Sweetchild, however, did not even glance at the dishes of pies, cheese and fruit. He grabbed a paper napkin out of a silver napkin holder, hunched over the table and began furiously scribbling something on it. He has become completely obsessed, and obviously no longer feels it necessary to conceal his secret even in a crowded room!
Consumed with curiosity, I began strolling casually in his direction.
But Sweetchild had already straightened up and folded the napkin into four, evidently intending to put it in his pocket. Unfortunately, I was too late to glance at it over his shoulder. I stamped my foot furiously and was about to turn back when I noticed Mr Fandorin coming over to the table with two glasses of champagne. He handed one to Sweetchild and kept the other for himself. I heard the Russian say: ‘Ah, my dear Professor, how terribly absent-minded you are! You have just put a dirty napkin in your pocket.’ Sweetchild was embarrassed, he took the napkin out, crumpled it into a ball and threw it under the table. I immediately joined them and deliberately struck up a conversation about fashion, knowing that the Indologist would soon get bored and leave. Which is exactly what happened.
No sooner had he made his apologies and left us alone than Fandorin whispered to me conspiratorially: ‘Well, Sir Reginald, which of us is going to crawl under the table?’ I realized that the diplomat was as suspicious of the professor’s behaviour as I was. We understood each other completely in an instant. ‘Yes, it is not exactly convenient,’ I agreed. Mr Fandorin glanced around and then suggested: ‘Let us do this thing fairly and honestly. If one of us can invent a decent pretext, the other will crawl after the napkin.’ I nodded and started thinking, but nothing appropriate came to mind. ‘Eureka!’
whispered Fandorin, and with a movement so swift that I could barely see it, he unfastened one of my cufflinks. It fell on the floor and the diplomat pushed it under the table with the toe of his shoe. ‘Sir Reginald,’ he said loudly enough for people standing nearby to hear, I believe you have dropped a cufflink.’
An agreement is an agreement. I squatted down and glanced under the table. The napkin was lying quite close, but the dratted cufflink had skidded right across to the wall, and the table was rather broad.
Imagine the scene. Your husband crawling under the table on all fours, presenting the crowded hall with a view that was far from edifying. On my way back I ran into a rather embarrassing situation.
When I stuck my head out from under the table, I saw two young ladies directly in front of me, engaged in lively conversation with Mr Fandorin. When they spotted my red head at the level of their knees, the ladies squealed in fright, but my perfidious companion merely said calmly: ‘Allow me to introduce Baronet Milford-Stokes.’ The ladies gave me a distinctly chilly look and left without saying a word. I leapt to my feet, absolutely bursting with fury and exclaimed: ‘Sir, you deliberately stopped them so that you could make fun of me!’ Fandorin replied with an innocent expression: i did stop them deliberately, but not at all in order to make fun of you. It simply occurred to me that their wide skirts would conceal your daring raid from the eyes of the hall. But where is your booty?’
My hands trembled in impatience as I unfolded the napkin, reveal ing a strange sight. I am drawing it from memory: V/\U\C [[[
What are these geometrical figures? What does the zigzag line mean? And why are there three exclamation marks?
I cast a stealthy glance at Fandorin. He tugged at his ear lobe and muttered something that I didn’t catch. I expect it was in Russian.
‘What do you make of it?’ I asked. ‘Let’s wait for a while,’ the diplomat replied with a mysterious expression. ‘He’s getting close.’
Who is getting close? Sweetchild? Close to what? And is it a good thing that he is getting close?
I had no chance to ask these questions, because just at that moment there was a commotion in the hall and everyone started applauding.
Then M. Driet, the captain’s social officer, began shouting deafeningly through a megaphone: ‘Ladies and gentlemen, the grand prize in our lottery goes to cabin number eighteen!’ I had been so absorbed in the operation with the mysterious napkin that I had paid absolutely no attention to what was going on in the hall. It turned out that they had stopped dancing and set up the draw for the charity raffle ‘In Aid of fallen Women’ (I wrote to you about this idiotic undertaking in my letter of 3 April). You are well aware of how I feel about charity and fallen women, so I shall refrain from further comment.
The announcement had a strange effect on my companion - he frowned and ducked, pulling his head down below his shoulders. I was surprised for a moment, until I remembered that No. 18 is Mr Eandorin’s cabin. Just imagine that, he was the lucky winner again!
‘This is becoming intolerable,’ our favourite of fortune mumbled, stammering more than usual. I think I shall take a walk,’ and he started backing away towards the door, but Mrs Kleber called out in her clear voice: ‘That’s Mr Fandorin from our saloon! There he is, gentlemen! In the white dinner jacket with the red carnation! Mr Fandorin, where are you going, you’ve won the grand prize!’
Everyone turned to look at the diplomat and began applauding more loudly than ever as four stewards carried the grand prize into the halclass="underline" an exceptionally ugly grandfather clock modelled after Big Ben. It was an absolutely appalling construction of carved oak - one and a half times the height of a man, and it must have weighed at least four stone. I thought I caught a glimpse of something like horror in Mr Fandorin’s eyes. I must say I cannot blame him.
After that it was impossible to carry on talking, so I came back here to write this letter.
I have the feeling something terrible is about to happen, the noose is tightening around me. But you pursue me in vain, gentlemen, I am ready for you!
However, the hour is already late and it is time to take a reading of our position.
Goodbye, my dear, sweet, infinitely adored Emily.
Your loving
Reginald Milford-Stokes.
Renate Kleber
Renate lay in wait for Watchdog (that was what she had christened Gauche once she discovered what the old fogy was really like) outside his cabin. It was clear from the commissioner’s crumpled features and tousled grey hair that he had only just risen from his slumbers - he must have collapsed into bed immediately after lunch and carried on snoozing until the evening.
Renate deftly grabbed hold of the detective’s sleeve, lifted herself up on tiptoe and blurted out:
‘Wait till you hear what I have to tell you!’
Watchdog gave her a searching look, crossed his arms and said in an unpleasant voice:
‘I shall be very interested to hear it. I’ve been meaning to have a word with you for some time, madam.’
Renate found his tone of voice slightly alarming, but she decided it didn’t really mean anything - Watchdog must be suffering from indigestion, or perhaps he’d been having a bad dream.
I’ve done your job for you,’ Renate boasted, glancing around to make sure no one was listening. ‘Let’s go into your cabin, we won’t be interrupted in there.’
Watchdog’s abode was maintained in perfect order. The familiar black file reposed impressively in the centre of the desk with a neat pile of paper and several precisely pointed pencils lying beside it. Renate surveyed the room curiously, turning her head this way and that, noting the shoe brush and tin of wax polish and the shirt collars hung up to dry on a piece of string.