People Who Walk In Darkness (Inspector Rostnikov)

by Stuart M. Kaminsky

  “After precisely seven minutes of waiting . . .”

  Fyodor looked up over his glasses at the two detectives. It was highly unlikely that Commissar Vortz would know the precise time of waiting, which suggested to the three men that the commissar was covering his ass. If he were, it was unwise to report what happened next.

  I heard singing coming from Tunnel Number Three. The voice sounded like that of a young child, a girl. Then I heard a scream, not that of a child. I was about to enter the tunnel . . .

  Another incredulous look from Fyodor. Karpo showed nothing. Porfiry Petrovich was busy with his drawing. Fyodor went on:

  . . . however I did not have the opportunity. I heard something rushing toward me from the tunnel. I assumed it was Ivan Memendov who may have been injured. I saw a light coming toward me and then saw a figure emerge, the figure of a completely naked girl of no more than ten. She was carrying an old kerosene lantern, the kind no longer used. I saw her clearly coming at me, and then she ran toward the mine entrance. She was too fast for me to catch. I have been suffering from a debilitating, recurrent injury received in the defense of Leningrad, for which I was decorated.

  Using my flashlight I went quickly into the tunnel and discovered the body of Shift Leader and Mine Safety Director Ivan Memendov. Later examination by Devochka Physician Oleg Dubinin revealed that he had been stabbed at least eight times.

  “It is signed,” said Fyodor. “Commissar Vortz was reassigned to a Gulag under suspicion that he had killed the Mine Safety Director over an old feud about the provision of fuel and then made up the ridiculous story about the ghost girl because he knew the lore about such sightings.”

  “And there are three more reports about seeing this ghost girl,” said Karpo.

  “Yes,” said Fyodor, “a total of six from 1963 till yesterday.”

  Porfiry Petrovich had finished his drawing. He held it out to look at without trying to understand what he was seeing.

  “May I see the report?” he asked.

  It could have been given as an order, but it was delivered as a polite request, which Fyodor honored.

  Porfiry Petrovich took the report, opened it, and saw that it had been written on a typewriter whose ink roll had been reused almost once too often. In addition, the carriage had slipped and the upper third of each letter was in a red almost as faint as the black below it. He took a sip of his tea and asked, “Do you note something very strange about this report?”

  “I notice very little that is not strange,” said Fyodor.

  Rostnikov handed the report to Karpo, who began to read.

  “Why is the girl naked?” asked Karpo.

  “Precisely,” said Rostnikov. “Why is the beast on the table, and why is the girl running naked?”

  “Beast on the table?” asked Fyodor.

  “Never mind,” said Porfiry Petrovich. “I am sorry. Emil Karpo asked . . .”

  “Why is the ghost girl running naked?” Karpo repeated.

  “Because,” Fyodor said removing his glasses, “she is a ghost, or she is supposed to be a ghost, and ghosts do very strange things.”

  “When was the last time, before this morning, that you read this report?”

  “I’ve never read it before this morning,” said Fyodor. “It was in the retired files of the Director. You asked to see all reports of suspicious deaths in the mine and any mention of the ghost girl.”

  “I have a whim,” said Porfiry Petrovich. “I would like a search, supervised and conducted by you, Emil, of the entire town, room by room, hiding place by hiding place.”

  “What are we looking for?” asked Fyodor.

  “An old typewriter with a very worn ribbon.”

  “And you expect the typewriter on which this report was written still to be in use, or functional, and still to have the same ribbon?” asked Fyodor.

  “I think it possible this report was written very recently,” said Porfiry Petrovich.

  “Why?” asked Fyodor.

  “That I do not yet know.”

  But he did know. The key to two murders, he was sure, was the ghost girl.

  “And what of my other requests?”

  “Boris Gailov, the old man who was with the Canadian in the mine, is waiting in the hall whenever you wish to talk to him,” said Fyodor, “but, as I told you, he is not a reliable witness. He’s seventy-eight years old and he is more than a little mad from working in the mine for half a century.”

