First Act - Tempo De Construção NovamenteA Chapter by Vitaly Ivolginsky
The greenest city in the United States has already woken up from its slumber. From early morning on the streets of glorious Portland, were already coming into their own the automobiles - unofficial, but recognized by all citizens kings of the streets. In addition to motorists, shopkeepers also did not luxuriate in their beds for long and were already going to work.
Galbraith stood near the grocery store window and, out of boredom, stared at the sign, on which the hand of an unknown artist was somewhat garish, but quite plausible depicted sausages and cheeses, next to which lay a single tomato and a head of cabbage. Combining products like this served two purposes - notified the potential buyer about what he could buy in this place, and also (which was essentially the essence of all advertising art) made him feel hungry and want to buy it as soon as possible. In the end, Galbraith still could not resist the charm of advertising and entered the large glass doors. Taking a basket from a stack located right at the entrance, he headed deeper into the store - where the merchandiser, invisible to customers, ordered to be laid out all sorts of meat delicacies. Wandering between the shelves, Galbraith shrank a little from the chill in the room - air conditioners were running at full capacity. He wasn't particularly afraid of catching a common cold, but still, with his neck wet from sweat, he couldn't say it was very pleasant to experience such a temperature difference. Despite the rich assortment presented in this grocery store, Galbraith could not find what he was looking for. He just needed a quick snack on the go with some tasty sandwich, but this shop, unfortunately, only offered food for eating at the home table with the family. Therefore, Galbraith, regretting that he had wasted his time visiting this place, put the basket near cash register and was preparing to leave, when suddenly his attention was attracted by a obese person standing near the department where nuts were piled high in plastic crates. This man, dressed in a gray demi-season raincoat that went down to his knees, looked around furtively and, scooping up a handful of peanuts with his palm, stuck his hand into his bottomless pockets. Galbraith, being a police inspector, could not help but ignore such a fact of violation of the law. He exchanged glances with the salesman, a young guy who stood behind the counter with a bored look. After that, he quickly approached the lawbreaker and, trying to give his voice as steely an expression as possible, said: - Come on, young man, show me what's in your pockets! "Young man" looked about ten years older than Galbraith himself, but the essence of this appeal was to catch the criminal by surprise, that the inspector was completely successful. Fatso in raincoat turned around in shock and stared at Galbraith with his tiny eyes, which seemed to be trying to hide among the folds of fat on his wide face. - Who are you to say that? - a man caught at the scene of a crime tried to hide his fear under the guise of rudeness. - It doesn't matter, - Galbraith answered calmly. - Please put the nuts back. - What nuts? What are you talking about? - fatso took a step back, still holding his hand in his coat pocket, - I don't want to use force, so I look forward to your conscientiousness, - inspector said without raising his voice. Corpulent and clumsy man cowardly leaned his back against the rack of canned goods standing behind him. Tin cans crashed onto the concrete floor of the store, and the pickpeanut almost slipped on a can of canned pineapple. - What do you need from me? - losing his composure, exclaimed the man in the raincoat, balancing on one leg. Instead of answering, Galbraith pulled out his police identifier from his bosom and involuntarily smiled when he saw how the face of the fatso, who was able to maintain his balance in the midst of scattered canned food, stretched out. Realizing who he had to deal with, he put out this unfortunate handful of roasted peanuts from his pocket and was about to leave, but inspector's imperious cry "Stop!" made him freeze in place. - Your name? Address? Place of work? - on automatic Galbraith uttered the usual patter for such cases. - Irles... My name is Irles Nacht, - like a guilty schoolboy, this pathetic man began to report. - In the garden elder, and in Vancouver earl, - inspector sarcastically quoted a some proverb. It was difficult for Galbraith not to contain his burst of mirth - It was impossible to look at this shoplifter without laughing. When Irles already announced his place of work, Galbraith suddenly heard his name and turned around - in the doorway of the store stood a man who looked to be about five years younger than the inspector himself. - What, Galbraith, picked up the pickpocket? - cheerfully said that guy as he approached the two. - As you can see, buddy, - Galbraith answered, trying not to relax in front of the Irles's eyes. - Hey you, dodderer! - the younger man turned to the thief. - Is it so difficult for you to legally acquire these tiny nuts?? Galbraith tried to hold back his expressive friend, but he had already come close to the fatso shaking with fear and grabbed him by the collar. - Listen to me, you learner, - he hissed angrily right in the shoplifter's face. - Thou shalt not steal! Weren't you taught this as a kid? In response, Irles let out a barely audible wheeze, and the younger man squeezed his neck even harder. - You are a bad geezer! - he continued. - If you don't learn my lesson, I'll gouge your piglet blinkers out! Having said this, Galbraith's friend put forward the little finger and index finger of his right hand. At the sight of this gesture, fatso's eyes pop out. - Get over it, you're a policeman! - shouted Galbraith, seriously frightened for the fate of the pickpeanut. - Do as you wish, - with obvious annoyance said the younger man. He let Irles Nacht go, who did not fail to take the opportunity to leave the store out of harm's way. Looking after the retreating man in raincoat, Galbraith put his hand on his friend's shoulder. - God is with him, Pharqraut. Of course, I didn't let him commit the theft, but I didn't intend to put him in prison either. - How I would like to give him a good-bye kick, so that he learns, lardhead, that stealing is not good... There was an inner strength in the calm voice of this man. "Like the tiger, lord of the jungle", inspector thought involuntarily. - You really mean that? - Galbraith pretended to take these words at face value. - I was joking, - Pharqraut immediately relaxed. Leaving the chilly room of the grocery store, Galbraith could not help but glance at the salesman. The guy behind the cash register had an expression on his face that was somewhat similar to the one viewer have in a cinema when something action-packed happens on the screen. Apparently, he had never witnessed the spectacle of a shoplifter getting what he deserved before... - Take a look at this! - suddenly he heard his friend's voice Pharqraut pulled a newspaper from his pocket and handed it to Galbraith, who immediately took it in his hands. - Why are you showing me... - inspector looked at him questioningly. - ...most recent news! - Pharqraut interrupted him. - Don't blink your eyes, do read what and all will be clear. Galbraith skimmed the text. The story about the accident, presented with characteristic journalistic pathos, after which a seriously injured accident victim was taken to the hospital, did not make any impression on the man. - Somebody crashed his car, what is so important? - inspector asked, raising his slightly disappointed eyes to his friend. - And you're just look at his surname, - Pharqraut pointed his finger at the newspaper Galbraith read it a little more carefully. The victim was a druggist, whose last name is only two letters different from the name of certain English city... - Huh, what does it matter? I've never met the man. - Well, but I've know him. Not in a friendly way, of course, but out of duty. Do you remember, two years ago I went out of town to detain one infantile guy? - Hmm... I recall something. You told me then that the matter was quite dirty. - What else could there be to do with a little child? And Galbraith remembered. Yes, there was a case, their police department received a complaint from the suburbs that the neighbour of a certain pharmaceutist was suspected of harassing his minor daughter. Then they sent a van with five policemen there, and also was assigned inspector Pharqraut, with whom he was now having this conversation... - Well, yes, the b*****d was detained, so what? - Galbraith still could not understand what his friend was so excited about. - It just seems strange to me that some time after this, this girl's father had an accident. - Ah, you go with the mysticism again. Some kind of spirit, you once said... - The Spirit of Vengeance, yes, - his friend nodded. - But I think you should visit this gentleman. - Do you want me to drop my everything case and go to the hospital? - Don't lie, you haven't been busy for the last week, - Pharqraut rightly noted. Galbraith had to agree with this statement. - Okay, all right, for old times' sake... But, let me ask you, what benefit will you get from what I tell you upon my return? - Benefit? To be honest, I don't really understand it myself. I have this feeling in my heart, you know... Pharqraut, unable to express his thoughts in a form understandable to his friend, shook his hand and, saying goodbye "You break a leg!", crossed the road and went into a small cafe - apparently, he wanted to refreshment his parched from excitement throat. And Galbraith, sending him a look full of bewilderment, stood with his back to the wall of the grocery store and began to carefully study the newspaper. After studying the note about the accident, he memorized the address of the hospital where the victim was taken and went out to the busy highway. Galbraith thought about what had caused Pharqraut's anxiety. He perceived his friend's words about a certain spirit of vengeance as mystical nonsense, which he himself would never have believed. There's clearly something else going on here... Galbraith soon decided that it was better not to puzzle over what was beyond his understanding. He simply told himself that perhaps he simply did not have the necessary information, and it was from this circumstance that this a halo of mystery stems. Therefore, not knowing what else to do, inspector decided to strike up a conversation with the taxi driver, but little came of it, because the driver he came across was somewhat gloomy and not particularly willing to chat with the passenger. Therefore, Galbraith, who in response to his leading question about the weather received only a dry "I'm alive and that's the main thing", decided that it would be better to just look out the window. Finally, the car brought the inspector to the Portland Adventist Medical Center, where the pharmaceutist injured in the morning accident was located. Galbraith paid the taxi driver and headed to the front doors of the hospital. A woman dressed in the uniform of a sister of charity immediately ran up to him. - Sister, do you know where placed mister Yonce? - inspector turned to her. - Do you mean the one who was hurt from the crash this morning? - asked the woman. - Yes, right, of course, - Galbraith said impatiently - He was assigned to the surgical department, on the second floor. - I humbly thank you, sister. - Wait, today is not a reception day! Galbraith showed her his police identifier and walked decisively into the hospital. The sister of charity followed him with silent dissatisfaction. Going up to the second floor, Galbraith met some doctor and asked him so that he would tell him in which ward the person he needed was lying. Doctor, telling the inspector that disturbing this patient is extremely undesirable for his health, walked him to the necessary door and putting a finger to his lips - apparently it was a sign that Galbraith does not decide to raise his voice in the ward - let him inside. Galbraith saw a huge ans stocky no longer young man, lying under a white blanket. His powerful chest slowly heaved with noisy breathing. The visitor thought that mister Yonce looked a little like an old bear who was about to go into hibernation. Perhaps the inspector was prompted by the strange facial expression - the left side of the poor guy's face went numb and his mouth ended up twisted into a terrible grimace. - Bell's palsy, - doctor whispered to Galbraith. Inspector did not even turn towards the medic - instead, he quietly approached the hospital bed, trying to step as quietly as possible. - Mister Yonce, - trying not to raise his voice, he turned to the man lying on the bed. - I'm with the Portland police.... - Police, - suddenly the deep bass of patient was heard, who, without blinking, continued to look at the ceiling. Galbraith expected to hear at least something else from him, but, apparently, mister Yonce simply reacted to this exciting word and automatically repeated it. After standing like that for a minute, the visitor turned and left the ward. - We will try our best, but at best he won't really think straight, - said the doctor. - In fact, he was not seriously injured - no injuries were found on his body, but he had serious problems with his mind... - Can I call from here? - Galbraith interrupted this tirade of little interest to him. - Yes, of course, the telephone is at the end of the corridor. It was clear from the doctor's voice that he was pleased to know that the policeman had already finished his visit and would soon leave the hospital. Galbraith walked up to the phone, wondering as he went where to call him so that Pharqraut could definitely answer him. He's definitely not at home right now, he hardly needed anything at the police department right now... In the end, he decided to call the cafe where, as he remembered, his friend had gone after their morning meeting. And he wasn't wrong - Having asked if the owner could call Pharqraut to the phone and received a "Yes, wait a bit", Galbraith perked up. Half a minute later, his friend went to the phone. - Hello, buddy, is that you? - Hello. Now I'm in Portland Adventist Medical Center. - Thank you for fulfilling my whim. - I don't know if what I say will upset you, but in general, mister Yonce got brain damage. - My condolences... So you didn't really hear anything from him? - All he could say was parrot the word "police" after me. It seemed to me that this was because he had some kind of mental trauma associated with this. - Well, well, if you were a father, you wouldn't be so sad when your... Ahem-ahem... - It slipped from my mind. - Ah, you're a holey head. Okay, come on. But wait, how did you guess that I was in the cafe? - I saw you go there. - And you thought that I had been stuck here for a long time? Ha-ha, you were totally right. - Well, good luck with that. - We shall meet again! Galbraith hung up. And in fact, while reading the newspaper, he completely forgot about what Pharqraut told him about last year's incident. "Okay", he thought, going out into the street, "I fulfilled my friend's request, so what next"? Inspector asked the sister of charity where the where the public transport stop here... Having reached the bus stop closest to his police department, Galbraith got off the autobus and, stretching his legs that were numb from standing (all the seats were occupied), immediately directed his feet towards there. Squinting from the sunlight, Galbraith came close to the facade of a three-story building overlooking a majestic green square. He stretched out his hand to the brass handle of the double door, but the next second a young sergeant with a blue cap on his head came out to meet him. Galbraith stepped sharply to the side, making way for him, but the young man stopped in place and looked at the inspector with a slight squint. - Good afternoon, mister Galbraith, - sergeant raised his hand to his cap. - Hi, Saussure, - inspector answered with some bewilderment. - Mister chief inspector Schaeymoure wants to see you, - he reported in a brave tone Hearing this, Galbraith involuntarily lost heart. - What this is regarding? - he asked the young man in a stammering voice. - He's waiting for you in his office, - Saussure ignored his question and moved on. Galbraith could not resist the pleasure of looked away this cheerful young man, who, putting on his cap as he walked, walked quickly up the street, slightly tilting his curly head forward. "Interesting", Galbraith thought, "what made this young man so happy"... Inspector entered the doors of the police department, but he was in no hurry to immediately go up to the second floor.To begin with, he decided to verify the veracity of the sergeant's words and looked into the duty officer's room, where he found old Pauling, who, as always, was sitting at his desk. At that moment, he was pouring himself some coffee, and a little further away, two policemen were dozing on a sofa by the window. When the inspector appeared, Pauling shuddered slightly and, putting the coffee pot on the table, raised his head. - Excuse me, does mister chief inspector Schaeymoure really need me now? - Galbraith asked the old man. - Of course, - answered duty officer. - Have you forgotten that today is a meeting on the Pharqraut's case? - What? - hearing his friend's name, Galbraith perked up. - Everyone else is already in the chief inspector's office, only you is missing, - the old man blinked his eyes. - Why didn't anyone warn me about this in advance? - I wanted David to notified you, - Pauling had in his assistant. - But mister chief inspector Schaeymoure persuaded not to disturb... Galbraith did not listen to the old man to the end and left the duty officer's office. Wow, Schaeymoure did not specifically warn him in advance about the important meeting. It seems that mister chief inspector wanted to make his employee look like an idiot, who is supposedly always out of work. Galbraith ran up the stairs to the second floor and first ran into his office. The disorder that reigned on the desk indicated that the owner of the office had not touched his papers for several days. But the inspector didn't care about that - taking off his light gray jacket, he hung it over the back of his chair and, straightening his tie, went back out into the corridor. Approaching the door to the chief inspector's office, Galbraith hesitated a little. Taking a breath, he knocked quietly and, carefully opening the door, stuck his head inside. As might be expected, mister chief inspector Schaeymoure himself sat at the head of the mahogany desk. He was about fifty years old, but his neatly combed back black hair and carefully shaved face made him look younger. Under his strict black frock coat one could see a white shirtfront with a coffee-coloured tie. Schaeymoure did not seem to notice inspector entering. He didn't even take his eyes off the open folder in front of him, he just raised his eyebrows slightly and flipped through the page - as it was clear, this document aroused his interest. Galbraith shrugged and walked towards the long table, on which stood a decanter of water and four glassful. He pushed back his chair and was about to sit down, but at that moment mister chief inspector took his eyes off the documents and signalled to everyone present to get up from their seats. The rest of the meeting, who were inspector Pharqraut, medic Maurice and young lieutenant Nelissen, immediately obeyed. Schaeymoure rose from his seat and, coughing politely, spoke: - So, gentlemen! - he raised his anemic hand. - I hereby declare this meeting in session. I'll leave it to inspector Pharqraut to briefly summarize the facts. After these words, Schaeymoure sank into a deep armchair and gave a sign to the young inspector with a slight nod of his head. Pharqraut pulled his black leather briefcase from under the table and, opening it, pulled out a thick folder. Galbraith accepted a hefty stack of snow-white A4 sheets from his friend's hands and began to look at them. They were covered from top to bottom with typewritten text, and the printing ink had not yet dried and therefore smudged a little under Galbraith's fingers. Everyone else also received a stack of papers, and Pharqraut, having finished the distribution, returned to his place and stood next to the chair. - Attention, gentlemen. Don't rush to read these papers, - said the inspector, noticing how medic Maurice began to flip through the pages impatiently. Everyone present took their eyes off the stack of papers lying in front of them and stared with interest at the young inspector. Galbraith couldn't help but notice how Pharqraut bit his lip and became embarrassed when stout Maurice yawned noisily, covering his mouth with his hand. - So, - he began a little hesitantly. - On the agenda we are dealing with one case. The papers I gave you are a photocopy of the drafts of my material, which I am writing as part of my investigation. Now I want to briefly convey to you the essence of this case, and you will become familiar with the details at a time convenient for you. After these words, Pharqraut extended his hand to the decanter standing in the middle of the table and poured himself a full glassful. After drinking the water in one gulp, the inspector put it on the table and, wiping his lips with the back of his hand, looked around at those gathered attentively. - It all started around the beginning of July. The first death was recorded five days after Independence Day of The United States of America. - You forgot to mention where this took place, - medic Maurice interrupted him. Pharqraut gave the fatso a dissatisfied glare and continued. - Especially for mister Maurice, I will explain that all four cases occurred in different places in our city. First, I will tell you the names of the victims - Theodore Beckel, Penelope Conway, Alexander O'Brent and Dennis Lang. Galbraith noticed that when Pharqraut said the third name, there were notes of hostility in his voice, as if he were talking about some base and despised person. After listing the names, his friend returned to his usual impartial tone, but the inspector felt how difficult it was for him to control his anger. - Before starting the story, I am obliged to make a small digression. I would never have united these four cases under the same roof if not for one curious fact - the names of all the victims were of Greek origin. Having said this, Pharqraut took a breath, as if gathering strength. Maurice twisted his mouth and said with noticeable irritation: - You're talking about your supernatural rubbish again! This remark infuriated the young inspector, who, looking at the medic and trying to maintain the official appearance of a person speaking at a meeting, said: - If mister Maurice thinks that I am making the deaths look like some kind of anti-scientific nonsense, then let him continue to think so, but I am not going to give up my investigation. In these words of Pharqraut it was felt that he was specifically tired of the fatso's remarks - undoubtedly, he already hated him with all his heart. Medic was involuntarily taken aback by these words, but, meeting the gaze of mister chief inspector, he was able to swallow the reproach and even tried to make an indifferent face, which he did not do very well. - I'll ask inspector Pharqraut to return to exposition of his case, - mister chief inspector spoke up. After these words, he suddenly turned his head towards Galbraith. Schaeymoure's glare was strange, as if he was filled with hidden amusement. He involuntarily shivered - it seemed that the eyes of the chief inspector were saying: "Learn from your friend's mistakes, control your emotions!". Pharqraut was a than completely pleased with the effect his words had on Maurice. Pulling himself together, he returned to his speech. - So, I'll start in order. The first victim was Theodore Beckel, a janitor at the Union Way. At first sight, what happened to him was nothing more than an accident - while returning home from his evening