Boris Akunin - Murder on the Leviathan

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### Amazon.com Review
Usually, crime writers who give birth to protagonists deserving of future series want to feature those characters as prominently as possible in subsequent installments. Not so Boris Akunin, who succeeds his celebrated first novel about daring 19th-century Russian sleuth Erast Fandorin, __, with the less inventive *Murder on the Leviathan*, in which the now former Moscow investigator competes for center stage with a swell-headed French police commissioner, a crafty adventuress boasting more than her fair share of aliases, and a luxurious steamship that appears fated for deliberate destruction in the Indian Ocean.
Following the 1878 murders of British aristocrat Lord Littleby and his servants on Paris's fashionable Rue de Grenelle, Gustave Gauche, "Investigator for Especially Important Crimes," boards the double-engined, six-masted *Leviathan* on its maiden voyage from England to India. He's on the lookout for first-class passengers missing their specially made gold whale badges--one of which Littleby had yanked from his attacker before he died. However, this trap fails: several travelers are badgeless, and still others make equally good candidates for Littleby's slayer, including a demented baronet, a dubious Japanese army officer, a pregnant and loquacious Swiss banker's wife, and a suave Russian diplomat headed for Japan. That last is of course Fandorin, still recovering two years later from the events related in *The Winter Queen*. Like a lesser Hercule Poirot, "papa" Gauche grills these suspects, all of whom harbor secrets, and occasionally lays blame for Paris's "crime of the century" before one or another of them--only to have the hyper-perceptive Fandorin deflate his arguments. It takes many leagues of ocean, several more deaths, and a superfluity of overlong recollections by the shipmates before a solution to this twisted case emerges from the facts of Littleby's killing and the concurrent theft of a valuable Indian artifact from his mansion.
Like the best Golden Age nautical mysteries, *Murder on the Leviathan* finds its drama in the escalating tensions between a small circle of too-tight-quartered passengers, and draws its humor from their over-mannered behavior and individual eccentricities. Trouble is, Akunin (the pseudonym of Russian philologist Grigory Chkhartishvili) doesn't exceed expectations of what can be done within those traditions. *--J. Kingston Pierce*
### From Publishers Weekly
Akunin writes like a hybrid of Caleb Carr, Agatha Christie and Elizabeth Peters in his second mystery to be published in the U.S., set on the maiden voyage of the British luxury ship *Leviathan*, en route to India in the spring of 1878. Akunin's young Russian detective/diplomat protagonist, Erast Fandorin, has matured considerably since his debut in last year's highly praised *The Winter Queen*, set in 1876, and proves a worthy foil to French police commissioner Gustave Gauche, who boards the *Leviathan* because a clue suggests that one of the passengers murdered a wealthy British aristocrat, seven servants and two children in his Paris home and stole priceless Indian treasures. The intuitive, methodical Fandorin, who joins the ship at Port Said, soon slyly takes over the investigation and comes up with an eclectic group of suspects, all with secrets to hide, whom Gauche assigns to the same dining room. The company recite humorous or instructive stories that slow down the action but eventually relate to the identification of the killer. Gauche offers at least four solutions to the crimes, but in each case Fandorin debates or debunks his reasoning. The atmospheric historical detail gives depth to the twisting plot, while the ruthless yet poignant arch villain makes up for a cast of mostly cardboard characters. Readers disappointed by the lack of background on Fandorin will find plenty in *The Winter Queen*.
Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved.

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You guessed from the way the commissioner was behaving that he had the shawl, and your first thought was not of defence, but attack! You wanted to get back the key to the treasure, and you did.’

‘Why must I listen to this nonsense?’ Renate exclaimed in a tearful voice. ‘You, monsieur, are nobody and nothing. A mere foreigner! I demand that my case be handled by one of the ship’s senior officers!’

The little doctor suddenly straightened his shoulders, stroked a strand of hair forward across his olive-skinned bald patch and declared:

‘There is a senior ship’s officer present, madam. You may regard this interrogation as sanctioned by the ship’s command.

Continue, M. Fandorin. You say that this woman managed to get the shawl away from the commissioner?’

‘I am certain of it. I do not know how she managed to get hold of Gauche’s revolver. The poor fool was probably not afraid of her at all. But somehow she managed it and demanded the shawl. When the old man wouldn’t give it to her, she shot him, first in one arm, then in the other, then in the knee. She tortured him! Where did you learn to shoot like that, madam?

Four shots, and all perfectly placed. I’m afraid it is rather hard to believe that Gauche chased you round the table with a wounded leg and two useless arms. After the third shot he couldn’t stand any more pain and gave you the shawl. Then you finished your victim off with a shot to the centre of the forehead.’

‘Oh God!’ Mrs Truffo exclaimed unnecessarily.

But Clarissa was more concerned about something else.

‘Then she has the shawl?’

‘Yes,’ said Erast with a nod.

‘Nonsense! Rubbish! You’re all crazy!’ Renate (or Marie Sanfon?) laughed hysterically. ‘Lord, this is such grotesque nonsense!’

This is easy to check,’ said the Japanese. ‘We must search Mme Kleber. If she does not have the shawl, then Mr Fandorin is mistaken. In such cases in Japan we cut our bellies open.’

‘No man’s hands shall ever search a lady in my presence!’ declared Sir Reginald, rising to his feet with a menacing air.

‘What about a woman’s hands?’ asked Clarissa. ‘Mrs Truffo and I will search this person.’

