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Authors: Glenn Meade
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imprisoned.”
“Where’s this all leading?”
Ravich’s eyes flashed greedily. “I really don’t give a curse who you are or who you’re working for. Only that you’re sensible enough to come to an arrangement.” The landlord rubbed his thumb and forefinger together in a universal gesture. “You carry on doing whatever it is you’re doing and I turn a blind eye in return for a little generosity.”
“How do I know I can trust you?”
“You don’t. But I think we’d agree things could get messy for both of us by involving the police.”
“I have cash in the other room.”
Ravich motioned with the gun toward the kitchen. “I’m very glad to hear it. But I warn you—try anything and I’ll blow your head off.”
Ravich pressed the revolver into the back of Sorg’s neck and they stepped into the kitchen. “Where’s the money?”
Sorg pointed to the open cupboard and the unscrewed panel lying by it. “In there, in a canvas bag.”
“Remove it. Slowly.”
Sorg hefted out the canvas. He went to open the bag but Ravich said, “Stop. Place your hands above your head and step away.”
Sorg did as he was told.
Ravich used his free hand to loosen the bag string. He rummaged and plucked out a wad of rubles and American dollar bills. Sweat rose on Ravich’s brow. “How much is in here?”
“Seven hundred rubles in different currencies.”
Ravich licked his lips and his hand dug greedily into the Gladstone. “It’s not enough. I’ll want more. Much more.”
At that exact moment Sorg’s fingers grasped at the pen in his breast pocket. Before he could remove the top off the steel nib, Ravich brought up the revolver and it exploded once.
The shot cracked past Sorg’s shoulder. He dropped the pen and grabbed for the gun, his adrenaline pumping. The weapon detonated again, gouging plaster from the wall. Ravich was a big, beefy man but Sorg caught him off balance and pushed against him with all his might. Ravich toppled and Sorg fell on top of him and they rolled on the floor.
Ravich gave a pained grunt, rage in his eyes. “I’ll kill you!”
Sorg struggled to get control of the revolver, using all his weight to twist the gun toward Ravich’s head and slip his finger inside the trigger guard. The gun exploded again, Ravich’s skull snapped back, and his eyes rolled open.
Sorg caught his breath. A pool of blood spread behind Ravich’s skull. He twitched violently and fell still. Sorg retrieved his pen from the floor and pushed himself up to a kneeling position, his face bathed in sweat.
He examined Ravich. A gaping bullet hole was drilled above his left eye, exiting at the back of his head. Sorg pried the gun from Ravich’s fingers. His legs weak, he staggered into the kitchen and threw up into the sink.
When he could vomit no more, he turned on the faucet and rinsed away the mess, and as much of the blood spatter as he could from his clothes. His overcoat and scarf would cover the rest. He opened one of the drawers.
It contained a box of wax candles and a couple of dishcloths. He grabbed a cloth and wiped his mouth. He listened to his heart hammering furiously. It was the first time he ever killed and it made him feel scared, yet exhilarated that he survived.
His survival instinct kicked in and Sorg crossed to the window and stared beyond the curtains. The street was empty. He moved to the front door, opened it gingerly with shaking fingers. The courtyard was deserted.
Ravich had swept it of footprints, except for his own. Sorg’s mind worked furiously. If he simply left the body where it lay and disappeared, perhaps Ravich had relatives who would search for him. Sorg couldn’t be certain of anything, but knew that he had to move fast and without panic.
He stashed the spyglass telescope and banknotes in the canvas bags and tucked both inside his Gladstone. He screwed up the cubbyhole panel. In the kitchen, a blood pool still blossomed around Ravich’s skull. Sorg removed a wax
“Where’s this all leading?”
Ravich’s eyes flashed greedily. “I really don’t give a curse who you are or who you’re working for. Only that you’re sensible enough to come to an arrangement.” The landlord rubbed his thumb and forefinger together in a universal gesture. “You carry on doing whatever it is you’re doing and I turn a blind eye in return for a little generosity.”
“How do I know I can trust you?”
“You don’t. But I think we’d agree things could get messy for both of us by involving the police.”
“I have cash in the other room.”
Ravich motioned with the gun toward the kitchen. “I’m very glad to hear it. But I warn you—try anything and I’ll blow your head off.”
Ravich pressed the revolver into the back of Sorg’s neck and they stepped into the kitchen. “Where’s the money?”
Sorg pointed to the open cupboard and the unscrewed panel lying by it. “In there, in a canvas bag.”
“Remove it. Slowly.”
Sorg hefted out the canvas. He went to open the bag but Ravich said, “Stop. Place your hands above your head and step away.”
Sorg did as he was told.
Ravich used his free hand to loosen the bag string. He rummaged and plucked out a wad of rubles and American dollar bills. Sweat rose on Ravich’s brow. “How much is in here?”
“Seven hundred rubles in different currencies.”
Ravich licked his lips and his hand dug greedily into the Gladstone. “It’s not enough. I’ll want more. Much more.”
At that exact moment Sorg’s fingers grasped at the pen in his breast pocket. Before he could remove the top off the steel nib, Ravich brought up the revolver and it exploded once.
The shot cracked past Sorg’s shoulder. He dropped the pen and grabbed for the gun, his adrenaline pumping. The weapon detonated again, gouging plaster from the wall. Ravich was a big, beefy man but Sorg caught him off balance and pushed against him with all his might. Ravich toppled and Sorg fell on top of him and they rolled on the floor.
Ravich gave a pained grunt, rage in his eyes. “I’ll kill you!”
Sorg struggled to get control of the revolver, using all his weight to twist the gun toward Ravich’s head and slip his finger inside the trigger guard. The gun exploded again, Ravich’s skull snapped back, and his eyes rolled open.
Sorg caught his breath. A pool of blood spread behind Ravich’s skull. He twitched violently and fell still. Sorg retrieved his pen from the floor and pushed himself up to a kneeling position, his face bathed in sweat.
He examined Ravich. A gaping bullet hole was drilled above his left eye, exiting at the back of his head. Sorg pried the gun from Ravich’s fingers. His legs weak, he staggered into the kitchen and threw up into the sink.
When he could vomit no more, he turned on the faucet and rinsed away the mess, and as much of the blood spatter as he could from his clothes. His overcoat and scarf would cover the rest. He opened one of the drawers.
It contained a box of wax candles and a couple of dishcloths. He grabbed a cloth and wiped his mouth. He listened to his heart hammering furiously. It was the first time he ever killed and it made him feel scared, yet exhilarated that he survived.
His survival instinct kicked in and Sorg crossed to the window and stared beyond the curtains. The street was empty. He moved to the front door, opened it gingerly with shaking fingers. The courtyard was deserted.
Ravich had swept it of footprints, except for his own. Sorg’s mind worked furiously. If he simply left the body where it lay and disappeared, perhaps Ravich had relatives who would search for him. Sorg couldn’t be certain of anything, but knew that he had to move fast and without panic.
He stashed the spyglass telescope and banknotes in the canvas bags and tucked both inside his Gladstone. He screwed up the cubbyhole panel. In the kitchen, a blood pool still blossomed around Ravich’s skull. Sorg removed a wax
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