The Diamond Chariot

SIRIUS




The night smelled of tar and green slime – that was from the dirty River Yosidagawa splashing near by, squeezed in between the godauns and the cargo wharves. Erast Petrovich’s valet was sitting at the agreed spot, under the wooden bridge, pondering the vicissitudes of fate and waiting. When Semushi appeared, the master would howl like a dog – Masa had taught him how. In fact they had spent a whole hour on a renshu duet, until the neighbours came to the consulate and said they would complain about the Russians to the police if they didn’t stop torturing that poor dog. They had been forced to abandon the renshu rehearsal, but the master could already do it quite well.

There were lots of dogs in Yokohama, and they often howled at night, so neither Semushi nor the police agents would be suspicious. The main concern was something else – not to confuse the sound with a genuine dog. But Masa hoped he wouldn’t get confused. It would be shameful for a vassal not to be able to tell his master’s noble voice from the howl of some mongrel.

Masa had to sit under the bridge very quietly, without moving at all, but he could do that. In his former life, when he was still an apprentice in the honourable Chobei-gumi gang, he had sat and waited on watch duty or in an ambush many, many times. It wasn’t boring at all, because an intelligent man could always find something to think about.

It was absolutely out of the question to make any noise or move about, because there was a police agent, disguised as a beggar, hanging about on the wooden bridge right over his head. When someone out late walked by, the agent started intoning sutras through his nose, and very naturally too – a couple of times a copper coin even jangled against the planking. Masa wondered whether the agent handed in the alms to his boss afterwards or not. And if he did, whether the coppers went into the imperial treasury.

There were detectives stationed all the way along the road leading from the Rakuen to Semushi’s home: one agent at every crossroads. Some were hiding in gateways, some in the ditch. The senior agent, the most experienced, prowled along after Semushi. He was shrouded in a grey cloak, he had soundless felt sandals on his feet, and he could hide so quickly that no matter how many times you looked round, you would never spot anyone behind you.

Hanging back about fifty paces behind the senior agent were another three – just in case something unforeseen happened. Then the senior agent would give them a quick flash from the lamp under his cloak, and they would run up to him.

That was how strictly they were following Semushi, there was no way he could get away from the police agents. But the master and Masa had thought and thought and come up with a plan. As soon as the Vice-Consul of the Russian Empire started howling in the distance, Masa had to …

But just at that moment Masa heard a wail that he recognised immediately. Erast Petrovich howled quite authentically, but even so, not like one of Yokohama’s stray mutts – there was something thoroughbred about that melancholy sound, as if it were being made by a bloodhound or, at the very least, a basset.

It was time to move from thought to action.

Masa strolled silently under the planks until he was behind the ‘beggar’s’ back. He took three small steps on tiptoe, and when the agent turned round at the rustling sound, he leapt forward and smacked him gently below the ear with the edge of his hand. The ‘beggar’ gave a quiet sob and tumbled over on to his side. A whole heap of coppers spilled out of his cup.

Masa took the coins for himself – so that everything would look right and, in general, they would come in handy. His Imperial Highness could manage without them somehow.

He squatted down beside the unconscious man in the shadow of the parapet and started watching.

There was a fine drizzle falling, but the corner from which Semushi ought to appear was lit up by two street lamps. The hunchback would walk across the little bridge over the canal, then cut across a plot of wasteland to the bridge over the Yosidagawa. So he would have the junction of the river and the canal on his right, one bridge ahead of him, another behind him, and nothing on his left but the dark wasteland – and that was the whole point of the plan.

There was the squat, lumpish figure. The hunchback moved with a heavy, plodding walk, waddling slightly from side to side.

It probably wasn’t easy lugging a hump around all the time, thought Masa. And how easy could it be to live with a deformity like that? When he was little, the other boys must have teased him. When he grew a bit, the girls all turned their noses up. That was why Semushi had turned out so villainous and spiteful. Or maybe it wasn’t because of that at all. On the street where Masa grew up, there had been a hunchback, a street sweeper. Even more hunched and crooked than this one, he could barely hobble along. But he was kind, everyone liked him. And they used to say: He’s so good because the Buddha gave him a hump. It wasn’t the hump that mattered, but what kind of kokoro a man had. If the kokoro was right, a hump would only make you better, but if it was rotten, you would hate the whole wide world.

