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288 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1970
I stopped the car, got out and took off my sunglasses. Everything was exactly as Zgut had said it would be. The inn was two stories high, a yellowish-green color, with a mournful-looking sign hanging over the front porch that read, “The Dead Mountaineer’s Inn.” Deep spongy snowdrifts on either side of the porch bristled with different-colored skis – I counted seven of them, one with a boot still on it. Knobby dull icicles thick as your arm dangled off the roof. A pale face peered out of the rightmost window on the first floor, and now the front door opened and a bald, stocky man wearing a red fur vest over a dazzling nylon shirt appeared on the porch.
“Anything new?”
I nodded.
“Yes. A pistol. Only I didn’t find it – Lel did. Also, I’m an idiot.”
“Hm … Yes. Lel’s a smart dog. What kind of pistol?”
“An interesting one,” I said. “Professional … By the way, have you ever heard of a gun being loaded with silver bullets?”
The owner was quiet for a while, his jaw bulging.
“Your gun is loaded with silver bullets?” he said slowly.
I nodded.
“Hmm … well, I’ve read about it,” the owner said. “People load their weapons with silver bullets when they’re planning to shoot ghosts.”
“Hiç de değil,” diye itiraz ettim. “Birincisi, bütün bu girişimlerde mistifikasyondan başka herhangi bir amaç gözetilmiyor. İkincisi de köpek, otelde yabancı varmış gibi davranmıyor.”



”[f]or whatever reason, it appeared that the single fantastic version of the events that he [Snevar, the inn owner]’d offered was constantly being confirmed, while my [Glebsky’s] realistic ones were not”.
”’[…] but if we help escape, at least our consciences will be clean.’
‘Your conscience will be clean,’ I said. ‘But mine will be filthy. A police official would have directly helped criminals to get away.’”