The Affliction of Praha: A gripping murder mystery set in 1920s Czechoslovakia
Page 7
‘Of course not. If I did, surely I would have informed the authorities.’
‘They know you.’
‘So it would appear… I am hunted by the ghost of a figment of which I have no awareness it even exists.’
‘And such it is quite apparent how circumstance has brought us to this moment, is it not?’
‘Please, do explain how so?’
‘You have met the killer before. You might not know who they are right now, but you have come into their path and this makes you the most relevant piece of evidence we now have. You are coming back to Prague with me.’
Milos swiped away dripping sweat.
‘It does not explain why I have been sent here, though. If they wanted me dead, why am I not already?’ he queried.
‘Quite the contrary,’ started Edgar. ‘You have been removed from the equation. No doubt the killer feared you could identify them, and with no one else around to do so, they have bought themselves time to escape from Prague. Without a doubt, whoever committed the crime has now left. Our task is rather quite simple—return to Prague and identify who has a connection to Peter or the Teralov family, and whoever has just disappeared from Prague.’
Redeemed and free from vindication, Milos breathed out a large, slow sigh of relief, his face an expression of freedom.
Juraj, who had spent the last two minutes staring solely at the musky floor, finally looked up and met Milo’s eyes. He smiled kindly at him, acknowledging the bind he had been placed within; a consolidating and equally humane kindness was returned.
Borlog stood and broadly announced to the room, ‘I take it there is no deal to be made here today then?! With that said, I bid you all farewell and safe travels, please…’ He waved and pointed towards the entrance from whence they came, his shirt stained from sweat and wearing an expression of a man tormented and exhausted. Mrs Borlog accompanied him in the parting, ushering them out of the door.
‘It was lovely to meet you all, just wonderful. I—we truly hope you catch the awful person responsible for all this, a terrible thing, really!’ She smiled awkwardly at Juraj and Milos as they politely collected their things and made their way outside, as if taking mercy on a prisoner walking their last mile towards a death row execution chamber. All that was needed was an offering of a final last meal to complete the scene.
‘I’ll ride with you, Milos,’ stated Juraj as they approached their stabled horses, waiting patiently from where they were left.
‘That would be just fine,’ replied Milos, sweat still damp and present from the boiler room scenario of yester-present.
Edgar laughed plainly, joking he had been hopeful of an opportunity to be loose of Juraj.
Nervous collective laughter collapsed into one of genuine heartfelt relief and joyousness. They had truly needed something positive to reflect on, and perhaps knowing that the three of them were all firmly in on the whole situation together was as close a comfort any of them were going to get for now.
10.
Milos had been staying in a different hotel and it was agreed he would stop by there first with Juraj before meeting Edgar at the Old Town Hotel.
Upon Edgar’s return to the hotel, he was informed by the same conspicuous clerk that a letter had arrived for his attention.
‘Something has arrived for you,’ snorted the clerk, his eyes avert and unavailable.
‘When did this arrive?’ questioned Edgar, consciously now aware of the black name badge with gold inscription attached to his red jacket, ‘Vladislav.’
‘A few hours ago,’ replied Vladislav, still disinterested as he presented the piece to him. The letter was titled and addressed accordingly:
‘Edgar Rollenvart – Old Town Hotel, Bratislava’
Of particular interest to Edgar was the return address of the back, pressed in with thick black ink across the pearly white paper—it was an official correspondence.
‘Coroner’s office, Rumunská street, Prague.’
Edgar thanked the clerk, who made an effort to ignore the detective, pretending he could not hear him as he mused about in the lobby behind the desk.
Making his way back to his room, it immediately struck Edgar how quickly the letter had arrived. For it to have come into his possession, it must have been sent no more than one day before arriving here. Edgar disconcerted that this meant two things—the letter had been sent very quickly after his departing of Prague, which also meant the autopsy itself must have been performed even more promptly. Highly irregular, Edgar concluded to himself.
Opening the door to his room, he quickly passed his eyes around the room, checking for any immediate sign of tampering or mischief. He did not trust this place and the clerk even less so, who had keys to all the rooms.
Moderately satisfied that his belongings and the contents of the room were largely unmoved or undisturbed, he sat down and carved open the letter, eager to read and discover its contents and meaning.
Edgar read through the report and quickly, a look of great concern and realization moving across his face. His cheeks were now flush with the warmth of the room and he acted with haste, scurrying to make a quick entry in his diary, scribbling down a few notes before standing and rushing out of the door.
Edgar dashed down the hotel’s steps, beads of sweat from his eyebrows running onto his cheeks, his eyes darting from left to right as if searching for something. The settled dust of the bannisters flew up into the air as he steamed past, the carpet ridden with the same, also creating a wave of brown dirt flicking in the air in his wake. Edgar’s heart pounded as he raced into the main entrance area, his thoughts racing over the contents of the report from the coroner’s office. At that same very moment, Juraj and Milos entered the hotel, catching sight of Edgar panting and heaving as he darted down the staircase, clearly ignoring them, or perhaps he did not notice them, for he was so preoccupied with the matter at hand.
