Official for Special Assignments 2. Read online the book “Officer for Special Assignments

Current page: 2 (total book has 22 pages) [accessible reading excerpt: 6 pages]

Oper, looking at the genuine confusion of the state councilor, has already begun to think - for evil or for the good of his appearance here? He did not suffer from youthful maximalism for a long time. And about the butterfly Ray Bradbury remembered well. And, also, where the road paved with good intentions leads. He understood one thing very well - he would not achieve a complete understanding of the situation from the locals. Monarchists will be loyal to the tsar, regardless of whether it will turn out to be good or bad for Russia. Revolutionaries, too, take out and put down the overthrow of the autocracy, and no nails. And then they will take each other like spiders in a jar.

I wonder if an official for special assignments is a big enough "bump" to start his game? Yes, no, - he mentally pulled himself up, - have you lost your mind, or what? It's cheaper to squeeze between Scylla and Charybdis. There, and then, more chances. Yes, what is there, if we talk about the chances, he has them, like a mouse between two millstones.

- All right, colleague, - Koshko yawned, - let's sleep, perhaps. We will arrive in Kyiv only tomorrow evening. The sovereign will only arrive in five or six days. So, I think we have time. Yes, how do you like the facilities here? You, I suppose, progress has stepped so far that we, the dark ones, could not even dream of.

- How can I tell you, - Stas answered evasively, - I didn’t ride in the general’s cars. In simple, of course, there is no such luxury. But trains, of course, run faster. Good night, Your Excellency.

He, little by little, began to grow into this new old life._

1 Stas did not make a reservation, this is exactly what is written in the materials of the criminal case. The fact is that until about the 30s of the 20th century, the words “pistol” and “revolver” were full synonyms.

Chapter 3

The train arrived in Kyiv when it was already getting dark. The travelers stepped onto the platform. True, it was still quite light, and the lanterns were not lit.

When they came to the station square, a cab dashingly rolled up to them.

- Where would you like, gentlemen?

Stas looked back at Arkady Frantsevich - he had never been to Kyiv in his previous life.

“To Fundukleevskaya, to the Hermitage,” he casually threw, sitting down on the seat.

“What, the driver doesn’t know which street the hotel is on?” Stas chuckled softly.

“So that you don’t roll around in circles, like visitors,” Koshko waved him off, thinking about something of his own.

It turns out that the tricks of taxi drivers were born before the advent of the taxi itself, as such. Indeed, there is nothing new under the sun.

Realizing that the state councilor was not up to him, Sizov leaned back on the soft seat, looking with interest at the streets along which they were driven by a cab. They didn't bear much resemblance to the old chronicles he had seen. Maybe the fact is that black-and-white films with unnaturally hurrying characters did not much resemble these streets with people alive and calmly going about their business. Rather, it looked like an image from a feature film. Strictly speaking, these streets, as they say, did not catch the eye - everything is ordinary, except that passers-by are dressed a little differently, and there are different cabs and carriages instead of cars.

They got out near the Hermitage Hotel, met by no one, and went inside. In the huge hall, behind the counter, the receptionist was bored. When they appeared, he instantly threw off his sleepy stupor and stared at the newcomers with the greatest attention.

“A room for two,” Koshko threw, casually handing over his passport.

Stas handed in his own, briefly noting that the detective's passport was issued in the name of the tradesman Ivan Petrovich Fadeev. Apparently, there was enough intrigue between the services. If so, their task becomes more complicated by an order of magnitude - it is unlikely that the head of the local gendarmerie will accept them with open arms and will discuss his agents with them.

“I definitely wouldn’t,” Stas honestly admitted to himself, following the “bosses” along the red carpet to their room.

In the process of further discussion of the details of the operation, it turned out that he was absolutely right in his suspicions.

- It seems that we are doing one thing, - the chief of the Russian detective said with annoyance, walking around with a glass of tea in his hands around the luxurious room, - Well, it would be okay, it was about something really secret. That these are re-evolutionary, - he said this word with unspeakable contempt. - the gendarmes knock on each other, like crazy woodpeckers - an open secret. I hope that at least you, at the end of the 20th century, are not familiar with these troubles?

- What is there, - sighed operas, - as if, even worse than yours.

- How? - amazed, Koshko stood up like a statue. - Stop! Have I misunderstood that you have a ... um ... state of workers and peasants, right?

“So,” Stas nodded doomedly, feeling like a lecturer who was obliged to explain to the younger group of the kindergarten how communism differs from war communism.

- And who is revolutionizing there, let me ask you a curiosity? What happened there, among the workers and peasants, their pariahs and patricians appeared?

“You have remarkably accurately expressed the essence of the problem,” Sizov smiled wryly. However, they didn't go anywhere.

“Yes, well…,” the detective shook his head, “poor Russia, it seems, is not destined for her to live long without shocks.

- Well, he who is warned is armed.

- What?! What do you want to say?

The State Councilor Koshko looked as if he had been poked on the crown of his head by a Newtonian apple. Oper looked at him with a grin. As soon as he finally realized that he had fallen into this world for a long time, the understanding came that if it was possible to stop the assassination of Stolypin, why not stop the revolution?

No matter how absurd it sounded, the task did not seem hopeless to him. Difficult, almost impossible - yes! But, as we say, "a little bit" does not count. Stas was not some sort of idealist. Rather, on the contrary - solving some problem, he became pragmatic to the point of disgrace. But, paradoxically, among his colleagues, Senior Lieutenant Sizov was known as a reckless idealist. For the simple reason that nothing could stop Stas, who “fell on the trail”. Except, perhaps, a direct order. Yes, and that.

Jumping from roof to roof, entering the apartment through the balcony on the seventh floor and other exploits created a reputation for him, which, as Stas himself soberly assessed, did not deserve in any way. Perhaps best of all, he was characterized by one case. Then, in the large cities of Russia, teenage gangs were gaining strength. Fight "district to district" was, at that time, a common thing. He acted as duty officer in the department, and in the evening the duty officer in the city informed him via “direct communication” that two large groups of teenagers were moving towards each other, and the proposed meeting should take place, precisely, on their territory. It is too late to raise the riot police - they will have time, perhaps, already in the midst of the massacre. Plus, kids.

The devil knows whether the “policeman” really thought that it was inappropriate to raise the special forces, or simply “got off” because he overslept this matter, Stas did not delve into it - what's the difference now? How can the duty officer in the department react to a mass brawl? Yes, nothing. This was well understood by both, but one "leaked" responsibility to the other. And, this "other" exit had two. And both are dead ends - not to do a damn thing, referring to the fact that in his submission, at the time of receipt of the information, there were only a guard and a driver. Or go there alone and become a victim of a group attack. Even if you are lucky to stay alive and keep your service weapon (unless, of course, you can believe that curious youngsters will not take the weapon from the cop lying dead), a long unsubscribe to the prosecutor's office on various stupid issues.

However, Stas acted madly simply. Taking a machine gun from the ruzhpark, he left the guard in his place and drove to the very “rendezvous point”. He was lucky - he accurately calculated that the "skhodnyak" would break out, exactly, in the school yard. Having entered there, he calmly got out of the car and, looking at how the "vanguards" had already begun to jump from two different ends over the fences. And then, just as calmly, he gave the command: “Disperse!” and gave the turn up. The teenagers splashed in all directions and the incident was thus settled.

It is difficult to say what was more here - luck or calculation. Stas himself adhered to the second version. Management and colleagues, as expected - the first.

- How could you think of - on children with a machine gun? Are you crazy? - then the head of the department asked him in horror.

- Evgeny Savelyevich, - Stas answered calmly, - everything was calculated: until the fight began, they were still thinking. They are not fools - to rush to the machine. On the contrary, a cop came out with a machine gun. This is an adventure - they will be proud of it, they will retell it to their friends. And the price of this case is three Akaem cartridges. And the only victim.

- Who?! “Tusk” exclaimed in horror (as the boss was called behind the eyes).

“Pomdezh,” Sizov grinned, “he had to clean his machine gun. And if I hadn't stopped them, there would have been more of them.

Winners, as a rule, are not judged, and everything ended up with verbal “creaking” from the authorities and from colleagues - verbal censures in obscene form. Here, of course, the situation is more complicated. Stas understood perfectly well that the revolution was not a crowd of drunken sailors who took the Winter Palace in the mood. Any revolution is, firstly, big money. He knew that the Bolsheviks, Mensheviks, Socialist-Revolutionaries and others were being financed very intensively from outside.

Moreover, not only foreign intelligence agencies, who needed a stable Russia, like a boil on their ass. The bourgeoisie, so hated by the proletariat, whom the workers and peasants then lustfully shot and hung on street lamps, also took part in this - be healthy! Of course, you can understand them. To arrange a bourgeois republic instead of the autocracy that has set its teeth on edge - this is the carrot that the industrialists fell for. They underestimated the Bolsheviks, which is already there.

