“I am a weary man, comrade procurator, and I have a sniper and the killer of an old man to pursue. May I be excused?”
Khabolov’s face flushed and turned red, though not quite as red as the flag that stood in the corner. His eyes went narrow, and Rostnikov recognized an official look designed to send fear into the guilty and. nonguilty alike. Rostnikov was too weary to feign fear. He simply looked up placidly. The excitement of the morning had passed. The body fluids had coursed through Rostnikov in that makeshift garage. It had been no more than ten minutes, perhaps less, but it was such minutes that made being a policeman most enjoyable. Generally, so little was actually concluded, and that which was concluded normally came to pass through patience and paper and telephone calls and long hours of talking and compromise. Porfiry Petrovich felt tired and pleased. Even with his eyes open and fixed attentively on Khabolov, he imagined the falling Chaika and smiled deep within himself.
“You may not be excused,” Khabolov said, sitting behind his desk to indicate a new phase of conversation. There was a heartbeat of hesitation in the dog-faced man that drew Rostnikov’s interest.
“Chief inspector, you are to drop your investigation of the murdered Jew completely and concentrate on the Weeper.”
“Very good,” Rostnikov agreed. “I’ll put it aside till the Weeper is caught and then-”
“You are to turn your files on the case over to me and drop the investigation completely and indefinitely-no, forever,” Khabolov cut in with irritation.
“On my own time I would like to check the procurator’s files for a-”
Khabolov was now perspiring, though the window was open, sending in a slight but adequate breeze. Something quite odd was going on, and Rostnikov began to observe his superior with curiosity.
“You no longer have access to the procurator’s files,” Khabolov said, reaching for a random file to indicate that the meeting had ended. With eyes down at the paper in his hand, he added, “For political reasons, which you may know.”
There was no arguing with Khabolov. Rostnikov knew this. It wasn’t that Khabolov couldn’t be maneuvered, swayed, tricked. Given time, Rostnikov was sure he would solve the man, find ways to deal with him, but the abrupt air of the man, coupled with his clear nervousness, made it evident that the order to drop the investigation came from somewhere above Khabolov.
And so Rostnikov barely nodded.
“That is all,” said Khabolov without looking up, and Rostnikov stood, propping himself up with the back of the chair, and moved slowly to the door and out. He had things to do, his jacket to change, and the murderer of Sergeant Petrov to catch. Perhaps the murder of Abraham Savitskaya and the mystery of the missing candlestick could wait. Perhaps.
By the time he got back to his tiny office, the rain had begun to fall. The single small window wouldn’t open; it hadn’t opened for months. Rostnikov had intended to fix it himself, though such initiative was frowned upon. There were repairmen assigned to such things, though the repairmen seldom came even after the proper forms were filed, approved, and forwarded. To get the window repaired through proper channels, Rostnikov would need the signature of Deputy Procurator Khabolov, and the price for such … Sitting behind his desk, Rostnikov smiled privately. A plan came. He watched the rain hit the window for about five minutes, doodled three-dimensional cubes of various sizes for a few more minutes, and scrawled out the work” order to have the window fixed.
On the way out, he checked Karpo’s desk, found a note indicating that Karpo was pursuing a lead, and called to Zelach, who sulked at his corner desk, his shaggy head hovering over a document.
“Zelach,” Rostnikov said, moving past two investigators arguing over where they would have lunch. One of them, Irvinov, was a giggler. Everything seemed to amuse him-sex, food, death. His laughter was nervous and made Rostnikov uncomfortable. He had long ago decided that Irvinov’s nervous laughter was much like that which Rostnikov’s son, Josef, had displayed when he was a child. Josef had channeled the nervous laughter into a bemused, ironic smile. The thought of Josef softened him.
“Yes, Comrade Rostnikov,” Zelach said.
“You did very well this morning,” Rostnikov said gently. “You were instrumental in crushing that car-theft ring. I’ve just commended you to the deputy procurator. You have been noticed.”
Zelach was not sure whether he wanted to be noticed, but the idea of being commended to the new deputy procurator was surely better than being reported for incompetence.
“Thank you, chief inspector,” he said somberly.
Rostnikov stood with one hand on the small desk and handed Zelach the order for the window repair.
“Take this work order to the office of Colonel Snitkonoy. Tell them it needs the colonel’s approval immediately, that it relates to the investigation, that I will soon be giving him a complete report.”
Zelach took the work order and looked at it as if it were some radioactive treasure to be held in awe and handled with care.
“I’ll do it immediately,” Zelach said.
“Good man.” Rostnikov sighed. “Good man.”
And with that Rostnikov eased his way out of the large office and down the corridor. Emil Karpo was handling the Weeper. The automobile thieves were caught, and three other cases Rostnikov was working on were at a standstill. It would be, he decided, a good afternoon to make a few social calls, beginning with the strange-daughter of the dead old man in the bathtub. Yes, it would simply be a social call, for he was officially off the investigation.
As he trudged through the rain, back straight, eyes unblinkingly fixed on the large woman carrying the trombone case, Emil Karpo felt an aching numbness that made him want to shift his arm as if he had slept on it for a generation or two.
Except for an occasional umbrella carrier or person so intent on getting somewhere that they braved the driving rain to dash from doorway to doorway, the lean detective and the woman were the only ones who seemed to be out in the rain.
Karpo welcomed the rain and the ache in his arm. Life was, after all, a test. The body was a papier-mache vessel that had to be endured. Man proved himself, his worth, by accepting the weakness of the body and rising above it, not letting pain or emotion rule. Man, if he were to have dignity and meaning, had to rise above his animalism. An individual man was but a transient vessel. Mankind working together as a united organism had power and meaning.
The police were the white corpuscles of the body politic. If a cell went bad, an intruder threatened, the police officer, the soldier, stepped in and removed the offender. If the police officer were destroyed in the process, he would have achieved his goal, served his function.
Emil Karpo was not deluded. Crime would not stop. Corruption would not end. It was the nature of the human beast. It was inevitable. The goal of the Soviet state was a perfection it could never reach, but the seeking of that state of perfection created meaning. Each pain, setback, and criminal, bureaucratic obstacle simply proved the need for commitment.
They walked. First she seemed to have a destination in mind, but as the rain came down harder and harder, the large woman began to wander, her thin dress drenched and clinging to her sexlessly. She walked, and he followed, knowing he would follow for hours, even days, if he had to. He would follow, wait to be sure, and then end it. If by chance she proved to be innocent, he would prove that, too, go home, change clothes, and return to his office for more calls, more leads. He would wait and wait until he found the Weeper or was ordered to stop looking.
It was almost three in the afternoon when the woman began to move resolutely toward some destination. Her pace quickened, her head came up a bit, and she shifted her instrument case to her left hand. The rain had let up just a bit, and they were heading down Kutuzovsky Prospekt. She had not only moved within the possible pattern of previous attacks but was moving in the direction of the Ukraine Hotel.