But there was no time to contemplate this scene of destruction. The titular counsellor vaulted over the windowsill and overtook the bison-like sergeant in a few rapid bounds. He shouted:
‘What caused the fire?’
‘He’ll get away!’ Lockston growled instead of answering. ‘Let’s cut through the Star.’
The fugitive had already disappeared round a corner.
‘He came in! Into my office! He bowed!’ Lockston yelled, bursting in through the back door of the Star saloon. ‘Then suddenly there was this egg! He smashed it on the table! Smoke and flames!’
‘What do you mean, an egg?’ Fandorin yelled back.
‘I don’t know! There was a pillar of flame! And he threw himself backwards out the window! Damned ape!’
That explained the part about the ape, but Fandorin still didn’t understand about the fiery egg. The pursuers dashed though the dark little saloon and out on to the sun-drenched Bund. They glimpsed the straw hat about twenty strides ahead, manoeuvring between the passers-by with incredible agility. The ‘ape’ was rapidly pulling away from the pursuit.
‘It’s him!’ Erast Petrovich gasped, peering at the low, skinny figure. ‘I’m sure it’s him!’
A constable on duty outside a money-changing shop was cradling a short rifle in the crook of his arm.
‘What are you gawping at?’ Lockston barked. ‘Catch him!’
The constable shot off so eagerly that he overtook his boss and the vice-consul, but even he couldn’t overhaul the criminal.
The running man swerved off the promenade into an empty alley and leapt across the little bridge over the canal in a single bound. A respectable clientele was sitting under the striped awning of Le Café Parisien there. A long lanky figure jumped up from one of the tables – Lancelot Twigs.
‘Gentlemen, what’s the matter?’
Lockston just waved a hand at him. The doctor dashed after the members of the investigative group, shouting:
‘But what’s happened? Who are you chasing?’
The fugitive had built up a lead of a good fifty paces, and the distance was increasing. He raced along the opposite side of the canal without looking back even once.
‘He’ll get away!’ the constable groaned. ‘That’s the native town, a genuine maze!’
He snatched a revolver out of its holster, but didn’t fire – it was a bit too far for a Colt.
‘Give me that!’
The police chief tore the carbine out of the constable’s hands, set his cheek against the butt, swung the barrel into line with the nimble fugitive and fired.
The straw hat went flying in one direction and its owner in the other. He fell, rolled over several times and stayed lying there with his arms flung out.
The people in the café started clamouring and jumping up off their chairs.
‘Right then. Phew!’ said Lockston, wiping the sweat off his face with his sleeve. ‘You’re witnesses, gentlemen. If I hadn’t fired, the criminal would have got away.’
‘An excellent shot!’ Twigs exclaimed with the air of a connoisseur.
They walked across the bridge without hurrying: the victorious sergeant with his smoking carbine at the front, followed by Fandorin and the doctor, and then the constable, with the idle public at a respectful distance.
‘If you’ve k-killed him outright, we’ll have no leads,’ Erast Petrovich said anxiously. ‘And we don’t have the fingerprints any more.’
The American shrugged.
‘What do we need them for, if we have the one who made them? I was aiming for his back. Maybe he’s alive?’
This suggestion was immediately confirmed, and in a most unexpected manner.
The man on the ground jumped to his feet as if nothing had happened and darted off along the canal at the same fast pace as before.
The public gasped. Lockston started blinking.
‘Damn me! Ain’t he a lively one!’
He raised the carbine again, but it wasn’t a new-fangled Winchester, only a single-shot Italian Vetterli. The sergeant threw the useless weapon to the constable with a curse and pulled out a Colt.
‘Here, let me!’ the doctor said eagerly. ‘You won’t hit him!’ He almost grabbed the revolver out of Lockston’s hands, then stood in the picturesque pose of a man fighting a duel and closed one eye. A shot rang out.
The fugitive fell again, this time face down.
Some people in the crowd applauded. Lockston stood there scratching his chin while his subordinate reloaded the carbine. Fandorin was the only one who ran forward.
‘Don’t be in such a hurry!’ Twigs called to stop him, and explained coolly: ‘He’s not going anywhere now. I broke his spine at the waist. Cruel, of course, but if he’s a student of those shinobi, the only way to take him alive is to paralyse him. Take your Colt, Walter. And thank the gods that at this time of the day I always take tea at the Parisien. Otherwise there’s no way…’
‘Look!’ Fandorin exclaimed.
The fallen man got up on all fours, then stood up, shook himself like a wet dog and dashed on, leaping along with huge steps.
This time no one gasped or yelled – everyone gaped in silent bewilderment.
Lockston opened fire with his revolver, but kept missing, and the doctor grabbed at his arm, trying to get him to hand over the weapon again – they had both forgotten about the second revolver on the sergeant’s belt.
Erast Petrovich quickly estimated the distance (about seventy paces, and the grey hovels of the native town were no more than a hundred away) and turned to the constable.
‘Have you loaded it? Give it to me.’
He took aim according to all the rules of marksmanship. He held his breath and aligned the sight. He made only a slight adjustment for movement – the shot was almost straight in line with the running man. One bullet, he mustn’t miss.
The enchanted fugitive’s legs were twinkling rapidly. No higher than the knees, or you might kill him, the titular counsellor told the bullet, and pressed the trigger.
Got him! The figure in the kimono fell for the third time. Only this time the pursuers didn’t stand still, they dashed forward as fast as they could.
They could see the wounded man moving, trying to get up. Then he did get up and hopped on one leg, but lost his balance and collapsed. He crept towards the water, leaving a trail of blood.
The most incredible thing of all was that he still didn’t look round even once.
When they were only about twenty paces away from the wounded man, he stopped crawling – clearly he had realised that he wouldn’t get away. He made a rapid movement – and a narrow blade glinted in the sun.
‘Quick! He’s going to cut his throat!’ the doctor shouted.
But that wasn’t what the shinobi did. He ran the blade rapidly round his face, as if he wanted to set it in an oval frame. Then he grabbed at his chin with his left hand, tugged with a dull growl – and a limp rag went flying through the air, landing at Erast Petrovich’s feet. Fandorin almost stumbled when he realised what it was – the skin of a face, trimmed and torn off; red on one side, with the other side looking like mandarin peel.
And then the man finally turned round.
In his short life, Erast Petrovich had seen many terrible things; some visions from his past still woke him at night in a cold sweat. But nothing on earth could have been more nightmarish than that crimson mask with its white circles of eyes and the grinning teeth.
‘Kongojyo!’ the lipless mouth said quietly but distinctly, opening wider and wider.
The hand with the bloody knife crept slowly up to the throat.
Only then did Fandorin think to squeeze his eyes shut. And he stood like that until the fit of nausea and dizziness passed off.