The Englishman was still sitting there—he had not gone away. There was an obstinate nation for you now. The Englishman had appeared early in the morning, when the post office had barely even opened, and having seated himself beside the partition with his newspaper, had sat there the whole day long, without eating or drinking or even, begging your pardon, leaving his post to do the necessary. As if he were rooted to the spot. Clearly someone must have made an appointment to meet him and failed to keep it. That happens often enough around here, but for a Briton it would be incomprehensible. They’re such a disciplined people, so punctual. Whenever anyone, especially anyone of a foreign appearance, approached the window, the Englishman would draw himself up in eager anticipation and even shift his blue spectacles to the very tip of his nose. But so far none of them had been the one he was expecting. A Russian, now, would have given way to indignation long ago, thrown his hands up in the air, and begun complaining loudly to everyone in earshot; but this fellow just stuck his nose into his Times and carried on sitting there.
Or perhaps the fellow had nowhere to go. Came here straight from the railway station—look at that checked traveling suit he had on, and the traveling bag—thinking he would be met, but he hadn’t been. What else could he do? When he came back from lunch, Kondratii Shtukin had taken pity on the son of Albion and sent the doorman Trifon across to ask whether there was anything he needed, but the gentleman in checks had only shaken his head irritably and handed Trifon twenty kopecks, as much as to say: leave me alone. Well, have it your own way.
A little shrimp of a man who had the look of a cabdriver appeared at the window and pushed across a crumpled passport.
“Take a look, would you, dear chap. See if there’s anything for Nikola Mitrofanich Krug.”
“Where are you expecting it from?” Kondratii Shtukin asked strictly, taking the passport.
The reply was unexpected. “From England, from London.”
The remarkable thing was that a letter from London was found—only not under the Russian letter K, but the Latin letter C. Look at that now, “Mr. Nicholas M. Croog,” if you don’t mind! The things you do see at the poste restante counter!
“But is that definitely you?” Shtukin asked, more out of curiosity than suspicion.
“Not a doubt about it,” the cabdriver replied rather rudely, thrusting his clawlike hand in through the window and snatching up the yellow envelope with the ‘urgent’ stamp.
Kondratii Shtukin handed him the register. “Are you able to sign for it?”
“As well as anyone else.” And the boor entered some kind of scrawl in the ‘received’ column.
Shtukin followed the departure of this unpleasant customer with a wrathful eye, then cast his now customary sideways glance at the Englishman, but he had disappeared. He must have finally despaired of his appointment.
ERAST FANDORIN WAITED OUTSIDE for the cabdriver with a sinking heart. So that was ‘Nicholas Croog’! The further he pursued it, the more confusing this whole business became. But the most important thing was that his six-day tactical forced march across Europe had not been in vain! He had overtaken the letter and intercepted it. Now he would have something of substance to present to his chief. But he must not let this Krug get away from him!
The cabby hired by Fandorin for the entire day was dawdling away the time beside a stone post. He was feeling dazed by the imposed idleness and tormented by the thought that he had asked the strange gentleman for only five rubles—for this kind of excruciating torture he should have demanded six. When his fare finally reappeared, the cabby drew himself up straight and tightened his reins, but Erast Fandorin did not even glance in his direction.
The mark appeared. He walked down the steps, donned a blue peaked cap, and set off toward a carriage standing nearby. Fandorin unhurriedly set off in pursuit. The mark halted by the carriage, doffed his cap, and bowed, then held out the yellow envelope. A man’s hand in a white glove emerged from the window and took the envelope.
Fandorin increased his pace in an attempt to catch a glimpse of the unknown man’s face. He succeeded.
Sitting in the carriage and inspecting the wax seals against the light was a ginger-haired gentleman with piercing green eyes and a pale face with a profuse scattering of freckles. Fandorin recognized him immediately: but of course—Mr. Gerald Cunningham as large as life, the brilliant pedagogue, friend of orphans, and right-hand man of Lady Astair.
The cabby’s sufferings proved to have been all in vain. It would not be difficult to ascertain Mr. Cunningham’s address. In the meantime there was more urgent business that required attention.
Kondratii Shtukin was in for a surprise: the Englishman came back, and now he was in a terrible hurry. He ran over to the telegram reception counter, stuck his head right in through the window, and began dictating something very urgent to Mikhal Nikolaich. And Mikhal Nikolaich began fussing and bustling about and hurrying, which was really not like him at all.
Shtukin was stung by curiosity. He got to his feet—fortunately there were no customers waiting—and as if he were simply taking a stroll, he set out in the direction of the telegraph apparatus at the far side of the hall. Halting beside Mikhal Nikolaich, who was working away intently with his key, he bent over a little and read the hastily scribbled message:
To the Criminal Investigation Division, Moscow Police, State Counselor
Mr. Brilling.
I have returned. Please contact me urgently. I await your reply by the apparatus.
Fandorin
So that was it—now he understood. Shtukin glanced at the ‘Englishman’ with different eyes. A detective, are we? Hunting down bandits? Well, well.
The agent strode agitatedly around the hall for about ten minutes, no longer, before Mikhal Nikolaich, who had remained by the apparatus, gestured to him and held out the ribbon with the return telegram.
Kondratii Kondratievich Shtukin was on the spot in a flash and he read the message on the ribbon.
TO MR FANDORIN STOP
MR BRILLING IS IN SPB STOP
ADDRESS KATENINSKAYA ST STOP
SIVERS HOUSE STOP
DUTY OFFICER LOMEIKO
For some reason this reply delighted the gentleman in checks quite remarkably. He even clapped his hands and inquired of Shtukin, who was observing him with interest, “Where is Kateninskaya Street? Is it far?”
“Not at all,” Kondratii Shtukin replied courteously. “It’s very handy from here. Take the public coach, get out at the corner of Nevsky Prospect and Liteiny Prospect, and then…”
“Never mind, I have a cab,” the agent interrupted, and with a flourish of his traveling bag, he set off for the door at a run.
ERAST FANDORIN LIKED THE LOOK of Kateninskaya Street. It looked, in fact, exactly like the most respectable streets of Berlin or Vienna: asphalt, brand-new electric streetlamps, and substantial houses of several stories. In a word—Europe.
Sivers House with the stone knights on the pediment and the en-tranceway brightly illuminated, even though the evening was still light, was especially fine. But then, where else would a man like Ivan Franzevich Brilling live? It was quite impossible to imagine him residing in some dilapidated old mansion with a dusty yard and an orchard of apple trees.
The obliging doorkeeper reassured Erast Fandorin by informing him that Mr. Brilling was home. “Got in just five minutes ago, sir.”
Today everything was going right for Fandorin; today he could do nothing wrong.
Taking the steps two at a time, he flew up to the second floor and rang the electric bell that was polished to a golden gleam.