"On the contrary, Comrade Inspector," said Karpo. "It is striker fired and… You are making a joke of some kind?"
"A poor one, Emil," said Rostnikov with a sigh, looking at Tkach, who stared into his empty teacup.
Rostnikov caught his wife's eye and nodded at Tkach.
"More tea, Sasha?" Sarah asked, getting up.
"A little," he said, pushing back the wisp of hair mat fell over his eyes.
"Sasha was saying that the baby is outgrowing her clothes," Sarah said, moving to the teakettle on the stove hi the kitchen. "She'll be ready for the suit I knitted for her when the first cold days come."
Rostnikov removed the pistol from the table, placed it back in his pocket, chewed on his bread, and waited. Sarah came back with a cup of tea for him and poured more for Tkach, who thanked her.
"Today I went to the circus, the New Circus," Rostnikov said after swallowing a mouthful of bread.
"I was near there this morning, near the university," Tkach said. He seemed about to add something but stopped.
"All right," Rostnikov said with a sigh. "Emil, you begin."
Karpo looked at Sarah and then at Sasha before fixing his eyes on Rostnikov and saying, "You were principal investigator on the murder of Sonia Melyodska, a soldier, in the Vdnkh Metro Station last year. You filed a report."
"In November, the third week," Rostnikov said, reaching for another piece of bread.
"Precisely," Karpo agreed.
"And?"
"And why did you file the report with those of the serial killer of prostitutes?" Karpo asked.
The normal question at this point might have been Why do you want to know? or What's going on? But Rostnikov had learned to be patient with Emil Karpo, whose own patience was infinite and whose sense of humor was nonexistent.
"I did not file it with the reports on the serial killer of prostitutes," Rostnikov said. "It never entered my head that there could be a connection. I investigated for two weeks, relatives and friends of the murdered woman, the possibility of a random killing by a subway thief. I worked with Zelach searching for witnesses. Nothing. I submitted the report to open file."
"I found it in the file of murdered prostitutes," Karpo said.
Rostnikov was well aware that the prostitute killer was not Karpo's responsibility. It might be reasonable to ask why he was even reading the file. Rostnikov didn't ask. Instead he looked at Sasha Tkach, who didn't appear to be listening.
"Sasha," Rostnikov said, rubbing the stubble on his own chin. "How would you account for this puzzle?"
"I, I wasn't…" Tkach stammered as if awakened from sleep.
"You should," Rostnikov said.
Sarah asked if the two guests were staying for dinner. Both said they were not. She excused herself and began working in the kitchen while the three men continued.
"Emil has found a report on a murder I investigated in the wrong file," Rostnikov explained.
"A misfiling." Tkach shrugged. "Someone pulled your report and accidentally placed it in the wrong file. It happens."
"The number on Inspector Rostnikov's report is in the three hundred series. The number of the serial killing file is in the two hundred series. They are not close," said Karpo. "In addition, the original number on Inspector Rostnikov's report has been lined out and the new number written neatly in its place. There are no initials to indicate who did this or why."
"So?" asked Tkach, looking at Rostnikov.
"Someone must think my killer and the serial killer are the same," said Rostnikov. "But who thinks so and why? Why would anyone besides me even pull the report? Why would they refile it without talking to me and to the investigator in charge of the serial murders? I gather that"
"I called Inspector Ivanov," said Karpo. "No one spoke to him about the report. He did not make the change. He suggested that I simply pull it out and return the report to the proper file."
"No doubt he also wanted to know why you were reading the file of a case assigned to him," Rostnikov said.
"I told him it seemed to be tied in to a case on which I was working," said Karpo.
"Well, Sasha?" asked Rostnikov, reaching for the last of the bread. The smell of boiling rassolnik rybny, noodle soup, had reminded Rostnikov of his hunger.
"A joker
"The risks associated with such a joke make that unlikely," said Karpo, who had obviously thought about this possibility.
"A lunatic in the file room?" Tkach tried again. "Sabotage? The KGB? A test?"
"All possible," said Rostnikov. "But there is another possibility."
"I don't see it," sighed Tkach.
"That there is a person, possibly an officer, who has access to the files and knows something but is unwilling or unable to come forward and say it. Perhaps he knows of KGB involvement in the murders, or mat a prominent figure or the relative of a prominent figure, possibly even a member of the Politburo, is involved in die murders. It has happened before. This officer is suggesting that someone else pick up the pieces."
"There is another possibility," said Karpo.
"That the murderer is a police officer who wanted the reports of his killings kept together," said Tkach.
Rostnikov smiled in appreciation and reached over to pat the younger man's back.
"Stay for soup," he said. "Sarah, is there enough soup?"
"Enough for all. More than you and I can eat," she called back.
Tkach nodded and Karpo said nothing for an instant and then nodded his agreement. Rostnikov got up and moved into the kitchen to get another loaf of bread. Sarah looked at him as she cut a cucumber.
"Don't look like that, Porfiry Petrovich," she said quietly.
"Look? Look like what?" he answered, reaching over her for the day-old black bread in the cupboard.
"We'll talk about it later," she whispered.
"Talk about?"
"Josef," she said. She cut the cucumber into smaller pieces, turning her head from him. "I got a call at the shop today to tell me that he had been, had been transferred to Afghanistan. They said they had already told you."
"That was kind of them," Rostnikov said, putting his arm around her shoulder.
A FEVERED RAIN "No, it wasn't," she said, holding back the tears.
"No, it wasn't," he agreed. "It was a warning to me, to us."
She said nothing.
"We'll talk later," he said and returned to die other room to pass the bread around and pour fresh tea.
For the next half hour they worked out a plan to deal with Karpo's case. Only after they had finished their dinner did Rostnikov turn to Tkach.
'This morning I located, and obtained evidence against, two black marketers dealing in video recorders and videotapes," he said. "I turned my report in to Deputy Procurator Khabolov, who said that he would personally investigate. I believe he may plan to profit by and from these black marketers."
"And this surprises you?" Rostnikov said, looking at Karpo, whose thin lips were even more pale and tight than usual. Corruption was accepted by most Soviet citizens, but to Emil Karpo every act of corruption was an attack on the system to which he had dedicated his life. Corruption by a member of the police was especially painful. Karpo's impulse, Rostnikov was sure, was to confront and punish, to punish severely.
"No," sighed Tkach. "I'm afraid that I will be used to cover for whatever he plans to do, that I will be blamed if he is found out."
"A reasonable conclusion, from what we know of Deputy Khabolov," said Rostnikov. "And you'd like some help in protecting yourself?"
"Yes," said Tkach.
"And the black marketers?" asked Rostnikov.
Tkach shrugged.
"One of them has a daughter, a young girl," Tkach said softly. "She's about nine or ten."
Rostnikov looked at Karpo, who betrayed his feelings only by meeting the inspector's eyes.
"Emil Karpo thinks that the existence of the child is not relevant, mat we do not excuse corruption for any cause, that the child might well be better off as a ward of the state. Am I right, Emil?"