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The real cover page was buried in the many pages of manuscript that her brother had purchased from a woman who claimed that her mother had worked for the great Gogol just before his death. The woman’s mother had told her that Gogol had thrown the manuscript into the fire just days before his death and had walked out of the room. The woman’s mother had reached into the fire and rescued the manuscript. It had been singed slightly, but the woman had reasoned that something by Gogol might have some value. The woman had sold the manuscript to old Dokorov for the cost of a new wardrobe for her daughter.
Dokorov knew he had the real thing, but he had verified it by showing a single page of the manuscript to a professor of literature at Moscow State University. Dokorov had paid the man and told him it was the only page he had. The man had immediately pronounced it authentic.
“Do you realize what you have here?” the professor had said.
“No,” Ivan had replied.
“The only remaining page of the manuscript for Gogol’s sequel to
“Cherish it,” Ivan had said. “My love of literature is greater than my love of life.”
There were other items too-a small, almost priceless Chinese jar, which Natalya had filled with very cheap perfume, as she had its equally valued companion jar, which she would now retrieve if only the police had not found it. But the prize that she would present to the dealer in London was a slightly more-than-life-size jeweled Faberge egg in which nestled a perfect miniature carousel that spun in a gentle circle when wound with a tiny key. She had sealed the lid of the egg with paste that could easily be removed and she had taken a sticker from the Dom Toy Shop and placed it on the egg. There were other items, too, just as well disguised.
Though she was a strong woman, the weight of her bag and the trials of the day had slowed her down by the time she reached her front door. The policewoman stood waiting.
“Let me help you,” Elena said, taking the shopping bag from Natalya. “Can we speak? Just for a moment?”
Natalya nodded her head yes, exaggerating a tiredness she definitely did feel.
The house was almost bare now. Almost every item that might be worth something had been removed. There were now three wooden chairs and a small table painted green in the kitchen.
Elena followed the old woman and placed the bag on the table.
“Some tea?” Natalya said, sagging onto one of the chairs.
Elena pulled one of the other chairs forward and placed it directly before the woman. Then she sat and took one of Natalya’s hands in hers.
“I am sorry, Natalya Dokorova,” Elena said sincerely. “I told you I would help you and …”
Elena looked around.
Natalya put her free hand on the young woman’s shoulder.
“It will be all right,” the old woman said. “Come.”
She rose, and Elena followed her to the small bathroom, where Natalya turned on the light. Toilet. Sink. Tiny tub. Medicine cabinet. Natalya opened the cabinet, reaching past the tube of Crest toothpaste to a small bottle nestled among a quintet of other small bottles.
“I would like you to have this,” said Natalya.
“Thank you,” said Elena with a smile.
“Don’t worry too much. I shall be fine. But I must rest now.”
Natalya walked Elena to the front door and opened it.
“Thank you for stopping by,” said the old woman. “It was kind of you.”
“And thank you for the gift,” Elena said, stepping into the street. She looked down at the bottle in her hand. It was definitely Oriental, decorated with exquisite tiny flowers in a garden. The colors were vivid. Elena opened the top of the jar and smelled the cheap perfume. When she got back to Petrovka, she would empty the bottle, rinse it, and keep it on her desk as a paperweight.
In a rather odd way Anna Porvinovich reminded Porfiry Petrovich of Colonel Snitkonoy.
He watched her cross the room in her somber black knit dress. Her dark hair was brushed back, and not a hair was out of place. Her earrings were simple black onyx. She walked as if she were in some old movie-slowly, pensively, erect. She stood before him and allowed herself to be examined. She wore a knowing, worried smile.
She was, Rostnikov decided, a well-groomed Doberman, not a Wolfhound.
Yevgeniy Porvinovich had let the policeman in. Yevgeniy was wearing gray slacks and suspenders over his white shirt. He had immediately asked if the police had found his brother or identified the kidnappers. The man was a terrible actor. It was clear to Rostnikov that Yevgeniy wanted the answers to his questions to be negative. Rostnikov answered, “We think we know who the kidnapper is.”
Yevgeniy had swayed slightly and barely managed to say, “Good,” when Anna Porvinovich made her dramatic entrance and moved toward him without speaking. She motioned carelessly to the chair and sofa, and Rostnikov accepted, sitting down on one of the high chairs without too much awkwardness. Only when he was seated did she take her own place on the sofa. She checked her dress for wrinkles, smoothed out a nonexistent one, and draped one arm over the back of the sofa. Yevgeniy sat in the chair identical to the one in which Rostnikov was seated.
“Tea?” asked the woman.
“Tea,” said Rostnikov. He had unbuttoned his jacket but not removed it. In a day or two he would have to start wearing a hat. When possible, he would wear his favorite hat, a brown cloth cap with a little brim and ear flaps. His wife said the cap made him look like a comedian in an American comedy. More often he wore a black fur hat, which Sarah had said made him look like a diplomat.
Yevgeniy hurried off to get the tea.
“You have news?” Anna asked.
“A theory,” said Rostnikov. “Your husband was kidnapped by a man named Artiom Solovyov and an unidentified accomplice, probably his assistant in the garage.”
“Artiom Solovyov,” she repeated as if trying to place the name. “The big man where we have our car repaired?”
“Yes,” said Rostnikov, opening his jacket a bit more. “You have trouble placing him yet you spoke to him on the phone yesterday.”
“Ah,” she said, reaching forward to remove a cigarette from the box on the table between them. “I remember now. So much has happened. Alexei … so much.”
She toyed with the cigarette in her fingers and looked down at it pensively.
“We think you and Artiom Solovyov planned the kidnapping of your husband.”
She looked up suddenly, wary, jaws slightly tensed. Not a dog, thought Rostnikov, a Siamese cat with red claws.
“You have no comment?” Rostnikov said.
“It is too absurd to reply to,” she said, putting the cigarette between her lips.
The tremble was slight, ever so slight, but Rostnikov had been looking for it. She lit her cigarette, which gave her time to gather her defenses. She glared at him with a well-performed look of
Yevgeniy did not drop the tray, though he did stop rather suddenly, and the cups slid to one side of the tray. He looked at Anna.
“Put down the tray,” she said calmly.
Yevgeniy did so.
“As I recall,” she said, “you take sugar and milk.”
“Yes,” said Rostnikov.
“Sit, Yevgeniy,” she said, preparing the tea for the policeman.
