Sister Pelagia and the Red Cockerel (49 page)

Matvei Bentsionovich could not speak English as beautifully, and so he replied in Russian.

“I don’t want your charity, let it be as it is in your Judeophobic play—‘as close as possible to the heart.’

He unbuttoned his jacket and slapped his left side, where the “present from the firm”—that single-shot trinket with a barrel slightly thicker than a straw—lay in his waistcoat pocket. Well, they say that a drowning man will clutch at a straw. And that is exactly what the public prosecutor did—he grabbed the pistol, and so furiously that he broke his thumbnail against the hammer.

“What’s that, an enema tube?” asked the count, not frightened in the least. “It seems a little on the small side.”

At that very moment Berdichevsky underwent a remarkable metamorphosis—suddenly he was completely free of fear and fell into a monstrous rage, of a kind he had never experienced before. And there was a reason for this.

We have already mentioned the change that had taken place in the character of this peaceful and even rather timid man as a result of his unexpectedly falling in love, but in this particular case the spark that detonated the explosion was a far less romantic circumstance. Matvei Bentsionovich had always been obsessively concerned with his nails. A microscopic hangnail or—God forbid—a small crack could completely unbalance him, and the sound of a nail scraped across glass set him shuddering convulsively. The essential hygienic procedure that the civilized part of humanity performs on its nails once every four days was a torment for Berdichevsky, especially its final phase, which involves working with a file. But now a whole piece had broken off his nail and was dangling from it in a most repulsive fashion! This minor unpleasantness, a mere trifle in the context of the situation as a whole, was the last straw: the whole world darkened in front of the state counselors eyes, and fear gave way to frenzy.

“It’s a waistcoat pistol!” Matvei Bentsionovich growled, his face flushing bright red. “An indispensable item when you are attacked by a robber in the night! It possesses incredible firepower for its caliber!”

The count frowned ever so slightly.

“Filip, take that abominable thing away from him.”

How the public prosecutor would have liked to fire at the dastardly aristocrat, to demonstrate to him the remarkable qualities of the pistol he had insulted, but Matvei Bentsionovich recalled the warning he had been given by the salesman in the gun shop: “Of course, at a distance of more than ten feet the firepower weakens a bit, and at ten yards there’s no point at all in wasting the bullet.”

The distance to the magnate was not as much as ten yards, but alas it was not as little as ten feet either. And therefore Berdichevsky leaped abruptly to one side and trained the barrel on the oxlike Filip. Wasting no time on stupid warnings (“Stop, or I’ll fire!” and so on), he simply raised the hammer and immediately released it again.

The pop was not very loud, quieter than a champagne cork. His hand felt hardly any recoil at all. The smoke that poured out of the tiny gun barrel was like cotton wool, although not really the kind you might stick up your nostril.

However, the result was quite remarkable—the huge thug doubled over and clutched at his stomach with both hands.

“Your Excell—” Filip gasped. “He got me in the belly! It hurts—I can’t stand it!”

For several moments the dining room was transformed into something like a pantomime or pas de quatre. The count’s face was a picture of extreme astonishment that threatened the appearance of two or three wrinkles at the very least; His Excellency’s arms rose smoothly out to both sides. Kesha froze on the floor in the pose of a dying, or perhaps already dead, swan. The wounded servant swayed back on his heels, completely doubled over. And even Berdichevsky, who in his heart of hearts had not really believed in the effectiveness of his weapon, froze rigid for an instant.

But the state counselor was the first to recover his wits. Tossing the now useless little pistol aside, he made a dash for the Lefaucheux lying on the floor, grabbed it, and began jerking his finger in search of a trigger. Ah, yes, it had a folding trigger!

He raised the hammer, transferred the revolver to his left hand, and stuck his broken nail into his mouth, to feel it with his tongue.

The Lefaucheux might be “cheap garbage,” as the count had put it, but even so, it had six bullets, not one. And it was effective at a distance of more than ten feet.

“Oh, it hurts!” Filip howled at the top of his voice. “He shot right through my insides! Mummy, it burns! I’m dying!”

He stopped swaying, tumbled to the floor, and pulled up his legs.

“Quiet!” Berdichevsky yelled at him in a repulsive, shrill voice. The public prosecutor was white with fury. “Lie quietly, or I’ll shoot you again!”

The big brute immediately fell silent and didn’t make another sound: he just bit his lips and wiped away the tears that looked so odd on his coarse, bearded face.

Berdichevsky licked at his nail as he gave Kesha an order: “You fifthy svine, get under ve table, and don’t wet me heawa sound out ovyou!”

The young man immediately repositioned himself as indicated, performing the maneuver on all fours.

Now Matvei Bentsionovich could turn his attention to the main target.

The target had not yet recovered from his stupefaction—he was still standing on the same spot, holding a bitten peach in one hand.

“And you and I, Your Exewency, are going to have a wittle talk,” Matvei Bentsionovich said, still not removing the finger from his mouth and smiling as he had never smiled in his life.

The state counselor did not understand what was happening to him, but it was exhilarating. All his life, Berdichevsky had thought of himself as a coward. He had occasionally managed to perform brave actions (sometimes a public prosecutor has to), but every time, he had needed to strain his inner resources to the utmost, and it had left him with a weakened heart and fluttering nerves. But this time Matvei Bentsionovich experienced no strain at all; as he waved the revolver about, he felt simply magnificent.

In his childhood, when he was a cobbler’s son and the only little Yid in the entire artisans’ settlement, there had been times when he sniffled with his bloody nose and imagined how he would run away from the city, join the army, and come back as an officer, with epaulets and a sword. Then he would get even with Vaska Prachkin and that rotten Chukha. They would crawl on their knees and beg him: “Mordka, dear Mordka, don’t kill us.” He would wave his sword and say: “Don’t call me Mordka, I’m Lieutenant Mordechai Berdichevsky!” And then he would forgive them anyway.