Meanwhile, the owner of a vicious kokoro had crossed the little bridge.

Erast Petrovich’s servant told himself: ‘Now the master will pull the string’ – and at that very moment there was a loud crash. Suddenly, out of the blue, a cart that was standing on the little bridge had lurched over sideways – its axle must have snapped. The large barrel standing on the cart smashed down on to the ground and burst open, releasing a stream of black tar that flooded the planking surface – no one could walk or drive across now …

Semushi swung round when he heard the crash and put his hand inside his jacket, but he saw that nothing dangerous had happened. There wasn’t a single soul to be seen. The cart driver must have left his goods close to the market yesterday and settled down in some nearby eating-house where he could get a meal and a bed for the night. But his kuruma was old and decrepit, ready to break down at any moment.

The hunchback stood still for a minute or so, turning his head in all directions. Finally he was satisfied and walked on.

A grey shadow appeared on the far side of the bridge – Masa could see it. It stepped into the black puddle and stuck there.

Of course it did! Masa had bought the tar himself. He had chosen the very lousiest kind, as runny as possible and so sticky you could never get out of it.

There was a gleam of light – that had to be the agent signalling to the others. Three more shadows appeared. They started rushing about on the bank, not knowing what to do. One decided to risk it after all and got stuck fast too.

Then Semushi looked round, enjoyed the sight for a moment, shrugged and went on his way. What was it to him? He knew there were probably agents up ahead as well.

When the hunchback reached the river, Masa growled and dashed out to meet him. He was holding a wakizashi, a short sword, and brandishing it wildly – it was a treat to see the way the blade glinted in the light of the street lamp.

‘For the Chobei-gumi!!’ Masa shouted out, but not too loudly: so that Semushi could hear, but the stuck policemen couldn’t. ‘Do you recognise me, Hunchback? You’re done for now!’

He deliberately leapt out sooner than he should have done if he really wanted to kill the rotten snake.

Semushi had time to recoil and pull out his revolver, that vile weapon of cowards. But Masa wasn’t afraid of the revolver – he knew that the senior police agent, a man with very deft hands, had filed down the hammer the day before yesterday.

The hunchback clicked once, and twice, but didn’t bother to click a third time, he spun round and took to his heels. At first he ran back towards the little bridge. Then he realised he’d get stuck in the tar and the police agents wouldn’t save him. He turned sharply to the right, which was the way he was supposed to go.

Masa caught up with him and, to give him a real scare, slashed him on the arm, just above the elbow, with the very tip of the blade. The hunchback yelped and made up his mind – he set off across the wasteland, into the darkness. The wasteland was large, it stretched all the way to Tobemura, where they executed criminals and afterwards displayed their severed heads on poles. Previously, when he was still Badger, Masa had been certain that sooner or later he would end up in Tobemura too, goggling down at people with his dead eyes, frightening them. That wasn’t very likely now, though. The top of a pole was no place for the head of Sibata Masahiro, liege vassal of Mr Fandorin.

He sliced the sword through the air just behind the back of Semushi’s head a couple of times, then stumbled and sprawled full length on the ground. He deliberately cursed, as if he had hurt his leg badly. And now he ran more slowly, limping along.

He shouted:

‘Stop! Stop, you coward! You won’t get away anyway!’

But by now the hunchback should have realised that he would get away – not only from the unlucky avenger, but also from the agents of the Yokohama police. That was why this place had been chosen: on the wasteland you could see anyone running after you from a long way away.

Masa gave a final, helpless shout:

‘It doesn’t matter, I’ll finish you the next time.’

And then he stopped.

The wasteland was long, but Semushi couldn’t get off it, because the river was on his right and the canal was on his left. Right at the far end, by the bridge to Tobemura, Shirota-san was waiting in the bushes. He was an educated man, of course, but he had no experience in matters like this. He had to be helped.

Brushing away his sweat with one hand, Masa ran towards the bank of the Yosidagawa, where there was a boat waiting. A few thrusts of the pole, and he’d be on the other side. If he ran as fast his legs could carry him, he would be just in time – this way was shorter than going across the wasteland. And if he was a bit late – that was why Shirota-san was there. He could show Masa which way Semushi had turned.

