by Pavel Kornev
"Five thousand is pretty good money," Ramon squinted.
"Five thousand split two ways."
"No way!" the constable cut me off. "If you can get the moneylender, you'll also be writing off ten thousand in debt, but the risk for both of us is the same! If you want my help, you’ll have to play fair!"
I spent some time thinking over his words, then rolled out a counter offer:
"Three thousand for you, the rest for me. Will that work?"
"Hands in," the constable agreed weakly, understanding how difficult it was to catch a werebeast alive.
I was reminded of another of my father’s sayings: "Don’t split up the pelt of a bear you haven’t caught yet," but I decided not to bring it up. Even without that, Ramon knew perfectly well how slim the chance of success was in our little adventure. Just a little horse bet had made him take the risk and support my dangerous theory.
When the constable left his empty mug behind, I warned him:
"We'll need a lupara."
Ramon's face puckered, as if he had just pounded a glass of lemon juice. He demanded:
"Get me fifty franks."
"What do you need that for?" I frowned. "The sergeant in the arsenal has enough tenners! You haven't even been fired yet!"
"But what about bullets?" Ramon reminded me. "Judge for yourself, a ten caliber bullet with a silver jacket won't be cheap. And I'm not planning on hunting for Procrustes with my ass hanging out!"
"Forget about Procrustes!"
"The Werefoxes are a normal gang," the constable assured me. "The Foxes, the Ninjas, the Thuggees – they're all just simple murderers, in no way connected to the underworld. They have an ominous reputation, sure, but that's all they have. The end of the nineteenth century is on the horizon, devil take me! Leo, the time of magic is behind us!"
"Just last week, we were hunting a succubus," I reminded him.
"Did I say anything about infernal creatures?" Ramon shrugged his wide shoulders. "There's still plenty of that trash in our world, but there haven't been any mysterious magical orders for some time! People are simply not able to keep secrets, as you well know. A gang of werebeasts isn't even taken seriously enough to be the subject of jokes. Do you think Department Three doesn't have any informants in the Chinese Quarter? These damn Foxes are just muddying up the situation and scaring illiterate blockheads with mysticism..."
I did not share my friend's skepticism, but I also did not neglect taking advantage of it.
"Why do you need silver bullets then?"
Ramon laughed uncontrollably.
"Leo! I know you too well. You say we're going after bandits now, but in five minutes, we'll be on the hunt for Procrustes. And no matter who says it, werebeasts are no fairy tale..."
"... they are just victims of a hereditary disorder," I finished my friend's sentence.
"With a severe allergy to silver," Ramon continued.
"You're a Mechanist!"
"I'm a realist," the constable shot back.
"But Mr. Realist here doesn't want to pay for bullets with the hundred I gave him?"
"Leo, your petty-bourgeois small-mindedness is going to be the death of me! You're an aristocrat, a member of the ancient House Kósice!"
"One hundred francs is one hundred francs."
"One hundred francs is four constables standing next to you while you ask questions," Ramon declared. "Leo, what's going on with you? Are you seriously planning on climbing into that cesspool with no cover?"
"I figured dealing with that was your business," I snorted, counting out five tenners.
"Count it. I’ll do it." My friend took my money and headed for the exit. "I'll see you at eight at the Newton-Markt Metro station," he warned me before slamming the door behind himself.
"Agreed," I nodded and only then realized that my friend had not deigned to pay for his beer.
And I'm the small-minded petty-bourgeois?!
6
I PASSED THE REST OF THE DAY as if in a fog.
I returned home, ate lunch, and when an attack of the Diabolic Plague came over me yet again, I laid down to rest. As a result, I woke up at sundown, my throat dry and my head heavy.
There was a small trail of blood coming out of my right nostril. I walked into the bathroom and asked Theodor to bring me some ice. I wiped off the dried blood, shaved, which I hadn't managed to do yet today, and started getting ready for my outing.
I did not put on my new suit, as my old one had been sent back from the cleaner's. Remembering where I'd be going, I decided on boots over shoes, then I looked out the window and decided to throw a light canvas pea-coat on over everything.
Little black clouds were starting to gather in the sky.
Slightly limping on my injured leg, I went down to the first floor, took my derby hat from the rack and turned to Elizabeth-Maria, who had come out to see what all the fuss was about.
"When should I expect you for dinner, dear?" the girl cooed.
"I have no idea," I admitted. "I might not be back until morning."
"Leo, if there’s one thing you’re not, it’s a homebody."
I didn't answer and went outside. The low sky was hanging right over my head. Twilight had already started creeping in from the East. The wind was tossing the black branches of dead trees all about and whistling down chimneys. Foul weather was approaching.
I could feel it.
Very soon, sharp gusts and torrential rain would rip the white flowers from the blooming apple trees and smear them in the mud. But it would also wash the dust and fresh soot from the buildings. In this city, there is no bad and good, disgusting and horrible, or black and white. It's all just half-tones and shades of gray, gradual transitions between the ugly and the acceptable.
The border is inside us. Only we can decide in a given situation whether a certain shade of gray is black or white. But one thing is unshakable. Evil. That which cannot be considered good, no matter your viewpoint, and no matter the benefit it brings. The murder of the banker's family was just such an event, and I was just itching with the desire to find the guilty party in this monstrous act.
