Rostnikov sat across the table from Yevgeny Tutsolov. Zelach stood behind the young man, who sat erect and was remarkably calm. Rostnikov had not told the young man why they had come to talk to him at the hotel where he worked in the laundry. When they had found him pulling sheets from a large dryer with the help of the hotel services supervisor, Tutsolov had seemed surprised but not at all nervous.
The supervisor was a bull of a woman in a white uniform who said they could use the small room off the laundry where the employees ate their lunch. She added that the sooner Tutsolov got back to work, the better, unless they planned to arrest him for something.
Rostnikov thanked her, smiled, and told the woman that she reminded him of Tolstoy’s description of Anna Karenina. The woman’s scowl had turned to a smile of pleasure.
“I’ve been told that before,” she said over the sound of the washing and drying machines and the rolling of carts by curious employees. “Of course, that was before I put on a little weight.”
“It shows through,” said Rostnikov as the woman led her employee and the two policemen to the small lunchroom. “Beauty shows through.”
She closed the door behind her when she left, and the three men were enclosed by windowless walls and the smell of thousands of previous lunches.
Rostnikov moved to one side of the table and sat on the bench. He had motioned Tutsolov to the other side of the bench. Zelach needed no order to know where he was to place himself-behind the suspect, close and intimidating.
“You have a slight limp,” Rostnikov said.
“You noticed? One of the workers pushed a laundry cart into me about a month ago. It’s getting better every day. I don’t think anyone even noticed the limp except you. You, too, have a limp.”
“I have an artificial leg,” said Rostnikov. “Have you ever seen one?”
“No,” said Tutsolov.
“The good ones they make now are marvels of technology,” said Rostnikov. “My son, who used to be a poet and playwright after he was a soldier, envisions the day when as each internal organ and external limb is diseased or mutilated, it will immediately be replaced by an artificial one that works even better than the original. Everything but the brain.”
“Interesting,” said Tutsolov.
“Yes,” said Rostnikov. “But I think it is only the poet in him. Would you like to know why we are here?”
“Very much,” said the young man, folding his hands on the table and leaning forward attentively, curiosity crossing his innocent-looking face.
“You knew a young man named Igor Mesanovich,” said Rostnikov.
“Yes. He was my friend. We knew each other from the time we were children,” said Yevgeny Tutsolov, his eyes growing moist. “But I haven’t seen him for months.”
“You know he is dead,” said Rostnikov, trying to find a comfortable angle for his bionic leg.
“Yes. I heard,” said Tutsolov. “Someone beat him with a rock near the river a few nights ago.”
“He was shot,” said Rostnikov. “Not beaten. He and three others, Jews.”
Tutsolov nodded. “The last time we talked, months ago, Igor said he had grown interested in Judaism. I tried to talk him out of it.”
“You don’t like Jews?” asked Rostnikov.
“Not particularly,” said Tutsolov, “but I don’t feel strongly about it, and I seldom give it even a fleeting thought.”
“Perhaps you were right to try to talk him out of it,” said Rostnikov with a sigh of understanding. “My wife is Jewish. My son is half Jewish, but I’m told that according to the Jews if the mother is Jewish, the child is Jewish. Here, if either parent is Jewish, then the child is Jewish. Being Jewish is hard in our country.”
“Exactly,” said Tutsolov. “That’s what I tried to tell Igor, but he was determined. I wished him well and told him he was acting like a fool.”
“Three nights ago, just before midnight,” said Rostnikov, “where were you?”
“Three nights ago?” the young man repeated, shaking his head. “I don’t … that was a Wednesday, no, a Tuesday. It doesn’t matter, though. I go to sleep early. I have to get up early to get here by six. I was in bed sleeping.”
“Alone?” asked Rostnikov.
The young man smiled and said, “My roommate was across the room in his bed. He has trouble sleeping and usually reads late by the light of a small lamp next to his bed. The light doesn’t bother me. It’s better than if he goes to sleep. Leonid often snores.”
“Leonid Sharvotz,” said Rostnikov.
“Yes,” said Yevgeny.
“Also a friend of Igor Mesanovich?”
“Yes,” said Yevgeny.
“Where can we find Leonid?” asked Rostnikov.
“He should be at the apartment,” said Tutsolov. “He works afternoons and evenings. He’s a perfume salesman at one of the new GUM stores. I’ve never been there. He gave me the name once or twice, but I don’t remember.”
“No one was at the apartment,” said Rostnikov. “We just came from there.”
There was a long silence while the washtub of a detective drummed his fingers on the table. He looked into Yevgeny’s eyes till the young man turned away.
“Aren’t you going to ask me if I knew any of his other friends? Anyone who might want him dead?” asked Yevgeny.
“All right,” said Rostnikov. “Do you know anyone who might be able to help us, anyone who might have wanted your old friend dead?”
“No,” said Yevgeny.
“Most helpful,” said Rostnikov.
“You don’t think Leonid and I had anything to do with killing Igor, do you?”
“No,” said Rostnikov. “Of course not. We’re simply obliged to follow any leads, talk to the friends of victims of violent crimes. See if they can give us any help.”
“Igor was shot with three Jews?” Tutsolov asked incredulously.
Rostnikov nodded.
“I told you, as far as I know, he had no enemies,” said the young man. “But you say he was with three Jews. Maybe it was just his terrible luck to be with them. Maybe … but I’m not a policeman. I hope you find who did this and shoot him the way they shot Igor.”
“It is my experience that it seldom comes down to having to shoot criminals,” said Rostnikov. “I prefer execution by the state-far more grievous, drawn-out punishment than a quick and simple bullet.”
Tutsolov nodded, taking it in, appearing to absorb the wisdom of the older man.
“Yes,” he said.
“That is all for now,” said Rostnikov. “If you think of anything, I want you to call me.”
Rostnikov awkwardly fished a crumpled card from his wallet. It was a card for an assistant manager at a plumbing supply store. Rostnikov had written his own name and office phone number on the back. The young man took the card, examined it, and carefully put it in his own wallet.
“You may go,” said Rostnikov.
Yevgeny rose and nodded to Rostnikov and to Zelach, who still stood impassively behind Tutsolov’s chair.
“One final question,” said Rostnikov as the young man reached the door. “What is your favorite color?”
“My favorite …?”
Yevgeny Tutsolov looked at the emotionless big man and the seated detective.
“I … when I was a boy it was green,” he said. “Now, I don’t know. Why?”
Rostnikov didn’t answer. Yevgeny left, quickly closing the door behind him.
When the door was closed, Zelach said, “He’s lying, Porfiry Petrovich.”
“I know,” said Rostnikov. “And he is not very good at it. He thinks he is good, but he’s not. However, being a liar in Russia is not evidence of guilt. If it were, the entire population would be in prison getting tattooed and the