The bow of the boat sliced through the black, oily water. Masa pushed the pole against the spongy bottom, repeating to himself:

‘Ii-ja-nai-ka! Ii-ja-nai-ka!’

Fandorin’s valet was in a very cheerful mood. His master’s head was pure gold. He should join the Yakuza – he could make a great career.

Ah, how funny the policemen had looked, floundering in the tar!

The rain came to an end and the stars emerged, scattered across the sky like diamonds, growing brighter and brighter with every minute.

Erast Petrovich walked home slowly, because he was not looking down at his feet, but up, admiring the heavenly illuminations. One particular star right over by the horizon, at the very edge of the sky, was shining especially beautifully. It had a bluish, sad kind of light. The titular counsellor’s knowledge concerning the heavenly bodies and constellations was scant: he could recognise only the two bears, Great and Small, and so the name of the spark of blue light was a mystery to him. Fandorin decided it could be called Sirius.

The vice-consul was in an equable and tranquil mood. What was done was done, he could not change anything now. The head of the inquiry had quite unceremoniously, with deliberate intent, affronted the Law: he had impeded the police in the performance of their duty and conspired in the escape of a man suspected of a serious crime against the state. If Semushi got away from Masa and Shirota, the only thing left for him to do would be to confess, and that would be followed by resignation in disgrace and, probably, a trial.

Once inside his deserted apartment, Erast Petrovich took off his frock coat and trousers and sat down in the drawing room in just his shirt. He didn’t turn the light on. After a little while he suddenly snapped his fingers, as if a good idea had just occurred to him, but the result of this enlightenment was strange: Fandorin simply put on his hairnet and hid his upper lip under a moustache cover, after first curling up the sides of his moustache with little tongs. God only knows why the young man did all this – he was clearly not preparing to go to bed, he didn’t even go into the bedroom.

For about half an hour the titular counsellor sat in the armchair without a single thought in his head, twirling an unlit cigar in his fingers. Then someone rang the doorbell.

Erast Petrovich nodded, as if that was exactly what he had been expecting. But he didn’t pull on his trousers; on the contrary, he took off his shirt.

The bell trilled again, louder this time. Without hurrying, the vice-consul slipped his arms into the sleeves of a silk dressing gown and tied the tasselled belt. He stood in front of the mirror and imitated a yawn. And only after that did he light the kerosene lamp and walk towards the hallway.

‘Asagawa, is that you?’ he asked in a sleepy voice when he saw the inspector outside the door. ‘What’s happened? I gave my servant leave, so I … Why are you j-just standing there?’

But the Japanese did not come in. He bowed abruptly and said in an unsteady voice:

‘There can be no forgiveness for me … My men have let Semushi get away. I … I have nothing to say to excuse myself.’

The light of the lamp fell on Asagawa’s miserable face. A lost face, thought Erast Petrovich, and he felt sorry for the inspector, for whom losing face before a foreigner must have been double torment. However, the situation required severity, otherwise Fandorin would have to launch into explanations and be forced to lie.

The vice-consul counted to twenty in his head and then, without saying a word, he slammed the door in the Japanese policeman’s face.

Now he could go into the bedroom. There wouldn’t be any news from Masa and Shirota before morning. It would be good to get a little sleep at least – tomorrow would probably be a hard day.

But his agitation had not completely subsided. Sensing that he wouldn’t be able to get to sleep straight away, Fandorin took the second volume of Goncharov’s The Frigate Pallada from the drawing room: it was the best possible bedtime reading.

The gas burner in the bedroom hissed, but did not ignite. Erast Petrovich was not surprised – gas lighting had reached Yokohama only recently, and the way it functioned was far from ideal. For occasions like this there was a candlestick beside the bed.

The young man found his way through the pitch darkness to the little table and felt for the matches.

The room was illuminated by a gentle, flickering light.

Fandorin dropped his dressing gown on the floor, turned round and cried out.

Lying there in the bed, with her elbow propped on the pillow, watching him with a still, shimmering gaze, was O-Yumi. Her dress, bodice and silk stockings were hanging over the footboard of the bed. The blanket had slipped down to expose her blindingly white shoulder.

The vision sat up, so that the blanket slipped down to her waist, a supple hand reached out for the candelabra and carried it to her lips – and once again it was dark.

