She Lover of Death: The Further Adventures of Erast Fandorin Read Online Free Page A

the beauty of tragic death. And also that he kissed a lot better than Kostya Levonidi, her former future-fiancé, who had been decisively dismissed for being so tediously positive, reliable and humdrum.
    ‘I’m a friend of Petya, Pyotr Terentsievich,’ Columbine babbled in a highly trivial manner. ‘A certain Mironova.’
    A minute later she heard the familiar baritone voice with that enchanting Moscow drawl in the earpiece.
    ‘Hello? Is that Mrs Mironova? Professor Zimin’s assistant?’
    By this time the inhabitant of the stylish hotel room had pulled herself together. She breathed a stream of dove-grey smoke into the bell mouth of the telephone apparatus and whispered: ‘It is I, Columbine.’
    ‘Who did you say?’ Petya asked in surprise. ‘So you’re not Mrs Mironova from the faculty of Roman Law?’
    She had to explain to the dimwit.
    ‘Remember the arbour above the Angara. Remember how you called me “Columbine”?’ and straight after that the phrase she had prepared on the way fitted in perfectly. ‘It is I. Like a sudden blizzard from Siberia I have come to you. Do with me what you wish. Do you know the Hotel Elysium?’ After that resounding word she paused. ‘Come. I’m waiting.’
    That got through to him! Petya started breathing rapidly and speaking in a thick voice – he must have put his hand over the mouthpiece.
    ‘Masha, that is, Columbine, I am absolutely delighted that you have come . . .’ he said rather formally. It was true that they had been on formal terms in Irkutsk, but now this way of talking seemed inappropriate, insulting even, to the seeker of adventures. ‘Yes, indeed, just like a sudden blizzard out of nowhere . . . No, that is, it’s simply marvellous! Only there’s no way I can come to you now. I’m resitting an exam tomorrow. And it’s late, mama will pester me with questions . . .’
    And he went on to babble something absolutely pitiful about a failed examination and the word of honour he had given to his father.
    The reflection in the mirror batted its eyelids and the corners of its mouth turned slowly downwards. Who could have imagined that the guileful seducer Harlequin had to ask leave from his mummy before setting out on an amorous escapade? And she suddenly regretted terribly the fifteen roubles that she had spent.
    ‘Why are you here in Moscow?’ Petya whispered. ‘Surely not especially to see me?’
    She laughed – it turned out very well, with a slightly husky note. She supposed that was because of the papirosa . So that he wouldn’t get above himself, she said enigmatically, ‘The meeting with you is no more than a prelude to another meeting. Do you understand?’
    And she declaimed two lines from one of Petya’s own poems:
To live life like a line of ringing verse
And write its full stop with no hesitation .
     
    That time back at the arbour, foolish little Masha had whispered with a happy smile (it was shameful to recall it now): ‘This must be true happiness.’ The visitor from Moscow had smiled condescendingly and said: ‘Happiness, Masha, is something quite different. Happiness is not a fleeting moment, but eternity. Not a comma, but a full stop.’ And then he had recited the poem about the line and the full stop. Masha had flushed, torn herself out of his arms and stood at the very top of the cliff, with the dark water sighing down below. ‘Do you want me to write that full stop right now?’ she had exclaimed. ‘Do you think I’ll be too frightened?’
    ‘You . . . Are you serious?’ the voice in the telephone asked very quietly. ‘Don’t think that I’ve forgotten . . .’
    ‘I’ll say I’m serious,’ she laughed, intrigued by the peculiar inflection that had crept into Petya’s voice.
    ‘A perfect fit . . .’ Petya whispered incomprehensibly. ‘Just when there’s a vacancy . . . Fate. Destiny . . . All right, here goes. I tell you what, let’s meet tomorrow evening at a quarter past eight . . . Yes, at a quarter past