tunneling madly past his head, Rostnikov was aware of the irony. The leg which he had dragged behind him for more than thirty-five years had finally repaid him by saving his life.
He knew now or sensed where the shots were coming from and before the third bullet was fired he was crouching behind the statue of Ermak. A small chunk of Ermak's hand shattered, sending small shards of stone over Rostnikov's head.
The fourth shot came from further right and Rostnikov looked around knowing that he would have to make a move if someone did not come out to help him quickly. There was no thought of running. Rostnikov could not run.
It was at that point that the door of the People's Hall of Justice and Solidarity banged open and Mirasnikov, the old man Rostnikov had been watching all day, came out, his boots not fully tied, his coat not buttoned, the fur hat on a mad angle atop his head. In his hand he held an old hunting rifle.
'Where?' the old man shouted at Rostnikov.
'Up there,' Rostnikov shouted back. 'On the slope. By the trees. But don't step out. He'll…'
The old man stepped out, looked up toward the slope, put the rifle to his shoulder and fired three times in rapid succession before the rifle on the hill responded.
Mirasnikov tumbled back from the shot that appeared to hit him in the chest.
It had been no more than ten seconds between the time the first shot was fired and Mirasnikov had tumbled back wounded. Other doors were opening now and Rostnikov thought he saw a movement on the slope. The killer was running.
Rostnikov rose and moved as quickly as he could toward the fallen old man. The light from the open door of the People's Hall of Justice made a yellow path on which Mirasnikov lay.
'Where?' Someone behind Rostnikov shouted as the inspector knelt by the fallen man.
'On the slope by the trees,' Rostnikov shouted back without looking. He had no hope or expectation that anyone would see the assailant. 'How are you, old man?' he asked Mirasnikov gently.
An expanding circle of red lay on the old man's jacket just below his right shoulder.
'Did I get him?' Mirasnikov asked.
'I don't think so, but I think you saved my life.'
'If I had my glasses, I would have gotten him.'
'I'm sure you would. You can't lie out here. I'll take you inside.'
'My glasses. My rifle,' Sergei Mirasnikov said.
'Your glasses are on your head and your rifle is safe,' said Rostnikov picking up the man easily as Karpo, wearing his coat but still bareheaded, came running to his side.
'Are you all right, Inspector?' he asked.
'I am fine,' he said. 'Get up to Dr. Samsonov's house. Bring him down here immediately.'
'Immediately,' Karpo said.
'One more thing, Emil,' he said and he whispered his order as Mirasnikov's wife came stumbling out the door of the Hall wailing.
The naval officer and two of his men were working their way down the slope toward them and lights were going on in the houses on the slope.
'Of course, Inspector,' Karpo said, and something that only Rostnikov would recognize as a smile touched the corners of Emil Karpo's face before he turned and hurried past the sailors coming toward him.
Rostnikov moved past the wailing woman with a strange feeling of elation. The killer had made a mistake, a terrible mistake in letting Rostnikov know that something had happened to frighten him, to make the killer think that Rostnikov knew something that required his death. He would go carefully over what he knew when he got back to his room. But that was not the only mistake the killer had made.
Given enough mistakes and a bit of luck, Rostnikov could possibly identify the killer quickly enough so that he could be back with Sarah in a few days.
'A bed,' Rostnikov said to the wailing woman who followed him as he looked around the hall.
'In there,' she said pointing to their room.
'Stop howling, woman,' Mirasnikov groaned from Rostnikov's arms.
'Howling,' she shouted following them. 'Howling, he says. I'm grieving.'
'I'm not dead yet,' Sergei mumbled, but only Rostnikov heard.
Five minutes later Samsonov, with the help of his wife, was working on the old man. Everyone else had been told to go home and Mirasnikov's wife had been banished to the meeting room.
Rostnikov stood carefully watching Lev and Ludmilla Samsonov while Karpo whispered to him. When Karpo was finished speaking, Rostnikov nodded.
'Our killer is very clever, Emil.'
'Yes, Inspector. Very clever. May I ask about your wife?'
'She needs an operation,' he said. 'If I were a religious man, I would say that with God's help we will be home in a few days.'
'But you are not a religious man,' said Karpo.
'There is no God, Emil Karpo. You know that.'
There were times when Karpo could not tell if Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov was making a joke. This was certainly one of those times.
'He's still in there,' said Zelach as Tkach came panting up the stairs taking them two or three at a time.
It was one of those 1950s concrete block buildings with no personality. This one was on Volgogradskij Prospekt and Volovkatin's apartment was on the fifth floor.
Zelach was standing on the fifth-floor stairway landing behind a thick metal door. The door was propped open just a crack with a piece of jagged wood.
'There,' Zelach said pointing through the crack at a door. 'You can see it.' The lumbering investigator with only minimal ability to think did have a skill, a skill which had resulted in his finding the man who had evaded them the previous day. Zelach was single-minded. If he was told to find Volovkatin, then he would doggedly pursue Volovkatin for years following false leads, even ridiculous leads and vague possibilities if no one gave him a direction in which to go. In this case, he could think of nothing but to go to the apartment and wait in the hope that the dealer in stolen goods would return.
The vague possibility of Volovkatin's return had prompted Zelach, who had been in the man's apartment, to leave everything as it was. He did not want Volovkatin to return to an empty apartment and run away. As Inspector Rostnikov had once said, the rat does not step into a trap without cheese. It was the kind of truism that Rostnikov often fed Zelach like a simple catechism. Rostnikov himself tended to discount such simplicities which, though they were often true, were just as often false. In this case, there was a magnificent supply of cheese.
If Volovkatin had not returned, Zelach would have continued his vigil during his free time till other assignments or a direct order forced him elsewhere. Luck had been with him this time as it had a surprising number of times in the past.
'Good,' said Tkach leaning over and clasping his knees to catch his breath. 'We'll do this right.'
'He's trying to be quiet in there,' said Zelach, 'but he is not being very successful.'
'We are not concerned with his success,' said Tkach straightening up, 'but with ours. Let's go.'
Tkach pushed the door open and stepped into the hall with Zelach right behind. Sasha stood to the right of the door and Zelach to the left. The procedure in this case was clear. They would continue to wait in the hope and expectation that Volovkatin would be leaving. He knew the police were after him and that coming to the apartment created some danger but the cheese had proved too tempting.
If Volovkatin did not leave within an hour, they would have to try the door and even knock. It would end the surprise and Volovkatin might be armed, might do something foolish. There was no other way out of the apartment but, knowing the severity of his crime and the likely punishment, the dealer in stolen goods might do something foolish, might dive through the window or decide to remain in the apartment till they broke down the door, in which case someone other than Volovkatin might be hurt. So the policemen stood against the wall on each side of the door and waited and listened and watched.
Five minutes later an old man staggered drunkenly through the stairway door singing something about rivers. The old man didn't see the two policemen at first. He was a stringy, gray creature with his cap tipped dangerously close to falling on the back of his head. A cigarette burned down close to the old man's lips as he concentrated on
