stap. "No capital outlay needed. The income is small, but in our case, valuable." By two o'clock of the second day of their journey, Ippolit Matveyevich had performed his first dance for the aerial passengers, under the supervision of the smooth operator. The dance was rather like a mazurka; the passengers, drunk with the exotic beauty of the Caucasus, took it for a native lezginka and rewarded him with three five-kopek bits. The next vehicle, which was a bus going from Tiflis to Vladikavkaz, was entertained by the smooth operator himself. "Give me money! Give money," he shouted angrily. The amused passengers richly rewarded his capering about, and Ostap collected thirty kopeks from the dusty road. But the Sioni children showered their competitors with stones, and, fleeing from the onslaught, the travellers made off at the double for the next village, where they spent their earnings on cheese and local flat bread. The concessionaires passed their days in this way. They spent the nights in mountain-dwellers' huts. On the fourth day they went down the hairpin bends of the road and arrived in the Kaishaur valley. The sun was shining brightly, and the partners, who had been frozen to the marrow in the Cross gap, soon warmed up their bones again. The Daryal cliffs, the gloom and the chill of the gap gave way to the greenery and luxury of a very deep valley. The companions passed above the Aragva river and went down into the valley, settled by people and teeming with cattle and food. There it was possible to scrounge something, earn, or simply steal. It was the Transcaucasus. The heartened concessionaires increased their pace. In Passanaur, in that hot and thriving settlement with two hotels and several taverns, the friends cadged some bread and lay down under the bushes opposite the Hotel France, with its garden and two chained-up bear cubs. They relaxed in the warmth, enjoying the tasty bread and a well-earned rest. Their rest, however, was soon disturbed by the tooting of a car horn, the slither of tyres on the flinty road, and cries of merriment. The friends peeped out. Three identical new cars were driving up to the Hotel France in line. The cars stopped without any noise. Out of the first one jumped Persidsky; he was followed by Life-and-the-Law smoothing down his dusty hair. Out of the other cars tumbled the members of the Lathe automobile club. "A halt," cried Persidsky. "Waiter, fifteen shishkebabs!" The sleepy figures staggered into the Hotel France, and there came the bleating of a ram being dragged into the kitchen by the hind legs. "Do you recognize that young fellow?" asked Ostap. "He's the reporter from the Scriabin, one of those who criticized our transparent. They've certainly arrived in style. What's it all about?" Ostap approached the kebab guzzlers and bowed to Persidsky in the most elegant fashion. "Bonjour!" said the reporter. "Where have I seen you before, dear friend? Aha! I remember. The artist from the Scriabin, aren't you?" Ostap put his hand to his heart and bowed politely. "Wait a moment, wait a moment," continued Persidsky, who had a reporter's retentive memory. "Wasn't it you who was knocked down by a carthorse in Sverdlov Square? " "That's right. And as you so neatly expressed it, I also suffered slight shock." "What are you doing here? Working as an artist?" "No, I'm on a sightseeing trip." "On foot?" "Yes, on foot. The experts say a car trip along the Georgian Military Highway is simply ridiculous." "Not always ridiculous, my dear fellow, not always. For instance, our trip isn't exactly ridiculous. We have our own cars; I stress, our own cars, collectively owned. A direct link between Moscow and Tiflis. Petrol hardly costs anything. Comfort and speed. Soft springs. Europe!" "How did you come by it all?" asked Ostap enviously. "Did you win a hundred thousand? " "Not a hundred, but we won fifty." "Gambling?" "With a bond belonging to the automobile club." "I see," said Ostap, "and with the money you bought the cars." "That's right." "I see. Maybe you need a manager? I know a young man. He doesn't drink." "What sort of manager?" "Well, you know . . . general management, business advice, instruction with visual aids by the complex method. . ." "I see what you mean. No, we don't need a manager." "You don't?" "Unfortunately not. Nor an artist." "In that case let me have ten roubles." "Avdotyin," said Persidsky, "kindly give this citizen ten roubles on my account. I don't need a receipt. This person is unaccountable." "That's extraordinarily little," observed Ostap, "but I'll accept it. I realize the great difficulty of your position. Naturally, if you had won a hundred thousand, you might have loaned me a whole five roubles. But you won only fifty thousand roubles, zero kopeks. In any case, many thanks." Bender politely raised his hat. Persidsky politely raised his hat. Bender bowed most courteously. Persidsky replied with a most courteous bow. Bender waved his hand in farewell. Persidsky, sitting at the wheel, did the same. Persidsky drove off in his splendid car into the glittering distances in the company of his gay