Diaboliad

X DYRKIN THE DREAD

The mirrored cabin began to sink down, and two Korotkovs sank with it. The second Korotkov was forgotten in the mirror of the lift by the first and main one, who walked out alone into the cool vestibule. A very fat and pink gent in a top hat greeted Korotkov with the words:

«That's wonderful. I'm going to arrest you.»

«You can't do that,» Korotkov replied with a satanic laugh, «because nobody knows who I am. Of course not. You can't arrest me or marry me. And I'm not going to Poltava either.»

The fat man quaked with terror, looked into Korotkov's eyes and began to sink backwards.

«Arrest me,» Korotkov squealed and stuck out a pale quivering tongue smelling of Valerian drops at the fat man. «How can you arrest me if instead of documents I've got sweet fanny adams? Perhaps I'm a Hohenzollern.»

«Jesus Christ,» said the fat man, crossing himself with a trembling hand and turning from pink to yellow.

«Longjohn turned up?» Korotkov asked abruptly, looking round. «Answer me, Fatty.»

«Oh, no,» the fat man replied, his pink complexion changing to grey.

«Well, what shall I do now then? Eh?»

«Go and see Dyrkin himself,» the fat man babbled. «That's the best thing. Only he's a real terror! Don't get too close. He sent two people flying. And today he broke a phone.»

«Alright then,» Korotkov replied with a devil-may-care spit. «We've nothing to lose now. Lift me up!»

«Don't hurt your leg, Comrade Delegate,» said the fat man tenderly, helping Korotkov into the lift.

On the top landing was a little fellow of about sixteen who shouted menacingly:

«Where d'ya think you're going? Stop!»

«Don't hit us, old chap,» said the fat man, hunching up and covering his head with his hands. «To Dyrkin himself.»

«Go on then,» the little fellow shouted.

«You go, Your Excellency,» the fat man whispered. «I'll wait for you here on the bench. It's awfully scary…»

Korotkov went into a dark vestibule and from there into an empty hall with a threadbare blue carpet.

In front of a door with a notice saying «Dyrkin» Korotkov hesitated for a moment, then went in and found himself in a comfortably furnished room with a huge crimson table and a wall clock. A chubby little Dyrkin bounced out on a spring from behind the desk, bristled his moustache and barked:

«Be quiet!» although Korotkov had not said a word.

At that very moment a pallid youth with a briefcase appeared in the room. Dyrkin's face was instantly wreathed in smiling wrinkles.

«Ah!» he exclaimed ingratiatingly. «Artur Arturovich. Greetings, dear friend.»

«Now listen, Dyrkin,» the youth said in a metallic voice. «You wrote to Puzyryov that I'd set up my personal dictatorship in an old-age insurance office and pocketed the May benefits, didn't you? Eh? Answer me, you rotten bastard.»

«Me?» muttered Dyrkin, magically changing from Dyrkin the Dread into Dyrkin the Good Chap. «Me, Arthur Dictaturich… Of course, I… It's a lie…»

«You blackguard,» the youth said clearly. Shaking his head and brandishing his briefcase, he slapped the latter onto Dyrkin's pate, like a pancake on a plate.

Korotkov instinctively gasped and froze.

«It'll be the same for you, and any other smart alec who sticks his nose into my business,» the youth said menacingly and went out, shaking a red fist at Korotkov in parting.

For a moment or two there was silence in the room, broken only by the tinkling of the chandelier as a lorry rumbled by.

«There, young man,» said a nice and humiliated Dyrkin, with a bitter smile. «That's what you get for your pains. You deprive yourself of sleep, food and drink, and the result's always the same — a slap round the chops. Perhaps you've brought one too. Go on then. Give old Dyrkin a bashing. He's got a public property face. Perhaps your hand hurts, eh? Then use the chandelier, old chap.»

And Dyrkin proffered his chubby cheeks temptingly. In a daze, Korotkov gave a shy crooked smile, took the chandelier by the base and crunched the candles down on Dyrkin's head. Blood spurted onto the baize from the latter's nose and he rushed through an inner door shouting for help.

«Cuck-oo!» piped a forest cuckoo happily, hopping out of a little painted Nuremberg house on the wall.

«Ku-klux-klan!» it cried, turning into a bald head. «We'll tell them how you beat up public servants!»

Korotkov was seized by fury. He swung the chandelier and brought it down on the clock. It replied with thunder and showers of golden arrows. Longjohn hopped out of the clock, turned into a white cockerel with a notice saying «outgoing» and darted through the door. From behind the inner door Dyrkin howled: «Catch him, the rascal,» and heavy footsteps sounded on all sides. Korotkov turned and took to his heels.