The Diamond Chariot

SNOW AT THE NEW YEAR




‘That’s a classic trick of theirs. If I remember correctly, it’s called mamusi-gama, “the snake sickle”, isn’t it?’ Twigs asked the Japanese inspector. ‘Tell the vice-consul about it.’

Asagawa replied respectfully.

‘You’d better tell it, Sensei. I’m sure you are far better read on this matter and also, to my shame, know the history of my country better.’

‘Just what are these shinobi?’ Lockston exclaimed impatiently.

‘The “Stealthy Ones”,’ the doctor explained, finally grasping the helm of the conversation firmly. ‘A caste of spies and hired killers – the most skilful in the entire history of the world. The Japanese love to pursue any skill to perfection, so they attain the very highest levels both in what is good and what is bad. These semi-mythical knights of the cloak and dagger are also known as rappa, suppa or ninja.’

‘Ninja?’ the titular counsellor repeated, remembering that he had already heard that word from Doronin. ‘Go on, Doctor, go on!’

‘The things they write about the ninja are miraculous. Supposedly, they could transform themselves into frogs, birds and snakes, fly through the sky, jump from high walls, run across water and so on, and so forth. Of course, most of this is fairy tales, some of them invented by the shinobi themselves, but some things are true. I have taken an interest in their history and read dissertations written by famous masters of ninjutsu, “the secret art”, and I can confirm that they could jump from a sheer wall twenty yards high; with the help of special devices, they could walk through bogs; they crossed moats and rivers by walking across the bottom and did all sorts of other genuinely fantastic things. This caste had its own morality, a quite monstrous one from the viewpoint of the rest of humanity. They elevated cruelty, treachery and deceit to the rank of supreme virtues. There was even a saying: “as cunning as ninja”. They earned their living by taking commissions for murder. It cost an immense amount of money, but the ninja could be relied on. Once they took a commission, they never deviated from it, even if it cost them their lives. And they always achieved their goal. The shinobi code encouraged treachery, but never in relation to the client, and everyone knew that.

‘They lived in isolated communities and they prepared for their future trade from the cradle. I’ll tell you a story that will help you to understand how the young shinobi were raised.

‘A certain famous ninja had powerful enemies, who managed to kill him and cut off his head, but they weren’t absolutely certain that he was the right man. They showed their trophy to the man’s eight-year-old son and asked: “Do you recognise him?” The boy didn’t shed a single tear, because that would have shamed the memory of his father, but the answer was clear from his face in any case. The little ninja buried the head with full honours and then, overcome by his loss, slit his stomach open and died, without a single groan, like a true hero. The enemies went back home, reassured, but the head they had shown the boy actually belonged to a man he did not know, whom they had killed in error.’

‘What self-control! What heroism!’ exclaimed Erast Petrovich, astounded. ‘So much for the Spartan boy and his fox cub!’

The doctor smiled contentedly.

‘You liked the story? Then I’ll tell you another one. It’s also about self-sacrifice, but from a quite different angle. This particular plot could not very well have been used by European novelists like Sir Walter Scott or Monsieur Dumas. Do you know how the great sixteenth-century general Uesugi was killed? Then listen.

‘Uesugi knew they were trying to kill him, and he had taken precautions that prevented any killer from getting anywhere near him, but even so, the ninja accepted the commission. The task was entrusted to a dwarf – dwarf ninja were prized especially highly, they were deliberately raised using special clay jugs. This man was called Jinnai, and he was less than three feet tall. He had been trained since his childhood to act in very narrow and restricted spaces.

‘The killer entered the castle by way of a crevice that only a cat could have got through, but not even a mouse could have squeezed through into the prince’s chambers, so Jinnai was obliged to wait for a very long time. Do you know what place he chose to wait in? One that the general was bound to visit sooner or later. When the prince was away from the castle and the guards relaxed their vigilance somewhat, Jinnai slipped through to His Excellency’s latrine, jumped down into the cesspit and hid himself up to the throat in the appetising slurry. He stayed there for several days, until his victim returned. Eventually Uesugi went to relieve himself. As always, he was accompanied by his bodyguards, who walked in front of him, behind him and on both sides. They examined the privy and even glanced into the hole, but Jinnai ducked his head down under the surface. And then he screwed some canes of bamboo together to make a spear and thrust it straight into the great man’s anus. Uesugi gave a bloodcurdling howl and died. The samurai who came running in never realised what had happened to him. The most amazing thing is that the dwarf remained alive. While all the commotion was going on above him, he sat there hunched up, breathing through a tube, and the next day made his way out of the castle and informed his jonin that he had completed his task …’

‘Who d-did he inform?’

‘His jonin, that’s the general of the clan, the strategist. He accepted commissions, decided which of his chyunins, or officers, should be charged with planning an operation, while the actual killing and spying were done by the genins, or soldiers. Every genin strove to achieve perfection in some narrow sphere in which he had no equals. For instance, in soundless walking, shinobi-aruki; or in intonjutsu – moving without making a sound or casting a shadow; or in fukumi-bari – poison-spitting.’