  “Then why,” asked Karpo, “was he sent down to serve as a guide for the Canadian?”

  “He volunteered,” said Fyodor. “No one expected trouble.”

  “The list I requested of all girls in Devochka between the ages of six and eighteen?”

  Fyodor took off his glasses, and handed Rostnikov two sheets of paper on which were written the names of seventy-two girls. The names were numbered.

  “I’ve indicated the ages of each girl and have added lists of girls between the ages of three and five and eighteen to twenty. I’ve also indicated, as you can see, where each girl was at the time of the death of the Canadian. I’m still working on where they were last night when Anatoliy Lebedev was murdered.”

  “How many definitely could not have been in the mine when the Canadian was killed?”

  “Fifty-two are completely accounted for,” said Fyodor.

  “Still a long list. I would like to see each girl.”

  “And their parents?”

  “No, not yet.”

  “When?”

  “As soon as I finish talking to Boris Gailov. What animal do you think this is?”

  Fyodor put his glasses back on. Karpo turned his head to see.

  “None that I recognize,” said Karpo.

  “Let’s see,” said Fyodor, biting his lower lip gently, and tilting his head from side to side. “It’s a very large, hairy man with long teeth. Maybe it’s a werewolf.”

  “Maybe,” said Rostnikov. “What happens when a werewolf eats diamonds?”

  “Its throat, stomach, and bowels can be torn to pieces,” said Fyodor. “Or then again, nothing may happen.”

  “I have drawn a diamond eater,” said Porfiry Petrovich.

  “Shall we go out and search for him?” asked Fyodor.

  He wasn’t smiling. Porfiry Petrovich liked that his brother wasn’t smiling. Some jests were not meant to be smiled at.

  It was the third day, and the list was long. He would have to call Yaklovev shortly. As yet he had nothing to report. He looked at the drawing again and said, “Let us get back to work.”

  Karpo and Fyodor stood and went to the door. Porfiry Petrovich did not move. Karpo knew why—Rostnikov’s leg. It had been bothering him lately. He had been moving more slowly, rising more cautiously, climbing steps more tentatively.

  “Leave the door open, please, and send in Boris Gailov,” he requested as the two men moved off in search of a typewriter.

  Through the open door, Rostnikov could see an old man seated on a metal folding chair in the hallway. The man was pale, gray, and in need of a decision about whether to shave or grow a beard. The man, still over six feet tall in spite of his age, was lean and gnarled. His fingers were crippled by arthritis, and his back was permanently bent over.

  “Boris Gailov, please come in and close the door behind you.”

  The old man rose slowly, entered the room, and closed the door. Rostnikov motioned for the old man to take a seat across the table.

  “I am going to move to St. Petersburg,” Boris said, his voice a crisp rasp.

  “You have relatives there?” Rostnikov said, ignoring the non sequitur.

  “No, never. That is why I want to go there. Here, I have relatives. Two sons, three grandsons, a daughter, granddaughters. I don’t remember their names. I don’t even remember how many there are. In St. Petersburg I can get a little room somewhere and live on my pension, just watch television, eat sandwiches, and wash and rinse my clothes.”

  “It sounds idyllic,” said Porfiry Petr
ovich.

  Boris looked at Rostnikov suspiciously.

  “It sounds wonderful. Paradise,” the detective said with sincerity.

  “There is no Paradise.”

  “I know,” said Rostnikov.

  “You want me to tell you about the Canadian.”

  “And the ghost girl.”

  “There is no ghost girl,” Boris said emphatically.

  “I know, but you saw something. You saw a girl with a lantern.”

  “I did not.”

  “Yes, you did.”

  “If I say I did, I go to the asylum instead of St. Petersburg.”

  “No, you do not. Tell me, what does this look like to you?”

  Rostnikov held up his drawing.

