The Dead Mountaineer's Inn by Arkady Strugatsky

it,” Simone said. “If you want to know, in my opinion, it was the owner himself.”
    I shrugged, and we went our separate ways. Simone’s boots pounded up the stairs as I headed for my room. The moment that I passed the door to the museum, I heard a crash, something toppled with a roar, there was the sound of glass breakingand frustrated grumbling. Without a second’s hesitation, I tore the door open and flew into the room, practically knocking Mr. Moses off his feet. Mr. Moses, who was lifting a corner of the carpet up with one hand, and in the other clutching his perennial mug, was looking with disgust at the overturned nightstand and the pieces of broken vase.
    â€œBlasted rattrap,” he croaked at the sight of me. “Filthy den.”
    â€œWhat are you doing in here?” I asked angrily.
    Mr. Moses immediately lost his temper.
    â€œWhat am I doing here?” he bellowed, jerking the carpet up with all his strength. Doing this, he nearly lost his balance and knocked over a chair. “Here I am, searching for the scoundrel who’s been tottering around our inn, stealing things from decent people, stomping up and down the hallway every night and staring through the window at my wife! Why the devil should I have to do this, when there’s an officer of the law on the premises?”
    He threw the rug back down and turned to me. I took a step back.
    â€œMaybe I should offer a reward?” he continued, working himself up. “The damned police don’t lift a finger until there’s a reward involved. All right—how much do you want, Inspector? Five hundred? A thousand? Very well: fifteen hundred crowns to the man who finds my missing gold watch! Two thousand crowns!”
    â€œYou lost your watch?” I asked, frowning.
    â€œYes!”
    â€œWhen did you notice it was missing?”
    â€œOnly a second ago!”
    The jokes were over. A gold watch: that wasn’t felt slippers or a showering ghost.
    â€œWhen did you last see the item in question?”
    â€œEarly this morning.”
    â€œWhere do you usually keep it?”
    â€œI do not keep watches—I use them! It was lying on my desk!”
    I thought this over.
    â€œMy advice,” I said finally, “is for you to write out a formal statement. Then I’ll call the police.”
    Moses stared at me, and for a few minutes neither of us said anything. Then he took a sip from his mug and said, “To hell with your formal statement and the police. The last thing I want is for my name to fall into the hands of some grubby newspaper reporter. Why can’t you get to work on it yourself? I said I’d offer a reward. Do you want an advance?”
    â€œI’m not comfortable intervening in this case,” I said, shrugging my shoulders. “I’m a civil servant, not a private detective. There’s professional procedure to be considered, and anyway …”
    â€œAll right,” he said suddenly. “I’ll think about it …” He paused. “Maybe it will turn up. Hopefully, it was all just another idiotic joke. But if the watch isn’t found by tomorrow morning, I’ll write your statement.”
    We all agreed that this would be best. Moses went his way, and I went mine.
    Who knows what new clues Moses found in his room. I had plenty of them in mine. For starters, someone had hung a sign on my door that said: “When I hear the word ‘culture,’ I call the police.” I took it down, of course—but that was just the beginning. The table in my room appeared to be covered in hardened gum Arabic. Someone had poured it out of the bottle, which was lying in plain sight. In the center of the dried puddle was a piece of paper. A note. An utterly ridiculous note. In clumsy block letters: “MISTER INSPECTOR GLEBSKY: PLEASE BE INFORMED THAT A DANGEROUS GANGSTER, SADISTAND MANIAC IS CURRENTLY STAYING AT THE INN UNDER THE NAME