‘Eh?’ said Lockston, pricking up his ears. ‘In what?’

‘The ninja put a hollow bamboo pipe in his mouth, with several needles smeared with poison lying in it. A master of fukumi-bari could spit them out in a volley to quite a significant distance, ten or fifteen paces. The art of changing one’s appearance rapidly was particularly prized by the shinobi. They write that when the famous Yaemon Yamada ran through a crowd, eyewitnesses later described six different men, each with his own distinguishing features. A shinobi tried not to show other people his real face in any case – it was reserved for fellow clan-members. They could change their appearance by acquiring wrinkles or losing them, changing their manner of walking, the form of their nose and mouth, even their height. If a ninja was caught in a hopeless situation and was in danger of being captured, he killed himself, but first he always mutilated his face – his enemies must not see it, even after his death. There was a renowned shinobi who was known as Sarutobi, or Monkey Jump, a name he was given because he could leap like a monkey: he slept on the branches of trees, simply leapt over spears that were aimed at him and so forth. One day, when he jumped down off the wall of the Shogun’s castle, where he had been sent to spy, Sarutobi landed in a trap and the guards came rushing towards him, brandishing their swords. Then the ninja cut off his foot, tied a tourniquet round his leg in an instant and started jumping on his other leg. But when he realised he wouldn’t get away, he turned towards his pursuers, reviled them in the foulest possible language and pierced his own throat with his sword: but first, as it says in the chronicle, “he cut off his face”.’

‘What does that mean, “cut off his face”?’ asked Fandorin.

‘It’s not clear exactly. It must be a figurative expression that means “slashed”, “mutilated”, “rendered unrecognisable”.’

‘And what was it you s-said about a snake? Mamusi-gama, wasn’t it?’

‘Yes, the “Stealthy Ones” were famous for making very skilful use of animals to achieve their goals: messenger pigeons, hunting hawks, even spiders, frogs and snakes. That is the origin of the legend about them being able to transform themselves into any kind of animal. Shinobi very often used to carry adders about with them, and the snakes never bit them. A snake could come in useful for preparing a potion – the ninja would squeeze a few drops of venom out of it; or for releasing into an enemy’s bed; or even just as a deterrent. A “sickle-snake” was when a mamusi was tied to the handle of a sickle. By waving this exotic weapon about, a ninja could reduce a whole crowd of people to panic and then exploit the stampede to make his escape.’

‘It fits! It all fits!’ Erast Petrovich said excitedly, jumping to his feet. ‘The captain was killed by a ninja using his secret art. And I saw that man yesterday! Now we know who to look for! An old shinobi with links to the Satsuman samurai.’

The doctor and the inspector exchanged glances. Twigs had a slightly confused air, and the Japanese shook his head, as if in gentle reproof.

‘Mr Twigs has given us a very interesting lecture,’ Asagawa said slowly, ‘but he forgot to mention one important detail … There have not been any devious shinobi for three hundred years.’

‘It’s true,’ the doctor confirmed in a guilty voice. ‘I probably should have warned you about that at the very beginning, in order not to lead you astray.’

‘Where did they g-go to?’

There was a note of genuine disappointment in the titular counsellor’s voice.

‘Apparently I shall have to carry my “lecture”, as the inspector called it, right through to the end,’ said the doctor, setting his hands on his chest as if asking for Asagawa’s forgiveness. ‘Three hundred years ago the “Stealthy Ones” lived in two valleys divided off from each other by a mountain range. The major clan occupied the Iga valley, hence their name: iga-ninja. Fifty-three families of hereditary spies ruled this small province, surrounded on all sides by sheer cliffs. The “Stealthy Ones” had something like a republic, governed by an elected jonin. The final ruler was called Momochi Tamba, and legends circulated about him even during his lifetime. The emperor granted him an honorary crest with seven moons and an arrow. The chronicle tells of how a wicked sorceress put a curse on Kyoto in a fit of fury: seven moons lit up in the sky above the emperor’s capital, and all the people in the city trembled in terror at this unprecedented disaster. The emperor called on Tamba to help. He took one look at the sky, raised his bow and unerringly dispatched an arrow into the moon that was the sorceress’s disguise. The villainous woman was killed, and the evil apparition was dispelled. God only knows what actually happened, but the very fact that stories like that circulated about Tamba indicates that his reputation must have been truly legendary. But, to his own cost, the mighty jonin quarrelled with an even more powerful man, the great dictator Nobunaga. And this is no fairy tale, it’s history.

