Boris nodded and said, “And I must kill again. Yes, I must kill you and your son and Laminski and continue to kill every time someone comes to take my son or kill him.”
“I too have but one son, Boris,” said Rostnikov with a sigh. “I am afraid I would have to stop you. Besides, I think there is a better way. Killing us would certainly bring many more policemen here.”
“I see no other way,” said Boris.
“All right, let’s begin with your killing me. If you fail, we will talk about other, more sensible, ways of handling this situation.”
Boris rose from his chair, as did Porfiry Petrovich.
“You want me to kill you?”
“You have to start with someone. Come.”
Boris looked a bit dazed as he moved toward the policeman. Yes, he thought, if I am to protect Tsimion, I must start somewhere.
Vladovka was larger across and certainly taller than Rostnikov, and he had the power of a farmer who had labored all of his life. He reached out for the thick neck of the policeman. Rostnikov grabbed the farmer’s wrists. Boris Vladovka struggled to free himself as his son had only minutes before in the potato field. Boris pushed forward. Both men tripped over the corpse and fell to the floor. Still, Rostnikov held fast. They rolled away from the dead man over the umbrella and into the wall.
Their faces were inches apart. Rostnikov could smell coffee and the bile of fear on the other man’s breath.
“Now we try my way,” Rostnikov said gently as he held the larger man by his shoulders.
“We try your way,” Boris agreed.
“When we get up, rise carefully,” said Rostnikov. “Our dead friend pressed his umbrella button before he died. I think he meant to use it on you when he realized that you were going to kill him.”
Rostnikov let the bigger man free, and Boris moved to his knees.
“Then I would have been the one to die,” the farmer said with resignation.
“If he had used his weapon,” said Rostnikov, trying to sit up, “you would have been dead almost instantly. I would appreciate it if you would help me up. It is difficult …”
“You, oh, of course, I’m sorry.”
Boris stood and held out a hand. Rostnikov took it and with the farmer’s help got to his feet.
“You are very strong,” said Boris, stepping over the dead man and returning to his chair. “Would you like coffee?”
“Coffee,” said Rostnikov, moving back to his chair.
Boris nodded and moved to the stove. He touched the coffeepot.
“It is still very warm, but not hot … Shall I? …”
“No, warm will be fine.”
“Sugar? Milk?”
“Sugar, not too much. If your coffee is strong or bitter, a little milk would be nice.”
Boris nodded, filled a brown mug, dropped in a sugar cube, and went to the refrigerator for the milk.
While he finished preparing the mug of coffee, Rostnikov leaned over, picked up the umbrella, found the button, pressed it, and watched the very thin needle slide noiselessly back into its slot.
Boris brought two mugs to the table, handed one to Rostnikov and took the other.
“What,” asked Rostnikov, after taking a drink of the very strong and not very good coffee, “if our friend here were to be found tonight on a very dark street of a very bad neighborhood in St. Petersburg, beaten to death, neck broken, arm broken, many bruises, perhaps a broken rib, his money taken, his shoes taken, his watch taken, his umbrella taken, his clothes and dignity taken? What if his car were never found? The police would assume the car had been sold to what the Americans call a ‘chop shop.’ Unless the pathologist who examines the body realizes that he was dead before he was beaten, it will be assumed to be a routine mugging and murder. It is unlikely the pathologist, if one is even called in, will have that realization. Do you think our dead man might meet that fate?”
“Yes,” said Boris. “In my sixtieth year, I have become a murderer and will now commit further crimes by concealing that murder like … like a criminal in some French movie.”
“You have seen many French movies?” asked Rostnikov.
“Actually, no, and it has been many years since the last, but I have a good memory.”
“Remember then that Primazon came here to see me. I talked to him and left. Then our very-much-alive man left. In fact, he and I left at the same time. It would be best if many people saw him leaving the district.”
“Many people will swear that they saw him drive away,” said Boris, looking far more alive than when Rostnikov had entered the room.
“Good. Then I will finish my coffee, meet privately with your son, and go home.”
“More will come, won’t they?”
“I will act so that no one will follow,” said Rostnikov. “I cannot guarantee it, but I believe you and your family will be left in peace.”
“And why do you do this?”
“Why? I believe it is what should be done.”
“But you are a policeman and I am a murderer.”
“And I must wake up every morning and say to myself, Porfiry Petrovich, can you live with what you have done with your life so far? Can you live with what you did yesterday? And I wish to be able to answer yes. Now I must talk to your son. As soon as we leave, I suggest you put your dead visitor in the trunk of his car and keep him there till it is dark. I think it best if the women and the child do not see him.”
“They are strong,” said Boris.
“I have seen many dead people,” said Rostnikov. “I would be quite content to see no more and to have never seen the first.”
They stood up yet again. They shook hands, and Rostnikov went in search of Tsimion Vladovka.
Tayumvat rode with Karpo and Vanga to Petrovka. The three sat in the back of the car, Vanga in the middle. The driver whistled a nonsong, and Vanga struggled to find another, better lie. He could think of none.
“This is a mistake,” he said.
“It is not,” said Tayumvat.
The pale policeman looked straight ahead and said, “Before we went to Bolskanov’s apartment, I asked Dr. Tayumvat to look at the files in your computer.”
“You had no right …” Vanga said with indignation.
“I had the right and the obligation, but you may dispute that with the courts and my superiors if you wish,” Karpo replied calmly. “He asked me to look at your paper on dream research. It meant nothing to me. He said he did not believe you had written it, though he could not prove it.”
“That’s-”
“Ah, there was one curiosity I have not yet mentioned,” said the old man. “At my age, my memory. The cover page, dedication, and cover letter to a journal meant a great deal. The article itself has two spaces after each period. That is standard. The cover page, dedication, and letter are different. In each of those, and in all of your correspondence and memos, the period is followed by a single space. I would say that the text was written by one person and the cover page with your name on it was written by another, by you. I quickly examined the files of Bolskanov. They all contain documents with two spaces following the period.”
“Dr. Tayumvat also says that the style of the article in question bears little resemblance to your style in other documents in your computer,” said Karpo. “I believe his professional opinion will carry great weight, and I believe others who know of such things will agree with him.”
“I know important people,” said Vanga.
“I knew Einstein,” said Tayumvat. “Met him twice. The first time he smelled of pipe tobacco and asked where he could get good food. That was in Vienna. Why he asked me, I don’t know. What do I know of Vienna?”
Vanga went silent. A lawyer. Yes, he would get a lawyer. A very good lawyer. He would make calls. He would ask for favors. He was a respected scientist, the director of a major research institute.
“It doesn’t matter,” said the old man, looking out the window.
“What doesn’t matter?”
“That you are the director of a respected research institute,” said the old man.