People Who Walk In Darkness

He wondered.

Chapter Sixteen

“Why was the ghost girl naked?”

Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov asked the question as he and Emil Karpo walked down the long corridor on the first floor of the General Semyon Timoshenko apartment and office complex of Devochka.

“There was no ghost girl,” said Karpo. “Whoever wrote that false report and put it in the files of Security Chief Fyodor Rostnikov made it up.”

“Why?”

“I do not know,” said Karpo.

Porfiry Petrovich’s artificial leg made a slight clickity-clack sound on the polished concrete floor.

They moved slowly, their footsteps echoing.

Once, before they reached the cafeteria where they were to meet with Old Boris, a door opened. A woman, a bag in her hand and her hair tied in some kind of papered ringlets, stepped out, saw the two detectives, let her eyes rest for an instant on the gaunt detective clad in funereal black, and quickly ducked back through the door.

“He, or she, typed the report, including that colorful detail, and then, when we figured out that the entry was false, placed the typewriter on Fedya’s bed. Why?”

“To make him appear guilty when we found it,” said Karpo.

“He found it and told us immediately,” said Rostnikov. “If making him look guilty was their goal, they accomplished quite the opposite.”

They were almost there. Porfiry Petrovich could smell the food. If he was not wrong, it was cabbage soup. The food in Devochka was, he had discovered, surprisingly good. He glanced up at Karpo at his side.

“You think I am making this all too complex?” Rostnikov asked.

“You have historically demonstrated an intuitive ability in such situations.”

“Thank you,” said Rostnikov. “And you?”

“I have no intuition. I rely on reason alone and distrust reason only slightly less than I trust intuition. One can believe that he is acting with perfect reason only to be deluded by his own fallibility.”

“And so I ask you to apply reason to the crucial question of why the ghost girl was naked.”

“Crucial?”

They were now immediately outside of the broad wooden door to the cafeteria.

Definitely cabbage, thought Rostnikov. He hoped they also had the small Georgian crackers that went so well with cooked cabbage.

“Yes,” said Rostnikov. “The answer to the question of the naked ghost girl will tell us who our killer is.”

He pushed through the door. Karpo followed.

Definitely cabbage.

There were six people talking, laughing, and smoking at a rear table in the cafeteria, which could hold perhaps three hundred people. It had originally been built to feed the workers and their families, but gradually the people of Devochka turned more and more to cooking and eating in the privacy of their own apartments. The irony, which did not escape Rostnikov, and which had been shared by Fyodor, was that the budget for the cafeteria had remained the same for almost fifty years. The cooking staff was obliged, lest they lose their funding, to spend their allotment on nearly gourmet-level food.

They moved immediately to the immaculately clean cafeteria line where they were the only ones waiting. The manager of the cafeteria himself gave both men an extra large serving of the cabbage dish.

“And so tonight we go into the mine,” said Rostnikov.

Karpo nodded. He looked at the food piled on his plate and thought it a waste that should not be tolerated.

He had learned, however, that since the fall of the Communist state and ideology to which he had devoted his life, waste and corruption were rampant. He no longer thought that crime could be eliminated in the march toward a near-perfect state. No, the best that could be achieved was to hold the corrupt and the criminal at bay, to work without stop to keep the wall between lawful and lawless from falling under the sheer pressure of individual greed, gluttony, sloth, and occasional madness.

They sat. They ate slowly. They were well ahead of the dinner hour though they had been told that, even when that hour came, the cafeteria would not be overwhelmed.

“What have you noted about my reaction to the mine that might be relevant to our investigation?” asked Rostnikov, taking a large forkful of cabbage and meat. “This is very good.”

“You have avoided going into the mine though you have had ample opportunity. And now, since we have but one day remaining till the deadline given by Director Yaklovev, you seem to have little choice but to descend if you feel it must be done.”

“And why have I avoided the mine?” asked Rostnikov.

Karpo hesitated.

“I do not know.”

“I think you do, Emil Karpo.”

“You are afraid.”

Rostnikov pointed his fork at his associate to punctuate the accuracy of his observation.

“Tunnels,” Rostnikov said. “I have nightmares about them. I do not ride the Metro unless it is absolutely essential.”

“I have observed.”

“And the contemplation of what we will soon be doing makes me more than a bit uncomfortable.”

The contemplation, thought Karpo, did not appear to affect the appetite of Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov.

Karpo was about to say, “I am sorry,” but Rostnikov anticipated and held up the versatile fork to stop him.

“I tell you this not because I feel the need to cleanse my soul or mind, but to prepare you for what must be done should I literally or figuratively stumble in the lower depths.”

Karpo knew better than to suggest that he go alone. Rostnikov would not forgo his responsibility.

With that, Boris entered the cafeteria, looked around, and squinted at the two detectives before he saw them and moved to join them.

It was evident to both detectives, and not for the first time, that their guide into the earth had very far from perfect vision.

Balta was ready, knife hidden, plan in place. There were no doubt other ways to accomplish his goal, but, he thought, each of us achieves satisfaction in his or her own way. Balta lived for the game. He had the cash he had taken from the woman on the train when he killed her with great efficiency and anatomical knowledge, which he hoped the police appreciated.

He knew the time Rochelle Tanquay was to be at the apartment of Jan Pendowski, the preening babnik, the lecher who had the diamonds. Balta would be there too.

Balta watched. Soon. Balta watched.

The knock at his door was gentle and right on time. Jan Pendowski opened the door. Rochelle Tanquay stood there in a perfectly fitted tan suit, a silk scarf around her neck, her short dark hair brushed down in bangs. She looked, he thought, as if she had just stepped out of an ad for absolutely anything she wanted to sell.

She stepped in, and Jan leaned forward to gently clasp her right arm and kiss her. She did not resist. Her response was welcoming but reserved.

Jan closed the door and kissed her again. This time the response was even more welcoming. Both arms were around her now and his mouth was inches from hers. He could smell the scent of gardenia perfume.