Read Online The Beast in the Red Forest by Sam Eastland - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Sam Eastland
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trust them? he wondered. Or do only mad men think these thoughts?
Podolski’s shop smelled of polish, glue and leather. Rows of repaired boots, buffed to a mirror shine, stood on shelves awaiting their owners, while boots still in need of repair lay heaped upon the floor.
Podolski was a squat, broad-shouldered man, whose body looked as if it had been designed for lifting heavy objects. A pair of glasses hung on a greasy length of string around his tree-trunk neck. On his gnarled feet, he wore a pair of old sandals so thrashed by years of use and neglect that if a customer had brought them in, he would have refused to fix them.
‘I just fixed your boots!’ muttered Podolski, when he caught sight of Kirov. He sat on a block of wood which had been draped with a piece of old carpet, a hammer in one hand and an army boot grasped in the other. The boot was positioned upon a dingy iron frame which resembled the branches of a tree. The end of each branch had been formed into shapes like the bills of large ducks, each one corresponding to the size and type of shoe which Podolski was repairing. Clenched between Podolski’s teeth were half a dozen miniature wooden pegs, used for attaching a new leather sole. When he spoke, the pegs twitched in his lips as if they were the legs of some small creature trying to escape from his mouth.
‘I’m not here about my boots, Comrade Podolski,’ replied Kirov. ‘I’ve come because I need your help.’
Podolski paused, hammer raised. Then he turned his head to one side and spat out the pegs between his teeth. Lowering the hammer to his side, he allowed it to slip from his fingers. The heavy iron fell with a dull thump to the floor. ‘The last time someone asked me for my help, I ended up fighting at the front for two years. And that was in the last war! Don’t say you’re calling me up again!’
Ignoring Podolski’s outburst, Kirov handed him the piece of leather from the tobacco bag. ‘Do you recognise that symbol?’
Without taking his eyes from the blurred scar of the brand mark, Podolski slid his fingers down the string attached to his glasses and perched them on the end of his nose. ‘The numbers 243 are the date this leather was tanned. It means ‘the second work quarter of 1943’, so somewhere around June or July of this year. But the symbol,’ he clicked his tongue, ‘isn’t one I’ve ever seen before. There are thousands of those symbols and they all look more or less the same. Trying to isolate just one of them would be like carrying water with a sieve.’
‘That’s what I was afraid of.’ Already, Kirov regretted having left the comfort of his office.
‘You’d have to go through the whole book,’ said Podolski.
‘A book?’ asked Kirov. ‘There’s a book of these symbols?’
‘A big book, but it would take hours to go through.’
‘Where can I find it?’ Kirov snapped impatiently.
With a groan, Podolski rose to his feet and made his way over to the window of his shop. ‘I’ve got it here somewhere.’
‘Find it, Podolski! This could be very important.’
‘Patience, Major. Patience.’ He paused to scratch the ear of his cat. ‘You should be like my friend here. He’s never in a hurry.’
‘I don’t have time to be patient!’ replied Kirov.
Podolski lifted up a thick volume crammed with pulpy grey pages. ‘Then good luck to you, Major,’ he said as he tossed the book to Kirov, ‘because you’ll find thousands of those little brands in there.’
The volume thumped against Kirov’s chest, almost knocking the wind out of him.
‘It’s probably in there somewhere,’ continued Podolski, making his way back to the wooden block. Thoughtfully, he rearranged the piece of carpet before sitting down again. ‘Unless it’s not a Soviet brand, in which case, you are completely out of luck. Either way, I wouldn’t know. I’ve never even looked in it.’
Kirov looked around for a chair, but there wasn’t one, so he lowered himself
Podolski’s shop smelled of polish, glue and leather. Rows of repaired boots, buffed to a mirror shine, stood on shelves awaiting their owners, while boots still in need of repair lay heaped upon the floor.
Podolski was a squat, broad-shouldered man, whose body looked as if it had been designed for lifting heavy objects. A pair of glasses hung on a greasy length of string around his tree-trunk neck. On his gnarled feet, he wore a pair of old sandals so thrashed by years of use and neglect that if a customer had brought them in, he would have refused to fix them.
‘I just fixed your boots!’ muttered Podolski, when he caught sight of Kirov. He sat on a block of wood which had been draped with a piece of old carpet, a hammer in one hand and an army boot grasped in the other. The boot was positioned upon a dingy iron frame which resembled the branches of a tree. The end of each branch had been formed into shapes like the bills of large ducks, each one corresponding to the size and type of shoe which Podolski was repairing. Clenched between Podolski’s teeth were half a dozen miniature wooden pegs, used for attaching a new leather sole. When he spoke, the pegs twitched in his lips as if they were the legs of some small creature trying to escape from his mouth.
‘I’m not here about my boots, Comrade Podolski,’ replied Kirov. ‘I’ve come because I need your help.’
Podolski paused, hammer raised. Then he turned his head to one side and spat out the pegs between his teeth. Lowering the hammer to his side, he allowed it to slip from his fingers. The heavy iron fell with a dull thump to the floor. ‘The last time someone asked me for my help, I ended up fighting at the front for two years. And that was in the last war! Don’t say you’re calling me up again!’
Ignoring Podolski’s outburst, Kirov handed him the piece of leather from the tobacco bag. ‘Do you recognise that symbol?’
Without taking his eyes from the blurred scar of the brand mark, Podolski slid his fingers down the string attached to his glasses and perched them on the end of his nose. ‘The numbers 243 are the date this leather was tanned. It means ‘the second work quarter of 1943’, so somewhere around June or July of this year. But the symbol,’ he clicked his tongue, ‘isn’t one I’ve ever seen before. There are thousands of those symbols and they all look more or less the same. Trying to isolate just one of them would be like carrying water with a sieve.’
‘That’s what I was afraid of.’ Already, Kirov regretted having left the comfort of his office.
‘You’d have to go through the whole book,’ said Podolski.
‘A book?’ asked Kirov. ‘There’s a book of these symbols?’
‘A big book, but it would take hours to go through.’
‘Where can I find it?’ Kirov snapped impatiently.
With a groan, Podolski rose to his feet and made his way over to the window of his shop. ‘I’ve got it here somewhere.’
‘Find it, Podolski! This could be very important.’
‘Patience, Major. Patience.’ He paused to scratch the ear of his cat. ‘You should be like my friend here. He’s never in a hurry.’
‘I don’t have time to be patient!’ replied Kirov.
Podolski lifted up a thick volume crammed with pulpy grey pages. ‘Then good luck to you, Major,’ he said as he tossed the book to Kirov, ‘because you’ll find thousands of those little brands in there.’
The volume thumped against Kirov’s chest, almost knocking the wind out of him.
‘It’s probably in there somewhere,’ continued Podolski, making his way back to the wooden block. Thoughtfully, he rearranged the piece of carpet before sitting down again. ‘Unless it’s not a Soviet brand, in which case, you are completely out of luck. Either way, I wouldn’t know. I’ve never even looked in it.’
Kirov looked around for a chair, but there wasn’t one, so he lowered himself
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