He Lover of Death (38 page)

Senka’s lips started trembling, and the corners of his mouth crept down even lower than when he was just acting out insulted pride.

But the heartless Erast Petrovich said: ‘Wipe that l-lipstick off your mouth, it looks d-disgusting.’

As if Senka had put the lipstick on himself, just for a laugh!

He went off to get changed, stamping his feet angrily.

While Senka was gone he heard the telephone ring in the study, and when he went back a minute later – to tell Erast Petrovich a few home truths, straight out, no more pussyfooting around – the engineer wasn’t there.

Masa was off wandering somewhere too. Meanwhile the day was slipping unstoppably towards evening, and the darker it got outside, the gloomier Senka felt. What on earth would happen tonight?

To distract himself from his dark thoughts, Senka went out to the shed to polish the automobile, which was already shining brighter than the domes in the Kremlin. He wasn’t feeling angry now, just depressed.

Well, Erast Petrovich, as they say, may God grant you good luck and the record you’re dreaming of. Your three-wheeler is all set up in the finest possible fashion, don’t you worry on that score. You’ll remember your mechanic Semyon Spidorov with a grateful word more than once on the way. Maybe some day you’ll be smitten by a pang of conscience. Or at least a pang of regret. Though that’s hardly likely – who are we compared to you?

Just then there was a faint squeak from the louvres (they were kind of like cracks) in the engine cooler, and Senka froze. Was he hearing things? No, there it was again! But what could it be?’

He shone his torch into the engine. A little mouse had climbed inside!

Hadn’t he told Erast Petrovich the gaps should be smaller? It would be better if there were thirty-six of them, not twenty-four!

And now look! What if that little varmint gnawed through the fuel hose? What a shambles that would be!

While he took off the hood, drove the mouse away, disconnected the hose and connected it again (undamaged, thank God), night fell and Senka didn’t even notice. He went back into the house just as the clock struck twelve. The dirge echoed through the apartment and Senka suddenly found it hard to breathe. He felt so afraid and so homeless he could have howled like a stray dog.

Luckily Mr Nameless showed up soon after. Looking quite different from the way he was earlier on: not cheerful and contented now, but gloomy, even angry.

‘Why aren’t you ready? Have you f-forgotten you’re supposed to be playing Motya? P-Put on the wig, the skullcap and all the rest. I won’t m-make you up much, it’s dark in the b-basement. I’ll just g-glue on the nose.’

‘But it’s too early. We don’t have to be there till three,’ Senka said in a dismal voice.

Another urgent m-matter has come up and I have to d-deal with it. Let’s go on the M-Magic Carpet. It will be a f-final test before the race.’

Well, how about that? Senka had buffed it and polished it, and now all that work was all down the drain. Though one more trial run couldn’t do any harm ...

Senka put on his kike costume without any more fuss. It was better than being a mamselle.

Erast Petrovich put on a beautiful motoring suit: shiny leather, with squeaky yellow spats. What a lovely sight!

The engineer put his little revolver (it was called a ‘Herstal’, made to special order in the foreign city of Liège) in the pocket behind his back, and Senka’s heart skipped a beat. Would they live to see the start? God only knew.

‘You t-take the wheel,’ Mr Nameless ordered. ‘Show me what you c-can do.’

Senka put on a pair of goggles and squeezed his ears into his oversized skullcap so it wouldn’t fly off. At least he’d get a ride before it all ended!

‘To Samotechny B-Boulevard.’

They drove like the wind and were there in five minutes. Erast Petrovich got out at a small wooden house and rang the bell. Someone opened the door.

Of course, Senka couldn’t control his curiosity – he went to take a look at the copper plate hanging on the door. ‘F. F. Weltman, Pathological Anatomist, Dr of Medicine’. God only knew what a ‘pathological anatomist’ was, but ‘Dr’ meant ‘doctor’. Was someone ill, then? Not Masa, surely, Senka thought in alarm. Then he heard steps on the other side of the door and ran back to the machine.

The doctor was a puny little man, dishevelled and untidy, and he blinked all the time. He stared at Senka in fright and replied to his polite ‘good health to you’ with a shy nod.

‘Who’s this?’ Senka asked in a whisper when the titch climbed in.

‘Never m-mind,’ Erast Petrovich replied gloomily. ‘He’s someone from a completely d-different story, who has nothing to do with our j-job today. We’re going to Rozhdestvensky Boulevard. At the d-double!’

Well, once the motor starting roaring, there was no more conversation to be had.

