by Pavel Kornev
The boy slammed the armored cabin door shut and Ramon and I went into The Sparrow. It was a Moravian restaurant. Miro ordered himself fried pork with dumplings and cabbage, while I chose garlic soup with cheese. And we also asked for knedle. How can one get by without them?
"Who are we waiting for?" Ramon asked when we had sat at a table with a view outside. "Who is this Smith fellow?"
"The Smith I want to talk to works for the Pinkerton detective agency. But the Smith who was killed, most likely, was no Smith at all. He fled from New York, but they caught him here. Perhaps he’s some famous criminal."
"And the Pinkerton Agent is gonna help you just like that?" Ramon Miro doubted, finishing the light beer.
I took a sip of water and shrugged my shoulders.
"He and I have worked together before. And again, who would say no to fast money?"
"If he knew you better," my former partner laughed, "he'd refuse."
I gave a crooked smile and started pecking at my garlic soup. But as for Ramon, he managed to drain a mug of beer and order a second before his hot meal even arrived. Without any rush, we ate, keeping vigilant watch over the window as we did. Then we spent some time just sitting in silence, enjoying the warmth and full bellies.
"You aren't getting a dessert?" Ramon asked in surprise when I reached for my wallet to pay.
"No," I shook my head and immediately noticed that I really didn't want any sweets.
"Is that you, Leo?" the hulking man laughed uncontrollably. "You're really gonna say no to some chocolate?"
"Do you have any?" I inquired. "A mug of hot chocolate would definitely not hurt right now."
"It might take them until next week."
"If they bring it, I'll take the whole shipment," I declared and got up from the table. "But now, wait here."
"Has your agent shown up?"
"Yes."
And in fact, Thomas Smith had just gotten out of a carriage that pulled up to the hotel with a raised canvas top. He was wearing a heavily dirt-streaked beige cloak.
After taking his pay, the cabby rolled on. And I didn't run across the street with shouts of greeting, just stood on the sidewalk and waved. Smith noticed me and, if he was surprised, he didn't show it. He calmly crossed the road and extended a hand.
"Lev! What fates brought you here?"
Thomas's excessively strong handshake gave away his nerves, so I immediately got to business:
"I'm interested in a New World immigrant. Most likely a criminal. You might have heard about him at work."
Smith stroked his gray mustache in thought, but didn't refuse to help right away and clarified:
"Who exactly are you interested in?"
"Michael Smith, and Englishman. He came from New York in the second half of August. He was shot at the beginning of September."
Thomas shook his head.
"Never heard of him."
"Probably a made-up name."
"All the more so, then."
I was not going to give up so easily, though.
"Smith was shot in the Three Little Leaves casino in the middle of the day, and no one saw the killer. Can you find out anything about it?"
"Why do you care?" Smith winced, adjusting his derby cap.
"There's a relatively large chance that his murderer has been paid for my head as well."
"I see you're not looking to solve this the easy way," Thomas chuckled, rubbing his chin and asking a reasonable question: "Alright, I see why you’re interested. But why should I be?"
"You can count on a service in return. If I am to believe the papers, you have yet to catch your Aztecs. Perhaps I can be of use."
Thomas shot me a sour look.
"Alright!" I sighed. "Will five hundred do?"
"Sure," the investigator then waved a hand, "I'll make a couple calls for an old friend. You can keep the money. I'll be counting on that favor, though."
"Agreed."
"I'll be right back," Thomas Smith warned, walking across the road and ducking into the hotel.
I returned to the bistro, noticed Ramon's curious face in the window and shrugged my shoulders, answering the question I could read clearly in his eyes.
The rain had grown stronger and was causing a light rustle on the causeway and tile roofs. Streams of dirty water were pouring out of the gutters. Bistro overhangs were covering me from the raindrops but, even so, I wore myself out waiting for Smith. It took no less than a half hour before he came back outside.
"Your man was named Michael Link. He was a famous safe cracker."
