Read The Diamond Chariot Online
Authors: Boris Akunin
‘Erast Petrovich!’ a voice called from somewhere far away. ‘Fandorin! Is it all right if I come in?’
What happened after that took less than a second.
In two absolutely silent leaps the old Japanese was by the window; he jumped up, somersaulted in the air, propping one hand against the windowsill as he flew over it, and disappeared.
And then Vsevolod Vitalievich appeared in the doorway – in a panama hat and carrying a cane, ready for their pedestrian excursion.
A prickling sensation ran across Fandorin’s neck, and he discovered that he could turn his head.
He turned it, but he couldn’t see the old man any more – just the curtain swaying at the window.
‘Now, what’s this I see? An adder!’ Doronin shouted. ‘Don’t move!’
The startled snake darted off Erast Petrovich’s chest and made for the corner of the room.
The consul dashed after it and started beating it with his cane – so furiously that the stick broke in half at the third blow.
The titular counsellor raised the back of his head off the carpet – the paralysis seemed to be gradually passing off.
‘Am I asleep?’ he babbled, barely able to control his tongue. ‘I dreamed I saw a snake …’
‘It was no dream,’ said Doronin, wrapping his handkerchief round his fingers and squeamishly lifting the reptile up by its tail.
He examined it, shifting his spectacles down to the end of his nose, then carried it to the window and threw it out. He cast a disapproving glance at Masa and heaved a sigh.
Then he took a chair, sat down facing his feebly stirring assistant and fixed him with a severe stare.
‘Now then, my dear,’ the consul began sternly. ‘Let’s have no nonsense, everything out in the open. What an angel he made himself out to be yesterday! Doesn’t go to brothels, has never even heard of opium addicts …’ Doronin drew a deep breath in through his nose. ‘Not a whiff of opium here, though. So you prefer injections? Do you know what they call what has happened to you? Narcotic swoon. Don’t shake your head, I wasn’t born yesterday! Shirota told me about your heroics yesterday in the gambling den. A fine servant you’ve picked up for yourself! Did he procure the drug for you! Of course, who else! He took some himself, and obliged his master at the same time. Tell me one thing, Fandorin. Only honestly now! How long have you been addicted to drugs?’
Erast Fandorin groaned and shook his head.
‘I believe you. You’re still so young, don’t destroy yourself! I warned you: the drug is deadly dangerous if you’re not capable of keeping yourself in hand. You were very nearly killed just now – by an absurd coincidence! A
mamusi
crept into the room while both of you were in a narcotic trance – that is, in a completely helpless state!’
‘Who?’ the titular counsellor asked in a weak voice. ‘Who c-crept in?’
‘A
mamusi
. A Japanese adder. It’s a gentle-sounding name, but in May, after the winter hibernation,
mamusis
are extremely dangerous. If one bites you on the arm or leg, that’s not too bad, but a bite on the neck is certain death. Sometimes
mamusis
swim into the Settlement along the canals from the paddy fields and they get into courtyards, or even houses. Last year one of those reptiles bit the son of a Belgian businessman and they couldn’t save him. Well, why don’t you say something?’
Erast Petrovich didn’t say anything, because he didn’t have the strength for any explanations. And what could he have said? That there was an old man in the room, with eyes like blazing coals, and then he just flew out of the window? That would only have reinforced the consul’s certainty that his assistant was an inveterate drug addict who suffered from hallucinations. Better postpone the fantastic story until later, when his head stopped spinning and his speech was articulate again.
And in all honesty, the young man himself was no longer absolutely sure that it had all been real. Did things like that actually happen?
‘But I didn’t imagine the little old man with the snake in his sleeve who can jump so high. And I have reliable p-proof of that. I’ll present it to you a little later,’ Fandorin concluded, and glanced round at his listeners: Sergeant Lockston, Inspector Asagawa and Dr Twigs.
The titular counsellor had spent the entire previous day flat on his back, slowly recovering, and his strength had been completely restored only after ten hours of deep sleep.
And now here, in the police station, he was telling the members of the investigative group the incredible story of what had happened to him.
Asagawa asked:
‘Mr Vice-Consul, are you quite certain that it was the same old man who struck the captain in the Rakuen?’
