Just in case, Alexander Ivanovich decided to stop checking on his treasured suitcase at the train station for the time being.
He was very alarmed.
“The main thing is to create panic in the enemy camp,” said Ostap, leisurely pacing around the spacious room in the Carlsbad Hotel.
“The opponent must lose his peace of mind.
It’s not that difficult to pull off.
After all, what scares people the most is the unknown.
I myself was once a lone mystic and got to the point where I could be scared with a simple sharp knife.
That’s right.
More of the unknown.
I am convinced that my latest telegram, ‘You’re in our thoughts,’ had a crushing effect on our counterpart.
All this is just the superphosphate, the fertilizer.
Let him agonize.
The client must get used to the idea that he’ll have to part with his money.
He must be disarmed psychologically, his reactionary, proprietary instincts must be suppressed.”
After finishing the speech, Bender gave his subordinates a stern look.
Balaganov, Panikovsky, and Kozlevich sat stiffly in their plush, fringed, and tasseled red armchairs.
They felt awkward.
They were troubled by the captain’s lavish lifestyle, by the golden draperies, by the bright, chemically-colored carpets, and by the print of The Appearance of Christ to the People.
They were staying in a hostel, along with the Antelope, and came to the hotel only to receive instructions.
“Panikovsky,” said Ostap, “your assignment for today was to encounter our defendant and again ask him for a million, accompanying your request with idiotic laughter.”
“The moment he saw me he crossed to the other side of the street,” replied Panikovsky smugly.
“Good.
Everything is going according to plan.
The client is getting nervous.
Right now he is progressing from stupefied confusion to unprovoked fear.
I have no doubt that he wakes up in the middle of the night and babbles meekly:
‘Mama, Mama . . .’
Another small push, the slightest thing, the last stroke of the brush, and he’ll be ripe for the picking.
Wailing, he’ll open his cupboard and take out a blue-rimmed platter . . .”
Ostap winked at Balaganov, Balaganov winked at Panikovsky, Panikovsky winked at Kozlevich. And even though the honest Kozlevich didn’t understand a thing, he too began winking with both of his eyes.
For a while after that, the room in the Carlsbad Hotel was filled with friendly winking, giggling, tongue clicking, and even some jumping up from the red plush armchairs.
“Enough of that,” said Ostap.
“For now, the money platter is still in Koreiko’s hands—that is, if this magic platter does exist.”
And then Bender sent Panikovsky and Kozlevich back to the hostel, with instructions to have the Antelope ready at a moment’s notice.
“Well, Shura,” he said, once he was alone with Balaganov, “no more telegrams.
Our preparatory work can be considered complete.
The active struggle begins.
We’re going to go and observe our precious calf at his place of employment.”
Staying in the transparent shade of the acacias, the half-brothers walked through the public garden, where a thick water jet from the fountain was melting like a candle, passed by a few mirrored beer joints, and stopped at the corner of Mehring Street.
Flower ladies with red sailor’s faces bathed their delicate wares in glazed bowls.
The asphalt, heated by the sun, sizzled under their feet.
People were coming out of the blue-tiled milk bar, wiping kefir from their lips.
A welcoming glow came from the fat, noodle-shaped, gilded-wood letters that formed the word Hercules.
The sun frolicked in the huge glass panels of the revolving door.
Ostap and Balaganov entered the hallway and joined the crowd of people who were there on business.
CHAPTER 11 THE HERCULEANS
A long procession of the Hercules’ directors tried to banish the ghosts of the hotel from the building, but no matter how hard each of them tried, they all ultimately failed.
No matter how many times Maintenance painted over the old signs, they still showed through everywhere.
One day, the words Private Dining Rooms popped up in the Sales Department, then a watermark, Maid on Duty, suddenly became visible on the frosted-glass door of the typing pool; another time, painted golden fingers, with the word Ladies’ in French, appeared on the walls.
The hotel just wouldn’t quit.