‘Look at the top of the book. Do you see the yellow colour extending to the middle of the pages? That is ordinary office glue. Try opening the book at random, at any page.’
I tried opening the book between my finger and thumb and could scarcely believe my eyes – it opened at the title page of Macbeth.
‘Now do you understand?’ Genji asked me. ‘The result of Gdlevsky’s divination on the second Friday had been determined beforehand.’
Yes, the trick had been precisely calculated for psychological effect. And I suddenly realised that this was the ‘bombshell’ that Cyrano had intended to print in the morning edition of his paper. Like Genji, he had discovered the trick with the glue and immediately realised that he could season his investigation with a spicy sauce. The entire business had suddenly acquired a criminal flavour. Poor Cyrano had not suspected that he would be blown up by his own bombshell . . .
‘On the third Friday you decided to make absolutely sure of things and leave Gdlevsky no chance. After his “good luck” on the first two Fridays, the youth’s nerves were naturally so wrought up that he was seeing Signs in everything going on around him. It would not have been at all surprising if he had discovered his fateful rhyme without any assistance from you, but to guarantee the outcome you arranged for him to find what he was seeking right outside your house. You paid a wandering organ grinder to sing a song with a particular refrain – but only until a certain young man whose appearance you described in detail would enter the house. I don’t think you explained your plans to the organ grinder, but you did impress on him that once he had completed his assignment he should clear out as quickly as possible, and the old man did precisely that, with all the speed that he could muster. When I dashed out into the street two minutes later, I couldn’t find him anywhere.
‘And so Gdlevsky had been condemned to death by you and would certainly have carried out the sentence himself, if not for Caliban, who had been jealous of your young favourite for a long time. Now it seemed that Gdlevsky was favoured not only by you, but also by Death, and the insane bookkeeper decided to do away with his fortunate rival . . .
‘The killing of the reporter Lavr Zhemailo was the only death in which you were not directly involved. That is, if we do not take into account that you once called the newspaper informer a Judas, who would betray you as Christ was betrayed. To Caliban you really were his Saviour, and so when he discovered Cyrano’s true occupation, he killed him and hung him on an aspen tree.’
At that moment I must confess that I experienced a certain inner satisfaction. Not a very worthy feeling, but understandable. Apparently you do not know everything and do not notice everything, clever Mr Investigator, I thought to myself. You do not know that Caliban eavesdropped on Cyrano’s telephone conversation with his newspaper office.
Genji moved on to the final point of his prosecution speech.
‘Your preparations for Columbine’s suicide were the most thorough and cunning of all. First you slipped her the three pieces of card with inscriptions in German. The day before yesterday the young lady gave them to me and told me that they did not burn in fire. I subjected the paper to chemical analysis and discovered it had been impregnated with a solution of alums, which had rendered it non-flammable. An old trick that was once used by the Count of St Germain. In order to prompt Columbine to check whether the notes would burn, you deliberately slipped Papushin a note from Death as well, only it was written on ordinary paper. The scheme worked perfectly, but there was one thing you failed to anticipate – Caliban felt slighted and decided to take his revenge on Death’s Chosen One, just as he had done with Gdlevsky. Fortunately I happened to be at the scene.’
I noticed that Blagovolsky’s behaviour had changed now. The Doge was no longer objecting or trying to dispute any of his accuser’s assertions. He sat there hunched up, with his face completely drained of blood and his eyes – I could see that they were filled with fear and alarm – trained steadily on the speaker. Prospero must have felt that the end was approaching. His nervous state was also evident from the movements of his hands: the fingers of his right hand were stroking the bronze hero’s helmet again, while the fingers of his left clenched and unclenched spasmodically.
