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These with a thousand small deliberations
Protract the profit of their chilled delirium,
Excite the membrane, when the sense has cooled,
With pungent sauces, multiply variety
In a wilderness of mirrors. What will the spider do
Suspend its operations, will the weevil
Delay?
Gerontion by T. S. Eliot

Translator Д. Григорьев

Translator Г. Иванов

ISBN 978-5-0067-7755-2

Created with Ridero smart publishing system

Prologue

FIGARO. Pooh, our Comic Opera-Makers are not so nice now a Days.
Beaumarchais. The Barber of Seville.

FIGARO. Hem! Hem! When this is set to Music, properly accompanied, we shall see, Gentleman Critics, whether or no, I know what I am about.
Ibid.

“He put away his Browning FN Model 1910, sat in the chair in front of the man and began a conversation. “Mr. Butler, I am not employed by Scotland Yard and came here as a private individual. However, I actually represent His Majesty’s Secret Service at this time. So, I request you to tell me everything. My interest is not in your financial and trading activities or scientific endeavors in Egypt, per se. Rather, they are of interest only insofar as they related to the murder of the Count.”

“Why do you think it was a murder, Mr. Johnson?”

“I have conducted my own investigation and I am now convinced that it was a murder. My belief is that the motives of such should be sought within the Egyptian enterprise of the Count, which you managed, Mr. Butler. I will keep your confession confidential under two conditions: first, if you are personally not involved in this murder, and secondly, if you will be entirely honest with me, completely! For my part, I can assure you that I will only use the information that I receive from you for the purpose of investigating the murder, and will not harm your business interests.”

“Do you give me your word as a gentleman?”

“Unfortunately, I cannot give my word as a gentleman, as I am not the one. However, if I give a word, I keep it.”

“I am not a murderer – do you believe me?”

“I will believe you, if you provide me with sufficient evidence to do so.”

“In fact, I greatly admired that old eccentric and became attached to him. We could say that we became friends, if such a relationship between a Count and the ordinary person was possible at all. Indeed, we had a recent disagreement, and he even asked for my forgiveness. The count himself! Indeed, he was lonely and needed my assistance.… So, what do you wish to know from me?”

“Everything! What was the core business your company? How was it related to the politics? What commitments did the Count undertake and to whom specifically? What was the cause of your recent quarrel with the Count? Why was he murdered? What role did the young lady and the Countess play in all of this? What does Mr. Lucas hide? Which items was the murderer after? Finally, the most significant question: Who is the perpetrator?”

“I am not aware of the identity of the killer. Nor do I possess all the information. However, I will provide a detailed report of our company, and you may draw your own conclusions from this. I hope that my report will dispel any suspicions regarding my involvement in the crime. However, please promise to forget my confession, as the interests of numerous powerful individuals are at stake, in addition to my own. Allow me to elaborate…”

***

The editor threw back a stack of disheveled sheets with blurred typewritten text, an excerpt from which he had just read, onto a table littered with papers. Then he chewed on his bloodless lips, took off his tiny round glasses and stared sadly at Gregson:

“Yes, I read your manuscript and reflected my opinion about it in my review. Personally, this reading was very interesting and entertaining for me, but we will not publish it!”

“Why?” Gregson asked in an outwardly calm tone, although inside he was roaring with anger.

“I just read you an excerpt from your book as an example, Mr. Gregson.” The Editor ran his hand over the rejected manuscript with painful expression on his face. “I thought you would understand everything yourself. Is it still not clear to you?”

“I admit, no, it’s not clear!” Gregson was still outwardly calm, but his heart was pounding inside.

The Editor leaned back in his chair, picked up his pipe from the table, slowly lit it and blew a stream of tobacco smoke into the ceiling. “This is no good! You are not a writer yet, Mr. Gregson. You still have to study and study. I don’t see this Butler of yours right now. Give me a vivid artistic image! Then maybe I’ll believe in him.”

“What exactly is wrong with my book?”

“We usually do not honor the authors with explanations.” The Editor forced a wry smile. “But only out of respect for your military past, I will try to convey our reasons to you.”

Gregson’s lips curled slightly in an answering smile. “I would highly appreciate your clarification.”

