said.
“Mmm?” Pekkala looked up, his mouth full.
“You’re just … inhaling your food!”
Pekkala swallowed. “What else am I supposed to do with 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 savor your food. You don’t appreciate the miracle”—he picked up a boiled egg and held it up—“of nourishment.”
“It’s not a Faberge 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. “That’s 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 sputtered.
After their meal, they left the cafe 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 farther, but the woman still blocked the entrance. “What is this about?”
“We are investigating a murder,” said Pekkala.
The color 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 that smell is?”
“We are looking for a man named Zalka,” Pekkala said to the woman, ignoring Kirov.
“Lev Zalka?” Her voice rose as she spoke his name. “Well, why didn’t you say so?”
At last, 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 Doctor Dobriakova,” said the woman, nodding at them. She wore a starched white jacket, like those worn by doctors in the state hospitals, and thick, flesh-colored tights which made her legs look like wet clay. She did not ask them their names, but wasted no time before 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 odor 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 sunflower 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 could ask why, Dr. Dobriakova swung the door wide. “Come along!” she ordered them.
They entered a high-roofed chamber, in the center 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 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,” interposed 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 inspectors 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?” Kirov asked Dr. Dobriakova.
“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 realize that the 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 center of the pool. They landed with a splat and vanished into the murky liquid.
“Careful!” warned the nurse. “They are delicate creatures.”
“
“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.”