"A specialist?"
"Yes. In August, he pulled off a bank robbery in New York, opening over a hundred safes. After that, he disappeared and resurfaced in New Babylon. No one can say who might be behind his murder."
I nodded in thought, and clarified just in case:
"And what bank was robbed?"
Thomas Smith took out a notepad and looked for the right page.
"The New York branch of the Witstein Banking House. Does that mean anything to you?"
"No," I lied without blinking.
The investigator just spread his arms.
"That's all there is," he said and got a pencil ready. "Lev, how can I find you, if need be?"
I told him the number of Miro's office from memory.
"Ask for Ramon, that's my business partner. He'll be able to tell you where I am. To be honest, I'm a bit of an Aztec specialist."
Thomas laughed uncontrollably and slapped me on the shoulder with a happy look.
"Don't you worry about the Aztecs. I'm already on their trail. we'll take them if not today then tomorrow. I hope the local police aren’t all complete dolts."
"Not complete ones," I smiled, bidding the agent farewell and walking down the street toward the armored vehicle.
Soon, Ramon caught up to me.
"And?" he asked, standing next to me.
I just shrugged my shoulders, thinking over what I'd heard. And I had quite a bit to think about.
The man who'd robbed the New York branch of the Witstein Banking House was killed on the other side of the Atlantic and, at that same time, the Vice President of that very Banking House had come to the capital. I remembered distinctly hearing the porter say the last name Witstein.
A simple coincidence? That may have been. But it didn't seem like one to me. What was more, when the bartender of the casino had mentioned telephone calls to a "Frank," he must have meant The Benjamin Franklin.
"So, what now?" Ramon nudged me when we'd reached the armored car, parked in the narrow alley. "What are we gonna do?"
"Let's go to Emperor's Square!" I declared, casting off my doubts.
The hulking man glanced into the darkening sky and shook his head. But he didn't try to convince me to put off the investigation until tomorrow. In any case, he'd have to drive through the center of town on his way home.
I GOT SOME REST on the way there. I didn't fall asleep, I just laid back a bit on the bench and lost myself in time and space. Perspiration covered my whole body. My heart started beating like a madman's. Nausea rolled up my throat. I could barely keep from throwing up onto the causeway.
I bore it. Nothing strange, just some nausea.
The armored vehicle really was going at a totally impossible tempo. It would speed up, then slow down to minimum, sometimes even stopping briefly.
"Devil knows what's happening on the roads!" Ramon Miro said in vexation, glancing out a side window. "It's like the whole city is driving right here!"
I winced in suffering and rubbed my temples, which were sticky with sweat. I was plainly not well. So, when the armored vehicle turned off the road onto the margin and stopped, I caught my breath with relief.
"The road is closed from here," Tito told us.
"I'll be right back," Ramon warned and went out the side door.
I didn't remain in the back either though, climbed out onto the causeway and threw back my head, holding my face under the cold fine rain. Over t
he building roofs, there was a low sheet of shaggy clouds swirling magnificently. Little spouts of smoke poured into it from the factory smokestacks like streams joining a burgeoning river. Right overhead, there was an army dirigible drifting majestically. At the far end of the street, the spires of the Sublime Electricity lyceum were peeking out between the building roofs. The electric sparks shimmering there left white slowly-fading little devils on my retinas.
And suddenly, I realized that I loved New Babylon with all my heart and would never leave it and, even if I did leave it for a time, I'd be sure to come back. This place was my home, nowhere else.
That flood retreated very quickly, and my head immediately started to spin. I had to take a seat on the running board. When Ramon returned to the armored car, shaking puddle-water off his boots, the attack of strange weakness had already left me, and I just saw the odd white spot flickering before my eyes.
"The square has been blocked off by police," said the hulking man, vexed at the delay.
"No problem," I said with a crooked smirk, getting up from the running boards and freezing for a moment, waiting for the vertigo to quiet down. "Let's go on foot."