shift, the poor man was hit by a car. - Where did it happen? - asked the chief inspector. - Right at the marked crosswalk in front of the shopping center, - Pharqraut answered politely. - Death came instantly, the wheels of the car turned his head into a bloody mess. Suddenly a quiet scream was heard in the office. Everyone turned their heads towards Nelissen - lieutenant's face acquired a deathly white hue. The young man blinked rapidly and opened his mouth, but could not utter a sound. - What is it with him? - Galbraith muttered inaudibly under his breath These words did not go unnoticed by the stout medic, who immediately leaned towards the inspector. - Haematophobia, the guy is afraid of the mere mention of blood and gore, - snoring noisily, Maurice whispered to Galbraith. "And how do such youths get hired into the police", thought Galbraith, looking at Nelissen. The young lieutenant was finally able to control himself and, swallowing his saliva, looked up at Pharqraut, whose face showed that he was extremely dissatisfied with the young man's reaction. Here mister chief inspector Schaeymoure spoke again. - How did you manage to identify the body? - he turned to Pharqraut. - Understand that the body belonged to a fifty-year-old Union Way janitor was child's play - attached to his work uniform was a badge that read "T. Beckel". - Very good, - it seemed that to Schaeymoure liked the logic of this explanation. - What's next? - Now I will begin to describe the second victim - Penelope Conway, twenty-year-old saleswoman in duty-free shop, specializing in all kinds of powders - washing, insect repellents and so on. Galbraith was a little amused by Pharqraut's description of profession of this woman - one got the feeling that his friend was tempted to call the deceased with the apt word "powder-proprietor", but the official style that inspector was forced to adhere to did not allow him to introduce such words into his speech. - The saleswoman was found dead in her apartment, her body was discovered by her own aunt, who came to her to give her some book telling about ancient Greek myths. - Cause of death? - Schaeymoure asked dryly. - This is a difficult question from a medical point of view, - the speaker sighed. - No signs of violence or visible injuries were found on the body of the deceased. - I guess it might be poison, - Maurice expressed his guess out loud. - Do you think Penelope Conway committed suicide? - it seemed that Pharqraut did not like this guess - I haven’t seen this lady's corpse, how can I know for sure? - medic was hurt by the inspector's words. - I'm just make assumptions. It was a little funny for Galbraith to watch how fatso, who had previously interrupted Pharqraut, now began to make excuses to the young inspector. He was involuntarily overcome with a feeling of pride for his friend. - What was the woman wearing when her body was discovered? - Schaeymoure suddenly asked a question. This query confused Pharqraut, who began rummaging in his jacket pockets before answering. A second later he raised his head, and Galbraith noticed that his friend's cheeks were covered with a faint blush of embarrassment. - Well... The deceased was wearing a light white dress, - he stammered. - Cinched with satin ribbon. - What about shoes? - mister chief inspector inexorably continued to asking. - The saleswoman had alpargatas on her feet with ties around the ankle, - Pharqraut answered, looking down. "As if the young man's embarrassment brought satisfaction to Schaeymoure", thought Galbraith, looking at the chief inspector, whose face expressed both interest and hidden gaiety. It's not hard to guess that Pharqraut wanted to get off the topic of the late saleswoman as quickly as possible. Undoubtedly, the fact was that, being a bachelor, it was difficult for him to answer the mister chief inspector's questions regarding items of women's clothing. Therefore, he immediately moved on to describe the succeeding accident. - Next we will talk about thirty-two-year-old Alexander O'Brent, - he continued his speech. - He was, to put it mildly... - Pharqraut paused, searching for words. "Who was this person in life if the policeman feels embarrassed when he tries to describe him?" thought Galbraith, absentmindedly listening to what was happening in the chief inspector's office. - He was a conductor of night-walkers, - speaker squeezed out. Galbraith realized what profession his friend meant and decided to come to his aid. - Pimpf, he was pimpf, - for the first time during the entire meeting he raised his voice. All those present turned their heads together and stared in amazement at the inspector. There was silence in the office, but he just smiled into his moustache. - You probably misspoke, - Maurice remarked with a quiver in his voice. Galbraith didn't answer the medic, he just nodded in Pharqraut's direction, as if telling the others to listen to his friend, and he had nothing to do with it. Placing his hands on the table, inspector thought that if anyone present shared his preferences in music, then no one would have thought to be surprised by his phrase. - I want to add, - after a minute's pause the speaker continued, - that prior to this, mister O'Brent came from Atlanta, state Georgia, where he worked as a cashier at Chick-fil-A. - Huh, - Nelissen suddenly interrupted him, - at first this dropout was selling fried chickens, and then switched to different chicks! Apparently, the young lieutenant wanted to defuse the situation with this vulgar joke, but he failed to achieve success in this - everyone sitting at the table remained silent and looked disapprovingly at the young man. Pharqraut was the most dissatisfied - it seemed just a little more and he would approach the lieutenant and grabbed him by the neck. But to Galbraith's relief, his friend was able to control himself. - Determining what Alexander O'Brent died from was an easy task, - Pharqraut continued. - His body was found in the room of Eastside Lodge, where he was called by one of his subordinates. - Name of light-o'-love? - Schaeymoure said, hammering out the words. - Miss F... - Pharqraut was began Suddenly a high and piercing "Ahcho-o-o!" was heard throughout the entire office. This was once again lieutenant Nelissen. Covering his mouth with his left hand, the young man wiped the tears from his eyes with his right. It seemed that he deliberately sabotaged the inspector's speech. With great effort, Nelissen gave his face a calm expression and looked at everyone present with a guilty look. - S-s-sorry, pleas-s-se! - lieutenant said nervously under the frowns of the others. Inspector sighed heavily. "I understand you, buddy", Galbraith thought regretfully, "It's not easy when you are constantly interrupted". - On what issue did fille de joie call mister O'Brent? - Schaeymoure asked as if not noticing anything. - It was a trivial point, - Pharqraut perked up, - She came across a nervous client who categorically refused to pay. - Name of client? - mister chief inspector asked questions with the indifference of an automaton. - Thirty-four year old Eugene Woods, we have not yet been able to establish his place of work, - replied Pharqraut. - Try harder, - Schaeymoure said with a fatherly intonation. - As a matter of fact, - inspector ignored this remark, - O'Brent met his death in his motel room. The client fell into a state of passion and right in front of the fancy woman stabbed pimpf in the ribs with a knife, and when he fell to the floor, mister Woods began to kick him in a rage. Galbraith was pleased that his friend used his phrase to describe the profession of the deceased. "At least someone benefited from this band", he thought ironically. - When the police arrived at the crime scene, then Alexander has only a terrible bloody pulp left in place of his manhood, - inspector said. Once again the young lieutenant let out a cry of horror, but no one cared about his phobia - especially Galbraith, who was much more worried about the fact that when Pharqraut spoke about the death of Alexander O'Brent, there was such an impulse in his voice that it seemed as if the inspector was unwittingly encouraging the actions of the murderer. "What bad did this man do to my friend if he hates him so much?" he wondered. After these words, Pharqraut took a breath - it seemed that he was glad that he had finished the story about a man of an ignoble profession. - The last victim was Dennis Lang, - saying this name, inspector involuntarily smiled. - He was an entomologist living in the Portland suburbs. Generous heart... - You're starting to drool, - medic reprimanded the inspector - He died as a true altruist, - Pharqraut continued. - Dennis gave his life to save another person. - Mister Maurice is right, - Schaeymoure interrupted him. - You should focus on the facts, not the personality of the deceased. - All right, - the speaker reluctantly conceded. - Lang was once walking near his house and saw a little boy running away from a mad dog with heart-rending screams. - You speak as if you were an eyewitness to what happened, - Galbraith couldn't resist commenting. - These details were given to me by his neighbour, missis Taggert, - his friend answered casually. - In general, the entomologist rushed to help the baby, but unfortunately he tripped on a stone and fell right in front of the hound's nose, which did not deny itself the pleasure of attacking the man lying in front of him. - Is everything okay with that kid? - mister chief inspector asked with some sympathy. - Little boy was rescued, - Pharqraut said with a smile. - But at the cost of the life of his saviour, - then his face darkened again. - When poor Dennis Lang was taken to the hospital, his body was so damaged by the teeth of a rabid animal that he, without regaining consciousness, left this world in a hospital bed that evening. - What happened to mad dog? - Schaeymoure inquired. - According to missis Taggert, hound, having finished with the entomologist, ran away in an unknown direction. We didn't bother looking for her. - Of course, because our smaller brothers stemming from garbage, - Galbraith could not resist. - You forgot that a dog can have an owner, - Pharqraut looked at his friend. - Never mind, - the inspector shrugged him off. After these words, he turned his attention to Nelissen - the story of the cruel death from the teeth of a animal impressed the lieutenant, and the young man sat, embarrassedly staring straight ahead. Galbraith himself didn’t notice and felt pity for him - It must be difficult to work in the police with a fear of blood and listen to details regarding human deaths. Pharqraut, having finished his speech, poured himself some more water from the decanter and, having drained the glassful, looked at his listeners with an attentive glance. Most kept a straight face, and even Nelissen came to his senses and raised his head up. Then mister chief inspector Schaeymoure rose from his seat. - Well, gentlemen, I hope inspector Pharqraut's story gave you an idea of the kind of case our police department was faced with, - he proclaimed. - Now it's time to give your comments on this matter. The first person to speak out was Maurice. Kneading his temples with both hands, medic rose from his seat and, looking at Pharqraut, declared: - I have been practising criminal medicine for fifteen years now, - he began with barely concealed contempt. - But I can't overemphasize how mister Pharqraut managed to put together four completely different deaths. Inspector, with his hands folded behind his back, looked at the stout man with hatred. - I state, - continued Maurice, - that death by rabid dog bites and death under the wheels of a car, of course, there are similarities in that they are accidents, but... The medic was unable to finish his speech. - I'm disgusted, - Pharqraut rather rudely interrupted him. - When people don't look before they leap. - How dare you speak to me in this manner? - fatso's face became red and he clenched his fists. Mister chief inspector raised his hand to calm his angry colleagues, and then the unexpected happened - Pharqraut, losing his composure, rushed to the exit from the office. Galbraith turned around and saw his friend, loudly slamming the door, disappear into the corridor. "It's their own fault, shouldn't have interrupting him", thought Galbraith. Schaeymoure rose from his seat and placed both hands on the table. - With the departure of the man on whose case we have gathered in this office, I think I can call the meeting officially closed, - he stated in a deadpan tone. These words from mister chief inspector Schaeymoure served as a sign to everyone who was still sitting at the table. Stout medic pushed back his chair noisily. Muttering something under his breath about ill-mannered youth, Maurice walked away. Young lieutenant Nelissen followed him out. Galbraith, watching them both go, was in no hurry to go out. He poured himself some water from the decanter and, slowly, drained the glassful in small sips. Only after that did he move towards the exit from chief inspector's office, glancing out the window along the way, behind which the sun was shining brightly. Thinking about what made Pharqraut so angry about medic Maurice's words, the inspector walked towards the subway station - for it was the shortest way to his home. The sun was already shining in full force in the sky - after all, it was already noon. Galbraith went down the steps and, feeling pleasantly cool, joined the thick influx of people. Then, stopping at a marble pillar, Galbraith, waiting for the train, began to look at the others waiting. He didn't know who he was trying to find among these clerks returning for lunch, mothers with children and so on, but he just wanted to really feel that he was in the crowd. Loneliness was not something for him that would make him lose his head, but sometimes inspector wanted to be in a place with a large bunch of people - apparently, this was the behest of the herd instinct, which at times broke free from somewhere in the basements of the mind of modern man... For the first time all day, Galbraith felt like it would be nice to take a drag. He walked away from the column and, looking for a place to sit, pulled out from his jacket pocket a pack of cheap cigarettes, which he always bought in large quantities through his friend the shopkeeper. Alas, all the benches were chosen by young couples, kids and their mommies. "Well, be patient, policeman", he grinned into his moustache and, raising the lighter to the cigarette, returned to the column plastered with advertisements - it gave Galbraith the feeling of at least some kind of foothold, and he felt a little uneasy standing in front of everyone else waiting. With pleasure, the inspector inhaled pleasantly smelling tobacco smoke into his mouth. Oh yeah, he thought, how good it is that the laws of the state in which he lives have not yet prohibited smokers from indulging in their enjoyments underground... And in general, he continued to think to himself, it’s a little funny that the government, with almost manic zeal, imposes bans on the distribution and use of drugs, but at the same time considers it absolutely normal to allow millions of shops selling alcohol and tobacco products to operate. But if a customs officer happens to find a tiny bag of heroin in the suitcase of some shy young man, then at least bring out the saints... Galbraith, who has been an inspector with the Portland Police for ten years, believed that thoughts of this kind come to the mind of everyone who on the guard of the order. - Oh tobacco, you the world... - came out of his mouth accidentally. Certain old man standing at a distance from him suddenly twitched with his whole body and, casting glances filled with contempt at inspector, headed closer to the place where the train was supposed to appear. Apparently, he was an ideological opponent against smoking, or maybe it just seemed to him that this mustachioed middle-aged man was crazy about cigarettes, since he said such strange catchwords... Galbraith didn’t care about this - he, taking one puff after another, was simply killing time while waiting for the train. Finally to his ears came the characteristic sound of a subway train rushing along the rails. Galbraith slowly moved away from the column and began to wait for it to stop its movement. However, when the massive iron doors, emitting a loud hiss, helpfully opened the way into the carriages flooded with yellow light, the inspector had to stand at the cold stop for some more time - for he, as a male being, had the right by birth to give way to the better half of humanity. He watched as mothers picked up their babies and squeezed through the doors of the underground carriage. Very nice, Galbraith thought with sarcasm, he was very lucky to get on the subway just when mothers were rushing home, in order to instill in their children the habit from early childhood that during the lunch break they must sit down at the table and almost forcefully consume tasteless, but so healthy porridge... He understood that in his thirty-one years of life he could no longer remember what it was like to be a child, but, being an ideological bachelor, Galbraith did not particularly respect - or whatever, just despised - whole life in the family circle. When the inspector was able to enter the carriage and take a seat in the corner, he continued to think about it. Children, for flip's sake. Who are they? Ordinary people who, according to the law, have not yet reached the age of majority. Persons who, by the mere fact of their existence on this earth, bring a lot of trouble to both their parents and others around them. The smaller the creature, the more problems it brings, inspector continued to think, looking at the tacky posters that were pasted on the walls of the carriage. It was funny for him to realize that the longest prison sentences imaginable were associated with these tiny beings... Galbraith caught himself thinking that in his thoughts he had gone so far as to divide all of humanity into two castes - adults and underages, and his attitude towards the latter was not even positive. - Lord, where am I drifting? - exclaimed Galbraith, forgetting that he was in a crowded subway car. He heard laughter and caustic comments directed at him. It was a group of several teenagers who seemed amused by his somewhat frightened expression. Galbraith looked at them with the stern look of a servant of the law, but they did not shut up. In fact, why should they be afraid of a man who does not show at all that he works for the police. This is the essence of his work - trying not to attract suspicion, searching for information. But God will be with them, Galbraith thought about the teenagers calling him names. Still, shouldn't have shouted like that, he needs to control himself in public... The inspector crossed his legs and began to look at the opposite corner of the car. Trying not to pay attention to the nippers' words, Galbraith suddenly felt disturbance begin to circulate through his blood vessels. His subconscious seemed to be screaming to its owner - "Some tragic accident has happened!". It's not clear what exactly and it's not clear when, but anything wrong and inevitable occurred... Without taking his eyes off the opposite side of the carriage, he realized that a familiar face had come into his field of vision. Glancing over his fellow passengers, he finally settled on a man who, with his head thrown back against the partition, was sleeping in his seat. Galbraith squinted. This man's body swayed rhythmically to the rhythm of the train. The left hand, which had previously been lying on the knees of the dormant, suddenly hung at the moment of the next turn of the carriage and began to sway, like a dry leaf of a tree in the wind, while the lower jaw gradually dropped downwards slowly. Galbraith, without losing sight of this man who had attracted his attention, thought that he was sleeping like the dead. Along with this thought, the feeling of uneasiness in his veins gradually turned into a burning dread. The inspector began to go over the moments of today in his head, how did it suddenly dawn on him - the face of this man, who at that moment was sleeping at that end of the carriage, he had already seen this morning in the ward at Portland Adventist Medical Center. Inspector felt as if someone had whispered right into his ear "See him, really see him". Galbraith turned his head around - no, everything is okay. But in his mind, like an obsession, a strong desire arose to go up to this dormant, wake him up and, if he gets scared and runs away, rush after him... - Looks like somebody is having fun with me, - he muttered quietly. At the same time, his common sense woke up, and gradually he was able to suppress this wacky wish in himself. And at that time the carriage had already stopped at the stop it needed. Galbraith stood up and, waiting for the mothers and children to come out, looked at the sleeping man. He, without opening his eyes, continued to sit with his mouth open. The inspector went outside and, rising to the surface, began to have a discussion with himself regarding this occurrence. Well, what would he have gotten if he had run up to this man? What, he would ask him "How did you end up here, mister Yonce?", or would have him under surveillance? Neither one nor the other made absolutely no sense. Inspector reassured himself that it could all be that his depressed mood after the meeting was influenced by today's trip to the hospital, easy peasy. Galbraith, lost in his thoughts, did not even notice how he found himself on Abbouts st. Here is the house, where he lives. Three-story building, made in English style. On the second floor of this house there was his cozy two-room apartment - what else is needed for a police inspector who spends most of his time outside its walls? Having entered the house, he went up to his staircase and, stepping over the threshold, closed the door with a key, after which he did not fail to take off his shoes. Putting his feet into slippers, Galbraith decided that instead of the new patent leather shoes he bought a couple of days ago, it would be better to go to work tomorrow in good old leather loafers. Yes, they don't go particularly well with his strict gray suit, but that's completely not important - he's not going to a fashion exhibition, just to the police department... After an eventful day, Galbraith did not particularly want to begin studying the materials that were his friend distributed in the chief inspector's office. He just wanted to relax, so when he found himself in his own environment, he didn't waste time. Galbraith went to the kitchen and, filling a small enamel pan with water, put it on the stove. As he picked up the opened package of macaroni and cheese, he recalled with some annoyance the incident at the grocery store today. Well, what he needed to look for was not some pathetic sandwich, but this creation of the hands of McInerney and Rieck... Okay, the inspector reassured himself, he can fill himself up a little with the remaining amount of macaroni, and new products he will buy near the house tomorrow morning. Just so he doesn't faced again with a pickpeanuts, that they fall under the ground... Before throws macaroni into the water, he had to wait about nine minutes. To avoid standing like a pillar at the stove, Galbraith went into the bedroom and, sitting directly on the carpeted floor, turned on the television. The inspector didn't really care about the contents of the broadcast channels - all he wanted was to fill the silence in his apartment. People's voices and music were quite a good background for such lonely gatherings. It was already dark, but in the bedroom, which was half-lit by the television screen, Galbraith didn't turn on the light - since childhood he had a love for the dark. Memories were fresh in his memory of how he used to climb out of the window at night and run into the yard to climb onto the ladder and sit there, looking at the street, until his father, awakened by the creaking of the shutters, chased him back. What did little Galbraith get from these nightly