by Pavel Kornev
I stuck to tea and toast; Ramon took a coffee and three sunny-side-up eggs.
"What's going on with you, Leo?" He asked after they'd brought our order.
"Nothing good," I frowned. "I managed to search the robbers' hideout, but they weren't there anymore."
"You didn't think to tell the police about it?" Ramon looked at me expressively, his eyes red from lack of sleep.
"The robbers will never go back there," I shook my head. "And also, I'm not sure who I can trust in the Newton-Markt."
Ramon Miro finished his coffee and admonished me:
"Tell me about it!"
In two words, I told him a razor-thin story about randomly finding a weapons cache, and another even more random fire but, fortunately, he wasn't at all interested in the inconsistencies and plot holes; he wiped his fingers on the napkin and extended a hand:
"Let me see it!"
The copy of the police report in hand, Ramon familiarized himself with the expert analysis, then quickly looked through the remaining papers and returned them to me.
"Someone in the Newton-Markt is up to their eye-balls in this," he remarked, having reached the same conclusion as I did. "But I'm more interested in the aluminum box. Are you sure you don't know anything about it?"
"Nothing!" I assured my friend. "Swear on your mother's grave?"
"Let's not go nuts!" Ramon calmed me down, sent a bit of egg into his mouth, chewed it and asked: "Why make a duplicate of the box?"
"They needed to make a fake so good that no one would suspect it. I think that means it was someone in the bank. They didn't want to attract attention."
"They also had access to the safes, but only occasionally," Ramon Miro decided.
"Why?" I asked in surprise, refilling my emptied cup of tea.
My friend looked at me like a dumb intern.
"No one is interested in the box on its own, right?" He began from afar. "They want what's inside. So why wouldn't the thieving employee just take the box home, open it up and put it back? It only makes sense if the thief could get into the safe just one time. And it didn’t matter if the boxes were a bit different, because the description only showed the material and the rune."
"Logical," I nodded, staring at the rain-covered window in contemplation.
Outside, there was a wind picking up. The small gray drops were now going more sideways than downward.
"Aluminum boxes with runes on the top don’t get made every day," I articulated some time later. "What do you think, can we find the workshop?"
Ramon finished his coffee and threw up his hands:
"Foundry Town is a big place."
Foundry Town was the name of an expanded neighborhood on the factory outskirts where there were both lone craftsmen, and whole factories.
"Aluminum isn't the most popular material, either though" Ramon continued thinking it over. "It doesn't matter precisely which craftsman took the job, we just have to look for a person who was asking around for aluminum workers."
I looked at my friend with sincere respect.
"You've got it!"
"Yes, that reminds me! A few weeks ago, I read about an attempted robbery at Baron Dürer's factory in the newspaper. The robbers took a shipment of aluminum that was intended for the von Zeppelin factory."
"Is that so? Was the metal ever found?"
"I have no idea."
"You see, the fake box was made of a rare alloy intended, as it were, for the building of dirigible bodies! That can hardly be a coincidence."
"I’d even say it's a safe bet!" Ramon Miro clapped his hand on the table. "A cousin of mine has a workshop in Foundry Town. I could have a talk with him, but what do I get out of it?"
"Half."
"Half of what?" my friend clarified.
"Half of the reward offered by the Banking House for solving the crime."
"Didn't you get an advance on that?"
I took out my wallet, counted out five tens and threw them on the table.
"Is that enough?"
"Quite," Ramon nodded, sticking the money in his pocket. "Could you describe the rune?"
"I'd better draw it," I suggested, throwing a broken thunder bolt onto my notepad and ripping out the page. "Here, take this."
"Where should we meet? Just know that I'm going to sleep now. I'll go to Foundry Town after lunch."
"Then look for me in the Charming Bacchante. Remember? We used to go there after our shift some times."
"I'll find it."
