Fandorin drew himself erect and saluted the police chief smartly, but Lasovsky did not even glance in our direction.
‘Excellent,’ Erast Petrovich said to me in a low voice. ‘There’s our cab.’
A short distance away I saw the high police master’s famous carriage, harnessed to a pair of black trotters. The coachman Sychov, frequently mentioned by the Moscow newspapers in connection with the indefatigable police chief’s daily outings in search of drunken yard keepers and negligent constables, was solemnly ensconced on the coach box.
Erast Petrovich drew his sword and dashed towards the carriage, jangling his spurs smartly.
‘An urgent dispatch!’ he shouted at the coachman and jumped straight into the carriage at a run. ‘Come on, Sychov, wake up! An order from the high police master!’ He turned back to me and saluted. ‘Your Excellency, I implore you, quickly now!’
The coachman glanced at the brusque officer and looked at me. I was wearing the simple jacket taken from the German bandit, but Sychov did not seem particularly surprised. On an insane day like this, God only knew who the high police master’s two in hand might be ordered to carry.
‘Open your eyes wider, stare hard,’ Fandorin whispered as he took a seat facing me. ‘You’re an important individual. They don’t drive just anybody around in this carriage.’
I drew myself erect and, as befits a genuinely important individual, directed my gaze a little to the side and up, gathering my forehead into stately wrinkles. Thank God I had seen enough ministers and generals in my time.
‘Drive on, Sychov, drive on!’ Erast Petrovich barked, prodding the driver in his cotton-wadded back.
The coachman hastily shook his reins, the wonderful horses set off at a trot, and the carriage swayed gently on its soft springs.
Every now and then Sychov bellowed: ‘Mind yourselves, there!’
The bleached white trunks of the roadside poplars flashed by. The bleak queue of carts covered with sackcloth fell further and further behind. People on the pavements turned round to gaze in hope and fear – or at least it seemed to me that they did – and policemen saluted.
Erast Petrovich ordered the coachman to stop at the Alexander Railway Station. We got out, Erast Petrovich dropped his visiting card on the leather seat and waved for Sychov to drive back to where he had come from.
We got into a cab and drove off at a spanking pace towards Myasnitskaya Street.
‘What’s happening up there on the Khodynka, Your Honour?’ the cabby asked, turning towards us. ‘They’re saying as the Yids poured dope into the official wine, so the people was drugged, and nigh on a hundred thousand Orthodox folk was crushed. Is that true or not?’
‘It’s a lie,’ Erast Petrovich replied curtly. ‘Drive on, drive on!’
We flew into the familiar side street with a rumble and a clatter. Fandorin jumped down and beckoned the yard keeper with an imperious gesture.
‘Wholives at that address?’ he asked, pointing to the Postman’s house.
‘Post Office Attendant Mr Ivan Zakharovich Tereshchenko,’ the yard keeper replied, saluting with his broom held rigidly to attention.
‘Retired army man?’ Erast Petrovich enquired sternly.
‘Yes, sir, Your Honour! Private First Class of the Prince Heinrich of Prussia Sixth Dragoons Regiment Fyodor Svishch!’
‘Very well, Svishch. This gentleman and I have come to carry out the arrest of this Tereshchenko. You have awhistle. Go round to the back of the house from the courtyard and keep your eyes on the windows. If he tries to get out, whistle for all you’re worth. Is that clear?’
‘Yes, sir, Your Honour!’
‘And wait!’ Fandorin shouted after the former private, first class, who was already dashing off to carry out his orders. ‘Do you have a crowbar? Bring it here and then take up your post.’
We ourselves took up a position on the porch where we could not be seen from the windows.
Erast Petrovich rang the bell and then knocked on the door.
‘Tereshchenko! Mr Tereshchenko! Open up, this is the local inspector of police! In connection with today’s events!’
He put his ear to the door.
‘Break it open, Ziukin.’
I had never held such a crude instrument as an iron crowbar in my hands before, never mind used it to break in a door. It turned out to be far from simple. I struck the lock once, twice, three times. The door shuddered but it did not open. Then I stuck the flat sharp end into the crack, leaned against it and tried to lever the lock apart, but that did not work either.
‘Right. Damn you and your crowbar, Ziukin!’
Erast Petrovich moved me aside. Grabbing the porch railings he launched himself into the air and smashed both of his feet into the door, which went crashing inwards and hung crookedly on one hinge.
We quickly ran through all the rooms with Fandorin clutching a little black revolver at the ready. No one. Scattered items of clothing, false beards, a ginger wig, a few canes, cloaks and hats, crumpled banknotes on the floor.
‘We’re too late!’ Erast Petrovich sighed. ‘Just a little bit too late!’
I groaned in disappointment, but he looked round the small drawing room carefully and then suddenly said in a quiet stealthy voice: ‘Ah, but this is interesting.’
There was an open casket standing on a small table beside the window. Fandorin took out a long object that glittered in his fingers, giving off yellow sparks.
‘What is that?’ I asked in amazement.
‘I presume it is the celebrated coronet,’ he replied, keenly examining the diadem, which was encrusted with priceless yellow diamonds and opals. ‘And here is the Empress Anna’s clasp, and the Empress Elisaveta’s neckband, and the small d-diamond bouquet with a spinel, and the, what’s it called . . . aigrette. I promised Her Imperial Majesty that her jewels from the coffret would be returned safe and sound, and that is what has happened.’
I dashed across to the casket and froze in awe. What a stroke of luck! All of these fabulous jewels glowing with the sacred aura of the history of the imperial house, safely returned to the throne! This alonewas enough to justify Fandorin’s entire wild adventure and totally restoremyown good name. The only possible greater happiness would be the rescue of Mikhail Georgievich and Mademoiselle Declique.
But of course Fandorin was delighted by this miraculous discovery for a completely different reason.
‘Lind was here only very recently and evidently intends to return. That is one. He really does have no one left to help him. He is quite alone. That is two. And finally we have an excellent chance of catching him. That is three.’
I thought for a moment and worked out the logic for myself: ‘If he was not planning to return, he would not have left the casket behind, right? And if he still had any helpers, he would have left them to guard the treasure. What are we going to do?’
‘First of all, mend the front d-door.’
We dashed back into the entrance hall. The blow from Fandorin’s feet had torn one hinge out bodily, but that was not the only problem. Far worse was the fact that a crowd of onlookers had gathered and they were staring avidly at the windows and the gaping hole.
‘Damnation!’ Erast Petrovich groaned. ‘We raised such a racket that the entire street has come running to look, and in ten minutes the entire b-block will be here! Soon the real police will turn up and spoil everything for us. No, we won’t see Lind here again. But at least we have to check to see if any clues have been left behind.’