Boris Akunin “Special assignments. Special Assignments - Boris Akunin Read online Boris Akunin Special Assignments

April 4, Great Tuesday, morning

Erast Petrovich Fandorin, an official of special assignments under the Moscow Governor-General, a 6th class person, holder of Russian and foreign orders, was turning inside out.

The thin, blue-pale face of the college adviser was contorted in pain, one hand in a white kid glove with silver buttons was pressed to his chest, the other was frantically cutting through the air - with this unconvincing gesture, Erast Petrovich wanted to reassure his assistant: nothing, they say, nonsense, will pass now. However, judging by the duration and painfulness of the spasms, this was not even nonsense.

Fandorin’s assistant, provincial secretary Anisiy Pitirimovich Tyulpanov, a skinny, homely young man of 23 years old, had never seen the boss in such a pitiful state. Tulipov himself, however, was somewhat green-faced, but he resisted the temptation to vomit and was now secretly proud of it. However, the unworthy feeling was fleeting and therefore not worthy of attention, but the unexpected sensitivity of the adored boss, always so cold-blooded and not disposed to sentimentality, alarmed Anisy seriously.

“W-wait...” Erast Petrovich squeezed out, wincing and wiping his purple lips with a glove. The usual slight stutter, the memory of a long-standing concussion, noticeably intensified due to nervous breakdown. – Th-go there... Let the p-protocol be d-detailed... Photographic s-photographs from all angles. And the traces so as not to be... trampled...

He was bent over again, but this time the outstretched hand did not waver - the finger inexorably pointed at the crooked door of the plank shed, from where a few minutes earlier the college adviser had emerged all pale, on weak legs.

Anisiy did not want to go back into the gray twilight, where there was a viscous smell of blood and offal. But service is service.

I took in more of the damp April air into my chest (hey, it wouldn’t make me feel sick), crossed myself and - it was like heading into a pool.

In the shack, which was used for storing firewood, and now, due to the imminent end of the cold weather, was almost empty, a fair number of people had gathered: an investigator, agents from the detective department, a private bailiff, a quarterly supervisor, a forensic doctor, a photographer, policemen, and also the janitor Klimuk, who discovered the scene of the monstrous crime. – in the morning he poked his head in to get some firewood, saw it, yelled as much as he was supposed to, and ran after the police.

Two oil lanterns were burning, and slow shadows swayed across the low ceiling. It was quiet, only in the corner a young policeman was sobbing subtly and sniffling.

- Well, sir, what do we have? – forensic expert Egor Villemovich Zakharov purred with curiosity, picking up something spongy, blue-purple, from the floor with his hand in a rubber glove. - No spleen. Here she is, darling. Excellent, sir.

In a bag of it, in a bag. Another womb, a left kidney, and there will be a complete set, not counting all the little things... What do you have, Monsieur Tulipov, under your boot? Not the mesentery?

Anisiy looked down, shied away in horror and almost tripped over the prone body of Andreichkina’s girl, Stepanida Ivanovna, 39 years old. This information, as well as the definition of the deceased’s craft, was gleaned from a yellow ticket that lay neatly on the ripped open chest. Nothing more neat was observed in the posthumous appearance of the maiden Andreichkina.

Her face, presumably, which was invisible in life, became nightmarish in death: bluish, stained with sticky powder, her eyes bulged out of their sockets, her mouth froze in a silent scream. It was even scarier to watch below. Someone striped the poor body of the walking woman length and breadth, took out all the stuffing from it and laid it out on the ground in a bizarre pattern. True, Yegor Villemovich has already managed to collect almost the entire exhibition and put it into numbered packages. All that remained was a black spot of freely spread blood and small shreds of either a mangled or torn dress.

Leonty Andreevich Izhitsyn, an investigator for the most important cases under the district prosecutor, squatted down next to the doctor and asked in a businesslike manner:

- Traces of intercourse?

“I’ll outline this for you later, my dear.” I’ll draw up a report and display everything as it is. Here, you see for yourself, the darkness is Egyptian and the groan is pitch-black.

Like any foreigner who has mastered the Russian language perfectly, Yegor Villemovich loved to insert various tricky phrases into his speech. Despite the quite ordinary surname, there was an expert of British blood. In the kingdom of the late sovereign, the doctor father, also a doctor, came to Russia, took root, and adapted the surname Zekarais, difficult for the Russian ear, to local conditions - Yegor Villemovich himself told along the way how they were traveling in a carriage. It’s clear from him that he’s not his brother, a hare: lanky, thick-haired, sandy hair, a wide, lipless, mobile mouth, constantly moving a crappy hemp pipe from corner to corner.

Investigator Izhitsyn with ostentatious interest, clearly showing off, looked at how the expert twirled another lump of torn flesh in his tenacious fingers and sarcastically asked:

- What, Mr. Tyulpanov, is your boss still breathing air? And I said, they would have managed just fine without the governor’s supervision. The picture is not for sophisticated eyes, but we are people who are accustomed to everything.

It’s clear that Leonty Andreevich is dissatisfied and jealous. It's no joke - Fandorin himself was assigned to oversee the investigation. What kind of investigator would like this?

- What are you talking about, Linkov, like a girl! - Izhitsyn growled at the sobbing policeman. - Get used to it. You are not for “special assignments”, therefore, you will still see enough of everyone.

“God forbid that we get used to this,” muttered senior policeman Pribludko, an old and experienced campaigner, known to Anisius in a third-year case, in a low voice.

