“A medic?” Sidabras was clearly surprised.
“A scalpel isn’t one of those things that you see lying around freely.” Radzinskis scratched his forehead with a wrist. “But I wouldn’t bet on it, Your Honour. Only a really inferior medic would leave a wound like this.”
“Shove your ‘Your Honour’ up your arse,” muttered Sidabras in an annoyed voice. “How many times have I told you to leave ‘Your Honour’ for superintendents who have no chance of catching a glimpse of their feet over their protruding pot-bellies,? I will be fine without any titles.”
Sidabras did not give any weight to his words, as his mind was preoccupied with something else; his eyes darted around the crime scene, inspecting the crooked crosses, decaying right next to him.
“There’s almost no sign of fighting. A slit throat. A gruesome and unusual crime. Just as well the killer chose a remote spot,” were the gloomy thoughts that dashed through his head. The number of public murders had gone down considerably after the protection of public order in the city had been delegated to the Vilnius Legion, and with a significant event of the Alliance – the Summit – being imminent, scandals were the last thing the Legate needed.
“A tough nut for you to crack, Sir. You’ll have to get your brain in gear,” spoke the Pohulianka Police Superintendent with open bitterness in his voice. He was the third person traipsing around the corpse.
“We certainly will, sir, there’s no need for you to doubt us,” retorted Sidabras coldly.
Soon after the Alliance had been formed, the new heads of the free cities had concluded that the legacy of Tsarist Russia in the form of the obese, greedy police constables and superintendents, who understood nothing but drill commands, was of remarkably little use. So several years later the streets were already being patrolled by Legionnaires.
They were mercenaries trained to work on the streets by the best British and American army instructors. The Alliance paid the Legionnaires well and required of them little: a clear conscience and safe streets were all they asked for.
Pushed out of their old positions, police constables and superintendents became ordinary supervisors who had to content themselves with minor, dusty jobs and, as they were not able to make any extra money, they constantly aired their grievances. They treated Legionnaires like some nasty rash on their skin, but could not change anything. Not being suitable for any other job, they had no other option but to endure the humiliation through gritted teeth. Consequently, any mishap suffered by the Legionnaires brought them much joy.
Antanas Sidabras gave the Police Superintendent in his grease-stained jacket a disdainful look. But the fat man was right – it was a tough nut indeed.
“Can we snare him?” Dr Radzinskis asked.
“Yes,” nodded the Legate, and watched the expert’s helpers wrap the corpse in a black cloth.
Shortly after, the body was lifted into a two-horse-drawn ambulance carriage. Vilnius medics had yet to become acquainted with the new steam machines.
After Radzinskis had slammed the carriage door and waved goodbye to Sidabras, the carriage set off for the city centre. The Pohulianka Police Superintendent had vanished without saying another word, and so Sidabras was left to his own devices. Standing right next to the place where the corpse had been lying a moment ago, he started looking around. The Legate was confident that nearer to the evening he would get a detailed report on the corpse, as Dr Radzinskis, who was a hired expert just like the Legionnaires, was diligent and responsible in his work.
“An unidentified corpse, no documents found in the pockets, nothing at all found,” thought Sidabras to himself. “Poor soul was on his way from the Troubles. That’s right, the less you carry on you there, the better your chances are.”
Antanas Sidabras fixed his gaze on the hill, overgrown with thick shrubbery.
“Ahem, ahem, let good fortune and health be with you, my silver master,” croaked a voice behind his back.
Legate was startled by this unexpected sound. Then smiled. Actually, he had been contemplating a visit to this ever-present, ever-watchful and ever-listening creature, but on this occasion she had exceeded herself by reporting to him first.
Sidabras turned to face her and nodded in a reserved way.
“And good day to you too, Rose.”
