EF06 - The State Counsellor (2 page)

The Governor General spread his hands in regretful despair, but the man with the black hair and grey temples snapped back, without a trace of a stammer: 'How could
you
ever understand the meaning of honour and human dignity? But that's all right: even if you don't understand, it will be a lesson to the other dogs.'

Ivan Fyodorovich gaped at this amazing official and tried to get up out of the chair, but the other man had already removed his hand from his pocket, and the object in it was not a telegram but a short dagger. The hand plunged the dagger straight to the General's heart. Khrapov's eyebrows crept upwards and his mouth dropped open, but no sound escaped from it. The Governor General's fingers clutched at the State Counsellor's hand, locking on to it, and the diamond ring flashed again in the lamplight. Then his head slumped backwards lifelessly and a thin trickle of scarlet blood ran down his chin.

The killer unclasped the dead man's fingers from his hand with fastidious disgust. Then he tore off his false moustache and rubbed his grey temples, which turned as black as the rest of his hair.

With a glance round at the closed door, the resolute man of action walked over to one of the blind windows overlooking the railway tracks, but the frame was frozen solid and absolutely refused to budge. The strange State Counsellor, however, was not disconcerted. He took hold of the curved handle with both hands and heaved. The veins stood out on his forehead, his clenched teeth ground together and - wonder of wonders! -the window frame squeaked and started moving downwards. A chilly blast flung powdery snow into the strong man's face and set the curtains flapping in delight. In a single agile movement the killer threw himself through the open frame and melted away into the grey morning twilight.

The scene in the study was transformed: overjoyed at this sudden opportunity, the wind started driving important documents across the carpet, tugging at the fringe of the tablecloth, tousling the grey hair on the General's head.

The blue lampshade began swaying impetuously and the patch of light began dodging about on the dead man's chest, revealing two letters carved into the ivory handle of the dagger driven in right up to the hilt: CG.

CHAPTER I

In which Fandorin finds himself under arrest

The day got off to a bad start Erast Petrovich Fandorin rose at the crack of dawn because at half past eight he had to be at the Nikolaevsky Station. He and his Japanese valet performed their usual comprehensive gymnastics routine, he drank green tea and was already shaving while performing his breathing exercises at the same time, when the telephone rang. It turned out that the State Counsellor need not have risen at such an ungodly hour after all: the express train from St Petersburg was expected to arrive two hours late because of snowdrifts on the railway line.

Since all the necessary instructions for ensuring the safety of the important visitor from the capital had been issued the previous day, Erast Petrovich could not immediately think of any way to occupy his unexpected leisure time. He thought of going to the station early, but decided against it. Why set his subordinates' nerves on edge unnecessarily? He could be quite certain that Colonel Sverchinsky, the acting head of the Provincial Office of Gendarmes, had carried out his instructions to the letter: platform one, at which the express train would arrive, was surrounded by agents in civilian clothes, there was an armoured carriage waiting right beside the platform, and the escort had been selected with meticulous care. It should really be quite enough to arrive at the station fifteen minutes ahead of time - and that merely for the sake of good order rather than to expose any oversights.

The task he had been set by His Excellency Prince Vladimir Andreevich Dolgorukoi was a highly responsible one, but not difficult: meet a VIP, accompany him to breakfast with the prince, after that escort him to the securely guarded residence on the Sparrow Hills to take a rest, and in the evening take the newly appointed Governor General of Siberia to the Chelyabinsk train, on to which the ministerial carriage would already have been coupled. That was really all there was to it.

There was only one point of difficulty, which had been tormenting Erast Petrovich since the previous day: should he shake the hand of Adjutant General Khrapov, who had sullied his own name with a base or, at the very least, unforgivably stupid act?

From the point of view of his position and career, of course, he ought to disregard his own feelings, especially since those who should know were predicting a rapid return to the highest echelons of power for the former gendarme commander. Fandorin, however, decided not to decline the handshake for a quite different reason - a guest is a guest, and it is not permissible to insult him. It would be sufficient to maintain a cool attitude and an emphatically official tone.