"Where?"
"To The Benjamin Franklin."
Ramon nodded in silence and didn't start interrogating me.
I didn't explain a thing, because I wasn't totally sure this would lead anywhere. The Benjamin Franklin was Abraham Witstein's favorite hotel, but the likelihood that the Judean was in the capital at this precise moment was vanishingly small. The banking house had branches throughout Europe, while its headquarters wasn't even in New Babylon, but in the second greatest financial center of the Empire, London.
And yet, I wasn't going to give up on my idea and went with Ramon Miro down a side alley around the police blockade. The entrance to the square was covered by two armored vehicles at once, and the constables in formation between them in black uniform raincoats turned everyone back with no regard. They didn't let the staff of local establishments through, nor the guests of nearby hotels. Newspapermen either.
"Something serious must have happened," Ramon decided when seeing the magnesium bulb flashes of photo reporters.
I nodded and hurried onward.
Going through the back yards of fancy shops and expensive restaurants, we made our way around the square and at the intersection of two confusing alleys, we hit upon a hotel doorman in a raincoat that was too small for his body. In his hands, he was holding a "Temporary Entrance" plaque.
"Now that's what I call service!" Ramon chuckled.
"I'll do the talking," I warned my partner. "Just support me if it seems necessary. Alright?"
"Alright."
In the vestibule of The Benjamin Franklin, it was uncommonly crowded. The employees were instructing their honored guests how to leave the hotel and get around the police blockade. At the main entrance, instead of doormen in gold-embroidered livery, there were two constables with semi-automatic carbines in horizontal position.
When I showed up, the receptionist behind the counter gave a tortured smile, but then suddenly shuddered and his eyes went wide.
"Mr. Shatunov?!"
"The same," I confirmed, removing my peaked cap. "Health problems forced me to leave your wonderful establishment before I could pay my bills, but now I'm prepared to clear my debts."
The man was probably aware that I had been arrested right in front of the hotel, yet he didn't give that away at all. He just started searching for last month’s registration journal.
I set my peaked cap on the counter and took out my wallet, but the receptionist expectedly told me I didn't have any debts.
"How is this possible?" I asked, pretending it was extremely surprising.
"There's a note here saying your bill was paid by a Mademoiselle Montague."
"May I?"
"Here, see for yourself!"
I turned the book around and led my finger down the lines, looking for the name Witstein, knowing he had been in the hotel at the same time as me. I found it and scanned over to the special notes section, where guest visitors were usually recorded. In that box, there was just one name: "S. Lynch," no one else had gone up to the Vice President's suite.
"At the very bottom of the page," the porter told me.
"Yes, I see," I confirmed, taking out the notepad and recording the sum paid for me by Liliana. "Thank you. You've done me a great service."
"Just doing my job," the man smiled meekly.
I bid him farewell and walked away from the counter, but immediately turned back.
"On my last visit, I talked with Abraham Witstein about investments. He was staying in the Emperor's Suite on the top floor, you don't think you could tell me..."
The receptionist understood me and threw up his hands at half word.
"I'm afraid Mr. Witstein left the hotel soon after you."
"I thank you again," I smiled and headed for the back door. They still weren't letting guests out through the central one.
Ramon Miro caught up to me in the back yard and inquired quietly:
"What did you manage to find out?"
I put on my peaked cap and said:
"Lynch. Does that name sound familiar to you?"
The hulking man thought about it briefly, then shook his head.
"No."
But as for me, I was haunted by the sensation I had heard that name before. And in my mind, it was somehow tied with Abraham Witstein.
But where might I have heard it?
"That's it!" I even snapped my fingers when I stumbled on the memory.
Lynch. Sean Lynch. When I was handingmy room key to the receptionist, a redheaded Irishman–and I was sure it was an Irishman, my grandma had the exact same accent–told the receptionist he was there to see Abraham Witstein. That was how I discovered the Judean banker was in the hotel.
