by Pavel Kornev
"Lev, help!" he called, opening a trunk strapped to the back.
"Passport!" I reminded him. "First give me back my passport!"
Thomas cursed out in annoyance, but didn't put up a fight. He gave me back my documents and threw back the lid of the trunk.
"Help!" he demanded.
I glanced inside and whistled.
There was a portable Hotchkiss. The machinegun was equipped with an optical sight, a wooden stock and a pistol grip with folding stand. It was fed by a stiff belt-magazine.
The investigator put the box with the gun up on his shoulder and went down a barely visible path into the bushes at the top of the hill. I went after him with the machine gun.
Standing under the trees on the top of the hill, Thomas Smith emptied the box of rounds onto the grass, called out and joined us. His assistant had a sniper rifle and a pair of binoculars hanging off her neck.
"And?" Smith asked, taking the rifle from the girl. Its scope was almost half as long as the barrel.
"The target is on site. The police have yet to arrive. The architect came this morning, but he's already left," the brunette relayed with military precision.
"Servants?"
"In the building."
I couldn't hold back and flared up:
"Thomas, what do you need me here for?"
"I'm the sniper," the investigator replied, throwing a rifle strap over his shoulder and pointing to the assistant. "She's the lookout. And you're our ambush irregular. Can you handle a machine gun?"
A sigh of bitterness tore itself from me.
"What's wrong?" the investigator frowned.
"You couldn't have warned me to dress a bit more plainly? Do you have any idea how hard it is to wash grass stains out of light fabric?!"
Smith waved a hand to his assistant and she pulled two bolts of canvas from the bushes.
"Can you handle this kind of machine gun, or do you need it explained?" the investigator repeated his question.
"I'll manage," I mumbled out, removing my jacket and hanging it on a dried-out bough.
Thomas Smith noticed the Colt tucked behind my belt and demanded:
"And give the pistol back."
"Hell no!" I snorted. "You're getting paid for this, but I'm supposed to cover your ass for free?"
"Who was helping you with the police?"
"And I came here to give you backup, didn’t I?"
"To hell with you, drop it!" Smith allowed, looking at the clock and hurrying me: "Get ready, the constables are just arriving."
I looked mechanically at my timepiece – it was seven minutes to ten. The arrest was unlikely to take much time, but there was plenty before the gala-concert. If only...
"Listen, Thomas, is the concert also canceled?"
"Now, judge for yourself. Who would cancel the most anticipated cultural event of the year just because its main sponsor was arrested. Art is also a business. Nothing personal."
I nodded, poking out cautiously from behind the bushes and looking around. The villa was spread out before me from here. I could see not only the small service road, but also the whole way to the fence before the nearest trees. And that was fifty meters, if not more. It would be rare luck that could help someone cross it under machine-gun fire. And also, the investigator created the impression of an experienced shot.
I unfolded the canvas over the grass under a bush and got the Hotchkiss into position, unfolding the bipod, sticking it into the ground and turning the machine gun from side to side. After that, I pulled the box of rounds over, threw back the lid and placed a thirty-round cassette into a slit on the right side of the barrel box. I cocked the shutter and turned a knob, placing it on automatic, all while hunched over so as not to stand out against the bushes.
After that, I pulled back the sleeves of my shirt, winced internally and laid down on the canvas. To hell with my suit, business is business.
"What an intriguing tattoo," Thomas Smith noted thoughtfully, having seen the cross bracelet peeking up from under my sleeves. "It would stand out as a distinguishing feature in any dossier."
"I have nothing to fear," I mumbled out, removing my dark glasses. The stock braced against my shoulder, I looked into the optical sight of the machine gun. "How's it sighted?"
"At this distance, you won't have to make any corrections."
"I hope you're right."
"They're coming!" said the investigator's assistant.
I had already heard the hysterical chirping of a powder engine. Soon, a police armored vehicle crawled out from behind the hill, two horse-drawn carriages rolling behind.
"The horse-drawn circus," Thomas sighed, setting the foregrip of the rifle on the trunk of the fallen tree that served as his cover.
I looked over the column in my sights and was forced to agree with the investigator. The provincial police in their huge armored cuirasses and outdated helmets really were ungainly. Their main trump card looked to be the armored-vehicle's machine gun, but that wasn't exactly sure to go smoothly: instead of the normal high-caliber Gatling gun, the roof tower was equipped with a Maxim gun.
"And now, the fun starts," Thomas Smith whispered and loudly exhaled, calming his breathing.
The column drove up to the villa gates and stopped. The constables got out of the carriage with rifles in their hands. There were no more than ten of them. I shifted my gaze to the three-story villa with marble columns on its facade and stucco on the molding. Some of the curtains were drawn, and no one could be seen through any of the open windows.
A skittish guard hurriedly unlocked the gates. The armored car's motor roared and drove through. The horse carriages remained outside. The constables standing along the stone fence didn't go running after them, though. Surprised staff, clearly locals, started coming out of the carriage house and stables. A uniformed detective waved his arm and directed them off the property, then walked across the yard after them on his stiff legs.