friends, while the smooth operator was left on the dusty road with his fool of a partner. "Did you see that swank? " "The Transcaucasian car service, or the private 'Motor' company? " asked Ippolit Matveyevich in a businesslike way; he was now thoroughly acquainted with all types of transportation on the road. "I was just about to do a dance for them." "You'll soon be completely dotty, my poor friend. How could it be the Transcaucasian car service? Those people have won fifty thousand roubles, Pussy. You saw yourself how happy they were and how much of that mechanical junk they had bought. When we find our money, we'll spend it more sensibly, won't we?" And imagining what they would buy when they became rich, the friends left Passanaur. Ippolit Matveyevich vividly saw himself buying some new socks and travellirig abroad. Ostap's visions were more ambitious. Something between damming the Blue Nile and opening a gaming-house in Riga with branches in the other Baltic states. The travellers reached Mtskhet, the ancient capital of Georgia, on the third day, before lunch. Here the Kura river turned towards Tiflis. In the evening they passed the Zerno-Avchal hydro-electric station. The glass, water and electricity all shone with different-coloured light. It was reflected and scattered by the fast-flowing Kura. It was there the concessionaires made friends with a peasant who gave them a lift into Tiflis in his cart; they arrived at 11 p.m., that very hour when the cool of the evening summons into the streets the citizens of the Georgian capital, limp after their sultry day. "Not a bad little town," remarked Ostap, as they came out into Rustavelli Boulevard. "You know, Pussy. . ." Without finishing what he was saying, Ostap suddenly darted after a citizen, caught him up after ten paces, and began an animated conversation with him. Then he quickly returned and poked Ippolit Matveyevich in the side. "Do you know who that is?" he whispered. "It's Citizen Kislarsky of the Odessa Roll-Moscow Bun. Let's go and see him. However paradoxical it seems, you are now the master-mind and father of Russian democracy again. Don't forget to puff out your cheeks and wiggle your moustache. It's grown quite a bit, by the way. A hell of a piece of good luck. If he isn't good for fifty roubles, you can spit in my eye. Come on!" And indeed, a short distance away from the concessionaires stood Kislarsky in a tussore-silk suit and a boater; he was a milky blue colour with fright. "I think you know each other," whispered Ostap. "This is the gentleman close to the Emperor, the master-mind and father of Russian democracy. Don't pay attention to his suit; that's part of our security measures. Take us somewhere right away. We've got to have a talk." Kislarsky, who had come to the Caucasus to recover from his gruelling experiences in Stargorod, was completely crushed. Burbling something about a recession in the roll-bun trade, Kislarsky set his old friend in a carriage with silver-plated spokes and footboards and drove them to Mount David. They went up to the top of the restaurant mountain by cable-car. Tiflis slowly disappeared into the depths in a thousand lights. The conspirators were ascending to the very stars. At the restaurant the tables were set up on a lawn. A Caucasian band made a dull drumming noise, and a little girl did a dance between the tables of her own accord, watched happily by her parents. "Order something," suggested Bender. The experienced Kislarsky ordered wine, salad, and Georgian cheese. "And something to eat," said Ostap. "If you only knew, dear Mr. Kislarsky, the things that Ippolit Matveyevich and I have had to suffer, you'd be amazed at our courage." There he goes again, thought Kislarsky in dismay. Now my troubles will start all over again. Why didn't I go to the Crimea? I definitely wanted to go to the Crimea, and Henrietta advised me to go, too. But he ordered two shishkebabs without a murmur, and turned his unctuous face towards Ostap. "Here's the point," said Ostap, looking around and lowering his voice. "They've been following us for two months and will probably ambush us tomorrow at the secret meeting-place. We may have to shoot our way out." Kislarsky's cheeks turned the colour of lead. "Under the circumstances," continued Ostap, "we're glad to meet a loyal patriot." "Mmm .. . yes," said Ippolit Matveyevich proudly, remembering the hungry ardour with which he had danced the lezginka not far from Sioni. "Yes," whispered Ostap, "we're hoping-with your aid-to defeat the enemy. I'll give you a pistol." "There's no need," said Kislarsky firmly. The next moment it was made clear that the chairman of the stock-exchange committee would not have the opportunity of taking part in the coming battle. He regretted it very much. He was not familiar with warfare, and it was just for this reason that he had been elected chairman of the stock-exchange committee. He was very much disappointed, but was prepared to offer financial assistance to save the life of the father of Russian democracy (he was himself an Octobrist). "You're a true friend of society," said