by Pavel Kornev
But I didn't hear any shots! I didn't hear anything!
The next bullet hit the edge of the overturned table, then I fired at the entrance door, aiming high so I wouldn't accidentally hit one of the students. Then I jumped up and ran down the side corridor. A bullet clunked into the wall behind me just a bit too late, but I didn't fire in return. I barged into the kitchen, which hadn't yet filled with smoke.
Doubling over in a fit of vexing coughing, I stuck a mop in the door handle, then barely managed to jump aside before the wooden panel spat out splinters as my pursuer opened fire directly through it.
I shot back two times, caught an echo of fear from the room and quickly crouched behind the kitchen stove but, no matter how I turned my head from side to side, I couldn't see a back door. There weren't even windows. Finally, at the far wall, I saw a dumbwaiter for food and beer.
I didn't hesitate for even a moment. Shaking from the cough, I ran for the dumbwaiter, slammed down on the handle and jumped onto its shuddering platform. The steam propulsion gave a heartrending wail, and my pursuer, having heard a suspicious sound, threw all caution to the wind. With a few strong blows, he smashed through the bullet-riddled door and ran inside.
I shot at the figure, enshrouded in wisps of smoke, and missed. The killer meanwhile quickly took cover behind an iron cupboard and opened return fire. By that time, though, the platform had already lifted me out of the basement.
I got away!
I fell out of a hatch into a small courtyard, stood to my feet and started hobbling away, drying my pouring tears with a handkerchief. As ill luck would have it, the passage between the buildings soon took me back to the front of the bar, where terrified students were pouring out of the smoke-filled entrance. I turned around and ran in the opposite direction. As soon as I’d hopped around the corner, I ran into a police armored vehicle lumbering in my direction.
And it would have been nothing, but I still was clenching the revolver in my right hand.
I'd simply forgotten about it. It just flew out of my head! Devil!
I took a step back, but then its doors flew open and Ramon stuck his head out.
"Leo!" he waved. "It's us!"
Wheezing in exhaustion, I ran up to the self-propelled carriage and just fell into the back. Ramon jumped in after me and the side door slammed shut.
"Leo, what's happened to you now?" he demanded an explanation.
"Someone wanted to kill me!"
"And?"
I brought my former partner up to speed, giving the condensed version. After a moment of thought, I sent his nephew into the bar. He'd take a look around and, if possible, grab the peaked cap and cloak I'd left on the coatrack.
"Do you have Webley-Fosbery rounds?" I asked, shaking four casings from the revolver. After Ramon took a cardboard box from an iron box under the bench, I added: "I need guards."
"We've already sent someone to your address."
"I need a bodyguard," I corrected myself. "I'll pay five thousand a month."
Ramon just shook his head.
"Sorry, Leo. No dice. I don't want to get involved in your affairs..."
"You're already involved."
"...more than necessary."
I just laughed.
"I'm afraid you have no choice."
Ramon's reddish countenance went dark.
"Is this blackmail?"
"This is a business proposition. Six thousand."
"Leo, you're nothing but trouble!"
"There’s no avoiding trouble for us now. I am suggesting we minimize the damage. If I don't get this situation under control, everyone will feel it. This isn't a threat. It's objective reality."
"Curses!" Ramon Miro swore. "Why the devil did I get linked up with you?!"
"You got fifty thousand for two hours work," I reminded him, reloading the revolver. "And you'll get six more."
"Ten," my former partner relented.
"Seven and that's my last word."
"What do you need done?"
"Nothing for now. Just cover me."
Just then, the side door flew open and Tito threw my overcoat and peaked cap into the back.
"Let's get out of here," Ramon ordered and asked me: "Where should I take you, Leo?"
"I don't know yet," I shivered. "But we need to get out of here before the police start asking about us!"
Tito got behind the wheel and started the powder engine. To its measured chirping, the armored vehicle started from place, shaking on the uneven causeway, and Ramon Miro finally stopped boring into me with his agitated gaze.
"What's it like in the bar?" he asked his nephew, opening the window to the cabin.
"There are no wounded. A few people got smoke poisoning, but they were all given artificial respiration. A couple sentries heard the commotion and ran over. While I was there, they didn't manage to get anything sensible out of the witnesses."
"And the gunman?"
"I didn't see anyone with a little case," Tito answered and sneezed. "And the smoke really was devilishly acrid!"
I cursed in vexation and smoothed out my leather overcoat, intending to put it on, but Ramon didn't let me.
"Was your coat hanging on the coat rack?" he asked and stuck a pointer and middle finger into two bullet holes I hadn't noticed. "Strange..."
"What's strange?" I didn't understand. "Are you suggesting it may not be a coincidence?"
"Judge for yourself. If the smoke hadn’t yet filled the bar and the killer could see where he was shooting, why did he make holes in your cloak? But if the gunman couldn't see, how did he manage to shoot two bullets so close together? And most importantly, why right in the heart?"
I didn't have any answers to these questions, but I was reminded of the previous attempt and smokescreen over the Roman Bridge. The gunman clearly had a very definite modus operandi.
"Listen, Ramon," I said thoughtfully. "You haven't heard anything about similar occurrences, have you? Smoke and silent shooting, does that say anything to you?"
