principal bit

Zdravko knocked on the door that said ‘Principal.’ The rest of the doors were less direct and said things like ‘Compost’ or ‘Room 55.’ Everything was in code.
Mrs Brenner was a middle-aged woman with tousled brown hair and dressed in clothes that seemed to have come from a bygone era. A vegetarian if you could tell by the odourless tone of her skin.
“This is detective Pavlov,” said Zdravko introducing Rusim.
At the principal’s invitation, everyone sat down.
The principal’s office was a disconcerting pink. But her desk said ‘practical.’ On the wall were photographic portraits of ancient Russian novelists.
“Thank you for seeing us,” said Zdravko.
“What can I do for you two gentlemen?”
“We’re here about the dance.”
“Of course. The dance.”
“It was a long time ago.”
“You’re meaning the dance of midsummer, two years ago? I remember it perfectly.”
“There was a man who attended, as I mentioned on the phone. A Robert Gjoeb.” Zdravko handed over a photo.
Mrs Brenner briefly studied the photograph and handed it back. “Yes. I know him well.”
“Know him?”
“Yes, of course. He’s been away.”
“Ah yes. Gone away, in more senses than one. I’m sure he will have informed you he was going away?”
“Yes, he did. He said he was going to prison.”
Zdravko raised his eyebrows. “Did he say why?”
“He said he’d mistakenly sent someone’s very expensive horse to the meatworks.”
“And why would he go and do a thing like that?”
“I’m sure I have no idea.”
“Were you surprised when you heard he’d escaped from prison?”
“To be frank with you, no.”
“Why not, if I may ask?”
“As far as I’m concerned, Robert Gjoeb can do whatever he wants. That may seem strange to a person like you.”
Zdravko looked around the desk. There was a small pile of papers to the principal’s left. And a tiny hammer, the sort a picture framer might own. On the other side was a Mac computer.
“But you have no knowledge of his current whereabouts?”
“Not at all.”
“And what was his connection to your school? I mean, why was he there at that dance?”
“Well of course, he was the benefactor.”
“A benefactor of what exactly?”
“Of course, the dance. Many dances, in fact.”
“You mean he paid for theses dances.”
“Oh yes. The folk dances at least. About one every so many months, according to the season.”
“What do you mean by season?”
“I mean spring, autumn, winter, summer. That’s when we have our folk dances.”
“How did he pay?”
“Bank transfer, I’m sure.”
“Some kind of guy,” said Rusim without looking up from his pad.
“Do you have any idea why he would sponsor a dance?” Zdravko went on.
“Children, detectives. Some people still believe in children. And culture. And small things like that.”
“Would you have a record of the donations?” asked Zdravko.
“I’m sure we would. I’ll arrange to have them sent to you.”
“Do you remember when he first began sponsoring your dances? How did he get in touch in the first instance.”
“By telephone, if I understand you. It was some few years ago. He said he would like to help our school. I mentioned to him that there was a dance coming up.”
“How many years ago?”
“Four or five. Just before he sponsored that first dance of his.”
“Had you ever met him before that first telephone call?”
“No, I had not.”
“Again, have you had any contact with Robert Gjoeb since he went to prison?”
“None.”
“Or since he escaped?”
“No.”
“What else did you talk about when he told you he was going to prison?”
“I thanked him. I thanked him for what he’d done. Maybe it seemed to him like a small thing. But small things count a lot.”
“You thanked him.”
“I wished him well.”
“You may have wished to visit him?”
“I told him specifically that I would not be visiting.”
“Why not?”
“Because I did not wish to.”
“Did he ever discuss his circumstances with you? What he did for a living, for example? Where he lived?”
“He did say he had received some money from an inheritance. He was single. He wanted to do something useful for children. I believe he lived in the country near Bojana, in the mountains. It seems odd but I don’t really know much more about him that that, to tell the truth, but that he drove a very nice car. And that he was always well dressed and polite. He had a slight accent. He was from Hungary, did you know?”
“What kind of car?”
“The latest kind. A grey sports car the last time I saw him. It was brand new. I’m sorry. I’m not really a car person.”
“You’re saying, over the years, he changed cars?”
“Yes he did.”
Zdravko took a breath. “And so I imagine he turned up to all these folk dances he was sponsoring?”
“Not all, no. Some.”
“And what kind of expenses are involved in such a dance?”
“Nothing huge. Prizes. Food and drinks. Help with the costumes. I think that’s about it. Sometimes transport. Oh, and musicians. But not always.”
“Prizes,” said Zdravko in a whisper.
The headmistress seemed satisfied.
“Prizes,” Rusim said gazing at a notebook. He looked up, as though waiting for the next line.
“What kind of prizes?” continued Zdravko.
“What kind of prizes?” Mrs Brenner repeated. “Well, the first would be flowers. Or a bouquet of leaves from the forest. A handkerchief. A book even.”
“Do you remember the prizes of that night?”
“I’m not sure. We have a dance of some kind every so many… we have a lot of dances.”
“Try to think back.”
“I think it was flowers. After that… there were always a lot of prizes. Something for everyone. It could have been anything. A pot of honey.”
“Do you have a record of those who won prizes?”
“I believe not. Gentlemen. Jars of honey. Books. Handkerchiefs. Is there something more you wish to know?”
“These dances were always held here at the school?” said Zdravko as if rounding things off.
“Yes. No. Sometimes we held them in the country.”
“The country,” Zdravko repeated.
“Yes, this one, detective. In the country.”
“As in a camping trip?”
“You’ve got it in one.”
“Where exactly?”
“It’s different. It’s not often. We have a good number of people and parents who direct us here and there. There is a rigorous process as to where we might take a camping trip. But usually we need a small hall of some kind. And preferably a river.”
“Not up in the mountains near Bojana, by any chance?”
“No, detective, if I take your meaning.”
“And how old are the children attending, usually?”
“You know that yourself, detective.”
“Principal Brenner. You have been of great help.”
“Mr Gjoeb was… Robert Gjoeb is a good man,” said Mrs Brenner standing. “You are looking for the wrong… I don’t know how to say it. Good luck, gentlemen. Better to find a good man if a ratbag is who you’re looking for.”
“Good men don’t usually go to jail,” said Zdravko, himself standing. “Just one last thing, Principal Brenner. Did Robert Gjoeb have any friends or acquaintances that you were aware of? I mean, someone not from the school? Anyone at all?”
“No one I’ve ever met.”
“Have you ever met Gjoeb any place outside the school functions?”
“No. Never. Only on the telephone.”
“The telephone,” Zdravko repeated. “Did he ever give you to know where he was calling from?”
“I assume from his home or office.”
“But he never said?”
“No.”
“Principal Brenner, I realise this may be going a little too far but I have to be sure. Were there background noises of any kind that you could hear when you were on the phone to Mr. Gjoeb?”
“I don’t think so, no. I couldn’t say I remember anything like that.”
Principal Brenner showed Zdravko and Rusim to the door and the two detectives walked back the way they’d come through the coded corridors.
“You forgot to ask about the photographs on the wall,” said Rusim.