by Pavel Kornev
"Shall I wait for you?" Elizabeth-Maria inquired after stopping the self-propelled carriage at my attorney’s office.
"No!" I refused, getting onto the causeway. "Never again!"
During the trip, I had gotten nauseous, and the earth underfoot was whirling. What was more, the whole way, raindrops had been flying in under the canvas top of the self-propelled carriage, and I had gotten quite soaked. Unlike Elizabeth-Maria, I didn't have a leather jacket.
"Weakling!" the succubus laughed and rolled off at high speed.
I looked at the dark gray sky with disgust and hurried to take shelter from the rain in the manor. As I walked, I waved a hand to the concierge and went up to my attorney's office.
"Viscount?!" he asked in surprise. "Has something happened?"
I walked over to the window, looked at the gray street and shook my head.
"No, everything is in order. I need the travelling bag from the safe."
"Are you certain?"
"Completely."
My attorney obviously hesitated, then suggested:
"Shall I call you a cab?"
"No," I turned away from the window, not having noticed anyone suspicious outside. "I just need the traveling bag."
The lawyer unwillingly unlocked the safe and took out the new leather traveling bag with my rainy-day nest egg–one hundred thousand francs in cash.
"Viscount, are you sure everything is fine?"
"Absolutely," I confirmed. "It's time for me to go. Urgent meeting."
"At least take an umbrella!"
I didn't refuse the umbrella.
Outside, it was still sprinkling rain, and my light summer shoes would soon soak through, so I had to turn onto a wide boulevard with bright displays in the glass shop windows. I went into the first readymade footwear store I came across, acquired a pair of sturdy autumn boots. In a nearby shop, with diffuse mannequins in the display, I tried to acquire a cloak of light rubberized fabric, but they didn't have any in my size. I ended up having to go with a raglan overcoat, sewn of dense black leather. The Webley-Fosbery fit perfectly in its side pocket.
In the end, I had turned into either a retired military doctor, or a private service courier. My derby hat looked quite awkward with the rest of my style so, I decided I should also pick up a peaked cap.
WHEN THE RAIN finally calmed down, I closed the umbrella and began using it as a cane. There was no affectation in it. Walking all this way had exhausted me beyond all measure.
I was headed to Alexander Dyak's but this time, deciding not to tempt fate, I avoided the Roman Bridge. I walked to Leonardo-da-Vinci-Platz right across a square, where the rain had dispersed the street vendors and students of the Emperor's academy. The wind casually fluttered through the wet branches of its sad trees.
On my way to the inventor's shop, I peeked into the nearby weapon store and bought a Cerberus, three quick-remove clips and a box of rounds. The assortment of titanium-bladed folding knives, unfortunately, left something to be desired. They couldn't offer me anything appropriate.
After leaving the store, I walked across the square with a monument to Leonardo da Vinci, into the shop Mechanisms and Rarities and pushed on the unlocked door. There were no visitors, though someone's wet footprints were glistening on the floor.
The old inventor gave a squint to focus his poor vision, recognized me and threw up his hands.
"Leopold Borisovich!" he gasped with unhidden astonishment. "I thought I'd totally lost you!"
"You don't object?" I pointed to the door.
"Close it! Of course, close it!"
I bolted the door, shook the raindrops from my peaked cap and placed the leather traveling bag before me on the counter.
"What is that?" Dyak got on guard.
"One hundred thousand francs. Hold them here for now."
"Has something happened? Can I help?"
"Nothing happened, nothing at all. I was just taught not to put all my eggs in one basket. If someone comes and asks about a traveling bag, give it to them. If you need cash, use it as a mutual aid fund."
"Well, my finances aren't so constrained yet! I could even loan you a couple thousand myself!" the old man laughed. "Your comrade Miro recently ordered a shipment of incendiary white phosphorus bombs, which gave me quite a windfall."
"I'm glad for you. But still, keep the possibility in mind."
