Boris Akunin - Murder on the Leviathan

Gauche’s heart, the heart of an old sleuth (as the commissioner himself was fond of testifying), had thrilled to the lure of the hunt when this newcomer proved to have no golden badge - neither on the silk lapel of his dandified summer coat, nor on his jacket, nor on his watch chain. Warmer now, very warm, thought Gauche as he vigilantly scrutinized the fop from beneath his bushy brows and puffed on his favourite clay pipe. But of course, why had he, old dunderhead that he was, assumed that the murderer would definitely board the steamship at Southampton? The crime was committed on 15 March and today was already 1 April. It would have been perfectly easy to reach Port Said while the Leviathan was rounding the western contour of Europe. And there you had it, everything fitted: clearly the right kind of character for a client, plus a first-class ticket, plus the most important thing - no golden whale.

For some time now Gauche’s dreams had been haunted by that accursed badge with the acronym for the steamship company of the Jasper-Artaud Partnership, and without exception his dreams had been uncommonly bad ones. Take the most recent case, for instance.

The commissioner was out boating with Mme Gauche in the Bois de Boulogne. The sun was shining high in the sky and the birds were twittering in the trees. Suddenly a gigantic golden face with inanely goggling eyes loomed up over the treetops, opened cavernous jaws that could have accommodated the Arc de Triomphe with ease, and began sucking in the pond. Gauche broke into a sweat and laid into the oars. Meanwhile it transpired that events were not taking place in the park at all, but in the middle of a boundless ocean. The oars buckled like straws, Mme Gauche was jabbing him painfully in the back with her umbrella, and an immense gleaming carcass blotted out the entire horizon. When it spouted a fountain that eclipsed half the sky, the commissioner woke up and began fumbling around on his bedside table with trembling fingers - where were his pipe and those matches?

Gauche had first laid eyes on the golden whale on the rue de Grenelle when he was examining Lord Littleby’s mortal remains. The Englishman lay there with his open mouth frozen in a soundless scream - his false teeth had come halfway out and his forehead was crowned by a bloody souffle. Gauche squatted down on his haunches: he thought he had spotted a glint of gold between the corpse’s fingers. Taking a closer look, he chortled in delight. Here was a stroke of uncommonly good luck, the kind that only occurred in crime novels. The helpful corpse had literally handed the investigation an important clue and not even on a plate, but on the palm of its hand. There you are, Gustave, take that. Now may you die of shame if you dare let the person who smashed my head open get away, you old blockhead!

The golden emblem (at first, of course, Gauche had not known that it was an emblem, he had thought it was a bracelet charm or a monogrammed hairpin) could only have belonged to the murderer. But naturally, just to be sure, the commissioner had shown the whale to the junior manservant (what a lucky lad he was - 15 March was his day off and that had saved his life!), but the manservant had never seen his Lordship with the trinket before.

After that the entire ponderous mechanism of the police system had whirred into action, flywheels twirling and pinions spinning, as the minister and the prefect threw their very finest forces into solving the ‘Crime of the Century’. By the evening of the following day Gauche already knew that the three letters on the golden whale were not the initials of some high liver hopelessly mired in debt, but the insignia of a newly established Franco-British shipping consortium. The whale proved to be the emblem of the miracle-ship Leviathan, newly launched from the slipway at Bristol and currently being readied for its maiden voyage to India.

The newspapers had been trumpeting the praises of the gigantic steamship for more than a month. Now it transpired that on the eve of the Leviathan’s first sailing the London Mint had produced gold and silver commemorative badges: gold for the first-class passengers and senior officers of the ship, silver for second-class passengers and subalterns. Aboard this luxurious vessel, where the achievements of modern science were combined with an unprecedented degree of comfort, no provision at all was made for third class. The company guaranteed travellers a comprehensive service, making it unnecessary to take any servants along on the voyage. ‘The shipping line’s attentive valets and tactful maids are on hand to ensure that you feel entirely at home on the Leviathan,’ promised the advertisement printed in newspapers right across Europe. Those fortunate individuals who had booked a cabin for the first cruise from Southampton to Calcutta received a gold or silver whale with their ticket, according to their class - and a ticket could be booked in any major European port from London to Constantinople.

Very well then, the emblem of the Leviathan was not as good as the initials of its owner, but this only complicated the problem slightly, the commissioner had reasoned. There was a strictly limited number of gold badges. All he had to do was to wait until 19 March (that was the day appointed for the triumphant first sailing), go to Southampton, board the steamer and look to see which of the first-class passengers had no golden whale. Or else (which was more likely), which of the passengers who had laid out the money to buy a ticket failed to turn up for boarding. He would be papa Gauche’s client. Simple as potato soup.

Gauche thoroughly disliked travelling, but this time he couldn’t resist. He badly wanted to solve the ‘Crime of the Century’ himself. Who could tell, they might just give him a division at long last. He only had three years left to retirement.

A third-class pension was one thing, but a second-class pension was a different matter altogether. The difference was 1500 francs a year, and that kind of money didn’t exactly grow on trees.

In any case, he had put himself forward. He thought he would just nip across to Southampton and then, at worst, sail as far as Le Havre (the first stop) where there would be gendarmes and reporters lined up on the quayside. A tall headline in the Revue parisienne: ‘ “Crime of the Century” solved: our police rise to the occasion.’ Or better still: ‘Old sleuth Gauche pulls it off!’

Ha! The first unpleasant surprise had been waiting for the commissioner at the shipping line office in Southampton, where he discovered that the infernally huge steamship had 100 first class cabins and ten senior officers. The tickets had all been sold.

All 132 of them. And a gold badge had been issued with each and every one. A total of 142 suspects, if you please! But then only one of them would have no badge, Gauche had reassured himself.

On the morning of 19 March the commissioner, wrapped up against the damp wind in a warm woolly muffler, had been standing close to the gangway beside the captain, Mr Josiah Cliff, and the first lieutenant, M. Charles Renier. They were greeting the passengers. The brass band played English and French marching tunes by turns, the crowd on the pier generated an excited hubbub and Gauche puffed away in a rising fury, biting down hard on his entirely blameless pipe. For alas, due to the cold weather all of the passengers were wearing raincoats, overcoats, greatcoats or capotes. Now just try figuring out who has a badge and who doesn’t! That was unpleasant surprise number two.

Everyone who was due to board the steamship in Southampton had arrived, indicating that the criminal must have shown up for the sailing despite having lost the badge. Evidently he must think that policemen were total idiots. Or was he hoping to lose himself in such an immense crowd? Or perhaps he simply had no option?