Sister Pelagia and the White Bulldog (36 page)

Murad swung around in fury and Berdichevsky saw an incredibly huge black hole staring straight at the bridge of his nose. The hammer gave a dry click, then again, and the Circassian swore in a style that was not Russian as he flung the useless revolver aside.

But Matvei Bentsionovich’s miraculous deliverance was no more than a dream, because then the Circassian pulled out his monstrous dagger, bent over, and came rushing at the assistant prosecutor.

Berdichevsky struck the fearsome man with an unconvincing blow to the side of his head, but it was as if he were banging his fist against a stone. Matvei Bentsionovich froze, spellbound by the enigmatic gleam of that wide blade.

The Circassian put his arm around his prisoner’s neck, pressed the cold steel against his throat, and spoke, breathing a smell of blood and garlic into Berdichevsky’s face.

“I slit you later, not now. If I do it now they kill me straightaway. But this way we keep talking our talk a long time. When Volodya gets well away, then I slit you.”

Matvei Bentsionovich squeezed his eyes tightly shut, unable to bear the closeness of the wild eyes, the black beard, and the bleeding cheek.

Outside, Felix Stanislavovich’s voice called out: “Get a carriage on to Malaya Kupecheskaya Street! You three, to the gates, quick march. Lower the bars! Eliseev, take four men and go to the stables!”

Now Bubentsov cannot get away, Berdichevsky realized, but the thought brought him no comfort. It was difficult to breathe with the arm around his neck, the dreary terror was beginning to make him feel nauseous, and he even wished the Abrek would slit his throat there and then to put an end to his torment.

Lagrange’s head peered up cautiously from behind the windowsill.

“Mr. Berdichevsky, are you alive?”

Murad replied.

“You interfere and he’ll be dead.”

Then the chief of police, growing bolder, raised up his hand, holding a revolver, and grinned, “Well now, Djuraev, shot all your bullets, have you? I counted them. You touch his excellency, and I’ll shoot you like a mad dog. I won’t take you alive, I swear by Jesus Christ I won’t.”

“Murad’s not afraid of death,” the bandit retorted contemptuously, protecting himself with Berdichevsky like a shield.

Felix Stanislavovich scrambled slowly up onto the windowsill.

“You’re lying there, brother. Everyone’s afraid of the old noseless reaper.”

He cautiously lowered his feet to the floor.

“One more step and I slit him,” the Circassian promised quietly but convincingly.

“I’m finished,” the chief of police assured him, “see, I’m putting the revolver down.

“Now, Djuraev, let’s talk peace terms.” Lagrange took out his cigarette case and lit one up. “You’ve put holes in two of my men. For that I ought to drop you where you stand. But if you let his excellency go and surrender, I’ll take you to prison alive. And we won’t even beat you, on my word as an officer.”

Murad snorted contemptuously.

“Well, have you caught him?” Felix Stanislavovich asked his subordinates, turning around to the window.

Somebody answered him, but the words could not be made out inside the room.

“Ah, you villains, you let him go!” the colonel roared menacingly and smashed his fist down hard on the windowsill, but so clumsily that it hit the protruding barrel of the revolver.

Following this blow, in perfect conformity with the laws of physics, the revolver described a complicated somersault through the air and landed on the floor with a clatter in the very middle of the drawing room.

Releasing his hostage, the Circassian was beside the gun in a single predatory bound.

And then it became clear that the trick with the flying revolver had been played deliberately by the crafty chief of police. From out of nowhere a second revolver, a little smaller, appeared in Felix Stanislavovich’s hand and belched flame and smoke at Djuraev.

The bullets threw the Circassian back against the wall, but he immediately leapt to his feet and advanced on the colonel, waving his dagger.

Lagrange took good aim and fired three more shots—all on target—but Murad did not fall; each step simply cost him an ever greater effort.

When the Circassian was little more than a yard away from the windowsill the colonel jumped down onto the floor and set the gun barrel right against Djuraev’s forehead. The top of the shaven skull shattered into flying shards.

The dead man swayed a little and finally collapsed onto his back.

“Damned hard to kill,” said the chief of police, shaking his head in amazement as he leaned down over the body. “Some kind of werewolf. Just look, he’s still batting his eyelids. If you told anyone, they’d never believe you.”

Then he went over to Berdichevsky, who was more dead than alive after so many shocks to his nerves, and squatted down on his haunches beside him.

“Well, you’re a brave man, Matvei Bentsionovich.” He shook his head respectfully. “I’m amazed you weren’t afraid to shout about the back entrance!”

“But it did no good,” the assistant prosecutor said in a weak voice. “Bubentsov got away anyway.”

Lagrange laughed, showing his white teeth.

“He got away, you say! We got him. Him and his nasty little secretary. Right there in the stables.”

“But what about…?” Matvei Bentsionovich asked, staring wildly. He no longer understood anything that was happening.

“I deliberately swore at my men like that, for the Circassian. So it would look more convincing when I tossed him the revolver.”

Berdichevsky was so delighted and relieved that he couldn’t find the right words to say.

“I…Really, Felix Stanislavovich, you are my savior…I shall never forget what you did for me.”

“I hope very much that you will not,” said the gallant chief of police, peering searchingly into his eyes. “I’ll carry on serving you faithfully, on my word of honor. Only don’t let the story about that blasted bribe get out. I was tempted by the devil. I’ve even given the merchant his money back. Put in a word for me with the bishop and Anton Antonovich, eh?”

Berdichevsky gave a heavy sigh, remembering how eloquently he had denounced the cupidity of officials that sprouted up like thistles through the very best of good intentions—if it was not money, then it was the notorious borzoi pups.

And wasn’t a life saved just like a borzoi pup?