Accordingly, the second important factor follows from this - people. Or rather, personalities. Lenin, Stalin, and others like them, are idiots only in the inflamed imagination of the Soviet intellectual. Well, what is the demand from them. In these very peculiarly arranged heads such contradictory circumstances perfectly fit together, such as what the clever and brilliant politician Churchill considered one of the outstanding rulers of the “paranoid” and “bloody executioner” Stalin. However, God is with them, it is a sin to laugh at the poor ..

And Stas was well aware that he was losing to them in all positions, except for one and only - he knew the buy-in.

And so, looking into the dumbfounded eyes of the great detective, he smiled broadly.

– I want to say that you and I have a chance to save Russia.

And, taking the bottle, contrary to all etiquette, he drilled himself brandy directly into a tea glass and waved it in one gulp.

In the morning, State Councilor Koshko went on a visit to the head of the Kyiv gendarme department, Kulyabko.

“Oh, if you knew, Stanislav, how much I don’t want to pay this visit,” he sighed.

- I guess, - Stas nodded, - it's a pleasure to communicate with the "neighbors".

- Neighbors? - the detective did not understand, - Ah! You mean the neighboring department? It's funny noticed, it will be necessary to tell colleagues, they will have a lot of fun. Well, for now, take a walk around the city, or something.

“Ah, in fact,” thought the opera, “there is no time to sit around. At least look at the approaches to the theater.

Speaking frankly, he did not really believe that Arkady Frantsevich and the gendarme could come to a consensus. The reaction of the latter is quite predictable - thanks for the information and - goodbye! We are professionals, we ourselves, without snotty, will figure it out.

It is right, of course, that everyone is minding their own business, otherwise it would not be a job, but a real house of tolerance - you will not understand who, whom and for what. However, it is also true that "the specialist is like a flux - he is one-sided." Kozma Prutkov was right. And the fact that the ark was built by an amateur, and the Titanic by professionals, is also said not to the eyebrow, but to the eye.

“In general,” Stas grunted to himself, walking along the morning streets of Kyiv, “hope on the gendarme, but don’t make a mistake yourself.”

The bell boomed with a booming bass, and its voice hung in the air for a long time above the gilded domes that rose above the city like the helmets of ancient warriors. The fresh air, not “weighted” by the exhaust, invigorated, it was easy to breathe, he looked at the signs on small shops and stores with curiosity. The service people hurried, forever afraid of being late. With a loud clatter of hooves, a young cornet prattled, judging by his serious look, with an assignment. Bouncing on the cobblestones with wheels, a heavily loaded wagon train creaked, it was overtaken, honking, by a shiny car, behind the wheel of which a driver wrapped in leather proudly sat.

For some reason, looking at this couple, Stas immediately decided that they were going to the theater. Moreover, they are not just going there, they are the flesh of the flesh of this theater. There was something in them, bohemian, or something. Both of them were tall and slender. But, judging by their clothes, sewn, albeit with pretensions, but clearly by a small-town dressmaker, they were far from the upper class. One had big bright eyes. So big that he immediately, out of habit, dubbed her the Dragonfly. The second had sharp facial features and Stas, to himself, designated her Bird.

He was sure that their belonging to the world of art identified correctly. Perhaps the look with which both "shot" at a tall handsome opera. Or maybe the very weightless vibes that he, as an experienced cop, caught with his “upper flair”. Stas, over the years of service in the mentor, got used to trust this feeling. More than once it saved him from trouble, but a couple of times, for sure, from certain death.

Therefore, without even having time to properly “suck” this unexpected inspiration on his own, he took a step towards the girls. There was no need to delay, for the theater was already at a distance of direct visibility.

- Forgive me, for God's sake, my impoliteness. Let me introduce myself - collegiate secretary Sizov Stanislav. Can you tell me how to get to the Opera?

They seemed to be waiting for this. The dragonfly smiled happily, as if meeting an old friend. The bird, on the contrary, modestly looked down. However, at the same time, she “gave a joint” so much that anyone who understands something in women would understand that if her friend can be “removed” in five seconds, counting inhalation and exhalation, then this one herself will “remove” anyone you want.

“Vika,” the big-eyed woman tilted her head.

“Nika,” a friend introduced herself to her tone.

“If you show us a little,” the big-eyed girl looked at him coquettishly, “you will come straight to the Opera.

- With great pleasure, - Stas bowed gallantly, sitting next to him. - you can see the servants of the muses from a mile away. Oh, the muses! Melpomene, Polyhymnia and Thalia! And the waist! - Exclaimed, struck in the heart, Mark Antony and Rome was instantly renamed.

The girls laughed merrily. The newly appeared cavalier, obviously, came to their liking. And dressed more than decently. It was so hard for them, poor servants of art, to break through in this world! In their dreams, they dreamed - no, not at all about a prince, rather, about a wealthy gentleman - preferably young and generous, who took under his wing a young talent. And the limit of girlish dreams is a successful marriage! And now, who knows, maybe it was Mrs. Fortuna who suddenly became generous, giving them such a chance?

- Yes, it is felt that the muses honored you with their presence.

- Yes you! – picturesquely clutching his forehead, Stas continued to “sham”, “I am stupid, tongue-tied and clumsy, and only at the sight of you, a poet woke up in my soul, ready to admire every centimeter of your shoes with iambic pentameter.

- Wow, what a compliment you are, - not either condemning, or admiring, she stretched out, coquettishly moving her shoulder, Bird.

“Tonight they are giving The Tale of Tsar Saltan,” the Dragonfly announced proudly, “the Sovereign Emperor himself will be at the performance.

- The emperor himself? - made the "big eyes" of operas, - it turns out that you will be there until late. It's a pity. So, it will not be possible to bring you flowers and champagne ..

“Well.,” Dragonfly threw a quick glance at her friend, “actually….

- Nothing is impossible. There is one secret passage there, and we will show it to you. Only, uncle Vasya, a carpenter, needs to be paid two kopecks.

- Yes, I'll pay him a ruble, - Stas exclaimed passionately, giving both of them such a look that the Dragonfly blushed like a May flower, and the Bird gave a promising look.

Approaching the theater, the girls went around the building, beckoning Stas to follow them, and stopped in front of some unsightly door, which was not locked. A dim light bulb burned in the half-dark corridor, and there was a smell of wood and glue. Of the two doors, one was locked with a padlock, and light poured out of the second, and someone's voice, completely devoid of musicality, sang Lensky's aria:

- I-a lu-at-blue-at you. I love you, Olga.

- Uncle Vasya! - called the Dragonfly-Vika.

- Ash? - a grayish beard peeped out of the door, over which two rook eyes glittered.

“Uncle Vasya, hello,” Bird-Nika sang. - How is your health?

“Ah, it’s you, dragonflies,” the “singer” smiled. The old man has arrived.

He failed to reach an agreement. The front door swung open and a tall policeman walked in. Stas looked at the shoulder straps - green, like a foreman's, only a gray stripe.

“Sort of like a police officer,” he recalled, recalling what he had read in Koshko's office.

- Hello, who is in charge of this room?

“I, Mr. Police Officer,” Uncle Vasya stretched out “into the front”. - Carpenter Vasily Kutsenko, tradesman.

What about you young people? – the police officer turned to Stas.

“Sure,” he nodded. “However, please don’t stay here too long. An important event is underway.

- Yes, we have already almost agreed, - the operator smiled, - now we will leave.

“Tell me, my dear,” having lost interest in them, the policeman turned back to the carpenter. - Can I go inside the Opera House from here?

- No way, - "eating with his eyes" the authorities, rapped out Uncle Vasya. So, the room is closed.

"Where does this one lead to?" - looking into the carpentry, the warden showed, pointing to the locked door.

“So, don’t worry about it,” the carpenter began to fuss. - This is our closet.

– Open.

After making sure that the pantry had no way out, he turned back to Stas.

“I beg your pardon, office. Let me take a look at your papers.

Carefully looking at the passport, he looked at the opera attentively.

- Where would you like to stay?

- In the Hermitage.

- For what purpose did you come to the city?

- Commercial affairs.

- All the best, - having returned the passport, the police officer left.

“The authorities are worried,” Uncle Vasya chuckled sarcastically. - So, what, young man, shall we order a bookcase?

“Well, Uncle Vasya,” Nick drawled capriciously. This young man is our friend. Bring him to us tonight, please.

“No, no, no, don’t ask today,” the carpenter shook his head. – You see what is going on today, right, Sodom and Gomorrah.

