Fandorin realized with a hollow, sinking feeling that only one alternative remained open to him: to take the shopkeeper Kukin by the collar and drag him down to the station on Mokhovaya Street, where the suicide’s body was still lying in the mortuary, packed in ice, and arrange an identification. Erast Fandorin imagined the gaping skull with the crust of dried blood and brains, and an entirely natural association brought back the memory of the merchant’s wife Krupnova with her throat cut, who still continued to visit him in his nightmares. No, he definitely did not wish to make the trip to the ‘cold room.’ But there was some connection between the student from the Malaya Yauza Bridge and the suicide from the Alexander Gardens that absolutely had to be cleared up. Who could tell him whether Kokorin had pimples and a slouch and whether he wore a pince-nez?
Well, first, there was the landowner’s wife Spitsyna, but she was probably driving up to the Kaluga Gate by now. Second, there was the deceased’s valet. What was his name, now? Not that it mattered in any case. The investigator had thrown him out of the apartment; trying to find him now would be a complete waste of time. That left the witnesses from the Alexander Gardens, and above all the two ladies with whom Kokorin had been in conversation during the final minute of his life. They at least must have got a good look at the details of his appearance. Here it was written in his notepad: “Daughter of full privy counselor Eliz. Alexandrovna Evert-Kolokoltseva, 17, spinster Emma Gottliebovna Pfьhl, 48, Malaya Nikitskaya Street, private residence.”
He would be obliged to go to the expense of a cab after all.
THE DAY WAS TURNING out to be a long one. The cheerful sun of May, still by no means weary of illuminating the golden-domed city, was reluctantly slipping down the sky toward the line of the roofs when Erast Fandorin, now two twenty-kopeck coins the poorer, descended from his cab in front of the smart mansion with the Doric columns, molded-stucco facade, and marble porch. Seeing his fare halt in hesitation, the cabman said, “That’s the one, all right, the general’s house—don’t you worry about that. This ain’t my first year driving ‘round Moscow.”
What if they won’t let me in? Erast Fandorin thought with a sudden twinge of fear at the possible humiliation. He took a firm grasp of the gleaming brass hammer and knocked twice. The massive door with bronze lion masks immediately swung open, and a doorman dressed in rich livery with gold braid stuck his head out.
“To see the baron? From the office?” he asked briskly. “Reporting or just delivering some document? Come on in, do.”
Finding himself in a spacious entrance hall brightly illuminated by both a chandelier and gaslights, the visitor was deserted by his final shred of courage.
“Actually, I’m here to see Elizaveta Alexandrovna,” he explained. “Erast Petrovich Fandorin, from the Criminal Investigation Division. On an urgent matter.”
“The Criminal Investigation Division,” the guardian of the portal repeated with a frown of disdain. “Would that be in connection with yesterday’s events? Out of the question. The young lady spent very nearly half the day in tears, and she slept badly last night as well. I won’t admit you and I won’t announce you. His Excellency has already threatened your people from the precinct with dire consequences for tormenting Elizaveta Alexandrovna with their interrogations yesterday. Outside with you, if you please, outside.” And the scoundrel actually began nudging Fandorin toward the exit with his fat belly.
“But what about the spinster Pfьhl?” Erast Fandorin cried out despairingly. “Emma Gottliebovna, forty-eight years of age? I would like at least to have a few words with her. This is important state business!”
The doorman smacked his lips pompously. “Very well, I will admit you to her. Go through that way, under the stairs. Third door on the right along the corridor. That is where the madam governess resides.”
The door was opened in response to Fandorin’s knock by a gaunt individual who stared, unspeaking, at her visitor out of round brown eyes.
“I am from the police. My name is Fandorin. Are you Miss Pfьhl?” Erast Fandorin inquired uncertainly, then repeated the question in German just to be sure: “Polizeiamt. Sind Sie Freilein Pfьhl? Guten Abend.”
“Good efening,” the gaunt individual replied severely in Russian. “Yes, I am Emma Pfьhl. Come in. Zit down zere on zat shair.”
Fandorin sat where he had been ordered, on a Viennese chair with a curved back standing beside a writing desk on which some textbooks and stacks of writing paper were laid out in an extremely tidy fashion. It was a pleasant room with good light but completely uninteresting, lacking in life. The only spot of bright color throughout its entire extent was provided by a trio of exuberant geraniums standing in pots on the window.
“Are you here about zat shtupid young man who shot himzelf?” Miss Pfьhl inquired. “I answered all of ze policeman’s kvestions yesterday, but if you vish to ask again, you may ask. I understand vat ze vork of ze police is—it is very important. My uncle Gьnter zerved as an Oberwachtmeister in ze Zaxon police.”
“I am a collegiate registrar,” Erast Fandorin explained, not wishing himself to be taken for a sergeant major, “a civil servant, fourteenth class.”
“Yes, I know how to understand rank,” the German woman said with a nod, pointing to the lapel of his uniform jacket. “Zo, mister collegiate registrar, I am listening.”
At that moment the door swung open without a knock and a fair-haired young lady with an enchanting flush on her cheeks darted into the room.
“Frдulein Pfьhl! Morgenfahren wir nach Kuntsevo!* Honestly. Papa has given his permission!” she babbled rapidly from the doorway. Then, noticing the stranger, she stopped short and lapsed into a confused silence, but the gaze of her gray eyes nonetheless remained fixed on the young official in an expression of the most lively curiosity.
“Veil brought-up young baronesses do not run, zey valk,” her governess told her with feigned strictness. “Ezpecially ven zey are all of zeventeen years old. If you do not run but valk, zen you haf time to notice a stranger and greet him properly.”
“Good day, sir,” the miraculous vision whispered.
Fandorin leapt to his feet and bowed, his nerves jangling quite appallingly. The poor clerk was so overwhelmed by the girl’s appearance that he was afraid he might fall in love with her at first sight, and that was something he simply could not do. Even in his dear papa’s more prosperous days, a princess like this would have been well beyond his reach, and now the idea was even more ridiculous.
“How do you do,” he said very dryly with a grave frown, thinking to himself: Cast me in the role of a pitiful supplicant, would you?
General was her father’s rank and designation,
A mere titular counselor was he, and poor,