And then the lieutenant captain struck the final blow.
‘Hmm. And are you aware, gentlemen, that a few days ago the late, lamented Suga won a quite superb estate from Tsurumaki at cards? The Austrian ambassador told me about it – the game took place at his villa. Is this information of any assistance to you?’
It was remarkable how the naval agent’s attitude had changed following the mention of a duel. Instead of arrogance, his prevalent tone was now one of statesmanlike concern for the interests of the Fatherland.
Oh yes, the news communicated by Bukhartsev was very significant indeed. Erast Petrovich clutched his head in his hands and groaned.
Asagawa had been going to find out exactly who had ‘lost’ the estate to the intendant, only the self-appointed sleuths had got too carried away with their game of cops and robbers. And yet the puzzle had really been perfectly simple all along.
How many disastrous, unforgivable errors they had made!
Now there was not a scrap of evidence left. All three clues had been destroyed. The only witness who knew a lot and was willing to talk had been killed.
Intendant Suga would be buried with full honours. His party would remain in power.
And the secret room behind the police chief’s office? Its existence would prove nothing. All it contained was a heap of torn scraps of paper. And Asagawa had made sure to tear the compromising documents into such tiny scraps that they could never be glued back together.
‘We have only one trump card left,’ the vice-consul declared. ‘The Don does not know that we know about him.’
‘Not a very strong trump,’ Vsevolod Vitalievich said with a shrug. ‘And how do we play it?’
Erast Petrovich rubbed his temple and said in a low voice:
‘There is one way. It is very risky, of course, but I would try it…’
‘I don’t wish to know anything about it!’ the lieutenant captain interrupted hastily, even pretending to put his hands over his ears. ‘No details. You created this mess – you can sort it out. You really have nothing to lose. All I can do is delay my report for twenty-four hours. But know this, Fandorin: I shall send that document, not to our genial and benign ambassador, but directly to St Petersburg. Well then, messieurs consuls, you have exactly twenty-four hours. Either you present me with a scapegoat on to whom we can shift the blame for everything that has happened or… don’t hold me responsible for the consequences.’ Mstislav Nikolaevich paused significantly and addressed Fandorin directly. ‘Only remember this: no duels with Bullcox!’
‘But how can I refuse? It’s d-dishonourable!’
‘I can’t even tell what would be the greater disaster, with Russo-British relations in their present overheated state: if you kill Bullcox or if he kills you.’ Mstislav Nikolaevich pondered for a moment, but then shrugged. ‘No, it’s out of the question. When what’s at stake is the honour of the entire country, Fandorin, one must be willing to sacrifice one’s personal honour.’
The titular counsellor glowered at the naval agent.
‘Personal honour, Lieutenant Captain, must not be sacrificed for any motives whatever.’
And once again, faced with a rebuff, Bukhartsev softened his tone, abandoning high principle for hearty sincerity.
‘Oh, please, drop that, Erast Petrovich. What are all our petty vanities and ambitions in the face of History? And that is precisely what you and I are dealing with here. We stand in the front line of the whole of European culture. Oh, yes, don’t be so surprised. I have been thinking about this a lot just recently. The other day I argued with you, Vsevolod Vitalievich, and I laughed at the Japanese military threat. But I had a good think about it afterwards, and I admit that you were right, a hundred times right. Only we need to take a broader view. It’s not just a matter of little Japan. Soon a new Genghis Khan will advance against Europe. The giant of China will begin to stir, preparing to awaken. When that yellow wave rises, its crest will reach up to the heavens, drawing all the Koreas and Mongolias after it, and perched high on its foaming peak will be an impudent little island empire with a predatory nobility and an avaricious nouveau riche bourgeoisie!’ Mstislav Nikolaevich’s voice resounded prophetically, his eyes glowed with fire – the lieutenant captain was no doubt already picturing himself pronouncing this speech to the supreme statesmen of the empire. ‘The New Mongolism or the Yellow Peril – that is what I shall call it. Millions upon millions of ferocious, yellow-faced Asians with slanty eyes and bandy legs will flood into the peaceful expanses of the Old World in that unstoppable wave. And once again we, the Slavs, will find ourselves in the path of this Chinese giant with a Japanese head… That is what you should be thinking about, Erast Petrovich, not your lordly personal honour.’
Having delivered this supremely worthy speech in a superlative tone of comradely reproach, the lieutenant captain left without adding anything more, in order not to spoil the effect. He simply got up, nodded in military style, pronounced a single word (‘Gentlemen’) and proceeded to the door.
Doronin stood up but didn’t move from the spot.
‘Shirota will see you out,’ he said quietly.
And a little later, when the agent was already outside the gates, he added with feeling:
‘Why, the scoundrrrel! And he was lying anyway. He won’t wait for any twenty-four hours. He’ll scribble out his telltale tittle-tattle right now, in the train. Then he’ll send it directly to the ministry, with a copy to the Third Section. And to prevent it looking like any ordinary denunciation, he’ll put in all that gibberish about the Yellow Peril that he just rehearsed in front of us. And the most sickening thing of all is that everyone in St Petersburg will be most favourably impressed.’ The consul lowered himself wearily into an armchair. ‘They’ll shove me into retirement, at the very least… Well, to hell with my career, I can live without it. But I won’t go back to Russia. I’ll have myself naturalised and become Japanese, eh? What do you think of that idea?’ And he laughed, as if making it clear that he was, of course, joking.
The titular counsellor had no thoughts at all on that count; there were already plenty of other problems for his poor, broken head to puzzle over.
‘So the main akunin in this business is Don Tsurumaki?’ he muttered, as if to himself.
‘What did you say? Akunin?’
‘Why, yes, the villain of the piece. It has been explained to me that Japanese villains are a special kind, unlike any others. That is, of course, they are appalling monsters too, but with p-principles and a certain nobility about them. Or something of that kind.’
Vsevolod Vitalievich chuckled.
‘Japan, a country of noble villains? Perhaps. Tsurumaki at least is a classic akunin.’
‘I’m not so sure… you see, I know the man quite well.’ Fandorin did not go into the details. ‘He… he doesn’t seem like a sly schemer. And then, should we put so much faith in the testimony of a dying man? I made that mistake once already by believing Suga. And now it’s clear that in his final moments of life the only thing on his mind was how to send us off on a false trail.’
‘Onokoji is not Suga. The intendant was a strong, resilient individual who was not afraid of death. But your effete Japanese decadent does not fit into the category of akunin at all.’
They fell silent, this time both thinking about the same thing.
Unable to come up with any ideas, the consul looked at his assistant, who kept clutching at his temple.
‘You said that you saw some risky way of doing something, but what exactly?’
‘Proving Don Tsurumaki’s cunning villainy to ourselves. Or his innocence.’
‘But how do we do that?’