Free The Death of Achilles by Boris Akunin Page B

drew a second one out of his folder.
    “And this, Vladimir Andreevich, is a plan for the excavation of an underground metropolitan railway, following the example of London. The contractor is Commercial Counselor Zykov. A great undertaking. I had the honor of reporting to you about it.”
    “I remember,” Dolgorukoi growled. “So now they’ve dreamed up some city railway or other. How much money does it require?”
    “A mere pittance. Zykov is asking only half a million for the surveying work. I’ve looked at the estimate and it’s perfectly sound.”
    “ Only ,” sighed the prince. “When did you get so rich, Petka, that half a million became a mere pittance?” Then, noticing Fandorin’s amazement at observing him dealing in such a familiar fashion with the head of his secret section, he explained. “Pyotr Parmyonovich and I talk like close relatives. But, you know, he was raised in my house. My deceased cook’s little son. If only Parmyon, God rest his soul, could hear how casually you dispose of millions, Petrusha!”
    Khurtinsky gave Erast Petrovich an angry sideways glance, evidently displeased at this reminder of his plebeian origins.
    “And this concerns the prices for gas. I’ve drawn up a memorandum, Vladimir Andreevich. It would be good to reduce the tariff in order to make street lighting cheaper. To three rubles per thousand cubic feet. They’re taking too much as things are now.”
    “All right, give me your papers; I’ll read them in the carriage and sign them,” said Dolgorukoi, getting to his feet. “It’s time to get going. It’s bad form to keep important people waiting. Let’s go, Erast Petrovich; we can discuss things along the way.”
    In the corridor, Fandorin inquired with great politeness: “But tell me, Your Excellency, will the emperor himself not be coming? After all, it is Sobolev who has died, not just anybody.”
    Dolgorukoi squinted at the collegiate assessor and declared emphatically: “He did not consider it possible. He has sent his brother, Kirill Alexandrovich. But why is not for us to know.”
    Fandorin merely bowed without speaking.
    They were not able to discuss things along the way. When they were already seated in the carriage — the governor on soft cushions and Erast Petrovich facing him on a leather-upholstered bench — the door suddenly swung open and the prince’s valet, Frol Vedishchev, clambered in, panting and gasping. He seated himself unceremoniously beside the prince and shouted to the driver: “Let’s go, Misha, let’s go!”
    Then, without paying the slightest attention to Erast Petrovich, he swung around to face Dolgorukoi.
    “Vladimir Andreevich, I’m going with you,” he declared in a tone that brooked no objections.
    “Frolushka,” the prince said meekly. “I’ve taken my medicine, and now please don’t interfere; I have important things to talk over with Mr. Fandorin.”
    “Never mind, your talk can wait,” the tyrant declared with an angry wave of his hand. “What were those papers that Petka slipped you?”
    “Here they are, Frol,” said Vladimir Andreevich, opening his folder. “A commission for the artist Gegechkori to complete the murals in the cathedral. The estimate has been drawn up, see? And this is a contract for the merchant Zykov. We ‘re going to dig a railway underneath Moscow, so that people can get around more quickly. And there’s this — about reducing the prices for gas.”
    Vedishchev glanced into the papers and announced determinedly: “You mustn’t give the cathedral to this Gegechkori; he’s a well-known swindler. Better give it to one of our own artists, from Moscow. They have to make a living, too. It will be cheaper and every bit as beautiful. Where are we going to get the money from? There isn’t any money. Gegechkori promised your Petka that he would decorate his dacha in Al-abino, that’s why Petka’s taking so much trouble on his behalf.”
    “So you think we shouldn’t give the