‘Three times Nobunaga sent armies to wage war on the province of Iga. The first two times the small number of ninja defeated the samurai. They attacked the punitive expedition’s camp at night, starting fires and sowing panic; they wiped out the finest commanders; they changed into the enemy’s uniform and provoked bloody clashes between different units of the invading army. Thousands of warriors lay down their lives in the mountain gorges and passes …

‘Eventually Nobunaga’s patience gave out. In the Ninth Year of Celestial Justice, that is, in the year 1581 of the Christian calendar, the dictator came to Iga with an immense army, several times larger than the population of the valley. The samurai exterminated all living creatures along their way: not just women and children, but domestic cattle, wild mountain animals, even lizards, mice and snakes – they were afraid that they were transformed shinobi. Worst of all was the fact that the invaders were assisted by the ninja from the neighbouring province of Koga, the koga-ninja. They it was who ensured Nobunaga’s victory, since they knew all the cunning tricks and stratagems of the “Stealthy Ones”.

‘Momochi Tamba and the remnants of his army made their stand in an old shrine on the mountain of Hijiama. They fought until they were all killed by arrows and fire. The last of the “Stealthy Ones” slit their own throats, after first “cutting off” their faces.

‘The death of Tamba and his men basically put an end the history of the shinobi. The koga-ninja were rewarded with the rank of samurai and henceforth served as guards at the Shogun’s palace. Wars came to an end, there was peace in the country for two hundred and fifty years and there was no demand for the skills of the shinobi. In their rich, idle new service, the former magicians of secret skills lost all their abilities in just a few generations. During the final period of the shogunate, before the revolution, the descendants of the “Stealthy Ones” guarded the women’s quarters. They grew fat and lazy. And the most important event in their lives now was a snowfall.’

‘What?’ asked Erast Petrovich, thinking that he must have misheard.

‘That’s right.’ The doctor laughed. ‘A perfectly ordinary snowfall which, by the way, doesn’t happen every year in Tokyo. If snow fell on New Year’s Day, they held a traditional amusement at the palace: the female servants divided up into two armies and pelted each other with snowballs. Two teams squealing in excitement – one in white kimonos, the other in red – went to battle to amuse the Shogun and his courtiers. In the middle, keeping the two armies apart, stood a line of ninja, dressed in black uniforms. Naturally, most of the snowballs hit their faces, now rendered quite obtuse by centuries of idleness, and everyone watching rolled about in laughter. Such was the inglorious end of the sect of appalling assassins.’

One more page turning,

A new chapter in the book.

Snow at the New Year





A WHITE HORSE IN A LATHER




Fandorin, however, was not convinced by this story.

‘I’m used to putting my trust in the facts. And they testify that the shinobi have not disappeared. One of your idle, bloated guards managed to carry the secrets of this terrible trade down through the centuries.’

‘Impossible,’ said Asagawa, shaking his head. ‘When they became palace guards, the shinobi were granted the title of samurai, which means they undertook to live according to the laws of bushido, the knight’s code of honour. They didn’t become stupid, they simply rejected the villainous arsenal of their ancestors – treachery, deceit, underhand murder. None of the Shogun’s vassals would have secretly preserved such shameful skills and passed them on to his children. I respectfully advise you to abandon this theory, Mr Vice-Consul.’

‘Well, and what if it isn’t a descendant of the medieval ninja?’ the doctor exclaimed. ‘What if it’s someone who taught himself? After all, there are treatises with detailed descriptions of the ninja’s methods, their instruments, their secret potions! I myself have read the Tale of the Mysteries of the Stealthy Ones, written in the seventeenth century by a certain Kionobu from a renowned shinobi family. And after that there was the twenty-two-volume work Ten Thousand Rivers Flow into the Sea, compiled by Fujibayashi Samuji-Yasutake, a scion of yet another family respected among the ninja. We can assume that there are other, even more detailed manuscripts not known to the general public. It would have been quite possible to resurrect the lost art using these instructions!’

The inspector did not answer, but the expression on his face made it quite clear that he did not believe in the probability of anything of the kind. Moreover, it seemed to Fandorin that Asagawa was not much interested in discussing the shinobi in any case. Or was that just Japanese reserve?

‘So,’ said Erast Petrovich, casting a keen glance at the inspector as he started his provisional summing-up. ‘So far we have very little to go on. We know what Captain Blagolepov’s presumed killer looks like. That is one. But if this man does possess the skills of the shinobi, then he can certainly alter his appearance. We have two identical thumbprints. That is two. But we do not know if we can rely on this method of identification. That leaves the third lead: the owner of the Rakuen. Tell me, Agasawa-san, has your investigation turned anything up yet?’

‘Yes,’ the Japanese replied imperturbably. ‘If you have finished analysing your theory, with your permission I shall report on the results of our efforts.’

‘B-by all means.’

‘Last night, at sixteen minutes past two, Semushi left the Rakuen via a secret door that my agents had discovered earlier. As he walked along the street he behaved very cautiously, but our men are experienced and the hunchback did not realise he was being followed. He went to the godaun of the Sakuraya Company in the Fukushima quarter.’

‘What is a g-godaun?’

‘A warehouse, a goods depot,’ Lockston explained quickly. ‘Go on, go on! What did he do there, in the godaun? How long did he stay there?’

Without hurrying, Asagawa took out a small scroll completely covered with hieroglyphs and ran his finger down the vertical lines.

