The Death of Achilles (41 page)

Misha and his cutthroats sat down at their table and began eating and drinking. The one who had been lying on the floor, groaning, soon fell silent, but the event passed unnoticed. It was half an hour later before the bandits suddenly remembered and drank ‘to the repose of the soul of Senya Lomot,’ and Little Misha, with his thin voice, delivered a heartfelt speech, half of which consisted of odd words that Achimas didn’t understand. The speaker respectfully described the dead man as a ‘smooth operator,’ and all the others nodded in agreement. The wake didn’t last for long. They dragged Lomot away by the legs to the same place where they’d taken the two dead police agents, and the feasting continued as if nothing special had happened.

Achimas tried not to miss a single word of the bandits’ conversation. The longer it continued, the more convinced he became that they knew nothing about the million rubles. Perhaps Misha had pulled the job on his own, without any help from his comrades in crime.

In any case, he couldn’t get away now. Achimas only had to wait for the right moment to have a little confidential talk with him.

When it was almost morning and the inn had emptied, Misha stood up and said loudly, “That’s enough talk. I don’t know about you, but I’m going to cuddle up close with Fiska. But first let’s have our little chat with the police spy.”

Laughing and guffawing, the entire gang went behind the bar and disappeared into the depths of the basement.

Achimas looked around. The innkeeper had been snoring away behind the planking partition for a long time already, and the only two customers left were a man and a woman who had drunk themselves unconscious. This was the right time.

Behind the counter was a dark corridor. Achimas could see a dimly lit rectangle ahead of him and hear muted voices coming from it. A cellar?

Achimas removed the membrane from one eye and cautiously glanced down. All five of the bandits were there. He would have to wait for them to finish off the fake hunchback and take them down quietly one by one when they started climbing back up.

But things didn’t turn out that way.

The police agent turned out to be nobody’s patsy. Achimas had never seen skill like it before. The ‘hunchback’ dealt with the entire gang in a matter of seconds. Without even getting up, he jerked one hand and then the other and two of the bandits grabbed frantically at their throats. Were those knives he had thrown at them? The police agent broke the skulls of another two bandits with a most curious device — a stick of wood on a chain. It was incredible — so simple and yet so effective.

But Achimas was even more impressed by the deftness with which the hunchback carried out his interrogation of Misha. Now he knew everything that he needed to know. He hid in the shadows and followed the detective and his prisoner through the dark labyrinth without making a sound.

They went in through some door and a moment later he heard the sound of shots. Who had come out on top? Achimas was sure that it wouldn’t be Misha. And if he were right, it made no sense to go barging in and getting himself shot by such an adroit police agent. Better ambush him in the corridor. No, it was too dark. He might miss and not kill him with the first shot.

Achimas went back to the inn and lay down on a bench.

The dexterous detective appeared almost immediately and — what a pleasant surprise! — he had the briefcase. Should Achimas shoot or wait? The hunchback was holding his revolver at the ready, his reactions were lightning-fast, and he would start shooting at the slightest movement. Achimas squinted with the eye that had no membrane in it. Was that the familiar Herstal? Could this be the same ‘merchant’ who had been at Knabe ‘s apartment?

Events unfolded with dizzying speed as the detective arrested the innkeeper and found his men, one of whom, the Kirghiz, was still alive.

An interesting detail: When the hunchback was bandaging his friend’s head with a towel, they spoke to each other in Japanese. Miracles would never cease — a Japanese in Khitrovka! Achimas was familiar with the fluent rolling sounds of that exotic tongue from a job of three years before, when he had carried out a commission in Hong Kong. The police agent called the Japanese ‘Masa’.

Now that the disguised detective was no longer feigning an old man’s trembling voice, Achimas thought that he sounded familiar. He listened more closely — was that really Mr. Fandorin? A truly resourceful young man, there was no denying it. You didn’t meet many of his kind.

And Achimas decided that it definitely wasn’t worth taking any risks. You had to be doubly careful with an individual like that, especially since the detective was not letting his guard down — he kept darting glances in all directions and his Herstal was always close at hand.

