Sister Pelagia and the White Bulldog (35 page)

The nun spread her hands conclusively. “That is everything that we have to go on. Under ordinary circumstances this would be enough for an arrest on suspicion, but Vladimir Lvovich is a special case. Even if Matvei Bentsionovich issues a warrant, I am afraid that the chief of police will not obey his orders. He will say there are insufficient grounds. For him, Bubentsov is tsar and God in one. No, we won’t be able to arrest him.”

“But that is not for you to worry about,” Mitrofanii said confidently. “You have done your part. Rest now and restore your strength. I shall give orders for you not to be disturbed, and if you need anything, just tug this velvet cord. A lay brother will come running and do whatever you ask.”

And thereupon the bishop demonstrated how to tug on the cord, and indeed only a second later a glum-looking face with a sparse beard surmounted by a
kamilavka
appeared in the crack of the door.

“Patapii, tell them to send for Matvei Berdichevsky. And look lively about it, now.”

MATVEI WAS FEELING very worried.

Not because of the chief of police—he was like putty in his hands. That is, at first, when he saw the arrest warrant, he had turned pale and broken into a sweat all over, right to the roots of his hair, but when Berdichevsky explained to him that after the collapse of the Zyt case the synodical inspector’s goose was cooked in any case, Felix Stanislavovich had taken heart and set about the business at hand with quite exceptional despatch.

The assistant prosecutor’s concern was not occasioned by doubts concerning the loyalty of the police, but by the supreme responsibility of his task, and especially by the somewhat shaky nature of the evidence. Strictly speaking, there was no evidence as such—nothing but suspicious circumstances, not enough to build a genuine case. Bubentsov had been in this place and that place, he could have committed this act and that act, but what of it? A good defense lawyer would rapidly demolish such speculative suppositions. A great deal of preparatory work was required here, and Matvei Bentsionovich was not certain that he could cope. For a moment he thought with envy of the investigators of former times. Life had been so simple and easy for them. Pick up a suspect, put him on the rack, and he would happily confess all on his own. Of course, Berdichevsky was a progressive and civilized individual and his thoughts about the rack were not really serious, but a confession was absolutely essential in this case, and Vladimir Lvovich Bubentsov was not the kind of man to provide testimony against himself. Berdichevsky was placing all his hopes in the interrogation of the inspector’s henchmen, Spasyonny and the Circassian. He would work for a while with each of them separately, and who knew? Perhaps some inconsistencies, clues, or loose ends might turn up so that he could keep pulling at one of them and unwind the whole ball of thread.

If only there was some attempt to escape, or even better, to resist arrest, Matvei Bentsionovich daydreamed as they were on their way to detain Bubentsov.

To make quite certain of things—after all, this was the arrest of a murderer—the operation had been prepared by the book. Lagrange had gathered together thirty police constables and officers, ordered them to oil their pistols, and personally checked to make sure that they still remembered how to shoot. Before setting out, the chief of police had drawn out the entire plan on a piece of paper.

“This circle here, Matvei Bentsionovich, is the town square. The dotted line is the fence, with the courtyard of the Grand Duke behind it. The large square is the hotel itself, and the small one is the general’s wing. Bubentsov is at home; my people have already checked. I’ll set half the men around the edge of the square and order the others to conceal themselves behind the fence. You and I will go in with just two or three of them.”

“No.” Berdichevsky interrupted him. “I shall go into the yard alone. If we show up in a gang like that, they will see us through the window and, God only knows, they might lock themselves in and destroy the evidence. And I hope very much to find something useful in there. I’ll go in quietly, as if I am just paying a visit. I’ll invite Bubentsov to come for a talk—let’s say at the governor’s house. And as we come out into the yard, that’s when we’ll arrest our friend. If I get into any difficulties I’ll shout to you for assistance.”

“Why strain your throat?” the chastened Lagrange said with a reproachful shake of his head. “Here, take my whistle. Blow it, and I’ll be right there, quick as a wink.”

In actual fact, apart from professional considerations, Matvei Bentsionovich had personal reasons for wanting to take Bubentsov himself. He wanted very badly to get even with the base Petersburgian for that memorable tweak of his nose. With a feeling of anticipation unworthy of a Christian, but nonetheless sweet, he imagined how Bubentsov’s haughty features would turn pale and distorted by shock when he, Berdichevsky, said to him: “Be so good as to put your hands behind your back. You’re under arrest.”

Or even better, in a more worldly tone: “You know, my good fellow, you are under arrest. What a very unpleasant surprise it must be.”

BUT EVEN SO, as he crossed the courtyard alone, he began feeling unwell. His stomach knotted into cramps and his throat went dry.

Summoning up his courage, Matvei Bentsionovich stood on the porch of the general’s wing for a half a minute. This tidy little single-story house contained the very best suite of rooms in the entire hotel; it was intended for individuals of importance who visited the province on state business, as well as for rich people who regarded it as beneath their dignity to stay under the same roof as the other guests.

The windows of the wing were curtained over and Berdichevsky was suddenly afraid that Lagrange might have been mistaken. What if Bubentsov were not here?

His nerves suddenly calmed in the face of concern for the success of his mission. Matvei Bentsionovich did not even ring the bell as he had been intending to do—he simply pushed the door open and went in.

From the entrance hall he went through into a large room crammed full of open trunks and suitcases. Spasyonny and Murad Djuraev were sitting at the table, moving black and white stones around a board. Matvei Bentsionovich, who knew no games except for chess and preference, guessed that it must be backgammon.

