The Affliction of Praha: A gripping murder mystery set in 1920s Czechoslovakia

by Simon Gillard

  Juraj thought he might have made out a slight tear in the eye of the great man before him, but it was too dark to be sure. Nonetheless, no further words were spoken between them until they reached the premise of the hotel. Their footsteps were the only sound to break the silence of the night and the chilling cold took over their bodies and metaphorical hearts.

  The entrance of the Old Town Hotel resembled that quite closely to the one in Prague, yet this one was visibly less well-kept. More run-down, void of the same attentiveness and pristine features of detail, it looked older, yet without the class and grandiosity of its sister establishment. A clerk behind the desk greeted them.

  ‘Room for the night, for two?’ the clerk asked apathetically, boredom wrought within the syllables of his every word.

  ‘Separate rooms will be adequate,’ stated Edgar. ‘Something with a view, perhaps?’

  The clerk looked up at Edgar with a blank expression and opened his mouth to speak, ‘We don—’

  Edgar interrupted with half frustration and half-humorous expression. ‘I spoke in jest—please, any room will do.’

  Annoyed by the late-night conversation and intrusion, the clerk abruptly scribbled something down on paper and pointed at Edgar. ‘Forty-seven,’ then to Juraj, ‘fifty-two.’ He stood up and turned from the desk, taking two keys off the wall, their corresponding numbers present, and silently passing them over to the guests.

  ‘Thank you,’ spoke Edgar. Juraj repeated the same. The clerk, silent in reply, judged them with his blank dark eyes, riddled with contempt as he recognized where Edgar had originated from.

  ‘It is late,’ stated Edgar, as he made his way up the staircase, clasping the railing. Dust greeted his fingers with an unwelcome embrace. ‘Be up early in the morning, Juraj.’

  Trailing behind, Juraj made an attempt to ask Edgar where exactly they would be heading come dawn, but it was already too late—Edgar had already made his way to his room and snapped the door swiftly shut, but not before muttering something about how he would find out soon enough in the morning, and that for now, it was a time more suitable to rest, and less so for talking. Stubborn aloof absolutist! Juraj thought.

  Edgar took a seat next to the bed, glancing around the room and absorbing its surroundings that would provide at least some respite for the night. The wind howled outside—a shutter blew and knocked again and again somewhere close by. The detective took a cigarette from his pouch and placed it slowly into his mouth. Taking a match, he struck the head firmly. The flame erupted quickly at first, then slowly in a minute flicker.

  Placing the cigarette into the burn of the flame, Edgar lit the end and inhaled deeply. During a long and considered pause, he went off into deep thought to reconcile with the happenings of the day and what it could all have meant thus far.

  This place was eerie and awkward, with dark-brown wooden bed stalls and damp antique-like bedsheets. The carpet was musty—the smell rose into Edgar’s nostrils and he took in the dank smell of the room with every breath. It was stale and he feared the dust was settling within his lungs, a far greater threat than that of the tobacco he steadily breathed in.

  Within his knapsack was some basic parchment and a pencil. He took the moment of solitude to finally record his thoughts and findings of what he had learnt thus far, scrambling and writing with haste:

  Peter’s body inspected. Two pieces of evidence to note, one irrelevant now, the other… lost.

  Spoke to the mother, last known accomplice. Innocent, it would seem.

  I write this in Bratislava. Tomorrow, I must find Milos: why did he leave so soon, why would you abandon comfort and condolement of the Teralov family in sight of business? Suspicious, indeed. Perceived alcoholic. Intentions of investment in large opportunity.

  The place I find respite in at present is queer, hostile. Most people do not like my accent, where I am from—disheartening, yet one perseveres.

  I reserve judgement or assumption for now. Do not quite trust Juraj yet. He is likeable but hiding something.

  After preparing himself for the night, Edgar slipped into his nightwear and tucked himself into bed. Turning off the light at the bed stand, he was about to sleep when suddenly, there was a knock on the door. Throwing the sheets away and stomping to the door with a thunderous exhibition, Edgar tore the door open, almost off its own fitted hinges.

  ‘There is something I need to tell you.’

  Unimpressed by the late intrusion, Edgar barked, ‘Are you aware of the hour? It cannot wait until dawn?’