Ostap triumphantly, washing down the spicy kebab with sweetish Kipiani wine. "Fifty can save the master-mind." "Won't twenty save the master-mind?" asked Kislarsky dolefully. Ostap could not restrain himself and kicked Ippolit Matveyevich under the table in delight. "I consider that haggling," said Ippolit Matveyevich, "is somewhat out of place here." He immediately received a kick on the thigh which meant- Well done, Pussy, that's the stuff! It was the first time in his life that Kislarsky had heard the master-mind's voice. He was so overcome that he immediately handed over fifty roubles. Then he paid the bill and, leaving the friends at the table, departed with the excuse that he had a headache. Half an hour later he dispatched a telegram to his wife in Stargorod: GOING TO CRIMEA AS YOU ADVISED STOP PREPARE BASKET JUST IN CASE The many privations which Ostap had suffered demanded immediate compensation. That evening the smooth operator drank himself into a stupor and practically fell out of the cable-car on the way back to the hotel. The next day he realized a long-cherished dream and bought a heavenly grey polka-dot suit. It was hot wearing it, but he nevertheless did so, sweating profusely. In the Tif-Co-Op men's shop, Vorobyaninov was bought a white pique" suit and a yachting cap with the gold insignia of some unknown yacht club. In this attire Ippolit Matveyevich looked like an amateur admiral in the merchant navy. His figure straightened up and his gait became firmer. "Ah," said Bender, "first rate! If I were a girl, I'd give a handsome he-man like you an eight per cent reduction off my usual price. My, we can certainly get around like this. Do you know how to get around, Pussy? " "Comrade Bender," Vorobyaninov kept saying, "what about the chairs? We've got to find out what happened to the theatre." "Hoho," retorted Ostap, dancing with a chair in a large Moorish-style room in the Hotel Orient. "Don't tell me how to live. I'm now evil. I have money, but I'm magnanimous. I'll give you twenty roubles and three days to loot the city. I'm like Suvorov. . . . Loot the city, Pussy! Enjoy yourself!" And swaying his hips, Ostap sang in quick time: "The evening bells, the evening bells, How many thoughts they bring. . . ." The friends caroused wildly for a whole week. Vorobyaninov's naval uniform became covered with apple-sized wine spots of different colours; on Ostap's suit the stains suffused into one large rainbow-like apple. "Hi!" said Ostap on the eighth morning, so hung-over that he was reading the newspaper Dawn of the East. "Listen, you drunken sot, to what clever people are writing in the press! Listen! THEATRE NEWS The Moscow Columbus Theatre left yesterday, Sept. 3, for a tour of Yalta, having completed its stay in Tiflis. The theatre is planning to remain in the Crimea until the opening of the winter season in Moscow.'" "What did I tell you!" said Vorobyaninov. "What did you tell me!" snapped back Ostap. He was nevertheless embarrassed. The careless mistake was very unpleasant. Instead of ending the treasure hunt in Tiflis, they now had to move on to the Crimean peninsula. Ostap immediately set to work. Tickets were bought to Batumi and second-class-berths reserved on the S.S. Pestel leaving Batumi for Odessa at 11 p.m. Moscow time on September 7. On the night of September 10, as the Pestel turned out to sea and set sail for Yalta without calling at Anapa on account of the gale, Ippolit Matveyevich had a dream. He dreamed he was standing in his admiral's uniform on the balcony of his house in Stargorod, while the crowd gathered below waited for him to do something. A large crane deposited a black-spotted pig at his feet. Tikhon the caretaker appeared and, grabbing the pig by the hind legs, said: "Durn it. Does the Nymph really provide tassels?" Ippolit Matveyevich found a dagger in his hand. He stuck it into the pig's side, and jewels came pouring out of the large wound and rolled on to the cement floor. They jumped about and clattered more and more loudly. The noise finally became unbearable and terrifying, Ippolit Matveyevich was wakened by the sound of waves dashing against the porthole. They reached Yalta in calm weather on an enervating sunny morning. Having recovered from his seasickness, the marshal was standing at the prow near the ship's bell with its embossed Old Slavonic lettering. Gay Yalta had lined up its tiny stalls and floating restaurants along the shore. On the quayside there were waiting carriages with velvet-covered seats and linen awnings, motor-cars and buses belonging to the "Krymkurso" and "Crimean Driver" societies. Brick-coloured girls twirled parasols and waved kerchiefs. The friends were the first to go ashore, on to the scorching embankment. At the sight of the concessionaires, a citizen in a tussore-silk suit dived out of the crowd of people meeting the ship and idle onlookers and began walking quickly towards the exit to the dockyard. But too late. The smooth operator's eagle eye had quickly recognized the silken citizen. "Wait a moment, Vorobyaninov," cried Ostap. And he raced off at such a pace