‘Semushi spent fourteen minutes in the godaun. Our agents do not know what he did there. When he came out, one of my men followed him, the other stayed behind.’

‘That’s right,’ Fandorin said with a nod and immediately felt embarrassed – the inspector clearly knew his business and had no need of the vice-consul’s approval.

‘Seven minutes after that,’ Asagawa continued in the same even voice, ‘three men came out of the godaun. It is not known if they were Satsumans, since they did not speak to each other, but one was holding his left arm against his side. The agent is not entirely certain, but he got the impression that the arm was twisted.’

‘The man with the withered arm!’ the sergeant gasped. ‘Why didn’t you say anything earlier, Go?’

‘My name is Goemon,’ the Japanese corrected the American – apparently he was more protective of his name than Fandorin. But he left the question unanswered. ‘The agent entered the godaun and carried out a search, trying not to disturb anything. He found three finely made katanas. One katana had an unusual hilt, covered with glasspaper …’

At this point all three listeners started talking at once.

‘It’s them! It’s them!’ said Twigs, throwing his hands up in the air.

‘Damnation!’ said Lockston, flinging his cigar away. ‘Damn you to hell, you tight-lipped whore.’

Fandorin expressed the same idea, only more articulately:

‘And you only tell us this now? After we’ve spent the best part of an hour discussing events that happened in the sixteenth century?’

‘You are in charge, I am your subordinate,’ Asagawa said coolly. ‘We Japanese are accustomed to discipline and subordination. The senior speaks first, then the junior.’

‘Did you hear the tone that was spoken in, Rusty?’ the sergeant asked, with a sideways glance at Fandorin. ‘That’s the reason I don’t like them. The words are polite, but the only thing on their minds is how to make you look like a dumb cluck.’

Still looking only at the titular counsellor, the Japanese remarked:

‘To work together, it is not necessary to like each other.’

Erast Petrovich did not like it any more than Lockston when he was ‘made to look like a dumb cluck’, and so he asked very coolly:

‘I assume, Inspector, that these are all the facts of which you wish to inform us?’

‘There are no more facts. But there are hypotheses. If these are of any value to you, with your permission …’

‘Out with it, d-damn you. Speak, don’t d-drag things out!’ Fandorin finally exploded, but immediately regretted his outburst – the lips of the intolerable Japanese trembled in a faint sneer, as if to say: I knew you were the same kind, only pretending to be well bred.

‘I am speaking. I am not dragging things out.’ A polite inclination of the head. ‘The three unknown men left the godaun unarmed. In my humble opinion, this means two things. Firstly, they intend to come back. Secondly, somehow they know that Minister Okubo is now well guarded, and they have abandoned their plan. Or have decided to wait. The minister’s impatience and his dislike of bodyguards are well known.’

‘The godaun, of c-course, is under observation?’

‘Very strict and precise observation. Top specialists have been sent from Tokyo to assist me. As soon as the Satsumans show up, I shall be informed immediately, and we will be able to arrest them. Naturally, with the vice-consul’s sanction.’

The final phrase was pronounced in such an emphatically polite tone that Fandorin gritted his teeth – the odour of derision was so strong.

‘Thank you. But you seem to have d-decided everything without me.’

‘Decided – yes. However, it would be impolite to make an arrest without you. And also without you, of course, Mr Sergeant.’ Another derisively polite little bow.

‘Sure thing,’ said Lockston, with a fierce grin. ‘That’s all we need, for the local police to start treating the Settlement like its own territory. But what I have to tell you guys is this. Your plan is shit. We need to get down to that godaun as quickly as possible, set up an ambush and nab these perpetrators on their way in. While they’re still unarmed and haven’t got to their swords yet.’

‘With all due respect for your point of view, Mr Lockston, these men cannot be “nabbed while they’re still unarmed and haven’t got to their swords yet”.’

‘And why so?’

‘Because Japan isn’t America. We need to have proof of a crime. There is no evidence against the Satsumans. We have to arrest them with their weapons in their hands.’

‘Agasawa-san is right,’ Fandorin was obliged to admit.

‘You’re a new man here, Rusty, you don’t understand! If these three are experienced hitokiri, that is, cut-throats, they’ll slice up a whole heap of folks like cabbage!’

‘Or else, which is even more likely, they’ll kill themselves and the investigation will run into a dead end,’ the doctor put in. ‘They’re samurai! No, Inspector, your plan is definitely no good!’

Agasawa let them fume on for a little longer, then said:

‘Neither of these two things will happen. If you gentlemen would care to relocate to my station, I could show you how we intend to carry out the operation. And what’s more, it’s only a five-minute walk from the station to the Fukushima quarter.’

The Japanese police station, or keisatsu-syho, was not much like Sergeant Lockston’s office. The municipal bulwark of law enforcement made a formidable impression: a massive door with a bronze sign-plate, brick walls, iron roof, steel bars on the windows of the prison cell – all in all, a true bulwark, and that said it all. But Asagawa’s offices were located in a low house with walls of wooden planks and a tiled roof – it looked very much like a large shed or drying barn. True, there was a sentry on duty at the entrance, wearing a neat little uniform and polished boots, but this Japanese constable was quite tiny and he also had spectacles. Lockston snickered as he walked past him.