Erast Petrovich almost groaned – he felt such piercing pain at the disappearance of the lovely apparition.

He cautiously reached out with one hand, afraid of discovering nothing but emptiness in the darkness. But what his fingers touched was hot, smooth, alive.

A husky voice said:

‘I thought you were never going to come in …’

The sheet rustled and gentle but surprisingly strong hands embraced Fandorin round the neck and pulled him forward …

The scent of skin and hair set the pulse pounding in Fandorin’s temples.

‘Where did you …’ he whispered breathlessly, but didn’t finish – hot lips covered his mouth.

Not another word was spoken in the bedroom. In the world into which the titular counsellor had been drawn by those gentle hands and fragrant lips, there were no words, there could not be any, they would only have confused and disrupted the enchantment.

After his recent adventure in Calcutta, which had led to his missing the steamship, Erast Petrovich regarded himself as an experienced man of the world, but in O-Yumi’s embrace he did not feel like a man, but some incredible musical instrument – sometimes a seductive flute, sometimes a divine violin or a sweet reed pipe, and the virtuoso magical musician played on all of them, mingling heavenly harmony with earthly algebra.

In the brief intermissions the intoxicated vice-consul attempted to babble something, but the only reply was kisses, the touch of tender fingertips and quiet laughter.

When grey streaks of dawn started filtering in through the window, Fandorin made an incredible effort of will and surfaced from the hypnotic haze. He had enough strength for only a single question – the most important one of all, nothing else had any meaning. He put his hands on her temples and held her so that those huge eyes filled with mysterious light were very close.

‘Will you stay with me?’

She shook her head.

‘But … but you will come again?’

O-Yumi also put her hands on his temples, made a light circular movement and pressed gently, and Fandorin instantly fell asleep without realising it. He simply fell into a deep sleep and didn’t even feel her hands gently supporting his head as they laid it on the pillow.

At that moment Erast Petrovich was already dreaming. In his dream he was rushing straight up to the sky in a blue chariot that glittered with an icy sheen, rushing higher and higher. His road led to a star that was drawing the diamond chariot towards it with its transparent rays. Little gold stars went rushing past, wafting fresh, icy breezes into his face. Erast Petrovich felt very good, and the only thing he remembered was that he mustn’t look back, no matter what – or he would fall and be dashed to pieces.

But he didn’t look back. He rushed onwards and upwards, towards the star. The star called Sirius.

It shines, unaware

Even of its own true name.

The star Sirius





HORSE DUNG




Fandorin was woken by someone patting him gently but insistently on the cheek.

‘O-Yumi,’ he whispered, and saw before him a face with slanting eyes, but, alas, it was not the sorceress of the night, but the secretary Shirota.

‘I beg your pardon,’ said the secretary, ‘but you simply would not wake up, and I was starting to feel alarmed …’

The titular counsellor sat up in bed and looked around. The bedroom was illumined by the slanting rays of the early sun. There no O-Yumi, nor any sign at all of her recent presence.

‘Mr Vice-Consul, I am ready to make my report,’ Shirota began, holding a sheet of paper at the ready.

‘Yes, yes, of course,’ Fandorin muttered, glancing under the blanket.

The bedsheet was crumpled, but that didn’t mean anything. Maybe there was something left – a long hair, a crumb of powder, a scarlet trace of lipstick?

Not a thing.

Had it all been a dream?

‘Following your instructions, I concealed myself in the bushes beside the fork at which the two roads separate. At forty-three minutes past two a running man appeared from the direction of the wasteland …’

‘Sniff that!’ Fandorin interrupted, burying his nose in the pillow. ‘What is that scent?’

The secretary took the pillow and conscientiously drew air in through his nose.

‘That is the aroma of ayameh. What is that in Russian, now. … iris.’

The titular counsellor’s face lit up in a happy smile.

It wasn’t a dream!

She had been here! It was the aroma of her perfume!

‘Iris is the main aroma of the present season,’ Shirota explained. ‘Women scent themselves with it and they steep the laundry in it at the washhouses. In April the aroma of the season was wistaria, in June it will be azalea.’

The smile slid off Erast Petrovich’s face.

‘May I continue?’ the Japanese asked, handing back the pillow.