Now it had all almost come true, except that in the years that had passed, Matvei Bentsionovich had evidently grown more hard-hearted—he did not feel like forgiving Count Charnokutsky, he wanted to kill the repulsive reptile then and there, and preferably not outright, but in a way that would make him squirm and howl.

This desire must have been only too easy to read in the frenzied public prosecutor’s eyes, because His Excellency suddenly dropped his peach and clutched at the edge of the table, as if he were finding it hard to stay on his feet.

“If you shoot me, you’ll never get out of the castle alive,” the magnate said hastily.

Berdichevsky glanced at his wet finger and winced. “I don’t intend to go anywhere, with the night coming on. First of all I’ll finish you off, because I find your very existence an insult to the universe. Then, if your Filip doesn’t want another bullet, he’ll go with me to the telegraph room and tap out a message to the chief of police. How about it, Filya, will you tap out that telegram?”

The servant nodded—he was afraid to answer out loud.

“There you are. I’ll barricade myself in there and wait for the police to arrive.”

“For the murder of Count Charnokutsky they’ll give you hard labor!”

“After the police find your secret collection in the basement? They’ll give me a medal, not hard labor! Right, then!”

Matvei Bentsionovich aimed at the center of His Excellency’s body then changed his mind and trained the barrel on his forehead.

Charnokutsky’s face, already white, turned absolutely chalky. One side of his blue-black mustache had drooped in some incomprehensible manner, while the other was still swaggeringly erect.

“What… what do you want?” the master of the castle stammered.

“Now I’m going to put you through an intensive interrogation,” Berdichevsky informed him. “Oh, my feelings about you are very intense! It’s going to be very difficult to stop myself from putting a bullet though your rotten head.”

The count kept glancing from the state counselor’s contorted face to the barrel of the gun twitching in his unsteady hand. He said hastily, “I will answer all your questions. Only keep a grip on yourself. Is that trigger stiff enough? Have some Moselle, it calms the nerves.”

That seemed like quite a good idea to Matvei Bentsionovich. He moved closer to the table. Without taking his eyes off the count, he groped and found a bottle (Moselle or not Moselle—it made no difference), raised it to his lips, and drank greedily.

It was the first time in his life that Berdichevsky had drunk wine straight from the bottle. It turned out to taste much better than from a glass. The state counselor really was having a night full of remarkable discoveries.

He put the bottle down and wiped his lips—not with his handkerchief, but on his sleeve. That was good!

“What is your connection with staff captain Ratsevich?”

“He is my lover,” the count replied without a moment’s hesitation. “That is, he was my lover—I have not seen him for six months and I have had no news—until you appeared.”

“Why should I believe that? So it was you who paid his debt for him!”

“Not at all. Why would I? If I were to pay fifteen thousand for every one of my lovers, the entire Charnokutsky fortune would not be enough.”

“It wasn’t you?” The public prosecutor’s bravado instantly deserted him. “If not you … then who?”

Theory number three, that had emerged so brilliantly from the debris of its two predecessors, had collapsed. His time had been wasted! Yet another damp squib!

“You look terrible,” the owner of the castle said nervously. “Drink some more wine. On my word of honor, I do not know who bought Ratsevich out of jail. Bronek didn’t tell me.”

When the public prosecutor realized the implications of the last phrase, he asked, “So, you and he saw each other after he was released?”

“Only once. He acted mysterious and said things I couldn’t understand. He was very pompous. He said: ‘They threw Ratsevich out like an old shoe. Never mind, gentlemen, just give me time.’ I had the feeling that by ‘gentlemen’ he meant his superiors.”

“What else? Come on, remember, damn you!”

The shout made Charnokutsky cringe, pulling his head down into his shoulders and blinking rapidly. “All right, all right. His explanations were very vague. Supposedly some very important individual had visited him in prison. That was what he said: ‘An important individual, very important.’ And after that the money was paid for him. That is all I know…”

Not like Pelagia

BERDICHEVSKY HEARD A noise behind him.

He swung around and saw that the servant he had shot had taken advantage of the fact that they had forgotten about him to get to his feet and was running on bent legs in the direction of the drawing room.

“Stop!” the public prosecutor yelled, running after him. “I’ll kill you!”

Filip fell flat on his face and put his hands over his head, crying, “I’m bleeding to death! I can’t bear it! I’m dying!”

And then there was the sound of running feet again—but from the other direction.

This time Matvei Bentsionovich was too slow. He only caught a glimpse of the figure in a black dressing gown with a silver dragon glinting on its back as it slipped out through a door. A bolt shot home, and the most important prisoner was gone.

“Lie there, you brute!” the state counselor barked and went dashing after the count.

He tugged at the door, but it was no use. Then he ran over to the table and dragged Kesha out from under it.

“What’s behind that door?”

“The study.”

“Can the servants be summoned from there?”

“Yes. There’s an electric bell. And an internal telephone …”

Berdichevsky could already hear the bell trilling piercingly and the hysterical voice of the magnate shouting something into the telephone, or perhaps simply out the window.

“Are there many servants in the building?”

“About ten … No, more.”

And I have only six bullets
, Matvei Bentsionovich thought, but calmly, without panicking.

He ran to a window, looked out, and saw the inner courtyard. There were shadows running from the far end. He dashed to the other side of the room and saw black water glinting down below.

He swung the window frame open and stuck his head out.

Yes, there was the moat. The window was a bit high. But then he had no choice.

He had already scrambled halfway up onto the windowsill when he remembered something and jumped back down again.

First he ran to the door of the drawing room and locked it. Then he grabbed Kesha by the lapels of his jacket.