Inside the shed was very strange altogether.

The municipal policemen paraded solemnly, even sleepily, along the corridor, but here everyone dashed about like mice; they bowed rapidly on the move and greeted their superior abruptly. Doors were constantly opening and closing. Erast Petrovich glanced into one of them and saw a row of tables with a little clerk sitting at each one, all of them rapidly running brushes over pieces of paper.

‘The records department,’ Asagawa explained. ‘We regard it as the most important part of police work. When the authorities know who lives where and what he does, there are fewer crimes.’

A loud clattering sound could be heard from the other side of the corridor, as if an entire swarm of mischievous little urchins were wildly hammering sticks against the boards. Erast Petrovich walked across and took advantage of his height to look in through the little window above the door.

About twenty men in black padded uniforms and wire masks were bludgeoning each other as hard as they could with bamboo sticks.

‘Swordsmanship classes. Obligatory for all. But we’re not going there. We’re going to the shooting gallery.’

The inspector turned a corner and led his guests out into a courtyard that Fandorin found quite astonishing, it was so clean and well tended. The tiny little pond with its covering of duckweed and bright red carp tracing out majestic circles in the water was especially fine.

‘My deputy’s favourite pastime,’ Asagawa murmured, apparently slightly embarrassed. ‘He has a particular fondness for stone gardens … That’s all right, I don’t forbid it.’

Fandorin looked round, expecting to see sculptures of some kind, but he didn’t see any plants carved out of stone – nothing but fine gravel with several crude boulders lying on it, arranged without any sense of symmetry.

‘As I understand it, this is an allegory of the struggle between order and chaos,’ said the doctor, nodding with the air of a connoisseur. ‘Quite good, though perhaps a little unsubtle.’

The titular counsellor and the sergeant exchanged glances. The former with a baffled frown, the latter with a smirk.

They walked underground, into a long cellar illuminated by oil lamps. Targets and boxes of empty shell cases indicated that this was the firing range. Fandorin’s attention was drawn to three straw figures the height of a man. They were dressed in kimonos, with bamboo swords in their hands.

‘I most humbly request the respected vice-consul to listen to my plan,’ said Asagawa. He turned up the wicks in the lamps and the basement became lighter. ‘At my request, Vice-Intendant Suga has sent me two men who are good shots with a revolver. I tested them on these models, neither of them ever miss. We will allow the Satsumans to enter the godaun. Then we will arrive to arrest them. Only four men. One will pretend to be an officer, the other three ordinary patrolmen. If there were more, the Satsumans really might commit suicide, but in this case they will decide that they can easily deal with such a small group. They will take out their swords, and then the “officer” will drop to the floor – he has already played his part. The three “patrolmen” (they are the two men from Tokyo and myself) take their revolvers out from under their cloaks and open fire. We will fire at their arms. In that way, firstly, we will take the miscreants armed and, secondly, ensure that they cannot escape justice.’

The American nudged Erast Petrovich in the side with his elbow.

‘Hear that, Rusty? They’re going to fire at the arms. It’s not all that easy, Mr Go. Everyone knows what kind of marksmen the Japanese make! Maybe the plan’s OK, but you’re not the ones who should go.’

‘Who, then, if you will permit me to ask? And permit me to remind you that my name is Goemon.’

‘OK, OK, so it’s Gouemon. Who’s going to go and aerate those yellow- … those Satsumans? In the first place, of course, me. Tell me, Rusty, are you a good shot?’

‘Fairly good,’ Erast Petrovich replied modestly – he could plant all bullets in the cylinder on top of each other. ‘Naturally, from a long-barrelled weapon and with a firm support.’

‘Excellent. And we know all about you, Doc – you shoot the way you handle a scalpel. Of course, you’re an outsider and you’re not obliged to perform in our show, but if you’re not afraid.’

‘No, no,’ said Twigs, brightening up. ‘You know, I’m not at all afraid of shooting now. Hitting the target is much easier than sewing up a muscle neatly or putting in stitches.’

‘Attaboy, Lance! There you have your three “patrolmen”, Go. I’ll dress Rusty and Lens up in uniforms and we’ll be like three thick-headed municipal policemen. OK, so we’ll take you as the fourth – supposedly as our interpreter. You can make idle chat with us and then drop to the ground, and we’ll do the rest. Right, guys?’

‘Of course!’ the doctor exclaimed enthusiastically, very pleased at the prospect of being included.

Erast Petrovich thought how once a man had held a gun in his hand, even a man of the most peaceable of professions, he could never forget that sensation. And he would be eager to feel it again.

‘Pardon me for being so meticulous, but may I see how well you shoot, gentlemen?’ Asagawa asked. ‘I would not dare, of course, to doubt your word, but this is such an important operation and I am responsible for it, both to the vice-intendant and the minister himself.’

