by Pavel Kornev
As the cane came in two, a pair of steel spikes protruded from its upper half. Alexander Dyak pressed the button to turn it on, and between the electrodes, there flashed a curving bolt of electricity.
"Not the simplest construction," the inventor sighed, "but it stops water from getting inside, and mud from filling up the mechanisms. Come by tomorrow. I'll think over the riddle you posed. I do have one idea, but it needs specific chemical agents."
"I'd be so very grateful!" I laid out the cane, unlocked the entrance door and waved goodbye to the inventor. "See you tomorrow!"
I went outside and headed off in search of a free cabby.
Thinking about a global conspiracy of coal magnates left me briefly worried. I had enough problems on my own.
DO YOU THINK I WENT to sleep?
I would have done so with pleasure, but the life of a private investigator is not at all as free-wheeling as you’d think from reading pulp mysteries. At the very least, I had to make a report to my employers from time to time.
So I headed for the hotel Benjamin Franklin.
The sky had finally grown dark by that time. A fine mist started gradually coming down, and, as often happens before bad weather really sets in, abrupt gusts of wind started chasing dust devils down the streets.
Inclement weather was on the approach. I could feel it clearly, but I didn't understand how close it really was.
THE HOTEL BENJAMIN FRANKLIN was in an ancient manor, gloomy and strong, made of dark stone with thin loop-hole windows on the first floors and open terraces on the upper ones. Its facade came out onto Emperor Clement Square, which was so elongated that it was more reminiscent of a wide avenue. This was exactly where the most expensive shops and hotels in New Babylon were located. The price of a cup of coffee in a restaurant around here had long been the subject of satirical jokes and newspaper caricatures.
The whole way there I spent thinking about how to frame the conversation with Abraham Witstein. I wanted to present my investigation from the best possible angle, but all the smart thoughts instantly flew out of my head when Bastian Moran came into view. The senior inspector was drinking coffee at the bar on the first floor, and couldn’t hold back a vexed grimace when he saw me come in.
Our dislike was mutual.
I hurried to the porter, introduced myself and – what a miracle! – it turned out that Mr. Witstein had actually put me on his guest list. Just to make sure, the clerk made a call, heard out the instructions and pointed at the elevator.
"Fifth floor. Someone will be waiting for you outside the elevator."
On my way into the elevator, I told the operator the purpose of my visit; he closed the doors, turned the lever all the way to the right, and we gradually, practically free of any jumpiness, went up to the highest level.
And when I got there, there really was someone waiting for me. A Judean of compact build – the very same, slightly bald and big-nosed man from before – let me in and accompanied me to the hall of the "Emperor's Suite," where Abraham Witstein was reading newspapers. Everywhere around, there were original paintings hanging from famous greats. One of the walls was occupied by the famous diptych "Storm on the Estate of the Splendid Raphael," and "Emperor Clement topples a Fallen One." The gilding on the furniture used more gold than the crown of her Majesty itself.
"Would you like some coffee? How about a cigar?" The banker offered. "Maybe, some whiskey?"
"No, thank you," I refused, taking a seat in the chair at the coffee table.
The luxurious hotel interior had an oppressive effect on me. This was no place for a man in a canvas pea-coat.
"I am impressed, Mr. Orso," Witstein said, not allowing me to get to business. "You are quite the promising young man."
"Excuse me?" I didn't understand.
The banker laughed uncontrollably, finished his coffee and shook his head:
"You've been working for me for less than a day, and you're already twisting my arms, demanding that I put you on a short leash."
I remembered seeing Bastian Moran downstairs and licked my dried-out lips.
"Is that so?"
"Indeed, Mr. Orso. It is indeed!"
"Could you tell me the details?"
"You won't get any details," Abraham Witstein cut me off, suddenly having become composed and serious. "I would like to take a look at the investigation agreement, if you would be so kind."
The big-nosed man turned around and stretched out his hand.
