The Diamond Chariot (48 page)

Shirota translated what had been said – evidently not all the policemen knew English.

The Japanese glanced at each other strangely, one even snickered, as if the
gaijin
had said something stupid.

The vice-intendant sighed. ‘We shall, of course, try to capture the criminals, but we are not likely to succeed. Men of this kind are almost never taken alive.’

Fandorin did not like this response, and his suspicions stirred again more strongly than ever.

‘Then I tell you what,’ he declared. ‘I must be in one of the assault groups. In that case I give you my guarantee that you will receive at least one of the c-conspirators alive and not dead.’

‘May I enquire how you intend to do this?’

The vice-consul replied evasively:

‘When I was a prisoner of the Turks, they taught me a certain trick, but I had better not tell you about it in advance, you will see for yourselves.’

His words produced a strange impression on the Japanese. The policemen started whispering and Suga asked doubtfully:

‘You were a prisoner?’

‘Yes, I was. During the recent Balkan campaign.’

The commissar with the grey moustache gazed at Erast Petrovich with clear contempt, and the way the others were looking could certainly not have been called flattering.

The vice-intendant walked over and magnanimously slapped Fandorin on the shoulder.

‘Never mind, all sorts of things happen in war. During the expedition to Formosa, Guards Lieutenant Tatibana, a most courageous officer, was also taken prisoner. He was badly wounded and unconscious, and the Chinese took him away in a hospital cart. Of course, when he came round, he strangled himself with a bandage. But there isn’t always a bandage.’

Then he repeated the same thing in Japanese for the others (Erast Petrovich made out the name ‘Tatibana’) and Shirota explained quietly:

‘In Japan it is believed that a samurai should never be taken prisoner. An absurd idea, of course. A prejudice,’ the secretary added hastily.

The titular counsellor became furious. Raising his voice, he repeated stubbornly:

‘I must be in the assault group. I insist on it. P-permit me to remind you that without me and my deputies, there would not even be any operation.’

A discussion started among the Japanese, and Fandorin was clearly the subject of it, but his interpreter expounded the essence of the argument briefly and rather apologetically.

‘It … Generally speaking … The gentlemen of the police are discussing the colour of your skin, your height, the size of your nose …’

‘May I ask you to undress to the waist?’ Suga suddenly asked, turning towards the titular counsellor.

And, to set an example, he removed his tunic and shirt first. The vice-intendant’s body was firm and compact, and although his stomach was large, it was not at all flabby. But it was not the details of the general’s anatomy which caught Erast Petrovich’s attention, but the old gold cross dangling on the convex, hairless chest. Catching Fandorin’s glance, Suga explained.

‘Three hundred years ago our family were Christians. Then, when European missionaries were expelled from the country and their faith was forbidden, my forebears renounced the alien religion, but kept the cross as a relic. It was worn by my great-great-great-grandmother, Donna Maria Suga, who preferred death to renunciation. In her memory, I have also accepted Christianity – it is not forbidden to anyone any longer. Are you undressed? Right, now look at me and at yourself.’

He stood beside Fandorin, shoulder to shoulder, and the reason why they had had to get undressed became clear.

Not only was the vice-consul an entire head taller than the other man, his skin also gleamed with a whiteness that was quite clearly not Japanese.

‘The peasants are almost naked,’ said Suga. ‘You will tower over the field and sparkle like snowy Mount Fuji.’

‘But even so,’ the titular counsellor declared firmly, ‘I must be in the assault g-group.’

They gave up trying to persuade him after that. The policemen grouped around their commander, talking in low voices. Then the one with the grey moustache shouted loudly: ‘
Kuso! Umano kuso!
’

The vice-intendant laughed and slapped him on the shoulder.

‘What did he s-say?’

Shirota shrugged.

‘Commissar Iwaoka said: “Dung. Horse dung”.’

‘Did he mean me?’ Erast Perovich asked furiously. ‘Tell him that in that c-case he …’

‘No, no, how could you think that!’ the secretary interrupted him, while still listening to the conversation. ‘This is something else … Inspector Asagawa is asking what to do about your height. Peasants are never such ranky beanpours. Did I get that right?’

