He Lover of Death (15 page)

Erast Petrovich turned towards Boxman. Tell me, Boxman, have there been any similar c-crimes in Khitrovka, with the victims’ eyes being put out?’

There have, and very recently indeed. A young merchant who was stupid enough to wander into Khitrovka after dark was done away with. They robbed him, smashed his head in, took his wallet and his gold watch. And for some reason they put his eyes out, the fiends. And before that, about two weeks back, a gentleman reporter from the
Voice
was done to death. He wanted to write about the slums in his newspaper. He didn’t bring any money or his watch with him – he was an experienced man, it wasn’t his first time in Khitrovka. But he had a gold ring, with a diamond in it, and it wouldn’t come off his finger. So the vicious beasts did for him. Cut the finger off for the ring and put his eyes out too. That’s folks round here for you.’

‘You see, Masa,’ said the handsome gent, raising one finger. ‘And you say m-money’s out of the question as a motive. This is no maniac, this is a very p-prudent criminal. He has clearly heard the fairy tale about the last thing a p-person sees before he dies being imprinted on his retina. So he’s being careful. He c-cuts out all his victims’ eyes, even the children’s.’

The Japanese hissed and started jabbering away in his own language – cursing the murderer, no doubt. But Senka thought:
You’ve got a very high opinion of yourself, Your Honour, or whoever you are. You guessed wrong, there’s nothing cautious about Deadeye, he’s just in a fury ’cause of all that candy cane.

‘A picture on their eyes?’ Boxman gasped. ‘Whatever next?’

‘A fairy tare mean it not true, yes?’ asked Masa.
‘Tamoebanasi
?’

Erast Petrovich said he was right: ‘Of course, it’s n-nonsense. There was such a hypothesis, but it was never c-confirmed. The interesting thing here is . . .’

‘They’re coming!’ Boxman interrupted, straining to see. ‘Hear that? Sidorenko – he’s standing at the door – just barked: “Good health to you, Your Worship” – I told him not to spare his lungs. They’ll be here in a minute, two at most. What’s this murder to you, Erast Petrovich? Or are you going to investigate?’

‘No, I can’t.’ The gent shrugged and spread his hands. ‘I’m here in Moscow on entirely different business. Tell Solntsev and the investigator what I said. Say you worked it out yourself.’

‘I shouldn’t think so,’ said Boxman, pulling a wry face. ‘Let Inno-kentii Romanich bend his own wits to the job. There’s enough people already trying to ride into heaven on someone else’s back. Never you mind, Your Honour, I’ll find out who it is that’s up to mischief in Khitrovka, and take his life with my own bare hands, as sure as God’s holy.’

Erast Petrovich just shook his head: ‘Oh, Boxman, Boxman. I see you’re still the same as ever.’

Well, thank God, they finally left that cursed basement. They came into the light of day through the Tatar Tavern, then set off to find Tashka.

Her and her mum lodged on Khokhlovsky Lane. A one-window room with its own entrance – for the trade of a mamselle. Lots of tarts lived like that, but only Tashka’s place had fresh flowers on the windowsill every day – to suit the mood of the lady of the house. Senka knew by now that if there were buttercups on the left and forget-me-nots on the right, then Tashka was doing fine, she was singing her songs and setting out her flowers. But if, say, it was stocks and willowherb, then Tashka had had a scrap with her mum, or got landed with a really awful client, and she was feeling sad.

Today happened to be one of those days – there was a sprig of juniper hanging down over the curtain too (in the language of flowers that meant ‘guests not welcome’).

Welcome or not, what could he do? He’d been dragged there.

They knocked and went in.

Tashka was sitting on the bed, looking darker than a thundercloud. She was chewing sunflower seeds and spitting the husks into her hand – no ‘hello’ or ‘how’s things’ or anything of the sort.

‘What do you want?’ she said. ‘And what gulls are these you’ve brought? What for? I’ve got enough trouble with this trollop.’

She nodded to the corner, where her mum was sprawled out on the floor. It looked like she’d got as tight as a newt again then coughed up blood, and that was why Tashka was in such a rage.

Senka started to explain, but then the Jappo’s jacket slipped off and fell on the floor. When Tashka saw Senka’s shackled hands, she fairly bounded off the bed, straight at Masa. Sank her nails into his plump cheeks and started yelling:

‘Let him go, you fat-faced bastard! I’ll scratch your slanty eyes out!’ – and then a whole heap of other curses, Tashka had quite a mouth on her. Even Senka winced, and the spruce gent stood there just blinking.