Twigs rubbed his hands together.

‘Well, as for me, I’ll be glad to show you. Will you be so good as to loan me one of your remarkable Colts, sir?’

The sergeant handed him a revolver. The doctor took off his frock coat, exposing his waistcoat. He wiggled the fingers of his right handle slightly, grasped the handle of the gun, took careful aim and his first shot broke one of the straw figure’s wrists – the bamboo sword fell to the floor.

‘Bravo, Lance!’

Twigs gagged at the powerful slap on his back. But the inspector shook his head.

‘Sensei, with all due respect … The bandits will not stand and wait while you take aim. This is not a European duel with pistols. You have to fire very, very quickly, and also take into account that your opponent will be moving at that moment.’

The Japanese pressed some kind of lever with his foot and the figures started rotating on their wooden base, like a carousel.

Lancelot Twigs batted his eyelids and lowered the revolver.

‘No … I never learned to do that … I can’t.’

‘Let me try!’

The sergeant moved the doctor aside. He stood with his feet wide apart, squatted down slightly, grabbed his Colt out of the holster and fired off four shots one after the other. One of the straw figures flopped off the stand and clumps of straw went flying in all directions.

Asagawa walked over and bent down.

‘Four holes, two in the chest, two in the stomach.’

‘What did you expect! Walter Lockston never misses.’

‘It won’t do,’ said the Japanese, straightening up. ‘We need them alive. We have to fire at their arms.’

‘Aha, you try it! It’s not as easy as it sounds!’

‘I’ll try it now. Would you mind spinning the turntable? Only, as fast as possible, please. And you, Mr Vice-Consul, give the command.’

The sergeant set the figures whirling so fast that they were just a blur.

Asagawa stood there, holding his hand in his pocket.

‘Fire!’ shouted Fandorin, and before he had even finished pronouncing this short word, the first shot rang out.

The inspector fired without taking aim, from the hip. Both figures stayed where they were.

‘Aha!’ Lockston howled triumphantly. ‘Missed!’

He stopped swaying the lever with his foot, the figures slowed down, and it became clear that the hand in which one of them was holding its sword had twisted slightly.

The doctor walked over and bent down.

‘Right in the tendon. With a wound like that, a man couldn’t even hold a pencil.’

The sergeant’s jaw dropped.

‘Damnation, Go! Where in hell did you learn to do that?’

‘Yes, indeed,’ Fandorin put in. ‘I’ve never seen anything like it, not even in the Italian circus, when the bullet maestro shot a nut off his own daughter’s head.’

Asagawa lowered his eyes modestly.

‘You could call it the “Japanese circus”,’ he said. ‘All I have done is combine two of our ancient arts: battojutsu and inu-omono. The first is …’

‘I know, I know!’ Erast Petrovich interrupted excitedly. ‘It’s the art of drawing a sword from its scabbard at lightning speed. It can be learned! But what is inu-omono?’

‘The art of shooting at running dogs from a bow,’ the miracle marksman replied, and the titular counsellor’s enthusiasm wilted – this was too high a price to pay for miraculous marksmanship.

‘Tell me, Asagawa-san,’ said Fandorin, ‘are you sure that your other two men fire as well as that?’

‘Far better. That is why my target is the man with the withered arm, one well-placed bullet will be enough for him. But no doubt Mr Vice-Consul also wishes to demonstrate his skill. I’ll just order the targets’ arms to be reattached.’

Erast Petrovich merely sighed.

‘Th-thank you. But I can see the Japanese police will conduct this operation in excellent fashion without involving us.’

However, there was no operation; once again the net that had been cast remained without a catch. The Satsumans did not return to the godaun, either in the daytime, the evening twilight or the darkness of night.

When the surrounding hills turned pink in the rays of the rising sun, Fandorin told the downcast inspector:

‘They won’t come now.’

‘But it can’t be! A samurai would never abandon his katana!’

By the end of the night there was almost nothing left of the inspector’s derisive confidence. He turned paler and paler and the corners of his mouth twitched nervously – it was clear that he was struggling to maintain the remnants of his self-control.

After the mockery of the previous day, Fandorin did not feel the slightest sympathy for the Japanese.

‘You shouldn’t have relied so much on your own efforts,’ he remarked vengefully. ‘The Satsumans spotted your men following them. No doubt samurai do value their swords highly, but they value their own skins even more. I’m going to bed.’

Asagawa flinched in pain.

‘But I’ll stay and wait,’ he forced out through clenched teeth, without any more phrases such as ‘with your permission’ or ‘if Mr Vice-Consul will be so kind as to allow me’.

‘As you wish.’

Erast Petrovich said goodbye to Lockston and the doctor and set off home.

