by Maggy Diak
15.
I, of course, did not have the key to Isabelle’s flat, but many years of work with the criminals taught me things as well. Maurice was watching me with amusement when I was trying to open the door with a piece of wire. It was a piece of cake, especially as the lock was simple, old, an ancient one, so to say, with no special protection. I could read Maurice’s thoughts. Something like that: so there you are, a burglar, with your mouth full of praise for yourself, how honest you are, a saint, that’s why you have the right to condemn criminals. Yet, you are no better than the rest of us. I didn’t care. I had no time for argument.
It took me only a few seconds and the door was wide open.
Though having searched the flat thoroughly, we found nothing. But I just couldn’t leave the place. Something was tying me to it. A subconscious knowledge, my always unmistakable sixth sense. Look again, was it whispering at the back of my head. Look again. It’s here.
Maurice, standing at the door, his hand on the door handle, was waiting.
With my back bent low, my eyes glued to the floor, I resumed searching. Inch by inch.
“I don’t think you’ll find …”
At that moment, I noticed something white peeking from under one of the table legs.
“Lift up this corner of the table,” I ordered Maurice.
When he did, I pulled a folded piece of paper out, struggled to my feet, silently cursing my belly that without my permission grew big and heavy, and unfolded it. It was all written over in Otrin's handwriting. I recognized it although it was somewhat different from his handwriting in lectures. It was strange, probably written in a hurry.
“Look at this handwriting,” I said to Maurice. “What do you think?”
Maurice stared at the writing for some time, and then he said: “His hand was trembling.”
“Exactly. Otrin was scared to death when he was writing this!”
Otrin's lectures were written in nice handwriting, showing self-confidence. Letters were equal, nicely formed, standing upright like the soldiers in a row. I remember admiring his handwriting. On thispiece of paper, the letters were bending, falling. Some were big, others small, difficult to read.
Maurice started to read aloud:
