The Death of Achilles (8 page)

“And so on in the same vein. How’s that for civilization, eh?”

The governor was outraged.

“Shameless impudence! Of course, the anti-German feelings of the deceased are well known. We can all remember the genuine furor caused by his speech in Paris on the Slav question — it almost caused a serious falling-out between the emperor and the kaiser. “The road to Constantinople lies through Berlin and Vienna!” Strongly put, with no diplomatic niceties. But to stoop to murder! Why, it’s quite unheard-of! I shall inform His Majesty immediately! Even without Sobolev we’ll give those sausage-eaters a dose of medicine that will—”

“Your Excellency,” said Evgeny Osipovich, gently interrupting the fuming governor. “Should we not first listen to the rest of what Mr. Fan-dorin has to say?”

After that they had heard Erast Petrovich out without interruption, although his culminating proposal to limit themselves to placing Knabe under observation was clearly a disappointment to his listeners, as the remarks adduced above testify. To the chief of police Fandorin said: “To arrest Wanda would cause a scandal. By doing that we would dishonor the m-memory of the deceased and would be unlikely to achieve anything. We would only frighten Herr Knabe off. And in any case, I got the distinct impression from their conversation that Mademoiselle Wanda did not kill Sobolev. After all, Professor Welling’s autopsy did not reveal any traces of poison.”

“Precisely,” Pyotr Parmyonovich Khurtinsky said emphatically, addressing himself exclusively to Prince Dolgorukoi. “An entirely ordinary paralysis of the heart, Your Excellency. Most regrettable, but these things happen. Even in the very prime of life, as in the deceased’s case. I wonder whether the collegiate assessor might not have misheard. Or even — who knows — fantasized a little? After all, he himself admitted that German is not exactly his forte.”

Erast Petrovich gave the speaker a particularly keen look, but said nothing in reply. However, the redheaded gendarme jumped in.

“What do you mean, fantasized! Sobolev was in the very best of health! He hunted bears with a forked pole and bathed in a hole in the ice on the river! Are you trying to say that he lived through a hail of fire at Plevna and in the desert of Turkestan, but he couldn’t survive a bit of lovemaking? Rubbish! You should stick to gathering the city’s gossip, Mr. Khurtinsky, and not meddle in matters of espionage.”

Fandorin was surprised by this open confrontation, but the governor was apparently well used to such scenes. He raised a conciliatory hand.

“Gentlemen, gentlemen, do not argue. My head is spinning already. So many things to do after this death. Telegrams, condolences, deputations, they’ve covered the whole of Theater Lane with wreaths — you can’t get through on foot or by carriage. There are important individuals coming to the funeral; they have to be met and accommodated. This evening the war minister and the head of the General Staff will arrive. Tomorrow Grand Duke Kirill Alexandrovich will arrive and go directly to the funeral. And today I have to call on the Duke of Liecht-enburg. He and his wife happened by chance to be in Moscow. His wife, the Countess Mirabeau, is the sister of the deceased, and I must go and offer them my condolences. I have already sent notice to them. You come with me, Erast Petrovich, my dear fellow; you can go over everything with me once again in the carriage. We’ll consider together what best to do. And you, Evgeny Osipovich, please arrange to have both of them followed for the time being: this German and the girl. It would be good to intercept that little report that Knabe mentioned. I’ll tell you what. Let him write the report for his spymasters and then catch him red-handed with the evidence. And as soon as you have issued instructions for the surveillance, come straight back here to me, if you please. When Erast Petrovich and I get back, we’ll make a final decision. We can’t afford to make a mess of things. This business has the whiff of war about it.”

The general clicked his heels and went out, and Khurtinsky immediately darted across to the governor’s desk.

“Urgent papers, Your Excellency,” he said, bending right down to the prince’s ear.

“Are they so very urgent?” the governor growled. “You heard me, Petrusha, I’m in a hurry; the duke’s waiting.”

The court counselor set his open hand against the decoration on his starched breast.

“They must be dealt with immediately, Vladimir Andreevich. Look here — this is an estimate for completing the painting of the cathedral. I suggest awarding the commission to Mr. Gegechkori, a most excellent painter and a man with a very sound way of thinking. The amount he is asking is certainly not small, but then he will do the work on time — he is a man of his word. All that’s required is your signature here, and you can consider the matter completed.”

Pyotr Parmyonovich deftly set a sheet of paper in front of the governor and drew a second one out of his folder.

“And this, Vladimir Andreevich, is a plan for the excavation of an underground metropolitan railway, following the example of London. The contractor is Commercial Counselor Zykov. A great undertaking. I had the honor of reporting to you about it.”

“I remember,” Dolgorukoi growled. “So now they’ve dreamed up some city railway or other. How much money does it require?”

“A mere pittance. Zykov is asking only half a million for the surveying work. I’ve looked at the estimate and it’s perfectly sound.”

“
Only
,” sighed the prince. “When did you get so rich, Petka, that half a million became a mere pittance?” Then, noticing Fandorin’s amazement at observing him dealing in such a familiar fashion with the head of his secret section, he explained. “Pyotr Parmyonovich and I talk like close relatives. But, you know, he was raised in my house. My deceased cook’s little son. If only Parmyon, God rest his soul, could hear how casually you dispose of millions, Petrusha!”

Khurtinsky gave Erast Petrovich an angry sideways glance, evidently displeased at this reminder of his plebeian origins.

“And this concerns the prices for gas. I’ve drawn up a memorandum, Vladimir Andreevich. It would be good to reduce the tariff in order to make street lighting cheaper. To three rubles per thousand cubic feet. They’re taking too much as things are now.”

“All right, give me your papers; I’ll read them in the carriage and sign them,” said Dolgorukoi, getting to his feet. “It’s time to get going. It’s bad form to keep important people waiting. Let’s go, Erast Petrovich; we can discuss things along the way.”

In the corridor, Fandorin inquired with great politeness: “But tell me, Your Excellency, will the emperor himself not be coming? After all, it is Sobolev who has died, not just anybody.”

Dolgorukoi squinted at the collegiate assessor and declared emphatically: “He did not consider it possible. He has sent his brother, Kirill Alexandrovich. But why is not for us to know.”

Fandorin merely bowed without speaking.

They were not able to discuss things along the way. When they were already seated in the carriage — the governor on soft cushions and Erast Petrovich facing him on a leather-upholstered bench — the door suddenly swung open and the prince’s valet, Frol Vedishchev, clambered in, panting and gasping. He seated himself unceremoniously beside the prince and shouted to the driver: “Let’s go, Misha, let’s go!”

Then, without paying the slightest attention to Erast Petrovich, he swung around to face Dolgorukoi.

“Vladimir Andreevich, I’m going with you,” he declared in a tone that brooked no objections.

“Frolushka,” the prince said meekly. “I’ve taken my medicine, and now please don’t interfere; I have important things to talk over with Mr. Fandorin.”

“Never mind, your talk can wait,” the tyrant declared with an angry wave of his hand. “What were those papers that Petka slipped you?”

“Here they are, Frol,” said Vladimir Andreevich, opening his folder. “A commission for the artist Gegechkori to complete the murals in the cathedral. The estimate has been drawn up, see? And this is a contract for the merchant Zykov. We ‘re going to dig a railway underneath Moscow, so that people can get around more quickly. And there’s this — about reducing the prices for gas.”

Vedishchev glanced into the papers and announced determinedly: “You mustn’t give the cathedral to this Gegechkori; he’s a well-known swindler. Better give it to one of our own artists, from Moscow. They have to make a living, too. It will be cheaper and every bit as beautiful. Where are we going to get the money from? There isn’t any money. Gegechkori promised your Petka that he would decorate his dacha in Al-abino, that’s why Petka’s taking so much trouble on his behalf.”

“So you think we shouldn’t give the commission to Gegechkori,” Dolgorukoi asked pensively, and put the paper on the bottom of the pile.

“It doesn’t even bear thinking about,” snapped Frol. “And this underground railway is sheer stupidity. What’s the point of digging a hole in the ground and sending a steam engine down it? It’s just throwing the treasury’s money away. What an idiotic idea!”

“Well, you’re wrong about that,” the prince objected. “The metro is a good thing. Just look what the traffic’s like — we’re barely crawling along.”

It was true: The gubernatorial carriage was stuck at the turn onto Neglinnaya Street and, despite desperate efforts, the convoy of gendarmes was quite unable to clear the road, which, on a Saturday, was packed solid with the carts and wagons of traders from Okhotny Ryad.

