Fine, under the cover it is.
The idea is rather flimsy, of course.
The implementation will probably be pitiful, too.”
After several hours of surveillance, all the necessary pieces fell into place—namely, the cover of darkness and the patient himself, who left the old puzzle-maker’s home in the company of a young woman.
The woman was not part of the plan, though.
All they could do was follow the couple, who were heading towards the sea.
The burning hunk of the moon hung low above the cooling shore.
Black basalt couples sat on the cliffs in eternal embrace.
The sea whispered about love until death, unrequited passion, broken hearts, and other trifles like that.
A star talked to a star in Morse code, twinkling on and off.
The tunnel of light from a searchlight connected the two sides of the bay.
When it disappeared, it left a lingering black beam in its place.
“I’m tired,” whined Panikovsky, trudging from bluff to bluff behind Koreiko and his lady friend.
“I’m old.
It’s hard for me.”
He kept stumbling over gopher holes and falling down, grabbing dried-up cow-pies with his hands.
He wanted to go back to the hostel, to homey Kozlevich, with whom it was so nice to have some tea and shoot the breeze.
But the moment Panikovsky firmly decided to go home and suggest that Balaganov finish the task by himself, they heard voices ahead of them:
“It’s so warm!
You don’t swim at night, Alexander Ivanovich?
Then wait for me here.
I’ll just take a dip and will be right back.”
Then they heard small stones roll down the cliff, and the white dress disappeared. Koreiko remained alone.
“Hurry up!” whispered Balaganov, pulling Panikovsky’s sleeve.
“So, I approach from the left, you approach from the right.
Move it!”
“I approach from the left,” said the cowardly violator of the pact.
“All right, fine, you approach from the left.
I bump him from the left, no, from the right, and you bump him from the left.”
“Why from the left?”
“Oh, come on!
Fine, from the right.
He says:
‘You punk!’ And you respond:
‘Who’s the punk?’”
“No, you respond first.”
“Fine.
I’ll tell Bender everything.
Go, go!
So, you’re on the left.”
And the Lieutenant’s valiant sons, shaking with fear, approached Alexander Ivanovich.
The plan fell apart from the very beginning.
Instead of approaching the millionaire from the right and pushing him, as called for in the plan, Balaganov hesitated and suddenly blurted out:
“Got a light?”
“I don’t smoke,” answered Koreiko coldly.
“I see,” said Balaganov foolishly, looking back at Panikovsky.
“And do you know what time it is?”
“Around twelve.”
“Twelve,” repeated Balaganov.
“Hmm . . .