Not saying a word, Eino Saari approached the desk and signed each page of the report without even reading it. The pencil was trembling in his hand, his narrow jaw had dropped, and it was trembling too. Afterward he walked back to the stool, shuffling his feet, sat down limply, and said through gritted teeth, “I wish to emphasize once again, Mr. Investigator, that in providing my testimony . . .” His voice broke off and he gulped again. “In providing my testimony, I was aware that I was acting against my own interests . . . I could have made something up, I could have lied . . . I could easily not have become involved in the search at all—nobody knew that I had left to see Ella home.”
“This declaration of yours,” Andrei said in an indifferent voice, “is already included in the report. If you’re not guilty of anything, you are in no danger. You will now be shown to a detention cell. Take this sheet of paper and pencil. You can render assistance to the investigation, and yourself, by writing down, in as much detail as possible, who spoke to you about the Red Building, when they did so, and under what circumstances. Before or after Ella Stremberg’s disappearance, it doesn’t matter. In the greatest possible detail: who—the name and address; when—the precise date and time of day; under what circumstances—where, for what reason, for what purpose, in what tone. Do you understand me?”
Eino Saari nodded and said a soundless yes.
Looking intently into his eyes, Andrei went on. “I’m certain that you learned all the details about the Red Building somewhere else. Quite possibly you yourself have never even seen it. And I earnestly recommend that you remember who provided you with these details—who, when, under what circumstances. And for what purpose.”
He rang the bell for the duty guard, and the saxophonist was led away. Andrei rubbed his hands together, punched holes in the report of interrogation, added it to the case file, asked for hot tea, and called the next witness. He was feeling pleased with himself. Imagination and a knowledge of elementary geometry could come in useful after all. The mendacious Eino Saari had been exposed in keeping with all the laws of science.
The next witness, Matilda Husáková (sixty-two years of age, knitting work from home, a widow), was, at least in principle, a far simpler case. She was a powerfully built old woman with a small head that was covered with completely gray hair, ruddy cheeks, and cunning eyes. She didn’t look in the least bit sleepy or frightened; on the contrary, she seemed to be quite pleased with this adventure. She had turned up at the Prosecutor’s Office with her basket, balls of different-colored wool, and a selection of needles, and in the office she immediately perched on the stool, put on her eyeglasses, and started working away with her needles.
“It has come to the attention of the investigation, Pani Husáková, that some time ago, speaking among friends, you told the story of what had happened to a certain František, who supposedly entered the so-called Red Building, had various adventures there, and only escaped with some difficulty. Is that true?”
The aged Matilda laughed, deftly tugged out one needle and set in another, and answered without looking up from her knitting: “It is, that happened. I told people that story, and more than once, only I’d like to know how the investigation came to find out about it . . . I don’t believe I have any acquaintances among the judiciary.”
“I am obliged to inform you,” Andrei said in a confidential tone, “that at the present time an investigation is being conducted concerning the so-called Red Building, and we are extremely interested in contacting at least one person who has been inside this building . . .”
Matilda Husáková wasn’t listening to him. She put her knitting down on her knees and looked thoughtfully at the wall. “Who could have informed them?” she said. “Everyone at Liza’s place is reliable, unless Carmen let it slip somewhere afterward . . . that old blabbermouth . . . At Frieda’s place?” She shook her head. “No, it couldn’t be at Frieda’s place. There’s that individual who visits Liuba . . . a repulsive kind of old man, with really shifty eyes, and always letting Liuba buy his drinks . . . Now that’s something I never expected! And now it seems I’m supposed to figure out who it was and whose place it was at . . . Under the Germans we kept our lips buttoned up tight. After ’48 it was keep shtum again and keep an eye out. We only opened our mouths just a little bit in our golden spring—then bang, the Russians arrived in their tanks, shut your mouth again, mind your tongue . . . So I came here and it’s the same picture all over again—”
“Pardon me, Pani Husáková,” Andrei interrupted her. “But in my opinion you’re taking a perverse view of the situation. After all, as far as I understand, you haven’t committed any crime. We regard you only as a witness, someone who can help, who—”
“Eh, sweetheart! What kind of helpers are there in this business? The police is the police.”
“No, not at all!” said Andrei, pressing one hand to his heart for greater conviction. “We’re looking for a gang of criminals. They abduct people and all the indications are that they kill them. Someone who has been in their clutches could render invaluable service to the investigation!”
“Are you telling me, sweetheart . . .” said the old woman, “. . . are you telling me that you believe in this Red Building?”
“Why, don’t you believe in it?” asked Andrei, rather taken aback.
Before the old woman could even reply, the door of the office opened slightly, a hubbub of agitated voices burst in from the corridor, and a squat individual with a thick head of black hair appeared in the crack, shouting back into the corridor, “Yes, it’s urgent! I have to see him urgently!” Andrei frowned, but then the figure was dragged back out into the corridor and the door slammed shut.
“I’m sorry we were interrupted,” said Andrei. “I think you wanted to tell me that you yourself don’t believe in the Red Building?”