Dragonfly-Vika, behind her friend, indicated a gesture familiar from the opera, rubbing her thumb on her index finger. Stas nodded understandingly and, unbuttoning his coat, took out a purse from his pocket.

It's good that he changed one of the quarter notes while having breakfast in a restaurant. For the sake of such a thing, it’s not a pity, as it were, but the carpenter, having received such an amount, would definitely have suspected something was wrong.

Rummaging in the coin compartment, he brought to light God's silver ruble and handed it to the carpenter.

– Drink, dear, for the health of our Sovereign Emperor.

“Well, perhaps, for the Emperor,” he muttered and, after hesitating a little, grabbed a coin. - You, Your Grace, come up, like that, half an hour before the start, I'll show you.

Chapter 4

Waving goodbye to the girls, Stas watched them enter the Opera House, sat down on a bench and reached into his pocket for cigarettes. The Winston he was used to was not here, of course. But the Troika, which he bought in a restaurant, turned out to be quite a decent thing.

“So, everything is as usual,” he grinned, looking at a flock of loud-mouthed sparrows, who started a showdown over a dropped crust of bread. - Having the right acquaintance, it will not be difficult to penetrate the object of labor.

He opened the box, noticing, out of the corner of his eye, that a figure, circling the area in front of the entrance, was heading towards him.

- Excuse me, can you extend the cigarette?

Stas brought a burning match to a cigarette, exhaled smoke and reached into his pocket.

- Do me a favor, - and noted with an inner grin that, once here, he began to express himself somehow old-fashioned, the atmosphere acts like that, or something.

Holding out the open box, he glanced at the petitioner. He'd seen that face before, for sure! I have not personally met, but it feels like just yesterday, I looked at him in a fresh orientation. In the documents that he shoveled from Koshko? Not sure, but possible. Thinking, he did not forget, out of the corner of his eye, to track the movements of the “object”. And he, in fact, did not make any special gestures. He walked away and sat down on another bench.

At this time, a well-dressed gentleman approached him. It is difficult to say why, but it seemed to Stas that, most of all, he looked like an official. Ask why, he wouldn't answer.

"Intuition, Watson.".

Serenely releasing smoke upwards, Stas, askance, watched the "object" and his counterpart. They continued to sit, talking quietly about something, and the opera, admiring the pretentious building of the Opera House, wondered if Arkady Frantsevich would be able to get some sense from the head of the local gendarmes. At the same time, not forgetting the whispering couple, mentally, purely out of habit, he made a verbal portrait of the “mustachioed”: tall, European-type face, blond hair with a strong reddish head, wears a mustache, and holds himself straight, like a military man.

Stop! Here it is! This is how people who constantly wear a uniform keep themselves. Police officer? Gendarme? Military? No, the policeman, perhaps, should be discarded - they know how to wear civilians - work obliges.

At this time, the "military" got up and, casually nodding, walked away.

- Alexander Ivanovich! the “object” called out to him.

Stas did not escape, as Alexander Ivanovich, involuntarily, shot his eyes around.

“Yeah, you don’t want to be recognized! - Stas laughed to himself, - Thank you, mister "shooter"! Here, I’ve had it, so, I’ve had it!”

The interlocutor with two quick steps returned to the “object”. It was obvious that he was saying something to him. He, listening to him, looked respectfully, but his lips involuntarily curled up, betraying contempt for the interlocutor.

"Curator from the gendarmerie?" - continued to "pump" Alexander Ivanovich operas.

The interlocutor mentioned, meanwhile, having said goodbye, went away. Noticing how professionally he looked around, Stas abandoned the idea of ​​following him and, even more inclined to think that he was dealing with a gendarme.

Arkady Frantsevich Koshko, meanwhile, was returning from the head of the Kyiv gendarme department. Despite the outward calmness, inside everything was seething, like in Vesuvius. No, Kulyabko, of course, was polite and helpful. Still would! The head of the department of the city cannot speak through the lip with the head of the state department. But! Services are different, this is the first. Secondly, the gendarmerie, whatever one may say, is higher than the police.

- Come in, please, Mr. State Councilor. How can I help you? - Kulyabko was polite, but nothing more.

- Mr. Colonel, I have received important information, which I consider it necessary to bring to your attention.

- I'm hearing you.

Koshko sighed.

- This is some kind of mistake, - the gendarme made a “muzzle with a teapot”, - and, in general, I cannot discuss intelligence issues with anyone. This is strictly prohibited by the circulars, and you are well aware of this.

- If I know about the very fact of agent contact, then it is ridiculous to refer to secret circulars, - Arkady Frantsevich could not resist a slight taunt, - Bogrov told you about a woman who is preparing a terrorist act. I can assure you, this is only a legend. No woman exists. Bogrov personally intends to shoot Prime Minister Stolypin.

To honor (or vice versa) Kulyabko, not a single vein on his face flinched. Unless, his face became utterly official.

“I don’t know anything about any Bogrov,” the colonel rapped out, “I don’t know anything about any assassination attempt. I cannot discuss matters of secret work with outsiders. Even with you, dear Mr. Koshko.

- Well, - Arkady Frantsevich nodded, - I have only one request for you. Order to issue passes to the Opera. For me and my assistant.

“One for you personally,” the gendarme replied dryly, “forgive me generously, but the seats in the twelfth row are strictly limited, and, if it happens, God forbid, no one will relieve me of responsibility.

He took out a pass from the table and, having entered the visitor into it, ornately signed it.

- I ask you to.

“I have the honor,” Koshko got up.

“I have the honor,” the owner of the office stood up.

Passing through the waiting room, he ran into a tall, red-haired gentleman entering the department from the street. In passing, he noted that he had seen this gentleman somewhere, but he was in no mood to remember.

When he, still blazing with righteous anger, went up to the room, Stas was already there.

- I don’t ask about the result, - the operator took a sip of tea from a glass that he held in his hand, I paced around the room, - sorry, you can see it on your face.

- Yes, communication with "neighbors", - Koshko used a new word, - is still a pleasure, I dare say.

- God bless them, - Stas waved his hand, - it was, is and will be. The main thing for us is to realize the information.

“They gave me only one pass, and, moreover, a nominal one,” the state councilor said with annoyance, taking off his coat and hat.

“This, of course, is grief,” the opera remarked philosophically, “but it doesn’t matter. I found a way to get in without any pass. Am I opera or where?

What do you mean, "or where"? Arkady Frantsevich was puzzled.

This is a joke, don't pay attention. I now have two urgent questions: what kind of guy met with Bogrov and where should I shoot the barrel. The second one is even faster than the first one.

- And forget to think, - the detective waved his hands, - in the presence of the First Person of the State, only bodyguards can have weapons.

- Yeah. And the terrorists, - Stas quipped, - they seem to have a special position. And then, you forgot that I will come through the back door. I will not be searched at the entrance.

- Well, - Koshko thought, - let's say, a person of my status is not supposed to be searched.

- That's it, - the opera chuckled, - otherwise, it hurts that we are law-abiding. To the delight of every bastard.

Arkady Frantsevich grunted, but did not object.

“There is a shooting range not far from here, in the police station. The gun should be like a native, here you are absolutely right. It is gratifying to see that our descendants have not lost the heritage that we collect bit by bit.

“Of course,” Stas replied, not wanting to upset a good man.

Lost is an understatement. Pissed off - or rather it will be. And, everything that is possible. And even what is impossible. There are grains left - that's right. However, a state councilor does not need to know about this, he has his own worries here - through the roof. "His wickedness prevails for the day," the ancients truly said.

At the police station, as expected, there were no problems. The head of the department, imbued, at the sight of the distinguished guest, singled out a hefty gloomy non-commissioned officer for them as assistants.

- Non-commissioned officer Kalashnikov, - he introduced him, - in shooting, I assure you, a pure virtuoso. Treat them like me.

“Let me inquire, Your Highness,” the non-commissioned officer turned to Arkady Frantsevich.

“Please,” he nodded.

- Duty sighting or for a specific task?

- Under specific.

- If you please, name the conditions, - the non-commissioned officer said businesslike, - we will do everything in the best possible way.

They went down to the shooting range. The big man opened the heavy door with a key and let the distinguished guests go ahead. Stas looked around. A good, solid service shooting gallery. Without electronic bells and whistles, of course, where did they come from, at the beginning of the 20th century?

So, what are the conditions? the non-commissioned officer asked, turning on the backlight.

- The object is moving, suddenly appearing, the target is chest, the distance is ten to fifteen meters, in conditions of temporary shortage, - he rapped out, without hesitation, operas, - in the sense, there will be little time. A second or two, no more.

“You understand, Your Honor,” Kalashnikov replied respectfully, sorting through the targets.

