‘Unlikely. The Americans, of course, behave more intelligently than the European monarchies, but they lack patience. Their roots are Western too, and in the West they place too much importance on time. But in fact, time does not even exist, there is no “tomorrow”, only an eternal “now”. The unification of the world is a slow business, but then, what’s all the hurry? There won’t be any United States of the Earth, there’ll be one Celestial Empire, and then the hour of universal harmony will arrive. Thank God that you and I shall never see that heaven on earth.’
And on that melancholy note the conversation about the future of mankind broke off – the carriage had stopped at the station.
The following morning Vice-Consul Fandorin took up his routine work: compiling a register of Russian ships due to arrive in the port of Yokohama in June and July 1878.
Erast Petrovich scribbled the heading of this boring document in slapdash style (the spinster Blagolepova would type it out again later anyway), but that was as far as the work got. The window of the small office located on the first floor presented a glorious view of the consulate garden, the lively Bund and the harbour roadstead. The titular counsellor was in a sour mood, and his thoughts drifted aimlessly. Propping one cheek on his fist, he started watching the people walking by and the carriages driving along the promenade.
And he saw a sight worth seeing.
Algernon Bullcox’s lacquered carriage drove past, moving in the direction of the Bluff. Russia’s perfidious enemy and his concubine were perched beside each other on the leather seat like two turtle doves. And, moreover, O-Yumi was holding the Englishman’s arm and whispering something in his ear and the Right Honourable was smiling unctuously.
The immoral kept woman did not even glance in the direction of the Russian consulate.
Despite the distance, with his sharp eyes Erast Petrovich could make out a small lock of hair fluttering behind her ear, and then the wind brought the scent of irises from the garden…
The pencil crunched in his strong hand, snapped in half.
What was she whispering to him, why were they laughing? And at whom? Could it be at him?
Life is cruel, essentially meaningless and infinitely humiliating, Erast Petrovich thought morosely, glancing at the sheet of paper waiting for the register of shipping. All of life’s charms, delights and enticements existed only in order to melt a man’s heart, to get him to roll over on to his back, waving all four paws trustingly in the air and exposing his defenceless underbelly. And life wouldn’t miss her chance – she’d strike a blow that would send you scuttling away howling, with your tail tucked between your legs.
So what was the conclusion?
It was this: never give way to tender feelings, always remain on your guard, with all weapons at the ready. If you see the finger of fate beckoning, then bite the damn thing off, and the entire hand too, if you can manage it.
With a serious effort of will, the vice-consul forced himself to concentrate on tonnages, itineraries and captains’ names.
The empty columns gradually filled up. The Big Ben grandfather clock ticked quietly in the corner.
And at six o’clock in the evening, at the end of the office day, Erast Fandorin, feeling weary and gloomy, went downstairs to his apartment to eat the dinner that Masa had prepared.
None of it ever happened, Erast Petrovich told himself, chewing in disgust on the gooey rice that stuck to his teeth. There never was any lasso clutched in his hand, or any hot pulsing of blood, or any scent of irises. Especially the scent of irises. It was all a monstrous delusion that had nothing at all to do with real life. What did exist was clear, simple, necessary work. And there was also breakfast, lunch and dinner. There was sunrise and sunset. Rule, routine and procedure – and no chaos. Chaos had disappeared, it would not come back again. And thank God for that.
At that point the door creaked behind the titular counsellor’s back and he heard someone clear their throat delicately. Without turning round, without even knowing who it was, simply from what he could feel inside, Fandorin guessed that it was chaos – it had come back again.
Chaos took the form of Inspector Asagawa. He was standing in the doorway of the dining room, holding his hat in his hand, and his face was firmly set in an expression of determination.
‘Hello, Inspector. Is there something…’
The Japanese suddenly toppled to the floor. He pressed the palms of his hands against the carpet and started beating his head against it.
Erast Petrovich snatched off his napkin and jumped to his feet.
‘What is all this?’
‘You were right not to trust me,’ Asagawa blurted out without raising his head. ‘I am to blame for everything. It is my fault that the minister was killed.’
Despite the contrite pose, the words were spoken clearly and precisely, without the ponderous formulae of politeness typical of the inspector’s usual conversation.
‘What’s that? Drop all this Japanese c-ceremonial, will you! Get up!’
Asagawa did not get to his feet, but he did at least straighten his back and put his hands on his knees. His eyes – Fandorin could see them very clearly now – were glowing with a steady, furious light.
‘At first I was insulted. I thought: How dare he suspect the Japanese police! The leak must have happened on their side, on the side of the foreigners, because we have order, and they do not. But today, when the catastrophe occurred, my eyes were suddenly opened. I told myself: Sergeant Lockston and the Russian vice-consul could have let something slip to the wrong person, about the witness to the murder, about the ambush at the godaun, about the fingerprints, but how could they have known when exactly the guards were dismissed and where the minister would go in the morning?’
‘Go on, go on!’ Fandorin pressed him.
‘You and I were looking for three samurai. But the conspirators had planned their attack thoroughly. There was another group of six assassins. And perhaps there were others, in reserve. Why not? The minister had plenty of enemies. The important thing here is this: all these fanatics, no matter how many of them there were, were controlled from one centre and their actions were coordinated. Someone provided them with extremely precise information. The moment the minister acquired guards, the killers went into hiding. And as soon as His Excellency left his residence without any protection, they struck immediately. What does this mean?’
‘That the conspirators received information from Okubo’s inner circle.’
‘Precisely! From someone who was closer to him than you or I! And as soon as I realised this, everything fell into place. Do you remember the tongue?’
‘Which tongue?’
‘The one that was bitten off! I could not get it out of my mind. I remember that I checked the hami and the lace was perfectly all right. Semushi could not have bitten through it, and it could not have come loose – my knots do not come untied… This morning I went to the stockroom, where they keep the clues and material evidence relating to the case of the man with the withered arm and his gang: weapons, clothes, equipment used – everything we are trying to use in order to establish their identities and get a lead on their contacts. I examined the hami very closely. Here it is, look’
The inspector took a wooden gag-bit with dangling tapes out of his pocket.
‘The cord has been cut!’ Fandorin exclaimed. ‘But how could that have happened?’
‘Remember the way it was,’ said Asagawa, finally getting to his feet and standing beside the vice-consul. ‘I walked over to you and we stood there, talking. You asked me to forgive you. But he stayed beside the hunchback, pretending to check how well his binds were tied. Remember?’
‘Suga!’ the titular counsellor whispered. ‘Impossible! But he was with us, he risked his life! He planned the operation and implemented it brilliantly!’