by Pavel Kornev
There was rain sprinkling in through a hole in the guest-room wall. Water was flowing through the broken floor into the basement and gradually covering the chunks of ice. I threw back the reinforced hatch, went down and gave an involuntary shudder. And though there was daylight driving back the darkness of the icehouse, I still didn't want to go down there. My fear of basements was right where it had always been.
I overpowered it, ran down the hoar-frosted stairs and dragged the corpses outside, first the retired judge, then the robber the leprechaun had cut up and, finally, I returned for the Moor. There wasn't even a wisp remaining of the chef.
After loading the dead bodies into the back of the car, I went into the house and, there, I was shouted out to by the leprechaun.
"Boy, are you sure you didn't forget anything?" pointing to the frosted-line jar containing the fallen one's heart.
"Leave it," I said with a wave of my hand.
The pipsqueak shrugged his shoulders and threw the jar over his back. I winced, expecting to hear the sound of breaking glass, but the vessel landed with a quiet thud, sunk down into the ice chunks, and went out of view.
And to hell with that heart, even if it had broken to pieces.
I couldn't have cared less.
I ran through the whole house, but didn't find a single trace of Elizabeth-Maria; it was as if the girl had sunk down into the earth. I checked the garden – she definitely wasn't there. Then, I stood over the graves of my mother and father for a short time, promising that I would one day return and got into the armored car.
It was time to get out of here.
4
THE STORM rolled over the city. Every minute, there was a new lightning strike on the iron tower at the top of Calvary; the bright flashes blinded the eye. The thunder caused the windows of the self-propelled carriage to shudder, and the gusts of wind nearly blew us off the road.
I didn't look back even one time. I just drove down from the hill and maneuvered the vehicle down the wet and homely streets to Leonardo-da-Vinci-Platz. That said, calling what I did "maneuvering" was rather overstating it. The rain was pouring over the windshield and, even with the armor plate thrown back, I had to stick my head out the window just to get the slightest notion of the road ahead.
On the way, I stopped at the embankment of one of the canals that led to the Yarden and threw the thoroughly frozen bodies in. This way, there wouldn't be any uncomfortable questions at Alexander Dyak's when he helped me unload the suitcase with the transmitter. When I arrived to the inventor’s, he just shook his head at the many boxes filled with weaponry.
"I hope, Leopold Borisovich," he asked when we had gone inside, "that you do not have any ties with the anarchists." And immediately, he waved his hand. "I beg of you, pay no mind to my old-man's humor! You, rightly, need to put yourself in order. You don't look yourself!"
I decisively set a glass of brandy he stuck in my hand on the workbench and looked in the mirror. On my pale face, you could see a swollen nose, and my shirt collar was spattered with dried blood.
When did this happen to me?
After washing up, I asked the inventor for a towel, wiped the water off my face and took a seat at his desk with the photograph fragment and the worn edition of Alice's Adventures in Wonderland. I started decrypting the instructions for claiming the deposit, taking sips of hot, strong tea as I did, chasing it by nipping at a spoon of sugar in the Russian fashion. Alexander Dyak, meanwhile, took a look into the suitcase. After seeing the transmitter, he asked with voracious interest:
"Did it work?!"
"In full measure," I affirmed.
"And how was it?"
I shrugged my shoulders:
"Just like with the poltergeist. You're a genius, Alexander."
"You're flattering me, Leopold Borisovich."
"A genius!" I repeated. "But what exactly became of the electric battery, I cannot say precisely. It burned out."
"I'll figure it out," the inventor reassured me.
At the same time, I was nearing the end of the code. I read the text a few times, trying my very hardest to memorize the fairly basic instructions, flicked my lighter and burned the paper and photo up. I didn't want to take any unnecessary risks.
"What are your plans for the next few days, Leopold Borisovich?" Dyak asked, checking the components of his device. "I'd like to carry on our work together, but I need to order a few parts. The battery wasn't the only thing that burned out."
"Our work is sure to carry on," I promised, "but first, I need to take a trip to Zurich. Would you object to me leaving the car in your back yard?"
"For a long time?"
"If need be," I shrugged, not knowing whether it was worth coming back at all.
Alexander Dyak nodded, wiped his face with the rag and took a seat at his desk.
"Then allow me to quiz you a bit more, Leopold Borisovich," he smiled, opening a spreadsheet. "Every detail is important to science!"
I spent around a quarter hour describing the details to the inventor, then pulled out the white-phosphorus hand-held mortar rounds from the back of the armored vehicle, – what need did I have for them now? – bid the old man farewell and went outside.
The wind immediately bared down on me, the cold rain whipping and crawling under my shirt collar. The wind was trying to pull off my hat. I slouched and, leaning on the cane, hurried to the nearest steam-tram line. Beyond the storm, which had caused all travel to the continent to be suspended, my hasty departure to Switzerland was also impeded by a simple lack of money.
I had plenty of cash for a steam-ship ticket, but I didn't want to beg for alms the whole way to Zurich. And my attorney could help with that.