The Editor nodded with satisfaction, covered himself in a fresh cloud of blue smoke and said. “You have almost nothing besides dialogues in your book! This is not the way we do it. Contrary to the unspoken rules, you even started right away with a dialogue!”

Gregson objected. “But Plato also wrote in the form of a dialogue. Dialogue allows you to identify contradictions much better than a simple narrative…”

“First of all, you are not Plato!” The Editor sternly raised his finger. “Be a little more modest! And secondly, Plato is currently being read by only a few bookworms, and we need a circulation!”

Gregson opened his notebook, made a note in it with a pencil, and looked up at the Editor again. “Do you have any other objections besides the form of the dialogue?”

The Editor, looking wistfully at the ceiling, blew out a smoke ring again. “Too dry. Too lifeless. You don’t have any epithets at all. Some nouns and verbs: ‘he said, they met, she passed, he fired’.”

“It seemed to me that this way the narrative would become more dynamic and capture attention… It’s a detective story!”

“You’re wrong! This is a novel, not a newspaper report. It assumes a certain artistic level. The ability to draw a picture with a word. Description of nature, personal experiences of the characters, feelings… Beautiful comparisons, epithets, tropes…”

“Do you think the reader needs all this?” Gregson chuckled. “What kind of reader needs descriptions of nature and other verbal husks?”

“He doesn’t need it.” The Editor nodded. “But he’s used to it. He would feel deprived if he does not grasp the difference in artistic level between himself and the writer. Therefore, you, being a writer, would lose his respect, the charm of mystery surrounding any artist and separating him from the crowd of nonprofessionals. Yes, the reader wants to read detective and police story, yes, he will prefer Nick Carter and the killers of Michigan Avenue to many great novels of the past – Dickens, Flaubert and Tolstoy. Nevertheless, even the story about Nick Carter, he certainly wants to read in the style of Dickens, Flaubert or Tolstoy. Our reader is a snob, even if he doesn’t always realize it.”

Gregson made a note in his notebook and, without taking his eyes off his sheet, nodded. “Any other comments?”

The Editor seemed pleased: he rarely had such an attentive listener. “Do not call the main character by only one name in the text. This causes irritation. Then, why so many numbers, dates and technical details? They distract from artistic images…”

“Please continue.” Gregson nodded, quickly making another note in his notebook.

“Add some jokes. The reader wants to relax.”

A nod, a note in a notebook, an attentive, expectant look.

Perhaps such a grateful listener deserves some encouragement. After another puff of smoke, the Editor generously decided to reward the upset author with a little candy of praise. “You have some positive points. For example, a Lord and an Earl are very good! The average reader loves books about high society. He doesn’t know it at all and therefore loves it madly. Therefore, do not dispel his misconceptions and legends! The aristocracy is our sacred cow! The reader dreams to be a part of it and such dream comes true imaginary while reading! You are on the right track here.”

Gregson made another note and looked up expectantly.

“Writing a book with epigraphs nowadays is very pretentious. Remove them!”

An entry in a notebook, a nod of the willingness to heed the age-old wisdom.

Perhaps enough of the encouragement! The Editor became serious. “But please don’t mention <Censored on the basis of Article 6.21 of the Code of Administrative Offences of the Russian Federation>! Even among the aristocrats! This would disgust a significant part of the readers.”

Gregson, having made another entry, nodded, inviting further criticism.

Another puff of smoke at the ceiling. “Next. Special terminology. For example, the reader does not know and may get confused about who TG is?”

Gregson explained patiently. “TG means a temporary gentleman, that is, a person who was not an aristocrat by birth and received an officer’s rank during the war due to extraordinary circumstances.”

“But the average uninformed reader cannot be expected to know this at all! This also applies to information about other countries or scientific facts. We are not an encyclopedia and cannot afford to publish a commented edition. The reader does not like to be distracted by footnotes, he would not bother finding out all the facts and terms, thus, at the end he would get confused and angry. And whom will he be mad at? Of course, you, the author!”

“Next?” Gregson nodded, without taking his pencil off his notebook.

“I praised you for the aristocrats. However, listen to another good advice: do not have any Jews! No way!”

Gregson looked up from his notes and stared at the Editor in surprise. “I’ve heard the opinion that there should be no Chinese in a detective story, but…”

“Jews are even worse than Chinese.” The Editor waved his hand. “Believe me. No decent publishing company would take a book with Jews from you, unless they are ancient Jews.”

