by Pavel Kornev
"Do you know the way?" the clerk then asked.
"No," I shook my head. "And Senior Inspector Moran, what division is he from?"
In the Metropolitan Police, there were no less than two dozen senior inspectors, and I had never had the pleasure of hearing of Mr. Moran previously. The head of the Criminal Investigations Department was Maurice LeBrun, so if anyone was to lead the investigation on Robert White's disappearance, it would be him.
Or was this nothing at all to do with my ill-fated boss? Today, after all, was only Monday. They may not have even noticed he was missing yet.
The clerk then looked at me somehow strangely and set about packing his writing implements into a small case, though still deigning to answer:
"Senior Inspector Moran works in Department Three."
Department Three?!
The unpleasant news made my expression change involuntarily; the messenger even softened up and offered:
"Detective constable, would you like me to accompany you?"
"Would you be so kind?" I nodded and moved after the clerk, busting my brains over the reason for being called to Department Three, which was devoted not only to exposing spies, religious fanatics and malefics, but also to smoking out police officers who were sullying the reputation of their badge.
I did not want to be numbered among any of these categories, so, as I walked with my escort, I held a perturbed look on my face.
But life went on; disheveled paper-pushers ran about and smoked in their stables, constables crowded the dressing rooms after the end of the night shift, fettered arrestees walked out bowlegged. In the offices, there were printing machines chirruping, doors slamming, and some people braying away behind locked doors.
Everything was as it always was. All was right, but at the same time, something was off.
I walked into Department Three, which made me look scared.
My mental suffering didn't bother the clerk one bit as he confidently walked down the endless corridors, sometimes turning onto stairways or open galleries. A little while later, we found ourselves in the far wing of the Newton-Markt, and the next stairwell we found led to a locked door, before which two plainclothes officers and two constables with semi-automatic carbines in horizontal position were going about their work.
"Detective Constable Orso," my escort introduced me and headed off somewhere else.
The attendant opened a journal lying on the table, found the proper line and permitted me to enter:
"Come in, constable. Office number seven."
I tried not to expose my own sadness and headed off in search of the senior inspector. And though the room-numbering system was uncommonly confusing, I did not have to ask any Department Three employees for help. With an important look, I nodded my head at those I came across, and went onward confidently.
Finally, in a dead-quiet hall, a door caught my eye. It was adorned with an unevenly curved brass number seven.
"Come in!" I heard in reply to my cautious knock.
I took a step inside and instantly lost all of my ostentatious calm.
On the other side of the desk, there sat a middle-aged gentleman with the thin, pale face of a hereditary aristocrat. His pomaded hair, high, angular brows and thin lips overwhelmed me with how much he looked like a theater actor, but the gaze of his cold gray eyes left me without the slightest doubt in the professional sympathies of this apparent decadent.
I didn't know him. Another thing – the corpulent giant in the guest chair, sitting under a portrait of Isaac Newton, was Senior Inspector Maurice LeBrun, head of Criminal Investigations. And though, when compared with the elegant Mr. Moran, with his blood-soaked face and deeply receded hairline, he seemed like an unsophisticated street bully, it was not a good idea to underestimate my chief. He truly did have a bull-dog's grip.
"Detective Constable Orso," I introduced myself, having overcome my lack of confidence. "You wanted to see me?"
"Take a seat, constable," the man pointed to a free chair at the wall and returned to the conversation he was having previously. "Maurice, with all due respect, I cannot agree with that order. The New World colonies have always been defined by a good deal of freethinking, and the scourge of separatism did not pass them by, though that is a matter for the future. For now, the Aztecs are trying to cut them off from the gulf and break into California. There isn't even a mention of independence."
"Do you suppose, Bastian, that the Aztecs will not move in the foreseeable future?" LeBrun caught his idea.
"That reminds me!" the dandy went on.
"They say there have been thousands of unwilling sacrifices in Tenochtitlan recently. They must be planning something big..."
