Zatonsk Idiots

He was mortally tired of Russian stupidity.

Once, back in St. Petersburg, he heard a phrase dropped with a grin by someone from the Prince's entourage: “There are two troubles in Russia: Fools and roads.” And he silently agreed with that on the spot. Both were unbearable. It seemed that this country was created as a lesson to everyone else, and a punishment for itself. It was incompatible with common sense.

Seven years ago, when no Shtolman got in his way, this country had already driven Colonel Lawrence crazy. A long stay here corrupts immature minds. The Colonel's reports became shorter and shorter over time, and then completely boiled down to the fact that he was collecting and encrypting information, but did not risk sending it yet. And once he completely stunned his employers with the message that he considered Brown's developments immoral and inapplicable in the conditions of a real war. As if the artillery, where Lawrence had served before, was a highly moral weapon and had not been used to shoot sepoys in 1859. Jean always believed that the military should not suffer from excessive fastidiousness. But Lawrence suffered from it.

And then they sent him, Jean, to Zatonsk. He was authorized to offer Lawrence the opportunity to quietly leave the game and safety of his daughter in exchange for information from the blue notebook. The beginning of the conversation was encouraging: Lawrence was satisfied with the conditions. But at the most inopportune moment, secret police agents burst into the Colonel's house. Lassalle had no choice but to silence the Colonel forever. The steadfastness of his beliefs could no longer be trusted. Jean himself, unburdened by any beliefs, but able to protect his skin, miraculously escaped through a basement window, leaving the precious notebook in the hands of Varfolomeyev's service, as he then believed.

After Lawrence's death, his employers decided that it would be easier to involve the Russians in the case. Thus, the well-known Anglophile Prince Razumovsky became the spy network head. And Jean learned for sure what Russian stupidity was.

No, in his own way, the Prince was a lucky find, dismissing from up high of his position the very possibility of suspicion. He successfully played the English game in the very entourage of Empress Maria Feodorovna. Her young lady-in-waiting Nezhinskaya became a link between the Tsar's Court and those whom Lassalle represented in Russia.

At what point a grain of sand got into the well-oiled mechanism, no one understood, not even Lassalle himself. Where did he come from, this official for special missions of the St. Petersburg police department? And how did a corpse unsuccessfully left near the Obvodny Canal lead him along the tracks to the very top, to Mademoiselle Nezhinskaya? And here began the most unthinkable stupidity of all possible: The lady-in-waiting fell in love. She fell in love like a cat, always ready to purr and fawn at the feet of her dear loved.

At first, Shtolman did not seem dangerous. The nimble detective was one hell of a gambler and rake, as if he was atoning for his service in the police, unworthy in the opinion of society, with such life in the fast lane. It seemed easy to neutralize him. Drawn into a big game and tied up in a huge card debt, the official for special missions should no longer pose a problem.

But he did not stop digging. Shtolman had natural instincts of a bloodhound and tenacity of a bulldog. It was impossible to get rid of him. And for two years now, any combination undertaken by Jean included inevitable components: Task, resources, performers… and Shtolman as a brake. That obstacle was becoming unbearable.

The Prince tried to eliminate it by challenging the detective to a duel, but the eternal Russian stupidity won. Nina Arkadyevna gave an ultimatum: Shtolman must live. Otherwise, she would fade away of the game. It would have been easier to eliminate both of them, but the Prince had a certain weakness for Nezhinskaya, which an aging man can have for a young and beautiful woman who, more than that, does not refuse him. Shtolman got off with a bullet put through his shoulder, and left for the provinces with a demotion in rank only to find himself on the Jean’s way in Zatonsk, the very epicenter of brewing events.

And the entire lovingly constructed game stumbled over one unwanted pawn. Remove it from the board, and the problem seemed solvable. But Nina needed Shtolman, and the Prince - Anna Mironova, without whom Shtolman himself could no longer live. And this entire idiotic corps de ballet trampled on the path of the launched operation, which Jean was no longer able to stop. The combination had to be simplified by eliminating unnecessary figures. How did Shtolman make unnecessary quite another ones?