This decision was correct, indeed indisputably so, but nonetheless it had left the State Counsellor with an uneasy feeling: perhaps careerist considerations had played some part in it after all?

That was why Erast Petrovich was not at all upset by this unexpected delay - he now had extra time to resolve his complex moral dilemma.

Fandorin ordered his valet Masa to brew some strong coffee, settled into an armchair and began weighing up all the pros and cons again, involuntarily clenching and unclenching his right hand as he did so.

But before long his musings were interrupted by another ring, this time at the door. He heard the sound of voices in the hallway - at first quiet, and then loud. Someone was attempting to force his way through into the study, but Masa was keeping him out, making hissing and spluttering sounds eloquendy expressive of the former Japanese subject's bellicose state of mind.

'Who's there, Masa?' Erast Petrovich shouted, walking out of the study into the drawing room.

There he saw that he had unexpected visitors: the head of Moscow's Department of Security, Lieutenant Colonel of Gendarmes Burlyaev, accompanied by two gentlemen in check coats, evidently plain-clothes agents. Masa was holding his arms out wide, blocking the three men's way: he was clearly intending to move from words to action in the immediate future.

'My apologies, Mr Fandorin,' said Burlyaev, doffing his cap and running one hand through his stiff salt-and-pepper French crop. 'It's some kind of misunderstanding, but I have here a telegram from the Police Department' - he waved a piece of paper through the air - 'informing me that Adjutant General Khrapov has been murdered, and that ... er, er ... you killed him ... and that you must be placed under arrest immediately. They've completely lost their minds, but orders are orders ... You'd better calm your Japanese down, I've heard about the spry way he fights with his feet.'

The first thing Erast Petrovich felt was an absurd sense of relief at the realisation that the problem of the handshake had been resolved of its own accord, and it was only afterwards that the full, nightmarish force of what he had heard struck him.

Fandorin was only cleared of suspicion after the delayed express finally arrived. Before the train had even stopped moving, the white-haired Staff Captain leapt out of the ministerial carriage on to the platform and set off along it at a furious pace, spewing out curses with his face contorted in rage, towards the spot where the arrested State Counsellor was standing surrounded by police agents. But when he was only a few steps away, the Staff Captain slowed to a walk and then came to a complete halt. He fluttered his white eyelashes and punched himself hard on the thigh.

'It's not him. Like him, but not him! And not even really like him! Just the moustache, and the grey temples - no other similarity at all!' the officer muttered in bewilderment. 'Who's this you've brought? Where's Fandorin?'

'I assure you, M-Mr von Seidlitz, that I am Fandorin,' the State Counsellor said with exaggerated gentleness, as if he were speaking to someone who was mentally ill, and turned to Burlyaev, who had flushed a deep crimson. 'Pyotr Ivanovich, please tell your men that they can let go of my elbows now. Staff Captain, where are Lieutenant Colonel Modzalevsky and your men from the guard? I need to question them all and record their testimony'

'Question them? Record their testimony?' Seidlitz cried in a hoarse voice, raising his clenched fists to the heavens. 'What damned testimony! Don't you understand? He's dead, dead! My God, it's the end of everything; everything! I have to run, get the gendarmes and the police moving! If I don't find that masquerading blackguard, that—' He choked and starting hiccupping convulsively. 'But I
will
find him, I
will,
I'll exonerate myself! I'll move heaven and earth! Otherwise there'll be nothing for it but to blow my brains out!'

'Very well,' Erast Petrovich said in the same placid tone. 'I think I'll question the Staff Captain a little later when he recovers his composure. But let us make a start with the others now. Tell them to clear the stationmaster's office for us. I request Mr Sverchinsky and Mr Burlyaev to be present at the interrogation. And afterwards I shall go and report to His Excellency'

The head porter of the train, who had been maintaining a respectful distance, asked timidly: 'Your Honour, what are we to do with the body? Such an important person... Where should we take him?'

'What do you mean, where?' the State Counsellor asked in surprise. 'The morgue carriage will be here any minute; send him for a post-mortem.'