Bastian Moran shrugged in indifference:
"For now, that's all just rumors."
"But if not the New World, then what?" The senior inspector wondered. "The Russians?"
"The Russians?" Mr. Moran repeated absently, taking a pack of Chesterfields out of the upper drawer of his desk. He lit a cigarette, sat back in his chair and blew his smoke up toward the ceiling. "Russians are like leeches. They always want more. Their provinces stretch from the Black and Baltic seas to the Eastern Ocean, and still they demand special treatment! The Russians are dangerous, but now their hands are tied."
"The Celestial Kingdom?"
"And Japan," Bastian Moran nodded. "First, the loss of Korea and Manchuria, and now they risk losing the Trans-Siberian Magistrate as well. The funniest thing is that we'll still have to help them!"
LeBrun pulled an ivory mouthpiece from his pocket and began turning it between his fingers.
"Then who?" He finally asked. "Who is the greatest cause for concern? The English, dreaming of their former imperial glory? Austria-Hungary and Germany, which grow closer every day? Our unreliable Indian vassals? Just don't say France. I know the prevailing moods in Paris, and not just by rumor. I assure you that this affair will not go beyond talk for them. We French have grown terribly lazy in recent years."
Mr. Moran handed the cigarette pack to LeBrun.
"Be my guest, Maurice."
"Ah, I’m afraid I’ll have to decline," the head of the CID refused. "My family doctor says my cough is from too much smoking. I have to cut back."
"Balderdash!" Bastian Moran frowned, but didn't insist and threw the pack into the upper desk drawer. "As for your question, I'll tell you directly: I'm most worried about Egyptian intelligence activity."
"Are you serious?" LeBrun couldn't hold back his skeptical grin. "Spies? I thought those newsboys were just making a mountain out of a molehill."
"Nothing of the sort. Over the last month, the volume of diplomatic mail to the Egyptian Embassy has grown by an order of magnitude. The second secretary is famed for his splendid receptions. Everyone who's anyone in New Babylon attends. That man is connected with Egyptian intelligence, though. That's all no accident."
"I do not know, I do not know."
"I assure you, Maurice, it's all very serious. Alexandria and Tehran are conducting negotiations on a military alliance. Their goal is control over the Bosporus and Gibraltar. The threat of an attack on Constantinople is more real than ever. After Russia's deplorable defeats in the Far East, Persia began seriously planning on expanding its holdings into their Transcaucasian territories. And also, they have certain plans for India as well."
Maurice LeBrun threw up his hands:
"I won't argue, my dear Bastian. I won't argue. That's your matter. And also..." the head of the CID drove the point further, "there's no sense in overestimating the external threat and forgetting about internal enemies!"
"And no one was forgetting about them, Maurice. No one was forgetting," the man smiled and suddenly turned to me: "We aren't wasting too much of your time, are we constable?"
The question was given in a tone both harsh and cold, but I didn't even wince and gave a laconic military-style answer:
"No sir, senior inspector."
"Right now, in the middle of the work day,
you don't have anything better to do?" Bastian Moran grew surprised, conceiving an incomprehensible game.
"None," I answered and thought it necessary to explain: "Inspector White gave me time off until the end of the week."
"To hear you tell it, it was a reward!" Maurice LeBrun quipped.
I went silent.
"You were, after all, suspended, isn't that so?" the head of Criminal Investigations frowned when he realized that he wouldn't be getting an answer to his unasked question.
"I didn't hear anything like that," I objected.
"But Inspector White didn't want to see you, right?" Bastian Moran clarified.
"That's right," I confirmed and prepared to inform them of the offense I had committed, but Moran managed to surprise me.
"And where, by the way, is the inspector today?" He asked.
"Inspector White?" I asked.
"Who else would we be talking about!?" Maurice LeBrun flared up. "Where is White? And please remove your eyepieces! Why do you hide your eyes like a guilty student?!"
