EF06 - The State Counsellor (24 page)

'How did you know?' Pozharsky asked, swinging round towards him. 'You couldn't possibly know that!'

'It's very simple,' Fandorin said with a shrug. 'You said that something even more distressing than the theft of six hundred thousand roubles had happened. We all know that in this investigation you had staked your greatest hopes on the agent Gvidon. Nobody else's murder could possibly have upset you so badly'

The deputy director of police exclaimed irritably:

'Bravo, bravo, Mr State Counsellor. Where were you earlier with your famous deduction? Yes, it was Gvidon. There were clear indications of suicide; he was clutching a dagger bearing the letters CG in his hand, and the stab wound in his heart had been made by the same blade. Apparently I was mistaken in my assessment of this individual's psychological constitution.'

It was evident that Gleb Georgievich found self-castigation difficult, and Fandorin appreciated how much this gesture must have cost him.

'You were not so very mistaken,' he said. 'Obviously Gvidon was about to betray his comrades and he even phoned the Department, but at the last moment his conscience awoke. It happens sometimes, even with traitors.'

Pozharsky realised that Fandorin was referring him back to their recent conversation and he smiled briefly; but then his face immediately darkened and he turned in annoyance to Lieutenant Colonel Burlyaev.

'Where has that Mylnikov of yours got to? He's our last hope now. Ace is dead, Gvidon is dead. The unidentified man found behind the church wall in Somovsky Cul-de-Sac is dead too, but if we can establish his identity, it might be the start of a new trail.'

'Evstratii Pavlovich has set all the local constables on it,' Burlyaev boomed, 'and his agents are checking the dead man's photograph against all our card files. If he's from Moscow, we're sure to identify him.'

'Allow me to draw your attention to one more thing, Erast Petrovich - in continuation of our discussion,' Pozharsky said, glancing at the State Counsellor. 'The unidentified man had only been wounded in the neck, not fatally However, his accomplices didn't take him with them; they finished him off with a shot to the temple. That is the way they do things!'

'Or perhaps the wounded man shot himself in order not to be a burden to his comrades?' Fandorin responded.

Gleb Georgievich's only response to such misplaced idealism was to roll his eyes up and back, but Colonel Sverchinsky rose halfway out of his seat and asked: 'Mr Deputy Director, will you order me to head the effort to identify the man? I can line up all the yard-keepers in Moscow. We'll need more men than Mylnikov and his agents for this.'

Several times that evening when Stanislav Filippovich had tried to make useful suggestions, the prince had stubbornly refused to take any notice of him. But this time Pozharsky seemed to explode.

'Why don't you keep quiet!' he shouted. 'Your department is responsible for order in the city! Fine order! What was it you were planning to deal with today? The railway stations? Then go, and keep your eyes open! The bandits are bound to try to ship their loot out of the city, most likely to Petersburg, in order to replenish the party funds. Take care, Sverchinsky; if you bungle this too, I'll see that you pay for everything at once! Go!'

The Colonel, deadly pale, gave Pozharsky a long glance and walked towards the door in silence. His adjutant, Lieutenant Smolyaninov, dashed after him.

Mylnikov came dashing towards them from the reception, looking delighted. 'We've done it!' he shouted from the doorway. 'Identified him! He was on record from last year! He's in the card file. Arsenii Nikolaevich Zimin, the barrister's son! A private house on Myasnitskaya Street!'

In the sudden silence that followed, the puzzled Evstratii Pavlovich's fitful breathing was clearly audible.

Fandorin turned away from Pozharsky, afraid that the prince might read the gloating in his eyes. It was not exacdy gloating, but the State Counsellor did experience a certain involuntary sense of satisfaction, of which he immediately felt ashamed.

'Well now,' Pozharsky said in a flat, expressionless voice. 'So this move has led us into a dead end too. Let us congratulate each other, gentlemen. We are right back where we started.'

When he returned home, Erast Petrovich had barely changed his frock coat for a white tie and tails before it was time to go to collect Esfir from the banker Litvinov's house on Tryokhsvyatskaya Street, a building famous throughout Moscow.

