EQMM, May 2012

by Dell Magazine Authors

  The charge of energy that always came when he set to work ran through Tsihosha's body like electric current. He glanced at his watch, rose quickly, left the restaurant, bought a second-class ticket to Hodiv, and went outside to Ivan, who was waiting for him on the driver's seat of the carriage.

  “Ivan, go now to Silberstein's inn, unhitch the horses, and once they're rested, give them oats and water. They're tired, you said so yourself. I've got some business to see to here at the station. Here's a couple zloty for your supper,” Tsihosha said, giving money to the surprised driver, “I only ask that you watch the carriage rather than drink.”

  He stood there for another minute, watching Ivan leave, and then returned to the restaurant. In another fifteen minutes, the detective was speeding away aboard the express to Hodiv. The train was overcrowded, and the only space he could find was standing in the car's hallway, where he spent the entire way, about an hour. He found a spot by the window, looked out at the moonlit country that flew by, and composed his plan of action. The plan had to be simple and precise, because everything had to happen within an hour and a quarter at most, so that he could return to Zadozh on time. When the train stopped in Hodiv, Tsihosha hurried off, and without much ado, came up to the constable posted on the platform.

  The constable, a stout and well-nourished man, did not appear to notice him.

  “Excuse me,” Tsihosha began energetically, “were you by chance at this post at nine o'clock this evening, when the Lviv express stopped here?”

  His interlocutor looked at him askance, somewhat surprised.

  “I may have, and I may not. If it was my shift, I was, and if it was not, I wasn't.”

  “Answer the question!” thundered Tsihosha. “And stand up straight! I am a police officer from Lviv.”

  “That's a different matter then, I couldn't have known,” the constable said, straightening to attention. “How can I be of service?”

  “Did you see a couple get off the train, not locals, a man and a woman? He of medium height, skinny, trims his moustache, she also petite, in a red—I think—hat?”

  “All kinds of folks got off here . . . all locals . . . But . . . yes. I did see two people as you describe, sir. A man and a woman, must be a married couple, they called each other by first name. She called him Marzel, and he called her Sofia. I remember, because I'm Marzel too. . . . I even looked back, thought it was my missus. They went to the restaurant. May have left by another train later, on the side track. I did not notice. Must have supped and left for Zurov, that train leaves half an hour later.”

  “I doubt it,” mumbled Tsihosha. “Would you know who collected the tickets at the station exit?"[1]

  [1 To prevent loitering, only passengers in possession of tickets were allowed inside the station building. Thus, their tickets were collected as they left the station.]

  “I would—it's Kozlovsky. But he's not especially strict with his friends. He's been fined for that once already.”

  “Is he here?”

  “Just saw him a minute ago. Let me look.”

  “Wait! First phone the precinct, tell the commandant to come right away.”

  “No need. Mister Commandant Petrushevych is right here at the restaurant, in the company of . . .”

  “Then please summon him, immediately. And find Kozlovsky, I don't have time!”

  The constable left in a hurry. The detective stepped to the open station kiosk to buy some cigarettes. When he paid for his purchase and turned around, he saw before him a dignified man with an intent expression, wearing the police uniform with three silver galloons on each sleeve.

  “Did you want something?” the man inquired grudgingly. “I am Commandant Petrushevych. What do you need?”

  “Honored to make your acquaintance, Mr. Commandant, and my apologies for separating you from your good company. Here's my identification . . . I have to consign you to my service for about an hour. We have to act quickly and energetically.”

  Taken aback, Petrushevych opened the identification slowly, but having read the surname, smiled most pleasantly and said:

  “The honor's all mine. Command me.”

  “Take two more constables. . . .”

  The commandant looked about himself:

  “Where's that Knobloch?”

  “The constable? He went to look for Kozlovsky, the ticket collector.”

  The two men were just returning.

  “There they are,” the commandant greeted them.

  “Mr. Kozlovsky, were you the one collecting tickets from the express-train passengers?” Tsihosha asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And did you turn them in?”