I complied with the order, licked my dried-out lips and said carefully:
"Has the inspector not come in today?"
"He has not," Bastian Moran confirmed. "Do you know anything about that?"
"No," I assured the administrators and shuddered: "Could you please tell me why Department Three is interested in the inspector? Is he alright?"
The head of the CID let my reply go in one ear and out the other, continuing his interrogation:
"When did you last see Inspector White?"
"When did I see the inspector?" I repeated the question, gathering my thoughts. "On Saturday, lunch at Archimedes' Screw... Although, wait! We did talk at the ball on Sunday!"
"And that was all?"
"Yes. And?"
Bastian Moran lit another cigarette and frowned, releasing smoke:
"You have nothing else you want to tell us?"
"I'm afraid I don't understand your question, senior inspector," I answered.
Then Maurice LeBrun stood up from his chair and loomed over me with a threatening expression on his face.
"What do you know about the Witstein Banking House?" He growled.
I opened my mouth, not able to find the right words and kept silent.
"Constable?!" The head of the detective division frowned. "Cat got your tongue?"
"No sir," I answered, moving my gaze from the window to the portrait of Isaac Newton. "As far as I know, the Witstein Banking House is located in the Judean Quarter."
"And that is all you know of it?"
"In essence – yes..."
Bastian Moran shook his head and extinguished his cigarette at the bottom of a crystal ashtray that was already half full of butts.
"Constable, you don't want to tell us anything about the tunnels being dug under the bank?" he asked, looking at me with his cold gray eyes.
"Tunnels?" I exhaled, shaking from chill. "Ah, that's right, the tunnels! The thing about that was..."
"Answer the question, constable!" Maurice LeBrun roared, standing up behind my back. "What are you hiding from us?"
"Me? Nothing! But Inspector White..."
"Tell us!" Moran demanded. "Now!"
So I did. But, it's only logical that I told them only about the tunnels and the inspector's order to hold my tongue; I didn't share what I knew about yesterday's massacre.
"Amusing story," Bastian Moran snorted thoughtfully and sat back in his armchair.
"And the inspector's behavior didn't seem suspicious to you?" LeBrun sat on me. "Why did you not tell anyone about this incident? That is a direct violation of the protocol, constable! Three people have been killed!"
"Maurice, Maurice, there's no reason to get hot-headed. An order is an order," Moran suddenly supported me. "Detective Constable Orso, what do you think, why are you here?"
"I have no idea," I admitted frankly, again turning to the window despite the fact there was absolutely nothing interesting out there.
Bastian Moran followed my gaze and smiled:
"You have no idea? And what if you really think about it?"
"Was there a bank robbery?" I supposed, and truly got lost in my guesses.
"And?"
"Inspector White released the robbers? Or..." I made a carefully calculated pause and jumped up from my seat. "Is the inspector alright?!"
LeBrun placed his palm on my shoulder and took a seat back in his chair with ease.
"So, you weren't with him?" He asked, looking me in the eyes.
"No!" I exclaimed. "Is the inspector alright?"
The head of Criminal Investigations spent some time boring into me with his steadfast gaze, then said:
"The inspector has been murdered. And two constables died with him."
"Curses!"
Bastian Moran kept on, and demanded an answer:
"Why did the inspector not take you with to the arrest?"
"The inspector..." I licked my dried-out lips, "the inspector was mad at me..."
"Because of the succubus you let get away?" asked Moran, displaying his knowledge of the situation and sitting back deeply into his armchair once again. "Why then did he not bring Constable Miro? After all, he wasn't mad at him? Or was he?"
"I have no idea."
"Your awareness, constable, seems to be of an extremely limited character," the senior inspector noted poignantly, training his index finger at LeBrun. "And, by the way, my dear Maurice, neutralizing infernal creatures comes under the purview of Department Three. What gave Inspector White the right to waste work time searching for this beast?"