I even felt a bit of pity for the bobby. Not so very long ago, I could easily have been in his place.
"Back door, idiots!" Thomas Smith moaned, but his fear was misplaced: four constables, bending under the heft of their body armor, were running along the fence to the back gate.
The detective walked up to the entrance and rang the bell. No one opened. He rang the bell a second time, knocked, then leaned right into it a few times with his leg.
Smith tore himself from the sight and looked at his assistant.
"No one has left the building!" she hurried to assure the investigator.
"Very interesting," he grumbled.
The uniformed policeman shouted something. A gust of wind reduced the command to a fragment, and the armored vehicle immediately started off. To the rattle of the powder engine, it drove up to the villa. The back of the vehicle flew open. A few constables hopped out carrying a log. Holding onto the battering ram by the iron clamps driven into it, they were all swinging as one. And from the very first strike, they burst in the door.
From the fence, heavily lumbering as they ran, the police started marching forward with their rifles in horizontal position. One uniformed detective couldn’t wait and, revolver in hand, walked fearlessly over the threshold. A few seconds later, though, he flew out like a shot and started coughing.
"What the heck are they doing?" Thomas Smith frowned when the constables evaluated the building. The detective took a seat on the armored vehicle running board and lit a cigarette.
"Something isn't right," I snorted, tearing myself away from the machine gun.
"No one has come out! I swear!" the assistant was stuck.
The investigator cursed out, set the rifle on the canvas and stood to his feet.
"Wait here," he ordered and started climbing over the bushes to the path coming down from the hill.
"Should we wait long?" I shouted after him.
The investigator just waved it off.
The police, meanwhile, weren't even considering entering the mansion. They knocked o
ut the windows of the first story and split up. One of the coachmen got a note from a detective, turned the horse carriage around and started off into town.
I looked at my timepiece and cursed soundlessly. Getting paid in cash is good because then the rate is agreed on in advance. With quid pro quo – the terms are just too blurred. And now I'd have to spend a whole day at the mercy of this man? Any day but today!
But then, a familiar Ford Model-T drove around the bend. The police at the gates blocked the self-propelled carriage's path, and the investigator had to walk into the yard. There, Smith exchanged a few words with the lead detective – based on Smith’s active gesticulation, he wasn't ashamed to use harsh language. After a brief chat, he walked in but immediately jumped out just as quickly as the man before him.
When Thomas was back in his self-propelled carriage, starting it up, I smoothed the sleeves of my shirt, donned my jacket and started unloading the machine gun.
"Hey, Mister, where are you going?" the brunette was startled.
"Down," I said shortly, loading the box of rounds on my left shoulder. With my right hand, I grabbed the machine gun and headed toward the carriage house, which is where Thomas had first stopped.
And that was where I ran into him.
"Has he arrived yet?" Smith winced, getting out from behind the wheel and throwing back the lid of the trunk. "Put that away."
"What about Malone?" I asked, getting rid of my weapon.
"Dead," Smith answered laconically and whistled, calling his assistant over.
"And?" I threw out, hinting at a continuation.
"And case closed. Finally and irrevocably. Ideal, really. I can sell this bone-shaker and go back home." The investigator patted the hood of the Ford Model T. "You wouldn't happen to be in the market, would you?"
I did not, in fact, have any need for the self-propelled carriage. What I needed were details.
"What happened to Malone?"
"Suicide. Defective gas tank with poisoned gas. It's all a mere lack of caution, really. I say leave it for the local cops to investigate. The coroner is already on his way."
I rubbed my chin in thought.
"But the tanks in the amphitheater had sleeping gas, not poison, right?"
"True," the investigator confirmed, taking the rifle from the assistant coming down from the hill, and sticking it in the trunk as well. "But now, that doesn't matter one bit."
"And you're sure Malone is dead?"
"As a doornail, my good man. I saw his corpse in the entryway," Smith said with a shrug of his shoulders, getting behind the wheel. "And what do you care?"
"It's all very strange," I shrugged. "Are we even now?"
"We're even."
And we drove into town.
Like true a true gentleman, I gave up my seat to the lady, and spent the whole trip standing on a sideboard and holding the roof. My suit got dusty, but not too much.
Thomas Smith offered to take me home. I asked him to drop me off at the Three Lilies instead.
"Give me back the Colt," the investigator demanded yet again.
"Tomorrow," I promised.
"Tomorrow, I won't be here."
"Then come by in the evening," I suggested and waved a hand. "Alright then, ta-ta!"
My eye was caught by the manager, who was walking to the back door. I caught up to him in the alley and pressed him to the wall.
"Not a sound!" I demanded, pulling out the Colt stuck into my belt.
The entertainer's eyes grew round and he squealed:
"Take my wallet and watch! Just don't kill me!"
"Shut up!" I said, giving him a light jab with my free hand. "Just answer my questions and you won’t be harmed. Got it? Nod if you understand."
The entertainer nodded.
"Who came to talk to you about Black Lily's performance at the gala-concert?"
"How do you..."
"Who?!"
