The glint of excitement faded from Izya’s eyes and he looked intently at Andrei, as if he were beginning to catch on.
“What’s wrong with you?” Andrei continued. “Do you want to carry an infection back into the City?”
“I don’t much like the tone of your voice,” Izya said with a crooked smile. “The way you’re talking to me, it’s not right somehow.”
“And I don’t like anything at all about you!” said Andrei. “Why did you hammer it into my head that the Red Building was a myth? You knew it wasn’t a myth. You lied to me. What for?”
“What is this, an interrogation?” Izya asked.
“What do you think?” said Andrei.
“I think you’ve taken a hard knock on the head. I think you need to wash your face with cold water and generally pull yourself together.”
“Give me that file,” said Andrei.
“You go to hell!” said Izya, getting up. He had turned very pale.
Andrei got up too. “You’re coming with me,” he said.
“No damned way,” Izya said abruptly. “Show me the arrest warrant.”
And then Andrei, his blood running cold with hatred, slowly unbuttoned his holster and pulled out the pistol, keeping his eyes fixed on Izya. “Walk forward,” he ordered.
“You idiot…” Izya muttered. “You’ve totally lost your mind.”
“Silence!” Andrei barked. “Walk!”
He prodded Izya in the side, and Izya obediently hobbled across the street. Apparently his feet were badly chafed and he limped heavily. “You’ll die the death of shame,” he said over his shoulder. “When you’ve had some sleep, you’ll burn up with shame.”
“No talking!”
They reached the motorcycle, the policeman deftly flung back the flap of the sidecar, and Andrei pointed into it with the barrel of the pistol.
“Get in.”
Izya got in and sat down very clumsily, without saying a word. The policeman quickly leaped into the saddle. Andrei sat behind him, shoving the pistol into its holster. The engine roared and backfired; the motorcycle swung around and set off back to the Public Prosecutor’s Office, bouncing over the potholes and scattering the loonies who were wearily and senselessly wandering around the street, which was damp with fresh dew.
Andrei tried not to look at Izya hunched up in the sidecar. The first blast of anger had passed, and what he felt now was something like embarrassment—it had all happened too fast somehow, too hastily, in a rush, like that joke about the bear rocking the hare in a cradle with no bottom. Well, OK, we’ll get things straightened out…
In the lobby of the Public Prosecutor’s building, without looking at Izya, Andrei ordered the policeman to register the arrested man and take him upstairs to the duty guard. Andrei himself went up to his office, taking three steps at a time.
It was about four o’clock, the most hectic time of all. In the corridors suspects and witnesses stood along the walls or sat on the benches polished bright by backsides. They all looked equally hopeless and sleepy; almost all of them were yawning convulsively, with their eyes goggling blearily. Every now and then the duty guards bawled from their little desks: “Quiet! No talking!” From behind the office doors upholstered in leatherette, Andrei heard the clatter of typewriters, the droning of voices, and tearful wailing. It was stifling, dirty, and gloomy. Andrei suddenly felt nauseous—he wanted to drop into the cafeteria and drink something bracing: a cup of strong coffee, or at least a shot of vodka. And then he saw Wang.
Wang was squatting down, leaning back against the wall, in a pose of infinitely patient waiting. He was wearing his distinctive wadded jacket and his head was pulled down into his shoulders, so that the collar of the jacket pushed his ears out. His round, hairless face was calm. He was dozing.
“What are you doing here?” Andrei asked in amazement
Wang opened his eyes, got up smoothly, and said with a smile, “I’ve been arrested. I’m waiting to be called.”
“What do you mean, arrested? What for?”
“Sabotage,” Wang said in a quiet voice.
A huge thug in a filthy raincoat who was dozing nearby also opened his eyes—or, rather, one eye, because the other had swollen up in a bright purple bruise. “What sabotage?” Andrei exclaimed, dumbfounded.
“Avoidance of the right to work—”
“Article 112, paragraph 6,” the thug with the shiner explained briskly. “Six months of swamp therapy—and you’re done.”
“You keep quiet,” Andrei told him.
The thug flashed his purple eye at him and chuckled (immediately remembering the bump on his own forehead, Andrei felt it quite distinctly) and wheezed peaceably, “I can keep quiet. Why not keep quiet, when everything’s clear without words anyway?”
“No talking!” the duty guard bawled menacingly. “Who’s that there slouching against the wall? Right, unslouch yourself!”
“Wait,” Andrei said to Wang. “Where have you been summoned to? Here?” He pointed to the door of room number 22, trying to recall whose office that was.
“That’s right,” the thug wheezed helpfully. “We’re for number 22. We’ve been propping up the wall for an hour and a half already.”
“Wait,” Andrei said to Wang again, and pushed open the door.
Ensconced at the desk was Heinrich Ruhmer, a junior investigator and Friedrich Heiger’s personal bodyguard, formerly a middleweight boxer and Munich bookmaker. Andrei asked, “May I come in?” but Ruhmer didn’t reply. He was very busy. He was sketching something on a large sheet of drawing paper, leaning down his brutish physiognomy with the flattened nose to each shoulder by turns, panting and even moaning in his creative efforts. Andrei closed the door behind himself and walked right up to the desk. Ruhmer was copying a pornographic postcard. The sheet of drawing paper and the postcard were ruled off into squares. The work had only just begun, and so far only the general outlines had been plotted out on the paper. The job in prospect was titanic in scope.
“What’s this you’re doing during working hours, you vile brute?” Andrei asked reproachfully.
Ruhmer started visibly and looked up. “Ah, it’s you…” he said with evident relief. “What do you want?”
“Is this the way you work?” Andrei asked mournfully. “People are waiting for you out there, and you—”
“Who’s waiting?” Ruhmer asked, startled. “Where?”
“Your suspects are waiting!” said Andrei.
“Aah… Well, what of it?”
“Never mind,” Andrei said malignly. What he probably should do was make this character feel ashamed somehow, remind the brute that Fritz had vouched for him, after all, vouched on his own good name for an idle cretin, for a bonehead, but Andrei felt he didn’t have the strength for that right now.
“Who lamped you on the forehead?” Ruhmer asked with professional interest, examining Andrei’s bump. “Someone lamped you handsomely.”
“It’s not important,” Andrei said impatiently. “I’ll tell you why I called in: Have you got Wang Li-hung’s case?”
“Wang Li-hung?” Ruhmer stopped examining the bump and thoughtfully stuck one finger into his right nostril. “Why, what’s up?” he asked warily.
“Have you got it or not?”
“And why are you asking?”
“Because he’s sitting outside your door and waiting while you’re working on this filthy smut in here!”
“Why is it filthy smut?” Ruhmer asked resentfully. “Just look at the tits on her! Moooo! Eh?”
Andrei fastidiously pushed the photograph aside. “Hand over the case file,” he demanded.
“What case?”
“Hand over the Wang Li-hung case!”
“I haven’t got any such case,” Ruhmer said angrily. He pulled out the middle drawer of his desk and glanced into it. Andrei glanced into the drawer too. The drawer really was empty.