Hour of the Wolf

by Andrius B Tapinas

  “A male. Elderly. Poor clothes,” reminded him Sidabras, releasing his grip on the innkeeper. “Start talking now.”

  Marius swallowed and curtly nodded.

  “A man was here yesterday. He came in the late afternoon. Icka Lupetas tried to pester him at first but then all of a sudden changed his mind and introduced him to everyone as his chum.” The innkeeper’s tone conveyed that he himself hadn’t quite believed this story. “The man treated Icka to a pint, then sat at the far end of the room, over there...” Marius waved his hand in the relevant direction. “Some potbelly came in a short while later and they both prattled for a bit. The fatty passed over some papers, which the man shoved inside his jacket after having a look at them.”

  Sidabras became all ears.

  “What are you blabbering about, Marius? What papers?”

  “I don’t know, Your Honour,” the innkeeper tried to get out of the situation. “I couldn’t see them. There were a hell of a lot of people at The Owl, I was pouring beer like mad. If not for Icka, I would have never noticed that poor soul as, you know, we get all sorts of strangers, here being so popular.” Of course, he kept it to himself that The Owl’s regular drunkards normally got rid of these strangers in no time at all.

  “And you should try to remember,” Sidabras told him. “What papers were they? Letters, documents, post cards?”

  The innkeeper shook his head.

  “No, they weren’t post cards. They were larger and folded up. I swear I didn’t see them,” he whimpered.

  The Legate nodded.

  “That’s fine. And what happened then?”

  “Then... then that poor soul inspected the papers and gave the fatty a pouch. And no, I really didn’t see the pouch up close,” assured Marius, jumping ahead of the Legate’s next question. “Then the potbelly rushed over to me, saying, “I want a broceur to walk with me to the carriage driver and protect me – help me to find someone,” offering me a rouble.”

  Sidabras finally understood why the innkeeper had such a good recollection of things.

  “If you sent him over to your own thugs...” he barked in a thunderous voice, but Marius vigorously shook his head.

  “What are you... what are you saying, Your Honour? What thugs? It didn’t even cross my mind to do that. Besides, the carnage had started here, it would have been too late...” the innkeeper clamped his mouth shut. The Legate sneered but did not say anything, luckily for Marius. “The Hungarian Brothers loiter around here all the time, and they are happy to take all the chicken hearts back home. They were the ones to see to the fatty getting home safely,” the innkeeper finished his confession.

  Sidabras straightened his back, reclined against the back of his chair and started thinking. There were no documents with the body. That meant that someone had taken them. Could he have been killed for the papers alone? Possibly. But why kill him in such a bizarre way? The outlaws of the Troubles did not like looking their victim in the eye, and up till now they had tended to stab people in the back. And why was the corpse left lying for everyone to see, when there were so many open graves and other holes around?

  They could have hoisted him in and bid him farewell – no one would have ever caught wind of it. And what type of papers were they for someone to brave a trip to the Troubles, risking their livelihood and their wallet? Forged papers? Letters exposing someone? Debt notes? Or maybe something more serious? And what if the murder had nothing to do with these papers? Then who took them?

  Sidabras had already managed to collect quite a bit of information in a short period of time but his investigation had not moved forward one single bit. Even the victim’s name remained unknown.

  “Anything else, Your Honour?” the innkeeper enquired cautiously.

  The Legate raised his hand, stood up and walked towards the door without saying goodbye or the traditional, “If you remember anything else...” People in the Troubles never remembered anything of their own volition.

  The Legate walked a few dozen steps, then stopped. As usual, passers-by in the Troubles were scarce in the daylight hours, and the ones who were there made an effort to stay away from a stout man with a Legionnaires badge on his chest and a heavy truncheon at his side.

  Following a moment’s hesitation, Antanas Sidabras strode through the labyrinth of the Troubles streets. After he had left three different streets behind him, he heard a noise and changed course in its direction. His ears were filled with sounds that were rather unusual for the Troubles: the bouncing of a ball, children’s laughter and, when he had come closer, screams and yells – “He started it!”

