Stuart Kaminsky - Fall of a Cosmonaut

“I’m certain,” Kriskov had said, handing the sheet of notepaper to Sasha.

It had been in the middle of the conference table. No envelope. Thumbtacked and sure to leave a small scar in the polished wood.

Yuri had smoked and paced. Sasha had wanted to tell him to sit down.

The note was simple:

You have told too many people about this. This is between you and me. It must be settled tomorrow or I will do as I have told you I would. I know you have the money. Let us keep this between ourselves. I …

Sasha and Elena sat in the office of Porfiry Petrovich, who looked at the sheet of paper and ate a radish-and-tomato sandwich with butter on thick, dark bread from the bakery of Sasha’s mother. He had offered to cut the second sandwich in half and share it with them. Sasha had accepted. Elena had politely declined. There would have been a third sandwich, but Rostnikov had eaten it hours earlier.

Rostnikov had excused himself for eating while they talked and was sharing his bag of overly salty potato chips with the two detectives. Rostnikov looked at his watch, a birthday gift from his wife. The face of the watch was large and simple.

“And Kriskov is certain that the note was written by his editor, Svetlana …”

“Gorchinova,” said Elena.

Rostnikov took another bite and continued to look at the note. “Why,” he asked, “does the note appear to have been crumpled up? Is this the way you found it, open?”

“Open and flat,” said Sasha. “A thumbtack through it. Perhaps the thief had it crumpled in his pocket and flattened it when he came in.”

Rostnikov took a large satisfying bite. Elena did her best not to reach for the open bag of chips. She didn’t even like chips, but the tempting fat called out to her.

“No,” Rostnikov said, reaching down to scratch his itching artificial leg. “It is a small note. It could simply have been folded once and put in a pocket. And why does the note stop with the word I ?”

“I do not know,” said Sasha. “Kriskov says that Svetlana Gorchinova has a history of mental illness.”

“Apparently an attribute that does not interfere with her ability to edit films,” said Rostnikov, eyes on the note, chewing.

“Perhaps it contributes to her creativity,” said Elena. “Freud believed that the most creative people were neurotic or even borderline psychotic.”

Rostnikov thought of the house of Lermontov and wondered if the great poet had been neurotic. He would have to get a biography.

“Was Lermontov neurotic?” he asked.

“Lermontov?” asked Elena.

She did not fully understand this washtub of a man who was going to be her father-in-law in the not-distant future. She respected him, admired him, but found it difficult to follow his leaps and musings.

“Lermontov,” he repeated. “Have you ever visited his boyhood home?”

“No,” said Elena, puzzled but trying not to show it.

“I have,” said Sasha. “Maya wanted to see it. It is bleak.”

“This is an old note, probably crumpled and thrown into a wastebasket,” said Rostnikov. “It is unfinished. The I is the beginning of another thought.”

“So,” said Elena, “she kept the note, brooded, and decided to send her message to Kriskov after she took the negative. If Kriskov and Freud are right, she may be a bit mad.”

“She would write a new note, I think,” said Rostnikov. “But who knows? Madness has its own reasons. Did anyone see someone enter the room where the note was found?”

“No,” said Sasha. “But I really couldn’t make inquiries. I’m a French film executive from Gaumont. Kriskov asked a few people.”

“Conclusions?” asked Rostnikov.

“Someone is trying to make it look as if Svetlana is the thief,” said Elena.

“And I would guess that this note was written on her typewriter, if she has one,” added Sasha.

“Our thief thinks he is very clever,” said Elena.

“Playing a game,” said Sasha.

“More chips?”

“No, thank you,” said Sasha.

Rostnikov shrugged and finished off the last few salty pieces.

“I’ll take a few,” said Elena.

Why was the sight of the chips making her feel suddenly fat? Why was she worrying about her weight? Before Iosef had besieged her, Elena had lived in relative culinary contentment, aware of her weight and mildly cautious, exercising each morning till she worked up a sweat, checking the scale in the corner of her aunt’s bedroom. But now …

“Do you agree, Elena Timofeyeva?” Rostnikov asked.

She had been aware that Rostnikov had said something after he finished his final bite of sandwich but she wasn’t quite sure of what it had been. Her mind had wandered to her waistline.

“I’m sorry, I …”

“If the thief is someone trying to put the blame on Svetlana Gorchinova, then he or she is someone inside the company. The thief would very likely know that Kriskov cannot raise two million American dollars in one day.”

“Then why? …” Sasha began.

“Ah, yes, a puzzle, a conundrum,” said Porfiry Petrovich, handing the note to Sasha. “Work on it. I think the solution may lead you to a thief with an agenda we do not yet know. And now I must clean my desk and turn my thoughts to outer space and distant villages.”

Elena and Sasha went into the hall. They stood silently for a moment and then looked at each other and the note in Sasha’s hand.

“You know what we must do,” he said.

“Yes.”

The trip was brief, four flights down to the ground and two below that to Paulinin’s den. Neither of them looked forward to it, but it was the quickest way to get an answer.

Sasha knocked. They thought they heard someone behind the door and in the distance answer, but the words were unclear. Sasha opened the door. At the end of the room, Paulinin looked up over the naked male body before him. The dead man was an almost bleached white, young, handsome.

The two detectives wended their way through the maze of tables, benches, specimens, debris, and books. Paulinin was wearing rubber gloves. His hair was in desperate need of attention.

“What?” he asked impatiently, eyeing Elena. Paulinin did not welcome living women visitors. “I’m busy. Two corpses. Seven boxes of shoes to examine. I’m busy.”

Sasha had dealt with Paulinin before, had watched Rostnikov deal with him. “This should take you but a minute, perhaps a few seconds,” said Sasha with his best smile. “You are the only one who can help us.”

“Quick then,” Paulinin said. “Quick, quick, people are waiting. Shoes are waiting, and I haven’t had my lunch.”

Sasha reached across the corpse and handed Paulinin the note. Paulinin looked at it and placed it on the chest of the corpse of Vladimir Kinotskin.

“What about it?” he asked.

“How long ago was it written?”

“Weeks, maybe months,” said Paulinin. “One need only look at the absorption of the ink, the small flecking, the … This does not even require magnification. Is that all?”

“That is all,” said Sasha. “Thank you.”

Elena and Sasha exchanged a look which made it clear that both now knew the theft of the negative had been planned long ago.

Paulinin returned the note and, ignoring his visitors, whispered something to the corpse.

Sasha and Elena left quickly.

On the way out, they had to avoid the seven cartons of shoes Paulinin had mentioned.

Vera Kriskov would be thirty-seven years old next month. She was looking forward to the day. She felt like celebrating. Her mirror told her she was still capable, if she chose, of returning to modeling for catalogues, magazines, perhaps even on television, but she really didn’t wish to do so and Yuri would not have permitted it. The bedroom mirror, in front of which she stood quite naked, told her clearly once again that having children had not destroyed her figure, though it had taken enormous exercise and diet restraint to remain the way she looked now. Her trademark long, soft, natural amber hair was as flowing and bright as ever.