* * *
Lassalle met him in the hotel corridor when the detective was leaving room number seven. Jean did not expect to meet him in this place and at this time, when the entire Zatonsk police, set on his trail by Mr. Uvakov, were hunting him. But the fact remained: Shtolman was standing near Nezhinskaya's room, holding his revolver in one hand, cap and raincoat in the other.

“No sudden movements, Mr. Lassalle,” the detective warned. “I don't want to wake up the whole hotel. But if you try to resist, I'll shoot you.”

Luckily for Jean, Russian stupidity made adjustments to any combination. Miss Mironova had checked into this same hotel yesterday and was staying in room number four. Jean smiled and retreated to her door.

Shtolman became nervous and rushed after him. His momentary confusion was enough for Jean. With an almost imperceptible movement of his wrist, he sent a heavy knife flying. The detective staggered back, but it was too late. The sharpened blade reached its target, although it entered a little lower and to the left than Jean had expected. Shtolman dropped to his knees, clutching with his palm his side with the knife handle sticking out of it. Lassalle was instantly at his side, picking up the revolver that had fallen from the detective's weakened hand. Then he simply pushed the obstacle out of his way. He would deal with it later.

Nina Arkadyevna was not yet asleep. It seemed that their scuffle in the corridor had not been too noisy as to attract her attention, because she had not asked the question that would have been inevitable under other circumstances. Jean was already mentally preparing to give evasive answers, but only after hiding the corpse away.

“We're not going anywhere tomorrow,” Nezhinskaya said irritably. “The folder is still with Jacob. I need time to persuade him.”
“Do you hope to persuade him?” Lassalle asked ingratiatingly, again forced to assume the appearance of a servant.
“No doubt!” the lady-in-waiting said confidently, as if wanting to convince herself. “He's mine and won't go anywhere from me.”

Jean had serious doubts about the latter. On her order, he had been watching Shtolman for quite a long time. Nina Arkadyevna had been completely wrong not to take the insane Mironova into account. Shtolman treated this girl more than seriously. So seriously that the lady-in-waiting's charms, perhaps, had no longer any power over him.

But what was said changed somewhat Jean's own plans. He needed the policeman bleeding under the door of room number seven to be still alive. For now, only Shtolman knew the location of the folder.

He nodded briefly and listened to Nezhinskaya's instructions for the next day - instructions Jean had no intention to carry out. Enough of indulging stupidity! He had more important things to do now: Interrogate Shtolman before him giving up his spirit. And it was impossible to do this in the hotel.

Jean walked out of the lady-in-waiting's room with a majestic step, trying his best to hide his haste.

The detective had not yet died. On the contrary, he had managed to pull out the knife, crawl to the door of room number four, and even get to his feet. It seemed that the throw had not been as accurate as Lassalle hoped. Fortunately for both of them. However, Shtolman’s fortune was an illusory thing, considering what awaited him ahead.

“Don't move, Mr. Policeman,” Jean warned. “If you try to resist, I promise you that, before I leave here, I’ll enter this door. And you are in no condition to stop me.”

Shtolman froze, holding onto the wall with his hand.

“That's better,” Lassalle noted. “Now move forward. I’m holding my gun on you, so don’t do stupid things!”

The Prince's carriage was standing around the corner. Jean had not taken the coachman with him and was now experiencing some difficulty. He had to drive himself, leaving behind Shtolman, wounded but still able to move. And there was no time to waste.

Russian stupidity turned out to be contagious: Jean did not tie up the detective, hoping that he was weakened and would not dare to take aggressive action. Jean even showed some mercy. The frost was getting stronger towards morning, and Lassalle threw the captive his raincoat and cap. Leaving all this in the hotel corridor would have been the height of stupidity.

