Nikolka was afraid to admit that Nai-Turs had been an officer, so he said:
'Well yes, he was killed too . . .'
'He was an officer serving under the Hetman', said Irina as she approached the man. 'His name is Nai-Turs.'
The man, who obviously could not have cared who Nai-Turs was, glanced side-ways at Irina, coughed, spat on the floor and replied:
'I don't really know what to do.
It's past working hours now, and there's nobody here.
All the other janitors have gone.
It will be difficult to find him, very difficult.
All the bodies have been transferred down to the cellars.
It's difficult, very difficult . . .'
Irina Nai-Turs unfastened her handbag, took out some money and handed it to the janitor.
Nikolka turned away, afraid that the man might be honest and protest against this.
But the janitor did not protest.
'Thanks, miss', he said, and at once grew livelier and more businesslike. 'We might be able to find him.
Only we shall need permission.
We can do it if the professor allows it.'
'Where's the professor?' asked Nikolka.
'He's here, only he's busy.
I don't know whether I ought to announce you or not . . .'
'Please, please inform the professor at once,' begged Nikolka, 'I shall be able to recognise the body at once . . .'
'All right', said the janitor and led them away.
They went up some stairs to a corridor, where the smell was even more overpowering.
Then they went down the corridor and turned left; the smell grew fainter and the corridor lighter as it passed under a glass roof.
Here the doors to right and left were painted white.
At one of them the janitor stopped, knocked, then took off his cap and entered.
It was quiet in the corridor, and a diffused light came through the glass ceiling.
Twilight was gradually beginning to set in.
At last the janitor came out again and said:
'Come in.'
Nikolka went in, followed by Irina Nai-Turs.
Nikolka took off his cap, noticing the gleaming black blinds drawn down over the windows and a beam of painfully bright light falling on to a desk, behind which was a black beard, a crumpled, exhausted face, and a hooked nose.
Then he glanced nervously around the walls at the line of shiny, glass-fronted cabinets containing rows of monstrous things in bottles, brown and yellow, like hideous Chinese faces.
Further away stood a tall man, priest-like in a leather apron and black rubber gloves, who was bending over a long table.
There like guns, glittering with polished brass and reflecting mirrors in the light of a low green-shaded lamp, stood a row of microscopes.
'What do you want?' asked the professor.
From his weary face and beard Nikolka realised that this was the professor, and the priest-like figure presumably his assistant.
He stared at the patch of bright light that streamed from the shiny, strangely contorted lamp, and at the other things: at the nicotine-stained fingers and at the repulsive object lying in front of the professor - a human neck and lower jaw stripped down to the veins and tendons, stuck with dozens of gleaming surgical needles and forceps.
'Are you relatives?' asked the professor.
He had a dull, husky voice which went with his exhausted face and his beard.
He looked up and frowned at Irina Nai-Turs, at her fur coat and boots.
'I am his sister', she said, trying not to look at the thing lying on the professor's desk.
'There, you see how difficult it is, Sergei Nikolaevich.
And this isn't the first case . . .
Yes, the body may still be here.
Have they all been transferred to the general mortuary?'
'It's possible', said the tall man, throwing aside an instrument.
'Fyodor!' shouted the professor. #
'No, wait here.
You mustn't go in there . . .
I'll go . . .' said Nikolka timidly.