“Matvei, you owe me!” boomed Zubato's triumphant voice. “I've managed to establish a few things from the skeleton. There are deep vertical cracks in the middle of the sixth and seventh ribs on the right side. Such cracks are the result of a blow by a heavy blunt instrument or against a blunt object, whatever. The surface has minute cracks, fresh — “

“I see!”

“These cracks in themselves can not be the cause of death. But a violent blow could have seriously injured the internal organs, which, unfortunately, are missing. Well, that's about it. I hope it helps.”

“And how! Did you send out the skull for identification?”

“Just now. And I called ahead. They promised to do it as fast as possible.”

“So, this is no accident. Liquid and short circuits don't break a man's ribs. Oh, oh. It looks as if there were two accident victims there: an injured victim and a dead victim. And it looks as though the two had a serious fight.”

Onisimov felt better. The case was taking on familiar aspects. He began composing an urgent telegram to Kharkov.

The June day was getting hotter. The sun melted the asphalt. The heat seeped into Onisimov's office, and he turned on the fan on his desk.

The answer from the Kharkov police came at exactly 1:00 P.M. Lab assistant Kravets was brought in at 1:30. As he entered the office, he looked around, and smirked as he noticed the barred windows.

“Is that to make people confess faster?”

“No — no,” Matvei Apollonovich drawled gently. “This building used to be a wholesale warehouse and so the entire first floor has reinforced windows. We'll be removing them soon; not too many robbers try breaking into a police station, heh — heh. Sit down. Are you feeling all right now? Can you make a statement?”

“I can.”

The assistant walked across the room and sat in a chair opposite the window.