I didn't protest, or demand an explanation. I simply handed over the document, threw myself back in the chair and tossed one leg over the other.
"So, am I to understand that this is not over?" I asked, having popped a raspberry sugar drop in my mouth.
"You are very shrewd," the banker sighed, "but you must learn to follow the rules of the game. I didn't give you permission to investigate the death of poor Isaac but, when asked what you were doing, you pointed the finger at me, putting me in a devilishly awkward position in the process. I will not allow that to happen again."
I thought over what I'd heard and clarified:
"Am I understanding correctly that you now want me to act in an unofficial capacity?"
"I was given a very clear recommendation not to interfere in police business, and do my job," Abraham Witstein stated, looking out the window in despondency. "But the fact that the bank robbers are still unpunished is also unacceptable. I have nothing more to say to you."
"Unacceptable," I repeated, trying the word on for size. It sounded very promising, approximately like a last chance for redemption for a death-sentenced criminal, his neck already in the noose. It sounded like I could stay in the game, but if I caused even the slightest inconvenience now, I would be cast adrift once and for all.
Nevertheless, I couldn't resist asking:
"Mr. Witstein, have you already announced the reward for the head of the murderer of Levinson and his household?"
The banker looked at me like I was a madman.
"My dear Leopold," he stated deceptively softly. "I would be most obliged if you could cast the idea of finding the murderer from your head once and for all."
"Already gone," I answered, barely bending the truth.
Hunting the werewolf no longer entered into my plans. After all, inborn reflexes are a terrifying thing! But the matter of the reward was not just idle curiosity, so I repeated:
"So, have you announced it or not?"
"I have," the banker answered and put up his newspaper.
Not wanting to further impose on my employer with my company, I went down to the first floor and once again caught the unkind gaze of Bastian Moran. I walked over the senior inspector's table and asked his permission to sit opposite him.
"What are you so angry about, Mr. Moran?" I asked, staring at the policeman point-blank. "You got what you wanted, isn't that right?"
The senior inspector placed a miniature tea cup of white porcelain on a similarly snow-white little saucer, adjusted the scarf around his neck and raised an eyebrow.
"And what, in your opinion, did I get, Viscount?"
"Mr. Witstein no longer needs my services. As far as I understand, this is your doing?"
Bastian Moran smiled, and I was categorically opposed to whatever was hidden behind it.
People only smile like that when they hear a piece of news that is both pleasant and unexpected.
The senior inspector didn't know a thing! But, what the devil happened then?! Who had knocked me out of the saddle, if not him?
"I had no idea, Viscount," Bastian Moran shook his head, "that you and I were companions in misfortune."
"What do you mean?"
"The inspector general ordered a special commission set up to investigate the bank robbery and the murder of Levinson. He supposes that these crimes are more closely related than it seems at first glance."
"Have you been removed from the investigation?" I couldn't hold back my surprise.
"I have," confirmed the senior inspector. "
Because of your arrest, which many thought a bit... hasty." He finished his coffee and suddenly asked: "You want some advice?"
I got up from the table and guessed:
"Keep my distance from this whole thing?"
Bastian Moran nodded.
"And will you be doing that?" I reproached him. "If you were taken off that case, what are you doing here?"
"Me? I'm drinking coffee." The policeman answered.
Sophistry had never impressed me, so I went silent and headed for the exit. At one of the money changers' I exchanged my colonial dollars for francs, placed the thick wad of bank notes in my wallet, and started walking toward the nearest Metro station.
My head was very, very heavy. Thoughts were swarming in it like an upset hive of bees, but I no longer had the strength to figure out the charade. What I wanted to do was lie in bed and sleep a few days in a row. What was more, I didn't even have any idea where to start with investigating the bank robbery.
The only thing that came to mind was to interrogate the guard who had been fired from the coalhouses for being drunk on the job.
I decided to pay a visit to Ramon Miro closer to nightfall, to ask the address of his predecessor, but night fell quicker than I was expecting. In one moment, an impenetrable blackness came over me, followed by a sprinkling of little stars.