  Sidabras came to a brick house hidden behind a tall stone wall, sharp metal spikes adorning its top. There was only one door in the wall, which was made of hard wood bound in metal – strong enough to withstand a confrontation with a bull charging at full speed. There was a door knocker on the side. Sidabras banged it vigorously a few times, hoping that someone would hear through the loud clamour of children from inside. The building was an orphanage in the hands of the Sisters of Charity Congregation.

  The Legate waited until someone opened a small window in the door. Behind it a face came into view and the window was shut again, but the cracking noise of bars being unbolted told him that the door was in the process of being opened. An old nun stood in the doorway, dressed in a brown habit with a white wimple. Her wrinkly face reminded him of a baked apple.

  “Mr Antanas, it’s a pleasure to see you.” A sincere smile lit the nun’s face.

  “You too, sister Magdalena,” the Legate gave a polite nod. “Can I come in? Is Margarita here?”

  “Yes, of course,” replied the nun. “She is in the garden. I shall walk you there.”

  “Thank you but there is no need for that, Sister,” Sidabras stopped her. “This is not my first time here, I won’t get lost.”

  The nun stepped aside to let the Legate through, as he entered a long dim corridor with a great number of doors lining it on both sides, and an arch standing out at its farthest end. The gate was slammed shut, as Sidabras strolled into the garden where the noise had been coming from.

  The arch was so low that the Legate couldn’t help bending down.

  He was spotted as soon as he set foot in the spacious yard.

  “Legate, Legate!” a dozen or so little brats, who only a moment ago had been chasing each other round the yard or sitting on the swing, darted towards Sidabras at top speed.

  The street was the main carer for the children of the Troubles. Even before they had turned ten, many of them considered themselves to be the old dogs of the quarter, as they hustled passers-by, helped older criminals, and, when a bit older and if they were fortunate, became broceurs or joined one of the gangs. Being taken under the wing of Motiejus Kairys was everyone’s biggest dream. Education or honest work was not something the Troubles children much cared for.

  A few years ago Vilnius had been shocked by the horrific case of the “angel-makers”: in twelve months, twenty five newborn babies had been found frozen to death, strangled or killed by blows to head in the New World quarter and the outskirts of the Troubles. Following a lengthy investigation the Legionnaires had concluded the following: a number of single girls – servants, loose women from joy houses and old-timers from the Troubles – had entrusted three particular apparently kind-hearted ladies with the care and possible adoption of their babies. They had paid the benefactors as much as they could afford. Unfortunately, the so-called benefactors had no intention of caring for the babies, never mind adopting them. They got rid of the newborns as soon as the money changed hands. A huge scandal ensued. An orphanage was promptly opened in the Troubles by the City Council, and the Sisters of Charity Congregation were put in charge. It became a shelter for all the street children and unwanted babies.

  Sadly, the goodwill of the City Council had ended at that; the money allocated to the orphanage was as generous as a tiny cloud of dust. Also the nuns that Prelate of the Knights of the Cathedral Masalskis had
engaged to work in it were old and recruited from hospitals where they had been pottering around to little effect anyway. The residents of the Troubles were not too happy with this institution either, calling it the Almshouse and threatening to burn it down. It was a dark and gloomy place, more suitable as a nursing home than for bringing up children. It was a place where mercy was never practiced.

  The first person to become the orphanage’s guardian angel was Margarita Berg – the single and youngish (she was still under 30 at the time) daughter of a rather prosperous merchant. Having visited the orphanage and discovered what a deplorable state it was in, the girl became consumed by the idea of making a better life for its tenants. She requested the City Council’s permission to work at the orphanage free of charge, which Prelate Masalskis granted her with much delight. The girl’s next step was to convince her father to dole out some money as well. Merchant Bergas turned out to be generous, and Margarita set out about her work.

  Before long, the dark and damp cells to which the children had been banished for the slightest of transgressions were abolished and long hours of praying were abandoned, while their breakfast and supper of thin grey gruel and crusts of stale bread were swapped for soup, milk, grains, meat and buns. Margarita invited teachers to educate the street rascals and instil discipline in them. A child caught red-handed wasn’t required to spend several hours kneeling down anymore, but had to throw thirty rocks into a potato basket, hanging high in the yard.

