by Pavel Kornev
The apparition didn't last long. My head sharply turned, and I woke up. The train rolled on, leaving gray wisps of smoke behind it, which quickly dispersed. But they did drift in the air for some time, their white ringlets forming a malicious grin. I didn't like that at all.
I turned and ran up the stairs. At first, I jumped two stairs at a time but, very soon, I was left short of breath, and felt an unbearable burning in my shot-through thigh. Then I reduced my pace as I met a throng of city-dwellers, who were in no rush down. I didn’t push or elbow.
Leaving the smoke-scented underground station, I frowned at the bright rays of the sun, put on my dark glasses and turned down one of the narrow streets of the neighborhood, which was dominated by three-story buildings. Young men, passing a papirosa cigarette in a circle, led their steadfast gazes over me, but didn't start anything. Either I looked like a local or didn't seem like easy prey.
I didn't care at all. There's little that can inspire self-confidence like a loaded revolver in one’s coat pocket and an intention to use it long before any situation could spin out of control.
Just as predicted, I was significantly in advance of Ramon Miro, so I dropped into a familiar snack shop with red and orange birds painted on the banner. However, what brought me to the Phoenix, which is what the locals called this establishment, was not a desire to reminisce about the good old days, but a banal sleepiness. My eyes were just sticking together.
"Coffee. Strong, black, no sugar." I asked in Russian. Then I started to unbutton my overcoat and clarified: "Got any hot food?"
The waiter stroked behind his ear with a pencil in thought and made a recommendation:
"How about some pelmeni or vareniki?"
"What else you got?"
"We could cook you up an omelet. And we have beef stroganoff. But it's from yesterday."
"Give me the beef stroganoff," I decided, sat at the table and threw the theater bag under my legs, which is where I'd also moved the Webley-Fosbery from my overcoat pocket. "Bring the coffee right away!"
The door flew open, and two disheveled lowlifes walked in, ordered a hundred grams of vodka and just one open-faced herring sandwich for the both of them. They drank down the swill, chased it with the food and headed off on their way.
People like that were how this establishment kept its head above water: the tap vodka was sold at three times normal prices, but alcohol stores opened later, and those suffering from morning hangovers had nowhere else to turn.
The coffee was strong and invigorating. My sleepiness retreated. My head cleared up. I turned to the window and tried to get my thoughts in order. The last few days had brought a whole stream of events. I wasn't planning my actions and hadn't even given them particular thought, just reacted to annoyances. So, I had quite a bit to think about.
The hired killer, losing control over my own gift, and the stubborn attention of my crown-bearing cousin. The harshness of these insurmountable circumstances made me feel tense. But there was no way to cut this Gordian knot with one decisive blow.
All I could do was methodically and circumstantially pull individual threads from the ball. First remove the gunman and his client from the game. Then determine the fate of Professor Berliger. If the department head had survived the fire, seek him out and figure out how to neutralize the effect of the electroconvulsive therapy.
And most importantly, not sleep.
I had no idea what Princess Anna wanted me to do, but I could be sure it wouldn't be easy.
The waiter brought my order, and although the beef in sour-cream sauce had been made the day before, it had a simply superlative flavor. Admittedly, I also ate the watery and gluey mashed potatoes to the last bite.
My strong appetite seemed to be a good sign. I drank the strong coffee in a few gulps and got up from the table.
"I'll be back soon," I warned the waiter, slipping him a bluish fiver.
I didn't take my overcoat from the rack, taking only my knapsack with me. At the exit from the snack shop, I didn't see anyone suspicious and hurried down a little alley that smelled of stale piss. I threw on the woolen coat, smoothed the shaggy beard on my face and pulled the formless hat down to my very eyes. I picked up a heavy knotted stick from the ground nearby to use as a crutch, so I could imitate a limping beggar.
The only thing that spoiled my tramp disguise were the new boots and expensive pants, but it was too late to do anything about that. I just had to hope the locals were unobservant.
