Brilling began gazing out the window again, and this time he was silent for even longer than before. Erast Fandorin was a bundle of raw nerves, but his character stood the test.
Finally Brilling sighed and began speaking—slowly, hesitantly, still thinking something through as he went along. “Most likely it’s all nonsense. Edgar Allan Poe, Eugene Sue. Meaningless coincidences. However, you are right about one thing—we won’t contact the English…We can’t act through our agent at the London embassy either. If you are mistaken—and you are most certainly mistaken—we shall make total fools of ourselves. If we are to assume that you are correct, the embassy will not be able to do anything in any case. The English will hide Bezhetskaya or tell us some pack of lies…And the hands of our embassy staff are tied—they’re too exposed…So it’s decided!” Ivan Brilling swung his fist energetically through the air. “Of course, Fandorin, you would have come in useful to me here, but, as the common folk say, love won’t be forced. I’ve read your file. I know you speak not only French but also German and English. Have your own way—go to London to see your femme fatale. I won’t impose any instructions on you—I believe in your intuition. I’ll give you one man in the embassy—Pyzhov is his name. His post is that of a humble clerk, like your own, but he deals with other matters. At the Ministry of Foreign Affairs he is listed as a provincial secretary, but in our line he holds a different rank, a higher one. A gentleman of many and varied talents. When you get there, go straight to him. He is extremely efficient. I remain convinced, however, that your journey will be wasted. But in the final analysis you have earned the right to make a mistake. You’ll get a look at Europe, travel a bit at the state’s expense. Although I believe you now have means of your own?” Brilling squinted at the bundle lying unattended on a chair.
Erast Fandorin started, dumbfounded at these words.
“My apologies, those are my winnings. Nine thousand six hundred rubles—I counted them. I wanted to hand them in at the cashier’s office, but it was closed.”
“Why, dammit?” said Brilling dismissively. “Are you in your right mind? What do you think the cashier would write in the receipts ledger? Revenue from Collegiate Registrar Fandorin’s game of stoss?…Hmm, wait a moment. It’s not really proper for a mere registrar to go on a foreign assignment.”
He sat down at the desk, dipped a pen into the inkwell, and began writing, speaking the words aloud. “Now then. “Urgent telegram. To Prince Mikhail Alexandrovich Korchakov, personally. Copy to Adjutant General Lavrentii; Arkadievich Mizinov. Your Excellency, in the interests of a matter of which you are aware, and also in recognition of exceptional services rendered, I request you to promote Collegiate Registrar Erast Petrovich Fandorin immediately and without taking into account his length of service…” Ah, all right then, straight up to titular. Not such a very big cheese, either, but even so…“to titular counselor. I also request you to list Fandorin temporarily in the department of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs in the post of diplomatic courier, first class.” That’s so that you won’t be delayed at the border,” Brilling explained. “Right. Date. Signature. By the way, you really will deliver diplomatic post along the way—to Berlin, Vienna, and Paris. For the sake of secrecy, in order not to arouse unnecessary suspicion. No objections?” Ivan Brilling’s eyes glinted mischievously.
“None at all,” Erast Fandorin mumbled, his thoughts still lagging behind the pace of events.
“And from Paris, already under a false identity, you will make your way to London. What was the name of that hotel?”
CHAPTER TEN
which a blue attachй case features prominently
ON THE TWENTY-EIGHTH OF JUNE IN THE western style, or the sixteenth of June in the Russian style, a hired carriage pulled up in front of the Winter Queen Hotel on Grey Street. The driver in his top hat and white gloves jumped down from his box, folded out the step, and bowed as he opened the black lacquered door bearing the legend:
DUNSTER & DUNSTER
Since 1848
LONDON REGAL TOURS
The first item to emerge from the door was a morocco traveling boot studded with silver nails, which was followed by a prosperous-looking youthful gentleman sporting a bushy mustache that suited his fresh-faced complexion remarkably badly, a Tyrolean hat with a feather, and a broad Alpine cloak. The young man leapt down to the pavement in sprightly fashion, glanced around him at the quiet, entirely unremark able little street, and fixed his agitated gaze on the hotel, a rather unprepossessing four-story detached structure in the Georgian style that had clearly seen better times.
After hesitating for a moment, the gentleman pronounced in Russian, “Ah, all right then.”
He then followed this enigmatic phrase by walking up the steps and entering the vestibule.
Literally one second later someone in a black cloak emerged from the public house located across the road, pulled a tall cap with a shiny peak down over his eyes, and began striding to and fro in front of the doors of the hotel.
This remarkable circumstance, however, escaped the attention of the new arrival, who was already standing at the counter and surveying a bleary portrait of some medieval lady in a gorgeous jabot—no doubt the ‘Winter Queen’ herself. The porter, who had been dozing behind the counter, greeted the foreigner rather indifferently, but on observing him give the boy, who had done no more than carry in his traveling bag, an entire shilling for his trouble, he welcomed him again far more affably, this time addressing the new arrival not merely as ‘sir,’ but ‘Your Honor.’
The young man inquired whether there were any rooms available and demanded the very best, with hot water and newspapers, before entering himself in the hotel’s register of guests as Erasmus von Dorn from Helsingfors, following which, for doing absolutely nothing at all, the porter received a half sovereign and promptly began addressing this half-witted foreigner as ‘your lordship.’
Meanwhile, ‘Mr. von Dorn’ found himself suffering rather grave doubts. It was hard to believe that the brilliant Amalia Kazimirovna Bezhetskaya could be staying at this third-rate hotel. Something here was clearly not right.
In his bewilderment and dismay, he even asked the zealously attentive porter, now bent almost double, whether there was not another hotel of the same name in London. He received in reply a sworn oath assuring him that indeed there was not, nor ever had been, if one did not take into account the Winter Queen Hotel that had stood on the very same site but had burned to ashes more than a hundred years previously.
Could it really all have been in vain—the twenty-day round-trip through Europe, and the false mustache, and the luxurious carriage hired at Waterloo station instead of an ordinary cab and, finally, the half sovereign expended to no effect?
Well, you’ll just have to earn your baksheesh from me, my dear chap, thought Erast Fandorin—for let us call him so, disregarding his false identity.
“Tell me, my good man, has there not been a guest staying here by the name of Miss Olsen?” he asked with poorly feigned casualness, leaning his elbows on the counter.
Entirely predictable as the reply was, it pierced Erast Fandorin to the heart.
“No, my lord, no lady by that name is staying here, or ever has.”
Discerning the dismay in the guest’s eyes, the porter paused for effect before declaring reticently, “However, the name mentioned by your lordship is not entirely unfamiliar to me.”