“These aren’t mine. I don’t have ones like these.”
“Your shoes haven’t dried yet,” I said. “Put them on, let’s go.”
You would have thought he’d never seen a pair of slippers before in his life. He tried twice, and failed twice, to drive his feet into them with a sweeping motion, losing his balance each time. His equilibrium seemed off in general—clearly he’d been through a lot, and wasn’t yet himself. I understood this welclass="underline" I’d had similar experiences myself…
Some kind of machine must have been spinning away silently in my subconscious, because suddenly I was struck by a wonderful idea: what if Olaf wasn’t Olaf, but Hinkus, and Hinkus wasn’t Hinkus, but Olaf? What if he’d summoned this strange man via telegram? But nothing came of this transmutation of names, and I shook the thought out of my head.
Hand in hand we went out into the hall and up to the second floor. The owner, who was sitting at his post as he had been earlier, gave us a thoughtful look. Luarvik didn’t pay him any attention. He was focused completely on the stairs. I held on to his elbow just to be careful.
We stopped in front of the door to Olaf’s room. I carefully inspected the tape I’d put up: it was all in order. Then I took out the key and opened the door. A sharp unpleasant odor struck my nose—a very strange odor, not unlike the smell of disinfectant. I lingered in the doorway, trying to pull myself together. But everything in the room was just as it had been. Only, the face of the dead man seemed darker to me than it had the night before, possibly because of the lighting, and I could barely see the bruises anymore. Luarvik was nudging me insistently between the shoulder blades. I walked into the entryway and stepped aside so that he could see.
He might have been a mortician, instead of a mechanic and driver. He stood over the body with a completely indifferent look on his face; he bent low, placing his single hand behind his back. There was no disgust, no fear, no awe: this was just a businesslike inspection. Strangest of all was what he said next.
“I’m surprised,” he said in an utterly flat tone. “This really is Olaf Andvarafors. I don’t understand.”
“How did you recognize him?” I asked immediately.
Still bending over, he turned his head and looked at me with one eye.
He was standing there bent, with his feet far apart, looking up at me quietly.
This lasted so long that my neck began to hurt. How could he remain in that ridiculous position? Was he having lower back problems, or what? Finally he said:
“I remembered. I’ve seen him before. At that time, I did not know it was Olaf Andvarafors.”
“And where did you see him before?” I asked.
“There.” Still bent over, he waved a hand towards the window. “It’s not important.”
Suddenly he straightened up and lurched around the room, turning his head in a funny way. I braced myself, never taking my eyes off him. He was clearly looking for something, and I had already guessed what that something was…
“Olaf Andvarafors did not die here?” he asked, stopping in front of me.
“Why do you think that?” I asked.
“I don’t think. I asked.”
“Are you looking for something?”
“Olaf Andvarafors had one object with him,” he said. “Where it is?”
“You’re looking for his suitcase?” I asked. “You came here for it?”
“Where it is?” Luarvik repeated.
“I have it,” I said.
“Good,” he said. “I would like to have. Bring, please.”
I ignored his tone and said.
“I could bring you the suitcase, but first you have to answer my questions.”
“Why?” he said in amazement. “Why more questions?”
“Because,” I said patiently. “You will receive the suitcase only if your answers to my questions demonstrate that you have the right to it.”
“I don’t understand,” he said.
“I don’t know,” I said. “Whether it’s your suitcase or not. If it’s yours, if Olaf brought it here for you, then prove it. Then I’ll give it to you.”
His eyes drifted apart and then focused again on the bridge of his nose.
“Don’t,” he said. “I don’t want to. I’m tired. Let’s go.”
I followed him out of the room feeling a little puzzled. The air in the hallway seemed surprisingly clean and fresh. Where had that apothecary’s stench in the room come from? Perhaps something had been spilled in there earlier, but the window being opened had masked the smell? I closed the door. Luarvik remained where he was, apparently immersed in deep thought, as I got the glue and paper from my room and set to work resealing the scene.
“So what’s it going to be?” I asked. “Are you going to answer my questions?”
“No,” he said decisively. “I don’t want questions. I want to lie down. Where can I lie down?”
“Go back to your room,” I said numbly. I was overcome with apathy. Suddenly I had a splitting headache. I wanted to relax, lie down, close my eyes. The entire absurd, unprecedented, messed-up, nonsensical case seemed to be coming to life in the form of the absurd, unprecedented, messed-up, nonsensical Luarvik L. Luarvik.
We went down the hall; he staggered back to his room, and I sat in the armchair, stretched myself out and, finally, closed my eyes. Somewhere I could hear the sea murmuring, loud, insensible music, dark spots swimming towards me and away from me. My mouth felt like I’d been chewing for hours on a damp rag. Then I felt a wet nose sniff my ear, and Lel’s heavy head leaned consolingly against my knee.
13.
I managed to nap for about fifteen minutes before Lel intervened. He licked my ears and cheeks, tugged at my pant legs, jostled and then, finally, lightly bit my hand. At this point, I couldn’t hold back anymore; I jumped up, ready to tear him to pieces, incoherent curses and complaints stuck in my throat, but then my gaze fell on the side table and I froze. On its shiny lacquer top, next to the owner’s papers and receipts, lay a large black pistol.
It was a .45-caliber Luger with an extended handle. It was lying in a little puddle of water, and there were still clumps of unmelted snow sticking to it; with my mouth hanging open I watched one of these lumps drip down the trigger and onto the tabletop. I looked around the lobby. The only one there was Lel, standing beside the table. He tipped his head to the side, giving me a stern and curious look.
Normal kitchen-type noises were coming out of the kitchen, the owner’s soft bass could be heard and there was a drifting smell of coffee.
“Did you bring me this?” I asked Lel with a whisper.
He tipped his head to the other side and continued to look at me. His paws were covered in snow, and his shaggy belly was still dripping. I picked the pistol up carefully.
It was a true gangster’s weapon. Its effective range was two hundred meters; it had a place to put a sight, a switch for automatic firing, and other amenities. The barrel was full of snow. The gun was cold, heavy; its ribbed handle lay comfortably in my palm. For some reason I remembered that I hadn’t searched Hinkus. I’d searched his luggage, his coat, but I’d forgotten to search his person. Probably because I’d thought he was a victim.
I pulled the clip out of the handle: it was full. I pulled back the bolt and a bullet jumped out onto the table. I picked it up to put it back in the clip, but was arrested suddenly by the strange color of the bullet. It was not the usual dull gray or yellow. It was shiny, like it was nickel-plated, but it looked more silver than nickel. I had never seen a bullet like it before in my life. One after another I hurriedly expelled the bullets from the cartridge. All of them were the same silvery color. I licked my dry lips and looked at Lel again.