forays? Perhaps the realization that the usually crowded streets seemed to die out after dark? Or the pleasant feeling of the night breeze blowing from all sides, which, as it seemed to the boy, at night seemed to become quite tangible and became like moisture hanging in the air? But the child who could answer this was no longer in the world - he was replaced by an adult, unbeliever in the wonders man. More precisely, the faith in them itself had not gone away, but with age it had noticeably dulled and now only very occasionally made itself felt. Without turning off the television, Galbraith got up from the floor and went to the kitchen, where water was already boiling in the pan that he had put on the stove ten minutes ago. Throwing all the macaroni into boiling water, he stared at their blue cardboard packaging. A He remembered the advertising description of this product - "A comfort food". Well, yes, for typical Americans, this cheese-flavoured macaroni is something so pleasant, nostalgic, something that is familiar to them from childhood... Galbraith smiled gloomily - the magic of similar advertising did not work on him, because he was not an American. His homeland was Gloucester, the town that gave this world the author of the poem "Invictus". It was there, nearby the river Severn, that Galbraith spent his carefree childhood. In his father's small wooden house, the future Portland police inspector most of the time he spent reading all sorts of books that his mother gave him for his birthdays, and also at times tried to express himself artistically, but alas, the strict father wanted to raise the heir in the same severity as the boy's grandfather raised him, therefore, when the father saw his son doing this, sheets of paper painted with watercolours were immediately sent into the fireplace... It was still a little painful for Galbraith to remember this. Finishing the macaroni, the cheesy smell of which had already become a little boring to him, the inspector began to decide whether he should now begin to study the material received today from Pharqraut's hands. His daily routine was never particularly disciplined, but Galbraith usually did not allow himself to be lazy, always trying to do his police work even at home. He mainly did this because he suspected that once he got slumped, it would be difficult for him to return to normal work mode, which, being a policeman, he feared just as an electrical appliance fears being disconnected from the electrical network. However, on this day he decided to cheat his usual rules. His head, overflowing with today's impressions, was practically pulling his entire body down, like a lead ball. "Well", Galbraith said to himself, placing the now empty plate under the stream of water, "I’ll spend tomorrow morning reading the materials". With this thought, he went into the bedroom and, glancing at the television that continued to show some soap opera, picked up the remote control that was lying on the floor and pressed the button. The silence that reigned in the apartment seemed to pierce his eardrums. The inspector turned his head to drive away this feeling and sat down on the bed. For good measure, he thought, he should go to the bathroom now, but as soon as he took off all his clothes, he immediately fell asleep. The dream he visioned then was quite curious. In one's sleep, he found himself in some huge underground canyon or trench. Standing on a metal platform, the inspector looked into a bottomless pit, from which came a strange hum, as if somewhere there, in the center of the Earth, a wind was blowing. He turned away from the edge and walked towards the underground hangar, which seemed to have grown into the surface of the red rock. As soon as Galbraith approached the heavy doors with strange patterns painted on their metallic surfaces, they immediately climbed up with a hydraulic hiss, allowing a person to go inside. After hesitating for a couple of seconds, he took a step forward - beyond the threshold a corridor went somewhere into the distance, on the walls of which stretched iron pipes and thick electrical cables in multi-coloured plastic sheaths. An eerie blue glow emanated from the tiny, albeit numerous, light bulbs that ran in even rows along the curved ceiling. Galbraith moved forward along the corridor, delving into the impenetrable darkness of this incomprehensible underground structure. So he walked forward in a completely straight line until he ran into glass, which blocked his further path. Behind it there was a view of a huge room, like a warehouse, where plastic barrels stood in neat rows and cardboard boxes lay disorderly on the floor strewn with broken glass. The exact size of this room was difficult to determine because the darkness obscured the corners, and the only source of light was a dim light bulb hanging from a metal pin on the high ceiling. Galbraith began to look for the entrance to the warehouse, but there was neither a door nor even a small crack in this thick glass. The inspector walked to the very left edge. On the other side he saw a pipe similar to the one that hangs near the walls of houses and serves to drain rainwater. Even from behind the glass, Galbraith could hear a loud seething, which, as he understood, was coming exactly from there. Without taking his eyes off this inappropriate indoors element of the interior, he squatted down. And then suddenly, as if under pressure, beige and red streams began to flow out of the pipe, looking either like resin or very dense kleister, a paste. They slowly flowed, like some kind of amorphous worms, from the black hole and fell with splashing sounds onto the metal gratings of the floor. Galbraith noticed that this kleister, reaching the floor, instead of spreading out in disorder, on the contrary, began to mix with each other and take on some more or less obvious form. He sat on his haunches and looked at this movement of an incomprehensible semi-liquid substance - this spectacle was both repulsive and captivating with its harmony. Soon this kleister formed something like paws with four fingers, the tips of which began to darken before observer's eyes, taking the form of short claws. "How similar these are to dog paws", he thought. These limbs moved a little to both sides in order to make room for new streams of substance, which did not stop flowing with a disgusting sound from the pipe, which in Galbraith's mind began to be associated with the birth canal. A kind of grotesque birth of a strange baby, and Galbraith himself plays the role of obstetrician to this creature... Meanwhile, between the kleisterkind already almost hardened paws, a new clot appeared, slightly extended forward. There were two small ledges protruding from the sides, looking a little like tusks. Suddenly this "head" jerked up, and its surface at the end was drawn inward. The creature was devouring its "flesh"... Galbraith saw how two rows of sharp teeth appeared in place of the burst skin. It turns out that the mouth of this strange creature was hidden behind a thick layer of outer flesh, and only by devouring its edge could the kleisterkind begin to breathe... It was an extremely disgusting sight, but Galbraith suddenly experienced a strange emotion when the creature began to twitch its legs and shake its eyeless head to the sides. Kleisterkind itself did not make a sound, but the pipe that gave birth to it, with a gurgling sound already familiar to inspector, continued to spew out the material that made up the flesh of this newborn creature, which had already come to life and began to wriggle at the very end of this stream. He clearly wanted to go forward, but begetter him soulless metal structure did not give him such an opportunity. Galbraith suddenly felt something like pity for the kleisterkind, as if he felt himself in the place of this unfortunate, ugly creature who could not really leave the womb, because the legs were still there, hidden inside the pipe that gave life to him... All of a sudden kleisterkind stopped twitching convulsively and, turning his eyeless head towards inspector, froze in a strange position, like a puppy who had spotted a mouse in the tall grass. Although, to be honest, the tusks, which were already more clearly protruding from the sides of the creature’s mouth, gave it a much greater resemblance to some kind of mammoth, albeit terribly deformed - with grayish-pink skin, devoid of any hair, but with clawed paws... Yes, the parents would feel uneasy if they looked at their son now, Galbraith thought, as if we were not talking about a strange creature from nightmares, but about an ordinary human baby. Those were last thoughts of inspector. Kleisterkind, who had previously been motionless in one place, suddenly jerked forward. His front half of his body - that is, his paws, head and what could be called his chest - were torn away from the stream of thick liquid flowing from the pipe. With a deafening grinding sound - like the squeal of an animal processed by an electronic filter - kleisterkind broke through the thick glass and sank its sharp teeth into the neck of Galbraith, who was taken in by the silent wonder... Galbraith screamed and woke up in a cold sweat in his bed. It seemed that in his nostrils stuck this vile smell, similar to the aroma of rotting meat and decomposed carrion. - I was there at the birth... The inspector deliberately pronounced these words loudly and clearly in order to understand that he was no longer sleeping and was really at home. However, this did not make much sense, because the familiar interior of his apartment was revealed to his gaze. Here are his clothes hanging on the back of a chair, here is the remote control lying on the floor next to the television, and here is the window outside of which it was already light... But a delirious thought crept into Galbraith's mind that the creature from his nightmare did not disappear with the dream, but materialized somewhere in the depths of his room... - Come on out, newborn, try to devour your obstetrician! - he shouted as loud as possible. But, as he thought, kleisterkind did not crawl out from under the bed on its clawed paws, did not rush from the next room, and did not even burst straight out of the ceiling - for there has never been such a case where, upon waking up, a person dragged the inhabitants of his dreams into the real world. Getting out of bed, he immediately went to the bathroom. Looking at own sleepy face, Galbraith wanted to shave. Without thinking twice, he soaped his cheeks and took the razor in his hands, however, as soon as the inspector brought the blade to the skin, he immediately felt a sharp pain. Putting the razor back in place, he washed his face and, watching as a red stream began to flow from the wound on his cheek, noted with displeasure, that apparently he will have to continue to embarrass his colleagues with this stubble. And how did he manage to cut himself like that? Had his nerves completely gone from the nightmare, since his hands were shaking so much? There wasn't a scrap of food in the kitchen. Going to work hungry was not an option... Then Galbraith decided not to go to the department yet, but to run into a small establishment, which was located in the basement of a house on the other side of the street. Usually, local residents went there in order to knock back a glass of something intoxicating and, waving their arms, be drawn into a group of similar visitors and begin to twitch to the gaudy music that flowed from the loudspeaker hanging on the ceiling. But still, this establishment was famous not only for dances - there he could have a snack for a small amount of something tasty and, most importantly, high in calories. At least, this side was well known to Galbraith himself - he wasn't sure that anyone else would seriously go down the steps to this bar for a hot sandwich or a small plate of salad. Dressing for going out, inspector continued to think about that grotesque baby creature from his nightmare. Remembering how the kleisterkind, sensing a human, took a hunting stance, Galbraith concluded that it was the cub of some kind of predator. Apparently, the hunting instinct of this species was so developed that, in fact, as soon as they emerged from their mother's womb, these creatures were already sniffing out their potential victims. The only thing that was unclear was how they were supposed to move. How quickly that kleisterkind attacked inspector was a happy coincidence - the victim was very close to the place of birth, and this distance could easily be reached by jumping. But how did it hunt in its adult form? Although Galbraith was weak in biology, this did not stop him from believing that it was unprofitable for a predator to exist without strong hind limbs, because it was necessary to somehow develop speed in order to catch up with the fleeing prey. Apparently, the only way out for that newborn was the opportunity to fall into the hands of some compassionate scientists, who, having neutralized him for a while, installed mechanical prosthetic legs into his back part of the body. Galbraith painted this image in his head. Yes, he thought, such a creature would be worthy to come out from under the brush of Hans Giger... By the time Galbraith had already gotten dressed and went outside, he had finally finished thinking about his essentially meaningless idea about the creature that he had seen in his dream. This morning the sun was still shining brightly in the sky, with not a cloud in it. It wasn't hot yet, but inspector was pleased to walk down the steps leading to the bar - he wanted to find himself there as soon as possible, in the air-conditioned basement (but at a much more reasonable power level than in that grocery store where was the pickpeanut). As soon as he crossed the threshold, Galbraith was immediately struck in his ears by the loud sounds of the piano, to the accompaniment of which the young singer's cheerful baritone sang with some unprecedented tenacity that there is something more than a party. The inspector thought that the owner of the establishment apparently did not give in to fashion trends if he played a song for his guests that was already eight years old. He remembered how, when he first flew to America by plane (he was a hungry and thin student at the time), he heard the music of these guys playing in the airport. Then he did not attach much importance to it, but he remembered the intonation with which the singer, invisible to his eyes, sang something to the accompaniment of a cacophony of synthesizers. And now, being a police inspector, it seemed to Galbraith that there was some kind of message hidden in the lyrics of this band, and in the strange combination of sounds that made up their melodies, was the whole point of their collective creativity... There was no one at the round tables that stood in this basement room. This is understandable, most people come here to hang out to the music with bleary-eyed eyes at the end of the day, and not to have a snack before work (which is what inspector wanted most now). Galbraith, who was already approaching the purple lights of the counter, had a thought flash through his head, it's quite funny that the owner played such upbeat music to an empty hall. With his long legs, the inspector did not need to stand on tiptoes to sit on the high three-legged stool. In the past, when he was still a loud boy, during physical education classes, during formation, the instructor often jokingly praised him, saying "Be proud, guy, you very first in the line!". Such attention to his otherwise modest person embarrassed little Galbraith, and he, blushing, did not answer these jokes. But those wonderful school years passed, and now no one with whom inspector had to deal even thought of giving him a compliment in honor of his tall stature. This led Galbraith to sad reflections that school is not yet life in society, it would be much more accurate to compare it with a greenhouse, where, before being sown into the rough soil of real adult life, tiny shoots of future people grow in tiny pots and, according to a schedule, receive the necessary for them water (discipline) and light (knowledge). In his childhood, Galbraith often wanted the education system to undergo a radical overhaul, so that the young children and he himself, first of all, do not have to sit at a desk that spoils his posture in a stuffy classroom and, under the threat of grading a particular numbers, engage in senseless waste of paper and ink... As soon as inspector took his place at the bar, the bartender, who seemed to be dozing all this time, immediately shook himself and, taking out a glass, asked his first visitor that morning: - What'll it be? Maybe "Brown Horse"? - he meant whiskey. - No thanks, better gave me a warmed beer, - Galbraith said imposingly. - One moment, - answered the bartender Keeping a stony expression on his face, man put away the glass and, placing a beer mug in front of the visitor, took out from somewhere under the counter a glass bottle full to the brim of a pale amber liquid. Having filled the mug to the brim, he placed the mug with the skill of a magician into the microwave oven behind him. Inspector did not take his eyes off the bartender - he was pleasantly fascinated by how gracefully he moved, how deftly he managed to handle all these glasses, bottles and other attributes of this place. - Here's your order, - said the bartender as he placed a slightly heated mug on the counter in front of the customer. Galbraith took a sip, and a pleasant, intoxicating warmth spread through his veins. Trying to drain the mug as slowly as possible, he began to imbibe alcohol with enjoyment. How long has it been since he went to this bar to treat himself to his favourite drink... Suddenly Galbraith shuddered. Carried away by drinking warmed beer, he did not notice at all what was happening around him. - Excuse me? - as if emerging from a deep bottom to the surface, he asked in surprise. - Would you like to eat a little? We're having pizza today, the time is right, - the bartender helpfully suggested. - Pizza? Inspector did not seem to understand a word of the speech his interlocutor was making. - You're referring to breakfast? - it finally dawned on him. - Yes, of course, give me a piece. The bartender nodded and retreated somewhere behind the counter. Galbraith, looking at the almost empty beer mug, remembered why he even stuck his nose into this establishment early in the morning. Yes, the morning meal is what he needs now. In fact, he shouldn't go across the whole city to his police department on an empty stomach... His train of thoughts was interrupted by someone's careful touch on his shoulder. Galbraith, who still did not feel quite fit from hunger, slowly turned to the one who had disturbed him. It was just a steward. The inspector looked him up and down with a dissatisfied glare. - Sorry, mister... - young man said quietly. The steward was clearly uncomfortable with the fact that he had to disturb this gloomy man almost two heads taller than him. - What are you standing there for? - inspector addressed him good-naturedly Galbraith immediately stopped glaring at the guy, but he continued to shake slightly with fear. - Are you inspector Galbraith? - steward asked hesitantly. - Do we know each other? The inspector began to remember whether he had seen this guy with a big nose and thin cheeks before. No matter how many times he came here, there was always an adult and lean man serving dishes... Galbraith concluded that his son must have come to work instead of him today. - No mister, just one man ask you to answer the phone, - the guy exhaled as he said his last words. Inspector glanced at the counter - the bartender was still not there. - Okay, hold on a minute. I ordered pizza, could you ask to wrapped it a to-go? - he shouted to the steward, who was already leaving for the distant tables. - All right, I'll tell mister Anderson, - referring to the bartender, guy answered without a hint of timidity. "Times are shifting", inspector thought about the young steward and, mentally wishing him success in his career, headed to the telephone booth. It was dark there - the lightbulb hanging on the ceiling gave no light at all. The owner forgot to screw in a new bulb to replace the burnt one, Galbraith thought mechanically, raising the phone receiver to his ear. He was a little deaf from the music in the main room, so when he answered the phone with a businesslike "Inspector Galbraith is on a wire", he did not immediately hear the quiet voice of the caller. - Who are you, I'm sorry? - he asked - Schaeymoure bothers you, - a soothing aged voice came from the speaker When Galbraith finally realized who the person on the other side of the line was, his heart involuntarily responded with a resounding beat to the sound of that name. - Forgive me, mister chief inspector, it's just hard to hear here, - he began to make excuses. In this phone conversation, Galbraith, perhaps for the first time in his entire career as a police inspector, allowed himself to lie to Schaeymoure. The lie was that in fact there was no sound reaching the telephone booth from the main room of this basement bar. Galbraith took such liberties in his conversation with mister chief inspector for the simple reason that he wanted to justify his own inattention ans click those heels to the situation that allegedly interfered with him. Fortunately for him, mister chief inspector Schaeymoure did not care about the conditions in which his subordinate was now. He, without listening to the end of Galbraith's pathetic excuse, made his request to him: - Galbraith, I would like to meet you. These seemingly harmless words of chief inspector made an unexpected impression on Galbraith. For a moment he felt a pain in his right ear, as if his eardrum had been pierced by the point of a very fine needle. It got dark in his eyes... - Roger, mister chief inspector, - Galbraith answered, leaning his free hand against the wall of the telephone booth. - When I'm... - I would prefer not to postpone the meeting. Do you have time? - I'm all yours, mister chief inspector, it's only morning. - That's good, I don't want to delay this until tomorrow. So you can? - Yes of course. - Excellent. You know where I live? Galbraith wanted to answer "How would we know this?", but he restrained himself from this nervous outburst in time. But really, why on earth would he know the address of the chief inspector? And, for that matter, why don't they meet at the police department in his office? Why this conspiracy? - Not, but I'm... Inspector was ready to find the address of the chief inspector among the heap of papers in the department, but his interlocutor did not let him finish. - Do you have something to write on? - Wait a second... Galbraith began to look in his pockets. Yes, there it was, his small notebook, which he took out when he needed to write down someone's home number or address. - All is ready, dictate. Holding the receiver between his ear and shoulder, inspector pressed the notepad against the wall of the telephone booth and, taking out a pen, prepared to write down. - So, write - Rollo, fifty five. It's very close to Portland State University. Rollo street, fifty fifth house. Galbraith, trying not to drop the telephone receiver, wrote this address in large letters in his notebook. As he printed out the last digit, he heard Schaeymoure ask: - Can you come immediately? Inspector, closing the notebook and putting it in the inner pocket of his jacket, grabbed the receiver in his hands. - Yes, mister chief inspector, I will try to come to you as quickly as possible. - Maybe you will be more comfortable in one or two hours? - I can do it any second now. - Okay then, Galbraith. Waiting for you. He forgot to say goodbye - mister chief inspector Schaeymoure had already finished the call. Galbraith returned the telephone receiver to its rightful place and, straightening his tie, left the telephone booth. Having crossed the threshold, he felt a slight tingling in his eyes - standing in the darkness the entire conversation, he is somewhat unaccustomed to the light. Music was