The Death of Achilles (21 page)

“Khurtinsky came to work, as usual, at nine o’clock. He appeared normal; the secretary noticed no signs of anxiety or agitation. After perusing the correspondence, Khurtinsky began receiving visitors. At about five to eleven the secretary was approached by a gendarme officer who introduced himself as Captain Pevtsov, a courier from St. Petersburg who had come to see the court counselor on urgent business. The captain was holding a brown briefcase described as precisely matching the stolen one. Pevtsov was immediately shown into the study and the reception of visitors was halted. Shortly after that, Khurtinsky stuck his head out and ordered that no one else was to be allowed in until he gave specific instructions and that in general he was not to be disturbed for any reason whatsoever. According to the secretary, he appeared extremely anxious. About ten minutes later, the captain left and confirmed that the counselor of state was busy and had given instructions that he was not to be disturbed, since he was studying secret documents. And a quarter of an hour after that, at twenty minutes past eleven, Erast Petrovich and I arrived.”

“What did the doctor say? Could it be murder?”

“He says it is a typical case of suicide by hanging. Khurtinsky tied the cord from the transom window around his neck and jumped. A standard fracture of the cervical vertebrae. And then, as you can see for yourself, there is no reason to doubt the note. Forgery is out of the question.”

The governor-general crossed himself and, borrowing a phrase from the Bible, remarked: “ “And abandoning the pieces of silver in the temple, he went out and hanged himself.” Well, now the criminal’s fate is in the hands of a judge more righteous than you or I, gentlemen.”

Erast Petrovich had the feeling that such an outcome suited Prince Dolgorukoi better than any other. In contrast, the chief of police was quite clearly downcast: Just when he thought that he had taken hold of the precious thread that would lead him to the pot of gold, the thread had simply snapped in his fingers.

Erast Petrovich’s thoughts were concerned, not with state secrets and interdepartmental intrigues, but with the mysterious Captain Pevtsov. It was perfectly obvious that he was the same man who, forty minutes before appearing in Khurtinsky’s reception room, had tricked poor Masa into giving him Sobolev’s million rubles. From Malaya Nikitskaya Street the captain of gendarmes (or, as Fandorin was inclined to presume, some individual dressed in a blue uniform) had set out directly for Tverskaya Street. The secretary had got a clearer look at this individual than the police chief’s adjutant and described him as follows: height approximately two arshins and seven vershoks, broad shoulders, straw- blond hair. One distinctive feature was that he had very light, almost transparent eyes. This detail made Fandorin shiver. In his youth he had had an encounter with a man who had eyes exactly like that, and he preferred not to recall that story from long ago, which had cost him too dear. However, the painful memory had nothing to do with this case, and he banished the gloomy shadow from his mind.

His questions arranged themselves in the following sequence. Was this man really a gendarme? If he was (and, more interestingly, even if he was not), then what was his role in the Sobolev case? But most important, how could he possibly be so fiendishly well-informed and so incredibly ubiquitous?

Just at that moment the governor-general began stating the questions that interested him, which naturally sounded somewhat different: “Now what are we going to do, my esteemed detectives? What would you have me report to my superiors? Was Sobolev murdered, or did he die a natural death? What was Khurtinsky doing right under my… or rather,
your nose
, Evgeny Osipovich? Where has the million rubles got to? Who is this fellow Pevtsov?” There was a note of menace underlying the feigned benevolence of the prince’s voice. “What do you say, Your Excellency, our dear defender and protector?”

The agitated chief of police wiped his sweaty forehead with a handkerchief.

