“I have to be honest with you,” replied the Panama, “Snowden is a tough cookie.
Personally, I wouldn’t try to pull the wool over his eyes.”
And showing no concern for the fact that Snowden would never let Valiadis pull anything over his eyes, the old man continued:
“But whatever you say, I have to be honest with you: Chamberlain is a real brain, too.”
The Pique Vests would shrug their shoulders.
They didn’t deny that Chamberlain was a real brain, too.
But their absolute favorite was Briand.
“Briand!” they would say enthusiastically. “Now there’s a brain!
With his pan-Europe proposal . . .”
“I’ll tell you honestly, Monsieur Funt,” whispered Valiadis, “everything’s going to be fine.
Benes has already agreed to pan-Europe, but you know on what condition?”
The Pique Vests gathered around and stuck their chicken necks out.
“On the condition that Chernomorsk is declared a free city.
Benes is a real brain.
They need to sell their agricultural machinery to somebody, right?
Well, we’ll be the ones buying it.”
Upon hearing this, the eyes of the old men began to sparkle.
For many years, they’d been dying to buy and sell, sell and buy.
“Briand is a real brain,” they sighed.
“Benes is a real brain, too.”
When Ostap finally managed to shake off his heavy thoughts, he realized that an old man in a beat-up straw hat with a greasy black ribbon was clutching his jacket.
His clip-on tie was off kilter, and a brass clasp glared right into Ostap’s face.
“I’m telling you,” shouted the old man into the grand strategist’s ear, “MacDonald is not going to take this bait!
He will not take this bait!
You hear me?”
Ostap moved the agitated geezer aside and made his way out of the crowd.
“Hoover is a real brain!” came from behind.
“And Hindenburg is a brain, too.”
By then, Ostap had already decided what to do next.
He went through all the four hundred honest methods of taking money, and although they included such gems as starting a company to salvage gold that had sunk with a ship during the Crimean War, organizing a big carnival to benefit the prisoners of capital, or obtaining a concession to remove the ever-changing storefront signs—none of them quite suited the project at hand.
So Ostap invented method number 401.
“Our surprise attack on the fortress failed,” he thought, “so now we’re forced to set up a regular siege.
We’ve established the main thing: the defendant has money.
And judging by how easily he declined the ten thousand—without as much as a blink—we’re talking big money.
Well, since the two sides failed to reach an agreement, our deliberations continue.”
On his way home, he bought a yellow cardboard folder with shoelace straps.
“So?” asked Balaganov and Panikovsky in unison, barely able to contain themselves.
Ostap walked silently to the bamboo table, put the folder in front of him, and wrote on it in large letters:
“The Case of Alexander Ivanovich Koreiko.
Opened June 25, 1930.
Closed . . . , 193 . . .”
The half-brothers stared at it over Bender’s shoulder.
“What’s inside?” asked the curious Panikovsky.
“Ah!” said Ostap. “Inside, there’s everything: palms, girls, the Blue Express, the azure ocean, a white ship, a barely used tuxedo, a Japanese butler, your own pool table, platinum teeth, socks with no holes, dinners cooked with real butter, but most importantly, my little friends, the power and fame that come with money.”
With that, he opened the empty folder and showed it to the dumbfounded Antelopeans.
CHAPTER 15 HORNS AND HOOFS
Once there was a poor merchant.
He was a fairly rich man, the owner of the haberdashery near the Capital Hill movie theater.
He peacefully sold underwear, lace, neckties, buttons, and other small, but profitable, wares.
One day he came home looking shaken.