The Fallen (The Sublime Electricity Book #3)

by Pavel Kornev

  The burglar suddenly shuddered with his whole body and spat the spit-soaked napkin from his mouth, but I quickly dug my hand deep into his neck. The agile fellow didn't manage to alarm the whole neighborhood with a piercing shriek; all he managed to squeeze out was a hoarse creak before I sent him back to unconsciousness with a clap of my hands on his ears.

  I tucked the requisitioned pistol into the back of my belt and picked up the key, unlocking one of the steel cuffs. The tiny man was surprisingly heavy, but it was no problem to carry him into the basement. I simply grabbed him by the legs and dragged him down there. The poor sap counted out every step with the back of his head. Thankfully, there were no more than ten.

  The captive's arms again bound, I hung him off a hook in the wall, lit a kerosene lamp and frowned. His face was familiar.

  It was the cameraman! That very same New-World popinjay who had been filming the guests at yesterday's reception! But why the devil had he broken into my place?! Had he perchance left something here?

  I heard steps coming from the stairs, but immediately recognized the patter of toeless boots and turned without any fear. And my guess was right – the leprechaun was frozen on the top stair. The albino looked over the dusty basement with disgust and cursed out:

  "Bugger, what a hole!" and went up, but immediately slunk back and added: "Pervert!"

  I pulled the pistol from my belt and the leprechaun blew away like the wind. Although the pipsqueak was probably right: the owner of the building had filled the basement with all kinds of junk, and people hung from hooks rarely go hand in hand with decent behavior.

  I spent some time looking at the slightly quivering fingers of the arms stretched out before me and, my mind made up to calm down, took a seat on a massive wooden trunk. I clapped on its side, reinforced with rusty iron bands, and chuckled. Even if I couldn’t manage to get rid of the body tonight, the corpse could be hidden in that monster. I wouldn't like it, but the magnitude of necessity rarely takes our desires into account.

  Not letting my head fill up with foolish presentiments, I pulled the pistol from my belt and weighed it in my hand. The handle had wooden sides and a rhomboid Colt logo. The gun sat quite comfortably in the hand. On the frame, I found a label: " Army of the United Colonies."

  A government model? This was serious.

  The cameraman suddenly mumbled something incomprehensible and started clacking his feet on the floor, trying to find some support and reduce the load on his wrists. Just to be safe, I got him in my sights.

  "Don't be stupid," the boy rasped out, sighing loudly and adding: "Secret jacket pocket, left tail flap."

  Very little in that opening surprised me, but I didn't move from place, just asked:

  "And what will I find there?"

  "Look and see."

  "Somehow, I don't want to," I refused, not wanting to take cues from a malefic.

  The boy spat blood and repeated his request:

  "Just look."

  I laughed quietly:

  "I've heard that malefics are obstinate, but not to such a degree!"

  "Malefics? I'm no malefic! Where did you get that idea?"

  "Hmmmm..." I drew out. "You're too nimble for a normal person. No?"

  "I'm illustrious, you dolt!" the cameraman cursed out. "It's my talent!"

  "Well I'm an illegitimate pretender to the throne," I answered with unhidden sarcasm and turned my profile to him. "Look, don't I look like it? I do! But you, on the other hand, don't look like an illustrious person."

  "Are you talking about the eyes?" the burglar asked, hanging wearily from the chains. "I have glass lenses to hide it."

  "Oh, sure!"

  "Check."

  Immeasurably surprised at such an absurd assertion, I got up from the chest, walked over to the captive and stuck the Colt barrel under his jaw.

  "One move and I blow your brains out."

  "Careful, the floor has a slight slope..."

  "Then don't blink!" I demanded, sticking my fingers into his eye. To my moderate surprise, I did feel a firm layer of glass. I grabbed it, pulled and was left with the lens in my hand. It had stuck to his eye-ball, and had a dark circle in the middle. The captive's own pupil was colorless and gray.

  What could I say? He really was illustrious...