‘Fate gave you a generous gift in the person of Caliban. You had a very good chance of getting away with everything by shifting the blame for all your crimes on to the dead maniac’s shoulders. But you were unable to control yourself, you could not stop. Why did you decide to finish the girl off after all? That is the greatest riddle for me. Could you not forgive Columbine because she had grown indifferent to your charms? Or, as happens so often with hardened killers, did you really, somewhere deep in your heart, want someone to expose you and stop you?’
‘No, Mr Psychologist,’ said Prospero, suddenly breaking his silence. ‘It was neither of those. I simply do not like to abandon a job halfway through when it is going well.’
I immediately took down what he had said word for word: another indirect admission of guilt.
Genji’s face darkened slightly; he was evidently taken aback by this audacious reply.
‘Your attempt to finish your “job” was certainly most inventive. Columbine told me about the magical words “Ich warte” that appeared out of nowhere on a blank sheet of paper. Most impressive! It is hardly surprising that the girl immediately believed implicitly that it was a miracle. I visited Columbine’s flat and inspected both the sheet of paper and the book very closely. Another cunning chemical trick. Several pages before the bookmark you had glued into the book a piece of paper with the two fateful words written on it in lead acetate. And the marbled paper used as a bookmark had been soaked in a solution of sulphurated potash. When the book was closed, the lead acetate started seeping through the pages and about a day later the letters appeared on the marbled paper. This method of secret writing was developed by the Jesuits in the seventeenth century, so it is not original to you. You merely found a new use for the old recipe.’
Genji turned towards me and leaned on the armrest of his chair.
‘That is all, Horatio, the facts have been set forth. As for the material evidence, the window pane with the dactylograms is under guard in the porter’s lodge of the Spassky Barracks, the pipes in Avaddon’s flat are still in place, and I left the book from Blagovolsky’s library and the sheet of marbled paper in Columbine’s flat. No doubt the sheet of paper glued into the book and the sheet that was soaked in potash also bear the criminal’s fingerprints. The investigation should not encounter any difficulties. There is the telephone – make the call. As soon as the police arrive I shall withdraw, and you remember that you gave me your word.’
I stood up to walk across to the telephone hanging on the wall, but Blagovolsky gestured for me to wait.
‘Don’t be in such a hurry, Horatio. The gentleman detective has demonstrated his eloquence and perspicacity. It is only fair that I should have the right of reply.’
I glanced enquiringly at Genji. He nodded, with a wary glance at Prospero, and I sat down again.
Blagovolsky chuckled, opened the helmet lid of the inkwell and closed it again, then drummed his fingers on it.
‘You have unfolded an entire psychological theory that presents me as a cowardly halfwit. According to you, everything I have done can be explained by panic induced by fear of death; an attempt to wheedle a respite out of death by offering up human sacrifices. Nonsense, Mr Genji. Why underestimate and belittle your opponent? At the very least that is imprudent. Perhaps I was once afraid to die, but that was a very, very long time ago, before the stone walls of a prison cell exterminated all strong feelings and passions in me. Apart from one that is, the most exalted of all – the desire to be God. A long period of solitary confinement brings home very clearly the simple truth that you are alone in the world and the entire universe is in you, and so you are God. If you so wish, the universe will live. If you do not, it will die, with everything that it contains. That is what will happen if I, God, commit suicide. In comparison with this catastrophe, all other deaths are mere trifles. But if I am God, then I must rule, must I not? That is only logical, it is my right. My rule must be real and undivided. And do you know what God’s real power over people is? It is not a general’s epaulettes, a minister’s portfolio, or even a king’s throne. In our times dominion of that kind is becoming an anachronism. It will not be enough for the rulers of the new century that is beginning. There must be power, not over bodies, but over souls. Say to someone else’s soul, “Die!” – and it dies. As it was with the Old Believers, when hundreds threw themselves into the fire if the elder willed it, and mothers cast their infants into the flames. But the elder left the burning community and went to save another flock. You, Mr Genji, are a limited man and you will never understand this supreme pleasure . . . Ah, why am I wasting time on you? To hell with you, you bore me.’