To my good fortune, the trams hadn't stopped running in the rain, and most of the trip was spent warm and dry. And that was simply wonderful: the rain outside was clearly stronger. The storm-drain system could no longer manage it. There were ruddy streams gushing down the street, and lightning flashing and booming with all the fury of an artillery cannonade.
The wind rushed between the high buildings with an unbelievable force, nearly knocking me off my feet and forcing me to duck down. When I got into my attorney's little office, the water was streaming off me like a brook.
"Viscount?" the lawyer was taken aback by my appearance. "Has something happened?"
"Horrible weather," I muttered, getting the late Count's agreement to me coming into my inheritance from my traveling bag. "Here, take all necessary measures."
My attorney quickly looked at the papers and raised his surprised, round eyes to me:
"Viscount, how did you do this?"
"The injunctions helped," I smiled simply.
"I’ll take care of this, Viscount," the lawyer promised and faltered, "but does it have to be today? I'm only still in the office because I'm afraid I won't make it home! I'll never catch the right people at work now!"
"Alright," I nodded. "See you tomorrow, then. I'll be in touch. Most likely, I'll send a telegram saying where to send the first allotment."
"Yes sir, Viscount!" my attorney repeated.
I bid him farewell and went out into the hallway, intending to wait out the bad weather at Central Station and go from there to port as soon as the weather improved. I no longer had to worry about money. The allowances from the family fund would be quite enough for the upcoming trip to Zurich. And there, everything would work itself out.
It would work itself out!
My head was full of such big ideas that I only paid any mind to the man walking up to meet me in the vestibule when he said:
"Viscount Cruce! I've been looking for you everywhere!"
Awoken in an instant, I stuck my hand in my pocket and stared cautiously at the familiar detective sergeant with red mustache and yellow eyes.
"To what end?" I asked him.
"The inspector general would like to see you," the police man answered, shaking the raindrops off his cap. "I wasn't told the reason."
"Was
n't he planning to go home?"
"As a matter of fact, he’s asking for you to be brought to his home," the detective sergeant confirmed. "Perhaps this is somehow connected with his daughter. I do not know."
Upon hearing mention of Elizabeth-Maria, my heart gave a moan, but I didn't show it. I got my tin of sugar drops from my pocket and tossed one unhurriedly into my mouth, only saying after that:
"Great! Let’s not leave the inspector general waiting, then."
And so, went outside, ran over to a carriage parked right on the porch and hurried to take shelter in it from the rain.
"Some weather, eh!" the detective sergeant shook his head, rubbing his mustache.
I just nodded, not really trying to keep up the conversation. My thoughts were occupied with something else entirely. I mean, I couldn’t really hope for anything. Elizabeth-Maria had said her fill in this regard clearly and unambiguously. Yet the whole way there, I was anticipating seeing her again, regardless. Stupid! Devilishly stupid! But, it is a well-known fact that hope is the last thing to die.
I was hoping for a miracle. I was hoping while we rolled over wet causeways. Hoping as we looped around the confusing little streets of the Old Town. Hoping as I looked out the rain-slicked window at the inspector general's manor. And, walking through the yard, I continued to console myself with illusions, as if I'd just caught luck by the tail. An overly developed imagination in such circumstances brought nothing but problems.
A cold shower washed over me in the fabric-draped hallway, though, when I heard the cracking sound of a gun being cocked behind me. A second later, the detective sergeant demanded:
"Don't move, Viscount!" I felt the steel of the gun poke into my waist and another command sounded out: "Hands up!"
I obeyed and tried to get an explanation, but the investigator didn't explain anything, just ordered:
"Silence!"
He pulled the traveling bag from my hands and threw it on the floor, then patted down my pockets and took the Cerberus. He found my knife, as well. The detective sergeant must have known perfectly what was in each of my pockets.
"Walk and don't turn around!" he ordered, taking a step back. "Forward!"
And I started down the hallway again. But now, I was not nursing any illusions about my near future. There were unanswerable questions tearing through my head – what the devil was going on?! – my legs gave out; my heart was almost jumping out of my chest.
What had the inspector general thought up now? What had Elizabeth-Maria told him about me? And if it wasn't her, then who? When we parted, the inspector general and I had been getting along famously. What had gotten into him?!
It all turned out much simpler than I ever could have imagined.
When I got to the spacious reception hall, the man I met, was not Friedrich von Nalz at all, but an old illustrious gentleman I didn't recognize. To be more accurate, I only didn't recognize the narrow noble face of the withered old aristocrat; the colorless-glowing eyes I recognized on first glance. It was the boss of the bank-robber gang.
But I didn't show that I knew that, just asked:
"So, am I to understand that this is not the inspector general's home?"
"Indeed, Viscount," the illustrious man answered and pointed me to a chair opposite his. "Take a seat."
I obeyed, then the man turned to the detective sergeant who'd delivered me:
"How'd it all go?"
"The target left home in the armored car you were already aware of and parked it in back of the shop Mechanisms and Rarities, which is off Leonardo-da-Vinci-Platz. On his way, he threw three bodies into a canal." The investigator sighed and said pointedly: "One of them was Mathew’s."
"Oh, Viscount," the illustrious man muttered and turned back to the rain-slicked window. "That is so unfortunate..."
