The Diamond Chariot

THE FINAL SMILE




That day he saw her again. Nothing surprising in that – Yokohama was a small town.

Erast Petrovich was making his way back to the consulate along Main Street in the evening, after a meeting with the sergeant and the inspector, and he saw the flame-haired Bullcox and his concubine drive by in a brougham. The Englishman was dressed in something crimson (Fandorin hardly even glanced at him); his companion was wearing a black, figure-hugging dress and a hat with an ostrich feather and a gauzy veil that did not conceal her face, but seemed merely to envelop her features in a light haze.

The titular counsellor bowed slightly, trying to make the movement express nothing but quite ordinary courtesy. O-Yumi did not respond to the bow, but she gave him a long, strange look, and Erast Fandorin tried to penetrate its meaning for a long time afterwards. Seeking something, slightly uneasy? Yes, that was probably it: she seemed to be trying to make out something concealed in his face, simultaneously hoping and fearing to find it.

With some effort, he forced himself to put this nonsense out of his mind and redirect his thoughts to important matters.

They next time they met was the next day, in the afternoon. Lieutenant Captain Bukhartsev had come from Tokyo to find out how the investigation was progressing. Unlike in the first meeting, the maritime agent behaved like a perfect angel. His attitude to the titular counsellor had changed completely – his manner was polite, he spoke little and listened attentively.

They learned nothing new from him, only that Minister Okubo was being guarded night and day, he hardly ever left his residence, and was in a terrible rage as a result. He might not hold out for the promised week.

Erast Petrovich briefly outlined the state of affairs to his compatriot. The Satsumans had disappeared without trace. The watch being kept on the hunchback had been intensified, since it had now been established for certain that he was in league with the conspirators, but so far the secret surveillance had not yielded anything useful. The owner of the Rakuen spent all his time at his gambling den; in the early morning he went home to sleep, then came back to the den. And there were no leads.

Fandorin also showed Bukhartsev the items of evidence they had collected – they were displayed on the sergeant’s desk especially for the occasion: the three swords, the celluloid collar and the mirror.

The lieutenant captain examined the last two items though a magnifying glass, then examined the fleshy pad of his own thumb for a long time through the same magnifying glass, shrugged and said: ‘Twaddle.’

As the vice-consul was showing the maritime agent to his carriage, he held forth on the importance of the job Fandorin had been given.

‘… We can either increase the effectiveness of our influence to unprecedented heights – that is, if you manage to catch the killers – or undermine our reputation and provoke the displeasure of the all-powerful minister, who will not forgive us for putting him in a cage,’ Mstislav Nikolaevich pontificated confidentially in a hushed voice.

The titular counsellor listened with a slight frown – first, because he knew all this already in any case, and, secondly, because he was irritated by the familiar way in which the embassy popinjay had set one hand on his shoulder.

Bukhartsev suddenly broke off in mid-word and whistled.

‘What a pretty little monkey!’

Fandorin looked round.

For a moment he didn’t recognise her, because this time she had a tall, complicated hairstyle and was dressed in the Japanese manner, in a white kimono with blue irises, and holding a little light-blue parasol. Erast Petrovich had seen beauties like that in ukiyo-e prints, but after spending several days in Japan, he had decided that the elegant, charming female figures of the ukiyo-e were a mere fabrication, like all the other fantasies of European ‘japonisme’, but O-Yumi was every bit as lovely as the beauties immortalised by the Japanese artist Utamaro, whose works were now sold in the saloons of Paris for substantial amounts of money. She floated by, with a sideways glance at Erast Petrovich and his companion. Fandorin bowed, Bukhartsev gallantly raised one hand to the peak of his cap.

‘Oh, the neck, the neck!’ the maritime agent moaned. ‘I adore those collars of theirs. More provocative in their own way than our low necklines.’

The high collar of the kimono was lowered at the back. Erast Petrovich was unable to tear his eyes away from the delicate curls on the back of the head and the vulnerable hollow in the neck, and especially from the ears that protruded in such a touchingly childish fashion. She must still be a real child in terms of years, he suddenly thought. Her mocking wit is no more than a mask, a defence against the coarse and cruel world in which she has spent her life. Like the thorns on a rose bush.

He took his leave of Bukhartsev absentmindedly, barely even turning his head towards him – he was still watching that slim figure walking away, floating across the square.

Suddenly O-Yumi stopped, as if she had sensed his gaze.

