The nearer his chief’s story had drawn to its end, the brighter the envy had glowed in Erast Fandorin’s eyes, and his own adventures, which he had been so proud of only recently, seemed to pale and fade in significance. An attempt on the life of the tsarevich! An exchange of fire! An infernal device! Fate had mocked Fandorin cruelly—tempted him with glory and led him off the main highway onto a miserable country track…
However, he gave Ivan Brilling a detailed account of his epic quest—except that he related the circumstances under which he had been deprived of the blue attachй case rather vaguely and even blushed a little, a fact that apparently did not escape the attention of Brilling, who listened to the narrative in gloomy silence. When he reached the denouement, Erast Fandorin took heart again and he brightened up, unable to resist the temptation of dramatic effect.
“And I did see the man!” he exclaimed when he came to the scene outside the St. Petersburg post office. “I know who holds in his hands the contents of the attachй case and all the threads of the organization! Azazel is still alive, Ivan Franzevich, but it is in our hands!”
“Tell me then, devil take it!” his chief exclaimed. “Enough of this puerile posturing! Who is this man? Where is he?”
“Here, in St. Petersburg,” said Fandorin, savoring his revenge. “A certain Gerald Cunningham, senior assistant to Lady Astair, whom I have more than once drawn to your attention.” At this point Erast Fandorin cleared his throat tactfully. “So the business with Kokorin’s will is explained. And now it is clear why Bezhetskaya directed her admirers to the Astair Houses. And note how cunningly that red-haired gentleman chose his lair. What a cover, eh? Orphans, branches all over the world, an altruistic patroness to whom all doors are open. All very clever, you must admit.”
“Cunningham?” Fandorin’s chief queried. “Gerald Cunningham? But I know the gentleman very well. We are members of the same club.” He spread his arms in amazement. “An extremely industrious gentleman, but I find it impossible to imagine him being involved with nihilists and assassinating full state counselors.”
“But he didn’t kill them, he didn’t!” exclaimed Erast Fandorin. “I thought at first that the lists contained the names of victims. I told you that in order to convey my train of thought. When you’re in a rush you can’t work everything out at once. But afterward, while I was jolting all the way across Europe in the train, it suddenly struck me! If it was a list of future victims, then why were the dates entered in it? Dates that were already past! That doesn’t fit! No, Mr. Brilling, we have something else here!”
Fandorin even leapt to his feet, his thoughts agitated him so powerfully.
“Something else? But what?” asked Brilling, screwing up his bright eyes.
“I think it is a list of members of a powerful international organization. And your Moscow terrorists are only a small link, the very tiniest.” At the expression that these words brought to his chief’s face, Erast Fandorin felt himself beginning to gloat—and was immediately ashamed of such an unworthy feeling. “The central figure in the organization, the main purpose of which remains as yet unknown to us, is Gerald Cunningham. You and I have both seen him—he is a most exceptional gentleman. ‘Miss Olsen,’ whose role has been played by Amalia Bezhetskaya since June, is the organization’s registration center, something like the personnel department. It receives information from all over the world concerning changes in the status of members of the society. Regularly, once a month, ‘Miss Olsen’ forwards the new information to Cunningham, who has been based in St. Petersburg since last year. I told you that Bezhetskaya has a secret safe in her bedroom. She probably keeps a full list of the members of this Azazel in it—it does seem as if that actually is the organization’s name. Or else it’s their password, something rather like an incantation. I have heard the word spoken twice, and on both occasions it was when a murder was about to be committed. In general it is rather like a Masonic society, except that it is not clear why the fallen angel is involved. But it seems to be on a bigger scale than the Masons. Just imagine—forty-five letters in one month! And the people involved—a senator, a minister, generals!”
Erast Fandorin’s chief gazed patiently at the young man, for the latter had clearly not yet concluded his narrative. He had wrinkled up his forehead and was thinking intensely about something.
“Mr. Brilling, I was just thinking about Cunningham…He is a British subject, after all, so I suppose we couldn’t simply turn up and search his house?”
“I suppose not,” Fandorin’s chief agreed. “Go on.”
“And before you can obtain sanction, he will hide the envelope so securely that we won’t find anything and won’t be able to prove a thing. We still don’t know what connections he has in high places and who will intercede for him. Special caution would seem to be recommended here. It would be best first to get a grip on his Russian operation and haul in the chain link by link, wouldn’t it?”
“And how can we do that?” Brilling asked with lively interest. “By means of secret surveillance? Logical.”
“We could use surveillance, but I think there is a more certain method.”
Ivan Brilling thought for a moment and then shrugged, as if surrendering.
Flattered, Fandorin dropped a tactful hint. “What about the full state counselor who was created on the seventh of June?”
“Check the emperor’s decrees on new titles?” Brilling slapped a hand against his forehead. “Say, for the first ten days of June? Bravo, Fandorin, bravo!”
“Of course, chief. Not even for the first ten days, just from Monday to Saturday, from the third to the eighth. The new general would hardly be likely to delay the happy announcement any longer than that. Just how many new full state counselors appear in the empire in the course of a week?”
“Two or three perhaps, if there happens to be a bumper crop. I have never actually inquired.”
“Well then, we put all of them under observation, check their statements of service, their circles of acquaintances, and so forth. We’ll winkle out our Azazalean in no time at all.”
“Right, now tell me, has all the information you gathered been forwarded by post to the Moscow Criminal Investigation Division?” Brilling asked, following his usual habit of skipping without warning from one subject to another.
“Yes, chief. The letter will arrive either today or tomorrow. Why—do you suspect someone in the ranks of the Moscow police? In order to emphasize its importance I wrote on the envelope: “To be delivered to His Honor State Counselor Brilling in person, or in his absence to His Excellency the Chief of Police.” So no one will dare to open it. And if he reads it, the chief of police will certainly contact you.”