Both duty Legionnaires, who had been idling around until now, straightened up as soon as they saw their commander.
“Lazing the day away here?” Sidabras asked in a friendly way.
“Yes we are, Legate!”, reported the guards like soldiers.
Sidabras smiled.
“Now listen,” he waved the men over. “When the broceurs return to the square, find me the two who go by the name of ‘the Hungarian brothers’. Tell them that the Legate of Vilnius wants to meet and have a chat. Don’t scare them off and don’t mention the certificates of trustworthiness. Just say that I need to speak to them, and that is all. “
Both Legionnaires nodded.
“Understood, Legate. Where will the meeting take place?”
Sidabras considered it for a minute.
“Tell them to come to Madam Khaya Feigelson’s joy house in Totoriai. At 11. I think they will know where that is.” He smiled a crooked smile.
Chapter IX
Vilnius, late at night
22 04 1905
At around ten in the evening Sidabras stepped inside Madam Feigelson’s joy house – a most exquisite brothel, set up along Totoriu and Odminiu Streets, still called Tatarska and Garbarska by older citizens. The Tsar’s authorities had tried to eradicate brothels, but the fight was more of an attempt to maintain their own reputation than a genuine effort to do away with whorehouses. And the Alliance decided not to enter the fight at all and had left the problem for future rulers to solve.
Madam Feigelson’s joy house stood out among the others not only because of its more expensive girls and the slimmer chance of getting the French disease, but also for its interior design. The lobby was divided into several partitioned booths, each containing two armchairs upholstered in plush red fabric. After a client had made himself comfortable in an armchair, he was seen by an assistant of Madam Khaya’s, who enquired as to Sir’s preferences. In a few moments, several girls were brought into the room. After the client had picked the one he fancied and paid the money, they climbed the stairs, covered with thick soft carpet, to the first floor.
Sidabras sprawled in a comfortable chair, yawned and rang the copper bell he had found on the table. A young assistant came out immediately. She must have been new to this place, as she did not recognise the Legate.
“Good evening, sir,” she chirped with a broad artificial smile on her face. “It’s a pleasure to see you at Madam Khaya Feigelson’s home. Who are you after? A brunette or a blonde? Our Fania, with who you are no doubt familiar, is unfortunately busy at the moment, but if you care to wait...”
“Today I am after boys,” Sidabras interrupted. “Two of them,” he said cheerfully, eyeing the young mademoiselle, her gaudy clothes reminding him of a canary.
The girl’s eyes sprang wide open.
“But we... we...” she muttered. “Maybe you have been misled?... Here... we don’t have boys,” she uttered awkwardly.
“Never mind,” Sidabras reassured her. “I will bring my own.”
The girl’s eyes became as large and round as saucers. She made several attempts to open her mouth but to no avail. The Legate watched her with a slight smile.
“Of course, of course, whatever you say,” the sweet canary stammered at last. “You will probably want a room as well? On the fourth floor we have a grand suite with a bath and...”
“No, no,” Legate shook his head. “We will stay here.”
Even if someone decided to publish a textbook on running a whorehouse, it would never include a chapter on how to behave in a situation like this. The sweet canary felt that it was getting all too much for her. She turned round and was about to run for help, but Sidabras stopped her.
“Never mind, never mind, it was a joke,” he said amiably. “I would like a girl after all. For half an hour.”
The young mademoiselle’s demeanour changed immediately and she now grinned from ear to ear. She must have thought that no two clients are the same, and that it might take some time for her to get used to certain people’s jokes.
“Yes, of course. A brunette or a blonde? She asked. “And what about Fania? She charges three times more than the others, but, Sir, she is more than worth it...”
“I will have her for half an hour,” Sidabras cut her short. “In that half an hour tell her to fry me some eggs in the kitchen. Three eggs, fried on both sides, together with some grilled bacon and a lot of onions. And a quarter of a loaf of bread. And also a large pint of Szopen beer.”
Talking about food made the Legate’s stomach rumble. He enjoyed eating and the several skewers of pork he had polished off in Gluttons Passage were but a distant memory. But the sweet canary was not listening to him any longer – she fluttered away as if blown by the wind, and a minute later was back together with Madam Khaya Feigelson herself – a plump, over-dressed lady with a heavily powdered face and a mass of curly hair, pulled up and pinned on the top of her head. They were accompanied by a beefy guard who had came to restrain the madman who had forced his way into the brothel.
However, his first glimpse of the guest was enough to make the guard’s bravado disappear. Madam Khaya, on the contrary, gave the damsel a cross look and, swaying her entire body in one motion, gracefully placed her posterior on the second armchair.
“Is this proper, Master Legate?” she said disapprovingly. “You come here not for our services but to scare people.”
“Why do you say that I don’t use your services? “ The man retorted. “I have just ordered some fried eggs. Three eggs, bacon and onions.” When he saw that Madam Feigelson was about to say something, he quickly added, “Two men will come here. I wish to speak to them with no disturbances. We will be fine where we are now, but there should not be anyone in the booth opposite. We will not take long and I promise not to interfere with your business.”