She turned round and walked back.

Realising that she was not simply walking back, but coming towards him, Fandorin took a few steps towards her.

‘Be wary of that man,’ O-Yumi said rapidly, swaying her chin to indicate the direction in which the lieutenant captain had driven off. ‘I don’t know who he is, but I can see he is pretending to be your friend, while he really wishes you harm. He has written a report denouncing you today, or he will write one.’

When she finished speaking, she tried to walk away, but Erast Petrovich blocked her path. Two bearded, emaciated faces observed this scene curiously through the barred windows of the police station. The constable on duty at the door also looked on with a grin.

‘You’re very fond of making a dramatic exit, but this time I demand an answer. What is this nonsense about a report? Who told you about it?’

‘His face. Or rather, a wrinkle in the corner of his left eye, in combination with the line and colour of his lips.’ O-Yumi smiled gently. ‘Don’t look at me like that. I am not joking or playing games with you. In Japan we have the ancient art of ninso, which allows us to read a person’s face like an open book. Very few people possess this skill, but there have been masters of ninso in our family for the last two hundred years.’

Before he came to Japan, of course, the titular counsellor would have laughed at hearing a tall tale like this, but now he knew that in this country there really were countless numbers of the most incredible ‘arts’, and so he didn’t laugh, but merely asked:

‘Reading a face like a book? Something like physiognomics?’

‘Yes, only much broader and more detailed. A ninso master can interpret the shape of the head, and the form of the body, and the manner of walking and the voice – in short, everything that a person tells the outside world about himself. We can distinguish a hundred and forty-four different gradations of colour on the skin, two hundred and twelve types of wrinkles, thirty-two smells and much, much more. I am far from complete mastery of the skills that my father possesses, but I can precisely determine a man’s age, thoughts, his recent past and immediate future …’

When he heard about the future, Fandorin realised that he was being toyed with after all. What a credulous fool he was!

‘Well, and what have I been doing today? No, better still, tell me what I have been thinking about,’ he said with an ironic smile.

‘In the morning you had a headache, here.’ Her light fingers touched Fandorin’s temple, and he started – either in surprise (she was right about the headache), or simply at her touch. ‘You were prey to sad thoughts. That often happens to you in the morning. You were thinking about a woman who no longer exists. And you were also thinking about another woman, who is alive. You were imagining all sorts of scenes that made you feel heated.’

Erast Petrovich blushed bright red and the sorceress smiled cunningly, but did not elaborate on the subject.

‘This is not magic,’ she said in a more serious voice. ‘Merely the fruit of centuries of research pursued by highly observant individuals, intent on their craft. The right half of the face is you, the left half is people connected with you. For instance, if I see a little inshoku-coloured pimple on the right temple, I know that this person is in love. But if I see the same pimple on the left temple, then someone is in love with them.’

‘No, you are mocking me after all!’

O-Yumi shook her head.

‘The recent past can be determined from the lower eyelids. The immediate future from the upper eyelids. May I?’

The white fingers touched his face again. They ran over his eyebrows and tickled his eyelashes. Fandorin felt himself starting to feel drowsy.

Suddenly O-Yumi recoiled, her eyes gazing at him in horror.

‘What … what’s wrong?’ he asked hoarsely – his throat had suddenly gone dry.

‘Today you will kill a man!’ she whispered in fright, then turned and ran off across the square.

He almost went dashing after her, but took a grip on himself just in time. Not only did he not run, he turned away and took a slim manila out of his cigar case. He succeeded in lighting it only with his fourth match.

The titular counsellor was trembling – no doubt in fury.

‘Jug-eared m-minx!’ he hissed through his teeth. ‘And I’m a fine one, listening wide-eyed like that!’

But what point was there in trying to deceive himself? She was an astounding woman! Or perhaps it wasn’t just her? The thought was electrifying. There is some strange connection between us. He was astonished by the idea, but he didn’t carry it through to the end, he didn’t have time, for at that moment something happened that shook all thoughts about mysterious beauties out of the young man’s head.

First there was a sound of breaking glass, then someone bellowed despairingly:

‘Stop! Stop the bloody ape!’

Recognising Lockston’s voice, Fandorin went dashing back to the station. He ran along the corridor, burst into the sergeant’s office and saw the sergeant swearing furiously as he tried to climb out of the window, but rather awkwardly – the sharp splinters of glass were getting in his way. There was an acrid smell of burning in the room, and smoke swirling just below the ceiling.

