Boris Akunin - Murder on the Leviathan

‘Thank you for the lecture,’ said Gauche, with an ironic bow.

‘And was it shame that made your client attempt to escape from custody too?’

‘That’s the point,’ agreed Jackson, suddenly transformed from enemy to ally. ‘The yellow bastard almost broke my wrist.’

‘Once again you have guessed correctly, Commissioner. It is impossible to escape from a steamship, there is nowhere to go. Believing his position to be hopeless and anticipating nothing but further humiliation, my client (as you insist on calling him) undoubtedly intended to lock himself in his cabin and commit suicide according to samurai ritual. Is that not right, Mr Aono?’

Fandorin asked, addressing the Japanese directly for the first time.

‘You would have been disappointed,’ the diplomat continued gently. ‘You must have heard that your ritual dagger was taken by the police during their search.’

‘Ah, you’re talking about that - what’s it called? - hira-kira, hari-kari.’ Gauche smirked into his moustache. ‘Rubbish. I don’t believe that a man could rip his own belly open. If you’ve really had enough of this world, it’s far better to brain yourself against the wall. But I won’t take you up on that either. There is one piece of evidence you can’t shrug off-the scalpel that is missing from his medical instruments. How do you explain that? Do you claim that the real culprit stole your client’s scalpel in advance because he was planning the murder and wanted to shift the blame onto Aono? That just won’t wash! How could the murderer know the professor would decide to tell us about his discovery immediately after dinner? And Sweetchild himself had only just guessed the secret of the shawl. Remember the state he was in when he came running into the saloon!’

‘Nothing could be easier for me than to explain the missing scalpel. It is not even a matter of supposition, but of hard fact Do you remember how things began disappearing from people’s cabins after Port Said? The mysterious spate of thefts ended as suddenly as it had begun. And do you remember when? It was after our black stowaway was killed. I have given a lot of thought to the question of why he was on board the Leviathan, and this is my explanation. The negro was probably brought here from darkest Africa by Arab slave traders, and naturally he arrived in Port Said by sea. Why do I think that? Because when he escaped from his masters, the negro didn’t simply run away, he boarded a ship. He evidently believed that since a ship had taken him away from his home, another ship could take him back.’

‘What has all this got to do with our case?’ Gauche interrupted impatiently. ‘This negro of yours died on the fifth of April, and Sweetchild was killed yesterday! To hell with you and your fairy tales! Jackson, take the prisoner away!’

The commissioner set off decisively towards the door, but the diplomat grabbed his elbow in a vice-like grip and said in a repulsively obsequious voice:

‘Dear M. Gauche, I would like to follow my arguments through to their conclusion. Please be patient for just a little while longer.’

Gauche tried to break free, but this young whippersnapper had fingers of steel. After his second attempt failed, the commissioner decided not to make himself look even more foolish.

He turned to face Fandorin.

‘Very well, five more minutes,’ he hissed, glaring into the insolent youth’s serene blue eyes.

‘Thank you. Five minutes will be more than enough to shatter your final piece of hard evidence … I knew that the runaway slave must have a lair somewhere on the ship, so I looked for it. But while you were searching the holds and the coal-holes, Captain, I started with the upper deck. The black man had only been seen by first-class passengers, so it was reasonable to assume that he was hiding somewhere close by. I found what I was looking for in the third lifeboat from the bow on the starboard side: the remains of his food and a bundle of his belongings. There were several pieces of coloured cloth, a string of beads and all sorts of shiny objects, including a small mirror, a sextant, a pince-nez and also a large scalpel.’

‘Why should I believe you?’ roared Gauche. His case was crumbling to dust before his very eyes.

‘Because I am a disinterested party who is prepared to confirm his testimony under oath. May I continue?’ The Russian smiled his sickening little smile. ‘Thank you. Our poor negro was evidently a thrifty individual who did not intend to return home empty-handed.’

‘Stop, stop!’ cried Renier, with a frown. ‘M. Fandorin, why did you not report your discovery to the captain and me? What right did you have to conceal it?’

‘I didn’t conceal it. I left the bundle where it was. But when I came back to the lifeboat a few hours later, after the search, the bundle was gone. I was sure it must have been found by your sailors. But now it seems that the professor’s murderer got there before you and claimed all the negro’s trophies, including Mr Aono’s scalpel. The c-criminal could have foreseen that he might need to take … extreme measures and carried the scalpel around with him as a precaution. It might help to put the police off the scent. Tell me, Mr Aono, was the scalpel stolen from you?’

The Japanese hesitated for a moment before nodding reluctantly.

‘And you did not mention it, because an officer of the imperial army could not possibly possess a scalpel, am I right?’

‘The sextant was mine!’ declared the redheaded baronet. ‘I thought … but that doesn’t matter. So it turns out that savage stole it. Gentlemen, if someone’s head is smashed in with my sextant, please bear in mind that it is nothing to do with me.’

Bewildered by this final and absolute disaster, Gauche squinted inquiringly at Jackson.

‘I’m very sorry, Commissioner, but it seems you will have to continue your voyage,’ the inspector said in French, twisting his thin lips into a smile of sympathy. ‘My apologies, Mr Aono. If you would just hold out your hands … Thank you.’

The handcuffs jangled plaintively as they were removed.

The silence that ensued was broken by Renate Kleber’s frightened voice:

‘I beg your pardon, gentlemen, but then who is the murderer?’

Bombay to the Palk Strait

170

Gintaro Aono

The 18th day of the fourth month

In view of the southern tip of the Indian peninsula It is now three days since we left Bombay, and I have not opened my diary even once since then. This is the first time such a thing has happened to me since I made it a firm rule to write every day. But I made the break deliberately. I had to come to terms with an overwhelming torrent of thoughts and feelings.

The essential significance of what has happened to me is best conveyed by a haiku that was born spontaneously at the very moment when the inspector of police removed the iron shackles from my wrists.

I realized immediately that it was a very good poem, the best that I have ever written, but its meaning is not obvious and requires elucidation. I have meditated for three days on the changes within my being, until I think I have finally discovered the truth.

I have been visited by the great miracle of which every man dreams - I have experienced satori, or catharsis, as the ancient Greeks called it. How many times has my mentor told me that if satori comes, it comes when it will and on its own terms, it cannot be induced or impeded! A man may be righteous and wise, he may sit in the zazen pose for many hours each day and read mountains of sacred texts, but still die unenlightened. And yet the radiant majesty of satori may be revealed to some ne’er-do-well who wanders aimlessly and foolishly through life, transforming his worthless existence in an instant! I am that ne’er-do-well. I have been lucky. At the age of 27 I have been born again.