'Three diamonds', said Lariosik shyly.

'Pass', answered Karas.

'What's all this about being a bad player? You play very well. You deserve to be congratulated, not sworn at. Well then, if you call three diamonds, I'll say four spades. I wouldn't mind going to my estate myself at the moment . . .'

'Four diamonds', Nikolka prompted Lariosik, glancing at his cards.

'Four? Pass.'

'Pass.'

In the flickering light of the candle, amid the cigarette smoke,

Lariosik nervously bought more cards. Like spent cartridges flicking out of a rifle Myshlaevsky dealt the players a card apiece.

'A low spade', he announced, adding encouragingly to Lariosik: 'Well done!'

The cards flew out of Myshlaevsky's hands as noiselessly as maple leaves, Shervinsky threw down neatly, Karas harder and more clumsily. Sighing, Lariosik put down his cards as gently as if each one was an identity card.

'Aha,' said Karas, 'so that's your game - king-on-queen.'

Myshlaevsky suddenly turned purple, flung his cards on the table and swivelling round to stare furiously at Lariosik, he roared:

'Why the hell did you have to trump my queen? Eh, Larion?!'

'Good, Ha, ha, ha!' Karas gloated. 'Our trick I believe!'

A terrible noise broke out over the green table and the candle-flames stuttered. Waving his arms, Nikolka tried to calm the others down and rushed to shut the door and close the portiere.

'I thought Fyodor Nikolaevich had a king', Lariosik murmured faintly.

'How could you think that. . .' Myshlaevsky tried not to shout, which gave his voice a hoarse rasp that made it sound even more terrifying: '. . . when you bought it yourself and handed it to me? Eh? That's a hell of a way to play' - Myshlaevsky looked round at them all - 'isn't it? He said he came here for peace and quiet, didn't he? Well, trumping your partner's trick is a funny way to look for a peaceful life, I must say! This is a game of skill, dammit! You have to use your head, you know, this isn't like writing poetry!'

'Wait. Perhaps Karas . . .'

'Perhaps what? Perhaps nothing. I'm sorry if that's the way they play in Zhitomir, but to me it's sheer murder! Don't get me wrong . . . Pushkin and Lomonosov wrote poetry, they wouldn't have pulled a trick like that . . .'

'Oh, shut up Viktor. Why lose your temper with him? It happens to everybody.'

'I knew it,' mumbled Lariosik, 'I knew I'd be unlucky . . .'

'Ssh. Stop . . .'

There was instant, total silence. Far away, through many closed doors, a bell trembled in the kitchen. Pause. Then came the click of footsteps, doors were opened, and Anyuta came into the room. Elena passed quickly through the lobby. Myshlaevsky drummed on the green baize cloth and said:

'A bit early, isn't it?'

'Yes, it is', said Nikolka, who regarded himself as the expert on house-searches.

'Shall I open the door?' Anyuta asked uneasily.

'No, Anna Timofeyevna,' replied Myshlaevsky, 'wait a moment.' He rose groaning from his chair. 'Let me go to the door, don't you bother

'We'll both go', said Karas.

'Right', said Myshlaevsky, suddenly looking exactly as if he were standing in front of a platoon of troops. 'I assume everything is all right in the bedroom . . . Doctor Turbin has typhus. Elena, you're his sister . . . Karas - you pretend to be a doctor . . . no, a medical student. Go into the bedroom, make it look convincing. Fiddle about with a hypodermic or something . . . There are quite a lot of us ... we should be all right . . .'

The bell rang again impatiently, Anyuta gave a start; they all looked anxious.

'No hurry', said Myshlaevsky as he took a small toy-like black revolver from his hip-pocket.

'That's too risky', said Shervinsky, frowning. 'I'm surprised at you. You of all people ought to be more careful. D'you mean to say you walked through the streets carrying it?'

'Don't worry,' Myshlaevsky replied calmly and politely, 'we'll take care of it. Take it, Nikolka, and if necessary throw it out of a window or out of the back door. If it's Petlyura's men at the door, I'll cough. Then throw it out - only throw it so that we can find it again afterwards. I'm fond of this little thing, it went with me all the way to Warsaw . . . Everyone ready?'

'Ready', said Nikolka grimly and proudly as he took the revolver.

'Right.' Myshlaevsky poked Shervinsky in the chest with his

finger, and said: 'You're a singer, invited to give a recital.' To Karas: 'You're a doctor, come to see Alexei.' To Nikolka: 'You're the brother.' To Lariosik: 'You're a student and you're a lodger here. Got an identity card?'

'I have a tsarist passport,' said Lariosik turning pale, 'and a student identity card from Kharkov University.'

'Hide the tsarist one and show your student card.'

Lariosik clutched at the portiere, pushed it aside and went out.

'The women don't matter', Myshlaevsky went on. 'Right - has everybody got identity cards? Nothing suspicious in your pockets? Hey, Larion! Somebody ask him if he's carrying a weapon.'

'Larion!' Nikolka called out from the dining-room. 'Do you have a gun?'

'No, God forbid', answered Larion from somewhere in the depths of the apartment.

Again there came a long, desperate, impatient ring at the doorbell.

'Well, here goes', said Myshlaevsky and made for the door. Karas disappeared into Alexei's bedroom.

'I'll make it look as if someone's playing patience', said Sher-vinsky and blew out the candles.

There were three doors to pass through to get into the Turbins' apartment. The first was from the lobby on to the staircase, the second was a glass door which marked off the limit of the Turbins' property. Beyond the glass door and downstairs was a cold, dark hallway, on one side of which was the Lisovichs' front door; at the end of the hallway was the third door giving on to the street.

Doors slammed, and Myshlaevsky could be heard downstairs shouting:

'Who's there?'

Behind him at the top of the stairs he sensed the shadowy figures of his friends, listening. Outside a muffled voice said imploringly:

'How many more times do I have to ring? Does Mrs Talberg-Turbin live here? Telegram for her. Open up.'

'This is an old trick', Myshlaevsky thought to himself, and he began coughing hard. One of the figures on the staircase dis-

appeared indoors. Cautiously Myshlaevsky opened the bolt, turned the key and opened the door, leaving the chain in position.

'Give me the telegram', he said, standing sideways to the door so that he was invisible to the person outside. A hand in a gray sleeve pushed itself through and handed him a little envelope. To his astonishment Myshlaevsky realised that it really was a telegram.

'Sign please', said the voice behind the door angrily.

With a quick glance Myshlaevsky saw that there was only one person standing outside.

'Anyuta, Anyuta', he shouted cheerfully, his bronchitis miraculously cured. 'Give me a pencil.'

Instead of Anyuta, Karas ran down and handed him a pencil. On a scrap of paper torn from the flap of the envelope Myshlaevsky scribbled 'Tur', whispering to Karas:

'Give me twenty-five . . .'

The door was slammed shut and locked.

In utter amazement Myshlaevsky and Karas climbed up the staircase. All the others had gathered in the lobby. Elena tore open the envelope and began mechanically reading aloud:

'Lariosik suffered terrible misfortune stop. Operetta singer called Lipsky . . .'

'My God!' shouted Lariosik, scarlet in the face. 'It's the telegram from my mother!'

'Sixty-three words', groaned Nikolka. 'Look, they've had to write all round the sides and on the back!'

'Oh lord!' Elena exclaimed. 'What have I done? Lariosik, please forgive me for starting to read it out aloud. I'd completely forgotten about it . . .'