‘Where are you heading?’ Juraj protested, a look of both amazement and intrigue at the sight of the old detective making his way in such an uncouth and foreign manner. Edgar was normally so calm and collected, it was almost entertaining for Juraj to merit such a spectacle.
‘I don’t have time to explain,’ responded Edgar breathlessly. ‘I must make a phone call immediately.’
The puzzlement and fascination further captured Juraj’s imagination as the emotion flurried across his face. Milos stood silent and quite simply bemused.
Juraj mustered himself to shout out and ask Edgar what on earth was going on—but it was too late, as Edgar had already disappeared around the corner.
All the while, the clerk stood before the desk, shuffling and shifting around, a shadowy figure dressed all in black. He pretended to have not overheard the conversation as Edgar rushed on by.
Milos and Juraj made their way up to the latter’s room and, upon passing Edgar’s, they noticed he had left the door ajar in his haste.
What exactly is so important that Edgar left in such a hurry? Juraj pondered to himself.
‘Should we...?’ Milos started, gesturing towards Edgar’s room.
‘No, better not,’ responded Juraj, his face concerned, fraught with hesitation and respect. He knew that Edgar was not a man who would take kindly to his belongings being rummaged through by a pair of young busybodies such as themselves!
The pair make their way into Juraj’s room and passed the time in conversation, catching up on how events had come to be.
‘Milos, the note, the one you had found—when and where did you find it, exactly?’ began Juraj, as they sat down in the empty drab room, light only just seeping in through a pair of partially drawn curtains.
‘I’d found the note within my pocket. It is hard to say how or when it had gotten there. I had been with Peter some days before his… death,’ Milos gulped, a look of pity escaping him as he searched Juraj’s eyes for permission to continue. A gently reassuring nod from Juraj suggested it was okay to do so.
‘We discussed many things… mone
y, business, women—you know how it is Juraj, all of the usual chit-chat and conversation between us friends that we are accustomed to. But I must confess, something seemed different about Peter. He looked… troubled. In fact, he acted in a strange manner quite unlike him—he was agitated and quick to anger.’
Juraj nodded in agreement, confirmation for Milos to press on. ‘There is something else, something I have yet to tell you or that Soviet detective, Juraj.’ Milos spoke the last words with his eyes facing down, clearly wrought with embarrassment and shame.
‘What in God’s name is it, Milos? What is it that you have not told us?’ Juraj spoke through gritted teeth, raising his body taut and upright with rigid concern and heightened attention.
‘My secret Juraj…I have a problem. How can I put this? I have a drinking problem you see, Juraj—I can’t get enough of the stuff.’
‘Everyone knows that,’ replied Juraj, who relaxed slightly, a sign of relief washing over his face.
‘There is more, though,’ Milos spoke meekly before Juraj had a chance to embrace him in celebration.
‘What,’ Juraj snapped abruptly.
‘Business hasn’t been as good as it ought to,’ started Milos, sheepishly and unable to meet Juraj’s now intense gaze. ‘So, what with my problem and all, I’ve been short on money, and… well. Juraj, I am very ashamed of myself—I want you to know that.’ Milos trailed off as he clasped his face, his eyes welling up, tears dripping slowly onto the aged, dank carpet below.
‘Idiot,’ hissed Juraj. ‘You’ve been stealing money from Peter, that’s your damn secret?’
‘Yes,’ wept Milos, shame and guilt-stricken through his being as he reminisced on past actions and choices, wishing he could take back the damage and destruction he had brought upon the people who had cared for him most.
‘Let me get this straight for a moment,’ Juraj spoke aloud, tying the events together. ‘Someone out there knows what you’ve been getting up to behind Peter’s back, and they have blackmailed you into coming all the way down here… why?’
Milos looked up, wiping a tear away from his eye, less a conceited man than that of ten minutes before. He appeared humbler to Juraj now, more human.
‘That’s what I’m still trying to figure out myself,’ said Milos. ‘I’ve followed the instruction for fear of my own self-preservation, but until I met you and Edgar, not a whole lot has happened of anything, nothing seems connected to me.’
‘Agreed,’ remarked Juraj. ‘Unless someone wanted us to meet down here.’
There was a pause and silence in the room as the pair searched their own thoughts for meaning or resolution of the fates that linked them. Two friends from Prague found themselves in the same hotel room together in Bratislava, both instigated from the original source—the death of Peter, both friend and brother. What was it they were missing?
‘Christ,’ Juraj finally spoke, breaking the long-adjourned stillness between them. ‘If only Edgar were here to shed some light on this. No doubt he would have an idea or two on where we go next from here.’
‘Edgar!’ proclaimed Milos with a raised voice, as they both collectively noticed Edgar has been gone for quite a considerable time.
‘Best try find the old devil,’ Milos suggested.
‘You’re right, I’ll go,’ said Juraj as he began to stand.
‘No—please, I’ll find him, it’s quite alright,’ Milos assured resoundingly.
‘Very well, I’ll pack my belongings. We’ve another long journey ahead of us,’ Juraj stated, motioning towards his pack whilst looking outside the window.
Standing to leave the room, Milos offered a small smile to Juraj, who responded with the same.
