He Lover of Death (37 page)

There were several cab drivers standing at the gates, holding their caps in their hands. These violators of the laws of the road had come to ransom the numbers that had been taken off their cabs. That cost about seven roubles a time, and even then you really had to grovel.

Inside the yard there was a jostling circle of men wearing loose shirts with belts. They looked like a team of Ukrainian carpenters who had come to Moscow to earn money. The foreman, with a long, droopy moustache, was walking round the circle, holding out his cap, and the others were reluctantly dropping silver and copper coins into it. Clear enough – they’d been working for the builder without the right piece of paper, and now the coppers were tapping them for half their money. It happened all the time.

They said that sort of thing never used to happen here under the old superintendent, but it’s the priest who sets the tone of the parish.

The moment Senka pushed open the oilcloth-covered door and stepped into the dark, filthy corridor, a bumptious fat-faced copper with stripes on his arm grabbed him by the hem of his skirt.

‘Well, look at you,’ he said. Then he winked and pinched Senka on the side so hard that Senka could have torn his hands off. ‘Why haven’t I seen you around before? Come to get your yellow ticket amended? I do that. Let’s go.’

He grabbed Senka by the elbow and started dragging him off. Senka knew he was lying about that ticket – all he wanted was to use a girl for free.

‘I’ve come to see the superintendent,’ Senka said in a stern squeak. ‘I’ve got a letter for him, it’s important.’

The copper took his hands off. ‘Go straight on,’ he said, ‘and then right. That’s where His Honour sits.’

Senka went where he’d been told. Past the hen coop, full of tramps who had been picked up, past the locked cells with the thieves and criminals (the darlings were singing that song about a black raven – lovely it was, a real treat). Then the corridor turned a bit cleaner and brighter and it led Senka to a tall, leather-bound door with a brass plate on it that said: ‘Superintendent: Colonel I. R. Solntsev’.

Senka’s polite knock was answered by a stern voice on the other side of the door.

‘Yes?’

Senka went in. He said hello in a squeaky voice and held out the letter. ‘I was asked to deliver this to you in person.’

He tried to clear off straightaway, but the superintendent growled quietly: ‘Where do you think you’re going?’

The fearsome colonel was sitting at his desk eating an apple, cutting slices off it with a narrow-bladed knife. He wiped the blade on a napkin, then pressed a knob somewhere, and the blade disappeared with a metallic click.

Solntsev didn’t open the envelope straight off; instead he examined his visitor carefully, and his eyes lingered for a long time on her false bosom. (Ah, Mr Nameless had overdone it there, stuffed in way too much cotton wool!)

‘Who are you? A streetwalker? Your name?’

‘S-Sanka,’ Senka lisped. ‘Alexandra Alexandrova.’

‘What’s this letter about? Who’s it from?’

Solntsev fingered the envelope suspiciously and help it up against the light. What should Senka say?

‘A client gave me it . . . Give it to the colonel, he told me, hand it to him in person.’

‘Hmm, intrigues of the court of Burgundy,’ the superintendent muttered, opening the envelope. ‘Stay here, Alexandrova. Wait.’

He ran his eye over the letter quickly, jerked upright, unfastened the hook of his stiff collar, ran his tongue over his lips and started reading again, taking his time now, as if he was trying to make something out between the lines.

He took so long, Senka got bored. Luckily, there were photographs hanging on the walls and newspaper cuttings in frames behind glass.

The most interesting thing there was a picture from a magazine. Solntsev standing there, a bit younger than he was now, with his hands perched smartly on his hips, and a wooden coffin beside him on the floor. The man in it had a moustache and a black hole in his forehead. The caption underneath read:
‘Young district inspector puts an end to the criminal career of Loberetsky the Apache’.

Under that was an article with the enormous headline: ‘
Gang of counterfeiters arrested. Three cheers for the police!’

A photograph without any caption: Solntsev shaking hands with the governor general. His Highness Simeon Alexandrovich was skinny and incredibly tall, with his chin stuck up in the air, and the superintendent was bowing, knees bent, with a smarmy great smile pasted right across his mug (that is, his face).

