Transcription
[Music] Ardis Studio presents audiobooks, the best works of world literature. For detailed information about Ardis Studio audiobooks, see the internet on the website 3w ardis books.ru. [Music] Lev Ovalov, Goats, About the Major, About Chickens, About the Spirit of Tsaryova. Viktor had just finished the investigation into the case of the deaths of several Soviet workers in one of the national republics, prepared by the enemies of Soviet power. Viktor did not like to recall this case, not that it was very complicated, but a series of difficult circumstances did not make Viktor eager to re-examine the details. Having submitted the report and reported on the results of the trip, Viktor headed to Pronin's, but did not find him in his office. "And where is Ivan Nikolaevich?" Viktor asked. "At home," they answered him. "He took a week's leave and asked not to be disturbed." Viktor called Pronin's home, but Agasha, Pronin's domestic worker and the most loyal guardian of his peace, answered the phone. "It's me, Aunt Gasha," said Viktor. "Hello, hello, hello," Agasha responded. "Is Ivan Nikolaevich busy?" Viktor inquired. "He's reading books," Agasha answered peacefully, and from her tone, Viktor guessed that Pronin had been sitting at home all these days, and Agasha could fully indulge her nurturing tendencies. "Most of the time, they submitted to that..." "Well, I'll come over now," said Viktor and drove to Pronin's. Everything in the room was in its familiar places. The desk, as usual, was empty. There was nothing on it except a small plaster bust of Pushkin. The wall behind the desk was covered by a map of the country. Near the door hung a guitar, darkened by time, a gift from Olga Vasilyeva, a gypsy singer, and saved by Pronin. By the window stood a divan, on which lay an expensive Tekke carpet, decorated with an ancient saber and pistols. Among them was lost an unremarkable, short, curved dagger, the only reminder of a long-ago case that had almost cost Pronin his life. The owner himself lay on the divan, and around him, and on the divan, and on the windowsill, and on the moved chair, lay dozens of books and brochures. Judging by the unbuttoned collar of his tunic and his slippers, Ivan Nikolaevich was seriously engrossed in reading. "Long time, brother, you've been missing," Viktor was good-naturedly reproached by Pronin, without getting up to meet him. "Would you like some tea?" "Judge for yourself," Viktor complained. "Around a small matter, they've spun so much." Stoyka, Pronin's pet, almost since he was 13 years old. Viktor used to speak to him informally, but having grown up and started working under Pronin's supervision, he was obliged by service to address him formally. Viktor involuntarily adopted this manner of address, and so they always spoke to each other: Pronin informally, and Viktor formally. "I've heard, I've heard about your exploits," Ivan Nikolaevich interrupted him. "It's not for nothing that I lie on the couch, but I'm informed about your adventures. You'd better tell me, what insects parasitize domestic poultry?" Viktor leaned towards the brochures scattered everywhere. "Poultry farming, industrial poultry farming, incubator design, chickens and their care, care for domestic poultry, chicken worms and their control," he read the titles of several books. "Agasha, tea!" Ivan Nikolaevich shouted cheerfully and squinted slyly. "And do you know, Viktor Petrovich, how Plymouth Rocks differ from Rhode Island Reds? What temperature is maintained in incubators? What should newly hatched chicks be fed?" Agasha brought in a glass of tea, and although Pronin was going to celebrate the 10th anniversary of Agasha's service and knew all her background, he never spoke about business in her presence. Agasha knew this and had long since stopped being offended by her master for it. She set out jam, cookies, and snacks on the table, looked questioningly at Pronin, and, with some hesitation, brought out cognac. She could never understand whether Pronin was working while sitting at home all these days or resting. And Pronin, a lover of cognac, did not allow himself to touch a glass during work. Agasha left. Pronin moved a glass of tea towards Viktor. "Pour?" Viktor asked. "Take a bottle for yourself," Pronin said. "We are not drinkers." He took out a stack of student notebooks from the desk and placed them in front of Viktor. "Admire them." "I don't understand anything," Viktor said with annoyance, flipping through the notebooks. "Chickens, chickens, chicken hearts, chicken gizzards. Why do you need all this?" "The whole difference is," Pronin explained instructively, "that usually any citizen, in order to become a specialist in any field, must study for three to four years, or even more. But a Chekist must be able to become a specialist in a week. Of course," Pronin chuckled, "I wouldn't advise such a weekly doctor to undertake the treatment of people, but among other doctors, he must behave in such a way that they cannot suspect him of being a shoemaker. So, within a week, I intend to become a poultry specialist." Viktor thoughtfully stirred his spoon in his glass. For two decades, he had not ceased to be surprised by the work capacity and diligence of this man who had not studied in any educational institution. One had to have Pronin's ability to become so familiar with the subject matter in a short period of time as to later challenge specialists to disputes and sometimes emerge victorious from these disputes. "So, what kind of chickens made you get into ornithology, if it's not a secret?" Viktor asked. "It's not a secret for you, especially since you'll have to help me sort out this whole chicken story," Pronin said. "I don't know if you know or not, but not far from," he named one of the cities in central Russia, there is a large poultry state farm. There were, of course, shortcomings and gaps in its work, but in general, it was considered to be in good standing. And suddenly, a huge flock of chickens dies within a few hours. Malignant chicken cholera. What's the matter? From what? From where? No one knows. They established a quarantine, isolated the infected poultry house, and it seemed to localize the danger. A week passes, and suddenly the same story again. Another flock of chickens, as if it never existed. Another week passes, everything is calm, and suddenly again some invisible hand empties the poultry house. Chicken cholera, specialists say, but where, where the devil? The poultry administration treated this rather calmly. Nothing can be done, an epidemic. Trade is small, there are no losses. Well, we thought and thought, and decided that it wouldn't hurt to get interested in this matter. Now bacteriologists conduct many experiments in search of means to combat epidemics, but our enemies can also engage in experiments of the opposite order. In a word, prevention will not hurt. Therefore, another investigator will go to the state farm, and this investigator, as you see, is sitting in front of you. What our brother doesn't have to do," Viktor sighed. "When do you plan to move, Ivan Nikolaevich?" He glanced at the books. "I'll finish reading this, and in three days, perhaps." "What will I have to do?" Viktor asked, nodding at the brochures. "Read all this too." "And don't be upset," Pronin smiled. "I'm even getting interested, you know." But their conversation was interrupted by Amishi. "Ivan Nikolaevich, they are asking for you," she said, entering the room. "A package from the service, they say it's urgent." Pronin went into the hallway, signed for the package, and returned. He unhurriedly opened the envelope, shook the telegram blank onto the tablecloth, read the paper, his eyebrows furrowed, his eyes darkened, and he slowly handed the slip to Viktor. It was a telegram from the state farm. The text was brief: "Yesterday, the state farm's poultry keeper, Tsaryova, died with signs of arsenic poisoning. An investigation has begun." "So," Ivan Nikolaevich stretched out thoughtfully, no longer looking at his books. "It seems I'll have to finish reading fiction in the evening. I'll go to the state farm today."