first, with a blow to the temple from a heavy object. Her body was lying just here.’
On the ground by the door there was a rough outline of a human figure, not a very good likeness, and beside it there was a dark patch. Blood, Senka guessed, and shuddered.
‘The criminal tied up Ashot Ashotovich Samshitov, fifty-two years of age, and sat him in this chair. As you can see, there’s blood everywhere: on the headrest, the arms, the floor. And both veinous and arterial, different oscillatory fluctuations . . . I’m sorry, Erast Petrovich, I’m not being very clear, I don’t know medical terminology very well,’ the official said, embarrassed. ‘You were always at me, trying to get me to study a bit, but the new bosses didn’t require it, so I never got round—’
‘Never mind that,’ Erast Petrovich interrupted. ‘I understand: Samshitov was t-tortured before he died. Was a knife used?’
‘Probably, or else they stabbed him with a pointed object.’
‘And the eyes?’
‘What about the eyes?’
‘Were the b-bodies’ eyes put out?’
‘Ah, you’re thinking of the Khitrovka murders ...’ Sergei Nikiforovich shook his head. ‘No, the eyes weren’t put out, and the overall picture of the crime is rather different, too. So it has been decided to make this a separate case from the Khitrovka Blinder murders.’
The Khitrovka B-blinder?’ said Erast Petrovich, wincing. ‘What a stupid name! I thought only newspapermen used it.’
‘It was thought up by the superintendent of the Third Myasnitsky Precinct, Colonel Solntsev. The reporters pounced on it, although, of course, from a grammatical—’
‘All right, to hell with the g-grammar,’ said Erast Petrovich, walking round the room. ‘Shall we go upstairs?’
‘No point. It’s quite clear that the killer didn’t go up there.’
‘Killer? Not killers? Has it been established that there was only one c-criminal?’
‘Apparently so. The neighbours testified that Samshitov never served more than one customer at a time, he only let one in the shop then locked the door after them immediately. He was very afraid of being robbed, Khitrovka’s not far off, after all.’
‘Signs of robbery?’
‘None. Nothing’s been taken, even in the shop. There are a few trinkets lying in the shop window there, but they’re not worth very much. I told you, everything happened in this room.’
Erast Petrovich shook his head and walked through into the shop. The official and Masa followed him. And Senka too – so as not to be left alone in a room splattered with blood.
‘And what’s this?’ asked Erast Petrovich, pointing to the birdcage.
The parrot Levonchik was lying in it with his head thrown back.
Sergei Nikiforovich shrugged. ‘Parrots are nervous birds, sensitive to loud sounds. And there must have been plenty of screaming and groaning . . . His heart gave out. Or perhaps he was left unfed too long.’
‘The cage d-door’s open. Yes and . . . Aha, t-take a look, Masa.’ Erast Petrovich picked up the little body and handed it to Masa.
The Japanese clicked his tongue: ‘They wrung it’ neck. Murda.’
‘Yes, it’s a pity the coroner didn’t examine it,’ the policeman chuckled, evidently thinking that the Oriental was joking, but Senka knew that for his sensei a soul was a soul, whether it was a man’s or a bird’s.
‘How low the p-professionalism of the Moscow d-detective police has sunk,’ Erast Petrovich intoned sadly. Ten years ago such c-carelessness would have been unimaginable.’
‘Don’t I know it.’ Sergei Nikiforovich sighed even more bitterly. ‘Things aren’t what they were in your day. You know, I get no satisfaction from the work at all. All they want are results, convictions, they’re not interested in proving anything. The triumph of justice doesn’t even come into it. Our bosses have different concerns. By the way’, he said, lowering his voice, ‘I didn’t mention it on the telephone . . . Your presence in Moscow is no secret. I happened by chance to see a secret instruction on the desk of the chief of police: your place of residence is to be determined and you’re to be put under secret observation. Someone’s recognised you and reported you.’
Erast Petrovich was not in the slightest upset by this news; in fact, he seemed rather flattered: ‘It’s not surprising, m-many people in Moscow know me. And clearly, they haven’t f-forgotten me. Thank you, Subbotin. I know the risks you’ve taken, and I appreciate it. G-goodbye.’
He shook the man in specs by the hand, and Subbotin muttered in embarrassment: ‘Oh, it’s nothing. But you should be careful anyway . . . Who knows what they’ve got in mind.