The Winter Queen (6 page)

“Good evening, Nikolai Stepanovich. Would you like me to call you a cab?” the doorkeeper said with a bow.

“Tell me, Mitrich, has it stopped raining yet?” the pimply student inquired in a high-pitched voice. “Then I’ll take a stroll. I’m tired of sitting.” And he dropped a coin into the outstretched palm from between the finger and thumb of his white-gloved hand.

“Who’s that?” Fandorin asked in a whisper, straining his eyes to follow the dandy’s receding back. “Doesn’t he have a bit of a slouch?”

“Nikolai Stepanich Akhtyrtsev. Rich as they come, royal blood,” Mitrich declared reverentially. “Doles out at least fifteen kopecks every time.”

Fandorin suddenly felt feverish. Akhtyrtsev! Surely he was the one who had been named as executor in Kokorin’s will!

Mitrich bowed respectfully to yet another teacher, the long-haired lecturer in physics, and on turning back discovered to his surprise that the respectable young provincial gentleman had vanished into thin air.

THE BLACK VELVET CLOAK was easily visible from a distance, and Fandorin had overtaken his suspect in a trice but he hesitated to hail him by name. What accusation could he actually put to him? Even supposing he were to be identified by the shopkeeper Kukin and the spinster Pfühl (at this point Erast Fandorin sighed heavily as he recalled Lizanka yet again for the umpteenth time), then what of it? Would it not be better to follow the guidance of the great Fouché,* that incomparable luminary of criminal investigation, and shadow the object of his interest?

No sooner said than done. Especially as shadowing the student proved to be quite easy: Akhtyrtsev was strolling at a leisurely pace in the direction of Tverskaya Street, without looking around, merely glancing after the pretty young milliners every now and then. Several times Erast Fandorin boldly stole up very close to the student and even heard him carelessly whistling Smith’s serenade from
The Fair Maid of Perth
. The failed suicide (if, indeed, this were he) was clearly in the most cheerful of moods. The student halted outside Korf’s tobacco shop and spent a long time surveying the boxes of cigars in the window, but he did not go in.

Fandorin was beginning to feel convinced that his mark was idling away the minutes until some appointed time. This conviction was reinforced when Akhtyrtsev took out a gold pocket watch and nicked open its lid, then increased his pace as he set off up the sidewalk, switching into a rendition of the more decisive ‘Boys’ Chorus’ from the new-style opera
Carmen
.

Turning into Kamergersky Lane, the student stopped whistling and stepped out so briskly that Erast Fandorin was obliged to drop back a little, otherwise it would have looked too suspicious. Fortunately, before he reached the fashionable ladies’ salon of Darzans, the mark slowed his pace and shortly thereafter came to a complete halt. Fandorin crossed over to the opposite side of the street and took up his post beside a bakery that breathed out the fragrant aromas of fancy pastries.

For about fifteen minutes, perhaps even twenty, Akhtyrtsev, displaying ever more obvious signs of nervousness, strode to and fro in front of the decorative oak doors of the shop, into which from time to time busy-looking ladies disappeared and from which deliverymen emerged bearing elegantly wrapped bundles and boxes. Waiting in a line along the pavement were several carriages, some even with coats of arms on their lacquered doors. At seventeen minutes past two (Erast Fandorin noted the time from a clock in the shop window) the student suddenly roused himself and dashed over to a slim, elegant lady wearing a short veil, who had emerged from the shop. Doffing his peaked cap, he began saying something, gesturing with his arms. Fandorin crossed the road with an expression of boredom on his face—after all, why should he not also wish to drop into Darzans?

“I have no time for you just at present,” he heard the lady declare in a clear voice. She was dressed in the latest Parisian fashion, in a dress of lilac watered silk with a train. “Later. Come after seven, as usual. Everything will be decided there.”

Paying no more attention to the agitated Akhtyrtsev, she walked off toward a two-seater phaeton with an open roof.

“But, Amalia! Amalia Kazimirovna, by your leave!” the student called out after her. “I was rather counting on a discussion in private.”

“Later, later!” the lady flung back at him. “I’m in a hurry at the moment!”

A faint breath of wind lifted the light, gauzy veil from her face, and Erast Fandorin froze in astonishment. He had seen those languid, night-black eyes, that Egyptian oval face, those capriciously curving lips before, and once seen, such a face can never be forgotten. It was she, the mysterious A.B., who had bidden the unfortunate Kokorin never to forswear his love! Now the case was certainly assuming a completely different complexion.

