‘I c-cannot,’ Fandorin interrupted him. ‘Apartment three, the Bomze House, Ostozhenka Street – what’s the number there?’
‘Just a moment,’ said Lisitsky, glancing into the directory. ‘37-82.’
‘Check what calls have been made from 37-82 in the last quarter of an hour. Q-quickly!’
The staff captain shot out of the room like a bullet and came back three minutes later.
‘A call to number 114-22. That’s the Saint-Saëns Boarding House, on Chistoprudny Boulevard, I’ve already checked it. It was a brief conversation, only thirty seconds.’
‘That means she didn’t find him in…’ Fandorin murmured. ‘What boarding house is that? There wasn’t one by that name in my time. Is it educational?’
‘After a fashion.’ Lisitsky chuckled. ‘They teach the science of the tender passion. It’s a well-known establishment, belongs to a certain Countess Bovada. A highly colourful individual, she figured in one of our cases. And they know her well in the Okhrana too. Her real name is Anfisa Minkina. Her life story is a genuine Boussenard novel. She has travelled right round the world. A shady character, but she is tolerated because from time to time she provides services to the relevant government departments. Of an intimate, but not necessarily sexual, nature,’ the jolly staff captain said, and laughed again. ‘I told them to connect me to the boarding house. There are two numbers registered there, so I’ve connected to both. Was I right?’
‘Yes, well done. Sit here and listen. And meanwhile I’ll make a call.’
Fandorin telephoned his apartment and told his valet to make his way to Chistoprudny Boulevard and observe a certain house.
Masa paused and asked:
‘Master, will this be interfering in the course of the war?’
‘No,’ Erast Petrovich reassured him, prevaricating somewhat, but he had no other choice at the moment. Mylnikov was not there, and the railway gendarmes would not be able to provide competent surveillance. ‘You will simply watch the Saint-Saëns Boarding House and tell me if you see anything interesting. The Orlando electric theatre is close by, it has a public telephone. I shall be at number…’
‘20-93,’ Lisitsky prompted him, with an earphone pressed to each ear.
‘A call, on the left line!’ he exclaimed a minute later.
Erast Petrovich grabbed an extension earpiece and heard a blasé man’s voice:
‘… Beatrice, my little sweetheart, I’m aflame, I just can’t wait any longer. I’ll come straight to your place. Get my room ready, do. And Zuleika, it must be her.’
‘Zuleika is with an admirer,’ a woman’s voice, very gentle and pleasant, replied at the other end of the line.
The man became flustered.
‘What’s that you say, with an admirer? With whom? If it’s Von Weilem, I’ll never forgive you!’
‘I’ll prepare Madam Frieda for you,’ the woman cooed. ‘Remember her, the large lady with the wonderful figure. She’s a true whiplash virtuoso, every bit as good as Zuleika. Your Excellency will like her.’
The staff captain started shaking with soundless, suppressed laughter. Fandorin dropped his earpiece in annoyance.
During the next hour there were many calls, some of an even more spicy nature, but all of them in Lisitsky’s left ear – that is, on number 114-22. Nothing on the other line.
It came to life at half past eleven, with a call from the boarding house. A man requested number 42-13.
‘42-13 – who’s that?’ the engineer asked in a whisper, while the young lady was putting through the connection.
The gendarme was already rustling the pages. He found the number and ran his thumbnail under the line of print.
Fandorin read it: ‘Windrose Restaurant’.
‘Windrose Restaurant,’ said a voice in the earpiece. ‘Can I help you?’
‘My dear fellow, could you please call Mr Miroshnichenko to the telephone? He’s sitting at the table by the window, on his own,’ the Saint-Saëns said in a man’s voice.
‘Right away, sir.’
A long silence, lasting several minutes.
And then a calm baritone voice at the restaurant end asked:
‘Is that you?’
‘As we agreed. Are you ready?’
‘Yes. We’ll be there at one in the morning.’
‘There’s a lot of it. Almost a thousand crates,’ the boarding house warned the restaurant.
Fandorin gripped his earpiece so tightly that his fingers turned white. Weapons! A shipment of Japanese weapons, it had to be!
‘We have enough men,’ the restaurant replied confidently.
‘How will you move it? By water?’
‘Naturally. Otherwise, why would I need a warehouse on the river?’
Just at that moment little lamps started blinking on the telephone apparatus on the desk in front of Lisitsky.
‘That’s the special line,’ the officer whispered, grabbing the receiver and twirling a handle. ‘For you, Erast Petrovich. I think it’s your servant.’
‘You listen!’ Fandorin said with a nod at the earpiece, and took the receiver. ‘Yes?’
‘Master, you told me to tell you if anything interesting happened,’ Masa said in Japanese. ‘It’s very interesting here, come.’
He didn’t try to explain anything – evidently there were a lot of people in the electric theatre.
In the meantime the conversation between Windrose and Saint-Saëns had ended.
‘Well, d-did he tell him the place?’ the engineer asked, turning to Lisitsky impatiently.
The gendarme spread his hands helplessly.
‘It must have been during the two seconds when you put the receiver down and I hadn’t picked it up yet… All I heard was the one at the restaurant saying: “Yes, yes, I know”. What are your instructions? Shall I send squads to the Windrose and Saint-Saëns?’
‘No need. You won’t find anyone at the restaurant now. And I’ll deal with the guest house myself.’
As he flew along the dark boulevards in the carriage, Fandorin thought about the terrible danger hanging over the ancient city – no, over the thousand-year-old state. Black crowds, armed with rifles from Japan (or wherever), would choke the throats of the streets with the nooses of barricades. A formless, bloody stain would creep in from the outskirts to the centre and a ferocious, protracted bloodbath would begin, in which there would be no victors, only dead and defeated.
The great enemy of Erast Petrovich’s life – senseless and savage Chaos – stared out at the engineer through the blank wall eyes of dark windows, grinned at him with the rotten mouths of ravenous gateways. Rational, civilised life shrank to a frail strand of lamps, glimmering defencelessly along the pavement.
Masa was waiting for him by the railings.
‘I don’t know what’s going on,’ he said quickly, leading Fandorin along the edge of the pond. ‘That bad man Myrnikov and five of his men crept into the house, through that porch over there. That was… twerve minutes ago,’ he said, glancing with delight at the gold watch that Erast Petrovich had given him for the Mikado’s fiftieth birthday. ‘I terephoned you straight away.’
‘Ah, how appalling!’ the engineer exclaimed miserably. ‘That jackal picked up the scent and he’s ruined everything again!’
His valet replied philosophically:
‘There’s nothing you can do about it now, anyway. Ret’s watch what happens next.’
So they started watching.
There were single windows on the left and right of the door. They had no light in them.
‘Strange,’ whispered Erast Petrovich. ‘What are they doing there in the dark? No shots, no shouts…’
And that very second there was a shout – not very loud, but filled with such utter animal terror that Fandorin and his servant both leapt up without a word, breaking their cover, and went running towards the house.
A man crawled out on to the porch, working his elbows and knees rapidly.