That night, too, a band of silent men left their houses in Pejkoja. They were all dressed alike, in felt jackets, rough peasant’s boots and black sheepskin hats. Each man, as always, carried an axe and a long wooden staff. One of them also carried something else, something that hung on long wires, red and chunky, like an outsize bouquet held upside down. Without making a sound they moved quickly through the heavily falling snow with sure movements of men used to the ways of the forest.
Although it was pitch dark and the paths were covered they found their way unerringly. For a long time they walked down to the valley of the Szaka and then up to the crest of the mountain on the far side. Finally they left the forests and emerged by the peak below which Balint’s caravan had formed up on leaving Rusz Pantyilimon’s house. Now they had only a hundred yards or so to go.
The leader of the band, Turturika, called back: ‘Moy Kula!’ he said softly. ‘Go ahead with the meat and throw it in. If the dogs make no noise, rattle the door so that they can hear you. Mind you chuck the meat about so that they all get some!’
Young Kula, for it was he who had carried the poisoned bouquet, went ahead. He had agreed to do that for the others, but only that, and only because he knew that he must. When he had gone a few steps he was swallowed up in the falling snow. The rest of them remained where they were, leaning on their long sticks like shepherds on watch. Soon, though slightly muffled by the curtain of snow, they could hear the dogs barking.
The first sounds seemed to come from farther away down the hill, but then the barking came from nearer at hand, probably from the upper corner of the fortress-like compound: it was the sound of dogs fighting over something. Kula came back and joined the men who had been waiting. Soon the barking stopped, but the men from Pejkoja did not move. They waited for a long time, for the people of the mountain are patient. They had to wait, so time did not matter. After an hour had gone by, Turturika gave a few brief orders and they started off downhill. Two men with axes went to the door while the others went to that part of the wall nearest the mountain, threw a felt jacket over the jagged broken glass that was fixed along the top, and climbed over.
The next day the enquiries started. Gaszton Simo came to the village and, instead of bringing the usual two gendarmes, he came accompanied by four of them, all heavily armed. This was unheard-of and caused much comment in the village.
The great oaken doors were still intact, locked and barred. The house too seemed untouched, until one saw that smoke was seeping out of the windows darkening the walls above with dark smears of soot, and that part of the roof had caved in where the flames in the living-room had caught the beams above. The falling snow had nearly extinguished the fire, but it still smouldered inside where Rusz Pantyilimon lay dead upon the floor of his room. Here everything had been smashed into small pieces, and everything that could burn had been set alight. Obviously petrol had been poured everywhere and there remained intact only one corner of the letter tray among the ashes of burnt papers and the icon on the wall in front of which the little oil lamp still glowed, protected, no doubt, by the gusts of snow that had blown in through the broken windows. All this was quickly ascertained by the notary’s inspection, along with the fact that the dogs — two of whom still had pieces of wire in their mouths — had been poisoned by strychnine. That was alclass="underline" nothing else. The pretty little servant boy, Rusz’s slave, who had run down the hill to the village and hidden in the mill as soon as the men had entered the house could tell them nothing. He had heard a noise. He had looked out and seen some men. It was dark and the men were dark too. He saw that there were some more outside the gate so he had climbed the wall and fled. His hands had been badly cut by the glass and he had run bleeding profusely, as fast as he could and as far as he could.
That was all he knew.
‘Whom did you see?’
‘I don’t know!’
‘Didn’t you recognize anyone?’
‘Nobody!’
‘How were they dressed?’
‘I don’t know!’
No matter how hard they tried or how much they threatened the lad they could get nothing else out of him. Of course it was true that he was still shaking with fright and it was always possible that even if he knew more he would never dare admit it.
‘What time did all this happen?’
‘I don’t know. It was night.’
‘All right. Early at night, or late at night?’
‘I don’t know. It was night. La noptye!’
Later at the inquest nothing more was discovered. Many people were summoned and questioned, for many people had been heard to utter threats against the hated money-lender. Every man who owed money to Rusz was a suspect and naturally this included all the men of Pejkoja. But no one knew anything, no one confessed or admitted even hearing anything. That night everyone had been at home, everyone had been asleep. The story was always the same. They were morose and sullen, shrugging their shoulders. They knew nothing; they had all been at home in their beds, asleep. No one even tried telling lies or making up complicated alibis by which they might have been trapped into discovery. ‘It was snowing. I was at home, asleep.’
Nothing was ever discovered.
It wasn’t until a month later that Abady heard the news in a letter from Honey Zutor. Honey had been summoned for questioning. They wanted to know where he had hung the meat that was to poison the wolves. He told them in exact detail. It is true that no poisoned meat was found near Pejkoja, but then it wasn’t found anywhere. It could have fallen into the snow and been long covered or it could have been dragged away and eaten somewhere else. One or two dead wolves were found; the corpses of others were no doubt deep under the snow. The only person who had been with Honey and who also knew where the meat had been placed was the forest guard Todor Paven. He was also questioned but he had returned with Honey afterwards and had spent the rest of the night with him in Scrind. Neither of them had moved from there until the next day when Rusz was already dead. Honey vouched for Todor and Todor vouched for Honey, who wrote all this to his master knowing that he would be interested in everything that affected the people in the mountains.
Balint read Honey’s letter on the terrace of the hotel in Portofino. Here, sitting before the calm radiance of the blue sea below, surrounded by fruit-covered groves of orange and lemon trees, it was hard to believe in the bitter winter up in the mountains, the all-enveloping snow, silent men striding forth in a blizzard, in cruel murder and mysterious comings and goings in the all-embracing darkness. Where Balint sat everything spoke of life and joy and the resurgence of spring. He could not have chosen a place better fitted for his work. He was surrounded by everything that was beautiful. The olive trees were covered in silver-grey foliage, the gnarled trunks glowed in the sunlight, the golden fruit of the orange and lemon trees hung everywhere among shining green leaves, the fronds of great palms moved gently in the breeze, and in the bay below small sailing boats flitted to and fro under triangular lateen sails. In the distance the rocky cliffs on the other side of the bay could just be seen through a haze of heat. Here Balint need only think of what was serene and beautiful and here he could shrug off all the worries of life and work quietly in a world that was free of troubles.