“Do you hate Jews to such an extent?” Gregson’s lips twitched in a barely perceptible smile.

“I just love them.” The Editor sighed heavily. “But even one Shylock is quite enough for us. We don’t need another one. You’re not Shakespeare, are you? Keep in mind: they won’t tolerate a second Shakespeare here either! This place is already occupied!”

A note in a notebook, a nod. “Next?”

“Punishment, Gregson!” The Editor raised a pointing finger and shook it in the air. “If there is a crime, then there must be a punishment too! This is the ‘iron rule’ of the detective story, stemming from the ‘golden rule’ of ethics!”

“It seems to me that solving a crime will be quite enough for a detective story, and the punishment can be left outside the framework of the narrative.…”

“Then the reader would feel dissatisfied. People want a triumph of justice here and now and speedy retribution for the sins of the villains. This is actually the main reason why the detectives are created, bought and read. Punishment should be inevitable in the finale.”

A note in a notebook, a nod. “Next?”

“Remember: the first chapter should be stunning right away. If the reader doesn’t like it, he won’t read on. And in your novel, it’s kind of… sluggish… The first three paragraphs of the first chapter are especially important.”

A note in a notebook, a nod. “Anything else?”

It suddenly seemed to the Editor that Gregson was playing a waiter taking an order in a restaurant. For a moment it seemed the cooperative author would leave the office right now, only to return a moment later with a new novel, prepared this time in full accordance with the tastes and preferences of the client: “with blood’, “medium’ or “well done’. No, it is a detective story, so it should be definitely with blood! However, isn’t it too cheap for the sophisticated Editor to give away such a precious experience to a layman? Perhaps that’s enough. Let him first appreciate the boon done to him! “We can continue for a very, very long time, but let’s stop here for now.”

Gregson nodded and put the notebook in his pocket. “Now here’s the thing. I’m not going to make the first chapter stunning. There must be a certain logic in the narrative, even if the dummies cannot comprehend it.”

What? How could this be? Even if fresh asparagus was not delivered today, but where is the ostentatious grief of the servile waiter about this? “The average reader rarely knows even simple logic.” The Editor shook his head and put down his pipe. “He needs strong feelings and vivid images from you, not logic at all!”

Gregson stood up quickly and with a quick movement picked up his manuscript from the table. “And I will have logic! And there will certainly be long dialogues, scientific facts and even Jews!”

“It’s a pity.” The Editor spread his hands. “Then we’ll never print your novel!”

“So be it. But I will be able to tell an entertaining and very educational story, which according to your patterns is not worth doing. Besides this, in entertaining stories, you seem to understand as much as a pig understands in oranges! So long!” Gregson nodded curtly and headed for the exit. Being at the door, he turned around and said. “I just added a joke, as you asked.”

The door slammed shut behind him. The Editor shuddered, and remained sitting in thought. Then he shook his head, sighed heavily, put on his glasses, picked up from the table a new stack of typewritten sheets with blurred font and then began to write another internal review.

The Major

FIGARO. My Lord, the more difficulty there is to your succeeding, only adds to the Necessity of your Undertaking.
Beaumarchais. The Barber of Seville.

Major Wilkinson approached the wall and tore off previous day’s calendar sheet: today is the twelfth, Thursday. Then, tomorrow will be Friday, the thirteenth of the month and it is better not to start important things on such a day! Therefore, we should get started today and immediately!

Today’s leaflet reminded him that exactly one hundred and forty-one years ago, Admiral Rodney defeated the frogs at All Saints. Those must have been glorious times, very, very glorious times! Additionally, today is the anniversary of the Union Jack, too, a very significant day! One can say that Britain took the first step towards becoming an empire three hundred and seventeen years ago. Now it is an Empire on which the sun never sets. But… is it already about to set? It depends only on the tireless efforts of the servants of the Empire. To keep the sun from setting on the Empire everyone – the major himself and all his officers – like farmers from a fairy tale, have to sit tenaciously on a high roof, stick the pitchfork in that damn scorching sun and tirelessly, with all their might, hold it above the horizon. It is extremely hard to keep the Empire from going down, but someone has to do this job… There is a ton of slackers loitering around such an important matter, but there are damn few real helpers! And the damn bureaucracy strangles… The major unbuttoned the tight collar of his “French’ tunic and massaged his neck. He went to the window and lifted the frame. The cool April air rushed into the office with a slight smell of urban smoky burning. There was a distant Easter bell ringing, the rumble and cheerful bells of trams, the quacking of car horns. Happy-go-lucky sparrows chirped merrily: they did not need to worry about the fate of empires. Suddenly the Major realized how drastic is the disharmony between the freshness of the outside world and the dusty mustiness of his office…

