The Diamond Chariot

A WORD ONCE GIVEN MUST BE KEPT




They went back to Yokohama on the seven o’clock train, the first. They didn’t bother too much about secrecy, sitting next to each other, although they didn’t talk. But then, there was no one else in the carriage apart from the vice-consul and the inspector. The second- and third-class carriages were crammed with clerks and shop assistants on their way to work in Yokohama, but it was too early for first-class passengers.

Asagawa dozed lightly for a while and then – oh, those nerves of steel! – fell into a deep, sweet sleep, even smacking his lips occasionally. Fandorin didn’t feel like sleeping. It was almost as if his body had completely renounced this trivial pastime. But something told the titular counsellor that there would be no more insomnia.

The medicine that would cure the patient of his painful condition was called ‘Bullcox’. Not that Erast Petrovich was thinking about the torment of sleepless nights at this moment, his mind was on something quite different, but at the same time a voice from somewhere in the wings kept whispering to his exhausted body: ‘Soon, you will rest soon’.

The titular counsellor’s reason, which existed independently of any voices, was concerned with a most important matter – Defining a Sequence of Logical Reasoning.

The sequence that emerged could not possibly have been more elegant.

So, at the head of the conspiracy to which the Napoleon of Japan had fallen victim, stood the Right Honourable Algernon Bullcox, agent of the government of Victoria, Empress of India and Queen of Great Britain.

The motivation for the plot was obvious:

To dispose of a ruler who strove to maintain the balance between the two Great Powers that were vying to seize control of the Pacific Ocean –England and Russia. That was one.

To bring to power the party of expansion, which would require a mighty fleet. Who would help in the forthcoming conquest of Korea? Naturally, the ruler of the waves, Britannia. That was two.

Bullcox could count on a great reward. Why, of course he could! As a result of the operation that he had successfully completed Japan would fall into the zone of British influence, followed by the whole of the Far East. That was three.

From the human point of view, it was also clear that Bullcox was capable of such a sordid, cynical undertaking.

He engaged in spying and did not try very hard to conceal the fact. That was one.

According to O-Yumi (and who could know this villain better than she did, thought Fandorin, stabbing himself in the heart), he was capable of any abominable infamy, he could even send assassins to kill a successful rival or take revenge on a woman who left him. That was two.

Of course, it was highly improbable that he had organised the conspiracy against Okubo with the approval of St James’s Palace, but he was an adventurer by nature, an ambitious man who would use any means to secure his own success. That was three.

And now, four. Prince Onokoji had said that the conspirators had a lot of money. But where would poor Satsuman samurai get money? Would they really have been able to reward Suga so generously for the artfulness that he had demonstrated? But the agent of the British crown had access to inexhaustible financial resources. The Right Honourable must have laughed heartily to himself when the high-society gossip-monger told him about the gift of the estate. Bullcox himself must have bought it and then ‘lost’ it to Suga at cards. Or if not himself, then he had acted through intermediaries – what difference did that make!

The course of his deductive reasoning was unwittingly interrupted by Asagawa, who suddenly snored blissfully in his sleep. Resting on his laurels, almost literally, thought Fandorin. Villainy had been punished, justice had triumphed, harmony had been restored. And the inspector’s sleep was not disturbed by any considerations of high politics. Or by the nightmarish events that had taken place two hours earlier in the department of police. The place must be in a fine uproar now. Or it would be very soon.

A cleaner or a zealous secretary, arriving before the start of office hours in order to tidy away a few papers, would glance into the boss’s office and see a sight that would make him feel quite unwell …

When the intendant named Bullcox, the inspector hissed something to the prisoner in Japanese. Flexing his jaw muscles, he explained his indignation to Fandorin:

‘He is an even greater scoundrel than I thought. At least the fanatics from Satsuma believed they were acting in the name of their Homeland, but this one knew they were mere pawns in a game planned by a foreigner!’

Suga bleated.

‘We can take out the hami now,’ said Erast Petrovich, who had still not recovered from his shock – he simply could not understand why this explanation had not occurred to him earlier.

Freed of the gag, the general spat and blurted out hoarsely to Asagawa:

‘And aren’t you a pawn in the hands of a foreigner?’ But then he came to his senses, remembering that he was completely in the inspector’s power, and changed his tone of voice. ‘I have kept my word. Now it is your turn. Give me a dagger.’

‘I don’t have a dagger,’ Asagawa said with a crooked grimace. ‘And if I did, I wouldn’t give it to you. I wouldn’t let you stain the noble steel with your filthy blood! Remember how you forced the hunchback to chew his tongue off? Now it is your turn. You’ve got sharp teeth, go on – if you have the courage. I shall enjoy watching.’

The intendant’s eyes narrowed in hatred and glittered with fire.

The vice-consul tried cautiously to bite the tip of his tongue and shuddered. Asagawa was cruel, and no mistake. He was testing Suga’s strength of character. If the intendant wavered, he would lose face. Then it would be possible to shake all sorts of things out of him.

None of them spoke. Then there was a strange stifled sound – it was Suga gulping.

No one was watching the door that led into the secret room, so when it slammed shut with a clang, they all started. Could twenty minutes really have gone by since the intendant had pressed the lever?

‘You don’t want to eat your own tongue,’ the inspector remarked smugly. ‘Then here is a new proposal. Look here …’ – he took a revolver out of the general’s pocket (Fandorin had not been mistaken, it was a cavalryman’s Hagström) and left one bullet in the cylinder. ‘Tell us who the other circles represent, and you won’t have to gnaw your tongue off.’

The glance that Suga cast at that revolver was beyond description. No Romeo had ever devoured his Juliet with such lust in his eyes, no shipwreck victim had ever gazed so longingly at a speck on the horizon. The titular counsellor was absolutely certain that the general would not be able to resist the temptation. He was certain – and he was mistaken.

On the previous occasion Erast Petrovich had been lucky – he had observed this grisly spectacle from a distance, but this time it all happened just two paces from him.

Suga gave an absolutely feral, inhuman roar, opened his mouth wide, thrust his fleshy, red tongue out as far as it would go and clamped his jaws together. There was a sickening crunch and Fandorin turned away, but even so he had feasted his eyes on the sight long enough for it to remain with him for the rest of his days.

The intendant took longer to die than Semushi. Fandorin realised now that the shock of the pain had been too much for the hunchback. But Suga had a strong heart, and he choked on his own blood. At first he swallowed it convulsively, then it streamed out over his chin and his chest. That probably lasted for a few minutes. And all this time the iron man didn’t groan even once.

After the wheezing ended and the suicide slumped limply in his bonds, Asagawa cut him free. The body slid down on to the floor and a red puddle started spreading out across the parquet.

The epitaph pronounced by the inspector was restrained and respectful.

‘A strong man. A genuine akunin. But the main akunin in this story is not Japanese, he is a foreigner. What a disgrace!’

Fandorin was feeling sick. He wanted to get away from this cursed place as quickly as possible, but they spent quite a lot more time there after that.

First they eliminated all signs of their own presence: they collected up the pieces of rope, straightened the portrait of the Mikado, found the bullet fired from Fandorin’s Herstal and dug it out.

From the European point of view it looked absolutely absurd: for some reason the head of the imperial police had come to his office in the middle of the night, sat down in a chair, bitten off his own tongue and died. Erast Petrovich could only hope that in Japanese terms it might appear less outlandish.

Then, on Asagawa’s insistence, they spent the best part of an hour tearing all the numerous dossiers into tiny scraps of paper. Only then did they finally leave, in the same way as they had entered, that is, via the window of the toilet.

The only part of the archive that they did not destroy was the ‘Okubo’ file. It contained the page with the coded diagram, the stolen reports and the three sheets of paper with the oath written in blood. In combination with the testimony of the witness, Prince Onokoji, who not only knew about Suga’s secret activities, but had connections with Bullcox, this was quite enough. Soon everyone would know why the intendant of police had done away with himself.

But before that the case had to be brought to a conclusion by finding evidence against the Englishman. If that could be managed, Britannia would suffer categorical disgrace, and Russian interests would be completely triumphant. This was a very grave matter – the resident English agent had organised the political assassination of a great man! It would probably lead to the severance of diplomatic relations.

If Bullcox wormed his way out of it and got away scot-free (there was really nothing to snag him with as yet), they would have to be satisfied with having exposed Suga. But that was already quite a lot.

Should he report to Doronin or wait a while? It was probably too soon. First he had to try to catch Bullcox by the tail, and that would probably require him to use methods that were not exactly diplomatic. And then, there was another circumstance, one that was quite insignificant from the viewpoint of high politics, but extremely important to Fandorin. It was precisely this delicate problem, of an entirely personal nature, that he was thinking through as he gazed out of the window at the paddy fields glinting in the sun.

Asagawa suddenly opened his eyes and said thoughtfully, as if he had never been asleep, but had also been immersed in analytical thinking:

‘You know, that scoundrel Onokoji deliberately sent us into a trap.’

