The Death of Achilles (22 page)

“I beg your pardon, Monsieur Fandorin,” the countess babbled in French. “Your servant admitted me to the suite and pointed to this door. I assumed that it was your study.”

Good breeding would not allow the panic-stricken Erast Petrovich to remain seated in the presence of a lady and he instinctively leapt to his feet, but a second later he plunged back down into the water in even greater panic. Blushing even more deeply, the countess backed out of the doorway.

“Masa!” Fandorin roared in a wild voice. “Masa!”

The villainous rogue appeared, holding a dressing gown in his hands, and bowed.

“What can I do for you, master?”

“I’ll give you ‘what can I do for you’!” screeched Erast Petrovich, his dignity totally undermined by his embarrassment. “For this I will make you disembowel yourself, and not with a knitting needle, but with a chopstick! I already explained to you, you brainless lout, that in Europe the bathroom is a private place! You have put me in an impossible position and made a lady burn with shame!” Switching into Russian, the collegiate assessor shouted: “I do beg your pardon! Make yourself comfortable, Countess, I’ll just be a moment!” And then again in Japanese: “Bring me my trousers, frock coat, and shirt, you repulsive bandylegged insect!”

Fandorin emerged into the room fully dressed, with an impeccable part in his hair, but still red-cheeked and unable to imagine how he could possibly look the countess in the eye after the scandalous incident that had just taken place. Contrary to his expectations, however, the countess had completely recovered her composure and was scrutinizing the Japanese prints hanging on the walls with avid curiosity. She glanced at the functionary’s disconcerted face and the ghost of a smile even glimmered in her blue Sobolev eyes, but it was immediately replaced by an extremely serious expression.

“Mr. Fandorin, I have taken the liberty of calling on you because you are an old comrade of Michel’s and are investigating the circumstances of his demise. My husband left Moscow yesterday with the Grand Duke. Some urgent business or other. I shall take my brother’s body to the estate for burial.” Zinaida Dmitrievna hesitated, as though uncertain whether to continue, but she plunged on resolutely.

“My husband left with only light luggage and a servant found this in one of his frock coats that remained here.”

The countess handed him a folded sheet of paper, and as he took it Fandorin noticed that she had kept hold of another sheet. The message in French below the letterhead of the Fourth Army Corps was written in Sobolev’s sprawling hand.

Eugene, be in Moscow on the morning of the 25
th
for the final explanation of the matter already known to you. The hour draws near. I shall stay at the Dusseaux. I embrace you. Your Michel
.

Erast Petrovich glanced inquiringly at his visitor, anticipating clarification.

“This is very strange,” she said, whispering for some reason. “My husband didn’t tell me that he was due to meet Michel in Moscow. Eugene said only that we had to make a few visits, and then we would go back to St. Petersburg.”

“That really is strange,” Fandorin agreed, noting from the cancellation stamp that the message had been sent from Minsk by courier on the sixteenth of the month. “But why did you not ask His Highness about this?”

Biting her lip, the countess held out the second sheet of paper.

“Because Eugene also concealed this from me.”

“What is it?”

“A note from Michel, addressed to me. Evidently it must have been attached to the other message. For some reason Eugene did not pass it on to me.”

Erast Petrovich took the sheet of paper. It had clearly been written in haste, at the very last moment:

Dear Zt, you must come to Moscow together with Eugene. It is very important
.
I do not want to explain anything to you now, but it could he that
[then half a line had been crossed out]
we shall not see each other again for a long time
.

Fandorin went over to the window and pressed the note against the glass in order to read what had been crossed out.

“Don’t waste your time; I’ve already made it out,” Zinaida Dmitrievna’s trembling voice said behind him. “It says: ‘
that this meeting will he our last
’.” The collegiate assessor ruffled up his wet, freshly combed hair. So, it seemed that Sobolev had known that his life was in danger. And the duke also knew this? That was very interesting.

He turned toward the countess. “There is nothing that I can say to you now, madam, but I promise I shall investigate all the circumstances as thoroughly as possible.” Glancing into Zinaida Dmitrievna’s perplexed eyes, he added: “And, naturally, as t-tactfully as possible.”