This was not the first time I had to work together with Leonty Andreevich. An unpleasant gentleman - twitchy all over, chuckles incessantly, and his eyes are prickly. He’s dressed to the nines, the collars look like they’re made of alabaster, the cuffs are even whiter, he keeps snapping his shoulders and knocking off specks. Ambitious, great career does. Only at last Epiphany he had a hitch with the investigation into the spirituality of the merchant Sitnikov. The case was noisy, partly even affecting the interests of influential persons and therefore could not tolerate delays, so His Excellency Prince Dolgoruky asked Erast Petrovich to help the prosecutor’s office. And the boss knows which assistant - he took it and unraveled the whole case in one day. No wonder Izhitsyn is furious. He has a presentiment that he will again be left without laurels.

“Looks like everything,” the investigator announced. - So, so. The body is in the police morgue, on Bozhedomka. Seal the barn and place a policeman. Agents should interview all surrounding residents, and be stricter. Have you heard or seen anything suspicious? You, Klimuk, came for firewood for the last time at the eleventh hour, right? – Leonty Andreevich asked the janitor. – And death occurred no later than two in the morning? (This is for expert Zakharov). Therefore, you should be interested in the interval from the beginning of the eleventh hour to two in the morning. – And again to Klimuk. – Maybe you’ve already talked to someone here? What didn't they tell you?

The janitor (piebald beard with a broom, bushy eyebrows, knobby skull, height two arshins four inches, a special feature - a wart in the middle of the forehead, Anisiy was practicing drawing up a verbal portrait) stood, crumpling his already impossibly crumpled cap.

- No, your honor. There's something we don't understand. He propped the barn door open and ran to Mr. Pribludko. And they didn’t let me leave the neighborhood until the bosses arrived. The inhabitants, they don’t even know anything. That is, of course, they see that the police have come in large numbers... That the police gentlemen have deigned to arrive. But the residents don’t know about this passion (the janitor glanced fearfully at the corpse).

“That’s what we’ll check,” Izhitsyn grinned. “So the agents are off to work.” And you, Mr. Zakharov, take away your treasures. And so that by noon there will be a full conclusion, in full form.

“Gentlemen agents p-please stay where you are,” came the quiet voice of Erast Petrovich from behind. Everyone turned around.

How did the college adviser come in, when? And the door didn’t creak. Even in the twilight it was clear that the boss was pale and upset, but his voice was even and his manner of speaking was always the same - restrained, polite, but in such a way that you wouldn’t want to object.

“Mr. Izhitsyn, even the janitor understood that there was no need to talk about the incident,” Erast Petrovich said dryly to the investigator. “Actually, that’s why I was sent, to ensure the strictest secrecy.” No polls. Moreover, I ask and even oblige everyone present to remain completely silent about the circumstances of the case. Explain to the residents that... a walker hanged herself, committed suicide, a common thing. If rumors about what happened spread across Moscow, each of you will fall under official investigation, and whoever is guilty of disclosing it will suffer severe punishment. Sorry, gentlemen, but th-those are the instructions I received, and there are reasons for that.

At a sign from the doctor, the policemen were about to take the stretcher that stood against the wall to place the corpse on it, but the collegiate adviser raised his hand:

- W-wait.

He crouched over the dead woman.

-What's that on her cheek?

Izhitsyn, stung by the reprimand, shrugged his narrow shoulders:

- Blood stain. Here, as you may have noticed, there is blood in abundance.

- But not on the face.

Erast Petrovich carefully rubbed the oval spot with his finger - a mark remained on the white glove. With extreme, as it seemed to Anisiy, excitement, the collegiate adviser (and for Tyulpanov simply “chief”) muttered:

-No cut, no bite.

The investigator watched the official’s manipulations with bewilderment, the expert Zakharov with interest.

Taking out a magnifying glass from his pocket, Fandorin clung to the very face of the victim, peered and gasped:

- Lip trace! Lord, this is a trace of a kiss! There can be no doubt!

- Why kill yourself like that? – Leonty Andreevich sarcastically. “There are worse marks here.” – He shook the toe of his boot towards the open chest and the gaping pit of the abdomen. “You never know what might pop into a crazy person’s head.”

“Oh, how bad,” muttered the college adviser, not addressing anyone.

With a quick movement, he tore off the soiled glove and threw it aside. He straightened up, closed his eyes, and very quietly:

- God, will this really start in Moscow...

* * *

What a piece of work is man! how noble in reason! how infinite in faculty! in form and moving how express and admirable! in action how like an angel! in apprehension how like a god! the beauty of the world! the specimen of animals! And yet, to me, what is this quintessence of dust!1
What a creature man is! How noble of mind! How limitless in talents! How expressive and marvelous in form and movement! In deeds how similar to an angel, and in understanding to the Almighty! The beauty of creation! The highest example of all living things! And yet, what do I care about this quintessence of dust? (English)

Let it go. Let the Prince of Denmark, an idle and blaséd creature, not care about a person, but I do! The bard is half right: there is little angelic in human deeds, and it is blasphemy to liken the understanding of man to God, but there is nothing more beautiful than man in the world. What are deeds and understanding - deception, chimera, vanity, truly the quintessence of dust. A person is not a business, but a Body. Even plants that caress the eye, the most lush and intricate of flowers, cannot be compared with the magnificent structure of the human body. Flowers are primitive and simple, the same inside and outside: turn the petal this way, turn it that way. Looking at flowers is boring. Where are their greedy stems, wretchedly geometric inflorescences and pitiful stamens, to the purple of elastic muscles, the elasticity of silky skin, the silvery mother-of-pearl of the stomach, the graceful twists of the intestines and the mysterious asymmetry of the liver!