‘Yes, yes.’

Fandorin watched Commissar Iwaoka’s actions suspiciously. The commissar moved out of the group, removed his white glove and scooped up a handful of dung.

‘Mr Sasaki from the serious crimes group says you are a genuine
kirin
, but that is all right, because the peasants never straighten up.’

‘Who am I?’

‘A
kirin
– it’s a mythical animal. Like a giraffe.’

‘Aah …’

The man with the grey moustache walked up, bowed briefly and slapped the lump of dung straight on to the Russian diplomat’s chest. The vice-consul was stupefied.

‘There,’ Shirota translated. ‘Now you no longer look like the snowy peak of Mount Fuji.’

Commissar Iwaoka smeared the foul-smelling, yellow-brown muck across Erast Petrovich’s stomach.

Fandorin grimaced, but he endured it.

The true noble man
Is so pure that even dung
Cannot besmirch him

1
Company commanders, company commanders, company commanders! (Japanese)

TIGER ON THE LOOSE

It turned out to be possible to get used to a foul smell. The stench of the dung stopped tormenting the titular counsellor’s nose quite soon. The flies were far worse. Attracted by the appetising aroma, they flew to congregate on poor Fandorin from all over the Japanese archipelago or, at the very least, from all over the prefecture of Kanagawa. At first he tried to drive them away, then he gave up, because a peasant flapping his hands about might attract attention. He gritted his teeth and endured the nauseating tickling of the multitude of little green brutes busily crawling over his back and chest and face.

The doubled-over diplomat moved along slowly, up to his knees in water, pulling up some kind of vegetation. No one had bothered to explain to him what the weeds looked like, so he was very probably disposing of shoots of rice, but that was the last thing the sweat-drenched vice-consul was worried about. He hated rice, and flooded-field farming, and his own stubbornness, which had secured him a place in an assault group.

The other member of his group was the instigator of the anointment with dung, Iwaoka of the grey moustache. Although, in fact, the commissar no longer had his dashingly curled moustache – he had shaved it off before the operation began, in order to look more like a peasant. Erast Petrovich had managed to save his own moustache, but he had moistened it and let it dangle at the corners of his mouth like two small icicles. This was the only consolation now left to the titular counsellor – in every other respect Iwaoka had come off far more comfortably.

First, the flies took absolutely no interest in him at all – smelly Erast Petrovich was quite enough for them. Secondly, the commissar moved through the champing mud without any visible effort, and the weeding seemed to be no problem to him – every now and then he stopped and rested, waiting for his lagging partner. But Fandorin’s envy was provoked most powerfully of all by the large white fan with which the prudent Japanese had armed himself. The titular counsellor would have paid any price now, simply to be able to waft the air on to his face and blow off the accursed flies.

His straw hat, lowered almost all the way down to his chin, had two holes in it so that he could observe the shrine without raising his head. The two ‘peasants’ had covered the two hundred paces separating the hill from the edge of the field in about an hour and a half. Now they were trampling mud about thirty feet from dry land, but they mustn’t go any closer, in order not to alarm the lookout. He already had his eyes fixed on them as it was. They turned this way and that to let him see that they were men of peace, harmless, there was nowhere they could be hiding any weapons.

The support group, consisting of six policemen minus uniforms, was keeping its distance. There was another support group at work on the other side; it couldn’t be seen from here.

The vice-intendant was still nowhere to be seen, and Fandorin started feeling concerned about whether he would be able to straighten up when the time for action finally arrived. He cautiously kneaded his waist with one hand, and it responded with an intense ache.

Suddenly, without raising his head, Iwaoka hissed quietly.

It had started!

Two people were walking along the path to the shrine: striding along solemnly in front was the Shinto priest or
kannusi
, in black robes and a hood, and trotting behind him came the female servant of the shrine, or
miko
, in a white kimono and loose scarlet trousers, with long straight hair hanging down at both sides of her face. She stumbled, dropping some kind of bowl, and squatted down gracefully. Then she ran to catch up with the priest, wiggling her hips awkwardly like a young girl. Fandorin couldn’t help smiling. Well done, Asagawa, what fine acting!