With just one thought in mind, namely that this monstrous act must have been orchestrated by Mr. Chan, it itched twice as bad and my right eyelid started to twitch.
Righteous indignation and greed were truly a hellish combination.
AS WE'D AGREED, RAMON MIRO was waiting for me in front of the Newton-Markt Metro station. When I limped up to him, it was already rather dark outside, and everywhere around was glowing with electric light. In the Chinese Quarter, we wouldn't be able to count on such great illumination, but fortunately, Ramon had more foresight than me. On the marble rim of the fountain, next to his four-barreled lupara, there was a powerful square torch, similar to the one Inspector White had brought with to the tunnels.
"Did you find anything out?" I asked, walking up to my partner.
"Yessir," he affirmed.
He was wearing an unmarked police-issue rubberized cloak to the search for the werebeasts and, if it weren't for the weapon, in his rumpled cap and worn-down boots, he could easily have passed for a recent retiree, vaguely poor and dangerous. Where we were going, there were more than enough people like that. More than enough opium smoking veterans.
It would have been much harder for me, despite my shabby clothing, to get lost in the crowd – my height gave me away. When you're two meters tall, you look like a bean pole walking in a crowd of short people.
"What did you find out?" I clarified when we were down on the platform waiting for the train.
"It's not as bad as it seemed," Ramon cocked an eye with a look that seemed to imply the three thousand was already in his pocket.
"But what specifically?" I clarified, starting to boil over a bit.
"The Foxes really were werebeasts."
"Were?" I grew unpleasantly surprised. "What do you mean 'were?'"
"Just what I said," the constable snorted. "They used to work for the triads, but as
long as they didn't poke their noses out of the Chinese Quarter, our guys wouldn't touch them."
I nodded. The Metropolitan Police didn't care much for maintaining law and order in the Chinese Quarter; the triads kept it instead. But, in order to stop the newcomers from spreading their influence to other streets, immigrants from the Celestial Kingdom were allowed to settle outside the historical borders of the neighborhood only with the permission of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs; Chinese people who had taken oaths of loyalty to the Second Empire only needed the magistrate's permission. And even that rule wasn't followed very strictly.
"What changed?" I hurried my partner, who had gotten distracted by his lupara getting tangled in his belt.
"That comes later!" he waved it off.
A long honk rolled out, and a steam train enveloped in wisps of smoke burst forth from the tunnel. Its brakes screeched. Pushing the city-dwellers aside, we got into the third-class car and took a spot in the corner after unceremoniously squeezing a couple of worker-types out.
"Do you remember the riots after the battles in the Third Opium War? It was a big issue five years ago."
"I do."
The unexpected alliance of the Celestial Kingdom and Japan allowed the united forces of the Eastern governments to hold a number of close battles with the Russian Army, reinforced by colonial corps from the French and English.
"The riots were infamous," Ramon chuckled unhappily. "You weren't working yet, but I got to stand on the line. I've seen quite enough of that now. I still walk a different route every time I'm near those places."
"Closer to business," I demanded, clenching the handrail. The car was reeling from side to side, and I even started to fear that it was slightly going off the rails. But no, the steam train gradually slowed down, rolled out to the station and stopped.
The constable pushed the crowd of guys next to us out of the way, and continued his story:
"The Chinese were trying to make inroads beyond their Quarter, and the Foxes made a few appearances."
"And that was the straw that broke the camel’s back for Department Three?" I guessed.
"That's exactly right." Ramon affirmed. "The triads had to give up the criminals. After the disorder was suppressed, the police simply twisted their arms. They say you shouldn't talk about that story with locals. They all pretend nothing happened."
"So am I to understand that they were all caught?"
"I do know of one fortunate individual," the constable told me, "who missed all the fun on the continent."
"And?"
"When he came back, he started taking under-aged street boys. The kind their own mother would cut up for a couple francs. None of them actually have the disorder, but the vermin can still overwhelm with numbers and force. So, as I said before, the Foxes are just a normal gang now."
"All the easier, then," I chuckled and asked: "Did you get the bullets? At least one werefox in the gang is real."
Ramon tapped on the fore-stock of his lupara.
"I got some great bullets: lead with a silver jacket. Just what the doctor ordered."
Then the train began slowing its pace once again, and the constable started for the door.
"Let's get out here," he called me to follow.
When the car stopped to the sound of a steam hiss, we got out onto the platform and walked up to the street. The Metro station was in the middle of the Chinese Quarter, and life all around was bubbling over.
Everywhere we looked, there were Chinese lanterns glowing, and fires lit in the windows of restaurants and gambling houses. Barefoot rickshaw drivers were dragging their carts around, local inhabitants were scurrying every which way, going about their incomprehensible business. Freaks who'd come here for fun were having a look around.
On the outside, it was all very seemly, but I knew that as soon as I got off the central street, all this grandeur would vanish as if by magic. With every step, I saw more opium smokers and dens, and at every intersection, there were more and more pimps trying to hawk underage prostitutes.
