The Heartless (The Sublime Electricity Book #2)

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The Heartless (The Sublime Electricity Book #2) Page 21

by Pavel Kornev


  "Did you read about the robbery of the Dürer factory a few weeks ago?"

  "Yes, I read about it."

  "In the interest of security, the patent documents containing the formula and production process for duralumin were transferred to the Baron's urban manor."

  "And?"

  "They were stolen."

  "So, why am I here? I wasn't at Dürer's reception. I am understanding correctly that the theft occurred at yesterday's dinner party, right?"

  "But Elizabeth-Maria was there!" the inspector general clenched his fists. "You told her to use her talent to convince the Baron to unlock the safe!"

  "Complete nonsense!" I shot back, unable to restrain myself. "In that case, I'd have already left the country!"

  "The storm upset all your plans, Viscount."

  "And I was dumb enough to go back home?"

  "You thought no one would connect you with the crime. Your second error."

  "And my first?"

  "My daughter isn't wretched enough to convince a person to kill himself. The Baron's attempt to take his own life was unsuccessful."

  "Nonsense!" I muttered. "This is all just complete nonsense! And so, where is Elizabeth-Maria?"

  "That's what I want you to tell me!"

  "Alright, alright," I repeated a few times. "Elizabeth-Maria has the talent of convincing, but how could I convince her to commit such a dastardly crime? I don't have such a talent!"

  "She thought you were fun. You made her head spin."

  "Me?"

  The inspector general looked at my rumpled countenance, overly angular and big-nosed, moved his gaze to my mud-caked clothing and sighed:

  "I'd never have though so, but we have evidence to the contrary."

  "Evidence!" I laughed with unhidden sarcasm. "Naturally, you must have some incontrovertible evidence! How could I forget!"

  "That's exactly right," Friedrich von Nalz moved up to me and blew with a fierce fire. "You wouldn’t have known, but Elizabeth-Maria kept a diary. She wrote all her doubts and hesitations in it. When searching her room, I found her notes and immediately put out a warrant for your arrest. Your third error, Viscount!"

  "Nonsense," I sighed, the tips of my fingers going numb in terror.

  I couldn't understand what was going on. I just did not understand.

  Elizabeth-Maria, love, a diary, the patent theft...

  None of it could be true! These were the stuff of my dreams!

  I forced myself to calm down and asked:

  "Is my name mentioned in the diary?"

  "Unambiguously."

  "And Elizabeth-Maria wrote that she loved me?"

  "Yes."

  "Hard to believe," I snorted. The inspector general said nothing in reply, so I asked him: "You're sure it's her handwriting?"

  "Beyond all doubt."

  "May I have a look?"

  "To what end?"

  "I won't believe it until I've seen it with my own eyes."

  "Do you think I'm bluffing?" Friedrich von Nalz smiled bitterly and took a swollen notebook from his pocket with a purple cover and a broken little silver lock. "Well, have a look!"

  The inspector general held up his daughter's diary to my face and opened it to the right page.

  The story started at the spring ball where I read Elizabeth-Maria a poem written by Albert Brandt. The romance developed quickly, we saw one another almost every day. After meeting at the hippodrome, we spent our first evening together. I told her my criminal intentions on our next encounter at the circus. Elizabeth-Maria agreed. We were then supposed to flee to Zuid-India.

  The most sorrowful fact was that the handwriting in all the entries, whether made a year ago, or the day before yesterday, was exactly the same. Elizabeth-Maria had written it, but what the devil for? What ghoulish game was she playing? Who had told her to do this?

  "None of this is true," I said directly.

  "You didn't meet with my daughter?"

  "I saw her in the city a couple of times," I admitted, "but we never spent much time together. We usually didn't even talk."

  "This says otherwise."

  Refuting a blatant lie is simplicity itself. Half-truths are much more insidious. Elizabeth-Maria and I did talk, and dozens of random witnesses could attest to that. So, how could I now prove that I hadn't incited her to crime? How could I prove it…?

  "Stop!" I gasped, visited by an unexpected thought. "Go back a page!"

  "Hippodrome," "walk around town," "all evening he didn't let go of my hand..."