‘Yes. Masa didn’t see him in the bedroom, but when, with the help of an interpreter, I asked him to describe the man from the Rakuen, the descriptions matched: height, age and even that special, piercing gaze. It’s him, no doubt about it. After having made this interesting g-gentleman’s acquaintance, I am quite prepared to believe that he inflicted a fatal injury on Blagolepov with a single touch. “
Dim-mak
”, I think it’s called – isn’t that right, Doctor?’
‘But why did he want to kill you?’ asked Twigs.
‘Not me. Masa. The old conjuror had somehow found out that the investigation had a witness who could identify the killer. The plan, obviously, was to put my valet to sleep and set the
mamusi
on him, so that it would look like an unfortunate accident – especially since the same thing had already happened in the Settlement before. My sudden appearance prevented the plan from being carried through. The visitor was obliged to deal with me, and he did it so deftly that I was unable to offer the slightest resistance. I can’t understand why I’m still alive … there’s a whole host of questions – enough to set my head spinning. But the most important one is: how did the old man know that there was a witness?’
The sergeant, who had not uttered a single word so far, but merely sucked on his cigar, declared:
‘We’re talking too much. In front of outsiders, too. For instance, what’s this Englishman doing here?’
‘Mr Twigs, did you bring it?’ Fandorin asked the doctor instead of answering the sergeant’s question.
The doctor nodded and took some long, flat object, wrapped in a piece of cloth, out of his briefcase.
‘Here, I kept it. And I sacrificed my own starched collar, so the dead man wouldn’t have to lie in the grave with a bare neck,’ said Twigs as he unwrapped a celluloid collar.
‘Can you c-compare the prints?’ asked the titular counsellor, unwrapping a little bundle of his own and taking out a mirror. ‘It was lying on the windowsill. My m-mysterious guest touched the surface with his hand as he turned his somersault.’
‘What kind of nonsense is this?’ muttered Lockston, watching as Twigs examined the impressions through a magnifying glass.
‘The thumb is the same!’ the doctor announced triumphantly. ‘This print is exactly like the one on the celluloid collar. The delta pattern, the whorl, the forks – it all matches!’
‘What’s this? What’s this?’ Asagawa asked quickly, moving closer. ‘Some innovation in police science?’
Twigs was delighted to explain.
‘It’s only a hypothesis as yet, but a well-tested one. My colleague Dr Folds from the Tsukiji Hospital describes it in a learned article. You see, gentlemen, the patterns on the cushions of our fingers and thumbs are absolutely unique. You can meet two people who are as alike as two peas, but it’s impossible to find two perfectly identical fingerprints. They already knew this in medieval China. Instead of signing a contract, workers applied their thumbprint – the impression cannot be forged …’
The sergeant and the inspector listened open-mouthed as the doctor went into greater historical and anatomical detail.
‘What a great thing progress is!’ exclaimed Asagawa, who was normally so restrained. ‘There are no mysteries that it cannot solve!’
Fandorin sighed.
‘Yes there are. How do we explain, from the viewpoint of science, what our sp-sprightly old man can do? Delayed killing, induced lethargy, temporary paralysis, an adder in his sleeve … Mystery upon mystery!’
‘
Shinobi
,’ said the inspector.
The doctor nodded:
‘I thought of them too, when I heard about the
mamusi
in his sleeve.’
So much wisdom there,
And so many mysteries –
A
mamusi
’s heart
‘That’s a classic trick of theirs. If I remember correctly, it’s called
mamusi-gama
, “the snake sickle”, isn’t it?’ Twigs asked the Japanese inspector. ‘Tell the vice-consul about it.’
Asagawa replied respectfully.
‘You’d better tell it, Sensei. I’m sure you are far better read on this matter and also, to my shame, know the history of my country better.’
‘Just what are these
shinobi
?’ Lockston exclaimed impatiently.
‘The “Stealthy Ones”,’ the doctor explained, finally grasping the helm of the conversation firmly. ‘A caste of spies and hired killers – the most skilful in the entire history of the world. The Japanese love to pursue any skill to perfection, so they attain the very highest levels both in what is good and what is bad. These semi-mythical knights of the cloak and dagger are also known as
rappa, suppa
or ninja.’
