“Did Snegovoi mention where he was going?”
“No, he never told me where he went.”
“But you guessed?”
“Well, I think I had an idea. To a proving ground, or something like that.”
“Did he tell you anything about it?”
“No, of course not. We never spoke about his work.”
“Then what do you base your guess on?”
Malianov shrugged. What did he base it on? It’s impossible to explain things like that. It was clear that the man worked in a deep bunker, his face and hands were all burned, and he had a manner that corresponded to that kind of work… and the fact that he refused to discuss his work.
“I don’t know. I just always thought so. I don’t know.”
“Did he introduce you to any of his friends?”
“No, never.”
“His wife?”
“Is he married? I always thought he was a bachelor or a widower.”
“Why did you think so?”
“I don’t know,” Malianov said angrily. “Intuition.”
“Perhaps your wife told you so?”
“Irina? How would she know?”
“That’s what I would like to clear up.”
They stared at each other in silence.
“I don’t understand,” Malianov said. “What is it you want to clear up?”
“How your wife knew that Snegovoi wasn’t married.”
“Ah… she knew that?”
Zykov did not reply. He was staring intently at Malianov and his pupils dilated and contracted ominously. Malianov was on edge. He thought he would start banging his fist on the wall, drooling, and losing face if it lasted one more second. He couldn’t stand it anymore. This whole conversation had some evil subtext, it was all like a sticky web, and for some reason Irina was being dragged into it.
“Well, all right,” Zykov said suddenly, shutting the note pad with a snap. “So the cognac is here,” he pointed at the bar, “and the vodka is in the refrigerator. Which do you prefer? Personally?”
“Me?”
“Yes. You. Personally.”
“Cognac,” Malianov said hoarsely and swallowed. His throat was dry.
“Wonderful!” Zykov said cheerfully; he stood up and walked with small steps over to the bar. “We won’t have far to go! Here we go,” he said digging through the bar. “Ah, you even have some lemon—a little dry, but all right. Which glasses? Let’s use these blue ones.”
Malianov watched listlessly as Zykov deftly set up the glasses on the table, sliced the lemon thin, and uncorked the bottle.
“You know, speaking frankly, you’re in bad shape. Naturally it’s all up to the courts, but I’ve been at this for ten years, and I have some experience in these matters. And you can always guess what sentence each case will get. You won’t get the maximum, of course, but I can guarantee you fifteen, at least.” He poured the cognac carefully into the glasses without spilling a drop. “Of course, there may always be mitigating circumstances, but for now, frankly, I don’t see any—I just don’t see any, Dmitri! Well!” He raised his glass and nodded invitingly.
Malianov took his glass with numb fingers.
“All right,” he said in a voice that was not his own. “But could I at least know what’s going on?”
“Naturally!” Zykov shrieked. He drank his glass, popped a piece of lemon into his mouth, and nodded energetically. “Of course you can! I’ll tell you everything. I have every right to do so.”
And he told him.
At eight o’clock that morning a car came to pick up Snegovoi to take him to the airport. To the driver’s surprise, Snegovoi was not waiting downstairs as usual. He waited five minutes and then went up to the apartment. No one answered even though the bell was working—the driver could hear it himself. So he went downstairs and called the office from the corner. The company began calling Snegovoi on the phone. Snegovoi’s phone was constantly busy. Meanwhile, the driver walked around the house and discovered that all three windows in Snegovoi’s apartment were wide open and, in spite of the daylight, all the electric lights were on. The driver phoned with the information. The right people were called in, and they broke down the door and examined Snegovoi’s apartment. Their investigation revealed that all the lamps in the apartment were on, that an open, packed suitcase stood on the bed, and that Snegovoi was at his desk in his study, holding the phone in one hand and a Makarov pistol in the other. It was determined that Snegovoi had died of a bullet wound to the right temple fired at point-blank range from that gun. Death was instantaneous and took place between three and four a.m.
“What does that have to do with me?” Malianov whispered.
In reply Zykov told him in detail how ballistics had plotted the trajectory of the bullet and found it lodged in the wall.
“But what does that have to do with me?” Malianov kept asking, thumping himself on the chest. They had already had three shots each.
“Aren’t you sorry for him?” Zykov asked. “Do you feel sorry for him?”
“Of course I do. He was an excellent man. But what do I have to do with this? I’ve never had a gun in my hand in my whole life; I was rejected by the army. My eyesight…”
Zykov wasn’t listening to him. He kept explaining in detail that the deceased had been left-handed and that it was very strange that he shot himself with the gun in his right hand.
“Yes, yes, Arnold was left-handed, I can corroborate that. But as for me! I slept all night! And anyway, why would I kill him? Judge for yourself!”
“Then who did? Who?” Zykov asked gently.
“How should I know? You should know who!”
“You!” Zykov said in an ingratiating tone reminiscent of Porfiry in Crime and Punishment, peering with one eye at Malianov over his vodka glass. “You killed him, Dmitri!”
“This is a nightmare,” Malianov muttered helplessly. He wanted to cry.
A light breeze crossed the room, moving the blind, and the strident midday sun rushed into the room and hit Zykov smack in the face. He squinted, shielded his face with his hand, moved in his chair, and quickly set the glass on the table. Something happened to him. His eyes blinked rapidly, color came to his cheeks, and his chin quivered.
“Forgive me,” he whispered in a completely human voice. “Forgive me, Dmitri. Perhaps you could… it’s very… in here.”
He stopped because something fell in Bobchik’s room and shattered with a resounding noise.
“What was that?” Zykov asked, tensely. There was no more trace of human quality in his voice.
“There’s someone there,” Malianov said, still not understanding what had happened to Zykov. A new thought came to him. “Listen!” he shouted, jumping up. “Come with me! My wife’s girlfriend is in there! She can vouch that I slept all night and didn’t go anywhere.”
Shoulders bumping, they jostled their way into the foyer.
“Interesting, very interesting,” Zykov was saying. “Your wife’s girlfriend. We’ll see.”
“She’ll vouch for me. You’ll see. She’s a witness.”
They rushed into Bobchik’s room without knocking and stopped. The room was cleaned up and empty. There was no Lidochka in there, no sheets on the bed, no suitcase. And sitting on the floor next to the pieces of the clay pitcher (Khorezm, eleventh century) sat Kaliam with an unbelievably innocent air.
“This?” Zykov asked, pointing at Kaliam.
“No,” Malianov answered stupidly. “This is our cat, we’ve had him a long time. But wait, where’s Lidochka?” He looked in the closet. Her white jacket was gone. “She must have left?”
Zykov shrugged.
“Probably. She’s not here now.”
Stepping heavily, Malianov went over to the broken pitcher.
“B-bastard!” he said and cuffed Kaliam’s ear.