“A talent developed over the years,” Karpo answered, looking into the eyes of the corpse.
“And what does my corpse tell you?” Rostnikov asked.
“Secrets,” said Karpo softly. “He whispers to me. The dead and I get along quite well.”
“Better than the living?” said Rostnikov, watching the Tatar’s fingers explore the area around the wound.
“Yes,” said Karpo evenly. “Whoever did this had strength. This sickle is old and rusty, yet the penetration is deep and through a bone. A strong man.”
“Or a madman or woman given the strength of purpose or anger,” Rostnikov said, looking at the dead man’s face. It was an angry face even in death. He would be forever angry.
Karpo rose.
“Assuming he was not lying down when he was struck,” Karpo began.
“He was not,” said Rostnikov. “The trail of blood is from the front door.”
“Of course,” Karpo continued. “The killer was not tall, the wound indicates someone no bigger than…”
“…me,” Rostnikov finished.
Karpo shrugged and Tkach reentered the room. “And what are you working on?” Rostnikov asked the young man. “Just the most important cases.”
“State liquor store thefts,” he answered quickly. “Someone is breaking into state liquor stores at night. Huge amounts have been taken. It is a very large, very bold black market operation. I have-”
“No details,” Rostnikov said holding up a hand and looking back at the corpse. “That will wait. You get two, maybe three hours sleep and then start following up on Granovsky’s friends. Be nice, be kind, be sympathetic. Find out if he had enemies, what they think. Be discreet, but find out.”
“Shall I take a uniformed man with me?” Tkach asked.
“What you think best,” responded Rostnikov, without turning around. “Would you see if there is any tea here?”
“Yes,” said Tkach moving past the corpse and to the kitchen area. “You think the tea…”
“I’d like some tea,” Rostnikov closed. “Don’t worry about fingerprints. The killer didn’t come in and make tea. He or she did it and ran. There was a K.G.B. man watching the place when Granovsky was murdered.”
“That is Granovsky, the…” Tkach said turning from his search to take another look at the corpse.
“It is,” said Rostnikov looking at Karpo, whose face betrayed nothing. “And you Emil, your cases?”
“Apartment robberies, assault, and someone masquerading as a police officer has been preying on African students at Moscow University, pretending to suspect them of crimes, taking their money. Complaints…”
“Ah,” sighed Rostnikov, listening for the sound of boiling water, “political.”
“Everything is political,” Karpo added, wandering to the window to examine the hole.
“I sit corrected,” Rostnikov.
“I was not correcting you,” said Karpo. “I was observing.”
“Yes,” sighed Rostnikov, rising with effort to the sound of a knock at the door. “Well this is more political. When the evidence people finish, I want you to take that sickle and find what you can find.”
The door opened and three dark figures entered slowly. One held a suitcase, another, wearing thick, tinted glasses, carried a camera.
“Tkach, we are leaving,” said Rostnikov. “Gentlemen, there will be hot water in a few minutes for tea.”
The third dark figure, who wore no glasses and carried nothing, spoke in a rumbling voice that sounded like a Metro train.
“You had a message from Procurator Timofeyeva,” he said. “A taxi driver was killed a little while ago, two witnesses. Before he died, the taxi driver said, ‘Granovsky!”
“Karpo,” Rostnikov said pulling his coat on, “you take that. I will pay a visit to the K.G.B. in the morning and we will meet at Petrovka…when we can meet at Petrovka.”
The trio of dark figures moved past Rostnikov, who turned for a last look at Granovsky-an angry man and look what his anger got him. There was perhaps a lesson in this room, on that face. Rostnikov absorbed the lesson without thinking about it.
“Do any of you remember the name of the American movie actress with the yellow hair that kept falling in her face?” Rostnikov asked. “She had to keep blowing it out of her eyes.”
“Veronska Lake,” said the man with the bag, moving to the corpse.
“No,” sighed Rostnikov scratching his ear, “the hair wasn’t designed to be over the eyes. It was always by accident.”
“I see,” said the man with the thick dark glasses, groping his way to the kitchen in search of the tea.
“Maybe it was Deanna Durbin?” said the man with the camera.
“No,” said Rostnikov, “thanks.” It was one of those annoying things of no consequence that would drive you mad if you couldn’t remember. There was a chance, not much of a chance perhaps, but a chance that Rostnikov’s career might be in danger, but this nearly forgotten American movie star had cropped up and had to be named to set his mind at rest. It would come, it would come.
An hour later Emil Karpo entered the M.V.D. building on Petrovka Street. The armed duty guard looked at him with no sign of recognition but made no move to stop him. The older officer at the desk, fully uniformed, white-haired, involuntarily nodded in greeting at the striding Karpo, though he knew Karpo was not one to respond to social gestures.
A dark suited man named Klishkov passed Karpo on the way down. Klishkov who bore an ugly red scar across his face and nose from an attack by a drunk, glanced at Karpo, who let his eyes respond in unblinking acknowledgement.
The door to Room 312 was closed but a light was on behind it. It was one of many “discussion” rooms in Petrovka. Such rooms could be used for meetings, conspiracies, or interviews with suspects or witnesses. Because of the uneven heating of the building, some of the interview rooms were painfully cold in the winter while others were oppressively hot. This was a cold one. Karpo opened the door and faced two men across the small table in the center of the room. The Roshkovs, father and son, were startled and started to rise. Karpo ignored them and turned to the uniformed officer who stood in the corner. The officer, well aware of Karpo’s reputation, moved smartly forward and handed him a clipboard with a report attached. Karpo took it and read it ignoring the sudden babbling of Vladimir, the elder Roshkov.
“We’ve done nothing,” pleaded the old man, “nothing.” His eyes, yellow and soft, were moist with self- pity.
Karpo handed the report back to the officer and faced the old man. The sudden attention caught the old man in mid-sentence, stopping him. There was something about this corpse-like policeman that made such rambling pathetic even to Vladimir Roshkov, who had spent an eighty-year lifetime perfecting it, but the pause was only that. Vladimir Roshkov could no more hold his tongue than he could join the Bolshoi Ballet.
“Officer, sir,” he pleaded, actually bringing his hands together, “we did nothing. We were on our way to work, to work. There is no crime in going to work, is there sir, comrade, officer?”
Karpo said nothing but turned his eyes on Pytor Roshkov who sat sullen, a coarse brown police blanket wrapped around his legs.
“Are you ill?” Karpo asked.
“No,” said Pytor, “I have no pants. That cab tore off my pants, and the police wouldn’t let me go home for another pair. Mind you, I’m not complaining. I understand, but…I understand.”
“My son is not complaining at all,” shouted the old man, rapping his son on the head. “He’s happy to help any way he can. We both are, but we had nothing to do…”
“Sit,” commanded Karpo, and the old man sat next to his son, his voice momentarily stilled but his mouth was open and ready, his teeth poor and jagged.
“You saw the man get out of the cab?” Karpo said, standing with his hands behind his back over the two men.
“Yes,” said the old man, “he was all in black, a madman. I thought he was going to kill us. His clothes were good, not new. My first thought was, ‘Here is some capitalist tourist drunk and up to no good.’ ”
“He was a foreigner?” tried Karpo.
“Yes,” went on the old man, “definitely a foreigner, English or American, he…”
“Did he speak?” tried Karpo.