A door behind him opened abruptly and he heard a familiar voice:

“May I come in, Saed-midjar?”

The major turned around. A young man, about twenty-seven years old, about six and a half feet tall, with blue eyes, straw-colored hair and a wheat-colored mustache, appeared at the entrance of the office. He was dressed in an expensive tweed plaid suit, light brown boots with gaiters on his feet.

“Finally, Gregson!” The Major walked briskly towards him and exchanged a firm handshake with the guest. “Damn glad to see you back at my place, Lieutenant! It’s been a long time; it’s been a long-long time!”

“Sabah el Khair, Saed-midjar.” Gregson bowed, putting his right hand to his heart and smiled broadly. “Long time no see. How are things going on the fronts of the Empire now?”

“The Empire is in desperate need of you again, Gregson. Sit down. Let’s get right to the point.” The major buttoned up the collar of his tunic. “But first, tell me, how did you get settled after you left the service?”

The two of them sat side by side at a table covered with frayed green baize with books and papers all over. The guest crossed his legs and answered slowly. “In different ways, Saed-midjar. I worked in various offices. Boredom is deadly over there, especially after our exploits! But after all I got lucky: I was invited to work for a detective agency. Then I stated to prosper as now everyone around is obsessed with Sherlock Holmes. I think it’s time for me to open my own private detective office: ‘Gregson and Lestrade’. So far, however, I don’t have any Lestrade in sight, and I don’t expect him, but Gregson alone is ready to perform for two and, hopefully, he would carry on.”

“That’s good!” Wilkinson smiled. “Because I just want to offer you a case. And the funds allocated are not sufficient to cut a share for Lestrade as well. However, if you succeed, it will be a good start for your own office.”

“And why do you need me, Saed-midjar?” The guest squinted.

“Stop playing coy, Gregson!”

“Don’t you have enough subordinates?”

The major sighed heavily. “That’s a damn sore point, Lieutenant. After the war, we had a lot of staff cuts. Some smarty pants concluded that since the war was victorious, Britain had fewer enemies! However, the situation is exactly the opposite! There is much more of them now! I had to part with many of my best people, because they had their own business to do and because the best people know what they are doing. Now the incompetent relatives of the big shots occupy their places. And there is no one to work! Thank God, I still have some funds at my disposal for special operations. Therefore, in special cases, we can involve experienced people from the outside. You, for example.”

“But why me?”

Instead of answering, the major got up and walked to the wall, pulled open the curtain that hid the large map, and pointed to the southeastern corner of the Mediterranean.

“The Middle East.”

“Really?” The guest was clearly excited.

The major noticed this and smiled. “The adoption of the constitution in Egypt is scheduled in a week. Big celebrations among the natives. It’s going to be fun. Would you like to take a ride to Egypt at government expense?”

“All the newspapers are talking about Tutankhamun so much right now that even I was curious to take a look.” Gregson admitted. “But not at my own expense, of course. If you pay for my trip at the rate of a private investigator, I agree.”

“We will pay a double rate, taking into account the complexity and remoteness of the place of work. Withal, for your knowledge of Arabic. Withal, for the necessary expenses. I need someone who can sort out a very sensitive matter. The one who would approach the matter informally and would achieve a real result. The one who would be able to navigate and act effectively in an Arab country where our influence is wobbling. At the same time, the one who would act delicately and quickly. And I don’t have anyone among the subordinates there right now. In short, it’s you.

Gregson nodded understandingly. “What is the timeline of the operation?”

“A week. If you don’t figure it out in a week, then no one would ever figure it out. With a round trip, a maximum of three weeks. Besides, you don’t want to be stuck there until the summer heat and Khamsin?”

