“A childish prank!
Ditto for the book about millionaires.
When you showed up as a cop from Kiev, I knew right away you were a small-time crook.
Unfortunately, I was wrong.
Otherwise, there’s no way in hell you would’ve found me.”
“Yes, you were wrong.
No one is wise all the time, which is what Inga Zajonc, the Polish beauty, said a month after she married Nick Osten-Backen, my childhood friend.”
“Well, I can understand the mugging, but the weights!
Why did you steal my weights?”
“What weights?
I didn’t take any weights.”
“You’re just too ashamed to admit it.
All in all, you did a lot of stupid things.”
“Perhaps,” allowed Ostap. “I’m no angel.
I have my shortcomings.
Well, I enjoyed chatting with you.
My mulattos are waiting.
Are you ready with the money?”
“Oh yes, the money!” said Koreiko. “There’s a bit of a problem with the money.
It’s a nice folder, no question about it, wouldn’t be a bad purchase. But as you were calculating my profits, you completely disregarded my expenses and direct losses.
A million is a preposterous amount.”
“Goodbye,” said Ostap coldly, “please make sure you stay home for the next thirty minutes.
A lovely carriage with bars on its windows will come pick you up.”
“That’s no way to do business,” said Koreiko with a haggler’s smile.
“Perhaps,” sighed Ostap, “but I’m not a financier, you know.
I’m a freelance artist and a wandering philosopher.”
“So what makes you think you should get the money?
I worked for it, and you . . .”
“I didn’t just labor for it.
I even incurred some losses.
After talking to Berlaga, Sardinevich, and Polykhaev, I lost my faith in humanity.
Isn’t faith in humanity worth a million rubles?”
“Yes, it certainly is,” assured Alexander Ivanovich.
“So, shall we go to the vaults?” asked Ostap.
“Where do you keep your cash, incidentally?
Not in a savings bank, I imagine?”
“Let’s go!” said Koreiko.
“You’ll see.”
“Is it far?” fussed Ostap.
“I can get a car.”
But the millionaire refused the car and stated that it wasn’t far at all, and that they should avoid any unnecessary pomp.
He graciously let Bender go first and went out after him, picking up a small newspaper-wrapped package from the table.
Going down the stairs, Ostap hummed:
“Under the sun of Argentina . . .”
CHAPTER 23 THE DRIVER’S HEART
Outside, Ostap took Alexander Ivanovich by the arm, and the two strategists started walking briskly toward the train station.
“You’re better than I expected,” Bender said amicably. “Good for you.
One should part with money easily, without complaining.”
“What’s a million if it goes to a good man?” replied the clerk, listening for something.
When they turned onto Mehring Street, the howl of the siren spread over the city.