Read Entanglement for Free Online Page B
Authors: Zygmunt Miloszewski
video library card, some family photos and some lottery tickets.
He wrote: “wallet - examine”.
Nothing to latch on to. Nothing.
There was a knock at the door.
“Come in!” said Szacki, looking at his watch in surprise. Kwiatkowska was not supposed to be there for half an hour.
In came a girl he didn’t know. She was about twenty-five, neither pretty nor ugly, a brunette with curly hair cut short and rectangular glasses with opalescent frames. Quite slender; not particularly his type.
“I’m sorry I didn’t call in advance, but I was just passing and I thought—”
“Yes? What brings you here?” Szacki interrupted her, praying to himself that she wasn’t a lunatic coming to complain about electricity being put through her keyhole.
“My name’s Monika Grzelka, I’m a journalist—”
“Oh no, Madam,” he interrupted her again. “The Prosecution Press Spokesman has his office on Krakowskie Przedmieście - he’s a nice fellow, I’m sure he’ll be happy to answer all your questions.”
That was all he needed. A young thing, only good-looking enough to work in radio, to whom he’d have to explain the difference between suspect and accused, and even so she’d screw it up in her article. Undaunted by his manner, the girl sat down and smiled radiantly. She had a nice, intelligent, impish smile. Infectious. Szacki clenched his teeth to stop himself from smiling back at her.
She reached into her handbag and gave him a business card. Monika Grzelka, journalist, Rzeczpospolita - one of the serious dailies.
He reached into a drawer, took out the Press Spokesman’s card and handed it to her without saying a word. She stopped smiling, and he felt mean.
“I don’t think your name is familiar,” he said, to erase the bad impression.
She blushed, and he thought he’d done pretty well.
“I used to do local council issues, but from today I’m writing about crime.”
“Is that a promotion?”
“Yes, sort of.”
“It won’t be easy to write a crime column in a boring enough way for it to appear in Rzeczpospolita ,” he noted.
“I actually came here to make your acquaintance and to ask you for an in-depth interview, but I can see nothing will come of it.”
“I’m not a lawyer, I’m a civil servant,” he said. “I don’t need advertising.”
She nodded and glanced around his shabby little room. He was sure she was stifling a nasty comment, such as: “Right, you can tell it’s public sector in here”, or “And there’s no hiding it”.
“If you don’t wish to talk about general matters, let’s talk about one in particular. I’m writing about the murder on Łazienkowska Street. You can of course tell me a lot of official lies, but then you won’t have any influence on what appears in the paper. Or you can tell me the truth, but I doubt you will. Or you can at least tell me the half-truth, then I won’t have to print all the rumours from police headquarters.”
He cursed mentally. Sometimes he felt as if asking the police for discretion was about as effective as printing out the secrets of an inquiry on posters and sticking them up on advertising pillars.
“Surely you don’t expect me to have any truths, half-truths or even quarter-truths about what happened the day after a murder?”
“So what did happen?”
“A man was murdered.”
She burst out laughing.
“You’re a very rude prosecutor,” she said, leaning towards him.
Again, it cost him an effort not to smile, but he managed it.
“Two sentences and I’ll be off.”
He thought about it - it was a decent offer.
“One: a man, Henryk T., forty-six years old, was murdered on Saturday night in the church buildings on Łazienkowska Street with the use of a sharp instrument.”
“What sort of instrument?”
“A very sharp one.”
“A skewer?”
“Perhaps.”
“And the second sentence?”
“Secondly: the police and the prosecutor are assuming that Henryk T. was the victim of a burglar whom he ran
He wrote: “wallet - examine”.
Nothing to latch on to. Nothing.
There was a knock at the door.
“Come in!” said Szacki, looking at his watch in surprise. Kwiatkowska was not supposed to be there for half an hour.
In came a girl he didn’t know. She was about twenty-five, neither pretty nor ugly, a brunette with curly hair cut short and rectangular glasses with opalescent frames. Quite slender; not particularly his type.
“I’m sorry I didn’t call in advance, but I was just passing and I thought—”
“Yes? What brings you here?” Szacki interrupted her, praying to himself that she wasn’t a lunatic coming to complain about electricity being put through her keyhole.
“My name’s Monika Grzelka, I’m a journalist—”
“Oh no, Madam,” he interrupted her again. “The Prosecution Press Spokesman has his office on Krakowskie Przedmieście - he’s a nice fellow, I’m sure he’ll be happy to answer all your questions.”
That was all he needed. A young thing, only good-looking enough to work in radio, to whom he’d have to explain the difference between suspect and accused, and even so she’d screw it up in her article. Undaunted by his manner, the girl sat down and smiled radiantly. She had a nice, intelligent, impish smile. Infectious. Szacki clenched his teeth to stop himself from smiling back at her.
She reached into her handbag and gave him a business card. Monika Grzelka, journalist, Rzeczpospolita - one of the serious dailies.
He reached into a drawer, took out the Press Spokesman’s card and handed it to her without saying a word. She stopped smiling, and he felt mean.
“I don’t think your name is familiar,” he said, to erase the bad impression.
She blushed, and he thought he’d done pretty well.
“I used to do local council issues, but from today I’m writing about crime.”
“Is that a promotion?”
“Yes, sort of.”
“It won’t be easy to write a crime column in a boring enough way for it to appear in Rzeczpospolita ,” he noted.
“I actually came here to make your acquaintance and to ask you for an in-depth interview, but I can see nothing will come of it.”
“I’m not a lawyer, I’m a civil servant,” he said. “I don’t need advertising.”
She nodded and glanced around his shabby little room. He was sure she was stifling a nasty comment, such as: “Right, you can tell it’s public sector in here”, or “And there’s no hiding it”.
“If you don’t wish to talk about general matters, let’s talk about one in particular. I’m writing about the murder on Łazienkowska Street. You can of course tell me a lot of official lies, but then you won’t have any influence on what appears in the paper. Or you can tell me the truth, but I doubt you will. Or you can at least tell me the half-truth, then I won’t have to print all the rumours from police headquarters.”
He cursed mentally. Sometimes he felt as if asking the police for discretion was about as effective as printing out the secrets of an inquiry on posters and sticking them up on advertising pillars.
“Surely you don’t expect me to have any truths, half-truths or even quarter-truths about what happened the day after a murder?”
“So what did happen?”
“A man was murdered.”
She burst out laughing.
“You’re a very rude prosecutor,” she said, leaning towards him.
Again, it cost him an effort not to smile, but he managed it.
“Two sentences and I’ll be off.”
He thought about it - it was a decent offer.
“One: a man, Henryk T., forty-six years old, was murdered on Saturday night in the church buildings on Łazienkowska Street with the use of a sharp instrument.”
“What sort of instrument?”
“A very sharp one.”
“A skewer?”
“Perhaps.”
“And the second sentence?”
“Secondly: the police and the prosecutor are assuming that Henryk T. was the victim of a burglar whom he ran