The Diamond Chariot

A HEADACHE




Fandorin thought he had just lain down on the planking for half an hour to wait for the spell of severe dizziness to pass off, but when he opened his eyes again he discovered that he was in his own bedroom, lying on the bed, completely naked under the blanket, with two heads leaning down over him: both had narrow eyes, but one was round, with hair cut in a short, stiff brush, and the other was long and narrow, with a neat parting. It was Masa and Shirota, both gazing at the titular counsellor with expressions of intense anxiety.

‘What … happened … to me?’ asked Erast Petrovich, struggling to force his dry tongue to pronounce the words.

This simple question provoked an entire discussion in Japanese, after which the two men nodded to each other as if they had come to some arrangement, and the secretary began cautiously:

‘At dawn Miss O-Yumi shook your servant awake and told him: “The master is in trouble, I can feel it, let’s go, quickly”. She ran along the seafront towards the cargo wharfs, with Masahiro following her. He says that as she ran, she kept looking at the moorings. At one of the farthest, already in the native town, she found you lying unconscious, covered in blood.’

Fandorin looked at Masa, who narrowed his eyes conspiratorially. Aha, thought Erast Petrovich, they didn’t tell Shirota there was a dead body lying beside me. That’s good. But how did O-Yumi know that I was in trouble? And how did she guess that she should look for me on the seafront? What an amazing woman. Where is she?

He looked around, but she wasn’t in the room.

‘Miss O-Yumi did something – apparently she pressed on some vein – and the bleeding stopped. Then she tore a strip off her dress and bandaged you up. She ordered your servant to carry you home, but she did not come back here. She said that an in fusion of some mountain plant was needed urgently – Masahiro did not remember the name. She told him that if you did not drink this infusion, the blood in your head would dry up and become a little stone, and after a while his master could die. Your servant carried you as far as the boundary of the Settlement, and there he was fortunate enough to meet an early riksha … And this morning the consul ran into your apartment and saw you lying here unconscious with a bandage on your head. He shouted at your servant, called me and sent for the doctor. I went to Mr Twigs, knowing that he is your friend … And the consul left for Tokyo urgently, to go to the embassy …’

So many things in this story were unclear, but Fandorin was struck most forcibly of all by Vsevolod Vitalievich’s strange behaviour.

‘He came running in?’

The punctilious Doronin bursting into his assistant’s apartment first thing in the morning? Something really extraordinary must have happened for him to do that.

Shirota faltered and did not answer.

‘And what did Dr Twigs say?’

The two Japanese exchanged glances again. And once again there was no answer.

Masa said something in an anxious voice and the secretary translated it.

‘You need to lie down and change your compress every hour and you must not worry. Dr Albertini says you have a very serious concussion.’

‘Why Albertini and n-not Twigs?’

Another animated discussion in Japanese, this time without any translation.

Erast Petrovich’s head really was aching terribly, and he felt nauseous, but all this mystery was beginning to get on his nerves.

Damn the doctors and the consul. There was more important business to deal with.

‘Masa, Asagawa-san koko, hayaku!’1 the titular counsellor ordered.

The servant batted his eyelids and gave Shirota a frightened glance. The secretary cleared his throat in warning.

Erast Petrovich’s heart started pounding, beating faster and faster with every second. He jerked upright on the bed and bit his lip to stop himself crying out from the pain.

‘Masa, I must get dressed!’

Fandorin returned to the consulate after two in the morning, shattered by the scale of the catastrophe. He would probably have been even more shaken if not for the constant dizziness and spasms of pain that repeatedly transfixed his cranium from temple to temple, imparting an air of unreality to everything that happened, as if it were some appalling nightmare. The horror of it all made it too far-fetched to believe. Things like that didn’t happen in waking life.

Inspector Asagawa had been killed by hooligans. And, if the Japanese police could be believed, purely by chance, in a pointless, drunken brawl.

Sergeant Lockston had died of a heart attack in his office.

