When they pulled up to the apartment building where Simon Lvov lived, Rostnikov told the driver to turn off the engine.
It was easy to find the apartment of Simon Lvov. What proved to be more difficult was getting the old man to open the door.
“Lvov,” Rostnikov shouted, after knocking loudly. “I can hear you in there. This is the police. I’ll give you fifteen seconds to open the door, and then I call my man in to shoot it down.” Rostnikov knew he would do nothing of the kind, but he was not worried about losing face in front of this old dissident who had some information he might be able to use.
“You have ten seconds,” he said, not knowing if five, ten, or thirty seconds had passed.
Behind the door he could hear the shuffling of furniture, something heavy being moved and then the padding of footsteps to the door. A chain was pulled and a latch thrown before the door creaked open.
Rostnikov pushed his way in and turned on the tall, thin grey man in a worn purple robe that failed to cover his white boney knees.
“You are Simon Lvov?” Rostnikov barked.
“Yes, I…”
“I am Chief Inspector Rostnikov. You will sit, and I will sit, and you will answer some questions.”
Lvov sat dutifully across from the policeman, who stared at him. Rostnikov felt a stirring in him to back off. The old man before him was a pathetic, drifting creature, showing none of the elusiveness of tongue or mind that Tkach had reported. Either something had changed him, or Tkach had badly misjudged the man, which was unlikely.
“What did Malenko tell you?” he asked.
“Malenko?”
“Ilyusha Malenko. You saw him, met him. You know where he is hiding, what he is going to do. You can be put on trial for aiding a murderer.”
Lvov pushed his glasses back on his nose, and a spasm rippled across his face.
“He was going to kill me,” Lvov said. “I thought I didn’t care, but when the moment came, I cared very much.”
“What did he say? Why didn’t he kill you? Where is he?”
“I don’t know,” said the old man. “He said he had to even things with Granovsky. That killing me would not do it.”
“Even things?” Rostnikov asked. “What quarrel did he have with Granovsky?”
“I don’t know,” said Lvov. “They were friends, more like-I don’t know. Ilyusha worshiped Alek, would have done anything for him. Then this.”
“There has to be a reason,” Rostnikov insisted. “Why kill his friend and his own wife? Why-was there something between Granovsky and Malenko’s wife?” The idea seemed obvious and yet elusive. It depended totally on the association of the two murders for a motive. It meant, as Rostnikov was certain anyway, that Malenko was the sole murderer.
“Perhaps,” shrugged Lvov.
“Only perhaps?”
“It is quite likely,” said Lvov quietly. “Aleksander was an articulate and brave leader, but he was in many ways less than an honorable man.”
“It makes no sense,” said Rostnikov almost to himself. “If he caught them, why didn’t he kill them together, or her first? If she confessed, why did he kill Granovsky first? You see?”
“No,” said Lvov, who clearly did not see.
“Who told him about his wife and Granovsky, the man he worshipped like a father?”
“I don’t know,” said Lvov. “Would you like some tea?”
“No,” mused Rostnikov. “He said he had to make it even. That there were two of them. Perhaps he means to murder his father and stepmother.”
“Perhaps,” agreed Lvov, rising and moving slowly across the floor on thin white legs to prepare some tea.
“Two of them,” Rostnikov repeated and then the image came into his mind. It was a pair of thin shadows, and then the light touched them, and they had faces and the faces were those of Sonya and Natasha Granovsky.
He was back in the car in less than twenty seconds. The driver started the engine as soon as Rostnikov got in and shouted for him to hurry to Dimitry Ulanov Drive.
The driver turned as if to speak, saw Rostnikov’s pale face, and said nothing.
“Hurry, hurry,” urged the police inspector, and the driver hurried.
He was the best driver Rostnikov had ever seen. They took corners, even still icy ones, without a skid and without a slowdown. His hands remained steady and he anticipated lights and pedestrians as he sped through the streets. The trip took no more than ten minutes.
“Listen,” he told the driver as he got out. “We are looking for a man named Malenko, Ilyusha Malenko. He is twenty-eight and probably wearing a black coat. You don’t let anyone out of that door who even vaguely might be Malenko. You understand?”
“I understand,” the driver said, getting out and unbuttoning his holster.
“Good. I think he has killed three people and is quite dangerous. I would like him alive, but if that is not possible…You understand.”
Rostnikov hurried into the hall and to the elevator, but a sign was hung on it, indicating that it was out of order. Rostnikov began the climb up the stairs. He tried to hurry, but his leg denied him. At the third floor, he had to rest. Two young teen-age boys hurried past the exhausted man and fell into silence until they were a floor below him, where they said something about him being drunk. Rostnikov forced himself up. By the sixth floor he was in pain and dragging his foot. It struck him only then that he had no gun with him. He seldom used one. It was not that he was against the use of weapons, but the need came up so seldom that he left his gun locked in a drawer in his office.
There was no time to worry about it. He plunged down the hall, found the door, and knocked.
“Mrs. Granovsky. Sonya Granovsky,” he cried.
There was no answer. Rostnikov wasn’t sure of how strong the door was. In truth, at the moment, he wasn’t sure of how strong he was, but he planned to try. There was little room in the narrow corridor. He pushed himself against the wall opposite the door, placed his palms against the wall behind him, braced his bad foot and lifted his good one for a kick. He had taken two deep breaths and was about to kick, when he heard something behind the door. A movement. Something. He hesitated, stood up, and leaned forward to listen.
“Is someone in there?” he called. Silence. “Is someone in there?”
The door began to open, and the face of Sonya Granovsky appeared.
“Yes?” she said.
“It is me, Inspector Rostnikov. You remember me from the other night?”
“I remember you.” She looked thin and ill, as if she were about to collapse.
“May I come in?” he asked gently.
“No,” she said. “I’m afraid I…”
“I’ll have to insist,” he said as kindly as he could. She backed away and he entered carefully, ready.
“Where is your daughter?” he asked.
“Sleeping in the next room,” she said, folding her hands over her thin breasts and hugging herself as she sat in a wooden chair and failed to meet his eyes. There was something like the attitude of Simon Lvov about her.
“Late to be sleeping, isn’t it?” he asked, taking a step toward the closed door.
Sonya Granovsky stood up quickly and nervously, her right hand out to stop him.
“No,” she said, her voice breaking. “She’s been upset since…all this. Please let her sleep.”
Rostnikov turned from the door and supported himself on the edge of the sofa where he had first seen the two women. If something was in that room with which he had to deal, it would be best dealt with when his strength returned.
“Have you seen Ilyusha Malenko recently?” Rostnikov tried.
Sonya Granovsky collapsed back into the chair as if he had slapped her. Her head shook fiercely.
“No, no, no,” she said, without looking up.
“You have seen him,” Rostnikov repeated. “And you know what he has done.”