The Fallen (The Sublime Electricity Book #3)

by Pavel Kornev

  "No," Thomas Smith answered with a blinding smile. "As for the Maxwell manor, you and I have an understanding, and I always keep my word. I'm talking about the murder. As far as I know, they're planning to arrest you before all the facts of the case are straightened out."

  "What murder?" I got on edge, but immediately waved it off: "No, damn you! I don't want to know! Did you set this up?"

  "Oh, come now! Don't make me into a monster!" The investigator objected. "But still, I could help you out or I could simply let this run its course. It all depends on your willingness to work with me."

  "Who died?"

  "Do you agree to be my eyes and ears?"

  I thought over my options for a little while, then asked him annoyedly:

  "How am I supposed to get into the private reception?"

  "You know the Marquess Montague. Think something up. It's in your best interest."

  "Alright, then. Who died?"

  The investigator took a notepad and pencil from his pocket, extended it to me and demanded:

  "Write that you voluntarily agree to work as my assistant."

  I chuckled:

  "Why? A mere piece of paper is worthless!"

  Thomas Smith winced:

  "Lev! I'm intending to help you out with the head of the police. I need a basis for that. A signed paper will do just fine."

  I took the pencil, started writing my agreement and asked:

  "Who died?"

  "Some Indian," the investigator shrugged his shoulders. "They say you were looking for him. Don't think you could illuminate me as to why?"

  "An Indian?" I tried to hide the shiver coming over me. "If it's the man I'm thinking of, he poisoned me in a cabaret."

  "Did you find him?"

  "Was his skull split, or his neck twisted?"

  "He was strangled."

  I jerked the notepad over to the other side of the table.

  "So, you’ve already answered your own question."

  Thomas touched the bump on his forehead and winced in pain.

  "I have, yes," he snorted, getting up from the table and walking into the cafe to pay. He soon returned and walked over to his self-propelled carriage. "Let's hurry, Lev! We have a lot to do! We can come to an agreement on the way."

  I sat next to him and asked:

  "What do you want from me?"

  "Search every nook and cranny in the amphitheater. Find at least one clue. A weapon, explosives, whatever. And chin up. At the end of the day, we're talking about the life of the heiress to the throne!"

  "Why do you wear the lenses?" I asked. It was a tactless question, but seeing his reaction to it gave me a certain vengeful satisfaction. And he became afraid. I distinctly sensed that he was afraid.

  "Why?"

  "Yes, why? There's no more need for such secrecy."

  Thomas Smith didn't answer and turned off onto a lively boulevard. His self-propelled carriage shook on the paving stones and I could no longer converse. I had already decided that I had stepped on a real sore spot and would never be getting an answer, but it turned out I was wrong.

  "Do you know what it means to be illustrious in the New World?" the investigator suddenly inquired.

  "What's the difference where one is illustrious?" I didn't understand.

  "If you're rich, there's no difference. All doors are open to you. But if you cannot boast of a six-figure fortune, then your fate is… unenviable. It's like being colored. Or even worse. At least the colored have their own communities. Some places they can feel at home. Illustrious are out of place no matter where they go. We're a holdover from a dying epoch, a reminder of the past. There's no place for us in the world of steam and electricity."

  "I've never heard of anything like that," I admitted.

  "In the New World, we’re trying to build the ideal society. The society of the future. But it is often a good deal more unbearable than old-lady Europe. To many, the power of the Empress is naught but a burden. Edison himself is among them. They don't understand that one must never rush things, that progress must be gradual, and that revolutions devour their parents. When society progresses, time begins to run faster. It is the dull minded that tend to rush into things, not thinking through a strategy, or following a well-conceived plan."

  I looked sidelong at the man and decided to hold back from further interrogation.

  The police headquarters was located in a small two-story mansion not far from the center. One side had a carriage-house attached to it, and the other had a gloomy barracks with preliminary detention chambers. The basement housed a morgue. Though I cannot speak for my companion, I immediately detected the smell of formaldehyde. At least it didn't smell of rotting flesh.

