He got out his razor and shaved himself before the big wall mirror between the windows. The peace and quiet of his room were luxuries after the days and nights of living and sleeping on the pounding train among the Czech soldiers. He had time now for careful planning, and he desired to make the acquaintance of Kirsakoff at leisure, arrange the details of how the Governor should be killed and then carry through the project with all possible skill so that his tracks might be covered. There would be many pitfalls to avoid, many nicely balanced circumstances.
It would not be enough for Peter merely to kill Kirsakoff. The Governor must know who brought death to him, must understand before he was sent into eternity that it was Peter Petrovitch Gorekin, son of the bootmaker, who took vengeance.
The girl came with the samovar and the cakes and left them on the table. She fled again without taking the five-ruble note which Peter had left upon the table for her.
Peter sat by the window and ate and drank. The sun dropped behind the rim of the hill and twilight came swiftly. In the street below a line of rude carts passed, drawn by frosty ponies with their drivers plodding along behind the carts. They walked like men in their sleep, oblivious of everything about them and steeped in the torturing cold.
Farther up the street four men were drifting about aimlessly, tipsy with vodka. They drew together at times to engage in maudlin argument, and staggered about like clumsy bears, lurching at one another in wild plunges and falling in the street.
The four roisterers disappeared. A squad of Japanese soldiers came stumbling down the street, evidently going on guard at the station for the night. They appeared to be half frozen, but they doggedly maintained some semblance of military formation. Their heads were so wrapped in cloths that they could hardly see their way, and the fur straps across their faces were white with frost from the moisture of their nostrils. Their big shoes were stuffed with straw, which hung out over the tops. The agonizing cold, despite the heavy clothing of the men, had penetrated to their bodies and had chilled them to a condition akin to lethargy. They walked as if through semiliquid air which impeded their movements.
Peter remained by the window smoking, while the frost gradually grew up the windows. He was wondering how he could find Kirsakoff. It would not do to make direct inquiries. It might be possible to draw more from Rimsky, but it would be wise to wait before pressing the cigarette-seller to talk about Kirsakoff. The graybeard would be suspicious—he was already suspicious that Peter had some other motive in going to the hut than buying cigarettes. Yes, it would be safer to keep away from Rimsky for a few days, and perhaps wise not to move about the city too much and start gossip. He might be watched at first, but after a few days his presence in the city would be taken as a matter of course. Then he could begin his quest for Kirsakoff.
With this decision for the future, Peter prepared for bed.