Can the monotony of the color of a blooming poppy compare with the variety of shades of human blood - from the piercing scarlet arterial flow to the royal venous porphyry? Where is the vulgar blue of the bell to the soft blue pattern of the capillaries or the autumn coloring of the maple to the crimson of monthly flows! The female body is more refined and a hundred times more interesting than the male. Function female body– not rough labor and destruction, but creation and nurturing. The elastic uterus is like a precious pearl shell. Idea! It will be necessary to somehow open the fertilized womb in order to find a ripening pearl inside the pearl oyster - yes, yes, of course! Tomorrow!

I had to fast for too long, from Maslenitsa itself. My lips dried up, repeating: “Revive my accursed heart with a passionate fast!” The Lord is kind and merciful, He will not be angry with me for not having the strength to endure six days until the Holy Resurrection. After all, April 3 is not just a day, it is the anniversary of the Illumination. Then it was also April 3. It doesn’t matter if it’s a different style. The main thing is the sound, the music of the words: third ap-re-la.

I have my own fast, my own Easter. Just breaking the fast, breaking the fast. No, I won't wait until tomorrow. Today! Yes, yes, have a feast. Not to be satisfied, but to be satiated. Not for your own sake - for the glory of God.

After all, it was He who opened my eyes and taught me to see and understand true beauty. Moreover, reveal it and show it to the world. And revealing it is the same as creating it. I am the Creator's apprentice.

How sweet it is to break your fast after a long period of abstinence. I remember every sweet moment, I know that my memory will preserve everything down to the smallest detail, without losing any of the visual, taste, tactile, auditory and olfactory sensations.

I close my eyes and see.

Late evening. I can not sleep. Excitement and delight lead me along dirty streets, through vacant lots, between crooked houses and rickety fences. I haven't slept for many nights in a row. Presses the chest, squeezes the temples. During the day I forget myself for half an hour, an hour and wake up from terrible visions that I don’t remember in reality.

I walk and dream of death, of meeting Him, but I know: I can’t die, it’s too early, my mission is not fulfilled.

A voice from the darkness: “Pardon me for half a glass.” Rattling, soaked. I turn around and see the most vile and ugliest of human beings: a degraded whore - drunk, ragged, but at the same time grotesquely painted with whitewash and lipstick.

I turn away in disgust, but suddenly a familiar sharp pity pierces my heart. Poor creature, what have you done to yourself! And this is a woman, a masterpiece of God's art! So abuse yourself, desecrate and vulgarize the gift of God, so humiliate your precious reproductive system!

Of course it's not your fault. A soulless, cruel society has thrown you into the mud. But I will clean you up and save you. My soul is light and joyful.

Who knew it would turn out like this. I had no intention of breaking my fast - otherwise my path would have lay not through these miserable slums, but through the fetid back streets of Khitrovka or Grachevka, where filth and vice nest. But generosity and generosity overwhelm me, only slightly colored by impatient thirst.

“I’ll make you happy now, honey,” I say. “Come with me.”

I'm in a man's dress, and the witch thinks that there is a buyer for her rotten goods. She laughs hoarsely and shrugs: “Where are we going? Hey, do you have any money? At least feed him, or better yet, bring him.” Poor, lost sheep.

I lead her with me through the dark yard, towards the barns. I impatiently try one door, then another, the third is unlocked.

The lucky woman breathes moonshine fumes down my neck and giggles: “Look, he’s leading me to the barn. Look, I'm impatient."

A swing of the scalpel, and I open the doors of freedom to her soul.

Liberation does not come without pain, it is like childbirth. The one I now love with all my heart is in great pain, she wheezes and chews on the gag, and I stroke her head and console her: “Be patient.” The hands do their job quickly and cleanly. I don't need light, my eyes see no worse at night than during the day.

I reveal the desecrated, dirty shell of my body, the soul of my beloved sister soars upward, while I freeze in awe of the perfection of the divine mechanism.

When I bring the hot bun of my heart to my face with a gentle smile, it is still trembling, still beating like a caught goldfish, and I tenderly kiss the wonderful fish on the open lips of the aorta.

The place was chosen well, no one disturbs me, and this time the hymn to Beauty is sung to the end, completed with a kiss on the cheek. Sleep, sister, your life was disgusting and terrible, your appearance offended the eyes, but thanks to me you became beautiful.

Take the same flower. Its true beauty is not seen on the lawn or in the flower bed, oh no! A royal rose in a bodice, a carnation in a buttonhole, a violet in a charming woman’s hair. The triumph of a flower comes when it is already cut; its real life is inseparable from death. It's the same with the human body. While it lives, it is not given the opportunity to reveal itself in all the splendor of its delightful structure. I help the body to reign. I'm a gardener.

Although no, the gardener only cuts flowers, and I also create a panel, a majestic decoration, from bodily organs of intoxicating beauty. In England, a previously unprecedented profession is coming into fashion - decorator, a specialist in decorating a home, shop window, or festive street.

I'm not a gardener, I'm a decorator.

Further we go, worse it becomes

April 4, Holy Tuesday, noon

At an emergency meeting with the Moscow Governor-General, Prince Vladimir Andreevich Dolgoruky, the following were present:

Chief of Police Major General of His Imperial Majesty's retinue Yurovsky;

Prosecutor of the Moscow Judicial Chamber, Acting State Councilor, Chamberlain Kozlyatnikov;

Chief of the Detective Police, State Councilor Eichmann;

official of special assignments under the Governor General, collegiate adviser Fandorin;

Investigator for the most important cases under the prosecutor of the Moscow Court Chamber, court adviser Izhitsyn.

