Boris Akunin: The Winter Queen

THE BLACK VELVET CLOAK was easily visible from a distance, and Fandorin had overtaken his suspect in a trice but he hesitated to hail him by name. What accusation could he actually put to him? Even supposing he were to be identified by the shopkeeper Kukin and the spinster Pfühl (at this point Erast Fandorin sighed heavily as he recalled Lizanka yet again for the umpteenth time), then what of it? Would it not be better to follow the guidance of the great Fouché, * BORIS AKUNIN Translated by Andrew Bromfield THE WINTER QUEEN that incomparable luminary of criminal investigation, and shadow the object of his interest?

No sooner said than done. Especially as shadowing the student proved to be quite easy: Akhtyrtsev was strolling at a leisurely pace in the direction of Tverskaya Street, without looking around, merely glancing after the pretty young milliners every now and then. Several times Erast Fandorin boldly stole up very close to the student and even heard him carelessly whistling Smith's serenade from The Fair Maid of Perth . The failed suicide (if, indeed, this were he) was clearly in the most cheerful of moods. The student halted outside Korf's tobacco shop and spent a long time surveying the boxes of cigars in the window, but he did not go in.

Fandorin was beginning to feel convinced that his mark was idling away the minutes until some appointed time. This conviction was reinforced when Akhtyrtsev took out a gold pocket watch and nicked open its lid, then increased his pace as he set off up the sidewalk, switching into a rendition of the more decisive "Boys' Chorus" from the new-style opera Carmen .

Turning into Kamergersky Lane, the student stopped whistling and stepped out so briskly that Erast Fandorin was obliged to drop back a little, otherwise it would have looked too suspicious. Fortunately, before he reached the fashionable ladies' salon of Darzans, the mark slowed his pace and shortly thereafter came to a complete halt. Fandorin crossed over to the opposite side of the street and took up his post beside a bakery that breathed out the fragrant aromas of fancy pastries.

For about fifteen minutes, perhaps even twenty, Akhtyrtsev, displaying ever more obvious signs of nervousness, strode to and fro in front of the decorative oak doors of the shop, into which from time to time busy-looking ladies disappeared and from which deliverymen emerged bearing elegantly wrapped bundles and boxes. Waiting in a line along the pavement were several carriages, some even with coats of arms on their lacquered doors. At seventeen minutes past two (Erast Fandorin noted the time from a clock in the shop window) the student suddenly roused himself and dashed over to a slim, elegant lady wearing a short veil, who had emerged from the shop. Doffing his peaked cap, he began saying something, gesturing with his arms. Fandorin crossed the road with an expression of boredom on his face — after all, why should he not also wish to drop into Darzans?

"I have no time for you just at present," he heard the lady declare in a clear voice. She was dressed in the latest Parisian fashion, in a dress of lilac watered silk with a train. "Later. Come after seven, as usual. Everything will be decided there."

Paying no more attention to the agitated Akhtyrtsev, she walked off toward a two-seater phaeton with an open roof.

"But, Amalia! Amalia Kazimirovna, by your leave!" the student called out after her. "I was rather counting on a discussion in private."

"Later, later!" the lady flung back at him. "I'm in a hurry at the moment!"

A faint breath of wind lifted the light, gauzy veil from her face, and Erast Fandorin froze in astonishment. He had seen those languid, night-black eyes, that Egyptian oval face, those capriciously curving lips before, and once seen, such a face can never be forgotten. It was she, the mysterious A.B., who had bidden the unfortunate Kokorin never to forswear his love! Now the case was certainly assuming a completely different complexion.

Akhtyrtsev halted in dismay on the pavement, his head drawn back gracelessly into his shoulders (a slouch, a quite distinct slouch, Erast Fandorin noted conclusively), and meanwhile the phaeton unhurriedly bore the Egyptian queen away in the direction of Petrovka Street. Fandorin had to make a decision, and judging that the student would be easy enough to locate again, he abandoned him to his fate and set off at a run toward the corner of Bolshaya Dmitrovka Street, where a line of taxi-cabs was standing.

"Police," he hissed at the drowsy Ivan in a peaked cap and padded caftan. "Quick, follow that carriage! And get a move on! Don't worry, you'll be paid the full fare."

His Ivan drew himself up, pushed back his sleeves with exaggerated zeal, shook the reins, gave a bark, and his dappled nag set off, its hoofs clip-clopping loudly against the cobbles of the road.

At the corner of Rozhdestvenka Street a dray carrying a load of planks swung out across the roadway, blocking it completely. In extreme agitation Erast Fandorin leapt to his feet and even rose up on the tips of his toes, gazing after the phaeton, which had slipped through ahead of the obstruction. He was fortunate in just managing to catch a glimpse of it as it turned onto Bolshaya Lubyanka Street.

Never mind, God was merciful. They caught up with the phaeton at Sretenka Street, just as it plunged into a narrow and hunchbacked side street. The wheels of the cab began bouncing over potholes. Fandorin saw the phaeton halt, and he prodded his cabby in the back to tell him to drive on and not give the game away. He deliberately turned to face the opposite direction, but out of the very corner of his eye he saw the lilac lady being greeted with a bow from some tall, liveried servant at the entrance to a neat little stone mansion. Around the first corner Erast Fandorin let his cab go and set off slowly in the direction from which he had come, as if he were out for a stroll. This time as he approached the neat little mansion he was able to take a good look at it: a mezzanine with a green roof, curtains covering the windows, a front porch with a projecting roof. But he was unable to discern any brass plaque on the door.

There was, however, a yardkeeper in an apron and a battered peaked cap sitting in idle boredom on a bench by the wall. It was toward him that Erast Fandorin directed his steps.

"Tell me, my friend," he began as he approached, extracting twenty kopecks of state funds from his pocket, "whose house is this?"

"That's no secret," the yardkeeper replied vaguely, following the movement of Fandorin's fingers with interest.

"Take that. Who was that lady who arrived not long ago?"

The yardkeeper took the money and replied gravely, "The house belongs to General Maslov's wife, only she doesn't live here — she rents it out. And the lady is the tenant, Miss Bezhetskaya, Amalia Kazimirovna Bezhetskaya."

"And who is she?" Erast Fandorin pressed him. "Has she been living here long? Does she have many visitors?"

The yardkeeper stared at him in silence, chewing on his lips. Some incomprehensible process was working itself out in his brain.

"I'll tell you what, boss," he said, rising to his feet and suddenly seizing tight hold of Fandorin's sleeve. "You just hang on a moment."

He dragged the vainly resisting Fandorin across to the porch and gave a tug on the clapper of a small bronze bell.

"What are you doing?" the horrified sleuth exclaimed, making futile attempts to free himself. "I'll show you… Have you any idea who…"

The door opened and the doorway was filled by a tall servant in livery with immense, sandy-colored side-whiskers and a clean-shaven chin. It was clear at a glance that he was no Russian.

"He's been snooping around asking questions about Amalia Kazimirovna," the villainous yardkeeper reported in a sugary voice. "And offering money, too, sir. I didn't take it, sir. So what I thought, John Karlich, was…"