Still working away with her needles, aged Matilda shrugged one shoulder. “Well, what grown-up person could believe in that? This house, you see, it runs around from one place to another, inside it all the doors have teeth, you go up the stairs and you end up in the basement . . . Of course, anything can happen in these parts, the Experiment is the Experiment, but this is really over the top, after all . . . No, I don’t believe in it. Who do you take me for, to go believing in cock-and-bull stories like that? Of course, every city has buildings that swallow people up, and ours probably has some of its own too. But it’s hardly likely that those houses go running around from one place to another . . . and as I understand it, the stairs in them are perfectly normal.”
“I beg your pardon, Pani Husáková,” said Andrei. “But then why do you tell everyone these cock-and-bull stories?”
“Why not tell them, if people listen? People are bored with things, especially old folks like us.”
“So did you just make it up yourself?”
Aged Matilda opened her mouth to answer, but at that moment Andrei’s phone started trilling desperately right in his ear. Andrei cursed and grabbed the receiver. “Andrei. Sweetie pie . . .” Selma’s very drunk voice said in the earpiece. “I’ve locked. Them. All out. Locked. Them out. Why aren’t you coming?”
“Sorry,” said Andrei, chewing on his lip and squinting at the old woman. “I’m really busy right now, I’ll call you—”
“But that’s not what I want!” Selma declared. “I love you, I’m waiting for you. I’m all drunk and all naked, and waiting for you, I’m cold . . .”
“Selma,” Andrei said, speaking right into the receiver, lowering his voice. “Quit acting like a fool. I’m very busy.”
“You won’t find another girl like me anyway, not in this shshsh- . . . shithouse. I’ve curled right up tight in a ball . . . ab-solutely-ab-solutely . . . naked . . .”
“I’ll come in half an hour,” Andrei said hastily.
“You lit-tle fool! In ha- . . . half an hour I’ll be asleep already . . . Whoever takes half an hour?”
“OK then, Selma, see you in a while,” said Andrei, cursing the day and the
hour when he gave this dissipated female his office phone number.
“Well, you just go to hell!” Selma suddenly yelled, and hung up. She probably slammed the receiver down so hard that she smashed the phone into pieces. Gritting his teeth in fury, Andrei carefully put down his own receiver and sat there for a few seconds, not even daring to look up as his thoughts scattered in confusion. Then he cleared his throat.
“Well then,” he said. “Aha . . . So you told the stories just for the sake of it, out of boredom . . .” He finally recalled his last question. “So should I take you to mean by that, that you made up the entire story about František yourself?”
The old woman opened her mouth again to answer, but once again nothing came of it. The door swung open: the duty officer appeared in the doorway, saluted smartly, and reported, “I beg your pardon, Mr. Investigator! The witness Petrov is demanding that you question him immediately, because he has something to tell.”
Andrei’s eyes misted over darkly . . . He slammed both fists down on the desk and yelled so loud it set his own ears ringing: “Damn you, duty guard! Don’t you know the regulations? What do you mean by butting in here with your Petrov? Where do you think you are, in the bathroom at home? About turn, quick march!”
The duty guard disappeared in a flash. Andrei, feeling his lips trembling, poured himself some water from his carafe with trembling hands and drank it. His throat was raw after that wild bellow. He glanced sullenly at the old woman. Aged Matilda was still knitting away as if nothing at all had happened.
“I beg your pardon,” he mumbled.
“Never mind, young man,” Matilda reassured him. “I’m not offended by you. So, you asked if maybe I made it all up myself. No, sweetheart, I didn’t. How could I possibly think up something like that? Of all things—stairs that you walk up but end up going down . . . I could never imagine anything like that, not even in a dream. I told it the way I was told it.”
“And who exactly told it to you?”
Still carrying on with her knitting, the old woman shook her head. “Now that I can’t recall. A woman was telling people about it in a line somewhere. Supposedly this František was the son-in-law of some woman she knew. She was lying too, of course. Standing in line you can sometimes hear things they’ll never print in any newspapers.”
“And when was this, more or less?” Andrei asked, gradually recovering his composure and already annoyed with himself for charging head-on at things like a bull at a gate.
“About two months ago, probably . . . maybe three.”
Right, I’ve screwed up the interrogation, Andrei thought bitterly. Damn it, I’ve screwed up the interrogation because of that slut and that jackass guard. No, I won’t let that go—I’ll give that bonehead a real roasting. I’ll make him dance. He’ll be chasing lunatics through that chilly morning air . . . Right, OK, but now what do I do with the old woman? The old woman’s clammed up, hasn’t she, doesn’t want to name any names. “But are you sure, Pani Husáková, that you don’t remember that woman’s name?”
“I don’t, sweetheart, I don’t remember it at all,” aged Matilda responded cheerfully, working away deftly with her glittering needles.
“But perhaps your friends remember?”
The needles’ movement slowed a little.
“After all, you did tell them the name, right?” Andrei went on. “So it’s quite possible, isn’t it, that their memories might be slightly better?”
Matilda shrugged one shoulder again and said nothing. Andrei leaned back in his chair.