  ‘I do apologize,’ remarked Juraj, standing stony-faced, halfway between looking lost and stricken with terror, as much as a child seeking comfort from a parent in the still of the dark night would do after enduring a terrible nightmare.

  ‘You see, it is this note. I found it within my jacket pocket.’

  Raising a crumpled piece of paper, Juraj waved it in front of the detective’s face, who looked back at Juraj with incomprehension and fascination. Questioning in response, Edgar asked when, exactly, he had discovered this note.

  ‘Just now. The writing does not belong to me, nor do I recognize it. Here.’ He passed the note towards Edgar, who took it into his hand and buried his nose into reading the document, whilst beckoning for Juraj to come inside.

  ‘Sit and switch that light on, would you?’

  Edgar straightened his back and squinted as the light violently echoed across the room. After a short moment of adjustment, he flattened the paper out in his hands and tried to make sense of what was written.

  ‘Do not trust the detective—he will hurt you, us. Beware of him!’

  Edgar looked up at Juraj, who appeared nervous and slightly quivering, as if untrusting of his companion. The note was scribbled in an untidy fashion. It was rushed, hastily so, and appeared unappealing to the eye. The paper was stained yellow and had a clammy smell to it. The quality of the ink was low, and the way in which it was written suggested someone who was not well versed in the art of penmanship. But the meaning behind it remained cryptic to Edgar as he certainly had no intention of harming Juraj. On the contrary, he had only just recently started to grow quite fond of him.

  Neither spoke for a while. The silence made Edgar aware of the taste of tobacco on his tongue and the relentless wind heightened Juraj’s state of alertness. Finally, Edgar broke the standoff and whispered with clear concern, the suspicion riddled deep within his tone, rich with instinct, ‘You are sure you do not know who wrote this?’

  ‘Yes, quite sure.’

  ‘And how might it have arrived within your pocket?’

  Juraj shrugged. ‘I do not know.’

  Pacing in small circles, Edgar rubbed his face, the wrinkles of his aged eyes showing stronger now. Without a doubt, he felt there was something Juraj was not telling him. He could sense he was hiding something from him, but what? It was clear the stress was overwhelming, and this unexpected piece of new-found evidence was both an unwelcome and ill-timed arrival. The murder of a man was one matter, but a companion accompanying him whom he cannot trust? It was an entirely new set of difficulties within itself.

  8.

  Morning broke in the small hotel room, the sun leaking in with a beam across Edgar’s face. Turning to the nightstand, he observes his laid watch. ‘Seven-thirty-five,’ Edgar mumbled aloud, still half asleep.

  Gathering his belongings for the day, he left behind his knapsack, the intention to have the case solved by noon, perhaps stay another night and then return directly home to Moscow. That would play out most favourably, Edgar assured himself.

  He stalked outside the room and into the hallway. It was equally as dark and damp as his hotel room, the paper on the walls flaking, picture frames old and ill-balanced, askew, and tilted. Some were to the left, others to the right.

  Nothing was aligned or well-placed. Edgar’s stomach churned and twisted, a feeling of being slightly nauseous overcame him. Something about this place was just not right.

  Entering the main dini
ng room area, breakfast was laid out—an assortment of scrambled eggs, cereal. There were jams, biscuits, croissants, and pain au chocolats. Milk and a selection of juices were presented for your choice, and yet the room was totally empty—no other guests lingered, apart from one who sat in a far corner, eating alone, reading a newspaper with a pair of glasses. Edgar did not recognize him at first, as Juraj did not normally wear glasses.

  ‘May I?’ questioned Edgar.

  ‘Of course, please do,’ beckoned Juraj, gesturing with his right hand to take a seat.

  Juraj’s plate was full of food, yet untouched. It looked rubbery and cold.

  Edgar examined the surroundings and turned his gaze back at Juraj, who continued to read the paper, not looking up or speaking another word since their initial greeting.

  ‘How long have you been here?’ inquired the detective.

  ‘Not long,’ stammered Juraj in a blunt reply.

  He didn’t meet Edgar’s eyes or flinch, looking simply horizontally, analysing from left to right then down and repeating the pattern. There was a different temperament to Juraj this morning from the night before.