‘Why do you think that?’

‘There was no file on Onokoji in the archive.’

Fandorin frowned.

‘You mean to say that the shinobi carried out their assignment in full? They got into the archive and stole the file of compromising material?’

‘If we were able to find the lever, the ninja must certainly have found it. They are far more experienced in such matters, and more cautious. If there were two of them, we must assume that they did not enter the secret room together, as we did, but one stayed on guard outside.

‘Then why did they not steal the entire archive? It could have been a powerful instrument of influence for them! Those secrets are worth huge amounts of money!’

The inspector looked at Fandorin in amazement.

‘Come now! The Stealthy Ones kill, steal and spy, but they do not engage in blackmail and extortion! That would contradict their traditions and code of honour.’

Yes, Erast Petrovich had forgotten that in Japan everybody, even the villains, always had some kind of code. There was something reassuring about that, somehow.

‘So Onokoji did get his f-file? Well, of course. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have spoken about Suga’s archive so calmly. He got what he wanted, but he didn’t wish to pay the Momochi clan for their work. He knew that the senior samurai would be held answerable, not him. The prince used the samurai and condemned him to death.’

‘There’s no point now in talking about the samurai,’ said Asagawa, waving his fist through the air. ‘Don’t you see? Onokoji knew we would fall into a trap, and he didn’t warn us. He was counting on Suga killing us! I swear I’ll shake the black soul out of that slimy scoundrel!’

The prince’s soul almost took leave of his body without any shaking, just as soon as he heard about the intendant’s death.

Lockston was still jangling the key to the cell, Asagawa was still waving his fist menacingly through the bars of the locked door, but the prince needed to be resuscitated. After the inspector’s first furious shouts (‘Surprised to see us? Did you think Suga would finish us off? It turned out the other way round!’) Onokoji had jumped up off the bunk, turned as white as chalk and collapsed in a dead faint.

‘Well, would you look at that?’ the sergeant said in amazement. ‘Bright and chirpy all night, he was, singing Parisian chansonettes. Boasting that he’d be free in the morning.’

‘Water,’ Asagawa said curtly.

They splashed water from the glass into the prisoner’s face, slapped him on the cheeks, and the scion of feudal lords came round. He started sobbing and his teeth started chattering.

‘Did you … Did you kill him? That’s it, then, I’m done for.’

The prince was trembling so violently that his head wobbled back and forth on his thin neck. And apparently it was not simply because the effect of the morphine had worn off – Onokoji was in a total panic. At first Fandorin thought he was afraid of Asagawa and vengeance for his treachery. But the titular counsellor soon realised that he was mistaken.

First, the prisoner made no attempt to wriggle out of it. Quite the opposite, in fact!

‘I didn’t think it was possible, I swear! They told me the trap was a very cunning device! It’s his own fault,’ the prince babbled, grabbing hold of Erast Petrovich’s hand and apparently apologising for the fact that the trap hadn’t worked. ‘You tell him that, tell him!’

‘Tell who?’ asked Fandorin, leaning forward bodily in his eagerness. ‘We’ll certainly tell him, but who?’

Onokoji slapped his palm against his lips. His eyes turned round in terror.

‘No one,’ he said quickly. Then he groaned pitifully, contradicting himself: ‘That’s it, he’ll kill me now …’

‘Because you were responsible for the intendant’s death?’

The aristocrat nodded.

Well, this is one who won’t bite his tongue off, the vice-consul thought. And he won’t shoot himself either. It looks as if the Englishman won’t be able to wriggle his way out of this after all!

‘Don’t worry, Prince. We’ll be able to protect you against him.’

Onokoji just shook his head.

‘Do you think we don’t know who you are s-so afraid of? We know. Suga told us before he died. It’s Bullcox.’

‘Bullcox?’ said Lockston, wide-eyed in amazement. ‘What has Bullcox got to do with all this?’

‘Algernon Bullcox was at the head of the conspiracy against Okubo,’ Fandorin explained, carefully enunciating every word – more for Onokoji than the sergeant. ‘Suga was acting on the Englishman’s instructions. Right?’

The question was addressed to the prisoner. He nodded without opening his eyes.

‘What kind of nation are these English?’ the sergeant exploded. ‘India’s not enough for them. The seas are not enough! They want to dominate the whole world. And they don’t even go about it honestly! Let me tell you this, gentlemen. Old Dame Britannia is getting above herself. It’s high time she was put in her place. They’ve got no business being here in Japan. There are more decent countries that trade honestly and don’t go interfering in politics.’

