“That means, dear lady, that if someone stole your rare collection of netsuke—or, say, Charlotte’s necklace—then, perhaps—I repeat, perhaps—I would take your case. But, alas,” I spread my hands, showing irritation on my face, “I’m doing more and more murder investigations.” Anna Fedorovna clearly didn’t know the words “rare” and “netsuke,” but she quickly decided that they were making fun of her. So, getting up from her chair and planting her hands on her hips, she twisted her face into a spiteful grimace.
“Ah, so that’s how it is!” she blurted, and began to blush with indignation. “So they don’t respect old people? So…”
“Hold on a minute!” I stopped her with a gesture.
“There is an alternative. If you’re willing to pay me my rate—that is, two hundred dollars a day—then I agree to find your offender and personally drag your ‘Berezka’ to you, making sure not to strain my stomach.”
“How much?” Anna Fedorovna cried out. I regretted getting into conflict with her and, deciding to change tactics, asked as politely and patiently as possible:
“Have you contacted the police, ma’am?”
But the “client” wouldn’t calm down.
“Two hundred dollars a day!” she shouted. “So you’re a real rude thing! A brazen little imp! And how do people like you exist on this earth? Aren’t you ashamed? And you’re still so young!”