With the tramp behind him, he allowed himself to think about the meal he would soon have in a cheap restaurant. Perhaps that should have been humiliating too, given the means he had used to acquire the money for his dinner. He had not just begged; he had lied. Virginsky had no intention of attempting a word of the translation. He had gone there simply to see what he could get out of them. But he found that he was not ashamed or humiliated. He felt no compunction at all.
He was almost grateful to his hunger, as it enabled him to look forward to a five-kopek meat pie as if it were a banquet. It also excused any behavior.
He had just one more errand to run before dining. Glowing spheres of color drew him. He approached the lights in the window of Friedlander’s the apothecary. He was momentarily touched by wonder, although he knew that they were just big bottles filled with colored liquid and lit from behind. Unconsciously, his gaze went back to the doorway where he had last seen the tramp. He was dismayed to see that it was empty.
The Hotel Adrianople was a low wooden structure that squatted heavily at the side of the Bolshoi Prospect, a brooding shadow compressed beneath the featureless sky. In places, its timbers were charred, as if someone had tried to set light to it.
It was dark inside, and deserted. The reception area was minimal. A rack of keys was suspended behind a high desk at the start of a narrow, low-ceilinged corridor. Dirty yellow wallpaper absorbed the weak light.
Porfiry pushed the bell on the desk. It gave a broken chime.
A stubble-faced porter eventually appeared through an arch in one wall. He was wearing a grubby uniform undone to the belt, revealing a discolored vest. The porter assessed the two of them with an insolent expression. “A room for the hour, is it?”
“How dare you!” shouted Salytov. The speed with which he attained his rage astonished even Porfiry.
“We are looking for the boy Dmitri. It is police business. I am an investigating magistrate. This gentleman is a police lieutenant.”
“What has he done, the little gypsy?”
“Tell him we wish to give him his reward. From the tsar.”
The slovenly man stirred himself into a frown and then roared, “Dima!” without taking his eyes off Porfiry.
In an aside to Salytov, Porfiry murmured, “Please, Ilya Petrovich. Remember he is a child.” To Salytov’s look of startled outrage, he added, “There is nothing to be gained from scaring him.”
Salytov shook his head in angry impatience.
“You mentioned a reward,” said the porter, an unpleasant eagerness in his eyes.
“For Dmitri, yes,” insisted Porfiry.
The porter countered this detail with a cynical leer. “Leave it with me, your excellencies, and I will make sure that he gets it. There is no need for your excellencies to be inconvenienced. You could be here all day hanging around for that wastrel.”
“You want his reward? I’ll give you his reward!” Salytov closed in on the porter with a raised hand. Although he was protected by the desk, the porter backed away from the policeman’s threatening advance. He flashed a quizzical appeal toward Porfiry and shouted for “Dima” again, this time embellishing the diminutive with abuse.
A moment later the boy’s face peered out from the archway. It was every bit as filthy as the last time Porfiry had seen it. He had a grimy pillbox hat pushed back on the crown of his head. His eyes widened when he saw Porfiry, and it looked for a moment as if he might make a run for it.
“Ah, Dmitri, my friend! How good to see you again! I have something for you-from the tsar himself.” Porfiry held up a shiny silver ruble. It drew the bellboy out into the open. But just as Dmitri reached for it, Porfiry closed his fist around the coin.
“It’s not gold. It’s silver,” said Dmitri dismissively.
“Ah, but it’s freshly minted-just for you. It has the tsar’s picture on it.”
“Give it to me then.”
“You’ve almost earned it. If only you hadn’t run away when we were talking before, it would be yours already. Why did you run away, my friend? There was nothing to be afraid of.”
“I wasn’t scared.”
“Then why did you run away?”
“You ask too many questions.”
“It’s my job.” Porfiry took out and lit the cigarette he had put off smoking in the drozhki. Dmitri’s watchful envy inspired him to offer the boy the case. Dmitri took a cigarette eagerly and sucked in his cheeks as Porfiry lit it for him.
“Turkish?” he asked with his first, delayed exhalation.
Porfiry nodded. “You like it?”
Dmitri shrugged.
“We were talking about the yardkeeper, remember? When you delivered your message to the dwarf Goryanchikov, you called in at the yardkeeper’s shed. Did Govorov give you a message for him too?”
Dmitri bit the inside of his mouth. “He gave me a note, yes.”
“So? Why not tell me that before?”
Dmitri held the cigarette between thumb and forefinger and studied the glowing ash. “Dunno.” He took a long draw. “Something he said, maybe” came out with the smoke.
“What did he say?”
“It was nothing really.” Dmitri steadfastly refused to look Porfiry in the eye.
“Yes, I’m sure you’re right. It’s bound to be nothing. A pity. If it proved to be useful…”
“‘Be careful with it.’”
“‘Be careful with it’?”
“That’s what he said. ‘Be careful with it.’”
“Anything else?”
The boy shrugged. “It was the way he said it. His smile. The way he looked at me.” The boy shuddered at the recollection. In that moment, and in the distant narrowing of his eyes, he seemed curiously ageless, beyond all consideration of age, as if he were remembering something that had happened a hundred years ago. “It sent a shiver down my spine.”
Porfiry pursed his lips. He glanced quickly to Salytov for a reaction. The policeman was frowning thoughtfully. “Interesting,” conceded Porfiry.
“So do I get it now?” Dmitri held out his hand.
Porfiry winked and produced the silver ruble. He reasoned that he would not get much more out of the boy on the promise of the coin alone. “You’ve done well. The tsar will be pleased.” He handed over the prize.
Dmitri flashed a proud glance around, but seeing the grubby porter, his expression became wary. He hurried the coin into a pocket. “Do you know the tsar?” he asked Porfiry.
“Not personally. But I will communicate your cooperation to my superior, and he will communicate it to his superior, and so on until it reaches the tsar. I am confident he will be pleased.”
“He’s playing with you, you little fool,” sneered the porter suddenly.
“I assure you, that’s the way the system works,” said Porfiry, blinking calmly. “His Imperial Majesty’s gratitude-or displeasure-is passed back down.” He lowered his head to menace the porter with significance. “It could be a beating as easily as a coin.” Porfiry turned to Dmitri with a smile. “Now, my friend, there is one more thing I would ask you to do for me. I would like you to show us the room that Govorov occupied.”
Dmitri drew from his cigarette with a manly grimace. “We’ll need a candle,” he said.
Virginsky scanned Gorokhovaya Street as he came out of Friedlander’s. He couldn’t see the tramp. But it was getting dark, and the air was thick with swirling snow. It was difficult to see anything. He had the sense, however, that the man was out there somewhere waiting for him. Perhaps he was one of the vague shapes huddled around the yardkeepers’ fires that punctuated the pavement on both sides of the street.
Virginsky’s stomach growled painfully. Big snowflakes streamed toward his eyes, hungry for his tears.