by Pavel Kornev
The Marquise stayed silent. The servant quickly pulled out a chair and Liliana's mother took a seat at the table.
"Please!" the Marquess invited me to sit.
We took our places. I picked up a piece of toast and started spreading strawberry jam on it as not to fidget with my hands. I wasn't particularly afraid of questions about last night's events, and no one tried to pry the details out of me. It was a normal breakfast in abnormal circumstances, that was all.
Liliana didn't eat anything, blaming it on the fact that she'd already eaten this morning; her mother was drinking red wine. She exuded the bitter aroma of laudanum – there were no two ways about it, the Marquise must have been a habitual user of the calming opium infusion, which explained her ceremonious detachment. Such a fact could be evidence of a serious illness, but I didn't fill my head with such thoughts.
A servant girl placed a hard-boiled egg and a mug of black coffee before George. I asked for tea, thus earning myself an approving gaze from the Marquise.
"I can already tell you're Russian! Just like the English, you lot cannot go even one day without tea," he smiled and, now without any warmth in his voice, added: "Indians either..."
Still, they were able to dig up some tea. By the time it had been brewed and brought out in a smart little porcelain pot, the Marquise had already finished her breakfast and left the room. Liliana left after her.
I poured myself some tea and the Marquess accepted a hefty wooden box from an old servant with a saber scar on his cheek. He threw back the tightly-closed lid and spent a long time selecting a cigar. After landing on one, he cut off the end with a special knife and pointed at the humidor.
"Help yourself, Lev."
"Thank you, George," I refused. "I don't smoke."
"But won't you join me?"
"Without a doubt."
We got up from the table and walked out onto the terrace, where there was a small round table on one leg with an ashtray and matchbox. The Marquess placed his mug of coffee on it and started lighting his cigar. The smoke smelled aromatic. I took a sip of tea and looked at the garden.
The view from the terrace was truly splendid.
"The family doctor says I need to take more fresh air and exercise," said George, who had begun to slouch again, as if the presence of his wife had stopped him from doing so at breakfast. "He also told me to limit myself to two cigars a day, just imagine!"
I nodded, making no comment on what I'd heard. And I didn't have to; the Marquess wasn't expecting an answer.
"I don't even know how to thank you for yesterday," he said, turning to me. "If anything were to happen to Lily, it would simply slay me, the Marquise as well."
"You flatter me," I answered. "Anyone would have done the same."
"Don't say that, Lev," the Marquess shook his head. "I've seen plenty in my lifetime. I served in India. Life over there is not all puppies and rainbows. You can't trust anyone..."
"So, you're retired?"
"I am," George confirmed. "If I'm being honest, I resigned."
"Because of the climate?"
"Among other things. My wife started having health problems and the doctors recommended she take pure mountain air. And also, that move from Calcutta to New Delhi! After all, I worked for the Governor General, Lev. Wherever he went, so went I. And to be honest, near the end, it was getting truly hellish. Plague, phansigars..."
"Phansigars?"
"Thugees. That's what they call them in the south."
I allowed myself a skeptical smile.
"It always seemed to me that the stories of the Kali Stranglers were being embellished by newspapermen."
"Embellished?" the Marquess shot out, stung to the quick. "They don't even put half the truth in the papers! One cannot trust Hindoos. You must never trust any of them! They're all either phansigars, thieves or fraudsters."
"You're not exaggerating?"
"Not one bit," George cut me off. "A few years ago, they found the entire family of my best friend strangled. It was their servants that did it. That's just the way things are over there."
"My condolences."
"Before, India was of little interest to anyone," the Marquess said, looking thoughtfully at the garden. "High society types used to discuss the threat posed by the Aztecs, Persians and Egyptians with their pinkies in the air. But those are familiar enemies. In India, we're still getting a taste of the bitterness. I'm afraid that we won't get by without lots of blood. After all, every second retiree returning to the metropolis brings a Hindoo servant, sometimes several! Who knows what kind of nasty ideas are running around their heads? No one!"