Shtolman climbed into the carriage and seemed to have lost consciousness. He did not cause Jean any trouble until the river. But where the road turned towards the merchants' shops, the carriage suddenly shook noticeably. Lassalle was slow to understand that the detective had simply jumped out at full speed. He cursed holding his horse, and then a man rushed at him from the bushes, grabbing Lassalle in a bear hug.

“Run, Yakov Platonovich!” panted a gray-haired robust man, one of Shtolman’s men, wrestling with Jean on the high-bench of the carriage.

The sheath-knife served the Frenchman for the second time that night. This time he plunged it in thoroughly, disemboweling his enemy. He had no need of this gentleman at all.

But at that very moment something heavy hit Jean on the back of his head. It instantly became dark, and the next moment he found himself lying in the snow, and it was already quite dawn. There was no one near him, but a bloody trail was leading to empty warehouses. Jean followed this trail only to find at the end of it the dying detective in the Shtolman’s clothing. He still bought his boss the time needed to save him.

Jean scooped up a lump of snow and applied it to his aching head. It was good that Shtolman did not have strength to hit him harder.

He did not have strength to leave either.

* * *
So, Jean had been hiding for a week, relying on the eternal Russian idiocy. At some point, it began to reveal its pleasant sides to him.

When Nezhinskaya ordered him to kill Mironova, he had no doubt as to carry out her order. There was no reason to refuse her, even if the lady-in-waiting gave this order not out of the interests of the case, but because of banal female revenge.

But the young lady, frozen by the wall with a completely white face, suddenly asked in a low, chest voice: “Is Yakov alive?”

And Jean realized that it would be premature to kill her. Now she had not yet realized her loss, was not exhausted, did not despair. He was to wait until separation broke her will to resist - and then she herself would give him the folder in exchange for the opportunity to receive news about Shtolman.

So, he had to wait. And Jean waited. He waited skillfully, patiently serving idiots for seven years. He accurately bandaged the policeman's wound so that the same would not kick the bucket before his time. Just once, when Shtolman was on the mend and had displayed his bravery, Jean could not help but enjoy getting even for the beating once inflicted on him on the detective's order.

There was no point to interrogate the captive. Jean knew perfectly well about the location of the folder from Nezhinskaya. Lawrence's blue notebook and papers from the engineer's briefcase were placed in the suitcase; moreover, there was also a very tidy sum, both in rubles and pounds. Gordon Brown's documents had to be put there as well, and after that, it would be possible to come to Europe. Jean did not care about the fate of Alice Lawrence. It is simple to find a cryptologist in London, so they would have little difficulty in reading the records.

On the seventh day, the captive himself suddenly broke the silence.
“Relieve me from my doubts, Mr. Lassalle. After all, it was you who killed Prince Razumovsky?”
“How did you come to that conclusion?”
“By analysis and comparison. There was no one else.”

An ironic smile which drove Mrs. Nezhinskaya crazy played on his split lips. But Jean Lassalle is not Nezhinskaya.
“The murderer came out of the house, and took a stone from the basket standing under the wall. And the Prince did not expect a blow from him.”

Jean smiled too. Although he often had to wait and be patient, boredom and inaction made themselves felt. So this inquisitive half-corpse almost did not irritate him.

“What if it was Stepan the footman? Do you exclude this possibility, Mr. Policeman?”
“I exclude it,” Shtolman answered serenely.
“Why?”
“Because you were the Prince's second. It was you who should have delivered the letter to me. But I didn't receive it.”

Jean remained silent. The detective was certainly insightful.

“So that’s how it was,” Shtolman continued thoughtfully. “The Prince began to interfere with you, and you decided to eliminate both of us at the same time, arranging everything in such a way that I would inevitably be accused of murder. Now, why do you need this? What didn’t the Prince please you with?”

Jean grimaced, feeling a surge of old anger.
“If you only knew, Mr. Detective, how tired I am of your Russian stupidity! Of your unpredictability and illogicality. What kind of country is this, where the hero of most fairy tales is a fool?”

