Punishment of a hunter, p.8
Punishment of a Hunter, page 8
In the old days, before his arrest, he would have gone mad from all this “tomorrow”, from the suspense and not knowing. But prison had taught him to live in the moment and not to second-guess the future.
The furniture was all as he had left it. All that was different were the traces of sealing wax on the door jamb.
“Time to get to bed,” thought Zaitsev without much conviction. He pulled out a drawer. Then another. And another. All empty.
He tensed his muscles and tugged the chest of drawers away from the wall.
There was a gentle knock on the door.
“Pasha, it’s not locked.”
Pasha slipped in sideways. In her hands was a pile of bedding.
“What are you doing sitting in the dark?” she asked, surprised. She flicked on the switch. The economical carbon-filament lamp gave off a dirty, dim light. Pasha dropped the heap onto the mattress.
“What do I need that for?”
“So, then, will you head to the shops tomorrow? Stand in the queues? No, I know you, you’ll be off to work tomorrow at the crack of dawn, won’t you, what was I thinking?… Yes, well, I suppose we never know what fate has in store for us…”
Pasha was holding the corners of the sheet.
“So you’re out, then. That’s the main thing.”
“They don’t put innocent people behind bars,” parroted Zaitsev wearily. He felt his eyes drooping shut. But too much had happened in the day: images and thoughts danced about in his mind, and he knew he wouldn’t get to sleep right away. Here, in the warmth of the room, he felt like he was giving off a particularly heavy odour of prison.
“Absolutely,” Pasha readily agreed. “And then that weasel in the blue cap went and moved into your living space,” she added quickly, shaking out the sheet, which caught the air like a sail. Zaitsev noticed the smell of the iron.
Must have been this former tenant who had stored up the firewood, thought Zaitsev. He hoped Pasha would be on her way as soon as possible.
“We realized right away when he got it early this morning. Up the backside.”
“Arrested?” asked Zaitsev, amazed.
“God knows. Come on, you get out of the way. Go and sit yourself down instead of getting under my feet.”
Zaitsev walked over to the armchair. It let out its usual sigh beneath his weight. Pasha was tucking the edges of the sheet under the mattress.
“Give me the cash on pay day. No funny ideas—just because you’re out, don’t go thinking this is a hotel,” Pasha added sternly. She looked around. “Whose is the bundle? Yours?”
“Don’t know. The weasel’s, perhaps. Don’t touch it, Pasha. He might come back for it.”
“He didn’t seem to care when he laid his grubby mitts on your things.”
Pasha leant forward, her giant skirted rump jutting out, and quickly untied the knot. Pillows and a blanket. Pasha let out a cry of victory.
“See,” she said, punching the pillow, “that’s not your average hair-and-straw mix. Probably not even any feathers. Pure down!”
She began to shove the prized booty into a much washed and ironed, off-white pillowcase.
Zaitsev felt as though the armchair were sinking deeper and deeper. And Pasha’s voice was fading out somewhere above, and he was tumbling down to the bottom of a dark well, along with where the day had gone.
Snatches of his day flickered past. The ambulance with the red cross on the door. The corpses propped up in strange poses by their killer. Cold drips from the bushes as he pushed back branches in search of evidence. The staircase at the CID HQ like a piano keyboard… A swanky Packard, its polished flanks sparkling. Boots.
Someone was shaking him by the shoulder. Zaitsev opened his eyes. And instead of the wall of his cell, he saw Pasha. The day slotted into place again, like a brick in a wall.
“Ooh, would you look at those boots!” Pasha remarked. “Very fancy! The latest prison fashion, is it?”
Zaitsev stared at his boots. A matt sheen on the toes. They looked new. Good quality, pink leather. On a thick ribbed sole. They had to be foreign.
“Would you look at those boots,” he echoed.
II
From the island they had all gone back to Gorokhovaya Street for a meeting in the office. The fact that one of the victims turned out to be an American Communist, and a black one at that, had greatly complicated the matter.
“The global bourgeoisie are desperate for a scandal to shout about. Black people are targets in the Soviet Union, they’ll say, just like in America,” said Demov, looking at Nefyodov. He sat at an aloof distance: with the others, but also slightly apart.
