The Death of Achilles (13 page)

In the Church of the Three Hierarchs, which Fandorin was only able to enter thanks to the timely appearance of the prince’s secretary, things were no better. By applying the science of the ‘stealthy ones,’ Erast Petrovich was able to squeeze his way through almost to the very coffin, but there the backs closed together in a sheer, impenetrable wall. Vladimir Andreevich Dolgorukoi, with a solemn face and pomaded hair, his bulging eyes moist with old man’s tears, was standing nearby with the Grand Duke and the Duke of Liechtenburg. It was absolutely impossible to talk with him, and even if it had been possible, at that moment it was unlikely that he would have appreciated the urgency of the matter.

Furious in his helplessness, Fandorin listened to the touching sermon by the Reverend Amvrosii, who was expounding the inscrutability of the ways of the Lord. A pale and agitated young cadet declaimed a long verse epitaph in a ringing voice, concluding with the words:

And did not he our foemen proud Inspire with dread and trepidation? Though his remains lie in the ground, His spirit lives, our inspiration
. Not for the first time, or even the second, everybody there shed a tear, shuffling their feet and reaching for their handkerchiefs. The ceremony proceeded with a lack of haste that befitted the occasion.

And meanwhile precious time was slipping away.

The previous night Fandorin had been informed of circumstances that cast an entirely new light on the case. His nighttime visitor, whom his servant, unaccustomed to the European canon of beauty, had considered old and ugly, while his romantically inclined master had thought her intriguing and quite lovely, had proved to be a teacher at the girls’ secondary school in Minsk, Ekaterina Alexandrovna Golovina. Despite her frail frame and clearly agitated emotional state, Ekaterina Alexandrovna had expressed herself with a resoluteness and directness most untypical of secondary-school teachers — either it was her natural manner, or grief had hardened her.

“Mr. Fandorin,” she began, enunciating every syllable with deliberate clarity, “I should explain to you immediately the nature of the relationship that bound me to the, the… deceased.” It was almost impossible for her to get the word out. A line of suffering creased her high, clear forehead, but her voice did not tremble. A Spartan woman, thought Erast Petrovich, a genuine Spartan. “Otherwise you will not understand why I know what no one else does, not even Mikhail Dmitrievich’s closest aides. Michel and I loved each other.” Miss Golovina looked inquiringly at Fandorin and, evidently unsatisfied by the politely attentive expression on his face, felt it necessary to clarify the point. “I was his lover.”

Ekaterina Alexandrovna pressed her clenched fists to her breast, and at that moment Fandorin thought once again that she resembled Wanda; when she was speaking about her free love, there was that same expression of defiance and expectation of being insulted. The collegiate assessor continued looking at the young lady in exactly the same way — politely and without the slightest hint of condemnation. She sighed and explained to the dolt one more time: “We lived as man and wife, you understand? And so he was more open with me than with others.”

“I understand that, madam, please do go on,” said Erast Petrovich, opening his mouth for the first time.

“But surely you know that Michel had a lawful wife,” said Ekaterina Alexandrovna, still feeling the need to elaborate, making it clear from her entire bearing that she wished to avoid leaving anything unsaid and was not in the least ashamed of her status.

“I know, the Princess Titova by birth. However, she and Mikhail Dmitrievich separated a long time ago, and she has not even come for the funeral. Tell me about the briefcase.”

“Yes, yes,” said Golovina, suddenly confused. “But let me start at the beginning. Because first I must explain. A month ago, Michel and I had a quarrel…” She blushed. “In fact, we parted and did not see each other again. He left for maneuvers, then came back to Minsk for a day and then immediately—”

“I am aware of Mikhail Dmitrievich’s movements over the last month,” Fandorin said politely but firmly, redirecting his visitor to the main theme.

She hesitated, then suddenly said very clearly: “But are you aware, sir, that in May Michel cashed in all his shares and securities, drew all the money out of his accounts, mortgaged his Ryazan estate, and also took a large loan from a bank?”

“What for?” asked Erast Petrovich, frowning.

Ekaterina Alexandrovna lowered her gaze.