‘What happened?’

‘That there … son of a bitch … the lousy snake!’ Lockston yelled, pointing with his finger.

Fandorin saw a man in a short kimono and a straw hat, running fast in the direction of the promenade.

‘The evidence!’ the sergeant gasped, and smashed his great fist into the window frame. The frame went flying out into the street.

The American jumped out after it.

At the word ‘evidence’, Erast Petrovich turned to look at the desk, where the swords, the collar and the mirror had been lying only ten minutes earlier. The cloth covering of the desk was smouldering and some papers on it were still blazing. The swords were still there, but the celluloid collar had curled up into a charred tube, and the molten surface of the mirror was slowly spreading out, its surface trembling slightly.

But there was no time to contemplate this scene of destruction. The titular counsellor vaulted over the windowsill and overtook the bison-like sergeant in a few rapid bounds. He shouted:

‘What caused the fire?’

‘He’ll get away!’ Lockston growled instead of answering. ‘Let’s cut through the Star.’

The fugitive had already disappeared round a corner.

‘He came in! Into my office! He bowed!’ Lockston yelled, bursting in through the back door of the Star saloon. ‘Then suddenly there was this egg! He smashed it on the table! Smoke and flames!’

‘What do you mean, an egg?’ Fandorin yelled back.

‘I don’t know! There was a pillar of flame! And he threw himself backwards out the window! Damned ape!’

That explained the part about the ape, but Fandorin still didn’t understand about the fiery egg. The pursuers dashed though the dark little saloon and out on to the sun-drenched Bund. They glimpsed the straw hat about twenty strides ahead, manoeuvring between the passers-by with incredible agility. The ‘ape’ was rapidly pulling away from the pursuit.

‘It’s him!’ Erast Petrovich gasped, peering at the low, skinny figure. ‘I’m sure it’s him!’

A constable on duty outside a money-changing shop was cradling a short rifle in the crook of his arm.

‘What are you gawping at?’ Lockston barked. ‘Catch him!’

The constable shot off so eagerly that he overtook his boss and the vice-consul, but even he couldn’t overhaul the criminal.

The running man swerved off the promenade into an empty alley and leapt across the little bridge over the canal in a single bound. A respectable clientele was sitting under the striped awning of Le Café Parisien there. A long lanky figure jumped up from one of the tables – Lancelot Twigs.

‘Gentlemen, what’s the matter?’

Lockston just waved a hand at him. The doctor dashed after the members of the investigative group, shouting:

‘But what’s happened? Who are you chasing?’

The fugitive had built up a lead of a good fifty paces, and the distance was increasing. He raced along the opposite side of the canal without looking back even once.

‘He’ll get away!’ the constable groaned. ‘That’s the native town, a genuine maze!’

He snatched a revolver out of its holster, but didn’t fire – it was a bit too far for a Colt.

‘Give me that!’

The police chief tore the carbine out of the constable’s hands, set his cheek against the butt, swung the barrel into line with the nimble fugitive and fired.

The straw hat went flying in one direction and its owner in the other. He fell, rolled over several times and stayed lying there with his arms flung out.

The people in the café started clamouring and jumping up off their chairs.

‘Right then. Phew!’ said Lockston, wiping the sweat off his face with his sleeve. ‘You’re witnesses, gentlemen. If I hadn’t fired, the criminal would have got away.’

‘An excellent shot!’ Twigs exclaimed with the air of a connoisseur.

They walked across the bridge without hurrying: the victorious sergeant with his smoking carbine at the front, followed by Fandorin and the doctor, and then the constable, with the idle public at a respectful distance.

‘If you’ve k-killed him outright, we’ll have no leads,’ Erast Petrovich said anxiously. ‘And we don’t have the fingerprints any more.’

The American shrugged.

‘What do we need them for, if we have the one who made them? I was aiming for his back. Maybe he’s alive?’

This suggestion was immediately confirmed, and in a most unexpected manner.

The man on the ground jumped to his feet as if nothing had happened and darted off along the canal at the same fast pace as before.

The public gasped. Lockston started blinking.

‘Damn me! Ain’t he a lively one!’

He raised the carbine again, but it wasn’t a new-fangled Winchester, only a single-shot Italian Vetterli. The sergeant threw the useless weapon to the constable with a curse and pulled out a Colt.

