Breakfast had been spoiled for Clarissa by that poseuse Mme Kleber. What an incredible ability to transform her own weakness into a means of exploiting others! At the precise moment when the coffee in Clarissa’s cup had cooled to the required temperature, that unbearable Swiss woman had complained that she felt stifled and asked for someone to loosen the bodice of her dress. Clarissa usually pretended not to hear Renate Kleber’s whinges and some male volunteer was always found, but a man was clearly not suitable for such a delicate task, and as luck would have it Mrs Truffo was not there - she was helping her husband attend to some lady who had fallen ill. Apparently the tedious creature had previously worked as a nurse. What remarkable social climbing, straight up to the wife of the senior doctor and dining in first class! And she tried to act like a real British lady, but overdid it rather.
Anyway, Clarissa had been forced to fiddle with Mme Kleber’s lacing, and in the meantime her coffee had gone completely cold. It was a trivial matter, of course, but it was that Kleber woman to an absolute T.
After breakfast she went out for a walk, did ten circuits and began feeling tired. Taking advantage of the fact that there was no one nearby she peeped cautiously in at the window of cabin No. 18. Mr Fandorin was sitting at the secretaire, wearing a white shirt with red, white and blue braces, a cigar clenched in the corner of his mouth. He was tapping terribly loudly with his fingers on a bizarre black apparatus made of iron, with a round roller and a large number of keys. Clarissa was so intrigued that she let her guard down and was caught red-handed. The diplomat jumped to his feet, bowed, threw on his jacket and came across to the open window.
‘It’s a Remington t-typewriter,’ he explained. ‘The very latest model, only just on sale. A most c-convenient device, Miss Stamp, and quite light. Two porters can carry it with no difficulty.
Quite indispensable on a journey. You see, i am p-practising my stenography by copying out a piece of Hobbes.’
Still red with embarrassment, Clarissa nodded slightly and walked away, then sat down under a striped awning close by.
There was a fresh breeze blowing. She opened La Chartreuse de Panne and began reading about the selfless love of the beautiful but ageing duchess Sanseverina for the youthful Fabrice del Dongo. Moved to shed a sentimental tear, she wiped it away with her handkerchief, and as if by design, at that very moment, Mr Fandorin emerged onto the deck, wearing a white suit with a broad-brimmed panama hat and carrying a cane. He looked exceptionally handsome.
Clarissa called to him. He approached, bowed and sat down beside her. Glancing at the cover of her book, he said: ‘I am willing to b-bet that you skipped the description of the Battle of Waterloo. A pity - it is the finest passage in the whole of Stendhal. I have never read a more accurate description of war.’
Strangely enough, Clarissa was indeed reading La Chartreuse de Parme for the second time and both times she had simply leafed through the battle scene.
‘How could you tell?’ she asked curiously. ‘Are you a clairvoyant?’
‘Women always miss out the battle episodes,’ said Fandorin with a shrug. ‘At least women of your temperament.’
‘And just what is my temperament?’ Clarissa asked in a wheedling voice, feeling that she cut a poor figure as a coquette.
‘An inclination to view yourself sceptically and the world around you romantically.’ He looked at her, his head inclined slightly to one side. ‘And specifically concerning yourself I can say that recently there has been some kind of sudden change for the b-better in your life and that you have suffered some k-kind of shock.’
Clarissa started and glanced at her companion in frank alarm.
‘Don’t be frightened,’ the astonishing diplomat reassured her.
‘I know absolutely nothing about you. It is simply that I have developed my powers of observation and analysis with the help of special exercises. Usually a single insignificant detail is enough for me to recreate the entire p-picture. Show me a charming button like that (he pointed delicately to a large, ornamental pink button on her jacket) and I will tell you immediately who lost it - a very big pig or a very small elephant.’
Clarissa smiled and asked:
‘And can you see right through absolutely everybody?’
‘Not right through, but I do see a lot. For instance, what can you tell me about that gentleman over there?’
Fandorin pointed to a thickset man with a large moustache observing the shoreline through a pair of binoculars.
‘That’s Mr Babble, he’s …’
‘Stop there!’ said Fandorin, interrupting her. ‘I’ll try to guess myself.’
He looked at Mr Babble for about 30 seconds, then said: ‘He is travelling to the East for the first time. He married recently. A factory owner. Business is not going well, there is a whiff of imminent bankruptcy about this gentleman. He spends almost all his time in the billiard room, but he plays badly.’
Clarissa had always prided herself on being observant and she began inspecting Mr Babble, the Manchester industrialist, more closely.
A factory owner? Well, that was possible to guess. If he was travelling first class, he must be rich. It was clear from his face that he was no aristocrat. And he didn’t look like a businessman either, in that baggy frock coat, and his features lacked animation.
All right then.
Recently married? Well, that was simple enough - the ring on his third finger gleamed so brightly it was obvious straightaway that it was brand new.
Plays billiards a lot? Why was that? Aha, his jacket was smeared all over with chalk.
‘What makes you think that Mr Babble is travelling to the East for the first time?’ she asked. ‘Why is there a whiff of bankruptcy about him? And what is the basis for your assertion that he is a poor billiards player? Perhaps you have been there and seen him play?’
‘No, I have not been in the b-billiard room, because I cannot stand pastimes that involve gambling, and I have never laid eyes on this gentleman before,’ Fandorin replied. ‘It is evident that he is travelling this way for the first time from the stubborn persistence with which he is studying the empty shoreline. Otherwise Mr Babble would be aware that he will not see anything of interest on that side until we reach the Strait of Mandeb. That is one. This gentleman’s business affairs must be going very badly, otherwise he would never have embarked on such a long journey, especially so soon after his wedding. A badger like that might leave his set if the end of the world is nigh, but certainly not before. That is two.’
‘What if he is taking a honeymoon voyage together with his wife?’ asked Clarissa, knowing that Mr Babble was travelling alone.
‘And lingering forlornly on the deck like that, and loitering in the billiard room? And he plays quite incredibly badly - his jacket is all white at the front. Only absolutely hopeless players scrape their bellies along the edge of the table like that. That is three.’
‘Oh, all right, but what will you say about that lady over there?’
Clarissa, now completely engrossed in the game, pointed to Mrs Blackpool, who was proceeding majestically along the deck, arm in arm with her female companion.
Fandorin scanned the estimable lady in question with a disinterested glance.
‘With this one everything is written in the face. She is on her way back from England to join her husband. She has been to visit their grown-up children. Her husband is a military man. A colonel.’
Mr Blackpool was indeed a colonel in command of a garrison in some city or other in northern India. This was simply too much.
‘Explain!’ Clarissa demanded.
‘Ladies of that kind do not travel to India on their own bbusiness, only to their husbands’ place of service. She is not of the right age to have embarked on a journey like this for the first time - so she must be going back somewhere. Why could she have travelled to England? Only in order to see her children. I am assuming that her parents have already passed away. It is clear from her determined and domineering expression that she is a woman used to command. That is the look of the first lady of a garrison or a regiment. They are usually regarded as a level of command senior to the commanding officer himself. Perhaps you would like to know why she must be a colonel’s wife? Well, because if she were a general’s wife she would be travelling first class, and this lady, as you can see, has a silver badge. But let us not waste any more time on trifles.’ Fandorin leaned closer and whispered: ‘Let me tell you about that orang-utan over there. A curious specimen.’