The deserted promenade was shrouded in gentle, transparent mist, but the titular counsellor was not looking at the smart façades of the buildings, or the damply gleaming road – his gaze was riveted to that miracle not of human making that is called ‘sunrise over the sea’. As the young man walked along he thought that if everybody started their day by observing God’s world filling up with life, light and beauty, then squalor and villainy would disappear from the world – there would be no place for them in a soul bathed in the light of dawn.

It should be said that, owing to the course that Erast Petrovich’s life had taken, he was capable of abandoning himself to such beautiful reveries only when he was alone, and even then only for a very short time – his relentless reason immediately arranged everything in due order. ‘It’s quite possible that contemplating the sunrise over the sea would indeed reduce the incidence of crime during the first half of the day, only to increase it during the second half,’ the titular counsellor told himself. ‘Man is inclined to feel ashamed of his moments of sentimentality and starry-eyed idealism. Of course, for the sake of equilibrium, one could oblige the entire population of the earth to admire the sunset as well – another very fine sight. Only then it’s frightening to think how the overcast days would turn out …’

Fandorin heaved a sigh and turned away from the picture created by God to the landscape created by people. In this pure, dew-drenched hour the latter also looked rather fine, although by no means as perfect: there was an exhausted sailor sleeping under a street lamp with his cheek resting on his open palm, and on the corner an overly diligent yard keeper was scraping away with his broom.

Suddenly he dropped his implement and looked round, and at that very second Fandorin heard a rapidly approaching clatter and a woman screaming. A light two-wheeled gig came tearing wildly round the corner of the promenade. It almost overturned as one wheel lifted off the road, but somehow it righted itself again – the horse swerved just before the parapet, but it slowed its wild career only for a split second. Shaking its head with a despairing whinny and shedding thick flakes of lather, it set off at a crazy gallop along the seafront, rapidly approaching Fandorin.

There was a woman in the gig, holding on to the seat with both hands and screaming piercingly, her tangled hair fluttering in the wind – her hat must have flown off much earlier. Everything was clear – the horse had taken fright at something and bolted, and the lady had not been able to keep hold of the reins.

Erast Petrovich did not analyse the situation, he did not try to guess all the possible consequences in advance, he simply leapt off the pavement and started running in the same direction as the careering gig – as fast as it is possible to run when running backwards all the time.

The horse had a beautiful white coat, but it was craggy and low in the withers. The titular counsellor had already seen horses like this here in Yokohama. Vsevolod Vitalievich had said that it was a native Japanese breed, known for its petulant character, poorly suited to working in harness.

Fandorin had never stopped a bolting horse before but once, during the recent war, he had seen a Cossack manage it very deftly indeed and, with his usual intellectual curiosity, he had asked how it was done. ‘The important thing, squire, is that you keep your hands off the bridle,’ the young soldier had confided. ‘They don’t like that when they’ve got their dander up. You jump on her neck and bend her head down to the ground. And don’t yell and swear at her, shout something sweet and soothing: “There, my little darling, my little sweetheart”. She’ll see sense then. And if it’s a stallion, you can call him “little brother” and “fine fellah”.’

When the crazed animal drew level with him as he ran, Erast Petrovich put theory into practice. He jumped and clung to the sweaty, slippery neck, and immediately realised he did not know whether this was a stallion or a mare – there hadn’t been time to look. So to be on the safe side, he shouted out ‘sweetheart’ and ‘fine fellah’ and ‘little brother’ and ‘darling’.

At first it did no good. Perhaps he needed to do his coaxing in Japanese, or the horse didn’t like the weight on its neck, but the representative of the petulant breed snorted, shook its head and snapped at the titular counsellor’s shoulder with its teeth. When it missed, it started slowing its wild pace a little.

After another two hundred strides or so, the wild gallop finally came to an end. The horse stood there, trembling all over, with clumps of soapy lather slithering down its back and rump. Fandorin released his grip and got to his feet, staggering a little. The first thing he did was clarify the point that had occupied his mind throughout the brief period when he was playing the part of a carriage shaft.

‘Aha, so it’s a d-darling,’ Erast Petrovich muttered, and then he glanced at the lady he had rescued.

It was the Right Honourable Algernon Bullcox’s kept woman, she of the magical radiance, O-Yumi. Her hairstyle was destroyed and there was a long strand hanging down over her forehead, her dress was torn and he could see her white shoulder with a scarlet scratch on it. But even in this condition the owner of the unforgettable silver slipper was so lovely that the titular counsellor froze on the spot and fluttered his long eyelashes in bewilderment. It isn’t any kind of radiance, he thought. It’s blinding beauty. That’s why they call it that, because it’s as if it blinds you …

The thought also occurred to him that dishevelment was almost certainly not as becoming to him as it was to her. One sleeve of the titular counsellor’s frock coat had been completely torn off and was dangling at his elbow, the other sleeve had been chewed on by the mare, his trousers and shoes were black with grime and, most horrible of all, of course, was the acrid smell of horse sweat with which Erast Petrovich was impregnated from head to foot.