that he caught up the silken citizen about ten feet from the exit. He returned instantly with a hundred roubles. "He wouldn't give me any more. Anyway, I didn't insist; otherwise he won't be able to get home." And indeed, at that very moment Kislarsky was fleeing in a bus for Sebastopol, and from there went home to Stargorod by third class. The concessionaires spent the whole day in the hotel sitting naked on the floor and every few moments running under the shower in the bathroom. But the water there was like warm weak tea. They could not escape from the heat. It felt as though Yalta was just about to melt and flow into the sea. Towards eight that evening the partners struggled into their red-hot shoes, cursing all the chairs in the world, and went to the theatre. The Marriage was being shown. Exhausted by the heat, Stepan almost fell over while standing on his hands. Agafya ran along the wire, holding the parasol marked "I want Podkolesin" in her dripping hands. All she really wanted at that moment was a drink of ice water. The audience was thirsty, too. For this reason and perhaps also because the sight of Stepan gorging a pan of hot fried eggs was revolting, the performance did not go over. The concessionaires were satisfied as soon as they saw that their chair, together with three new rococo armchairs, was safe. Hiding in one of the boxes, they patiently waited for the end of the performance; it dragged on interminably. Then, finally, the audience left and the actors hurried away to try to cool off. The theatre was empty except for the shareholders in the concession. Every living thing had hurried out into the street where fresh rain was, at last, falling fast. "Follow me, Pussy," ordered Ostap. "Just in case, we're provincials who couldn't find the exit." They made their way on to the stage and, striking matches, though they still collided with the hydraulic press, searched the whole stage. The smooth operator ran up a staircase into the props room. "Up here! "he called. Waving his arms, Vorobyaninov raced upstairs. "Do you see?" said Ostap, lighting a match. Through the darkness showed the corner of a Hambs chair and part of the parasol with the word "want". "There it is! There is our past, present and future. Light a match, Pussy, and I'll open it up." Ostap dug into his pockets for the tools. "Right," he said, reaching towards the chair. "Another match, marshal." The match flared up, and then a strange thing happened. The chair gave a jump and suddenly, before the very eyes of the amazed concessionaires, disappeared through the floor. "Mama!" cried Vorobyaninov, and went flying over to the wall, although he had not the least desire to do so. The window-panes came out with a crash and the parasol with the words "I want Podkolesin" flew out of the window, towards the sea. Ostap lay on the floor, pinned down by sheets of cardboard. It was fourteen minutes past midnight. This was the first shock of the great Crimean earthquake of 1927. A severe earthquake, wreaking untold disaster throughout the peninsula, had plucked the treasure from the hands of the concessionaires. "Comrade Bender, what's happening?" cried Ippolit Matveyevich in terror. Ostap was beside himself. The earthquake had blocked his path. It was the only time it had happened in his entire, extensive practice. "What is it?" screech Vorobyaninov. Screaming, ringing, and trampling feet could be heard from the street. "We've got to get outside immediately before the wall caves in on us. Quick! Give me your hand, softie." They raced to the door. To their surprise, the Hambs chair was lying on its back, undamaged, at the exit from the stage to the street. Growling like a dog, Ippolit Matveyevich seized it in a death-grip. "Give me the pliers," he shouted to Bender. "Don't be a stupid fool," gasped Ostap. "The ceiling is about to collapse, and you stand there going out of your mind! Let's get out quickly." "The pliers," snarled the crazed Vorobyaninov. "To hell with you. Perish here with your chair, then. I value my life, if you don't." With these words Ostap ran for the door. Ippolit Matveyevich picked up the chair with a snarl and ran after him. Hardly had they reached the middle of the street when the ground heaved sickeningly under their feet; tiles came off the roof of the theatre, and the spot where the concessionakes had just been standing was strewn with the remains of the hydraulic press. "Right, give me the chair now," said Bender coldly. "You're tired of holding it, I see." "I won't!" screeched Ippolit Matveyevich. "What's this? Mutiny aboard? Give me the chair, do you hear?" "It's my chair," clucked Vorobyaninov, drowning the weeping, shouting and crashing on all sides., "In that case, here's your reward, you old goat!" And Ostap hit Vorobyaninov on the neck with his bronze fist. At that moment a fire engine hurtled down the street and in the lights of its headlamps Ippolit Matveyevich glimpsed such a terrifying expression on Ostap's face that he instantly obeyed and gave up the chair. "That's better," said Ostap, regaining his breath. "The mutiny has been