IT TOOK ME five minutes to reach Hamilton Street and the same amount of time to come across the house I was seeking. There really were no numbers on the scratched-up walls but, on one of the slate-roofed buildings, I was lucky enough to make out a rusted plaque with the number three. And on the roof of the neighboring home, I discovered a green dovecote.
The front yard past the high stone fence was overgrown with cherry trees. There had once been gates separating the courtyard from the street, but they were long gone now. Next to the entrance was the dilapidated ruin of a guard post, its windows boarded up. Plenty of the house’s windows were boards up as well. It, however, was not abandoned. There was clothing drying on lines stretched between the trees, and one of the chimneys had smoke coming out. It smelled of fried fish and slightly burned porridge. I could hear a child crying from one of the apartments.
Tossing my gaze over the empty yard, I immediately took notice of a ramp down into a semi-basement next to the porch of the main entry. I walked straight for it with no fear. I was not afraid of falling into the killer's field of view for the simple reason that all the windows of his dwelling were boarded up. There were scraps of cloth shoved into the cracks between the boards.
The padlock on the basement door was not closed, which meant the tenant was home, but I decided not to be rash and waited for Ramon. I went down to the lowest step of the porch, covering my nice shoes by dropping my knapsack at my feet. I set the crutch on my knees.
The walls and fence kept the wind off me. The sun was shining. I felt warm and comfortable. Drowsiness crept up on me unnoticed. I was yawning recklessly but didn't want to stand to my feet. The building carried on living its own life, and I figured I’d attract less attention just loafing about.
I mean, who would care about some itinerant tramp?
A stout mother, with two snotty kids clenching her skirt, lumbered through the yard. She didn’t even glance in my direction. Some ancient old ladies rolled a cart of provisions for two through. They also paid me no mind. The only person who even seemed to see me was an ash-caked chimney-sweep, who asked me for a light before leaving the yard. And hhe was certainly a bit drunk. His gait was just too characteristic, reeling from side to side.
Then the door below gave a metallic clang.
Sean Lynch looked out onto the street and stared at me with surprise. But, fortunately, the killer’s colorless gray eyes didn't adapt to the bright sunlight quickly enough, and for the moment, I must have looked like a faceless silhouette cut out of black paper and shadows.
And I didn't miss that moment.
My knapsack hit him right in the bridge of the nose and the redheaded gunman flew back into the doorframe. I quickly jumped from the porch into the basement door. The killer, his nose broken, reached for his pistol but was too late again. The stick smacked him in the head at full speed and broke in two, and the Irishman was laid out on the floor senseless.
Taking a five-round pocket revolver and pen knife from the hired goon, I ran for the knapsack sitting on the steps, at the same time locking the front door. After that, I lit a gas lamp and got up to tear a sheet from his bed into long strips. I used the strips to bind the arms and legs of the Irishman to the armrests and legs of a massive armchair. Then, I really went all out and stuck an improvised gag into his mouth and blindfolded him.
Sean Lynch was illustrious, and I was not going to take any risks. Once again, everything went so smoothly that, whether I wanted to or not, a doubt crawled up on me that Ramon might have sent me
to the wrong man. I certainly didn’t want him to see my face before I was sure.
Taking a glass cup from the table, I placed it against the tip of Lynch's worn shoe, straightened up and took a look around. It was an elongated semi-basement with a vaulted ceiling, reminiscent of a shooting gallery. There were no internal partitions in it, only a door studded with a sheet of iron in the stout stone wall at the far end. It was adorned with a pair of complicated mortise locks.
I certainly didn't have the strength to break such locks, but I also didn't have to. There were keys clanking in Lynch’s inner jacket pocket. After unlocking the door, I glanced into the small den with wooden shelves along the walls that were impervious to sound, and immediately saw a tube case stuck in the corner. That was when my last doubts fell away.
I pulled a pump-reloading Colt brand carbine from the blueprint case. The steel barrel had been shortened by hand. On the end, there was a coupler linking it to a strange metallic cylinder. Just in case, I clanked the pump, grabbed the round that flew out off the floor and made certain that the weapon's caliber was right: thirty-two-twenty, Winchester.