Akhtyrtsev halted in dismay on the pavement, his head drawn back gracelessly into his shoulders (a slouch, a quite distinct slouch, Erast Fandorin noted conclusively), and meanwhile the phaeton unhurriedly bore the Egyptian queen away in the direction of Petrovka Street. Fandorin had to make a decision, and judging that the student would be easy enough to locate again, he abandoned him to his fate and set off at a run toward the corner of Bolshaya Dmitrovka Street, where a line of taxi-cabs was standing.

“Police,” he hissed at the drowsy Ivan in a peaked cap and padded caftan. “Quick, follow that carriage! And get a move on! Don’t worry, you’ll be paid the full fare.”

His Ivan drew himself up, pushed back his sleeves with exaggerated zeal, shook the reins, gave a bark, and his dappled nag set off, its hoofs clip-clopping loudly against the cobbles of the road.

At the corner of Rozhdestvenka Street a dray carrying a load of planks swung out across the roadway, blocking it completely. In extreme agitation Erast Fandorin leapt to his feet and even rose up on the tips of his toes, gazing after the phaeton, which had slipped through ahead of the obstruction. He was fortunate in just managing to catch a glimpse of it as it turned onto Bolshaya Lubyanka Street.

Never mind, God was merciful. They caught up with the phaeton at Sretenka Street, just as it plunged into a narrow and hunchbacked side street. The wheels of the cab began bouncing over potholes. Fandorin saw the phaeton halt, and he prodded his cabby in the back to tell him to drive on and not give the game away. He deliberately turned to face the opposite direction, but out of the very corner of his eye he saw the lilac lady being greeted with a bow from some tall, liveried servant at the entrance to a neat little stone mansion. Around the first corner Erast Fandorin let his cab go and set off slowly in the direction from which he had come, as if he were out for a stroll. This time as he approached the neat little mansion he was able to take a good look at it: a mezzanine with a green roof, curtains covering the windows, a front porch with a projecting roof. But he was unable to discern any brass plaque on the door.

There was, however, a yardkeeper in an apron and a battered peaked cap sitting in idle boredom on a bench by the wall. It was toward him that Erast Fandorin directed his steps.

“Tell me, my friend,” he began as he approached, extracting twenty kopecks of state funds from his pocket, “whose house is this?”

“That’s no secret,” the yardkeeper replied vaguely, following the movement of Fandorin’s fingers with interest.

“Take that. Who was that lady who arrived not long ago?”

The yardkeeper took the money and replied gravely, “The house belongs to General Maslov’s wife, only she doesn’t live here—she rents it out. And the lady is the tenant, Miss Bezhetskaya, Amalia Kazimirovna Bezhetskaya.”

“And who is she?” Erast Fandorin pressed him. “Has she been living here long? Does she have many visitors?”

The yardkeeper stared at him in silence, chewing on his lips. Some incomprehensible process was working itself out in his brain.

“I’ll tell you what, boss,” he said, rising to his feet and suddenly seizing tight hold of Fandorin’s sleeve. “You just hang on a moment.”

He dragged the vainly resisting Fandorin across to the porch and gave a tug on the clapper of a small bronze bell.

“What are you doing?” the horrified sleuth exclaimed, making futile attempts to free himself. “I’ll show you…Have you any idea who…”

The door opened and the doorway was filled by a tall servant in livery with immense, sandy-colored side-whiskers and a clean-shaven chin. It was clear at a glance that he was no Russian.

“He’s been snooping around asking questions about Amalia Kazimirovna,” the villainous yardkeeper reported in a sugary voice. “And offering money, too, sir. I didn’t take it, sir. So what I thought, John Karlich, was…”

The butler (for a butler is what he was, since he was an Englishman) ran the impassive gaze of his small, sharp eyes over the prisoner, handed the Judas a silver fifty-kopeck piece, and moved aside slightly to make way.

“Really, this is all nothing but a misunderstanding!” said Fandorin, still struggling to collect his wits. He switched into English: “It’s ridiculous, a complete misunderstanding!”

“Oh, no, please do go in, sir, please do,” the yardkeeper droned from behind him, and to make quite sure he grabbed hold of Fandorin’s other sleeve and shoved him in through the door.

Erast Fandorin found himself in a rather wide hallway opposite a stuffed bear holding a silver tray for receiving visiting cards. The shaggy beast’s small glass eyes contemplated the collegiate registrar’s predicament without the slightest trace of sympathy.

“Who? What for?” the butler asked succinctly in strongly accented Russian, entirely ignoring Fandorin’s perfectly good English.

Erast Fandorin said nothing, under no circumstances wishing to reveal the secret of his identity.

“What’s the matter, John?” Fandorin heard a clear voice that was already familiar to him ask in English. Standing on the carpeted stairs that must lead to the mezzanine was the mistress of the house, who had already removed her hat and veil.