suppressed. Now, take the chair and follow me. You are responsible for the state of the chair. The chair must be preserved even if there are ten earthquakes. Do you understand?" "Yes." The whole night the concessionaires wandered about with the panic-stricken crowds, unable to decide, like everyone else, whether or not to enter the abandoned buildings, and expecting new shocks. At dawn, when the terror had died down somewhat, Ostap selected a spot near which there was no wall likely to collapse, or people likely to interfere, and set about opening the chair. The results of the autopsy staggered both of them-there was nothing in the chair. The effect of the ordeal of the night and morning was 'too much for Ippolit Matveyevich; he burst into a vicious, high-pitched cackle. Immediately after this came the third shock. The ground heaved and swallowed up the Hambs chair; its flowered pattern smiled at the sun that was rising in a dusty sky. Ippolit Matveyevich went down on all fours and, turning his haggard face to the dark purple disc of the sun, began howling. The smooth operator fainted as he listened to him. When he regained consciousness, he saw beside him Vorobyaninov's lilac-stubble chin. Vorobyaninov was unconscious. "At last," said Ostap, like a patient recovering from typhus, "we have a dead certainty. The last chair [at the word "chair", Ippolit Matveyevich stirred] may have vanished into the goods yard of October Station, but has by no means been swallowed up by the ground. What's wrong? The hearing is continued." Bricks came crashing down nearby. A ship's siren gave a protracted wail. CHAPTER FORTY THE TREASURE On a rainy day in October, Ippolit Matveyevich, in his silver star-spangled waistcoat and without a jacket, was working busily in Ivanopulo's room. He was working at the windowsill, since there still was no table in the room. The smooth operator had been commissioned to paint a large number of address plates for various housing co-operatives. The stencilling of the plates had been passed on to Vorobyaninov, while Ostap, for almost the whole of the month since their return to Moscow, had cruised round the area of the October Station looking with incredible avidity for clues to the last chair, which undoubtedly contained Madame Petukhov's jewels. Wrinkling his brow, Ippolit Matveyevich stencilled away at the iron plates. During the six months of the jewel race he had lost certain of his habits. At night Ippolit Matveyevich dreamed about mountain ridges adorned with weird transparents, Iznurenkov, who hovered in front of him, shaking his brown thighs, boats that capsized, people who drowned, bricks falling out of the sky, and ground that heaved and poured smoke into his eyes. Ostap had not observed the change in Vorobyaninov, for he was with him every day. Ippolit Matveyevich, however, had changed in a remarkable way. Even his gait was different; the expression of his eyes had become wild and his long moustache was no longer parallel to the earth's surface, but drooped almost vertically, like that of an aged cat. He had also altered inwardly. He had developed determination and cruelty, which were traits of character unknown to him before. Three episodes had gradually brought out these streaks in him: the miraculous escape from the hard fists of the Vasyuki enthusiasts, his debut in the field of begging in the Flower Garden at Pyatigorsk, and, finally, the earthquake, since which Ippolit Matveyevich had become somewhat unhinged and harboured a secret loathing for his partner. Ippolit Matveyevich had recently been seized by the strongest suspicions. He was afraid that Ostap would open the chair without him and make off with the treasure, abandoning him to his own fate. He did not dare voice these suspicions, knowing Ostap's strong arm and iron will. But each day, as he sat at the window scraping off surplus paint with an old, jagged razor, Ippolit Matveyevich wondered. Every day he feared that Ostap would not come back and that he, a former marshal of the nobility, would die of starvation under some wet Moscow wall. Ostap nevertheless returned each evening, though he never brought any good news. His energy and good spirits were inexhaustible. Hope never deserted him for a moment. There was a sound of running footsteps in the corridor and someone crashed into the cabinet; the plywood door flew open with the ease of a page turned by the wind, and in the doorway stood the smooth operator. His clothes were soaked, and his cheeks glowed like apples. He was panting. "Ippolit Matveyevich!" he shouted. "Ippolit Matveyevich!" Vorobyaninov was startled. Never before had the technical adviser called him by his first two names. Then he cottoned on. . . . "It's there?" he gasped. "You're dead right, it's there, Pussy. Damn you." "Don't shout. Everyone will hear." "That's right, they might hear," whispered Ostap. "It's there, Pussy, and if you want, I can show it to you right away. It's in the railway-workers' club, a new one. It was opened yesterday. How did I find it? Was it child's play? It was singularly difficult. A stroke of genius, brilliantly