still playing in the bar room. The aggressive piano chords were joined by a strange industrial screech - as if a train was stopping its movement. Getting used to the daylight, Galbraith almost came face to face with the young steward. He, seeing the inspector entering the hall, stopped and, with a slight nod, pointing to the bar counter, cheerfully reported: - Pizza is ready, pick up your order. - Thanks to you... - Galbraith wanted to address the steward by name. - My name is Lawrence, Lawrence Wilcox, - the guy told him cheerfully. - My gratitude to you, Lawrence. Say hi to your father! - And what is your... - now the guy wanted to know the name of his interlocutor - Just call me Galbraith. Your dad always served me in this place. Galbraith walked up to the counter. On it lay a quarter of a thick flapjack wrapped in a sweaty plastic bag, which was generously smeared with ketchup. There was also grated cheese, baked at high temperature, under which were hidden two pieces of bacon. Sparsely, thought inspector, for whom the mere sight of this food was enough to begin to reproach himself for falling for the advertisement of the bartender who was trying to push clearly stale goods to his customer. - How much do I owe you for this? - Galbraith, in no hurry to take the package in his hands, turned to the bored bartender. He took the price list in his hands and began to count in his head. At the same time, the veins on his forehead visibly swelled. Finally, he told the buyer the amount. Good grief, Galbraith thought, for one unfortunate glass of beer (albeit warmed) and a tiny piece of pizza, he needs to give the same amount of money as he usually spent on his purchases at the grocery store. It's not that the inspector was particularly greedy and stingy - no, inspector just felt a little uncomfortable paying for food that takes five minutes to eat, the same amount of money as for supplies for three days. But nothing can be done, the rules of the market are the law - as a person working in the police, Galbraith knew this very well. Galbraith's mood was ruined. Throwing the money on the counter, he grabbed a sweaty plastic bag and, going up the steps, began to unwrap it as he went. His first impression of this slice of pizza was correct - this cheap semi-finished product was barely chewable and none of its components had any taste. Maybe the point was that while the inspector was talking on the phone, the pizza had time to cool down, lying on the bar counter, but Galbraith didn't want to justify himself to himself for his own stupidity - since he fell for the advertising, got what he deserved... Without slowing down, he finished his breakfast without the slightest sense of appetite. Having crumpled up the plastic bag, he threw it into the trash can, which just happened to be on his way when he passed by the wall of a building. But then suddenly the aftersound of some lively discussion reached his ears. Brushing the crumbs from his moustache, the inspector turned off the road into a small alley. There, in a small nook, two cars stood in the parking lot - a brand new silver Buick Skyhawk and a nondescript red Eagle Premier. Three African-Americans, dressed in some ridiculously large colourful suits for them, huddled around them. The three of them had their eyes hidden behind huge black glasses, and their hair covered their white caps with backward peaks. "These are definitely fans of gangsta rap", Galbraith thought, slightly hiding. For some reason, he became interested in what these curious people were talking about in this secluded place. The tallest of this gang pointed his finger at the fat man standing opposite him and said angrily: - Call me "jerk" again, and I'll park your truck dead in your arse! The one to whom this remark was addressed pulled back and, turning to the short man standing on his left, said to him in a low voice: - Bud, I'd bust this s**t right now. - He ain't gonna bust nothing, - the tall African American man said boastfully. - I got nuts bigger than him, - the short one said calmly. - Whoa, country-clod, maple-syrup mutt! It was the tallest of the gang who raised his voice again, who after this remark suddenly pulled out a pistol shining silver from the pockets of his wide pants.The two who stood opposite him did not take long to wait and also pulled out their firearms. Unlike their opponent, their friends had black and compact Colts. - Yeah, you want some biscuits? - shouted the short one. - You want some biscuits? - his fat friend echoed him. - Suck it down! - yelled their opponent. "Just a little more and they'll shoot each other with their pistols", Galbraith thought. Imagining how these three African-Americans would simultaneously fall to the ground with holes in their heads, he laughed loudly. This saved the gang from their feud - they, forgetting about enmity, all turned in his direction as one. The muzzles of their guns were now facing the inspector. - What does this white-skinned a*****e allow himself to do? - the tallest one screamed. - No doubt, he just hitting on us! - the short man answered him. Galbraith, considering that it was now better to retreat, did not spend much time persuading himself - he, trying not to show fear at gunpoint of three pistols, slowly walked forward along the street. The fat man's cries of "Hey, where are you going!" could still be heard in his ears, but, strangely enough, not one of this warlike trinity followed him - apparently, they just wanted to drive away the passerby who was interfering with their disassembly. Convinced that the three gangsta rap fans were not going to follow him on his heels, Galbraith slowed down. Having satisfied his hunger, he no longer felt as sluggish as when he left the home. Now he was walking along a gradually narrowing street. The thought arose in his head that this nook in the center had not been rebuilt, probably since the nineteenth century - so unkempt were the walls of the awkward buildings in which the shop windows shone. The inspector walked next to the display window, behind which stood mannequins dressed in ball gowns, and, passing under a concrete arch, turned into a deserted passage. Now he didn't know where he was, but after yesterday Galbraith chose not to contact the metro - it seemed to him, that if he went there again, this strange man would be waiting for him there again, who looked as two drops of water like mister Yonce, who was lying in the hospital. Deep in his thoughts, Galbraith noticed out of the corner of his eye that another person had appeared in the passage. It was a tall and thin man who gradually approached the inspector himself. The latter had no time to pay attention to a random passerby, but purely instinctively he tried to keep the person in his field of vision.Was it really the primitive instinct of a hunter, or a habit acquired during work in the police, but be that as it may, Galbraith decided that it was better not to relax - for in this passage, in which the further from the entrance it became darker, for some reason he felt uncomfortable being in it. The passerby was already very close. Raising his head, Galbraith noticed that he had slowed down a little. Hmm, he thought, why would he... They simultaneously stopped a few steps away from each other. Inspector, trying to look at the stranger standing in the darkness of the passage, gradually stopped thinking about yesterday's incident in subway. Something was wrong with this man, Galbraith thought, what made him freeze in one place like that? Was it really out of surprise that besides him, someone else decided to follow this path? After waiting for half a minute, the inspector got tired of standing in one place and he moved forward, but suddenly the toe of his loafer came across something invisible, preventing him from moving further. Galbraith realized that this strange man was himself - for it was a reflection in a mirror that, for some incomprehensible purpose, had been brought to the end of a dead end. But this did not reassure the inspector. He took a couple of steps back and raised his hand up, thinking that the double in the mirror would repeat his movements. However, this did not happen. He suddenly felt the same feeling of unease in his blood vessels as yesterday when he saw mister Yonce's doppelgaenger. Galbraith again took a step forward and, trying to get in the man, touched the cold glass with his finger. No, it really was just a reflection in the mirror, but why doesn't it repeat the movements of himself, but seems to be frozen in the same pose in which inspector himself was already a minute ago? Looking at this creepy double, Galbraith suddenly felt the ground under his feet begin to shake. What is this, an earthquake has started? The seriously alarmed inspector, shaking his head from side to side, began to feverishly look for a way out of the situation in which he found himself. All he wanted was to get out of this passage, but behind him, instead of a view of the street, there was only black darkness - Galbraith shouldn't have even tried to go in the direction he came from... Meanwhile, the temblor became more and more intense. Old plaster began to fall off the shabby walls. Galbraith had to step back - a brick fell right out of the ceiling and crashed to the ground, raising a little dust. This is already as much as seven points, the inspector thought, estimating the level of the earthquake. If only I... He didn't have time to think through this thought - he was shaking so much that it was not possible to cost guesses calmly. In a panic, cutting circles around the tiny area of the passage, he again glanced at the mirror, which inexplicably did not crumble into pieces during this earthquake. The figure of his own reflection continued to stand in the same place and in the same pose, but Galbraith was much more worried about what was beginning to happen behind the back of the mirror double - from there, from a brightly lit street, a wave of dark red colour suddenly surged. The liquid looked somewhat like seawater mixed with blood. Galbraith turned around - there was nothing behind him, just complete darkness. He turned back to the mirror - there, from the street clearly visible from here, a huge wave continued to approach his double. What in God's name is going on? Is this a hallucination? His thoughts were in chaos. The inspector no longer tried to draw any conclusions - he simply rushed about in this trap, like a beast corralled for slaughter. He looked at the mirror again and almost fainted - a wave of dark red liquid, which had already gotten close to Galbraith's reflection, rushed towards the inspector himself with a deafening sound of broken glass. He felt how this water flooded him from head to toe. His nose and mouth began to fill with liquid, which gave off a disgusting smell of blood. Trying not to suffocate, Galbraith began to frantically wave his arms, as if trying to swim to the surface, but he, unable to resist the power of this element, surrendered to the wave, which immediately knocked him to the ground... *** He woke up to someone's hands slapping his cheeks. It was difficult for him to open his eyes - it seemed that the eyelids were cramped. It's good that he's at least able to move his hand... He held it out somewhere forward and felt someone take his hand in theirs. - I can't believe I'm losing you. Or maybe not? - finally, a someone's voice reached Galbraith's ears. He wanted to answer a person invisible to himself, but his tongue also seemed to be numb. He tried to move his neck. Everything seems to be fine, no vertebrae are broken... - Stop bang the head, come on get up! It finally dawned on inspector who the voice belonged to. Galbraith was finally able to open his eyes - he was lying on the ground, near the display window, behind which stood those same mannequins in ball gowns. And his friend bent over him, who, noticing that he had finally come to his senses, smiled. - Looks like you was off, bud! - said Pharqraut with some reproach. - Sorry, what's wrong with me? - Galbraith asked him, slowly getting to his feet. - Let's go sit in the shade - his friend ignored it. - Because the heat is fierce... Taking the inspector by the shoulders, Pharqraut headed towards a nearby bench. "So strange", Galbraith thought, "When I passed here even before this strange earthquake, I didn't see a single bench nearby... What really happened?". Pharqraut seemed to read his friend's thoughts and said: - Yes, I'm going about my deals, and I see you standing in the alley, looking at some rappers. When you laughed and began to run away from them, I decided to follow you - you never know, I'll have to protect you from these trinity. And I noticed that you turned into a dead end. Well, I think that my friend, out of fear, without understanding the road, went wherever his eyes looked. I follow you and see that you are running circles in front of the mirror, like a dog that wants to catch its tail. I run up to you, and you open your mouth and your eyes are so bulging. I figured that you'll be swinging. I couldn't find any other way to stop your madness other than to hit you over the head and drag you out here. Having finished his story, Pharqraut exhaled and looked at Galbraith. - You don't got a headache? - his friend asked with concern. - No, it doesn't hurt, - answered the inspector. - I just couldn't open my eyes or move my tongue. - Probably numbness, or some sort of a paralysis. How did you even get into this condition? Maybe you injected yourself with something, huh? - Go take your narcotics away somewhere else, Pharqraut, you know me... - with some resentment, Galbraith began to make excuses to him. - What other word is there for it? Do you really want to convince me that you were so scared of those three African-Americans that you decided to hide from them in some dead end and, thinking that no one would see you there, you gave vent to your nerves? - I'm not going to persuade you, bud... - In this case, tell me what you yourself felt at that moment. - I swear narcotics have nothing to do with that, - Galbraith began. - I just left the bar and, on my way to Rollo Street, I happened to pass by an alley where three gangsta rappers were preparing to shoot each other over some trifle. I laughed to distract them from this idea, and calmly walked on. And, not knowing that this was a dead end, he entered the passage. But I'm afraid you may not believe what happened next... - I'll believe you, don't worry. Okay, continue. - Okay. In the passage, I came close to the mirror and suddenly noticed that my reflection did not react to my movements. And then I felt an earthquake begin. I wanted to run back, but everything was blocked behind me. And then a wave of blood poured out of the mirror onto me. Choking, I lost consciousness. Thank you for, as it turns out, following me all this time. - Don't consider me your guardian angel, buddy. Well, you've taken a great trip... - You still think it's a narcotic? - I don't think so anymore, I just can't describe your incident any other way. Good, come quickly... Pharqraut, wiping his hands directly on his jacket, rose from the bench. After him, after a little hesitation, Galbraith stood up. They headed towards the exit of this alley, approaching the road where cars were racing at full speed. Suddenly the inspector stopped. Noticing his friend's puzzled look, he replied: - Wait a second, I think my shoe is untied... He sank down and suddenly it dawned on him that he was wearing loafers. God, why did he feel like he was wearing new shoes now? Galbraith looked up and suddenly became speechless - Pharqraut with his head thrown back, fell slowly to the ground. Several holes were clearly visible on his white shirt, from which blood began to ooze. Rushing to help his friend, the inspector noticed a black sedan driving past them, from the back door window of which someone's gloved hands were pulling into the cabin a long barrel of a weapon similar to a semi-automatic gun... What happened after, Galbraith no longer remembered because of the shock that gripped him at that moment from the loss of someone close to him. It seems that some spectacled guy with curly hair then called an ambulance, then the orderlies arrived and put Pharqraut's already motionless body on a stretcher and, in front of Galbraith's eyes, took him away in an unknown direction... He also remembered that, trying not to give way to tears, he slowly walked somewhere from that place, and some girl in a blue dress, from under which a pink sweater was visible, loudly said "Why is this ajussi crying?". He remembered how her father, whose face amazed him with unusually long cheekbones, holding daughter's hand, told her reproachfully "Shelby, how many times do I have to tell you - do not comment on passers-by!". Inspector, who was seriously embarrassed by the words out of the mouths of babe, decided to get into a taxi so that no one would see his rare tears... Despite such a shock, he, being a policeman, felt that he needed to be responsible for his words to the senior rank, so, settling into the back seat, Galbraith said to the young guy behind the wheel "Rollo, fifty-five" and, trying to suppress the memory of his friend's frozen pale face, he threw his head back on the seat (much like the doppelgaenger he saw yesterday on the subway)... By the time the taxi driver brought the inspector to the small but neat one-story house of mister chief inspector Schaeymoure, the time was already approaching evening. Galbraith, getting out of the taxi, at parting gave the driver a tip and, approaching a low wooden fence, pressed the bell button. A couple of minutes later the gate opened and Schaeymoure, who was dressed in discreet blue pajamas (which made it difficult to think that this short, elderly man was none other than the chief inspector of Portland's police himself), let the guest in. The owner, apologizing to Galbraith for his appearance - according to him, he had just woken up from a lunchtime nap, - walked him to the living room and, pointing to two large armchairs upholstered in green fabric, invited Galbraith to sit down. The latter did not remain in debt - sitting down in the chair that was closest to the fireplace behind, he began to wait until mister chief inspector pulled out from a luxurious sideboard a box of fresh cigars, as well as a bottle of some dark brown liquid and two glasses. - Now, let's just get right into it, - Schaeymoure said in a cheerful tone, looking at the pleasure with which guest puffed on his cigar. - Well, what's at stake of our today's meeting? - Galbraith had almost completely gotten rid of the oppressive mood caused by the incident at cryptic passage. - Yes, this is it, - mister chief inspector nodded to the bedside table that stood on his left hand. Galbraith looked in that direction more closely - on it lay a familiar stack of white photocopied sheets. - What, are you want me to recite to you by heart everything that is written there? - Galbraith said with some mischief. At the same time, he took another puff, not failing to note to himself that these cigars were definitely excellent... - Well, Galbraith, there's no need for that. I already know this document perfectly from line to line, - his interlocutor answered with some mystery in his voice. - I'm more interested in what you think of its content. Mister chief inspector Schaeymoure looked carefully at his guest. He felt a little uneasy. Time and time again this man looks at him as if he is trying to penetrate his flesh and blood and read his thoughts... Galbraith put out his cigar and, putting it in an ashtray on the small table, said: - Forgive me generously, mister chief inspector, but I, whatever that is... He tried to find words with which he wanted to express his complete ignorance of what was written on those sheets by the hands of his friend. - So, what's next? - Schaeymoure tilted his head slightly. - I... I haven't read the Pharqraut's case, - Galbraith blurted out. His subconscious was preparing for the fact that these words of his would be followed by some kind of punishment. Maybe they'll scold him, maybe they'll just start reproaching him for laziness... But mister chief inspector Schaeymoure heard these words, simply lit a new cigar and, blowing out a ring of smoke, said almost peacefully: - It's nice enough. Will be better check it out already under the influence. "What? Under what influence?" Galbraith wanted to ask what Schaeymoure meant by this, but he, pouring the liquid into glasses, offered it to his guest. - Be sure to try Pimm's, fruit liqueur. Ideally, you should drink it with some fruit, but I like it on its own. I hope you appreciate it in value.. Galbraith picked up the glass and raised it to his mouth. Subtle taste of spices... Yes of course, mister chief inspector will not drink any applejack... - Something that is familiar... - having tried a new drink for the first time, Galbraith fell into some kind of state of ecstasy. - There's England's spirit, - Schaeymoure winked at him, taking a sip - England scent! - Galbraith, who found it difficult to describe the sensation that gripped him, agreed with this definition. - By the way, why did you decide to leave your fatherland? - mister chief inspector suddenly asked a question that was unexpected for his interlocutor. - Huh, why aske you? - Galbraith raised his head in shock. - Just idle curiosity, - having finished the first glass, Schaeymoure was already pouring himself a new portion. - Would you like me to entertain you during your evening aperitif? - as if addressing a friend, Galbraith said. - I understand your state of mind, - Schaeymoure decided to hush up this topic. - Let me share with you my thoughts on the Pharqraut's case? After all, your friend was a remarkable person, and I was always interested to know how he expressed his thoughts on paper. - Was... - muttered his guest Before Galbraith's eyes flashed again the facial features of Pharqraut, who was near death. - Are you are not satisfied with what I said about your colleague in the past tense? - mister chief inspector again gave his interlocutor a piercing look. - No, everything suits me, - said Galbraith. He thought to himself that did the chief inspector manage to get information about that Pharqraut is no longer alive. - Well, then it's a good, - Schaeymoure replied. - Then let me begin. And, putting the glass on the bedside table, mister chief inspector began to express to the guest his impressions of the material he had read. With his gestures, intonation and his appearance, he strongly reminded Galbraith of his philosophy teacher, whose lectures he had attended almost a decade ago... *** The inspector met the next morning in bed in his tiny apartment. The details of how he got to his home yesterday, when he finished an audience at the home of mister chief inspector Schaeymoure, completely flew out of his head. Apparently, the fruit liqueur that they drank together then had a detrimental effect on Galbraith's memory. Getting out of bed, he walked to his desk. A bundle of photocopied material of his friend's investigation lay in the same position in which it had been placed two days ago. Looking at these sheets, Galbraith recalled excerpts from yesterday's speech by chief inspector Schaeymoure. He seemed to say something about Pharqraut's extraordinary talent for extracting meaning from things, which to any other person would seem irrelevant to this or that situation. In addition, the young inspector impressed Schaeymoure by the fact that with just words he managed to describe his adventures in the places where the deaths of those four occurred in such a way that the chief inspector, in his own words, ended up there and saw them with his own eyes, despite the fact that he had never been there was not. "Big deal, the usual talent of a writer", thought Galbraith. He knew that his friend always showed promise of becoming a writer, but alas, doom decreed his life in such a way that he had to become a police inspector... And then, against his will, inspector's eyes filled with tears. He again watched as his friend slowly fell to the ground, as his face, on which