“You came here on Wednesday,” replied Trirodov. “And this is why I haven’t the money ready for you.”
Ostrov was unable to grasp the situation. He looked at Trirodov with some perplexity, and showed his irritation.
“What do you mean by saying that you haven’t it ready? Why should you get it ready? All you’ve got to do is to take it out of your safe, count it out, and give it to me—that’s the whole method of procedure. It isn’t as if it were a lot of money—it’s a mere trifle.”
“It may be a trifle for some people. It isn’t at all a trifle for me,” said Trirodov.
“Don’t pretend that you’re poor! Someone might think you were a forsaken orphan! What do you expect us to believe?”
Trirodov rose from his seat, looked with stern intentness into Ostrov’s eyes, and said resolutely:
“In a word, I can’t give you the money today. Try to come here tomorrow about this time.”
Ostrov rose involuntarily from his chair. He experienced a strange sensation, as if he were being lifted from his seat by his collar and forcibly led to the door. He fired his parting shot:
“Only don’t think that you can pull wool over my eyes tomorrow. I’m not the sort of a chap whom you can feed on promises.”
His small eyes gleamed malignantly. His broad jaws trembled savagely. His feet seemed to carry him to the door of themselves.
“No,” answered Trirodov, “I do not intend to fool you. You will get your money tomorrow.”
Ostrov came at the same hour next evening. This time he was led into Trirodov’s study.
“Well,” asked Ostrov rather impudently, “do you mean to give me the money? Or will you play the same farce once more?”
Trirodov pulled a bundle of banknotes out of a drawer in his writing-table, and said as he gave them to Ostrov:
“Please count them. There should be two thousand.”
Ostrov whistled and said gruffly:
“That’s too little. I asked for much more.”
“That’s all you’ll get,” said Trirodov resolutely. “It ought to last you quite a while.”
“Perhaps you will add a trifle,” said Ostrov with a stupid smile.
“I can’t,” said Trirodov coldly.
“I can’t leave town on this money,” said Ostrov in a threatening voice.
Trirodov frowned, and looked sternly at Ostrov. New thoughts began to take shape in his mind, and he said:
“You won’t find it to your advantage to remain, and everything you do here will be known to me.”
“Very well, I’ll go away,” said Ostrov with a stupid smile. He took the money, counted it carefully, and put it into his greasy pocket. He was about to take his leave, but Trirodov detained him.
“Don’t go yet. We’ll have a talk.”
At the same instant a quiet boy in his white clothes appeared from some dark corner. He paused behind Trirodov’s chair, and looked at Ostrov. His wide dark eyes, looking out of his pale face, brought Ostrov into a state of painful dread. He lowered himself slowly into the chair near the writing-table. His head felt giddy. Then a strange mood of nonchalance and submission took possession of him. His face bore an expression of apathetic readiness to do everything that he might be commanded to do by someone stronger than himself—whose will had conquered his. Trirodov looked attentively at Ostrov and said:
“Well, tell me what I want to know. I wish to hear from your own lips what you are doing here, and what you are up to. You couldn’t have done much in such a short time, but you surely have found out something. Speak!”
Ostrov sniggered rather stupidly, fidgeted as if he were sitting on springs, and said:
“Very well, I’ll tell you something interesting and won’t charge you a penny for it.”
Trirodov, without taking off his heavy, fixed gaze from Ostrov’s face, repeated:
“Speak!”
The quiet boy looked with his eyes full of intense questioning straight into Ostrov’s eyes.
“Do you know who killed the Chief of Police?” asked Ostrov.
Trirodov was silent. Ostrov’s whole body twitched as he kept up his absurd sniggering.
“He killed him and went away,” went on Ostrov. “He made his escape by taking advantage of the confusion and the darkness, as the newspapers would say. The police have not caught him to this day, and the authorities do not even know who he is.”
“And do you know?” asked Trirodov in a cold, deliberate voice.
“I know, but I won’t tell you,” replied Ostrov rather venomously.
“You shall tell me,” said Trirodov with conviction. Then he added in even a more loud, determined, and commanding voice:
“Tell me, who killed the Chief of Police?”
Ostrov fell back into his chair. His red face became tinged with a sudden grey pallor. His eyes, now bloodshot, half closed like those of a prostrate doll with the eye mechanism in its stomach. There was witheredness, almost lifelessness, in Ostrov’s voice:
“Poltinin.”
“Your friend?” asked Trirodov. “Well, go on.”
“He is now being sought for,” went on Ostrov in the same lifeless way.
“Why did Poltinin kill the Chief of Police?”
Ostrov resumed his stupid snigger, and said:
“It’s a matter of very delicate politics. That means, it simply had to be done. I won’t tell you why. Indeed, I couldn’t tell you if I really wished to. I don’t know myself, I can only venture to guess. But what is a guess worth?”
“Yes,” said Trirodov, “it is quite true that it is impossible for you to know this. Continue your tale.”
“This same affair,” said Ostrov, “is a very profitable article for us just now. Indeed, an article in the budget, as they say.”
“Why?”
Trirodov’s face did not reveal any astonishment, as Ostrov went on:
“We have Potseluytchikov among us, a very lively individual.”
“A thief?” asked Trirodov abruptly.
Ostrov smiled almost consciously, and said:
“Not exactly a thief, still one’s got to be careful with him. An able man in his way.”
Ostrov’s eyes assumed a frankly insolent expression. Trirodov asked:
“What sort of relation has he to this article in your budget?”
“We send him out to the rich men of the place.”
“To blackmail them?” asked Trirodov.
Ostrov replied with complete readiness:
“Precisely. Let