  Thomas Smith accompanied me to the detective's office and, when he offered me a seat, he didn't leave, but stayed standing behind me. The policeman in a wrinkled shirt with a revolver on his shoulder holster glanced at him with clear annoyance, but held back and extended a sheet with remarks on the events of the previous day, already typed up on a printing machine.

  "Familiarize yourself and sign here," he demanded.

  I carefully studied the condensed version of my remarks, dipped the tip of a steel quill in a copper inkwell and placed my signature.

  "And now," the detective said, leaning his elbows on the table, "tell me the reason you were searching for a Mr. Akshay Roshan. We have evidence that a man meeting your description was asking about him at work and his last-known residence."

  "Roshan?" I asked and snapped my fingers. "The bartender from..."

  "The Three Lilies," the policeman hinted.

  "That's right! He mixed something into my lemonade. He was trying to drug me. Ask the owner of the bar, there have been other complaints about him."

  "And what did you do?"

  "I was planning to explain to him that doing such things wasn't right, but he quit and left his boarding house before I started searching for him."

  "Do you have an alibi for the time of his death?"

  "You mean he died?"

  "So, do you or don't you?"

  "Probably!" I threw up my hands in a care-free manner. "Just tell me what time you're asking about. I wasn't present at the man’s death and I have no idea when or how he died."

  The detective sighed and moved his gaze to the private detective who, in possession of a letter from the Ministry of Colonial Affairs, felt in charge of the situation and didn't hide that.

  "I'm sure this man is telling the truth," Thomas Smith smiled. "So then, if you don't have any more questions, we'll be on our way..."

  "You can go."

  I got up from the chair and asked:

  "Can I please have my passport back?"

  "What?" the detective asked in surprise.

  "Passport," I repeated. "I want my passport back."

  The policeman frowned, looked unkindly at the investigator and suggested we speak on the matter with the chief of police.

  "I will," Thomas Smith nodded and clarified: "I hope this will be all?"

  "All for now," the detective confirmed and warned: "Lev Borisovich, I order you to remain in the city for the remainder of the investigation."

  "Alright," I promised, left the office and held the investigator back: "So, what happened with my passport?"

  "Help me with the case, get your passport," he announced.

  "Excuse me?"

  "Well, look at how I helped you out!" Smith said unhappily. "If you can get to the reception today, we'll write it up as aiding the investigation. Otherwise, I won't have anything to take to my boss!"

  I frowned.

  "Alright," I agreed to the investigator's condition. "But also, get the report on discovering the Indian. I'm sure you can set that up."

  Thomas Smith glanced at me with unhidden surprise:

  "Why?!"

  "I want to make sure that I'm not accused of murder after we part ways."

  "Do you suffer from paranoia?"

  "So what if I do? Paranoia is no
t gonorrhea, it isn't infectious," I answered with a saying of a former colleague. "Just get the report. And also, where did they even find the body?"

  "Somewhere out of town. I didn't ask."

  "Then get the case materials, too."

  "What materials?! Think about it! An Indian was strangled! Who cares?"

  "Get everything there is," I demanded. "It won't be hard."

  "In the evening," the investigator promised. "You scratch my back, I scratch yours."

  "Agreed."

  "And give me back my pistol."

  "I left it at home," I lied.

  "Then let's go."

  "No time," I shook my head. "Take me to the estate of the Marquess Montague. The reception is this evening, but I'm not even on the guest list yet."

  Thomas Smith nodded:

  "Good. Putting business first."

  We didn't drive down the manor's driveway as not to start rumors. I got out of the self-propelled carriage at the gates, introduced myself to the guard and said that I'd come to call on the young lady.

  "Come in," allowed the strong man with a tropical tan burnt dead into his skin. "I was told to let you through if you showed up. And they already asked if I ever sent you away accidentally."