In front of the steps, the
kannusi
halted, lowered a small twig broom into the bowl and started waving it in all directions, singing something at the same time – Suga had begun the ritual of purification. The vice-intendant’s moustache was now dangling downwards, like Fandorin’s, and a long, thin grey beard had been glued to His Excellency’s chin.

The commissar whispered:

‘Go!’

The sentry was surely watching the unexpected visitors, he wouldn’t be interested in the peasants now.

Erast Petrovich started moving towards the hill, trying not to splash through the water. Fifteen seconds later they were both in the bamboo thickets. There was liquid mud flowing down over the titular counsellor’s ankles.

Iwaoka went up the slope first. He took a few silent steps, stopped to listen, then waved to his partner to say: Come on, it’s all right.

And so Fandorin climbed to the top of the hill, staring at the commissar’s broad, muscular back.

They lay down under a bush and started looking around.

Iwaoka had picked the ideal spot. From here they could see the shrine, and the stone steps with the two figures – one black, one red and white – slowly climbing up them. On every step Suga stopped and waved his twig broom about. His nasal chant was slowly getting closer.

Up at the top, Semushi was waiting in the sacred gateway. He was wearing just a loincloth – in order to demonstrate his deformity, one must assume – and bowing abjectly right down to the ground.

He’s pretending to be a cripple who has found refuge in the abandoned shrine, Fandorin guessed. He wants to make the priest feel sorry for him.

But what about the others?

There they were, the cunning devils.

The Satsumans had hidden behind the shrine – Suga and Asagawa couldn’t see that, but from here in the bushes they had a very good view.

Three men in light kimonos were standing, pressing themselves up against the wall, about a dozen paces away from the commissar and the titular counsellor. One, with his withered left arm strapped to his side, was peeping cautiously round the corner, the two others kept their eyes fixed on him.

All three of them had swords, Fandorin noted. They had obtained new ones from somewhere, but he couldn’t see any firearms.

The man with the withered arm looked as if he was well past forty – there were traces of grey in the plait glued to the crown of his head. The other two were young, mere youths.

Then the ‘priest’ noticed the tramp. He stopped chanting his incantations, shouted something angrily and started walking quickly up the steps. The
miko
hurried after him.

The hunchback flopped down on to his knees and pressed his forehead against the ground. Excellent – it would be easier to grab him.

The commissar seemed to think the same. He touched Fandorin on the shoulder: Time to go!

Erast Petrovich stuck his hand into his loincloth and pulled out a thin rope from round his waist. He rapidly wound it round his hand and his elbow, leaving a large loop dangling.

Iwaoka nodded sagely and demonstrated with his fingers: the one with the withered arm is yours, the other two are mine. That was rational. If they were going to take someone alive, of course it ought to be the leader.

‘But where’s your weapon?’ Fandorin asked, also in gestures.

The commissar didn’t understand at first. Then he smiled briefly and held out the fan, which turned out not to be made of paper or cardboard, but steel, with sharply honed edges.

‘Wait, I go first,’ Iwaoka ordered.

He moved soundlessly along the bushes, circling round behind the Satsumans.

Now he was right behind them: an intent expression on his face, his knees slightly bent, his feet stepping silently across the ground.

The samurai didn’t see him or hear him – the two young ones were looking at the back of their leader’s head, and he was following what was happening on the steps.

Suga was acting for all he was worth: yelling, waving his arms about, even striking the ‘tramp’ on the back of the neck with his twig broom a couple of times. The
miko
stood slightly to one side of the hunchback, with her eyes lowered modestly.

Erast Petrovich got up and started swaying his lasso back and forth.

One more second and it would start.

Iwaoka would drop one and get to grips with another. When they heard a noise, Suga and Asagawa would grab the hunchback. The titular counsellor’s job was to throw the lasso accurately and pull it good and tight. Not such a difficult trick if you had the knack, and Erast Petrovich certainly did. He had done a lot of practising in his Turkish prison, to combat the boredom and inactivity. It would all work out very neatly.