“What do they know? Believe me, I’d have to be Sherlock Holmes to solve this case. My only chance is to bribe that MVD major and get myself off the list. Here, Metelmann, have you got any money you can lend me?”
“I can let you have five rubles,” he said.
“It’ll take a lot more than five rubles to bribe that major,” said Sajer.
“I’ve got to start somewhere,” I said as Metelmann gave me a five from his pocket. “Thanks, Konrad. How about you, Sajer?”
“Suppose I need to bribe someone myself?” He grinned unpleasantly at Metelmann. “If it’s you they pick, you might regret giving him that five, you silly bastard.”
“Fuck you, Sajer,” said Metelmann.
“Where does someone like you get five rubles, anyway?” asked Sajer.
Metelmann sneered and reached for his chunk of chleb. With his left hand.
I also noted the livid-looking scar on his forearm. He might have got the injury on-site. But all things considered, I thought it more likely that he’d got it while murdering Gebhardt.
I spent the next three days alone in Gebhardt’s hut catching up on my sleep. I knew what I was going to do, but I saw little point in doing it before the MVD’s allotted time had elapsed. I was determined to enjoy every minute of my holiday at K.A. while it was there to be had. After months of hard labor on starvation rations, I was exhausted and a little feverish. Once a day the SGO came over and asked how my inquiry was progressing, and I told him that despite any evidence to the contrary I had made good progress. I could see he didn’t believe me. But I didn’t care. It wasn’t like I was going to lose my army pension because of his opinion. Besides, the SGO and I were two different heads on the same imperial eagle—me looking left and him looking to the right. Even in a Soviet POW camp he could seldom leave a room without clicking his heels. Oh yes, our Colonel Mrugowski was a regular Fred Astaire.
On the third day, I rolled the stone away from the front door and went to the site to find Metelmann. I handed him back his five rubles. “Here,” I said, “you might as well keep this. I shan’t be needing it where I’m going.”
Quickly pocketing the note in case one of the guards should see it, Metelmann tried not to look relieved at my obvious disappointment. “No luck, huh?”
“My luck ran out on me a long time ago,” I said. “It was going so fast, it must have been wearing running shoes.”
“You know, maybe that MVD major was bluffing,” he said.
“I doubt it. The thing I’ve noticed about people with power is that they always use it even when they say they don’t want to.” I started to walk away.
“Good luck,” said Metelmann.
Major Savostin was playing chess when I found him in the guardhouse. With himself. Colonel Mrugowski was there, too. They were waiting for my report.
“There’s no one here that plays,” said the major. “Perhaps we should have a game, you and I, Captain.”
“I’m sure you’re much better than me, sir. After all, it’s virtually your national game.”
“Why is that, do you suppose? One would think as logical a game as chess would suit the German character rather well.”
“Because it’s black and white?” I suggested. “Everything is black and white in the Soviet Union. And perhaps because the game involves making sacrifices of smaller, less important pieces. Besides, sir, with you I should worry how to win without losing.” I snatched off my cap. “As a matter of fact, sir, I’ve been worried about that for the last three days. I mean, how to solve this case without pissing you off. And I’m still not satisfied I know the answer to that question.”
“But you do know who killed Gebhardt, don’t you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then I fail to understand your difficulty.”
I wondered if I had misjudged him—if he wasn’t quite as intelligent as I’d thought. Then again, there is a whole earthwork of understanding between someone who is hungry and someone who is not. I could see no way of identifying Metelmann as the culprit without putting my own head in the lion’s mouth.
“I mean, you’re not suggesting it was a Russian, I trust,” he said, fiddling with his queen.
“Oh no, sir. A Russian would never have murdered a German and not owned up to it. Besides, why kill a pleni in secret when you could just as easily kill him in the open? Even if he was an anti-fascist agent. No, you were right, sir. It was a German who killed Gebhardt.”
I cast my eye over the board in the hope that I might see some evidence of intelligence there, but all I could tell was that the right pieces were on the right squares and that the major needed a manicure like I needed a hot bath. They probably didn’t care about manicures in the Soviet workers’ paradise. They certainly didn’t care about hot baths. It was a little hard to be sure, but I had the idea that the major smelled almost as bad as I did.
“The murder was not premeditated,” I said. “It happened on the spur of the moment. Frenzied stabbings are often like that where there’s no sexual aspect involved. Of course, it’s hard to say much with certainty at a crime scene that I’ve had to work without a thermometer to take the body’s temperature. And there were certainly fingerprints that could have been recovered from the murder weapon and the brass door handle. What can be said with confidence, however, is that the murderer was left-handed. Because of the pattern of wounds on the dead man’s body. Now, at the canteen, I observed all of the men in this camp and drew up a list of all the left-handed plenis. This was my initial pool of suspects. Since when I have identified the murderer, I will not say his name. As a German officer, it would be wrong for me to do so. But there is no need, since his name appears in Gebhardt’s notebook.”
I handed the red notebook to the major.
“Metelmann,” he said quietly.
“As you will see, this page contains details of payments that were made to this particular officer in return for information. In other words, the culprit was acting as the murdered man’s paid informer. I believe the two men argued about money, sir. Among other things. Possibly Gebhardt refused to pay the murderer five rubles—his usual rate—for information received. After the murder, the culprit took the money anyway.”
I handed Savostin a hundred of the five-ruble notes I had found behind the poster of Stalin. Savostin handed the notebook to the SGO.
“I found these bills hidden in Gebhardt’s hut. As you can see, all of the bills are marked in the top right-hand corner with a small pencil mark, which I believe is a Russian Orthodox cross.”
Savostin examined one of the notes and nodded. “All of them?” he said.
“Yes, sir.” I knew this because I had marked every one of the bills myself. “It’s my guess that if you were to search the officer named in that notebook, you would find him in possession of one or more five-ruble notes with the same penciled cross in the top right-hand corner, sir. The same officer is left-handed, and his arm currently bears a livid scar that was most probably sustained during the attack on Gebhardt.”
Still clutching my cap, I rubbed my shaven head with my knuckle. It sounded like something happening to a piece of wood in the camp workshop. “If I might speak frankly, sir?”
“Speak, Captain.”
“I don’t know what you’re going to do with this man, sir. Given who and what he is, I can appreciate that it might leave you with a problem. After all, he’s your man’s man. But he’s no good to you now, sir, is he? Not now that we know who and what he is. I suppose you could always use him to replace Gebhardt, as the anti-fa officer, although his Russian isn’t up to much. And you’d have to take him away anyway, for political reeducation. Either way, he’s finished in this camp. I just wanted to let you know that, sir.”