Boris Akunin - Murder on the Leviathan

‘This is the Indian Ocean, madam, you would hardly have frozen to death,’ Renier said with a serious expression, and the stupid goat nodded her head imbecilically.

The Japanese appeared holding a pathetic, bright-coloured bundle … what could he have in there, a travelling hara-kiri kit?

The Lunatic came in looking dishevelled, clutching a small box, the kind normally used for holding writing instruments.

‘Who were you planning to write to, Mr Milford-Stokes? Ah, I understand! When Miss Stamp had drunk her orangeade, we could have stuck a letter in the bottle and sent it floating off across the ocean waves,’ suggested the lieutenant, who was obviously acting so jovially out of a sense of relief.

Now everyone was there except the professor and the diplomat.

‘M. Sweetchild is no doubt packing his scholarly works, and monsieur le russe is putting on the samovar for a final cup of tea,’ said Renate, infected by the lieutenant’s jolly mood.

And there was the Russian, speak of the devil. He stood by the door, with his handsome face as dark as a storm cloud.

‘Well, M. Fandorin, have you decided to take your prize with you in the boat?’ Renate inquired provocatively.

Everyone roared with laughter, but the Russian (even though it was rather witty) failed to appreciate the joke.

‘Commissioner Gauche,’ he said quietly. ‘Would you be so kind as to step out into the corridor. As quickly as you can.’

It was strange, but when he spoke these words the diplomat did not stammer once. Perhaps the nervous shock had cured him? Such things did happen.

Renate was on the point of joking about that too, but she bit her tongue. That would probably have been going too far.

‘What’s all the hurry?’ Watchdog asked gruffly. ‘Another teller of tales. Later, young man, later. First I want to hear the rest of what the professor has to say. Where has he got to?’

Fandorin looked at the commissioner expectantly, but when he realized that the old man was feeling obstinate and had no intention of going out into the corridor, he shrugged and said: ‘The professor will not be joining us.’

Gauche scowled.

‘And why would that be?’

‘What do you mean, he won’t be joining us?’ Renate put in.

‘He stopped just when it was getting interesting! That’s not fair!’

‘Professor Sweetchild has just been murdered,’ the diplomat announced coolly.

‘What’s that?’ Watchdog roared. ‘Murdered? What do you mean, murdered?’

‘I believe it was done with a surgical scalpel,’ the Russian replied with remarkable composure. ‘His throat was cut very precisely.’

‘Are they ever going to let us go ashore?’ Mme Kleber asked plaintively. ‘Everyone else is out strolling round Bombay, and we’re just sitting here doing nothing …’

The curtains were pulled across the windows to keep out the searing rays of the sun that scorched the deck and made the air sticky and suffocating. But although it was hot and stuffy in the Windsor saloon, everyone sat there patiently, waiting for the truth to be revealed.

Gauche took out his watch - a presentation piece with a profile portrait of Napoleon III - and replied vaguely: ‘Soon, ladies and gentlemen. I’ll let you out soon. But not all of you.’

At least he knew what he was waiting for: Inspector Jackson and his men were conducting a search. The murder weapon itself was probably lying at the bottom of the ocean, but some clues might have been left. They must have been left. Of course, there was plenty of circumstantial evidence anyway, but hard evidence always made a case look more respectable. It was about time Jackson put in an appearance …

The Leviathan had reached Bombay at dawn. Since the evening of the previous day all the Windsorites had been confined to their cabins under house arrest, and immediately the ship arrived in port Gauche had contacted the authorities, informed them of his own conclusions and requested their assistance.

They had sent Jackson and a team of constables. Come on, Jackson, get a move on, thought Gauche, wishing the inspector would stop dragging his feet. After a sleepless night the commissioner’s head felt as heavy as lead and his liver had started playing up, but despite everything he was feeling rather pleased with himself. He had finally unravelled the knots in the tangled thread, and now he could see where it led.

At half past eight, after finalizing his arrangements with the local police and spending some time at the telegraph office, Gauche had ordered the detainees to be assembled in the Windsor saloon - it would be more convenient for the search. He hadn’t even made an exception for Renate, who had been sitting beside him at the time of the murder and could not possibly have cut the professor’s throat. The commissioner had been watching over his prisoners for more than three hours now, occupying a strategic position in the deep armchair opposite his client, and there were two armed policemen standing outside the door of the saloon, where they could not be seen from inside.

The detainees were all too sweaty and nervous to make conversation. Renier dropped in from time to time, nodded sympathetically to Renate and went off again about his business.

The captain looked in twice, but he didn’t say anything, just gave the commissioner a savage glance - as if this whole mess was papa Gauche’s fault!

The professor’s deserted chair was like the gap left by a missing tooth. The Indologist himself was lying ashore, in the chilly vaults of the Bombay municipal morgue. The thought of the dark shadows and the blocks of ice almost made Gauche envy the dead man. Lying there, with all his troubles behind him, with no sweat-drenched collar cutting into his neck …

The commissioner looked at Dr Truffo, who did not seem very comfortable either: the sweat was streaming down his olive-skinned face and his English Fury kept whispering in his ear.

‘Why are you looking at me like that, monsieur!’ Truffo exploded when he caught the policeman’s glance. ‘Why do you keep staring at me? It’s absolutely outrageous! What right do you have? I’ve been a respectable medical practitioner for fifteen years …’ he almost sobbed. ‘What difference does it make if a scalpel was used? Anyone could have done it!’

‘Was it really done with a scalpel?’ Mile Stamp asked timidly.

It was the first time anyone in the saloon had mentioned what had happened.

‘Yes, only a very good quality scalpel produces such a clean incision,’ Truffo replied angrily. ‘I inspected the body. Someone obviously grabbed Sweetchild from behind, put one hand over his mouth and slit his throat with the other. The wall of the corridor is splattered with blood, just above the height of a man.

That’s because his head was pulled back …’

‘No great strength would have been required, then?’ asked the Russian. ‘The element of surprise would have b-been enough?’

The doctor gave a despondent shrug.

‘I don’t know, monsieur. I’ve never tried it.’

Aha, at last! The door half-opened and the inspector’s bony features appeared in the gap. The inspector beckoned to the commissioner, who grunted with the effort of hoisting himself out of the armchair.

There was a pleasant surprise waiting for the commissioner in the corridor. Everything had worked out quite splendidly! A thorough job, efficient and elegant. Solid enough to bring the jury in straight away, no lawyer would ever demolish evidence like that. Good old papa Gauche, he could still give any young whippersnapper a hundred points’ start. And well done Jackson for his hard work!

The four of them went back into the saloon together: the captain, Renier and Jackson, with Gauche bringing up the rear.