“I notice very little that is not strange,” said Fyodor.
Rostnikov handed the report to Karpo, who began to read.
“Why is the girl naked?” asked Karpo.
“Precisely,” said Rostnikov. “Why is the beast on the table, and why is the girl running naked?”
“Beast on the table?” asked Fyodor.
“Never mind,” said Porfiry Petrovich. “I am sorry. Emil Karpo asked. .”
“Why is the ghost girl running naked?” Karpo repeated.
“Because,” Fyodor said removing his glasses, “she is a ghost, or she is supposed to be a ghost, and ghosts do very strange things.”
“When was the last time, before this morning, that you read this report?”
“I’ve never read it before this morning,” said Fyodor. “It was in the retired files of the Director. You asked to see all reports of suspicious deaths in the mine and any mention of the ghost girl.”
“I have a whim,” said Porfiry Petrovich. “I would like a search, supervised and conducted by you, Emil, of the entire town, room by room, hiding place by hiding place.”
“What are we looking for?” asked Fyodor.
“An old typewriter with a very worn ribbon.”
“And you expect the typewriter on which this report was written still to be in use, or functional, and still to have the same ribbon?” asked Fyodor.
“I think it possible this report was written very recently,” said Porfiry Petrovich.
“Why?” asked Fyodor.
“That I do not yet know.”
But he did know. The key to two murders, he was sure, was the ghost girl.
“And what of my other requests?”
“Boris Gailov, the old man who was with the Canadian in the mine, is waiting in the hall whenever you wish to talk to him,” said Fyodor, “but, as I told you, he is not a reliable witness. He’s seventy-eight years old and he is more than a little mad from working in the mine for half a century.”
“Then why,” asked Karpo, “was he sent down to serve as a guide for the Canadian?”
“He volunteered,” said Fyodor. “No one expected trouble.”
“The list I requested of all girls in Devochka between the ages of six and eighteen?”
Fyodor took off his glasses, and handed Rostnikov two sheets of paper on which were written the names of seventy-two girls. The names were numbered.
“I’ve indicated the ages of each girl and have added lists of girls between the ages of three and five and eighteen to twenty. I’ve also indicated, as you can see, where each girl was at the time of the death of the Canadian. I’m still working on where they were last night when Anatoliy Lebedev was murdered.”
“How many definitely could not have been in the mine when the Canadian was killed?”
“Fifty-two are completely accounted for,” said Fyodor.
“Still a long list. I would like to see each girl.”
“And their parents?”
“No, not yet.”
“When?”
“As soon as I finish talking to Boris Gailov. What animal do you think this is?”
Fyodor put his glasses back on. Karpo turned his head to see.
“None that I recognize,” said Karpo.
“Let’s see,” said Fyodor, biting his lower lip gently, and tilting his head from side to side. “It’s a very large, hairy man with long teeth. Maybe it’s a werewolf.”
“Maybe,” said Rostnikov. “What happens when a werewolf eats diamonds?”
“Its throat, stomach, and bowels can be torn to pieces,” said Fyodor. “Or then again, nothing may happen.”
“I have drawn a diamond eater,” said Porfiry Petrovich.
“Shall we go out and search for him?” asked Fyodor.
He wasn’t smiling. Porfiry Petrovich liked that his brother wasn’t smiling. Some jests were not meant to be smiled at.
It was the third day, and the list was long. He would have to call Yaklovev shortly. As yet he had nothing to report. He looked at the drawing again and said, “Let us get back to work.”
Karpo and Fyodor stood and went to the door. Porfiry Petrovich did not move. Karpo knew why-Rostnikov’s leg. It had been bothering him lately. He had been moving more slowly, rising more cautiously, climbing steps more tentatively.
“Leave the door open, please, and send in Boris Gailov,” he requested as the two men moved off in search of a typewriter.
Through the open door, Rostnikov could see an old man seated on a metal folding chair in the hallway. The man was pale, gray, and in need of a decision about whether to shave or grow a beard. The man, still over six feet tall in spite of his age, was lean and gnarled. His fingers were crippled by arthritis, and his back was permanently bent over.
“Boris Gailov, please come in and close the door behind you.”
The old man rose slowly, entered the room, and closed the door. Rostnikov motioned for the old man to take a seat across the table.
“I am going to move to St. Petersburg,” Boris said, his voice a crisp rasp.
“You have relatives there?” Rostnikov said, ignoring the non sequitur.
“No, never. That is why I want to go there. Here, I have relatives. Two sons, three grandsons, a daughter, granddaughters. I don’t remember their names. I don’t even remember how many there are. In St. Petersburg I can get a little room somewhere and live on my pension, just watch television, eat sandwiches, and wash and rinse my clothes.”
“It sounds idyllic,” said Porfiry Petrovich.
Boris looked at Rostnikov suspiciously.
“It sounds wonderful. Paradise,” the detective said with sincerity.
“There is no Paradise.”
“I know,” said Rostnikov.
“You want me to tell you about the Canadian.”
“And the ghost girl.”
“There is no ghost girl,” Boris said emphatically.
“I know, but you saw something. You saw a girl with a lantern.”
“I did not.”
“Yes, you did.”
“If I say I did, I go to the asylum instead of St. Petersburg.”
“No, you do not. Tell me, what does this look like to you?”
Rostnikov held up his drawing.
The old man squinted at the drawing and said,
“A large dog sitting on this table.”
“You have trouble seeing.”
“I have trouble picking up a spoon, but I don’t complain about it,” Boris said with pride.
“I have one leg,” said Rostnikov.
“When I was young, men came home without arms, legs, eyes. They also came home with the teeth and bones and weapons of dead Germans.”
“You came here in 1949,” said Rostnikov.
“July fifteenth, a day of rain and sorrow,” said Boris. “Do you know why I came here?”
“Your file says you came here because you were hungry, and there was recruiting for Siberian mine workers.”
“They said I was crazy,” said Boris. “I was seventeen. Everyone else was being sent here for political crimes. I came to get something to eat every day. And I did. I haven’t starved, and I’ve raised a large family.”
“Which you now want to get away from,” said Rostnikov.
“Yes.”
“Tell me about going into the mine with the Canadian. Who picked you to go into the mine with him?”
“I do not know. A man. I got a call. Said, ‘Boris, there is a Canadian needs a guide in the mine. Meet him in front of the mine entrance.’ I got dressed. I did what I was told. I always do what I’m told. I hate doing what I’m told. At this point in my life, I do not like anybody.”
“The ghost girl?” asked Rostnikov.
“They’re all afraid to talk about the ghost girl, but why should I be? I’m ninety years old. I can say what I please.”
“You are seventy-eight,” Rostnikov corrected.
“And you have one leg. Let me see it.”
Rostnikov slid his chair back and pulled up his left pant leg. Boris stood and leaned over, twisted knuckles on the table, mouth open.
“Like on television,” said Boris.
“Just like it,” said Rostnikov, having no idea what the old man was talking about. “Would you tell me about the ghost child now?”