And he continued his report. A minute later Fandorin had completely stopped thinking about the scent of irises and his nocturnal apparition.

The paddy fields shone unbearably brightly in the sunlight, as if the entire valley had been transformed into one immense cracked mirror. The dark cracks in the effulgent surface were the boundaries that divided the plots into little rectangles, and in each rectangle there was a figure in a broad straw hat, pottering through the water, bent double. The peasants were weeding the rice fields.

At the centre of the fields there was a small, wooded hill, crowned by a red roof with its edges curled upwards. Erast Petrovich already knew that it was an abandoned Shinto shrine.

‘The peasants don’t go there any more,’ said Shirota. ‘It’s haunted. Last year they found a dead tramp by the door. Semushi was right to choose a place like this to hide. It’s a very fine refuge for a bad man. And it has a clear view of all the approaches.’

‘And what will happen to the shrine now?’

‘Either they will burn it down and build a new one, or they will perform a ceremony of purification. The village elder and the kannusi, the priest, have not decided yet.’

A narrow embankment no more than five paces wide ran through the fields to the shrine. Erast Petrovich examined the path to the hill carefully, then the moss-covered steps leading up to the strange red wooden gateway: just two verticals and a crosspiece, an empty gateway with no gates and no fence. A gateway that did not separate anything from anything.

‘That is the torii,’ the secretary explained. ‘The gate to the Other World.’

Well, that made sense, if it led to the Other World.

The titular counsellor had an excellent pair of binoculars with twelve-fold magnification, a souvenir of the siege of Plevna.

‘I can’t see Masa,’ said Fandorin. ‘Where is he?’

‘You are looking in the wrong direction. Your servant is over there, in the communal plot. Farther left, farther left.’

The vice-consul and his assistant were lying in the thick grass at the edge of a rice field. Erast Petrovich caught Masa in the twin circles. He was no different from the peasants: entirely naked, apart from a loincloth, with a fan hanging behind his back. Except perhaps that his sides were rounder than those of the other workers.

The round-sided peasant straightened up, fanned himself and looked round towards the village. It was definitely him: fat cheeks and half-closed eyes. He looked close enough for Fandorin to flick him on the nose.

‘He has been here since the morning. He took a job as a field-hand for ten sen. We agreed that if he noticed anything special, he would hang the fan behind his back. See, the fan is behind his back. He has spotted something!’

Fandorin focused his binoculars on the hill again and started slowly examining the hunchback’s hiding place, square by square.

‘Did he come straight here from Yokohama? He d-didn’t stop off anywhere along the way?’

‘He came straight here.’

What was that white patch there, among the branches?

Erast Petrovich turned the little wheel and gave a quiet whistle. There was a man sitting in a tree. The hunchback? What was he doing up there?

But last night Semushi had been wearing a dark brown kimono, not a white one.

The man sitting in the tree turned his head. Fandorin still couldn’t make out the face, but the shaved nape glinted.

No, it wasn’t Semushi! His hair was cut in a short, stiff brush.

Fandorin moved the binoculars on. Suddenly something glinted in the undergrowth. Then again, and again.

Just adjust the focus slightly.

Oho!

A man wearing a kimono with its hem turned up was standing on an open patch of ground. He was absolutely motionless. Beside him was bamboo pole stuck into the earth.

Suddenly the man moved. His legs and trunk didn’t stir, but his sword scattered sparks of sunlight and severed bamboo rings flew off the pole: one, two, three, four. What incredible skill!

Then the miraculous swordsman swung round to face the opposite direction – apparently there was another pole there. But Erast Petrovich was not watching the sword blade any longer, he was looking at the left sleeve of the kimono. It was either twisted or tucked up.

‘Why did you strike the ground with your fist? What did you see?’ Shirota whispered eagerly in his ear.

Fandorin handed him the binoculars and pointed him in the right direction.

‘Kataudeh!’ the secretary exclaimed. ‘The man with the withered arm!’ So the others must be there!’

The vice-consul wasn’t listening, he was scribbling something rapidly in his notebook. He tore the page out and started writing on another one.

‘Right now, Shirota. Go to the Settlement as fast you can. Give this to Sergeant Lockston. Tell him the d-details yourself. The second note is for Inspector Asagawa.’

