Boris Akunin - He Lover of Death

The doctor didn’t answer, but Mr Nameless said: ‘Yes. S-Surgical intervention is required.’

The pair of them walked over to a house with lit-up windows. They knocked and went in, and Senka was left on his tod.

He waited for a long time. Maybe a whole hour. First he sat there, worrying about seeing the Ghoul in Yeroshenko’s basement. Then he just felt bored. And towards the end he started fretting that they’d be late. A couple of times he thought he heard some kind of creaking noise in the house. God only knew what they were getting up to.

Erast Petrovich finally came out – alone and without his leather cap. When he came closer, Senka saw that Mr Nameless was not looking as neat and tidy as before: his jacket was torn at the shoulder and there was a scratch on his forehead. He licked his right hand –the knuckles were oozing blood!

‘What happened?’ Senka asked, alarmed. ‘And where’s the doc? Is he staying with the patient?’

‘Let’s g-go,’ the engineer barked. ‘Show me your skill. Here’s an exam f-for you: if you can get us to Khitrovka in t-ten minutes, I’ll take you on the run as m-my assistant.’

Senka pulled on the throttle even harder than that first time. The automobile shot forward and tore into the night, swaying on its steel springs.

The engineer’s assistant! To Paris! With Erast Petrovich!

Oh Lord, don’t let the motor stall or overheat! Don’t let a tyre crack on a big cobble! Don’t let the transmission come uncoupled! You can do everything, Lord!

At the corner of Myasnitskaya Street the motor sneezed and died. A blockage!

Senka was choking on his tears as he blew off the carburettor, and that took two minutes at least. That stroke of bad luck meant he didn’t make it in time.

‘Stop,’ said the engineer at the intersection of the boulevard and Pokrovka Street. He looked at his Breguet watch. ‘Twelve m-minutes and ten seconds.’

Senka hung his head in shame and sobbed, wiping away the snot with his ginger sidelocks. Ah, Fortune, what a low, mean bitch you are.

‘An excellent result,’ said Erast Petrovich. ‘And the c-carburettor was cleaned in record time. Congratulations. I was j-joking about the ten minutes, of course. I hope you will n-not refuse to accompany me to Paris as my assistant? You know yourself that Masa is n-not suited to play that p-particular role. He will ride behind us in a carriage, c-carrying the spare wheels and other parts.’

Unable to believe his luck, Senka babbled: ‘And the three of us will go? All the way to Paris?’

Mr Nameless thought for a moment. ‘Well, you s-see, Senya,’ he said, ‘probably one other individual will g-go with us.’ Then he paused and added quietly, rather uncertainly, ‘Perhaps even t-two ...’

Well, we know who one of them is, don’t we now, Senka thought with a scowl. After all the fun and games Erast Petrovich had lined up for tonight, there’d be no way Death could stay in Moscow. But who could the other one be? Surely the sensei hadn’t decided to steal Fedora Nikitishna away from her husband?

Suddenly Senka felt sorry for the poor doorman Mikheich – how would he manage without his boiled fruit and his pies and Fedora’s sweet caresses? But he felt even sorrier for himself. It would be worse than the torments of hell to watch the engineer and Death settling into their love on the way to Paris. And it would be the last straw if that meant the record was never set!

Mr Nameless interrupted Senka’s musings when his Breguet jangled again.

‘Ten m-minutes to three. Time to b-begin the operation. I’m going to g-get the superintendent. I’ll leave the auto at the station –it will be s-safer there. And I’ll make sure that Solntsev only b-brings one assistant. And off you go, Senka, to Yeroshenko’s d-dosshouse, to the rendezvous. Lead the Ghoul through the underground p-passage, and don’t forget that you’re an idiot. Don’t say anything articulate, just b-bleat. There’ll be a critical moment when the P-Prince and Deadeye appear. If it looks as though things may t-turn nasty, the boy Motya can recover the g-gift of speech. Just say: “Silver – over there” and p-point. That will keep them busy at l-least until I arrive.’ The engineer pondered something for a moment and muttered under his breath. ‘It’s not g-good that I’ve been left without my Herstal, and there’s no t-time to get hold of another revolver ...’

‘But how can you go in there with those wolves with no pistol?’ Senka gasped. ‘You put it in your pocket, I saw you! Did you drop it somewhere, or what?’

‘That’s exactly what I d-did, dropped it . . . Never mind, we’ll m-manage without a revolver. The plan of operations d-does not require any shooting.’ Erast Petrovich smiled jauntily and flicked Senka’s false nose with his finger. ‘And n-now, my Jew, it’s up to you.’

Agh, he was so sick of this damned Yerokha – this rotten musty cellar smell, this pitch-black darkness, those muffled sounds coming from behind the doors of the ‘apertiments’ – even in the dead of night the people living underground were still squabbling, or fighting, or singing in their ugly voices, or crying. But as he went farther and farther along the damp corridors, into the bowels of the Yerokha, it got quieter and quieter, as if the earth itself had swallowed up all the sounds of human living, or existence, to use the scholarly term. And then the memories came flooding back, a hundred times worse than the stench of the basement and the raucous drunken bawling.

This was where the unknown killer had attacked Senka from behind, pulling his hair and almost breaking his neck – Senka’s hand reached up of its own accord to make the sign of the cross.

The Siniukhin family had lived behind that door there – he suddenly thought he could see them staring out of the darkness with their crimson holes of eyes. Brrrr . . .

Two more turns, and there was the hall with the columns, curse the godforsaken place. This was where all the trouble started.

This was the spot where Prokha had lain dead on the ground. Now he’d step out of the darkness, with his fingers spread wide, ready to grab. Ah-a-ah, he’d say, Speedy, you scum, I’ve been waiting for you for ages. It was your fault I met my death.

Senka dashed on quick to get as far away as he could from that bad place, glancing behind him – just to be on the safe side – and ready to cross himself if he saw a phantasmagoria.

He should have looked where he was going instead.

He ran straight into something, only it wasn’t a column, because the supports holding up the ceiling were hard, made of bricks, and this thing he’d run into was springy and it grabbed Senka round the throat with its hands. Then it hissed: ‘Here at last, are you? Now, where’s this Yiddish treasure of yours?’

The Ghoul! He was here already, waiting in the darkness!

Senka bleated in fright.

‘Ah, yes, you’re dumb, aren’t you?’ The terrifying man breathed the words right into Senka’s face then let go of his throat. ‘Come on then, show me the way.’

He really had come alone! He didn’t want to share the riches with his comrades. Now that was real greed for you.

Senka bleated and gurgled a bit more, then led the milker to the corner behind the last column. He pulled out the stones, slipped through the hole and waved his hand: Follow me!

He walked as slowly as he could, even though the Ghoul had lit a lamp and he could have got to the treasure in five minutes. But what was the hurry? He’d only have to spend fifteen minutes billing and cooing with this villainous malefactor, until Death brought her own monsters, the Prince and Deadeye. And then . . . but it was better not to think about what would happen then.