The Illustrious (The Sublime Electricity Book #1)

by Pavel Kornev

  And I took a step up the stairs, not wanting to end up thrown out of the police cordon before the eyes of the random gawkers and colleagues. Or were they already former colleagues?

  Be that as it may, on the embankment there were city-dwellers crowding up. I didn't hang around though, and headed for the nearest cafe, intending to have a bite to eat and gather my thoughts before telling Isaac Levinson about the complications with his case.

  THE NEAREST PLACE TO GET a bite was the Golden Lilly, a small coffee shop with an open terrace overlooking the Yarden Embankment. In the sky, there were black clouds gathering, but if there was bad weather or rain, I would be protected by the canvas overhang, so I chose a seat with a view of the river and lounged about in a chair with soft padding and waited for a waiter. The drafts didn't scare me.

  When they brought the menu, I ordered a couple of croissants and a pot of black Ceylon tea and looked at a triple-decker steamship floating up the river. The colossus went quickly upstream and, for a moment, it seemed that it was I who was traveling on the water, and not the passengers of the Samuel Morse at all.

  It should be said that I wasn't occupied with that thought for long; I turned away from the window and began studying the documents from the detective sergeant. At first, I didn't notice anything interesting, but soon, I reached the list of valuables stolen from the bank, and then I could barely hold back from slapping myself on the forehead and swearing out loud.

  I understood! I understood why Bastian Moran was acting so improperly!

  The list was empty; a single line was all it contained. The robbers hadn't taken anything; not one safe had been broken into.

  And a rational question arose: had something gone wrong during the robbery, or had the criminals simply been following a pre-arranged plan?

  I finished my hot tea and came to the conclusion that I didn't remember seeing any panic. Each of the robbers had completed their assigned task: the bomber had destroyed the wall and placed the thermite charge on the vault; the flamethrower had gotten into the bank and cleared out the building methodically, while the soldier with the hand-held mortar and the machine gunner had chased off the police men and provided the armored car with an unimpeded escape. It was a fully real tactical operation.

  The criminals also knew about the ambush – the barber shop had been shot up before anyone of the police officers that were embedded there had revealed themselves. There was no way this could have happened without traitors in the Newton-Markt.

  If the bomber didn't make a mistake with the explosive charge, and the gunners had taken the risk of a direct confrontation with the police not in order to rob – the safes were not opened, after all! – the only logical explanation left for what had happened was that the criminals had been ordered to destroy something in the bank vault. Probably, it was some documents, in that the papers had all burned up while the jewelry, gold coins and bullion, even though it had melted, was not truly destroyed by the fire.

  So then, it was papers. Did that sense? Sure.

  And with that, I came to a dead end. I had no idea what the robbers were really after. The only unsolved clue that remained was, as before, the armored car.

  How had they been able to lead their pursuers by the finger? Even if you accept the unbelievable fact that their self-propelled carriage was being driven by a mysterious mechanism, no genius on earth would be able to place the proper order of actions on the narrow streets of the old city inside it.

  At the very least, there must have been a driver behind the wheel while it was in the Judean Quarter. But then, at what stage did the box appear? The box was screwed tightly shut. It was no more than five minutes of work, but the police never let the armored car out of their sight for such an extended amount of time.

  And, at the end of the day, where had the Gatling gun gone? Senior Inspector Moran had let that fact slip from view. After all, it must have weighed quite a bit. It was attached to the vehicle, and so taking it all the way off would have taken no less than a quarter hour.

  They couldn't have sunk a fake to throw the pursuit off their trail, right?

  I called over the boy who was clearing off the tables, gave him five francs and sent him to a book stall to buy the most detailed map of the city he could find. After that, I started underlining places in the protocol of where and when the armored car was seen by witnesses, thinking on the motive for the crime as I did so.

  What for? What extreme circumstance could drive people to such a dangerous outing? There was no lost love for cop killers. They were bated like rabid dogs! What was at stake here?

