meeting.”
Rostnikov got out. The door closed and the car drove off. Rostnikov was, once again, standing before the statue of Pushkin.
Emil Karpo stood looking at the panorama before him-the Kremlin in the distance across from the river, the tarnished onion-like balls atop the churches along the river, the streets jammed with cars. The day was overcast, threatening. There was also the ever-present haze of pollution that seemed to grow worse by the week.
What interested Karpo most about the view through the huge window, however, was the river. Getting the nude body of Valentin Lashkovich from the swimming pool behind Karpo to the river would have been a difficult task. Getting the body out of the hotel would have been more difficult. Yet Karpo was certain this was the place where the Mafia enforcer had been murdered.
His reasons for coming to the conclusion were simple.
Lashkovich lived in the hotel. That had been easily discovered.
Also, Lashkovich took postmidnight swims by himself almost every night. These things were not proof and Emil Karpo did not jump to conclusions. No, the evidence which a disinterested child could see was in the water itself. The water was slightly pink.
“Inspector,” came the voice of the day manager of the hotel who stood behind Emil Karpo, waiting for him to move or say something. The pale policeman in black had been standing at the window twelve floors above the street, hands at his sides, simply staring. Even at the sound of the manager’s voice. Karpo did not turn.
“Inspector,” the day manager, Carl Swartz repeated, “I have to get back to my office. We have almost one hundred Japanese businessmen staying with us, not to mention. .”
“Why didn’t you call the police?” Karpo asked, without turning to look at Swartz.
Swartz was Danish. His Russian was extremely good. He wore a sad, understanding smile that said to all that he understood their problems, sympathized with them, and would do what he could to help. His suits were light gray, his ties stylish but not flashy, and his sparse, faded-yellow hair was brushed straight back. Swartz was lean, tall, and always calm.
“When I was informed about the condition of the pool,”
Swartz said, “I came up and looked. Neither the pool-and-spa night manager nor the cleaning woman assigned here had the slightest idea why the pool looks like this. And I do not understand why you. .”
“You have called them both and told them to come here?”
Karpo asked.
“I had my assistant do so as soon as you requested their presence. I warn you. They have had little sleep. Both are on the night shift, five P.M. till one in the morning.”
Karpo said nothing. He watched a flat garbage boat slowly wind down the river. The two employees had probably gotten home around two in the morning. It was now almost nine. That was seven hours of sleep. Karpo never slept for more than five hours a night.
“You didn’t call the police,” Karpo said.
“I did not know what had happened,” said Swartz calmly. “I still do not. The day pool manager informed the desk of the problem.
The desk told me. I came up and looked. The water is pink. It could be anything. Mischief by a drunk. Who knows? If the police had bothered to come, what would they have seen, done?”
Karpo turned, his hands at his sides, to face the manager. Swartz could not keep from taking a step back, though he was already a dozen feet away from the policeman. The manager’s helpful sad smile did not flicker.
“Unless you have some reason why we should not drain the pool and clean it, I’d like to get my people started. We’re not letting any of the guests in yet, but. .”
“Did Lashkovich have his own locker?” asked Karpo.
“Lashkovich?”
Their eyes met. Karpo did not blink.
“The dead man,” said the police inspector when Swartz turned his eyes for an instant. “I believe you know who and what we are discussing. If you wish to discuss this elsewhere. .”
“No,” said the hotel manager. “That won’t be necessary. Let’s see. Lashkovich. Yes, I think he had a locker. I will ask the daytime-shift pool and spa manager.”
“Have him see me, and keep the guests out,” said Karpo. “Tell me when the night manager and the cleaning woman arrive.”
Karpo walked past Swartz, heading for the door marked Men’s Shower in Russian, English, German, and Japanese.
“If you need help. .” Swartz said, but Karpo was already through the door to the showers.
Swartz stood still waiting till the shower room door slowly closed. Only then did the helpful smile fade. He ran his open palm over his lips nervously and wondered what the hotel owners and the Mafia leaders would say or do when they discovered that Lashkovich had been murdered right in the hotel. He managed to restore his usual calm facade as the shower room door came open again.
“How many people are on your night staff?”
“Sixty-four to seventy-one, depending on various factors.”
“Another officer will return tonight to talk to them,” said Karpo.
“All of them?” asked Swartz.
“Yes,” said Karpo, disappearing into the shower room again.
This time Swartz moved quickly. He wanted to spend as little time as he could with this ghostly figure. He preferred to take his chances with his superiors and the Mafia leaders. Swartz moved through the door to the carpeted reception area where a short, muscular man in dark slacks and a white T-shirt looked at him from behind the reception desk.
“How many guests have you had to turn away?”
“Fourteen.”
Swartz nodded as if filing the information for appropriate future action. The short man with the muscles looked relieved as his employer started to open the outer door.
“The policeman wants to see you,” said Swartz. “Cooperate. We must get him out as soon as possible. Be ready to drain the pool and have a crew come in to clean it. Tell Mitavonova to send at least five women for the job.”
The muscular man nodded. His boss left. The muscular man was named Kolya Ivanov. He was a body builder and had won the Mister Moscow competition five times in ten years. He was strong.
He was confident, but he wished he did not have to deal with the pale policeman.
Kolya found the policeman in the men’s shower, where he was kneeling, one knee on the tiles.
“I was told you wanted to see me,” said Kolya.
“Wait,” said Karpo, examining the blue and white tiled wall under one of the showerheads.
The policeman looked at each square of tile and ran his hand gently over every inch. He was at the third showerhead. He rose slowly, feeling his way up the wall. Kolya was fascinated, but not so fascinated that he did not want to leave.
The policeman took a clear plastic bag from his pocket and removed something from the eye-level tile on which his hand had paused.
“How long has this tile been cracked?” asked Karpo, putting something Kolya did not see into the plastic bag.
“Cracked? I inspect every foot of the space here every evening when I leave. There was no crack last night.”
Kolya moved forward for a better look, which required him to get nearer the policeman than he liked. Kolya’s eyesight was not perfect, but he could see well enough so that he didn’t have to wear his glasses to work. He had to get to within a yard of the tile before he saw it: a very thin, almost imperceptible crack.
“Lashkovich’s locker,” said the policeman.
“This way.”
The locker room was carpeted, an indoor-outdoor brown carpeting. The lockers were in three rows with padded benches for guests. The lockers were tall, polished oak, and quite elegant.
