. The two tenants cut the fish into pieces, sprinkled it with brown vinegar and ate it just like that, with rice. They tried to give Senka some for breakfast too, but he didn’t touch the heathen muck and just chewed a bit of rice. And he didn’t drink the tea, either, because it wasn’t right at all – a funny yellow colour, it was, and not sweet at all.

Senka was given a place to sleep in his sensei’s room – there weren’t even any beds there, nothing but mats on the floor, like in Kulakov’s dosshouse.
Never mind,
Senka thought,
better to sleep on the floor than in the cold damp ground with a pen stuck in your side. We’ll stick it out.

The weirdest place of all was the master’s study. Well, that’s what it was called, but it was more like a mechanic’s workshop really. The books on the shelves were mostly technical, in foreign languages: the desk was heaped high with strange drawings (they were called ‘blueprints’, with lots of very complicated lines); there were different-shaped bits of metal lying round the walls, with springs, rubber hoops and all sorts of other stuff. That was because Erast Petrovich was an engineer, he’d studied in America. Even his name wasn’t Russian: Mr Nameless. Senka really wanted to ask him what he needed all these thingamajigs for, but on that first day of his life on Asheulov Lane, there was no time for that.