‘Here, let me!’ the doctor said eagerly. ‘You won’t hit him!’ He almost grabbed the revolver out of Lockston’s hands, then stood in the picturesque pose of a man fighting a duel and closed one eye. A shot rang out.

The fugitive fell again, this time face down.

Some people in the crowd applauded. Lockston stood there scratching his chin while his subordinate reloaded the carbine. Fandorin was the only one who ran forward.

‘Don’t be in such a hurry!’ Twigs called to stop him, and explained coolly: ‘He’s not going anywhere now. I broke his spine at the waist. Cruel, of course, but if he’s a student of those shinobi, the only way to take him alive is to paralyse him. Take your Colt, Walter. And thank the gods that at this time of the day I always take tea at the Parisien. Otherwise there’s no way …’

‘Look!’ Fandorin exclaimed.

The fallen man got up on all fours, then stood up, shook himself like a wet dog and dashed on, leaping along with huge steps.

This time no one gasped or yelled – everyone gaped in silent bewilderment.

Lockston opened fire with his revolver, but kept missing, and the doctor grabbed at his arm, trying to get him to hand over the weapon again – they had both forgotten about the second revolver on the sergeant’s belt.

Erast Petrovich quickly estimated the distance (about seventy paces, and the grey hovels of the native town were no more than a hundred away) and turned to the constable.

‘Have you loaded it? Give it to me.’

He took aim according to all the rules of marksmanship. He held his breath and aligned the sight. He made only a slight adjustment for movement – the shot was almost straight in line with the running man. One bullet, he mustn’t miss.

The enchanted fugitive’s legs were twinkling rapidly. No higher than the knees, or you might kill him, the titular counsellor told the bullet, and pressed the trigger.

Got him! The figure in the kimono fell for the third time. Only this time the pursuers didn’t stand still, they dashed forward as fast as they could.

They could see the wounded man moving, trying to get up. Then he did get up and hopped on one leg, but lost his balance and collapsed. He crept towards the water, leaving a trail of blood.

The most incredible thing of all was that he still didn’t look round even once.

When they were only about twenty paces away from the wounded man, he stopped crawling – clearly he had realised that he wouldn’t get away. He made a rapid movement – and a narrow blade glinted in the sun.

‘Quick! He’s going to cut his throat!’ the doctor shouted.

But that wasn’t what the shinobi did. He ran the blade rapidly round his face, as if he wanted to set it in an oval frame. Then he grabbed at his chin with his left hand, tugged with a dull growl – and a limp rag went flying through the air, landing at Erast Petrovich’s feet. Fandorin almost stumbled when he realised what it was – the skin of a face, trimmed and torn off; red on one side, with the other side looking like mandarin peel.

And then the man finally turned round.

In his short life, Erast Petrovich had seen many terrible things; some visions from his past still woke him at night in a cold sweat. But nothing on earth could have been more nightmarish than that crimson mask with its white circles of eyes and the grinning teeth.

‘Kongojyo!’ the lipless mouth said quietly but distinctly, opening wider and wider.

The hand with the bloody knife crept slowly up to the throat.

Only then did Fandorin think to squeeze his eyes shut. And he stood like that until the fit of nausea and dizziness passed off.

‘So that’s what “cutting off your face” means!’ he heard Dr Twigs say in an excited voice. ‘He really did cut it off, it’s not a figure of speech at all!’

Lockston reacted the most calmly of all. He leaned down over the body, which –God be praised – was lying on its stomach. Two holes in the kimono, one slightly higher, one slightly lower, exposed a glint of metal. The sergeant ripped the material apart with his finger and whistled.

‘So that’s what his magic is made of!’

Under his kimono, the dead man was wearing thin tempered-steel armour.

While Lockston explained to the doctor what had happened at the station, Fandorin stood to one side and tried in vain to still the frantic beating of his heart.

His heart was not racing because of the running, or the shooting, or even the ghastly sight of that severed face. The vice-consul had simply recalled the words that a husky woman’s voice had spoken a few minutes earlier: ‘Today you will kill a man’.

‘So Mr Fandorin was right after all,’ the doctor said with a shrug. ‘It really was an absolutely genuine ninja. I don’t know where and how he learned the secrets of their trade, but there’s no doubt about it. The steel plate that saved him from the first two bullets is called a ninja-muneate. The fire egg is a torinoko, an empty shell into which the shinobi introduce a combustible mixture through a small hole. And did you see the way he grinned before he died? I’ve come across a strange term in books about the ninja – the Final Smile – but the books didn’t explain what it was. Well now, not a very appetising sight!’

