“Well, nothing—or that’s how it seemed at first. Bisat just stood there, smiling. I asked him what happened with the guy he stopped. Bisat just waved his hand and said: ‘Everything’s in order, there was no point in detaining him.’ Well, I thought, the danger’s over . . . And then Bisat suddenly takes off his tunic and tears the shoulder straps off, really careful like! And he tears off his badge! Then he takes out his documents. And his pistol and his walkie-talkie . . . And he hands it all to me! I ask what’s wrong with him. And he answers: ‘None of this makes any sense, there’s no need for the job I do.’ And he walks off to the train! I shouted after him, but he just waved and carried on anyway! He’s probably home by now.”

“I heard that he went to the duty office himself,” I remarked.

“Roman told you that, I suppose?” Pastukhov asked me. “I asked him to say that, when I took the things in. After all, it’s one thing if a man just dumps everything in the street, but it’s a different matter if he hands it in at the duty office. Maybe he’ll change his mind and come back. In any case, he’s in for a whole heap of trouble—although they’ll probably run him through the funny farm and discharge him on health grounds . . .”

“Do you really think he’ll come back?” I asked.

Pastukhov shook his head.

“No, I don’t. It’s the tiger. He did something to him. Maybe he ordered him to do it—the way you ordered me to get drunk that time . . . Or maybe something else. Bisat won’t come back.”

“Thank you,” I said sincerely. “You seem like a good man to me. I’m sorry about what happened that other time.”

Pastukhov hesitated, then went ahead and asked anyway: “So what’s going to happen to me now? Will you order me to forget everything?”

I looked at him thoughtfully. I didn’t want to use even the very simplest of spells on Pastukhov. He was a rather strange man, but a good one.

“Do you swear on your word of honor not to tell anyone anything about our conversation?” I asked. “Or to mention us at all?”

“What kind of fool do you take me for?” the policeman asked indignantly. “Who’d ever believe me? I won’t tell anyone!”

“Then just one last question. When you’re alone and there’s no one else there, do you pick your nose with your finger?”

Pastukhov opened his mouth and closed it again, blushed unexpectedly, and said: “Well . . . if I need to . . . occasionally.”

“I’ll drop round to see you sometime—we’ll need to chat again,” I said. “But don’t you worry about it. It’s just a little heart-to-heart talk, that’s all.”

“Aha . . .” Pastukhov said awkwardly. “Thanks . . .”