‘Also as fast as I can, right?’

‘No, on the contrary. You must walk slowly from Lockston to the Japanese police station. You can even drink tea along the way.’

Shirota gaped at the titular counsellor in amazement. Then he seemed to get the idea and he nodded.

The sergeant arrived with his entire army of six constables armed with carbines.

Erast Petrovich was waiting for the reinforcements on the approach to the village. He praised them for getting there so quickly and briefly explained the disposition of forces.

‘What, aren’t we going to rush them?’ Lockston asked, disappointed. ‘My guys are just spoiling for a scrap.’

‘N-no scrap. We’re two miles from the Settlement, beyond the consular jurisdiction.’

‘Damn the jurisdiction, Rusty! Don’t forget: these three degenerates killed a white man! Maybe not in person, but they’re all in the same gang.’

‘Walter, we have to respect the laws of the country in which we find ourselves.’

The sergeant turned sulky.

‘Then why the hell did you write: “as quickly as possible and bring long-range weapons”?’

‘Your men are needed to put a cordon round the area. Set them out round the edge of the fields, in secret. Get your constables to lie on the ground and cover themselves with straw, with a distance of two to three hundred paces between them. If the criminals try to leave through the water, fire warning shots, drive them back on to the hill.’

‘And who’s going to nab the bandits?’

‘The Japanese police.’

Lockston narrowed his eyes.

‘Why didn’t you just call the Japs? What do you need the municipals for?’

The titular counsellor didn’t answer and the sergeant nodded knowingly.

‘To make sure, right? You don’t trust the yellow-bellies. You’re afraid they’ll let them get away. Maybe even deliberately, right?’

This question went unanswered too.

‘I’m going to wait for Asagawa in the village. You’re responsible for the other three sides of the square,’ said Fandorin.

He had to wait for a long time – obviously, before Shirota visited the Japanese police station, he had not only drunk tea, but dined as well.

When the sun reached its zenith, the workers started moving back to their houses to rest before their afternoon labours. Masa came back with them.

He explained with gestures that all three samurai were there, and the hunchback was with them. They were keeping a sharp lookout in all directions. They couldn’t be taken by surprise.

Erast Petrovich left his valet to keep an eye on the only path that led to the shrine, while he set out to the other side of the village, to meet the Japanese police.

Three hours later a dark spot appeared on the road. Fandorin raised the binoculars to his eyes and gasped. An entire military column was approaching in marching formation from the direction of Yokohama. Bayonets glittered and officers swayed in their saddles in the cloud of dust.

The titular counsellor dashed forward to meet the troops, waving his arms at them from a distance to get them to stop. God forbid that the men on the hill should notice this bristling centipede!

Riding at the front was the vice-intendant of police himself, Kinsuke Suga. Catching sight of Fandorin’s gesticulations, he raised his hand and the column halted.

Erast Petrovich did not like the look of the Japanese soldiers: short and skinny, with no moustaches, uniforms that hung on them like sacks, and they had no bearing at all. He remembered Vsevolod Vitalievich telling him that military conscription had been introduced here only very recently and peasants didn’t want to serve in the army. Of course not! For three hundred years commoners had been forbidden to carry arms, the samurai chopped their heads off for that. And the result was a nation that consisted of an immense herd of peasant sheep and packs of samurai sheepdogs.

‘Your Excellency, why didn’t you bring the artillery too?’ Fandorin exclaimed angrily as he raced up to the top man.

Suga chuckled contentedly and twirled his moustache.

‘If it’s needed, we will. Bravo, Mr Fandorin! How on earth did you manage to track down these wolves? You’re a genuine hero!’

‘I asked the inspector for ten capable agents. Why have you brought an entire regiment of soldiers?’

‘It’s a battalion,’ said Suga, flinging one leg across the saddle and jumping down. His orderly took the reins immediately. ‘As soon as I got Asagawa’s telegram, I telegraphed the barracks of the Twelfth Infantry Battalion, it’s stationed only a mile from here. And I dashed here by train. The railway is a fine invention too!’

The vice-intendant positively radiated energy and enthusiasm. He gave a command in Japanese and the word passed along the line ‘Chutaicyo, Chutaicyo, Chutaicyo!’1 Three officers came running towards the head of the column, holding their swords down at their sides.