the expression of horror was frozen, turned pale right before his eyes, and as his pulse ceased to be felt... Galbraith remembered that his friend was taken away in an ambulance, but where he was placed and what his final fate was, he could no longer know. And he didn't want to - because he was afraid that if he saw the cold corpse of his friend again, he might lose his mind with grief. It would be better if that event at the passage will remain for him the last moment that will be associated with closest friend... By the way, regarding the cryptic passage... Inspector, having washed his face and went into the kitchen, began to analyze that moment - immovable reflection, earthquake and blood wave... If he is to believe Pharqraut's words, then in fact Galbraith was simply rushing around in a panic at a dead end with a mirror - that is, those visions were not real events. His rational mind told him that there was no point in trying to understand the visions themselves - instead, he needed to get to the bottom of what caused them. Putting a pan of sausages on the stove, Galbraith decided to build on what his friend told him then - narcotics. The inspector had never taken a single mind-altering drug in his entire life, he was as sure of this as in, two and two are four. This means that there was a possibility that he took the psychotropic medication unknowingly. This could be possible, if in the food he ate before, someone had quietly added a dose of some hallucinogen. Having put forward this hypothesis, Galbraith suddenly remembered how he read in some book (if his memory served him right, it was written on the other side of the Iron Curtain), that in France there was a case where an anti-drug specialist discovered hashish in a pie that was served at an immodest price in one restaurant. And what was even worse that before this case was revealed, gourmets from all over the resort where that restaurant was located had been buying this delicacy for several years. Galbraith still remembered the name of that drug dish given in the text - "The X-Pies". Involuntarily, inspector began to remember that book. Small, slightly larger than his own notebook, bound in green cardboard, titled "The Word about A Rest". On its pages, the author spoke of advertising as a kind of "child of Satan", which supposedly seduces mere mortals into the path of sins. Apparently, Galbraith thought, it is typical for a resident of a communist power - talk about capitalism as a kind of Satanic discipline. Having drained the water from the pan and placed the sausages on a plate, Galbraith returned to his analysis of what influenced yesterday's incident in the passage. So, narcotics in food. What did he eat then? Armed with a knife and fork, inspector carefully cut the sausages into slices. Yesterday he left the house hungry. At a bar where he went for breakfast, he fell for the bartender's advertisement and ordered pizza. In fact, it turned out to be a disgusting semi-finished product that had neither taste nor smell. A worthy candidate for putting a pill or two of lysergic acid diethylamide in there... But for what reason? The bartender knew Galbraith well, who often visited his establishment - one might say, from the very first day he moved into the house on Abbouts st. Did mister Anderson suddenly come up with the idea to drug his client that day? Or even not just him - who knows how many people after him then ordered that pizza... This is the case if the narcotic was added at the food preparation stage - but then again, why would cooks suddenly mix psychotropic compound into the dough? Anything can happen, of course... Then the inspector's thoughts turned to beer, which he also ordered from the same bar. The bartender pulled that bottle from under the counter, which even then seemed somewhat suspicious to Galbraith. Unlike pizza, it's could easily have added a pinch of hallucinogen to the beer and, after waiting for it to dissolve, serve it to the client. Here it could also play into the hands of, that inspector asked to warm up the drink - even if grains of the substance were still visible in the cold beer, then with heating they finally went into liquid. But again, a regular customer and a narcotic, this somehow doesn't fit together... After eating all the sausages, Galbraith put the cezve on the stove - he liked to end breakfast with a mug of an invigorating drink. God be with him, with this bar, he thought. But how else could the hypothetical narcotic enter his body? He came up with the idea, which smacked of schizophrenia, that the mind-altering drug was in the very decanter that was standing on the table in the office of mister chief inspector Schaeymoure at the moment when Pharqraut was speaking about his investigation. The delusion of such a hypothesis was that, that, as Galbraith thought, a drug had not yet been invented that did not manifest itself immediately after entering the body, but only the next day, and even in a very suitable place for this - in some kind of dead end, far from strangers... Inspector removed the cezve from the stove in time - the foam bubbling from the neck almost flooded the burner. Having filled a small coffee cup to the brim, Galbraith began to wait until the drink cooled a little, because there was no pleasure in burning his tongue when the main thing in coffee (after the aroma, of course) is its indescribable, subtle taste. Galbraith never liked the tea - he even despised it, calling it "herbal decoction for people have no taste". He reached into the refrigerator for cream - alas, there was not a drop left on the bottom of the cardboard package. Nothing can be done, he'll have to drink empty coffee... Inspector was stumped in his analysis of what led him to that hallucination. His overly rational thinking did not allow him to admit mystic, and the drug theory fell apart like a glass vase falling to the floor. Galbraith, having drunk the first cup of coffee, was already reaching for the cezve in order to pour more, but a call from the next room forced him to get up from the table. He went to the telephone and picked up the receiver. - Hello! Go outside, a car waiting for you downstairs, - a voice unknown to him hurriedly minted words. - I fear you are making a mistake... - Galbraith began displeasedly, who was not at all happy that he was distracted from drinking coffee. - There's no mistake, inspector! - the caller interrupted him. - Dispatch call from Parkrose Neighborhood, they say suicide. Paramedics have already arrived at the scene and are waiting for the police. - Fine, give me a minute, - with these words he hung up. The caller did not introduce himself to Galbraith, but judging by the fact that he addressed him as "inspector", this was a person clearly connected with the police, and further words only confirmed this. Going out into the hallway, Galbraith sat down on a stool and began to put on patent leather shoes, because he decided that for the sake of an important moment it was worth wearing shoes that were more impressive than loafers. Remembering the coffee that was cooling in the cezve, he sighed and, leaving the apartment, ran down the stairs. At the entrance stood a familiar square sedan. The inspector opened the back door and sat down next to the cheerful and rosy-cheeked doctor. Making the sound of a police siren, The Crown Victoria took off. Galbraith made himself comfortable and glanced out the window - the city had already woken up, children were already running along the streets, cyclists were riding, and occasionally people with loaded carts came across... "Oh yeah", he thought, "It turns out that while I was getting up, having breakfast and drinking coffee, everyone else had long since gone to work, and I’m the only sleepyhead"... Music was playing inside the car. Galbraith immediately noticed that this was a song from the same album, which was already eight years old. Only this was a different track - if the song that was playing in the bar was about parties, then in this one, to the accompaniment of very outdated synthesizers, the young singer, with some uncharacteristic insinuating intonation, told the listeners that he was counting his last minutes under the orange sky. This song is out of date, he thought - the red giant, which by its very existence terrified the entire capitalist world, has already de facto ceased to exist. The inspector, having read in the newspapers a month ago about the Soviet coup d'état attempt, already realized that the end of this tense confrontation was not far off. America, Great Britain and other countries belonging to North Atlantic Treaty Organization no longer had to fear that a nuclear apocalypse was about to begin... Galbraith was distracted from these political thoughts by the unexpected "No sex" to his ears, which crept into the lyrics of a song playing on the radio. Yes, in their youth these guys knew how to write texts that could surprise their listeners... - What, the music is bad? - the doctor sitting on inspector's left noticed his neighbour's displeased grin. - No, the song is pretty much okay, only its lyrics are shamelessly outdated, - having woken up from his trance, Galbraith turned to his interlocutor. - I'll ask the driver to switch channels, - said the doctor and, without waiting for his answer, turned to the sergeant Saussure who was driving Now, instead of music, there is an advertisement for bug spray on the radio. The announcer listed the advantages of the insect repellent with such extraordinary joy, as if he had inhaled laughing gas before the broadcast. - Well, that's better? - the doctor leaned back in his seat and winked at inspector. - To be honest, I really don't care, - Galbraith looked out the window. They had already left the city and were driving along the highway, on the sides of which there were trees, and only rare houses occasionally broke the monotony of this landscape, interspersed with rare power poles. There was something peaceful in contemplating this beauty. However, at the moment the inspector did not feel much pacification. - If you're thirsty, I will give you a drink, - the doctor pulled out a backpack from under the seat and began rummaging through it. - What have you got for me? - Galbraith, who still couldn't come to terms with being pulled away from his coffee, perked up a little. - Take a hold, - the interlocutor handed him a shiny vacuum flask. - Huh, nice, - Having opened the lid, Galbraith's nose felt such a pleasant smell for him. - Coffee with?.. - Sugar, just sugar, - the doctor, impressed by the inspector's smile, said this with obvious pleasure. Galbraith did not really like sweet coffee - personally, he always drank it only with cream and without sweeteners. But in this situation he had no choice. He placed the lid on his lap and brought vacuum flask to his lips. - Drink it down, I had a very substantial breakfast, - said the doctor, looking at how greedily inspector swallows the liquid with browned sugar. - Thank you very much, - Galbraith answered. He closing the vacuum flask with a lid - inspector decided that it would be better to leave some coffee for the return trip. Having given it to the doctor, Galbraith looked at the man sitting next to the driver. He did not see his face, but judging by his broad shoulders, the stranger was clearly a man with an unbending will. - Don't you know who this is? - inspector turned to his neighbour. - He's from the Federal Bureau of Investigation, - said the doctor. Then he leaned over and whispered in Galbraith's ear - A stern guy, but a little twitchy. The F.B.I man, whose sensitive ears had heard the doctor's remark, turned back. Galbraith saw the arrogant face of a young man whose features seemed to be carved from stone. He, clearly restraining himself from shouting at the good-natured doctor, just glared at him from under his thick eyebrows. "Yes", Galbraith thought, "This guy will not tolerate comments addressed to him. How do they even hire such people to the authorities? His nerves are totally shot"... - Mister Matt MacLaren, I would advise you to refrain from criticism of my person! - Galbraith heard the same voice that distracted him from breakfast. - We should have introduced you to our inspector somehow, - the doctor answered him cheerfully, on whom the stern glance from under his brows had no effect. The man reached at Galbraith, who was sitting directly behind him. The inspector wanted to rudely say to him "What are you staring at, shaver?", but he suppressed this desire. No, he definitely didn't like this guy in a strict black suit and thick eyebrows. - We have reached our destination, - suddenly the booming bass of the young sergeant Saussure, who was sitting behind the wheel, was heard. They got out of the car, and Galbraith, straightening the hem of his jacket, looked around. After the urban look of the center, it was a little unusual to be in the suburbs - no tall buildings, no bright signs, no mess of cars, only rare one- and two-storey cottages surrounded by wooden fences, tall grass with trampled paths and luxurious green crowns of trees... This rural idyll was slightly spoiled by an ambulance and a couple of police sedans standing nearby. Apparently the man from the Federal Bureau of Investigation they came here with, was only an aid to the head of the response service who had already arrived here. Galbraith, standing by the car and looking at the two-story house, for a moment remembered his childhood years spent in Gloucester. Father's wooden house, apple orchards, river... - Come now, inspector, - Matt lightly pushed Galbraith on the shoulder. - Come into the house. All four passed through the threshold of the gate. An elderly woman with a white scarf on her head ran out to meet them. - At last, a professional from F.B.I! - she shouted joyfully. Galbraith, standing next to the doctor, looked at like a man in a black jacket, giving this village simpleton a stern look, walked past her. The woman seemed surprised by that behavior of person form Federal Bureau of Investigation. She stopped in her tracks, looking after the man entering the house. - Can you explain to us what the exactly happened? - Galbraith turned to this woman. She, hearing the inspector's voice, stopped looking at the house and quickly turned to the speaker. At the same time, her face, furrowed with deep wrinkles, expressed some bewilderment mixed with annoyance. - And you are an inspector, as I understand it? - she said with some uncertainty. Apparently, it was a surprise to her that the Federal Bureau of Investigation would also send an ordinary policeman along with their man. At the first glance at her, Galbraith had the feeling that like she thinks the cops are worse than the F.B.I. guys - at least that's what one might think, looking at her face, which expressed barely concealed contempt for the one who appeared before her at that very moment. - I was called here like everyone else, - after a slight hesitation, Galbraith answered. By "everyone" Galbraith meant both the response service and himself, the F.B.I. agent and the doctor. The latter, by the way, at that time stood with his hands on his hips next to him, and with a slight grin looked at the woman with a scarf on her head, who, however, did not pay much attention to him, but simply raised her hands to her temples and took a deep breath, as if gathering strength. After that, she looked up at Galbraith. - All right, I got it, - she said with such a tone when in fact nothing is got. - Anyway, I'm walking past the Yonce's house and I hear a shot... - We should sit down and discuss it calmly, - Matt interrupted her. The woman, looking strangely at the doctor, went forward into the house, he immediately followed her. Galbraith, hearing a familiar surname, hesitated a little and ended up being the last to enter. They found themselves in the spacious hallway of a typical country cottage - There was a bench along the wall, above which hangers with clothes hung in several rows, a carpet lay on the floor, and vases with fresh flowers were placed in the corners of the hallway. - Are we to remove our shoes before entering the house? - Matt asked cheerfully - The weather is nice outside now, this is not necessary, - the woman answered boredly They went into the hall. On the left hand there was a staircase leading to the second floor, on the left there was a door leading to the living room. What immediately caught eye was a large mirror in a gilded frame, which hung on the wall near the threshold. The general decoration of the house suggested that the owner was a rich man. So, he thought, here is the house, where it all happens... He was torn from his thoughts by an old voice - a woman with a white scarf on her head began to talk about what had happened. - So, I heard a shot and, sensing something was wrong, I ran to the Yonces, fortunately the gate and the front door were open. - Did this seem strange to you? - Galbraith asked the woman, referring to her last words about the doors. - Of course. I thought that robbers had broken into their house. - Okay, go ahead. - I run into the house, and there, right next to this mirror, Ivette is lying on the floor... The woman with a white scarf on her head suddenly fell silent. Apparently, this picture was still standing before her eyes. It was not difficult for Galbraith to guess that the witness had missis Yonce in mind. - Let me guess - the lady of the house shot herself with a pistol? - said the inspector. - That's right... - the woman's voice trembled. - Parabellum was lying on the floor in front of her... - Did you see the bullet mark on her body? - I... I saw blood flowing from her forehead... The woman pulled out a handkerchief and put it to her eyes. It seemed like she was about to cry - Okay, madame... - the inspector expected her to say her name, but she did not hear his words - Well, what we are and will stagnate? - suddenly a stern voice rang out. From the bathtub, located directly opposite the entrance to the house, an F.B.I. man came out and approached the trinity crowded around the mirror. Galbraith looked at him. The agent's words - or rather, the intonation with which he pronounced them - seemed to him somewhat inappropriate in this situation. But the witness, hearing his voice, immediately blew her nose and hid her handkerchief. - So, that you have taken hereafter? - Galbraith asked. - I immediately went upstairs where the phone was, - the woman continued. - I called the police, they arrived with paramedics. - Has missis Yonce's body been taken away yet? - You should have seen their car outside, - the witness answered somewhat rudely - Very well, I understand. Suddenly Galbraith felt tired. He got tired of asking questions for no reason, as if the whole mood of the professional inspector had disappeared somewhere. He turned to the man from Federal Bureau of Investigation: - They were obviously waiting for you here more than me, so I'll get out of your way. The agent, who had previously stood quietly behind the woman, looked at Galbraith with some kind of contemptuous look and took over the inspector's initiative - that is, he began to ask questions with a hurried intonation to a woman with a white scarf on her head, and the latter was clearly much more pleasant to communicate with him, which was clearly audible in her much more confident voice than before. Galbraith went towards the bath, to rinse your hands and face after a long car ride, but, without taking even three steps, he suddenly stopped in place - he felt someone's intent look on him. His whole body froze, as if in a daze. But after a couple of seconds this strange paralysis passed. Galbraith turned his head and looked to the left - where there was a staircase to the second floor, covered with a fleecy carpet. There was a little girl standing on the top steps. Holding the carved wood railing with her left hand, she looked down with some apprehension at the policemen gathered in the hall. She was wearing a brown velvet dress with a pattern of orange circles, ending just above the knees, which gave the baby’s figure a touching and homely look. Her black hair was styled with such elegant simplicity, that Galbraith immediately made the assumption that she was apparently getting ready to go for a walk, but the sight of unfamiliar men gathered in her house made her freeze in place in indecision. Woman with a white scarf on her head, who previously answered questions from an F.B.I. agent, noticing the girl, she immediately turned to her and smiled. - Don't be afraid, it's just the police, come down! - she shouted to the child in a soothing tone. After that, woman headed towards the exit of the house, throwing over her shoulder: - Well, I got to go, messrs. I think the young lady can tell you anything else. The F.B.I. agent looked after her with obvious annoyance. Then he turned to the baby girl, who, meanwhile, was already slowly descending the stairs into the hall. With his arms folded across his chest, he slightly pushed the toe of his shoe forward and muttered inaudibly: - So, so, so... Galbraith, noticing some uncertainty on the face of the man from the Federal Bureau of Investigation, thought that he had apparently never had to interrogate children. The girl finally came down the stairs. It was clear from her face that she was afraid to come closer. Galbraith had a fleeting thought that she had apparently never seen strangers in the house. Well, yes, what kind of guests could her pharmaceutist father have, he wondered... - Your name? - suddenly the voice of an F.B.I. agent pierced the silence. The little girl pulled back - she was apparently frightened by the eagerness with which this tall, broad-shouldered man with a stern face addressed her. And he, lowering his hands, repeated his question again. Notes of dissatisfaction began to grow in his voice. Galbraith, who was already beginning to feel sorry for this unpleasant man, decided that he would have to come to his rescue, since otherwise they won't succeed to get a word out of this girl. Inspector, trying to walk as slowly as possible, moved towards the child. She, turning her gaze from the agent to himself, began to back away, to the stairs. Galbraith stopped and, trying to give his voice as gentle an intonation as possible, addressed her: - Don't be scared, sweetie. We just want you to gave us the essence of things. Good? The girl, who a moment ago was already preparing to run up the stairs, relaxed at the first sounds of Galbraith's baritone voice and even took a couple of steps towards him. The inspector exchanged glances with the F.B.I. agent, as if telling him "look at me do it!". - Will you tell us what your name is? - he asked the child. The girl stopped moving her head around and looked at Galbraith. Her eyes of an indefinite dark colour with some kind of cunning squint looked the inspector up and down and, as it seemed to him, sparkled brightly. She slightly bent her knees and tilted her head a trifle. - Delia, - the inspector heard her gentle voice. Having said this, the girl brushed aside a strand of hair that had fallen on her face and smiled at the inspector with her charming smile. Hearing her name, Galbraith involuntarily remembered Pharqraut - or rather, his investigation. After all, "Delia" is a name of Greek origin... - Listen, Delia, you won't say a few words about how your mom, well, that's the most... - he began - Ascended unto heaven? - Delia said suddenly. - Did she tell you that herself? - Galbraith was stunned by her remark. - Yes, - the girl nodded. - Mommy took daddy's gun and told me not to cry when she will ascend unto heaven. "Lord, what was going on here", Galbraith thought. "It feels like I'm not the only one who's been went mad lately..." - Did your mother never ascended before, when she giving herself injections? - a man from the F.B.I. intervened. Delia gave him a frightened look. - Do not listen to him, he was only joking, - the inspector immediately began to calm her down. Galbraith throw an angry look over his shoulder - "Don't talk nonsense, fool!". But the agent either ignored the silent message of inspector or just did not take it into account. Instead, he