Zorinsky caught my sidelong glance. He was lolling in a rocking-chair, with a bland expression on his misformed face as he swung forward and backward, intent on his nails. He looked up, and as our eyes met for the merest instant I saw he had not failed to note my hesitation.
I dropped into the desk-chair and seized a pen.
“Certainly,” I said, “I will inscribe my name at once. This is, indeed, a godsend.”
Zorinsky rose and stood at my side. “You must imitate the writing,” he said. “I am sorry I am not a draftsman to assist you.”
I substituted a pencil for the pen and began to draw my name in outline, copying letters from the handwriting on the certificate. I rapidly detected the essentials of the handwriting, and Zorinsky applauded admiringly as I traced the words—“Joseph Krylenko.” When they were done I finished them off in ink and laid down the pen, very satisfied.
“Occupation?” queried my companion, as quietly as if he were asking the hour.
Occupation! A revolver-shot at my ear could not have startled me more than this simple but completely unexpected query! The two blank lines I took to be left for the name only, but, looking closer, I saw that the second was, indeed, intended for the holder’s business or occupation. The word zaniatia (occupation) was not printed in full, but abbreviated—zan., while these three letters were concealed by the scrawling handwriting of the line below, denoting the age “thirty,” written out in full.
I managed somehow not to jump out of my seat. “Is it essential?” I asked. “I have no occupation.”
“Then you must invent one,” he replied. “You must have some sort of passport with you. What do you show the guards in the street? Copy whatever you have from that.”
Cornered! I had put my foot in it nicely. Zorinsky was inquisitive for some reason or other to learn how I was living and under what name, and had succeeded effectually in discovering part at least of what he wanted to know. There was nothing for it. I reluctantly drew my passport of the Extraordinary Commission from my pocket in order that I might copy the exact wording.
“May I see?” asked my companion, picking up the paper. I scrutinized his face as he slowly perused it. An amused smile flickered round his crooked mouth, one end of which jutted up into his cheek. “A very nice passport indeed,” he said, finally, looking with peculiar care at the signatures. “It will be a long time before you land in the cells of No. 2 Gorokhovaya if you continue like this.”
He turned the paper over. Fortunately the regulation had not yet been published rendering all “documents of identification” invalid unless stamped by one’s house committee, showing the full address. So there was nothing on the back.
“You are a pupil of Melnikoff, that is clear,” he said, laying the paper down on the desk. “By the way, I have something to tell you about Melnikoff. But finish your writing first.”
I soon inscribed my occupation of clerk in an office of the Extraordinary Commission, adding also “six” to the age to conform with my other papers. As I traced the letters I tried to sum up the situation. Melnikoff, I hoped, would now soon be free, but misgivings began to arise regarding my own position, which I had a disquieting suspicion had in some way become jeopardized as a result of the disclosures I had had to make that evening to Zorinsky.
When I had finished I folded the exemption certificate and put it with my passport in my pocket.
“Well, what is the news of Melnikoff?” I said.
Zorinsky was engrossed in Pravda, the official Press organ of the Communist Party. “I beg your pardon? Oh, yes—Melnikoff. I have no doubt he will be released, but the investigator wants the whole 60,000 roubles first.”
“That is strange,” I observed, surprised. “You told me he would only want the second half after Melnikoff’s release.”
“True. But I suppose now he fears he won’t have time to get it, since he also will have to quit.”
“And meanwhile what guarantee have I—have we—that the investigator will fulfil his pledge?”
Zorinsky looked indifferently over the top of his newspaper.
“Guarantee? None,” he replied, in his usual laconic manner.
“Then why the devil should I throw away another 30,000 roubles on the off-chance—?”
“You needn’t if you don’t want to,” he put in, in the same tone.
“Are you not interested in the subject?” I said, secretly indignant at his manner.
“Of course I am. But what is the use of getting on one’s hind-legs about it? The investigator wants his money in advance. Without it, he will certainly risk nothing. With it, he may, and there’s an end of it. If I were you I would pay up, if you want Melnikoff let out. What is the good of losing your first 30,000 for nothing? You won’t get that back, anyway.”
I thought for a moment. It seemed to me highly improbable that a rascal investigator, having got his money, would deliberately elect to put his neck in a noose to save someone he didn’t care two pins about. Was there no other means of effecting the escape? I thought of the Policeman. But with inquiries being made along one line, inquiries along a second would doubtless be detected by the first, with all sorts of undesirable complications and discoveries. An idea occurred to me.
“Can we not threaten the life of the investigator if he plays false?” I suggested.
Zorinsky considered. “You mean hire someone to shoot him? That would cost a lot of money and we should be in the hands of our hired assassin as much as we are now in those of our investigator, while if he were shot we should lose the last chance of saving