“The weather, what a bastard the weather is,” Vladimir Andreevich opened the secret meeting with these words. - This is disgusting, gentlemen. Cloudy, windy, slushy, muddy, and worst of all, the Moscow River overflowed more than usual. I went to Zamoskvorechye - a nightmare and horror. The water rose three and a half fathoms! Everything was flooded right up to Pyatnitskaya. And there is chaos on the left bank. You can't drive along Neglinnoe. Oh, let's disgrace ourselves, gentlemen. Dolgoruky will disgrace himself in his old age!

Everyone present sighed with concern, only the investigator for the most important cases showed some amazement on his face, and the prince, who was distinguished by rare powers of observation, considered it possible to explain:

– I see that you, young man... uh... it seems, Glagolev? No, Bukin.

“Izhitsyn, your Excellency,” the prosecutor prompted, but not loudly enough—at the seventy-ninth year of his life, the Moscow Viceroy (they called the all-powerful Vladimir Andreevich and so) became hard of hearing.

“Sorry, old man,” the governor good-naturedly spread his hands. - So, Mr. Pyzhitsyn, I see that you are in the dark... Probably, you are not entitled to your position. But since the meeting... So, - the prince’s long face with a drooping chestnut mustache acquired solemnity, - on the bright Easter of Christ, the first throne will be blessed with his arrival imperial majesty. They will arrive without pomp, without ceremony - to bow to the Moscow shrines. It was ordered not to notify Muscovites in advance, because the visit was planned as if impromptu. 2
improvised (French).

Which, however, does not relieve us of responsibility for the level of the meeting and the general condition of the city. For example, gentlemen, I am receiving a message this morning from the Most Reverend Ioannikios, Metropolitan of Moscow. The bishop complains and writes that in the confectionery stores before Holy Easter there is a uniform disgrace: the windows and counters are completely lined with candy boxes and bonbonnieres depicting the Last Supper, the Way of the Cross, Golgotha ​​and the like. This is blasphemy, gentlemen! “If you please, my dear sir,” the prince turned to the chief police chief, “today issue an order to the police so that such indecencies are strictly suppressed. Destroy the boxes and transfer the contents to the Orphanage. Let the orphans feast on the holiday. And also fine the shopkeepers so that they don’t let me down at the monastery before the royal arrival!

The Governor-General excitedly straightened his curly wig, which had slightly slid to one side, and wanted to say something else, but coughed.

The inconspicuous door leading to the inner chambers immediately opened, and from there, silently stepping with half-bent legs in felt boots, rolled out a thin old man with a dazzlingly shining bald skull and enormous sideburns - His Excellency’s personal valet Frol Grigorievich Vedishchev. This sudden phenomenon surprised no one. All those present considered it necessary to greet the newcomer with a bow or at least a nod, for Frol Grigorievich, despite his modest position, was revered in ancient city especially influential and, in a sense, even omnipotent.

Vedishchev quickly dripped some kind of mixture from the bottle into a silver glass, gave the prince a drink and just as quickly disappeared in the opposite direction, without looking at anyone.

“Shpashibo, Frol, shpashibo, darling,” the Governor-General mumbled after his confidant, moved his chin so that his jaws would fall into place, and continued without any lisp. – So let Erast Petrovich deign to explain what caused the urgency of this meeting. You, my soul, know very well that every minute counts for me these days. Well, what happened to you there? Have you made sure that rumors about this dirty trick with dismemberment do not spread among ordinary people? This was just what was missing on the eve of the royal arrival...

Erast Petrovich stood up, and the eyes of the highest guardians of Moscow law and order turned to the pale, decisive face of the collegiate adviser.

“Measures have been taken to preserve t-secrets, your Excellency,” Fandorin began to report. “Everyone who was involved in the inspection of the crime scene was warned of responsibility, and a non-disclosure signature was taken from them. The janitor who discovered the body, as a person prone to drinking immoderately and not vouching for himself, was temporarily placed in a special cell of the Gendarmerie Department.

It’s not for nothing that these two stories are combined into one collection “ Special assignments“As similar as they are, the tone of each work is different in color scheme.

“Jack of Spades” is a white story, uncomplicated, simple, bright. Here you sympathize equally with both the criminal and his opponents.

“The Decorator” is a black story, gloomy, haunting, gothic. The criminal sows fear and doubt in the hearts of the characters; even Fandorin at some point begins to suspect that the criminal is a person close to him.

The similarity of the stories is that according to the law it is almost impossible to punish the criminals Momus and Decorator, and when punishing according to the mind, you must sacrifice your principles and conscience and pay a huge price for it.

Rating: 9

A very good detective collection. The plot of the two stories included in the collection are as different from each other as heaven and earth. The first is about adventurers, and the second is about Jack the Ripper.

The second story is really not for the faint of heart, but a story about a maniac cannot help but be bloodthirsty.

Rating: 9

An excellent detective collection. I liked “The Decorator” less - it had a very dark atmosphere and too much dismemberment. But the plot is fascinating, until the end of the story it is not clear who the killer is.

And “Jack of Spades” is an easy and enjoyable read. Confrontation between Fandorin and Momus. But not bloody and filled with hatred - no. The heroes seem to be playing with each other, trying to leave the enemy in the cold. And Momus is somewhat reminiscent of Ostap Bender - a “noble swindler” who robs the rich; you empathize with him when he gets into trouble. High-quality, good detectives.