  The old man squinted at the drawing and said,

  “A large dog sitting on this table.”

  “You have trouble seeing.”

  “I have trouble picking up a spoon, but I don’t complain about it,” Boris said with pride.

  “I have one leg,” said Rostnikov.

  “When I was young, men came home without arms, legs, eyes. They also came home with the teeth and bones and weapons of dead Germans.”

  “You came here in 1949,” said Rostnikov.

  “July fifteenth, a day of rain and sorrow,” said Boris. “Do you know why I came here?”

  “Your file says you came here because you were hungry, and there was recruiting for Siberian mine workers.”

  “They said I was crazy,” said Boris. “I was seventeen. Everyone else was being sent here for political crimes. I came to get something to eat every day. And I did. I haven’t starved, and I’ve raised a large family.”

  “Which you now want to get away from,” said Rostnikov.

  “Yes.”

  “Tell me about going into the mine with the Canadian. Who picked you to go into the mine with him?”

  “I do not know. A man. I got a call. Said, ‘Boris, there is a Canadian needs a guide in the mine. Meet him in front of the mine entrance.’ I got dressed. I did what I was told. I always do what I’m told. I hate doing what I’m told. At this point in my life, I do not like anybody.”

  “The ghost girl?” asked Rostnikov.

  “They’re all afraid to talk about the ghost girl, but why should I be? I’m ninety years old. I can say what I please.”

  “You are seventy-eight,” Rostnikov corrected.

  “And you have one leg. Let me see it.”

  Rostnikov slid his chair back and pulled up his left pant leg. Boris stood and leaned over, twisted knuckles on the table, mouth open.

  “Like on television,” said Boris.

  “Just like it,” said Rostnikov, having no idea what the old man was talking about. “Would you tell me about the ghost child now?”

  “Why not?”

  “Please.”

  “I take the American . . .”

  “Canadian.”

  “Canadian, yes,” said Boris. “I take this Amer . . . Canadian into the mine. My English? Not good. Canada grumbled, growls all the time. All the time. I take him to the tunnel he wants and wait while he goes in. I hear a noise.”

  “Noise?”

  “You know. Something clanking, noise. Down there you can hear someone farting two hundred feet away.”

  “He farted?”

  Boris looked at the barrel-shaped detective.

  “No, he did not fart. All right if I continue? I am getting older with the passing of each minute. You want me dropping dead right in here?”

  “Please do not drop dead,” Rostnikov said politely.

  Boris had not forgotten where he was in his tale.

  “I hear the noise. Then I hear singing. Then I . . . see the ghost coming toward me from the tunnel.”

  “What was the ghost singing?”

  Boris burst into gravelly song.

  “ ‘The Po ulitse mastavoi.’ Along the paved road there went a girl to fetch water, there went a girl to fetch water, to fetch the cold spring water. Behind her a young lad shouted ‘Girl, stand still. Girl, stand still. Let’s have a little talk.’ ”

  “You saw her?”

  “She hurried by me, holding her lantern at her side.”

  “She wore?”

  “A dress, a nice one buttoned at the neck. Chaste, very chaste. I think it was blue, but in the light in the mines here it is difficult to be sure of the color. Everything looks green.”

  “The two men who were in here when you came in, what were they wearing?”

  “Games? You’re playing games with me now?”

  “No,” said Rostnikov. “I would like to know.”

  “Tall one,” Boris said. “He was wearing black socks, black pants, black shoes, black jacket, and a black look, as if it were he who had seen the ghost.”

  “And the other man?”

  “He looked like you with a beard. That was Fyodor Rostnikov, Director of Security, your brother. Everyone knows that.”

  “The ghost girl, did she look like any child in Devochka?”

  Boris looked at Porfiry Petrovich with a compassion he usually reserved for those of limited intellect.

  “She was a ghost.”

  “Could you identify the ghost girl if you saw her again?”

  “No.”

  “No? Why?”

