Murder on the Leviathan (17 page)

Mr Truffo went to fetch the equipment for this idiotic game and the torment began. Everyone dejectedly set out their cards, glancing longingly at the sunlit deck. The windows of the saloon were wide open, but we sat there playing out a scene from the nursery. We set up a prize fund to which everyone contributed a guinea - 'to make things more interesting', as the elated birthday girl said. Our leading lady should have had the best chance of winning, since she was the only one who was watching eagerly as the numbers were drawn. I had the impression that the commissioner would have liked to win the jackpot too, but he had difficulty understanding the childish little jingles that Mrs Truffo kept spouting (for her sake, on this occasion we spoke English).

The pitiful topaz earrings, which are worth ten pounds at the most, prompted Sweetchild to mount his high horse again. 'An excellent present, sir!' he declared to the doctor, who beamed in delight, but then Sweetchild spoiled everything with what he said next. 'Of course, topazes are cheap nowadays, but who knows, perhaps their price will shoot up in a hundred years or so. Precious stones are so unpredictable! They are a genuine miracle of nature, unlike those boring metals gold and silver. Metal has no soul or form, it can be melted down, while each stone has a unique personality.- But it is not just anyone who can find them, only those who stop at nothing and are willing to follow their magical radiance to the ends of the earth, or even beyond if necessary.' These bombastic sentiments were accompanied by Mrs Truffo calling out the numbers on the counters in her squeaky voice. While Sweetchild was declaiming: 'I shall tell you the legend of the great and mighty conqueror Mahmud Gaznevi, who was bewitched by the brilliant lustre of diamonds and put half of India to fire and the sword in his search for these magical crystals,' Mrs Truffo said: 'Eleven, gentlemen. Drumsticks!' And so it went on.

But I shall tell you Sweetchild's legend of Mahmud Gaznevi anyway. It will give you a better understanding of this storyteller. I can even attempt to convey his distinctive manner of speech.

'In the year (I don't remember which) of our Lord Jesus Christ, which according to the Moslem chronology was (and of course I don't remember that), the mighty Gaznevi learned that in Sumnat on the peninsula of Guzzarat (I think that was it) there was a holy shrine which contained an immense idol that was worshipped by hundreds of thousands of people. The idol jealously guarded the borders of that land against foreign invasions and anyone who stepped across those borders with a sword in his hand was doomed. This shrine belonged to a powerful Brahmin community, the richest in the whole of India. And these Brahmins of Sumnat also possessed an immense number of precious stones. But unafraid of the power of the idol, the intrepid conqueror gathered his forces together and launched his campaign.

Mahmud hewed off fifty thousand heads, reduced fifty fortresses to ruins and finally burst into the Sumnat shrine. His soldiers defiled the holy site and ransacked it from top to bottom, but they could not find the treasure. Then Gaznevi himself approached the idol, swung his great mace and smote its copper head. The Brahmins fell to the floor before their conqueror and offered him a million pieces of silver if only he would not touch their god. Mahmud laughed and smote the idol again. It cracked. The Brahmins began wailing more loudly than ever and promised this terrible ruler ten million pieces of gold. But the heavy mace was raised once again and it struck for a third time. The idol split in half and the diamonds and precious stones that had been concealed within it spilled out onto the floor in a gleaming torrent. The value of that treasure was beyond all calculation.'

At this point Mr Fandorin announced with a slightly embarrassed expression that he had a full card. Everyone except Mrs Truffo was absolutely delighted and was on the point of leaving when she begged us so insistently to play another round that we had to stay. It started up again: "Thirty-nine - pig and swine! Twenty-seven - I'm in heaven!' and more drivel of the same kind.

But now Mr Fandorin began speaking and he told us another story in his gentle, rather ironic manner. It was an Arab fairy tale that he had read in an old book, and here is the fable as I remember it.