  I laughed and walked up the shady driveway to the mansion. The servant there also recognized me, took me to the second floor and knocked on Liliana's door.

  "Mademoiselle! You have company!"

  "Come in!" I heard from behind the door.

  As it turned out, Liliana had yet to leave her bed. Propped up on a mound of pillows, she was reading a book.

  "Not the most appropriate attire for attending guests," I noted, crossing the threshold.

  Lily pulled the sheet over her, covering her nightgown, and said in a weak voice:

  "Ah, come off it, Leo! I'm all broken up!"

  "But why?" I asked in surprise.

  Liliana set the book aside and objected:

  "What do you mean 'why?' Remember the horrible spiritualist seance? That poor man killed himself!"

  I stood at the window and advised her:

  "Forget about it."

  "Forget?" my sweetheart shivered nervously. "I'd be glad to, Leo. I'd be glad to. But it won't work. The harder I try to forget, the clearer the memory becomes."

  "And just what do you remember?" I started getting worried, having caught on an echo of her fear.

  "Kali was speaking through my mouth! The words tore themselves from me, regardless of my will. I really have been chosen by the goddess! What a horror!"

  "Chosen?" I laughed uncontrollably. "I implore you! This is nothing more than a simple attack of feminine hysteria."

  Liliana grabbed the book and flung it at me, but the cover opened, and the weighty little tome nose-dived onto the table, breaking a vase of flowers.

  "So that's what kind of person you are!" Liliana gasped.

  "What do you mean?" I asked, picking up the flowers. "Honest?"

  At that moment, the door opened without a knock and the Marquise entered. As usual, she held herself unnaturally upright, as if afraid to lose her balance and fall over. Liliana's mother looked at the mess and inquired:

  "And just what is going on here?"

  "Mom, he called me hysterical!" Lily complained.

  The Marquise walked over to the table and placed an opened envelope on a dry patch.

  "The Marquess and I have just received an invitation to the grand opening of the amphitheater. We’ve decided not to attend," she told me, looking at the flowers in my hands and saying calmly: "I'll send a servant at once."

  When the door closed behind her, I placed the roses on the table and sat down on Liliana's bed.

  "You know, English scientists recommend the most curious treatment for hysteria..."

  "And what might that be?" Lily inquired but, at that moment, a servant came into the room with a bucket and rag.

  "May I, Sir and Madam?" she asked permission to clean the water off the table.

  "Yes, of course!" Liliana allowed and repeated her question: "So then, what sort of treatment do they prescribe, Leo?"

  I bent down and whispered the answer in her ear. Lily sputtered with laughter.

  "And how often must the procedure be repeated?" she asked, digging into the details.

  "As often as the doctor is able," I smiled.

  "And would you perhaps be able to perform this... treatment?"

  "With the greatest of satisfaction," I assured Lily, fixing her tousled locks and sighing: "I'm just waiting for a good opportunity."

  "Leo, you're unbearable!" Liliana grew bored and pointed at the table. "Be a dear and hand me that envelope."

  I carried out her request, and she pulled out a fancily decorated invitation and bit on her lower lip in thought.

  "What are your plans for tonight?" she asked.

  "I was planning to spend it with you."

  "Sweet-talker!" Liliana objected. As soon as the servant girl left the room, she got up from the pillows and kissed me.

  I tried to embrace her and immediately caught a slap.

  "Don't do that, Leo. I still haven't forgiven you!"

  "And what for, if I may be so bold?"

  "You doubted the fact that I'm chosen!"

  "You know, Lily, there are some beings one should really stay away from."

  "I know, dear," the girl stroked my arm. "I know. Do you really think it's all a matter of simple fatigue?"

  "Fatigue and the aromatic candle. It should be capable of causing visions in overly perceptive individuals."

  "You meant to say hysterical!"

  "But I didn't."

