The appearance of a new personality in the saloon caused a minor sensation. In the course of the journey they had all become thoroughly bored with each other, and now here was a fresh gentleman, and such a superior individual at that.
Nobody bothered to inquire after poor M. Boileau, that representative of a previous stage of evolution. The commissioner noted that the person who evinced the liveliest reaction was Miss Clarissa Stamp, the old maid, who started babbling about artists, the theatre and literature. Gauche himself was fond of passing his leisure hours in an armchair with a good book, preferring Victor Hugo to all other authors. Hugo was at once so true to life and high-minded, he could always bring a tear to the eye. Besides, he was marvellous for dozing over. But, of course, Gauche had never even heard of these Russian writers with those hissing sibilants in their names, so he was unable to join in the conversation. Anyway, the old English trout was wasting her time, M. Fandorine was far too young for her.
Renate Kleber was not slow off the mark either. She made an attempt to press the new arrival into service as one of her minions, whom she bullied mercilessly into bringing her shawl or her parasol or a glass of water. Five minutes after dinner began Mme Kleber had already initiated the Russian into the detailed history of her delicate condition, complained of a migraine and asked him to fetch Dr Truffo, who for some reason was late that day. However, the diplomat seemed to have realized immediately whom he was dealing with and politely objected that he did not know the doctor by sight. The ever-obliging Lieutenant Renier, the pregnant banker’s wife’s most devoted nursemaid, had volunteered and gone racing off to perform the errand.
The initial impression made by Erast Fandorin was that he was taciturn, reserved and polite. But he was a bit too spruce and trim for Gauche’s taste: that starched collar sticking up like alabaster, that jewelled pin in the necktie, that red carnation (oh, very suave!) in the buttonhole, that perfectly smooth parting with not a single hair out of place, those carefully manicured nails, that narrow black moustache that seemed to be drawn on with charcoal.
It was possible to tell a great deal about a man from his moustache. If it was like Gauche’s, a walrus moustache drooping at the corners of his mouth, it meant the man was a down-to-earth fellow who knew his own worth, not some featherbrain who was easily taken in. If it was curled up at the ends, especially into points, he was a lady’s man and bon vivant. If it merged into his sideburns, he was a man of ambition with dreams of becoming a general, senator or banker. And when it was like M. Fandorine’s, it meant he entertained romantic notions about himself.
What else could he say about the Russian? He spoke decent enough French, even though he stammered. There was still no sign of his badge. The diplomat showed most interest in the Japanese, asking him all sorts of tiresome questions about Japan, but the samurai answered guardedly, as if anticipating some kind of trick. The point was that the new passenger had not explained to the company where he was going and why, he had simply given his name and said that he was Russian. The commissioner, though, could understand the Russian’s inquisitiveness, since he knew he was going to live in Japan. Gauche pictured to himself a country in which every single person was the same as M. Aono, everybody lived in dolls’ houses with bowed roofs and disembowelled themselves at the slightest provocation.
No indeed, the Russian was not to be envied.
After dinner, when Fandorin took a seat to one side in order to smoke a cigar, the commissioner settled into the next armchair and began puffing away at his pipe. Gauche had previously introduced himself to his new acquaintance as a Parisian rentier who was making the journey to the East out of curiosity (that was the cover he was using). But now he turned the conversation to the matter at hand, approaching it obliquely and with due caution. Fiddling with the golden whale on his lapel (the very same one retrieved from the rue de Grenelle) he said with a casual air, as though he were simply striking up a conversation: ‘A beautiful little bauble. Don’t you agree?’
The Russian glanced sideways at his lapel but said nothing.
‘Pure gold. So stylish!’ said Gauche admiringly.
Another pregnant silence followed, but a perfectly civil one.
The man was simply waiting to see what would come next. His blue eyes were alert. The diplomat had clear skin, as smooth as a peach, with a bloom on the cheeks like a young girl’s. But he was no mama’s boy, that much was obvious straight away.
The commissioner decided to try a different tack.
‘Do you travel much?’
A non-committal shrug.
‘I believe you’re in the diplomatic line?’
Fandorin inclined his head politely in assent, extracted a long cigar from his pocket and cut off the tip with a little silver knife.
‘And have you ever been in France?’
Again an affirmative nod of the head. Monsieur le russe is no great shakes as a conversationalist, thought Gauche, but he had no intention of backing down.
‘More than anything I love Paris in the early spring, in March,’ the detective mused out loud. ‘The very best time of the year!’
He cast a keen glance at the other man, wondering what he would say.
Fandorin nodded twice, though it wasn’t clear whether he was simply acknowledging the remark or agreeing with it.
Beginning to feel irritated, Gauche knitted his brows in an antagonistic scowl.
‘So you don’t like your badge then?’
His pipe sputtered and went out.
The Russian gave a short sigh, put his hand into his waistcoat pocket, extracted a golden whale between his finger and thumb and finally condescended to open his mouth.
‘I observe, monsieur, that you are interested in my b-badge? Here it is, if you please. I do not wear it because I do not wish to resemble a caretaker with a name tag, not even a golden one. That is one. You yourself do not much resemble a rentier, M. Gauche - your eyes are too probing. And why would a Parisian rentier lug a civil service file around with him? That is two. Since you are aware of my professional orientation, you would appear to have access to the ship’s documents. I assume therefore that you are a detective. That is three. Which brings us to number four. If there is something you need to find out from me, please do not beat about the bush, ask directly.’
Just try having a nice little chat with someone like that!
Gauche had to wriggle out of it somehow. He whispered confidentially to the excessively perspicacious diplomat that he was the ship’s house detective, whose job it was to see to the passengers’ safety, but secretly and with the greatest possible delicacy in order to avoid offending the refined sensibilities of his public. It was not clear whether Fandorin believed him, but at least he did not ask any questions.
Every cloud has a silver lining. The commissioner now had, if not an intellectual ally, then at least an interlocutor, and one who possessed remarkable powers of observation as well as quite exceptional knowledge on matters of criminology.
They often sat together on the deck, glancing now and then at the gently sloping bank of the canal as they smoked (Gauche his pipe, the Russian his cigar) and discussed various intriguing subjects, such as the very latest methods for the identification and conviction of criminals.
‘The Paris police conducts its work in accordance with the very latest advances in scientific method,’ Gauche once boasted. ‘The prefecture there has a special identification unit headed by a young genius, Alphonse Bertillon. He has developed a complete system for classifying and recording criminal elements.’
‘I met with Dr Bertillon during my last visit to Paris,’ Fandorin said unexpectedly. ‘He told me about his anthropometric method. Bertillonage is a clever theory, very clever. Have you already begun to apply it in practice? What have the results been like?’