And an autopsy had shown that a blood vessel had burst in Dr Twigs’ brain.

All of this was already highly unlikely, but a coincidence of chance events was possible, in theory – if not for that invisible man, who had killed the witness, and the disappearance of the three clues.

The coded diagram had disappeared from the doctor’s study. No oaths written in blood had been discovered on the sergeant’s body. And the police knew nothing about any file of reports supposedly in the inspector’s possession.

As soon as Fandorin tried to fathom the meaning of this monstrous sequence of events, his dizziness intensified and he was swamped by a wave of nausea. And he simply didn’t have the strength to digest and extrapolate on the ‘Don Tsurumaki’ clue.

But the vice-consul was tormented most of all by O-Yumi’s disappearance. Where was she? Would she come back? What was this damned business about a mountain herb?

Gibberish. Insane, crazy gibberish.

Just as Fandorin was approaching the consulate, a two-seater kuruma drove up from the direction of Main Street, and out got Doronin, with the navy agent Bukhartsev (what the hell was he doing here?). They spotted the vice-consul walking towards them and stared at him dourly.

‘Here he is, the hero,’ the lieutenant captain said loudly to Vsevolod Vitalievich. ‘You told me he was almost at death’s door, but now see how chirpy he looks. If I’d only known, I wouldn’t have come, I’d have ordered him to report to Tokyo.’

This beginning boded nothing good, but then, how could there possibly be anything good in all this?

Doronin looked hard into his assistant’s face, which was as white as if it had been dusted with chalk.

‘How are you feeling? Why did you get up?’

‘Thank you, I am p-perfectly all right.’

Fandorin shook hands with the consul, but merely exchanged hostile glances with Bukhartsev, who demonstratively hid his hands behind his back. Well, at the end of the day, they worked in different departments, and they were both on the ninth level of the table of ranks, so no insubordination was involved.

But rank was one thing, and position was quite another, and the sailor immediately demonstrated who was in charge here.

In the consul’s office, he occupied the incumbent’s place at the desk, without bothering to ask permission. Vsevolod Vitalievich had to take a seat on another chair and Fandorin remained standing – not out of diffidence, but because he was afraid that if he sat down, he would not be able to get up again. He leaned against the wall and crossed his arms.

‘Secretary! Hey, whatever your name is …’ the lieutenant captain yelled through the open door. ‘Stay close, you might be needed!’

‘Yes, sir,’ said a voice in the corridor.

Doronin frowned vaguely but said nothing. And Fandorin realised that Bukhartsev had said that to intensify the menace of the situation, as if some rigorous trial were about to begin here and now, and sentence would be pronounced, and it would need to be dictated.

‘His Excellency and I have not been able to get anything intelligible out of your superior,’ Bukhartsev said in an aggressively assertive tone, fixing Erast Petrovich with a gimlet-eyed stare. ‘Vsevolod Vitalievich merely keeps repeating that he bears responsibility for everything, but he can’t explain anything in a way that makes sense. So I have been instructed to conduct an inquiry. You, Fandorin, are to consider yourself answerable to the ambassador in my person. Indeed, even more than that, answerable to the state of Russia.’

The titular counsellor paused slightly before making a slight bow. So be it, to the state.

‘Well then, the first matter,’ the lieutenant captain continued in the style of a public prosecutor. ‘The Japanese police of Yokohama have discovered the body of Prince Onokoji, a member of the very highest levels of society and relative of many influential individuals, near some warehouses.’

‘Near some warehouses?’ Erast Petrovich thought in surprise, and then recalled his servant’s conspiratorial grimace. So, before he carried his unconscious master away from the pier, he had had the wits to move the body somewhere else. Well done, Masa.

