Stuart Kaminsky - The Dog Who Bit a Policeman

“Yevgeny Pleshkov did not show up at the casino last night,”

Iosef said to Yulia Yalutshkin in her apartment on Kalinin Prospekt.

Yulia was sitting on the sofa upon which Jurgen had only hours earlier spread his arms in self-satisfied and naked possession. Yulia was wearing pink silk pajamas with a matching silk robe tied at the waist with an equally pink sash. She crossed her legs and reached for a cigarette in a small case on the table in front of her.

Akardy Zelach sat in the chair that had been offered to Oleg Kisolev the night before. Iosef sat in the matching chair, into which Yevgeny Pleshkov had crumpled after killing the German.

“He is hiding,” Yulia said, lighting her cigarette and leaning back.

“From whom?”

“From you, his family,” she said. “That, of course, is only a guess.”

The policemen had come early and their knocking had immediately awakened her, but it had no effect on Yevgeny Pleshkov, who slept soundly next to her in the bedroom. Yevgeny was badly in need of a shave. When the knock came at the door, she had risen, put on her robe, and closed the bedroom door. Fortunately, when sleeping off a particularly bad binge, Yevgeny did not snore, at least he seldom did so. If the police searched, they would have no trouble finding the man they sought. He was only about twenty feet away behind a closed door. What troubled Yulia most was that Yevgeny might awaken and blunder into the room.

Yulia looked relaxed and in no hurry.

“The German,” Iosef said.

“Jurgen,” she said. “I would guess that he too is hiding.”

“Why? From whom?”

“Enemies,” she said. “When and if you meet him you will understand his ability to make enemies easily.”

“And you don’t know where he is hiding?”

She shrugged.

“I would like to talk to him.”

“I would not,” she said. “I threw him out last night. I could see he was working himself up to hit me. I’ve had more than enough of that and I had warned him. As he was about to strike me last night, I screamed. I have perfected a scream that would penetrate the walls of the Kremlin and cause the body of Lenin to rise and open his eyes. Jurgen told me to stop, that he was going, that he would not give me another ruble. Confidentially, I gambled away what little he gave me and lived on money from Yevgeny. Jurgen conveniently overlooked the fact that I gave him far more money than he ever gave me. Would you like a drink? Water with ice?

Pepsi-Cola?”

Zelach looked at Iosef, who nodded his consent, and Yulia rose elegantly, crossing the floor to the small refrigerator where she pulled out a bottle of Pepsi, opened it, and poured it over a glass she had half filled with ice.

She handed the drink to Zelach, who took it with thanks.

“And you, big policeman? What can I give you?” She stood provocatively over Iosef with the touch of an inviting smile.

“Yevgeny Pleshkov,” he said. “The German. Do you have either of those or know where I can get them?”

“Vodka, ginger ale, Pepsi, brandy, whiskey, and even some French wine,” she said, “but I am all out of Yevgeny Pleshkovs and Germans named Jurgen.”

“A man of Pleshkov’s description was seen entering this building late last night,” said Iosef. “He is a very famous man. People remember him.”

“I was out,” she said. “At Jacko’s Casino.”

“I was there,” said Iosef. “I didn’t see you.”

She shrugged. “We must have missed each other. That is too bad. I would have been happy to entertain you for the evening. I understand that I have a well-developed ability to keep men, and occasionally women, happy, sometimes for an entire night.”

Zelach shifted uneasily. Iosef went on. “Yevgeny Pleshkov and another man were seen leaving this building two hours after they arrived,” said Iosef. “What did they do for two hours if you were not here?”

“I must make a note to give the doorman a smaller bonus,” she said, looking at the end of her cigarette.

“Where were you?” Iosef repeated.

“Jacko’s and then dinner with some businessmen,” she said, going back to the sofa. “I don’t know their names or where they live. I may have seen them about before.”

“Can you explain what Yevgeny Pleshkov was doing in this building for two hours?” asked Iosef pleasantly.

“Perhaps business?” she tried. “Yevgeny knows many people.”

“I am sure,” said Iosef. “But in this building I think he knows only you.”

“Then,” she said, “who knows?”

“Perhaps we will,” said Iosef. “There are twelve uniformed officers checking all the apartments in the building.”

“Impressive,” she said. “You must want Yevgeny very badly.”

“Very badly,” said Iosef.

There was a knock at the door and Yulia gracefully crossed the room to answer it. Iosef thought she looked remarkably beautiful.

“Inspector Rostnikov, Inspector Zelach,” the young policeman with a thin mustache said, unable to take his eyes from the tall beauty before him. “Please come. We think we have found Yevgeny Pleshkov.”

“Where?” asked Iosef, rising.

The young policeman looked at Yulia, unsure of what he should say.

“Where?” Iosef repeated.

“A shed on the roof of the hotel,” the young man finally said.

“He-the body-is badly burned.”

“I think,” said Iosef to Yulia, “you had better get dressed. Do not leave the apartment. Inspector Zelach and I will come back shortly to continue our chat. There will be a uniformed officer outside your door.”

“For my protection?” she said with a smile.

“Of course,” said Iosef.

Zelach quickly finished his Pepsi-Cola and placed the glass on the table as he rose.

Perhaps a second after the door to the apartment had closed and the two policemen had departed, the bedroom door opened and a very sober Yevgeny Pleshkov said, “I heard.”

“So,” she said, moving past him toward the bedroom and touching his bristly cheek on her way, “you are the brilliant politician, the hope for Russia. What do we do now?”

Pleshkov had no idea.

“We had better think quickly,” she said, putting out her cigarette and taking off her pink pajamas.

Yevgeny Pleshkov headed for the cart containing the liquor bottles.

“Well,” Yulia said with a sigh. “Let us try what has always worked in the past.”

“Which is?” asked Pleshkov.

“Yevgeny,” she said, “you may be a brilliant politician, but you lack common sense. Go in the bathroom. Shave quickly. I’ll get you out of here.” Standing naked and looking quite beautiful to Yevgeny, Yulia began to laugh.

“What is funny?” he asked.

“I am an uneducated high-priced prostitute,” she said, “and I am giving orders to the man who may soon rule all of Russia.”

“You are very beautiful,” Yevgeny said, pouring himself a drink.

“Let us hope the policeman outside the door agrees.”

The lobby of the hotel was relatively empty as Elena Timofeyeva headed toward the elevator. Sasha Tkach, she was sure, was still asleep. The night before they had seen a lot and drunk more than a human being should be expected to. They had been guided by Illya and Boris to a lobster dinner at the Anchor in the Palace Hotel-Sasha had never had lobster before and had to watch Elena proceed before he began. Elena had eaten lobster more than once when she had been a student in the United States.

Both Illya and Boris were accompanied by young women, very young women, professionally made up and wearing dresses that were definitely French designed. The two women had spoken fewer than five or six words each. They smiled politely at jokes and were serious at proper moments. After the dinner, which was liberally accompanied by mixed drinks, the group moved on to three casinos-drinking, gambling, laughing. Elena hadn’t liked it, nor had she liked Boris checking his watch and saying, “It’s time.”