quickly walked up to Delia. - Tell me, where is your father? - man said loudly. The little girl stepped back. The agent came even closer. - Do you know where he might be now? - he continued, raising his voice. Galbraith realized that he needed to put an end to this so that sedition would not occur. He rushed at the agent with the agility of an athlete. He began to break away from the inspector’s grasping hands, continuing to look at the child. - Why won't you speak? - the man was already screaming. - Easy, tiger! - Galbraith hissed angrily in his ear. - If you don't know how to work with children and only attack them, then stay where you are and don’t interfere. It's clear? Delia laughed as if she had witnessed the funniest thing that could ever happen. Dimples appeared on her plump cheeks and her eyes sparkled. Apparently, the sight of a mustachioed middle-aged man clinging tightly to a young guy, had about the same effect on her as a fight between two monkeys at the zoological garden. She could be understood - a little girl would never dare to attack an adult full of life and energy, towering over her like a mountain. The sound of her gentle laughter had a beneficial effect on the man from Federal Bureau of Investigation. When Galbraith released him from his grip, the broad-shouldered guy with a confused look sank onto the bench that stood in the hallway. The rosy-cheeked medic Matt, who had been quietly standing by the mirror all this time, involuntarily clapped his hands. - Bravo, mister inspector, bravo! - he exclaimed with delight. Galbraith couldn't help but smile at Matt before he looked at Delia. The girl stopped laughing, and her face took on a calm, almost peaceful expression. - So, Delia, your mother's got the gun. What did she do before that? - inspector addressed the child Delia looked up at Galbraith and raised her hand to her head, apparently trying to remember what happened in the morning. About three seconds later she replied: - Before this, mommy was lying in bed. - Are you saying that... - the agent began, but inspector, shaking his finger at him, turned to Delia. - I went to her and asked when dad would be back. She said she didn't know and wept. "The pieces of the puzzle all start to come together", thought Galbraith. "The girl did not know where her father was, but her mother was already aware that he had been in an accident. Yeah..." - I began to console mommy, but she asked me to go for a walk. I didn’t want to leave her alone, but I obeyed, - Delia said. - And when did you return? - asked Galbraith. - After half an hour. I went home and saw mommy standing in front of the mirror. I asked her what she was doing, but she raised hand with the gun to head. - You said a minute ago that she told you something before that? - the inspector couldn't resist. - When mommy fell, I ran to her and she whispered to me not to cry. "I don't trust it", thought Galbraith. "Usually, after being shot in the head, a person is unable to utter a word..." - Was it true? - he asked little girl. - Her voice was almost inaudible. But I understood from her eyes what she wanted to say, - answered the child. - Okay, Delia. Inspector straightened his back and thought about what to do next. Baby girl, having told him everything she knew, now simply stood still and batted her long eyelashes. - Do you have relatives in the center? - then it dawned on Galbraith: - Relatives? - Delia didn't seem to understand what she was told. - Well, uncle, aunt, grandmother... - he began to list. - I only have dad and mom, - the girl answered. - From now on, it's only dad... - the inspector said gloomily - Appositely when will he come? - the child perked up a little - He's sick, he needs to get treatment, - Galbraith avoided a direct answer. In fact, it was the honest truth. Galbraith had not heard from the Adventist Medical Center, so he believed that her father was already on the road to recovery. - And when will he be cured? - Delia kept asking - I can’t say, the disease is serious, - he rasped. The inspector thought where else the child could be assigned, to keep an eye on her. They can’t leave Delia alone in this house, where before her eyes died the a person close to her. Not knowing what to do, the inspector grabbed the last obvious opportunity for him. - Do you have close friends or classmates? - he turned to Delia. For some reason the girl was confused by this question. Her cheeks flushed red and she looked down. Galbraith was not a psychologist, but this reaction made him think that the girl was clearly in love with one of her schoolfellows. Finally she decided to answer. - No, - little girl said briefly and clearly. - Nothing at all? Okay, not close ones, just your acquaintances? - Really, no! Delia's face suddenly sharpened and took on an expression of dissatisfaction. She even stomped her foot. - Okay Delia, I get it, - Galbraith answered in a soothing tone. Then he stretched out to his full height and turned to the doctor: - Well, this isn't good. Apparently, the guardianship authorities will have to be involved in this matter. - Don't look so glum. We have not yet made a request to search for her relatives. The young lady may not have known her parents' cousins or second cousins by sight, but this does not mean that she is alone in this world. - You're an optimist, Matt, I've always liked that about you, but here's a case... - All is not lost, mister inspector. - Suit yourself. But still, where should we place her until the circumstances are clarified? - You can talk to that woman, the witness. They, it seemed to me, knew each other well. "Nice idea", thought Galbraith, "But where did it go?". The inspector walked to the exit of the house and shouted to the young sergeant who was standing in the yard at the gate. - Sergeant Saussure, don't you know where that woman went? - Which one, mister inspector? - Well, with a scarf on her head.... - You mean Elsebeth Roselieu? She went out the gate and the trail went cold. - Yes, couldn't be better... Galbraith turned back, but Delia was not in the hall. - Matt, where's the baby? - he asked the doctor. - The girl went upstairs. Said she wanted to change clothes. - All right. I'll go away for now. Having said this, Galbraith entered the bathroom, which combined both a bathtub and a toilet. Having done his dirty work, he washed his hands and went back out. During the time that the inspector spent in the bath, Delia had already made her way down to the hall and was now standing next to the mirror. Matt spoke the truth - baby girl changed her dress, and was now wearing blue pants and a beige jacket with a zipper, under which a pink shirt was visible. - Where you're headed, if it's not indiscreet? - Galbraith was a little surprised by her change of clothes. The girl, putting the comb on the bedside table, turned away from the mirror and looked at man with some surprise. - Am I not coming with you? - she asked, shaking her head. - Well, you know... - the inspector hesitated. Then an man from Federal Bureau of Investigation approached Galbraith. It seemed as if he had been replaced - now this tall young man gave the impression not of a stern policeman, but of a quiet student at a cadet school. He addressed him respectfully: - Mister inspector, while you were in the bathroom, the telephone rang upstairs. I picked up the phone and was ordered to report to you to come to the police department immediately. - Curious... Did the caller not introduce himself? - hearing this, Galbraith again prepared for the worst. - No, but from the voice I determined that the subscriber was aged, - the agent answered obediently. "It's Schaeymoure, there was no doubt", Galbraith thought with some dissatisfaction. "Is mister chief inspector really so bored that he first calls me to his home, and then the next day to office..." - Approved, - Galbraith came close to the agent. - Now you listen to me. If I have now been ordered to leave, then I do not dare disobey the orders of my superiors, but I want you let this eat into your mind - if it's in your stupid head the idea to be rude to this girl will come again, I swear what am I will scrape you out from earth. You got that? - Roger, mister inspector! - the agent answered with such intonation as if he had been told good news. - Well, way to go. Man from Federal Bureau of Investigation came out into the yard. Galbraith, gathering his thoughts, went to the bedside table, which stood next to the mirror. His gaze fell on the photograph lying there among some clay cats and artificial berries. This photo captured all three of the this family - mister Yonce in a strict black suit, and on his left hand missis Yonce in a wedding dress. The woman was holding a baby wrapped in swaddling clothes in her arms - Delia, the inspector immediately realized. In the lower right corner was the date - May 20, 1981. It's curious, he thought, it turns out that the spouses decided to sign after the birth of their daughter... Galbraith, Without giving the report in the actions, grabbed this photograph and put it in his jacket pocket. And he turned around when he heard footsteps. Thank God it was Matt. The doctor, sweating profusely, turned to the inspector: - This guy told me that you are going to the police now, - he said in a somewhat tired tone. Well, good luck to you. "It seemed", the inspector thought, "That the doctor meant the man from the Federal Bureau of Investigation". - Thanks for saying that, Matt, - he said soulfully. Galbraith shook the doctor's hand and went outside. Delia stood near the gate, apparently waiting to be put into the car. The inspector, passing by her, caught her holy glare. His head over heels - Galbraith had a strange feeling that he was seeing this girl for the last time... - Then farewell, Delia, - he said briefly, walking next to her and going out the gate - What, you are leaving me? - the girl took two hesitant steps towards him.. - Stay here, but I need to go to the city. We'll take care of you, - without looking back, inspector said loudly. "Take care... Lord! if only..." Galbraith did not have time to think through this thought, because, rushing forward, he almost knocked some old woman to the ground. - Sorry, do you know how to get to the center from here? - In an apologetic tone, Galbraith turned to the nearly unconscious woman. - Did you are not a local? - she asked displeasedly. - You might have killed me! Without further ado, Galbraith showed her his police identifier. This paper, like a magic wand, immediately made the old woman bow to the inspector. - You can get to the center from here by bus, - the elderling helpfully explained. - You're just in time for... - Where is the stop? - Galbraith interrupted her. The old woman straightened her apron and began to talk, blinking her eyes. - Will you walk along this road, - at the same time she pointed her hand to the left. - Then turn right, go past the tobacco shop, and then go straight. When you hit the concrete barrier, turn left and there will be a bus stop... - Thanks, - the inspector nodded and started running. - You'll reach the city in about forty minutes! - the elderling shouted after him, but Galbraith no longer heard anything. When he got to the right place, he saw the bus standing still and the driver had already turned on the engine. Without stopping running, Galbraith began to frantically wave his arms, giving a sign. Soon he was standing in the middle of the cabin, tightly gripping the handrail with his right hand. Everything he experienced that day was mixed up in his head - analysis of the cryptic passage's incident, breakfast with coffee and sausages, song about nuclear war, drinking sweet coffee from Matt's vacuum flask, conversation with Elsebeth Roselieu - the Yonce's neighbour, training of man form Federal Bureau of Investigation and, of course, the eyes, the dark eyes of a ten-year-old girl, which were forever imprinted in his memory... *** Bang! The gun goes off. On a paper shooting target with a picture of a human silhouette appeared a small bullet hole, and a small cloud of smoke rose into the air. - Outside the bullseye again! - Galbraith said with annoyance, lowering his target pistol. - Imagine that you are aiming not at an abstract figure, but at your enemy, - his partner advised him. Having said that, mister chief inspector Schaeymoure took aim and pulled the trigger. The next shot rang out. The bullet hit the ninth circle. - Yeah, I have trouble keeping up with you, - the inspector said wearily. Galbraith, putting his target pistol on the table, glanced at the shooting target, almost completely riddled with bullet holes. Mister chief inspector followed his example. Then he picked up a rag and, wiping his hands on it, said: - Listen, Galbraith. I understood your health condition and decided to suit your sensibilities. - An if more specifically? - his interlocutor did not understand. - With this in mind, you must rest and relax. There will be no tasks until the day after tomorrow. - I am flattered, but... - the inspector was confused. - However, it is necessary. We are not machines, Galbraith. Policemen, like all people, also need recreation. I give you permission to spend one day as you please. - Well, I won't dare to disobey the your order. He made a somewhat theatrical bow and walked towards the exit from the police shooting range. Already closing the door behind him, he turned around. Mister chief inspector Schaeymoure stood in the same place, continuing to wipe his hands on an old towel. There was something so majestic in his whole posture, that Galbraith was suddenly seized with an almost sacred thrill, and he, putting his hands in the pockets of his jacket, resolutely walked away from the station. After walking a few blocks, the inspector found himself on the avenue and, glancing at the bright neon signs, turned up his collar and headed towards the subway station - now he didn't care whether he met that strange mister Yonce's doppelgaenger there or not. As a matter of fact, this is exactly what happened - as he thought, the subway trip went without any incidents. Having got off at the desired station, Galbraith noticed that he had run out of smoking. Without delaying this matter, he purchased them at the kiosk, which was located right there on the platform. He lit a cigarette and, taking a drag as he walked, headed towards Abbouts st. His soul felt light and calm as never before. Galbraith even felt like either a messiah or a saviour, who was sent to a well-deserved rest. Everything that had happened all day, in his opinion, was an excellent reason to go to the bar - It's not that there was anything worthy of special attention, it's just that the inspector at the moment wanted to immerse himself in the atmosphere of general fun. It was with this in mind that he went down the steps. This evening, the basement where the establishment was located was very crowded - despite the fact that by this time there were almost no people on the streets. Galbraith, who still clearly remembered that moment with the heated beer, decided not to experiment with the order and to the bartender's routine question "Brown Horse?" nodded his head affirmatively. Pouring the amber fusel-smelling liquid into his throat, he watched without much interest as the skinny guys jerked all their limbs to the synthesizer music coming from the speaker hanging from the ceiling... After some time, which Galbraith spent filling himself with cheap booze, he felt completely relaxed and, having already begun to nod off, moved towards the exit of the bar. On the street, for a couple of moments he remembered Delia and his own farewell words to her - "We'll take care of you". He'll probably should have called the police department and asked about the baby's fate, but, firstly, it was already too late, and secondly, the inspector really wanted to go to bed. When Galbraith had almost reached the entrance of his house, a heavy downpour began, and he, squinting from the headlights of cars occasionally passing along the street, involuntarily stopped in place, exposing his face to the streams of cold water. "Actually, it would be good to die, right here and now", thought Galbraith, looking detachedly at the heavy raindrops falling from the sky. "For me it's better than living to old age, without understanding anything in this life"... But common sense mixed with cowardice persistently told him that no, it's worth die only as a last resort, he can't give up out of nowhere, even if his soul really wants it, because life is a gift of fate that needs to be used as carefully as possible... When Galbraith entered his apartment, all his clothes were thoroughly soaked with water. Pulling off his tight patent leather shoes from his feet, he stood in his socks in front of the mirror and peered intently at his reflection. It was difficult for him to recognize himself in this creature, soaked to the skin, whose face, under the influence of alcohol, expressed only dull, almost animal indifference. - Is that really me? - escaped Galbraith's lips. - How did I end up like this? Continuing to look in the mirror, the inspector thought about how, if something happened, he could explain his condition to others. Well, don’t count an explanation the fact that, on the eve of one whole day of vacation, he decided - probably for the first time in his life - to get drunk until he lost his human appearance? Few will take this excuse seriously. Although, the inspector thought, this is not so scary - the main thing is not to forget that the day after tomorrow him will need to return into the workflow. In the depths of his soul, a premonition of something bad suddenly stirred and ached... He expected to meet the next morning with a hot head, a stuffy nose and a loss of strength, but what was the inspector's surprise when he woke up in his bed completely healthy. There was certainly nothing to indicate that he had spent the evening in the pouring rain yesterday. Galbraith even specially measured his temperature - 95 °F, the thermometer, unlike self-awareness, could not be fooled. Well, he thought, that means he will spend one day of his vacation in a great shape. As he sat down to breakfast, he thought that the reason he didn't get sick was because he had drunk at least ten glasses of "Brown Horse" in the bar before - It’s not surprising that with so much alcohol in his body, the cold simply fought back. Galbraith remembered that he simply threw off his wet clothes in the bathroom, without even bothering to wring them out. Thank goodness, there was exactly the same formal suit hanging in his wardrobe - at one time, the inspector specially bought two identical sets, realizing that he, a police inspector, should always appear in public in a manner that inspires respect. Having put on a new suit, from which there was a slight aroma of cologne, Galbraith looked in the mirror in the hallway - yes, now the thought will definitely not occur to anyone that last night this stern, mustachioed man had the chance to descend to the level of the most disgusting scum of society. He left the house without any plan for further action. Yesterday's drinking session was quite a "relaxation" - if that's how one could describe it. Galbraith have always loathed of gambling or looking for girls of easy virtue - one might say, he was horrified by of the mere thought that such a thing was even possible. So he decided to just take a walk around the city. Shaking off the dust from sleeves, the inspector walked up the street, looking around aimlessly and swaying slightly to the rhythm of a song in his head that he had heard back when he was a student at the Portland Police Academy. The weather was beautiful - as if there had been no rain last night. Only the almost dry puddles served as a reminder of this natural phenomenon. The view was complimented by children running along the sidewalks, ladies strolling, men walking importantly... Galbraith decided, as always, to keep himself busy looking at the signs - for some reason this gave him special pleasure. Maybe it was due to the fact that in the place near Gloucester, where he spent his childhood, he never saw shop windows or advertisements - for the shops he visited there were modest tents standing in the open air. At least that's how it was in the sixties of the twentieth century - what was happening in his homeland now, the inspector could not know due to many factors. Galbraith was attracted by the sign of a small pastry shop nestled next to The Faux Museum. There was a small sign on the glass that said "Closed" and some kind of telephone number circled in red pencil. But this was not what attracted the attention of the police inspector, but something completely different. There was a pink sign above the door, on which to the right of a beautifully depicted cupcake and a tall glass was written in large block letters "Beverages & Deserts". Galbraith rubbed his eyes - no, he was not mistaken - in the word "Dessert" the third letter for some reason went to the very end. Apparently, the owner of this pastry shop was an immigrant from behind the Iron Curtain, where is this word actually spelled with one "S", but Galbraith did not have time to finish his thought, because he, not noticing the curb, tripped over it. Another second, and he, having lost his balance, would have flown down onto the sidewalk wet from yesterday's rain. But he was lucky - someone's strong hands managed to catch him. He saw above him an elderly tanned face with a black moustache. - So, did you bent at such an early hour? - the man asked him with a strange accent. The mustachioed saviour put him on his feet and busily looked at the inspector. - No-no, I just was staring at that sign, - Galbraith said embarrassedly. - I know you Americans, it is the morning, the drinking, - the man answered calmly, stretching. The inspector wanted to answer that he was from England, but decided not to be offended by trifles. - Well, where are you from? - he asked this man a question. He wasn't sure if he really wanted to know, but don't really run away from here... - I? Ich bin Deutscher! - the man proudly blurted out in response. So that’s what kind of accent he had, Galbraith realized. He raised his head - it turned out that his savior was standing at a thick wooden door, above which hung a sign "Onkel Körble Lichtspielsalon". The last word vaguely reminded him of his native English "movie theater". - Are they showing a movie here? - Galbraith nodded at the inscription. His interlocutor seemed to be just waiting for this passerby to ask him about it. The German's huge lips stretched into a smile. - How else? For German immigrants, onkel Korble founded a small cinema here two years ago. The inspector thought doubtfully about what kind of cinema there could be in a room that had clearly previously housed a small store, but he decided not to show his mind. - And what films are shown here? - he asked. - In Deutsch, of course. However, if you don’t know our language at all, this is not a problem. - Can I come to the session? - Galbraith began to be overcome by curiosity. - You're just in time, last seat left. - All right, then I'm all in. Galbraith gave this German some money - as much as the ticket cost - and, opening the heavy door, entered a small but spacious hall. The decoration of this room alternated between wood and brick, and it seemed to the inspector who entered that the only thing missing to complete the ambience was stretched skins and other hunting trophies that could be hung all over the walls. However, signs of modern American life were also present in this dimly lit establishment - in the farthest corner there was a white canvas on a thick iron tripod, obviously it served as a screen. There were four rows of chairs in front of him. There were twenty seats in total, of which only one was free - ironically, it was located closest to the exit. The contingent that gathered in this low-ceilinged room seemed to consist exclusively of lean, middle-aged men with short black hair. More than half of them had a thin black moustache, like the usher standing at the exit. Galbraith involuntarily caught himself thinking that he was