I shrugged my shoulders.
"You might think me an old man, having lived past good sense," said George, clearly offended, "but I see through people. Don't believe me? Let's take for example, you..."
"Come now, there’s no need for that..."
"Drop it, Lev!" the Marquess laughed. "It'd be good for me to get a little practice. It's not often I get the chance to shake off the cobwebs!"
I didn't want to hear any guesses about myself from the man for the very simple reason that some of them might land near the truth. But it wouldn't have been too smart to protest, either.
I finished the tea and nodded.
"Let's try."
"You used to be in the service," Liliana's father trotted out his first guess. "Army, or police? You don't strike me as a seaman."
I mulled over the risks of an honest answer, then admitted:
"I served in the police. Once upon a time."
"Bingo!" the Marquess laughed with a satisfied look, took a puff on his cigar and instantly lost all interest in the game. "Well, the rest is elementary! You're a bachelor. You're not poorly off. You travel a lot. Perhaps you're hiding from someone. But I won't insist on that: you have no weapon with you, excepting the knife, and your extravagant haircut can be explained, not as a disguise, but the influence of modern fashion, or an internal urge for scandalous behavior. What do you say, Lev?"
"Astonishing!"
"There was a time when I would charm pretty girls with my stories of a deductive method taken from a well-known fiction writer, but I'll be honest: it all just comes to me, simple as that. It is my talent."
"Quite a useful one," I admitted.
"And so?" George squinted. "Why did you leave the police?"
"I came into my inheritance."
"And decided to see the world?"
"That's right."
"What do you plan to occupy yourself with next?"
I finished my tea and shrugged my shoulders indeterminately.
"I'm in search of ideas."
The Marquess was completely satisfied with that answer, he just clarified:
"Could I be of any use to you?"
"To be honest," I sighed, "I have business in the city."
"Ah, in that case, I'll order a carriage made up for you," George promised, setting the butt of the cigar on the edge of the ashtray and walking off the terrace into the guest room. "Show our guest to the library," he asked the servant with a scar on his cheek.
The old butler went out onto the balcony, put out the cigar and stashed the butt in the pocket of his livery in a practiced motion.
"Please sir, after me," he announced with a composed look.
I chased the understanding smile from my face and headed after him.
The Montague estate's library was very large and lavishly furnished. All the walls were lined with bookshelves. In the corner, under a floor lamp, there was an end table with a stack of newspapers and a pair of comfortable-looking armchairs. But I didn't manage to test their comfort level – as I was walking past the dense tomes, looking over their gilded spines, Liliana came into the library, now in a new dress and a small hat with a transparent spider-web veil. In her hands, there was a closed parasol.
She closed the door tight behind her and asked with unhidden surprise:
"Pray tell, what rubbish did you tell my father? He's taken a
notion that you and I are seeing one another!"
"I just followed your advice" I answered with dignity. "I acted like myself."
"Ah, much better!" Liliana laughed. "Let's go, I'm coming with you to the city."
"You needn't take the trouble."
"Drop it, Leo. I have business there."
"Well, if you say so," I shrugged my shoulders, "let's go."
Liliana took me by the arm and we walked down the stairs like a real couple, then took our seats in the carriage, which was already waiting before the manor. The coachman held himself like a former soldier. As a matter of fact, that's most likely what he was. Based on the severe tropical tan, he had served the Marquess back in India.
The weather was sunny; I put on my dark glasses. My companion opened her parasol. We passed the drive in silence. We both clearly had plenty to think about. What was more, the coachman could easily overhear every word, and what we had to say to one another could not bear that.
