Sister Pelagia and the Red Cockerel (54 page)

Next comes the most important part: Having established the identity of the dead man, Dolinin left the village, but Ratsevich did not follow. He stayed behind.

Why?

That is clear. In order to kill Pelagia. But why did he not do it sooner—for instance, during that encounter in the forest?

After a moment’s thought, Matvei Bentsionovich found the answer to this question.

Because he had not yet been ordered to do it
. So he only received orders to kill the nun after the investigator left.

From whom?

Naturally, from Dolinin—it could not have been anyone else.

Berdichevsky forgot that he had set aside the drawing of conclusions for later and became completely engrossed in his hypotheses, which did seem, however, rather well founded.

Perhaps the investigator had wanted Pelagia to be killed when he, Dolinin, was nowhere nearby? So that he would have an alibi? Or possibly out of a sense of delicacy—he did not want to see it.

But there was another, more plausible explanation. In Stroganovka, Pelagia must have done or said something that made Dolinin realize that she was close to solving the murder on the steamer. That was most probably the reason why the investigator had invited her to go on the expedition with him—in order to find out how dangerous she was. And he had decided that she was dangerous and could not be left alive.

Following these deductions incidentally threw up the answer to the first of Matvei Bentsionovich’s deferred questions: Inspector Dolinin needed the social outcast with skills of a wolfhound precisely because he
was
, firstly, an outcast, and secondly, a wolfhound, that is, a specialist in secret operations. And homosexuality most likely had nothing at all to do with it. The official from St. Petersburg might very well never have discovered this circumstance. And was it really of any importance in this case?

And now the other unanswered question: Did Dolinin find his way into the “noble” cell number eleven of the provincial prison by chance? What if he deliberately used his tours of inspection across the empire for spotting people who could be useful for his as yet unclear goals? It was a supposition, no more than a supposition, but it was certainly highly plausible.

A dam suddenly seemed to burst in Matvei Bentsionovich’s brain: thoughts, hypotheses, and flashes of insight suddenly came pouring in so fast that the public prosecutor felt as if he were choking in a mighty flood.

But up ahead he could see another barrier, mightier than the first, and the water there was seething and foaming furiously.

Just who
was
Full State Counselor Dolinin?

Berdichevsky began recalling everything he had heard about this man from Pelagia and other sources.

Dolinin had worked for many years as an investigator of criminal cases. There was a family drama—his wife had left him. Pelagia had told this story with compassion—she evidently knew some of the details, but she had not divulged them to Matvei Bentsionovich. She had only told him that the abandoned husband was on the brink of despair, but he met some wise, kind man who turned him to God and liberated him from his thoughts of self-destruction. And that was precisely when the breakthrough in Dolinin’s career came—he took wing and forgot his sorrows, immersing himself in important state business.

Well now. All of this raised questions.

First: Who was this wise man who saved the investigator’s tormented soul?

Second: How remarkable was it that the “saved soul” began recruiting professional killers?

Third: Was it a coincidence that Dolinin’s “enlightenment” and his professional elevation occurred at the same time?

Finally, the fourth and most important point: What determined Dolinin’s actions? Or
who?
And what was the purpose of these actions?

Berdichevsky’s head was spinning. But one thing was clear—there was nothing more to be done in Zhitomir. As Prince Hamlet said, there was a more powerful magnet.

An American spy

WHEN MATVEI BENTSIONOVICH got off the train at the Tsarkoe Selo station, the very first place he went was the Central Post Office of St. Petersburg, to see if there was any news from His Eminence. The public prosecutor had sent the bishop a short report from Zhitomir without, however, going into the details—they were not for the telegraph service. For instance, he had decided not to explain about Dolinin. All he had said was that in “the case known to Your Eminence,” the trail led to the capital of the empire.

There were no letters from Zavolzhsk, but the state counselor did receive a money order for five hundred rubles, with a note in the accompanying form: “May the Lord preserve you.”

Ah, His Wonderful Eminence! Nothing superfluous, only what Berdichevsky needed most of all just at the moment: money and a blessing.

From a university friend who now worked in the Ministry of the Interior, the public prosecutor learned that Sergei Sergeevich Dolinin was returning that evening from his tour of inspection in the Nizhni Novgorod province and was expected in the office the following day. This was most opportune.
Now we shall see whom he visits immediately after his arrival
, thought Matvei Bentsionovich. He went to the Nikolaevsky station and learned from the timetable that the train arrived at half past eleven in the evening. And so he found himself free for the whole day.

Berdichevsky had spent several years in St. Petersburg as a student and he knew this beautiful, cold city well. From the point of view of a provincial, the city was spoiled by its abundance of official state buildings—their yellow and white coloring deadened and drowned out the city’s true colors of gray and blue. If you took away all the ministries and public offices, Matvei Bentsionovich pondered, Peter would be a mellower and more agreeable place, much cozier for the people who lived here. In any case, what sort of place was this for a capital city—right on the very edge of a gigantic empire? It was this abscess that skewed Russia’s face out of shape. The seat of power ought be moved to the east—and not to Moscow, which would always survive in any case, but to somewhere like Ufa or Ekaterinburg. Then the ship of state might finally straighten up and stop taking on water over the side.

However, we cannot say that Matvei Bentsionovich devoted the whole of his walk to thoughts on such a monumental scale. He spent the middle part of the day in the huge indoor market of the Gostiny Dvor, choosing presents for his wife and children. This took him several hours, because it was a fussy job that had to be got right. God forbid he should forget that Anechka could not stand green, that Vaniusha was only interested in toy locomotives, that woolen fabrics made Magenka sneeze, and so on and so forth.