invited to this place not least because he himself had a short haircut and a moustache. It might well be possible that the usher had a liking for people of other nations who were in some way similar to his compatriots. While waiting for the film to be shown, the audience quietly talked to each other. The inspector, sitting down on a chair with a high carved back and a soft seat, listened to their conversation. Of course, he did not hear a single word of English - all those gathered, as the usher warned him, were Germans who, for some purpose, immigrated from their historical homeland to America, Das gelobte Land. Soon a click was heard above the heads of those gathered - apparently, a projector hidden somewhere under the ceiling began its work. Galbraith, having made himself comfortable on this chair, not the most suitable for watching a movie, fixed his eyes on the screen and from the very first frame found himself captivated by the mesmerizing spectacle. It was possible to say with confidence that onkel Korble - who, according to the ticket taker, founded this small cinema - did not skimp on ensuring that at the end of the session the audience, no matter how much they wanted, would not be able to forget this moving-picture show. From the very first frames the film promised something very mysterious and unusual - in the middle of the red desert terrain, which strongly reminded Galbraith of the views of Glen Canyon, a horseman rode. There was one detail in his appearance that immediately caught the inspector's eye - this young man had gray hair that reached his shoulders. The operator's camera slowly changed angles as the man continued to make his way through the red sands. The image was not particularly saturated, the screen flickered often, because of which Galbraith immediately realized that onkel Korble, who opened this establishment, simply played smuggled German Video Home System's tapes here. Being a policeman, he could easily charge the owner of the establishment with illegally showing films, but firstly, today was his day off, and secondly, he was so captivated by what was happening on the screen that he forgot to think about his responsibilities. Meanwhile, the film continued. A short man, dressed in tattered rags, joined the gray-haired horseman. Galbraith could not understand a single word of the dialogue that the characters were conducting among themselves, but there was no particular need for this. Soon these two entered some village, and guards appeared in the frame, dressed in some kind of ridiculous armour, as if made of cardboard. The long-haired man rebuffed them, and then suddenly there was such a sudden change of frame (accompanied by a loud stinger of synthesizer keys) that the inspector involuntarily shuddered in his chair. The red deserts were replaced by a view of black space, in which an iron octahedron with precise rows of dots symbolizing portholes on all surfaces slowly rotated between the white points of faces. Curious plagiarism from mister Lucas, flashed through Galbraith's head. Then the desert views returned again - accompanied by a woman's voice-over, the same long-haired man drove through incredibly squalid streets, where ugly clay statues stood. Then the action moved indoors, and now the cameraman generously filmed the interiors, which, according to the director’s idea, were apparently supposed to symbolize a medieval castle, but looked more like some kind of garbage dump. Ugly, disgusting people of both sexes moved among the yellowish stones, wooden posts and torn rags... Almost all the men had long gray hair, despite the fact that there were practically no old men among the extras - apparently, Galbraith thought, the actors were simply wearing wigs. Perhaps the only characters among this rabble who were more or less like normal people were the monks - they were all perfectly bald, wearing black robes, which in one short scene showed them running around a stone hall. According to the plot, apparently, they were looking for some manuscripts. Galbraith didn't really understand what was happening on the screen. It wasn't just that he didn't know German - it was difficult to simply understand what was going on in this film incarnation of Sodom and Gomorrah. Some half-naked women, loud, frail men - the inspector involuntarily realized that the only normal one among all the characters was that young long-haired knight who was introduced at the very beginning. Although, sometimes the action was transferred to a completely different place - as if the interior of a spaceship. There, next to the huge screen, which, as Galbraith understood, showed the view from the eyes of the protagonist, people dressed in long white robes with short hair walked. The actors playing them behaved somehow arrogantly - as if the director specifically wanted to create the impression that everyone in space was so perfect, but on Earth, on the contrary, they were dirty freaks. The inspector thought so because he thought that the main action takes place in the Middle Ages - this would at least be logical. Among all the actors who were involved in this film, the only person who was known to Galbraith was the one and only Werner Herzog. His character, dressed in dirty rags, was brought out of prison by that long-haired knight, but his screen time came to an end rather quickly - when Werner Herzog started shouting something at the camera with expression, a guard with a spear ran up to him from behind and the eminent actor fell to his knees as if knocked down. Galbraith even felt a little offended - after all, he was the only famous actor, but he was given such a tiny role... Then the director showed the audience the protagonist’s home life - in addition to a strange room with white walls, which apparently was some kind of laboratory, In the house of a long-haired knight there lived a boorish boy and a red-haired woman with a pretty face dressed in a dirty dress. For some reason, Galbraith immediately realized that she was the love interest of the main character. Then came even stranger shots - a long-haired knight came into some cave, where, pulling off his wig - without which the actor who played him looked somehow pathetic - waited until a helicopter painted in strange colours landed nearby. Lord, the inspector thought, what was going on in the director’s head when he made decisions about what to insert into his film... Then the environment of faceless characters was slightly diluted by a mustachioed black-haired man with a rough voice and a long sword. Galbraith involuntarily admired how this warrior started a fight in some tavern, and then began to drink together with the protagonist. True, then a rather vulgar scene followed, where that lady with a pretty face was roughly stripped on camera - the inspector involuntarily looked away when the cameraman began generously showing the audience her naked body. The fact is that Galbraith always believed that cinema is art, food for the mind, which should not indulge the base instincts of the audience... Then the screen showed how the protagonist gets into a helicopter and soars up. The scene of his flight over the red sands was remembered by the inspector as the embodiment of the brutality of the absurd. It was even funnier when the hero had to throw himself out of this flying colossus, which did not fail to explode graphically right in the air. Galbraith thought that this was probably a response to Hollywood - they say, while you blow up unfortunate cars on camera in your films, in our Germany we blow up entire helicopters! True, it was clear that the fire of the explosion was simply superimposed on the frame, but this was a problem for the special effects masters. Then there was a rather boring scene where the long-haired man and his girlfriend began to copulate. Thank God the director came up with an original move - this moment was demonstrated on the screen of a spaceship with a filter somewhat similar to the vision of the main villain from the hottest blockbuster of 1987. Yes, Galbraith thought, the creators of this film turned on their imagination when borrowing techniques from foreign cinema... For some reason, the inspector was even pleased when the protagonist’s beloved was captured by the guards. Maybe because the medieval instruments of torture shown during this scene shocked his imagination, or maybe simply because he wanted the film to no longer have erotic moments with this lady... The ending of the film was consistent with what happened on the screen before it. First, the villain - a small, dry old man - with one swing of his sword, cut off the head of a mustachioed warrior already known to the audience. Then, when he climbed the tower, the same tramp from the beginning of the film began to shoot at him from a blaster. After the old man fell down in a puff of white smoke, the tramp began to shoot everyone who stood around him. The actor was apparently told to feel like a mad monkey who was given a firearm in his hands. Then suddenly an octagonal spaceship began to descend from the sky, and the entire crowd began to theatrically fall to the ground - apparently, according to the plot, this should have meant that they were drugged with sleeping gas. People in white robes took the long-haired knight onto the ship, and the woman who led them gave her bracelet to the protagonist’s beloved. It was strange for Galbraith to look at all this bacchanalia, sitting on an uncomfortable wooden chair in a dark room, where besides him there were nineteen more foreigners smelling of sweat and cigarettes. But when the final credits began to roll on the screen, he involuntarily remained sitting in place while everyone else, briefly exchanging impressions, began to leave the hall. Apparently, it was in the song - very beautiful, slightly naive young vocals sounded under beautiful piano chords, and the inspector was surprised by the fact that the text was not in German, but in English. The song was about a certain man who had to live in a strange empire and play the role of Lord God. As the refrain sang, the latter was not an easy, but since the fire still burns, why not give yourself a chance... Galbraith understood that he shouldn’t delve too deeply into the meaning of the song, the main task of which was to be the musical background for the final credits, but the fact that it contained English words could not help but touch him in this place saturated with the German spirit... As the credits came to an end, Galbraith only now noticed that he was the only one still in the premises of the bootleg cinema. Stretching out to his full height, he stood up from the chair and, straightening his stiff muscles, left the dim room. The mustachioed German usher was still standing at the entrance. The inspector wanted to exchange a few words with him regarding what he had just seen. - Have you seen this film yourself? - he asked, handing the German a cigarette. - How could I not watch what I was going to show to the audience? - the usher responded with some resentment, accepting the gift. - Well, what do you think of it? - I have no idea if you know, but this director, to put it mildly, specializes in films for adults, so the creation itself is appropriate, - the usher replied, taking a drag. Galbraith remembered shots of half-naked women in the slums, two scenes with the main character's naked lover... Yes, it was difficult to disagree with this definition. - And if you dig little deeper? - the inspector did not let up. - So, it's actually based on a Russian book, - as if revealing some shameful secret, the mustachioed usher answered embarrassedly. - Have you read it? - Never had a chance. But experts say that the director did not understand its essence and ended up filming rare nonsense. "Nonsense... Well", the inspector thought, "Yes, it's hard not to resist using this word to describe the wild, absurd mixture of the Middle Ages, space and helicopters, generously sprinkled with ugly makeup on the actors and cheap scenery..." - If you're asking me about this film like that, does that mean it made an impression on you? - the usher taker himself decided to ask the question. - I like it, - Galbraith answered briefly. The inspector could not even expect what he would receive in response to this modest phrase. - Ha-ha! If you, an American, liked the delusional creation of not the best German director, then I'm even afraid to imagine the depths to which your own filmmakers have sunk! Galbraith involuntarily leaned against the wall. And the usher, stretching forward his hand in which he held a smoking cigarette, continued his speech as a critic. - The machine of your cinema consists more than entirely of parts stolen in Europe! You steal the worst ideas of our directors and make this, as you call it, a business out of it! Your cinema is not dead, it has been dead since birth! - the German spoke accusatoryly. "Maybe", Galbraith thought, "Could finally tell this proud German that, as an Englishman, it was funny for him to listen to an insult to a culture foreign to me?". Although deep down he understood that the usher did not care what nationality his listener was - he simply wanted to vent his frustration at the fact that, due to lack of work in his homeland, he had to smuggle in a country for which he had imbibed hatred almost with his mother's milk. - Okay, okay, I understand, - he said. - By the way, aren't you Korble himself? The usher stopped his anti-American ranting and looked at his interlocutor in surprise. - You are probably the first person to confuse me with onkel Korble! Every German here knows him! - Well, I'm not German, - Galbraith winked at him slyly. - I'm his right hand, if it hasn't dawned on you yet, - the usher hit himself in the chest. - Good luck staying here! - he waved his hand. The inspector walked down the street in a good mood, around him passers-by were scurrying back and forth along the sidewalk, excited about something. At that moment, the world seemed amazingly beautiful and attractive to him.A noticeable heat was already hanging over the city, the air was trembling, and it seemed that a barely noticeable glow was emanating from the city buildings. Just an optical illusion, thought Galbraith. For the joy he went into one of the shops spread throughout the city and bought a piece of smoked meat and a bottle of white wine - it's not like there's no food left in his refrigerator, the inspector just wanted to before falling into bed, sit by the window for a while and wash down finely chopped boiled pork with alcohol, look at the street, at the fallen leaves lying on the wet pavement and remembering everyone with whom he had at least some pleasant moments of his life. However, as soon as Galbraith stepped through the threshold of his apartment, he suddenly felt that the fun seemed to have disappeared from his head. Instead of setting a small table by the window and sitting in a chair, the inspector pulled off his loafers, hung his jacket on the always open kitchen door and, putting the boiled pork with a bottle in the refrigerator, put a frying pan on the stove. Opening the window in the kitchen, he noisily sucked in the cold air. Galbraith felt a little better. A few minutes later he, getting ready to go to work again tomorrow, started preparing dinner. Lately Galbraith has been lazy about cooking anything more complicated than pasta, but today he decided to make a small exception - he will treat himself to an omelette with tomatoes. For this purpose, he pulled out the two above-mentioned vegetables from the refrigerator, crumbled them and threw them into a hot frying pan. Then the inspector took out a deep plastic plate and broke three eggs into it. Then added a little milk, a pinch of salt and thoroughly beat this mixture with a fork - alas, he had neither a mixer nor a whisk at home. Having poured the milk-egg mixture into the frying pan, Galbraith covered it with a lid and, after adjusting the flame of the burner, went to his bedroom. There he sat down on the bed and stared out the window, behind which dusk was already gathering. Ten minutes passed. He reluctantly got up and went to the kitchen, where dinner was already waiting for him. Placing the omelette on a plate, he pulled a chair closer to the table and began to eat. Moments from the film he watched in the illegal cinema for German immigrants were still flashing through his mind. The inspector tried to remember what the essence of this work was, but only shots of the protagonist's naked girlfriend came to mind. Then Galbraith began to turn over in his mind all the phrases that other spectators uttered during the session, but since his knowledge of the German language did not allow him to understand it by ear, he quickly stopped this pointless activity. After finishing the dinner, he washed the plate and returned to the bedroom. Night had already fallen outside the window. He lay down on the bed and fell asleep. After the experience, the inspector's sleep was surprisingly calm and even. *** The next morning, Galbraith was awakened by a phone call. With some reluctance, he walked barefoot directly to the telephone and picked up the receiver. - Maestro, say "você"! "Você" means "you"! - the unknown caller seemed to be bursting with joy. It was difficult for him to understand what gender the caller was, he raised his voice so high. The inspector was slightly taken aback. Apparently, the subscriber was counting on being told "Hello?" in response. Or something like that. However, Galbraith only frowned and hung up. Despite the stranger's joking tone - one could even say "hysterical" - the thought occurred to Galbraith that this seemingly absurd message carried some kind of menacing meaning. The inspector sat down on the bed and began to pull up his trousers. Trying to understand the meaning of the Portuguese lesson he had just heard, he felt a vague anxiety associated with this call. If that person really was a complete stranger - which Galbraith really doubted, because it was unlikely that anyone could accidentally dial his home number - then for what purpose did the subscriber call him? Check if the owner is home? Galbraith was already beginning to regret picking up the phone. He was sure that whoever was calling, he himself was in for serious trouble. Somehow pulling on his pants and buttoning his shirt, he trudged into the bathroom, where he washed his face and brushed his teeth for a long time in order to finally shake off the remnants of sleep. Having washed himself and finally woke up, he left the bathroom and glanced at the clock hanging in the corridor - it was twenty minutes to eleven. I overslept again, Galbraith thought, I should have set the alarm last night... However, it won't get any worse, he reassured himself. Just think, what the big deal - to sleep for two hours! He suddenly remembered that he had not washed his wet in the rain suit since the day before yesterday. Rushing back to the bathroom, Galbraith began sorting through the already slightly damp pile of wet rags that he had thrown behind the bathtub. Suddenly a white edge stuck out from his jacket pocket. The inspector grabbed it and pulled it towards him - in his hand was the same photograph that, by some strange inspiration, he took from the bedside table in the Yonce's house. Looking at the chubby face of the baby sleeping in arms of missis Yonce, Galbraith seemed to be struck by lightning - oh God, Delia! From the moment he said goodbye to the girl after the call from mister chief inspector Schaeymoure, Galbraith did not particularly think about her, but now, looking at the photo, he realized that he could not hesitate. So he decided to have a quick breakfast and go to the police department. Putting a photo of a happy family on the nightstand in the hallway, he quickly walked into the kitchen and immediately opened the refrigerator. So, boiled pork and a bottle of white wine... These were the only foods that did not require cooking. Taking them out of the refrigerator, Galbraith began to cut the smoked meat into thick slices, thinking that, of course, drinking alcohol before work was not the best idea, but he simply did not want to waste precious time on such essentially useless things as cooking of coffee... When only crumbs remained on the plate, he looked at the glassy greenish bottle. Yes, he didn't even notice how he drank all the wine to the bottom... Throwing it into the trash can under the sink, Galbraith looked at the clean jacket, which he had hung right on the kitchen door the previous evening. Having put it on, the inspector took a photograph of the Yonce family from the bedside table and, saying to the sleeping baby "Sorry I'm so late...", put it in his jacket pocket as he walked. The usual route is the stairwell, then down the steps to the entrance... Going out into the street, the inspector gave his gaze to the sun shining in the sky and quickly walked towards the subway. Having gone underground, he had to wait three minutes for his train. As soon as the carriage finally approached the station, he dived through the opened doors and, seeing that all the seats were occupied, grabbed the handrail... Having got off at the desired station, Galbraith went upstairs with all the other people and almost ran to his police department. When he almost reached his goal, he suddenly saw a rosy-cheeked doctor sitting on a bench under a pillar on which hung a agitational banner "Magistratus oportet servire populo" (The Police must serve The People). - Good day, Matt! - Galbraith shouted as he approached. - Hi, - he will answer in a colourless voice. The doctor, resting both hands on the bench, turned his head to the inspector, who had already approached him. By his appearance could immediately tell that he was not in the mood, as if something was bothering him. This was not a good sign for Galbraith. - Do you know how young lady Yonce is doing? With these words, the inspector, whose veins seemed to be on fire under the influence of a drunk bottle of wine, sat down next to Matt. - This is the essence of things, - the doctor said gloomily, looking somewhere ahead. - I'm sorry... - Galbraith, who had already begun to suspect something, moved a little closer to neighbour. - Today's news stinks... - the doctor turned to his interlocutor. - Buddy, you're not in a hurry, are you? - his eyes sparkled strangely. - No... But why do they stinks? - the inspector was slightly surprised - Listen here. Anyway, when we brought the girl here, - he nodded towards the police department building. - She began to complain about, well, as is usual with womankind... - Matt was a little embarrassed - What, you mean it's a Delia started menstruating? In ten years? - the inspector's face fell. - Yeah, it's rare, but it's not impossible, - the doctor said hastily. - But I'm not going to talk about that. In short, medic Maurice came up to her complaint and she began to describe to him... Briefly, then girl said that she had a parasite inside her... - That doesn't make any sense, - the inspector dropped his head to his knees - Of course she didn't put it that way, - Matt said defensively. - They are no such thing. In general, Maurice became worried and told the girl to be taken to Randall Children's Hospital and volunteered to accompany her himself. At these words, Matt took a breath and raised his hand to his sweaty forehead. - So keep doing it, - Galbraith succeeded him - Then I can only remember what he himself told me, since I was not an eyewitness to those events, - his interlocutor answered somewhat carefree. Matt, having said these words in the tone of a comedian who is waiting for applause at the end of his performance, blew his nose directly into his hand and, wiping it on the bench, as a result of which his neighbour involuntarily moved away. The rosy-cheeked doctor then continued: - In general, Maurice with Delia arrived at Randall Children's Hospital, and there they immediately went to see a gynaecologist. He, having examined the patient, said that she really had something inside... - Erm... - Galbraith froze with his mouth open. - No, it wasn't pregnancy, this is something else, - Matt said