The Diamond Chariot (33 page)

‘You are pleased to joke. Conclude a legal marriage with a Japanese concubine? They would throw me out of the service, for damaging the reputation of Russian diplomats. And then what? Would you have me take her to Russia? She would pine away there, with our weather and our customs. People there would stare at her as if she were some kind of monkey. Stay here? I should be expelled from civilised European society. No, the fiery steed and trembling doe cannot be yoked … But everything is excellent as it is. Obayasi does not demand or expect anything more from me.’

Vsevolod Vitalievich turned slightly red, because the conversation was encroaching farther and farther into territory that was strictly private. But in his resentment at the consul’s treatment of Obayasi, Fandorin was not satisfied with that.

‘But what if there’s a child?’ he exclaimed. ‘Will you “make provisions” for him too? In other words, pay them off?’

‘I can’t have a child,’ Doronin said with a grin. ‘I mention it without the slightest embarrassment, because it has nothing to do with sexual impotence. On the contrary.’ His bilious smile widened even further. ‘In my young days, I was very keen on the ladies, and I ended up with a nasty disease. I was pretty much cured, but the likelihood of having any progeny is almost zero – such is the verdict of medicine. That, basically, is why I have never concluded a legal marriage with any modest maiden of the homemade variety. I did not wish to disappoint the maternal instinct.’

Obayasi obviously sensed that the conversation was taking an unpleasant turn. She bowed once again and walked out as soundlessly as she had come in. She left the tray with the tea on the table.

‘Well, enough of that,’ the consul interrupted himself. ‘You and I are behaving far too much like Russians … Intimate talk like that requires either long friendship or a substantial amount of drink, and we are barely acquainted and completely sober. And therefore, we had better get back to business.’

Assuming an emphatically businesslike air, Vsevolod Vitalievich started bending his fingers down one by one.

‘First, we have to tell Lieutenant Captain Bukhartsev about everything – I have already mentioned him to you. Secondly, write a report to His Excellency. Thirdly, if Okubo arrives at the ball, warn him about the danger …’

‘I still d-don’t understand, though … Even if Blagolepov did not imagine the suspicious things that his passengers said in his opium dream, what need is there to get so worked up? They have only cold steel. If they had revolvers or carbines, they would hardly be likely to lug their medieval swords around with them. Can such individuals really represent a danger to the most powerful politician in Japan?’

‘Ah, Erast Petrovich, do you really think the Satsumans are unacquainted with firearms or were unable to obtain the money for a couple of revolvers? Why, one night journey on the launch must cost more than a used Smith and Wesson. This is a different issue. In Japan it is considered unseemly to kill an enemy with a bullet – for them, that is cowardice. A sworn enemy, and especially one as eminent as Okubo, has to be cut down with a sword or, at the very least, stabbed with a dagger. And furthermore, you cannot even imagine how effective the
takana
, the Japanese sword, is in the hands of a genuine master. Europeans have never even dreamed of the like.’

The consul picked up one of the swords from the stand – the one that was somewhat longer – and flourished it carefully in his left hand, without drawing it from the scabbard.

‘Naturally, I do not know how to fence with a
katana
– that has to be studied from childhood. And it is preferable to study
the Japanese way
– that is, to devote your entire life to the subject that you are studying. But I take lessons in
battojiutsu
from a certain old man.’

‘Lessons in what?’

‘
Battojiutsu
is the art of drawing the sword from the scabbard.’

Erast Petrovich could not help laughing.

‘Merely drawing it? Is that like the true duellists of Charles the Ninth’s time? Shake the sword smartly, so that the scabbard flies off by itself?’

‘It’s not a matter of a smart shake. Do you handle a revolver well?’

‘Not too badly.’

‘And, of course, you are convinced that, with a revolver, you will have no trouble in disposing of an adversary who is armed with nothing but a sword?’

‘Naturally.’

‘Good,’ Vsevolod Vitalievich purred, and took a revolver out of a drawer. ‘Are you familiar with this device? It’s a Colt.’

‘Of course I am. But I have something better.’

Fandorin thrust his hand in under the tail of his frock coat and took a small, flat revolver out of a secret holster. It was hidden so cleverly that the guards at the ‘Rakuen’ had failed to discover it.

‘This is a Herstal Agent, seven chambers. They are p-produced to order.’

‘A lovely trinket. Now put it back. Good. And now can you take it out very, very quickly?’