How fiercely I yearn

To smile with a carefree heart

At least at the last





EARLY PLUM RAIN




Doronin stood at the window, watching the rivulets run down the glass. ‘Baiu, plum rain,’ he said absentmindedly. ‘Somewhat early, it usually starts at the end of May.’

The vice-consul did not pursue the conversation about natural phenomena and silence set in again.

Vsevolod Vitalievich was trying to make sense of his assistant’s report. The assistant was waiting, not interrupting the thought process.

‘I tell you what,’ the consul said eventually, turning round. ‘Before I sit down to write a report for His Excellency, let’s run thought the sequence of facts once more. I state the facts and you tell me if each point is correct or not. All right?’

‘All right.’

‘Excellent. Let’s get started. Once upon a time there was a certain party who possessed almost magical abilities. Let us call him No-Face.’ (Erast Fandorin shuddered as he recalled the ‘final smile’ of the man who had killed himself earlier in the day.) ‘Employing his inscrutable art, No-Face killed Captain Blagolepov – and so adroitly that it would have remained a dark secret, if not for a certain excessively pernickety vice-consul. A fact?’

‘An assumption.’

‘Which I would nonetheless include among the facts, in view of subsequent events. Namely: the attempt to kill your Masa, the witness to the killing. An attempt committed in a manner no less, if not even more, exotic than the murder. As you policemen say, the criminal’s signatures match. A fact?’

‘Arguably.’

‘The criminal did not succeed in eliminating Masa – that damned vice-consul interfered once again. So now, instead of one witness, there were two.’

‘Why didn’t he kill me? I was completely helpless. Even if the snake didn’t bite me, he could probably have finished me off in a thousand other ways.’

Doronin pressed his hand against his chest modestly.

‘My friend, you are forgetting that just at that moment your humble servant appeared on the scene. The murder of the consul of a great power would be a serious international scandal. There has been nothing of the kind since Griboedov’s time. On that occasion, as a sign of his contrition, the Shah of Persia presented the Tsar of Russia with the finest diamond in his crown, which weighed nine hundred carats. What do you think,’ Vsevolod Vitalievich asked brightly, ‘how many carats would they value me at? Of course, I’m not an ambassador, only a consul, but I have more diplomatic experience that Griboedov did. And precious stones are cheaper nowadays … All right, joking aside, the fact is that No-Face did not dare to kill me or did not want to. As you have already had occasion to realise, in Japan even the bandits are patriots of their homeland.’

Erast Petrovich was not entirely convinced by this line of reasoning, but he did not object.

‘And by the way, I do not hear any words of gratitude for saving your life,’ said the consul, pretending his feelings were hurt.

‘Thank you.’

‘Don’t mention it. Let’s move on. After the unsuccessful bit of theatre with the “creeping thing”, No-Face somehow finds out that the investigation has another strange, incredible piece of evidence – the prints of his thumb. Unlike Bukhartsev and – yes, I admit it – your humble servant, No-Face took this circumstance very seriously. And I can guess why. You drew up a verbal portrait of the man whom Masa saw at the Rakuen, did you not?’

‘Yes.’

‘Does it match the description of your uninvited guest?’

‘Marginally. Only as far as the height is concerned – little over four foot six inches – and the slender build. However, in Japan that kind of physique is not unusual. As for all the rest … At the gambling den, Masa saw a doddery old man with a stoop, a trembling head and pigmentation spots on his face. But my old m-man was quite fresh and sprightly. I wouldn’t put his age at more than sixty.’

‘There now,’ said the consul, raising one finger. ‘The ninja were known to be masters at changing their appearance. But if Mr Folds’s theory is correct, it is impossible to change the prints of your fingers. The similarity of the prints on the collar and the mirror confirms that. But in any case, No-Face decided on a desperately audacious move – to destroy the evidence right there in the office of the chief of police. He tried to get away, but failed. It is curious that before he died he said: “Kongojyo”.’

‘Did I remember it correctly?’

‘Yes, “Kongojyo” means “Diamond Chariot”.’

‘What?’ the titular counsellor asked in amazement. ‘In what sense?’