  Looking at the untouched food once more, Edgar was acutely aware that Juraj was lying, but why?

  There was a sense of tension between the pair, neither quite trusting the other, an unresolved feud between the two that had not been settled or ended the night before.

  Edgar had insinuated that perhaps Juraj had something more to do with the note than he was letting on. The young Teralov had not taken kindly to the accusation, and stormed out of the room, no further words exchanged. The eyes of the detective had scanned and bore down on Juraj like a hawk gazing and weighing up its prey from afar. Edgar had been reading people for long enough to know that whatever Juraj thought he was looking at yesterday was different from what he understood to be true today. His intuition told him that Juraj had realised who the note was really from—perhaps he even understood what it means. Edgar had believed him the night before when Juraj said he did not know the note’s author, but it was now beyond certainty that he was hiding something.

  After some minutes, Edgar broke the impasse.

  ‘Pass me that newspaper, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Yes, of course, take it.’

  Juraj slid the paper across the table and proceeded to stare silently out of the window. The snow was melting and the sun shone bright, its rays beaming into the room and inviting a warming presence that was felt on both their skin—a stark contrast to the atmosphere and context of the pair’s current disposition.

  Edgar, flicking through the pages of the newspaper, finally stopped on the business section and, after scanning for a few brief moments, a small smile crept from the corner of his mouth. The wrinkles under his eyes stretched slightly, revealing an untold and hidden youth within the man.

  ‘Here,’ he said, stabbing his finger at an advert from across the table, showing Juraj his newfound discovery. ‘Borlog’s Winery,’ he started, ‘we ought to go there as soon as, don’t you think?’

  Juraj shuffled and flinched in his seat. ‘Suppose so,’ he replied, with a bare and emotionless expression.

  The paper listed an establishment recently made available to the market for sale, a vineyard that provided high-quality wine and shipped far across Europe. Edgar was, in fact, aware of the establishment—albeit himself and his folk back home in Moscow were unapologetically more favourable to the disposition of a good vodka.

  Silence bore over the pair whilst Edgar finished his food and, after asking Juraj when he would finish his, he was met only with a response that he had already eaten enough and was ready to depart whenever best suited the detective.

  As they left the main dining hall and passed through the lobby entrance of the building, the grim and pale character from the night before stood, gaunt and expressionless.

  ‘Will you be checking out?’ he questioned with a glimmer of hope.

  ‘No,’ Edgar responded bluntly. ‘We are not yet done here.’

  9.

  Bright sun and expanses of green hills were yonder with blue skies—a contrast from the storm and darkness of the night before.

  The horse and carriage rolled past a wooden sign on its beaten path, scratched into the oak, ‘Borlog’s Winery.’

  The winery was located outside the city of Bratislava, in a small town called Pezinok, positioned high in the hillside with twisting turns and glorious views of the valleys below. The area overlooked the flatlands, which included the large city of Bratislava. Its buildings and structure could be seen in the distance—a grey hint that gently subsumed along the still horizon, a silhouette masked across a canvass of green trees and yellow fields of corn.

  A two-hour ride by horse and carriage, the journey was enduring, the weather much warmer today and the snow that had settled the night before was long gone. In fact, the sun beating down upon Edgar and Juraj put them in a state of agitation, the unresolved conflict still lingering on the tips of their tongues, biting to say no more, yet closer to saying everything.

  Upon their arrival, a large fellow approached them with a grin and arms open, like a bird displaying his impressive wingspan.

  ‘Welcome!’ he beamed. ‘Please, come…. Come, allow me,’ he said, taking the reins of the horse and attaching them to the wooden mast, securing the beast safely in place. He did so next to another horse, which was whining to itself as it fed on the grain below.

  ‘You gentlemen look thirsty—you’ve no doubt heard good things, that is why you’re here, right?’ he inquired with a red face, wide mouth grinning and jovial in his approach.

  Edgar examined the man, inspecting his attire and demeanour. Quickly, he concluded this man was no killer. Thinking on his feet, Edgar replied, ‘We are here on business. You are aware of my proposition, I assume? This here is my associate.’

