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Something knocked against the dining table (it was Nikanor Ivanovich who had dropped his spoon on the oilcloth).






" Over here, here, " babbled Pelageya Antonovna.

And the visitors headed straight into the hall.

" What's this all about? " asked Nikanor Ivanovich, trailing behind the men. " Nothing like that could be in our apartment... And can I see your ID... excuse me..."

The first man handed Nikanor Ivanovich his ID, and the second one proceeded to stand up on a stool in the toilet and thrust his hand into the ventilator shaft. Nikanor Ivanovich's eyes grew dim. They removed the newspaper, but the package turned out to contain not rubles, but some unknown currency that was blue-green in color and had a picture on it of an old man. Nikanor Ivanovich saw all this in a haze, however— spots were swimming in front of his eyes.

" There are dollars in the ventilator shaft, " said the first man thoughtfully. In a soft and polite voice he asked Nikanor Ivanovich, " Does this packet belong to you? "

" No! " replied Nikanor Ivanovich in a terrified voice. " My enemies planted it there."

" That does sometimes happen, " agreed the first man and added, again softly, " But you'll have to hand over the rest of it too."

" I don't have any! Nothing at all! I swear to God, I've never even touched the stuff! " screamed the chairman in desperation.

He rushed over to the bureau, pulled out a creaky drawer and took out his briefcase, all the while crying out disconnected phrases, " Here's the contract... that filthy interpreter planted it there... Korovyov... the guy with the pince-nez! "

He opened the briefcase, looked inside, and thrust his hand in. His face turned blue and he dropped the briefcase into the borshch. There was nothing in the briefcase: neither Styopa's letter, nor the contract, nor the foreigner's passport, nor the money, nor the free pass. In short, nothing but the folding ruler.

" Comrades! " shouted the chairman in a fury. Take them into custody! There are evil powers in this building! "

No one knows what came over Pelageya Antonovna at that point, but


KoTOvyov's Triclu 85

she waved her arms and shouted, " Confess, Ivanovich! You'll get off easier! "

Nikanor Ivanovich's eyes became bloodshot, and he raised his fists over his wife's head, shouting hoarsely, " Oh, you damned fool! " Then he felt weak and sank into a chair, evidently deciding to bow to the inevitable.

In the meantime, out on the landing, Timofei Kondratyevich Kvastsov was putting first his ear and then his eye to the keyhole of the chairman's apartment, dying of curiosity.

Five minutes later the residents of the building who were in the courtyard at the time saw the chairman being led to the entrance-gates by two men. It was reported that Nikanor Ivanovich looked terrible, tottered like a drunk as he passed by, and was mumbling something.

An hour later an unknown man appeared in apartment No. 11 just as Timofei Kondratyevich was choking with glee and telling the other residents how the chairman had been carted off to jail. The stranger beckoned with his finger for Timofei Kondratyevich to come out of the kitchen and into the hall. He said something to him, and then they both vanished.


X

News from Yalta

A

T the same time as disaster struck Nikanor Ivanovich, not far from 302B, on that same Sadovaya Street, two men sat in the office of the financial director of the Variety Theater: Rimsky himself and Varenukha, the theater manager.

Two windows of the large second-floor office looked out on Sadovaya Street, and another, behind the financial director, who was sitting at his desk, looked out on the Variety's summer garden, where there were soft-drink stands, a shooting gallery, and an open-air stage. Apart from the desk, the office furnishings included a bunch of old theater bills hanging on the wall, a small table with a carafe of water, four armchairs, and a dusty, time-worn scale model of some stage revue set up on a stand in the corner. Well, it goes without saying that the office also contained a small fireproof safe, battered and chipped, which stood on Rimsky's left, next to the desk.

Rimsky, who was sitting at the desk, had been in a foul mood since morning. Varenukha, on the other hand, was very animated and somehow especially restless and energetic. For the time being he had no outlet for his nervous energy.

Varenukha had taken refuge in the financial director's office in order to escape from the free-ticket hounds who poisoned his existence, especially on days when there was a change of program. And today was just such a day.

As soon as the phone began to ring, Varenukha picked up the receiver and lied into it, " Who? Varenukha? He's not here. He's left the theater."

" Call Likhodeyev again, please, " said Rimsky in irritation.

" He's not home. I already sent Karpov over. There's no one in his apartment."

The devil knows what's going on, " hissed Rimsky, clicking his adding machine.

The door opened, and an usher came in dragging a thick stack of additional theater bills hot off the press. Printed in large red letters on green sheets of paper was:


Neu«/ram Yalta 87

Today and Every Day at the Variety Theater an Added Attraction:


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