  When the boy I'd sent out for a map returned, I was so elated that I let him keep all the change. I immediately regretted it, but it was too late. I unfolded the huge paper sheet on the table and set about marking the supposed route of the armored car, including key places and times it had been seen. The investigators in charge of the preliminary investigation had done a huge amount of work here, and even had the energy to add information about each witness's watch, but they hadn't considered it necessary to actually draw out the route on a map. And that wasn't too surprising. At that time, the self-propelled carriage was already resting on the bottom of the Yarden.

  The waiters were shooting sidelong looks at their strange visitor and whispering amongst themselves, but they didn't have the resolve to come over and say anything. I, though, didn't pay the gossips any mind. Once again, I was grasping at straws trying to make things add up.

  The armored car sped away from the police coach at the exit point from the Judean Quarter. From there, it had been spotted by a sentry on Mendeleev Avenue, and the self-propelled carriage had almost hit a traffic controller at the intersection with Galileo Street. From there, the robbers had disappeared again, then a few minutes later, appeared on Euler Bridge.

  The problem came down to the fact that it would have actually been impossible for them to reach the bridge in those few minutes!

  It couldn't have been a mistake either – the first thing that is pounded into every constable’s ear after being hired is to make sure you get a time with every report. One person may make a mistake, or even two, but if three or four agreed, it must have been right.

  So that means there really were two armored cars, then?

  I sucked on that thought from all sides. I outlined the block where the robbers got away from the pursuit a second time, payed for my tea and headed off to find a free cab, feeling like a clever fellow once again.

  I went to the office of a realtor, who had been recommended to me a few months earlier by my fiduciary. The gold-lettered business card had been hanging around pointlessly in my wallet that whole time, but now it was coming in handy.

  In the office, I carelessly threw it to a clerk wearing an old-fashioned frock coat with elbow patches sewn over his sleeves:

  "Viscount Cruce..." and was suddenly led into his senior partner's office.

  A flashy name and fashionable outfit were a majestic thing! And it didn’t matter that the illustrious aristocrat was bankrupt with a mountain of unpaid bills.

  "Viscount!" A gentleman of commanding stature wearing a suit stood up from behind the desk. His suit was so ideally tailored to his figure, which had already begun to slightly deteriorate, that my estimation of my fiduciary fell sharply.

  If he had recommended a person who spent that kind of money on tailors, that must have meant that he had no respect for his employer's money.

  "Would you like some wine? Brandy?" The man offered. "Or, if you'd like, a cigar?"

  "I'd prefer to get straight to business!" I refused decisively and spread out the map I'd riddled with marks on the desk. "I'm interested in renting a property on this block. A spacious hangar or a warehouse with a straight driveway."

  "Allow me to think..." the realtor faltered.

  No such luck!

  "I haven't got time for that!" I cut him off. "My business partner will be arriving from Rome tomorrow, and his idiot of a secretary took the pains to inf
orm me of that fact via telegram just one hour ago. This affair will not bear delay!"

  "So, you're sure you want this neighborhood specifically?"

  Yes, devil take me! I need precisely that neighborhood, and no other!

  "It is a business, the details of which I am not at liberty to disclose. I need to rent a warehouse there and only there. Another thing: I am prepared to buy out any current renters or pay for a sublet if someone is willing."

  The realtor glanced at the map with unhidden doubt, thought briefly and jabbed his finger into the western part of the space I'd outlined.

  "There are coalhouses here. I suggest we start there."

  Curses! I could have guessed myself! From late autumn until the beginning of spring, the warehouses were bursting with coal for heating private residences, offices and shops, but when it warmed up, demand for fuel fell and some of the warehouses were left empty until the next season. It was easier not to touch them at all than to clean them all the way up and try to find renters who would get out by the end of September.

  I couldn't resist snapping my fingers, as it just played to the image I was creating of an eccentric aristocrat full of ignorance in matters of business.

  "Coalhouses, but of course! Let's go there at once!"

