"You were supposed to remain with her." Rostnikov sighed.
"Even on the…?"
"You could have waited in the hall. It doesn't matter. You are relieved. Now."
"My duty officer would like you to sign my report, Comrade Inspector," Dunin said, pulling out his notebook. "I've made my morning entry."
Rostnikov removed the books from under his arm, placed them on the table next to Dunin's cup, and reached for the report book.
"I didn't" Dunin began.
Rostnikov held up a hand to stop him and signed his name to the bottom of the report. He could have added a slight reprimand, or a stiff one, for Dunin's lack of caution in opening the door and his failure to stay with Katya. He added nothing, but he looked at young Dunin's face when he returned the notebook.
"Thank you, Comrade," Dunin said, aware that no written comments had been made by the inspector.
"You were lucky, Vadim Malkoliovich," said the inspector, with eyes fixed on the younger man's face.
"I know," agreed Dunin.
"You have an explanation?"
"None," said the young officer.
"Good," said Rostnikov, moving away to sit in a straight-backed wooden chair. "There is hope for you."
Dunin smiled uncertainly and hurried out the front door.
For the first few minutes after Dunin's departure, Rostnikov sat looking around the room and waiting for Katya Rashkovskaya to return. He knew from his previous visit that it was a large apartment with two bedrooms. He knew from previous experience that circus performers were among the privileged, the lower privileged perhaps, but privileged nonetheless. The furniture was comfortable, rather modem, and, Rostnikov was sure, not cheap. He got up and began to wander around, first looking at the bathroom, where the toilet sat silent and wounded. Then he moved to the small first bedroom, which held but a single bed and was decorated with circus posters, colorful posters, of clowns, bears, acrobats, dancers, elephants. Each poster was covered by clear plastic, and if one were to lie in the small bed one would be surrounded by a world of color and movement. The single window in the room let in a bright rectangle of sunlight that fell on the poster of a man precariously balanced on five barrels. The man was smiling, his arms outstretched. It was the room and poster of the man who jumped from Gogol's head. No doubt. It was not a woman's room, and there was something of the energy of Valerian Duznetzov in the posters. Rostnikov pulled open the top drawer of the dark dresser against the wall and found his judgment confirmed by the clothes it contained and by an album of circus photographs, most of which included a smiling Duznetzov. The end of the book included many photographs of the beautiful Katya, whose smile, in contrast to Duznetzov's, was a mask. Rostnikov concluded that the third man hi the photograph, the older bald man with the great chest, must be Pesknoko, the catcher.
"You find it interesting?" Katya Rashkovskaya said with irritation as he flipped to the final page of the album.
He had not heard her enter, a sign of her acrobatic lightness or his own age.
"Yes," said Rostnikov, without turning to look at the woman. "Interesting, sad."
He looked at the last page and slowly returned the album to the drawer.
"You frequently snoop in other people's drawers, the drawers of dead people," she said.
"Frequently," Rostnikov said, turning to face her. "It's my job."
"You enjoy it," she said.
"Usually," he agreed.
She stood hi the doorway to the room, her arms folded in front of her once again, protecting herself. She wore a white dress and a light gray sweater, and her hair was loose and full around her face.
"It is an unpleasant job, a dirty job," she attacked.
"Sometimes unpleasant, sometimes duty," he agreed, again moving toward her. She stepped out of the way as he approached and followed him as he moved to the other bedroom.
"What are you doing now?" she cried, as he opened the second door.
"My job," he said. "I'm trying to find out who killed Pesknoko and frightened Duznetzov to death."
The room he was hi was larger than the other bedroom. No posters, but over the bed a large framed color photograph of Katya and Pesknoko hi white tights. His arm was around her waist, and her smite, unlike that hi the other photographs, was sincere. The blanket on the bed was a soft brown with a flower pattern and looked as if it might be silk.
"I don't want you looking in my drawers," she said.
"I won't."
Rostnikov glanced around the room and backed out into the living room, where he crossed to the small table.
"What do you want?" Katya demanded.
"I brought you the plumbing books," he said, handing her the books. "I also dismissed Dunin. The pistol I will have to keep."
She reached over to take the books from him, a quite puzzled look on her face. The man in front of her was an average-sized, dark crate of a man with a typical Moscow face: flat, dark-eyed, weathered. There seemed to be nothing unusual about him at first glance, but she could see a melancholy irony in his eyes as if he were about to tell a sad but poignant tale. And his words, his words were disarmingly honest. He was, she decided, a man to be wary of.
"Thank you," she said, taking the books and clutching them to her breasts as a schoolgirl would.
"I made a call before I came here," he said. "There is a small park on Leningrad Prospekt just past the airport."
"Near Alabyan Street?"
"Not mat far, but you know the area. On the front page inside the book closest to your heart is the address and name of a woman who will get you a new toilet, will even have her sons deliver it if you can pay the price."
"I can pay the price," Katya said. "Thank you again. Do you want some tea, coffee?"
"No," Rostnikov said.
"Then?"
"I want," said Rostnikov, moving back to the wooden chair, "the name of the person you believe is responsible for the death of Oleg Pesknoko."
"Accidents," she said.
Rostnikov shook his head and looked at his short, knobby fingers laid flat on the table.
"I don't know," she said, angrily dropping the books on the table so that he had to pull his hands back quickly. "What do you want from me?"
'To save your life," he said, setting the books neatly and rising. "But I may not have the time. I am no longer investigating the accidents of yesterday morning. When I leave this apartment, the case will be closed, at least until whoever is responsible kills you."
His eyes met hers again, and she seemed on the verge of speaking but once again held back.
"Then there is nothing to be done," he said, moving to the door. "I'll return for the books in a week. I hope you are alive when I come for them."
"You are trying to frighten me," Katya said.
"Yes," Rostnikov agreed. "But I'm also telling the truth. I have a son in the army. He's just been sent to Afghanistan."
He had paused at the door to say this and turned for her reaction.
"I'm sorry, but… you are a confusing man. Why did you tell me about your son?"
Rostnikov shrugged.
"I don't know," he said. "I really don't. I thought it might somehow persuade you to let me help you. In my work there are far too many failures. Maybe it was as simple as thinking that my son would find you very pretty."
She smiled, showing even teeth.
"I like older gentlemen," she said teasingly.
"Pesknoko," he said.
The smile dropped from her face and she bit her lower lip.
"Yes," she said. "Why is this so important to you? Are you like this about all your investigations?"
"No," he said softly. "Perhaps it is the circus. Perhaps it is the memory of Duznetzov on Gogol's head, the rain splashing against his face. Perhaps it is simply you. I've never known anyone who has shot a toilet. It's an act of outrage I can understand."