The titular counsellor was entirely in agreement with the American on this point, although he suspected that by ‘more decent countries’, he did not actually mean the Russian Empire.

‘I don’t want to be released,’ Onokoji said suddenly, looking at Fandorin. ‘I’ll be killed. Take care of me. I’ll be useful to you.’

‘You tell us everything you know about Bullcox’s secret dealings, and Sergeant Lockston will allow you to live in the municipal prison for as long as necessary.’

‘No! He’ll find me here in no time at all.’

Seeing that the man was beside himself with fear, Erast Petrovich said gently:

‘Very well. I’ll give you refuge in the Russian consulate. But only on condition that you are absolutely frank with me.’

‘I’ll tell you everything. About Bullcox. But not now. I don’t feel well. And it will be worse soon. I need another dose. I’ll go to sleep and then … and then we’ll talk. Only take me away from here! Quickly! He … he must know that I’ve been arrested. He knows about Suga too! And he’ll guess straight away. He’s very clever!’

Lockston snorted.

‘Well, listen to that. That damn lousy Englishman’s really got him running scared.’

Suddenly a voice behind him asked:

‘Who’s that you’re talking about, Sergeant? Could it perhaps be me?’

They all looked round. Twigs was standing in the entrance of the cell, wearing a tie and a tight collar, as usual, with his old, scuffed doctor’s bag under his arm.

‘No, Doc, I wasn’t talking about you, I meant …’ the head of the municipal police began awkwardly, but Asagawa coughed loudly and Lockston finished rather incoherently, ‘I was talking about a completely different Englishman … a different Englishman.’

Erast Petrovich caught Asagawa’s eye and the inspector gave a slight shrug – a gesture that meant: Of course, Twigs-sensei is a most worthy individual, but the state interests and prestige of his homeland are involved here, so we had better keep quiet about Bullcox.

‘Well, how did the nocturnal expedition go?’ the doctor asked eagerly. ‘I must admit, I didn’t sleep a wink all night. I was terribly worried about you. Well, come on, tell me, then!’

They told him. Almost everything – the only part they didn’t mention was the Right Honourable.

‘So, we have evidence against Suga, but we don’t have Suga any more?’ the doctor summed up, mopping his bald head with a handkerchief. ‘But that’s marvellous! Why are you all looking so frustrated?’

There was a further exchange of glances, and the inspector shrugged again, but this time with a different meaning: Do what you think best.

‘In the intendant’s papers we found a diagram with all the inscriptions in strange s-symbols,’ said Erast Petrovich, showing the doctor the sheet of paper. ‘We know that they are the members of the conspiracy, but we can’t read the names …’

‘Let me take a look …’

Twigs moved his spectacles down to the very tip of his nose and peered eagerly at the paper. Then he suddenly turned it upside down.

‘Wait, wait … I’ve seen something like this before …’

‘Remember, Doctor, remember,’ all three of them cried together.

‘The cryptograms that the ninja used, that’s what this is,’ Twigs announced triumphantly. ‘The shinobi had their own system of phonetic writing, for secret correspondence.’

‘Intendant Suga was not a shinobi,’ Asagawa said doubtfully. ‘It’s not possible. He came from a good samurai family.’

‘What does that matter? He could have learned their alphabet, as I tried to do at one time. You know that I’m very interested in the history of the ninja. I can’t just read these signs for you off the top of my head, but if I rummage through my old notes, I might find something and be able to decipher them. I can’t promise, but I’ll try.’

‘We know how to read one of the words,’ said Fandorin, pointing to the central circle. ‘It’s the name of the leader.’

‘Oh, that’s very important. There are letters here that also occur in the other words. So tell me, what does this say?’

The titular counsellor said the name quietly:

‘Bullcox.’

The doctor turned crimson. And when he grasped the full significance of this information, his indignation knew no bounds. He proclaimed a blistering philippic on the subject of rogues and adventurers who besmirch the honour and principles of a great empire, concluding with this:

‘If your information is accurate, then the Right Honourable Bullcox is a criminal. He will be exposed and punished as he deserves!’

Asagawa asked incredulously:

‘And does it not matter to you that your motherland will suffer?’

Squaring his shoulders proudly and raising one finger, Twigs said:

‘The honour of the Motherland, my dear Asagawa, is not maintained by him who conceals her crimes, but by him who is not afraid to purge her of them.’

This rousing maxim was followed by a pause. The others pondered the doctor’s words, wondering whether he was right, and, judging from the fact that the inspector winced, the sergeant nodded and the vice-consul sighed, they all reached rather different conclusions.