‘We shall need the army for setting an external cordon,’ Suga explained. ‘Not one of the villains must slip away. You needn’t have been so worried, Fandorin, I wasn’t going to bring the soldiers any closer. The company commanders will now form the men up into a chain and locate them round the large square. They won’t see that from the hill.’

The shoddy-looking soldiers moved with remarkable nimbleness and coordination. Not soaring eagles, of course, but they are rather well drilled, thought Fandorin, correcting his first impression.

In about a minute the battalion had reformed into three very long ranks. One of them stayed where it was, the other two performed a half-about-face and marched off to the left and the right.

Only now could Fandorin see that there was a group of police standing at the end of the column – about fifteen of them, including Asagawa, but the Yokohama inspector was behaving modestly, not like a commander at all. Most of the policemen were middle-aged, severe-looking individuals, the kind that we in Russia call old campaigners. Shirota was there with them – judging from the green colour of his face, he could barely stay on his feet. That was only natural: a sleepless night, nervous stress and the long dash all the way to Yokohama and back again.

‘The finest fighters in our police,’ Suga said proudly, indicating the men. ‘Soon you’ll see them in action.’

He turned to one of his deputies and started speaking Japanese.

The embassy secretary started, recalling his official duties, and walked up to the titular counsellor.

‘The adjutant is reporting that they have already spoken to the village elder. The peasants will work as usual, without giving away our presence in any way. They’re going to hold a meeting now. There is a very convenient place.’

The ‘very convenient place’ proved to be the communal stables, permeated with the stench of dung and horse sweat. But the broad chinks in the wall provided an excellent view of the field and the hill.

The vice-intendant sat on a folding stool, the other police officers stood in a half-circle and the operational staff set about planning the operation. Suga did most of the talking. Confident, brisk, smiling – he was clearly in his element.

‘… His Excellency objects to the commissar, Mr Iwaoka, that there is no point in waiting for night to come,’ Fandorin’s interpreter babbled in his ear. ‘The weather is expected to be clear, there will be a full moon and the fields will be like a mirror, with every shadow visible from afar. Better during the day. We can creep up to the hill disguised as peasants weeding the fields.’

The police officers droned approvingly in agreement. Suga spoke again.

‘His Excellency says that there will be two assault groups, each of two men. Any more will look suspicious. The other members of the operation must remain at a distance from the hill and wait for the signal. After the signal they will run straight through the water without worrying about disguise. The important thing here is speed.’

This time everyone started droning at once, and very ardently, and Inspector Asagawa, who had not opened his mouth until this moment, stepped forward and started bowing like a clockwork doll, repeating over and over: ‘Kakka, tanomimas nodeh! Kakka, tanomimas nodeh!’

‘Everybody wants to be in an assault group,’ Shirota explained. ‘Mr Asagawa is requesting permission to atone for his guilt. He says that otherwise it be very difficult for him to live in this world.’

The vice-intendant raised his hand and silence fell immediately.

‘I wish to ask the Russian vice-consul’s opinion,’ Suga said to Fandorin in English. ‘What do you think of my plan? This is our joint operation. An operation of two “vices”.’

He smiled. Now everyone was looking at Fandorin.

‘To be quite honest, I’m surprised,’ the titular counsellor said slowly. ‘Assault g-groups, an infantry cordon – this is all very fine. But where are the measures to take the conspirators alive? After all, their contacts are really more important to us than they are.’

Shirota translated what had been said – evidently not all the policemen knew English.

The Japanese glanced at each other strangely, one even snickered, as if the gaijin had said something stupid.

The vice-intendant sighed. ‘We shall, of course, try to capture the criminals, but we are not likely to succeed. Men of this kind are almost never taken alive.’

Fandorin did not like this response, and his suspicions stirred again more strongly than ever.

‘Then I tell you what,’ he declared. ‘I must be in one of the assault groups. In that case I give you my guarantee that you will receive at least one of the c-conspirators alive and not dead.’

‘May I enquire how you intend to do this?’

The vice-consul replied evasively:

‘When I was a prisoner of the Turks, they taught me a certain trick, but I had better not tell you about it in advance, you will see for yourselves.’

