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great enthusiast of duels, and for the sake of this one he had decked himself out in his formal kimono with tall starched shoulders, put on white socks, and girded himself with his finest belt, decorated with a pattern of bamboo shoots.
    “What kind of gaudy parrot is this?” Erdeli asked with impolite astonishment. “But who gives a damn, anyway? Let’s get down to business!”
    Masa bowed ceremonially to the assembled company and held out that accursed official sword at arm’s length to his master.
    “Here is your sword, my lord.”
    “How sick I am of you and your sword,” sighed Erast Petrovich. “I’m fighting a duel with pistols. With that gentleman there.”
    “Pistols again?” Masa asked disappointedly. “What a barbaric custom. And who are you going to kill? That hairy man? He looks just like a monkey.”
    The witnesses to the duel stood along the walls, and Gukmasov, having turned away and juggled with the pistols for a moment, offered the opponents a choice. Erast Petrovich waited as Erdeli crossed himself and took a pistol, then casually picked up the second pistol with his finger and thumb.
    Following the captain’s instructions, the duelists took hold of the corners of the handkerchief and moved as far away as possible from each other, which even with fully outstretched arms was a distance of no more than three paces. The prince raised his pistol to shoulder level and aimed directly at his opponent’s forehead. Fandorin held his weapon by his hip and did not aim at all, since at that distance it was entirely unnecessary.
    “One, two, three!” the captain counted quickly and stepped back.
    The hammer of the prince’s pistol gave a dry click, but Fandorin’s weapon belched out a vicious tongue of flame. The lieutenant fell and began rolling around on the carpet, clutching at his right hand, which had been shot through, and swearing desperate obscenities.
    When his howling had subsided to dull groans, Erast Petrovich chided him: “You will never again be able to slap anyone’s face with that hand.”
    There was a clamor in the corridor, where people were shouting. Gukmasov opened the door slightly and told someone that there had been an unfortunate accident — Lieutenant Erdeli had been unloading a pistol and had shot himself in the hand. The wounded man was sent to be bandaged up by Professor Welling, who fortunately had not yet left to collect his embalming equipment, and then everyone returned to Guk-masov’s suite.
    “Now what?” asked Fandorin. “Are you satisfied?”
    Gukmasov shook his head.
    “Now you will fight a duel with me. On the same terms.”
    “And then?”
    “And then — if you’re lucky again — with everyone else in turn. Until you are killed. Erast Petrovich, spare me and my comrades this ordeal.” The captain looked almost imploringly into the young man’s eyes. “Give us your word of honor that you will not take part in the investigation, and we shall part friends.”
    “I should count it an honor to be your friend, but what you demand is impossible,” Fandorin declared sadly.
    Masa whispered in his ear: “Master, I do not understand what this man with the red mustache is saying to you, but I sense danger. Would it not be wiser to attack first and kill all these samurai while they are still unprepared? I have your little pistol in my sleeve, and those brass knuckles that I bought for myself in Paris. I would really like to try them out.”
    “Masa, forget these bandit habits of yours,” Erast Petrovich told his servant. “I am going to fight these gentlemen honestly, one by one.”
    “Ah, then that will take a long time,” the Japanese said, drawing out the words. He moved away to the wall and sat down on the floor.
    “Gentlemen,” said Fandorin, attempting to make the officers see reason, “believe me, you will achieve nothing. You will simply be wasting your time.”
    “Enough idle talk,” Gukmasov interrupted him. “Does your Japanese know how