The moustache man was obviously rather stingy, he polished his own shoes and did a bit of laundry to avoid having to give the servants any tips.
‘Right then, out with it, what have you got for me?’ Watchdog growled irritably, clearly displeased by Renate’s inquisitiveness.
‘I know who the criminal is,’ she announced proudly.
This news failed to produce the anticipated effect on the detective. He sighed and asked:
‘Who is it?’
‘Need you ask? It’s so obvious a blind man could see it,’
Renate said with an agitated flutter of her hands as she seated herself in an armchair. ‘All the newspapers said that the murder was committed by a loony. No normal person could possibly do anything so insane, could they? And now just think about the people we have sitting round our table. It’s a choice bunch of course, perfectly matching blooms, bores and freaks every last one of them, but there’s only one loony.’
‘Are you hinting at the baronet?’ asked Watchdog.
‘Now you’ve got it at last!’ said Renate with a pitying nod.
‘Why, it’s as clear as day. Have you seen his eyes when he looks at me? He’s a wild beast, a monster! I’m afraid to walk down the corridors. Yesterday I ran into him on the stairs when there wasn’t a soul around. It gave me such a twinge here inside!’
She put one hand over her belly. ‘I’ve been watching him for a long time. At night he keeps the light on in his cabin and the curtains are tightly closed. But yesterday they were open just a tiny little crack, so I peeped in. He was standing there in the middle of the cabin waving his arms about and making ghastly faces and wagging his finger at somebody. It was so frightening!
Later on, in the middle of the night, my migraine started up again, so I went out for a breath of fresh air, and there I saw the loony standing on the forecastle looking up at the moon through some kind of metal contraption. That was when it dawned on me. He’s one of those maniacs whose bloodlust rises at full moon. I’ve read about them! Why are you looking at me as if I were some kind of idiot? Have you taken a look at the calendar recently?’ Renate produced a pocket calendar from her purse with a triumphant air. ‘Look at this, I’ve checked it.
On the fifteenth of March, when ten people were killed on the rue de Grenelle, it was a full moon. See, it’s written here in black and white: pleine lune.’
Watchdog looked all right, but he didn’t seem very interested.
‘Why are you goggling at it like a dozy owl?’ Renate asked angrily- ‘Don’t you understand that today is a full moon too?
While you’re sitting around doing nothing, he’ll go crazy again and brain somebody else. And I know who it will be - me. He hates me.’ Her voice trembled hysterically. ‘Everyone on this loathsome steamer wants to kill me! That African attacked me, and that Oriental of ours keeps glaring and grinding his teeth at me and now it’s this crazy baronet!’
Watchdog carried on gazing at her with his dull, unblinking eyes, and Renate waved her hand in front of his nose. Coo-ee! M. Gauche! Not fallen asleep have you, by any chance?’
The old grandpa grabbed her wrist in a firm grip. He moved her hand aside and said sternly:
‘I’ll tell you what, my dear. You stop playing the fool. I’ll deal with our redheaded baronet, but I want you to tell me about your syringe. And no fairy tales, I want the truth!’ He growled so fiercely that she shrank back in alarm.
At supper she sat there staring down into her plate. She always ate with such an excellent appetite, but today she had hardly even touched her sauteed eels. Her eyes were red and swollen and every now and then her lips gave a slight tremor.
But Watchdog was in a genial, even magnanimous mood. He looked at Renate frequently with some severity, but his glance was fatherly rather than hostile. Commissioner Gauche was not as formidable as he would like to appear.
A very impressive piece,’ he said with an envious glance at the Big Ben clock standing in the corner of the saloon. ‘Some People have all the luck.’
The monumental prize was too big to fit in Fandorin’s cabin ana so it had been installed temporarily in Windsor. The oak tower continually ticked, jangled and wheezed deafeningly, and on the hour it boomed out a chime that caught everyone by surprise and made them gasp. At breakfast, when Big Ben informed everyone (with a ten minute delay) that it was nine o’clock, the doctor’s wife had almost swallowed a teaspoon.
And in addition to all of this, the base of the tower was obviously a bit too narrow and every strong wave set it swaying menacingly. Now, for instance, when the wind had freshened and the white curtains at the windows had begun fluttering in surrender, Big Ben’s squeaking had become positively alarming.
The Russian seemed to take the commissioner’s genuine admiration for irony and began making apologetic excuses.
‘I t-told them to give the clock to fallen women too, but M. Driet was adamant. I swear by Christ, Allah and Buddha that when we g-get to Calcutta I shall leave this monster on the steamer. I won’t allow anyone to foist this nightmare on me!’
He squinted anxiously at Lieutenant Renier, who remained diplomatically silent. Then the diplomat turned to Renate for sympathy, but all she gave him in reply was a stern, sullen glance. In the first place, she was in a terribly bad mood, and in the second, Fandorin had been out of favour with her for some time.
There was a story to that.
It all started when Renate noticed that the sickly Mrs Truffo positively blossomed whenever she was near the darling little diplomat. And Mr Fandorin himself seemed to belong to that common variety of handsome males who manage to discover something fascinating in every dull woman they meet and never neglect a single one. In principle, Renate regarded this subspecies of men with respect and actually found them quite attractive. It would be terribly interesting to know what precious ore the blue-eyed, brown-haired Russian had managed to unearth in the dismal doctor’s wife. There certainly could be no doubt that he felt a distinct interest in her.
A few days earlier Renate had witnessed an amusing little scene played out by those two actors: Mrs Truffo (in the role of female vamp) and Mr Fandorin (in the role of perfidious seducer). The audience had consisted of one young lady (quite exceptionally attractive, despite being in a certain delicate condition) concealed behind the tall back of a deckchair and following the action in her make-up mirror. The scene of the action was set at the stern of the ship. The time was a romantic sunset.
The play was performed in English.
The doctor’s wife had executed her lumbering approach to the diplomat with all the elephantine grace of a typical British seduction (both dramatis personae were standing at the rail, in profile towards the aforesaid deckchair). Mrs Truffo began, as was proper, with the weather:
‘The sun is so very bright in these southern latitudes!’ she bleated with passionate feeling.
‘Oh yes,’ replied Fandorin. ‘In Russia at this time of the year the snow has still not melted, and here the temperature is already thirty-five degrees Celsius, and that is in the shade. In the sunlight it is even hotter.’
Now that the preliminaries had been successfully concluded, Mrs Goatface felt that she could legitimately broach a more intimate subject.
‘i simply don’t know what to do!’ she began in a modest tone appropriate to her theme. ‘I have such white skin! This intolerable sun will spoil my complexion or even, God forbid, give me freckles.’
‘The problem off-freckles is one that worries me as well,’ the Russian replied in all seriousness. ‘But I was prudent and brought along a lotion made with extract of Turkish camomile.
Look, my suntan is even and there are no freckles at all.’
The cunning serpent temptingly presented his cute little face to the respectable married woman.