Now, I had a perfect understanding of Lilianna's interest in keeping her secret. Garden-variety scandals can be forgotten, and even social gossip comes to naught sooner or later, but Lily’s secret profession could damage her relationship with her parents beyond repair. The Marquess despised Hindoos, and simply hated thugees. If he found out about his daughter dancing for the glory of Kali, the blowback would be as inevitable as it would be devastating. It wouldn't be a big jump from there to losing her inheritance.
I caught myself on the thought that I had taken Liliana's problems a bit too close to heart. I shook my head in annoyance and turned away, looking over my surroundings.
The estate was located on a hill not far from the city. At first, the road passed along a steep precipice. The roofs of village houses peeked out from the dense greenery down below. But very soon, the carriage passed the train bridge and the city outskirts came into view. From way up there, we could see the curve of the electric streetcar line. Further in the distance, the white walls of the amphitheater towered over the buildings and, between the mountain peaks, I could see the smooth blue surface of the lake.
Suddenly, a shadow ran over the carriage; I careened my head and saw the hulking body of a transatlantic dirigible drifting unhurriedly across the sky.
But I didn't have much time to dwell on the recent crash of my own flying machine: to a booming hoot and clank of wheels, we were overtaken by a passenger train. There was a long black trail of smoke stretching out from its smokestack. Liliana covered her nose with a perfumed kerchief. The horses began to snort in irritation and shake their snouts. The coachman clicked his tongue, calming the beasts.
I looked at my timepiece. It showed quarter to eleven.
Midday down the toilet...
The sun palpably warmed the air but, in the open country, it didn't feel sweltering. It only got hot and stuffy when we entered the city. As soon as we reached the electric streetcar line, I asked the driver to stop.
"Wait!" Liliana commanded the coachman and, to my moderate surprise, got out of the carriage after me.
Hand in hand, we walked down the sidewalk. The carriage rolled after us for some distance.
"Do you think you could take off the glasses?" Lilianna suddenly asked.
I fulfilled her request and took a pause.
"Yes?"
"Leo," Lilianna looked me penetratingly in the eyes, "I still haven't found a way to thank you for saving me. It was such a nightmare!"
"There's no need to exaggerate things..."
"Exaggerate?!" she gasped. "That newspaperman has been following me for a whole month! After he tried to break into my dressing room, they stopped letting him into the cabaret. He probably bribed someone to find out when I'd be leaving. If you hadn't intervened, I'd have disappeared. Thank you!"
I smiled politely, but still had a question sticking to the tip of my tongue: what the devil was a respectable girl like her doing in a cabaret in the first place? I didn't ask it, though. None of my business.
"Let me treat you to lunch!" Lilianna offered. "It's the least I can do!"
My thoughts were occupied with something else, so I nodded thoughtlessly. I had an immediate change of mind, but it was already too late.
"Great!" Liliana blabbed. "The restaurant is called Old-Time James, it's in the very center, on Maxwell Square. At two precisely. Don't be late." Then, drumming her heels on the paving stones, she ran back to the carriage.
The carriage drove away, but I was frozen in place.
In any case, what difference did it make? A promise is not a yoke on one's shoulders. And also, considering my financial condition, lunch on someone else's dime might not have been such a bad idea.
When thinking about money, I mechanically stuck my fingers into my shirt pocket and with astonishment pulled out three folded tenners, brand new and with sequential serial numbers.
Thirty francs! From where?! I definitely hadn't taken a bribe from the photographer, and hadn't rooted around in his pockets while unconscious.
After taking the money back, I lifted my fingers to my face and got a strong aroma of typographic ink. And instantly, from a black hole of forgetfulness, I saw a flash of the next piece of the mosaic.
"Drive!" I ordered the coachman, taking a seat next to him.
The fellow, scared half to death, obeyed and shook the reins. The carriage pulled out of the alley and raced away, shaking and shuddering on the uneven paving stone.
I didn't ask where we were going. It was of no interest to me. A wave of the spins came over me once again. The shaking of the vehicle was making me nauseous. The smells suddenly became stronger, and I breathed in the aroma of fresh typographic ink, the same smell typically given off by fresh payment orders.