'Once upon a time three Maghrib merchants set out into the depths of the Great Desert, for they had learned that far, far away among the shifting sands, where the caravans do not go, there was a great treasure, the equal of which mortal eyes had never seen. The merchants walked for forty days, tormented by great heat and weariness, until they had only one camel each left - the others had all collapsed and died. Suddenly they saw a tall mountain ahead of them, and when they grew close to it they could not believe their eyes: the entire mountain consisted of silver ingots. The merchants gave thanks to Allah, and one of them stuffed a sack full of silver and set off back the way they had come. But the others said: "We shall go further." They walked for another forty days, until their faces were blackened by the sun, and their eyes became red and inflamed. Then another mountain appeared ahead of them, this time of gold. The second merchant exclaimed: "Not in vain have we borne so many sufferings! Glory be to the Most High!" He stuffed a sack full of gold and asked his comrade: "Why are you just standing there?" The third merchant replied: "How much gold can you carry away on one camel?" The second said: "Enough to make me the richest man in our city." "That is not enough for me," said the third, "I shall go further and find a mountain of diamonds. And when I return home, I shall be the richest man in the entire world." He walked on, and his journey lasted another forty days. His camel lay down and rose no more, but the merchant did not stop, for he was stubborn and he believed in the mountain of diamonds, and everyone knows that a single handful of diamonds is more valuable than a mountain of silver or a hill of gold. Then the third merchant beheld a wondrous sight ahead of him: a man standing there doubled over in the middle of the desert, bearing a throne made of diamonds on his shoulders, and squatting on the throne was a monster with a black face and burning eyes. "Joyous greetings to you, O worthy traveller," croaked the crooked man. "Allow me to introduce the demon of avarice, Marduf. Now you will bear him on your shoulders until another as avaricious as you and I comes to take your place."'

The story was broken off at that point, because once again Mr Fandorin had a full card, so our hostess failed to win the second jackpot too. Five seconds later Mrs Truffo was the only person left at the table - everyone else had disappeared in a flash.

I keep thinking about Mr Fandorin's story. It is not as simple as it seems.

That third merchant is Sweetchild. Yes, when I heard the end of the story, I suddenly realized that he is a dangerous madman! There is an uncontrollable passion raging in his soul, and if anyone should know what that means, it is me. I have been gliding around after him like an invisible shadow ever since we left Aden.

I have already told you, my precious Emily, that I spent the time we were moored there very profitably. I'm sure you must have thought I meant I had bought a new navigational instrument to replace the one that was stolen. Yes, I do have a new sextant now and I am checking the ship's course regularly once again, but what I meant was something quite different. I was simply afraid to commit my secret to paper. What if someone were to read it? After all, I am surrounded by enemies on every side. But I have a resourceful mind, and I have invented a fine stratagem: starting from today I am writing in milk. To the eye of a stranger - it will seem like a clean sheet of paper, quite uninteresting, but my quick-witted Emily will warm the sheets on the lampshade to make the writing appear! What a spiffing wheeze, eh?

Well then, about Aden. While I was still on the steamer, before they let us go ashore, I noticed that Sweetchild was nervous, and more than simply nervous, he was positively jumping up and down in excitement. It began soon after Fandorin announced that the shawl stolen from Lord Littleby was the key to the mythical treasure of the Emerald Rajah. The professor became terribly agitated, started muttering to himself and kept repeating: Ah, I must get ashore soon.' But what for, that was the question!

I decided to find out.

Pulling my black hat with the wide brim well down over my eyes, I set off to follow Sweetchild. Everything could not have gone better at first: he didn't glance round once and I had no trouble in trailing him to the square located behind the little custom house. But there I was in for an unpleasant surprise. Sweetchild called one of the local cabbies and drove off with him. His barouche was moving rather slowly, but I could not go running after it, that would have been unseemly. Of course, there were other barouches on the square, I could, easily have got into any of them, but you know, my dearest, how heartily I detest open carriages. They are the devil's own invention and only reckless fools ride in them. Some people (I have seen it with my own eyes more than once) even take their wives and innocent children with them. How long can it be before disaster strikes? The two-wheelers which are so popular at home in Britain are especially dangerous. Someone once told me (I can't recall who it was just at the moment) that a certain young man from a very decent family, with a good position in society, was rash enough to take his young wife for a ride in one of those two-wheelers when she was eight months pregnant. It ended badly, of course: the mad fool lost control of the horses, they bolted and the carriage overturned. The young man was all right, but his wife went into premature labour. They were unable to save her or the child. And all because of his thoughtlessness. They could have gone for a walk, or taken a ride in a boat. If it comes to that, one can take a ride on a train, in a separate carriage. In Venice they take rides in gondolas. We were there, do you remember? Do you recall how the water lapped at the steps of the hotel?

