The Dead Mountaineer's Inn by Arkady Strugatsky Page A

HINKUS. IN CRIMINAL CIRCLES, HE GOES BY THE NAME ‘THE FINCH’. HE IS ARMED AND THREATENING DEATH TO ONE OF THE INN’S CLIENTS. MISTER INSPECTOR IS KINDLY REQUESTED TO TAKE SOME SORT OF ACTION.”
    I was so furious and dumbfounded by this that I had to read the note twice before I understood what it said. When I was finished I lit a cigarette and looked around the room. Naturally, I didn’t find any footprints. I smoothed out the sign I’d crumpled up and compared it to the note. The letters on the sign were also in block print and clumsily written, but they’d been written with a pencil. Anyway, the business with the sign was clear: it had to be the kid’s work. A simple joke. One of those stupid signs that the French scrawled on their Sorbonne. The note was something different, however. A practical joker might have slipped it under the door, or stuck it in the lock, or just left it on the table under something heavy, like an ashtray. You had to be either a complete cretin or a savage to ruin a perfectly good table for the sake of a stupid prank. I read the note again, took the deepest drag I could and then went to the window. There goes my vacation, I thought. There goes that freedom I’ve been waiting so long for …
    The sun was already quite low in the sky, the shadow of the inn stretched out a good hundred meters. Mr. Hinkus, the dangerous gangster, maniac and sadist, was still loitering on the roof. He was alone.

5 .
    I stopped in front of Hinkus’s room and looked around carefully. The hallway was empty, as usual. A sound of clicking balls was coming from the billiard room—that was Simone. Du Barnstoker was still fleecing Olaf in Olaf’s room. The kid was occupied with its motorcycle. The Moseses were in their room. Hinkus was sitting on the roof. Five minutes ago he had gone down to the pantry, grabbed another bottle, gone into his room, put on his fur coat, and now apparently intended to continue taking in the fresh air at least until lunchtime. As for me, I was standing in front of his room, trying key after key from the ring that I’d swiped from the owner’s office, and preparing to commit a misdemeanor. Without a warrant I obviously had no right to break into someone else’s room and perform a search there or even a quick inspection. But I felt that it was necessary, otherwise my sleep and even peace of mind could be at stake.
    The fifth or sixth key clicked softly, and I slipped into the room. I did this just like a hero in a spy thriller would have—I didn’t know how else to do it. The sun had almost gone behind the ridge, but it was light enough in the room. It appeared unoccupied: the bed was barely ruffled, the ashtray was empty and clean, and both of the trunks were standing right in the middle of the room. It was impossibleto imagine that someone was intending to stay here for two weeks.
    The contents of the first and heavier trunk only increased my apprehension. It was your typical decoy bag: some rags, torn sheets and pillowcases and a bunch of books that had clearly been selected at random. Hinkus had obviously stuffed this trunk with whatever was at hand. The real luggage was in the second trunk. Here I found three changes of underwear, a pair of pajamas, a cosmetics bag, a bundle of money—a big bundle, bigger than the one I’d brought with me—and two dozen handkerchiefs. There was also a small silver flask (empty), a box with sunglasses and a bottle with a foreign label on it (full). And at the very bottom of the trunk, beneath the underwear, a massive gold watch with an intricate face, and a small woman’s Browning.
    I sat on the floor, listening. Right now everything was quiet, but I knew I didn’t have much time to think. I examined the watch. An elaborate monogram of some kind had been engraved on the lid. It was real gold, pure, with a reddish sheen; the dial was decorated with the signs of the