He selected a few from the pile and walked forward. At the click of an invisible toggle switch, at a distance of about fifteen meters, seven growth targets turned, standing one next to the other, at a distance of a meter from each other.

“Your Highness,” whispered Stas, “such a shooting range, in my opinion, deserves at least gratitude. We have the same.

“Shoot, Your Honor,” Kalashnikov nodded, returning to the line.

Koshko, with obvious interest, watched as his young colleague took a step forward, unbuttoned his jacket and stared at the targets intently, as if he were estimating the distance to the target.

- Mr. non-commissioned officer, - without turning around, asked Stas, - command me, please.

- I obey, Vashbrod, - the non-commissioned officer answered, - get ready, pli!

Stas, throwing back the hem of his jacket, grabbed the Parabellum. One after another, in a row, flashes flashed, shots rumbled, flying shells rang.

“Check the targets,” Kalashnikov commanded.

When the three of them approached the targets, the sergeant grunted.

- Pretty much, Stanislav, - the state councilor nodded.

Stas carefully examined the holes - all the bullets hit, but there were only two in the center, the other five were at different ends of the targets, but closer to the edge.

- No, one more time, perhaps, it is necessary, - the opera shook his head, - no one will give me a second attempt. I have one shot. Got more ammo? – he turned to the non-commissioned officer.

“Don’t worry, Vashbrod,” he replied respectfully, “take as much as you need. You see, you have an important task.

“Your truth,” Stas nodded, returning to the line.

He took out an empty magazine and handed it to the non-commissioned officer. The second series was more successful. After the fifth shooting, he finally gained the necessary confidence. While Stas was cleaning his weapons, Koshko was quietly talking about something with the head of the department. By the contented appearance of the latter, it was easy to determine the subject of the conversation. Without a doubt, the recommendation of the opera fell on fertile ground.

Without any interference, Stas went into the carpentry. The owner of the premises whiled away the time, shuffling a board with a planer and desperately distorting the melody, pleasing his ear with another aria. Seeing him, Uncle Vasya, who was already quite drunk, raised his open palm to his shoulder, as if to say: “Everything is as it should be!” Rising heavily, he went out into the corridor and with unsteady hands unlocked the lock on the second door. At the bewildered look of the opera, he winked roguishly and, stepping inside, with one movement, habitually pushed back the cabinet standing against the wall.

“Here it is, how it turns out,” he breathed a fresh fumes, “that young thing, again, does not tolerate too much eye.

Behind the shifted furniture was a neat opening in the wall.

Some Forgotten Posts

In conclusion, let us explain in dictionary order some of the names of positions long ago - long abolished, but found in literary works.
EXCISE OFFICER. EXCISE was an indirect tax on certain consumer goods, such as tobacco, wine, sugar. Excise officials controlled the flow of such taxes to the treasury. The position was considered not prestigious, in the literature it is spoken of with irony, and the representatives of the excise business were brought out by small, insignificant people. Such, for example, is the absurd and petty Kosykh in Chekhov's drama Ivanov, the pitiful Monakhov in Gorky's Barbarians. It was the name of the excise official Ovsov, who knew how to speak a toothache, that the clerk of General Buldeev forgot in Chekhov's famous story "Horse Surname".
JOURNALIST. In the old days, the word also had a second, now lost trend - the clerk, who kept a journal of incoming and outgoing documents. It is this kind of "journal work" that Pogulyaev is going to do in Ostrovsky's play "Abyss". In Bunin's story "Millionaire" "guests gathered at the unmarried journalist of the post office Rakitin".
PERMANENT MEMBER, ASSEMBLY, etc. It meant permanent, not re-elected at regular elections, appointed from above.
CLERK. Correspondence officer, office worker. There were also private clerks - house secretaries: Tetin in Gorky's play "Egor Bulychev and Others", Gleb in "Summer Residents".
TAX INSPECTOR. The Tax Inspectorate was in charge of collecting TAXES, that is, taxes that were levied on the property of representatives of the "taxable estates" - peasants and philistines.
TRUSTEE. This was the name of the heads of some departments; Strawberries in the Inspector General are a trustee, that is, a manager, of charitable institutions. There were also trustees of educational districts.
POSTMASTER. Head of the post office. As we remember, the inquisitive postmaster Shpekin plays an important role in the action of the "Auditor".
COUNTER. Legal position. Solicitors were some judicial officials, for example, assistants to the provincial prosecutor; in the county, the county lawyer was subordinate to them. In addition, he is an intercessor for private affairs (Rispolozhensky in Ostrovsky's comedy “Own people - let's settle!”). In 1863 the position was abolished.
COMRADE MINISTER, PROSECUTOR, CHAIRMAN, etc. assistant, assistant
OFFICER OF SPECIAL ORDERS. Usually a young, promising official under the governor or other high-ranking boss, sent with special powers on official trips to study and investigate various kinds of important cases. The position was considered promising, career. Panshin served in Turgenev's "Noble Nest", Vikentiev in Goncharov's "Cliff", Pyotr Aduev in "Ordinary History". Gogol wrote about this position in Nevsky Prospekt as follows: "... those whom an enviable fate endowed with the blessed title of officials on special assignments".
EXECUTOR. The word execution is known - corporal punishment; indeed, once executors, such as, for example, Zherebyatnikov in Dostoevsky's Notes from the House of the Dead, were engaged in such a shameful deed. But the rest of the executors found in Russian literature are purely peaceful people: Fried eggs in Gogol's "Marriage", Chervyakov in Chekhov's story "The Death of an Official". The executor was an official who was in charge of the economy and supervised the order in the institutions.

What is incomprehensible among the classics, or Encyclopedia of Russian life of the XIX century. Yu. A. Fedosyuk. 1989

See what "Some Forgotten Posts" is in other dictionaries:

Chapter One PEOPLE'S CALENDAR Church Calendar Old and New Style Holidays and Fasts Chapter Two FAMILY, PROPERTIES, CONVERSATION Terms of kinship and properties Mixing of terms Spiritual kinship Conditional appeals Dying words Conversion between ... Encyclopedia of Russian life of the XIX century

Dispersal of the Congress of People's Deputies and the Supreme Soviet of the Russian Federation ... Wikipedia

Senate- (Senate) The concept of the Senate, the history of the Senates, the description of the Senate Information about the concept of the Senate, the history of the Senates, the description of the Senate Contents Contents Section 1. The origin of the concept. Subsection 1. Section 2. The United States Senate in Ancient Rome. Section 3. U.S. Senate in ... Encyclopedia of the investor

One of the outstanding writers of that famous galaxy (Turgenev, Goncharov, Dostoevsky), which acted in Russian literature from the forties to the eighties. This galaxy did not represent almost anything homogeneous: they were, for the most part, ... ...

The data in this article are as of 1900. You can help by updating the information in the article... Wikipedia

- (Osnovyanenko) better known as Osnovyanenko, writer in Russian and Little Russian, b. November 18, 1778 in the village. Osnova, near Kharkov, now it has even entered the city, mind. August 8, 1843 Kvitki is a secondary Cossack family, ... ... Big biographical encyclopedia

I. The Senate in the reign of Peter Vel. Peter, during his constant absences, which often interfered with his current management affairs, repeatedly (in 1706, 1707, 1710) handed over the cases to several selected persons, from whom he demanded that they not ... ... Encyclopedic Dictionary F.A. Brockhaus and I.A. Efron

The ruling Senate in the Russian Empire is the highest state body subordinate to the Emperor. Established by Peter the Great on February 22 (March 5), 1711 as the highest body of state power and legislation. The building of the Senate and Synod in St. ... ... Wikipedia

In the Russian Empire, the highest state body subordinate to the Emperor. Established by Peter the Great on February 22 (March 5), 1711 as the highest body of state power and legislation. The building of the Senate and Synod in St. Petersburg Since the beginning of the XIX ... ... Wikipedia

"Senate (Russia)" redirects here; for the upper house of the modern parliament of Russia, see the Federation Council. The ruling senate in the Russian Empire is the highest state body subordinate to the emperor. Established by Peter ... ... Wikipedia

Well, I've already seen so many storytellers here ... - the bailiff chuckled, - one more, one less ....

And Stas told. Calmly, slowly, in order. When he named his year of birth, both raised their eyebrows slightly. After the episode with the jeep and the driver who replaced it, the duty officer nodded to Semyonov at the door, and he went out without uttering a sound. Returning about ten minutes later, he placed a thickly written form on the duty officer's desk.

The driver fully confirms that this gentleman appeared out of nowhere right in the middle of the street.

He waved his hand. It was clear even without words - what the hell does a cab driver need?

Well, what are you supposed to do? - the duty officer rubbed his cheek, - Decisively, I am lost ....