  The children now began to enjoy their life in the orphanage. During the day they would often make off to the Troubles, but in the evening they always returned, sometimes bringing a new tenant with them. This outraged the Troubles old lags even more as they were losing potential new recruits. Margarita had been repeatedly threatened, told to cease her activities or she would suffer, but the headstrong girl only shook her head and continued with her mission. As if this were not enough, at night she walked the streets of the Troubles searching for lost little souls.

  When the criminals were about to bring their words into action, the second guardian angel surfaced – the new Legate of Vilnius Antanas Sidabras. In his first days in his new position he visited the orphanage and met Margarita Berg, also ordering all the Legionnaires to dispense a rouble to the orphanage from their monthly wages. The Legionnaires found it quite acceptable as many of them had grown up in similar institutions. Moreover, the Legate managed to convince the City’s Money Councillor and the Rothschilds’ representative Gerhardt von Ott to impose a tax on public entertainment organisers and joy houses, using part of this money to support orphanages, Margarita’s being one of them.

  The innkeepers and owners of joy houses began to ready themselves for a strike, but then, rather unexpectedly, the Legate received support from Spiritual Councillor Prelate Masalskis, who threatened to position a monk by every inn and joy house, writing down all the Catholic visitors to those places, their names to be announced during mass. Prelate Masalskis’ solidarity with the Legionnaires came as a big surprise to the Burgomaster and the citizens, as the Knights of the Cathedral and the Legionnaires had always been in opposing camps, unable to agree on almost anything.

  The Legionnaires warned the old residents of Troubles, leaving no room for doubt: every time a thug threatens Margarita Berg, or tries to set the orphanage on fire, rob it or inflict any other type of damage on the Almshouse, he will be found and hung by a particular part of his body. Then, following a long silence, the boss of crime Motiejus Kairys himself added the finishing touch to this whole story by declaring the Almshouse and all of its children to be untouchable.

  Every time he passed the Troubles, Sidabras made an effort to stop by the orphanage – he would ask about the children, bring little gifts and show the older boys a few hand-to-hand combat tricks. Needless to say, the children adored the Legate. But wicked tongues wagged that Sidabras was drawn here not by a kind heart alone – but by Margarita Berg, an attractive single girl, not bound by a nun’s vows.

  This occasion was no different, and Sidabras was immediately surrounded by the little boys.

  “Look, look what Olmeris brought us!” Olmeris was one of the youngest Legionnaires, also an orphan, not much older that the most senior tenants here. “A ball, a ball! A real ball! Made out of leather!”

  The Legate handled the leather pouch that had been thrust into his hands, then nodded in expert appraisal, before kicking the ball into the air. The ball flew high, almost as high as the roof of the Almshouse, and the boys darted to catch it, bouts of joyful laughter ringing in the air. Sidabras looked around the yard, searching for Margarita.

  She was sitting at a table strewn with books under a large apple tree, which had survived in the yard as if by a miracle, writing something in a notebook. She did not seem bothered by the pandemonium around her.

  “The figures don’t add up?” asked Sidabras, approaching her.

  Margarita lifted her head, brushing long strands of blonde hair away from her large blue eyes, and stared at Sidabras. The Legate’s heart began to race.

  “No, they do.” The girl sighed, closed the book and got off her seat. “But if it continues like this, I don’t know how we will survive.” She looked at the man again. “Antanas, what is wrong with these people? No one wants to raise their children anymore. They keep bringing more and more newborn babies to us. Some say that they have lost their job, others that they have too many mouths to feed, others still that they have too much work and too little time to care for the children, or that they are setting off on their travels in search of the American dream. Besides, the boys keep finding crying infants on the streets and bringing them back in the evening.” Margarita shook her head. “It sometimes feels that things are going from bad to worse. Foreign people escape to our lands thinking that this is heaven, and what do they find here? Poverty, unemployment and disillusion. And machines, machines everywhere... Soon we will not need people anymore, as everything will be done by automatons, including bringing up children.”

