Nonetheless, half the job had been done. The list of suspects had been drawn up. All that remained was to infiltrate that circle, in order to identify the murderer.
Another day went by and everything had arranged itself in ideal fashion. There would be no more need to act by stealth or bribe attendants. The play about the two comets had been accepted for production and Fandorin had become an acknowledged member of the company. A genuinely fortunate coincidence of civic duty and personal interest.
During the rehearsal, after asking various different people a few apparently casual questions, he had discovered the most important thing: who in the company had unlimited access to the properties room at any time of the day or night. The list of suspects had immediately shrunk to a minimum. The stores of stage properties, accessories and costumes were managed by the director’s assistant, Nonarikin. He took his responsibilities very seriously, never gave the keys to anyone and always accompanied everyone who needed to take anything out of storage. It was easiest of all for him to have returned the goblet to its place.
But there was one man in the company who would not have needed Nonarikin’s sanction – the manager of the theatre. In order to discover whether Stern had taken the key from his assistant, Fandorin would have had to ask questions, and that was not a good idea, so he decided to keep them both under suspicion.
The third subject had been added almost accidentally. In the Japanese play the ‘rogue’ Shiftsky had been given the part of Kinjo, a pickpocket, or rather, putting it more correctly, a ‘pick-sleeve’, since Japanese clothes were not equipped with any pockets and valuable items were usually kept in the sleeves. Kostya had played a pickpocket in a play based on Oliver Twist, and at the time he had studied that difficult craft assiduously in order to appear convincing on stage. And now, recalling the old days, the young man had yielded to the imp of mischief and decided to demonstrate his skill. During the break he rubbed up against one, two, three people and later chuckled as he returned Reginina’s purse, Nonarikin’s handkerchief and Mephistov’s bottle of some kind of medicine. Vasilisa Prokofievna good-naturedly called the artful dodger a ‘scallywag’, Nonarikin simply blinked, but Anton Ivanovich created an uproar, shouting that a decent man would never go rummaging through other people’s pockets even as a joke.
After this comical incident Fandorin added Shiftsky to his mental list too. Shiftsky had taken Nonarikin’s handkerchief, so he could have taken the key.
A day later a rather simple operation in the old detective genre of ‘fishing with live bait’ had been conceived and put into action.
During the afternoon Erast Petrovich had paid a stealthy visit to the properties room, once again resorting to the picklock. He placed his Bure chronometer beside the goblet. Turning round on hearing a rustling sound, he saw a large rat sitting on the shelf to his left and observing him with contemptuous equanimity.
‘We’ll m-meet again soon,’ Fandorin told the rat, and walked out.
Later, when at five o’clock everybody was drinking tea from the samovar (yet another tradition), the conversation turned to Emeraldov again and the actors started guessing what misfortune had made him decide to depart this life.
As if he were thinking out loud, but nonetheless speaking loudly, Erast Petrovich had drawled:
‘Suicide? I rather think not…’
Everyone had turned towards him.
‘But what was it, if not suicide?’ Gullibin asked in amazement.
‘I’ll answer that question for you soon,’ Fandorin had said confidently. ‘I have a few conjectures. Actually, not even conjectures, but facts. Don’t ask me about anything yet. I shall know for certain tomorrow.’
Eliza (this was still the very beginning of their relationship) rebuked him.
‘Stop talking in riddles! What have you found out?’
‘Is it from the realm of clairvoyance?’ Stern asked entirely seriously, without even the slightest irony. (His cheek twitched in a nervous tick. Or had Fandorin imagined that?)
Mephistov stood with his back to Fandorin and didn’t look round. That was strange – had his interest really not been piqued by such a tantalising subject?
Two cups of tea were standing in front of Erast Petrovich. He picked them up in his hands, looked at one, then at the other, and pensively repeated Claudius’s line as Gertrude drinks poison in front of him:
‘“It is the poisoned. cup. It is too late…” Yes, that is exactly what happened, two goblets, and in one of them d-death…’
He deliberately pronounced these words in a barely audible voice, almost a whisper. In order to make them out, the murderer would have to move close or crane his neck. An excellent method, invented by the Prince of Denmark in the ‘mousetrap’ scene. Once the suspects have been ascertained, it is not hard to follow their reactions.
Stern hadn’t heard anything – he had started talking to Sensiblin about something else. Mephistov still hadn’t turned round. But the director’s assistant had leaned bodily towards Fandorin and his strange smile had suddenly seemed more like a grimace.
That’s the entire investigation, Erast Petrovich thought, with a slight twinge of regret. We’ve had to deal with trickier charades than that.
He could, of course, have taken the criminal to task there and then, there was enough circumstantial evidence. A possible motive could also be postulated. But to anyone unacquainted with the theatrical milieu, the theory would seem fantastic. The justice system would hardly believe in it either, especially since the evidence was circumstantial through and through.
So the criminal would have to be caught dead to rights, so that he couldn’t squirm out of it.
Well then, let us proceed to the third act.
Erast Petrovich reached into his waistcoat pocket.
‘Oh, what’s this! Where’s my c-chronometer. Ladies and gentlemen, has anyone seen it? A gold “Pavel Bure”? And it has a special fob, a magnifying glass.’
Naturally, no one had seen the watch, but most of the actors, wishing to help the dramatist, immediately started looking for it. They glanced under chairs and asked Erast Petrovich to remember whether he could have left the chronometer in the buffet or, begging his pardon, in the water closet.
‘Ah yes, in the propert…’ – then he suddenly checked himself and started coughing.
An extremely primitive little interlude, played out for a fool. But in all honesty, it must be said that Erast Petrovich was not inclined to overestimate the intellectual abilities of his opponent.
‘Never mind, don’t c-concern yourselves, ladies and gentlemen, I’ve remembered where I left it,’ he announced. ‘I’ll collect it later. It’s safe enough where it is.’
Nonarikin behaved so much like the caricature villain in some provincial production, it was almost grotesque. He came out in red blotches, chewed on his lips and kept throwing furious glances at Erast Petrovich.
Fandorin did not have to wait long.
The rehearsal came to an end and the actors started going their separate ways.
Erast Petrovich deliberately dawdled. He sat down, crossed his legs and lit up a cigar. Eventually he was left on his own. But even then he didn’t hurry. Let the criminal’s nerves suffer a bit, let him languish in suspense.