I am finding it hard to concentrate, I am constantly digressing. And so, Sweetchild rode off in a carriage, and I was left standing beside the custom house. But do you think I lost my head? Not a bit of it. I thought of something that calmed my nerves almost instantly. While I was waiting for Sweetchild, I went into a sailors' shop and bought a new sextant, even better than the old one, and a splendid navigational almanac with astronomical formulae. Now I can calculate the ship's position much faster and. more precisely. See what a cunning customer I am!

I waited for six hours and 38 minutes. I sat on a rock and looked at the sea, thinking about you.

When Sweetchild returned, I pretended to be dozing and he slipped past me, certain that I had not seen him.

The moment he disappeared round the corner of the custom house, I dashed across to his cabby. For sixpence the Bengali told me where our dear professor had been. You must admit, my sweet Emily, that I handled this business most adroitly.

The information I received only served to corroborate my initial suspicions. Sweetchild had asked to be taken from the port directly to the telegraph office. He spent half an hour there, and then went back to the post office building another four times. The cabby said: 'Sahib very-very worried. Run backwards and forwards. Sometimes say: take me to bazaar, then tap me on back: take me back, post office, quick-quick.' It seems quite clear that Sweetchild first sent off an urgent message to someone and then waited impatiently for an answer. The Bengali said that the last time he came out of the post office he was 'not like himself, he wave paper' and told the cabby to drive him back to the ship. The reply must have arrived.

I do not know what was in it, but it is perfectly clear that the professor, or whoever he really is, has accomplices.

That was two days ago. Since then Sweetchild has been a changed man. As I have already told you, he speaks of nothing but precious stones all the time, and sometimes he suddenly sits down on the deck and starts drawing something, either on his cuff or his handkerchief.

This evening there was a ball in the grand saloon. I have already described this majestic hall, which appears to have been transported here from Versailles or Buckingham Palace. There is gilt everywhere and the walb are covered from top to bottom with mirrors. The crystal electric chandeliers tinkle melodically in time to the gentle rolling of the ship. The orchestra (a perfectly decent one, by the way) mostly played Viennese waltzes and, as you know, I regard that dance as indecent, so I stood in the corner, keeping an eye on Sweetchild. He was enjoying himself greatly, inviting one lady after another to dance, skipping about like a goat and trampling on their feet outrageously, but that did not worry him in the least. I was even distracted a little, recalling how we once used to dance and how elegant your arm looked in its white glove as it lay on my shoulder. Suddenly I saw Sweetchild stumble and almost drop his partner, then without even bothering to apologize, he fairly raced across to the tables with the hors d'oeuvres, leaving his partner standing bewildered in the centre of the hall. I must admit that this sudden attack of uncontrollable hunger struck me as rather strange too.

Sweetchild, however, did not even glance at the dishes of pies, cheese and fruit. He grabbed a paper napkin out of a silver napkin holder, hunched over the table and began furiously scribbling something on it. He has become completely obsessed, and obviously no longer feels it necessary to conceal his secret even in a crowded room! Consumed with curiosity, I began strolling casually in his direction. But Sweetchild had already straightened up and folded the napkin into four, evidently intending to put it in his pocket. Unfortunately, I was too late to glance at it over his shoulder. I stamped my foot furiously and was about to turn back when I noticed Mr Fandorin coming over to the table with two glasses of champagne. He handed one to Sweetchild and kept the other for himself. I heard the Russian say: 'Ah, my dear Professor, how terribly absent-minded you are! You have just put a dirty napkin in your pocket.' Sweetchild was embarrassed, he took the napkin out, crumpled it into a ball and threw it under the table. I immediately joined them and deliberately struck up a conversation about fashion, knowing that the Indologist would soon get bored and leave. Which is exactly what happened.