“Thank you very much.” Gregson grimaced in disgust. “I can’t stand the heat and Khamsin. Explain the essence of your case.”

The major closed the blinds of the map and walked around the office. “Britain’s political situation is very difficult right now. We almost lost the War.”

Gregson smirked. “I suppose the British are the only people in the world who like to be told that things can’t get any worse.”

The major ignored the impertinent remark. “And when we were about to lose it, the Americans saved us. But the price of their help turned out to be too high. We raised a new strong adversary with our own hands. Very alarming commotion is happening in all our colonies. Damn Yankees, Frogs, and even, God forgive, Macaronis try to shit on us everywhere. And they don’t have to try too hard: alas, we are hated everywhere, everywhere! Obviously, this is the price of Britain’s greatness.” The major sighed heavily then pulled himself together and went on. “Anyway, this is just emotions. The Middle East is a key point in Britain’s foreign policy. As a result of the war, we received a mandate to govern Palestine and Trans-Jordan. It would seem like a tasty morsel? But there would be so many problems with it that we may finally regret. We still control Egypt, but there are very strong tendencies towards independence. But we cannot give up Suez under any circumstances! Therefore, we have to keep Egypt under vigilant control and promptly respond to any attempts to undermine our influence there. Now we had to play along with local nationalists and allow Egypt formal independence, adopt a constitution there and even allow some self-government. Many of us consider this a big mistake. Soon the aborigines would want the real and complete independence! They might attempt to play on our disagreements with other powers. We receive information about possible armed demonstrations against British troops, as well as about terrorist acts planned against British officials and subjects. For example, you heard about the recent strange death of Lord Carnarvon, didn’t you?”

“Of course.” Gregson nodded. “All the newspapers are now trumpeting The Curse of Pharaoh Tutankhamun.”

“My request to you is to conduct your own investigation and find out who is really behind the curse of Pharaoh Tutankhamun, namely: who killed Lord Carnarvon and why?”

Gregson looked into the major’s eyes in surprise. “But why…” Here he paused in indecision. The major nodded supportively. Gregson went on with the next question in a businesslike tone. “What makes you believe that the death of the Lord was not natural?”

“This is only an assumption so far, but there are certain grounds for it. You will get acquainted with our materials in due course. There was a peculiar statement made by the son of the dead lord – the younger Earl of Carnarvon, who believes his father could have been poisoned. On the other hand, there are hints of political motives.”

“In that case, it’s most likely the Carnarvon’s’ family squabbles. So, what does politics have to do with it?”

“Maybe it had nothing to do with it.” The major nodded. “But Lord Carnarvon, a prominent British citizen, discovered Tutankhamun to the world and attracted the attention of the world community to Egypt. Because of him, Egypt is now in the spotlight. Accordingly, our weaknesses and mistakes are also clearly obvious. However, there is another important circumstance: Lord Carnarvon secretly worked for our Foreign Office and for our intelligence too. Before the War and during the War and after.

“What? And him too?” Gregson chuckled. “But he was invalid I heard!”

“What surprises you?” The major shrugged his shoulders. “There are very few real Britons in the British Empire, so everyone is obliged to serve. Even people with obvious disabilities like Carnarvon. Even if they are not formally employed, everyone, one way or another, to the best of their abilities and means, fulfills their duty to the Crown. By the way, the same applies to you too, Gregson. Lord Carnarvon liked to travel a lot. But any traveler is always a scout.”

“A spy?” Gregson raised his eyebrows.

The major smiled. “No, in our case, just a scout. In the good sense of the word. That’s how it turned out this time.”

“A professional?”

“A dilettante. In this case, I did not use the word ‘dilettante’ in a derogatory sense, but only to emphasize the independent status of the independent researcher. An amateur in the best sense of the word. The Britain is a nation of amateurs, not professionals. All our generals, diplomats, as well as writers, were amateurs. That is why we have always won wars and created the greatest literature in the world.”

“An amateur Egyptologist…”

“Not just an Egyptologist. Our Lord Carnarvon once upon a time was engaged in boxing and seamanship like a typical British amateur. However, when his health no longer allowed him to sail the seas and ride motorcycles, our aristocrat adventurer and daredevil for some reason stepped into the quiet and dusty Egyptology. It must be, I assume, out of pure sporting interest…” The major seemed to look meaningfully straight into Gregson’s eyes and after a pause continued. “And who would have thought that he could be so lucky: to find the first and only tomb of the ancient pharaoh that has not yet been looted!”