The three of them — Fandorin, the Japanese, and the innkeeper with his hands tied — went outside. Achimas watched them through the dusty window. The detective, still clutching the briefcase, went off to look for a cab; the Japanese stayed behind to guard the prisoner. The innkeeper tried to kick out, but the short oriental hissed angrily and knocked the strapping Tartar off his feet with a single swift movement.

I’ll have to keep chasing the briefcase, thought Achimas. Sooner or later Mr. Fandorin will calm down and lower his guard. Meanwhile, I should check to see if my debtor Little Misha is dead or alive.

Achimas walked quickly through the dark corridors and pulled at the half-open door. The little room behind it was dimly lit. There didn’t seem to be anyone there.

He went across and felt the crumpled bed — it was still warm.

Then Achimas heard a low groan from the corner. Swinging around sharply, he saw a huddled figure. It was Little Misha, sitting on the floor, clutching his stomach with both hands. He raised his moist, gleaming eyes and his mouth twisted pathetically as he uttered a thin, plaintive whine.

“Brother, it’s me, Misha… I’ve been shot. Help me… Who are you, brother?”

Achimas clicked open the blade of his clasp knife, leaned down, and slit the sitting man’s throat. There would be less bother that way. And it was a debt repaid.

He ran back to the inn and lay down on the bench.

Outside, hooves clattered and wheels squeaked. Fandorin came running in, this time without the briefcase, and disappeared into the corridor. He had gone to get Little Misha. But where was the briefcase? Had he left it with the Japanese?

Achimas swung his legs down off the bench.

No, there was no time.

He lay down again, beginning to feel angry. But he mustn’t allow his exasperation to affect him — that was the source of all errors.

Fandorin emerged from the bowels of the underground labyrinth with his face a contorted mask, swinging the Herstal in all directions. He glanced briefly at the blind man and dashed out of the inn.

Outside a voice shouted: “Let’s go! Drive hard to Malaya Nikitskaya Street, to the Department of Gendarmes!”

Achimas pulled out his cataracts. He had to hurry.

He drove up to the Department of Gendarmes in a fast cab, jumped out as it was still moving, and asked the sentry impatiently: “Two of our men just brought in a prisoner. Where are they?”

The gendarme wasn’t at all surprised by the peremptory tone of the determined man who was dressed in rags, but had a gleam of authority in his eyes.

“They went straight through to see His Excellency. Less than two minutes ago. And the prisoner’s being booked. He’s in the duty office.”

“Damn the blasted prisoner!” the disguised officer exclaimed with an irritable gesture. “I need Fandorin. You say he went to see His Excellency?”

“Yes, sir. Up the stairs and along the corridor on the left.”

“I know the way well enough!”

Achimas ran up the stairs from the vestibule to the second floor. He looked to the right. From behind the white door at the far end of the corridor he could hear the clash of metal on metal. It must be the gymnastics hall. Nothing dangerous there.

He turned to the left. The broad corridor was empty, with only occasional bustling messengers in uniforms or civilian clothes emerging from one office door, only to disappear immediately into another.

Achimas froze where he stood: After a long sequence of absurd misfortunes and reverses, Fortune had finally exchanged her wrath for favor. The Japanese was sitting outside a door bearing a plaque that read reception, holding the briefcase in his hands.

Fandorin must be reporting to the chief of police about the events of the night. Why had he gone in without the briefcase? He wanted to flaunt his success; he was playing for effect. The night had been full of events, and the detective would have a long story to tell, so Achimas had a few minutes to spare.

Walk up without hurrying. Stab him under the collarbone. Take the briefcase. Leave the same way he had come. All over in a moment.

Achimas considered the Japanese more closely. Gazing straight ahead, holding the briefcase with both hands, he looked like a taut spring. In Hong Kong, Achimas had been able to observe the Japanese mastery of unarmed combat. The masters of English boxing or French wrestling couldn’t possibly compare with it. This short fellow had thrown the massive Tartar innkeeper to the ground in a single movement. All over in a moment?

He couldn’t take the risk. If there was a hitch, the slightest commotion would bring people running from every direction.

He had to think — time was slipping away!

