Semyonich, by Christ the Lord,” the boy jabbered, blinking rapidly. “I can swear on a sacred holy icon! All they give me was fifteen kopecks, and I took that to the chapel and lit a candle for the peace of my mother’s soul…”
“What d’you mean, fifteen kopecks! Don’t give me any of your lies. Took it to the chapel!” The man raised his hand to strike Senka, but the boy dodged away nimbly, picked up his tray, and dashed off to answer a summons from a customer.
Erast Petrovich set aside his Moscow Gazette and went up to the counter.
“Was that man from the police?” he asked with an air of extreme displeasure. “I haven’t come here just to d-drink tea, my dear fellow, I am waiting for Miss Wanda. Why are the police interested in her?”
The counterman looked him up and down and asked cautiously: “You mean to say you’ve got an appointment, sir?”
“I should say I have an appointment! Didn’t I tell you I was waiting?” The young man’s blue eyes expressed extreme concern. “But I don’t want anything to do with the police. Mademoiselle Wanda was recommended to me as a respectable girl, and now I find the p-police here! It’s a good thing I’m wearing a frock coat and not my uniform.”
“Don’t worry, Yer Onner,” the counterman reassured the nervous customer. “The young lady’s not some cheap bar girl; it’s all top-class service with her. There’s others come in their uniform and don’t count it no shame.”
“In uniform?” The young man couldn’t believe it. “What, even officers?”
The counterman and young Senka, who had reappeared, exchanged glances and laughed.
“Aim a bit higher,” the boy chortled. “Even gen’rals comes visiting. And the manner of their visiting is a sight to see. Arrives on their own two feet, they does, then afterward they ‘as to be carried out. That’s the kind of gay mam’selle she is!”
Prof. Semyonich gave the joker a clout on the ear.
“Don’t go talking nonsense, Senka. I told you to keep your mouth shut.”
Erast Petrovich frowned squeamishly and went back to his table, but he did not feel like reading about the tunnel any longer. He was far too impatient to have a talk with Mademoiselle Helga Ivanovna Tolle.
The collegiate assessor’s wait was mercifully brief. After about five minutes the waiter he had spoken to came darting into the buffet and bent down and whispered in his ear: “The lady’s arrived. How shall I announce you?”
Fandorin took a calling card out of his tortoiseshell wallet and after a moment’s thought wrote several words on it with a little silver pencil.
“There, g-give her that.”
The waiter carried out his commission and was back in a trice to announce: “She asks you to come. Kindly follow me. I’ll show you through.”
Outside it was already getting dark. Erast Petrovich examined the annex, of which Miss Wanda occupied the entire ground floor. It was clear enough why this lady required a separate entrance — her visitors evidently preferred matters to remain discreet. Protruding above the tall ground-floor windows was a first-floor balcony, perched on the shoulders of an entire brood of caryatids. Generally speaking, the amount of molding on the facade was clearly excessive, in keeping with the bad taste of the 1860s, which all the signs indicated was when this frivolous building had been erected.
The waiter rang the electric bell and, having received his ruble, withdrew with a bow, striving so diligently to display absolute tact and understanding that he actually tiptoed all the way back across the yard.
The door opened and Fandorin saw before him a slim, slight woman with high- combed, ash-blond hair and huge, tantalizing green eyes — although at that moment he read caution rather than mockery in the gaze of their owner.
“Come in, mysterious visitor,” the woman said in a low, resonant voice for which the most fitting epithet would have to be the poetic term ‘bewitching’.
“What d’you mean, fifteen kopecks! Don’t give me any of your lies. Took it to the chapel!” The man raised his hand to strike Senka, but the boy dodged away nimbly, picked up his tray, and dashed off to answer a summons from a customer.
Erast Petrovich set aside his Moscow Gazette and went up to the counter.
“Was that man from the police?” he asked with an air of extreme displeasure. “I haven’t come here just to d-drink tea, my dear fellow, I am waiting for Miss Wanda. Why are the police interested in her?”
The counterman looked him up and down and asked cautiously: “You mean to say you’ve got an appointment, sir?”
“I should say I have an appointment! Didn’t I tell you I was waiting?” The young man’s blue eyes expressed extreme concern. “But I don’t want anything to do with the police. Mademoiselle Wanda was recommended to me as a respectable girl, and now I find the p-police here! It’s a good thing I’m wearing a frock coat and not my uniform.”
“Don’t worry, Yer Onner,” the counterman reassured the nervous customer. “The young lady’s not some cheap bar girl; it’s all top-class service with her. There’s others come in their uniform and don’t count it no shame.”
“In uniform?” The young man couldn’t believe it. “What, even officers?”
The counterman and young Senka, who had reappeared, exchanged glances and laughed.
“Aim a bit higher,” the boy chortled. “Even gen’rals comes visiting. And the manner of their visiting is a sight to see. Arrives on their own two feet, they does, then afterward they ‘as to be carried out. That’s the kind of gay mam’selle she is!”
Prof. Semyonich gave the joker a clout on the ear.
“Don’t go talking nonsense, Senka. I told you to keep your mouth shut.”
Erast Petrovich frowned squeamishly and went back to his table, but he did not feel like reading about the tunnel any longer. He was far too impatient to have a talk with Mademoiselle Helga Ivanovna Tolle.
The collegiate assessor’s wait was mercifully brief. After about five minutes the waiter he had spoken to came darting into the buffet and bent down and whispered in his ear: “The lady’s arrived. How shall I announce you?”
Fandorin took a calling card out of his tortoiseshell wallet and after a moment’s thought wrote several words on it with a little silver pencil.
“There, g-give her that.”
The waiter carried out his commission and was back in a trice to announce: “She asks you to come. Kindly follow me. I’ll show you through.”
Outside it was already getting dark. Erast Petrovich examined the annex, of which Miss Wanda occupied the entire ground floor. It was clear enough why this lady required a separate entrance — her visitors evidently preferred matters to remain discreet. Protruding above the tall ground-floor windows was a first-floor balcony, perched on the shoulders of an entire brood of caryatids. Generally speaking, the amount of molding on the facade was clearly excessive, in keeping with the bad taste of the 1860s, which all the signs indicated was when this frivolous building had been erected.
The waiter rang the electric bell and, having received his ruble, withdrew with a bow, striving so diligently to display absolute tact and understanding that he actually tiptoed all the way back across the yard.
The door opened and Fandorin saw before him a slim, slight woman with high- combed, ash-blond hair and huge, tantalizing green eyes — although at that moment he read caution rather than mockery in the gaze of their owner.
“Come in, mysterious visitor,” the woman said in a low, resonant voice for which the most fitting epithet would have to be the poetic term ‘bewitching’.
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