Shtolman smiled even wider:
“How long have you been in Russia, Mr. Lassalle?”
“Seven years,” Jean answered sullenly.
“Well, in seven years you should have noticed this Russian peculiarity: Ivan the Fool in our fairy tales invariably comes out the winner. Doesn’t that worry you?”
“Not at all, Mr. Shtolman. Even though you are undoubtedly the main fool of the Zatonsk district. But neither the Magic Pike, nor the Gray Wolf, nor the spirits of Anna Mironova will help you.”
“I didn't count on the spirits,” the detective muttered, shaking his head. “And yet, what did the Prince do wrong?”
“The Prince knew what was at stake, but it was more important for him to settle accounts with you. He wanted to make his shot without fail. Yes, Mr. Policeman, you have cut it fine when you shot into the air. The detective department head murder, especially under such circumstances, would inevitably lead to an investigation and arrival of officials from St. Petersburg. And our operation would be thwarted. I had no choice but to eliminate the Prince.”
“It's funny.”
“Do you think so? Personally, I don't see anything funny for you, Yakov Platonovich. You will die too. And no one will know what happened to you.”
“Well, someone will,” the detective chuckled, smiling somehow differently.
“Do you mean Mrs. Mironova? I must disappoint you. Today I’ll go to the city, visit the young lady, and offer to give me the chemist's folder in exchange for the opportunity to see you. Then I will bring your Dulcinea to you. All lovers dream to live happily ever after. I do not promise you this. But you will die on the same day.”

Lassalle had every opportunity to enjoy the silent despair frozen in the detective's eyes and his futile attempt to break the rope. Unlike the Shtolman’s idiots, Jean knew how to tie a man securely.

* * *
Finding Miss Mironova turned out to be not difficult at all. During his previous rare visits to the city this week, Jean had heard that she no longer left the house and thought that he would have to call her under some pretext. But luck was on his side. He came across Anna on the street, near the police station. Actually, this was the second place where he would have looked for her. It seemed that the young lady had not given up her habit of running to the station time and again. In the current circumstances, this was only to his advantage.

Mironova herself moved towards decidedly. A week ago, she ran away from him in panic. Well, that means the fruit is already ripe.
“Where is Yakov Platonovich?” she asked without preamble.
Jean smiled mysteriously:
“And why are you asking me about this?”
“Because I think you know it!” the young lady said with some challenge.
She was absolutely delightful in her anger, even more interesting than in her touching despair at their last meeting.
“You think correctly, Mrs. Mironova.”

It seems she did not expect such a quick agreement from him. Confusion was reflected on her suddenly pale face.
“What do you want?” she asked suddenly in a hoarse voice.
“Oh, mere trifles, Anna Viktorovna! Give me the folder that Shtolman left you, and you will see him alive.”
“Where is he?” she repeated with agony.
“I’ll take you to him.”

The young lady thought for a long time. Much longer than Jean expected, considering everything she had been through this week. He was ready to pity this poor madwoman, but she had too often found herself in his path together with Shtolman. And he had already given a promise to the detective. Promises must be kept.

“Alright!” the young lady said defiantly. “I’ll give you this folder. And you’ll take me to Yakov.”
“Just no nonsense, Anna Viktorovna,” warned Lassalle, slightly puzzled by her belligerent tone.
“Follow me!” Anna said commandingly, thrust her hands into her muff and resolutely walked towards the Mironovs' house.

Jean waited for her behind the fence. The young lady was gone for about half an hour. Then she came out with the same resolute look, holding a blue folder and the heavy cane of lawyer Mironov. What was that for?

Jean extended his hand, but she stubbornly shook her head, pressing the folder to her chest:
“You’ll get it only when I see Yakov. Alive and well, mind you!”

It would be interesting to know what this fool was going to do when she finds her chosen one not as unharmed as she would like? In his collection of Zatonsk idiots, Anna Mironova sparkled like a rare diamond.

Отредактировано J.H.Watson (27.04.2025 20:50)