Ramon Miro clapped on his cap and walked out the door; I took the copies of the police reports and put them back in my briefcase, paid for the both of us and grudgingly pulled on my coat.
I was categorically opposed to going out into the drizzle, but often our sympathies and antipathies have absolutely no significance. If you've gotta do it, you've gotta do it. That very same impartial resolve is what had almost gotten me fried alive on the electric chair yesterday.
It was dismal outside. The sky was gray, the buildings were gray and the road was gray. It made little difference that the mud had a black coloration and I could see the little spots flickering by of the arrant fashionista’s umbrellas. Respectable individuals used umbrellas of a strict black color only.
I didn't have an umbrella so, not wanting to get wet, I caught a cab. I splurged, but for that, ten minutes later I was already at the front door of Mechanisms and Rarities. And the shop, despite the early hour, was open. Its owner was standing bewildered with his head thrown back, looking at a flickering bulb hanging down from the ceiling.
"The current is unstable again," Alexander Dyak told me instead of a greeting.
"And a good morning to you, too, Alexander," I greeted him. "Have I come at a bad time?"
"Come now, Leopold Borisovich!" The shop owner threw up his hands. "It’s a bad time for the rain, but you, as it were, I've been awaiting impatiently."
I perked up my ears:
"Have you thought something up?"
Alexander Dyak smiled cunningly.
"Everything has already been thought up. The problem is actually making it," he said and asked: "Did you bring any rounds?"
"Rounds?" I asked pensively, remembering the dimensions of the werewolf and nervously getting on edge. "Will ten caliber rounds do?"
"That's up to you, Leopold Borisovich!" Alexander Dyak assured me.
I nodded in confusion, in that I didn't just need rounds, but also a gun.
"I'll be back in a half an hour," I warned the shop owner and went back out into the rain.
Outside, a bit of drizzle got into my face. I stood there, trying to remember the location of the nearest gun store, and stepped off down the sidewalk, splashing water from the shallow puddles with my boots.
I didn't have to spend much time looking for a gun store. I found one just a block away. The shop, bearing the proud name The Golden Bullet could not boast an excess of customers in the inclement weather, so as soon as I went inside, a salesman appeared next to me.
"Are you looking for anything in particular?"
"Ten caliber," I named my demand, looking carefully at the hunting rifles hanging on the wall.
The young-looking salesman thought about it for a short time, then unlocked one of the cabinets and took out a one-barrel lever-action gun.
"Winchester eighteen sixty-eight," he said, extending it to me. "Five rounds in a tubular magazine, one in the chamber."
I turned the gun over in my hands, assessing the balance, and asked:
"How much?"
"One hundred sixty-four francs and fifty centimes," the salesman rapped off without a moment's delay. "You won't find it cheaper. We get them direct from the New World. And, you get ten rounds free when you buy!"
I was fine with that price; without trying to bargain, I dug out my wallet.
"I'll take it."
"Would you like a case?"
"No, thank you," I refused, counting out the money. I caught the salesman's surprised gaze and explained m
yself: "It's a gift."
"I see," he nodded and asked: "Will that be all?"
"Have you got Cerberus rounds?"
"Ten millimeter? Yes."
"Have you got silver ones?"
The salesman walked away to the counter, leafed through a catalog and with unhidden disappointment told me:
"No, unfortunately we don't have any in stock. It isn't a very popular item, you see. But we could have them delivered by the second half of the day."
"Let's do that," I decided. "I'll leave the Winchester here until evening, and I'll come back for the lot all at once. How much do I owe you with three silver rounds?"
"One hundred seventy francs, thirty-five centimes," the salesman told me the total.
I paid, stuck a box of rounds in my briefcase and asked:
"Do you know much about pistols?"
"You selling or buying?"
"A business contact from the continent is offering a large shipment of Mauser Sixty-Threes, but I'm worried that he's been slipped some stolen army guns."