‘Milos, before you go, let me see that note of yours,’ Juraj asked inquisitively, with a look of suggestion and continuance.
Milos handed him the note without complaint, and before Juraj could reply, Milos had already left the room. Juraj held it up into the air, alongside his own note that he, too, found the night before. His eyes scanned the two, noting how different they were, both in writing, quality, and style. ‘Interesting,’ Juraj muttered out loud. ‘Very interesting.’
11.
Milos made his way down the hallway, peering into Edgar’s room as he passed. As expected, the detective was not there. The hotel seemed an empty chasm—hollow and desolate. Following the same path down the staircase Edgar had when he and Juraj had entered the hotel, Milos looked down into the lobby. Silence was the only entity that greeted him. Even the clerk, who was normally busy doing some form of mundane task, was not to be found at his desk.
Walking past the deep reddened oak counter, Milos made his way around a corner past the desk, where he had last seen Edgar. A grandfather clock chimed somewhere in the distance, counting off the numbers as the bell tolled. It seemed to match the tempo of his footsteps as he made his way farther into the restricted areas of the hotel. It appeared to be the back-office area, which was even less well-kept than the front of house, and that was quite a statement considering the poor and untidy character of the mainstay of the establishment. Stacks of cardboard boxes lined the hall, full of utensils. Another room appeared to be used for laundry of some description, towels thrown and unkempt, bustled into piles, each one apparently stacking higher than the next. How long has this place been so disowned and unloved? Milos asked himself. A faint hum pricked his ears to attention, carrying across the hall from the next room and into the vacant space.
He crept towards the sound with caution, each step highlighted by the creaking of the floorboards below his feet. His pulse reminded him of just how alone he was, as it thumped inside his neck, just below his ears. The pressure was building within him, the anticipation brewing, a thunderous cauldron stirring and twisting, morphing into something indistinguishable and abstract. Why had he volunteered himself to this task? Juraj had offered to go in his stead, and now he wished it was Juraj and not himself making tracks through a barren hall of old. He was like a trespasser within a forbidden dungeon, where demons and dragons lurked, awaiting their next feeble prey to fall perfectly into their web of entrapment. An enticing compliment for evil, if ever there was one.
Milos entered the black room to the sound of a phone unhinged from a receiver, the tone mundanely buzzing and murmuring in an innocuous beeping.
The phone hung by its cord, swinging in the silent air. There were no windows and he had to duck low to make his way under the entrance’s frame. Below the phone laid a figure hunched over. Still and quiet, a pool of dark blood slowly seeped from underneath and collected around the figure. Milos’ own shadow reflected from the pool—a haunting image that disturbed him to the core, his own presence animating the scene further into chaos and unwieldy dread.
A glint of silver metal reflected brightly back into Milos’ horrified face, the blade stuck into the side of the victim.
Milos moved closer, fear and terror lacing his breath, fingers clenched tightly into the balls of his fists, his hands trembling at the horror before him. His stomach shrank and bile rose in his throat.
The room smelled of the taint of iron and copper, the blood fixed into a sickening concoction of horror and trepidation as it swept over him—there was no antidote to be served.
Milos was deeply in fear for what he might find as he knelt beside the body, turning it toward him to reveal who the empty and lifeless victim was. A jacket deeply immersed with dark red blood was wrapped around the person’s body, altering its appearance to one more of a brown than its previous green.
The body slumped and thudded as the weight of its being turned towards Milos, revealing the identity.
Milos let out a gasp.
‘My God,’ he whispered aloud, his cold breath reverberating around the dark room.
Shaking all over, his face turned pale-white, his knees buckled and defeated.
There was no doubt about it: the face revealed a pair of aged eyes, left wide-eyed and final.
It was Edgar.
Milos instinctively placed his fingers on Edgar’s neck—he did so because he tells himself he must.
But there was no reply, no pulse—Edgar was gone.
12.
When the husband of Baroness Teralova died in Perm, the timing could not have been worse. It was 1905, and the Soviet revolution was in full flight.
The Baroness returned to Prague, to what was then the Austro-Hungarian Empire, with her two young children, Peter and Juraj. The years that followed went well for the Teralov family, having the rights and ownership of several large gas mining companies in the heartlands of the Soviet Union. They were not short of money, and their wealth grew exponentially through the harsh times that struck the economic and socialist aspects of all life, the effects of which were felt throughout Europe.
It was realised that the late Mr Teralov was not the only one in the family who had an academic presence and allure for investment and prosperity. The Baroness herself soon began starting a business that manufactured and exported to the rest of Europe. Her wealth was extreme and yet, unfamiliarly, her generosity equalled her appetite for growth and financial success. The Teralov family paid more than a fair wage for all their employees under the Teralov industries banner, and regularly made charitable donations to the people of Prague. She almost single-handedly raised a plethora of people throughout the city from a state of disarray, poverty, and suffering, to one of prosperity and abundance through kindness and consideration alone. The people of Prague were grateful for Baroness Teralova and likewise, she mutually thanked the people, for she knew without them, her own empire was nothing more than a whispering idea, blowing away in the wind.