Lichnova stood still, a powerful and strong woman in her own right, yet the helplessness convicted her into a position of stalemate, the inaction chaining her lack of independence in the matter. ‘I am sorry, Juraj, I truly am. My hand in this game ended when the one who killed Edgar and Milos revealed theirs.’
19.
A blaring gust of steam emitted and a horn sounded as the metal churned and started on its heavy shift into movement, the train parting from Bratislava station and heading on its course towards Prague.
Juraj clutched the autopsy report from Lichnova close to his chest and the diary of Edgar closer still.
Edgar had written in his diary that Anita loved Peter, why?
He needed answers to this burning mystery, and how such a false saga had unfolded into the public domain. What most plagued Juraj’s mind, though, was what he intended to do next. It had not taken him too long to recall the events that had led himself and Edgar to arrive at Bratislava in the first place, in pursuit of Lenka, and by proxy, Milos at the time. Yet, it was not these facts that twisted and churned at Juraj’s conscious—it was where they had gone that unlocked the key to the grand conundrum. The Old Town Hotel was not a place they had happened upon by chance. Were it not a recommendation by the manager at the Grand Hotel in Prague, it is unlikely Juraj and Edgar would have ever even ended up there at all. With the report from the medical examiner’s office arriving so duly to Edgar’s precise location, Juraj felt confident he knew who was behind all of this—Jozef.
The return journey to Prague was a solemn one. He had expected at the very least to have been returning under the condition of Edgar departing to Moscow—a shake of hands, a job well done on tracking down the killer, solving the mystery, leaving Juraj to return to Prague with the consolations and explanations for his mother.
This was not the case—he was alone now.
Lichnova had done all she could in the matter. She had led them both to uncover Edgar’s murder, but he still felt no closer to the reasoning for why they had come to Bratislava in the first place, to unearth the truth and reason for the execution of his brother, hewn down like a lumberjack taking his axe to a tree.
As the train bobbed and bounced, rattled and shook, so too did Juraj’s mind—the foundations of his being questioning all that had transpired, the brutality and savagery of it all.
What did Vladislav mean by saying he was protecting the one he loved?
The hours passed and Juraj slipped in and out of consciousness, having barely slept for what felt like days upon days now. He was desperately fatigued and both mentally and physically drained. The unrelenting assault and chase for answers had spent all of his gusto and the momentum was dying within his soul, wore thin like too little butter spread across a piece of toast.
‘Tea, sir?’
Startled into awareness, Juraj looked up from his slumber, bent over the table. A waitress was offering him refreshment.
‘Oh, no thank you.’
‘Very well, sir.’ she replied with a smile, giving a slight curtsy as she turned to offer other occupants their own.
The waitress reminded him in some way of his own love back at home. Lost in the solace and yearning to be with her again, he reached into his jacket pocket to retrieve a picture of her he always had carried secretly close by.
A look of clarity and astonishment struck over Juraj’s face in that instant, realising before how Edgar had mentioned losing the brooch he had discovered upon Peter’s body. Recollection shattered him out of the abyss and now reminded him of how Lenka had told Edgar she thought the brooch was a gift from Peter to Juraj, but that did not make any sense to him.
Could it be that the brooch was never meant for Juraj at all? And if so, who else, if not for he or Lenka?
Thoughts wrestled and dogged Juraj’s mind, and before he could even begin to twist and turn the pages buried deep within the alleys of his mind, the train announced its proud arrival in Prague.
Home.
He had never felt too far from it on the long escapade away, yet everything had changed since he had last left the city he had adored so much, for so very long.
With only one purpose on his mind, Juraj made his way with vengeance towards the Grand Hotel. He rode the tram from the station to the city centre, and from there, briskly drove through the streets, his legs hammering hard into the ground, his face red and flustered with anger. He now carried the weight of three persons on his shoulders, to avenge them and bring righteousness and resolution home to his mother. He had his target in sight.