"Who are we waiting for?" I asked Ramon, who had stopped at the edge of the road and was spinning his head all around in confusion.
A beggar came up to us with a mug for donations, but the constable told off the panhandler with such abandon that he blew away like the wind.
"Are you angry?" I grew surprised, in that Ramon was normally known for his tough nature.
"I cannot stand the poor," the constable shrugged his shoulders. "My mother always said that they bring bad luck."
"Are you afraid of them?" I squinted.
"A cousin of mine got hit by a train, and he lost half an arm. And also, Novak from squad two, after getting stabbed with a knife, his fist dried up," Ramon remembered, going silent and staring at me with suspicion. "Your doing, no? Just try using it on me, I'll make you toe the line."
"Who, I'm asking, are we waiting for?" I chuckled, making a nick for the future just in case.
I had never noticed such weakness in my friend.
"My contacts," Ramon explained and dragged me after him to a noodle spot. A paper dragon parade set to the sound of drums snaked between us and the door. "There they are!"
And though the metropolitan police did ignore some of the lawlessness inside the Chinese Quarter, white gentlemen on the main streets didn't have to worry about being robbed, stabbed or even having mud slung at them. The presence of policemen reminded the triads that they must remain prudent. Although, that only did work on the main streets, and there were closed-off alleys where no one was watching over what happened.
When we got closer, the door of the noodle shop flung open, and four constables came out onto the veranda. One of them was a local. The Chinese man was holding a semi-automatic Madsen-Biarnoff rifle on his shoulder. The others' belts were weighed down with revolvers and batons.
Ramon stuck a one-hundred-franc bill imperceptibly into the hand of the oldest one and asked:
"Do you have the address?"
The gray-mustached constable with a wrinkled face didn't answer for some time, instead just staring.
"Illustrious?" He winced, chewing on his weathered lower lip and warning: "Don't take your glasses off. They don't like your kind here."
"No problem."
"Franz!" Ramon patted the gray-mustached man on the back. "So, did you get the address or not?"
"The Reynard is in the Jade Staff. It isn't far."
"Is that a bordello?" I supposed, based on the name.
"It is," the constable confirmed, buttoning up his uniform to the top. "We'll keep watch on the street. You go inside. Will that do?"
The gray-mustached man had clearly been counting on shaking another couple hundred from us for the help, but Ramon left him disappointed.
"It will!" he threw out, unbuttoning his cloak and freeing himself from his holster belt with its four hundred fifty-five caliber automatic Webley-Fosbery revolver. The device weighed more than a kilogram and yet was not known for particular reliability. That said, it was more accurate than a normal revolver in field conditions.
The constable spit under his feet with vexation and shrugged his shoulders.
"Then follow me!" He called and walked off down the sidewalk.
We hurried after him and the police came behind us.
We went down the main street, and the crowds didn’t thin out one bit. The local inhabitants, in their traditional Chinese garb, were trying to lure some of the many gawkers to come into their restaurants, jewelry shops and gambling establishments, but most of them were interested in other kinds of entertainment. Many of the passers-by could barely stay on their feet. Such people could be identified either from the bleary gaze and pale skin of an opium smoker, or the reddened face of an absolute drunk. There were almost no women to be seen.
Soon, the constable turned down a side alley, and it was as if we found ourselves in another world. The shadows grew thicker, mud started champing under our feet, and we had to hold our breath from the unbearabl
e stench; along with the perfume of sewage thrown out of windows, there was acrid smoke hovering over the earth and the smell of food being cooked. Everywhere around us, there were blinds and doors being slammed shut. We had to walk down the narrow passages between the scuzzy building walls where you couldn't get through without bumping shoulders with a few people. I could hear the rumbling of drums and popping of crackers not far away, but the sounds seemed muted somehow. They quickly got lost in the winding streets.
New Babylon was a city in which there was no black and white, but in the Chinese Quarter, it was devilishly hard to find anything positive.
I couldn't stand it here, and tried to avoid coming whenever possible.
"People shouldn't live like this," I muttered, stepping over yet another body just lying in the middle of the road. Based on the intense smell of opium, the man was a smoker who had just finished smoking right here not long ago.
"You think we should send them back to the Celestial Kingdom?" Ramon snorted after hearing my words.
"Forget about it," I waved it off.
My headache slightly receded. The bad presentiments were forgotten, and I started steeling up some nerve. On the central street, it was possible that some shopkeeper working for Mr. Chan would recognize me, but not here, not in this labyrinth of confused little streets, where darkness reigned unchallenged.
The gray-mustached constable walked our path intently. It wasn't likely that we would come across anyone on it, so when we came up to a crooked little house with incomprehensible symbols on a banner, no one said a word as not to give the crooks advance warning of the police raid, allowing them to flee at full speed, or barricade the windows and doors.
Quiet and calm.
"The back door is on you," the senior officer commanded two of his subordinates to stand behind the bordello.
"We just watch?" He clarified.
"Just watch," the constable stated forcefully. "You have two minutes." And, when they disappeared into the darkness of the night, he took out his onion-shaped pocket watch and turned to us. "Inside is the old Reynard and two guys from the gang. Do not turn your back to them."