Can you tell me, - broke the pause of the operas, - what date is it today? And what year?

Okay, mister bailiff, I went to the post. History, of course, is interesting, but lack of time.

Go, go, Semyonov. And in fact...

Farewell, Mr. Sizov. Hope to see you again. I really want to ask you something. If you don't mind, of course.

I don’t mind, - Stas sighed, - where will I go now ....

When the door closed behind the policeman, he suddenly slapped his forehead.

Wait, mister bailiff... you have, after all, Koshko Arkady Frantsevich is in command?

State Councilor Koshko is the head of our police. So, his name has been preserved in the annals of history?

It has been preserved, - Stas nodded, - but is it true that any person from the street can get to see him?

Stas. Stanislav Sizov. Detective.

And, colleague ..., - Koshko, opening the certificate, carefully studied it, - detective, hmm ... what a strange position, the right word ....

What's strange here? - shrugged operas, - Although, yes ... operas-fell-soaked. This is how they make fun of us ... they joke, in a sense.

It's funny, - the detective laughed, - fell wet. The Russian people know how to twist something like that ....

Before, in fact, we were called inspectors of the criminal investigation department.

Well, it sounds much more noble, - the state adviser nodded approvingly, - otherwise, it fell-soaked ... bad taste. In what year did you see the light, Mr. Sizov?

In the sixties, - Stas answered and, having already answered, he realized that the hardened detective simply "talked his teeth", - in nineteen sixty.

And your pistol was made, exactly, in the year of your birth, - thoughtfully said Koshko, - straight to you, Herbert Wells. And what, the time machine is invented? No, according to your testimony.

// kovyrino.ucoz.ru

Pavel Alekseevich Zasetsky

Pavel Alekseevich Zasetsky was born in the village of Kovyrin in 1780. From the official list, written with his own hand in 1828 in a clear, beautiful, legible handwriting, we learn that he received a very good education for a nobleman of that time. Pavel Alekseevich was fluent in German and French, studied mathematics, geography, history.

Pavel Alekseevich from early childhood, according to the custom of his time, was recorded in the Life Guards Preobrazhensky Regiment. As we would say now, to one of the elite guards regiments. In 1791, as a boy of eleven, he was listed there as a sergeant. But due to the reorganization of the guards regiments in 1803, he began to serve in 1804 as a lieutenant in the new Petrovsky musketeer regiment (also guards, the companies in which stood out, including from the Preobrazhensky regiment). Six years later, in 1810, with the rank of staff captain, he retired due to illness and returned to Vologda, to Kovyrino. This is where his military career ends.

Soon he marries the daughter of the Gryazovets district judge, artillery second lieutenant Alexander Andreevich Gryazev. In 1812, P.A. Zasetsky was appointed honorary superintendent of the Veliky Ustyug School, and in 1816 he began serving in the Vologda provincial government. For his service as an honorary caretaker, he was promoted to the rank of titular adviser.

In Vologda, P.A. Zasetsky was repeatedly noted as a capable and efficient official. But he did not manage to avoid trouble in the service. By the intrigues of ill-wishers or by the will of an evil chance, but Pavel Alekseevich was under investigation three times. For the first time, allegedly, for abuse in concluding contracts for the transportation of admiralty cargo to the city of Arkhangelsk. For the second time, and for a completely trifling reason - for not announcing, allegedly, the presence of one in the service of the Ministry of Education. The third time the accusation was more serious. In 1827, Zasetsky was accused of embezzling money in the Vologda provincial government in the amount of up to 24 thousand rubles. A lot of money at that time, however, as Zasetsky points out in his formal list, he was found not guilty in all cases, and for the wrong accusation of him in the last case of embezzlement, the Vologda Chamber of the Criminal Court and the civil governor even received a penalty from high authorities.

It should be noted that this did not interfere with the further successful career of Pavel Alekseevich. The reason for this, perhaps, lies in the following: the Kovyrinsky Zasetskys had extensive family ties with famous and significant people: they were related to the Ostolopovs, one of whom was the Vologda vice-governor from 1814 to 1819, and also with Count Pavel Vasilyevich Golenishchev-Kutuzov , member of the State Council, St. Petersburg Governor-General. P.A. Zasetsky and Count Golenishchev-Kutuzov, figuratively speaking, were fourth cousins ​​through great-great-grandfather Vasily Ivanovich Zhidovinov.

Kinship with the Vologda vice-governor Ostolopov was worth a lot, and the fact that the Kovyrinsky Zasetskys and Nikolai Fedorovich Ostolopov (shown in the figure) had a very close relationship is evidenced by the fact that in 1803 an epitaph for death appeared in Karamzin's journal Vestnik Evropy young Vasily Alekseevich Zasetsky, the younger brother of Pavel Alekseevich, with whom Ostolopov was the same age.

IN Ѣ STNIK
EUROPE
published
Nikolay Karamzin.
MOSCOW, 1803
Epitaph to V. A. Zastsky.

In the ground ѣ - only his ashes; soul is in heaven.
He is dead - rests; we are alive - but in tears.

In 1827, Zasetsky was appointed an official for special assignments to the Moscow civil governor, and after that he continued to serve as an official for special assignments under the St.

We all remember Fandorin, an official for special assignments. So what was this position? It turns out that this was an employee who was attached to a person of high rank (governor, governor-general, minister) and who carried out assignments that were not part of the duties of full-time officials. Often these were secret missions. Often, officials for special assignments were classified as supernumerary institutions, that is, they did not receive a salary, but were awarded from special amounts and received ranks for length of service. This service was considered honorable, close to the authorities and not too burdensome.

Pavel Alekseevich Zasetsky was a wealthy landowner. In the alphabetical book for 1829-1832, 1023 souls are recorded behind him in more than 50 villages and villages. In addition, the Zasetskys had houses in Vologda and St. Petersburg. Unlike his predecessors, Pavel Zasetsky spent a lot of money on charity, made generous donations to churches. So, for example, it is known that it was at the expense of the Zasetskys that a new stone building of the Govorovsko-Bogoroditskaya Church was built. Pavel Alekseevich was undoubtedly a very religious person. If his grandfather, retired captain Vasily Zasetsky, dragged the priest by his beard, and the ancestor, according to legend, crucified the monk Nikodim, who had bothered him, in the Ustyug lands, then the retired staff captain Pavel Zasetsky was elected church elder in the parish of the church he built.

P.A.Zasetsky also generously donated to charitable causes.

In the "Gubernskie Vedomosti" dated April 23, 1838 (No. 17, p. 143), a detailed report was printed on how the funds received as interest were distributed from the capital donated by the late staff captain Pavel Alekseevich Zasetsky in the amount of 10,000 rubles . According to the will of the donor, this money was transferred on Holy Easter Day to the prisoners of the Vologda prison (50 rubles), the inhabitants of several Vologda almshouses (150 rubles), and also went to ransom the people kept in the workers' house for state debts (200 rubles) . In addition, two "poor girls of the Ober-officer rank" received 50 rubles as dowries.

P.A. Zasetsky had five children: three sons and two daughters. The sons were brought up in the Moscow boarding school, the daughter Ekaterina was brought up in the Moscow Catherine Institute, very prestigious educational institutions.

Pavel Alekseevich Zasetsky died suddenly, as indicated in the parish book “from paralysis”, on November 17, 1833, and was buried in the cemetery at the Govorovsko-Bogoroditskaya Church.

The court adviser nodded approvingly and put down the newspaper.

- Vladimir Andreevich is so angry with the Jack of Spades that he authorized the organization of the b-ball and will personally participate in this performance. I don't even think it's fun. As "Shah-Sultan" we were given faceted beryl from the mineralogical collection of Moscow University. Without a special magnifying glass, it is impossible to distinguish it from an emerald, and we are unlikely to allow anyone to examine our turban through a special magnifying glass, right, Tulipov?

Erast Petrovich took out a white brocade turban with a huge green stone from the hat box, turned it this way and that - the edges sparkled with dazzling highlights.

Anisius smacked his lips admiringly - the turban really was a pure feast for the eyes.

- And where do we get Zuhra? - he asked. “And this secretary, like him, Tarik Bey. Who will they be?

The chief looked at his assistant, half reproachfully, half regretfully, and Anisius suddenly realized.

- Yes you! he gasped. - Erast Petrovich, do not ruin! What an Indian of me! I don’t agree for anything, even execute me!

- You, Tulipov, let's say, you will agree, - Fandorin sighed, - but with Masa you will have to tinker. The role of the old nurse is unlikely to be to his liking ...