Rose Blanik had once been the most stunning and desirable girl in Vilnius. She had been like a precious diamond, the dream of potential grooms not only in Vilnius, but also in the whole of the Northwest region. Rose thrived on fashionable balls, flirting, making eyes at men and listening to professions of love with a faint smile. However, in the end she always she made light of all this, and even the nephew of former Vilnius Burgomaster Martynas Strausas had to admit defeat. Until one day a young architect, Bernardas Sulcas, came to town. One meeting of their eyes was enough for Rose and Bernardas to know that they were meant for each other. A passionate love affair turned into marriage.
The architect Sulcas was born with a silver spoon in his mouth; he became one of the youngest professors at the University Dominium, his services were desired by the most affluent merchants and noblemen, and his beautiful wife Rose waited for him at home. Before Alexander II graced Vilnius with his visit, Bernardas Sulcas had been commissioned to design and build a dainty gazebo on the river bank in Lukiskes forest, beside the Palace of Vingis. It was to be designed as a lavish dining hall for the most distinguished city guests.
The architect and his wife Rose were also among the guests. No one will ever know what the architect’s mistake was, but after the guests had congregated inside the gazebo, two support columns holding the tarpaulin roof suddenly collapsed, blanketing people in heavy fabric. Panic ensued and people began trampling one another in a bid to escape the suffocating tarpaulin. Rescuers found the beautiful Rose at death’s door, crushed in the corner of the gazebo, while Bernardas Sulcas vanished from the face of the earth. A thorough search for the man was carried out and it was not until a week later someone found his hat entangled in the mass of reeds in the Neris River.
For days the best Vilnius doctors fought to save Rose’s life. While still in hospital the woman was told that her husband had vanished. Rose Sulcas was devastated; she left hospital with a wounded heart and a shattered mind. Ever since that day she had been searching for her Bernardas. No one had ever seen her walk the streets wearing anything but her best clothes and the brightest of make-up, evoking compassion even in the most vicious of villains. The king of the Vilnius criminal world, Motiejus Kairys, had personally forbidden anyone to lay a hand on Rose. So she wandered the Troubles, seeing and hearing everything, begging for a few kopecks and wishing people good fortune and health in return and, as the rumours said, casting an evil eye on those who had waved her away or insulted her, or who had been too thrifty to offer her a coin.
Sidabras had heard about the Rose of the Troubles as soon as he arrived in Vilnius. He generously gave her three roubles on their first encounter, and never ignored her after that, which helped the Legate to win the lady over. She was known to have hated previous guardians of public order.
With her eyes fixed on something in the distance, Rose of the Troubles came over to Sidabras. She was wearing a bright yellow dress with a slightly shorter, patterned red skirt over it, a green patched-up jacket covering the top part of her body, and a threadbare black hat adorned with a mass of beads. A thick layer of foundation covered the lady’s face and her cheeks were generously touched up with blusher, making it impossible to guess her age. In her hand Rose held a battered parasol that had once been white, and was using it like a stick for support.
“What an unfortunate event, really,” she croaked, pointing her parasol at the exact spot where the dead body had lain. “He was so strong and so full of life. He could have gone on living forever. Why did he leave us?”
The lady lifted her head, her eyes piercing Sidabras right through. When their eyes met, the Legate doubted yet again if Rose of the Troubles’ mind really was that muddled
. Sidabras could have sworn that he saw a spark of malignant joy flash in her eyes and felt that, deep down in her heart, Rose was smiling.
“Rose,” he addressed the old lady, his eyes fixed on her face. “Do you know what happened here?”
“How would I know, my silver falcon?” chirped Rose. “It’s a cemetery around here. Only skeletons know what happened.”
“Rose, I need a straight answer,” the Legate interrupted. “You know that a person has been killed here. You know everything,” he added. “Any idea who he could be?”
With Rose finally glancing away, Sidabras felt immediate relief – even he found it hard to bear such a look.
“How would I know, my little birdie? What was that man to me? Neither family, nor friend. And he was too busy, too stingy to give a small coin to me – an old woman.” She went quiet and looked at Sidabras, cunningly this time.