Asagawa brought the conversation back round to business.

‘Since we are all in agreement, I suggest we discuss our plan of action. This is not an easy task. It will require time … Where are you going?’

The question was addressed to Fandorin, who had suddenly shaken his head, as if coming to some decision, and set off towards the door.

‘Consult without me for the time being, g-gentlemen. I have urgent business.’

‘Wait! What about me?’ shouted Onokoji, dashing over to the bars of his cell. ‘You promised to give me refuge!’

Fandorin was so entirely preoccupied with his own idea that words cannot possibly express how reluctant he felt to waste his time dealing with this repulsive specimen.

But he had given his word.

From the beginning,

Enduring until the end –

The Word is the Word





AN AUTUMN LEAF




Masa couldn’t sleep all night, he was too anxious.

In the evening, pretending he believed that his master suddenly needed a newspaper, he left the house, but of course he didn’t go to any Grand Hotel, he hid behind a tree instead. He followed his master to the station without being seen, and when he saw that the vice-consul was going to Tokyo, he was on the point of buying a ticket himself. Then, however, Inspector Asagawa showed up. From the way that he walked past the master without even saying hello it was quite clear that they had some joint business to deal with.

Masa hesitated. Inspector Asagawa was a real yoriki, he couldn’t be fooled. He’d spot that he was being followed in an instant. And, moreover, he was a serious man, responsible. The master could be trusted to a man like that.

Anyway, he didn’t go. That was why he was in anguish. From all appearances, this business that his master had set out on was no laughing matter. The bag that he had packed in secret contained a night spy’s outfit. Oh, how hard was the life of a vassal who could not make himself understood in words to the person he served! If only he knew the language of the northern barbarians, Masa would have told his master: ‘You do not have and never will have a more faithful and diligent helper than me. You wound my heart and my honour painfully when you disdain my help. I am obliged to be with you everywhere and always, it is my duty’. Never mind, the master was very clever, every day he knew more and more Japanese words, and the day was not far off when it would be possible to talk to him in proper human language, without making gestures and pulling faces. Then Masa would be able to serve him properly.

But in the meantime he did what he could; first, he didn’t sleep; secondly he didn’t allow Natsuko into his bed, even though she turned sulky, because she really wanted Masa’a karada very badly (never mind, she could wait, the karada had to obey the spirit); thirdly he had recited eight hundred and eighty-eight times a dependable incantation against calamities of the night that he had learned from a certain courtesan. The sovereign of that woman’s heart was a night bandit. Every time he went off to work, she received no clients, but burned incense and prayed to the big-bellied god Hotei, the patron of all whose fate depended on luck. And every time her beloved returned in the morning with a sack full of booty over his shoulder and, most importantly, alive and unhurt – that was how powerful the incantation was. But one day the stupid woman lost count and, just to be on the safe side, she repeated the prayer more times than necessary. And what happened? That very night the unfortunate robber was seized by the guards, and the next day his head was already grinning at passers-by from the bridge across the Sakuragawa. The courtesan, of course, jabbed a hairpin through her neck, and everyone said that was what she deserved, the irresponsible fool.

To make sure he didn’t lose count, Masa gathered rice grains together into little heaps. He recited and added a grain, recited and added a grain. The little heaps of eight grains built up into bigger heaps, consisting of ten little ones. Morning had arrived by the time there were eleven of the big heaps. Masa chanted the prayer unhurriedly another eight times. As he added the final grain to the heap he glanced out of the window and saw a shiny black-lacquered carriage of indescribable beauty drive up to the gates of the consulate, harnessed to a team of four horses. The haughty driver sitting on the box was covered in gold braid and he had feathers in his hat.

The door opened and the master jumped down lightly on to the pavement. He didn’t actually have a sack over his shoulders, but he was alive and unhurt. And then, surely a carriage was as good as any sack! Hail to the magical incantation!

Masa dashed over to meet him.

Even more wonderful was the change that had taken place in the master. After that cursed night when he had left the pavilion earlier than usual and stumbled all the way home, like a blind man, the master’s face had become like the mask of the Ground Spider in the Noh theatre – dark and stiff – and his nose, which was long enough already, had turned so sharp, it was a ghastly sight.

The reason why O-Yumi-san had chosen the red-haired Englishman was clear: he was much richer, he had a big, beautiful house and eight servants, not just one. The master was suffering terribly from jealousy, and just to look at him plunged Masa into despair too. He even started wondering whether he ought to kill the worthless woman. The master would be sad, of course, but that was still better than destroying your liver by imagining your beloved squirming in someone else’s embrace.