His words produced a strange impression on the Japanese. The policemen started whispering and Suga asked doubtfully:

‘You were a prisoner?’

‘Yes, I was. During the recent Balkan campaign.’

The commissar with the grey moustache gazed at Erast Petrovich with clear contempt, and the way the others were looking could certainly not have been called flattering.

The vice-intendant walked over and magnanimously slapped Fandorin on the shoulder.

‘Never mind, all sorts of things happen in war. During the expedition to Formosa, Guards Lieutenant Tatibana, a most courageous officer, was also taken prisoner. He was badly wounded and unconscious, and the Chinese took him away in a hospital cart. Of course, when he came round, he strangled himself with a bandage. But there isn’t always a bandage.’

Then he repeated the same thing in Japanese for the others (Erast Petrovich made out the name ‘Tatibana’) and Shirota explained quietly:

‘In Japan it is believed that a samurai should never be taken prisoner. An absurd idea, of course. A prejudice,’ the secretary added hastily.

The titular counsellor became furious. Raising his voice, he repeated stubbornly:

‘I must be in the assault group. I insist on it. P-permit me to remind you that without me and my deputies, there would not even be any operation.’

A discussion started among the Japanese, and Fandorin was clearly the subject of it, but his interpreter expounded the essence of the argument briefly and rather apologetically.

‘It … Generally speaking … The gentlemen of the police are discussing the colour of your skin, your height, the size of your nose …’

‘May I ask you to undress to the waist?’ Suga suddenly asked, turning towards the titular counsellor.

And, to set an example, he removed his tunic and shirt first. The vice-intendant’s body was firm and compact, and although his stomach was large, it was not at all flabby. But it was not the details of the general’s anatomy which caught Erast Petrovich’s attention, but the old gold cross dangling on the convex, hairless chest. Catching Fandorin’s glance, Suga explained.

‘Three hundred years ago our family were Christians. Then, when European missionaries were expelled from the country and their faith was forbidden, my forebears renounced the alien religion, but kept the cross as a relic. It was worn by my great-great-great-grandmother, Donna Maria Suga, who preferred death to renunciation. In her memory, I have also accepted Christianity – it is not forbidden to anyone any longer. Are you undressed? Right, now look at me and at yourself.’

He stood beside Fandorin, shoulder to shoulder, and the reason why they had had to get undressed became clear.

Not only was the vice-consul an entire head taller than the other man, his skin also gleamed with a whiteness that was quite clearly not Japanese.

‘The peasants are almost naked,’ said Suga. ‘You will tower over the field and sparkle like snowy Mount Fuji.’

‘But even so,’ the titular counsellor declared firmly, ‘I must be in the assault g-group.’

They gave up trying to persuade him after that. The policemen grouped around their commander, talking in low voices. Then the one with the grey moustache shouted loudly: ‘Kuso! Umano kuso!’

The vice-intendant laughed and slapped him on the shoulder.

‘What did he s-say?’

Shirota shrugged.

‘Commissar Iwaoka said: “Dung. Horse dung”.’

‘Did he mean me?’ Erast Perovich asked furiously. ‘Tell him that in that c-case he …’

‘No, no, how could you think that!’ the secretary interrupted him, while still listening to the conversation. ‘This is something else … Inspector Asagawa is asking what to do about your height. Peasants are never such ranky beanpours. Did I get that right?’

‘Yes, yes.’

Fandorin watched Commissar Iwaoka’s actions suspiciously. The commissar moved out of the group, removed his white glove and scooped up a handful of dung.

‘Mr Sasaki from the serious crimes group says you are a genuine kirin, but that is all right, because the peasants never straighten up.’

‘Who am I?’

‘A kirin – it’s a mythical animal. Like a giraffe.’

‘Aah …’

The man with the grey moustache walked up, bowed briefly and slapped the lump of dung straight on to the Russian diplomat’s chest. The vice-consul was stupefied.

‘There,’ Shirota translated. ‘Now you no longer look like the snowy peak of Mount Fuji.’

Commissar Iwaoka smeared the foul-smelling, yellow-brown muck across Erast Petrovich’s stomach.

Fandorin grimaced, but he endured it.

The true noble man

Is so pure that even dung

Cannot besmirch him

1 Company commanders, company commanders, company commanders! (Japanese)