Boris Akunin - He Lover of Death

And Boxman was even more astounded. He gaped at the dandy, wide-eyed and blinking.

‘Erast Petrovich,’ he said. ‘Your Honour!’ And he stood to attention. ‘I was informed you had changed your Russian domicile for a foreign residence!’

‘I have, I have. But I come to visit my native city on occasion, in private. How are you, Boxman, still up to your old tricks, or have you settled down? Oh, I never dealt with you, did I? Didn’t have the time.’

Boxman smiled, not very broadly, though, just a bit, civilly.

‘I’m too old to be getting up to any tricks. It’s time I was thinking about my old age. And my soul.’

Well, would you believe it! This gent wasn’t any old body – even Ivan Fedotich Boxman paid him respect. Senka had never seen the policeman carry himself so straight for anyone, not even the superintendent.

Boxman squinted at Senka and knitted his shaggy eyebrows together.

‘What’s he doing here? Has he done the dirt on you some way? Just say the word and I’ll grind him to dust.’

The one who was called Erast Petrovich said: ‘No need, we’ve already resolved our conflict. Haven’t we, Senya?’ Senka started nodding, but the interesting gent wasn’t looking at him, he was looking at the door. ‘What’s happened here?’

‘This piece of villainy is a criminological atrocity, the like of which I have never laid eyes on before, not even in Khitrovka,’ Boxman reported glumly. ‘They’ve knifed a pen-pusher, and his entire family with him, and in the most fiendish fashion, too. But you’d better be leaving, Erast Petrovich. Back then the order went out that if any policeman saw you, he should report it to the top brass straightaway. The superintendent and the gentleman investigator might find you here . . . They’re due any minute.’

Well, now, Senka thought, this gent must be a businessman, only not an ordinary one, some kind of super-special one, and all Moscow’s businessmen are just lousy punks next to him. The devil himself must have tempted me into filching an important souvenir from a bandit-general prince like that! That’s an orphan’s luck for you!

And then Boxman said this: ‘The superintendent here nowadays is Innokentii Romanovich Solntsev, the gentleman you wanted to put on trial. And he’s spiteful, not one to forget a grudge.’

If he could drag a man like the superintendent to court, than what kind of bandit must he be? Senka was bewildered now.

Erast Petrovich wasn’t at all put out by the warning. ‘It’s all right, Boxman. If God doesn’t tell, the pig won’t know. We’ll make it quick, be out in a flash.’

Boxman didn’t try to argue, just moved aside: ‘If I whistle, get out quick, don’t drop me in it.’

Senka wanted to stay outside, but that lousy Jap Masa wouldn’t let him, even though Boxman was there to keep an eye on him. He said: ‘You too agire. An’ you run fast.’

When they went inside, Senka didn’t look at the dead bodies (he’d seen enough of them already, thank you very much). He stared at the ceiling instead.

It was brighter in the room than before – there was another paraffin lamp, like the one in the collidor, burning on the table.

Erast Petrovich walked round the room, leaning down sometimes and jingling something. It was as though he was turning the bodies over and touching their faces, but Senka turned away – he could do without that abomination.

The Japanese was doing some rummaging of his own. He dragged Senka after him, bending down over the cadavers and muttering something Senka couldn’t understand.

This went on for about five minutes.

The smell of freshly slaughtered meat was making Senka queasy. And there was a whiff of dung too – that must be from the bellies being slashed open.

‘What do you think?’ Erast Petrovich asked his Jap, and he answered in his own tongue, not in Russian.

‘You think it’s a maniac? Hmmm.’ The gentleman bandit rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘Reasons?’

And the Jap switched back to Russian.

‘Kirring for money out of question. This famiry extremerry poor. That one. Insane cruerty of it – he didn’t even spare the ritter boy. That two. An’ eyes. You terr me yourserf, master, sign of a maniac murder is rituar. Why gouge out eyes? It crear – an insane rituar. That three. Maniac kirred them, that certain. Like Decorator other time.’

Senka didn’t know who Maniac and Decorator were (from the names they sounded like Yids or Germans) – he didn’t understand very much at all really – but he could see the Jap was very proud of his speech.

Only he didn’t seem to have convinced the gent.

Erast Petrovich squatted down by the bed where Siniukhin was lying and started going through the dead man’s pockets. And him such a decent-looking gent! But then, God only knew who he really was. Senka gazed at the icon hanging in the corner. He thought: The Saviour saw the horrible things Deadeye did to the pen-pusher, and he didn’t interfere. And then he remembered the way the Jack flung his little knife straight into the icons’ eyes, and he sighed. At least the fiend didn’t put this icon’s eyes out.

‘What do we have here?’ he heard Erast Petrovich’s voice ask.

Senka couldn’t resist it, he peeped round Masa’s shoulder, and saw a little scale in the gent’s hand – just like the ones in Senka’s pocket!

‘Who knows what this is?’ Erast Petrovich asked, turning round. ‘Masa? Or perhaps you, Spidorov?’

Masa shook his head. Senka shrugged and gaped like a fool to make it clear he’d never laid eyes on such an odd-looking item. He even said out loud: ‘How would I know?’

The gent looked at him.

‘Well, well,’ he said. ‘This is a seventeenth-century kopeck, m-minted in the reign of Tsar Alexei. How d-did it come to be in the home of a pauper, a drunken “pen-pusher”?’

When he heard it was a kopeck, Senka felt rotten. Some treasure that was! A handful of kopecks from some mouldy old tsar.

The door from the collidor opened and Boxman stuck his head in: ‘Your Honour, they’re coming!’

Erast Petrovich put the scale on the bed, where it could easily be seen.

‘That’s all, we’re going.’

‘Go that way, so you don’t bump into the superintendent,’ said Boxman, pointing. ‘You’ll come out into the Tatar Tavern.’

The gent waited for Masa and Senka to come out – he didn’t seem in any great hurry to scarper from the superintendent. But then, why bother running? If they heard steps, they could just dodge into the darkness and disappear.

‘I don’t think it’s a m-maniac,’ Erast Petrovich said to his servant. ‘And I wouldn’t exclude greed as a motive for the c-crime. Tell me, what do you think, were the eyes p-put out when the victims were alive or dead?’

Masa thought for a moment and smacked his lips.

‘Woman and chirdren, after they dead, and man whire he stirr arive.’

‘I came to the same c-conclusion.’

Senka shuddered. How could they have known Siniukhin was still alive at first? Were they magicians or what?

Erast Petrovich turned towards Boxman. Tell me, Boxman, have there been any similar c-crimes in Khitrovka, with the victims’ eyes being put out?’

There have, and very recently indeed. A young merchant who was stupid enough to wander into Khitrovka after dark was done away with. They robbed him, smashed his head in, took his wallet and his gold watch. And for some reason they put his eyes out, the fiends. And before that, about two weeks back, a gentleman reporter from the Voice was done to death. He wanted to write about the slums in his newspaper. He didn’t bring any money or his watch with him – he was an experienced man, it wasn’t his first time in Khitrovka. But he had a gold ring, with a diamond in it, and it wouldn’t come off his finger. So the vicious beasts did for him. Cut the finger off for the ring and put his eyes out too. That’s folks round here for you.’