"What have you got?" Ramon Miro's interest was piqued.
"I remembered why that name sounds familiar. But it won't exactly give us anything..." I shook my head and suddenly froze, having had a sudden revelation about the riddle.
The apartment manager had described the runaway gunman to Elizabeth-Maria as a gaunt redheaded native of the British Isles and, as far as I remembered, Abraham Witstein's guest had looked exactly like that.
But Roy Lloyd and Sean Lynch couldn’t be the same person, right?
Ramon Miro turned around and tilted his head to the side. In his black eyes, a little fire of interest flickered.
"Based on your long face, Leo, you're under the spell of yet another genius idea," the hulking man guessed with a bit of dread.
I patted him on the shoulder and walked on.
"I think I can get a portrait of the killer."
"A portrait?" Ramon screwed up his face skeptically. "The population of New Babylon is more than ten million! What would a portrait give us?"
"We could have a talk with our friends in the Newton-Markt," I said. "That worked last time."
"Last time, we were looking for a criminal, and he was already in the records."
"Ramon, what are the odds that a well-behaved citizen is in the business of hunting people?"
My friend didn't take that argument to heart.
"The work is too clean for some average cutthroat," he said, being stubborn. "Looks more like the work of active military."
"So, we should first turn our attention on Irish nationalists and people retired from Britain's colonial armies. Can you set that up? If it doesn't work, we'll have to go around to gun shops. The caliber he uses, to put it lightly, isn't too common in Europe."
"Alright," Ramon sighed. "Where will you get the portrait?"
I glanced at the drizzle coming down from the heavens and decided it was too late to catch Charles Malacarre on the Roman Bridge. The blind illustrator couldn't bear working in this rain.
"Let's go to Balsamo square!" I decided and headed for the armored car.
7
BALSAMO SQUARE was glistening with its ideally
even patch of vitrified stone. Now it was not black, but more like dark blue on account of the clouds being reflected in a thin layer of water. But for some reason, that looked even gloomier and more ominous than usual.
Once upon a time, this had been the site of the most famous prison in New Babylon, but the fallen leveled it when the prisoners there rebelled. Most historians agreed that this uprising against the sovereigns of the world had been led by the self-appointed Count Cagliostro, a famous adventurer and mystic, who had been transferred here from the Lion's Castle.
I didn't like this place. Something was strange about it, and that bothered me. But sometimes there was just no choice: Charles Malacarre lived in a dark little hovel on the second underground level, which had been formed after the nearby houses were submerged underground.
"Want me to come with?" Ramon asked, standing on a rusty ventilation grate. Down below, the lights of the underground street burned, music played, and people were walking.
"No, I'll be back soon," I refused and headed to the nearest stairs into the underground.
The the stone stairs were fire-polished, and the rain was making my boot soles slip. I had to hold onto iron handrails stuck into the stone masonry.
The first underground level was lit with the odd gas torch. But today, the gloom in the space seemed somewhat thicker than usual. While there was water dripping through the bars in the ceiling, sunlight couldn’t even be imagined.
I removed my dark glasses to my pocket and walked a familiar path to the illustrator's residence, not paying any mind to the calls of insolent hawkers. Here, clever cheats competed with unrecognized inventors, but the result of talking with both was totally identical and would end in losing one’s wallet. And what if you weren't poisoned with some miracle elixir, or sent to the police station with something stolen from a museum?
Well, you could be stunned and tossed into one of the bottomless local wells simply because someone coveted your new boots.
When I heard sound and cries before me, I walked back to the wall and stuck my hand in my pocket with the revolver, but my alarm was for nothing: there was some local madman strolling through the passage in a dirty shirt with a shock of long unwashed hair.
"The illustrious are the essence of the devil's progeny!" he wailed with his whole tinny throat. "The devil dispersed his toxic brood over the earth and raised them to be vile abominations with the dead eyes of killers!"