  “They're still in my pocket, there weren't many.”

  “Quite a few people got off the train, however.”

  Kozlovsky said nothing to that, and instead pulled out a pack of tickets tied with a string and gave it to the detective.

  Tsihosha and the others went to the third-class waiting room, almost empty at this hour, the train having just left. The detective untied the tickets, spread them out on a table, and looked through them quickly. Soon he found the two that were paid all the way to Reverov. The detective smiled slightly.

  “So far so good. Take back the tickets.” He glanced at the clock. “We have to hurry. Do you have two constables with you?”

  “I've got one here: Knobloch—you're coming with us! We'd have to wait for another one, I'll phone. The precinct is downtown.”

  “In that case, we'll manage with one. Are there many hotels here?”

  “Only two, really, and I wouldn't call them hotels. Just cheap rooms, at Krebbs’ and Munzer's.”

  “How far from here?”

  “Close by. Three-minute walk to Krebbs’ and a little farther to Munzer's.”

  “Let's go,” the detective said.

  The three left the station.

  “Krebbs keeps a restaurant on the ground floor and has one or two little rooms above it—sometimes he rents those out for a night.”

  “Where do their windows face?”

  “Both rooms face the street.”

  “Then you, Mr. Knobloch, will take a stand in front of the building and watch, very carefully, if anyone throws anything out of the window. And Mr. Commandant and I will go inside.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  They saw the tavern sign at the front of the building and the two dormer windows of the attic rooms. The restaurant door was in the side alley. Through the ground-floor windows, with the curtains drawn inside, they could see light and hear, despite the glass and the curtains, the merry noise of what must have been quite a few guests.

  The commandant threw the door open and walked in first.

  “Is Mr. Krebbs here?” he asked of the teenager who hustled around the beer taps behind the bar.

  The detective looked over the room. About a dozen people sat in groups around the tables—mostly craftsmen, drivers, and railwaymen, some of them already considerably tipsy, as was evidenced by their loud conversations, peppered with crude jokes that died down for a moment when the commandant and the detective came in.

  To the side was a second room, separated from the main hall by a wooden wall painted with chestnut varnish, with a wide doorway cut through it, but with a faded curtain in place of a door.

  Through this doorway one could see an old-fashioned large and heavy pool table, and a few men standing around it with cue sticks and mugs of beer. One of them lay half across the pool table, aiming to execute some no-doubt virtuosic carom.

  “Where's Mr. Krebbs?” the commandant repeated.

  “Right away, Mr. Commandant,” the boy called back from behind the bar. “Ruzya!” he hollered to a plump red-faced Jewish girl who appeared in the doorway between the two rooms. “Ruf den Vater, a gleiuch![2] Mr. Commandant's here!”

  [2 “Call Father, quick!” Yiddish.]

  A moment later, the restaurant's owner emerged from the back room and, stroking his beard, approached at a state
ly gait.

  “My respects, Mr. Commandant! What happened? I have very good cognac, my son just brought it today . . . Perhaps Mr. Commandant will permit,” he turned to the detective, “a bottle, with this gentleman? On the house, of course.”

  “Not yet,” the commandant interrupted. “Do you have anyone?”

  “Staying, you mean? Yes, just two hours ago, my son came from Lviv. You know him, Joseph. The one who is juris doctor,” he added with pride.

  “That's not what I mean,” the commandant cut him short again. “I meant in your guest rooms?”

  “I don't know myself. Ruzya! Ruzya, has anyone taken a room for the night?”

  “A gentleman and a lady. Traveling on tomorrow.”

  “Gentleman of medium height, skinny, with a protruding nose and stubby moustache? Lady petite, in a red hat?” the detective inquired.

  “Yes, that's them,” Ruzya confirmed. “Exactly. They must be friends of yours. . . .”

  “Yep,” Tsihosha nodded. “I have an urgent need to see them. Please show us to their room.”

  “The room's across from the stairs. Let me light a candle, it's dark up there.”