A blue autumn evening leant in against the window. Damp, yellow leaves occasionally streamed past the glass. Under the table, Zaitsev tried to wriggle his feet: they were frozen numb in his sodden summer canvas shoes. They were filthy and soaked right through from tramping around on the grass at Yelagin Park.
Zaitsev scrutinized their faces. None of the men sitting in the office—not Demov, or Martynov, or Samoilov, or Serafimov—had expressed the slightest surprise when he appeared on the island. They didn’t ask anything later, either. Perhaps that was why their faces seemed a little unfamiliar. He had attributed it to those three months when the only people he saw were his cellmates, wardens and interrogators.
“I think the time of the crime is clear,” he said.
Puffs of smoke from four cigarettes crawled through the air. Zaitsev was still getting used to the simultaneous presence of Serafimov and Nefyodov. It still seemed like they ought to cancel each other out: plus one and minus one adding up to zero. But here they both were: Serafimov, as ruddy as ever, and Nefyodov, as anaemic as ever.
After a long day of work, the team sketched out the first, approximate picture of the crime.
“Rigor mortis hadn’t set in, the medics say. So the murders were less than twenty-four hours ago.”
“Did the nightwatchman have anything to show you? When was his last round of the park?”
“What could he have shown?” dismissed Martynov with a wave of his hand. “One watchman for the entire huge park. As good as none at all. The bodies could have lain there until dawn and no one would have seen them.”
Although the killer or killers hadn’t had much time, Zaitsev had been mistaken in assuming they would have left some tracks. They had left nothing.
The documents of the murdered women had disappeared along with their coats, shoes and handbags.
“But they left the American’s ID,” said Serafimov.
“Yeah, not much good to them, is it? Black face and a foreign name. Bit too obvious. So they chucked it.”
The other three victims were still unidentified.
“So far, the baby is our only clue,” said Zaitsev.
“Yeah, he’ll fill you in,” agreed Samoilov sarcastically, “in about three to four years.”
“He’s not a witness. He’s evidence,” continued Zaitsev, not put off.
“They’re all evidence,” agreed the experienced Demov.
“They look like whores. If they are, I doubt their relatives are going to rush out looking for them,” Zaitsev objected. “But I bet the baby’s mother’s already been round the whole city.”
“Unless one of the whores is the mother”—Samoilov spoke again from his armrest.
“Serafimov, go and ask the medical examiner.”
Serafimov nodded.
A duty officer appeared in the doorway.
“What?” snapped Zaitsev, riled at being interrupted. This set alarm bells ringing: duty officers usually called—they didn’t have time to stagger up the stairs.
“The car’s downstairs. Waiting.” The policeman was flustered. He clearly knew where Detective Zaitsev had been for the last three months. All expressions disappeared from the others’ faces.
“I don’t understand,” Zaitsev managed to utter calmly.
“For Comrades Zaitsev and Demov,” said the officer. Everyone stared at Zaitsev. Demov visibly turned pale. But he stood up smoothly.
“Well, if they’re waiting, let’s go then,” he said evenly, enunciating every word with impeccable Petersburg pronunciation. “Shall we?”
They left the office. But the corridor was empty. Apparently, the blue-caps hadn’t bothered coming upstairs, confident their victims wouldn’t escape from the CID building.
Demov slowed down ever so slightly. His lips had taken on a tinge of blue. Zaitsev’s heart was pounding. Behind them rustled the unsuspecting duty officer, unaware of the situation.
Or was he fully aware?
They stepped out of the building.
In the car’s black-lacquered flanks, Zaitsev saw two distorted reflections: his and Demov’s. The officer’s reflection floated behind them like a pale, flattened griddle cake.
“Packard. Seventh series,” said the policeman in a reverent tone, fondly adding, “American production. A shiny toy. When we’ve finished building Communism, comrades,” he carried on dreamily, “any worker will be able to head to the store and buy themselves a Packard like this. And our Soviet cars will be every bit their match!”
