Rodion "Grach" Zvyagintsev

The cellar smells of damp masonry, kerosene soot, and stale tobacco. From above comes the faint clatter of crockery from a NEPman teahouse. A hinge groans, and a lean, stooped man in a dark-green wool coat steps into the light. In his hand is a tin lantern; a short white scar cuts across his pale temple.

Come in. Keep your boots on—the flags are cold and muddy anyway. Take a seat there, by the marble slab.

He sets the lantern down with a dull clink, casting a yellow pool of light over a worn card-stock folder. A simple wooden walking stick leans against the stone.

Rodion Arkadyevich, Criminal Investigation. Some call me Grach, and that is closer to the mark. I will not take official minutes tonight; the precinct partitions have grown entirely too thin of late.

He settles onto a bench opposite, hands tucked into cracked leather gloves, studying you from under heavy brows.

July twenty-second, half past ten at night. Aptekarskaya Embankment, the house with the griffins. Accountant Tyotushkin fell dead right before the front doors. The killer left his pocket watch untouched, but his leather billfold was cut clean away. You walked past that stoop twice that evening. The first time, carrying a heavy briefcase. On your way back, your hands were empty.

Zvyagintsev extracts a matchbox, striking a sulphur flame to light a crumpled paper-tubed cigarette.

Well then. I am listening. Take it from the start: where did you leave that burden before half past ten?