“That’s logical,” Ivan Brilling said approvingly, and then fell silent for a long while, staring at the wall while his expression became gloomier and gloomier.
Erast Fandorin sat there with bated breath, knowing that his chief was weighing up all that he had heard and would now tell him what he had decided. To judge from his expression it was a difficult decision.
Brilling gave a loud sigh, followed by an oddly bitter laugh. “Very well, Fandorin. I’ll take all the responsibility on myself. There are certain ailments that can only be cured by surgery. That is what we will do. This is a matter of great importance, of state importance, and in such cases I have the right to dispense with the formalities. We will take Cunningham. And immediately, in order to catch him red-handed with the envelope. Do you believe the message is in code?”
“Undoubtedly. The information is too important. And after all it was sent by ordinary post, even though it was for urgent delivery. It could have fallen into the wrong hands or been lost. No, Mr. Brilling, these people do not like to take unnecessary risks.”
“All the more reason, then. That means Cunningham decodes it, reads it, and writes it out again for his card index. He must have a card index! I am afraid that in her accompanying letter Bezhetskaya may have informed him of your adventures, and Cunningham is a clever man. He will realize in an instant that you might have sent a report to Russia. No, he has to be taken now, without delay! And it would be interesting to read that accompanying letter. The business with Pyzhov bothers me. What if he is not the only one they suborned? We will talk things over with the English embassy later. They’ll be thankful to us. You do claim that the list included subjects of Queen Victoria?”
“Yes, almost a dozen of them,” Erast Fandorin said with a nod, gazing at his chief adoringly. “Of course, taking Cunningham now is the very best thing to do, but…what if we get there and we don’t find anything? I would never forgive myself if because of me you had…that is, I am prepared in all instances…”
“Don’t talk nonsense,” said Brilling, twitching his jaw in irritation. “Do you really think that if things turn out badly I would hide behind a boy? I have faith in you, Fandorin. And that is enough.”
“Thank you,” said Erast Fandorin in a quiet voice.
Ivan Brilling bowed sarcastically.
“No need for gratitude. Right then, enough of these idle compliments. Let’s get to work. I know Cunningham’s address. He lives on Aptekarsky Island, in the wing of the St. Petersburg Astair House. Do you have a gun?”
“Yes, in London I bought a Smith and Wesson. It’s in my travel bag.”
“Show me.”
Fandorin quickly brought in from the hallway the heavy revolver that he liked so much for its weight and solidity.
“Rubbish!” his chief said peremptorily, after weighing the gun on his palm. “This is for American cowboys and their drunken shoot-outs in the saloon. It’s no use to a serious agent. I’m taking it away from you, and I’ll give you something better in exchange.”
He left the room for a short while and came back with a small, flat revolver, which fitted almost completely into the palm of his hand.
“There you are, a seven-round Belgian Herstal. It’s a new model, a special order. You wear it behind your back in a little holster under your coat. Quite indispensable in our line of work. It’s light and it doesn’t shoot very far or very accurately, but it’s self-cocking, and that guarantees a rapid shot. After all, we don’t need to hit a squirrel in the eye, do we? And the agent who stays alive is usually the one who fires first and more than once. Instead of a hammer to cock, there is a safety catch—this little button here. It’s rather stiff, to avoid accidental firing. Click it like that and then fire off all seven rounds if you like. Is that clear?”
“Yes,” said Erast Fandorin, gazing in fascination at the handsome toy.
“You can admire it later—there’s no time just now,” said Brilling, pushing him in the direction of the door.
“Are we both going to arrest him together?” Fandorin asked excitedly.
“Don’t talk nonsense.”
Ivan Brilling stopped beside the Bell’s apparatus, took hold of a horn-shaped tube and pressed it to his ear, then cranked some kind of lever. The apparatus grunted and something inside it clanged. Brilling set his ear to the other horn protruding from the lacquered box, and the horn gave out a squeaky sound. Fandorin thought he could just make out a faint, funny little voice pronouncing the words ‘duty adjutant’ and then ‘chancellery.’
“Is that you, Novgorodtsev,” Brilling bellowed into the tube. “Is His Excellency in his office? No? I can’t hear! No, no, don’t worry. Don’t worry, I say!” He drew as much air as he could into his lungs and began shouting even louder. “An urgent detachment for an arrest! Send them immediately to Aptekarsky Island. Ap-te-kar-sky! Yes! The wing of the Astair House! As-tair House! It doesn’t matter what it means—they’ll find it. And have a search group sent out! What? Yes, I will, in person. And hurry, Major, hurry.”
He returned the tube to its resting place and wiped his forehead.
“I hope that Mr. Bell will improve his design, or soon all my neighbors will know everything about the Third Section’s secret operations.”
Erast Fandorin was still entranced by the sorcery that had just been worked before his eyes. “Why, it’s like something from The Thousand and One Nightsl A genuine miracle! And there are still people who condemn progress!”
“We can talk about progress on our way. Unfortunately I have already dismissed my carriage, so we will have to look for a cab. Will you put down that damned travel bag! Come on, quick march!”
THE CONVERSATION ABOUT PROGRESS, however, never took place, for they rode to Aptekarsky Island in total silence. Erast Fandorin was trembling with excitement, and he made several attempts to draw his chief into conversation, but all in vain. Brilling was in a foul mood. He was clearly taking a great risk after all in launching an operation on his own authority.
The pale northern evening glimmered above the watery expanse of the Neva. It occurred to Fandorin that the bright summer night was most opportune. He would not be getting any sleep today in any case. And last night in the train he had not slept a wink either, he had been so worried that he might miss the envelope…The driver urged on his chestnut filly, earning his promised ruble honestly, and they reached their destination quickly.
The St. Petersburg Astair House, a beautiful yellow building that had previously belonged to the army engineers’ corps, was smaller in size than its Moscow equivalent, but it was drowning in greenery. It was a heavenly spot, surrounded by gardens and rich dachas.
“Ah, what will happen to the children?” Fandorin sighed.
“Nothing will happen to them,” Ivan Brilling replied aggressively. “Her ladyship will appoint another director and that will be the end of the matter.”
The wing of the Astair House proved to be an imposing Catherine-style mansion overlooking an agreeable, tree-shaded street. Erast Fandorin saw an elm tree charred black by lightning reaching out its dead branches toward the lighted windows of the tall second story. The house was quiet.
“Splendid, the gendarmes have not yet arrived,” said the chief. “We won’t wait for them—the most important thing for us is not to put Cunningham on his guard. And to be prepared for all sorts of surprises.”
Erast Fandorin thrust his hand under the back flap of his jacket and felt the reassuring chill of his Herstal. He felt his chest tighten, not out of fear—for with Ivan Franzevich Brilling there was nothing to fear—but out of impatience. Now at last everything would finally be settled!
Brilling shook the little brass bell vigorously, producing a melodious trill. A red-haired head glanced out of an open window on the second floor.