Chapter 3
I brought the folder home, and then went to Syktuska Street. The old doorman opened the gate and measured me with a studying look:
“Who are you here to see?”
“Panna [Miss] Emilia.”
“Oh!” He was quite surprised and even adjusted his glasses to get a better look. “Are you from the police?”
“Private detective,” I said, pointing to my ID, which Obukh had arranged for me.
The private detective moniker usually commands more respect than that of a journalist or even of a policeman.
“Aha, then you’re probably working on the Tomashevych matter?” He guessed.
“So, you’ve heard already?”
“It was just on the radio.”
“Did you know him well?”
“Did I know him?! Know is a strong word. He used to come here to visit from time to time. Such a courteous gentleman. He used to put all ten gr
