The titular counsellor and the sergeant exchanged glances. The former with a baffled frown, the latter with a smirk.
They walked underground, into a long cellar illuminated by oil lamps. Targets and boxes of empty shell cases indicated that this was the firing range. Fandorin’s attention was drawn to three straw figures the height of a man. They were dressed in kimonos, with bamboo swords in their hands.
‘I most humbly request the respected vice-consul to listen to my plan,’ said Asagawa. He turned up the wicks in the lamps and the basement became lighter. ‘At my request, Vice-Intendant Suga has sent me two men who are good shots with a revolver. I tested them on these models, neither of them ever miss. We will allow the Satsumans to enter the godaun. Then we will arrive to arrest them. Only four men. One will pretend to be an officer, the other three ordinary patrolmen. If there were more, the Satsumans really might commit suicide, but in this case they will decide that they can easily deal with such a small group. They will take out their swords, and then the “officer” will drop to the floor – he has already played his part. The three “patrolmen” (they are the two men from Tokyo and myself) take their revolvers out from under their cloaks and open fire. We will fire at their arms. In that way, firstly, we will take the miscreants armed and, secondly, ensure that they cannot escape justice.’
The American nudged Erast Petrovich in the side with his elbow.
‘Hear that, Rusty? They’re going to fire at the arms. It’s not all that easy, Mr Go. Everyone knows what kind of marksmen the Japanese make! Maybe the plan’s OK, but you’re not the ones who should go.’
‘Who, then, if you will permit me to ask? And permit me to remind you that my name is Goemon.’
‘OK, OK, so it’s Gouemon. Who’s going to go and aerate those yellow-… those Satsumans? In the first place, of course, me. Tell me, Rusty, are you a good shot?’
‘Fairly good,’ Erast Petrovich replied modestly – he could plant all bullets in the cylinder on top of each other. ‘Naturally, from a long-barrelled weapon and with a firm support.’
‘Excellent. And we know all about you, Doc – you shoot the way you handle a scalpel. Of course, you’re an outsider and you’re not obliged to perform in our show, but if you’re not afraid.’
‘No, no,’ said Twigs, brightening up. ‘You know, I’m not at all afraid of shooting now. Hitting the target is much easier than sewing up a muscle neatly or putting in stitches.’
‘Attaboy, Lance! There you have your three “patrolmen”, Go. I’ll dress Rusty and Lens up in uniforms and we’ll be like three thick-headed municipal policemen. OK, so we’ll take you as the fourth – supposedly as our interpreter. You can make idle chat with us and then drop to the ground, and we’ll do the rest. Right, guys?’
‘Of course!’ the doctor exclaimed enthusiastically, very pleased at the prospect of being included.
Erast Petrovich thought how once a man had held a gun in his hand, even a man of the most peaceable of professions, he could never forget that sensation. And he would be eager to feel it again.
‘Pardon me for being so meticulous, but may I see how well you shoot, gentlemen?’ Asagawa asked. ‘I would not dare, of course, to doubt your word, but this is such an important operation and I am responsible for it, both to the vice-intendant and the minister himself.’
Twigs rubbed his hands together.
‘Well, as for me, I’ll be glad to show you. Will you be so good as to loan me one of your remarkable Colts, sir?’
The sergeant handed him a revolver. The doctor took off his frock coat, exposing his waistcoat. He wiggled the fingers of his right handle slightly, grasped the handle of the gun, took careful aim and his first shot broke one of the straw figure’s wrists – the bamboo sword fell to the floor.
‘Bravo, Lance!’
Twigs gagged at the powerful slap on his back. But the inspector shook his head.
‘Sensei, with all due respect… The bandits will not stand and wait while you take aim. This is not a European duel with pistols. You have to fire very, very quickly, and also take into account that your opponent will be moving at that moment.’
The Japanese pressed some kind of lever with his foot and the figures started rotating on their wooden base, like a carousel.
Lancelot Twigs batted his eyelids and lowered the revolver.
‘No… I never learned to do that… I can’t.’
‘Let me try!’
The sergeant moved the doctor aside. He stood with his feet wide apart, squatted down slightly, grabbed his Colt out of the holster and fired off four shots one after the other. One of the straw figures flopped off the stand and clumps of straw went flying in all directions.
Asagawa walked over and bent down.
‘Four holes, two in the chest, two in the stomach.’
‘What did you expect! Walter Lockston never misses.’
‘It won’t do,’ said the Japanese, straightening up. ‘We need them alive. We have to fire at their arms.’
‘Aha, you try it! It’s not as easy as it sounds!’
‘I’ll try it now. Would you mind spinning the turntable? Only, as fast as possible, please. And you, Mr Vice-Consul, give the command.’
The sergeant set the figures whirling so fast that they were just a blur.
Asagawa stood there, holding his hand in his pocket.
‘Fire!’ shouted Fandorin, and before he had even finished pronouncing this short word, the first shot rang out.
The inspector fired without taking aim, from the hip. Both figures stayed where they were.
‘Aha!’ Lockston howled triumphantly. ‘Missed!’
He stopped swaying the lever with his foot, the figures slowed down, and it became clear that the hand in which one of them was holding its sword had twisted slightly.
The doctor walked over and bent down.
‘Right in the tendon. With a wound like that, a man couldn’t even hold a pencil.’
The sergeant’s jaw dropped.
‘Damnation, Go! Where in hell did you learn to do that?’
‘Yes, indeed,’ Fandorin put in. ‘I’ve never seen anything like it, not even in the Italian circus, when the bullet maestro shot a nut off his own daughter’s head.’
Asagawa lowered his eyes modestly.
‘You could call it the “Japanese circus”,’ he said. ‘All I have done is combine two of our ancient arts: battojutsu and inu-omono. The first is…’
‘I know, I know!’ Erast Petrovich interrupted excitedly. ‘It’s the art of drawing a sword from its scabbard at lightning speed. It can be learned! But what is inu-omono?’
‘The art of shooting at running dogs from a bow,’ the miracle marksman replied, and the titular counsellor’s enthusiasm wilted – this was too high a price to pay for miraculous marksmanship.
‘Tell me, Asagawa-san,’ said Fandorin, ‘are you sure that your other two men fire as well as that?’
‘Far better. That is why my target is the man with the withered arm, one well-placed bullet will be enough for him. But no doubt Mr Vice-Consul also wishes to demonstrate his skill. I’ll just order the targets’ arms to be reattached.’
Erast Petrovich merely sighed.
‘Th-thank you. But I can see the Japanese police will conduct this operation in excellent fashion without involving us.’
However, there was no operation; once again the net that had been cast remained without a catch. The Satsumans did not return to the godaun, either in the daytime, the evening twilight or the darkness of night.
When the surrounding hills turned pink in the rays of the rising sun, Fandorin told the downcast inspector:
‘They won’t come now.’
‘But it can’t be! A samurai would never abandon his katana!’
By the end of the night there was almost nothing left of the inspector’s derisive confidence. He turned paler and paler and the corners of his mouth twitched nervously – it was clear that he was struggling to maintain the remnants of his self-control.