To put it more simply, someone threw a canvas bag over my head, then cold cocked me with all their might in the back of the head.
Darkness and stars. And so I went out...
4
I SUPPOSE, AFTER THAT, THEY dragged me somewhere and turned my pockets inside out.
But I didn't feel it. I didn't feel anything. I was trying to swim out of the dark abyss of unconsciousness, but I was not able.
I woke up feeling cold and in pain. My nose was itching from the dust, so I sneezed. In my head, though, it felt like a dynamite bomb had gone off.
I moaned and tried to feel the injured back of my head, but wasn't able to move my arms or legs. Then, I somehow peeled my eyelids back and immediately realized that the person at fault for my deplorable condition was no mere street robber, coming after my thick stack of bank notes.
Stripped down to my skivvies, I was sitting in the middle of a wooden-box-laden warehouse, and my ankles and wrists were tied very, very tightly with aged, dry leather belts to the back and legs of a massive chair with a high back. Another belt was pulling at my chest.
Outside, it was raining, causing a measured tapping on the roof. Somewhere behind me, I heard an incessant joyful dripping. Under my legs, a whole puddle had formed.
I was not in a hospital.
Despite my headache, I could tell that clear as day.
Even if the hit to my head had caused temporary lack of common sense, and I had been brought to an asylum, that wouldn't explain the strange boxes all around, the dust on the floor, the cracked plaster or the tightly boarded-up windows with rust-colored marks where the nails had once been pounded into the darkened boards.
And also, where were the nurses? Where were the doctors? Devil beat me!
I remembered Isaac Levinson's fate and began feverishly squirming with my arms and legs, trying to get free. But it was in vain. The leather belts, even though time had dried them out, were fastened down tight. I tried to rock back and forth, or tip myself over, but that was also a failure. The chair was too massive. Its legs had been screwed into a fairly large wooden board for additional strength.
In exhaustion, I threw back my head and saw drops of water falling one after the other from the ceiling. It seemed that they would land right on my face, but every time they hit the floor somewhere behind me.
I didn't want to die.
So I began to pray. I simply spoke out the only prayer I knew to myself. The very prayer Our Savior left us before he ascended.
And yes, I prayed! What else remained for a person in my position?
"Maybe, it wasn't a good idea to take the werewolf's money," a thought popped up in my mind a bit too late. "Maybe Ramon and I made him a bit angrier than we'd imagined. He's not likely to be satisfied with a simple apology now."
And just then, the door creaked behind me.
I didn't turn my head, just grit my teeth and waited for a quick resolution, but instead of the werewolf, there appeared three awkward figures in white cloaks and face masks with slits for eyes, which were glowing from the inside.
They're illustrious! I had been kidnapped by a group of illustrious gentlemen!
"Where is the box, Viscount?" suddenly asked the kidnapper standing in the middle.
I moved my jaw, stretching my numb lips out into a smile a number of times, then clarified:
"Are you sure you don't have me confused with someone else?"
The figure to the left gave a start, intending to slap me in the face, but froze awkwardly mid-way as if the abrupt movement had cause him pain. The ringleader took his sidekick by the elbow and calmly explained his question:
"We are talking about an aluminum box with a thunder rune engraved on the top."
"How should I know anything about that?"
"It once belonged to your grandmother, the Countess Kósice. It was deposited in the Witstein Banking House for safe keeping not long before her death," the illustrious gentleman told me with the same calm voice, deprived of all emotion.
I cleared my throat and couldn't resist a nervous quip.
"Aluminum melts at quite a low temperature," I told my kidnappers. "As far as I know, the box was destroyed in the bank robbery."
"Balderdash!" The figure to the right gasped out abruptly. "You won't fool us with that forgery!"
"Forgery?" I asked in confusion, cluelessly batting my eyes.