"I didn't know him very well..." mumbled the head of the CID, realizing that he was starting to act defensive, and slapping his palm on the table. "Excellent question, Bastian! I wish I had an answer to it! Constable, why the devil didn't the inspector tell anyone from Department Three about the succubus?!"
"Or about the alarming floater from three months ago?" added Bastian Moran, clearly enjoying the effect he was creating. "Just half a year ago, a neophyte malefic was shot and a poltergeist was dissolved at an arrest. And that's just scratching the surface of what he's done."
"Constable!" LeBrun looked at me menacingly. "What does all this mean? Be so kind as to answer!"
"I was just following orders," I uttered shortly, having decided to place all the blame squarely on the dead man’s shoulders, all the more so given that I had, in fact, been following the inspector's command.
Maurice LeBrun took out a kerchief and wiped his sweat-covered face.
"Well, do you have any speculation on all that?" He sighed afterward. "You must have had some opinion!"
"I suppose that the inspector wanted to attract attention from the top brass."
Bastian Moran chuckled darkly:
"The only thing left to do is feel sorrow for the fact that he didn't achieve that while alive."
"I suggest we concentrate on what's important," the head of Criminal Investigations then declared, hurrying along the unpleasant topic. Next, he set about eliciting the details from me of the unsuccessful capture of the succubus, the discovery of the tunnels and the events that followed. I answered confidently to all the tricky questions, but when they started repeating themselves, I couldn't hold back and objected:
"Allow me to speak! What does the succubus have to do with this? After all, the inspector was only after the robbers!"
"Actually, constable, that's what we wanted to find out from you; what role did the succubus play in these events?" Bastian Moran flung open a folder that was lying on the table and said: "The coroner is sure that Inspector White was killed by a creature from the underworld!"
"Such coincidences do not happen!" Maurice LeBrun added weightily.
"That cannot be..."
"Look for yourself!"
I walked up to the table and turned the folder to me with photographs of the crime. Two robbers, shot, a dead Judean with false payos, Jimmy and Billy charred with bullets in their heads, and the to
rmented body of Robert White.
"That is simply impossible," I declared, trying not to overplay it. "I do not understand how such a thing could have happened! I simply do not understand..."
"For now, it is unclear whether the creature took possession of the inspector's service weapon and shot one of the constables itself, or if it took control of his mind and forced him to kill his own subordinate," said the head of the CID with an important look. "You'd better take a look at what became of the second constable! It looks like he was burned from the inside!"
"I suppose that must be some form of curse," inferred Bastian Moran, looking at me with a clever squint. "Do you have any thoughts on the matter, constable?"
"No," I answered, perhaps a bit more hurriedly than would have been natural, but no one was paying any attention to that anymore.
"You are relieved of duty until this investigation is over! Do not leave the city without getting permission first," Maurice LeBrun declared and waved his hands in annoyance: "But now, get out of my sight!"
"Yes sir," I nodded and hopped out the door. On my way, I wiped my sweat-covered face and hurried for the exit.
On the street I turned, cast my gaze at the dark colossus of the police headquarters and gave a cold-blooded shiver, thinking back on the details of the interrogation. And though my belt was being weighed down by my holster and service pistol as before, I decided to pay the arsenal a visit some other time.
"Damn it!" I just waved my hand and set off for Archimedes' Screw.
RAMON MIRO WAS SITTING at the bar, drinking white wine and leafing through a newspaper. He didn't glance in my direction, pretending not to notice me. But then, the constables that filled the public house suddenly fell silent, clearly letting me know that the news of the inspector's death had already flown around the whole Newton-Markt.
Not paying attention to my curiosity-stricken colleagues, I took a seat next to my partner and asked the barman:
"Almer, bring me a lemonade, if you'd be so kind."
The fat Fleming looked at me with unhidden doubt. I had to take out my wallet and stamp my last five-franc coin to the darkened boards of the bar. Almer shook it into the pocket of his apron, heading down to the icebox only after it had landed.