2
I entered the Newton‑Markt, the whole-block
police headquarters building, through the back service entrance. I let an
armored car pass by as it left the garage to the measured claps of a gunpowder
engine before rolling unhurriedly down an alley. I took a look around and ran
up the stairs. I flung the door open confidently, nodding to the sleepy sentry on
my way and walking through the empty halls into the armory.
There, I handed a sergeant my stun baton
and took its electric jar from my pocket, still wrapped in this morning’s
edition of the Atlantic Telegraph. I
threw the crumpled newspaper into the trash can. The item collector handed my
things to the arsenal warden.
"Stun baton, one," and made a
corresponding note in the registry. "Edison electric jar, one..." And
immediately shuddered: "And where is the second one? The Des
Prez?"
"Put it down under irrecoverable
losses."
"And why on earth would I do
that?"
"Any questions should be directed to
Inspector White."
"Alright, we'll figure it out,"
the sergeant frowned, dipping his iron feather back into the inkwell.
I walked away to the table in the far
corner and set two loaded cartridge clips on it, then took my Roth‑Steyr from
its holster, and removed the bolt all the way from the head, which was affixed
with a titanium barrel extension. With its side stock open, I pressed the round
eject button, collected the ammunition that flew out onto the table in an empty
clip and turned to the sergeant.
"Semi-automatic Roth‑Steyr pistol,
model eighteen-seventy-four, one," the man grumbled. "Eight
millimeter bullets, thirty. Is that all?"
"That's all," I confirmed and
walked to the changing room. There wasn't a single living soul to be found
there.
And that was logical. It was the dead
middle of a shift right now. Our boys would still be out pounding pavement 'til
nightfall.
I opened my locker with a certain amount of
relief and kicked off my raincoat, uniform and boots. I changed into a light-colored
linen suit and a pair of lightweight half-boots, tied my neckerchief, and
smoothed my hair before a mirror. Lastly, I took a cantankerous look at my
reflection and donned my dark glasses.
Damn it! Damn all this inner turmoil! I
need to live in the present.
After transferring my kerosene lighter and
titanium-bladed jack-knife from my uniform to my new clothes, I hesitated
briefly, but still clipped my Cerberus holster to my belt. It was a thin and
compact pistol. I slipped a backup clip with three ten-millimeter bullets into
the pocket of my jacket.
This gun was an invention of the weapons
genius Tesla. He had decided that the barrels should be a detachable cluster of
cylinders, like a pepper-box. For that reason, the Cerberus wasn't, to put it
lightly, known for its accuracy. That said, in close-range firefights, it was
simply indispensable. Its firing mechanism used an electric igniter on a
gunpowder round, which launched an aluminum-plated bullet. All those bells and
whistles were to make sure this weapon would work against both malefics and hell-spawn,
alike. Common weapons, due to peculiarities in their design, were of little use
against them: over many centuries, evil spirits had managed to develop an
invulnerability to iron, copper and even lead, while experienced conjurers had
learned to put out the spark of a punched primer and hamper the complex
strike-launch mechanisms in semi-automatic weapons with a single wave of the
finger. For revolvers, shooting blanks at such monsters was also anything but a
rarity.
The Cerberus, on the other hand, was a different
story! Its electric jar and total lack of moving components left no chance for
either malefics and infernal beasts to prevent a shot getting off. What was
more, in comparison with my one-kilo Roth‑Steyr, this pistol weighed
practically nothing.
I took a light gray derby hat from the
upper shelf of my locker, locked the door and left the changing room. On my way
out, I ran into an unfamiliar gray-eared sergeant, who was accompanied by two uniformed
constables.
"Detective Constable Orso," the
sergeant declared as he walked, "follow me! The inspector general would
like to see you."
My heart practically jumped out of my
chest, and I took a heavy sigh in a none-too-successful attempt to calm myself
down.
The experienced public servant noticed my utter
bewilderment and clarified:
"Will you be coming with us, detective
constable?"
