The Diamond Chariot (72 page)

‘Thank you, I am p-perfectly all right.’

Fandorin shook hands with the consul, but merely exchanged hostile glances with Bukhartsev, who demonstratively hid his hands behind his back. Well, at the end of the day, they worked in different departments, and they were both on the ninth level of the table of ranks, so no insubordination was involved.

But rank was one thing, and position was quite another, and the sailor immediately demonstrated who was in charge here.

In the consul’s office, he occupied the incumbent’s place at the desk, without bothering to ask permission. Vsevolod Vitalievich had to take a seat on another chair and Fandorin remained standing – not out of diffidence, but because he was afraid that if he sat down, he would not be able to get up again. He leaned against the wall and crossed his arms.

‘Secretary! Hey, whatever your name is …’ the lieutenant captain yelled through the open door. ‘Stay close, you might be needed!’

‘Yes, sir,’ said a voice in the corridor.

Doronin frowned vaguely but said nothing. And Fandorin realised that Bukhartsev had said that to intensify the menace of the situation, as if some rigorous trial were about to begin here and now, and sentence would be pronounced, and it would need to be dictated.

‘His Excellency and I have not been able to get anything intelligible out of your superior,’ Bukhartsev said in an aggressively assertive tone, fixing Erast Petrovich with a gimlet-eyed stare. ‘Vsevolod Vitalievich merely keeps repeating that he bears responsibility for everything, but he can’t explain anything in a way that makes sense. So I have been instructed to conduct an inquiry. You, Fandorin, are to consider yourself answerable to the ambassador in my person. Indeed, even more than that, answerable to the state of Russia.’

The titular counsellor paused slightly before making a slight bow. So be it, to the state.

‘Well then, the first matter,’ the lieutenant captain continued in the style of a public prosecutor. ‘The Japanese police of Yokohama have discovered the body of Prince Onokoji, a member of the very highest levels of society and relative of many influential individuals, near some warehouses.’

‘Near some warehouses?’ Erast Petrovich thought in surprise, and then recalled his servant’s conspiratorial grimace. So, before he carried his unconscious master away from the pier, he had had the wits to move the body somewhere else. Well done, Masa.

‘On examination of the papers of the head of the foreign police, following his sudden death, it emerged that the aforementioned Prince Onokoji had been kept under arrest in the municipal jail.’ Bukhartsev raised his voice, emphasising every single word now. ‘And he had been confined there at the insistence of the Russian vice-consul! What does this mean, Fandorin? Why this arbitrary arrest, and of such an important individual? The whole truth, with no dissimulation! That is the only thing that can mitigate in any way the punishment that awaits you!’

‘I am not afraid of punishment,’ Erast Petrovich said coolly. ‘I will expound the facts as I know them, by all means. Although I must state in advance that I acted entirely at my own discretion and risk, without informing the c-consul.’

The agent snorted incredulously, but he didn’t interrupt. With all possible brevity, but also without omitting anything of substance, the titular counsellor recited the entire sequence of events, explained the reasons for his actions and concluded with a recital of the terrible outcome to which these actions had led. He did not attempt to justify his own mistakes, he made no excuses. And the only concession he made to his own vanity was to omit the false trail leading from the intendant to Bullcox. Consul Doronin had also not mentioned the Right Honourable, although he was well aware of the ‘British intrigue’ theory.

‘Your servant is smarter than you are,’ the naval agent remarked acidly after listening to the whole story. ‘He realised he had to drag the prince’s body as far away as possible, otherwise, who knows, the Japanese police might have suspected the Russian vice-consul of murder. To hear you talk, Fandorin, anyone might think you were a genuine patriot of your Fatherland, a heroic partisan, a real Denis Davydov. Only why have you omitted to mention the escapade with Bullcox?’

He knows, Fandorin realised. But it makes no difference now.

‘Yes, that was my mistake. I allowed myself to be deceived. You see …’

He was going to tell Bukhartsev about the intendant’s lie just before he died, but the lieutenant captain interrupted him.

‘A “mistake”, “deceived”. You stupid boy! Creating an incident like that! And all because of a skirt – that is, a kimono! A challenge to a duel from Bullcox – a senior governmental adviser! What a nightmare! A diplomatic scandal!’

At this point the titular counsellor stopped understanding absolutely anything at all – he clutched at the stabbing pain in his temple.

‘What ch-challenge? What do you mean?’

