Black Knight in Red Square Read Online Free PDF

stood uncertainly, her hands clasped in front of her. Rostnikov nodded at her, and she left. Then he turned to Mrs. Aubrey.
    â€œIf we go slowly,” he said, “we can speak in English without a translator. Would you prefer?”
    â€œThat will be fine,” she said, her eyes fixed on Rostnikov.
    Rostnikov did not want to take another look at the body, not because he was squeamish, but because he didn’t want Mrs. Aubrey to catch him and possibly figure out his thoughts. It wasn’t necessary to look at the body again to know this woman was at least ten years younger than her dead husband, probably much more.
    â€œMay I ask you questions?” Rostnikov asked.
    â€œYou may ask,” she said. “I’ll decide if I wish to answer.”
    Rostnikov did not like the way she was looking at him, the challenging superiority of her attitude. Though he recognized that there were many ways to cope with sudden family tragedy, this American woman provoked him, and he wanted her respect.
    â€œYou show no grief,” he said.
    â€œI feel it,” she replied. “I don’t wish to share it with you.”
    â€œWhy have you not demanded to see the American consul? It is the first thing to do in such a situation.”
    â€œI plan to do so in my own time,” she said. “What has this to do with my husband’s death?”
    Rostnikov wasn’t sure whether he had caught the meaning of all her words. His English was almost totally confined to reading American detective novels. The spoken words sounded strange to him, and he was always surprised to find that he had been mispronouncing so many of them in his mind when he read them. The word “husband” was not pronounced “whose-bend” but “huzz-bind.”
    â€œYour husband,” he said, careful to pronounce the word as she had, “was here for the film festival.”
    â€œHe is—was a writer, a famous writer,” she said. “He was covering the festival for several American and English magazines.”
    â€œCan you think of reasons, why a murder might be done upon your husband?”
    â€œNone,” she said, turning her head as two young men in white linen uniforms came in carrying a stretcher.
    â€œWould you like to talk in another place?”
    â€œThat is not my husband,” she repeated, proving her conviction by looking directly at the naked body of Warren Harding Aubrey.
    â€œWould you like to sit?” Rostnikov tried, doing his best, to ignore the two attendants at their work.
    â€œNo,” she said.
    â€œWould you like to cry?” he went on.
    She didn’t reply. He waited. She still didn’t reply.
    â€œDid you have great affection for your husband?”
    â€œYes, he was a fine journalist,” she said softly with something like feeling.
    â€œYou had love for him because he was a fine journalist?”
    â€œI don’t think I like you, Inspector,” she said, and Rostnikov thought he detected the first sign of breaking emotions.
    â€œI am sorry,” he said with contrition. “I have my tasks.”
    The burden of speaking English was making it difficult for Rostnikov to think. The extra step of translation in his mind was giving the woman too much time between questions, too much time to recover. But it was too late.
    â€œYou did not share the room with journalist Aubrey?” Rostnikov went on as the two attendants hoisted the Japanese onto the stretcher. They were going to take the lightest weight first, which meant that Aubrey would be last. Unless they were doing this by nationality, in which case Rostnikov had no idea which the second corpse would be.
    â€œI just arrived in Moscow this morning,” she explained. “I’m a writer, too, and I finished an assignment. How did Warren die?”
    â€œPainfully, I think,” Rostnikov said, purposely choosing to misunderstand.
    â€œThat’s not…” she