by Pavel Kornev
"A werebeast who can control his animal nature at any time, regardless of the phase of the moon," I answered.
"Is that possible?"
"Naturally."
Ramon rubbed his chin thoughtfully.
"Let's say you're right..."
"I am right; there's no 'let's say' about it!" I cut him off. "The wounds from the first corpse are completely the same as those from our murderer."
"You didn't see the first corpse."
"There's enough written here."
The constable had grown tired of arguing with me. He looked at his watch and asked me a question point-blank:
"Even if you're right, what does that give us?"
"We can track the murderer."
Ramon laughed uncontrollably.
"A tall thin lefty, perhaps an out-of-towner? In New Babylon? Leo, that's still the same as trying to find a coin by turning over rocks on the sea shore! We'll have to interview millions of people!"
"Not at all," I objected calmly. "Tell me, what do you see in this picture?"
The constable took the paper, looked at it for some time, then suggested:
"A back alley?" But immediately corrected himself: "Blood?"
"That's right!" I confirmed. "The murderer couldn't have avoided getting covered in it from head to toe. You can't seriously suppose he walked down the street like that, right?"
"It was late at night," Ramon mumbled, "there wouldn't have been anywhere open to buy new clothes. But the park was right next to it. He could have cleaned his clothes there."
"In dirty water with no soap?" I dropped a hint of doubt, thought over his supposition and nodded. "Yes, he could have. But I doubt he had enough restraint for that."
"Do you think he was afraid of being caught?"
"Wouldn't you have been in his place? An ugly murder, bloody footprints leading to the park. Slinking through the bushes would be the logical move, right? The werebeast couldn't have known exactly when the body would be discovered. He was in a rush."
"I'll allow it. But can you imagine how many people they'll have to interview? And actually, re-interview! Do you think we'll be able to find anyone who the investigators haven't already gotten to?"
"The investigators simply didn't know who to look for or what to ask," I declared.
Ramon finished his wine and chuckled:
"But you do?"
"Hunger and pain," I said and repeated: "Hunger and pain."
"Hunger?" the constable squinted, remembering my tale about the slaughter in Levinson's house. "The bite marks on the governess?"
"That's right. Staying at the crime scene was very dangerous, but he murderer didn't only wash the blood off himself, which is logical, but also had a bite to eat. He was overcome with hunger. Something in his nature was tormenting him.
Werebeasts do not often experience a particular desire for human meat, unless they’re reminiscing. They simply want to eat and are not very picky about what."
"I believe you," Ramon sighed. "So, what you’re saying is that he must have disrobed prior to the Levinson murder, cleaned himself off afterward, then gotten redressed? Are you saying his experience in the park taught him to do that?"
"That would fit my theory, yes."
"Alright, and the pain?"
"Turning into an animal and back is always painful. At full moon, the pain is weaker. With a new moon, the pain is simply unimaginable. If the werebeast is not carrying a dose of morphine with him, which I very much doubt, there is only one way to reduce his sensitivity: drinking."
"How do you know that?"
"I just do."
"You think we should search the drunks and booze-hounds?" The constable stood from the table and took the bag containing his uniform from the floor.
I got up after him, paid and grabbed the newspaper.
"Ramon, listen!" I stated, chasing my friend into the doorway. "We just need to go on a little pub crawl near the crime scene. The investigators can hardly have spent much time searching the snack shops, because any normal murderer would rush to get as far from the crime scene as possible."
"Alright," the constable gave in, "we'll go and ask. What a bugger it is to pound the pavement until the dead of night, though."
"Just make sure you get an agreement on the lupara."
"Without fail," Ramon promised. "I wouldn't come near that creature without my lupara. I’ll need a tenner from you, though."
We agreed to meet at six in the evening at the entrance to the Emperor's Park nearest the crime scene, and Ramon Miro went off to work. I accompanied him with a thoughtful gaze and checked the contents of my wallet.
If we couldn’t catch the murderer very soon, we'd have to start begging.
Or robbing banks.
It should be said that I was now feeling significantly more open to that idea...
I DIDN'T JUST IDLE ABOUT waiting for evening, though. To start, I circled the crime scene a few times at different radiuses, then I noted the exits from the park and asked some local boys the address of all taverns, bars, coffee shops and snack shops in the area that were open late. I also inquired about hotels and tenements.
My beat started at the nearest drinking establishments, and as expected, I didn't figure out anything interesting. No one could recall a tall, limping lefty, though every other person did bring up the recent murder, the intrusive newspapermen and the policemen who'd flooded the area.
When I was a child, my father would often say that a wolf is fed by his legs; I remembered that saying more than once while working as a constable, but today I felt it in my bones.
Now, a private detective, there's someone who really gets fed by his legs.
Walk, walk and walk some more.
And also, ask questions.
"Hello! Have you seen a tall thin man in dirty or wet clothing in the last few days? He might have been drinking a lot, and ordering food with it. He would have been dining alone. Why am I asking? I am a private investigator, here's my license. He's a troublemaker who had a disagreement with a client of mine and ended up beating him up. Right in the park, can you imagine? You don't remember him? Are you sure? He is a lefty, maybe that’ll jog your memory? Friday, he smelled strongly of liquor. No, he wasn't here? Do you have any idea where such people might be found? Just a moment, I'll write it down."