Rating: 6

Very entertaining stories that are very interconnected. Of course, at first glance it might seem, what is the connection between a monstrous maniac and a sophisticated swindler? But the connection is manifested in many ways: each of the criminals thinks that he is providing invaluable assistance to society, everyone thinks that he is elusive, everyone wants fame, everyone wants to commit their crimes beautifully, etc.

Beautiful stories filled with dynamic events, which is typical for many of Akunin’s works. If in the first story all events happen easily and naturally, then in the second Fandorin faces enormous problems.

In separate ratings, I gave both works a nine and a 9, respectively.

Rating: 9

I read “Special Instructions” back in 2001, but unlike the rest of Akunin’s books published at that time, very little remains in my memory from this collection - the reception on Sparrow Hills, Princess Sofiko Chkhartishvili, and the Moscow maniac who suddenly turned out to be Jack the Ripper. I have a similar story throughout Fandorian only with the book “The Whole World is a Theater”; I also remember practically nothing from it. Even from the generally unsuccessful "Planet of Water" there was a clear understanding of the plot. And now, re-reading “Special Assignments,” I can say what the problem is. They are painfully similar to something I read somewhere before, only with Fandorin. Moreover, Fandorin is shown through the eyes of Tyulpanov, and behind this filter of adoration and gratitude it is impossible to feel a living person.

I, of course, understand that by “special assignments” you can mean anything, but the situation seems too fantastic when Fandorin alone, with little help from Anisiya, solves all Moscow problems from catching a maniac to fooling a swindler.

Rating: 8

The book is divided into 2 stories “Jack of Spades” and “Decorator”. Despite the mad love for Erast Petrovich and his adventures, this book turned out to be very mediocre. It feels like these stories are collected from scraps of old novels - here are the previously mentioned villains, and the already tired tricks of Fandorin himself. From a historical detective story, the book turns into a fantasy one when suddenly... Jack the Ripper from London appears on the scene, and there Sherlock Holmes is just a stone's throw away. Boris Akunin's ambitions to become Conan Doyle were outlined from the very first book, but now they simply hit the eyes with open imitation (Fandorin gets his own "Watson").

And if the first story “Jack” was still going well, then “Decorator” is an absolute failure. In the first Jack is an attempt to collect Ostap Bender and work in the picaresque genre, then the second with the “Ripper” is a clear overkill

The work “Special Assignments: Decorator” by Boris Akunin is one of his masterpieces that tells the story of the adventures of Erast Fandorin. This is the sixth book in the series, and the second in the Special Assignments collection.

Everyone knows the story of Jack the Ripper, a maniac who killed women in London at the end of the 19th century. The only thing they had in common was that they were prostitutes. The maniac was so confident of his impunity that he sent the investigator parts of the bodies of the women he had killed. The murders stopped as suddenly as they began, the perpetrator was never found, and his identity still remains a mystery.

The writer takes us to the period of the late 19th and early 20th centuries. A terrible series of murders of young women is taking place in Moscow. At the same time, no traces of sexual violence were found, however, the criminal extracts everything internal organs dead, creating a so-called decoration out of them. The criminal also leaves his mark on the face and neck of each victim, just like Jack the Ripper. The police cannot trace the criminal. A true master of his craft, Erast Fandorin, gets down to business. Together with his assistants, he must solve this case and find the maniac.

It is noteworthy that the events are described not from one side - the side of the detectives, but also from the other - from the side of the maniac. He keeps a diary in which he describes what motivates him, his emotions and feelings that he experiences during and after the murder. This plunges into the terrible psychological trauma of the individual, the reader has the opportunity to observe what is happening in the damaged human consciousness.

Boris Akunin is a talented writer. His works are always captivating; the author manages to weave real life into the plots of his books in an incredibly fascinating way. historical events, which makes his books even more interesting. Extraordinary heroes, their amazing adventures, dangers, unexpected plot twists will not let you calm down until you read the book to the end.

On our website you can download the book “Special Assignments: Decorator” by Boris Akunin for free and without registration in fb2, rtf, epub, pdf, txt format, read the book online or buy the book in the online store.

