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

She stopped cutting and looked at the scarf, then me, then back to the scarf. Cleaning her hands on the hem of her smock, she reached for the yellow silk.

I let her have one end.

“Tell me about the Russian and Marushka,” I said.

“Oh that.” Bela laughed. “That’s nothing. The captain buys all of us sweetmeats and silver lockets, but he wants only Marushka for his ‘little soul,’ his mistress.”

“And what does Yermack say about that?”

Bela’s smile faded.

“In front of Marushka, he pretends it doesn’t matter. He laughs and says there are plenty of other beautiful women in the next village to love him, so what does he care.”

“Do you believe him?”

“Not really.”

“Why not?”

She puckered up one cheek.

“Because in private he mutters that the Russian stole something he loved away from him, and therefore he will steal away something that the Russian loves.”

“Could that something have been a horse?”

Bela snatched the scarf out of my grasp and turned away.

“I have grapes to cut before they dry on the vine. Go ask your questions of someone else.”

She was right, and I had a fair idea whom to speak with. Only this time, I would be better prepared.

In the late afternoon as the heat of the day began to cool, I was seated on Daddy Eroshka’s porch, waiting for his return. Down the street he trudged, with still-wet nets thrown back over his shoulder, his naked back carrying the weight of both fish and equipment. A pelt of snowy white hair covered his massive chest and he walked barefoot with his pants legs rolled up to his knees.

I knew he saw me sitting there on his porch, but he ducked his head as if to give himself time to consider what business I might have with him now. His whistling stopped, but his outward appearance seemed cheerful enough as he came up the steps.

“Armenian, you’ve come back to me.”

He unslung the nets and dropped them onto the porch.

I held up the small pail of vodka I’d had the foresight to bring along this time.

His voice boomed.

“And you’ve brought me a present. We may become kunaks, yet. Yes, we may become very good comrades.”

Using the only drink container in the hut, I scooped up some of the vodka and held the cup out to him. He toasted my health, downed the liquid in two swallows, and returned the empty porcelain. This time, after refilling the cup, I held it in sight, but made no proffer.

“You forgot to tell me about the horse. But then it was early morning when I came to your hut, and it’s possible that you were still groggy from your sleep.”

He stared at the vodka.

“Which horse is that?”

“The Karbada horse that belonged to the staff captain, the one that Yermack stole. As I recall, it was you that taught Yermack everything he knows about horses.”

The old Cossack had a troubled look on his face.

“I wish no evil on the lad. He is a brave one like the Cossacks in my youth.”

“There will be no worries from me. I will only speak with Yermack and then he can do whatever he wishes.”

I extended the cracked porcelain halfway.

Daddy Eroshka’s large hand wrapped around the cup of vodka, but I wasn’t ready to let it go yet.

“I’ve heard rumors,” he said at last, “that a dark-colored Karbada horse, much like the staff captain’s, might be found tethered in the dense woods along the Terek.”

I released my grasp.

“And when will Yermack come to the village again from the cordon?”

The old Cossack eyed the pail of vodka on the floor at my feet.

“Tonight,” he replied, “at sunset. Some of the girls are having a party and he will be there.”

I handed him the pail and left.

By early evening, I had stationed myself by the main village gate. The girls in their beshmets and smocks with their hair tied up in colored kerchiefs had already herded the cattle through the gate and into the yards. All the ox carts with their loads of black grapes had also come home. I’d seen Marushka with her long black hair, bold figure, and dark eyes, and knew why both the Cossack lad and the Russian captain sought her affections. Now I waited for Yermack.

As the sun began to set, a young rider on a gray horse came down the road. He wore a tattered, light brown Circassian coat with the coat’s long skirts covering down to his knees. A white cap sat back on his head like a Chechen brave. His musket was strapped to his back in a warrior’s carefree manner, and it made no noise as he rode.

When the horseman approached the gate, I stepped into the road and inquired, “Yermack?”

He stopped the gray horse with its shoulder almost touching mine.

“I am. Who are you?”

“I’m a friend.”

He leaned forward on his saddle.

“I know all my friends, but I think you are the Armenian trader from the south.”

“I know about the Karbada horse, Karagyoz, hidden in the forest.”

Yermack shrugged the musket off his shoulder and into his hands.

“You picked a poor place to die, Armenian.”

“And you would be killing the wrong man.”

“What do you mean?”

“I have an answer to your problems,” I replied.

His countenance remained stern; there was no joy in the hard smile on his lips.

“Go on.”