"The director! Ruber is his name!"
"Who was there at the negotiation?"
"Just Ruber."
"Who else did you tell about it?"
"No one! It was pretty decent money! The creditors would have been circling instantly!"
I put the pistol back in my belt, let the manager go and even fixed the rumpled collar of his jacket.
"How did you tell them she refused?" I asked after that.
The entertainer briefly considered it, then said unconfidently:
"He came for the answer himself, sitting in the bar and drinking." I lowered down and said: "well, they say it’s all been of no use. Black Lily is done performing."
"I’ve heard that before..."
"And soon, that fact will become public knowledge!"
"I get it, everything is clear." I winced and warned him: "Not a word to anyone about this conversation, got it?"
The entertainer nodded. I slapped him on the shoulder and headed home.
I had no hope of catching Liliana still at my house. And I was right to think so. Even from the gate, I could see a note tucked into the door. I unfolded it with an ill presentiment, but no – it was a telegram from Ramon Miro. He was asking me to call him immediately.
Without going inside, I turned around and hurried to the telegraph office. Although at first, the streets of the vacation town had seemed uncommonly confusing, and the city itself had intimidated me with its size, over the previous three days, the distances had shrunk down like pebbled leather. No matter where I went, everything was close. Practically at hand's reach. And so it was with the telegraph office – it didn't even take me five minutes to reach my destination.
I immediately ordered a phone call to New Babylon and spent a few minutes wavering in onerous anticipation, waiting for a phone to open up. And when I was invited into a booth, I quickly took the phone it off the hook and, to the crackling of distortion, I heard:
"Leo, is that you?"
"Yes, speak!"
"Your mime goes by the name Roman Grandier, probably an Irish Gypsy. A year ago, he was detained on a request from London, but got away without being charged. Before his arrest, he was performing tricks in second-rate circuses. After getting free, he moved to Montecalida, and was never again suspected of any illegal activity."
I thought over what I'd heard and sighed.
"I'm not sure it will help, but thank you, Ramon. You've earned your keep."
"Leo! Leo!" my former coworker called out. "That isn't all!"
"Speak!"
"Grandier was suspected of supporting Irish nationalists, so his case was handed over to Department Three. He spent all that time in one of their prisons."
Department Three handled foreign spies, home-grown separatists, religious fanatics and malefics, so their arrestees were kept separate from normal criminals in specially guarded casemates in the Newton-Markt.
"And do you know who he shared a cell with?" Ramon asked.
"Speak!" I barked out, causing an old lady that walked past the phone booth to shudder.
"He shared a cell with Marlini!"
Maestro Marlini concerned himself with, as he put it, "scientific" hypnosis and had so fully mastered the art of manipulating human consciousness that he'd once managed to steal the secret formula for a state-of-the-art aluminum alloy used in dirigible construction. In the end, he was arrested and charged with working for Egyptian spies, but his case had never reached court. The crime involved the daughter of the inspector general of the metropolitan police, but the hypnotist himself admitted everything and gave up all of Alexandria's agents he was aware of.
"Holy shit!" I couldn't hold back. "Are you sure?"
"I found out from a jailer," Ramon confirmed. "He told me the two became fast friends."
"Curses!" I hissed out.
Maestro Marlini had a tooth for me, because I was the very man who had led to his arrest. And that fact explained, if not everything, then quite a great deal. The unbelievable tricks of the wordless mime – that was now for certain. The hypnotist could force people to bel
ieve in anything.
"Ramon!" I started hurrying him on. "Grandier is on the Department Three rolls, which means their card library must have his address. Can you find it out?"
"I already have!" my former partner laughed. "But it will cost you another two hundred."
"No problem, just tell me!" I demanded, getting out a notepad.
I wrote down the street, house and apartment number, thanked Ramon and jumped headlong out of the booth. At the exit, I asked the clerk how far it was from here to the address I'd just been given. As it turned out – not very. I barely even had to go out of my way to drop into my place on the way.
As I walked, I tried to put all the fragments I had into one picture, but couldn’t get very far. It was only clear that Marlini's involvement in this case was key. It simply could not be a mere coincidence that the attempt on my life happened on the outskirts of a town where that scoundrel's former cellmate had found lodging. And finding lodging was hardly all he'd done here! The cabaret, the spiritualist seance, the amphitheater – time and again, the mime had been leading me to this or that decision.
But why?! Why the devil would he want to do that?
Revenge? Revenge would be hiring a secret assassin from the orchestra pit, but even the hypnotist, so caught up in manipulating people, wouldn't fall back on such primitive intrigues. All of that had a certain hidden meaning. I was intending to figure out what that was exactly by the simplest and most effective method – brute force.
Often, it is easier to break a clever man's nose than to play by his rules. It's extremely challenging to trick someone when no one is listening to you, and the spirit is beaten out of everyone you catch up to.
Harsh? What else could I have done? Life is a fairly harsh mistress.
After figuring out that it wouldn't take much longer for me to lose control of myself, I stood a bit longer at the gate, took a few deep breaths and walked across the yard.