‘Oh yes, it would take no time at all,’ the doctor’s wife agreed eagerly.

‘Do as you like with me,’ said Renate, pressing her hands together like a sacrificial victim. ‘But afterwards you will be ashamed …’

The men went out and Mrs Truffo searched the prisoner with quite remarkable dexterity. She glanced at Clarissa and shook her head.

Clarissa suddenly felt afraid for poor Erast. Could he really have made a mistake?

‘The shawl is very thin,’ she said. ‘Let me have a look.’

It was strange to feel her hands on the body of another woman, but Clarissa bit her lip and carefully examined every seam, every fold and every gather on the underwear. The shawl was not there.

‘You will have to get undressed,’ she said resolutely. It was terrible, but it was even more terrible to think that the shawl would not be found. What a blow for Erast. How could he bear it?

Renate raised her arms submissively to make it easier to remove her dress and said timidly:

‘In the name of all that is holy, Mile Stamp, do not harm my child.’

Gritting her teeth, Clarissa set about unfastening Renate’s dress. When she reached the third button there was a knock at the door and Erast’s cheerful voice called out:

‘Ladies, stop the search! May we come in?’

‘Yes, yes, come in!’ Clarissa shouted, quickly fastening the buttons again.

The men had a mysterious air about them. They took up a position by the table without saying a word. Then, with a magician’s flourish, Erast spread out on the tablecloth a triangular piece of fabric that shimmered with all the colours of the rainbow.

‘The shawl!’ Renate screeched.

‘Where did you find it?’ asked Clarissa, feeling totally confused.

‘While you were searching Mile Sanfon, we were busy too,’

Fandorin explained with a smug expression. ‘It occurred to me that this prudent individual could have hidden the incriminating clue in the commissioner’s cabin. But she only had a few seconds, so she could not have hidden it too thoroughly. It did not take long to find the crumpled shawl where she had thrust it under the edge of the carpet. So now we can all admire the famous bird of paradise, Kalavinka.’

Clarissa joined the others at the table and they all gazed spellbound at the scrap of cloth for which so many people had died.

The shawl was shaped like an isosceles triangle, with sides no longer than about 20 inches. The colours of the painting were brilliant and savage. A strange creature with pointed breasts, half-woman and half-bird like the sirens of ancient times, stood with its wings unfurled against a background of brightly coloured trees and fruit. Her face was turned in profile and instead of an eye the long curving lashes framed a small hole that had been painstakingly trimmed with stitches of gold thread.

Clarissa thought she had never seen anything more beautiful in her life.

‘Yes, it’s the shawl all right,’ said Sir Reginald. ‘But how does your find prove Mme Kleber’s guilt?’

‘What about the travelling bag?’ Fandorin asked in a low voice. ‘Do you remember the travelling bag that we found in the captain’s launch yesterday? One of the things I saw in it was a cloak that we have often seen on the shoulders of Mme Kleber. The travelling bag is now part of the material evidence.

No doubt other items belonging to our good friend here will also be found in it.’

‘What reply can you make to that, madam?’ the doctor asked Renate.

‘The truth,’ she replied, and in that instant her face changed beyond all recognition.

Reginald Milford-Stokes

… then suddenly her face was transformed beyond all recognition, as though someone had waved a magic wand and the weak, helpless little lamb crushed by a cruel fate was instantly changed into a ravening she-wolf She straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin, her eyes suddenly ablaze and her nostrils flaring as if the woman before us had turned into a deadly predator - no, not a she-wolf one of the big cats, a panther or lioness who has scented fresh blood. I recoiled, I could not help it. My protection was certainly no longer required here!

The transformed Mme Kleber cast Fandorin a glance of searing hatred that pierced even that imperturbable gentleman’s defences. He shuddered.

I could sympathize entirely with this strange woman’s feelings. My own attitude to the contemptible Russian has also changed completely.

He is a terrible man, a dangerous lunatic with a fantastic, monstrously depraved imagination. How could I ever have respected and trusted him? I can hardly even believe it now!

I simply do not know how to tell you this, my sweet Emily. My hand is trembling with indignation as it holds the pen. At first I intended to conceal it from you, but I have decided to tell you after all. Otherwise it will be hard for you to understand the reason for the metamorphosis in my feelings towards Fandorin.

Yesterday night, after all the shocks and upheavals that I have described above, Fandorin and I had an extremely strange conversation that left me feeling both perplexed and furious. The Russian approached me and thanked me for saving the ship, and then, positively oozing sympathy and stammering over every word, he began talking the most unimaginable, monstrous drivel. What he said was literally this I remember it word for word: ‘I know of your grief Sir Reginald.

Commissioner Gauche told me everything a long time ago. Of course, it was none of my business, and I have thought long and hard before deciding to speak to you about it, but when I see how greatly you are suffering, I cannot remain indifferent. The only reason I dare to say all this is that I have suffered a similar grievous loss, and my reason was also undermined by the shock. I have managed to preserve my reason, and even hone its edge to greater sharpness, but the price I had to pay for survival was a large piece of my heart. But believe me, in your situation there is no other way. Do not hide from the truth, no matter how terrible it might be, and do not seek refuge in illusion. Above all, do not blame yourself. It is not your fault that the horses bolted, or that your pregnant wife was thrown out of the carriage and killed. This is a trial, a test ordained for you by fate. I cannot understand what need there could possibly be to subject a man to such cruelty, but one thing I do know: if you do not pass this test, it means the end, the death of your very soul.’

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