BAD START
April 4, Great Tuesday, morning Erast Petrovich Fandorin, an official of special assignments under the Moscow Governor-General, a 6th class person, holder of Russian and foreign orders, was turning inside out.
The thin, blue-pale face of the collegiate adviser was contorted in pain, one hand in a white kid glove with silver buttons was pressed to his chest, the other was convulsively cutting through the air - with this unconvincing gesture, Erast Petrovich wanted to reassure his assistant: nothing, they say, nonsense, will pass now. However, judging by the duration and painfulness of the spasms, this was not even nonsense.
Fandorin’s assistant, provincial secretary Anisiy Pitirimovich Tyulpanov, a skinny, homely young man of 23 years old, had never seen the boss in such a pitiful state. Tulipov himself, however, was somewhat green-faced, but he resisted the temptation to vomit and was now secretly proud of it. However, the unworthy feeling was fleeting and therefore not worthy of attention, but the unexpected sensitivity of the adored boss, always so cold-blooded and not disposed to sentimentality, alarmed Anisy seriously.
“W-wait...,” Erast Petrovich squeezed out, wincing and wiping his purple lips with a glove. The usual slight stutter, the memory of a long-standing concussion, noticeably intensified due to nervous breakdown. - Th-go there... Let the p-protocol be d-detailed... Photographic s-pictures from all angles. And the traces so as not to be... trampled...
He was bent over again, but this time the outstretched hand did not waver - the finger inexorably pointed to the crooked door of the plank shed, from where a few minutes earlier the collegiate adviser had emerged all pale, on weak legs.
Anisiy did not want to go back into the gray twilight, where there was a viscous smell of blood and offal. But service is service.
I took in more of the damp April air into my chest (oh, it wouldn’t make me feel sick), crossed myself and - it was as if I was headed into a pool.
In the shack, which was used for storing firewood, and now, due to the imminent end of the cold weather, was almost empty, a fair number of people had gathered: an investigator, agents from the detective department, a private bailiff, a quarterly supervisor, a forensic doctor, a photographer, policemen, and also the janitor Klimuk, who discovered the scene of the monstrous crime. - in the morning he poked his head in to get some firewood, saw it, yelled as much as he was supposed to, and ran after the police.
Two oil lanterns were burning, and slow shadows swayed across the low ceiling. It was quiet, only in the corner a young policeman was sobbing subtly and sniffling.
- Well, sir, what do we have? - forensic expert Yegor Villemovich Zakharov purred with curiosity, picking up something spongy, blue-purple from the floor with his hand in a rubber glove. - No spleen. Here she is, darling. Excellent, sir. In a bag of it, in a bag. Another womb, a left kidney, and there will be a complete set, not counting all the little things... What do you have, Monsieur Tulipov, under your boot? Not the mesentery?
Anisiy looked down, shied away in horror and almost tripped over the prone body of Andreichkina’s girl, Stepanida Ivanovna, 39 years old. This information, as well as the definition of the deceased’s craft, was gleaned from a yellow ticket that lay neatly on the ripped open chest. Nothing more neat was observed in the posthumous appearance of the maiden Andreichkina.
Her face, presumably, which was invisible in life, became nightmarish in death: bluish, stained with sticky powder, her eyes bulged out of their sockets, her mouth froze in a silent scream. It was even scarier to watch below. Someone striped the poor body of the walking woman length and breadth, took out all the stuffing from it and laid it out on the ground in a bizarre pattern. True, Yegor Villemovich has already managed to collect almost the entire exhibition and put it into numbered packages. All that remained was a black spot of freely spread blood, and small shreds of either a mangled or torn dress.
Leonty Andreevich Izhitsyn, an investigator for the most important cases under the district prosecutor, squatted down next to the doctor and asked in a businesslike manner:
- Traces of intercourse?
- I’ll outline this for you, dear, later. I’ll draw up a report and display everything as it is. Here, you see for yourself, the darkness is Egyptian and the groan is pitch-black.
Like any foreigner who has mastered the Russian language perfectly, Yegor Villemovich loved to insert various tricky phrases into his speech. Despite the quite ordinary surname, there was an expert of British blood. In the kingdom of the late sovereign, the doctor’s father, also a doctor, came to Russia, took root, and adapted the surname Zekarayes, difficult for the Russian ear, to local conditions - Yegor Villemovich himself told along the way how they rode in a carriage. It’s clear from him that he’s not his brother, a hare: lanky, thick-haired, sandy hair, a wide, lipless, mobile mouth, constantly moving a crappy hemp pipe from corner to corner.
Investigator Izhitsyn with ostentatious interest, clearly showing off, looked at how the expert twirled another lump of torn flesh in his tenacious fingers and sarcastically asked:
- What, Mr. Tyulpanov, is your boss still breathing air? And I said, they would have managed just fine without the governor’s supervision. The picture is not for sophisticated eyes, but we are people who are accustomed to everything.
It’s clear that Leonty Andreevich is dissatisfied and jealous. It's no joke - Fandorin himself was assigned to oversee the investigation. What kind of investigator would like this?
- What are you talking about, Linkov, like a girl! - Izhitsyn growled at the sobbing policeman. - Get used to it. You are not for “special assignments”, therefore, you will still see enough of everyone.
“God forbid that we get used to this,” muttered senior policeman Pribludko, an old and experienced campaigner, known to Anisius in a third-year case, in a low voice.
This was not the first time I had to work together with Leonty Andreevich. An unpleasant gentleman - twitchy all over, chuckles incessantly, and his eyes are prickly. He’s dressed to the nines, the collars look like they’re made of alabaster, the cuffs are even whiter, he keeps snapping his shoulders and knocking off specks. He is ambitious and has a great career. Only at last Epiphany he had a hitch with the investigation into the spirituality of the merchant Sitnikov. The case was noisy, partly even affecting the interests of influential persons and therefore could not tolerate delays, so His Excellency Prince Dolgoruky asked Erast Petrovich to help the prosecutor’s office. And from the boss it is known which assistant - he took it and unraveled the whole matter in one day. No wonder Izhitsyn is furious. He has a presentiment that he will again be left without laurels.
“That seems to be it,” the investigator announced. - So, so. The body is in the police morgue, on Bozhedomka. Seal the barn and place a policeman. Agents should interview all surrounding residents, and be stricter. Have you heard or seen anything suspicious? You, Klimuk, came for firewood for the last time at the eleventh hour, right? - Leonty Andreevich asked the janitor. - And death occurred no later than two in the morning? (This is for expert Zakharov). Therefore, you should be interested in the interval from the beginning of the eleventh hour to two in the morning. - And again to Klimuk. - Maybe you’ve already talked to someone here? What didn't they tell you?
The janitor (piebald beard with a broom, bushy eyebrows, knobby skull, height two arshins four inches, a special feature - a wart in the middle of the forehead, Anisiy was practicing drawing up a verbal portrait) stood, crumpling his already impossibly crumpled cap.
- No, your honor. There's something we don't understand. He propped the barn door open and ran to Mr. Pribludko. And they didn’t let me leave the neighborhood until the bosses arrived. The inhabitants, they don’t even know anything. That is, of course, they see that the police have come in large numbers... That the police gentlemen have deigned to arrive. But the residents don’t know about this passion (the janitor glanced fearfully at the corpse).
“That’s what we’ll check,” Izhitsyn grinned. - So the agents are off to work. And you, Mr. Zakharov, take away your treasures. And so that by noon there will be a full conclusion, in full form.
“Gentlemen agents, please stay where you are,” Erast Petrovich’s quiet voice came from behind. Everyone turned around.
How did the college adviser come in, when? And the door didn’t creak. Even in the twilight it was clear that the boss was pale and upset, but his voice was even and his manner of speaking was always the same - restrained, polite, but in such a way that you wouldn’t want to object.
