Read Online Sister Pelagia and the Red Cockerel by Boris Akunin - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Boris Akunin
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progress. Shining the electric torch on the slot in the frame, he said slowly, “Someone used a hack on this. That’s clear, then. Now, Sister, there you have the answer to our puzzle. Take a look.” Pelagia looked, but she couldn’t see anything out of the ordinary.
“Surely you see it?” Sergei Sergeevich asked in surprise. “The screws have been backed out. And there are traces of oil. A razin has been at work here, it’s their trademark.” And he explained to Pelagia who the razins were. Although she lived by the River, she had never heard anything about these people before.
“The picture is growing clearer,” the investigator declared with a satisfied air. “There’s nothing like doing the job right! Manuila woke up when the thief had already pulled the casket out from under him. There was a fight. The razins don’t usually go in for murder, but this one must have lost his head over the big money. Or he got frightened. And so he hit him.”
There was a tap-tap on the door. A head in a peaked cap was thrust into the room. “Your Excellency, look, they found it on the deck. By the edge.”
Sergei Sergeevich took the canvas sack with the broken string from the policeman and rummaged inside it. He took out a pair of spectacles with gold frames, a porcelain pipe, a tailor’s rule, and a rubber ball. The investigator’s brow furrowed into deep folds of incomprehension, but almost immediately smoothed out again.
“Why, it’s a swag bag!” the master detective exclaimed. “The sack the razins use for putting their loot in. Here, this is the confirmation of my hypothesis!”
“Then why did the thief abandon it?” asked Pelagia.
Dolinin shrugged.
“Why would a razin want this trash if he’d got his hands on some serious loot? He tore it off his shoulder so that it wouldn’t get in his way, and discarded it. And he wasn’t really himself after the murder. He wasn’t used to it.”
Everything fitted. Pelagia was impressed by the sharp wits of the man from St. Petersburg, but her own thoughts were already hurrying on. “How can you tell which of the passengers is a razin ? Do they have any distinctive features?”
Sergei Sergeevich smiled condescendingly. “If it’s a razin— and it definitely is a razin— then his trail has been cold for ages.”
“Where could he have gone? No one has been allowed off the steamer. The Sturgeon hasn’t moored at the shore.”
“And what of it? Cold water’s no problem for a razin , they swim like water rats. He slid down the anchor chain into the water, and he was gone. Or he jumped off earlier, immediately after the murder. Never mind. Give me a while. All the rest is just a matter of time now, Sister. I’ll send a request to all the departments along the river. We’ll find him all right…. What’s that you’re looking at there?”
While listening to Dolinin, Pelagia had gone across to the divan and carefully touched the pillow. “It doesn’t fit,” she said, leaning down and looking closer. “It simply doesn’t fit.”
“What doesn’t fit?” asked the investigator, walking up to her. “Come on now, come on, out with it.”
“Your solution to the puzzle won’t work. There wasn’t any fight, and the victim didn’t grab the killer by the hand. He was killed on the bed. Look,” said Pelagia, pointing, “there’s the imprint of a face in the pillow. That means that when the blow was struck, Manuila was lying face down. And there are drops of blood around it, oval ones. So they fell down from above. If he had jerked his head up, the drops would run on a slant.”
Sergei Sergeevich muttered in embarrassment: “Well, now, that’s right… And the trickles of blood on the face run from the back of the head to the nose. You’re right. I repent, I was careless. But then, begging your pardon, how did the body come to be on the floor, and in such a pose?”
“The killer dragged it off the divan. He pulled up his shirt and put the torn
“Surely you see it?” Sergei Sergeevich asked in surprise. “The screws have been backed out. And there are traces of oil. A razin has been at work here, it’s their trademark.” And he explained to Pelagia who the razins were. Although she lived by the River, she had never heard anything about these people before.
“The picture is growing clearer,” the investigator declared with a satisfied air. “There’s nothing like doing the job right! Manuila woke up when the thief had already pulled the casket out from under him. There was a fight. The razins don’t usually go in for murder, but this one must have lost his head over the big money. Or he got frightened. And so he hit him.”
There was a tap-tap on the door. A head in a peaked cap was thrust into the room. “Your Excellency, look, they found it on the deck. By the edge.”
Sergei Sergeevich took the canvas sack with the broken string from the policeman and rummaged inside it. He took out a pair of spectacles with gold frames, a porcelain pipe, a tailor’s rule, and a rubber ball. The investigator’s brow furrowed into deep folds of incomprehension, but almost immediately smoothed out again.
“Why, it’s a swag bag!” the master detective exclaimed. “The sack the razins use for putting their loot in. Here, this is the confirmation of my hypothesis!”
“Then why did the thief abandon it?” asked Pelagia.
Dolinin shrugged.
“Why would a razin want this trash if he’d got his hands on some serious loot? He tore it off his shoulder so that it wouldn’t get in his way, and discarded it. And he wasn’t really himself after the murder. He wasn’t used to it.”
Everything fitted. Pelagia was impressed by the sharp wits of the man from St. Petersburg, but her own thoughts were already hurrying on. “How can you tell which of the passengers is a razin ? Do they have any distinctive features?”
Sergei Sergeevich smiled condescendingly. “If it’s a razin— and it definitely is a razin— then his trail has been cold for ages.”
“Where could he have gone? No one has been allowed off the steamer. The Sturgeon hasn’t moored at the shore.”
“And what of it? Cold water’s no problem for a razin , they swim like water rats. He slid down the anchor chain into the water, and he was gone. Or he jumped off earlier, immediately after the murder. Never mind. Give me a while. All the rest is just a matter of time now, Sister. I’ll send a request to all the departments along the river. We’ll find him all right…. What’s that you’re looking at there?”
While listening to Dolinin, Pelagia had gone across to the divan and carefully touched the pillow. “It doesn’t fit,” she said, leaning down and looking closer. “It simply doesn’t fit.”
“What doesn’t fit?” asked the investigator, walking up to her. “Come on now, come on, out with it.”
“Your solution to the puzzle won’t work. There wasn’t any fight, and the victim didn’t grab the killer by the hand. He was killed on the bed. Look,” said Pelagia, pointing, “there’s the imprint of a face in the pillow. That means that when the blow was struck, Manuila was lying face down. And there are drops of blood around it, oval ones. So they fell down from above. If he had jerked his head up, the drops would run on a slant.”
Sergei Sergeevich muttered in embarrassment: “Well, now, that’s right… And the trickles of blood on the face run from the back of the head to the nose. You’re right. I repent, I was careless. But then, begging your pardon, how did the body come to be on the floor, and in such a pose?”
“The killer dragged it off the divan. He pulled up his shirt and put the torn
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