by Pavel Kornev
I wouldn't have been surprised at all, by the way, if such a document was already sitting in the desk drawer.
That was precisely why I went straight on the attack.
"Bad news, Mr. Levinson! Bad news!"
The declaration did not bemuse the banker, but instead of the sentence he had prepared, he involuntarily asked:
"What happened?"
"The armored car was empty!" I announced. "The robbers were not inside it when it sank!"
"Are you sure?!"
"I watched them pull it up from the bottom myself! There was no one inside the self-propelled carriage. You'll get the report tomorrow."
Isaac Levinson fell back in his seat with a thump, finished his water and sighed heavily:
"This gets more and more complicated with every passing hour."
"Yes, this is not what you'd call pleasant news," I nodded, taking a seat in the arm chair and tossing one leg over the other. When his calm began returning, I shared the next portion of bad news: "My colleagues don’t even think it was an attempted robbery!"
Isaac Levinson gave a nervous start and asked:
"And what do you think, Leopold?"
"I don't think it smells like a robbery either," I declared dogmatically, not sharing my theory that the malefactors may have been trying to destroy certain documents. Instead of that, I asked: "Mr. Levinson, can you think of anyone who might want you dead?"
The story was painfully obvious, but the higher a person climbs up the social ladder, the more important he considers himself in his personal model of the world.
"That is impossible," Isaac Levinson decisively cut me off, but then I saw that the seed of doubt had hit fertile ground, so I didn't add anything.
Silence reigned in the office for a minute, then the banker added:
"That's not how we do things!" And immediately hit me with a barrage of questions: "How is the investigation coming along? Has there been any headway? What scenarios are the police exploring?"
And though perhaps the thought of the five hundred francs he'd lost for nothing hadn't completely left him, it was certainly now on the back burner, driven back by a new, somewhat more significant problem. Another time when I simply hated my talent...
"The police are just twiddling their thumbs," I declared with no innuendo. "They haven't even found the place where the criminals left the armored car."
"And you? Have you found it?"
"I have," I confirmed. "And I'm going to the Newton-Markt right now to inform the higher-ups."
"Oh, please do," Isaac Levinson nodded favorably.
"And how is the debt buy-out coming along?" I then asked.
"I offered five centimes on the franc, but no one agreed to sell for less than thirty," he smiled, feeling in his element once again. "Don't worry. That's just because Count Kósice has yet to make the announcement of your untimely end at the age of five. Mark my words – soon, ten centimes will seem like a generous offer."
"I trust you in this matter."
"But there is one subtlety," the banker unexpectedly skipped ahead. "I control your finances, but I am not monitoring the process of your coming into your inheritance. That could lead to unnecessary complications."
I remembered the expensive suit the realtor was wearing, the same realtor my own fiduciary had sent me to, and suggested with a clean conscious:
"Prepare the documents. I'll sign everything at our next meeting."
"Alright, excellent" the banker relaxed. "Keep up the investigation and keep me up to date on the situation. And now, you'll have to excuse me. I have to make a few business calls."
"At this late hour?" I asked in surprise, casting my gaze at the wall clock.
It was showing nine-fifty-three.
"The Transatlantic Cable is simply a wonder," he laughed. "In New York right now, the work day is in full swing."
"Then I wouldn't dare keep you any longer," I got up from the chair and headed for the exit.
A taciturn servant led me to the entrance door, and I set off for the Newton-Markt.
4
IS MONEY ITSELF EVIL? Or is money the root of all evil?
It's a contentious issue. But I know one thing for sure: if I hadn't been such a cheapskate my whole life, I would have ended up in a lot less trouble. Or, at the very least, I could have put a lot of it off for an indefinite amount of time. But then, after writing my report to the head of the CID, I was feeling too stingy to hire a cabby, so I went home on a steam tram. It climbed unhurriedly up the winding slope to Calvary; the place this all started.
To be honest, though, I always preferred ascending the hill on foot. As you walked a meandering path and looked at the city, you could feel the air get fresher with every step. The smells normally suppressed by the char of the city start to peek through – the aromas of wet leaves, freshly cut grass, and spring flowers.
Every time I walked it, I got the impression that I was ascending from the kingdom of the dead, leaving not a stinking cloud of smog, but the subterranean kingdom of Hades itself. And bit by bit, the heavy burdens of grief and concern began to weigh down on me less and less.
Like returning to childhood.
But not this time.
THERE WAS A CHINESE man waiting for me at the bridge.
It was Mr. Chan's helper, propped up on a pillar jutting out of the soil. He was cleaning his finger nails showily with a grimy dagger. In his frayed cap and slightly oversized jacket, he seemed like a scarecrow that had fled from the fields; I don't know how a bird would have reacted, but the sight of him scared me practically to the point of hiccups.
"Mr. Orso!" the enforcer smiled with tranquility and joy, like an innocent child. "Mr. Chan is quite upset with you!"
"What for this time?" I clarified and stopped a few feet from him. Getting right up close to a man with a dagger was not the most intelligent thing to do if you were not a werebeast or a succubus.
How could I not think of Elizabeth-Maria here? But she was far away...