  Sidabras kept quiet. And what could he say? He knew that Vilnius was incapable of taking care of all the people flocking here to seek their dreams.

  “It’s unsettled everywhere. Russia is also starting to riot,” he mumbled finally.

  “Russia is big and slow, Antanas.” Margarita started pacing the yard. “In Russia it will take ten years or more until the spark turns into a fire. And what about here? How much time is needed for a spark to fall into our barrel of gunpowder? A year? Six months? A month? I hear people talk. Not in Antokolis, in the vicinity of City Hall or in Steam City, where Vileisis is doing a really great job, but here in the Troubles, and also in Paplauja, the Blots and New World. Everyone is unhappy and complaining about their life. Are these not the people who live there? Are these not Vilnius residents? By joining the Alliance we were given freedom. But what is so good about this freedom when we don’t have money to pay for the children’s milk?”

  “Margarita...” murmured Sidabras. He felt as if he had been sucked into a vortex without knowing what to do. “Vilnius is really not that bad, like...”

  But the storm blew over as abruptly as it had started. Margarita regarded the embarrassed Legate and came over to stroke his hand.”

  “Please forgive me, I got carried away. Empty pockets make people angry. Without the help from your people we would be broke.” She tossed her hair. “Dropping by to say hello, or are you here on business? Come sit under the apple tree, this apple is on me,” she added, then laughed and sat down.

  “On business.” Sidabras sat at the table opposite the girl. He politely declined the apple as he was aware of the nuns carefully watching every bite of food. “I have a strange case,” he admitted. “I thought maybe you would know something.”

  Legate gave her a gist of the story, including his meeting with the Rose of the Troubles and the innkeeper Marius. Margarita listened with interest. When he had finished speaking, the girl clasped her hands together, looking rather pensive.

 
; “So you think the murder is not in any way related to the disappearance of the papers?” she asked.

  “Odd as it may sound, my sixth sense is telling me that. But where does it take me, anyway? Anyone could have robbed the corpse.”

  Margarita shook her head.

  “Maybe not anyone. But it could have been the Orderly.”

  Sidabras bent forward, all ears.

  “The Orderly? I haven’t heard of him.”

  “How could you hear, if all you do is loiter by the White Pillars killing time,” teased Margarita. “He lives in the Troubles, and is a bit of a looney. Everyone calls him the Orderly. No one knows how it happens, but he is always the first to get to the ‘fallen’ people.”

  “‘Fallen’ people?”

  “Well yes, fallen people. The ones who fall over in a drunken state, hitting their head against a rock, or simply fall asleep somewhere in an abandoned nook. Or someone like your fellow, lying there with a slit throat. The Orderly appears in a flash and relieves the poor soul of all his belongings. So far no one has been able to beat him to it. It is as if he is able to sniff the improper ones out.”

  “Where does he live?” Sidabras queried.

  Margarita made a helpless gesture with her arms.

  “Somewhere and nowhere. I will tell my people to ask about,” she promised. “But don’t get your hopes up. And another thing...” She deliberated. “Maybe you should talk to the Hungarian brothers?”

  The Legate stood up.

  “Indeed, Margarita, thank you for reminding me.” He turned to leave. “Tell your footballers to take their training more seriously. Olmeris has promised to form a team and enter it into the City Football League.”

  The governess of the Almshouse smiled, thanking him quietly, and watched him walk away across the yard and through the arch. She then tossed her head and went back to her papers.

  Although the earth was being scorched by the bright sun of spring, Wet Square, which the Legate had now reached, was still blemished with large puddles. Several gaunt dogs of unknown ancestry were drinking water out of one of them. Vilnius residents called them trouble dogs. The square looked deserted except for a few Jewish traders, pottering around their goods and getting ready for the evening. There were no broceurs in sight. But the Legate didn’t expect to find them. If the night had been favourable and filled with work, the broceurs would spend the whole next day resting, only returning to the square with the first signs of dusk. The Legate walked past the While Pillars of Pohulianka.