The fog of scandal has descended upon the Dzhankoy district, revealing a horror that would make the boldest constable shudder. A man of presumed virtue—the director of the local House of Culture and a former councillor of the village—now sits in a cold cell, accused of a deed most foul.

It is whispered in the dark corners of the taverns and reported by the news-sheets that a child of but twelve years, a poor soul named Anna, met her end in a manner most peculiar and tragic. On the seventh of August, the lass arrived at the gentleman's residence upon her bicycle, seeking a sinister concoction: canisters of liquefied gas.

What followed was a scene of sheer desperation. The girl inhaled the noxious fumes, her senses fled, and she collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut. The master of the house, panicked by the sudden silence of the child, dragged her indoors, attempting in vain to rouse her from the grip of death.

But alas, the spark of life had vanished. Instead of summoning the surgeons or the local watch, the man succumbed to a coward's fear. He bore the lifeless body to the rear of his garden, dug a shallow pit in the damp earth, and buried the innocent child there, hoping the soil would keep his secret.

Fortune, however, is a fickle mistress. The detectives have closed in, and the man—who but recently sought the votes of the people for his seat on the council—now faces the grim judgment of the law. A tragedy of gas, greed, and a grave in the backyard.