“I have no Pevtsov in my department. Perhaps he really did come from St. Petersburg and was dealing directly with Khurtinsky, bypassing the provincial administration. I surmise the following.” Karachentsev tugged nervously on one ginger sideburn. “Acting in secret from you and from me” — the chief of police swallowed — “Khurtinsky was carrying out certain confidential assignments from high up. These assignments evidently included provisions for Sobolev’s visit. To what end this was necessary, I do not know. Obviously Khurtinsky found out from somewhere that Sobolev had a very large sum of money with him and that his retinue knew nothing about it. On Thursday night Khurtinsky was informed of Sobolev’s sudden death in one of the suites at the hotel Anglia — probably by agents who were secretly observing the general, well, and… As we already know, the court counselor was greedy and not particularly choosy about his methods. He succumbed to the temptation to pocket this incredible haul and sent his minion, the housebreaker Little Misha, to extract the briefcase from the safe. However, Khurtinsky’s dubious enterprise was discovered by Captain Pevtsov, who, in all probability, had been assigned to observe the observer — that happens quite often in our department. Pevtsov confiscated the briefcase, came to Khurtinsky, and accused him of double-dealing and theft. Immediately after the captain left, the state counselor realized that his goose was cooked, so he wrote a repentant note and hanged himself. That is the only explanation that occurs to me.”

“Well, it is certainly plausible,” allowed Dolgorukoi. “What action do you propose?”

“Immediately forward a query to St. Petersburg concerning the identity of Captain Pevtsov and what authority he has been granted. Meanwhile, Erast Petrovich and I will examine the suicide’s papers. I shall take the contents of his safe, and Mr. Fandorin will study Khurtinsky’s notebook.”

The collegiate assessor could not suppress a wry smile at the deft way in which the general had divided up the booty: In one half the contents of the safe, and in the other an ordinary notebook for business appointments, lying openly on the desk of the deceased.

Dolgorukoi drummed his fingers on the table and adjusted his wig, which had slipped slightly to one side, with a habitual gesture.

“It would seem, Evgeny Osipovich, that your conclusions amount to the following. Sobolev was not murdered, but died a natural death. Khurtinsky was a victim of inordinate avarice. Pevtsov is a man from St. Petersburg. Are you in agreement with these conclusions, Erast Petrovich?”

Fandorin’s reply was terse: “No.”

“Interesting,” said the governor, brightening. “Well, then, speak your piece. What conclusions have your calculations produced — ‘that is one,’ ‘that is two,’ ‘that is three’?”

“By all means, Your Excellency…” The young man paused — evidently for greater effect — and began resolutely.

“General Sobolev was involved in some secret business, the essence of which is not yet clear. P-proofs? Concealing his actions from everybody, he gathered together an immense sum of money. That is one. The hotel safe contained secret papers, which were concealed from the authorities by the general’s retinue. That is two. There is the very fact that Sobolev was under secret observation — I think Evgeny Osipovich is right when he says he was being observed — that is three.” At this point, Erast Petrovich mentally added: The testimony of the young woman Golovina — that is four. However, he chose not to involve the teacher from Minsk in the investigation. “I am not yet ready to draw any conclusions, but I am prepared to venture a few surmises. Sobolev was murdered. By some cunning means that imitates a natural death. Khurtinsky fell victim to his own greed; the illusion of his own impunity went to his head. Here I am once again in agreement with Evgeny Osipovich. But the true criminal, the man pulling the strings behind the scenes, is the person whom we know as ‘Captain Pevtsov’. Khurtinsky, a sly, cunning villain whose like would be hard to find anywhere, was mortally afraid of this man. This man has the briefcase. Pevtsov knows everything and appears everywhere. I very much dislike such supernatural agility. A blond man with pale eyes who has twice appeared in a gendarme uniform — that is the person we must find at any cost.”

The chief of police rubbed his temples wearily.

“It could well be that Erast Petrovich is right and I am mistaken. When it comes to deduction, the collegiate assessor can easily give me a hundred points’ start.”

Prince Dolgorukoi got up from his desk with a grunt, walked across to the window, and gazed out for about five minutes at the incessant stream of carriages flowing along Tverskaya Street. Then he turned around and spoke in an unusually brisk and businesslike manner.

“I shall report to the top. Immediately, by coded telegram. As soon as they reply, I shall summon you. Remain at your posts and do not leave them. Evgeny Osipovich, you will be where?”

“In my office on Tverskoi Boulevard. I shall go through Khurtinsky’s papers.”

“I shall be at the Dusseaux,” Fandorin announced. “To be quite honest, I can hardly stay on my feet. I have hardly slept at all for two days now.”

“Go on, then, my dear fellow, get an hour or two of sleep, and make yourself look respectable while you’re at it. I shall send for you.”

