Despite the tenant’s German name, Fandorin did not catch even the slightest trace of an accent in her speech.
The suite occupied by Mademoiselle Wanda consisted of a hallway and a spacious drawing room, which apparently also served as a boudoir.
It occurred to Erast Petrovich that in view of his hostess’s profession this was entirely natural, and he felt embarrassed at the thought, for Miss Wanda did not resemble a woman of easy virtue. She showed her visitor into the room, sat down in a soft Turkish armchair, crossed one leg over the other, and stared in anticipation at the young man, who had halted motionless in the doorway. The electric lighting gave Fandorin an opportunity to examine Wanda and her accommodations more closely.
She was not a classic beauty — that was the first thing that Erast Petrovich noted. A little too snub-nosed, he thought, and her mouth was a little too wide, and her cheekbones protruded more noticeably than was permitted by the classical canon. But none of these imperfections weakened the overall impression of quite uncommon loveliness — on the contrary, in some strange manner they actually reinforced it. He felt as if he could simply go on and on looking at that face — there was so much life and feeling in it, as well as that magical quality known as femininity, which defies description in words, but is unerringly discerned by any man. Well, then, if Mademoiselle Wanda was so popular in Moscow, it meant that Muscovite taste was not so very bad, reasoned Erast Petrovich, and he regretfully tore himself away from the contemplation of the amazing face to look carefully around the room. An absolutely Parisian interior in a color range from claret to mauve, with a deep carpet, comfortable and expensive furniture, numerous table and floor lamps with colorful shades, Chinese figurines, and, on the wall — the very latest chic — Japanese prints of geishas and Kabuki-theater actors. In the far corner there was an alcove behind two columns, but a sense of delicacy obliged Fandorin to avert his gaze from that direction.
“What is ‘everything’?” asked his hostess, breaking a silence that had clearly lasted too long, and Erast Petrovich shivered at the almost physical sensation of that magical voice setting the secret, rarely touched strings of his heart quivering.
The collegiate assessor’s face expressed polite incomprehension, and Wanda declared impatiently: “Mr. Fandorin, on your card it says ‘I know everything’. What is ‘everything’? And who are you, as a matter of fact?”
“Deputy for special assignments to Governor-General Prince Dolgorukoi,” Erast Petrovich replied calmly. “Assigned to investigate the circumstances of the demise of Adjutant General Sobolev.”
Seeing his hostess’s slim eyebrows shoot up, Fandorin remarked: “Do not pretend, mademoiselle, that you did not know about the general’s death. As for the note on my card, that was written to deceive you. I know far from everything, but I do know the most important thing. Mikhail Dmitrievich Sobolev died in this room at about one o’clock this morning.”
Wanda shuddered and put her thin hands to her throat, as though she suddenly felt cold, but she said nothing. Erast Petrovich nodded in satisfaction and continued: “You have not given anyone away, mademoiselle, or broken the word that you gave. The officers themselves are to blame — they covered their tracks far too clumsily. I shall b-be frank with you in the hope of receiving equal frankness in return. I am in possession of the following information.” He closed his eyes in order not to be distracted by the subtle pattern of white and pink tones that had appeared on the woman’s agitated face. “From the Dusseaux restaurant you came directly here with Sobolev and his retinue. It was then shortly before midnight. An hour later the general was already dead. The officers carried him out of here, pretending that he was drunk, and took him
The suite occupied by Mademoiselle Wanda consisted of a hallway and a spacious drawing room, which apparently also served as a boudoir.
It occurred to Erast Petrovich that in view of his hostess’s profession this was entirely natural, and he felt embarrassed at the thought, for Miss Wanda did not resemble a woman of easy virtue. She showed her visitor into the room, sat down in a soft Turkish armchair, crossed one leg over the other, and stared in anticipation at the young man, who had halted motionless in the doorway. The electric lighting gave Fandorin an opportunity to examine Wanda and her accommodations more closely.
She was not a classic beauty — that was the first thing that Erast Petrovich noted. A little too snub-nosed, he thought, and her mouth was a little too wide, and her cheekbones protruded more noticeably than was permitted by the classical canon. But none of these imperfections weakened the overall impression of quite uncommon loveliness — on the contrary, in some strange manner they actually reinforced it. He felt as if he could simply go on and on looking at that face — there was so much life and feeling in it, as well as that magical quality known as femininity, which defies description in words, but is unerringly discerned by any man. Well, then, if Mademoiselle Wanda was so popular in Moscow, it meant that Muscovite taste was not so very bad, reasoned Erast Petrovich, and he regretfully tore himself away from the contemplation of the amazing face to look carefully around the room. An absolutely Parisian interior in a color range from claret to mauve, with a deep carpet, comfortable and expensive furniture, numerous table and floor lamps with colorful shades, Chinese figurines, and, on the wall — the very latest chic — Japanese prints of geishas and Kabuki-theater actors. In the far corner there was an alcove behind two columns, but a sense of delicacy obliged Fandorin to avert his gaze from that direction.
“What is ‘everything’?” asked his hostess, breaking a silence that had clearly lasted too long, and Erast Petrovich shivered at the almost physical sensation of that magical voice setting the secret, rarely touched strings of his heart quivering.
The collegiate assessor’s face expressed polite incomprehension, and Wanda declared impatiently: “Mr. Fandorin, on your card it says ‘I know everything’. What is ‘everything’? And who are you, as a matter of fact?”
“Deputy for special assignments to Governor-General Prince Dolgorukoi,” Erast Petrovich replied calmly. “Assigned to investigate the circumstances of the demise of Adjutant General Sobolev.”
Seeing his hostess’s slim eyebrows shoot up, Fandorin remarked: “Do not pretend, mademoiselle, that you did not know about the general’s death. As for the note on my card, that was written to deceive you. I know far from everything, but I do know the most important thing. Mikhail Dmitrievich Sobolev died in this room at about one o’clock this morning.”
Wanda shuddered and put her thin hands to her throat, as though she suddenly felt cold, but she said nothing. Erast Petrovich nodded in satisfaction and continued: “You have not given anyone away, mademoiselle, or broken the word that you gave. The officers themselves are to blame — they covered their tracks far too clumsily. I shall b-be frank with you in the hope of receiving equal frankness in return. I am in possession of the following information.” He closed his eyes in order not to be distracted by the subtle pattern of white and pink tones that had appeared on the woman’s agitated face. “From the Dusseaux restaurant you came directly here with Sobolev and his retinue. It was then shortly before midnight. An hour later the general was already dead. The officers carried him out of here, pretending that he was drunk, and took him
Similar Books
