‘I won’t say a thing,’ he blurted out sullenly. ‘Disgrace may be unpleasant, but my life means more to me… Your agent got things confused. I don’t know anything of the sort about Intendant Suga.’
And after that he stuck to his guns. Threats of scandal had no effect on him. Onokoji simply kept repeating his demand for the Tokyo police to be informed of the arrest of a member of the higher nobility, a first cousin of four generals and two ministers, a schoolfellow of two Imperial Highnesses, and so on, and so forth.
‘Japan will not allow the Prince Onokoji to be held in a foreign lock-up,’ he declared in conclusion.
Is he right? was the question in Fandorin’s glance at the inspector. Asagawa nodded.
Then what can we do?
‘Tell me, Sergeant, I expect you are probably very busy with correspondence, reports and all sorts of documents?’ Asagawa asked.
‘No, not really,’ answered Lockston, surprised.
‘Oh, come now,’ the inspector insisted. ‘You are responsible for the entire Settlement. Citizens of fifteen different states live here, there are so many ships in the port, and you have only one pair of hands.’
‘That’s true,’ the sergeant admitted, trying to understand what the Japanese was driving at.
‘I know that under the law you are obliged to inform us of the arrest of a Japanese subject within twenty-four hours, but you might not be able to meet that deadline.’
‘Probably not. I’ll need two or three days. Maybe even four,’ said the American, starting to play along.
‘So, I’ll receive official notification from you in about four days. I’m very busy as well. Not enough staff, I’m barely keeping up. It could be another three days before I can report to the department.’
Onokoji listened to this conversation with increasing alarm.
‘But listen, Inspector!’ he exclaimed. ‘You’re already here! You know that I have been arrested by foreigners.’
‘It’s not a matter of what I know. I have to be informed about this officially, according to the prescribed procedure,’ said Asagawa, raising one finger in admonishment.
The titular counsellor had absolutely no idea what this strange manoeuvre signified, but he did notice the prisoner’s face twitch in a strange way.
‘Hey, Orderly!’ the sergeant shouted. ‘Put this one in a cell. And send to the brothel for his clothes.’
‘Where will dragging things out like this get us?’ Fandorin asked in a low voice when the prince had been led away.
Asagawa didn’t answer, he just smiled.
Once again it was night. And once again Erast Petrovich was not sleeping. He wasn’t tormented by insomnia, it was as if sleep had ceased to exist, as if the need for it had fallen away. Or perhaps it was all because the titular counsellor was not simply lying in bed – he was listening. He had left the door into the corridor open, and several times he thought he heard the porch creak gently under light footsteps, as if someone was standing there in the darkness, unable to make up their mind to knock. Once, unable to bear it any longer, Fandorin got up, walked through quickly into the hallway and jerked the door open. Naturally, there was nobody on the porch.
When the knock finally did come, it was loud and abrupt. O-Yumi could not possibly knock like that, so Erast Petrovich’s heart did not skip a beat. He lowered his feet off the bed and started pulling on his boots. Masa was already leading his nocturnal visitor along the corridor.
The visitor was a constable from the municipal police: the sergeant requested that Mr Vice-Consul come to the station urgently.
Fandorin walked rapidly along the dark Bund, tapping with his cane. Masa plodded along behind, yawning. It was pointless trying to argue with him.
Fandorin’s servant did not go into the police station. He sat on the steps, hung his short-cropped head and drifted into a doze.
‘The Jap’s got convulsions,’ Lockston told the vice-consul. ‘He’s yelling and banging his head against the wall. Has he got epilepsy, then? I told them to tie him up, to stop him harming himself. I sent for you, Asagawa and Dr Twigs. The doc’s already here, the inspector hasn’t arrived yet.’
Soon Asagawa showed up too. He listened to the sergeant’s story without any sign of surprise.
‘So soon?’ he said, but still didn’t explain anything. The inspector’s strange composure and the meaning of the ‘manoeuvre’ were explained when Dr Twigs entered the room.
‘Good evening, gentlemen,’ he said, greeting the titular counsellor and the inspector. ‘It’s not epilepsy. It’s a perfectly ordinary withdrawal syndrome. Hence the convulsions. This man is an inveterate morphine addict. The veins on his arms are covered in needle marks. And of course, there are the consequences of a hysterical personality and a weak character, but, generally speaking, at that stage a man can’t manage without another dose for more than twelve hours.’
‘Didn’t I tell you, Fandorin-san, that the prince is given to every possible vice that exists,’ Asagawa remarked. ‘He’ll start singing a different tune for us now. Let’s go.’
The cell was a recess in the wall of the corridor, fenced off with thick iron bars.
Onokoji was sitting on a wooden bunk with his hands and his feet tied. He was shaking violently and his teeth were chattering.
‘Doctor, give me a shot!’ he shouted. ‘I’m dying! I feel terrible!’
Twigs glanced enquiringly at the others.
Lockston chewed imperturbably on his cigar. Asagawa surveyed the sick man with a satisfied air. Only the vice-consul was clearly ill at ease.
‘Never mind,’ said the sergeant. ‘You’ll get out in week or so, you can stick yourself then.’
The prince howled and doubled over.
‘This is torture,’ Fandorin said in a low voice. ‘Say what you will, gentlemen, but I do not wish to obtain information by such methods.’
The inspector shrugged.
‘How are we torturing him? He is torturing himself. I don’t know how things are in your countries, but in Japanese jails we don’t give prisoners narcotics. Perhaps the municipal police have different rules? Do you keep morphine to ease the suffering of morphine addicts?’
‘Like hell we do,’ said Lockston, shaking his head in admiration. ‘Well, Go, you old son of a gun. I could learn a thing or two from you.’
On this occasion Goemon Asagawa did not protest about the American’s familiarity, he just smiled at the flattery.
‘This is a genuine discovery!’ the sergeant continued, waxing more and more enthusiastic. ‘Think of the prospects this opens up for police work! What do you do if a criminal clams up and refuses to inform on his accomplices? They used to stretch him on the rack, burn him with red-hot tongs and all the rest of it. But, firstly, that’s uncivilised. And secondly, there are some tough nuts you can’t crack with any torture. But with this – away you go. All very cultured and scientific! Get a stubborn character like that hooked on morphine and then – bang – stop giving him any. He’ll be only too delighted to tell you everything. Listen, Go, I’ll write an article about this for the Police Gazette. Of course, I’ll mention your name. Only the idea is mine, after all. You came across it by chance, but I invented the method. You wouldn’t dispute that, would you, my friend?’ Lockston asked anxiously.
‘I wouldn’t, Walter, I wouldn’t. You don’t even need to mention me at all.’ The inspector walked over to the bars and looked at the sobbing prince. ‘Tell me, Doctor, could you find an ampoule of morphine and a syringe in that bag of yours?’
‘Of course.’
Onokoji straightened up, gazing at Asagawi imploringly.
‘Well, Your Excellency, shall we have a talk?’ the inspector asked him cordially.
The prisoner nodded, licking his purple lips.