‘On examination of the papers of the head of the foreign police, following his sudden death, it emerged that the aforementioned Prince Onokoji had been kept under arrest in the municipal jail.’ Bukhartsev raised his voice, emphasising every single word now. ‘And he had been confined there at the insistence of the Russian vice-consul! What does this mean, Fandorin? Why this arbitrary arrest, and of such an important individual? The whole truth, with no dissimulation! That is the only thing that can mitigate in any way the punishment that awaits you!’

‘I am not afraid of punishment,’ Erast Petrovich said coolly. ‘I will expound the facts as I know them, by all means. Although I must state in advance that I acted entirely at my own discretion and risk, without informing the c-consul.’

The agent snorted incredulously, but he didn’t interrupt. With all possible brevity, but also without omitting anything of substance, the titular counsellor recited the entire sequence of events, explained the reasons for his actions and concluded with a recital of the terrible outcome to which these actions had led. He did not attempt to justify his own mistakes, he made no excuses. And the only concession he made to his own vanity was to omit the false trail leading from the intendant to Bullcox. Consul Doronin had also not mentioned the Right Honourable, although he was well aware of the ‘British intrigue’ theory.

‘Your servant is smarter than you are,’ the naval agent remarked acidly after listening to the whole story. ‘He realised he had to drag the prince’s body as far away as possible, otherwise, who knows, the Japanese police might have suspected the Russian vice-consul of murder. To hear you talk, Fandorin, anyone might think you were a genuine patriot of your Fatherland, a heroic partisan, a real Denis Davydov. Only why have you omitted to mention the escapade with Bullcox?’

He knows, Fandorin realised. But it makes no difference now.

‘Yes, that was my mistake. I allowed myself to be deceived. You see …’

He was going to tell Bukhartsev about the intendant’s lie just before he died, but the lieutenant captain interrupted him.

‘A “mistake”, “deceived”. You stupid boy! Creating an incident like that! And all because of a skirt – that is, a kimono! A challenge to a duel from Bullcox – a senior governmental adviser! What a nightmare! A diplomatic scandal!’

At this point the titular counsellor stopped understanding absolutely anything at all – he clutched at the stabbing pain in his temple.

‘What ch-challenge? What do you mean?’

‘Mstislav Nikolaevich is referring to the challenge that was delivered from Bullcox at eight o’clock this morning,’ Doronin explained. ‘In view of the fact that you were unconscious, I was obliged to accept it. The document is drawn up in due form, the choice of weapons is yours and there is just one condition: only one of the opponents shall remain alive. No sooner had Bullcox’s second left than some men arrived from the native police – concerning Prince Onokoji … I was obliged to set out immediately for Tokyo, in order to inform His Excellency.’

Fandorin smiled dourly – here was further confirmation that Bullcox was no conspirator, no master villain lurking in the wings who sent assassins to do his bidding, but an English gentleman, willing to respond to an insult by offering up his breast to the bullet or the sword.

‘And still he smiles!’ Bukhartsev exclaimed furiously. ‘He has disgraced the title of a Russian diplomat and he laughs! And for whom? For some flesh-peddling …’

‘Hold your tongue!’ Fandorin shouted at the lieutenant captain. ‘One more word, and you and I will fight a duel to the death!’

‘Why, he shouldn’t be dismissed the service, he should be put in a madhouse, in a straitjacket!’ Mstislav Nikolaevich muttered, but without his former hauteur. He obviously did not wish to fight any duel to the death.

‘Gentlemen, gentlemen,’ the consul intervened. ‘We have common cause here, we need to find a way out of an extremely unpleasant situation. Let us not quarrel! Erast Petrovich, you said that before he died the prince named Don Tsurumaki as the leader of the conspiracy?’

‘Yes. But why would an entrepreneur, philanthropist and advocate of progress kill the minister? It doesn’t make any sense …’

It should, perhaps, be noted that at that particular moment the titular counsellor’s head was incapable of making sense of anything much at all, the pain was kneading and squeezing it so fiercely.

