Local farmers don’t use these matches. They are used by the local landlords, and even then, not by everyone. And there was not just one killer, but at least three of them. Two people held him, and the third strangled him. Mr. Banks was a strong man, and the killers should have known this.”

“How could he use his force, if, for example, he was asleep?”

“The killers got him when he was taking off his boots. This means that he was not asleep.”

“Don’t imagine things! Eat your breakfast!”

“It is my understanding,” said the gardener Efrem, when he put the big teapot on the table, “that this dirty deed was done by Nicholas, and none else.”

“It is quite possible,” said Post. “And who is Nicholas?”

“He is the landlord’s butler, your honor,” said Efrem. “Who else but he could do this? He looks like a real robber, your honor! He is so drunk and dissipated that all are disgusted! He always supplied the landlord with vodka, and put him to bed. Who else? And one day, he even boasted in the pub that he could kill his landlord, your honor. This all happened because of the woman named Annie. Her husband is away all the time, making money, and she was the butler’s girlfriend for a while. The landlord noticed her, he liked her, and he paid attention to her. So, Nicholas was very mad about all this. Now he is completely drunk, lying on the kitchen floor. He was crying, lying about how sorry he was that the landlord was dead.”

“And really, this woman Annie can drive everyone mad,” Post said. “She is just a farmer’s wife, a country woman, but once you’ve seen her, you will at once—Even Mark Ivanovich used to call her ‘babe.’ There is something magnetic about her, something …”

“I saw her, I know,” said the detective, blowing his nose into a red handkerchief.

Dukovsky blushed and looked down. The police chief nervously tapped at the saucer with his finger. The police officer coughed and started shuffling papers in his case. It seemed that only the doctor was impervious to the news about Annie.

The detective ordered them to bring in Nicholas. He was a tall young man; his nose was covered with smallpox scars, his chest was thin and fallen; he was dressed in an old coat given to him by the landlord. He came into Post’s room, bowed very low, and stood silently in front of the detective. His face looked sleepy, and his eyes were red from crying. He was so drunk that he could hardly keep his balance.

“Where is the landlord?” Rusty asked him.

“He was killed, your honor.” After saying this, Nicholas blinked, and started to cry.

“We know that he was killed. But where is he now? Where is his body?”

“People say that they pushed his body through the window and buried it in the garden.”

“Really? Hmm. The results of this investigation have already leaked to the servants.”

“This is bad. Please, tell us, my dear, where were you on the night the landlord was killed, that is, on Saturday night?”

Nicholas lifted his head, stretched his neck and thought for a while.

“I don’t know sir. I was drunk and I don’t remember anything.

“Alibi,” Dukovsky whispered, smiled and rubbed his hands.

“Well, all right. And why is there blood under the landlord’s window?”

Nicholas looked up and thought again.

“Think faster,” the police officer said to him.

“Wait a minute! That blood came from nothing, just from a chicken, your honor. I had to kill a chicken for the kitchen.