A Grain of Truth Read Online Free PDF Page A

she turned on her heel and walked off, swinging her hips. Narrow, unappealing hips, reckoned Szacki, as he watched her go. He turned to address the Marshal.
    “Will someone from the criminal investigation department be coming? Do they start work at ten?”
    “I’m here, sonny, I’m here,” he heard a voice behind his back.
    Behind him on a folding fishing chair sat an old boy with a moustache – almost all of them here had moustaches – smoking a fag with no filter. Not his first. On one side of the seat lay several torn-off filters, and on the other several dog-ends. Szacki masked his own surprise and went up to the old cop. His snow-white hair was cut short, his face was furrowed, like a Leonardo self-portrait, and he had pale, watery eyes. On the other hand his well-trimmed, modest moustache wasjet black, which gave the old boy an alarmingly demonic look. He must have been about seventy. If he was younger, evidently there had been plenty of astonishing ups and downs in his life. He gazed with a bored expression as Szacki stood in front of him and offered his hand.
    “Teodor Szacki.”
    The old policeman sniffed, discarded his fag-end on the correct side of the chair and shook hands without getting up.
    “Leon.”
    He held onto Szacki’s hand and took advantage of his help to get up. He was tall, very skinny, and under his thick jacket and scarf he probably looked like a vanilla pod – thin, bendy and wrinkled. Szacki let go of the old boy’s hand and waited for the next part of the introduction. Which did not come. The old man glanced over at the Marshal, who bounced up to them, as if he was on elastic.
    “Inspector?”
    Surely that was a mistake – too high a rank for a cop from the provincial investigative branch.
    “Do as the prosecutor said. Kielce will be here in twenty minutes.”
    “Take it easy – it’s almost a hundred kilometres,” protested Szacki.
    “I called them an hour ago,” muttered the old boy. “And then I waited for you prosecutors to roll up. Good thing I brought my folding chair. Coffee?”
    “Sorry?”
    “Do you drink coffee, Prosecutor? The Ciżemka opens at seven.”
    “As long as we don’t eat anything there.”
    The old boy nodded with respect.
    “He may be young and from outside, but he learns quickly. Let’s go. I want to be here when the kids with the toys turn up.”
    V
    The dining hall at the Ciżemka, as the hotel with the best tourist location in town was called – on the market square, by the street that led to the cathedral and the castle – was everything that restaurantsin civilized cities had ceased to be a decade ago. It was a large, unwelcoming space with tables covered in an underlay as well as a top cloth, and high-backed chairs upholstered in plush. There were lamps on the walls, and candelabra hanging from the ceiling. Tapping her heels, the waitress had to cross such a large expanse that Szacki was sure the coffee would go cold on the way.
    It hadn’t gone cold, but he could taste a distant hint of dirty dishcloth in it – a sign that the espresso machine was not top of the list of items to be cleaned on a daily basis at this smart Sandomierz facility. Does that surprise me? thought Teodor Szacki. Not in the least.
    Inspector Leon drank his coffee in silence, gazing out of the window at the pinnacles of the town hall. Szacki might as well not have been there. He decided to adapt to the old boy’s pace and wait patiently until he found out what he had been dragged here for. Finally the policeman put down his cup, coughed and tore the filter off a cigarette. He sighed.
    “I will help you.” He had an unpleasant voice, as if it were badly oiled.
    Szacki gave him an enquiring look.
    “Have you ever lived outside Warsaw?”
    “Only now.”
    “In other words you know bugger all about life.”
    Szacki did not pass comment.
    “But that’s no sin. Every youngster knows bugger all about life. But I will help you.”
    Szacki’s irritation was