On the evening of February 18, the whole of Moscow actually gathered for the Assembly of the Nobility. It was a fun, reckless time - Maslenitsa week. In the city, weary from the long winter, they celebrated almost every day, but today the organizers went especially far. The entire snow-white staircase of the palace was covered with flowers, powdered lackeys in pistachio camisoles rushed to pick up fur coats, rotundas and coats thrown off their shoulders, wonderful sounds of a mazurka came from the hall, and crystal and silver tinkled enticingly in the dining room - tables were laid there for a banquet.

The ruler of Moscow, Prince Vladimir Andreevich, who played the role of the host of the ball, was smart and fresh, affectionate with men, gallant with ladies. However, the true center of attraction in the marble hall today was not the governor general, but his Indian guest.

Everyone liked Ahmad Khan very much, especially the young ladies and ladies. He was in a black tailcoat and white tie, but the Nabob's head was crowned with a white turban with an enormous emerald. The blue-black beard of the Oriental Prince was cut in the latest French fashion, his eyebrows were curved with arrows, and bright blue eyes looked most spectacular on his swarthy face (it had already become clear that His Highness's mother was French).

A little behind and to one side, the prince's secretary stood modestly, also attracting considerable attention. Tariq Bey himself was not as handsome as his master, and the article was not published, but, unlike Ahmad Khan, he appeared at the ball in a real oriental costume: in an embroidered robe, white shalwars and gilded shoes with turned-toes without backs. The only pity was that the secretary did not speak any civilized language, and to all questions and appeals he only put his hand first to his heart, then to his forehead and bowed low.

In general, both Indians were wonderfully good.

Anisius, hitherto not spoiled by the attention of the fair sex, became completely stiff - such a flower garden gathered around him. The young ladies chirped, discussing the details of his dress without hesitation, and one, the pretty Georgian princess Sofiko Chkhartishvili, even called Tyulpanov “a pretty little black.” The word “poor thing” was still very often heard, from which Anisy blushed deeply (thank God, it was not visible under the nut ointment).

But in order to understand about the walnut ointment and the “poor thing”, you will have to go back a few hours, to the moment when Ahmad Khan and his faithful secretary were preparing for their first appearance.

Erast Petrovich, already with a tar beard, but still in a dressing gown, made up Anisy himself. First he took some kind of vial with a dark chocolate liquid. Explained - infusion of brazil nuts. He rubbed the thick odorous oil into the skin of the face, into the ears, into the eyelids. Then he glued a thick beard, tore it off. I attached another, like a goat, but also rejected it.

“No, Tulipov, you don’t r-get a Muslim,” the chief stated. - I hurried with Tarik Bey. You should have been declared an Indian. Some Chandragupta.

- Can I have one mustash, without a beard? - asked Anisius, who had long dreamed of a mustache, which he grew somehow unconvincingly, in tufts.

- Not supposed to. According to Eastern etiquette, this is too much panache for a secretary. - Fandorin turned Anisiev's head to the left, to the right and declared. “Nothing can be done, we will have to make you a eunuch.

He added yellow ointment, began to rub it on the cheeks and under the chin - "to loosen the skin and collect it in a fold." I looked at the result and now I am satisfied:

- A real eunuch. Exactly what is needed.

But Tulipov's trials did not end there.

- Since you are a Muslim with us - down with your hair, - the court adviser sentenced.

Anisius, struck by the transformation into a eunuch, resignedly took down the shaving of his head. Bril Masa - deftly, the sharpest Japanese dagger. Erast Petrovich smeared Anisiev's bare skull with brown rubbish and said:

“Glitters like a p-cannonball.”

He conjured with a brush over his eyebrows. Eyes approved: brown and slightly slanted, just right.

He made me put on wide silk trousers, some kind of patterned katsaveyka, then a dressing gown, a turban was pulled over the bald head and unfortunate ears.

Slowly, on stiff legs, Anisius approached the mirror, expecting to see something monstrous - and was pleasantly surprised: a picturesque Moor was looking at him from a bronze frame - no acne, no protruding ears. It's a pity you can't always walk around Moscow like that.

“Done,” said Fandorin. “Just rub the ointment on your hands and neck. Yes, do not forget the ankles - after all, you need to walk in slippers.

With gilded morocco shoes, which Erast Petrovich unromantically called slippers, out of habit it was difficult. Because of them, Anisius stood at the ball like an idol. He was afraid that if he moved, then one of them would definitely fall down, as had already happened on the stairs. When the beautiful Georgian woman asked in French if Tarik Bey would dance a waltz tour with her, Anisiy was alarmed and, instead of silently bowing to the East, as instructed, he blundered - softly murmured:

- Non, merci, don't dance pas.

Thank God, the other girls didn't seem to understand his mutterings, otherwise the situation would have become more complicated. Tarik Bey was not supposed to understand a single human language.

Anisius turned to his chief in concern. He had been talking for several minutes with the dangerous visitor, the British Indologist Sir Marvell, a boring gentleman with thick glasses. Just now, on the top landing of the stairs, when Ahmad Khan was bowing to the governor-general, he whispered excitedly (Anisius heard snippets): “It’s not easy ... And, as luck would have it, an Indologist ... If you don’t exhibit it - a baronet ... Well, how will you expose it?”

However, judging by the peaceful conversation between the prince and the baronet, Fandorin was not in danger of being exposed. Although Anisius did not know English, he heard the often repeated “Gladstone” and “Her Britannic Majesty”. When the Indologist, blowing his nose loudly into a checkered handkerchief, walked away, the prince imperiously—with a short gesture of his swarthy, ringed hand—called the secretary. Said through his teeth:

- Wake up, Tulipov. And be kind to her, do not look beech. Just don't overdo it.

- With whom is it more affectionate? Anisius was surprised in a whisper.

- Yes, with this Georgian. It's her, don't you see? Well, that jumper.

Tulipov looked around and froze. Exactly! How did he not realize this! True, from a white-skinned lottery young lady she turned into a dark-skinned girl, her hair was now not golden, but black and woven into two braids, her eyebrows were drawn to the temples, apart, and a charming mole appeared from somewhere on her cheek. But it was her, for sure! And a sparkle in his eyes flashed exactly like then, from under his pince-nez, before a desperate jump from the windowsill.

Pecked! A black grouse is circling over a fake black grouse!

Quietly, Anisius, quietly, don't scare me.

He put his hand to his forehead, then to his heart, and bowed with all Oriental ceremony to the starry-eyed enchantress.

Platonic love

Is it a charlatan - that's what had to be checked first of all. It was not enough to run into a colleague, who also came on tour, to pinch fat Moscow geese. The Indian rajah, the Shah Sultan emerald - all this Turkish delight smacked somewhat of an operetta.

Checked. His Bengali Highness did not look like anyone, but a rogue. Firstly, close up it was immediately clear that they were of real royal blood: by posture, by manners, by lazy benevolence in their eyes. Secondly, Ahmad Khan started such a high-minded conversation with "Sir Marvell", the famous Hindu scholar, who happened to be in Moscow, about the internal politics and religious beliefs of the Indian Empire, that Momus was afraid not to betray himself. In response to the prince's polite question - what does the respected professor think about the custom suttee and its conformity to the true spirit of Hinduism - had to turn the conversation to the health of Queen Victoria, portray a sudden attack of sneezing and a runny nose, and then completely retire.

And most importantly, the emerald shone so convincingly and appetizingly that there was no trace of doubt. To remove this glorious green cobblestone from the turban of the noble Ahmad Khan, saw it into eight weighty pebbles, and drive each thousand that way at twenty-five. That would be the deal!

Mimi, meanwhile, worked on the secretary. He says that even though Tarik Bey was a eunuch, he shot his eyes regularly in the neckline and, in general, is clearly not indifferent to the female sex. You can trust Mimotchka in such matters, you can't deceive her. Who knows how it is with the eunuchs. Maybe natural desires do not go anywhere, even when opportunities are lost?

The plan for the upcoming campaign, which Momus had already dubbed "The Battle of the Emerald" to himself, took shape by itself.

The turban is always on the Raja's head. However, at night he takes it off, presumably?

Where does the rajah sleep? In a mansion on Sparrow Hills. So that's where Momus needs to go.

The Governor-General's villa is intended for guests of honor. From there, from the mountains, a wonderful view of Moscow, and onlookers are less annoying. The fact that the house is out of the way is good. But the villa is guarded by a gendarme post, which is bad. Climbing fences at night and then escaping to the loud police whistle is bad form, not in Momus's district.

Oh, if the secretary was not a eunuch, everything would have turned out much easier. The Georgian princess in love, a desperate little head, would pay Tarik Bey a secret visit at night, and once in the house, she would have found a way to wander into the Raja's bedroom, to see if the emerald was bored hanging out on a turban. What happens next is an exclusively engineering question, and Mimi is very good at this kind of engineering.