While the Jap used his free hand to fight off the mamselle’s assault on his handsome yellow features, Erast Petrovich stepped aside. He answered Tashka’s swearing in a respectful voice: ‘Well, yes indeed, far from the m-motherland, one becomes unaccustomed to the v-vigour of the Russian tongue.’

Senka had to come to the Jap’s defence. ‘Stop it, will you, Tashka? Calm down. Leave the man alone! Remember those beads I gave you, the green ones? Are they safe? Give them to these gents, the beads belong to them. Or I’ll be for it.’ And then suddenly he took fright. ‘You haven’t sold them, have you?’

‘Who do you think I am, some floozie from Zamoskvorechie? As if I’d sell a present that was given to me! Maybe no one’s ever given me a present before. The clients don’t count. I’ve got your beads put away somewhere safe.’

Senka knew that ‘safe place’ of hers – in the cupboard under the bed, where Tashka kept her treasures: the book about flowers, a cut-glass scent bottle, a tortoiseshell comb.

‘Give them back, will you? I’ll give you another present, anything you like.’

Tashka let go of the Japanese and her face lit up. ‘Honest? What I want, Senka, is a little dog, a white poodle. I saw them at the market. Have you ever seen a poodle? They can dance the waltz on their back paws, Senka, they can skip over a rope and give you their paw.’

‘I’ll give you one, honest to God I will. Just hand the beads back!’

‘Don’t bother, no need,’ Tashka told him. ‘It was just talk. A poodle like that costs thirty roubles, even as a puppy. I checked the price.’

She sighed. But it wasn’t that sad a sigh.

Then she climbed under the bed, sticking her skinny backside up in the air – and she was wearing only a short little shirt. Senka felt ashamed in front of the others. She was a real harum-scarum. He walked over and pulled her shirt down.

Tashka scrabbled about down there for a while (she obviously didn’t want to get her treasures out in front of strangers), then clambered back out and flung the beads at Masa: ‘There, you miser, I hope you choke on them.’

The Jap caught the string of beads and handed them to his master with a bow. The gent flicked through the little stones, stroked one, then put them in his pocket.

‘Right then, all’s well that ends well. You, m-mademoiselle, have done nothing to offend me.’ He reached into his pocket, took out a wallet, and extracted three banknotes. ‘Here is thirty roubles for you. B-buy yourself a poodle.’

Tashka asked in a matter-of-fact voice: ‘So what way is it you’re planning to horse me, then, for three red ones? If,’ she continued, ‘you want it this way or that, I’m agreeable, but if you want it that way or this, I’m a decent girl and I don’t let anyone do dirty things like that to me.’

The smooth-faced gent shrank back and flung his hands up in the air: ‘Oh no,’ he said. ‘I don’t want anything like that from you. It’s a p-present.’

He didn’t know Tashka! She put her hands on her hips. ‘You clear out of here with your paper money. I takes presents from a client or a mate. If you don’t want to horse around, you ain’t a client, and I’ve already got a mate – Senka.’

‘Well, mademoiselle,’ Erast Petrovich said to her with a bow. ‘Anyone should be honoured to have a m-mate like you.’

Then Tashka suddenly shouted out: ‘Scarper, Senka.’

She flung herself at Masa and sank her teeth into his left hand, the one holding the end of the bar. The Japanese was taken by surprise and opened his fingers, so Senka made a dash for the door.

The gent shouted after him: ‘Wait, I’ll f-free your hands!’

Pull the other one. We’ll get ourselves free without help from the likes of you.You still haven’t made us pay for thieving. How do we know if you’re going to give us a bashing? And anyway you can’t be far enough away from some freak that even Boxman’s afraid of
– that’s what ran through Senka’s mind.

But Tashka, that Tashka! What a girl she was – pure gold!

HOW SENKA GOT RICH

Senka might have scarpered, but he still had to get rid of this iron lump. He walked along, pressing his hands to his chest, with the ends of the bar turned up and down, so they wouldn’t be so obvious.

He had to clear out of Khitrovka – not just because it was dangerous with that Erast Petrovich about, but so no one he knew would see him looking silly like this. They’d laugh him down for sure.

He could go into the smithy, where they forged horseshoes, and tell them some lie or other about how the iron bar had been twisted on him out of mischief, or as a bet. They were big hefty lads in the smithy. Maybe they didn’t have a grip to match the handsome gent’s, but they’d unbend it one way or another, they had tools for doing just that. But not for a kind word and a nod, of course – he’d have to give them twenty kopecks.