‘Are you unhurt, madam?’ he asked in English, backing away a little in order not to insult her sense of smell. ‘There is b-blood on your shoulder …’

She glanced at the scrape and lowered the edge of the dress even further, revealing the hollow under her collarbone, and Fandorin swallowed the end of his phrase.

‘Ah, I did that myself. I caught myself with the handle of the whip,’ the Japanese woman replied, and brushed away the bright coral-coloured drop carelessly with her finger.

The courtesan’s voice was surprisingly low and husky – unattractive by European standards – but there was something in its timbre that made Fandorin lower his eyes for a moment.

Taking a grip on himself, he looked into her face again and saw that she was smiling – she seemed to find his embarrassment amusing.

‘I see you were not very badly frightened,’ Erast Petrovich said slowly.

‘I was, very. But I have had time to calm down. You embraced my Naomi so ardently.’ Sparks of cunning glinted in her eyes. ‘Ah, you are a real hero! And if I, for my part, were a real Japanese woman, I should spend the rest of my days repaying my debt of gratitude. But I have learned many useful things from you foreigners. For instance, that it is possible simply to say “thank you, sir” and the debt is paid. Thank you, sir. I am most grateful to you.’

She half-rose off her seat and performed a graceful curtsy.

‘Don’t mention it,’ said Fandorin. As he inclined his head, he saw that damned dangling sleeve and pulled it right off quickly. He wanted very much to hear the sound of her voice again and asked: ‘Did you go out for a drive this early in the day? It is not five o’clock yet.’

‘I drive to the headland every morning to watch the sun rising over the sea. It is the finest sight in all the world,’ O-Yumi replied, pushing a lock of hair behind her little protruding ear, which was bright pink from the light shining through it.

Erast Petrovich looked at her in amazement – it was as if she had read his recent thoughts.

‘And do you always rise so early?’

‘No, I go to bed so late,’ the amazing woman said, laughing. Unlike her voice, her laughter was not husky at all, but clear and vibrant.

And now Fandorin wanted her to laugh some more. But he didn’t know how to make it happen. Perhaps say something humorous about the horse?

The titular counsellor absentmindedly patted the mare on the rump. It gave him a sideways glance from an inflamed eye and whinnied pitifully.

‘I’m terribly upset about my hat.’ O-Yumi sighed as she carried on tidying up her hair. ‘It was so beautiful! It blew off, and now I’ll never find it. That’s the price of patriotism for you. My friend warned me that a Japanese horse would never walk well in harness, but I decided to prove he was wrong.’

She meant Bullcox, Erast Petrovich guessed.

‘She won’t bolt now. She just needs to be led by the reins for a while … If you will p-permit me …’

He took the mare by the bridle and led her slowly along the promenade. Fandorin wanted very badly to glance back, but he kept himself in hand. After all, he was no young boy, to go gaping at beautiful women.

The silence dragged on. Erast Petrovich, we know, was being firm with himself, but why did she not say anything? Did women who have just been rescued from mortal danger really remain silent, especially in the presence of their rescuer?

A minute went by, then a second, and a third. The silence ceased to be a pause in the conversation and began acquiring some special meaning of its own. It is a well-known fact, at least in belles-lettres, that when a woman and a man who barely know each other do not speak for a long time, it brings them closer than any conversation.

Eventually the titular counsellor gave way and pulled the bridle very slightly towards himself, and when the mare shook its head in his direction, he half-turned, squinting at the Japanese woman out of the corner of his eye.

Apparently the thought of staring at his back had never even entered her head! She had turned away and opened a little mirror, and was busy with her face – she had even brushed her hair and pinned it up already, and powdered her little nose. So much for a significant silence!

Furious at his own stupidity, Fandorin handed the reins to O-Yumi and said firmly:

‘There, my lady. The horse is completely calm now. You can drive on, only take it gently and don’t let go of the reins.’

He raised the hat that had somehow miraculously remained on his head and was about to bow, but hesitated, wondering whether it was polite to leave without introducing himself. On the other hand, would that not be too much – to pay this dissolute woman the same courtesy as a society lady?

Courtesy won the day

‘P-pardon me, I forgot to introduce myself. I …’

She stopped him with a wave of her hand.

‘Don’t bother. The name will tell me very little. And I shall see what is important without any name.’

She gave him a long, intent stare and her tender lips started moving soundlessly.

‘And what do you see?’ Fandorin asked, unable to repress a smile.

‘Not very much as yet. You are loved by luck and by things, but not by destiny. You have lived twenty-two years in the world, but in fact you are older than that. And that is not surprising. You have often been within an inch of death and you have lost half of your heart, and that ages people rapidly … Well, then. Once again, thank you, sir. And goodbye.’

When he heard her mention half of his heart, Erast Petrovich shuddered. But the lady shook the reins with a piercing yell of ‘Yoshi, ikoo!’ and set the mare off at a spanking trot, despite his warning.

The horse called Naomi ran obediently, twitching its white pointed ears in a regular rhythm. Its hoofs beat out a jolly, silvery tattoo on the road.

And at journey’s end

You remember a white horse

Dashing through the mist