‘All patched and sewn up, looking fine,’ the doctor announced. ‘That will be a guinea and two shillings, Mr Fandorin. And another six pence for a place in the morgue. Ice is expensive in Yokohama.’
When Shirota left to fetch a cart to transport the body, Twigs took hold of one of Erast Petrovich’s buttons with his finger and thumb and said with a mysterious air:
‘I was just thinking about that thumbprint and the little red spot… Tell me, Mr Vice-Consul, have you ever heard of the art of dim-mak?’
‘I b-beg your pardon?’
‘You have not,’ the doctor concluded. ‘And that is not surprising. Not much is known about dim-mak. Possibly it is all a load of cock and bull…’
‘But what is “dim-mak”?’
‘The Chinese art of deferred killing.’
Erast Petrovich shuddered and looked hard at Twigs to see whether he was joking.
‘What does that mean?’
‘I don’t know the details, but I have read that there are people who can kill and heal with a single touch. Supposedly they are able to concentrate a certain energy into some kind of ray and affect certain points of the body with it. You have heard of acupuncture?’
‘Yes, I have.’
‘Dim-mak would seem to operate with the same anatomical principles, but instead of a needle, it uses a simple touch. I have read that those who have mastered this mysterious art can cause a fit of sharp pain or, on the contrary, render a man completely insensitive to pain, or temporarily paralyse him, or put him to sleep, or kill him… And moreover, not necessarily at the moment of contact, but after a delay.’
‘I don’t understand what you’re talking about!’ exclaimed Fandorin, who was listening to the doctor with increasing bewilderment.
‘I don’t understand it myself. It sounds like a fairy tale… But I recalled a story I once read, about a master of dim-mak who struck himself on a certain point and fell down dead. He wasn’t breathing and his heart wasn’t beating. His enemies threw him to the dogs to be eaten, but after a while he woke up alive and well. And there’s another story I’ve read, about a certain Chinese ruler who was kissed on the foot by a beggar. Some time later a pink spot appeared at the sight of the kiss, and a few hours after that, the king suddenly fell down dead… Damn it!’ the doctor exclaimed in embarrassment. ‘I’m getting like those blockheaded journalists who make up all sorts of wild tales about the East. It’s just that while I was sewing our friend up, I kept thinking about the mark on his neck, so I remembered…’
It was hard to imagine that a staid, sedate individual like Dr Twigs could have decided to play a hoax on anyone, but it was also hard for a convinced rationalist, such as Erast Petrovich considered himself to be, to believe in deferred killing.
‘Mm, yes,’ the titular counsellor said eventually. ‘In the East, of course, there are many phenomena still unstudied by European science…’
And on that polite comment the mystical conversation came to an end.
They said goodbye to Twigs in the street. The doctor got into a riksha, raised his hat and rode away. Two locals laid the poor captain’s body, wrapped in a sheet, on a cart.
Erast Petrovich, Shirota and the sobbing Sophia Diogenovna set out on foot to the consulate, because Fandorin refused once again to ‘use human beings as horses’, and the clerk and the young lady also did not wish to ride in style, since the titular counsellor was travelling on his own two feet.
At the very first street lamp, there was a surprise waiting for the vice-consul.
The chubby-faced Yakuza, whom Erast Petrovich had already completely forgotten, loomed up out of the darkness.
He froze in a low bow, with his arms pressed to his sides,. Then he straightened up and fixed his benefactor with a severe, unblinking gaze.
‘I hopped as far as the river,’ Shirota translated, gazing at the bandit with obvious approval. ‘What other orders will there be, Master?’
‘How sick I am of him!’ Fandorin complained. ‘Now I wish that they had put that brand on his forehead! Listen, Shirota, am I never going to get rid of him now?’
The clerk looked carefully into the stubborn fellow’s eyes.
‘He is a man of his word. The only way is to tell him to put an end to his own life.’
‘Lord above! All right. At least get him to tell me what his n-name is.’
Shirota translated the reply from the former soldier of the Chobei-gumi gang:
‘His name is Masahiro Sibata, but you can call him simply Masa.’
Erast Petrovich glanced round at a squeak of wheels and doffed his top hat – it was the carters pushing along the cart on which the ‘perfectly healthy corpse’ had set off to the morgue after the doctor. Lying at its head were a pair of low boots and neatly folded clothing.
Vain fuss all around,
only he is at repose,
who has joined Buddha
SPARKS OF LIGHT ON A KATANA BLADE
‘Three samurai? Swords wrapped in rags. They called Okubo “a dog”? This could be very, very serious!’ Doronin said anxiously. ‘Everything about it is suspicious, and especially the fact that they used the launch. It’s the best way of getting right into the heart of the city, bypassing the road posts and the toll gates.’
Erast Petrovich had caught Vsevolod Vitalievich at home, in the left wing of the consulate. Doronin had already returned from the opening of the charitable establishment and the supper that had followed it, and he was getting changed for the Bachelors’ Ball. The consul’s gold-embroidered uniform was hanging over a chair and a plump Japanese maid was helping him into his dinner jacket.
Fandorin was very much taken by his superior’s apartment: with its furnishings of light rattan, it was very successful in combining Russianness with Japanese exoticism. For instance, on a small table in the corner there was a gleaming, fat-sided samovar, and through the glass doors of a cupboard, carafes of various colours could be seen, containing liqueurs and flavoured vodkas, but the pictures and scrolls on the walls were exclusively local in origin, and the place of honour was occupied by a stand with two samurai swords, while through an open door there was a view of an entirely Japanese room – that is, with no furniture at all and straw flooring.
The hazy circumstances of Blagolepov’s death interested Vsevolod Vitalievich far less than his three nocturnal passengers. This reaction actually seemed rather extreme to Fandorin at first, but Doronin explained the reason for his alarm.
‘It is no secret that the minister has many enemies, especially among the southern samurai. In Japan attempts at political assassinations are almost as frequent as in Russia. At home, of course, the dignitaries are killed by revolutionaries, and here by reactionaries, but that makes little difference to the case – society and the state suffer equally serious damage from leftist zealots as from rightist ones. Okubo is a key figure in Japanese politics. If the fanatics can get to him, the entire direction, the entire orientation, of the empire will change, in a way that is highly dangerous for Russia. You see, Fandorin, Minister Okubo is a protagonist of evolution, the gradual development of the internal forces of the country under strict governmental control. He is an animal trainer who cracks his whip and does not allow the tiger to break out of its cage. The tiger is the ancestral, deep-rooted militancy of the aristocracy here, and the cage is the Japanese archipelago. What was it that tore the notorious triumvirate of the three Japanese Corsicans apart? The question of war. The mighty party that was led by our Shirota’s favourite hero, Marshal Saigo, wanted to conquer Korea immediately. The reason why Okubo gained the upper hand over all his opponents at that time was that he is cleverer and more cunning. But if he is killed, power will inevitably go to those who support rapid development based on expansion, the poets of the great Japanese Empire of Yamato. Although, God knows, there are already too many empires in the world – any minute now they will all start wrangling with each other and sinking their steel talons into each other’s fur…’