"No, but I could ask around."
"Ask. And better do so right now."
There was clear annoyance reflected on the hulking man’s high-cheekboned face, but he didn't get stubborn. He knocked on the divider, getting his nephew's attention, and asked him to stop at the pharmacy. The armored car jumped over the high curb and froze on the sidewalk, then Ramon Miro threw open the side door and went outside. I also didn't waste any time, found a long needle and rough thread in a toolbox and started sewing up the bullet holes, not especially worrying if my stitches were even.
5
RAMON RETURNED a quarter hour later. Getting into the back, he sat opposite me and drummed his fingers on his knees in thought.
"Well?" I hurried my former partner along. "What did you find out?"
"There have been a few similar occurrences in the last year, but only one is entirely the same as the attempt on you," Miro said and sighed. "That won't give us anything: there are no suspects in that murder. It was a hired killer. Such cases are only solved if the perp is caught red-handed."
"What about motive? Who was the victim?"
Ramon shrugged his shoulders.
"Some New World immigrant." He threw back the side of the uniform cloak and took a notepad out of the internal pocket. "A man named Michael Smith, probably an assumed identity. He spent two weeks in the Three Little Leaves, where he was shot by an unknown person at the beginning of September."
"What is the Three Little Leaves?"
"A casino on the edge of the Chinese Quarter. They rent rooms on the upper floors."
"He must have seriously pissed someone off," I snorted. "Casinos are always full of people. That and plenty of guards."
"There were a few armed bodyguards with the victim during the murder."
"Very interesting," I snorted and ordered: "Let's go!"
"Where?" Ramon didn't understand.
"To the Three Little Leaves, naturally! We'll interrogate the staff. Smith stayed th
ere for two weeks. He must have talked to someone, or at least used the phone. We'll try to figure out who's shoulder he might have put a chip on."
"Our last trip to a casino wasn't so great," the hulking man reminded me, his face going gloomy again.
"Let's go!" I repeated. "I'm not going to threaten anyone, just pay for answers. Business as usual for such places!"
Ramon gave in and told his nephew to go to Maxwell Street.
"Stop a block away, but not on the Chinese side," he warned. "Don't step foot outside the armored vehicle, sit at the wheel and wait for our signal."
Tito nodded, and the self-propelled carriage started off sharply. Ramon Miro took a sawed-off lever-action shotgun from under the bench with a fated sigh and started thumbing buckshot rounds into its tube magazine.
"My heart is telling me this isn't going to end well," he said unequivocally after catching my confused glance.
"And the heart must be believed," I chuckled. "But let's first try to work with our heads."
"If we work with our heads, we might break our noses," Ramon Miro answered, going tit for tat.
I had nothing to object with.
THE THREE LITTLE LEAVES casino was in a three-story stone manor on the Chinese part of Maxwell Street. The sturdy construction was a bit separate from the neighboring buildings. Its back yard was behind a tall fence with outward curving spikes. The first story windows were covered with grates.
On the roadside where Tito let us out there were streams of mud, but the dirty ash-blackened water wasn’t high enough to reach the sidewalk; Ramon and I walked from the armored car to the casino without getting our feet wet. The rain was still drizzling, staining the gray walls with streams of soot; I was protected from the drizzle by the leather overcoat, and my partner by a uniform cloak with peeling police patches.
Ramon was a bit behind me, holding his cloak, which was bulging from the sawed-off. I went up onto the high porch of the casino first. Two disinterested muscle-men immediately shot up and stood in our path.
"Illustrious?" cringed the enforcer with solidly built knuckles.
"We don't cater to white-eyes around here!" his partner supported him. "Scram!"
I raised my black glasses to my forehead in indescribable astonishment and, from my high vantage point looked at first one bouncer then the other. The stubborn gaze of my transparent eyes forced them to shiver.
"Just a mistake," the first mumbled out.
"Our apologies, my good sir," the second threw his hands wide.
"At ease," I threw out shortly and walked into the casino.
Ramon walked after me and the bewildered guards didn’t notice his cloak bulging from the sawed-off.
"I've been meaning to ask, what's with your eyes?" the hulking man asked, pushing me into the corridor.
"Nothing, it'll pass," I waved it off and removed my peaked cap and shook the droplets from it. "They don't let illustrious in? Are you serious? What's happening to this world?"
Ramon Miro shrugged his shoulders and suggested:
"Better take off your glasses. After all, we don't need any trouble, right?"
I followed my friend's advice, winced due to the overly bright light of the electric bulbs and pulled in air through my nose.
"Opium?"
"That's the one," Ramon confirmed my guess and pointed at a niche not far from the stairs where there was a massive armchair. "I'll wait for you there."
"Alright," I nodded and headed into the casino.
It was still far from evening, but the establishment was not empty. There were three short Chinese men sitting at the card tables, pompous and important, accompanied by two moors and a few entirely respectable looking Europeans. But as for the roulette table, it was occupied by clear criminals; we heard bursts of laughter and popping of sparkling wine. The girls around the table were wearing vulgar shiny getups.