‘Oh, doesn’t it?’ Vsevolod Vitalievich said slowly, rubbing his chin, ‘Why not? … It’s actually quite logical. Tsurumaki is a constitutionalist, an advocate of parliamentarianism, which opens up unlimited opportunities for a man like him. Okubo was a classic devotee of enlightened absolutism. From the point of view of our Mr Cloud, the minister was an obstacle on the road to social and economic progress – since you have already brought up the subject of progress. There was nothing personal about it. It’s just that the “New Japanese” like our mutual friend have got used to solving their problems in the simplest and most effective way. What could possibly be more effective: remove one piece from the board, and the game is won … And Tsurumaki has more than enough technical means. Firstly, he has retained his own force of guards from the civil war – the so-called Black Jackets, who serve him with fierce devotion.’ (Fandorin recalled the invisible servants in the estate at the Bluff.) ‘Secondly, the Don effectively owns the entire shadow economy of Yokohama, with all its low dives and dens of fornication. And that means he has close ties with the criminal world, the Yakuza.’ (Yes, yes: the Rakuen, the hunchback, Erast Petrovich thought.) ‘And finally, ever since that same revolution, the Don has remained in close contact with the Satsuma samurai, who fought with him against the Shogun.’

The consul fell silent, having evidently exhausted his arguments, but under the influence of his words, the titular counsellor’s brain finally began to stir, although only feebly.

Tsurumaki had been well aware of the spying activities and unreliability of his indigent noble house guest. And from his telescope he could observe not only the stars, but also his neighbour’s house, which Onokoji often visited at night. The Don was also acquainted with Suga …

And then the lieutenant captain struck the final blow.

‘Hmm. And are you aware, gentlemen, that a few days ago the late, lamented Suga won a quite superb estate from Tsurumaki at cards? The Austrian ambassador told me about it – the game took place at his villa. Is this information of any assistance to you?’

It was remarkable how the naval agent’s attitude had changed following the mention of a duel. Instead of arrogance, his prevalent tone was now one of statesmanlike concern for the interests of the Fatherland.

Oh yes, the news communicated by Bukhartsev was very significant indeed. Erast Petrovich clutched his head in his hands and groaned.

Asagawa had been going to find out exactly who had ‘lost’ the estate to the intendant, only the self-appointed sleuths had got too carried away with their game of cops and robbers. And yet the puzzle had really been perfectly simple all along.

How many disastrous, unforgivable errors they had made!

Now there was not a scrap of evidence left. All three clues had been destroyed. The only witness who knew a lot and was willing to talk had been killed.

Intendant Suga would be buried with full honours. His party would remain in power.

And the secret room behind the police chief’s office? Its existence would prove nothing. All it contained was a heap of torn scraps of paper. And Asagawa had made sure to tear the compromising documents into such tiny scraps that they could never be glued back together.

‘We have only one trump card left,’ the vice-consul declared. ‘The Don does not know that we know about him.’

‘Not a very strong trump,’ Vsevolod Vitalievich said with a shrug. ‘And how do we play it?’

Erast Petrovich rubbed his temple and said in a low voice:

‘There is one way. It is very risky, of course, but I would try it …’

‘I don’t wish to know anything about it!’ the lieutenant captain interrupted hastily, even pretending to put his hands over his ears. ‘No details. You created this mess – you can sort it out. You really have nothing to lose. All I can do is delay my report for twenty-four hours. But know this, Fandorin: I shall send that document, not to our genial and benign ambassador, but directly to St Petersburg. Well then, messieurs consuls, you have exactly twenty-four hours. Either you present me with a scapegoat on to whom we can shift the blame for everything that has happened or … don’t hold me responsible for the consequences.’ Mstislav Nikolaevich paused significantly and addressed Fandorin directly. ‘Only remember this: no duels with Bullcox!’

‘But how can I refuse? It’s d-dishonourable!’