Erast Petrovich threw out the hand holding the revolver with lightning speed, aiming directly at his superior’s forehead.

‘Superb! I suggest a little game. On the command of “three!” you will take out your Herstal, and I shall take out my
katana
, and we’ll see who wins.’

The titular counsellor smiled condescendingly, put the revolver back in the holster and folded his arms in order to give his rival a head start, but Doronin out-swanked him by raising his right hand above his head.

He gave the command:

‘One … two … three!’

It was impossible to folow the movement that the consul made. All Erast Petrovich saw was a glittering arc that was transformed into a blade, which froze into immobility before the young man could even raise the hand holding the revolver.

‘Astounding!’ he exclaimed. ‘But it’s not enough just to draw the sword, you have to cover the distance of one and a half
sazhen
s between us. In that time I would have already taken aim and fired.’

‘You’re right. But I did warn you that I have only learned to draw the sword. I assure you that my teacher of swordsmanship would have sliced you in half before you pulled the trigger.’

Erast Petrovich did not try to argue – the trick had impressed him.

‘And have you heard anything about the art of deferred killing?’ he asked cautiously. ‘I think it is called
dim-mak
.’

He told the consul what he had heard from Dr Twigs.

‘I’ve never heard of anything of the sort,’ Doronin said with a shrug, admiring the flashes of light on the sword blade. ‘I think it’s a tall tale of the same genre as the fantastic stories about the ninja.’

‘About whom?’

‘During the Middle Ages there were clans of spies and hired assassins, they were called ninja. The Japanese simply love blathering all sorts of nonsense with a mystical air to it.’

‘But if we accept that this Chinese
dim-mak
actually does exist,’ Fandorin continued, pursuing his line of thought, ‘could the Satsuma samurai know the art?’

‘The devil only knows. From a theoretical point of view, it’s possible. Satsuma is a land of seagoers, ships from there go all over South-East Asia. And in addition, it’s a mere stone’s throw away from the Ryukyu islands, where the art of killing with bare hands has flourished since ancient times … All the more important, then, that we take measures. If Blagolepov’s three passengers are not ordinary crazies, but masters of secret skills, the danger is even more serious. Somehow this threesome don’t seem like loony fanatics. They sailed across the bay to Tokyo for some reason, and they took precautions – we must assume that they deliberately hired a foreigner in the belief that he would not understand their dialect and would not be conversant with Japanese affairs. They paid him generously and gave him an advance against the next journey. Serious gentlemen. You believe that they killed Blagolepov because he was talking too much and planned to go to the police?’

‘No. It was some old man who killed him. More likely than not, he has nothing to do with all this. But even so, I can’t get the captain’s strange death out of my mind …’

Vsevolod Vitalievich narrowed his eyes, blew a speck of dust off his sword and said thoughtfully:

‘Strange or not, perhaps the old opium addict simply croaked on his own – but it gives us an excellent pretext to set up our own investigation. Why, of course! A Russian subject has expired in suspicious circumstances. In such cases, under the status of the Settlement, the representative of the injured party – that is, the Consul of the Russian Empire – has the right to conduct an independent investigation. You, Fandorin, have served in the police and had dealings with the Third Section, so you hold all the aces. Try to pick up the trail of the passengers from that night. Not yourself, of course.’ Doronin smiled. ‘Why put your own life in danger? As the vice-consul, you will merely head up the investigation, but the practical work will be carried out by the municipal police – they are not accountable to the Japanese authorities. I’ll send an appropriate letter to Sergeant Lockston. But we’ll warn the minister today. That’s all, Fandorin. It’s after ten, time to go and see Don Tsurumaki. Do you have a dinner jacket?’

The titular counsellor nodded absentmindedly – his thoughts were occupied with the forthcoming investigation.

‘No doubt in mothballs and unironed?’

‘Unironed, but with no m-mothballs – I wore it on the ship.’

‘Excellent, I’ll tell Natsuko to iron it immediately.’

The consul said something to the maid in Japanese, but Fandorin said:

‘Thank you. I already have my own servant.’

‘Good gracious! When did you manage to arrange that?’ Doronin asked, staggered. ‘Shirota wasn’t planning to send you any candidates until tomorrow.’

‘It just happened,’ Erast Petrovich replied evasively.

‘Well, well. Honest and keen, I trust?’

