Applying the policy of carrots and sticks, Bender finally reached the hounded Panikovsky.
By this time, his other ear was also red enough to be used for various photographic operations.
Panikovsky caught sight of the captain and hung his head in shame.
“Is that him?” asked Ostap dryly, giving Panikovsky a shove in the back.
“Yes, that’s him,” confirmed the numerous truth-tellers eagerly. “We saw it with our own eyes.”
Ostap appealed for calm, took a notebook out of his pocket, glanced at Panikovsky, and said in a commanding voice:
“Witnesses, your names and addresses, please.
Step forward, please!”
One would have thought that the citizens, who had shown such eagerness in catching Panikovsky, would readily offer their damning evidence against the lawbreaker.
In reality, however, when the truth-tellers heard the word “witnesses,” they lost their spunk, started fussing around, and backed off.
Breaks and openings began to form in the crowd.
It was falling apart right in front of Bender’s eyes.
“So where are the witnesses?” repeated Ostap.
Panic ensued.
Working their elbows, the witnesses cut through the crowd, and within a minute, the street was back to normal.
Cars sprung forward, the clinic’s windows shut, dogs began carefully examining the sidewalk posts, and the water jet rose again from the fountain in the public garden, hissing like a siphon.
After the street cleared and Panikovsky was safely out of danger, the grand strategist grumbled:
“You’re a useless old man!
A failed madman!
Meet yet another blind great—Panikovsky!
Homer, Milton, and Panikovsky!
What a bunch!
And you, Balaganov?
A sailor from a shipwreck.
‘They’re beating Panikovsky, they’re beating Panikovsky!’
And where were you?
All right, let’s go to the public garden.
I’ll make you a scene by the fountain.”
At the fountain, Balaganov promptly blamed everything on Panikovsky.
The disgraced blind man cited his nerves, frayed by years of hardship, and, while he was at it, blamed everything on Balaganov, a miserable and wretched person, as everyone knows.
Here, the brothers started pushing each other again.
Already the familiar shouts
“And who are you?” were heard, already Panikovsky’s orbs released a large tear—a precursor to an all-out fight—when the grand strategist called “Break!” and separated the opponents like a referee in a ring.
“You can box on your days off,” he said.
“What a match: Balaganov as a bantamweight, Panikovsky as a chickenweight!
However, my dear champions, you’re about as competent at your jobs as a sieve made of dog tails.
It can’t continue like this.
I’m going to dismiss you, especially considering that your social value is nil.”
Forgetting their argument, Panikovsky and Balaganov began to swear up and down that they would go through Koreiko’s pockets that night, no matter what.
Bender only smirked.
“You’ll see,” boasted Balaganov.
“A street mugging.
Under the cover of darkness.
Right, Mikhail Samuelevich?”
“I give you my word,” echoed Panikovsky.
“Shura and I . . . Don’t you worry!
You’re dealing with Panikovsky.”
“That’s exactly what bothers me,” said Bender. “But what the heck.
How did you put it?
Under the cover of darkness?