When he was gone, Rostnikov said, 'I know a lot about toilets.'
'Yes,' Katya said, a sad smile touching her mouth. 'You are the police.'
'No, I don't mean that metaphorically. I'm not talking about crime. I'm talking about toilets. I could never get the apparatus to fix my toilet, so I learned to do it myself, to fix it myself. I was determined. I borrowed tools, found people who knew people who knew people who could get me parts. I learned. I think I even know a place where you can get a toilet bowl. You want to learn to repair your own toilet, I'll let you borrow my books.'
Katya pulled her hand away slowly and folded both hands on her lap.
'I thought that was forbidden. That you could not repair your own plumbing. You're a policeman.'
'Fixing a toilet is a challenge,' Rostnikov said, sitting back to give her a bit more room. 'It is something that gives you a sense of triumph when you get it done in spite of what it takes to do it.'
'Maybe I'll borrow your books,' she said. 'Would you like some tea?'
'Tea would be nice,' Rostnikov said. He watched her stand up and move across the large room to the open kitchen. He turned in his chair to watch her.
'I'd like' he began, but was interrupted by the door's bursting open. An MVD officer in uniform leaped in, gun in hand, unsure of whether he should aim his weapon at the young woman who seemed to be making tea or at the older man sitting in the chair. He chose the man in the chair.
'Don't move!' the officer shouted.
'I'm Inspector Rostnikov.' Rostnikov sighed, glancing at Katya, who went on making the tea. 'And you are?'
'Vadim Malkoliovich Dunin,' said the young man, who appeared to Rostnikov to be no more man twelve years old.
'How old are you?'
'How? I am twenty-four,' the policeman answered.
'Vadim Malkoliovich, put away your gun and leave. Wait in the hall. Let no one in unless I allow it.'
'But I was told'
'A mistake. I have everything under control. Leave. And close the door behind you if it will close. How long have you been in uniform?'
The young officer looked confused as he bolstered his gun. 'Four months.'
'Advice,' said Rostnikov. 'Always knock. It often happens that the worst part of a domestic problem results from the attempts by people involved to get repairs done for the damage caused by the police who had come to help them.'
'I'm sorry, Comrade Inspector, but… If there is anything I can do?'
'Can you fix broken doors?'
'No, I don't think so.'
'Then learn to do so or stop breaking them.'
'Yes, Comrade Inspector,' the young man said, backing out. He closed the door behind him and it stayed reasonably closed.
Katya returned with the tea: a cup for Rostnikov, one for herself. She sat, gave him sugar. They said nothing for a few minutes as they drank and listened to the muffled sound of the toilet.
'I have been assigned to investigate the deaths of your partners,' he said, finishing his tea and placing the cup and saucer on a white cloth on a little table nearby. 'I was with Valerian Duznetzov when he died this morning.'
Katya looked up from her tea and bit her lower lip.
'You were, you were there when he fell?'
'He didn't fall, Katya. He jumped. It was suicide. He was drunk. I think he had been drinking a bit to get up his courage. But it was suicide.'
'Oleg didn't commit suicide,' she said evenly, looking into his eyes for the first time.
'It doesn't seem so,' Rostnikov agreed.
And he saw an awareness cross her face like a slap.
'You think, you think someone might have killed him?'
'My superior, Colonel Snitkonoy, thinks it is a curiosity, a coincidence, two performers in the same act falling to their death in the same morning.'
'It could be a terrible coincidence,' Katya said, putting down her cup and leaning forward urgently.
'Yes,' he said and considered telling the story of the policeman and the car thief.
'What would convince him that it wasn't just a coincidence?' she asked, as if there were an answer she wanted Rostnikov to give but she did not want to hear. Since the idea of something beyond accident had been introduced, Katya Rashkovskaya's pretty face had been touched by fear.
Rostnikov shrugged, puffed out his cheeks, and blew.
'If the third member of the same act died in the same day, is that what you were thinking?' she asked, searching his eyes for an answer.
Her eyes were a magnificent blue. Rostnikov did not really want to frighten her, but it was the fastest way to get information. He could comfort her later, let her borrow his plumbing books, provide her with protection.
'Duznetzov said some strange things before he died,' said Rostnikov. 'He talked of birds and people flying over walls, of men seeing thunder. He was afraid.'
'You said he was drunk,' Katya countered, clearly growing afraid herself.
'Drunk and afraid and brave. I liked him.'
'He could be very funny,' Katya said, folding her arms in front of her and turning her back to Rostnikov.
'Who would want to kill your friends?' he asked.
Her head went down, as did her voice.
'I don't know.'
But it was clear to Rostnikov that she did know, or thought she knew.
'You know,' he said.
She turned defiantly, ready to argue, her arms still folded closely to her breasts. But her defiance faded as she looked at Rostnikov.
'You think I might be…'
'Since I don't know what is happening, I don't know what might or might not happen to you.' He got up awkwardly, as he always did when he sat for more than a few minutes, but he managed not to wince in pain. 'I don't know what to do to protect you with certainty other than to locate and punish the person who might be responsible for what happened to your friends today.'
'But an accident, a suicide, there's no crime,' she said as he walked past her toward the door.
'There is a crime before these crimes, a crime sufficient to justify murder. Katya Rashkovskaya, I think you may be in danger. Do you remember my name?'
'Rostnikov,' she said. 'Inspector Rostnikov.'
'When you want to talk to me, call Petrovka thirty-eight or tell the officer who broke your door. He will stay with you for a few days and find a way to fix your door. Can he sleep in here somewhere?'
'I've two extra beds now,' she said. 'Thank you. Are you, are you really a policeman?'
'Yes,' he said.
'You don't talk like a policeman,' she said.
'Ah,' replied Rostnikov, 'the genre is not dictated by the expectation. Each individual within the genre defines it. I am a policeman and, therefore, I must now be incorporated into your concept of a policeman.'
'You don't talk like a policeman,' she repeated emphatically.
In the hall, Rostnikov found the young policeman, who snapped to attention.
'Vadim Malkoliovich Dunin,' he said, 'you are to remain with the young woman in this apartment until you are relieved. Find a phone on this floor, call in, and tell your commander that you have been placed on special assignment by me. Do you live nearby?'
'Well…' began Dunin.
'Is there someone who can bring you a toothbrush, a change of socks, shorts?'
'My father works at the Ail-Union Central Council of Trade Unions, which'
'Good, good. Have him bring you clothes in the morning. Pay Comrade Rashkovskaya for any food she gives
