There were four men. The one who caught my attention was a lean grey-haired gentleman with a toothless non-Russian face and steel-rimmed spectacles. Could this be Doctor Lind himself? Standing one on each side of himwere two tall broad-shouldered men whose faces were drowned in the shadows – bodyguards, I presumed. The fourth manwas the coachman, who had followed us in and leaned back against the closed door as if to cut off our retreat.
One of the bodyguards gestured to the coachman, clearly indicating that he should leave.
The coachman nodded, but he did not move.
The bodyguard pointed angrily to the door.
‘Taubstummer Dickkopf!’4the great brute swore.
So that was why the driver had behaved so strangely with us! And now it was clear why Lind had not been afraid that the bearded man might be taken by the police.
The other bodyguard replied, also in German: ‘Ah, to hell with it. Let him stay there. He’s probably as curious as we are to see what happens.’
Then the grey-haired gentleman stretched his hand out towards the bundle, and I realised that the truly important business had begun.
‘Did you bring it? Show me,’ he said in a dull voice, speaking French.
I dropped the shawl in which the sphere was wrapped onto the floor and opened the lid. The stone glittered from its velvet niche with a gentle muted light.
Enunciating every word slowly and clearly, I explained about the surprise and the conditions of exchange. Thank God, my voice did not tremble even once. The most important thing was for Lind to believe me. If it came to the crunch, I would not play the coward.
He heard me out without interrupting and nodded as if Iwere talking about something that went without saying. He clicked his fingers impatiently. ‘All right, all right. Give it to me. I’ll check it.’
And he took a small magnifying glass bound in copper out of his pocket.
So he was not Lind but the jeweller, just as Fandorin had predicted. I prised the stone out with two fingers and it seemed to fit snugly into the palm of my hand, as if had been created to match its size. With my other hand I held the bomb carefully against my chest.
The jeweller took the diamond and walked over to one of the lamps. The bodyguards, orwhoever they reallywere, surrounded him and drew in their breath loudly when the facets of the Orlov sparkled with unbearable brilliance.
I glanced round at Mademoiselle. She was standing still but with her fingers locked together. Raising her eyebrows, she indicated the sphere with her glance, and I nodded reassuringly as if to say: Don’t worry, I won’t drop it.
The light of the oil lamp was not enough for the jeweller. He took out a little electric torch too and pushed a switch. A thin, bright ray of light touched the diamond, and I screwed up my eyes. Sparks seemed to scatter from the surface of the stone.
‘Alles in Ordnung,’5 the jeweller said dispassionately in perfect German and put the magnifying glass in his pocket.
‘Give me back the stone,’ I demanded.
When he did not do as I said, I held the open sphere out in front of me with both hands.
The jeweller shrugged and put the diamond back in its niche.
Heartened by this success, I raised my voice: ‘Where is His Highness? Under the terms of the agreement, you must now give him back immediately!’
The lipless man pointed to the stone floor, and for the first time I noticed a square black trapdoor with a metal ring for a handle.
‘Who needs your boy? Take him before he croaks.’
On the lips of this respectable-looking gentleman the crude word ‘croaks’, used about a little child, sounded so unexpected and terrible that I shuddered. My God, what kind of people were they!
Mademoiselle drew in a noisy breath and dashed to the trapdoor, grabbed the ring and pulled with all her might. The door lifted a little, and then fell back into the gap with a resounding metallic clang. None of the thugs moved to help the lady. Emilie looked at me in despair, but I could not help her – to do that I would have had to put down the sphere.
‘Aufmachen!’6 I shouted menacingly, lifting the bomb higher.
With clear reluctance, one of the banditsmoved Mademoiselle aside and easily lifted the cover up with one hand.
The gap that was revealed was not black, as I had expected, but filled with a trembling light. Obviously there was an oil lamp in the vault too. Asmell of dampness and mould came up through the opening.
Poor Mikhail Georgievich! How could they have kept him in that hole all these days!
Gathering up the hem of her skirt, Mademoiselle started to go down. One of the thugs followed her. I could feel my pulse pounding rapidly in my temples.
I heard the sound of voices coming from below and then a piercing shout from Emilie: ‘Mon bébé, mon pauvre petit. Tas de salauds!’7
‘Is His Highness dead?’ I roared, ready to throw the bomb on the floor and damn the consequences.
‘No, he’s alive!’ I heard. ‘But very poorly!’
I cannot express the relief that I felt at those words. Of course His Highness was chilled to the bone, wounded and drugged with opium, but the important thing was that he was alive.
The jeweller held out his hand. ‘Give me the stone. Your companion will bring the boy out now.’
‘Let her bring him out first,’ I muttered, suddenly realising that I had no idea of what to do next. There had been nothing about that in Fandorin’s instructions. Should I give him the stone or not?
Suddenly the bodyguard who was still in the room leapt towards me with astounding agility and pressed his palms tight over my hands, which were holding the bomb. The jolt was only very slight and the detonating mechanism was not set off, but the diamond tumbled out of its niche and clattered across the floor. The jeweller grabbed it and put it in his pocket.
It was pointless trying to struggle with the great brute, and the coachman with the black beard also came up from behind – I had already had occasion to know of his great strength. Oh Lord, now I had ruined everything.
‘Now this is surprise number two,’ the deaf mute whispered in my ear, and in the same second he punched the thug on the forehead. The blow did not seem very strong to me, but the German’s eyes rolled up, he opened his hands and sank down on to the floor.
‘Hold it tight,’ the coachman said in Fandorin’s voice.
In a single bound he reached the jeweller and put one hand over his mouth, at the same time holding a stiletto to his chin from below.
‘Taisez-vous! Un mot, et vous êtes mort!8 Ziukin, switch off the bomb, we won’t be needing it any more.’
The speed at which events were moving had left me numb, so I was not at all surprised by the coachman’s transformation into Fandorin; in fact, I was more impressed by the fact that Erast Petrovich had completely stopped stammering.
I obediently gripped the depressed button with my fingernails and pulled. It popped out with a gentle click.
‘Shout to say that you have the stone and the child can be released,’ Fandorin said quietly in French.
The jeweller batted his eyelids with unnatural speed. He could not nod because the gesture would have impaled his head on the blade of the stiletto.
Fandorin removed his hand from the jeweller’s mouth but kept the dagger in its vertical position.
His prisoner worked his sunken mouth and licked his lips, then threw his head back as if he wanted to look at something on the ceiling and suddenly shouted loudly: ‘Alarme! Fuiez-vous!’9