‘I can’t even tell what would be the greater disaster, with Russo-British relations in their present overheated state: if you kill Bullcox or if he kills you.’ Mstislav Nikolaevich pondered for a moment, but then shrugged. ‘No, it’s out of the question. When what’s at stake is the honour of the entire country, Fandorin, one must be willing to sacrifice one’s personal honour.’

The titular counsellor glowered at the naval agent.

‘Personal honour, Lieutenant Captain, must not be sacrificed for any motives whatever.’

And once again, faced with a rebuff, Bukhartsev softened his tone, abandoning high principle for hearty sincerity.

‘Oh, please, drop that, Erast Petrovich. What are all our petty vanities and ambitions in the face of History? And that is precisely what you and I are dealing with here. We stand in the front line of the whole of European culture. Oh, yes, don’t be so surprised. I have been thinking about this a lot just recently. The other day I argued with you, Vsevolod Vitalievich, and I laughed at the Japanese military threat. But I had a good think about it afterwards, and I admit that you were right, a hundred times right. Only we need to take a broader view. It’s not just a matter of little Japan. Soon a new Genghis Khan will advance against Europe. The giant of China will begin to stir, preparing to awaken. When that yellow wave rises, its crest will reach up to the heavens, drawing all the Koreas and Mongolias after it, and perched high on its foaming peak will be an impudent little island empire with a predatory nobility and an avaricious nouveau riche bourgeoisie!’ Mstislav Nikolaevich’s voice resounded prophetically, his eyes glowed with fire – the lieutenant captain was no doubt already picturing himself pronouncing this speech to the supreme statesmen of the empire. ‘The New Mongolism or the Yellow Peril – that is what I shall call it. Millions upon millions of ferocious, yellow-faced Asians with slanty eyes and bandy legs will flood into the peaceful expanses of the Old World in that unstoppable wave. And once again we, the Slavs, will find ourselves in the path of this Chinese giant with a Japanese head … That is what you should be thinking about, Erast Petrovich, not your lordly personal honour.’

Having delivered this supremely worthy speech in a superlative tone of comradely reproach, the lieutenant captain left without adding anything more, in order not to spoil the effect. He simply got up, nodded in military style, pronounced a single word (‘Gentlemen’) and proceeded to the door.

Doronin stood up but didn’t move from the spot.

‘Shirota will see you out,’ he said quietly.

And a little later, when the agent was already outside the gates, he added with feeling:

‘Why, the scoundrrrel! And he was lying anyway. He won’t wait for any twenty-four hours. He’ll scribble out his telltale tittle-tattle right now, in the train. Then he’ll send it directly to the ministry, with a copy to the Third Section. And to prevent it looking like any ordinary denunciation, he’ll put in all that gibberish about the Yellow Peril that he just rehearsed in front of us. And the most sickening thing of all is that everyone in St Petersburg will be most favourably impressed.’ The consul lowered himself wearily into an armchair. ‘They’ll shove me into retirement, at the very least … Well, to hell with my career, I can live without it. But I won’t go back to Russia. I’ll have myself naturalised and become Japanese, eh? What do you think of that idea?’ And he laughed, as if making it clear that he was, of course, joking.

The titular counsellor had no thoughts at all on that count; there were already plenty of other problems for his poor, broken head to puzzle over.

‘So the main akunin in this business is Don Tsurumaki?’ he muttered, as if to himself.

‘What did you say? Akunin?’

‘Why, yes, the villain of the piece. It has been explained to me that Japanese villains are a special kind, unlike any others. That is, of course, they are appalling monsters too, but with p-principles and a certain nobility about them. Or something of that kind.’

Vsevolod Vitalievich chuckled.

‘Japan, a country of noble villains? Perhaps. Tsurumaki at least is a classic akunin.’

‘I’m not so sure … you see, I know the man quite well.’ Fandorin did not go into the details. ‘He … he doesn’t seem like a sly schemer. And then, should we put so much faith in the testimony of a dying man? I made that mistake once already by believing Suga. And now it’s clear that in his final moments of life the only thing on his mind was how to send us off on a false trail.’