‘Oh yes, very keen,’ the younger man replied with a nod, avoiding the first epithet. ‘And one other thing. I brought some new equipment with me in my luggage – a Remington typewriter with interchangeable Russian and Latin typefaces.’

‘Yes, yes, I saw the advertisement in the
Japan Daily Herald
. It really is a very fine device. How is it they describe it?’

‘A most convenient item for printing official documents,’ Fandorin replied enthusiastically. ‘It occupies only one corner of a room and weighs a little over four
p-pood
s. I tried it on the ship. The result is magnificent! But …’ He lowered his eyes with a guilty expression. ‘… we need an operator.’

‘Where can we get one? And there is no provision for that position on the consulate staff.’

‘I could teach Miss Blagolepova. And I would pay her salary out of my own pocket. After all, she would make my work considerably easier.’

The consul gave his assistant a searching look and whistled.

‘You are an impetuous man, Fandorin. Barely even ashore yet, and you have already got mixed up in some nasty business, found a servant for yourself and taken care of your comforts of the heart. Apparently you will not be requiring an indigenous concubine.’

‘That’s not it at all!’ the titular counsellor protested indignantly. ‘It is simply that Sophia Diogenovna has nowhere to go. She has been left without any means of subsistence, after all … and an operator really would b-be of use to me.’

‘So much so that you are prepared to support that operator yourself? Are you so very rich, then?’

Erast Petrovich replied with dignity:

‘I won a considerable sum at dice today.’

‘What an interesting colleague I do have,’ the consul murmured, slipping the glittering sword blade back into the scabbard with a rakish whistle.

Like life’s white hoarfrost
on death’s winter windowpane,
the glints on the blade.

THE ERMINE’S GLASSY STARE

The dinner jacket had been ironed painstakingly but clumsily and it was somewhat puckered. However, the new servant had polished up the patent leather shoes until they glittered like crystal and the black top hat also gleamed brightly. And Doronin presented his assistant with a white carnation for a buttonhole. In short, when Erast Petrovich took a look at himself in the mirror, he was satisfied.

They set out in the following order: Vsevolod Doronin and Miss Obayasi at the front in a
kuruma
, followed by Fandorin on his tricycle.

Despite the late hour, the Bund promenade was still lively, and the eyes of people out for a stroll were drawn to the impressive sight of the cyclist riding by – the men gazed hostilely, the ladies with interest.

‘You are creating a furore!’ Doronin shouted jovially.

But Fandorin was thinking that Obayasi in her elegant grey and white kimono looked far more exquisite than the fashionable European ladies in their impossible hats and frilly dresses with bustles at the waist.

They rode across a bridge and up a low hill, and then Fandorin’s eyes were greeted by a truly amazing sight, a picture illuminated by the moon: prim-looking villas, cast-iron railings with monograms, hedges – in short, an absolutely British town, that had been miraculously transported ten thousand miles from the Greenwich meridian.

‘That is Bluff,’ said the consul, pointing proudly. ‘All the best society lives here. A genuine piece of Europe! Can you believe that ten years ago this was a wasteland? Just look at those lawns! And they say they have to be mown for three hundred years.’

Taking advantage of the fact that the road had widened, Erast Petrovich drew level with the
kuruma
and said in a low voice:

‘You said this was a bachelor ball …’

‘You mean Obasi? “Bachelor” has never meant “without women”, merely “without wives”. The European wives are too haughty and boring, they’ll spoil any celebration. Concubines are a different matter. That’s where Don Tsurumaki is so clever, he knows how to take the best from the East and the West. From the former, an aversion to hypocrisy; from the latter, the achievements of progress. You’ll see for yourself soon. Don is a Japanese of the new generation: that is what they call them, “the new Japanese”. They are today’s masters of life. Some come from the samurai, some from the merchants, but there are some like our own Russian self-made men of common origin, who have suddenly become millionaires. The man we are going to visit was once known by the plebeian name of Jiro, which means simply “second son”, and he had no surname at all, because in the old Japan commoners were not expected to have one. He took his surname recently, from the name of his native village. And to make it sound more impressive, he added the hieroglyph “
don
”, meaning “cloud”,’ and became Donjiro, but after a while somehow the ending was forgotten and only Don-san was left, that is “Mr Cloud”. And he really is like a cloud. Tumultuous, expansive, thunderous. The most un-Japanese of all Japanese. A kind of jolly bandit. You know, the kind who make good friends and dangerous enemies. Fortunately, he and I are friends.’