With their nerves beginning to fray‚ Pekkala and Stefanov sat on the floor of the cold and empty cottage‚ waiting for Churikova to arrive with the professor. Outside‚ darkness crowded against shuttered windows.
For Pekkala, the absence of furniture made the interior seem much larger than he had remembered, and every breath seemed amplified without the dampening effect of carpets on the floors. Although the house was not dirty, or showing any signs of disrepair, the grey haze of spider webs in the windows told Pekkala that the place had not been lived in for some time. There was a stillness in the air which made him think the place had been abandoned since he’d left it more than twenty years before.
Reaching down his shirt, Stefanov retrieved the dirty cloth bag in which he kept his last few shreds of machorka and a small handful of matches. He began to roll himself a cigarette.
Pekkala reached out and touched his forearm. ‘They’ll smell the smoke. It will give us away.’
Stefanov sighed and nodded. ‘Of course. Forgive me, Inspector. To tell you the truth, what I really want now is a drink. I don’t mean water, either.’
Pekkala was silent for a while. ‘Perhaps,’ he said softly, ‘we can grant you that wish.’
‘You brought some with you?’ asked Stefanov.
‘No,’ he replied, ‘but there might be some treasure hidden here, after all.’