“Mr. Izhitsyn, even the janitor understood that there was no need to talk about the incident,” Erast Petrovich said dryly to the investigator. - Actually, that’s why I was sent, to ensure the strictest secrecy. No polls. Moreover, I ask and even oblige everyone present to remain completely silent about the circumstances of the case. Explain to the residents that... a walker hanged herself, committed suicide, a common thing. If rumors about what happened spread across Moscow, each of you will fall under official investigation, and whoever is guilty of disclosing it will suffer severe punishment. Sorry, gentlemen, but th-those are the instructions I received, and there are reasons for that.
At a sign from the doctor, the policemen were about to take the stretcher that stood against the wall to place the corpse on it, but the collegiate adviser raised his hand:
- W-wait.
He crouched over the dead woman.
-What's that on her cheek?
Izhitsyn, stung by the reprimand, shrugged his narrow shoulders:
- Blood stain. Here, as you may have noticed, there is blood in abundance.
- But not on the face.
Erast Petrovich carefully rubbed the oval spot with his finger - a mark remained on the white glove. With extreme, as it seemed to Anisiy, excitement, the collegiate adviser (and for Tyulpanov simply “chief”) muttered:
- No cut, no bite.
The investigator watched the official’s manipulations with bewilderment, the expert Zakharov with interest.
Taking out a magnifying glass from his pocket, Fandorin clung to the very face of the victim, peered and gasped:
- Lip trace! Lord, this is a trace of a kiss! There can be no doubt!
- Why kill yourself like that? - Leonty Andreevich sarcastically. - There are worse marks here. - He shook the toe of his boot towards the open chest and the gaping pit of the abdomen. - You never know what will come into a crazy person’s head.
“Oh, how bad,” muttered the college adviser, not addressing anyone.
With a quick movement, he tore off the soiled glove and threw it aside. He straightened up, closed his eyes, and very quietly:
- God, will this really start in Moscow...
* * *What a piece of work is man! how noble in reason! how infinite in faculty! in form and moving how express and admirable! in action how like an angel! in apprehension how like a god! the beauty of the world! the specimen of animals! And yet, to me, what is this quintessence of dust! Let it go. Let the Prince of Denmark, an idle and blaséd creature, not care about a person, but I do! The bard is half right: there is little angelic in human deeds, and it is blasphemy to liken the understanding of man to God’s, but truly there is nothing more beautiful in the world than man. What are deeds and understanding - deception, chimera, vanity, truly the quintessence of dust. A person is not a business, but a Body. Even plants that caress the eye, the most lush and intricate of flowers, cannot be compared with the magnificent structure of the human body. Flowers are primitive and simple, the same inside and outside: turn the petal this way, turn it that way. Looking at flowers is boring. Where are their greedy stems, wretchedly geometric inflorescences and pitiful stamens, to the purple of elastic muscles, the elasticity of silky skin, the silvery mother-of-pearl of the stomach, the graceful twists of the intestines and the mysterious asymmetry of the liver!
Can the monotony of the color of a blooming poppy compare with the variety of shades of human blood - from the piercing scarlet arterial flow to the royal venous porphyry? Where is the vulgar blue of the bell to the soft blue pattern of the capillaries or the autumn coloring of the maple to the crimson of monthly flows! The female body is more refined and a hundred times more interesting than the male body. The function of the female body is not rough labor and destruction, but creation and nurturing. The elastic uterus is like a precious pearl shell. Idea! It will be necessary to somehow open the fertilized womb in order to find a ripening pearl inside the pearl oyster - yes, yes, of course! Tomorrow!
I had to fast for too long, from Maslenitsa itself. My lips dried up, repeating: “Revive my accursed heart with a passionate fast!” The Lord is kind and merciful, He will not be angry with me for not having the strength to endure six days until the Holy Resurrection. After all, April 3 is not just a day, it is the anniversary of the Illumination. Then it was also April 3. It doesn't matter if it's a different style. The main thing is the sound, the music of the words: third ap-re-la.
I have my own fast, my own Easter. Just breaking the fast, breaking the fast. No, I won't wait until tomorrow. Today! Yes, yes, have a feast. Not to be satisfied, but to be satiated. Not for your own sake - for the glory of God.
After all, it was He who opened my eyes and taught me to see and understand true beauty. Moreover, reveal it and show it to the world. And revealing it is the same as creating it. I am the Creator's apprentice.
How sweet it is to break your fast after a long period of abstinence. I remember every sweet moment, I know that my memory will preserve everything down to the smallest detail, without losing any of the visual, taste, tactile, auditory and olfactory sensations.
I close my eyes and see.
Late evening. I can not sleep. Excitement and delight lead me along dirty streets, through vacant lots, between crooked houses and rickety fences. I haven't slept for many nights in a row. Presses the chest, squeezes the temples. During the day I forget myself for half an hour, an hour, and wake up from terrible visions that I don’t remember in reality.
I walk and dream of death, of meeting Him, but I know: I can’t die, it’s too early, my mission is not fulfilled.
A voice from the darkness: “Pardon me for half a glass.” Rattling, soaked. I turn around and see the most vile and ugliest of human beings: a degraded whore - drunk, ragged, but at the same time grotesquely painted with whitewash and lipstick.
I turn away in disgust, but suddenly a familiar sharp pity pierces my heart. Poor creature, what have you done to yourself! And this is a woman, a masterpiece of God's art! So abuse yourself, desecrate and vulgarize the gift of God, so humiliate your precious reproductive system!
Of course it's not your fault. A soulless, cruel society has thrown you into the mud. But I will clean you up and save you. My soul is light and joyful.
Who knew it would turn out like this. I had no intention of breaking my fast - otherwise my path would have lay not through these miserable slums, but through the fetid back streets of Khitrovka or Grachevka, where filth and vice nest. But generosity and generosity overwhelm me, only slightly colored by impatient thirst.
“I’ll make you happy now, honey,” I say. “Come with me.”
I'm in a man's dress, and the witch thinks that there is a buyer for her rotten goods. She laughs hoarsely and shrugs: “Where are we going? Hey, do you have any money? At least feed him, or better yet, bring him.” Poor, lost sheep.
I lead her with me through the dark yard, towards the barns. I impatiently try one door, then another, the third is unlocked.
The lucky woman breathes moonshine fumes down my neck and giggles: “Look, he’s leading me to the barn. Look, I'm impatient."
A swing of the scalpel, and I open the doors of freedom to her soul.
Liberation does not come without pain, it is like childbirth. The one I now love with all my heart is in great pain, she wheezes and chews on the gag, and I stroke her head and console her: “Be patient.” The hands do their job quickly and cleanly. I don't need light, my eyes see no worse at night than during the day.
I reveal the desecrated, dirty shell of my body, the soul of my beloved sister soars upward, while I freeze in awe of the perfection of the divine mechanism.
When I bring the hot bun of my heart to my face with a gentle smile, it is still trembling, still beating like a caught goldfish, and I tenderly kiss the wonderful fish on the open lips of the aorta.
The place was chosen well, no one disturbs me, and this time the hymn to Beauty is sung to the end, completed with a kiss on the cheek. Sleep, sister, your life was disgusting and terrible, your appearance offended the eyes, but thanks to me you became beautiful.
Take the same flower. Its true beauty is not seen on the lawn or in the flower bed, oh no! A royal rose in a bodice, a carnation in a buttonhole, a violet in a charming woman’s hair. The triumph of a flower comes when it is already cut; its real life is inseparable from death. It's the same with the human body. While it lives, it is not given the opportunity to reveal itself in all the splendor of its delightful structure. I help the body to reign. I'm a gardener.
Although no, the gardener only cuts flowers, and I also create a panel, a majestic decoration, from bodily organs of intoxicating beauty. In England, a previously unprecedented profession is coming into fashion - decorator, a specialist in decorating a home, a shop window, or a festive street.
I'm not a gardener, I'm a decorator.