‘This is not the time to launch into a detailed lecture on Buddhism, so I’ll give you a brief, simplified explanation. Buddhism has two main branches, the so-called Vehicles, or Chariots. Everyone who desires liberation and light can choose which of them to board. The Lesser Chariot speeds along the road leading to the salvation of only your own soul. The Greater Chariot is for those who wish to save all of mankind. The devotee of the Lesser Road strives to attain the status of an arhat, an absolutely free being. The devotee of the Greater Road can become a bodhisattva – an ideal being, who is filled with compassion for the whole of creation, but does not wish to achieve Liberation while all others are in bondage.’

‘I like the b-bodhisattvas best,’ Erast Petrovich remarked.

‘That is because they are closer to the Christian idea of self-sacrifice. I am a misanthropist and should prefer to become an arhat. I’m only afraid that I’m rather lacking in righteousness.’

‘And what is the Diamond Chariot?’

‘It is an entirely distinct branch of Buddhism, extremely complex and abounding in mysteries. The uninitiated know very little about it. According to this teaching, a man can attain Enlightenment and become a Buddha while still alive, but this requires a special firmness of faith. That is why the chariot is called diamond – there is nothing in nature harder than diamond.’

‘I don’t understand anything at all,’ Fandorin said after a moment’s thought. ‘How is it possible to become a Buddha and attain enlightenment, if you commit murders and other abominations?’

‘Well, let’s assume that’s no great problem. How many vile tricks do our holy sermonisers play on us, all in the name of Christ and the salvation of our souls? It’s not a matter of the teaching. I know monks of the Singon sect who profess the path of the Diamond Chariot. They work away, enlightening themselves without interfering with anyone. They don’t let anyone else into their business, but they don’t take any interest in anyone else’s. And they are not fanatical in the least. It is hard to imagine any of them cutting off his face with a howl of “Kongojyo!”. And, above all, I have never heard of this formula having any magical significance … You see, in Japanese Buddhism, it is believed that certain sutras or verbal formulas possess magical power. There is the sacred invocation “Namu Amida Butsu”, there is the Lotus Sutra, “Namu-myoho-rengekyo”. The monks repeat them thousands of times, believing that this advances them along the Path of the Buddha. Probably there is some fanatical sect that uses “Kongojyo” as an exclamation …’ Vsevolod Vitalievich spread his hands and shrugged. ‘Unfortunately, there is no way for a European to get to the bottom of these matters. We’d better get back to No-Face before we lose our way in the thickets of Buddhism. Let us check the sequence of events. Question: Why was Blagolepov killed? Answer: Because he was blabbing to all and sundry about his passengers from the night before. There doesn’t seem to have been any other reason to set a master of such subtle killing techniques on such a worthless little man. Correct?’

‘Correct.’

‘No-Face is a ninja, and history tells us that they are hired for money. It’s an entirely different question where a ninja could appear from in 1878 – perhaps now we shall never find out. But since a man has appeared who has decided to live and die according to the laws of this sect, then his mode of life must also have been the same. In other words, he was a mercenary. Question: Who hired him? Answer: We don’t know. Question: Why was he hired?’

‘To shield and guard three samurai from Satsuma?’ Fandorin suggested.

‘Most probably. Hiring a master like that must cost a great deal of money. Where would former samurai get that from? So there are serious players in the wings of this game, able to place stakes large enough to break the bank. We know who the bank is – it’s Minister Okubo. I shall write all this down in my report to the ambassador. I shall add that the owner of a gambling den is the leader, messenger or intermediary of the Satsuman killers. The Japanese police have him under observation and at the present time that is our only lead. What do you say, Fandorin. Have I missed anything in my analysis of the situation?’

‘Your analysis is perfectly good,’ the titular counsellor declared.

‘Merci.’ The consul raised his dark glasses and rubbed his eyes wearily. ‘However, my superiors appreciate me less for my analytical competence than for my ability to propose solutions. What shall I write in the summary of my report?’

‘Conclusions,’ said Fandorin, also walking over to the window to look at the leaves of the acacias swaying in the rain. ‘Four in number. The conspirators have an agent in police circles. That is one.’

Doronin shuddered.

‘How do you deduce that?’

‘From the facts. First the killer discovered that I had a witness to Blagolepov’s murder. Then someone warned the samurai about the ambush at the g-godaun. And finally the ninja knew about the thumbprints and where they were being kept. There can only be one conclusion: someone from my group, or someone who receives information about the course of the investigation, is connected with the conspirators.’