I looked at the huge chandelier with electric candles under the ceiling and snorted:
"In my defense, I can say that your Mathew died from a heart attack."
"Is that so?" the manor owner asked, seemingly without particular interest.
"He couldn't bear the disappointment. Such things happen when you're starting from bad assumptions."
The illustrious man shook his head.
"What irony!" he laughed quietly. "A heart attack was the ruin of a man who caused dozens of them!"
"Your radiance," said the detective sergeant, drawing attention to himself. "What are your orders?"
"Viscount," the manor owner stared at me stubbornly, and his eyes lit up to full transparency, "for what reason did you park the armored vehicle in the back yard of that shop?"
"The radiator was leaking," I answered the nearly pure truth. "The owner said he could help fix it."
"You really trust him that much?"
"He's not a talkative man."
"How are we to get our property back, then?"
I considered for a moment whether I would manage to send an encoded message to Dyak, then threw the idea aside and advised:
"Just tell him I sent you for it. It won't be an issue."
"Is that so?"
"I guarantee it."
"Deal with that," the illustrious man ordered the detective as he pulled a cigar case out of the interior pocket of his smoking jacket. He opened it, took out an elongated electric bulb and clenched his fingers on the metal base. "But before we're left alone, Viscount," he said, "I'd like to demonstrate a small trick."
The bulb suddenly flickered on and, at the same time, the colorless eyes of the manor's owner lit up nearly as brightly.
"Once upon a time, this primitive gimmick provided me the affection of ladies in salons," the illustrious man chuckled quietly, "but believe me, my talent can do more than that. You definitely won't like to feel its effects. I’m told they’re rather... unpleasant."
The old man shifted his gaze to a floor lamp near the window. The bulb under red fabric first lit up with a blinding glow, then burnt out with a loud clap.
"I hope you can manage to avoid doing anything foolish, Viscount?"
I evaluated the distance between us and nodded:
"I can."
The illustrious man's talent made an impression on me. After all, the extreme pain that can be caused by electric shock was still fresh in my memory.
A living generator, holy crap!
"Go fetch the armored vehicle," the manor owner ordered the detective sergeant, who was still here.
"Are you sure, your radiance?" the red-mustached investigator doubted, not wanting to leave his master alone with me.
"Go!"
The detective sergeant stuck his police-issue revolver in its holster and went outside. The quiet patter of his steps soon grew quiet, then the illustrious man got out of his chair and walked over to the window, beyond which there where bright lightning bursts flashing out from time to time.
"Would you like something to drink?" he asked, talking over the howling of the wind, and his voice resonated in the spacious room.
"No thank you," I refused, guessing why I had been brought here.
They could have just killed me on the way; popping a few bullets into me and dropping my body in the river was about the easiest thing one could imagine. Did that mean this was all about that ill-fated box?
"You look just like him," the aristocrat suddenly said.
"Excuse me?" I asked, not knowing what he was driving at.
"Your grandfather. You look just like him," the old man repeated.
"Did you know him?"
"Did I know Emile?" the illustrious man laughed. "We were friends! He always beat me at cards, the old rogue."
I gave a nervous shiver and corrected him:
"Neither of my grandfathers were named Emile."
"Drop the act, Viscount," the manor owner waved a hand, returned to his chair and leaned on its high back. "Anyhow, it seems we got off on the wrong foot. Allow me to introduce myself: Duke Talm. You can call me Duncan."
"How pleasant to make your acquaintance, your radianc
e," I said, evaluating my chance of getting out of this fix alive. To be straight – it was quite small.
"Leave the formalities for official receptions," the Duke winced. "And stop looking at me like a sheep looks at a wolf. I'm not planning to kill you!"
I shrugged my shoulders.
"After everything that’s happened, I find that rather hard to believe."
"That was nothing more than expediency!" the manor owner declared. "Nothing personal, Viscount. It's just how the stars aligned. If it's of any consolation, I was opposed to such aggressive tactics, but the situation started spinning out of control almost instantly."
"And what changed now?"
"Nothing. Actually, I'm currently saving your life, Viscount. A document of the utmost importance has fallen into your hands. There are very many who would stop at nothing to have it. Soon, they will make their play, and the safest thing for you is to remain in this very place, in my company."
"Remember what I said about bad assumptions?" I sighed. "Well, it was really all one big misunderstanding, your radiance."
Duke Talm stared stubbornly at me and demanded:
"Explain yourself!"
I got the dead illustrious man’s notebook from my pocket, opened it to the right page and got up from the chair.
"May I?" I asked. After getting permission, I walked up to the buffet table, set the notepad on it and returned to my place. "I suppose this handwriting is familiar to you."
The manor owner familiarized himself with the decrypted message, ripped out the page, crumpled it up and threw it ferociously on the floor. The old man's face acquired an incomprehensible expression, as if disappointment and relief were battling inside him.
"Viscount, do you know what exactly we were hoping to find?" He asked.
"I have no idea," I answered with a slight lie.
"Mathew didn't tell you?"
"No."
"Well then," the Duke said, drawing out his words, "our conversation will be a bit longer than I supposed."
"I don't want to hear your secrets!" I hurried to assure the man, but he didn't even listen.