The Red Coffin

by Sam Eastland

  The reason he would never know was because he knew he would not live long enough to find out. They had already exiled him to Siberia once. They would not do the same again. There was no doubt in Pekkala’s mind that he would be shot against the wall of the Lubyanka prison, probably before the sun came up today. Suddenly, he realised that he had resigned himself to this a long time ago.

  Pekkala opened the door. He did not hesitate. They would only have kicked it down.

  But there was no squad of NKVD men, waiting to take him away. Instead, there was only Kirov. ‘Good evening, Inspector,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Or should I say good morning? I thought this time I’d come and visit you.’

  Before the expression could change on Kirov’s face, Pekkala’s fist swung out and knocked him in the head.

  As if executing part of a complicated dance, Kirov took one step sideways, then one step backward and finally sprawled on the pavement.

  A moment later, Kirov sat up, rubbing the side of his face. ‘What was that for?’ A thin thread of blood unravelled from his nose.

  Pekkala was just as surprised as Kirov by what had happened. ‘What are you doing here in the middle of the night?’ he demanded in a hoarse whisper.

  ‘Well, I’m sorry to have interrupted your sleep,’ Kirov replied, climbing to his feet, ‘but you told me …’

  ‘I don’t care about my sleep!’ snarled Pekkala. ‘You know what it means, coming to my door in the middle of the night!’

  ‘You mean you thought …’

  ‘Of course that’s what I thought!’

  ‘But Inspector, nobody’s going to arrest you!’

  ‘You don’t know that, Kirov,’ snapped Pekkala. ‘I’ve tried to teach you how dangerous our job can be, and it’s time you learned that we have as much to fear from those we’re working for as from those we’re working against. Now don’t just stand there. Come in!’

  Blotting his nose with a handkerchief, Kirov entered the building.

  ‘Do you know this is the first time I’ve seen your apartment? I never understood why you chose to live on this side of town.’

  ‘Hush!’ whispered Pekkala. ‘People are sleeping.’

  When they finally reached the apartment, Pekkala put water on to boil for tea, cooking it on a small gas Primus stove which he lit with a cigarette lighter. The blue gas flame flickered beneath the battered aluminium pot. He sat down on the end of his bed and pointed to the only chair in the room, inviting Kirov to sit. ‘Well, what have you come to tell me?’

  ‘What I came to tell you,’ replied Kirov, as he looked around the room with undisguised curiosity, ‘is that I have found Zalka. At least I think I have.’

  ‘Well, have you found him or haven’t you?’

  ‘I went to the address you gave me,’ explained Kirov. ‘He wasn’t there. He moved out months ago. The caretaker said Zalka had gone to work at the swimming pool near Bolotnia square.’

  ‘I didn’t know there was a swimming pool there.’

  ‘That’s the thing, Inspector. There isn’t one. There used to be. The pool was part of a large bathhouse which got closed down years ago. Then the building was taken over by the Institute of Clinical and Experimental Science.’

  ‘So the caretaker must have been wrong.’

  ‘Well, I put in a call to the Institute, just to be thorough. I asked if they had anyone named Zalka working there. The woman at the other end told me the names of all employees at the institute were classified and hung up on me. I tried calling them back but no one would answer the phone. But what would he be doing at a Medical Institute? He’s an engineer, not a doctor.’

  ‘We’ll find out first thing in the morning,’ said Pekkala.

  Kirov stood and began to pace around the room. ‘All right, Inspector, I give up. Why on earth are you living in this dump?’

  ‘Have you considered that perhaps I choose to spend my money on other things?’

  ‘Of course I’ve considered it, but I know you don’t spend it on clothes or food or anything else I can think of, so if it doesn’t go on rent, where does it go?’

  It was a while before Pekkala answered.

  In the silence, they could hear the rustle of water boiling in the pot.

  ‘The money goes to Paris,’ he said finally.

  ‘Paris?’ Kirov’s eyes narrowed. ‘You mean you’re sending your wages to Ilya?’

  Pekkala got up to make the tea.

  ‘How did you even find out where she lives?’.

  ‘That’s what I do,’ replied Pekkala. ‘I find people.’

  ‘But Ilya thinks you’re dead! As far as she knows, you’ve been dead for years.’

