Free Sister Pelagia and the Red Cockerel by Boris Akunin

some more. Pelagia, the police commander, the doctor, and the photographer watched his Adam’s apple twitching above the collar of his white tunic. Ah, that was very wrong , Pelagia thought uneasily. I’ve cast a shadow on someone without any good reason… .
    The captain had barely polished off his second glass of water and set about a third, when the door swung open sharply. “Did you order all the passengers to stay in their cabins?” Dolinin barked at the captain from the doorway.
    “Yes.”
    “Then why is thirteen empty?”
    “How do you mean, empty? I saw Mr. Ostrolyzhensky go in there with my very own eyes! And I warned him not to go anywhere until he was specifically instructed!”
    “Warned him! You should have put a sailor in the corridor!”
    “But it’s absolutely impossible! By your leave, I …”
    The captain dashed toward the door.
    “Don’t bother,” Sergei Sergeevich said with a frown of distaste. “I’ve just come from there. His luggage is all there, but the passenger’s gone. I forbid anyone to go in and touch anything. I’ve put a police constable on the door.”
    “I don’t understand a thing,” said the captain, shrugging and spreading his hands.
    “Search the vessel!” Dolinin ordered with a gloomy, intense expression. “From the funnel to the coal hole!”
    The captain and the police commander ran out into the corridor, and the investigator spoke to the nun in a completely different tone of voice, as an equal to an equal. “This Glass-Eye of yours has disappeared. So there you have it, Mademoiselle Pelagia, puzzle number two.”
    The holy sister was not offended by the ironic “Mademoiselle,” because she realized the free-and-easy form of address was not intended as mockery, but as an expression of liking.
    “This man is no razin,” the investigator mused. “They never take tickets, especially not in first class. He’s probably a dasher. It’s their style.”
    “A dasher—is that a bandit?”
    “Yes, from one of the respected gangs on the River. Or else a casual migrant—there are quite a few lone wolves among them.”
    The suspicious disappearance of the man with one eye freed Pelagia of her sense of guilt, and she grew bolder: “You know, that man really did look like a bandit. Only not some petty predator, not even a wolf, but something like a tiger or a leopard.” Once she had said it, she felt ashamed of her excessively flowery turn of phrase, and so she switched to a dry, businesslike tone of voice. “What I don’t understand is this. If the murder was committed by a high-class bandit, then what do we make of the sack, what was it called—a swag bag? What would a man like that want with petty theft?”
    “A puzzle,” Dolinin admitted. “A definite puzzle.” And he made an entry in his notebook.
    He leafed through the small pages covered in writing and sketches, and began summing up: “That would seem to be all for the initial investigation. And so, thanks to you, dear Sister, we have acquired a prime suspect. We have his description—I’ll take it down from your words in more detail later—and also his name. Although the name is most likely false. Now we need to examine the victim.” Dolinin leaned down over the corpse and frowned in annoyance. “Just look at how distorted his face is. Identification’s going to be a problem.”
    “Why does he have to be identified?” the nun asked in surprise. “After all, he wasn’t traveling alone, he had companions. They’ll identify him.”
    Sergei Sergeevich glanced at the doctor and the photographer, who were listening to the conversation, and said, “Doctor, go to the captain’s office and write your report. Keep it brief, but don’t leave anything essential out. And as for you”—this was to the photographer—“would you please go to the boatswain and bring me a ball of string. And ask for a knife too—a cable knife. The boatswain knows.”
    Only when he was left alone with Pelagia did he