The man chuckled and started enumerating reasons:
"Overdue debts. A Judean trying to buy your debts for almost nothing. Your own uncle refusing to acknowledge you. Your having lost your job. Your inability to pay Mr. Chan back."
I did not argue. It was dumb to argue with a simple messenger. I just asked:
"And what is he going to do about those things?"
The enforcer laughed uncontrollably and stood up from the pillar.
"Your debt is not so great in Mr. Chan's terms, but if you let one go, what's to stop others?"
"What does Mr. Chan want?" I frowned, removing my dark glasses with my left hand.
"Your ear, white-eyes." He repeated the epithet another time, not hiding his mockery.
The chance to torture an illustrious gentleman unpunished put him in a state of ecstasy.
"That is very ill-advised."
"No one messes with Mr. Chan."
"And no one is messing with Mr. Chan. He will receive all his money to the last centime."
The man nodded.
"He will. But first he will receive your ear."
"It isn't very smart to do something like that to a policeman," I said weightily, looking him from top to bottom. The enforcer was two heads shorter than me, but he was fast and crafty as a ferret at that.
"You can't hide behind your Pharaoh's badge any longer, white-eyes," the thin cutthroat laughed uncontrollably and took a step toward me. "Don't squirm. This will all be over soon..."
Soon? I took a deep breath and waited for the attack of anger rolling over me to settle down, then demanded in a totally calm voice:
"Stay where you are."
"And what if I don't?" The man snorted, but suddenly froze mid-stride. All I had to do was show him the Cerberus in my hand. "Let's not complicate things," he whispered.
"Let's not," I agreed.
"Are you going to kill me?"
I didn't answer, but not long after, I heard a rustling in the bushes behind m
y back and warned him:
"If you don't call off your goons, you'll get a bullet in the gut. It'll rot for a week, maybe two. Peritonitis, ever heard of it?"
I wasn't totally sure that the threat would work, but my talent came through for me once again, and the man waved his hand nervously; the rustling in the bushes went silent.
"You'll pay for this, white-eyes!" The cutthroat promised, trembling rabidly.
He wasn't afraid to die. He was afraid to be strapped to a hospital bed. But would there even be a hospital bed? More likely, it would be some dirty mattress in an opium den. It just took one misstep, one show of weakness, and people would stand in line to feast their eyes on your torment.
He didn't want a fate like that for himself. And we both knew that now I would have to pay not only for the overdue debt, but also for this sudden fear attack I’d given him. I'd stuck my finger in an old wound, and earned myself a mortal enemy in the process.
"Drop it," I demanded.
The cutthroat threw his dagger into the grass.
"Now, walk away from the road."
The man obediently made way; there was a scornful smirk playing on his lips. He was firmly intending to get revenge, and was under the impression that he would have it very, very soon.
I walked around him, keeping my pistol trained, turning only when I'd reached the bridge and saying:
"Tell Mr. Chan..." then went silent, realizing that I couldn't change anything with words.
"Tell him what?"
"Nothing," I shook my head. "He'll figure it all out."
Then I kneecapped him with my Cerberus.
The cutthroat collapsed to the earth with a muffled shout. Two shadows leaped from the bushes and threw themselves on their injured leader. I quickly went back and continued moving away until the bridge was behind a corner, no longer visible. Then I turned around and darted home at full speed.
Sure, no one was actually following me, but I only felt safe in the dead garden. The curse gave off a slight burning sensation, which used to give me an eerie, uncomfortable shiver, but now made me breathe a sigh of relief.
Come visit some time! Come visit, if life is good!
I burst out in a soft chuckle and started walking toward the manor, giving off an alluring glow in the darkness through the windows of the guest room.
"Did you run here?" Elizabeth-Maria grew surprised when I entered the house short of breath.
"I didn't want to be late for dinner," I grumbled in reply.
"You aren't even nearly late, though," the girl laughed uncontrollably and commanded my butler: "Theodor, time has come to set the table."
I didn't try to blame a lack of appetite, but still clarified in any case:
"Organ meat again?"
"You think too low of me," Elizabeth-Maria smiled wickedly.
For dinner, she served beef stew with a vegetable ragout.
The meat was tough and over-peppered, but I still didn't criticize the girl's culinary talents. She was being unusually quiet today, and that was totally fine with me.
Dinner passed by with the silence of the grave.
Only when the plate was emptied did I throw myself back into my chair and ask in surprise:
"You decided to switch to white wine?"
Elizabeth-Maria took a look at her glass and shook her head in confusion:
"You know, Leopold? I was sure I’d bought three bottles of red, but two of them seem to have disappeared."
"Don't look at me, I don't drink. And Theodor doesn't abuse alcohol either."
"Curious," the girl stretched out the phrase in contemplation.
Without assigning particular significance to the fact, I headed to my bedroom. When I was in the corridor, I met with my butler, who was carrying a tray with a tea set.
"But what about dessert, Viscount?" Theodor grew surprised.
"Bring it up to me," I asked, myself turning into the bathroom. I removed my jacket, rolled up the sleeves of my shirt, and looked at my arms, burned by the blood of the fallen one. The pustules of the Diabolic Plague were growing dim, and hadn't bothered me the whole day, but by evening, they started to itch unbearably once again. And, no matter how long I held them under cold water, it didn't get any better. Quite the opposite, actually – my head started spinning.
