“Comrade.. captain.. this is Gayevoy.. reporting. The… suspect… escaped!”

“Escaped? What do you mean escaped? Give me a full report!”

“Well, we were in the GAZ. Timofeyev was driving and I was next to that….” The policeman was muttering into the phone. “That's the way we transport all detained suspects. After all, comrade captain, you hadn't warned us about strict observation, and I couldn't imagine where he could go since you have all his papers. Well, we were driving past the city park and he jumped out when we were going at full speed. Over the fence, and he was gone! Well, Timofeyev and I went after him. Boy, is he good at clambering over uneven ground! Well, I didn't want to open fire since I didn't have any instructions about it from you. So… that's it.”

“I see. Go to the department and write out a report for the captain on duty. You don't do your job very well, Gayevoy!”

“Well, is there anything you'd like me to do, comrade captain?” His voice was glum.

“We'll manage without you. Hurry back here; you'll be part of the search party. That's all.” Onisimov hung up.

“Well, well, the man's an artist, a real artist! And I had doubted him! Of course, it's him. It had to be! So. He had no identification papers. Nor any money. And almost no clothes, just the shirt and trousers he had on. He won't get far. Unless he has confederates… then it'll be harder.”

Ten minutes later Gayevoy, even more bent over by his guilt, appeared. Onisimov organized a search party, distributing photos, and a description with identifying marks. The operatives went into town.

Then Matvei Apollonovich called the fingerprint expert. He told him that some of the prints he collected in the lab matched those of the lab assistant; others belonged to another man. Neither set matched up with any known criminal.

“The other man is naturally the victim, of course…. Ho, ho, this is becoming serious business. It doesn't look anything like a regular crime. It doesn't look like anything with that damn melted skeleton! What can I do about that?”

Onisimov stared gloomily out the window. The shadows of the trees on the sidewalks were lengthening, but it hadn't gotten any cooler. Young women in print shifts and sunglasses crowded near the bus stop. “Going to the beach….”

The worst part was that Onisimov still didn't have a working version of the incident.

At the end of the day, when Matvei Apollonovich was writing out a list for the morning, the commander of the department came in to see him. “Here it comes,” Matvei Apollonovich thought.

“Sit down.” The colonel lowered himself into the chair. “You seem to be having complications in this case: no body, suspect escaped. Hm? Tell me about it.” Onisimov told him.

“Hm….” The commander's heavy eyebrows met. “Well, we'll catch that fellow; there's no question about that. Do you have the airport, railroad, and bus stations under surveillance?

“Of course, Aleksei Ignatievich, I sent out the order immediately.”

“That means he'll never get out of the city. But as for the corpse… that's really something very curious. Damn it all! Maybe they switched things on you at the scene?” He looked up at the investigator with his small, wise eyes. “Maybe… remember Gorky's story Klim Samgin where a character says, 'Maybe there was no boy? “

“But… the doctor in the ambulance certified the death, Aleksei Ignatievich.”

“Doctors can make mistakes, too. Besides, the doctor was not an expert, and she didn't list a cause of death. And there's no body. And our Zubato is having problems with the skeleton…. Of course, it's up to you. I'm not insisting, but if you can't explain how the corpse turned into a skeleton in fifteen minutes, and whose skeleton it is, and what caused the death — no jury is going to pay any attention to the evidence. Even clear — cut cases are being sent back by the courts for lack of evidence, or dismissed completely. Of course, it's good that the law is strict and careful, but…” he sighed noisily, “a… a difficult case, no? Do you have an official version yet?” “I have a draft,” Onisimov explained shyly, “but I don't know how you're going to take it, Aleksei Ignatievich. I don't think this is a criminal case. According to the institute's scientific secretary, the United States is very interested in the case that Krivoshein was studying in his lab. That's point one. Lab assistant Kravets, by his demeanor and cultural level, I guess is neither a student nor a criminal. He escaped masterfully, that's for sure. Point two: Kravets's fingerprints don't match any criminal ones on record. Three: so, perhaps — “Matvei Apollonovich stopped, and looked inquiringly at his chief.

“ — we should palm off the case on the KGB?” The colonel finished his thought with a soldier's directness and shook his head. “Don't be in a hurry! If we, the police, discover a crime with, say, a foreign accent, it will bring society and us nothing but good. But if the state security organs discover a simple civilian crime or a violation of safety procedures, then… well, you understand. And in the last six months we've hit the bottom of the local list for percentage of solved crimes.” He gave Onisimov a good — natured look of reproach. “Don't give up! You know the saying that the most complicated crimes are the easiest: theses and projects, scientific mumbo — jumbo… it boggles the mind. Don't rush with your version. Check out all the possibilities and maybe it will be like the fable: 'The box had a simple lock. Well, I wish you luck and success.” The chief rose and extended his hand. “I'm sure that you can handle this case.”

Matvei Apollonovich got up too, shook hands, and followed the commander out with clear and bright eyes. Say what you will, but when the boss has confidence in you, it makes all the difference!

The plump, blonde, middle — aged passenger in the express train between Novosibirsk and Dneprovsk was agitated by the fellow in the upper berth. He had rough — hewn but handsome features, a windblown face, dark curly hair with a lot of gray in it, strong, tanned hands with thick fingers and old calluses on the palms — and yet he had a gentle smile, charm (he had offered her the lower berth when she got on at Kharkov), and an intelligent manner of speaking. The fellow lay with his square chin on his hands, greedily looking at the trees, houses, streams, and road signs flashing by. And he smiled. “Handsome!” she thought.

“Probably familiar territory?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“You've been away a long time?”

“A year.”

He was recognizing things: they went under the highway where he used to ride his motorcycle with Lena. There was the oak grove where the locals went picnicking. There was Staroe Ruslo, a place of secluded beaches, clean sand, and calm water. There was the Vytrebenki farm — and hey! new construction! Probably a chemical plant…. He smiled and frowned as the memories came back.

Actually, he had never ridden a motorcycle anywhere with any Lena, nor had he ever been in the grove or on those beaches — it had all been done without him. It was simply that once there had been a conversation, and to be accurate, even that took place without his active participation.

“Here's an application. (The variants of human life!) Look: 'A Vladivostok shipbuilding concern is looking for an electrical engineer to do fitting work on location. Apartment supplied. Aren't I an electrical engineer? Fitting on location — what could be better? A Pacific wave lapping up against the fittings! You pay out the cable, lick the salt from your lips — you against the elements!”