The Fallen (The Sublime Electricity Book #3)

by Pavel Kornev

  "Just don't mention my name. I'll deny everything. I didn’t leave any evidence. If you do go batty and accuse me, I'll reveal the true nature of your work. Have no doubt – I'll do it."

  "But..." Smith took a step back. "This case is a state secret!"

  I didn't even listen to a single word.

  "You can keep the laurels. Everyone will think you're quite the investigator," I said, trading in the lash for a gingersnap. "You came down into the basement, looking for an underground passage on your own and were set upon by a gang of conspirators. You were hurt in the struggle, but got out and went to the police for help. Sound good?"

  Thomas Smith nodded thoughtfully.

  "Good! But if I need any help..."

  "Always at your service!" I replied, pulling the Luger from the holster and handing it to the investigator. "Here you go. The electric shock melted the slide to the frame. I'd say that's a pretty good reinforcement of your words."

  "Yeah, it won't hurt," Thomas Smith nodded, taking the pistol.

  I returned the documents to him and led him to the first floor. There, the investigator washed his astonishing lenses in the sink and placed them back in his eyes. He picked up his things from the table and dashed headlong out of the building. He was in such a hurry that he forgot to get his brass knuckles and Colt. And I didn't remind him of that; I would still need the pistol.

  Perhaps to shoot myself, for example.

  I chuckled unhappily, drained a glass of water, stood at the window and looked out into the night for a long time.

  My soul was feeling rancid.

  If Smith suddenly decided to play it his own way and told the police about the break-in, I'd meet the morning in a jail cell. From there, lawyers would get involved, perhaps even the Marquess Montague would provide protection, and I'd be placed under house arrest. After that, the case would be closed due to lack of evidence, but what were the chances of that happening over the few hours before sunrise?

  So, I went up into my bedroom, put on my shoes and left through a side window. I hopped lightly onto the earth and stole across the dark square to the quay and, after spinning around the neighborhood a bit, headed off to Albert Brandt's. I simply no longer had the strength to linger on the streets waiting for the dawn.

  The gate was locked and I simply vaulted over the low fence without bothering the guard. The door into the building flew open from a light touch. The steps of the wooden stairwell creaked slightly underfoot, but my careful footsteps didn't bother anyone. And as soon as I knocked on the poet's apartment door, it flew open as if I was expected.

  Standing in the doorway was Elizabeth-Maria. Her red locks were tousled and she was wearing a man's shirt, barely covering her thighs. A gas lamp was lit behind her. Her face was hidden in the darkness and, for a moment, it seemed that the succubus had recovered her sight. Her smile when getting out of my way was packed with meaning.

  "Do you always answer the door like that?" I asked in confusion, walking over the threshold.

  The succubus locked the door and leaned her back against it.

  "Do you think I don't recognize your footsteps?" she asked, raising a brow in mock surprise.

  I snorted indefinitely and asked:

  "Is Albert asleep?"

  "He's in the studio," Elizabeth-Maria told me and added, "working."

  I wasn’t the least bit surprised at that fact: alcohol had never stopped the poet from composing stanzas. He often put broad strokes and sensations to paper when slightly drunk, then brought them up to snuff with a sober mind.

  I walked over to the thick curtain, glanced into the office and saw Albert's back hunched over the desk. He was writing very, very fast. There were rumpled drafts all around him in a circle.

  Not distracting him, and probably not even able to do so if I wanted to, I returned to the guest-room where Elizabeth-Maria was sitting on a couch with her legs up, not at all worried about the shirt hiking up. With a confident motion, she reached for the ashtray on a coffee table, picked up a cigarette holder with a menthol cigarette in it and drew out her words.

  "Are you convinced?" she asked, exhaling the aromatic smoke to the ceiling.

  "Since when do you smoke?"

  "It's all these bohemians. They're a bad influence," Elizabeth-Maria answered calmly.

  "I'm sure it's more the other way around."

  The succubus started laughing uncontrollably.

  "Leopold, you wouldn't happen to know the reason Albert is so... agitated today, would you?" she asked, purposely adding intonation to the word "agitated."