‘Mstislav Nikolaevich is referring to the challenge that was delivered from Bullcox at eight o’clock this morning,’ Doronin explained. ‘In view of the fact that you were unconscious, I was obliged to accept it. The document is drawn up in due form, the choice of weapons is yours and there is just one condition: only one of the opponents shall remain alive. No sooner had Bullcox’s second left than some men arrived from the native police – concerning Prince Onokoji … I was obliged to set out immediately for Tokyo, in order to inform His Excellency.’

Fandorin smiled dourly – here was further confirmation that Bullcox was no conspirator, no master villain lurking in the wings who sent assassins to do his bidding, but an English gentleman, willing to respond to an insult by offering up his breast to the bullet or the sword.

‘And still he smiles!’ Bukhartsev exclaimed furiously. ‘He has disgraced the title of a Russian diplomat and he laughs! And for whom? For some flesh-peddling …’

‘Hold your tongue!’ Fandorin shouted at the lieutenant captain. ‘One more word, and you and I will fight a duel to the death!’

‘Why, he shouldn’t be dismissed the service, he should be put in a madhouse, in a straitjacket!’ Mstislav Nikolaevich muttered, but without his former hauteur. He obviously did not wish to fight any duel to the death.

‘Gentlemen, gentlemen,’ the consul intervened. ‘We have common cause here, we need to find a way out of an extremely unpleasant situation. Let us not quarrel! Erast Petrovich, you said that before he died the prince named Don Tsurumaki as the leader of the conspiracy?’

‘Yes. But why would an entrepreneur, philanthropist and advocate of progress kill the minister? It doesn’t make any sense …’

It should, perhaps, be noted that at that particular moment the titular counsellor’s head was incapable of making sense of anything much at all, the pain was kneading and squeezing it so fiercely.

‘Oh, doesn’t it?’ Vsevolod Vitalievich said slowly, rubbing his chin, ‘Why not? … It’s actually quite logical. Tsurumaki is a constitutionalist, an advocate of parliamentarianism, which opens up unlimited opportunities for a man like him. Okubo was a classic devotee of enlightened absolutism. From the point of view of our Mr Cloud, the minister was an obstacle on the road to social and economic progress – since you have already brought up the subject of progress. There was nothing personal about it. It’s just that the “New Japanese” like our mutual friend have got used to solving their problems in the simplest and most effective way. What could possibly be more effective: remove one piece from the board, and the game is won … And Tsurumaki has more than enough technical means. Firstly, he has retained his own force of guards from the civil war – the so-called Black Jackets, who serve him with fierce devotion.’ (Fandorin recalled the invisible servants in the estate at the Bluff.) ‘Secondly, the Don effectively owns the entire shadow economy of Yokohama, with all its low dives and dens of fornication. And that means he has close ties with the criminal world, the Yakuza.’ (Yes, yes: the Rakuen, the hunchback, Erast Petrovich thought.) ‘And finally, ever since that same revolution, the Don has remained in close contact with the Satsuma samurai, who fought with him against the Shogun.’

The consul fell silent, having evidently exhausted his arguments, but under the influence of his words, the titular counsellor’s brain finally began to stir, although only feebly.

Tsurumaki had been well aware of the spying activities and unreliability of his indigent noble house guest. And from his telescope he could observe not only the stars, but also his neighbour’s house, which Onokoji often visited at night. The Don was also acquainted with Suga …

And then the lieutenant captain struck the final blow.

‘Hmm. And are you aware, gentlemen, that a few days ago the late, lamented Suga won a quite superb estate from Tsurumaki at cards? The Austrian ambassador told me about it – the game took place at his villa. Is this information of any assistance to you?’

It was remarkable how the naval agent’s attitude had changed following the mention of a duel. Instead of arrogance, his prevalent tone was now one of statesmanlike concern for the interests of the Fatherland.

Oh yes, the news communicated by Bukhartsev was very significant indeed. Erast Petrovich clutched his head in his hands and groaned.

Asagawa had been going to find out exactly who had ‘lost’ the estate to the intendant, only the self-appointed sleuths had got too carried away with their game of cops and robbers. And yet the puzzle had really been perfectly simple all along.

How many disastrous, unforgivable errors they had made!

Now there was not a scrap of evidence left. All three clues had been destroyed. The only witness who knew a lot and was willing to talk had been killed.

Intendant Suga would be buried with full honours. His party would remain in power.