Achimas swung around and walked quickly toward the sound of clashing rapiers. When he opened the door marked officers’ gymnastics hall, he saw a dozen or so figures in masks and white fencing costumes. All playing at musketeers.

Aha, there was the door to the changing room.

He took off his rags and bast sandals, put on the first uniform jacket that came to hand, and chose a pair of boots that were his size — that was important. Hurry, hurry.

As he trotted back briskly in the opposite direction, his eye was caught by a plaque bearing the word mailroom.

The petty functionary behind the counter was sorting envelopes.

“Is there any correspondence for Captain Pevtsov?” asked Achimas, giving the first name that came to mind.

“No, sir.”

“Well, just take a look, will you?”

The functionary shrugged, stuck his nose into the ledger, and began rustling through the pages.

Unseen, Achimas snatched an official envelope with seals off the counter and slipped it up his cuff.

“All right, don’t bother. I’ll come back later.”

He strode smartly up to the Japanese and saluted.

“Mr. Masa.”

The oriental jumped to his feet and greeted the officer with a low bow.

“I have come to you on the instructions of Mr. Fandorin. Do you understand?”

The Japanese bowed even lower. Excellent; he didn’t have a word of Russian.

“Here are my written instructions to collect the briefcase from you.”

Achimas held out the envelope, pointing at the briefcase with it.

The Japanese hesitated. Achimas waited, counting off the passing seconds. The hand hidden behind his back was clutching a knife. Another five seconds and he would have to strike. He couldn’t wait any longer.

Five, four, three, two…

The Japanese bowed once again, gave him the briefcase, took the envelope with both hands, and pressed it to his forehead. Apparently his time to die had not yet come.

Achimas saluted, turned around, and walked into the reception area. He couldn’t possibly leave by the corridor — the Japanese would have found that strange.

A spacious room. Straight ahead, the police chief’s office. Fandorin must be in there. On the left a window. On the right a plaque with the words SECRET SECTION.

The adjutant was hovering outside his boss’s door, which was most opportune. Achimas gestured reassuringly to him and disappeared through the door on the right. His luck held again — Fortune was growing kinder with every moment. It was not an office, where he would have had to improvise, but a short corridor with windows overlooking a courtyard.

Farewell, officers and gentlemen.

Achimas Welde moved on to the third and final point in his plan of action.

The dashing captain of gendarmes walked up to the office floor of the governor- general’s house and asked the attendant in a curt voice where Court Counselor Khurtinsky’s office was, then strode off in the direction indicated, swinging his heavy briefcase.

Khurtinsky greeted the ‘urgent courier from St. Petersburg’ with a smile of phony amiability. Achimas also smiled, but sincerely, without a trace of pretense — he had been looking forward to this meeting for a long time.

“Hello, you scoundrel,” he said, gazing into the dull gray eyes of Mr. Nemo, Monsieur NN’s crafty helot. “I am Klonov. This is Sobolev’s briefcase. And this is your death.” He clicked open his clasp knife.

The court counselor’s face turned an intense white and his eyes an intense black, because the expanding pupils completely consumed the surrounding irises.

“I can explain everything,” the head of the secret chancelry mouthed almost soundlessly. “Only don’t kill me!”

“If I wanted to kill you, you would already be lying on the ground with your throat slit open. What I want from you is something else,” said Achimas, raising his voice in imitation of icy fury.

“Anything at all! Only for God’s sake keep your voice down!”

Khurtinsky stuck his head out into the reception area and told his secretary not to let anyone through.

“Listen, I can explain everything,” he whispered when he came back.

“You can explain to the Grand Duke, you Judas,” Achimas interrupted. “Sit down and write! Write!” He waved his knife in the air and Khurtinsky staggered backward in horror.

“All right, all right. But what shall I write?”

“The truth.”

Achimas stood behind the trembling functionary.

The court counselor glanced around in fright, but his eyes were already gray again, not black. No doubt the cunning Mr. Nemo was already pondering how he was going to wriggle out of this situation.

“Write:”

Pyotr Khurtinsky, am guilty of having committed a crime against my duty out of avarice and of having betrayed him whom I should have served faithfully and assisted in every way possible in his onerous obligations. God is my judge. I beg to inform Your Imperial Highness that…