“That I do not know. He had some secret business that was very important to him, which he did not wish to tell me about. I was angry, we quarreled… I never shared Michel’s political views — Russia for the Russians, a united Slavdom, our own non-European path, and similar preposterous nonsense. Our final and conclusive quarrel was also caused in part by this. But there was something else. I sensed that I was no longer at the center of his life. There was something new in it, more important than me…” She blushed. “Or perhaps, not something, but someone… Well, that is all immaterial. The truly important thing is something else.” Golovina lowered her voice. “All the money was in a briefcase that Michel bought in Paris during his tour in February. Brown leather, with two silver locks with little keys.”

Fandorin half-closed his eyes as he tried to remember if there had been a briefcase like that among the dead man’s things during the search of suite 47. No, definitely not.

“He told me he would need the money for a trip to Moscow and St. Petersburg,” the teacher continued. “The trip was due to take place at the end of June, immediately after the maneuvers were over. You did not find the briefcase among his things, did you?”

Erast Petrovich shook his head.

“And Gukmasov says that the briefcase disappeared. Michel never let go of it, and in the hotel room he locked it in the safe — Gukmasov saw him do it. But then afterward, after… when Prokhor Akhrameevich opened the safe, there was nothing in it except a few papers; the briefcase wasn’t there. Gukmasov didn’t make anything of it, because he was in a state of shock, and anyway he had no idea what a huge sum the briefcase contained.”

“What was th-the sum?”

“To the best of my knowledge, more than a million rubles,” Ekaterina Alexandrovna said quietly.

Erast Petrovich whistled in surprise, for which he immediately apologized. This was decidedly ominous news. Secret business? What sort of secret business could an adjutant general, general of infantry, and corps commander have? And what kind of papers had been lying in the safe? When Fandorin looked into the safe in the presence of the chief of police, it was completely empty. Why had Gukmasov felt it necessary to conceal the papers from the police? This was very serious. And, most important of all, the sum was huge, quite incredibly huge. What could Sobolev have needed it for? And the key question — where had it gone?

Peering into the collegiate assessor’s preoccupied face, Ekaterina Alexandrovna spoke quickly and passionately.

“He was murdered, I know it. Because of that accursed million rubles. And then somehow they faked a death from natural causes. Michel was strong, a true warrior, his heart would have withstood a hundred years of battles and turmoil — it was made for turmoil.”

“Yes,” said Erast Petrovich, with a sympathetic nod. “That is what everybody says.”

“That is why I did not insist on marriage,” said Golovina, without listening to him. Bright pink now from the turbulence of her emotions, she continued: “I felt that I had no right, that his mission in life was different, that he could not belong just to one woman, and I didn’t want the leftover crumbs… My God, what am I saying! Forgive me.” She put her hand over her eyes and after that spoke more slowly, with an effort. “When the telegram from Gukmasov arrived yesterday, I dashed to the railway station immediately. Even then I didn’t believe in this ‘paralysis of the heart,’ and when I learned that the briefcase had disappeared… He was murdered, there can be no doubt about it.” She suddenly seized hold of Fandorin’s arm, and he was amazed at how much strength there was in her slim fingers. “Find the murderer! Prokhor Akhrameevich says that you are an analytical genius, that you can do anything. Do it! He couldn’t have died of heart failure! You didn’t know that man as I did!”

At this point she finally began weeping bitterly, thrusting her face against the collegiate assessor’s chest like a child. As he awkwardly embraced the young woman around the shoulders, Erast Petrovich remembered how only recently he had embraced Wanda, in quite different circumstances. Identically frail, defenseless shoulders, an identical scent from the hair. It seemed clear now why the general had been attracted to the songstress — she must have reminded the general of his love in Minsk.

“Naturally, I didn’t know him as you did,” Fandorin said gently. “But I did know Mikhail Dmitrievich well enough to doubt that his death was natural. A man of that kind does not die a natural death.”

Erast Petrovich seated the young woman, still shuddering and sobbing, in an armchair and he himself began walking around the room. Suddenly he clapped his hands loudly eight times. Ekaterina Alexandrovna started and stared at the young man through eyes gleaming with tears.

“Pay no attention,” Fandorin hastened to reassure her. “It is an oriental exercise to aid concentration. Very helpful in setting aside what is merely incidental and focusing on the fundamental. Let’s go.”

He strode resolutely out into the corridor and Golovina, dumbfounded by the suddenness of it, dashed after him. As he went, Erast Petrovich spoke rapidly to Masa, who was waiting behind the door.

