The hunchback clicked once, and twice, but didn’t bother to click a third time, he spun round and took to his heels. At first he ran back towards the little bridge. Then he realised he’d get stuck in the tar and the police agents wouldn’t save him. He turned sharply to the right, which was the way he was supposed to go.
Masa caught up with him and, to give him a real scare, slashed him on the arm, just above the elbow, with the very tip of the blade. The hunchback yelped and made up his mind – he set off across the wasteland, into the darkness. The wasteland was large, it stretched all the way to Tobemura, where they executed criminals and afterwards displayed their severed heads on poles. Previously, when he was still Badger, Masa had been certain that sooner or later he would end up in Tobemura too, goggling down at people with his dead eyes, frightening them. That wasn’t very likely now, though. The top of a pole was no place for the head of Sibata Masahiro, liege vassal of Mr Fandorin.
He sliced the sword through the air just behind the back of Semushi’s head a couple of times, then stumbled and sprawled full length on the ground. He deliberately cursed, as if he had hurt his leg badly. And now he ran more slowly, limping along.
He shouted:
‘Stop! Stop, you coward! You won’t get away anyway!’
But by now the hunchback should have realised that he would get away – not only from the unlucky avenger, but also from the agents of the Yokohama police. That was why this place had been chosen: on the wasteland you could see anyone running after you from a long way away.
Masa gave a final, helpless shout:
‘It doesn’t matter, I’ll finish you the next time.’
And then he stopped.
The wasteland was long, but Semushi couldn’t get off it, because the river was on his right and the canal was on his left. Right at the far end, by the bridge to Tobemura, Shirota-san was waiting in the bushes. He was an educated man, of course, but he had no experience in matters like this. He had to be helped.
Brushing away his sweat with one hand, Masa ran towards the bank of the Yosidagawa, where there was a boat waiting. A few thrusts of the pole, and he’d be on the other side. If he ran as fast his legs could carry him, he would be just in time – this way was shorter than going across the wasteland. And if he was a bit late – that was why Shirota-san was there. He could show Masa which way Semushi had turned.
The bow of the boat sliced through the black, oily water. Masa pushed the pole against the spongy bottom, repeating to himself:
‘Ii-ja-nai-ka! Ii-ja-nai-ka!’
Fandorin’s valet was in a very cheerful mood. His master’s head was pure gold. He should join the Yakuza – he could make a great career.
Ah, how funny the policemen had looked, floundering in the tar!
The rain came to an end and the stars emerged, scattered across the sky like diamonds, growing brighter and brighter with every minute.
Erast Petrovich walked home slowly, because he was not looking down at his feet, but up, admiring the heavenly illuminations. One particular star right over by the horizon, at the very edge of the sky, was shining especially beautifully. It had a bluish, sad kind of light. The titular counsellor’s knowledge concerning the heavenly bodies and constellations was scant: he could recognise only the two bears, Great and Small, and so the name of the spark of blue light was a mystery to him. Fandorin decided it could be called Sirius.
The vice-consul was in an equable and tranquil mood. What was done was done, he could not change anything now. The head of the inquiry had quite unceremoniously, with deliberate intent, affronted the Law: he had impeded the police in the performance of their duty and conspired in the escape of a man suspected of a serious crime against the state. If Semushi got away from Masa and Shirota, the only thing left for him to do would be to confess, and that would be followed by resignation in disgrace and, probably, a trial.
Once inside his deserted apartment, Erast Petrovich took off his frock coat and trousers and sat down in the drawing room in just his shirt. He didn’t turn the light on. After a little while he suddenly snapped his fingers, as if a good idea had just occurred to him, but the result of this enlightenment was strange: Fandorin simply put on his hairnet and hid his upper lip under a moustache cover, after first curling up the sides of his moustache with little tongs. God only knows why the young man did all this – he was clearly not preparing to go to bed, he didn’t even go into the bedroom.
For about half an hour the titular counsellor sat in the armchair without a single thought in his head, twirling an unlit cigar in his fingers. Then someone rang the doorbell.
Erast Petrovich nodded, as if that was exactly what he had been expecting. But he didn’t pull on his trousers; on the contrary, he took off his shirt.
The bell trilled again, louder this time. Without hurrying, the vice-consul slipped his arms into the sleeves of a silk dressing gown and tied the tasselled belt. He stood in front of the mirror and imitated a yawn. And only after that did he light the kerosene lamp and walk towards the hallway.
‘Asagawa, is that you?’ he asked in a sleepy voice when he saw the inspector outside the door. ‘What’s happened? I gave my servant leave, so I… Why are you j-just standing there?’
But the Japanese did not come in. He bowed abruptly and said in an unsteady voice:
‘There can be no forgiveness for me… My men have let Semushi get away. I… I have nothing to say to excuse myself.’
The light of the lamp fell on Asagawa’s miserable face. A lost face, thought Erast Petrovich, and he felt sorry for the inspector, for whom losing face before a foreigner must have been double torment. However, the situation required severity, otherwise Fandorin would have to launch into explanations and be forced to lie.
The vice-consul counted to twenty in his head and then, without saying a word, he slammed the door in the Japanese policeman’s face.
Now he could go into the bedroom. There wouldn’t be any news from Masa and Shirota before morning. It would be good to get a little sleep at least – tomorrow would probably be a hard day.
But his agitation had not completely subsided. Sensing that he wouldn’t be able to get to sleep straight away, Fandorin took the second volume of Goncharov’s The Frigate Pallada from the drawing room: it was the best possible bedtime reading.
The gas burner in the bedroom hissed, but did not ignite. Erast Petrovich was not surprised – gas lighting had reached Yokohama only recently, and the way it functioned was far from ideal. For occasions like this there was a candlestick beside the bed.
The young man found his way through the pitch darkness to the little table and felt for the matches.
The room was illuminated by a gentle, flickering light.
Fandorin dropped his dressing gown on the floor, turned round and cried out.
Lying there in the bed, with her elbow propped on the pillow, watching him with a still, shimmering gaze, was O-Yumi. Her dress, bodice and silk stockings were hanging over the footboard of the bed. The blanket had slipped down to expose her blindingly white shoulder.
The vision sat up, so that the blanket slipped down to her waist, a supple hand reached out for the candelabra and carried it to her lips – and once again it was dark.
Erast Petrovich almost groaned – he felt such piercing pain at the disappearance of the lovely apparition.
He cautiously reached out with one hand, afraid of discovering nothing but emptiness in the darkness. But what his fingers touched was hot, smooth, alive.
A husky voice said:
‘I thought you were never going to come in…’
The sheet rustled and gentle but surprisingly strong hands embraced Fandorin round the neck and pulled him forward…