“Then,” said Rostnikov, “there is no more to say.”
“Not now,” said Belinsky.
They shook hands again and Rostnikov made his way out onto the street. He was lost in thought, half a block away, when he remembered that he had meant to ask Avrum Belinsky where he had been during the morning storm.
Chapter Four
The director of the Center for the Study of Technical Parapsychology, Andrei Vanga, was clean shaven, white haired, and wearing a rather rumpled brown suit and a tie that was no match for it. He was a slight, nervous man who habitually played with the gold band on the small finger of his left hand. His office was large. The furniture was well-polished wood with comfortable chairs and even a small brown leather couch. The paintings on the wall were originals, though a close examination would reveal that the artists were not particularly well known.
Nadia Spectorski had left them to return to her work. Zelach and Karpo had been guided to the sofa by the director, who took Zelach’s arm.
“We would prefer the chairs,” Karpo said.
“As you wish,” said Vanga, backing off and moving three of the four chairs in the room into a mini circle so they could face each other.
Vanga’s face was pink and solemn. He leaned forward attentively, playing with his gold band, ready to help.
“Do you have any ideas about why someone might kill Sergei Bolskanov?”
“None,” said the director.
“No enemies?” asked Karpo.
“None,” said the director sadly.
“Everyone liked him?”
“Everyone,” said the director. “He was a quiet, pleasant, hardworking scientist. We all admired him.”
“We have heard otherwise,” said Karpo.
“Well,” said the director with a knowing smile. “He could be a bit … how shall I say? A bit gruff, but just a bit.”
“Someone hit him repeatedly with a hammer,” said Karpo.
“I know,” said the director.
“It is possible that it was done by someone who did not like him.”
“Of course,” the director said with a shrug.
Zelach was paying close attention and had concluded that they were going to get little from Vanga, but Karpo persisted.
“Could someone profit from stealing the results of Bolskanov’s work?”
“Profit? Make money?”
“Make money, win acclaim, respect.”
“I don’t know. Maybe. We don’t think like that. We’re afraid to. Someone around here might read our minds,” said the director with a smile.
Neither of the detectives returned the smile.
“It was just a joke,” said the director earnestly, “an attempt to lighten … I spend much of my time raising money. I sometimes use that …”
“And your research?” asked Karpo.
“Psychic phenomena during dream states,” he said. “I have written forty papers presented at conferences all over the world. I’ve written two books. I’d give you both copies but they are a bit old and I have only a few left. But I’m working on a new article which I believe will be modestly important in the field. I …”
“Bolskanov also did dream research,” said Karpo.
“Correct,” said Vanga. “I brought him into the center. We worked together on many projects. He often came to me for advice, to review his findings, to …”
“We would like your shoes,” said Karpo.
“My … I beg your pardon.”
“Your shoes,” Karpo repeated.
“Now, these?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“You will get them back before the end of the day,” said Karpo. “Please take them off and give them to Inspector Zelach.”
A bewildered director began removing his well-polished brown patent-leather shoes.
“I’ll have to wear my spare pair,” he said. “They are black and …”
“We will take those also,” said Karpo.
“I’ll have to walk around all day in my stockinged feet.”
“You will not be alone,” said Karpo.
Vladimir Kinotskin had been warned that policemen were coming to talk to him. He had been told that it could not be avoided. He had been informed that it was about Tsimion Vladovka, who was, as he well knew, missing.
Vladimir had changed greatly since he had returned to earth. He had lost weight and his once-blond hair was almost completely white. His youthful handsome face had darkened too and taken on several rigid lines. He did not smile. His ambition had, for good reason, deserted him. He had no goal beyond continuing his routine work and keeping to himself. He had given up all hope of marriage and family. He could not imagine subjecting a woman to his moodiness, and he knew he could not pretend to be happy or even content. All he hoped for was an eventual truce with his memories, a fragile peace of mind with which he could live, but he doubted he would achieve it.
Perhaps he should have run like Vladovka, if that is what Vladovka had done. They had seen each other infrequently since the moment the shuttle had landed. They never spoke when they passed.
Vladimir had two hours before the police arrived. He had decided to walk, to walk aimlessly, to think about how he would answer the questions Mikhail Stoltz had posed to him.
“Just tell the truth,” Stoltz had said.
“You want me to tell the truth?”
“Yes.”
“But …”
“The truth,” Stoltz had repeated.
The boyish exuberance that might once have been enough to protect Vladimir was gone. The confrontation would be difficult. Stoltz had put a hand on his shoulder and told him he would be just fine. Then Stoltz had him driven from Star City to the Moscow office of the space program.
Vladimir Kinotskin was not sure he would be fine, but he thought he could be good enough.
It was growing humid and hot after the morning rain, and Vladimir had left his jacket on the back of a chair in the office that had temporarily been assigned to him. He had sweated through the white shirt he was wearing. He had loosened his tie and he had gone out to walk and try not to think.
Now he found himself before the Church of Simeon Stylites. He remembered something, something Vladovka had mentioned during the long flight. Vladovka had read some poems to him, poems by Mikhail Lermontov, who had lived more than a century ago. Lermontov, whom Kinotskin had read but not remembered, was also an artist. Vladovka had read but Vladimir had not really listened. Now he remembered.
He went around the church down to Vorovskogo Street and into the small alley which is Malaya Molchanovka Street. The house was there. Now a museum, the house where Lermontov lived with his grandmother stood, restored, modest. Nine windows downstairs, three up, a small gable. Perhaps Vladimir was paying homage. He