  "A-ha!" I sighed loudly. "I have an alibi!"

  "Is that so?" Friedrich von Nalz started at me in disbelief, tucking the diary back in his pocket. "Regardless of what happened, I believe my daughter incomparably more than any of your witnesses!"

  "Even if they are the head of the CID and senior inspector of Department Three? You yourself know they have no lost love for me!" I smirked. "And another investigator and five or so random constables? Which is to say nothing of the plainclothes officers working surveillance?"

  "What are you talking about, Viscount?"

  "The entry from the twelfth of April. I was at the hippodrome at the same time as your daughter, but I didn't talk with her. Right after the races, I went to the raising of the armored car from the Yarden, the one from the Witstein Banking House robbery. It was the twelfth! We started at four and were there until nearly five or six in the evening. Then, the surveillance officers saw me walking into Levinson's house. The exact time is written in the report. I'm no devil. I cannot be in two places at the same time! And the circus! After the circus, I had a talk with Senior Inspector Moran on the burglary of my uncle's estate! He'll tell you the same!"

  The inspector general stared at me and percolated:

  "If this is some kind of ploy..."

  "Ask LeBrun, ask Moran. Bring out the report from my last arrest. There’s no time to waste, I beg you!"

  Friedrich von Nalz left the chamber in silence, and I was left alone with my unhappy thoughts. One thing, at least, made me glad, though. Lazarus would definitely not be catching up with me today.

  TO THE INSPECTOR GENERAL'S credit, he did end up apologizing. His apology was dry and brief, but the fact remained. He didn't relegate the unpleasant business to a subordinate. And it would have all ended on a good note, but near the end, the ghastly old man came up right close to me and whispered:

  "If you are involved in this, I'll burn you alive with no court or evidence," he warned, then afterward said out loud in an official tone: "Viscount, Senior Inspector Moran would like to see you."

  That didn't make me any happier, but I didn't show it. I just nodded and, rubbing my raw wrists demonstratively, headed for the exit.

  A patrolman instantly blocked my path.

  "What now?" I grew surprised.

  "First, talk with Moran," the inspector general reminded me and left the room.

  I shrugged my shoulders and grudgingly took a seat, secretly hoping that I wouldn’t be in shackles by the end of my talk with the senior inspector.

  Bastian Moran appeared five minutes later. He looked at me with a smirk, then asked the wardens to leave us alone and took out a pack of cigarettes.

  "The inspector general warned me that you were an extremely elusive young man," he said, lighting a cigarette. "It's always nice to hear that a superior shares your point of view."

  "Very funny!" I grimaced. "Two arrests for contrived reasons in one week is obvious overshot, don't you think?"

  "For contrived reasons?" the senior inspector warped his peaked brow in astonishment. "You should not have said that!"

  "Just don't tell me I’m going back through the wringer!" I threw up my hands. "It has been formally established that Levinson and his family were killed by Procrustes!"

  Bastian Moran sat on the edge of the table and shook the narrow little tip of his lacquered ankle-boots in the air.

  "I am not here to talk about Levinson," he suddenly announced. "We're talking about the
theft of the duralumin patents."

  "For goodness sake!" I groaned. "Did you not just confirm my alibi?"

  "That is precisely what's got me worried," the inspector general admitted. "Quite the fortunate coincidence, isn't it? Elizabeth-Maria writes about clandestine meetings with you, but every time, the entries are easily refuted by undeniably reliable and neutral witnesses. A surprising coincidence."

  "Not every time," I objected, "only on two occasions."

  "And that is enough."

  "You're accusing me of intentionally attracting suspicion? Why the devil would I want to do that?"

  "You're vain," Bastian Moran reminded. "You thirst for societal attention. Having the whole metropolitan police wrapped around your finger and gaining notoriety – would that not be reason enough to bear certain inconveniences?"

  I rubbed my bruised chest.

  "Have you ever been electrocuted, senior inspector? If you had, I strongly doubt you’d be calling it a mere inconvenience! What’s more, if I had stolen the secret patents on the aluminum alloy, I'd have been on my way to the continent long ago!"

