Red Moth

The door to Pekkala’s office burst open

The door to Pekkala’s office burst open.

Pekkala was stooped over his desk studying a sketch he had made of the red moth painting before Kirov had taken it away to have the canvas X-rayed‚ along with the icon‚ which he planned to return to the museum. At first, Pekkala thought the major had returned, hopefully with news not only of the painting’s significance but also, perhaps, on the whereabouts of Polina Churikova. But his eyes narrowed with hostility when he saw who’d just stormed in.

It was a tall man with a black moustache and a pale, sweating forehead, who was dressed in the uniform of a high-ranking government official.

‘Bakhturin,’ muttered Pekkala.

‘People’s Commissar of the State Railways Bakhturin!’ He shook his fist at Pekkala. ‘Put some respect into your voice!’

‘I am not required to respect you,’ replied Pekkala, ‘and even if I was, I doubt you would find me convincing. Have you come about my visit to Semykin?’

‘As a matter of fact, yes, and to ask what you thought you were doing, speaking with a man whose sentence requires him to be kept in solitary confinement for the duration of his time in Lubyanka. That means no visitors. Not even you, Inspector!’

‘I was sorry to hear that the Wyspianski painting turned out to be a fake.’

‘Not a fake!’ snapped Bakhturin. ‘It was done in the style of Wyspianski, that is all.’

‘And was Wyspianski’s signature also done in the style of Wyspianski?’ asked Pekkala.

Bakhturin made a faint choking sound. ‘I spent a great deal of time and energy bringing that painting back from Poland and I brought it to Semykin because I’d heard he was the most reputable art dealer in Moscow. Is that so hard for you to understand?’

‘No,’ replied Pekkala, ‘but why is it so difficult for you to comprehend, Comrade Bakhturin, that the reason Semykin has such a good reputation is because he does not engage in the sale of paintings which are not authentic?’

Bakhturin began to pace back and forth, like a cat locked in a cage. ‘He could have kept his mouth shut. Instead of that, he practically announced in public that I was trying to cheat Minister Osipov.’

‘You mean you weren’t?’

‘I’m the one who was cheated! I didn’t know the painting wasn’t right.’

‘And when Semykin explained that to you. .’

‘By then it was too late! I had already borrowed money to pay for a dacha north of the city. I had to forfeit the contract. I lost a great deal of money thanks to that pompous art dealer.’

‘So you put him in prison.’

‘I could have done worse!’ bellowed Bakhturin. Then he paused for a moment, and when he spoke again, a sinister calm had entered his voice. ‘I did not come here to explain myself to you, Pekkala, only to advise you to keep your distance from Semykin. Remember what you saw in that prison cell today.’

Pekkala would never forget. More than the blood-dappled walls, or the ragged stumps of Semykin’s fingertips, or the choking sensation of confinement in that cell, it had been the look in Semykin’s eyes which bore witness to the full measure of Bakhturin’s cruelty. But Bakhturin had been wrong when he’d said that he could have done worse. For a man like Semykin, accustomed to spending his days surrounded by art, five years staring at the blank walls of a prison cell was worse than the deaths which Bakhturin’s other victims had suffered.

On his way out of the office, Bakhturin turned and aimed a finger at Pekkala. ‘You know what it means to be shut away in Lubyanka and you know it can happen to anyone. Anyone at all, Inspector.’

Pekkala managed to contain his irritation until Bakhturin had descended to the bottom of the stairs, before muttering a seemingly endless string of Finnish obscenities.