The moment the countess left, Fandorin sat down at the table and, as usual when he wanted to concentrate, turned to a calligraphic exercise — he began drawing the hieroglyph for ‘serenity’. However, at only the third sheet of paper, when perfection was still very far off, there was another knock at the door — sharp and peremptory.

With a fearful backward glance at his master’s solemn ritual, Masa tiptoed across to the door and opened it.

There stood Ekaterina Alexandrovna Golovina, the golden-haired lover of the deceased Achilles. She was fuming with rage, which only made her seem even more beautiful.

“You disappeared!” the young lady exclaimed instead of greeting him. “I have been waiting, going out of my mind with all the uncertainty. What have you discovered, Fandorin? I gave you such important information, and you are sitting here, drawing. I demand an explanation!”

“Madam,” the collegiate assessor interrupted her sharply, “it is I who demand an explanation from you. Please be seated.”

He took his unexpected visitor by the hand, led her to an armchair, and sat her down. He moved up a chair for himself.

“You told me less than you knew. What was Sobolev planning? Why was he in fear of his life? What was so d-dangerous about his journey? What did he need so much money for? Why all this mystery? And, finally, what did you quarrel about? Because of your omissions, Ekaterina Alexandrovna, I assessed the situation incorrectly and a very good man was killed as a result. As well as several bad ones, who nonetheless still had immortal souls.”

Golovina hung her head. Her delicate face reflected an entire gamut of powerful feelings that clearly sat together rather uncomfortably. She began with a confession.

“Yes, I lied when I said that I didn’t know what Michel’s passion was. He thought that Russia was dying and he wanted to save her. All he ever spoke about recently was Constantinople, the German menace, the greatness of Russia… And a month ago, during our final meeting, he suddenly began talking about Bonaparte and asked me to be his Josephine. I was horrified. Our views had always differed. He believed in the historic mission of Slavdom and some special Russian destiny, but I believed and still believe that what Russia needs is not the Dardanelles, but enlightenment and a constitution.” Unable to control her voice any longer, Ekaterina Alexandrovna shook her fist in annoyance, as if that would help her over some difficult spot on the road. “When he mentioned Josephine, I was frightened, frightened that Michel would be consumed like some intrepid moth in the bright, alluring flame of his own ambition… And even more afraid that he might be successful. He could have been. He is so single-minded, so strong, so fortunate in everything. He was, that is. What would he have become, given the chance to control the fates of millions? It is terrible even to think of it. He would no longer have been Michel, but an entirely different person.”

“And did you report him to the authorities?” Erast Petrovich demanded sharply.

Golovina shrank away in horror.

“How could you think such a thing? No, I simply told him: choose — either me, or this undertaking of yours. I knew what the answer would be.” She wiped away an angry tear. “But it never even occurred to me that everything would end in such a vile and vulgar farce — the future Bonaparte killed for a bundle of banknotes. As it says in the Bible, “The proud shall be brought low.””

She fluttered her hands as if to say: No more, I cannot say any more, and burst into bitter tears, no longer even attempting to restrain herself.

Fandorin waited for the sobbing to pass and said in a low voice, “It would appear that what happened had n-nothing to do with the banknotes.”

“With what, then?” wailed Ekaterina Alexandrovna. “He was killed, after all, wasn’t he? Somehow I believe that you will uncover the truth. Swear that you will tell me the whole truth about his death.”

Erast Petrovich turned away in embarrassment, thinking that women were incomparably better than men — more loyal, more sincere, with greater integrity. Naturally, that is, if they truly loved.

“Yes, yes, definitely,” he mumbled, knowing perfectly well that never, no matter what, would he ever tell Ekaterina Alexandrovna the whole truth about the way the man she loved had died.

At this point the conversation had to be broken off, because a messenger from the governor-general had arrived for Fandorin.

“how did the contents of the safe look, Your Excellency?” Erast Petrovich asked Karachentsev. “Did you discover anything of interest?”