‘Ninja?’ the titular counsellor repeated, remembering that he had already heard that word from Doronin. ‘Go on, Doctor, go on!’
‘The things they write about the ninja are miraculous. Supposedly, they could transform themselves into frogs, birds and snakes, fly through the sky, jump from high walls, run across water and so on, and so forth. Of course, most of this is fairy tales, some of them invented by the
shinobi
themselves, but some things are true. I have taken an interest in their history and read dissertations written by famous masters of
ninjutsu
, “the secret art”, and I can confirm that they could jump from a sheer wall twenty yards high; with the help of special devices, they could walk through bogs; they crossed moats and rivers by walking across the bottom and did all sorts of other genuinely fantastic things. This caste had its own morality, a quite monstrous one from the viewpoint of the rest of humanity. They elevated cruelty, treachery and deceit to the rank of supreme virtues. There was even a saying: “as cunning as ninja”. They earned their living by taking commissions for murder. It cost an immense amount of money, but the ninja could be relied on. Once they took a commission, they never deviated from it, even if it cost them their lives. And they always achieved their goal. The
shinobi
code encouraged treachery, but never in relation to the client, and everyone knew that.
‘They lived in isolated communities and they prepared for their future trade from the cradle. I’ll tell you a story that will help you to understand how the young
shinobi
were raised.
‘A certain famous ninja had powerful enemies, who managed to kill him and cut off his head, but they weren’t absolutely certain that he was the right man. They showed their trophy to the man’s eight-year-old son and asked: “Do you recognise him?” The boy didn’t shed a single tear, because that would have shamed the memory of his father, but the answer was clear from his face in any case. The little ninja buried the head with full honours and then, overcome by his loss, slit his stomach open and died, without a single groan, like a true hero. The enemies went back home, reassured, but the head they had shown the boy actually belonged to a man he did not know, whom they had killed in error.’
‘What self-control! What heroism!’ exclaimed Erast Petrovich, astounded. ‘So much for the Spartan boy and his fox cub!’
The doctor smiled contentedly.
‘You liked the story? Then I’ll tell you another one. It’s also about self-sacrifice, but from a quite different angle. This particular plot could not very well have been used by European novelists like Sir Walter Scott or Monsieur Dumas. Do you know how the great sixteenth-century general Uesugi was killed? Then listen.
‘Uesugi knew they were trying to kill him, and he had taken precautions that prevented any killer from getting anywhere near him, but even so, the ninja accepted the commission. The task was entrusted to a dwarf – dwarf ninja were prized especially highly, they were deliberately raised using special clay jugs. This man was called Jinnai, and he was less than three feet tall. He had been trained since his childhood to act in very narrow and restricted spaces.
‘The killer entered the castle by way of a crevice that only a cat could have got through, but not even a mouse could have squeezed through into the prince’s chambers, so Jinnai was obliged to wait for a very long time. Do you know what place he chose to wait in? One that the general was bound to visit sooner or later. When the prince was away from the castle and the guards relaxed their vigilance somewhat, Jinnai slipped through to His Excellency’s latrine, jumped down into the cesspit and hid himself up to the throat in the appetising slurry. He stayed there for several days, until his victim returned. Eventually Uesugi went to relieve himself. As always, he was accompanied by his bodyguards, who walked in front of him, behind him and on both sides. They examined the privy and even glanced into the hole, but Jinnai ducked his head down under the surface. And then he screwed some canes of bamboo together to make a spear and thrust it straight into the great man’s anus. Uesugi gave a bloodcurdling howl and died. The samurai who came running in never realised what had happened to him. The most amazing thing is that the dwarf remained alive. While all the commotion was going on above him, he sat there hunched up, breathing through a tube, and the next day made his way out of the castle and informed his
jonin
that he had completed his task …’
‘Who d-did he inform?’
‘His
jonin
, that’s the general of the clan, the strategist. He accepted commissions, decided which of his
chyunins
, or officers, should be charged with planning an operation, while the actual killing and spying were done by the
genins
, or soldiers. Every
genin
strove to achieve perfection in some narrow sphere in which he had no equals. For instance, in soundless walking,
shinobi-aruki
; or in
intonjutsu
– moving without making a sound or casting a shadow; or in
fukumi-bari
– poison-spitting.’