CHAPTER 11

The Trial

THE HEARING OF the Zavolzhsk murder case opened in the new provincial court building, which was remarkably spacious and elegant. Anton Antonovich von Haggenau had approved the architect’s designs himself and personally supervised the construction work, because he regarded this building as being of great importance. He had always said that you could tell whether the people of any particular region respected the rule of law from the appearance of their courthouses. In Russia court offices were dirty, cramped, and shabby, and one saw every manner of injustice and abuse committed in them. But it was the governor’s unshakable (although, perhaps, also naïve) conviction that if the courtroom possessed a distinct resemblance to a clean and beautiful church, then far fewer violations would be committed within its walls. And our local administrator also had another idea in mind when he gave instructions for such a substantial sum to be allocated to the building work: The new courthouse was to usher in a golden age in the history of Zavolzhsk, firmly established on the secure foundations of legality and justice.

The completion of the construction work could not have come at a better time, because previously the courtroom could not have held even the most distinguished guests who had arrived for the trial. But the new temple of Themis easily accommodated an audience as numerous as five hundred. Of course, even that was only a small portion of those who would have liked to attend the hearing of the celebrated case, but at least there were enough places for all those people who were indispensable (apart from official and honorary guests, those who were indispensable also included the cream of Zavolzhsk society, numerous journalists, writers from the capital cities, and representatives of the legal community who had descended like locusts from all over Russia for this courtroom jousting session). The particularly large numbers of legal men were accounted for by the fact that Gurii Samsonovich Lomeiko himself, the luminary of the Russian bar and a celebrity on a European scale, had agreed to act for the defense. Everyone still had fresh memories of Gurii Samsonovich’s triumph of the previous year, when he achieved total acquittal for the actress Granatova, who had shot the wife of her lover, the entrepreneur Anatoliisky.

The feeble intellect of the provincial prosecutor could not, of course, be pitted against such a formidable opponent and, partly through persuasion and partly through coercion, the bishop and the governor had prevailed upon Matvei Bentsionovich to take on the courtroom duties of public prosecutor himself. This choice had been facilitated by the fact that Berdichevsky’s behavior at the time of the dangerous criminals’ detention had won him the glorious reputation of a hero—if not throughout the whole of Russia, then at least within the confines of the province.

Matvei Bentsionovich found the reputation of a bold man of action inexpressibly pleasant, for in the depths of his heart he knew perfectly well that he did not deserve it in any way. But the price to be paid for his fame was not cheap.

In his agitation the assistant prosecutor lost his appetite and the ability to sleep two weeks before the trial actually began. He himself could not tell what it was that he feared most: the formidable Lomeiko, the slanderous newspaper reporters, or the wrath of Konstantin Petrovich, who had sent an entire deputation to the court, led by Heller, the deputy chief procurator of the Holy Synod—after all, however one viewed it, the Zavolzhsk scandal was causing serious damage to the prestige of the empire’s supreme agency for the protection of the faith.

It was not just that Berdichevsky was about to make his first appearance before a broad (and also very exalted) public. Well, what if he did stammer a little and tremble a bit—that was forgivable in a provincial prosecutor. Much worse than that was the fact that the case for the prosecution seemed rather fragile.

On the advice of his counsel, Bubentsov had not given any testimony to the investigators. He had remained defiantly silent, regarding the sweating Matvei Bentsionovich as if he were a mere wood louse, polishing his nails and yawning. On returning to his cell, he penned complaints to higher authorities.

Spasyonny, who had been arrested on suspicion of complicity, spoke a great deal, but communicated nothing of any use. Most of the time he complained of his health and discoursed on matters divine. It seemed that the facts of the case would only be revealed during the actual trial.

This was the state of affairs on the day when the tall doors of the new courthouse swung open to admit the fortunate possessors of guest tickets, and thus began a trial that was destined to go down not only in the annals of our provincial history, but also in the textbooks of jurisprudence.

THE SEATING ARRANGEMENTS in the hall differed from usual in that two additional rows of armchairs had been installed for the most distinguished guests behind the table for members of the court. In particular, these chairs accommodated the deputy chief procurator of the Holy Synod, with his two closest aides, the governor and the provincial marshal of the nobility, both with their wives, the governors of the two contiguous provinces (also, naturally, with their wives), and His Grace Mitrofanii, with a quiet little nun whom the public had not even noticed yet peeping out from behind his shoulder like a small black bird.

The chairman of the court was the most venerable and learned of our judges, with the rank of a general and a ribbon. Everybody knew that he had already applied to retire because of his advanced age, and therefore they expected absolute impartiality from him—after all, anyone would feel flattered to conclude a long and distinguished career with such an exceptional trial. The other two members of the court were highly authoritative justices of the peace, one of them by no means old as yet, the other perhaps of an even greater age than the chairman.

The public greeted the counsel from the capital with lively applause, at which he immediately seemed to become more dignified and taller, like dough inflated by yeast. He bowed with modest dignity to the court, the public, and, especially, with emphatic respect, to His Grace Mitrofanii, which was viewed in a most positive light by the local residents. Gurii Samsonovich himself somewhat resembled the bishop—he was so imposing and clear-eyed, with a thick, graying beard.

The prosecutor was also well received—admittedly, mostly by the local people, but they clapped even more loudly for him than for the famous figure from the capital. Berdichevsky, absolutely pale, his lips blue, bowed awkwardly and thumbed a thick pile of papers.

Then there began the lengthy procedure of presenting the members of the jury, during which the council for the defense displayed exceptional severity, decisively rejecting two Old Believer merchants, a Zyt elder, and also, for some reason, the headmaster of the grammar school. The prosecutor raised no protests against the predations of the defense, seeming to declare with his entire demeanor that the composition of the jury had no significance, since the case was clear anyway.