United States or Wallis and Futuna ? Vote for the TOP Country of the Week !
"But where is he . . . where's the murdered man?" "He is on the top shelf," whispered the superintendent's wife, turning paler than ever and trembling. Dyukovsky took the candle-end in his hand and climbed up to the upper shelf. There he saw a long, human body, lying motionless on a big feather bed. The body emitted a faint snore. . . . "They have made fools of us, damn it all!" Dyukovsky cried.
Dyukovsky struck a match and lighted up the entry. In the middle of it stood a table. On the table, beside a podgy little samovar, was a soup tureen with some cold cabbage-soup in it, and a dish with traces of some sauce on it. "Go on!" They went into the next room, the bath-room. There, too, was a table. On the table there stood a big dish of ham, a bottle of vodka, plates, knives and forks.
Nikolashka raised his head, craned his neck, and pondered. "I can't say, your honour," he said. "I was drunk and I don't remember." "An alibi!" whispered Dyukovsky, grinning and rubbing his hands. "Ah! And why is it there's blood under your master's window!" Nikolashka flung up his head and pondered. "Think a little quicker," said the police captain. "In a minute.
Dyukovsky sat down to the table, and thrust his long nose into the papers. "Bring in Nikolay Tetchov!" cried the examining magistrate. Nikolashka was brought in. He was pale and thin as a chip. He was trembling. "Tetchov!" began Tchubikov. "In 1879 you were convicted of theft and condemned to a term of imprisonment.
Dyukovsky boy, drink up your vodka! Friends, let us pass the . . . What are you staring at . . . ? Drink!" "All the same, I can't understand," said the examining magistrate, mechanically drinking his vodka. "Why are you here?" "Why shouldn't I be here, if I am comfortable here?" Klyauzov sipped his vodka and ate some ham. "I am staying with the superintendent's wife, as you see.
"He keeps on about his match! I can't stand these excitable people! Instead of looking for matches, you had better examine the bed!" On inspecting the bed, Dyukovsky reported: "There are no stains of blood or of anything else. . . . Nor are there any fresh rents. On the pillow there are traces of teeth.
Dyukovsky held the candle-end to the face of the unknown and uttered a shriek. In the crimson nose, in the ruffled, uncombed hair, in the pitch-black moustaches of which one was jauntily twisted and pointed insolently towards the ceiling, he recognised Cornet Klyauzov. "You. . . . Mark . . . Ivanitch! Impossible!" The examining magistrate looked up and was dumbfoundered.
He was known to the whole district as an honest, intelligent, energetic man, devoted to his work. His invariable companion, assistant, and secretary, a tall young man of six and twenty, called Dyukovsky, arrived on the scene of action with him. "Is it possible, gentlemen?" Tchubikov began, going into Psyekov's room and rapidly shaking hands with everyone. "Is it possible? Mark Ivanitch? Murdered?
Tchubikov and Dyukovsky strode after her through the long grass, breathing in the smell of wild hemp and slops, which made a squelching sound under their feet. It was a big yard. Soon there were no more pools of slops, and their feet felt ploughed land. In the darkness they saw the silhouette of trees, and among the trees a little house with a crooked chimney.
Word Of The Day