The suspect lowered his head and rubbed his face. He was seeing the scene again. The skeleton with Krivoshein's head twitching convulsively in the tank, his own hands holding on to the tank's edge, the warm, gentle liquid touching them and then — the blow!

“I'm not sure myself, if it's me or not,” he muttered in a depressed voice. “I can't understand it.” He looked up. “Listen, I have to get back to the lab!”

Matvei Apollonovich almost jumped up: he hadn't expected such a rapid victory. “Listen, that can happen too,” he said, nodding sympathetically. “In a state of frenzy from an insult or through overzealous self — defense. Let's go down to the lab, and you can explain on the scene just what transpired there.” He picked up Monomakh's Crown from his desk and casually asked: “Was this what you hit him on the chest with? It's a heavy thing.”

“That's enough!” The suspect spoke harshly and almost haughtily. He straightened up. “I see no reason to continue this discussion. You're trying to put me into a corner. By the way, that 'heavy thing' costs over five thousand rubles. Be careful with it.”

“Does this mean that you don't want to tell me anything?” “Yes.”

“I see.” The detective pushed a button. “You'll have to be held until this is cleared up.”

A gangly policeman with a long face and droopy nose appeared at the door. In the Ukraine, people like him are described as “tall but still bends.”

“Gayevoy?” the detective looked at him uncertainly. “Aren't any of the guards around?”

'They're all out in the field, comrade captain,” he replied. “A lot of them are at the beaches, maintaining law and order.” “Do you have a car?” “A small GAZ.”

“Convey the detained suspect to the city jail. It's too bad you refuse to help yourself and us, citizen. You're just making it worse for yourself.”