Storming through the entrance of the hotel, resembling a burst of light from a star as it implodes into nothing, and then, suddenly, explodes into his full magnificent brilliance, the doors erupted as he announced himself to all and any who were present.
‘Where is he?’ he shouted angrily, slamming his fist down onto the wooden counter of the service desk. ‘Bring me the manager, now!’
No attendance was required, as the loud commotion had alerted Jozef, who sheepishly emerged from around a corner. He ushered Juraj closer, begging and bargaining for them to speak quietly and in private.
‘Much is at stake,’ pleaded the manager. ‘I beg of you, please, come with me, let us speak alone.’
A queer pair of eyes watched them from a distance, ominously observing and loitering within earshot. Jozef, shifting around suspiciously like a sack of nerves, looked up at the character beseechingly, almost personifying the request for no harm to be done to him.
‘Sit down, Juraj,’ started Jozef. ‘Please, for God’s sake, don’t look at me like that, sit!’
Enraged and impatient, the deceit and lies were all too much for Juraj. He clasped his hands suddenly around the manager’s throat, starting to squeeze as his face turned purple, and his eyes widening with fear.
‘Wait,’ begged Jozef, wheezing with spent breath, the air thinning around him, his feet thrashing against the smooth floor, leaving black rubber in its wake. ‘There is much you do not know, please… someone here tortures me as much as they do you!’
Bent on his revenge and moral duty to restore the balance of virtue, Juraj floundered and loosened his grip. The manager gasped, coughed and spat as his hands met his own throat, peeling at his skin, desperate to restore and find new breath.
A flash of realisation struck Juraj like a hot iron, a resounding confirmation that he had not yet pieced together the puzzle that had so far alluded him.
Edgar had spoken of losing the brooch on their journey down to Bratislava on the train but had never found an explanation as to how, where, or why.
Juraj searched his mind and memory and found a correlation of the last time he was here at the hotel, speaking to this very man. The realisation slapped Juraj across the face hard as the familiarity was devastating. Jozef had called for the porter to take their jackets, out of curiosity and hospitality, and the same porter was now the very person the manager was alluding to knowing everything.
It makes sense; how could I have not seen it before?
‘Tell me, Jozef,’ Juraj expressed, breath rising and falling, his stomach sick with anticipation. ‘If you are not behind this, why did you tell Edgar that Anita was in love with Peter? Why did you send us to the Old Town Hotel?’
The manager wrestled himself together, pulling and arranging his suit, still pawing at his throat, rubbing with a look of fear at the desperate man who threatened once more to harm him. He feared Juraj, now more than anyone else.
‘It is a simple matter,’ he began through bated breath, the words slipping through his teeth. ‘Peter has never been shy of making it known that Anita was in love with him… surely you knew this, Juraj? Peter would often boast and brag in front of crowds of people, anyone who would listen in fact! He made sure to let it be known. I confess, I did tell Edgar this information, for I highly suspected you may have been involved. Peter was never shy of revealing how jealous you were of the fact, either!’
He spoke with a trailing laugh of
irony, his face turning from one of fear to an expression of sympathy as if he were delivering bad news to a child.
‘You have no idea what you are saying, you fool! I know without question that Anita was never in love with Peter, and as for his reasons for claiming so, I cannot say, but I assure you, you’ve been misguided and people have suffered for it!’
The manager took a deep breath, patting at his forehead, collecting the ever-flowing beads within his handkerchief. His face was as red as a tomato, chest heavy and frantic.
‘I can only apologize for this misconception, Juraj. I truly thought it was a well-known fact. The people of Prague are convinced of the matter, and that only shame and fear kept it from becoming a formality. Peter was always seen with other women, and most suspected—myself included—that it was merely a ruse to convince himself otherwise that he did not love Anita in return. But, my dear boy, such measures are weighted by their actions alone, and the one who hides from the sun craves its bright rays the most.’
Both surprise and understanding flitted across Juraj’s face as if an epiphany of realisation joined forces to bring upon him some new unspoken truth he had always suspected, yet not fully known until this very moment.