  I just shrugged my shoulders.

  "I have no idea," I answered with a composed expression and yawned. "I was planning to spend the night in your guest room. I hope you aren't opposed."

  "My home is your home, Leo," Elizabeth-Maria smiled, throwing her red locks from her face and inquiring: "Have you considered my offer?"

  "Don't push me."

  "I haven't even started," she frowned. "But I could."

  "In what way?"

  "I could tell Albert that I really am a succubus. And that you knew all along, but didn't say a word to him."

  "You, a succubus?" I laughed uncontrollably. "Don't mock me! But go ahead, tell him if you want. In psychiatric clinics, they have these special rooms. The walls are padded. I assure you, I won't spare any money for your treatment."

  "Scoundrel!" Elizabeth-Maria snarled, throwing the cigarette holder into the ashtray with annoyance and grabbing her cocktail. "Go to sleep, don't stand under the shower."

  So I didn't.

  I woke up quite disheveled and battered. Either yesterday's jitters and alcohol abuse were bearing fruit, or I simply didn't manage to get a good night of sleep – at dawn, I was awoken by gasping and moaning from Albert's room, and when silence returned, I was unable to get back to sleep. In the end, I suffered for a while, turned from side to side then headed for the kitchen, wafting with the aroma of freshly brewed coffee.

  "Just get up?" Elizabeth-Maria asked, turning away from the stove. Today, she was dressed in a totally dignified robe. "Sit, let's have breakfast."

  Based on her messy hair and unusually appeased look, Albert's fuse must have lasted all night.

  I sat in silence at the table and pulled a condensation-covered pitcher of homemade lemonade over. My normal appetite was gone. I didn't even touch the bacon omelet, eating only some buttered toast.

  Soon, Albert came to join us. He looked tired, but sprightly. Right at the doorway, he took a theatrical pose and announced:

  "Leopold, my friend! That was unbelievable! Thrill, danger, sorrow at the death of a friend and disgust at myself for shamefully running! And also, animalistic joy at getting away and the onerous sensation of inevitable death, like a cornered wolf or a criminal at the gallows! Then, another wave of shame from realizing that I was only really scared for my own life. And finally, the culmination – a miraculous escape. Catharsis!" The poet embraced his spouse and kissed her. "I haven't experienced such an outpouring of force for a long time. Curses, I feel like we're on our second honeymoon!"

  Elizabeth-Maria walked away from the poet and grumbled:

  "Go shave! You're all scratchy," but I could see that she found her husband's attention pleasant.

  I practically started gaping in surprise. Succubi are not capable of experiencing attachment to people! It's just not possible.

  Albert instantly forgot all about us, picked a piece of bacon from the skillet and started walking from corner to corner, immersed in his own rhymes. Elizabeth-Maria walked over to the window and sighed heavily.

  "What did you two get up to last night? Should I be worried?"

  "We didn't get up to anything," I answered calmly.

  "So that isn't for you?" she asked, referring to something that only she could hear.

  But just then, a car horn honked demandingly outside. I jumped up from the chair like I’d been stung by a bee and found myself next to the window a moment later. Past the fence
, slightly rattling at idle, there was a Ford Model-T, black and with the roof folded back. At the wheel, wearing goggles and a chauffeur's cap was the investigator Thomas Smith.

  "Leo?" the poet grew alarmed. "Is everything alright?"

  "Everything is fine," I confirmed. "That isn't for us, he's here for me."

  "So, should I start worrying?" Elizabeth-Maria repeated her question in an icy tone.

  "No!" I barked and added, now softer, "everything is fine. See you later."

  Not getting distracted further by interrogation, I ran to the first floor, crossed the yard in a quick gait and went out to the street. There were no police around, so it didn't much look like an arrest.

  "Has something happened?" I asked the investigator.

  "It has," Thomas Smith answered curtly and ordered: "Let's go!"

  "Where to?"

  "Not far."

  "But specifically?"

  "You'll see."