But now a miracle had happened, and the evil enchantment had been dispersed. Masa saw that straight away. Thanks to the kind god Hotei, or perhaps for some other reason, the master had been healed. His eyes glowed with confidence and the corners of his mouth were no longer turned down.

‘Masa, big job,’ he said in Japanese, in a strong voice. ‘Very big. Help, all right?’

A man in a crumpled, grimy frock coat climbed out of the carriage, skinny backside foremost, turned round and then swayed so violently that he almost fell.

To judge from his hook-nosed face, pampered skin and elegant little hands, he was an aristocrat.

‘He … live … home,’ the master said, snapping his fingers impatiently because he couldn’t immediately remember the words he wanted.

That means he’s a guest, Masa realised, and he bowed politely to the stranger, who hiccuped and staggered again. He was either ill or drunk – Masa couldn’t tell which.

They went into the building, with the master walking sideways somehow, as if he were shielding his guest from the windows of the Dirty Man.

The master walked along the corridor, thought for a moment and said:

‘There. He live there.’

Masa tried to explain that no one could live there, it was a cupboard. There were suitcases, a sack of rice, jars of pickled radish and ginger root in there, but the master wouldn’t listen to him.

‘Guarudu, guarudu …’ – he spoke the incomprehensible word twice. Then he muttered ‘Dammit’ (Masa knew that word, it meant ‘chikusho!’), brought the dictionary from his study and translated. ‘Guard. You he guard. Understand?’

‘Understand,’ Masa said with a nod.

He should have said so straight away. Masa grabbed the man with the hooked nose and pushed him into the cupboard. The man started whinging pitifully and sat down limply on the floor.

‘Polite,’ the master ordered strictly, using the dictionary again. ‘Guard. Strict. But polite.’

Very well, politely. Masa brought a mattress, pillow and blanket from his own room and said to the prisoner:

‘Please make yourself comfortable.’

The aristocrat tearfully asked the master about something in English. Masa recognised only the familiar word ‘puriidz’.

The master sighed deeply and took a little box out of his pocket. There were tiny bottles of some kind of liquid lying in it, and a syringe, like the ones they used for smallpox inoculations. He gave the little box to the sniveller and locked the door of the cupboard.

‘Watch. Guard. Strict. Polite,’ he repeated, pointing his forefinger up in the air and wagging it about for some reason.

He turned round and almost ran out of the apartment.

He got into the carriage. He drove away.

For the first minute, out of sheer inertia, Erast Petrovich carried on thinking about the witness imprisoned in the cupboard. Masa could be relied on. He wouldn’t leave the door and he wouldn’t let anyone come close. The devil only knew what the servant thought about all this. Unfortunately, the vice-consul couldn’t explain – he didn’t have enough words.

The toll of disasters for which the titular counsellor would have to answer was increasing by the hour. Breaking into the lair of the head of police wasn’t enough for him, now he had added the concealment of an unauthorised individual on the premises of the consulate without his superior’s knowledge. He couldn’t tell anyone about the hidden prince, neither Doronin nor Shirota – at least not for the time being.

However, while this high-handed behaviour could at least be kept secret, the next act of folly that the titular counsellor intended to commit would inevitably lead to a high-profile scandal.

Strangely enough, that did not bother Erast Petrovich at all just at the moment.

As he swayed on the cushions of the light carriage that he had hired, the very best that could be found in the fleet of the firm ‘Archibald Griffin’ (‘Excellent horses and also Most Comfortable Carriages for all occasions at an hourly rate’), Fandorin felt very pleased with himself. The idea that made him abandon his colleagues at the height of a supremely important consultation had captivated the titular counsellor with its simplicity and indubitable practicability.

Take O-Yumi from the scoundrel, and have done with it. Not listen to her, give her no time to collect her wits. Simply put her in the carriage and drive her away.

That would be honest and manly, the Russian way.

This was what he should have done at the very beginning, even before Bullcox had been transformed into an arch-villain. What did political conspiracies have to do with love? Nothing. O-Yumi must have been waiting for her beloved to do precisely this. But he had turned flabby, allowed his willpower to flag, got bogged down in despondency and self-pity.

To really do things right, he ought to have dressed up in ceremonial style – tails, top hat. starched shirt, as the importance of the occasion required – but he hadn’t wanted to waste a single minute.

The carriage hurtled along the cobbled streets of the Bluff and came to a dashing halt at property number 129. The coach driver removed his hat and opened the door, and the vice-consul descended slowly to the ground. He smoothed down his hair, and twisted up the ends of his moustache with a little brush – they were drooping slightly after his nocturnal adventures – and adjusted his tailcoat.