  The realtor sighed fatefully, not burning with the desire to get his fashionable suit all ruined in the coal dust.

  "Unfortunately, I have a meeting scheduled that I cannot cancel. I'll send my assistant with you," he easily navigated his way out of the complex situation. "I assure you, my man is very well-informed."

  "Great!" I lit up. "Let's go!"

  And so we went.

  THE COALHOUSES TURNED OUT to be a ghastly hole. On one side, there were barracks that ran up against them with broken windows and doors, already scheduled for demolition. On the other, there was an overgrown weed-filled wasteland, the fence to a boiler-house and the back of a dye shop. With that, the next building over was overflowing with noise from the lively street.

  An ideal place. No one would see, hear or know a thing.

  You'd never think of a better one, but the guard at the gate must have seen the armored car. I wonder how they got around that? Had they slipped him 25 francs, or was he working on the inside?

  As it turned out, it was neither. The robbers simply hadn’t worried about his "tall tales."

  When I walked through the open doors and looked at the guard box, I immediately decided that the bored-looking gentleman sitting there was too attractive to be a simple guardsman. But all the same, I clarified:

  "My good sir, could you please tell me how to get in touch with the manager here?"

  The well fed man of thirty years sighed and answered with poorly hidden annoyance:

  "You're looking at him!"

  "Is that so?" I couldn't hold back my surprise. "Things are going so badly that you're subbing for the night guard?"

  "Things are going amazingly as long as my renters don't start treating the night guard to rum!" the manager furrowed his brow. "Some people! Do they even think? They rent a warehouse, and get the guard drunk! Nonsense!"

  "That truly is nonsense," I agreed. "And what, he goes nuts when he drinks?"

  "He's been drinking for three days straight," the man confirmed, then grew suspicious: "And what do you want?"

  "We wanted to rent the warehouse," the realtor's assistant slipped into the conversation.

  "Business is picking up!" the manager threw up his hands. "It used to be months I couldn't find renters, but you're the second ones to come this week!"

  I didn't hesitate for an instant and gave a rage-filled tirade off the cuff:

  "Curses! It was no accident that the telegram came late! They’re trying to throw me overboard!"

  The manager's mouth gaped in surprise:

  "What are you talking about?"

  "My associates and I agreed to rent..." I cut off the story half-way and sharply asked: "Who signed the agreement? Galliamo? A swarthy with a mustache like a circus performer?"

  "Not at all," the manager muttered, thrown off by my unexpected charge. "A gray old man came, who introduced himself as Martin Guichard."

  "That rapscallion had a dummy rent it out! Did he leave an address? Did he pay by check?"

  "No, cash."

  "Is he here now?"

  I took a step onto the property, and the manager immediately jumped out of the guard booth:

  "Just what is going on here?!"

  "Is he here now?" I repeated my question.

  "No!" The manager shouted out savagely. "He got the guard drunk, the low-life, and hasn't shown himself for two days now! But what is it to you?"

  "He’s totally disappeared?" I drooped, not exaggerating one bit.

  The robbers had left without leaving an address. I might as well be looking for wind in a field!

  "We should probably go," the realtor's assistant started fussing.

  I cast my gaze on the gloomy constructions and the coal-dusted earth, shifted my gaze to the glossy face of the manager and leaned into him in confidence:

  "Tell me, would you mind if I took a little peek at their warehouse? You have my word that I won’t touch a thing. I won’t even go inside. It is very important to me. Very important. Curses! I would even buy out their rent! But, if you're busy… If you cannot leave the gates..."

  On my honor, I do not enjoy convincing people this way. Sure, I don't actually like people very much, but what I've learned in life is to play on others' weaknesses and fears. The manager was not in the mood to sit in the dark booth, and our visit here looked to him like a free show, sent down by fate itself. Refusing himself the simple pleasure of just having a bit of fun was something this simpleton just wasn’t capable of.

  "I can show you, it's no matter!" He waved his hand and asked the realtor's assistant: "Could you look after the gate while we're inside?"