  "The storm. It's impossible to predict bad weather."

  "Oh, come off it!"

  "Alright, we'll drop the topic," Bastian Moran agreed, tapping his ash onto the floor. "By the way, speaking of flying. Today, your uncle's dirigible, Syracuse, met with an accident. On the site of the crash, we discovered the personal effects and documents of the Count Kósice."

  "What are you trying to say?" I asked, shaking my head. "You’d do well to consider your earlier statement: one cannot predict bad weather!"

  "There's a lot of strange circumstances surrounding the accident, Viscount," the senior inspector said, looking me penetratingly in the eyes. "Could you tell me where you were at four o'clock this afternoon?"

  I turned away, pitying the fact my glasses had been confiscated, then laughed quietly:

  "If you're hinting at my involvement in that unfortunate event, I'm afraid I have to disappoint you. My uncle and I resolved our conflict."

  "Yes, I saw the documents we confiscated on your arrest," Bastian Moran nodded. "When did you receive them?"

  "Between three and four this afternoon, in the office of the Count's attorney. I didn't see my uncle there."

  "And you're not worried for his fate?"

  "I am indifferent to it. Though we smoothed over our conflict, our personal feelings remain complicated. I tend to hold grudges, you know."

  "Is there anyone who could back up your story?"

  "Only my uncle's attorney, Maître LaSalle. His secretary wasn't working today."

  "The maître gave him the day off," the senior inspector confirmed.

  "If you've already spoken with the maître, what the devil are these interrogations for?" I objected with righteous indignation. "I’m getting the feeling that you're just running up the clock!"

  "Nothing of the sort," Bastian Moran shook his head and threw out the cigarette butt in the far corner of the room. "At around four this afternoon, there was a fire in the office of Maître Lasalle. Four people died."

  "That's horrible!" I said, hunching up my shoulders with no acting. It really did make me feel out of sorts.

  "The bodies were very badly burnt. It's made identifying them complicated, but it is thought that one of the dead is your uncle, the Count Kósice, and a second is the maître himself."

  "A grizzly death."

  "Oh no, Viscount," Bastian Moran shook his head. "The maître and one of the unidentified corpses had been shot. The coroner's assistant found signs of trauma on the back of the Count's head. It was split. The last dead man had been strangled. There is evidence of shooting everywhere."

  "I don't understand this at all!"

  "And that was approximately the same time the dirigible had an accident."

  "Are you suggesting this was no mere coincidence?"

  The senior inspector didn't answer, just stared at me stubbornly and continued:

  "And also, on the neighboring street, we discovered the body of a man by the name of Samuel Borto, a bounty hunter. He had been shot in the back. A ten-caliber bullet was removed from his corpse."

  "Where are you going with this?" I asked, getting on edge.

  "When you were detained, a Cerberus was confiscated from you with one chamber empty, Viscount. I see a definite connection between these two facts."

  "That connection seems pretty thin to me."

  "And the holster?"

  "What about the holster?"

  "The holster on your belt was empty when you were arrested. Meanwhile, a Roth-Steyr pistol was discovered in the burnt office."

  "It's all quite simple," I smiled, at ease. "I wanted to buy a new pistol, but couldn't find anything at a reasonable price. I turned in my service Roth-Steyr, don't you remember?"

  "Then for what reason were you carrying a full clip of eight-millimeter rounds?"

  "As I said, I was looking to buy a new eight-millimeter pistol! What kind of spendthrift do you take me for?"

  "It's all very suspicious, that’s all."

  "Am I being charged with anything?"

  "Not yet," the senior inspector smiled calmly. "But I don't think this will be the end. I'm firmly convinced you were there. Only a person as elusive, yet short-sighted as you could have jumped from roof to roof, running from a dirigible-mounted machine gun."

  "What are you saying?" I asked, gaping in false surprise. "What machine gun?"

  "Where were you at four o'clock this afternoon, Viscount?"

  "Walking home!" I flared up. "Have you ever tried catching a cab in this weather? I have! It's a deadly endeavor!"

  I wasn't at all afraid to be caught in my lies. If I’d gone straight from maître’s, I'd still have gotten to Calvary at about the same time, if not later.