"Naturally!" I squeezed out
a sour smile with a bit of effort and repeated, this time more confidently: "Naturally!"
The sergeant nodded and headed for the
stairs. The constables, though, let me go in front of them initially, but moved
around behind shortly thereafter, forcing me with their artless maneuver to
cast all thoughts of fleeing from my mind, panicked and disgraced.
Calm yourself!
Weren't you expecting this? Well, weren't
you?
Yes, devil take me, I was! I was expecting
this, but not so soon. The old man was most likely diabolically angry, if he
had sent someone to keep watch for my return.
The Illustrious
Friedrich von Nalz was old, but not decrepit. Seven decades had done nothing to
weaken this veteran of the force. In fact, they had only steeled him; the
inspector general looked like a big, strong cluster of pine roots. And his
eyes... his deep-set eyes shone back in the partial darkness like two angry
flames, like flickering candles in the slits in a wrinkled jack-o-lantern.
His surprising longevity was simply
astonishing. Most of those who had actually touched the blood of the fallen
had long since bid this world farewell. After all, the Night of the Titanium
Blades was fifty-three years ago – in December of the year eighteen hundred
twenty-four after the Divine Retribution, or in usual parlance, of the New Era.
Despite his advanced years, the Illustrious von Nalz was not only a
leader of the metropolitan police, but also a member of dozens of clubs and
charitable societies, and a man who started every morning with a review of the
morning's papers, demonstrating an enviable working capacity. And now, there
was a towering stack of newspapers on his table but, as could have been
expected, he had stopped reading precisely upon reaching the Atlantic Telegraph.
Curses! Ugh, who asked Albert to stick his
long tongue out!
When I arrived, Friedrich von Nalz tore
himself from the paper and stretched his lips out in something resembling a
smile.
"Viscount Cruce! I don't believe I've
ever had the honor of making your acquaintance..."
In reply, I could only lower my head.
The old man readjusted the cuff of his black
uniform. His wrinkled wrist, which looked like a bone picked clean by vultures,
was protruding just barely. He then asked me:
"Are you acquainted with my daughter,
Viscount?"
"I was introduced to her at the autumn
ball," I answered, struck with horror.
In the office, it became hot and stuffy all
at once. And it had nothing at all to do with the fireplace. It hadn't been lit
today. Hot air was emanating in waves from the old man sitting across the table
from me. It was his illustrious talent revealing itself. I had already
seen its terrible effects before, and I in no way wanted to become a victim. A
few years ago, I caught a glimpse of the dried-out mummy of an anarchist after
he made an attempt on the inspector general’s life. The sight of a man who had
been baked alive left me sick for the rest of the day.
"You were introduced at the ball, and
that was all?" clarified the Illustrious
von Nalz, making no external signs of the rage seething inside himself.
"And that was all," I confirmed,
diligently making sure not to make eye contact.
Just looking at him was very, very scary.
But then, the old man suddenly broke out
laughing, crumpled the paper and threw it into the paper bin.
"You know, Viscount? I believe you.
Implicitly," the inspector general surprised me with his unexpected announcement. "I
simply know my daughter too well. Elizabeth‑Maria would never go for someone
like you..." He fastidiously cringed and threw himself back into his
high-backed armchair. "That isn't important! What is important is
that your loose-lipped rhyme-peddler's talk will start rumors. And I cannot have
that..."
"Inspector general!" I tried
making an excuse. "They were talking about a different Elizabeth‑Maria!
Not your daughter! It’s just a coincidence!"
But Friedrich von Nalz could only shake his
head, sending another wave of transparent heat wafting toward me.
"Viscount! I can imagine you in the
role of a secret admirer, but never that of a lover," the old man cut-in
with cold ruthlessness. "Don't lower yourself to such base
lies."
"My wife is called Elizabeth‑Maria
Nickley. Her family is from Ireland. She gets her name from her grandmother on
her mother’s side. I am preparing to present her at tomorrow's ball."
