Nonarikin hesitated before he replied.
‘I would never have said, but I feel guilty for almost having killed you. I repeat, I was certain that you were the poisoner, but now it turns out that you are searching for the poisoner. Fate has acquitted you.’
‘Stop talking about Fate!’ Erast Petrovich exploded, angry because he realised that he had missed the mark with his theory. ‘It gives me the impression that I’m talking to a lunatic!’
‘You shouldn’t talk like that.’ Nonarikin flung out his arms and looked up at the ceiling, or, to use a more solemn expression, raised his eyes to the heavens. ‘The man who believes in a Higher Power knows that nothing happens by accident. Especially when it is a matter of life and death. And the man who does not believe in a Higher Power is in no way different from an animal.’
‘You said something about an alibi,’ Fandorin interrupted him.
The assistant sighed and spoke in an ordinary voice, without any declamatory intonation.
‘Naturally, this is strictly between the two of us. Give me your word of honour. It concerns the reputation of a lady.’
‘I won’t give you any k-kind of word. You were with a woman that evening? With whom?’
‘Very well. I rely on your common decency. If you ever tell her about it (you understand who I mean), it will be a base and dishonourable act.’ Nonarikin hung his head and sighed. ‘That evening I left the theatre with Zoya Nikolaevna. We were together until the morning…’
‘With Comedina?’ Erast Petrovich asked after a second’s pause: he hadn’t understood immediately who Nonarikin meant. No one had ever called the little ‘leading boy’ by her first name and patronymic in his presence. However, if he was surprised by this confession, it was only for a moment.
‘Yes.’ The assistant director rubbed his bruised forehead unromantically. ‘As Terentius said: “I am human and nothing human is alien to me”. You are a man, you will understand me. After all, there are physiological needs. Only don’t ask me if I love Zoya Nikolaevna.’
‘I won’t,’ Fandorin promised. ‘But I shall definitely have a word with Madam Comedina. And you and I will continue this conversation…’
A MILLION TORMENTS
Despite the rather late hour, he drove directly from the theatre to the hotel in his automobile, so that Nonarikin could not get there ahead of him and conspire with Comedina. The precaution was strictly superfluous: Erast Petrovich had no doubt that the alibi would be confirmed, but in a serious case like this every detail had to be checked.
After Fandorin had managed, not without some difficulty, to locate the little actress’s room in the Madrid, he apologised to her for this unexpected visit and apologised even more profusely for the bluntness of the question he was about to ask. He had to talk to this young lady without any beating around the bush. And that was what he did.
‘It concerns the circumstances of Mr Emeraldov’s death,’ he said. ‘Let us therefore temporarily set aside questions of d-decorum. Tell me, where were you on the evening and the night of 13 September?’
Comedina’s freckled features extended into a foolish smile.
‘Oho! So you think I look like a woman who could spend the night with someone? That’s actually rather flattering.’
‘Don’t waste time on playing games. I’m in a hurry. Just tell me if you were with Mr Nonarikin. Yes or no? I am not interested in your morals, madam. I simply want to know the t-truth.’
The smile didn’t disappear, but every trace of contrived merriment evaporated, leaving the green eyes gazing at this uninvited visitor without any expression at all. It was impossible to guess what the owner of those eyes was thinking. It’s a good thing that Madam Comedina plays children on the theatrical stage, and not in the cinematograph, Erast Petrovich said to himself. With an expression like that you couldn’t possibly act the part of a child in a close shot.
‘You said today that Emeraldov didn’t kill himself,’ Comedina said slowly. ‘So you have your suspicions… And you suspect Georges, am I right?’
Fandorin was familiar with this type of personality. Other people were inclined not to take these individuals seriously, simply because of the way they looked and behaved. And more often than not other people were mistaken about them. Small individuals, regardless of their gender, usually possessed a strong character and were far from stupid.
‘I don’t know who you really are. And I don’t wish to know,’ Zoya went on. ‘But you can exclude Georges from your calculations. He spent the night on that bed over there.’ Without looking round, she jabbed her finger in the direction of the narrow iron bedstead and grinned even more unpleasantly. ‘First we abandoned ourselves to sinful passion. Then he slept and I lay beside him, watching. It’s a narrow bed but, as you can observe, I don’t take up very much space. Are you interested in the details?’
‘No.’ He lowered his eyes, unable to withstand her glittering gaze. ‘I beg your p-pardon, but it was necessary…’
After that he examined the rapier taken from the properties room in his home laboratory. Mr Nonarikin proved to be a very thorough individual. A genuine jack-of-all-trades. The point had been smeared with the venom of naja oxiana, mixed with animal fat, obviously added so that the toxin would not dry out. An injection of this filthy muck would undoubtedly have resulted in a very rapid and agonising death.
In the morning, before the rehearsal, Fandorin completed his essential check with a visit to the criminal police department, where he was very well known. He asked a question and received an answer. Emeraldov had been killed with a completely different poison – classic cyanide.
On his way to the theatre Erast Petrovich yielded to gloomy thoughts about how he had frittered away his detective skills and how remarkably stupid being in love had made him. Not only had he constructed a mistaken theory, he had also revealed himself to that whimsical eccentric, Georges Nonarikin. He would have to clarify the situation with Nonarikin today, and insist that the assistant director keep his mouth shut – otherwise he could frighten off the real poisoner.
However, he didn’t manage to talk to Nonarikin on that day, because Eliza suddenly agreed to go to Cricket Lane with him to choose a kimono, and first the miracle happened, and then the enchantment was shattered, leaving Erast Petrovich alone in a deserted, absolute dead house.
Nonarikin showed up himself in the afternoon of the following day. Fandorin had not left the house since Eliza had fled. He had just remained sitting there in his dressing gown, immersed in a strange lethargy and smoking one cigar after another. Every now and then he suddenly became agitated and started walking round the room, talking to someone invisible, then he sat down, sinking back into immobility. The hair of this habitual stickler for neatness dangled down in loose white locks, his chin was covered with black stubble and below his blue eyes matching blue circles had appeared.
The assistant director presented a stark contrast with the seedy-looking dramatist. When Fandorin finally shuffled feebly to the door in his slippers and opened it (the bell must have been ringing for five or ten minutes), he saw that Monsieur Nonarikin had decked himself out in a new morning coat, buttoned on a gleaming white shirt collar and knotted on a silk necktie, and he was clutching a pair of white gloves in his hand. His officer’s moustache jutted out to the sides in bellicose fashion, like two cobras poised to attack.
‘I asked Noah Noaevich for your address,’ Nonarikin said austerely. ‘Since you didn’t condescend to spare me any time yesterday and did not even put in an appearance today, I have come to you myself. There are two matters concerning which we need to clear the air.’