  The cameraman hissed in pain and blinked. Tears were pouring from his eye. Not moving my pistol away from the burglar, I lowered down and looked at the glass, shaking my head.

  "I've never heard of a thing like this," I said, placing the lens on the top of the chest.

  "Don't break it!"

  "You have no cause to worry about that," I chuckled. "If there's anything for you not to worry about now, that is it!"

  "Come off it!" the boy cringed. "Secret pocket, open it!"

  "You're awfully pushy for a killer!"

  "I'm no killer!"

  "You were aiming a gun at the back of my head!"

  "Well you came down the stairs really quietly! I was trying to run away!"

  "And just what, my good man, did you forget in my kitchen?"

  With a heavy sigh, the cameraman repeated:

  "Secret pocket. On the left."

  "I could just beat it out of you, idiot," I snorted, rubbing my kicked side, "I'm just running out of time."

  I stuck the barrel under the boy's lower jaw again, forcing him to stand on his tip-toes. With my free hand, I unbuttoned the canvas shirt and started feeling his left coattail. Soon, my fingers found the fringe of his hidden pocket, and it contained a small piece of cardstock. I took it over to the light and couldn't believe my own eyes.

  It read: "Pinkerton Detective Agency. United Colonies."

  And it identified the holder as a certain Thomas Eliot Smith.

  "Thomas Smith?" I asked doubtfully.

  "That's the name!" the cameraman confirmed and demanded: "And now, if you'd be so kind, please unchain me. Now!"

  I stuck the Colt back in my belt, but wasn't thinking of freeing my captive.

  "Thomas Eliot Smith," I said mockingly slow, feverishly thinking the situation over, "private investigators in the New World might be allowed to break into peoples' houses but, here in the metropolis, such things are punishable by prison."

  "What are you trying to say?" the detective bared his teeth in reply. "And what about you breaking into the home of Maxwell? What is the punishment for that?" And he quickly warned me: "Know that I do not work alone. If something happens to me, the local police will be immediately informed. And they already have more than enough questions for you, isn't that right, Mr. Shatunov?"

  His gaze with one bright eye and one dark was extremely unnerving, so I waked up to the investigator and popped out his second glass lens.

  "What the devil?" he howled.

  "Quiet," I demanded. "I need to think."

  "Uncuff me and you can think as long as you like!"

  "In a cell?"

  "Why does your mind go right to a cell?" Smith asked in surprise. "Men of reason can always find a common tongue! Just do me this favor, and I promise to repay it!"

  "Meaning I take you down from that hook where you're hanging like a pig for butchering?"

  "No! Meaning you tell me why you went down into the basement of the Maxwell manor and what you took from there!"

  I covered my mouth with a hand and yawned.

  "I've had a difficult day and a very busy night," I said after that. "I'm going to go to sleep now, and in the morning, I'll decide what to do with you. Help yourself to whatever you like."

  "Stop! I..."

  "Your status," I turned, "is not much different from that of a stray dog. I think you'll find things are done a bit differently around here than in the colonies. So just keep shut and don't interrupt my sleep."

  Smith cursed out, but didn't run to threats, instead declaring:

  "In the right lining! You'll have to tear the seam."

  With a fateful sigh, I cut the fabric and extracted a sheet of paper folded in two. It wa
s an order from the Imperial Ministry of Colonial Affairs saying to assist Thomas Eliot Smith in any way possible, as he was an employee of the Pinkerton Detective Agency. And although this document did not apply to simple subjects of her Imperial Majesty, I sat down on the chest and allowed him graciously:

  "Explain."

  "Me?" the investigator was taken aback.

  "My dear sir, it seems you’re forgetting which of us is prisoner in whose house. And by the way, is your present employer aware he's currently warming a snake on his bosom?"

  "My employer?"

  "Joseph Malone," I reminded him. "You are currently employed by him as a cameraman, isn't that right?"

  Smith spent some time in silence, then sighed:

  "You want to play in the open? Alright then, let's go! But take me down from this hook! My arms are devilishly numb!"