Another article, not so very old, it wasn’t yellow yet:
‘The youngest precinct superintendent in Moscow’,
from the
Moscow Municipal Police Gazette.
Senka read the beginning:
‘The brilliant operation that resulted in the arrest of a band of robbers in Khamovniki, who were given away by one of the members of that criminal association, has drawn attention once again to the talent of Colonel Solntsev and secured him not only a priority promotion, but an appointment to one of the most difficult and high-profile precincts in the old capital, Khitrovka . . .’

He couldn’t read any more because the superintendent interrupted. ‘Well now. A most interesting message.’

He wasn’t looking at the letter as he said that, but at Senka, and looking at him in a nasty sort of way, as if he was going to take him apart, unscrew all his nuts and bolts and peer at what was inside.

‘Who do you belong to, Alexandrova? Who’s your pimp?’

‘I don’t belong to anyone, I work for myself,’ Senka answered after a moment’s hesitation. What if he named some pimp, even Brawn, and the superintendent took it into his head to check? Have you got a mamselle by that name, Brawn? That would be a real disaster.

‘You used to work for yourself,’ the superintendent said with an evil smile. ‘But not any more you don’t. From this day on you’re going to peach for me. I can tell just by looking at you that you’re a quick-witted girl, you’ve got sharp eyes. And good-looking too, buxom. Your voice is disgusting, that’s true, but then you won’t be singing at the Bolshoi.’

He laughed. So the rotten snake had decided to recruit Senka as a peacher! That was what they called mamselles who squealed on their own kind. If the bandits found out, there was only one pay-off for that – they’d rip the peacher’s guts out.

If a streetwalker was found with her belly ripped open, everyone knew what it was for. But just you try and find out who’d done it! Even so, there were plenty of little mamselles who peached. And not just for the fun of it, of course not. When the coppers started turning the screws, there was no way to wriggle out.

Now, it made no odds to Senka if they recruited him as a peacher, but any self-respecting mamselle had to kick up a bit.

‘I’m an honest girl,’ he said proudly. ‘Not one of those whores who squeal on their own kind to you coppers. Find yourself a squealer somewhere else.’

‘Wha-at?’ the superintendent bellowed in such a terrifying voice that Senka froze. ‘Who are you calling “coppers”, you little slut? Right, Alexandrova, for that, I’m going to fine you. Three days to pay, and do you know what happens after that?’

Senka shook his head in fright – and this time he wasn’t pretending.

But Solntsev stopped yelling and switched to gentle persuasion: ‘Let me explain. If you don’t pay your fine for insulting me in three days, I’ll lock you in a cell for the night. Do you know who I’ve got in there? Criminals who are sick. They’ve got consumption and syphilis. According to the latest “humane” decree, we have to keep them separate from other prisoners. But they’ll spend the night playing with you, my girl, and then we’ll see which one takes a shine to you first – the frenchies or consumption.’

The time had come for Senka to set his girlish pride aside. ‘How can I pay?’ he said in a weepy voice. ‘I’m a poor girl.’

The superintendent chuckled: ‘Which is it, poor or honest?

Senka rubbed his eyes with his sleeve – like he was wiping his tears away. He sniffed pitifully as if to say: I’m all yours, do whatever you want with me.

‘Right, then,’ said Solntsev in a brisk, businesslike tone. ‘Did you sleep with the man who gave you the letter?’

‘Well ...’ Senka said warily, not knowing what was the best answer.

The copper shook his head. ‘My, my, our squeamish friend really has gone down in the world. In the old days he would never have got mixed up with a street girl. He must have seen something in you.’ The superintendent came out from behind the desk and took hold of Senka’s chin with his finger and thumb. ‘Lively eyes, with sparks of mischief in them. Hmm . . . Where did it happen? How?’

‘At my apertiment,’ Senka lied. ‘He’s a very hot-blooded gent, a real goer.’

‘Yes, he’s a well-known ladies’ man. Listen, Alexandrova, I’ll tell you how you can pay your fine. Tell this man that you’ve fallen madly in love with him, or something else of the sort, but make sure that you stay with him. If he’s seen something in you, then he won’t throw you out. He’s a gentleman.’

‘But where can I find him?’ Senka wailed.

‘I’ll tell you that tomorrow. Hand over your yellow ticket. I’ll keep it here for the time being. Better safe than sorry.’

Oh no! Senka started batting his eyelids, he didn’t know what to say.