“Special Assignments” is the fifth book by Boris Akunin from the “The Adventures of Erast Fandorin” series. I wrote other four books earlier - , .

A little about the book I read:

The whole book is divided into 2 stories Jack of spades, Decorator.

Jack of spades

I’ll start with the first group, or maybe not a group, called “Jack of Spades” that began its activities in Moscow. They pull off daring scams and disappear from the crime scene without a trace. At the very beginning, the book tells a little about poor Anisy Tyulpanov, a poor and unhappy man with whom fate seemed to have dealt badly. But soon, under completely random circumstances, Tyulpanov will be very lucky, he will work with Fandorin. And so they sent Tyulpanov to Fandorin, famous in some circles throughout Moscow; Anisy respected him very much and considered it an honor to meet Erst in such close proximity. As I said earlier, under certain circumstances, Fandorin and Tyulpanov begin to work together. Their adventures began with the impudent organization “Knave of Spades” playing a good prank on several important people.

Fandorin and Tyulpanov play a good scene for the Jack of Spades, but he still eludes them. To be honest, I really liked this story. Here we meet two very talented people in the skill of dressing up, whom it is unlikely that anyone can beat. The Jack of Spades was known in special circles for the fact that he not only impudently robbed his victims, but also that he was artistic, unpredictable, and good at acting. This story ends quite well for the Jack of Spades and his beloved woman. And Fandorin, as always, remains alone. In general, read it if you haven't.

Decorator

Very terrible crimes are taking place in Moscow, and all this on the eve of the arrival of a great and very important man. Naturally, this case is entrusted to Fandorin, who, together with Tyulpanov, is approaching the mysterious Jack the Ripper step by step. The investigation of crimes is carried out in complete secrecy and without publicity. Many corpses are disfigured in the most brutal way, and a bloody kiss is left on each of them. During the course of the book, to be honest, the events twisted so much that I didn’t even imagine such an outcome at the end of the story, until the very end I had absolutely no idea who this Murderer was, who killed only poor and scary women, according to him, he made them more beautiful , but this is a bout of madness. But all the crimes, with all their frightening cruelty, are described enough so that they do not turn inside out, as Erast did, although the image of Fandorin, it seems to me, does not suggest that such a strong person can turn inside out. As always, Erast Petrovich is left in a purely male team.
The next book from Boris Akunin’s series about Fandorin is