  “I know the place,” the commandant said. “Please, don't trouble yourself. I have an electrical flashlight. I'll manage without your help.”

  The commandant and the detective went into the second room. Besides the pool table, there were several round tables by the far wall, with card games going at them. Thick stacks of cash lay before some players. The men, as soon as they caught sight of the commandant, rushed to sweep the money off the tables, hiding the evidence of their dishonest proclivities. The commandant gave them a menacing look, as though he were about to arrest them, but Tsihosha whispered to him:

  “Do it later, if you please. We must go!”

  From the room, they stepped into a dark hallway. Petrushevych turned on his flashlight.

  “Here are the stairs,” he pointed with its ray. “Very steep, mind your step.”

  “I can see,” Tsihosha reassured him. “Actually, I have a flashlight of my own, I'll light my way.”

  Across the landing, right in front of them, was the door to the attic room.

  “Knock!”

  The commandant knocked loudly at the door. He waited for a few moments, then thumped it with his fist, hollering:

  “Open, in the name of the law!”

  The detective bent to the handle and pressed his ear against the keyhole.

  Gifted with astute hearing, he first distinguished a rustle inside the room, then a match striking a matchbox, and a muffled voice:

  “Who's out there?”

  The commandant gave the door another thud. The movement in the room grew louder, as when people dress in a hurry.

  “Sophie!” the detective heard. “Get up! Police! Sophie, they're here! Open the window and throw it out!”

  “Open the door!” yelled the commandant.

  Tsihosha stood up. Someone was turning the key in the lock. In another moment, the door opened, and a man of medium height appeared in the doorway, with a candle in his hand and wearing only his trousers. It was obvious he had jumped out of bed seconds before. Inside the room, a bony, rather young woman in her undergarments stood next to the open window.

  The detective and the commandant stepped into the room almost in sync, forcing the man who opened the door to back up. Tsihosha closed the door behind them and pulled the key out of the lock.

  “Documents, please,” the commandant said.

  The man, regaining some self-control, spoke in a shaky voice:

  “I must confess I am astounded by this middle-of-the-night police intrusion upon decent citizens. However, I've no complaint against the authority you represent. A document check, then? Just a moment.”

  He went to the table and produced two identification cards from a portmanteau that lay there, offering these to the commandant.

  “Please!”

  The commandant read the cards, inspected the photographs, then looked at the occupants of the room, and gave the IDs to Tsihosha:

  “These are in order. See for yourself.”

  Tsihosha took the cards and read them. One listed the name of Aloysius Biletsky, merchant, and the other, Maria Biletska, merchant's wife.

  “Yes, these are in order.”

  “Then why do you come barging in, in the middle of the night, disturbing peaceful people!” the man exclaimed indignantly.

  “Slow down, my dear sir,” Tsihosha interrupted phlegmatically. “One can always have one's identification in order, especially if it's issued by the district office in Dogsy Beat or Dippypissov, isn't that right, Mr. Marzel?”

  The man started, went pale, but kept silent.

  “Perhaps Miss Sofia would like to tell us what the company's real names are?”

  The woman's eyes expressed fear.

  “If not, I shall be compelled to search your clothes and luggage. Perchance that will help. . . .”

  “You have no right!” the man whimpered.

  The detective ignored his protestation and set to searching. In the portmanteau he found a hundred American dollars and fifty zloty, and another ten zloty in banknotes and coins inside the woman's purse. The suitcase revealed various items of gentleman's and lady's wardrobe, toiletries, several wigs, two fake beards, and a started vial with a glass cork. The detective opened the vial and brought it to his nose. Then closed it again and placed it on the table.

  “What's in this vial, Mr. Marzel?”

  “A mouth rinse. National product, similar to the Odol . . .”

  “Right. This liquid is no more mouth rinse than you're Aloysius and your lady-friend Maria!”

  At this moment, someone knocked at the door.

  “Who's there?” the commandant asked.

  “It's me, Knobloch, Mr. Commandant!”

  “Have you found anything?”

