Read Online Sister Pelagia and the Red Cockerel by Boris Akunin - Free Book Online
Authors: Boris Akunin
Ads: Link
north is taken by the bow—B—and instead of east I have starboard—S—the right side of the ship.”
“You know,” said Pelagia, “the chair wasn’t standing like that. When I glanced into the cabin, it was over there.” She showed how the chair had been standing. “And the papers on the table were lying in a neat pile, but now they’re scattered all around.”
Sergei Sergeevich turned his head to the right and the left and stabbed one finger at the captain. “Have you been taking liberties, my dear fellow?”
The captain gulped and hunched his shoulders guiltily.
The investigator looked through the sheets of paper scattered across the table and picked up one that was covered with crooked capital letters. He read it:
“Baruch ata Adonoai Elochein melech cha-olam …” He put it down. “It’s some kind of Jewish prayer.”
Pelagia, her spirits somewhat restored following the concealment of the dead man’s nakedness, carried on looking around. She herself was surprised at how much she remembered from those brief moments before she had started screeching. “And this pipe wasn’t here, either,” she said, pointing to a meerschaum tobacco pipe lying on the rug. Dolinin had already placed a little card with the number 8 beside the pipe, and for some reason had covered the item of material evidence with an inverted glass jar.
“Are you absolutely certain about that?” he asked, disconcerted.
“Yes, I would have noticed.”
“How annoying. You’ve canceled out my most important clue. And like an idiot, I’d already covered it to prevent any microscopic particles from being blown off.” Sergei Sergeevich called the captain over and asked him about the pipe.
The captain confirmed Pelagia’s assertion. “Yes sir. That’s the boat swain Savenka’s pipe—he’s the one who came in with me and shone the light in the corners. He must have dropped it.”
“Well done, little nun,” Dolinin exclaimed in admiration. “I’m lucky that you’re here. I tell you what, my dear, why don’t you stay for a while? You never know, you might notice something else, or remember something.”
And after that, as he thought out loud (which was a habit the investigator had), he addressed his remarks only to Pelagia, paying no attention to the others present, even to the district police commander. Obviously Sergei Sergeevich found it more interesting, or shall we say exotic, to address his rhetorical questions to the quick-witted nun.
“Well, then, Sister, shall we examine the clothes now?” he said, picking through the victim’s wardrobe: nankeen trousers, a waistcoat, a white linen mantle with a blue stripe. “Right, then. There’s no label on the trousers. Trashy trousers, bought at a flea market. And he was traveling first class, with the ‘treasury’ The little skinflint… What do we have on the shirt? Is there a laundry mark? What do you think on that score, Sister?… You think right, our prophet didn’t employ the services of a laundry … We’ll put the boots aside for the moment, the seams have to be slit open.”
Having finished with the clothing, Dolinin looked around and nodded to himself. “Well, then, that seems to be all for the cabin. Let’s examine the periphery. And, of course, the two of us will start, my sweetheart, with the means of entry.”
He fiddled at the door, unscrewing and removing the lock with his own hands, then studying it through a magnifying glass.
“Lit-tle scrat-ches,” Sergei Sergeevich purred. “Fresh. A picklock? Or a new key? Let’s find out.”
Then he moved on to the window and found something there that interested him. He climbed up and knelt on the little table, then leaned across.
Reaching one hand back behind him, he snapped his fingers impatiently.
“A light here, a light!”
Two men dashed over to him at the same time—the captain and police commander. The first held out a kerosene lamp, the second an electric torch.
Dolinin chose
“You know,” said Pelagia, “the chair wasn’t standing like that. When I glanced into the cabin, it was over there.” She showed how the chair had been standing. “And the papers on the table were lying in a neat pile, but now they’re scattered all around.”
Sergei Sergeevich turned his head to the right and the left and stabbed one finger at the captain. “Have you been taking liberties, my dear fellow?”
The captain gulped and hunched his shoulders guiltily.
The investigator looked through the sheets of paper scattered across the table and picked up one that was covered with crooked capital letters. He read it:
“Baruch ata Adonoai Elochein melech cha-olam …” He put it down. “It’s some kind of Jewish prayer.”
Pelagia, her spirits somewhat restored following the concealment of the dead man’s nakedness, carried on looking around. She herself was surprised at how much she remembered from those brief moments before she had started screeching. “And this pipe wasn’t here, either,” she said, pointing to a meerschaum tobacco pipe lying on the rug. Dolinin had already placed a little card with the number 8 beside the pipe, and for some reason had covered the item of material evidence with an inverted glass jar.
“Are you absolutely certain about that?” he asked, disconcerted.
“Yes, I would have noticed.”
“How annoying. You’ve canceled out my most important clue. And like an idiot, I’d already covered it to prevent any microscopic particles from being blown off.” Sergei Sergeevich called the captain over and asked him about the pipe.
The captain confirmed Pelagia’s assertion. “Yes sir. That’s the boat swain Savenka’s pipe—he’s the one who came in with me and shone the light in the corners. He must have dropped it.”
“Well done, little nun,” Dolinin exclaimed in admiration. “I’m lucky that you’re here. I tell you what, my dear, why don’t you stay for a while? You never know, you might notice something else, or remember something.”
And after that, as he thought out loud (which was a habit the investigator had), he addressed his remarks only to Pelagia, paying no attention to the others present, even to the district police commander. Obviously Sergei Sergeevich found it more interesting, or shall we say exotic, to address his rhetorical questions to the quick-witted nun.
“Well, then, Sister, shall we examine the clothes now?” he said, picking through the victim’s wardrobe: nankeen trousers, a waistcoat, a white linen mantle with a blue stripe. “Right, then. There’s no label on the trousers. Trashy trousers, bought at a flea market. And he was traveling first class, with the ‘treasury’ The little skinflint… What do we have on the shirt? Is there a laundry mark? What do you think on that score, Sister?… You think right, our prophet didn’t employ the services of a laundry … We’ll put the boots aside for the moment, the seams have to be slit open.”
Having finished with the clothing, Dolinin looked around and nodded to himself. “Well, then, that seems to be all for the cabin. Let’s examine the periphery. And, of course, the two of us will start, my sweetheart, with the means of entry.”
He fiddled at the door, unscrewing and removing the lock with his own hands, then studying it through a magnifying glass.
“Lit-tle scrat-ches,” Sergei Sergeevich purred. “Fresh. A picklock? Or a new key? Let’s find out.”
Then he moved on to the window and found something there that interested him. He climbed up and knelt on the little table, then leaned across.
Reaching one hand back behind him, he snapped his fingers impatiently.
“A light here, a light!”
Two men dashed over to him at the same time—the captain and police commander. The first held out a kerosene lamp, the second an electric torch.
Dolinin chose
Similar Books