  We fought, made up, discussed literature and portraits, then I looked at my timepiece and got up from the bed.

  "Ugh, I've got business to attend to."

  "I'll come get you at half past six," Liliana warned. "They're promising dirigible rides, can you imagine?"

  I winced internally, but didn't show it. I bowed to kiss her and promised:

  "I'll be expecting you. See you this evening."

  And I'd already reached the door when Liliana shouted out.

  "Hold on! How'd you get here? Did you take a cab?"

  "I got a ride."

  "I'll order a carriage to take you into town."

  I didn't refuse. The city really was a good distance away.

  I asked the coachman to let me out at the telegraph office. From there, I called Ramon, but my former co-worker had nothing to brighten my day. None of the servants who'd come with the Montague family from India, according to police records, was involved in anything criminal, and none of them had ever been under investigation.

  I ordered him to forget about the Indian bartender and go home. First, I walked around the square, looking for the place I'd seen the lit cigarette last night, and soon discovered several butts of the slimmest lady's cigarettes in the grass under one of the bushes. I was immediately reminded of Thomas Smith's camera assistant. It looked like she also was helping him on the case.

  I didn't stay in the apartments for long. I just took the satchel with the double-barrel pistol I'd snuck away from the investigator and headed off for a negotiation with Alexander Dyak. The inventor was defined by his extraordinary erudition. The trophy gun might say something to him that Thomas Smith and I had missed.

  The village, which began beyond the electric streetcar line, didn't make a particular impression. Dogs on chains yapped away lazily behind thick fences. The streets were colored by the spots left behind by housemaids dumping out wash basins. Barefoot children ran around shouting. Somewhere, a phonograph with a worn needle hissed away. I even started fearing that I was mistaken in having let the inventor stay here, but there was no cause for my alarm: the two-story mansion Dyak’s wing was part of had been remodeled recently, and the neighboring buildings also created an impression of stately decency.

  I politely bowed to a family renting a summer house in the yard, got up onto the veranda and knocked at the door of the
wing.

  "Come in!" rang out from inside.

  The clean mountain air was to the old man's benefit: the color had returned to his face and the cough, it seemed, wasn't bothering him anymore.

  "Leopold Borisovich!" the inventor threw up his arms as soon as I walked through the doorframe. "I was already preparing to declare a search for you!"

  "Who needs to search for me?" I chuckled, setting a bag of ginger snaps I'd picked up on the kitchen table. "Let's drink tea."

  "I knew you’d say that, so I’ve just made some fresh!"

  Over the tea and ginger snaps, I told Alexander about my recent adventures without particular hurry; he heard me out, not interrupting, then creased his high forehead.

  "Maxwell's death is a seven-seal mystery," Dyak said. "No one is certain of its true cause. There isn't even a unified opinion about whether he chose to move here, or was forced after a dispute with the Emperor."

  "And where his notorious demon went – is that also unknown?"

  "It is," the inventor nodded. "Do you suppose the demon may be imprisoned in the vault?"

  "Could that really be arranged?"

  Dyak laughed, coughing a few times and smiling.

  "Nothing is impossible in this world. A titanium chamber with a Faraday cage and electronic radiation generator could easily do such a job. Maxwell was a genius, you know."

  "And what, nothing's broken in all those years?" I winced skeptically. "There haven't even been any disruptions in the current from the power plant?"

  "Maybe there have been," the inventor threw up his hands, "but those iron cupboards – might those have been electric batteries? Theoretically, their charge could last long enough to tide the system over when the grid goes down. What I don't get is something else – why did they need to cut one of the cables, then separate the others."

  "Yes, I don't get that either."

  "And another thing." Alexander Dyak got up from the table and walked through the kitchen. "The electrification of the city is in full swing, but I haven't seen any mentions in the press about the power plant being given extra capabilities, or anything."

  "An interesting fact, but I don't know how it helps me."