  ‘I realise that,’ muttered Pekkala.

  ‘So who does she think the money is coming from?’

  ‘The funds are channelled through a bank in Helsinki. She believes they are being provided through the will of the headmistress of the school where she taught.’

  ‘And what does the headmistress have to say about this?’

  ‘Nothing,’ replied Pekkala, as he sprinkled a pinch of black tea into the pot. ‘She was shot by Red Guards the day before I left Tsarskoye Selo.’

  ‘But why, Inspector? Ilya is married! She even has a child!’

  Pekkala crashed the pot down on to the stove. Hot tea splashed on his shirt. ‘Don’t you think I know that, Kirov? Don’t you realise I think about that all the time? But I do not love her out of hope. I do not love her out of possibility.’

  ‘Then what is driving you to this madness?’

  ‘I do not call it madness,’ said Pekkala, his voice barely above a whisper.

  ‘Well, I do!’ Kirov told him. ‘You might as well be throwing your money into the fire.’

  ‘It is mine to throw,’ replied Pekkala, ‘and I don’t care what she does with it.’ He set about brewing a fresh pot of tea.

  *

  The two men stood outside the Institute of Clinical and Experimental Science. The windows of this old bathhouse had been bricked up and the bricks painted the same pale yellow colour as the rest of the building.

  ‘Did you bring your gun this time?’ asked Pekkala.

  Kirov held open one flap of his coat, showing a pistol tucked into a shoulder holster.

  ‘Good,’ said Pekkala, ‘because you might need to use it today.’

  They had arrived at the Institute just after eight in the morning, only to find that it did not open until nine. In spite of the fact that the building was closed, they could hear noises inside. Kirov banged on the heavy wooden door, but no one answered. Eventually, they gave up and decided to wait.

  To pass the time, they ordered breakfast in a café across the road from the Institute. The café had only just opened. Most of the chairs were still upside-down on top of the tables.

  The waitress brought them hard-boiled eggs, black rye bread and slabs of ham, the edges still glistening with the salt used to cure the meat. They drank tea without milk from heavy white cups which had no handles.

  ‘Waiting for the Monster Shop to open up?’ asked the woman. She was tall and square-shouldered, with her hair pulled back in a knot and slightly arching eyebrows that gave her a look of critical appraisal.

  ‘The what?’ asked Kirov.

  The woman nodded towards the Institute.

  ‘Why do they call it that?’ asked Pekkala.

  ‘You’ll see for yourself if you go in there,’ said the woman as she headed back into the kitchen.

  ‘The Monster Shop,’ muttered Kirov. ‘What kind of a place deserves a name like that?’

  ‘I’d rather we didn’t find out on an empty stomach,’ replied Pekkala as he gathered up his knife and fork. ‘Now eat.’

  A few minutes later, Kirov set down his knife and fork loudly on the edges of his plate. ‘There you go again,’ he said.

  ‘Mmm?’ Pekkala looked up, mouth full.

  ‘You’re just … inhaling your food!’

  Pekkala swallowed. ‘What else am I supposed to do w
ith it?’

  ‘I’ve tried to educate you.’ Kirov sighed loudly. ‘But you just don’t seem to take any notice. I’ve seen the way you eat those meals I cook for you. I’ve tried being subtle.’

  Pekkala looked down at his plate. The food was almost gone. He was pleased with the job he had made of it. ‘What’s the problem, Kirov?’

  ‘The problem, Inspector, is that you don’t savour your food. You don’t appreciate the miracle,’ he picked up a boiled egg and held it up, ‘of nourishment.’

  ‘It’s not a Fabergé egg,’ said Pekkala. ‘It’s just a regular egg. And besides, what if someone hears you going on like that? You are a major of the NKVD. You have an image to uphold, which doesn’t include the loud and public adoration of your breakfast!’

  Kirov looked around. ‘What do you mean, “if someone hears me”? So what if they can hear me? What are they going to think – that I can’t shoot straight?’

  ‘All right,’ said Pekkala, ‘I admit I owe you an apology for that but …’

  ‘Forgive me for saying so, Inspector, but this talk about upholding an image – it’s no wonder you never get any women.’

  ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’

  ‘The fact that you are asking me this question …’ he paused, ‘is the answer to your question.’

  Pekkala wagged his fork at Kirov. ‘I’m going to eat my breakfast now, and you can just carry on being strange if you want. The miracle of nourishment!’ he spluttered.

  After their meal, they left the café and walked across the road to the Institute.

  Kirov tried to open the door but it was still locked. Once more, he pounded on it with his fist.

  Finally, the door opened just enough to let the head of an elderly woman appear. She had a big, square face and a blunt nose. A heavy, acrid smell, like sweat or ammonia, wafted out of the building. ‘This is a government institute!’ she told them. ‘It is not open to the public.’

  Kirov held out his NKVD pass book. ‘We are not the public.’

  ‘We are exempt from routine inspection,’ protested the woman.

  ‘This is not routine,’ said Pekkala.

  The door opened a little further, but the woman still blocked the entrance. ‘What is this about?’ she asked.

  ‘We are investigating a murder,’ said Pekkala.

  The colour ran out of her face, what little had been there to begin with. ‘Our cadavers are supplied to us by the Central Hospital! Every one of them is cleared before …’

  ‘Cadavers?’ interrupted Pekkala.

  Kirov winced. ‘Is that what the smell is?’

  ‘We are looking for a man named Zalka,’ continued Pekkala.

  ‘Lev Zalka?’ Her voice rose as she spoke his name. ‘Well, why didn’t you say so?’

  Finally, she allowed them to come in and they stepped into what had once been the main foyer of the bathhouse. Tiles covered the floors and huge pillars supported the roof. To Pekkala, it looked more like an ancient temple than a place where people went to swim.

  ‘I am Comrade Dr Dobriakova,’ said the woman, nodding at each man in turn. She wore a starched white jacket, like those worn by doctors in the state hospitals, and thick, flesh coloured tights which made her legs look like wet clay. She did not ask the men their names, but wasted no time ushering them down the long main corridor. In rooms leading off on either side, the two inspectors saw animals in cages – monkeys, cats and dogs. From those rooms came the odour they had smelled in the street – the sour reek of animals in captivity.

  ‘What happens to these animals?’ asked Kirov.

  ‘They are used for research,’ replied Dr Dobriakova, without turning around.

  ‘And afterwards?’ asked Pekkala.

  ‘There is no afterwards,’ replied the doctor.

  As she spoke, Pekkala glimpsed the pale hands of a chimpanzee gripping the bars of its prison.

  At the end of the corridor, they arrived at a door, painted cornflower blue, on which Pekkala could still read the word ‘Bath’, painted in yellow. Here, Dr Dobriakova turned and faced them. ‘It does not surprise me,’ she said in a low voice, ‘to learn that Comrade Zalka is involved in something illegal. I have always suspected him as a subversive. He is drunk most of the time.’ She breathed in, ready to say more, but paused when she saw the two men draw their guns. ‘Do you really think that’s necessary?’ she asked, staring at the weapons.

  ‘We hope not,’ replied Pekkala.

  The woman cleared her throat. ‘You should prepare yourself for what you see in here,’ she said.

  Before either of the men could ask why, Dr Dobriakova swung the door wide. ‘Come along!’ she ordered.

  They entered a high-roofed chamber, in the centre of which was a swimming pool. Above it, supported by pillars like the ones they had seen when they first walked in, was a balcony that overlooked the pool. The warm, damp air smelled musty, like dead leaves in the autumn.

  The water in the pool was almost black, not clear or glassy green, the way Pekkala had expected it to be. And in the middle of this pool was the head of a man, floating as if detached from its body.

  The head spoke. ‘I was wondering when you would show up.’ Then he held up a bottle and, with the other hand, twisted out a cork. As he did so, the bottle’s paper label, bearing the bright orange triangle of the State Vodka Monopoly, came unstuck from the glass and slithered back into the pool. The man took a long drink and smacked his lips with satisfaction.

  ‘Disgraceful!’ hissed Dr Dobriakova. ‘It’s not even lunchtime and you are already halfway through a bottle!’

  ‘Leave me alone, you freak of nature,’ said the man.

  ‘You must be Professor Zalka,’ said Pekkala.

  Zalka lifted the bottle in a toast. ‘And you must be the police.’

