But the moment Jenny touched the windowsill the sweet doggie leapt up with such a snarl that she took a flying leap onto the sofa and sat there with her legs tucked up underneath her.
"You're a nice one," she said, on the verge of tears. "You go ahead and catch burglars and spies, if you like, but I'm a—I'm a human being.
Yes!" She stuck out her tongue at the dog and added: "Idiot!"
Jenny put the key and telegram on the edge of the table near the sofa.
There was nothing to do but to wait for the owners of the house.
One hour passed, and then another. . . . It grew quite dark. Through the open window drifted the whistling of distant trains, the barking of dogs and the thud of a volleyball.
Somewhere, someone was strumming a guitar.
Only here, in the grey villa, everything was desolate and still.
Jenny propped her head against the hard arm-rest of the sofa and began to cry quietly.
In the end, she fell fast asleep.
When she awoke it was already morning.
The luxuriant rain-washed foliage rustled in the wind outside the window.
A pump handle creaked nearby.
She could hear the rasping of a saw. But inside the villa it was as quiet as before.
Jenny found that her head was now resting on a soft leather cushion and her legs had been covered with a sheet.
The dog was gone.
That must mean somebody had been here during the night!
Jenny sprang up, tossed back her hair, straightened her crumpled frock, picked up her key and the unsent telegram and was about to make off when she noticed a slip of paper on the table. On it was written in large letters with a blue pencil:
"When you leave see you give the door a good bang."
The note was signed
"Timur".
Timur?
Who was Timur?
She ought to find him and thank him.
She took a look into the next room.
Here, she saw a desk with a writing set, an ashtray and a small mirror on it.
To the right lay a battered old revolver, and a pair of leather driving gloves.
Propped against the desk was a curved Turkish sabre in a scratched and much worn scabbard.
Jenny put down her key and telegram, touched the sabre, drew it out of its scabbard and, brandishing the naked blade above her head, observed the effect in the mirror.
Her appearance was quite formidable.
It would be wonderful to have her picture taken that way and then show it around at school!
She could say that her father had once taken her to the front with him.
The revolver would look better still in her left hand.
Like this.
She knitted her brows as far as they would go, compressed her lips, aimed at the mirror and pressed the trigger.
The room rang with a deafening report.
A cloud of smoke veiled the windows.
The mirror fell on top of the ashtray.
Forgetting the key and telegram on the desk, Jenny shot out of the room and fled from this weird and dangerous house as fast as her legs could carry her.
Before she knew it she found herself at the bank of a stream.
Now she had neither the key to their flat, nor the telegram, nor a receipt for the telegram.
And now she would have to tell Olga everything: about the dog, about sleeping in the empty villa, about the Turkish sabre, and, finally, about the shot.
What rotten luck!
If Dad were there he would understand.
But Olga wouldn't.
Olga would be cross or, even worse, would cry.
And that would be awful.
Jenny could cry too—when in the mood.
But when she saw Olga in tears she always felt like taking refuge on top of a telegraph pole or a tall tree or a chimney.
Jenny had a swim to cheer herself up and then went slowly off in search of their house.