‘Such as me, for instance?’

‘Such as you, for instance.’

The consul knitted his brows together and paused for a moment.

‘Very well, the first conclusion is clear. Go on.’

‘The hunchback undoubtedly knows that he is being followed and under no circumstances will he contact the Satsumans. That is two. Therefore, we shall have to force the hunchback to act. That is three. However, in order to make sure there are no more leaks, the operation will have to be conducted without the knowledge of the municipal and Japanese police. That is four. And that is all.’

Having thought over what had been said, Doronin shook his head sceptically.

‘Well, so that’s the way of it. But what does “force him to act” mean? How do you envisage that?’

‘Semushi has to escape from surveillance. Then he will definitely go dashing to find his accomplices. And he will lead me to them. But to carry out this operation, I need approval to take independent action.’

‘What action, precisely?’

‘I don’t know yet,’ the titular counsellor replied dispassionately. ‘Whatever action is n-necessary.’

‘You don’t want to tell me,’ Doronin guessed. ‘Well, that’s right. Otherwise, if your operation fails, you’ll note me down as a spy.’ He drummed his fingers on the windowpane. ‘You know what, Erast Petrovich? In order not to compromise the experiment, I shall not write to the ambassador about your conclusions. And as for the authority to act, consider that you have been granted it by your immediate superior. Act as you think necessary. But just one thing …’ The consul hesitated momentarily. ‘Perhaps you would agree to take me, not as your confidant, but as your agent? It will be hard for you, on your own, with no help. Of course, I am no ninja, but I could carry out some simple assignment.’

Fandorin looked Vsevolod Vitalievich up and down and politely refused.

‘Thank you. The embassy secretary, Shirota, will be enough for me. Although … no. I think perhaps I need to speak with him first …’

The titular counsellor hesitated – he remembered that the Japanese had been behaving strangely recently, blenching and blushing for no reason, giving Fandorin sideways glances; the secretary’s attitude to the vice-consul, initially exceedingly friendly, had clearly undergone a change.

Erast Petrovich decided to find out what the matter was without delay.

He went to the administrative office, where the spinster Blagolepova was hammering away deafeningly on the keys of the Remington. When she saw Fandorin, she blushed, adjusted her collar with a swift gesture and started hammering even more briskly.

‘I need to have a word with you,’ the titular counsellor said in a quiet voice, leaning across Shirota’s desk.

Shirota jerked in his seat and turned pale.

‘Yes, and I with you. It is high time.’

Erast Petrovich was surprised. He enquired cautiously:

‘You wished to speak to me? About what?’

‘No, you first.’ The secretary got to his feet and buttoned up his frock coat determinedly. ‘Where would you like it to be?’

To the accompaniment of the Remington’s hysterical clattering, they walked out into the garden. The rain had stopped, glassy drops were falling from the branches and birds were singing overhead.

‘Tell me, Shirota, you have linked your life with Russia. May I ask why?’

The secretary listened to the question and narrowed his eyes tensely. He answered crisply, in military style, as if he had prepared his answer in advance.

‘Mr Vice-Consul, I chose to link my life with your country, because Japan needs Russia very much. The East and the West are too different, they cannot join with each other without an intermediary. Once, in ancient times, Korea served as a bridge between Japan and great China. Now, in order to join harmoniously with great Europe, we need Russia. With the assistance of your country, which combines within itself both the East and the West, my homeland will flourish and join the ranks of the great powers of the world. Not now, of course, but in twenty or thirty years’ time. That is why I work in the Russian consulate …’

Erast Petrovich cleared his throat with an embarrassed air – he had not been expecting such a clear-cut response, and the idea that a backward oriental country could transform itself into a great power in thirty years was simply laughable. However, there was no point in offending the Japanese.

‘I see,’ Fandorin said slowly, feeling that he had not really achieved his goal.

‘You also have a very beautiful literature,’ the secretary added, and bowed, as if to indicate that he had nothing more to add.

There was a pause. The titular counsellor wondered whether he ought to ask straight out: ‘Why do you keep looking daggers at me?’ But from the viewpoint of Japanese etiquette, that would probably be appallingly impolite.

Shirota broke the silence first.

‘Is that what the vice-consul wished to speak to me about?’

There was a note of surprise in his voice.

‘Well, actually, y-yes … But what did you wish to speak to me about?’

The secretary’s face turned from white to crimson. He gulped and then cleared his throat.

