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Ioana Pârvulescu
172
he was an international
crook, perhaps from New
York, where, as he had
seen in a photograph in the
newspaper, criminal files
were kept in a room whose
walls were covered from
top to bottom in hundreds
of little drawers. It was
Costache’s ambition to have
a similar room in Bucharest.
He would have to keep
this Dan Crețu under close
surveillance, to see whether
he had accomplices. Sooner
or later he would give
himself away.
Setting aside the snowflakes
and his plans for reform, he
went back into his office,
rolled a cigarette, lit it,
inhaled the aromatic smoke
with great pleasure, and
pressed a bell. A strident
buzz was heard. When the
balding head of the sergeant
appeared in the doorway, he
asked that Petre be brought
in. Petre, known as Rusu, the
coachmanoftheIngerfamily,
knew the man who had
been found almost frozen.
Costache again recollected
the advertisement for the
cake shop adjacent to his
announcement, but he
swatted the thought away,
like a fly.
‘I’ve called you here to tell
me all about the hijinks of
yesterday.’
The coachman twisted his
cap in his hands, and his cut
finger seemed to throb. He
answered
determinedly:
‘The man’s from the
madhouse, your worshib.
I think he shot that blond
lad, but he don’t want to
admit it. He kebt shouting:
I recognize nothing! I
recognize nothing!’
‘But why was that? After all,
nobody was accusing him of
anything, like the police...’