On the sixth day I went nowhere. I occupied myself with intellectual labor. First thing, I scanned the dialing-pulse clicks recorded on the tape. After half an hour of painstaking work I had Mamon’s work telephone. Heh-heh-heh. Rubbing my palms joyfully, I turned to the services of the MGTS directory. A tired female voice dictated the exact address of Mamon’s office and promised to send a bill for thirty rubles. For God’s sake! Thank you! You have been such a help! All the best…
Scattering thanks as I went, I put the receiver back in its place. The business was starting off briskly, without delays. The clock showed a little past ten, just the time to go and sunbathe. I glanced out the window. Out there a slushy December was pining away. Mm-yes. This is no San Marco…
I went outside, got to Fedya and started him up. While the cabin warmed up I slid my eyes over the pages of the road atlas and marveled. It turned out Mamon’s office was located right in the center; by the atlas it was some eight centimeters to the Kremlin. Nicely set up, the dog! In a state of mild envy I drove out through the parking lot gates and, navigating by that same atlas, drove toward Dayev Lane. There, according to information gleaned from the telephone directory, was housed the central telephone exchange. I thirsted for dealings with its employees as never before.
They came to pass.
Without any trouble I learned the address of the telephone station serving Mamon’s office, and reproached myself for bungling. The address could have been learned by telephone, without exposing my face in personal dealings with a vigilant old dear at the inquiry window. Pensive and cross, I drove to the Arbat, to the phone men who had access to the body… that is, to the telephones of Mamon’s office. I got to the repair crew there and sternly displayed a police ID to three thoughtful fellows (not a very good copy, but only fifty dollars). So that the fellows would be imbued with the importance of the moment, I sketched out for them the operational situation. This and that, the mafia is on the rampage, the state is on its last legs, the prosecutor’s office doesn’t twitch a whisker, ordinary folk are groaning, moans are heard from every side…
How long, lads? We need help!
They promised to render assistance and immediately asked me to produce a prosecutor’s warrant. «Boys, what are you on about? – I marveled sincerely. – We are disconnecting numbers for a couple of hours to conduct an operational investigation. No warrant is needed here. It isn’t a wiretap.»
The Petroviches exchanged concentrated glances, but they disconnected the number I indicated. Then two more. They said that this address, according to their registration records, was served by four telephone numbers. I thanked the workers for the ingenuity they had shown and, on the number left alive, called the office. Called not just anyhow, but politely inquired what wishes the toilers had to address to MGTS. The wishes were predictable: “Wicked people! Three numbers are dead! Send specialists! Drop us a repair company by parachute, or better yet a whole repair battalion! We shall not stint on the price!”