  “Had quite the time looking for it in the snow—they tossed it good and far. It's a good thing the moon's out. A portmanteau.”

  “Now, this will clarify some things,” said the detective, gathering the portmanteau from the constable's hands.

  It was a large leather pouch. Tsihosha didn't find money inside, but located, among various notes and invoices, a letter in a gray letterhead envelope. The letterhead said: Savings Bank, Reverov Branch, and the typed address was: To Mr. Leonard Sitetsky, Esq., manufacturer, Lviv, 29 Virmenska Street. The letter was certified, and the text went as follows:

  * * * *

  Dear Sir,

  Union Bank in Vienna executed a transfer of 25,000 (twenty-five thousand) Austrian schillings to your name, via our bank. You may collect this sum, in Polish currency, in person, or through your courier presenting check #275 enclosed herein.

  Respectfully,

  Mykhailo Ostrovsky, Director

  * * * *

  “Well, we're almost on solid land, Mr. Marzel,” the detective addressed the moustachioed man who, now utterly deflated, collapsed into an armchair.

  “Mr. Knobloch,” Tsihosha ordered suddenly, eyes gleaming, “would you be so kind as to hand me that red hat of Miss Sofia's.”

  He inspected the hat thoroughly, turning it over in his hands. Then he pulled out a penknife and began to cut off the lining, very carefully. When he snapped the last stitch, he revealed some papers that he proceeded to extract and lay on the table.

  “Here's the answer to the mystery.”

  Two documents were identification cards. One for Marzel Prohnik, manager, and the other for Sofia Vislovska, seamstress. The third was check #275 for the sum of 25,000 schillings.

  “I was right,” the detective said to the two criminals. “In the hour between Lviv and Hodiv, you managed to gain the confidence of the gullible and generous Mr. Sitetsky. He probably boasted to you that he was about to collect twenty-five thousand. He may even have shown you check number 275. He drained the shot of liquor presented to him by Miss Sofia's delicate hand, from the glass in which Mr. Marzel had dropp
ed a few drops of his ‘mouth rinse’ which, in fact, is highly concentrated scopolamine. The drug knocks the victim out in a blink. You robbed Mr. Sitetsky and took the check that Mr. Marzel planned to cash at the bank introducing himself as Mr. Sitetsky's courier, and then, as Mr. Prohnik, elope in Miss Sofia Vislovska's company to some faraway land. Isn't that so, Mr. Marzel?”

  The detective did not get an answer to his question. The man sat in the chair pale as a corpse, with his lips squeezed shut; the woman sobbed quietly at the edge of the bed. The detective turned to the commandant.

  “I have one last favor to ask of you, Mr. Commandant. We still have twenty minutes before my train. Please deliver Mr. Marzel and Miss Sofia in handcuffs, under Mr. Knobloch's guard, to Reverov and surrender them to the police there. A confrontation with Mr. Sitetsky will corroborate our theory. As far as I'm concerned, I will take the same train, and will make sure to write up a report for the Reverov police on the way.”

  Copyright © 2012 Adam Stodor

  Translation Copyright © 2012 by Nina Shevchuk-Murray

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  * * *

  Reviews: BLOG BYTES

  by Bill Crider

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  The bombshell of 2011 in the crime-writing field was the Q.R. Markham/Quentin Rowan affair. The short version is that Markham/Rowan published a novel that was blurbed by some well-known writers and appeared to laudatory reviews. And it turned out that almost the entire book had been plagiarized, with passages being lifted from writers like John Gardner, Robert Ludlum, and Charles McCarry. When this was discovered, the blogger covering matters in most detail was Jeremy Duns at The Debrief (jeremyduns.blogspot.com/). Duns is himself an accomplished writer of espionage fiction and had blurbed Markham/Rowan's book. Duns pointed out many examples of the lifted passages, and then Markham/Rowan began posting comments in which he attempted to explain himself. It was all fascinating reading, and you can search the blog for the posts if you're so inclined. While you're doing that, you can read some of the other posts as well.