  With a heavy sigh, I got up from the chest but, before I managed to complete the investigator's orders, I heard a muted sound from the stairs:

  "Pssst!"

  "I'll be right back," I warned the captive and went up into the house.

  The leprechaun was standing at the kitchen window, and had even started doing a jig in impatience. At first, I didn't understand what exactly had attracted his attention, but after that, a crimson glow poured out between the bushes and then dimmed down again. It was a lit cigarette.

  "So, there it is..."

  The leprechaun took my words in his own way and quickly removed the upper drawer of the kitchen table, arming himself with a knife.

  "Shh-k!" he crossed over his throat with his thumb with his free hand.

  "Don't get any ideas!" I barked and returned to the kitchen.

  No matter how badly I wanted to break the neck of my uninvited guest and stash him in the chest, I grabbed the investigator under the armpits, lifted him and lowered him to the ground.

  "Greatly obliged," he sighed, kneading his numb wrists.

  "Tell me!" I demanded.

  "My investigation has nothing to do with you!"

  "Well, as you're here, I’m inclined to think it does."

  Smith frowned, but still told me:

  "I was planning to look around the basement of the Maxwell manor myself, but I saw you at the exit. I wasn't planning to do you any harm, I just wanted to figure out what you took from the scene of the crime."

  I didn't expose my personal interest in the story, and chuckled skeptically.

  "What makes you say I was at the scene of the crime?"

  "Come off it! I saw that you'd ripped the police seal off the basement door."

  "Then why did the home of Maxwell attract your attention?"

  "Are you joking?" the investigator asked, insulted. "After what happened today?"

  "What did you expect to find there?"

  "Something relevant to my investigation, I suppose," Smith answered evasively, hesitating and admitting: "I simply have no other clues, but I'm sure. My intuition is never wrong."

  "What are you investigating?"

  "It's a state secret!" the investigator announced, but his assurance didn't convince me in the least.

  "And what is it?" I demanded the details. "Come now! Don't force me to pincer every little detail out of you!"

  Thomas Smith gave a clear shudder. My mentioning pincers had spooked him a bit.

  "Just look," I came at it from a different angle, "if I wanted to, I could kill you right now. Then I could leave the building, find your partner on the square and cut his throat as well. But I'm not gonna do that. I'm just going to call the police, and in the morning, I'll be lodging a complaint with your employer because, thankfully, I was introduced to him today. So, it's up to you: how do you like that idea?"

  "No, please!" the investigator gave in. "Joseph Malone is our main suspect."

  "And could you please tell me what you suspect him of?"

  "Of planning to assassinate her Imperial Highness the Crown Princess Anna."

  I whistled:

  "Serious charges."

  "Our agency's clients are convinced that the restoration of the amphitheater and upcoming gala-concert are just an excuse to lure the heiress to the throne here."

  "And why would he want that?" I asked, thinking it over.

  "Independence," Smith answered simply. "After the death of the heiress to the throne, if the Empire doesn't simply dissolve in the provinces, it will at least forget the colonies for a long time."

  "And you're a loyal subject of her Majesty?"

  "I'm just doing my job. It isn't my business to judge the motives of my employers," the investigator declared, placing the steel cuffs against a lump on his forehead and laughing: "I can only offer that a break in relations with the metropolis would be bad timing for them."

  "The Aztecs?"

  "We're just starting to squeeze them out in the South. Without the help of the metropolis, achieving final victory will be no easy matter."

  "And you have no theories on how the conspirators are intending to act?"

  "Not even a smidgen."

  I considered it. It didn't seem very believable that there were several distinct and unconnected criminal conspiracies in this quiet vacation town. Burning the dirigible, poisoning the lemonade, hiring the false medium – those were all links in the same chain. What was more, I was inseparably connected with Crown Princess Anna; her heart was beating thanks only to my illustrious talent.

  "What would you like to know about the basement of the Maxwell manor?" I asked, having decided to take advantage of the situation and obtain the support of the Pinkerton Detective Agency. "Ask away."

