Senka had to put as much distance as possible between him and the Prince. So he took off to the back of beyond, even farther west than the Presnya District, and moved into a hotel for railway workers. A good place: nobody knew anybody else, men just spent the night there and then carried on along their way.
And at the same time he changed his name, so no one could pick up his trail. At first he was going to call himself something ordinary, but then he decided that if he was going to change his name, it might as well be something grand, in keeping with his new life. He put himself down in the register of guests Apollon Sekandrovich Schopenhauer, commercial traveller.
That night he dreamed of all sorts of things. Steamy scenes of passion (about Death), and frightening scenes of horror (the Prince climbing in through the window, a knife in his teeth, and Senka getting tangled up in the blanket so he couldn’t get out of bed).
At dawn Senka was woken by a loud knocking at the door.
He sat up and clutched at his heart, thinking the Prince and Deadeye had tracked him down. He was all set to scarper down the drainpipe – just as he was, wearing next to nothing – but then he heard Masa’s voice.
‘Senka-kun, open door!’
Phew! You can’t imagine how relieved Senka felt at that. He didn’t even wonder how the Japanese had found him there so quickly.
He opened the latch, and Masa walked quickly into the room, followed by (well, blow me down!) Erast Petrovich in person. They both looked gloomy and severe.
Masa stood by the wall, and his master took Senka by the shoulders, turned him to face the window (it was still early, morning twilight) and said briskly. ‘Now, Apollon Sekandrovich, no more p-playing the fool. I can’t afford to waste any more time on your m-mysterious personality. Tell me everything you know: about the m-murder of the Siniukhins and about the murder of the Samshitovs. This has to be stopped!’
The Sam . . . Samshitovs!’ Senka exclaimed, choking over the name. ‘B-but I thought
Now he’d started stammering too – was it infectious?
And he walked out into the corridor without bothering to explain anything else.
As he pulled on his trousers and shirt, Senka asked his sensei: ‘How did you find me?’
‘Cab numba,’ Masa replied tersely, and Senka realised Madam Borisenko had remembered the cabby’s number, and he’d told them where he took his fare.
So much for keeping things secret and covering his trail. ‘And where are we going?’
‘To the scene of the clime.’
Oh Lord! What good will this do? But Senka didn’t dare argue. This pair would use force, drag him out by the scruff of his neck (we know, we’ve had a bit of that already).
Senka was feeling terribly nervous all the way to Maroseika Street. And the closer they came, the worse it got. So Ashot Ashotovich hadn’t been arrested after all? He’d been done in? Erast Petrovich had said ‘the Samshitovs’ – so that meant they’d killed his ever-loving wife? Who, robbers? And what did he, Senka Spidorov, have to do with it?
There were no police outside the shop, but there was a string with a seal across the door, and a light burning inside. The street was still empty, the shops hadn’t opened, or a crowd of people would have gathered for sure.
They went into the house from the yard, through the back entrance. A police official in a blue uniform was waiting for them –quiet, nondescript, wearing specs.
‘You took your time,’ he rebuked Erast Petrovich. ‘I asked you . . . I phoned you at midnight, and now it’s half past five. I’m taking a risk here.’
‘I’m sorry, Sergei Nikiforovich. We had to f-find an important witness.’
Even though Erast Petrovich had called him important, Senka still didn’t like the sound of that. What was he supposed to have witnessed?
‘Tell us about this killing,’ Erast Petrovich said to the official. ‘What was it p-possible to establish from an initial examination?’
‘Come this way, please,’ said Sergei Four-eyes, beckoning to them. They walked through from the hall into the rooms. ‘The jeweller had a kind of office here, at the back of the shop. The living space was upstairs. But the criminal didn’t go up there, it all happened down here.’ He glanced at his notepad. ‘The doctor believes that Nina Akopovna Samshitova, forty-nine years of age, was killed