And I hit the street once again. And the streets were simply seething. In the morning, still no one knew a thing, and in the second half of the day, the new papers came out, and on every corner, all I heard was the same: "Extra! Extra! Procrustes' next vile deed! Slaughter in the Judean Quarter! Dozens killed! Bodies ripped to pieces!"
I winced in pain and walked from one pub to the next. Without a cane, my injured leg would have long ago given out once and for all. After these few hours wandering the sett-paved alleys, I wanted just one thing: to sit somewhere and gather my strength.
But there was no time left for such a thing; I had to go meet Ramon now.
When I got to the agreed-upon place, the constable was sitting on a bench, lupara over his knees, watching the people leave the park. Twilight was growing denser, and the street traders were gradually starting to pack in their goods.
I bought a glass of carbonated water with syrup and wet my dried-out throat, then took a seat next to my partner and took a breath of relief. My legs were still shaking.
"I'm burned out. I haven't got any strength left," I complained to Ramon, handing him the map. "You can see here the streets I've already covered."
The constable evaluated the work I'd done and asked:
"Not a shred of information?"
"Not a one," I confirmed.
"I talked with our guys there," Ramon stated thoughtfully. "They say no one felt pity for the murder victim. He was the total package: morphine dealer, street mugger, and a he liked to stab people. How he ended up in that neighborhood, no one knows."
"What else did they say?"
"That they released bloodhounds to track him down
, but it was the day after the crime. The dogs could only track him to the ponds."
"What ponds?" I wondered, finding the place on the map and nodding. "Ah, I see."
"They found the place there where the killer washed the blood off his clothes. They were also able to make a cast of a boot imprint. You were right, based on the size of his shoe and his gait length, the killer is very tall. But the most interesting part wasn't that: the shoe print is characteristic of tennis shoes, a huge fashion craze in the New World right now."
"Is that so?" I thought and told my friend the story I'd been feeding the pub owners and waiters.
Ramon frowned.
"That won't work."
"Why not?"
"No one will give up a client to an investigator if he paid his bill and left a tip. At the very least, they won't strain their memory. Inspector White always said: if you want to find something out, make people want to help you."
"Easy for you to say!"
"The killer is very tall, so are you. Maybe you're relatives?"
I squirmed.
"Don't joke about that!"
"So, you're relatives," Ramon Miro continued pushing his story. "Your Uncle came from the New World and disappeared. Or better yet, not your uncle, your cousin. That sounds more likely."
I nodded.
"That could work," I decided, having thought over the proposition from all sides. "My cousin suffers from a predilection for alcohol, and a mutual acquaintance of ours saw him a few days ago in the Emperor's Park, where he was flopping off overpasses into the water for public amusement."
The constable stood from the bench and tossed his lupara up onto his shoulder.
"I suggest we start from the gates nearest the ponds," he suggested.
I had no objections to that, so we went on our way.
DO YOU THINK LUCK came with us? Hell no! Looking for a person in New Babylon was like looking for a needle in a haystack with no matches, sieves or magnets. All the police of the metropolis should have had plenty of time to track down this already-known criminal; that was to say nothing about us two amateurs, without even a sketch of the suspect!
A tall, thin lefty. A dirty, hard-drinking glutton. New World.
That was all we had at the beginning. And it was also all we had now.
"Why don't we just say screw it to the whole thing, eh?" Ramon Miro frowned dolefully after four hours of unproductive wandering around the fleshpot district.
"Can you really afford to say 'screw it' to three thousand francs?" I snorted, though I was on the verge of giving up myself given how tired my legs were.
"We'll search this block and basta!" the constable decided. "I still need to hand in my uniform. It's my last day of work, or have you forgotten?"
I hadn't had particular hope of finding the werebeast today from the very beginning, but the chance of finding our man on Saturday night was as high as it would ever be, so I corrected my friend:
"This block and the next. There's still two hours until midnight."
"To hell with you," Ramon relented and pointed at the banner of a place called the Danube Rose. "Shall we go in?"
I walked the three stairs down, flung open the door and took a step into the garden-level room, bathed in the dull glow of kerosene lamps. I smelled the appetizing aroma of unfamiliar cookery. My stomach immediately gave a groan, and my mouth started watering.
As if to indicate the excellent quality of the cuisine, there were no seats in the snack shop whatsoever. There were black-haired middle-aged men sitting at all the tables. They were eating dinner unhurriedly, drinking and discussing away in some guttural language or another.
Magyars or Romanians?
I tried to stop the server boy, but he just turned his head and ran away, bending under the weight of the plates piled on his tray. I walked up to the bar. A chef looked out of the kitchen and threw up his hands in embarrassment; he couldn't understand me. Or he was pretending he couldn't.
In places like this, they didn’t talk to police, private investigators, or any other strangers. In places like this, they didn’t like outsiders sticking their nose into the business of their little society. And it didn’t matter if that society was made up of Magyars, Chinese, Italians or Russians.