Then I returned the carbine to the tube and opened the little case on the shelf. In it, I discovered an angular semi-automatic Webley-Scott 18-76 pistol. A cylinder of the same width as that on the rifle was attached to its barrel. The weapons smelled of powder char.
"What the devil?" I muttered quizzically and suddenly turned my attention to the shelf with the box with a flashy red label reading "Maxim," and a laconic explanation: "Exhaust Fume Silencer." On the iron-lidded cardboard tube I pulled it from, there was an even shorter description: "Maxim Silencer."
Exhaust fume silencer?
I unfolded the instructions, glanced at the description of the device, which was produced by the company of the famous weapons inventor Hiram Maxim, and very quickly figured out the design of the clever little thing. Just as advertised, it was a silencer.
There was nothing to explain the elastic rubber mask with glass eye-holes, a hose of rubberized canvas and tank of compressed air. But I had no doubt it was a breathing apparatus, and that it was what allowed hired goon to avoid discomfort from the acrid smoke. I was intrigued by the complex lens system that allowed a few pieces of glass to be inserted into the eyeholes at once. I placed the mask to my face and looked at the light. Everything looked somehow colorless and dull.
Then I removed the upper bluish gray lens from each eyehole. But before I managed to see if anything changed, I heard the sound of glass clinking from the main room. The Irishman had woken up and, trying to free himself, had unwittingly overturned the cup at his feet.
I walked over, squeezing my Webley-Scott in my left hand, and slammed it full-force into the killer's ear. My overly strong blow caused the goon to lose consciousness for a moment. His head swung down limp at his chest.
A miscalculation. It happens.
Suppressing a heavy sigh, I walked through the room with a rag, wiping down everything I had touched. I had to be sure not to leave fingerprints because I had no doubt that, in the very nearest time, this would be the scene of either mutilation or murder.
After eliminating the clues, I looked with doubt at the basement room and came to the dismal conclusion that it would be far too difficult to carry out a full interrogation here. Meanwhile, dragging Lynch into the armored vehicle was just about the worst idea one could imagine. All his neighbors would surely see.
I looked through Lynch’s things and found a pair of canvas gloves and a short crowbar. Then, I got up under the window opposite the entrance and broke the boards and dusty rags out of it. Some of the boards, which were nailed in from outside, were moldering. They were somewhat more difficult, but the result was worth it. Now, I could pull the Irishman out into the front yard at any moment without risking being seen by the other residents. All that remained was to wait for the armored vehicle.
Sean Lynch woke up before that.
He instantly spat out the gag, sniffled his broken nose and asked:
"Who sent you?"
The captive couldn't fully appreciate just how pitiable a situation he had landed himself in, and there was not yet the slightest hint of fear in his muffled voice. Did he want to negotiate?
Well, why not?
Lifting the fallen cup from the floor, I filled it with water and placed it to his lips. He drank his fill and repeated the question:
"Who sent you?"
I just laughed.
"Better you tell me who enlisted you to take out Leopold Orso."
"This must be a mistake!" the Irishman immediately started denying it.
"It's worse than a mistake," I said, enraged and throwing the empty cup full force at the wall. It broke into tiny fragments with a tinkling, and the killer was shaken, as if that sound was the cracking of his very own bones.
And fear. I felt his fear for the first time.
"Who hired you?" I hurried to build on my success, but the Irishman just spat blood under his feet and didn't answer.
Lynch's moment of weakness passed, his self-confidence returned, and an attack of rage rolled over me. It was so strong that I wanted unbearably to grab the killer by his swollen bleeding nose and turn it on its side.
Surprise helped me hold back. The rage was so pure that it filled me all the way to the brim, which hadn't happened for some time. Murdering the orderlies at the psychiatric clinic was objective necessity. I was forced to do it not by personal dislike, but cold calculation. When I had intimidated Professor Berliger, it was without my intrinsic bygone fire. I was just trying to shake my dormant talent awake a bit. But now...