“Aha, the young brunet!” she exclaimed in a mocking tone, turning toward Fandorin, who was devouring her with his eyes. “I spotted you back there on Kamergersky Lane. One really should not glare at strange ladies in that way! Clever, though I must say, you managed to follow me! Are you a student or just another idle ne’er-do-well?”

“Fandorin, Erast Petrovich,” he introduced himself, uncertain what else to add, but Cleopatra had apparently already found a satisfactory explanation for his appearance.

“I do like the bold ones,” she said with a laugh, “especially when they’re so good-looking. But it’s not nice to spy on people. If you find my person so very interesting, then come this evening—all sorts of people come visiting here. You will be quite able to satisfy your curiosity then. But wear tails. The manners in my house are free, but men who are not in the military must wear tails—that’s the law.”

WHEN EVENING ARRIVED it found Erast Fandorin fully equipped. It was true, certainly, that his father’s tailcoat had proved to be a little broad for him in the shoulders, but the splendid Agrafena Kondratievna, the provincial secretary’s wife from whom Fandorin rented his little room, had pinned it in along the seams and it had really turned out quite respectable, especially if he did not button it. An extensive wardrobe, containing five pairs of white gloves alone, was the only property that the failed bank investor had bequeathed to his son. The items that looked best on him were the silk waistcoat from Burgess and the patent leather shoes from Pironet. The almost new top hat from Blanc was not too bad either, except that it tended to creep down over his eyes. But that was all right—hand it to the servant at the door and the problem was solved. Erast Fandorin decided not to take a cane; he felt that would be in rather bad taste. He rotated in front of the chipped mirror in the dark hallway and was pleased by what he saw, above all by the waistline that was maintained so ideally by the strict Lord Byron. In his waistcoat pocket lay a silver ruble, provided by Xavier Grushin for a bouquet (“a decent one, but nothing too fancy”).
What kind of fancy bouquet would a ruble get you
? Erast Fandorin sighed to himself, and he decided to add fifty kopecks of his own—then he could afford Parma violets.

The bouquet meant that he had to go without a cab, and Erast Fandorin did not arrive at the palace of Cleopatra (the sobriquet which suited Amalia Kazimirovna Bezhetskaya best of all) until a quarter past eight.

The guests were already assembled. While he was still in the front hall after being admitted by the maid, Fandorin heard the droning of a large number of men’s voices, punctuated every now and again by
that
voice, with its magical, silver-and-crystal tones. Lingering for a second at the threshold, Erast Fandorin gathered his courage and strode in with a distinct nonchalance, hoping to produce the impression of an experienced man of the world. He need not have bothered—no one even turned to look at the new arrival.

Fandorin’s gaze encountered a hall furnished with comfortable morocco leather divans, velvet chairs, and elegant little tables—it was all very stylish and modern. At the center, her feet planted on a tiger-skin rug, stood the mistress of the house, dressed in Spanish costume—a scarlet dress with a corsage and a crimson camellia set in her hair. She looked so lovely that Fandorin caught his breath. He did not immediately examine the guests, merely registering the fact that they were all men and that Akhtyrtsev was there, sitting somewhat apart from the others and looking terribly pale.

“Ah, here is the new admirer,” Bezhetskaya announced, glancing with an ironic smile in Fandorin’s direction. “That makes it a perfect baker’s dozen. I shan’t introduce everybody—it would take too long. You must tell us your name. I recall that you are a student, but I’m afraid I’ve forgotten your name.”

“Fandorin,” Erast Fandorin squeaked in a voice that trembled treacherously, then repeated the name again, more firmly, “Fandorin.”

Everybody glanced across at him but only cursorily; it was evident that the newly arrived young fellow did not really interest them. It quite soon became clear that in this company there was only one center of interest. The guests scarcely spoke to one another at all, addressing themselves predominantly to their hostess. Each of them, even a grave-looking old man wearing a diamond star, vied with the others to achieve a single goal—to attract her attention and eclipse the others, if only for an instant. There were only two who behaved differently—the taciturn Akhtyrtsev, who swigged incessantly from a bottle of champagne, and an officer of the hussars, a well-set-up young fellow with a slight slant to his eyes and a smile that was all white teeth and black mustache. He gave the appearance of being rather bored and hardly even looked at Amalia Bezhetskaya, contemplating the other guests with a wry grin of contempt. Cleopatra clearly favored this rascal, calling him simply ‘Hippolyte,’ and on a couple of occasions she cast him a glance that sent a melancholy pang through Erast Fandorin’s heart.