It wasn't fear, not at all. It was just the way things were.
I turned to Ramon, and declared for all to hear:
"How much longer are we going to look for him? It's already dark outside! That drunk is bringing shame on his family!"
"You shouldn't talk about your cousin like that," the constable reproached me habitually.
"He's your cousin, too!" I threw out my next reply without delay.
"He's just my mother's sister's husband's nephew!"
"Doesn't matter!" I waved it off. "If we don't find him, we're as good as dead! I wish he'd have stayed in New York! Why'd he have to come here? Who invited him?!"
People are curious. People are often interested in things that have absolutely nothing to do with them.
The hubbub quieted down somewhat, and an elderly gentleman of respectable appearance came out to us. He had a magnificent gray head of hair and his mustache was the same.
"Are you looking for someone, my young guests?" He inquired with an obvious accent. The sound of the voices finally went silent, and everyone started staring at us, waiting for an answer.
"Our cousin!" I sighed. "He came here from the New World and went on a bender! And we have yet to find him!"
"He didn't happen to have come in here a day or two ago?" Ramon joined the conversation. "We've heard tell that he fell into a pond at some point. And he is not ashamed of looking people in the eyes!"
"Fell into a pond, you say?" The aged Magyar thought it over and shook his head. "No, I don't remember any wet people coming through."
I didn't hide my disappointment and drooped my shoulders with no exaggeration. But I still made one more shot at it:
"Please sir, try to remember. My cousin is tall, even taller than me! You'd have to remember him."
The visitors began making noise again, and, I suppose, someone told something to the old man, because an interested look started flashing up in his eyes:
"And what does he look like?"
Ramon and I exchanged confused glances.
"He's tall and thin," I told the man all the notes I had and threw up my hands. "Curses! I’ve barely seen the man for fifteen years! He didn't send a single photo in all that time!"
The Magyars conferenced on something, and the elderly man declared:
"A tall, thin man did come around. But we do not know where he went."
" It gets harder with every passing hour!" Ramon sighed bitterly, demonstrating an outstanding acting talent. "So where should we look now?"
"You're asking me?" I objected. "As far as I’m concerned, let him go to every tavern in the outskirts of New Babylon!" Then I asked the gray-mustached man: "Did he at least look alright? He wasn't caked in mud from head to toe like we've been told?"
"He removed his jacket. It was hot. He was standing confidently on his feet. He didn't seem drunk," the gray-haired Magyar assured us. Then, he exchanged a few phrases with the chef and server boy, and perked up his ears. "No, he wasn't drunk."
"Was he at least eating?" Ramon sighed. "Or just drinking?"
The elderly gentleman asked the chef again and told me:
"He ate, and quite well at that. He ordered goulash and half a suckling pig."
"And to drink?" I continued.
"A bottle of slivovitz," the Magyar confirmed.
"For him, that stuff is like water to a fish," I waved my hand, feverishly trying to come up with something else to pull out of him before my questioning aroused suspicion. "You said he had a jacket? What color?"
"Dark. Black, probably."
"I see. And did he say where he was going next?"
"No, but he took a link of salami. A big one! And another two bottles of slivovitz. He wanted to treat his friends."
I nodded and clarified as a follow-up:
"Do you remember what direction he went in?"
The graying Magyar just shook his head.
Having thanked him for the help, we left the snack shop, and I opened the map under the nearest street light.
"Do you suppose he went to a rented apartment?" Ramon asked, watching me draw in the murderer's potential route from the nearest gates of the Emperor's Park to the Danube Rose.
"Or to a hotel. If you suppose that the werebeast wasn't just on this street coincidentally, it makes sense to search the area. He could have had breakfast or lunch in the area as well."
"I'd bet that the murderer was sleeping nearby," Ramon decided. "Judge for yourself, would the type of guy to take a link of salami for the road also not rent a corner room nearby?"
My friend's words sounded reasonable, and I looked in contemplation at the banner of the Magyar diner, illuminated by a street light. Around that bright spot, there was a darkness growing denser; very occasionally, little beams of light would escape from between blinds or curtains that hadn't been closed fully. It was as if the area had died out.
"Well, where could he have gone?" I muttered. "It was late at night, not so different from right now."
"Let's take a look around, then," my partner suggested.
We walked up to the next intersection and immediately froze in place, having seen a banner with the laconic inscription "Hotel," illuminated by a pair of gas burners.
"You think this is it?" Ramon poked me in the side.
"Check your lupara," I warned him, unbuttoning the clasp on my pistol holster just in case. The Cerberus, then, I moved from my right coat pocket to my left.
The constable took out his gun, and we headed into the hotel, looking carefully from side to side. And though there were no bushes or dark hiding spots on this narrow little street, my heart started beating very, very unevenly, and the taste of bile welled up in my mouth. I got scared.
It should be said that I didn't give vent to my fears, though, instead just walking up onto the porch and knocking at the door. No one answered. Then, hoping that our visit at an unreasonable hour wouldn't attract the attention of a dangerous guest, I knocked another time, and the eye slit opened up.