The salesman shrugged his shoulders indefinitely:
"That model has never been issued to a military unit anywhere in Imperial borders. You don't need to worry about that. But for a cut, we would be able to accompany the transaction."
I nodded, but didn't show him my Mauser; the salesman's answer had put my theory that the illustrious gentlemen had pilfered the guns from army warehouses in serious doubt.
In deep contemplation, I left the store and, under a drizzly rain, I hurried back to the shop Mechanisms and Rarities.
ALEXANDER DYAK, AS BEFORE, was sitting bored at the counter and looking angrily at the light bulbs flickering under the ceiling. On my return, he immediately came to life and instructed me:
"Hang the 'Closed' sign."
"I really am uncomfortable depriving you of your earnings..."
"Drop it!" laughed the inventor. "Who’s gonna go shopping in this dog's weather? Also, the door has an electric bell!"
I couldn't dispute him on that count; I hung out the sign, locked the door and walked into the back room after him.
"Rounds, if you'd be so kind," the shop owner asked, taking a pair of calipers from a tool box.
I unpacked the cardboard box and extended a ten caliber rifle round to the inventor.
Alexander Dyak measured the diameter of the brass cartridge case and advised me:
"I can make ten bullets. Will that be enough?"
"More than enough," I smiled. "What kind of bullets do you need?"
"Experimental ones," I answered the shop owner evasively. "Remove your cloak, Leopold Borisovich. That will take some time. And I will need your help."
I hung my cloak and derby cap on a hook near the entrance door and asked:
"What should I do?"
"Prepare the rounds. Don't touch the powder charge. Just change out the bullet."
"They're buck-shot."
"Doesn't matter," Alexander Dyak waved it off, lit a gas burner and set about loading a crucible above it with a dark-silver metal.
"Is that lead?" I grew surprised.
"Were you expecting something more exotic?" the inventor laughed. "You'll get your exotic! Leopold Borisovich, are you familiar with so-called radioactivity? It was discovered by the wife of a Mr. Curie."
I just shook my head.
The store owner lit a second burner, loaded aluminum into the crucible over it and started setting up molds, carefully re-checking their dimensions with the same set of calipers.
"The essence of it is that certain chemical elements, mostly metals, are capable of emitting particles..." Alexander Dyak glanced at me and waved an arm. "Not important! There are holes in the theory that stop us from doing anything useful with it."
"Alright, I'd still like to figure out what this has to do with anything," I stated, disemboweling yet another round.
His discussion of these exotic facts did precious little to inspire me. Silver could kill werebeasts. That was an indisputable fact. I didn't want to hear about any other kinds of metals.
But the inventor, meanwhile, opened another cabinet and removed an iron box containing pellets of a silvery-gray metal.
"This is uranium," he told me, grabbing one in his pincers. "A radioactive metal. It is not dangerous as long as you don't carry it on your person or take it internally. Radium has the same effect, but it is incomparably stronger; after working with it, Curie's wife's arms were covered with boils and sores."
"And how does that help us, exactly?"
"The effect of radiation on the body has been little studied, but some scientists suppose that it could cause serious injury to any living creature."
"How serious?"
"Potentially lethal," Alexander Dyak assured me. "And werebeasts should be more even more harmed than a normal creature. Their main peculiarity is an unbelievable regenerative ability, which sometimes requires them to incorporate foreign objects in their body, later excreting them as slag. The bullets are not expelled from the wounds, yet they heal over, isn't that right?"
"It is," I replied. "Are you sure that such a metal can cause serious enough damage?"
"Documented proof of my theory is exactly what this experiment is setting out to get," the inventor muttered, pouring molten lead over the pellet in the bullet mold.
I fundamentally disagreed with his method of experimentation.
"This is not an experiment, this is life."
"Many scientists have sacrificed their lives for the sake of science," Alexander Dyak stated calmly.
"And I would not like to share their fate."
The store owner smiled and, in a well-practiced motion, tapped a finished bullet out of the now-cool mold.