Having dealt with this pleasant but wearying task, the public prosecutor gave himself a little holiday: he walked around the shops imagining what present he would buy for Pelagia if she were not a nun and if their relationship were such as to allow him to give her presents. Impossible dreams led the state counselor into the perfumery row, and from there they made him turn into the haberdashery row, and he only came to his senses in the lacy
dessous
section. He blushed bright red up to the roots of his hair and walked quickly out into the street to cool off in the damp Baltic breeze.

Day was giving way to evening. It was time to prepare for Dolinin’s arrival. According to the address book, the member of the ministerial council resided at Sholtz’s House on Zagorodny Prospect. Matvei Bentsionovich took a look at the house—an ordinary four-story apartment building; General Dolinin’s apartment was on the second floor—and located the right windows. He then took a room in the Helsingfors lodging house, which was conveniently located almost directly opposite.

And now darkness had stealthily fallen. It would soon be time to go to the Nikolaevsky station.

BERDICHEVSKY HAD AN exceptional stroke of luck with his cabby. Number 48-36 proved to be a young lad, very quick on the uptake. When he found out what was required, his eyes began blazing so brightly that he even forgot to bargain over the price.

The Moscow train arrived on time. The public prosecutor had met Dolinin and even spoken with him in Zavolzhsk, so he avoided making himself conspicuous, waiting behind a newspaper kiosk until Sergei Sergeevich walked by and then falling in behind.

Nobody met the full state counselor—unfortunately. Berdichevsky had been imagining a mysterious carriage and a hand that would open the door for the inspector as he approached. Not just an ordinary hand, but one with a special ring, and there had to be a uniform sleeve with gilt embroidery.

But there was none of this, no hand and no carriage. Dolinin modestly got into a cab, set his plain traveling bag down beside him, and drove off.

There was no need to explain everything twice to number 48-36—he had started moving even before Berdichevsky ran up to him. The public prosecutor jumped onboard and whispered: “Don’t crowd him, don’t crowd him.”

The cabby maintained an ideal distance, about a hundred paces, allowing two or three carriages to get in front of him, but no more, so that they would not block his view.

Dolinin’s cab did not go to Nevsky Prospect, but turned off onto Ligovskaya Street.
He seems to be going home
, Matvei Bentsionovich thought, disappointed. That proved to be right—Dolinin turned onto Zvenigorodskaya Street, and then onto Zagorodny Prospect.

They had to wait for some time at Sholtz’s House. The lights went on in the windows of Dolinin’s apartment, and then went out again in all but one. Was he preparing for bed? Writing a report? Or getting changed to go somewhere else in the middle of the night? The public prosecutor was not sure what to do. Must he hang about here until morning? Well, at least for as long as the light was burning. What if Dolinin was expecting a late visitor?

But the light in the final window burned for forty-two minutes and then went out. He must have gone to bed after all.

“Who is he, a spy?” the cabby asked in a low voice.

Berdichevsky nodded absentmindedly, wondering whether he ought to settle down for the night in the cab.

“’Merican?” number 48-36 inquired.

“Why American?” the public prosecutor asked in surprise.

The lad just sniffed. The devil only knew what was going on in his head and why he chose to grant the supposed enemy of society such an exotic citizenship. “No, Austro-Hungarian,” said Matvei Bentsionovich, naming a more plausible country.

The cabby nodded. “Your Honor, do you want me to keep watch on the windows here? At least till morning? I’m used to it, I won’t fall asleep. How about it? I’ve got oats in the nosebag. And I won’t charge much. Three rubles, that’s all. Two and a half, eh?”

He was clearly desperately keen to keep watch on the Austrian spy. But more important, it was actually quite a good idea. And the price was reasonable.

“All right. I’ll be over there in that lodging house. You see that window? On the corner, the ground floor. If he goes anywhere, or anyone comes to him, even if the light just goes on, you let me know immediately.” Then Berdichevsky started thinking. “The only thing is, how?”

“I’ll whistle,” suggested 48-36. “I can do a special whistle, like a real bandit.”

He folded his fingers together and gave a deafening whistle. Horses squatted down on their hindquarters, the doorman stuck his head out of the Helsingfors, and police constables’ whistles answered in the distance from two directions.

“No, don’t whistle,” said the public prosecutor, huddling down on his seat and looking up anxiously at Dolinin’s windows in case the curtain trembled. “Better run across and throw a few stones.”

He went to bed without taking off his clothes or shoes. He took a swig of the Moselle he had bought in the Gostiny Dvor—straight from the bottle, but not too much. The last thing he needed at his age was to turn into a drunk.

He lay there with his hands behind his head, taking a sip from the bottle every now and then. Sometimes he thought about Masha, sometimes about Pelagia. In some incomprehensible fashion these two women, so entirely unlike each other, had fused into a single being, for whom Matvei Bentsionovich felt such a tender affection that it brought tears to his eyes.

•   •   •

BERDICHEVSKY WAS WOKEN by a crystalline, ethereal sound, and at first he didn’t realize what it was. It was not until the second stone struck the window—with a force that cracked the glass—that the public prosecutor scrambled hastily to his feet and started dashing around the room, still half asleep.

The room was bright. Morning.

Matvei Bentsionovich jerked up the window frame and stuck his head out.

The cab was waiting at the curb.

“Quick, mister, quick,” said number 48-36, waving his hand. “Lep it, or he’ll get away.”

And so the state counselor did—he grabbed his frock coat and hat and “lepped it” straight over the windowsill. He bruised his leg in the process, but that immediately woke him up.

“Where?” he gasped.

“He’s turned the corner!” The cabby lashed his horse. “That’s all right, we’ll catch him in a flash!”