The engineer told him to stop at the corner of a dark lane. ‘Stay in the c-car and don’t leave it.’

That went without saying. Everyone knew the kind of people who were out at that time of night. Before you could even blink, they’d have a nut or bolt unscrewed, for a fishing weight, or just out of plain mischief.

Senka put a spanner on the seat beside him – just let them try anything on.

He asked the doctor: ‘Is someone ill? Are you going to treat them?’

The doctor didn’t answer, but Mr Nameless said: ‘Yes. S-Surgical intervention is required.’

The pair of them walked over to a house with lit-up windows. They knocked and went in, and Senka was left on his tod.

He waited for a long time. Maybe a whole hour. First he sat there, worrying about seeing the Ghoul in Yeroshenko’s basement. Then he just felt bored. And towards the end he started fretting that they’d be late. A couple of times he thought he heard some kind of creaking noise in the house. God only knew what they were getting up to.

Erast Petrovich finally came out – alone and without his leather cap. When he came closer, Senka saw that Mr Nameless was not looking as neat and tidy as before: his jacket was torn at the shoulder and there was a scratch on his forehead. He licked his right hand –the knuckles were oozing blood!

‘What happened?’ Senka asked, alarmed. ‘And where’s the doc? Is he staying with the patient?’

‘Let’s g-go,’ the engineer barked. ‘Show me your skill. Here’s an exam f-for you: if you can get us to Khitrovka in t-ten minutes, I’ll take you on the run as m-my assistant.’

Senka pulled on the throttle even harder than that first time. The automobile shot forward and tore into the night, swaying on its steel springs.

The engineer’s assistant! To Paris! With Erast Petrovich!

Oh Lord, don’t let the motor stall or overheat! Don’t let a tyre crack on a big cobble! Don’t let the transmission come uncoupled! You can do everything, Lord!

At the corner of Myasnitskaya Street the motor sneezed and died. A blockage!

Senka was choking on his tears as he blew off the carburettor, and that took two minutes at least. That stroke of bad luck meant he didn’t make it in time.

‘Stop,’ said the engineer at the intersection of the boulevard and Pokrovka Street. He looked at his Breguet watch. ‘Twelve m-minutes and ten seconds.’

Senka hung his head in shame and sobbed, wiping away the snot with his ginger sidelocks. Ah, Fortune, what a low, mean bitch you are.

‘An excellent result,’ said Erast Petrovich. ‘And the c-carburettor was cleaned in record time. Congratulations. I was j-joking about the ten minutes, of course. I hope you will n-not refuse to accompany me to Paris as my assistant? You know yourself that Masa is n-not suited to play that p-particular role. He will ride behind us in a carriage, c-carrying the spare wheels and other parts.’

Unable to believe his luck, Senka babbled: ‘And the three of us will go? All the way to Paris?’

Mr Nameless thought for a moment. ‘Well, you s-see, Senya,’ he said, ‘probably one other individual will g-go with us.’ Then he paused and added quietly, rather uncertainly, ‘Perhaps even t-two ...’

Well, we know who one of them is, don’t we now,
Senka thought with a scowl. After all the fun and games Erast Petrovich had lined up for tonight, there’d be no way Death could stay in Moscow. But who could the other one be? Surely the sensei hadn’t decided to steal Fedora Nikitishna away from her husband?

Suddenly Senka felt sorry for the poor doorman Mikheich – how would he manage without his boiled fruit and his pies and Fedora’s sweet caresses? But he felt even sorrier for himself. It would be worse than the torments of hell to watch the engineer and Death settling into their love on the way to Paris. And it would be the last straw if that meant the record was never set!

Mr Nameless interrupted Senka’s musings when his Breguet jangled again.

‘Ten m-minutes to three. Time to b-begin the operation. I’m going to g-get the superintendent. I’ll leave the auto at the station –it will be s-safer there. And I’ll make sure that Solntsev only b-brings one assistant. And off you go, Senka, to Yeroshenko’s d-dosshouse, to the rendezvous. Lead the Ghoul through the underground p-passage, and don’t forget that you’re an idiot. Don’t say anything articulate, just b-bleat. There’ll be a critical moment when the P-Prince and Deadeye appear. If it looks as though things may t-turn nasty, the boy Motya can recover the g-gift of speech. Just say: “Silver – over there” and p-point. That will keep them busy at l-least until I arrive.’ The engineer pondered something for a moment and muttered under his breath. ‘It’s not g-good that I’ve been left without my Herstal, and there’s no t-time to get hold of another revolver ...’

