by Pavel Kornev
"I have a flamethrower," I admitted with a smirk, "but it's too bulky and uncomfortable to carry..."
"Tell me what you need it for," said the inventor, waving his hand. "I'll help you if I can."
So, I told him about the ghastly strangler, his shadows and fear of fire. I didn't mention exactly where our tussle had taken place, and why I was worried I'd meet him again, though.
And worried I was. Fear is a weapon. Fear can kill, but some things are much more deadly than fear. For example, black magic. One time, the malefic had run from the fire. But that trick wouldn't work again. As soon as I tried, he'd tear my head off. A being capable of snatching a ten-caliber bullet out of thin air was nothing to trifle with.
"Quite a serious task!" Alexander Dyak gasped, shaking his head. "I am familiar with the construction of a flamethrower. There's nothing complicated there. But a compact portable flamethrower..."
"I know," I nodded, "it's not easy..."
"There's the combustibles tank, the compressed-nitrogen tank, the jet pipe," said the inventor, enumerating the necessary components.
"I don't need a full flamethrower," I reminded him again. "It only needs to work one time, like in an emergency situation!"
"A single-use flamethrower?" Alexander Dyak started thinking. "What can I say Leopold Borisovich? It's never a bore with you!"
Just then, a couple of students came into the shop and I hurried to bow out.
"Come by tomorrow at the same time," asked the inventor, walking over to the customers: "What can I help you with, young ones?"
I went outside and bought a fresh edition of the Atlantic Telegraph as I walked toward Emperor Clement Square, feeling too stingy to spring for a cab.
THE RECENT SPOT of bad weather had been to the city's distinct advantage. It had washed the dust and ash off everything. The fresh wind blew away the smog and smoke of the chimneys, and the puddles and many streams were drying out before my eyes. It was very sultry out. On the horizon, there were new black clouds starting to form in wisps. They looked dark and evil.
The bad weather was threatening to return, but for now, the sun was still shining in the sky. The city-dwellers were walking down the boulevards and across the squares, sitting on cafe verandas and admiring the sheen of the freshly washed glass in front of the expensive stores.
On Emperor Clement Square, there was even a suffragette demonstration. Fifteen ladies were rhythmically shaking signs with calls for equality; the curious onlookers, newspapermen and police gathered around them were much higher in number. I walked calmly around the crowd.
Much more calmly than before. The usual public that gathered on this street was well-to-do and stylish but, in my new getup, I no longer felt like somebody's poor relative. The shoes I was wearing were so shiny with fresh polish that it seemed I had gotten them done at one of the nearby stalls not five minutes earlier.
I walked into the hotel Benjamin Franklin with a confident victorious air, carelessly nodding at the porter as I announced myself:
"Viscount Cruce for Mr. Witstein."
"One minute." The receptionist went through the list, made a call and pointed me to the elevator. "He’s been expecting you, Viscount."
Abraham Witstein came out into the main room of the Emperor’s Suite with his face red from a recent shave. On the coffee table, there was a pile of fresh press. On top of that, I saw today's edition of the Atlantic Telegraph.
Apparently, I needn’t have bought one...
"Viscount!" the Judean exclaimed with a smile. "Am I to understand that you come today bearing good news?"
I placed a deformed ten-caliber bullet on the table, the same one I'd dug out of the wall of the opium den, and confirmed his supposition:
"The news is even better than you suppose."
"What is that?" the banker asked, getting on edge as he stared at the rumpled lead ball and torn aluminum jacket.
"This is the bullet that struck Procrustes," I told him. "This ruthless monster was long considered uncatchable but, when he came after Isaac Levinson and his family, a certain private detective followed the beast on orders from the Witstein Banking House and gave him a one-way ticket to the underworld. Mr. Witstein, I trust you have nothing against this version of events. It is the one I told the police."
The Judean took the bullet, turned it in his fingers and placed it back on the table, pursing his lips.