But from such a turn of thought, even if it was completely speculative, a black cat gnashed at Momus's heart with a clawed paw. For a moment he imagined Mimotchka in the arms of a broad-shouldered, broad-shouldered fellow, not a eunuch, but quite the contrary, and Momus did not like this picture. Nonsense, of course, slobbering, but come on - he suddenly realized that he would not have gone this, the simplest and most natural way, even if the secretary's opportunities coincided with his desires.

Stop! Momus jumped up from the writing-table, on which he had been sitting until now, dangling his legs (so it was more cleverly thought), and went to the window. Stop stop stop...

Carriages rolled along Tverskaya in a continuous stream - both sledges and carriages on studded winter wheels. Spring is coming, slush, Great Lent, but today the bright sun was shining, not yet warming, and the view by the main Moscow street was cheerful and smart. Fourth day since Momus and Mimi left the Metropol and settled in the Dresden. The room was smaller, but with electric lighting and a telephone. It was impossible to linger at the Metropol any further. Slyunkov used to go there, and this is dangerous. Painfully undignified human being. In a responsible, one might say, secret position, but he indulges in cards, and he doesn’t even know the measures. Well, how will the cunning Mr. Fandorin take him, or whoever else from the authorities by the tails, but shake him properly? No, God saves the safe.

Well, the Dresden Hotel is nice and exactly opposite the governor's palace, which, after the story with the Englishman, was like Momus' home. Take a look - it warms the soul.

Yesterday I saw Slyunkov on the street. On purpose, he came closer, even touched his shoulder - no, the clerk in a long-haired dandy with a fake mustache did not recognize the Marseille businessman Antoine Bonifatievich Daru. Slyunkov muttered "pardon" and trotted on, bending under the powder.

Stop, stop, stop, Momus repeated to himself. Is it not possible here, as usual, to shoot two birds with one stone - that's the idea that came to his mind. That is, to be more precise, to shoot someone else's hare, but not to substitute your own under a bullet. Or, to put it another way, eat the fish and stay out of the water. No, it will certainly be like this: to keep innocence and acquire capital.

And what, it could very well turn out! And it worked out well. Mimi said that Tarik Bey understood a little French. “A little” is just the right amount.

Since then, the operation has changed its name. It became known as "Platonic Love".

It was known from the newspapers that after dinner His Indian Highness liked to take a walk near the walls of the Novodevichy Convent, where winter attractions were deployed. Here you have skating, and wooden mountains, and various booths - there is something to see for a foreign guest.

The day, as already mentioned, turned out to be a real Shrovetide - bright, bright, with frost. Therefore, after walking around the frozen pond for an hour, Momus and Mimi were pretty cold. Nothing else for Mimotchka. Since she portrayed the princess, she was in a squirrel coat, in a marten bonnet and with a muff - only her cheeks were flushed, but Momus was chilled to the bone. For the sake of business, he dressed up as an elderly eastern chaperone: he attached thick eyebrows fused at the bridge of his nose, deliberately unkind and underlined his upper lip, put a slap on his nose - that your bowsprit is on a frigate. A handkerchief, from under which hung false braids with gray hair, and a hare katsaveyka over a long castor coat warmed poorly, legs in felt dudes were cold, and the damn rajah still did not appear. To amuse Mimi and not get bored himself, Momus from time to time wailed in a singsong contralto: “Sofiko, my beloved pet, your old nanny is completely frozen” or something like that. Mimi squirmed, tapped on the ground with her cold feet in scarlet boots.

Finally, his highness deigned to arrive. Momus noticed a covered sleigh upholstered in blue velvet from a distance. On the irradiation, next to the coachman, sat a gendarme in an overcoat and a parade helmet with a plume.

Wrapped in sable, the prince walked slowly along the skating rink, turning white with a high turban, and looked with curiosity at the amusements of the northerners. A short stocky figure in a sheepskin coat to the toes, a round shaggy hat and a veil trotted after the highness - presumably, the devoted nurse Zuhra. The secretary of Tarik Bey, in a drape coat, from under which the shalwars were white, lagged behind all the time: either he would stare at a gypsy with a bear, or he would stop near the seller of hot sbiten. Behind, depicting a guard of honor, walked an important gray-moustached gendarme. It was on hand - let him take a closer look at the future night visitors.

The public showed a fair amount of interest in the colorful procession. Those who were simpler, with their mouths open, stared at the infidels, pointed with their fingers at the turban, at the emerald, at the closed face of an oriental old woman. The pure public behaved more tactfully, but they were also curious with might and main. After waiting for the Muscovites to stare enough at the "Indians" and return to their former amusements, Momus lightly pushed Mimochka in the side - it's time.

Moved towards. Mimi made a slight curtsy to His Highness, who nodded graciously. She smiled gleefully at the secretary and dropped her muff. The eunuch, as expected, rushed to pick it up, Mimi also squatted down and pleasantly collided with the Asian's foreheads. After this small, completely innocent incident, the procession naturally lengthened: in front, in regal solitude, the prince was still striding, followed by the secretary and the princess, then two elderly oriental ladies, and the gendarme sniffing with a red nose brought up the rear of the procession.

The princess chattered animatedly in French and slipped every minute so that she would have reason to clutch the secretary's hand more often. Momus tried to strike up a friendship with the venerable Zukhra and began to show her all sorts of sympathy with gestures and interjections - in the end they have a lot in common: both old women, they lived their lives, they fed other people's children. However, Zuhra turned out to be a true fury. She didn’t go for rapprochement, she just clucked angrily from under the veil and also, a bitch, waved her short-fingered hand - go, they say, go, I’m on my own. One word, savage.

But with Mimotchka and the eunuch everything went perfectly well. Having waited until the softened Asian finally offered the young lady a constant support in the form of a bent arm, Momus decided that for the first time it was enough. He caught up with his ward and sang sternly:

- Sophiko-oh, my dove, it's time to go home to drink tea, eat churek.

The next day, "Sofiko" was already teaching Tarik Bey how to skate (for which the secretary showed extraordinary abilities). In general, the eunuch turned out to be pliable: when Mimi lured him behind the trees and, as if by chance, put her plump lips right up to his brown nose, he didn’t shy away, but obediently smacked. She later said: “You know, Momochka, I feel so sorry for him. I put my arms around his neck, and he's trembling all over, poor thing. Still, it's atrocity to disfigure people like that." “The Lord did not give horns to a boisterous cow,” the stale Momus answered lightly. The operation was scheduled for the following night.

During the day, everything went like clockwork: the madly in love princess, completely losing her head with passion, promised her platonic admirer that she would pay him a visit at night. At the same time, she emphasized the loftiness of feelings and the union of loving hearts in the highest sense, without vulgarity and dirt. It is not known how much of what was said reached the Asiatic, but he was clearly delighted with the visit and explained in broken French that at exactly midnight he would open the garden gate. “As soon as I come with the nanny,” Mimi warned. “But I know you men.”

To this Tarik Bey hung his head and sighed bitterly.

Mimi nearly shed tears of pity.

The night from Saturday to Sunday turned out to be lunar, starry, just right for a platonic romance. At the gates of the country governor's villa, Momus dismissed the driver and looked around. Ahead, behind the mansion, there is a steep descent to the Moskva River, behind - the firs of the Vorobyevsky Park, to the right and left the dark silhouettes of expensive summer cottages. Then you will have to leave on foot: through the Acclimatic Garden, to Zhivodernaya Sloboda. There, in a tavern on the Kaluga highway, you can take a troika at any time of the day or night. Eh, ride with bells along Bolshaya Kaluga! Nothing that froze - the emerald will warm the bosom.

They knocked on the gate with a conventional knock, and the door immediately opened. Apparently, the impatient secretary was already standing, waiting. Bowing low, he beckoned with a gesture. We walked through the snow-covered garden to the entrance. Three gendarmes were on duty in the lobby: they drank tea with bagels. They looked at the secretary and his night guests with curiosity, the grey-moustached sergeant grunted and shook his head, but said nothing. And what does he care?

In the dark corridor, Tarik Bey put his finger to his lips and pointed somewhere up, then folded his palms, put them to his cheek and closed his eyes. Yeah, so the highness is already resting, great.

A candle was burning in the living room and it smelled of some kind of oriental incense. The secretary seated the duenna in an armchair, pushed up a bowl of sweets and fruit, bowed several times and muttered something unintelligible, but one could guess the meaning of the request, in general.

“Ah, children, children,” Momus purred amiably and shook his finger. - Only without nonsense.

The lovers, holding hands, disappeared behind the door of the secretary's room to indulge in sublime, platonic passion. He slobbers all over, Indian gelding, Momus grimaced. He sat and waited for the eunuch to get carried away properly. I ate a juicy pear, tried halva. Well, perhaps it's time.