The inspector general started to think, as
if solving a complicated charade, then nodded.
"That would be nice," he said
slowly, with detachment, but immediately turning his eyes on me in
rage. "Just know, Viscount, that if you drag some cheap actress down
there and bring shame on my daughter, I will destroy you myself, my-self! I
will make your blood boil in your veins and cook you alive!"
"I assure you, inspector general, it
will not come to that!"
"If the poem was in fact intended for
my daughter, its best to admit it directly, here and now," continued the Illustrious von Nalz, already absolutely
calm. "In that case, I would have to challenge you to a duel, though
at least you would die with dignity. And not in such torment..."
"There’s no reason for..."
"You could, it stands to reason, hide,
but I do not advise that at all. I really do not."
"I wasn't even thinking it!"
"Get out of my face," then rasped
the highly placed officer, ending my hearing.
With a furious speed, I jumped out into the
reception. The air there seemed simply icy by comparison. A trickle of cold
sweat started running down my back. Somehow, I slowed my panicked breathing and
went down to the first floor, but before I'd managed to close the entrance
behind me, I was called on again.
"Detective constable!"
After shuddering in surprise, I turned to see
a constable getting up from his desk with some kind of envelope in his
hands."
"Correspondence for you!" he
said.
I took the unexpected letter and nodded:
"Thank you," and went out into
the colonnade-enclosed portico courtyard, where ancillary workers were trying
without particular success to wash away the soot that had accumulated last
winter on the white marble of our Themis statues.
With a heavy sigh, I lowered myself onto
one of the benches placed around the fountain and took a look inside the thick
paper envelope addressed to me only by name, no address, stamps or mention of
who'd sent it. After giving an uncomprehending snort, I took my jack-knife from
my pocket, cut open the seal and shook out a laconic invitation to visit the
Witstein Banking House to discuss the issue of my gaining access rights to my
inheritance.
I reread the letter two times and furrowed
my brow in consternation. My attorney hadn't managed to beat any paper from my
fund in the past month, so why then would my uncle move the situation forward so
easily? And what did the Witstein Banking House have to do with my inheritance?
The Kósice family had never had many dealings with the Judean community.
After looking at the massive chronometer,
new-fashioned, meaning it was worn on the arm, I decided I still had time to
visit the Banking House before it closed for lunch, and if I didn't make it, no
matter, I could wait. I didn't have anything planned for today that couldn't be
rescheduled anyway.
I jammed the envelope in my jacket pocket,
and left of police head‑quarters' courtyard. Then, in no particular hurry, I
stepped off down Newtonstraat toward Ohm Square.
For the beginning of April, today was
shaping up to be an unusually humid day, and the sun hanging over the roofs of
the houses was heating up the city everywhere I went, like a steak thrown into
a smoking pan. Even the black clouds billowing on the horizon were no guarantee
that the freshness of evening would soon be arriving; most likely, they would
simply disperse over the ocean.
Ducking away from the muggy air, I turned
down a sycamore alley and began walking further into the shade of the trees.
Five minutes later, I came out onto the rear of Ohm Square and happened upon a
mercilessly smoking steam tram. I was barely able to grab onto the handrail
before its iron wheels started clanking around the bend where the rails had a
juncture, causing the tram to rock palpably.
On the other side of the windows, buildings
drifted by at a turtle's pace. Wisps of smoke came into the open door from time
to time, stinging my eyes unbearably. We couldn't even dream of the speeds of
the Underground, though. To get from the nearest underground railroad station
to the Judean Quarter, you'd have to spend no less than a quarter hour slogging
through the confusing little side-streets of the old city.
And what was the point?
Bit by bit, my view of the city was
beginning to change as we left the newly constructed high-rises behind us.
Dilapidated commercial buildings and office buildings with slanted roofs
started closing in on one another while the tram traveled down the narrowing
road. The tiny, damp alleys between buildings flickered by, and the steam tram
rolled on.