‘Onokoji is not Suga. The intendant was a strong, resilient individual who was not afraid of death. But your effete Japanese decadent does not fit into the category of akunin at all.’

They fell silent, this time both thinking about the same thing.

Unable to come up with any ideas, the consul looked at his assistant, who kept clutching at his temple.

‘You said that you saw some risky way of doing something, but what exactly?’

‘Proving Don Tsurumaki’s cunning villainy to ourselves. Or his innocence.’

‘But how do we do that?’

‘I have been challenged to a duel. So I shall require a second, shan’t I?’ Erast Petrovich tried to smile, but instead his face merely contorted in a new spasm of pain.

My most faithful friend,

Back here with me once again,

My own dear headache

1 ‘Masa, get Asagawa here, quickly!’ (distorted Japanese)





A QUIET VOICE




That evening there was another meeting in the same office, with the list of attendees slightly altered. The naval agent was not present, but Vsevolod Vitalievich had invited Shirota instead – no doubt in compensation for his humiliating wait in the corridor.

The Japanese, however, seemed thoughtful, rather than offended, as if his mind was wandering somewhere far, far away. But the remarks that he interpolated from time to time made it clear that he had listened to the vice-consul’s story no less attentively than Doronin.

The vice-consul had returned from Don Tsurumaki’s, still not having resolved his doubts.

‘Since we have no proof of this man’s guilt, I have b-based the operation exclusively on psychological factors,’ the pale green Erast Petrovich explained rather slowly – either because he was not feeling well, or because he wished to analyse his talk with the suspect once again. ‘In brief, I tried to frighten Tsurumaki and at the same time suggest a way for him to avoid the danger.’

Frighten Don Tsurumaki?’ the secretary repeated, shaking his head dubiously, as if Fandorin had said something absurd.

‘Well, rather, make it clear that he is in danger. To that end, I pretended to be in a state of shock at the news of recent sad events (to be quite honest, I didn’t really have to pretend) and spoke to him quite candidly, as a friend.’ The vice-consul laughed bitterly. ‘He and I are f-friends … I told him that all this time I had been leading an independent investigation into the assassination of Okubo. That I regarded Bullcox as the prime suspect, as the representative of the power most interested in having the minister removed. Nor did I forget to mention my helpers and our valuable witness, Prince Onokoji, who is well known to the Don. As you can see, all this is quite close to the truth. But beyond that I permitted myself a certain degree of improvisation. In relating the final moments of the dying witness, I modified his final words. I said that what Onokoji whispered as he gave up the ghost was this: “It wasn’t Bullcox, I deceived you. It was my …” – and he died before he could finish. Then I mused out loud at considerable length about who the poor prince could have meant. I asked the Don’s opinion – after all, he knew the dead man and his circle of acquaintances very well. My who? Brother? Cousin? Uncle? Tsurumaki responded rather uneasily, he told me: “The Prince didn’t have any brothers. But he has any number of cousins once removed and twice removed, and many of them hold important positions. Which one of them did he mean?” He mentioned one, then a second, and a third. And then I launched the following attack. Thinking out loud, I asked: “But what if he didn’t mean a relative? My former servant? My friend?” I thought the Don looked wary at that, but I could be mistaken … I pretended to drop the subject. I said: “But I haven’t come see you just about that.” I told him about the challenge to a duel, and said I needed a second. “This is a serious request, and I can only ask a friend …”’

Erast Petrovich recalled how Tsurumaki had smiled at those words, as if flattered, but the vice-consul’s memory immediately threw up what the millionaire had once said about Bullcox: ‘Surely you know, my dear Fandorin-san, that one of the greatest pleasures is the feeling of secret superiority over someone who thinks he is better than you’.

