“Unless Nagorski was shot with his own weapon. In which case it could mean everything.” He slapped Kirov on the arm. “Time we paid Maximov a visit.”
MAXIMOV’S HOME WAS IN THE VILLAGE OF MYTISHCHI, NORTHEAST of the city. They found him at a garage across the street from the boardinghouse where he lived by himself in a room on the top floor. The caretaker at the building, a skeletally thin, angry-looking man in a blue boiler suit, aimed one stiletto finger at the garage. Then he held out his hand and said,
Pekkala dropped a coin into his palm.
The caretaker folded the coin into his fist and smiled. Men like these had a reputation for being the most enthusiastic informants in the city. It was a running joke that more people had been sent to Siberia for failing to tip caretakers on their birthdays than ever went away for crimes against the state.
“Maximov is here,” said the manager at the garage, a broad-faced man with thick black hair and a mustache gone yellowy-gray. “At least half of him is.”
“What do you mean?” asked Kirov.
“All we ever see of him is his legs. The rest of him is always under the hood of his car. Whenever he’s not on the job, you’ll find him working on that machine.”
The two investigators walked through the garage, whose floor was dingy black from years of spilled motor oil soaked into the concrete, and emerged into a graveyard of old motor parts, the husks of stripped-down cars, cracked tires driven bald, and the cobra-like hoods of transmissions ripped from their engine compartments.
At the far end, just as the manager had said, stood half of Maximov. He was naked to the waist and stooped over the engine of Nagorski’s car. The hood angled above him like the jaws of a huge animal, and Pekkala was reminded of stories he’d heard about crocodiles which opened their mouths to let little birds clean their teeth.
“Maximov,” said Pekkala.
At the mention of his name, Maximov spun around. He squinted into the bright light, but it was a moment before he recognized Pekkala. “Inspector,” he said. “What brings you here?”
“I have been thinking about something you said to me the other day.”
“It seems to me that I said many things,” replied Maximov, wiping an oily rag along the fuel relay hoses which curved like the arcs of seagull wings from the gray steel of the cylinder head.
“One thing in particular sticks in my mind. You said that you had not been able to defend Nagorski on the day he was killed, but I’m wondering if he might have been able to defend himself. Isn’t it true that Nagorski never went anywhere without a gun?”
“And where did you hear that, Pekkala?” Maximov worked the cloth in under his nails, digging out the dirt.
“From Professor Zalka.”
“Zalka! That troublemaker? Where did you dig that bastard up?”
“Did Nagorski carry a gun or not?” asked Pekkala. A coldness had entered his voice.
“Yes, he had a gun,” admitted Maximov. “Some German thing called a PPK.”
“What caliber weapon is that?” asked Pekkala.
“It’s a 7.62,” replied Maximov.
Kirov leaned over to Pekkala and whispered, “The cartridge we found in the pit was a 7.62.”
“What’s this all about?” asked Maximov.
“On the day I brought Nagorski in for questioning,” said Kirov, “he handed you a gun before he left the restaurant. Was that the PPK you just mentioned?”
“That’s right. He gave it to me for safekeeping. He was afraid it would be confiscated if you put him under arrest.”
“Where is that gun now?”
Maximov laughed and turned to face his interrogator. “Let me ask you this. That day in the restaurant, did you see what he was eating?”
“Yes,” replied Kirov. “What’s that got to do with anything?”
“And did you see what I was eating?”
“A salad, I think. A small salad.”
“Exactly!” Maximov’s voice had risen to a shout. “Twice a week, Nagorski went to Chicherin’s place for lunch and I had to sit there with him, because no one else would, not even his wife, and he didn’t like to eat alone. But he wouldn’t think to buy me lunch. I had to pay for it myself, and of course I can’t afford Chicherin’s prices. The cost of that one salad is more than I spend on all my food on an average day. And half the time Nagorski didn’t even pay for what he ate. Now do you think a man like that would hand over something as expensive as an imported German gun and not ask for it back the first chance that he got?”
“Answer the question,” said Pekkala. “Did you return Nagorski’s gun to him or not?”
“After you had finished questioning Nagorski, he called and ordered me to meet him outside the Lubyanka. And the first words he spoke when he got inside the car were, ‘Give me back my gun.’ And that’s exactly what I did.” Angrily, Maximov threw the dirty rag onto the engine. “I know what you’re asking me, Inspector. I know where your questions are going. It may be my fault Nagorski is dead, because I wasn’t there to help him when he needed me. If you want to arrest me for that, go ahead. But there’s something you two don’t seem to understand, which is that my responsibility was not just to Colonel Nagorski. It was to his wife and Konstantin as well. I tried to be a father to that boy when his own father was nowhere to be found, and no matter how poorly the colonel treated me, I would never have done anything to hurt him, because of what it would have done to the rest of his family.”
“All right, Maximov,” said Pekkala. “Let’s assume you gave him back the gun. Was Zalka correct when he said Nagorski never went anywhere without it?”
“As far as I know, that’s the truth,” answered Maximov. “Why are you asking me this?”
“The gun wasn’t on Nagorski’s body when we found him.”
“It might have fallen out of his pocket. It’s probably still lying in the mud.”
“The pit was searched,” said Kirov. “No gun was found.”
“Don’t you see?” Maximov reached up, hooked his fingers over the end of the car hood, and brought it down with a crash. “This is all Zalka’s doing! He’s just trying to stir things up. Even though the colonel is dead, Zalka’s still jealous of the man.”
“There was one other thing he told us, Maximov. He said you were once an assassin for the Tsar.”
“Zalka can go to hell,” growled Maximov.
“Is it true?”
“What if it is?” he snapped. “We’ve all done things we wouldn’t mind forgetting.”
“And Nagorski knew about this when he hired you to be his bodyguard?”
“Of course he did,” said Maximov. “That’s the reason he hired me. If you want to stop a man from killing you, the best thing to do is find a killer of your own.”
“And you have no idea where Nagorski’s gun could be now?” asked Pekkala.
Maximov grabbed his shirt, which was lying on top of an empty fuel drum. He pulled it over his head. His big hands struggled with the little mother-of-pearl buttons. “I have no idea, Inspector. Unless it’s in the pocket of the man who murdered Nagorski, you’ll probably find it at his house.”
“All right,” said Pekkala. “I’ll search the Nagorski residence later today. Until that gun turns up, Maximov, you are the last one known to have had it in his possession. You understand what that means?”
“I do,” replied the bodyguard. “It means that unless you find that gun, I’m probably going to end up taking the blame for a murder I did not commit.” He turned to Kirov. “That ought to make you happy, Major. You’ve been looking for an excuse to arrest me ever since the day Nagorski was killed. So why don’t you just go ahead?” He thrust out his arms, hands placed side by side, palms up, ready for the handcuffs. “Whatever happened, or didn’t happen, you’ll bend the truth to fit your version of events.”
Kirov stepped towards him, red in the face with anger. “You realize I could arrest you for what you just said?”
“Which proves my point!” shouted Maximov.
“Enough!” barked Pekkala. “Both of you! Just stay where we can find you, Maximov.”