‘What, you mean you don’t have one?’ Solntsev gave a wolfish grin. ‘Trading without a ticket? Shame on you! And too proud to peach. Hey!’ he yelled, turning towards the door. ‘Ogryzkov!’

A constable came in, stood to attention and glared wide eyed at his superior.

‘Escort this girl home, wherever she says. Confiscate her residence permit and bring it to me. So you won’t be able to do a runner, Alexandrova.’

He patted Senka on the cheek. ‘Now that I look a bit closer, I reckon there really is something to you. Fandorin knows a good thing when he sees it.’ He lowered his hand and felt Senka’s backside. ‘A bit scraggy in the basement, but I’ve got nothing against a skinny bum. I’ll have to give you a try, Alexandrova. If you manage to avoid the frenchies, that is.’

And he laughed, the filthy old goat.

How could Death have billed and cooed with this reptile? Senka would rather hang himself.

And suddenly he felt sorry for women, the poor creatures. What was it like for them living in a world where all the men were filthy swines?

And what did ‘fandorin’ mean, anyway?

HOW SENKA TOOK AN EXAM

Senka dealt with the goggle-eyed cooper easily enough. He told him he lived in Vshivaya Gorka by the Yauza, and as soon as they were in the lanes leading to the river, he hitched up his skirt and darted off into an alleyway. Of course, the constable started blowing on his whistle and swearing, but there was nothing he could do. The new peacher had vanished into thin air. Now Ogryzkov was in for a fine from the superintendent, as sure as eggs is eggs.

All the way home Senka racked his brains, trying to think what it was he’d seen or heard in the basement that had let Erast Petrovich and Masa guess who the killer was straight off like that.

He worked his brains as hard as he could, fair wore them out with wild gymnastics, but he still couldn’t make two and two equal four.

Then he tried applying deduction to something else. What plan had the brainy Mr Nameless come up with? It was terrifying just to think what a tangled knot he’d tied. What if it all went wrong? Who’d be the one to suffer for it? What if it was a certain young man who was fed up with being a plaything in the hands of the Bird of Fortune? That crazy creature could flap its wings and shower a poor, wretched orphan with its most precious gifts – love and riches, and hope – then suddenly turn tail-on and do its dirt on the lucky devil’s coiffure, take back all its gifts and try to filch its victim’s life into the bargain.

Senka had bad thoughts about the engineer and the slick way he had with other people’s property. Not a word of thanks for Senka’s unbelievable generosity and self-sacrifice. No, you’d never hear anything like that from him. He acted liked it all belonged to him. Invited the rats to dine at someone else’s table. Come on, dear guests, take as much as you fancy. And as for that someone else having his own idea, about that treasure, and even dreams, well a smarmy gent like Erast Petrovich obviously couldn’t give a rotten damn about that.

Because he felt so resentful, Senka was cool with the engineer. He told him all about delivering the letter and the conversation with the superintendent, but he expressed his insulted dignity by looking off to one side and curling up his bottom lip.

However, Erast Petrovich failed to notice this demonstration of feeling. He listened carefully to the story of how Senka was questioned and recruited. He seemed pleased with everything, and even said ‘well done’. That was too much for Senka, and he started hinting at the treasure, saying what a lot of smart-arses there were in the world who liked to make free with wealth that wasn’t theirs, but belonged to someone else. But that hint wasn’t taken either, he failed to stir the engineer’s conscience. Mr Nameless just patted Senka on the head and said: ‘Don’t be g-greedy.’ And then he said in a cheerful voice: ‘Tonight I conclude all my b-business in Moscow, there is no m-more time left. Tomorrow at midday is the start of the d-drive to Paris. I hope the F-Flying Carpet is in good order?’

Senka felt his heart sink. That was right, tomorrow was the twenty-third! What with all these harum-scarum adventures, he’d completely forgotten about it!

So, whatever happened, it was the end of everything. Three cheers for the cunning Mr Nameless! He’d got what he wanted from his mechanic (and for nothing, if you didn’t count the grub) – his automobile was looking real handsome, it was fine tuned and polished till it shone – but that wasn’t even the half of it. The worst thing was that he’d twisted a poor orphan round his little finger, robbed him blind, nearly got the orphan’s throat cut, and now he was going driving off to Paris like some fairy-tale prince. And it was Senka’s destiny to be left sitting all on his lonesome beside his broken tub. If he was even still alive tomorrow, that was ...