“Do you think it’s just for sports?” Gregson’s eyes narrowed. “And he had no commercial interest in the case?”

The Major laughed. “You seem to be in a hurry to remind me that you are not a proper gentleman, but only a temporary one, Gregson. Trying to move everything down to money!”

“That’s the way I am, a brazen pauper.” Gregson spread his hands and lowered his eyes with mock modesty.

“Don’t take it seriously!” The major patted him on the shoulder in a friendly way. “Dilettante aristocrats, of course, are also very good at counting money; they just rarely talk about it out loud. When they plan a grand tour for themselves or their offspring, they know perfectly well how they get their money back later. By the way, most of the first archaeologists are antiquaries behind the scenes. The cost of their collections, as a rule, significantly exceeds the costs incurred by them. Not to mention their uplift in the social hierarchy or shady incomes. I am sure that our lord’s amateurish hobby has already paid off for his excavation expenses many times, and will bring even more to his heirs in the future. So, the newly minted heirs of the lord have something to argue for!”

Gregson nodded. “All right. Let’s assume that the lord was really killed. But why do you need this investigation? I mean, what’s the point of you playing the role of the police?”

“We are not playing the police.” The major became serious. “People who actually make important decisions in British politics are in dire need of truthful information about this case. Should it suddenly turn out that it was a terrorist act inspired by certain Egyptian political forces, then, I bet, the current Egyptian constitution has no more than six months to live. Besides this, we should prevent such a terrorist act from happening again in the future. However, some other circumstances may also come to light, perhaps very unexpected…”

“But if we are talking about a secret poisoning, then this does not look like a terrorist act.” Gregson noted thoughtfully. “Terrorism implies publicity.”

“The publicity could be different. Our officers and officials periodically receive anonymous death threats, presumably from radical Muslim fanatics. Perhaps this was a reprisal after secret threats?”

Gregson thought for a while, and then asked. “What makes you think that I would be able to complete the investigation? I am not an official person; I do not have the right to investigate in a foreign country. If I ask people, they can rightfully ignore me. I am not a relative or even an acquaintance of the deceased. Besides, I don’t understand anything about pharaohs or their curses.”

“Don’t be so modest, Gregson!” The major waved angrily. “You are smart and very quick-witted. In addition, you are persistent and tenacious in achieving your goal. I would never believe that in four years after the War you could have lost all these qualities.”

Gregson smiled. “I want to believe it too, Major!”

“We will give you contacts with our people in Egypt. They will assist you on the spot. Get the dossier on Lord Carnarvon and his inner circle now and study it on the way. Necessary materials on Egypt and Egyptology too.”

“My legend?”

“You don’t need it. More precisely, you already have your own legend: you are a writer, a mystery writer, collecting material for a new book. Everybody became interested in Egyptology, which, given the current hype, is quite natural. You will go under your own name with your genuine documents.”

“How much time do you give me to pack?”

“Not at all. You have a weapon with you, of course?”

Gregson slapped his pocket. “A Browning model 1910.”

The major nodded. “That’s good, it might come in handy. Now get the money and a bag with the necessary papers. Buy everything else you need either in Marseille – before boarding the steamship – or upon arrival in Cairo.”

“But what about the necessities for the road to France?”

“You won’t need anything. You’re flying by plane to Paris in two hours. From there, take an airplane directly to Marseille. The car to the airfield is already waiting for you.”

Gregson was about to say something but paused.

The major raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Do you have any objections, Lieutenant?”

“To be honest, sir, I’m not eager to fly after last year’s airplane crash over Paris.”

“A gentleman has no right to be afraid of such trifles, Gregson!”

Gregson laughed in response. “Sometimes you forget that I’m not a real gentleman, Major.”

“In that case, get your despicable money from me and carry out the assigned task, Lieutenant Gregson. I wish you success and break your leg.”

Gregson got up, nodded curtly, and headed for the exit. Halfway there, he turned around. “Major, two more questions. First, why were you so sure that I would accept your offer?”