Vedishchev shook his head, as though the prince himself should realize that his stubbornness was wrongheaded.

“But you know the councilors in the Municipal Duma will say old Dol-gorukoi’s finally lost his mind completely. And your enemies in St. Petersburg won’t miss dieir chance, either. Don’t sign it, Vladimir Andreevich.”

The governor gave a mournful sigh and set the second paper aside.

“And what about the gas?”

Vedishchev took the memorandum, held it away from himself, and began moving his lips soundlessly.

“That’s all right, you can sign it. It saves the city money and it eases the burden on the people of Moscow.”

“That’s what I think, too,” said the prince, brightening up. He folded down the small desk with a writing set that was attached to the carriage door and affixed his sprawling signature to the document.

Erast Petrovich was astounded by this incredible scene, but he made a great effort to act as if nothing out of the ordinary were taking place, gazing out the window with intense interest. At that very moment they arrived at the house of Princess Beloselskaya-Belozerskaya, where the Duke of Liechtenburg was staying with his wife, nee Zinaida Dmitrievna Soboleva, who had been granted the title of the Countess Mirabeau in morganatic marriage.

Erast Petrovich knew that Evgeny of Liechtenburg, a major-general in the Russian Guards and commander of the Potsdam Life-Cuirassiers, was the grandson of the emperor Nikolai Pavlovich. He had not, however, inherited the famous basilisk stare of his fearsome grandfather — his highness’s own eyes were the color of blue Saxon porcelain and they peered out through his pince-nez with an expression of mild courtesy. The countess, on the other hand, proved to resemble her famous brother greatly. Although she lacked his physical stature and her bearing was far from martial, while the oval outline of her face was delicately defined, nonetheless, her blue eyes were precisely the same as his and she was the exact same breed — unmistakably a Sobolev. The audience went awry from the very beginning.

“The countess and I came to Moscow on a quite diffewent matter, and then there was this tewwible calamity,” the duke began, rolling his r’s in a most engaging fashion and supporting his words by flapping his hand, the middle finger of which was adorned with an old sapphire.

Zinaida Dmitrievna did not allow her husband to finish.

“How, how could it have happened?” she exclaimed, and the large tears streamed down her face, which, even swollen as it was by her lamentations, remained delightful. “Prince, Vladimir Andreevich, the grief is unbearable!”

The countess’s mouth twisted and froze into the double curve of a yoke and she was unable to carry on speaking.

“Evewything is in God’s hands,” the bewildered duke muttered and glanced in panic at Dolgorukoi and Fandorin.

“Evgeny Maximilianovich, Your Highness, I assure you that the circumstances of your relative’s untimely demise are being thoroughly investigated,” the governor declared in an agitated voice. “Mr. Fandorin here, my deputy for highly important assignments, is dealing with the case.”

Erast Petrovich bowed and the duke’s gaze dwelt for a moment on the young functionary’s face, but the countess dissolved in even more bitter tears.

“Zinaida Dmitrievna, my darling girl,” said the prince, sobbing himself now. “Erast Petrovich was your brother’s comrade in war. And as chance would have it, he put up at the same hotel, the Dusseaux. He is a very intelligent and experienced investigator; he will get to the bottom of everything and report back to me. But what’s the point of crying, it won’t bring him back…”

Evgeny Maximilianovich’s pince-nez glinted coldly and imperiously.

“If Mr. Fandorin should discover anything important, please inform me personally about it immediately. Until Grand Duke Kiwill Alexandwovich awwives, I wepwesent the person of His Majesty the Empewor here.”

Erast Petrovich bowed once again without speaking.

“Yes, His Majesty…” Zinaida Dmitrievna took a crumpled telegram out of her small handbag with shaking hands. “A telegram has arrived from His Majesty.”

Shocked and grieved by sudden death of Adjutant General Sobolev
.

She sobbed and blew her nose, then continued reading.

He will be hard for the Russian army to replace and, of course, this loss is greatly lamented by all true soldiers
.
It is sad to lose such useful people who are so devoted to their work. Alexander
.

Fandorin raised his eyebrows slightly — the telegram had sounded rather cold to him. “Hard to replace?” Meaning that the general could be replaced after all? “Sad” — and nothing more?