A portly driver in gaiters hopped out and opened the door. Out came the aroma of expensive, creaky leather. The driver’s expression was one of well-trained indifference.
“Are you going to be long?” came Kopteltsev’s disgruntled voice from within.
Zaitsev and Demov glanced questioningly at each other. They stared at the “toy”, which no ordinary Leningrad worker even dared dream of. They didn’t even have cars like this in OGPU.
These Packards were only found in the garages of the upper echelons of the Party.
III
The streets were dark. Some of the street lamps were lit, but only some, here and there. Trams rattled past, black figures hanging on the running boards; more people wanted to travel than could fit inside. Crowds were pouring into the cinemas’ well-lit jaws.
Zaitsev mused, ironically, that today was a day of getting to know the automotive capabilities of the Leningrad authorities, starting this morning with one of the OGPU’s Fords and ending now with one of the Packards of the Leningrad Soviet.
Kopteltsev didn’t say a word. His flabby cheeks trembled as the car shook on the bumpy road. Demov sat facing the window, grim-faced. People stared at their handsome car. As they turned onto Suvorovsky Prospekt, the driver several times pressed the horn to show off. The Packard roared like a stag. Demov shifted across the seat, away from the window. Without any thought, Zaitsev did the same.
The Packard slowed down in front of the gates of the Smolny. The driver flashed his pass at the window.
This was once the site of a private boarding school—what they used to call an “institute for noble maidens”. But that was nothing compared to how private and closely guarded the building was now. The officer at the checkpoint had a pistol of gleaming cold steel. The sentry had a rifle. This imperial-era palace was now home to the city administration.
The Packard swung round its elegant snout, rolled through the gates and steered a bold arc up to the main entrance. The black statue of Lenin seemed to have stepped out to receive his guests. His damp shoulders and head glistened. The building and the statue were illuminated by floodlights.
Another guard with a rifle. Zaitsev tried to guess from Demov’s face what he was thinking. He knew about the old days, after all; he could compare then and now. Zaitsev could see it, too; Leningrad’s rulers guarded themselves even more closely from the grateful masses than the nobility had guarded their daughters’ honour from romantic distractions back in the old imperial capital.
Demov stumbled out of the car to the right. Kopteltsev deftly rolled his rotund body out to the left.
Zaitsev jumped out next, slamming the door behind him. He wanted to catch Demov, who was already standing on the damp steps, looking at Lenin, who cast his giant shadow against the building. But as soon as Zaitsev approached him, he moved on.
Yet another unpleasant shock. Zaitsev didn’t quite know why he was surprised. But he no longer felt like talking.
The three of them now seemed to be playing a game of who could keep silent the longest.
In the warmth of the building, Zaitsev’s frozen feet quickly warmed up and started to throb with pain. His sodden shoes slurped at every step. The stout officer led them along raspberry-red carpets, past many doors, portraits of leaders, slogans and sentries, up the stairs to the desired floor.
All this was so surreal—especially when he considered that he had woken up that morning on his prison bunk, and spent the day on the idyllic Yelagin Island examining corpses—it was all so surreal that Zaitsev was no longer surprised at anything.
The officer nodded to the guard, who opened the door to the reception. He led Kopteltsev, Zaitsev and Demov past the secretary, who sat motionless, and into the office. Kopteltsev walked ahead—the leader of their small delegation.
Zaitsev looked intently at Kirov, the head of the party organization in Leningrad. His face was familiar from the portraits that hung from the tops of columns at rallies on holidays, and that peered out from the newspapers. Comrade Kirov rose from his desk to receive them.
“Good day, Comrade Kopteltsev.”
A smile spread across Kirov’s broad peasant face. In his convincingly well-planned scruffiness, he looked like the archetypal proletarian from the Putilov factory, who lived in a communal apartment or a workers’ dorm. If it weren’t for his wife’s ostentatious attire, famous throughout the city, people might fall for his masquerade.
“Comrade Demov, our experienced investigator,” said Kopteltsev, introducing the guests. “And this is Comrade Zaitsev, to whom this investigation has been assigned. He’s the one who’s answerable.”
Kirov shook their hands in turn.
