Liza Alexandrova-Zorina - The Little Man

Military vehicles drove by, tarpaulins thrown back and soldiers poking out of the trucks like mushrooms in a basket. The jowly officer was dozing in the cab, his forehead leaning on the window, and Karimov grinned at the fact that once again Savely Savage appeared to have escaped his pursuers.

Back at the unit, the officer sent the soldiers to their barracks, dived into his own tiny room, opened a full bottle with trembling hands, cleaned his boots, and went off to get a gun. It was dark in the metal-lined stock-room with the spy-hole in the door. Since the unit commander had sold off all the weapons, there'd been no guards on the stores and the officer was able to remove the one remaining submachine-gun from the open safe entirely unseen. But he couldn't find the cartridges. He threw the gun angrily at the wall and stormed out of the stock-room, slamming the door. In the kitchen, he grabbed the enormous knife the cook used to saw stale bread and, holding it out in front of him with both hands, he crept along the corridors, jumping at every sound. The unit commander wasn't in. The officer checked the storerooms, went round the barracks, the enormous knife frightening the soldiers as its blade flashed, bouncing sunbeams off the walls. He even looked into the shed where broken motorbikes and various clutter were kept but, failing to find the commander, he lost his temper and thrust the knife into the wooden wall of the barn, where it stayed and grew rusty.

That evening the officer looked in on the neighbour with whom he decanted his wistfulness into glasses. The miner's face was so grey it was as if his skin was covered in ore dust from the quarry where he had worked all his life. They both drank more than usual and, creeping out onto the top of the stairs in the morning, the officer couldn't remember why he had been looking for the unit commander the previous day or why his soul was as dead and dusty as a quarry.

The visitor from Moscow created uproar in the little town. He walked everywhere, peered inquisitively around corners, his body guard trotting after him and his car moving slowly along the street, the driver never taking his eyes off his boss.

«The doctors recommend walks in the fresh air,» he said, greeting Karimov at the hotel.

«The environment's not good here,» said Karimov, pointing at the smoking chimneys. «This town's bad for your health, some people even die here.»

«Don't make promises you can't keep,» said the old man, pulling a face. «And don't drop hints about something you can't say out loud!»

The hotel doorman, smoking on the steps and holding the door open for Pipe, listened in surprise to their conversation. It was as if they were speaking in code.

«It's a long time since I was a child,» Karimov began.

«Some are born children and some are born old,» said Pipe, interrupting. «The children never grow up and an old man will never be a child. And they'll never understand one another…»

The old man stuck his speaking device in his pocket to show that the conversation was over and, with a facetious bow, Karimov ran down the steps. Pipe watched after him waiting for him to turn round, but Karimov slammed the car door without looking back and the doorman felt his soul shrivel. Pursing his lips, the old man went into the hotel, leaving a tip, and the doorman, grinding out his cigarette butt with his heel, flicked through the banknotes without taking his hand out of his pocket.

Pipe was seen in several places at once. He popped up in various parts of town, elusive as a ghost. He stayed under an assumed name, producing a well-worn passport and the hotel administrator noted in astonishment that several passports flickered through the old man's hand. The gangsters tried to keep an eye on the suspicious guest but he slipped away from them like water through fingers.

«He's one of us,» said one of the gangsters, chewing his lips. «He can sense when he's being tailed without even looking. I turned away for a split second and he vanished into thin air, along with his bodyguard and the car.»

«He's a high-flier that one,» said another, shaking his head and pointing upwards. «You don't want to cross him too often. He's got radar for eyes. He saw me on the street and looked at me as if he could see right through to my bones.»

«What are you, some girl that people are making eyes at you?»

«He can see you miles away. He's a scary guy!»

Listening to them chatter, Saam rubbed his temples, trying to fit together the murders, Savage running away, Severina disappearing and the arrival in town of the strange old man.

«How can there be any link?» asked his sidekick doubtfully. «The old man's one thing, the girl's another.»

But a bad feeling tormented Saam, making his feet itch and his eyes water.

«Troubles never come singly,» the gangster ground out. «If one comes along, you can expect more to follow. And when there's stuff like this going on,» he said, using his hands to show what he meant, «not even the rain comes down just like that and the sun's got an ulterior motive.»

Shrugging their shoulders, the gang stared at the toes of their boots, examining the dirt they'd picked up, but Saam went on:

«That old man hasn't just turned up. Don't take your eyes off him!»

Pipe hung around the police station, frowning at the officers darting about. He started up conversations with the locals and spent time in the library, leafing through a binder of local newspapers.

«Did you know this Savely Savage?» he asked the librarian, pointing to a picture of Savage on a two-page spread.

«Who doesn't?» she said with a gesture. «His photo's pasted up all over town.»

«Not like that,» the old man said, impatient and dismissive. «Did you know him before all this?»

«Of course,» said a skinny young woman, covered in book dust, as she came out from behind a stack. «He was in here a lot. A quiet type, shy, not someone you'd notice.»

«What did he use to read?» inquired the Pipe.

«A bit of everything — literary magazines, popular science. Sometimes he asked for reference books. He took crime fiction out a couple of times but soon brought it back. He said it was boring.»

Pipe went to the Three Lemons, spending the day out on the veranda where Coffin was killed. He sat in Coffin's chair, which had been empty since that evening. No-one, not even Saam, could bring themselves to take his seat. As a result, the bouncer at the bar squinted suspiciously at the visitor and passers-by looked round in fright as if they'd seen a ghost downing freshly squeezed juice.

Pipe inspected the area, taking particular interest in the windows that looked out on the square. He wrote the witness statements that had appeared in the local press down in a notebook and checked his notes by questioning passers-by.

«Lovely weather,» said Pipe to a woman crossing the square, tipping his hat.

«Isn't it?» she said, shuddering at the mechanical voice and embarrassed as she looked at the overcast, grey sky.

«Such a pleasant, homely little town and such terrible things going on,» the old man said, beginning at one remove. «I mean the gangster who was shot…» he explained in response to a puzzled stare.

«Oh, him… Yes, we're all in shock!»

«Do you think Savely Savage shot him?»

«Who else could it be?» the woman said in surprise. «Everyone knows he… Have you heard something different?» she wondered but the old man observed a meaningful silence and didn't answer.

With a smirk, Pipe looked at the gangsters who were keeping their distance, occasionally glancing his way. They were as alike as twins with their shaved necks, the leather jackets they wore in all weathers and their eyes sharp as shivs, kept hidden behind shades. But Pipe's glance also cut like a knife so that the gangsters turned up their collars and shrank from sudden fear that made their armpits prickle.