Ostap settled down on the cool marble window sill and, dangling his feet like a child, began thinking aloud:
“The young lady doesn’t count.
That leaves three choices: the red-faced toady with white eyes, the little old man in steel glasses, and the fat pooch with the dead-serious expression on his face.
I indignantly reject the little old man.
He’s got no valuables, unless you count the cotton stuck in his furry ears.
That leaves two: the pooch-face and the white-eyed toady.
Which one of them is Koreiko?
Let me think.”
Ostap stuck his neck out and began comparing the two candidates.
He turned his head quickly, as if he was watching a game of tennis and following every volley with his eyes.
“You know, mechanic,” he said finally, “the fat pooch-face fits the image of an underground millionaire better than the white-eyed toady.
Note the twinkle of alarm in the pooch’s eyes.
He’s restless, he can’t wait, he wants to run home and sink his paws into his bags of gold.
No doubt he’s the one collecting carats and dollars.
Can’t you see his fat mug is nothing but an egalitarian blend of the faces of Shylock, the Miserly Knight, and Harpagon?
And White Eyes—he’s nothing, a zero, a Soviet mouseling.
He does have a fortune, of course—twelve rubles in the savings bank.
His dreams don’t stretch beyond the purchase of a fuzzy coat with a calfskin collar.
This is not Koreiko.
This is a mouse that . . .”
At this point the grand strategist’s brilliant speech was interrupted by a lion-hearted shout that came from the depths of Finance and Accounting, and it clearly belonged to somebody who had the right to shout:
“Comrade Koreiko!
Where are the stats on what Municipal Affairs owes us?
Comrade Polykhaev needs them right now.”
Ostap kicked Balaganov with his foot.
But Pooch-Face continued to scratch with his pen, unperturbed.
His face—the one that combined the characteristics of Shylock, Harpagon, and the Miserly Knight—showed no emotion.
The red-faced blond with white eyes, on the other hand, this zero, this Soviet mouseling who dreamed of nothing but a coat with a calfskin collar, became very agitated.
He started banging his desk drawers hurriedly, grabbed a sheet of paper, and rushed off to answer the call.
The grand strategist grunted and gave Balaganov a piercing look.
Shura laughed.
“Yes,” said Ostap after a long silence.
“This one is not going to bring us the money on a platter.
Only if I really beg him.
This client deserves our respect.
Let’s go outside.
My brain has just produced an amusing plan.
Tonight, God willing, we’ll give Mr. Koreiko’s udder the first squeeze.
You, Shura, will do the squeezing.”
CHAPTER 12 HOMER, MILTON, AND PANIKOVSKY
The orders were very simple:
1.
Run into Citizen Koreiko on the street as if by chance.
2.
Do not beat him up under any circumstances, and in general avoid violence.
3.
Take everything found in the pockets of the above-mentioned citizen.
4.
Report upon completion of the task.
Even though the grand strategist’s instructions were perfectly simple and clear, Balaganov and Panikovsky still had a heated argument.