“Well, this is the situation in which you and I find ourselves, Pani Husáková. You have either forgotten the name of that woman or you simply don’t want to tell it to us. But your women friends do remember it. That means we’ll have to detain you here for a little while so that you can’t warn your friends, and we’ll be obliged to keep you here until either you or one of your friends remembers who you heard this story from.”
“That’s up to you,” Pani Husáková said meekly.
“That’s all well and good,” said Andrei. “But while you’re trying to remember and we’re wasting time on your friends, people will carry on disappearing, the bad guys will be chortling and rubbing their hands in glee, and all this will happen because of your strange prejudice against the investigative agencies.”
Aged Matilda didn’t answer. She just pursed her wrinkled lips stubbornly.
“You must understand what an absurd situation we have here,” Andrei continued, trying to hammer home the point. “Here we are, kept busy day and night by all sorts of slimeballs, lowlifes, and scum, and then an honest person comes in and absolutely refuses to help us. What are we supposed to make of that? It’s totally bizarre! And this childish trick of yours is pointless in any case. If you won’t remember, your friends will, and we’ll find out that woman’s name anyway, we’ll get to František, and he’ll help us take out the entire nest of villains. As long as the thugs don’t take him out first, as a dangerous witness . . . And if they do kill him, you’ll be the guilty one, Pani Husáková! Not in the eyes of the court, of course, not in the eyes of the law, but from the viewpoint of conscience, the viewpoint of humanity!”
Having invested this brief speech with the entire force of his conviction, Andrei languidly lit up a cigarette and began waiting, casting inconspicuous glances at the face of the clock. He set himself exactly three minutes to wait, and then, if the absurd old woman still didn’t cough up, he would send the old crone off to a cell, even though that would be completely illegal. But he had to push this damned case along somehow, didn’t he? How much time could he waste on every old woman? A night in a cell sometimes had a positively magical effect on people . . . And if there were any problems about him exceeding his authority . . . there wouldn’t be any, she wouldn’t complain, it didn’t look like she would . . . but if problems did come up anyway, the solicitor general was taking a personal interest in this case, wasn’t he, and it was a reasonable assumption that he wouldn’t hang Andrei out to dry. Well, let them hit me with a reprimand. I don’t work just to earn their gratitude, do I? Let them. Just as long as I can push this damned case on even a little bit . . . just a tiny little bit . . .
He smoked, politely wafting aside the clouds of smoke, the second hand ran cheerfully around the face of the clock, and Pani Husáková remained silent, merely clacking away quietly with her needles.
“Right,” said Andrei when four minutes had elapsed. He crushed his cigarette butt into the ashtray with a determined gesture. “I am obliged to detain you. For obstructing the course of the investigation. It’s entirely up to you, Pani Husáková, but to my mind this is some kind of puerile nonsense . . . Here, sign the record of interrogation and you’ll be escorted to a cell.”
After aged Matilda had been led away (she wished him goodnight as they parted), Andrei remembered that they still hadn’t brought him any hot tea. He stuck his head out into the corridor, reminded the duty guard of his obligations in harsh terms and at considerable length, and ordered him to bring in the witness Petrov.
The witness Petrov was so stocky that he was almost square, with hair as black as a crow—he looked like the classic gangster, a twenty-four-karat mafioso. He sat down firmly on the stool without saying a word and started watching sullenly as Andrei sipped his tea.
“What is it then, Petrov?” Andrei said to him good-naturedly. “You come bursting in here, creating havoc, preventing me from working, and now you don’t say anything . . .”
“What’s the point of talking to you spongers?” Petrov said spitefully. “You should have moved your ass sooner, it’s too late now.”
“And what’s happened that’s such an emergency?” Andrei inquired, turning a deaf ear to the “spongers” and all the rest.
“What’s happened is that while you were blabbing in here, sticking to your shitty regulations, I saw the Building!”
Andrei carefully put his spoon in his glass. “What building?” he asked.
 
; “You can’t possibly be serious!” said Petrov, instantly flying into a rage. “Are you joking around with me here? What building . . . the Red one. That Building. The bastard’s standing right there on Main Street, and people are walking into it, and here you are sipping on your tea . . . tormenting some silly old women—”
“Hang on now, hang on,” said Andrei, taking a map of the City out of the file. “Where did you see it? When?”
“It was just now, when they were driving me here . . . I tell the idiot, stop!—and he steps on the gas . . . I tell the duty guard here, get a police unit there, quick—and he dithers like a fart in a trance.”
“Where did you see it? At what spot?”
“You know the synagogue?”
“Yes,” said Andrei, finding the synagogue on the map.
“Well then, it’s between the synagogue and the movie theater—there’s this dingy dump down there.”
On the map there was a small square with a fountain and a children’s playground marked between the synagogue and the New Illusion movie theater. Andrei chewed on the end of his pencil. “When was it you saw it?” he asked.
“It was twelve twenty,” Petrov said morosely. “And now it’s probably almost one already. Don’t expect it to wait for you . . . Sometimes I’ve run there in fifteen or twenty minutes and it was gone already, so this time . . .” He gestured hopelessly.