When I went into the bedroom, a platter with tea and a basket of cookies was sitting on the bedside table. I locked the door behind myself, checked the blinds and lay down in bed. I poured some tea in the glass, picked up a ragged little edition of Alice's Adventures in Wonderland and unexpectedly realized that I didn't have the strength to move my arms or legs.
My weariness set in with an overwhelming weight and, no matter how I tried to struggle against it and concentrate on my reading, my eyes started closing on their own. Taking yet another peck at the tea, I gave in and fell back limply on the pillow.
And an instant later, I was asleep.
I AWOKE WITH THE OVERBEARING sensation there was someone in the room with me.
And my feeling was right. Whoever it was, they were rustling papers, rifling through my drawers, and stirring up my closet.
Someone was looking for something. They looked and cursed mutely to themselves.
"Bugger! Bugger! Bugger!" muttered my anonymous guest, as he turned the room topsy-turvy.
Meanwhile, I simply lay on my bed with my eyes closed and waited for the vision borne of my fevered imagination to fade away.
A carriage horn rang out piercingly, further increasing my consternation.
I got up on one elbow, but the blinds were closed, and my bedroom was full of dense, impenetrable shadows. I couldn't even see a single sign of light: there was nothing coming under the crack in the door, and the crimson pustules on my upper body weren't even glowing.
The last thing actually made me happy, but...
But there was still someone in my room.
I struck a long match on the side of the box, lit a gas lamp and squinted, waiting for my eyes to grow accustomed to the light. But then, I couldn't hold back and cursed out:
"Curse me! Don’t let it be you!"
In response, I heard a gurgling, as if the person had opened their throat and poured a few swallows of wine down it.
It should be said that my "as if" turned out to be very prescient, as that truly was what I was hearing.
On the window sill, there sat a white-haired leprechaun in a top hat so rumpled it looked like an accordion bellows. He had a green camisole flung open on his chest, and boots that were too small, making his thick toes stick out the tip with their unevenly chewed down nails. His broad leather belt with a copper clasp was holding a fairly large kitchen knife close to his body.
The red-eyed albino pipsqueak – and the height of my uninvited guest didn't even reach one meter – tore himself from the emptied bottle, retched and suddenly asked:
"Where'd you hide the good stuff, Leo? Rum, whiskey, vodka, brandy? You're a big boy now. Big boys don't drink sugar water!"
"Be gone!" I demanded, throwing myself back into the pillow and screwing up my eyes, chasing off the escaped memory.
My head was splitting as if it had been I that lapped up all the wine Elizabeth-Maria had bought, not the leprechaun, and now I was suffering from a terrible hangover.
"Kiss my ass!" The little man called back, having prudently jumped down from the window sill, making himself a much less easy target.
But I didn't start throwing pillows at him. Instead, I took a few deep sighs and tried to cast the crazy vision from my head. And I practically managed, but then came a knock at the door, accompanied by the voice of Elizabeth-Maria.
"Leo, open up!" she called. "They've come for you!"
Before I could stand to my feet and open the door, the leprechaun came out from under the table and was standing next to it. He slid the latch aside and took a nimble step back into a shadow. But when Elizabeth-Maria entered the bedroom, he slapped her below the back as hard as he could, and leaped nimbly
into the corridor to the sound of a piercing woman's scream.
"Bugger! What an ass!" His rollicking laughter echoed down the hall.
"What was that?!" A rabid Elizabeth-Maria shouted at me.
"What'd it look like?"
"Like a handsy gray-haired leprechaun!"
I just sighed and set about pulling up my pants.
"Leo!" The girl raised her voice. "What was that?"
"A nightmare," I answered, buttoning up my shirt.
"Since when do your nightmares spank me?" Elizabeth Maria frowned, but immediately smiled: "Leo, is that your secret desire?"
"More like your secret fear."
"Balderdash! I would let you spank me as much as you like!"
"Not that," I shook my head peevishly. "You're afraid of losing control. Think about that at your leisure. And lock the wine cabinets. We've got an infestation on our hands."
Elizabeth-Maria measured me up with her gaze, but said nothing, just flinging open the window, trying to get the lingering smell of alcohol out of the room.
"Why did you have to go to work at such an early hour?" The girl asked, looking out at the street.
And in fact: The crimson ball of sun had just barely started coming up and was at the very edge of the horizon, peeking out through a layer of clouds. It was five or six o'clock, no later.
I looked at my time-piece, and I was right.
"No good deed goes unpunished," I muttered, having no doubt that the call was connected with the robber's hide-out I'd discovered yesterday.
Either the investigators had managed to get the trail of the robbers and needed to clarify some data, or Senior Inspector Moran had decided to give me a tongue lashing for taking action on my own. I couldn't possibly imagine that the police leadership was burning with desire to thank me.
"I say!" Elizabeth-Maria readjusted my poorly tied-on neckerchief, then smiled sweetly and warned: "Keep your fears to yourself, Leo. Otherwise, I'll tear their arms off!"