And the secret room behind the police chief’s office? Its existence would prove nothing. All it contained was a heap of torn scraps of paper. And Asagawa had made sure to tear the compromising documents into such tiny scraps that they could never be glued back together.

‘We have only one trump card left,’ the vice-consul declared. ‘The Don does not know that we know about him.’

‘Not a very strong trump,’ Vsevolod Vitalievich said with a shrug. ‘And how do we play it?’

Erast Petrovich rubbed his temple and said in a low voice:

‘There is one way. It is very risky, of course, but I would try it …’

‘I don’t wish to know anything about it!’ the lieutenant captain interrupted hastily, even pretending to put his hands over his ears. ‘No details. You created this mess – you can sort it out. You really have nothing to lose. All I can do is delay my report for twenty-four hours. But know this, Fandorin: I shall send that document, not to our genial and benign ambassador, but directly to St Petersburg. Well then,
messieurs consuls
, you have exactly twenty-four hours. Either you present me with a scapegoat on to whom we can shift the blame for everything that has happened or … don’t hold me responsible for the consequences.’ Mstislav Nikolaevich paused significantly and addressed Fandorin directly. ‘Only remember this: no duels with Bullcox!’

‘But how can I refuse? It’s d-dishonourable!’

‘I can’t even tell what would be the greater disaster, with Russo-British relations in their present overheated state: if you kill Bullcox or if he kills you.’ Mstislav Nikolaevich pondered for a moment, but then shrugged. ‘No, it’s out of the question. When what’s at stake is the honour of the entire country, Fandorin, one must be willing to sacrifice one’s personal honour.’

The titular counsellor glowered at the naval agent.

‘Personal honour, Lieutenant Captain, must not be sacrificed for any motives whatever.’

And once again, faced with a rebuff, Bukhartsev softened his tone, abandoning high principle for hearty sincerity.

‘Oh, please, drop that, Erast Petrovich. What are all our petty vanities and ambitions in the face of History? And that is precisely what you and I are dealing with here. We stand in the front line of the whole of European culture. Oh, yes, don’t be so surprised. I have been thinking about this a lot just recently. The other day I argued with you, Vsevolod Vitalievich, and I laughed at the Japanese military threat. But I had a good think about it afterwards, and I admit that you were right, a hundred times right. Only we need to take a broader view. It’s not just a matter of little Japan. Soon a new Genghis Khan will advance against Europe. The giant of China will begin to stir, preparing to awaken. When that yellow wave rises, its crest will reach up to the heavens, drawing all the Koreas and Mongolias after it, and perched high on its foaming peak will be an impudent little island empire with a predatory nobility and an avaricious nouveau riche bourgeoisie!’ Mstislav Nikolaevich’s voice resounded prophetically, his eyes glowed with fire – the lieutenant captain was no doubt already picturing himself pronouncing this speech to the supreme statesmen of the empire. ‘The New Mongolism or the Yellow Peril – that is what I shall call it. Millions upon millions of ferocious, yellow-faced Asians with slanty eyes and bandy legs will flood into the peaceful expanses of the Old World in that unstoppable wave. And once again we, the Slavs, will find ourselves in the path of this Chinese giant with a Japanese head … That is what you should be thinking about, Erast Petrovich, not your lordly personal honour.’

Having delivered this supremely worthy speech in a superlative tone of comradely reproach, the lieutenant captain left without adding anything more, in order not to spoil the effect. He simply got up, nodded in military style, pronounced a single word (‘Gentlemen’) and proceeded to the door.

Doronin stood up but didn’t move from the spot.

‘Shirota will see you out,’ he said quietly.

And a little later, when the agent was already outside the gates, he added with feeling:

‘Why, the scoundrrrel! And he was lying anyway. He won’t wait for any twenty-four hours. He’ll scribble out his telltale tittle-tattle right now, in the train. Then he’ll send it directly to the ministry, with a copy to the Third Section. And to prevent it looking like any ordinary denunciation, he’ll put in all that gibberish about the Yellow Peril that he just rehearsed in front of us. And the most sickening thing of all is that everyone in St Petersburg will be most favourably impressed.’ The consul lowered himself wearily into an armchair. ‘They’ll shove me into retirement, at the very least … Well, to hell with my career, I can live without it. But I won’t go back to Russia. I’ll have myself naturalised and become Japanese, eh? What do you think of that idea?’ And he laughed, as if making it clear that he was, of course, joking.