“Don’t let me down, Comrade Zaitsev.”
“I won’t let you down,” Zaitsev promised, not really knowing what they were talking about.
“That’s the spirit. And you’re a Komsomolets?”
“Yes,” Kopteltsev answered for him.
Zaitsev quickly glanced around. There was nobody in the office besides them. Kirov had a reputation in Leningrad for being a great democrat. In his grey suit, coat and cap, he personally did the rounds of the factories and kept an eye on the shops, canteens and hospitals. A kind of Soviet Harun al-Rashid. This meeting was perhaps intended in the same vein.
Kirov jumped up from behind the table.
“Come with me,” he waved. And he sped around the office, narrowly missing a lady in a straight skirt bringing in a tray with a pot of steaming tea on it. Zaitsev’s nostrils caught the vanilla scent of the biscuits. His stomach convulsed. Kopteltsev behaved as always. Demov’s face was filled with the naive joy of an old man. Zaitsev knew him too well to be taken in: Demov wore an outward expression of tenderness, while behind the facade he lay in wait like a hunter, his keen senses at the ready.
Out of the corner of his eye, Zaitsev, out of habit, quickly scanned the mayor’s desk. He noticed a to-do list. A dense typewritten page covered in handwritten comments in ink: call, request, listen, answer. The handwriting was large. It was clear that Kirov needed glasses but was too embarrassed to wear them—a Soviet leader ought to have an eagle eye.
Kirov threw himself into city affairs with the same zealous attention to detail as Tsar Paul I did over a hundred years ago. In this same city where the tsar had come to a sticky end.
But Kirov was popular in Leningrad.
“You’re probably wondering why I asked Comrade Kopteltsev to invite you here?”
You don’t say, Zaitsev thought.
With a magician’s sweeping gesture, he pulled a velvet cloth from a low table.
“Ta-da!” he announced triumphantly. “Comrades! Take a look.”
On the table was a tiny model village: a “town in a snuffbox”.
“It is my great honour to present to you the Workers’ Park of Culture and Recreation!” declared Kirov.
Zaitsev and Demov were both surprised to see a miniature model of Yelagin Island.
IV
The minute trees and bushes looked like broccoli. The green lawns looked so soft you wanted to stroke them. Standing proud like a birthday cake was the old summer palace—once the not particularly beloved dacha of the imperial family and now a museum of the old way of life. The ponds gleamed like mirrors. Minuscule boats floated here and there, rowed by tiny workers, each skilfully crafted. On the tennis court, Lilliputian players held their racquets aloft. You could make out the bowl shape of the tiers of the summer theatre. Couples strolled along the paths. Mothers in colourful dresses stood tall as they pushed their perambulators. Zaitsev spotted a toddler’s toy doll. And looming over everything stood a Ferris wheel.
It seemed to Zaitsev that in a moment he would see the corpses from today, artfully sculpted from wax and inserted into the scene.
Kirov flicked a switch and the Ferris wheel began to spin slowly, the cabins swinging.
Demov took off his glasses and held them up to a detail that interested him—a familiar gesture.
“Well, actually…” he muttered, unable to restrain himself. But he thought better of it and exhaled, “Astonishing!”
Kirov again cracked out his Cheshire-cat smile.
“Here, where once parasites of the working classes walked, with all their ladies-in-waiting and bourgeoisie and whatnot, here the workers shall find their leisure! Ordinary townspeople! Soviet Komsomol members, pioneers and schoolchildren!”
And then he dropped his smile in an instant.
“Do you realize, Zaitsev, how much public attention is riveted on the park?” he asked, looking at Demov.
“What do you say, Demov?” he continued, turning to Zaitsev.
Neither took the liberty of speaking on behalf of the other. Both chose to give the impression of shocked silence.
“So, comrades, this anti-Soviet prank by the vile enemy must not be allowed to ruin the people’s celebrations,” declared Kirov, enthusiastically jutting out his chin and focusing slightly above their heads. “As I said to Comrade Kopteltsev earlier: our foe, the vermin, has constructed a provocation. And must be punished with the full severity of the law. But first, our police will hunt the enemy down.”