carried through to the end. An ancient adventure. In a word, first rate!" Without waiting for Ippolit Matveyevich to pull on his jacket, Ostap ran to the corridor. Vorobyaninov joined him on the landing. Excitedly shooting questions at one another, they both hurried along the wet streets to Kalanchev Square. They did not even think of taking a tram. "You're dressed like a navvy," said Ostap jubilantly. "Who goes about like that, Pussy? You should have starched underwear, silk socks, and, of course, a top hat. There's something noble about your face. Tell me, were you really a marshal of the nobility?" Pointing out the chair, which was standing in the chess-room, and looked a perfectly normal Hambs chair, although it contained such untold wealth, Ostap pulled Ippolit Matveyevich into the corridor. There was no one about. Ostap went up to a window that had not yet been sealed for the winter and drew back the bolts on both sets of frames. "Through this window," he said, "we can easily get into the club at any time of the night. Remember, Pussy, the third window from the front entrance." For a while longer the friends wandered about the club, pretending to be railway-union representatives, and were more and more amazed by the splendid halls and rooms. "If I had played the match in Vasyuki," said Ostap, "sitting on a chair like this, I wouldn't have lost a single game. My enthusiasm would have prevented it. Anyway, let's go, old man. I have twenty-five roubles. We ought to have a glass of beer and relax before our nocturnal visitation. The idea of beer doesn't shock you, does it, marshal? No harm. Tomorrow you can lap up champagne in unlimited quantities." By the time they emerged from the beer-hall, Bender was thoroughly enjoying himself and made taunting remarks at the passers-by. He embraced the slightly tipsy Ippolit Matveyevich round the shoulders and said lovingly: "You're an extremely nice old man, Pussy, but I'm not going to give you more than ten per cent. Honestly, I'm not. What would you want with all that money? " "What do you mean, what would I want?" Ippolit Matveyevich seethed with rage. Ostap laughed heartily and rubbed his cheek against his partner's wet sleeve. "Well, what would you buy, Pussy? You haven't any imagination. Honestly, fifteen thousand is more than enough for you. You'll soon die, you're so old. You don't need any money at all. You know, Pussy, I don't think I'll give you anything. I don't want to spoil you. I'll take you on as a secretary, Pussy my lad. What do you say? Forty roubles a month and all your grub. You get work clothes, tips, and national health. Well, is it a deal?" Ippolit Matveyevich tore his arm free and quickly walked ahead. Jokes like that exasperated him. Ostap caught him up at the entrance to the little pink house. "Are you really mad at me?" asked Ostap. "I was only joking. You'll get your three per cent. Honestly, three per cent is all you need, Pussy." Ippolit Matveyevich sullenly entered the room. "Well, Pussy, take three per cent." Ostap was having fun. "Come on, take three. Anyone else would. You don't have any rooms to rent. It's a blessing Ivanopulo has gone to Tver for a whole year. Anyway, come and be my valet. . . an easy job." Seeing that Ippolit Matveyevich could not be baited, Ostap yawned sweetly, stretched himself, almost touching the ceiling as he filled his broad chest with air, and said: "Well, friend, make your pockets ready. We'll go to the club just before dawn. That's the best time. The watchmen are asleep, having sweet dreams, for which they get fired without severance pay. In the meantime, chum, I advise you to have a nap." Ostap stretched himself out on the three chairs, acquired from different corners of Moscow, and said, as he dozed off: "Or my valet . . . a decent salary. No, I was joking. . . . The hearing's continued. Things are moving, gentlemen of the jury." Those were the smooth operator's last words. He fell into a deep, refreshing sleep, untroubled by dreams. Ippolit Matveyevich went out into the street. He was full of desperation and cold fury. The moon hopped about among the banks of cloud. The wet railings of the houses glistened greasily. In the street the flickering gas lamps were encircled by halos of moisture. A drunk was being thrown out of the Eagle beer-hall. He began bawling. Ippolit Matveyevich frowned and went back inside. His one wish was to finish the whole business as soon as possible. He went back into the room, looked grimly at the sleeping Ostap, wiped his pince-nez and took up the razor from the window sill. There were still some dried scales of oil paint on its jagged edge. He put the razor in his pocket, walked past Ostap again, without looking at him, but listening to his breathing, and then went out into the corridor. It was dark and sleepy out there. Everyone had evidently gone to bed. In the pitch darkness of the corridor Ippolit Matveyevich suddenly smiled in the most evil way, and felt the skin creep on his forehead. To test this new sensation he smiled again. He suddenly remembered a boy at school who had been able to move his