‘There is more,’ started Jozef. ‘I have not been fully truthful with you, nor had I with Edgar at the time when he was first here. I was afraid, Juraj! So very afraid. I lied to protect myself, I didn’t know what else to do.’
‘Go on…’ snarled Juraj, baring his teeth and staring at the manager with great intent.
‘I had recommended that you and Edgar stay in the Old Town Hotel in Bratislava. I must confess, a note had been slipped under my door prior to our meeting. It commanded that should anyone come around with business of a murder investigation, I should direct them towards there.’
Jozef’s face was pale, his appearance frightened and feeble, taking large, heavy breaths.
‘Why would you agree to do such a thing, from a note alone?’ Juraj asked, his face full of disgust and contempt for the weak man before him.
‘I felt threatened, Juraj! My life was surely at stake. First, the death of Peter swept through the city like a raging fire unbound and tamed by no one, and then… a fire of my own! Somebody set papers alight in this very office, and instructed if I did not comply with the previous instruction I would find myself lying next to Peter by the river!’
‘Show me the note,’ demanded Juraj. His tone made clear it was not a question, but an instruction that required immediate resolution.
‘I am sorry, Juraj. I destroyed the note soon after. I was afraid and feared for repercussions should it ever have been discovered that I misled a detective… a Soviet one at that too!’
‘You have been most foolish,’ surmised Juraj, as he reached into his jacket pocket and revealed a piece of paper, folded up into tight little squares. He unravelled it swiftly and placed the note he had received himself, to not trust Edgar, directly in front of Jozef’s nose.
‘Recognize the writing?’ he queried. ‘I received this.’
‘My god…’ whispered Jozef in horror, his voice trailing into a silent cavern of emptiness. He then looked up at Juraj in fear. ‘I had not made the connection before, but now I realise it to be so; the handwriting is that of the porter’s!’
Jozef stood suddenly, moving fast for someone of his ballooned size.
‘I’ll kill him myself!’ the manager howled, making for his cane in haste. Juraj grabbed his shoulder, pushing him down into a chair. ‘No, you will not, this is my burden—he will answer to me, alone.’ Juraj’s demeanour was that of a man corrupted by history, a soul unleashed from good intention into a world of death and pain. The manager did not recognize the man before him—his eyes told a story of brutal experience, and now consequence would return home to its rightful owner.
‘Where is he?’ snarled Juraj, spitting with venom. Jozef cowered and glanced down at his watch, trembling before Juraj’s wrath. ‘It’s one-thirty,’ he stammered, ‘he’ll be on the roof by now. He always goes to the roof alone on his lunch break and was most likely heading that way when you entered the building just now. I saw the way he watched you, with great interest nonetheless!’
Juraj stood and turned to Jozef as he exited the room. ‘Consider yourself lucky there is one demon worse than you here for me to exorcise, otherwise, it would be you who felt my anger and loss right now, every last ounce of hurt and horror.’ The manager did not respond, he simply bowed his head low in shame, the weight of guilt too heavy for one man alone to bear.
Storming through the hotel, Juraj bounded his way up the grand stairway, making long strides with furious intent laden deep within his eyes. Fists clenched, he made his way about the place, climbing higher until he reached the roof. Bursting through the door, he found his target, hunched over eating bread whilst looking out across the terraces and rooftops of the city below.
‘You,’ Juraj started, his teeth bared, approaching with his finger pointed, damnation and hell-bent on attack. ‘It was you.’ The porter looked up at Juraj in pity, the kind a parent would have of a child who could not quite grasp the puzzle just yet.
‘Juraj,’ he began, ‘I am as much a victim here as you,’ he gritted his teeth, his eyes darting back and forth quickly, aimlessly. The anger boiled within Juraj, enraged and incensed. Even when confronted and caught, the vicious killer still was icy cold, slimy, and unearthly. What kind of person was he?
‘You’ve taken everything from me!’ shouted Juraj, his voice bellowing and booming across the distance into the city. ‘I loved my brother and you took him from me!’
