served as warder of the court, hovering warningly over those who might shout, giving stern looks to those who coughed or whispered.
Samsonov had protested, shouted, screamed, claimed that he was being railroaded to cover his daughter's murder. He had shouted that the western press would be incensed, that glasnost would be dealt a serious blow.
Rostnikov had sat there without the slightest hint of emotion, his eyes focused far off, though they occasionally scanned the faces in the hall and fell frequently on that of the killer.
When Rostnikov repeated that the primary evidence against Samsonov was the testimony of an Evenk shaman, Samsonov had to be restrained by Famfanoff who, surprisingly, found enough strength within his abused body to control the furious doctor.
The entire hearing had lasted no more than an hour. There were no speeches and very little evidence.
The hearing had closed with Rostnikov's announcement that he was holding Samsonov for removal to Moscow for possible prosecution, that Famfanoff would keep the doctor under guard in a spare room volunteered by the commanding officer of the weather station. He further announced that no phone calls would be permitted for the next twenty-four hours.
The situation was a disaster. The killer's mission would be ruined if Samsonov were brought to Moscow, tried and convicted or even refused the right to leave the country. The ultimate irony of the situation was that the killer knew Samsonov to be completely innocent of the crime.
Something had to be done and very quickly.
CHAPTER TWELVE
By the end of the day Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov would hear two confessions, watch someone die, conspire against the government and nearly meet his death for the second time since his arrival in Tumsk. At the moment, however, he stood over the bed of Sergei Mirasnikov who drank the dark liquid Kurmu had left for him.
Liana Mirasnikov held the cup in her shaking hands and the old man, who was already looking much better, complained constantly that she was trying to drown him.
'How are you feeling, Sergei Mirasnikov?' Rostnikov asked.
'Hungry,' gurgled the old man. 'Hungry and stiff in the arms.'
'Good signs,' said Rostnikov.
'Good signs,' repeated Mirasnikov sarcastically after another sip from the cup. 'If I died you would feel guilty the rest of your life because I got shot instead of you. So you feel relieved because it looks like I might live. Am I right or am I right?'
'You are right,' Rostnikov agreed.
That seemed to satisfy the old man who finished off the last of the drink and gave his wife an angry look as if the taste of the liquid were her doing. She shuffled away silently and Mirasnikov, who was no longer perspiring, looked up at the Inspector.
'I'm sick but I'm not deaf,' the old man said. 'I heard things that happened. I remember seeing Kurmu.'
'He didn't command a demon to kill Commissar Rutkin,' said Rostnikov.
'I know that,' said Mirasnikov irritably, and then he called to his wife, 'Food. I need food, old creature.' And then to Rostnikov again. 'And I know that Dr. Samsonov didn't kill him either. How do you like that?'
'I am aware of that too,' said Rostnikov.
'You are… All right. All right. Lean over here and I'll tell you something you didn't know. I'll tell you who your killer of Commissars is,' croaked Mirasnikov.
And so Inspector Rostnikov leaned forward, smelling the bitter warmth of the brew on Mirasnikov's breath, and listened to the old man's whispered information, information which did not surprise him in the least.
'So, what are you going to do?' Mirasnikov said when Rostnikov stood up. 'Go. Go make your arrest. End this. Get out of my town. It may be a frozen hell here in the long winter and a bog of insects in the short summer, but no one tries to kill me when you are not around.'
'We will be going soon,' said Rostnikov. 'Very soon.'
The old woman came hurrying back with two plates of food, small pieces of meat cooked soft, potatoes, beans.
'Well,' grumbled Mirasnikov. 'You might as well eat something before you go. Sit down.'
So Rostnikov sat and thought and ate. Immediately after the hearing, Ludmilla Samsonov, her eyes moist, holding back tears, had asked Rostnikov to please let her speak to him as soon as possible. Rostnikov had nodded his agreement uncomfortably knowing that the woman would probably plead for her husband.
The first confession of the day came when Rostnikov returned to his room an hour later after hearing Mirasnikov's accusation. Karpo was busily preparing reports in his room. Sokolov was off somewhere, probably, thought Rostnikov, trying to talk the naval officer into letting him use the phone.
Rostnikov wasn't surprised to find General Krasnikov standing at the window in full uniform, his coat neatly draped over his left arm.
'I've come to confess,' the general said.
'Please take a seat, General,' said Rostnikov who had left his coat, hat and boots inside the downstairs door. 'I'll sit on the bed.'
'I'd prefer to stand,' Krasnikov said.
'So I have noticed,' said Rostnikov sitting on the bed, feeling the twinge in his leg.
'I killed Commissar Rutkin,' the general said.
'Yes.'
'That is all. I killed him.'
'Would you tell me why you killed him?' Rostnikov asked reaching for the pillow and hugging it to his chest.
'He was an insulting, meddling bureaucrat,' said Krasnikov.
'If we were to murder all the insulting, meddling bureaucrats in the Soviet Union, we would have to issue new incentives for women to replenish the depleted population,' Rostnikov said.
'I killed him. This is a confession and I demand that you release Samsonov immediately,' the general insisted.
'Would you still confess if I said that we would confiscate all of your property immediately and search through Samsonov's possessions the moment you were arrested?' asked Rostnikov. 'Would you like some tea? Everyone in Tumsk has been filling me with tea for two days. I'd like the opportunity to return the favor.'
'No tea,' said Krasnikov. 'Arrest me. I demand, as a Soviet citizen, to be arrested for murder.'
'You did not kill Commissar Rutkin,' said Rostnikov, leaning over to scratch the bottoms of his feet through his thick wool socks. 'I know who killed Rutkin.'
Krasnikov paused, looked at the man on the bed scratching his feet and said, 'I don't believe you.'
Rostnikov shrugged.
'Nonetheless, I know, and the killer is not you.'
He stopped scratching, started rubbing, and went on.
'I admire your patriotism and conviction, however, Comrade General. To be willing to spend one's life in prison or possibly to be executed for one's beliefs is indeed admirable. One might guess, and mind you I am not doing so, that somewhere among the belongings of Lev or Ludmilla Samsonov is a manuscript, and that a military man who wrote that manuscript would do a great deal to get that manuscript carried to the West among the belongings of a notable dissident whose belongings are not likely to be searched carefully by a government wishing to let him leave as a sign of conciliation with the West. Does that not make sense?'
'Perhaps,' agreed Krasnikov.
'In what form would you guess this manuscript would appear? I know it does not exist but if it did?' Rostnikov asked leaning back against the wall.
Krasnikov looked out the window, bit his lower lip and paced the small room once, from the window to the