Now, my only desire was to grab the Irishman by the Adam's apple and tear the damned thing out with one flick of my hand!
I screwed up my eyes and exhaled slowly. When I opened them again, the shadows in the far corner had grown thicker into a gloomy figure, enshrouded head to toe in an impenetrable robe. All black on black, all I could make out were two familiar eyes under the deep hood flickering with unkind flame.
"Give him to me!" the Beast demanded, standing behind the Irishman.
"I wouldn't think of it," I refused the albino. "There's no reason for you to be here."
"Bugger, Leo!" my imaginary friend got angry. "I'll disembowel him in one fell swoop!"
"Hey!" Sean Lynch was startled and turned his head from side to side. "Who are you talking to?!"
"Shut up!" I demanded and pointed my index finger at the albino. "Beat it! I've got this!"
"Open your eyes, boy!" the Beast shot back. Throwing the hood off his head, he hit me with a ghastly grin. "You don't have this! You're small potatoes! Nada! Without your talent, you're no one and nothing!"
I wanted to put a bullet between the eyes of the fanged bastard, but I held back.
"Stay back! I'll find the key to him yet!"
"You haven't got time!"
Sean Lynch laughed.
"I've got it! You're pretending to be a psycho to scare me? Well, it won't work!"
"We haven't even begun," the Beast grinned carnivorously, a rusty butcher's knife appearing in his large clawed hand as he pulled it out of the robe.
"Stay away from me!" I took a step back. The blade of the knife flickered with an electric spark.
The colorless skin of the albino lit up with the power unlocked from inside him, and a barely visible halo quivered around his head, like the corona of a black sun ready to blast out.
"Come now..." Lynch began, but I cut him off with a stinging blow from the back of my hand.
"Shut up!"
"Keep it up!" the Beast supported me. "Just start from the feet and go higher! And don't pussyfoot. Use the hammer!"
"Get lost!"
The albino shrugged his shoulders, walked back to the wall and dissolved in the shadows, just his ghastly grin remaining in the air for a moment.
"Are you mocking me?" I groaned.
The Beast instantly appeared again.
"No, boy. I'm not mocking you,"
he shook his head. "I'm pulling at the last threads! Tick-tock, Leo, tick-tock! Time is slipping away!"
And again, he disappeared in the shadows, this time for good.
I remembered my mother's favorite book, Alice's Adventures in Wonderland. I had also read it several dozen times. I gave a cold-blooded shrug. If my imaginary friend had been making visual reference to the Cheshire Cat, things really were as bad as could be.
But to hell with it! Now, I had to talk with the hired killer, and everything else could wait. I need to follow the plan.
"I need to follow the plan!" I said, voicing the thought and walking over to the stove and turning on the gas.
Sean Lynch grew clearly alarmed, but there was no reason to worry. I had just decided to put on some coffee. I filled a jezve with water, eyeballed a good dose of the black aromatic powder, and returned to my captive.
"Don't worry, Lynch," I smiled, standing opposite him. "I'm in my right mind. I got out of Gottlieb Burckhardt two days ago."
The Irishman just chuckled.
"And do you know how I got into the madhouse?" I asked. "It was all thanks to you, Sean. Do you remember the Roman Bridge? The very beginning of September..."
The killer shook his head.
"I don't remember..."
"You don't remember? Well, alright then!" I chuckled, walking over to the stove and turning off the gas. I poured the coffee into a mug with a chipped rim and paced the basement, looking attentively from side to side. "The thing I want to do now most of all is grab you by the neck and squeeze hard enough to mushroom your throat! It's a hereditary trait for me, you know. But I'm fighting it. After all, you're a simple tool, Lynch, but I need your client. Who is he? Tell me and this will all be over. One of my grandmas was Irish. At the end of the day, we should be on the same side."
The killer's face went pale, but it didn't have any effect on his determination.
"I don't remember!" he said stubbornly.