‘But how can you go in there with those wolves with no pistol?’ Senka gasped. ‘You put it in your pocket, I saw you! Did you drop it somewhere, or what?’

‘That’s exactly what I d-did, dropped it . . . Never mind, we’ll m-manage without a revolver. The plan of operations d-does not require any shooting.’ Erast Petrovich smiled jauntily and flicked Senka’s false nose with his finger. ‘And n-now, my Jew, it’s up to you.’

HOW SENKA TRIED TO KEEP UP

Agh, he was so sick of this damned Yerokha – this rotten musty cellar smell, this pitch-black darkness, those muffled sounds coming from behind the doors of the ‘apertiments’ – even in the dead of night the people living underground were still squabbling, or fighting, or singing in their ugly voices, or crying. But as he went farther and farther along the damp corridors, into the bowels of the Yerokha, it got quieter and quieter, as if the earth itself had swallowed up all the sounds of human living, or
existence,
to use the scholarly term. And then the memories came flooding back, a hundred times worse than the stench of the basement and the raucous drunken bawling.

This was where the unknown killer had attacked Senka from behind, pulling his hair and almost breaking his neck – Senka’s hand reached up of its own accord to make the sign of the cross.

The Siniukhin family had lived behind that door there – he suddenly thought he could see them staring out of the darkness with their crimson holes of eyes. Brrrr . . .

Two more turns, and there was the hall with the columns, curse the godforsaken place. This was where all the trouble started.

This was the spot where Prokha had lain dead on the ground. Now he’d step out of the darkness, with his fingers spread wide, ready to grab. Ah-a-ah, he’d say, Speedy, you scum, I’ve been waiting for you for ages. It was your fault I met my death.

Senka dashed on quick to get as far away as he could from that bad place, glancing behind him – just to be on the safe side – and ready to cross himself if he saw
a phantasmagoria.

He should have looked where he was going instead.

He ran straight into something, only it wasn’t a column, because the supports holding up the ceiling were hard, made of bricks, and this thing he’d run into was springy and it grabbed Senka round the throat with its hands. Then it hissed: ‘Here at last, are you? Now, where’s this Yiddish treasure of yours?’

The Ghoul! He was here already, waiting in the darkness!

Senka bleated in fright.

‘Ah, yes, you’re dumb, aren’t you?’ The terrifying man breathed the words right into Senka’s face then let go of his throat. ‘Come on then, show me the way.’

He really had come alone! He didn’t want to share the riches with his comrades. Now that was real greed for you.

Senka bleated and gurgled a bit more, then led the milker to the corner behind the last column. He pulled out the stones, slipped through the hole and waved his hand: Follow me!

He walked as slowly as he could, even though the Ghoul had lit a lamp and he could have got to the treasure in five minutes. But what was the hurry? He’d only have to spend fifteen minutes billing and cooing with this
villainous malefactor,
until Death brought her own monsters, the Prince and Deadeye. And then . . . but it was better not to think about what would happen then.

Despite all Senka’s efforts to go slow and put the moment off, the passage finally led them to that exit lined with white stone. Another three steps, and they were at the secret chamber.

‘Gu, gu,’ said Senka, pointing to a heap of silver billets.

The Ghoul shoved him aside and went rushing forward. He darted this way and that across the cellar, holding the lamp up high. Shadows leapt across the walls and vaulted ceiling. The milker stopped by the door blocked with a heap of broken bricks and stones.

This way, is it?’

Senka was still skulking by the way in. He even wondered whether he ought to turn back, leg it and see what happened. But what was the point? He’d probably just run into the Prince.

‘Where’s the treasure?’ the monster asked, stepping right up close to Senka. ‘Eh? Treasure? Understand? Where’s the silver?’

‘Bu, bu,’ the boy Motya replied, shaking his head and waving his arms. To gain time, he said a whole speech like he was talking in tongues: ‘Ulyulyu, ga-ga khryaps, ardi-burdi gulyumba, surdikgurdik ogo! Ashma li bunugu? Karmanda! Shikos-vikos shimpopo, duru-buru goplyalya . . .’

The Ghoul listened to this gibberish then grabbed the halfwit by the shoulders and shook him. ‘Where’s the silver?’ he yelled. ‘There’s nothing here but trash and scrap iron! Have you pulled a fast one? I’ll slice off your ringlets and carve you into little pieces!’