This, in short, is Nature.

Friends are blond. Enemies are red-headed.

A rich uncle: a liberal or conservative, according to circumstances. His death is more useful to the protagonist than his advice.

An aunt, who lives in a remote provincial town. A doctor with a concerned expression on his face, who gives people hope for the coming health crisis. He has a walking stick with a bulb, and he is bald. And where there is a doctor, there are illnesses; arthritis caused by overwork, migraines, inflammation of the brain. A man wounded in a duel, and advice to go to the spa.

A servant who worked for the old masters and is ready to sacrifice everything for them. He is a very witty fellow.

A dog that can do everything but talk, a parrot, and a nightingale. A summer cottage near Moscow and a mortgaged estate, somewhere in the South. Electricity, which is stuck into the story for no reason.

A bag of the best Italian leather, a china set from Japan, an English leather saddle, a revolver that fires perfectly, an order on the lapel, and a feast of pineapples, champagne, truffles, and oysters.

Accidental overhearing, as a source of great discoveries. A huge number of interjections, and of attempts to use technical terms whenever possible.

Small hints about important circumstances. Very often, no conclusion.

Seven mortal sins at the beginning, a crime in the middle, and a wedding at the end.

The End.

THE SWEDISH MATCH

tahir

PART ONE

On the morning of October 6, 19__, a well-dressed young man came into the office of the Second Police Precinct of the City of S. He made a statement to the effect that his master, a retired officer, Mark Ivanovich Banks, had been murdered.

The young man was very excited while he was making his deposition. His hands were trembling, and his eyes were glazed with horror.

“To whom do I have the honor of speaking?” the chief of police asked.

“I am Mr. Post, Banks’s manager. Horticulturist and mechanic.”

The chief of police and two witnesses, who arrived at the scene of the murder together with Mr. Post, discovered the following: a crowd of people was standing next to the house where Banks was killed. News of the murder had dispersed instantaneously across the neighborhood, and because it was the weekend, people from all the neighboring farms and villages had come to have a look. People in the crowd were talking noisily. There were several pale and crying faces. The door to Banks’s bedroom was found to be closed. The key was stuck in the lock from the inside.

“It is obvious that the thieves came into the room through the window,” said Post, when he examined the door.

They went into the garden to have a look at the bedroom window. The window looked gloomy and sinister. It was covered with a faded green curtain. One corner of the curtain was folded back a little, so they could look inside the bedroom.

“Did any one of you look through the window?” asked the police chief.

“No, sir,” said the gardener Efrem, a short, gray-haired man with the face of a retired drill sergeant. “How could we? It is none of our business, sir! We were all afraid.”

“Oh, Mark Ivanovich, Mark Ivanovich!” The police chief sighed as he looked at the window. “I told you that you would finish badly. I told you, my dear, but you did not listen to me. Dissipation is no good.”

“We have to thank Efrem,” said Mr. Post.