Presumably, the master's chambers are over there, behind the white door with stucco. Momus went out into the corridor, closed his eyes, and stood like that for a minute, so that his eyes would get used to the darkness. But then he moved quickly, silently.

He opened one door - a music salon. The other is the dining room. The third is again not the same.

I remembered that Tarik Bey was pointing up. So, you need to go to the second floor.

He slipped into the vestibule, silently ran up the carpeted stairs - the gendarmes did not look back. Again a long corridor, again a row of doors.

The bedroom was third from the left. The moon shone through the window, and Momus could easily see the bed, the motionless silhouette under the covers, and - hooray! - a white mound on the bedside table. Moonlight touched the turban, and the stone sent a shimmering ray into Momus' eye.

Stepping on tiptoe, Momus approached the bed. Ahmad Khan slept on his back, covering his face with the edge of the blanket - only a black crew cut of cropped hair was visible.

“Bay-buy-buy,” Momus whispered softly, placing his highness right on the belly of the jack of spades.

Cautiously he reached for the stone. As his fingers touched the smooth, oily surface of the emerald, a short-fingered, strangely familiar hand suddenly poked out from under the blanket and grasped Momus tightly by the wrist.

With a yelp of surprise, he jerked back, but where there - the hand held tightly. The fat-cheeked, cross-eyed physiognomy of Fandorin's valet stared unblinkingly at Momus from behind the edge of the slipped blanket.

“I have long dreamed of meeting, Monsieur Momus,” a low, mocking voice came from behind. - Erast Petrovich Fandorin, at your service.

Momus turned around in a haunted manner and saw that in a dark corner, in a high Voltaire chair, someone was sitting with his legs crossed.

Chef is having fun

- Dz-z-z-z!

The piercing, inanimate sound of an electric bell reached Anisiev's melted consciousness from somewhere far away, from distant lands. At first, Tulipov did not even understand what kind of phenomenon this suddenly added to the already incredibly enriched picture of God's world. However, an alarmed whisper from the darkness brought the blissful agent to his senses:

– On sonne! Q "est que ce?

Anisius twitched, immediately remembered everything and freed himself from the soft, but at the same time surprisingly tenacious embrace.

Conditional signal! The trap has closed!

Oh, how bad! How could you forget about debt!

“Sorry,” he muttered, “tou de suite.”

In the darkness, he felt for his Indian dressing gown, groped for his shoes and rushed to the door, not turning around at the insistent voice, which kept asking some questions.

Jumping out into the corridor, he locked the door with the key two turns. Everything, now it won't fly away. The room is not simple - with steel bars on the windows. When the key creaked in the lock, my heart also gnashed disgustingly, but duty is duty.

Anisius briskly shuffled his slippers down the corridor. At the top of the stairs, the moon, peering through the window of the corridor, snatched out of the darkness a white figure hurrying towards. Mirror!

Tulipov froze for a moment, trying to see his face in the darkness. Enough, is it Anishka, the deacon's son, the brother of the idiot Sonya? Judging by the happy glint of his eyes (there was nothing else to be seen anyway), it was not him at all, but a completely different person, unknown to Anisius.

Opening the door to the bedroom of Ahmad Khan, he heard the voice of Erast Petrovich:

- ... For all the pranks, answer in full, mister joker. And for the trotters of the banker Polyakov, and for the "golden river" of the merchant Patrikeev, and for the English lord, and for the lottery. And also for your cynical stunt against me and for the fact that, by your grace, I have been smearing myself with walnut tincture for the fifth day and walking around in a stupid turban.

Tyulpanov already knew that when the court adviser stops stuttering, this is not a good sign - either Mr. Fandorin is in extreme tension, or damn angry. In this case, obviously, the latter.

The decor in the bedroom was like this.

An elderly Georgian woman was sitting on the floor near the bed, her monumental nose strangely slid to one side. Behind him, his sparse eyebrows furrowed savagely and his hands belligerently on his hips, stood Masa, dressed in a long nightgown. Erast Petrovich himself was sitting in a corner of the room, in an armchair, tapping an unlit cigar on the armrest. His face was impassive, his voice deceptively lazy, but with such hidden thunderous rifts that Anisius shuddered.

Turning to the assistant who entered, the chief asked:

- Well, what about a bird?

“In a cage,” Tyulpanov reported valiantly and waved a double-bearded key.

The Duenna looked at the agent's triumphantly raised hand and shook her head skeptically.

“Ah, Mr. eunuch,” said the crooked-nosed woman in such a sonorous, booming baritone voice that Anisius shuddered. - Spat in your face. - And she showed, vile hag, a wide red tongue.

“And you have a woman’s outfit,” snapped the wounded Tulips, involuntarily touching his bare scalp.

“B-bravo,” Fandorin assessed the resourcefulness of the assistant. - You, Mr. Knave, I would advise you not to flaunt. Your deeds are bad, because this time you were caught hard, red-handed.

On the third day, when “Princess Chkhartishvili” appeared at the festivities, accompanied by a chaperone, Anisy was at first confused:

- You said, chief, there are only two of them, the Jack of Spades and the girl, and then some old woman showed up.

“You yourself are an old woman, Tyulpanov,” the “prince” gritted out, bowing ceremoniously to the lady he met. - This is he, our Momus, and there is. A virtuoso of disguise, you can't say anything. Only the legs are too big for a woman, and the look is painfully hard. He is, he, dove. No one else.

- Are we taking it? Anisius whispered excitedly, pretending to brush the snow off his master's shoulder.

- For what? Well, let's say the girl was at the lottery, and there are witnesses. And no one knows this in person. Why arrest him? For dressing up as an old woman? No, he, the long-awaited one, should get caught in all his form. At the crime scene, red-handed.

To be honest, Tyulpanov then considered that the court adviser was wiser. However, as always, it turned out in Fandorin's way: a black grouse got caught on a scarecrow, and got caught all over the form. Now it won't open.

Erast Petrovich struck a match and lit a cigar. He spoke dryly, harshly:

- Your main mistake, my dear sir, is that you allowed yourself to joke with those who do not forgive ridicule.

Since the arrested man was silent and only fixed his nose with concentration, Fandorin considered it necessary to clarify:

- I mean, firstly, Prince Dolgoruky, and secondly, myself. No one has ever allowed himself to mock my private life so brazenly. And with such unpleasant consequences for me.

The chief grimaced in pain. Anisy nodded sympathetically, remembering what it was like for Erast Petrovich until the opportunity arose to move from Malaya Nikitskaya to Vorobyovy Gory.

“Well, it was cleverly turned, I don’t argue,” Fandorin continued, pulling himself together. – Of course, you will return the things of the Countess, and immediately, even before the start of the process. I withdraw this accusation from you. In order not to wag the name of Ariadna Arkadyevna in court.

Here the court adviser thought about something, then nodded to himself, as if making a difficult decision, and turned to Anisius.

- Tyulpanov, if it doesn't bother you, then check the things according to the list compiled by Ariadna Arkadyevna, and ... send them to Petersburg. The address is Fontanka, the own house of Count and Countess Opraksin.

Anisius only sighed, no longer daring to express his feelings. And Erast Petrovich, apparently angry with the decision, which he himself made, again turned to the detainee:

“Well, you've had a good time at my expense. And for pleasure, as you know, you have to pay. The next five years that you spend in hard labor will provide you with much leisure to learn useful life lessons. From now on you will know with whom and how to joke.

From the dullness of Fandorin's tone, Anisius realized that the boss was furious to the very last degree.

- Excuse me, dear Erast Petrovich, - the “duenna” stretched out (that is, stretched out) cheekily. - Thank you for introducing yourself at the moment of detention, otherwise I would have considered you an Indian highness. This is where you, one wonders, ran five years of hard labor? Let's check our arithmetic. Some kind of trotters, some kind of golden river, a lord, a lottery - solid riddles. What does all this have to do with me? And besides, what are the countess's things you're talking about? If they belong to Count Opraksin, then why did you have them? Are you cohabiting with someone else's wife? Not good, sir. Although, of course, none of my business. And if they accuse me of anything, I demand face-to-face confrontations and evidence. Surely the evidence.

Anisius gasped at such impudence and looked anxiously at his boss. He smiled wickedly.

“And what are you doing here, may I ask?” In this strange outfit, at an odd hour?

- Yes, I played the fool, - answered Knave and sniffed pitifully. - I've been looking for an emerald. But this, gentlemen, is called a "provocation." There and the gendarmes are guarding you below. There's a whole police conspiracy here.

“The gendarmes don't know who we are,” Anisius boasted, unable to restrain himself. “And they are not involved in any conspiracy. To them, we are Asians.

Similar information.