The Greatest Russian Stories of Crime and Suspense by Otto Penzler Page A

handkerchief, which had not been wrung out very hard, onto Aniskin’s broad nose and down his hairy chest.
    “Ooo, that’s more like it,” Aniskin groaned delightedly.
    With the knotted handkerchief on his head, the militia inspector looked like some primeval Oriental deity.
    “Why don’t you have a swim?” Genka asked.
    “You have a swim yourself.”
    And Aniskin resumed his progress, down the village street moving his legs with elephantine clumsiness, and staring down morosely, obviously lost in some harrowing thoughts, for he was even hunched up tensely though this was not very noticeable with his enormous bulk. He passed Grandfather Krylov, who was sitting on a bench with his stick, with just a twitch of eyebrows for a greeting, did not so much as glance at the windows of the collective-farm office and did not smile at the woman who passed him with buckets full of water. Silent and redoubtable he marched on till he reached the house where he had his office. Stopping beside the wicket and thrusting his hand between the palings to open it from the inside, he asked drearily after a pause:
    “Why the hell are you like you are, Genka? Why in God’s name?”
    It was as quiet as can be at the edge of a village where immediately behind the houses spread a meadow, and a grove of cedars and young birches stretched up the graveyard hill, where a fir wood ran up right to the last house, the trees looking like warriors in Mongol spiked helmets and the mail of their cones glistening yellow.
    “Come on inside,” Aniskin said. “Come on in.”
    Once inside his office, a bare darkish room, Aniskin ordered Genka to stand by the door, lowered himself down on a stool and laid his heavy hands with light hairs on the table. He was immobile for several moments, then popped out his eyes in a stern professional manner and breathed out inquiringly:
    “Ah?”
    “All I want is three days,” Genka said. “Till the boat arrives from up the river. Three days.”
    “You certainly know what’s good for you, Genka,” Aniskin answered after some consideration. “Sure enough Proletary will come on Monday and you can make your get-away on it. Oh yes, you know what’s good for you,” he repeated and suddenly barked out ferociously, “Sit down! Sit down, you rotten bastard!”
    A second stool stood in the corner and Genka made for it. His wild beast’s paws trod stealthily, the massive back floated on at a strangely leisurely pace and his head moved along of its own accord, as it were, separately from the torso. All Genka’s movements were lithe and flowing and, sitting down, he put his hands on his knees with an elegant gesture, sighed childishly and fixed on Aniskin a devoted gaze shining with affection. The inspector shivered from this gaze as from a cold shower and said sadly:
    “You are a bandit, Genka, and no mistake. You crossed the room without a floorboard creaking.”
    Hungry black cockroaches scurried over the walls of the office in great swarms. Usually Aniskin paid no attention to them, just apologised to his visitors with a smile. But today he looked at the battalions resentfully, squinting his eyes till they were two angry slits, though he was not so much looking at the cockroaches as peering at something inside himself. But whatever it was that he was trying to make out within himself eluded him and he scowled painfully.
    “Why don’t you tell me what you have gone and done, Genka?” he suddenly asked politely. “But don’t lie to me, my boy, please.”
    “Oh, dear me, Uncle Aniskin,” Genka whispered confidingly oozing affection. “When did I ever lie to you?”
    “You never did anything else, my dear lad,” Aniskin replied kindly.
    “That’s not true, it’s not true at all. Perhaps I did lie to you once or twice about small things, but when it came to big things, I’ve always told you the truth, because I haven’t got it in me to conceal things. That was the way my dear mother brought me into this