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Distraught people kept running down the path past the poet, shouting various things, but Ivan Nikolayevich could not comprehend what they were saying.






But then, suddenly two women collided with each other right in front of him, and one of them, sharp-nosed and bareheaded, shouted to the other practically in the poet's ear, " Annushka, our Annushka! She was coming from Sadovaya Street! It's her doing! She got some sunflower oil at the store, then went and smashed a liter of it on the turnstile! Made a mess of her skirt... she swore and swore! And he, poor man, must have slipped and fallen on the rails..."

Of all the words the woman had shouted, only one impressed itself on Ivan Nikolayevich's disordered brain, " Annushka..."

" Annushka... Annushka? " the poet mumbled, turning around anxiously, " Excuse me, excuse me..."


The Chase 39

Attached to the word " Annushka" was " sunflower oil" and then, for some reason, " Pontius Pilate." The poet rejected Pilate and began forming a chain, beginning with the word " Annushka." The chain was formed very quickly and led straight to the mad professor.

He was to blame! Hadn't he said the meeting wouldn't take place because Annushka had spilled the oil? And now, if you please, it won't take placel And that was the least of it: hadn't he said straight out that Berlioz's head would be cut off by a woman? Yes, yes, yes! And the streetcar driver was a woman! What was all this about? Huh?

There was no longer even a shadow of a doubt that the mysterious consultant had known beforehand, and in exact detail, the entire scenario of Berlioz's horrible death. Two thoughts then penetrated the poet's brain. The first was, " He's certainly no mad man! That's all nonsense! " And the second was, " Could he have engineered the whole thing himself?! "

But how, pray tell, did he do it?!

" Yes, that's what we'll find out! "

Ivan Nikolayevich exerted great effort, got up from the bench and rushed back to where he had been talking with the professor. And, fortunately, it turned out that he was still there.

On Bronnaya Street the streetlights had come on, and a golden moon was shining over Patriarch's Ponds. In the moonlight, which is always deceptive, Ivan Nikolayevich thought he saw the professor standing there, holding a sword, rather than a walking stick under his arm.

The unctuous retired choirmaster was sitting exactly where Ivan Nikolayevich had been sitting not long before. Now the choirmaster had an obviously useless pince-nez perched on his nose. One lens was cracked, and the other was missing. This made the checked fellow look even more repellent than he had when he was showing Berlioz the way to the tracks.


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