Boris Akunin - The Coronation

‘Back at the beginning of the century this used to be a warehouse that belonged to the Mobius brothers, the wine merchants,’ Erast Petrovich began explaining in a whisper, and I noticed that when he whispered the stammer disappeared completely from his speech. ‘The basement consists of wine cellars that go very deep. They say that they used to hold up to a thousand barrels of wine. In 1812 the French poured away what they didn’t drink and supposedly a stream of wine ran down the Yauza. The building is burnt out from the inside and the roof has collapsed, but the cellars have survived. That is where Stump has his residence. Do you see that fine young fellow?’

On looking more closely, I observed a ramp sloping down from the road to a pair of gates set well below the level of the street. There was a young fellow wearing a peaked cap just like Fandorin’s, standing with his back to the gates and eating sunflower seeds, spitting out the husks.

‘A sentry?’ I guessed.

‘Yes. We’ll wait for a while.’

I do not know how long the wait lasted, because my chronometer was still in my livery (something else to add to the list of losses: a silver Breguet awarded for honourable service – I regretted that most of all) but it was not just one hour or two, but more – I was already dozing off.

Suddenly I sensed that Fandorin’s entire body had gone tense, and my sleepiness disappeared as if by magic.

I could hear muffled voices from below.

‘Awl,’ said one.

‘Husk,’ replied the other. ‘Come on through. Got a message?’

I did not hear the answer to this incomprehensible question. A door in the gates opened and then closed, and everythingwent quiet again. The sentry lit up a hand-rolled cigarette and the lacquer peak of his cap glinted dully in the moonlight.

‘Right, I’m off,’ Fandorin whispered. ‘Wait here. If I wave, come down.’

Ten minutes later a slim figure approached the building, walking in a loose, slovenly manner. With a glance back over its shoulder, it loped springily down to the sentry.

‘Wotcher, Moscow. Guarding the wall?’

It was Fandorin of course, but for some reason his speech had acquired a distinct Polish accent.

‘Shove off back to where you came from,’ the sentry replied hostilely. ‘Or shall I tickle your belly with a pen?’

‘Why use a pen?’ Fandorin laughed. ‘That’s what an awl’s for. An awl, get it?’

‘Why didn’t you say so before?’ the sentry growled, taking his hand out of his pocket. ‘Husk. So who would you be then, a Polack? One of thatWarsaw mob, are you?’

‘That’s right. I need to see Stump.’

‘He’s not here. And he said as he wouldn’t be back today. Expect him tomorrow, he said, by nightfall.’ The bandit lowered his voice, but in the silence I could still hear what he said, and asked curiously, ‘They say as the narks done for your top man?’

‘That’s right,’ Fandorin sighed. ‘Blizna, and three other guys. So where’s Stump, then? I’ve got some business to talk over with him.’

‘He don’t report to me. You know the way the music plays nowadays, Polack. He’s on the prowl somewhere – ain’t shown his face since early morning. But he’ll be here tomorrow, for sure. And he’s put out the word for all the lads to come to a meet . . . Many of yourWarsaw mob left?’

‘Just three,’ Fandorin said with a wave of his hand. ‘Vatsek One-Eye’s in charge now. How many of yours?’

‘Counting Stump, seven. What’s this bazaar tomorrow, d’you know?’

‘Na-ah, they don’t tell us anything, treat us like mongrels . . . What’s your handle, Moscow?’

‘Code. And who are you?’

‘Striy. Shake?’

They shook hands and Fandorin glanced around and said: ‘Vatsek was spieling about some doktur or other. Did you hear anything?’

‘No, there wasn’t no yak about no doktur. Stump was talking about some big man. I asked him what sort of man it was. But you can’t get nothing out of him. No, he didn’t spiel about no doktur. What doktur’s that?’

‘Devil knows. Vatsek’s got a tight mouth too. So Stump’s not here?’

‘I told you, tomorrow, by nightfall. Come on in and have a banter with us. Only you know, Striy, our den’s not like the others – you won’t get no wine.’

‘How about a bit of hearts are trumps?’

‘Not done around here. For cards Stump’ll smash your neb in with his apple without thinking twice. Heard about the apple, have you?’

‘Who hasn’t heard about it. No, I won’t come in. It’s more fun round at our place. I’ll call round tomorrow. By nightfall, you say?’

And just then there was the sound of a clock striking the hour from the German church, a vague dark outline in the distance. I counted twelve strokes.

1 Symbolic, isn’t it?

2 Casket.

3 Are you mad, Georgie, or what?

4 Thank you, sir, thank you. I needed to hear that.

‘Roll up when them bells is clattering,’ said Code, jerking his head in the direction of the church. ‘Stump ordered the meet for midnight sharp. Righty-ho, Polack, be seeing you.’

Fandorin waddled away, and the Japanese jabbed me in the back and gestured to indicate that it was time to get down off the roof.

I will not tell you how I climbed down the drainpipe in the total darkness. It is best not to remember such things. I skinned my hands, ripped my long-suffering culottes wide open and finally jumped down straight into a puddle, but the important thing is that I did not break my arms or legs, for which, O Lord, I thank Thee.

We were unable to hire a cab for a long time, even after we left Khitrovka. Once they got a good look at the three of us, the night-time cabbies simply lashed on their horses without saying a word and disappeared into the night. Moreover, I got the impression that the drivers’ doubts were aroused, not so much by Fandorin and Masa, as by my own tattered and spattered personage.

Finally we got a cab – when we had already reached the KitaigorodWall. All the way back I was worried that Erast Petrovich would refuse to pay again, and I didn’t have a kopeck on me. But no, this time he did pay, and in fact more generously than he need have done, as if he were paying for both journeys at once.

In my condition it seemed inappropriate to go in through the gates and I suggested, with some embarrassment, that we should climb over the fence again, although, God knows, in the day just past I had done more than enough climbing over fences and roofs. However, Fandorin glanced at the brightly lit windows of the Hermitage glimmering through the trees and shook his head.

‘No, Ziukin, we’d better go in through the gates. Otherwise we’ll probably get shot as well.’

It was only then I realised that light in the windows at such a late hour was a strange and alarming sign. There were two men in civilian clothes standing beside the usual gatekeeper. And, on looking more closely, I noticed that there were indistinct figures in the gardenonthe other side of the railings. Gentlemen from the court police, there was nobody else they could possibly be. And that could only mean one thing: for some reason the sovereign had come to visit the Hermitage in the middle of the night.

After long explanations at the entrance which concluded with Somov being sent for and the humiliating confirmation of my identity (the expression on my Moscow assistant’s face was a sight to behold when I appeared before him in such a state) we were admitted, and as we walked along the drive to the house I saw several carriages. Something out of the ordinary was clearly going on.

In the hallway there was another ordeal in store for me: I came face to face with the governess.