This pompous marble palazzo, built only a few years earlier, seemed to have been transported to the quiet, sedate little street directly from Venice, instandy overshadowing the old nobles' mansions with their peeling columns and identical triangular roofs. Even now, in the hour before midnight, the buildings beside it were lost in darkness, but the handsome house was all aglow, glimmering like some fairy-tale palace of ice: the magnificent pediment in the very latest American fashion was illuminated by electric lights.

The State Counsellor had heard about the great wealth of the banker Litvinov, who was one of Russia's most generous benefactors of charity, a patron of Russian artists and zealous donor to the Church, a man whose recent conversion to Christianity had been more than compensated for by his fervent piety. But even so, in Moscow high society the millionaire was regarded with condescending irony. They told a joke about how when Litvinov was awarded a decoration for his assistance to orphans, a star that conferred the status of a noble of the fourth rank, he supposedly began saying to people: 'Please, why struggle to get your tongue round 'Avessalom Efraimovich". Just call me "Your Excellency".' Litvinov was accepted in all the best houses of Moscow, but at the same time it was sometimes whispered to the other guests, as if in justification, that 'a baptised Jew is a thief forgiven'.

However, on entering the spacious Carrara marble vestibule, decorated with crystal chandeliers, vast mirrors and monumental canvases showing scenes from Russian history, Erast Petrovich was struck by the thought that if Avessalom Efraimovich's financial affairs continued in the same successful vein, the tide of baron was a certainty, and then the ironic whispers would stop, because people who are not simply rich, but super-rich, and also tided, have no nationality.

Despite the late hour, the imperious manservant was dressed in a gold-embroidered camisole and was even wearing a powdered wig. Once Fandorin gave his name, there was no further need to explain the purpose of his visit.

'One moment, sir,' the valet said, bowing ceremoniously, with an air that suggested he had previously served in the palace of some grand prince, if not somewhere even grander. 'The young lady will be down straight away. Perhaps Your Honour would care to wait in the sitting room?'

Erast Petrovich did not care to do so, and the servant hurried up the gleaming, snow-white staircase, while somehow managing to maintain his majestic composure, to the first floor. A minute later a small, nimble gentleman with an extremely expressive face and a neat lick of hair across his balding head came tumbling down in the opposite direction like a rubber ball.

'My God, I'm so terribly, terribly pleased to meet you,' he began when he was only halfway down the stairs. 'I've heard a lot about you, and all of it most flattering. I am extremely glad that Firochka has such reputable acquaintances, you know, it was always those long-haired types in dirty boots with coarse voices ... That's because she was still young, of course. I knew it would pass. Well, actually, I am Litvinov, and you, Mr Fandorin, have no need to introduce yourself; you are a very well-known individual.'

Erast Petrovich was somewhat surprised to see the banker wearing a frock coat and his star in his own home - he was probably going out somewhere too. But certainly not to Dolgorukoi's for pancakes, for that Avessalom Efraimovich would have to wait until his baronial title arrived.

'Such an honour, such an honour for Firochka to be going to an intimate supper at His Excellency's home. I'm very, very glad.' The banker was now very close to his visitor and he extended a white, puffy hand. 'I am exceedingly glad to make your acquaintance. We are at home on Thursdays and would be truly delighted to see you. But never mind our at-homes, simply come at any time that is convenient. My wife and I are doing everything to encourage this acquaintance of our Firochka's.'

The ingenuousness of this final phrase left the State Counsellor feeling somewhat uneasy. He felt even more embarrassed on noticing that the door leading to the inner chambers on the ground floor was ajar and someone was studying him attentively from behind it.

But Esfir was already walking down the stairs, and the way she was dressed immediately made Fandorin forget both the ambiguity of his position and the mysterious spy.

'Papa, why have you pinned on that trinket of yours again!' she exclaimed menacingly. 'Take it off immediately, or he'll think you sleep with it on. I suppose you've already invited him to the at-homes? Don't even think of coming, Erast. That would be just like you. A-ha' - Esfir had noticed the half-open door -'Mama's peeping. Don't waste your time; I'm not going to marry him!'