The shop owner coughed into a kerchief and suggested:
"You want some tea? It's dog's weather outside."
"I'd be very much obliged!" I latched onto his offer not only because of the bad weather, but my banal tiredness.
"Come into my workshop. The tea is already brewed."
In the back room, I put the cloak on the coatrack and sat down on a wooden stool at the workbench, resting my overexerted legs. I was afraid that if I sat in the somewhat softer and more comfortable armchair against the wall, I might not be able to stand back up.
"Alexander, just don't tell me you have abandoned your scientific pursuits!" I remarked in surprise, having noticed a certain desolation in the workshop.
"Not at all!" the old man laughed, setting the teapot on the workbench, along with glasses and a basket of cookies. He went to get some boiling water and gave a conspiratorial wink. "It's just that my research requires quiet and privacy."
"Are you working in the basement?" I guessed, pouring myself some tea. "I hope you haven't dragged another infernal beast here for experiments?"
Alexander Dyak went gloomy.
"Having a creature to experiment on would speed up my research quite a bit," he sighed. "But, no. You're right, it's too dangerous."
"You can say that again..." I shivered when he reminded me of the now long-ago exorcism of the poltergeist.
The inventor smoothed over his gray hair and held tight on the glass of hot tea with his old chilly fingers.
"I'm sure I'm on the threshold of yet another discovery," the old man said, "but I might just not have enough time to finish the work. My health isn't what it used to be."
"Come off it!" I didn't take these words seriously. "It's just a fall cough. What are you working on?"
"Electromagnetic radiation with long waves between the infrared and radio spectra," Alexander Dyak answered none too clearly. "They have a surprising ability to transmit energy to substances composed of bipolar molecules."
I didn't understand a single thing in the inventor's explanation and, in order to hide my confusion, finished my tea and took a shortbread biscuit from the little basket.
"Bipolar molecules?" I asked after that.
Alexander understood the reason for my confusion and explained:
"Water, fats, sugar."
"Very interesting, probably"
"Just not to you!" Dyak laughed.
I nodded, took another sip of tea and enquired:
"Alexander, what do you know about the workings of the human brain?"
The inventor batted his eyelids in surprise.
"I'm afraid that question is outside my competency," he admitted after a brief pause.
I wasn't at all surprised by such an answer, but it upset me quite a bit. I had been nourishing the hope that the inventor could help me uncover the essence of Professor Berliger's experiments. Now those hopes had been dashed.
"Tell me what's bothering you, Leopold Borisovich," Dyak suggested. "Tell me, and, perhaps, I'll be able to recommend a good specialist from the medical faculty of the academy."
I didn't refuse to speak, and briefly told him everything I could remember about the magnetic stimulation of the cortex of my brain, electroshock therapy and the effect of the concoction but, in the end, the inventor just shook his head.
"Medicine's not my cup of tea," Alexander said, taking the electric torch off the shelf and shining it first in one of my eyes, then the other. "A change in pigmentation really has taken place, but I have a hard time answering how that might be connected with your illustrious talent."
"They were talking about
magnetic radiation."
"There must be a scientific basis," Dyak threw out. "We cannot afford to act haphazardly in such situations. I could send you to the medical faculty, but I'm not sure any of my acquaintances will be able to get understand the essence of the experiments conducted on you. For that, we need at least laboratory notes. Better speak with the professor. He'll probably agree to work with you. He doesn't need the notoriety."
I finished my tea and threw up my hands.
"That's just what I'll do. Can I call from here, Alexander?"
"Naturally!"
"And hide the money in the safe," I pointed to the traveling bag, getting up from the stool.
"Ah, I've got holes in my head!" Alexander slapped himself on the forehead. "Old age is not a joy!"
"You're being too hard on yourself," I smiled and went into the front room, where there was a telephone on the counter.
I called Ramon. He was at work.
"Is everything in order?" I asked my former partner.
"Well, if you're calling, that must mean no," I heard in reply.