"Leopold Borisovich!" He shook his head. "I didn't promise you miracles. But from a scientific point of view, the chance that this experiment will have a positive outcome is extremely high. It's just impossible to say in advance how quickly the after-effects will become apparent. The metabolism of a werebeast is much faster than that of a human, so we should expect it to take five or ten minutes to kill. But shoot at the body. The bullets must remain in the body, is that clear?"
"It is," I nodded. "Sorry for my extravagance. It's just nerves."
"Nothing to worry about."
"In any case, I do not plan on totally forgoing silver bullets."
"A truly scientific approach," the inventor praised my foresight and suddenly asked: "Have you got a good timepiece?"
"Yes, and what of it?"
"Can I count on a detailed report, indicating the exact time and effects observed after shooting my bullet into a werebeast? The data would be simply invaluable to science."
"It's the least I can do," I nodded. "But I cannot guarantee that the werewolf and I will be meeting today, tomorrow, or any time in the foreseeable future."
"Let's hope for the best, then!" The inventor broke down laughing, setting ten of the new bullets in a row in front of him.
I squirmed.
Alexander Dyak cocked his eye and set about coating the lead bullets with molten aluminum.
"Lead is susceptible to the effect of defensive magic," he explained. "You gave the werewolf quite the thrashing. He may be better prepared next time. Aluminum is much more reliable in that regard."
"Yes, an aluminum jacket would not be inadvisable," I agreed without particular enthusiasm.
My one and only fight with the werewolf had beaten any desire to hunt for the creature from me. And to hell with the reward on his head...
I LEFT THE INVENTOR'S SHOP an hour and a half later with ten rounds and without any particular confidence that they would help me defeat the werewolf or even cause him any serious injuries. But still, fifty grams of lead, aluminum and uranium had the same stopping power as fifty grams of lead alone; a ten caliber shot would be able to knock anything off its feet, no exceptions. Not just a werewolf, even a legendary northern troll. I'd like to see one try me...
Outside, it was drizzling a
s before. Down the sidewalks, there were streams flowing, their dirty water gurgling happily down the gutters. The city-dwellers had grown sick of waiting out the bad weather and were no longer lying low in their houses; rain umbrellas started popping up here and there. Cabbies had the leather and canvas tops of their carriages up, and their downcast little horses were clip-clopping down the causeway with an unhappy look, splashing water up from the puddles.
In a newspaper kiosk, I bought a fresh paper, then caught a free carriage and ordered it to take me to a part of the outskirts, which had been settled by immigrants from Eastern Europe. The cabby demanded payment in advance, and only after a one-franc deposit did he agree to drive to the neighborhood, which was steeped in a peculiar infamy. It had the reputation of not being the most relaxing place. Some even considered it totally lawless.
I hadn't been there for six years, but nothing in particular had changed in that time. It was the very same people, and the very same faces. Even though the buildings had become a bit dingier, and the number of broken windows had gone up.
No, it wasn't decay. It was just that none of the locals treated the neighborhood with respect. Some were just staying here briefly on their way to the New World. Some were intending to move to a more prestigious neighborhood eventually, or even earn some money to take back home. Some left, others came, but even those who were born in the neighborhood didn't consider it home, and nor did those who were fated to die here for that matter.
My father and I had spent a fair amount of time here, but what brought me back was certainly not sentimentality. I was interested in a door with no banner above it on the corner of Lomonosov and Siberia Streets.
The door was in the same place as always. It was just as dingy and sloppy as before, but now there was an advertising board screwed onto it depicting a sultry beauty and the words: "Smoke and lose weight!"
I pushed down on the handle, but it was locked! I looked around and walked across the street to a snack shop with a colorful red and orange bird on the facade.
Labeling the buildings here was not in the spirit of the neighborhood; either you knew your way around without placards and signs, or you were an outsider, and thus not welcome.