It was instantly clear who ruled the roost in these marble halls. The door immediately closed, startled Papa instantly covered his star with his hand and, speaking in a timid voice, asked the question that was also occupying Erast Petrovich: 'Firochka are you sure you can go to His Excellency's gathering dressed like that?'

Mademoiselle Litvinova had covered her short black hair with a gold net, which made it look as if her head was encased in a gleaming helmet; her scarlet tunic, cut in the loose Greek style, narrowed at the waist, where it was belted with a broad brocade girdle, below which it expanded into spacious folds; but the most striking element was the gash that extended down almost as far as her waist - not so much because it was so deep, as because it clearly indicated the absence of any brassiere or corset.

'The invitation said: "Ladies are free to choose a dress at their own discretion,'" said Esfir, glancing at Fandorin in alarm. 'Why - doesn't it suit me, then?'

'It suits you very well,' he replied in the voice of a doomed man, pondering the effect it would produce.

The effect exceeded Erast Petrovich's very worst apprehensions.

The gentlemen came to the Governor General's house for pancakes without their official decorations, but nonetheless in white tie and tails; all the ladies came in dresses in the semi-official bluish-white range. Against this copperplate-engraving background Esfir's outfit blazed like a scarlet rose on the dirty March snow. Another comparison also occurred to Fandorin: a flamingo that had flown into a chicken hutch by mistake.

Since the supper was an informal one, His Excellency had not yet joined his guests, allowing them an opportunity to mingle freely; but the furore created by State Counsellor Fandorin's escort was so great that it was quite impossible to maintain the light conversation customary in such circumstances - there was a hint of scandal in the air, or at least of a savoury incident that would be the talk of Moscow the following day.

The women surveyed the crop-haired damsel's outfit, cut in the latest shameless style that still provoked outrage even in Paris, with their lips pursed fastidiously and a greedy gleam in their eyes. The men, however, as yet uninformed of the approaching revolution in the world of ladies' fashion, stared openly, mesmerised by the free swaying of those two hemispheres barely covered by the extremely fine material. This sight was far more impressive than the accustomed nakedness of ladies' shoulders and backs.

Esfir did not appear to be even slightly embarrassed by the general attention and she examined the people around her with even franker curiosity.

'Who's that?' she asked the State Counsellor in a loud whisper. 'And that buxom one over there - who's she?'

At one point she exclaimed in a loud, clear voice: 'Oh good Lord, what a freak show!'

At first Erast Petrovich bore it manfully. He exchanged polite bows with his acquaintances, pretending not to notice the aim of those numerous glances, some with the naked eye, some assisted by lorgnettes. However, when Frol Grigorievich Vedishchev approached the State Counsellor and whispered: 'He wants to see you,' Fandorin excused himself to Esfir on grounds of urgent business and went dashing off with shameful haste to the inner apartments of the gubernatorial residence, abandoning his companion to the whim of fate. Just as he reached the doors, a pang of conscience made him look back.

Esfir did not seem lost at all, and she was not gazing after the deserter. She was standing facing a bevy of ladies, examining them with calm interest, and the ladies were trying as hard as they could to pretend that they were absorbed in casual conversation. Apparently there was no need to feel concerned for Mademoiselle Litvinova.

Dolgorukoi listened to the report from his Deputy for Special Assignments with undisguised satisfaction, although for the sake of appearances he gasped at the theft of state funds, even though they had, in fact, been destined for despatch to Turkestan.

'They're not having it all their own way,' said Vladimir Andreevich. 'Oh, fine smart fellows they found to put the blame on Dolgorukoi. Now, they can sort it out. So, the smug gentleman from the capital has run straight into a brick wall? Serves him right, serves him right.'

Vedishchev finished attaching the prince's stiff starched collar and cautiously sprinkled His Excellency's wrinkled neck with talc, so that it wouldn't get chafed.