The Spy

The insulting thoughts dully knocked in his head.

"They bury him like a dog – no one wants him – and me, too – "

The streets came to meet him. The houses rocked and swayed, the windows gleamed. People walked noisily, and everything was alien.

"To-day I'm going to make an end of Sasha. I'll go there at once and shoot him." In a moment he was already compelled to persuade himself: "It's got to be done. As for me, nothing matters to me any more."

Dismissing the cabman he walked into a restaurant, to which Sasha came less frequently than to the others. He stopped in front of the door of the room where the spies gathered.

"The instant I see him, I'll shoot him," he said to himself.

He knocked at the door tremulously, and felt the revolver in his hand. His soul was congealed in cold expectation.

"Who's there?" asked someone on the other side of the door.

"I."

The door was opened a little. In the chink flashed the eyes and reddish little nose of Solovyov.

"Ah-h-h!" he drawled in amazement. "There was a rumor that you had been killed."

"No, I have not been killed," Klimkov responded sullenly, removing his coat.

"I see. Lock the door. They say you went with Melnikov – "

Solovyov was thoroughly masticating a piece of ham; which interfered with his articulation. His greasy lips smacked slowly and let out the unconcerned words, "So, it isn't true that you went with Melnikov?"

"Why isn't it true?"

"Why, here you are alive, and he's in bad shape. I saw him yesterday."

"Where?"

The spy named the hospital from which Yevsey had just come.

"Why is he there?" Klimkov inquired apathetically.

"That is it: a Cossack struck him a sabre blow on the head, and the horses trampled him. It's not known how it happened, or why. He's unconscious. The physicians say he won't recover."

Solovyov poured some sort of green whiskey into a glass, held it up to the light, and examined it with screwed-up eyes. After which he drank it, and asked:

"Where are you hiding yourself?"

"I'm not hiding."

"You have been hiding all the same."

A plate fell to the floor in the corridor. Yevsey started. He remembered he had forgotten to remove the revolver from his overcoat pocket. He rose to his feet.

"Sasha is fuming at you."

Before Yevsey's eyes swam the sinister red disk of the moon surrounded by a cloud of ill-smelling lilac-colored mist. He recalled the snuffling, ever-commanding voice, the yellow fingers of the bony hands.

"Won't he come here?"

"I don't know. Why?"

Solovyov's face wore a sleek expression. Apparently he was very well satisfied with something. In his voice sounded the careless affability of an aristocrat. All this was repulsive to Yevsey. Incoherent thoughts tossed about in his mind, one breaking the other off.

"You are all rascals – sorry for Melnikov – so this obese fellow didn't want to recognize Yakov – why?"

"Did you see Zarubin?"

"That's who?" asked Solovyov, raising his brows.

"You know. He lay in the hospital there. You saw him."

"Yes, yes, yes. Of course I saw him."

"Why didn't you say there that you knew him?" Yevsey demanded sternly.

The old spy reared his bald head, and exclaimed in astonishment with a sarcastic expression:

"W-w-w-hat?"

Yevsey repeated the question, but this time in a milder tone.

"That's not your business, my dear fellow. I want you to know that. But I'm sorry for your stupidity, so I'll tell you, we have no need for fools, we don't know them, we don't comprehend them, we don't recognize them. You are to understand that, now and forever, for all your life. Remember what I say, and tie your tongue with a string."

The little eyes of Solovyov sparkled cold as two silver coins, his voice bespoke evil and cruelty. He shook his short thick fingers at Yevsey. His greedy bluish lips were drawn sullenly. But he was not horrible.

"It's all the same," thought Yevsey. "They are all one gang – they all ought to be – "

He darted to his overcoat, snatched the revolver from the pocket, aimed at Solovyov, and shouted dully:

"Well!"

The old man crawled from his chair, and grovelled on the floor, looking like a large heap of dirt. He seized the leg of the table with one hand, and stretched the other toward Yevsey.

"Don't – you mustn't," he muttered in a loud whisper. "My dear sir, don't touch me."

Klimkov pressed the trigger more tightly, more tightly. His head chilled with the effort, his hair shook.

"I will go away – I'm going to get married to-morrow – I'll go away – for always – I'll never – " His heavy cowardly words rustled and crept in the air. Grease glistened on his chin, and the napkin over his bosom quivered.

The revolver did not shoot. Yevsey's finger pained, and horror took powerful possession of him from head to foot, impeding his breath.

"I can give you money," Solovyov whispered more quickly. "I will tell nothing – I will keep quiet – always – I understand – "