"We were quite emphatic that you should not allude to our enterprise..."
"Do you prefer the story that a private detective killed an out-of-town werewolf who had it out for your company for no reason?"
The banker thought over my words and waved his hand:
"Viscount, pay no mind to my grumbling. You did everything as you should have. I've already received a call from the police saying the bites match up, so I'll give the order to pay out the three thousand francs..."
"Five."
Abraham Witstein smiled:
"My dear Leopold, if my memory doesn't deceive me, you were promised three thousand francs for the killer dead."
"Mr. Witstein!" I exclaimed, melting into a no less false smile in my turn. "Do you really think you can compare some run of the mill werebeast with Procrustes himself? The whole city is humming, abuzz with the name of your banking house..."
"We weren’t chasing fame!"
"That's good, but judge for yourself: who in their right mind would try and rob the very bank responsible for bringing the most terrifying legend in town to justice?"
"Not the most terrifying," the banker corrected me. "Not even close."
"Alright then, the most terrifying legend of recent years," I agreed. "Is that of no interest to you?"
"Five thousand?"
"Five thousand!"
"And that's all? No monthly payments?"
"Blackmail runs deeply counter to my nature," I assured the Judean. "If you do not value my efforts at five thousand, what can I do? Pay three. I'll just compensate the remaining two with the kind of cheap fame you have no desire for. Declaring that the dead werebeast was not Procrustes, but just some nameless New-World emigrant would stir up quite the sensation, I assure you! I don't exactly have clients lining up, so I'm telling you the pure truth and nothing but."
"But your ego would far prefer going down in history as the killer of Procrustes, isn’t that right?" Abraham Witstein chuckled.
"So, you see why this could never be blackmail, then. I stand to lose incomparably more than you, if the real story were to come out."
"Do you really need money this badly?"
"That's all a question of how my labors are valued," I replied, leaning back in my chair and admitting: "I mean, another two thousand couldn't hurt."
The banker called his bodyguard. The balding big-nosed Judean halved a packet of hundred-franc bank notes, counted them out and handed me the agreed-upon sum. I watched him in a most careful manner, so I didn't have to check the accuracy of the count. I just stuck the pile of bills into my wallet and stood to my feet.
"It was nice working with you, Mr. Witstein."
He looked sourly in reply and clarified:
"Our work together will continue, though, right?"
"Unofficially," I reminded him.
"Unofficially," the Judean confirmed.
Then, I bowed over him and said quietly:
"If this information gets out in any way, I'll deny it, but unofficially, one of the robbers is already dead. In total that's two of the four."
Abraham Witstein sized me up with his piercing gaze and asked:
"What happened to him?"
"He was careless with explosives."
"Is that all?"
"For the moment," I answered. "And now, allow me to take my leave. I have a great many pressing activities planned for today."
"Keep me informed," the banker said after me, getting up from his chair. "Alright?"
"Without fail," I promised, squeezing his outstretched hand and walking down to the first floor. There,
I looked thoughtfully toward the bar but, although my wallet was now swollen with hundred-franc bills, I chose not to squander my money and just left the building.
The sun was peeking out from between shaggy black clouds, just as before. Steam was rising from the wet causeway. I didn't leave the square. I took a seat on one of the benches not far from an equestrian statue of the founder of the Second Empire, got out my half-empty tin of sugar drops and tossed one into my mouth.
So, the Emperor's brother had done something and now, sixteen years after his death, it was coming to fruition. But what?
A box, a thunder rune, many illustrious gentlemen. Was it a conspiracy? Perhaps.
There was one thing I could be absolutely certain of: I knew nothing. And the faster I figured this all out, the higher my chances of remaining alive.
The main question now was which of the threads to pull first in order to unravel this ball of twine with the least amount of effort. My attorney was already bending over backwards to find Count Kósice and, if my uncle hadn't yet managed to make it to the continent, sooner or later, he would find him. I had two directions I could put my efforts into now: trying to search for the strangler or trying to track down the gang of illustrious gentlemen.