  The large man screwed up his face in confusion, his eyebrows cross and stern. Looking first at Edgar, then Juraj, and once again back at Edgar, he started, ‘How can it be so? Milos has already arrived and he is inside.’

  ‘Milos?’ asked Juraj, a face revealing anger brewing underneath.

  ‘Yes!’ he exclaimed. ‘Milos from Prague—he travelled all this way after hearing good things about the place. I’ve not been made aware of a second interested party. Perhaps…. We can negotiate an arrangement collectively?’ he sneered with beaming confidence. This must be Borlog. Borlog was fat—overly so—and the hot sun had blotched his white shirt with sweat, filling the nostrils of the detective and the accompanied alike. He is cheerful, even likeable, but greedy, Edgar surmised.

  Responding to the invitation, Edgar coolly said, ‘There is only one thing for it, then. Let us go inside and meet Milos. Lead the way, if you would be so kind?’

  The three men entered the mainstay of the plot. The purple and yellow tips of the canopies weaved through the vineyard, their roots set deep within the brown clay. Against the backdrop of green fields and grey mountaintops tipped with white snow, the compound made for a compelling view.

  Following Borlog to inside a room, Edgar could see it was well illuminated. White walls and a wooden table lay in the middle, chairs neatly aligned in rows. The rays of the sun beamed brightly through open windows, the warmth kissing their skin as they passed through.

  As they entered, a man was already in conversation with a woman, both laughing and joking.

  ‘Borlog!’ his wife called happily, looking gleefully at the fat man as they all entered the room. ‘And who else do we have here? Come along now, Borlog, introduce them!’

  Borlog began to make pleasant introductions when suddenly…

  ‘MILOS!’ shouted Juraj.

  ‘Juraj?’ Milos questioned in reply, a state of shock and bewilderment etched on his face. ‘What… what are you doing here?!’

  Juraj approached Milos and slammed his fist down onto the wooden table; a thud sounded out and the room fell deathly silent.

  The woman gasped and Borlog moved t
owards Juraj in hope of settling and calling understanding of the situation. As he did so, Edgar raised his arm at length, stopping Borlog from proceeding any farther. ‘Take a seat,’ Edgar commanded Borlog, who duly followed the order and quietly sat next to the woman, grasping her hand tightly. The pair remained in a state of bemusement and wonder, fearful and intrigued by the strange turn of events in what had been quite a glorious day thus far.

  Juraj moved still closer to Milos, getting within one foot of him. ’The question is, Milos: what are you doing here?’ Juraj stated with stern intent. It was not a question by any means—it demanded an answer, and immediately.

  Outside, birds chirped and the cool breeze floated about the allotment, a scene of peace and serenity. Inside, the showdown was a stark contrast with the three observers watching Juraj and Milos, awaiting an explanation—any explanation in fact—in angst.

  ‘I had suspected I may find myself needing to explain this,’ stammered Milos, sweat running from his brow, palms gripped into a pair of tight balls on top of the table.

  His hand reached down into his trouser pocket and he retrieved a piece of parchment. Looking up at Juraj, he slid the paper across the table towards him.

  ‘What is this?’ questioned Juraj.

  ‘It would be easier if you read it.’

  Juraj took the note and unfolded it slowly and purposefully. He proceeded to read aloud the contents of the note to all within the room to hear:

  ‘Peter is dead by now. You will be next unless you follow my instruction explicitly. Go to Borlog’s Winery in Bratislava. The plantation is for sale and you are to feign interest in buying—that is your reason for being there.

  Failure to comply will result in your immediate demise, Milos. I know your secret. Leave now. Immediately.’

  The room was deathly silent; no one spoke. The note was written neatly, each word meticulously and carefully crafted. It was clearly written with a quill in black ink—a perfect craft, one delicately practised. Juraj looked down at his feet and the Borlogs stared at one another, dumbstruck and paralyzed by the uncouth goings-on. Edgar tapped his fingers in a rolling motion against the table’s surface, his eyebrow twitching and watching Milos closely. In reply, Milos was a figure of frozen magnitudes, his face pale and terrorized, a prisoner bound by the contract of a deathly promise. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Edgar started towards the threatened target. ‘The killer—do you know who they are?’