“A perfume for men,” the burly Vostok repeated incredulously. “For men to wear, like the aristocrats before the Revolution?”
“Yes,” agreed Rostnikov.
“Like women in France?” Inspector Vostok continued.
“Something like that,” agreed Rostnikov. “Where did you get it?”
“In the room of one of those three boys, the ones who were caught robbing the liquor store,” Vostok said, staring at the paper in his ruddy hands.
“The dead boy’s room?” asked Rostnikov.
Vostok shrugged. “I don’t know.” And then he was gone.
This was the point at which Tkach had reached Rostnikov by phone, after which Rostnikov called and missed Karpo. He immediately ordered a car and headed for Petro Street. The driver was the same one who had taken him to Granovsky’s two nights earlier. He said nothing, which suited Rostnikov.
Tkach was standing in the door of the Malenko apartment, transfixed by the bloody figure of the dead woman. It was still morning, and the bright light of day made every detail of the scene clear and repulsively beautiful.
“Three in two days,” Rostnikov said easing past the younger man. “Did you call the evidence people?”
“Yes, immediately after I called you,” said Tkach.
“Good, have you looked around?”
“Yes,” said Tkach. “The murder weapon appears to be a hammer found on the floor. No good fingerprints on it. I can find no picture of Ilyusha Malenko but I will find one and get it out to the uniformed…”
Rostnikov looked up at the corpse and wondered at the fury that had caused such an assault.
“You think the husband did this, then?” he said.
“Yes, of course. He killed Granovsky, the cab driver, and his wife.”
“Hmmm,” said Rostnikov. “You don’t think the poor man could simply be wandering around Moscow or at school or visiting, unaware that someone has done this?”
“No,” said Tkach. “It is so unlikely as to not be reasonable. He lives on Petro Street, and his wife and friend are both killed within a day’s time.”
“Maybe he is scheduled to be the next victim,” Rostnikov tried.
Tkach was confused but convinced of his observation.
“No, I talked to him yesterday. He was strange. I can see that now. When we find him, I’m sure we will find the murderer.”
“His motive,” said Rostnikov opening a dresser drawer. “Why?”
“He is clearly mad,” Tkach almost laughed.
“Yes,” nodded Rostnikov, “but even a madman has reasons, even mad reasons. He didn’t kill you yesterday. There are certainly others he has met in the last two days whom he has not felt the need to murder with some tool at hand.”
“I don’t know,” said Tkach. “We can find that out when we find him.”
“Yes,” said Rostnikov, “but if we know why he did these things, the possibility would exist to prevent him from doing even more.”
“I see,” said Tkach.
“Then, while we are trying to find Ilya Malenko, it might be a good idea to see some more of his and Granovsky’s friends to try to puzzle this out. Take your list and go.”
Tkach went and Rostnikov stood alone. He had avoided staring at the corpse with Tkach present. Now he felt himself compelled to do so, not for professional reasons, but for reasons he could not fully understand. He felt the need to reach up and take her down. He could do it easily. Her weight was nothing. There was so little of her, but it was a weight he could not lift. She was an accusing weight.
An hour later he was back in Procurator Timofeyeva’s office, in the same black chair, the same cold room. He watched the square of a woman eat a sandwich and drink some tea at her desk. She looked as if she had not slept. She had offered him tea, but he had refused. His task would not be easy.
“So,” he said. “There is reason to believe that Ilya Malenko killed Granovsky.”
“Not necessarily,” she said, holding up a finger to which a large bread crumb adhered. “He could have killed his wife and Vonovich have killed the others.”
“Possible,” said Rostnikov. “Very coincidental. We don’t have that many murders in Moscow. Even if Malenko didn’t kill his wife it is certain that Vonovich, who was with us, did not do it. There is a connection.”
Procurator Timofeyeva removed her glasses and massaged the bridge of her nose with her thumb and forefinger never putting down the sandwich of stale bread, and savoring every bit of gastronomical discomfort.
“Not necessarily,” she said.
“As you say, Comrade Procurator,” Rostnikov agreed. “However, I may assume that I can pursue the murderer of Marie Malenko?”
Procurator Timofeyeva rose, her face a sudden crimson, and threw her sandwich on the desk. The sandwich crumbled, confirming Rostnikov’s belief that it was stale.
“Rostnikov, it is not that simple. There are political ramifications that go beyond-”
“Beyond catching the right murderer?” Rostnikov continued.
“Perhaps even that,” she shouted, retrieving the parts of her scattered cheese sandwich. “Perhaps even that. The state and its needs go beyond the justice of one particular murder. We are not naïve Swedes or Americans who place such simple concepts up as truths which will rule the world and make men just, true, and honorable. Choices must be made. There are few absolutes. There are just situations.”
“Am I to ignore this last murder, then?” he asked as innocently as he could.
Procurator Timofeyeva sipped some tea and looked at him.
“No,” she said. “Go ahead, but report what you find to me. At the moment the Granovsky murder is solved, the murderer has been caught. If we find that this Malenko killed his wife, it is another matter, another crime. You are not to connect the murders in any way without first discussing the situation with me. You understand?”
“Yes, Comrade Procurator.”
“Then you may get back to work,” she said, looking up to Lenin for inspiration. “And Porfiry, heed my words. Be careful.”
He closed the door behind him and went back to his office. The barking of the police dogs coming off of another shift came to him from afar. Back in his office, he found his two guest seats occupied. In one slumbered Emil Karpo, his bandaged arm dirty. In the other sat a ragged, docile, little man.
“I think he needs a doctor,” said the man as soon as Rostnikov entered.
Rostnikov went to his phone and barked an order into it and then hung up.
“He insisted on coming here,” the man said looking protectively at Karpo.
“And you?” asked Rostnikov. “Who are you?”
“An actor,” said Kroft.
“Then thank you actor and you may go after you fill out a report on what happened,” said Rostnikov, who moved to examine Karpo.
“I’m an actor first and a criminal second,” the man said. “He was arresting me when he got hurt. I greatly respect the police, but don’t you think you should be more careful of those you send out on such assignments?”
Karpo seemed to be more in a coma than asleep, and Rostnikov went back to his chair. He and Kroft looked at each other.
“You remind me a little of Ibiensky, the strong man in the circus,” Kroft observed.
Rostnikov woke from his thoughts and examined the man, who suddenly seemed much wiser and more perceptive.
“I lift weights,” Rostnikov answered.
“I could tell,” said Kroft with satisfaction, rubbing the grey stubble on his chin. “I was with the circus for almost thirty-five years. I learned all of Ibiensky’s tricks.”
Rostnikov’s eyes lit with interest, and he leaned forward.
“You did?” he asked.
CHAPTER NINE
“Where is the other driver?” Rostnikov asked settling into the rear of the police Volga. The temperature had crept up to nineteen or twenty degrees fahrenheit, with no snow falling. He could have taken a train, but he would have spent a good part of his day in transportation, and Procurator Timofeyeva had urged him to conclude his investigation swiftly.