'... And then the adjutant Modzalevsky, who was the first to recover his wits, ran to the Klin passenger terminal and sent off a coded telegram to the Police Department.' Fandorin's lengthy report was nearing its end. 'The top hat, mackintosh and dagger have been sent to the laboratory for analysis. Khrapov is in the morgue. Seidlitz has been given a sedative injection.'

Silence fell in the room, broken only by the ticking of the clock and the quivering of the windowpanes under the pressure of the stormy February wind. The Governor General of the ancient capital of Russia, Prince Vladimir Andreevich Dolgorukoi, worked his wrinkled lips intently, tugged on his long, dyed moustache and scratched himself behind the ear, causing his chestnut wig to slip slightly to one side. Erast Petrovich had not often had occasion to see the all-powerful master of Russia's old capital in a state of such hopeless bewilderment.

'There's no way the St Petersburg camarilla will ever forgive me for this,' His Excellency said mournfully. 'It won't bother them that their damned Khrapov never even reached Moscow. Klin is part of Moscow province too ... Well then, Erast Petrovich, I suppose this is the end?'

The State Counsellor merely sighed in reply.

Dolgorukoi turned to the liveried servant standing at the door with a silver tray in his hands. The tray held several little bottles and phials and a small bowl of eucalyptus cough pastilles. The servant's name was Frol Grigorievich Vedishchev, and he held the modest position of valet, but the prince had no more devoted and experienced adviser than this wizened old man with his bald cranium, massive sideburns and gold-rimmed spectacles with thick lenses.

There was no one else in the study apart from these three.

'Well, Frolushka,' Dolgorukoi asked, his voice trembling, 'are we for the scrap heap then? Dismissed in dishonour. Scandal and disgrace

'Vladimir Andreevich,' the valet whined miserably, 'to hell with the sovereign's service. You've served long and well, thank God, and you're past eighty now ... Don't go tormenting yourself over this. The Tsar might not honour you, but the people of Moscow will remember you with a kind word. It's no small thing, after all: twenty-five years you've been looking after them, barely even sleeping at night. Let's go to Nice, to the sunshine. We'll sit on the porch and reminisce about the old days, why, at our age...'

The prince smiled sadly: 'I couldn't, Frol, you know that. I'll die without any work to do, I'll pine away in six months. It's Moscow that supports me, that's the only reason I'm still hale and hearty. I wouldn't mind if there were good cause, but they'll just throw me out for nothing at all. Everything in my city is in perfect order. It's unjust...' The tray of bottles began rattling in Vedishchev's hands and tears streamed down his cheeks.

'God is merciful, little father; perhaps this will pass over. Look at all the other things that have happened, but with God's help we survived. Erast Petrovich will find us the villain who killed the General, and the sovereign will mellow'

'He won't mellow,' Dolgorukoi muttered dejectedly. 'This is a matter of state security. When the sovereign power feels threatened, it has no pity on anyone. Everyone has to feel terrified, and especially its own - so that they will keep their eyes peeled and fear the authorities even more than the killers. It's my jurisdiction, so I'm answerable. There's only one thing I ask of God: to let me find the criminal quickly, using my own resources. At least then I won't leave in disgrace. I've served with dignity and my end will be dignified.' He cast a hopeful glance at his deputy for special assignments. 'Well, Erast Petrovich, will you be able to find this "CG" for me?'

Fandorin paused before replying in a quiet, uncertain voice. 'Vladimir Andreevich, you know me, I do not like to make empty promises. We cannot even be certain that after committing this atrocity the murderer made for Moscow and not St Petersburg ... After all, the Combat Group's activities are directed from St Petersburg.'

'Yes, yes, that's true,' the prince said, nodding sadly. 'Really, what am I thinking of? The combined forces of the entire Corps of Gendarmes and the Police Department have failed to catch these villains, and here I am appealing to you. Russia is a big country, the villain could have gone anywhere ... Do please forgive me. When he is drowning a man will clutch at any straw. And then, you have already rescued me from so many absolutely hopeless situations