“Inform Mr. Bubentsov that assistant provincial prosecutor Berdichevsky wishes to see him immediately,” he declared in an icy tone, addressing the secretary.

Spasyonny bowed respectfully and disappeared through the door that led into the inner chambers. The Circassian cast a quick glance at the visitor and fixed his gaze on the board again, muttering something unintelligible under his breath. It was remarkable that even indoors this wild man never removed his astrakhan hat and his faithful dagger.

Spasyonny returned and said, “If you please, sir.”

Bubentsov was sitting at a desk, dark-faced, writing something. He did not get to his feet or greet Berdichevsky. He merely tore his glance away from his papers for an instant and asked, “What do you want?”

This obvious insult finally soothed Matvei Bentsionovich’s nerves completely, because everyone knows that he who barks loudly is unlikely to bite. Bubentsov had nothing to bite with—his teeth had been blunted.

“Getting ready to leave?” the assistant prosecutor inquired politely.

“Yes.” Vladimir Lvovich threw down his pen angrily, sending splashes of ink flying across the green fabric. “After the governor, on your recommendation, ordered the investigation to be halted, there was nothing more for me to do here. But never mind, my dear gentleman of Zavolzhsk, I shall go to St. Petersburg and then return. And after that I shall scatter this almshouse of yours to the four winds.”

Matvei Bentsionovich had never seen the synodical inspector so irritated before. Where had that customary tone of lazy condescension gone?

“That will not be possible for some time,” sighed Berdichevsky, as if he regretted the fact.

“What will not be possible?”

“Your leaving.” Matvei Bentsionovich even spread his hands, entering completely into his role. “Anton Antonovich requests that you visit him immediately. He even orders it.”

“Orders it?” exploded Bubentsov. “I don’t care a damn about his orders.”

“That is as you wish, but his excellency has ordered not to allow you to cross the boundaries of the province until you have provided a satisfactory explanation with regard to the unlawful arrest of the Zyt elders and the killing of three Zyts who were trying to free them.”

“Rubbish! Everyone knows that the Zyts attacked representatives of authority while carrying weapons. They themselves are to blame. And as for the illegality of the arrest of the elders—we shall see about that. So you protect idolaters, do you? Very well, Konstantin Petrovich will see that you pay for that, too.” Vladimir Lvovich stood up and put on his frock coat. “Damn you. I shall call in to see your Haggenau. Not for his sake, but for Ludmila Platonovna’s. She is a real darling. I shall kiss her hand in farewell.”

Bubentsov’s eyes sparkled evilly—the inspector evidently had plans to play some humiliating trick on Anton Antonovich as a parting gift.

I rather think not, mused Matvei Bentsionovich, restraining a smile of triumph with some difficulty. Your reach is too short now, my good sir.

They walked through into the drawing room. The inspector’s associates were no longer playing backgammon. Spasyonny was packing a travel bag, while the Circassian was standing beside the window, watching something in the courtyard.

Then suddenly something unexpected happened. Something, in fact, quite incredible, almost unimaginable.

In two catlike bounds Murad flew across to Matvei Bentsionovich and grabbed him by the throat with his short fingers of iron.

“Treason,” the Circassian cried hoarsely. “Volodya, don’t go! It’s an ambush!”

“What nonsense is this?” asked Bubentsov, gazing hard at him. “Have you lost your mind?”

Berdichevsky pulled the whistle out of his pocket and blew it with all his might. That very second there was the sound of numerous feet tramping in the yard.

The Circassian knocked Matvei Bentsionovich to the floor with a blow of his gnarled fist, dashed across to one of the suitcases, and pulled out a long-barreled revolver.

“Stop!” shouted Vladimir Lvovich, but it was too late.

Murad smashed out the glass with the barrel of the gun and fired through the window three times. There was a howl and in the next instant a hail of shots was returned from the courtyard, so thick that chips of plaster flew off the walls and the ceiling, the carafe of water with the chrysanthemum on the piano shattered, and the wall clock suddenly burst into desperate chiming.

Spasyonny dropped flat to the floor and crawled toward the study. Bubentsov also squatted down on his haunches. When the firing eased off a little, he said disdainfully: “Murad, you’re a blockhead. What a mess. You made it, now you can clear it up. I’m leaving by the back door and going to the stables. I’ll ride to Peter. Don’t you worry; I’ll fix this. You keep firing for a while so that I can get away, and then surrender. I’ll have you freed. Understand?”

Without waiting for an answer, still bent over double, he went out through the door. Spasyonny, still lying on his belly, crept out after him.

“I understand, Volodya, what’s so hard about it?” the Circassian said in a soft voice. “Only Murad doesn’t know how to surrender.”

He put his hand out over the sill, aimed, and fired. Someone cried out again in the courtyard, and the volley of shots started up again. Seizing his chance, the Abrek fired once more, but this time he was unlucky. His astrakhan hat went flying to the floor, his blue-gray shaven head jerked, and a crimson furrow appeared on his cheek, blood instantly welling up out of it. Murad angrily wiped his face with the sleeve of his dirty
beshmet
and fired over the windowsill.

By this time Matvei Bentsionovich had been engaged in a tormented inner struggle with himself for about a minute. One side of his faltering scales held nothing but his duty, the other held his wife, his twelve (in fact, now almost thirteen) little children, and his own life thrown into the bargain. Unequal loads, it must be admitted. Berdichevsky decided that he would sit there quietly—after all, they could send a detail in pursuit of Bubentsov. But immediately after he had taken this salutary decision there was a lull in the firing and Matvei Bentsionovich crossed himself and shouted, “Lagrange, the back door!”