While Fandorin was on his way to get washed, he recalled the events of the previous night, remembering how he had dashed away from Hip-polyte’s house at breakneck speed, how he had leapt into the cab with its somnolent driver and ordered him to drive hard to Miasnitskaya Street. He had been so impatient to tell his chief about his success, but Brilling had not been at his desk. Erast Petrovich had first dealt with a certain urgent matter, then sat down in the office to wait, and he had fallen asleep.
When he got back to the office Ivan Brilling had already changed into a light two-piece suit and was drinking tea with lemon. There was a second steaming glass in a silver holder standing opposite him, and there were bagels and plain rolls lying on a tray.
“Let’s have some breakfast,” Brilling suggested, “and we can talk at the same time. I already know the basic story of your nighttime adventures, but I have a few questions.”
“How can you know?” asked Fandorin, feeling aggrieved. He had been anticipating the pleasure of telling his story and—to be honest—had intended to omit certain details.
“One of my agents was at Zurov’s. I got back about an hour ago, but it would have been a shame to wake you. I sat and read his report. Fascinating reading—I didn’t even find time to get changed.”
He slapped his hand down on several sheets of paper covered with fine handwriting.
“He’s a clever agent, but his prose is terribly flowery. He imagines he has literary talent and writes to the newspapers under the name of Maximus Zorky, dreams of a career as a censor. Listen to this—you’ll find it interesting. Where is it…Ah yes.”
Description of the subject.
Name: Erasmus von Dorn or von Doren (determined by ear).
Age: not more than twenty.
Verbal portrait
Height: two arshins, eight vershoks*;
Build: skinny;
Hair: black and straight;
Beard and mustache: none, and appears unlikely to shave; eyes bright blue, close-set, slightly slanting toward the corners; skin white and clear;
Nose: narrow and straight;
Ears: set close to the head, small, with short lobes.
Distinctive feature: his cheeks are always flushed.
Personal impressions: typical representative of vicious and depraved gilded youth, shows quite exceptional promise as an incorrigible duelist. After the events described above he and the gambler withdrew to the latter’s study. They talked for twenty-two minutes. They spoke quietly, with pauses. Because of the door I could hear almost nothing, but I did clearly make out the word ‘opium’ and also something about fire. I felt it was necessary to shadow von Doren, but he evidently discovered my presence and escaped me most cleverly, leaving in a cab. I suggest…
“Well, the rest is not very interesting.” Brilling looked at Fandorin with curiosity. “So what was it you were discussing about opium? Don’t keep me waiting. I’m burning up with curiosity.”
Fandorin gave a brief account of the conversation with Hippolyte and showed Brilling the letter. Brilling heard him out most attentively, asked for clarification of several points, and then fell silent, gazing out the window. The pause continued for a long time, about a minute. Erast Fandorin sat quietly, afraid of disturbing the thinking process, although he had his own thoughts, too.
“I am very pleased with you, Fandorin,” his chief said, coming back to life. “You have been quite brilliantly effective. In the first place, it is absolutely clear that Zurov is not involved in the murder and does not suspect the nature of your activity. Otherwise, would he have given you Amalia’s address? That gets rid of scenario three for us. In the second place, you have made a lot of progress with the Bezhetskaya scenario. Now we know where to look for that lady. Bravo. I intend to set all of the agents who are now free, including you, on to scenario four, which seems to me to be the basic one.” He jabbed his finger toward the blackboard, where the fourth circle contained the white chalk letters NO.
“How do you mean?” Fandorin asked anxiously. “But, by your leave, chief—”
“Last night I came across a very promising kind of trail that leads to a certain dacha outside Moscow,” Ivan Brilling declared with quite evident satisfaction (that accounted for the mud-spattered boots). “Revolutionaries—extremely dangerous ones—use it as a meeting place. There also appears to be a thread leading to Akhtyrtsev. We shall work on it. I shall need everybody. And it seems to me that the Bezhetskaya scenario is a blind alley. In any case, it is not urgent. We’ll forward a request to the English via diplomatic channels and ask them to detain this Miss Olsen until the matter is clarified, and that will be an end of that.”
“That’s exactly what we must not do under any circumstances!” Fandorin cried out so vehemently that Ivan Brilling was quite taken aback.
“Why not?”
“Surely you can see that it all fits together perfectly!” Erast Fandorin began very quickly, afraid of being interrupted. “I don’t know about the nihilists—it’s entirely possible, and I understand its importance—but this is also a matter of importance, state importance! Look at the picture we have taking shape, Ivan Franzevich. Bezhetskaya has gone into hiding in London—that’s one.” (He did not even notice that he had adopted his chief’s manner of expressing his thoughts.) “Her butler is English and a very suspicious character, the kind that will slit your throat without batting an eyelid—that’s two. The white-eyed man who killed Akhtyrtsev spoke with an accent and also looks like an Englishman—that’s three. Now for number four: Lady Astair is, of course, a most noble creature, but she is also an Englishwoman. And Kokorin’s estate, say what you will, has gone to her. Surely it’s obvious that Bezhetskaya deliberately prompted her admirers to draw up their wills in favor of the Englishwoman!”
“Stop, stop,” said Brilling with a frown. “What exactly are you driving at? Espionage?”
“It’s obvious, surely,” Erast Fandorin said with a flurry of his arms. “English plots. You know yourself the state of relations with England at the moment. I don’t wish to say anything untoward about Lady Astair—she probably doesn’t know a thing—but her organization can be used as a cover, as a Trojan horse for infiltrating Russia.”
“Oh yes,” said his chief with an ironical smile. “Queen Victoria and Mr. Disraeli are not satisfied with the gold of Africa and the diamonds of India—they want Petrusha Kokorin’s fabric mill and Nikolenka Akhtyrtsev’s three thousand desyatins* of land.”
And then Fandorin played his trump card.
“Not the mill and not even the money! Do you remember the inventory of their property? I didn’t pay any attention to it at first either. Among his other companies Kokorin had a shipbuilding yard in Libava, and the armed forces place orders there—I made inquiries.”
“When did you find time for that?”
“While I was waiting for you. I sent an inquiry by telegraph to the Ministry of the Navy. They work a night shift there, too.”
“I see. Well, well. What else?”
“The fact that apart from his land, houses, and capital, Akhtyrtsev also had an oil well in Baku, from his aunt. I read in the newspapers that the English are dreaming of getting their hands on Caspian oil. And here you have it—by perfectly legal means! And see how securely planned it is: either the shipyard in Libava or the oil, in either case the English come out of it with something! You act as you wish, Ivan Franzevich,” said Fandorin, becoming impassioned, “but I won’t leave it at this. I’ll carry out all your assignments, but after work I’ll go digging for clues myself. And I’ll get to the bottom of this.”