Though they no longer possessed the mysterious contents of the box, they definitely did know what exactly was supposed to be inside. And in matters such as this, information is worth its weight in gold. Other than that, both the strangler and bank robbers had it in for me and, to my eye, the best defense would be a pre-emptive attack. The potential threat had to be eliminated.
Now the question was whether the bigger threat was the malefic or the illustrious gentlemen.
I even decided to toss a coin, but had a change of heart and headed for the magistrate. It would be incomparably easier to find the illustrious gentlemen; I decided to start there.
Incomparably easier seeming, at least. I had the perfect plan: determine who owned the warehouse I'd blown up, find that person and use them to track down the robbers. I knew the approximate location of the plot of land. There was little else to do. I had to spend a few days in the archive, go through a few half-tons of ancient documents and, after working up an allergy to paper dust, find the information I needed in the very last box I thought to open.
Not such a charming perspective.
But money is often capable of performing real miracles, right? One hundred francs was enough to get one of the quick-thinking clerks interested in finding me the right documents by this evening. After negotiating for another fifty if he actually found the documents, the young man got lost in the archive. I went back outside and started thinking about what to do with myself before the day came to an end.
I could consider my work as a private detective finished, so now, I could either head for lunch with a clean conscious, or go on a walk around the city and enjoy the day off. I certainly didn't want to go back to my mansion with a corpse in the icehouse. And I had to refuse taking a bit of exercise down the Yarden Embankment because of the pain in my leg. The cane saved me from being totally lame, but getting around was still a chore.
Albert Brandt was expecting me at six. Ramon Miro was probably still sleeping before his shift. To my great surprise, I realized I had basically nothing to do.
A strange sensation. I wasn't used to it.
I stood for a bit on the steps of the magistrate, went down to the sidewalk and hopped into a steam tram headed for Newtonstraat.
I had one more thing remaining. It was unpleasant and even somewhat dangerous, but it wouldn't have been good to let it go. Quite the opposite, in fact. The earlier I stuck a feeler in this direction, the higher my chances of success would be.
I didn't go into the Newton-Markt. I headed from Ohm Square directly into The Blue Ostrich.
Every department of the metropolitan police had their own preferred meeting places. Low-level constables disappeared after their shifts in one of the nameless liquor bars nearby, CID constables preferred drinking in Archimedes' Screw, office clerks had The Green Fairy coffee shop, and the detectives of Department Three met up in The Blue Ostrich.
It was considered one of the most tranquil establishments in all New Babylon, and I sincerely hoped that the serene atmosphere would keep the person I was going to see from physically assaulting me. It would be devilishly unpleasant to end up behind bars because of a fight with a police detective.
The Blue Ostrich restaurant took up the first two floors of the building on the corner of Newtonstraat and Ampère Boulevard. From the outside, it had no noteworthy features except the ostrich on the sign, which was a noble shade of royal blue, the same as a police uniform. There was music playing inside. The interior was adorned with potted palm trees growing up to the ceiling, and it smelled of expensive tobacco. Department Three really knew how to relax in style.
The maître d' gave me a courteous smile and inquired:
"Have you reserved a table?"
"I'm expected by senior inspector Moran," I said, fudging the truth. "Is he already here?"
"Yes, he is," the maître d' confirmed. "Would you like me to take you to his table?"
"If you'd be so kind."
My arrival was not to Bastian Moran's liking. Not in the slightest.
Before him, there was an untouched stuffed grouse in pineapple gravy; the senior inspector looked first at the appetizing dish, then shifted his gaze to me and, without a doubt, came to the conclusion that the grouse and I absolutely did not pair well.
"Don't worry, Bastian. I won't keep you from your meal long," I smiled, taking a seat at his table.
"Will you be ordering anything?" the maître d' clarified.
"No, he will not," the senior inspector answered for me. And when we were left alone, he pursed his lips. "You know, Viscount, you're the last person I was expecting to see here today."
