It was getting stuffy in the office. Asagawa walked over to the window and stood beside the sergeant in order to take a breath of fresh air, but instead he choked on the ferocious tobacco fumes and started coughing. He waved his hand, scattering the cloud of smoke, and turned his back to the window.
‘Perhaps Fandorin-san is right. In any case, extra caution will do no harm. Let’s divide up the evidence, so that it is not all kept in the same place. Twigs-sensei will take the diagram – that is obvious. You are our only hope now, Doctor. For God’s sake, do not leave your house. No visits, no patients. Say that you are unwell.’
Twigs nodded solemnly and stroked his pocket – obviously that was where the crucial clue was.
‘I shall take the police reports, especially since three of them were written by me. That leaves the oaths for you, Sergeant.’
The American took the three sheets of paper covered with brown hieroglyphs and examined them curiously.
‘You can count on me. I’ll keep the papers with me, and I won’t set foot outside the station. I’ll even spend the night here.’
‘Excellent, that’s the best thing to do.’
‘And what will I get?’ asked Erast Petrovich.
‘You have custody of the only witness. That is quite enough.’
That left Fandorin feeling at a loss.
‘Gentlemen… I was about to ask you to take the prince off my hands. My domestic circumstances have changed somewhat, you see. I can’t possibly keep him now… I’ll exchange him for any of the clues. And please, as soon as possible.’
The inspector gave the vice-consul a curious glance, but he didn’t ask any questions.
‘All right, but it can’t be done in daylight – he’ll be seen. I tell you what. I know where we can accommodate the prince, there’s a good place that he won’t escape from. Tonight, just before dawn, bring him to pier number thirty-seven, it’s beside the Fujimi bridge.’
‘Th-thank you. And what if the doctor doesn’t manage to decipher the diagram? What then?’
The Japanese had an answer ready for this eventuality.
‘If the sensei does not decipher the diagram, we shall have to act in an unofficial manner. We shall give everything that we know, together with the material evidence and witnesses’ testimony, to one of the foreign newspapers. Only not a British one, of course. To the editors of L’Echo du Japon, for instance. The French will be absolutely delighted by a sensational story like this. Let Bullcox try to explain everything and demand a retraction. Then all the secrets will come out.’
On the way home Erast Petrovich’s eye was caught by the fashion shop ‘Madame Bкtise’ or, rather, by a huge advertising poster covered with roses and cupids: ‘The novelty of the Paris season! Fine and coarse fishnet stockings in all sizes, with moirй ties!’ The vice-consul blushed as he recalled a certain ankle. He went into the shop.
The Parisian stockings proved to be wonderfully fine, and on the aforementioned lower limb they ought to look absolutely breathtaking.
Fandorin choose half a dozen pairs: black, lilac, red, white, maroon and a colour called ‘Sunrise over the Sea’.
‘Which size would you like?’ the scented salesman asked.
The titular counsellor was on the brink of confusion – he hadn’t thought about the size, but the owner of the shop, Madame Bкtise herself, came to his assistance.
‘Henri, the monsieur requires size one. The very smallest,’ she cooed, examining the customer curiously (or at least, so it seemed to him).
Yes, indeed, the very smallest, Erast Petrovich realised, picturing O-Yumi’s tiny foot. But how did this woman know? Was it some kind of Parisian ninso?
The owner turned her face away slightly, still looking at Fandorin, then suddenly lowered her eyes and turned to look at the shelves of merchandise.
She made eyes at me, the titular counsellor deduced, and, even though he was not attracted to Madame Bкtise in the slightest, he squinted at himself in the mirror. And he found that, despite his rather exhausted appearance and creased suit, he was quite positively good-looking.
‘So glad to see you, do call more often, Monsieur Diplomat,’ a voice called from behind him on his way out.
He was surprised, but only very slightly. Yokahama was a small town. No doubt a tall young man with dark hair and blue eyes and a wonderfully curled moustache, who was always (well, almost always) impeccably dressed, had simply been noticed.
Although there was a fine rain falling (still the same kind, plum rain), Erast Petrovich was in a totally blissful state of mind. People walking towards him seemed to look at him with genuine interest and even, perhaps, gaze after him when he had walked by, the smell of the sea was wonderful and the sight of the ships at the anchorage was worthy of the brush of Mr Aivazovsky. The titular counsellor even tried to sing, something that he would not usually have allowed himself to do. The tune was distinctly bravura, the words entirely frivolous.
Yokohama, little town,
See me strolling up and down;
The town is really very small,
No need to take a cab at all.
But the little town of Yokohama was even smaller than Fandorin had imagined – as he was soon to discover.
No sooner had Erast Petrovich set foot in the yard of the consulate than someone called his name.
Doronin was loitering in the same window as on the recent previous occasion, but this time he did not turn away or show any signs of tact.
‘Mr Vice-Consul!’ he shouted in a menacing voice. ‘Please be so kind as to call into my office. Immediately, without going round to your apartment!’
And he disappeared, no doubt on his way to the office area.
Fandorin had never seen the highly cultured and restrained Vsevolod Vitalievich in such a fury.
‘I didn’t ask you about anything! I didn’t oblige you to attend the office! I put my trust in you!’ the consul seethed rather than shouted, goggling over his blue lenses with his inflamed eyes. ‘I assumed that you were occupied with state business, but it appears that you… you were engaged in amorous adventures! You burst into the house of the official representative of the British Empire! You abducted his mistress! You provoked an affray! Why are you so surprised? Yokohama is a small town. News, especially the spicy kind, spreads instantaneously here!’
The driver, thought Erast Petrovich. He blabbed to his comrades from ‘Archibald Griffin’ and they spread it round the town in no time at all. And Bullcox’s own servants, too. The kitchen telegraph was the fastest medium of communication.
‘Are you at least aware that Intendant Suga has committed suicide? How could you be! And I thought that… Ah, you heroic lover!’ The consul waved his hand despairingly. ‘All sorts of rumours are circulating. Suga didn’t shoot himself, he didn’t even commit hara-kiri. He chose an ancient, monstrously savage way of leaving this life, one that samurai used if they were captured or suffering severe guilt. Everyone is convinced that the intendant could not forgive himself for Okubo’s death, and his undeserved promotion was the final blow. He did not dare to disobey his monarch’s will, but felt that he had to expiate his guilt by accepting a martyr’s death… Well, why don’t you say something, Fandorin? Explain yourself, damn you! Say something!’
‘I shall speak tomorrow. But for now, please permit me to remind you of the promise that you made me, not to interfere in anything and not to ask any questions. If I fail, I shall answer for everything at once. I have no time to explain now.’
It was well said, with restraint and dignity, but it failed to produce the desired effect.
‘That is quite obvious,’ the consul hissed, looking not into the other man’s eyes, but down and to one side. He waved his hand, this time in disgust, and walked out.