Famfanoff walked slowly, hopefully down the narrow wooden stairway, determined to please Inspector Rostnikov whom he could not figure out. The man was shaped like a crate and had a face so common that one might easily forget it after being introduced if it weren't for the sad brown eyes and the mouth that looked as if it were just about to smile.
Inspector Rostnikov looked like a man who knew a tragic yet comic secret about you.
Buttoning his coat and pulling his hat down over his ears, the policeman made an agenda. First, to remind the Mirasnikov woman to get the visitors' food ready. Second, to pull together the copies of all the files on residents of Tumsk. This was easy since he had already done the job for Commissar Rutkin and had the files locked in the cabinet at the People's Hall of Justice. He would let Rostnikov think he had pulled them together quickly. The third task, the weight equipment, was relatively easy but puzzling. Did Rostnikov have some wild theory that Commissar Rutkin had been killed with a weight-lifting bar? Or did he think the killer was so powerful that he had to be someone who used such equipment? Famfanoff had glanced at the medical examiner's report that had come in from Noril'sk where they had taken the body. Nothing seemed to support any interest in weight equipment.
Famfanoff went out into the cold, deciding to get a drink from his own room in the house of Dimitri Galich where he stayed when he came to Tumsk. He could, at the same time if Galich were home, ask about the weights. He crossed the square hoping that Rostnikov was not insane or stupid. Famfanoff did not care if Commissar Rutkin's killer was found. He thought his bear theory perfectly acceptable and possibly even correct. He did care that Rostnikov not look bad. The inspector's promised letter might be his ticket out of the frozen exile. Yes, things were looking better and he definitely needed a drink to celebrate.
'Ah,' said Sokolov after smoothing out his mustache and reaching for a piece of coarse black bread, 'sometimes it is good to get away from the watchful eyes of Moscow and Kiev, isn't it?'
They ate at a wooden army mess table with no cloth.
There were four chairs, wood and so old that Rostnikov imagined himself collapsing to the floor.
'It is good to experience the magnificent diversity of the Soviet Socialist Republics,' replied Rostnikov without pausing in his consumption ofshchi,a thin cabbage soup containing a hint of potato.
'And,' added Sokolov, 'it is good to get back to our history, the simple food of our peasant past.' He pointed at the food on the table: bread; soup; a bowl of kasha; and golubtsy, cabbage rolls, two for each of them, probably stuffed with potatoes; a bottle of amber vodka and a bottle of spring water.
'Sbchi da kasha, Pischcha nasha: cabbage soup and gruel are our food,' said Rostnikov repeating the old Russian saying.
Karpo, Rostnikov noticed, drank his soup slowly, ate one piece of bread even more slowly and drank only one glass of mineral water while Rostnikov and Sokolov consumed every thing on the table including the two golubtsy which would have been Karpo's, but which he declined when Sokolov gestured to one of them with his fork when he had consumed his own share. Rostnikov had taken the other one.
'We will grow healthy on such fare if we stay here long enough,' said Sokolov sitting back to drink his vodka.
'No balance,' said Karpo still at his bread. 'The myth of health of the peasant was fostered by the landowners, the church and the aristocracy to ease their own consciences.'
'Lenin,' said Sokolov toasting Karpo.
'Engels,' said Rostnikov.
'Politics,' sighed Sokolov.
'Economics,' said Karpo.
'The same thing,' Sokolov came back pouring himself another vodka.
'We agree,' said Karpo.
And with that the old woman who had served the meal came in from the kitchen behind Karpo. She looked at the table, saw that there was nothing left to consume, and began to clean up. Rostnikov guessed the woman's age at eighty, perhaps more. She was small, thin, bent and wearing a heavy black dress. Her sparse gray hair was pinned to the top of her head and her wrinkled face held no expression, but her eyes were a deep blue.
'So, Comrade,' Sokolov said with a smile, protecting his glass and the vodka bottle from the old woman. 'How are you going to proceed?'
'Spasee'bo,' said Rostnikov to the old woman who nodded and then, to Sokolov, 'I will begin in the morning after I've read the files Sergeant Famfanoff has brought me. Inspector Karpo will conduct some of the interviews. I will conduct others.'
'And how long will this take?' asked Sokolov.
Rostnikov shrugged and refused the offer of a drink. He watched the old woman move slowly in her work and was sure she was listening.
'You are the wife of the janitor?' Rostnikov asked her as she made a second trip to the table to continue cleaning.
'Yes,' she said without pausing.
'I will want to see him,' he said.
The woman bit her lower lip, nodded and left the room.
'Is it cold in here?' Sokolov asked. 'I'm cold.'
No one answered.
They were all wearing sweaters. Rostnikov's was a solid brown with a gray line, knitted by Sarah. Sokolov's was a colorful creation with two reindeer facing each other on a field of white. Karpo's was plain, black and loose.
'Well,' Sokolov said when the old woman had finished clearing the table and the last of the vodka was gone, 'tomorrow we begin.'
'Tomorrow,' agreed Rostnikov shifting his aching leg.
And then silence. The silence lasted several minutes before Sokolov reminded Rostnikov to wake him in the morning and excused himself. Rostnikov and Karpo waited till they heard Sokolov walking about in his room above them.
'He did not ask to see the files,' Karpo observed.
'I'm sure he has his own copies, had them before we left Moscow,' said Rostnikov.
'Yes, but he should have asked to see them,' said Karpo. 'That was a mistake.'
Rostnikov shrugged. There were many possible reasons for Sokolov's failure to ask about the files. Perhaps he wanted to appear slightly naive. Perhaps he wanted to test Rostnikov, put a doubt in his mind about his observer. Perhaps he wanted to disassociate himself from the public investigation.
'We will not be able to avoid dealing with the death of the child,' Karpo went on.
'Ah, there's the rub,' said Rostnikov.
'The rub?'
'It's Shakespeare,' explained Rostnikov. 'We have been ordered to leave the investigation of the child's death to a Commissar who is supposedly coming after us. Yet Rutkin, whose death we are investigating, was himself investigating the Samsonov girl's death. It is not unlikely that the two are related.'
'It is very likely,' agreed Karpo, his eyes fixed on Rostnikov's face.
'Your arm seems to be fine,' said Rostnikov.
'It is almost normal,' said Karpo.
'You have something you wish to say, Emil?' Rostnikov said slowly, rising with one hand on the back of the chair and the other on the table.
'Nothing, Comrade Inspector,' said Karpo.
'Then tomorrow you begin with the sailors at the weather station,' said Rostnikov. 'Do'briy v'e'cber, good night.'
'Good night,' said Karpo.
When Inspector Rostnikov had made his way slowly up the stairs, Emil Karpo turned off the light, went to his room and spent the next two hours reading the files Porfiry Petrovich had given him. There was no doubt that this investigation was a test for Rostnikov. While he was searching for a killer, Sokolov would be searching for a mistake and Karpo would be expected to confirm any error the Procurator General's man observed. It would be a dangerous few days for Rostnikov.
In the back of the People's Hall of Justice and Solidarity was a room which had been designed as the chamber