  I rubbed my chin and refused:

  "I need to get changed at least."

  The investigator sighed fatefully and patted on the seat next to him.

  "Just don’t be long. Time is money."

  "You speak in riddles," I mumbled, getting into the self-propelled carriage. "How'd you find me here?"

  Smith placed his pointer fingers and thumbs together, making a little frame, as if he was assessing the composition of a view and smiled.

  "Believe me, it was easy."

  The Ford Model-T jerked from place and I decided to figure out the situation. The investigator just looked too funereal.

  "Did you go down into the vault?"

  But there wasn't time for an answer. The self-propelled carriage turned at the next intersection and stopped outside my place. I wasn’t expecting it to be so close.

  "Go!" Thomas Smith pointed at the door. "Get changed, and we can talk about everything calmly. No need to bring a change of underwear or a toothbrush."

  The joke was alright, but I didn't laugh and went into the house. There, in no particular hurry, I brushed my teeth, shaved and combed my hair, then got into my light travelling suit and placed my trifles and a couple Colt clips into my pockets. The pistol itself I stuck into my belt and covered it with the jacket. Ugh, I could have thought to take the investigator's holster.

  When I went back outside, Thomas Smith was monkeying with the steam boiler. After measuring the water level, he sat at the wheel and hurried me along:

  "Let's go!"

  The steam engine of the self-propelled carriage started sputtering and we started from place with jerky bursts. But soon, the pace evened out, only floundering when dogs, children or other unintelligent creatures jumped into the road. In these cases, the investigator pressed on the horn in rage, cursed filthily or promised to box in their ears, depending on what kind of scatterbrain was in our path.

  Soon, we came out onto one of the radial boulevards and rolled in the direction of the center. The preparations for the celebration were already largely completed. Everywhere around, people were washing glass and hanging flags. The reigning emotion was very high.

  But not everyone shared in that. When the self-propelled carriage turned onto one of the side alleys and stopped at the roped-off backyard of some kind of workshop, the city-dwellers I saw crowded up there were not exactly beaming in joy. And for good reason: the ground had fallen in and formed a pit of fifteen meters by ten. There was a dirty stream pouring into it from a broken stone pipe with a quiet putter.

  "Just don't tell me the passage is flooded," I gasped.

  "That’s exactly what happened," the investigator confirmed, starting off.

  At the intersection, he turned in the direction opposite that of the Maxwell manor and I started worrying:

  "Where are we going?"

  "Nowhere," Thomas Smith answered, turning off the motor and waving politely to a fat man standing in the door of a cafe. Based on his white apron and confident appearance, he owned this place.

  "Signor Smith!" he lit up. "Where would you like me to set you a table?"

  "Outside, please," the investigator decided, removing his goggles and lowering the brim of his cap, trying to cover his bruised forehead. "Everything as usual. And set a spot for my friend too."

  "Right away, sir!"

  The fat man set off to start preparing. Meanwhile, the investigator pulled off his gloves and dropped them on his seat.

  "I hope you won't refuse to eat breakfast with me?" asked Thomas, stroking the black stripe of his mustache.

  "If you're only going to drink coffee," I agreed without any desire, in that the intentions of the investigator remained a mystery to me. With the subterranean passage, he had survived a real fiasco, what had he thought up now?

  But Thomas Smith looked composed. He lowered down in a wicker chair and pointed opposite.

  "Take a seat, Lev Borisovich," he offered, slightly stumbling on my patronymic.

  "Just Lev."

  "If you say so." And the investigator extended a hand. "Thomas."

  "Thomas, what is happening?"

  "One minute," Smith stopped me and called out to the restaurant owner: "Luigi! Did you hear anything unusual last night?"

  "Did I ever!" the fat man came out to us. "It was quaking so hard my plates were falling off the shelves. You must have seen it, right next to here, where there used to be a bald patch, there's a hole in the earth. It was an earthquake, I'd stake my life on it!"

  "Thank you, Luigi!" the investigator let him go and turned to me: "What do you say?"

  "They planted dynamite?" I forwarded.

