She hurried, as well as her failing body would allow, toward her destination, ignoring the people she passed, thinking only of her task, trying to forget the painting in the museum. It had been by some minor English realist. She couldn’t remember what the subject had been, a landscape surely, but what had been in it? It gnawed at her, told her to turn around, go back, complete it, but she didn’t have the time. Not now. Not today. Perhaps later or tomorrow, if there was a tomorrow. There had to be a later or tomorrow. She could not end her life without knowing what was in that painting and without taking her father’s rifle out one more time and finding the right target.
Even had she not been absorbed in her thoughts, even had she glanced back as the sky rumbled and darkened even further, it is doubtful that she would have noticed the tall, vaguely Oriental, pale man behind her with his right arm in a black sling.
Earlier that morning Emil Karpo had been sitting at his desk at Petrovka going over his file and waiting. He had prepared his description carefully and felt confident that it was more than guesswork. Rostnikov was nowhere to be found, and time was passing. He could have gone directly to the Gray Wolfhound, but he had no time or patience for clowns, and so he prepared his description and took it directly to each of the militia supervisors for each district, making it clear that they were to give it not only to those assigned to the various buildings but to all the police on the street, all the uniformed guards in public buildings, and all the officers who had taken up positions on key rooftops.
Emil Karpo was not a man to be ignored. Seven of his supervisors had simply accepted the description and agreed to pass it out quickly. They had no desire to prolong conversation with the Vampire, the Tatar with the dead brown eyes. It was easier to do what he requested. Besides, they might be the next victim of the Weeper, and it would be best to cooperate. A few of the military supervisors balked or sulked, but eventually they all agreed, and Karpo went back to his desk to drink cold tea and wait. The description had been simple. Look for a man or woman, of recognized size and strength, carrying a case long enough to hold a rifle. It might be a music case, a fishing case, anything. The person would probably be alone and might behave erratically.
By seven in the morning the reports had begun coming in. Karpo listened, believing it was too early in the day for the Weeper to appear but not taking any chances. He had actually dispatched two cars to pursue leads by noon, but they had proved negative. One had turned up a carpenter going to work, another a member of the ballet orchestra. At nine he discovered that the Gray Wolfhound had ordered the rooftop surveillance to begin at six that night, since the Weeper always struck at night. Karpo tried to reach Colonel Snitkonoy to get the surveillance to begin immediately, but the colonel was out. And then the call had come from the guard at the Pushkin Fine Arts Museum, and he was on his way after telling the guard to follow the woman and call her whereabouts back to the museum office where Karpo was heading.
The dispatcher of automobiles was surprised to get a call from Inspector Karpo. He couldn’t remember a single time Karpo had ever ordered a car. The legend was that Karpo thought it a waste of Soviet dollars that could be better spent on real needs. The dispatcher, who felt uneasy even hearing the voice of the Vampire, responded without a word and assigned the driving task to one of the older officers whom he wanted to punish for a minor act of assumed insolence.
Karpo said nothing when the car pulled up in front of the building. He got in the back and cradled his senseless arm. His eyes caught those of the driver watching him in the rearview mirror, and Karpo stared back at the mirror, unblinking. He kept his dark eyes fixed on the mirror for five full minutes, so that each time the driver looked up, he saw his pale passenger solemnly glaring through him. The driver sped onward, wanting to get this assignment done as soon as possible and vowing never to get on the wrong side of the dispatcher again.
Luck had been with Karpo, though he did not think of it as luck. It simply happened. Had he not spotted the museum guard in the crowd on Kropotkin Street, he would have gone to the museum, waited for the guard’s call, and eventually have caught up with the woman. But Karpo saw her, dark and heavy, carrying the case, walking like a somnambulist, her lips moving as she carried on a conversation with herself.
“Corner, stop,” Karpo said, and the driver gladly pulled over with a screech, almost running down a couple with a small child between them. “Go back,” Karpo said, and got out of the car. The car was gone before the pale policeman reached the sidewalk.
The uniformed guard was startled when Karpo tapped his shoulder. He let out a gasp, turned in fear, and recognized the. assistant inspector. The guard was about fifty, his tie stained with sweat.
“She’s-” he began.
“I see,” Karpo said softly, watching the woman amble ahead, clearing a path with her trombone case. “Go back to the museum.”
“I’ll go back to the museum,” the guard repeated, and Karpo moved past him through the crowd as the first drops of rain came from the dark, angry sky.
SEVEN
“And so I had officer Zelach follow Assistant Inspector Tkach as a backup,” Rostnikov explained as he sat in the chair in front of Deputy Procurator Khabolov’s desk. “When Tkach took more than twenty minutes inside the building, Zelach followed instructions and called me. I-”
“My car,” Khabolov said, standing suddenly behind the desk, his sad hound face quivering, his hands held behind his back to keep them from spasms of anger and frustration.
The office smelled slightly bitter, like the waiting room of a steam bath. When Anna Timofeyeva had occupied it, the office had always smelled to Rostnikov of tea and paper.
“Your car-” Rostnikov sighed, sympathetically shifting slightly to take some pressure from his leg. “Tkach and I risked our lives to save your Chaika, our very lives, but there was no dealing with the madwoman.”
Khabolov’s hand came out to accuse or attack, but he controlled it and raised the palm to push the stray hairs atop his head. The battle was joined and clear. Rostnikov would feign sympathy, and Khabolov would know he was lying but be unable to accuse him. Khabolov would pick, question, punish, but not allow his emotions to show, not let it be seen that he was punishing, though he knew that Rostnikov would understand. And so the two men faced each other and pretended.
“I appreciate your willingness to risk your very bodies for material goods,” Khabolov countered, returning his hand behind his back.
“I felt that the deputy procurator’s official vehicle was more a symbol of the authority of the state than an item of personal and material satisfaction,” said Rostnikov, somberly folding his hands on his lap.
Khabolov looked down at Rostnikov, searching for even a hint of insolence, but there was none there. The deputy procurator’s eyes moved down to the report on his desk. He had to lean forward slightly to read it.
“You were unable to save my automobile, but you managed to break the shoulder of one suspect, the ribs of another, and the skull of a third.”
“They resisted arrest.”
“Do you expect the government to pay for repairs on your suit?”
Rostnikov looked down at this torn sleeve. He had been given no time to change clothes; instead, he had hurried back to Petrovka to write his report and get to the deputy procurator’s office.
“Of course not,” Rostnikov said. “It was, like your Chaika, ruined in the line of duty, but we must all make sacrifices for the state and accept our share of responsibility.”
“You are an insolent man, chief inspector,” Khabolov said, leaning forward with both hands on the desk.