Stuart Kaminsky - Blood and Rubles

She was, Rostnikov decided, a well-groomed Doberman, not a Wolfhound.

Yevgeniy Porvinovich had let the policeman in. Yevgeniy was wearing gray slacks and suspenders over his white shirt. He had immediately asked if the police had found his brother or identified the kidnappers. The man was a terrible actor. It was clear to Rostnikov that Yevgeniy wanted the answers to his questions to be negative. Rostnikov answered, “We think we know who the kidnapper is.”

Yevgeniy had swayed slightly and barely managed to say, “Good,” when Anna Porvinovich made her dramatic entrance and moved toward him without speaking. She motioned carelessly to the chair and sofa, and Rostnikov accepted, sitting down on one of the high chairs without too much awkwardness. Only when he was seated did she take her own place on the sofa. She checked her dress for wrinkles, smoothed out a nonexistent one, and draped one arm over the back of the sofa. Yevgeniy sat in the chair identical to the one in which Rostnikov was seated.

“Tea?” asked the woman.

“Tea,” said Rostnikov. He had unbuttoned his jacket but not removed it. In a day or two he would have to start wearing a hat. When possible, he would wear his favorite hat, a brown cloth cap with a little brim and ear flaps. His wife said the cap made him look like a comedian in an American comedy. More often he wore a black fur hat, which Sarah had said made him look like a diplomat.

Yevgeniy hurried off to get the tea.

“You have news?” Anna asked.

“A theory,” said Rostnikov. “Your husband was kidnapped by a man named Artiom Solovyov and an unidentified accomplice, probably his assistant in the garage.”

“Artiom Solovyov,” she repeated as if trying to place the name. “The big man where we have our car repaired?”

“Yes,” said Rostnikov, opening his jacket a bit more. “You have trouble placing him yet you spoke to him on the phone yesterday.”

“Ah,” she said, reaching forward to remove a cigarette from the box on the table between them. “I remember now. So much has happened. Alexei … so much.”

She toyed with the cigarette in her fingers and looked down at it pensively.

“We think you and Artiom Solovyov planned the kidnapping of your husband.”

She looked up suddenly, wary, jaws slightly tensed. Not a dog, thought Rostnikov, a Siamese cat with red claws.

“You have no comment?” Rostnikov said.

“It is too absurd to reply to,” she said, putting the cigarette between her lips.

The tremble was slight, ever so slight, but Rostnikov had been looking for it. She lit her cigarette, which gave her time to gather her defenses. She glared at him with a well-performed look of How could you think such things of me? Yevgeniy returned, carrying a tray on which were three cups, spoons, sugar and milk, and a white porcelain teapot. He walked slowly and carefully. He was halfway across the room when Rostnikov said, “I was just telling your sister-in-law that we believe she is responsible for the abduction of your brother. She and a garage mechanic named Solovyov.”

Yevgeniy did not drop the tray, though he did stop rather suddenly, and the cups slid to one side of the tray. He looked at Anna.

“Put down the tray,” she said calmly.

Yevgeniy did so.

“As I recall,” she said, “you take sugar and milk.”

“Yes,” said Rostnikov.

“Sit, Yevgeniy,” she said, preparing the tea for the policeman.

Yevgeniy sat, took a breath, and said, “Absurd.”

“It depends on how you react to it,” said Rostnikov, accepting the cup of tea from Anna Porvinovich. “When I first became a policeman, I was often struck by the absurdity of most of the crime I encountered. Gradually what used to seem absurd began to seem quite normal.”

He sipped his tea and looked at Yevgeniy.

“We are not policemen,” Yevgeniy said.

“I know,” Rostnikov replied. “You are kidnappers and, possibly, accessories to murder.”

“We …?” Yevgeniy said, looking at Anna again and getting no help.

“Yes,” said Rostnikov, reaching over for another lump of sugar. The move did not please his withered left leg. It protested as Rostnikov sweetened his tea.

“The tea is a bit tepid,” Anna said, taking a sip. “I’m sorry.”

“It is excellent tea,” he said.

“Do you plan to arrest us?” Anna Porvinovich asked calmly.

“Not yet, unless you would like to confess and tell us where your husband is?”

“I cannot do that,” she said. “I do not know. I know nothing about Alexei’s kidnapping.”

“Well,” said Rostnikov, finishing his tea. “We will get the information from Solovyov. I must go.” He rose, holding the arm of the chair to get himself into a reasonably erect position.

“Is it particularly painful to have such a crippled leg?” Anna Porvinovich asked.

“Yes,” said Rostnikov. “But my leg and I have come to an understanding. I no longer curse it and it minimally cooperates.”

“When you walk,” she said, “it looks as if you are in pain.”

Rostnikov looked at the woman, who was smiling, a very slight, falsely sympathetic smile.

“Given the choice,” he said, “I would prefer to live with pain than with guilt.”

“You have no choice,” she said, looking at his leg.

“I will return soon,” said Rostnikov, buttoning his jacket. “Thank you for the tea and sympathy.”

She remained seated, languidly holding her cup of tea in one hand, her cigarette in the other. Yevgeniy rose and moved ahead of Rostnikov to the door.

“I assure you, Inspector,” Yevgeniy said, “we are distraught over what has happened to my brother. Anna and I had nothing to do with his kidnapping. We only wish him back. We will pay them anything. I’d give everything I have to see him walk through that door.”

There was a click in the door in front of Yevgeniy and Porfiry Petrovich. The door opened, and standing there, a key in one hand, a pillow in the other, stood a man. The man was about six feet tall, perhaps a little shorter. He wore a badly rumpled suit without a tie. His hair was uncombed, and he had a day’s growth of brown and gray stubble over his grotesquely distorted and swollen purple face.

“Alexei?” said Yevgeniy.

Still standing in the doorway, the man let the pillow drop to uncover the automatic weapon he carried. He said nothing, but pointed inside the apartment. Rostnikov and Yevgeniy backed up, and Alexei pocketed his key and closed the door.

“You,” he said to Rostnikov, pointing the gun at him. “Who are you?”

“A policeman,” said Rostnikov.

“Alexei, I’m so-” Yevgeniy began, but was cut short by a sudden thrust of the weapon across his face.

“Shut up,” said Alexei Porvinovich.

Yevgeniy’s face was bleeding from a nasty slit across his nose and left cheek. He looked as if he was about to weep.

“Move,” said Alexei.

Yevgeniy kept his hand across his face, trying to stop the bleeding. Rostnikov was at his side. They moved slowly into the big living room.

Anna turned and stood erect at the sight of her armed husband. She put down her cup and her cigarette.

“Pleased to see me?” asked Alexei.

She said nothing. Cool. Unafraid.

“Well, I am pleased to be back with my family,” said Alexei with a horrible smile. “It has been a difficult night and day. Sit.”

Anna sat, and Yevgeniy and Porfiry Petrovich went back to the same seats in which they had been sitting before. Alexei stood about three yards away from the trio, much too far for Rostnikov to attempt a leap, even if he were capable of such an action.

“Would you like to know what I have been up to since you last saw me?” Alexei said. “I spent a night of fear and the expectation that I would die. I spent the night knowing that my wife and brother had planned my murder. And then I devised a plan and got this gun from one of the fools who had taken me. I bound him and waited for your friend, Artiom. Then we had a nice talk and I killed them both. I seem to be in a killing mood.”