"Life is full of surprises," I said back with a shrug of my shoulders.
"Have you come to spoil my appetite?"
"Nothing of the sort. I thought I could be of service."
Bastian Moran set aside his knife and fork, wiped his lips with his napkin and nodded:
"I'm listening." He was clearly hoping to get rid of me before the grouse went cold.
I took a police report from my inner pocket and handed it to him.
"Where'd you get this?" Bastian Moran asked in confusion, quickly looking over the papers.
"Wrong question," I shook my head. "You should be asking how the bank robbers got a copy of a police report."
"I suppose the newly minted private detective before me doesn't have an answer to that question," the senior inspector noted reasonably, slapping his hand on the table. "I'll ask you again: where did you get this?"
"I was attacked," I answered, not especially bending the truth. "In the course of the fight, these papers were dropped by one of the criminals."
"And what became of the attackers?" asked the senior inspector, staring at me with the unblinking gaze of a boa constrictor.
"They got away. Otherwise, why would I come to you?"
"And why did you come to me, Viscount?"
I threw my gaze over the bright room with huge floor-length windows, a dance floor and an orchestra stage, then put one leg over the other and said calmly:
"There's a rat in the Newton-Markt, senior inspector. And I think it's in your best interest to find him."
Bastian Moran rolled the report into a tube and banged it on the edge of the table.
"And what do you care, Viscount?" He smiled poisonously, adding, "beyond the desire to aid in the pursuit of justice, naturally?"
"Expecting to be stabbed in the back is not conducive to mental balance."
"So, you wanted someone else to solve your problems for you, eh? Or are you implying I was involved in this regrettable incident?"
"The thought has crossed my mind," I nodded, changing he topic: "I suppose you are aware of yesterday's events in the Chinese Quarter?"
"Did you come
here to brag?" he asked.
I then set a round ten-caliber bullet on the table. Its aluminum jacket bore clear fingerprints from the strangler.
"The fingerprints of the man who killed Aaron Malk are on this metal."
The senior inspector's eyes grew dark.
"Where did you get that bullet, Viscount?" he demanded.
"It’s called work. You might consider acquainting yourself with it one day, instead of just wearing out your pants in an office," I smiled, getting to my feet. In parting, I wished him a "bon appétit" and headed off for the exit.
Bastian Moran stayed at the table, but was now looking at the stuffed grouse without the slightest interest. It positively warmed my soul.
As I stepped out onto the veranda, I measured up the distant titan of the Newton-Markt with my gaze, took out my tin of sugar drops and threw an orange-flavored one into my mouth. The clouds carried through the sky like whitish shaggy cotton. The fresh wind chased the smog and furnace-smoke from the city. It was surprisingly easy to breathe today, even despite the vapor rising from the earth.
I stood for a bit, enjoying the pleasant sour taste, then waved a hand at a cabby rolling through the intersection and told him to drive to the municipal library.
Once there, I slipped the badly sun-burned man a few coins, but didn't enter the temple of knowledge. Instead, I walked up onto the terrace of the neighboring cafe. There was a vision of grouse with pineapple gravy dancing before my eyes, and I could no longer sate my hunger with sugar drops alone. I needed something more substantial.
Also, the very thought of just sitting for a bit in a wicker chair and doing absolutely nothing was quite attractive. I could forget about all my cares and just drink a cup of coffee in the very middle of the work day.
Wasn't that a dream?
I ordered Viennese coffee, a few Belgian waffles and an ice cream with maple syrup. I leaned back in the chair and realized that I was suffering from a critical lack of fresh press. Without a paper, the appearance of a world-weary lounger just wasn't complete, and I'd somehow managed to lose the issue of the Atlantic Telegraph I bought earlier.
I looked out onto the street, snapped my fingers and found a boy nearby with a stack of papers under his arm and satirical magazines sticking out of the side of his bag.
