The Death of Achilles by Boris Akunin Read Free Book Online Page A

waiter with mobile features suggestive of intelligence.
    “Tell me, does Miss Wanda n-no longer reside here?” the collegiate assessor asked, feigning slight embarrassment.
    “While certainly the lady does,” the fellow responded eagerly and, following the handsome gentleman’s gaze, he pointed to the board. “Right there, sir: Miss Helga Ivanovna Tolle, that’s the lady in question. Uses the name Wanda because it sounds better. She lives in the annex. You just go out through that door there, sir, into the yard. Miss Wanda has a suite there with a separate entrance. Only the lady’s not usually in at this time, sir.” The waiter was about to slip away, but Erast Petrovich rustled a banknote in his pocket, and the good fellow suddenly froze as if he were rooted to the spot.
    “Is there some little errand you’d like done, sir?” he asked, giving the young gentleman a look of affectionate devotion.
    “When does she get back?”
    “It varies, sir. The lady sings at the Alpine Rose. Every day but Mondays. I’ll tell you what, sir — you take a seat for a while in the buffet, have a drink of tea or whatever, and I’ll make sure to let you know when the mam’selle shows up.”
    “And what is she like?” asked Erast Petrovich, twirling his fingers vaguely in the air. “To look at? Is she really so very pretty?”
    “The picture of beauty, sir,” said the waiter, smacking his plump red lips. “Highly respected in these parts. Pays three hundred rubles a month for her suite and very generous with tips, sir.”
    At this point he paused with practiced psychological precision and Fandorin slowly took out two one-ruble notes — but then thrust them into his breast pocket with a distracted air.
    “Miss Wanda doesn’t receive just anybody in her rooms; she’s very strict about that, sir,” the waiter declared significantly, his gaze boring into the gentleman’s frock coat. “But I can announce you, seeing as I am in her special confidence.”
    “Take that, then,” said Erast Petrovich, holding out one of the notes. “You’ll g- get the other when Mademoiselle Wanda comes back. Meanwhile, I’ll go and read a newspaper. Where did you say your buffet was? ”
    On 25 june 1882 the Moscow Gazette wrote as follows:
A Telegram from Singapore
    The renowned explorer N. N. Miklukha-Maklai intends to return to Russia on the clipper ‘Marksman’. Mr. Miklukha-Maklai’s health has been seriously undermined; he is extremely thin and suffering from constant fevers and chronic neuralgia. For the most part his state of mind is also morose. The traveler informed our correspondent that he is sick and tired of wandering and dreams of reaching his native shores as soon as possible.
    Erast Petrovich shook his head, vividly picturing to himself the emaciated, twitching face of the martyr of ethnography. He turned over the page.
    The Blasphemy of American Advertising An inscription in letters half the height of a man recently appeared above Broadway, the main street of New York — “the president is certain to die.” Dumbfounded passersby halted, transfixed, and only then were they able to read what was written below in smaller letters: “… in our treacherous climate if he does not wear warm woolen underwear from Garland and Co.” A representative of the White House has taken the firm to court for exploiting the presidential title for base commercial ends.
    Thank God, things have not reached that state here and are never likely to, the collegiate assessor thought with some satisfaction. After all, His Majesty the Emperor is more than some mere president.
    As a man with a certain interest in belles lettres, he was naturally drawn to the following headline:
Literary Talks
    A large number of listeners were attracted to the spacious hall at the home of Princess Trubetskaya for a talk on contemporary literature given by Professor I. N. Pavlov, which was devoted to an analysis of the recent works of Ivan Turgenev. With the