Well, God speed!

Once inside the wicket gate, he recalled Bullcox’s dogs. But the ferocious confrères of Cerberus were nowhere to be seen. They were probably chained up during the day.

Fandorin crossed the lawn with a firm tread. What about O-Yumi? She was probably still sleeping; after all, she didn’t go to bed until after dawn …

Before he could even touch the bell, the door swung open of its own accord. A haughty footman in livery was standing in the doorway. The titular counsellor handed him a card with a double-headed eagle on it:



* * *



Consulat de l’empire de la Russe

Eraste Pétrovich Fandorine

Vice-consul, Conseiller Titulaire

Yokohama, Bund, 6



* * *



Only the day before, Shirota had handed him an entire stack of these cards – freshly printed and still smelling of the press.

‘I require to see the Right Honourable Algernon Bullcox on urgent business.’

He knew perfectly well that Bullcox could not possibly be home. The Englishman must certainly have been informed already of the mysterious ‘suicide’ of his accomplice and, of course, he had gone dashing to Tokyo.

Erast Petrovich had even prepared the following respnse:

‘Ah, he is not here? Then please inform Miss O-Yumi that I am here. She is sleeping? She will have to be woken. This is a most pressing matter.’

But there was a surprise in store for Fandorin. The doorkeeper bowed as if everything was perfectly in order, asked him to come in and disappeared though a door leading out of the hallway to the left – from his previous, unofficial visit the vice-consul knew that was the location of the study.

Before Erast Petrovich had time to consider the possible implications, the Right Honourable in person came out of the study, wearing a smoking jacket and soft slippers and looking most serene altogether.

‘To what do I owe the pleasure, Mr … Fendorain?’ he asked, with a glance at the card. ‘Ah yes, I believe we are acquainted.’

What on earth was happening here? Midday already, and Suga’s body had not yet been discovered? Impossible!

Or it had been discovered, but Bullcox, a senior governmental adviser, had not been informed? Out of the question!

Or it had been discovered, but he had not been alarmed by the news? Absurd!

But a fact was a fact: Bullcox had preferred to stay at home. But why?

Erast Petrovich squinted through the half-open door of the study and saw a fire blazing in the hearth. So that was it! He was burning compromising documents! That meant he was really and truly alarmed! He really was an intelligent man. And far-sighted. He had caught the scent of danger!

‘Why do you not say anything?’ the Briton asked, frowning in annoyance. ‘What do you want?’

Fandorin moved the Right Honourable aside and walked into the study.

But there were no papers beside the fireplace, only a pile of dry branches.

‘What in damnation is the meaning of this?’ asked Bullcox, following him.

Erast Petrovich impolitely answered a question with a question:

‘Why have you lit a fire? It’s summer now?’

‘I heat the fireplace every morning with tamarisk branches. This is a new house, it’s damp. And I like the smell of smoke … Listen here, sir, you are behaving very strangely. We are hardly even acquainted! Explain to me immediately what is going on! What was your purpose in coming here?’

There was absolutely nothing to lose now, and Fandorin took the plunge, head first into the whirlpool.

‘To take away the lady whom you are holding here by force!’

Bullcox’s jaw dropped and he started batting his eyelashes, as ginger as his curly locks.

But the titular counsellor, who, in the French expression, avait déjà jeté son bonnet par-dessus le Moulin, that is, effectively, he had thrown caution to the wind, proceeded to attack, which, as everyone knows, is the best form of defence in a poor position.

‘Intimidating a woman is ignoble and unworthy of a gentleman! But then, what kind of gentleman are you? Out of my way, I’m going to her!’

He tried to walk past, but Bullcox blocked his way and grabbed him by the lapels.

‘I’ll kill you like a mad dog,’ hissed the Englishman, whose own eyes had turned quite rabid.

Erast Petrovich replied in an equally predatory hiss:

‘Kill me? Yourself? Oh, hardly. You wouldn’t have the courage. You’re more likely to send the “Stealthy Ones”.’

And he pushed his rival with his uncommonly well-trained arms – so hard that the Right Honourable went flying away and knocked over a chair.

The footman looked in at the crash, and his long English features stretched out even longer.

‘What “Stealthy Ones”?’ the Briton exclaimed, stunned. ‘You’re a raving lunatic! I’ll file a note of complaint with your government!’

‘Go right ahead!’ Fandorin growled in Russian.

He tried to run up the stairs, but Bullcox darted after him. He grabbed the Russian by his coat-tail and pulled him back down.

