Ostap was in a hurry.
The Argentine tango was egging him on.
Paying no attention to what was going on around him, he entered Koreiko’s building and knocked on the familiar door.
“Who’s there?” came the voice of the underground millionaire.
“Telegram!” answered the grand strategist, winking into the darkness.
The door opened, and he entered, bumping his folder against the door frame.
At sunrise, the Vice President and the messenger were sitting in a gully far beyond the city limits.
They were sawing through the weights.
Their noses were smudged with iron shavings.
Panikovsky’s dickey lay beside him on the grass.
He had taken it off—it interfered with his sawing.
The prudent violator of the pact had put newspapers under the weights, so as not to waste a single speck of the precious metal.
At times the half-brothers exchanged significant glances and went back to work with renewed energy.
The only sounds heard in the serenity of the morning were the whistles of gophers and the scraping of overheated hacksaws.
“What the hell?” said Balaganov finally and stopped working. “I’ve been sawing for three hours now, and still no gold.”
Panikovsky didn’t say anything.
He already knew the answer, and for the last thirty minutes, he had been moving the hacksaw back and forth just for show.
“Well, let’s saw some more!” said the red-headed Shura cheerfully.
“Yes, let’s,” agreed Panikovsky, trying to put off the terrible moment of reckoning.
He covered his face with his hand and watched the rhythmic motions of Balaganov’s broad back through his spread fingers.
“I don’t get it!” said Shura after sawing through the entire kettlebell and pulling the two apple halves apart.
“This isn’t gold!”
“Keep sawing, keep sawing,” whimpered Panikovsky.
But Balaganov was already approaching the violator of the pact, holding a cast-iron hemisphere in each hand.
“Don’t come near me with that iron!” shrieked Panikovsky, running a few steps away.
“I despise you!”
Then Shura drew his arm back and, groaning from the effort, hurled half of the kettlebell at the schemer.
Hearing the projectile whiz over his head, the schemer dropped to the ground.
The battle between the Vice President and the messenger did not last very long.
First, the enraged Balaganov gleefully stomped on the dickey, and then moved on to its owner.
While pummeling him, Shura kept repeating:
“Whose idea was that?
Who embezzled from the office?
Who badmouthed Bender?”
On top of that, the Lieutenant’s firstborn remembered the violation of the Sukharev pact, and that cost Panikovsky a few extra punches.
“You’ll be sorry you trashed my dickey!” Panikovsky shouted angrily, protecting himself with his elbows. “I’ll never forgive you for the dickey, keep that in mind!
You can’t buy a dickey like this any more!”
In conclusion, Balaganov took away his opponent’s ratty little wallet, which contained thirty-eight rubles.
“That’s for your kefir, you creep!” he explained.
The walk back to the city was joyless.
An angry Shura was walking in front of Panikovsky, who limped along behind him, sobbing loudly.
“I’m a poor old man!” he wailed. “You’ll be sorry you trashed my dickey.
Give me back my money.”
“Just wait, you’ll get yours!” said Shura without looking back. “I’ll tell Bender all about it.
Hothead!”
CHAPTER 21 THE END OF THE ROOKERY
Barbara Ptiburdukov was happy.
She was sitting at a round table, surveying her household.
The Ptiburdukovs’ room was filled with furniture, so there was hardly any open space left.
But even that small space was good enough for happiness.