And I couldn't argue with that. I told him about this morning's attempt on me and asked him to send someone to keep watch over my house, and maybe even rent an apartment in the manor opposite for a while.
"Money is no object," I advised Ramon. "And as for something else, I need to get in touch with Professor Berliger. It would be best to do so at his home. Can you do that?"
"Am I to understand you haven't read the morning papers?" Miro sighed. "Read the papers, Leo. And call me after that. If you want."
Ramon hung up, and I placed the telephone back on the hook. My former partner's tone had me extremely on edge. I returned to the back room and picked up the top paper from the stack on the workbench.
"Has something happened?" Alexander Dyak looked at me in worry.
"Don't pay it any mind," I waved it off, smoothing out the yellowing sheets.
It was a Capital Times from today, but the first page was totally dedicated to political news, while the second had a huge analysis of the schism in the Sublime Electricity movement. Only when I'd reached the crime blotter did I understand the reason for Ramon Miro's worry.
That column had a report about a fire in one of the buildings of the Gottlieb Burckhardt psychiatric hospital. It reported the death of Doctor Ergant and several orderlies; Professor Berliger's body had not been found by the time of writing, but the search of the collapsed building was still ongoing. Beyond the staff, patients had also suffered in the fire, some of whom had managed to escape, and the police had undertaken immediate measures to search for and detain runaways. There was nothing about the cause of the fire.
"Devil!" I sighed out soundlessly.
I had threatened to burn Doctor Ergant alive, and just a day later there was a fire. I would hardly manage to convince Ramon that this was a mere coincidence. What was more, I personally didn't believe in coincidences. The reason for such a horrible event was absolutely certain to have been my illustrious talent. Either Doctor Ergant had gone mad in fear in the solitary cell, or Professor Berliger had decided to cover up the tracks of his unnatural experiments after getting scared by my threats.
I remained as before, that was good. What was bad was that now no one could tell me how to get my brain to function normally again. The scientific approach couldn't help, because there simply wasn't time for prolonged studies. Now I had to count on just myself.
"Is everything in order, Leopold Borisovich?" Dyak inquired.
I threw the newspaper on the workbench and smiled.
"Absolutely, Alexander!"
"You seem anxious. And you've gotten very thin. How is your health?"
"The emaciation is just because of my recent wound, nothing serious."
I took my leather cloak from the rack, clipped the peaked cap on my head and asked:
"May I use the back door?"
"Naturally!" Dyak threw his arms wide and reminded me: "Your umbrella?"
"I'll pick it up next time."
"It's raining."
"I'm not made of sugar, I won't melt," I joked, slipping through the cracked-open back yard gate and waving goodbye to the inventor. "Until next time!"
4
I WAS SAVED by the bad weather. If today had been a clear day, there would have been students everywhere, and hawkers to bring customers to the nearby pimps and peddlers. I simply wouldn't have noticed a person following me on the opposite side of the street. The inconspicuous gentleman of average height with a plain little suitcase wouldn't have seemed suspicious even if I were on the lookout.
This could hardly be someone hurrying about on business, right?
And even now, on the deserted street, I found him by coincidence. The pursuer simply didn't guess the right place: he had been looking out for me from a street corner where he could see the entrance to Alexander Dyak's shop. But I turned onto the street from the alley, thus messing up his all his cards.
To get closer to me, the spook had to hop out from under the coffeeshop overhang and fly headlong across an intersection. Although he had wisely chosen the opposite side of the street, I had seen his maneuvers.
To be honest, I was expecting something like this. The attempt on the Roman Bridge had happened right after a visit to my attorney and, just after the maître visited me in the house on Yablochkov street, the sniper had shown up there. I wasn't inclined to suspect that my lawyer was being followed, but I also couldn't write it all off as coincidence.
And so, I looked back.
The bad weather and haywire nerves had helped me see the pursuer, but how would he react if he was exposed? What were his orders: to disappear in the gray wet streets of New Babylon or attempt to finish the matter with a couple accurate shots?
