"What is your name?"
"Viktor," said the old man, swaying and looking at the key in his hand.
"Viktor," Tkach whispered. "Go down to the bottom of the stairs and wait for us. Wait as long as it takes. When we are finished, we will take you home."
"All the floors look alike," said Viktor trying to focus on the doors down the hall. "I think I live down." He pointed at the floor.
"Then go down to the next floor and see if you live there. If you don't, then go to the floor below that. Work your way down and if you fail to find your apartment we will find you waiting at the bottom and will take you home."
"What if I live up?" Viktor said softly in triumph, pointing to the ceiling.
"We will find out later," whispered Tkach, resisting the terrible urge to strangle the old man. Nothing was ever simple.
"I don't think I live in this building at all," Viktor announced, pulling a bent cigarette out of his pocket and putting it into his mouth so he could continue this fascinating conversation at leisure. "I have no match."
Tkach had a flash of inspiration.
"Well," he whispered. "Knock on that door and ask for one. The man in there has matches. Don't let him tell you otherwise. And don't mention us. You understand."
"Am I a fool?" asked Viktor, swaying and pointing at his chest with his key.
"Knock and ask," Tkach said, and the old man staggered to the door and knocked.
"Louder," Tkach whispered looking at Zelach, who grinned showing his quite uneven teeth.
Viktor, bent cigarette dangling from his thin lips, knocked again and called out, "I need a match."
Volovkatin's apartment was silent. Tkach mimed a knock for Viktor who nodded in understanding and knocked five times.
"I need a match, Comrade. I am a drunken old fool in need of a match and I know someone is in there. I was told by…" Tkach put up a warning hand and Viktor winked. "…a little brhat, a brother."
He knocked again and sang, "I need a maaatch."
Something stirred in the apartment. Zelach and Tkach went flat against the wall and pulled out their pistols. Viktor looked at them with new interest and as the door started to open Tkach motioned for the old man to look at the door and not at them. It was beyond his ability.
The door came open a crack while Viktor stood staring to his right at Zelach's pistol.
Tkach stepped out, kicked at the door, pushed Viktor out of the way and jumped into the apartment his gun leveled and ready but it wasn't necessary. Volovkatin, his hands going up automatically, stepped back looking at Tkach and Zelach.
"Don't shoot me," he said.
Tkach's eyes took in a warehouse of a room, a floor-to-ceiling collection of phonographs, cameras, coats, hats, tape recorders, television sets, even three computers. There was barely enough room amid the mismatched furniture and boxes containing, as Tkach saw, watches, jewelry and wallets, to fit three people in the room.
"We don't intend to shoot you," said Tkach.
"I saw something like this in a magazine or a movie or on the television or something," Viktor said, stepping into the already crowded room and looking around.
"Volovkatin," said Tkach. "You are arrested."
"Arrested," sighed Volovkatin touching his forehead, looking over his glasses in panic. He wore a threadbare suit and tie but the tie was loose and off to one side. He needed a shave. "We can come to an understanding. Look, look around. There's plenty here. You want a television? Take a television. Take a television for each of you, a television and a watch. I've even got Swiss watches, American, French, anything."
"I'll take a watch and a television and that chair," said Viktor trying to step past Zelach on his way to the television.
"Comrade," Zelach said reaching over to grab the old man by the neck. "Go out in the hall."
"He gave me a television," Viktor insisted. "I'm a Soviet citizen, have been since before any of you were born."
"Get him out," Tkach cried and Zelach turned the old man and marched him out the door into the hall.
"There's enough here to make you rich," Volovkatin said to Tkach, looking at the door beyond which they could hear Viktor shouting about his rights. "I'm waiting for a friend with a truck, a truck will be downstairs in a few minutes, maybe even now. I could fill it up, leave things for you, anything. Or we can drop them right at your home, yours and the other policeman's. You never saw me."
"I see you," Tkach said. "I see you very clearly. Zelach," he called, and Zelach came running in. "There's a truck downstairs or will be in a minute or two. Arrest the driver and call for a car to take us all to Petrovka."
Volovkatin gave up and Tkach felt a strange mixture of triumph and failure. This didn't feel as good as he had expected. It didn't quite compensate for what had happened this afternoon, but it would have to do.
Ten minutes later, the two policemen and two suspects were on their way to Petrovka. One minute after they had left, a drunken old man who had regained a bit of his sobriety opened the unlocked door of Volovkatin's apartment, turned on the light, looked around at the treasures before him and began to weep with joy.
"Hardly the most antiseptic conditions possible," Samsonov said stepping back from the bed on which old Mirasnikov lay with his eyes closed. Samsonov had put his instruments and bandages back in the black bag he had been working from. "He will probably live."
Liana Mirasnikov heard, gripped her bulky dress with withered white knuckles and let out a wail of relief or anguish. Sergei Mirasnikov opened one eye and looked at her with distaste.
Samsonov's blue sweater was spotted with blotches of blood. There were also spots of blood on his cheek and hands. Ludmilla Samsonov, whose hair hung down on one side and whose hands and gray dress were flecked with blood, stood next to her husband smiling, and touched his cheek.
"The bullet went through," Samsonov said, taking his wife's hand. "Quite a bit of blood and he may have trouble using his right arm though the muscles are generally intact. For an old man, he is in remarkable condition. A Moscovite his age would be dead."
Rostnikov had trouble keeping his eyes on the doctor rather than the doctor's wife, but he forced himself to do so.
"Thank you, Doctor," Rostnikov said.
"Someone will have to stay with him all night and call me if his breathing changes," Samsonov said looking back at his patient.
"I'll stay," said Ludmilla.
"I think it a better idea that Inspector Karpo and I take turns remaining with Mirasnikov," Rostnikov said confidentially over a sudden renewal of wailing by the old woman. "The person who shot him might want to make another attempt."
"Why would anyone want to kill Mirasnikov?" asked Ludmilla moving close to her husband with a shudder.
"The object of the attack was not Mirasnikov," Rostnikov explained. "I was the one shot at. The old one came out to help me."
"Does that mean you know something about Karla's murder?" Ludmilla Samsonov said hopefully. With the excuse to look at her, Rostnikov turned his head and smiled.
"Probably more about Commissar Rutkin's murder," he said gently. "The problem is that I'm not sure what I know."
"I don't…" she began, looking with puzzlement at Rostnikov, Karpo and her husband.
"And what are you going to do, Inspector?" Samsonov demanded rather than asked.
"I have several ideas. For now, and forgive me for moving into your province, I think Mirasnikov should get some rest."
"Yes," agreed Samsonov, "and if you will forgive me for moving into your province, I remind you that my daughter's killer is somewhere in this town in bed sleeping when he should be dead."
"I'll not forget your daughter's death," Rostnikov said, his voice a promise.