“You shall tell me,” said Trirodov with conviction. Then he added in even a more loud, determined, and commanding voice:
“Tell me, who killed the Chief of Police?”
Ostrov fell back into his chair. His red face became tinged with a sudden grey pallor. His eyes, now bloodshot, half closed like those of a prostrate doll with the eye mechanism in its stomach. There was witheredness, almost lifelessness, in Ostrov’s voice:
“Poltinin.”
“Your friend?” asked Trirodov. “Well, go on.”
“He is now being sought for,” went on Ostrov in the same lifeless way.
“Why did Poltinin kill the Chief of Police?”
Ostrov resumed his stupid snigger, and said:
“It’s a matter of very delicate politics. That means, it simply had to be done. I won’t tell you why. Indeed, I couldn’t tell you if I really wished to. I don’t know myself, I can only venture to guess. But what is a guess worth?”
“Yes,” said Trirodov, “it is quite true that it is impossible for you to know this. Continue your tale.”