“Has he ever visited Miss Yalutshkin?” asked Iosef.
“Perhaps,” said the doorman. “I try to mind my own business.”
“So you wouldn’t remember a German who visited her?”
“A German? So many people,” said the doorman. “So many people and such long days. You know it can be very boring being a doorman? I’m not complaining. Except for buying my own uniform, the money and tips are good. But people, tenants, want privacy.”
“Don’t tell her we were looking for her,” said Iosef pleasantly.
“I won’t,” said the doorman.
Another ten minutes later Iosef and Zelach were at the Metropole Hotel directly across from the Bolshoi Theater.
The Metropole was designed in 1898 by an English architect.
Its reputation for elegance has been maintained for a century, and shortly after the revolution, Lenin and his top lieutenants moved into apartments in the one-block-square, four-story stone edifice with its stained-glass windows and marble fountains.
Today the Metropole is part of the Russian-Finnish Inter-Continental Hotels and Resorts. The large rooms were renovated in 1991, but the workmanship and materials were cheap and the rooms are already looking a bit shabby. The suites, however, are well maintained for rich Russians and visiting foreigners drawn by the hotel’s reputation. The suites feature genuine antiques and Oriental carpets.
Iosef was well acquainted with the Metropole. He had attended endless rounds of discussions and parties in the Artists Bar, downstairs off of Teatralny Proyezd. The purpose of one of these discussions was to convince a rich Englishman to produce one of Iosef ’s plays in London. Iosef found the bar dismal and the food mediocre even in the hotel’s main restaurant, the Boyarsky Zal.
Nothing had come of the meetings. The Englishman had simply disappeared one day, and Iosef was left with memories of the stuffed bear in the hotel restaurant.
The desk man to whom they spoke did not seem to be the least impressed by Iosef ’s and Zelach’s police identification cards, but, on the other hand, he was not uncooperative. What he was, was busy-sorting registration forms, credit-card receipt copies, and bills charged to the rooms.
“Yes, I know Miss Yalutshkin,” the frail man said. He wore a neatly cut French suit and a very sedate blue tie in addition to a look of harassed distress.
“Do you know if she has been in the hotel today?” asked Iosef.
The man shrugged, examining what appeared to be a barely leg-ible signature on a small yellow sheet.
“Can you read this?” he asked in exasperation, handing the sheet to Zelach, who took it and frowned.
“It says ‘Fuad Ali Ben Mohammed, room three forty-three,’ ”
said Zelach, looking at the sheet.
“The amount?” the clerk asked hopefully.
“Two million and sixty rubles,” said Zelach, handing the yellow sheet back to the clerk.
“Thank you,” the clerk said gratefully. “I saw her going into the bar about an hour ago. I don’t know if she is still there. I would prefer if you did not mention that I told you her location.”
“We will not mention,” said Iosef, moving in the direction of the bar with Zelach at his side.
“Zelach,” Iosef said, “your skills are a constant source of surprise to me. First you kick a ball like a professional, and now I discover you can decipher obscure handwriting.”
“I have always been able to read poor handwriting,” said Zelach.
“I don’t know why. That bill I just looked at, I think the writer purposely made it difficult to read.”
“I would guess that was not his only bill,” said Iosef, opening the door to the darkness of the bar.
There were only a handful of people at this hour. A CD unit in the corner with two dark square speaker boxes was playing Louis Armstrong, singing “Wonderful World.”
“There,” said Iosef, looking at Yulia Yalutshkin alone at a table against the wall.
There was no doubt even at this distance that she was a very rare, pale beauty, far too thin, however, for Iosef ’s taste. Elena would never be a model, but she had a solid beauty that Iosef far preferred to the butterfly appearance of the Yulia Yalutshkins of modern Russia.
She saw them coming, hesitated for only a fraction of an instant, and went on slowly drinking.
“Yulia Yalutshkin?” Iosef asked.
The woman didn’t answer.
“May we sit?” asked Iosef.
The woman shrugged her slight shoulders. The two policemen sat.
She had still not looked at them. She seemed to be fascinated or hypnotized by something beyond the far wall.
“We are the police,” Iosef said.
A smile touched Yulia’s perfect, full red lips.
“You couldn’t be anything else,” she said in a throaty voice that reminded Iosef of the American actress- Zelach would know her name. Yes, Lauren Bacall.
“I used to be a soldier,” said Iosef.
“Now,” she said taking another sip from the glass of amber liquid before her, “you look like a policeman, and your partner could be nothing but a policeman. It is the curse of being a policeman.”
Zelach shifted uncomfortably. He slouched.
“Do you know what we want?” asked Iosef.
“No,” she said. “How much do you weigh? In pounds.”
“Slightly over two hundred,” said Iosef.
“You work out?”
“My father has passed on his passion for lifting weights.”
“I am very light,” she said. “And I like being picked up gently.
Especially by big men.”
“Yevgeny Pleshkov,” said Iosef.
Yulia didn’t respond.
“We can continue this discussion at Petrovka, if you would find it more comfortable,” said Iosef.
Yulia sighed. “What do you want?”
“We want to know where Yevgeny Pleshkov is,” said Iosef, wanting to order a drink but certain that he could not afford one, especially after having given Katerina taxi fare.
“I don’t know where he is,” she said. “Would you like a drink?
My treat. It won’t compromise you.”
Iosef nodded and Yulia lifted one thin hand with long dark fin-gernails and a waiter appeared.
“I’ll have a beer,” said Iosef. “Dutch, if you have it.”
“We have it,” said the very ancient, jowly waiter whose thin white hair was brushed and gelled straight back.
“Pepsi-Cola,” said Zelach.
“Coca-Cola?” asked the waiter.
“Coca-Cola,” Zelach agreed.
“Thank you,” said Iosef.
“Yes,” said Zelach, definitely uncomfortable in the presence of this distant, beautiful woman.
“We must find Yevgeny Pleshkov,” Iosef said when the waiter had shuffled away.
Yulia looked at her drink. “I don’t know where he is,” she said.
“I saw him yesterday. He was drunk. Yevgeny is usually drunk when he sees me. He is also usually very generous. When he is drunk he is absolutely incapable of having an erection, no matter what I do.
He was gone this morning when I woke up.”
Zelach was definitely uncomfortable now.
“It doesn’t matter,” she went on. “His interest in me is always how I look and carry myself. He wants me at his side, holding his arm, smiling as I look into his eyes. He has always paid well for this service. Other male friends pay well for other services. Is that what you wanted to know?”
“Where is Yevgeny Pleshkov?” Iosef repeated as the waiter brought drinks for all three of them, though the