The red and orange buildings of Prague glorified magnificently across the skyline, the tall towers proud and glinting in the sun. The porter curled up and started to laugh maniacally as if to insult Juraj further and antagonize him. Does he wish to be thrown from the rooftop?
‘Love?’ he questioned, a bitter grimace and amazement within his tone.
The audacity sickened Juraj to his core.
‘Peter did not love you,’ he spat. ‘Peter was going to betray you!’ The air was crisp and cool, the sounds of the musing and passings of pedestrians and horses knocked below, the tapping and gentle hum of the city. Oh, how good it would be to throw this man down there and disturb the tranquillity and balance, Juraj thought to himself, enamoured with bitterness for this man’s inept insults.
Furious and vengeful, bent on inflicting the pain that had been undone onto him, he rivalled with a bitter retort.
‘Vladislav is now dead, too. I watched him die, the fear in his eyes as he pulled his own trigger.’
The porter stared at him blankly, waiting for more, yet Juraj spoke none. He searched for the torment and suffering to overwhelm his antagoniser, yet none passed his face, he only sat, waiting, undisturbed.
‘Say something, you beast!’ cried Juraj, desperate now for him to feel the anguish and misery as he did.
‘What would you have me say?’ the ported responded. ‘I know not of this man,’ he spoke, eyebrow raised, lips taut. His face sharp and pale—no emotion had struck him.
‘You are a liar,’ Juraj professed. ‘I know he was your brother!’
‘Ha! You have been fooled. I have no brother. I am very alone and I always have been.’
‘What do you mean? Vladislav swore to protect the one he loved most, and I am sure of it that you are the one who took the brooch from Edgar’s pocket that day we were here.’ Juraj’s world began to spin. He felt dizzy and unwell, the blood leaving his face, pale-white and stark. What was unfolding before him, the weight and extremity of it all were almost unbearable.
‘Please, Mr Teralov—sit.’
Juraj did so, placing his hands down, suspicious and furious, weak but alert. The confusion was overwhelming, the contrast unbearable. ‘As I had been trying to tell you, I too am a victim of the terrible crime, the murder of your brother, Peter. I did take the brooch, this much is true, but it was not of my own disposition or will. You se
e, I too have been threatened and caught up in this web of deceit and death.’ He took a piece of paper from his pocket and unfolded it gently. Without speaking, he passed it to Juraj, who took it and read the contents as so:
In time, a detective will come by the hotel where you work. He will be a Soviet. On his possession will be a brooch, bronze in colour. Take it, keep it for now. But do so quietly.
No doubt you have heard of the death of Peter Teralov by now?
This was my doing, Martin. Do as I instruct, or you too will be next. Remember, I know you. I know where to find you. Go to the police? You die. Tell your boss, Jozef? You die.
And one last thing—find a way to have the detective sent on to The Old Town Hotel in Bratislava. I don’t care how you do it. Be persuasive. Or guess what happens if you fail.
You can expect further instruction from me soon. There are other tasks I will demand of you. I am watching you.
Juraj gulped, his face a mixture of confusion and sorrow. The writing was familiar to him and it was not the same of which he received—this was very different. Well-constructed, dutiful. This resembled the note Milos had received, almost perfectly so.
Juraj looked at the porter and now he did not see a cold, heartless killer. He saw a man—broken, scared, and afraid for his own life.
‘I’m—I do not know what to say,’ Juraj shook, his voice quivering and brittle.
The porter gave him a sympathetic look and assured him that everything would be okay.
‘I understand your quandary, Mr Teralov—I never intended for anyone to get hurt. I simply followed instruction to preserve my own life. I must confess, terrorizing Jozef was pleasurable—seeing him squirm after many years of his abuse and mistreatment was gratifying, however, not at the cost of the debt that surmised afterwards.’
Juraj pondered and searched his brain for help, running through the ramifications of what all this meant.
The Affliction of Praha: A gripping murder mystery set in 1920s Czechoslovakia Page 11