I was betting on the latter, reasonably imagining that he was not tasked to collect evidence, but to kill. But what I didn't know, and simply couldn't miscalculate on is when he would open fire. How close would he try to get before pulling the trigger? And how long would it take before he got sick of looking for a good place to try and kill me?
I didn't have eyes on the back of my head, and the lack of certainty was just driving me mad.
There was nothing worse than expecting to be shot in the back.
Step - breathe in. Step - breathe out. My fingers, gripping the revolver handle in my pocket, were going numb.
Step - breathe in. Step - breathe out. My boots were sloshing on the wet causeway.
Step - breathe in. Step - breathe out. My heart was pounding like mad.
And before me there was a straight road, building walls and no people. It was as if the old city was frozen, and I could only see the indistinct silhouette of my pursuer fussing around at the very edge of my vision. Try not to break into a run!
But I couldn't run. If I ran, I would instantly become a target.
Sure, I could easily turn around and open fire first. But I simply wasn't ready to either murder a random passer-by in cold blood based on a hunch or start a firefight with a professional.
I was so sincerely afraid to catch a bullet I was hiccupping and my knees were shaking. And I wasn't at all ashamed of that. A month and a half in a hospital bed and paralysis due to a damaged spine produce a truly astonishing effect on the human psyche.
For that very reason, as soon as such a chance presented itself, I went down a narrow stairway into a random bar. In the small drinking establishment, it was surprisingly crowded and horribly smoky. It immediately became clear where the elated students had gone to wait out the storm. There were forks and knives clacking on plates, dull voices echoing off a vaulted ceiling, and beer mugs clinking on one another.
In the first room, which had a long bar, there were no free tables at all. In the far room, it wasn't so crowded, and the people gathered there were somewhat more sedate. Quieter, that was for sure.
"One cream stout," I said, throwing a rumpled fiver on the bar.
"Any snacks?"
I cast my gaze o
ver the chalkboard and ordered the first dish I saw:
"A large order of Belgian fries, please." Then I pointed to the telephone. "May I make a call?"
The bartender nodded, and I picked up the receiver, sending mental prayers to the Creator that Ramon Miro was in his office.
"You again?" he asked, none too glad to hear my voice.
"I need you to get me out of here!" I whispered, not lowering my gaze from the entrance. "This is a serious matter, and I need help urgently!"
"Where are you?"
"A bar called Playing Hooky on..." I looked at the bartender and asked: "What street is this?"
"Curie."
"On Curie street. Do you know where that is?"
"I'll be there in half an hour," Ramon answered and hung up.
I left the telephone, took my beer and sat at a table near a hallway with a view of the front door. I put my wet cloak on the coat rack, and initially covered the revolver with a jacket tail, then set it on my knee. The tabletop did a great job masking it.
No one in their right mind would open fire in front of so many witnesses, but I still couldn't shake the irrational feeling that I wasn't taking some extremely important factor into account. I even got the desire to duck out through the back door, but the corridor was blocked by cleaners, and there simply was no other way out of this basement. Perhaps through the kitchen...
Risk it or wait for Ramon? And how long should I even wait?
I glanced at my left wrist and spit a curse when I remembered I had no watch.
Tossing a couple strips of fried potato into my mouth, I chewed them without any appetite, drank a sip of beer and decided to leave the bar through the back door, if there was such a thing, and not wait for my former partner in the bar. But as soon as I got up from the bench, the entrance was sharply pushed open and a metallic cylinder clanged onto the stone floor, thrown in from outside. And another immediately!
Grenades!
I turned the table on its side, flinging my tableware onto the floor. I was hoping the sturdy boards of the tabletop would cover me from shrapnel. The cylinders weren't grenades at all, though, but smoke bombs. Two claps rang out, and impenetrable black clouds of acrid smoke instantly filled the room. Tears poured from my eyes, and I immediately heard two sharp knocks overhead, as if a couple bullets had slammed into the wall one after the other.