‘About the captain’s daughter.’ Seeing the amazement in the other man’s eyes, he explained: ‘About Sophia Diogenovna.’

‘What has happened?’

‘Mr Vice-Consul, do you … do you ruv her?’

Because the Japanese had mispronounced the ‘l’ in the crucial word, and even more because the very supposition was so unthinkable, Erast Petrovich did not immediately understand the meaning of the question.

The evening before, on returning home from the police station, the young man had discovered a powerfully scented envelope with nothing written on it on the small table in his bedroom. When he opened it, he found a pink sheet of paper. Traced out on it, in a painstaking hand with flourishes and squiggles, were four lines of verse:

My poor heart can bear this no more

Oh, come quickly to help me now!

And if you do not come, you know

I shall lose my life for you.

Bemused, Fandorin had gone to consult Masa. He showed him the envelope, and his servant ran through a brief pantomime: a long plait, large round eyes, two spheres in front of his chest. ‘The spinster Blagolepova,’ Erast Petrovich guessed. And then he immediately remembered that she had promised to write out her favourite stanza of love poetry from her album, a piece composed by the conductor from the St Pafnutii. He stuck the sheet of paper into the first book that came to hand and forgot all about it.

But now it seemed there was a serious emotional drama being played out.

‘If you love Miss Blagolepova, if your in-ten-tions are hon-our-ab-le, I will stand aside … I understand, you are her com-pat-ri-ot, you are handsome and rich, and what can I offer her?’ Shirota was terribly nervous, he pronounced the more difficult words with especial care and avoided looking in Fandorin’s eyes, lowering his head right down on to his chest. ‘But if …’ His voice started to tremble. ‘But if you intend to exploit the de-fence-less-ness of a solitary young woman … Do you wish to?’

‘Do I wish to what?’ asked the titular counsellor, unable to follow the thread of the conversation – he found deductive reasoning far easier than talk on intimate matters.

‘Exploit the de-fence-less-ness of a solitary young woman.’

‘No, I do not.’

‘Not at all, at all? Only honestly!’

Erast Petrovich pondered, to make sure the reply would be quite honest. He recalled the spinster Blagolepova’s thick plait, her cow’s eyes, the verse from her album.

‘Not at all.’

‘So, your in-ten-tions are hon-our-ab-le,’ said the poor secretary, and he became even gloomier. ‘You will make Sophia Diogenovna a pro-po-sal?’

‘Why on earth should I?’ said Fandorin, starting to get angry. ‘I have no interest in her at all!’

Shirota raised a brighter face for a moment, but immediately narrowed his eyes suspiciously.

‘And you did not go to the Rakuen and risk your life there, and you do not now pay her salary out of your own pocket because you love her?’

Erast Petrovich suddenly felt sorry for him.

‘The idea never even entered my head,’ the vice-consul said in a gentle voice. ‘I assure you. I do not find anything at all about Miss Blagolepova attractive …’ He stopped short, not wishing to hurt the lovelorn secretary’s feelings. ‘No, that is … she is, of course, very p-pretty and, so to speak …’

‘She is the finest girl in the world!’ Shirota exclaimed sternly, interrupting the vice-consul. ‘She … she is a captain’s daughter! Like Masha Mironova from Pushkin’s Captain’s Daughter! But if you do not love Sophia Diogenovna, why have you done so much for her?’

‘Well, how could I not do it? You said it yourself: solitary, defenceless, in a foreign country …’

Shirota sighed and declared solemnly:

‘I love Miss Blagolepova.’

‘I had g-guessed as much.’

The Japanese suddenly bowed solemnly – not in the European manner, with just the chin, but from the waist. And he didn’t straighten up immediately, only after five seconds had passed.

Now he looked straight into Fandorin’s face, and there were tears glistening in his eyes. In his agitation, all his ‘l’s’ became ‘r’s’ again.

‘You are a nobur man, Mr Vice-Consur. I am your eternar debtor.’

Soon half of Japan will be my eternal debtors, Erast Petrovich thought ironically, not wishing to admit to himself that he was touched.

‘There is onry one bitter thing.’ Shirota sighed. ‘I sharr never be abur to repay your nobirity.’

‘Oh, yes you will,’ said the titular counsellor, taking him by the elbow. ‘Let’s go to my rooms. That damned p-plum rain has started falling again.’

Raise no umbrella

When the sky is scattering

Its springtime plum rain