  But my words did nothing to convince Bastian Moran. The senior inspector was looking at me like he saw through all my tricks, and walked back to the door.

  "One last question, Viscount," he said as he turned. "Do you know why your uncle would have wanted to hire twenty mercenaries?"

  "Senior inspector, you have the habit of asking me questions I don't have the answer to."

  "Is that so?"

  I got up from the chair and confirmed:

  "That's right. But you’re asking the right questions. My uncle can't seriously have been so afraid of me that he felt it necessary to bear such expenses. Good mercenaries usually cost a lot. Either he was working on an illegal scheme, or had a reason to expect an attack."

  Bastian Moran nodded.

  "You're free to go, Viscount," he said, and walked out the door.

  I immediately ran after him.

  "Senior inspector!" I shouted, jumping out into the hallway. "What about my things?"

  One of the patrolmen answered instead of Moran.

  "Let's go," he said, calling me after him. "You'll get everything back."

  I was awaited in the CID evidence room by a familiar detective sergeant with a red mustache and yellow eyes. He took the ledger from a folder, asked me to familiarize myself with it, then started setting one piece after the other on the counter. My knife, lighter, wallet, bank notes and coins, sugar drop tin, dark glasses, inheritance documents, Cerberus with an extra cartridge containing two rounds, an untouched cartridge with silver bullets, an empty holster, a Roth-Steyr clip, my cane and a photograph with the elegant signature, "Emile..."

  I stuck the photograph nervously into the inner pocket of my jacket. The detective sergeant didn't pay that any mind and demanded:

  "If this is all correct, write that you have no grievances and sign."

  So I did. Then, I quickly redistributed my effects in my pockets and shot out of the Newton-Markt like a bat out of hell. I practically leapt into the courtyard, divided from the street by its colonnaded portico, and stuck my face out into the water coming down from above.

  It had eased up, but not by much.

  The unexpected discovery that I was rela
ted to the Imperial family, the attack of Lazarus and the disappearance of Elizabeth-Maria without a trace had torn my tormented soul to bits, and my head was just spinning.

  What is happening? And why am I precisely at the center of all this devilry?

  And most importantly: why had Elizabeth-Maria slandered me? Stoking my own ego, I could call her journal entries the inoffensive fantasies of a girl vexed by an unwanted marriage, but the fact of her participation in the secret patent theft did not fit into this scheme at all.

  She can't seriously have been deflecting suspicion from someone else, right?

  Who would that even be?

  And just then, I felt as if struck by lightning.

  Albert Brandt! The talented and charming Don Juan, who was with me at all the alleged unexpected meetings with Elizabeth-Maria. Beyond that, he wrote her a poem. When I considered how easily he tended to get carried away, and his bitter split with Kira, I realized he easily could have transferred his feelings onto a new object.

  The mystery girl! So, he was talking about the daughter of Friedrich von Nalz all along, just trying not to upset my relationship with him?

  My pace started quickening, and I even would have started running if my thoughts hadn't returned to the strange robbery of Baron Dürer. Why the devil would the poet want the duralumin patent? He had never been caught up in illegal stuff before!

  Money? Did Albert really need money that badly? Or was he simply intending to run away with my lady love?

  My lady love?!

  A sharp pain pierced my heart. I took a step back and even leaned on a marble column of the portico. My eyes grew dark. The world grew gray. The sound of rain was replaced by an eerie ringing. Shame and resentment swept through my head. I wanted to kill someone.

  Someone? Oh no! I wanted to kill Albert!

  I held his friendship dear, but I could never forgive such treachery. I couldn't kill him, either though. My arm simply wouldn't raise to harm him. And how could I ever live with such a heavy weight on my soul after that? Only a bullet in the forehead...

  But I didn't want to die at all. I wanted to live. I wanted it more than ever.

  I exchanged the spent round in the Cerberus magazine with a silver bullet, and headed to the Greek Quarter. The chance of catching Albert in the Charming Bacchante wasn't great, but storms really could upset any plan. I had to look him in the eyes and decide how to act from then on.

 

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