“Maybe I’d better come in to the department? Honestly, I’m feeling perfectly all right now.”
“Don’t you even think about it!” said Grushin with a flurry of his arms. “Do you want to give me away for coming to warn you? You lie down. He made a note of your address. He’ll definitely be here today.”
The ‘man of the future’ arrived that evening after six o’clock, by which time Erast Fandorin had managed to make thorough preparations. He told Agrafena Kondratievna that a general would be coming, so Malashka should wash the floor in the hallway, remove the rotten old trunk, and not even dare to think of boiling up any cabbage soup. In his own room the injured man carried out a major cleanup: he hung the clothes to greater advantage on the nails and hid the books under the bed, leaving on the table only a French novel, the Philosophical Essaysof David Hume in English, and Jean Debret’s Memoirs of a Paris Detective. Then he hid Debret away and replaced him with Instructions for Correct Breathing from the True Indian Brahmin Chandra Johnson, from which he took the fortifying respiratory gymnastics that he performed every morning. Let this master of clever business see that the man who lives here might be poor, but he had not allowed himself to go to seed. In order to emphasize the graveness of his injury, Erast Fandorin stood a bottle containing some mixture or other (he borrowed it from Agrafena Kondratievna) on the chair, then he lay down and wrapped a white scarf around his head. He thought it created the appropriate effect—manly courage in the face of affliction.
At long last, when he was already thoroughly tired of lying there, there came a short, sharp knock at the door. Then immediately, without waiting for any reply, an energetic gentleman entered the room, wearing a light, comfortable jacket with light-colored pantaloons and no hat at all. The precisely combed brown hair revealed a tall forehead; two sardonic creases lay at the corners of the strong-willed mouth, and the cleanshaven, dimpled chin positively exuded self-confidence. The penetrating gray eyes surveyed the room in an instant and came to rest on Fandorin.
“I see there is no need to introduce myself,” the visitor said merrily. “You already have the basic facts about me but presented in a rather unflattering light. Did Grushin complain about the telegraph?”
Erast Fandorin fluttered his eyelids and said nothing in reply.
“It’s the deductive method, my dear Fandorin. Building up the over all picture from a few small details. The main thing is not to rush things, not to jump to the wrong conclusion, if the available evidence allows for different interpretations. But we can talk about that later—we’ll have plenty of time. And as far as Grushin is concerned, it’s very simple. Your landlady bowed to me almost down to the floor and called me Excellency—that’s one. As you can see, I do not even remotely resemble an Excellency, nor am I one yet, since the level of my rank only merits Your Worship—that’s two. Apart from Grushin I told no one that I was intending to visit you—that’s three. It is also perfectly clear that the only opinion the detective superintendent can express of my activities is an unflattering one—that’s four. Well, and as for the telegraph, without which, you must admit, modern detective work is quite impossible, it produced a genuinely indelible impression on the whole of your department, and our drowsy Xavier Grushin simply could not have failed to mention it—that’s five. Well, am I right?”
“Yes,” said the astounded Fandorin, ignominiously betraying the kindhearted Grushin.
“What’s this—have you got hemorrhoids already at your age?” the astute visitor asked, transferring the mixture to the table and taking a seat.
“No!” said Fandorin, blushing furiously and at the same time breaking faith with Agrafena Kondratievna too. “It’s—it’s—my landlady got things mixed up. She’s always getting things mixed up, Your Worship. Such a stupid woman…”
“I see. Call me Ivan Franzevich or, better still, simply chief, since we’re going to be working together. I read your report,” Brilling continued without marking the transition with the slightest pause. “Intelligent. Observant. Efficient. I’m pleasantly surprised by your intuition—that’s the most valuable thing of all in our profession. When you don’t yet know how a situation is likely to develop, but instinct prompts you to take precautionary measures. How did you guess that the visit to Bezhetskaya’s might be dangerous? Why did you think it necessary to wear a protective corset? Bravo!”
Erast Fandorin turned an even darker shade of crimson.
“Yes, it was a splendid idea. It wouldn’t save you from a bullet, of course, but against cold steel it serves pretty well. I’ll give instructions for a batch of such corsets to be bought for agents assigned to dangerous missions. What make is it?”
Fandorin replied bashfully, “Lord Byron.”
“Lord Byron,” Brilling repeated, making a note in a little leather-bound book. “And now tell me, when could you come back to work? I have something special in mind for you.”
“Good Lord, tomorrow, if you like,” Fandorin exclaimed fervently, gazing lovingly at his new boss, or rather new chief. “I’ll dash over to the doctor’s in the morning, get the stitches taken out, and then I’m at your disposal.”
“That’s splendid. How would you characterize Bezhetskaya?”
Erast Fandorin became flustered, and he made a rather awkward start, supporting his words with lavish gesticulations.
“She’s—she’s an exceptional woman. A Cleopatra. A Carmen…Indescribably beautiful, but it’s not even a matter of her beauty…has a magnetic gaze…No, the gaze isn’t the thing, either…The main thing is—you can sense an immense power in her. A power so strong that she seems to be toying with everyone. Playing a game with some incomprehensible rules, but a cruel game. That woman, in my view, is highly depraved and at the same time…absolutely innocent. As if she were taught wrongly when she was a child. I don’t know how to explain it…” Fandorin turned pink, realizing that he was spouting nonsense, but he finished what he was saying nonetheless. “It seems to me she is not as bad as she wishes to appear.”
The state counselor scrutinized him curiously and gave a mischievous whistle.
“So that’s how it is…I thought as much. Now I can see that Amalia Bezhetskaya is a genuinely dangerous individual…especially for young romantics during the period of puberty.”
Pleased with the effect that this joke produced on Erast Fandorin, Ivan Brilling stood up and looked around again.
“How much do you pay for this kennel—ten rubles?”
“Twelve,” Erast Fandorin replied with dignity.
“The style of decor is familiar. I used to live like this myself at one time. When I attended the gymnasium in the splendid city of Kharkov. You see, like you I lost my parents at an early age. Well, for building character it’s actually quite beneficial. Is your salary thirty-five rubles, according to the official table?” asked Brilling, once again switching subjects without the slightest pause.
“Plus a quarterly bonus for overtime.”
“I’ll give instructions for you to be paid a bonus of five hundred out of the special fund. For devotion to duty in the face of danger. And so, until tomorrow. Come in, and we’ll work on the various scenarios.”
And the door closed behind the astonishing visitor.
THE CRIMINAL INVESTIGATION Division really was quite unrecognizable. There were unfamiliar gentlemen with files under their arms trotting along the corridors, and even his old colleagues no longer waddled along but walked smartly, with an upright bearing.
In the smoking room—miracle of miracles—there was not a soul to be seen. Out of curiosity Erast Fandorin glanced into the former refreshment room, and, true enough, standing there on the table in place of the samovar and the cups was a Baudot apparatus, and a telegrapher in a double-breasted uniform jacket glanced up at the intruder with a strict, interrogatory glance.