The ringleader there had the gold teeth and cynical eyes of an inveterate thief. For an instant, he got distracted from counting bills and slipped his attentive gaze over my head, but he didn't leave the game and placed another bet. I didn't stay in the roulette room and headed right into the bar, where I carelessly threw down a couple red tenners bearing a portrait of Leonardo da Vinci for the bartender.
"What would you like?" the young man asked compliantly. He had pomaded hair and a thin strip of mustache on his upper lip.
"That's for you," I answered calmly. "We're just here to talk."
"No thanks. Take the money!" the boy got scared.
"We're just here to talk," I repeated, setting another ten-franc note on the bar. "About the dead guy. This can't hurt any of you, trust me."
"Dead guy?" the bartender went pale. "I don't know nothing about no dead guy!"
"Sure you do. Michael Smith. He was shot here a few months ago."
The boy instantly calmed down and nodded
"Oh yeah. But I don't know nothing about that! The cops interrogated all of us already!"
"I'm not interested in the murder," I said softly, trying to catch the man's gaze, but he was stubbornly looking down at his feet. I had to add another two tenners and push the fat stack of bills across the bar. "Fifty francs for a simple conversation. The choice is yours."
The bartender licked his dried-out lips and stared greedily at the money. I felt like I could physically feel the doubts consuming him. In the end, his greed overcame his fear and the boy whispered out:
"What do you want to know?"
"Who was this Smith and where was he from?"
"He was an Englishman, but he was coming from New York. I saw a sticker on his baggage. And he was afraid of something. He wouldn't go outside, and he came down with guards even to gamble."
"Who did he talk with?" I asked.
"Only other players, I suppose..." the bartender drew out his words unconfidently and slightly leaned over to me across the bar. "Although he did place several calls to a Frank."
"Excuse me?" I didn't understand right away and sensed a clear echo of fear.
The man's pupils went wide, he shot a quick glance at someone behind me. I didn't ignore that hint. I turned around and smiled at two gentlemen of strong constitution in identical gray suits, white vests and caps. And I was at ease: my hand was on the revolver against my thigh, and the pistol was pointed at the strangers. All that remained was to pull down on the trigger. These strange fellows wouldn't even manage to draw their weapons, but that apparently didn't bother them one bit.
"Let's talk like civilized people," one offered, with a thin knife scar on his veiny neck. "Let's just talk, yeah?"
"Hrmph, I'm all out of time. I'm on my way out the door."
"Well, it looks like you'll have to hang back."
The strangers didn't start walking and didn't even move a muscle, but Ramon suddenly shot out of his armchair and pulled the sawed-off from under his cloak.
"We're leaving!" he declared softly. "And if I see either of you twitch, I'll blow both your brains out!"
All conversations in the room cut off, and the chips stopped clopping, as if the players had only now noticed that a gun was drawn. One of the mean-looking fellows slightly turned his head, saw the sawed-off and frowned.
"It's no use," he said shortly, but now his calm was only for show. His smooth-shaven cheek was twitching in a nervous tick.
I didn't join the altercation, just blindly groped for the stack of bills behind me, swept them into my hand and stuck them in my pocket. Charity is not my cup of tea.
Without taking the revolver barrel from the boys, I took a step back from the bar, walked an arc around them and joined my partner.
"Big mistake!" the boy with a scar on his neck warned as soon as we’d started for the exit.
We didn't answer at all. I jumped first onto the porch and clocked one of the muscle-heads with my revolver handle as I walked, and when he squirmed, squeezing the wound, I took the second in my sights.
"No jokes!" I warned him, cocking the gun for show.
Ramon jumped past me and blew into his police whistle with all his might.
The company of young men on the corner turned tail and ran at full speed, while the armored car's motor barked and rolled rapidly down the hill. Near the casino, the heavy self-propelled carriage slid out on the wet road, but Tito got control and Ramon and I hopped into the back. The clumsy monster tore from place at a full clip.
They didn't shoot after us. No one even came off the porch.
"Well, what was that?" Ramon Miro wondered, peeling himself from the back window.
"I have no idea," I admitted honestly.
"Did you find out anything useful?"
"No, but I know who to talk to."
"Are you serious?"
"Yes. Let's go to the Heinrich Hertz. It's a hotel near Central Station."
6
TO FIND THE HOTEL, the armored car had to drive down a good number of the confusing streets of the train-station area, but the lost time was worth it: after getting five francs in hand, the porter confirmed that there really was a Thomas Eliot Smith among their guests.
But we hadn't managed to catch the agent in the hotel, and the porter had no idea when he would deign to show himself.
"Sometimes he's gone for a few days at a time," he warned.
I nodded gratefully and went outside.
"And what will we do?" Ramon asked, following after me.
"Wait."
"Then we should get a bite to eat," the hulking man decided, pointing at a bistro called The Sparrow on the opposite side of the street. But as soon as his nephew got out from behind the wheel, he kicked him back into the car. "Where do you think you’re going? Drive the armored car around the corner and don't take an eye off it."
"But..."
"You can buy a couple pastries."
"I don't have to eat at all!" Tito was offended.
"If you lose any weight, my sister will get on my case, so buy a couple pastries. Got it?"