“Where is the landlord?” Rusty asked him.
“He was killed, your honor.” After saying this, Nicholas blinked, and started to cry.
“We know that he was killed. But where is he now? Where is his body?”
“People say that they pushed his body through the window and buried it in the garden.”
“Really? Hmm. The results of this investigation have already leaked to the servants.”
“This is bad. Please, tell us, my dear, where were you on the night the landlord was killed, that is, on Saturday night?”
Nicholas lifted his head, stretched his neck and thought for a while.
“I don’t know sir. I was drunk and I don’t remember anything.
“Alibi,” Dukovsky whispered, smiled and rubbed his hands.
“Well, all right. And why is there blood under the landlord’s window?”
Nicholas looked up and thought again.
“Think faster,” the police officer said to him.
“Wait a minute! That blood came from nothing, just from a chicken, your honor. I had to kill a chicken for the kitchen. I cut its neck, as I always do, but then the chicken got away from me, and ran across the garden. That’s where the blood came from.”
Efrem testified that Nicholas really did slaughter chickens for the kitchen, in different places every time, but no one thought that a chicken with its throat half cut could run across the garden. On the other hand, no one could deny it either.
“Alibi,” smiled Dukovsky. “And what a stupid alibi.”
“Were you close to Annie?”
“Yes, I sinned with her.”
“And did the landlord take her away from you?”
“Not exactly. Right after me, it was Mr. Post, then Ivan Mikhailovich, and then it was milord himself. That’s how I was.”
Post looked embarrassed and scratched his left eye. Dukovsky stared at him closely, read the embarrassment on his face, and trembled. He noticed dark blue pants which the manager wore, a detail to which he had previously paid no attention. The pants reminded him of the blue thread he had found on the bush.
Rusty, in his turn, looked suspiciously at Post.
“You can go,” he said to Nicolas.
“And now, may I ask you a question, Mr. Post. You were definitely here on Saturday night, weren’t you?”
“Yes, at ten p.m. I had a dinner with Mark lvanovich.”
“And what happened then?”
Post became embarrassed, and stood up from the table.
“Then—then—I don’t remember,” he mumbled. “I drank a lot that day. I don’t even recall where I fell asleep. Why are you all looking at me this way? Do you think that I killed him?”
“Where did you get up the next morning?”
“In the servants’ room, in a small bed next to the oven. Anyone can testify to that. I don’t remember how I got there though.”
“Please don’t get excited. Do you know Annie?”
“There was nothing special about her.”
“Did you pass her on to Banks?”
“Yes. Hey, Efrem, bring us some more mushrooms. Do you want any more tea, Egraf Kuzmich?”
After these words, there was a heavy, horrifying silence which lasted for about five minutes. Dukovsky remained silent and stared at Post’s pale face, as if he wanted to hypnotize it with his sharp eyes. The detective broke the silence,
“We should go to the big house, and talk to Maria Ivanovna. I wonder whether she might be helpful to us.”
Rusty and his assistant thanked Post for the breakfast and went to the manor house. There, they found Maria Ivanovna, a forty-five-year-old spinster who was Banks’s sister, in the family room. She grew pale when she saw the large leather bags in the guests’ hands, and the badges on their uniform caps.
“First of all, dear lady, I must beg your forgiveness for interrupting your, so to speak, special mood,” started the old detective in a very gallant and courteous manner. “We have come to you to ask just a few questions. You must have heard about what has happened. We think that your brother was, so to speak, killed. Well, no one can escape from death, neither kings, nor peasants. Can you please help us with any advice, or explanation?”
“Oh, don’t ask me,” said Maria Ivanovna, growing ever more pale and covering her face with her palms. “I can’t tell you anything. Anything. Please, I beg you. I can’t. What can I do? Oh, no. Not a word about my brother! No, even if I have to die, I won’t tell you!”
Maria Ivanovna burst out crying, and ran into another room. The detectives exchanged glances, shrugged their shoulders, and prepared to leave.
“Damned woman,” swore Dukovsky as they were leaving the mansion.
“She probably knows something, but she won’t tell us about it! Oh, have you noticed it? The maid had a very strange expression on her face, as if she knew something too. Just wait, you fools! We will discover everything!”
In the evening, Rusty and his assistant were going home along the pale moonlit road. They sat in the carriage and thought over the results achieved during the day. They were both tired and silent. Rusty did not like to talk on the way, as a rule, and the talkative Dukovsky kept silence to please the old man. At the end of the road, however, the assistant detective could not bear the silence, and broke it.
“Nicholas is involved in the case,” he said, “and this fact cannot be disputed. Just look at his face! I also have no doubt that, however, he is not the organizer of the crime. He is a stupid tool, and he was hired to kill. Do you follow me? The humble Post plays a role in this case as welclass="underline" the blue pants, the embarrassment, lying on the bed, scared after the murder, no alibi, and then there’s Annie.”
“You can talk as much as you want; this is all just an empty chatter. So, you think that the killer must be among those who knew Annie? This conclusion is too hasty. You are too young for your job. You are a sucker. You should be sucking milk, and not investigating crimes. You were also among those who tried to flirt with Annie—does that mean anything? Annie—she lived at your house as your cook for a month, but I’m not leaping to any conclusions. On Saturday night, I played cards with you. I saw you on that night, with my own eyes; otherwise I would have suspected you as well.”
“The problem is not just this woman, it’s all the mean, nasty feelings that we have. A humble young man is angry about his disappointment in love. His ego suffers. He wants revenge. Next point. His thick lips indicate his strong sensitivity. Remember how he smacked his lips, when he spoke about Annie? I have no doubt that this scoundrel is dying from hidden passion. We can see here his hurt pride and unsatisfied lust. This is reason enough to commit murder. We have two persons on our hands. Who is the third one? Nicholas and Post held him. But who actually strangled him? Post is a humble man who is afraid of everything. And people like Nicholas simply do not know how to strangle with a pillow. If they kill, they kill with an axe. There must be someone else, the third person who strangled him, but who is it?”
Dukovsky moved his hat over his eyes and became lost in his thoughts. He kept silence until the moment the carriage arrived at the detective’s house.
“I have it now!” he cried out, as they came into the house and he took off his coat. “I’ve got it. I am surprised that it never struck me before! Do you know who the third person was?’
“Stop it, please! Here, supper is ready. Take a seat at the table, and let’s eat!”
The detective and Dukovsky sat down to have supper. Dukovsky poured a shot of vodka for himself, stood up, stretched himself and said, with his eyes shining,
“You must know the name of the third person who acted with the scoundrel Post. You should know that this was a woman! I am talking about the landlord’s sister, Maria Ivanovna.”