The Legate fished a metal half-rouble out of his pocket and silently proffered it to Rose.
“Thank you so much, my silver dove, my comfort and the light of my eyes,” sang the lady again, the coin disappearing into the folds of her wide patterned skirt. All of a sudden Rose’s manner changed. She beckoned Sidabras to bend closer. “I hadn’t seen him before,” she whispered. “I don’t think he was a frequent guest in the Troubles. Your people are not going to find anything. Yesterday he came to The Owl, gave a fright to Icka – that bag of bones from the brothel on Totoriu Street – then met a fat man. I saw him – all sweating, reeking of something wicked. He rushed out of the inn and yelled for the broceurs to take him home. And this poor soul headed for the cemetery.”
“And what happened next?” Sidabras kept questioning.
Rose of the Troubles only shrugged her shoulders.
“I don’t know, my dear. The Cholera Cemetery scares me at night. Decent people do not walk around here. And I have only come in order to help you, silver master, carry your cross. I have helped you, haven’t I?” The woman beamed a wide smile, displaying a few of her metal teeth and the wide gaps between them.
“You have, you have,” murmured the Legate with no animosity in his voice, pulling another half-rouble out of his pocket. “Tell me where to look for Icka.”
“Try looking in the Totoriu Street joy houses, my angel. In the evening,” said Rose of the Troubles in a voice full of spite, as Icka was her worst enemy.” She snatched the coin greedily. “Well, good luck and good health to you, silver falcon.”
“Look after yourself, Rose,” replied Sidabras.
With the lady out of his view, Sidabras rubbed his hands with delight. Not a single informer painstakingly recruited in the Troubles would have told you half of what Rose had just said. And she did say a lot.
“So it seems that two people who are strangers to the Troubles decide to meet up here. I wonder why?” Sidabras started putting the puzzle together in his head. “They are unlikely to have come for the beer alone. Then the victim gives a fright to the local smart-arse. This is also odd. And finally he makes his way here, to the Cholera Cemetery. Someone slits his throat, rather amateurishly but with a tool belonging to a professional. Rather irregular – to say the least.”
In his mind’s eye Sidabras saw a long, winding tunnel of investigation with a lot of dead-ends. Had the investigation been transferred to the police constables, you could have bid farewell to the truth. They would drag over some sorry creature from the Blots, beat him unconscious and make him confess, “I killed him.” “Why did you slit his throat?” “I was drunk.” “Why did you use a scalpel?” “What’s a scalpel?”
He had no choice but to investigate this himself. Even more so, because once the information about the corpse with the slit throat in the ravine spread, the Council would be engulfed by a great racket. And what if a maniac killer had found his way into Vilnius? Then it will be best if a stop to his actions was put by Antanas Sidabras himself, rather than by some inexperienced whippersnapper.
The Legate glanced at his pocket watch. It was past noon in Vilnius, which meant that it was still early morning in the Troubles. A suitable time for unexpected visits.
The wisest thing to do was to go back to Pohulianka and the White Pillars and get some assistance from the Legionnaires on duty there. That was exactly what police superintendents, constables and former Vilnius Public Order Councillor would have done. They only entered the Troubles with a large entourage and when forced to by a matter of utmost importance. However, Sidabras was used to walking around the Troubles alone and decided to head there right through the middle of the Cholera Cemetery. He hoped to pick out some details on the way, which might come handy in the course of his investigation.
When a few years back the hefty Legate had forced his way into their territory with no help from anyone, the Troubles old-timers had felt shocked. A few hot-headed fellows thought to teach him a lesson and concurrently rob him of his belongings. But the confrontation resulted in a truly humiliating defeat for the locals, who were left tending one broken arm, two broken noses and a multitude of differently shaded bruises.