ears. Ippolit Matveyevich went as far as the stairs and listened carefully. There was no one there. From the street came the drumming of a carthorse's hooves, intentionally loud and clear as though someone was counting on an abacus. As stealthily as a cat, the marshal went back into the room, removed twenty-five roubles and the pair of pliers from Ostap's jacket hanging on the back of a chair, put on his own yachting cap, and again listened intently. Ostap was sleeping quietly. His nose and lungs were working perfectly, smoothly inhaling and exhaling air. A brawny arm hung down to the floor. Conscious of the second-long pulses in his temple, Ippolit Matveyevich slowly rolled up his right sleeve above the elbow and bound a wafer-patterned towel around his bare arm; he stepped back to the door, took the razor out of his pocket, and gauging the position of the furniture in the room turned the switch. The light went out, but the room was still lit by a bluish aquarium-like light from the street lamps. "So much the better," whispered Ippolit Matveyevich. He approached the back of the chair and, drawing back his hand with the razor, plunged the blade slantways into Ostap's throat, pulled it out, and jumped backward towards the wall. The smooth operator gave a gurgle like a kitchen sink sucking down the last water. Ippolit Matveyevich managed to avoid being splashed with blood. Wiping the wall with his jacket, he stole towards the blue door, and for a brief moment looked back at Ostap. His body had arched twice and slumped against the backs of the chairs. The light from the street moved across a black puddle forming on the floor. What is that puddle? wondered Vorobyaninov. Oh, yes, it's blood. Comrade Bender is dead. He unwound the slightly stained towel, threw it aside, carefully put the razor on the floor, and left, closing the door quietly. Finding himself in the street, Vorobyaninov scowled and, muttering "The jewels are all mine, not just six per cent," went off to Kalanchev Square. He stopped at the third window from the front entrance to the railway club. The mirrorlike windows of the new club shone pearl-grey in the approaching dawn. Through the damp air came the muffled voices of goods trains. Ippolit Matveyevich nimbly scrambled on to the ledge, pushed the frames, and silently dropped into the corridor. Finding his way without difficulty through the grey pre-dawn halls of the club, he reached the chess-room and went over to the chair, bumping his head on a portrait of Lasker hanging on the wall. He was in no hurry. There was no point in it. No one was after him. Grossmeister Bender was asleep for ever in the little pink house. Ippolit Matveyevich sat down on the floor, gripped the chair between his sinewy legs, and with the coolness of a dentist, began extracting the tacks, not missing a single one. His work was complete at the sixty-second tack. The English chintz and canvas lay loosely on top of the stuffing. He had only to lift them to see the caskets, boxes, and cases containing the precious stones. Straight into a car, thought Ippolit Matveyevich, who had learned the facts of life from the smooth operator, then to the station, and on to the Polish frontier. For a small gem they should get me across, then . . . And desiring to find out as soon as possible what would happen then, Ippolit Matveyevich pulled away the covering from the chair. Before his eyes were springs, beautiful English springs, and stuffing, wonderful pre-war stuffing, the like of which you never see nowadays. But there was nothing else in the chair. Ippolit Matveyevich mechanically turned the chair inside out and sat for a whole hour clutching it between his legs and repeating in a dull voice: "Why isn't there anything there? It can't be right. It can't be." It was almost light when Vorobyaninov, leaving everything as it was in the chess-room and forgetting the pliers and his yachting cap with the gold insignia of a non-existent yacht club, crawled tired, heavy and unobserved through the window into the street. "It can't be right," he kept repeating, having walked a block away. "It can't be right." Then he returned to the club and began wandering up and down by the large windows, mouthing the words: "It can't be right. It can't be." From time to time he let out a shriek and seized hold of his head, wet from the morning mist. Remembering the events of that night, he shook his dishevelled grey hair. The excitement of the jewels was too much for him; he had withered in five minutes. "There's all kinds come here!" said a voice by his ear, He saw in front of him a watchman in canvas work-clothes and poor quality boots. He was very old and evidently friendly. "They keep comin'," said the old man politely, tired of his nocturnal solitude. "And you, comrade, are interested. That's right. Our club's kind of unusual." Ippolit Matveyevich looked ruefully at the red-cheeked old man. "Yes, sir," said the old man, "a very unusual club; there ain't another like it." "And what's so unusual about it?" asked Ippolit Matveyevich, trying to gather his wits. The little old man beamed at