Erast Fandorin locked and bolted the door and hunched his shoulders in a chill shiver as a peal of thunder reverberated above the very roof.
IT WAS DARK AND EERIE in the wretched little room, with its solitary window that overlooked the naked stone yard without a single blade of grass. Outside, the weather was foul, windy and rainy, but the moon was slewing through the tattered clouds strewn across the black and gray sky. A ray of yellow light falling through the crack between the curtains cut the squalid lodging in half, slashing through it as far as the bed, where Fandorin, beset by nightmares, tossed in a cold sweat. He was fully dressed, including his boots, and he was still armed, except that the revolver was once again under his pillow.
Overburdened by the guilt of the murder, poor Erast Fandorin’s conscience visited upon him a strange vision. Dead Amalia was leaning over his bed. Her eyes were half closed, a drop of blood trickled from beneath her eyelid, and in her bare hand she held a black rose.
“What did I do to you?” The dead woman groaned piteously. “I was young and beautiful. I was unhappy and lonely. They snared me in their web—they deceived and depraved me. The only man I loved betrayed me. You have committed a terrible sin, Erast. You have killed beauty, and beauty is a miracle from God. You have trampled underfoot a miracle from God. And why, what for?”
The drop of blood fell from her cheek straight onto Erast Fandorin’s forehead. He started at the cold sensation and opened his eyes. He saw that Amalia was not there, thank God. It was all a dream, nothing but a dream. But then another icy drop fell on his forehead.
What was it? Erast Fandorin wondered, shuddering in horror and finally waking up completely. He heard the howling of the wind, the drumming of the rain, the hollow rumbling of the thunder. But what were these drops? It was nothing supernatural, however—the ceiling was leaking. Be still, foolish heart, be calm.
Then came the low but distinct whispering from behind the door: “Why, what for?”
And then again: “Why, what for?”
It’s my bad conscience, Fandorin told himself. My bad conscience is giving me hallucinations. But this commonsensical, rational thought failed to dispel the hideous, viscous terror that was oozing in at every pore of his body.
Everything seemed quiet. A flash of lightning lit up the naked gray walls, and then it was dark again.
A minute later he heard a quiet knocking at the window. Tap-tap. Then again: tap-tap-tap.
Steady now! It’s nothing but the wind. A tree. A branch scraping the window. A perfectly ordinary occurrence.
Tap-tap. Tap-tap-tap.
A tree? What tree? Fandorin suddenly jerked upright. There was no tree outside the window! There was nothing but an empty yard. My God, what was it?
The strip of yellow between the curtains faded and turned to gray—the moon must have gone behind a cloud—and an instant later something dark, mysterious, and terrifying loomed into sight.
He could endure anything but lying there, feeling the hairs rising on the nape of his neck. Anything but feeling himself losing his mind.
Erast Fandorin stood up and set off toward the window on legs that scarcely obeyed him, keeping his eyes fixed on that terrible patch of darkness. At the very moment when he jerked back the curtains, the sky was lit up by a flash of lightning and there outside the windowpane, right in front of him, Fandorin saw a deadly pale face with black pits for eyes. A hand glimmering with unearthly light slid slowly across the glass, its fingers extended in bright rays. Erast Fandorin acted stupidly, like a little child—he sobbed convulsively and staggered backward, then dashed back to the bed, collapsed on it facedown, and covered his head with his hands.
He had to wake up! Wake up as soon as possible! Our Father, Who art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy name, Thy kingdom come, Thy—
The tapping at the window stopped. He lifted his face out of the pillow and squinted cautiously in the direction of the window but saw nothing terrible—just the night and the rain and the rapid flashes of lightning. It was his imagination. Definitely his imagination.
Fortunately Erast Fandorin managed to recall the teachings of the Indian Brahmin Chandra Johnson, who taught the science of correct breathing and correct living. The book of wisdom read:
Correct breathing is the basis of correct living. It will support you in the difficult moments of life, and through it you will attain salvation, tranquillity, and enlightenment. Breathing in the vital force of prana, do not hasten to breathe it out again, but hold it a while in your lungs. The longer and more regular your breath is, the more vital force there is within you. That man has achieved enlightenment who, after breathing in prana in the evening, does not breathe it out again until the dawn light.
Well, Erast Fandorin still had a long way to go to reach enlightenment, but thanks to his regular morning exercises he had already learned to hold his breath for up to a hundred seconds, and to this sure remedy he resorted now. He filled his chest with air and became still. He was “transformed into wood, stone, grass.” It worked—the pounding of his heart steadied a little, the terror receded. At the count of a hundred Fandorin released his breath noisily, soothed and reassured by the victory of the enlightened spirit over superstition.
And then he heard a sound that set his teeth chattering loudly. Someone was scratching at the door.
“Let me in,” a voice whispered. “Look at me. I’m cold. Let me in…”
This is just too much, thought Fandorin indignantly, summoning his final remnants of pride. I’m going to open the door and wake up. Or…or I shall see that this is no dream.
In two bounds he was at the door, pulled back the bolt, and heaved the door toward himself.
Amalia was standing in the doorway. She was wearing a white lace peignoir like the last time, but her hair was wet and tangled from the rain and a bloody patch had spread across her breast. The most terrifying thing of all was the unearthly glimmering of her face, with its motionless, lifeless eyes. A white hand trailing sparks of light reached out toward Erast Fandorin’s face and touched his cheek in exactly the same way as the day before, but this time the fingers radiated such an icy chill that the unfortunate Fandorin staggered backward, his mind reeling into madness.
“Where is the attachй case?” the specter asked in a hissing whisper. “Where is my attachй case? I sold my soul for it.”
“I won’t give it to you!” Erast Fandorin cried out through parched lips. He staggered backward to the armchair in the depths of which the purloined attachй case lay concealed, plumped down heavily on the seat, and put his arms around the chair for safety’s sake.
The ghost went over to the table. She struck a match, lit the candle, and suddenly shouted loudly in English, “Your turn now! He’s all yours!”
Two men burst into the room: the tall Morbid with his head almost brushing the ceiling, and someone else small and sprightly.
His mind now totally befogged, Fandorin did not even stir a muscle when the butler set a knife to his throat and the other man frisked him, discovering the derringer in the top of his boot.
“Look for the revolver,” Morbid ordered in English, and the sprightly little fellow made no mistake, instantly discovering the Colt hidden under the pillow.
All this time Amalia was standing by the window, wiping her face and hands with a handkerchief.
“Is that all?” she asked impatiently. “What foul muck this phosphorous is. And the entire masquerade was a total waste of time. He lacked the brains even to hide the case properly. John, look in the armchair.”
She did not look at Fandorin, as if he had suddenly been transformed into an inanimate object.