  ‘What are you doing in there?’ asked Kirov.

  At that moment, the blue door opened and a woman in a white nurse’s uniform walked in. She stopped, surprised to see two strangers in the bathhouse.

  ‘These men are from the government,’ explained Dr Dobriakova. ‘They are investigating a murder, in which this imbecile,’ she jabbed a finger towards Zalka, ‘has been involved!’

  ‘We merely want to speak with Professor Zalka,’ said Kirov.

  ‘You don’t look as if you came to talk,’ replied Zalka, nodding at the guns.

  Pekkala turned to Kirov. ‘I guess we can put these away.’

  The two men holstered their weapons.

  ‘Your time is up, Lev,’ said the nurse.

  ‘And I was just getting comfortable,’ he grumbled, as he made his way towards the edge of the pool.

  ‘Why is that pool so dark?’ asked Kirov.

  ‘The water is maintained with the correct balance of tannins for the research subjects.’

  Kirov blinked at her. ‘Subjects?’

  Zalka had reached the edge of the pool, where the water was only knee deep. At first glance, his pale and naked body appeared to be covered with dozens of gaping wounds. From these wounds oozed thin trickles of blood. It took a moment for Pekkala to realise that these wounds were actually leeches, which had attached to his body and hung in bloated tassels from his arms and legs. As he floated in the shallow water, Zalka began plucking the leeches from his skin and throwing them back into the centre of the pool. They landed with a splat and vanished into the murky liquid.

  ‘Careful!’ warned the nurse. ‘They are delicate creatures.’

  ‘You are a delicate creature,’ replied Zalka. ‘These,’ he snatched another leech from his chest and flung it into the pool, ‘are the inventions of the same twisted god that invented Dr Dobriakova.’

  ‘As I’ve told you many times already, Comrade Zalka,’ replied Dr Dobriakova, going red in the face, ‘leeches play a valuable role in medical science.’

  ‘So will you when they lay you out on an autopsy slab.’

  ‘I should dismiss you!’ shouted the doctor, rising up on the tips of her toes.
Her voice echoed around the pillars. ‘And if I could find anyone else who would do this work, I certainly would!’

  ‘But you won’t dismiss me,’ smirked Zalka, ‘because you can’t find anyone else.’

  Dr Dobriakova’s mouth was open, ready to carry on the fight, when Pekkala interrupted.

  ‘Professor Zalka,’ he said, ‘we have a serious matter to discuss with you.’

  ‘By all means,’ replied Zalka.

  Pekkala turned to see the nurse holding out a tangle of metal hoops and leather straps, which he realised was a leg brace.

  ‘That’s yours?’ asked Kirov.

  ‘Unfortunately, yes,’ replied Zalka. ‘The only time I don’t think about it is when I’m floating in this pool.’

  ‘How long have you worn a brace?’ asked Pekkala.

  ‘Since July 10th, 1914,’ replied Zalka. ‘So long ago that I can’t even remember what it feels like to walk without it.’

  Pekkala and Kirov looked at each other, realising that whoever they had chased through the forest on the day Nagorski died, it wasn’t Lev Zalka.

  ‘How do you remember the date so precisely?’ asked Pekkala.

  ‘Because the day I strapped on that contraption was exactly one month after a car lost control in the French Grand Prix, skidded off the track and right into the side of me.’

  ‘The 1914 Grand Prix,’ said Pekkala. ‘Nagorski won that race.’

  ‘Of course he did,’ replied Zalka. ‘I was his chief mechanic. I was standing at our pit stop when the car slammed into me.’

  Now Pekkala remembered that Nagorski had mentioned the accident in which his chief mechanic had been badly hurt.

  ‘If you wouldn’t mind helping,’ said Zalka, his arms still raised towards them.

  While Pekkala and Kirov supported him, the nurse handed Zalka a towel, which the crippled man wrapped around his waist. Then, with Zalka’s arms around their shoulders, they walked him to a chair. Once he was seated, the nurse gave him the brace, and he went through the process of strapping it to his left leg. Where the leather straps crossed over, the hair on Zalka’s leg had been worn away, leaving pale stripes in the flesh. The muscles of his withered thigh and calf were barely half the size of those on his right leg.