Vorobyaninov. The story of the unusual club seemed to please him, and he liked to retell it. "Well, it's like this," began the old man, "I've been a watchman here for more'n ten years, and nothing like that ever happened. Listen, soldier boy! Well, there used to be a club here, you know the one, for workers in the first transportation division. I used to be the watchman. A no-good club it was. They heated and heated and couldn't do anythin'. Then Comrade Krasilnikov comes to me and asks, 'Where's all that firewood goin'?' Did he think I was eatin' it or somethin"? Comrade Krasilnikov had a job with that club, he did. They asked for five years' credit for a new club, but I don't know what became of it. They didn't allow the credit. Then, in the spring, Comrade Krasilnikov bought a new chair for the stage, a good soft'n." With his whole body close to the watchman's, Ippolit Matveyevich listened. He was only half conscious, as the watchman, cackling with laughter, told how he had once clambered on to the chair to put in a new bulb and missed his footing. "I slipped off the chair and the coverin' was torn off. So I look round and see bits of glass and beads on a string come pouring out." "Beads?" repeated Ippolit Matveyevich. "Beads!" hooted the old man with delight. "And I look, soldier boy, and there are all sorts of little boxes. I didn't touch 'em. I went straight to Comrade Krasilnikov and reported it. And that's what I told the committee afterwards. I didn't touch the boxes, I didn't. And a good thing I didn't, soldier boy. Because jewellery was found in 'em, hidden by the bourgeois. . . ." "Where are the jewels?" cried the marshal. "Where, where?" the watchman imitated him. "Here they are, soldier boy, use your imagination! Here they are." "Where?" "Here they are!" cried the ruddy-faced old man, enjoying the effect. "Wipe your eyes. The club was built with them, soldier boy. You see? It's the club. Central heating, draughts with timing-clocks, a buffet, theatre; you aren't allowed inside in your galoshes." Ippolit Matveyevich stiffened and, without moving, ran his eyes over the ledges. So that was where it was. Madame Petukhov's treasure. There. All of it. A hundred and fifty thousand roubles, zero zero kopeks, as Ostap Suleiman Bertha Maria Bender used to say. The jewels had turned into a solid frontage of glass and ferroconcrete floors. Cool gymnasiums had been made from the pearls. The diamond diadem had become a theatre-auditorium with a revolving stage; the ruby pendants had grown into chandeliers; the serpent bracelets had been transformed into a beautiful library, and the clasp had metamorphosed into a creche, a glider workshop, a chess and billiards room. The treasures remained; it had been preserved and had even grown. It could be touched with the hand, though not taken away. It had gone into the service of new people. Ippolit Matveyevich felt the granite facing. The coldness of the stone penetrated deep into his heart. And he gave a cry. It was an insane, impassioned wild cry-the cry of a vixen shot through the body-it flew into the centre of the square, streaked under the bridge, and, rebuffed everywhere by the sounds of the waking city, began fading and died away in a moment. A marvellous autumn morning slipped from the wet roof-tops into the Moscow streets. The city set off on its daily routine. ______________________________________ ILYA ARNOLDOVICH ILF (1897-1937) and YEVGENII PETROVICH KATAYEV (1903-1942) The writers who used the pen names "Ilf" and "Petrov" were natives of Odessa. Ilf, born into a poor Jewish family named Fainzilberg, worked as a machine-shop assembler, bookkeeper, and stable manager before becoming a journalist. He began as a humorist in 1919, at the height of the civil war. Not long afterward he joined the staff of the Train Whistle in Moscow, forming his partnership with Petrov, another staff member. Still another member of the Train Whistle was Petrov's brother, the famous novelist Valeritin Katayev. Subsequently Ilf and Petrov joined Pravda, winning an audience of millions for their satires " against bureaucratism written under the pen names of Tolstoyevsky and the Chill Philosopher. They wrote film scenarios as well as The Little Golden Calf and The Twelve Chairs. In 1936 the two made a 10,000-mile motor tour through the United States collecting material for their book One-Storey-High America. Ilf died of tuberculosis in 1937 in Moscow, where his body was cremated. Petrov edited several humorous periodicals, as well as the popular Little Flame, a weekly which contributed toward making the U.S.A. and Great Britain better understood by the Russians. During World War II he was a correspondent at the front, and was killed at his post in 1942 during the defence of Sebastopol. Concerning the official Soviet attitude toward Ilf and Petrov, Bernard Guilbert Guerney has said: "The most painstaking research shows no indication that these two satirists ever received as much as a slap on the wrist throughout their careers." [See An Anthology of Russian Literature in the Soviet Period, edited by B. G. Guerney.]