However, the Legate kept coming to the Troubles as if nothing had happened; he looked around and listened, but did not blow his whistle, did not regulate public order or arrest anyone. He simply walked around. And gradually, the Troubles got used to him – the first guardian of public order in many years. Rumours circulated that someone had seen the Legate chatting to Motiejus Kairys – the king of the criminals himself – while they both enjoyed a pint together. But rumours come and go, and that was exactly what happened this time.
The walk across the Cholera Cemetery was like pushing water uphill with a rake. If he wanted to search all the hills, graves and burrows, he would have needed a small army to assist him. Without knowing what to look for, it would have been easier to find a needle in a haystack than some tiny clue. But as the Legate’s hopes had not been high, he did not feel too disappointed, and turned on a brisk pace to reach the Troubles. He knew the route well, and came to The Iron Owl Inn in no time at all.
In daylight, The Owl was not much to look at: a wooden building with disintegrating wooden walls covered in greenish mould, the windows stained with fly excrement, only becoming slightly clearer when washed by rain. And even the owl on the sign of the inn looked somewhat shabby and dishevelled. And, of course, the tenacious stench around it was unbearable. Traces of the beer consumed by the night-time clients could be detected at every corner of the inn. It meant that the task of finding The Owl for someone who was deaf, dumb and blind would have been a simple task. As long as they had a nose. The Owl’s owner, Marius, put a lot of effort into trying to educate his clients. He would explain that peeing next to the inn was not a good idea, and that instead they should relieve themselves in the nearest alleyway, but despite all this, the desperate rogues could not manage these dozen or so steps
Sidabras pushed the inn door and stepped inside.
Just as on any other ordinary day, The Owl was half-empty. Several exhausted drunks were dozing on wooden benches at the end of the large room. No one took any notice of them, since every day, as evening drew closer, they would wake up, come back to their senses, and continue toasting the never-ending celebration of life. In a sense, The Iron Owl was a refuge.
Two tables were surrounded by street vendors, waiting for the evening to come, as well as several workers who had cut their working hours short – all belting down beer. The innkeeper, Marius, sat on the barrel behind the counter yawning and reading a creased copy of The Truth of Vilnius, casting an occasional glance at a boy who was zealously scrubbing the dirty floor. Having realised who the new client was, Marius frowned, but put his newspaper aside. The Legate sat at the bar.
“I can explain everything, Your Honour.” The innkeeper turned up beside Sidabras instantly. “It’s their fault, they started the carnage. Everyone knows that only decent people gather here. But no one likes foreigners. They have to understand that if they come here, they are digging their own grave. What can I do? If... eh
eh... “ Marius glanced over at Sidabras. “But it’s not last night’s fight you are here for, Your Honour. Am I right?”
Sidabras squinted at the boy scrubbing the floor. Even in the dim light traces of blood were still visible on the floor.
“A man came to your inn yesterday,” Legate began to speak. “He was older but well built. Dressed in shabby clothes. He met someone here. They talked. Tell me about him.” Sidabras did not bother asking if Marius remembered anything. He was confident that the innkeeper hardly ever let things go unnoticed.
Realising that the Legate had not come here to investigate the night-time brawl, the innkeeper breathed a sigh of relief. He even cheered up a little and bent over towards Sidabras.
“People say” – the stink of onions and pork crackling burst from his mouth – “that Legionnaires pay well for information.”
Sidabras felt annoyance creeping up. He constantly reiterated to Gerhardt von Ott, who was Money Councillor and allocator of the Rothschilds’ money in Vilnius, that there were two sides to the motto You can’t buy us but we will buy you. He had spoken about it more than once but to no avail. So here we had it.
Without any sign of warning, the Legate’s hand swung up into the air, took a grip of the innkeeper’s tousled hair and cruelly banged his head on the counter, pressing his cheek down.
“People say that when you bang your nose like this, it hurts even more,” he spoke through gritted teeth. “Do you think you should believe everything people say?”
“I don’t know, I don’t know,” Marius squealed. “People just blabber, their tongues go wagging. I don’t believe such nonsense. I will help you with whatever I can.”
Hour of the Wolf Page 11