“Plenty,” replied the chief of police with an air of satisfaction. “A great deal of new light has been cast on the shady dealings of the deceased. It will take a bit more fiddling about to decode his financial records, though. Our bee was busy collecting nectar from many flowers, not just from Little Misha. And what have you got?”

“I do have something,” Fandorin replied modestly.

The conversation was taking place in the governor-general’s study.

Dolgorukoi himself, however, was not there yet — according to his secretary, His Excellency was finishing his lunch.

Eventually Dolgorukoi appeared, entering the room with an air of mysterious importance. He sat down and cleared his throat in a formal manner.

“Gentlemen, I have received a telegram from St. Petersburg in reply to my detailed report. As you can see, the matter was considered so important that there was no procrastination at all. In this case I am merely conveying a message from one party to another. This is what Count Tolstov writes:”

Highly esteemed Vladimir Andreevich, in reply to your message, I beg to inform you that Captain Pevtsov is indeed attached to the chief of the Corps of Gendarmes and is at present in Moscow on a special assignment. To be specific, the captain was instructed to confiscate a briefcase that might contain documents of state importance. His Imperial Majesty has instructed that the case of the death of Adjutant General Sobolev should be considered closed, concerning which appropriate formal notification will be forwarded to Evgeny Osipovich. His Majesty has further instructed that for exceeding his authority and involving a private individual in a secret investigation, which resulted in the death of the aforesaid individual, your deputy for special assignments Fandorin is to be removed from his post and placed under house arrest until further instructions
.

 

Minister of Internal Affairs D. A. Tolstov
.

The prince spread his hands regretfully and addressed the astounded Fandorin.

“There, my dear fellow, see how things have turned out. Well, the people at the top know best.”

Erast Petrovich rose slowly to his feet, pale and feeling desperately upset, not because his sovereign’s punishment was harsh, but because it was essentially just. The worst thing of all was that the account of the case that he had proposed with such cool self-assurance had collapsed ignominiously. He had taken a secret government agent for the main villain of the piece! What a shameful error!

“Please don’t be offended if Evgeny Osipovich and I have a little talk now. Go on back to your hotel and get some rest,” Dolgorukoi said sympathetically. “And chin up! I have taken quite a liking to you, and I shall put in a word for you with Petersburg.”

The collegiate assessor set off dejectedly toward the door. Just as he reached it, Karachenstsev called to him.

“What was it that you discovered in the notebook?” asked the chief of police with a discreet wink, as if to say: Never mind, it will all blow over soon.

Erast Petrovich paused for a moment and replied: “Nothing of any real interest, Your Excellency.”

Back at the hotel, Fandorin declared from the threshold of his suite: “Masa, I am disgraced and have been placed under arrest. It is my fault that Grushin died. That is one. I have no more ideas. That is two. My life is over. That is three.”

Erast Petrovich walked to the bed and, without bothering to undress, collapsed on the pillow and instantly fell asleep.

In which a trap is sprung

The first thing that Fandorin saw on opening his eyes was the rectangle of the window, filled with the pink glow of sunset.

Masa was sitting on the floor by the bed, wearing his black formal kimono, with his hands resting ceremonially on his knees and a fresh bandage on his head. His face was set in an austere expression.

“Why are you all dressed up like that?” Erast Petrovich asked curiously.

“You said, master, that you are disgraced and that you have no more ideas.”

“Well, what of it?”

“I have a good idea. I have thought everything over and can propose a worthy way out of the distressing situation in which we both find ourselves. To my numerous misdeeds I have added yet another — I have broken the European rule of etiquette that forbids allowing a woman into the bathroom. That I do not understand this strange custom is no justification. I have memorized twenty-six whole pages from the dictionary — from the short word
ab-ster-use
, which means ‘difficult to conceive of or apprehend’ to the long word
aff-fran-chis-e- ment
, which means ‘release from servitude or an obligation,’ but even this severe trial has not lifted the weight from my heart. And as for you, master, you yourself told me that your life was over. Then let us leave this life together, master. I have prepared everything — even the brush and the ink for the death poem.”