Koldin wasted no time proceeding to the police station. It stood on the road to the market and looked as though it had been placed there to contradict the town.
It was a clean brick building with white-painted window frames and a steep roof of dark tile. A small stone perron rose from the mud to the front entrance, its steps worn smooth at the center but swept clear of leaves, bottles, dung, and all the other things the road deposited elsewhere. Two square columns supported a shallow portico. Above the door hung the green-and-white flag of Olissingen, limp in the heat.
The brickwork had been pointed recently. Someone had even polished the brass plate beside the entrance.
Defort looked from the station to the buildings around it. On one side stood a shack selling fried food through a window. On the other, a house leaned far enough toward the road that its upper story appeared to be listening.
“We going in there, ying-man?”
“Yeah. Still need to report what happened at zhe liquor store.”
Defort wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand.
“Sweet. Break from the outside.”
They crossed the road.
The perron had retained the day’s heat. Koldin climbed the three stone steps and took hold of the door handle. The door was thick hardwood with a pane of wired glass set into its upper half. He pulled.
Nothing happened.
He planted both feet, leaned backward, and drew most of his weight against it. The old seal released with a low rubber complaint and the door opened by several inches.
Defort reached over him and caught it.
“You need a hand?”
“I had it.”
“You were fighting the building.”
“I'm fine.”
They entered, Koldin taking off his hat and stuffing it into his shoulder strap again.
Cool air met them with such force that Koldin stopped just inside the doorway.
It moved across the hot fur of his face and neck and beneath the open edge of his collar, cooling it immediately. His ears lifted. For one moment the station seemed not merely cooler than the street but located in another season altogether.
Defort let the door close behind them. The outside world disappeared with a heavy wooden thud.
The interior was as distinct from Lenkerk as the exterior. Faux-granite vinyl covered the floor in broad gray sheets polished to a mirror sheen. Fluorescent tubes hummed above a white ceiling. The walls held framed photographs of uniformed officers, old warrants, ceremonial badges, and maps in wooden frames. Glass display cases stood along one side of the lobby containing police memorabilia whose importance was assumed rather than explained.
There were brass whistles. Old hand restraints. A black leather helmet with a cracked visor.
A short cavalry saber attributed by a small typed card to an officer who had died suppressing a dock strike fifty-three years earlier.
In another case stood a revolver with an ivory-colored grip and no cylinder. Defort went toward it at once.
At the front desk a police officer sat behind a high wooden counter typing at an electric typewriter. The machine struck each letter with clean percussive certainty. Beside it lay several paper sheets, a stamp pad, and a ceramic cup containing pencils sharpened to identical lengths.
The officer wore a pressed pale-green uniform. He was human, middle-aged, and broad through the waist. His hat sat on a hook behind him. A small fan turned upon the desk despite the air conditioning and moved the corners of the paper beneath his hands.
Koldin approached the counter.
The officer continued typing.
Koldin waited.
The machine finished a line and gave a bright metallic chime. The officer returned the carriage, typed three more words, and stopped.
Koldin cleared his throat. The officer looked up.
“Yes?”
“I’d like to make a statement. Zhere was an incident at a liquor store.”
The man’s expression changed only in that it became official.
“Violence?”
“No.”
“Injury?”
“No.”
“Property damage?”
“No.”
“What happened?”
“Someone stole a bottle.”
The officer looked at him for a moment.
Defort was still at the display case containing the broken revolver. He crouched slightly to read its card.
The officer asked, “Did you apprehend the person?”
“No.”
“Did you recognize him?”
“No.”
“Did you see the theft?”
“Yes.”
“Very well.”
He reached beneath the counter and brought out a thin wooden clipboard, a printed statement form, and a pencil attached by cord. He fitted the paper beneath the clip, checked that the pencil was sharp, and handed the whole arrangement across to Koldin.
“Complete the identifying sections and provide the sequence of events in the space below. Print clearly.”
Koldin took it.
“Where?”
The officer pointed toward a row of chairs beneath the windows.
Koldin went over and sat. The chair had been designed for humans and left his feet hanging slightly above the polished floor. He shifted forward until they touched.