‘The time had come to show some emotion – nobody really expects that from such a reserved individual as yours truly. Which only makes the impression all the stronger. “I have no one else I can turn to,” I said mournfully. “The consul won’t do, because I have been forbidden to fight a duel by our superiors. And all my friends – Dr Twigs, Sergeant Lockston and Inspector Asagawa – have been treacherously murdered. Yes, yes, murdered, I am absolutely certain of it! It was those accursed ninja who did it! But they are only the agents of the man Onokoji tried to tell me about. I swear I shall find him, no matter what it may cost me! I’ll identify everyone with whom Onokoji had any connections at all! It’s someone very c-close to him, otherwise he would not have referred to that person as ‘my’!” And I carried on ranting about the same subject for another five minutes, to make sure that Tsurumaki was appropriately impressed. After all, it’s so simple – “my benefactor” or “my patron”. I may not have thought of it today, but surely I’m certain to think of it tomorrow. If the Don is guilty, he cannot help but be alarmed by that.’

Erast Petrovich thought back, trying to recall the expression with which the millionaire had listened to his ranting. Tsurumaki’s bearded face had been intent and serious, his thick brows knitted together. Was that circumspection or merely normal sympathy for a friend? The devil only knew.

‘Then I took a grip on myself and started talking more calmly. “You know, my dear friend, if this challenge had arrived yesterday, I would have killed Bullcox with no hesitation – not because of the woman, but for all his supposed atrocities. But now it turns out that I was mistaken and he hasn’t committed any particular atrocities at all. Bullcox is merely a party whom I have offended and, in his own way, he is perfectly right. I burst into his house, started a f-fight, abducted the woman he loves … No, I don’t want to kill him, I have no right to do it. But I don’t want to be killed either. I’m young, I’m blessed with love. Why should I die? So, this is the essence of my request. Be my second and help me set the conditions for the duel so that I shall not have to kill or be killed – naturally, without any damage to my honour. I have tried to think of something myself, but my head is not working very well”. And that was no lie, gentlemen, of that you can be quite certain.’ The titular counsellor pressed his hands against his temples, closed his eyes and allowed himself to pause for a moment. ‘As you can see, my ploy is very simple. If the Don is the individual I am looking for, he is certain to seize such a convenient opportunity to use someone else to rid him of an irksome and dangerous investigator. He thought it over for a long time, I waited patiently …’

‘And what happened?’ Doronin blurted out eagerly. ‘Is he guilty or not?’

‘I think not. But judge for yourselves. Tsurumaki asked: “Are you good with a sword?” I replied: “Middling. As a youth I was enthusiastic and even became the best swordsman in my grammar school, but then I gave it up. I’m a much better shot.” He said: “Firearms are far too deadly, better cold steel. If you know how to hold a sword, that is quite enough. I shall go to Bullcox and tell him that the choice has been made. He can’t reject it and he can’t refuse to fight. But the fact is that quite recently he fell from a horse and broke his wrist. And now that wrist has entirely lost it flexibility”. I told him: “No, not for the world! That is base and ignoble!” And the Don replied: “It would be ignoble if you intended to run Bullcox through. But you will simply knock the sword out of his hand, set your blade to his throat and in that advantageous position you will offer your apologies for invading his home – and only for that. I shall take care that the public finds out about the duel, so there will be quite enough witnesses. After you disarm the Englishman in the presence of an audience and then spare him, he won’t be able to challenge you again”. That is the plan invented by Tsurumaki. It has a certain air of oriental guile about it, but I think it is quite ingenious in its own way. So it would seem that Onokoji lied. The Don is innocent.’

‘He is guilty, as guilty as can be!’ Vsevolod Vitalievich exclaimed vehemently. ‘Bravo, Fandorin, you have succeeded in exposing the Don’s true colours! He has deceived you. Firstly, somehow I don’t recall Bullcox walking around with his arm in a sling at any time recently. And secondly, he is an excellent swordsman, which your “dear friend” omitted to mention, aware that you have not been in Yokohama very long and could not know about that. I remember that last year at the Atlantic Club there was a competition between European and Japanese swordsmen. The Europeans fought with a blunted sword, a rapier or a spadroon, according to their choice, and the Japanese fought with bamboo swords. Our side suffered a crushing defeat. The only one who came up to the mark was Bullcox. In the final bout he held out against the finest of the native swordsmen. And do you know who that was?’