  Smith held out his cuffed wrists in silence. I hesitated briefly, but still unlocked the cuffs and extended the investigator a hand.

  "My thanks!" he exhaled noisily, standing to his feet.

  We walked to the kitchen. There, Thomas Smith washed up and I called him up to the second floor. But before heading up, the investigator turned on an electric torch and held it out the window, turning it to side to side, sending a signal to his partner. All that remained was to hope that the signal meant: "I'm doing fine," and not “I need help. Run and get the police.”

  In the bedroom, Smith looked around carefully, then sat on a chair near the bed and asked:

  "Then what led you to the basement?"

  "Blood," I answered simply and told him my suspicions on the death of the self-professed medium.

  "Why didn't you tell the police?"

  "About blood flowing up the floor?"

  "Well, sure."

  "It's a matter of honor!" I adopted an uncompromising look, meant to indicate either a proud aristocrat distanced from life, or a mysterious and wild native of Russia. "We were speaking about the lady of my heart!"

  If that explanation didn't fully satisfy the investigator, he didn't show it and asked me to continue the story.

  "What happened after that?"

  There was no reason to wheedle, so I told Smith about the underground passage and my meeting with the unknown figures in the mysterious room. When mentioning the strange weapons carried by the deceased, he frowned in incomprehension.

  "Are you sure?! Did they have anything else? Show me!"

  I pulled the rifle wrapped in a tablecloth from under the bed, unfolded it and grew surprised once again at it's unusual appearance. A folding stock served as a base to attach a massive electric jar. The barrel box was made of cast aluminum and there were wires winding around the barrel. The lightning-gun bayonet consisted of two metallic needles.

  Before handing the weapon to the investigator, I detached the round flat drum just in case and threw it on the floor. The blow made an iron ball fly out and roll to the side.

  "Unbelievable! A Gauss caster!" Smith gasped. He tried finding a serial number or manufacturer logo, didn't and asked: "Anything else?"

  I opened the satchel and took the aluminum helmet from it, splashed with blood inside.

  "An out valve and a tank of compressed air?" Thomas Smith asked in surprise,
running his hand over the rubber cuff that sealed the helmet. "Why the devil would they need something like this?"

  "I don't know," I shrugged my shoulders. "But aluminum is excellent protection against magical interference. It might have something to do with that."

  "I doubt it," the investigator replied, skeptical about my theory. He then asked: "And what were you planning to do with these trophies?"

  I didn't like that question.

  "I didn’t really have a plan. I grabbed them in the heat of the moment," I replied, not wanting to give him anything concrete.

  "I perfectly understand the reason for your actions in the vault," the investigator assured me. "But I cannot figure out what you were intending to do after that."

  With a heavy sigh, I tried to answer as honestly as possible:

  "They attacked me, but a court might not see it that way. So, I was planning to just forget about it. I was going to give the trophies to an inventor friend. I'm extremely curious by nature."

  Smith didn't dig into that topic and asked:

  "Where exactly was this vault located? would you be prepared to swear that it is located directly below the amphitheater?"

  "Is that what you want to hear? What for?"

  "Well, then I'll have sufficient basis to lodge a petition for her Highness to cancel her visit to the city."

  I had no plans to make any official declarations, but said nothing, just noted:

  "The underground passage is very old, it could easily lead below the amphitheater, but I will not make an official statement to that effect. We... I walked underground for around ten minutes. I'm not sure which direction."

  "It must be under the amphitheater!" Thomas Smith decided and placed the cold barrel box of the rifle to his swollen forehead. "It just has to be!"

  "Go check," I suggested. "Go down there and look for yourself."

  "And your companion?" the investigator inquired. "Could he be of any use?"

  "No," I answered, not wanting to reveal the secret of the poet's identity, "he didn't go down there, just kept watch."

  "Vexing," Smith muttered and got to his feet. "Alright then, the time has come to act! I'll get in touch with the local police and organize a raid."