The kidnapper in the middle sighed in pity and stated penetratingly:
"Viscount! It was very negligent on your part to make the duplicate box from aluminum copper alloy. Fifteen years ago, such alloys hadn't been invented yet." The illustrious gentleman stuck his arm in the slit in the sack and took out a few pieces of paper covered with printed text. "According to expert analysis of the ingot that remained from the box, it contained no less than four percent copper. That would make it an alloy that was patented just one year ago, and which remains a seven-seal secret. The Egyptians and Persians would pay through the nose for it, but it isn’t for sale. Do you know why? Mainly because it is used to manufacture dirigible bodies! Duralumin, you've heard of it, I'm sure."
And the kidnapper on the left walked up to me again.
"Where is the real box, Viscount?" He demanded an answer.
"I have no idea what you're talking about."
The figure on the right coughed and, with the hoarse voice of an elderly smoker, began putting more nails in my coffin:
"You spoke with the manager. You learned of the box from his list of safe contents. In the safe, the remains of a forgery were found. Then, after yet another conversation with you, that same banker was found dead. In my opinion, that is more than enough to prove a guilty verdict!"
"Don't rush it!" The illustrious gentleman in the middle stopped him. "In respect to the memory of our dear friend Emile Rie, I give you one last chance to return the box of your own accord. Otherwise, we'll have to fall back on other... methods."
In respect to the memory of Emile Rie?!
I remained frozen with my jaw hanging open in surprise for some time.
Emile Rie was better known as the Grand Duke of Arabia and even better known as the brother of Emperor Clement, his constant chancellor. What games were they playing with me?!
But no, the games were over.
"Well, without a third degree interrogation, we won't get anywhere," the kidnapper on the right declared.
The kidnapper on the left nodded, agreeing with his partner.
"Hey, stop!" I grew alarmed. "I don't have any boxes! I didn't replace the box!"
"So, you see," the kidnapper on the right sighed again and clapped his comrade on the shoulder, "he's not giving us any choice.
"
"I'm not watching!" The ringleader shrugged. "I'll see you in the club."
"I've also got a lot to do," the kidnapper on the right then muttered, working loose a pocket watch chain from under the bag, "and also, the inclement weather could leave us trapped here for some time."
"Go on then! I'll do it all myself," the henchman suggested. "Just first help me with the apparatus."
The kidnappers exchanged glances, and I was swept over by a panic attack.
"Stop this!" I shouted. "I don't know anything! The fact that I was in the bank was a mere coincidence! Levinson invited me, that was all!"
They simply didn't hear my admonishments, though. The ringleader approached me from the back and, no matter how I flailed my head, pressed it to the back of the chair, lashing it down with a belt. His assistants rolled up a cart with an incomprehensible looking machine and began attaching the wires that came from it to the bolts holding the chair together.
I cursed, calling thunder and lightning down on their heads, and assured them of my innocence.
"I don't have any box! I have never even seen it!" I whooped out, writhing in the chair, not so much even in a vain attempt to break free as it was in a desire to loosen the very tight belts. The one on the left was squeezing down tight, but the dried-out leather had totally lost any elasticity, making it sting as it cut into my fist.
"The earlier you tell us, the faster this will all be over," the ringleader advised me after that, clapping me on the shoulders and walking away.
Behind him went the others as well. Their footsteps clacked down the iron stairs, then voices began carrying up from below as if the kidnappers had gone down to the first floor. Soon, there came the creaking of rusty hinges and the door clapped open with a boom. A minute later, I started hearing the rattling of a powder engine, and when its sound gradually quieted down, my whole world was filled with nothing but the tapping of rain on a slate roof.
I spent that whole time thrashing like a psychotic. The left belt was yielding more and more, and it wasn't at all because of the kidnapper's lack of caution. It was just that the manacles, even when secured tight, were not made for wrists as lean as mine. My skinniness gave me a fairly good chance of escape, and I definitely would have gotten out of it, but there wasn't time. Heavy footsteps began sounding out from the stairwell once again.