The vice-consul swung round and saw that the senior governmental adviser had assumed a boxer’s stance.

Well, boxing was not jujitsu, Erast Petrovich had no cause to be shy here.

He readied himself too: left fist forward, right fist covering the chin.

The first skirmish ended in a draw, with all the blows struck being parried.

In the second clash the vice-consul took a strong poke to the body, but replied with a rather good left hook.

Here the fight was interrupted by a female voice that exclaimed:

‘Algie? What’s going on?’

O-Yumi was standing on the landing of the staircase in her nightshirt, with a silk shawl on top. Her loose hair was scattered across her shoulders and the sunlight was shining through it.

Erast Petrovich choked.

‘It’s the Russian!’ Bullcoxs exclaimed excitedly. ‘He’s gone insane! He claims that I’m keeping you here by force. I decided to bring the blockhead to his senses.’

O-Yumi started moving down the steps.

‘What’s wrong with your ear, Algie? It’s all puffy and red. You need to put some ice on it.’

The familial, domestic tone in which these words were spoken, the name ‘Algie’, spoken twice, and – above all – the fact that she hadn’t even looked at him, made Erast Petrovich feel as if he had tumbled impetuously over a precipice.

It was hard to breathe, let alone to speak, but Fandorin turned to O-Yumi and forced out a few hoarse words:

‘Just one word. Only one. Me – or – him?’

Bullcox apparently also wanted to say something, but his voice failed him.

Both boxers stood and watched as the black-haired woman walked down the stairs in her light outfit with the sun shining through it.

She reached the bottom and glanced upwards reproachfully at Erast Petrovich. And said with a sigh:

‘What a question. You, of course … Forgive me, Algie. I was hoping everything would end differently for us, but clearly it was not to be.’

The Briton was absolutely crushed. He started blinking, looking from O-Yumi to Fandorin and back again. The Right Honourable’s lips trembled, but he still couldn’t find any words.

Suddenly Bullcox shouted something inarticulate and went dashing up the steps.

‘Let’s run!’ said O-Yumi, grabbing the titular counsellor by the hand and pulling him after her towards the door.

‘What f-for?’

‘His armoury room is upstairs!’

‘I’m not afraid!’ Erast Petrovich declared, but the slim hand jerked him with such surprising strength that he barely managed to stay on his feet.

‘Let’s run!’

She dragged the titular counsellor along, and he kept looking back, across the lawn. The beautiful woman’s hair fluttered in the wind, the hem of her nightdress flapped and ballooned, the backs of her velvet slippers slapped loudly.

‘Yumi! For God’s sake!’ a voice called from somewhere high up.

Bullcox leaned out of a first-floor window, waving a hunting carbine.

Fandorin tried, as far as he could, to cover the woman running in front of him with his own body. A shot rang out, but the bullet missed by a wide margin, he didn’t hear it whine.

Looking back again, the titular counsellor saw the Englishman settling his eye to the carbine again, but even at this distance he could see the barrel wobbling – the gunman’s hands were shaking wildly.

He didn’t need to shout to the driver to set off. He had already set off, in fact, immediately after the first shot – without bothering to wait for his passengers. He just lashed the horses, pulled his head down into his shoulders and didn’t look back.

Erast Petrovich opened the door on the run, grabbed his companion round the waist and threw her inside. Then he jumped up on to the seat himself.

‘I dropped my shawl and lost one slipper!’ O-Yumi exclaimed. ‘Ah, how interesting!’ Her eyes were wide open and glittering brightly. ‘Where are we going, my darling?’

‘To my place at the consulate!’

She whispered:

‘That means we have an entire ten minutes. Close the blind.’

Fandorin did not notice how they reached the Bund. He was brought round by a knock at the window. Apparently someone had been knocking for a while, but he hadn’t heard them straight away.

‘Sir, sir,’ said a voice outside, ‘we’re here … You might add on a bit, for a fright like that.’

The titular counsellor opened the door slightly and thrust a silver dollar out through the crack.

‘Here you are. And wait.’

He managed more or less to tidy up his suit.

‘Poor Algie,’ O-Yumi said with a sigh. ‘I wanted so much to leave him according to all the rules. You’ve gone and spoilt the whole thing. Now his heart will be filled with bitterness and hate. But never mind. I swear that for us everything will end beautifully, in proper jojutsu fashion. You’ll have very, very good memories of me, we’ll separate in the “Autumn Leaf” style.’

The loveliest gift.

A tree gives is its last one –

A gold autumn leaf