  We walked up to the warehouse. Immediately behind it, there began a coal-covered square under the open sky. The manager set about undoing the heavy padlock.

  "They actually haven't brought anything yet," he muttered, turning the key. "If there were some property, then maybe I shouldn’t, but why not show him an empty warehouse? It's just a warehouse..."

  I noticed the track of a rubber tire imprinted in the coal dust and, just in case, stuck my hand in my pocket and grabbed my Cerberus, but the room was, in fact, absolutely empty.

  My companion turned on his electric torch and shined it on the far wall.

  "Will this do?" He turned to me. "You can store so many goods in the summer! We don't clean the others, but just look how this one’s been mopped up!"

  And they really had cleaned the warehouse to a "T;" I stepped across the threshold, removed my glasses and shook my head in feigned delight.

  "How spacious!"

  "And you know what?" The manager waved his hand excitedly. "Come by on Friday! If those scoundrels still haven't shown up, I'll give the warehouse to you."

  "Deal!" I melted into a smile and squeezed his outstretched hand.

  I had no doubt that I would have to come back here again. The beam of the torch showed a few round casings on the floor, and that fact convinced me of my theory once and for all. The robbers had waited out the police search in this very place.

  The hitch came in the fact that, while I could conduct an independent investigation, I could not hide evidence. Then again, if I got a real private investigator's license...

  I walked outside and pointed the manager to a cart approaching the gates.

  "That's for you!"

  "What a bad break!" he flapped his chubby arms and ran up to the guard box. "Come by on Friday!" he shouted from a run.

  "Without fail," I promised and walked up to the cart.

  "Well, how'd it go?" the realtor's assistant overtook me.

  "It's already rented out for the next month," I sighed and repeated the exclamation that had stuck in my ear: "That's what you call a bad break..."

  I GOT RID
OF MY COMPANION easily. I simply dropped him off in front of the office, and ordered the cabby to take me to the Judean Quarter.

  Isaac Levinson lived on a quiet street where three-story manors nestled up to one another like a pack of stray dogs huddled together for warmth in the dead of winter. All the roofs were touching at the edges. Some buildings even had shared walls, which created the sensation that they were some sort of fortress wall hiding the inner lives of Judean society from outsiders. I was let in to see the banker without any delay. It was enough to simply introduce myself.

  It should be said, though, that I did not get by without some nuance. To get from the second floor to the third, I had to use a different set of stairs. The door to his office, as I managed to note, had steel corners, while the windows where outfitted with grates. What was more, there was nothing of value in the room: a table with a decanter and telephone, a clock with three faces, a pair of armchairs for visitors, a bin overflowing with telegraph ribbon as well as a cabinet stuffed with folders. The only place you could have even hidden a safe would have been in the wall behind a portrait of her Imperial Highness...

  "Leopold, I'm glad to see you in good health!" Isaac Levinson smiled at my arrival and even stood up from the desk, but I could sense a certain restraint in him. I suppose he wasn't able to decide on what basis to demand I return my advance.

  Counting out hundred-franc notes for me, I saw the man had entered a true state of mental turmoil: the robbery, the fire, the deaths; the kind of stuff that would get anyone out of their rut. But, when the emotions subsided and he was made aware that nothing had been stolen, an idea had probably taken root in the banker's head: "Just why should I pay someone for work that the police do for free?"

  Revenge? Come off it! Revenge is something ephemeral, but five hundred francs is five hundred francs.

  I even grew a bit ashamed. That said, I wasn't feeling ashamed enough to return his money; if a long line of noble ancestors gives you anything, it is a healthy cynicism.

  Mr. Levinson's indecisiveness was not rooted in any fundamental decency, but in the simple fact that he was intending to earn a healthy sum by buying out my debts; that was all. Otherwise, he probably would have met me with the demand to see receipts for the fifty francs I'd received with the obligation to return it in a very short time period and with a completely extortionate interest rate.