The Death of Achilles Read Online Free PDF

evidently no longer interested in the captain — he had noticed the door of a wall safe beside the bed. He walked over to it, turned the handle, and the door opened.
    “What’s in there, is it empty?” asked the chief of police.
    Erast Petrovich nodded.
    “Yes indeed, Your Excellency. Here’s the key sticking out of the lock.”
    “Right, then,” said Karachentsev, tossing his red head of hair, “seal up any papers that we find. We’ll sort out later what goes to the relatives, what goes to the ministry, and what goes to His Majesty himself. Professor, you send for your assistants and get on with the embalming.”
    “What, right here?” Welling asked indignantly. “It’s not like pickling cabbage, you know, general.”
    “Do you want me to ferry the body all the way across the city to your academy? Look out the window, look how tightly they’re crammed out there! I’m afraid not; do the best you can here. Thank you, Captain, you are dismissed. And you,” he said, turning to the hotel manager, “give the professor everything he asks for.”
    When Karachentsev and Fandorin were left alone, the redheaded general took the young man by the elbow, led him away from the body under the sheet, and asked in a low voice, as though the corpse might overhear: “What, what do you make of it? As far as I can tell from the questions you ask and the way you behave, you weren’t satisfied with Gukmasov’s explanations. Why do you think he was not being honest with us? He explained his unshaven condition that morning quite convincingly, after all, or don’t you agree? He slept late after a night of drinking — nothing unusual about that.”
    “Gukmasov could not have slept late,” Fandorin said with a shrug. “His training would never allow it. And he certainly would not have gone barging in to see Sobolev, as he says he did, without tidying himself up first. The captain is lying, that much is clear. But the case, Your Excellency—”
    “Call me Evgeny Osipovich,” the general interrupted, listening with rapt attention.
    “The case, Evgeny Osipovich,” Fandorin continued, bowing politely, “is even more serious than I thought. Sobolev did not die here.”
    “What do you mean, not here?” gasped the chief of police. “Where, then?”
    “I don’t know. But permit me to ask one question: Why did the night porter — and I have spoken with him — not see Sobolev return?”
    “He could have left his post and doesn’t want to admit it,” Karachentsev objected, more for the sake of argument than as a serious suggestion.
    “That is not possible, and in a little while I shall explain why. But here is a mystery for you that you will definitely not be able to explain. If Sobolev had returned to his suite during the night, then sat down at the desk and written something, he would have had to light the candles. But take a look at the candelabra — the candles are fresh!”
    “So they are!” said the general, slapping his hand against a thigh tightly encased in military breeches. “Oh, well done, Erast Petrovich. And what a fine detective I am!” He smiled disarmingly. “I was only recently appointed to the gendarmes; before that I was in the Cavalry Guards. So what do you think could have happened?”
    Fandorin raised and lowered his silky eyebrows, concentrating hard.
    “I would not like to guess, but it is perfectly clear that after supper Mikhail Dmitrievich did not return to his apartment, since it was already dark by then and, as we already know, he did not light the candles. And the waiters also confirm that Sobolev and his retinue left immediately after their meal. And the night porter is a reliable individual who values his job very highly — I don’t believe that he could have left his post and missed the general’s return.”
    “What you do or don’t believe is no argument,” Evgeny Osipovich teased the collegiate assessor. “Give me the facts.”
    “By all means,” said Fandorin with a