Madam Feigelson’s facial expression changed into one of a hunting dog who had unexpectedly sniffed out its prey. She understood that she was doing a favour to Vilnius Legion, and however small it was, it was still a favour.
“As Master Legate wishes,” she replied, bowing her head slightly, then stood up.
“Do not forget to serve a quarter of a loaf with the eggs,” Sidabras shouted after her.
The Hungarian brothers turned up at the joy house at the agreed time – eleven on the dot. They waddled in through the door, looked around and flopped opposite the Legate on chairs that had been provided by Madam Khaya. It was clear from their expressions that they were expecting nothing favourable from this conversation.
Sidabras slowly finished eating his eggs – which, by the way, were delicious – mopped the plate with a piece of bread, pushed it aside, and finally looked over at the Hungarians.
If for some reason a description of these visitors were required, it would have been enough to describe only one of them: a rather short young man with black curly hair, narrow eyes and an exceptionally large nose, wearing black thick wool trousers and a worn-out dirty jacket. The reason why we would not need to describe the other brother is simple – the Hungarians were twins, the spitting image of each other. They were proud of their resemblance (and they were also proud of their origin, as the Great Duke Algirdas himself had brought their Hungarian ancestors to Lithuania as prisoners), and, even more importantly, they managed to use it expertly to fool unsuspecting individuals accidentally drifting through the Troubles. Their nickname was also used to their benefit (they could not remember their surname, or maybe didn’t even know it), as they tried to convince their angry duped clients that they were not broceurs (vingriai), but Hungarians (vengrai), and that vengrai was not vingriai and not all vingriai were vengrai.
“Thank you for coming,” said Legate. “I apologise for my choice of venue but I had some business in the area.”
The Hungarian brothers nodded in unison, thus assuring him that they were quite happy to be in the joy house; to them the place was rather nice, or even excellent if compared to the interrogation cell in Sluskai Palac
e.
“Please answer the questions clearly and precisely,” Sidabras spoke again. “Don’t neglect to mention anything and do not lie.” The tone of his voice was now different. He was no longer the joker who had ordered eggs in the joy house, he was the Legate of Vilnius whose toughness and insight were discussed in the remotest parts of the city. “Were you working in the Troubles last night?”
“Yes,” replied the Hungarian Brothers in unison.
“In the vicinity of The Iron Owl?”
“Yes.”
“At night you were approached by a man, one of The Owl’s clients. Middle aged, not tall, on the fat side.”
The Hungarians exchanged glances.
“Yes.”
“Fine,” the Legate’s tone became more amicable. “What did the man want, where did you take him and leave him, how much money did you get, and what do you remember? Tell me everything you know.”
“So it was... I mean, this is what happened,” spoke up one of the brothers on whose left cheek, just under the eye, Sidabras managed to detect a barely visible mole. His twin brother did not have one of those. “I mean, we were hanging around The Owl, it wasn’t a holy day and we didn’t have much to do. We saw a fat fellow coming out. And he was walking straight at us. He said – Marius told me to look for you. Help me. I am not familiar with the Troubles, show me where I can find a coachman to take me home. I will reward you generously.
“And he gave me a whole chervonets. My brother here,” the lad nudged his twin without a mole, who still hadn’t uttered a word, “told him – for this red-cheeked beauty we will carry you straight to your bed.
“But the man protested, no, no, I don’t want to be carried. All I want is to be led to the coachman. And that was exactly what we did for the chervonets, and made certain that he got home safe and sound by putting him on the carriage. And we did work for the money. And that was all.”
The Legate bit his lip and regarded the brothers for a time. The silence became uncomfortable, and the Hungarian with the mole lost patience and jumped in to break it.
“If that Felix is some kind of villain, thief or swindler, Your Honour, we can give the chervonets back. We don’t want somebody else’s money and we don’t need any problems.” There was a touch of pleading in his voice. It was not every day that their clients were throwing chervonets at them.
Something gripped Sidabras’ attention.
“You said Felix? How do you know his name?”
“He told us, Your Honour,” the Hungarian blurted out. “Well, actually, when he was clambering into the carriage, he was sort of muttering to himself. He said – Thank your lucky stars, Felix. What a bounty!”
“Do you remember the coachman?”
Realising that the Legate was not at all concerned about the chervonets, the Hungarian with the mole allowed himself to feel hurt.
“How could we forget him, Your Honour? It was Limping Jatsek. Many times we have taken our exhausted clients to him. He is a reliable man, would always take you where you need to go, and would never rob or kill anyone.”
Sidabras rubbed his temple. He had had a long day and was now feeling more like a short snooze rather than a hunt for Limping Jatsek in the city. The dilemma solved itself.
“That’s fine,” he said dismissively. “Keep the chervonets. Consider yourself lucky.” The brothers started nodding their heads like spring-wound mechanical dogs – a much-loved accessory of steam carriage men, kept on the shelf behind their rear seats – while the Legate continued, “But for this money today you will work for me. Find Limping Jacek and bring him over to Sluskai. Early in the morning tomorrow. Is that clear?”
“It is clear, Your Honour,” replied the Hungarian brothers in unison.
Vilnius Legate Antanas Sidabras got to his feet.