  “I am not a fool,” said Boris. “People take me for one, but I’m not a fool. Whoever this ghost girl is, it would not be healthy, if she is not a ghost, to identify her if I saw her.”

  “You could be arrested for refusing.”

  “And then what would you do? Send me to Siberia?”

  Rostnikov laughed, clapped his hands together noiselessly three times, and then clasped them together.

  “I guarantee nothing will happen to you if you identify the girl. I’ll arrange for you to move to St. Petersburg.”

  “Just pack a bag, get on an airplane, and get out?”

  “That can be arranged.”

  “I will identify her if I see her, but I would have to look at all the girls here to be sure. I have not memorized the face of every child in this place. I will identify her if I see her again.”

  “Good,” said Rostnikov, standing to alter the stiffening of his leg. “I will arrange for every girl in Devochka to be in the meeting room later today. Tell no one what we are doing.”

  Boris rose.

  “Be careful,” said Rostnikov.

  Boris leaned forward to whisper, “I have a gun.”

  Rostnikov held a finger to his lips to warn the old man to keep that information quiet.

  “One question,” said Boris.

  “Ask.”

  “Can you dance with only one leg?”

  “I do not know. I have never tried.”

  “Try,” said Boris.

  When he was gone, Porfiry Petrovich gathered his drawings and stood. With the door still closed, he hummed one of the peppier Sarah Vaughan songs he listened to when he worked out. As he was humming, he attempted to take a few dance-like steps. It was not bad. He tried a few more and hummed a bit louder.

  His back was to the door when it opened silently. Emil Karpo and Fyodor Rostnikov stood in the open doorway, witnessing Rostnikov’s dance. Rostnikov sensed their presence, stopped dancing, and turned to face them.

  “I was dancing,” Rostnikov said.

  “Yes,” said Karpo.

  “You should try it.”

  “I think not.”

  Rostnikov tried to imagine the man dancing. It was impossible except for a macabre shuffling of the feet that conjured up the image of a humorless zombie lurching slowly forward.

  “I agree.”

  “We found the typewriter,” said Fyodor.

  “It must not have been well hidden. It took you all of thirty minutes.”

  “It was in plain sight.”

  “Where?”

  “On my bed,” said Fyodor.

  He should not have let the Moscow policeman find the typewriter. He should not be playing ga
mes with this.

  Did he want to get caught? No. The policeman would have figured it out in any case. He was smart, this barrel of a policeman. It would not have taken him very long to figure out that the report had not only been altered, but written completely anew. Let Rostnikov wonder why the typewriter had been placed where it could so easily be found. The question was, what was in this replacement report that would provide Rostnikov with the information he needed. It was simple, clear, right in the report. One word.

  This killer had one more murder to commit and then he would stop, melt back into the community, into his work.

  He would have to go back into the mine, close and seal the small cave where he had found the vein of diamonds that he had been mining and shipping to the Botswanans in Moscow. The Canadian and Lebedev had found the cave. No one else must find it.

  Tonight. Late tonight. There would be but one guard. He hoped it would not be Misha Planck or Leo Kamikayanski. He liked them both. He did not wish to kill either man, but it might have to be done.

  One final shipment of diamonds to Moscow.

  Just one more shipment and he would tell St. James in his London tower that he would no longer steal or murder.

  Just one more.

  The teacher asked a question. The child had not been listening. Instead the child had been singing an internal song, the song of the mine.

  “Along the paved road, there went a girl to fetch water.”

  The child had no idea what the question was. Other children watched. The teacher repeated the question.

  “Who was Abraham Lincoln?”

  “An American President.”

  “What do you know about him?” asked the teacher.

  “He was responsible for a bloody suppression of a revolution by the southern states of America,” answered the child.

  “The result?”

  “Darkness. Lincoln held up a lamp and frightened faces were revealed.”

  “Imaginative,” said the teacher, “but I would prefer a more conventional answer.”

  The child had none.