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have stuck in the ‘handsome young fellow’ simply for the sake of effect. That only left the student uniform coat, and that was something that could not be discounted. If it had been Kokorin on the bridge, it meant that during the interval between shortly after ten and half past twelve for some reason he had changed into a frock coat. But where, though? From the Yauza to Ostozhenka Street and then back to the Moscow Fire Insurance Company was a long way; you couldn’t possibly cover the distance in an hour and a half.
    Fandorin realized with a hollow, sinking feeling that only one alternative remained open to him: to take the shopkeeper Kukin by the collar and drag him down to the station on Mokhovaya Street, where the suicide’s body was still lying in the mortuary, packed in ice, and arrange an identification. Erast Fandorin imagined the gaping skull with the crust of dried blood and brains, and an entirely natural association brought back the memory of the merchant’s wife Krupnova with her throat cut, who still continued to visit him in his nightmares. No, he definitely did not wish to make the trip to the ‘cold room.’ But there was some connection between the student from the Malaya Yauza Bridge and the suicide from the Alexander Gardens that absolutely had to be cleared up. Who could tell him whether Kokorin had pimples and a slouch and whether he wore a pince-nez?
    Well, first, there was the landowner’s wife Spitsyna, but she was probably driving up to the Kaluga Gate by now. Second, there was the deceased’s valet. What was his name, now? Not that it mattered in any case. The investigator had thrown him out of the apartment; trying to find him now would be a complete waste of time. That left the witnesses from the Alexander Gardens, and above all the two ladies with whom Kokorin had been in conversation during the final minute of his life. They at least must have got a good look at the details of his appearance. Here it was written in his notepad: “Daughter of full privy counselor Eliz. Alexandrovna Evert-Kolokoltseva, 17, spinster Emma Gottliebovna Pfühl, 48, Malaya Nikitskaya Street, private residence.”
    He would be obliged to go to the expense of a cab after all.
    THE DAY WAS TURNING out to be a long one. The cheerful sun of May, still by no means weary of illuminating the golden-domed city, was reluctantly slipping down the sky toward the line of the roofs when Erast Fandorin, now two twenty-kopeck coins the poorer, descended from his cab in front of the smart mansion with the Doric columns, molded-stucco facade, and marble porch. Seeing his fare halt in hesitation, the cabman said, “That’s the one, all right, the general’s house—don’t you worry about that. This ain’t my first year driving ‘round Moscow.”
    What if they won’t let me in ? Erast Fandorin thought with a sudden twinge of fear at the possible humiliation. He took a firm grasp of the gleaming brass hammer and knocked twice. The massive door with bronze lion masks immediately swung open, and a doorman dressed in rich livery with gold braid stuck his head out.
    “To see the baron? From the office?” he asked briskly. “Reporting or just delivering some document? Come on in, do.”
    Finding himself in a spacious entrance hall brightly illuminated by both a chandelier and gaslights, the visitor was deserted by his final shred of courage.
    “Actually, I’m here to see Elizaveta Alexandrovna,” he explained. “Erast Petrovich Fandorin, from the Criminal Investigation Division. On an urgent matter.”
    “The Criminal Investigation Division,” the guardian of the portal repeated with a frown of disdain. “Would that be in connection with yesterday’s events? Out of the question. The young lady spent very nearly half the day in tears, and she slept badly last night as well. I won’t admit you and I won’t announce you. His Excellency has already threatened your people from the precinct with dire consequences for