“Fine then. I look forward to seeing all three of you in Sluskai,” he said. “Try Faina’s eggs. They melt in your mouth,” he added before he left.
Chapter X
Farnborough, Royal Air force base, early morning
23 04 1905
It had been bucketing down with rain since early morning. The guards and watchmen were soaked through, as they had had to go round ripping yesterday’s posters dedicated to the departure of the Invincible off the walls. They would throw an occasional glance at the sky and curse this miserable spring. But the sky was completely obscured by cloud, with not a single shaft of sunlight breaking through.
“Another English day. The last one for me...” thought Adjutant Edward O’Braitis to himself. He stood on a raised platform, leaning against the hand rail and looking at the Farnborough military airfield hangar, which currently sheltered his dirigible The Star of St George from the rain. Compared to the hangar from which The Invincible had rolled out yesterday, this one looked tiny but, as they say in the armed forces, everyone needs to know their place.
Yesterday, the proud Invincible had been seen off with trumpet fanfares, loud cheering and flashing cameras. It had left on its noble mission to South Africa, where passions were still burning following the recently ended Second Boer War. The Brits had got seriously bogged down there, and messages on the wireless indicated a possible new war almost daily. Being the latest state-of-the-art air cruiser, The Invincible was expected to tip the scales in the British Empire’s favour.
But that was yesterday. Today it was the turn of the old reconnaissance corvette The Star of St George to set off on its journey. It was leaving for its last mission, and would be seen off by a bored duty officer in the Navigators’ Tower, who would forget all about it as soon as it had disappeared out of sight, as he was much more interested in the latest horse-racing news. If they were really lucky, they would get a two-line mention in the local paper The Hampshire Chronicles.
Did Edward want to serve on The Invincible? This was something all Sandhurst cadets dreamed of. , But now he would be happy to accept any posting at all, even to a lighthouse in the Outer Hebrides, rather than being stowed away on this flying crate. To compare The Star of St George to The Invincible was the same as comparing a farmer’s cart to a train – it had no modern conveniences, no grace or beauty. It was one of the oldest dirigibles of the Royal Air Force, and had these been the times of peace, it would have been written off a long time ago. But because the British Empire was putting out fires in various remote parts of the world, every old airship still capable of flying was in great demand.
O’Braitis cast another glance at the leaden sky, turned on his heel, and strode to the barracks to wake up Milton Mabrey, The Star of St George’s captain.
Around midday, the rain turned even worse – it seemed that it had discovered a new object in desperate need of being washed. The Star of St George slowly rolled out of the hangar and in the direction of the airfield.
Captain Milton Mabrey, an elderly Scotsman with weathered cheeks and bushy moustache, was standing in the exact spot where Edward had lingered earlier in the morning, cautiously sipping his scalding hot coffee, leather gloves jammed under his armpits. His long, knee-length leather coat and helmet with aviator’s goggles pushed down over his forehead protected him from the rain. Mabrey’s neck was wrapped in a white scarf – a fashion among pilots – and adorned with a small metal medallion. At his belt he had a .45 Webley revolver. Long boots shined to perfection added the finishing touch to his ensemble. The Scotsman was dressed up for a reason. Only a month ago Mabrey had thought that his honourably earned pension was only a moment away, but as there was a great shortage of experienced pilots, the leaders of the Royal Air Force had decided to give Mabrey another chance to take a dirigible’s control stick in his hands. Therefore, despite the annoying rain, the captain was in an ebullient mood, and stood there, his eyes darting between the slowly advancing dirigible and the young Adjutant O’Braitis with his face like a wet flannel. Mabrey knew that Edward O’Braitis had no desire to clamber into this crate, but in his thirty years of service he had seen many such youths. The Captain’s first priority was to figure
out what type of bird this former cadet was, as Milton Mabrey’s airship was not going to put up with crybabies and other kinds of failures.
“Well, Edward, what do you think of it?” he finally asked.
“It is rather beautiful, Sir,” after a moment’s hesitation said O’Braitis.
Mabrey gave a thunderous laugh, nearly scalding himself with coffee.
“Beautiful? You cannot be serious! A rat’s arse is more beautiful than this derelict piece of rubbish! But the crate and I are a great match, and we both still have some gunpowder left for our last voyage.”
Edward noticed a cheeky glint in the Captain’s eyes and thought that this adventure, possibly the last one in his life, had made Mabrey at least two decades younger. This idea made him feel slightly better.
When the dirigible had made its journey along the tracks and reached the boarding platform, a team of technicians swarmed over it, making the last checks before the flight. Mabrey swallowed the last drops of his coffee, twisted his moustache with his fingers and said:
“Let’s go, Edward. The Captain and his adjutants have to board first.”
Following the captain down the stairs from the platform, Edward noticed the second adjutant, Charles Finley, who was waiting for them down below.
O’Braitis furrowed his eyebrows; he still had no idea what had caused such a mystical change in Finley’s behaviour. Until only recently notorious as a bully and a rascal, this person was now demonstrating his friendship and even affection at any given opportunity. A cool good luck was all that Charles’ best mates got from him after the farewell banquet at the Academy.
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