Erast Petrovich didn’t actually intend to sleep, as such, but he did intend to refresh himself — by taking an ice bath, and a massage afterward would be good. Sleep — how could he indulge in any sleep when there was business like this afoot? Who could possibly fall asleep?

Fandorin opened the door of his suite and started back sharply as Masa threw himself at his feet, pressed his cocooned head to the floor, and began jabbering.

“Master it is unforgivable, unforgivable. I failed to protect your
onshi
or to guard your leather briefcase. But that was not the end of my offenses. Unable to bear such shame, I wished to lay hands on myself and dared to make use of your sword for that purpose, but the sword broke, and so I have committed yet another terrible crime.”

The small ceremonial sword was lying on the table, broken in two.

Erast Petrovich sat down on the floor beside his miserable servant. He stroked his head cautiously — he could feel the immense bump even through the towel.

“Masa, you are not to blame for anything. I am responsible for Grushin-
sensei’s
death, and I shall never forgive myself for it. Your courage did not fail you; you showed no weakness. It is just that life here is different and there are different rules, to which you are not accustomed. And the sword is worthless trash, a knitting needle. It is quite impossible to cut yourself open with it. We shall buy another; they cost fifty rubles. It is not my family sword.”

Masa straightened up with tears running down his contorted face.

“But I still insist, master. It is not possible for me of live after I have failed you so terribly. I deserve to be punished.”

“All right,” sighed Fandorin. “You will learn off by heart the next ten pages of the dictionary.”

“No, twenty!”

“All right. But not now, later, when your head has healed. Meanwhile, prepare an ice bath.”

Masa dashed downstairs with an empty bucket and Erast Petrovich sat down at the table and opened Khurtinsky’s notebook. It was not actually an ordinary notebook, but an English schedule book, a diary in which every day of the year is allotted its own page. A convenient item — Fandorin had seen others like it before. He began leafing through it without really hoping to find anything significant. Of course, the state counselor had kept everything that was in the least degree secret or important in the safe, and only various minor items that he needed to remember, such as the times of business meetings, audiences, and reports, were written in the book. Many names were indicated by only one or two letters. Fandorin would have to make sense of all of it. The collegiate assessor’s glance halted on Tuesday 4 July (that is, Tuesday 22 June in our Russian style), attracted by a strangely elongated blot. So far there had not been a single blot or even correction in the book — Khurtinsky was obviously an extremely neat individual. And the form of the blot was very odd — as if the ink had not fallen from a pen, but been deliberately smeared. Fandorin held the page up against the light. No, he could not make it out. He carefully ran the tip of his finger over the paper. There seemed to be something written there. The dead man had used a steel nib and pressed hard with it. But there was no way to read it.

Masa brought a bucket of ice and flung it into the bath with a crash and a clatter. There was the sound of running water. Erast Petrovich picked up the travel bag that held his tools and took out the device he required. He turned over the page with the blot, applied an extremely thin sheet of rice paper to its reverse side, and ran a rubber roller over it several times. This was not ordinary paper; it had been impregnated with a special solution that reacted sensitively to the slightest irregularity in the surface on which it lay. The collegiate assessor’s fingers were trembling with impatience as he lifted the sheet of paper away. Against the matte background he could make out several pale but distinct words: “
Metro-pole No
.
ISIKlonov
.” It had been written on 22 June. What had happened on that day? The commander of the Fourth Army Corps, General of Infantry Sobolev, had concluded his maneuvers and submitted his application for leave. Well, and a certain Mr. Klonov had been in suite 19 at the hotel Metro-pole. What connection was there between these two facts? Most likely, none. But why would Khurtinsky have wanted to obscure the name and address? Very interesting.

Erast Petrovich undressed and climbed into the bath of ice, which obliged him to abandon extraneous thoughts for a moment, as usual straining his mental and physical powers to the utmost. Fandorin ducked his head under the water and counted to a hundred and twenty, and when he surfaced and opened his eyes, he gasped and blushed bright red: Standing in the doorway of the bathroom, rooted to the spot in amazement, was the Countess Mirabeau, the morganatic wife of His Highness Evgeny Maximilianovich, Duke of Liechtenburg. Her face was also crimson.