‘Tsurumaki Donjiro,’ Shirota whispered. ‘Yes, I remember. It was a splendid fight!’

‘You have played your part capitally, Erast Petrovich. He believed that you were acting in secret from me, so there was no one from whom you could learn the truth.’

‘Then Onokoji wasn’t lying. Quod erat d-demonstrandum,’ the titular counsellor summed up with satisfaction. ‘That is, the garnering of evidence still lies ahead of us, but we know the correct answer to the problem in advance.’

‘What do you intend to do? Have the time and place for the duel been named?’

‘Yes. Tsurumaki went straight from me to Bullcox and came back half an hour later with the message that the duel will take place tomorrow at eight in the morning on Kitamura Hill, above the Bluff.’

‘And are you going to walk straight into this trap?’

‘Naturally. Don’t worry, Vsevolod Vitalievich, this time I have a reserve plan. Perhaps we won’t need to gather any evidence after all.’

‘But what if he kills you?’

Fandorin twitched one shoulder nonchalantly – as if to say: The plan does not envisage that outcome.

‘It will be a very beautiful death,’ Shirota said suddenly, blushing bright red for some reason.

It looks as if this occasion will be my chance to become a ‘sincere man’, thought Erast Petrovich, noticing the secretary’s eyes blazing with excitement. Perhaps another portrait would soon be added to those of Marshal Saigo and Alexander Sergeevich Pushkin …

‘I’m sorry, gentlemen. I’m feeling a bit tired. I’ll go and lie d-down for a while …’

He walked out, trying not to stagger, but in the corridor he was obliged to lean against the wall, and no sooner had he stepped inside the door of his apartment than he felt the floor turn into something like the deck of a ship. The deck swayed to the right, then heaved to the left, and eventually slipped out from under his feet altogether. Erast Petrovich fell.

He must have lost consciousness for a while, because when he opened his eyes he was lying in bed, and Masa was applying something cold to his forehead. The sensation was inexpressibly pleasant. Fandorin thanked him: ‘Arigato’ – and tumbled into oblivion again.

Asagawa and Dr Twigs came. Sergeant Lockston was peering over their shoulders, wearing a broad-brimmed hat instead of his uniform cap. They gazed at Fandorin lying there and said nothing, just glanced at each other.

And then they were replaced by another vision, a sweet one – O-Yumi. Her face was not as beautiful as in waking life – it was pale, haggard and sad, and her unkempt hair hung down on to her cheeks, but Fandorin was still absolutely delighted.

‘It doesn’t matter that you’re not very beautiful,’ he said. ‘Only, please, don’t disappear.’

She smiled briefly, just for a moment, and turned serious again.

The pillow on which the sick man’s head was resting suddenly rose up all on its own and a cup appeared in front of Fandorin’s lips.

‘Drink, drink,’ a sweet voice murmured and, of course, Erast Petrovich drank.

The potion was bitter and pungent, but he looked at the slim hand holding the cup and that helped.

‘That’s good, and now sleep.’

The pillow sank back down.

‘Where were you?’ asked Fandorin, only now realising that he hadn’t imagined O-Yumi. ‘I wanted to see you so much!’

‘A long way away. On the mountain where the magical herb grows. Sleep. Tomorrow your head will hurt even more. That will be the blood vessels purging themselves. You must bear it. And at midday I’ll give you another infusion, and then the pain will pass off, and the danger will be over. Go to sleep. Have a good, sound sleep. I won’t go away until you wake up …’

Then I must not wake up for as long as possible, he thought. What could be better than lying here, listening to that quiet voice?

Never in the day,

Only at night do I hear

Your sweet, quiet voice