Boris Akunin - He Lover of Death

Senka watched as the black rod turned white and shiny under the rag.

‘Huh?’

The jeweller looked as if he was figuring something out. ‘How would you like double the weight? Like the thaler, right?’

‘What?’

‘Triple, then,’ Samshitov corrected himself quickly. He put the rod on the balance. ‘There’s almost five pounds of silver here. Let’s say five on the dot.’ He clicked the beads on the abacus. ‘That’s a hundred and fifteen roubles and twenty kopecks. And I’ll give you triple weight, three hundred and forty-six roubles. Even three hundred and fifty. No, four hundred. An entire four hundred! Four hundred, eh? What do you say?’

Senka said: ‘What?’

‘I don’t keep that much money in the shop, I have to go to the bank.’ He ran out from behind the counter and gazed into Senka’s eyes. ‘You have to understand. A commodity like this requires a lot of work. Before you can find the right buyer. Numismatists are a special breed.’

‘What?’

‘Numismatists are collectors of units of currency – coins and notes,’ the jeweller explained, but that didn’t leave Senka any the wiser.

In his time, Senka had seen plenty of these numismatists, who loved nothing more than collecting money – his Uncle Zot for starters.

‘And how many of them are there, who want these rods?’ Senka asked, still suspecting a trick.

‘In Moscow, maybe twenty. In Petersburg, twice as many. If you send them abroad, there are lots of people wanting to buy them there too.’ The big-nosed jeweller flinched. ‘You said “rods”? You mean you’ve got more of them? And you’re willing to sell?’

‘At four hundred a time?’ Senka asked with a gulp. He remembered how many of those sticks there were underground in the vault.

‘Yes, yes. How many do you have?’

Senka said warily: ‘I could get hold of about five.’

‘Five thaler rods! When can you bring them to me?’

Now this was where he had to show a bit of dignity, not do himself down. Let on what a difficult business it was. Not something just anyone could manage. So he paused for a while then said grandly: ‘In about two hours, not before.’

‘Ninochka,’ the jeweller yelled to his wife. ‘Close the shop! I’m going to the bank!’

The exotic bird was delighted with all the shouting and started to squawk: ‘To the bank! To the bank! To the bank!’

Senka walked out of the shop to the sound of its screeching.

He had to lean his hand against the wall – he was really staggering.

How about that? Four hundred roubles for a rod! It was just like a dream.

Before he went back underground, Senka called round to Kho-khlovsky Lane. To see whether those two had done anything to offend Tashka, and in general –just to say thank you.

Thank God, they hadn’t touched her.

Tashka was sitting in the same place on the bed, combing her hair – she was going out working soon. She’d already tarted up her face: black eyebrows and eyelashes, red cheeks, glass earrings.

‘That slanty-eyed one sends his regards,’ Tashka said as she wound the hair at her temple onto a stick to make it curly. ‘And the dream-boat said he would look out for you.’

Senka didn’t like the sound of that at all. What did that mean –‘look out’ for him? Was he threatening him or what? Never mind, he’d never get his hands on Senka now, he’d never find him. Senka’s life was going to be different from now on.

‘I tell you what,’ he told Tashka. ‘You drop all this. You don’t need to keep walking the streets. I’ll take you away from Khitrovka, we’ll live together. You should just see how much money I’ve got now.’

At first Tashka was delighted, she even started whirling round the room. Then she stopped. ‘Can Mum come too?’

‘All right.’ Senka sighed and looked at the drunken woman – she still hadn’t slept it off. ‘Your mum can come too.’

‘No, she can’t leave this place. Let her die in peace. When she dies, you can take me away.’

He tried to talk her round but she just wouldn’t listen. Senka gave her all the crunch he’d got from the jeweller. Why be greedy? Soon he’d have all the money anyone could ever want.

And now he had to go back into the Yerokha, where the passage to the treasure was.

They were just carrying the dead bodies out of the doors of the flophouse when he arrived. They flung them into a cart – two large sackcloth bundles, one a bit smaller and one that was tiny.

People stood there, gawping, and some crossed themselves.

Three men came out: an official in specs, Superintendent Solntsev and a man with a beard carrying a photographic box on a tripod.

The superintendent and the official shook hands, the photographer just nodded.

‘Innokentii Romanovich, be sure to keep me up to date with new developments at all times,’ the man in specs ordered as he got into a four-wheel carriage. ‘Without your agents in Khitrovka, we won’t get anywhere.’

‘Certainly,’ the superintendent said with a nod, stroking his curled moustache.

The parting in his hair gleamed so bright it was almost blinding. He was a fine figure of a man, no denying that, even if he was a lousy snake – everyone in Khitrovka knew that.

And make a special effort not to get the reporters so . . . worked up. No colourful details. There’ll be more than enough rumours anyway . . .’ The official waved his hand forlornly.

‘But of course. Don’t concern yourself, Khristian Karlovich.’ Solntsev wiped his forehead with a pure white handkerchief, then put his cap back on.

The carriage drove off.

‘Boxman!’ the superintendent yelled. ‘Yeroshenko! Where have you got to?’

Another two men appeared out of the dark pit: Boxman and the owner of the flophouse, the famous Afanasii Lukich Yeroshenko. A big man, and his head was worth its weight in gold. A native Khi-trovkan, he started as a waiter in a tavern, then rose to tavern keeper. He dealt in swag, naturally, but nowadays he was a respected citizen, he had crosses and medals, went to the governor general’s place at Easter to exclaim ‘Christ is arisen!’ and give him the triple kiss. He had three flophouses like this, a wine business and shops. In short, he was millionaire.

‘The newspapermen will come running soon,’ Solntsev told them with a laugh. ‘Tell them everything, let them go anywhere they like, show them the scene of the crime. And don’t even think of washing away the blood. But don’t answer any questions about the progress of the investigation – send them to me for that.’

As Senka watched the superintendent he was amazed. What a brazen rogue, what a louse! He’d promised that man in specs – and now look what he was doing. And he wasn’t ashamed to do it in front of people, either. Although to him they probably weren’t people at all.

The superintendent was not respected in Khitrovka. He didn’t keep his word, he knew no shame and he was incredibly greedy. The others before him had been real numismatists too, but he’d outdone them all. If you’re taking a cut from the dives where the mamselles work, then take it, it’s your right. But he was the first superintendent who wasn’t too squeamish to use the whores for himself. Of course, he chose the pricier ones, the ten-rouble tarts, but there was never any question of the girl getting paid for her trouble, or even getting a present. And he treated his narks to them too. There was nothing worse for a whore than ending up at the Third Myasnitskaya Station when they ‘broke their fast’. They picked them up for nothing, stuck them in the ‘hen coop’, and anyone who felt like it could horse around with them. The grandfathers went to Boxman and asked whether he would let them have the superintendent knifed, or maybe have a big stone dropped on him. Not so as to kill him, of course, but enough to make him see sense. Boxman wouldn’t have it. Be patient, he said, His Worship’s only just shown up, and he won’t hang around. He’s aiming high, making his name.