Cabbies looked on with unhidden disapproval
at the passengers now filling the tram-car to the brim. Their horses were sneezing
and shaking their heads, caught in the smoke trail the tram was leaving behind.
A few times, we were passed by open self-propelled carriages, their chauffeurs
wearing leather jackets, leggings and goggles that covered half the face. The
carriages shot off into the distance, but the loud chirruping of their
gun-powder engines continued to carry down the street for some time.
When we reached Mendeleev Boulevard, I
jumped out of the steam tram and swerved off the sidewalk into a passage
between two buildings, both scuffed and uncared-for with narrow windows on the
second story and above. I got a bit lost in the back alleys and soon came out
onto a big street. The nearest building on it was sporting a fresh sign:
Mihelson Street.
The first floors of the solid stone
building were occupied by many shops and stalls, but it all looked like one solid
mass now, with the storefronts shuttered behind security doors in preparation
for nightfall. Based on my impression, it seemed as if one of the liveliest
trading streets of the Judean neighborhood had suddenly died out. I walked a
whole block, and not a single living soul crossed my path.
Only on the corner next to a barber shop,
did I see someone: a long figure standing motionless in a long-skirted black
frock and hat to match.
Sliding my gaze over the dispassionate face
framed with peyos and a beard, I walked alone up the stairway of the detached
three-story building with a solid signboard reading Witstein Banking House and
pulled the door handle toward me.
It didn't yield. I jostled it – still
stuck.
Then I gave a few hits of the knocker on
the iron sheet door, waited a few minutes and again pulled on the handle, but
suddenly froze, struck by an unexpected thought.
"Saturday!" I slapped my
palm on my forehead. "Today is Saturday!"
Shabbos!
In our enlightened society, any
manifestation of religious ideas was viewed in a dim light, and all forms of
mysticism were mercilessly rooted out and eliminated. Orthodox Judeans, though,
had been steadfast in bearing the incessant accusations of the Mechanists. As a
matter of course, these threats were rarely acted on: the buoyant financials of
the group allowed them to grease the right wheels of the state apparatus if
need be, so any talk about massacring them remained just that – talk.
Though science had completely extricated
religion from mainstream society, our top power brokers had a healthy
pragmatism and held holy the principle of "render unto Caesar that which
is Caesar's." Money was the lifeblood of the Empire, and everything else came
second.
I took a tin of sugar drops from my pocket
and threw the first one I came upon into my mouth.
So then, today is Saturday; the Banking
House is closed. Tomorrow as well. Sunday is an official day off.
What a shame.
At that very moment, a covered wagon rolled
across the intersection with a screech. The driver, his cap thrown down over
his eyes, was hurrying the trucks into the barber shop’s back courtyard, and
the lanky Judean was rushing to open the gates. As soon as the cart was out of
view, the gate closed just as quickly.
Very interesting.
I took a quizzical look around, then
pressed down a button on my arm chronometer, setting a countdown, and tossed
another sugar drop into my mouth.
I can wait...
The cart rolled back out onto the street
twenty minutes later, but this time the haulers were obviously straining
themselves, and the cart was leaving a dust cloud in its wake. The lanky Judean
stood in front of the gate and tried to unlock the entrance to the barber shop,
but the key just didn't want to turn in the lock; he even had to remove his
thick canvas gloves and hold them under his armpit.
I popped another sugar drop into my mouth,
slipped the tin into my jacket's side pocket and stepped across the road.
"My good man!" hailed the Judean,
standing up in the middle of the carriageway.
The lanky one turned, shot me a worried
glance and croaked:
"We’re closed!"
"I'm not here for that! Can you tell
me where the nearest Underground station is?"
"Over there," the lanky barber
waved me down the street with his left arm; his right arm, bearing an old
bluing tattoo he jammed into his frock pocket, acting casual.
I bowed my head slightly and pressed the
very tips of my fingers to my derby hat.
"Thank you," I smiled and walked
off in the direction he pointed, not asking him to clarify the route.
After all, that wasn’t why I was asking.
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