“Get the travel bag with the tools and catch up with us.”

Thirty seconds later, as Fandorin and his companion were still descending the staircase, the Japanese was already at their heels, walking with small, quick steps and panting at his master’s back. In one hand the servant was holding the travel bag in which all the tools required for an investigation were kept — numerous items that the detective found useful and even vital.

In the lobby Erast Petrovich called the night porter over and told him to open suite 47.

“That’s quite impossible,” the porter said with a shrug. “The gentlemen gendarmes put up a seal and confiscated the key.” He lowered his voice: “The dead man’s in there, God rest his soul. They’ll come to get him at dawn. The funeral’s in the morning.”

“A seal? Well, at least they didn’t leave a guard of honor,” muttered Fandorin. “That would have been really silly — a guard of honor in a bedroom. All right, I’ll open it myself. Follow me — you can light the candles.”

The collegiate assessor walked into the ‘Sobolev’ corridor and tore the wax seal from the door with an intrepid hand. He took a bundle of picks out of the travel bag and a minute later he was inside the suite.

The porter lit the candles, glancing warily out of the corner of his eye at the closed door of the bedroom and crossing himself with small, rapid movements. Ekaterina Alexandrovna also looked at the white rectangle behind which the embalmed body lay. Her gaze froze, spellbound, and her lips moved soundlessly, but Fandorin had no time for the teacher and her sufferings just at the moment — he was working. He dealt with the second seal just as unceremoniously, and the pick was not required — the bedroom door was not locked.

“Well, don’t just stand there!” said Erast Petrovich, with an impatient glance at his servant. “Bring the candles in.”

And he stepped into the kingdom of death.

The coffin was closed, thank goodness — otherwise he would probably have had to attend to the young woman instead of getting on with the job at hand. There was an open prayer book lying at the head of the bed, with a thick church candle guttering beside it.

“Madam,” Fandorin called, turning back toward the drawing room. “I ask you please not to come in here. You will only be in the way.” He added to Masa in Japanese, “The flashlight, quick!”

Once equipped with the English electric flashlight, he moved straight to the safe. Shining the flashlight on the keyhole, he said brusquely over his shoulder: “Magnifying glass number four.”

Well, well. They’d certainly given the door a good groping — just look at all those fingerprints! The year before last, in Japan, with the help of a certain Professor Garding, Erast Petrovich had been successful in solving a mysterious double murder in the English settlement after taking fingerprints at the scene of the crime. The new method had created a genuine furor, but it would be years before a dactyloscopic laboratory and card index could be set up in Russia. Ah, such a pity — these were such clear prints, and right beside the keyhole. All right, then, what would we find inside?

“Magnifying glass number six.”

Under strong magnification, fresh scratches were clearly visible — indicating that the safe was probably opened with a pick instead of the key. In addition, strangely enough, there were traces of some white substance left in the lock. Fandorin took a pinch of it with a pair of miniature forceps. On inspection, it appeared to be wax. Curious.

“Is that where he was sitting?” asked a thin, tense voice behind him.

Erast Petrovich swung around in annoyance. Ekaterina Alexan-drovna was standing in the doorway, clutching her elbows in her hands as if she felt cold. The young lady was not looking at the coffin; she was even making an effort to avert her eyes from it by gazing at the chair in which Sobolev had supposedly died. There is no need for her to know where it really happened, Fandorin thought.

“I asked you not to come in here!” he shouted sternly at the teacher, because in these situations sternness is more effective than sympathy. Let the dead hero’s lover remember why they had come here in the middle of the night. Remember and take herself in hand. Golovina turned away without speaking and walked out into the drawing room.

“Sit down!” Fandorin said loudly. “This could take some time.”

The thorough examination of the suite took more than two hours. The porter, whose fear of the coffin had now subsided, found himself a comfortable perch in the corner and fell into a quiet doze. Masa followed his master around like a shadow, humming a little tune and from time to time handing him the tools he required. Ekaterina Alexandrovna did not appear in the bedroom again. Fandorin glanced out once and saw her sitting at the table, with her forehead resting on her crossed arms. As if sensing Erast Petrovich’s gaze, she sat up abruptly and turned the searing glance of her immense eyes on him, but she did not ask any questions.