The Diamond Chariot (66 page)

‘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

INSANE HAPPINESS

‘So, that night you rejected me only because you wanted to separate from “poor Algie” according to all the r-rules?’ asked Erast Petrovich, looking at her mistrustfully. ‘That was the only reason?’

‘Not the only one. I really am afraid of him. Did you notice his left earlobe?’

‘What?’ Fandorin thought he must have misheard.

‘From the shape, length and colour of his earlobe, it’s clear that he is a very dangerous man.’