Not accounting for my own actions, I stuck my hand into the coachman's pocket and pulled out three crusty tenners.
Thirty francs, just as the photographer had promised me.
The man stared at me with the look of a creature brought to bay. And that flicker of horror illuminated the most deeply hidden crevasses of his soul. The photographer had bribed the coachman, but he still made no attempts to flee...
I grabbed the reins in one hand and shoved the man off the driving box with the other. He screamed, somersaulted and dissolved into the gloom of the night. I knocked with my elbow several times on the wall of the carriage and shouted:
"Hey, lady! Where are we going?"
I waited a bit, thinking over the memory, then turned my head and went off in search of the pawn shop from yesterday.
My flight from the city would have to be postponed. I had business to deal with first. If meeting Liliana was a setup and was a link in the same chain as the torching of my dirigible, then my anonymous opponent had made an error, having left several obvious clues all at once.
If I ran, I'd be stabbed in the back. Eventually, they’d find an appropriate time and strike. So, I had to stir up the hornet's nest and make the first move myself. Attacking with a hidden agenda is often called the best defense.
I gave a vile chuckle, took my last sugar drop from the tin and tossed it in my mouth. It was my favorite kind – orange.
An excellent omen, simply wonderful.
"Sugar-drop fortune telling!" I chuckled unhappily to myself and hurried on.
I found the pawn shop without particular difficulty; the city really was divided into blocks by radial boulevards, like a pizza cut into slices. I approximately remembered the district, I just had to walk around it a little bit to find the right intersection.
The street cafe tables had been packed under a striped awning to get them out of the scorching sun; someone was sitting there, but I didn't look. I threw open the door of the pawn shop and walked inside, hurrying to get out of the heat.
"You again!" the ancient appraiser gaped when he saw me and scratched himself, sticking his fingers into the collar of his shirt. "They put the screws to you or something?"
Instead of an answer, I set a pair of golden cufflinks on the counter.
> The man stuck his hand into the window in the grate, took the cufflinks and looked contentiously at the goods through a magnifying glass. After that, he carefully weighted them and scoffed with a satisfied look.
"This is another matter entirely! I'll give you twenty-five."
"What?!" I exploded. "The watch was worth half a thousand francs, and you were offering a mere thirty for that. The cufflinks weight a good bit less, but you'll pay nearly as much."
"Cufflinks," the appraiser stated phlegmatically, "are cufflinks. Just gold, no numbers. But expensive watches are few and far between. They check the serial numbers and confiscate watches. Some people have even been charged for buying stolen goods. And scratching off the serial number is a crime all on its own. They are no fools."
As if exhausted by the long monologue, the merchant went silent, wiped the sweat from his brow and the cash register clanged open.
"Will you take the twenty-five?" he asked.
"Just make sure to write a ticket," I demanded. "I might be back for them."
"Well, well," I heard in response.
Nevertheless, the appraiser did issue the ticket, adding it to the two rumpled tenners and ripped five. After that, he lost all interest in me and started writing down the ticket number on the inner side of the cufflinks with a thin needle. A certain manner of accounting, if you will.
I headed for the exit. Already at the door, I slapped my forehead and returned to the grate.
"Yes?" The pawn shop worker was torn from his entertainment.
"I'm interested in a pistol," I said, pointing at a semi-automatic pistol, nondescript and compact.
"Mauser, model eighteen seventy-seven. Twenty-five caliber, weight..." the appraiser weighed the weapon in his hand and decided: "Not more than half a kilogram. Length – fourteen or fifteen centimeters, could fit in any pocket."
"Sounds great!" I replied, accepting the pistol and spinning it in my hand. Unlike its older brother, the K63, this Mauser simply got lost in the grip. "How much?"
"Fifteen francs."
"Isn't that a bit much?" I questioned.
"The price includes an extra magazine and a box of rounds."
