He made a swift movement, pulling his hand out from behind his back. Subbotin doubled over at the sudden surprise of it.
‘It leaves a characteristic wound, shallow at the end where penetration occurs and gradually deepening towards the point of withdrawal. That is, the opposite picture as compared with the blow of hara-kiri, in which the blade is first thrust in deeply and then jerked out at an angle. I repeat: only a samurai with incredible tolerance of pain, who has trained his hand for a long time, is capable of inflicting a wound as long as Limbach’s on himself. A Japanese suicide usually had only enough strength to thrust the dagger in, after which his second immediately severed the p-poor man’s head.’ Fandorin looked reproachfully at his former pupil. ‘Tell me, Sergei Nikiforovich, where would a cornet get a bandit’s knife?’
‘I don’t know. He bought it for some reason. Possibly for this very purpose, judging from the sharpness of the blade,’ replied Subbotin, shaken, but still not convinced. ‘Let me remind you of the writing on the door.’ He pointed to the bloody letters ‘Li’. ‘If those are not the first letters of the name of the woman who was the reason why the young man decided to end his life, then what are they?’
‘I have an inkling, but first let us ask the witnesses a few questions. Now is precisely the right time.’
Eliza was waiting in the green room with the director and his assistant. The actress had been asked to stay by the investigator; Stern and Nonarikin had been asked to stay by Fandorin.
Subbotin sent a police constable for them. But he came back with only the actress and the assistant director.
‘Noah Noaevich flew into a fury and left,’ Nonarikin explained. ‘It really is awkward, gentlemen. A man like that being made to wait to be summoned, like some petty thief. I can answer any questions concerning procedures, schedules, the general organisation of the dressing rooms and all the rest of it. That’s my area of responsibility.’
‘How are you feeling?’ Fandorin asked the actress.
She was very pale and her eyes were puffy. Her geisha’s hairstyle had slumped to one side and traces of mascara could be seen on the sleeves of her kimono – Eliza must have wiped away her tears with them. Her face, however, had been washed clean and there was no make-up left on it.
‘Thank you, I’m feeling better,’ she replied in a quiet voice. ‘Simochka was with me almost all the time. She helped me to tidy myself up – I looked like a witch, covered in black streaks… Sima left half an hour ago, Mr Masa volunteered to see her home.’
‘I s-see.’
He’s jealous because I’m working with Subbotin, Erast Petrovich guessed. Well, to hell with him. He can console himself with his Aphrodisina, we’ll manage without him.
‘Two questions, madam,’ he said, adopting a businesslike tone of voice. ‘The first is: Was the door handle like that before?’
Erast Petrovich pointed to the inner surface of the door. The brass handle was slightly bent.
But apparently Eliza could see only the traces of blood. She screwed up her eyes and answered in a weak voice.
‘I… don’t know… I don’t remember…’
‘I remember,’ Nonarikin announced. ‘The handle was in perfectly good order. But what’s that written there?’
‘That will b-be my second question. Madam Lointaine, did the deceased ever call you “Liza”?’ Erast Petrovich tried to make the question sound completely neutral.
‘No. No one ever calls me that. Not for a long time.’
‘Perhaps in… intimate moments?’ The questioner’s tone of voice became even drier. ‘Please be frank. It is very important.’
Her cheeks turned pink and her eyes glittered angrily.
‘No. And now goodbye. I don’t feel well.’
She turned and walked out. Nonarikin dashed after her.
‘You can’t go anywhere in the kimono!’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘I’ll see you to the hotel!’
‘The car will take me.’
She left.
What did that ‘no’ of hers mean, Fandorin wondered in torment. That even in intimate moments Limbach never called her ‘Liza’, or that there weren’t any intimate moments? But if there weren’t, then why such turbulent manifestations of grief? This is more than simply shock at the sight of death, there is powerful, genuine feeling here…
‘And so,’ he summed up dispassionately. ‘As you see, the cornet never called Madam Altairsky-Lointaine “Liza”, and it would be strange if he decided to use a new name for her at the moment of his departure from this life.’
‘Then what does this incomplete word signify? Did he really decide to sign off with his own name: “Limbach, with best regards”?’
‘B-bravo. I’ve never observed any tendency towards irony and sarcasm in you before.’ Fandorin smiled.
‘With the life I have, I’d be finished without irony. But really, Erast Petrovich, what did happen here, in your opinion?’
‘I think it was like this. The murderer – someone well known to Limbach, who didn’t arouse his suspicion – sliced open the cornet’s stomach with a sudden blow and then walked or ran out into the corridor and locked the door, or simply leaned his body against it. The officer, fatally wounded, bleeding to death, but not yet unconscious, shouted, but apart from the criminal no one heard him. Then Limbach tried to get out of the dressing room, he grabbed the door handle and even bent it, but it was no good. Then the dying man tried to write his killer’s name, or some other word that would expose him, on the door, but his strength ran out. When the groaning and thrashing about stopped, the criminal entered the dressing room and slipped the duplicate key into the dead man’s pocket. He used the other k-key, taken from the board, to lock the door again from the outside. To make the police think that the suicide had locked himself in. Do you remember the testimony of Madam Lointaine and Mr Shustrov? When they reached the door and found it locked, the actress was rather surprised, but she found the key in its usual place – on the board. The fact that the criminal failed to notice the letters written in blood when he entered the room after Limbach died is hardly surprising – they don’t stand out among the other blotches and streaks. I didn’t notice them immediately myself.’
‘How convincingly you describe it all,’ simple-hearted Nonarikin exclaimed. ‘Like a real detective!’
The investigator cast a sideways glance at Erast Petrovich and grinned, but he didn’t pass any ironic comments.
‘You’ve convinced me,’ he admitted. ‘I expect you already have some theories?’
‘Several. Here is the f-first for you. Limbach had a strange, convoluted relationship with a certain individual who, as far as I can understand, runs the theatre ticket touts. An entirely criminal type. Very tall and unpleasant, with a face the colour of brick. Dresses in American suits and whistles all the time…’
‘His nickname is actually “Mr Whistle”,’ Sergei Nikiforovich said with a nod. ‘A well-known figure. The right hand of Mr Tsarkov, the so-called “Tsar”, who rules over an entire empire of ticket touts, a very influential man. On friendly terms with everyone in the municipal authorities and has his own box in every theatre.’
‘I know who you mean. And my next question would have been about Mr Tsarkov. I had the pleasure of sharing a box with him. Mr Whistle showed up there too. So that’s the “Tsar” the hussar was t-talking about…’ The theory was becoming more and more convincing. ‘You see, a few days ago, I happened to witness a contretemps between Mr Whistle and Limbach. The tout demanded repayment from the cornet for some debt or other, but the young man said: “You can go to hell, you and your Tsar”. I was surprised by that… I don’t know exactly what the conflict was about, but if a criminal character like Whistle happened to have a clasp knife in his pocket, I wouldn’t be surprised in the least. And a man like that wouldn’t stop at m-murder, you can read that in his eyes. That’s theory number one for you. Let’s leave it for the time being and move on to theory number t-two…’