And then it hit him: where was he going to get twenty kopecks from? He’d given his last fifteen-kopeck piece to the mole yesterday. Or maybe he should diddle the blacksmith? Promise him money then do a runner. Even more running, Senka thought with a sigh. If the blacksmiths caught him, they’d batter him with those big fists of theirs, worse than any Japanese.

So there he was, walking down Maroseika Street, wondering what to do, when he saw a shop sign: ‘SAMSHITOV. Jeweller and goldsmith. Fine metalworking’. That was just what he needed! Maybe the jeweller would give him something at least for the silver coin, or even those old kopecks. And if he didn’t, Senka could pawn Sprat’s watch.

He pushed open the door with the glass window and went in.

There was no one behind the counter, but there was a red parrot bird, sitting on a perch in its cage, and screeching in a horrible voice: ‘Wel-come! Wel-come!’

Just to be safe, Senka doffed his cap and said: ‘Good health to you.’

It may have been a beast, but it clearly had some understanding.

‘Ashot-djan, the door’s not locked again,’ a woman called from the back of the shop in an odd, lilting voice. ‘Anyone at all could come in off the street!’

There was a rustle of steps and a short man popped his head out from behind the curtain. He had a deep-set face and a crooked nose and a round piece of glass set in a bronze frame on his forehead. He sounded frightened as he asked: ‘Are you alone?’

When he saw that Senka was, he ran to bolt the door, then turned again to his visitor. ‘What can I do for you?’

Someone like him could never unknot an iron bar, thought Senka disappointedly. So what was that about metalworking on the sign? Maybe he had an apprentice.

‘I’d like to sell something,’ Senka said, and reached into his pocket, but that was no mean feat with his hands shackled together.

The parrot began to mock him: ‘Sell something! Sell something!’

The man with the big nose said: ‘Shut up, shut up, Levonchik.’ Then he looked Senka up and down and said, ‘I’m sorry, young man, but I don’t buy stolen goods. There are specialists for that.’

‘You don’t need to tell me you that. Here, what will you give me?’

And he plonked the coin down on the counter.

The jeweller stared at Senka’s wrists, but he didn’t say a word. Then he looked at the silver coin without any real interest.

‘Hmm, a yefimok.’

‘Come again?’ said Senka.

‘A yefimok, a silver thaler. Quite a common coin. They go for double weight. That is, the weight of the silver, multiplied by two. Your yefimok’s in good condition.’ He took the coin and put it on the balance. ‘In ideal condition, you could say. A perfect thaler, six and a half zolotniks in weight. One zolotnik of silver is . . . twenty-four kopecks now. That makes . . . hmm . . . three roubles twelve kopecks. Minus my commission, twenty per cent. In total, two roubles and fifty kopecks. No one’s likely to give you more than that.’

Two roubles fifty – well, that was
something.
Senka writhed around again, reached into his pocket for the scales, and tipped them on to the counter.

‘And what about this?’

He had exactly twenty of those scales, he’d counted them during the night. They were pretty battered kopecks, but if you added them to two roubles fifty, that would make two seventy.

The jeweller was more impressed by the kopecks than he was by the yefimok. He moved the lens off his forehead onto his eye and examined them one by one.

‘Silver kopecks? Oho, “YM” – Yauza Mint. And in enviable condition. Well, I can take these for three roubles apiece.’

‘How much?’ Senka gasped.

‘You have to understand, young man,’ said the jeweller, looking at Senka through the lens with a huge black eye. ‘Pre-rebellion kopecks, of course, are not thalers, and they go for a different rate. But they dug up another hoard from that time only recently, over in Zamoskvorechie, three thousand silver kopecks, including two hundred from the Yauza Mint, so their price has fallen greatly. How would you like three fifty? I can’t go higher than that.’

‘How much will that make altogether?’ Senka asked, still unable to believe his luck.

‘Altogether?’ Samshitov clicked the beads on his abacus and pointed: ‘There. Including the yefimok, seventy-two roubles and fifty kopecks.’

Senka could barely croak out his answer: ‘Fine, all right.’

And the parrot went off again: ‘All right! All right! All right!’

The jeweller raked the coins off the counter and jangled the lock of his cash box. There was the sound of banknotes rustling – pure music to Senka’s ears. Now was this really something, big money!