Red Moth

People’s Commissar Bakhturin

People’s Commissar Bakhturin sat at his desk, blinking in astonishment at Major Kirov, who had just barged into his office.

The office consisted of a large corner room on the third floor of a building, which had, before the Revolution, been the home of Count Andronikov‚ the Tsar’s Minister of Agriculture. It had Persian carpets on the floor, paintings on the walls from Bakhturin’s personal collection and ornate pre-Revolution furniture imported from England and France. All of it had been requisitioned from special warehouses where the possessions of enemies of the State were stored until they could be redistributed among the people of the city. Some of the furnishings, such as a Chippendale oak chair and a desk from the workshop of the master carpenter Gustavus de Lisle, had also belonged to Count Andronikov. Having been confiscated, along with the building itself, they had subsequently found their way back to their original home, and were now set aside for the personal use of Commissar Bakhturin. Although the original plan was for such goods to be given out to anyone in good standing with the Communist Party and so dispersing the wealth of the former regime among the masses, it soon became apparent that only those with the right connections, like Viktor Bakhturin, would ever get their hands on luxuries such as these.

‘What on earth are you doing?’ demanded Bakhturin. ‘You can’t just walk in here!’

‘Where is your brother?’ asked Kirov. ‘He’s out of prison, isn’t he?’

‘He served his sentence. He didn’t escape, if that’s what you mean. He was released two weeks ago.’

‘I’m not asking where he was,’ said Kirov. ‘I want to know where he is now.’

Bakhturin hesitated. ‘As a matter of fact, I have no idea. He was supposed to have contacted me immediately after his release from Tulkino, but I never heard from him. He will show up eventually. He’s just enjoying his first few days of freedom before I put him back to work. What is this about, Major Kirov?’

‘A man was killed two nights ago, a friend of Inspector Pekkala’s.’

‘And you think my brother might have murdered a friend of the Inspector?’ Bakhturin sat back and shrugged. ‘Why would he want to do that?’

‘I believe that Pekkala might have been the real target, but the murderer shot the wrong man.’

‘Listen to me, Comrade Major. My brother may have been foolish enough to land himself in prison, but he’s not so stupid as to attempt the assassination of Stalin’s most valuable detective.’

‘Your brother owes you a debt.’

‘Yes, he does,’ agreed Bakhturin. ‘If it wasn’t for my help, Serge would never have graduated from primary school, let alone found a high-ranking job with the State Railways. But it was always my choice to help him. He never asked for favours, and I never wanted anything in return.’

‘Which makes the debt all the more difficult to repay, doesn’t it? You wanted Pekkala brought down. You made no secret of it.’

‘If I truly meant to kill Pekkala, I would find a better way of doing it than sending my own brother to carry out the task.’

‘And what if Serge decided to carry it out on his own? It was Pekkala, after all, who put him in prison.’

‘On his own?’ Bakhturin snorted. ‘Serge wouldn’t dare!’

‘And why not?’

‘Because then he would have to answer to me, as well as to you, and I can assure you that answering to me is the less attractive of those options for my brother!’

‘And the fact that you haven’t heard from Serge since he got out of prison is of no concern to you?’

Bakhturin stared into a corner of the room. ‘I will admit,’ he said quietly, ‘that this is not like him at all.’

‘Prison changes everyone.’

Bakhturin nodded. ‘The thought had crossed my mind.’

‘Then help me to find him,’ said Kirov. ‘Pekkala taught me that it is as important to exonerate an innocent man as it is to bring a guilty one to trial.’

For a while, Bakhturin remained lost in thought. Then he picked up a pencil and scribbled something down on a sheet of paper. Slowly, he rose to his feet and handed the paper to Kirov. ‘You might find him at this address, or at least someone who knows where he is. I would have gone there myself to find out, except he does not know I am aware of his interest in this place. And he would not want me to know. When you see my brother, Major Kirov, please do not tell him I sent you.’

‘Do you have any message for him?’

‘Yes,’ replied Bakhturin. ‘Tell him it’s time to come home.’