Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine. Vol. 50, No. 1 & 2, January/February 2005

As we approached the house, I observed the staff captain sitting calmly in a wooden chair on the front porch. His right leg was crossed over his left at the knee, and his right foot, encased in a brightly polished black leather riding boot, swung lightly back and forth. He was young, with a stern look of self-importance and a reckless black mustache. From a lit pipe in his mouth drifted white tendrils of smoke.

We were all the way up the stairs before I noticed a body — it looked like the staff captain’s orderly — stretched out on the porch to the far side of the Russian officer. Judging by the knife protruding at a slant from the orderly’s chest, I was fairly sure the man was dead. And recently so. But what did this have to do with me?

The Russian spoke first.

“Is this the Armenian?”

The schoolteacher nodded.

“Good. Now listen to me, Armenian. It seems your reputation precedes you in your travels. I am told that you are good at finding things that have been lost.”

I had trouble taking my eyes off the dead orderly, but the Russian officer had fixed his attention on me and I had to answer.

“I’ve had some luck in the past. Yes, sir.”

“Very well.” He reached into the pocket of his scarlet Circassian coat and brought out a small stack of gold coins. Selecting one off the top, he held the coin out toward me. “This is advance payment.”

Gingerly I took the coin.

“For what, Your Honor?”

“My favorite horse was stolen last night. He’s a Karbada horse, sixteen hands high, with dark color and a long, low stride. I named him Karagyoz, Turkish for ‘black eyes.’ Find where he is and more of these coins will be yours. You would be wise not to fail me.”

My gaze kept drifting back to the dead man on the porch.

The staff captain deigned to look at the limp heap lying at his doorstep.

“Whoever stole my horse also killed my orderly with his own knife. The serf I can replace, but Karagyoz is one of a kind.”

“Chechens,” spoke up the schoolteacher. “It was those Abreks from the Tartar side of the river. I’ll tighten the cordons and see if we can catch them before they cross back.”

“Not so,” replied the staff captain in a dry voice. “I think it was one of your local Cossacks, and when I find him out, I will whip him, then hang him.”

The schoolteacher turned away in the direction of the Caucasus Mountains off in the distance, south across the river. From the little I knew of the man, he appeared to be engaged in some inner turmoil.

To break the silence, I inquired, “What has been done so far?”

It was the Russian that answered. “My Moscow soldiers have searched every hut, shed, and yard, one at a time. Not a trace was found. But they can’t hide him for long. See if you can find my Karagyoz.”

I wasn’t sure where to begin.

After some parting words with the Russian officer, the schoolteacher grabbed my elbow again and led me off the porch. We were through the gate and back onto the broad dirt street before I ventured a question in his direction.

“The Russian disturbs you?”

“He is a noble and is closely related to the tsar. We must be especially careful around him.”

“And beyond that?”

“We Cossacks were a free people once. That’s the meaning of the word cossack

from the old kazak. At one time or another we successfully fought off the separate armies of Poland and of Russia and of the Turkish sultan. In the end, we allied ourselves with Russia because they are of the same faith, Old Believers, like us. Even so, they squeezed us tight. But after we Cossacks lost the rebellion, Moscow took away many of our freedoms. Now we have Russian troops quartered in every village. They pollute our homes with pipe smoke and treat us like underlings.”

I pondered his statements and wondered.

“You dislike the Russians, but they are your allies. And your Cossacks dress like Chechen braves, yet you fight these same Chechens across the river.”

“In the beginning, our Cossacks intermarried with the hill tribes. We respected the Chechens and adopted their dress, but today’s politics demand that we fight against them.”

These machinations of governments were not my concern, except as possible pieces to the puzzle of a crime. Personally, I wanted nothing more than to trade with both the Cossacks on this side of the river and the hill tribes on the far bank of the Terek. Now I found myself dragged into the middle. And I had the feeling that neither the Russian nor the schoolteacher had told me everything.

At the next intersection of dirt streets, the schoolteacher left me alone with my thoughts, not even a farewell, just a meaningful glance that I couldn’t interpret.

I stood in the dusty road, wanting to return to my unpacked trade goods, but the gold coin in my pocket said I had to look for a stolen horse. The best person I knew for information in this village was Daddy Eroshka, a giant Cossack with a long white mane and full beard. Most of his time was spent hunting and fishing, the rest in drinking parties with the Cossack girls where he heard all the latest gossip. He’d be the one.