confidently. Galbraith, who was a little reassured by the doctor’s remark, asked what happened next. - And then the gynaecologist told Maurice that they would put the young lady in the ward for now and begin preparations for the operation to remove... Oh, forgot this medical term... But I remember that, according to Maurice, that man had never encountered anything like this before in his entire career. - A rather interesting story... - Galbraith nodded - I have not yet finished, - Matt called his interlocutor's attention. - Then Maurice, leaving his home phone number to the gynaecologist, left the hospital and went home. This was the day before yesterday. - Okay, so what happened next? - And yesterday they called him late in the evening - they said that they had already looked at everything and prepared for everything, and tomorrow they would perform a hysterectomy on the little girl. - What exactly do they do? - the inspector didn't understand Galbraith thought that he had come across such a word before, but forgot its meaning. - Uterus removal, - Matt said as he ran off. - My God! - Having shouted this, the inspector grabbed his head. - I am also shocked by it too, like you, - the doctor began to calm him down. - Even at twenty-eight years old, such an operation is already a serious step, but here is a little child... - Why they decided to do it? - Galbraith, with a fire in his eyes, jumped up from the bench. - All right, bud, cool, - Matt tried to pacify the interlocutor, but he did not let up. - Tell me why? - he exclaimed almost theatrically - Well... Maurice told me that this thing - I don’t remember the term - almost completely grown into the endometrium, and without complete removal of the uterus, the gynaecologist saw no other way to help the young lady. The explosion of despair gave way to despondency - Galbraith sank back onto the bench next to Matt. - And this morning Maurice received a call that the girl, how should I put it... - the doctor began to look for words. - Don't hesitate, please... - muttered the inspector - In general, staff of Randall Children's Hospital said that her pulse had stopped being palpable. There was silence, broken only by Matt's noisy breathing. Galbraith felt his own heart ready to jump out of his chest. - What was the name of the gynaecologist who led the operation? - he asked after a minute. A plan for further action began to emerge in his mind. - I recall Maurice saying it was... - the doctor began to remember - Name, bud, I need a name! - Galbraith yelled at the pink-cheeked man. - How you much hotter... - Matt pulled away from him. - So, he told me that the gynaecologist introduced himself to him as doctor Baselard. Galbraith immediately jumped up from the bench and rushed to the police department. Matt shouted something after him, but the wind in his ears prevented the inspector from hearing his words. Once inside the building itself, he slowed down and, without greeting anyone, went up to the second floor to his office. There he sat down at the table and, moving the telephone closer to him, dialed the helpline number. When the receiver said "Hello, I’m listening to you", Galbraith, trying to give his voice as calm an intonation as possible, asked to be told the telephone number of the management of Randall Children's Hospital. The response he received was "Wait a couple of minutes". The inspector put the phone down next to the machine and began looking for paper. When he finally put a blank sheet in front of him and took a pen from his desk drawer, "Write" came from the receiver. Holding it with his shoulder, Galbraith grabbed a pen and wrote down the hospital’s telephone number on paper under dictation. Thanking him, he ended the call and, running his eyes over the sheet, dialed the number. They answered the phone almost immediately. - You called Randall Children's Hospital, - Galbraith heard a melodic female voice. - Hello, could you give me doctor Baselard's home address? - We do not disclose personal... - the callgirl started, but the inspector interrupted her. - I'm from Portland Police Bureau, - he said dryly. - Okay, hold the line, - answered a female voice. Galbraith had to wait a few minutes. Finally, the callgirl returned and began to dictate the address to him - the inspector barely had time to grab the pen. When he wrote the last letter, a female voice asked him "Anything else?", but he just said goodbye and ended the call. "Well, wonderful", he thought, "Here it is, the address of the man who killed an innocent child with his own hands". Galbraith, having re-read the paper several times, folded it four times and put it in the same pocket where the photograph of three happy people lay. Galbraith left the police department building. He glanced at the bench by the post - Matt had already left somewhere. This doesn’t matter at all, he thought. A yellow car with a characteristic checkerboard pattern on the door was driving towards him. The inspector stopped the taxi and, having told the driver the street name and house number, sat back in the back seat. He began to figure that doctor Baselard was probably still in the hospital now, so there was a high probability that he might not find him at home. Galbraith wasn't sure what he really wanted to get out of this visit, but he was firmly convinced that he needed to cross paths with this man before the case of "The Death of Delia Yonce under The X-acto knife" got to court of justice, so there was no time to waste. The driver quickly delivered the passenger to the desired address.In gratitude for the service, Galbraith gave the taxi driver a generous tip, and the car moved on. Meanwhile, the inspector himself stopped next to a five-story building and, with his hands on his hips, began to look up. The callgirl told him the number of doctor Baselard's apartment, but he was puzzled about how to get there - Galbraith did not have the necessary keys, master keys or anything like that with him. Will he really have to climb through the window, like in cheap spy movies? These thoughts were interrupted by a man of about fifty who, walking next to the inspector, accidentally touched him with his shoulder. Galbraith, deciding that it was worth trying his luck, immediately turned to this man: - It's you doctor Baselard? - he said a little naively. The old man stopped and turned to the inspector who had called out to him. He had a wrinkled face and a round head with almost no hair left on it. His eyes, swollen with fat, looked at Galbraith with some kind of affectionate reproach. Seeing these eyes, he was suddenly transported in his mind a whole twenty-four years ago - this is the same mister Baselard who often visited his father’s house and, right in front of little Galbraith's eyes, sat by the fireplace in the living room and shared his stories with the owners. During his stories, Galbraith's father always smiled absentmindedly at this then twenty-six-year-old gentleman, and his mother, who occasionally came to them from the kitchen to find out if he needed to bring him anything, shook her head and muttered something unintelligible. The inspector always remembered how mister Baselard shared with them his case involving an operation on the brain of a woodcutter. He still remembered the poor guy's name - Duncan. The bottom line was that an elderly woodcutter was diagnosed with a brain tumour, and his wife decided to contact the doctors at the local hospital. Mister Baselard, who was then the chief surgeon there, immediately took Duncan under his wing and, keeping him in isolation, watched him for a long time, as if expecting something. And one fine day, when the woodcutter finally lost the ability to think - not least because of the conditions in which he was kept - mister Baselard dragged him into the operating room, where, after injecting him with painkillers, he got down to deal. The inspector remembered how Baselard told his family in detail about how he to start performed a trepanation on Duncan, then cut the brain tissue and began to remove the tumour, but when it turned out that it had grown into the frontal lobes, mister Baselard realized that this was capitulation. He did not say then what happened to Duncan at the end of the operation, but the woodcutter’s funeral, which took place the day after the doctor’s story, spoke more than words. All this time, Galbraith was sure that doctor Baselard had died long ago, and now he looked with surprise at him, alive and well, and moreover, having acquired a prestigious position in one of the best hospitals in Portland... - May I ask what this is regarding? - his thoughts were interrupted by the quiet but firm voice of an old man. Instead of answering, Galbraith showed him his police identifier. The doctor silently nodded his head, and, opening the entrance door, let the policeman forward. Rising to the fifth floor, he turned to the inspector with some strange gaiety: - I hope your interest in my person is not too comprehensive... - he said. - Don't worry, the police just have a few questions for you, - Galbraith answered in a soothing tone. An ocean of hatred seethed inside his entire being, but as a police inspector, Galbraith learned to control its waves. When they finally entered the apartment, he turned to the doctor: - Let's drink tea and in a quiet atmosphere you will answer me... - he didn't have time to finish - I'll put the kettle on, but you can ask questions right now, - Baselard answered helpfully The inspector looked at him a little more closely - with all his appearance his interlocutor expressed impatience and hidden irritation. Baselard was clearly in a hurry somewhere, and it was obvious that the unexpected visit of the policeman was not at all part of his plans, but was only an obstacle on the way to some important goal. - You're at it in a hurry? - Galbraith involuntarily asked - To England, on affairs, - his interlocutor hissed the last letter like a snake. The doctor went to the kitchen. Galbraith thought that "I know what your affairs is like there - you killed a child and decided to immediately run away from the crime scene..." - Good, - he said cheerfully out loud. - You just got out of surgery, I take it? - asked the inspector, trying not to give free rein to his ardour. - It feels like you're clairvoyant, mister, - the doctor's voice came from the kitchen. Galbraith looked in - Baselard, rattling some plates, was taking out a pack of tea from the top shelf of the sideboard. - Really, no need for compliments. Who was operated on? - That so small, so plain thing, - the doctor waved him off, placing the kettle under the running water. "Well, plain thing of course", thought Galbraith, "Interrupted the life of a baby girl who had not even really known this life yet..." - What were you doing before? - the inspector realized that Baselard did not recognize him as that little boy from Gloucester. - Well, I did all kinds of surgeries, - the interlocutor answered quite willingly - In America? - Galbraith inquired - Both in America and in England, where, in fact, I was born, - continued the doctor. - All right, - the inspector answered dryly The kettle was gradually starting to heat up. Glancing at the stove, the doctor headed to the sideboard. - So, you drink tea with sweets or just like that? - he asked the guest. Galbraith wanted to agree with the last phrase, but I thought it would be better to make Baselard stay a little longer. - I love marmalade, - he lied. - Do you have a couple of pieces? - Hmm... I will try to fulfill your plea, - opening the door, the doctor began rummaging through the sideboard. Trying not to shuffle his feet, the inspector quietly slipped into the corridor and, seeing the open door of the cabinet, looked in. His attention was immediately attracted by a high desk on which stood a vase with yellow asters. Next to her were small pieces of paper filled with black numbers. On the topmost of them were visible marks made in red pencil. And then the inspector seemed to have an epiphany. He walked over to the desk and pulled out the bottom drawer. There, among some maps and typewritten sheets there was a photograph, which Galbraith immediately grabbed in his hands. The yellowed black-and-white photo showed an incredibly skinny man with a disproportionately large, clean-shaven head, dressed in a straitjacket. He smiled a toothless smile at the photographer, leaning his left hand on the hospital bed. Turning the photo over, Galbraith read the text written in black ink "Duncan (brain cancer), 1967". - This is definitely the same person, - the inspector said barely audible. He himself did not understand who he was talking about - about the doctor himself or his long-interred patient. But this evidence finally confirmed that Galbraith was on the right track. Suddenly a loud stomp was heard from behind. He turned around - doctor Baselard stood on the threshold. His chest was shaking under his suit, and his face was twisted into a grimace of rage. It seemed as if his eyes were trying to pierce right through the guest. But the inspector did not lose his spirit - on the contrary, the state in which the doctor was now in set him in a decisive mood. Galbraith straightened up, stuck out his chest and raised his chin proudly. - You killed this woodcutter twenty-four years ago, - he began in a solemn tone. - And this morning there was a little girl under your X-acto knife. She walked towards her destiny, could change the course of history, but unfortunately... The inspector was unable to finish his expatiation. - What do you want from me, you worm? A confession? - the old man screamed so loudly that Galbraith jumped to the side in surprise. - Here's your confession! And at that very second Baselard ran to the desk. Galbraith prepared to fight back, but the doctor simply pulled out the top drawer of the table and, pulling out a stack of papers, threw them into the air. The sheets scattered throughout the room and slowly landed on the floor. The inspector resisted the urge to grab them and see what was written on them. - I disposed with theirs souls like Lord God, because I felt like doing it, do you understand?! - the owner of the apartment continued to scream in falsetto. Having shouted these words, doctor Baselard took a little phial of yellow liquid from his pocket and began to unscrew its glass stopper. - Only don't come near me, you wronged, trembling creature! - he said, lowering his voice. After that, he threw back his head, throwing the entire contents of the phial into his throat. Galbraith involuntarily became worried - the doctor's body trembled, a wave of trembling passed through him, but he did not even seem to notice it. - You won't go on?! Get out of here! - he shouted in disgust. Oddly enough, after these words, Baselard, grabbing the briefcase lying next to the door, left the apartment himself. The inspector, continuing to stand at the desk, heard the loud stomping of the doctor coming from the staircase. After waiting for the entrance door to slam, Galbraith finally decided to get out of here. His further actions were extremely unprofessional - he did not conduct a search and did not even close the door of the already abandoned apartment behind him. Remembering the doctor's phrase "To England, on affairs", the inspector had long ago realized that their meeting occurred due to a happy coincidence - If Galbraith had been even a minute late, Baselard would have left for the station long ago. Having gone downstairs, Galbraith looked around - as he believed, the doctor had long since disappeared. The inspector hailed a taxi, and after a while he was dropped off right at the entrance to the police department. Getting out of the car, he noticed a young sergeant Saussure standing at the bench, who was engaged in an animated conversation with an elderly gentleman in an overcoat, from under which a greenish satin vest peeked out. When he saw Galbraith, the sergeant stopped the discussion and stared at him with some curiosity. - How can I help you, mister inspector? - he asked him politely. - Here's the thing, one citizen is from Portugal, - The sergeant nodded at the gentleman in the coat. - Accompanied by three of his friends, he arrived here and wants to urgently talk with our superiors... The citizen from Portugal himself at that time stood silently next to Saussure and drilled Galbraith with the piercing gaze of his small eyes. His sparse gray hair was carefully combed back, and his mouth was twisted contemptuously, as if he hated being in the company of American policemen. The inspector, without saying a word, walked past them and stepped into the open doors of the department. - But they don't have time to wait, they're in a hurry to get to the airport, - Saussure's voice reached his ears. The inspector, having passed through the threshold, was surprised to find that at that time there were unusually many people in the premises of the police department - some adults in civilian clothes, teenagers in tracksuits and old women in colourful dresses... Galbraith, without stopping, went to the office of mister chief inspector Schaeymoure. When he went up to the second floor and opened the door to his office, he looked up from his papers and, casting an indifferent glance at the guest, said: - Well, Galbraith, let's see what you dug up there. Will you please take a seat? He nodded towards the chair, but Galbraith, dryly thanking him, instead pulled out two photographs from his pocket and, placing them on the table in front of mister chief inspector Schaeymoure, waited until he turned his attention to them. Having carefully examined the photographs, Schaeymoure raised his full of barely restrained curiosity eyes to incomer. - The first picture shows a woodcutter who died twenty-four years ago, - Galbraith started. - It happened in Gloucester, where I spent my childhood. The poor guy died right on the operating table - they opened his brain to remove the tumour. And in the second picture, - at this point his voice involuntarily trembled. - Shows the Yonce family with their little daughter, who would have celebrated her eleventh birthday next year, but unfortunately she died this morning in a room at Randall Children's Hospital after surgery to remove a vital internal organ. Galbraith wanted to give his speech as formal a tone as possible, so as not to betray to mister chief inspector those feelings of empathy that he himself did not expect to feel in relation to the baby, whom he had known for at most one day. But Schaeymoure was too perceptive, and the inspector was overcome with mental turmoil. Galbraith interrupted himself - he suddenly felt that behind every word of the speech that he was now giving to his listener, there was almost physical pain, some kind of inexorable weight that had fallen on his heart. - So... - said mister chief inspector in the ensuing silence. - The same person is behind both of these deaths - doctor Baselard, who was worked in the hospital I mentioned. I say "was" because this morning, just after the death of the child, the doctor packed his things and left for England, in order, I am sure, to avoid prosecution. Galbraith pulled out a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, pulled one out and flicked the lighter. - I don't expect him to return to America, - he added, raising the cigarette to his mouth. After that, he went to the window and stopped, looking down at the street full of people. What was he thinking about at that moment? It is difficult to tell. Most likely, Galbraith was now remembering that he loves this life, loves Portland, its streets and all its inhabitants. Or maybe he indulged in the Great Boredom, caused, of course, not by some idle thoughts or thoughts, but just by gloomy experiences... He did not see what mister chief inspector Schaeymoure was doing at that moment, and he did not want to see - having finished his speech, Galbraith seemed to have thrown off an invisible, but incredibly heavy burden that had previously weighed on his soul. Suddenly he heard an insinuating cough behind him. Having put out his cigarette, the inspector turned away from the window, realizing that this was an order to return to the desk. - You are aware, Galbraith, - began mister chief inspector Schaeymoure. - You are clearly so concerned about the fate of this young lady that I feel obliged to send you to Jordan Thurlow. - Excuse me, but who that is? - Galbraith took a step closer and bowed his head, as if he was afraid to miss a word. - A person who is serving a sentence in Columbia River Correctional Institution. He was sentenced to eighteen years in prison on suspicion of raping an underage girl who was the daughter of his neighbours. The court accused him of taking advantage of her mother's trust and forcing her to visit his house, where he put pressure on her. Listening to this story from mister chief inspector, Galbraith thought about how wonderful it would be if all the nasty things and sorrows that this world brought to people happened only to those who deserve it, and never to little, innocent children. But people are not divided into good and bad, he thought sadly. Meanwhile, Schaeymoure continued. - Before his arrest, mister Thurlow, according to the victim's parents, abused her at his friend's apartment. In general, it is worth noting that the girl had a very emotional father, he was ready to literally do anything to put both men behind bars, but the court ruled that Jordan's friend was not proven. - Well, - said Galbraith when Schaeymoure finished his speech. - And what do you suggest I do? - Ride to Columbia River Correctional Institution and ask to have an audience with this prisoner. As far as I know, he's actually not a bad guy at all, but the power of public reprimand... - What will I get out of this? - out of excitement, Galbraith interrupted the mister chief inspector. - That it depends only on you, Galbraith, - he answered quietly. - Maybe peace of mind, or maybe a thirst for action. Either way, Thurlow's words will bring clarity to your thoughts. Galbraith involuntarily sank into a chair. He did not dare take these words of mister chief inspector at face value, but some part of his soul understood that, unfortunately, this was true. - I don't undertake to decide what you need, I can only say how I imagine your further tactic, - Schaeymoure continued. - You want to go all the way and destroy that person, right? - Sorry, did you really... - Galbraith wanted to ask again, but Schaeymoure raised his hand. - This is a figurative expression, - as if consoling his listener, he said. - because no one is going to bring this matter to the complete destruction of the suspect. We are policemen, not executioners. - So what should I do right now? - Galbraith began to lose patience. - Go there, - mister chief inspector said with importance. With these words, he put on his glasses and pushed a thick stack of papers towards him, making it clear to his interlocutor that he was free. It is possible that mister chief inspector intended to add "Farewell" to this, but then four people in civilian clothes burst into the office, among whom Galbraith recognized the same gray-haired man in a coat who was talking with the young sergeant Saussure. The inspector had no choice but to leave the Schaeymoure's office and head towards the exit of the police department. Going out into the corridor and closing the door behind him, Galbraith heard four Portuguese begin to loudly shout out some phrases in their native language, clearly trying to demonstrate mister chief inspector how much their case required the immediate intervention of the American police. Only when he reached the stairs leading to the first floor did he stop hearing their furious screams and calmly began to go down. Once on the first floor, the inspector hesitated a little, remembering the name of the colony that Schaeymoure had told him, and then he decisively pushed the door and went out into the sunlit street. © 2023 Vitaly Ivolginsky |
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Added on September 21, 2023 Last Updated on September 21, 2023 Author
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