  "In the very worst place," Thomas Smith nodded. "Digging up the cave-in is no problem. But pumping out the water is gonna take a few days. And that's the best-case scenario, if they manage to divert the water."

  "And if the passage collapses in another place," I sighed.

  Just then, the coffee came out, along with cream and a whole plate of hot sweet-rolls.

  "The best pastries in town!" Smith declared authoritatively.

  But I wasn't in the mood for rolls, and asked to be brought a rum baba.

  "Make it two, if you can!"

  "You like sweets?"

  "Intensely."

  The investigator jumped forward:

  "Well, I like to get what's mine."

  "And what's stopping you?" I asked, pouring cream into my cup of coffee. "If you have clues, act on them!"

  "Beyond the agency," Thomas Smith frowned, "after the discovery of the flooded corridor, I sent a telegram to the ministry of colonial affairs. My mistake, I'll never forgive myself."

  "And why's that?"

  "They got all spooked and ruined everything." The investigator finished his coffee, squinted with an air of genius then took a roll. "The local police got an order to conduct a search of the amphitheater, which came to naught." Nothing suspicious was found. Not in the blueprints and not in the search of the basements.

  "So what’s the tragedy?"

  "The tragedy is that Malone was enraged and brought out all his connections to figure out who threw a spanner into the works. I cannot accuse the head of police. In an attack of righteous anger, that moneybag is truly frightening." Thomas sighed. "All in all, I've been dismissed. Given a boot in the ass! Fired without severance or even so much as a letter of recommendation."

  I took a look at the self-propelled carriage.

  "But they let you keep the Model-T?"

  "Don't be so suspicious, Lev!" the investigator laughed unhappily. "The Ford belongs to me. Malone just paid for it to be delivered across the ocean."

  "And what about the way back?"

  "Ah poppycock!" Thomas waved it off. "I'll sell it here. It’s worth more than back home, anyway. And don't look at me like that, we're a nation of salesmen!"

  Hearing him refer to the American colonials as a “nation” left an unsavory echo in my ear, but I was more bothered by something else. Now, with the investigator’s backstory upended, I had no way of putting him against the w
all, but he had me easily. And he was obviously planning to use that right now.

  The investigator took a bite of his bun, sipped cautiously at his hot coffee and winced.

  "I botched the investigation, now I wouldn’t even be able to get near the amphitheater if I had a brigade of cannons. In the mayor's office, I was given a list of buildings with electric lighting, but the elevator could have been drawing power from the underground cable. The police began searching all privately-owned homes, but there are so many out-of-towners here right now that checking will take a whole week."

  "And if you follow the cable from the distribution station?"

  "It's all sealed. And the nearest competent electrician might as well live in the capital. In any case, finding the underground room won't help. We'll hit the collapse," Smith sighed, "and no one will let us totally shut the power down."

  I cut off a piece of the rum baba with a spoon, popped it in my mouth and nodded.

  "They will not."

  The desert was wonderful. There was no less rum in it than dough, but the confection brought me no joy now.

  "You know what I need?" Thomas Smith looked tenaciously at me. "I need an inside man in Malone's circle."

  "Got anyone in mind?"

  "You," the investigator answered bluntly. "This evening, there will be a private reception in the amphitheater, and I need you to get in."

  "Oh, you need me?" I squinted.

  "That’s right, I need you to get in," Smith repeated confidently, entirely resolute. "It will help you avoid serious problems. Believe you me."

  I finished the first rum baba, wiped my lips with a napkin and told him calmly:

  "I’ve never been one to trust people."

  "You should work on that," the investigator advised. "You've been called to the police, right? If you want to stay out of prison, do as I say." And he took the last bun from the plate.

  I felt like picking up my dish and whipping it full force at the scoundrel's impudent face. I barely held back. I'll be frank – I only managed because I remembered the man's unbelievable reaction speed.

  "Again!" I drew out with disgust, sitting back in the chair and adopting a more formal manner. "Are you saying you’d tell them I broke into the Maxwell manor? Nothing will come of that."